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The sun of Antioch blazed down upon the Crusaders' camp, heatwaves shimmering up from the cracked earth, distorting the outline of Acre's distant walls. This summer had already taken too much—water, patience, and the lives of hundreds soldiers.
Richard I stood at the edge of his tent's shadow, his long silver-white hair stirring slightly in the hot wind. He had stood like this for half an hour, his blue gaze fixed upon the city that refused to yield.
Three months.
For three months, his trebuchets had launched stones day and night, his soldiers had filled and re-dug the moats, and his name was cursed to hell by the besieged—yet Acre still belonged to Saladin.
"You're looking at it again."
Saint-Germain emerged from the shadows, his grey-blue eyes reflecting the distant fires. The court mage's robes remained impeccably clean, as if the scorching heat and swarming flies had nothing to do with him.
Richard did not turn. "Is the King of France pressing for another assault again?"
"His Majesty King Philip has sent three messengers." Saint-Germain's tone was casual. "His soldiers are also asking what exactly we're waiting for on this side."
What was he waiting for.
Richard did not answer. He was waiting for something that would let him win. He had enough troops, superior equipment—he commanded the finest warriors in Christendom—but it wasn't enough. Saladin, the enemy he secretly respected, still resisted stubbornly, holding his ground. And Philip, his so-called ally, had been using every day of delay to quietly bolster French glory with his forces; now his friend's patience has reached its limit.
If this continued, his soldiers would keep dwindling. Disease, heat, desertion. He could not afford another mistake. The Lionheart would not accept defeat here.
He needed something else. Something special enough.
"Your Majesty," Saint-Germain reminded him, "even if you stare at that city, it won't fall on its own."
"This time is different." Richard repeated. "You know this time is different."
Saint-Germain suddenly turned his head.
At the camp entrance, a company was crossing through the blazing sun. Several soldiers led horses, and bound to one of them was a figure—shackles around the ankles, wrapped tightly in a dark red cloak. The light was too harsh to make out the face clearly from their position, only glimpses of a few strands of golden hair escaping from under the hood.
"While the current stretch of history hasn't quite devolved into a 'singularity' yet," the court mage murmured, raising an eyebrow slightly, "I can't believe they actually managed to find that child for you."
Richard frowned. He never quite understood this court mage. Saint-Germain always spoke of strange things—"tributaries of fate," "forks in prophecy," "things that should have been but are not." Richard kept him around only because the man never flattered him and occasionally helped ease his irritation. Of course, Saint-Germain had initially tried to "counsel" him, saying things like, "Your Majesty, this action may not be what a wise king would do." Later, whether he gave up or simply accepted it, he never brought it up again.
But now, Richard saw something flicker across Saint-Germain's face.
Disappointment?
Just for an instant, and then the man's ever-present smile returned.
"Saint-Germain," Richard stared at him, "you're acting strangely today."
"Am I? I was merely marveling at your efficiency, Your Majesty."
"I've told you before, I need to take Acre." Richard turned towards the approaching party. "That woman is an abomination against God. By Church law, she should have been burned at the stake. I hear bishops and lords everywhere are after her—I simply acted first and made her mine."
Saint-Germain observed the figure being helped down from the horse, the shackles glinting in the sunlight.
"A very wise judgment, Your Majesty," he said. "Let me see... Exquisite shackles. The mages who found her for you even used several layers of runic formulas designed to bind faerie-kind, just to contain her. Quite right. Handled improperly, she might accidentally reduce all of Acre to rubble for you—including, of course, our camp and our neighbor King Philip's."
He paused, turned, and the smile still lingered on his lips.
"Truly regrettable that it had to come to this. I had thought there might be a better fate in store for the two of you."
Richard did not understand this remark.
"She is merely a tool."
"Ah, of course—I agree!" Saint-Germain drawled, theatrically tipping his hat and bowing to Richard. "That child is indeed very suitable for use as a tool. In fact, with her here, your sword will taste the enemy's blood on the path to conquering Jerusalem far sooner than prophecy foretold—and taking Saladin's head will likely be only a matter of time."
He straightened, his grey-blue eyes meeting Richard's blue gaze.
"It is precisely because you can achieve things beyond what fate dictates that I acknowledge you as my king. Now, I am merely a witness to your valor, your accomplice." Saint-Germain smiled slightly. "You always manage to astonish me, Your Majesty."
The mage adjusted his hat, sighed deeply, and turned to leave, tossing back a final remark: "If your lion's heart is still capable of feeling pain, my king, I believe you will find her to your liking."
Richard wasted no more words. He was already striding towards the camp entrance. Soldiers parted before him, and by the time he reached it, his companions had set the captive down.
It was a young woman. Several lances were pointed at her. She knelt in the sand, the red cloak spread around her, yet she still clutched it tightly to herself.
She looked up. The fierce sunlight fell upon her face, and her crimson eyes met his without fear. The wind passed between them. Her hair lifted, strands of gold brushing her cheeks; she did not raise a hand to brush them away.
Richard looked down at her.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Witch," she said.
"I asked for your name."
"Witch."
He did not believe this was her true name. But she would not give it. He would not stoop to demanding it.
"Fine," he said. "You know who I am, I suppose?"
Still kneeling, her crimson eyes were as calm as two pools of dead water.
