Prologue: Death and Rebirth
Witches were the cancer of the world.
Both angels and demons cursed them. Their birth was never blessed by anyone. Their very existence symbolized calamity.
Sera hated witches.
He believed they all deserved to die, without exception.
He voiced his belief.
Yet emerald vines pierced through Sera’s throat like sharp arrows, and a cluster of roses bloomed gorgeously at his voice box, vivid crimson soaking the petals and leaves.
“Prejudiced hatred clearly impairs sound judgment. I hope this teaches you a lesson, Officer of the Temperance Court.”
The girl’s indifferent tone was laced with contempt.
Plant fibers and shattered flesh clogged his throat. Sera could no longer utter any meaningful sound—only a dying, terrified whimper.
A crimson flock of crows circled low beneath the blood-red crescent moon, their cries shrill and sorrowful, like a woman’s weeping.
Even pierced through the hands, feet, heart, and lungs by countless vines, Sera remained upright. Blood streamed from the top of his head down his chiseled face, his once-handsome features ruined by horrific lacerations.
With eyes full of hatred and scorn, he gazed at the delicate figure seated cross-legged amid the rose bushes.
Under the scarlet crescent moon, her long jet-black hair flowed like woven silk. Her gothic-style voluminous dress billowed in the evening wind.
A gauzy veil drifted gently down onto her snow-white shoulders. The tight-fitting formal gown traced her waist and chest in serpentine elegance, and her slender legs wrapped in black stockings appeared delicate and fine.
More dazzling than blood and moonlight were the girl’s deep crimson eyes, gleaming like gemstones, their radiance flowing as if inviting wine rippled within.
Contrary to her delicate and stunning appearance, her finely shaped face bore no expression, her entire presence emanating a coldness that seemed to freeze anyone who dared draw near.
This witch named Chescia seemed indifferent to everyone—aloof, uncaring.
But perhaps, Sera was an exception.
Though they stood on opposing sides, she always regarded him with a teasing and playful gaze—tinged, too, with a bit of loathing and disdain. Her eyes only grew complex when they rested on Sera.
This wasn’t their first clash.
But it was the first time Chescia revealed the true power of a Third Sequence Transcendent.
Sera finally understood—those many times they had fought on even ground were nothing more than casual games to her. She had never taken him seriously.
But even so, he would never submit in fear.
Sera Fred was the most outstanding, most renowned, and most trusted Enforcer of the Temperance Court under the Kabbalah Church, always the sworn enemy and nemesis of Transcendent criminals.
And witches—
They belonged to neither the Seven Virtue Paths nor the Seven Sin Paths. Outside the fourteen known Transcendent Paths, witches were a special route hated and rejected by both Kabbalah’s angels and Hell’s demons.
Those who walked the witch’s path were typically mad and obsessive. Each one was a murderous maniac who found joy in others’ suffering. Countless gruesome dismemberment cases and serial killings were their doing. They were society’s most unstable and extreme group.
As the Church’s most dangerous officially-declared witch, Chescia was destined to be Sera’s greatest enemy in his career.
And Sera would never bow to his enemy in fear.
“Stubborn and tough like a rock, upright and dedicated like a hero, brave and fearless like a fool…”
Chescia slowly straightened from her lazy, reclining pose. The ornate lace-lined gown cascaded down her long legs as she gracefully adjusted her gaze toward Sera, her eyes now carrying a bit of appraisal.
“Ordinary and weak without self-awareness… In centuries, I’ve seen countless like you…” As she spoke, the witch gracefully lifted her skirt and stepped lightly down the flower-covered slope. “Yet I always wondered—among so many, why do I remember only you?”
“But now, I finally understand.”
Chescia arrived before Sera. Her polished black round-toed shoes stepped upon rubble and gravel. Her ankles and calves, wrapped in black stockings beneath the skirt, were heartbreakingly beautiful.
The witch lowered her lashes and gently nodded, her waterfall-like hair cascading over her shoulders. Those radiant red eyes, seemingly imbued with magic, leaned slightly closer.
She silently stared into Sera’s blood-blurred eyes.
“Mm. There’s still that deep-buried hatred in your heart. That’s your true drive.” She let out a soft laugh.
A rare smile bloomed, as stunning as a crimson rose.
But just as thorned.
Sera hated witches.
In his twenty years of service, he had never told anyone. Yet this woman saw through him with ease.
As an Enforcer under the Church’s sacred light, what drove him to continue fighting wasn’t a devotion to justice nor faith in angels—just hatred.
“I admire you,” Chescia said sincerely.
But when she spoke those words, the contempt and disgust on her face could not be concealed.
“But unfortunately, you’re a man. I hate men,” Chescia added.
Sera’s bluish lips trembled slightly. His ragged breathing rasped like a saw cutting through wood. This dying middle-aged man used the last of his strength.
“Then… just… kill…”
Her slender fingers swiftly traced along his firm jawline. The girl pressed down on Sera’s upper lip, silencing his despairing words.
“Today, Sera Fred will die. But you won’t.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and slowly stood, leaving the dying man in a sorrowful pose, his head tilted skyward. “To you, this is rebirth.”
In Sera’s hollow gaze, all he could see now was the crimson crescent moon hanging from the pale pink night sky, and rose petals dancing in the wind—vivid, dripping with color.
The girl in the red dress stood silently beneath the blood moon. The lush red rose bushes framed her elegant figure, their rich fragrance filling the air.
The breeze lifted the misty veil atop her head, revealing a pair of gently curved horns.
Those horns.
Those horns under the lunar glow grew ever more horrifying in Sera’s eyes.
Everything before him overlapped with his memories from thirty years ago—when he saw his father, mother, brother, and sister dismembered and scattered in the murky lake. The moon’s hue was the same. So were the horns.
Even the blood-red pupils that turned back to meet his gaze—identical.
Filled with joy and madness.
This was the true origin of Sera’s hatred for witches. It had always been right in front of him. Only now, at the moment of death, did he finally find it.
Beneath porcelain skin, blue veins bulged. The woman’s hand tore through all memories and illusions, seizing his throat.
Her long, painted nails were like a beast’s claws. Her delicate hand bore every tendon and bone clearly. Her sharp nails dug into his neck, drawing blood.
She gripped with such force, as if to let go would mean immediate loss.
“I won’t let you escape again…”
“After all, every sin I’ve committed over these centuries… was for this moment…”
In the final instant before losing consciousness, Sera heard her laugh wildly and with abandon.
He heard her fall silent and sob.
He heard her draw close and whisper hoarsely in his ear.
“For you.”