Chapter 103
Chapter 103
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 103
Chapter Title: Myoran's Night (5)
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Early summer morning.
The weather was still a bit chilly.
However, the woman walking alone down the corridor didn't mind in the least.
Her chest felt warm, as if it harbored something hotter than anything else.
"......"
She spun around gracefully, like a dancer.
The large dress shirt draped over her peach-blossom-fragrant figure swayed lightly.
Myoran pulled the sleeve up to cover her lips.
Inhaling the man's lingering scent, thick with yang energy, she reminisced about last night's rapture.
Before she knew it, she'd arrived in front of another prisoner's room.
The saintess's cell—the one who'd just returned from a few days away.
Anje was dyeing her pink hair back to silver, undoing her disguise.
She gazed at the sunlit corridor visible through the door's iron bars.
And spotted Myoran, utterly transformed from her usual sinister air.
"What is that."
To others, Myoran was a breathtaking painting come to life.
But to Anje, she was pure omen of doom.
"That girl... no way the shirt she's wearing right now is..."
The icy gaze that could never comprehend men.
That gaze had vanished entirely, replaced by the expression only a cherished woman could wear.
Whenever Anje needed (?) someone else's help and resorted to brainwashing, couples with faces like that pricked her conscience—she'd always let them slide.
But why was her rival Myoran wearing it now?
Deeply irritated, Anje flung open the iron door.
And fixed a chilling stare on the girl clad only in that flimsy shirt over her bare skin.
"Whose shirt is that."
"......"
Myoran tilted her head, like a demure maiden facing a savage beast.
Right now, she embodied the East's sacred idol—while Anje looked the villain.
"Who else's."
"Hah. You, who eyed every man like filth, finally baring your slutty colors?"
Red pupils flashed amid the silver hair.
Like a bloodsea swallowing countless souls.
"My colors? What're you talking about?"
Myoran asked softly, lips veiled by the oversized sleeve.
With eyes soft and vulnerable, stirring protective urges only a teenage girl could evoke.
Protective urges—for the beast who'd devoured the Walter Group solo and trashed knight commanders.
Exasperated, Anje crossed her arms and strode forward.
Toward the Eastern Sword Sage, a touch shorter and three years her junior.
"You swiped the warden's shirt from his private quarters. Even for an airhead, that's a crime."
"You're hardly one to lecture me on crimes."
Myoran gently tugged the shirt slipping off her shoulder.
A motion savoring the coziness, as if his arms still encircled her from behind.
"Didn't we have a deal? Hands off the warden with brute force, at least."
Truth was, they'd forged a secret pact behind the warden's back.
Even if feelings bloomed someday, no forcing him into it.
That's why Anje never brainwashed him either.
Not even her, who could puppeteer anyone shy of Swordmaster.
She'd bottled it up, plotting a romantic conquest.
Yet this wretched teen bitch dared break it?
Anje glared at Myoran with the sour face she reserved for Nix.
But...
"Of course. I never broke our deal."
Somehow, the girl's vibe had shifted dramatically from her norm.
Under this pressure, she'd usually ice over like a midnight moon.
Instead, she held a leisurely tone, elder-sisterly calm.
"I didn't lay a finger on the warden."
Anje blinked at Myoran's sudden maturity, stiffening in turn.
Her red eyes widened blankly as she parroted back.
"What? So he gave you that shirt himself?"
"Naturally. He led me to his private room personally."
"He? What'd you call the warden?"
"What you heard."
Myoran toyed with the collar, gaze averted.
Her thick thighs rubbing inside, crossed demurely.
"In the East, a man undresses a woman for one reason only. 'Spouse.'"
"Then..."
"Right. Last night, he stripped me bare, tended my body, and dressed me in his shirt."
"......"
Faint mana swirled in Anje's eyes.
She knew instantly: Myoran's words rang true.
"For real? He really took you?"
The Eastern Sword Sage fell silent a beat.
Arms clasped behind, she savored victory leisurely.
"Close enough. He inspected my naked body up close."
As she posed, morning sun warmed through the shirt.
Revealing a figure ripely alluring.
Any man would struggle to look away.
"......"
Still, Anje held steady first.
Pinnacle of mind magic bending all creation—she wouldn't rattle easy.
Calmly dissecting how he'd stripped Myoran, she nailed the truth.
"He patched your wounds, obviously. The warden I know doesn't bow to base lust."
Myoran, mid-taunt, conceded that much.
"Well... true. Not like those scumbags."
But facts stood firm, lust or no.
He'd ushered her to his hidden sanctum, nursed her nude, bestowed his power.
"How pure his heart—to share his strength pre-tournament?"
Anje pinpointed another irritant.
That familiar male mana wafting from Myoran.
"Means I'm precious to him."
"Don't confuse pity for love. Pathetic."
