After a night of groaning and tossing on the hard stone bed, Nova’s back felt like it had snapped in two. Wheezing, he hobbled upright with effort. Daylight streamed through cracks in the window, catching on motes of dust. The pale, bare skin of the young man seemed almost luminous, and the small scrapes across his body stood out starkly against it.
He reached instinctively toward the bedside for his glasses—only to grasp air and remember he wasn’t in his university lodging.
The black-haired youth squinted wearily, standing barefoot on the floor, then noticed his clothes had been tossed under the dusty bed. He muttered in annoyance, bent down—only to freeze at the faintest cough behind him.
The other man in the room saw Nova jolt like a startled cat, spinning around with wide eyes to glare at him.
It was nothing like he’d imagined—and if the timing weren’t so inappropriate, he might’ve laughed.
“Good morning, stranger. I hope you slept well,” the newcomer said, voice calm and gentle.
He was speaking Common. Nova, stunned, forgot he was standing stark naked. His clothes were still crumpled under the bed—
“…The sheets are clean. Someone will bring you fresh clothes shortly.”
The man politely averted his gaze until Nova yanked up a bedsheet to cover himself—then looked up and met his eyes directly.
He wore a loose white tunic under a sleeveless indigo robe, a similarly colored cloak draped over one shoulder in wide, elegant folds, traced with strange golden embroidery.
His face was far too beautiful for a man—so delicate it seemed to border on divine, androgynous in the way old masters might have captured in their greatest works–Yet his aura was calm and commanding—something that demanded distance, utterly incompatible with that youthful, ethereal appearance.
Sitting there in the dim morning light, he looked like something straight out of an epic ballad—the greatest among mythical beings.
“Good morning, sir. A pleasure to meet you,” the professor replied, regaining composure, voice flat. “Unfortunately, your hope was in vain. The bed was terrible—I slept horribly.”
He acted as if the earlier awkwardness had never occurred.
The man was quiet for a moment, then replied gently, “If you cooperate, and things go smoothly, you’ll get a softer bed tonight.”
“What do you need me to cooperate with?” Nova frowned, already imagining a line like I need your flesh or I need your heart.
“Honesty.”
The man said it mildly.
His eyes were a piercing, clear blue, rimmed with a strange, radiant gold—Nova was briefly dazed. He couldn’t recall ever seeing eyes quite like that.
In this moment, those beautiful eyes held no warmth—only sharp, glacial focus, even colder than the man’s unsmiling lips.
A sudden current swept through the room. An unseen force lifted Nova’s discarded clothes from the floor, drawing them toward the stranger, where they unfurled in midair—like a phantom holding them up.
Nova: “…”
He was sure he blanked out for a moment—like someone had slammed the White Spire bell hammer squarely into his chest.
No chant, no incantation, no magical tool—everything just happened, effortlessly.
The black-haired youth slowly widened his eyes, now staring at the man like he was an endangered creature behind glass.
—This man was a Divine Chosen.
As everyone knew, after the long and bloody Divine War at the end of the last century, the gods had either fallen—or slipped into slumber beyond time’s reach. With divine blessings gone, the vast continent of Ambros had seen only one Divine Chosen in centuries: His Majesty Cassius II, ruler of the Silver Iris Empire—which was one of the key reasons why, despite his absurd behavior, the empire still held two-thirds of the continent with unshakable might.
And now, before him stood a real Divine Chosen—a living one. Breathing. Speaking.
“A noble…” the Divine Chosen gestured toward the crumpled, nearly ruined shirt. Its hem was embroidered with thorns in silver thread.
“Accompanied by a crew whose strongest member is a senior attendant.” He looked up, voice like frost. “A stunning combination.”
To venture into the open sea meant facing unpredictable tides, shifting routes, and horrific deep-sea creatures. What pampered noble would risk his life with a crew of underpowered, impoverished sailors?
“What are you doing in Asachi?”
To his surprise, Nova looked more shocked than he was—the cold, stern face even gained a spark of life. “This is Mount Asachi?”
Asachi: the land of sunrise and sunset. All those who walked toward death—followers of Samuhel, god of night and death—added that word to their name. But if it referred to a place, then it could only mean Mount Asachi—a snow-capped peak within the vast Andohar range, the highest point on the continent.
No one had ever crossed Mount Asachi, but legend said that beyond it lay an endless, hollow abyss. Some scholars even theorized that the abyss was tied to the downfall of the gods—that it was their resting place, a realm forbidden to mortals.
For a moment, Nova imagined countless academic papers fluttering past him, flapping like birds.
The other man had clearly expected that reaction. His face showed no emotion. He maintained an air of gentle calm, yet left no room for argument.
