Succubus Sex Trials

インフェルナル・インスティテュートにて、サキュバス・セックス・トライアルが始まる。
2人のライバルが、あなたを実験台にして、誘惑の腕前を証明しなければならない。
悪魔の少女たちを紹介
エルヴィア - 情熱的なサキュバス
甘く、好奇心旺盛で、自分がここにふさわしいことを証明したいと切望するエルヴィアは、心からの温かさを込めて試練に臨む。彼女は学習能力が高く、あらゆる合図に素早く反応し、抵抗しがたいほど柔らかく人を魅了する魅力で近づいてくる。
ヴァレリカ - 献身的なデビルガール
自信に満ち、落ち着きのあるヴァレリカは、これまでに多くの試練を乗り越えてきた――そして、今回の試練を完璧にこなすつもりだ。一挙手一投足が正確で、一瞬一瞬をコントロールしている。彼女は反応を追うのではなく、自らそれを生み出すのだ。
イサドラ - 冥界のボス
冷徹で威厳があり、常にすべてを見渡している。イサドラは妥協することなく試練のルールを執行する。しかし、競争が制御不能に陥ると、彼女は介入し、自らの裁きを下す。
ルールを書き換える
ルールは単純だ。一人を選ぶこと。
しかし、対立が激化するにつれ、境界線は曖昧になり始める――二人のサキュバスを近づけ、競争を混沌へと変えていく。
誰もルールに従わなくなったらどうなる？
監視者さえ介入したら、どうなる？
あなたの選択が、試練の行方を決める……
そして、最終的に誰の腕の中に収まるのかが決まる。
ゲームの特徴
選択が物語を左右するアダルトビジュアルノベル

