Fury at her powerless, pitiful state—forced to curl up here and merely endure it all!
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The heavy thud of the fortress door was not an end, but a briefly closed sluice gate.
It cut off the outside world—that space filled with pink light, cloying scent, and cold leather—
only to cast Heroine Furenna completely into a yet more silent hell, where only her own echoes remained.
Her back collided with the cold, slimy wall behind her, its biological carapace-like texture making her flinch with disgust.
She did not slide down the wall to sit. Instead, using the last ounce of her forcibly sustained strength, she let her body’s full weight fall upon this loathsome support,
like a broken relief roughly nailed to a stone wall, rusted chains clanking with her movement, their harsh echoes thrown into the dead silence.
The moss on the walls, emitting its faint, eerie green glow, watched her like countless indifferent eyes.
This light was too weak to reveal anything clearly, yet strong enough to make shadows flicker, twisting every outline into something ominous.
Then, silence descended.
An absolute silence that pressed upon the eardrums.
The Demon King’s whispers, the whip’s whistle, the humiliating torment from the pink room,
even the living room’s own “breathing” pulse—all were now gone.
In their place was the clamorous, nearly explosive reality within her, forcibly suppressed for so long.
The first to crumble was the pretense.
Before Demon King Iris, to avoid showing any hint of fear, she had hardened herself into a cold shield—carrying out commands with numbness, observing everything with detached composure.
Now, the shell of that shield finally shattered.
“Ugh—!”
A short, ragged gasp of pain, as if forced from a shattered lung, burst uncontrollably past Furenna’s tightly clenched teeth.
It was not a sob, nor a moan, but a purely physiological spasm unleashed when agony could no longer be contained.
As if ignited by this sound, the wounds forcibly held in check by sheer willpower now fiercely counterattacked.
Her waist, hips, shoulders, back—everywhere marked by the “Soulthorn Lash.”
Nerves temporarily frozen by extreme mental pressure and humiliation now cracked like an ice-covered river under the spring sun.
No longer simple, burning flesh pain, but countless red-hot wires tracing the paths of the welts, gouging deep into the seams of bone before viciously tearing outward in all directions!
Every nerve ending screamed, transmitting a bizarre agony mixed of searing, tearing, and freezing.
This pain even pierced the barrier of flesh, directly gnawing at something deeper—
Furenna’s vitality, the young woman’s spirit, even the Heroine’s most basic sense of control over her own body.
“Clack… clack…”
Her teeth began chattering wildly, completely out of control.
It wasn’t just the cold; the neurogenic spasms from extreme pain made her jaw muscles clench and grind uncontrollably.
Cold sweat surged as if a floodgate had opened, instantly gushing from every pore, icy and clammy,
rapidly soaking through the rough, hemp prisoner’s garment already damp from earlier sweat, now plastered to her skin, outlining her form curled and trembling in agony.
The Heroine could no longer maintain her leaning posture. Her legs gave way, her body sliding down the cold wall to collapse heavily onto the hard stone floor.
The impact and clatter of chains echoed loudly in the confined space, but she was beyond caring.
Furenna’s body instinctively curled tighter, like a wounded beast trying to use this posture to fend off, to alleviate the pervasive sense of tearing.
Her hands, bound by short chains, could not wrap around herself. She could only clench them into futile fists, nails digging deep into her palms, attempting to use this controllable pain elsewhere to divert her focus.
But the faint sting of this self-inflicted hurt was a drop in the ocean against the all-consuming pain of the Soulthorn.
Every inhalation became labored and searing, as if drawing in not the dungeon’s cold air, but scorching grit.
Every exhalation carried an uncontrollable, shattered tremor.
Heroine Furenna pressed her forehead hard against her drawn-up knees, damp silver hair sticking to her skin, blocking her sight,
as if creating a smaller, dark space where she could briefly hide.
She didn’t need to remember. The images, sounds, sensations were already part of the pain, woven into its very fabric.
“Shut up…”
She heard the muffled hiss forced from between her teeth, unsure whether she was cursing the omnipresent pain or resisting the fragments automatically surfacing in her mind.
But the more she resisted, the sharper certain sounds became—not actual hallucinations, but echoes of memory etched into her pain-ravaged nerves.
“…You must learn the first lesson: resistance is futile…”
“…Only by obeying will you receive gentler treatment…”
The voice seemed not to come from outside, but to rise from the depths of her own convulsing stomach, her burning wounds, her icy lower abdomen.
Demon King Iris’s characteristic cold, precise, mocking tone resonated in sync with the physical agony, pounding on the young woman’s fading clarity.
Fury, like ignited oil, exploded into flame atop that sea of pain.
Not just fury at the Demon King,
but fury at this uncooperative body that betrayed her will, fury at this unceasing pain,
Fury at her powerless, pitiful state—forced to curl up here and merely endure it all!
“Just… SHUT UP!!!”
The grief and rage surged to their peak, mingled with the metallic taste of blood rising in her throat, and erupted into a roar!
No longer a suppressed whimper, it erupted into a hoarse, ragged shout, drenched in pain and violent fury!
Heroine Furenna violently threw her arms from her head and knees, gathering all the remaining strength in her body to swing her chained fists into the hollow darkness ahead, illuminated only by the faint green glow of the moss!
As if to smash the intangible mockery, to shatter this suffocating agony, to pulverize everything in sight!
Her fist swung through empty air.
The expected impact against something solid never came—only the tearing, aching pain of her arm muscles and the cold, metallic feedback of the iron.
And in the aftermath of that exhausted swing, as Heroine Furenna panted heavily, her vision blurred from pain and rage—
“Yes, sorry! Heroine Sister!”
A thin, terrified, tearful child’s voice, timid and utterly without warning, sounded from the precise darkness her fist had been aimed toward.
Furenna’s motion, along with her ragged breathing and the coursing torrent of pain and fury within her, utterly froze in that instant.
She remained in her slightly forward-leaning posture post-swing, head jerking up sharply.
Wet hair clung to her cheeks. In the dim greenish light, her amber eyes, pupils contracted from shock and lingering fury, shot a piercing gaze toward the source of the voice.
No Iris.
No phantom.
Only a small, thin girl in a simple linen dress, hugging a wooden bucket tightly, was pressed against the opposite wall.
Her lake-green eyes, brimming with tears and filled with utter terror, stared back at Furenna in sheer panic.
The air seemed to solidify.
The dungeon held only the sound of Heroine Furenna’s uneven, pain-trembled panting and the girl’s tightly suppressed, faint sobbing.
Seeing Furenna’s pale, sweat-slicked, pain-ravaged face, yet with eyes still fierce enough to frighten anyone, the girl trembled all over,
nearly dropping her bucket. She shrunk back, mustering all her courage to whisper again, her voice as faint as a mosquito’s hum:
“I… I was going to ask you… if you needed your wounds treated…”
“I… I spoke too loudly just now. I apologize to you.”