The Book of Lucia, Chapter III - Sister Lucia (c) vs. Madeline Christiansen for the LAW Hentai Championshp

[BlackAkuma]

People called Sister Lucia many things, few of them flattering. A loon, a cultist, a heretic, a hypocrite, an idiot, a nutjob, an annoyance, a zealot, and many more names, some of them too foul to bear repeating. But there was one thing that even her staunchest, crudest adversaries could never call her.

Slow.

Sister Lucia was blessed in the ring with a number of talents, but chief among them were her speed and agility, not the most common traits among hentai wrestlers, who were typically more focused on their ground game. She could spring forth with an explosive burst, cut off her foe’s attack, and deliver precise strikes before her foes knew how to properly react. Her outfit, so often chastised by her foes, afforded her unparalleled freedom of movement, and she had the skills to make use of it.

That speed was on full display as she whirled through the air at high speeds, closing the distance on Madeline in a heartbeat. Though Sister Lucia could tell it didn’t hit the intended target - Madeline’s face - the impact on her arm was a decent second place, a blow that would certainly be stinging until long after this match. Not the best start, but a far cry from the worst.

Sister Lucia dropped to her back, then through her legs back up, rolled off her shoulder, and popped up to her feet in a swift, fluid motion, scarcely missing a beat. At her response, she chuckled. ”I’ve no need to pray for that.”

Sister Lucia rushed in, dashing across the ring so fast that she nearly hit the referee before she could move out of the way. She didn’t come straight at Madeline, first darting left, then right, then left again, before she slipped into the English Rose’s range.

A punch, a jab, going for her face, then stopping in a feint. A right cross came in immediately after, this one the real thing, looking to drill it straight in her chest. No sooner had that flown than she stepped back, catquick, and threw out a snap kick to cover her retreat, one that would hit Madeline’s stomach if she were too bold.

Through it all, Sister Lucia let out excited breaths, as she began to find her rhythm.

[Lightman]

The kick had been fast. Madeline would grant her that much without hesitation. It had come with alarming swiftness and surprising precision, a strike delivered with the sort of speed that could overwhelm those unprepared for it. Lucia moved like a flash of light across the canvas, quick and fluid in a way that many in this division simply were not.

But speed alone was never enough. Other things endured longer than a burst of motion. Balance. Control. The ability to dictate where a fight truly took place. Those were the elements Madeline trusted, the ones she had refined over years spent mastering bodies rather than merely striking them.

Lucia’s recovery was just as swift as her attack. From the canvas to her feet in a single seamless flow, she rose with an almost acrobatic ease. The nun quipped, her voice infused with a triumphant edge. Madeline simply watched her. It seemed an odd statement regarding prayer, especially for someone so outwardly devout. This, Madeline mused, was the very definition of hubris; a sin, if memory served, that her opponent purported to crusade against. The irony was not lost on her. Pride, it appeared, extended even to one’s supposed piety. "A foolish decision."

The blonde came forward again, a blur of movement, darting across the ring with an erratic pattern designed to disrupt timing and distance. Left, right, then left again, her footwork light and unpredictable as she closed in.

Madeline did not chase her. Instead, she pivoted. Small adjustments to her stance kept her aligned, her centre grounded as she tracked the incoming angles. Her hands rose, not rigid, but ready, prepared to intercept rather than trade blow for blow.

The jab came first. Madeline’s head moved slightly to allow it to pass, her body swaying along with the movement instead of fighting it. She saw through the feint that followed. The slight movement in Lucia’s shoulder was a prelude, a subtle signal preceding the actual strike.

The right cross drove in. This time, Madeline met it. Her forearm shielded her body, absorbing the impact before it could connect squarely with her chest. The blow still had enough power to push against her defence, yet it failed to penetrate. Simultaneously, she advanced, diminishing the gap Lucia seemed so set on maintaining.

That was the difference. Madeline’s goal was to restrict space, unlike a striker who profited from it.

Lucia, however, was already on the move again. The retreat came quickly, a sharp step back that denied Madeline the immediate clinch. Her forward momentum was abruptly halted by a quick snap kick aimed at her midsection. By instinct, Madeline adjusted herself.

