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chapter 35
Belita sat quietly, letting Sylvester handle her hair. Sylvester pressed a towel against it, carefully drying the moisture.
“…….”
He was silent.
On the surface, he appeared as usual, but Belita could sense through his touch that something was subtly different.
‘I thought he had calmed down, but apparently not.’
What could have startled him so much? All because she had stepped away for just a moment…
Belita thought about it for a long time while bathing. Even for someone with a possessive streak, Sylvester wasn’t the type to storm all over the town.
Being a demon, he despised frustration, so eventually Belita spoke.
“Why did you act like that?”
Even without specifying the subject, he would have understood. The hand brushing her hair stopped mid-motion.
“…I thought you had disappeared.”
Sylvester’s hand fell from her hair to her shoulder. He gripped her arm.
“I thought you had left me.”
Belita turned to face him. Sylvester looked down at her with unfocused eyes.
“You’ve been away for short periods before.”
“…….”
“Not just briefly—like in the backyard, on the beach, in the city. There must have been some reason you thought to check those places.”
It couldn’t happen again. Belita would continue meeting Roman and working with his painter, which meant she would occasionally go out.
And all of it had to be done without Sylvester knowing. If a small absence provoked this reaction, he might panic even more if he knew the reasons for her outings.
Belita reached out, smoothing Sylvester’s hair, which had dried unlike her own.
Sylvester quietly watched her as she adjusted his hair, his gaze persistently following her face.
After a long silence, he finally spoke.
“…I know it can’t be real.”
He gripped Belita’s wrist, gently leaning his upper body toward her.
His large frame seemed oddly compressed. He nestled into her embrace.
“I had a strange dream. You weren’t even in it… but somehow I felt I needed to find you immediately. I felt like you might vanish…”
Sylvester’s hair brushed against her ear.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know. I do… but my mind didn’t follow my reason.”
It felt like my body wasn’t even mine, Sylvester muttered softly.
Belita stayed quiet.
The dream didn’t really involve her, yet he couldn’t control his thoughts.
‘Hmm…’
She didn’t press him for details.
‘So it was just anxiety after all…’
Sylvester hugged her tightly around the waist, gradually pressing his weight against her.
Unable to bear it, Belita returned the embrace, resting her head on his shoulder.
……
She could hear his breathing close by.
Each warm exhale brushed against her skin. His lips grazed her collarbone.
The faint touch stirred a lingering heat.
“Belita…”
Sylvester’s lips parted.
“…You’ll reassure me, won’t you?”
His pristine fangs lightly bit her skin. A sharp sensation spread.
Knock. Knock.
A heavy knock sounded at the door. The visitor immediately announced himself.
“Kilves.”
“Enter.”
Lastaban set down his teacup, placing his pale hands neatly on his knees.
With her permission, Osmo’s renowned sculptor and patron, Count Kilves, entered.
“Seems you’ve already gathered all the information.”
Thunk. The door closed. Kilves offered a gentle smile as he faced his lord.
“Of course.”
“Come, have some tea.”
Lastaban gestured to the seat across from him and poured fresh tea into a new cup for Kilves.
Kilves smiled faintly and took the seat. The tea was still steaming, freshly brewed.
“Indeed, the tea offered by the Orhen royal family has a delightful aroma.”
“They said they would give it as a gift when you return home.”
Kilves sipped the tea. Lastaban lightly tapped the table with his fingers, seeming pleased.
‘Recently, he seems more… human.’
Kilves noted subtle changes in Lastaban’s behavior. Previously stiff and emotionless, he now showed small habits—tapping the table, smiling at the sky for no reason…
Kilves swirled his cup, the rich red liquid sloshing. He began.
“I’ve made an acquaintance at a banquet.”
“Tell me.”
Lastaban nodded. Kilves set the cup down.
“He’s a friend of a marquis surrounded at the banquet, and he has some useful information.”
Lastaban gestured for him to continue.
“He intended to commission a painting himself, so he got Sylvester Riegel’s address from the marquis.”
Kilves then shared the address and background information on Sylvester. Lastaban sipped his tea.
“And… did you manage to see any of his paintings?”
“Of course.”
Kilves smiled and retrieved a small package, revealing a tiny framed painting. He explained that Sylvester had sold some works cheaply for profit.
“I went to several places to confirm that the work was indeed by Sylvester Riegel.”
