Beneath rippling beams of multicolored light,

a tall woman slumped upon the lofty throne.

Her right hand held a wineglass, gaze drifting absently to the chandelier above.

Yet even in this vacant stupor, she radiated no fragility.

The black strapless gown and tangled hair only amplified an indescribable arrogance—

a presence that crushed onlookers with inadequacy.

Her name: Cecile von. Age: 1,300.

Residence: Veronan Castle, eastern continent. Status: unmarried.

Chief of the Seven Witches. The Pride Witch.

Universally acknowledged as the world’s most powerful witch.

She had mastered every forbidden art, wielding terrifying abilities: quintuple incantations and instant seven-element spells.

She owned three-sevenths of the world’s lands and controlled the divine Authority of Arrogance.

Every night, she drank one glass of wine.

Every night, she pondered matters for exactly twenty minutes.

Problems were solved immediately—never deferred to tomorrow.

Her subordinates called her invincible.

But was invincibility truly a blessing?

Cecile certainly didn’t think so now.

After all, the last self-proclaimed invincible soul had been floating in outer space for who knew how long.

Soon, she might join him—either hanging from a gallows or becoming another glittering spectacle among the stars.

As a player who’d just pulled consecutive all-nighters to beat this game—possibly dying from exhaustion mid-crossover—she knew the plot cold.

The protagonist would overcome trials, gather heroines, redeem villains, and with allies’ help, defeat the final boss: the Seven Witches.

He’d liberate the continent and usher in a bright future.

It was satisfying. Smooth. Exactly how she’d felt playing it.

But now? She was the antagonist. The Pride Witch—the ultimate boss.

Other witches at least had romance routes.

The Pride Witch only had death routes. The variable was *how* she died.

This alone, Cecile could endure.

What shattered her was becoming a *witch*.

She’d been born male!

No magical potions here to switch genders—why force her into this body?

*Is there a Red Priestess potion? I need an antidote.*

Shaking off the thought, Cecile focused on the real crisis:

preempting the rebellion the protagonist would soon ignite.

She refused to die faster than the original witch—despite having player knowledge.

Her slender fingers tightened.

The wineglass shattered.

Crimson liquid bled across the red carpet.

The doors burst open.

Head maid Aileen rushed in, eyes darting from the slumped Pride Witch on the throne to the wine pooling on the stairs, glass shards glittering like fallen stars.

"Master... was tonight’s wine unsatisfactory?"

"Summon Euphemia. I recalled something... amusing."

"At once, Master."

***

*The Pride Witch wants to see me about something ‘amusing’?*

Euphemia Noah followed the head maid, racking her brain.

In three years under Cecile’s command, she’d never met her in person—only seen her magical projections. Even then, Cecile’s attention had never lingered on *her*.

Frankly, Euphemia disliked the Pride Witch.

True to her title, the woman exuded haughty disdain—as if all humanity were mere playthings beneath her heel.

Now, for the first time, Euphemia stood before the castle’s deepest sanctum.

What awaited beyond this door?

She didn’t know. But defiance was impossible.

Her strength couldn’t match Cecile’s.

And her family situation...

Her younger sister suffered a hidden illness, bedridden since childhood. Monthly doses of expensive magic potions kept her alive.

The Pride Witch’s pay was unmatched. Her benefits, impeccable.

*That’s her only redeeming quality.*

Heart pounding, Euphemia pushed the door open.

She walked to the hall’s center, knelt on one knee, head bowed.

"Pride Witch, you summoned me?"

Merely kneeling here stirred primal submission. The Witch’s aura pressed down like a physical weight.

"Lift your head. Look at me."

The voice was flat. Ice-cold.

Euphemia drew a shaky breath, forcing her chin up.

On the dais, the black throne held a woman of breathtaking beauty—like a night-blooming rose.

No arrogance twisted her features.

Only a trace of amusement curled her lips.

"Am I beautiful?"

The question froze Euphemia’s lungs.

*Why ask this? The answer’s obvious!*

Her mind raced. What did the Witch want? How should she reply?

Sweat beaded on her spine as seconds bled away.

Cecile watched, chin propped on her palm, legs crossed. Euphemia’s face paled by the second.

After three heartbeats, she murmured: "Is this question so difficult?"

"N-No! Pride Witch, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!" The words tumbled out before Euphemia could stop them.

"How... perfunctory."

Cecile’s smile deepened. Euphemia’s unease spiked.

"Let me ask again. Choose carefully this time:

Will you submit to me alone... or with your sister?"

Silence thickened.

Not a pin dropped.

Euphemia’s pale cheeks flushed.

After a long pause, a dry, disbelieving whisper escaped her throat:

"Pride Witch... I have no sister."

"Ah! Of course. Humans are selfish creatures."

Cecile rose, descending the steps.

*Clack. Clack. Clack.*

Each footfall shredded Euphemia’s nerves.

"The world is cold. Looking out for yourself? Nothing wrong with that."

