TBR CH71

After the God of Light stormed off in fury, the trial grounds hummed faintly. Starting from the dome, massive slabs of marble and white rock were cleaved in half by an unseen force, then reduced to dust—like snow-white blossoms bursting forth as waves crash against a cliff.

Yet this destruction couldn’t touch the divine throne. It could only lap hungrily at the edges of the Dark God’s power, urging him to depart.

The lovers atop the throne had just shared a lingering kiss. Edwin fought the urge to blink, holding back until tears welled from the strain. He wasn’t one to shyly look away. The god’s enraptured expression froze in his gaze, greedily torn apart frame by frame, molded into memories he could savor.

His breath grew unsteady, the scent of roses swirling around him. Tal eased back slightly, ending the kiss. Their lips parted, a fleeting emptiness tinged with sweetness lingering between them. The bishop licked his lips and reached for him again.

He pulled him close for an embrace.

Edwin held the staff in one hand. Perhaps because it wasn’t fully corporeal, or because this was an illusion, it could vanish into his palm with ease and be summoned from the air just as effortlessly. His other hand pressed against the demon’s back. Lowering his eyes—still soft with indulgence and tenderness—he watched the world below disintegrate, letting out a gentle sigh.

Tal misunderstood, lifting his garnet-red eyes to comfort him.

“It’s fine—it’s just an illusion. You only need to open your eyes.”

“Hmm…” Edwin murmured in agreement, a smile tugging at his lips. Tal knew Edwin relished being cared for, though at that moment, the human’s mind held other thoughts. The bishop gripped the staff, his gaze shifting from the gem-encrusted throne to the trial grounds being shredded by invisible forces. The scene unmistakably proclaimed divine might.

On that white tower long ago, the god had displayed such power too.

But back then, Edwin had been too weak to reflect on it. Afterward, Tal had been so well-behaved—whenever the demon cast a sly glance his way, Edwin crumbled before him, unable to press the matter sternly. Only now did the god’s boundless strength reveal itself fully again, peeling back a corner of the darkness.

As a human—or a half-demon—

Edwin was stronger now than ever before, yet it was still far from enough.

When he’d wielded light as his source, he’d realized its limits. The God of Light was a stingy benefactor, permitting humans only the faint glimmers that slipped through his fingers. Any glory gained through that light was credited to the god.

The Church had conducted several grand purges—slaying titans like the Time Dragon through combined effort—yet the priests’ power never truly grew. Their god preemptively stripped them of any gains.

Now, Edwin wielded the essence of darkness. He felt it swelling in his hands, not as an extra gift from Tal, but as a release from prior shackles. Every bone he’d trodden over, every drop of blood spilled on his path, now fueled his staff anew—and this road had no end.

Every future corpse, every shattered soul, would further empower him.

Still not enough.

For his current self, Edwin deemed himself too weak. He had to redouble his efforts—harder than ever before—to soon grasp the hem of his god’s robe. Only then might the throne willingly bow to him.

But the bishop knew this was the best arrangement Tal could offer.

“I mean,” Tal said, nestled in Edwin’s arms, his demon boots restlessly scuffing the throne’s footrest. His soft black hair grazed the bishop’s skin as he listened to Edwin’s silence and his eventual words.

“I feel like I should…”

Edwin paused, then sighed with a mix of helplessness and amusement.

“I should thank you. It might sound too formal, but I’m truly glad. You know, if you’d wanted me to just be your follower, or to inefficiently hand me power bit by bit, I’d have been willing too.”

Tal’s face predictably lit up with a “caught me” expression—not evasive or embarrassed, though.

His god was truly beautiful.

Edwin couldn’t help but think it.

Tal had known all along—Edwin was too clever not to see through his intentions. Yet he’d been cautious, for this was the demon’s first clumsy attempt at loving someone. A thousand years ago, wandering the mortal realm, Tal had seen countless lovers: strangers flirting in taverns, rogues boasting of partners awaiting them at home, travelers paired in bittersweet romance. Love’s joys and sorrows had hardened their veins, but back then, he’d scoffed at it.

At the time, he’d thought love was inherently selfish—like his father and mother, neither able to empathize in the end. Each deemed the other’s pursuits trivial, presuming to make sacrifices on their behalf.

And yet, and yet.

The papacy of the Church of Light had been Edwin’s past ambition. Tarksius could’ve dismissed it entirely, whisking Edwin away without bothering with the wager. But it was the highest peak a human Edwin had fought to reach. So, Tarksius decided, he’d ensure Edwin’s wish came true.

