Chapter 21
“Your Highness, the match rate between the two of you cannot be measured.”
Linder’s gaze was thrown past Sylaria. She, too, turned her head to follow the High Priest’s line of sight.
‘What is that?’
Sylaria doubted her own eyes. Where the waterfall had once flowed, streams of water were now endlessly surging upward.
Endlessly.
The water that rose would fall with nowhere to go, only to surge upward again. This cycle repeated over and over, blurring the surroundings into a mist.
In the abruptly formed water vapor, Linder’s pale gray eyes widened.
“How… can this be. O, Almighty God…”
“Linder. Explain yourself. What do you mean the match rate cannot be measured?”
Seeing the High Priest so flustered, Euclid, still holding Sylaria, pressed him for an answer. At that, Linder’s throat bobbed up and down.
“The match rate between the two of you is… far too high. It is an unmeasurable figure.”
As the High Priest explained, Euclid’s arms, still holding Sylaria, tightened. His body, woven of solid muscle, tensed.
“That’s good.”
In the midst of the confusion as holy water scattered everywhere, a deep, resonant man’s voice pierced Sylaria’s ear.
It’s alright.
You can relax.
In that moment, strength left her legs.
“Ah…!”
No sooner had Sylaria let out a small cry than Euclid grasped her slender waist.
He slid a hand behind her knees and lifted her up. Still holding her, he addressed the still-stunned Linder.
“What are you doing.”
“Yes?”
“Prepare the certificate immediately. If there is nothing else to verify.”
“Understood, Your Highness!”
At the firm command, Linder came to his senses and hurried out. Until the sound of his busy footsteps had faded into the distance, Euclid continued to hold Sylaria in his arms.
* * *
“…Please, put me down now.”
Before they knew it, the surging streams had calmed, and the holy water droplets falling through the air had subsided. As if the strange phenomenon had never occurred, the holy water and the crystal orb both grew quiet.
“Euclid?”
Even though things had settled, Euclid was still holding Sylaria. Feeling awkward, she fidgeted with her toes for no reason.
Both of them were thoroughly soaked from the holy water rain.
Euclid’s dress uniform and Sylaria’s gown both clung to their bodies, drenched.
‘It’s so hot…’
Because of this, Sylaria could distinctly feel the sensation of Euclid’s broad, solid chest.
Euclid’s heart, silent as he stood there, thudded heavily. The hands holding her behind her knees and around her waist gripped her tightly.
That much was alright.
But then.
‘Why… does it feel so strange?’
Flustered, Sylaria bit her lip. She had been plagued by a foreign sensation for a while now.
Where her slender legs began, stretching up to her lower abdomen. Deep inside, it was unbearably hot.
It wasn’t just heat. It was ticklish, restless. Even her breaths came out thick and heavy, and simply staying still felt torturous.
‘No way.’
No way, could this be that?
Half in disbelief, Sylaria gently grabbed Euclid’s forearm. At that, the silent man flinched.
At the same time, the slow-burning warmth inside her flared even hotter.
Realizing her guess was correct, Sylaria’s cheeks burned with heat.
‘Oh my God.’
Synchronization of sensation.
It is not merely pain that is shared between a Holy Knight and a Purifier. Quite literally, every sensation is transmitted.
Which meant, right now, Sylaria’s body was… aroused…
“You noticed?”
A deep voice resonated from the body Sylaria leaned against. When she lifted her head slightly, she saw Euclid smiling wryly, as if troubled.
“So, there is a downside to too high a match rate.”
“What do you mean…”
“Are you going to play dumb?”
Euclid carefully set Sylaria down as she tried to avert her eyes. As he tidied her hair, disheveled by the holy water, he said,
“What I’m feeling.”
“……”
“You’re feeling it too, aren’t you.”
The man’s hand, which had been tucking her wet hair behind her ear, slowly moved to her flushed cheek.
Euclid stroked Sylaria’s cheek with his thumb as if handling a porcelain doll.
His blue eyes, fixed on her, darkened into a deep indigo, tinged with burning desire.
“Sylaria.”
Euclid’s hand traced Sylaria’s jawline, then down her slender neck to the collarbone where her necklace rested.
Hooking a finger through the fine chain of the magic stone necklace, he spoke in a heavily restrained voice.
“You are my only Purifier. The one I have waited for all my life. My Purifier.”
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