Nova forced himself not to stare with that awestruck look: “No, we came here by mistake.”
“The Seeker’s destination was Graybridge Port. I was invited by the Radiant Church to attend the Dawn Festival. But we ran into a storm at sea, and were blown off course…”
Suddenly, a terrible pressure weighed down on the black-haired youth. His knees nearly gave way. Cold sweat beaded along his temples. His skin stung like needles. It felt as though the whole ocean was pressing against his spine.
“Honesty, sir.” The man’s indifferent voice cut through the air. “I warned you.”
“…I haven’t lied. I’ve been as honest with you as I can.” Nova forced his neck upward—his spine practically screamed—and started to feel annoyed.
“Why would the Radiant Church invite a non-believer to the Dawn Festival?” the Divine Chosen asked flatly. “When did Zephiel’s Radiant Knights become so friendly toward heresy?”
Zephiel, god of light and glory. His followers called themselves the Radiant Knights—just as the Divine Chosen said, the Radiant Church was not known for kindness or tolerance. Quite the opposite—they were obsessed with proclaiming and defending their deity’s glory with a zeal Nova found completely incomprehensible.
To them, heretics might barely be tolerated. But apostates—those without any faith—must die. Nova had seen what they did to such people. Frankly, it made him sick.
Nova’s face went cold. “…I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s a very serious accusation.”
An accusation that, if reported to any church, could land him swinging from a gallows.
The Divine Chosen let out a quiet chuckle. He stood and slowly walked over to the dark-haired youth—Nova noticed the man was tall, even taller than himself. But in stark contrast to his overwhelming presence, he seemed surprisingly young—barely past adulthood.
Yet no one could ever underestimate him based on age—not under this kind of pressure.
“There isn’t a single trace of any god’s scent on you,” the Divine Chosen said coolly. “Any half-decent cleric would’ve picked up on it. I’m curious—how have you managed to survive this long?”
That line was rather irreverent—like talking about gods the way animals mark territory—But Nova didn’t catch the offense. He just frowned, puzzling over the word “scent.”
Then the Divine Chosen watched the black-haired unbeliever lift his head, pale but fearless, and meet his gaze:
“When you say scent… do you mean some kind of marker pheromone?”
“…”
The Divine Chosen raised an eyebrow, watching him with a strange look—only to realize, to his surprise, that this guy wasn’t making some awkward joke. He genuinely, wholeheartedly understood it literally.
…Also, what in the world was a “marker pheromone”?
“I believe you’re mistaken. The Radiant Church didn’t invite me personally—it invited the entire Divinity Department of White Tower University,”
“My family has fallen from grace, but I recently became a lecturer myself…”
“…and since I couldn’t afford a properly guarded ship, I traveled with a familiar captain. As for the accusation of being a nonbeliever—”
The Divine Chosen’s pupils shrank sharply. The cold, briny scent of the sea rushed into his nostrils—the guy had just marched right up in his bedsheet, leaned down, and took a deep sniff at his collar, then stepped back into the sudden dead silence of the room and started sniffing his own wrist. Completely unaware that his fragile neck had nearly just been snapped in two.
Then the utterly audacious unbeliever looked up, face expressionless but eyes brimming with curiosity: “Apart from the smell of saltwater on me, I don’t detect anything unusual—could it be your vomeronasal organ hasn’t fully degenerated like in most humans? I’d appreciate it if you could sniff again or describe the scent more precisely, so I can make a more accurate assessment.”
The Divine Chosen was silent for a moment—then burst into laughter.
He ignored the arm waved under his nose. The terrible pressure around him vanished.
He had a beautiful smile, full of youthful energy and brightness, those stunning eyes like sunlit shallow seas, impossible not to trust.
“…You’re not quite what I imagined,” the Divine Chosen said softly, as if there was a deeper meaning beneath his words.
“I think we can start our introductions over.”He fixed Nova with those brilliant eyes, lightly thumped his chest,and a wisp of golden hair, braided with red coral and turquoise, swayed beside his ear: “Azukar, of Natalin.”
“…Nova Brody.” Nova blinked and withdrew his arm, finally remembering to state his name.“How should I address you properly?”
He knew he likely wouldn’t get an answer right away—but his upbringing urged him to return the same respect Azukar had shown.
“Natalin people don’t have many formal rituals. A light thump to the chest will do.”The other explained patiently, “It’s how we greet strangers—hoping for kindness in return.”
“…I saw them salute you like that,” the professor said slowly, gesturing vaguely at his forehead.
That reverence and devotion had left quite an impression on him.
The Divine Chosen smiled again, this time softly.
“No. You don’t need to salute me,” he said.
