"Jeanne, you can cry out if you want."
In the castle at night, the chaste Holy Seat was pinned to the bed and wantonly toyed with, while Rolin stood outside the door, separated from her by a single wall, fists clenched tight.
The girl he admired, the saint he revered, was being humiliated right before his eyes. Yet all he could do was watch, because the one committing this atrocity was someone he could never resist.
"Don't look, Rolin..."
Had she seen his glaring eyes through the crack in the door? Had she seen the fury on his clenched-jaw face? The girl wept, covering her face with her hands, her sobs ringing out again and again.
He was furious, he hated it, he despaired, and he... got hard.
Ahem...
With a deafening crash, the thousand-year-old door of Tilvara Castle was reduced to splintered planks. Hundreds of bloodthirsty dolls surrounded Rolin, and a bare little foot stepped right onto his face.
"You have a chance to leave some last words, you lecherous worm."
The 32nd Witch, player of the March Strings, and mistress of the Land of the Hidden Moon, Alice Margatroid, said without expression.
After holding it in for ages, Luo Xi finally recited his farewell poem:
"...If lilies may live, I'll give my life, whatever the cost; I won't flee from fortune or calamity. Beneath the skirt, your favor shines so bright; to lick your feet suits a gentleman just right."
