Chapter 4: Please Kill Me
She had given her sister a stuffed bear as a birthday present, back when she was still a boy named Sera.
Her family wasn’t wealthy, but they weren’t poor either—just an ordinary household among countless others in the city.
Her father worked as an editor at a newspaper, her mother as a factory worker at a textile mill.
Her brother was about to graduate as a mechanical engineer, and her little sister was still at the age where she didn’t need to worry about anything. They had once stood under a photo studio backdrop and taken a family picture. She had stood in the center.
Back then, she had no particular talent—neither as clever as her brother, nor as lively and adorable as her sister. But her parents never disliked her for being plain.
They simply encouraged her, again and again.
She was happy to listen to her father complain about his capricious, unrealistic editor-in-chief.
She was happy to massage her mother’s calloused palms, hardened from operating machinery day and night.
She was happy to make coffee for her brother as he stayed up drawing blueprints. And she was happy to wander aimlessly around the city all afternoon with her sister.
Each family member was more precious than any treasure.
She loved them.
More than she loved herself.
To continue living with them was once her greatest wish. It was the entire meaning of her life.
But all of that was taken away on that blood-soaked night.
In the red mist, a witch laughed wildly. Her curved horns were grotesque, her figure more detestable and terrifying than any demon from Hell. The once-complete family photo was torn to pieces. In the end, only the plain, helpless figure in the center remained.
She knew better than anyone—That person was a coward.
She had watched the whole tragedy unfold.
She had let her parents’ wails echo in her ears.
She had endured the despair in her sister’s eyes as her flesh was carved away.
She had always hidden behind the thin curtain of the tent.
She had never moved.
She hated witches.
Because they were all mad.
She hated herself.
Because she was weak and useless.
And now she was Funis.
Witch Funis—The product of compromise.
And that only made her loathing for herself run deeper.
Funis didn’t know what method Chescia had used to turn her into a witch, But in order to reclaim the Codex page and protect Charlotte, She had no choice but to accept her current situation—Even if Chescia had no intention of honoring any promise.
But what else could she do?
The original Sera Fred had at least been a Fourth Sequence Transcendent. Even if he couldn’t stand against Chescia’s Third Sequence, He might have found a way to escape.
But now this new body was pure—Like a newborn child, untouched by an angel or demon.
She couldn’t feel any mystical effects from the Witch’s Path.
In short—Funis was too weak now.
No different from an ordinary twelve-year-old girl.
Because she was weak and useless.
So she kept compromising.
…
After being forced to accept her new name, Chescia led Funis to a washroom.
A basin with a metallic sheen and a finely carved white porcelain tub sat atop neatly arranged beige tiles. An oil lamp hung above the basin. The room was clean and elegant.
But Funis had no time to admire the decor.
Before locking the door, Chescia told her she had to wash herself clean before she could leave.
Not knowing what cruel treatment might come next, This moment of solitude felt especially precious.
Funis desperately wanted to know—Just how strange her body had become since turning into a girl.
She hadn’t worn shoes on the way here, walking barefoot across flower-covered floors and damp tiles.
Compared to the sensitivity of her thighs, The sensation on her soles was just as intense—if not more.
If Chescia hadn’t held her hand the whole way, Funis probably wouldn’t have even been able to get out of bed.
Just brushing her toes against the floor made her let out a birdlike cry.
Funis had reason to believe Chescia had deliberately left her alone.
With no one to support her, She had to lean against the wall just to stay upright.
Her toes lightly touched the tiles, And a jolt of tingling shot through her like electricity.
Her slender legs began trembling uncontrollably.
“My lower belly’s hot… even under the skirt… uuuh~ Is this what a girl’s body is like?” The silver-haired girl panted softly, one hand on the wall.
Just trying to stand had her sweating and breathless.
She couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to walk on her own.
As a man, she’d had little contact with women.
Charlotte had been mature and self-sufficient by the time he started raising her.
So this was Funis’s first time truly experiencing the difference between male and female bodies—In the worst possible way.
A forty-year-old bachelor…And the way he finally came to understand the female body was by becoming a girl younger than his own adopted daughter…Not funny at all.
Still, even with forty years of purity, Funis understood—This kind of sensitivity was not normal.
Chescia had done something to her.
Now, even without chains or restraints,Funis couldn’t escape.
She could barely walk.
“Damn it… haah… witch…”
After struggling, She finally reached the washbasin.
Jars and bottles of what looked like cosmetics lined the edge.
There was also a metal hairpin.
The mirror was fogged. Under the lamplight, she saw a slender girl with long hair standing before it.
The difference from her old muscular self was overwhelming.
The contrast made Funis feel hollow.
According to Chescia, Sera Fred’s body was already dead. There was no going back.
This is Funis now. And she would live on with this tiny body.
She wiped the mirror.
As the steam faded, the image became clear.
Her skin was snow-pale, almost porcelain, with visible veins under the light.
A slender nose, thin pale-pink lips, and moist violet eyes—Like wine shimmering under moonlight.
Her features were sharp, flawless. But what stunned her most was her hair.
A waterfall of silver, cascading over her shoulders—Radiant, soft as silk, sparkling like diamonds. More luxurious than any precious material.
