Chapter Twenty-Three: The Demon Returns

Carlos inwardly mocked the old man’s thick skin, deciding not to expose his posturing. The two of them stared at each other for a while, both finding it dull, and soon each returned to his own business—one to his newspaper, the other to his studies—without disturbing the other. To any outsider, such a teacher-student relationship would have seemed bizarre enough to make their eyes pop, but to Carlos, it felt just right.

As with the day before, the alchemist Dubois returned to his basement workshop after lunch. Carlos, still waiting for his dried meat delivery, continued to force down the dry, tough bread. Afterward, he took out his notebook and spent the afternoon poring over the alchemical theories inscribed on the parchment scrolls.

As evening approached, neither Vivienne the elf nor Cook the half-orc appeared from the attic, and the dwarf named Maclin was nowhere to be seen either. The continuation of the tale of Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf remained a mystery to Carlos. On the bright side, that evening Dericht delivered the dried meat Carlos had requested, but there was still no response to the letter he’d sent to Maury. It was as if his father, the mayor, cared nothing for the matter.

For three consecutive days, Carlos shut himself away in his room, reading through every alchemical tome he had, nearly finishing the large sack of jerky in the process—so much so that by the fourth day, he was almost sick of its taste. While Dericht kept watch day and night in the woods north of the alchemy hut, Carlos, having no need to use the secret signal, busied himself with foraging and left the man to his own devices.

On the fifth day—the day Carlos planned to formally request Dubois to supervise his practical work in the alchemy workshop—an unexpected visitor knocked at his door in the dim light of dawn.

Carlos crawled out from under his covers, still groggy, and opened the door. The corridor was silent, motes of dust floating in the pale light, and there was no one in sight. Only a folded letter drifted quietly through the crack at his door.

Picking it up, he found just one simple sentence inside:
"Someone is plotting against you. Meet me in the Witch’s Chamber."

Carlos glanced around the empty hallway with a strange look, then eyed the Witch’s Chamber door, slightly ajar across the way. Had the little girl slipped out and delivered this note? But hadn’t Dubois said she was confined and couldn’t leave her room?

Taking a deep breath, Carlos closed his eyes for a moment and then relaxed, murmuring, "Trying to beguile me? Then show me what you can do."

He doubted the young witch could manage anything truly dangerous under Dubois’s roof. According to his father Maury, the old man’s power was at least that of a high-ranking alchemist—possibly even close to commander level.

Returning to his own room to dress properly, Carlos approached the Witch’s Chamber. He was about to knock when a clear, girlish voice called from inside, "Come in, Mr. Carlos."

Carlos stepped in, his guard up, and scanned the room. The delicate young witch sat serenely at her dressing table in the flickering candlelight, her fine brows knitted in an expression of anxious unease.

He took a few steps forward, noticing as the door behind him eased shut. Carlos curled his lip—more theatrics.

"Was it you who left the note?" he asked plainly.

The witch, still facing her mirror, nodded slowly, not turning around.

"Tell me, why do you say someone wants to harm me?"

The girl sat motionless, staring blankly at the vanity, the wavering candlelight making the room feel even more unsettled. Carlos waited, but she did not answer.

A sudden, overwhelming sense of dread gripped Carlos’s heart. The feeling of danger was so abrupt that when he turned to flee, it was already too late.

He’d never imagined that, even within Dubois’s domain, the wicked witch Vivienne had warned of would act so brazenly against him.

He had only managed two steps back when the deadly silence shattered.

"Forgive me…"

The little witch’s lips moved with strange, broken words—then her throat was seized by a muddy, monstrous hand. A figure, caked with sludge, climbed out from the mirror before her, thick fingers clamping around her neck.

Her eyes rolled back, and she clawed desperately at the muddy hand, trying to pry it loose. Carlos stared in shock, almost believing the witch had fallen victim to her own demonic magic.

But then, something even more impossible happened—the mud-caked figure turned its head and gave Carlos a chillingly familiar smile, both radiant and cruel.

Carlos felt a cold shudder run through his body, his fear impossible to suppress. He raised a trembling finger at the shadowy figure and shrieked, "Damn it, you’re that dead demon!"

Never in his wildest imaginings had Carlos thought that the monster now standing before him, emerging from the mirror, was the very same mud-legged brute who had once kidnapped him—the Demon Legion’s D-Commander, Taric Enzo!

No wonder the witch’s eyes had seemed so strangely familiar that day—the answer was now clear.

"Delighted to see you again, my guest," Enzo said, flashing his trademark rows of white teeth at Carlos.

"It really is you. You’re not dead?" Carlos rubbed his eyes, clinging to the hope that this was some kind of witch’s illusion—a glamour, perhaps—but deep down he knew no mere trick could conjure a demon intent on strangling its own caster.

The witch’s desperate struggle and the helpless terror on her face could not be faked.

The mud-caked demon smiled casually at Carlos, "Indeed, my guest. You are crucial to my plan. After all this preparation, I finally have the chance to see you again. This time, you are coming with me to the Demon Abyss, no matter what."

Carlos shook his head, trying to dispel the fear and keep calm. Seeing the witch gasping for breath, his conscience pricked him. Gritting his teeth, he addressed Taric D. Enzo, "Let her go. She’s dying."

The demon’s hollow eyes flicked to the witch, mouth agape and struggling for air, and then back to Carlos, amused.

"She’s just a witch—a servant of the Underworld. She lured you here, and yet you still worry about her fate?"

Carlos’s gaze was ice-cold, his tone as frigid as a winter’s night. "She’s only a pitiful little girl, coerced by your evil will."

Taric Enzo only grinned wider, releasing his iron grip. The witch slipped from his grasp and collapsed to the floor.

"Then ask her yourself—does she serve the Underworld willingly? If I’m not mistaken, devotion to darkness is every witch’s creed."

Enzo’s insidious, bone-chilling smile remained, his meaning clear as he looked at Carlos.

For a moment, Carlos felt deeply provoked. Eyes reddening with anger, he roared at the witch, "Meryl Ellendale, tell him—you are not a willing slave! At the very least, you are a human; you must never be a demon’s thrall!"

The young witch, catching her breath, looked dazedly at Carlos, who was waving his arms and shouting. Her frail body trembled as if she wished to speak, but then she shook her head violently, unable to meet his eyes. Her pale cheeks were twisted with inner conflict, and two crystalline tears slid down her face.

"Give up, my guest," Taric D. Enzo said with a sneer at the witch, turning to Carlos with a mocking smile. "You are not like her. She is but a lowly servant of the dark world, while you will become the noble child of demons."

He added, "And don’t waste your effort dreaming of escape or rescue. Not only have I sealed this room with my own barrier, but I’ve also blocked the field energy in that pocket watch you carry. No one will know what happens here."

As Enzo spoke, he raised his arm and waved it slightly. Black, tar-like sludge oozed from the walls, and soon, every surface in the room was draped in a thick, cascading curtain of filth.

The Mud Demon’s isolation barrier.

Carlos’s face turned ashen as he took in the scene.