"I'm back."

Silence answered her in the quiet cottage.

Accustomed to solitude, Angela drew the curtains tight, locked the door, and plunged the room into darkness. She slipped off her clothes and sank into the bone-chilling bathwater with closed eyes.

The water rose past her ears. A long-lost coolness seeped through her body, quieting her thundering heart. Cradled by the water, her thoughts blurred like a child drifting back to its mother’s embrace—until goosebumps erupted across her skin. Then came the sharp ache between her legs. Unforgettable fragments from last night surged like a nightmare...

*Whimper...*

She scrubbed her body again and again, squeezing the last drops of shower gel, rubbing the soap bar raw. No matter how many times she washed, the scars left by that woman remained carved deep inside her.

"Why are you doing this to me? What did I even do wrong..."

Her desperate sobs echoed at the mirror, met only by a delicate, tear-streaked face and a hollow, bitter laugh.

"Lenna... Lenna... What did I ever do to you..."

Angela hugged her knees, dunking her head underwater, determined to drown herself.

But soon, bubbles broke the still surface. She splashed up from the tub, gasping for air.

She was too afraid to die.

Between death and humiliation, the choice was no choice at all.

Call her weak?

No. Most fear death—not from cowardice, but because unfinished dreams and unlived joys cling to their souls. Death is everyone’s final harbor. No longing, no loss. No loss, no panic. Only a rare few accept that truth.

Someday, all would meet the same end—but Angela refused to be the first.

"*Aaahhh!*"

She slammed her fists into the water until her palms went numb and stung. "Lenna! Lenna! *Lennaaaa!*"

Exhausted, she slumped back, tears streaming. "I... *sob*... I’ll escape you. You have a weakness. Just wait till I find it!"

Cursing changed nothing. Reality remained: she was now a pet in someone else’s cage. Flip over when ordered. Obey the contract—or have her soul ripped away, offered to the Devil Lord of the Abyss to be flayed alive and devoured by worms.

Defying the contract was unthinkable.

Frankly, being turned into a custard puff by Lenna sounded far kinder than that.

Toweling off, Angela’s lithe figure swayed like willow branches in the wind. Pale moonlight filtered through the bathroom window, painting stark contrasts across her fair skin. Her budding chest would soon outgrow Lenna’s grasp—and like others before her, she’d lose herself to craving.

"*Never* that," she whispered, shielding her chest. Last night replayed in flashes: a beast unleashed.

"*Can anyone really go all night like that?*"

Lenna had shattered Angela’s understanding of human stamina. A frail Necromancer, yet with the discipline of a dragon knight, the ferocity of a berserker, and the endurance of a warrior...

Her all-round stamina had left Angela pinned all night, her resistance stolen by a single kiss.

"*Ugh. Never again.*"

The memory of that ashen-gray hair still chilled her.

"And today... Lenna’s set her sights on Professor Agnes. I should worry for her, but her presence eases my burden. Besides..." Angela’s lips twisted. "I saw another side of Lenna."

*Play along at the academy. Obey every command. Maybe she’ll leave me alone.*

After a quick meal in her dorm, Angela pulled on a crisp nun’s habit. A black hood concealed her striking pink hair—though rebellious streaks of blue still peeked through, defying her youth with quiet disdain. Below, she kept her usual outfit but swapped cute ankle boots for tall riding boots. White stockings patterned with crosses gave her a sharp, crisp look.

"*Hope this disguise fools Father Anthony... It should.*"

...

She darted through the dense Snowpine Forest, sprinting toward the convent nestled in the Priest Academy.

As the bell chimed, prayers began.

But Angela was stopped short by Bishop Anthony. She was late.

"My child," rumbled the middle-aged man, his goatee neat, his palm raised to calm her. "Why the delay today?"

"I... lost track of time in the bath..." Angela stammered. "It won’t happen again—"

"Prayers have commenced. The final session begins in two hours. I trust you’ll wait patiently to make amends. Won’t you?"

"Y-yes, Bishop Anthony."

Satisfied, he nodded and walked away.

Angela watched him leave, the storm in her chest easing.

"*Terrifying... He’s as sharp as ever. That smile never reaches his eyes.*"

As the sole authority in the convent, Bishop Anthony held absolute power over the nuns—and a key vote in the Holy Maiden election. Angela couldn’t afford to cross him.

She came here daily to pray, hoping to win his favor among twenty-plus candidates vying for twelve votes. Three rivals prayed in this very convent. Others matched her looks and talent. Fierce competition.

Little White’s necromancy curse? Likely their doing.

"*If not for Little White... I wouldn’t have begged Lenna for help. Wouldn’t be her prisoner now.*"

The chain of blame hardened her hatred for those faceless rivals.

Ironically, as she waited for the next prayer session, one such rival appeared uninvited.

"Well, well. If it isn’t our idol superstar—the little Miss Angela, rumored to be kept by Falmouth’s heiress herself?"