The Nightingale walks in the "Misty".
From here, the world is reduced to just black and white.
The lines that originally constituted things are no longer clear, and the boundary between straight lines, broken lines and curves is blurred, just like children's scribbles.
It was an indescribable sensation. The Nightingale took considerable time to learn how to discern boundaries. When used properly, it could transcend worldly constraints and traverse the mist with freedom. Walls that appeared seamless revealed entrances to the real world—absent in reality—when viewed from slightly different angles.
In the mist, the notions of up and down, front and back dissolve into fluid interplay, even merging into one. Take her current journey: from the guard's watchful gaze, she ascends into the castle, tracing the ever-shifting contours, ascending step by step through the void, piercing the ceiling to reach Anna's chamber.
For her, it is a completely free world.
Only in the 'fog' does the nightingale truly unwind. Though silent and lonely, she cherishes this sense of security.
Most of the time, it's black and white, but she can occasionally see other colors.
Take Anna in front of us.
Witchs differ from ordinary people—they are embodiments of Magic Power. The Nightingale perceives the flow and dissipation of this force, which is the only color in the mist.
She had never seen such vivid and intense colors as Anna's—emerald-green radiance surged through her, its core glowing blindingly white. The Nightingale was utterly perplexed. Typically, the colors and abilities of Magic Power were closely related. During the Conclave, she had encountered many witches with flame manipulation skills, most of whom appeared orange or dark red, like pulsating fireballs. Yet, in terms of size and luminosity, none could rival Anna.
If this is still hard to understand, the other point is simply unbelievable.
With such immense Magic Power concentrated within her, how could she still be alive?
Throughout the entire Witches Association, Nightingale couldn't find anyone with such Magic Power—even adult witches paled in comparison. If Anna were to reach adulthood...
No, she had no chance left. The Nightingale sighed. The stronger the Magic Power, the fiercer the backlash. She could hardly fathom the horrific torment Anna would endure when the Evil Demon Devourer descended. The excruciating pain, tearing from within, would not subside until she surrendered to death—enduring relentless agony without respite.
She emerged from the mist, temporarily setting aside her gloomy thoughts, and said with a calm voice, "Good morning, Anna." Anna was used to such unexpected visits. She nodded without a reply, continuing her practice of controlling the flames.
The nightingale touched its nose and sat down by the girl's bed.
She had witnessed such exercises countless times. At first, Anna would accidentally set her clothes on fire, while in the shed of the back garden, she prepared a full bucket of clothes to replace her own. Later, she had mastered the art of making flames dance on her fingertips. Even Roland stopped urging her to practice, and the wooden shed in the garden was dismantled, transformed into a cozy spot for afternoon tea and sunbathing.
Even so, Anna still followed Prince's instructions and practiced for one to two hours every day in her room.
"Here's some fish cakes. Would you like to have some?" Nightingale pulled out a cloth bag from her bosom, spread it out, and handed it to the other person.
Anna sniffed and nodded.
"Go wash your hands," the Nightingale said with a smile. Thankfully, she wasn't hostile toward him—just not the best conversationalist. Truth be told, she cared deeply for Nana Wa, though she kept her words to herself. In fact, she spoke very little, except when Roland was around.
In contrast, Roland has an excessive number of opinions. He always has endless arguments to make, even for simple matters like dining—such as washing hands before eating, eating too slowly, or not picking up and eating food that falls on the ground. He can elaborate on each point in great detail.
At first, she was extremely impatient, but since the other party was the host of the place—the Fourth Prince of Graycastle—she reluctantly complied, given that she was eating and staying there. Over time, she gradually grew accustomed to these rules. For some reason, when competing with Anna, Nana Wa, Roland, Carter, and others for the order to wash their hands, she inexplicably found a touch of amusement in it.
Anna dipped her hand into the bucket of well water, rubbed it dry, then lit a fire to dry it. She shaped it into a fish cake, sat back at the table, and began to nibble away.
"Are you really not coming back with me?" Nightingale asked, finding excuses to continue. "There are many sisters there who will take good care of you." "Here, you can only move within the castle grounds. Don't you find it boring?" "Although the Desolate Mountains have limited supplies, we're all family, gathered for the same purpose." "With your immense power, they'll welcome you." "This winter, I fear you won't survive..." Her voice faded as she spoke, perhaps too late. She thought that even if she returned to camp, her current vast Magic Power would hardly allow her to survive until adulthood. All she could do was watch her fade away.
"Where did you live before joining the Witches Association?" Nightingale paused, rarely asking herself such questions. "I... used to live in a big city east of the capital." "Happy there?" Happy? No, those were days she'd rather forget—living under others' roofs, mocked and scorned. After becoming a Witch, she was treated like a cat or dog, shackled and forced to serve their will. Nightingale shook her head. "Why ask?" "I lived in the Old Quarter," Anna recounted her story. "My father sold me to the Church for 25 golden dragons. Your Highness rescued me from captivity. Here, I'm content." "But you can't escape this castle. Everyone except Roland Wimbledon still hates Witches." "I don't care. And he said he'd change everything, right?" "But it's hard. As long as the Church stands, Witches will remain evil." Anna didn't argue. The silence dragged on until Nightingale thought she'd never speak again. Then she asked: "Are you happy in the Witches Association or here?" "What... what did you say?" Nightingale was taken aback. "Of course..." The Witches Association? Truth be told, she wasn't particularly interested in finding the Holy Mountain, but there were friends she couldn't leave behind.
Is this Border Town? She wouldn't have come here if she hadn't heard the witch was in danger!
The answer should be obvious, so why didn't I say it right away?
This time, Anna smiled—a rare sight for Nightingale, her eyes mirroring the morning light on the lake, evoking an inexplicable sense of peace—even when she wasn't in the "Mist." "Roland told me you're searching for the Holy Mountain in the northern mountains. If it means stability and a home, I think I've found it," she said. This was her Holy Mountain. Nightingale realized that though her life was nearing its end, her soul would reach the other shore sooner than most witches.
Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps came from outside the door. The nightingale listened closely and recognized it as Nana Wa's footsteps.
The door was pushed open, and Nana Wa Paine burst in.
With a tearful face, she threw herself into Anna's arms, "What... what should I do? Anna, my father found out I'm a Witch!"