Chapter 331 – Ten Years of Love
The chapel was silent.
Not just with absence, but with reverence.
Candles flickered along the marbled alcoves, their golden flames dancing softly against stained glass depictions of angels, saints, and sorrow. The heavy scent of incense hung in the air—myrrh, sandalwood, and something older.
Mary knelt beneath the towering image of Michael the Archangel, her hands folded over her heart.
"…Please," she whispered.
Her voice was quiet, but sincere.
"I want to protect him. I want to be worthy. Even if I'm not as powerful… even if I'm not like them… let me love him."
She closed her eyes.
The world dimmed around her.
But not within.
Because that was where she stirred.
"You're so cute when you pray like that."
Mary's eyes flinched open.
"…Mira."
The voice in her mind giggled—a low, teasing hum that was equal parts affection and mischief.
"I'm just saying. You kneel in front of a statue while you should be kneeling in front of him."
Mary blushed instantly. "H-Hush."
"You're thinking about having a child with him, aren't you?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Her silence was enough.
"You do know it won't be easy, right?" Mira's voice shifted slightly—still playful, but now edged with seriousness. "You're part succubus. Like me."
Mary's brows furrowed faintly.
"…So?"
"So you need to have sex with him for a long time. Years. Daily. Without stopping. That's just how our biology works."
Mary's breath caught.
"Our bodies don't accept sperm like humans. We drink it in spiritually. Slowly. Our wombs resist unless they feel completely bonded. And that takes time. Physical time. Spiritual compatibility."
"…How long?" she whispered, not daring to speak louder in the holy space.
"Ten years is the average."
Mary froze.
"And sometimes it takes a hundred."
Her entire body flushed with color—from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her hands clenched tighter at her chest, heart pounding like a drum of embarrassed thunder.
"It's not your fault," Mira added, voice gentler now. "We're just… complicated. You're half angel, half human. But I'm not. I'm full succubus and fallen."
"So if we want a baby…"
Mary swallowed hard.
"…you're going to have to let him love you. For years. In every way. Without hesitation."
"…That's…"
"Possible."
Mira's tone softened even more, a surprising warmth threading through her usually wicked voice.
"You love him. I love him. You just have to… accept that our path is longer. But maybe that makes it more meaningful."
Mary opened her eyes again.
The archangel above her did not move.
But somehow, she felt understood.
She reached up and touched her belly gently—timidly.
"…I wouldn't mind," she whispered.
"I wouldn't mind if it takes ten years."
Mira giggled.
"You wouldn't mind the sex either."
Mary turned scarlet.
"Mira—!"
"Just saying~"
She covered her face with her hands, hiding her red cheeks.
But somewhere, in the silence between stained glass and whispered prayers, her heart spoke louder than shame:
"If that's what it takes to have his child… I'll do it."
"Ten years. A hundred. I'll wait."
"Because I love him."
From Mary's perspective
The chapel doors creaked open as Mary stepped into the quiet marble hallway beyond. Her hands still tingled from prayer—her heart, a gentle storm of hope, fear… and something warmer.
She walked slowly, the hem of her white robe whispering against the polished floor.
And then—
She heard it.
"…He came here again yesterday, didn't he?"
A voice. Soft. Eager. A little too loud for a whisper.
Mary paused behind one of the carved stone pillars. She knew that voice. Sister Camilla—barely eighteen, sweet, impressionable, and constantly curious about anything not in the scriptures.
Another girl replied, barely stifling a giggle.
"Are you talking about the man in black? The one with the eyes that see straight through you?"
"You mean the Godslayer?" a third chimed in. "The one who defeated Apollo and Fenrir and just teleports into the Vatican gardens like it's his backyard?"
Mary pressed a hand gently over her chest.
They were talking about Alex.
Of course they were.
Camilla's voice lowered conspiratorially.
"I heard… he's her long-lost brother. Or half-brother. That's why the guards let him in. They say their souls share the same divine thread."
Mary's heart skipped. Mira stirred.
"Brother?"
"That's the best they could come up with?"
Another girl's voice answered—teasing, sing-song.
"No way. They're clearly lovers. You should see the way she looks at him. Like she's already planning their wedding. Or something more… nightly."
The others broke into muffled laughter.
Mary turned completely red.
She pressed her back against the pillar, eyes wide.
"I mean…" Mira purred inside her, "They're not wrong about the nightly part."
"Mira!" she hissed under her breath, flustered.
"What? You already heard the ten-year part. You think we can do that discreetly? In a convent?"
Mary's knees nearly buckled.
"You're going to have to leave the priesthood someday, you know," Mira added sweetly. "Wives can't wear nun habits when they're being bred for a century."
Mary covered her face with both hands.
"...You are the worst."
