If Orsaga walking down the street was the sort of successful man who made no attempt to hide it.
His eyes were full of the look one gave livestock, making passersby want to punch him while not daring to.
His appearance.
Calling it handsome did not quite fit.
Calling it beautiful did not quite fit either.
His face carried an utterly undisguised sense of wicked strangeness.
Half-illusory, half-real, making people seriously doubt whether he was human at all.
Then the two tall figures behind him were the pinnacle of human aesthetics imaginable.
They were at least close to two meters tall without the slightest hint of bulk. The muscles revealed beneath their clothes all conveyed a chiseled beauty, while their handsome faces embodied the majesty of classical Greek Mythology heroes. Even though one had a face as calm as stone, not a single hair atop his head, only dense rune-like tattoos, and held a strange, weighty book roughly forty centimeters long, twenty-five centimeters wide, and eight centimeters thick in his arms, resembling the most rigorous ascetic; while the other had exceptionally pale skin, his expression mingling complex gloom, anguish, and compassion... without speaking a word, he could make the air pressure around him seem to drop by several degrees. None of that diminished either man's bearing or temperament.
Thus, without exaggeration.
Compared to Orsaga, who did not seem quite human.
They were covered from head to toe in a strange air.
The strangeness born of excessive perfection.
It made people feel ashamed of themselves and instinctively afraid.
The two fellows behind him were, to a great extent, far more appealing.
Even if they said nothing and remained silent as stone, even if their expressions never changed under any outside influence, even if they followed closely behind Orsaga with a clear