The world was heaving. News of the Guardian’s trial had infected the Dark Moon like a virus.

  Through the holographic curtains projecting proverbs into the air, Vivian saw countless festering mouths spewing black slander.

  The believers she had once pitied, the flock she had prayed for—they were now screaming "Liar," roaring "Heretic," howling for the "Stake."

  They sought to drown the sanctity of the Throne in mortal filth.

  And the reason? To protect her? They dared to claim the Guardian descended for something as vulgar as "Money"?

  Unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable.

  "Silence! You blind maggots!"

  Vivian stood in the center of the Inner Sanctum, her hands clawing into the fabric over her heart.

  The Ark within her roared.

  "Since this world cannot tolerate Truth, since the Ring dares judge the Guardian, I will cleanse this wasteland with Holy Fire! I will snatch him back from the jaws of these jackals!"

  "Stand down, Vivian."

  Mora blocked the great doors, immovable. Leaning on her cane, spine rigid, she looked like a dormant volcano—cold, hard, straddling the line between life and death.

  "Step aside, Mother! You hear the blasphemy! How can you endure it?"

  "If you riot now, you validate every accusation against him." Mora’s voice was flat, devoid of fluctuation. "He will no longer be your God. He will be a foolish accessory buried in your grave."

  The flames of rage retreated, unwilling, back into her body.

  Vivian raised her head, the blue light in her eyes swirling like deep-sea currents.

  "Fine. I won't burn them to death yet. I will go see him."

  ...

  There was no cold fragrance here. The dungeon reeked of acidic rot and sulfur.

  Disguised as a guard, Vivian removed her helmet, letting her golden hair cascade down. She expected to see the Guardian broken, bleeding amidst torture devices.

  But what she saw was a straight, unyielding back.

  The Guardian stood under a harsh work lamp, completely absorbed in the silver fabric spread across the bench.

  Dust motes danced in the halo of his hair. Every breath, every movement, seemed part of a grand, silent ritual.

  "My Master..." A thousand words choked in her throat, dissolving into a broken sob.

  Hearing the sound, the Guardian turned.

  He did not accuse the Ring of atrocities. He showed no mortal weakness.

  A silver needle was clamped between his teeth. Light-shears hung around his neck. His eyes were as clear as a mountain stream.

  "It's you?" His voice was calm. Almost chillingly professional.

  "Just in time. I need to calibrate the cuff size. The carbon fiber I used before lacked ductility; I was worried it would chafe your wrist bone."

  Vivian froze.

  She was weeping. She was trembling at the collapse of her world. And the Guardian was talking about... carbon fiber? Wrist bones?

  "But... you are suffering!" She wanted to throw herself into his arms, to tell him the rumors outside had become a monstrous flood.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Arms up. Level." The Guardian ignored her sorrow completely. He approached with a measuring tape, issuing an unquestionable Oracle.

  "Don't move. I'm calculating the aerodynamic drag coefficient. If the error exceeds two millimeters, heat will accumulate during high-velocity movement."

  Vivian could only obediently raise her arms, letting the cold tape wind around her wrists.

  He doesn't care about the trial. He doesn't care about the slander. He only cares about—Drag Coefficient? What kind of spell is that?

  Oh, such transcendence!

  In the eyes of God, the judgment of the world is but the noise of ants. Only the creation in his hands is real.

  "Put it on."

  Moments later, the Guardian held up the silver-white robe. It wasn't just a garment; it was Mithril Armor, a battle suit forged by God’s own hand for his knight.

  Vivian opened her arms.

  The robe seemed to come alive, adhering smoothly to every inch of her curves, automatically tightening without the slightest pressure.

  In that instant, she felt the Guardian’s embrace.

  His fingers wandered behind her, fastening magnetic clasps one by one.

  "Here is the heat exhaust valve."

  His breath was right by her ear, carrying a kind of nagging mercy.

  "Open it when the pain is distinct. Don't tough it out. Although they tell you to endure, the Second Law of Thermodynamics tells me you must dissipate heat."

  Listen. What a clumsy excuse. He is clearly pained by my suffering, yet he borrows the cold spell of "Thermodynamics" to mask his benevolence.

