Chapter 1 : Bound by Shackles

Georgiya Yang''s consciousness finally began to recover slowly. Her mind was a chaotic fog—more than pain, it was the dizziness of a hangover that plagued her, within which even counting aloud became a laborious task.

As a magician who had undergone ascetic training in the Holy Land, she had conditioned her body to remain clear-headed in moments of crisis.

Under normal circumstances, her mind would have first reclaimed the ability to think from the darkness, but now it refused to cooperate. She concentrated her will more intensely, attempting to break through the fog''s threshold with a sequence of prime numbers.

By the time she reached 193, Georgiya Yang had finally awoken and began to assess her situation.

Her vision was taken from her. A spherical gag was forced into her mouth, and it seemed to have been there for some time—her jaw ached and throbbed with a dull, swollen pain, and saliva dripped uncontrollably from her lips. The absurd thought of a dislocated jaw crossed her mind, but fortunately, reason told her that the damage was not yet severe enough to injure bone. At worst, the muscles of her face would stiffen and twitch when the restraints were removed.

She diverted her attention and realized she was bound entirely, unable to move:

Her hands were tied together and suspended above her head. Whenever she tried to exert force, the chains binding her entire body tightened in response, digging cruelly into her muscles. In contrast to her hands, her legs were spread and raised separately, shackles locking her knees in place at chest height. Her entire body hung curled in midair with no point of support. No matter which muscles she moved, the entire system responded, and the chains—deliberately short on slack—cinched tighter still. Already weak in her hips and lower back, the tightening chains from her struggles drained whatever little strength she had left.

To make herself more comfortable, she could only let her body hang limp in that humiliating position. She finally understood that she was now meat on the chopping block. This humiliating binding was merely an opening intimidation. She could do nothing but surrender her body and mind to fate, to prayer, and to thought.

As a temple inquisitor, Georgiya decided to rely on thought rather than prayer.

Unlike mortal humans, whose time ran short, she had descended into this world as a divided incarnation of the divine emissary of the God of Order and Time. Thus, she had been granted the privilege of immunity from time.

In exchange for that privilege, her duty was to preserve order and the purity of the temple.

It was well known that the enemy of order—the Shadow of Chaos—always lurked in the reflection of this land, coveting the Creator''s masterpiece, ceaselessly influencing this world through darkness and even the human heart.

She and the special operations unit she represented existed to annihilate that shadow before it breached the threshold.

For this very reason, she had led her team deep into Gascony, which was at war with Cordias.

As a neutral temple faction, the priests called all wars and conflicts between nations "civil wars." When fighting broke out, they would travel to each city to supervise and ensure that no one misused the magic the Creator had bestowed upon humanity for internal warfare.

This time, the priest stationed at Fort Noir in Gascon territory—August Iffermon—had failed to establish defenses as promised. So Georgiya Yang had led her team deep into various cities to find him.

They found August Iffermon in a tower in Sodom. He was naked, his mind shattered.

Though he was already beyond saving, they still managed to retrieve their suffering colleague under the cover of an overwhelming city defense.

The result was that they were encircled and pursued into the forest outside the city, captured by man-eating trees. Her entire unit was wiped out.

As team leader, if her situation was like this, theirs could only be worse. Thinking of this, Georgiya struggled again, only to be forced to stop by the pain.

Just then, she heard the creak of a door opening. Not a stone door, but a wooden one—which meant at least she had not been thrown into some sunless dungeon.

What gave her even more hope was that the approaching figure walked with a cane. His left leg was injured. He appeared to be between forty and fifty years old. In her current position, even bound as she was, she could easily wrap her thighs around his throat and strangle him.

The sound grew closer—a slow, steady rhythm approaching. Georgiya held her breath. Her body tensed involuntarily, the chains clinking and rattling, betraying even the smallest motion. She could barely breathe.

The figure drew near. He did something—she didn''t know what—and with another clatter of chains, the pressure eased. Blood rushed back, flooding her veins, surging beneath her skin. Her entire body went numb and began to prickle with pins and needles.

The sudden release sent her mind spiraling into chaos again. Though she caught no sound, she could still feel the presence of another person. All she wanted was to break free from this humiliating position and close her legs—but the chains tightened mercilessly with her struggle.

