Witch Training Manual: My Water Magic Is Wrong

Night fell quickly in Frost Town.

The last vestiges of dark red on the horizon were swallowed by the night.

The first to arrive were the town's residents.

Thanks to Emily and her informants, the news spread like wildfire, from one end of the alley to the other, from the bakery to the blacksmith's shop, and from the tavern to the brothel.

Within an hour, the whole town knew—the people of St. Hilde had captured innocent women and were going to burn them alive.

The news that St. Hilde's missionaries were arbitrarily arresting civilians in Frosttown spread like wildfire from the whispers of the streets and alleys, quickly turning into a storm that swept through the entire town.

The hotels on the north slope are surrounded by layers upon layers.

"I heard they arrested a lot of people last night!"

"They've captured a witch? I don't think so! Aunt Ansa from Willow Village, she wouldn't even kill a chicken, how could she be a witch?"

"Those people who went missing the year before last, they also disappeared after the missionaries from St. Hilde's came!"

"And those twelve people who went missing in Stone Village last year!"

"These charlatans appear virtuous on the surface, but who knows what shady things they've been doing behind the scenes!"

"I knew those people in white robes were no good. They chanted scriptures while carrying knives. Hypocritical compassion."

"They arrest this person today, burn that person down tomorrow. In a few days, won't it be our turn?"

Old Tom from the bakery slammed the wooden kneading basin onto the counter with a dull thud, sending flour flying and landing on his graying beard. He looked up, his eyes blazing with fury: "I don't care about St. Hilde or anything like that, this is Frosttown! What right do they have to arrest people here? What right do they have?"

Some people in the crowd echoed this sentiment.

Many people remained silent, but there was something weighing on their silence.

Just then, a mercenary wearing leather armor squeezed through the crowd from the periphery. He had a fresh wound on his face, the blood of which had already dried.

He ran up to Diaz, propped himself up on his knee with one hand, and caught his breath: "Commander, we've found out!"

Diaz took a step forward: "Where is he?"

"The backyard of the inn." The mercenary wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "There's a woodshed in the backyard, and two men in white robes are guarding the door. They're from St. Hilde. I climbed over the wall and took a look. The woodshed door was locked from the outside, and it was pitch black inside. I couldn't see how many people were there, but I could hear crying inside. A woman's crying, and a child's crying too."

Diaz's face darkened, and he spat on the ground: "These sons of bitches."

The mercenary looked up at Diaz, swallowed hard, and said, "Captain, there's one more thing."

"explain."

"I had my men soak all the firewood they had piled up on the open space on the north slope. We soaked it thoroughly, bundle by bundle, so much so that even tinder couldn't light it."

Diaz punched the mercenary in the shoulder.

"here you go!"

The proprietress stood on the steps outside the hotel that St. Hilde had booked, cursing and swearing.

She wore a deep red long dress, cinched tightly at the waist with a wide black belt. One hand was on her hip, the other pointing at the hotel entrance, spitting as she spoke.

"Get out! All of you get out! I'm not renting this shop anymore! No amount of money can make me rent it!"

However, no one paid any attention to the proprietress.

The room on the second floor, facing the street.

Andrei stood by the window, his fingers parting a corner of the curtain, his gaze sweeping across the torchlight.

He turned around.

"Can anyone tell me what's going on?"

Greve stood half a step behind him, his waist slightly bent, his expression a mixture of respect and panic.

"My lord, these townspeople have been deceived. They don't know we've captured a witch; they think we've captured innocent people. Once we expose them, the townspeople will understand."

Andrei's gaze fell on his face.

"Revealing their true forms?"

"Yes, sir." Gleevet took a half step forward, his voice firm. "We've already given those people the revealing potion. As long as we push the prison cart out and let the townspeople see their completely black pupils, they'll have nothing to say."

Andrei remained silent for two breaths.

Are you sure?

"Your subordinate confirms."

Andrei shifted his gaze from Greve's face to the flickering torches outside the window.

"Then let's push it out."

A hint of joy flashed in Gleeve's eyes.

"Yes, sir."

He turned around and strode out of the room.

He turned around and strode out of the room.

The hotel's back door was pushed open.

The wooden door slammed against the wall with a dull thud.

Four missionaries in white robes pushed two iron carts out of the shadows of the backyard.

The prison vans were small, about half a person's height, made of welded iron bars, and covered in rust. Inside each van were three or four figures, adults and children, huddled together like birds stuffed into a cage.

The noise from the crowd subsided.

The torchlight illuminated the iron cage.

The crowd began to whisper among themselves.

"...Is that Aunt Ansa?"

"And her daughter...her daughter is only seven years old!"

"Isn't that the blacksmith's wife from Stone Village over there? She was selling eggs at the market yesterday, and today she's a witch?"

An old woman carrying an oil lamp squeezed out of the crowd, her steps faltering, her white hair fluttering in the night wind. She walked to the prison cart, raised the oil lamp, and the light shone into the iron cage, falling on a pale face.

"Ansa! Ansa! Is that you?"

The woman in the cage did not respond.

Her eyes were open, the pupils as black as ink, with no whites, no focus, staring straight ahead, like a shell whose soul had been ripped out.

The old woman's hands began to tremble.

The light from the oil lamp flickered in front of the wooden cage.

"She even brought me a basket of eggs yesterday..." The old woman's voice trembled. "She said her hens were laying eggs a lot this year, and she couldn't finish them all, so she asked me to eat a few for her... How could such a kind person become a witch?"

No one answered her.

Greve emerged from the inn. He stood on the steps, the torchlight casting a shadow on his face, highlighting his high cheekbones and deep-set eyes.

He opened his arms.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!"

The noise from the crowd subsided by half a degree.

Gleeve's voice echoed in the night sky.

"I know you are confused, angry, and bewildered. You feel that these people are your neighbors, friends, and relatives, and could not possibly be witches. I understand."

He lowered his arm and took two steps forward.

"But the goddess tells us that witches can hide anywhere—they could be your neighbor, your friend, or even your relative. They may look no different from normal people, but when darkness falls, they will reveal their true colors."

He turned around and pointed to the prison van.

"Did you see their eyes? They're black, no whites, completely black. That's one of the hallmarks of witches! The witches who slaughtered religious leaders during the witch rebellion five hundred years ago had eyes like that!"

Someone spoke up.

It was an old woman on the outskirts of the crowd, her back hunched, her voice aged but clear: "You're talking nonsense! Ansha has lived in our village for over twenty years. Don't we know who she is? She wouldn't even dare kill a chicken, and she gives eggs to her neighbors at the annual harvest festival. Is she a witch? Would a witch give eggs to people?"

Greve's gaze swept across the crowd and landed on the old man.

"Old man, a witch's disguise is often the most perfect. The kinder and more harmless she appears, the more likely she is to be a witch. This is a witch's method to deceive the world."

The old woman took two steps forward, leaning on her cane.

"You're talking nonsense."

Gleeve's expression changed slightly:

"Sir, please watch your words..."

"Watch out, you son of a bitch!"

A powerful voice boomed from behind the crowd.

Wilford pushed his way out of the crowd, with a conspicuous face beside him.

That's Bishop Wayne!