Winning the male lead

Although Land’s desk was large, it was still piled high with papers. On top was a drawing of a radiant star symbol that Le Tian had never seen before, dazzling and beautiful. He couldn’t help but pick it up, but before he could take a closer look, footsteps sounded from outside. He quickly put down the paper and turned to Land, who had just walked in. “You’re back? Where did you go?”

His tone was casual, as if he had been waiting for Land all along. His expression was soft, his golden hair still damp, his bare upper body lean and toned, with a graceful curve at his waist that disappeared into the deep red bath towel wrapped around him—a picture of effortless allure.

The nameless fire in Land’s heart cooled slightly, but the moment he recalled what Helena had said earlier, it flared up again.

Cyril was wonderful, exceptionally so. But the thought of him marrying someone else was absolutely intolerable.

“Someone else…” That phrase struck a chord deep within him, giving form to his inexplicable anger.

Although he had no visible facial expressions, Le Tian still sensed something was off. “What’s wrong? Did something happen while you were out?”

A sudden wave of inexplicable frustration and grievance welled up in Land’s chest. “You’re marrying Helena.”

Le Tian: …Why does this sound like I abandoned him?

The system whispered: “Scumbag.”

Le Tian: “?” What are you talking about?

“Is that so strange?” Le Tian sighed. “You even said you would officiate my wedding.”

Damn his perfect memory. Land instantly recalled it—the words, the tone, even his exact expression at the time. But he remained unfazed and simply said, “Did I? I forgot.”

Le Tian chuckled and reached for the white robe Land had tossed onto the chair, draping it over himself. As he ran his fingers through his wet hair, he smiled and said, “You sound jealous.”

So blunt… Land was momentarily at a loss for words.

Le Tian rubbed his nose and laughed. “Your silence is basically an admission.”

Land remained silent.

“Don’t be upset, brother,” Le Tian patted his shoulder. “It’s not what you think.”

Then, he laid out his whole plan—passing the throne to Helena, faking his own death, and then coming back to live in the Holy Sea.

Land was perplexed. “Why go so far to help her?”

Why else? With this arrangement, Helena would officially be his “wife,” sparing him further trouble. Once she found her true love, he could peacefully complete his mission.

But since he couldn’t tell him that, Le Tian shamelessly painted himself as a noble martyr. “She’s my fiancée, after all.”

Land blurted out, “But I don’t want you to marry her.”

Le Tian: “…”

Cyril fell silent, his lake-green eyes staring at Land with an unreadable expression. Droplets of water trickled from his golden hair, sliding down his face just as Land had imagined—over his smooth forehead, down his straight nose, lingering on his soft pink lips before finally falling away.

Having finally voiced his true feelings, Land felt an unfamiliar sense of clarity flood through him. “I like you, Cyril. Don’t marry her.”

The system: Ah… The day has finally come. Surprisingly, I feel calm. Even a little proud?

Le Tian sighed. “Land, you’re the Pope. I don’t know much about the Holy Sea, but even I know the Pope must remain celibate.” He patted Land’s shoulder again, this time with a gentle yet patronizing sincerity. “You’re always above it all; it’s only natural you’d feel attached after spending so much time with me. But once I fake my death, I’ll come back here to keep you company. I was worried you’d refuse to take me in.”

Instead of feeling reassured, Land stubbornly repeated, “Don’t marry her. I don’t want you to marry someone else.”

Le Tian was baffled. He turned to the system. “What’s going on with him? Why is he acting like this all of a sudden?”

The system responded coldly, “Hah. Scumbag.”

Come on, I didn’t do anything to him?!

Le Tian sized up Land from head to toe but found no clear answer. So… was he just another shallow man swayed by looks?

How superficial. Just like me.

He patiently explained, “I have my reasons for marrying her.”

“What reasons?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then don’t marry her.”

This was going nowhere. Le Tian sighed at Land’s sudden shift in attitude. “You can’t dictate my decisions. I’ve said it before—no one can force me.”