"I don’t understand what you mean—"

Cecile leaned down, lips brushing Euphemia’s ear.

"If you claim no sister... then True Day Noah never existed. A pity. She’s quite adorable."

A finger flicked toward the chandelier.

"Perfect. I’ve been needing a songbird for that cage."

A magical projection flickered inside the hanging cage—a petite girl with Euphemia’s eyes, curled up like a broken doll. Seven-tenths resemblance. Utterly pitiful.

Euphemia’s eyes widened in horror. She stared at Cecile. "Pride Witch, I—"

"*Shh.*"

Cecile’s index finger pressed against Euphemia’s lips. Her thumb lifted the girl’s chin.

"No excuses. No explanations. One sentence. Your answer.

Or next time you visit... you’ll find True Dawn hanging there. Choose wisely."

"Euphemia... you wouldn’t want your sister to become that, would you?"

Silence stretched.

Euphemia’s hand tightened on her sword hilt.

*Vvvv—*

The blade hummed, sensing its master’s turmoil.

Deadly intent radiated from her—a sword aura sharp enough to cleave the castle in half.

Yet Cecile remained unmoved.

She watched like an adult humoring a child’s tantrum.

The indifference drained half Euphemia’s fury.

*Breathe. Calm down.*

*She’s the strongest witch in history. Your strength means nothing.*

*And... True Dawn... You can’t just think of yourself.*

Euphemia closed her eyes.

Exhaled.

She unbuckled her sword, knelt on both knees, and raised the blade.

"From this day forth, I pledge myself to Cecile von. My loyalty—eternal."

*Oath of Loyalty.*

The game’s ultimate binding constraint.

Cecile hadn’t expected such swift surrender. She’d only meant to force Euphemia’s early allegiance—not steal the protagonist’s future trump card.

A windfall.

With this oath, betrayal was impossible.

Unless... True Dawn Noah died.

*As long as True Dawn lives, I own Euphemia.*

But if the girl perished? Euphemia would snap her chains and come for blood.

Cecile scoffed, fingertips trailing the silver scabbard.

"Is that all? Euphemia, thousands beg to swear loyalty to me. This is... cheap."

*(Though I’ve already won the jackpot.)*

The Radiant Sword Saint.

A warrior with inhuman speed and reflexes.

Her blade, empowered by light-speed strikes, could slice through any defense.

Especially since it wasn’t just steel—it was the reincarnated form of a fallen light deity. Late-game, Euphemia could ascend to godhood herself. Her power would skyrocket.

She was the protagonist’s ultimate weapon. The ceiling of his faction’s strength. Second only to Cecile in the entire game.

Her current restraint masked terrifying potential—unnoticed by higher-ups because the original Cecile had never cared.

*Arrogance built her.*

It gifted her transcendent talent, the Authority, the throne.

*Arrogance would break her.*

Her overwhelming power made her disdain everyone; the vastness of her domain made her indifferent to all; the flattery of her followers made her believe it all.

These very factors led to the Pride Witch’s ultimate end.

But Cecile now was far from arrogant or haughty.

With her life uncertain, there was no point in arrogance—enjoying life required staying alive first.

“So… what would you have me do to prove my loyalty to you, Mas… ter…” Euphemia forced the last two syllables from her throat.

Her reluctance was plain on her face.

Cecile glanced at the spilled wine and broken glass shards beside the throne. “Clean that up.”

Clean it up? How…

Euphemia followed her gaze. The red carpet seemed enchanted; the wine hadn’t seeped in, forming a perfect puddle. Glass shards scattered across the steps.

No cleaning tools were in sight in the entire hall.

“Heh.” Cecile chuckled, turned, and walked back up the steps to her throne.

A wine-filled goblet reappeared in her right hand.

“Before I finish this glass, I want those annoying things on the floor gone… with your body.”

Euphemia froze at the final words.

What did she mean by ‘with your body’… Could it be…

Euphemia turned her head with difficulty toward the wine puddle, her tongue licking her dry lips.

Swearing loyalty had already cost her some freedom.

Doing this would mean sacrificing her dignity and self-respect again.

She never expected the Pride Witch’s nature to be so vile.

Rumors said the Pride Witch always looked down on others, scorning underhanded tactics. Why fixate on a nobody like her now, even resorting to threatening her sister?

Resentment, anger, and hatred churned in the girl’s heart. Her clenched fist slowly uncurled, finally settling into calm.

Even as humiliation peaked, Euphemia knew she had to endure.

Yes, even knowing the witch before her was toying with her, treating her like a plaything, she could only obey—she had no right to resist.

She could rebel carelessly herself, but her sister couldn’t.

She couldn’t sacrifice her sister because of her own actions.

This moment of clarity seemed to break a lock within her, making her vaguely sense something was wrong.

But she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

“Fifteen minutes. Before I finish my thoughts.”

The unhurried urging sounded almost hypnotic, bewitching her.

“Let me see if your so-called loyalty is worth anything.”