Phew. I'm getting squeezed dry…
The moon hung high overhead, close to midnight. Samael trudged down the corridor toward his bedroom, swaying slightly, his complexion pale and exhausted.
At this mont, he had only one thought.
Regret. Deep, overwhelming regret.
Why did I have to show off?
Wasn't that just asking for trouble? Those glorious days of lying flat and doing nothing were gone forever.
Pressing his fingers to his throbbing temples, Samael let out a pained groan.
For five consecutive days, his schedule had been packed from dawn till night. Either he was giving administrative lessons to Boudica, Nero, and the two Britannian princesses, coaching the Roman centurion on training thods, or being chased around by overzealous Druids begging to learn about Runes and other Mysteries.
On top of that, he had to squeeze in etiquette lessons, basic political education, and general studies to correct the increasingly skewed outlook on life, worldview, and values Nero had developed from growing up in a rather special family environnt.
The two Britannian princesses had joined in out of curiosity, and before long they were hooked. What began as cautious reverence turned into admiration and familiarity. They grew more and more fond of sticking close to him, peppering him with questions.
In the evenings, he still had to spar with Brynhildr and guide her in combat and magecraft. He also had to check in separately with Skadi in the Land of Shadows and Scáthach aboard the Viking flagship, consolidate intelligence, and refine operational plans.
Even altis were not spared. Over dinner, he would hold what were essentially strategy etings with Boudica, the centurion, and Brynhildr, drafting suppression plans for several restless tribes and eliminating hidden dangers before departure.
Recently, even a group of plump middle-aged won, their faces lined more deeply than tree bark, had started staring at him with unsettling intensity.
Ahem. No misunderstanding. They were the cooks in charge of the tribe's food.
Britannian cuisine… those who know, know.
After enduring several days of those unpalatable dishes, Samael truly could not swallow them anymore. For the sake of his taste buds, he had casually mixed up so local herbs and seasonings and cooked a few tis himself. In the process, he completely conquered those middle-aged won.
The problem was, he was already swamped. How could he possibly find ti to teach them recipes? Besides, those faces… enough to shatter any romantic illusion he might have had about cooks.
Fine. That last reason was the real one.
Rolling his eyes, Samael spread his hands helplessly, fully exposing his nature as a hopeless face enthusiast and shaless lecher.
Still, as he drew closer to his bedroom, his steps gradually grew lighter. His hunched posture straightened, and a relaxed expression spread across his face.
Though he had been dizzy with work these past few days, he was forged in Uruk and Athens. This amount of labor was nowhere near enough to bring him down.
But appearances had to be maintained. If he looked too relaxed, he would not get to enjoy certain comforts during rest ti. Lap pillows. Hugs. Massages.
If it was hugging, Boudica was the best. As for lap pillows, Brynhildr was unrivaled…
Ahem. That was not the point.
He was sacrificing his ti and energy to eliminate future troubles and stabilize the Pan-Hellenic alliance's defenses. It had absolutely nothing to do with such vulgar pleasures.
Only two days remained before departure. As a god bearing heavy responsibility, he just had to endure a little longer.
Clicking his tongue, the Ancient Serpent put on a righteous expression, though a trace of regret flickered in his eyes.
After steadying his thoughts and briefly looking forward to tomorrow's lessons, Samael stepped into his bedroom, brimming with noble dedication.
The mont he entered, however, his lips twitched.
With practiced ease, he reached into the suspiciously bulging silk quilt and hauled out a small figure topped with a single golden ahoge.
His vertical pupils narrowed and widened as a cold, sinister smile slowly spread across his face.
"Again? Got too much free ti? Seems I didn't assign enough howork."
"Um, how could that be, Teacher? I've been diligently studying art lately, devoted to discovering beauty, appreciating beauty, even creating beauty!"
The future tyrant, dangling from the bed, waved her hands like a conductor's baton. Her tone was impassioned, her expression solemn, completely confident in her argunt.
"You're studying art, so why are you sneaking into my room?"
Samael narrowed his eyes and let out a cold chuckle, silently scoffing.
Art? The art of bedsheets?
"Beauty exists everywhere. It doesn't depend on location or status! Look, the lines of your body are excellent… Hmm… your muscles are streamlined without looking exaggerated; your skin is resilient yet refined; your profile is soft and elegant, almost rivaling a woman's charm; your overall contours are perfect as a sketch reference or sculpting model."
Still suspended in his grip, Nero reached out both hands, slipping them straight into Samael's collar. She kneaded, patted, and squeezed without restraint, clicking her tongue in admiration, delivering a professional critique with an artist's solemn seriousness.
A chill ran down Samael's spine. Goosebumps erupted across his skin as he swiftly put so distance between himself and this "artist."
"Didn't you say we could co to you for knowledge? You'd make an excellent life-drawing model. Co now, Lord Samael, don't be shy. Dedicate yourself to art."
Nero stretched her hands out again, clearly not satisfied.
"Since I'm idle anyway, I might as well pursue aesthetics… touch… ahem… I an, experience it again…"
"To see you pursuing aesthetics truly warms your teacher's heart."
Samael smoothly brushed her hands aside and lightly patted the girl's shoulder. His gaze grew deep, and the corners of his lips slowly curved upward.
"As it happens, I also have an art that I'd like to try on you."
"Huh?"
"Huh what? Now it's your turn to dedicate yourself to art."
As he lifted his head, a sinister grin spread across his face. Between his raised hands, a purplish-red mana rope took shape, about seven and a half ters long.
Whoosh.
The rope, agile as a serpent, folded at the midpoint and slipped over the girl's fair neck. It ford knots in sequence at her collarbone, sternum, and lower abdon.
The ends then passed beneath her hips, tying slightly above the corresponding points on her back. The strands ran behind her neck, then were drawn outward, looped beneath her arms, and brought forward again, forming a diamond-patterned weave across her torso.
As he adjusted and tightened the rope from top to bottom, the final knots settled at her waist. The cord crossing between her legs pressed firmly, throwing off her balance and forcing Nero to pitch forward, face-first into the bedding.
This art was called Rope Technique, also known as Binding.
And the first lesson for the future tyrant was a classic knotting thod.
Once finished, Samael surveyed the "artwork" wriggling on the bed with evident satisfaction. With practiced ease, he sealed her mouth with a tid spell, lifted her by the tied rope, stepped out, turned left, and returned Nero to her own little nest.
All for the sake of art.
Samael lingered by the window for a mont, admiring his masterpiece from afar. Feeling the transcendent power of art that seed to bridge ti itself, his heart swelled, and his steps grew noticeably lighter on the way back.
However, perhaps because he was in unusually high spirits, the Ancient Serpent nearly collided with soone walking straight toward him on the path back to his room.
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