The Price of Survival

Saranya noticed that the witch’s gaze had subtly shifted after she had, in a moment of utter desperation, shamelessly pleaded for her life.

How could one possibly describe that look? It was akin to returning home one day, pushing open your door, only to find your sworn enemy transformed into a timid cat-girl, curled pathetically on your bed, whimpering in a tearful voice, “Don’t come near me,” or “I’ll never do it again.”

Surely, if such a day ever arrived, even the most profound hatred for that individual would transmute into something entirely different.

What do you say, wouldn’t such a little cat-girl be worth trading your lifespan for, wouldn’t she?! Saranya, for one, certainly would!

Ahem, it was only human nature, after all.

“How many people like me have you killed?”

“I don’t remember……”

To be precise, Saranya struggled to recall; she had hunted countless mages, and a great many of them, much like herself now, had tearfully implored for their lives.

She had spared none of them, for it was these very spellcasters whose excessive draining of magical energy had destabilized the Source of Magic, thereby unleashing the Cataclysm. The brutal magical storms it wrought left no life untouched, no soul surviving.

When the Cataclysm erupted, no spellcaster could claim innocence. What reason, what right did she have to show mercy to these murderers, these maniacs who had razed cities to the ground?

“Didn’t you say before that you would act on behalf of heaven to kill me, this blasphemous elf-blood?”

The witch licked her lips, slowly squatted down, and leaned towards Saranya.

Saranya instinctively shook her head in denial, but intimidated by the witch’s oppressive power, she then timidly nodded.

It wasn’t just elf-blood; people in this world equally detested all non-human races, as most of them could master various forms of magic and arcane arts, and humanity had suffered greatly under the persecution of these supernatural forces.

“What are you doing?!”

Adopting a dominant position reminiscent of a “ground-pound” (TL Note: A common trope in Japanese media where one person forcefully pins another to the ground, often in a romantic or intimidating context.), Kaelan, the witch, extended her cold hands to gently caress Saranya’s neck. She leaned close to the knight’s ear, her voice a seductive whisper:

“Say it again.”

“Wh-what?”

“Don’t you want to live? Repeat what you just begged me.”

Saranya’s face was awash with tears, her knightly pride utterly obliterated, as an overwhelming sense of humiliation surged through her heart.

“Don’t kill me… please……”

Defeated in battle, all her companions slain, she herself endured endless indignity before the Black Witch.

This feeling was so perversely pleasurable… no, excruciatingly painful—

“And what else?”

“Witch, Witch sister.”

“Sister? You, a sinner who slaughtered my kin, are you worthy of such an address?”

A flash of cold light sparked in Kaelan’s eyes, her dark brows furrowed, and her fingers abruptly tightened, twisting Saranya’s expression into a grimace, her face flushing crimson.

“M-my lady… *cough cough*… Witch my lady!”

“Still wrong. I’ll give you one last chance.”

Kaelan’s grip tightened further with each passing moment, as one bare foot pressed down upon Saranya’s chest, her small toes smearing the bloodstains across the knight’s armor.

Contrary to the somber image she held in legends, the Black Witch’s eyes now gleamed with a rare fervor, and even her morbidly pale face bore a faint, feverish blush. Dark, arcane energy began to emanate from her, a palpable sign of her magic teetering on the brink of control.

‘This fiend! Is humiliating others truly that satisfying?!!!’

Saranya struggled for her life, shaking her head from side to side, her dark long hair slipping out of her helmet, naturally curling like hyacinths.

To her own profound astonishment, in this moment of life-or-death peril, a peculiar thrill coursed through her body like an electric current. Her legs clamped together, and her frame involuntarily shivered in waves.

Observing the witch’s expression again, in that instant, she understood.

“M-master……”

After desperately spitting out these two words, she, on the verge of losing consciousness, felt the pressure on her neck lessen.

The witch finally ceased her torment of her prey, stood up from Saranya, and composed herself.

Saved!

Saranya lay supine on the ground, her eyes rolled back, tears and snot streaming down her face. She raised an arm to cover her *ahegao* (TL Note: A Japanese term describing an exaggerated facial expression often associated with sexual ecstasy or climax, characterized by rolled-back eyes, open mouth, and protruding tongue.), panting wildly and shamefully sticking out her tongue.

It seemed the rumors about the Black Witch Kaelan being a sadist were true.

‘I’m doomed.’

“As you wish, stay by my side and atone for your sins.”

The witch’s emotions returned to calm, her expression filled with gloom, like a starless night sky, hazy and devoid of light.

Saranya, who was allowed to survive, had no right to refuse the witch’s request.

Thus, the Night Lily Knights, widely considered to have great potential, had most of its core members secretly annihilated by the Black Witch Kaelan. The Imperial Twelfth Legion “Sunken Sword’s Long Song,” also under the Knights’ command, changed hands after losing its leader and soon vanished without a trace. Their leader, Saranya, was ostensibly missing, but in reality, had succumbed to her enemy and become a s*ave.

This was, quite simply, an in-game Bad Ending.

Each day of her captivity under the witch Kaelan, Saranya, confined to house arrest, found solace only in her own self-reassurance:

“Sigh, at least I won’t have to die and reincarnate again.”

If she were killed by that witch, on one hand, she’d experience physical pain, and on the other, who could guarantee that her reincarnation would definitely be as a human? What if she reincarnated as a paramecium, or some kind of long-lived single-celled organism? Wouldn’t that be a disaster for her?

Her thoughts had to remain rigorous; such an outcome was far from impossible.

Moreover, putting aside the bad things, at least she was quite good-looking…

Saranya poured the water from the washbasin out the window, turned in front of the mirror, and melancholically examined her figure.

Her reflection showed her upper body bare, wrapped in a thin layer of muscle, her waist and abdomen slender and delicate, without an ounce of excess, trained just enough to support armor. Her breasts were firm and elastic; though not large, they were very perky, with a beautiful upward curve.

As for her looks, what was that word again? Right, athletic type, probably the kind that repressed male and female university students would put on the campus wall to constantly seek out.

Exercise indeed makes people healthy and beautiful.

As for Kaelan? She was on an entirely different level, a veritable ‘heavyweight’. To put it plainly, Saranya’s spellcasting materials hadn’t changed since she first laid eyes on Kaelan.

Regarding that witch, as a newcomer reincarnator, she was a bit unsure how to face her. Kaelan had harmed innocents, killed her comrades, and coerced her into slavery. If she were to adopt the attitude of the body’s original owner, she would either fight to the end or immediately draw her sword and commit suicide, dying with endless hatred, denying the other party the chance to humiliate her.

Yet now… truth be told, she was terrified. On one hand, she feared Kaelan’s potential to harm her; on the other, she dreaded awakening the memories that belonged to the original “Legion Commander Saranya.” She dared not revisit those events, those deeply traumatic scenes… they required a slow, careful digestion.

Well, regardless, she could only adopt a detached and apathetic demeanor to face another day beyond her control.

A sudden clattering and rustling (“hualah-hualah”) erupted from the doorway. Instantly, Saranya donned her outer garment, cinched her waist, and pivoted to face the source of the sound, standing rigid as Pavlov’s dog.

The door swung open, revealing the witch, elegantly clad in a delicate lace gown, seated gracefully upon an obsidian-backed chair. She glided slowly into the room, moving with an eerie smoothness, as if propelled by an unseen force or riding an electric vehicle.

It transpired that four plump, spherical beetles were supporting each of the chair’s legs, their scuttling limbs producing the very rustling sounds as they advanced.

A prickling sensation crawled up Saranya’s scalp, yet she dared not avert her gaze, compelling herself to stare directly at the witch.