Alistair spent the entire night with Agatha, and at dawn, he woke up to find himself lying down while Agatha was lying atop him, still asleep. From their closeness, Alistair noticed the length of her crimson-red eyelashes. He noticed how innocent she looked while sleeping, unlike her usual seductive nature.
Alistair extended his hand to gently pat her head and play with her soft hair, feeling it slip between his fingers, but his hand stopped before touching her, refusing to move any further forward.
Alistair said nothing about it. It was all the result of the emptiness he felt in his heart. That emptiness didn't belong specifically to Alistair Crowley, but to the body's owner, Noah Grace, who felt this was wrong and internally rejected it, yet was forced to follow the Script. Alistair's hand fell beside the couch, hanging in the air. He looked up at the wooden ceiling above him—gaps between the wood exposed the age of the house as if it had existed since the beginning of history. The dark gaps were like the emptiness inside him, and the feeling of dissatisfaction.
"This… this is too much for me… What's with all these contradictions I feel and live through?… I'm completely lost because I found a moment of rest in the arms of this witch… But rest is just a prison… Rest is merely a delusion of a tired mind asking you to stop, preventing you from taking another step forward… Rest hides the bigger picture—that of freedom, the ultimate goal and hidden desire in every soul… Those who fall into the trap of comfort will never awaken from it, and they will become prisoners of this illusion," Alistair thought.
At that moment, he looked again at Agatha before holding her by the shoulders and gently and slowly moving her until she lay on her back on the couch. He placed the nearby blanket over her before putting on his coat hanging on the hook. Before leaving, he looked at Agatha one last time—still asleep—then left the house.
But his silent escape didn't last long, because he immediately collided with something in front of him like a wall. His nose went numb from the impact. He looked up to see Ephraim in front of him, a long silver sword in his hand, dressed in his formal witch-hunter uniform.
"M-Mr. Crowley!... What are you doing here?"
"E-Ephraim!... W-What are you doing here?" said Alistair, standing with his arms slightly outstretched, blocking Ephraim from entering.
"I was surveying the area when I saw a suspicious house here… Is this your house?" asked Ephraim in a doubtful tone, noticing how Alistair was trying to block him.
"M-My house? Yes, it's my house! T-There's nothing to inspect here, so let's go, what do you say?" said Alistair, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing nervously.
"…What's inside?" asked Ephraim, his eyes and tone sharpening as he gripped the handle of his silver cruciform sword more tightly.
"Nothing to worry about, let's just go, come on, I'll even give you my signature if you want!" said Alistair, flamboyantly and cheerfully, trying to change the subject.
Ephraim remained silent for a moment and decided to let the matter go. Surely, there couldn't be anything bad inside anyway. But just when things couldn't get worse, the door behind Alistair opened, and Agatha stepped out rubbing her eyes from sleep.
"Alistair, who's this?—" said Agatha, yawning. Without wasting a second, Ephraim swung his sword with tyrannical intent toward Agatha's neck to slaughter her, but a sword of yellow light appeared in Alistair's hand, blocking Ephraim's strike and forcing his sword to rebound slightly, causing Ephraim to jump back.
"W-What do you think you're doing, drawing your sword like that?" said Alistair, alarmed, as he instinctively stood in front of Agatha to protect her.
"Alistair, who is he?" asked Agatha curiously, still bearing traces of sleep and unaware of the situation.
"Mr. Crowley, what do you think you're doing protecting a witch?… Isn't her head the same one you brought yesterday? Did you deceive everyone to protect a witch?" said Ephraim, his eyes horrifyingly wide.
"Th-this… it's not like that. I promised she wouldn't hurt anyone," said Alistair, his tone hesitant and confused.
"What if she breaks that promise? Are you ready to bear the consequences of placing your trust in a witch? Are you ready to bear the guilt that might come from causing the deaths of thousands of innocents?!"
"That… that won't happen. Agatha is different from other witches. She never tried to hurt anyone—humans entered her land and tried to kill her. She only defended her life!"
"You… don't tell me you've fallen in love with this witch?!" said Ephraim, irritated, veins bulging on his forehead, grinding his teeth.
Alistair remained silent for a moment, glancing at the still half-asleep Agatha behind him from the corner of his eye, then looked back at Ephraim.
