After the coronation of the Silver Keeper, Vivian was deeply satisfied. Yet, a shadow of unease began to creep in. Lord Leo’s state was... unstable.

  Not physically.

  His body, tempered by Crow’s brutal regime, was hardening into a marble statue. When he donned the Holy Armor, his silver arms held the authority to crush steel.

  What terrified her was the counterattack of his Humanity.

  He constantly used terrifying, sterile words like "Tolerance," "Compensation," and "Rejection." He tried to explain the ugly, profane mechanics that belonged to the Gaia Golden Ring, his eyes filled with a heartbreakingly mundane light.

  Especially when he insisted on lecturing her about the history of "Technology." Vivian felt he was plummeting from the clouds, degrading into a commoner.

  Why tell me this? You have become a God; how can you speak in the tongue of men? You should be tyrannical, unknowable, issuing edicts from on high.

  She had to awaken him. But the rot was spreading.

  The omen of his accelerated fall appeared on a sharp razor blade.

  The Guardian stood before the mirror, dragging the cold metal across his chin, scraping away the stubble—that cyan shadow of divine majesty.

  "No!" Vivian felt a shiver of horror. She rushed forward, seizing his wrist. "Don't discard them!"

  The Guardian turned, eyes wide with shock and confusion—the muddy gaze of a mortal. He began to speak, his tone like stale cheese: "Vivian, I'm testing the mask's airtightness. You realize a beard compromises the gasket seal, right?"

  Airtightness? Gasket seals? More weak rhetoric.

  Vivian shook her head internally.

  These are the Devil's lies, whispered to soften your spine. I cannot let him fall.

  "No, Lord Leo. A true Guardian bears a beard of majesty, like the Prophet Moses. That is the Jungle of Wisdom, the authority that makes heretics tremble. A smooth chin makes you look like an overgrown pageboy, a vulgar thing ready to compromise with the world."

  Staring into Lord Leo’s wide eyes, she reached up and wiped the shaving foam from his chin.

  "Please. Keep it. That is your glory."

  "But it's a bacterial petri dish!" Lord Leo recoiled. "Every hair is a pollution vector! It's covered in bio-film! Once the bacteria multiply..."

  He chattered on, emitting the metaphorical stench of rot. He was self-mutilating, dispelling the light of divinity, trying to stuff his infinite self into a finite, mortal shell.

  What dullness.

  To correct this, she decided to challenge him.

  She retrieved her cherished "Myrrh and Frankincense Blend"—the sacred dew she used to maintain her own purity.

  While Lord Leo was distracted, she anointed the silver arm behind his back.

  God should be fragrant. Like a lily at dawn. Not reeking of machine oil and disinfectant.

  "What are you doing?!"

  A roar exploded like a doomsday drum.

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  This time, the Guardian offered no explanation. He leaped up like a sinner scorched by Holy Fire.

  "Your essential oils will gum up the servo heat vents! You’ll block the auxiliary clamps from aligning with the circuit board!" He bellowed, grabbing a silk scarf and wiping frantically, looking fierce enough to wipe Vivian out of existence.

  Ah... yes. This is it.

  Vivian’s heart hammered with joy. Blood rushed to her cheeks, an indescribable pleasure flooding her veins.

  The submissive, reasoning man had vanished. Replaced by this furious, unquestionable King.

  "I am sorry..." Vivian lowered her head, fighting to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Your anger... is truly beautiful."

  The Guardian froze. He muttered obscure, dark curses and glared at her with searing intensity.

  That glare made Vivian feel safe for the first time in days.

  Haha. See? His divinity has returned.

  The method works. But it requires more pressure.

  So, when Lord Leo tried to explain why he needed to stuff those gray, tombstone-like foam blocks into the backpack, she firmly refused.

  She heard the "Heart of the Flame" weeping.

  It was his divine creation, and it possessed a soul. Forcing a living heart into a cold, ugly tombstone would hurt it. Suffocate it.

