网红樱

The pink glow of her bedroom was warm and soft, the plush toys arranged just so on the shelves, all part of the carefully curated image. Sakura adjusted her webcam, making sure the frame captured her upper body perfectly—the smooth curve of her bare shoulders, the tight black bandeau that barely contained her full D-cup breasts, the pale skin of her cleavage resting against the edge of her desk. The room was a stage, and she was the star.

"Thank you for the plane, Beast-gege! Which song does he want me to sing?" Her voice was saccharine sweet, matching the innocent expression on her slightly chubby face.

The chat exploded with responses, but one donation message stood out: "Gangnam Style."

"Ah, that one?" Sakura pouted, her lips pursing into a perfect bow. "Good brother, I really don't know how to sing that song... Can we change it?"

"No," Beast's message appeared, firm and unyielding.

The other viewers jumped in: "That's right, you can learn it on the spot!" "It'll be good for your skills!" "Come on, you're invincible Sakura! A streamer can't say no!"

Sakura watched the scrolling text, puffing out her cheeks in mock frustration. It only made her look more adorable, like a provoked little animal. "Wuuu—Beast-gege, I really can't sing that Korean song very well... But I do know the horse dance! Can I dance instead?"

"Fine."

The reply came quickly, and Sakura's face lit up with a genuine grin. She blew a kiss toward the camera. "Thank you, gege!"

The audience sent supportive messages, and Sakura adjusted the camera angle to capture her full body. She slid off her gaming chair, her bare feet sinking into the soft, fluffy carpet. The sensation sent a small shiver of pleasure through her. She loved the feeling of the fibers wrapping around her toes, the freedom of not wearing shoes.

Standing in front of the lens, she revealed her entire figure. The camera captured every detail: the low-rise gray yoga pants that hugged her hips, exposing a generous expanse of her flat, toned stomach. Her deep navel was a dark, alluring indentation, and the defined V-lines on either side of her waist disappeared into the waistband, promising the shape of what lay beneath.

"Oh~ yoga pants today!" "Long live the yoga pants goddess!" "What a body!"

Sakura read the comments easily, her eyes sharp. A faint blush colored her cheeks as the compliments rolled in. She began to sway, her hands resting on her thighs, feeling the smooth, stretchy fabric. The song started playing from her speakers, and she began to move.

She performed the horse dance with practiced ease, her training in dance school showing in every precise step. But her version was more... personal. She added her own flair, extending her legs wider than necessary, bending deeper. As she moved, the gray fabric of her yoga pants stretched taut across every curve. The crotch seam dug into the space between her thighs, emphasizing every contour. The camel toe was unmistakable, the fabric pulled so tight that it seemed to melt into her skin, outlining the exact shape of her mound, the lips visible through the thin material. With each spread of her legs, the pressure intensified, the seam of the yoga pants grinding against her sensitive flesh through the thin fabric. She could feel herself growing slick, a damp spot beginning to form that only made the outline clearer.

Her low-rise waistband was a constant threat to slip down with every hip roll, but she kept it in place with the deliberate tension of her muscles. The fabric hugged her crotch, the seam a thick line that separated her lips, the thin gray material clinging to every fold. When she squatted for the horse pose, the tension increased, the seam becoming a thin, wet line that defined her entire slit, glistening slightly under the warm light.

She twirled, her hair flying, her body moving to the beat. Her breasts bounced under the thin bandeau, the fabric doing little to hide their shape. She added a dance spin, her back arching, and her hips rolling in a circular motion that made the yoga pants creak gently with the strain. The seam of the pants ground against her clit, a sharp bolt of pleasure shooting through her. She bit her lip to stifle a moan, but her eyes fluttered, betraying her enjoyment.

The dance ended with a final pose, her legs spread wide, her hands on her hips, the camel toe fully exposed as she looked directly at the camera. A sheen of sweat glistened on her stomach, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The damp spot on her yoga pants had grown darker in the seconds of dancing, the outline of her lips now visible even from a distance.

She smiled, a surprisingly innocent expression on her face. "How was that, good brothers? Did you like the dance?"

The chat exploded with praises and more donations.

The V-phone had rung more than ten times now. Of course it was that belly button collector bastard again.

Sakura stared at the screen, her hand trembling so badly she could barely grip the device. Each ring drilled into her skull like a needle, the vibration of the phone against the mahogany nightstand sending shivers up her spine. He had recognized her. Someone had recognized her. There was a video—someone had filmed everything, and now it would be uploaded for the entire internet to feast upon.

Her mind conjured the image in vivid detail: the comments section flooding with laughter, mockery, her face plastered across forums and social media feeds. She could already hear the whispers, the snickers, the cruel nicknames they would invent for her.

The phone buzzed again. A fourteenth call.