“Pope” meant nothing to him.

“Pope” gained meaning because of Edwin.

He wouldn’t thoughtlessly heap what he deemed good onto Edwin. If he’d wanted, Tarksius could’ve effortlessly bestowed half his divine power on him—simple, no trouble at all.

But Tal knew Edwin wouldn’t like that.

Edwin wanted to stand beside his god as an equal, not be handed a gift and propped up to a high perch. He wanted to tame the demon, to claim the god—not live as a vassal, forever borrowing his strength for glory. The best fit, then, was to grant him the foundational power and wait for him to rise.

He’d amass strength through slaughter and triumph, unstoppable as he’d always been, until one day he’d grow beyond needing a god’s might. One day, this audacious human, through talent and effort, would stand beneath a throne piled with bones, half-kneeling to kiss his god’s hand.

“It’s really nothing,” Tal said, stumbling over his words under Edwin’s intense, ardent gaze for the first time. But after dragging out the first half slowly, he regained his sly, romantic demonic charm. “Edwin, I really like you.”

A blatant topic shift.

…And the bishop fell for it every time.

Edwin had meant to say more, but he blinked, his pale gray pupils brimming with unmasked affection and possessiveness. He gently twirled his wrist, the staff swaying in his fingers. The bright burgundy glow danced across the gem’s countless facets.

“Kill anything, defeat any enemy—it doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone cold, as if slaughter were trivial. “Please wait for me.”

As he spoke, the trial grounds had crumbled beyond repair. The last brick fell from the void, light as a feather, dissolving into ash before hitting the ground. The false world fractured around them, the illusion shattering bit by bit. Only the throne remained, proud and radiant, and the god before him the sole reality. A human made his vow.

“Alright,” the god replied.

The moment those words landed, Edwin’s pupils constricted slightly. He pressed a hand to his heart, feeling his soul entwined by countless invisible threads. At the other end, Tal smiled, leisurely adjusting his collar.

—A new pact was forged.

*

In the hearts of the faithful, the God of Light was merciful—a trait He often boasted of Himself.

Thus, when an oracle laced with furious thunder crashed down like a bolt, the priests were dumbfounded. Quick-witted messengers hastened their steps silently, spreading the dreadful truth of the Holy Son’s betrayal to the other believers. At first, it was hard to fathom how such misfortune had befallen them—everyone would bear the blame.

The Knight Templar Commander nearly lost his wits, stepping forward in this ill-timed moment to defend Noah. Soon, he could speak no more. Nor could he protect anyone as a knight.

This was divine mercy—his life wasn’t taken.

None of the rest dared question the god’s will again. The congregation buzzed unavoidably for a few seconds before scrambling into action. A small team assembled to intercept Noah, while others began drafting notices of his sins. Devout priests cursed the少年—once “the light of the Church”—with the vilest words. The shrewd claimed they’d long seen him as a hidden viper, noting hints of evil in his beauty.

Among these people, they also dispatched the most eloquent priest to deliver this dreadful news to the old Pope.

The Holy Son of the Church had betrayed the god—a shadow that this generation of the Church could never erase. If the God of Light grew furious, none of them could escape responsibility; they could only tuck their tails and behave.

The priest hurried to the Pope’s door, hesitating to enter. He didn’t know how to break the news without upsetting the bedridden old man, for this terrible calamity had struck heavily in the twilight of his years.

The messenger felt like an unwelcome raven, his face pale. Just as he overcame his reluctance and raised his hand to knock, the heavy, ornate door swung open. The attendant caring for the old Pope emerged, his face even more ashen than the priest’s. They collided face-to-face, and a more terrifying premonition gripped the priest’s heart. The attendant’s waxen face bore a grim solemnity.

It was the face of another raven.

They stared at each other for two seconds, neither willing to voice the bad news first. Finally, the attendant spoke.

Tears glistened in his eyes as he stepped aside, letting the priest see inside the room, then cried out loudly:

“His Holiness the Pope is dead!”

*

People would later agree that this day could undoubtedly be called the Church’s darkest hour.

First came the Holy Son’s betrayal, followed by the God of Light’s wrathful oracle. Holy light pierced every believer’s skin. Some elderly priests prostrated themselves, smashing their foreheads against the ground, yet they couldn’t escape the terrible shame inflicted by the god. Despair weighed on every heart. Then, as if by cruel coincidence, the Pope chose this day to die. He found peace, but how to hold the rites, how to bury him, how to beseech the God of Light to bless his soul—these became daunting challenges.

