Shirayami Kaguya emerged like a vision torn between divinity and decadence, her towering, voluptuous figure exaggerated to near-unreal perfection—broad, full hips swaying with every deliberate step, an impossibly narrow waist cinched by ornate belts and charms, and a chest so prominently displayed it seemed less like armor and more like a weapon of psychological warfare; the black-and-white ceremonial garb clung scandalously to her curves, the gaping folds of fabric framing ribbons of bare skin, while the long hakama-like drape split high to reveal endless legs wrapped in glossy, skin-tight stockings that gleamed beneath the flicker of her sparking gauntlets; her hood, crowned with jagged golden horns, lent her the appearance of a corrupted goddess descending to claim her domain, and every braid of her silver hair swung like chains of command as her cold, predatory gaze pinned Zero in place; a cigar smoldered languidly between her fingers as if the battlefield were her personal stage, and with a mocking smirk curving across her lips she let her voice pour out, low and imperious, every syllable a velvet threat: “Do you understand, boy? This body, this power, this throne I carry—I was made to be obeyed.”