Witch – Chapter 97 – The Witch and the Black Knight (8)

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The Black Knight stared at the steam rising from the warm bathwater before touching the device embedded in his chestplate.

Piece by piece, the armor that had tightly encased his body loosened, eventually gathering at his torso.

In front of the fogged full-length mirror, he carefully wiped the surface with his rough hands.

A horn, broken in his battle against the Demon King.

White hair cascading down to his waist. Dull crimson eyes.

Scars crisscrossed his well-defined muscles.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen himself without his armor. It felt foreign, as if he were looking at someone else’s body.

The Black Knight rarely bathed—unless it was to wash off an enemy’s blood. Even then, he would simply wade into a lake while still clad in armor. Stripping it off to bathe was an almost unheard-of occurrence.

The armor meant a great deal to him.

It was the reason he was called the Black Knight. He felt more at ease wearing it than without it.

Among the scars covering his body, many would have been more than mere wounds had he not been wearing his armor.

So why was he standing here, completely bare?

‘Strip that armor and scrub everywhere. If you stink afterward, you’re done for. Wash the armor too. Shave that beard. Trim your nails.’

The Black Knight recalled the words of the Strong One—Estelle.

He didn’t understand how bathing was connected to pure love, but since he knew nothing about love, he had no choice but to obey.

‘Do I really smell that bad?’

Cautiously, he raised an arm and sniffed. A pungent stench assaulted his nose, strong enough to make him grimace.

It reeked of blood and the filth of the demon realm’s sewers.

This was the first time he had ever noticed his own odor. It was horrifying.

Now he understood why the Strong One had insisted.

He soaked his body in hot water, scrubbing away the grime.

As the bathwater turned murky, his skin grew cleaner.

He shaved, something he only did when his beard interfered with combat. He trimmed his cracked and jagged nails.

If this was related to pure love, then perhaps the Black Knight wasn’t as clueless as he thought.

But the Strong One’s teachings—self-care beyond mere strength—were entirely foreign to him. Still, he resolved to embrace the feeling.

He wasn’t sure how eating had led to bathing, but the Black Knight was willing to do anything to grow stronger. Completing all of Estelle’s tasks left him satisfied. It felt like he had taken a step closer to pure love.

After bathing, he changed into the clothes she had left for him.

They were unlike anything he had seen in the demon realm. Though he fumbled with the unfamiliar attire, he was content.

“Strong One. I’ve finished washing.”

With confidence—though his gait was still unsteady without his armor—he stood before her.

His crimson eyes, though duller than hers, held a sharp yet indifferent gaze. His clean-shaven jawline. Damp white hair clinging to his clothes.

Steam rose faintly from his body, the warmth of the bath still lingering on his skin.

The clothes didn’t fit too loosely or tightly, but his inexperience showed in the half-buttoned shirt, revealing well-toned muscles beneath.

The scars covering his body—face included—spoke of countless battles. To him, they were medals of honor, so he felt no shame in showing them to her.

Estelle, who had been resting her chin on her hand while staring out the window, turned to look at him—and froze.

“Oh. Uh… Well, not bad! If only you’d shaved sooner.”

She seemed genuinely shocked, rubbing her eyes and pinching her cheeks as if to confirm this was the same person. Finally accepting reality, she gave a short appraisal.

“You don’t stink anymore. Took you long enough. A pass.”

She approached, sniffing his skin to ensure he hadn’t cut corners.

As she leaned in, her soft skin brushed against his rough body.

While she checked for any lingering odor, the Black Knight caught her scent—sweet, unlike anything in the demon realm. Just as he was about to lose himself in it, she pulled away.

“Why’d you only half-dress?”

“The clothes here are different from the demon realm’s. And it’s been over a hundred years since I last wore anything but armor… I’m unused to it.”

Estelle adjusted his haphazardly worn clothes for him.

She even used magic to dry his still-damp hair in an instant, leaving his white locks fluffy and tousled.

‘Is it time to cut it again?’

Like his beard, he only trimmed his hair when it interfered with battle—usually by hacking it off with his demonic sword.

Seeing how wildly it fluttered under the magic’s influence, he figured it was time.

“Sit. I’ll cut your hair.”

“My hair? I’ll do it myself.”

“I said sit.”

Apparently finding his long hair unsightly, Estelle forced him into a chair.

She draped a cloth around his neck, then pulled out a comb and scissors.

“Long hair gives off a princely vibe, but you’d never maintain it. Better to just chop it off.”

Her cutting was bold, almost reckless.

With each snip, chunks of his hair fell.

‘Couldn’t I just slice it off with my sword?’

The inefficiency made him frown.

What’s more, her ample chest kept bumping against his face, which was… uncomfortable.

And the sweet scent of her skin, impossible to mask even with clothes, teased his nose.

“Like it? I went for a protagonist-style cut. The scars and broken horn add a rugged charm—or maybe a decadent allure? Either way, not bad. Presentable.”

