Madam Herta closed her eyes again, taking a deep breath, as if to inhale all the oppressive atmosphere and her own sense of powerlessness, then crush them within her chest.
A few seconds later, she reopened her eyes, all struggle and complaints suppressed within her purplish-black pupils.
"I can!"
She said in a low voice, not loud, but carrying a determined resolve to go all out.
"Isn't it just playing the villain?"
She tidied the brim of her wide witchs hat and patted her skirt, which had no dust on it, trying to regain the elegance and majesty that belonged to Madam Herta, even though a tragic drama was unfolding in her heart.
"To save someone... I'll act!"
She adjusted her expression, forcing out a cold smile that she thought was evil and intimidating enough (though it might have just been a twitch of her lips), and stepped towards the edge of the black railing, preparing to begin the most difficult and embarrassing "performance" of her career.
The sound of her high-heeled boots on the stone steps was exceptionally clear in the empty space, each step like a drumbeat on one's heart.
The perspective shifts to Cyrene, who is bound by chains.
Subtle footsteps reached her ears, and the pink-haired girl's eyelashes trembled slightly. Slowly, with a heavy sense of fatigue, she lifted her head.
Her gaze was somewhat unfocused, as if focusing required immense effort.
What met her eyes was a figure slowly descending a spiral staircase.
It was an elegant woman with long, silvery-white hair flowing down to her waist like moonlight.
A wide, dark purple witchs hat obscured some of the light, and beneath its brim was a face as delicate as a doll's, with skin so fair it was almost transparent.
Most striking were her purplish-black eyes, as deep as the darkest night sky, devoid of light, yet seemingly capable of absorbing all hope.
She wore a complex dark purple Lolita dress, with layers of lace and ribbons accentuating her slender waist. Beneath the skirt were grey stockings and knee-high black boots.
Her entire being exuded a mysterious, profound, and even somewhat inhuman beauty, eerily fitting the gloomy and oppressive environment.
Seeing this figure, an unspeakable pain flashed deep within Cyrene's azure eyes, a pain so profound it almost drowned her.
She struggled to move her lips but couldn't make a sound, only letting out a sigh-like lament in her heart: 'In the end... did I still fail? Iron Tomb... still...'
Unwilling to think further, as if resigning herself to fate, she closed her eyes again, her long eyelashes casting fragile shadows on her blood-stained cheek.
The perspective shifts back to Madam Herta.
She descended the stairs seemingly calmly, but in reality, her heart was in a fierce tug-of-war.
Especially when Cyrene looked up at her with a complex emotion she couldn't decipher, Madam Herta felt her heart being squeezed by an invisible hand.
Those eyes, which should have been as blue and vibrant as a clear sky, were now dim and filled with trauma.
'No, no! Black Herta, hold it together! This is acting! It's to save her!'
She frantically cheered herself on internally, 'Think about the 4% repair progress! Think about getting her down!'
Feigning composure, she walked to the center of the platform and spoke with a deliberate coolness, trying to sound nonchalant: "Awake?"
As soon as she spoke, in her peripheral vision, that annoying system panel silently reappeared, displaying a line of flashy text followed by a comical clown face:
"Tsk tsk, all the past events, truly a pair of ill-fated lovers~ (～￣▽￣)～"
"——From Aha, who enjoys witnessing everything."
Madam Herta: "..."
Her lips twitched uncontrollably, almost failing to maintain the "indifference" she had painstakingly forced onto her face.
She roared internally: 'Aha, shut up! Go eat your big portion! Who are the ill-fated lovers?! And, your incisive comment, you Star God header! You enjoy watching the chaos, don't you?! I really want to slap this panel onto your face!'
She forcibly swallowed her urge to complain, took a deep breath, and stepped directly beneath Cyrene, looking up at the petite figure suspended in mid-air, entangled by countless chains.
Madam Herta tilted her head, her hat brim shifting with it, and asked in a tone that was both probing and slightly intimidating: "Do you recognize me?"
She was confirming.
Confirming whether this "Cyrene" recognized the "Herta" image, as this would determine the tone and direction of her subsequent "performance."
Cyrene still kept her eyes tightly shut, her pale lips pressed together, remaining silent, as if she had completely sealed herself off.
But Madam Herta had already gotten her answer from that fleeting glance in her eyes—she recognized her.
Such profound pain could never be expressed when facing a stranger.
"Not speaking?"
Madam Herta softly hummed, her voice betraying no emotion.
Her body gently floated upwards, her black skirt moving without wind, slowly ascending, approaching Cyrene, who was suspended in mid-air.
The closer she got, the clearer everything became.
Smudges on her delicate small face, pink hair tangled and sticking to her temples and cheeks, and more skin exposed through the torn parts of her pale purple dress, showing small wounds.
The discomfort in Madam Herta's heart grew stronger.
She reached out, her fingertips, clad in black lace gloves, gently caressing Cyrene's cheek.
The touch was cool, with a slight tremor.
Madam Herta's movements seemed to carry a hint of scrutiny and playfulness, her thumb slowly rubbing against the other's delicate skin, as if evaluating an object.
Cyrene's body imperceptibly stiffened the moment she was touched, her closed eyelids trembled more intensely, and her pale lips pressed even tighter, seemingly enduring something with great effort.
Madam Herta remained outwardly calm, even a little cold: "Don't think that you can escape everything like this."
She slowly withdrew her hand, a timely look of "satisfaction" appearing on her face.
(Internally: Confirmation complete! It's the real deal! Not Lygus in disguise! Thank goodness! If it were that bastard Lygus impersonating her, I'd be... never mind, don't think about it, it's terrifying!)
She landed back on the ground, crossed her arms, and propped her chin, watching Cyrene, who still refused to communicate, with a leisurely air.
Clearly, the other party had completely categorized her as an "enemy."
'System, where's my 4%?' she urged internally.
[Warning: Target unit's emotional fluctuation has not reached the stable threshold of "alertness, hostility, or fear." Mission not yet complete. Please continue your efforts, Madam.]
Madam Herta mentally smacked her forehead: 'Still need to continue? Isn't this villainous enough? Do I really have to resort to violence?'
She immediately rejected the idea. Harming such a miserable young girl would make her conscience (if she still had one) ache.
Violence won't work, so it seems she'll have to use words, continuing to apply pressure through language.
Madam Herta cleared her throat and, with her ethereal and detached voice, slowly stated, as if narrating an established fact:
"Though I don't know how you see me at this moment..."
She paused slightly, her purplish-black eyes sweeping over Cyrene's disheveled form, "But perhaps, we can reintroduce ourselves."
She slightly curved her lips, attempting to make a more "villainously charming" smile, though the effect might have only made her expression appear slightly more lively.
"Black Herta. A name I gave myself."
She tilted her head, her tone carrying a hint of almost innocence (but which, in this context, seemed exceptionally malicious) as she asked:
"How is it? Does it sound good?"