The Witch Was on the Hill of Shirano: EP-03

EP-03: False Victory, The Final Arrow

Three days had passed since the wind stopped.

A battlefield is a strange place. Even without a clear victor, if the number of dead is high enough, an atmosphere that something has "ended" simply hangs in the air.
Ever since she disappeared, that atmosphere of an "ending" had been present on the front lines from the very beginning.

The Kingdom's army camp was now wrapped in silence.
There were no voices of encouragement, nor were there any shouts of abuse.
No one whistled, and no one gathered around the campfires.

The one who had been at the center of it all—the "Witch"—was considered dead.

What were passed down as her belongings were a soot-stained Arondight, a scorched battle garment, and an unidentified corpse found nearby.

That was all that spoke of the final moments of the "Witch of the Kingdom."

Everyone had lost their words.

The commanders continued to issue orders calmly.
But the soldiers' eyes were hollow, and their responses lacked strength. Like beasts that had lost something, they ate, slept, and repeated the same routine.

Amidst all this, only one person—he alone—remained standing.

An archer. The man who had once fired arrows by her side.

“...Rear guard, move three feet to the right. Block that depression.”

He gave orders concisely, without making eye contact with anyone.
There was no emotion in his voice, yet his words carried a strange weight.
The soldiers followed that single word quietly, and the command flowed out across the battlefield.

However, it was not a command.
It was as if he alone was carrying and moving the "something" that had been lost.

At night, he was alone at the edge of the encampment.

There was no campfire, nor was there any cooked food.
He gnawed on dried meat while staring intently at the ground.

At his feet lay a crudely wrapped cloth bundle.

Warm porridge that had been intended for someone.
But the person to whom it should have been given was no longer here.

“...If you don't eat, you'll just die.”

A murmur, directed at no one.

The wind swept it away, and no one answered.

A few days later, an anomaly occurred on the front lines.

An individual calling themselves the "Black Knight" appeared among the enemy forces.

Clad in black iron armor from head to toe, the helmet covering their head was devoid of any ornamentation.
Yet, they carried a blade-like silence and radiated a presence that left both friend and foe speechless.

The individual appeared boldly on the front lines and said this:

The voice was low, like clouded iron.
The soldiers looked at one another, speechless.
No one had ever boasted of slaying "that witch" before.

Moreover, their appearance was somehow... strange.

Blood-stained epaulets. A broken spear.
And the sword worn at their right hip—it was a shape that looked familiar, like an imitation.

“...No way.”

Someone muttered.

“Is that guy trying to imitate her...?”

The voice contained bitterness, anger, and a hint of fear.

The archer was not there.

He was deep in the forest at that time.
The old battlefield where he fought alongside the witch—the high ground above the cliff.
The place where she pulled back the wounded soldier with the iron ball's rope that day.

He stood there alone.

There were trees carved with countless sword marks and scorched ground.
When the wind blew, it felt as if he could hear voices from the past.

(It’s strange...)

(Just because you’re gone, everything feels so heavy.)

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

There was a piece of cloth half-buried in the grass.
It was the edge of the witch's battle garment.

He picked it up and, without saying a word, tucked it into his pocket.

A voice that would reach no one, that he would let no one hear.
That would become his "arrow."

The next morning.

"The Black Knight has issued another proclamation."

"If we do not surrender, he says he will burn the city itself to the ground..."

The commanders were forced to make a decision.
Protect the lives of the people, or protect the pride of the army.

But the archer said only one thing—this.

"...You're wrong. He didn't kill her."

Everyone looked at him.

"The one who killed the witch is someone... colder."
"Someone who doesn't announce their name, doesn't show their face, and just fades away."

"That guy is—a fake."

No one could refute those words.

That night, the archer was quietly polishing his arrows.
Beside him were his bow and a new quiver.

The empty old quiver was placed at his feet and gently tossed into the fire.

As if he were mourning something.

The Black Knight's proclamation dealt a decisive blow to the soldiers' morale.

Those who knew her could not swallow the loss,
while the new recruits who did not know her were unconsciously terrified of her shadow.
As a result, the battlefield sank into silence.

"Now that the witch is gone, what are we supposed to rely on..."
No one could answer the adjutant's trembling voice.

Among them, only the archer was silently making preparations.
Around him were a dozen or so hand-picked soldiers.
They were the ones who had once survived thanks to her tactical support.

“We aim for one spot. The neck of that Black Knight.
That is the only place where the armor is weak.”

The red lines and collection of arrows drawn on the map.
They bore a striking resemblance to the formation tactics she often used.

“You lot... can you do it?”

