"The Rouge Immortal will bestow beauty upon all her devout followers."
Among the followers of the Rouge Immortal, a young woman wearing an antique cloak began to recite these words.
The shadow of the cloak covered most of the woman's face, but as she bowed her head to pray, one could catch a glimpse of her bright eyes and a distinct teardrop mole under the right eye.
She was the host of tonight's gathering.
At the Rouge Immortal's gatherings, the host always changed.
Last time it was a woman with a high-bridged nose; this time, it was a woman with a mole by her eye; next time, if there was to be a next time, it could be a woman with lustrous lips.
Indeed.
The hosts of the gatherings were, without exception, all women, each one a beautiful young woman with different features.
But beneath those different beautiful faces actually lay the same heart, the same restless, paranoid, extreme soul.
That kind of heart and soul belonged to a man.
At least biologically, he was a man.
