The bathroom door slid open.
A veil of white steam spilled forth, and through its hazy curtain emerged Cecilia—bath towel loosely draped, her exquisite silhouette faintly outlined beneath the damp fabric. Long, flawlessly proportioned legs pressed together in modest restraint; the gentle rise and fall of her chest stirred the towel, revealing glimpses of snowy skin that quivered with each shallow breath.
Compared to before, she now carried an added layer of veiled, intoxicating allure.
Otto couldn't help but lower his gaze.
Only for it to settle upon a pair of delicate feet. Tender pink soles revealed faint azure veins beneath; small, endearing toes curled tightly in nervous tension, swaying subtly as translucent nails caught the sunlight in brilliant, almond-hued glimmers.
The moment such thoughts arise, I could devour an extra bowl of rice… pfft, no—I'm truly not Yu Dafu.
Yet it was undeniably beautiful—half-concealed seduction entwined with post-bath purity, enough to ignite boundless desire in any ordinary man.
He was no exception.
But beyond primal longing, greed and calculation reigned supreme in Otto's eyes.
Naturally bestowed beauty, innate prowess, sacred blood, ties to countless pivotal figures—from every perspective, he could not allow another to claim her this time.
A substantial portion of his envisioned future hinged upon her.
He could substitute another, but among the Schariacs, who matched her unwavering loyalty, her unparalleled competence in both action and resolve?
The man licked his lips, closed his eyes for a fleeting second, then reopened them. When he regarded Cecilia once more, his expression was impeccably serene—nothing untoward flickering in his pupils.
With a blade perpetually suspended overhead, the man enacting his role required unyielding rationality. Any momentary indulgence was a voracious void, capable of swallowing eternal gains.
He had never been one to let desire eclipse his intellect.
"Onii-sama…"
Cecilia lingered in the doorway, towel half-wrapped about her form, yearning to draw nearer yet hesitating timidly.
"Here are your clothes," Otto murmured, slipping seamlessly into sage-like composure. He advanced with calm poise and extended the garments Amber had prepared. "Change into these, and then I'll take you for a walk—to behold the world beyond these walls."
"Okay."
Cecilia stepped forward obediently and accepted the attire.
Otto turned toward the window, gazing out at the vast expanse of Schicksal's structures. His eyes wandered briefly before steadying once more.
To command such immense power, one must possess commensurate fortitude.
That fortitude encompasses the endurance to remain steadfast as grand designs unfold.
"I-I'm ready, Onii-sama."
Otto turned back. The woman had donned a nun's habit—enveloped from head to toe. Her chest rose proudly beneath the flowing fabric, yet the generous material veiled her soft, curving contours.
Her hair remained slightly tousled, strands entwined in gentle disarray.
Thus, he approached, tenderly clasped her slender hand, and guided her to sit before the vanity mirror.
"Let me comb your hair for you, Cecilia."
"Onii-sama…"
Cecilia wavered. Having Otto tend her hair felt like an overreach, yet quiet anticipation blossomed within her heart.
A conflicted expression flickered across her features before she finally shook her head.
"You don't have to…"
"I would quite like to, my dear little Cecilia."
Otto's words were mere courtesy—he would never forsake an opportunity to cultivate affection.
He lifted the wooden comb and allowed her lustrous silver-white tresses to cascade downward.
Fresh from the bath, they carried the subtle fragrance of shampoo. The pristine strands felt like finest silk, scattering sunlight in fleeting silver sparks.
He drew the comb through slowly, gently, tilting her head back slightly so her cyan eyes met his reflection, then meticulously tending the locks framing her ears.
Cecilia sat docilely, yielding to Otto's guidance. She leaned against him, clear and beautiful eyes fixed upon the man absorbed in his task.
Yet the tenderness shimmering in those cyan depths prompted a faint frown from Otto. He swiftly adjusted, directing her gaze toward the vanity mirror instead.
After prolonged darkness, sunlight can prove blinding.
Since transmigrating, he had kept his nerves strung taut—endlessly contemplating how to embody Otto convincingly, how to scheme and maneuver, how to safeguard himself. Across the twenty days immersed in the Book of Wei, he had slept fewer than ten hours in total.
That bone-deep weariness and relentless calculation, momentarily mirrored in the starlike eyes of this pure, blank-slate woman, unsettled him for an instant.
He could not indulge in such gentleness.
Otto Apocalypse could not be tainted by light. He might crave it, imitate it—but he would never yield to it.
The path ahead demanded far more than mere impersonation and survival.
As Overseer of Schicksal, Otto must exploit hostile factions like Anti-Entropy and World Serpent, while engaging in cosmic chess against Honkai itself—commanding one side of the board.
His future could never be idly spent basking in radiant serenity.
Confronted by a gaze so holy it evoked not a single impure notion—nearly purifying—he could only retreat swiftly, then reaffirm his grasp upon the shadowed scepter in his hand.
Yet… unable to gaze directly into the light, he could still capture stray embers in the crevice between radiance and shadow.
Drawing breath behind sanctity—that much was permissible.
Otto's mind gradually unwound. He devoted himself wholly to combing Cecilia's hair.
Afternoon sunlight filtered into the room. Their breathing slowly harmonized—as though one soul patiently awaited the other's cadence.
Soon, the only sounds were their synchronized breaths and the hushed whisper of wood gliding through hair.
The strands felt exquisitely soft, imbued with a rich, lingering scent.
The comb descended bit by bit. Occasionally, a tangle impeded its path.
But Otto paid it no heed—he simply lifted the section, allowed the comb to flow unimpeded, applying gentle pressure and adjusting the angle when it snagged.
His gaze lingered within the silver cascade, movements tender and unhurried.
Cecilia closed her eyes, savoring the tranquil interlude. Her cheeks warmed with a faint flush, a sweet smile curving her lips.
This was not the first time she had been this close to Otto, yet each instance set her heart racing.
She knew not why, but she cherished the sensation.
The sensation of leaning against him.
The sensation of being sheltered.
It transcended mere familiarity.
There was… profound attachment.
Whenever she rested upon Otto, the panic born of amnesia simply dissolved. All bewilderment, pain, and loss—swept away.
This feeling of being treasured felt exquisitely rare.
So rare she suspected it had graced her only a handful of times even before her memories faded.
So rare she suspected few in her former life had ever bestowed it upon her.
Yet she did not disdain it.
On the contrary… she craved it to the brink of obsession.
The saint measured time by the fluttering in her chest, accompanying the slow, unseen voyage of the hand tending her hair with emotions known only to her.
In this moment, time was warm, the years serene.