In the castle of Cinnamon Town, the moment that faint purple glow bloomed from the cross, every single Inquisitorial Knight present let out a collective sigh of relief.
They knew then — after months of hunting, after tracking across half the Dessert Kingdom, their witch hunt had finally reached its conclusion.
But among all the smiles of relief, only Count Cinnamon's expression looked wrong.
The common folk around them didn't understand what that light meant. They were only glad that the knights' task seemed finished — and that these frightening holy warriors would soon leave their little town in peace.
But the Count was different. He didn't fully understand what he'd just seen, but a deep, terrible intuition told him something was very wrong.
That little girl… she seemed to be the very one the knights were searching for.
And the worst part — that girl was his own daughter.
From what he knew, anyone even remotely connected to a witch was doomed to face unspeakable punishment. And this child carried his bloodline.
At that realization, Count Cinnamon's face turned ashen — as though life itself drained from him.
He stumbled to his feet, staggered toward Pablo, and fell to his knees.
"Please, my lord! That child has nothing to do with our family!" he cried. "She's the daughter of one of our maids. We only let her work here out of pity. We never knew she carried the devil's spawn! I swear, if we'd known her true identity, we would've reported her to the Church immediately!"
"Oh?" Pablo tilted his head slightly, smiling. "So Count Cinnamon claims he knew nothing, hm?"
He sighed, his voice soft — almost pitying.
"Unfortunately for you, those who share blood with witches rarely survive long. The few who do are monsters in their own right — kings in strength, each one a terror."
His eyes narrowed.
"So tell me, Count… do you really think you deserve to live?"
Those words pierced straight into the Count's chest like blades.
Despair swallowed his heart whole. He tried to speak, trembling.
"No—no, my lord! That demon has nothing to do with our family! She's just the maid's—"
"Kill them."
Pablo's order cut him off like the swing of a sword.
The Inquisitorial Knights drew their blades as one and charged into the crowd.
In moments, the grand hall was awash in blood. Screams were snuffed out one by one until only silence — and the smell of iron — remained.
Only the little purple-haired girl was left standing among the corpses, frozen in horror.
"Your father," Pablo said softly as he approached her, "forsook you to save his own life. Yet it is you who caused his death — and theirs. Your brothers, your sisters, the guards, the innocent servants… all of them died because of you."
He crouched down, voice gentle and poisonous, like a confessor whispering to a frightened child.
"Do you know why all of this happened?"
He didn't wait for her answer. Watching her tear-streaked face, his tone became almost tender — disturbingly so.
"Hate them," he murmured. "Hate your corrupt blood. It's that sinful lineage flowing in your veins that brought this tragedy. What you've suffered is nothing compared to the countless others who've endured the same across this continent. It's because of your kind — because of witches — that this world drowns in misery.
You witches… are the root of all evil."
As Pablo delivered his sermon with feverish devotion, one of the knights whispered quietly to Alec nearby:
"Here he goes again. Every time we catch a witch, Captain Pablo gives the same speech. What's even the point?"
"Hatred," Alec replied with a tired shake of his head. "That's all that's left in him."
The Witch Calamity had plagued the continent for centuries — far deadlier than the greed of nobles or merchants.
But as Alec stood there, something in his mind nagged at him.
Something didn't fit.
Judging from the faint glow of the cross, the little girl's power was extremely weak — the mark of a witch who had only just awakened. Her magical energy was fragile, barely noticeable.
But their true target — the witch who'd escaped their hunts over and over again — was nothing like this. She was cunning, experienced, powerful. This child was far too weak.
"Captain Pablo," Alec murmured, stepping forward, "something's off. This one might be a decoy — meant to make us think the witch's been caught."
Pablo gave him a lazy, amused glance.
"You think I didn't notice?"
He smirked, lifting the little girl effortlessly by one arm. His eyes flicked toward the windows, the streets beyond.
"Perhaps our real quarry is out there somewhere — trembling in a dark sewer, watching us right now."
"Then what should we—?"
"No rush," Pablo interrupted calmly. "We must give her a bit of hope first. Only then will she show herself."
He turned and strode toward the castle gates, the girl still dangling from his grasp. The knights followed, unhurried, their steps echoing through the blood-soaked hall as they left the castle openly, making no effort to hide their presence.
Meanwhile, beneath Jenny's Bakery on the west street of Cinnamon Town, a filthy blonde girl sat curled up in the cellar, hugging her knees tightly.
Her name was Tina — the very witch the Inquisitorial Knights were hunting.
But she wasn't some ancient, battle-hardened sorceress as Alec imagined. She was young — a newly awakened witch, barely half a year into her powers.
Even so, she wasn't entirely defenseless. Her strength had already reached the Fifth Rank, though that was due to one thing alone — the nature of her Authority.
Her Authority had granted her rapid growth, but at a cost. It gave her no power to attack, no destructive magic to defend herself. The magic she did possess was weak and gentle — useless in battle.
For that reason, many called her a witch among witches — the weakest of the weak.
Because the Authority she inherited was of the Fate lineage — the Authority of Trade.
She could exchange anything with anyone — as long as the trade was equal in value.
But there was one condition:
The other person had to agree willingly.