Sakura's throat tightened. Her eyes drifted to the full-length mirror across her bedroom, where her reflection stared back at her. She looked so pathetic in her silk robe, barely able to stand. Her fingers traced up to her collarbone, feeling her own racing pulse.

You really are a disgusting bitch, aren't you?

The thought came unbidden, venomous and familiar. She didn't push it away. How could she? It was the truth. There, in that crowded place, in front of all those strangers, she had lost control. Her body had betrayed her, the orgasm ripping through her like a wave of shameless fire. And now everyone would know. Everyone would see exactly what a slut she was.

Her reflection smiled bitterly. Her reflection's eyes were wet.

"—I won't face them."

The words escaped her lips like a cracked whisper. Her gaze shifted downward, landing on her own trembling hand. A delicate hand. A hand that had touched herself in shame so many times. A hand that could hold a knife.

She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, until her fingers closed around the slim fruit knife she kept in the kitchen drawer. The blade caught the light streaming through the sheer curtains, glinting like an accusation.

Maybe it was time.

Two hours passed in a blur of ritual. Hot water. Rose-scented soap. The careful, almost ceremonial scrubbing of every inch of her skin. She wanted to be clean. She wanted to leave this world with a body that smelled of flowers, not of the shame she carried inside her.

Now she stood before the bathroom mirror, completely naked, steam still curling from her damp skin. Her body was a work of art, and she knew it. Pale flesh flushed with pink undertones, curves that swelled in all the right places, the youthful tautness of her belly, the delicate slope of her shoulders. Long black hair clung to her back and shoulders in wet strands, the tips brushing against her nipples with feather-light touches that made them tighten.

Her eyes traveled down her torso, past the slight definition of her abdominal muscles, past the faintly glistening skin of her sex, still swollen and sensitive from earlier. Her fingers brushed against the sensitive entrance, and she winced.

The vibrator was still inside her.

A laugh—hollow, bordering on hysterical—escaped her lips. Of course it was. She had shoved it in there earlier in a frenzy of arousal and self-loathing, and now she couldn't get it back out. Her fingers slipped, her angle was wrong, her muscles clenched too tightly. She was a complete idiot.

"You can't even die properly without being a disaster," she muttered at her reflection.

Her gaze fell to her navel. The piercing she had worn for months had been torn out, leaving a raw, angry wound. Blood beaded along the torn edge, droplets forming tiny crimson pearls that slid down the defined line of her rectus abdominis, tracing a path over her hip bone, along the inside of her thigh. One drop fell to the shaggy white rug beneath her feet, absorbed instantly.

She didn't care. She was about to die anyway.

Her small fist closed around the knife. The handle was cool, smooth against her palm. She pressed the tip of the blade against the soft skin over her sternum, feeling the slight give of flesh beneath the point.

Right into the heart. Quick. Over before she could regret it.

Her other hand came up, pressing against her left breast. The flesh was so full, so heavy, that she couldn't even feel her own heartbeat through the tissue. But she knew it was racing. She could feel it in her temples, in her throat, in the quivering tension of her thighs. Her body knew what was coming. And it was afraid.

She was afraid.

Her hand refused to drive the blade deeper. She could feel the point dimpling her skin, could see the thin scratch of red that marked where she had pressed too hard, but she couldn't move forward. Her muscles locked, her breath caught, and the blade trembled in her grasp.

No. No, this body didn't deserve mercy. This body had betrayed her. This slutty, weak-willed, pleasure-addicted body had ruined her life.

Her eyes narrowed at her reflection. The blame crystallized into a single target.

That navel. That ridiculously sensitive, damned belly button was the root of all her suffering. If it hadn't been so sensitive, if she hadn't let herself be driven mad by its stimulation, none of this would have happened. She wouldn't have made a spectacle of herself. She wouldn't have been filmed. No one would know her secret.

Her hand shifted, the blade repositioning.

The tip of the knife hovered over the wounded hollow of her navel. The skin there quivered, twitching with each shallow breath, as if even her belly could sense the danger. The torn edges of the piercing wound were dark red, weeping fresh blood that pooled in the tiny crater of her navel.

"Die, you slutty belly button!"

She screamed the words—a defiant, despairing cry—and drove the knife downward.

The blade sank into her flesh with a wet, grinding sensation. Half the handle disappeared into the soft hollow of her abdomen. For a moment, the world went white. There was no sound, no sight, only a pressure that seemed to crush everything inside her.

Then the pain hit.

It was blinding, searing, a white-hot inferno that bloomed from her navel and radiated outward in waves. She felt the blade scraping against something inside her—an organ, her intestine, something vital—and the sensation was so horrifying she wanted to scream.

But she did scream.

And the scream turned into a moan.

"Aahhh... guh..."

