The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 86: Return

The melodious music was echoing through the vast hall. François tore off the superfluous silk cravat around his neck and swept through the long corridor like a whirlwind, entering the lively ballroom. The atmosphere there was one of great merriment, with smiles on everyone’s faces. François, however, was unaffected by this harmony. He almost ruthlessly pushed aside a girl who tried to lean against him, his sharp gaze scanning the entire hall, quickly finding his target.

The mayor was in a cheerful mood over his impending rendezvous. He stroked his curled mustache while chatting with a local gentry, who, upon hearing Anthony was soon returning to Dudley, wanted to offer his eldest daughter to Anthony as a mistress, thereby securing an opportunity for his entire family to move to Dudley.

Anthony distractedly hummed in response, mentally calculating what gift he should bring for his lover for their rendezvous.

François walked over and asked straight to the point, “Where is the lady with the purple eyes?”

Anthony was first stunned, then instantly wary. He assumed this officer from Dudley was also interested in the girl and subconsciously tried to evade the question: “What lady? All the girls are here. Who are you looking for?”

François felt his patience was at its limit. He grabbed Anthony’s collar with one hand and commanded him politely but harshly, “Don’t make me repeat myself, you fool. Answer.”

François’s words were extremely impolite, and Anthony flew into a rage. Though he wanted to flatter this officer, this did not mean he would tolerate such insult. The mayor said sternly and angrily, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Before you stands the mayor of Belem, appointed personally by His Majesty the Emperor. You must show me respect and—”

His words were cut short as François casually balled up the scarf he had torn off and calmly, deliberately, stuffed it into Anthony’s wide-open mouth, silencing his incessant chatter.

“Now then, out of regard for the fact that I don’t recall ‘personally’ appointing you as this damned mayor, tell me, where is he?”

After stuffing the scarf into Anthony’s mouth, François didn’t immediately withdraw his hand but instead gripped the man’s throat, speaking in a low voice.Anthony’s expression shifted from anger to confusion. Then, the drunken haze clouding his mind suddenly cleared. He finally remembered the familiar spark of recognition that had flickered in his mind several times before but had been interrupted—

The face of this young officer was extremely familiar, but this familiarity wasn’t because he had seen the person before, but because an extremely similar portrait of him hung in the Town Hall’s main room, directly opposite the entrance!

The young man in the portrait had delicate features, long, curly hair like fluffy sheep’s wool, and light brown eyes with a hint of a smile. He wore a black uniform, with a scarlet-edged sash draped across his chest, displaying medals of the Calais Empire. A sable-trimmed cloak was flung over his shoulder, covering half his body and revealing the hilt of the sword at his waist. He stood beside a high, round table, his left hand resting on the edge, where the Imperial Crown lay, symbolizing his identity.

That was the official portrait of François IV, Emperor of Calais. Every government institution and noble residence would have such a portrait. However, seeing a portrait every day and seeing the real person were completely different experiences. After all, portraits were often retouched and beautified. Who would imagine the person in the painting walking right up to them?

Anthony’s eyes widened in terror—he had never thought his eyes could open so wide. Once he understood the source of the familiarity, the mayor’s legs instantly went weak. More than the excitement and joy of seeing His Majesty the Emperor, he was consumed by fear and anxiety.

François’s reputation in noble circles was anything but pleasant. His executioner’s blade was raised against everyone without exception. During the Duke’s rebellion and the battle of Dudley, the number of nobles who died at the Emperor’s hand was not small. Some were genuinely involved in the rebellion, but others… who knew what they had done to displease the Emperor?

François impatiently patted his head, as if patting a stupid, fat dog: “Answer!”

This time, Anthony dared not hide anything. Would he dare to compete with the Emperor—especially one who was a ruthless madman—for a woman?

He mumbled and nodded, then shook his head. François squeezed the last bit of patience from his lungs and pulled out the cravat, frowning in disgust at the wet mark on it.

Anthony gained the ability to speak and immediately confessed without stammering: “She danced with me just now, and then she left. I don’t know where she went, but she seemed to be heading towards the back garden.”

The mayor had a moment of quick wit, cleverly concealing the rendezvous, only providing the other party’s last known movement. However, his little trick didn’t fool François. The young Emperor’s eyes fixed on him like a snake’s. After a moment, he asked, “The back garden? You arranged to meet there?”

Anthony didn’t dare nod. He could feel the emperor’s rising anger and was so terrified he nearly wet himself. He could only tremble and keep his head bowed in silence.

