The power of light was not merely an ethereal force; it was the barrier standing between survival and utter devastation.
It had the rare ability to identify and purge parasitic monsters embedded within living beings, as well as suppress the seeping, malevolent spread of demonic energy. Without it, hope would falter, and chaos would consume the continent.
The God of Light, distant and exalted, resided nine heavens away, unable to directly intervene for each beleaguered soul. Instead, he chose messengers—beings blessed with the rare light attribute, tasked with spreading hope like seeds on parched soil.
Yet, these chosen ones were scarce, appearing at a rate of one in every 100,000. The stakes were high, and the numbers were grim. Without enough priests to maintain the enchantments that kept the demonic energy at bay, the continent teetered on the brink of annihilation.
As Alastor sifted through Yeshua's memories, a surge of unsettling familiarity washed over him. These monsters bore an eerie resemblance to the undead—zombies driven not by hunger, but by something even more insidious. Unlike mere contagion, their threat lay in the deliberate act of implantation by their monstrous progenitors.
He clicked his tongue in annoyance and continued to look at Yeshua's memory.
In the Zakda Empire, hope was cultivated by the light priests who were meticulously trained from the age of three.
Each child displaying even the faintest glimmer of light was promptly taken to Canya, the empire's glittering capital, where the Temple of Light loomed like a silent guardian. It was here, under the vigilant eyes of the bishop, that Yeshua had grown from an innocent child to a devoted acolyte.
Golden light spilled through the temple's high windows, bathing the marble floors in hues of divinity.
Every step Yeshua took echoed the faith instilled in him, but fate had twisted plans. At sixteen, amidst the thrumming pulse of temple rituals and the scent of holy incense, he encountered William Orton, the empire's ambitious second prince.
William's sapphire eyes held a dangerous allure, and the effortless grace in which he commanded attention was enough to snare Yeshua's devotion. Love—blind and consuming—burgeoned in Yeshua's heart like a wildfire.
Alastor could almost hear the anxious whispers of the temple priests, feel the tightening of Yeshua's chest as he conspired to secure William's ascendancy for the Crown.
He promised the second prince to help him fight for the throne, so he gave the bishop an elixir, and when the bishop was asleep, he poured the so-called 'oracle' that the second prince would become the ruler of the Zakda Empire into the bishop's ear.
The elixir laced with deceit and whispered 'oracles' worked as intended. The bishop, awash in a manipulated vision, proclaimed William's destined rise, shaking the empire's foundations with a truth forged in shadow.
Just when Yeshua thought he could live a happy life with the second prince, a boy named Aser appeared. He not only has an elven-like charming appearance but also has an extremely terrifying power of light. He even carries a token of the God of Light on his body.
The once-coveted affection of William was now diverted, enamored by this newcomer whose power eclipsed all. Betrayal tightened like a noose around Yeshua's throat. He lashed out with plots woven in envy, each one shattered by Aser's silent admirers before they could take form.
The memory of golden light searing through his shoulders played like an old wound reopening, leaving Alastor's jaw tight with rage.
The fall came swiftly—banishment into the abyss, William pushed Yeshua's back as he tumbled.
His screams, swallowed by the unforgiving dark, echoed long after in the chasms of Alastor's mind. The leg, twisted and useless, anchored him in place, forcing him into a relentless cycle of prayer.
The days blurred into years, centuries where Yeshua survived only by his unwavering supplication to the God of Light.
The abyss pulsed with demonic energy, clawing at him, gnawing at his body and mind. Yet, against all odds, a miracle of light cocooned him, fending off the darkness. In this lonely prison, hope and delusion melded; hatred dissolved like mist under the noonday sun, replaced by reverence so profound it bordered on madness.
Two hundred years passed, his devotion culminating in one final act of repentance: a whispered oath that, in another life, his love would be solely for the God of Light, untouched by mortal folly.
As Alastor emerged from the cascade of memories, his chest felt heavy, his pulse drumming with an unfamiliar ache. This memory is very heavy, even Alastor, who has experienced thousands of sails, has no choice but to sigh for Yeshua.