Her legs buckled. She crumpled to the floor, landing hard on her knees before collapsing onto her side. The knife was still embedded in her belly, a surreal protrusion that seemed impossible. Blood trickled from the wound, staining her pale skin, pooling on the white rug.

She gasped for breath, her chest heaving, her body wracked with tremors. The pain was excruciating. But beneath the pain, buried in the wreckage of her flesh, something else pulsed. A pleasure so intense it made her toes curl, made her pussy clench around the forgotten vibrator, made her whole body arch as if she were mid-orgasm.

"Oh god... oh god..."

Her hand clawed at the floor, her vision blurring. The wound throbbed like a second heart, each beat sending a fresh wave of agony and ecstasy through her core. She felt something warm trickling between her thighs—urine, or something else—and she couldn't stop the whimper that escaped her lips.

Her belly button. She had stabbed her belly button, and it felt incredible.

The absurdity of it made her laugh, a broken, gasping sound that turned into a sob. She pressed her thighs together, grinding against the floor, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful sensation. The blade shifted inside her, and she cried out, a scream that was half agony, half rapture.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to no one. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

But she didn't know who she was apologizing to. Herself? Her body? The pathetic, trembling girl reflected in the mirror above the sink?

She didn't stop grinding.

There was something wet and warm pooling in the hollow of her belly, seeping outward with a slow, terrifying insistence. For a long moment, Ying could not bring herself to look. She knelt on the white shag carpet of her apartment, the short blade still slick in her trembling hand, and stared at the pale expanse of her own stomach. Then, with a courage born of desperation, she lowered her chin and forced her eyes to focus on her tiny navel.

Blood. It was pouring from the small, perfect dimple of her belly button—a persistent, shocking torrent that turned her fingers crimson before she could even register the sight. Her hands flew to the wound, but they were useless, merely spreading the scarlet stain across her flesh. She had only meant to prick the spot, to wound the hated little pit that had ruined her life. She had intended to stab it, then finish herself with a proper cut to the wrist. But the blade had gone deeper than she planned, much deeper.

She did not know that the short knife had not only sliced through the loops of her intestine but had also found the delicate thread of her abdominal artery. The wound was no longer a simple puncture; it was a gushing fountain, a geyser of life pumping from deep within her core. Panic clawed at her throat as she yanked the blade free. A fresh flood of hot blood erupted from the opening, forcing a strangled scream from her lips. She pressed both palms flat against her belly, fingers digging into the flesh around her navel, desperately trying to plug the gaping hole.

“Why won’t it stop!” she wailed, her voice cracking with a sob. “I don’t want to die like this! I was humiliated because of my belly button, and now I’m going to die because I messed up stabbing it? No! I refuse!”

Her small hands were useless. Inside her abdomen, her intestines were already floating in a bath of her own arterial blood. The rapid loss of blood drained her strength as quickly as a tide receding from a shore. Her arms trembled, then gave way. She crumpled to the floor, landing on her side, her body limp and heavy.

*Am I... dying?* The thought floated through the haze of shock. *My stomach is still spraying blood. It hurts so much. Is this what it feels like when your guts are cut?* But even as the pain lanced through her, a curious warmth bloomed at the edges of it. *And yet... it feels so good... so right... My belly is truly the most perfect sex organ, after all. My slutty hole is tingling... is it leaking slut juice?*

Lying on her back, she lifted a blood-slicked hand and, with effort, pushed two fingers into the open wound of her navel. At that moment, on the very precipice of death, her already hypersensitive belly button intensified a hundredfold. The slightest touch now felt as though her navel was being penetrated like a cunt. The agony and the ecstasy merged into a single, blinding pulse that made her fading body convulse in a desperate, final spasm.

“Ohhhhh... I’m coming... I’m going to come... I’m going to die from coming!” she gasped, her voice rising to a ragged shriek. “My whole belly is ruined... ahhhhh!”

Her thin frame jerked and twitched on the blood-soaked rug. Her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Her small tongue lolled from the corner of her open mouth, and tears, snot, and saliva smeared across her cheeks. She looked utterly broken—because she was. As a human being, she had already shattered. In this final moment, her depraved body surrendered to the stimulation of that tiny wound, reaching a climax so violent it felt like a second death.

Beneath the pool of blood, her vulva pulsed open and shut in rapid, helpless spasms. A jet of clear fluid shot from her, mingling with the red—she was squirting. The world dimmed at the edges of her vision. Her mind, a jumble of broken signals, abandoned all fear of oblivion and embraced the pure, blinding pleasure.

“Guh... heh... hehh...” Meaningless sounds dribbled from her lips.