Her arm moved down to deflect the attack, changing its course instead of meeting it squarely. The contact was fleeting, more of a redirection than a complete stop, as she shifted her body to soften the blow. She kept within her limits and did not rush blindly into the space Lucia vacated.

She then readjusted her balance with calm exactness, her stance firming again while her eyes continued to focus on the champion. With a calm, measured look, she appeared to be carefully evaluating and remembering each exchange.

“You’re quick.” She said softly, almost to herself, though loud enough to carry. Then her gaze lifted fully to meet Lucia’s again. “But not untouchable.” Madeline shifted forward once more, slower this time, deliberate, closing the distance inch by inch as she began to guide the pace rather than react to it.

[BlackAkuma]

Oh, Madeline was a smart one. Or, at least, she thought she was smart.

Sister Lucia kept a watchful eye on the woman as she
moved in, taking note of the way her eyes moved, her body’s reaction, what she bit on and what she ignored. Wrestlers came in two types - the thinkers and the doers. The thinkers had their little plans, their strategies, their long games, and she clocked Madeline as one right away. She was trying to get a read on Sister Lucia, to put together a puzzle.

It wouldn’t work. Sister Lucia had dismantled plenty of thinkers, even before she found her faith. Plot and scheme, but one must pray, too, for no plan made of man’s mind can stand in front of divine will.

As she moved in, she thought her erratic movements might throw Madeline, making her jump at shadows, but the woman remained remarkably stalwart. She had disciplined eyes, the sort one rarely saw in wrestlers, but were more common in those who’d come outside the sport. Judo, juijitsu, perhaps. She found herself wishing she’d dug a little deeper into Madeline’s history while she had the chance, but it was no big issue. Experience would be her teacher.

Second contact belonged to Sister Lucia, as her fist found Madeline’s wrist with a stiff strike. She would’ve greatly preferred hitting the woman’s succulent chest, but she wouldn’t let that bother her, knowing she would have more than a few chances to strike them.

The kick was merely meant to cover her retreat, though it seemed unnecessary - Madeline merely bated it aside and refused to close the distance. Instead, she kept on with a slow, steady approach, gradually closing the distance. Ever the thinker.

”So ominous.” Sister Lucia stopped her bouncing just long enough for Madeline to see the unseriousness on her face, not wanting to let the woman think her veiled threat had gotten to her. She would prove that with action in the next moment, as she bounded back towards her and swung her leg low, for a sweep - what would seem to be one, at least. She made it deliberately short to give the impression that she’d misjudged the distance, trying to bait Madeline in so that she would move into the real attack.

Sister Lucia kept her spin going, twisted about, and shot her leg out hard behind her, looking to strike Madeline in the stomach with a spinning heel kick.

[Lightman]

There was a match Madeline had seen from her younger years. It had been a local showcase, nothing grand, nothing that would linger in the minds of many. Yet it had stayed with her. Betty Robertson was relentless in motion, all action and aggression, throwing herself into every exchange without pause, without a glimmer of strategy. Her actions were purely reactive, driven by instinct and raw power alone. At first, it had seemed impressive, overwhelming even.

Until it wasn’t. Until the openings became obvious, the patterns clear, and her opponent dismantled her piece by piece. Actions without thought had their limits.

Possessing the quality of a thinker, not just a doer, presented an unmatched edge. The strategy facilitated foreseeing an opponent’s actions, devising elaborate counter-strategies, and executing a protracted plan with accuracy, as opposed to reacting impulsively. Unlike most who might become paralysed by indecision when faced with too many choices, Madeline excelled at navigating complex possibilities. Her brain was racing, analysing possibilities and predicting results, but her body moved with practised, seamless accuracy.

Lucia’s initial flurry, a dizzying array of feints and strikes, was a clear demonstration of her speed and agility. Each strike jab was designed not just to inflict damage, but to provoke a reaction, to disrupt Madeline’s equilibrium. The little quip about her previous verbal confrontation, uttered with an air of unseriousness, was another attempted distraction. Lucia was attempting to orchestrate chaos, to pull Madeline into a whirlwind of reactive defence, where her own explosive power could shine.

