Heatstroke and the Old Witch

In a small wooden house in Truffle Town, deep within the Black Forest.

The Old Witch swept her gaze over the youngster on the bed. The boy was burning with fever; his face and chest were slick with abnormal sweat, and his cheeks were redder than apples.

A Demon Hunter, carrying a Greatsword on his back, asked from the room, "Is he still salvageable?"

"He is the target of the mission I am sworn to protect. If he dies, where am I supposed to collect my commission?"

"Sigh."

"This is the most unprofitable deal I've ever made. I originally thought that as long as I delivered him to the kingdom, I could collect the bounty. Who knew the kingdom would fall into rebellion, and that he would fall deathly ill?"

The Old Witch lowered her head to examine the youngster on the sickbed carefully, then suddenly sneered. "This is a type of fever."

"As far as I know, it was created by one of my colleagues. Mortals think it is a naturally occurring plague, never realizing it is actually a malicious curse."

The Demon Hunter scoffed. "More than half the plagues on this land were created by you witches."

The Old Witch stated bluntly, "I can save him."

"But I want the manor you are currently staying in."

The Demon Hunter had no objections to this; the manor was the youngster's property, and it had nothing to do with him. "I agree. Once he wakes up, you can get him to sign the decree yourself."

"Make him transfer the manor to you."

"However, witnessing a manor deed transfer requires the approval of a church priest. Are you certain you can clear that hurdle?"

The Old Witch nodded. "I have my ways."

"The people of the church are the most corrupt of all. As long as you give them money, they will allow demons to conduct business inside their cathedrals. What does a mere witch like me matter in comparison?"

"Fine. I will save this child, then. Consider it the last good deed I do in this life."

"How ridiculous. To think that we witches would one day save a human."

"It is practically an insult to my entire career."

This, of course, was complete nonsense.

In truth, the one who had secretly cast the malicious curse upon the youngster on the bed was none other than this Old Witch.

Upon encountering an isolated and helpless Fallen Prince, the Old Witch had set her sights on his final asset—this very manor.

She had cast her schemes in the shadows, intending only to seize the manor through trickery and force.

The Old Witch looked down at the youngster on the bed with contempt.

This person was already dead; his heart had long since ceased to beat.

Even for a witch, it was impossible to resurrect someone who had already perished.

But that did not matter. She could use a necromantic spell to summon a low-level undead spirit into this body, manipulating the spirit to make the corpse move.

As long as the body could move in the eyes of the Demon Hunter, that was enough.

Once the Demon Hunter left, she could do whatever she pleased.

Witches never keep their promises!

Why bother honoring an agreement when you can get what you want through deception?

The Old Witch reached out toward the window and flicked her wrist. Instantly, a chicken from the coop outside was summoned to her; it smashed through the window glass and landed in her grasp.

Snap.

She twisted the chicken's neck with one hand, and blood sprayed out.

The Old Witch lowered her head and sniffed the blood. "Hmm, an unfertilized hen."

She dipped her finger into the chicken blood and had the Demon Hunter, Black Wolf, pull back Yveta's collar to expose the youngster's chest.

Using her blood-stained finger, she drew an Inverted Hexagram on Yveta's chest, then drew an eye in the center of the pattern.

This eye was the Eye of the Primordial Witch.

The Inverted Hexagram was a fallen magic circle.

Combined, the language of the spell meant—[Hereby voluntarily renounce all divine protection over man, and invite all things to enter this body].

"Cough, cough... Done." The Old Witch cackled. She only needed to chant a common spirit-calling spell to summon a low-level undead into this corpse, tricking the gullible Demon Hunter into believing the little prince had been resurrected.

Heh heh.

And to think someone with that level of IQ is a Demon Hunter.

The Old Witch quickly pulled her finger back and was just about to chant the necromancy spell when, unexpectedly, Yveta—who should have been a corpse—suddenly opened his eyes.

'Yveta' clutched his head and climbed off the bed. "Ugh, my head hurts so much."

"Where... is this?"

"Are they filming a movie here? Where is my phone?"

The Old Witch's withered smile froze on her face as she stared in disbelief at the youngster who had suddenly climbed off the bed and returned from the dead.

She was completely stunned.

The Demon Hunter, Black Wolf, looked at the witch and clicked his tongue in wonder. "I never expected a witch could actually cure the sick and save lives. This is the first time I've ever met a witch as good as you."

The Old Witch was so disgusted by the word "good" that she nearly retched; she never did good deeds!

Doing good deeds would ruin her reputation and make her the laughingstock of her peers.

But that wasn't the crux of the problem; the Old Witch stared at the dead chicken in her hand and then at her blood-stained fingers in disbelief, feeling momentarily dazed.

Had she chanted a spell just now?

Surely not?

Then why on earth did the corpse on the hospital bed start moving?

Could it be that she had chanted a spell after all, but simply forgotten it?

No.

She hadn't chanted a single word!