François let out an incoherent curse from deep in his throat, then noticed another detail: “You danced with her? Did you invite her?”

“N-No,” Anthony quickly denied, finding this question much safer than the last. “She invited me.”

But his answer seemed to be the wrong one.

The Mayor of Belem despairingly realized the Emperor’s expression darkened even further.

“Oh,” François suddenly laughed, perhaps due to being overly furious. He spoke softly, “Since you enjoy dancing so much and want to return to Dudley, why not take a position in the court dance troupe? This time, your appointment is indeed personally designated by me.”

He left the ashen-faced Anthony collapsing on the floor and turned to look at the guards who had followed him and were waiting at the door.

“Rouse everyone. We’re pursuing him out of the city.”

François knew very well that his soulmate was no fool who indulged in pleasure. He must have seen him here. Daring to take such a risk to speak with the mayor could only mean he had an immediate way to escape Belem. And his approach to the mayor…

François expressionlessly kicked the newly appointed dancer in the waist. This idiot had undoubtedly already lost the mayor’s seal.

In that case, locking down Belem was useless.

François raised his eyes. The night outside was deep. He thought for a moment and, to be safe, ordered some men to search the entire city overnight: “…Focus on the inns and taverns in the lower city. Don’t miss a single corner.”

He stepped out the front door. The bracing night wind immediately carried away most of the heat from his body. This temperature brought François a sense of pleasure.

Ever since he had ordered the blockade of Besser and begun searching for Rafael along the Calais border, their relationship had descended into a fight to the death. The earlier pretense of harmony was completely torn away. Hunting down and capturing a pope was an unforgivable crime. François didn’t see any reason for hesitation—he wanted to do it, so he did. For him, it was that simple.

But as the Emperor, he knew very well that he absolutely could not let Rafael return to Florence.

The men of the Calais royal family might all have a touch of mental illness. François was not afraid to admit this fact. In his youth, he was overshadowed by his father and older brothers above him. After a string of heirs died under mysterious circumstances, the crown suddenly fell to him. Then, he found himself constrained by his ambitious uncle. From the age of eighteen, when he donned the crown, to twenty-five, when he finally drove his uncle out of Calais—for seven long years, he had suppressed himself almost into a psychopath.

He was willful, capricious, paranoid, and impulsive… If he weren’t the Emperor, he should now be exhibited as a specimen in some monastery specializing in treating mental illnesses.

François liked to see “fresh, interesting things.” A life that was too monotonous filled him with dread. He didn’t particularly enjoy killing, but he relished in the chase. Death was merely the price the other party had to pay when the game ended.

He always followed the rules of the game.

In this game he had unilaterally initiated, he had set up the maze. Now came the most enjoyable part: the chase.

As for his motivation for doing these things… whether one said he was ambitious and wanted to unite several empires, or that he was having a sudden fit of madness, to him, everything was merely a game. He was simply looking for pleasure within it.

“Tell the people in Florence that they can make their move.” François stepped down the stairs, snatched the cloak presented by a silent attendant nearby, casually threw it over his shoulders with a shake, and vaulted onto the newly led horse. With a flick of the reins, he instantly galloped far away.

In the Papal States of Florence, a shocking piece of news was quietly spreading in private circles. No one knew where this rumor originated, or how true it was, but because it was so sensational, it seemed less likely to be false.

It was said that Pope Sistine I had already passed away, that there was currently no pope in the papal palace, and that the one holding power was Secretary-General Julius Portia.

This was a secret plot of treason and assassination!

Although the words didn’t explicitly point fingers, the strong implication made the Secretary-General the sole suspect.

On the first day the rumor appeared, Julius noticed it, but the unfortunate thing was that he truly had no way to expose this absurd lie.

Because the Pope was genuinely not in the Papal States at the moment, and he didn’t even know where he was.

How could he prove the survival of a missing person?

Ferrante had left Florence for Calais on the first day the Pope was ambushed and disappeared. The common people of Florence revered and loved Sistine I, and because of this, they were the least able to accept the rumor. They flocked to the churches, pleading for the truth, asking for Sistine I to come forward and debunk this outrageous rumor. Unsurprisingly, their plea went unanswered.

Someone suggested that Julius find someone to impersonate the Pope, to at least quell the unrest. The person who made this suggestion was immediately expelled from the papacy by Julius.

If an impersonation were exposed, it would be tantamount to confirming the truth of the rumor. This loophole could absolutely not be opened. Julius keenly realized there was a mastermind behind this.

