Chapter Eight: The Crossroads of Fate
Within the circle of trees.
The witch let out a faint, mournful sigh, tinged with a sense of helplessness, and whispered softly, “I may not be a match for the witch hunters.”
“They know us well.”
“They know everything about us, our weaknesses.”
The forest banshee lifted her head, her voice mournful as she said, “You are so powerful, my lady. Dealing with that witch hunter should not be difficult.”
“Do you truly intend to watch us perish here?”
The witch’s expression softened with reluctance as she sighed gently, “Even if I were to kill that witch hunter, what then?”
“There will be new missionaries, more witch hunters will come here.”
After speaking, the witch’s sorrowful face turned toward the direction of the church, her gaze fixed on the cross shrouded in darkness, and she murmured, “Our era has come to an end…”
This powerful witch felt a profound sense of powerlessness in the face of the sweeping changes of the age.
It was like a mountain pressing down on all those with supernatural powers, making it hard to breathe.
Hearing the witch’s words, the forest banshee’s face showed a trace of despair. Like a withered flower, she rose gloomily, bowed in respect, and withdrew, as if resigned to the fate of death.
“Wait.”
The witch suddenly called out to the forest banshee who was about to vanish beneath the shadow of the oak tree. Hesitant, she pondered for a moment and said, “I am chasing a clue to a prophecy.”
“If I succeed,” she continued, “I can take you away from here to a peaceful land far from the continent, where we can settle.”
The forest banshee’s face was sorrowful as she whispered, “The gods have been forsaken.”
“What use is prophecy then?”
The witch was momentarily speechless. The future foretold by prophecy was one of endless flames, countless kin wailing in anguish amid the fire, burning crosses symbolizing their merciless judgment.
Heresy!
It was a tragic fate spanning nearly a millennium—the so-called Dark Ages of the medieval period.
Darkness had arrived.
The Middle Ages were about to begin!
She had to grasp the last glimmer of light within fate, for it represented their only remaining hope.
The witch’s expression grew solemn as she said, “The prophecy tells me the Church will begin a near-thousand-year trial against the ‘heretics.’ The dark medieval era is imminent.”
“The Child of Fate who will change everything has also arrived.”
“He may influence the future of the world, and among the many paths of destiny, he has pointed us the way forward.”
“Across the distant sea lies a cold land.”
“There, we can escape worldly strife and patiently await the dawn of a new enlightenment a thousand years hence.”
The forest banshee paused in astonishment, her expression wavering between belief and doubt.
The witch spoke calmly, “I can cast a barrier over your sanctuary. Perhaps it will conceal you from that witch hunter.”
A faint joy appeared on the forest banshee’s face. Just as she was about to express her thanks, she suddenly let out a piercing shriek.
“Witch hunter!”
At the edge of the tree circle, illuminated by moonlight, a figure clad in a gray hooded cloak stepped forward slowly. Chainmail glinted faintly beneath his cloak, gray armguards, black fingerless gloves, and one hand gripping the hilt of a sword at his back. His cold eyes were void of emotion, with amber irises shaped like a dragon’s slit pupils.
The atmosphere seemed to freeze instantly.
The witch’s face turned grave; this witch hunter posed a great threat to her. The forest banshee looked terrified—over nearly a century, countless of her kind had fallen to the hands of witch hunters.
A slight rustling came from the forest.
Was there someone else?
Both the witch and the hunter looked on with suspicion. Under the moonlight, a handsome, slender profile emerged from the shadows, a tall and upright figure stepping out from the trees. He drew a northern war bow, the string pulled taut like a full moon, an icy arrow aimed at the witch hunter ahead.
Duncan appeared expressionless from the darkness. He did not approach the witch nearby but stood still, back turned to her, coldly watching the witch hunter.
“It’s you!” The witch showed a flicker of surprise, her expression easing somewhat.
The three figures faced off, the witch hunter’s expression growing serious. He had thought he was tracking the witch but had ended up following someone else.
The Child of Fate?
Was that me?
A cold land across the distant sea?
It probably wasn’t Britain.
Iceland?
Iceland only began to be settled around the 9th century. If it was across the sea, it must be Iceland.
Were the prophecy magics of this world really so powerful?
