The curtain was lifted again. The captain’s wife held a small oil lamp and whispered, “Lord Brody, Lord Azukar, the night wind is quite chilly—and constables are patrolling nearby. Why don’t you two come inside?”
“…Please, just call me Professor.”
Nova gave her a slight nod and ducked into the cramped shack.
The medicine was ready-cooked. The captain carefully scooped out a bowl and fed it to his granddaughter, bit by bit. Soon, although still unconscious, the girl’s breathing became noticeably steadier, and her fever began to subside.
The old woman bustled about, searching the house for food and clothes, only to come up with a pile of worn-out scraps. Rubbing her waist awkwardly, she murmured with shame, “Those people smashed up nearly everything… as you can see, there’s nothing left to eat or sleep with…”
Suddenly, she stood up, preparing to leave. “I’ll go borrow some from the neighbors—”
“No need.” The dark-haired youth stopped her, frowning. His tone sounded stern, and the old woman instinctively shrank back. Nova forced himself to soften his voice. “We ate on the ship earlier. Don’t trouble yourself.”
Quickly, the Divine Chosen soon stepped in and exchanged his job. That handsome, gentle face can put anyone at ease. “We brought clothes as well. One night won’t be a problem—don’t worry, I’ll take good care of the Professor.”
And he meant it—he dug out two thin blankets from their luggage, and laid out his cloak in a corner to insulate against the damp floorboards. The captain and his wife even tried to let them use the only bed, but Nova immediately refused—no grown man could bring himself to compete with a sick little girl for a place to sleep.
The night at the harbor was indeed chilly, but his sense of smell had long since gone numb. The captain and his wife had probably fallen asleep in another corner. Nova wrapped himself tightly in his blanket, trying to lull himself to sleep—but just as he began to doze off, someone gently nudged his shoulder.
He opened his eyes, frowning, only to see the Divine Chosen squatting in front of him with a bowl of foul-smelling, horrifying, fishy medicine—smiling in a way that felt so damn familiar.
Nova: “…”
“Professor, you should have a bowl too,” the other said softly, in the Natalin tongue.
“…I believe I haven’t passed out?” the dark-haired youth replied, brows deeply furrowed in resistance.
“You can’t feel it? You’re running a low fever.” Azukar reached out and touched his forehead. Perhaps due to fatigue or drowsiness, Nova seemed a bit slow to react—only after a moment did he shy away, half burying his head in the blanket.
The days of maritime hardship and mental strain had clearly pushed the Professor too far—now that he’d finally settled down, his body immediately began to rebel.
The Savior hauled his rival upright, pressing the remedy to the man’s lips with unarguable finality. “Please don’t act coquettish. If this continues, you’ll definitely spike a fever tomorrow.”
The Divine Chosen was giving him that disapproving look again. Nova thought that not even the parents in either of his worlds had ever managed him like this. Ugh, the smell—so disgusting. And what had he said just now? “coquettish”? What kind of stupid word was that? Is this guy going mad again…?
“Professor?” Azukar lowered his voice even more.
Wrapped in his blanket, eyes half-lidded in a daze, the figure finally moved. He took the bowl himself and obediently drank it down in one gulp—Azukar noted that the man even wore gloves while sleeping. Who would’ve thought that a professor who could wrangle bugs and pluck dragon fur by hand had such a strong aversion to filth?
“I’m very tired. Please shut up.”
Before Azukar could say anything else, the other had tossed the bowl aside, rolled over tightly wrapped in his blanket, and stiffly muttered a “Good night,” his back now facing him.
The going mad Savior: “…”
“All right. Good night.”
He sighed, adjusted his own blanket, and layed down beside the man. He had often slept close to others before—friends, kin—but for some reason, he couldn’t fall asleep tonight. In the darkness, fragments of memory drifted through his mind—scenes from his past life, scenes from the manga, from the present day. His friends, his family… and his rival. His mysterious rival…
Those memories, sweet or bitter, simmered and tumbled in his mind. He was just about to fall asleep when the movements of the person beside him roused him again.
“…Professor?”
Azukar whispered. By the dim light slipping through the gaps in the wooden boards, he saw the dark-haired youth curled up tightly in a fetal position, his blanket tossed aside.
His brows were furrowed, eyes tightly shut, a weak groan escaping his throat. One hand gripped his shoulder and neck as though he wanted to claw something out—like he was trying to tear free some deep inner anguish. But with the gloves still on, his fingers could only slip down weakly, without purchase.
Azukar quickly cast a wind barrier around the two of them—a faint yet unshakably firm current that didn’t even stir the dust between the floorboards.
He gently nudged the man and whispered his name a few times. When there was no response, he saw that the other only curled in on himself further, as if trying to hide, the exposed nape of his neck showing every bony ridge of his spine.