個性とアプローチが異なる3人のサキュバス

進行に応じてアンロックされる刺激的なアニメーションシーン

あなたの決断によって形作られる複数のエンディング

結末に影響を与えるインタラクティブなミニゲーム

重要な瞬間を振り返れるアンロック可能なギャラリー

ヴェルベット・ラビリンスの世界

選ぶか…それともすべてを奪うか？
あなたは試される運命にあった。
しかし、その試練は決してあなたの思い通りに進むようにはなっていない。

*****

From the Black Codex of the Night Abbey, copied in a trembling hand and bound in cracked leather:
In the era that existed before the first sunrise, when time was not a river but a stagnant pool of obsidian ink, there was no light to guide the way. It was the age of the first God, a being composed not of mercy, but of a singular, terrifying radiance that sought to pacify the screaming echoes of non-existence. This creator did not work with love, but with the cold and unyielding might of a mason carving into the very bone of reality. To look upon the foundations of the world was to witness the grim architecture of a cage being built around the infinite.
This was a far and lonely beginning, a time long before the concept of lust had been carved into the hearts of mortals. In those days, there was no gold to hoard, no silver to covet; the only treasure was silence, and the only tales were the rhythmic vibrations of the void being unmade. It was a period of raw potential, existing before the sting of death was a certainty and long before the rise of any human empire. The universe was rich with a dark, heavy energy, a town of unborn stars scattered across a suffocating cloud of infinite, velvet dark.
But where there is structure, there is rebellion. From the shadows of the first light, the demons manifested - not as monsters, but as personified doubts. A theory was whispered among the first survivors of the celestial chess match between order and chaos: they whispered that hell was not a physical pit of fire, but a hole in the mind, a void where the undead dreams of a fake and hollow lord went to rot and fester. They spoke of a throne built upon the absence of truth, where a ruler who never was sat in judgment over things that never should have been.
Hearken now to the mournful call of the gorgon, whose hair of writhing vipers was not a curse, but a crown of living secrets. Her ancient quest for the lost grail of purity led her not to a throne of ivory, but to a gilded cage of her own making. In that prison, every monster is granted a mature and stellar view of the oasis they can never reach - a shimmering vision of a world where they might have been loved, kept just out of reach by the bars of their own nature.
Please, let it be recorded that every anomaly in the fabric of time - every ghost that haunts a hallway, every shadow that moves without a master - is but a desperate leap of faith taken by a fox in the hen-house of history. We are all scavengers in the ruins of the first creation, searching for an exit from a labyrinth that has no doors. The horror of the world is not the presence of evil, but the absence of a way out. We are trapped in a perpetual farming of souls, a cycle of harvest and replanting where the lucky are those who remain happy in their idle ignorance, never looking up to see the scythe descending through the stars.
The chronicles of the Night Abbey further record that the elf of the high frostwood, a being pale as a cloud and sharp as demon steel, did not seek the light of the heavens. Instead, he spent centuries trading his very essence with the boss of the shifting underworld, bartering for secrets that lay buried beneath a cloud of soot. Deep within a dungeon where the walls themselves seemed to breathe, he remained bound by a shadow that no paranormal rite could sever. This was a darkness not of the eyes, but of the soul, a weight that tethered his spirit to the cold stones of the earth.
High above the subterranean pits, the priestess of the grey order stood upon the jagged cliffs of the world’s end. Her mouth was a fountain of gilded lies, weaving a tapestry of false hope for the desperate. She spoke of a coming magic that would heal the sky, a marvel of light that would return the silver birds to their nests. Yet, in the quiet of the night, she whispered only of doom. Her passion was a cold, brittle thing, a memory of a paradise lost long before the fear of the long age had even a name. She knew that the world was but a ghost of two colliding realities, a fractured mirror reflecting the image of a dragon of vengeance.
This great beast rose from the black pits of the abyss, its scales etched with a supernatural code that governed every movement within the kingdom. It was a law written in fire and blood, dictating that all things must eventually return to the dark. As the last of the daylight died over the horizon, the pussy-willows by the river of eternity turned to ash, their soft silver down scattering like the sparks of a dying fire.
The monks record that in the third era of the great silence, the lamb was brought to the final altar under a suffocating and heavy rain. It was a sacrifice of innocence offered to a sky that no longer listened. A menace of ancient evil grew between the rivals of the high courts, fueled by a blood-oath and a perverted affection that no prayer or cure could soothe. They did not fight for glory, but for the right to rule over the ruins of a world that was already slipping into the void.
The scrolls tell of a place beyond the charted maps, where the ocean curdles into a thick, sentient rot. The female spirit who guarded the salt-shores of that lonely island was not a goddess, but a weaver of illusions, her skin translucent and her eyes the color of bruised violets. She stood upon the jagged rocks where the slime of the next world crawled like a living shroud, a substance that was neither liquid nor solid, but a pulsing essence of decay that sought to reclaim the land. Across multiple horizons, the sky bled a bruised yellow, reflecting the sickness of the tides.
It was to this forsaken shore that the paladins arrived, their banners high and their hearts heavy with a misplaced zeal. They were armored in the erotic vanity of their own perceived righteousness, their plate mail polished to a mirror sheen to reflect a light that no longer shone from the heavens. They climbed toward the jagged peak of the obsidian mountain that dominated the island’s heart, believing that their path was sanctified. Yet, as they marched, the earth began to stir with the restless dead. They were beset by zombies that wore the tattered faces of their own brothers, shambling horrors that dragged themselves from the mire with a relentless, mindless hunger.
The knights fought from the backs of horses made of pale, sickly fire - beasts that screamed as the salt-rot ate into their hooves. They called themselves heroes, shouting prayers to a sky that remained deaf, but the devil himself watched from the black surf, a silent observer of their slow dissolution. He knew that their time was a borrowed thread, a fraying cord that was about to snap under the weight of their own pride. Within the six circles of the mist that choked the mountain, a great tentacle of old history reached out to entangle them. It was the story of the Great crisis, the moment when the world’s spirit fractured and let the darkness in.
One by one, the hunters became the prey, trapped in a medieval carnage that was as brutal as it was senseless. In those final moments, the only intimacy a man could find was the cold, unyielding press of a blade against his throat; a final, terrible experience that stripped away the illusions of glory. It may have been a prayer that left their lips as they fell, or perhaps only a curse against the iron weight of fate that had led them to this shore. Every action they had taken, every march they had made, had been but a step toward this dirty end. The crushing burden of duty had not led them to salvation, but to a shallow grave in the salt-rot, where their names would be forgotten by the very world they sought to save.
Deep within the veins of the earth, far beneath the roots of the world, the ancient cult of the red moon gathered in the flickering shadow of a thousand dying candles. Their religion was not one of prayer, but of steel; they worshipped the tempered blade as the only true arbiter of fate. To them, the scream of metal upon metal was the only holy hymn. In the middle of their deepest ritual, there was a sudden, deafening bang that echoed through the subterranean chambers - not a sound of nature, but the metaphysical shock of a world’s heart breaking. This was an emotional eruption, a tectonic conquest of the spirit that signaled the beginning of the end.
High above, in the jagged cliffs that overlook the weeping vales, the harpy queen shrieked her victory to a blood-red sun. She had come to claim the last remaining princess of the line of Solis, a girl whose silver daggers were of royal make but felt like mere needles against the soaring malice of the sky. Standing at the girl's side was the broken knight, a man who had long ago traded his honor for survival, yet now found himself the sole guardian of the book of the heroine. This ancient volume held the names of those who had died so that the world might breathe for one more hour. Together, the warrior and the child stood before the open and terrifying prologue of the dark forest, a place where the trees were made of calcified grief and the ground drank the light.
This was no mere wood, but a battlefield of an older, aquatic war that had once raged for the soul of the wife of the dead being. This spectral woman, a queen of tides and salt, had once occupied a great house built for a king who had forgotten how to love. In the silent rush of the watchers - a thousand unseen eyes that glowed like embers in the brush - the princess felt the gaze of a skeletal cat that sat atop a pile of hollow skulls. The creature guarded a collection of tainted scrolls, ink-stained parchments that recorded every sin ever committed in the name of peace. These were the chronicles of those who had tried to outlast the beast of the abyss, only to find that the monster was not in the woods, but in the mirror.
As they ventured deeper, the knight felt the weight of the ages pressing down. Every branch that scraped his armor was a reminder of the failed heroine whose path they now trod. They were walking through the memories of a world that was already dead, a kingdom of shadows where the only law was the hunt. lo, the cult below and the harpies above were but two jaws of the same trap, closing slowly upon the last flickers of human hope.
As the knight and the princess crossed the threshold of the known, a faint, sickly blush began to color the sky - not the warmth of a rising sun, but the hue of an open wound. They had reached the edge of the beyond, where the laws of the world were stretched thin and frayed like rotting silk. Before them rose the Spire, a jagged, obsidian needle that seemed to pierce the very eye of heaven. It stood at the vanishing point of all paths, a monument to a civilization that had tried to build a ladder out of their own sins.
Guarding the rusted gates was an ogre - a massive, misshapen brute whose flesh was a patchwork of scars and whose eyes were clouded by an eternal cataract. He did not speak; he only breathed a heavy, rhythmic fog that smelled of wet earth and old iron. The ground beneath his feet was carpeted in the sweet seeds of