Morning, Countess Chanel's Estate
Isaac wiped sweat from his brow with a towel. With the aid of the revitalizing potion, he'd been trained all night by D'Artagnan and his friend, Athos, the third captain of the Musketeers. He now caught a brief moment to breathe.
"It seems they're planning a special punishment for your friend," said a tall woman exuding a regal, commanding aura—mysterious, cold, and aggressive. She wore a tight black minidress with a fitted top, her presence dominating. Her deep, enigmatic features were framed by a black outfit with white lace trim along the edges and inner seams. The top, unbuttoned from her ample D-cup chest upward, revealed a striking cleavage. A gothic Medici collar flared dramatically at her neck, its V-shaped opening exposing her alluring collarbone. The dress extended into a long, swallowtail-like hem at the back and sides, swaying elegantly with each step, evoking the gothic flair of a long robe.
"Elisabeth, that woman is our only hope. Spare us your sarcasm," D'Artagnan said, meeting the woman's violet eyes. Her 10 cm heels made her nearly as tall as him. Her makeup was bold—fiery red lipstick and dark blue eyeshadow with black eyeliner, giving her the menacing allure of a fairy-tale evil witch. Her hair, almost black but tinged with reddish-brown, added to her mystique.
"Oh? Am I not your hope, then?" Elisabeth sauntered to D'Artagnan, her slender fingers teasingly lifting his chin.
"If you're not here to cause trouble, I did once have hope in you," D'Artagnan replied, coldly brushing her hand away.
This striking woman was Elisabeth von Habsburg, Duchess of Styria from the Archduchy of Aus, part of the Alamenti Empire's ruling family. She was the sixth member of the Roseland Six-Mage Council, a prodigy who became a high-tier mage in her twenties, only a few years behind Jane Lancas. Now in her eighties, she retained her youthful appearance.
Yesterday, D'Artagnan had contacted her via a magical device she'd left him. She arrived in Paris from Styria, thousands of miles away, in an instant.
She teased D'Artagnan, revealing she'd secretly become a legendary mage last year, unknown to the world, who assumed her council seat came from family politics. In truth, all six council members were legendary mages.
D'Artagnan's hope surged, thinking Anna was saved, but Elisabeth dashed it, admitting her body was a magical clone, capable of only weak spells, no stronger than a novice mage. She'd come for amusement, curious to see how D'Artagnan, the handsome swordsman, would handle a clash with Clement, a legendary mage surpassing even her.
"What, now that I can't help, you're cold to me, handsome?" Elisabeth teased. "My long-dead royal brother wasn't as heartless as Goulens' top swordsman."
D'Artagnan's only hope to save Anna now rested on Isaac's vampire friend. He distrusted Isaac for deceiving Anna, but he had no choice.
"Ricardo van Dyne's sword, Sir Isaac? You're no ordinary man," Elisabeth said, approaching Isaac as he finished wiping sweat. Her fingers grazed his thigh and waist, lingering on his sword Moonshine, stirring him.
"Ura! My potions are ready!" Sergei burst from another room, sweaty and grimy, having prepared combat potions.
Elisabeth eyed a vial on Sergei's belt, not freshly made but older. "Oh, that potion isn't—"
"Ura! Duchess, don't say it!" Sergei cut her off, not wanting its name revealed.
"Fine. Tonight will be fun," Elisabeth said with a smirk.
D'Artagnan, done with her uselessness, snapped, "If you've nothing to offer, don't interfere. I need to—"
"Baron D'Artagnan, is that how you speak to a lady? What if I can help?" Elisabeth interrupted.
"You said your clone's magic is barely stronger than Sergei's. How can you help?"
"Give me a sword. Our empire's swordsmanship surpasses your Goulens rabble."
"Hmph." D'Artagnan tossed her a fine rapier from their weapon stash, clearly familiar with her skill.
Elisabeth caught it, testing it in the air. "Not bad. Worthy of the top swordsman's choice."
