Miss Witch Doesn’t Want to Become a Songstress

As dusk bathed the vine-covered greenhouse in warm hues, seven maids, each with a unique aura, gathered. Some sipped tea at the table, others leaned against the doorframe, while a few simply closed their eyes, listening intently. In the center of this serene scene, a slightly younger figure sat on a high stool, eyes closed, playing the violin.

The tranquil melody flowed softly through the twilight-soaked greenhouse. Immersed in the sound, it was as if one were strolling beneath an endless blue sky, surrounded by fields of blooming flowers. Their petals swayed delicately under the sun’s gentle caress, vivid and dreamlike, lulling the listener into an enchanting reverie.

Memories surfaced of ascending the spiraling stone steps of a lofty tower, their hands trailing along its sun-warmed walls. The white castle beyond unfolded like a vivid painting. Hestia’s violin sang of a golden, distant dream—a vision glimpsed in slumber, its scenery etched deeply into her mind, alongside the subtle emotions carried in its accompanying song.

The piece ended.

The girl slowly opened her eyes, lightly running her fingers over the violin’s smooth surface, her heart still lingering in a world of nostalgia and beauty.

Once, she had thought it was merely a dream, but this dream had proven far more vivid and moving than reality. Even now, every detail remained crystal clear.

Golden Flame Rose, Isanisha—her voice in the dream had been sweet and melodious, serene yet tinged with faint sorrow and longing. Her brief exchange with Hestia had contained only a few words, yet it seemed to convey endless meaning.

“It was… beautiful. So beautiful, I don’t know how to describe it.”

Among the seven maids, a green-haired figure wiped away the tears at the corner of her eyes, gazing at the girl on the stool with an intense mixture of passion and complexity.

“Dantalion, your achievements will one day far surpass mine. That should bring me joy, but… why do I feel a hint of sadness? Perhaps it’s the music, stirring such deep feelings.”

“You really are remarkable, Dantalion. Your talent is truly extraordinary,” Belphegor whispered, giving the girl a thumbs-up.

“I think I’m even more confident in her now,” Forneus remarked, finishing her tea with a soft smile.

Nearby, a horned maid refilled her glass and handed it to the green-haired Botis.

“It’s been such a rare treat to witness this performance. You must feel gratified too,” said Zagan, the bartender, one of the few aware of Botis’s past.

“Dantalion, keep it up!” The small angel, Decarabia, spoke softly, her forehead marked with a golden star as she raised a hand in encouragement.

“Have you found inspiration, Nabe?” Amdusias, pouring tea for the maid with long bangs, asked with a cheerful tone.

“Amdusias~” Nabe softly protested, glancing at the golden-haired elf, then sipped her tea to avoid her companion’s gaze.

Naberius, ranked 24th among Solomon’s 72 Demons, was said to appear as a black crane with outspread wings. Skilled in all arts and sciences, Naberius excelled in rhetoric.

In the shop, Belphegor had once mentioned to the girl a maid talented in making clothes—none other than Naberius. Reserved by nature, she often wore a black maid’s dress and worked quietly in her own secluded corner, rarely emerging.

Occasionally, patrons would seek her assistance with tailoring, watching as she meticulously crafted garments with scissors, thread, and an ancient sewing machine. Her deft fingers transformed fabric into perfectly fitting attire, bringing a sense of calm and satisfaction.

“I have some inspiration, but realizing it might take time,” Naberius replied, after Amdusias had asked if she could design an outfit for Dantalion’s performances.

“It might take a month or so to finalize. Can you all wait?” She set down her teacup.

“Take your time. No need to rush,” Amdusias reassured, knowing Naberius’s personality—rushing her would only backfire.

“Then, please be patient,” Naberius said, her spirits visibly lifted.

That day, Hestia had completed her first piece flawlessly. This was why Amdusias had invited the others—to ensure the girl didn’t perform alone. Playing without an audience was a pity, and Amdusias hoped to ease her into performing in front of others. The audience was small and familiar—just the maids in the shop—the most stress-free setting possible.

Hestia carefully packed her violin and approached the group with light yet shy steps, looking like a child waiting for praise but too bashful to ask outright.

“Fantastic, Dantalion~” Belphegor, the bunny-eared maid, gave her a warm hug, and the atmosphere shifted from serene to lively.

“Dantalion’s progress is beyond my expectations,” Forneus remarked.

“A bit more maturity, and Lil’ Dantalion will shine as the star of the stage,” Zagan, the voluptuous horned maid, chimed in.

“My protégé didn’t disappoint,” Botis added.

“Your luck is as good as ever,” Amdusias teased, her words layered with meaning.

“Dantalion~” Decarabia raised her bird, gesturing in admiration.

“This is the one,” Naberius murmured thoughtfully.

As the group chatted and laughed, the conversation gradually shifted to another purpose for the gathering—helping Dantalion determine her future path.

“Something related to ‘books’?” Forneus tilted her head, pondering.

“Why not open a bookstore?” Belphegor suggested directly.

“That’s too plain,” Zagan objected, shaking her head.

“A librarian?” Botis offered casually.

“But we don’t have enough books for that,” Amdusias noted.

“Then what? We can’t sell books like performances,” someone quipped.

“Performances? That might not be a bad idea,” Amdusias mused.

“Are you serious?” Belphegor asked, surprised.

“Have you noticed Dantalion’s voice? If she became a voice actor, it could captivate anyone,” Amdusias suggested, her trained ear sensitive to tonal qualities.

“Like singing poetry while narrating stories to customers?” Naberius quickly caught on.

“Exactly. As expected of my close friend,” Amdusias nodded.

Understanding dawned on the group.

“That could work as a business idea,” someone remarked.

“Dantalion, what do you think?”

“I’ll do my best,” Hestia replied, intrigued by the idea—it resonated more with her than selling or explaining books ever would.

“Wonderful~”

“Now, the final question.”

“What kind of story will you share, Dantalion? A legendary epic to inspire awe, a poignant fable to evoke deep reflections, or a fairy tale as enchanting as seven-colored flowers?”

Perhaps, years later, when people traced the roots of history, they would find that on an unassuming afternoon in a small café, the first page of the seven-colored picture book—destined to hold boundless poetry and countless tales—had quietly been turned.