Beautiful, elegant, noble—No words felt adequate.
Funis had never seen a girl this beautiful.
Even pampered noble daughters paled in comparison.
The bishops of the Kabbalah Church might call such a face divine.
An artwork sculpted by angels.
But it belonged to a witch.
Even the demons of hell wouldn’t take them.
Yet Funis saw fragility in the girl in the mirror—Like glass, crystal, gemstones—All gleaming from afar,But brittle when touched.
That was her.
Incredible.
She couldn’t help but reach out.
Every inch was real. More vivid than anything in a dream.
She touched her lips, her cheek, her lashes, her hair. It was softer than the finest silk.
Then—Her hand brushed against something hard atop her head.
It had a sensation. Just a light tap was enough to sting.
Her heart sank.
She reached the opposite side. Found another. Same shape.
“No…”
Her voice trembled.
Her hands trembled more.
Still clinging to hope, She parted her hair.
Under the oil lamp, It gleamed crystal-clear.
A curved horn.
Transparent like glass.
It had been hidden until now.
“No… no…”
Trembling.
That night.
The curved horns in the red mist.
She could hear her parents’ screams again.
See her sister’s desperate eyes.
“I’m not…”
She gripped the horns. Tried to tear them off. But they wouldn’t budge.
Pain seared deep into her skull.
These horns were a real part of her body.
Not all witches had horns. In fact, horns had nothing to do with witches.
They came from demons. And the Church had long since purged them.
No one should have horns anymore.
Except—She had seen one.
The witch who killed her family.
She had horns.
Sera remembered.
She hadn’t forgotten.
Her name was Chescia.
The Blood Witch.
Her curved, night-black horns. Hidden beneath flowers and veil—Carried her past sins.
Now Funis finally understood what Chescia meant by “little sister.”
She was one of them now.
Same blood.
Same horns.
Same path.
She was the second horned witch.
She was Funis.
She was Sera Fred.
“No…”
Trembling.
Her denial was meaningless.
Even she couldn’t believe it anymore.
She remembered the torn flesh.
Nausea surged.
She retched—But nothing came out.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
She sobbed.
She shook her head.
She apologized.
As if it had all been her fault.
As if she had raised the knife and hacked her sister into pieces.
As if she had turned the lake red.
As if she had committed every crime herself.
But apologies meant nothing.
Her sister would never return.
No one would forgive her.
So—Among the fallen bottles, she found something.
A hairpin.
Iron.
Sharp.
Hard.
She hated witches.
But she knew—She hated herself more.
She was weak.
Cowardly.
She should’ve died with them.
She had vowed to kill all witches.
Including herself.
“I’m sorry… Charlotte… I’ve already…”
She raised the pin.
Swanned her neck.
The tip glinted cold.
Closer, Closer—To end everything.
If it were painted as a portrait, This scene might be hailed as high art.
But the difference between art and tragedy is only a breath.
The red that splattered was real.
The silver-haired girl collapsed into blood.
Silence.
An ending.
No breath.
But silence lasted only moments.
Breathing.
Gasps.
She had only stayed in the dark for a second.
Light pierced back in.
Pain lit her throat—The wound reversed.
Blood returned.
Funis tried to reopen the wound, But it had already healed.
Not even a scar remained.
“No! No!”
She clawed at her neck.
Only bruises formed.
The witch’s madness was taking root in her. And she didn’t even notice.
She picked up the hairpin again. It was spotless. As if nothing had happened.
She raised it again.
But—This time, she hesitated.
She had lost something.
Something important.
On her hand, a glowing lavender sigil like a larkspur shimmered.
She knew that mark. All witches had one.
Their unique power—But it came at a cost.
Her death had paid the price.
She had forgotten.
Her memories as Sera Fred.
She forgot her brother’s name.
Even when it was on the tip of her tongue.
She forgot the gift she gave her sister.
The object in her sister’s hands before she died.
Her past was vanishing.
If she died and revived again, She would become a soulless shell.
She would forget why she wanted to die.
And live on, shameless.
There could be no greater betrayal.
Funis couldn’t accept it.
She had even lost the right to die.
Crushed by despair, She faded into unconsciousness.
…
When she awoke, She felt warmth around her.
Steam.
She was in the bath.
Someone had brought her here.
The water—Not hot, not cold. Just right.
A hand stroked her hair. Her cheek.
She felt warmth behind her.
It was Chescia.
They were both naked.
Funis lay in her arms.
“Don’t try to kill yourself again,” Chescia said.
Silence.
No reply.
“If you can’t accept this right now… I’ll consider letting you hold off on calling me ‘sister.’”
Silence.
Still no reply.
“Or… I can grant you one wish. Anything—except letting you go.” Her tone was uncharacteristically clumsy.
Silence.
Funis trembled.
She was too weak.
Too weak to even kill herself.
This woman had created Funis.
This woman could destroy her.
If she cared this much—Then she must know what her greatest wish was.
Finally—The red-eyed witch heard a soft, lifeless voice.
It was her request.
A plea from the heart.
“Miss Witch…”
“I beg you… please kill me…”