Character: Krisha (Part 1)

Behind the bustling facade of Allenson City lay foul, sewage-ridden alleyways.

The wreckage of steam machinery.

Discarded materials from magical experiments.

And all manner of household waste, mingled with unidentified flesh and blood, fermented relentlessly in the rainwater, emitting a putrid, eye-watering stench.

Passersby would often walk past with faces twisted in disgust.

Their boots hurriedly clattering over the stone steps.

Not even sparing a second glance.

No one noticed the small figure curled up in the shadows of the alleyway walls, trembling, her face numb and vacant.

Her hair was matted with filth, soaked through with grimy water.

Disheveled. Reeking.

No joy, no sorrow—only hollow emptiness and an unnameable fear.

Hunger and pain struck at once, tormenting the girl’s frail body.

"...So hungry."

Her eyes were dull and lifeless, gray with numbness. Clutching her aching, burning stomach, she sat in the mud, waiting for death.

"...It hurts."

Her hand reached up, brushing the wound on her neck.

A rope burn, left by a noose dragged behind a galloping carriage.

Hated for her demonic bloodline.

Alive because of her demonic bloodline.

A paradoxical, suffocating torment, like invisible shackles.

Too heavy for the young witch to bear.

"...So tired."

She curled tighter into herself.

Retreating further into the alley’s shadows.

Maybe death would let her sleep forever, free from hunger.

But then—

Footsteps echoed in the alley. The sweet scent of fresh bread stirred something primal in her.

She was starving.

She needed to eat.

Against her will, her parched throat managed a weak swallow.

Torn between guilt and desperation,

the young witch forced herself up, dripping with mud, her bruised hands clutching a small knife as she brandished it at the unsuspecting stranger entering the alley.

"S-Stop!"

"Give... give me the bread!"

Would she get the bread?

Or would she be killed on the spot?

Moments later, the witch stared blankly at the loaf in her hands, then at the outstretched palm offering it to her.

"Come with me."

The man’s voice was gentle.

Krisha was confused. She couldn’t comprehend what was happening.

Was he asking her to be his slave?

If so, that might be a good thing—at least she wouldn’t have to wander anymore.

She braced herself.

Whether as a slave or a disposable tool, being "needed" meant she could keep living.

But the man named Xu Xi was strange.

He washed away her filth.

Gave her clean clothes.

Prepared a room for her.

And in a voice soft with warmth, he asked for her name.

"Krisha..." The young witch murmured, her hollow eyes lifting to meet his. "Krisha Christina."

Xu Xi smiled.

Gently, he patted her head.

"That’s a beautiful name," he praised.

It was the first compliment the witch had ever received.

Inside the room, Xu Xi busied himself arranging her space, preparing bedding for her to sleep.

"Such a strange master..."

Watching him, Krisha felt even more lost.

This wasn’t what she had expected.

No beatings. No scorn. No harsh words.

The young witch had prepared for the worst.

Yet what she received—

was something she had never dared imagine.

"Krisha, today we’ll learn this," the man said softly, seating her across from him as he taught her basic knowledge and writing.

Yes.

The witch was learning.

She didn’t understand why someone as ugly and worthless as her was being educated.

But she obeyed.

Even confused, she followed Xu Xi’s instructions without question.

She learned letters, common sense, how to speak properly.

The twisted horns on her head, the patchy scales on her skin—those monstrous traits no longer tormented her within these walls.

Yet sometimes—

the memories still haunted her body.

When Xu Xi raised his hand, she would flinch away.

A terrified whimper escaping her.

Colliding with chairs and tables in panic before huddling in a corner, arms wrapped tightly around her head.

"N-No... please... don’t..."

The young witch trembled, bracing for pain.

But it never came.

Slowly, she dared to open her eyes.

And saw only regret in his expression—concern, guilt, and unmistakable tenderness.

"I’m sorry, Krisha."

"...I’m so sorry."

Her [master] had apologized to an [object].

The words washed over little Krisha, leaving her silent and bewildered.