"Euphemia, I heard you were looking for me? What’s the matter? Or is it about your sister?"

Seated upon her throne, Cecile smiled down at the golden-haired girl standing below.

"Your sister is recovering well. Soon she’ll walk like any ordinary person..."

"No. That’s not why I sought my master..." Euphemia bit her lower lip, struggling to speak.

"Oh? Then what troubles you?" Cecile’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

*Euphemia came to me—not for her sister? What could possibly weigh on her mind?*

Promotion wasn’t an issue. With her talent, no one would dare hold her back.

Coins? Without her sister’s burden, she could save as much as she wanted—or simply ask Cecile. Money meant little to the Pride Witch now.

Strength? Cecile wouldn’t mind sparring with her. Euphemia’s combat potential in this game was worth heavy investment.

"It’s just..." Euphemia hesitated, then stood without permission. She met Cecile’s gaze head-on. "Why did you force Annette to do *that*? To go to such extremes? Killing everyone would’ve been enough to achieve your goal—wasn’t it?!"

Leaving no survivors was one thing. But *that* method?

She’d tried to forget yesterday’s cruelty. Yet at night, the girl’s laughter and the maiden’s sobs still echoed behind her closed eyes.

No sane person could accept such inhumanity.

The unbearable weight in her chest had driven her here—to the Pride Witch’s palace. She needed answers.

Or she’d refuse to serve a monster, even for her sister’s sake.

Cecile’s lips curled into her signature smile. "First, answer one question for me. One question for another—a fair trade, don’t you think?"

*So this was her crisis? Over yesterday’s orders?*

"What question?"

"What kind of person do you think I am? Speak truthfully. You know killing you would be like crushing a grasshopper. Lie, and my answer won’t be accurate."

A lone Euphemia—early-game, unrefined—posed no threat. She hadn’t yet mastered the Light Deity’s power within her blade.

Euphemia thought carefully, then answered firmly: "A master of hidden daggers behind smiles. A cold, mysterious ruler whose actions baffle ordinary people like me. Honestly? ‘Tyrant’ suits you better than ‘Witch’."

"Not a single positive word? Fair enough." Cecile nodded in agreement.

"When did you ever think I was *good*? I don’t see myself that way. No one believes ‘Witch’ is a noble title... That’s why ‘Mage’ exists—a loftier name for the same magic."

Euphemia froze. She couldn’t argue.

Everyone knew the Pride Witch ruled through terror. She’d never denied it.

But true governance belonged to the kingdoms. When disasters struck, they blamed the Witch.

Euphemia, risen from slums, knew this injustice well.

The starving, ragged masses never questioned *why* they starved. They blamed the Witch.

Never their own laziness or decay.

"Morality is defined by others. I act for myself. My selfish desires concern no one else. Do you remember every loaf of bread you’ve eaten?"

Cecile paused, stunned by her own words.

She reflexively cast *Forced Calm* on herself.

*What the hell... did I just say?*

Such utter selfishness—spilling from *her* lips?

She was playing the heartless villain, yes. But this hollow, emotionless rhetoric chilled even her own spine.

She was still human. Still *wanted* to be human.

Unnoticed, the Authority of Arrogance had seeped into her bones. Its power was terrifying—even guarded against, it twisted her.

"Still... you’re right. Such acts *are* vile. I shouldn’t have ordered them unless necessary." Cecile leaned forward. "Euphemia, may I ask a favor?"

"Speak. If it’s within my power." Euphemia remained unsatisfied—but couldn’t deny Cecile’s logic. A Witch *would* act for self-interest.

She never expected what came next.

"Be my final conscience. If I ever give such an order again, deny me outright. I’ll grant you command over all my alchemical creations—and authority to reassign others."

"Eh?!" Euphemia’s shoulders, tensed to refuse, dropped instantly. She stepped forward, eyes wide with disbelief. "I... I don’t understand." Her heart hammered against her ribs.

*This was permission to rebel—lawful, absolute permission.*

"Euphemia, you’re just. Kind. You still see rainbows in this world." Cecile’s voice softened. "I’ve lost myself chasing power. To me, the world isn’t black or white—it’s exquisite gray."

"My judgments serve *me*, not necessarily what’s right. If I err, correct me. If I ignore you without explanation..." Cecile’s gaze turned sharp. "Raise the banner of rebellion against me."

She needed an anchor—a powerful, moral counterweight against the Authority’s corruption. Against her own future extremism.

Euphemia was perfect. Her strength would grow limitless. Her morals were unshakable—she’d challenged Cecile over *one* atrocity.

*Do I truly lack such loyal ministers?*

"Refuse, and I won’t force you. But today’s words stay secret. As if you never came."

"I accept."

Euphemia placed her left hand over her heart and bowed her head.

Cecile’s smile held quiet relief. "Remember this vow until your last breath. Guard this last shred of goodness in me. I may become ultimate evil—but I refuse to be *inhuman* evil."

"And if that day comes..." Cecile pointed to her own heart. "Kill my body. End *Her* existence."

"Understood, my master..."

For the first time, Euphemia spoke those words without shame—only solemn truth.