"Richard. King of England. Lord of Normandy. Duke of Aquitaine." The young woman's voice was neither servile nor fearful, utterly devoid of reverence. "Shield of Christendom, Avenger of the Holy City. If you cannot take Acre within a month, the King of France will withdraw. You will lose this war, and afterwards, you will lose your kingdom."
The soldiers around them gripped their spear shafts tighter.
"They say you are valiant in battle," she continued in the same flat tone, "but the men who found me told me you need me."
Richard did not move.
He stared at her for a long time. Then he gestured slightly with his chin towards the soldiers.
The spears were withdrawn.
"Who forged your shackles?" he asked. "I only instructed them to restrain you somewhat."
"Your men, naturally. In Jaffa." Her answer came without pause. "They apparently thought you wished me enslaved, so they treated me as you treat your subjects."
The soldiers immediately moved forward again—this was a public insult to the king. But Richard raised his hand, stopping them.
"Unnecessary," he said.
He could hear the deliberate contempt and provocation in her words. But he didn't mind. Or rather, he was focused on something else.
"Now," Richard commanded, "stand up."
The witch did not rise.
The golden-haired woman simply knelt there, her cloak wrapped around her, her ruby-like eyes looking up at him—and then, finally, a different emotion flickered in those eyes.
It was hatred. Fierce, unyielding hatred.
Richard was pleased to see that light ignite in her gaze.
He liked the look on her face now.
So he bent down, kneeling on one knee as he had knelt before the papal legate to receive his cross, facing her with a knight's courtesy—a stir ran through the troops, soldiers cried out, "Your Majesty, you cannot!"—but he ignored them. Instead, he reached out, picked up the chain attached to her ankle shackles, and wound it once around his wrist.
Then he tugged the chain straight, looked up, and smiled at her.
"You, come with me."
The witch was clearly stunned by this erratic, contradictory behavior. She watched him wrap the chain around his wrist, watched him stand up like that—and under everyone's gaze, she was treated like a domestic animal that needed leading.
She had no choice but to rise. Bare feet on the sand scorched by the sun, each step like walking on hot iron plates. She clenched her teeth, silent, trotting after him as he pulled her along. The cloak stirred up dust behind her, the shackles clinked around her ankles, the metal burning her skin red. She didn't look down, only stared at his back—that silver-white hair dazzling in the sunlight like a walking lion.
Richard dismissed his attendants. He led her through the camp, past curious or contemptuous stares from soldiers, all the way to the deepest part—his own command tent.
The tent flap fell, shutting out the sun. Inside, it was cooler than outside, but still stuffy. Light slanted through gaps in the roof, carving angled beams through the air where countless dust motes drifted slowly.
Richard walked to his cot and sat down, unbuckling his armor and setting his sword aside. The chain was still wound around his wrist, trailing long across the ground to the shadows at the far end of the tent.
The witch stood as far away as possible, clutching her cloak, bare feet hidden beneath its hem. She kept her head down, her chest rising and falling slightly.
Richard glanced at her.
"Come here."
She looked up, glaring coldly. Still standing far away.
His eyes narrowed. This time, his voice carried more command—"I said, come here."
The witch's body suddenly stiffened.
A force pressed down upon her—it was compelling her to move forward, like a hand pushing from inside her bones, her muscles, her will. She fought against the compulsion, but lost her balance and stumbled to her knees.
She gasped for breath, looked up, and finally, there was fear in her crimson eyes. Sweat trickled down her temples, plastering strands of golden hair to her cheeks.
"A commanding spell..." she stared at him, her voice trembling slightly. "You're a mage too?"
Richard leaned back on the cot, idly playing with the chain in his hand.
"Just a small trick I learned from Saint-Germain," he said. "The Lord placed me where I belong—I was born to stand before armies. You only need to know this—it's enough to make enemies kneel, to make your legs buckle. That's sufficient."
"You—" The witch faltered, her eyes widening with disgust. "Such a crude form of magecraft. You're utterly tactless. If not for these shackles—"
"You're thinking right now," he interrupted, a smile curling his lips, "that without these shackles, you could easily assassinate an unarmored king here, aren't you?"
She didn't speak. But the look in her eyes said it all.
He wound the chain around his hand once more, then let it slacken.
"Well? Will you walk here yourself? Or shall I use that trick again?"
A long silence.
Outside the tent came the faint shouts of soldiers, the neighing of horses, the clash of metal. But inside, there was only the sound of their breathing, and the occasional soft clink of the chain.
Finally, the witch rose, her bare feet stepping on the carpet, walking towards him step by step. When she reached him, she stopped by the cot, looking down at him.
Richard looked up.
The slanted light fell upon the woman, illuminating her golden hair and crimson eyes. A thin braid hung from her temple, adorned with a small golden ornament. The skin above her collarbone, hidden beneath the red cloak, was damp with sweat, but she still refused to unwrap the cloth covering her.
"No need to be so reserved," he said. "I did not order the men who found you to treat you with any impropriety."
A flush suddenly rose on the woman's bare skin, from her neck to her ears, spreading across her cheeks.
But after a moment, she looked away indifferently again, and asked quietly, "…You didn't order them to treat me improperly?"
"No. They simply followed my orders—to bring you here." Richard looked her up and down. "Or is it that this expensive dress doesn't suit your taste?"
