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For Tokoyogi Aya, this night was destined to be unforgettable.
She had once been confined within Minamiya Natsuki's prison barrier for ten long years. In that time, she had hated, raged, resented—yet in the end, all those emotions dulled into stillness.
Aya had believed that after enduring such isolation, nothing in the outside world could ever again shake her heart.
She was wrong.
In just a few hours, she had experienced more emotional upheaval than in her entire life combined.
From the joy of believing freedom was finally hers when the barrier shattered... to the despair of realizing her rescuers were not allies, only to have her magic stripped away before escape was even possible... to the terror of discovering her position reversed—from mistress of another's fate to helpless prey beneath the knife.
That terror had long since ceased to be anticipation. Two hours ago, it had already become reality.
And now—Aya couldn't tell if what gripped her was terror or something else entirely. Her mind had turned to mush, thoughts scattered like leaves in a hurricane.
For two hours she had been bound hand and foot, abandoned in a pitch-black hotel bedroom. Stripped of her power, she was no longer the great Witch Librarian of old, but merely a frail human—capable of fear, doubt, shame... and even the mundane urge to use the bathroom.
Her body, weakened from years of confinement, had demanded sustenance. After eating and drinking her fill, her system naturally began its work. But what should have been waste had nowhere to go.
She had felt it the moment they returned to the hotel. But Yuuma hadn't given her the chance. She had bound her tightly and—without asking—linked their sensations together.
Through this "shared perception," Aya had been forced to feel everything Yuuma felt. If Yuuma sipped wine, the taste bloomed on Aya's tongue. If Yuuma stubbed her toe, the pain jolted through Aya's nerves.
But Yuuma had no interest in stubbing her toes. She had chosen something far crueler. She had taken her ascetic "original" and, for two hours, dragged her to climax again and again—until her reason was washed away in an endless tide.
Because Aya couldn't predict what would come next, each shock hit harder, each wave breaking her more completely.
Now, when the lights finally flickered back on, Aya was no longer the composed scholar-priestess she once had been.
Her resplendent twelve-layered robes were soaked through, clinging heavy and translucent to her trembling form. She lay sprawled on the bed, black hair tangled and dripping in what could only be described as "champagne," the sheets beneath her reeking faintly of it.
It was as if a goddess had been dragged down from the clouds, only to be thrown face-first into the dirt.
Rip—
The tape across her mouth, loosened from sweat, peeled away without pain.
And the first sight she met when her eyes opened—was her own face. Or rather, the smirking, short-haired replica of it, smiling like spring sunlight.
"My, my... what a mess. Clothes ruined, hair soaked, and this smell—hmm."
Yuuma leaned down and tapped Aya's cheek, mocking.
"Did you... wet yourself?"
"...Yuuma."
Aya's lips moved, her voice faint but laced with venom.
She could not help but hate her. To Aya, Yuuma was nothing more than a copy. Not an equal, not an independent being—merely a shadow. An echo. At best, a disposable tool, like Naruto's shadow clones—meant to train, to suffer, to exhaust themselves so the original could reap the rewards.
And yet this "copy" had turned on her. Yuuma had stolen everything she once bestowed upon her, seized the reins, and left Aya in chains.
"Oh my... you're still lucid? Good. That puts me at ease."
Yuuma feigned surprise, then brightened as if reassured.
"Bokue—come give me a hand, will you?"
"Are you sure this 'help' is what it sounds like...?"
The boy's voice came from behind her, and only then did Aya realize Bokue Keikain was standing there.
Her gaze flicked down instinctively—
—and froze.
At the sight of that towering "flag," her face went deathly pale.
She had lived as an ascetic all her life. She had no experience, no practice. But she had enough biological knowledge to know: something that size—
"No! Absolutely not! I'll die! I swear I'll die!"
Before Yuuma could even explain, Aya thrashed in panic. But bound and weakened, her struggles were pitiful—closer to a frightened kitten than any real resistance.
"Relax. You'll be fine. Bokue's gentle~"
Yuuma hummed sweetly, undoing the ropes with casual ease. Her magic lifted Aya's limp, trembling body off the sodden sheets as if she weighed nothing. She jerked her chin toward Bokue.
"Let's go. She's filthy. A proper bath is in order. And I need one too."
"...Three of us?" Bokue asked warily.
"Of course. What's the problem?"
Yuuma's grin widened. "If it bothers you, just think of her as me. Or better yet—as me, ten years from now."
Ten? More like twenty, Bokue thought grimly, comparing their figures.
The bathroom light flicked on. Their shadows stretched long behind frosted glass. One by one, the heavy twelve-layered robes fell away.
And moments later—the voice of the Librarian Witch finally broke, echoing raw and helpless through the steam.
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