The residual warmth of the ceremony's conclusion still hovered beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall; the grand orchestral music gradually transitioned into soothing dance tunes.
However, behind this illusion of singing and dancing in celebration, a more urgent, more private rhythm had already quietly shifted its battleground.
It was a dressing room situated deep on the second floor of the manor.
The heavy ebony door let out a muffled click as it closed behind the two of them, completely isolating all the clamor and praises of the outside world.
No lamps were lit in the room; only the moonstones embedded in the walls emitted a faint, cold fragrance, illuminating the star-spider silk gown to look like a flowing river of stars.
Almost the instant the door locked, Isabella turned around and hugged Jerry in a death grip.
Her long legs, wrapped in deep blue silk stockings, rubbed together restlessly. Standing on her tiptoes, her entire body wrapped around Jerry like a vine.
That priceless gown rustled with their fierce movements, sounding like stardust rubbing together.
"That smell... hasn't completely dissipated."
Isabella's voice was terribly hoarse, carrying a near-paranoid possessiveness unique to Slytherin.
Her nose sniffed frantically at the crook of Jerry's neck, trying to use her own body scent to cover up that cheap aura belonging to Vivian, which was mixed with the musky sweetness of potions.
"You used her. At this banquet prepared specifically for me, you used that woman."
She looked up; her gray-blue eyes flashed with dangerous firelight in the dimness.
Her lips had become exceptionally ruddy—even a bit swollen—due to jealousy and desire.
She no longer cared about any aristocratic reserve, her hands thrusting violently upward to clamp dead onto Jerry's shoulders.
Jerry didn't answer. Deep within his pitch-black eyes, the dark fire ignited by boiling bloodlines hadn't extinguished; instead, it burned even brighter because of the female hormones filling this narrow space.
He reached out his hands—not to undo her buttons, but directly encircling Isabella's inconceivably slender waist.
It was a highly visually tearing scene.
Although Jerry's height was already approaching that of an adult male, as a teenager, his skeletal frame still carried a bit of the refined narrowness of someone not yet fully grown.
Whereas Isabella was an eighteen-year-old witch at the absolute peak of her vitality, curvaceous and tall.
When Jerry used an almost savage force to hoist Isabella's entire body upward, this sense of mismatched strength—like a "small horse pulling a big cart"—reached its extreme.
"Mmh!"
Isabella let out a short, soft gasp of surprise.
Her body was held steadily by Jerry at a height of about ten centimeters off the ground.
To maintain her balance, she had to spread those long legs wrapped in deep blue silk stockings extremely wide, tightly coiling them around Jerry's waist.
This posture caused the most private parts of both individuals to experience an incredibly profound collision through several layers of expensive fabric.
Click.
That was the mithril clasp on Jerry's suit trousers groaning once again under the massive pressure.
Because Isabella's skirt hem was squeezed and bunched upward, that sheer layer of deep blue silk stockings rubbed violently against the fabric of Jerry's trousers.
"I want you to look at me, Jerry.
Tell me, that is mine."
Isabella lowered her head; her face, exquisite to the point of being almost cold, was right above Jerry's brows and eyes at this moment.
She leaned in abruptly, kissing Jerry's lips with a force bordering on biting.
It was a pillage disguised as a passionate kiss.
With a rapid frequency, Isabella's tongue-tip forcibly pried open Jerry's teeth, frantically sweeping through that narrow space.
Her saliva secreted with abnormal ferocity, flowing down the corners of both their mouths amidst the fierce entanglement, wetting the collar of Jerry's pristine silk shirt.
Sizzle... glug...
The sound of exchanging bodily fluids was infinitely amplified in the quiet dressing room.
At the same time, Jerry wasn't passively enduring this demand.
That purplish-black giant beast hidden in his trousers seemed to sense the violent fluctuations in its host's emotions. At this moment, it began its final, secondary expansion at a speed defying physiological common sense.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Because the space inside the trouser leg was already completely filled, that thick, siege-hammer-like giant object was frantically jumping upward inside the crotch area in rhythm with Jerry's every hoisting motion.
Every jump would strike heavily against Isabella's already soaked private parts through the thick python-skin fabric.
"Ah... hah..."
Isabella let out fragmented moans in the pauses between deep kisses.
The sensation of impact through the fabric was too intense. The hardness and size of that thing, even through several layers of cloth, gave her the illusion of having her clitoris repeatedly whipped by a hard, scalding iron rod.
