The Guardian had assumed his mantle.

  Though he still resisted her attempts to serve him, he had taken up the Shepherd’s Crook. With an iron will, he began the work of re-sculpting Vivian—this imperfect vessel—into something worthy.

  "Turn around." The Oracle could descend at any moment.

  Vivian would rise obediently, letting the gossamer shawl slip from her shoulders, offering the pristine expanse of her back to his gaze without reservation.

  His hand wandered down her spine, inch by inch, as if mapping the borders of his dominion.

  He was measuring her soul. He was claiming her shell.

  It was a silent covenant: He possessed her, utterly—from skin to bone to blood.

  The sound of tearing fabric became the soundtrack of the Guardian's chambers.

  Soft linens, resilient gold-threaded silks—nothing satisfied his nearly tyrannical obsession with the Holy Robes for the Lunar Rite. Garment after garment was ruthlessly shredded and cast aside.

  Vivian knelt amidst the ruin of expensive cloth, watching his tightly knit brows. Shame flooded her heart.

  It is not the Guardian's fault, she told herself. It is this body—too crude, too coarse to bear the grand design he envisions.

  ...

  The days of quiet bliss following the Fated Covenant were short-lived. A silver missive arrived, shattering the peace.

  It was an invitation from Miranda, Fire Keeper of the First Sanctum. A gathering titled "The Night Banquet."

  Vivian had no interest in such things. She only wanted to remain by her Guardian’s side—watching him debate truth with Mora, argue dogma with Crow, or endure the tempering of thorns with her in the cultivation chamber.

  But the Guardian insisted. He said it was a necessary step for the Lunar Rite.

  Vivian understood immediately: The King wishes to descend into the pit himself, to judge the unclean.

  That night, the liturgical shuttle unfurled its wings of light once more. It ascended the spiraling silver sky-road, climbing toward the "Summit of Eternal Day" atop the central peak of Tycho.

  Even through the porthole, Vivian felt the prickling sensation of being watched.

  Unlike her Third Sanctum, Miranda’s First Cathedral was a bolt of frozen lightning. It resembled a silver lance, thousands of feet long, stabbing arrogantly into the black firmament.

  Vivian stared at the overly perfect architecture with boredom.

  She glanced at the Guardian beside her. He leaned back in his seat, utterly unimpressed. He yawned incessantly, as if this banquet—the most significant gathering of the Silver Ring—was nothing more than a tedious child’s game.

  The shuttle docked.

  Massive silver gates slid open silently, like a giant mouth swallowing the living.

  Inside, there was no festive clamor. Only a heavy silence and a specific, cloying cold fragrance.

  Then came the performance: hypocritical embraces, air kisses, hollow greetings...

  Every guest knew the hostess had become a plaything of False Gods, yet they all tacitly recited the same lie: "Flesh is Sacred."

  The banquet began. Fire Keepers from Sanctums great and small took their seats at the long table.

  There was no food.

  The Clean One—Miranda—clapped her flawless hands.

  Two attendants brought out crystal platters draped in black velvet.

  "Sisters," Miranda’s voice was cool and imperious, carrying the full weight of the First Sanctum. "In this chaotic world, False Gods are everywhere. Only our Silver Ring has held the line for the Supreme One: Flesh is Sacred. As for the rest... witness the specimens of the fallen."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The first cloth was whipped away.

  On the platter lay a pitch-black wafer flickering with eerie blue light. It looked like a parasitic iron beetle, clamped tight to a desiccated skull.

  "Remnants of an Evil God from the Gaia Golden Ring," Miranda tapped the table contemptuously with a silver fork. "To pursue so-called 'Eternity,' they abandoned their flesh and sold their souls to the Machine."

  She swept her gaze across the room, eyes dripping with performative pity. "They are no longer human. They are ghosts trapped in iron nests."

  A murmur of revulsion rippled through the guests. They recoiled as if the object carried a plague.

  Only Vivian let out a cold snort. A thief crying "stop thief."

  The second cloth was lifted.

  Revealed was a writhing lump of flesh, covered in dozens of unblinking eyes and disordered tentacles.

  When the gasps subsided, Miranda continued: "And this is the sin of the Ares Bronze Ring."

  Her gaze grew icy. "Obsessed with sorcery, they force sacred flesh to proliferate like rot. They are not children of God; they are wild, cancerous tumors. Pure, chaotic blasphemy."

  Eyes darted toward Isabella of the Second Sanctum, but she merely smiled, unbothered.

  "Only us!" Miranda stood, spreading her long, alabaster arms, bathed in a spotlight. For a moment, she looked like the embodiment of Truth.

