Alastor's thoughts solidified with a sense of resolve: avoid Aser at all costs, stay out of the tangled power struggles, and when the time came, petition to travel the mainland as a wandering priest, spreading the gospel.
A life on the road, one filled with quiet devotion rather than fierce competition, might alter Yeshua's fate, steering him far from the tragic path he had once walked.
The realisation brought a rare moment of calm to Alastor's normally guarded expression.
The heavy dread in his chest lightened, though only a little.
A new plan unfolded before him, but one critical flaw remained: he was an unbeliever, someone incapable of true faith.
In this world, priests didn't draw their strength from rituals or ancient tomes alone.
Their power stemmed from their devotion to the God of Light, channeled through daily, heartfelt prayers.
The more profound and earnest the prayer, the more abundant the light they could summon. It wasn't merely about talent or the luck of birth—it was about conviction.
Many priests with meagre talent had managed to accumulate immense power solely through relentless belief, their prayers pure and unwavering.
Over years of steadfast dedication, these individuals rose from obscurity to positions of great authority—bishops of sprawling city-states or empires, symbols of hope to their people.
Alastor's jaw clenched at the irony. How could someone like him—a man forged by hardship and cynicism across countless lifetimes—muster anything even resembling sincere faith?
The God of Light was known to peer into the very souls of his followers, discerning sincerity from deception with a mere thought.
A false believer wouldn't be blessed with the gift of light. Without that power, Alastor would be vulnerable, easy prey for the demonic beasts that prowled beyond Gagor's boundaries, drawn to priests of light by their shared loathing.
The mere notion of such failure brought a scowl to his face. Yeshua's fate had already been tragic once—Alastor had no intention of letting it spiral further into misery under his watch.
A dull ache began to throb at his temples as Alastor rubbed his brows, feeling the suffocating complexity of this world pressing down on him.
He needed to clear his mind. Dropping the weighty robe from his shoulders, he stepped into the secluded hot spring, its waters emitting a thin veil of steam that danced around him like ghostly wraiths.
The initial shock of the warm water washed over his tense muscles, gradually loosening the knots coiled deep within.
As he reclined against the smooth stones, he directed the system to begin the subtle transformation of Yeshua's body.
The process was slow and delicate, purging impurities from his form, allowing every inch of his skin to glow with a radiant lustre.
His once-pallid complexion took on the sheen of polished jade, perfect and without blemish.
The change was almost imperceptible at first, but under the steam and the soft amber glow of candlelight, it became strikingly clear.
His eyes, an intense blue, reflected the ethereal quality of the water and the sky, yet they carried an ocean's depth, concealing secrets within their gaze.
The slight sharpness in his features softened into a balance that was almost hypnotic, an expression that whispered both vulnerability and an unknowable strength.
Alastor's transformation wasn't just physical; there was an intangible aura to him now, an almost divine allure that made the room feel warmer, and calmer.
The serenity in the air was palpable, as though every element around him acknowledged his presence with reverence.
"Appearance matters here," Alastor mused, the water rippling as he shifted. For a priest of light, having an angelic visage wasn't just advantageous—it was practically a weapon.
It demanded attention, garnered trust, and inspired awe. His was now the sort of face that could make entire congregations hang onto his every word, a vessel seemingly touched by divine favour.
After some time, he pushed himself from the pool and reached for the fresh robe laid out on a polished stone nearby.
The fabric was cool against his rejuvenated skin, falling in soft folds that accentuated his newly refined form. He crossed to the mirror, water trickling from damp strands of platinum hair down his temples and collarbone.
Staring back at him was a young man with an aura that shimmered like a halo under the dim light.
The boy in the reflection, with his flawless skin and imploring eyes, looked fragile enough to evoke pity yet strong enough to command a room. The delicate line between human and ethereal had been drawn to perfection.
Alastor's lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. If this was to be his vessel, then he would make it a force to be reckoned with—not through faith alone, but through sheer, calculated presence.
