CHAPTER 428: WITCH REALM

Few beings in the supernatural world truly understand the magnitude and uniqueness of Salem. For most, it is a whisper in the wind, a forbidden legend told in dim light by fools or entities who, with regret in their eyes, prefer to forget that they once set foot there...

But Salem exists. And it is not far from Earth.

Suspended between the veils of reality and the echoes of the ethereal, the dimension of Salem does not belong to any dimension; it was built on the Ley Lines of the World Tree, Yggdrasil. It is a realm unto itself, isolated and protected by layers of arcane spells so ancient that their authors have long since dissolved into the ether. Its sky is deep blue, adorned with moving constellations and enchanted moons. But it is when night falls—if time really flows there—that Salem reveals its true splendor.

At the heart of the dimension stands the most imposing structure ever created by arcane hands: the Royal Castle of the Witch Queen. A colossus of dark crystal and living silver, its towers reach the limits of the firmament, connecting with rings of pure magic that float around the night sky like celestial serpents.

The structure is not anchored to the ground. It rises subtly, levitating above a circle of ancestral power, generated by the very essence of the first Queen. Spells engraved in pulsating runes shine on its surface, breathing an energy that reverberates throughout the kingdom.

Guarded by magical entities, ethereal spirits, and sentinels of maana, the castle is the living throne of Seris, the current Queen of Witches. An eccentric and ancient woman who decided to use her arcane knowledge to build her own kingdom to protect witches.

Below the castle—or perhaps beside it, depending on how one views the geometry of Salem—is the Floating Continent, where witches live, work, and build their routines.

Formed by a hive of suspended islands connected by enchanted bridges, floating trails, and dimensional portals, this is the true social heart of Salem. The buildings extend across the entire expanse of the sky, made of golden crystal, living wood, and solidified magical matter. Gardens that float on their own, libraries that reconfigure themselves according to the reader’s thoughts, cafes where time slows down, and markets where you can buy everything from arcane ingredients to bottled stars.

Each witch has her tower, her space, her life. And they all contribute to the balance of Salem.

And in the center of the Floating Continent lies the legendary Salem Market, also called the "Heart of Witchcraft."

Always open—because in Salem, the concept of time is flexible—the market pulsates with life, colors, and smells that defy logic. Floating stalls sell scrolls sealed with runes from another dimension. Living shops—yes, shops that literally breathe—offer rare spells, magical weapons, potions, monster ingredients, and mystical contracts.

But the currency here is not gold. Not only gold.

Exchanges can be made with memories, blood promises, future moments, or, for the more traditional, Pact Crystals — small enchanted fragments that represent fulfilled magical contracts.

Salem’s economy revolves around Magical Contracts, a highly regulated system managed by the Conclave of 13 Traditions, a council of elder witches led by Seris.

When a witch wishes to perform a job, she registers her name on an official rune and magically binds herself to the contract. The contract may be a request from other dimensions — yes, beings from other worlds can request the services of a Salem witch, provided they have the means to pay — or even internal services, such as protection, artifact creation, arcane investigations, or curse casting.

These contracts vary in complexity and risk. The greater the challenge, the greater the reward... and the prestige.

It is common to see young witches walking the streets carrying burning scrolls, indicating an urgent contract. Others prefer to summon mounted beasts or living broomsticks to quickly traverse the floating corridors of the continent.

Upon fulfilling a contract, the witch receives a Pact Crystal, which records the essence of the sealed agreement. These crystals can be exchanged for goods in the market, used as offerings in rituals, or accumulated to gain status within Salem.

In the end... It was all about money, really... It may seem cute, exchanging such things, but all of it is worth only... Dollars.

Actually...

"I’M RICH!!!"

The scream tore through the air like an explosion of arcane fireworks.

Angeline Fortune, a witch with pink hair tied in floating buns and sparkling golden eyes, jumped up and down in the middle of Salem Market’s main street with an expression of pure ecstasy. She held in her hands a Pact Crystal the size of an apple—something extremely rare, a sign of an extremely dangerous... and highly lucrative contract.

"HAHAHA! THIRTY-TWO CONTRACTS THIS WEEK! SUCK IT, JEALOUS BITCHES!"

She spun around in circles, making her enchanted dress shine like a drunken supernova.

Across the floating road, a witch in a navy blue hood—clearly exhausted and covered in magical soot—raised her hand in disgust.

"SHUT UP, YOU INFLATED SLUT!"

And she threw a magical water sphere directly at Angeline’s face.

But Angeline was no amateur. With the grace of someone born with enchanted reflexes, she spun in the air, caught the water ball with her bare hands, and transmuted it into a ball of corrosive mud, hitting back:

"FUCK YOU, SLUT! RANK S CONTRACTS ARE NOT MADE WITH THE TEARS OF THE DEFEATED!"

The attack flew back, hitting a potion tent that immediately shouted:

"YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS DAMAGE, YOU DEMONS!"

The scene was common in Salem.

Witches driven mad by magical rewards, social status, and, above all, money. Yes, money. Despite its mystical veneer, Salem was a boiling cauldron of ambition. And nothing made the economy spin faster than the hunger for prestige and power.

In the center of the market, a living tower—made of pulsating wooden columns and tentacles of mist—projected a magical screen with the weekly contract rankings. There were the names of the richest witches of the week, those who had made the most pacts, collected the most Crystals, or delivered high-risk missions.

Angeline Fortune now appeared in second place, just below a mysterious witch named "Nóctua."

"SECOND PLACE? BUT I BLOW UP A MINOR GOD!!!" Angeline shouted, unconvinced.

"And she sealed a Primordial with words alone..." murmured a voice in the background. "She used pure linguistic enchantment... she didn’t even need a catalyst."

