Past midnight.

At the entrance of the silent temple, Ribedon, shrouded thickly in night fog, a portal opened.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

The High Priest stared, his face pale and ashen, as Empress Henzela emerged from among the knights.

Wrapped in a long red cloak with white fur on the hood, trailing all the way to her feet, the Empress lifted her chin arrogantly—as if the towering white stone mountain and the entire temple belonged to her alone.

“Lead the way.”

Without further explanation, she strode into the temple, followed in perfect unison by her knights.

The High Priest, hastily moistening his parched lips, hurried after the Empress.

“Your Majesty! Please reconsider—do you truly intend to enter personally?”

“That is precisely my intention. Did you not receive my message?”

“I—I did. But… b—but… the other party… is a witch.”

“Precisely why she is worth meeting.”

“But Your Majesty—it is a witch! A witch! Please, reconsider just once more—!”

At the High Priest’s repeated plea, the Empress abruptly halted.

The night wind, colder than daylight, gently swept past the white fur lining her hood. Slowly, Henzela turned her body around.

“Why are you so unusually talkative today? Do you imagine I require your permission?”

At her icy gaze, the High Priest fell silent and bowed his head deeply.

‘Damn it!’

Though the crisp autumn night air enveloped his entire body, ironically, sweat poured down his brow.

He had been informed of the Empress’s visit a mere thirty minutes ago.

Moreover, she intended to secretly meet the witch imprisoned in the dungeon.

Though he had materially benefited greatly under the Empress and thus generally acted in her favor, the current situation was different.

After the witch’s capture, the High Priest had gathered information from observing knights and had pieced together the relationship between Ivy and Latieana Merigold to some extent.

At the time, he had clung stubbornly to Ivy because of her established accomplishments, believing they could not be easily dismantled. Now, however, he fervently wished for the witch’s fate to be decided as soon as possible—even tomorrow would not be soon enough.

This was because he had made a promise with the true High Saintess, Latieana Merigold, who wished to keep her identity concealed.

Latieana possessed extraordinary power—anomalously so—and though admittedly bold and shameless in demeanor, she honored her promises faithfully. Thus, the High Priest’s loyalty had long since shifted to her side.

Moreover, Ivy Violet was a wicked witch who had deceived them flawlessly for nearly a year. Though imprisoned in the dungeon because the Empress had not yet issued formal judgment, the High Priest could not shake his inner unease. Though Ivy had been left to languish in near-death condition in the underground cell, witches were unnervingly sinister beings—their potential for unforeseen threats remained a constant worry.

Most witches, abandoned by their mothers and raised in hatred, awakened their powers through malice. If they died while awakening their power, so be it; but if hatred and rage triggered their witchcraft, they might spawn yet another witch. The more hatred and fury accumulated, the stronger the witch became. And Ivy, spending time in the darkness of the dungeon, was likely now drowning in immense hatred.

And there was another source of anxiety.

‘If that witch carelessly opens her mouth and reveals the High Saintess’s true identity…!’

Not only would they lose access to Latieana’s healing power, but Prince Edan Dietrich might unleash untold chaos.

But…

When he lifted his head, the Empress’s sharp gaze still pinned him in place.

To outside observers, it might appear she was silently, patiently awaiting his reply—but the High Priest knew better.

Whenever the Empress fixed someone with that look, she was contemplating how best to discard a servant who dared defy her command.

It reminded him eerily of her gaze years ago, when she dismissed the Archmage. Back then, he had thought the Archmage foolish for invoking ideals in political struggles—but now, faced with his own peril, he found himself paralyzed with dread.

Staring helplessly at the grass beneath his feet, eyes darting aimlessly, the High Priest finally surrendered and lifted his head.

“No, Your Majesty. I spoke only out of concern, for the place is filthy and wretched. I shall follow your will.”

The High Priest took one step ahead and began guiding the Empress toward the underground dungeon.

Creeeak—.

Deep in the cellar. The massive iron door of the dungeon—pitch black, admitting not even a sliver of light—swung open.

A dozen knights rushed inside, brandishing light-emitting artifacts, and took positions flanking the corridor.

Wherever the Empress walked, brilliant light illuminated her path as if darkness had never existed.

A foul stench permeated the air; along every step, unidentifiable horrors occupied the cells.

The deeper they ventured, the more suffocating the stench became—enough to cloud the mind—and the damp air clung unpleasantly to the skin.

Quietly walking beside her, the High Priest mustered courage once more to speak.

“Your Majesty, if you truly intend to meet her, perhaps I could bring the witch outside instead—”

“No.”

The Empress rejected him instantly.

The High Priest could not fathom her intentions. Yet, as if reading his thoughts, she spoke.

“She must be made to fully comprehend her wretched state, fallen to the ground—only then will she truly crave the light in which I stand. Would it suffice to simply drag her into brightness so easily?”

