Chapter 9: Three days.

Sirin had to wait a full three days for the trial by combat.

She’d heard about trial by combat somewhere and threw it out there, but she hadn’t expected it to take this long.

The reason for the delay was absurd.

Apparently, they needed to safely transport some “Goddess’s Scales” for the trial.

Damn bureaucracy was the same even in this other world.

Paperwork and inventory lists apparently mattered more than human lives.

Still, Sirin spent those three days in relative comfort in the empire’s solitary cell.

Peter kept bringing her bread, and the absence of bugs, wind, and rain made for a cozy stay.

This is why you pay taxes.

Civilized society’s taxes came back as unexpected perks.

Of course, Sirin had never paid taxes, so this was pure freeloading.

All in all, she was pretty satisfied.

And finally, the shitty morning of the duel—or whatever it was—dawned.

Creak.

The rusty hinges screamed as the door opened.

The peacekeeper who opened it was so tense he couldn’t even meet her eyes.

“Not like I’m gonna eat you.”

“Eek?!”

Ugh, this idiot.

Sirin clicked her tongue and glanced around.

The “evidence” in the corner of the outpost was still there. No one had touched it, fearing the “witch’s blood” on it.

She picked up the evidence—Heres’s sword—and walked out.

Her sharp hearing caught the peacekeepers’ whispers.

Nonsense about witches and such.

Just three days ago, she was the crazy beggar girl.

Now, she’d been promoted to witch. At this rate, she might be a demon by next week.

With a peacekeeper escorting her, she headed to the duel site.

It wasn’t far from the clearing where Heres’s head had turned.

A bit wider and flatter, perfect for spectators, apparently.

The dry, patchy ground kicked up dust with every step.

When Sirin arrived leisurely, the mercenaries were already gathered on one side.

Their armor ranged from dented and rusty to shiny and new.

Weapons varied from rusty knives to pricey longswords.

A chaotic group, the very definition of mercenaries.

Among them, she spotted familiar faces.

The cowards who’d fled from Heres’s side.

They muttered fearfully the moment they saw her.

Ding!

[Your presence triggers the “Witch” title effect.]

[Those who believe you’re a witch feel extreme fear!]

Ignoring the system’s nonsense, Sirin eyed the bear-like figure standing proudly.

Mercenary Leader Bjorn.

He wore a longsword at his waist and a massive greatsword on his back.

Sirin thought he looked like a tacky department store mannequin in an overdone Christmas sweater, but despite that, Bjorn’s face was striking.

Full of rage.

She was impressed.

Why’s this bear not acting with a face like that? He’s not even mad, yet pulls off that expression. Too ugly for the stage?

She sighed.

Burying such talent with my own hands. Born in the right era, he could’ve won an Oscar. A loss for humanity.

Sirin held cosmopolitan, humanitarian ideals.

Soon, the crowd parted, and a priest from the Pantheon strode in with dignified steps.

He wore formal vestments, but the eyepatch stood out most.

Despite it, he moved unhindered, likely due to some divine power.

Villagers bowed slightly in respect, but the priest looked tired and annoyed.

Like a public servant dragged out to watch a fight on a weekend morning.

Sirin felt a kinship.

In his hand was a heavy brass scale, engraved with a blindfolded goddess.

This weird thing made me wait three days?

Officially called the Scales of the Goddess of Sword and Blindfold.

Though owned by the Pantheon, the imperial army stored it, and “checking it out” took time.

Sirin thought it was pointless, but it was part of the empire’s policy to check divine authority.

As the priest raised the scales, villagers, peacekeepers, and mercenaries fell silent.

He spoke.

“As the Pantheon’s representative, I declare: Today’s trial by combat is a sacred ritual to judge justice under the Goddess of Sword and Blindfold. All must approach with reverence.”

Holding the scales, he continued.

“Each shall state their cause before the scales. The scales will judge its validity. If the cause is unjust, the duel will not proceed.”

Sirin yawned.

Needing reasons for a fight? In wuxia, “I don’t like you” was enough to start stabbing.

She was misunderstanding wuxia a bit.

Her mindset wasn’t that of righteous sects, evil factions, or demonic cults.

