Chapter 59 : Schindel Strasse (59)

“As expected.”

Hans couldn’t quite grasp Alje’s behavior patterns.

Compared to him, who was steeped in the labyrinth’s filth, the girl’s way of thinking was overly naive and innocent—yet at the same time,—she occasionally revealed a side that was anything but pure.

“Move.”

“You’re late because of the witch, aren’t you?”

Something about the conversation felt off-kilter, like gears grinding instead of locking smoothly into place.

Hans desperately wanted to push Alje off and get up, but he held himself back.

It wasn’t wise to use force against someone stronger than you.

Instead, Hans frowned deeply—not to intimidate her with a menacing face, but to impress his emotions upon someone who seemed a bit out of it.

Anger and irritation.

“Move.”

“Huh? Mister?”

“I’m hurt right now. How long are you planning to keep pressing down on me?”

“Oh!”

Fortunately, those words seemed to have an effect—Alje flinched in surprise and quickly got up.

Hans didn’t exactly hate the restraint, but now freed from that soft yet stifling pressure, he raised his sore body to a sitting position.

“…Does it hurt that much?”

“That’s not the only problem. Look around you.”

Puddles of blood and corpses strewn everywhere.

Not the place for a conversation—or rather, not the place to be doing anything at all.

Especially when he desperately wanted to wash off the blood.

Whether it was human or monster blood, he was used to being soaked in someone else’s.

But if he were to break down the vague discomfort he felt, it wasn’t the blood on his own body that he wanted to wash away—it was the blood on Alje.

In any case, they needed to get out of here.

The stench of blood would inevitably draw in flies.

[Oh my, you really made a flashy mess, didn’t you?]

It might already be too late.

Hans almost shot Alje a resentful look, but barely held himself back.

It wouldn’t be right to glare at the girl who had just saved his life.

Besides, if the witch had truly set her mind to watching them, then avoiding her gaze would’ve been impossible from the start.

In a way, they were lucky.

If Alje had recklessly used a miracle, things wouldn’t have ended with just curiosity or interest.

Judging from Gretel’s reaction.

[Especially, that girl.]

But it was too late—they had already drawn attention.

The display of brute strength Alje had shown teetered on the boundary between mysticism and something entirely mundane.

If it had been a giant of a man who’d trained his body to the extreme, it wouldn’t have been so strange to see such a feat.

But Alje was a slender girl—small-framed and lacking in visible muscle.

However, body-enhancing mystic arts were the domain of monsters.

Still, rather than assuming someone was a shapeshifting monster just because they were unusually strong, it was easier to dismiss it as someone simply born with exceptional strength.

[Hmm, hmmm… Truly beautiful, aren’t you?]

But the moment the Ojojo, drawn by the scent of blood, opened its beak, Hans realized he had been gravely mistaken.

The witch who had come seeking them—surely, she had seen Alje throw those men like ragdolls.

And yet, she showed no interest in that.

What captivated the witch from Lebkuchenhaus… was Alje’s beauty.

A beauty so rare it would be hard to find even on the surface, and here in the labyrinth, it gleamed even brighter.

[It’s too precious for someone like you to have.]

All witches pay for their magic after the fact.

The backlash of twisting the laws of the world—and the poison it leaves behind—gradually corrupts their bodies and minds.

Gretel was no exception.

Whenever Hans made love to her, he’d sometimes catch sight of the burn scars left on her lower back.

Scars on a witch who wielded fire as if it were her own limbs?

Scars not etched into the body, but onto the soul.

Though Gretel was still a young witch and retained much of her beauty, hundreds of years from now, as the world-warping backlash she brought intensified—the burn marks would spread like mold, eventually consuming her entire body.

That was the future Gretel had once told Hans of, in her own words.

And if that was the fate of Gretel, then what of the other witches who had already reached that future?

Of course, since the types of mysticism vary, the scars wouldn’t necessarily be burns—but is it really a coincidence that all the ancient witches seclude themselves within towers, handling outside affairs only through slaves or familiars?

Even that formidable Lebkuchenhaus is no exception.

“…Witch.”

[Even your growling is adorable.]

And the problem didn’t end there—Alje, without a hint of fear, began to show open hostility toward the witch.

Hans could understand it, to an extent.

After all, Alje’s sense of self was formed based on her past as a Saint, and it was well known that Saints and witches were bitter enemies.