The witch did not reply.
After a while, apparently accepting the situation, her grip loosened slightly.
The dark red fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood before him, a pure white gown modestly concealing her body, yet outlining every curve—the slenderness of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the shadows just visible below her collarbone. The hem reached only to her calves, revealing her shackled ankles and bare feet. Sunlight touched her, the white gown seeming almost to melt into the light, making her appear like an apparition stepping forth from it.
A fae from the pages of a book.
—To the king's taste.
She stood there, letting him look, a spark of anger igniting in her crimson eyes. Then she straightened her spine, lifting her chin slightly.
"King of England," the witch said, each word distinct, "you not only had your men put me in chains, but you even intend to humiliate a mage with this ridiculous attire?"
"They said you were as sharp and captivating as Morgan le Fay from Arthurian legend—I see it's true. My men found you in Jaffa? I suppose it's a cultural difference." Richard smiled, his gaze moving from her body back to her face. "Witch, this is not a shameful garment. Besides, I have the right to choose more suitable clothing for my current tools."
"Tools," she repeated.
"They should have told you what you are meant to do." Richard raised his hand, his fingers touching her cheek.
Even in the summer heat, her skin was cool. His fingers traced from her cheek to her chin, gently cupping it.
She was forced to meet his gaze.
"You will simply follow me east," he said, "and in my battle lines, you won't need to act personally."
The witch lowered her eyes.
"I understand, my king," she began in a tone of surface respect, her voice still as indifferent as ever. "You have dabbled in the Mysteries, and I'm sure you can use some magecraft to aid you in battle—but you are, after all, merely mortal. Forgive my bluntness, but your talent is limited. In single combat, perhaps, but the quantity of your mana is insufficient to use magecraft to dominate the entire siege of Acre."
"What you state is fact." Richard narrowed his eyes. "But my lady, I bear the Lord's staff, spreading His glory through the fires of war. I send my warriors up the stairs to Heaven—they take pride in the Holy Spirit, in me, in the blood and sword of conquest. I am their king, and also their shepherd. If my strength were confined to this body alone, unable to fight hundreds foes single-handedly, to defeat multitudes with a few, who would still take pride in me? Who would bear the sacred burden of slaughter for my devout soldiers?"
She listened quietly, but did not remain where she was.
A soft clink of the chain.
Barefoot, she stepped onto the edge of the bed beside him, the white gown sliding up to reveal her pale calves and the shackles. Using her leverage, she swung her other leg up. Now she knelt on his bed, looking down at him from above.
The king merely looked up. The smile still lingered at the corner of his mouth, but something in his blue eyes had grown darker.
The woman before him moved again. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, the white gown pooling over his legs. She bowed her head, her golden hair falling forward. Her soft breath, warm and quick, touched his forehead.
"So you had those mages find me, and had them put these restraints on me," the witch murmured, her fingers tracing the scar on his face, her crimson eyes trembling with some unnamed emotion. "What a foolish man. If you had only asked me properly, I could have helped you end this war easily. But you don't value my magecraft, and you never wished for the war to stop. You relish battle, you thirst for blood. You only want to use me—so that you yourself can be invincible in that endless slaughter."
Richard raised his hand. His fingers threaded through her falling hair, coming to rest at the nape of her neck. Then, gently, he pressed down. She was forced to bend lower, her forehead almost touching his. Their breaths mingled.
"Yes, that is what I want. I've never denied it. So, as my tool, you are indispensable to me," he said, his voice low, as if ground out from his chest, yet utterly unwavering. "I don't believe a pair of shackles is enough to make you yield, witch. You are, after all, the most fearsome of those Mysteries—one who grants wishes yet also drives men mad with desire for you. In bed, I will respect your will, but I wish you to hear my prayers, to understand my glory—and afterwards, every time I pluck the laurels of victory, that joy I will always share with you."
"Glory?" The witch did not struggle, yet her tone was still mocking. "That is ambition, my king. Your thirst for war makes you ignore the wife you truly pledged vows to, yet for your own arrogant desires and ambition, and for those laurels that mean nothing to me, you now wish to treat me like a common whore?"
"Did my men mention this to you?" Richard gave a cold laugh. "You are the first person who dares to speak to me this way."
Before the words had faded, an arm tightened around the witch's waist.
Neither of them could have said who started it—whether it was a one-sided plunder or an unequal bargain—but the king took advantage of the moment, wrapping an arm around the slender waist of the woman in his embrace, his other hand cradling the back of her neck, and kissed her without hesitation.
Perhaps it wasn't even a kiss, but sheer conquest.
When his lips pressed against hers, they carried the ferocity of the battlefield. His tongue pried apart her unresisting teeth and pushed deep inside. The witch's eyes flew wide open, her crimson irises reflecting that enlarged face—silver-white hair tumbling loose against her cheeks, blue eyes half-lidded, burning with something she couldn't understand.
Saliva tangled, clung, spilling from the corners of their mouths in fine threads.
She finally came to her senses. Her hands rose to push against his chest—but when her palms met that unmoving, battle-hardened body, he only tightened his grip around her waist, imprisoning her entirely against him, sealing every gap between them.
She couldn't push him away.
This realization fueled her anger, yet also left her powerless. The woman's fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic, clenched—and then, finally, relaxed.
