The Girl Who Stitched Monsters

Before Isolde left, the route map Orren had given her had been very well planned.

The east wall. The old bell tower. Beneath the third gray brick, there was a gap where the protective barrier had failed.

As long as the teleportation landing point was accurate enough, she could even avoid the first round of patrols.

Of course, she currently trusted only half of anything a crooked merchant said.

The surrounding misty light burst apart, and Isolde slammed heavily into the snow.

Cold instantly poured into her collar. Her throat chilled, and she nearly coughed out loud.

Everything around her was quiet.

Quiet enough that she could hear snow falling onto tree branches.

Isolde slowly pushed herself up. After taking a moment to recover, she raised her head and finally saw her surroundings clearly.

Tall black pines stood all around her, their branches weighed down by heavy snow. In the distance, gray mountain shadows hid behind a thin veil of mist.

The sky was dim, making it hard to tell whether it was dusk or the gloomy hour before a snowstorm.

Gray Dove Monastery should have been nearby.

But this place was absolutely not the “corpse road” Orren had mentioned.

Isolde lowered her head and looked at her palm.

Among the crushed powder was a trace of pale golden holy light, burning her skin red.

Her mind supplied the answer automatically.

The Holy Court’s protective magic array.

No wonder the teleportation had gone off course.

Orren had probably known the barrier would interfere with the landing point. He had simply chosen not to say it.

Creatures like crooked merchants were best at turning “you didn’t ask” into “I didn’t need to tell you.”

Isolde shook the snow from her sleeve and took a few steps forward.

Just as she was about to take out the map and figure out her direction, a low, beast-like growl sounded from the woods.

It was not far away.

Behind her, to the left.

A second wolf howl followed.

This time, it came from the right.

Isolde lowered her hand, and mana slowly gathered at her fingertips.

The wind between the trees suddenly grew sharper. Snow slid from the branches overhead.

A shadow stepped out from behind a tree.

It was a snow-white wolf, enormous in size, with long limbs and a body that nearly reached Isolde’s shoulder.

Its gums bared rows of bone-white teeth. Its nose pressed close to the snow as it slowly sniffed the place where she had fallen.

Then it lifted its head, locked its eyes on her, and released a dangerous growl.

Isolde held her breath and leaned back slightly.

She remembered this creature. The northern frost wolves could not only smell blood and flesh, but also sense lingering traces of mana.

The traces of dark power on her body had been buried deep beneath the unicorn’s sacred nature, but the teleportation stone had leaked the castle’s aura for an instant when it shattered.

She might not be able to hide it completely.

From behind the trees came the faint click of a crossbow being drawn.

Isolde slowly raised her hand.

“I mean no harm.”

A cold laugh came from the depths of the snowy forest.

“That’s what everyone says when they fall right under a frost wolf’s nose.”

A man in a fur cloak stepped out from the shadows.

He was tall. Frost clung to the edges of his leather armor. A short axe hung at his waist, and a long crossbow rested across his back.

An old scar cut diagonally across his face, from brow to jaw, giving him a natural air of pressure whenever he looked at someone.

More figures appeared behind him one after another.

Gray-white cloaks. Rune crossbow bolts. Dark red cord knots.

Northern Witch-Hunters.

The name flashed through Isolde’s mind.

Orren had mentioned them. They specialized in hunting witches, beastmen, necromancers, and anything that “didn’t look quite human but wasn’t properly dead yet.”

The man in front stopped roughly ten feet away.

“Name.”

Isolde’s throat moved slightly.

“Evelyn Hart.”

The man stared at her.

“Identity.”

“Independent mage.”

He examined her.

“You’re a Descender?”

“Descender” was the name the natives of this world used for the suddenly appearing “players.” Strangely enough, they seemed to have long since grown used to this strange race that had arrived out of nowhere.

Some people even believed the Descenders were messengers sent by the gods.

Over time, certain factions and groups had begun actively recruiting them.

Of course, others saw their arrival as an ill omen, or even a form of exile.