"If you're done, I'm training Isaac," D'Artagnan said.
"Oh, three gentlemen abandoning a lady? Guess I'll play with this Rosian mage," Elisabeth said, grinning at Sergei like he was a toy.
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Notre-Dame Square
"Mmph… mmph… mmph…"
Burned by holy fire all night, Sophia lay dazed in the nearly spent ashes. The wooden pyre was gone, and the iron chains had partially melted, but Jeanne d'Arc ensured no molten metal touched her. The holy ropes, cuffs, and collar remained unscathed.
Her arms were still bound behind in a "||/" shape, elbows and wrists tightly together, wrists suspended at her neck by a holy rope loop.
Beneath the crotch rope, three plugs endured, absorbing immense heat during the burning. Made of enchanted silver alloy, their excellent conductivity scalded her passages, especially her intimate one, which secreted fluids under the hundreds-to-thousands-degree heat.
Flames still enveloped her. Sophia's eyes were vacant, tears streaming from their corners, evaporating instantly in the fire.
"Mmph… mmph…"
Like a bullied child, her fire-seared body emitted weak, pained moans.
"Sophia, it's almost over," Jeanne d'Arc knelt beside her in the flames, stroking her back for comfort.
"Mmph… mmph…"
"Mmph… mmph…"
"Mmph… mmphhh…"
"Farewell, Sophia. We'll meet again," Jeanne said, signaling the end of the pyre to the numbed Sophia.
"Mmph… mmph…" Too weak to move, she was carried like a dead pig by stunned clerics.
The fire had made her skin radiant, cleansing all filth, including her nipple rings and Ding Yangchun's brand.
"Mmph… mmph…" Two clerics carried her naked, bound form from the ashes.
The crotch rope stirred her plugs, but her passages, accustomed to the intense heat, barely registered the sensation. Too drained to struggle, she let out faint "mmph" sounds, indicating the plugs' lingering effect.
"She didn't die?" Morning onlookers saw the ashes and the pristine Sophia being carried.
"How's that possible?"
"She cheated!"
"This slut can't even be burned!"
Crowds emerging from homes insulted her, but Sophia, weakened by the anti-dark-creature holy fire, couldn't respond. Jeanne's energy infusion didn't negate the fire's real damage.
"How…?" Archbishop Mopp stared at the naked, bound Sophia at his feet.
"Perhaps God says we're wrong," Castet said, pitying Sophia's pained expression.
"I prayed, but got no guidance," Paris' Archbishop Pierre admitted, baffled.
Mopp turned to the other bishops, whispering.
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Ding Yangchun's Dungeon
Anna, Countess Chanel, and Jane knelt naked, bound in Japanese style before Ding Yangchun. Before them were three dog bowls labeled Bebe, Little Jia, and Ranko.
Ding Yangchun patted Ranko's head, removing her bone-shaped gag.
"Ranko, before you eat, tell Bebe and Little Jia your true feelings," he said, wanting his new pets to know their fate.
Jane glanced fearfully at him. He patted her again. "Your master knows your thoughts. Tell your new friends the truth."
"…Ranko is loyal to Master. I'll do anything he commands."
"No, tell them how you really feel. They think you're an emotionless slave."
"No, Ranko feels shame and fear. I know I'm just Master's pet, but he forbids me from enjoying training or being wanton. Every time he plays with me, I'm so ashamed… I don't want him to see me like this…"
"Good, eat, Ranko."
"Thank you, Master." Jane bent to eat her dog food.
"See, Bebe and Little Jia? You won't lose yourselves. You'll resist more, feel more shame, and cherish your chastity. The only difference? Absolute obedience to me," Ding Yangchun said.
"Mmph…" Anna and Chanel exchanged terrified glances. Worse than emotionless slavery, they'd retain their hates and loves but be trained to obey Ding Yangchun completely.