But a witch was, after all, a witch.
Just as his tongue explored without restraint, she bit down. Hard.
The taste of iron spread between them. Richard paused for an instant—but only an instant. The next moment, he kissed her deeper, harder, as if the pain meant nothing to him. Blood flowed along their intertwining tongues, and he fed it back into her mouth, forcing her to swallow.
The witch's breathing began to falter.
The anger in those crimson eyes gradually gave way to bewilderment. Her eyes grew mois, her eyelashes trembled. She could barely breathe—this man had no concept of restraint. Only when she was nearly suffocating, limbs gone weak as she leaned against him, did he finally release her.
A silver thread stretched between their lips, then broke. Richard licked the corner of his mouth, where she had bitten him. He savored it for a moment, then laughed softly.
"It seems this was your first kiss." His thumb pressed against her lower lip, stroking the place he had just nibbled. "I would have thought someone as fearsome as you would have more experience."
The witch glared at him fiercely. "How could I possibly have experience?!"
Her breathing was uneven, her voice breathless—she couldn't even muster the force to curse properly. "And you—do you even know the difference between biting and kissing?! Aren't all you believers supposed to be abstinent? Weren't you just making those fanatical speeches about God a moment ago? Mmm—"
Her curse was cut short by a stifled moan.
One of Richard's large hands had somehow moved from her waist to her chest, fondling her soft breasts through the thin white gauze of her dress. The other hand slid between her legs.
The sudden touch made the witch's body jolt violently, as if an electric current had shot from her tailbone to the back of her skull. Instinctively, she tried to press her legs together, only to realize she was straddling him with nowhere to retreat. Her entire body was trapped in his embrace, the only support available being his burning chest.
"Enough—" Her voice was already trembling. "Not there... at least let me catch my breath..."
She tried to show weakness, attempting to negotiate. "...If you want mana, could you please just get it over with quickly?"
Richard ignored her plea.
He even slowed down.
The hand that had slipped beneath her skirt, separated only by the thin fabric, patiently and meticulously teased her most private place, untouched by anyone before. The witch bit her lower lip, desperately stifling the sounds rising in her throat. But her body refused to obey—she could feel something surging from deep within, warm and wet, slowly trickling down the base of her thigh.
"I told you," Richard repeated his earlier words, "in bed, I will respect your will—my lady, if I cannot pleasure you until you beg me for more, then it would mean nothing."
"Who would beg someone like you for anything... I'm not feeling pleasure from something so shamefu— nngh..."
The witch's body trembled. An unfamiliar heat was rising deep within her abdomen. She had never been this close to a man before, never felt another person's warmth pressed so intimately against her own—but through the scant distance between them, she could hear the steady, powerful beat of his heart—a heart like a lion's.
This man was serious. He truly intended to do this—not as humiliation, not as using her for gratification. He wanted something more, wanted her to genuinely open herself to him. He was yearning for her to hear him, to accept him—along with his warped convictions and his fanatical ambition, he was trying to make her into his kindred.
Just as the witch was lost in this daze, she felt another finger join the first between her legs.
Two fingers, pressing gently through the soaked thin fabric against a certain spot—in that instant, the woman's body went rigid.
"Ah...! "She couldn't help but shout out. More liquid gushed out from deep inside her body, soaking the fabric and wetting his fingers. The thin veil had become a mere formality, tightly adhering to her skin, sinking into the narrow crevice and outlining the most secretive shape.
"So this is it." Richard bit her earlobe, teasing it with his teeth, his voice carrying undisguised excitement. "Remember this well, witch—this is the place that brings you pleasure."
"Wha—what... where?" Her voice came out fragmented, broken. "What are you talking about..."
The man holding her didn't answer. A third finger slipped inside. This time, his movements were no longer gentle—his fingertips concentrated their pressure on that spot of soft flesh, grinding against it rhythmically and forcefully.
The witch's vision blurred.
She could feel her own body betraying her—that place which had never been touched before was greedily sucking at his fingers. Her inner walls uncontrollably clenched and wrapped around him, as if craving something. A pleasure unlike anything she had ever known exploded from deep in her abdomen, shooting up through her nerves to the crown of her head, then spreading through every part of her.
"No... stop..." She shook her head, golden hair flying wildly. But her body obediently responded to his movements, her hips gently swaying.
Richard's fingers quickened. His lips pressed against her ear as he murmured, "Don't hold back."
The witch bit her lip hard, desperately suppressing the sobs rising in her throat. But that wave grew stronger and stronger, more overwhelming—she was being pulled into a vortex of pleasure, unable to break free, unable to breathe.
Then, the wave finally burst through the dam.
"Ah——!"
She tilted her head back, her body tensing abruptly before trembling violently. A stream of liquid burst through the thin veil of obstruction, gushing from between her legs, soaking his hand, soaking his robes, soaking the bedding beneath them.
This was the first climax of the witch's life.
She lay limp in Richard's arms, gasping for breath, her gaze unfocused, her body still trembling in uncontrollable spasms. Golden hair clung damply to her cheeks and neck, the white gown now thoroughly ruined, plastered against her skin and outlining every curve.
Richard lowered his head to look at her, slowly withdrawing his hand, his fingers still stained with the fluid that had seeped from within her. Right there in front of her, he brought those fingers to his lips and gently sucked.