But compared to how she reacted to Gretel, Alje’s response now was far more extreme.

This wasn’t the stance of someone confronting a fated nemesis.

It was more like a child throwing a tantrum after having her favorite doll stolen by a girl she didn’t like.

But when directed at a witch, that kind of attitude was more than disrespectful—it was blasphemous.

[You’re so cute, I could gouge out your eyes, cut out your tongue, tear off your head, and replace each piece with something beautiful instead.

Surely, even your screaming face would be adorable.

But once you rot, you won’t be so cute anymore, so I’d better turn your head to stone in time.

That way, the look of you screaming, mouth open like a pig and crying so hideously—will be preserved forever… Fufu, even I have to admit, it’s a perfect plan.]

Of course, before that pure and primal evil, such things might’ve meant nothing anyway.

Even if Alje hadn’t shown her monstrous strength, even if she had been more polite—the witch’s malice toward the girl wouldn’t have changed.

Because Alje was beautiful.

And to hate someone to death, sometimes that alone is reason enough.

“Y-You…!”

And now what the hell is she doing?

Hans panicked and hurriedly restrained Alje, who looked like she was about to lash out.

Fight a witch?

That was utter madness.

Even if Alje used all the power of a Saint and a monster combined, it wouldn’t matter.

Sure, an Ojojo might seem easy enough, but a witch’s battle familiars are monsters on a completely different level.

They are like an army of monsters—armed, and capable of tactics and strategy.

Considering how Alje had struggled against even a single wild One-Winged Angel, the outcome of her fighting a witch was all too obvious.

In this labyrinth, it’s only natural to bow before the strong.

“Bow.”

“Ajusshi!”

“If you don’t want both of us to die, bow.”

His low whisper carried more sincerity than ever before.

It was a side Hans didn’t want Alje to see, just like how he didn’t want to see her bloodied and broken.

The eyes of a hunter who had become a monster while hunting monsters stared down at Alje.

With a sudden gust, the girl caught a whiff of something foul and out of place.

He wasn’t some prince.

He was a monster.

Not one like Alje, who had been born a monster by nature, but a man born human—worn down and twisted into something monstrous by the cruel, relentless tides of the world.

Not powerful, not great, not even frightening—just a pitiful, pus-covered monster that provoked disgust more than fear, no matter how hard he tried.

“I apologize for the rudeness—”

Alje fell silent.

Hans began to speak but hesitated.

Was it really okay to say this?

Even what he had already received was more than he deserved.

Would it be right to sully the kindness she’d shown with such a proud lie?

[No? You weren’t the one who wronged me, so you don’t have to apologize.]

“That’s not true.”

There was no need to mention the witch’s killing intent toward beauty, but Hans also clearly saw the malice directed at him in the eyes of the otherwise humanlike bird.

Lebkuchenhaus still held a grudge over what Hans had once refused.

When a bug gnaws at your shoelace, crushing it beneath your heel isn’t called revenge—so what the witch was doing now could be called “pettiness” at best.

But to the bug, even a child’s pettiness could be fatal.

Its legs torn off one by one—slowly, painfully.

“She’s also Lady Flamkuchen’s slave. Just like me.”

Hans invoked Gretel’s “witch name.” Of course, it was a lie.

Gretel only cherished Hans.

Those pouting, grumbling, sometimes delicate and girlish expressions she showed—he was the only one who ever saw them.

Gretel was a witch.

To her, all other humans were equally worthless.

At most, they just weren’t as grotesquely distasteful as the one before them now.

“I failed to manage my junior properly, so I bear some responsibility.”

[Oh? So what, you’re offering yourself up as a replacement toy to vent on?]

Yes, everything Hans was saying now—was a lie.

Maybe Gretel viewed Alje as a curious test subject, or an annoying girl hovering around her man, but unlike Hans, she didn’t admire Alje’s purity or feel any protective instinct.

If anything, she might be jealous.

Might want to break Alje with her own hands—just like the witch in front of them now.

“If it comes to that, I’ll die.”

[You understand well.]

“If I die, Gretel will be sad.”

[So, what you’re saying is…]

“Yes.”

In that moment, Hans sold Gretel’s time with a lie.

It hadn’t even been that long since he lamented everything she’d sacrificed for his sake.

“Lady Flamkuchen—our master—will take responsibility for us.”

Us.

Not just singular, but plural.

Not just Hans.

Alje too.