Perhaps the laughter on the tower was too warm, the snacks on the table too fragrant, and the world described by Liya too vivid, Lettuce completely forgot the passage of time.
She followed Liya learning strange ballads, watched Little Bottle draw a mustache on his nose with cake frosting, and listened to Ben talk about interesting things in the forest. She didn't even notice when the wind turned cold—until a familiar crunching sound of wheels rolling over stones echoed from below the tower, and she suddenly froze, like a butterfly caught in ice.
The Witch, riding in the carriage driven by the Scarecrow, stopped beneath the high tower.
As soon as she stepped down from the carriage, her gaze, like an arrow dipped in ice, immediately fixed upon the two donkeys leisurely munching on grass.
The Gray Donkey seemed to sense something, raising its head and braying twice, its sound tinged with unease.
The Witch's face instantly darkened, her already deep wrinkles twisting together like old tree bark washed by a downpour.
In her bottomless blue eyes, a terrifying storm was brewing, seemingly freezing the surrounding air.
She tilted her head and listened carefully. The faint laughter from the tower top pierced her ears like needles—it was Lettuce's laughter, crisp and bright, a sound she had never heard in eighteen years, yet it made the blood in her body nearly freeze.
"Oh... my obedient daughter, how did she become like this."
She squeezed the words through clenched teeth, her voice sounding like rusty metal grating, every syllable carrying a bone-chilling coldness.
She did not look up and call out, "Lettuce, Lettuce, let down your hair," as she usually did. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the window at the top of the tower, as if trying to burn two holes through the stone wall.
Slowly, she pulled a piece of thick hemp rope from the pocket of her black robe. It was covered in dry grass clippings, looking as if it had just been torn from a thorny vine.
With a flick of her hand, the rope shot toward the top of the tower. Its end seemed to have eyes, wrapping precisely around the stone ledge of the window, instantly pulling taut and straight like a black viper.
The Witch grabbed the rope and scrambled upwards, using both her hands and feet.
Her black robe flapped loudly in the wind, revealing the dark undergarment beneath. Her movements were too fast for an old woman; with every upward step, her knuckles turned white from the effort, and her nails dug deep into the rough surface of the rope.
Gwof, of course, saw all of this clearly.
In fact, the reason he had been sitting by the window, seemingly gazing calmly into the distance, was that he was waiting for the Witch.
The fairytale *Rapunzel* he had read in his previous life unfolded in his mind like a faded painting—who was good and who was bad? It wasn't that simple.
Just like the Prince in the story, did he love the princess? Perhaps he did.
When he learned from the Witch that the princess had "died," he actually leaped from the high tower, and even though he was blinded by the fall, he searched frantically in the forest.
But... how much whitewashed selfishness and recklessness were hidden within those vague descriptions of premarital pregnancy?
Gwof's gaze fell upon the climbing Witch, and the wolf ears beneath his hat brim tightened slightly.
He watched the Witch's face, which looked even more ferocious from the effort of climbing—her wrinkles twisted, her hooked nose nearly touching the rope, and her purplish lips pressed into a straight line, getting closer and closer to the tower top.
The Witch clearly saw Gwof by the window, and her bottomless blue eyes instantly burst forth with venomous light, shooting directly at him like poisoned icicles.
"Straw!"
She suddenly roared, her voice carrying a strange, eerie magic.
The moment she finished speaking, countless strands of straw suddenly burst out from the seams of her black robe. Dense and numerous, they rushed toward Gwof with a sharp whistling sound, like cursed needles, as if intending to pierce the intruder through and leave not even bone fragments behind.
Gwof watched the flying straw quietly, his eyes showing no panic whatsoever.
Just when the straw was only an inch away from him, he flicked his fingertip lightly.
A firefly suddenly appeared, its tail glowing with an eerie green light, like a moving star.
Immediately following, an incredible scene occurred—the ferocious straws, like melting snow, shed their hard casings and transformed into countless fireflies.
They flapped their wings, making a faint buzzing sound, and danced around Gwof, illuminating the window brightly, like a chest full of stars had been overturned.
The Witch's climbing motion abruptly stopped, the ferocity on her face freezing, replaced by incredulous astonishment.
She looked at the straw that was meant to kill, now transformed into docile fireflies, and let out a suppressed growl in her throat, like an enraged beast.