"Just as I thought," he murmured. "Even your bodily fluids carry mana."
The witch watched him, her cheeks burning crimson.
She wanted to curse him, to say something to salvage her dignity—but she didn't even have the strength to speak now. She could only tremble, letting this man observe her disheveled state.
"...But this alone doesn't seem quite enough." Amidst her hazy consciousness, she heard him mutter to himself. "We're not completely connected yet."
Connected—The Witch's scattered consciousness was forced to gather a little. Did he mean Magic Circuits?
No, that wasn't right. She couldn't sense anything. She strained with her remaining perception, but couldn't detect anything in this mad king that could be called a "Magic Circuit." He was probably just genius enough, fortunate enough, and with some push from a certain tutor, had managed to learn those few crude and barbaric magecraft techniques.
If there were a better and more astute mage here, they could surely "use" her in a more appropriate way. A way that didn't require this primitive, humiliating skin-to-skin contact to draw mana from her. At least something decent. With dignity...
But now, the fabric between her legs had been torn aside, and the king had laid her down on the bed. She was like a bewildered young animal, the gown slipping away, her legs lifted, his shadow looming over her. His breath traced a path down her collarbone, all the way to her abdomen. Then, the witch felt a tingling between her thighs as the man's head continued downward, his tongue sliding into the cleft between her legs.
"...Haah... Stop!"
This man—not only did he give her no chance to recover, he also seemed completely oblivious to her words, as if he were genuinely considering how to properly establish their connection for mana transfer, examining her like a tool awaiting use—
"Fool! You mad king! If you want to absorb mana this way, you'd be better off just sleeping properly instead of staying up all night! This is insane! Ungh..."
The golden-haired woman was utterly panicked. She felt like she might actually cry—not because he was hurting her, but because this method was too shameful. The witch's hand reached down between her legs, only to encounter the man's shock of shaggy hair.
"Let go...!"
Her curse was swallowed by his deeper movements.
Richard's tongue pressed against the flower bud that had never been glimpsed by anyone, and the nectar still clinging between her legs was swept into his mouth—salty, damp, its magical essence dissolving on his tongue.
The witch's body jolted violently.
"Mmph...! You... you—" She wanted to curse, but the moment the words left her mouth, they turned into a stifled moan. His tongue moved, tracing the contours of that tender flesh, now sucking gently, now teasing with its tip. Every motion precisely grazed her most sensitive spot.
Her thighs instinctively tightened around his head.
But that only buried him deeper. Her fingers clenched in his hair—that silver-white, shaggy mane, now buried in her most intimate place. She wanted to push him away, but her fingers disobediently tightened their grip.
"Idiot... Richard..." Her voice was already trembling, tears edging her words. "Richard... you really are an idiot...!"
She spoke his name.
That name—uttered with such reverence as "Your Majesty" before thousands troops, the name that even Saladin had to regard with solemn respect—was now being called out by her in such a broken voice. Clearly she meant to curse him, yet it sounded so endearing, carrying a plea like a spoiled child's.
The man buried between her thighs paused.
Then, he looked up.
"Oh? So this is the kind of reaction you have at times like this."
That handsome face was streaked with the fluids flowing from her body. He licked the corner of his mouth. "Well then, O Abomination Against God, I forgive you for speaking a king's name so freely. Pity—you still won't tell me your name, Witch."
The witch cried.
Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, soaking the bed beneath her. She raised an arm to cover her eyes, not wanting him to see her like this—but her body still trembled uncontrollably, still soaked between her thighs, every inch of her skin screaming with the memory of his warmth.
"I won't tell you..." Her voice choked with sobs, yet she clung to her final shred of defiance. "I'd never tell a man like you... You disgust me... Just thinking of you speaking my true name makes my skin crawl..."
Richard's expression darkened for an instant. But only for an instant.
The next moment, he lowered his head again, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wider. His lips pressed against that wet, soft place, his voice rumbling low from between his teeth: "Fine. Tools don't need names either, do they?"
He gently bit that flower's core.
"Nngh—!"
The witch's body arched sharply, a gush of warm fluid bursting from deep within her, more intense and violent than before. Her fingers clutched the sheets beneath her, her toes curling, her entire body trembling beyond control.
This time, she felt it clearly—this man who wasn't even properly a mage, this brute who only knew how to touch her in the most primitive way—he was drawing her mana.
Why? It defied all logic. He had no proper Magic Circuits, no systematic training. Even a genius shouldn't be able to—how could he possibly manage this?
Unless...
Through her hazy consciousness, a terrifying thought flashed through her mind. No, impossible. She couldn't possibly be willingly offering herself to him.
The place he had been sucking repeatedly was still spasming, still releasing more fluid. She heard the sound of him swallowing, heard his satisfied low laugh: "See, this way the connection goes even deeper."
She didn't know what to say.
Tears blurred her vision; all she could see was that tall, silver-haired man straightening up and beginning to undo his own garments.
That sturdy, pale body was exposed in the light streaming through the gaps in the tent's roof. The witch shouldn't have looked—but she couldn't control her gaze.
Scars. Scars everywhere.
