TBR CH70

When Edwin opened his eyes, he was fully awake—awake enough to know he’d just been immersed in a beautiful dream, and to realize he wasn’t in his familiar room.

At first glance, he keenly noticed that the staff he almost never parted with wasn’t at his side. Without hesitation, he reached for his boot, fingers grazing the sharp edge of a metal ornament, but failing to find the dagger that could serve as a weapon.

His pale gray eyes peered out from faintly trembling lashes. Edwin rose from his position against the wall, spine straightening. His gaze was cautious, predatory like a hawk, unblinking as he surveyed his surroundings.

No power, no weapons. He’d need to stay calm.

He quickly realized he stood in an open, flat expanse. The ground beneath him was white, coarse stone—its friction just right, allowing crisp, steady steps without fear of slipping. A milky mist encircled the area, obscuring the view beyond. The bishop paused in place, refraining from approaching the edge. As if sensing something, he tilted his head upward toward the lofty dome of the structure.

Tal was there.

His soul hummed with an undeniable certainty, resonating within him. Edwin curled his fingers into a loose fist, as if the motion allowed him to grasp something tangible. He raised his head, words breaking free from his lips like a question—or like a devotee awaiting an oracle, ready to do anything for Him.

High above, his god sat upon a throne, gazing down at him with eyes both bright and tender.

“Edwin,” the mist parted bit by bit, revealing the dome’s full grandeur—a balance of pure white on one side and inky darkness on the other.  Tarksius sat atop his divine seat, raising a hand. His slender knuckles, though dozens of meters away, seemed to gently touch Edwin’s forehead as if right before him.

The god called his name, a strange light flickering in his eyes. Suddenly, flames illuminated the crimson hue of blood—a shimmering, dangerous desire.

“I grant you power.”

A searing heat spread from his forehead, an unfamiliar force surging into Edwin’s soul. Its origin differed from the gifts he’d received before, yet it melded with him effortlessly, as if he’d been born knowing how to wield it.

A sudden intuition struck him. He opened his hand, and as if conjured from the air, a staff materialized from nothingness into his grip.

The staff was forged of cold obsidian, its intricate patterns winding into his palm—dangerous and mysterious. At its head, a heart-red agate was embedded, carved with minimal strokes into the shape of a rose. Tal’s shape.

Edwin had never seen such a massive ruby. Its beauty was beyond human reach, like a ripe, fragrant fruit radiating an endless aura of magic.

The bishop gripped the staff tightly. The unchecked surge of power roared like a tidal wave, yet bowed tamely under his will. The mist on the field had mostly dissipated, and Edwin could now make out another figure across from him. He also guessed who sat opposite Tal on the other throne, bathed in holy light—none other than the god humans knew so well.

At that moment, the other god’s mood was far from pleasant. Furious, he unleashed bolts of holy light that shattered around him, erupting in sharp, earth-shaking brilliance. To provoke such a god was to invite the greatest calamity—just look at old Bart to understand that.

Edwin should have felt fear.

But he suddenly realized he dismissed the notion with disdain. Even knowing that such a being could crush a human like an ant, even after reciting countless “pious” scriptures extolling reverence for the divine—Edwin’s gaze flickered, his inorganic gray pupils lingering for only a moment before returning to  Tarksius. At this instant, nothing else mattered to him.

The bishop was clever. He deduced this must be the wager Tal had mentioned.

Tal said he would win, so he would win—Edwin harbored no hesitation, no doubt. He trusted only his Tal, driven solely by the Dark God’s commands, willing to do anything for him. The rose atop the staff glowed with a cold, perilous light, poised for its prey to draw near.

The god looked down at his proud, greedy follower, a smile curling his lips:

“Come, dear bishop,” he said, a sly glint flashing in his eyes—visible only to Edwin—as he spoke softly.

“I grant you the power of a believer: the more devout, the stronger. I have no doubt—I’ve long known the outcome and prepared your reward. With the weapon I’ve given you, kill the follower of light.”

*

Noah awoke from a beautiful dream.

If the nightmare of losing everything had plunged him into despair, the subsequent dream was its dazzling opposite. The sensation of possessing all enthralled him, like a hallucinogen coursing through his veins. He opened his eyes, a smile still on his face, only to find himself in an unfamiliar, vast open space.

