Chapter Text
For Garling, the hunt was more than a mere pastime; it was a visceral passion, an instinct inherited from the celestial dragon blood coursing through his veins. He was convinced that anyone with that same lineage felt, almost inhumanly, the call of the hunt. There was a dark beauty in the act of pursuit: the patience of tracking, the subtle delight of watching the prey slip through the gaps of his fingers, delaying the inevitable moment of being caught and "bound" to a fate that already seemed written. For Garling, that was the most sublime and pleasurable sensation in the world, an ecstasy reserved for beings like him, who reveled in the eternal game of the hunt. And, of course, like any other Tenryubito, that art of hunting was part of his divine essence.
Being a Knight of God granted him far more than authority; it bestowed upon him the power to impose justice and enforce rules among the lesser nobles, for his blood, considered the purest, was an unquestionable symbol of honor. In his world, everyone should feel honored even to receive the meager glance of Garling. Even some of his own peers, ironically, seemed inferior before his undeniable aura. What could be done to someone who was, in effect, almost a god? Everything lesser became prey, whether unworthy or someone of the same lineage who, despite dressing, eating, and living similarly, could never attain the greatness he exuded.
But then… someone arrived. Someone named Garp. His intrusion brought depravity, unholy feelings, and immoral actions that disrupted the carefully constructed peace of Garling. With Garp's arrival, the redhead’s perfect world became irrevocably tainted. It felt as though he had opened the doors of his sacred mansion to let a beast inside; that presence sullied his domain with a filth that seemed capable of tearing down the sturdy walls that, until then, had protected his pride. Garp carved a path through the intricate halls of the castle, reaching the very heart of his sanctuary and leaving a void there, a dark nest that deeply disturbed him.
Soon, Garling was forced to grow accustomed to that invasive presence: his demands, his pungent scent, the constant threat of sharing the same air with a being who defined himself as a "D," a natural enemy. The logic of his beliefs dictated that abominations like Garp were born to be adversaries; nothing, and no one, could change that premise. It was no surprise, then, that Garp had burst in so abruptly and embedded himself in Garling’s skin like a thorn, leaving a wound that, though it bled little, stung constantly. That wound was a reminder of the intrusion: a sharp pain that, if left unattended, threatened to fester and fill with pus.
Garp’s presence had shattered in Garling what he believed to be unshakable: his dignity, his honor, his pride, and his ego. Yet, amidst the torment, it also began to awaken something unexpected. The memory of those olive-colored eyes, gazing at him with a mix of desire and defiance, sent shivers down his spine; the recollection of hands, rough yet incredibly soft, tracing his skin as if it were crystal; the image of a morning smile, light and almost loving, flooded him with chills. Everything in him screamed that this was love, something he had read about in complete psychology texts and in the compendiums of Ohara, though facing it in the flesh was another matter entirely. His psyche, broken and contradictory, wavered between condemnation and fascination in a world where homosexuality had become a "new trend," and where whispers spoke of figures like Yoshiko and other nobles playing with those boundaries, though no one dared speak of it openly.
In a dark corner of his memories, the figure of the noble Saint Samuel Manmayer also emerged: one of those fleeting allies whose ties with Garling were mere strategic alliances. Samuel, who shared to some extent a taste for the hunt, had been the one to reveal to him the secrets of seducing a mortal and turning them into a spouse. The line separating breaking the rules of engagement from upholding them was so thin—almost ethereal—that at times it seemed designed to be broken. The number one rule was clear: the person destined to be a spouse must have enjoyed freedom at some point, or, if they came from a slave lineage, they had to be "clean." Those born of lesser nobles, kings, or queens of little worth were evaluated by other variables. But if one dared to take any slave, without verifying the origins of their blood, and elevated them to a status equal to the Celestials… that was an unquestionable reason for death.
In those days, Garling found himself tormented by the possibility of reclaiming and keeping Garp’s shadow in his life, though he couldn’t decide whether to embrace that damnation or destroy it at its root. Garp’s absence forced him to face a brutal dilemma: to consign him to oblivion through death or to succumb to the void in his heart. That feeling, like a dagger plunged into his chest or an unrelenting knot in his throat, consumed him without asking permission, driving him to the brink of self-destruction.
Over time, the suffering persisted, but Garling—though divine—now bore the inert weight of humanity, the last shred of it that remained after Garp’s insolent visit and departure. That burden drove him to seek a radical change. The redhead felt he had to act; he claimed what was rightfully his, sending his uncles and all those parasites to take refuge in another mansion, for the main house, the imposing Figarland mansion, was his property. His patience had run out.
Meanwhile, amid those conspiracies and broken alliances, the topic of the slave wives of his “friends” resurfaced. One of them, belonging to the noble Saint Samuel Manmayer—and who, in a whimsical twist of fate, had become pregnant—occupied her space in the mansion. There, detached, she sipped wine with an apathy that matched the decadence of the era. On the other hand, Samuel gazed at himself in a mirror held by a slave, displaying his fluffy, wavy blonde hair that fell elegantly over his shoulders, while wearing a robe that accentuated the androgynous beauty of his features.