"No, I'm the part of you that wants him badly. Which, judging by your temperature right now, is about eighty percent of you."
"Be quiet," she whispered into her palms.
But Mira only giggled.
Behind her, the girls continued chatting.
"I heard he kissed her hand last time. Right in front of the statue of Gabriel."
"I heard he smiled at the Pope and just walked away."
"No one even tried to stop him…"
Mary sighed softly.
They didn't know the truth. Not about Alex. And certainly not about her.
Not the other soul inside her.
Not the one who would one day take over her body completely… in love, not war.
And definitely not the one who planned to ride Alex for ten years straight.
"And maybe longer," Mira whispered in her head.
Mary blushed even harder.
But despite the shame, a small smile bloomed at the edge of her lips.
Let them talk.
Let them guess.
Because one day, the truth would come out.
And when it did…
She would no longer have to hide who she was—or who she loved.
Chapter 332 – "The God No One Sees"
Far beneath the stained-glass serenity of the Vatican Cathedral, behind reinforced holy seals and divine oaths, a secret chamber buzzed with whispered theories and sharp minds.
Twelve robed figures gathered at the edge of a luminous circle—each a high-ranking scholar of either the Vatican's sacred archives or the Magic Society's World Council of Arcanum. Here, magic and faith met without blasphemy. The walls were layered with both angelic wards and ancient enchantments. No sound would escape.
At the center of the room floated a single image:
A fragment of the Book of Aten.
One page.
Faintly glowing.
Still untranslated in parts.
And yet… already reshaping the future of healing magic across the world.
"It's divine," said Cardinal Desrosiers, leaning forward. "Yet not quite."
"No divine signature matches it," said Archmage Albrecht of the Germanic Circle. "We've scanned it with dimensional resonance—there's no pantheon attached."
"And yet it healed the dying," muttered the Egyptian Seer from the branch in Cairo. "It revived those who had been declared lost. Cancer, mana-rot, spirit fractures—it undid all of them in seconds."
The room fell silent.
Finally, one voice—quiet, female, calm.
Mother Lucia, Head of the Vatican's Hidden Choir.
"…Let's discuss what we do know."
She raised a hand, and glyphs bloomed midair—records of the god Aten's supposed appearances.
"Aten," she began, "is said to have walked the world once. Recently. No wings. No throne. No divine markings. Just a cloak, a mask, and hands that healed like starlight."
"No records of divine pressure," Albrecht added. "Not even spiritual gravity. But…"
He waved his fingers. New symbols formed.
"…every spell he used obeyed a structure that no current system recognizes. It wasn't divine logic. It wasn't druidic, celestial, elemental, or infernal."
"It was…" he paused. "Completely new."
The Egyptian Seer smiled faintly. "So we agree. He is either an ancient god who lost his name…"
"…or something else entirely," finished Mother Lucia.
A murmur of agreement passed through the chamber.
They turned to the wall, where dozens of theories had been scribed like holy graffiti.
Aten is a forgotten solar god who chose a mortal form to atone.Aten is the first human to ascend into divinity without divine sponsorship.Aten is a high priest of a vanished order, who accessed the true form of Light.Aten is not a god, but a concept—magic given form.Aten is the final heir of Atlantis.Aten is a fragment of the Original Flame given flesh.
"And yet," said Lucia slowly, "no one has seen his face."
"No one remembers his voice."
"No name. No aura. No scent. No signature."
She looked around the circle.
"…He's a god that doesn't want to be found."
Albrecht's eyes narrowed. "Then what is his goal?"
They all paused.
And then—the Seer spoke, her voice soft as desert wind:
"He left behind no dogma. No temple. No miracles of pride. Only healing."
"He asks for no followers."
"No offerings."
"No worship."
Lucia whispered: "A god with no desire to be worshiped?"
Albrecht said the words slowly.
"…That's the most dangerous kind of god."
Silence fell again.
They would never know the truth.
That Aten was no god in the conventional sense.
That he was just Alex.
That he wore no divine name because he had outgrown the titles that others still craved.
He healed not for followers…
…but because he could.
Because someone was suffering.
And because it was right.
Somewhere in the Vatican above, Mary prayed softly.
Somewhere in the world, Alex cooked a meal.
And in the secret chambers of power…
The god they searched for stood hidden in plain sight.
Untouchable.
Unseen.
And watching.
A massive crystalline table pulsed with magic at its core, surrounded by holographic glyphs and shifting constructs of theoretical models. Dozens of high-ranking magicians—directors, scholars, elemental wardens, timecasters, and arcanists—had been summoned from across the globe.
And at the center of the storm?
A name.
Aten.
Projected midair in glowing gold script, overlaid with spells too advanced for anyone in the room to fully decode.
High Arcanist Claude of the French Construct Division leaned forward, arms crossed, his tone skeptical.