Besides, we are not meant to be, brother. Sleeping next to a human lightbulb every night? Who could even get any rest? The inevitable dark circles and eye bags—who would take responsibility for that?

“You should take some time to cool off.” Le Tian tightened the robe around himself, pulled up the hood, and walked out.

Two guards stationed outside were dozing off when one of them spotted the Pope’s white robe. “The Pope is coming out!”

Both quickly stood at attention, only to see the crazy king sauntering out instead—wearing the Pope’s robe, shuffling around in the Pope’s slippers, and leaving an unseemly damp stain on the back of the sacred garment.

The two guards: “???”

The system continued berating Le Tian all the way back to his palace, using every scathing phrase it had learned from him.

“Heartless and unfaithful,” “breaks promises,” “use and discard,” “cold-blooded.”

Le Tian, exasperated, asked, “Why do you sound like you’re rooting for me and Land to get together? Weren’t you totally against me pairing up with the main character?”

The system snapped, “This isn’t about my stance—it’s about your terrible morals! Land is so good to you, so pure-hearted…”

Le Tian pouted. “I’m pure-hearted too.”

The system lost it. “Pure-hearted, my ass!”

Le Tian sighed dramatically. “Ah, the pain in my heart is unbearable.”

Then, in a completely calm tone, he added, “Guess I’ll have to jerk off.”

Ugh, since Land had been sticking to him like glue, he hadn’t had a chance to relieve himself. Finally, some alone time!

And yet, the thought of “relief” equating to masturbation made him feel inexplicably melancholic.

Suddenly, he missed the days of being a eunuch.

Le Tian felt increasingly sorrowful as he looked into a small mirror, his heart heavy with emotions.

Meanwhile, after Cyril left, Land stood still, attempting to calm himself. But the more he tried, the more restless he became. The mere thought of Cyril and Helena walking hand in hand into the chapel made his blood boil. He couldn’t stand it—just imagining them together was unbearable.

Pacing back and forth, a bold idea suddenly struck him: What if the divine opposed this marriage?

For over twenty years, he had never once used his divine powers for personal gain. He had always upheld the sacred image expected of the Pope.

But today, he had reached his limit.

Determined, he sat down, closed his eyes, and entered a deep meditation. Within moments, his spirit left his body, riding the wind toward Cyril’s palace. Along the way, priests and messengers noticed the sudden strong gusts of wind and wondered what was happening.

Cyril’s palace wasn’t far—it was originally meant for the Holy Son, the successor to the Pope. Land himself had lived there as a child, but since he had no plans of appointing a successor yet, the palace remained unoccupied.

With frustration still simmering in his chest, he entered the palace, only to freeze at the sound of Cyril’s breathing—unfamiliar yet somehow deeply familiar.

But this time, he didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside.

There, he saw Cyril, draped in nothing but a bath towel, lounging on a chair. Droplets of water cascaded from his damp hair, tracing their way down his skin. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

Cyril, lost in his own thoughts, suddenly felt a strange warmth against his skin, as if an unseen presence was near. His body tensed slightly before he called out, his voice carrying both surprise and familiarity: “Land… be gentle.”

Land, still invisible in his spirit form, realized he had been discovered—but he felt no shame. If anything, the realization only strengthened his resolve. He leaned in closer, brushing a whisper against Cyril’s cheek, a sense of possession and longing welling up within him.

Cyril didn’t resist. Perhaps, deep down, he had already accepted it.

Feeling Cyril’s quiet acceptance, Land grew bolder, his hands tracing along the contours of Cyril’s form, memorizing every detail. To him, Cyril was nothing less than a divine gift—perfect in every way. And in that moment, an overwhelming thought took hold of him:

Cyril belonged to him.

The more the thought took root, the harder it was to suppress. After all, wasn’t he the Pope? If the divine will was his to interpret, then surely, this was fate.

As emotions surged between them, Cyril whispered, his voice trembling, “Slow down…”

Land responded not with words, but with an unspoken promise—one that bound them together in a way that neither divine law nor earthly conventions could sever.