Chapter 17: Organizing Thoughts
Gunfire thundered.
It echoed for a long time at the damp end of the alley.
Funis flicked the cylinder—her revolver had rotated to the bottom. Only one bullet remained.
She had fired five.
“Grrgh…”
The man whose head was pinned to the ground under her tall heel had half his face sunk into the mud, his pale expression twisted in fear and agony, cheeks and lips twitching uncontrollably.
His right hand had been pinned to the ground by a luxurious stiletto, driven clean through.
Where his five fingers had been was now only a blurred mess of charred flesh and blooming blood.
Funis sat astride the corpse of another man, wiping her revolver with a handkerchief. At last, she moved the golden barrel to the center of the pinned man’s forehead, slowly tightening her finger on the trigger.
“Last chance,” she said coldly. “Who is the debt collector of Blackwater River?”
Her tender voice carried not a shred of warmth—bone-chilling.
But the man had already lost consciousness, frothing at the mouth.
He couldn’t answer.
Funis frowned slightly and, as if venting her frustration, kicked the unconscious man’s head away with a sharp heel. Then she pulled out the stiletto and stood.
This was a different alley from earlier. The Blackwater River District was full of such lanes—people stumbled upon drunkards and corpses they’d never seen before every day around the corners.
Behind Funis lay seven or eight young men with skeletal goblets tattooed on their arms. They were all members of the Bloodwine Society.
Red blood soaked through the loose stone tiles.
Funis had killed them.
Neatly. Decisively.
The girl straightened her dress, lifting its hem to inspect herself. The curve of her calves beneath the white stockings remained exquisite, unmarred by any dust or dirt.
She exhaled in relief.
This was her second hour of acting freely. Funis had repeatedly lured in Bloodwine Society members who had intentions toward her, then killed or interrogated them in the alleyways—like just now. She had repeated this at least three times.
Her parasol and sunhat had been destroyed and discarded in combat. Since the sword-parasol was too long to conceal properly, she abandoned it. From one of the corpses, she stripped a fairly clean hooded cloak to protect her white dress and stockings from falling ash and smoke.
If she let herself get too disheveled and lost her ladylike grace, a certain witch would definitely scold her and mete out punishment.
Funis felt she was still passable for now.
Her first real combat had gone more smoothly than she expected. Unlike Sera Fred’s fighting style, Funis found that speed and agility were this petite female body’s greatest strengths—emphasizing technique over brute force.
Obviously, she couldn’t overpower adult men with raw strength.
Though most of these low-level gang members had never encountered potions or the Transcendent system, the Ninth Sequence didn’t actually bring any physical enhancement. Before advancing to the Eighth Sequence, Transcendents were basically no different from ordinary people.
Funis had little chance in a direct clash.
Chescia’s training had been remarkably effective—unsurprising, yet deeply appreciated. Funis didn’t want all the effort and suffering she had endured over the past year to be in vain.
The clues Chescia left were simple but clear.
The Bloodwine Society’s boss didn’t manage these low-level gang members personally. Six debt collectors represented his will. They each oversaw a section of the city, and the gang members reported directly to them.
Through interrogation and looting, Funis had uncovered some scraps of information: one of the debt collectors had placed a bounty, offering gold and silver for young girls, specifying they be healthy and whole of limb.
If the witches of the society had gathered reliable intel, Funis was almost certain that this debt collector was linked to the witch refinement operation.
As for the secret warehouse location in the Blackwater River District.
The bottom-tier members had no knowledge of such high-level secrets. Pathetic and detestable bastards could only beg helplessly at gunpoint or under the stiletto, repeating again and again, “Only the debt collector knows.”
“Looks like I have to find this debt collector…” Funis muttered as she pulled open the cloak.
The cloak didn’t fit—it was too big for her.
Funis donned the hood, cut off the overly long hem with her stiletto, tightened the front, and was just about to leave when her knees suddenly went weak.
“Uuh♡～”
A moan escaped uncontrollably.
She collapsed softly against the wall, her slender legs trembling slightly beneath her skirt, knees pressed together.
The brief moment of relaxation after combat shattered her composure. Funis bit her lip, trying to straighten her back again, but a spark from the soles of her feet raced up her spine.
“Eep♡——!”
She failed to hold back again.
With a soft cry, Funis gasped against the wall, sweet, sticky puffs of breath hanging in the dark air like something illicit.
“I can’t do this here…”
She looked around—this place was far too disgusting. She shook her head and covered her face.
Chescia had told her to return to the inn once she’d made progress. Funis believed the witch had already prepared a room for her to rest in, but more than that, she hoped for a private space where she could deal with some unspeakable matters.
“How did I end up like this…” Funis blushed furiously. “I used to be a man, and now I keep…”
All because of this absurdly arousable body.
All Chescia’s fault.
It's all her fault.
That sultry, delicate figure filled her mind—Funis unconsciously licked her palm, while her other hand slowly slipped beneath the cloak.
“Mm—!?”
Only when the bare upper thighs not covered by her over-knee stockings met the chill of the air did Funis snap out of it, shocked by what she was doing. She looked down to find she had lifted her skirt—meant to drape near her calves—all the way to her waist.
Trembling, she let go. The skirt fell softly back down.
“Was I really about to just now…” Funis shuddered in embarrassment.
After scanning the alley again and confirming there were still no living souls around, she finally exhaled again.
Something was definitely wrong.
Funis felt herself being swayed by some obsessive impulse now and then.
The more desperate she became for revenge, the more dependent she was on the witches—hoping they would help her escape weakness and become stronger. She relied on them so much, she couldn’t break away.
Like a boat caught in a whirlpool.
Sinking deeper and deeper.
But did she really have another choice?
“Forget it. I’ll go find her at the inn.” Funis sighed.
She patted her cheeks, trying to stay alert, then took deep breaths, waiting for the flush creeping up to her ears to fade.
Within minutes, she had returned to the cold, murderous aura she had started with.
Thus, the witch Funis, hidden beneath the cloak, stepped lightly through blood and mud, and left the corpse-strewn depths of the alley.