Garling concluded, with bitter recognition, that those whom people might call friends due to their behavior were nothing more than strange alliances, fleeting conveniences in a universe where true friendship dissolved in the relentless game of constantly seeking benefits and power.
With a deep, melodic voice, hissing his “s” sounds like a serpent’s whisper, Samuel lamented:
“Another wrinkle clings to my forehead! How is it possible, Garling, that you, despite frowning, keep that immaculate face?”
Garling, with a hint of restrained mockery, half-replied:
“I feed on the souls of my victims with my sword.”
Samuel’s eyes widened with excitement. “Really?!”
“No,” Garling retorted dryly, hiding a faint smile behind his teacup, delighting in the pout forming on the blonde’s face.
The conversation paused as Garling glanced toward the garden. There, a woman of singular beauty strolled: her long hair, a deep purple like ripe blueberries, fell in a simple fishtail braid down to her waist; dressed in a white linen tunic, its edges slightly dulled by dirt, it hung loosely, except for the sash that subtly outlined her abdomen. Her features, rough and plain, went unnoticed except for her yellow eyes, bright as gold nuggets, demanding a fleeting glance.
With an inquisitive tone, Garling asked:
“How would you classify that woman’s offspring? Slave, half-breed… or perhaps bastard?” He didn’t take his eyes off the barefoot figure walking on the grass.
“Of course, I’ll consider it noble,” Samuel replied. “But it all depends on whether the child meets my standards. If it proves to be a reflection of my perfection, it will be worthy of that title. Otherwise, I’ll declare it a bastard and send it as a gift to a family to turn it into a servant, or I’ll relegate it to serve in the mansion. In a world ruled by gods, the purity of lineage is non-negotiable.”
Garling nodded slowly, thoughtful. For a moment, his mind drifted to Garp. It had been almost a year since he disappeared, but the memory lingered. The name of his son, Dragon, buzzed in his memory like a mosquito bite on his flawless skin. How different would that child be from the others? Would he take after his mother, or the roughness of the marine? A sigh escaped Garling, catching Samuel’s attention, who until that moment had been absorbed in critiquing a golden statuette of himself. The figure, an idealized representation of the blonde, was adorned with gold-plated porcelain for the hair and luminous gems that miserably mimicked his brown eyes.
“What’s wrong with you now, redhead?” Samuel asked, his tone a mix of mockery and genuine curiosity. “Has fate intoxicated you with pride?”
Garling barely lifted his gaze from his teacup, brushing off the comment. Samuel, unconvinced that nothing was amiss in that mind, hummed a light melody while setting the golden statuette on the table beside the wine glasses. Both sat comfortably in chairs that seemed made for the leisure of gods.
The blonde then called the pregnant slave with a casual gesture, and she hurried to his side, her steps quick and her gaze lowered. Samuel, with a forced smile full of falsehood, caressed her face with a gentleness that belied his true feelings, causing the woman to tremble in fear at his touch.
“The sun has been embracing you for a long time,” he said, his sweetness unsettling. “If you don’t want to burn, you’d better return to your quarters.”
The woman shivered and nodded obediently, retreating without needing further words. It was a privilege, after all, that Samuel even allowed her to see the light of day.
Garling, observing the scene with a mix of disdain and boredom, picked up the golden statuette and turned it in his hands.
“This is the worst imitation I’ve ever seen,” he commented casually, letting the words fall like a divine judgment.
Samuel, surprisingly, agreed.
“You’re right,” he said with a faint smile. “Butler, order a hundred lashes for the designer. Let him learn not to insult my image with such mediocrity.”
Garling merely arched an eyebrow at the command, accustomed to his companion’s extravagance. Samuel, without missing a beat, turned to Garling with a question that felt more like a hidden provocation behind a casual conversation.
“Tell me, have you ever thought about having offspring? Little redheads with marble faces just like you, running around, irritating, presumptuous, and very spoiled?”
Garling fell silent for a moment, reflecting. He wasn’t the kind of man who imagined himself as a father. The very idea repulsed him. Hell, he had fallen into the deepest depravity, sleeping with a "D." What if his offspring were born as tainted as he was? He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Samuel hummed again, as if the response didn’t surprise him.
“If you ever change your mind, I can offer you one of my wives. Or, if you prefer something more… exotic, I’ll soon trade one of my maidens for a male slave from another noble family. He’s immaculate, of course.”
The comment, bordering on the absurd, elicited a faint grimace from Garling, who barely touched on the subject before quickly moving on.
“I don’t have time for such banalities,” he replied, his tone shutting down any further discussion. “Wasting my time on lust and other sins isn’t in my plans.”
“How bitter you are, Garling!” Samuel whined shrilly, exaggerating his discontent, before the conversation shifted back to minor news and gossip, typical of another ordinary afternoon in Mary Geoise.