Delphine Inland

They are nailed to doors, walls, on the ground, to the trunks of the few trees.

The people of the town of Alcle died. Bad. Very bad. Clea observes their bodies hanging like puppets or lying on the ground. None of them have weapons or tools in hand. They tried to escape without success.

Sister, I hope you got away.

There is solidified blood, traces of burns, and burned skin around the wounds. Especially, there are thorns.

“So big I might mistake them for a forearm.”

“Doesn't it make the slightest impression on you!?”

“Says the one who massacred two witches in a university.”

“It's different here. These people have done nothing wrong!”

Archdevil shrugs. His gaze has a mischievous quality. Clea has no difficulty interpreting: ‘If it mattered whose fault, it would be yours.’

The desire to hit him with a punch. How can he be like this? These good people risked a lot to support the cause. They were her friends, companions, relatives…

A mix of emotions hard to untangle arises, new even for Clea. She would have expected everything except this. She felt confident, ready to face the situation head-on. Instead, they arrested her brother. The conquest of the city was a failure, and everyone died there.

“So, where is this secret hideout of yours? At a rough estimate, there are about thirty buildings. Large houses with stables. One is as good as the other.”

And he continues like this. He talks, talks, annoying, damned monster that I made a deal with.

What did I gain then? What?

“No, follow me. There's a covered barn over there.”

Clea blows. She takes a big breath of air like her parents taught her. With anger, Clea will fight. She walks forward, but Archdevil stands in her way.

“Wait.”

“Do you want your poison, yes or no?”

“Let's make two things clear: I am not your ally. I will not save your life.”

“Are you implying that you will hinder me?”

Archdevil thinks about it. Clea feels her hand tremble, ready to give a good slap to make him stop wanting to make fun of her, of them, of their cause.

“No.”

“You serve witches.”

“I don't owe anything to Priscilla. Rather, how much money do you have left in the common fund?”

Clea clenches her fists. Why waste time with these questions? Few, obviously. A thousand farmers do not own much. Furthermore, practically all of it was spent on the two witches and…

Ho, sure.

“You mean to point out that I can't afford any more magic.”

“Your insight precedes your name, Holy Witch.”

“We'll see how you laugh. Witches eat, shit, and die like everyone else. One shot on the head and you'll see. Let's go.”

Clea overtakes Archdevil and continues to advance.

“Excuse me if I like the idea of ​​a revolution.”

“Make your own revolution. Next time don't make fun.”

“Your touchy nature is the worst part.”

Clea turns around and bites her lip.

“I am not a Witch. Magic is not enough. I am much more than that.”

“What I want you to get into your head is that you're ending up in a trap. You will die. It's sad to admit, but somehow, you're leading a village riot. Why do you care so much about ending it? Maybe you can make it evolve, make it become something meaningful.”

“You just want to poison the cause. Why don't you take what I promised you and disappear? You talk a lot about past revolutions. Well. They will also make future ones then. What do you care? What do you think you understand!?”

Archdevil makes an aggressive face and goes silent.

Finally.

Clea resumes her journey, immersed in very different thoughts.

red bricks with a brown tile roof. It is the entrance to the covered warehouse. A figure waits and holds something round and sharp.

Clea seizes it. The head of Archdevil Priscilla is in the hands of a green-clad lady. Expensive dresses embroidered with floral motifs dress a busty brunette girl.

Seeing them arrive, the Witch waves with her free hand. She throws her husband's head at Clea's feet.

“For opening my eyes to my husband's real abilities, I thank you, commoners.”

Clea is speechless. She stammers something, disbeliefed. Archdevil was right. It was a farce. Even the cut-out tongue is a farce. It is nothing more than a way to make the play more believable.

A horrible thought resurfaces, irreducible.

“Where is my sister?”

“I do not know who she is. She is dead. Do you not think? I forgive you for your lack of manners just because you have to be their guide.”

“Who told you that?”

The Witch starts playing with a braid of brown hair. Clea does not know what to say. This person is different from the other two witches. She seems lost in thought, indifferent to the death that surrounds her. Indifferent to the gravity of the moment.

She does not care. Not of the mills, not of the revolt, nor the lives lost. Is this the nature of what we are fighting?

“Well, who knows? You know it? And you, lonely Archdevil, can you tell me why you are here? Come closer so I can see your emblem.” The Witch extends her arm, offering a hand to the distant Archdevil.

He raises his eyebrow at her, clicking his tongue at her. Clea appreciates it, and the monster is at least partly sincere.

“Archdevil, perhaps you are not clear who I am. Come closer and see the porcupine snail on my beautiful chest.”

“If you say that, what should I think about?”

Clea cannot take it anymore. Under that torrid sun and the evil star, there is no room for these things. Stupid words that do not take reality into account.

Clea sprints, hand on sickle, to hit the Witch.

She is there, in front of her.

A black dot makes her hesitate. It takes a more defined shape.

Not a point.

A dark thorn appears in the air. Or has it always been there? Clea feels herself move to the side, something knocking her to the ground. She sees the thorn fly past, missing her.

“Ho, did you save that rebel’s life?”

Clea turns around. Archdevil still has his arm outstretched in her direction.

Did he save me? Did he push me?

“That,” Archdevil points to Clea, “is a Witch. You have laws, don't you? Follow them.”

Gertrude-Ali Priscilla looks at Clea with a disgusted expression.

“She cannot be noble. I refuse to believe that.”

