From his celestial throne, the God of Light narrowed his dark golden eyes, the corners crinkling slightly as he watched the boy's every movement with a sharp, attentive gaze.
'Yeshua' he thought, letting the name roll through his mind, tasting its syllables as if savouring an exotic delicacy. Such a lovely name, fitting for one whose loyalty could touch even the coldest of hearts.
The boy's promise resonated, echoing in the vast expanse of the heavens. 'Live only for God the Father?' Even the declaration sounded precious, each word dripping with sincerity.
The god's lips quirked into a subtle smile, an expression of intrigue mingled with something deeper. His eyes drifted down, fixating on his own feet as his thoughts wandered into realms that were both tantalising and forbidden.
He wondered, with a rush of heat, how it would feel to have the boy kneel at his side, arms entwined around him, face pressed lovingly to his lap—not a statue, but him, warm and alive.
Beside him, the divine envoy stood motionless, his head bowed in practiced subservience. Although he could only see the soft, radiant light emanating from the water mirror, the change in Father God's energy was palpable.
The envoy's pale skin grew taut with tension, his sharp, angelic features furrowing slightly as he risked a glance upward. Whatever, or whoever, had managed to stir such profound emotions in the God of Light was nothing short of miraculous.
In his long, immortal existence, spanning countless ages, no one had ever pacified the god's brewing storm so swiftly.
Curiosity gnawed at the envoy's mind. What kind of mortal could inspire such fixation? What face, what soul, had captivated the attention of a being whose affections were as distant as the stars themselves?
His gaze flickered with questions, each more daring than the last. 'What does a person who makes God the Father care so much look like? Shall we bring him to the temple?'
But the thought was fleeting. The envoy dared not speak it aloud, nor even hold it too firmly in his mind.
Instead, he signaled discreetly, dismissing the group of youthful attendants who had gone rigid with the realisation that the god's focus was no longer theirs.
They departed with silent steps, glancing back only briefly before being swallowed by the expansive, sunlit corridors beyond.
Alastor made a full day of repentance and confession, the weight of guilt pressing on him like a shroud, and finally returned to the dormitory as the sun sank below the horizon.
The sky was ablaze with warm hues of orange and violet, their fading light casting a soft glow across the stone halls.
His steps were quick and uneven, the echo of his boots ringing out in the empty corridor.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door with a creak and rushed into the small, sparse bathroom. The stone tiles were cool beneath his feet, and the air smelled faintly of soap and dampness.
Without a moment's pause, he leaped into the deep marble tub with a thud, the cold water splashing over the edges and soaking the floor.
Alastor's fists pounded the water, sending up furious sprays that caught the last rays of sunlight and shattered them into shimmering fragments.
Droplets glistened like liquid jewels before they fell, wetting his hair and face, clinging to his dark lashes.
"Damn," he hissed, chest heaving. The water rippled in protest as he clenched his jaw, muscles in his arms straining with barely contained frustration.
His voice, hoarse and edged with desperation, echoed off the stone walls. "I almost committed suicide by hitting a pillar in shame! What a brain-dead spirit!"
He barked a bitter laugh, the sound scraping his throat like gravel. The laughter faded, leaving silence punctuated only by the sound of dripping water.
His hands, now red from striking the surface, fell to his sides, trembling.
Memories of the day flashed behind his eyes like a storm, each one sharp and stinging.
The feeling of fervour that had overtaken him, so intense and consuming, made him wince. 'No wonder those who believe in cults are willing to perform cesarean sections or self-immolation for their gods. Now I can finally understand!' he muttered darkly, the absurdity of his devotion twisting into a knot in his chest.
The stubborn fan left, so did the fog that had clouded his mind. Rational Alastor returned, shaking his head as if to dislodge the remnants of zeal.
He dragged himself to the edge of the pool, water streaming down his bare arms and soaking into his tunic.
