The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 90: Disagreement Part I

A frenzied wave of fervour swept through Florence.

This surge of passion can be traced back to over a century ago, when the powerful Papal States that once spanned the four seas still existed.

As the world’s spiritual leader—and, in every practical sense, a political giant—the Church’s rise to power had not been entirely smooth sailing.

On the most forbidden shelves of the Church’s archives lie brief accounts of the Church’s ascent. According to the ecclesiastical calendar, its first year marks the birth of the Holy Lord’s incarnation on Earth. But has no one ever wondered what the world was like before that year, in the time before the Church existed?

Ancient, tattered parchments recorded the brutal, naked truth: back then, “faith” was a chaotic and ambiguous concept that anyone could exploit for profit. Various religions and sects mingled together like overcooked vegetables and rice in a porridge—sticky, messy, and entangled. They greedily and fiercely tore at each other, vying for followers and their wealth. The Holy See—though it did not yet bear that name—was merely one of them.

But among them emerged a few clever individuals and a handful of peculiar talents: thieves, magicians, eccentric doctors, and sophists.

These professions were born much earlier than even the mighty ancient Roman Empire. They came together and, amidst their destitute lives, a sudden idea took root.

Perhaps it was simply to obtain the necessities of life, or perhaps it was just to pass the long, dull hours of boredom; regardless, a spark of inspiration struck one of them, and they uttered a phrase—or a lie— that would change the world.

“Let us create a God,” they said.

A thousand years later, the Church built upon this lie had become a colossal entity. They preached the divine name of the Holy Lord, spreading His glory to every corner of the world. When the Syracuse Peninsula became the domain of God, every king knelt beneath the Pope’s throne, and the succession of every monarch required the Pope’s recognition to be considered legitimate. Once all the available wealth and interests were thoroughly divided, the people turned their gaze towards the distant East across the ocean.The Assyrian iron cavalry had already conquered the lands at the edge of the Black Sea. They watched the Syracuse Peninsula with predatory eyes, and over the long centuries, their own doctrines had gained a deterrent power equal to that of the Church. Moreover, the highly aggressive nature inherent to the Assyrian people made them eager to extend their reach into the Black Sea. It was like two tigers in their prime locking eyes, sooner or later, a victor would have to emerge.

Amidst widespread anticipation, the then sovereign on the Holy Throne launched a campaign that swept across the entire Syracuse Peninsula.

History would term this vast, nearly half-century-long conflict the “Holy War.”

The blade of war was aimed at the Assyrians across the Black Sea. Under the banner of purging heretics, proclaiming the Holy Name, and saving the suffering masses, the war began with thunderous momentum.

Orders of knights carried the Church’s golden lily banners, crossing mountains and rivers to reach the sea. Along the way, they were joined by a constant stream of soldiers from other nations: kings with their guards, dukes with their retinues, lords with their knights… It was a carnival for the entire Syracuse Peninsula, where the secular and the sacred merged in a strange unity. All disagreements and conflicts vanished in the face of vast potential interests. Their only goal was that bountiful empire flowing with gold and honey.

The half-century-long “Holy War” did not yield a definitive victor, but it brought a staggering amount of gold and mineral resources to the Church and the Syracuse Peninsula. It further accelerated the technological development of the Papal States; gas lamps and railways were invented during this time, quickly entering the homes of the wealthy. It was also then that steam-powered armor took its rough shape, becoming an invincible killing machine on the battlefield.

Through the “Holy War,” the Holy See rapidly became the unquestioned spiritual leader of the Syracuse Peninsula. No monarch dared to confront the Pope’s authority directly. At that time, an order issued from Florence carried more weight than those from a king. The Pope provided the people with food to fill their bellies and wealth to make life comfortable. Even in the remotest villages, people loved the Holy Father as they would their own; they might not know who currently sat on the royal throne, but they certainly knew the reigning Pope’s title.

It wasn’t just the common soldiers who profited; the gains for the nobility were also immeasurable. Many commoners ascended to the gentry through the war, and the reshuffling of power allowed many to reach higher positions. Most of the great figures still active on the political stage this century were beneficiaries of that war.

Naturally, they yearn for another such campaign, hoping to reap the same glorious rewards as their ancestors.

Unlike the previous Holy War, they no longer faced a unified and powerful Assyrian Empire. Their enemy was now unprecedentedly weak—the country was chaotic and fragmented. Yet, it possessed rich resources that the Syracuse Peninsula could only dream of. The gold and minerals accumulated by the empire over centuries attracted them like cream on a cake; that vast wealth was enough to drive any rational person insane.