She handed him a mirror once finished. The Black Knight stared blankly at his reflection.

Regardless of his expression, Estelle grinned, muttering to herself in satisfaction.

“Whether I like it or not…”

“Do you like it?”

“…I’ll learn to.”

Her sharp glare reflected in the mirror. As the weaker one, the Black Knight had no choice but to comply.

His hair wasn’t long anymore, but not short either—a neutral length.

Neither masculine nor feminine.

Not that he cared, as long as it didn’t hinder battle. Yet he couldn’t look away.

‘Was she there when I woke up?’

Perhaps it was because fragments of the woman from his dreams overlapped with the reflection. Just as he felt himself being pulled into the mirror—on the verge of recalling the dream’s continuation—Estelle’s voice snapped him back to reality.

“From now on, this is how you’ll look. No armor unless you’re fighting.”

“No armor…?”

“Rule number one. You’re strong enough without it, aren’t you? It’s not like you’re weaker without it, right?”

It was true—without his armor, he felt incomplete, uneasy, foreign. But he was never weaker.

Though the armor had saved his life many times, it was nothing more than a patchwork of crude defenses scavenged from the demon realm.

Even without Estelle’s rule, the mere suggestion that he needed it wounded his pride.

“Heh… Interesting. I’m plenty strong without it.”

“Exactly! You are strong without it. Right?”

Strength and weakness didn’t matter. The naive Black Knight didn’t realize this was a trap laid by Estelle.

“Yes. I am strong.”

“And you’ll grow even stronger by learning pure love, won’t you?”

“Yes. I will grow stronger…!”

As the Black Knight made his resolute declaration, Estelle covered her mouth behind him, stifling a laugh.

 

---

 

Before they knew it, two weeks had passed. The Black Knight had grown fairly proficient in table manners and dressing himself, but love remained a concept difficult for him to grasp.

Yet, the Strong One looked happiest in the mornings when she spoke of it.

“Understand? Love is about wanting to always be with someone. Wanting to protect them. Sometimes, you even feel possessive—like you don’t want to share them with anyone else. It’s the desire to care for them without making them uncomfortable.”

To the Black Knight, love seemed like the exact opposite of his worldview.

In his world, the weak were robbed and killed—that was the natural order. The idea of protecting and caring for someone under the name of “love” was absurd.

The only thing he had ever felt possessive over was food. The notion of feeling that way toward a person was ludicrous.

People were simply divided into the strong and the weak.

The strong took everything. The weak lost everything.

“They say the world starts to look beautiful. Everyone begins to remind you of that person. Even when eating something delicious, your first thought is to share it with them. You want to be loved as much as you love them. You crave their attention. Day and night, you just want to be together.”

Love seemed to deny everything he had ever believed.

The Strong One claimed that pure love would make him stronger, but from her explanation alone, it sounded more like creating a weakness.

There had been those like that in the demon realm too. Before he became one of the Four Heavenly Kings, back when he still lived on the outskirts—

Many had been stronger than him, yet they were often killed by those far weaker. Because they had been exploited. A weakness could be information, a fellow demon, or even food.

“Isn’t that just a weakness?”

“A weakness? No, it’s strength. Loving someone is like a miracle. And that miracle creates power beyond imagination.”

How strong could something beyond imagination possibly be?

The Black Knight’s mind still fixated on strength rather than love’s meaning, but he could at least grasp that it was something extraordinary.

Then, a sudden thought struck him.

Was the Strong One in love?

If she was powerful enough to defeat him, she must be.

Even weakened from his recent arrival in the human world, he hadn’t been able to land a single meaningful blow on her.

Perhaps that was the power of love.

“Strong One. Are you in love as well?”

“Huh…? Love?”

At the word, the Strong One’s face flushed red, her eyes darting away.

It was a habit of hers whenever she was flustered.

Every unsteady breath made her ample chest shake comically.

“Well—if you mean familial love, then yes! You can feel love for family too…! It’s a bit different, but similar.”

“Familial love?”

“Yeah. Love you feel for family.”

Her eyes brightened as she continued.

“Take Josie. She’s not my biological child, but she’s far more precious to me than that. The kind of girl Josie is…”

Josie.

A butterfly of a girl who had grown in the Strong One’s care since she was seven.

Now nineteen, she was traveling with a man named Leo.

The Strong One had stood against the Four Heavenly Kings to keep Josie safe.

That was the gist of it, at least. But the Strong One went into exhaustive detail.

Her favorite foods. The magic she excelled at. How adorable she was when she acted spoiled.

How soothing it was to sleep beside her. The tea made from Josie’s flowers—delicious, but something they could never serve to others.

The first time Josie had called her “Mom,” and how overwhelming that joy had been…

The Strong One looked happier than the Black Knight had ever seen her.

Just talking about Josie brought the same warmth he had felt under the blankets.

“…I just want Josie to be happy for a hundred, a thousand years.”

“I see.”