There was scarcely a patch of unblemished skin on this man's body. Several vicious old wounds crossed his chest—sword cuts, most likely. A circular scar below his ribs marked where an arrow had once pierced through. On his waist was a large area of healed burn tissue, the skin shriveled and darker than the surrounding flesh. His forearms were a crisscross of scars layered upon scars, some faded, others still pink with newness.
This was the monarch of the House of Plantagenet. This was Richard the Lionheart. The man who had charged at the forefront of countless battles and always emerged standing.
The witch stared at his body, momentarily forgetting to look away.
Sweat trickled down the hollow of his collarbone, sliding over his pectorals, following the grooves of his abdominal muscles downward until it disappeared into... she saw it there.
That thing stood proudly erect, so thick and long she doubted her own eyes. A transparent fluid had already beaded at its tip, glistening wetly in the light. It was responding to her reactions.
The witch's face burned again.
That thing, so large... was going to be stuffed into the place he had just been casually toying with? Into that place that was still gently quivering and flowing with fluid?
She imagined the scene. And then, she felt another surge of heat from deep within her body.
No, this shouldn't be. Was she actually... anticipating it?
Richard noticed her gaze. He chuckled softly, making no move to hurry. That erect hardness merely rubbed against her lower abdomen, its slick tip leaving a damp trail on her skin—but it didn't enter.
He didn't go inside. After everything they had done, after he had reduced her to this state of utter dishevelment and helplessness—he wasn't in a rush.
What was he waiting for?
The witch gazed up at him, bewildered.
"Shall we kiss again?" Richard suddenly asked.
The witch opened her mouth, unsure whether she said "yes" or "no." Her mind was no longer capable of processing such complex questions. Then, she felt him cup the back of her neck, and his lips covered hers.
This time, it wasn't conquest.
When his tongue slipped into her mouth, it was gentle,careful, as if asking her permission. The witch froze for an instant—and then, she found herself responding to him.
Her tongue twined with his, sucking in his breath, exploring every inch of his mouth, entwining with him. The taste of iron had faded, replaced by a warmth that made her feel at ease, a flavor that belonged to him.
Entwining?
Why would she use that word?
She was supposed to hate this man—hate his arrogance, his roughness, his talk of her being a "tool." But why... why did this kiss feel good? Why did it make her feel at ease? Why did it make her feel...
The witch didn't know when her position had been adjusted. By the time she came back to herself, she was straddling Richard, the softness of her chest pressed against his. That bothersome gown had long since been pushed down to her waist; she was nearly naked against him.
Richard leaned back against the head of the bed, one arm around her waist, the other stroking her back. His blue eyes were half-lidded, a satisfied smile on his lips—the lazy beast after feasting.
And her?
Her arms had somehow wrapped around his shoulders; she was actively reaching out with her tongue, seeking this man's warmth.
A flicker of alert crossed the witch's mind—was this another one of his suggestions? A variant of that crude "come here" spell?
No. It wasn't.
She could feel it. There was no trace of magecraft interfering with her. No restrict, no commands, no coercion.
Then why?
Why did she feel so elated?
Why, when he kissed her, did she want more?
"Yes, like that. Doesn't that feel better?" Richard's voice murmured against her lips, almost gently, patiently coaxing her. "It won't hurt much. Much better than at the beginning, right?"
"Mm..." What was she doing? Who was the person craving and making that sound? "Mm... yes..."
They kissed like that for a while longer.
The witch had lost track of time. The sounds from outside the tent seemed to have retreated far away, the heat shut out beyond this dim space, leaving only their intertwined breathing and the sweat constantly beading on their skin. Her hand lay flat against his chest, her fingers unconsciously tracing the contours of those scars—indentations, raised ridges, smooth patches, rough textures—each one recording some battle of this man's, some near-death moment, some instant when he crawled back from hell.
Richard's lips left hers, trailing down along her jaw. He kissed the side of her neck, kissed her collarbone, and finally buried his face in her chest. Warm breath sprayed across her bare skin, and his wet lips and tongue closed around one nipple, gently sucking.
The witch tilted her head back, her fingers threading into that shaggy silver hair. She wanted to push him away, yet found herself holding him closer instead.
And then, she felt it.
That hard thickness was pressing against her most intimate place, sliding slowly along that wet cleft. When its tip brushed against her sensitive core, a shudder ran through her. Her hips trembled uncontrollably, and more fluid welled up from her honeyed place, wetting his manhood, wetting the roots of her own thighs.
Richard looked up. Those blue eyes, mere inches away, still burned with an almost devout fervor.
"Tell me, witch," he asked quietly, "what do you want most right now?"
The witch's breath caught.
She looked at him—at that sweat-sheened face, at those eyes waiting for an answer. He could simply take her; she had no power to resist. Yet he insisted on asking. Insisted on waiting.
Insisted that she say it herself.
The woman instinctively moved her hips. Her movement shifted that hardness between her thighs, grinding it once more along her cleft, its tip恰好 brushing against that swollen sensitive place. A jolt of numbness shot through her; she bit her lower lip, but still a soft moan escaped.
"...I don't know." Her voice was vague, her gaze unfocused. "I... want to feel good..."
Richard chuckled lowly.
There was no mockery in that laugh, only an almost indulgent tolerance. His large hand cupped her waist, steadying her, while that thing continued its slow, unhurried rub between her legs, as if deliberately tormenting her.