Furthermore, they now had a legitimate pretext for war—the decisive factor urging them to take that final step.

“This must be the will of the Holy Lord,” someone proclaimed loudly at a domestic banquet.

This sentence quickly became a consensus for many.

A weakened enemy, abundant wealth, and a proper justification—everything was so perfectly aligned that it would be foolish not to reach out and pluck the fruit.

“To Assyria!” The slogan began to spread throughout the Papal States.

“We want a Holy War! We want to wash away the shame of the past!” echoed the voices of countless people.

Julius sensed the abnormality in this fanatical trend. It had originally been his handiwork, but another hand was fanning the flames from behind. That person had subtly proposed a Holy War, twisting the concept Julius intended to instill—that “Assyria and the Papal States are as close as family”—into hatred and war. Driven by profit, war was clearly more appealing than any sense of kinship.

It wasn’t hard to guess who wanted to prevent Rafael from possessing both the Papal States and Assyria.

Julius sneered, ignoring the mad ramblings and fanatical shouts.

He fell into thought for a moment, a cold tide rising in his deep purple eyes behind his lenses. This was the gaze of the Portia patriarch—the man who had single-handedly elevated an exiled outcast to the papal throne. Stripped of all fragile emotions, there was only a cold ruthlessness left, weighing every ounce of profit on a scale.

Had anyone been present, they would have realized that this look was strikingly similar to that of the Sovereign on the Holy See.

Julius opened a drawer, pulled out a thick piece of stationery, dipped his quill into peacock-green ink, and wrote a line of flowing, ornate script. The specially crafted invitation paper was thick, and the ink quickly soaked into the fibers. Julius signed his name at the bottom, pressed his private seal, and rang the gold bell on his desk.

Footsteps immediately sounded at the door. Without looking up, Julius slid the invitation across the desk and addressed his secretary: “Sprinkle it with gold leaf and send it out this afternoon.”

He waited for a moment, but there was no movement beside him. The letter wasn’t taken, and no response came from the secretary. Julius’s hand paused. He slowly looked up from his documents, his heavy gaze fixing on the visitor. His brow furrowed briefly before he masked it with a reserved, cold smile.

“…Lord Knight Commander.”

Julius lowered his eyelids, his eyes quickly scanning Leshert’s body to judge his physical condition. He then inquired politely, “You don’t look like you’re ready to be out of bed yet. My apologies for not visiting you sooner—though I trust you received the tokens of sympathy sent by the Portia family. What did the doctor say?”

His wording was polite and gentle—the standard rhetoric most often used by the Secretary-General of the Papal Palace, suitable for any occasion. However, where no one could see, Julius’s hand had already moved to his belt—where a sharp dagger lay concealed.

It wasn’t paranoia; Leshert’s current appearance was simply too abnormal. Even Julius, who knew the Knight Commander’s nature well, could not help but feel a sense of alarm.

It was glaringly obvious that Leshert’s wounds had not yet healed. While Julius was nursing the feverish and comatose Rafael, he had received a report from the Knight Commander’s physician. The doctor stated firmly that although the commander’s superb physical condition meant his numerous wounds were not fatal, they were sufficient to keep him bedridden for at least a month.

Only half a month had passed—nowhere near enough time for Leshert to be walking about with such ease.

Furthermore, his face was deathly pale, rivaling even Rafael’s. A well-fitted shirt clung to his frame, softening the normally sharp definition of his muscles. Dressed not in armor, but in a heavy silk long coat, shirt, and breeches, the Knight Commander looked no different from any other high-born noble. Yet, his exceptional aura of asceticism and self-discipline made him stand out, especially when paired with that golden hair and those deep green eyes…

Julius had to admit that once the unapproachable halo of the Knight Commander was stripped away, such a man would enjoy an enduring reputation even among the notoriously haughty noblewomen of Florence.

However, the handsome commander’s expression was now extremely grim—not just with the pallor of illness, but with a suffocating weight of suppressed emotion.

Praise the Holy Lord, Julius sighed inwardly. As expected of the pious and upright Knight Commander who holds himself to the rigorous standards of the Ten Laws; even his anger is most courteous.

“You seem to be in low spirits. Is there anything I can assist you with?” Julius deliberately played the part of the uninformed observer, while his mind raced to deduce what could possibly drive the good-natured, tolerant commander to storm into his office while still infirm.

After a moment of reflection, he came up empty.

This left Julius feeling genuinely perplexed.

“I need the truth. An… answer.” Leshert pressed one hand onto Julius’s desk. His voice remained unchanged, as gentle as ever, but that very gentleness only served to amplify the undeniable pressure behind his words.

