“Shocking! To capture the leader of a human trafficking ring, the Lunhai Pope actually used his own beauty as bait!”

Early that morning, Morris sat in the Pope’s office holding the latest newspaper. The moment his eyes skimmed the headline, his right hand jerked involuntarily—nearly spilling his coffee.

Last night, after the Holy Maiden descended with overwhelming force and felled three burly men, Yieta—dressed in a sharp black police uniform—pushed the door open. A dozen officers in matching uniforms followed. Morris, seated by the bedside, turned his head and froze: there stood the very shop owner who’d guided him here earlier. Catching Morris’s gaze, the man didn’t flinch. He winked playfully and bowed deeply with genuine respect.

*I’ve been set up!*

“What’s going on?” Morris crossed his legs, voice tight with suppressed anger as Yieta approached. “You used me as bait?”

“I had no choice, Morris…” Yieta fidgeted, guilt flickering in her eyes. “We’ve chased Nairdori for ages. Knew she couldn’t resist pretty boys, so… But the Holy Maiden showing up? Totally unexpected.”

*So you were counting on me to clean up your mess all along?*

Fuming, Morris nearly slammed the table and stormed out—until Yieta pressed close, pulling his arm deep into the soft warmth of her chest. He froze. Her whisper brushed his ear: “Good little brother… reporters are coming soon. Help your sister handle them, okay?”

“I-I-I refuse!” Morris stammered, shoving down the traitorous flutter in his chest. He straightened with forced dignity. “Using the current Pope as clickbait? Dream on!”

“But if you skip it,” Yieta pleaded, eyes glistening, “those reporters will spin wild lies. You know how they are—no talent, all exaggeration…”

“I know, I know… Water can capsize a boat, or… row one? Wait, that’s wrong.” Morris swallowed hard. As he tugged his hand free from her embrace, a faint killing intent prickled the air. He stiffened. The Holy Maiden’s face had darkened like storm clouds ready to pour.

“…Ahem.” Morris sat bolt upright, tone formal. “My apologies, Disciple Yieta. I must return to the Church. Discuss remaining matters with me tomorrow—do not forget.” With a hint of reluctance, he withdrew his arm and turned to the Holy Maiden. “Lunhai embodies justice. Eradicating evil is our duty. Tell the reporters that. Lenna, let’s go.”

Silently, the Holy Maiden rested her hand on her sword hilt and followed Morris out at a measured pace.

Behind them, a muffled mutter drifted: *Boss Yieta’s never acted this girly before…*

The moment they stepped into a shadowed alley corner, the Holy Maiden’s sword flashed—pinning Morris against the wall. His heart leaped. “Lenna, I can explain! You saw me helping catch them! Please, don’t tell Alex—"

His words died. Her crimson eyes held only him—earnest, unwavering. Soft. Sweet. A teasing warmth. Her delicate scent filled his senses.

Time blurred. Only when her lips finally left his did reality rush back. Her breath hitched. She sheathed her sword, gazing at his dazed face. “That woman… didn’t do anything to you, right?”

“N-no. Nothing.” Morris blinked back to awareness.

“Good.” Lenna raised her blade, tip hovering before his nose. “Remember this, Morris: your seventeen-year-old first kiss belongs to me—and only me, Lenna.”

“…Are you out of your mind?!”

As Pope—and a seventeen-year-old one at that—Morris faced relentless pressures: elders’ doubts, his teacher’s expectations, family demands. They insisted he was “of marriageable age.” As youngest Pope in Lunhai Holy Church history, his influence spanned Luna Duchy, rivaling the monarch’s. Yet to his family, he remained a tool—synonymous with political alliances.

Orphaned young within the clan, Morris grew up loveless. Siblings always came first. That winter, without Alex’s timely rescue, he might have frozen alone outside his gate, unnoticed.

Blind date? Rejected. Trip? Rejected. Gathering? Rejected. The latest letter? An invitation to a succubus-run lounge near the Demon Realm Gate in Macedon City—because after so many refusals, they suspected their Pope might be gay.

