From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Chapter 17
The splashing water sounded as clear as a bell. Arzeletta’s black hair spread out in the cold lake water. The man’s dirty blood clinging to her body, the unpleasant sensation of his grotesque hands, slowly washed away in the chilly lake water.
Exion gazed at his feet.
The great and noble Del Rose’s holy cloak was stained with blood. Beneath it, bulging, was the dead man’s head.
Exion lifted his foot and firmly stepped on the cloak. The clear imprint of Exion the unruly’s shoe was left on the white cloak.
Splash.
At the sound of water that followed, Exion turned around. For a moment, Exion stood still.
Arzeletta was visible, half-submerged in the lake water. Everything about her sparkled under the sunlight.
Her white body, her swollen b*****s… All that remained on Arzeletta’s body, after dirty, sticky desires had passed over it, were sunlight and water droplets.
Exion caught Arzeletta’s eye as she turned to look at him, and he inhaled sharply. Arzeletta’s clear green eyes were more transparent than any jewel he had ever seen.
A drop of water trickled down Arzeletta’s nape, collected at the tip of her b****t, and then dropped into the lake.
Exion’s throat convulsed roughly.
He strangely felt like kneeling.
In the year 974 of the Adelix calendar.
Half of the Derden Mountains, which encompassed the Rosenburg domain, were destroyed by a great wildfire.
All the villages of the heathen gypsies who had lived hidden deep within the forest were burned in the great fire, and the long-rumored ‘Fairy Forest’ also burned down and disappeared completely.
Only two survived that great fire.
The boy was chosen as the successor to Lord Ragnar von Rosenburg through an oracle. The boy known as the Son of God, Theogrim.
And the nameless girl, held in that boy’s arms, who had come through the flames.
The people of the Rosenburg domain never forgot the memory of that day. The mountain, burning like hell, and the thick, dark clouds that gathered as if by a miracle.
The heavy rain that poured down as if to save someone.
The boy, entering through the castle gates amidst a grey landscape thick with smoke, like a sulfurous hell, and the girl, held in his arms like a small bird.
“Ohh…”
“That person…”
The boy’s beautiful eyes bore clear, visibly painful burn marks.
It was a severe injury, enough to make even an adult cry and struggle in agony.
However, the angel-like boy showed no tremor in the face of the pain that had burned his face.
Paradoxically, that wound further highlighted the sacred dignity imbued in the boy.
“My God…”
“Son of God.”
Thud.
The sound of people dropping to their knees without resistance echoed from everywhere. The rain was still heavy.
The villagers knelt before the boy, whose beautiful face was scarred by the flames and whose clothes were stained with blood in places.
Now, no one stood on two feet before him.
The boy walked upright through the multitude of villagers who bowed their heads to his left and right.
Everyone’s clothes were muddied. Rain, heavy with thick smoke, soaked their heads and clothes, but none of those kneeling stood up.
The boy, standing amidst the downpour, reached a certain point and looked up. He was holding the girl whose back was half-burned.
“……”
The same silver hair as the boy, the same violet eyes, looked down at him with chilling coldness.
Above, on the balcony, the man standing tall was beautiful, but his overwhelming and cold presence felt less like a god and more like… a ruthless lion.
Among all those present, he was the only one untouched by mud and rain.
“You’ve come.”
The man spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
This man was Ragnar von Rosenburg, stronger and more sacred than anyone, a representative of God.
Theogrim realized, looking at Ragnar’s eyes that coldly stared down at him.
He understood why, as the fire spread, no one from the castle had come to save him and his tragically burned attendants.
“My heir.”
Ragnar had not come to save Theogrim, who was arriving here for the first time as his heir today.
With his immense divine power, penetrating the flames would not have been difficult.
The representative of God and the cold-blooded Holy Knight had tested the boy of the oracle.
He had no intention of accepting as his heir anyone who could not survive even such flames.
“……”
Theogrim slowly bowed.
Towards the man who looked down at him loftily, untouched by even a single drop of rain.