In the silence, everyone nodded.

It was as if that nod alone
was the only rebuttal to the story of “her death.”

Before dawn, fog rolled in.

The white veil covering the battlefield was thick enough to hide their movements.
And their shadows, moving quietly within it, were as faint as phantoms.

“...What kind of orders do you think she would have given if she were here?”

Someone asked in a low voice.

The archer took a short breath and exhaled.

“She would have said... to go out and cause more of a ruckus.
But she also would have said to make sure we come back alive.”

At those words, a small laugh escaped.
It was that thing called “battlefield emotion” that had now been forgotten.

The Black Knight’s camp was not on guard against the movements of the royal army.

No, rather, the fake “victor” was convinced of his victory.
He was under the illusion that this silence was his own achievement.

Then, a single arrow flew.

Even the sound of it cutting through the wind was swallowed by the fog.
But it certainly pierced the seam of the armor.

The Black Knight’s helmet swayed ever so slightly.

“...Who goes there!”

A murky voice rang out across the battlefield.

From the shadows of the grove, the archer nocked a second arrow.
He aimed for the inside of the left knee, the key to robbing the target of mobility.

The released arrow struck home as if drawn in,
and the moment the Black Knight dropped to one knee, the soldiers of the Kingdom army moved.

There were no commands or orders given.
Yet, as if possessed by "her tactics," they automatically formed a formation and surrounded the Black Knight.

Swords sparked and spears bit into armor.
Not every strike was fatal, but they were steadily wearing him down.

Each step they took was the "way of fighting to survive" that she had once shown them.

The archer nocked his final arrow.

And the moment he aimed for the gap in the Black Knight's helmet,
her voice returned to his mind.

For an instant, his fingers froze.

But the next moment, he released the arrow.
It pierced the Black Knight's shoulder, throwing him off balance.

"I won't kill you.
Your 'victory' ends here."

At his words, the Black Knight groaned and collapsed.

It was not her sword,
but her arrow that defeated the "false victor."

It was as if,
the witch who should have been dead had returned to the battlefield once more.

The day the Black Knight fell, silence returned to the battlefield.

It was not due to defeat—
it was a silence like a deep breath, as if "something had ended."

Not a single soldier in the Kingdom army cheered.
That was because it could not be called a victory.

The captured Black Knight would not speak his name.
No matter how much they interrogated him, he answered nothing.
He only stared with hollow eyes, repeating, "The witch is dead."

His appearance was like that of a brainwashed doll,
or perhaps a vessel merely playing out its "role."

"Who... who is this guy, really?"

The adjutant muttered, but the archer did not answer.

He knew that the question had no meaning.

He walked alone to the ruins of their former base—the battlefield where she had last been seen.
Every time the wind blew, the scorched grass rustled and ash swirled up.

Countless impact marks carved by iron balls still remained on the ground.
He walked as if tracing those marks.

(Did you really... end here?)

There was no answer to that question.
However, there was a strange presence there.

On the ground where such a fierce battle should have taken place, there were almost no traces of blood left.

There were scorch marks, impact craters, and drag marks.
But the pools of blood that should have resulted from fatal wounds were simply not there.

“...You even faked your own corpse, didn't you?
Just how far... will you go?”

He let out a soft laugh.

There was neither anger nor amazement in that laugh.
There was only the quiet understanding of someone who had finally 'come to terms' with it.

That night, he built a fire.

He grilled meat, boiled water, and made porridge.

It was not a meal for the living.
It was the 'lukewarm porridge' she had always refused, yet had always been offered.

He poured it into an empty bowl and placed it gently on the ground.

“...Let's meet again somewhere.
Next time, make sure you actually eat something.”

The trees rustled in response to his words, as if the wind had answered him.

He stood up and looked downwind.
Far away, beyond the kingdom's border, past the grasslands, lay a village of commoners.

In a place like that—even if the dead were alive, no one would ever know.

He was certain of it.

The witch is alive.

At the end of the turning point, the story of the "witch's death" had already begun to crumble.
And he was not the only one who saw through it.

One night, among the reports secretly brought back by the kingdom's intelligence agency, there was a description like this.

The kingdom's army brought the victory report back to the country.

However, the name of the "witch" was nowhere to be found in the report.
As if her existence had never been there from the start,
she had been sunk into the margins of history.

A being who once protected her comrades more than anyone else, built the front lines,
shed blood, and stood on the front lines continuously.

Neither her name nor her appearance remained in the records.

The archer quietly withdrew.
He showed no interest in the army's honors or achievements.

He simply took a single map and set out on a journey alone.