“Statistical inheritance happens to insignificant witches.”

Priscilla nods and smiles.

“Thank you, young Archdevil. I had not considered it. Yes, sometimes some witches envy my position. However, they burned the mills of my city. I had to purge this entire village. Can you believe how sorry I am?”

Clea does not know what to say. The few spells she knows are flowing through her head. Clea throws them, but none of them do anything. She pounds her fist on the lawn, standing up.

“How!? How come I can't hit you?”

Archdevil shakes his head.

“Clea, the Priscillas are millionaires.”

“Multimillionaires.”

“Ho, sorry.”

“It's okay.”

The feeling that seems to exist between the two nauseates the conspiring Witch, annoyed by how she has found herself isolated. No one can help her because everyone is dead. Yet, they stand there chirping. Enemies, damned enemies of good people. Her enemies.

“I don't care how much money you have.”

“Ho…” Priscilla trembles with delicate amazement. She looks like a poster figure, incapable of having unpleasant expressions. She upsets Clea.

“Priscilla, step aside. I have to get something downstairs. I don't see, I don't testify. You understand?”

“Archdevil dear, I would like to. But I fear some relics are at least dangerous, I informed the gendarmes. They will collect them. Can I buy your silence any other way? Would you not like to change family?”

“Like I would have agreed, but I'm not that type of Archdevil guy. Excuse me.”

Archdevil starts to pass by, but Priscilla intervenes, gently pushing him back.

“No. This land is under my supervision. It is already outrageous that you refuse my offer but pass. However, you cannot get your hands on the relics stolen by rebels. Two witches died to protect them. I will not allow a puppet to override my authority.”

The monster starts pawing. Archdevil taps his index finger on the butt of the gun, runs his tongue over his lips, and shakes his head.

Clea does not understand the farce. One moment, they are agreeing to kill her illegally. Now, they are about to argue. What kind of carnival is it? How did she end up in that situation?

“Look, Witch. Move away. I serve the Third Witch. Can you see the emblem on my sleeve now?”

Priscilla sees it, but she keeps a smug expression.

“Let her come. You have no authority.”

“She has invested me with the utmost freedom.”

“What do you want to do, shoot me?”

“I want you to get up.”

“Just because you had made to hunt humans, you take to bossing me around? You will return to ashes.”

Priscilla snaps her fingers. A green bolt of lightning falls on Archdevil…

…dissolving instantly.

Clea remains petrified. Priscilla takes a step back.

“There is a wrong assumption in your reasoning, Gertrude-Ali. I am-not-made to hunt humans. What a ridiculous idea. Only insignificant witches like you two need such waste.”

Archdevil points to Archdevil Priscilla's head.

“I guess he was like that. A relative of yours improved in physical, perhaps intellectual, performance. Maybe some rudiments of magic, eh? For the modest price of two ears, here is a superman.”

“I do not care about your talk.” Priscilla points her arm at Archdevil. Silence. Nothing happens. Her arm trembles and lowers. “But… I… I do not understand.”

“Oops-oops, someone ran out of money. Demons always collect before evaluating the effectiveness of spells. Unpleasant, right?”

“No-I-I don't understand… I.”

Archdevil draws his gun and shoots. The Witch falls, dead. She died like anyone else.

Clea watches in disbelief as Archdevil holsters the smoking gun.

“In my microworld, the law is dictated by this gun. A fifth of those who interface with do-it-yourself justice have the right to live. The gun decides.”

Not sure what to say, Clea nods.

“So, she could have survived?”

“The lucky one was yesterday.”

Archdevil looks at the body on the ground for a few moments. He climbs over it and moves on.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

“How did you do?”

“I shot.”

“No! I mean… you undid her spells, and those things you were babbling about and…”

“Real witches only care about one thing, covering their asses. The first ten are dangerous, the first hundred as well. The thousands? Garbage. The ten thousand? Dressed-up rubbish. This isn't even in the ten thousand. Don't make that face. It's easy to understand: witches fear witches. I'm not here to hit people. I defend a Witch from four or five witches. Five specific witches.”

Clea realizes she is looking at him with blank eyes. The amount of information is too much. He speaks completely ignoring the fact that she skips these jokes right away. She did not even know there were laws to handle disputes between witches.

“Look, long story short. Archdevils have properties gained from demons, just as witches have gained magic. My property is an anti-magical bastion. A diabolical tax. Do you want to electrocute me? Very good. Do you want to kill me with your thoughts? Go ahead. But be sure to look closely at the cost of that spell in the Imperial Ministry of Magic's grimoire. That number is what you're to multiply by five hundred-odd thousand percent. This idiot,” Archdevil gestures to Priscilla's corpse, “she said she was a multimillionaire. Ridiculous. Silly…”

Repeating the word Silly, the monster opens the door to the warehouse. He enters, disappearing from Clea's sight as the wooden steps creaking.

Everything acquires a sinister, prophetic meaning. That is why Archdevil kept warning her. That is why he was sure the common fund, the farmers, and her as the Witch beyond the barricade were insufficient.

Priscilla won on her own. And Priscilla never had a chance.

But it does not matter.

Clea clenches her fist, bringing her closed hand to the aegis. She has to hold back the tears.

Rank, money, and social status do not matter. I killed two witches higher up than me. Together with the others, I defeated an Archdevil, even if it was of the lowest category.

I will change this world. Now I know how to do it.