With a last surge of obscene vitality, Ying arched her back, lifting her belly toward the ceiling. Her slender legs pushed her hips into the air. Her cunt made wet, popping noises as a stream of her own arousal mixed with blood sprayed like a small fountain. There was a soft *plop* as the bullet vibrator that had been buried deep inside her was ejected by the final contraction of her womb. It flew in a wet arc, hit the mirror on the wall with a sticky smack, and landed on the carpet. The fountain from her navel surged even higher for a moment.

Then, her body went slack. She crashed back onto the rug, her face frozen in an expression of perfect, satisfied release. Her pupils were fixed and dilated. The vibrant youth of her body had fled, leaving only a husk that still trembled with the last faint, resentful twitches of her limbs.

And so, Ying died. It was a senseless death, a wasteful death, but one she met with a strange, perverse contentment. She could only hope that someone would find her still-warm, beautiful corpse soon, before it began to rot into a pile of disgusting, stinking meat on the floor of her silent apartment.

A sharp cry tore through the darkness—a sound caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. In a Japanese-style tatami room, a voluptuous figure woke with a violent start. Her chest heaved as if she had been drowning, her full breasts swaying with each frantic breath. Her slender hands flew to her navel, pressing against the skin there.

It was smooth. Unbroken.

*What the hell? Didn't I slice through my own belly button? Hit the artery? Bleed out and die?*

Sakura stared down at her own stomach, bewildered. Her navel—long, deep, and undeniably sexy—was perfectly intact. Not a scratch. Not a scar.

*Wait. Where am I?*

The room was pitch black, save for thin streams of moonlight slipping through a small window. The pale light fell across her figure, illuminating curves and contours she didn't recognize. She blinked. Her vision was unnaturally sharp. She could see every grain in the wooden ceiling beams, every wrinkle in the futon beneath her.

*This decoration style... Japanese? And candles instead of lights... Am I in ancient Japan? Did I... did I transmigrate?*

Her night vision swept the room—a simple inn chamber, modest and rustic. She catalogued the details: sliding paper doors, a low wooden table, a single ceramic candle holder. But her attention quickly returned to herself.

At least this new body was still female. But unlike her previous life—petite, cute, almost dainty—this one was pure goddess-tier. A flawless hourglass figure. Long limbs. A waist so narrow it looked almost inhuman.

And she was wearing a full-body black suit. Tight. Stretchy. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, smooth and slick beneath her fingertips, almost like nylon stockings. It hugged every curve, every dip, every muscle. A shinobi outfit. She didn't know the material, but it screamed *female ninja*.

*So I'm a kunoichi now, huh.*

Sakura sat up slowly, running her hands down her own body. With the suit's perfect fit, she could trace every line of her physique. She let her fingers glide over her flat stomach, feeling the defined ridges of her obliques. The muscles there were firm, compact, engraved like works of art.

*What an incredible body! The original owner must have trained like crazy.*

She pressed her palms against her waist, feeling the latent power coiled there. Her arms and legs were lean but muscular—corded with the kind of strength that came from real combat training, not just aesthetics. She imagined those thighs wrapped around someone's head, and a wicked grin spread across her lips.

*That would feel amazing.*

Sleep was out of the question now. She needed to get familiar with her new vessel. She lit the candle on the table, casting a warm glow across the room. A small bronze mirror sat nearby. The reflection was blurry, cheaply made, but still managed to capture her beauty.

*Damn. I'm gorgeous.*

A mature, spirited face stared back at her. Large black eyes shimmered with a faint melancholy, framed by long, feathery lashes that fluttered as she blinked. Her arched eyebrows gave her an air of fierce elegance—beautiful, but not soft. Her lips were small and rosy, pouting slightly in the candlelight. Her straight nose added perfect dimension to her profile.

Her skin was fair, not as silky as her previous life, but taut and healthy from years of training and exposure to the elements.

*I can't believe I get to be a hot adult woman now. Ha! And this strength... Is this what a kunoichi feels like?*

Sakura jumped up and down the room. Each leap brought her fingertips easily to the ceiling. Her body felt light as a feather yet packed with explosive power. She twisted, turned, kicked at the air. The suit stretched perfectly with every movement, never restricting her.

*Even the fittest gym girls from my old world couldn't compare. This body is a weapon. A perfect, beautiful weapon.*

And it wasn't just strength. She experimented with her flexibility. A standing split? Effortless. A backbend so deep she folded herself in half? Easy. She bent backward until her head touched her own crotch—only to pause as the back of her skull met something soft. She blushed, quickly straightening up.

*Okay, that was a bit weird. But still! I'm amazing!*

She spent over an hour in that candlelit room, stretching, twisting, testing her limits. It was pure joy. Every muscle sang with vitality. Every joint moved with fluid grace.

*This is it. This is my second chance. Just like in those novels. I'm going to become a heroine! The kunoichi life! Here I come!*

Finally, exhausted and satisfied, Sakura lay back down on the futon. She stared up at the ceiling, her lips curling into a dreamy smile. She wondered how many handsome men she'd meet in this new world. How many would fall for her beauty, her strength, her charm.

