While Cecile held a witch conference with the others to discuss the Demon Hunt’s threat, another incident unfolded simultaneously in the Shengen Kingdom.

After rewatching the projection left by the Pride Witch, Euphemia finally confirmed the command she’d heard was real.

She swallowed nervously. A chill ran through her—her body trembled and weakened, her back drenched in cold sweat.

She never imagined the Pride Witch could be so cruel…

Though she’d killed many for magic coins before, the guilt now weighed heavier than ever.

Recalling her audience at the throne, the demand for absolute loyalty—nausea and dread surged within her.

But regret was no longer an option.

Her younger sister had already gone to the Pride Witch’s side.

From the moment that oath of loyalty was sworn, she became nothing but a plaything in the witch’s palm.

To defy her? Her fate would be far worse.

Her gaze drifted right.

Beside her desk, the little girl in a red dress hummed cheerfully, swinging her legs without a trace of doubt about the Pride Witch’s order.

“Helena… don’t you have *any* doubts about Lady Pride Witch’s command?”

“Helena never questions Mama’s words. Everything Mama says is absolutely correct.”

“…You really are Lady Pride Witch’s obedient daughter.”

Euphemia turned away, biting her lip, her expression grim.

*Bang!*

The door burst open.

Elite guards clad in magic-enchanted heavy armor stormed in.

“Lady Euphemia! The Demon Hunt members here to rescue the girl have all entered the Seventh Outpost. Engage now?”

“Surround them. Advance. Injure or cripple—but do *not* kill. Not one escapes.” As she spoke, Euphemia slumped back into her chair.

“Why spare them?”

“Execute. The. Order!” she growled, voice low and strained—as if releasing pent-up tension.

Only then did her body feel steady again… though her hands still trembled faintly.

“Yes, ma'am!”

…

Darkness—a seemingly endless void—wrapped around the girl in the cell.

Numbness had long since dulled Annette’s senses.

The daily ration of sawdust-mixed black bread and a bowl of water, once despised, was now devoured mechanically.

She wanted to live. However faint the hope.

Without vegetables or fruit, barely surviving, she had no strength left.

The three daily lashes—once unbearable agony—now barely registered, even seated on the cold floor.

Just a dull sting. Nothing like that first lash she couldn’t endure.

In that sense… perhaps she owed the Pride Witch thanks.

For hardening her pain tolerance.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed beyond the silent cell—no longer the light patrols, but pounding, rushing closer.

Annette’s eyes slowly lifted toward the door.

Her numb mind finally recalled the Pride Witch’s words.

*Please… not them.*

She’d already dragged the tavern folk into this. She’d rather die than endanger anyone else.

When long-absent light flooded the doorway, she knew her prayer had failed.

They had come.

“Miss Annette!”

Chains snapped at the cry.

Blinded by sudden brightness, she instinctively shielded her eyes—but recognized the voice instantly.

The last flicker of hope died.

“Miss Annette, let’s go—”

“Witt… *Why you?!*” Annette shoved the white-robed youth trying to lift her.

If it were anyone else, her guilt might’ve been lighter.

But Witt was Demon Hunt’s future star—his swordsmanship ranked among the best.

Given time, his path would shine far brighter than hers.

He shouldn’t end here… because of *her*.

“Miss Annette?!” Witt stumbled back, bewildered.

“Run, Witt! Leave me! Take them and go—you’ve walked into a trap! The Pride Witch *knew* you’d come!”

“No need to fear, Miss Annette. We’ve cleared the alchemical constructs and guards. Trust us—we *will* get you out.” He steadied her, voice firm.

Annette shook her head and followed him out.

A bone-deep chill seized her. She shuddered. Through blurred vision, a hint of red flickered.

The tavern massacre flashed in her mind.

*Thud. Thud. THUD.*

Heavy boots stomped in perfect unison from both ends of the corridor.

Elite guards in full magic-alchemical armor, tower shields raised, advanced with crushing authority.

To guarantee total annihilation of any rescuers, Cecile had deployed an entire guard legion.

A thousand soldiers plus the Radiant Sword Saint—how could dozens possibly stir trouble?

The Demon Hunt members’ brief triumph faded under the guards’ disciplined, lethal presence.

Seeing the enemy’s gleaming full-body armor against their own patchy gear, hands and legs trembled.

This gap couldn’t be bridged by courage. These were seasoned warriors.

And worse—the dark gun barrels protruding from behind the shields.

Weapons so strictly regulated they’d never even touched.

Facing firearms with swords and crossbows? A hopeless dream.

Annette rubbed her eyes. As vision cleared, she saw her: a golden-haired girl striding atop crimson mist at the squad’s forefront.

*Crimson mist… CRIMSON MIST!!!*

Helena’s face surged in her mind—the innocent, chilling laughter bubbling up from deep within.

Chills locked her in place.