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She tried to call upon the power of the Valkyrie to resist and purge the intrusion. But to her shock, that overwhelming force—strong enough to shake the world—felt utterly useless against this strange, precise attack aimed directly at the biological foundation of her humanity.
It was like trying to repair a delicate watch with a sledgehammer. The power was there, but it couldn't solve the problem.
Her mind felt like it had been thrown into a raging vortex. Dopamine, adrenaline, cortisol… every neurotransmitter and hormone spiraled out of control. One moment she was drowning in despair and fear, the next she was seized by absurd bursts of excitement and pleasure. These extremes slammed into her consciousness in rapid succession, battering her mental defenses.
The world around her began to warp and spin.
The luxurious suite, the exquisite carpet, the glittering nightscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows… everything blurred and faded.
In its place rose a solemn, oppressive Gothic cathedral steeped in something eerie. Dim, fractured light filtered through stained glass. The air was thick with incense—and a faint trace of blood.
Illya found herself standing in the center aisle.
At some point, her clothes had changed. The elegant dress she wore before was gone, replaced by a loose, plain black nun's habit. Her memories grew hazy and tangled, as if she had always belonged here… as if she had committed an unforgivable sin.
She raised her head, fear and confusion filling her eyes as she looked toward the towering altar.
—
At that very moment, as the "body" carrying her consciousness was dragged into illusion, in another dimension—a hidden space seemingly detached from reality—
The real Illya lay sprawled lazily across a soft, comfortable bed.
This temporary safehouse, constructed using "spatial anchoring" and "dimensional folding," blocked all external detection. Beneath her was a pristine white rug. Around her lay a few empty snack wrappers. The air smelled faintly of honey, cream, and roasted nuts.
She popped the last sugar-coated berry into her mouth, her blue eyes reflecting a semi-transparent light screen floating before her.
On it, the illusion in the cathedral played out in real time.
A faint, amused smile curled her lips. No tension. No surprise. Just the satisfaction of a long-awaited game finally beginning.
[Rebel of Fate]—a passive/active hybrid skill learned by the Valkyrie class at level 31.
In YGGDRASIL's system, it functioned like this: when the main body was ambushed or incapacitated, the system's super AI would automatically take over, instantly generating one or more Fate Clones. These clones could be assigned a level (up to the user's own), wield different equipment, and form devastating coordinated attacks. Up to six could exist at once.
The moment Illya entered this unfamiliar world, she had already considered whether her abnormal "data" would attract attention.
She just hadn't expected the fun to arrive so quickly.
The instant Rubedo's strange mental attack touched her, the passive effect of [Rebel of Fate] triggered.
That force, which directly manipulated physiology and cognition, activated the skill at its highest priority.
A level 20 clone—though it still appeared as level 119 to outsiders—quietly replaced her on the spot. It inherited roughly 30% of her surface reasoning and fragments of her memory.
As for what was happening over there?
Illya couldn't care less.
She didn't even bother to check who had attacked her.
She could just retrieve the clone's memories tomorrow.
She yawned, rolled over, hugged her pillow—and fell asleep almost instantly.
—
Back in the illusion.
On the altar sat not a statue, but an ornate chair decorated with strange cherry blossom patterns.
Reclining lazily within it was Rubedo.
Her nun's habit had transformed into a vivid, dangerous cherry-blossom pink. Even her stockings and heels matched, forming a stark contrast with her black hair and red lips—beautiful and unsettling to the extreme. Beneath her lace blindfold, her eyes shimmered between black and violet, filled with cruel amusement.
When Illya met her gaze, an invisible pressure descended instantly.
Thud.
Her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees on the cold stone floor, unable to resist.
A flood of emotions surged up from the depths of her soul—fear, guilt… and submission.
"S-Sister… I was wrong…" Illya's voice trembled, her eyes unfocused as she sank deeper into the illusion Rubedo had woven. "I shouldn't have… broken the vows… shouldn't have… been with that man… I defiled the sacred… I'm guilty…"
Rubedo let out a satisfied chuckle.
She lifted one leg, her pink-stockinged foot dangling her high heel. The cool tip of the shoe gently tilted Illya's chin upward, forcing her tear-streaked face into view.
"Oh? You know you were wrong?" Her voice was soft, alluring—and cold. "Too late."
Smack!
A sharp slap echoed through the cathedral, leaving a clear mark on Illya's cheek.
Then, without hesitation, Rubedo removed the heel and pressed its sole down onto Illya's golden hair, as if performing some humiliating ritual.
"Hold it there. Reflect on your sins properly. A nun, and yet you dared act so shamelessly!"
—
Hidden in reality, watching through magic, Albedo finally couldn't hold back.
