She Is Not a Witch

Bard’s feet felt as heavy as lead, his chest heaving like a broken bellows as he ran back to Gretet’s small house. By now, only a pool of blood remained in the open space.

Nearby, people were opening their doors and rushing out to fight the fire. This was a serious matter—if not handled properly, the houses in this area could also burn down.

The sounds of Gretet being beaten earlier had been much louder than this—the struggles, insults, pleas for mercy, and the impacts of blows had gone on for a long time. Yet the surroundings had remained eerily quiet until the distant sounds of firefighting reached them.

Bard burst into the small house. The group from before was gone, leaving only Gretet curled up in the corner, covered in blood and breathing weakly.

“I’m sorry, Gretet! I came too late. I’m a coward.”

Seeing Gretet’s pitiful state, Bard’s face was streaked with tears.

Sitting on the dusty floor stained with dried blood, Bard carefully propped Gretet against the wall corner.

Gretet’s eyes were swollen shut with bruises. He seemed to want to say something, but had no strength left, not even able to lift his arms.

Bard held his hand, calling out his name, trying to encourage him so he could take him to a nearby temple. But Gretet couldn’t utter a word.

Then Bard tried to lift Gretet, but feeling multiple fractures in his body and seeing the extremely pained expression on his face, he had to put him down again.

Tears fell silently, warm droplets landing on Gretet’s wrist, creating tiny splashes.

As if sensing something, Gretet’s finger moved in Bard’s palm. Bard watched that finger carefully.

The weak finger moved slowly, as if with great effort, tracing out his final words one stroke at a time.

Don’t… cry.

After finishing, as if his last wish was fulfilled, Gretet slowly stopped breathing. His body cooled, growing colder and colder, no longer holding the warmth of life.

On the other side of Hopland, the festive atmosphere still lingered. Even at night, many stalls remained open. The smell of barbecue, orange lantern light, bustling noise, and tourists strolling about filled the streets and alleys in the city center.

“Lacey, don’t rush home yet. There are still more events coming,” Laniel said, holding Lacey back at a seashell-selling stall. A dark-haired, tan-skinned girl stood beside them.

“Mm, there will be fireworks later.”

“Lingxin, don’t spoil it! Now there’s no sense of anticipation,” Laniel complained softly.

As if sensing something, Loranhil stood up and looked at the distant sky.

“What’s wrong, Lacey?”

“I just remembered I have something to do. I’m afraid I can’t stay to watch the fireworks with you.”

Her blue translucent eyes hidden in the shadow of her hood, Loranhil quietly bid farewell to the two girls beside her, then turned and left.

Lingxin watched the direction Loranhil left with a thoughtful expression. Her friend’s inquiring voice sounded beside her.

“What’s wrong, Lingxin?”

“Nothing. By the way, how did you come to know this Miss Lacey?”

“Sister Tirela introduced us. At that time… she was…”

“I see. That’s good. Because she’s very powerful. You might not even be able to beat her.”

“No way, Lingxin. I’m Sequence 5, you know. Little Lacey is at most Sequence 3,” Laniel said, disbelieving.

“You’ll understand in the future.”

Bang——

Bang——

As a few soft sounds came from afar, colorful fireworks rose slowly into the night sky, like stars ascending from the earth, blooming into vibrant colors in the air.

The colorful stars blossomed into huge, flowing floral shapes. Scattered sparks of light drifted down in strands, like golden rain falling from the sky. The quiet night sky suddenly became lively.

Residents and tourists in the city all stopped to watch. Waves of laughter, blessings, and wishes rose from the crowd.

More fireworks rose from the ground, unfolding a spectacular and gorgeous scene in the night sky over Hopland like a painted scroll.

The brilliant fireworks continued to rise and bloom, illuminating the dark alleys.

A young man carrying the cold body of his friend walked along the deserted street. His hands were heavy and sore. The distant festivities seemed so far away, as if in another world.

The tear stains on his face slowly dried in the night breeze as he walked slowly through the deep alleys, intending to bury his friend on a small hill by the sea.

A small stream ran through the edge of the city. Bard stumbled onto a small bridge.

Fireworks rose in the distance, illuminating the bridge and casting rippling light on the quiet surface of the stream. The young man’s silhouette was faintly visible in the cold firelight, appearing very lonely.

Light footsteps sounded from ahead. A slender figure appeared on the opposite side of the bridge, wearing gray boots and a black hooded cloak. Pale golden hair peeked out from under the hood, coated with a faint silver sheen in the moonlight.

Then the footsteps stopped.

Loranhil looked at the familiar young man before her. His eyes were filled with sorrow as he carried a body that had lost its warmth. Behind him in the distance were smoke and flames, with occasional shouts from people still audible.

“Still, did I come too late?”

Looking at this once timid young man, she sighed softly, already guessing much of what had happened.

Bard saw the girl who had helped him before standing on the bridge. His steps faltered, and his arms finally gave way under the weight. He fell to his knees, sobbing silently but blinking furiously to hold back his tears.

Loranhil quietly watched the young man. After a while, his choked sobs slowly subsided.

“Are you a goddess sent to save me?” Bard raised his head, looking at the black-robed girl before him.

“But why didn’t you save my friend?”

“Why do the heroes in stories always appear at the last moment?”

“Aren’t you a hero? Why can’t you save everyone?”

He seemed to be questioning Loranhil, yet also venting his own anger—anger at his own cowardice and helplessness.

Although the young man might not have been truly asking her, Loranhil still gave an answer.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not a hero, nor can I save everyone.”

“Or rather, expecting a hero to save everything is a sad thing.”

In various legends, people always like to hear about some brave hero who steps forward, defeats the evil villain, and saves everything. They pin their hopes and wishes on others while remaining complacent themselves, afraid to change.

Loranhil stood at the end of the bridge, quietly listening to the young man’s narrative about the brief life of his good friend Gretet.

“Why do you always wait, instead of standing up yourself?”

Looking at this timid young man, Loranhil spoke again, just as she had in the alley outside the restaurant that day.

“Why do people always place their hopes on others, preferring to pray to intangible gods, hide in corners wallowing in self-pity, waiting for a chance encounter with a benefactor, rather than taking a step forward themselves?”

“When will you become your own hero?”

Under the cold moonlight, the girl pulled back the hood on her head. Silver hair danced in the air as her bright red, translucent eyes gazed directly at the awestruck young man.