Jane still hated him, and he relished that—hating, fearing, and despising him made training fun. Taming shameless women was boring, like playing with prostitutes. Days of training made Jane unable to defy him. He loved obedient, hateful women, and Anna and Chanel would become such.
"Eat," he said, removing their bone-shaped gags.
They stayed silent, unwilling to submit.
"Don't want to eat? More training then." He produced two harness gags, shoving them into their mouths, trained not to speak.
"Mmphhh… mmphhh!"
"Mmph… mmphhh!"
They felt freer gagged, their silence reflex kicking in. Ungagged, they couldn't speak, but gagged, they controlled their vocal cords.
Only a day had passed, yet it felt like a year. They were unaccustomed to sounds beyond "mmph."
Ding Yangchun grabbed their hair, dragging them across the floor.
"Mmph… mmphhh…"
"Mmphhh… mmphhh!!!"
Terrified, they struggled, but bound, they were powerless, trembling as he dragged them, dreading his punishment for refusing to eat.
"Mmph! Mmphhh!"
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Countess Chanel's Estate
"Your friend's in a bad state," Elisabeth said, approaching the three swordsmen training in the courtyard.
"What happened to Sophia?" Isaac stopped, anxious.
"She's not dead," Elisabeth said, exuding Habsburg confidence.
"What does that mean?" Isaac pressed.
"Maybe they're leaving her out to be snatched?" Elisabeth hooked his chin with her finger.
Snatched… by the mage academy?
"Don't panic, Isaac!" Athos, Count Rafael, clapped his shoulder. "If she's vulnerable, that's our chance!"
"But… we've only a non-casting mage, a novice apprentice, and two Musketeers."
"Three Musketeers," D'Artagnan corrected, tossing Isaac a badge.
Isaac caught it—a cross topped with a feathered Musketeer hat, four rapiers pointing at it, symbolizing the four legendary swordsmen. Below, in Goulensian, the Roseland proverb read:
Un pour tous, tous pour un
One for all, all for one.
"Sir Isaac, swear to join the Musketeers?" D'Artagnan pointed his rapier at him.
"I do."
"Say the phrase to complete your induction."
Isaac raised Slayer's Blade before his face. "One for all, all for one!"
"Welcome, Brother Isaac!" Athos embraced him, followed by D'Artagnan.
"Such childish knight games," Elisabeth said, amused. "My knights died decades ago."
"Isaac, will you be my knight? It's been ages since a handsome knight served me," she teased.
"Uh? I—I need to train," Isaac stammered, blushing, turning to resume practice with D'Artagnan and Athos.
"Such a dull knight," Elisabeth said, touching her lips.
"Oh, someone's coming," she said, stepping out.
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Five Minutes Later
Elisabeth returned, carrying a hogtied Vivian.
Vivian wore a simple corseted dress, its hem tied like a sack at her ankles, thighs, and calves bound similarly, turning her legs into a long bag. Her arms were painfully straight-tied behind her, as her flexibility couldn't handle elbow-binding like a warrior's. Her ankles were tied to her arms in an extreme hogtie, letting Elisabeth carry her like a suitcase.
Elisabeth tossed Vivian to the ground. "My eavesdropping spell caught her skulking nearby."
"You said you couldn't cast!" D'Artagnan snapped.
"It'd harm my clone. The Rosian boy helped," Elisabeth said, winking at Sergei. "Swordsman, want me to cast on you?"
"Forget that!" Isaac knelt by Vivian, pulling her own underwear from her mouth, used as a gag.
"Why are you here?" he demanded, furious at Clement's ally.
"I'm sorry, Sir Isaac," Vivian sobbed, unstable.
"Is Clement sending you to spy?"
"No, please listen!"
"What?"
"Clement doesn't want to kill the vampire. He plans to snatch her tonight as his slave… I'm sorry, Sir Isaac, my hatred blinded me…"
Isaac, D'Artagnan, and Athos exchanged glances. So, they planned to abduct Sophia tonight?