Every slap was accompanied by a sticky water sound that made one blush and one's heart race.
Squish... sizzle... pfft...
That was the sound produced by Isabella's lace panties—due to an excessive accumulation of bodily fluids—being forced to squeeze air and liquid outward after receiving violent slaps from that heavy-duty size.
A massive amount of transparent liquid carrying a strong female aura flowed down the roots of her thighs, soaking through that expensive layer of deep blue silk stockings.
The surface of the stockings, which originally presented a faint starlight, was dyed dark by this continuous wet patch, reflecting a lewd oily sheen under the illumination of the moonstones.
"Take it... out..."
Isabella's breathing became abnormally rapid; her astoundingly developed breasts constantly squeezed and deformed against Jerry's chest.
Covered by the star-silk, that pair of plump breasts continuously surged upward with her movements. The areolas at the tips had long since gone as hard as two pebbles, poking obvious protrusions into Jerry's shirt.
"Don't use that layer of trousers to block it. I want to feel it... that authentic article belonging to the matriarch of the Black family that's going to stretch me to pieces."
Jerry let go with one hand and crisply pulled open the belt of his suit.
As those black python-skin trousers slid down his long legs to his ankles, the air in the dressing room seemed to instantly heat up by five degrees due to that giant object seeing the light of day again.
Smack!
The long spear drew a heavy afterimage in the air, slapping directly between Isabella's widely spread legs.
That massive head, rendered semi-transparent, red, and shiny due to engorgement, accurately sank into the gluteal cleft wrapped in Isabella's star-dress and silk stockings.
"Mmh!"
Isabella let out an extremely high-pitched scream.
Her back completely arched in that instant, her ten fingers digging deathly tight into the soft flesh of Jerry's shoulders. Due to the excessive force, her fingertips even left deep indentations through his suit.
Too hot.
That temperature didn't feel like a human's body temperature at all.
That thing was like a branding iron just fished out of hell's furnace; carrying a weight that made even a female's soul shudder, it pressed heavily upon her most private territory.
Because Isabella was currently being held by Jerry with her legs coiled around his waist, the instant that giant object sprang out, the entire shaft pressed against her buttocks and the inside of her silk stockings.
Slurp... glug...
Viscous prostate fluid surged out in massive quantities under this strike.
That crystal-clear liquid carrying a strong musky scent instantly coated the inside of Isabella's deep blue silk stockings, pulling out slippery, transparent silver threads.
The arm Jerry used to support her thighs exerted force upward again.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
This time, without the barrier of the trousers, that purplish-black behemoth began to continuously thrust and slap upward against Isabella's plump buttock flesh at an extremely primal frequency.
Every flesh-on-flesh collision emitted a crisp and loud sound. Reflected by the marble walls, that sound carried a rhythm that drove people mad.
Squish... pfft... sizzle...
This water sound had reached a point where it was impossible to ignore.
That was Isabella's bodily fluid and Jerry's bodily fluid, churned into a white foam under that high-frequency, high-intensity grinding, frantically accumulating and overflowing at the junction of their bodies.
"Too big... it's really too big..."
Isabella's eyes had already glazed over. She looked down at that purplish-black long spear, thick as a monster, constantly jumping beneath her. The pleasure triggered by the dual impact of vision and sensation turned her brain into a blank slate.
This boy's waist was so lean and strong, his skin still carrying that fineness unique to a youth.
Yet it was exactly this body, not yet completely tainted by time, that was able to continuously supply that tyrannical power to this ferocious giant object.
This extreme contrast, this absurdity of a "small" body carrying "massive" desire, completely ignited the madness belonging to the Black family deep within Isabella's bloodline.
"Right here... Jerry... tear open that layer of silk stockings... come in..."
She murmured while frantically writhing her buttocks.
Those long legs of hers wrapped in deep blue silk stockings continuously twisted tight and rubbed behind Jerry's waist.
The sounds of silk rubbing against skin, silk rubbing against silk, merged into one continuous noise. Accompanied by the squeezing sound of that viscous liquid, the entire dressing room turned into a massive, boiling furnace of desire.
Jerry did not directly execute the command to enter.
Instead, he leaned back against the locker behind him.
Thump.
The heavy ebony cabinet let out a muffled sound under the impact.
