Chapter 33

Lino finally forced out the thoughts he had been hoarding in the safety of his mind. He was painfully aware that he possessed no standing to offer counsel to an Imperial Duke, which was why he had swallowed the words time and time again.

“Why must we do this? I am a holy knight, after all.”

“……”

Despite finally mustering the courage to squeeze out the plea, the words seemed to bounce harmlessly off the man. Still, seeing that a thunderous reprimand like ‘How dare you advise me’ didn’t immediately fall upon him, Lino gathered his fractured bravery for a second attempt.

“I have no divine power. That is precisely why I am receiving… a punishment… from Your Highness, am I not?”

“Do you know something?” Grondil asked.

“…Pardon?”

Despite Lino voluntarily confessing his greatest sin once more, the Duke’s response was a completely tangential question. Lino blinked in confusion. “Know what, exactly?”

“I am told that in ancient times, there were no individuals possessing divine power like there are today,” the Duke remarked casually.

“I have never heard such a thing,” Lino snapped back automatically, his tone unexpectedly firm.

Though he loathed the man enough to despise even uttering his name, no one possessed a deeper mastery of ancient theology than Baron Haklan. Whenever Lino behaved obediently, the Baron would reward him with a book or two on the subject. Occasionally, he would even bestow his personal treatises; since ancient theology and the mysterious land of Isberg were inextricably linked, Lino had no choice but to devour the texts regardless of his hatred for the man who provided them.

“Baron Haklan claimed the exact opposite,” Lino argued. “He wrote that the ancient era was a time overflowing with divine power on a scale incomparable to today. Furthermore, how could one possibly commune with the gods without divine power?”

Make sense, please. 

Shooting the Duke a look of pure skepticism, Lino discreetly hitched the blanket higher, pulling it defensively up to his waist. Grondil was steadily closing the distance between them, a placid smile hovering on his lips. Even while leaning back as loosely as possible, a severe, throbbing ache radiated from between his buttocks. The terrifying realization that enduring that act again would leave him permanently bedridden on his stomach forced Lino to curl into a protective hunch.

“It is the truth,” Grondil murmured, unfazed. “That era was a time when the gods actively intervened in the mortal realm.”

“But Baron Haklan—”

“It seems you believe I am more ignorant of ancient theology than this Baron Haklan, or whatever hack he is,” the Duke interrupted smoothly.

“That is not what I meant at all!” Lino shrieked, violently startled into a denial. The smile gracing Grondil’s lips was the picture of gentle warmth, yet for some inexplicable reason, a violent chill raced down Lino’s spine.

Closing the remaining distance, Grondil settled himself against the headboard right beside the flinching knight. He draped a heavy hand over Lino’s, which rested atop the blanket, and began to massage the knuckles in slow, deliberate circles before whispering into his ear.

“You despise this Baron Haklan, yet you seem quite fond of his treatises?”

“W-well, that’s… That is because the vast majority of ancient theology texts originate from the Haklan barony…”

Unable to refute the Duke’s pinpoint observation, Lino’s excuses withered into a pathetic mumble. He truly hated the Baron enough to wish him dead, but the infuriating reality was that there were simply no alternatives to his academic work. Even the ducal estate’s own grand library had its ancient theology section composed almost entirely—seventy percent, at least—of volumes authored by the Haklan family.

“I despise Haklan with every fiber of my being, but…” Lino confessed, “the subjects I love are so intimately tied to ancient theology that I have no choice but to study the literature his family publishes.”

“Is that so,” Grondil murmured, nodding thoughtfully.

Lino had to physically restrain himself from frantically scratching his ear. Every time the Duke, who was pressed far too close, whispered beside him, the rush of hot breath sent a violent shudder through his peach fuzz and made his eardrums itch unbearably. Furthermore, Grondil’s impossibly deep register sounded exactly like a massive carnivore rumbling low in its throat, raising goosebumps across Lino’s skin. It felt terrifyingly plausible that the man might abruptly shift from whispering sweet nothings to ripping out his jugular.

Biting his lip hard, Lino shifted his aching hips. Since fleeing outright was out of the question, he planned to imperceptibly inch away. Yet, even with his agonizingly slow, microscopic wiggles, a sharp, electrifying jolt of pain shot from his swollen entrance straight up his tailbone.

Ugh… It hurts. It hurts so much.

Swallowing a whimper, he tried to slide just a fraction further, only for the hand that had been caressing his knuckles to suddenly clamp onto his shoulder, hauling him right back. His herculean effort to endure the pain for a meager half-span of distance was tragically rendered moot. Worse still, the sudden movement sent a renewed spike of agony rocketing up his spine, causing him to instinctively curl into a tight, trembling ball with a strangled gasp.

“Oh dear, does something hurt?” Grondil asked in mock innocence. “Is it here?”

The Duke soothingly stroked Lino’s hunched back. His heavy hand traced a slow path down the ridge of the spine, finally coming to rest directly at the epicenter of the pain: the swollen, abused hole hidden between his buttocks.

