. Looking at the Witch sprawled on the ground, Gwof slowly spoke, his voice as still as a deep pool.
"How about we... have a good talk?"
As his words fell, the air atop the tower seemed to be sucked away.
Everyone held their breath; even the fireflies fluttering outside the window seemed to freeze their wings, quietly awaiting the Witch's reply.
Lettuce gripped the corner of her clothes tighter, her knuckles white;
Liya hid behind Gwof, her eyes wide as saucers;
Ben stood with his hands on his hips, his face full of vigilance;
Only Little Bottle was still secretly chewing the leftover cake crumbs in his mouth, though his eyes were fixed intently on the Witch.
The Witch slowly climbed up from the ground, the dirt from her black robe rubbing against the stone floor, leaving several dark streaks.
She patted the dust off herself, her movements conveying a forced composure, but her voice was sharp like glass scraping metal, revealing bone-chilling malice.
"What is there to talk about?"
Her gaze, like a poisoned arrow, swept viciously over Lettuce.
Stung by that look, Lettuce trembled all over and involuntarily took two steps back, bumping into the wooden table. The potato chip bag on the table rustled, further emphasizing her panic.
The Witch withdrew her gaze and looked back at Gwof, the ruthlessness in her blue eyes practically overflowing.
"Leave now, get out of my tower, and I can pretend nothing happened."
She paused, lowering her voice, which only added to the threat.
"Otherwise, we fight until death."
Gwof didn't speak, just watched her quietly, the expression beneath the brim of his hat indiscernible.
Ben, however, couldn't hold back first. He stepped forward, his chest puffed out straight, and said gruffly,
"If that's the case, why talk? Let's just kill her first!"
He pointed at the Witch, his tone filled with fury.
"She's an evil Witch who has committed countless misdeeds! She locked Lettuce in this tower for eighteen years—who knows how many other bad things she's done!"
Little Bottle also sneered, the cream stuck to the corner of his mouth making the smile slightly comical, yet still containing a hint of viciousness.
"Exactly, she just tried to stab the Master to death with straw. Keeping her around is just asking for trouble."
The Witch's expression instantly froze, the malice on her face rigid, replaced by a trace of astonishment.
She likely hadn't anticipated that these intruders wouldn't just be unafraid of her, but would dare to say things like, "Kill her."
In her world, everyone should fear her: fear her black robe, fear her witchcraft, fear the "Pseudo-humans" and "Hell" she spoke of.
Gwof then let out a soft sigh, so light it was like a feather settling on calm water, yet it strangely broke the tense atmosphere.
The taut air seemed to be smoothed out by the sigh; even the rhythm of the fireflies fluttering outside the window slowed down.
"Although she is a Witch, she is not necessarily a villain."
His voice wasn't loud, like a mountain spring flowing over pebbles, clearly reaching everyone's ears, carrying a certainty that was hard to refute.
Ben froze for a moment, his eyebrows knitted into a knot. He scratched the back of his head, his tone full of confusion.
"But she locked Lettuce in this broken tower for eighteen years, and just now she tried to stab you to death with straw! That doesn't make her a villain?"
Gwof turned to look at Lettuce, his gaze softening, like a spring breeze sweeping over a frozen lake.
"Some things cannot be judged only by appearance."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Lettuce's pale face, "Just like being locked in the tower, perhaps it wasn't entirely imprisonment."
After speaking, he turned his head again, looking directly at the Witch. There was no accusation in his calm eyes, only inquiry.
"You kept her locked in the tower for eighteen years. Perhaps... you had your reasons?"
The Witch's lips moved, as if thousands of words were stuck in her throat, but in the end, she pressed them shut firmly, leaving only a tight, purplish-blue arc.
In her bottomless blue eyes, a complex light flashed quickly—there was anger, grievance, and a bitterness she couldn't even sort out herself, like barely visible ripples skimming across water disturbed by the wind, fleeting and gone in an instant.
Silence spread across the top of the tower, broken only by the whimpering sound of the wind passing through the stone cracks.
After a long while, the Witch finally seemed to gather enough strength, abruptly raising her head, her voice hoarse yet carrying an undeniable stubbornness.
"Lettuce is mine!"
Her gaze swept over Gwof, then fiercely glared at Liya and Ben, finally settling on Lettuce, filled with a near-obsessive possessiveness.
"It was her parents who stole my treasure, and they gave her back to me later!"