Jerry held Isabella, letting her entire body hang suspended in his embrace. His hands clamped dead onto Isabella's plump hip bones; between his fingers, he grabbed handfuls of that deep blue star-silk.
At an extremely tricky angle, he began to use that purplish-black giant object to perform a slow, oppressive longitudinal grinding against Isabella's paper-thin silk stockings.
Sizzle... rrip...
That was the dragging sound produced by the thick ring of fleshy ridges at the top of the head forcibly scraping past the fabric of the silk stockings.
Due to the immense pressure, the originally smooth silk stockings were traced with extremely clear patterns by that ring of fleshy ridges.
"Ah! Hah-ah... Jerry... please..."
Isabella's breath became abnormally scorching. She could feel that massive head currently pressing against her flower opening. Every slow movement brought a tearing, numbing wave of pleasure.
That thing was too thick.
So thick that even though it hadn't entered yet, merely roaming on the outside had already stretched her private parts into an extremely exaggerated arc. She could feel that fragile layer of silk stocking fabric being forcefully squeezed inward by that scalding fleshy power, nearly touching the tender flesh at her deepest core.
"Do you want it? Fiancée?"
Jerry finally spoke, his voice carrying a hoarse magnetism born of engorgement.
"Want... I want yours... I want this thing that made that woman scream... to fill me up..."
Isabella's hands released Jerry's shoulders and reached downward.
Those hands wearing lace gloves directly gripped the purplish-black giant beast wreaking havoc beneath her.
In that moment, even though she was mentally prepared...
Even though it wasn't the first time!
Isabella still shuddered from the feel of it in her hand.
That wasn't flesh.
That was a solid iron rod wrapped in scalding skin, its interior filled with frantically pulsing magical circuits.
Those thick blood vessels throbbed ferociously beneath her palm; every throb brought a wave of scorching heat.
That hardness, that circumference which couldn't be fully grasped even with utmost concentration, caused Isabella to completely lose the last shred of logic as a witch.
Squish... sizzle...
Isabella gripped that giant object tightly, constantly rubbing it over that massive head.
A large amount of viscous liquid splattered out along her fingers, dyeing the hem of her deep blue dress into a soaking wet dark purple.
"Come in... please... Jerry... give it all to me..."
She clamored madly, even recklessly using her hands to tear at the layer of silk stockings blocking the path between them.
Rrip!
That was the sound of the expensive silk stockings woven from star-spider silk snapping under violence.
The originally tight deep blue fabric was torn open with a massive gap at the root of Isabella's thighs, which had long since become a complete muddy mess.
With the disappearance of the fabric, that secret realm—already mature, plump, and in a state of extreme estrus—was completely exposed to the cold air...
[Omitted]
The room next door was more than three times larger than the dressing room.
This "VIP Viewing Hall" temporarily commandeered by Cassiopeia was originally the manor's small library. The four walls were covered by dark walnut bookshelves, the air permeated with the intertwined scents of ancient parchment and ambergris.
The oval-shaped long table in the center of the room, capable of seating twelve people, had already been moved to the corner by magic, replaced by a circle of curved sofas stuffed with moon-mushroom velvet, arranged into a semicircle.
Directly in front of the sofas, a giant magical mirror cast from liquid mithril, about two meters in diameter, hovered in mid-air.
Playing in real-time on the mirror was everything happening in the dressing room next door.
The picture was outrageously clear... Jerry's boyish face, slightly flushed from intense physical exertion; Isabella's full orbs vibrating frantically beneath the star-silk; the white foam continuously splashing from the junction of their bodies; and the long silver threads pulled out every time that purplish-black giant object withdrew... every frame was displayed to this group of pure-blood noblewomen with an almost brutal high definition, without any reservation.
The accompanying Sound-Amplifying Charms had also been adjusted by Cassiopeia to just the right volume.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
The sounds of physical collision emitted from the mirror surface produced a subtle reverberation effect under the high vaulted ceiling of the library, making those rhythms, already full of violent aesthetics, even more oppressive.
Squish... pfft... sizzle...
Accompanied by those water sounds, Isabella's moans drifted intermittently into the ears of everyone present.
Seven women sat on the sofas.
Cassiopeia occupied the exact center of the curved sofa. Her legs were crossed; that dark green gown of abyssal jellyfish tentacle silk glowed with an eerie blue fluorescence under the illumination of the moonstones.
In her hand, she held a freshly poured glass of firewhisky. The amber liquid slowly swirled in the glass, reflecting those emerald-green eyes of hers flashing with satisfaction and pride.