"Why should we trust you?" Athos asked.
"Easy," Elisabeth said, roughly lifting Vivian's hair, holding a dagger to her cheek.
"Do you know who I am? I can make truth serum."
"What are you doing?" Vivian cried, terrified.
"If you lie under serum, I'll carve your pretty face and gouge your eyes."
"I'm telling the truth! I hate the vampire who charmed Sir Isaac, but I respect him!"
"She's truthful," Elisabeth said, tossing Vivian down, her experience confirming no lies.
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Night, Notre-Dame Square
Goulens had fewer than twenty paladins, Paris no more than six. Tonight, three, including Olivier, were here.
Countless torch-bearing soldiers and a Church mage guarded something.
At the center, a pillar surrounded by torches held a bound, despairing woman.
A light orb flew from the dark, temporarily blinding several soldiers.
Three swordsmen, wearing feathered Musketeer hats, emerged like the Three Musketeers. Two tall ones wore masks; the third was Isaac de Chanel.
"Four against thirty-seven—fun," said a woman in a black lace-edged minidress, her long swallowtail hem swaying, exuding queenly dominance. Her 10 cm heels matched the masked swordsmen's height. Her catwoman-like mask revealed violet eyes, and she held a rapier.
"Let's go, Musketeers."
The four charged. Olivier, determined to protect Sophia, drew Hrothgar, engaging them.
A six-meter-tall Rosian—Sergei, under a gigantism potion—stormed the square.
"Ura!" Sergei kicked three soldiers aside, rushing for Sophia. She'd saved him once, and she was his only hope to save Jane. He'd do anything to rescue her.
Olivier moved to stop him, but a masked, feathered swordsman blocked him.
"Your opponent is me, Sir Olivier," said D'Artagnan, bowing.
Olivier recognized Goulens' top swordsman, Baron D'Artagnan, though not a friend, only familiar.
"Very well, a man of honor," Olivier said, bowing with Hrothgar.
Their duel of divine power and masterful swordplay began.
Count Rafael Athos, masked, fought back-to-back with Elisabeth von Habsburg against a dozen soldiers.
"Your swordsmanship's improved, Count," Elisabeth teased, glancing back.
"Yours hasn't faded, Duchess," Athos replied, confirming their past acquaintance.
Another paladin charged them.
"Oh, a holy knight. Trouble," Elisabeth said.
A gray-cloaked, hooded figure leapt from Notre-Dame's roof, landing between them and the paladin.
The figure drew Durandal, the legendary sword of Goulens' founding paladin Orlando, forged by celestial beings. A radiant light pierced the night.
"It's you, Stone!" the paladin exclaimed, recognizing the sword.
The gray figure raised Durandal, prayer complete.
"Still not enough?" Stone muttered, removing his hood.
Stone, a grizzled knight with dark brown hair and a stubbled face, stood before the paladin.
"Stone, why you?" Olivier, fighting D'Artagnan, was stunned.
"Know this: Goulens, the knightly nation, was founded by Emperor Charles and twelve noble paladins!" Stone shouted, eyes blazing with valor.
He reversed Durandal, gripping the blade, presenting the crossguard and pommel forward like a warhammer, a half-sword technique avoiding lethal cuts but capable of breaking bones with the guard and pommel.
"We knights uphold chivalry, fighting for our Lord's glory in Emperor Charles' name!"
"Why aid evil?" Stone's eyes burned, charging with the reversed sword. The crossguard hooked the paladin's blade, disarming him. The pommel struck his shin, meant to break it, but divine power only unbalanced him.
"Argh!" The paladin fell. Stone felled several soldiers, then closed his eyes, praying again.
"Not enough," he said, opening his eyes. Lacking divine power, he fought the risen paladin and two approaching soldiers with human strength.
Chaos erupted in the square. Isaac, after downing foes, neared Sophia's pillar.