— Prologue —

Once, upon the infinite moments of time...

There was once a long-lived, well-celebrated Sage who said—or was said to have said—

"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent."

However... no one has ever, ever witnessed any solemn proof of his existence.

Not once, not twice, let alone thrice.

Perhaps he existed. Or perhaps he never did. And yet, the entire world still follows the language game he created. Therefore, in a world where magic was usually chanted without any rules, he was the one who gave us a notable reason why we humans should master magic as we do languages.

His name?

No one knows. Not that anyone cares about it anyway.

However, he was mostly regarded as That One Great Sage.

The one who eventually gave rise to the Four Witches of the Apocalypse, to prevent the race wars, monster attacks, and natural disasters that had plagued the world for centuries.

Death. Sleep. Peace. Dream.

Four witches. Four terrible, necessary names. They were called the Four Witches of the Apocalypse, though the name was less prophecy than irony. They did not bring the end; they held it back. And all four were born from one catalyst: Time.

Not Death. Not Sleep. Not Peace. Not Dream. Time.

Time was not a witch. Time was the catalyst of all. The thing that made the other four possible. The thing that made anything possible at all.

It was the first law. The first word. The first silence.

Some say the Four Witches were not his daughters, nor his servants, nor his creations. They were his apologies. Death, because the world had too much life. Sleep, because it had too much waking. Peace, because it had too much war. Dream, because it had too little hope. And Time, because without Time, none of the others could exist.

The Sage never claimed to be a witch. He never claimed to be a man. He only left behind a language. And a question.

Alright, that’s all.

The end.

Okay, never mind.

Sorry, I was kidding. But before that…

Let me begin with yet another story.

Hey... you.

Yes, you.

The one who has witnessed possibilities, reading this useless lore out of boredom. Listen to me just for a few moments. And really, it won’t be that boring. I promise you.

Ready? Alright, here it goes. I have one simple question:

Do you believe anyone can become a witch?

It sounds like a simple question. But it isn't. Because if anyone can become a witch, then failure is not fate. It is choice. Or worse—it is proof that you were never meant to be one.

"You're doing great, Clara."

People told me... anyone can be a witch. Anyone can do anything they want with magic. They were given the ultimate freedom to use it in any way they wanted—whether for politics, military affairs, architecture, inventions, or even medicine. There were no limits to what magic could do.

But every spell had a cost. Every word had a price. The limit was not in magic’s reach; it was in the one reaching. Because the limit of the word is magic itself, and magic always comes with consequences. As for that, though, we can talk about it later. It's too boring.

They told me that magic was a language. That anyone could learn it if they studied hard enough, practiced long enough, bled enough. That the only wall between a person and a witch was time.

So, to put it briefly, anyone can cast a spell.

"Keep going, you're almost there."

"Well done! That's fantastic, Clara!"

Yes, anyone. No matter your background, your skills, or how difficult your path may be. After all, it only takes years of practice and determination to achieve it... right?

"How amazing! She's going to be the greatest witch of all time!"

Right?

"How unbelievable. Clara Iris Inania... She has just lost! Knocked out of this tournament!"

However... we are all, to an extent, doomed to fail under overwhelming expectations. Whenever you increase one skill, you begin to realize how much you have lost as well. After all, there is always a cost to learning magic… especially when it’s forbidden.

The world loves potential. It loves the idea of a person who might become something. But it loves the fall even more. It loves to watch the promising ones stumble, because it makes everyone else feel taller.

"You are such a waste of potential."

But not only that. You could also be regarded as the greatest...

"She could have been the one! Yet she fumbled!"

But instead of fulfilling that potential, you fell short.

Just a single step away from your own greatness.

"Look, there she is. The Potential Witch."

"My, my. What a joke."

Failing to live up to their expectations.

Becoming known as the greatest that never was.

"Don't worry. You'll get it next time."

"She's still trying? How pathetic."

Once, I was like that as well. It was said that I would be the one who brimmed with potential.

Though, until now... I have had no idea what kind of potential.

I just know for sure that I'm an intelligent and diligent person.

"I believe in you, Clara. No need to rush."

"I know that one day... you can fulfill your potential. Trust me."

They said that I would defeat the enemies of witches easily. Effortlessly. Until...

"She froze. Damn, she always freezes. What's wrong with her?!"

It wasn't that I didn't know the spell. I knew it. I had practiced it a thousand times. But when the moment came, my mind went blank. My magic went wild. The spell twisted in my mouth and came out wrong.

"Wait, is that a frog?!"

"She turned cooked food into frogs!"

"My sword is now a rose?! How?!"

My talents... were nothing but wasted.

Unwanted.

I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be enough. But wanting is not a spell. Need is not a talent. And potential is not a promise.

But at least dreams never betrayed me.

Not even once.

Dreams never asked me to be great. They never asked me to be the Potential Witch. They just let me be Clara.

And maybe that is why I still wake up. Not because I believe I can become the greatest. But because I refuse to let the dream die before I do.

...