My Long Lost Mate

"So, what happened to the villagers?" I asked, crossing my legs while sipping my tea after I had just broken two more of Mr. Wickham's fingers. Three broken fingers, and I've finally set his mind straight. 

"T-the black witch took control of them," he shivered, clutching his broken fingers to his ċhėst. "S-she referred to them as her puppets—and it's been a few weeks since she turned them as such."

"What did she do?" 

"S-she mixed her blood into the people's food," he gulped, not daring to meet my eyes. Obviously, he was contemplating whether or not to tell me the whole truth but decided to do so when he remembered the pain from his three broken fingers. "She took advantage of the villagers' poverty and sent out food every day, mixing a small amount of her blood little by little until the amount was sufficient for—for the ritual." 

I gave him a small nod, allowing him to proceed. The villagers had no reason to refuse her generosity, so everything must have gone smoothly until the day I found out what happened there. To think that I went there only to find the witch who was after Violet and ended up discovering a whole village being turned into the black witches' puppets for the impending war.

I suppose I have to thank Leonard for this, but unfortunately, he's dead. Perhaps the small Leonard will do.

"How long until the blood is sufficient for the ritual?" 

"T-two weeks, sir." 

That means the witch has been there for at least a month. Those damned black witches, who allowed them to step onto my land? Those people always lived like mice, always lurking in the shadows and secretly stealing from people. While mice steal people's food, those black witches steal people's lives.

Then, what should I take from them in return? Ah, I should take their hearts—just like what they did to my people. A heart for a heart, might I say. 

"Then what happened to the corpses thrown in the ditch?"

If they needed those people to be their puppets, why would they kill them off? Wouldn't it be more beneficial for them if they took control of more people?

"T-they're the failed ones, sir," he gulped again, seemingly being careful with his words. Was there something that he couldn't tell me? "Not all people are able to withstand the witch's blood, which is why many die in the process." 

Knowing that the village magistrate had also died, I could more or less guess what Mr. Wickham's role was in the scheme. It was to forge the village's reports so that there wouldn't be any suspicion of the village from my side. But why didn't the witch ask the magistrate for help instead of Mr. Wickham's? Why did they let him die? 

"How did you get involved in this?" 

"B-because the magistrate was among the people who died, the black witch needed someone who could help arrange the villagers and also someone who could—" he halted, fixing his gaze even lower, "—help falsify the village reports." 

"Then why did they let the magistrate die? Why did they ask for your help instead?" 

He cast a glance at me, surprised that I didn't send another threat—or break his fingers. The reason was that I didn't want to hear his scream anymore—since it was straight-up disturbing. I'd much rather hear him answer my questions quickly and quietly. 

"It's..." he bit his lower lip, hesitating. Perhaps he was afraid that his answer would cause him more harm—though I suppose that he couldn't get any worse than this. "It's because the magistrate didn't agree to help her. He wanted to report this matter to you, so—" 

I raised my hand to him, already knowing where this was going. So, unlike the other villagers, the magistrate died because he was killed—because he was loyal to me. Not wanting to risk being found out, the witch decided to kill him and went after Mr. Wickham, whose greed knew no bounds. Just give him a little something in return for his services, and he'd agree to kill off an entire village—or more. It depends on how much he'd get in return. 

I glared at him as he held his fingers closer to him, wondering how the hell this kind of man got chosen to be a magistrate. This man has got to be rotten to the core. Nothing was saving him from his death today—not even God himself. 

"How long until the two weeks in your village end?" I inquired, and he looked up at me, apparently surprised by the question. What did he take me for? A fuċkɨnġ moron? Did he think I wouldn't know about this?

These questions I had were the only thing keeping him alive right now, and he should be grateful for this little extension of his foolish life. He'd be better off dead—fed to the dogs even. It pains me to let such a man live for another second.

"T-two days left before it ends, sir," he stuttered, quickly fixing his gaze back on the ground beneath him. I sighed. 

Two days left—it clearly means that a good amount of blood has entered the people's bodies. Though it was still unclear what the witch's blood could do, I needed to stop the villagers from taking any more food from the witch, knowing that they needed a specific amount of blood for the ritual to be performed.

I'll have to send a few warriors to keep an eye on the village, as well as the other villages marked on the map. In the worst-case scenario, they could be working on this plan all at the same time, so we need to be wary of all the other villages as well. We can't give them what they want, as it will definitely cause us harm. 

"How many witches are in this?" I asked, taking out the two letters that I had previously written and handing them to Zeke. A glance at the two letters and he immediately took off. I've sent a warning to the other two regions, so the rest is up to them. 

"I-I'm not sure," he said, and I frowned at him, not believing his words. Seeing my disbelief, he defended himself, "I-it's the truth! I don't know how many witches are involved, but I've certainly met one." 

"What did she look like? A name, maybe?" 

I was waiting for the name Greta to come up, but it seemed that he didn't have any clue about how she looked, moreover, her name. Mr. Wickham cautiously shook his head, afraid that another finger would soon be broken when he failed to answer more of my questions. 

"I only met the witch once, and she had everything covered up except for her eyes. If my memory serves me well, she had— " the man came to an abrupt halt, raising his palm to cover his mouth. His eyes popped out, plainly surprised by what was going on. He then gagged a few times before finally releasing the meals he'd eaten on the carpet he'd just peed on minutes before. 

I rubbed my temples, trying to calm my anger after seeing him made a great mess of my office in his last few minutes of life. If only I'd killed him sooner, this wouldn't have happened. Just what did my nose do to deserve all this today?

I let the biggest sigh escaped my lips, wanting to tell him off but realizing that this was not happening because of his mounting tension. I thought he'd stop after puking out his meals, but he didn't. Mr. Wickham puked the entirety of his stomach, dirtying the office floor with whatever was inside of a human body. 

Realizing the severity of the situation, I cursed and mind-linked Ronald to rush over and help the man, but Mr. Wickham was running out of time. The color quickly drained out of his face as he emptied his stomach, growing weaker as more things poured out of him. 

During his vehement puking, Mr. Wickham made an effort to reach out to me, asking for help, but there was nothing that I could do. He tried everything he could to stop himself from puking his guts, but it just kept coming out. I stood there, watching the man struggle to his death, and finally realized what was happening to him.

I've seen this before, back when I cornered the trespassing rogues. I'd cornered them and asked them who sent them to my territory, and then, the same exact thing happened to them right before they opened their mouths to answer me.

It was no other than witchcraft. 

A minute passed, and Mr. Wickham finally stopped. His body, which was previously kneeling on the floor, slowly fell. He collapsed to the pool of his insides, blood immediately staining his white shirt. With his eyes still wide open, the man laid there lifelessly.

Just like that, the brief tea invitation came to an end.