Hansel’s Enchanted Fairytale: Fill Me Up With Magic! - Chapter 53
“…If you don’t want to, don’t do it. I didn’t say you had to force yourself.”
“I don’t dislike it.”
Dante simply wanted to understand. No one had ever asked him directly about himself before, and the act of someone trying to get to know him was both unfamiliar and fascinating.
And, to some degree, it felt good.
Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly as he sank into thought. Likes and dislikes—it wasn’t a difficult question to answer.
“Hunters. Taxidermists. Lumberjacks. I hate those three. So I kill them.”
“…What’s the reasoning for that?”
“Anyone who harms what’s mine.”
Hansel blinked, startled by his unexpected response. Seeing her confusion, Dante, in his way, patiently elaborated.
“Protecting what’s mine from intruders. That’s the duty of the owner.”
“Then… why did you try to kill me? I’m none of the things you just mentioned. Why me?”
“I thought you were a mage.”
It was because Hansel had used a staff imbued with offensive magic to save a wolf. Not just once, but several times. To Dante, that marked her as a reasonably powerful mage.
Just as birds instinctively know their direction, Dante instinctively recognized mages. In his territory, the northern forest, any shift in the flow of magic was immediately apparent to him. He could sense whenever magic was used.
He paused, as if the explanation should be sufficient to justify his actions.
Hansel’s heart sank at his unperturbed demeanor. He seemed merely perplexed by her reaction, unable to grasp the gravity of what it meant to have one’s life threatened.
“I hate mages the most.”
Her heart plummeted. His gaze turned icy, far more chilling than before. It was the same piercing crimson light she’d seen the day they first met—a gaze brimming with unmistakable murderous intent and loathing.
Hansel’s lips dried, and her palms grew clammy.
“But even after realizing I wasn’t a mage, you still tried to kill me.”
“You used magic. In my forest.”
Threaten what’s his, and he will attack.
It was a simple principle of action.
Put more plainly: anything that posed a threat within his domain, the northern forest, would be eliminated without hesitation.
Whatever it was.
Hansel’s mouth felt parched. She hadn’t anticipated the conversation taking this turn.
“If… just hypothetically, I regained my memory, and it turned out I was a lumberjack, a taxidermist, a hunter—or even a deceitful mage. If I threatened everything that’s yours… would you kill me?”
“You’re not a mage.”
Someone who didn’t emanate magical energy and found magic itself fascinating couldn’t possibly be a mage.
Dante’s matter-of-fact response landed like a hammer on Hansel’s conscience. Her lips quivered.
It was an inescapable truth.
Even if she succeeded in gaining magic through Dante, it would be pointless. The moment she became a mage, she would be killed. And since she didn’t know exactly when the power would awaken, escaping at the perfect time seemed equally impossible.
She needed a solution—a way to survive after gaining magic, a way not to die at Dante’s hands. For that, her first step was to understand why he killed mages in the first place.
She had to confirm the extent of the threat he posed. Where was the line that defined ‘what’s his’, and what happened if something deemed ‘his’ threatened something else ‘his’?
Hiding her growing tension, Hansel carefully pressed on.
“Do you kill every mage? Without exception?”
“If they enter my forest.”
“So… if they don’t enter the forest, you don’t kill them? What if a mage accidentally wandered in and then left?”
“It’s never happened. But if they leave, I let them go. I made a promise.”
“……”
“With whom? What kind of promise?”
Hansel was desperate. She was trapped, with no clear escape. Whether her identity was revealed or she gained magical power, either path seemed to lead to her death. She thought there was only one cliff at her back, but now she realized she was surrounded by sheer drop-offs. Even the frailest of ropes seemed necessary.
Dante furrowed his brow, letting out a low hum as he organized his thoughts. Unfortunately for both of them, his limited vocabulary made recounting his complex past a challenge.
In the end, as always, he offered fragments of an answer.
“Arsinoe.”
“……!”