"Mmm!!" A soft whimper escaped Georgiya''s throat. Pain, swelling, numbness—all tore through her body at once. Her mind could no longer control her body. Even the corners of her eyes grew moist.

Her breathing was heavy and short. She could not maintain her composure. Her chest heaved violently, her lower back tensed, and her legs trembled.

But the newcomer did not loosen the chains again. Seeing that she could barely move, her head lolling to one side, he reached over and removed the gag strapped behind her ears.

Georgiya was so undone it was almost painful. She could feel the saliva from the gag dripping onto her chin and collar, reducing her to something like a child or beast unable to control itself.

She was supposed to be the embodiment of order and reason, the teacher and father of the worldly people. Yet here, before one of those very people, she had fallen to the point where she could not even control her own body.

Her chin was lifted. Warm tea slowly trickled into her mouth. She could only follow instinct, tilting her head back to swallow the tea steeped with basil and lemon.

It was lemon-basil tea sweetened with maple syrup instead of honey.

She immediately shook her head away, and the chains responded by cinching tighter as she struggled futilely. Though she clamped her lips shut, the pained intake of breath from her throat still betrayed her fragility.

The aches across her body made her try to calm herself again. Her chest and abdomen rose and fell. Anyone close enough could hear the unrestrained gasps she could not keep behind her teeth.

She fell silent until the blindfold was finally removed, revealing the face of the visitor.

Time had carved scars across his features. The crow''s feet at his eyes made him resemble a golden fox. And it was that golden hair that had once deceived her, made her believe that order could tame a beast. She had not expected the beast to scratch her back until it was covered in wounds.

And clearly, after being banished from the Holy Land, he too had suffered. He had lost his left eye, his left leg was impaired, and his mouth bore a vicious, almost disfiguring scar.

Georgiya''s voice came out hoarse: "You are not supposed to be here."

She could not keep her tone steady. She sounded like a sick, frail patient.

"You remember me." He feigned surprise, holding her head upright with one hand while wiping the remaining tea from her face with a silk handkerchief.

Of course she remembered. She had even given him his name—Zaraleth Yang.

At the time, he had promised to abandon his former surname, to become her servant and attendant, to never return to Gascony, and to serve humanity''s morality and love alongside her.

She had not expected him to break his oaths repeatedly, and now to appear in Gascony.

"My name now is Plantan Zaraleth. You know how Gascon names go—family name first."

At this moment, Georgiya could no longer afford to dwell on the humiliating position in which she was held captive. She marshaled all her reason to ignore her body''s discomfort: "I entrusted Queen Rosalind of Ruminos to keep a strict watch over you, to never allow you to return here. What is the meaning of this?"

Zaraleth looked very pleased. He stroked her face as he spoke: "She helped me return here. Holy Inquisitor, the affairs of the mortal world are far more complicated than those of the Holy Land and Holy City. Her Majesty''s territory is an extension of divine authority, but she has many considerations beyond that. So she helped me reclaim the Plantan name. I guard northern Gascony and in turn provide her with protection."

Of course, explaining this to Georgiya was futile. She had always been someone who paid little attention to the outside world, devoting herself entirely to establishing a stable order.

So Zaraleth pinched her cheek and said, "You truly are the undying legend of the Hexagram Temple. I never felt it before, but after all these years, I have grown nearly old, yet you remain so young." He ran his fingers through her hair. "Not a single thing has changed. Your hair is still black as ink, smooth as silk... How long has it been since I last touched your hair? Thirty-two years. To me, it feels like a past life."

He adjusted the position of her restraints. Georgiya focused, controlled her breathing, and tried to relax.

Zaraleth continued smiling at her. "You bestow blessings on every Silver Star Knight who turns twenty. I had looked forward to that day since I was seventeen. Unfortunately, I never got to welcome it. But as you used to say, grace always arrives unexpectedly. The gifts that come without seeking are the only ones worth serving with a sincere heart. Who would have thought that at fifty years old, I would see you again—and under these circumstances..."

