Chapter 11
Wakako’s memory of how that night ended was fragmented. She couldn’t recall the details of what the so-called “holy water” was.
She only remembered that the moment the water droplets landed on the nobles’ heads, they all lost consciousness without exception.
She was no exception, but before she fainted, she managed to give Liu Siruo one last glance. She hoped her senior sister would escape alone and not worry about her.
However, upon waking up, Wakako realized things hadn’t gone as planned. She was acutely aware of the presence of her comrades, and even though Liu Siruo wasn’t in heat, she could still detect her faint scent – she was still somewhere within the manor.
She looked down at herself. Her undergarments were unchanged, but her outer garment had been replaced with the familiar maroon robe. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of bewilderment.
“Awake ?” An unfamiliar young girl knocked on the door. She looked ordinary, seemingly not yet presented.
“If you’re awake, come with me,” the girl said flatly.
Wakako’s body tensed instinctively, her stance shifting into one of quiet defense. But it only took a single breath for her to assess the girl’s capabilities. She had some training, but she was no match for Wakako.
She got up and followed the girl, her guard still up.
The girl spoke casually as if making small talk, “That place back there was the servants’ quarters. You can rest there at noon if you like. We’re now heading to the Saint’s private courtyard. No one is allowed to disturb her without permission.”
Suddenly, Wakako felt as if she had been transported back to ten years ago, when she first arrived at the Saionji estate. Back then, Kyouka-mama had also been similarly chatty and full of instructions, worried that she might inadvertently make a mistake and offend the Saint.
But the Saionji clan had perished five years ago, and so had Kyouka-mama.
The crime of treason had implicated thousands, leaving not even graves behind. Wakako could only secretly erect a nameless tombstone for her, occasionally buying a box of Kyouka-mama’s favorite snacks and placing it before the stone.
The wind would scatter the crumbs, attracting hungry birds that would devour them clean.
If one of those birds was the reincarnation of Kyouka-mama, she would surely recognize her. Wakako often thought this.
Following the girl, Wakako traversed the winding path lined with white tulips. A few butterflies danced among the flowers, their fluttering wings the only sign of life in the otherwise silent courtyard.
A figure in white sat alone in the courtyard, plucking the strings of an instrument with her fingertips. The melody flowed like a gentle stream, reaching their ears.
Wakako remembered this instrument was called a Koto. Its body was made of wood, with seventeen strings for plucking, hence it was also known as the seventeen-stringed zither.
It was an ancient instrument, its techniques long lost, with few in the world who could play it. The Koto in Miki’s hands was the only one on the entire continent.
The sound of footsteps broke the silence, and the music stopped.
The Saint’s fingers hovered over the strings, her head still lowered. “Senryu,” she called out, addressing the girl who had led Wakako there. “You may leave now.”
Senryu bowed deeply and, without asking any questions, quietly retreated from the courtyard.
Wakako suddenly turned to look at the girl named Senryu. It was clear she was the one currently serving the Saint.
Miki’s favorite poetic form was Waka, and her second favorite was Senryu. This name was undoubtedly bestowed by the Saint herself.
But in the past, there had only been Waka, not Senryu.
Wakako had things she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. She realized she had no right to speak. Whether Waka or Senryu, they were merely servants attending to the Saint. As long as they pleased their master, it didn’t matter who they were.
Moreover, now was not the time for such trivial matters. There were more important things she needed to do.
Wakako took a deep breath and, even as she strode forward, instinctively held the hem of her robe to prevent it from flying up.
“Lady Saint,” she said, “I don’t understand why you kept me here. Senior sister and I have a mission and need to leave immediately.”
The Saint seemed not to hear her words. She only looked down at the Koto, the melody still flowing smoothly from her fingertips.
Wakako paused, then added. “Miki, you know I can force my way out if necessary.”
The Saint remained unmoved.
Despite her lingering gaze on the beautiful face, wanting to take in more of its beauty, Wakako suppressed the urge in her heart.
She said no more and turned to leave, but then the sound of the Koto abruptly changed.
A jarring dissonance echoed through the courtyard, bringing the melody to an abrupt end.
The Saint never played a wrong note.
Wakako turned back in astonishment and saw that a string had snapped.
Miki’s right hand lifted slightly, revealing droplets of blood welling up from her fingertips. They fell onto the string, the wooden body of the zither, and her cloak, like petals scattered on snow, eventually disappearing into the white fabric.
Before she could even think, Wakako rushed forward, expertly retrieving medicinal powder from a nearby wooden box. She gently applied it to the wound and then wrapped it with a white cloth strip, her movements light and careful, as if afraid of causing any pain.
The location of these items hadn’t changed, just like many years ago.
Miki’s clear, black and white eyes stared at her without blinking, devoid of any particular emotion. Then, through the bandage, she tightly squeezed Wakako’s hand firmly.
Though ‘firmly’ was relative; in her weakened state, she couldn’t truly hold Wakako if she chose to leave.
“I just wanted you to attend to my Koto,” Miki said softly, “like you used to.”
Indeed, Wakako had often attended to her in this way in the past. The Saint was frail, but according to tradition, she was required to learn the seventeen-stringed zither, no matter how difficult it was.
Normally, calluses would form on her fingertips from practicing, but Miki’s skin remained delicate, and she would often injure herself, requiring Wakako to bandage and treat her wounds.
Now, it was the same. Wakako held the Saint’s hand with one hand and, with the other, found a spare string, effortlessly replacing the broken one.
She lowered her head. “Why didn’t you call Senryu to attend to the Koto?” The Saint was never short of servants.
Miki let out a soft “Ah.”
