HPV 95

He never got tired of seeing him every day. That look of despair in his eyes, the way his body grew thinner and more pitiful—it made him want to immortalize it in a painting.

But no painting could ever truly capture the real thing.

Cowering by the kitchen, glancing around nervously just to beg for a single piece of bread. Curled up like a street beggar, asleep. Reduced to such a wretched state, stripped of even the most basic needs, sinking endlessly into humiliation.

And yet, what amazed him was that Riarun’s beauty never withered. That made him all the more appealing.

If he had withered, he would’ve lost interest. He would’ve had the worshippers dispose of the body quietly, leaving not a trace.

The worshippers existed to do the unsightly things Hancanera would not do himself—beating Riarun, mocking him. Their presence was necessary to push Riarun to the bottom rung of the cult.

But many of them, as Riarun grew, began to desire him.

With a sneer, Hancanera had those types buried alive. Just because he’d allowed them to torment and trample on him didn’t mean they could claim Riarun as their own. Anyone who tried was slyly framed and disposed of in death.

Like savoring a candy slowly on the tongue, he enjoyed Riarun’s miserable life. He relished every second, never tiring of it. Until Riarun came of age.

A flower that bloomed only on sewer water—how could it smell so fragrant? How could it look so fresh, so graceful, retaining a nobility no one had taught him?

—Catch him!

The moment Riarun slipped from his grasp, Hancanera shouted loud enough to tear his throat—for the first time in his life.

The defeat of losing something he had always controlled at will was an unfamiliar kind of emotion.

But more than that—he trembled.

I’m truly shocked. You still had wings to spread.

He thought Riarun would be too starved to fly. He thought he’d forgotten how. He thought those wings were long since ruined.

And yet—this soul, the most grand and sacred Hancanera had ever known, even after being gnawed at for so many years, still had the strength to adapt to the outside world.

Seeing Riarun smile, find delicious things, enjoy happiness—it twisted something inside him. And yet Hancanera could still smile with expectation.

You, who rose above your wounds and became strong—how admirable you are. How marvelous.

And when such a you finally collapses completely, it will be so exhilarating, no other joy could ever compare.

His senses returned to the present. To a sweeter, more perfect reality.

Riding the wave of ecstasy, Hancanera slowly opened his pale eyelids.

The one he adored was bound with both arms pulled behind him, shackled to a fixture on the wall. His drooping head spilled hair like a waterfall of gold.

There was only one item placed on the shelf—one that looked like it belonged in a torture chamber.

A pair of scissors.

A large, razor-sharp pair of tailoring scissors, capable of cutting through much. The thin white cloth draped over him could be sliced apart in an instant.

And…

Gold strands dangled over pale knuckles, even paler than the sleeves.

You cherished this hair. It was the only thing you could control.

For it to remain this lovely despite malnutrition—it means your affinity was strong enough to draw that much of the spirit’s power.

Resting his chin in his left hand, he ran the scissors in his right along Riarun’s ear. Snip, snip—the sound echoed, but Riarun didn’t open his eyes. Platinum strands piled up on the floor.

With every snip, the man felt a rush of pleasure. The flush spreading under his eyes betrayed his arousal. No other sensation could replace this high.

The hair, now cut up to his ears, looked bare and fragile. The mounds of hair scattered across the floor looked like someone had mindlessly torn down a field of beautiful flowers.

Like a white butterfly’s fluttering wings, Riarun’s eyelids slowly lifted. He looked at Hancanera.

Hancanera’s gaze, heated with passion, narrowed softly. His lips whispered sweetly.

“Welcome back. Done dreaming now?”

***

Even in this city, said to be the most prosperous of all, humans were stabbing and killing one another.

—It’s difficult for humans to be acknowledged even by their own kind. They fight, they hate, they reject one another.

From one of Riarun’s teachings, he had come to a firm conclusion.

This world was dangerous. Riarun was not safe, even among humans.

But at the very least, if he stayed by the man’s side—even if the man’s social status damaged Riarun’s honor—he could still protect Riarun’s body.

Even if it meant throwing himself away, he wanted Riarun to live.

The man summoned all the olfactory power of an orc to chase after the faint trail Riarun had left behind.

Whenever other humans—some running, others chasing with spears—scattered the scent with their own, he cursed them to die.

Before even reaching the central district of the capital, the man caught a familiar scent of blood.

The only small relief was that it wasn’t Riarun’s. The despair it brought was overwhelming, but only a wound fatal enough to kill instantly gave off such a stench.

Between the bushes lay Bzhan, collapsed in a pool of blood.

The man rushed to him, roughly shaking him as if to drag his soul back, even if his breath had already stopped.

As the broken boy barely lifted his blood-drenched eyelids, the man urgently asked,

“Where’s Riarun?”

Bzhan had injuries severe enough that it would have been no surprise if he had died already, but he clung to life using breathing techniques he had learned from the elves.

To hear an answer from him, the man helped Bzhan tie his wounds with his clothes so he could move.

Bzhan chewed out the words in a ragged, shallow breath.

“Missed… vanished…”

The man’s face twisted into a grim scowl.

Bzhan had arranged to meet Riarun at a designated spot. But when Riarun didn’t appear, he retraced the path he would have taken.

He then searched the traces of those who had vanished in front of the temple.

Bzhan had pursued the kidnappers. But one of them recognized him, and several immediately shifted focus to hunt him instead.

The hunter and hunted had switched places. Bzhan realized they meant to take him too. He fought desperately to escape, but they wouldn’t let him go. Every time he was about to collapse, they were already right behind him.

“They tried to take me too. I don’t know why. They meant to kill me and drag my corpse with them. It would’ve helped Riarun more if I escaped alive, rather than being taken as a corpse with him.”

The boy’s voice, hoarse from a long and bitter struggle, was a wreck.

Knowing just how skilled he was as a tracker, this was his first failure. A humiliation. A sorrow.

The despair of not being able to catch Riarun filled Bzhan’s face like that of any other human.

Now even Riarun’s scent was fading. And if Bzhan’s words were true, then the one who took him was an even more skilled assassin and hunter than Bzhan himself.

The man abruptly rose to his feet, ready to run again with no clues to guide him—

And in that moment, someone appeared before the two of them. The High Priest, who had been nowhere to be found even in such urgency.

“I have something to tell you about Riarun.”

His voice, twisted in pain, stunned them both.

Yurichen was being supported by another priest in similar robes.

He leaned completely on the other, each step unstable, as though he could collapse at any moment.

Banwes and Bzhan stared at the unfamiliar sight as if it were strange and unnatural.

Had he been caught up in the rebellion and injured? The High Priest? But there wasn’t a single drop of blood on him.

And besides, what could possibly bring down someone who possessed such powerful healing abilities?

An injury the High Priest himself couldn’t heal.

A wound from the gods. In other words, a stigmata—or divine punishment.

The High Priest drew in a painful breath.

Banwes realized he was suppressing his pain just to speak and focused intently on his voice.

If it was about the ones who had taken Riarun, he was prepared to hear anything.

“Riarun was born and raised in the Rohin cult. He was meant to become its most outstanding spirit wielder and rightful cult leader. But the current cult leader stripped him of everything that should have been his and imprisoned and abused him until adulthood, keeping him barely alive.”

With those words, a cruel darkness swept in like a wind.

Goosebumps rose on his skin; he felt frozen.

“…What?”

After a long silence, the man finally asked back, voice trembling.

It was all he could manage.