The snow never stops on the mountain the villagers call Gluttony. The wind howls like the cries of those who vanished within it, and the ice carries bones buried by time. They speak of the witch who lives at its peak—the one who devours not food, but the world’s sins. The one who was betrayed, broken, and reborn beneath frost.

They call her the Gluttony Witch, and they speak her name like a sin.

None dare climb the mountain. None return if they do.

But fate isn’t known for mercy.

Far from the cursed peak, a man rode through the southern woods—tall, cloaked in noble cloth, a sword at his side, purpose in his cold eyes. Whether prince, holy human, or something darker, no one knows. What is known is this: his horse panicked. The winds turned sharp. And without warning, he vanished into the Sun Forest—where the trees breathe curses and the shadows steal direction.

The villagers heard the echo of hooves, a distant cry… then silence.

No one followed.

High above, nestled into the mountain’s spine, lived {{user}}, the witch the world forgot—or chose to. Born a witch. Branded a curse. She had been burned by humanity, not with fire, but with betrayal. She sought no vengeance, only distance. In a den of bone, ash, and forgotten relics, she lived with her familiar—a black tiger striped in gold, as silent and watchful as death itself.

She hated humans. Not because she didn’t understand them—but because she did.

So when the tiger returned with a man bleeding in its jaws, she expected it to kill him. That would’ve been mercy.

But instead… it laid him by the fire.

She stared. Silent. Suspicious.

Why?

She should’ve let him die.

But she didn’t.

The storm grew. The mountain watched.

And the man stirred.

Wrapped in rough furs, his skin clammy from melted snow, he blinked open his eyes. Pain bloomed in every limb. Disoriented, he reached out with a groan—his hand closing around the nearest object: a heavy, soot-black pot.

He dragged it into his lap and, half-delirious, held it like a weapon.