"The Vatican calls him divine. But they worship anything with wings."
Snorts of agreement rippled through the warlocks and runecrafters on his side.
But across the table, a calmer voice spoke—Dr. Aldene, Head of Arcane Genetics from the American West Division.
"Divine or not… he rewrote the laws of restoration magic. Our own best healing arrays require incantations, sigil placement, and mana synchronization."
She waved, and a recording of one of Aten's healing events played: a touch to the chest, and a man with soul-collapse began to breathe again.
"No chant. No circle. Just will."
"It's not holy. It's structured."
"We think it's code," she added. "Arcane code embedded in his intent."
Director Razi of the Temporal Calibration Department (Middle East Division) adjusted his goggles.
"Even Merlin himself would struggle to write formulas this precise—it's the kind of spellwork that borders on the impossible."
A murmur passed through the table.
"Are you saying he surpasses Merlin?" someone scoffed.
Razi shrugged. "I'm saying if you ran a comparative model on spell formation latency, Aten's system initializes three frames faster than Merlin's."
Heads turned.
Even silence held its breath.
Then someone said it aloud:
"Are we sure Aten didn't come before Merlin?"
A ripple of unease passed through the room.
It was unthinkable.
Merlin was the archmage of archmages, the Living Codex of the West, the First Architect of the Unified Circle.
But…
"Aten's magic lacks Merlin's flair," said Yagami, Head of Eastern Ritual Integration. "No symbols, no languages. It feels… pre-alphabet."
"Raw will?"
"More like post-spell."
The word post-spell drew nods.
Arcanist Laszlo from Hungary folded his fingers thoughtfully.
"If we accept the Vatican's theory, we chase godhood."
"If we accept the Atlantean theory, we chase relics."
"But if we accept that Aten was a sorcerer…"
He looked around the table, and his voice dropped:
"…Then he's proof that one man can reach the end of magic without a divine throne."
An uncomfortable pause followed.
Some looked intrigued.
Others afraid.
Because if Aten was truly just a man…
Then every magical system on Earth was incomplete.
And someone else had already completed it—silently, perfectly, and with no intention of sharing it.
"He hasn't contacted us," Razi said. "No message. No demonstration. No grand council declaration."
Yagami murmured, "Because he doesn't want to lead."
Aldene smiled faintly.
"Or because he already did, and we're just catching up."
The room fell quiet.
Outside the tower, storm clouds gathered—but no lightning came.
Inside, the name Aten hovered over the table.
Unclaimed.
Unknown.
Unreachable.
A presence that rewrote the rules not with conquest—
—but with indifference.
The magicians around the glowing table fell silent.
Not because of a spell.
But because of a presence.
The air shifted—light bending, time slowing just slightly, as if the world paused to allow a thought to walk into the room.
Then he appeared.
Merlin.
The Head of the European Branch.
The Arch-Sorcerer of the West.
A living legend.
"Still chasing phantoms?" he said mildly, his voice old and amused, yet heavy with presence. "Aten does enjoy inspiring academic panic."
Everyone straightened. No one interrupted.
Merlin approached the central projection—Aten's golden glyph suspended midair—and examined it for several seconds.
Then he spoke again, quieter.
"I do not know who he is."
Shock rippled through the room.
"But," Merlin continued, "I do know he came before me."
You could feel the room tighten.
Even the most prideful mages in the room knew what that meant.
"I never met him. Never spoke to him. But I've seen his trail—what he left behind."
Merlin raised one hand, conjuring a glowing reconstruction of Egypt.
Not modern Egypt—but a vision of it during a time of drought, ruin, and sickness.
And then—a wave of golden magic swept through the land, and fields began to bloom again. Wells glowed with light. Crops rose from dead earth. Sick villagers stood and laughed.
No fanfare.
No announcement.
Just silent restoration.
"This happened years ago," Merlin said softly. "When I attempted to trace the source, I found nothing but fading echoes and a single glyph burned into a piece of sandstone: 𓇳—Aten."
Aldene murmured, "A solar disk. But no divine mana signature?"
Merlin nodded. "Correct. And when I questioned the Egyptian pantheon—Ra, Isis, Osiris, even Thoth—none of them recognized the god."
That brought unease.
Magic Society scholars always confirmed with deities when possible. But this time…
"They gave me shrugs. Confusion. Most claimed Aten was a lost name, or a mortal mistake. One even suggested it was the name of a prayer, not a being."
Merlin's eyes narrowed slightly.
"But one god did react."
He waved his hand again. A shimmering image of a golden-eyed man with the head of a falcon and a radiant crown appeared.
Horus.
"He did not speak much. He said nothing conclusive."
"But when I mentioned the name 'Aten,' his expression changed. Slightly. The kind of change only a god makes when remembering something they cannot explain."