She watched the expression on her daughter's face in the mirror—intertwining pain and ecstasy as she was impaled by that purplish-black giant object—a calm, gratified smile always hanging at the corners of her mouth, the kind a breeder only reveals when watching their finest stallion mate.
Cecilia Nott sat in the first seat to Cassiopeia's left.
Her sitting posture had completely broken down. The plump thighs wrapped in that tight-fitting burgundy gown, spliced from fire salamander skin and velvet, were constantly rubbing against each other at an extremely urgent frequency. Her breathing was as heavy as an overheating steam engine.
Bzz bzz bzz bzz...
An extremely subtle buzzing sound, carrying a vibrational sense of magical energy, was emitting from deep within her skirt.
That was the sound of Eden's "Nightingale" series.
Less than three minutes after the footage on the mirror began playing, Cecilia had already secretly stuffed that rod-shaped object forged from elven silver under her skirt. At this moment, operating on its seventeenth frequency mode, it was faithfully executing its vibrating mission deep within her already muddy secret realm.
"The youngsters these days... truly play wildly..."
Cecilia forced this sentence out using an extremely strained tone attempting to maintain social decency, but her vocal cords produced an extremely obvious upward trill on the word "wildly," exposing the chaotic state between her legs right now.
"Yes... when we were young... we didn't have this kind of stamina..."
Mrs. Greengrass sat next to Cecilia. That gentle face of hers was currently dyed with a peach-blossom-like pink due to some continuously rising emotion.
She used the hem of that light blue dress with floral embroidery to cover her knees, but if one listened closely, they could faintly catch an extremely rhythmic clack-clack sound carrying a metallic texture coming from beneath that layer of fabric.
That was the entry-level model of Eden's "Thorny Rose" series... an egg-shaped device cast from elven silver, inlaid with three vibrating runestones. Mrs. Greengrass had stuffed it into that hidden location from the very beginning of the banquet, but only at this moment had she quietly used her magic to activate it.
Mrs. Flint was the most silent one.
This brown-haired witch with a cold aura leaned against the far right end of the sofa, her arms crossed over her chest. That exquisite face maintained an expression that could almost be called "indifferent."
But her thighs were shaking.
And shaking very violently.
The sound coming from beneath the hem of her skirt was neither a buzzing nor a clicking, but an extremely faint squelch-squelch sound carrying a sense of hydraulic pressure... that was the sound signature of Eden's latest release, the "Abyssal Tentacle" series. It was said that product used the tentacle tissue of living magical creatures, capable of automatically adjusting its squirming frequency based on the contraction rhythm of the user's inner walls.
Mrs. Parkinson was the least discreet.
Her legs were spread wide, her skirt already hiked up to the roots of her thighs by her own hands, and one hand brazenly reached under her skirt.
"Look at that angle... My god... That thing looks like it's going to poke straight out of her stomach, doesn't it?"
Mrs. Parkinson stared at the mirror, licking her chapped lips as she watched the clearly visible outline bulging on Isabella's abdomen with every deep thrust.
"Can you keep your voice down?"
Cecilia kicked her from the side, but her own voice was also trembling.
"Keep my voice down for what! It's not like the Silencing Charm is made of paper!"
Mrs. Parkinson rolled her eyes, the movements of her hand not stopping at all.
And among this group of noblewomen—flushed and breathing heavily due to voyeurism and self-pleasure—only one person's state appeared exceptionally... composed.
Vivian Rose.
She sat at the far left end of the curved sofa, her back leaning against the soft moon-mushroom velvet cushions, her legs elegantly pressed together. Her repaired deep purple gown was spread neatly over her knees, and her hair bun had been pinned back up by a house-elf, the crushed-diamond hairpin glimmering faintly in the dim light.
Her cheeks were rosy.
Not the kind of flush born of embarrassment or desire, but a rosy glow from the inside out, like the satiation after just enjoying a sumptuous dinner.
A highly subtle, lingering faint smile hung at the corners of her mouth.
It was an "I've already eaten" expression.
Every woman present saw this expression.
They also all knew where Vivian had gone and what she had done during the time before the ceremony began.
An eerie atmosphere woven from jealousy, shock, and uncontrollable curiosity permeated the air.
"Vivian, you look absolutely radiant tonight."
Cecilia was the first to speak, her tone sour enough to wring out lemon juice.
