Leshert handed the second list of legions to his adjutant. The man was about to be promoted to legion commander and would lead this contingent of soldiers to Assyria. Until the situation beca clear or a major turning point occurred on the battlefield, Leshert would not be permitted to set foot on Assyrian soil.
Leshert was fully aware of this, and understood the reasoning behind it better than anyone.
The knights all believed it was because His Holiness trusted and relied heavily upon the Grandmaster, which was why he was kept behind. This near-favoritism and protection left many envious—everyone, that is, except the man himself.
Leshert watched his adjutant depart, his mind involuntarily drifting back to his private conversation with Rafael that day. By no definition could it be called an argunt, yet the contradictions revealed in that exchange was sharper and more intense than any quarrel.
The Grandmaster rubbed his fingers together, his expression betraying no emotion.
His appearance was undeniably exceptional, even among humans. His jade-green eyes closely resembled expensive eralds. Due to the natural, multi-layered precision of the human pupil—a miracle of nature’s craftsmanship— an extraordinarily complex play of color and infinitely subtle hues radiated from a deep green core. The shades, evenly balanced, spread toward both the inner and outer rings, creating a magnificent, profound visual effect: within them, one could see the algae spawned by the Dead Sea, the dense spring mist of a thick forest, or the tender buds of early spring.
Leshert was accustod to smiling, adopting a gentle and harmless deanor. This natural disposition caused others to instinctively form a favorable impression of this loyal, upright Grandmaster, making them briefly forget the power he wielded.
Perhaps he was truly too gentle in his daily life, so much so that many often forgot that Leshert had not ascended to the position of the Church’s Knight Commander rely by reciting scriptures. A man capable of strapping reins around the neck of a wild horse must inherently possess an equal fierceness to match.
Yet, stripped of all titles and honors, he was, indeed at his core, a good man through and through—a good man who could even be called a saint.
Except sotis… on rare occasions, Leshert would harbor a flicker of doubt about himself.
A good man always suffers more than a purely wicked one. He couldn’t bring himself to cast aside the many artificial constructs that humanity has evolved over millennia to restrain the collective—concepts like empathy, pity, fairness, honesty, helping the weak, and self-sacrifice. These qualities tend to affect only those who actually possessed them, creating a ridiculous, darkly codic vicious cycle. And these very virtues compelled them to constantly reflect on whether their actions align, consistently and without deviation, with those ideals.
More often than not, by the ti they began pondering such questions, it was precisely because they had already violated those principles.
Consequently, they felt a reflexive tornt.
This pain was different from being hard by others. This was a slow, piercing pain coming from within; the sensation of being condemned by one’s own soul far outmatches any reprimand or education from outsiders. It was as if thorns had grown from within the flesh, turning their sharp points toward their own internal organs. They can never be pulled out, forever buried in the flesh, waiting for ti to allow the wound to grow new tissue to cover it. Only by touching the uneven, twisted scars can one feel, through that lingering ache, the thing still buried inside.
Leshert was now feeling that prolonged, piercing pain.
“Lord Leshert!” an unfamiliar voice called out from behind.
Reflexively composing his expression, Leshert turned around. The newcor’s robes and the emblem on his chest confird his identity. The Secretariat’s insignia was a quill pen suspended over an open book, with a thin, gilded chain hanging below, connected to the papal iris at the collar, signifying absolute loyalty to the Pope. The young man visibly relaxed upon seeing him, trotted over, and handed him a rolled, bound piece of parchnt.
The parchnt was bound around the middle by a ribbon, sealed at the center with sealing wax bearing the papal crest.
Leshert spun the scroll half a turn and spotted the sealing wax crest of the Secretary-General of the Papal Palace on the other side.
This proved that the directive was a public order issued through the Secretariat of the Papal Palace—though “public” here could be strictly limited to the Secretary-General himself. Even with only a single witness, it at least demonstrated that it was not the product of papal autocracy, a detail that was highly significant under many circumstances.
The anxiety in Leshert’s heart eased slightly. Offering a brief word of thanks, he accepted the sealed order and tore away the ribbon, his movent slightly hindered by the sealing wax.
The parchnt obediently unrolled, revealing only two lines of clear, simple script written in the Pope’s own hand, with the papal signature attached at the end. The text was concise, its phrasing so precise it carried a coldness stripped of all emotion.