Instinctively, the Holy Son called out to the system in his mind. No response came.

He didn’t know that, at that moment, the system was in the Church’s prayer room, frantically and confusedly trying to rouse his sleeping body. Two dreams—one of crushing lows, the other of soaring highs—had vanished in an instant, leaving Noah dazed for a moment as he tried to discern whether this was still a dream. For now, that question had no answer.

But the mist around him began to clear.

The white stone beneath his feet faintly glowed with pure, bright light through its cracks. Peering through the dissipating haze, Noah glimpsed a figure opposite him. The field was starkly divided into two halves. Unlike his side, radiant with sanctity, the other was shrouded in gloomy black mist, the stone cracking beneath their feet with faint, mournful groans.

Yet, when he instinctively looked across, the other figure wasn’t looking at him.

As the mist thinned further, their face came into view—along with those pale gray eyes. Noah’s heart jolted.

He’d seen this face countless times at Church ceremonies—pious and humble in appearance. Only Noah knew the truth: this man had forged a pact with the Dark God who’d crossed the torrent of time. That fact had once reassured him; such an ambitious soul would sacrifice anything for their ideals. But now, as all the mysteries converged, every oversight pointed to this man as the final answer.

Dream or not, Noah grew wary. He dug his nails into his palm, forcing himself to stay alert.

Then, following Edwin’s gaze upward, he froze. In an instant, his nails sank deeper into his flesh, overwhelmed by shock. He pursed his lips, struggling to keep a gasp from escaping, commanding his mind to process the scene—yet it remained blank.

Beneath the dome, two thrones.

The Dark God lightly twirled his fingers, his jet-black hair falling across his cheek as he leaned forward—hair like a spider’s web or a blade, dangerous yet willingly ensnaring. Noah had to admit that, in terms of sheer presence,  Tarksius’s ability to captivate was unmatched—unless you looked into his eyes. Those eyes, always cold and indifferent as blood.

Wait.

The Holy Son had no time to register  Tarksius’s expression. What caught his attention was the god’s subtle gesture—his knuckles extended, and a power capable of shattering the heavens spun tamely at his fingertips before flowing purposefully toward the figure below, head slightly raised.

The distance was too great—or perhaps the god intended it so—allowing Noah to catch only the faintest hint of  Tarksius’s voice, laced with casual amusement, as he spoke his final words to the bishop:

“…With the weapon I’ve given you, kill the follower of light.”

Before Noah could react, he jerked his gaze away, like a startled fawn fleeing to its nest, toward the god presiding over his domain.

The God of Light sat on his timeless throne, crowned with condensed holy light. His face was the one Noah knew best, but now, thunderbolts crackled around him, their searing brilliance illuminating his expression. His golden pupils reflected the Holy Son.

For some reason, Noah felt a hollow pang in his chest, his legs unsteady. Steadying himself, he ensured his expression and body language remained flawless. He called to the system in his mind again—no answer.

Stay calm.

The God of Light’s demeanor grew increasingly volatile, his gaze fixed on his chosen Holy Son, silent for a long while. Without the system’s response, Noah caught Edwin approaching from the corner of his eye, the glowing staff in his hand like a hawk closing in on a rabbit.

And he had nowhere to retreat.

In that moment, a colossal fear of death surged again, like icy water soaking through him. Noah realized with stark clarity that the system wasn’t with him. Meaning he could truly die.

It had happened before—when the Dark God struck, he’d come close to death.

Step by step, Noah retreated, pleading with his eyes toward the lofty god, while Edwin advanced relentlessly. The staff in his hand shifted, its ruby head elongating and sharpening into a lethal blade, crescent-like.

Those pale gray eyes fixed on him—emotionless, unblinking, focused with cruel intent on his prey.

Noah had no power to resist.

Anxiety gripped him. Wasn’t this the gods’ trial ground? Wasn’t this supposed to be a fair contest? The last time he’d met the God of Light, He’d mentioned it, brimming with confidence in him. But if so, why, as the follower of light, did he still lack power?

He couldn’t go on like this. The only one who could save him now was the exalted figure above. Though His demeanor was odd, it was clear—compared to  Tarksius, who watched with obvious amusement—his allegiance had long been decided.

Sacrifice the pawn to save the king.