His gaze drifted over her exposed legs with something approaching lewdness. The muscles beneath her white stockings were still spasming and trembling. Her face had flushed pink as blood returned to her extremities. She had finally regained control of her voice when she spoke again, her tone steady with recovered reason: "Where are my lambs?"

Georgiya always devoutly called herself a sheepdog, and the priests and Silver Star Knights who accompanied her her lambs. But Zaraleth was no longer part of the flock. As she had once declared, he was a wolf in sheep''s clothing, a cunning fox—her enemy.

So he no longer needed to waste time with subtlety. He flicked his sleeves and said with displeasure, "It took me the tax revenue of seven cities for half a year to buy you. How would I know where the others are?"

That meant that after being captured by those corrupted trees, she and her team members had been sold off separately as slaves—scattered like stones dropped into the sea, never to be found again.

The layered forests of Gascony bred shadows and devoured order. The Hexagram Temple had simply learned too late. If not for their search for August Iffermon, they would never have known.

Georgiya thought back to the moment they had entered Sodom.

With the authority of the Hexagram Temple, everything had proceeded smoothly. The trouble had come when a noble of Sodom invited them into his manor. A whispering had surrounded them constantly, making it impossible to concentrate. Using magic in that state would have been tantamount to self-destruction.

She snapped back to the present and realized this matter had to be handled officially. She could not engage with him on a personal level. "Duke Plantan Zaraleth, thank you for your generosity. I hope there is still room for negotiation."

He sat down across from her, positioned exactly at the center of her spread legs, and looked at her with amusement. She wanted to reclaim control of her body again.

In this situation, negotiation was indeed impossible. Yet it was her only option. She had been bought as a slave, but that did not mean she had lost her identity as an inquisitor. The black robe of the absolute order executor was still on her body, the white cross extending from her throat to her legs remained intact. If that title meant nothing, why would he have spent so much money to buy her?

And clearly, regardless of his reasons, he had a willingness to negotiate.

"Regarding the wealth you have expended, I can repay you double. If you are concerned, I carry my personal seal on missions. I can write you a check to prove I am not lying." She tried to move her hands within the limited range of motion and touched her middle finger—but found nothing there. Not only the ring, but her gloves had also been stripped away.

Her expression darkened.

"I know you would not lie." Duke Plantan watched her distress with an appreciative gaze, speaking with perfect understanding.

Georgiya exhaled in relief.

Her strength lay in theological debate. Matters like negotiation and exchange of value had always been handled by others in her team. She had no clear sense of what was required in negotiation to make the other party accept her terms.

Even though she was alone now, perhaps there was still hope.

She continued: "Since my seal is lost, to honor my promise, I hope you can provide me with some assistance. I ask for little—a fast horse and a travel pass will suffice. Once I return, I will apply to the Hexagram Temple for a Silver Star Knight medal, attesting to your service in aiding an emissary in a time of crisis."

"And then?"

"And then..." Georgiya was confused. She could not think of anything else. Money, reputation—was there more? Yes, there was. She added: "In the future, when the Hexagram Temple settles accounts with Gascon merchants and nobles involved in human trafficking and the breeding of magical creatures, I will advocate on your behalf to lighten your sentence."

"Is that all?"

"What more do you want?" Georgiya thought that in just thirty years, he had lost his virtue of humility and become a greedy, fame-chasing, money-grubbing man.

She did not understand.

"My blessing ceremony. Even in this situation, you still will not offer to compensate me willingly?" Plantan Zaraleth stood up, visibly agitated.

"I am sorry, but that is the blessing ceremony of the Silver Star Knights within the Holy Land. Outsiders have no right—"

Slap.

He struck her across the face.

She turned her head back, looked into his eyes, and said, word by word: "You do not belong to the Silver Star Knights."

He raised the hand holding his riding crop. Georgiya lifted her chin, readying herself for another slap. But instead, he struck the inside of her right thigh.

She could not help but cry out. Another lash followed, hitting the same spot.

This time she bit her lip. Her whole body went rigid with pain, and the chains pulled tight again in another round of cinching.

Zaraleth saw it. This was far more effective than slapping her face. By the third lash, her stocking had torn, exposing the twitching flesh of her inner thigh. A red welt bloomed where the whip had landed.

