Alastor bared his teeth and gave the water an exaggerated wink before smacking the surface with a splash that sent droplets scattering like tiny, gleaming stars.
The ripples mirrored his wide-eyed expression, as full of mischief and life as a playful sprite. For a moment, his frustration evaporated in the wake of his childish antics, and he looked more like a boy in the throes of innocent rebellion than a devoted disciple burdened by divine expectations.
The sharp edge of seriousness faded from his features, replaced by a brief, glimmering joy that spoke to his true age.
Sixteen—an age barely out of infancy in the eyes of the gods, a fleeting moment that should have been filled with carefree days and boundless wonder.
The weight of devotion, of divine servitude, settled on him too soon, shackling his youth and pressing him into the mold of piety far before its time.
The rules of the Light God Sect were like iron bands, wound tightly around him, robbing him of the playful spirit that surfaced in moments like these. Bound by ritual, he had long since been taught to suppress every wayward impulse, to stand straight and speak only words of reverence. But here, with only the water to witness his moment of rebellion, he allowed himself the luxury of a fleeting, childish smile.
Above, peering through the shimmering surface of the water mirror, the God of Light watched intently, his gaze softening as he took in the boy's expressions.
The god's pale, perfect hand hovered above the mirror, as if to reach through it and touch the face that now wore a fleeting pout.
His fingers traced the air just above the boy's lips, an imitation of a caress, and a small, wistful smile curved his mouth.
There was a tenderness there that had not been seen for millennia, an emotion he barely recognized yet did not wish to name.
The God of Light leaned back in his throne, an imposing structure carved from luminous crystal, and sipped from the slender stem of a crystal goblet.
His eyes, dark gold with flecks of light that shimmered like molten sun, never wavered from the image in the mirror.
Every movement of the boy, every shift of expression, was precious—like witnessing the tender growth of a rare flower amid a wasteland.
He watched as the young believer fell into an exhausted slumber, his hair still damp and sticking in dark tendrils against his flushed cheeks.
Alastor's chest rose and fell in a rhythmic lull, the hard lines of worry eased from his youthful features.
The god lifted his free hand, a faint golden glow pulsing at his fingertips, and sent a wave of warmth through the air. The divine energy touched Alastor's damp hair, drying it instantly and leaving it soft and fragrant as if kissed by sunlight.
Yet, the god did not dissolve the water mirror as he usually did. Instead, he lingered, eyes following the subtle movements of Alastor's breathing.
The cup pressed lightly to his lips as he watched, savoring the vision of his little believer, whose devotion was unlike any he had known. His heart stirred with an unbidden warmth, a feeling that bordered on possessiveness.
As the first light of dawn spilled into the dormitory, Alastor woke, his gaze steady and serious as the mask of devotion slipped back into place.
The playful child of the night was gone, replaced by the devout follower of the day. He stood, donning the robes that marked his status, the pale fabric catching the early morning glow.
He walked through the hallowed halls of the temple, each step echoing with a quiet determination.
The cool air carried the faint scent of incense, mingling with the earthy fragrance of fresh flowers that lined the long marble corridor. Ahead, he saw a maid carefully lifting the offerings from the altar—a task she performed with practiced precision, her hands deft but indifferent.
The altar was an intricate masterpiece of stone and gold, its surface polished to a reflective sheen. The offerings laid upon it—delicate blooms, simple cakes, ripe fruit—seemed to glow with a soft, supernatural light, their presence sustained by divine power.
Yet, Alastor's eyes, sharpened by newfound fervor, saw this simple ritual as his duty, not theirs. A shiver of indignation coursed through him, quickening his heartbeat.
"Stop," he said, his voice firm and unyielding. The maid looked up, startled, her eyes widening at the intensity in his tone.
Without waiting for a response, Alastor knelt before the altar, the hard marble bruising his knees, and bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the stone.
"Father, forgive me," he whispered, the words thick with guilt and resolve. "How could I be so careless as to allow others to serve you? These offerings should be from my hands alone, every gesture an act of devotion. Only through this can I offer my body and soul as sacrifices worthy of your divine gaze."
