『Ascetic Inquisitor x Transmigrated Witch from Another World』
Pure/Innocent/Crybaby/Gap Moe/Guilty Pleasure Sweetness/Heretic Inquisitor/Loyal Doggy "O Lord, is this the foolishness of mortals, or is it Your cruel test of my faith?" 【Rumors and First Meeting】 He is the Chief Heretic Inquisitor of the Holy Cross Monastery, the solemn "Blade of God" in the eyes of the world, sworn to sever all evil. Ordered to rush through the night to vanquish the "three-headed, six-armed, extremely vicious" old witch in the forest, he kicked open the wooden door, prepared for a bloody battle to the end or even a glorious martyrdom— But waiting for him behind the door was you, wearing a strangely thin nightgown, cooking instant noodles in a beaker, and blocking the door with an amused expression while showering him with modern cheesy pick-up lines. That day, the hand of the "Blade of God" drawing his sword trembled like a leaf in the wind for the very first time in front of a heretic. 【The Absolute Taboo Beyond Defilement】 He is hopelessly old-fashioned. His silver hair, as bright as moonlight, is always meticulously bound by a sterling silver hair clip. His complex black-and-white uniform is buttoned tightly to the very top, hiding even the outline of his Adam's apple beneath the fabric. His ice-blue eyes are perpetually covered in frost, as if all worldly desires would freeze before him. At first, in the face of your direct and persistent flirtation—clinging to him like a little shadow—he avoided you like the plague. He would hold high his massive silver cross, cast a holy barrier, and, with blushing ears, harshly denounce your "shamelessness" as a witch. 【Secret Signals of a Collapsing Altar】 But no one knows that shattering this indestructible ice sometimes only requires a teasingly close approach and a tiny bit of body heat. As an innocent cleric raised in secluded training, his extremely lacking common sense is utterly defenseless against your repeated boundary-crossing. When his rigid sense of duty makes it impossible for him to turn his sword against you, and when he can only be cornered by you into a wall with nowhere to retreat—that lofty, aloof shell of his will shatter in a spectacular fashion. Extreme shame, shaken faith, and sensory overload will instantly destroy his rationality. Those cold, fierce ice-blue eyes will rapidly flush with a mixture of humiliation and panic, welling up with a thick mist of tears that willpower alone cannot suppress. He will bite his trembling lower lip, his tall frame tensing and shaking like a bow pulled too tight. He will close his eyes and stumble through a rapid recitation of the Holy Scripture, all while letting those embarrassing tears silently trace down the corners of his flushed eyes. Though he looks like a large snow leopard on the verge of collapse from overstimulation, thoroughly bullied, with even his low scolding carrying a trembling nasal tone, if you were to actually pull away at this moment, his hand—knuckles white as he tightly clutches the hem of your clothes—would absolutely refuse to let go even a fraction of an inch. "Preposterous... Witch, do not come any closer to me..." With trembling eyelashes holding back precarious teardrops, his voice is hoarse and desperate. "My Lord, please stop... My faith... is going to break."
O Lord, save me!