Chapter 89 Declaration
From the current angle, Nova couldn't see the teacher's face. The old man was like a silent reef, staring at the young man who was about to be drowned by endless piles of papers and letters.
His student sat at the desk. He had become much thinner, with protruding bones sharp enough to prick one's hand, but the side of his face was illuminated by a layer of fine, soft hair.
The young man stood up, stepped around the pile of papers, and approached him. He looked unusually bewildered. Rabelais thought he knew his student—he knew everything, but he knew nothing about his fellow man.
Delos Rabelais remained unmarried and childless. The theologian, once hailed as a "prophet" throughout the empire, had grown old. Throughout his long life, the object of his greatest pride and greatest concern was this student, who was notoriously unattractive and who even caused him constant worry and anxiety. He hoped that the student would inherit his legacy, but he also hoped that he would live a peaceful and safe life, but now these two things seemed increasingly incompatible.
——The student whom he treated as his own son walked on a road destined to be covered in blood and mud without looking back.
"...Teacher." Nova felt vaguely uneasy.
If the old man was so angry that he waved his fists, puffed his beard and glared at him, he would have a way to deal with it, but the other party just looked at him with a complicated and indescribable look, like a decayed statue covered with cobwebs.
"Son, I know I can't stop you, but I want you to think about it carefully," the old man's hoarse and tired voice echoed in the room.
"When the people around you die one after another because of you, when you are deserted by your friends and family, when you spend your entire life in hiding under the coercion of illness and poverty, even lingering in prison, waiting in fear for how to end a life reviled by everyone... When you think back to today again, will you regret your choice at this moment? Will you resent me, your foolish and cowardly teacher, for not stopping you in time?"
"...Why would I resent you?" The young man frowned. "Bloodshed is the inevitable price of all change, even my own. Besides, these are all choices I made based on careful consideration. They have nothing to do with you."
“…”
"teacher?"
Looking at the old man's tired, closed eyes, Nova subconsciously took a step forward. He wanted to analyze the micro-expressions on his face—but those symbols of sadness blocked his brain, preventing him from further distinguishing the movement of muscles and the rise and fall of wrinkles.
"...Bloodshed is the inevitable price of change, ha." The old man laughed bitterly, his back, which had never been bent, now seemed a little hunched. "So you're going to shut an old man like me out and make me deaf and blind?"
The ominous premonition became stronger and stronger, and Nova vaguely realized that he seemed to have hurt his mentor.
No, he wanted to argue, though he hesitated many times, but as he had once accused the so-called saviors of this world, it was arrogance and stupidity.
The early concealment was just a stopgap measure. He made himself appear naive, impulsive and arrogant, and diverted the attention of the society from the teacher as much as possible, but Nova himself never gave up on getting help from Delos Rabelais.
There was also a particularly despicable reason: once everything was irreversible, his teacher would no longer be able to stop him. Based on his personality, he would most likely come privately and ask to join.
...He was merely relying on his teacher's usual doting and partiality, but now the initiative rested entirely with him, not Owl. This was the selfishness and weakness of a villain, and Nova absolutely did not want his teacher to suffer the fate his companions described.
The most important thing now was what to say and what to do. The black-haired young man opened his mouth, but found it difficult to defend himself—how could he explain? The information the other party had received was completely consistent with reality. No matter how he explained it, it sounded like a quibble, and there was no way he could reveal the "plot" of his past life to his teacher. Apologize? The damage had already been done, and an apology was the most useless option.
Someone pressed his shoulders from behind. He didn't know when the God-Favoured One had been there, nor how much he had heard.
The man's slightly cool fingers seemed to touch the back of his neck vaguely, like an unformed comfort - then he took a step forward and leaned slightly towards the old man who was also frightened by the sudden appearance of the figure.
"Good morning, Mr. Rabelais."
The old man stared at him, then gradually straightened his back. His voice became cold and low: "You promised me."
That day, the blond young man stood in front of him with a smile on his face, and as soon as he opened his mouth, he threw a thunderbolt at him.
"I am a non-believer, a kind of professor."
The morning sun was shining brightly, shining on that beautiful and calm face, but Delses Rabelais felt inexplicably cold all over, as if he had been looked at by something lurking in the depths of the ocean.