  "Only we, the Silver Ring, on the pure land of the Bright Moon, repair the broken and hold fast to the human form. We are the purest vessels of God in the universe."

  "Praise the Silver! Praise the Bright Moon!"

  The chant echoed through the hall.

  Vivian mouthed the words, but inside, she felt only sorrow.

  Miranda speaks of purity, yet her perfect body is built on the bones of False Gods. And the rest of you... which one of you is truly unstained?

  The only true Unstained Ones are myself and my Guardian.

  She looked at him.

  He was leaning back in the shadows, staring at the void outside the stained glass. He seemed to find a dead star in the distance more worthy of attention than this charade.

  This is the demeanor of a True God.

  Suddenly, Isabella stood up. As Miranda’s main competitor in the Lunar Rite, she announced she would display her "Miracle."

  She loosened her collar, exposing the hollow of her collarbone—the "beauty’s wine cup." But instead of wine, she took a seed glowing with ghostly light and pressed it gently into her skin.

  "Flesh is soil. Soul is nutrient."

  Isabella closed her eyes, a maternal glow softening her features.

  The miracle descended.

  Emerald light pulsed from beneath her skin.

  In three breaths.

  A tender stem broke through the dermis. It drew no blood, only crystal-clear dew.

  The bud bloomed.

  A pure white, semi-transparent Mandrake.

  It pulsed with a rhythmic breath, releasing an intoxicating scent.

  Isabella caressed the flower, her eyes misty. "Behold. I offer this body to the gods, and they have bloomed a flower of paradise upon me. Rumors say I am defiled by the Bronze Ring, but look—my miracle is neither chaotic nor filthy. It is incomparably holy."

  Applause and praise erupted.

  Just as the noise faded, a sharp, jarring CRACK shattered the atmosphere.

  Vivian turned. The Guardian had crushed a walnut shell in his fist and tossed the kernel into his mouth.

  He chewed. Loudly. Rudely.

  Feeling the room's gaze on him, he spread his hands and shrugged, as if to say, Not very fresh, is it?

  Vivian ducked her head to hide a smirk.

  Miranda frowned. Ignoring the rude servant, she turned her attention to Isabella.

  "Flowers wither. Only flawlessness is eternal."

  Miranda waved a hand. Attendants wheeled in a full-length mirror.

  She examined her absolutely perfect face and shook her head. "Dust has settled."

  She lifted a long, manicured fingernail and dug it into her jawline.

  With the sickening sound of tearing silk, amidst the gasps of the crowd, Miranda peeled her entire face—from forehead to chin—completely off.

  Beneath the shed husk, a new face instantly emerged. Smoother, tender, glowing with its own inner light. Like a newborn, or porcelain fresh from the kiln.

  The praise was deafening.

  Miranda tossed the old skin onto a platter like a used napkin. "Rumors say I am defiled by the Golden Ring. But the truth is, I peel away the shell of time. What remains is primordial Truth."

  The flower had bloomed; the skin had been shed. The hall fell silent.

  All eyes turned to Vivian.

  Show us, or admit defeat.

  Vivian’s fingers dug into the edge of the table.

  Fine. Since you show off "Growth" and "Preservation," I will show you "Destruction" and "Purification."

  The Ark inside her began to vibrate. The Holy Fire rose, and the familiar agony arrived.

  Miranda frowned, sensing the sudden dryness in the air.

  On Isabella’s shoulder, the lush flower suddenly stopped its rhythmic pulsing.

  In that split second.

  A hand grabbed Vivian’s wrist.

  The Guardian tossed the white napkin he had used to wipe his hands onto Miranda’s discarded human skin.

  "Let's go."

  He hauled Vivian up. His grip was rough, his tone impatient—as if staying one second longer would dirty his boots.

  Gasps filled the room. No servant had ever dared treat a master this way!

  Trespass! Sacrilege!

  But Vivian felt only a rush of sweetness.

  She lowered her head, suppressing a smile, and obediently let the Guardian drag her toward the exit.

  At the door, she glanced back.

  Miranda’s fresh, snow-white face now looked like smoke-stained porcelain, cast in shadow.

  The flower in Isabella’s collarbone was withering.

  Tears nearly welled in Vivian’s eyes.

  Not because she failed to display a miracle. But because she understood the Guardian's heart.

  He didn't stop me because he feared my pain.

  He stopped me because... in his eyes, these flashy parlor tricks weren't worth his time.

  "A Seraph does not need to prove the Holy Fire to insects," Vivian whispered the truth she had found. "The Flame burns only to protect the Guardian."

  The massive gates boomed shut.

  Sealing the spectacle, the absurdity, and the false gods behind them.

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