Little Dragoness felt her master’s favoritism. Why keep fixating on Freya? Just because she hasn’t become a child of darkness yet?

Master’s always been like this—before you fall, she tempts you relentlessly, clinging to you constantly. But the moment you truly surrender to darkness? She drops you without a glance.

“You ever wonder *why* I play favorites? Serves you right for being so weird,” Morningstar brushed off Little Dragoness’s pout and kept teasing Freya in her arms.

“Hm? What’s that noise? Mice in here?”

Morningstar heard a faint grinding sound—then noticed Little Dragoness gnashing her teeth. Lips pulled wide, two rows of magically sharpened shark-like teeth clacked together: *clack-clack-clack*.

“Really?” Morningstar, the Dark Sovereign, seemed utterly clueless about Little Dragoness’s desperate need for attention.

“Rest well. I’ll skip teasing you today. We’ll wait till your wounds heal.”

She pressed a hand to Freya’s chest. Black tendrils seeped from her palm, slowly wrapping around Freya’s body.

“Please… not again…” Freya squirmed slightly, a trace of resistance in her voice.

“Be a good girl~”

As the darkness enveloped her once more, Freya gradually stilled. She watched the tendrils tighten gently around her, that familiar, longed-for comfort washing over her. Shrouded in eerie darkness, she felt no fear—only peace.

“Master… earlier you said no one here would live past tomorrow. Are you going to kill them?”

“Don’t paint me that black. Not *yet*, anyway. They won’t survive the night because this city’s already cursed.”

Little Dragoness hadn’t noticed, but Morningstar saw it instantly: a vile, ancient curse woven into the city’s very soul—a price paid in every life within.

“I *could* reverse it. But as a Dark Witch? I don’t ‘save’ people. I’d only swap it for something darker. Sigh… Otherwise, I might’ve shown mercy. Too bad, too bad~”

Morningstar shrugged. Like healing Freya’s wounds—the cost was infusing her with more dark energy. But Freya had long grown used to it.

These humans were already cursed. Removing it would bring far worse suffering.

Bad luck? Or did Morningstar truly carry that “Conan”-like death aura? Trouble followed her everywhere.

The curse activated the very night they checked into the inn.

Morningstar stayed awake, watching from the window.

“It feels… off. You called me the world’s embodiment of evil—so why do I see such heavy resentment festering in everyone here?”

As the Dark Witch, she saw the shadows in every heart. The air reeked of cursed energy, and every soul brimmed with bitterness—like Leticia, a noble’s daughter drowning in grudges Morningstar couldn’t fathom.

“Humans are like this, Master. Don’t be surprised. Without you, their darkness remains. These are just commoners. A mage or swordsman consumed by it? Far worse consequences.”

Little Dragoness wasn’t shocked. She welcomed it. A Dark Sorceress drew power from such souls—the more resentment, the stronger she grew.

“The curse started? Ugh, rotten timing. I just wanted one quiet night…”

Morningstar felt a flicker of surprise—but stayed calm, observing silently.

Outside the city, robed figures conducted a ritual. Frail bodies wrapped in night-blending cloaks, withered skin exposed, voices young despite aged appearances.

“With these ten thousand lives, the Goddess will smile upon us!”

“Holy shit! Thanos!” Morningstar muttered. She’d spotted them earlier—just watching to see their play.

Level 20. Necromancers.

Her Demon Eye saw right through them.

Stopping them was pointless. They merely triggered what was already inevitable.

This border town held ~10,000 souls. The curse had long taken root—air, water, no matter. Every person was beyond saving.

As the ritual accelerated the curse, lives faded swiftly. At least they passed painlessly, slipping away in sleep.

The necromancers gathered souls to please their “goddess”—likely that fake Dark Sorceress.

“Damn it! Killing in *my* name? I’m the Dark Witch—not the Scapegoat Witch!”

Annoyed, Morningstar clenched her jaw. Her rep was trash already, but false blame? Unacceptable. She was wicked, yes—but not a city-slaughtering monster.

She itched to punish them… but their boss was arriving. She held back.

“O Goddess! Accept these ten thousand souls! Reveal yourself!”

True to form, a twisted black hole yawned open. A beautiful woman in a witch’s gown floated out on a broom, jack-o’-lanterns flickering beside her. Anyone might think she’d bolted from a cosplay convention.

“Goddess! You’ve come!”