In the darkness, the man rising to his feet resembled a black panther.
His skin was dark, and his yellow eyes gleamed.
When he opened his mouth, sharp fangs stood out.
He was wearing an animal hide with rough openings for his arms and legs.
Whether due to the handler’s lack of skill or the hide’s excessive stiffness and toughness, it looked crude.
At his waist, a curved sword was tucked in, with only the handle barely visible.
Hans blinked and asked, looking at this distinct figure:“…Who might you be?”
Of course, he knew exactly who it was.
A cheap provocation.
Cahir, the hunter.
A warrior who, with his sheer presence alone, stood on a different level from the average hunters — someone who could take the front lines as a top-tier scout.
Or at least, he had been.
The past tense?
Well, you could tell just by looking at his eyes.
Clouded, almost entirely rolled back white eyes — one of the most common symptoms of excessive witchgrass use.
At this stage, he was an addict in the final phase.
Not even a saint’s miracle could save him, and it wouldn’t be surprising if his heart gave out any moment.
“You’ve still got no talent for jokes.”
“Really? That’s a shame — I put some effort into this one.”
The words they exchanged were empty.
Outwardly friendly, but the atmosphere was tense enough that it wouldn’t have been surprising if either of them drew their sword at any moment.
The last flickering thread of life.
Hans could tell where Cahir had decided to spend what little remained of it.
Well, anyone with a bit of sense could tell, given the ominous mood…“Wow! Are you Uncle’s friend?”
“…”
And then the fool who couldn’t sense the killing intent barged in with a bright, carefree smile.
“I was, once.”
Of course, Alje didn’t understand why Hans put such heavy emphasis on the past tense.
At the appearance of the stranger, Alje had initially hidden behind Hans, peeking out cautiously from over his shoulder.
But at the mention of the word “friend,” his wariness vanished, and without hesitation, he trotted forward.
Cahir’s clouded eyes swept over Alje, and the already fierce-looking man’s expression grew even darker.
“What… is this…?”
“You said he’s your friend, right? Are you sure he’s okay? He looks like he’s about to collapse any second.”
“Wait, Alje — when I said friend, I didn’t mean an actual friend, it’s more like.”
And then it happened.
Without a hint of fear, Alje reached out toward Cahir.
Comforting the wounded was the nature of a saint.
And even if it wasn’t truly instinct, the relentless conditioning and near-abusive education had shaped Alje into exactly that kind of person.
But in the labyrinth they lived in, kindness without a price didn’t exist.
Cahir’s mind was clouded by drugs, and his reason had long since faded.
Standing face-to-face with an enemy had put him on edge.
It went without saying that fear of the witches and the burden of breaking their rules had driven him into this state.
On top of that, Alje’s almost unreal beauty didn’t inspire admiration or desire — it provoked fear.
Swish—Cahir drew his sword and swung.
The hand Alje had extended in pure goodwill was cut.
It was an impulsive strike, and Alje’s reaction was swift — but not swift enough.
Fingers were severed.
Half of the index finger, and a joint and a half from the middle finger.
Blood spurted, and pieces of pale flesh, white as snowflakes, scattered across the dark, grimy floor.
“Ah—”
And then Cahir staggered and fell.
At some point, a dagger had pierced his throat.
Hans had moved the instant he felt the killing intent — but regrettably, his strike had been just a beat too late.
Had Cahir been in his right mind, he could have easily dodged or blocked the attack,but expecting such a thing from a man who couldn’t even control his own body was impossible.
With blood frothing from his mouth, the powerful, panther-like body collapsed limply.
Hans didn’t spare so much as a glance at the seasoned warrior’s pitiful end — not even at Alje, who stood there bleeding from his severed fingers.
Instead, with a hardened expression, Hans stared at the ceiling where the sky was faintly visible.
Against the dim moonlight, a shadow flitted by.
The scent of blood spread in all directions, drawing that shape toward its source with perfect precision.
There were no ordinary animals in the labyrinth, so naturally, this thing could only be a monster.
And yet, even as the creature flew openly through the city, no one moved to stop it.
What should have been an easy prey for any seasoned hunter — and even Hans himself — filled him with fear.
Finally, the familiar landed, circling above their heads.
[I was wondering which reckless fools I’d find here… but it’s a familiar face, isn’t it?]
The creature croaked, its voice unmistakably human despite its beak.
The monster, called Ojojo, was only slightly larger than a crow, using its five clawed limbs with the dexterity of human hands.
