Chapter 11:What punishments did the saintess experience?

“It was my idea to leave. It has nothing to do with her. Punish me if you must.”

Melin stepped forward. She stared straight at Isabelle, eyes fearless.

Leanna, mid-step, pulled back.

Melin’s courage shocked her.

Knowing Isabelle, pleading now would only enrage her more.

Isabelle noticed the gaze. Finger to lips, she feigned confusion.

“Oh? But as a saintess, instead of helping me train you, she keeps causing trouble. If I let her off easy, won’t she get worse?”

“How about this—you take her punishment?”

Without hesitation, Melin agreed.

“Fine. As long as you leave her alone.”

As if expecting it, Isabelle raised a hand. A black whip of condensed magic appeared.

The magic was so dense the whip crackled like electricity. One look numbed the scalp.

Melin swallowed instinctively. Fear rose—but heartache and courage crushed it.

She was right. The whip marks on Saintess Celis were Isabelle’s work.

This hateful woman!

“Endure three lashes.”

Smiling brightly, Isabelle brought the whip down on Melin’s back.

Crack—

Clothes tore. Pale skin split open. The force buckled her knees. She half-knelt.

“Hah—”

Mouth open, Melin panted heavily.

One lash. Pain made sweat bead on her forehead. Her body trembled uncontrollably.

This… was the pain Saintess Celis endured?

Teeth clenched, eyes shut, fists tight.

Soon, the second and third lashes fell.

After three, Melin collapsed. Consciousness fading. Blood soaked her dress.

She was certain—a fourth would kill her.

Yet Saintess Celis’s back… far more than four.

In places they couldn’t see, she had borne so much?

Good. This time, Melin took it for her.

Fingers twitching, she used all strength to rasp.

“…That enough?”

“Of course. You took her punishment. Now—yours.”

Isabelle loomed over her, smile brighter. Leanna and Aaliyah gasped, staring in disbelief.

“Lady Isabelle, this—”

“Shh.”

Isabelle pressed a finger to her lips, silencing Leanna.

“Don’t plead for her. She fled the grounds—death sentence. But I’m merciful. I give her a chance.”

“Plead, and I won’t spare her.”

Silence fell. Leanna lowered her gaze, self-blame filling her eyes.

Though body barely obeyed, Melin rose. She lifted her head to Isabelle. Defiance undimmed.

“Name it. Any punishment—I accept.”

“Hecate Monster Dungeon, second floor. Monsters swarm there. Hunt them. Survive one full day, and you’re free.”

Hearing this, the girls’ breaths caught.

Hunt second-floor monsters?

More like be hunted.

Low-tier, yes—but countless. Even level 15 risked being overwhelmed.

Melin had little chance.

“Fine.”

To their shock, Melin agreed without pause.

“Starts now.”

A wave. Teleport magic sent Melin to the second floor.

Dead silence claimed the field.

Isabelle felt it—these silent girls held a fire.

Unwilling to watch a comrade die. Unwilling to yield. Fear of her, yes—but anger too.

From now, to survive, they’d train desperately. Waste no time.

Exactly what she wanted.

“You all saw? Why not discuss with me? Fleeing alone—serious consequences. Learn from this.”

With a light laugh, Isabelle vanished, black hem trailing.

Only after did the girls exhale.

Especially Leanna. Staring where she left, face full of frustration.

…

Oracle Hall, saintess’s resting chamber.

Isabelle sat on the sofa. Gaze on a magic screen ahead.

It showed Melin amid slaughter.

Second-floor monsters surged endlessly. Melin, eyes red, sword and dress blood-soaked. Corpses piled around.

Six hours in.

Normally, level 10 Melin would collapse from exhaustion. But each time she faltered, faint glow from her back wounds restored stamina.

When monsters overwhelmed, outer ones mysteriously turned on each other—easing pressure, giving breath.

Melin knew none of this.

Thus, she lasted twelve hours. Teleported out, joy flooded her.

But exhaustion hit. She slept instantly. Her level 10 magic broke through to 11 in hellish trial.

In the chamber, Isabelle rubbed her temples, weary.

Twelve hours remote-controlling monster hordes—even at LV99, drained her. Nausea lingered.

Beside her, personal maid Renia draped a shawl over her shoulders. Voice full of heartache.

“Miss, they won’t thank you for this.”

“I know. But I never wanted thanks.”

Wrapping the shawl, fatigue closed her eyes. Soon, she slept against the sofa.

Watching her tired face, Renia’s heartache deepened.

Closest to Isabelle, how could she not know?

Playing villain—just to force the knights’ growth.

To save the world, she’d let all misunderstand her.

Miss always gave silently. No return.

In her eyes, miss was the world’s most perfect person.

But perfection… was lonely. If possible, she wished her miss an ordinary noble lady—enjoying a carefree life.

Not a world-saving saintess.