It was closer to third-rate street thugs or underworld scum.

The priest droned on about the duel.

“The victor will gain all rights over the defeated. The defeated must fully submit to the victor’s will.”

He addressed Sirin and Bjorn solemnly.

“Now, state your cause.”

No one was singled out, so order didn’t matter.

Sirin was getting irritated.

Justice or whatever, what was this nonsense?

She wanted to get beaten, gain Practice, master martial arts, and achieve Bone-Shedding Rebirth.

She didn’t realize her mindset was the furthest from enlightenment.

She spat out.

“Why all this fuss about reasons? If my fight’s more just, will the goddess bless me? Let me shoot lightning or something?”

“Indeed.”

“Like, give me a lightning breath or… wait, what?!”

The priest tilted his head slightly toward her.

“Do not mock the sacred ritual, woman. The Goddess of Sword and Blindfold will intervene.”

He raised the scales slightly, their brass reflecting faint light.

“These scales are not mere decoration. They weigh the truth and justice of your cause. They tilt toward the more just and truthful.”

He paused.

“The one the scales favor will receive the goddess’s gaze. The just will fight under her watch, their blade blessed. The unjust will fight in her silence, their steps heavy, their blade dull.”

“…Hm.”

In Sirin’s old world, the blindfolded goddess symbolized judicial power or “guilty until proven rich.” She’d thought of it superficially.

So that’s not it.

She vaguely understood.

Strength alone isn’t everything.

This barbaric fantasy world might be more advanced than wuxia or her modern world.

Dismissing self-threatening thoughts, she spoke.

“So, if a kid like Hans has a just cause, he could snap that bear’s neck?”

“…”

The priest didn’t answer, but her beggar-sharp instincts read his mind.

This half-bald jerk thinks I’m a pitiful beggar girl.

Ding!

[Your understanding of others has increased!]

[Deepen your understanding to gain Insight!]

This half-bald bastard…!

She admitted her words were a bit silly, but being judged was another matter. She was pissed.

The priest hadn’t voiced any insults.

Her words brought a brief silence.

Everyone held their breath, watching who’d speak first.

Then, movement came from an unexpected direction. The villagers.

“Um… Priest! I have something to say!”

A trembling but courageous voice. Marta, the bakery widow.

Holding Vera’s hand, she looked scared yet resolute.

“Priest! That woman… she was trying to stop Heres from harassing us! He…”

Her voice shook, but her account was clear.

Marta detailed yesterday’s events.

Her courage inspired others, who nodded and murmured.

“I… have something to say too.”

Another woman stepped forward unsteadily.

Mary, from Wilson’s tavern.

Sirin’s sharp eyes caught the faint bruise on her cheek.

Mary, terrified but clenching her fists, spoke shakily.

“Heres… he beat me… multiple times. Didn’t pay often… humiliated me in front of customers…”

Her voice broke, and she glared at the mercenaries, shouting with venom.

“He was a bastard! Trash! Beating people like animals when he felt like it…!”

Her voice cracked with sobs.

“If not for her yesterday… Vera might’ve ended up like me! He deserved to die!”

Her cry was like pouring oil on a fire.

The murmurs grew into a wave.

Accusations of the mercenaries’ misdeeds erupted.

“They stole my chickens!”

“They haven’t paid their tab for months!”

“There’s a rumor they kidnap women at night…!”

The murmurs became a unified voice. Sirin stared blankly.

Marta kept glancing fearfully somewhere.

Following her gaze, Sirin saw Peter nodding reassuringly.

That old fox, stirring things up.

She clicked her tongue, guessing his plan to secure the goddess’s blessing for her.

As villagers spoke out, the mercenaries grew agitated.

Sirin looked at Bjorn, but he stayed silent, only nodding to the side.

A bull-like brute stepped forward and roared.

“Hah! A whore and an old hag’s whining outweigh our vice-leader’s life?”

The bull, face smeared with blue paint, scanned the villagers like insects.

“Even if Heres made some mistakes, that doesn’t justify that crazy woman snapping his neck! She wasn’t even the one beaten, like some whore! She meddled and murdered!”

He grew angrier, yelling at the villagers.

“You vermin, this won’t stand! This is the reward for risking our lives to protect the empire from beasts?!”