"…Yes… I have."
"You… Mr.— no, Alistair, no man who lies with the cursed walks among the sanctified. No soul that kisses fire returns unburnt. You—of all men—you, the herald of purging—were carved from the sacred texts, raised from ash, and forged to silence the darkness. And now I find you wrapped in it."
Ephraim paused, tasting bitterness at the tip of his tongue, but continued.
"I used to look at you like one would look at a cathedral—unshaken, holy, divine. But now… you are cracked marble and rotten incense. A monument of betrayal."
"By decree of the crown, by the ink of the black manuscript, by fire and sword and everything that stands against heresy—those who consort with witches… shall burn with them."
Ephraim gripped his sword's handle tightly until pain shot into his hand, raising it and pointing it at Alistair.
"And I, the High Inquisitor of the Crown's Sacred Order, Ephraim Nethercot, heir of the great Nethercot family, shall carry out the execution!" said Ephraim, and without giving Alistair time to explain, he lunged at him with terrifying speed, seeming to vanish and reappear in front of him, his sword near Alistair's neck ready to sever it. Just in time, Alistair raised his sword of light between them, causing a brief clash, before Ephraim attempted a kick to his other side. But Alistair's reflexes and physical strength were better—he grabbed Ephraim's leg and hurled him away.
Ephraim flipped midair before landing. The sound of him hitting the ground was silent, as if it never happened.
"Agatha, go inside," said Alistair in a commanding, warning tone. Agatha responded immediately, retreating and shutting the door behind her for safety, watching from a nearby window.
Alistair descended the wooden porch slowly, stepping onto the same level as Ephraim.
"Are you sure you can defeat me? You know well I am the stron—" Alistair began, trying to make Ephraim reconsider, but Ephraim cut him off by launching a blade of wind flying toward him, splitting and cracking the ground beneath it. Alistair swung his sword, scattering and dissipating the wind blade. He thought it was a weak attack for someone of Ephraim's rank—until Ephraim suddenly appeared in front of him, plunging his sword with full force into Alistair's shoulder, slicing through flesh down to bone. Blood burst from the wound like a flood. Ephraim withdrew his sword and delivered a successful kick to Alistair's neck, sending him flying into the nearby forest trees with a thundering crash and a cloud of dust that obscured Ephraim's view.
As the dust began to settle, Ephraim heard Alistair coughing from the thick air and saw his silhouette through the haze, waving his hand to clear the dust. His clothes were soaked in blood, and his arm was still bleeding—numb and broken. Then, Alistair threw the light sword into his other hand.
"I spent a lot on this coat, and it's stained again… Honestly, I'm not as rich as you," said Alistair in an indifferent tone, seeming annoyed only about the coat, as if his arm hadn't just been shattered.
But it wasn't like Ephraim cared. The heretic traitor was still alive, and he was the executioner. Ephraim charged at him again at incredible speed. This time, Alistair's eyes had adjusted to Ephraim's movements. He could now track him—and time itself seemed to slow. Swiftly, Alistair kicked the ground, sending a wave of dust toward Ephraim, stopping him in his tracks. Ephraim stood defensively, looking around, ready to strike at the slightest motion.
That's when Alistair appeared behind him—but Ephraim had predicted a rear attack and swung his sword fast enough to slice Alistair in two—only for Alistair to bend and vanish like an illusion.
"It's an afterimage."
Ephraim heard the cold voice behind him and turned quickly to find Alistair's light-forged sword curled like a scythe around his neck. The swing created a gust that cleared the lingering dust.
"Drop your sword." It was a command, not a request—and Ephraim obeyed reluctantly. No matter how proud or high-ranked humans were, they were always equal in the face of death.
"…Are you going to kill me?" asked Ephraim. His face remained as cold as it had been during the fight, but Alistair knew that behind that mask, Ephraim was only pretending to be strong.
"No. If I did, I'd find myself surrounded by royal knights. I don't want that kind of trouble," said Alistair coldly. The light in his hand twisted until it disappeared. Ephraim finally relaxed, his tense shoulders slumping as he exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Then, the cabin door opened, and Agatha ran out, clutching her dress and lifting it slightly so she wouldn't trip, leaping into Alistair's arms in a tight embrace.