Vivian turned her head and glanced at Cecilia.
That look... that composure and contempt radiating from the inside out, belonging to a "victor who has already tasted the forbidden fruit"... made the roots of Cecilia's teeth start to itch.
"I suppose."
Vivian's voice was as calm as if discussing today's weather.
But as she said those two words, she slowly adjusted the position of her legs. This movement was extremely covert, but Mrs. Flint, sitting next to her, still caught a detail... On Vivian's inner thigh, on the fabric of that pearl-white silk stocking, remained a small patch of semi-transparent, milky-white dried stain that hadn't been completely removed by a Scouring Charm.
Mrs. Flint's pupils contracted sharply.
That was...
"Alright, enough of the little games."
Cassiopeia put down her wine glass and snapped her slender fingers lightly in the air.
The image on the mirror didn't disappear, but the volume was turned down to an almost inaudible level.
Her emerald-green eyes swept over every noblewoman present, the curve of her mouth carrying the elegance of a hostess in control of the overall situation.
"Since everyone is here, let's talk business."
This sentence was like a basin of cold water, dragging those noblewomen immersed in voyeurism and self-pleasure halfway out of the mire of desire.
But only halfway.
Because not a single person turned off those buzzing magical props on their bodies.
"How is the situation in the Seventh War Zone?" Cassiopeia's tone switched from lazy to stern in an instant, as if flipping a switch. "Cecilia, did your husband mention it in his letter?"
Cecilia forced herself to focus her attention, even though her body would involuntarily tremble every few seconds due to the continuous operation of the "Nightingale."
"Old Nott said in his secret letter last week... the war situation in the Seventh War Zone is much worse than what's written in the newspapers."
Unnatural pauses appeared on certain syllables in Cecilia's voice... that was due to the "Nightingale" changing frequency at a particularly sensitive spot.
"Olympus has deployed at least three full Demigod Legions... the 'Crimson Dawn' directly under Ares, Athena's 'Gray Owl Guard,' and a unit... um... said to be a Siren Commando unit conscripted from the deep sea by Poseidon."
"Siren Commandos?" Mrs. Greengrass sat up slightly straighter. The egg-shaped device hidden inside her emitted a muffled thud with her movement, but she continued speaking without changing her expression. "My husband in the Department of International Magical Cooperation never mentioned this unit at all."
"The Daily Prophet certainly wouldn't write about it."
Mrs. Parkinson sneered. Her hand finally pulled out from under her skirt... The glistening liquid on her fingers was exceptionally conspicuous in the dim light; she extremely naturally wiped it with a handkerchief.
"Do you think those reporters can access any frontline intelligence? They can't even figure out where the third line of defense is. My husband is a vice-commander in the 'Silver Snake Warband'; I saw last month's battle report... In the outer perimeter positions of the Seventh War Zone alone, twelve batches of garrison troops were rotated within three months. And the reason for rotation was not normal relief."
"Was it casualties?" Mrs. Flint spoke up, her voice cold, but her constantly trembling thighs betrayed her.
"It was total annihilation."
Mrs. Parkinson's words caused the temperature of the air in the room to plummet several degrees.
"The Third Battalion of the Silver Snake Warband, at full strength with four hundred and twenty men, encountered Ares's vanguard in the 'Themis Corridor' of the Seventh War Zone. Engagement time... fourteen minutes. Survivors withdrawn to the rear... nineteen. Among those who could stand and walk... three."
The sofa was quiet for several seconds.
Even those rising and falling buzzing and vibrating sounds seemed to have grown quieter.
"The combat power of those Demigods... exactly how outrageous is it?"
Genuine unease appeared in Mrs. Greengrass's voice for the first time.
"It's not an issue of Demigods."
Mrs. Flint, who had been silent all along, finally raised her head. As the matriarch of the Flint family, her husband commanded one of the most elite assault warbands in the wizarding world... the "Iron Thorn Warband."
Her level of understanding regarding the frontline situation was second only to Cassiopeia herself in this room.
"The real issue is the Power of Faith."
Mrs. Flint's tone was as flat as if reading an autopsy report.
"The soldiers of the Olympian Pantheon... whether Demigods, Heroic Spirits, or ordinary Divine Descendants... their source of magic is completely different from ours. Our magic relies on bloodline inheritance and personal cultivation, but they... their power comes from faith. As long as there is still one person in the mortal world who remembers Zeus's name, the entire Olympian army will not experience 'attrition' in the true sense."