The Divine Chosen fell silent for a moment, his blue eyes especially dark and deep under the shadowed night.
Then finally, he reached out and gently pulled the trembling form into his arms, carefully patting the man’s back in slow, comforting strokes.
It seemed to help, at least a little.
The Savior quietly stared up at the soot-stained ceiling above, the wind around them soft enough to muffle every outside noise.
Only the sound of two heartbeats remained—one steady and calm, the other erratic and panicked.
But little by little, the trembling—like that of a wounded animal—began to ease within his arms, and the furrow in the other man’s brow relaxed ever so slightly.
The one-sided dialogue between savior and villain had once consisted of nothing more than a letter, delivered regularly to his bedside, without so much as a name at the end.
That man had once existed solely in scattered words and phrases, lurking within turns of phrase and formal syntax, hidden within the fearful, reverent gazes of others.
He had been an ominous nightmare—a being of rage, sorrow, and humiliation; a god who interrogated his very origin; a barren and frozen moon.
And now, his nemesis was so thin, fragile, and within arm’s reach, so vulnerable it seemed he might die at any moment, with only the faint warmth of his soul offering any reassurance against Azukar’s chest——and a soul could never be faked or altered， that gentle warmth had once poured out beneath his blade. Back then, he hadn’t even grasped the price clearly marked upon it.
Azukar picked up the discarded blanket nearby and carefully wrapped it back around the man.The other’s breathing had finally grown calm, fingers now resting lightly against the crook of his arm. It was only when his brow eased and eyes closed that one would realize—this black-haired man was undeniably handsome. He always carried a paranoid, eccentric aloofness, as if detached from a separate, untouchable world，yet in the quiet slope of his closed eyes, there was something oddly childlike, something pure and innocent.
He should let go now—the other’s mysterious ailment had passed.
It was inappropriate to keep hugging someone like this, touching on boundaries of propriety and personal space—But he didn’t.
He simply continued hugging his nemesis—his unsolvable riddle, his…professor, until dawn slipped through the broken doorway and cut the sleeping man’s face into light and shadow.
…
When Nova opened his eyes again, daylight had already flooded the room. He’d expected to wake up sore and groggy, but surprisingly, he felt fine—aside from the slight numbness in his limbs, his mind was unusually clear.
Azukar was packing their things. Upon noticing that Nova was awake, he offered a bright and gentle smile.
“Good morning, Professor,” the Divine Chosen said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“…Good morning. It was fine.” Nova looked away expressionless.
The captain and his wife were busy—one cooking fish, the other mending fishing nets. Little Marsha was awake, sitting on the bed, staring timidly and curiously at the two unfamiliar yet striking guests, clutching Azukar’s thin blanket in her hands.
At this hour, the fishermen should have already returned with their catch—the best fish snatched up, leaving behind only lesser ones for the locals to haggle over.
But Fish Tail Street was eerily quiet. No blaring boat horns, no footsteps, no shouting or bickering—
Until a chilling, blood-curdling scream tore through the fish-reeking air, followed by a chorus of shocked cries.
Captain Scarbough sprang to his feet.
“I’ll go see what’s going on. Stay inside.”
Azukar stepped beside the professor, suddenly narrowing his eyes. The captain had barely been gone a minute before he returned. He shut the door behind him, face ghostly pale, eyes staring at everyone with a haunted look, lips quivering.
“What’s going on outside?” his wife asked uneasily.
“…It was Benny’s woman—Ross,” Captain Scarbough said in a hushed tone. He glanced at little Marsha, then stepped forward to cover her ears. “She set herself on fire—while holding her baby. Right out in the street.”
Benny had been one of the dockworkers taken away by the constables a few days ago. At home, he’d left behind only his wife and their swaddled baby boy.
“I saw them lying there, motionless. Charred black. That smell—burnt whale oil—was everywhere… I think they’re dead.”
“Oh, my Sea God—” the captain’s wife clapped a hand over her mouth. Tears welled up instantly.
For followers of the sea god, being burned alive was the most terrifying form of death.
Odras, god of the sea, abhorred Faal, the god of fire. The most devout believers would even pray before lighting a fire for daily use.
In many regions, captured pirates were burned at the stake. Legend held that sea god followers who died by fire would have their souls trapped forever in the magma beneath the sea, never to rest in peace.
There was only one reason a follower of Odras would choose self-immolation—she wanted to curse someone, offering her soul to burn eternally in exchange.
A crowd had swarmed onto Fish Tail Street. They pressed together in silence like a colony of ants, layer after layer, surrounding the two charred corpses locked in an eternal embrace—one large, one small.
The mother and child had left no final words, only that scream—but everyone knew exactly who their curse was meant for.
“—To hell with them! We fight!”
A voice boomed from the crowd.