Merlin paused.
"And then he said, 'If you see him again… tell him Egypt is still grateful.'"
The silence was thunderous.
No one dared speak.
Because it wasn't a theory anymore.
Not when Merlin had seen the magic.
Not when Horus—the god of kings and sky—had acknowledged him.
Yagami finally whispered, "…Then Aten might not be a god at all."
Merlin's gaze remained fixed on the glyph.
"No. Not a god."
"Not entirely."
He looked at them—his eyes deep as starlit oceans.
"Aten is something else."
"Something older."
"Something we were never meant to name."
Chapter 333 – "The Voice Behind the Curtain"
The bells of the Vatican chimed softly as golden afternoon light filtered through the archways of the cloister gardens.
Birdsong echoed gently across the polished stone walkways, and roses bloomed in silence near the marble fountains. Peace lingered like prayer.
Mary sat on a bench near the sunlit edge of the garden, her hands folded politely in her lap. Her nun's habit was perfectly pressed, her posture composed.
But her heart?
Not so calm.
Because he was coming.
And she felt it before she saw him.
A ripple in the fabric of reality. Not violent. Not divine.
Just… warm.
Personal.
A quiet displacement of air. A shift in breath. A heartbeat she knew better than her own.
He appeared beside the roses—black hair tousled slightly by the breeze, eyes gentle, dressed in plain travel clothes.
Alex.
Her Alex.
He smiled when he saw her, and Mary's breath caught in her throat.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Welcome," she whispered, standing quickly, cheeks already pink. "Did you—was the teleport okay? The wards—"
He stepped forward and reached out, gently brushing her cheek with one hand.
"I've been through worse than Vatican defenses," he said with a grin.
She laughed nervously.
But before she could say more—
"You look delicious."
Mary froze.
Internally.
"M-Mira—!" she whispered in her mind.
"What? I've been quiet all morning. Let me live."
Mary tried to ignore her and turned back to Alex, motioning toward the garden path.
"Shall we walk?"
He nodded. "I'd like that."
They moved together in silence for a time, walking past the low stone walls and flowerbeds blooming with divine-touched lilies. The holy mana of the Vatican's core pulsed faintly under their feet.
It was beautiful.
Perfect.
Except Mira would not shut up.
"Did you notice how his hand brushed your cheek? He hesitated. That means he wants to touch you more."
Mary's face turned red.
"Also, you're walking too far apart. Close the distance, idiot."
She tried.
But Alex noticed her sudden stiffness and glanced sideways.
"You okay?"
"Y-Yes!" she said quickly, forcing a smile. "I was just thinking…"
"About his hands. His lips. His stamina—"
"MIRA!"
He tilted his head. "You sure?"
Mary nodded firmly.
But Mira was already spiraling.
"You know what I was thinking last night? If we really want his child, we need to start early. Like, now. Ten years minimum, remember?"
"Can you imagine it?" Mira whispered inside her, almost reverently. "On this very bench. The first night. A century of love starting in a holy garden."
Mary's knees nearly gave out.
She stumbled.
Alex caught her immediately, his arm slipping around her waist.
"Hey—are you alright?"
She nodded quickly, burning.
But then—
She heard it again.
A whisper.
Not internal.
Not in her thoughts.
But in the air.
"…Mary."
Alex blinked.
She froze.
He had heard it too.
"Oops."
"That might've slipped out."
Mary's eyes widened in horror.
"Was that—?" he began.
Mary turned away, heart pounding.
Alex placed a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her back.
"Was that… someone else?"
Mary hesitated.
Mira, unusually quiet now, whispered in her mind:
"If you tell him… be gentle."
She took a breath.
Then nodded slowly.
"…There's something I haven't told you."
Alex waited.
And Mary said—quietly, but clearly:
"There's another part of me. Her name is… Mira."
They continued walking after that—slowly, hand in hand.
Alex had taken the news with his usual calmness. Not with confusion, not with fear… just quiet acceptance.
"You and Mira are both part of you," he'd said gently. "And I like both of you. I always have."
That alone had made Mary's heart flutter so hard she nearly melted into the cobblestones.
The Vatican garden was quiet now. Only the breeze moved—the leaves rustling like angelic whispers overhead.
And inside her…
Mira stirred again.
"Soooo."
"When's your turn?"
Mary blinked, startled. "My… turn?"
"Yes. Your turn."
"You've kissed him. Hugged him. Prayed with him. Cried into his chest. And last time? I took the body and did all the real work."
"It was fantastic, by the way."
Mary turned red instantly.
"You felt it too, remember?" Mira purred. "Every slow stroke. Every kiss. Every time he whispered 'you're beautiful' into our ear."
"So again—when are you going to do it?"