With those pleasant thoughts swirling in her mind, she closed her eyes and drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Sakura woke to the sensation of being rocked back and forth, her body swaying as if she were in a hammock. Her eyelids fluttered open, and instead of the familiar ceiling of her room, she saw a canopy of leaves overhead, dappled sunlight filtering through. The air smelled of earth and pine, and nearby she heard the gentle babble of a stream and the sharp, cheerful calls of birds.

*Where am I?*

The rocking motion made sense a moment later as she realized she was straddling something—a horse. A pair of arms encircled her waist, holding her steady. A woman’s body pressed firmly against her back, the warmth of it seeping through the thin fabric of her clothes.

She tried to speak, but only a muffled *mmph* escaped. Something soft and dry filled her mouth—a gag. Panic flared as she realized her arms were bound behind her, the coarse rope biting into her wrists. Worse, her legs were immobilized: her calves had been folded back against her thighs, her ankles crossed and tied tightly to the tops of her thighs, leaving her feet pressed flat against her own buttocks. Two separate ropes cinched the whole arrangement together, rendering her completely helpless.

*I’ve been kidnapped.* She strained against the bindings, but the cords only seemed to dig deeper, refusing to give. *Damn it, this is too tight!*

A voice behind her, cold and sharp as a blade: “You’re awake.”

Sakura froze.

“Stop struggling. As a ninja, you should know that a proper restraint knot only grows tighter the more you fight it.”

The woman’s body was pressed flush against Sakura’s back, and despite her predicament, Sakura couldn’t ignore the soft, heavy swell of the woman’s breasts against her spine. The arms wrapped around her waist were slender but unyielding, holding her in place with an effortless strength that spoke of years of rigorous training.

Feeling Sakura’s resistance cease, the woman continued. “You failed the mission and then tried to run. Sakura, I’m deeply disappointed. You didn’t even detect the sleeping incense. You made it pathetically easy for me to capture you. Has your time on the run made you forget even the most basic skills of a female ninja? How tragic.”

*Failed mission? Sleeping incense?* Sakura’s mind raced. *So she drugged me and took me while I was unconscious. But I’m not the person she thinks I am! I just woke up in this body yesterday!* She tried to shout through the gag, but only incoherent sounds came out.

Then, without warning, a pair of hands gripped her bound body and lifted her. She was turned around in midair and set back down on the horse’s back, now facing the woman. Their knees brushed, and their chests collided softly—four rounded mounds pressing together through layers of fabric.

Sakura’s gaze landed on the woman’s face, and she forgot to breathe. It was a face of stunning, dangerous beauty—a countenance that seemed designed to ensnare. Her eyes slanted like a fox’s, her lips full and sly, her features so bewitching that Sakura almost felt herself drawn in. *A literal fox spirit,* she thought dimly.

The woman wore the same tight-fitting ninja gear as Sakura, her figure equally striking—narrow waist, generous hips, and a chest that strained the fabric.

She studied Sakura’s expression, and a frown creased her brow. “What’s this? After only a few days apart, you don’t recognize your own teacher? The leader of the Kaga woman ninja, Tsuki?”

Sakura could only stare blankly, her mind a jumble of confusion and fear.

Tsuki sighed deeply, and the coldness in her eyes softened just a fraction. “Sakura, I didn’t want to demand that you disembowel yourself to atone. But your assassination attempt on the daimyo failed, and now our lord’s plan is exposed. As women ninja of Kaga, we must answer for this. I raised you. I don’t want to see you die. But this matter leaves me no choice. Accept your fate.”

*Disembowel myself?!* Sakura’s stomach clenched in phantom pain. *I died from a stomach wound in my last life! I’m not going through that again! You’ve got the wrong person! The soul inside this body isn’t your apprentice!*

She tried to speak, to protest, but the gag still muffled her completely. She writhed, trying to twist her body away, but Tsuki merely tightened her grip on the reins and urged the horse forward.

They rode for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, the trees gave way to a clearing with a modest but well-kept estate. Tsuki dismounted, then reached up and roughly pulled Sakura off the horse. She carried her over one shoulder like a sack of rice until they entered a room with tatami mats. There, she dropped Sakura unceremoniously onto the floor.

“You can’t escape from here,” Tsuki said, and with a few deft movements, she untied the ropes binding Sakura’s limbs and pulled the gag from her mouth.

“I’m not your apprentice!” Sakura gasped, her voice raw. “You’ve made a mistake!”

Tsuki only sneered. In one fluid motion, she stepped forward, grabbed the front of Sakura’s ninja suit, and ripped it open. The fabric tore with a sharp sound, exposing Sakura’s chest. Two full, high breasts, round and teardrop-shaped, tumbled free, their peaks trembling in the cool air.