The maids exchanged uncertain glances but knew better than to argue. Alastor rose, dismissing them with a flick of his wrist.
His hands trembled slightly as he gathered the offerings into a woven basket, the weight both a burden and a privilege. The flowers' delicate petals brushed against his skin, their subtle fragrance rising to his senses as he carried them out, determination etched into every line of his face.
This, he knew, was a mere fraction of what he must do. There was a restlessness within him, a relentless drive that whispered of greater sacrifices and acts of service.
When he found a way to eliminate the system conscience, he took full control of the system but he needed energy to make it useful and there wasn't much energy left in the system so Alastor always saved the remaining energy for emergencies.
When he first came to this world, Alastor used a system to add all the quality points of his body to the light attribute but his physical strength was not great.
When he stepped out of the threshold, the weight of the heavy basket tugged harshly at his arm. Its uneven load shifted, sending Alastor off-balance.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath him, and in a split second, he found himself toppling sideways. His heart lurched, a cold shock racing through him as he registered the solid, unforgiving stone doorpost rushing toward his head.
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the jarring impact and the sharp sting of pain that would surely follow.
The moment stretched, the sound of his breath ragged and fast in his ears. But instead of a sickening thud and a burst of agony, a warm, gentle sensation met his forehead—a presence, tender and protective, like a hand cradling him mid-fall.
A soft golden light enveloped him, its radiance like liquid sunlight that seemed to seep into his skin, dissolving the tension in his muscles.
The God of Light had been lost in thought, replaying Alastor's words over and over: "I took the initiative to put my body and soul on the altar for my Father to enjoy." The sentiment had stirred something deep within him, a mix of delight and curiosity that bordered on longing.
After returning to his senses, he saw such a dangerous scene, he had barely realized what had happened before his divine power reacted on instinct.
There was a loud bang as Alastor's body met the threshold, though the impact was cushioned by the divine force.
The noise echoed through the temple halls, sending tiny motes of dust cascading from the intricately carved stone frame above.
The maids stationed nearby flinched, their eyes wide and anxious as they exchanged quick, panicked glances.
One of them gasped, dropping the bundle of folded linen she held. The sound of fabric rustling against marble was lost beneath the sharper noise reverberating through the temple.
When the initial shock subsided, they rushed forward, their skirts fluttering like wings as they hurried to the young priest's side.
Faces pale, they expected to find him crumpled and bleeding, a grievous injury painted across his brow.
But Alastor had already pushed himself to his feet, his movement awkward and sluggish, as if wading through a fog.
He stood tall, eyes wide and filled with an emotion that teetered between awe and confusion. His fingers reached up tentatively, brushing his unblemished forehead.
There was no trace of pain, no sharp throb or warm, sticky blood. Instead, his skin felt warm, almost as if a breath of summer sunlight had kissed it gently.
It was as if some invisible barrier had intervened, turning the cruel stone into a soft, protective cushion.
"Priest Alastor!" One maid's voice cracked with concern as she took a step closer, hesitating when she saw his bewildered expression.
"It's... nothing," Alastor muttered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He straightened, the heavy basket shifting against his hip.
The warmth on his forehead lingered, a ghostly touch that left him unsettled. He glanced back at the doorpost, its carved surface stern and unyielding.
It bore no signs of change; it was as hard and cold as ever, but the phantom of divine power that shielded him still thrummed beneath his skin, alive and present.
The maids exchanged looks, puzzled but relieved, as Alastor gave a slight nod of reassurance. He waved them away, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightened his grip on the basket.
The golden glow that had protected him seemed to pulse one last time before fading, a reminder that the eyes of his god were ever watchful.
Still dazed, Alastor turned on his heel and walked away, his steps slow and uneven as if every stride was weighed down by questions that had no answers.
The warmth that had saved him clung to him like an embrace, stirring a mix of gratitude and an inexplicable yearning that set his heart racing.