Millennium Witch-Book 3: Chapter 205: Aftermath and Entrustment
Soon, under Count Vladimir’s orders, the Eyrie Kingdom’s army withdrew like a receding tide. The killing chill in the air slowly dissipated, but the stench of blood and char hung on, a reminder of the calamity that had just passed.
Standing calmly where she was, Yvette waited until they had gone far, then turned to see Eamon, who—helped up by several militiamen newly freed—rose from the ground and looked at her with a very complex expression—gratitude and confusion intertwined, but above all shock and awe.
Unlike the villagers—most of whom were ordinary folk without even a mana core, for whom a junior mage and a mid-tier mage were equally terrifying—
Eamon was a mid-tier spellblade, and he had just been brutalized by Count Vladimir. Watching the count get booted away like a stray cur from the roadside left him the most aghast of all; he couldn’t help wondering: if that kick had landed on him, would he have been kicked to death on the spot?
How could someone so powerful have been living in the village all this time?
Who exactly was she, and what was her purpose?
Could she really be a witch?
He stood there, stunned, thoughts whirling like a storm. The girl before him seemed shrouded in thicker fog than ever—more mysterious still. When Yvette came over, he drew a deep breath and said solemnly and sincerely, “Miss Loxivia, thank you for saving the village. Without your intervention, we truly wouldn’t have known what to do—”
“No need to thank me. They were just too noisy—and you are Lucia’s father, after all,” Yvette said.
Eamon paused, then immediately realized what that implied, feeling a flicker of relief. He thought, good thing that when those frightening rumors about the witch were circulating, he hadn’t forbidden his daughter from associating with her like other parents did. Otherwise, the witch might not have lent a hand tonight.
After all, who would help a place that spread slander and a fearsome reputation about them?
The other able-bodied militiamen around them also went to their knees one after another. Even amid grief, they didn’t forget to loudly thank the young lady witch.
In truth, many of them had once thought Yvette a mysterious, dreadful witch who would bring disaster; fearful, they had said plenty of unkind things.
Now they knew: she wasn’t a terrifying witch, but a powerful mage—a just one, who stepped forward when the village was in peril. That made all the difference.
As for their thanks and the faint apology beneath it, Yvette felt little. She gave a mild nod, then turned and walked into the night.
The rest had nothing to do with her. If she hurried, she could still get a bit more sleep before dawn.
After the long chain of fires was extinguished and night once more draped the fields, only when the distant horizon began to pale—at daybreak—did Autumnwind City’s reinforcements finally arrive. They learned that the Eyrie Kingdom force that attacked had been driven off single-handedly by a lady mage residing here.
A shocking , to be sure. The villagers only knew the lady mage was unfathomable; the kingdom’s commander, however, could feel it more keenly—she was truly unfathomable! He immediately wanted to pay a visit, but Eamon stopped him.
Compared to others, Eamon knew a little about the young lady witch. She loved sleep, and detested being disturbed. The Eyrie Kingdom troops might have earned a beating in part because they’d woken the lady mage.
So even if the commander came with goodwill, he should wait until she woke up.
But the commander was here to support the front, not to aid disaster relief; he couldn’t remain indefinitely. He had to leave, though not before saying the lady mage could come to Autumnwind City to apply for a royal commendation and honorary medal.
Eamon took on the errand of passing the word—handing it off to Lucia. Still, given the witch’s strength and temperament, he felt that nine times out of ten she wouldn’t bother to claim it, nor would she care for the medal.
The next afternoon, sunlight slipped through the wooden window and scattered dappled patches across the rough floorboards. Yvette opened her eyes, yawned, and glanced at the Soulbrain—only to discover it was already past two in the afternoon.
After getting up, she creaked down the wooden stairs. When she pushed open the first-floor door, she immediately saw heaps of items piled in the yard—newly forged ironwork, earthenware jars filled with jam, beautifully cured meats, and, in baskets, finely stitched embroidered handkerchiefs, and so on.
Right then Lucia came over hugging a big basket and called from afar, “Yvette, you’re finally awake!”
“From the villagers?” Yvette pointed at the items in the yard.
“Yeah. You saved the village, and everyone felt they should show it.” Lucia set the basket down to reveal fresh produce still beaded with dew, and said brightly, “It’s incredible, Yvette—I never knew you were that strong.”