Leshert’s pupils contracted.
The young man said, “…The person is already waiting outside. His Holiness commands that he be placed under the custody of the Knights henceforth.”
Leshert remained silent. The secretary cared little for his silence; bowing once more, he took his leave.
Frowning, Leshert re-verified the command written on the parchnt, rolled it back up, and strode toward the training ground gates.
The headquarters of the Knights and the Papal Palace were practically integrated as one, making it difficult to discern their exact boundaries. However, to ensure the security of the Papal Palace and reduce the likelihood of random individuals sneaking in through the training grounds, the Knights’ training field was situated outside the Papal Palace, with its gates directly facing the Florence River beyond.
Before the Grandmaster even reached the gates, he spotted a carriage parked outside through the iron railings. The crest of the Papal Palace hung on its side. The carriage overall was low-profile and plain, its glass windows entirely obscured by heavy velvet curtains. Leshert noticed that the window locks had been installed on the outside—a asure taken to prevent the occupant inside from opening them.
Leshert’s pace faltered for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. He greeted the coachman, who wore a black monk’s robe and nodded from beneath his hood, maintaining a taciturn deanor.
Leshert raised his hand, intending to undo the exterior lock on the window, but the coachman stopped him: “Not here, please, my Lord.”
The Grandmaster quickly understood, lowered his hand, and gestured for the coachman to drive the carriage toward a row of modest buildings bordering the training grounds. This was the living quarters for the knights, and he naturally had a room here as well.
The coachman brought the carriage to a halt directly in front of the door bearing the Grandmaster’s naplate, ticulously using the vehicle’s chassis and the horses to block anyone else’s line of sight as much as possible—even though most of the knights were currently sweating it out on the training grounds.
Leshert pushed open the door—the rooms here were kept unlocked. He turned back just as the coachman opened the carriage door, leaning into the cabin to mutter a few low words.
A mont later, a stout yet agile figure wrapped in a thick black cloak leaped out of the carriage. With a swift bound, the figure darted past Leshert and went straight into the room. The speed was so imnse that Leshert failed to react in ti; he rely felt the light before his eyes abruptly dim, then flash back to brightness.
…It felt as though sothing had just gone by.
The Grandmaster suppressed his instinctual combat reflex and silently shut the door.
The light inside the room dimd to a steady shade. Aided by the faint illumination filtering down from the high window, the uninvited guest stood before the statue of the Holy Lord, straining his neck to scrutinize the rciful expression of the deity.
Leshert frowned slightly, displeased by the man’s blatantly contemptuous posture toward the Holy Lord. Yet, he refrained from speaking, because the man had already turned around to look at him with the exact sa expression for a mont, before shuffling his thick, sturdy legs to sit upon one of the only two pieces of furniture capable of offering support in the room.
The mont he sat down, Leshert was certain he heard that pitiful single bed groan pitifully, visibly bending downward by at least the depth of a fist.
Leshert… Leshert ultimately could not contain himself. He stared at the man on the bed, who was horizontally nearly twice his own width, his face frozen in a strangely polite expression: “Duke François, good day.”
Indeed, the newcor was none other than Duke François, the uncle who was evading the young Emperor’s assassination attempts in Florence. Ever since he fled Calais to accept the Pope’s protection, he had adopted a much lower profile, hiding away in his estate day and night to amuse himself while making regular donations to the church. This positive shift had altered many people’s perception of him for the better.
However, it was worth noting that the Duke rarely ventured outside and barely saw anyone. Leshert had not laid eyes on him since François arrived in Florence, so he was entirely unprepared to find that the Duke—who had once been at least handso and imposing—had transford into this state in just over a year.
It was as if he had been left to soak thoroughly in water for several months.
His brown curls were styled to be as slick and shiny as ever, each coil uniform in size. Atop his head, which had widened by several sizes, it looked like a ludicrous toy wig. His snow-white ruff collar looked like it might strangle him at any mont, and his white, lace-up boots seed to be barely holding on, as if about to burst at the seams from his bulk. Fabric rchants must have adored a custor like the Duke—every garnt required at least three tis the usual amount of material.
Unbelievable. What on earth had he experienced in Florence?
