The Witch Didn't Raise the Tyrant That Way - Chapter 1: This is How I Raised Him (1)

“What is this?”

I alternated my gaze between the letter in my hand and the boy standing before me.

“A request for poison? Use this child for your research…?”

This child, then… My eyes naturally drifted past the letter to the boy.

Could he be ten years old? His collar jutted awkwardly, likely from being dragged here by the scruff of his neck. His shirt and shoes were filthy, as if he’d rolled on a dirt floor, and his hair was a tangled mess resembling a bird’s nest. Despite the fine quality of his clothing, suggesting a high social status, it seemed he hadn’t been treated with the respect befitting his rank on the journey here. The fact that his eyes were blindfolded and his hands tied already spoke volumes about how he was regarded.

I didn’t even need to scrutinize his appearance to understand the situation. The contents of the letter alone made it abundantly clear this boy wasn’t brought here with any good intentions.

“So, you’re saying… you want me to use this child as an experiment subject for poison research?”

Stunned, I turned to face the person who had brought the boy here. The man, towering over me by at least a head, looked to be a knight—judging by his attire, likely one from a major estate. His helmet obscured his entire face, exuding a clear message that he had no intention of communicating openly.

I already had a vague idea of where he came from and who the boy might be, but the absurd brevity of the letter left me wanting further explanation. I stared intently at the man, as if trying to see through the visor of his helmet. Finally, a deep, muffled voice seeped out from behind the metal.

“I heard rumors that you made a pact with a demon to master herbal alchemy.”

“Uh…”

That’s what the previous owner of this body had boasted about. None of it was true, though.

‘For heaven’s sake, demons don’t even exist in this world!’

The man must have mistaken my silence for an admission of guilt, as he said nothing further. Instead, he rummaged through his pack and flung something onto the ground. It didn’t arc but fell straight down, its weight evident.

From the glint inside, it was unmistakable—a pouch of gold coins. And not a small amount, either.

“The deadline is lifelong. No need for a confidentiality agreement… No one would believe the word of a witch anyway.”

The disdain in his tone was palpable. Although his eyes remained hidden behind the visor, I could sense his contempt clearly enough. It wasn’t the first time I had encountered such looks since coming into this body.

“Then, I’ll leave it in your capable hands. No trouble, understood?”

With those words, spat out as if he were chewing on them, the man nudged the pouch toward me with his foot before turning on his heel and walking away. His heavy, disciplined footsteps cut through my precious front yard as he disappeared beyond the gate.

‘…You didn’t even bother to hide your allegiance, did you? No emblem, sure, but you might as well have announced it.’

I clicked my tongue silently, watching his retreating back. The nobles’ disdain for forest dwellers like me was so deeply ingrained that even a supposed request came with such arrogant condescension.

As I shook my head in disbelief, the sound of hooves echoed beyond the path. A horse neighed, and its hooves thudded rhythmically against the ground. Startled birds flapped their wings and took to the skies, their cries reverberating briefly before silence fell once more.

I let out a long sigh, finally shifting my gaze to the child before me. He was trembling, shoulders quivering as he crouched on the ground, his eyes still blindfolded.

He barely reached my chest in height. With his head bowed low, the only part of him I could see clearly from this angle was the crown of his head, where his hair had matted into clumps. It seemed it had once been neatly trimmed, the length consistent throughout. But after days of neglect and exposure to filth, it was now disheveled and unkempt.

“Hey, you.”

The boy shuddered, a soft sob barely escaping his lips, as he held his breath, frozen in fear. In the pitch-black darkness of his blindfold, my sudden grip on his frail shoulder must have felt like the world closing in on him.

“…So thin,” I murmured.

“…”

A faint, fractured sob caught in his nose. I had only commented on how bony his shoulder felt, but he must have thought I was sizing him up to devour him, like a witch appraising whether he had enough meat on his bones.

It wasn’t surprising, given the circumstances. Dragged around for days by that imposing, taciturn knight, only to be abandoned at the doorstep of a witch infamous for terrifying rumors.

And as a test subject for poison experiments, no less.

Yes, that was the reality for this boy.

If this body’s original owner were still in control, the poor child’s fears would have been entirely justified.

But I’m not her.

It would take time to ease his wariness. If he was who I thought he was, his misfortune hadn’t begun today or yesterday; it was the steady companion of his life.

“I’m going to take off your blindfold now, but keep your eyes closed. The light will be too harsh for you otherwise,” I said gently.

Hearing my voice so close startled him again, his whole body flinching.

Without waiting for a response, I reached around the back of his head to untie the knot, working slowly and carefully. The knot was so tight—clearly the work of the knight—that I eventually had to resort to cutting it with a pair of iron scissors.

Snip, snip. The sound of the metal blades brushing his hair made his shoulders scrunch even tighter.

At last, the thick blindfold came off, revealing the boy’s face, his eyes still clenched tightly shut, so tightly that wrinkles formed across the bridge of his nose.

…Beautiful.

I bit back a reflexive gasp, not wanting to startle him further.

Contrasting with his black hair, his skin was pale, almost luminous. His long, thick eyelashes framed his tightly shut eyelids like mink fur, delicate and striking. His slightly parted lips were soft and red, like the petals of a flower.

Though his cheeks were gaunt—far too hollow for a child his age—his features were so exquisitely refined that he resembled a porcelain doll.

His strong, straight eyebrows, smooth forehead, and high, defined nose hinted at a noble lineage and a future as a strikingly handsome man.

Setting the scissors aside, I crouched down to his level and extended my hand to shield his face from the light. Even through his closed eyelids, the difference in brightness seemed to register; the wrinkles on the bridge of his nose began to ease.

