Witch Training Manual: My Water Magic Is Wrong

I had just finished showering and morning prayers.

The crowd had not yet dispersed.

The light at the church entrance dimmed slightly.

It wasn't that clouds were obscuring the sun; rather, two people walked in at the same time. They were so wide that their shoulders almost brushed against the doorposts as they passed side by side through the doorway.

Two meters.

It will only go up, never down.

The people of Frosttown aren't short on average, but these two men standing in the church looked like two trees planted in flowerpots. Their skin was an unhealthy grayish-white, like stones that had been soaking in water for a long time. Their eyes were open, the pupils were a normal color, but their gaze was off, too lifeless, inflexible.

The few believers who hadn't finished walking through the church looked up, then lowered their heads again and quickened their pace to leave.

It's not fear.

It's instinct.

Just as a mouse sees a cat, and an insect sees fire, when a person sees something that shouldn't exist in a living person, the body reacts before the brain.

Wayne stood by the podium, holding a scripture in his hand.

The panel popped up.

[The Visitor - Necromancer Cult]

[Name: Grote (left)]

[Identity: Necromancer, Tier 3 Undead]

Height: 2.03 meters

[Status: Dead for 216 years, consciousness preserved through necromancy; body specially treated to prevent decay. Can speak, think, and fight, but does not need to eat, sleep, or breathe.]

[Note: He is not a zombie. Zombies are mindless, dead flesh; he has consciousness, memories, and emotions. He remembers his life when he was alive, his wife's face, his daughter's name, and the oak tree in front of his house that blooms with white flowers in spring. He is simply dead.]

[Name: Bruno (right)]

[Identity: Necromancer, Tier 3 Undead]

Height: 2.01 meters

[Status: Dead for 189 years, "converted" at the same time as Grote. They were comrades in life and in death. There are many undead like them in the Necromancer sect, most of whom converted voluntarily. Necromancy is not something everyone can withstand; failure means true death, even the soul cannot be preserved.]

[Note: They came to Frosttown not to proselytize, not to cause trouble, but for Mayfair. The Necromancers' thirst for necromancers is like a gambler's thirst for dice, an addict's thirst for tobacco, or a two-hundred-year-old ghoul's thirst for... well, never mind.]

After viewing the panel.

Wayne immediately understood why they had come.

In the Southern Continent, the Kingdom of Wiggins is the only nation that doesn't classify the Necromancers as heretics. Not because Wiggins is enlightened, but because their king is an idiot.

The foolish king thought the undead were "pretty cool," so he issued a decree allowing the Necromancers to operate freely within Wiggins. The Archbishop of St. Hilde issued thirteen protest letters, which the foolish king read and wrote the same word on each one: "Oh."

The Papacy was furious, but dared not speak out.

As for the Wiggins Church, they wouldn't care about this matter.

They are not recognized by the Papacy.

Therefore, they will not obey the orders of the Papacy.

In Saint Hilde's eyes, they were even more sinister than the Necromancers, and the fact that the Papacy did not send out its holy army to clean up this "dog shit" was already the greatest mercy.

The two quickly walked to the front of the podium.

The floor shook slightly when they stopped.

It wasn't intentional, it was just too heavy.

Grote spoke first; his voice was a tone lower than normal, as if it came from a very deep place.

"Bishop Wayne."

"I am."

"We are from the Necromancers," Grote said slowly. "We're here to find someone."

"Who?"

"Mayfair".

Wayne looked at him.

"What do you want with her?"

Grote didn't answer the question. He pulled a letter from his pocket; the envelope was black, sealed with a silver emblem of a skeleton holding a flower.

"This is a letter from our bishop to you."

Wayne took it and opened it.

The letter paper was black, and the words were red.

[From Bishop Wayne of Frosttown Church:]

Your Excellency Bishop Wayne, may the goddess be well.

I am Herbert, the bishop of the Necromancers. We have never met, but I know of you. I have also heard of your deeds in Odrian in the east.

To make a long story short.

Mayfair is a chosen one of the necromancers. Such a person appears only once every hundred years. The last one was Marcus, the skeleton monk, five hundred and twenty years ago, who pushed the boundaries of the necromancer class to heights that no one before him could reach.

We all know that Wiggins Church doesn't value talent.

But the Necromancers value it.

We need her.

We will provide her with the most suitable training.

This letter isn't to kidnap her. It's to let you know that we exist. If you find her in the way, we're ready to take her in at any time.

We are not the enemy.

At least not yet.

May death protect you.

—Herbert, Bishop of the Necromancer's Cult

Wayne's lips twitched after reading it.

Death's protection? Forget it.

What's the difference between a living person being blessed by a necromancer with "the protection of death" and a drowning person being blessed with "happy drowning"?

Wayne folded the letter and tucked it into her sleeve. When she looked up, Mayfair was already standing at the end of the corridor, dressed in a black nun's habit, her hair tucked into her headscarf, just as always. She looked at the two men, her gaze shifting from Grote to Bruno.

She arrived at just the right time.

Wayne handed over the letter.

"They're looking for you, take a look."

Mayfair stood at the end of the corridor, holding the letter in her hand, reading it from beginning to end, then again. Her expression remained unchanged, but her fingers lightly traced the edge of the letter, as if confirming something.

"The Necromancers." She repeated the four words.

Mayfair was clearly familiar with it.

Grote spoke up: "Bishop Herbert said that you are the person we have been waiting for for five hundred years."

Mayfair looked up at him.

"Five hundred years?"

"The last necromancer chosen by the gods was Marcus, the skeleton monk, five hundred and twenty years ago." Grote spoke slowly, as if reciting a well-known scripture. "He pushed the boundaries of the necromancer class to heights that no one before him could reach. You have the same talent, or even greater."

Mayfair didn't respond.

She turned to look at Wayne.

Wayne stood by the podium. When he saw Mayfair looking over, he put down the scroll and took two steps forward.

"Mayfair, you are not an appendage of the church," he said, his voice not loud, but everyone could hear him. "You have the right to choose freely."

Mayfair's lips moved slightly.

"Mr. Wayne..."

"I'm not trying to get rid of you." Wayne's tone remained unchanged, still unhurried. "I mean, whatever you choose, I'll support you. Stay, there's a bed for you at the church. Go with them, and the church will always welcome you back."

"I need seven days." She looked up at the two men.

Grote blinked.

"Seven days?"

"I'll go with you in seven days."

Grote and Bruno exchanged a glance. The two undead stared at each other without any change in expression, but something in the air seemed to move, as if some silent communication had been completed.

Grote nodded.

"Can."

"Then we'll stay in town for these seven days," Bruno said. "We'll come back to pick you up when it's time."