Noah wasn’t sure if the term applied—he’d never fully seen through  Tarksius. If this were still a mission with both gods present, he’d have to abandon one and choose the God of Light.

Especially now, when he genuinely feared for his life.

The exquisitely beautiful少年, like a terrified fawn cornered with no escape, knelt toward the God of Light. Prostrating himself, his voice trembled with desperation and helplessness:

“Have I done something to offend You? If not, please grant me power. I love You so deeply—I don’t fear death. But if You permit me to wield Your glory against the darkness, I’ll give my all.”

The Holy Son thought his words flawless, even cleverly shifting his plea from self-preservation to defending the god’s honor. But the God of Light’s face twisted, growing even more ominous.

No, Edwin had already raised his hand. The staff, a conduit for unleashing magic, brimmed with unimaginable power at that moment. The razor-sharp blade was poised to slice through the air.

Noah let out one final, piercing cry:

“My god, please, I beg You, grant me strength! Please believe in me—I’ve always been by Your side! Hurry… or it’ll all be over—”

His hands frantically pressed against the wall behind him, its cold, smooth surface seemingly carved from a single slab of marble. His nails scrabbled for purchase, but found no grip.

At the very last moment, Noah heard the God of Light’s heavy sigh. Then, the god raised His palm, and the Holy Son finally felt power flowing down from it—warm as a spring, coursing into his limbs and bones.

Good.

Noah’s chest, heaving with ragged breaths, finally steadied. He now wielded the God of Light’s power. At least for this moment, he could protect himself.

Compared to  Tarksius’s strength, the God of Light’s power shouldn’t be much different, right? He’d always prided himself on his cunning and adaptability. Perhaps—

Joy distorted Noah’s face slightly, so he didn’t notice that, beneath the dome, the God of Light had averted His gaze. Then, those words rang coldly in his ears:

“Just don’t embarrass me.”

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over him. Before Noah could ponder the hidden meaning behind the god’s tone, he instinctively raised his hand to block Edwin’s attack. The light within him surged.

The Holy Son felt his palm burn, as if the weapon bestowed upon the god’s follower was about to materialize—

But it was far from that simple.

In that split-second flash, Noah suddenly sensed the vast power flowing within him, yet it refused to harmonize with him. From his fingertips, most of it didn’t shape into the weapon he envisioned but instead slipped away relentlessly, dissipating like tides rushing from the sea only to vanish into the sand.

The God of Light withdrew His hand.

Per the trial ground’s rules, the power granted to followers was uniform. Even if He wanted to spare Noah some humiliation, He was powerless to intervene. Only a truly devout believer could fully wield this strength.

The power was draining from Noah’s body, and he hadn’t even grasped the trial’s true rules. He immediately shot a desperate, pleading look at the God of Light, shouting for help, bewildered by what had gone wrong. The God of Light turned away, unwilling to witness His own crushing defeat, but Noah’s cries echoed through the structure. Even if He wished to ignore the process, the outcome was now clear.

What infuriated the God of Light most was that Noah’s clamor drew  Tarksius’s mocking gaze. The Dark God lifted his chin arrogantly, flashing an enigmatic smile.

“Well, this is unexpected,”  Tarksius said calmly, rubbing salt in the wound.

“Such a pity. If we weren’t here, you might’ve been able to lend your little lover a hand.”

The gods’ exchange reached Noah’s ears clearly. He wasn’t foolish—in that moment, he realized he’d misunderstood the trial’s rules.

But Edwin’s blade had solidified into a shimmering silver thread, hurtling toward his neck. There was no time for deliberation—he could only act on instinct.

Gritting his teeth, Noah silently recited the few scriptures he knew well, desperately gathering power before it fully slipped away. A slender staff faintly took shape between his palms.

Good. A flicker of hope sparked within him. He gripped the staff formed from the light’s power, holding it before him as Edwin’s blade descended with unstoppable force.

Noah had hoped the staff could at least hold it off for a moment.

Yet, like a bamboo knife slicing through paper, the moment that dark red blade met his defense, it crumbled. The staff shattered in the air, piece by piece. Noah stared blankly at it, clutching it until it dissolved into dust in his hands, leaving him grasping nothing but a fist.

What… how could this…

The glint of cold steel grew infinitely large in Noah’s eyes. Edwin’s right hand was steady—unwavering even as it neared the Holy Son’s staff.