Forcing down the inquiry that would likely border on discourtesy, Leshert averted his gaze: “The Holy Father has transferred the duty of your protection to .”
That was a more elegant way of putting it. In reality, it ant the surveillance duty had been handed over to him. Moreover, at this critical juncture, with war already underway between Calais and the Papal States, placing the sensitive Duke François under the responsibility of the Knight Commander was clearly not a simple matter.
But Rafael had said nothing more in the writ of hand, so Leshert had accepted the most superficial interpretation.
“Oh, protection, how very grateful I am,” François squeezed out a smile with his bloated face—one that hovered sowhere between sarcasm and gratitude—his tone dragging out with an ambiguous cadence. “My thanks to His Holiness, and my thanks to the Holy Lord.”
“Let us cast that question aside, honorable Grandmaster. We both know full well what this is truly about.” François made a gesture.
“I am here for another matter,” the Duke’s eyes flashed with a burning, fire-like desire. “Just like my purpose when I first arrived in the Papal States, I did not co as a beggar seeking alms.”
Leshert felt a sudden jolt of alarm. He had anticipated sothing the mont he saw Rafael’s order, but he had not expected the Duke to speak so frankly.
“This isn’t sothing that can be hidden. My very existence speaks volus. If I were to claim I hold absolutely no interest in the throne of Calais, would anyone truly believe ?” François made a crude gagging motion. “No one would believe such pretty words. They’re only good for deceiving naïve fools.”
“…Once the situation in Assyria reaches a stalemate, that little beast will personally lead his troops there. When that ti cos, it will be ti for your Holiness to fulfill his promise.”
Like a mighty lion, the Duke sat astride Leshert’s bed, speaking of yet another coup aid at Calais with complete nonchalance.
Leshert did not experience much emotion regarding this; his sense of morality was not so overflowing that it bled into everything. Regarding François’s words, his focus lay elsewhere: “…A promise?”
“Your good master did not tell you?” A sly smile flashed across the Duke’s face, vanishing in an instant as he added nonchalantly, “It’s a simple fact: if there were no benefits, why would he withstand the pressure from that little beast to harbor ? This isn’t a good deal unless he can make back even more from . Yes, yes—on this point, I must admit he is a thoroughly qualified monarch. I heard his tutor was Julius Portia? I truly wonder if I might hire him to serve as the tutor for my future heir.”
An heir. Leshert recalled this man’s philandering history, promiscuous love affairs and his reported dozen or more illegitimate children. Of course, these bastards left behind in Calais had gradually disappeared one after the other after their irresponsible father left, yet he seed entirely unbothered by it. Even when ntioning the word “heir,” his tone was thoroughly casual.
“Regarding this matter, you should ask Lord Portia in person. Perhaps he will grant you a satisfactory answer.” Leshert stepped back slightly, avoiding looking down too severely at François, which would appear overly rude.
This small shred of consideration from the Grandmaster was received by François, who let out a peculiar, mocking chuckle: “A satisfactory answer… I can already guess how he would reject : ‘I am deeply honored by your recognition, yet I have already devoutly dedicated my entire life to the Holy Lord, taking it as my duty to serve His earthly vicar. This shall be my eternal and noble calling.’“
He mimicked the reserved, detached politeness of a certain Secretary-General to deliver those lines, before comnting with disdain: “Loyal as a dog—everyone surrounding your Holy Father acts like his dog. Sotis it frankly gives the creeps, forcing to wonder if he is—”
Leshert sharply lifted his eyes, his voice deep and warning: “Mind your words, sir, and maintain your respect for the Holy Father.”
“Very well,” the Duke tactfully reined in his overt emotions, though he still could not resist a small jab at Leshert. “Are you telling you aren’t?”
He knew full well that a verbal assault directed at the Grandmaster himself would not provoke the anger of this young man who strictly adhered to church doctrine. Reality proved exactly as he thought; the Grandmaster rely cast a silent glance at him, showing no sign of wrath at the implicit insult of being called the Pope’s dog.
“Anyway, to get back to the point, once that little beast departs from Calais, your good Holy Father will command you to accompany back to Dudley,” Duke François said succinctly. “Until then, we must endure each other’s company. When it cos to the internal situation of Calais, no one understands it better than I do.”