As he drew back for a fourth strike, she kicked at her shackles, trying to escape. Her body curled in on itself. Her voice trembled as she cried out: "Are you still holding those fifteen lashes against me? Are you not alive? Have you not fulfilled your obsession, returned to this land, and reclaimed your family name? My judgment of you was not wrong!"

The fourth lash fell. She threw her head back and whimpered. The chains clung to her mercilessly. She still did not understand her situation.

"Georgiya. Georgiya. Is it you who protects the temple, or the temple that protects you? After all these years, you are still muddle-headed. You still understand nothing." He struck again, hard.

Her eyes reddened. Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling from the corners of her eyes. Her already uncomfortable body burned. Her heart felt as if it might leap from her throat.

"If you hate me, then kill me like a hero would." Do not toy with me. Toying with prey is the act of a coward.

Georgiya did not have the strength to say the last sentence. She was gasping heavily, her heart fluttering in her chest like a startled bird. Her body was both cold and hot. The places where she had been struck began to itch. That was the softest, most delicate flesh on the body, and the pain tugged at other parts—places that should not be touched—making them itch and ache as well.

People called that place the vulva.

The Temple of Living Beings had bestowed a portion of its power upon women. The vulva was the gateway to the life and death nurtured by the Temple of Living Beings.

It was a doorway, a key, a secret—accessible only to the short-lived Sons and Daughters of the Moon.

She belonged to the Temple of the Clock, not the Temple of Living Beings. For her, the vulva held more theological significance than physical meaning.

But in truth, as another five lashes fell on her left inner thigh, she felt a warm current uncontrollably spill from that passage. She did not understand what it meant, but a powerful and unfamiliar sensation emerged, turning her ears and cheeks hotter and redder.

Her mind immediately went to poison. Some kind of poison that could burn a person from the inside out? She had seen a man killed by such poison—his internal organs had been charred to ash.

"How interesting. Judging by your reaction, it has finally taken effect. I thought it was not working. It is just slower than I expected."

"Is... is it..." She was so hot she felt faint. Steam rose from her neck. "Is it poison..."

She could not remember the name of that poison.

Zaraleth leaned close to her, whispering in her ear: "It is something to make your interrogation more comfortable."

"Coward. An absurd coward!" Georgiya grew agitated. She did not need comfort. If fate demanded she suffer, she would suffer. Comfort? That was an insult to her character, a mockery of her will.

"Control yourself. I have one last question. Do not lose consciousness on me." Zaraleth undid the white collar that rose above her high outer robe.

"No!" Georgiya''s voice was hoarse. She was helpless, forced to watch as the top of the cross that ran through her body was destroyed.

He surely knew what that collar meant. Like the Mask of True Sight she usually wore, it represented the renunciation of self, the consecration of this body to the divine—every word and action a testament to the glory of being a steward of divine grace.

"It does not matter. It will all be dismantled soon enough." Zaraleth tossed it aside. "How I treat you depends on your answer to the following question."

Hot... so hot she was dizzy. Her emotions flared. Her heart pumped blood through her whole body like a waterwheel. Her body was bound to the breaking point, then loosened as if forced to receive grace. Everywhere went numb, ached, swelled—all these sensations piled together into pain. Especially the whip marks on her legs. They throbbed together, as if pierced by a cluster of thorns.

So hot... her whole body burned. Inside as well. Wave after wave of heat flowed uncontrollably from the narrow, winding path within.

Georgiya breathed deeply, holding on to her last shred of reason. She made a sound of acknowledgment, waiting for his question.

"The fifteen lashes. The banishment from the Holy Land. Was that judgment your way of sparing my life under the radiance of the Hexagram Temple? The fact that I am still alive—was that your mercy?"

He had waited thirty-two years for the answer to this question. But did he truly need the answer from her lips?

He did. He needed her to say it aloud: that exiling him had been unavoidable, that sparing his life was because she cherished him.

If he had truly wanted him dead on the judgment ground, her fifteen lashes should have fallen on his back—not on his corrupted wings, which should have been severed anyway.