Myoran snickered at "pathetic."
Glided past Anje with refined grace.
"I'm pitying you now. Those eyes..."
A parting whisper.
"Pure jealousy, to anyone."
Those words stung the saintess numb to all creation.
"You wanna go right now? Sword-swinging brute?"
"Can you match a kingdom's worth like me?"
"Damn right. I could crown you empress."
"Prove it."
Myoran returned to her private room.
Ate the breakfast she always skipped.
Tended the potted plants besides.
Like a top-tier crook gone model prisoner overnight.
That stark shift spelled crisis.
Not just for Anje, who'd faced her...
But Camillia Andalusia, spying via crystal orb in the corridor pot.
"What the hell. Derek undressed another woman?"
The empire's princess sipped coffee leisurely in her office.
Scanning prison-wide hidden orbs was routine.
Her mana surge nearly shattered them all.
"Your Highness, everything alright?"
Aides rushed in at the aura.
Camillia flipped to poised sovereign, waving dismissal.
"Nothing. Duties await—no fretting."
Subordinates exhaled relief, retreating.
Golden tresses cascading, her face chilled anew.
"Another prisoner stirring shit."
Camillia orchestrated fingers at the orb.
The girl's face reappeared, swathed in his oversized shirt.
'Right—this Eastern swordswoman who soloed Walter Group lately.'
"Derek's orders, probably."
Co-opting inmates into his faction.
Mind magic apex: the saintess.
Martial apex: Myoran.
Even her uncle's networks and clout.
All three ruler virtues—he'd birthed empire's shadow titan.
Good, naturally.
Her formal betrothed, post-meeting.
"...And vowed efforts for me."
Why the righteous princess indulged his ascent.
Shattered Walter Group, seized assets—yet no private gain.
What signal?
Proving worthy of royal ties.
"Clever boy."
She smiled fondly, pet-like.
Bewitching smirk, lord of all.
"But other women in his orbit? No."
Luxury seat, Camillia crossed legs slow.
Eyed the palace grandeur beyond.
Like rearing her watched dragonet to empire guardian.
"Boosting his stock solo helps more. Beyond needing aid."
Quill from drawer.
Penned direct to Imperial Academy.
「Special Lecture Invite: Northern Supreme Sword Winners」
Beating Stillman made Derek Minster winner-equivalent.
Staging to crown his skyrocketing fame.
"Hmm—future power heirs must attend."
Binding tomorrow's lords to him.
She snickered, listing students.
Her own name slipped in covertly.
"......"
Done, Camillia rose languid.
Glanced wary, cracked the wardrobe.
Eyeed the academy uniform within.
Lifted it, draping her lush curves.
"......"
Forcing Myoran from mind.
Yet even empire wielder Camillia had one hitch.
A tad older than rival inmates.
Twenty-four still youthful, sure.
But his doting on the nineteen-year-old grated.
"Men..."
Deep sigh, uniform shelved.
Arms crossed—did she need stoop so?
Still, eyes strayed wardrobe-ward.
Eyelids clamped, black tea sipped defiant.
Berryhill Prison's morning shift.
Warden's office: fountain pen scratched soft.
"Warden, letter from the palace."
"Yeah?"
I slit it open, scanned contents.
"Princess. Post-Tutton Grand Duke's daughter match, special academy lecture?"
"Solid offer. Tempers your rep, Warden."
Clea poured my coffee, chiming in.
"Rep? All hype."
"Butchering the empire's top Holy Knight—and hype?"
"I'd've lost clean otherwise."
"Fair. Your tier can't sandbag easy."
Sulked at Clea; she beamed.
Joking rapport now, sorta.
"Anyway, prime chance. Attendees: noble scions grabbing power later."
"Flip side: dicey. Their buy-in smooths noble ties ahead."
Clea monocled from taut-shirt pocket.
"No sweat. Prepped their dossiers."
"Huh...? Noble heirs? Tough intel."
Dark broker pull primed for covert digs.
But she preempted—headtilt.
"Vice warden basics."
Didn't scream deputy duty...
Grabbed docs gratefully anyway.
"My vice so versatile—love it."
"Flattered."
Clea glided off nonchalant.
Secretary desk: personal tome opened quiet.
Yet eyes flicked covert to me.
Subtle utmost.
Scheming warden reliance meticulous.
Absence agony.
Mind-nag constant.
Fox strat amid predators.
Humans favor innocuous vixens over hulking dark lions, yokai cats...
Coldest-to-cute knew it best.
"Grateful? Commute duo later. Sibling snacks await."
"Deal. I'll fetch 'em."
Berryhill Prison: eerie hush.
Peace unbroken, seemingly.
Yet quietest harbors deepest suspicion.
Warden-blind: venom plots swirled.
Beyond even famed assassin's ken.