Chescia took down the silver stiletto sword hanging between the vines, her slender fingers brushing along its narrow blade. The shifting luster gleamed as she examined it slowly.
"You know the rules, Funis. No matter how many times you ask, I'll never say yes," she said softly. "If you truly want it, then come take it yourself. Take my life—then you'll find release."
Funis straightened her back again. She flipped open the revolver's cylinder and began ejecting the training rounds one by one.
"As a matter of etiquette, Miss Witch." The silver-haired girl lowered her eyes slightly. "To attack without warning is uncouth. It is not the way of a lady."
Chescia tossed the ornate, more decorative-than-practical stiletto sword high into the air. It arced brilliantly before embedding itself solidly into the floor in front of Funis's pure white patent leather Mary Janes.
"When a guest throws knives at her sister, she's already been plenty rude," Chescia said coldly.
Funis lowered her gaze to the sword without a word.
"Stacie, I'm sorry, but please leave us for now." Like changing masks, Chescia's voice suddenly became soft and gentle as she turned to the witch. "I'll handle the matter of Moira. Don't worry."
"But…"
Stacie's gaze darted between Chescia and Funis, visibly uncertain.
"There are some personal matters between sisters that need to be addressed." Chescia tidied a lock of Stacie's chestnut curls and smiled faintly. "Nothing to worry about. Just another day."
"Alright." Stacie looked a bit awkward. She turned and waved. "Stay safe, Miss Chescia… and you too, lovely lady… good morning and goodbye."
She even gave Funis a polite farewell before leaving.
And courteously closed the door behind her.
Leaving only Chescia and Funis.
"Hypocrite," Funis muttered.
Chescia's smile slowly faded. She quietly glanced sidelong at the silver-haired girl.
"You brought her here on purpose—just to make her wary of me. That so-called possessiveness…" Funis continued replacing the spent shells, metal casings clinking in her fingers. "Pretending to be kind and considerate in front of them to earn their trust…"
"And what's wrong with that?" Chescia dusted off her skirt, unfazed by the moral critique. "I need the girls of the Society to work for me. And they, having nowhere else to go, need my guidance. It's a fair exchange."
Four training rounds, two empty shells.
Funis let them drop. They clattered discordantly on the floor.
"Not wrong at all. Your strategy is flawless." She lifted her arm. Hidden beneath the ruffled sleeve of her cloud-like gown was a leather ammo pouch. "If the goal is achieved, it doesn't matter whether the means are noble or base."
Fast and practiced.
So fast it was almost invisible to the eye.
Six gleaming live rounds now nestled between her pale, jade-like fingers.
"Just like this revolver is a tool for me," she said as she calmly loaded them into the cylinder one by one. "The Black Rose Society is your tool. The witches of the Society are your tools. And I am your tool as well."
"For a moment there, I thought I was looking at myself." Chescia remained where she stood, watching Funis load the gun. "You've learned very well—too well, in fact. I thought you'd be more stubborn."
After loading, Funis did not close the cylinder right away.
"I am Funis, Miss Witch. A succubus, a witch—Funis." Her voice was low. "Sera Fred is dead. There is no longer a righteous, noble Enforcer here."
Ding-ling—The silver bell rang.
The girl suddenly snapped the revolver shut with a click. At that same instant, the floor at her feet cracked open, and a vine brimming with red roses lashed out swiftly, locking the trigger and hammer tight.
Without hesitation, Funis abandoned the revolver and lunged for the stiletto embedded in the floor.
But that crimson hue was faster.
Like petals, like flowing blood, a scarlet substance snatched the stiletto before her and cleanly, fluidly pressed it to Funis's throat.
Time seemed to stop. The training ground fell into a long silence.
Tap—tap—Heels clicking broke the quiet.
The Crimson Witch Chescia approached slowly, as Funis knelt half-crouched, too frozen to move.
"Faster than yesterday, but still not enough. Far from enough." She clapped slowly, shaking her head in both admiration and regret. "I've been thinking lately—maybe having you train alone in hiding isn't the most efficient or engaging approach?"
"What now?" Funis gritted her teeth.
Chescia finally stood before her, smiling as she admired the silver-haired girl's disheveled state. "I dislike that word 'again.' You know I'd never harm you."
Taking the stiletto from the scarlet mass, before Funis could rise, Chescia seized her slender arm and pulled her soft waist into an embrace—knocking her down into a bed of blooming roses.
A lush fragrance filled the air, petals fluttering in the air.
The once dull oak floor was now a sea of vivid red roses, overflowing with sweetness and romance.
Funis instinctively tried to escape, but her legs were entangled easily. The black and white stockings rubbing together made a faint rustling sound.
"Mmn♡～"
Her waist gave out.
Funis closed her eyes, lips tightly sealed to muffle any coquettish moans.
"Hard to believe it's already been a year. From blushing at the touch of over-the-knee socks to now standing tall in seven-centimeter heels without flinching—you've become amazing." Chescia gazed lovingly at the beautiful crystal girl beneath her, gently stroking her cheek. "Tell me, how many milliliters did you wring out last night before bathing and changing?"
Sweet, sticky breaths escaped from the corners of Funis's mouth as she covered her eyes with a hand.
"Haa, huff… and I have you to thank for your twisted tastes…"
She grumbled through clenched teeth.
Yes.
Funis had been living with Chescia for nearly a year now. This woman, fully aware of her hypersensitive constitution, still forced her to wear white over-the-knee socks or pantyhose daily, subjecting her to constant, overwhelming stimulation while pretending nothing was happening.
As her self-control improved, Chescia had started increasing her heel height—three centimeters, then five, now seven.
It was getting worse.
Sitting, standing, walking, running—things others took for granted were torturous challenges for Funis. Yet she still had to maintain perfect poise, without even a twitch in her expression.
So to help maintain appearances, Chescia had even prepared her special underwear.
To absorb moisture.
"Shy now? Don't want to tell your big sister?" Chescia teased, poking the soft flesh at her waist.
"I'm always worried whether you're hydrating enough each day."
A choked sob.
Funis gritted her teeth once more before, with utmost reluctance and in a tone both awkward and scornful, she uttered that shameful number she was required to measure and record daily.
"One thousand… four hundred thirty-one…"