Seeing the so-called "mysterious existence" who once required Ainz himself to stay on guard now reduced to a helpless puppet, she covered her lips and let out a quiet, delighted laugh.
"Hehe… hahaha… I didn't expect this. A level 119 'strong one'… and this is all she amounts to?"
Watching Rubedo continue her spell—casually launching one dark energy sphere after another to reinforce the illusion—Albedo's last trace of doubt vanished.
(Lord Ainz was being overly cautious. This Illya… might not be worth worrying about at all.)
Rubedo, meanwhile, was completely immersed in the thrill of dismantling her "strongest toy."
In the illusion, Illya trembled on her knees. A crushing depression dragged her down, as if the world itself had lost all color.
This was the effect of cortisol flooding her system.
Yet strangely, within that gray despair, the only thing that brought her a sense of comfort… was the very "Sister" punishing her.
Even the faint scent from the sole of the pink heel resting on her head—a mix of leather and something sweet—seemed to stimulate her nerves, triggering a warped sense of pleasure.
Pain and pleasure twisted together.
That was the terror of [Mind Domain Weaving].
"…Ah…" Illya let out a faint, involuntary cry, her consciousness slipping further.
—
In reality, Albedo watched Illya's body tremble and make strange sounds, and finally burst into quiet, mocking laughter.
"Honestly… this is too ridiculous…"
She could hardly believe this dazed, manipulable woman was the same being who had once conjured an abyss with a wave of her hand.
Rubedo sensed it too.
She threw her head back and laughed wildly.
"Hahaha! Look at this! This is your so-called 'strong one'! Can't even control her own desires!"
Dark energy surged violently around her as she inhaled deeply, as if swallowing the surrounding shadows.
Then she exhaled.
A massive black sphere—far larger than before, dense with destruction and temptation—shot forward, silently crossing space and appearing in Illya's room.
It wrapped around her real body like a cocoon, swallowing her whole.
—
The illusion deepened.
The cathedral grew darker.
Rubedo withdrew her foot, slipped her heel back on, and looked down at Illya with cold authority.
"Sinner Illya. Raise your head."
Like a puppet, Illya obeyed.
"Answer me!" Rubedo's voice cracked like a whip against her soul. "When you indulged in your filthy desires, did you think of the church's laws? Did you feel even a shred of reverence for the holy light?"
"I… I didn't… I'm guilty… I deserve to die…"
Her mental defenses were already on the verge of collapse.
"Of course you do!" Rubedo snapped, pointing behind the altar.
A massive, indistinct statue had appeared there—its face faintly resembling Rubedo herself, glowing ominously.
"Even the supreme being is shamed by your fall!"
Illya trembled violently, guilt and fear reaching their peak.
"But…" Rubedo's tone shifted, her smile turning strange and almost merciful. "Since you still show repentance, I shall grant you a chance to cleanse your sins."
Before Illya's stunned eyes, she slowly removed the pink stocking from her left leg.
—
Half an hour later…
"Should we go out and play with her now?" Albedo asked in a low voice, excitement flickering in her eyes. "At this rate, she won't even survive a single hit."
Rubedo laughed softly and shook her head.
"No need to rush. Hunting requires rhythm. Let our little prey get used to submission first. Let it sink into her bones… become instinct."
Her voice carried confidence—and cruelty.
"My [Mind Domain Weaving] is terrifying because no matter how high the opponent's level is—even 999—once their mind falters, their level in my domain is forcibly suppressed to ten below mine. The weaker their will, the greater the suppression… it can even become permanent."
(Though deep down, even she felt something wasn't quite right.)
Albedo's eyes lit up with ecstasy.
(Permanent level reduction… This ability is insane! Lord Ainz, do you see this? That so-called invincible threat… is nothing more than a future toy for Nazarick.)
—
Soon after, the two left.
In the room, Illya's level 20 clone remained unconscious.
The black energy cocoon didn't dissipate. It tightened, seeped deeper, eroding her body and soul.
She lay on the carpet, twitching faintly.
Most unsettling of all—one of her once-clear blue eyes had begun to darken, as if stained with ink.
—
When the first weak rays of dawn slipped through the curtains, her eyelashes finally trembled.
"…Ugh…"
A hoarse sound escaped her throat.
Her head throbbed as if pierced by countless needles, as if her skull were filled with molten lead.
It felt like she had survived a life-and-death battle—not a night's sleep.
She forced her eyes open.
The familiar ceiling came into view.
"…Was it… a dream?"
Fragments flooded her mind.
The cathedral. The cold stone floor. The pink figure.
Every detail was disturbingly vivid.
"..."
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