Was this woman, who had lived only in noble, radiant purity, truly willing to endure everything—filth, decay, horror—merely to crush her opponent and force her to recognize her own degradation?

Watching the Empress’s expensive red cloak drag across the filthy, excrement-stained dungeon floor, the High Priest felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Mice and insects scurried beneath her feet, yet Henzela’s steps never slowed, never hesitated.

Though setting foot in such filth for the first time in her life, a stronger desire now consumed her entire being.

‘Damn you, Edan Dietrich.’

He had shattered everything she had controlled for so long.

As Henzela walked through the heart of the filthy dungeon, her mind seethed with hatred for Edan.

Covering her nose and mouth with a pristine white lace handkerchief, the Empress walked silently—until, after many steps, she finally halted.

She made no effort to hide her deeply furrowed brow, disgusted by the stench and crawling insects. With a light gesture, she signaled one knight, who tossed an artifact inside the iron bars.

Instantly, the inky darkness vanished, replaced by brilliant, spreading light.

Inside, a gaunt woman sat hunched, wearing a tattered dress so shredded and soiled her identity was barely recognizable.

“Ivy Violet.”

Blinded momentarily by the sudden brightness, Ivy responded to the call with movement slower than a snail’s, uncurling her body.

Henzela scrutinized Ivy from head to toe.

‘Disgusting.’

Her hair, tangled beyond combing, swarmed with dozens of tiny white insects.

The dress, ripped to shreds, was stained with unidentifiable blood and mud—so filthy it bordered on grotesque. Her skin was covered in scabbed, swollen red and black patches, like burns, crusted over with dried blood.

Beneath her long fingernails and toenails, black decay had set in; maggots writhed in the deep wounds visible between the torn hem of her skirt and her calves.

No trace remained of the radiant, beautiful Ivy once seen in the royal ballroom—bathed in sunlight like a golden dawn.

She did not merely resemble someone else—she had become someone else entirely.

The Empress lowered her gaze as if observing a filthy, utterly useless insect.

“Y, Your Majesty…?”

From the High Priest’s parched, silent lips, a cracked voice finally emerged—as Henzela finished examining every detail of Ivy’s wretched form.

Her stuttering tone was deeply unpleasant.

Half her face hidden beneath long, brittle hair, Ivy slowly pushed herself upright against the wall.

“D, did you… come to… kill me?”

At those words, the corner of Henzela’s mouth—hidden behind her handkerchief—curved faintly upward.

But the moment was fleeting. Henzela looked down at Ivy with the cold gaze of one come to execute a criminal.

“You were waiting to be killed?”

“W, well… you’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t you?”

“You cannot so easily pay the price for brazenly concealing your identity for nearly a year—and murdering the temple’s precious Saintess candidate.”

“…….”

Ivy’s trembling lips pressed shut. She appeared to have surrendered everything. Yet Henzela did not miss the flicker of injustice—and murderous intent—in her eyes.

“But if you beg me for your life… I might spare you.”

Instantly, Ivy’s eyes flashed; her drooping head slowly lifted.

“I, I… is that… truly possible?”

Seeing Ivy grasp the thread of hope without hesitation, the Empress smiled faintly, eyes crinkling.

“Of course. I am a merciful person. I can overlook all your misdeeds—and make it as if none of this ever happened.”

“Heh, heheh…!”

At that moment, a strange, unintelligible laugh burst from Ivy’s cracked teeth.

Her neck, limp as if broken, dropped heavily downward—then slowly lifted again, eyes bloodshot and veins bulging.

“W, what… what do you… want from me?”

Thankfully, she was not so far gone mentally as to be unable to comprehend speech.

“What must I do… for you to… clear my injustice?”

Injustice? How laughable. Her resigned acceptance of death vanished instantly; now, she pleaded with a desperate, coaxing voice.

Merely given the slightest opening, Ivy’s demeanor flipped more easily than turning a palm.

“I—I am innocent, Your Majesty! That damn bitch Latieana Merigold—she stole my power!”

Suddenly energized, Ivy lunged toward the Empress—and her blackened, rotting hand clamped onto the iron bars with a clang.

Her sunken cheeks, fiercely upturned eyes, and grotesquely stretched mouth formed a horrifying visage.

Knights swiftly moved, aiming sharp sword tips at Ivy. Simultaneously, the High Priest, face contorted, shouted:

“Back away! You witch!”

But the Empress’s brow furrowed for an entirely different reason.

“Latieana? Who is that?”

At the Empress’s question, Ivy rolled her pupils once through empty air—then fixed her gaze on the High Priest.

“Ahh… I see. You know nothing, Your Majesty.”

It was a voice dripping with mockery.

“What exactly do you think I do not know?”

The High Priest’s spine turned icy; his face drained of color.

“Latieana Merigold—the woman of Duke Edan Dietrich. She is the true High Saintess.”