Chapter Ninety-Nine: Miscalculation
Despite countless calculations, it turned out George couldn’t do any craft work. Jima sat on a raised high-backed chair, biting her fingers. She looked at George’s blurred figure behind the thin fabric, feeling anxious.
To avoid George’s lie detection ability, she not only asked Lianxi to act as a ghostwriter but creatively used a piece of thin fabric to block the view, communicating only through shadows and with light at peculiar angles to maintain the image of the great Jima.
However, she never expected to get stuck here.
But could this really be possible?
There are men who can’t do any craft work?
When a man’s original sin—an inherent impulse—flows through his veins, what does he rely on to vent?
It must be a lie.
But Jima quickly thought of him; he had just turned of age and reached a winning life with the Saintess and herself.
Jima sighed, “Well, there’s nothing we can do. We can’t exactly call Frostleaf and Jenna for backup.”
Right.
“But little Li, she’s my servant. Just have her assist you with the craft work. You just need to focus on my shadow, imagining our wonderful past together.”
“I don’t like strange women.”
“Hey, your requirements are rather high. Is little Li still unfamiliar to you? After rounding up, you’ve known each other for nearly seventeen years.”
“I don’t want a strange woman to touch me.”
“Heh, it sounds like our first time with Jenna was when we tied you to the bed, and you screamed, ‘No! No! Don’t do this! Wow, just kill me.'”
As she spoke, perhaps due to her youthful appearance, her heart felt youthful too. She made claw-like shapes with her hands and said in a chilling voice, “Scream, little holy knight. We’ve taken your first time, oh dear, you’re blushing. Then we will take turns forcing you to do that kind of thing.”
George replied, “I admit that aside from your allure, at that time, there was an unspoken desire buried in my heart. But Jima, I don’t want a woman I’m not interested in to touch me down there.”
Jima keenly sensed something: “You weren’t like this before, so did you have some experiences in that matriarchal world that you’ve never talked about?”
George fell silent.
Jima wouldn’t pry into the meaning behind his silence.
Just as George wouldn’t ask about his past with his ex-girlfriend… (What was her name again?)
At the same time, she wouldn’t use his teacher Saint John’s potatoes to mock him when she teased George about being kind—Saint John had healed the villagers using divine magic, while the villagers could only offer potatoes as gratitude; he had done good his whole life, only to fall in the end.
“There’s no way around it.” Jima lightly supported her forehead with one hand. “Who told me I’m the most virtuous wife in the world? Let me teach you how to do craft work with your lance.”
But George said, “Jima, can I have a look at you?”
“You’re not allowed to look.” Jima said, “I hate my appearance right now. Can’t you just honestly learn some craft work?”
“Alright.”
“Such a good boy.” Jima patiently said, “Okay, brave knight, first, look at this king. This king is extremely evil, having harmed countless delicate flowers, standing atop piles of defeated old heads. I’m lifting my skirt to mock you, showing off my thighs, tied with a silken ribbon…”
As George watched the shadow behind the thin fabric change, the alluring and mature silhouette raised a long leg, pulling up her skirt, fingertips slowly pressing along the elastic thigh, all the way up, before disappearing into the “mysterious garden.”
With Jima’s tempting words and a faint floral scent in the air.
In front of George, it seemed an arrogant yet seductive demon king appeared, provocatively taunting him, the righteous man, as a man. She showcased her beautiful figure, licking her lips, with a flirtatious expression, saying:
“Come, if you have the ability, confront me directly.”
Jima continued:
“…Such an arrogant demon should taste your proud lance and face justice. Imagine, pulling out your lance, oh, it’s not well maintained, it needs good upkeep to help you win…”
“First, you need to moisten your palm with oil, caressing the lance from the bottom to the tip, applying the oil. Until you’re ready, one hand firmly positioned on the lance, the lance standing tall. That demoness, upon seeing your lance, can’t help but show a slight change in expression, yet suppresses it.”
“She mocks: ‘Heh, you think your tiny lance can defeat me? Keep dreaming.’ George must be quite shy and hasn’t fully prepared yet, but he has made progress.”
Jima patiently said: “Dear, you can take your time.”
But George detached himself from the scene she created; there was no atmosphere, no sense of ceremony around him. He couldn’t see his beloved face, only a thin cloth and the shadow upon it—what more could he ask for?
“Jima.” George stood up. “Let’s meet face to face; even if you turn into a puddle of flesh, I will accept you.”
“No! Sit down, did you hear me? As a woman, I don’t want you to see me like this!”
“I swear I won’t despise you; you are my wife.”
George didn’t stop walking. “I noticed that when your shadow moved, there were many illogical behaviors… I really don’t mind if you are sacrificing yourself for the world.”
At this point, George’s figure had already leaned closer to the thin fabric.
“Don’t!”
Jima was startled and quickly tried to stop him, momentarily forgetting that she was still in her loli form, slipping off the raised chair and falling to the ground, the chair tilting over with a loud thud, and the high stacks of books scattered everywhere.
The thin fabric was lifted, and George saw a little girl who looked exactly like little Jima, propping herself up with one hand, surrounded by the scattered books and the fallen chair. She wore a pure and unblemished ballet outfit, with golden patterns embroidered on her white legs, just like her shining golden eyes.
Even George, usually calm, was taken aback. He never imagined Jima, affected by radiation, would look crumpled and oozing, or even imagined her turning into a mass of tentacles.
But he didn’t expect it to be a trick.
“Little Jima?”
“You’re the big-headed ghost.”
Jima stood up, immediately pointing at George, “Hmph! Look down there, you’re pulling a flag. You’re a pedophile with no hope of redemption, plus you’re a holy knight and a righteous hero, making your crimes doubly serious. Chemical castration must be administered immediately.”
So righteous and dignified, even her tail raised high like a banner of justice.
It seemed it wasn’t her who deceived George; it was she who had just created an ambiguous atmosphere to encourage him to stand tall.
“Jima! You’re making me really worried; this is not the time for jokes.”
“I’m not joking.”
Jima’s pure little face was serious but said something that didn’t match her appearance: “Uh, it must be cut off. Hey, why are you grabbing my corner again?”
George knew well that sometimes it was better to communicate with someone like Jima, who was a devil inside and out, using a bit of violence.
He expertly scooped her up and sat her on his thigh.
Jima protested, “You’re pressing against me! You filthy—”
“Smack!”
The large hand covered half of her backside.
“It hurts! I’m sorry; I was just trying to joke with you.”
“Smack!”
“Hey, why are you still hitting? I’m the commander of the Armies of Destruction, a terrifying demon—”
“Smack!”
“Stop hitting, dear, it hurts.”