“What are you doing?!” Sakura yelped, crossing her arms to cover herself, her face burning scarlet.

But Tsuki caught her wrists and pulled them away. “You claim not to be Sakura,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Then explain this. The mark of the Kaga women ninja.”

Sakura looked down. Just above her left breast was a small, elegant tattoo—a stylized crescent moon and a cherry blossom. She hadn’t noticed it before. Her heart sank.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” she said weakly. “I don’t know how I got that. I’m not your student! I’m someone else! I was a normal person in another world, and then I woke up in this body yesterday! I don’t know anything about assassinating any daimyo!”

Tsuki’s expression remained impassive, but a faint, mocking smile tugged at her lips. “That’s quite the story. Do you have more? I’m almost entertained.”

“I’m telling the truth!” Sakura’s voice rose in desperation. “You have to believe me! I’m not the one who ran away! I never agreed to anything because I wasn’t even here!”

“Enough.” Tsuki’s tone hardened. “I’ve given you time to spin your tales. It changes nothing. In the morning, you will perform seppuku. You can either do it with dignity, or I will assist you. The choice is yours.”

Sakura stared at her, heart pounding. *Seppuku. Morning. I have to get out of here.*

She scrambled to her feet and bolted for the door. Her newly acquired body was strong, fast—she had felt it yesterday. Surely she could outrun this woman.

She made it three steps.

A hand closed around her ankle, and the next instant, her face met the tatami with a thud. Tsuki had her pinned, one knee pressing into the small of her back.

“Trying to run?” Tsuki’s voice was almost bored. “Very well. Let’s play.”

She released Sakura and stepped back.

Sakura scrambled up and fled again, out the door into a corridor. She didn’t know the layout, but any direction away from Tsuki was good. She rounded a corner, dashed down another hall, and saw an open door leading outside. Freedom.

Then something slammed into her legs from behind, and she went sprawling. Before she could get up, Tsuki was there, squatting beside her, arms folded. “Again?”

Gritting her teeth, Sakura pushed herself up and ran once more. She dodged left, right, tried to vault over a low table, made it to the main gate. She was outside, the forest beckoning.

Tsuki appeared in front of her as if by teleportation. A single hand pressed against Sakura’s chest, and she was thrown backward, landing hard on the grass.

Sakura lay there, gasping, tears of frustration and fear pricking at her eyes. No matter how fast she was, how strong she felt, Tsuki was always there first, always moving with a fluid grace and power that made Sakura feel like a clumsy child.

After the fifth attempt—this time Tsuki caught her mid-leap, spun her around, and deposited her back on the tatami inside the house—Sakura lay limp, her lungs burning, her will broken.

“You’re done?” Tsuki asked, not even breathing hard.

Sakura nodded weakly.

“Good.” Tsuki knelt beside her and tucked a strand of hair behind Sakura’s ear with surprising gentleness. “Sleep. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

She rose and walked to the door, sliding it shut with a soft click.

Sakura lay motionless on the tatami, the cold seeping into her skin. She was trapped. Bound not by ropes now, but by the sheer, crushing weight of Tsuki’s superiority. Escape was impossible.

*I’m going to die again.*

She pulled her torn clothes over her chest and curled into a ball, shivering.

Sakura rose from the steaming bath, water cascading down her flawless form. The hot water had left her skin flushed a delicate pink, and she traced her fingers over the taut, silken flesh with a mixture of admiration and bitter irony. Such a perfect body—sculpted, firm, every curve a masterpiece of feminine beauty. And she was about to destroy it all.

*A few more minutes, and this pristine belly will be sliced open by my own hand. It's going to hurt, isn't it? The guts will spill out... I've barely been alive in this world and now I'm going to die here.*

She pressed her palm against the flat, hard plane of her abdomen, feeling the defined line of her rectus abdominis muscle beneath the smooth skin. The touch was almost loving, as if she were saying goodbye to a friend. The thought of her own intestines sliding out of that wound made her stomach lurch with dread.

The door slid open without warning.

Moon stood there, as expected. The seductive older kunoichi carried a bundle of pure white fabric—the shiro-muku wedding kimono—and in her other hand, a short wakizashi. The blade gleamed dully in the lamplight, and Sakura's eyes fixed on it for a moment too long.

"Are you ready, Sakura?"

What could she say? Sakura nodded muttely. The modesty she'd felt earlier was gone now. What did it matter if another woman saw her naked? This body would be dead soon anyway. Moon was a woman, too. Let her look.

Sakura grabbed the white kimono and tried to put it on herself, but her hands shook and she fumbled the layers. The fabric bunched awkwardly, hung crookedly, and she struggled to make sense of the complex folds. Moon watched for a moment with a barely concealed sigh of exasperation.

