The Grand Hall of the Third Sanctum was now filled with nothing but the stale aftertaste of "Glory."

  Vivian sat at the head of the viewing gallery. Beside her, Miranda and Isabella—who had once sneered at her Guardian—now sat in composed silence, their glances toward him flickering with a mixture of terror and greed.

  Mother Mora stood behind her, radiating shared triumph.

  But Crow, consumed by jealousy, had locked himself in the cultivation chamber, refusing to witness the ceremony.

  As for the other guests, and the myriads of living beings watching through the Curtains of Truth—those blinded fawns who had once brandished torches, screaming to burn the heretic—they were now prostrating themselves across Thaea, converging into a single, white ocean of submission.

  They trembled. They cheered. They offered their belated knees to the solitary figure on the high platform.

  That was my Guardian.

  No. He was now the officially canonized "Silver Keeper."

  He stood before the Divine Throne, draped in intricate Holy Robes hand-picked by the Cardinal Priests.

  But Vivian saw the truth: those were not clothes. They were a golden cage woven to detain a god.

  The heavy gems carried the weight of mortal sin; the airtight gold threads were secular shackles.

  He did not even deign to lift the silver scepter of authority.

  Of course. Why would a lion stoop to pick up a shepherd's dry stick?

  He merely lowered his eyes, the corner of his mouth hooked in abyssal boredom.

  Mortals mistook it for divine reserve, but she knew: He was looking down at this troupe of ridiculous macaques, enduring their absurd farce.

  He might even... be asleep.

  "...That is the Lord's response... the Holy Vessel..." The High Priest, sporting a fresh pair of eyes, droned on with pages of fawning eulogies.

  A month ago, he was an arrogant judge.

  Ridiculous. A single flash of blue light, and his voice had curdled into a sycophantic hymn.

  They turned so fast, possessing neither the steadfastness nor the loyalty of true faith.

  But none of that mattered.

  What mattered was that Lord Leo finally sat on that throne. Even if it was woven of thorns, as long as she was there, she would pave it with her own blood to make him a cushion.

  ...

  The massive bronze doors finally sealed with a boom, cutting off the suffocating tide of cheers.

  In Lord Leo's bedchamber, candlelight flickered.

  The moment he stepped into this sanctuary, the newly minted "Silver Keeper" jumped as if electrocuted, tearing impatiently at the shackles on his body.

  "Garbage industrial design!"

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Lord Leo growled, ripping open the frog buttons at his collar. To him, the voice sounded like irritation; to Vivian, it was the mournful cry of divinity trapped in a mortal shell.

  "Inefficient material stacking! The thermal conductivity of gold is 317 W/(m·K), yet they used a velvet lining to choke the convection!"

  With a look of utter disgust, Lord Leo threw the priceless Holy Robe into the shadows as if it were a filthy, contaminated rag.

  Wearing only a thin linen shirt, he threw himself heavily into the wooden wheelchair.

  Sweat slicked his temples, sliding down the sharp line of his jaw.

  That was the Bitter Dew overflowing from Lord Leo’s disdain for the mundane.

  Vivian hurriedly brought him a cup of chilled nectar.

  Then, she walked behind him, using her fingers to soothe his shoulders and back, marked red by the golden yoke.

  "You have suffered, Lord Leo."

  To show his grace, the Guardian insisted she call him by his name, dropping the title "Silver Keeper." She felt incredibly honored by this intimacy.

  Look. He does not cast me aside simply because his station has risen.

  Lord Leo’s hand paused on the crystal cup. He turned his head, those eyes as black as the void filled with... a coldness that fascinated her.

  "Vivian, I'll say it one last time. Drop the honorific 'Lord.' And I'm not suffering; I'm just hot. The breathability of these clothes is zero, leading to elevated surface body temperature and excessive sebaceous secretion. This is called a thermoregulatory response, not suffering."

  Oh, my stubborn fawn.

  Even now, he tries to use those cold, rigid, so-called "scientific" words to mask his divinity, his mercy, his salvation.

  Using clunky terminology like "Thermodynamics" to whitewash the pain he endures to protect me.

  He refuses to let me see his sacrifice, just as the sun hides its burning from the flower.

  "Yes, Thermodynamics. Hmm, Lord Leo, I understand." Vivian nodded with a smile, her fingertips gliding over the side of his neck, feeling the pulsing power beneath.

  "But, to prevent those mortals from being incinerated by the Truth, you had to don this heavy disguise. Of course, that is suffering."

  Lord Leo opened his mouth. He looked into her eyes, which were brimming with holy light, and let out a defeated sigh.

  "Fine... have it your way."

  He slumped back into the chair, a trace of weary indulgence in his voice.

  "You are the Reactor; I am the Control Rod. If you want to burn everyone, I'll just pull the plug. Simple as that."

  A sweet current pierced Vivian's soul again.

  Look. This is the profound mystery of the Fated Covenant.

  Before the world, he is a majestic idol; before me, he sheds the halo to become a mortal who complains, thirsts, and demands comfort.

  However, unnoticed in this sacred silence, an ominous shadow peeled itself slowly from the corner like a slick of tar.

  It was the harbinger of ruin, Crow.

  He didn't hide, nor did he care for etiquette. He stood rigid before Lord Leo.

  That dead-gray face held no expression, only a flickering red optic sensor, written full of mortal malice toward fate.

  "It seems our Lord Silver Keeper is enjoying this brand new identity very much." Crow’s voice was a cold wind scraping over a tombstone.

  Lord Leo raised an eyebrow, resuming the posture of a man who owned the world.

  "What? Jealous? You can take that pile of gilded trash and wear it yourself. I’ll even sign a glossy for you."

  Crow stared dead at Leo with his single eye, as if reading a final verdict.

  "You broke our agreement. Do you know what that means? Doctor."

  Crow was so insolent, yet Lord Leo seemed unbothered.

  "Means a monthly allowance of twenty thousand Earth Dollars and legal access to the Ring Library?" Leo played casually with a torn-off gold button, flipping it through his fingers.

  "Means—Burial."

  Crow spat out the treasonous word, completely ignoring her existence. He was simply too presumptuous.

  "Since you insist on choosing a dead end, I have nothing to say."

  Vivian suddenly gripped the Guardian's hand tight.

  This damned crow dares to threaten a God with death? I will burn you where you stand!

  But Lord Leo's hand was steadier than hers.

  He walked to the window.

  Outside hung the massive blue planet, Gaia. Its cold radiance fell on his slightly thin back.

  "...I know."

  Lord Leo laughed softly.

  That laugh was full of sacred determination.

  He looked at Crow.

  "Even with only a 0.01% chance of winning, I can flip the table. I won't lose."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping over her, his voice deepening.

  "She will be fine. Don't worry."

  Crow said no more. He snorted coldly, gave them a deep look—as if watching two moths spiraling into a flame—and left.

  Crow was gone.

  "Let's get ready to depart."

  Lord Leo clasped her hand, his knuckles white with force, gripping so hard she felt a sharp pain.

  Ah. This is the power of the bond.

  Vivian felt a trembling happiness in the pain, and the promise he made—a pact unto death.

  Yes. The Lunar Rite is about to begin, and our new Crusade is about to start...