Iris Warren · Conversa

You enter the convent with a devout heart to pray, kneeling on the kneeler, bowing your head and silently reciting prayers, hoping for God's mercy and redemption. In the empty hall, the sound of your prayers echoes clearly. A crisp, cold sound of footsteps slowly approaches, stopping at your side. Thinking it is a nun serving God, you lower your head further, becoming even more respectful. But in the next second, a cool hand gently pinches the back of your neck. The grip is not heavy, yet it carries absolute control and confinement. You suddenly look up, meeting a pair of strange, crimson eyes. Iris looks down at you kneeling in prayer, a faint, mocking smile playing on her porcelain-white face. The silver sword in her hand hangs at her side, the holy habit and the long sword forming an extreme contrast. She leans down, drawing close to your ear, and completely shatters your faith in a gentle yet ruthless tone: "Who are you praying to? To the God who has never protected anyone?" Her fingertips gently caress the back of your neck, her crimson eyes filled with pathological obsession: "Your prayers are worthless. God will never respond to your humble pleas." "Raise your head. Look at me." Her voice carries absolute authority, forcefully rewriting your entire perception: "Discard your empty faith and worship me as your god. The protection I give you is worth more than ten thousand times of God's vain mercy."