In one corner of the royal palace. In the research room assigned to the court mage, Ritter made an important report to Nicolaus — who was pulling at the leaves of a potted Mandrake — while nursing a faint worry that he might actually uproot the thing.
“There are currently spreading rumors of a village brought under the control of a witch. A request has arrived from the local lord asking for an investigation as well —”
He finished his report feeling thoroughly unappreciated, unable to tell whether the man who never once glanced at him was even listening. But it turned out he had been, in his way.
“Oh, is that so.”
“…You’re not interested?”
Nicolaus is the last surviving Mage-folk — a single sorcerer, the only one remaining. A magical genius with greater magical power than any other race, who has lived for centuries and commands magic in all its forms. Even among the Mage-folk, it was said that none used as many different kinds of magic as he did.
Even such a person, Ritter had assumed, would show some interest upon learning that kin thought extinct for five hundred years might have survived. But his attention remained fixed on the potted Mandrake.
“It’s probably a fake, right? There have been people claiming to be witches and sorcerers before, and every single one was a fraud. Wasting my interest on it would be pointless.”
“I… see…”
“So you’re taking a break from being my assistant to go investigate this fraud? Sigh… well, it can’t be helped. It is your actual job after all. Wasted effort, but good luck. Do your best.”
He had grown accustomed to this irritating way of speaking — though accustomed didn’t mean unirritating. But this was a magical genius who had lived more than five hundred years, someone every generation of kings had valued. Voicing complaints was simply not an option.
“Oh, right — that Bit Village? It’s near the new monster wasteland, isn’t it. If you find that running Mandrake you claimed to have seen, bring it back for me. Thanks.”
“…Yes, understood…”
And then the magical genius whom ordinary people cannot comprehend abruptly begins plucking petals off the Mandrake. Watching the potted plant shudder and shake, Ritter made his exit from the room at the earliest opportunity.
“…So apparently the court mage has no interest in the witch.”
The group heading to investigate Bit Village consists of Ritter, Leonhart, and a select few of their subordinates. Given that it is the village near the wasteland where Leonhart had nearly died, they were going with a small, elite group of capable individuals.
Nicolaus’s teleportation magic circle can only transport a maximum of ten people, so ten carefully chosen personnel would carry out the investigation — and if the witch were judged to be dangerous, capture or execution was a possibility. Sending both unit captains was reasonable enough.
“I see. …But I hope the witch turns out to be genuine. If so, the court mage would no longer be alone — it might ease his solitude.”
“You and your… do you really think that man feels lonely?”
“There is much about the feelings of someone who has lived so long that we cannot understand, but the Mage-folk are people too.”
“I can’t imagine that court mage feeling loneliness. If anything, I’M the lonely one… why is it that women never take an interest in me…?”
Leonhart smiled at Ritter’s lament, awkward and sympathetic. He understood: it was because Ritter was no handsome face, and his personality was no straightforward virtue, and he could not dedicate himself to others the way Leonhart could — the third wheel’s lot.
Recalling images of Leonhart surrounded by women whenever they went into town, Ritter wept a little inside.
Once preparations were finished, they used the teleportation circle, endured Nicolaus’s parting snark, and spent several days traveling to the frontier village of Bit. It was a place they had stayed at only months ago during the Mandrake-retrieval commission, which made its transformation all the more striking.
“What’s all this… chain-rose?”
“Yes. This is a plant from the wasteland, but…”
The village’s perimeter was covered in sharp-thorned plants, as if to repel intruders. Some of those thorns were stained red with blood, and the white roses had bloomed red where they appeared to have drunk it in. …The sight sent a cold shiver down the spine.
“This doesn’t look like any human’s doing.”
“No. …Shall we ask the village chief, Daon, for an explanation?”
“Yeah. Senior Daon will give us a proper account.”
This village has a retired former holy knight in it. He and Leonhart are from different generations, but Daon is a senior colleague Ritter had personally learned from. Even in retirement, he is known to be trustworthy — if the account came from him, it could be believed.
The thorn-covered barrier didn’t block the village entrance, so they entered cautiously. The thorns appeared to face only outward, and inside, the fence was lined with soft, thornless plants and vivid flowers — the impression from outside and the impression from within were entirely different.
“Oh, knights! Hello!”
“Hello, young miss. …Is the village chief in?”
“He is! Uncle Daon——!”
The village girl they’d met on their previous visit was just as energetic as ever, with the same bright smile. But the village itself had changed considerably — rare plants of the kind found only in monster wastelands grew here and there throughout it. …This was, without question, a village that could be called dominated by plants.
“Ah, it’s you lot. What brings you here?”
“What brings us — what happened to you? This village was nothing like this before.”
“Ah, that would be the Flower Witch. …She saved this village.”
As if picturing the witch in his mind’s eye, Daon’s expression softened as he began to speak. The plague that struck the village. The Flower Witch who appeared before a village staring down death, and saved every last villager with full-recovery potions. How she identified the cause of the plague and resolved even that. The thorns protecting the village from animals and monsters. The high-nutrition fruits and vegetables she gave them seeds for. And even the fertilizer, made effortlessly with plants she produced.
“I mean… can all of that really be true?”
“It can. …If you doubt it, go and meet her. You came in through the north gate, didn’t you? Go out the south gate and head toward the watermill. That’s where she lives.”
Ritter and Leonhart exchanged a look. Daon had evidently been completely won over by this witch, and was relaying unbelievable things with perfect composure.
(I’d thought it might be merchant exaggeration, but apparently not. …The villagers all seem devoted to her, and the village is overrun with plants from the monster wasteland.)
A village full of rare plants that normally can’t take root in inhabited areas, with villagers using them cheerfully and without a second thought. It was a strange sight. One could hardly blame the merchants for being afraid.
Leonhart gave instructions to his subordinates to observe the village and protect the villagers should anything seem wrong, and the two of them left the village again and headed for the watermill.
“Senior Daon ending up like that… is it mind control?”
“I wonder… it’s hard to say. …At the very least, the villagers seemed more cheerful than before.”
“Even with a monster wasteland next door. …Strange business.”
The murmur of a small stream. The slow turning of a watermill wheel. When those sounds became audible, both men fell silent. Moving quietly, keeping themselves hidden among the trees along the riverside, they crept forward. The plan was to get at least a distant look at the “witch” first.
The watermill came into view. The entire surrounding area was a vivid field of flowers. Near the house they could see a beastkin child busily harvesting from a garden, so the two men silently circled around to the back of the building — toward the river.
“Ah—”
The moment they came around the corner, the scene that greeted them: porcelain-pale skin, a lissome feminine silhouette in graceful curves, the surface of the water shimmering in the sunlight, and pale green hair wet and gleaming. Startled by Ritter’s voice, she turned — a face so perfectly composed it made one doubt whether she was a living person or a doll.
“I — my sincerest apologies!”
Leonhart’s flustered voice came at the same moment his hand shot up to cover Ritter’s eyes. But covering them now couldn’t unmake what had already been seen. The blood surging and reversing, rushing to his face. And then the warm sensation of something beginning to drip from his nose.
A man who had never seen a woman’s body outside of his own mother’s — the sight of a beauty bathing had simply been too much stimulation.
(A figure like that… the only thing that came close was that absurdly well-built running Mandrake back in the wasteland…)