He drew closer. His arm went around her, supporting her lower back. Were her legs not so widely spread, she could hook them around his neck and choke the life out of him.

She smelled the sacred scent of frankincense and cedar that clung to him. It was so different from her own body, which now gave off a raw, animal smell, as if he were the great figure from the Hexagram Temple and she the profane one.

"It does not matter if your answer now is different from what it was then. Your response will determine how I handle you next."

"No." The word came from between her lips. "That was the just judgment I made as an inquisitor of the Hexagram Temple."

The whip struck her in the softest, most hidden, most sacred place—now exposed and utterly defenseless.

She cried out in pain. As she struggled, her stockings were torn away. Then she felt his fingers push straight inside.

"Ngh... mm..." Georgiya bit her lip, her words slurred. "You simply cannot accept the truth."

She was like a doe offering its throat to the slaughter, head tilted back, exposing the fragile line of her neck. Every ounce of her strength was drained from deep within her body with each thrust of his fingers.

His fingers slid inside her. She did not know what was there, but each time he touched a certain spot, her stomach convulsed, as if her heart had fallen into her abdomen and was beating there. Her body trembled with every motion.

Even with her lip caught between her teeth, her throat still gave voice to sounds she could not suppress. And she realized for herself: his method of interrogation could not be measured by anything she understood.

She had experienced torture before. Once, for bringing a beast that could not be defined by order into the Holy City, the High Priest had given her ten lashes. Those ten lashes had taken two months to heal. With each fall of the whip, she had screamed—but never like this. These cries were weak, breathless, almost like an invitation.

He noticed her restraint and withdrew.

Her untouched body was unusually sensitive. The glistening fluid on his fingers dripped onto her skirt. He wanted nothing more than to thrust into her now, to feel her envelop him. But he knew her nature too well.

The intense pain of the first time would make her believe she was being martyred. From then on, every act of love-making would be seen by her as torture—something the Creator had imposed on her to teach her some lesson.

But pleasure was different. When pain and pleasure were interwoven, it could not be called martyrdom. He had to be patient and let her experience, as a human being, the pleasure of being human.

A second finger slid against her labia, preparing to enter.

Her untouched body was painfully sensitive. The entrance to her sex pulsed open and closed with her breathing, but still resisted the intrusion of his fingers, as if even one was the limit of what she could accommodate.

"Ahh..." When two fingers entered, Georgiya trembled more violently. She tried to close her legs, and the flesh inside trembled in response.

The dull ache she could not ignore had barely registered before the fingers pushed straight in, sliding and stretching inside her.

She could feel how the two fingers pressed against the trembling passage within. She cried out uncontrollably.

The mouth that recited scripture could no longer form a single coherent word. When he pressed deep, even her tongue escaped from between her lips.

In this form of interrogation, his experience was clearly abundant. Not only did her upper lips release those lovely gasps, but her lower lips also pulsed and sucked with wet, obscene sounds.

"How pitiful. Georgiya, my Holy Inquisitor." He licked away the tears sliding down her face. Finally, he deigned to support her again—not to relax her, but to hold her in place, to pull her entirely into his embrace.

"The flesh inside you has been trembling so much. Do you not hate me? Then why are you gripping me so tightly? I am almost having trouble pulling out."

"Gnh... mm... ahh..." Every gasp was short and ended on a rising note. With each teasing word, she clenched tighter inside. Her arousal dripped in waves with every thrust of his fingers. And when he brushed against that sensitive spot—the trembling like a bestowal of grace, the gasps that could not be ignored—

He wanted to help her experience her first climax.

When he put in a third finger, her hips went completely limp, surrendering to his manipulation.

Three fingers together stretched the pink passage inside her. The wet, slapping sounds echoed through the cell like waves crashing against a reef, filling the space with the thickening scent of lust.

"No, do not touch—nh... NHH, AHHH..." Georgiya''s reason shattered entirely. She moaned like an animal in heat, her whole body falling backward.

The calluses on Zaraleth''s fingers kept rubbing against that sensitive spot inside, driving her cries higher and higher.