Julius leaned back imperceptibly, lacing his fingers together. After studying him for a long moment, he gestured gracefully toward the chair opposite the desk. “That sounds like a rather grand topic. Please, have a seat, Commander.”

Leshert declined coldly. “It’s not a very complicated matter, Secretary-General.”

“I only require you to answer two questions.”

Maintaining a warm smile, Julius let out a soft, questioning hum. “Mhm?”

“First,” Leshert asked, “is His Holiness the illegitimate son of Pope Vitalian III and Queen Amandra?”

His gaze was fixed unblinkingly on Julius, refusing to miss even the slightest flicker of expression. Julius, however, appeared more composed than his interrogator. The Secretary-General did not hesitate for even a fraction of a second.

“Your premise is flawed, Commander,” Julius said. “As the spokesperson for the Papal Palace, I must correct you on one point.”

He continued, “His Holiness Pope Sistine I is the biological son of Vitalian III and Queen Amandra. Before his birth, both parties had already signed a marriage contract. Therefore, the Holy Father is, beyond any shadow of doubt, their legitimate firstborn son.”

Leshert stared at him. His deep green eyes were like a forest shrouded in morning mist—a mist that felt cold and damp against the skin. “The second question: Will there be a war?”

Julius’s eyelid twitched slightly. He narrowed his eyes slightly, scrutinizing Leshert. “What have you heard and from whom?”

Leshert’s expression remained stiff.

After a period of silence, Julius answered, “Perhaps. But that is a matter for the Holy Father alone to decide.”

Leshert looked at him. “For what purpose?”

Julius: “For all that rightfully belongs to him.”

The Secretary-General asked blandly, “Why don’t you ask His Holiness these questions? He is the one who holds the most correct answers.”

The Knight Commander straightened up. Long, rigorous training had etched a rigid posture into his bones. Even a casual movement carried a sternness completely different from that of nobles like Julius.

The upright and compassionate Knight Commander said softly, “I don’t know. I might…”

The rest of his sentence trailed off into an indistinct murmur. Julius couldn’t hear it clearly, but he caught the fleeting flash of struggle in Leshert’s eyes.

I might be a little afraid, the once-fearless commander thought. I am afraid of hearing an answer I do not expect. I am afraid of hearing words like plunder, desire, slaughter, and greed.

The Knights were the Pope’s shield and spear, yet as the man wielding this weapon, he had begun to fear the weapon’s purpose.

This wasn’t to say his devotion to the Pope was wavering; on the contrary, he feared more than anyone the possibility that he could be shaken.

Julius observed him in silence. The Portia patriarch, a master of dissecting human nature, seemed to read something in that silence. For a brief moment, Julius’s gaze became unprecedentedly icy, even flickering with a trace of murderous intent, before vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared.

“You seem to be doubting yourself,” Julius said, his voice devoid of inflection. His lips curled into a cold, hollow smile. “I suggest you seek an audience with His Holiness and pose your questions to him—assuming you are indeed as steadfast, upright, and courageous in facing your inner fears as you claim to be, Knight.”

His tone turned somewhat harsh at the end. Before Leshert could react, Julius rang the bell on his desk again. This time, it was finally his secretary who entered.

“Inform His Holiness that Knight Commander Leshert requests an immediate audience, and I deem it necessary for His Holiness to receive him.”

Julius’s tone was uncompromising. With an air that brook no refusal, he had Leshert half-assisted and half-escorted out of his office. For reasons unknown, Leshert did not resist.

Thus, through the path cleared by Julius, Leshert successfully gained entry to see the Pope, who had been behind closed doors for over half a month.

The young Pope was sitting by a fountain, basking in the sun. Golden sunlight spilled over him; dappled light spots from the branches danced playfully upon his hair. Fountain droplets leaped like scattered pearls, vividly splashing within the pool. With closed eyes, the Pope resembled a slumbering spirit, quietly awaiting someone to awaken him from his dreams.

Leshert’s steps slowed.

He suddenly remembered a time when he had seen His Holiness under somewhat similar circumstances. Behind the curtains, by the oriel window, the young Pope had been sleeping peacefully, eternally waiting for a voice to wake him. Who would have the honor of being that person? That unique, exceptional individual?

If such a person existed, he would surely be envied, even resented, by all.

The thought flashed through his mind, and then he met those beautiful, pale violet eyes. The Pope had awakened from his light nap, his eyes still shimmering with a thin veil of moisture, like a cat that had just woken up and was lazily surveying the world, arrogantly considering whether to condescend to set foot upon it.

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