Amid this cascade of horrors, most were like lost sheep, yearning only to grovel at the god’s feet and beg forgiveness.

But later, they discovered praying to the god was less effective than praying to their bishop.

Edwin stepped in with thunderous decisiveness. A natural leader, he brought order to chaos with a mere touch. Everyone was assigned fitting roles, and the aimless found purpose in their tasks. For a moment, the Church had faltered, but under Edwin’s command, it hummed like a finely tuned machine. Some priests who’d once whispered about the bishop’s reputation now submitted fully, obeying his every directive.

Even the God of Light spared him reproach.

Though the Holy Son’s betrayal occurred under his watch, Edwin faced no divine punishment. Insiders whispered that the holy candles he lit burned brighter than ever, and the light magic he wielded grew more profound.

In such an atmosphere, the papacy naturally belonged to Edwin. The rites had to be held swiftly—the Church couldn’t long endure without a leader. Besides, in the old Pope’s final, ailing months, Edwin had quietly prepared everything needed for the papal transition, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

Now, this could be said openly. No one would call him arrogant; they’d only marvel at his foresight.

Edwin.

The youngest Pope in the Church of Light’s history, he washed his hands with holy water and ascended the golden sanctuary. Beneath his feet, a carpet inlaid with silver thread stretched to the throne. He wore a deep-colored robe, collar pulled high and buttoned to the top, lending him an air of restraint and asceticism. Beneath his dark curls, those pale gray eyes were fathomless—gazing into them was like peering into mist or some emotionless mechanism.

He was a born emperor, a leader descended upon the world.

He lowered his eyes and smiled silently. Not long ago, he’d been a bishop of precarious repute, a fragile human unable to sever his blood ties, a dreamer who’d never known embraces or kisses, futilely craving warmth. Night after night, he’d jolted awake from gruesome nightmares, audacious enough to defy demons.

Until he met Tal.

The church was vast and empty, the congregation observing from a distance. He walked alone across the scarlet carpet, head bowed, appearing humble and reverent. In his hand was the bishop’s staff. At times, a priest might think they glimpsed a fleeting illusion—the staff’s shaft glinting with cold black light. In an instant, all returned to normal.

He stood before the throne, turning to survey the onlookers. In his pupils, they were mere pinpricks.

“You did it,” Tal said, perched on the throne, winking at him. The Dark God was brazen as ever. Edwin meant to shoot him a mildly reproachful look, but the moment his gaze met the demon’s raven-black hair, it softened. His gray pupils shimmered with faint amusement.

Yes, this was a coronation without the God of Light.

“He’s practically losing his mind—”

The demon gleefully recounted the God of Light’s latest embarrassments to the bishop daily. Beyond the mess with Noah, there was the god’s excruciating helplessness as he watched his Church inevitably fall under Edwin’s sway. Bound by the divine wager, he couldn’t touch Edwin or stop him from claiming the papacy.

He could only hope Edwin would tire of the Church of Light and leave his sight soon.

Until then, out of sight, out of mind.

Thus, the only god present at the coronation was the Dark God, Tarksius. He didn’t stick to the agreed plan—not that there was much of one. During their discussions, Edwin had been unfortunately bewitched by the demon’s kisses, murmuring in a daze, “You can stay wherever you like”—words ripe for exploitation.

But of course, that didn’t justify Tal hogging a throne meant for one.

Edwin hesitated, though Tal caught him suppressing a smile. The bishop paused for two seconds, then pursed his lips and boldly sat on the throne. The people watched in awe as their new ruler was born, awaiting the God of Light to crown the new Pope with a radiant golden diadem.

No one else could see Tal.

Edwin sat on the demon’s lap, enveloped in a soft, sweet embrace. He reached for the armrest, only to press against Tal’s hand. His breath hitched for a moment as Tal seized the chance to tickle his palm, the itch spreading through him like a feather brushing his heart.

He took a deep breath.

Then, the new Pope began reciting a scripture on the duties of a patriarch. His focus wasn’t on the words, but years of familiarity lent his voice a steady calm, flawless in delivery. Tal’s breath grazed his nape, though the demon stayed still, pretending to be a mere chair.

A chair that could unsettle Edwin’s composure.

Edwin finished the oath, the ceremony seamless, lacking no formality. Next came the moment for the God of Light to descend and bestow the crown.

“Don’t move,” Tal whispered.

