"Oh? What—someone in town you care about?" the witch asked. "Or you can't step over that little moral line in your heart?"
Her followers howled with laughter.
Baron Byrd's steward laughed the loudest of all—his face twisted beneath the hood, eyes bulging, mouth open so wide Ethan genuinely worried he'd choke.
A bizarre initiation ritual, Ethan thought.
Maybe every one of these people had once stood where Ethan stood now.
"Well, then," the witch purred, "let me help you."
She stretched out her right hand and let the rain pool in her palm.
"See this rain? It's a gift I prepared for your town."
"I heard your sheriff graduated from the Society of Enlightenment. She must've already discovered something wrong with Riverside's water supply. Right now, she's probably mobilizing your whole little town against me."
Her smile widened.
"But water that can carry a curse isn't limited to what you drink."
"The effect won't be as obvious," she said almost kindly, "but it will let them feel their bodies slowly rotting away."
Her voice sharpened.
"Yes. Everyone you know will die."
"The only difference," she whispered, "is how long the suffering lasts."
"And really—if you do what I ask, you'll be helping them. You don't want them to struggle in despair for too long, do you?"
Her words dissolved into the rain and the laughter, the chuckling swelling until it sounded like beasts snarling in the dark.
Ethan's gaze slid past the steward.
The man laughed like he was angry.
This was why Ethan didn't like going out.
This world was dangerous enough that the moment you stepped outside the safety of town, it was only a matter of time before you were surrounded by cultists or dark creatures.
In Ethan's imagination, this scene had played out countless times.
Only this time, it was real.
The good news?
He'd had plenty of time to think.
He sorted through the situation with bleak clarity.
An evil witch had returned—wearing Baron Byrd's daughter like a shell.
She planned to wipe out the entire town with a storm.
That alone implied she was at least Tier Three.
Tier Three was a line people drew in the sand—cross it, and you were no longer within the bounds of "human," but something ordinary people couldn't comprehend.
Meaning:
He was facing a Tier-Three-or-higher cultist who had followers and a burning desire for revenge against Creekwood.
The three heroes who once beat her were dead.
Their descendants were… disappointing.
So Creekwood's fate had already been written.
Destroyed by evil god worshipers. All souls offered up to Bazatos.
In that utterly unfavorable situation, Ethan had no choice.
Every path of logic led to the same conclusion.
—No witnesses.
A caster's frail body meant he couldn't afford to expose himself openly—couldn't become the target of someone else's ambush.
So, starting now, he had to consider the aftermath.
"Where are you going?" the witch asked, startled.
Ethan didn't answer.
He simply turned and walked toward the cabin, head lowered against the rain.
This was one of her favorite performances.
She adored watching someone buckle under despair and become a puppet that moved only at her command.
Everyone here had gone through it.
"Getting a jar," came Ethan's answer from the rain.
"A jar? For what?"
"The forecast says it's going to hail today."
…Hail?
Was he frightened stupid? Or had he finally snapped from despair?
Boring.
"You—"
The command died in her throat.
The witch suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, teeth grinding as pain ripped through her.
She stared at her raised hand.
A hole had appeared in her palm—clean through. The rain she'd gathered spilled out through the puncture and returned to the storm.
A biting cold surged from the wound into her whole body.
No blood. The wound had frozen over the instant it was pierced.
An elemental shaper?!
The thought was absurd—and yet it slammed into her mind like a hammer.
Why would an elemental shaper appear in a backwater like this?
Why hadn't she seen any chanting?
Why—why—
Everything happened in a flash.
Ethan took two steps forward.
And then the laughter vanished.
The people who had been laughing a heartbeat ago toppled forward.
Only when the witch looked closely did she see the fist-sized holes peppering their bodies.
Flesh torn. Bone shattered. A sight that would send any trypophobia sufferer into panic.
They were still smiling—still wearing the expression of laughter—like they hadn't realized they were dead.
The same thing was happening to her.
She remembered the "meteor" that fell from the clouds on the night of the Blood Moon—the ill-timed disaster that interrupted the sacrifice and bought Creekwood a few more days of survival.
Now…
Was that actually someone's spell?
No.
No way.
No way!
She tried to take a step.
Her body, already robbed of support, folded straight down into the rain-soaked mud.
Thud.
…
This was what happened when a caster exposed themselves openly.
All noise outside the cabin died away, leaving only the soft, ceaseless patter of rain.
"Miss Chloe," Ethan said evenly, "help me bring that big jar over."
"Cluck!"
It was the largest jar in the cabin—meant for storage.
Ethan dumped out the dusty contents, piled them on the table, and taped a sheet of parchment to the jar.
Then he wrote Becky's name on it.
Then the steward.
Chloe tilted her head, and Ethan explained as if teaching her a craft.
"This is a tradition from my homeland. We honor the dead by burning them to ash, putting the ashes in a container, and burying it in a good place."
In Ethan's opinion, Fireball and Ice Arrow had many uses.
Light. Warmth. Cooling. Creating water sources.
They made daily life convenient.
The only thing he didn't like was using spells to fight.
Like converting rain into hail.
It was a change unlocked by entry-level Ice Arrow.
And it meant he had to handle "aftercare" again.
Fireball was excellent for removing traces that people had existed at all.
"Miss Chloe," Ethan said, pausing with the pen hovering over the parchment, his gaze deep and solemn.
"I need to ask you something important."
"Cluck?"
Chloe straightened, suddenly tense.
"Besides Becky and the steward…"
Ethan's voice turned grave.
"…what were everyone else's names again?"
Things had happened too fast. The environment had been too hostile. He'd forgotten to ask each of them their names.
And now he was facing a serious problem during the aftermath process.
Chloe stared back at him, blank and confused. Then she looked around restlessly.
This, apparently, was also a difficult question for her.
The stalemate lasted nearly two minutes.
"I understand," Ethan said at last.
He lowered his pen and added the remaining names.
Steward B. Steward C. Steward D…
He was overwhelmed with grief.
Miss Becky and her seven old stewards would rest here forever.
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