"Have you calmed down?" Nathan asked carefully.
The goddess in the gothic lolita dress sat before him, still sniffling softly, her shoulders rising and falling in uneven motions. Her earlier dignified aura had completely evaporated, replaced by something far more fragile.
Lunarinas nodded faintly.
"…Mhm." Sniff.
Nathan scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"I'm sorry, okay," he said. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I just… mistakenly assumed goddesses all had strong wills."
Lunarinas wiped the corner of her eyes with her sleeve, still sniffling.
"Sorry for being a goddess below your expectations," she muttered, her voice thick with lingering emotion — and a hint of irritation.
Then her tone shifted, gaining a sharp layer of sarcasm.
"I suppose being treated as a traitor after solving everyone's problems, betrayed by people I once called friends, and sealed inside nothingness for more than ten millennia with nothing to do except breathe and sleep… shouldn't be enough to make someone weak-willed and desperate for salvation."
Nathan shuddered.
…That escalated very quickly.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
Okay. That was definitely a villain-origin backstory.
"…Umm," he began slowly, searching desperately for an appropriate response and finding absolutely none. "That's… such a massive tragic lore dump that I honestly don't know how to respond."
He paused, deciding honesty was safer than pretending wisdom.
"I guess… good job for enduring all that without going insane?"
Silence followed.
Lunarinas slowly looked up at him. Her expression looked fragile — like thin glass barely holding together.
She spoke carefully, almost timidly.
"…Yes. I'm doing a good job, right?"
Nathan blinked.
She continued in a small voice. "Everyone should praise me for enduring unimaginable loneliness for ten thousand years… right?"
Nathan felt something tighten in his chest.
Yeah… she's hanging by a thread.
And honestly? If everything she said was true, I couldn't blame her.
I was bedridden for five years and already gave up on life… ten thousand years certainly would break anyone.
He nodded firmly.
"Yes. Yes you are," he said seriously. "You're doing an absolutely good job."
Lunarinas stared at him.
Nathan gave her a small thumbs-up.
She sniffled again — but this time her shoulders relaxed slightly.
Alright. Emotional crisis partially stabilized…
Probably.
For a while after that, Lunarinas talked.
Not majestically like the supposed way a goddess delivering divine revelations.
She just… talked.
About silence.
About counting imaginary stars in the endless darkness.
About speaking to herself so she wouldn't forget what voices sounded like.
Nathan mostly listened, occasionally nodding or offering small affirmations whenever she seemed to look toward him for reassurance.
Slowly, gradually, she calmed down.
Her breathing steadied.
Her posture straightened.
Then realization hit her.
Her cheeks turned faintly pink.
"…Please forget everything from the last ten minutes," she said quietly, staring down with renewed vigor as if the floor was a fascinating work of art.
Nathan nodded immediately.
"My brain has decided to enforce self-amnesia regarding the previous ten minutes," he replied solemnly. "So don't worry."
A small, genuine giggle escaped her lips — lighter this time.
"…Thank you," she said softly.
Nathan shrugged. "No problem."
A comfortable silence settled between them before he cleared his throat.
"Okay," he said. "Since you're back to normal, let me confirm something first."
"Ask away," Lunarinas replied, regaining some composure.
Nathan leaned forward slightly.
"It seems you can't fully read my mind — since you didn't know I was just teasing you earlier — I want to know exactly how that ability works." His expression turned serious. "Honestly, I really hate having my privacy violated one-sidedly."
Lunarinas sighed, shoulders lowering.
"…Alright. I'll explain."
She folded her hands neatly on her lap.
"I can only hear someone's thoughts if they are in close proximity with me, or I have a connection with them. Even then, I only perceive thoughts that have already formed into words."
Nathan listened carefully.
"And," she continued, "the person must consciously — or subconsciously — direct that thought toward me. Random thoughts, instincts, or deeply buried memories are normally inaccessible."
Nathan nodded slowly. "So I still have mental privacy."
"Yes," she said. "Mostly."
He exhaled in relief. "Good."
Lunarinas looked away slightly.
"…Listen," she added quietly. "I am sorry for breaching your privacy earlier. And… for trying to…"
She fidgeted.
"…charm you."
Nathan raised a brow but remained silent.
"I was a little bit desperate," she admitted. "Because if I do not gain a new follower within a few months…"
Her voice faltered.
"I will disappear."
Nathan frowned. "…Disappear?"
She nodded faintly. "Death might be the simpler word."
The atmosphere grew heavier.
"Why?" Nathan asked.
Lunarinas's gaze drifted into the distance.
"The existence and power of gods depend on faith," she explained softly. "The more followers we have, the stronger our existence becomes."
Nathan's gamer brain translated instantly.
"…A divine subscription service."
She blinked.
"…That is an incredibly disrespectful but technically accurate interpretation."
He nodded proudly.
She continued anyway.
"Since I was sealed away, I lost the ability to spread my faith. For more than ten thousand years." Her eyes returned to him. "You can probably guess what happened next."
Nathan thought for a moment.
"If followers stop spreading faith," he said slowly, "their numbers decline generation after generation… until eventually none remain."
He met her gaze.
"And your existence fades."
"…Correct."
Her voice softened.
"My last follower died approximately one hundred years ago."
She looked upward with distant expression — almost nostalgic.
Nathan frowned deeper.
"Then how did you survive another century?"
"I conserved energy," she replied simply. "By not using my divine authority."
Nathan's eyes narrowed.
"And you used most of what remained… gambling on me?"
Her hands tightened into fists on her lap.
"Yes."
Silence lingered.
"…Why me, though?" Nathan finally asked. "I'm just a typical nobody."
Lunarinas hesitated before answering quietly. "Because our fates are similar. It's easier to get sympathy from someone with similar circumstances, am I right?."
Nathan stiffened.
"In your previous life," she continued gently, "you fell ill because of someone else's actions, didn't you?"
The air changed instantly.
Nathan's expression darkened as unwanted memories surfaced.
His voice turned cold.
"I thought you said you'd stop breaching my privacy."
She blinked quickly.
"I already knew that before we discussed boundaries — actually, we never formally agreed on privacy rules—"
Nathan clicked his tongue.
"Then stop mentioning my past." His gaze hardened. "Aside from my parents, I don't want to remember that life anymore."
The starlit space fell silent.
Even the distant cosmic glow seemed to dim slightly as his words settled between them.