The Dark God fussed with Edwin’s hair. The bishop sat upright in front, outwardly composed. He should’ve been concerned about the situation, but even Tal missed how his gray pupils softened with trust. He relied wholly on the god behind him, unworried about any mishaps.

Tal was always so good. Tal could handle anything.

A crown of blinding, radiant light materialized above Edwin’s dark curls. As the dazzling holy glow faded, its outline sharpened. The crowd held its breath, beholding a garland of roses and gems, refracting vivid, captivating light in all directions.

Mysterious and resplendent—a true divine creation.

“I worked on it for ages,” Tal murmured in Edwin’s ear, a hint of playful whining in his tone. Now wasn’t the time to talk—bring it up later, and Edwin would agree to almost anything.

“Your Holiness!”

The high priests bowed first, pledging their loyalty to the new Pope. Then, in order, the assembly knelt before this figure of supreme authority. Kings and nobles stepped forward to pay homage.

The ceremony concluded perfectly.

Edwin settled into the papal throne, calmly accepting the salutes and gestures of respect. His mind drifted to greater ambitions—power, blood-soaked secrets of the future, and Tal.

He would be etched into history.

His name, Edwin, would become a stroke of eternal ink, marking his dominion.

*

The God of Light sought to treat Noah as He had every historical figure who’d defied Him.

The merciful god—believers saw this leniency as sparing human lives, turning a blind eye to other punishments. So, as Noah fled, the god, in cold fury, pronounced a curse upon the Holy Son, who’d dared think he could escape.

A vicious, terrifying curse.

First, Noah’s name would be utterly defiled in every place of light-worship. All would revile him; none would dare risk the god’s wrath to aid or shelter him. Next, his eyes would be blinded, his lips and tongue silenced. Finally, the god would destroy the少年’s sharpest weapon—the one he’d used to ensnare Him.

He unleashed a plague to ravage Noah’s skin with red, wrinkled sores, ruining his exquisite beauty.

Noah could live, the god thought spitefully. If he didn’t, how could he fully experience the lavish “gifts” bestowed upon him? He declared the oracle to every believer, and with His followers spread across the royal city, He was certain witnessing the traitor’s misery would be effortless.

Yet Noah vanished like a fish slipping into water, leaving no trace.

No one claimed to have seen him.

Few in this world dared challenge the God of Light’s authority so brazenly. His rage grew daily, even suspecting Tarksius. The Dark God mocked Him carelessly, and—without a doubt—had no connection to Noah.

Tarksius, of course, knew where the God of Light had erred.

His mistake was announcing the Holy Son’s betrayal to all the moment it came to light. In today’s royal city, that reason wouldn’t deter Noah’s old lovers from clinging to him. On the contrary, it ignited hope in their hearts—now, no obstacles stood between them and their “devoted, true” darling.

The might of a god is indeed fearsome, but the champions of every race wouldn’t simply hand over their lover without a fight.

On Sunday morning, after Edwin finished his morning prayers, Tal dragged the newly crowned Pope out for a discreet outing. The demon clearly knew the sprawling streets of the royal capital like the back of his hand—better than anyone, for he hadn’t just traveled through this city; he’d once fled through it.

He expertly turned at the third corner of a moss-covered alley, followed the meow of a tabby cat for ten steps, then closed his eyes and spun three times in place before striding off in what seemed an entirely random direction.

“I still don’t understand—”

Edwin finally admitted he had his weaknesses, but his curiosity for exploration was fully ignited. As Tal pulled him along, he regaled him with travelers’ tales, one after another—his wealth of strange and wondrous experiences enough to leave anyone speechless.

Until the demon abruptly stopped before a door.

He reached out and knocked, the sound crisp and resonant. But no one answered.

“There’s someone inside,” Edwin mouthed silently.

Tal nodded, glancing at the door with a hint of frustration before extending his hand. This was no ordinary door—it was covered in an array of intricate, sophisticated defensive runes, proclaiming that only its recognized master could open it. Edwin imagined that whoever was behind it must be cautiously approaching the door right now, trusting it to keep out all unwanted visitors.

Of course, no matter how formidable a door, it couldn’t withstand a god’s destruction—

As Tal brought his hand closer, Edwin’s thought cut off midstream.

Wait.

What unfolded before him was nothing short of astonishing. Tal grasped the handle and gave it a gentle twist. The door swung open obediently, as tame as could be in his grasp. The runes glowed, their light softly brushing against Tal, clearly acknowledging him as their certified master.

The demon explained in a low voice:

“This is a defensive array I set up.”