A Moment of Triumph, A Swift Reversal

A translucent, phantom right hand solidified silently behind Gwynevere’s heel. It formed precisely where Daphne’s gaze had fallen, summoned by her focused intent.

At that moment, Gwynevere’s eyes, filled with stern resolve, were fixed solely on Daphne. Her staff hummed with converging magical energy, poised to unleash a formidable spell. She remained utterly oblivious to the small, unseen ‘something’ that had materialized behind her heel.

‘—At the very least, I must disable one of her legs first…’

Gwynevere silently confirmed her attack’s direction and target in her mind. She resolved to first cripple the half-vampire’s mobility, thus facilitating the interrogation that was to follow.

Yet, in the precise moment before her frost magic could be unleashed, Gwynevere suddenly felt a sharp tug backward on her left heel.

This marked the first occasion the Saintess had ever been interfered with mid-spell. When engaging in combat outside, she always cast her magic from a safe distance, protected by a retinue of Templar Knights. The threat of close-quarters combat was nonexistent, leaving her utterly devoid of experience or countermeasures against such a sneak attack.

Her balance was lost in a surge of panic, and the intricate rune arrangement was abruptly disrupted. The magical energy, coalescing at the tip of her sea crystal staff, detonated instantly at its point of origin.

For the first time, Gwynevere experienced the stinging sensation of her own frost magic backfiring. Fine ice particles and hail erupted directly into her face. Her magnificent, nearly 10-centimeter platinum stiletto heels, once unbalanced, proved impossible to recover.

She tumbled forward, plunging headfirst into the swirling cold air and icy mist that clung to the ground.

“Clatter.”

The gem-studded necklace, dislodged by Gwynevere’s fall, slipped from her smooth, slender neck. It bounced several times before coming to rest at Daphne’s feet, a new crack deepening the fissures already marring the dull gem’s surface.

Daphne tremblingly bent to retrieve the amulet necklace, which had rightfully belonged to her all along. Then, she cautiously glanced up to assess Gwynevere’s predicament.

The noble and aloof Saintess had fallen face-first onto the ground. Her staff, now encrusted with ice shards, lay discarded before her, while tiny ice crystals glittered amidst her disheveled platinum hair.

The high slit of her gown, usually concealed, had been completely flung open, revealing her back. Her two slender legs, typically hidden beneath the fabric, were now fully exposed, encased in opaque white silk stockings that sculpted their elegant form with exquisite precision.

However, the Saintess’s slightly upturned derriere was also inadvertently revealed. Her left high-heeled shoe had slipped off, lying abandoned nearby, lending an air of slight impropriety to the scene.

The frost-attributed magical energy, detonated by the interrupted rune arrangement, had solidified on the ground into a rough, overlapping layer of ice. Ordinarily, falling onto such an ice-covered surface, bristling with tiny spikes, would have resulted in numerous wounds.

Yet, the gown, blessed by Vatitaya, was not easily pierced. Furthermore, the Saintess possessed a magnificent pair of natural “cushions” at her chest. Under the pressure of her weight, these had formed a somewhat plump and springy ovoid shape, absorbing a significant portion of the impact.

Nevertheless, that particular area of a young maiden’s body remained sensitive and delicate. Even the proud Gwynevere could not suppress a soft, endearing groan.

The Iceheart Saintess was sensitive to cold.

Even if Gwynevere had never voiced it, Daphne, as her godfather and nurturer, was certainly aware of this fact.

For a prayer priest of the Blazing Sun Church to wield frost magic was highly unusual. Daphne had specifically insisted that Gwynevere learn and utilize frost magic as much as possible, all for the purpose of her training.

Having now fully experienced the frost-attributed magical energy she herself had conjured, the Saintess would likely be unable to rise for quite some time.

Daphne had never imagined a simple Mage Hand could prove so effective. She had never witnessed Gwynevere in such a mortified state, not even when the young Saintess had confronted the venomous grasp of a disguised bloodkin in her youth, remaining unyielding then.

Observing the mix of shame and vexation on the face of the usually ice-cold Gwynevere, Daphne felt a peculiar sensation blossoming within her.

‘Secret pleasure?’

Yes, precisely. A surge of secret, wicked delight.

She was no longer His Holiness the Pope, nor did she need to perpetually maintain a dignified and majestic image in public. With the heavy burden lifted, her spirits were light and joyous, finally free to fully embrace her true nature.

“Serves you right!” Half out of vengeance, half out of catharsis, Daphne made a face at the fallen Gwynevere. “Who told you to rush into action after barely two words? You brought this upon yourself!”

“See ya! Enjoy staying in your own ice shards!” Daphne chuckled mischievously, then turned, ready to make her escape.

However, the euphoria of “victory” momentarily made her forget the frailty of her new body. Before taking two steps, Daphne’s legs gave out with a soft whimper, leaving her collapsed on the ground, unable to stand again.

Propping herself up with her arms, Daphne gasped softly, her delicate body weak and powerless. Her gaze unfocused, she stared at the blurry black porcelain ground, a growing sense of unease settling within her.

She had just brazenly provoked someone, only to stumble mere moments later. If caught now, wouldn’t she face double the retribution?

Sure enough, the Saintess, consumed by extreme fury from the humiliation, swiftly overcame the cold and pain. She slowly rose from the ice shards, unhurriedly slipping her foot back into her high heel, then gracefully and elegantly smoothed her gown.

“Personal vendetta. I finally understand the meaning of that phrase. Thank you.”

Then, she retrieved her staff.

A tall, slender figure slowly approached from behind, pressing down upon Daphne’s increasingly cold heart with the weight of a mountain.

“Who did you say ‘served them right’ just now?”