The witch hunter glanced at the witch, then at Duncan, completely ignoring the trembling forest banshee lurking in the shadows. He seemed utterly indifferent to her power. Slowly, he spoke in a hoarse voice, “Raven Queen—Triss.”
The witch met his gaze, her dragon-like slit pupils steady as she replied softly, “Dragon Slayer—Saint George.”
Wait?!
Saint George, the Dragon Slayer?
Duncan’s expression instantly turned serious. He hadn’t expected this witch hunter to be a legendary figure.
But that couldn’t be right.
The current year was around 450 AD. Many legendary figures likely hadn’t been born yet. If the timeline shifted further back, it would be an era filled with mythic beings, a time when humans and gods coexisted.
If the time shifted back about five hundred years, perhaps one might encounter Jesus walking the earth.
From the shadows, the hunter calmly said, “I now go by George Paul.”
“A wandering witch hunter.”
The witch, Raven Queen Triss, looked puzzled. She spoke softly, “I am currently Triss Hathaway, a reclusive forest witch.”
At that moment, Duncan interjected awkwardly, “Duncan, a farmer from Bran village on the empire’s border.”
“No surname.”
At such a potentially historic moment, he felt compelled to chip in.
That was that.
Duncan’s sudden interruption caused a brief silence between the two.
Finally, the witch hunter released his grip from the sword’s hilt. He looked at the witch calmly and said, “I no longer serve the Inquisition.”
“A faction of witch hunters has broken away from the Inquisition.”
“We are free servants of the Lord, hunters who cleanse humanity of monstrous threats.”
This hunter held a high rank in the Church, with the authority to judge other archbishops in the name of faith.
From a divine perspective.
The hunter’s mark shifted back to a neutral yellow; his emblem was never an obviously hostile red.
It seemed he considered himself a witch hunter distinct from those serving the Inquisition, uninterested in meddling in heresy disputes, focusing instead on threats to ordinary people—likely the strange creatures lingering from ancient mythic times. After all, he might be the world’s only true dragon slayer.
The witch looked skeptical.
The hunter paid no mind, casting a glance at the shivering forest banshee beneath the trees before turning and departing the woodland.
He had sought out Raven Queen Triss only to declare his position.
From today onward, he and his followers would sever ties with the Inquisition, acting independently from the Church, dedicated to combating the true evils threatening mortals.
The Witch Hunter Brotherhood.
Since the Milan Edict was decreed, the Church was no longer the institution he once knew.
Power.
The Church’s power was rapidly expanding, even proposing the notion of a Papal State.
Duncan watched the hunter’s receding figure.
The witch made no move. He lowered his northern war bow, for this departing figure was a genuine witch hunter, famed as a dragon slayer, and might well become the founding father of witch hunters in this world.
A gentle breeze stirred.
The forest banshee vanished quietly. Raven Queen Triss regarded Duncan’s back and whispered, “You knew all along?”
Duncan nodded slightly.
Raven Queen Triss looked puzzled. “Since when?”
Duncan thought for a moment and said, “When I faced the barbarian rout, I felt an arrow aimed at me, but it suddenly veered away.”
“Later, when fighting the rangers, I was sure.”
Raven Queen Triss smiled knowingly, “You have strong intuition—a warrior’s instinct.”
Duncan put the arrow back into his quiver calmly and said, “You asked me about Bran village suddenly on the road.”
“It reminded me of stories from my childhood. Elders in the village spoke of a treehouse deep within the dense forest beyond the mountains, home to a forest fairy who once healed an injured, lost hunter and guided him out of the primeval woods.”
The witch’s eyes flickered. She gazed at Duncan and slowly asked, “Is that why you helped me?”
Duncan nodded.
They walked toward the forest edge. The witch donned her mask anew and suddenly asked, “How much did you hear?”
From a divine viewpoint.
The target was still the blue-marked unit. Duncan replied calmly, “Almost everything.”
The witch remained silent for a moment before saying, “Don’t tell anyone else.”
Duncan nodded.
As they left the forest, Raven Queen Triss stared at Duncan’s retreating figure. His senses were extraordinarily sharp, far beyond ordinary men, and his combat skills had improved rapidly—within a single battle, he had mastered horse riding and mounted archery. Such talent impressed even her, reminding her of the heroes from mythic times.
Raven Queen Triss hesitated briefly before asking, “What are your plans next?”
Duncan stood at the inn’s door, pondering. “I don’t know.”