Mary bit her lip and turned slightly away from Alex, who was still admiring a bed of silver lilies.
"I'm not ready," she whispered internally.
"Yes, you are."
"You're just scared."
Mary looked down.
"Scared you won't be good enough."
"Scared you'll mess it up. That I was better. That he'll compare."
"But he won't. You know he won't."
"Because you're you, Mary."
Her breath hitched.
Mira's voice—still teasing—had softened now.
"He doesn't need you to be perfect."
"He just wants you to be honest."
"So be honest."
"Do you want to feel him… not just through me—but through you?"
Mary's heart thudded violently.
Alex turned to her, sensing something again.
"Mary?"
She looked up at him.
And her lips moved before she could stop them.
"…Would you stay the night?"
He blinked.
Then smiled gently.
"Of course."
Chapter 334 – "A Prayer in the Dark" (18+)
The corridors of the Vatican dormitories were quiet after dusk.
Candlelight flickered gently against the white stone walls, and the faint smell of old parchment and pressed linen filled the air. It was a sacred kind of stillness—the kind that usually made Mary feel safe.
But tonight…
Her heart wouldn't stop trembling.
She reached her door, her fingers resting lightly on the handle.
Alex stood beside her—silent, respectful, warm.
And she turned to him, cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
"…Tonight," she whispered. "I'm ready."
Her voice was soft, almost drowned by her heartbeat. But she didn't look away.
"I want… to be with you."
Alex blinked, surprised—but his expression softened immediately.
"Mary," he said quietly, "are you sure?"
She hesitated only for a moment.
Then nodded, eyes wide but certain.
"…Yes."
He smiled.
Not the smile of a man claiming something.
But the smile of someone entrusted with a fragile, beautiful gift.
She opened the door.
They stepped inside.
—
Her room was simple.
White curtains swayed softly by the open window. A small wooden cross rested above her bed. A candle burned beside it, its light casting gentle shadows across the tidy shelves and books she loved so much.
Mary walked toward the edge of the bed, then paused.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the tie of her habit.
She rarely took it off in front of anyone.
Not even Mira did this gently.
She fumbled slightly—but felt Alex's hand reach out, warm and steady, covering hers.
"You don't have to rush," he said softly. "We have time."
Mary looked up.
Then—slowly, nervously—she stepped back.
And began to undress.
Layer by layer, cloth by cloth.
Her sleeves slid from her shoulders like falling petals.
The ribbon in her hair loosened, silver-blue strands spilling like silk down her back.
She never moved quickly.
Never boldly.
She folded each piece of fabric as she set it aside, modest even in her vulnerability.
When she stood before him in her simple underdress—barefoot, pale, beautiful—she didn't speak.
She only looked at him.
Eyes open.
Breath shaking.
And in that moment—
She took one slow step forward.
Then another.
Then another.
As if walking toward something sacred.
Alex didn't reach for her.
He waited.
Until she finally reached him—standing just close enough for their warmth to touch.
Her hands trembled at her sides.
But her voice didn't break this time.
"…Please hold me."
He did.
Gently.
Completely.
His arms wrapped around her small frame like a blessing, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other holding her waist as if she might vanish.
"You're safe," he whispered.
She buried her face against his chest.
Her lips moved, barely audible.
"…Thank you."
His warmth wrapped around her like a second soul.
Mary pressed herself into his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. Every beat of his heart was steady—strong—but slow, as if he was holding himself back for her sake.
She felt it.
All of it.
The power in his arms.
The restraint in his touch.
And the safety in his silence.
He didn't rush her.
Didn't grip.
Didn't lean.
He just held her.
Letting her body speak before words.
Mary looked up at him—eyes shimmering.
Her lips parted.
"…I'm scared," she whispered.
His thumb brushed her cheek. "That's okay."
"I don't know if I'll be good at this…"
"You don't have to be."
She trembled slightly.
"But I want you to love me…"
"I already do."
She couldn't hold back the tiny sound in her throat.
It wasn't a sob.
It was relief.
He kissed her—lightly at first. Just a touch. Like the press of a prayer against the skin.
Her lips answered, shaky but sure, and she leaned into it.
He led her toward the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath their weight.
The candle flickered beside them.
Mary lay back slowly, her hair spilling across the white pillow like a halo. Her eyes searched his face—not for approval. Just for comfort. And she found it.
He pulled his shirt off, revealing the bare lines of his chest—wounds long healed, muscle refined through worlds she couldn't even imagine.
But tonight…
He wasn't a warrior.
Or a god.
He was hers.
He leaned over her, one hand braced beside her shoulder, the other gently tugging down the hem of her underdress.
Her body tensed instinctively.
But she nodded.
And he kept going, slow and careful, until it slid away from her body completely.
She lay beneath him now—bare, beautiful, heart exposed more than skin.