When a thick finger pressed firmly against the fabric, Lino’s huddled shoulders convulsed, a wet moan tearing from his throat. It was merely a single, deliberate press through the double barrier of his trousers and underwear, yet it was enough to drench his entire body in a cold sweat. Pure terror seized him at the thought that those relentless fingertips might tear right through the fabric and plunge inside him again.

I have to keep the conversation going. Anything.

Frantically rebooting his panicked, white-washed brain, Lino desperately seized the severed thread of their theological debate. “Y-Your Highness! So, are you suggesting that the gods do not actively intervene in the present day?!”

He had spat the words out with such hysterical urgency that his voice cracked mid-sentence. The volume was so disproportionately loud it sounded less like a polite inquiry and more like an aggressive interrogation. Fortunately, Grondil graciously indulged the outburst.

“That is correct.”

The answer was terrifyingly brief. More distressingly, the Duke showed absolutely no inclination to remove his wandering digit from atop Lino’s entrance. He shifted from pressing the sensitive flesh to dragging a blunt nail across it in a slow scrape, an action so inherently threatening it felt as though he might shred the fabric at any moment. Lino’s mouth went bone-dry.

“B-but divine power is bestowed by the gods, so surely that counts as divine intervention!” Lino babbled, desperately buying time. “If there were no clerics or paladins in ancient times… wouldn’t it be more accurate to view the present era as one of unprecedented divine activity? The number of clergy is steadily increasing, after all.”

Even while hovering on the precipice of having his rear violently breached a second time, Lino miraculously managed to articulate a coherent theological argument.

“In ancient times, the gods answered anyone who sought them with a sincere heart,” Grondil countered smoothly. “Today, that direct communion has been outsourced to a minuscule fraction of clergy acting as proxies. I hardly call that ‘active’ communication. Furthermore, in this current era of mortals, one requires substantial wealth and power just to secure an audience with a high priest. Therefore, no matter how many proxies the gods empower, the grace they dispense is akin to water poured onto a tilted plate—it spills unevenly, pooling only for the privileged.”

“Ah… That does make sense,” Lino conceded, nodding his head in reluctant awe. He suddenly felt a twinge of embarrassment for his own shallow deduction—assuming that a higher headcount of divine wielders automatically equated to widespread grace.

“Most people find this topic dreadfully dull, or simply lack any interest in it whatsoever,” Grondil noted. “You are quite the surprise.”

“Most might, but there are always exceptions to the rule,” Lino murmured.

“Indeed.”

Praising him for the insight, the Duke gave the squirming hips a patronizing, affectionate pat before finally withdrawing the hand that had been so tenaciously violating Lino’s personal space.

Thank the heavens. Exhaling a massive sigh of relief, Lino relaxed his death grip on his glutes and allowed his rigid body to slump marginally into the mattress. However, the Duke had not completely retreated. The hand simply migrated upward, trailing a lazy path over Lino’s waist and ribs, kneading the tense shoulder muscles, before long fingers zeroed in to toy absently with his earlobe.

Well, it is infinitely better than him molesting my swollen backside. Obviously. Lino’s innate, desperately optimistic nature kicked into overdrive, rationalizing the intimate touch until it no longer felt quite as horrifyingly invasive. In fact, the rhythmic, gentle kneading of his earlobe was so soothing that he temporarily forgot the hand belonged to a terrifying Imperial Duke, his deep-seated tension melting away.

“By the way, Sir Cliff.”

“Yeees.” Stripped of his adrenaline, Lino’s response dragged out into a sluggish, unguarded drawl.

“Are you sleepy?”

“Mmm… no, I am not.”

He is definitely sleepy. Grondil chuckled softly at the delayed, sluggish denial. Tilting his head slightly to study the knight’s profile, he found long eyelashes drooping heavily over half-lidded eyes; the man was visibly succumbing to a powerful wave of drowsiness.

With a gentle tug, Grondil guided Lino’s head toward him. Bereft of even a token shred of resistance, the knight’s head fell heavily against the Duke’s chest. As if he had been unconsciously craving the warmth all along, Lino exhaled a long, deeply contented sigh against the broad expanse of muscle.

“You slept for three consecutive days, yet you are falling asleep again?” Grondil teased softly.

“I’m not… sleepy…” Lino mumbled.

“You are dozing off as we speak.”

“No… I’m not. Not sleeping…”

“If you receive a single day of punishment and then rest for three, can that even be considered a punishment?”

“Punishment… right, the punishment… I have to… receive it…”

The dreaded word briefly spiked his adrenaline, causing his glazed eyes to sharpen for a fleeting second before they immediately rolled back into a murky haze.

“A sleep demon must have latched onto you,” Grondil whispered, rhythmically patting Lino’s shoulder.

“Demon… ugh…” Even half-unconscious, his distaste for the supernatural manifested as a faint, adorably petulant wrinkle marring his smooth, milky forehead.

Why am I so exhausted? Lino wondered hazily.

He knew he desperately needed to stay hyper-vigilant and on guard around this dangerous predator. Yet, an unnatural lethargy continued to crush him. The rhythmic warmth of Grondil’s large hand patting his shoulder, combined with that incredibly deep, low register rumbling like a dark lullaby, systematically dismantled every single one of his defenses, pulling him gently into the dark.