Squatting there, he dug his fingers into his wet hair, tugging until it hurt, baring his teeth in an expression caught between a grimace and a grin.
His reflection wavered in the water, eyes wide and haunted. He snorted, a mirthless sound, and then pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle the sudden, frustrated laugh that bubbled up.
Above, in the realm beyond mortal sight, the God of Light observed all with an amused, almost indulgent gaze.
Initially, he had only answered the little believer's prayers through the mystical Shuijing, listening to the boy's sweet, unguarded confessions and declarations.
But what started as mere curiosity had grown into something deeper, a fascination that defied even his understanding.
The hall where the God of Light resided was an expanse of gleaming marble and gold filigree, surrounded by arching windows that let in beams of pure, white light.
He sat on a grand throne, his robes flowing like molten sunlight around him, eyes as deep and watchful as the boundless sky.
As time passed, he found himself lingering longer before the water mirror, captivated by every gesture, every whispered word of his devoted follower.
The room around him, filled with celestial splendor, faded into the periphery as his focus zeroed in on the boy who unknowingly held his attention.
He recalled Yeshua's routine: the way he would kneel on the cold stone floor, head bowed, hands clasped tightly, and speak to the heavens with an unwavering voice.
The purity in his prayers, untainted by hidden desires or ambitions, was like a beacon to the god.
When Yeshua returned to his room, however, another side emerged. There was something raw and conflicted in the boy, a spark of defiance and stubbornness that contrasted beautifully with the gentle reverence he showed in prayer.
The God of Light's lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile as he watched Alastor's current turmoil.
He had seen many souls—dark, twisted things that gleamed with the poison of their own ambitions.
Even the so-called Pope with the most powerful force of light is nothing but a toy he plays with in his spare time.
He admires the Pope's ambition. As a priest of light, there is so much darkness in his heart that is more corrosive than demonic energy. It gave him a sense of pleasure in finding his own kind.
He didn't mind holding him and wanted to see what he would bring to this continent, whether it was destruction or new life.
Because he didn't know what to do with this continent. He felt bored and sometimes wanted to destroy, but at the most critical time, he restrained. He has a faint feeling that this world hides a valuable treasure.
He must get that treasure, so the continent and the creatures on the continent still need to exist.
After hundreds of millions of years, all he saw was the fickleness and selfishness of human nature, and even the so-called gods had ulterior motives and fought with each other. How can a truly pure person, a pure white soul, exist?
But look at what he found, the souls of his little believers are pure bright white, interspersed with golden streamers that only the God of Light can have. So beautiful, so dazzling, so lovely.
He just couldn't get enough of it.
To the God of Light, humanity was predictable, a game of desires and betrayals that he played with disinterest. Until now.
Alastor's soul was something entirely different: a bright, pure white, flecked with golden threads that mirrored the divine essence only he possessed.
It was a sight so radiant, so captivating, that he could not look away.
Even the playful tug-of-war between reason and fervour that played out in the boy's mind fascinated him.
Watching Alastor shift from deep, tearful piety to moments of sharp self-awareness provided the god with a kind of thrill that centuries of existence had not afforded.
He would smile to himself whenever Alastor prayed in the dead of night, serious eyes staring into the darkness as if he could see him.
That expression was a secret shared between them, even if the boy never knew it.
The God of Light's heart, once an untouchable sphere of luminescence, tightened with a feeling he could not name.
As the last rays of sunlight flickered and died, leaving the dormitory dim and shadowed, the god exhaled a sigh.
His hand lifted from the armrest of his throne, fingers moving as if to trace the outline of the boy's silhouette through the mirror, an act of reverence that belied the distance between them.
His mind wandered, envisioning what it would be like to hold that fervent believer not as a distant deity but with tangible closeness.
What would it feel like if that tear-streaked face looked up at him, full of unwavering devotion? The thought burned, and for a moment, the god's eyes, dark golden and knowing, glimmered with an emotion as mortal as the boy he watched.