"You mean... they can't be killed?"
"It's not that they can't be killed. It's that if killed, they will resurrect."
Mrs. Flint closed her eyes briefly.
"My husband personally killed a low-tier Demigod under Ares last month. Using the 'Killing Curse' layered with three high-tier Blasting Curses, he directly blasted the opponent into minced meat. But forty-eight hours later, the exact same Demigod appeared in the next battle. Completely unscathed. Even stronger than the last time."
Cecilia's fingers involuntarily tightened on the sofa armrest. That "Nightingale" was still working diligently inside her, but at this moment, she no longer had the time to care about that physiological pleasure.
"This kind of enemy... how do we fight them?"
"The City of the Sky."
Cassiopeia spoke.
Everyone's gaze focused on her simultaneously.
"The City of the Sky is a frontline fortress built by the Wizarding Council at the junction of the two world clusters. The entire city hovers directly above the dimensional rift, composing a defensive array from twelve 'Towers of Faith Annihilation.' The core function of those towers is to cut off the faith connection between the Olympian Pantheon and the mortal world within a certain range. As long as the battle takes place within the defensive range of the City of the Sky, those Demigods cannot receive replenishment from the Power of Faith, and therefore cannot resurrect."
"So the City of the Sky is our only advantage?" Mrs. Greengrass pressed.
"Not the only advantage." Cassiopeia picked up her wine glass and swirled it gently. "But it is the most critical advantage. Without the City of the Sky, all frontline warbands could only engage in a war of attrition in open terrain against enemies who can resurrect infinitely. But with the City of the Sky... we can at least make those immortal monsters truly die within a fixed area."
"I heard the garrison strength of the City of the Sky has been expanded to twenty thousand."
Mrs. Parkinson picked up the conversation. "Each of the twelve founding families contributed an elite warband, plus the Ministry of Magic's regular army and volunteer forces sent as aid from various countries... theoretically, it should be impregnable."
"Theoretically."
Mrs. Flint spoke these two words very softly.
So softly it made one's spine tingle.
"But recently, Olympus has mobilized some... entities that shouldn't appear on the frontlines."
Mrs. Flint's gaze became exceptionally sharp.
"My husband mentioned in his latest communication that the reconnaissance systems of the City of the Sky have captured three 'Divine Core Fluctuations' consecutively over the past two weeks. Not Demigod level... but the fluctuation of true, complete Divine Cores."
"Are you saying...?!"
"It's possible that the Major Gods have personally entered the field."
This sentence was like a boulder thrown into deep water, stirring heavy ripples across the sofa.
Every woman present... regardless of what kind of magical toy their bodies were currently being serviced by... felt a very real terror rising from the soles of their feet in this instant.
A Major God arriving in person.
That wasn't war.
That was a catastrophe.
Just as this bizarre atmosphere, woven from the shadow of war and secret pleasure, reached a certain delicate balance point...
Ding...!
A sharp alarm sound, bearing an emergency magical signature, erupted from a silver brooch at Cecilia's waist.
Almost in the exact same second.
Ding-ding...!
The black-iron ring on the ring finger of Mrs. Flint's left hand emitted the same emergency pulse, bearing a military encoding.
Buzz...!
Mrs. Parkinson pulled out a communication mirror from her hidden pocket, only the size of a palm, the frame inlaid with blood-colored gemstones. The moment the mirror received the signal, it lit up with a blinding deep red... that was the highest-level warning color in the frontline communication system.
Ding-ding-ding...!
Mrs. Greengrass's bracelet, Cassiopeia's earrings, and even the Rose family crest pinned to the waist of the perpetually silent Vivian... within a short three seconds, every communication-type magical item in the room burst with emergency warning signals in sequence, as if ignited by the same fuse.
Everyone's faces changed color in the same instant.
Cecilia violently sat up straight. The "Nightingale" that had been working inside her poked violently at a certain sensitive spot due to the sudden change in posture...
"Hiss...!"
She sucked in a breath of cold air, but then, ignoring that sudden stimulation, pinched the silver brooch with trembling hands. She injected magic into the receiving rune of the brooch, and a line of flashing emergency text written in blood-red ink surfaced on the brooch.
She looked at it for three seconds.
Then her face turned a ghastly pale, the color of a dead person.
"What's wrong?!" Mrs. Parkinson asked urgently.
