Release that Witch Chapter 2 The Witch Named Anna (Part I)

Roland shut himself away in his chamber for a stretch, meticulously poring over the memories of this strange new world, so much so that servants had to deliver his dinner right to his door.

Driven by his ironclad will to survive, Roland tamped down the dread from his bizarre new surroundings. He understood perfectly that blending seamlessly and dodging suspicion from those around him demanded swift intel gathering.

Roland had to concede the fourth prince's head held zilch beyond frolicking with other noble brats. No matter how many times he probed, zero useful intel surfaced—like noble hierarchies, kingdom politics, or neighborly diplomacy. Basic facts such as city names or milestone event dates diverged entirely from Europe's history he remembered.

Memories suggested the old Roland never stood a shot at the throne. Graycastle's King must have realized this, dumping the prince in this nightmarish outpost where his screw-ups wouldn't wreck the realm.

Roland couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or weep at the sibling recollections that followed.

Eldest brother, the First Prince, wielded solid military might; second brother schemed with ruthless cunning; third sister dreaded death; youngest sister dazzled with genius. These sparse notes captured the full scope of the former fourth prince's sibling views. Roland felt a twinge of embarrassment—over a decade coexisting, yet old Roland boiled it down to mere phrases. Their power bases, loyal retainers, specialties, schemes? Total blank slate.

Merely three months back, the fourth prince arrived in this remote town, but nobles had ceased masking their scorn. Evidently, he made a poor leader. Thankfully, when bestowing this domain, the King attached two competent aides to lend support, shielding townsfolk from old Roland's bungled administration.

Rising the next dawn, maid Tyre kept pressing that the Assistant Minister sought him. Delay no more viable, Roland drew on prior memories, grabbed the maid’s rear, then dispatched her to retrieve Barov from the drawing room.

As blushing Tyre departed, Roland pondered: post-reincarnation, where was his system? Stories always featured one, yet none materialized.

Truly, those novels Roland devoured were sheer make-believe.

****

Barov fidgeted restlessly in the drawing room. Roland's entrance prompted his query, “Your Highness, why skip the execution order yesterday?”

“One day early or late—what difference does it make?” Roland replied, clapping for attendants to serve breakfast, “Sit, Barov.”

Old memories and Roland's assessment showed the Knight Commander favored direct clashes with the fourth prince, even publicly, while the Assistant Minister preferred private chats. Regardless, both's fealty likely lay with the King.

“Delaying a day risks more witches emerging, my prince! This chaos isn't your old noble romps!” Barov warned.

“How so?” Roland frowned. “I thought you could separate superstition from truth.”

Barov appeared baffled, “What superstitions?”

“Witches being evil, devil’s envoys,” Roland patiently clarified without fuss. “Isn’t that Church doctrine? They ignore us here—actually, the reverse holds. Their tales paint witches as malevolent; we shun aiding hunts, yet locals swallow the Church’s vile superstitions hook, line, and sinker.”

Barov gaped in shock, “Could... could a witch truly be...”

“Truly evil?” Roland prompted, “Like how?”

The Assistant Minister paused briefly, pondering whether the prince was mocking him on purpose. “Your Highness, we can address this issue another time. I understand your dislike for the church, yet seeking confrontation like this will only backfire.”

Roland smirked faintly. Overturning the deep-rooted superstition against witches clearly wouldn't happen in a single day, so he chose to set the matter aside for the moment.

As Roland's breakfast—consisting of toast, fried eggs, and a pitcher of milk—was brought in, he prepared two plates and offered one to the assistant minister.

“You haven't had anything to eat yet, have you?” Roland inquired prior to digging in. The maid had informed him that Barov had shown up at his door at the crack of dawn, demanding an audience right away, leaving no chance for breakfast. Although he planned to mimic the old prince's habits, Roland also intended to gradually shift how others viewed him.

This made the Assistant Minister an ideal starting point for his strategy. In Roland's mind, Valuing your subordinates boosts their drive to serve you loyally.

Seizing the lead had always proven the quickest path to success, right?

Barov accepted the milk cup from Roland without sipping it, blurting out nervously, “Your Highness, there's still trouble brewing. Guards discovered a suspected witch encampment in the western woods three days back. They fled hastily without erasing all traces, so one guard picked this up from the site.”

From his pocket, he produced a coin and placed it before Roland. This wasn't standard kingdom currency—at least, the original Roland's recollections held no such item. It didn't resemble their coins at all, lacking any metal composition.

In his grasp, the coin felt surprisingly warm, and the assistant minister surely wasn't radiating the intense heat exceeding forty degrees Celsius, evoking the sensation of a steamy bath.

“What’s this?” Roland questioned.

“At first, I figured it was merely some cursed witch token, but the truth runs deeper.” Barov paused to dab his brow, “That etched design is called the Devil’s Eye of the Sacred Mountain—the insignia of the Witch Cooperation Association.”

Roland traced the coin's bumpy texture, deducing it was likely kiln-fired clay. Sure enough, its core bore a pattern of three stacked triangles mimicking a “mountain,” with an eye nestled in the middle one. The crude outlines suggested hand-carved finishing.

The phrases “Devil’s Eye of the Sacred Mountain” and “Witch Cooperation Association” stirred faint recognition in Roland, yet no specifics emerged. Evidently, the fourth prince had zero fascination with mystical lore.

Not anticipating deeper insights from Barov, Roland listened as he pressed on, “Your Highness, lacking exposure to true witches, it's natural to underestimate their prowess. True enough, they can be hurt, bleed out, and die like anyone else—but only if subdued. Embracing the devil’s force may erode a witch's life span, yet it grants horrifying might beyond mortal reach. A mature witch demands a heavy toll even from armies to fell. Their urges prove nearly uncontrollable, driving them to devolve into demonic thralls. Hence the Church's Holy Inquisition: any woman suspected of witchery faces instant capture and execution. The King endorsed this edict, and remarkably, such steps have slashed witch rampages compared to a century prior. The Sacred Mountain—alias hell's gateway—remains mere myth from an old tome of that time.”

While munching on his bread, Roland sneered repeatedly at these words. Though the history of this world diverged sharply from the one he remembered, their paths through time shared uncanny parallels. Be it the church of this realm or the one from his past, he viewed religion as the devil's henchman, the true wellspring of wickedness. Isn't dooming someone to death just for being different outright evil? Slaughtering in the name of God was utterly depraved in every conceivable way. Oblivious to Roland's inner disdain, Barov forged ahead, “Ancient books declare that witches achieve true peace solely at the Sacred Mountain. Free from uncontrollable urges, their magic there carries no side effects. It's beyond question that this fabled Sacred Mountain serves as evil's cradle, a hellish gateway upon the earth. In my view, only hell itself would refrain from tormenting those ensnared by the devil's seductions.”

“Who are the ‘League of Allied Witches’? What's their link to the Sacred Mountain?” Roland questioned.

With a bitter expression, Barov clarified, “Previously, matters stayed calm since witches escaped before the Inquisition could strike and dwelt in hiding. Yet lately, the League of Allied Witches has surfaced, shaking everything up. Their goal is to assemble every witch and seek out the Sacred Mountain. Toward that end, the Witch Cooperation Association goes so far as to deliberately entice others into becoming witches. Just last year, countless infants vanished from the Port of Clearwater, with whispers blaming it on their schemes.”