I’m Really Not Trying to Be Chased by the Heroine as the Villainous Playboy! – Chapter 784

Chapter 166: The Variables That Reverse Destiny

Holy Light illuminated everything.

The air flowed with the purest force in the world, warmer than masculinity, more pleasant than a breeze, and grander than the ocean, as if even the dark underground was awakened by it.

It was the kind of beauty that any follower of the Holy Light would instinctively immerse themselves in, a divine halo akin to heaven itself.

From the moment one stepped through that door, they entered another dimension, separate from the mundane world, a realm shrined by the goddess.

In this sense, it was indeed the so-called heaven.

However, at the end of the light—

There were no flowers, no milk and honey, no paradises of peace and prosperity described in temples, nor the supreme happiness and tranquility that the people desperately sought.

Three angels knelt on the ground, shackled and prostrate, imprisoned within a cage engraved with sacred arrays, like sinners bearing the weight of their sins, awaiting judgment.

And behind them—

With golden hair and crystalline eyes, the highest existence worshipped as a deity by thousands, the goddess who brought light and redemption to the world, yet bound tightly by layers of chains of light, sealed upon the holy throne.

The Pope smirked.

No longer warm or gentle, his face swelled with tension, appearing fanatically fervent under the supposed purifying radiance.

“Behold the Throne Angel – the wielder of magic, scribing the deeds of the Holy Light, spreading its glory.”

“Behold the Guardian Angel – the protector, the goddess’s most reliable shield, an indomitable wall.”

“Behold the Seraph – the faithful servant of the goddess, commanding summons and creating perfect beings, devoted to serving the Holy Light without fail.”

Every follower of the Holy Light could recite this doctrine backward, chronicling the stories of the goddess and her angels, who in the ancient epoch of divine conflict illuminated the world and brought salvation to mortals.

This was the foundation of the Holy Light faith.

The Pope reveled in watching the angels crawl and the goddess trapped on her holy throne, smiling more exuberantly.

“A lie told a thousand times becomes the truth; so it is with faith!”

“Too bad, still missing one…”

His gaze shifted, locking onto the only empty cage, his expression darkened momentarily.

The swordbearer of the goddess, the wielder of the kill, the sharpest weapon of the goddess, the fiercest blaze.

The Seraph.

That was meant to be his.

Hundreds of years ago, during the so-called Heroic Era, when the Church rose to prominence, it was a golden opportunity.

Few knew that at that time, he made an irreversible mistake.

Everything should have ended back then, but the original Saintess, whom he viewed as mere sheep, bit back, causing a significant deviation from the destined path.

“Angel, you’ve painstakingly stripped the Seraph of her power; I’m sure you’ve noticed, haven’t you?”

The so-called saving of the world was a lie from the start.

Rather, believing in such a lie appeared absurd.

Since he held the divine might, why share it with the ants at his feet?

The Pope raised his pudgy hand, now inflated with excess, pointing at the goddess’s face as if he were caressing her unblemished skin from afar, treating her like a prized possession he couldn’t let go of.

The angels raised their hollow eyes, seemingly infused with instinctual rage but utterly unable to escape their prison.

But just then, those crystal-like eyes suddenly turned back.

The Pope’s expression froze.

In that instant, an endless surge of light morphed into tsunamis, crashing back at him.

Certainly, the power exceeding any high-level Extraordinary Being present was terrifying.

Yet the Pope felt no fear.

Because that power hadn’t touched him even a bit before it was forcibly sealed back by the restraints of this space.

The so-called Holy Light Goddess, just like his angels, was simply a pitiful bird in a cage.

The crystalline eyes dimmed slightly, lacking the vitality of a living being, following some instinct towards the Pope, shivering slightly as if wanting to approach him.

“Holy Light above.”

The Pope clasped his hands together and offered a soft prayer.

The ethereal Holy Light materialized a bit, descending a thread of microscopic radiance upon the Pope, while the goddess, like a servant responding to her master’s order, gradually calmed down, lowering her gaze again, turning into a lifeless statue.

“Regrettably, I am not the destined saint and cannot bear the weight of acting on your authority.”

His words were humble yet mocking, but the Pope’s expression masked hidden fears.

No one understood better than the Pope just how horrific it was to accept the goddess’s power’s encroachment.

“Faith is the shackles that bind you, a whip that drives you, and an undeniable duty you must shoulder. Thank you for your trust, but I still have the mission to lead the Church, dare not and cannot overstep the boundaries, cannot undertake such responsibilities.”

The so-called destined saint was not entirely a lie; only the idea of saving the world was false, and the mission of the destined saint was merely a pleasant tale.

Because he couldn’t do it, he needed a scapegoat.

A vessel inherited from the bloodline of the Holy Light, one who accepted the angelic powers capable of containing the goddess’s might.

Someone like the first Saintess, Angel.

Or perhaps, the contemporary Saintess, Alice.

Thinking of Alice, the Pope’s expression darkened even more.

“Simon, after all these years of nurturing, you turned out to be nothing more than a waste, achieving little and causing far more trouble.”

“Rayo, ha, unwilling to strike down an old friend, it’s time to remind him of the collar around his neck.”

But despite this, their performances didn’t surprise him; hence why he had dispatched the Child of Light to ensure things could be managed personally.

Yet the outcome was still a failure.

The root of failure lay not in the Throne Angel and the Sword Saint, nor even in the Saintess Alice herself.

The Pope’s gaze sparkled like gold, then shifted to the void.

Extraordinary fluctuations condensed into shadows, weaving a complex starry sky.

Eye of the Divine, uncovering the miracles of fate.

Most beings in this world were merely tiny specks in the endless night sky, living ordinary lives while leaving little trace.

A select few, however, bore some mission—whether blooming or fading, they were destined to leave a vivid mark on the world, shaping the trail of destiny.

They appeared exceptionally radiant against the night sky.

Like the Sage, already on the brink of fading yet still burning brightly, like a phoenix.

Or the crimson sparks, increasingly bizarre and chaotic, the princess from the Lionheart Kingdom.

And then there’s the Saintess.

The radiant white light quietly shone, emanating a pure halo, causing the surrounding stars to lose their color, as though she were the very center of the night sky.

All along, the trajectories of everyone’s fate were crystal clear in the Pope’s eyes.

Only two remained murky, elusive, and thus caused him apprehension.

One of whom was the Demon King who swallowed vast parts of the night sky, once pulling the world into an abyss.

But now, there was another.

That one tightly clinging to the radiant Morning Star, connecting with an invisible web of stars, sometimes shining, sometimes dimming, its color oddly indistinct—cosmic dust.

Also the greatest variable that would reverse the Saintess’s destiny.

Blood of the False King, Roy Ainbrad.