Under The Witch V20250110 Numericgazer

They called the town Under the Witch because, from the ridge where travelers first saw it, a black-roofed spire seemed to broach the clouds like a crooked finger pointing at the sky. Children whispered that a witch lived beneath that spire—beneath the place where the cobbles curled inward and the river ran in loops, as if water itself circled to hide something. Old maps labeled the place simply: Under the Witch. The name stuck.

Mira sold lantern oil and secondhand clocks from a stall beside the market well. She kept one good eye on the rhythms of the town—who borrowed what and when, which doors held their shutters closed even on bright days. Her other eye, a pale disc of glass she’d fitted after a childhood accident, had the habit of waking in the night and seeing numbers where faces should be. It was called a NumericGazer by the tinker who’d made it, and it counted things: seconds left in a conversation, the number of footfalls before the bell, the cycles of someone's sorrow. Mira learned to ignore the quietly glowing numerals that bloomed across shopfronts and soup pots; you could live politely in Under the Witch if you pretended not to notice every sum.

One autumn evening, a paper-thin woman came to Mira’s stall. Her hair was wet with river-spray and her skirt smelled of reeds. She did not ask for oil or clocks. Instead she placed a coin on the wooden counter and said, “I need a thing mended, but not a thing most people can see.” The coin hummed faintly—metal with a voice like remembered thunder.

Mira, who had long ago learned that people came to her for more than repairs, inclined her head. “What is broken?”

“My shadow lost its number,” the woman said. Her gaze slipped toward the spire, where a thin smoke-thread rose. “Everything under the witch is assigned. Names, names in the ledger: timing, counting, owing. My shadow had a ledger line. It slipped. I need it returned.”

Mira’s glass eye twitched. It counted the woman’s words and found them odd but not impossible: Under the Witch, numbers were as real as rain. “I can try,” she said. The woman smiled with no teeth and left her coin like a promise. On the coin, a tiny 20250110 was stamped—an old calendar’s whisper—and a single word, in a language Mira’s glass parsed into a steady 3: NumericGazer.

That night the town hummed with its usual counts: the baker’s twelve loaves, the two dogs at the crossing, the five prayers at the chapel. Outside the circle of lantern-light, shadows gathered their own sums. Mira followed the wet footprints toward the river, where the spire’s reflection folded into water and numbers dangled like fish.

Beneath the witch—if the witch could be said to be anyone—was a cellar cut from a stone older than the town’s memory. Its door had no key but a pattern of numerals etched into its jamb, dancing with a ghost-light only the NumericGazer could read. Mira fit her palm to the stones and, because she trusted the counting more than she trusted memory, whispered the numbers the glass suggested. The door sighed and opened.

Inside, the cellar smelled of forgetting: boiled nettles, old paper, the musky warmth of things that hide. Shelves lined the walls, not with jars or tools, but with ledgers—long, slender books stacked like the ribs of something patient. Each was bound in stitched leather and each page was a ledger of small, necessary truths: the exact number of raindrops that fell on Mrs. Hollen’s roof last winter; the count of times Mr. Ridd laughed before noon; the tally of the chapel bell’s strikes, precise to the heartbeat. A faint light shivered from the ledgers, and above them hung the shadow-threads like clothes on a line, marked with tags: 27.3, 14, 81. The witch—if there was a witch—must be an accountant of fate. under the witch v20250110 numericgazer

“Who keeps these?” Mira asked, though the question had a number already attached: one voice in the room.

“They do,” said a voice that sounded like a bell under water. A figure sat at a small table in the cellar’s center. She looked younger than the town expected and older than the town allowed. Her hair was a tangle of night and newspapers. Where her hands moved, numbers followed like moths.

Mira’s glass recorded the woman’s count and offered a calculated offset: 20250110. The witch—if that’s what she was—tilted her head. “I am an under-keeper,” she said. “I balance what the world forgets to count. Names, debts, whispers. People assume the ledger keeps itself. It does not. Things miscount. Things slip between the beats of the clock. Come—show me the loss you’ve brought.”

Mira held out the coin, and as the witch took it, the room’s numbers stuttered. The witch’s fingers traced a runic sum across the counter. On the ledger nearest them a blank line cracked open like a wound. Where the woman’s shadow should have been a small empty space trembled.

“Shadows are the easiest to misplace,” the witch said. “They’re not quite substance, not quite silence. Their ledgers are thin because people don’t value the small weights. Your friend’s shadow will wander if its count is loose: it will stop at corners, fold under benches, count birthday candles wrong. Tell me the moment the shadow was last seen.”

Mira’s glass supplied specifics: dusk, three steps past the bread stall, the smell of cardamom. The witch nodded and, with a tiny hammer, struck the coin. It rang a pure tone that pulled the numbers from the air like keys from a purse. The NumericGazer blinked and narrated: 1 missing, 3 loose, 20250110 anchored.

