Chapter 73
In front of the attending servants, the still-virginal pair parted without engaging in any act beyond that.
“You are truly a beautiful person.”
“I wanted everyone to see you together. It will bring peace of mind. No one will doubt that divine favor has descended upon our territory.”
“Such… you flatter me.”
As he walked down the corridor after seeing Daphne off, the servants praised Theogrim in tones full of kindness. The young man’s clear face flushed with embarrassment.
“Daphne is a beautiful lady. She’s far too good for someone like me.”
The surrounding attendants chuckled quietly at his shyly reddened cheeks. It was the reaction they had hoped for, and this pure, devout young man had never once betrayed their expectations.
Would they ever again be able to serve someone as pure-hearted and humble as Del Rose?
There was no doubt—they loved Theogrim.
“The prayer will begin in the Grand Assembly Hall in one hour.”
“I’ll change into formal robes. Thank you, all of you.”
Dismissing the attendants with courteous words, Theogrim entered his room. Unlike Ragnar’s, Theogrim’s room was composed entirely in clean white, matching the white ceremonial garments he always wore.
Theogrim slowly walked across his empty room.
The smile slowly faded from his face.
He raised his hand and began to remove his clothing, as if trying to strip his skin of the refined fragrance that had transferred from Daphne’s garments.
Once he had removed his ceremonial robe, only a rustling white shirt remained. After a moment of hesitation, he slowly began to undo the buttons.
The sight of Theogrim’s white, well-groomed fingers undoing the golden buttons engraved with the teachings of Impellias was strangely ominous.
Eventually, the white fabric slipped down from his well-balanced frame.
“……”
Theogrim stepped toward the mirror.
A body that looked as if it had been carved by an artist striving for idealized beauty was revealed. Del Rose’s body was sculpted neither excessively nor insufficiently. He was the face and product of Impellias.
Unlike Ragnar’s body, which was like a weapon meant for real combat, Theogrim’s muscles were delicately formed without a single excessive bulge—like a sculpture created purely in pursuit of beauty. And yet, there was not a trace of weakness. Naturally so—being able to shape one’s body with such control had nothing to do with weakness.
Rustle—his loose shirt slipped down from his arms. A gruesome scar was exposed across Theogrim’s back.
“……”
He looked at the deeply carved scar on his back with an emotionless expression.
“Endure.”
When those words were spoken, Ragnar’s face had looked just as inhuman as his own. He had appeared devoid of human emotion. Theogrim understood that this absence only elevated Ragnar further—into a godlike existence.
“Only beyond this pain will you stand before God.”
Theogrim hated Ragnar, but he had never once mocked his words.
It was because he had seen the scar Ragnar had personally revealed to Theogrim on the first day.
Ragnar was someone who had endured all that pain. And now, he had transcended the suffering and sensations of the physical body.
Theogrim hated Impellias, but he did not deny the existence of God. He detested these bizarre rituals, yet at the same time, he envied Ragnar’s superhuman body.
Theogrim knew.
God existed.
Theogrim had met God directly. And that God had led him here.
He recalled the terrible hunger and pain he had once experienced. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment. No matter how much time passed, the agony of starvation could never be erased.
That was why Theogrim truly wished to be free from all the pain engraved on his body.
He slowly examined his bare body, then finally lifted his gaze. What his eyes met was his face. A face praised by all, revered as the visage of an angel—he stared at it like an object.
Devoid of all expression, the face looked all the more like an unreal statue.
As he turned his head slightly, a scar on the side of his face came into view. Theogrim lifted a hand and traced the only flaw on his otherwise perfect face.
It was the scar that had made Arzeletta an eternal sinner.
Theogrim smiled.
It was laughable—that Impellias, which pursued perfection and considered scars unclean, engraved wounds on the body in the name of God.
The body he had dedicated to God was no different from Arzeletta’s back, whose wings had been broken for him.
The touch of his hand tracing the wound near his eye was gentle. Unlike the coldness he had shown when inspecting his appearance.
This scar was testimony.
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