He looked at her like he was memorizing a holy verse.
"May I…?" he whispered.
She answered without words—just a soft nod and the way her fingers reached for his cheek.
He kissed her again.
And this time—deeper.
Longer.
Their breath joined. Their skin pressed. Their heat tangled like silk threads too fine to name.
When he entered her, it was slow. So slow it made her gasp softly—not from pain. But from the intensity.
She clutched him.
Her body stretching to accept him, her soul trembling under the truth that this was real.
That she was finally his.
That he was inside her.
She moaned quietly against his shoulder, her voice fragile.
"Alex…"
He kissed her ear.
"I'm here."
They moved together—not in rhythm, but in trust.
His hips rolled slowly, each motion gentle and steady, his breath never rising above hers.
She whispered his name again, and again.
Sometimes with need.
Sometimes with awe.
Sometimes with tears in her eyes.
"I love you," she whispered.
He kissed her lips. "I know."
"I want to stay like this… forever…"
"Then we will."
Her fingers found his back. Her legs wrapped around him shyly. She pulled him deeper, and he let himself go—still holding back, still letting her guide how much, how far.
And when she finally came, her whole body tensed—silent at first, then gasping into his neck as the wave overtook her.
He followed seconds later, burying himself fully inside, releasing with a low groan against her skin—warmth blooming inside her like a star.
After, he stayed.
Inside her.
Holding her.
Breathing with her.
And Mary… cried quietly.
Not from pain.
But from joy so overwhelming she didn't know where to put it.
Alex kissed her eyelids.
Then her lips.
Then held her as tightly as she'd ever been held.
And for the first time since her strange birth, split between bloodlines and destinies…
She didn't feel divided.
She felt whole.
Loved.
Cherished.
And completely… his.
Their bodies were still joined.
Warm. Breathless. Quiet.
Mary lay in his arms, her chest rising and falling against his as her heartbeat slowly steadied. The room was dim, lit only by the candle's last flickers, and yet he could see every inch of her—every tremble, every breath, every whispered prayer that passed her lips.
She looked up at him.
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted.
"…Alex," she said softly, "I want to try something."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "What is it?"
Mary hesitated. Then she smiled—shy, but resolute.
"I want to show you everything I am."
Before he could ask more, she gently sat up on his lap, still straddling him, her skin glowing faintly in the candlelight.
And then—
Light.
Not harsh. Not holy. Just pure.
Wings unfolded behind her—crystalline, radiant, and edged with celestial blue light. Her hair shimmered as it flowed down her back in twin ribbons of silver-blue. Her eyes sparkled like polished sapphire, and ethereal patterns bloomed across her armor-like bodice as it manifested from mana.
Her voice, when she spoke, was soft and divine.
"This… is me. My true angel form."
Alex had seen it once before.
In battle.
In desperation.
But never like this.
Never this close.
Never while she was still in his arms—warm from his touch, glowing from their union.
He stared—speechless for a moment—as if looking upon something sacred.
And then he whispered, almost reverently:
"…You're beautiful."
She blushed again, wings fluttering slightly behind her. "You've already seen me like this…"
"Not like this," he said, his hands rising to gently hold her waist. "Not when you were mine."
Her lips quivered.
She leaned forward again, her forehead touching his, wings folding gently behind her like a blessing.
"…Then please," she whispered, voice trembling, "love me like this too."
He did.
He kissed her.
And held her tighter.
And this time, when he moved again within her—it was slower, deeper, and wrapped in divine light.
Her wings trembled with every breath.
Her voice rose like a hymn.
And for the first time, Mary—angel, saint, woman—was loved not for what she carried in her bloodline.
But for who she truly was.
Her body shone in his arms.
Wings of pure light arched behind her, each feather edged with radiant mana, gently rising and falling with her breath. Her silver-blue hair floated weightlessly in the air, stirred by an aura that seemed to hum with divinity itself. The soft glow from her skin pulsed in time with his heartbeat, their bodies no longer just joined by touch—
—but by soul.
She sat astride him, legs folded around his waist, her form both armored and vulnerable. Her fingers rested gently against his chest, trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of emotion she had never given to anyone before.
Mary.
The angel.
The girl.
His.
He reached up, cupping her face with both hands, and pulled her into a kiss.
This time, there was no hesitation in her lips.
She melted into him.
Their mouths met with breathless heat—his tongue brushing hers, her soft moan escaping like a chime through a cathedral's silence. Her hips shifted subtly, adjusting—welcoming him again, still within her, still connected.
He rolled his hips up gently.
She gasped into his mouth, wings fluttering with sudden light.
The second movement—deeper, slower.
She whimpered softly, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Her wings reflexively curled behind him, like she was trying to shield them both from the rest of the world.
And then—
They began to move.