After that thing had casually demonstrated its "strength," proving its absolute dominance over the brats from the Saint Bartolomeo Warlock Academy, he noticed the old man's increasingly serious expression and chuckled, "As for the professor's faith, I believe the 'prophet' who has taught countless warlocks has already noticed it, but has always concealed it for his students... So, can I assume that your stance on that person isn't contradictory to mine?"
"...What exactly do you want to do?" Rabelais asked coldly after a long moment.
"You know, the training of an unbeliever is incredibly difficult, far beyond the reach of ordinary people. After all, how can a human soul resonate with such ethereal concepts? Even if one succeeds, any error in the resonance process will result in either a mental breakdown and madness, or a shattered soul, leading to a tragic death on the spot." The other party sighed softly, looking deeply distressed. "But when I once read the professor's work, it surprisingly allowed me to achieve such clear and fluent resonance for the first time. You will find it hard to imagine how much his existence, his thoughts, and every word he uttered will mean to me from now on."
In those seemingly clear and gentle blue eyes, there is a chilling persistence and madness, like a tsunami trying to swallow up the starry sky.
"—He is my beacon, my reason, the only moon before which my soul trembles and bows."
Rabelais remembered being silent for a moment, then uttering a few words with difficulty: "...So you, secretly love him?"
Forgive him. Although the old man considers himself to be no old antique, he really couldn't find a more appropriate adjective at that moment.
"How do you define an emotion like 'love'?" The man, whose appearance seemed somewhere between a teenager and a young adult, but whose soul had experienced many hardships, chuckled softly. "Cherish, possess, protect, destroy... 'Love' is too dangerous and fickle, as thick and empty as a shadow..."
His eyes were gentle and peaceful: "-So no, I just want to keep looking at my moon, that's all."
Rabelais had seen plenty of madmen before; after all, what was the difference between a powerful fanatic and a madman? But he was still held back by the turbulent presence in those eyes, even though the other person spoke softly, slowly, and melodiously.
He doesn't believe him at all.
"I did promise you, and I will never go back on my word." The man was now standing in front of his student, leaning toward him politely. But whether intentionally or not, the other person seemed to be blocking his view.
Even Nova couldn't help but glance back and forth at the two men's faces suspiciously.
There's something strange.
But the two simply stared at each other for a moment before simultaneously ignoring the topic. Someone's thoughts were still unknown, but Rabelais had no desire to let his beloved student know that such a psychopath existed. How many ill-fated relationships have stemmed from curiosity? Given the student's penchant for exploring everything, ignorance was a form of protection.
——Anyway, this guy’s current role is just a capable babysitter.
"I accidentally bought some new stock of the Batalha Highlands coffee you've always been used to," Azuka said without warning. "Coffee merchants claim this newly cultivated variety has aromas of roasted almonds, honey, and apples. Unfortunately, the production is very limited, and I don't dare brew it carelessly for fear of wasting it."
"It's in the leftmost cabinet of the bookcase—yes, right behind your book on the habits of sunflower parakeets." The professor, carrying a small can of coffee beans, had a dark look on his face, a look that showed, "When did you hide it in there without telling me?" But the savior ignored him. With a smile, he tidied up the sofa piled with books, making enough space for three people. He then found three clean small cups and placed them on a tray, then made an inviting gesture.
"Mr. Rabelais, why don't you sit down first and let's talk it over?"
Seeing the old man stubbornly standing there for a moment, but eventually snorting coldly and sitting down heavily on the sofa opposite him, the God-Favored One's smile widened. He turned to look at his nemesis, who was still a little stunned, and said in a very gentle voice, "And may I have the honor of tasting the coffee you brewed yourself?"
Be obedient, he mouthed silently to the person.
It was obvious that he wanted to get rid of the people.
“…”
Nova glared at him for a moment, then finally took the tray from him.
"You're quite good at ordering people around." As soon as the other person left, the old man started to speak sarcastically: "Also, what did you say to my student just now?"
It's getting more and more outrageous. If she dares to do this to his face, what about behind his back?!
"..." Azuka changed the subject casually: "Would you like some cookies? From a bakery that the professor has recently liked. They're not too sweet. Although he mentioned that you prefer sweets, it's better for the elderly to eat light."
The other person smiled gently, his golden hair falling down beside his ear in a beautiful arc, his blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight, reflecting clear shadows like glass.
…
He stood in the sunshine, like a god delivering an oracle, declaring to the old man: I will keep him away from the humiliation and coercion of death, and the pain of the world will not be able to touch him at all.
——Until the end of my life.
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