"You scammer! You phony clown!"
CRACK!
Inside a certain mansion, a young woman cried out in fury.
The wine bottle she hurled to the floor shattered, its crimson contents spreading a fine red stain over the pure white carpet. That bottle had been a 160-year-old Rothsmeyer—something that, if given a price, should be as costly as a V8 Fenriri.
But to the woman in the pale yellow, high-slit dress, such articles meant absolutely nothing.
"How dare you deceive me with your pathetic, phony techniques?! You just wasted my precious time!"
She growled at the old man currently sprawled across the marble floor, one cheek swollen red from the aftermath of her punch. Her fiery red hair, tied into a tight ponytail, bristled in anger as she clenched her jaw.
She was fuming—literally.
"W-Wait, young miss… P-Please, allow me to explain…!" the old man pleaded, struggling through the pain. "I… I truly can help you begin with Cultivation… But your meridians… They're…!"