"Alistair, I was so scared! Let's go inside so I can treat you!" said Agatha, her voice anxious and frightened, her arms trembling, her pupils quivering at the sight of Alistair's bloody, broken arm.
"I-I'm fine…" said Alistair nervously. Normally, he'd be embarrassed by such an embrace—especially in front of someone—but that someone was Ephraim, and he couldn't feel embarrassed around him.
"Are you two…?" asked Ephraim in a tone that seemed hollow and cold, but he was genuinely disgusted. The relationship between a human and a witch was worse than incestuous sin.
"I-It's hard to explain, I don't even know myself."
"What do you mean you don't know? We're married," declared Agatha sharply.
"…Married?" said both Alistair and Ephraim, sharing the same shock.
"Sleeping with a witch is a marriage contract. We're bound in body and soul," Agatha explained with an innocent face.
"You slept together?!" said Ephraim, disgusted, his face pale with horror.
"L-let's just go inside."
Agatha pulled Alistair inside with her, and Ephraim followed hesitantly, ending up entering with them like any normal guest.
From behind the forest trees, someone had been silently watching. In her royal robes and small figure, Princess Ivara stood quietly, having witnessed everything—for how long, no one knew.
Inside the cabin, Alistair was lying on the couch, his head in Agatha's lap while a blue flame covered his broken arm, slowly healing it. As this happened, she played with her hair, braiding it around her fingers. Ephraim sat on a nearby chair, watching in shock and horror.
"When exactly did this marriage… begin?" asked Ephraim in confusion.
Agatha gave Alistair a warm, seductive look with a gentle smile, locking eyes with him. Then she asked:
"Why don't you answer that question, darling?"
Alistair's throat dried up completely, and he felt his lips twisting inward and his tongue abandoning him—all because he'd forgotten the answer. Even though it had only been two days… or was it one?
"A-Are you kidding me? That happened yesterday! Did you really forget already?" Agatha asked, suspicious and surprised—what kind of memory did Alistair have to forget something so important this quickly?
"O-of course I remember, I was just testing you," Alistair said with a nervous laugh.
"I doubt it."
"In any case, this relationship can't last. If the king finds out, everyone will be after you. You'll go down in history as a traitor, not a great witch hunter. Is that really what you want?" asked Ephraim in confusion. Agatha gave him a sharp look but said nothing, only hoping to hear an answer from Alistair that would satisfy her.
"I don't know what I really want. I was ready a moment ago to leave and never come back, claiming everything between Agatha and me was just illusion and falsehood—but now I find myself defending her and everything between us… What do I want?... Noah Grace screams from within, telling me to get up and leave—but he's still bound by the rules of the Script and cannot disobey it. But Alistair Crowley desperately wants me to stay with his beloved…" Alistair thought to himself, time seeming to freeze around him, stuck alone in a whirlpool of thought, sinking deeper and deeper. Usually, when someone nears the bottom, they find the answer. But the bottom didn't want to show itself. Even if it did, would it carry the answer that satisfied both the raging Noah Grace and the heroic Alistair Crowley?
"Hero… This act is titled 'The Hero'… What heroic action could anyone take at this crossroads?"
Then, Alistair snapped out of his thoughts—and out of Agatha's embrace. He sat up straight, his arm still burning with the blue flame that healed it slowly. He had decided what he would do. This fire was proof of Agatha's presence in his life—but the injury was also a result of her presence. Still, this wasn't blame toward her—the one who caused the injury was Ephraim, who saw Alistair as his role model and hero. But what started all this in the first place? Was it that Ephraim couldn't accept that his idol was with a witch—an enemy of humanity? But why were witches enemies of humans to begin with? Was it because humans were incapable of coexisting with witches and feared them? Or was it that witches saw humans only as parasitic creatures, blaming them for everything and trying to kill them?
"Noah Grace would choose himself every day—but I'm not Noah. I'm not him. I'm Alistair Crowley… just another ordinary human you pass by in your daily life," Alistair thought, then looked at both Agatha and Ephraim with a relaxed gaze and a bright, tender smile—like the innocent smile of a child who hadn't yet seen blood.
"Can't witches and humans coexist?"