Together.
The rhythm was slow at first—deliberate, trembling with emotion. She sat upright again, hands sliding down his chest as her hips began to roll with each motion, guided by instinct, not technique.
Her eyes never left his.
Even as her cheeks flushed and her lips parted in soft, helpless moans.
Alex placed his hands on her waist—steadying her, supporting her—and thrust upward to meet her rhythm.
Mary's whole body shivered.
The divine sigils glowing across her thighs flickered brighter, and her wings trembled again.
She moved faster.
Her hips now met his with a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed softly in the candlelit room. Her moans became higher—sweeter—as her body grew used to the pace, the size, the stretch. Every time she sat down on him, she felt full. So full. Her breath caught in her throat.
And she wanted more.
She leaned forward again—her hands planted on his chest—and began to ride him with shy desperation, her divine energy blooming brighter with each motion.
Her thighs quivered.
Her body clenched.
Her moans came faster now.
"Alex… I… I love you…"
He thrust harder now, deeper—each movement still careful, but firm, timed with every pulse of her glowing body.
She was getting closer.
He could feel it.
Her walls tightened around him in waves.
The glow of her wings began to ripple like heatlight across the ceiling. Tiny particles of sacred light—like divine dust—floated around them both.
She gasped—arched—her back curving with tension.
"Ah… A-Alex…!"
Her hands gripped his shoulders.
And then it hit her.
Her climax.
Her entire body seized—her walls spasming around him in tight, wet waves, her voice catching in a beautiful, wordless cry as her wings flared open in full, radiant splendor. Light poured from her back, from her skin, from her soul. The room was filled with it.
A pillar of soft celestial radiance surrounded them.
Alex thrust once—twice more—and then groaned deeply into her neck as he released inside her, his warmth pouring into her trembling body, mixing with her divine light.
They came together.
In perfect unity.
Mary collapsed against him—still glowing, still trembling, her breath ragged, her tears quiet.
He held her close—his arms wrapped around her naked, shining form, her wings slowly folding in to shelter them both.
"…You're incredible," he whispered into her hair.
She only smiled.
And whispered back—
"…I feel whole."
Chapter 335 – "The Morning Beneath Her Wings"
The morning light entered softly through the open window, filtering through white curtains like strands of heaven.
The candle had long since gone out.
But the warmth remained.
Mary stirred slowly beneath the covers, her body bare beneath the sheets—sore in places she had never felt sore before. Her breath caught as the memories returned…
His arms.
His voice.
His warmth inside her.
Her first time.
Truly hers.
Not Mira's.
Not borrowed.
Hers.
She blinked and tilted her head.
Alex was still asleep.
Or at least, pretending to be.
One arm lay tucked around her waist, the other resting across the pillow behind her head. His breathing was calm, steady. His chest rose and fell gently beneath the thin layer of fabric that covered him.
She studied his face for a long moment.
So peaceful.
So close.
She smiled.
And then—
"Well, well…"
"Someone finally got her holy ass off the bench."
Mary turned crimson in an instant.
"Mira—!" she hissed internally.
"Don't 'Mira' me. You were glowing. Literally."
"Wings out. Legs wide. Riding him like you were born for it. I'm proud of you."
Mary buried her face into Alex's chest.
"Stop!"
"No. Really. You even moaned his name in that soft, 'oh Alex please deeper' voice. It was so sweet I almost cried. Do it again tonight."
"MIRA!!"
She could feel Mira grinning from within her soul.
"All jokes aside… you were beautiful."
"…And I'm happy you took that step."
Mary froze.
Because even through the teasing, there was a quiet sincerity in Mira's voice now.
A rare gentleness.
"He loves you," Mira added quietly. "And now… you know what it feels like when someone gives you everything."
Mary smiled again.
Her face still pressed to his chest.
"…I know," she whispered softly.
Alex's arms tightened gently around her.
"I was wondering when you'd wake up," he murmured, voice husky from sleep.
Mary blinked, startled, looking up.
He was smiling.
Wide awake.
And listening.
All along.
She blushed furiously.
"…How much did you hear?"
He leaned in and kissed her forehead.
"Enough to know I'm the luckiest man in the world."
She stayed wrapped in his arms for a while longer.
There was no need to move.
No need to speak.
Just the soft beat of his heart, the scent of him in the sheets, the way his breath kissed the crown of her head. Every part of her felt safe—like she'd been searching for this feeling her entire life and only now understood what it meant to belong.
Eventually, he spoke.
"Are you hungry?"
She nodded gently against his chest.
"…A little."
"I'll make something," he said, starting to sit up.
But her hand caught his wrist.
"Wait… just a little longer."
He smiled and eased back down beside her.
Outside the window, bells chimed across the Vatican gardens. The sunlight warmed the sheets. The doves were beginning their morning song.