Normally, the Black Knight would have scoffed, unable to comprehend such sentiments.

Yet, without realizing it, he found himself nodding along.

“You’ve come to understand how lovable Josie is, haven’t you?”

“I can see how much you love her. I’d like to meet her someday.”

“Not happening. Got it?”

For some reason, the Strong One bared her teeth in warning.

But for the first time, the Black Knight had empathized with another’s happiness.

 

---

 

With each passing day, he felt himself drifting further from who he used to be.

“Do the clothes fit? I made them specially for you. You should be grateful.”

Perhaps it was because the once-unfamiliar garments now fit his frame perfectly. Or because they were the first gift he had ever received. Or maybe it was the light, refreshing air he could never feel in armor.

“Dropped food again? It’s fine. It’s not going anywhere. Take your time.”

The Black Knight, who once devoured meals like a starved beast, now ate slowly with utensils. He was still clumsy—food sometimes slipped—but the Strong One never rushed him.

“Aria learned about the world through Sion, gradually understanding his heart. Emotions she was never meant to feel as God’s proxy began to bloom, one by one, through Sion’s love.”

Perhaps it was because the Strong One read him fairy tales on the sofa until he fell asleep.

Like ink spreading on blank parchment, a rosy hue slowly, imperceptibly, colored the Black Knight’s world.

From a Heavenly King who sought only strength—to a knight learning of love and more.

Had he grown stronger?

Well… Honestly, he still didn’t fully grasp what love was.

But it didn’t feel bad.

Dreams and Names

When he slept under those warm blankets, the same dream always came.

Without his armor, the warmth felt clearer, more vivid.

A woman with white hair that tickled his cheeks, crimson eyes full of tenderness. Horns identical to his own.

The same radiant smile the Strong One wore when speaking of Josie.

Who was she?

What was this warmth?

After all this time with the Strong One, he was finally beginning to understand—except for one thing.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never hear the name the woman spoke.

“Hey. You listening? This is the important part.”

The Strong One shook his shoulder.

Had he dozed off during the story? Her sharp gaze bore into him.

“…My apologies. I must have fallen asleep.”

“When did you drift off? What’s the last thing you remember?”

When had he fallen asleep?

Only the woman from his dreams lingered in his mind.

If he didn’t answer properly, the Strong One might throw another fit. He’d been careful lately, but today, sleep had claimed him again.

“…A name.”

“A name? You mean when Sion cried out Aria’s name?”

He had only mentioned it because the word kept echoing from his dream, but the Strong One’s eyes sparkled.

She flipped three pages ahead, her finger landing on the passage about names, and began reading again.

“Sion called out not Judas—the name tainted by the Southern Witch’s curse—but Aria. That name alone was pure love, untainted by the curse. And so, Aria was inscribed as the name of the nameless God. That’s all for today.”

The sound of the book closing made him blink.

He had been listening—his eyes must have shut without him realizing. The Strong One’s glare returned full force.

“Ugh. If you’re sleepy, just sleep. What’s the point of forcing the story?”

Grumbling, she stood from the sofa and fetched a blanket.

“Names… Are they really that important?”

The Black Knight forced his drooping eyes open and called out to her.

He had no name. The one he couldn’t remember lay in his heart like a corpse—something lost forever, like a life once gone.

Yet in the story, Sion had desperately called Aria’s name, over and over, so she wouldn’t forget.

For the first time, the Black Knight envied having someone say his name.

“I have no name. I don’t remember it.”

A knight who cared only for strength now fixated on something entirely unrelated.

“Could you give me one? I’ve collected five praise sigils. You said if I gathered five, I’d get a reward.”

He showed his arm, where five magic sigils—each bearing the Strong One’s face—glowed.

One for showing enthusiasm.

One for eating properly.

Three for other reasons.

“You’d let me name you? A name isn’t something you change on a whim. If you can’t remember yours, it’s fine to choose a new one.”

“Alone, a name means nothing.”

Even as a Heavenly King, he’d never needed one. “Black Knight” had been enough.

But after hearing the Strong One’s stories, he wanted one.

And if he were honest, it was strange that even the weaker Heavenly Kings had names while he didn’t. Even the mighty Demon King had one.

Rather than chasing a forgotten name forever, he wanted one from her.

“Edelweiss. Edel for short. How’s that? It suits your hair. Not bad, right?”

“Edel. Edel… What does it mean?”

He repeated it carefully, determined not to forget.

“Many things… but ‘pure heart’ fits you best.”

“I see. Does it suit me?”

He could no longer fight the drowsiness. Normally, he could go three days without sleep in battle—yet now, he couldn’t keep his eyes open for even a second.

Was it the warmth of the blankets?

The warmth in the Strong One’s voice?

Or the fact that, for the first time, he had been called by name?

Whatever the reason, Edel’s eyes closed.

“Goodnight, Edel.”

When morning came, he would ask for her name first.

And if he saw the woman in his dreams again, he would tell her—

‘My name is Edel.’