Those people neither welcomed nor rejected the Descenders outright. They only watched them from the shadows.

The Northern Witch-Hunters belonged to the second type.

Now that Isolde wore the face from her previous life, this identity was actually the easiest way to stay within the neutral category of players.

She answered, “Yes.”

The man’s gaze turned colder.

Behind him, a young witch-hunter immediately lifted his crossbow. His voice was tight with tension.

“She’s lying! No Descender could cross the northern snow forest alone. She must be one of the Holy Court’s hounds.”

Isolde looked at him.

The young man was not old, probably still in his teens. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his lips had turned pale from the cold.

Isolde looked away.

“I didn’t walk here.”

She slowly opened her burned palm.

“I had a teleportation failure.”

The older witch-hunter narrowed his eyes. When he saw the scorch marks and lingering holy light on her palm, his expression shifted slightly.

“Burned by the Holy Court’s protective array.”

The leader took half a step closer.

The frost wolf followed at once, its nose twitching lightly.

Isolde could feel its gaze slipping past her Purifying Light disguise and digging deeper.

Her back slowly went cold.

Then the man spoke.

“You’re heading to Gray Dove Monastery?”

Isolde did not answer immediately.

Silence for too long would make her seem suspicious. Answering too quickly would sound rehearsed.

She let her lips tremble slightly, then said frankly, “I accepted an escort commission.”

“Escorting what?”

“A person.”

“What person?”

Isolde blinked, her fingers quietly tightening inside her sleeve.

“Someone trying to escape from the monastery.”

The snowy forest fell silent for an instant.

The young witch-hunter’s expression suddenly changed.

“What person? Explain yourself!”

His voice rose, unable to hide its urgency.

The leader raised a hand.

“Colin.”

The young man shut his mouth at once, but his eyes remained fixed on Isolde.

Isolde understood.

These Northern Witch-Hunters probably had not come here merely to steal something.

There might be someone they were trying to find inside Gray Dove Monastery.

Or a body.

Otherwise, they would not have appeared near the corpse road.

She did not continue overexplaining. Lies needed empty spaces so that others could fill them with the information they already believed.

“I never saw the client’s face,” she said quietly. “They only told me to wait near the corpse road outside Gray Dove Monastery. If there was no signal before nightfall, I was to leave.”

Colin gritted his teeth.

“Nonsense! The outer area of Gray Dove Monastery has been sealed for three days. No one inside can get out!”

The moment he said it, his face turned even paler.

The older witch-hunter beside him frowned and snapped in a low voice, “Colin!”

Colin’s finger tightened on the crossbow trigger. His breathing quickened.

He looked as though he was trying to hold himself back, but his chest rose and fell too violently.

“My brother is inside! She must know something!”

Isolde watched him, and something stirred in her thoughts.

It seemed she had stumbled into the truth by accident.

The leader’s voice sank as he looked at her.

“My name is Hervin Hartmann, Northern Witch-Hunter.”

He had finally given his name.

That meant he did not intend to kill her immediately.

“Evelyn Hart,” Hervin said, watching her. “Show me your mage mark.”

Isolde slowly raised her hand, and a faint white light gathered in her palm.

It was the disguise mark she had taken apart from Mina Vale’s class skills. She had pressed it very low and deliberately made the color of the light impure.

Several witch-hunters exchanged glances. Colin’s hostility had not faded, but hesitation flickered across his face.

The older witch-hunter said quietly, “It is a basic mage mark.”

Hervin did not relax.

“There is another scent on you.”

Isolde’s heart skipped.

The hunting wolf gave a low whine and pressed half a step closer.

“I haven’t bathed properly since I came to this world,” she said, raising her eyes to Hervin. “It would be stranger if I didn’t smell a little unpleasant.”

Hervin stared at her for a long moment.

“I remember Descenders usually move in parties. Why are you alone?”

Isolde tugged slightly at the corner of her mouth, revealing a tired smile.

“The party fell apart.”

She did not explain further.

But her lowered eyes and the old scars not fully hidden beneath her sleeves were more than enough for others to imagine the rest.