He should be merciful, forgiving, humble, and pious. A bishop shouldn’t kill—murder was a grave sin in the doctrine.

Yet Edwin’s blade didn’t falter. His eyes roiled with gray flames and storms, a faint smirk curling his lips. The staff in his hands unleashed its full might, the blade gleaming with quenched poison. He left no room for mercy—even if one strike didn’t kill, it would linger like a venomous snake, claiming its victim in the end.

The blade sliced effortlessly through the Holy Son’s neck, cutting like butter. Blood welled from beneath human flesh, streaming along the edge. Edwin tilted the blade downward slightly, letting the blood drip to the ground by gravity, forming a small, dark stain—none of it touching the bishop. His attire remained pristine as the blade at the staff’s head spun and retracted, reverting to a massive red agate.

Noah’s final gaze was filled with terror and disbelief. His eyes widened unwillingly, as if shouting: How could I end here? How could this be possible?

Then, his body fragmented bit by bit. In this space crafted by gods, there was no place left for his soul. The God of Light finally turned back, His brows tightly furrowed. He hadn’t expected such a thorough defeat in this duel.

Just one strike—

At least it shouldn’t have been so quick. For a moment, He shared Noah’s fleeting hope, only for it to be utterly shattered. Now, He didn’t want to linger here a second longer. The dome bore the marks of His failure, the starkly divided halves fading with the bishop’s steps until only one color remained.

His Holy Son was, in truth, a hypocritical fraud with no shred of loyalty.

And the Church’s earthly voice, the Grand Bishop of the Church of Light, stood below. Even the God of Light had to admit this human possessed a dazzling, extraordinary soul. Yet Edwin smirked, quickening his pace toward  Tarksius.

The bishop walked toward the darkness, away from the light.

In the sting of bitter defeat, the God of Light couldn’t help but rage. He knew He’d lost the wager—divine oaths bound Him tightly; He could no longer act against this human. Still, He hurled thunderous words from His throne:

“Aren’t you afraid the Dark God is merely toying with you? Betraying the light—you must understand, for a human, this means utter ruin. Even if you repent now—”

“I won’t.”

Edwin’s voice rang out beneath the dome, resonating from his throat. He didn’t stop walking, crossing from one side of the trial ground to the other. It wasn’t just him answering—at the same moment, Tal spoke too. The fragile human and his mighty god’s voices overlapped.

 Tarksius extended a hand toward him, his dark red pupils shifting subtly, his words becoming an oracle:

“Come to my side.”

A silver-white staircase descended before Edwin. The bishop paused, lowering his gaze to check for blood or dirt from the battle. His staff no longer dripped. Confirming he was spotless, his pale gray eyes brightened faintly.

At the staircase’s end was the god’s throne.

And there, he would claim his rightful reward.

In truth, the trial of the followers had concluded. Now was the moment for their souls to return to their mortal bodies and for the divine pact to take effect. The God of Light had long wished to leave—He could no longer sit in this place of shame. Yet  Tarksius’s actions stunned Him, prompting an incredulous outburst:

“You’d let a human—even your follower—ascend from the trial grounds to our domain? This is a realm solely for gods!”

Despite His divine authority, no one heeded His protest.  Tarksius reached out, and Edwin straightened his spine, ascending the steps to the god’s side. His gray eyes greedily drank in every part of the deity. On  Tarksius’s slender fingers gleamed the ruby ring—a rose. The god was his rose.

Only when he reached him did Edwin half-kneel. The human with pale gray pupils boldly grasped  Tarksius’s arm, then lowered his eyes to kiss the back of his hand.

“Sit,” the Dark God said, his lips curving slightly. He pressed his palm down gently, and Edwin’s warm, moist breath lingered on his skin before they parted in sync. The bishop’s pupils reflected the supreme throne—spacious enough for two. Divine pressure coiled around it, a fearsome power pulsing through the seat, adorned with gems unknown to the mortal world. Such force deterred any from drawing near, leaving only room for distant worship.

Edwin paused.

He leaned forward, hands touching the armrests, then his whole body. He was surely the first human in history to sit on a god’s throne. Yet a warm, comforting aura enveloped him, and in that position, he caught the scent of roses.