"You needn't feel shame for your desires, witch." He drew close to her ear, his warm breath spraying against her sensitive earlobe. "You can ask anything of me, and I will satisfy you."
His tongue traced her earlobe, his voice growing even hoarser: "I told you I would wait for you to say it yourself. Tell me now—what do you want most?"
The witch's body trembled.
She could feel that thing hovering at her entrance, its tip occasionally sinking in a little, then quickly withdrawing. Emptiness surged from deep in her abdomen—she needed something to fill that void. Urgently. Greedily.
Her reason still struggled. But her body had already betrayed her.
"Don't..." Her voice broke, her eyes reddening. "Don't just rub it outside... come in..."
She sniffled, and finally spoke the words:
"I want you inside... inside me..."
The moment the words left her lips, Richard gripped her hand.
"As you command, my lady."
The next instant, he pressed her hips down.
That hard manhood finally breached the wet, soft entrance, pushing in slowly. The witch's body tensed sharply—it was too full. The place that had never been entered was stretched to its limit, every inch of her inner walls crushed, filled, possessed. She could clearly feel its shape, its warmth, its pulse.
It hurt.
But only for an instant.
The moment it fully embedded itself, an immense, indescribable surge of mana exploded from where they joined. The witch's consciousness was engulfed in white light—it wasn't mana she unilaterally transmitted, but a deeper, more primal connection. Her Magic Circuits resonated with his body. Her mana surged through him. His heartbeat synchronized with her pulse.
They were connected.
That man gave her no time to catch her breath. She could feel him thrusting his hips. That hardness buried inside her drove upward accordingly, slamming into the depths of her body.
"Ha... hah... ah... Lord..." Then the man laughed lowly, with an almost deranged piety, "I commit the evil and impure deeds You have forsaken... I defile Your holy name, I betray Your teachings..."
"But I regret nothing—for I am the wrath You have brought down upon the earth... I kill in Your name, wage war in Your name, and sever the heads of infidels in Your name... Now that You have finally deigned to grant me Your grace... at this moment, at this very moment, I have already taken her into my possession..."
The witch didn't understand what he was saying.
Her consciousness was completely overtaken by pleasure. The initial ache had vanished at some point, replaced by wave after wave of tingling numbness—each of his thrusts precisely grinding against a spot deep inside her that she herself hadn't known existed, a sensitive point hidden within. Pleasure exploded from that single spot, her toes curling, calves tensing, her entire body trembling beyond control.
"I have taken her into my possession. Those who desired her—those bishops, those lords, those fools who coveted her power—they can never possess her as I do... Even if she is merely my tool... Even if she harbors fear... At this moment, she is by my side, submitting to me, controlled by me..."
"Richard... ngh... ah...!"
Her voice had completely changed. It was no longer a restrained, patient gasp, but a wanton, unguarded, seductive cry. She heard herself making those sounds, but she no longer cared—it felt too good. So good that her mind went completely blank, and she could only instinctively chase the surging waves of pleasure.
"Yes... just like that..." Richard's voice sounded in her ear, "Call my name... witch... cry out... let me hear you..."
His thrusts grew even more violent. That thick hardness slammed deep into her with each stroke, grinding against that most sensitive spot before withdrawing, then plunging in again. The witch felt she might be overwhelmed by the pleasure—her inner walls contracted uncontrollably, clenching tightly, greedily clinging to that hardness moving inside her.
"We will pave the battlefield with blood..." Richard's voice came in broken fragments, delirious. "With your mana... with my sword... we will take that city... we will walk over the bones of our enemies toward Jerusalem... We'll do it together... together..."
Heat radiated from where they joined.
The witch could feel her mana surging wildly into him, rushing through his blood, then returning to her body carrying his warmth, his breath, his desire. But even that wasn't enough—what he wanted was something more.
At some point, Richard suddenly stopped moving. The witch opened her eyes in confusion, and before she could react, her body was turned over. She was pressed onto the bed, knees on the ground, hips arched downward. Then, that hardness thrust into her again from behind.
This position allowed him to penetrate her even deeper. The witch tilted her head back, letting out a moan that was almost a whimper. Her hands clenched the blanket beneath her, knuckles turning white, her entire body jerking forward with each thrust. The man behind her leaned down and sank his teeth into her shoulder.
The instant pain came, pleasure exploded as well. His teeth sank into her skin, leaving deep marks, and at the same time, his manhood struck a place that had never been touched before.
The witch's body tensed sharply. She felt it.
Deep in her abdomen, something was lowering and waiting in anticipation of his entry. It was a reaction this body shouldn't have—this humanoid form, this existence called "witch," was never meant to have reproductive functions. She had only shaped this false exterior long ago due to some ancient wish, and now, stripped of her ability to use magecraft by the shackles, she was merely a vessel for mana.
Yet at this moment, her body was doing the most primitive, most instinctual thing. Every inch of her inner walls was embracing him, holding him back. Deep within her core, that secret entrance was opening for him—soft and moist, as if inviting him to go deeper.
Richard's breathing suddenly grew heavy, dark flames igniting in his blue eyes.
"Witch, this place of yours..." His voice was hoarse, unfamiliar, his palm pressing against her lower abdomen. "Is it hoping to bear my child?"
She shook her head, but her body honestly tightened around him.
