Statues, manuscripts, incomprehensible artifacts, and crates of ancient animal remains scattered throughout the underground warehouse. Archdevil wanders among those finds in the light of a light bulb swinging from the ceiling.

Nervousness is there-there to turn into anger. Why did he save Clea? How on earth can he recognize an ancient poisonous root? What if it was a metaphorical name? Maybe it's a rock. It is full of very strange rocks.

I bet Priscilla could have helped me.

Not just that. Priscilla was a first-class opportunist. Sure enough, she would have helped Archdevil find the poison, and perhaps even the antidote, to obtain favors with the Third Witch.

Yet, the monster saved Clea. She is all focused on looting the corpses of her companions. She sheds a few tears for her sister. But she is already focused on the crates of goods. She supervises Archdevil to check he does not steal anything.

I hate them all. These are stolen goods, and yet Clea greed.

A village, sixteen mills, numerous lives, several millions, and grain supplies all burned for nothing. It is the balance of a day guided by the banner of that stupid girl.

Archdevil clenches his fist. He watches Clea, who does the same.

“Did you find it?”

“There are at least three objects, and I mean at least, that could be that root.”

“If you helped us, you wouldn't need those roots.”

“First, I care about my life. Second, you speak in the plural, but that's if I helped you.”

Clea rolls her eyes. She continues to insist, indifferent to his refusals.

“There are my brother and the other survivors. You'll see that they took them to the Eggrio prisons. But it won't last. They need farm hands.”

“They will import them from poorer provinces. Eggrio is rich, it doesn't need them.”

“You're a cynic. As strong as you are... and then it turns out you hate them. You shot that Witch without compliments. I could read the contempt in your face.”

“Were you reading?”

Clea raises her arm as if to slap but thinks better of it and lowers it.

“Cut it out. If you saved me, you believe in our cause.”

“Maybe I acted on impulse? Evaluation mistake?”

“Leaving a murderer in power is unfair.”

Archdevil does not respond. It is like talking to a wall. He turns his head towards a chest full of gold coins. In reality, there are two chests next to a small, worn, and closed chest. The second chest is almost empty.

“Do you want some gold? I can give you some. As you can see, the Common Fund is swollen.”

“I don't want the gold stolen from the millers.”

Clea rolls her eyes.

“And how should we finance the new world? We ran out of money for the farmers' house around mid-morning. An Archdevil and two witches. Who would have thought they would require so much money?”

“You are incompetent. But I'll ask you a question since you're so sure.”

“We have to hurry anyway. The gendarmes will get here.”

“Ha, are you worried now?”

Archdevil turns towards the chest. He takes two jars containing rocks, one shaped like a root, the other like a curled-up bramble, and a third containing the fossil of a plant. The labels remained in the museum. There is no point in trying to understand what they are.

“Hey, our deals were for the root. What do you take?”

Archdevil frowns.

“The question I want to ask you is simple. Maybe you understand it. Let's say you succeed in your aim. What next?”

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Clea frowns.

“In what sense? No more witches, estates, economic disparity, and exploitation. It's obvious.”

“Do you know that witches are reborn? If they have an heir, which Priscilla certainly has, everything passes to her. Otherwise, statistical inheritances occur, as in your unfortunate case.”

“Well, we'll educate them to respect. But then, well, we'll think about it later. In the meantime, it would be good to bring down the government.”

“I imagine you have developed some valid economic models. Balance tables and distribution of resources, and—”

Clea shakes her head.

“Of course, you're making it difficult. You are like my old man. He was always babbling too. Chat, chat. But if we don't act, we won't achieve anything.”

Archdevil takes the stairs, going up them.

“Hey!”

“I'm taking action, you see. I certainly didn't achieve anything by chatting.”

Upstairs, Priscilla's body is still lying face up. She looks at the sky with wide eyes. Her blood gushed out of the bullet's exit wound, forming a dark puddle.

It is dusk now. There is a long walk on the horizon. The arrival at the palace will probably be mid-morning.

Archdevil caresses the handle of the gun with his free hand. He inhales the smell of the countryside, much stronger and heavier than that of the gardens at the palace. There are no expanses of flowers here, no path of aromas designed to tickle the sense of smell.

Here, there is the smell of the field, its seasonality. And the smell of death, as the town is an open-air tomb.