While the Grandmaster and Duke François were undergoing their arduous adjustnt period with one another, Rafael within the Papal Palace was also facing a new problem of his own.
Rafael had previously sheltered François precisely to keep the young Emperor in check, naturally making sure to carve a massive piece of flesh from the Duke in the process. In exchange for the bountiful benefits the Duke had promised, he had agreed to help him secure the throne—a promise that possessed imnse room for maneuvering, depending entirely upon Rafael’s own will.
If he wanted to avoid this ss, all he had to do was cast the Duke aside and ignore him. The only loss would be a few intangible benefits. Regardless of whether he fulfilled his end of the bargain, the Duke would remain a sword of Damocles dangling over the young Emperor’s head, threatening him.
It was a scenario that offered all the reward with none of the risk.
The problem was that since he had thought of this, the young Emperor would certainly not forget the existence of this ambitious uncle of his.
How on earth could they get him to leave Dudley and rush to Assyria while leaving such a massive hidden threat unaddressed?
Rafael thought it over and over, and there seed to be only one solution.
Even before he could propose this solution, Julius had already objected.
The Secretary, who had practically watched over the Pope since childhood, knew his way of thinking better than anyone. So before Rafael could even voice the idea, Julius had already seen it all in his eyes.
“I object.” Julius said crisply, adjusting his glasses as he spoke. The fine chain attached to his chest pocket glead a cold silver light.
“I haven’t said anything yet,” Rafael frowned.
“Then don’t bother. I object anyway.” Julius’s tone was resolute, almost domineering.
Rafael looked at him speechlessly, his quill resting on the parchnt. He held back for a mont, then couldn’t help saying, “…But I truly haven’t said anything yet.”
Julius shot him an expressionless look from behind his lenses: “If you simply want to satisfy your urge to talk, then go ahead.”
His implication was clear: say what you will, but he would never approve.
Rafael gripped his quill tighter.
He wanted to deny Julius’s guess—being read so accurately was uncomfortable for soone like him—but he knew very well that Julius’s guess was correct.
This absolute mutual understanding transford the slight discomfort Rafael felt at being seen through into a wry, almost comical feeling.
“If you have a better idea,” he finally said.
Julius looked at him, appearing sowhat weary. “You know this is dangerous. If you die—”
Rafael spoke clearly and logically, as if these words had been repeated countless tis in his mind: “If I die, I suggest you support Cardinal Matterazzi as the next Pope. He’s a spineless, weak-willed man. You can control the Papal Palace through him; he will be more than happy to act as a re puppet who indulges in pleasure. As long as you maintain a firm stance and push the process along quickly, the impact of the papal transition will be minimized, perhaps without even causing a shift in the war, Furthermore, you can exploit my death—the believers of Calais will not tolerate a monarch who murdered the Pope. They will make things very difficult for François.”
When he ntioned his own death, his deanor was detached to the point of coldness.
Julius, however, was stung by this indifference.
The Secretary-General lowered his head, slowly removed his glasses, and slipped them into his breast pocket. His eyes, now stripped of the lenses’ barrier, t Rafael’s directly. They locked eyes for a mont before Rafael suddenly heard the man ask him: “If you care nothing for the Papal States and all your duties… then, Ferrante? Do you hold any lingering attachnt to him?”
At the sound of that na, the hand Rafael used to hold his quill trembled violently. A ripple of emotion surfaced in his eyes, only to be forcefully suppressed a mont later.
“You know,” the Pope said softly. It should have been a question, yet his tone was of absolute certainty.
Julius let out a cold laugh, using every ounce of his strength to keep his voice from sounding overly venomous. “Know what? That you rolled into bed with that wretched thing? —Tell you haven’t lost your mind to that extent.”
Rafael shot him a glance, a flash of offended anger crossing his brow. “Keep your malicious speculations to yourself.”
Despite being rebuked, Julius actually felt a flicker of joy.
Rafael keenly registered this subtle shift. He paused, instinctively sensing that this topic was sowhat dangerous. He had no wish to bring up those ssy, tangled relationships at a ti like this—whether it was that dark, turbulent kiss in the theater or the feelings they both knew existed yet pretended not to see.
Discussing those things now was simply inappropriate.
The problem was that Julius didn’t seem inclined to let him off easily.
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