Lastaban examined the painting closely.
“…….”
The skill was unmistakable. Even compared to skilled painters, this work exuded a unique atmosphere—a mysterious power setting it apart from ordinary masterpieces.
“…Well done. This time, I believe it.”
He was drawn in by the small painting: a simple vase in a modest frame. It made sense why the artist hadn’t made his name known.
His skill was exceptional, yet he painted entirely ordinary subjects.
‘Not a commissioned piece for nobility.’
Nobles would have demanded elaborate gardens, expensive vases, rare flowers, or portraits. But this was a plain vase, common in any marketplace.
Lastaban could discern Sylvester’s personality from the materials alone: someone who paints simple subjects and sells them casually, ignoring noble tastes.
‘Quite stubborn.’
A faint smile tugged at Lastaban’s lips.
Kilves’ eyes widened at the smile. Despite no one needing to wear a mask, he had never seen Lastaban smile like that.
“Now that I know where he lives… I must commission a painting next.”
Lastaban, seemingly unaware of his own change, stood, taking the painting to the window.
He gazed at it, recognizing the stubborn man, Sylvester, who created it.
“The painting… what kind…?”
A man who had resisted until the very end.
“Count Kilves.”
A man who threw himself into his love rather than betray it, like Kessis.
“I shall commission my portrait from him.”
Kilves’ eyes widened further.
Lastaban clasped his hands behind his back, walking slowly while gazing at the painting, finally settling on the sofa with perfect calm.
“This time, I must treat him well.”
He muttered softly. If Sylvester fled into death again, it would be problematic.
“You mean…?”
“…Any condition is fine. Even if he refuses a commission, I won’t force him. If the work takes much effort, I’ll pay whatever he asks.”
“Monsignor.”
“Just get him here. I will bring him to the Empire.”
Kilves swallowed. The faint smile had vanished as Lastaban looked back at him.
“I will do as you say.”
Kilves bowed and left. The tea remained unfinished, but the business was concluded. No reason to linger near the solitary Lastaban.
The grand royal door closed heavily behind him.
“…To the Empire, huh.”
Kilves repeated Lastaban’s words.
The man who built the Holy Empire of Karta, the absolute deity of this world, creator of Osmo alongside the original apostles—what did it mean to say he would bring someone to the Empire?
It meant he recognized Sylvester Riegel as a capable man and intended to bring him to Osmo’s temple.
‘Then… I might even enter Monsignor’s “room.”’
Kilves recalled Lastaban’s secret room. Ordinary office-like, yet accessible only with divine power, granted solely to Lastaban and a select few.
Kilves remembered the place he had been summoned to:
The “Ability Altar,” with its strange altar…
A pristine white, beautiful statue.
“…….”
Kilves paused, concentrating on the statue’s appearance.
‘…Wait, that statue looks familiar…’
The statue had revealed his abilities when he stepped onto the altar: eyes bright, hair curling in perfect waves, flawless skin, a face of unparalleled beauty…
“……My God.”
Memories rushed forward. He recalled the woman who had saved him earlier that day.
“How is this possible!”
Kilves held his forehead in disbelief.
“She was beautiful enough to be immortalized in sculpture!”
The resemblance to the statue in his memory was uncanny.
“Damn… I might have made a far superior work than that statue.”
Kilves lamented repeatedly. Despite knowing memories distort, the resemblance was striking.
The statue he once admired, vowing to sculpt an even greater beauty someday…
‘I vowed I would sculpt a beauty surpassing that.’
Though the woman had left before he could act, such a perfect model was rare.
Kilves groaned at his delayed realization.
‘With that appearance… I could find her if I tried a little.’
He sighed, heading to the balcony in the guest quarters.
His choice to become a priest and a follower of Osmo had largely been motivated by his artistic self-consciousness.
He had been captivated by Lastaban’s appearance, and the aesthetic grandeur of the temple.
He always sought to sculpt the most beautiful things he could find in reality.
“…I became a follower for the sake of sculpture. Now, I must prioritize Monsignor’s orders.”
Thinking of what he had missed made his heart ache. He looked up at the night sky, now a rich deep blue.
He chuckled softly, taking out a matchbox, pipe, and small case. Filling the pipe with tobacco, he lit it.
Thick, pale smoke curled into the night sky.
