Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Everyone Is Very Happy
The next morning, in the sanctuary.
The news of George’s impending return spread throughout the sanctuary. The happiness was not limited to Saintess Jenna.
There was also Gregory, the silver-haired old man, who in his own yard showed none of the aggression he had outside, looking as if he was ready to throw someone onto the stake at any moment to burn them to ashes.
He leisurely fiddled with the pine wood under the rain shelter. Days of drying had turned the blocks of pine thoroughly dry, with remnants of resin that a single match could ignite into a blazing fire.
What he lacked now was some evil, cunning, and despicable demon trying to entice a brave one onto the wrong path, as well as some pine wood blocks.
After counting the blocks of pine wood, Gregory noticed that he needed a little less wood to perfectly burn a certain demon.
He muttered slowly to himself, “That kid George has been gone too long; I’ve drunk too much tea these days. I’ve burned too much wood.”
As an aspiring enthusiast of pyres, he sought a fierce fire to consume sinners, and any deficiency in the timing was absolutely unacceptable. Unlike the witch-hunters from Ash City, who would deliberately wet the wood to produce thick black smoke, allowing witches to suffer pain and perish slowly in the smoke and fire, they seemed to revel more in the process of the victim’s death than in the execution itself.
“I still need to go buy fifteen kilograms of firewood. What would be good? There must not be high-quality firewood on the market now…”
Gregory flicked at the pine wood blocks with his thin fingers, beginning to regret that he had been too greedy for tea and had burned too much imported pine wood.
Suddenly, inspiration struck him.
“Charcoal!”
Throughout history, no one had ever used charcoal to conduct a burning execution, let alone to burn a succubus.
Prepare the charcoal in advance, stack it properly, and then add the pine wood. That scene would definitely be spectacular.
Gregory’s murky eyes brightened, and his slightly hunched back straightened up instantly as he eagerly anticipated George bringing the succubus back to the sanctuary soon.
…
…
“Achoo!”
Jima in the carriage suddenly sneezed.
Beside her, George asked, “Caught a chill? You didn’t sleep well last night and kicked off the blanket again.”
“Of course not.”
As Jima spoke, she pushed open the window to let the cold wind circulate through the carriage. She stuck her head out, looking into the distance, just in time to see the peak of the White Mountain illuminated by dawn. That was the headquarters of the sanctuary, located in White City.
This city was built against the mountains, with the peak showing white rocks. Whenever the sun rose, the bright golden peak could be seen from afar.
She pulled her head back and asked George, “Will I be burned to death?”
“No,” George replied. “After I report in detail, no one will burn you. I admit many see you as a plague that will eventually harm the world and are eager to nip you in the bud. But if there’s no evidence, it’s impossible to sentence you to death.”
“What will you report?”
“Everything, without concealment.”
“Including that you like my tail?” Jima’s smooth tail peeked out from under her skirt, wrapping around her index finger, as the succubus girl gently brushed her lips against her tail.
George turned his head to the side and said, “Ahem, that involves my personal secret.”
Jima inhaled the faint scent of peach blossoms in the air and said, “Then what about our feeding agreement?”
“I will tell them that this is our secret and ensure that it poses no harm.”
“Then I’m relieved,” Jima said. “By the way, don’t mention the secret of my ability, okay?”
“That won’t work.”
“Why not? That’s my secret too.”
“Because your ability poses a threat to society as a whole,” George said. “Not reporting it would be a breach of my duty.”
“Ugh, I knew it. Convincing a stone with words is harder than anything else.” Jima had little hope, “So since I’m so dangerous, aren’t I going to be locked up for harmless containment?”
“Containment? That term is quite vivid.” George said, “I can’t absolutely guarantee that you won’t be contained.”
Jima stood up from her seat. “Stop the carriage. If you raise your sword by one centimeter, I’m out of here. If you could provide me with some financial support, I’d be very grateful and praise you every day.”
“But I can guarantee that I’m 100% on your side.”
Jima smiled and added, “Then I’m relieved.”
After hearing this, George closed his eyes again to meditate.
Jima leaned back in her chair, recalling the scene she saw in her dream last night.
In the high sky, the light yellow covered most of Leanne Port, stretching along the roads into the distance.
It seemed that those silly sailors were indeed quite diligent.
Jima was very pleased, which filled her with confidence about deceiving the sanctuary’s detection system.
What delighted her even more was a line from her personal system information:
“DM: You feel your grasp of the deceiver abilities has advanced further.”
Previously, when she inadvertently mentioned to George her unusual relationship with the Elven Queen’s fifth female generation, the system only gave a “minor step forward” feedback.
Jima preliminarily summarized the upgrade requirements for the deceiver:
Deception, spreading lies, making lies come true.
If there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with this requirement, then outsmarting the sanctuary’s good and evil detection system would surely make her stronger.
She had to thank the system; although it lacked the power to create something out of nothing, it could provide feedback for refining goals. Many extraordinary beings have fallen on the path of exploring upgrade requirements, either gone mad, stuck in place, or turned into monstrosities.