His destination was the edge of the country.
He had made a small mark with a pencil on the edge of the map.
There was no village name or road name there.

Yet, he had a conviction.

That she was there.

During his journey, he visited several villages.

In one village, there was a child who had picked up a metal object that looked like an iron ball.
“This is a piece of a star that fell from the sky,”
the child said with a smile, and they had jade-colored eyes.

In another village, there was a woman carefully mending old cloth.
The movement of one of her arms was unnatural, and a villager said, “She might have injured it in the war.”

In yet another village, a “traveling woman” who came to pick up medicine on behalf of someone else was rumored.
“She was strangely polite, but she felt like someone who was somewhat broken,”
the old woman who said that had a gaze filled with a sense of nostalgia.

Everything was a fragment, and it did not lead to definitive proof.
Even so, he did not stop his steps.

Before long, beyond the national border—
at the edge of the map, at the end of a pathless grassland, there was a small shepherd's settlement.

The sky was clear as far as the eye could see, and
beneath it, a woman was stroking the back of a sheep.

Her long hair swayed in the breeze, and
her eyes, holding a pale light, were gazing into the distance.

She was unwinding the string wrapped around an iron ball.
As if unraveling the past, quietly and gently.

And then, she noticed.

Even without seeing him, she knew him by his presence alone.

“...You have come, haven't you?”

Her voice was as polite as it had been in the past, and
yet, it had a ring to it that sounded like she was forgiving something.

He had no words.

He simply approached and silently offered her a cup of hot water.

She took it and smiled quietly.

“This time... I think I can eat it.”

Saying that, she brought a spoonful of porridge to her mouth.

And then, a night that no one knew arrived in silence.

title: "白野の丘に、魔女はいた"
format: "全4話・エピローグ付き"
structure:
  episode_01:
    title: "風と剣と、春のはじまり"
    role: "彼女の黄金期と、癒しの魔法の原型"
    summary: |
      若き聖騎士として戦場に立ち、アロンダイトを手にする。
      淑女でありながら強く、優しい彼女が、魔法と仲間に支えられていた時代。
      だが、弓兵の視線が映すのは、すでに“壊れかけた兆し”だった。
  episode_02:
    title: "魔女の名を授かる夜"
    role: "喪失と狂気の転落、魔法の変質"
    summary: |
      息子を救えなかった悲しみが、彼女を狂わせる。
      魔法は“癒し”から“拘束と破壊”へと変質し、王国から“魔女”と呼ばれるようになる。
      鉄球は敵を砕き、味方をも畏れさせる。
  episode_03:
    title: "戦場に咲くは、白い火花"
    role: "事実上の最終戦、選択と退場"
    summary: |
      最後の戦場で、彼女は一騎当千の敵と激突。
      傷つきながらも、戦友の弓兵に背中を預け、敵を撃破。
      そののち、死を偽装し、姿を消す。
      アロンダイトと、正体不明の死体だけが残された。
  episode_04:
    title: "白野の丘にて"
    role: "再生と継承、静かな救い"
    summary: |
      戦場から逃れた彼女は、羊飼いとして別人のように生きる。
      長く伸びた髪、名を捨てた日々。
      だが、その娘が使った魔法が、かつての“癒し”と同じだったことで――彼女は微笑む。
      魔法は、形を変えても、確かに残る。

epilogue:
  title: "風のゆくえ、花のゆびさき"
  role: "静かな終章と新たな芽吹き"
  summary: |
    娘が自然と“バインド魔法”を模倣したことにより、彼女は理解する。
    過去の呪いは終わり、癒しの力が新しい世代に受け継がれた。
    魔法は“救い”にもなりうるのだと。

themes:
  - 戦と喪失
  - 魔法の変質と継承
  - 女性性と戦士性の両立
  - 母性と静かな再生
  - 偽りの死と本当の生

motifs:
  - アロンダイト（オーパーツ）
  - 鉄球魔法とバインド魔法
  - 弓兵の沈黙と支え
  - 春風と丘
  - 「癒しは魔法でできない」という信念

suggested_continuation:
  title: "魔女の娘たち"
  concept: |
    ・かつて王国を揺るがした“魔女”の娘。
    ・彼女の中に宿る魔法の本質と葛藤。
    ・新たな“魔法の定義”を巡る小さな旅が始まる。
  status: "未定稿"
  hint: "丘の彼方に、まだ物語は残されている。"

#fantasy -fiction
#magic -knight
#tragic -heroine
#motherhood -theme
#light -novel-style
#postwar -healing
#emotional -ending
#magical -realism
#yokootaro -inspired
#arondight -core