Luxe village - a talented newborn

The rejuvenated village welcomed Sigurd with a surreal embrace. Once thick with the sour stench of death and rotting meat now carried a sweet fragrance that masked the remnants of past decay.

Along the village path, vibrant flora fluttered in the wind. However, Sigurd noticed he brought an eerie stillness to the vibrant blooms—as if the very essence of life recoiled in his presence.

As he walked alongside the witch, villagers peered cautiously from behind their homes. The expressions ranged from awe to fear, and their gazes were a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

Many shared the witch's features. With long ears and silver hair, unmistakable signs of being a witch—or elves, as the villagers preferred to call themselves. 

The others had small ears and lacked silver in their hair, which the church labelled fragmented. Then, the other witches named them half-elves.

'Do I belong here? One of the same knights that took their lives in the past?'

"You appear conflicted, newborn." the witch spoke, her alluring voice echoing gentleness and strict wisdom.

Sigurd couldn't escape the weight of his past, the haunting memories of battles fought in the name of a church. These memories now condemned him. The villagers' gazes, a mix of interest and fear, intensified his internal turmoil.

As they reached the heart of the village, a gathering of elves awaited.

Elders with silver hair, their eyes carrying the weight of ancient wisdom, stood alongside younger ones who bore the scars of the church's prejudice.

The residents restricted the half-elves from standing in the village at the meeting. However, they didn't stop them from taking votes.

"What's happening?" 

"You are being judged, newborn."

'Even after being reborn as a monster, I am to be judged by others?'

The moment his emotions began to swell and conflict, the strange feeling of power within his abdomen trembled as if to break free.

It seemed the witch didn't need him to stand with them. As Sigurd strolled through the village, he found a secluded spot beneath the shade of a gnarled tree.

'It feels comfortable here.'

He could feel something inside him, a dark green energy, an essence of magical power, swirling within his abdomen, responding to the ebb and flow of his emotions.

Sigurd closed his eyes, focusing on the mysterious force dwelling within him.

He envisioned the energy as a river of power, meandering through the channels of his body once seen on a church parchment. The more he concentrated, the more he felt the subtle pulses, like echoes from the heart, creating beautiful ripples within.

"Ngh..."

"Lady Medea... Why bring a male into the village, even revealing our power to those of the church?" 

"Because I saw him."

"Where?"

"In a dream~ a wonderful dream."

In the distance, an elderly woman's voice scolded the witch who saved him, her enormous hat twitching as a cat hissed from the rim. 

'Obey my will, follow my voice and heart.'

Magic was the one element that humanity tried so desperately to understand and wield; only their petty attempt could never compare to the elves, creating even deeper jealousy from the church and monarchs.

His first attempt at wielding the power proved challenging. He attempted to shape the dark green energy into a tangible form with a mere thought.

However, the energy resisted his commands, swirling chaotically and eluding his control. A feeling of intense pain throbbed inside his mind as the energy became like needles attacking his insides.

"Ngh..."

Frustration crept into Sigurd's mind, a sharp contrast to himself as a knight, astute and stalwart.

'No... This isn't me. I will not bend to this magic.'

Sigurd grasped his sword, his rusted blade trembling as he entered a state of concentration again. The black energy filled with dark green flames swirled once more around his body, but this time, he directed the strange energy to his sword.

"This boy might have silver hair, but there is no such thing as a male witch!"

"Not to mention, Lady Medea, the village and flowers speak of terror upon meeting his presence!"

"We must test the boy, for he must display magic within a month. Otherwise, we shall cast--"

The elders' voices faded away as Sigurd focused on creating a blade of darkness, imbuing his sword with the power that flows through his veins. Within moments, his vision darkened until only darkness and a sea of blood remained. 

A strange tree suddenly appeared; it sat at the centre of the sea of blood, with seven withered branches...

However, he felt connected to the first branch as it accepted his power, like the energy inside was feeding this gigantic tree... a small green petal sprouted on the first branch.

"...!" Sigurd gasped, his chest rising and falling quickly as sweat trickled down his brow.

He knelt before Medea and the village elders.

"You are awake~" Medea greeted him cheerfully, her face appearing younger.

"W-What happened?" Sigurd felt his lips dry and tasted copper and iron from his throat before her small hand closed around his lips. Instead of putting a small water flask to his lips, a sweet taste like orange and berries filled his mouth.

"You are a genius, fufu. My dream wasn't wrong... look at your sword, newborn."

Sigurd glanced at his weapon—the metal vibrated, flickering with black energy and green flames, forming a thin layer along the sword's edges.

"You've successfully cast your first spell, newborn."

Medea smiled gently and then turned to the elders. "Now, do you believe me? A prophecy of a male witch, nay a warlock! Now you must believe me! He is the son of greed, I am certain!" Medea's childish tone disappeared, replaced with conviction and unwavering confidence.

Sigurd noticed the elders bowed deeply, muttering under their breaths.

"How can this be... If you hadn't performed the ritual, where could we see? I would never believe it."

"He cast his first spell within an hour?"

"To think he has awakened the power of the first pentagram... what kind of potential does he hold?"

Medea smirked triumphantly. Her red eyes glinted excitedly as she gazed down at Sigurd. Her voice was soft yet stern: "Newborn, you shall remain here and train. I will help you harness that power. So you must help me in return."

"Help you with what?"

A sudden foreboding feeling filled his body, causing goosebumps to rise along his arm. Medea's innocent smile held an ominous meaning—something far beyond Sigurd's imagination.

"Become a warlock and conquer the seven witches of sin~."