Cecilia opened her mouth.
Those eyes, which had originally been watery from desire, were now dry and unfocused due to extreme terror.
She didn't speak.
Mrs. Flint had finished reading the message on her own ring a step ahead of her.
That brown-haired witch, always calm to the point of being cold, now had lips trembling violently.
"The City of the Sky..."
Her voice sounded as if it were squeezed out of a body that no longer had a soul.
"Has fallen."
These few words! Like a guillotine, they cleanly and decisively severed all the voices, all the desires, all the buzzing and vibrating in the room.
Mrs. Parkinson completely pulled her hand out from under her skirt.
That "Thorny Rose" made of dark red elastic material slipped from beneath her skirt, rolling onto the carpet with a thump, still mechanically squirming without anyone controlling it, but no one cared about it anymore.
Mrs. Greengrass's face instantly turned gray. Her gentle eyes widened perfectly round due to extreme shock. The teacup in her hand dropped onto the sofa with a smack, the warm liquid soaking through the moon-mushroom velvet cushion.
Cecilia finally made a sound.
It wasn't words, but an extremely shrill wail, like a balloon leaking air.
Her husband... old Theodore Nott... was on the garrison roster of the City of the Sky.
Mrs. Flint lowered her head.
Those thighs of hers, which had been trembling all along due to the continuous work of the "Abyssal Tentacle," were now shaking even more violently for a different reason.
Her husband... the Patriarch of the Flint family... the Commander of the "Iron Thorn Warband"... his life or death was currently unknown.
She reached under her skirt and, with an almost brutal motion, yanked that still-squirming object out of her body.
Squelch.
A wet sound of extraction, accompanied by a small spurt of transparent liquid ejected due to the sudden loss of filler. Mrs. Flint didn't have the time to care about any of this; she casually tossed that still-twisting thing onto the sofa and began to carve a reply command on the ring with trembling fingers.
Cassiopeia was the last to check her communication.
Her movements remained unhurried.
That emerald teardrop earring hanging from her earlobe unfolded a miniature holographic tactical map under the touch of her fingertip.
On the map, the location marked "City of the Sky" in red was currently being swallowed by an expanding black vortex.
The edges of the vortex were marked with three symbols.
A lightning bolt.
A trident.
A war helmet.
Zeus.
Poseidon.
Ares.
Three Major Gods.
Striking simultaneously.
Cassiopeia placed her wine glass back on the coffee table.
That movement was still elegant, but the knuckles gripping the stem of the glass had turned a pale, bluish-white from excessive force.
"Ladies."
Her voice cut through that cacophony woven from fear and chaos.
"The banquet is over."
On the mirror, Jerry and Isabella were still entangled in that dressing room. That purplish-black giant object was still impacting the body of the Black family heir at a suffocating frequency; the water sounds and moans were still being transmitted through the Sound-Amplifying Charm.
But no one was watching anymore.
That faint smile of satiation still hung at the corners of Vivian's mouth, but the depths of her eyes were already covered by a layer of cold calculation. She stood up from the sofa, the hem of that deep purple skirt tracing a sharp arc on the carpet.
"Cassiopeia."
Vivian's voice was surprisingly calm.
"Regarding Proposal 317... I've already signed it. But it seems now that the priority of that proposal is probably going to have to take a back seat."
Cassiopeia didn't answer.
She merely enlarged that holographic tactical map three times in the air, allowing everyone in the room to clearly see...
At the very edge of that expanding black vortex over the City of the Sky, there was a line of flashing text, urgently marked in white ink:
[All twelve Towers of Faith Annihilation... destroyed. Frontline defensive system... completely collapsed. Demigod Legions have begun advancing toward the homeland of the wizarding world. Estimated time of arrival at the first homeland defense line... seventy-two hours.]
Seventy-two hours.
Three days.
In three days, the flames of war would burn to the doorstep of the wizarding world.
The room was dead silent.
Cassiopeia retracted that hologram back into her earring, then stood up and walked over to that giant mithril mirror still broadcasting the scene next door.
She looked at her daughter's face in the mirror, contorted from ultimate pleasure, and remained silent for three seconds.
Then she reached out and turned off the mirror.
The image vanished.
The room returned to darkness.
Leaving only the rapid breathing of seven women, and that unclaimed "Thorny Rose" on the carpet, still emitting faint, mechanical squirming sounds in the dark.