"Lies! That’s marketing! That’s fake news about magic!"

Angeline was now indignant. "I HAD TO SELL MY ETHERIC KIDNEY TO PAY FOR THE PORTAL!"

Greed was not subtle in Salem. It was stamped on faces, engraved in gestures, spat out in spells.

Younger witches jostled in front of the stands to sign risky contracts, while the more experienced negotiated complicated clauses with entities that seemed more smoke than flesh. It was normal to see a witch with her hands burned for trying to cheat on a contract, or another with her soul partially displaced for accepting a clause without reading the fine print.

At the top of a floating grandstand, a saleswoman shouted:

"VITALITY POTIONS! THREE FOR ONE PACT CRYSTAL OR TWO PROMISES OF TRUE LOVE!"

Another, on the opposite side, held up a box with shining eyes:

"FRAGMENTS OF FALLEN GODS! SO NEW THEY STILL PRAY FOR SALVATION!"

It was the kind of place where you could buy a blessing of immortality for a well-kept secret... or sell a piece of your own sanity for a chance to climb the ranks of the best contractors.

The witches of Salem moved between glory and ruin with the same ease with which they exchanged spells. For some, it was just business. For others, it was an addiction.

And for many... it was survival.

Automated brooms floated through the market sky, carrying pending contracts. Others brought rewards directly from missions: dragon eyes, manticore wings, cursed prisoners — all sealed in magical spheres that spun in ominous silence.

In the midst of it all, a young witch, clearly a beginner, stared wide-eyed.

"...They’re all crazy..." she whispered.

"No, rookie," said a lady next to her, smiling with dentures made of magical quartz. "They’re ambitious. The crazy ones are the ones who can’t get a contract and try to leave here owing magic..."

The old woman looked up at the sky, where a miniature soul screamed inside a bubble: "I’LL PAY! GIVE ME ONE MORE WEEK!"

"...and then they end up like this."...

Looking at all that madness... witches screaming, potions exploding, contracts flying, and a tent literally on fire while dancing to extinguish the flames...

Morgana let out a restrained sigh.

She gently squeezed his arm, nestling closer amid the magical confusion.

"I admit... this wasn’t exactly the spectacle I wanted you to see first," she murmured with a half-smile, her tone somewhere between irony and slight embarrassment. "But... welcome to Salem."

At that moment, the world stopped.

Literally.

The sound ceased as if a cosmic force had sucked the air out of Salem. Spells froze mid-cast, tents stopped spinning, even the contracts floating in embers went out, hovering motionless in space.

Silence.

Thousands of eyes—witches, magical entities, floating beings, and even a talking house that was arguing with its roof tile—turned in unison.

A collective gasp.

"...MORGANA IS BACK!!!"

The cry echoed in unison, laden with surprise, excitement, and... dread.

Witches began to run as if they had seen an ancient dragon. Others knelt down to hide. Some waved timidly with trembling hands. Vendors quickly hid dubious potions under the counter, while apprentices choked on their own brooms.

A young witch fainted with a sigh: "She’s more beautiful than in the legends...!"

Angeline, who was still in the middle of combat, froze, her hand still holding the water ball she was about to throw back.

"...holy shit."

She dropped the spell, quickly cleaned her clothes, and quickly fixed her hair while trying to look like someone who hadn’t just called another witch a "slut" in public.

Morgana watched the scene before her as if she had returned to an old house only to find it... exactly as she remembered it. An enchanted chaos of shouting, respect disguised as madness, and of course — witches being witches. She let out a deep sigh, somewhere between exhaustion and relief.

At her side, Vergil smiled with that sharp half-smile he had carried with him from hell.

"You’re quite popular," he commented, his voice deep, almost provocative.

Morgana quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. The icy composure she normally exuded faltered for a moment.

"D-don’t say that...!" she muttered, trying to hide the blush that insisted on rising.

And that was enough.

The hundreds of witches standing in the market, still stunned by the return of the living legend, now turned their eyes from Morgana to Vergil. And then back to Morgana. And again to Vergil. Like a synchronized ballet of suspicion, gossip, and pure female instinct for gossip.

A dramatic pause.

"...Is Morgana... in love?"

The whisper ran through Salem like a spell of fanfare. A spark that lit a bonfire.

"WHO IS THE STUD?!" shouted a witch from the back, climbing onto a broomstick to get an aerial view of the gossip.

"IS IT HIM?! IS THIS MORGANA’S MAN?!"

"HOW MANY KARMA POINTS DOES HE HAVE?!"

"SOMEONE CHECK IF HE’S STERILE OR FERTILE, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE—"

"I BET 30 CRYSTALS HE’S A DEMON!"

"YOU GUYS ARE CRAZY, HE LOOKS LIKE A WILD SWORDSMAN, THAT’S CLEARLY HALF-ANGEL DNA!"

Vergil just raised an eyebrow, looking around as if he were in a theater of the absurd. "Are they... always like this?"

Morgana covered her face with one hand. "Not when they’re sober. But... no one in Salem has been sober since 1200 BC."

Some witches had already conjured magic mirrors to broadcast the scene live to other distant circles. A small group formed a makeshift altar with petals and runes around an image of Vergil, chanting: "The Husband of the Red One... the Chosen One of the Crimson Spear..."

"SOMEONE TELL THE QUEEN! MORGANA FINALLY FOUND A MAN!"

Vergil crossed his arms, arching a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll kill you all with one blow if you continue," he said, smiling with his eyes closed, and everyone stopped...

"Ah, yes. You must not know me. Strange, isn’t it?" Vergil asked, looking at Morgana. "Tell them who I am," Vergil said...

"Th-that’s... Lucifer... Vergil Lucifer... the Fifth Demon King..." Morgana said, and the witches began to faint.