"We require garnts of the highest quality and classy. Preferably for unique occasions. Do you believe you can manage that?" The dark-brown-haired woman raised an eyebrow, his teal eyes brightening under the faint flow of the golden light.
Zion swallowed hard, forcing a calm he didn’t feel.
Not at all.
"Of course, Your Grace. I... I can manage it."
Fuck. Now I need to make clothes! Your Imperial Majesty, where have you sent ?!
He cursed inwardly.
The lady’s teal eyes flickered, studying him carefully for a second longer.
"Good. You will start imdiately. The materials will be sent to your place. Do not disappoint ."
"Yes, of course not, Your Grace," Zion whispered, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table to steady himself.
As she rose, Zion also mirrored her action.
Then she turned and exited, the room seed to exhale with her departure. The air felt lighter, nothing like when she was here.
Zion lowered himself slowly back into the chair, the weight of the encounter pressing down on him.
So they do suspect sothing...
He thought, his mind racing.
Or perhaps they are simply testing .
He couldn’t tell which was worse.
The cup of tea sat untouched before him, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.
He finally reached for it, letting the warmth soothe his trembling hands. And yet, even with that small comfort, a cold knot of dread coiled tighter in his stomach. He wasn’t free—not yet. Not while the Temple still had eyes on him.
He rose from his seat, placing the cup of tea back exactly where it had been before exiting the hall. This ti, no soldier escorted him.
For the first ti since arriving at the temple, he could let his gaze wander freely—without feeling that chilling, hostile stare drilling into his back, as if there were nothing else in the world for the guards to watch but him.
"I should wrap things up and leave after this... The delegation has returned as well, so there’s no reason for to stay here—"
His voice was low—so low he barely heard himself—when he suddenly ca to a halt.
A large portrait stood before him, stealing his breath.
It depicted a tall man with long silver hair, his eyes hidden beneath a blindfold. Every stroke of the painting was ticulous, reverent—as though the artist had been desperate to preserve him exactly as he was, forever frozen in ti.
Beside him stood a young man with lavender hair, leaning his head against the silver-haired man’s shoulder.
They look like a married couple.
The thought struck Zion sharply, especially when he noticed the suits they wore—traditional garnts ant for grooms wed in Hianshu. He had only seen such attire in history books, which made him hesitate.
Was his assumption correct... or was he reading too much into it, seeing sothing that wasn’t even there to begin with?
"But who are they...?"
He pondered for a long mont, his gaze slowly drifting downward—until it settled beneath the thick golden fra.
A golden plate was affixed there, its surface almost glowing under the flicker of the bright torches lighting the hallway.
[High Priest IV & Archmage V]
The inscription stared back at him as if it wanted him to unveil secrets. Secrets no one knew—nor spoke of.
He raised his hand, fingers hovering just inches from the glass, when a voice spoke from behind him—deep and sudden—making him flinch, caught off guard.
"It’s the Grim Reaper and his husband."
Zion turned sharply to face the owner of the voice, a frown settling onto his features.
"And you are?" he demanded, one eyebrow lifting.
Vincent chuckled, quickly covering his mouth.
"Ah, my apologies," he said, amusent lacing his tone. "I simply find it amusing that you ask who I am when, quite clearly, you are the intruder."
He gestured toward Zion’s attire—clothes that unmistakably did not belong within the Temple’s walls. Zion wore a rather shabby dark green shirt, his alpha build wrapped in a thick jacket left half open.
In contrast, Vincent was draped in a white cloak embroidered with grey and gold stitching. The fine craftsmanship alone made it evident that he held a position of authority here.
Zion was at a loss for words, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of the situation.
How was he supposed to react naturally, convincingly, in a way that wouldn’t stir this man’s suspicion?
"And so," Vincent demanded, his lips curved in a smile that never quite reached his eyes, "who are you?"
Zion cleared his throat, forcing his expression into sothing calm—harmless.
"A High Priest summoned ," he said carefully. "She said the Temple required garnts and the one who is usually responsible for it has fallen ill. I was called to make clothes."
Vincent’s brows lifted in mild realization.
"Oh," he said lightly. "That must be my mother. She had ntioned it before."
Zion stiffened, narrowing his eyes.
...Mother?
His surprise must have shown, because Vincent let out a short laugh, amused as he studied the look on Zion’s face.
"Yeah," he said, tilting his head, arms folded. "She looks too young to have a child my age, doesn’t she?"
Zion hesitated for only a heartbeat before nodding.
"Yes," he answered honestly.
After all, human age passed far too quickly compared to half-mortals and immortals.
By the re age of fifty, they already bore wrinkles, their skin turning dry, and illness often confined them to their beds—which was probably the case for High Priest I, as Zion had heard from the commoners during his stay at the inn.
Vincent studied him for a mont, head slightly tilted, as though weighing Zion’s answer—and the man who spoke them. Then he exhaled sharply, his lips curling thinly and expression unreadable.
"Well," he said, turning on his heel, "try not to wander too much. The Temple doesn’t take kindly to unfamiliar faces."
With that, he began to walk away, his footsteps fading into the long, torch-lit corridor. His long cloak dragged on the ground as if it were his shadow, slowly disappearing in the distance.
Zion remained where he was, gaze drifting back to the portrait.
The Grim Reaper and his husband.
His fingers curled slowly at his side, tightening around the sleeve of his jacket.
So even here... even in the heart of the Temple... that man’s shadow still lingered.
"I need to make a copy of this, and more information about him," he murmured.
***
And so, a few days later, Zion sohow managed to et the order date. The garnts were finished without flaw, folded with care, and delivered straight to the Temple gates.
No one questioned him this ti. No suspicious glances, no unnecessary inspections. It was as if, for the mont, he had been accepted as nothing more than what he pretended to be—a re rchant no one needed to be bothered with.
Yet during those days, he learned things he had never learned in the past. Perhaps it was because the person he was investigating was human that there was no information about him in history books.
He discovered things related to the Grim Reaper while interacting with "friends"—if they could be called that—whom he had t during his stay in Hianshu.
The na alone was spoken in hushed voices, even within the Temple’s walls. Servants would fall silent the mont it surfaced. Priests lowered their gazes, fingers tightening around prayer beads, as if fearing that even uttering his na might summon him.
Rumours spread easily.
Too easily.
Yet Zion was uncertain whether to believe them or not.
They said the Grim Reaper could drain a man’s life without laying a single hand on him—no wound, no blood, no sign of struggle. One mont alive, the next nothing more than a corpse. How it was done, no one knew.
By magic?
A curse?
A divine punishnt?
None could say.
So claid he rely had to look at his victim. Others swore it was his voice—soft, gentle, carrying death in every syllable.
A few insisted it wasn’t power at all, but judgnt. That once he decided you were to die, the world itself complied—the Gods listened to him.
Zion scoffed when he heard it.
Fear made humans exaggerate. It always had. And yet...
Even in Revhara, where magic flowed as naturally as air, where sorcerers bent elents and beasts road freely, the Grim Reaper’s na carried weight.
Terror—especially among soldiers during the war.
That alone was troubling.
Zion stood by the window of his room. The sky had turned dark. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
If even Hianshu’s people feared him...
What, exactly, had the Temple been hiding all these years?
As if that were not enough, he discovered another power of the Grim Reaper—one he had been unaware of.
The power to grant life. To cure any disease rely through touch.
"If it’s true, then the Gods were unfair when they granted power," Zion breathed, rubbing his temples. "How can one person possess the power to both give and take life...?"
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