"Big Sister Vivian could never be a bad person!"
Suddenly, a young girl's voice pierced through the heavy silence.
"That's right," an old widow echoed weakly, "the good sister even came to visit this poor old woman just a few days ago…"
Then, one after another, voices rose from the crowd. People began to recount all the times they had been helped by the kind-hearted nun — as if they believed that by speaking of her kindness, they could somehow change Archbishop Orad's mind.
Some young men even slipped away quietly, hoping to reach Count Hel and tell him what was happening.
From atop the walls of Heim Castle, Niv watched it all unfold below.
From the very first moment Vivian appeared, she already understood Orad's intent. That was exactly why she couldn't intervene.
The pair of wings on Vivian's back were irrefutable proof of her non-human identity. If Niv—wearing Hel's face—were to rescue her now, that would only drag Hel into a storm of suspicion.
Even acting from the shadows was impossible. If she tried to snatch Vivian away, Orad could simply accuse her of "colluding with beastmen."
So she had to let the farce continue.
And Orad knew this as well—that was why he dared to hold this public "trial" so brazenly.
But Niv wasn't completely helpless. She simply had to wait—wait until Orad left Heim City, and then she could retrieve Vivian's body.
Once the body was gone, the evidence would vanish too. Even if Orad wanted to frame Hel, it wouldn't be so easy.
And besides—Hel was Hel. As long as she still had Vivian's body, whether she wanted to resurrect her or turn her into an undead would just be a matter of choice.
…Or so Niv thought.
She glanced toward the necromantic space where Hel was still in deep focus—her expression pained but calm, as she neared the final critical moment of her work.
Niv sighed softly.
She wanted to call out, to tell her what was happening outside… but she couldn't bring herself to interrupt.
Yet, as if sensing her gaze, Hel suddenly spoke from within the void:
"What's happening outside?"
Niv hesitated, then forced a steady tone.
"Something… troublesome. But, Master, please finish stabilizing your body first. I can handle this for now."
"I see."
Hel nodded faintly and said nothing more. But an uneasy feeling stirred in her chest, and she began to work faster, as if instinct warned her that something terrible was about to happen.
Meanwhile, back at the execution platform—Orad's expression darkened as he looked down upon the restless crowd.
These commoners were trying his patience. What spell had that woman cast on them to make them defend her like this?
And that damn Count Hel… so cold-blooded. He hadn't even shown up. To wash his hands of this, he'd really let his own subordinate die.
But did he truly think this would clear his name?
Orad took a deep breath, suppressing his irritation. Then he turned and accepted a long spear from one of his knights, raising it before him solemnly.
"I've had enough of this nonsense," he muttered. "Let's end it."
Then, louder:
"As the first heretic I execute in my capacity as Archbishop—feel honored."
With that, he thrust the spear forward.
The sharp tip pierced straight through Vivian's chest without hesitation, the force carrying it deep into the wooden cross behind her.
Vivian closed her eyes. She didn't struggle, didn't scream. She simply waited quietly for the end.
Because she knew — this was the best outcome she could hope for.
A slow, steady stream of blood trickled down the spear's shaft, each drop blooming into crimson flowers on the wooden platform below.
"The heretic is dead!" Orad raised his arms and shouted to the heavens.
"May the Lord's holy radiance shine eternal, and scatter His enemies to the winds!"
But the response he expected — cheers, applause, cries of righteous fury — never came.
The crowd remained eerily silent.
"...The Lord of Light should not torment His most faithful servants like this," someone whispered.
"She was innocent," another murmured.
Hearing their hushed defiance, Orad's face twisted in anger.
"Foolish peasants!" he spat.
He turned away from them, unwilling to waste another word. His plan had already succeeded. All that remained was to take Vivian's body to the capital.
But as he turned, something caught his eye — a faint, impossible color at Vivian's feet.
"What… is that?" he muttered.
At that exact moment, atop the city wall, Niv felt a surge of energy — a wave of power so familiar it made her heart skip.
It was the same as her master's.
The same as a godspawn's.
The aura of a Witch.
Niv's eyes widened.
She knew what that meant.
If Vivian died as a "beastman spy," that was one thing.
But if she was exposed as a witch, everything would change.
And as the first drops of her blood soaked into the wooden stage, Orlad's eyes went wide in horror.
Tiny green shoots—fresh, living sprouts—were pushing up through the cracks in the planks, nourished by her blood.
"The power to grant new life to all things…" he whispered, trembling. "That's… That's the gift of the Life God's witches."
"So she's… a Witch?!"
The realization hit him like divine punishment from the heavens themselves.
A cold, dizzying thrill ran through him.
He had stumbled upon a treasure far more valuable—and far more dangerous—than he'd ever imagined.
There was only one thought left in his mind now:
Get the body out of here. Fast. Before anything worse happens.
But before he could move, an immense, suffocating pressure crashed down upon him.
His body froze in place as if crushed beneath invisible hands.
One presence. Then another.
A third. A fourth…
Each one stronger, heavier, more terrifying than the last—locking onto him from every direction.
His body trembled. Cold sweat dripped down his cheek.
He opened his mouth to scream, to pray, to beg—
—but no sound came out.
Only the crushing silence of powers far beyond his own.