This is no longer an ordinary interest, but a nostalgic love. The envoy froze in his heart, and quickly replied with a smile, "Very cute. My subordinates have never seen such a lovely young man, and I am afraid that none of the servants in the temple can compare with him."
The corner of the God of Light's slightly raised mouth tightened into a harsh, unwavering line.
His dark golden eyes, gleaming with a sharp, divine intensity, swept over the room, silencing even the whispers of the eternal wind that breezed through the celestial hall. His gaze, colder than the void of night, fixed on the trembling figure of the envoy.
The divine envoy being immediately dropped to his knees, arms quivering as he prostrated himself low against the glistening, marble-like floor.
His silken robes, embroidered with intricate silver patterns that sparkled like stardust, fanned around him as he whispered his plea for forgiveness.
"How could those lowly, mortal servants ever be compared to my cherished child?" The God of Light's voice was a deep, resonant baritone that seemed to echo endlessly in the chamber.
It was both beautiful and terrifying, filled with an undercurrent of unwavering authority. Without a moment's hesitation, he cradled the little dough figure against his chest, the warmth of his divine power emanating from him like a subtle, golden glow.
With a casual flick of his sleeve, imbued with celestial light, he cast a silent spell that sealed the envoy's lips and robbed him of speech.
The envoy, although unable to voice his thoughts, felt a wave of profound relief wash over him.
In the presence of such divine wrath, survival alone was a blessing. Stories of gods who dared defy the Father and were reduced to ashes played vividly in his mind.
That he remained alive, even if muted, was an extraordinary stroke of fortune. Yet, his heart drummed with curiosity and unease.
The depth of God the Father's affection for this priest far surpassed anything he had witnessed in the celestial hierarchy.
A tremor ran through him as he pondered the consequences—what gifts, even a godhead, might the Father bestow upon this favoured mortal?
Meanwhile, on the mortal plane, Alastor paced frantically through the sacred halls, his robes trailing like wisps of smoke behind him. His hair glistened under the light of the tall stained-glass windows, catching flashes of brilliant colours as he moved.
Each step echoed with tension as he searched for the missing offerings. His expression, usually calm and collected when dealing with worldly matters, now twisted with frustration and worry.
His search was abruptly interrupted as a commotion swept through the hall. The sound of armored boots and the rustling of ceremonial garments heralded the arrival of the bishop, the vice bishop, and a contingent of warriors dressed in their gleaming, battle-hardened armor.
The warriors' hands rested uneasily on the hilts of their swords, each of them crackling with barely contained holy energy.
The bishop's wrinkled, sagely face bore an unreadable expression, his dark eyes assessing Alastor with a peculiar mix of suspicion and regret.
His ceremonial robes, white and embroidered with golden runes of protection, seemed to shimmer ominously in the candlelight.
Behind him, the vice bishop, a sharp-featured man whose eyes glistened with ambition, stepped forward, a cunning smirk flickering at the corners of his mouth.
The vice bishop's voice was stern and accusatory, cutting through the silence like a dagger. "A report came from the attendants that the rose bushes you picked have been blighted, corroded by demonic energy. Where there is demonic energy, there are monsters.
And monsters, as you know, may parasitize any being, even priests of light. We are here to ensure you prove your innocence."
Alastor's eyes, a stormy mix of silver and pale blue, narrowed as he sized up the group before him. The muscles in his jaw tightened, but his expression remained serene, calculating. Despite the mounting tension, a quiet confidence radiated from him.
Alastor only short-circuited his mind when he was facing God the Father and matters related to it, but he was able to deal with others with ease, and asked calmly
"And who among you has proven your own innocence, my lords?" His voice was steady, each word a needlepoint of subtle defiance. "Monsters are indeed cunning, often using deception to pit allies against one another. Wouldn't they delight in sowing suspicion within the sacred halls?"
The bishop, visibly taken aback by the pointed question, hesitated. His deep-set eyes softened with a flicker of doubt, but he quickly masked it with a placid expression.
He held out a porcelain bottle, its delicate surface almost translucent and painted with runes of purification. The holy water inside shimmered, infused with an ethereal light that seemed to pulse gently, like a heartbeat.
"We have all partaken of the holy waters," the bishop said, his voice softer now, as if coaxing a child. "Here, son. Drink it, and all doubt will be dispelled."
Alastor stared at the bottle, its pristine surface catching the light as it was extended toward him. The air in the hall grew taut, pregnant with suspense.
The warriors shifted on their feet, their expressions unreadable behind their helmets, but the tension in their stances betrayed their readiness for anything that might unfold.
The holy water, known for its purity and divine properties, would reveal any parasite hidden within a body.
For the unfortunate soul infested by darkness, drinking it meant agony, flesh cracking and weeping as demonic energy was forced out.
It is a rare killer that can directly fight monsters. However, holy water needs to be cultivated with the purest power of light for a hundred years, so that it can change from transparent colour to brilliant gold to take effect.
It is a very precious treasure for the Holy See, where the priests of light are getting rarer and weaker and the power is getting weaker and weaker.
The bishop only kept three bottles in total, which he planned to leave to the royal family, but now he has to use them.
Priests of light are the key to ensuring an empire's victory in the war of darkness, especially since there are only three priests of light in the Zayda Empire, which cannot withstand wear and tear.
Alastor pursed his lips and was about to reach out to pick up the porcelain bottle, but the bishop's attendant stumbled and fell on top of him, his arm smashed hard on the back of his hand, causing the porcelain bottle to fall and shatter, and the golden liquid seeped through the cracks in the floor Dirt, no longer to be found.