As his eyes opened, Light saw a high vaulted ceiling adorned with hanging glass chandeliers, their expensive crystals catching the morning light in soft, fractured glimmers.

He shifted slowly, pushing himself upright against the headboard before swinging his legs over the edge. His feet hovered there a moment as he checked — yes, the pristine cloth was still positioned beneath the bed where he'd placed it. Only then did he let his toes touch down.

He hated dirt. Especially beneath his feet. Because then he'd have to clean it, but he also hated wetting his legs, and he couldn't exactly sweep dirt off with his hands. Even with the cloth barrier, even knowing it was clean, something about the contact still made his skin crawl.

Regardless of where his duties took him, these routines never broke. The nuns at this particular branch had been accommodating — they paid extra attention to his requests, kept his quarter immaculate. Small mercies.

He stood to stretch but groaned at the pull in his muscles. The sound brought the memory rushing back: the cave, the battle, the humiliation of retreat.

His face twisted with mild irritation.

His body was lean and defined, every muscle evident from years of dedicated training. And yet there was not a single scar marring his skin. He was, as one could put it, a sculpture of perfection. Even the most devoted Followers of the Iron Cult would drool to possess a form such as his.

'Those retards.'

Light found them to be birdbrains. No — that was an insult to birds. Birds were beautiful creatures; even though simple in lifestyle, they possessed genuine wit and purpose.

But the Followers of the Iron Cult? Senseless. Graceless. Dirty lots, the whole pack of them.

Light hated them.

He breathed in deeply, feeling the familiar surge of contempt rising in his chest.

'Harbor not hatred in thy heart. For Love is only of the Light. I am of the Light, hence I am capable of Love... and Love alone.'

He exhaled slowly and stood before the mirror, glaring at his own grey eyes.

He was still miles away from becoming a true Saint. But he was getting there. Recently, he had found himself better able to control his rage and irritation around ugly people. The revulsion still came — it always came — but he could smother it now, push it down before it reached his face.

He was truly getting better. Soon he'd be able to love them too.

'Speaking of ugly people... that boy.'

Light's thoughts drifted to the heretic the Cardinal had tasked him to pursue. A distraction from his true work, an interruption to his holy duties — but orders were orders.

He couldn't accept such ugliness. When he'd first stepped into that cave, the stench had hit him like a physical blow. And the woman on the ground... he'd seen her exposed thighs, the drool glistening at the corner of her slack mouth.

She had looked like the dirtiest thing he had ever set his eyes upon. This wasn't about her skin color — though that certainly hadn't helped matters. Everything about her in that moment had elevated her dirtiness to something almost profound.

'Filthy is becoming an understatement. I'm going to need to read more books just to find a greater word for filth.'

But in summary: the boy was the ugliest being Light had ever encountered, and the girl was filthy beyond description.

'Tch!'

The wind of his anger made the mirror on the wall tremble slightly, the glass rattling in its frame. He caught himself, forced his breathing to steady, and silently muttered the words.

"Harbor not hatred in thy heart. For Love is only of the Light. I am of the Light, hence I am capable of Love and Love alone."

He repeated it several more times as he walked out of his room, through the corridor, and into the bathroom. The tub was already drawn, steam rising gently from the surface. He sank into the water still wearing his white pants, letting the warmth seep into his aching muscles.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the serenity. It wasn't that he hated water — he just hated getting his feet wet specifically. The rest of him could be submerged entirely and he felt nothing but peace.

Every time Light had moments like this, he used them to reflect. His mistakes. His failures. What he could have done better.

One scenario kept forcing its way into his thoughts. The battle with the spirit summon.

Even with his eyes closed, his brows knitted together.

That summon... she wasn't normal. She was strong. Stronger than him.

Something was wrong. The boy was supposed to be F-rank, and the Cardinal had confirmed his summon was Mortal-tier. Light was a B-rank Summoner with a Hero-tier summon. Even accounting for the fact that Villainous Spirits were typically stronger than their Heroic counterparts — that was simply the nature of such bonds — it was still supposed to be Mortal-tier.

A Mortal-tier spirit should not have been able to touch him.

Light slowly opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling through the steam.

'It's not Mortal-tier.'

That was the only explanation. There was no way — no possible way — he would have been bested by a mere Mortal-tier summon. His pride wouldn't allow the alternative.

Moreover... there was something else. The Spirit had felt autonomous. Like it was moving by its own command, acting without visible instruction from its master. That should not have been possible. Even among Heroic and Villainous Spirits, that level of independence simply didn't exist.

The only other conclusion was that the Summoner himself was a genius — that even while Light's Greater Wyvern attacked him, the boy had maintained enough presence of mind to issue precise commands to his summon.

'Him? A genius?'

Light felt his stomach turn at the thought of attributing such capability to such an ugly, wretched creature.

'He can't possibly be. It's impossible.'

A soft knock came at the door.

Before Light could respond, it swung open and someone strolled inside with practiced grace.

He was about to lash out — the words already forming on his tongue — when he saw who it was. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

"Cardinal."

Cardinal Theresa lifted her habit slightly off the ground as she walked, her chest rising and falling gently with each step. Every movement she made was deliberate, unhurried, perfectly controlled.

'Why is she here?! This—'

Situations like this had happened before. Many times, in fact. The nuns at whatever church he visited always seemed to "accidentally" enter his bathroom. It would happen three to five times before he departed for his next assignment.

But this wasn't a nun. Nuns were sloppy and careless.

This was a Cardinal.

She sat gently on the edge of his tub. Her slender, graceful fingers came to rest on his shoulders — and even through the water's warmth, her touch felt cold. Cold enough to make his skin prickle.

"Templar Lightless."

His eyes went pale as she spoke his true name. Rage threatened to detonate inside his chest, white-hot and uncontrollable, but he clamped down on it with everything he had.

'A Cardinal! I'm before a Cardinal!!'

'Harbor not hatred in thy heart. For Love is only of the Light. I am of the Light, hence I am capable of Love and Love alone. Harbor not hatred in thy heart. For Love is only of the Light. I am of the Light, hence I am capable of Love and Love alone.'

He repeated the words in his mind, over and over, using them as an anchor against the tide of his uncontrollable rage.

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