“Taking it one step at a time.”
“First, I need to find a foothold in this world.”
The witch’s expression shifted slightly. She whispered, “Would you like to come with me to Britannia first?”
Duncan seemed to consider this.
He replied in a low voice, “What for, going to Britain?”
Raven Queen Triss answered slowly, “To visit another wizard.”
Hmm?
Another wizard? Britain?
Duncan seemed to realize something and asked, “Who?”
Raven Queen Triss spoke with respect, “Merlin. One of the most powerful wizards in the world today!”
Merlin?!
So I truly have arrived near the end of the mythic era.
What about King Arthur?
He seemed to be a figure from around 500 AD. After the fall of the Roman Empire, barbarian crises spread to England. The Saxons, a branch of Germanic peoples, launched massive invasions. They are the ancestors of modern British populations.
King Arthur was a Celt, representative of the Irish, Scottish, and Welsh peoples. In ancient British lore, Arthur repeatedly repelled Saxon invasions with Merlin’s aid.
But ultimately, the Saxons conquered and ruled Britain.
Arthur might not yet have been born, but Merlin should already be active, renowned in the world of supernatural powers.
Legend has it:
Merlin was a cambion—a half-human, half-demon—born of an incubus and a mortal woman. His demonic blood granted him supernatural powers and wisdom beyond mortals. [Note: Incubus are male demons who prey on women, attempting to sire cambions, half-demons.]
Seeing Duncan’s reaction, Raven Queen Triss immediately said, “I can offer you a large sum of money.”
Duncan hesitated, “I’ll think about it.”
She did not press further. To pursue the prophecy’s path, she was determined to travel the continent to find the Child of Fate and avert the near-millennium of tragic destiny awaiting her kin.
For this noble ideal, she was willing to sacrifice everything—even herself.
But the witch was still flesh and blood.
Though powerful, traveling alone across the continent was inconvenient. Duncan’s strength was evident; often, sword and blade solved problems more readily than magic.
They spent the night in silence.
The next morning, before Duncan could decide, someone knocked on his door.
Outside stood the injured captain of the guards, supported by another.
This captain, named Catus, was actually a private armed force maintained by the empire’s nobility, operating as caravan guards, protecting their trade interests.
Catus’s face was pale. Supported by another, he sat up and looked at Duncan earnestly, “Lord Duncan.”
“Have you thought about your next steps?”
Duncan’s expression was slightly strange as he softly replied, “Not yet.”
Catus glanced at him and pressed on, “The empire has grown increasingly unstable these years, with frequent barbarian invasions. Asia is also on the brink.”
“Internal factional strife continues, and barbarians gain strength in the army!”
“Lord Duncan, have you considered making your mark in this chaotic era?”
The moment he spoke, Duncan knew his intent.
What he did not know was which noble faction he served—old imperial aristocracy or rising barbarian elites. The empire’s assimilated barbarians viewed other tribes as savages, often looking down on the earlier barbarian groups accepted by Constantine I.
The barbarian hierarchy was ever evolving.
No joking matter.
The empire’s legitimacy truly rested with the barbarians.
If Duncan had been a ‘pure Roman’ in his past life, he might have agreed. But now, he had no thought of siding with the empire, having witnessed little justice from it.
The empire was collapsing.
With his abilities, turning the tide forcefully would be difficult. Yet the title ‘Augustus,’ emperor of the empire, was undeniably tempting.
It was like how Easterners find it hard to grasp the allure of the One Ring, but if it bore the inscription “Mandated by Heaven, eternal prosperity,” they would instantly understand.
Duncan pondered, “I’ll consider it.”
Traveling with Raven Queen Triss meant entering the supernatural world here; choosing mercenary Catus was the mortal path to renown. His future efforts would likely focus on enduring the coming turbulent era, for the empire’s fall marked the true start of the Middle Ages.
To seek immortality, magic, and beautiful witches? Or to bear the name Augustus?
The age of mortals was dawning.
The last myths were about to end; supernatural powers were destined to hide in the shadows.
Duncan saw the visitor off.
He sank into deep thought, long without answers, until suddenly inspiration struck. He decided to enter meditation to examine the divine perspective’s reckoning of cause and effect.
He must have reached a turning point in his fate. The causal laws of dimensional space were bound to change.
………………