Magical Girl Ying: Justice That Never Wins 📱 SUBSCRIPTION

The night is deep, and neon lights flicker outside the window like countless greedy eyes peering into the room. Ying—the only magical girl in this city still clinging to the fight—has just returned from a narrow victory.
Exhausted, she sheds her battle outfit and collapses onto the bed, wearing only a gossamer-thin nightdress.
This nightdress is her most private armor. In combat, she instantly transforms into her glamorous magical girl attire: a dangerously short pink skirt, a tight chestplate that binds her breasts, thigh-high red leather over-the-knee boots, and the spear that unleashes storms of pink magic. But now, she only wants to face herself in the softest, most vulnerable state.
Ying lies on her side, pink hair spilling across the pillow like melted cherry blossoms. She breathes lightly, her chest rising and falling sharply; the thin straps of the nightdress have long slipped down her arms, exposing vast expanses of snow-white skin. She is alone in the room, yet it feels as though countless gazes are upon her—the desires stirring quietly within her own heart.
“Dear readers… nice to meet you.”
Her voice is soft and slightly hoarse, carrying the afterglow of fierce battle. She lifts her head, smiling tiredly yet seductively at the empty air—or rather, at the screen.
“My name is Ying. I’m a magical girl… still fighting. You already know the type—
The kind who transforms full of confidence, charges out heroically, only to be surrounded by villains in minutes, pinned down, her skirt ripped open.
The kind who cries ‘Justice will prevail!’ while her body grows hot and weak under their rough hands.
The kind who knows full well she’ll lose, be toyed with, filmed, and shared everywhere, yet still can’t resist putting on that revealing outfit again and again—especially for the feeling of those boots gripping her thighs so tightly… that slutty magical girl.
The kind who, once pinned, doesn’t struggle first but steals a glance at her stained pink over-the-knee boots—watching them get trampled, soaked in cum, yet still clinging to her legs… the pain of the boot shafts digging into her flesh always makes her abandon herself even more completely, that filthy boot-obsessed slut of a magical girl.”
When she utters the word “slut,” her voice finally cracks in her throat. Her cheeks burn crimson, yet her eyes hold a defiant, almost provocative clarity.
“That’s me. Ying.”
“You saw it coming, didn’t you?”
She lets out a soft laugh, laced with humiliation, resignation, and a trace of excitement that even frightens herself.
“So… keep watching. Watch how they play with me next time.”
“Do you want to know why I still fight?” she murmurs, voice growing softer, as if convincing herself. “Because… only in battle can I truly face myself.”
That sensation—shame, degradation, mingled with an uncontrollable heat. Whenever she swings her spear and pink magic erupts, those memories are briefly drowned by adrenaline. But once the fight ends, they surge back twice as strong, more overwhelming than before.
She rolls over, thighs rubbing restlessly together. The hem of her nightdress rides up to her hips, revealing flushed skin. Ying hugs herself, trying to still her pounding heart with her arms.
“Yet…”
She raises her head, moist eyes staring straight into the lens, voice so fragile it might shatter. “Just like our world… justice does not always triumph.”
The words pierce her own heart like a thorn. She knows what they mean: the enemies succeeding again and again, her body responding unwillingly in humiliation, the more she resists, the tighter those vines of desire coil around her until she can’t breathe.
Only by facing the men who toy with her can she briefly “forget.” Yet every confrontation drags her deeper—into deeper shame, deeper craving.
Suddenly Ying slips out of bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. Her gaze falls on the pair of uncleansed suede over-the-knee boots she wore home.
“These boots… are the only part of me I still find elegant and beautiful.”
She whispers to herself, fingers tracing the scratches and stains on the leather, eyes distant and dreamy.
“Even if my body and soul are soiled by them, as long as these boots remain… it feels like I haven’t completely lost.”
She half-props herself up, pink hair cascading over her shoulders, unable to hide the flushed expanse of her chest. The air in the room seems to freeze; only her ragged breathing echoes. Her fingers unconsciously glide along the inside of her thigh, as if reliving those humiliating touches. She bites her lip and continues:
“The story has only just begun. And I… am still trying to forget.”
“Next battle…” Ying says softly, voice trembling with barely contained emotion, “I’ll put on that outfit again—those boots especially. You’ll watch me struggle in them.”
She turns away; her long hair sweeps up, veiling half her flushed face.
Naked, Ying rises from the bed and walks into the bathroom, damp hair clinging messily to her back, carrying the lingering scent and dust of battle.
She turns on the shower.
Hot water cascades in fine, forceful streams, striking her bowed head and pouring down her long hair. It flows over collarbones, between breasts, along the curve of her waist, finally washing down to her thighs, becoming a warm current that trickles over her trembling body and mind.
The steaming water cleanses her skin, yet cannot wash away memories that will never fade.
Prologue—ends here.
And the true fall has only just begun.