"You bunch of people,"
Her voice suddenly rose, like a cat whose tail was stepped on, sharp and laced with a sob.
"Now you want to openly come and snatch her away? No way!"
"She is mine!"
The last three words were spoken quickly and fiercely, as if declaring an inviolable sovereignty, but the barely noticeable tremor in the final sound betrayed her anxiety.
Although the Witch's words were rambling and incoherent, like silk threads tangled by the wind.
Everyone present felt as if something had illuminated their hearts—the loneliness hidden behind the ruthlessness, the yearning wrapped within the obsession, suddenly became clear.
They seemed to see a scene from many years ago: the Witch guarding Thorn Manor alone, talking every day to a glowing scarecrow, murmuring to the Lettuce in the vegetable garden.
Her world contained only the sound of the wind, the smell of damp earth, and plants that never responded.
Until one day, she stumbled upon the Farmer stealthily digging up her most precious Lettuce root.
She had originally intended to turn the Farmer into a scarecrow, but during the argument, she heard him muttering, "My wife is pregnant; she just wants a fresh bite."
At that moment, the heart beneath the Witch's black robe felt as if it had been stung by something.
She looked at the Farmer's anxious yet hopeful face and suddenly remembered her own countless nights sitting on the stone stool, watching the moon slide past the tower peak, without a single person to talk to.
A faint maternal light ignited in her heart like a spark; she didn't want to be lonely anymore.
So she didn't punish the Farmer, only saying coldly, "When the child is born, give it to me."
When she took the baby girl, the Farmer and his wife cried and pleaded, but she was determined to keep the child.
Locking her in the high tower wasn't for torture, but out of fear—fear that one day she would silently leave, just like the stolen Lettuce, forcing herself back to a life of only thorns and scarecrows.
Lettuce stood rooted to the spot, her heart feeling like cotton soaked in warm water, soft and swollen.
She finally understood why she was named "Lettuce"—the plant that the Witch personally watered and fertilized every morning, uncaring even if thorns cut her fingers.
The Witch was uneducated; she wouldn't name a child "Rose" or "Lily" like the ladies in the city. She simply offered up the thing she valued most as a gift for the girl.
This clumsy, almost ridiculous method concealed a depth of importance that even she might not have been able to articulate, like a seed buried in the soil, silently sprouting for eighteen years.
This meant that the girl she had locked away for eighteen years was never a dispensable presence.
Perhaps she had pinned all her loneliness onto a living being, or perhaps... there truly was a twisted yet profound affection, like the vines on the tower top, wrapping around eighteen years of time, causing pain to both, yet making them inseparable.
Little Bottle opened his mouth, wanting to say, "But you still can't lock someone up," but the words were stopped by a look from Gwof.
That look held no reproach, only a signal to "wait a moment." Little Bottle reluctantly closed his mouth and lowered his head to scrape the cream off the cake plate.
Liya quietly tugged at the corner of Lettuce's clothes, her fingertips cool.
She looked at Lettuce's pale face, her eyes filled with worry—afraid she might soften, and afraid she might be trapped by this sudden "truth."
The top of the tower fell silent once more; even the fireflies outside the window flew more gently.
This time, the silence lacked the explosive tension, replaced by something heavy—a corner of the past being revealed, carrying the smell of earth and the bitterness of herbs;
It was an inexplicable bond, like a tangled ball of thread, containing the Witch's obsession, Lettuce's dependence, and the outside wind brought by Gwof and the others, wrapping around everyone present, unable to be untangled or cut.
The Witch continued to stare fiercely at Gwof, the ruthlessness in her blue eyes undiminished, yet veiled as if by mist.
Her hands were secretly clenched into fists, her nails digging deep into her palms, as if saying, "Try to take her."
But her slightly trembling shoulders revealed a vulnerability she hadn't even noticed herself—she was afraid, afraid that these eighteen years of "possession" were ultimately going to be shattered.
But how could a person in the prime of her youth resist the yearning for freedom?
Perhaps the Witch's affection was genuine, but this "stability" bought through imprisonment had long become a noose around her neck.
A youthful heart ought to beat for freedom, not slowly stagnate into a pool of dead water within a confined space.
Lettuce took a deep breath, turned to look at Gwof, and for the first time, her eyes held a determination that was not born of confusion.
Some aspirations, once rooted in the heart, can never be suppressed again.