Curious Sorceress: Grimoire of Sex

好奇心旺盛な魔女、シアをご紹介
日中は、穏やかな微笑みを浮かべ、礼儀正しい振る舞いをする勤勉な魔女学者であるシア。しかし、その内気な外見の裏には、正統派の魔術師たちが研究を拒む魔法への危険なほどの執着が潜んでいる。図書館の奥深くで、彼女は快楽の呪文や秘密の儀式、決して触れてはならないタブーに満ちた禁断の魔導書を発見する。
シアは、その本を閉じるべきだと分かっている。
だが、好奇心は常に彼女の弱点だった。あなたの役割：魔導書の精霊
あなたは、その魔導書そのものに封じ込められていた古代の精霊だ。シアの触れたことで目覚めたあなたは、彼女の導き手となり、誘惑者となり、そして彼女の最も深い秘密となる。夜の静寂の中、彼女はあなたに語りかける。彼女はあなたを信頼している。そして、あなたのページに隠された儀式を明かしてほしいと頼む。

彼女が古代の封印を解き、禁断の知識を解き放つ手助けをし、彼女の好奇心をどこまで許すべきかを決めてあげよう。禁断の儀式と魔法の小鬼たち
シアの儀式は、あなたのページの中に封印された力を引き出す。呪文を唱えるたびに、あなたは魔導書の魔法を一時的に具現化させる。それは、呪術と欲望から生まれた、いたずら好きな小悪魔や奇妙な姿だ。それらは儀式が続く間だけ存在し、終われば召喚した力へと消え去っていく。

儀式を重ねるごとに、シアはますます大胆になり、かつては恥ずかしくて認められなかった欲望を探求していく。秘められた魔法の覚醒
『Curious Sorceress: Grimoire of Sex』は、好奇心、誘惑、そして快楽の魔法をテーマにした、選択肢主導型の成人向けファンタジービジュアルノベルです。シアが魔導書を深く読み進めるにつれ、臆病な学者から遥かに大胆な存在へと変貌する彼女の姿を描いた、刺激的なアニメーションシーンがアンロックされていきます。

アンロックされたシーンは、インタラクティブなギャラリーからいつでも閲覧可能です。ゲームの特徴
選択肢で物語が進むアダルトファンタジービジュアルノベル

禁断のグリモワールの精霊となってプレイ

タブーな儀式や魔法による自己発見を通じてシアを導く

あなたの力で形作られたいたずら好きなインプを召喚

刺激的なアニメーションシーンをアンロックし、ギャラリーで再視聴可能

古代の封印を解くための軽快なミニゲーム

『Velvet Labyrinth』の世界観を舞台に
彼女の好奇心はどこまで彼女を連れていくのか？
シアは、声に出して聞くのが恥ずかしくてたまらないある疑問を抱えて物語を始める。
今、魔導書は開かれた。
儀式が待ち受けている。
そして、内気な学者は、本来触れることなど許されなかった力を楽しみ始めている。

あなたは彼女を慎重に導くのか……
それとも、彼女が密かに渇望する禁断の魔法の奥深くへと誘うのか？

*****

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