It probably began when the extra pair of arms started to grow beneath her original ones.

That was when her parents must have decided to abandon her.

When they discovered the lower arms—fully grown within just three months—they tried to cut them off.

They tied her down, forcing her to endure as her father’s saw bit into her lower arms.

Terrified and in excruciating pain, she instinctively unleashed magic for the first time.

Her father and mother were flung backward, crashing into the walls.

Her father was injured. Her mother screamed at her, staring with horror-stricken eyes.

“We should never have given birth to something like you.”

Erfa remembered her mother’s words. She remembered the knives and sickles they held, calling her a demon and demanding that she leave.

When she begged to stay, her mother swung a knife, leaving a deep gash across her face. Only then did Erfa flee the house.

If her own family reacted like this, how could she expect anything different from strangers?

She learned quickly. Stones and sticks rained upon her wherever she went. She was chased and beaten, forcing her to retreat deep into the forest.

Afraid her lower arms would terrify others, she chose solitude.

Thankfully, her natural talent for magic allowed her to survive, even as a child.

With four arms, she could work twice as efficiently as others.

But at the age of twelve, her left face began to change.

Eyes—one by one—started sprouting.

Even she found her appearance horrifying.

So she began covering the left side of her face with leaves.

Alone in the forest, Erfa mastered countless spells without a single teacher.

Her words summoned fire, felled wild beasts, and prepared meals of roasted meat before her.

Yet, despite her mastery of magic, she couldn’t fix her grotesque body—her arms, her face.

One day, haunted by dreams of her parents abandoning her, she resolved to take drastic action.

At just fifteen years old, Erfa repeatedly passed out and woke up again as she tried to sever her lower arms and scrape away the deformities on her left face.

She cauterized her wounds with fire, hoping desperately that when she woke the next morning, she would finally look normal.

But her body betrayed her.

The next day, she awoke to find her arms regrown, and the eyes she had plucked out returned, glaring mockingly at her from her scarred, discolored skin.

No matter what she did, no matter how powerful the magic, they refused to disappear.

For the first time, she felt the desire to learn proper magic—not for survival, but for change.

She wanted stronger magic to rid herself of her monstrous features.

She wanted to be normal.

To live among people.

So when Tower Master orgen stumbled upon her in the forest and recognized her extraordinary talent, inviting her to join the Magic Tower, Erfa didn’t refuse.

She studied obsessively, immersing herself in research.

Her relentless dedication culminated in the Trichromatic Research—a study born from her unyielding determination.

At its core, the research was about optimizing magic, maximizing efficiency.

But on a deeper level, it was a means to an end: a way to harness the unimaginable scale of magic needed to fix her own body.

To be human again.

To live as one of them.

She clung to that hope.

And yet—

“You hideous witch!”

The words echoed in her mind, shattering the dream she had fought so hard to make real.

“Disgusting! Absolutely revolting!”

“Ugh! I’m gonna puke!”

Even if she could return to normal, would they accept her?

Even if she appeared before them as a perfectly ordinary human, would they ever treat her as one of their own again?

Mud, filth, and rotten debris splattered against her head, snapping it to the side.

Through the haze of pain and humiliation, she glimpsed young mages and witches hidden among the crowd, giggling as though this was nothing more than a joke.

Was this a game to them?

Even in this moment, as her soul, her life, and her very sense of self were being torn apart, were they truly laughing?

Why?

Because I’m ugly?

Is it just because I don’t look like them?

She had done nothing wrong—absolutely nothing—and yet this was what they had reduced her to.

A burning rage began to consume her.

Slowly, her overwhelming mana and unmatched talent started to churn, directing the inferno of her fury toward the very people who mocked her.

If she combined the results of her Trichromatic Research with the mana boiling inside her, she could obliterate the entire capital.

No—she could destroy the entire empire.

She was tired.

Tired of clawing for recognition, of striving to be accepted by people who had only ever rejected her.

Her years of struggle seemed foolish now, and she no longer had the will to continue.

If the empire had done nothing but wound her, then she would burn it all to ash.

The mana within her began to boil over, surging with intensity.

The miracle binding her body would shatter in an instant if she unleashed the magic she was preparing.

All she had to do was let it out.

Let it all out, and it would end—for her, and for them.

As she lifted her head, ready to release the storm within her—

“Stop! Stop this at once!”