“Anchors matter,” the witch said, closing the ledger with a snap that made dust fall like commas. “To bind a shadow back to its person you must balance three counts: the hour, the name, and the promise.” She handed Mira a strip of paper inked with three numerals. “Go to the river fork at moonrise. Say the person’s name into the current. Offer a promise that costs you something measured. The shadow will answer. Beware: promises take numbers from you.”

Mira took the paper. The glass in her eye counted the cost in a way language never could: a subtraction of night from memory, a fraction shaved from a laugh. She thought of all the small nothings that made her whole and decided, because some debts cannot be left uncounted, to trade a weight she could spare: the ability to forget the taste of her mother’s plum jam. Her ledger blinked: loss accepted. They called the town Under the Witch because,

At moonrise she stood where the river split and called the name as softly as a bell submerged. The water curled around her word and returned it once, then again, layered with a new measure: a long soft shape negotiating the stone. From the surface a shadow slid, thin and trembling, toward the bank. It carried the wrong counts like a cloak: it paused twice where a pause should be once; it numbered three steps for the baker’s usual two. The promise unlatched itself from Mira’s ribs—the memory of jam peeled away like skin—and with the final syllable the shadow snapped its tally back in line. Where it joined the woman waiting by the bridge, the coin warmed and the numeric light steadied.

For days afterward Mira’s glass was quieter. It no longer glowed whenever the bell struck; it counted but did not gossip. The witch wrote the correction into the ledger with a small, precise flourish: Under the Witch—entry 20250110—resolution: restored. Mira went back to her stall and to the ordinary arithmetic of trade. People continued to borrow sugar and tell lies about being late, and the town’s rhythms found their old, reassuring pattern.

Sometimes, when twilight pooled in the market and numbers hummed faintly in the rafters, the woman with the coin would come by and leave a small woven parcel on Mira’s counter. Inside: a ribbon, a scrap of paper with a single numeral, a stitch that would keep a clockwork heart from stalling. Once, when a child asked why shadows sometimes frowned at noon, the woman simply winked and tapped a ledger. “They are counting their fortunes,” she said. “Make sure yours adds up.”

Mira never learned the witch’s given name. Labels in the cellar were numbers and ledger lines, not the soft things people called themselves over tea. But on quiet nights, if Mira pressed her palm to the market stone and listened, she could hear the ledgers breathing—page-turns counted in the hush—and knew that under the witch, things were held to account: griefs, joys, favors owed, promises kept. The town did not feel smaller for it. It felt true.

Years later, when children traced the ridge to see whether the spire still pointed crookedly at the clouds, some of them found a small brass coin half-buried by the river, stamped with a date that meant nothing and everything. They kept it as a toy and a talisman and, on certain nights, the coin would hum faintly—only audible if you were listening for sums—and the children would suddenly know, in the simple bright way that children do, that their shadows were not lost after all.

Under the Witch remained a place of accounts and reconciliations. The witch—if she was a witch at all—kept the ledgers balanced with a patient eye that counted what others forgot: the number of times a neighbor forgave, the exact weight of apology necessary to repair a broken lock, the sum of small, redeemable moments. And Mira, who had traded a taste to fix a shadow, kept her stall by the well, telling time for the town and keeping, under the glass of her NumericalGazer, only the numbers that helped people find each other again.

Under the Witch (specifically version ) is a 3DCG adult RPG developed by NumericGazer

. The game centers on a warrior hero who must navigate a world of magic and temptation while protecting his soul from powerful witches. Game Overview NumericGazer A new post-processing option mimics 90s CRT monitors,

is the lead creator, often releasing updates and alpha versions via Pixiv FANBOX

: Players take on the role of a hero who must resist or succumb to various witches. The narrative includes multiple "rooms" or episodes centered on specific characters, such as

: It features a turn-based battle system where "rewards" and "unlocks" are tied to sexual encounters. The game incorporates elements like inventory management, skills, and free-roaming environments. Versions and Availability The game has evolved through several iterations and titles: Under the Witch: Beginning : The earlier completed work, also known as Hero’s Journey Under the Witch: Gothic

: The current primary project under development. It is released in modular updates often titled by character rooms (e.g., Deborah's Room Ver 0.3.0 : Available on , though distribution partnerships (such as with Kagura Games Shady Corner Games ) have varied over time. Content and Themes

The game is classified as an R18+ title with a strong focus on: 3D Animations : High-fidelity 3DCG cutscenes.

: "Femdom" (female dominance), turn-based combat, and fetish-specific content. Community Input : The developer actively takes feedback from

supporters regarding character models and specific scene requests. of the v20250110 update or where to the latest developer logs? NumericGazer - FANBOX

A new post-processing option mimics 90s CRT monitors, aligning with the game’s retro-horror influences. Interestingly, the filter’s shader code credits “NumericGazer / CRT-Luminous.”

Based on community playthroughs, diff reports, and changelogs assembled by NumericGazer themselves (shared via MEGA and anonymous text hosts), here are the major differences in v20250110 compared to earlier or later builds: