Chapter 2: The Witch and the New Name
If you believe witches are dangerous and insane,
Then Chescia was undoubtedly the most dangerous and insane of them all.
She had orchestrated at least four horrific massacres across different towns. Wherever she went, severed limbs hung among thorny vines, and rose petals soaked in blood trailed in her wake. The Temperance Court, the Church’s law enforcement branch, called her the “Blood Witch” and had listed her as the most wanted for decades. Beneath her ever-youthful, enchanting appearance was a mountain of blood debt.
If the Church had no intention of dispatching the Knights of Mercy from the Generosity Court—the armed branch once famed for sweeping through archipelagos and striking fear across the continent—then a Seraph-class Enforcer would be their best option.
Sera Fred, a man known for his coldness and mercilessness toward all witches, was such an Enforcer from the Kabbalah Church’s Temperance Court.
Led on the noble path of Temperance by the Archangel Raguel, he was one of the rare and remarkable Fourth Sequence Transcendents of his time. The Pope himself had declared him the most promising candidate to deliver God’s vengeance to the Blood Witch…
And Sera believed it.
This was her current fate:
She hadn’t even had time to bid farewell to the “little brother” that had accompanied her for forty years before realizing she’d been captured, transformed, and imprisoned by her enemy. She hadn’t even managed to plan her escape before that same enemy blocked her way.
On top of that—those handcuffs overhead, binding her delicate wrists tightly.
Sera realized her current situation was extremely dire.
The woman standing by the door was Chescia.
Rumors said she was centuries old, perhaps even older than the Church itself. But in appearance, she was no more than a girl of eighteen, her curves delicate and graceful, somewhere between youthful freshness and mature allure.
But the solemn black-toned gown she always wore dulled the youthful part significantly. Beneath the gauzy veil, her rich red lips highlighted her snow-pale cheeks, her eyes shrouded in mystery, compelling and soul-stirring. The witch’s attire conveyed chastity—but with an indescribable allure.
And if you dared approach her on just that alone, her icy indifference and razor-sharp ruthlessness would teach you that there are far more painful things in this world than death—things no mere two hands could ever count.
She was cold. She was ruthless. She was cruel. She was brutal.
At least, usually.
Sera had every reason to believe she was the exception.
She was sure Chescia was smiling at her. Not only smiling—but smiling while slowly closing in.
Was it terrifying?
Yes, it was.
But who was she, Sera Fred?
An Enforcer devoted to crushing evil and immorality in its cradle. A Transcendent on the path of Temperance who embodied the principles of harmony, order, fairness, and justice passed down by the Archangel Raguel. Thieves would fall silent upon seeing her. Robbers would cry. All evil would be judged before her!
Could she afford to show fear now in front of such evil?
No. She had to strike back hard!
“Y-You… what… what did you do to me?”
The voice was soft and frail.
As if she might cry at any moment.
Not what she’d imagined at all—definitely not the effect she’d hoped for.
She didn’t want to seem this helpless, this easy to bully. But the courage and conviction that once propped her up seemed to have quietly disappeared—along with her biceps and her “little brother.”
Not only had she lost the strong body that was her weapon in battle, but even the spiritual faith that was her final foundation had been stripped and trampled.
For Sera, this was the ultimate humiliation.
Tears welled up…
No!
Wouldn’t that just let this wicked witch win?
Sera sniffled and glared at the approaching Chescia with teary eyes—or so she thought. She assumed her glare was fierce enough to be imposing.
“How did you sleep last night, dear miss?” Chescia maintained her faint smile.
“Very well—n-no! I mean… I’m not some dear miss… I’m…”
The words slipped out without thought, as if obeying Chescia had become instinct.
Once she realized it, Sera hurried to reclaim the conversation. But beyond her feeble denial, she couldn’t manage any other rebuttal.
Listening to her own frail voice—did she even have the right to call herself a man anymore?
While Sera stood dumbfounded, Chescia had already walked to the bed.
Even with her eyes lowered, those wine-red gems of eyes gleamed vividly. The black-haired witch delicately lifted her skirt, revealing a high-slit that exposed her long legs wrapped in black over-knee stockings. Then, with an elegant motion, she slipped off her black patent leather platform Mary Janes and…
Kneeled on the bed.
The velvety soft bed that had granted Sera a deep sleep now heaved like ocean waves under Chescia’s sudden movements.
Seated like a duck, Sera was like a tiny boat lost in a storm, helpless and confused.
The girl’s expression shifted from blank to terrified.
She tried to retreat—but soon bumped into the hard bed frame. There was nowhere to run.
The faint flame of the whale oil lamp cast a glow on the witch’s neck, illuminating her snow-like skin, her beautiful, frosty face drawing closer, brushing against Sera’s cheek. Her black hair, like a curtain, flowed past her shoulder. A distinct rose fragrance wafted in.
Gloved in long lace, her slender fingers slid from Sera’s sensitive underarm upward along her arm. A tingly sensation sparked through every nerve. Their four long legs tangled, the black stockings rubbing not just with silky softness, but also a grainy texture like fine sand.
“What are you? Why won’t you answer?”
“Uuh…”
Sera whimpered, turning her head away—but Chescia, like a cat pinning a mouse’s tail, released her only to press close again.
The witch’s breath was light and steady. Along Sera’s swan-like neck, she could feel the calm rhythm of it—almost soothing.
Unguarded, under such high tension, Sera didn’t even notice Chescia’s hand moving to the back of her head until—“clack”—something small fell with a crisp sound, and a cascade of silver hair spilled across the bed.
So smooth. So soft. So radiant…
Chescia had removed a hairpin. What Sera had glimpsed earlier on her shoulder was just the tip of the iceberg.
Sera couldn’t believe it—this waterfall of silky silver belonged to her. Her resolve, already hanging by a thread, wavered even more.
“Let me give you the answer, dear miss.” Chescia’s words now rang sharp and piercing, impossible to forget.
“You are Funis,” she continued softly. “A newly born witch.”
“My little sister.”