Forty minutes later, Truman emerged, sated. If not for needing to return home, he'd have battled his dream angel for hours.
"Tch."
Elaviel's form and face were a divine gift, unmatched even by dream goddesses. If he could cage her like a songbird, using her golden hair to guide her to service him, marking her sacred body with depraved traces, he'd gladly trade twenty years of his life.
Truman was no devout believer, lacking reverence for gods. He'd once feared her wrath, but now, with her living in his home without malice, his caution gave way to reckless ambition.
Lost in thought, he returned to his house—or rather, the house he now "shared" with the golden-haired angel.
Nothing had changed since morning. Elaviel sat silently in her spot, the golden vortex behind her glowing brighter, like heaven's gate slowly opening to reveal boundless glory.
Truman didn't bother Elaviel further, focusing instead on preparing his meal. Since cultivation was off the table and she wouldn't submit to him as in his fantasies, there was no point in cozying up to her—too risky.
Truth be told, his social skills were abysmal. Five years in this world, and he'd made no friends. Partly, he struggled to adapt; partly, he had no desire to connect. Before the scroll, he'd lived like a walking corpse. This world lacked his funny online buddies, chips, or cola.
He was hopeless with women. His past conquests relied on the master-servant contract and his exceptional sexual prowess. For tricky women, his strategy was simple: fuck them into submission, then build rapport.
But now, Elaviel spoke, her celestial voice tinged with confusion. "How long have you lived here?"
Truman, more at ease than before, knew she wouldn't kill without cause—especially since he was nominally a Cross Church follower. After a moment's thought, he replied, "Five years, Your Highness."
Elaviel tilted her head, her elegant brow furrowing in thought, her golden hair spilling naturally. Truman couldn't tell if it was his imagination, but she seemed even more beautiful than yesterday, radiating a newfound "realness."
"Has anything unusual happened here?" she asked flatly, desperate to understand why she'd appeared in this place, unwilling to believe the Heavenly Father could err.
Unusual? Did his transmigration count? Truman's heart stirred, but he'd never reveal that. Instead, he picked up the parchment scroll. "Your Highness, the strangest thing I can think of is finding this scroll. It lets me summon legendary creatures."
Elaviel shook her head slowly. She'd already examined the scroll—a rare but crude summoning ritual, unremarkable among the world's secretive arts.
She lost interest in probing further, and Truman shut his mouth, finishing his meal, washing up, and heading to bed. He harbored no unrealistic hopes or fantasies of entanglement with this otherworldly angel. In this strange world, survival trumped fleeting lust. He swore to only pursue "safe" conquests—after all, only the living could chase more.
A lecher, yes, but a rational one, standing out among his kind.
He slept soundly. Awakening, he saw Elaviel still in place, continuing her creation, forging her Eden.
He was almost used to her detached presence—untouched by dust yet seemingly untouchable, seated on the floor yet lofty as a queen.
"Only seven days… Shame. Even if I can't have her, she's easy on the eyes." Truman sighed but quickly let it go. Her departure was for the best. Who knew when a demon might descend or a clash of immortals and monsters might erupt, reducing him to pulp? The further this unstable factor stayed from him, the better.
Monotonous days flew by. Truman stuck to his routine: pray, relieve himself, return home. The only change was the golden vortex behind Elaviel, growing grander until it formed a radiant gate, a portal to a majestic divine world—the origin and end of all beauty and faith.
Over these days, Elaviel and Truman spoke a few times, mostly about the local area or its history, but she found no answers and eventually gave up, resigned.
The apparent monotony was a facade; beneath calm waters surged hidden currents.
The holy city had descended into turmoil since the failed angel-summoning ritual. Many had sacrificed wealth and influence, hoping to bring God's envoy to earth for greater gains. The ritual's failure, coupled with the loss of sacred relics like the saint's remains, dealt a crushing blow. Some even questioned the doctrine, fearing for the future war against demons.
Ambitious opportunists seized the moment, amassing wealth and status amid the chaos. Some rose to power, others fell to ruin.
Even in a city preaching glory and faith, bloodshed and slaughter were inevitable. After a brief upheaval, the Pope was forced to relinquish power. Though he retained his title, much of his authority shifted to the Cross Knights, previously mere tools of the Church. Circumstances shape men.
As the leader of the Cross Knights, Violet now wielded immense power. In the recent unrest, she had cut down rebel after rebel, restoring the city's honor and rising to rival the Pope himself.
Yet Violet cared little for it. She had done her duty, her knightly resolve unwavering. Power and wealth meant nothing to her—a rare legendary-tier knight, unbound by mortal trappings.
When her divine arts could reverse rivers or topple towers, political games held no allure. Instead, she honed her strength and will, dedicating everything to the Almighty Lord, bringing Him glory.
The sound of crashing waves broke Violet's reverie. She gathered her purple hair, revealing a beautiful face etched with valor. Her heavy armor clinked, its metallic ring drowned by the sea.
Waves roared endlessly. On the vast ocean, the world was cloaked in darkness, with only a faint moon struggling through layered gray clouds.
She led a group of elite knights and nuns across the sea.
Two days earlier, after executing another hidden demon thrall plotting to subvert the holy city, Violet thought the crisis had passed. Then, earth-shattering news reached her.
The divine revelation hadn't failed. Their revered leader, the noble archangel, had descended—not in the holy city, but elsewhere.
When the Pope shared this, Violet's first reaction was doubt and irritation, suspecting the old man was clinging to delusion. But she chose to trust, and after days of relentless searching, the Church traced the archangel's presence to another nation. The leaders were shocked yet elated. Though they didn't know why the angel appeared in a foreign land, she existed. Decades of effort weren't wasted, and they gained confidence against the abyss.
Strength and grace blended perfectly in Violet. If Elaviel was a cloud in the heavens, Violet was a rose of the mortal world—intelligent, elegant, and breathtakingly beautiful.
A stunning woman in a nun's habit spoke beside her. "Leaving like this—aren't you worried the holy city will spiral again?"
Violet shook her head. "In peace, people play with power, schemes, and rhetoric. In chaos, only strength matters. The Pope is frail; the city needs a firm hand. That's me for now, but soon it'll be Her Highness. Until the dust settles, they won't dare act rashly."
The nun sighed. "Another gamble, like back then… All I can do is pray it goes well."
In recent years, the Church and the Federation teetered on the brink. Cities fell, territories were lost, yet short-sighted leaders ignored the crisis, squabbling over scraps or fleeing entirely.
A nation without a mythical being enduring for decades was already a miracle. Behind its fading glory lay ugliness and decay. Either the archangel would return to the holy city to purge its corruption, or the Church would crumble.
Now, the Violet Paladin sailed across the ocean, her heart a mix of trepidation and excitement, ready to meet the master she swore to follow.
All would be set right.
In this world, every existence had its opposite.
As light shone, shadows stirred.
In another nation, on another continent, endless black mist swirled. A jagged chasm carved into the boundless earth writhed like a living maw, greedily devouring all.