So hot, so hot—electric numbness traveled from her spine to her neck and back to her brain. She wanted to stop the fingers from spreading her, but the more she fought them, the worse it became. The entrance and the spot being struck repeatedly both ached. She should have resisted, but instead she grew accustomed to it and began to enjoy it—even hoped he would go faster.

He read the response of her body. Biting her ear, gripping her waist, he moved faster, harder. Every thrust drew another adorable whimper from her lips.

"Let me go, do not do this... do not, ahhh... mm... ah..." She could no longer speak in that restrained, almost hateful tone. Something primal and instinctive had taken over her throat, her lips, her tongue.

"Mmm... mmm... AHHH, AHHH..." She was being pleasured by his fingers, and finally found the words to define it.

It was like the massages she received after returning to the Hexagram Temple from a mission. Except this was relaxing the muscles inside—pressing and kneading the deep tissue. The pain came, but after the pain came relief.

Her arousal flowed in a steady stream, and her body pulsed in rhythmic waves. Perhaps it was more than a massage. The warmth of another human body made her feel as if she were submerged in a hot spring.

"Ah... ah... softer, softer... it hurts! Mmm, mmm..." Even as a swordswoman and a magician, her body had always been sensitive to pressure.

She could feel her walls tightening with every thrust.

Pain was perhaps not the right word for this discomfort. But every time she cried out in pain during a massage, the person working on her would lighten their touch, gradually, almost stroking, slowly kneading the tension from her body.

Zaraleth would not.

He thrust faster, stimulating the soft pink flesh inside, the fluid he drew out pooling on the floor beneath her.

After a long, bird-like cry, her soul nearly left her body. A chaotic, uncontrollable feeling seized her mind. Without her body''s protection, the chaos around her surged in like a tide. She resisted it, yet at the same time she knew—her whole sex, inside and out, was pulsing and contracting in some steady rhythm, gripping the fingers of her enemy that were still buried within her.

Realizing this only intensified the pleasure. She was a ship at sea, struck, enveloped, and besieged by the waves, with nowhere to flee.

She felt as if she had swallowed a slow-acting poison that brought pleasure, coated in sugar.

She came back to herself and saw Zaraleth''s fox-like face. His fingers were still inside her. When he withdrew, her body convulsed again.

He showed her the glistening fluid on his fingers, glinting in the candlelight. It clung to his hand, and one end was still connected to her body.

Her legs were still trembling. The entrance, stretched by his fingers, pulsed more noticeably. When his hand touched it again, it flinched as if shocked.

Zaraleth looked down at her with a pitying smile. He took in Georgiya''s flushed face and her eyes, which were rapidly clearing, and said: "You see, your body does not seem to belong to you anymore."

Georgiya turned her gaze away. After the pleasure came the return to reality—shame, confusion. Realizing that the sacred passage of her body had been entered and played with by another person, she cried out in agony: "You... blasphemer!"

"It is too early to call me that." Zaraleth pushed the already-prepared phallus into her freshly climaxed sex. It had grown soft and warm. More honest than Georgiya, it trembled as soon as the phallus entered—fearful yet expectant—and gripped it tightly.

He held her hips and thrust the entire phallus in. She made another whimpering sound and was forced to receive him again.

She no longer knew what words to use to describe the sensation... Georgiya thought, dazed. The pressure in her lower belly was intense, and it also made her feel as if she urgently needed to relieve herself. At the same time, she could feel her flesh trembling and gripping him. She began to breathe deeply again, hoping to ease her tension.

"Hah... hah... mmm..." Before she could adjust, the cross formed by her black outer robe and white undergarment was torn apart entirely. Buttons snapped, but the clothes still hung on her body, half-removed.

Like unwrapping a gift. The animal warmth of Georgiya—like wine, like freshly baked bread—wafted toward him. Zaraleth reached into her damp clothes and gripped her waist.

"No... no, do not touch me anymore! Ngh..." Georgiya''s voice grew thin, soft, and seductive. He began to thrust impatiently.

Georgiya felt an unbearable soreness inside. With every thrust, her body made a wet slapping sound. Realizing it was the sound of his genitals colliding with hers, she felt both agony and uncontrollable pleasure.

Was this loss of control truly pleasurable?

Georgiya thought, stubbornly: Not at all.