Thinking about this, Jima secretly glanced at George’s profile. He sat motionless, and even though his eyes were closed, no one would doubt that he was asleep. His face was filled with concentration, creating an aura that made others want to focus as well.
He was like a statue meticulously sculpted by an artist. Jima thought if there was such a statue, it could be named “The Focused One.” If the statue were placed on her desk in her final year of high school, she might score ten more points and cross the line for first-tier universities.
Jima knew very well that she was just an ordinary person with a penchant for the lewd, dull in talent, devoid of romantic prospects, unlike the handsome, strong-willed, and luck-blessed genius virgin.
Just speaking of willpower, meditation could sharpen it and enhance focus.
Meditation is simple; it is just about closing one’s eyes, sitting properly, clearing one’s thoughts, and concentrating all attention on breathing.
What is difficult is persistence. It is rare for ordinary people to last fifteen minutes on their first try. Hardly anyone can persist for a month with just fifteen minutes a day. And Jima, after ten minutes of trying to meditate, fell fast asleep.
George, on the other hand—Jima had asked him—had maintained the habit of meditating for at least an hour daily since he was eight years old, having consistently done so every day except when he had matters to attend to.
Upon learning this, Jima silently nicknamed George in her heart: “Meditation Monster.”
I have only two advantages over the genius virgin: First, I am shameless, without moral constraints, and can easily exploit his kindness to deceive him. Second, my greatest advantage is the system.
So every step I take must be careful. If I’m not clever, I should think more; if I can’t remember, I must record more in my personal system. If I lack resources, then I need to be bold and gamble. If I have no woman by my side, I need to take ruthless action to seize his.
Jima thought about this and opened the recording function in her personal system, resolutely opening a book titled “The Misadventures of the Elven Queen,” which had only 12,300 words.
Three days ago, the first draft she submitted to Mr. Dongdong already had 10,000 words. Back then, she was bursting with inspiration, filled with a creative zeal, writing so fast her hand hurt. But as her enthusiasm faded, she found herself not wanting to write a single word, pledging to start with a daily quota of 3,000 words.
However, she realized later that in one hour, she could write at most 1,000 words. Growing increasingly disheartened to write led to only 2,300 words across the next three days. She even thought, “Forget it, I’ll let this slide. I won’t hold it against the Elven Queen.”
“No, a dull bird must flap its wings more.”
Jima persisted in opening “The Misadventures of the Elven Queen” and typed with intention.
An hour and a half later, Jima could no longer hold on and leaned against George’s shoulder, her eyes narrowing. George’s shoulder was so solid and reliable that she murmured vaguely, “I’ll just rest for ten minutes.”
Keep going, work hard, take revenge… seize women…
Jima thought, her consciousness gradually becoming fuzzy.
Ten minutes later.
George slightly opened his eyes and saw the black-haired succubus girl with her mouth slightly parted, making even breaths; she had fallen asleep.
Her body was as soft as a cooked noodle, swaying a little with the jolting carriage, almost falling onto the floor.
George reached out to gently support her shoulder. Looking at Jima’s sweet sleeping face, he couldn’t bear to wake her, so instead, he stood up, supported her shoulder, and gently placed her back onto her seat, then took out a neatly stacked blanket to cover her.
No matter how the carriage bumped and jolted, it didn’t wake Jima.
She lay on her side on the chair, occasionally kicking her leg, twitching as if dreaming of something she wanted to escape from, frowning slightly.
George, who was across from her reading, carefully tucked her small leg wrapped in white stockings back under the blanket, covering her well. He wondered what nightmares she was having.
As George pulled up the blanket over Jima’s profile, her small hand grasped his wrist, letting out a strange giggle:
“Hehe, mine, mine, all mine.”
George did not move, waiting for the black-haired succubus girl to slowly release her grip before he pulled his hand away.
Several hours later, the noisy voices outside gradually prompted Jima to slowly open her sleepy eyes.
Rubbing her eyes, she asked, “Why is it so noisy outside?”
George, who had just returned from negotiating with the guards, stepped into the carriage and said, “We’ve arrived in White City.”
“We’re here?” Jima sat up, suddenly rising to her feet. “What? We arrived?! How long did I sleep?”
George opened the window, letting the warm afternoon sunlight flood into the carriage while the cold wind carried the aroma of cooking smoke.
“Dinner time is approaching.”
“What!” Jima glanced at the nearly audible “woe is me” look of her only increased words in “The Misadventures of the Elven Queen,” “You didn’t wake me.”
“You didn’t say to do so.”
At that moment, the carriage came to a stop.
The voice of the coachman came from outside, saying, “Sir, we’re in the inner city.”
The inner city of White City was the headquarters of the sanctuary. The entire White City was built around the headquarters.
“Ahhh…” Jima’s voice gradually became softer, “I’m not ready yet.”
George patted Jima’s head and said, “Now you can get ready.”
The carriage door was pulled open, and a white-armored guard wearing a bucket helmet shouted, “Brother George, you’re back?”
George smiled and replied, “Ah, yes. Finally back.”