*Since when does not chasing skirts make a guy gay?!*

Pope life wasn’t glamorous. Prayers. Endless documents. Fifteen-minute meals—ten spent praying. Even Lenna played the obedient Holy Maiden before elders. Only during morning prayers, eyes closed, would she sneakily tug his robe open to lick his collarbone… earning a sharp “Stop,” followed by a cheeky tongue-out.

Faith meant little to either. They drifted through days tethered only to each other.

A year ago, the dreams began. Nightly chills. Cold metal on his wrist—handcuffs. The other end chained to a pale, delicate girl curled beside him: hugging his arm, napping on his chest like a cat.

Three years vanished. Sometimes Morris wondered: was it all a dream? Still standing on that eighteen-year-old overpass—flashing headlights, blaring horns, chocolate fondue sweetness on his tongue, shouting couples. In the illusion, he’d crouch trembling at the curb, world hollow and vast.

Then dawn came. Lenna beside him. Silver hair spilled on sheets. Soft snores. Her left hand resting cat-like on his chest. Peaceful. Adorable.

He couldn’t stay like this. Not for himself—for her.

This second life wasn’t meant for bureaucratic chains… or chaining her. Raised like a pet in confinement, she likely saw handcuffs as surer than love. *If I’m chained, he can’t leave.*

Her affection? Like a cat for its owner—though she often felt *she* was the one cleaning the litter box.

For Morris, freedom mattered most.

After miraculously reborn… wouldn’t skipping free love be a shame?

“Little Morris?”

The memory shattered. At the knock and familiar address, Morris blurted, “Come in!”

“You’re the Pope. Since when do you say ‘please’?” A black-robed man smiled, stepping inside. “Long time no see, Your Holiness.”

“Master?” Morris’s blood ran cold. *He saw the paper.* Voice wavered: “What brings you from the palace today…?”

“To praise you.” Alex settled into the guest chair. “This case troubled police for days. But remember: our Church minimizes involvement in mortal affairs. Understood?”

“Yes, yes.” Morris nodded like a scolded student—listening optional.

“By the way,” Alex’s tone sharpened, “how many registered Arcane Source Wizards reside in Macedon City?”

“Population near two million. Roughly five thousand Arcanum wielders registered with the Church and other associations.” Morris frowned. “Why ask?”

“Remember this number, little Morris. One wizard per four hundred souls. Arcanum wielders are rare. And though not law—exemplars like us bear the duty: wielders should wed wielders.”

“You’re right.”

“Then let’s discuss your fiancée.” Alex stood, placing a file on the desk. “You’re of age. Family’s been persistent.” He flipped it open. Page one: Lenna’s photo. “I believe Lenna needs *you* most.”

“I-I’m not worthy… and I have no interest now.”

“The boy who snuck into a host club last night says that?”

“Master?!”

“Hah! Sorry, sorry.” Alex chuckled. “Still—consider the engagement. Many things demand caution…”

“I refuse!”

“I hope you do. Heard you have a childhood friend in Macedon?”

“She’s my elder sister! Don’t randomly play matchmaker!”

“Ugh, troublesome kid!” Alex clapped once. “Three days.” He turned and left.

*What?! Forced marriage?! Master, explain!!*

Moments later, Yieta slipped in, shoulders slumped. “Your Holiness… I’m here. How shall I be punished? Just—my body’s off-limits…”

“No punishment.” Morris scribbled a note, tossed it down, then lifted his robe to reveal casual clothes beneath. Yieta’s blush faded into confusion. “Same as yesterday. Get me out—discreetly.” He clapped his hands. “Run now, or I’ll end up the Holy Maiden’s man!”

Before leading Morris out the door, Yieta glanced back at the document he’d left behind. Her eyes landed on several bold words scrawled in black ink—impossible to miss:

"The world is so vast… I want to go see… different kinds of assets."