Chapter 10: The God of Love

Orlando changed back around noon.

“Changed back” isn’t quite accurate—it was more like “ate back.”

He had crouched on that empty platform all morning, trying who knows how many times.

Each time, the hot current slammed into an invisible wall and bounced back, like a bird hitting glass.

In the end, he found a wooden stool blackened by rain behind an old flowerpot.

He flipped it over, broke off a piece of wood, and shoved it into his mouth.

The taste of the wood was abstract—a mix of rain-soaked, sun-dried, and moss-covered, roughly equivalent to chewing a wet cardboard box.

But after two bites, that hot current finally broke through the wall.

His bones crackled for a moment as he shifted from a four-foot-eleven little girl back into a six-foot-tall adult man.

When he stepped out of the platform, the sunlight hit his face.

Silverport City never had sunlight like this—the light there was always filtered through dirty glass.

Here it was golden, pure.

He took a deep breath.

The air smelled of resin, soil, wildflowers, and stream moisture—a completely different species from the smoky coal smell of Silverport City.

The village wasn’t big.

He decided to take a walk.

Not looking for anything in particular—just wanted to move.

Unlike the aimless wandering of unemployment in Silverport City, that was anxiety.

This was curiosity.

He followed the wooden bridge for about half an hour, exploring the entire village:

Archery targets to the north, vegetable fields to the south, and to the west, the giant tree where the elders held council.

He didn’t want to disturb them.

So he headed east.

The tree houses grew sparse, the wooden bridge turned into a dirt path, winding deep into the forest.

The weeds along the roadside were taller than his waist.

After about ten minutes of walking, the path vanished—swallowed by fallen leaves like a stream disappearing into a desert.

Just as he was about to turn back, his foot stepped on a stone.

It didn’t look like an ordinary stone—the surface was too regular.

Out of curiosity, he scraped away the leaves with his foot, revealing a gray slate with neat edges, engraved with patterns he couldn’t read.

He cleared all the leaves away.

The slate was about three feet long and a foot and a half wide, embedded in the ground as if it had been carefully maintained.

He ran his fingers along the edge.

The moment he touched a gap, the slate popped open an inch with a click, then slid silently aside, revealing a pitch-black hole.

Steps led downward.

At the end was light—not sunlight, but a warm yellow magical glow, steady as a lamp turned to the perfect brightness.

He reached the bottom and stood before a massive library.

From his elevated platform, he looked down.

Row after row of dark wooden bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with books.

The spines were leather, cloth, and metal.

The air was thick with the smell of old books and ink, so dense you could cup it in your hands.

He descended from the platform and approached the nearest shelf, reaching for a book titled Chronicles of Autland, Volume 3.

His fingers were less than an inch from the spine when a hand appeared out of nowhere, blocking him.

The hand was as white as porcelain, with long fingers and pale pink nails.

It had no warmth—it seemed to extend from behind an invisible curtain.

“Outsider, what are you trying to do?”

The voice came from his left, very close.

He turned his head and saw an elf girl—pink hair falling to her waist, wearing a light purple gown.

Her body was translucent, like a painting on glass; he could see the bookshelves behind her.

“Who are you?”

Orlando asked.

The pink-haired girl didn’t answer.

Her body swayed slightly.

“Right now I’m just a consciousness entity. You can’t touch me.”

Orlando reached out a finger and touched her arm.

His finger passed right through, as if into a pocket of air.

A faint ripple appeared where he had touched her.

“Then what should I call you?”

She tilted her head for two seconds, her purple eyes brightening.

“Call me the Love God.”

Orlando looked at her girlish face, long ears, translucent body, then at the tens of thousands of old books around him.

The name didn’t seem out of place—the absurd things he’d experienced didn’t even make the top ten anymore.

“You came here,” the Love God said, hands behind her back, leaning forward, “with some academic question?”

An unemployed, diploma-less former dragon slayer who’d been declared a magic idiot at age six, standing in a sacred library, being asked by a self-proclaimed god elf.

“Do you have an academic question?”

He thought about it.

“I was just wondering if there are any ruins or something around here.”

The Love God straightened up, her purple eyes narrowing as she scrutinized him for about three seconds.

Then she shook her head.

“Can’t tell you.”

Her tone was light, but the content was firm.

“Huh?”

He swallowed the words.

“Then what did I come here for?”

“Since you have no other questions, please leave.”

She gestured sideways toward the steps he’d come from.

Orlando didn’t move.

His gaze swept over the bookshelves—Chronicles of Autland, Genealogy of Dragon Bloodlines, Survey of the Continent’s Gods.

He thought of Victoria.

Maybe the answer wasn’t in ancient ruins—it was in this book.

“Can I borrow a book?”

“No.”

Like a nail driven into wood, crisp and final.

“Fine.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned toward the steps, taking two steps.

Slowly, his eyes scanned the row of bookshelves to his right.

He spotted a gap—probably left by a book that had been removed.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket.

On the sixth step, he reached toward that gap, his movement quick as a thief’s.

His fingers touched the spine—leather, smooth, cool.

He pulled the book out and tucked it under his arm.

It was as heavy as a brick.

“Hey—you—” the Love God’s voice came from behind.

Her mouth hung slightly open, her purple eyes wide.

Her translucent body wavered.

“You can pick that up?”

Orlando looked down at the book under his arm—Study of Ancient Elven Runes.

He weighed it in his hand.

“Is there a problem?”

The Love God didn’t answer.

She drifted over and pressed one hand onto his.

Her fingers turned his palm upward, then she lowered her head and pressed her lips to the center of his hand.

Then she bit his skin—right at the intersection of his life line and fate line.

The bite was very light, almost imperceptible.

He looked down at her pink hair as strands brushed his chin, tickling.

She straightened up, a trace of blood on her lips.

She stuck out her tongue and licked it, her purple eyes narrowing like she was tasting wine.

“You’re a dragon?”

She said.

“Huh? I’m clearly a live human standing here, aren’t I?”

The Love God shook her head, pink hair swaying.

“Not just a dragon. There’s another bloodline too, and it’s not human.”

Orlando’s fingers tightened at his side.

His mother had silver hair and pupils…

He had never connected those two things before.

“What are you talking about?”

His denial lacked conviction.

The Love God didn’t answer.

She grabbed his hand again.

“Can I live inside your body?”

Her tone was as calm as asking “Can I sit here?”

“Why?”

“I’m a consciousness entity with no physical form. I need a host to exist. Elves can’t sustain me, but your body has dragon bloodline—your mana capacity is strong enough to hold me.”

Her voice began to waver.

“And in critical moments, I can also—”

Her body flickered like a TV with a bad signal, growing fuzzy, then transparent.

“—help you.”

The last three words were as faint as a mosquito’s hum.

Then she dissolved completely—pink hair, purple dress, fair skin—all turning into a faint haze of light.

It touched his chest and sank directly into him.

He looked down at his own chest.

Beneath his shirt, a spot was burning hot.

“Love God?”