Edwin pursed his lips—not from unease. He knew his current strength wasn’t yet enough to claim this seat fully. But the god’s gesture was a daring challenge:

“Do you dare?” Or perhaps, “Do you believe you can sit here and one day stand as my equal?”

From a distance, the God of Light watched, uncomprehending. A human was overstepping, and the god undeniably indulged it—had even engineered it. This was wrong. The world had its order: followers remained followers, humans forever beneath gods.

Even when He’d considered granting Noah divinity, His expectation was for a devotee’s unconditional, pious love—not to share any part of the throne.

He thought this, yet couldn’t mask the fleeting fear when that frail, insignificant human on the opposite throne looked at him, staff in hand. Edwin’s gaze was more divine than a god’s—noble as the God of Light was, in those inorganic eyes, He was merely a reflected object, devoid of significance.

—This position seemed so perfectly suited to him.

That thought sparked panic in the God of Light. He resolved to leave at once, to reclaim His dominion elsewhere and restore His godly command. Before departing, He tried to warn the Dark God: divine authority brooked no defiance.  Tarksius didn’t understand—pouring his power into a follower could upend the world’s order in unimaginable ways.

“If he wishes,”  Tarksius replied, unconcerned, transforming into his demonic form. He leaned close to Edwin, wrapping his arms around his bishop, his voice lightening.

“Then let him upend this world however he pleases.”

Edwin held the staff in one hand, the other gently pressing against the demon’s back, letting him playfully nip at his neck. In shadows unseen, a trail of ambiguous marks bloomed. Power flourished in his grasp, an impossible wish planted in his heart by Tal himself.

“Do as you will.”

Knowing the words were futile, the God of Light flung them out in haste, pretending they salvaged some dignity. He was bewildered—how had he, a god, been rendered powerless against this human? How had it come to this? The answer lay there, humiliating him.

Noah. The god chewed the name, nearly tearing it apart between his teeth. Noah.

*

Noah jolted awake in the prayer room.

The sharp pain of a blade slicing through his neck still lingered in his nerves, prompting Noah to instinctively reach for his throat. Thankfully, the skin there was smooth and fair, free of any ghastly wounds. The air in the sanctuary was filled with a sense of peace and tranquility. Noah called out to the system, and it responded with a crackling mechanical hum in his ear, informing him that he had suddenly fallen into a deep sleep.

The Holy Son pressed a hand to his heart. That organ of flesh and blood hadn’t yet recovered from the aftershock of terror, still pounding in a frantic panic. He forced himself to calm down, grasping at the most comforting possibility to convince himself:

“It was just a dream.”

He thought this, though without much confidence. The dreams had felt too real, and his sleep—so deep that even the system couldn’t wake him—seemed unnatural. Noah bit his lip hard, gazing at the statue before him. Had its expression changed? It looked identical to always—the God of Light offering a benevolent smile to all believers without distinction.

The system emitted a series of rapid “beep beep beep” sounds, its mechanical tone tinged with suspicion and caution:

“Did something happen?”

“Nothing,” Noah replied, carefully controlling his pace to avoid sounding like he was hastily deflecting out of guilt. Instead, he aimed to seem genuinely puzzled by the system’s question.

“I mean, I accidentally fell asleep. Maybe I’ve been too tired these past couple of days.”

As he spoke, he rose from the silk kneeling cushion and began walking toward the door.

“System, you remember I have a meeting with Edward today, right? I think I might need to step out of the Church for a bit—”

The Holy Son’s steps faltered unnaturally. From outside came an ominous clamor—footsteps, as if a group of people were approaching. Holy knights and priests, perhaps. Then, abruptly, the noise quieted, as though they realized Noah might be listening and restrained themselves. Instinctively, Noah knew they were coming for him.

Something had inevitably come crashing down. The question was: what should he do now?

“There’s someone in that direction,” the exquisitely beautiful young man murmured, seemingly to himself—though only Noah knew it was meant for the system. “We need to be careful. I’ll use the hidden door. If the Church people catch me, it’ll be inconvenient to leave.”

With that, he retracted the step he’d taken toward the main exit and circled behind the statue. This was a secret passage known only to the Church’s upper echelons, rarely used, leading directly outside.

He moved quickly.

Thus, he didn’t have time to notice that as he brushed past, a furious and terrifying golden light flared in the statue’s eyes.