Iron Harvest: When Farming Becomes Conquest-Chapter 344 - 17: Netherworld

Roman had dinner, sent for a maid to heat some water, and bathed in a wooden tub to wash away the winter’s chill and snow. Even during his bath, he felt somewhat troubled by the day’s events.

Roman, wrapped in his robe, returned to his bedroom and was surprised to discover that the thick fur blanket on the bed was raised up, hiding the body of someone lying across it, but he could see, by the flickering candlelight and the external snow glow, the dark, blood-red hair spread across the pillow.

"Margaret, how come it’s you?" Roman said.

"Your Highness, I’m warming your bed," the Scarlet Witch replied.

"But where is Shasta?"

"I talked to her. Today, it’s my turn to protect you."

Roman was always surprised by Margaret’s delicately charming appearance, her beautiful face had a girlish look to it, seemingly just in puberty, and she was just over one meter six, not as tall as Shasta’s one meter seven, and her figure and body also resembled those of a live young girl, inevitably arousing a sense of pity.

Her attire, however, was another story. She favored blood-colored clothing, and her eyes and hair were blood-red too, a demeanor filled with dark, dreadful aura.

The maids in the castle most feared interacting with Margaret, worried she would drink their blood. And then Shasta, too distant, was an unapproachable ice queen... These witches were truly problematic.

Margaret pulled the blanket up to her chin, turned to her side, resting on the soft pillow, gazing unwaveringly at Roman.

"I didn’t see you at the dinner."

"You wouldn’t let me have dinner."

"Are you hungry now?"

"A little," Margaret confessed from beneath the covers.

Roman called for a maid, who brought over a tray of snacks, topped with cake, pancakes, milk tea, along with two slices of bread and a small bowl of jam.

"Come and eat something."

"You said I shouldn’t eat."

"If everyone were as obedient as you, that would be great. Come and join me for some food," Roman draped a soft fur over Margaret.

With the tray set on the bed, Margaret silently observed Roman seated at the bedside. He picked up a slice of pancake and brought it to her lips, the thin crisp exuding a sweet aroma. Margaret opened her mouth and gently bit into it; the rich fragrance of the crisp pancake spread through her mouth, followed by the crunching sound of her chewing.

"Margaret, why don’t you dress yourself up?"

"Why should I?" she asked, puzzled. "Witches bring misfortune. Nobody likes me. They throw stones at me, toss sticks, treat me as a disaster. Your Highness, I don’t live for them."

"Then who do you live for?" Roman inquired.

He got no answer. The Scarlet Witch remained silent when she had no answer.

"You have such a pretty face," Roman observed Margaret’s face, now unobstructed by hair, her eyes somewhat evasive.

But Roman cradled her delicate, small face in his hands, not allowing her to look away.

Their eyes met, one pair seemingly silently bleeding within, while in the other pair a brilliant, fiery blaze ignited.

"Margaret, smile for me," he said.

The witch just silently stared at him, her face empty of any smile or other expression.

Roman suddenly realized Margaret never asked for anything.

Shasta followed his orders for the sake of other witches.

Edith obeyed his commands for pearls.

Other Battle Witches heeded her orders because he paid them a salary.

Anyway, they all had their own demands.

Only Margaret never made any requests to him. Just give her an order, and Margaret would carry it out.

"Do you have a goal?" Roman asked as he carelessly placed the empty plate on the desk.

"I’ve considered... going to the Netherworld," Margaret hesitated.

It was obvious she was not satisfied with her own answer.

"The Netherworld? The world of the dead?"

"Not just the world of the dead."

But Roman wouldn’t listen to her explanation; he stubbornly believed it to be a world of the dead, "Why do you want to go to the Netherworld?"

"It’s very peaceful there, no pain, no bloodshed, no killing, no stones and sticks..."

Roman was surprised by her answer and somehow felt less wary of her, with a growing sense of pity.

"Is that what you want?"

"Is that bad?"

Roman heaved a sigh, already seeing her as a love-deprived child with no home to return to, which was indeed the case.

Although Margaret was over a decade older than him, growing older in age wasn’t the same as spiritual maturity; otherwise, the term ’adult child’ wouldn’t exist.

In this age of ignorance and backwardness, everyone had a mental illness.

Roman had a mental illness too, more severe than anyone else’s.

"I heard you mention the Netherworld before, could you talk about it again?"

"The ancient texts, remnants of unknowable dark ages, describe it. It is the final destination for all spellcasters, as well as the ultimate destination for all life. It differs entirely from the world we live in; stepping into it is like entering the deepest fog, where the vast lands dissipate, and boundless oceans retreat. It lies enveloped in shadows yet is deeper than darkness..."

The Scarlet Witch said, "If the gods of the Church Court truly exist, then the Netherworld must be their dwelling, lurking in some corner. It’s an unseen world; some high-ranking spellcasters can’t even sense the existence of the Netherworld, and if they ever touch upon it by chance, others simply assume they’ve taken the wrong medicine or seen a hallucination..."

Roman knew this was normal; witches and wizards often dealt with various herbs and mushrooms, so such rumors were not strange.

Who would believe in the nonsensical, sinister-hearted spellcasters?

If what Margaret said was true, the issue wouldn’t be about belief but rather how the Church Court should burn them and quash the rumors.

She softly said to Roman, "If one day, Your Highness, you die, I will take you to the Netherworld."

Roman was startled, but he quickly regained his composure, "Let’s talk about that after I’m dead. I still have great endeavors to complete."

"Okay." Margaret whispered softly.

Roman couldn’t help but smile wryly at her innocence in taking that seriously.

He thought Margaret needed a spiritual anchor; the Netherworld was her ultimate one. Maybe it was terrible there, but the real world was even worse. Once she reached that world, she would no longer suffer—didn’t that idea sound familiar?

Alas, the Church Court and its believers.

Roman wondered if Margaret hadn’t been a witch, could she have become a hymn-singing nun of the Church Court?

Then again, had Margaret not been a witch, she might not have turned out this way.

Her spells made her incredibly close to blood and death, and the number of lives she had taken was countless.

She was different from those believers.

Those blind believers were passively waiting for a miracle to happen, like gambling their lives on a lottery to heaven.

Whereas Margaret was actively seeking that world, believing her spirit would find release in the Netherworld.

And if given the chance, she would take Roman along.

And to this, he was at a loss for words.

He took off his robe and slipped into the warm bed.

Shasta’s scent had already faded, now filled with another smell—a strange, slightly uncomfortable scent of blood.

Roman didn’t mind the smell; it carried the essence of war and conquest, stirring in him a desire to conquer.

"Why did you suddenly want to replace Shasta?" he asked.

She paused for a moment before responding, "I am here to protect you... to be your personal protector."

Her answer was hollow.

Roman felt that she was longing to be loved.

It was a human need, this apparently young witch had never received care.

And now, what he ought to do was to satisfy her, to fervently pour scorching love into Margaret’s being.