The laughter from the top of the tower had long since stopped.
Lettuce stood behind Gwof, looking at the light of the fireflies outside the window, and at the Witch's face—close enough to touch, twisted with rage. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand.
She opened her mouth but couldn't make a sound—the mother she once said she "wanted to look like" now resembled the most terrifying monster from a story.
And the dancing fireflies continued to flicker tirelessly, illuminating Gwof's calm profile, and also illuminating the fear and confusion Lettuce had never felt before.
Just as the Witch was stunned by the straw turning into fireflies, a hand suddenly grabbed the hemp rope suspended by the window.
It was Gwof's hand, which looked no different from any ordinary boy's hand—slender, clearly defined knuckles, neatly trimmed nails, and even carrying the slight frailty unique to a youth.
However, when that hand suddenly exerted force, everyone was stunned.
With a muffled "thrum," the thick hemp rope, capable of supporting the Witch's weight, was suddenly yanked upward and pulled taut, as if drawn by an invisible immense force.
Immediately after, the rope, along with the Witch climbing on it, was hauled up at an unnatural speed, as fast as a shooting star streaking across the night sky.
The Witch had no time to react, letting out only a short gasp before she was slammed onto the stone floor at the top of the tower with a heavy "thump," like a sack being lifted and dropped.
Her cloak was thrown into disarray by the rush of air, revealing the patched undergarment beneath. Her hat rolled to the side, and her wrinkled, hooked-nosed face was completely exposed to everyone.
She lay prone on the ground, her chest heaving violently, a bit of dirt clinging to the corner of her mouth, and her hair plastered to her forehead like messy dry grass, looking utterly wretched.
Yet, there was no trace of cowardice in her eyes. First, she stared intensely at Gwof, her pupils surging with unbelievable fear, which was immediately overlaid by deeper malice, like a wounded wolf glaring at a hunter who had invaded its territory, letting out a low, guttural "hissing" sound.
When she raised her head and saw the group gathered around Gwof—Lettuce clutching her skirt hem, pale-faced; Ben standing with hands on his hips, full of vigilance; Liya hiding behind Gwof, showing only half an eye; Little Bottle biting his cake, forgetting to swallow the frosting in his mouth—the complex stares pierced her like needles, making her gaze even colder, like a knife dipped in ice.
The air at the top of the tower instantly froze, leaving only the Witch's heavy breathing and the buzzing sound of fireflies flapping their wings outside the window.
Lettuce looked at her "mother" lying on the ground, at that face which was both familiar and strange—familiar were the wrinkles around the eyes and the hooked nose, strange was the unconcealed viciousness in her eyes now.
Her hands unconsciously twisted her skirt, and her heart felt knotted with confusion: What should I do? Should I rush over and call "Mother" like before, or... stand with Gwof and the others?
Eighteen years of dependence and the fear of the present moment pulled back and forth in her heart, making even breathing feel heavy.
Ben scratched his head, his gaze shifting between the Witch and Lettuce.
He remembered the story Lettuce told and muttered to himself:
This is the mother who locked up the girl Lettuce?
She doesn't look as powerful as the story described; in fact, she looks a bit... wretched.
But the malice in those eyes is even scarier than what was written in the story.
He quietly tightened his grip on the empty soda can in his hand, thinking that if the Witch dared to make a move, he would throw it first.
Liya hid behind Gwof, secretly observing the hand that had just held the hemp rope.
That action just now was astonishing. Such a thick rope and such a heavy person were easily pulled up by a small hand—it was like watching a magic show.
She quietly swallowed, with only one thought in her mind: Gwof is so strong! Stronger than the strongest blacksmith! With him here, we shouldn't... have to fear this Witch, right?
The cake in Little Bottle's mouth had long gone cold. He stared blankly at Gwof with his mouth open.
The strength that burst forth just now... He shrank his neck, his heart pounding: Ma... Master's strength is actually this great? I only knew before that he could summon candy and turn into animals, but I didn't expect him to have this skill too... Gwof, however, acted as if nothing had happened, releasing the hemp rope in his hand.
The rope fell to the ground with a "pat." He looked down at the Witch lying prone, his gaze under the brim of his hat calm and undisturbed, as if he had just hauled up not a Witch, but merely a sack of potatoes.