“It’s the Saint! The Saint is here!”

“Don’t you dare throw anything at him, you lunatics!”

Through the haze of chaos, Erfa’s eyes focused on an unfamiliar sight.

A man, walking toward her.

He was looking at her directly, unflinchingly, as if nothing about her appearance fazed him.

And he kept walking, step by deliberate step, closing the distance between them.

Are we all trying to die today?

The thought screamed in my head as I saw the chaos unfold.

Filthy projectiles flew through the air, aimed at the four-armed witch being dragged through the mud by White Order priests who were visibly overwhelmed.

It was a circus.

A catastrophic circus happening on top of a metaphorical nuclear bomb.

As I saw the so-called harbinger of calamity on the brink of exploding—not just metaphorically—I bolted toward the mess, my instincts kicking in despite every fiber of my being screaming to turn back.

The roads were a filthy mixture of mud, trash, and waste. Modernity had yet to grace this era—no paved streets, no radio broadcasts—just the raw, unfiltered brutality of a society still finding its feet.

I pushed through the crowd, wading into the chaos as people gleefully hurled filth, stones, and bottles at the witch.

And then it started.

Mud mixed with feces splattered onto my clothes.

A piece of debris, or maybe a shattered bottle, slammed into my head, splitting the skin open. Warm blood trickled down my face, mixing with the filth.

I barely noticed.

The priests of the Sun Order, along with some of the police and even the impoverished people I’d been helping earlier, rushed in to shield me from the barrage.

“It’s the Saint!”

“Stop this madness at once!”

“Don’t you dare harm the Saint!”

The mood shifted as the crowd, recognizing me, hesitated. The torrent of projectiles ceased as the mob was forcibly subdued by the reinforcements.

But I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. Not yet.

The witch—this ticking time bomb—was still there, and I knew she was on the brink.

“Stop! Don’t go any closer!”

“She’s an abomination! A bringer of calamity!”

“If you come any closer, we will—”

The White Order priests raised their hands toward me, but they were immediately silenced by the Sun Order paladins forming a protective barrier around me.

“Do you dare threaten the Saint, chosen by the goddess herself?”

“Show respect! This is the Saint, blessed by the divine!”

I’m not a saint!

I wanted to shout it, but my survival instincts overruled my frustration. Any wrong move, any poorly chosen word, could trigger the witch’s explosion.

So I stayed silent, inching closer to her.

“Don’t… don’t come any closer...”

Her trembling voice reached my ears as I cautiously approached.

The priests, perhaps mistaking my expression for divine determination instead of raw fear, faltered. Their hesitation broke the miracle restraining her.

As the bindings fell away, the witch began to collapse into the filth. Without thinking, I caught her.

God, this is terrifying.

Holding her trembling body, I carefully began wiping the filth off her face and arms.

Stay calm. Don’t explode. Please don’t explode.

My hands worked mechanically, like soothing a cat before surgery.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” I murmured, my voice unintentionally shaky. Fear? No—it was terror, thinly veiled behind an unconvincing calm.

Finally, I succeeded in cleaning her face, revealing the mass of grotesque, spider-like eyes on her left side.

Oh, yikes. That’s... yeah.

To my modern, internet-damaged brain, it wasn’t as shocking as it could’ve been. It reminded me of those monster-girl memes or something out of a niche horror anime.

But she didn’t know that.

“Do you... do you think I’m hideous too?”

Her broken whisper made my heart plummet.

Shit. Shit. Shit. She’s gonna blow.

I had no clue how to handle this. My past life hadn’t prepared me for emotionally delicate, magical, explosive women.

In my panic, I leaned down and kissed her grotesque left cheek.

Please don’t explode.

Her body flinched violently. She began trembling even more.

Oh no. Oh no. Was that a mistake? Is she about to go off?!

My brain scrambled for something—anything—to say.

A line from a movie? A book? Anything to defuse this situation!

Finally, a line surfaced in my mind.

Forgive me, Miyazaki. I’m borrowing this one.

“You’re not hideous,” I said, holding her tightly.

“Live.”

Her trembling didn’t stop, but I pressed on, my voice cracking under the weight of the moment.

“You are beautiful.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her face, not out of fear of her appearance, but because I was terrified that even a hint of displeasure in her expression would send me into a full-blown panic attack.

Please. Please. Don’t explode.

Don’t explode.