“You can wait here until your eyes adjust to the light,” I offered softly. “Or, if you’d like, you can hold my hand, and I’ll guide you inside. It’s darker in there.”

“…”

“Or,” I added with a hint of mischief, “would you rather I carry you?”

“N-no…!”

The child cried out urgently. The voice, which I was hearing for the first time, was hoarse. Likely, they hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, nor had they screamed.

“The first memory of their life is witnessing their mother collapse from poisoning. They’ve swallowed their pain for their entire life… That was the setup, wasn’t it?”

At that moment, the child’s long, dense lashes trembled slightly before they managed to lift their eyelids. Even with the shadow I had cast to shield them, the light seemed too overwhelming. Their eyelids fluttered and closed again repeatedly before they managed to keep them open for a moment.

“…Ah.”

What appeared were crimson irises, as though the rarest ruby in the world had been embedded in their gaze. The deep red glowed even in the shadow, as if saturated with the purest blood of a noble soul.

“Pigeon blood… the symbol of the royal family.”

Recalling the child’s status, I swallowed dryly. It wasn’t easy for them to adjust to the light after days without it. Their pupils reflexively glistened with tears, and the heavy eyelids kept closing over those beautiful eyes.

Mesmerized by the sight of those fleeting, resplendent irises, I gently asked for final confirmation.

“What’s your name?”

“…”

The child didn’t respond right away.

That was understandable. This world had a superstition that witches could curse someone if they knew their name. But I wasn’t asking out of mere curiosity—I wanted to confirm what I already knew. So, I murmured the name of the protagonist I had struggled to remember not long ago.

“Could you be… Kyle?”

“Gasp…!”

The child sharply inhaled, as if choking.

“W-w-w-witch…!”

“…”

“H-how could you…!”

The child—Kyle—flinched violently, instinctively raising their hands to shield their face. They seemed desperate to run but were unable to, their legs too weak to obey. Their crimson irises trembled in terror beneath wide, tear-rimmed eyes.

Yes, of course. It must be frightening to hear your name spoken out loud by a stranger who shouldn’t know it.

But it’s not because I’m a witch that I know it.

Knowing that Kyle wouldn’t trust me right now, I decided not to waste energy correcting their misunderstanding.

“You’ve finally opened your eyes.”

I grinned and stood up. My shadow fell over their face in place of my hand, which I’d used earlier to shield them.

“My name is Lilithea. Follow me.”

To show that I meant no harm, I smiled brightly and turned toward my cabin. I didn’t forget to pick up the scissors and pouch of gold coins I’d left on the floor. Adjusting my stride carefully so they wouldn’t hesitate to follow.

“If I try to cut the ropes binding their hands right now, they might panic and get hurt. First, I need to bring them inside and ease their guard.”

But Kyle didn’t follow me so easily.

Well, that made sense. A child who had grown up with betrayal as a constant companion wouldn’t easily step into a witch’s house. In fact, it would have been more concerning if they had. I left the front door of the cabin wide open and headed toward the kitchen. The sweet, buttery aroma of the apple pie I’d left baking in the oven wafted through the air.

Perfect timing. They must have been starving after days without food—time to lure them in with something tempting.

I took the apple pie out of the oven and placed it on the dining table, where it was visible from the doorway. Sure enough, Kyle had crept closer, peeking inside with wide, suspicious eyes. No doubt they were confused—a witch who appeared younger than expected and was acting friendly toward them? It must have been unsettling.

Like a stray cat, I thought as I caught a glimpse of their crimson eyes, torn between caution and hunger.

I sprinkled some cinnamon over the pie with an exaggerated flourish and began slicing it into large pieces. I took one, placed it on a plate, and set it just outside the door along with a glass of milk. The moment I moved back, Kyle, who had been hiding nervously, returned to the doorway and peered at the offering.

“Look,” I silently communicated. “I’m eating the same thing as you. This milk I’m drinking? It came from the same jug as yours. There’s no poison.”

I took a deliberate bite of the apple pie and a sip of the milk, savoring the rich, tangy sweetness of the stewed apples and the comforting warmth of the cinnamon.

Doesn’t it look good? It really is. Come on in and have some.

I kept my expression calm and casually enjoyed the treat, though inside, I was far from at ease.

…So, the male lead has finally come to my house.

I sighed and gulped down the fresh milk like it was bitter liquor.

That’s right.

This world was the setting of the last novel I had read before I died in my previous life. The problem was that in the story, “Lilithea”—the character whose body I now inhabited—was burned at the stake about a decade from now. And the one responsible for that fate? The stray cat-like child before me, who would later reclaim his royal status, bathe the kingdom in blood, and ascend the throne as a tyrant, exacting vengeance on me.

To be fair, Lilithea’s fate was well-deserved.

The original Lilithea had enslaved the pitiable child, whipped him at the slightest provocation, and forced him to ingest or apply strange concoctions, all under the pretense of fulfilling the twisted requests of clients who sent her letters. Worse, she had treated his body as a testing ground for experiments in human regeneration, inflicting countless injuries. To Kyle, Lilithea had truly been a witch in every sense of the word.

In the story, Kyle eventually escaped from the witch’s cabin when he was older, slaughtered his stepmother and half-siblings who had abandoned him, and usurped the throne from his neglectful father. Naturally, his dubious claim to the throne incited rebellion, which he ruthlessly crushed, heralding the era of the tyrant.

The witch hunts marked the beginning of his reign of terror. The first victim? The witch Lilithea, who had abused him, egged on by his stepmother, the dethroned queen.