A villain must act like one. Having chosen this path, Lenna would never grant easy forgiveness.

Who gave you the right to slander others openly?

Who said you could escape consequences and still demand absolution?

Why must I be your verbal punching bag while Angela becomes your twisted punchline?

You may speak of me—but not where I can hear it.

All things permitted. No taboos observed.

Lenna’s philosophy was refreshingly unorthodox, yet steeped in ruthless self-interest.

Tempered by war’s crucible, her heart had hardened. No longer would she cower before gossip—she’d strike back.

Influence alone wouldn’t secure her place at the academy.

Sometimes, making an example of one scared the rest...

"Shall we test death?"

Lenna flashed a devilish smile at the boy crumpled on the ground.

Death’s taste? Agony. Unbearable. Fleeting as a blink.

Most pretended it didn’t exist—until its shadow revealed how precious life truly was.

Only those who’d brushed against despair could cherish survival. Death’s cruelest sting? Leaving you utterly alone.

"Guh—AAAAAH!!!"

Black flames engulfed the boy. He writhed, howling, as countless teardrop-shaped magic bolts pierced his body. They bloomed in the inferno like tragic flowers, withering like falling leaves.

His flesh sizzled, oozing oil. Skin split into a thousand holes.

Lenna watched silently, glancing at Angela as if to say: *Had you healed him, he wouldn’t suffer so.*

Angela—pure as an angel—couldn’t bear the sight. She looked away, biting her lip until copper flooded her mouth.

"You want to save him?" Lenna murmured as the boy stilled, corpse-like. "I can."

"You can?!"

Rage burned in Angela’s eyes like a starving lioness ready to devour its prey.

For the first time, she truly hated someone. Lenna had shattered too many boundaries—not just to punish this loudmouth, but to provoke *her*.

"Of course, my sweet angel," Lenna purred. "I can restore him exactly as he was."

She bent her knees. Black magic streamed from her sleeve, coalescing into an ornate chair.

The silver-haired beauty crossed her legs, sitting eye-level with Angela.

"Sit."

Lenna gestured gracefully.

No seat existed. Only cicadas’ drone filled the silence. Angela’s gaze snagged on Lenna’s snow-lotus legs—long, plump, and porcelain-pale. A black-stockinged foot lifted slightly, slipping free of its shoe.

*Sit where?*

A challenge? Unlikely.

Angela dared not refuse. Terrified of becoming charcoal, she tiptoed forward and side-sat on Lenna’s lap—like stepping on thin ice.

Softness pressed against her backside.

It felt like sinking into supple rubber candy. No sofa on earth could rival these silk-clad thighs.

"Enjoying yourself?" Lenna’s voice slithered beside her ear, icy tendrils creeping down Angela’s spine.

"N-no! Of course not!" Angela waved her hands frantically, eyes downcast. "How will you save him? He’s fading fast!"

As Holy Maiden candidate, she couldn’t watch life slip away.

She’d do anything to save him—even after his insults...

Lenna studied her, surprised. "High-tier necromancy holds a forbidden art: *Resurrection*. Warm corpses can be restored to flesh and bone..."

"Redemption! The Holy Arts have it too!" Angela recalled her grueling seminary days.

Rote learning had nearly broken her spirit. Now, buried rituals surfaced crystal-clear in her mind.

Lenna shrugged. "Necromancy and Holy Arts differ vastly—yet mirror each other in strange ways."

Like the simplest Holy Light spell.

Its necromantic twin, *Rot Bloom*, mended undead constructs—and healed casters.

The solution was clear.

But a mountain loomed between them.

"Only high-tier Paladins of the Holy Arbiter Sect can perform *Redemption*," Angela fretted. "Once a month. The corpse must be intact, soul present, not too decayed... not clinging to life..."

This couldn’t leak.

It would destroy her candidacy, her reputation, her future.

*He must be saved—and saved perfectly.*

For herself. For the tsunami of guilt crashing over her...

"High-tier means sixth-rank or above," Angela pressed. "Such masters are rare in the Empire. Where would we find a willing holy servant?"

She pinned her hopes on Lenna.

They were in this together—

*No.*

Only *she* was bound and bleeding in the storm. Lenna merely watched, sneering at this filthy world through the lens of broken rules.

"Tch." Lenna’s scoff cut the air.

"You have a way?" Angela’s eyes lit up like a squirrel spotting nuts.

"Yes. I need your cooperation."

"I’ll do it!" Angela blurted, forgetting the architect of this nightmare before her.

She leaned in eagerly. Lenna recoiled, frowning. "Come to my manor tonight. Don’t be late."

A fragrant breeze lifted pink strands from her forehead—like peonies blooming at dawn and dusk.

The heartless one vanished after that.

The kind one knelt beside the dying boy. She cast Holy Light again and again.

Split flesh knitted—then burst anew. Pus splattered her face, dress, and shoes.

But the light didn’t stop. Spell after spell poured out like a gambler maxing credit cards, chasing a miracle.

It was the only Holy Art she knew.

Weak, but relentless.

Finally, agony from rupturing wounds knocked the boy unconscious.

Alone, Angela’s thin shoulders trembled. She buried her tear-streaked face in her knees, sobbing quietly on the ground...

"Sister Angela? What are you doing here?"

A golden fox tail lifted a petite figure. The Fox Maiden blinked curiously, holding a disposable magic scroll stamped with the Falmore Family crest.