At this moment, the system's notification chimed, and streams of dense, glowing text cascaded before Alastor's eyes.
The rapid movement might have overwhelmed an ordinary mind, but Alastor absorbed the information with ease, scanning through the data in under five seconds.
When the final subtitle faded into the ether, a bitter smile twisted his lips, a cold glint surfacing in his eyes.
The world he found himself in now was unlike any he'd traversed before. A BL world, but not just any typical narrative.
The protagonist, the Shou, was an unparalleled heartthrob, a magnet whose allure ensnared the attention of powerful figures with identities so prominent they were spoken of with reverence and fear across the continent.
Alastor leaned forward, the dim light from the room casting a shadow across his face as he recalled the lineup. T
here was the future king of the mighty Zakda Empire, with eyes as sharp as the steel of his crown. Then, the archbishop—clad in robes woven from ethereal threads and holding sway over every priest of light under the vast heavens.
Alastor's gaze darkened as he considered the Beast King, a figure wreathed in primal power, whose roar could send tremors through mountains; the Elf King, enigmatic and ethereal, with an aura as ancient as the woods themselves; and the twin gods, the god of darkness, ruler of the abyss whose laughter promised ruin, and the god of light, resplendent and untouchable, cloaked in an almost cruel benevolence.
Each of these formidable beings was captivated by one person: Aser. The Shou with black hair that gleamed like spun sunlight and eyes deep as the cerulean sea. He possessed an inexplicable magnetism that bent even the most unyielding wills, drawing them into his orbit.
It seems that everyone is revolving around Aser, and they can't resist his charm, but everyone who has seen him will have ulterior motives for him, of course, except for those villainous supporting roles.
Alastor's lip curled in disdain. How twisted this reality was, where the world's most powerful entities, kings who could level empires with a snap of their fingers, were willing to share their affection for one mortal, surrendering their strength to maintain the balance for the sake of their shared obsession.
In this realm, Aser was the uncrowned king, wielding power not through force or title, but through the fierce devotion of the beings surrounding him.
Yet, beneath this gilded, seemingly harmonious reality, Alastor sensed the hidden mechanics at play. The gods—cruel in their divine humour—had created this world, not as a paradise, but as a stage for punishment.
Yeshua, the former owner of this body, was but a tragic puppet caught in the cosmic game, manipulated by the very deities he had once revered.
The gods of light and darkness had not blessed him in his moment of despair; they had cursed him, casting him into the abyss, not to die, but to suffer an agony more excruciating than death.
And the naive Yeshua, broken and scarred, had thanked them for it, blind to the truth of their apathy.
"Stupid," Alastor muttered, his voice low and sharp as he gazed at the young man in the mirror. Platinum blonde hair spilled down his shoulders, eyes a striking azure that spoke of both innocence and misplaced devotion.
The reflection of Yeshua's once unwavering faith now looked back at him, haunted by years spent pleading for a god's favor that would never truly come.
Yet pity stirred in Alastor's chest, unexpected and unwelcome. Yeshua's faith had been exploited; his love had been his downfall.
Alastor let out a slow breath, the resolve hardening in his core. If he was to play this role, he would do so with the cunning that had kept him alive across countless worlds.
He would fulfill Yeshua's wish, not out of obligation, but out of defiance. He would become a priest of light, competent enough to challenge the plot that bound this world together with Aser at its centre.
A dry chuckle rumbled in his chest. "But how else could it be?" he whispered, his tone edged with dark irony.
The gods that perched high above in their celestial realms could snuff him out with a mere glance, reducing his body to ash and shredding his very soul.
The pain of a torn soul—Alastor shivered at the phantom memory—was an agony he had no intention of enduring again.
As the room dimmed around him, the silent, shifting light from the distant temple cast fractured glows against the cold walls, painting fleeting images of salvation and betrayal.
In this world ruled by gods, driven by desires as grand as they were deadly, Alastor knew that survival would require more than just cunning. He would need to wield belief itself, not as a shield, but as a blade.