Miss Witch Doesn’t Want to Become a Songstress

Under the ancient sky, Hestia moved through the bustling crowd. The cacophony of voices at every street corner filled her ears, while the salty and damp scent of the sea breeze gently tickled her nose.

The songstress, with waves of hair like the ocean, gazed with eyes as serene as water. Her veiled face remained faintly obscured, and her voice stood apart from any modern-day performer. It lacked intense emotional flourishes or obsessive devotion. Amid the crowd, she seemed utterly alone, dwelling in the depths of the sea with only the endless sound of tides accompanying her.

There was no sorrow in her voice, merely narration, yet it drew people in, swaying them like the ebb and flow of the waves.

This beauty neither sought admiration nor relied on worldly acclaim. It simply embodied a calm, personal experience—an appreciation for the vastness and grandeur of existence.

Unknowingly, the song ended, and everything before her faded slowly away. Finally, Hestia awakened from this distant dream of memory.

Once again, she found herself on the mist-shrouded lake. She lay on an enormous ice flower floating on the water, her body gently rocking with its movement. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Rising to her feet, Hestia looked toward the small iceberg in the middle of the lake. Sure enough, the beautiful ghost still sat there, her eyes half-closed.

“Awake?” the figure said as she noticed Hestia stir.

“Yes, Teacher.”

Hestia held deep respect for this ghostly mentor. At first, when she encountered the lake’s phantom, she believed she’d come across a mythical being. The cold aura radiating from the figure, along with her ethereal beauty, stood in stark contrast to the bustling and restless world of today.

As Hestia shared her impressions of the songstress, the ghostly woman nodded.

“Teacher, have you ever witnessed that songstress’s performance in person?” Hestia asked curiously.

“I have. But if you wish to ask which era this was, I won’t tell you,” the other replied, seemingly seeing through the young girl’s thoughts. Her icy blue eyes flickered lightly.

The ghost turned her back to Hestia, her intricate white gown fluttering silently, exuding an illusory grace as she gazed into the distance.

“The era I lived in was so distant from now that I must seal certain memories to keep from forgetting them,” she said.

“But I am not what you imagine—someone who has lived continuously until now. I have slept many times, spending over 95% of my existence in slumber.” She sat on the iceberg, raising a finger to summon ice-crafted butterflies, which danced around before landing on her fingertip.

“I have only been awake for less than 20 years this time, so I understand this modern society no more than you do. Regarding the famed songstresses and prominent figures of the Rose Federation’s history, I know no more than you.”

“Fortunately, music—and history—tends to repeat itself. During my time, there were also extraordinary individuals. I can share their experiences and elegance with you, hoping it may inspire you.”

“Music is much like painting or writing. The heights you can achieve often depend on the greatest works you’ve encountered,” she explained.

“Humans cannot create beyond their understanding. When creating, they unconsciously compare their work to the finest pieces they know, identifying flaws and making improvements.”

“As for surpassing the peaks of those before you, once you reach that pinnacle, you’ll naturally understand why it’s the summit.”

With patience, she imparted her wisdom to Hestia, inviting her to sit beside her on the tiny iceberg. Together, they gazed down at the icy surface below, which occasionally reflected images of beautiful figures.

There were poets strumming lutes by campfires, elven girls singing under towering trees, beastfolks roaring as they beat war drums on the battlefield, enigmatic women dancing on tavern stages, and solitary maidens softly singing under the moonlight.

Hestia recognized that these scenes depicted pre-industrial and even pre-interstellar eras. It affirmed her teacher’s claim of originating from an extraordinarily distant past.

After the visions faded, the ghostly woman continued teaching Hestia about the distinctions between classical and modern music, choosing musical styles, and so on. She concluded with vocal techniques and breath control.

“Because I am a ghost, I’m not the best at teaching you vocalization. You should learn that with your peers and music teachers at the academy,” she admitted candidly.

“What I can teach you is more about the innate gifts of a songstress—how to harmonize your soul, use these talents to perform secret arts, and even suppress your allure to blend into ordinary life.”

“Ancient songstresses had extensive knowledge passed down. For example, the Azure and Crimson Songstresses of the Third Epoch. I happened to encounter a generation of them and learned much, which I can pass on to you.”

“Learn quickly, Hestia. I may return to sleep again in a few years,” she quipped lightly.

“Are you going back to sleep, Teacher?”

“Yes. Having experienced so much, many things no longer feel fresh or interesting. Think of it as skipping ahead in a video—you’d understand that, wouldn’t you?” She conjured an icy harp and gently plucked its strings.

“The same thing, viewed at different ages, evokes different feelings. You don’t need to understand my perspective. Just follow your own path.”

“Naivety, confusion, and hesitation are all stages of life. The songs you can sing in those moments, raw and unpolished, may be impossible to recreate later when you’re skilled and mature. So don’t fret constantly—express what you feel now. That’s what makes a song truly moving.”

“Singing about innocence with raw emotion is endearing. Expressing confusion and frustration touches hearts. Sharing the struggle and joy of overcoming hardship stirs spirits and keeps listeners awake at night.”

“If you always chase ‘perfection’ or ‘excellence,’ you may lose your authentic self. Perfection is simply the emotion and experience of the creator. Trying to emulate it is not only difficult but may erode your self-confidence over time.”

“The most beautiful song is always the one that aligns with your feelings. So, Hestia, what do you want to convey?” the ghost asked as Hestia prepared to leave.

“I don’t know about the future yet. But if it’s about the past, perhaps it would be like a drizzling gray rain. However, I don’t want to sing such a song, even if I know it would be moving,” Hestia replied, shaking her head. She leaped from the iceberg and stepped onto the lake’s surface. Where her feet touched, icy flowers bloomed, carrying her to the shore.

“Goodbye, Teacher,” Hestia bowed respectfully, vanishing into the mist.

“Such a temperament—so much like you back then, though still a bit unpolished,” the ghost murmured softly, sitting atop the iceberg.