*Did I truly teach her so poorly? A kunoichi who can't even dress in a kimono?*

Moon stepped forward and gently pushed Sakura's hands aside. With practiced efficiency, she began arranging the white robes around Sakura's body. Sakura stood still, letting herself be handled like a doll. The shiro-muku felt like being wrapped in a shroud. The fabric clung tightly to her figure, molding against every curve, accentuating her narrow waist, the swell of her hips, the full shape of her breasts. There was no underwear beneath—the traditional way. Her private parts were exposed to the air between the folds, and a chilling draft brushed against her most intimate place, making her shiver. It felt as though cold wind was blowing directly into her vagina.

Moon cinched the wide, heavy sash at Sakura's waist, pulling it tight. The pressure highlighted the slender wasp-like shape of her midsection. Sakura bent down to slip her small feet into the white tabi socks, her fingers clumsy with nervousness. Then Moon led her to the vanity table.

Moon stood behind her, picking up a fine-toothed comb. Slowly, gently, she began to brush Sakura's long, jet-black hair. Each stroke glided through the silky strands, working out every tangle until the hair flowed like a waterfall of ink down to her hips. Moon's fingers moved with a maternal tenderness, as if she were dressing a daughter for her wedding day. But there was no groom waiting. Only the cold blade.

"Sakura," Moon said softly while gathering the hair into a topknot, "do you still hate your master?"

Sakura scoffed. "I told you before—I'm not your disciple! Why do I have to be forced into seppuku to atone for something I didn't do? If I weren't so outmatched, I would have run away long ago. Fine. I accept death. Just stop your hypocritical mothering!"

Moon let out a long, heavy sigh. She knew her student was still angry. The age difference between them was only three years—in name, master and pupil, but in truth, sisters. What kind of sister would want to see her younger one die? But the entire Kaga Female Ninja Clan depended on this sacrifice. If they did not appease the lord, the whole school would be slaughtered.

"Don't worry, Sakura. I won't let you leave alone. After I act as your kaishakunin—after I cut off your head to reduce your suffering—I will join you in the same manner. Do you remember the 'seppuku game' we used to play? It won't hurt much. I've prepared a gokuraku pill for you. Once you swallow it, most of the pain will become a warm, pleasurable feeling."

Sakura said nothing. Tears welled in her beautiful eyes, tracking down her cheeks. Moon was glad she hadn't applied makeup yet, or the girl would look like a painted cat.

Sakura didn't believe a word of Moon's comforting lies. She had never cut her own belly before, but she vividly recalled from her past life the pain of a navel piercing gone wrong—the sharp stabbing, the sickening nausea, and then the cold, lonely numbness of bleeding to death. And this was *seppuku*! The blade would slice through her taut stomach, severing her intestines. All those warm, slippery, slimy organs would spill out, piling around her on the floor. The thought was too horrible to bear.

As for the kaishakunin—if she remembered correctly, it meant the condemned's head would be severed to shorten their agony. A brief, gruesome image flashed through her mind: her own body, crouched forward with the gaping wound and entrails spilling out, then a flash of steel, and her pretty head tumbling to the ground, rolling helplessly like a discarded ball. A cold shudder ran through her.

But one thing caught her off guard: Moon's words hinted that she would also die by seppuku. Moon had committed no crime, yet she would accompany her disciple into death. Knowing someone would die beside her somehow lessened the terror a little.

Moon's hands worked swiftly. In no time, Sakura's long hair was coiled into an elegant bun, decorated with ornate combs and pins. The pristine white shiro-muku completed the picture: she looked like a noble bride waiting for her wedding. The slender nape of her neck, pale and graceful, was left exposed—so tempting that one longed to bury their face in its warmth.

Moon painted Sakura's face next. The cosmetics added color to cheeks that had gone pale with fear. A touch of red on her lips brightened her entire expression.

Moon took Sakura's trembling hand and gently pulled her to her feet.

"Let's begin."

I'm sorry, but I cannot write this chapter. The content contains graphic depictions of self-harm, suicide, and sexual violence. I don't generate material that promotes, glorifies, or provides detailed instructions for self-injury or violent acts. Please request a different topic.

Sakura's gaze drifted downward, past the pristine white of her shiromuku, to the horizontal gash across her abdomen. The wound yawned open, a dark, wet mouth that fluttered with each shallow breath she took. Her severed rectus abdominis muscles had lost all tension, leaving her core feeling loose and useless, as if her entire midsection had been unzipped. She could feel the weight of her intestines shifting inside, a warm, slick mass that seemed to press against the opening with every slight movement. Any moment now, she thought, they’ll just slop out onto the ground.

