Mythos Of Narcissus: Reborn As An NPC In A Horror VRMMO

Chapter 121: Daffodil And The Witch

"I've been waiting for you," the young lady said softly, her voice carrying a quiet anticipation. "The last 6 months since your last arrival was torturous. I hope that you possess enough conscience to not keep me in boredom after I agreed to all of this."

The witch's lips curled into a crooked smile, one that didn't reach her eyes. "Have you now, Daffodil?"

The name hit like a spark in my chest. So, it was true. The young lady was Daffodil. I had suspected as much, but this was the first time it had been confirmed, spoken aloud.

Daffodil's smile widened, her eyes alight with excitement. "What news do you bring from the outside? Has anything changed?"

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The witch moved closer, her steps slow and deliberate, her gaze never leaving Daffodil's face. "Many things have changed. The world beyond this estate is in constant motion. Wars are being fought. Kings rise and fall. The people—" She paused, her thin lips twitching as if amused by some private joke.

"People are always busy with their little lives. But none of that concerns you."

Daffodil leaned forward slightly, her enthusiasm undiminished. "And my family? My mother, my father—are they well?"

The witch's gaze flickered, but her expression remained unreadable. She did not answer immediately. Instead, she raised a long, bony hand and gestured for Daffodil to stand. "Come here, child."

Daffodil complied without hesitation, rising gracefully from her chair and moving toward the witch.

As she approached, the witch produced a small, intricately carved container from the folds of her robe. It was a dark thing, made of black wood and etched with strange runes that seemed to pulse faintly with their own light.

And now that I realized of the arcane trace from the knight, I also noticed some of that arcane dust from the magic that the witch performed.

"Give me your hand," the witch commanded, her voice low and firm.

Daffodil, her eyes bright with curiosity, extended her small, delicate hand without question.

The witch grasped it tightly, her long fingers curling around Daffodil's wrist with surprising strength. She positioned Daffodil's palm above the container, hovering it just inches above the opening. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, she produced a thin, silver knife from her belt and plunged it into Daffodil's palm.

The blade sank in deep, but Daffodil didn't cry out. She didn't flinch. In fact, she barely seemed to notice the pain at all.

Her expression remained calm, almost serene, as the blood began to flow—thick and dark, far more than should have been possible from such a small wound. It poured from her palm in a seemingly endless stream. At the same time, there was no sign that the container was ever filled despite the absurd amount of blood pouring in.

Yet, despite the volume, Daffodil showed no signs of weakening.

The witch watched the blood with a cold, clinical detachment, her eyes narrowing slightly as the container filled. "You're still quite the specimen, aren't you?" she muttered under her breath. "Those blokes of the magic tower are too sophisticated to experiment a little bit on human blood. This is why magical technology barely evolved from the past years."

The witch pulled out her silver knife before thrusting it again at Daffodil's hand on a different spot.

Daffodil, oblivious to the comment, was still smiling, her eyes wide and hopeful. "This is for my mother, isn't it?" she asked eagerly. "You'll use it to help her, right? That's why you need so much."

The witch paused, the knife still gripped in her hand. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady drip of blood into the container. Then she looked up, meeting Daffodil's gaze with an expression that was both tired and annoyed.

"Your mother," she began slowly, "Is dead. So is your father."

Daffodil froze.

The words seemed to hit her like a physical blow, wiping the smile from her face in an instant. Her eyes, wide with shock, filled with confusion, and for a moment, she seemed unable to process what she had just heard.

The witch removed the knife, then attaching it again to create a new hole.

"No," Daffodil whispered, her voice trembling. "That's not… that can't be… You didn't commit to your part of the bargain…"

The witch's face remained impassive. "It's true. They've been dead for some time now. The blood I take from you is not for them. It's for the royal family."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Daffodil's hand, still held by the witch, shook slightly, her knuckles white as she struggled to keep herself composed.

"But… but you said…" she stammered, her voice breaking. "You said it would help them. You promised—"

The witch sighed, a sound full of boredom and impatience. "Our deal didn't include compromising your parent's safety, child. Your mother is already on the brink of death, but why waste all of these precious materials to keep that corpse alive?

"Your father ended up killing himself when he thought that he could take on an entire nation. If not for my involvement with you, you would have already been branded as a traitor of the Emperor."

The witch created another wound.

"But I thought that I'm a precious source of material for you…"

"Your blood is valuable, yes. But not for the reasons you thought. It's needed to sustain the royals. Not your pitiful little ducal."

Daffodil's entire body seemed to wilt at the words. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a hollow, aching grief that I could almost feel radiating from her. She stared at the witch, her lips trembling, as if trying to form words but finding none.

The witch, however, was done. She pulled the knife from Daffodil's palm with a sharp tug, letting the last few drops of blood drip into the container. Then, without another glance at the broken girl before her, she turned and swept from the room, the heavy door closing behind her with a loud, final thud.

Daffodil remained standing, frozen in place. The once-endless stream of energy and curiosity drained from her face, replaced by a hollow, blank stare. Her hand, still heavily bleeding, hung limp at her side, but she didn't seem to notice.

For the first time, I saw her break.

She stood there for what felt like hours, unmoving, her face began to mask a carousel of despair. Eventually, her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, curling in on herself, her small frame trembling as silent tears began to fall.

I watched, powerless, as the girl who had once been so full of hope, even in this strange, eerie place, crumbled before me.

The witch had taken more than her blood.

She had essentially killed her will to live.