His eyes were the most striking feature—not glowing like the angel-possessed Heroes' golden eyes, but perfectly ordinary brown eyes that somehow carried the weight of absolute divine judgment. When those eyes looked at you, you felt your soul being weighed. Every sin. Every virtue. Every choice you'd ever made, examined and evaluated with perfect impartial authority.
His white robes, trimmed with gold thread, somehow remained pristine despite the blood-soaked battlefield around him. Not through magic—they simply refused to be stained, as if dirt and blood recognized they had no place touching the Archbishop and respectfully avoided him.
But it was his aura that truly defined him.
Holy power radiated from Valentine's body in waves that were almost visible—not as flashy light shows or dramatic effects, but as subtle pressure that made demonic energy recoil, that made corruption wither, that made anything unholy feel unwelcome in his presence.