So when Lucia paused, even for a heartbeat, Madeline saw it. The shift.

The sweep came low, fast enough to demand attention, yet just shy of where it needed to be. A misjudgment, at least on the surface. For many, that would have been an invitation enough, a cue to step forward, to capitalise on the perceived error. Madeline did not take the bait. Her weight shifted back instead, measured and controlled, her eyes tracking not the leg that fell short, but the continuation of the movement.

The spin did not end where it should have. It carried on, gathering force, building into something else entirely.

She recognised it a fraction too late. The heel came around with force, cutting through the air with a sharp, unforgiving arc. It struck the English Rose; the impact landed clean against her midsection, driving into her stomach with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs in a single, involuntary gasp. Her body folded slightly around the blow as her footing gave way, feet scraping against the canvas as she was forced back.

One step. Then another. The composure remained, but the effect was undeniable.

[BlackAkuma]

‘Not untouchable,’ she had said. Ha. Said the tortoise to the hare.

Even Sister Lucia was not so confident as to think that she could go an entire match without landing a hit on Madeline, but as she danced about the ring, she began to feel as if it wasn’t such a distant prospect. A wild thrill was running through her, this unmistakable energy that had been humming through her body since the bell rang. It was different from the feeling she typically had when a match started, sharper and clearer, and she couldn't help but wonder if her glittering prize - sat on a pedestal outside of the ring, now - was the culprit.

Moses had his staff, which he used to perform wonders. Perhaps the Bible Belt had been similarly divined? It was not so far-fetched, a thought worth considering. Even now, as she danced about the ring, she made a mental note to confer with her sisters and share their thoughts. After she emerged victorious today, there would be a great many things to ponder.

For now, she refocused her attention on the task at hand, continuing to apply pressure to Madeline with mixed results. The whore had good instincts and this could not be denied, but there was only so long she could hope to stay ahead of the onslaught.

Sister Lucia could tell that the woman was not a striker herself. Perhaps she could lash out reasonably well, if she so desired - the pads on her feet would be wasted if she all she did was keep her feet planted. But she didn’t have the confidence to try her hand at interrupting Sister Lucia’s barrage. A good sign, and it gave her a strategy she could come back to. She was waiting for an opportunity, but the problem with that line of thinking was that an opportunity might never come.

Her dance continued. The low sweep came in, the feint, and Sister Lucia shot her heel straight out. The blow landed, though not as solidly as she’d anticipated - she had wanted her opponent moving towards and it seemed like she caught her on the retreat, instead. But she did catch her.

Sister Lucia turned about with her leg still in the air, chambered. Her smile widened as she gauged the distance - yes, she was just far enough away, the spacing was perfect. She couldn't have asked for a better opening.

Without a second thought, Sister Lucia threw herself forward, spun about to build moment, and fired off a roundhouse kick to Madeline’s face, trying to put Madeline down early with her finishing maneuver:

.

[Lightman]

Madeline would admit it, if only to herself. She had been caught. Not cleanly, not in the way Lucia might have preferred, but the strike had landed with enough force to matter. There was no value in denying that. Disdain for the woman did not blind her to the reality of what was happening inside the ring. Skill recognised skill, even when it came wrapped in something she found distasteful.

Her hand pressed briefly against her abdomen. Fingers splayed over the point of impact as she drew in a slow, measured breath, forcing her lungs to settle. The sting remained, sharp and insistent, yet it did not fracture her composure. It simply existed, another variable to account for. When her gaze rose again, it was steady. No frustration, just acknowledgement.

And Lucia was already moving. There was no pause, no moment granted for recovery. The champion surged forward again, her offence relentless, chaining motion into motion with an intent to overwhelm. It was a sound approach in theory. Pressure could break even the most disciplined opponent if applied without reprieve: each strike, each feint, each forced reaction building towards something greater. A crescendo meant to corner her, to compress her options until only failure remained. A fair strategy. But not without its flaws.