His helplessness obviously delighted the opposition. Following the rampant rumors, another suggestion quickly and “naturally” emerged: If Julius could not prove that the Pope was still alive, did that not mean that the Pope had indeed met with misfortune?

This was a quasi-sophistical inference, but it fit people’s thought processes perfectly.

Even without evidence, Julius could confirm that from Rafael’s assassination attempt to the current undercurrents in Florence, there must be an influence from Calais behind it. And there were certainly Calais agents within the Church. He didn’t even need to think much to predict that person’s next move.

It was nothing less than proving the Pope was deceased, getting him, the supposed perpetrator, expelled, and then, naturally, initiating a new papal election.

That glittering throne of Saint Leah was never short of those who coveted it.

As expected, a few days later, whispers about various cardinals began to surface in the streets. They were all strong contenders and candidates for the next papacy. If Rafael had truly died, one of them would wear the Crown of Saint Leah.

Julius acted deaf, completely ignoring these discussions. Under his intentional or unintentional indulgence, similar discussions became rampant. Even the most isolated poor in the lower city could name figures like “Cardinal Lombardy” and “Cardinal Lorenzo.”

Julius stopped staying frequently in the papal palace and moved his residence back to the heavily guarded Portia Palace, waiting anxiously and patiently for Rafael to return.

Rafael would certainly return; he was absolutely convinced of this.

Thirteen days later, Pope Sistine I, who had been missing for half a month, reappeared before the world. He was composed and calmly announced that he had only temporarily conducted an incognito inspection tour. Aside from looking much thinner, he was no different from any previous appearance.

This public prayer session was very brief. The Holy Father remained seated in his carriage throughout, never getting out. He also received the cardinals currently present in Florence. The cardinals, each with their own thoughts, scrutinized the Pope with suspicion and scrutiny. They sensed something was amiss with the Pope’s inability to stand, but none could prove what exactly the problem was.

After all activities concluded, Rafael returned to the papal palace. The carriage drove directly into the courtyard. Julius carried the Pope out of the carriage. Beneath the heavy robes, the Pope’s legs dangled like a puppet’s.

Leshert was not with him. To evade François’s relentless pursuit, the loyal and upright Knight Commander had resolutely escorted the Pope deep into the inner cities of Calais, traversing more than half of Calais in half a month. François could seal the borders, but he couldn’t possibly seal every city. The two disguised themselves as bards, beggars, merchants, and circus performers. Their relationship changed daily, from siblings and friends to husband and wife, and brothers. If their route were mapped on paper, it would be a feat that would leave even the best survivalists and escape experts in awe.

Relying on Rafael’s excellent foresight and planning, coupled with Leshert’s superb execution skills, the two successfully escaped François’s frenzied large-scale search from Calais.

In the most perilous instance, François was personally leading a search on the street. With no way to move forward or back, Rafael rushed into a nearby shop and jumped from the fourth floor into the river below. The scene shocked everyone present. François had people cast nets into the river to rescue them. Leshert had to evade them while searching for Rafael. The two finally met again three days later with great difficulty. It was during those two days and nights of soaking in cold water that Rafael’s legs completely lost their ability to move.

Only then did Leshert finally learn about Rafael’s old ailment. His situation mirrored that of Julius years ago in a strange convergence. Every day, he racked his brains to massage and warm Rafael, trying to restore some mobility to his legs.

However, the conditions of their journey were too rudimentary. Even after returning to Florence, Rafael’s legs were only occasionally responsive.

Rafael, however, was unusually calm about this. After being placed in bed, he instructed Julius, “Bring me the official documents from this period, as well as the reports on the movements of all the Holy Crows within Calais. And have Ferrante come over.”

Leshert had also sustained many injuries while escorting him back to Florence and was still bedridden, so Rafael temporarily disregarded the Knights Templar.

Julius remained silent. After a moment, he said softly, “Before that, perhaps I would prefer for you to explain why you insisted on going to Rome and encountered such great danger.”

Rafael suddenly fell silent.

He remembered he hadn’t told Julius about the Queen’s will. The thought made him feel strangely guilty, and his gaze instinctively shifted slightly to the side.

This guilt did not escape Julius’s eyes. The Secretary bent down, pulled the blanket up for Rafael, and then gently kissed the young Pope’s forehead, a gesture of blessing.

They had always been very close before, but they had never been this intimate—Rafael froze slightly.

Julius’s lips gently brushed against Rafael’s cheek, like another long, meaningful, lingering kiss.

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