A cloak embroidered with symbols fluttered around it — a mark that distinguished it from wild beasts and a symbol of the witch who controlled it.
The small bird — or rather, the witch watching through its eyes — gazed down at them with cold, haughty disdain.
[Gretel’s hunting dog, Johanes. Am I right?]
“…….Ah .”
[I saw Gretel storming out, swearing she’d burn you to a crisp. I’m surprised you’re still alive.]
How are monsters born?
Hans was one of the few who knew the truth.
Of course, monsters could be created through the breeding of other monsters — but the very first of their kind?
They were stillborn children of witches.
As their name implied, they were born from the wombs of witches.
It was the price witches paid for twisting the world to their will.
What their bloodline inherited wasn’t just power — it was this curse.
The offspring of a witch wouldn’t always become a witch… but they could become a monster.
Those with a witch’s blood flowing in their veins could, at any moment, suddenly and without warning, transform into a monster.
Of course, far more people lived their whole lives without changing than those who did — but anyone with a witch in their ancestry had to live in constant fear that one day they’d lose themselves entirely.
[You’ve got some nerve. Or are you just disappointed you didn’t get burned enough last time? I may not be Gretel, but I could still make you sizzle nicely.]
“…May I offer an explanation?”
[Go ahead.]
And so the monsters, who had once been human.
They didn’t retain their human intellect or memories — but they remained bound by their bloodline.
Through a particular kind of magic, a witch could dominate any monster born from their own blood.
That was what a familiar was — the eyes that watched over the city and the hands and feet that carried out a witch’s will.
With Hans’s skills, he could easily crush the arrogant Ojojo fluttering in front of him.
But if he did, what came next would be far worse — familiars not for patrolling, but for combat.
Or perhaps the witch herself would come.
“He attacked me first. I had no choice…”
[And?]
A pest he could swat away with a single motion buzzed in his face.
No doubt, in the witch’s eyes, Hans himself looked no different from that pest.
[Are you saying your pathetic safety matters more than the rules of Heimvig that we established?]
Expecting rational or reasonable conversation from a witch was a fool’s hope.
After a brief moment of thought, Hans finally spoke.
“My mistress will pay the price in my stead.”
[Ohhh?]
The creature’s voice twisted with mock amusement.
[I know you’re a well-favored little hunting dog — but that just means you should know better than anyone, right? That woman’s temper is even worse than mine.]
[You sure you want to drag her into this? Wouldn’t it be better to leave it to me? We’ve known each other long enough, haven’t we? I’ll make sure it’s quick and clean.]
“…..”
The rules set by the witches were no different.
There were no prisons in the labyrinth — because the labyrinth itself was a prison.
And every crime carried the same punishment: death.
“That’s my burden to bear.”
Hans’s voice was steady.
[How arrogant. Well, fine.]
The bird spread its wings and flew toward him.
Hans didn’t move an inch.
It circled him leisurely, as if appraising him, staying just within reach — close enough that Hans could have snatched it out of the air if he wanted to.
And then, suddenly…With a swift motion, the bird landed on his shoulder, its voice light with amusement as it whispered into his ear.
[This is the price for your insolence. The rest — I’ll leave that to your mistress, just as you asked.]
Hans never got to hear the end of that sentence.
In the next instant, the bird’s sharp beak darted into his ear canal, biting and tearing viciously.
Agony ripped through him.
Hans barely managed to grit his teeth and endure it.
The familiar kept speaking, but the words were lost — drowned out by the overwhelming pain.
A moment later, the bird spread its wings and flew off, leaving him behind.
The spot where it had perched likely bore scratches and bruises, but Hans had no attention to spare for that.
The moment the familiar was gone, his knees buckled.
He stumbled against the wall, breathing heavily, before desperately digging into his coat.
He tore open a small pouch filled with fine white powder and inhaled it roughly through his nose.
In his urgency, a third of it spilled, and another third clung to his face and beard — but none of that mattered.
The precious, rare powder worked fast.
The searing pain burrowing from his ear into his brain began to subside almost immediately.
“……..Ah.”
Even through the haze clouding his mind, Hans’s eyes drifted over the blood-soaked alley.
Cahir’s corpse lay stiff and lifeless like a broken piece of wood, a pool of blood spreading at his feet.
Pieces of flesh lay scattered across the ground.
And then there was the girl — standing there, too shocked even to scream, her face frozen in a mask of disbelief.
He had intended to show her the brutality of the labyrinth… but this?
This was far beyond what he’d planned.
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