  So, Vivian threw the tombstones away.

  She brought out the softest "Cloud Shroud." She brought out intimate linens still warm from her body—the swaddling clothes of love. Like wrapping a newborn Holy Infant, she swathed the "Heart of the Flame" layer by layer.

  Fear not, she whispered to the machine. Here there is no hard blasphemy. Only soft hymns.

  To protect it further, she tucked her "Holy Dew" and two tubes of "Flawless Balm" into the voids.

  Oh, and the small, golden "Sentinel." The one that let out a soft squeak in the dark.

  It was the Prophet’s promise: All shall be saved.

  Lord Leo discovered it.

  His disgusting "Humanity" resurfaced.

  He insisted on humiliating her faith through a trial he called "Simulated Freefall," desperate to prove that softness was a sin.

  Listen. A "Trial." Does God need to test reality?

  No. God commands reality!

  "Watch," Lord Leo said, his voice dripping with heartache. "Watch how your shampoo kills us."

  He ordered Crow to hoist the pack high, then drop it.

  The pack slammed into the floor. Tumbling. Impacting.

  Vivian’s heart lodged in her throat.

  She heard cracking. She heard the Sentinel quack.

  She was terrified—not of death, but of being wrong. Of Lord Leo reverting to a mere mortal.

  Then, Lord Leo unzipped the bag.

  The rich, heavy scent of roses instantly filled the Alchemical Laboratory.

  A Miracle.

  It was the most beautiful miracle Vivian had ever witnessed.

  The soft towels had drunk the fragrance, becoming heavy and tough, like storm clouds full of rain. The bottle of pink Holy Oil... it had accepted martyrdom. It had drained its own pink lifeblood to protect the Heart. But that blood did not become filth; it transformed into an indestructible, viscous shield.

  And the Golden Sentinel, coated in shampoo, tilted its head in the corner, smiling at the dumbfounded Lord Leo with mocking mercy.

  As for the Heart of the Flame? The proverbs glowed: UNHARMED. It shone like new, baptized in oil.

  This time, Leo offered no explanation.

  He fell into silence.

  This was the great moment Vivian had prayed for: The Collapse of Man. The Return of God.

  After a long time, he reached out and touched the slippery fluid.

  She saw his arm trembling.

  He feels it.

  The Mundane fails. Sacred Love prevails.

  Yes. The tombstones he believed in brought only death; the benevolent Holy Oils resolved destruction with "Sanctity."

  "Ah! My Holy Dew!" Vivian cried out deliberately—not for the loss, but to hasten the return of his spirit.

  The Guardian turned. His eyes had changed.

  The "Personality" that tried to assimilate her was gone. Replaced by a resolute, terrifying Godhood.

  He issued an unquestionable Oracle: "Fine. Stop crying. Go get your facial cleanser, hand cream, toner... all the sticky stuff. Pack whatever you want!"

  He continued, his face wearing a manic, almost psychotic calm.

  "I'm going to turn this damn backpack into a 'Non-Newtonian Fluid Defense System' fueled by cosmetics. Happy?"

  Vivian’s soul shivered.

  He understands. He no longer explains. He Decides!

  "And that duck." He pointed at the Sentinel. "Get a few more!"

  Look. Lord Leo has fully accepted my counsel. He is going to forge an unprecedented artifact for me—Fortress Chanel.

  This was not just love. It was a Return. A promise of his divinity.

  Even in the doomsday crusade against False Gods, he demanded she live fragrantly, exquisitely, and cleanly.

  "Praise you!" Vivian broke into a smile through her tears, lifting her skirt in a deep curtsy. "I knew you would listen to me!"

  Watching his twisted, angry, and finally dead-silent face, Vivian felt a profound satisfaction.

  Yes. Unleash the thunder, my Guardian.

  Throw away your mortal hesitation and your logic along with those gray tombstones.

  When you rudely order me, when you submit to my truth in this rose-scented laboratory... only then are you the omnipotent God who belongs to me.