Archdevil looks around. In the dark, he can see the temperature differences between the bodies. For now, it is dusk, so the two visions overlap, creating a disorientating effect that makes him even more annoyed.

There should be a direct walking route. At least I'll have some time to think and calm down.

The creaking of the steps behind her can only mean one thing: Clea is going up. She is ready to torment him again. Completely incapable of understanding that the revolution is a serious matter. But she is a Witch, albeit of the lowest category. She only wants to pave her way to get more power and wealth. All witches are the same, although distributed in different estates.

The thought of shooting her never went away. Archdevil walks away, thinking she is not worth a bullet. Three died today. Three witches died not of old age, including an important one. Usually, this would be news to laugh about, but today?

I've had enough for today.

Killing for the sake of doing it is stupid. Yet, Archdevil killed Priscilla for that. Because he despised her and by taking advantage of the circumstances, he knows there will be no consequences.

But in the end, what matters? Three witches out of a hundred thousand are nothing. How many fools did this nothing cost?

“Archdevil. Hey, Archdevil.” Clea's voice comes from behind her, further and further away. “Look, if I left you… where are you going? Hey, look, we have more gold. We also have other relics if you want to look, you hear me! How many lire, come on!? Oh, let the foxes get you, damn it.”

Far away, Archdevil ignores Clea's yells.

Once the sun disappears completely, Archdevil finds himself in the night world. He sees everything in grayscale. The whiter, the hotter the object. His hands and clothes are dark gray. Darker than the grass and the crickets hidden in it.

It is not hard to follow the road, and the background is an absolute black chasm. No mountains, no sky. The heat sources are too far away. The evening breeze is unbearable, and Archdevil wraps himself in the fur of his coat.

Of the three candidate stones, one is white. It is a fossil. The case feels normal to the touch, but it is evident that it is kept at room temperature by a magical seal. Magic is red. When it takes physical form, as in a seal, it is the only colored thing.

Hmm, Clea now has several relics from the past.

That thought keeps coming back to him when he looks at the fossil.

These are not dangerous relics in themselves. Many are not even known to Archdevil. But, like that fossil, they probably can be used in a harmful way. But ultimately, Clea is too stupid. She will sell them on the black market in exchange for money.

Is it better to leave relics to criminals or stupid criminals?

An idle question. Archdevil is getting bored. He is playing smart all day, and now he finds himself navigating miles and miles of darkness.

A group of galloping gendarmes reaches him time later. They and the horses are light grey and white, while the captain's saber has a red pulsating blade in its sheath. There are eight of them, and they surround Archdevil.

“Archdevil, are you the one who liberated the university and the museum today?” The captain speaks in a loud voice, holding back the unruly horse.

“What if it were?”

“Qualify yourself so that we can thank you.”

“I'll do without it. The owner is waiting.”

“One moment. The village of Alcle. Is this your work?”

Archdevil takes a deep breath.

“Magic is a little beyond me, captain.”

“But you know what I am talking about.”

“People stuck here and there, I guess.”

“Blessed Archdevil Priscilla has been torn to pieces. Your Holiness, Priscilla, was killed by a gunshot.”

The encirclement of horses becomes tighter.

“The rioters had various weapons. So?”

“A simple gunshot doesn't kill such an important Witch. Let the Witch Judge and Director pass, but—”

Archdevil pulls out the weapon, grabs it by the barrel, handing it to the captain. The horses stamp their feet, but the gendarmes hold them back.

“If you want to imply something, captain, grab this weapon. I imagine someone told you that I took this direction.”

“Well, patrols are sent on the six secondary roads. Our meeting was by chance.”

“Well, grab the weapon and evaluate. Come on.”

The captain is uncomfortable and takes a step back with his horse. The entire encirclement expands. They are afraid. Even if they understood who the killer was, what could they do?

Nothing.

“Let's not run, let's not run. We just wanted to thank you for helping us. We are certain that whatever happened has a meaning that escapes us. So… Furthermore…”

“Furthermore?”

“If you told us which Witch you are sent by, we could speed up the process and accompany you. On foot, in this direction, you will reach Ampra in a long time.”

Archdevil puts the weapon away. He looks around. Gray fields disappear into the darkness. It will be hours and hours of darkness.

“Maybe, if you weren't blind, you would see the batfish on my arm.”