The Speedrun Manual of Miss Witch - Chapter 7

“Is everything in place, Braid?”

The bright lights of the tavern illuminated the black-robed man entirely, yet they failed to dispel the shadows that clung to his hooded face.

“Everything’s ready. They don’t suspect a thing.” Sitting across from him, Braid Solari wiped the glass in his hand with a handkerchief, then reached for a bottle of strong liquor from the shelf behind him. He poured it into the glass before downing it in one gulp.

The otherwise empty tavern was oppressively tense. The air seemed frozen, as neither man spoke for a long while. Eventually, the leader of the Blackwater Gang, Braid, broke the silence.

“‘Shadow,’ sir, I’m fully committed to this deal. This is my final move. I can’t wait any longe—cough, cough, cough…”

Braid suddenly doubled over, covering his mouth as a violent coughing fit wracked his body, as though he might cough his lungs out. When he finally recovered, the black-robed man spoke.

“As long as everything proceeds exactly as described in the ritual, there will be no problems,” said the black-robed man.

“This is already the third time.” Braid slammed the glass onto the bar counter, the heavy sound of its base striking the wood echoing in the quiet tavern. “First my son, then my brother, and now my nephew. After tomorrow, I’ll have no family left, ‘Shadow.’ Are you certain this is all part of the ritual?”

“The focus isn’t on your family; it’s on your feelings, Braid,” the man addressed as Shadow said, tapping his fingers lightly on the bar. “You feel nothing for their deaths, and that’s why the vengeance ritual has failed.”

“This time, we spent six months cultivating your bond with your nephew. Only when he is killed will you have a tangible sense of revenge, Braid.”

Braid gripped the glass tightly, veins bulging across his aging face as he stared intently into the shadowy void beneath the man’s hood, trying to discern something hidden within.

Braid was known for his ruthlessness, but he was also meticulous. To carve out a position for himself in this chaotic district, he had been willing to sacrifice anything—family and friendship included.

If there was anything that could drive him to irrational, all-consuming revenge after losing it, it would be either his own life or his wealth.

No.

There was also the man before him, the one who had taken most of his life’s savings while claiming to grant him power beyond ordinary comprehension. The enigmatic black-robed man.

If this ritual failed again, Braid swore, no matter what lay beneath that hood, he’d fill it with bullets and burn it all to ash.

“You want to kill me?” The black-robed man chuckled softly. “For such a paltry sum? Even if you donated all that money to the church, not a single transcendent would spare you a glance.”

The man extended a hand and slowly removed his hood. The warm light of the gas lamp illuminated his face, revealing a mass of writhing, flesh-like growths that seemed almost alive.

The growths pushed against his skin, squirming like countless tiny tentacles, thrashing wildly as if trying to tear through his cheeks and escape.

The sight was horrifying, beyond the explanation of common sense. Braid was once again struck dumb with shock. The silent, wriggling things seemed to emit a piercing shriek in his mind, leaving his thoughts muddled.

There was no doubt—this man possessed special abilities.

Braid’s illness, which was dragging him to the brink of death, could indeed be cured by this man.

As long as he followed the man’s instructions and completed the so-called “vengeance” ritual, he too could wield divine power…

Slowly, Braid released his grip on the glass, regaining his composure.

“Thud—”

Suddenly, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground outside made Braid flinch. The black-robed man swiftly pulled his hood back up and turned toward the street, his hands clenched into fists in apparent irritation at being interrupted.

“Your men?” the black-robed man asked angrily, glaring at Braid.

“Impossible. I dismissed them all,” Braid replied, though his thoughts seemed scattered, still reeling from the emotional highs and lows of their conversation. He stared at the glass in his hand and muttered, “Maybe it’s Pompey coming to report something.”

“I’ll check it out.” The black-robed man cast a quick glance at Braid, noting his dazed state, and walked toward the door.

“Ding-a-ling—”

The bell above the wooden glass door jingled as he pushed it open. He stepped outside and scanned the dark street, but saw no one. The street was devoid of pedestrians.

The quiet was punctuated only by the scurrying of rats or insects and the occasional snores from the neighboring buildings. Everything seemed as calm as ever.

The man, still facing the street, abruptly dropped to his knees without regard for appearances. Reaching into his robe with his left hand, he produced a translucent vial. With his right hand, he shoved his fingers deep into his throat.

“Urgh—!”

His stomach convulsed violently, as though provoked.

Then, with wild desperation, he began punching his stomach repeatedly, each blow harder than the last. Finally, with a retch, he vomited up a black mass of blood along with a fleshy, wriggling tendril.

“Plop, plop—”

The tendril twisted on the ground like a stranded fish, but the man quickly grabbed it and stuffed it into the vial.

Through the yellowish translucent glass, the tendril appeared to occupy only a small portion of the vial, as though part of it had already dissolved.

“Damn it… another failure…” The black-robed man’s shadowed face was now revealed—a gaunt, pale middle-aged man whose skin hung loose like that of a centenarian.

Bluish veins throbbed visibly beneath his skin. His hair was completely gone, replaced by fist-sized black and red cyst-like growths resembling parasitic eggs. He looked neither human nor ghostly.

Shaking, the man stood up, holding his forehead as though battling a severe headache.

Once he steadied himself, he scanned the empty street with a venomous gaze, muttered a curse under his breath, and returned to the tavern.

He pulled his hood back up, sat down at the bar, wiped the black blood from his lips, and spoke as though nothing had happened.

“Is everything in place, Braid?”

Braid, still dazed, hesitated at the question. After a long pause, he seemed to recall something and responded blankly, “…Everything’s ready… They don’t suspect a thing.”

The conversation repeated itself, but this time, the black-robed man refrained from provoking Braid further. Instead, he guided the discussion, prompting Braid to reiterate the plan in detail.

“Ding-a-ling—”

As their conversation neared its end, the sound of the tavern door opening interrupted them again, snapping the black-robed man out of his momentary stupor.

“Who’s there?”

The man turned sharply toward the door, but before he could fully face the entrance—before he even had a chance to rationalize the situation—a bullet, accompanied by the roar of gunfire, tore through the air toward his chest.

“Bang—!”

The searing pain sent him sprawling to the floor, his body curling into a fetal position. He glanced toward the window and saw her—a red-haired girl draped in a black cloak, her revolver aimed at him with an emotionless expression.

It’s her?!

Braid, hearing the gunshot, flinched but remained frozen in place, making no move to act.

The intruder was Ciel.

To ensure her shot wouldn’t miss, Ciel had aimed for the torso, the area with the largest target.

After incapacitating the black-robed man, she quickly pivoted and aimed at the stunned Braid. Without hesitation, she fired.

“Bang—”

The bullet left the barrel, trailing smoke. Aimed initially at Braid’s chest, the shot veered slightly upon firing, burying itself in his throat.

“Schlurkk—”

Blood, frothing with bubbles, sprayed from his throat. His eyes, which had begun to focus, glazed over again. Clutching his neck, he slowly collapsed behind the bar.

Despite eliminating the threats, Ciel felt no relief. With only one bullet left in the revolver, she made a quick decision. Switching the gun to her left hand, she pressed the muzzle against her temple while pulling a dagger from her belt with her right hand.

To ensure no possibility of failure, she kept the final bullet for herself—a guarantee of escape through death if needed.