  Suddenly, Vivian felt a strange softness at her neck. Right inside the collar.

  She looked down. Her fingertips touched a ring of thick, dense foam—like clouds, gently wrapping around her most sensitive, pain-prone hollow.

  "Bio-Buffer Gel." The Guardian fastened the last button. "I synthesized it especially for you. Data shows the nerve endings are densest in this patch of skin. I don't want you flinching in pain; that would affect... hmm, the blood supply efficiency of the carotid artery."

  Vivian’s fingers trembled against the clouds.

  Even on death row. Even with his fate hanging by a thread. He is still worrying about... the tenderness of my neck?

  A liar? Ha. Is there a liar in this world who knows your every pain point? Is there a liar who would conjure clouds out of thin air in this place of rust and filth, just to protect your skin?

  Every stitch is his sincerity. Every clasp is a vow. This is not a fitting; this is a Coronation. Not with gold and gems, but with this meticulous, bone-deep tenderness.

  "Done."

  The Guardian stepped back. He looked at Vivian wrapped in the silver robe, his previously tense shoulders slumping in relief.

  In that instant, Vivian saw a flash of peace in his eyes—like a man watching the last fawn being safely loaded onto Noah's Ark.

  Then, he knelt.

  Under the pretext of arranging the hem of her skirt, the proud Guardian bowed his spine deeply before her.

  "Your Highness Vivian, I am sorry."

  His voice was heartbreakingly sincere, yet he spoke the cruelest lie in the world.

  "I am not your Guardian. I never was. I approached you only for money—for the fifty million Earth Dollars and the ship Mora promised. I am a greedy black-market doctor. A despicable Rat."

  He dared not look up, staring dead at the stains on the floor.

  "This protective suit... consider it the final product delivered. Wear it, win the Lunar Rite, and forget me. I am no Unstained One. I am just a piece of trash, too sick to even accept cybernetic implants."

  The air was deathly silent.

  According to mortal logic, she should be angry. She should scream. She should slap this "liar" across the face. But Vivian felt nothing of the sort. Her fingers were still gently stroking the warm clouds at her collar.

  She looked at the Guardian kneeling on the floor. She watched his trembling eyelashes. She watched the jawline tight from the effort of lying.

  A massive, desolate, yet incomparably sacred love drowned her like a tide.

  She smiled. With utter happiness.

  Oh, my Lord.

  You really are the world's clumsiest magician.

  Did you think that by covering yourself in mud, you could push me away?

  You say it was for money? But just now, when you fastened the buttons, your hands were shaking. You say it was for heat dissipation? But when you cushioned me with clouds, your eyes were full of heartache.

  The sanctity and mercy hidden in this garment are ten thousand times more precious than fifty million Earth Dollars!

  Are you trying to sever the Fated Covenant? To abandon me? Do you have the heart to let me face the pain of this world alone?

  No. Never.

  You are mine. We signed the Fated Covenant. Your life and death can only be decided by me.

  Not by those fools in the Ring.

  Vivian slowly squatted down.

  She reached out and gently placed her hand on Leo's head. Like a deity petting a lost, loyal dog that tries to protect its master with lies.

  The Guardian’s body went rigid.

  "Very well, Doctor Leo."

  Vivian’s voice was as gentle as a dirge, carrying an all-knowing tolerance and mercy.

  "I accept your apology."

  Since you want to play this scene, since this is your way of protecting me, I will play along. You want to be the liar? I will be the fool.

  Vivian stood up and walked decisively toward the prison door.

  The moment she stepped out of the darkness, the tears in her eyes evaporated instantly, replaced by a resolve strong enough to incinerate heaven and earth.

  Even if the whole universe spits on you, I will stand on the judgment platform, wearing the armor you gave me, and hold your mud-stained hand.

  If they dare judge you a heretic, I will fight them to the death.

  Either we ascend as a myth, or we burn together into ash.

  【Post-Chapter Log: Mother Mora's Confusion】

  System Error.

  Control is slipping.

  Comments left by you observers. I will read every single one.

  What is the variable I missed?

  — Mother Mora