Alje might be waiting.
The thought flickered through his mind, but Hans did not turn back.
He had returned not to Shindel Strasse but to Kumo Strasse—a musty, dimly lit alley.
The contrast was stark, having just left a relatively clean district.
Yet Hans found more comfort in this lawless, dissolute quarter than in those stiflingly orderly streets.
The stench of smoldering monster dung was familiar to a hunter who’d lived here over a decade.
He wouldn’t call it pleasant, even if beaten to death.
And the residents?
Their faces were the kind that might grow on you—if you beat them to death.
‘11-132, 14-559, 1687-53.’
He couldn’t read letters, but numbers—those he knew.
How to navigate, how to find addresses.
One might not believe it, gazing at this chaos, but Heimvig was once a meticulously planned city built by witches.
Centuries had reduced Kumo Strasse to a garbage heap, yet its bones remained unchanged.
Countless thugs had trashed Hans’ home over the years.
Rounding them all up was a fool’s errand.
What mattered was making an example: This is what happens to those who touch the Witch’s hound.
Hans was armed as if for an expedition.
A sword and hammer hung at his hip, armor strapped tight—a bizarre sight in a city where combat was forbidden.
But Kumo’s residents didn’t blink.
The Witch’s rules only mattered after the bloodshed.
What good was punishing the killer if your guts were already spilling out?
Of course, Hans had no intention of stopping at mere prevention.
Crash!
When he reached the first house, it was predictably locked.
Hans began ripping into the wall with the lock still attached, hammer swinging.
The clamor echoed, drawing venomous stares from shadowy figures loitering nearby.
This was why lone thieves rarely ransacked homes.
Stealing trinkets in secret was one thing—but leaving a disaster like they’d done to Hans’ place?
That demanded an audience.
An accomplice—or ten.
And neighbors who turned blind eyes, nursing grudges against the homeowner.
“What’re you starin’ at, shits.”
Hans had no evidence, but he didn’t need it.
He had something far better.
“Who the hell d’you think you are, wreckin’ houses? Lookin’ to die?”
“Piss off.”
To the gathering crowd, Hans pulled a glass orb from his coat.
The fire orb glowed—a color alien to the Labyrinth’s gloom.
Anyone who’d glimpsed the Witch would recognize that blasphemous hue.
“By the Witch’s will.”
Building a case?
Managing reputations?
Useless.
In this world, one demigod’s whim outweighed a thousand criminals.
As the crowd froze, Hans tore through the wall.
Inside, the house was empty, just as he’d guessed.
The layout mirrored his own home: cramped, filthy.
But unlike Hans, this owner had no mystic vaults.
He scanned the room—a hunter trained to sniff secrets.
There’d be a hidden compartment.
His prey had erased their tracks, but Hans marked three likely spots.
Then he smashed them all.
Crack!
After looting the hidden stash, Hans stepped outside and hurled the fire orb into the ruins.
It shattered against the wall, unleashing trapped flames.
Whoosh.
Flames devoured the house in seconds.
A simple trick.
Technically, vandalizing property was illegal—but by doing this, the destruction would be blamed not on Hans, but on Gretel.
Or more precisely, Hans the slave merely executing the Witch Gretel’s will.
The liability fell to Gretel, but so what?
No valuable labor was lost, just a few trash-heap buildings in Kumo Strasse.
For a Witch, this wasn’t a crime.
Smashing things in a tantrum was Tuesday.
After torching the first house, Hans moved to the next target.
Truth was, Hans didn’t even know who owned these homes.
All that mattered was his master had marked them prey, and his job was to sink teeth into their throats.
Even if they were innocent, even if Gretel had chosen them out of petty spite—what did it matter?
Fear, not resentment, would fester in the people’s hearts.
And that was enough.
The second house had an owner.
Crash!
“The hell—? Hansel…?”
When Hans smashed the wall, a burly man stumbled out—bulkier than Hans, with a bulbous nose you couldn’t forget.
The man froze mid-rant, panic flashing across his face.