Lucia spun. And Madeline’s green eyes sharpened in that instant. The chamber of the leg, the shift in balance, the commitment to rotation - it all came together in a single, decisive moment as the nun spun in a blur of purple and black…

…with a high-risk tornado kick. One done this early into the match, even. An audacious choice, thrown with confidence that bordered on certainty. But it was too early. And Lucia was too exposed.

Madeline moved, except she didn’t move away. But forward. Her footwork shifted from measured retreat to sudden advance, closing the space Lucia had so carefully cultivated. Timing was everything. She stepped in just as the rotation carried through, entering the arc before its full extension could be realised.

Her arms rose with purpose. One guided beneath the lifted leg, catching it at the inner thigh, while the other sought Lucia’s upper body, wrapping across her back to seize control. The momentum that had been meant to deliver impact instead fed directly into Madeline’s grasp. The brunette anchored. Hips turning, posture aligning, her base, lowering just enough to claim dominance over the exchange. The principles were ingrained, drawn from years of grappling where leverage outweighed spectacle. Lucia was still spinning. And Madeline made it hers.

With a sharp pivot, the Briton lifted, redirecting that captured momentum into a sweeping arc of her own. Lucia’s balance was already compromised; her centre elevated and unstable. Madeline exploited it without hesitation, drawing her upward and across.

Then down.

The seamless motion flowed into a spinning, front-facing throw, clean and decisive. Lucia’s body would be carried through the air, her rotation stolen and repurposed, before gravity would claim her in a controlled but forceful descent. A finishing manoeuvre was countered by a signature one, aimed to culminate in Lucia’s own aggression turning against her with a resounding thud:

[BlackAkuma]

45 seconds. It had taken Lucia 45 seconds for it all to start going downhill.

Frankly, Prudence has wagered that it will happen much sooner. Their leader had a lot of talents - good energy, relentless and driven, a surprisingly good singer, and she had kicks for days. But she’d been getting a big head since she got the belt - bigger than default, anyway. Prudence knew it was only a matter of time before she got a reality check, and sure enough, there it was.

Since she had the night off from shadowing Lucia around, she decided to hang out in the convent and watch the match with Chastity, who was somehow still too superfucked to move around properly. She didn’t much like being in the Austrian’s room - it was so pink and perfumed, with all these cutesy heart pillows on the bed and the matching drawer. Far too many stuffed animals for her taste. But she could put up with it for a little while, at least long enough to watch their leader hold it down in her first defense.

She sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in her usual attire, save for the boots - Chastity had insisted she take them off before she came in, not wanting to get her floor dirty. A bowl of popcorn in hand, she lazily laid on the bed as Chastity stroked her thigh, touching her with the casual ease she’d grown accustomed to. Typically, she hated when people touched her period, much less with her express permission, but the Austrian had this calming way of doing it. They’d come to an understanding about such things, and other understandings, besides. She suspected that, after this, Chastity might need some relief with another one of their private ‘devotions’.

But later, later. For the moment, Prudence’s business was watching this match with a bowl of popcorn in hand, one she occasionally passed towards Chastity to let her scoop a handful. They’d been watching since the entrance - the entrance that she swore Lucia had been practicing for several weeks - and she was getting engaged as the match kicked off, with their leader coming in hot.

Too hot. She was doing good, so good that she felt like firing off her killshot. Prudence knew better than most how effective that tornado kick was when Lucia pulled it off. She’d taken it twice in sparring, and the second time actually knocked her out. But it worked best at the end of the match, when her opponent was too tired to see the wind up and react. So early on, against someone like Madeline, was bound to, well…

That. ”Madeline catches her out of the tornado kicks, spin her around, here’s come the boom! FLORAL FLUSH!”

She raised an eyebrow at Mr. Satan’s enthusiastic commentary. ‘Floral Flush’. Prudence had no idea what the proper name for Madeline's move was. A whirling, spinning, something. Whatever it was, it involved picking in mid-spin, hurling her about in a full circled, and driving her into the canvas like a goddamn railroad spike. The impact made more sound than you’d have thought possible with such a small body, and the audience collectively winced.

In the aftermath, Lucia was left underneath Madeline, groaning through her clenched teeth. While she wasn’t moving much, you could see the seething hate on her face, even from the longshot. The Brit got her good with that one.