This was a blessing the Temple of Living Beings had bestowed upon the Sons and Daughters of the Moon—the union of two entirely different natures, thus giving birth to all things.

In the Hexagram Temple, across the world, she had seen people unite through love, and rejoice in seeing the greater divine grace within that love. That was the kind of joy she should be experiencing.

People should unite through love, and conceive through the most private ritual offered to the Temple of Living Beings. Not like this. She should not accept this. She should not let him enter.

She resisted, clenching herself. But Zaraleth only thrust harder, forcing her open. No matter how much she tried to resist each impact, he pushed through the flesh inside her. Each thrust brought a long, soft moan.

"Georgiya, it seems you are not as cold as I thought. You grip quite well."

"No... no more..." Her lower belly ached, burned—hot as if filled with hot spring water. With each joining of their sexes, the hot spring water grew thick and viscous, gathering in her abdomen. She felt a strange emptiness and realized he was the one satisfying it.

But the emptiness was something he had brought. It was not her own.

"I cannot... I cannot..." She trembled in resistance, mumbling incoherently. She could not recall a single scripture or teaching. All she could think, dazed, was: "I cannot... cannot betray divine grace... ghh!"

Her tongue was pushed out by the force of his thrusts, and still she thought these things.

Zaraleth did not hesitate to remind her: "You are no longer a holy inquisitor now. Tell me—does a holy inquisitor make such coquettish faces before others? Make such sounds? Go limp and weak like this when penetrated? Stick out her tongue like a whore to seduce?"

"Mmm... ahhh... ahh... mmm!" She did not want to open her mouth. But she could not control herself.

How strange. She was supposed to be the one who knew her body best. Why... why did her body seem to be listening to someone else?

Her thoughts scattered wildly and were finally swallowed by Zaraleth.

He bit her tongue as if biting into fruit, as if sucking honey from a flower.

Then she felt his tongue press against hers, crowding into her space with overwhelming aggression.

As above, so below. No. No. Her body was going to become entirely his!

"Ghh... ngh... mm... mm..." His tongue stirred inside her mouth. All the resistance Georgiya could muster was to push him away—a reluctant, teasing push that only made her mind foggier.

She could not breathe. Her upper and lower bodies were both invaded at once. Their temperatures tangled together. Their breaths tangled. In the sacred scent of frankincense and cedar, they were doing the most obscene thing.

She understood. She finally understood.

That emptiness was called desire. The union blessed by the divine was union through love. The union abhorred by the divine was union through lust—called desire.

As a temple priest, everyone must abstain and keep their bodies pure. One could only choose to unite because of true love, not false desire.

"No... mm!" She finally pushed his breath away. Then her mouth was covered again. He sealed it, biting, holding her firmly. His thrusts below grew even more forceful.

This was different from being played with by his fingers.

The most important ritual instruments—his sex and hers—had truly touched.

Her whole body trembled wildly. The tears gathered at the corners of her eyes poured down like a river.

Reason and instinct tangled. Divine grace and blasphemy held equal weight. The strings of harmony were nearly snapping.

"Yes. You know." He held her head and spoke. "You know it is me inside you, fucking you into this state." He gasped in her ear, mimicking her breaths. "Mmm... ah... ahhh... That is how you cried out as you bloomed like a flower."

She clenched tighter. He pushed open without mercy. Her body curled and trembled. She felt as if she had nearly seen death.

When would it end?

She felt the wave that had taken her before approaching again. Her hips rose with his thrusts. Her eyes narrowed. Tears kept spilling from them. She tried to suppress her gasps, but it was no use.

She screamed. This time it was more intense than the last. Her flesh spasmed uncontrollably. She wanted to close her legs. Her body writhed. Her shoes were kicked off entirely. The chains rattled around her, letting her struggle without escape. Zaraleth needed no effort to continue.

She climaxed again. Her pink body arched backward, falling limp. The icy, untouchable quality of her expression melted entirely. Between the flowing tears and the glistening saliva at her lips, she became even more pitiful, more lovely. Under her stimulation, Zaraleth thrust forward and released.

Another sweet, anguished cry. Georgiya lost consciousness completely.