Too Shallow for Faith (4)
Breasts were great. Bigger was better, and the biggest were the absolute best. It wasn't just a sentiment among men. Perspectives might differ between the sexes, but no one—man or woman—could gaze upon such overwhelming mass without feeling a sense of awe at their sculptural perfection.
Sara was no exception.
The biggest I've ever seen in my life...
The top dog in Hilton's back alleys was Miya, the woman with the largest breasts Sara knew—which was why her nickname was "Three-Headed Demon God." But now, looking back, calling something Miya-sized a "demon god" might have been an insult to this woman.
With every breath, her chest heaved and rippled. The deep plunge of her neckline made it sway like waves with the slightest twist of her body, drawing the eye like a hypnotic spell.
"Tsk..."
Why was her mouth watering? Sara swallowed hard but couldn't tear her gaze away.
Sara Lorojin, the goddess incarnate. She knew well enough that saying "What huge tits" would be rude, but she hadn't grown enough to realize that staring at someone else's was equally impolite.
And so her eyes remained glued to that bosom.
But no one could blame Sara for it. What was the secret to Malik's vast flock of followers? It was the sheer enormity of his saint's "pocket of faith."
There was a reason they said no man had ever been to a Malik gathering just once.
There was awe in that overwhelming volume.
While Sara's gaze held the saint captive, the surrounding men's baser instincts whispered: Take this chance to ogle away! If not now, you'll never get another shot at that faith-filled mound!
They cleared their throats as if offended by Sara's rudeness, but their eyes rolled greedily toward the saint's chest.
Only two people didn't stare at that awe-inspiring faith.
One was Joseph, the studious boy too young to know about such things.
The other was Lenoir, who squeezed his eyes shut in genuine dizziness at Sara's impropriety.
In this bizarre atmosphere, Justina—the saint of Malik—didn't seem embarrassed or ashamed as one might expect. Instead, she was reveling in it all.
Now this feels right.
She was the type who thrived on attention. She also had immense pride in her physical beauty. Otherwise, she wouldn't wear such a revealing outfit or approach the most crowded spot first.
And why had she come to the center? No need to explain. Some little girl she'd never seen had stolen the spotlight that should have been hers as the evening's star.
It irked her, so she'd reclaimed it. Now, with satisfaction swelling, Saint Justina revealed her true nature: broad-minded on the surface, but a bit petty underneath.
To draw even more attention, she spoke again.
"Goddess...?"
Playing the innocent was her specialty. She blushed demurely, adjusting her neckline—and her breasts squished and jiggled under the pressure. All calculated.
She heard someone gasp from afar and felt deep satisfaction.
"Ah, uh-heh...?"
Sara jolted, snapping her head up. Justina's voice was the first reason; the second was Lenoir subtly prodding Sara's calf with his cane.
Unaware of the second, Justina smiled softly.
"Now that our faiths are neighbors, I wanted to chat. I hope I'm not intruding?"
"Ah, no! No, I love it! Nice to meet you! Milk! I mean! Saint!"
Sara bowed repeatedly. Her slip escaped notice by all but Justina, Lenoir, and Joseph—their minds already chanting "milk" a million times over. One more whisper from the subconscious would just dissolve away.
"Y-You're Malik's saint, right...?"
"Yes, of Lord Malik. Do you know me?"
Of course she did. Answering the obvious question, Sara replied.
"Yeah! My lord taught me!"
The arrow turned to Lenoir. Justina glanced at him.
He was odd. Most people—regardless of age or gender—struggled to keep their eyes from drifting to her chest. But not him. He met her gaze directly.
Tall, handsome man. Eyes locking. It could have been romantic...
...What the hell.
Justina shrank back for no reason. Why? Pondering it annoyed her. The very fact she'd flinched bruised her pride.
She tried staring back...
"I-I'm Sara Lorojin...! The goddess of the Goddess Church...!"
Sara broke the tension (at least for Justina).
She was sensitive to others' interest levels. She ranked people, set hierarchies, and adjusted her demeanor accordingly.
Until moments ago, Sara had been a rival to Justina.
But now...
Hm.
Not much of a threat. Her face was stunningly pretty—honestly, if she grew just a bit more, Justina might lose confidence in her own looks. Those features were sharply, beautifully defined.
But her behavior ruined it all. Justina sensed a pubescent boy's lust in Sara's stares and breaths. Even Joseph blinking innocently nearby seemed more proper.
"Ah, whew... Such... faith..."
And the old-man exclamations were the cherry on top.
Conclusion: safe to look down on.
Of course, she didn't show it. A faith's object deserved respect. To Justina—who served a god directly—she could feel the primal seed of divinity in Sara, the kind only from true believers.
She didn't buy the "reincarnation of the Creator God" bit. As a core church figure, she knew how gods were made. She didn't know the method, but that man behind her probably had a way to turn some girl into a deity.
Still, formalities mattered.
"As one called a saint, I must pray all the harder. Thank you for the kind words."
Justina blushed her cheeks and leaned forward slightly, letting gravity do its work. Sara's dropping gaze and widening mouth said it all.
"Hehe, just came to say hello. I'd love to meet again after the banquet."
"M-Me, such an honor...!"
"The honor is mine. Our faiths differ, but as a fellow devotee, befriending a goddess is a great privilege."
Someone sighed in admiration. Justina figured she'd asserted herself enough. As she withdrew, she felt several men stirring to follow.
Drunk on sweet victory, she thought of Sara.
Nothing special. Fun to tease now and then.
Utterly dismissive.
* * *
The banquet was in full swing. People mingled and chatted, and several approached Sara's group.
Since they sought ties to the Pterins via the Goddess Church, Rnier Pterin soon took over handling them—no one minded.
Especially not Sara, still lost in a dream.
She glanced at Justina and whispered to Lenoir.
"My lord, royal tits are something else, huh?"
"Little Sara."
"Eek..."
"...Please, Sara."
"No, really..."
Sara peeked down at her own chest, then at distant Justina.
"Whoa, how does she even carry those around."
"Haa..."
"Come on, admit it. Look at everyone—they're all staring at the saint's tits..."
"Sara, your words are too vulgar."
"What, how else do I say it elegantly?"
"Call it the bosom."
"Bosom and tits are worlds apart at that size."
"Does it not occur to you that fixating on another's there is rude in itself?"
Lenoir's head throbbed. Luckily, the others had been distracted by Justina's arrival, sparing Sara's antics from becoming a major scandal in this society. Dizzying moments abounded.
He vowed silently to intensify her training.
Then Sara asked.
"My lord, you really feel nothing for those royal tits?"
"They hold no meaning for me."
"How...?"
"Size does not confer purity."
"Still, something that huge—truly nothing? The shape's perfect too. Isn't that proof of divinity? Makes faith bubble up!"
"Is that not too shallow to call faith?"
"Still...!"
"Sigh..."
Another sigh. Glancing at Justina, Lenoir felt as before—when their eyes had met, and now.
A strange familiarity.
...Familiar.
Her divinity. Called Malik's, yet it tugged oddly at his heart.