"Impossible..." she murmured, a statement, or perhaps a excuse. "My king, I don't have the function you expect... I cannot bear offspring for you, for any human."
"I know." His answer was calm, as if he had already expected it. "But I don't care."
She froze at those words.
"I will surely go to hell after death. This bloodline should end with me." His rough fingertips pressed against her abdomen, his palm burning hot. "But witch, what I want now is something more direct—"
He leaned down, his lips against the nape of her neck, warm breath brushing her sweat-damp skin:
"Now. Right now. Right here. My holy one, respond to me."
The woman, her back to him, trembled again.
This arrogant, brutal man was offering himself to her with such unreserved candor. He spoke not of fragility, voiced no regrets, sought no redemption, expected no forgiveness—yet since he was fated to descend into the hell, he still yearned for something: to grasp, before stepping into the flames, something unique, something that could echo only with him.
She had been born to fulfill human wishes, yet she had never felt such blazing, such unfamiliar, such bewildering emotions.
—Could she really respond?
The witch closed her eyes. Her hips rose and fell with his thrusts, and he cupped her chin, leaning down from behind to gently kiss her. Their breaths intertwined, their eyelashes touching.
And then, climax came.
Almost at the same instant. The witch's body tensed sharply, her inner walls contracting wildly, and she felt his body freeze—that hardness buried inside her pulsed violently, and a torrent of hot liquid shot deep into her, flooding that place that had never been touched before.
"Ah...!"
Her moan was swallowed by his mouth, sealed by his lips.
That kiss shifted from passionate to prolonged, and from prolonged to gentle. The witch's consciousness gradually blurred in that warmth—she felt herself being laid flat on the bed, felt the blanket cover her body, felt someone combing through her sweat-damp hair with their fingers.
And then, everything sank into darkness.
——
When she awoke again, it was late at night.
The witch opened her eyes. Her body had been carefully cleaned, and she had been dressed in a new, long gown—no longer the torn white dress, but a dark, soft one with a high collar and long sleeves, covering her from neck to ankles completely.
She sat up, staring blankly at the clothes on her body.
Someone had changed her clothes while she was unconscious. Was it that man? Or had he summoned a servant?
But then, she sensed something amiss.
The witch pushed aside the blanket, stepped barefoot onto the cold ground, and walked toward the water basin in the corner of the tent. The water had long since settled, its surface covered with a thin film of ice. Moonlight streamed through the gaps in the tent, casting a blurry silver reflection.
She leaned over and looked into the water. The face in the reflection was her own—her golden hair slightly disheveled, but—
She raised a hand and touched her hair. It was empty there.
Her gold ornament was gone. That pendant worn in her hair for as long as she could remember, was gone.
Just then, the sound of urgent hooves suddenly came from outside the tent.
The girl spun around, flung open the tent flap, and stepped onto the sand—
In the distance, a chain of torches lit up the horizon. The Crusaders' camp was no longer silent; soldiers were assembling, the neighing of war horses rose and fell, and the clashing of armor surged like a tide.
They were preparing for a night raid.
——
Richard reined in his horse, its breath misting in the night air.
His gaze swept past the surging crowd, past the burning torches, and fixed on the distant city walls that had held him at bay for three months. Acre lay silent in the darkness—but tonight, it would be shaken awake.
He drew the gold ornament from his breast.
A small thing, weightless in the palm of his hand. Golden, delicate, with a fine strand of gold thread hanging from its top—in the firelight, its color was the very image of someone's hair.
Richard looked down at it. Then he lowered his head, his lips brushing softly against the gold. A moment later, he pressed it to his own shoulder.
"You are finally ready to attack?"
Saint-Germain had appeared beside his horse, his gray-blue eyes glancing briefly at the ornament on Richard's shoulder before looking away.
Richard did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the distant walls.
"Yes. Tonight."
"How exciting." Saint-Germain inclined his head slightly. "Then let Locksley and Marshal ride with you. May your martial fortune prevail, Your Majesty. Though—you likely no longer need my blessings."
"What do you mean?"
Saint-Germain straightened, a smile playing on his lips. "I mean, even having stripped that child of her will to live as a 'human,' you have already obtained what you desired, have you not?"
The mage did not wait for Richard's reply, turning and vanishing into the shadows untouched by the torchlight.
Richard stared at the spot where he had disappeared for a moment, then tightened his grip on the reins again.
His war horse reared, letting out a long neigh.
Around him, soldiers raised their weapons, their war cries surging from all directions—a roar thirsting for blood, the frenzy of madness unleashed after three months of lying in wait. Richard raised his arm, the firelight reflecting off his silver hair, blazing in his blue eyes.
He would win.
For the first time, he was certain of it.
The crimson-eyed witch was likely standing before his tent at this very moment, gazing at this very light. Her mana surged within him, her presence flowing through his veins.
She was watching all of this, and he would win for her.
"Forward!" The Lionheart's voice shattered the night sky. "In the name of the Father—attack!"
In the distance, the warning bells had already begun to toll. Thousands upon thousands thundered behind him, blazing torches illuminating the road to Acre. He charged at the forefront, his silver hair streaming in the night wind, the gold ornament on his shoulder dancing lightly with the rhythm of his horse's hooves—as if he had found another heart beating alongside his own.
—END—