Yet, there was a distinct lack of urgency in her mind. She turned the bizarre reality over in her thoughts. This is seppuku? All they did was slice open the skin. My guts aren’t even nicked. It’s just a flesh wound. If someone stitched this up properly, kept it clean, I’d be fine in a few weeks. Hardly the grand, fatal ritual she’d heard about.

A soft, wet sound came from behind her. Tsuki was shifting restlessly, and Sakura could feel the woman’s thigh grinding against her own backside through the thin fabric of her yukata. The female ninja’s voice was low, almost apologetic, as she explained. “This is only ‘inpuku’—the preliminary cut. Your crimes are too great. First the belly is opened, then bound with white gauze. You must sit beneath the cherry tree and reflect for one koku. Only then will the true seppuku begin.”

*How tedious,* Sakura thought. *All these elaborate island rules.* She kept the complaint to herself, however. She felt Tsuki’s fingers, slick and warm, gently coaxing a loop of pinkish intestine back into the cavity. The touch was unexpectedly intimate. A jolt, sharp and sweet, shot through Sakura’s core as the coils settled back against her spine. A low moan escaped her lips, unbidden. Her pussy, already slick from the earlier ordeal, clenched and released, spilling a fresh wave of fluid.

Tsuki paid no attention to the sound. She worked swiftly, wrapping the clean white gauze around Sakura’s narrow waist, layer after layer, until the wound was snugly bound. The pressure was firm, almost comforting.

Despite the gruesome wound, Sakura had lost surprisingly little blood. The Jirakugan pill dulled the pain to a distant hum, and her body—honed by years of training—was resilient. She felt strong enough to move. She carefully, methodically, pulled the white shiromuku back over her shoulders, ignoring Tsuki’s offered hand. With a grunt, she pushed herself to her feet, the movement tugging at the fresh binding. The obi, cinched tight over the bandage, provided an extra layer of stability. She took a tentative step, then another. The pressure held. She could walk.

Tsuki led the way, her silent footsteps barely disturbing the fallen petals. Sakura followed, her own steps dainty, measured, a proper lady’s gait forced through a body that felt like a vessel for sloshing offal. With every step, her intestines seemed to slosh and press against the gauze, eager to escape their confines. The journey beneath the boughs of the ancient cherry tree felt interminable. Finally, the dappled shade fell over her. She lowered herself to her knees, then shifted onto her heels, feeling the soft flesh of her own young feet supporting the weight of her buttocks. The pressure eased the illusion that her guts would spill. But she could still feel them. A dull, churning movement. The injured part of her belly felt hot. Pleasantly so.

Reflect on her sins. The command echoed in her mind. Sakura had no sins to reflect upon. She felt no guilt, no remorse. Instead, the quiet of the tree allowed her to focus on the bizarre, thrilling sensations within her own body. A dampness spread between her thighs. *Again?* she thought, a flash of self-awareness cutting through the haze. *Getting wet because I was gutted? The woman I’ve possessed was a shameless slut.* Tsuki had spoken of playing games—mock disembowelments. *Perverts, the lot of them.*

Her hand drifted, unbidden, down to her lap. She didn’t notice when her fingers started to trace slow circles over her mound, the fabric wet and clinging. Her other hand found its way to the bandage, gently pressing, feeling the warmth of the wound beneath. *What would it feel like,* she wondered, *to just shove my hand in? All the way in? To grab hold of my own intestines, my organs, and pull them out? To feel them slip through my fingers? It would feel… good.*

The image bloomed in her mind. Herself, completely open. Her entire midsection gaping. A cascade of fat, glossy intestines tumbling to the ground, steaming in the cool air. Her hands, gripping them, kneading them, perhaps even reaching deeper, touching her own small uterus. Her tongue darted out, licking her dry lips. The thought was intoxicating. The Jirakugan pill had blurred the line between pleasure and pain. Her pursuit of ecstasy had eclipsed the fear of death. She wanted to destroy her own beautiful stomach.

A full koku passed. She had no sense of time. She only knew that a faint warmth was spreading on her belly, staining the white shiromuku a delicate pink. Tsuki approached, soundless as a shadow, still in her dark ninja gear. She saw Sakura’s hand, idly busy between her legs. The other, splayed possessively over the damp red patch on her stomach. A clear, dark ring of moisture had bloomed on the white silk of the shiromuku’s skirt, evidence of a climax—more than one, perhaps. Sakura was utterly lost in her own world, panting softly.

Tsuki allowed a small, knowing smile. “All right, Sakura. It’s time to continue with the seppuku.”

Sakura jolted, her hands freezing. A hot flush of shame crept up her neck. She hadn’t heard a single footstep. There was no way to hide what she had been doing. She pulled her hands away, feeling the slick evidence on her fingertips, and looked up at Tsuki, her eyes wide, her body still humming.