Yeshua's beauty had always been undeniable, rivalling that of even the protagonist Shou, Aser, whose ethereal grace bewitched emperors and kings alike.
Yet, despite his flawless features—clear, oceanic eyes, silken platinum hair, and an aristocratic jawline—Yeshua lacked that ineffable purity, that sense of untouchable sanctity that seemed to cloak Aser like a divine veil. He was radiant but tarnished by the shadows of ambition and jealousy.
But now, after Alastors intervention, Alastor looked upon the new Yeshua with a sense of detached admiration.
His reflection in the mirror was startling. It wasn't just beauty that gazed back at him; it was an ideal. The transformation had rendered him into a paragon of celestial grace.
His skin seemed to glow from within, an alabaster surface lit by the softest dawn light. The blue in his eyes had deepened, now resembling the clearest depths of a tranquil sea, unclouded by mortal failings.
Even the angles of his face, once sharp with determination and pride, now conveyed gentleness and the suggestion of a quiet, unwavering devotion. He had become a living embodiment of serenity, so flawless that one could believe him to be a mortal echo of the divine.
If he were to walk among the people now, they would see not just a priest but the priest of light, an image so steeped in their collective imagination that even the most fervent artist or storyteller would fall short of describing him.
The metamorphosis of Yeshua's exterior was perfect, but Alastor knew that true survival in this world required more than appearances.
Piety was paramount, and it was the one thing he did not possess. Even the tiniest insincerity, like a hairline crack in a jewel, would be laid bare under the scrutinizing gaze of the God of Light. The question of faith gnawed at him, a shadow at the edge of his newfound brilliance.
As night fell, Alastor reclined on the opulent bed draped in silken sheets, their golden thread catching the light from the moon that spilt in through the tall windows.
The room was steeped in a quiet, sacred stillness that seemed to echo the distant murmurs of prayers whispered throughout the capital. Lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts, exhaustion soon took him. Sleep came unbidden, and with it, dreams of light and shadow intertwined.
The next morning, the sun's early rays crept across the room, gilding everything in a soft, warm glow. Alastor awoke at the precise hour Yeshua had disciplined himself to rise each day.
A memory as old as routine, ingrained deeply in the young priest's body. He sat up, blinking against the light, and in that quiet moment, an idea unfurled in his mind—a plan as audacious as it was desperate.
"This is the craziest thing I've ever done to myself," he muttered with a dry, humorless smile.
After dismissing the two attending maids with a polite nod, he moved to the grand floor-to-ceiling mirror. The polished glass was so pristine it could have been a portal to another realm.
Standing before it, he took in the sight of the slender young man with hair that glowed like woven moonlight. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and met his own gaze with unwavering determination.
The silence of the room was profound as Alastor whispered, his voice soft and low, "I love the God of Light. I love him with all my life and even my soul. To be deemed worthy of touching the hem of his robe, for the smallest flicker of his gaze, I would offer up everything—my heart, my blood, my very being."
A moment passed, each heartbeat resonating like the toll of a temple bell. He took a breath, his chest tightening as he repeated, this time with a fierce, fevered intensity, "I love him beyond reason, beyond self. To be shattered into nothing, to be remade in his name—I would welcome it."
The young man's eyes, which had shimmered uncertainly, as though a mist obscured their depths, sharpened into a look of conviction.
The subtle shift was almost imperceptible, but there it was: a spark of faith, however manufactured, that radiated from within.
Alastor had done the unthinkable; he had hypnotized himself, implanting in his subconscious a devotion so deep that even under divine scrutiny, it would hold.
This was no mere act—it was an artifice of survival, the most elaborate ruse he had ever concocted. He felt a strange, unsettling calm settle over him, as if the part of him that doubted, that schemed, had retreated behind a wall of shimmering light.
For now, at least, he was Yeshua, the purest vessel of the God of Light's will.
And even as the rational part of him whispered in protest from behind that wall, he knew he had taken the first true step in his dangerous gambit. The stakes had never been higher, but for the first time, he felt ready.