The greatest deception is not in fooling others but in fooling oneself. For the next twelve hours, Alastor would become a fervent devotee of the God of Light, with unshakable faith burning bright in his soul.
When the enchantment expired, he would return to his true self, cold and calculating, but if necessary, he could extend the duration of this pious state to aid his cultivation.
After meticulously straightening the pristine white folds of his ceremonial robes, Alastor, now Yeshua in every sense, emerged from his chambers.
The scent of sacred incense lingered in the air, weaving through the stone corridors of the temple like an ethereal spectre.
The morning light streamed through the grand arched windows, painting the hallways in shafts of gold. His every step resonated, calm and deliberate, as he approached the main hall.
Two young maids who passed him on their morning rounds hesitated mid-curtsy, their eyes widening slightly.
"He's different," one of them whispered after they had passed, the note of awe unmistakable. "It's as if he's… blessed anew."
The grand hall stretched before him, a sanctum lined with towering columns of marble that reached for the heavens.
Each pillar bore intricate carvings of angels in flight and depictions of battles waged against demonic forces.
The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the low flicker of the sacred flames that illuminated the statue of the God of Light.
The god's expression was carved in serene wisdom, eyes cast downwards as if gazing fondly at his followers below.
Standing before the statue was the bishop, robed in deep gold embroidered with symbols of divinity. His hands were clasped in silent prayer, the lines of his aged face softened with devotion.
When he turned to Alastor, a glimmer of hope momentarily sparked in his tired eyes.
"My child," the bishop said, his voice deep but fraught with weariness, "you have reached your sixteenth year, and in two years, you must venture out to spread the light of our god across the lands. The dark creatures bear an undying enmity toward the priests of light. Only through fervent prayer and accumulated power can you hope to defend yourself."
He lifted a trembling hand and pressed his fingertips gently to Yeshua's forehead.
The touch was light, but it spoke of years of worry carved into the bishop's bones.
Alastor's borrowed devotion shimmered in his eyes as he inclined his head.
Because he fell in love with the second prince, Yeshua didn't have the heart to pray, and the weak power of light accumulated in his body almost collapsed.
And he is the only child with bright attributes that the Zayda Empire has been looking for for 50 years. If he does not become a weapon, the Zayda Empire will become a purgatory ravaged by monsters.
The bishop studied him, searching for any remnants of past folly. With a sigh, he reached into the folds of his robe and produced an attribute stone, a relic that would reveal the measure of one's divine affinity.
The translucent stone rested in the bishop's palm, an unremarkable taupe under the temple's glow. He extended it with caution. "Use all your strength, my child. Let us see the depth of your repentance."
A week earlier, Yeshua had struggled to make the stone flicker, an event that had robbed the bishop of sleep for nights on end.
Now, Alastor accepted it without hesitation. The cool weight of the stone seemed to thrum in his hand, as if testing him.
He closed his eyes, drawing in a steady breath. The silence became profound, the sacred flames seemed to be still.
Alastor channelled the mana within, a current imbued with the newfound purity of his conviction. The stone warmed, shifting from taupe to a radiant, transparent white.
Then, as if lit by the very essence of divinity, a golden sheen spiralled within, delicate and resplendent.
The golden glow danced across the bishop's face, who looked on with parted lips and eyes wide with disbelief.
Golden light—reserved for those who transcended mere devotion.
It was a rare boon from the God of Light, a sign that only the most sincere prayers had been heard and answered.
The bishop's eyes filled with unshed tears, hands trembling as he laid them upon Alastor's narrow shoulders. "It seems the Father has forgiven you, Yeshua," he whispered, his voice breaking with relief. "The Zayda Empire shall have its protector."
Alastor's expression remained serene, his mind still wrapped in the haze of hypnotised zeal. He offered a small, humble smile as the bishop's blessings echoed in the hall.
The bishop patted the boy's thin shoulder, said some words of encouragement, and then slowly walked out of the main hall.
At his age, no amount of prayer is useless, and the old body can no longer bear any more strength. The future is for young people.
As the bishop's figure disappeared down the shadowed corridors, Alastor slowly turned his gaze back to the towering statue of the God of Light, whose face bore an expression of otherworldly serenity, carved with the finest skill to capture the wisdom of eternity.
For a moment, Alastor felt as if those unseeing eyes gazed directly into him, stripping him bare.
His heart surged, and his lips trembled as he lowered himself, crossing the expanse of the hall with an almost reverent grace.
With a reverence born of his newly awakened devotion, he circled the long altar, his footsteps barely audible against the cool marble.
Kneeling, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to the stone feet of the statue, feeling a thrill course through him as if he were touching something sacred, something infinite.
"Father, you will never know how much I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible, but carried by a fervour that seemed to permeate the air around him.
Alastor retreated to the back of the long table, sinking to his knees. He clasped his hands tightly, his fingers interwoven as though to bind himself irrevocably to the God of Light.
He could feel his love spilling from him, an aching, all-consuming devotion that went beyond simple duty.
At this moment, he was not Alastor the sorcerer, nor Yeshua the priest—he was simply a soul lost in the boundless reverence for a god who, perhaps, would never look his way.
The art of prayer was a mystery among the priests; each prayer was a unique act of devotion, crafted by the individual alone.
There were no formalized texts, no scripted words to guide him. Each priest poured their heart into their own words, hoping to reach the heart of the Father with sincerity and depth. A
In Alastor's heart, words rose unbidden, filling him like a wellspring of light, almost as though his soul itself had crafted this prayer ages before, waiting for this moment to be spoken.
His voice was a soft murmur, rising and falling like the melody of a forgotten hymn:
"My Father, thank you for raising me, for choosing me, for testing me.
Let me be your most faithful servant, bearer of your boundless light.
Your omnipotence calls to me; your kindness sustains me.
You have lifted me from darkness, guided me from confusion, blessed me beyond my worth.
I am but a small thing before you, unworthy of your infinite care,
Yet here I am, kneeling, begging you to test me, to shape me, to break me.
Let me never forget my love for you, even if it is but a single drop in your vast ocean.
My soul is yours, a humble offering. Please accept it,
And should you gaze upon it, may you see the simple, unwavering love within.
That is all I desire—the greatest happiness of my life.
Father God, see me,
Father God, hear me,
Father God, use me,
Father God, crush me, if only to draw closer to you.
But if by chance you hear this plea now,
Show me mercy, let this body remain. For in loving you, I find myself weakened,
And I want nothing more than to serve and love you forever."
The sound of his prayer filled the vast emptiness of the hall, an echo that seemed to ripple through the air, lingering as though the words themselves carried a weight beyond the earthly.
The reverberations softened, each syllable hanging in the silence like precious droplets suspended in midair.
His voice was like the chime of pure crystal, ringing through the hall with clarity and grace, as if each word had been crafted to perfection.
The prayer was delicate yet powerful, like jade meeting metal, gentle but resonant, like a stream cascading over rocks, each note a soft patter in the air.
It was like the petals of morning blooms, brushed with dew, unfolding under a soft dawn; like a breeze stirring the tops of trees, caressing leaves and hair with tender warmth.
Soothing, soft, and timeless, Alastor's prayer lingered in the hall, touching even the unseen, intangible spaces as though leaving an indelible mark on the stones themselves.
And for a fleeting moment, Alastor felt the air shift, a warm subtle but present—that surrounded him as if something had answered, unseen but watching.