As if suddenly realizing something, she smiled, her eyes curving like the crescent moon. “Little Waka, are you jealous?”
She always called her “Little Waka,” a nickname that was both affectionate and teasing.
But Miki was actually younger than her.
Wakako pursed her lips and didn’t answer. She only straightened the seventeen-stringed zither and released Miki’s hand.
“Lady Saint, senior sister and I really need to leave immediately.” She frowned, and she bowed respectfully. “The matter is urgent, and we can’t delay…”
“Little Waka,” Miki suddenly interrupted.
She stood up, supporting herself with the Koto. The bloodstains on her cloak were startlingly vivid, as red as her lips.
“Please don’t make me angry, alright?” Miki’s smile remained gentle. “Stop talking about your senior sister. You’re with me now, so look at only me.”
She gazed at Wakako, a hint of confusion in her eyes. “Last time, I told you to leave the Eagle Kingdom’s royal palace as soon as possible, but you refused to listen. This time, I’m keeping you here, and yet you want to leave.”
Wakako was rendered speechless. After a long silence, she averted her gaze from Miki’s.
“It’s different,” she murmured. “Staying was my personal desire, but leaving now is for duty.”
Miki let out a mocking laugh. “Duty? Are you going back to report that the Eagle Kingdom is planning a surprise attack?”
Her words coincided with Wakako’s earlier suspicions. Suddenly, Wakako remembered what her master, Hua Yumu, had told her:
The Saint’s allegiance is uncertain.
Perhaps she had already sided with the Eagle Kingdom.
“If you’re planning to take this information back, then I forbid it.”
Miki leaned closer to Wakako’s face, their breaths mingling almost imperceptibly. “You promised me long ago. No matter what, if I forbid it, you won’t do it.”
Wakako had indeed made such a promise.
Miki reached out with her uninjured left hand and attempted to peel off Wakako’s disguise. The mask Liu Siruo had crafted was always tightly adhered, requiring considerable effort to remove, but Miki didn’t mind, patiently working at it.
Beneath the mask, Wakako’s true face was revealed, along with her prominent dimples, which she always had to conceal during missions.
“That’s better,” Miki murmured, brushing away the remnants of the mask and placing her index finger on the dimple. “Smile for me.”
Wakako forced the corners of her lips upwards.
Disappointment flickered in Miki’s eyes. “That’s not right.”
It wasn’t the same smile.
Wakako grasped her wrist. “Miki, will you please let my senior sister go first?”
More than anything, she wanted to stay by Miki’s side, but she had sworn an oath before her entire team that she would never let her relationship with the Saint interfere with their missions. She couldn’t break that oath and betray their trust.
At the very least, Liu Siruo had to leave safely.
Miki abruptly pulled her hand away.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to anger me?” she said coldly, a hint of iciness in her beautiful features. “Why do you keep mentioning other women? Is she the ‘unseen’ fiancée you spoke of?”
Wakako was stunned. How could Miki think that?
“Of course not,” she quickly explained. “She’s just my senior teammate.”
“But you marked her.”
Wakako felt a surge of inexplicable nervousness, rendering her almost speechless. “H-How is that possible?” she stammered. “Senior Sister isn’t even an Omega. She’s just disguised as one to infiltrate the wedding with me.”
She didn’t know why she felt the need to clarify this to Miki.
“She carries your scent.”
“Yes, I left it there intentionally, just to pretend to be a couple with my senior sister. Nothing more. Miki, please let her go. We really can’t afford any more delays!”
Wakako saw the Saint’s chest rise and fall rapidly, as if she were struggling to breathe. After a moment, her eyelids fluttered closed, and when they opened again, she had regained her composure.
“Fine,” Miki said flatly. “I’ll let her go, but you will be punished. It’s just convenient, isn’t it? Your heat cycle is approaching.”
Wakako knew the Saint wouldn’t lie about such a thing, and she felt a wave of relief.
As for the punishment…
Many years ago, Miki had asked her to promise to become hers “completely.” Even now, Wakako didn’t fully understand the meaning of those words. She only knew that from that moment on, certain rules had been established between them.
For example – if Miki forbade something, she couldn’t do it.
And – if she disobeyed her master, she had to accept punishment.
These were the basic duties of a servant, and Wakako had agreed without much thought.
But there was another secret between her and Miki.
The Saint’s blood was incredibly precious, even possessing medicinal properties.
Once, when Miki had cut her finger, Wakako had sucked the wound, inadvertently swallowing a few drops of the Saint’s blood. From that moment on, she had developed a peculiar sensitivity to Miki’s touch.
Her body, which could withstand countless lashes without flinching, would tremble and flush with the slightest touch from Miki. She became like a sensitive mimosa plant, its leaves folding inward at the slightest disturbance.
This was a secret shared only between the two of them. No one could have imagined that the delicate and fragile Saint could make a battle-hardened mercenary cry and beg for her to stop.
And Miki always used the same method of punishment, forcing Wakako to use her own hand on herself while holding Miki’s.
Even though Wakako was the Alpha, the one who should have been dominant, the Saint was as fragile as a willow branch in her presence.
Even though she also desired to do the same to Miki, to pull the Saint down from her pedestal, to see that serene face stained with desire, to instinctively mark her as her own.
But Miki would say, “No.”
And she would surrender all resistance and obey.
Because she was Miki’s guard, Miki’s servant, Miki’s dog. Miki could do whatever she wanted to her, even if it meant stripping her of her Alpha dignity.
From the age of thirteen to twenty-three, nothing had changed. Wakako would still curse herself inwardly for her weakness, then crumble into submission.
