Knight: from Apprentice to the Almighty

"Heh... An honored Caster..."

The crooked door of the wooden cabin slid open a crack without a sound.

A figure leaned languidly against the doorframe, as if just startled from a long, deep sleep.

It was a woman.

Her skin was a warm, sun-kissed amber, glowing with a healthy, tanned luster.

Most striking of all was her long, thick hair, which cascaded like a waterfall. In the dim light, it revealed a deep purple hue, like flowing amethyst. A few strands rested casually on her bare shoulders.

She was wrapped in a dark-colored robe of an ancient style and indeterminate fabric. Its edges were frayed, yet it strangely accentuated her languid but powerful Presence.

Her eyes, also a strange shade of purple, were like a night sky laced with Star Dust. Half-lidded, her languid gaze swept over the pathetic scene outside.

A faint, playful smile spread across her lips.

Her voice, alluring to the very bone, sounded again. It carried a slight, post-slumber hoarseness, yet it pierced the swamp’s silence with perfect clarity.

"Please, put away that burning rage of yours for now."

Her gaze landed precisely on the restless Flame at Roland’s fingertip, her tone carrying the melodious quality of an ancient rhythm.

"These thorns are merely loyal but foolish Guards. They are just... a little too dedicated to their duty."

At her words, the vines that had been thrashing wildly in an attempt to attack again, stilled in an instant, as if caressed by an invisible, soothing hand.

The severed sections stopped squirming, and the new shoots drooped meekly, prostrating themselves on the ground.

The tense atmosphere dissipated as quickly as a popped bubble, leaving only the swamp’s humidity and the faint, indescribable, and strange fragrance emanating from the Witch.

She let out a soft yawn, as if the conflict before her was a trivial matter. Her purple hair swayed gently with the movement.

"I am Vanessa."

She finally announced her name, her gaze shifting from Roland’s Flame to his eyes, filled with a hint of inquiry.

"A Witch."

’Spiritual Control? No...’

Sensing the subtle disturbance in his mind, Roland suppressed the tremor that arose from deep within his instincts. He let out a long breath, and the Flame dancing on his fingertip died out.

He didn’t lower his guard, however. He simply gave a slight bow, his voice steady and clear.

"Good day, Lady Vanessa. I am Roland, an Adventurer who has unfortunately been stranded in this place. I meant no offense..."

He stated his identity, pulling his gaze away from where the vines had completely vanished back into the mud. He looked up to meet the Witch’s eyes and continued.

"I am here only to seek your help."

"Help? Heh..."

Vanessa was still leaning languidly against the doorframe. She yawned, her strange purple eyes slowly turning toward Mason, who was still in a state of shock. Her tone held a note of playful admonishment.

"Mason... is this how you repay me for my protection? By leading a wolf to my door?"

"I-I’m sorry, Lady Vanessa!"

Mason shook the images of Roland’s sharp sword light and scorching Flame from his mind, snapping back to his senses and bowing hastily.

"Please, you must believe me, Roland has no ill intentions! Just now... your Guards attacked first..."

"Oh?"

The Witch’s voice lilted upward.

"So, you’re saying I was too lenient in my discipline, and the fault is mine, then?"

"No! That’s not what I meant, Lady Vanessa..."

Seeing Mason’s terrified state, Roland shook his head gently. He stopped beating around the bush and clearly stated his predicament and his request.

However, after hearing Roland’s plea, Vanessa shook her head with barely a moment’s hesitation.

She extended a slender index finger, tapping it elegantly against her chin. The corner of her mouth curved into a smirk.

"My apologies, er... Mr. Roland."

Her voice dripped with a hint of mockery.

"Do I look... like some kind-hearted philanthropist to you?"

While it wasn’t an outright refusal, her meaning was clear. Roland, however, didn’t feel particularly disappointed.

After all, Mason had already warned him about the Witch’s temperament before they arrived.

He had come here merely to try his luck. If her Blessing was out of the question, he would simply find another way to leave. It would just be riskier, that’s all.

With his current Power, as long as he was careful and didn’t run into any unforeseen horrors, fighting his way out wasn’t impossible.

"In that case..."

Roland tensed his muscles, preparing to retreat discreetly and take his leave, but then Vanessa spoke again.

The Purple-haired Witch’s gaze fell, full of interest, upon the satchel at Roland’s waist.

"Mr. Roland."

Her voice held a saccharine danger.

"You wounded my Guards. Did you think you could just walk away?"

"Lady Vanessa, your Guards were the ones who—"

Mason began to argue anxiously, but Roland stopped him with a raised hand.

Roland’s eyes narrowed, like a falcon locking onto its prey, as he replied in a low voice.

"Then, Lady Vanessa... what sort of compensation do you require?"

"It’s simple..."

Before the words were even out of her mouth, the Witch pushed off the doorframe and began to saunter toward Roland.

With each step she took, her form, which had been somewhat blurred by the thick fog, grew strangely distinct—as if an invisible barrier around her was dissolving.

When she stopped just a few paces from Roland, her face was finally unobscured, revealed clearly before his eyes.

It was a truly bewitching face.

Beneath a pert nose, the curve of her full lips added a languid and dangerous air to her delicate features.

She stopped before Roland, tilting her head slightly. Her gaze remained locked on the satchel at his waist, as if she could pierce right through the coarse cloth.

To her, the unique scent of blood and Spiritual Energy wafting from it—the scent of a Heartstealer—was as obvious as a firefly in the dead of night.

Yet just as she extended a slender finger, about to point at the satchel and state her so-called "compensation," her movement froze.

Her eyes, which seemed to burn with a purple flame, contracted sharply. A flicker of disbelief and shock crossed the depths of her pupils.

Her slightly forward-leaning body went rigid in an instant, and even the playful smirk on her lips froze in place.

A familiar presence—profound, serene, and carrying the power of endless Shadow and secrets—lapped silently at the edges of her Perception, like ripples spreading from a slumbering ancient well.

This presence did not emanate from the satchel, but from the man himself—the self-proclaimed Adventurer standing before her.

It was faint, yet incomparably pure, carrying the signature of the very source she prayed to and worshipped day and night.

It was the presence of Shire: the Lady of the Night, the Shadow Weaver, the Queen of Loss and Secrets.

As if pulled by invisible threads, Vanessa’s gaze moved inch by inch from the satchel and its Otherworldly temptation.

Her gaze, filled with an almost reverent curiosity, slowly traveled upward. It passed over Roland’s mud-spattered Leather Armor and finally settled on his face—a face taut with vigilance, yet unable to hide its resolute contours.

The languor and amusement in Vanessa’s eyes vanished completely, replaced by an unprecedented Concentration and profound astonishment.

Her full lips parted as if to speak, but all that came out was a soft, incredulous gasp.

"You..."

A title she had practiced on her tongue countless times, one representing the highest reverence, almost slipped out, only to be forcefully suppressed.

She studied Roland, her expression a whirlwind of complexity, as if she were truly "seeing" him for the very first time.