Unlike the auroras she’d seen before on Ish Island, this time the aurora appeared at the far edge of the coastline, dim as an old tungsten filament with a loose contact—flickering on and off, as if it might vanish in the very next second.
Yvette rode the wind at once and sped over, spending dozens of minutes to reach that stretch of sea. Unfortunately, while she was still halfway there, the aurora unraveled on its own, revealing the silver moon and an even more brilliant river of stars across the vault of heaven.
She didn’t feel regret, though. As things stood, she wasn’t ready to step into the Otherworld with an easy mind anyway. She’d rushed over mainly to see if any Otherworlders had crossed through—so she could pull them out, lest they drop straight into the sea the moment they arrived and get eaten by aberrants.
Cold moonlight spilled across the water. Using the effect of Water Magic, Yvette alighted on the sea’s surface without a single droplet splashing her skirt.
She walked as she looked around, but found nothing—only the sea, mirroring a skyful of star-dust, stretching on to the edge of sight.
She walked for a few more minutes, and all of a sudden, a floating shadow a few hundred meters away drew her eye. When she came closer, the sight that met her gaze made her pause slightly.
It was a boy, covered in wounds.
Dark red blood had soaked his clothes; the fabric was torn open in countless places, exposing gashes so deep the bone showed beneath.
What was even more startling: his skin had an unnatural pale violet hue, and dark, tattoo-like markings traced his brow—entirely unlike any human Yvette knew.
She remembered: among the Otherworld’s pan-human groups Dugrabi had told her about, only the Demonkin from the Abyssal Continent bore such striking pale violet skin and dark demon-markings. Though counted among the pan-human races, they were also part of the Demon Race, all bowing to the Demon King, and they stood opposed to the Pan-Human Alliance of the Eastern Continent.
Put it this way—if an Otherworld human saw a grievously wounded Demonkin boy floating on the sea, they’d likely kill him on the spot to nip any future trouble in the bud.
But Yvette wasn’t an Otherworld human. After a brief start, she immediately used Wind Magic to lift the unconscious, badly injured Demonkin youth, deciding to take him back to the manor for treatment. With luck, she could also get a read from him on how the Otherworld’s balance of power had shifted over the past century—and maybe pick up a lead on Rosalyn and Dugrabi.
Under a dim night sky, flames licked at sagging beams, a heavy stench of blood mixed with the acrid stink of charring filled the nose; in his ears were shrill screams—and, even harsher, the sinister laughter of a demon.
One after another, familiar figures—father, mother, younger sister—fell in spurts of blood. And the butcher behind it all was an Abyssal Demon, towering like a mountain, curved ram horns crowning its head, ragged flesh-wings sprouting from its back.
He cowered in a corner’s shadow, teeth chattering from fear. Suddenly, a face crawled with pus and twisted into hideous ferocity thrust under the table where he hid, and cackled, “Found you, little bug!”
Lant jolted upright in bed, his clothes soaked with cold sweat. What struck him immediately, though, was that he wasn’t looking at his hometown townlet in flames and strewn with corpses, but a surprisingly clean, tidy, warm little room done in natural wood. The soft quilt slid to his waist; beneath him was a bed so comfortable it made him suspect this was the dream instead.
He pinched his cheek hard. The pain cleared the haze and brought him fully awake.
Then he flung off the quilt and jumped down. He found himself draped in an unfamiliar white over-robe, his original clothes still worn underneath. He exhaled in relief—then noticed that those tattered clothes, along with his body, had been cleaned a great deal, as if someone had wiped off the blood with a wet towel while he was unconscious. More shocking still: all his injuries were gone! Not even a scar remained on his skin,
as if those wounds had never existed at all!
What—what on earth is going on?
Was he rescued? But what kind of being could heal him so fast—and leave no trace whatsoever?
Stunned, Lant thought for a while. He didn’t rush to open the door; instead, he carefully moved to the window to look outside.
Beyond the window, goose-feather snow fell in utter silence, turning heaven and earth into a vast, bleak sheet of pure white.
His heart tightened. He suddenly remembered that, by his memory, the continent should be in early autumn. His hometown lay in the south-central part of the continent, with a warm climate; even in winter, snowfall was rare—let alone a blizzard .
Where is this? The northern reaches?
Thinking of that, he retraced those last minutes before he blacked out. Then he recalled: after escaping with his life, he’d wandered the wilds for a day, stomach gnawing at his spine. He’d seen an aurora in the sky, and the Remnant Abyss had opened before him. Desperate, he’d hurled himself into it.
I reached that legendary, mythical land?
But if this really is that place, shouldn’t it be even more barren and desolate than the Abyssal Continent? Why is it not—why is it even a little picturesque?
Forcing down his confusion, Lant went to the door and carefully pushed it open. At the end of the corridor was a spacious living room; logs crackled in the fireplace, and the leaping flames drove back the winter night’s cold, bathing the whole interior in warmth.
The living room was empty. Lant hesitated a moment, then screwed up his courage, went to the house’s front door, and pushed it open. A blade-sharp gust of cold wind knifed inside at once, making him reflexively take two steps back as goosebumps prickled over his skin.
Before he could even marvel at how frigid it was, an even more chilling sight appeared.
Several pallid Skeletons, moving with stiff steps, crossed the snow and entered the manor grounds. After a brief patrol, they left again, as if following some rigid directive.
One Skeleton, ghost-green soulfire flickering in its eye sockets, swept its hollow gaze over the doorway where he stood—but showed no reaction. Whether it hadn’t seen him or simply didn’t care, he couldn’t tell.
Lant sucked in a sharp breath and slammed the door shut. He didn’t know why those undead creatures hadn’t attacked him, but one thing was certain: at this moment, he had no second option but to stay in this lovely house.
He sighed, intending to look around inside some more—when a light footfall sounded from upstairs.
He turned by reflex, and from the direction of the stairs, a breathtaking girl with long silver hair was walking down, calm as you please.
Judging by looks alone, she seemed fifteen or sixteen. Lant, by contrast, only looked twelve or thirteen because he stood straight and tall—his real age was not yet nine—so by rights he ought to be calling her “big sis.”
But after staring for a few seconds, Lant’s expression changed abruptly. With a thump, he dropped to his knees.
The sudden move left Yvette at a bit of a loss. She blinked—was this to thank her for saving his life? Wasn’t it a bit much?
“Why are you kneeling?” she decided to ask outright.
“A-are you a witch, ma’am?” the boy looked up and blurted something wildly off-topic, his voice trembling. “I am a witch,” Yvette raised a brow slightly. “But if you mean the ‘Doomsday Witch,’ then no.”
“No! Not the Doomsday Witch!” the boy’s voice jumped an octave, ragged with excitement. “I mean—are you the ‘Silver Witch,’ my lady?”
“The Silver Witch?” Yvette was a little baffled.
“Yes!” The Demonkin boy’s eyes flared with bright light as he babbled, “Teacher to the Former Demon King, the Hidden Deity of the Land of the End—the ‘Silver Witch’! A girl with silver hair and red eyes, and most importantly,
I—I’ve seen your statue, and I’m one of your faithful!”
Yvette was even more confused. What was this? She hadn’t set foot in the Otherworld even once—so how were there statues and believers already?
Could this be any more absurd? Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on noᴠelfire.net