Hans smirked.
“Hey, Garo. Miss me?”
“You…!”
“Our bad blood was just you scamming my tab, promising ‘good times,’ and me pickpocketing your drug-addled ass. Hardly worth this drama.”
“Buddy, I don’t know what you’re—”
“You trashed my place. Admit it.”
Garo—the big-nosed hunter—was no fool.
He feigned outrage, voice dripping with mock innocence.
“Hey. I don’t know what you’re talking about. My house? No, even if something happened to my house, you can’t just go around destroying someone else’s place like this…”
“Yeah.”
Hans had never intended to listen in the first place.
The truth wasn’t particularly important.
He nodded lightly and resumed swinging his hammer against the house, as if the owner standing right in front of him didn’t even exist.
“Hey! That’s enough—!”
Naturally, the people of the Labyrinth were not known for their patience.
Realizing that words wouldn’t work, Garo immediately hurled his massive body toward Hans.
Violence was against the rules, but he couldn’t just stand by and watch his house be demolished.
As long as he could get Hans away before the witch arrived.
A blade slipped through the gap in his careless thoughts.
“Kuh…”
Hans had only pretended to be absorbed in hammering.
The moment Garo lunged at him, he fluidly drew his sword and skewered him.
Blood spread, and onlookers gasped.
The situation had escalated beyond the point of being dismissed as a mere incident, and the crowd began to scatter.
“Y-you crazy… bastard…”
After all, it wasn’t like he had betrayed them and run off to the outside world.
Who could have imagined that merely destroying a house would result in such a swift and brutal retaliation?
Even so, it was an unworthy death for a seasoned hunter.
His eyes, now turning a murky white, reflected nothing but emptiness.
The drugs clouding his mind had dulled his survival instincts.
That was why Hans never took drugs.
He had once, but he had fought through the withdrawal and quit.
He had to keep his senses razor-sharp at all times.
“You… won’t… last much longer…”
Hans pulled out his sword—then stabbed him again.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Even a hunter forged in the Labyrinth’s poison, strong enough to battle monsters in close combat, was still just a human.
A heavy splat echoed through the now-silent street as the corpse collapsed into a pool of blood.
And then, another sound.
The flapping of wings growing closer.
Before the witch’s familiar—Ojojo—could pierce through him, Hans pulled out the second marble and held it high.
A light far more radiant than the sun projected in the sky spread out, forcing the descending shadow to hastily flap its wings and alter its trajectory.
[Hooh.]
“You’ve arrived.”
At this moment, there was no need to bow or humble himself.
Doing so would only disgrace the name of the witch he served.
He stood tall, back straight, head held high—but not too high, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered.
In that posture, Hans waited for the witch to approach.
[Ihihihi. You must have been in quite a hurry.]
“Pardon?”
[For that proud woman to give you something like that. And not just one, but several.]
However, the words delivered through the familiar’s beak were completely unexpected.
Hans had been preparing to either offer an excuse for his actions or acknowledge the witch’s authority, but… what exactly was this monster talking about?
As he stood there blinking in confusion, Ojojo sneered.
The violent movement, unnatural for a bird, caused its mouth muscles to tear, and blood trickled down.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying…”
[Oh? You really don’t know?]
“Weren’t you about to reprimand me for breaking the rules?”
[Oh, you know about that well enough, so don’t pretend otherwise. That’s why you came prepared, didn’t you? A witch’s enchanted marbles—far more valuable than the life of some lowly creature.]
Trying to imitate a human smile, the bird’s trembling body shuddered violently.
Blood dripped from its torn mouth, tears welled in its eyes, yet its beak continued to move with unnatural precision, faithfully delivering its master’s sly and cunning voice.
[But what I want to talk about is far more important. It could even change the course of your life.Though, it seems your master chose not to tell you.]
Hearing those words, Hans suddenly realized something.
‘Right now, the witch behind Ojojo…’
“[Hey, darling? How about becoming mine instead?]…was the very same witch who had once made that offer to Gretel.”