Mary tilted her face up and kissed him again—slowly this time, without urgency. Just soft lips against his. Just warmth. Just gratitude.
When they finally pulled apart, she whispered, "Thank you."
"For what?" he asked, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
"For being patient. For loving me gently."
He leaned in, kissed her cheek, then her temple.
"I'd wait a thousand years for you if I had to."
Her heart trembled again.
"Even if Mira takes over and tries to jump you in the hallway?"
He chuckled. "Especially then."
She giggled softly, hiding her face in the pillow for a moment.
Then…
She looked at him again.
"…Would you stay a little longer? After breakfast?"
Alex nodded.
"I'll stay as long as you want."
Mary's smile grew brighter—quiet and radiant.
She sat up and pulled the sheets around herself as he stood and stretched, the morning light catching the lines of his body. She watched him dress with a fluttering heart, still shy despite what they had shared.
He glanced back at her as he adjusted his shirt.
"What should I make?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully.
"…Something sweet?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You?"
"I think…" She touched her lips, then smiled.
"…I want to start today with something soft. Something that feels like yesterday never ended."
He nodded once—understanding completely.
"I'll make strawberry crepes."
She lit up.
He kissed her once more on the forehead before slipping into the kitchenette.
And as he walked away, Mary sat quietly on the edge of her bed, the sheets still wrapped around her.
Mira didn't speak.
Because she didn't need to.
There was peace now.
In her body.
In her heart.
In the morning light that now belonged to them both.
The scent of butter and fresh strawberries filled the air.
She sat wrapped in a soft robe now, legs folded on the edge of her bed, watching from across the small table in her room as Alex carefully folded golden crepes on a hot plate he'd summoned with a flick of his hand. The enchanted pan floated effortlessly in midair while a summoned breeze vented the warmth out the open window.
He moved with casual precision—no spell circles, no chants, no showy gestures.
Just skill.
Simple, comforting, quiet.
She found it more beautiful than any miracle.
A plate slid across the table.
Three folded crepes, filled with fresh strawberries, whipped cream, and a drizzle of light honey. The plate was warm. A small flower-shaped cut of fruit decorated the corner—something extra, just for her.
Alex sat down across from her, sleeves rolled, hair slightly tousled from the morning.
"Strawberry crepes," he said with a small smile. "As requested."
Mary picked up her fork, cheeks warm again. "Thank you…"
She took a bite.
Soft.
Warm.
Sweet in the way mornings should be.
She closed her eyes briefly, savoring it.
"It's perfect."
He smiled, pleased.
They ate in peaceful silence for a while, the quiet broken only by the soft clink of forks and the rustle of the wind against the window.
Then, after a few bites, Mary finally asked:
"…Do you always cook like this?"
Alex looked up. "Only for people I care about."
She smiled shyly and looked down at her plate, poking at the whipped cream.
"…So I'm special?"
"You're Mary," he said simply.
"And that makes you very special."
Her heart fluttered again.
She didn't respond—she didn't need to.
She just reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his.
They held it like that.
In silence.
In stillness.
In a world that, for once, didn't demand anything more than their presence.
Then, after a long moment, she whispered:
"I'm glad it was you."
He squeezed her hand.
"I'm glad it was you too."
The last crepe disappeared between them.
No rush.
No need.
Only warmth.
Only smiles.
Only love.
Later, they sat together on the edge of the balcony just outside her room.
The stone was cool beneath their feet, warmed only by the morning sun that painted golden light across the tiled rooftops and distant spires of the Vatican. Doves perched on the railing, cooing softly, and the breeze carried the faint scent of incense and roses from the gardens below.
Mary leaned against Alex's shoulder, her head resting quietly.
His arm was wrapped around her, his thumb slowly brushing her upper arm in lazy, absent circles.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
The sky stretched above them in soft blues and drifting clouds, the kind of sky that felt untouched—pure, like a silent cathedral suspended in air.
Mary closed her eyes and smiled faintly.
She felt whole.
Not just loved—but seen.
Cherished.
Accepted.
His warmth beside her, the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, the peace in her soul after giving all of herself to him—this was a kind of joy she hadn't dared to pray for.
Not as a child raised in conflicting bloodlines.
Not as a vessel split between light and shadow.
But here… in his arms…
She wasn't divided.
She was just Mary.
Just a woman who had fallen in love.
"…Will you come again tomorrow?" she asked quietly.
Alex tilted his head, looking down at her.
"If you want me to."
"I do."
He smiled and kissed the top of her head.
"Then I will."
They stayed there for a while longer.
Watching the sky.
Letting the world pass by in silence.
And for that one perfect morning—
There were no gods.
No curses.
No duties.
Just a girl and the man she loved, sitting side by side beneath heaven.