“You should have known long ago—I’ve always been strong.”
“I thought you were just stronger than me. I didn’t expect even my dad is far beneath you!” Lucia circled her, looking her up and down like she’d found something rare. “So you’re a mage—and you tricked me into thinking you were a witch—see? I knew it! You’re nothing like the witches in stories, and it turns out you aren’t one at all!”
Last night, after being rescued, she’d been too weak—and many wounded needed aid. By the time she found a moment to head for the village gate, the battle was over. She hadn’t seen everything, only gleaned Yvette’s power from what people said: even the dreaded Eyrie Kingdom count had been instantly defeated by her and forced to flee like a mangy dog.
Admittedly, her impression was still fuzzy. Other than Eamon, few knew how fearsome the count was when going all out—and thus how starkly he set off the witch’s terror.
With Eamon not volunteering details, Lucia’s sense of Yvette’s strength came mostly from that flame magic that could instantly kill a noble knight. It looked like a curse where whoever she glared at died—utterly uncanny.
If she hadn’t already decided to walk the path of the spellblade, she would have wanted to transfer at the Academy of Truth and become a fire mage.
So fire mages are that powerful!
Then she added, “Also, this morning the garrison commander from Autumnwind City came by. He asked you to go there to receive a commendation and an honorary medal.”
Yvette gave a slight nod.
She certainly couldn’t be bothered to go. Lucia saw that and let it drop, then asked curiously, “You’re a mid-tier mage, right, Yvette?” She paused. “Of course, it’s fine if you don’t want to say.”
For a country girl who had scarcely left the village, mid-tier spellblade or mid-tier mage was already the limit of imagination.
As for high mages with mana thresholds over 5,000—that was a kingdom’s pillar, something she had no frame of reference for at all.
“More or less.” Yvette glanced at her, the corner of her mouth hooking faintly. Half-smiling, she asked, “Want to learn magic from me?”
“No.” Lucia refused without hesitation, eyes bright with resolve. “Once a spellblade, always a spellblade!
, Yvette answered with a cool little “oh.”
After that, Yvette went through the gifts the villagers had sent. From each batch she kept only a small portion; the rest she told Lucia to carry back.
Having to haul so much back all of a sudden—like undoing all the earlier effort—left Lucia aghast. She protested strongly, but to no avail. Since the witch was the village’s benefactor, the redhead could only sigh and do as told, bustling about until evening before she finally stopped.
And so it went.
In the several days that followed, as the village’s savior, Yvette was treated very differently. Wherever she went she drew the villagers’ respectful, warm, admiring looks and greetings—more social attention than she could comfortably handle.
At the same time, many came calling at her home: the old village chief of Sanggren, Mr. Arnold Pitt, the church’s resident priest, groups of villagers to thank her in person—and of course Lucia’s father, Eamon Sterling.
Unlike the others, though, Eamon chose a late, quiet hour for his visit.
That night, passing through the moon-dappled, tranquil woods, he had barely reached the cabin when he saw, in the moon-silvered fenced yard, the silver-haired girl lying with eyes closed on a wide wooden lounge chair, a table and stools set beside—as if she had long expected him.
When he approached, the girl asked in a cool, pleasant voice, “Are you here to say goodbye, Mr. Sterling?”
Eamon started, a bitter smile touching his face. “Yes, Miss Loxivia. You guessed already?”
“That night, the count opposite even pointed out that your technique came from the Three Saints Church. If you aren’t a mole the Church planted in the village, then of course, once exposed, you should run. Easy to predict.” Yvette rose slowly, gaze calm as still water, settling on him.
After a silent moment Eamon said, “I have a request, Miss Loxivia.”
“You want me to take care of Lucia for you?”
“No. I only hope you can see her safely to the Academy of Truth.”
“You know as well as I do—given Lucia’s talent, she will certainly be admitted once she’s there.” Yvette searched his face, as if to pierce to his soul. “Who is she, really? Does it have to do with your defection from the Three Saints Church?”
Struggle flickered across Eamon’s weathered features. After a long hesitation, he sighed and said frankly, “In truth, I don’t know who her parents are either, Miss Loxivia—and even I am not a defector from the Three Saints Church, because from start to finish, I was never a member of the Three Saints Church at all.”
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Book 3: Chapter 205: Aftermath and Entrustment
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