A terrifying conjecture surfaced in the Old Witch's mind, and cold sweat began to trickle down her forehead.

The Fallen Magic Array and the Witch's Eye she had used could indeed summon other entities into a corpse, but the probability was incredibly low; generally, one required specific incantations to summon a designated spirit.

But all magic carried risks!

Could it be that the trajectory of her magic had caught the attention of some entity in the Subspace, which then followed her magical trail into this body?

At the mere thought of it, the Old Witch felt an urge to pack her bags and run.

She didn't care about the manor anymore!

Meanwhile, on the hospital bed.

Yveta was completely bewildered; he should have been critically ill at this moment, burning with a fever of forty degrees, unable to even climb out of bed.

But why, upon waking, did he find himself in an unfamiliar environment with a strong man and an old woman before him?

At the same time, the memories of the Original Owner flooded in, wave after wave.

Yveta accepted these memories, finally beginning to understand his current predicament.

This world was somewhat similar to the Middle Ages, though it more closely resembled the world of Grimm's Fairy Tales; in any case, it was filled with strange races like witches, werewolves, vampires, giants, goblins, and elves.

Humans and monsters lived side by side.

As for the identity of the Original Owner, he had been the only prince and the sole heir to a kingdom.

However, he had been driven out of the kingdom by a violent insurgent army.

His claim to the throne was deemed invalid by the mob, and the Original Owner himself was cast out of his hometown.

It was said that the riot had been instigated by certain powerful officials, and now the mob was openly selling the vacant throne to whoever could pay the highest price.

According to the Original Owner's memories, the throne had eventually been purchased by a wealthy capitalist who owned a cotton mill.

During this process, his guards had fled one by one, and the loyal old servant who had accompanied him had also died of illness.

The Original Owner had eventually fled to this manor, far away from the kingdom.

This manor had belonged to his mother and was not property of the kingdom, which was why he had been able to retain this final asset and linger on in misery.

But it seemed that even this last piece of property had attracted the attention of others.

Yveta clenched his fists; he could feel the Original Owner's unwillingness before death, the way his soul had wailed and screamed, lamenting how the capitalist had used money to steal the throne that should have belonged to him.

Perhaps it was this unwillingness that had brought Yveta into this body.

Yveta was a man with a strong Sense of Responsibility; since he had taken someone else's body, he had to shoulder the Original Owner's burdens, he whispered to himself. Since I have come into your body, from this day forward, you are me.

I will help you reclaim the throne that originally belonged to us!

As soon as he thought this, his body suddenly felt light, as if he were a wisp of cloud.

He devoured the last lingering obsession of this body, gaining complete control and allowing his soul to perfectly harmonize with the flesh.

Yveta scanned the Demon Hunter and the witch in the room, falling into deep thought.

Sooner or later, he would reclaim his country.

But if he were to do so, he certainly couldn't rely on himself alone; he needed an army and a territory.

He needed to organize a force to take back his kingdom!

The Demon Hunter and the witch before him seemed to be talented individuals.

He had to find a way to make them stay, and ideally, make them swear allegiance to him rather than just serving him for money.

"It's so hot, little master, you're running a fever!" the Demon Hunter said, touching Yveta's forehead. "Your Highness, could you please pay me the commission you owe me before you die?"

"Seeing you like this really worries me."

"I'll end up with nothing."

The Old Witch, who had been standing to the side intending to secretly cast a spell to test 'Yveta', saw her expression change drastically.

She immediately halted her magic.

Because she had discovered a truly terrifying fact.

A dead man could not have a body temperature.

The original Yveta would certainly have died from the fever; she knew this better than anyone, as it was she who had cast the curse upon him.

Whether Yveta was dead or not, she knew the truth better than anyone.

However, the dead could not possibly have a body temperature.

Ordinary undead or evil entities, even if they possessed a corpse, could not make that corpse warm.

Let alone a fever—that was an incredibly difficult and complex phenomenon.

To what degree would one have to reach to make a corpse capable of running a fever?

The Old Witch racked her brains, searching through every spell she had mastered to find an explanation.

The conclusion: it was a fantasy.

That meant the problem was massive.

What level of power must an evil spirit possess to enter a corpse, reanimate it, and achieve such a feat?

The Old Witch stared at Yveta in horror, her muscles stiffening until she stood rooted to the spot like a Wooden Man.

Could the person before her be an evil deity from the Subspace?

Or perhaps an Outer God of Old from the Outer Universe, drawn here by magic?

Regardless, this would not be the first time that magic had invited a terrifying existence into this world.

Every spell must be paid for with an equal price and carry a corresponding risk!

Bang!

A sudden sound of a door being kicked in echoed from outside.

A rough voice rang out from beyond the threshold: "Evil Hearthstone Witch, I, the righteous Great Boar Knight, have discovered you and have come to launch a Punitive Expedition!"

"Under the will of the gods, prepare to die!"

"And as for the master of this manor who harbors a witch, you shall not escape either!"