He turned to glare at Sirin.

“Beggar girl, you’re just a murderer. No matter their nonsense, that doesn’t change! We have the right to revenge!”

Sirin stared at him gravely, not because his words might sway the scales.

She was on the verge of exploding for a different reason.

She needed to master martial arts for Bone-Shedding Rebirth, but the trial took days. Now, she had to justify her fight.

And this bull-headed idiot was proudly flaunting his trashy nature.

Worse, he had something she didn’t.

Something she had to go through hell to reclaim through Bone-Shedding Rebirth, this jerk just had!

How does a morally bankrupt idiot like him have it when I don’t? What am I lacking?

What was she missing compared to a thug who thought catching beasts justified beating women, kicking old ladies, stealing money, and eating chickens?

And they got paid for it!

His awful fashion sense fueled her rage further.

A necklace of crow feathers and animal bones, dangling like trash.

Sirin was about to lose it at fate’s cruelty but held back as a civilized person.

“Who’re you? Never seen you.”

“I’m Gordo. The one who’ll slaughter you, beggar girl.”

He clashed his gauntlets with a bang, trying to make an impression. Sirin found it pathetic.

As expected, brawlers are all idiots.

Humans evolved to use ranged weapons.

Brawlers defied that evolution.

Seeing a primitive barbarian-Neanderthal-bull hybrid in this world was fascinating, but she didn’t show it.

“If you’re a man, you wouldn’t avenge a woman-beater over the woman he beat.”

“Why care about a whore like her?!”

“…”

Sirin thought.

Never seen this guy in the village.

Just in case, she asked Mary.

“Was he ever a customer?”

Mary shook her head, terrified.

“Then…”

Sirin finally understood the situation.

She looked at Gordo with pity.

“Sorry.”

“…What?”

“Didn’t know Heres was your lover. Thought it was weird you’d defend a woman-beater.”

“You crazy b*tch…!”

“Your revenge is just. Gotta avenge your boyfriend, right? The goddess will surely bless you.”

Laughter came from the mercenaries.

Her words weren’t entirely baseless.

Gordo glared, face red.

“…Beggar girl. I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Her vision went red.

Memories of those hellish six months flashed by.

Enduring that to reclaim a small muscle, and this pathetic bull-head dared threaten to cut it out?

She finally snapped.

“These idiots always yap about tongues. Got nothing else to say?”

She lifted her mask slightly, hooking it over her nose, and stuck out her tongue.

Gordo felt a flicker of lust at her glimpse, but her next action threw him off.

“Cut it, cut it, you bastard! Ebbebbebbebbebbe!”

“You crazy beggar…”

“Cut it! Pepepepepepe! Peroperoperolrolrol!”

“You… crazy…”

“Cut it quick! Holrolrolroloralrolrolrerolre!”

“…”

The phrase “going wild” personified was Sirin right now.

Gordo felt deflated.

He could now understand why Heres’s men called her a witch. Her behavior was that bizarre.

“…”

Even Bjorn, watching, was unnerved.

She hadn’t acted like this with the peacekeepers.

She’d seemed cold and calculating, but now she was a raving witch.

He couldn’t fathom why she was so worked up.

Sirin herself didn’t know why she was so pissed.

Her wild, red tongue flicked like a snake hissing…

“HorolrolrolrolpepepeppebbebeporerorerorolreDingPep!”

…No, more like a mackerel flopping on a fish market floor.

“W-Witch…!”

The mercenaries who’d been with Heres screamed. The same idiots.

“She’s a witch! Using evil magic!”

“She’s casting spells!”

“That’s not a human tongue!”

“The Tongue Witch! Heres died to that tongue!”

Ding!

[Your bizarre actions enhance the “Witch” title effect!]

[Your incomprehensible behavior is seen as evil magic, maximizing fear!]

[Your infamy as a witch begins to spread!]

“Kyaaaah!!!”

“Cover your ears!!!”

Sirin was dumbfounded. Should’ve snapped their heads after all.

She didn’t hold back.

“Shut up! Before I snap your heads!”

“!!!”

The mercenaries clamped their hands over their mouths.

Sirin liked the sight.