The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 93: Confrontation

On the day of Rafael’s surgery, the Emperor of Calais formally issued a claim to the Assyrian throne, explicitly stating that he would not rule out the use of military force.

This declaration, tantamount to a declaration of war, once again shocked the Syracuse Peninsula. Rome, maintaining his customary “polite calm,” remained silent on the matter.

Thus, the eyes of the world converged once more upon the Papal States.

The figure at the heart of the storm lay wearily in bed. Even in the drowsiness induced by medication, his brow remained furrowed, his expression one of an anxiety that could find no rest.

Julius touched his forehead, then removed the ring and glove from his right hand. Sliding his hand beneath the covers and under Rafael’s clothing, he found the Pope’s back damp with sweat. Producing a dry linen towel, Julius carefully wiped away the perspiration from Rafael’s spine, then smoothed out the rumpled fabric of his garments.

This sequence of actions appeared excessively practiced. It was difficult to imagine that His Excellency the Duke of Rhine, a man who had been served by others his entire life, could perform a servant’s work so naturally. He looked like the sort of man who wouldn’t even know how to wring out his own towel.

And that wouldn’t have been far from the truth.

At least, thirteen years ago, he had been a traditional aristocrat who had never wringed a cloth in his life. If someone had told him then that he would one day personally tend to another man without the help of a single servant—even changing his clothes and wiping his body—Julius would have undoubtedly committed that delusional individual to the most securely guarded monastery with a smile.

But—yes, fate always loved to add that dramatic footnote to a person’s story. Just as Rafael’s disappearance was to Amandra, or Tondolo’s betrayal was to Delacroix, Julius never imagined when he took the future of that frail child from his cousin that he would one day find himself in such a “humble” position.

Yet perhaps humans possessed a powerful adaptability, and the concept of ‘bottom lines’ exists only to be continuously lowered.At first, Julius only promised to be Rafael’s teacher. Soon, he transitioned from simply instructing him in religion, philosophy, literature and rhetoric to teaching Rafael every necessity of daily life. Just when he thought that was the extent of it, his post-operative, bedridden student led him to unconsciously learn the occasional “small favor” of fetching a cup or a scroll. By the time he grew accustomed to casually tending to Rafael’s minor needs, his cousin’s sudden death and dying entrustment of the child compelled him to devote even more attention to the boy, who seemed to have the world against him. Just when he was certain this was the absolute limit, his ward, exiled to Cantrella Castle, frail and chronically ill, was left with only Julius to trust and rely on.

What else could he do?

Was he supposed to stand coldly by and watch Rafael, delirious with fever, try to take care of himself?

The moment the dignified Lord Portia resigned himself to picking up a dry linen cloth to wipe away the sweat and tears from the flushed boy’s face, it was destined that it would never be the last time.

But breaking his bottom line countless times also solidified a thought in Julius’s mind: Rafael would be the only person he would ever serve this way his entire life.

Extraordinary favor, special attention, and excessive tenderness would only ever be bestowed upon Rafael alone.

He cherished Rafael—like a father cherished a hard-won, only child; like an older brother doting on a clever, beautiful younger sibling; like a mature lover spoiling his naïve and innocent partner.

These emotions were too complex and twisted that even Julius couldn’t fully distinguish between them.

But he didn’t need to.

He only needed to know that Rafael was his only one —regardless of identity or relationship.

Only Rafael.

It could only be Rafael.

In return, after he—like a stingy miser—had given his everything, as an equivalent exchange, Rafael must also belong to him.

The Secretary-General wiped the sleeping Pope’s body with practiced, gentle movements and pulled the covers back up. He leaned down, affectionately pressing his lips against Rafael’s soft, warm cheek. His thin lips brushed lightly against the corner of Rafael’s mouth, leaving a kiss that was there and gone in an instant.

Silence reigned. Julius straightened up, leisurely pulling his glove back on, and slipped the ring, which had been on the bedside table, onto his finger. He performed this sequence with equal elegance and deliberation. The moment the ring was in place, he suddenly clenched his fist and raised his hand, a heavy, fierce force striking against it. Metal scraped against the hard ring with a tooth-aching screech, and sparks flew. Just as the blade threatened to slice into his neck, Julius’s other hand had already drawn the slender silver sword concealed within his cane. It met the weapon coming from behind him, and the polished, slender blade faithfully reflected the faces of both the attacker and the defender.

Deep violet eyes met sea-blue eyes in the dim reflection of the steel.

One was arrogant and aloof; the other, violent and enraged. What they shared was a feral rage in their eyes, a desire to tear apart any outsider who dared intrude upon their territory.

Seeing that Julius had blocked his attack, a flash of regret crossed Ferrante’s eyes.

Who would have thought that the seemingly frail and scholarly Portia Patriarch possessed such skill? Especially since no one knew that the cane he never left behind actually concealed a sharpened rapier.

However, at least until now, this was the first time Julius had been forced to draw it.

“Lord… Ferrante,” the Secretary-General greeted softly and politely, “Good afternoon.”

Even with Ferrante’s knife poised at his neck, held back precariously only by his slender sword, the pressure in his hand suggesting that any slackening would allow Ferrante to happily and “accidentally” slit his throat, he maintained his composed and unruffled demeanor, as if they were merely encountering each other in a garden.

Ferrante scoffed derisively. He disliked this sort of affected aristocratic posturing, especially… remembering the scene he had just witnessed, anger within him burned like a raging wildfire.

“Good afternoon, the not-so-respectable Lord Portia,” Ferrante replied with biting sarcasm.

Julius’s expression remained unchanged. With a sudden snap of his wrist, he parried Ferrante’s dagger. The silver sword shimmered like frozen ice, resting between the two of them.

Ferrante stared at him with dark, heavy eyes. The man with iron-gray hair reached up to adjust his glasses with his free hand—the hand that had just blocked Ferrante’s blade.

The ring he had put on only seconds ago now bore a twisted, recessed gouge. The shield-shaped face, engraved with a sword, a staff, and a crown—ancient and luxurious—had gems embedded in its corners. It was lucky the gems were still there; the blade had left only a shallow mark on the face before sliding onto the decorations. This slight shift in direction dissipated much of the force, preventing Julius from losing half of his hand. However, Ferrante’s attack had been so swift and silent that Julius had been forced to block with his bare hand in desperation. The ring, a symbol of the Portia family’s power, was after all just an ornament, how could it possibly withstand Ferrante’s razor-sharp blade? The band was now crushed into a thin sliver of metal, looking as though it would snap with the slightest touch.

Holding his sword, Julius used the pad of his pinky finger to graze the scratch on the gemstone. He slid the nearly broken ring off, caught it in his palm, and slowly applied pressure. The centuries-old signet ring, burdened with immense symbolic weight, cracked cleanly in two.

“…Should I interpret your actions as a provocation and betrayal against the Pope?” Julius asked quietly, looking at the broken pieces in his palm. “As the Holy Father’s protector, you drew your sword by his bedside while he lay unconscious—and you pointed it toward him.”

Ferrante looked at him coldly. “I believe the Holy Father will be far more interested in the reason I drew my sword. Without doubt, I was doing my utmost to protect him.”

As he spoke, he looked very much like he wanted to strike again.

“Oh, it sounds as if I am the one at fault.” Julius finally shifted his gaze away from the ring. For the first time, the Secretary-General’s sharp eyes behind his lenses truly scrutinized Ferrante—the man to whom he had never previously given much thought.

Even during their recent cooperation, there hadn’t been much communication. In Julius’s assessment, this young man from the slums was merely a burden Rafael had brought back in a fit of charity. That he had managed to become an asset to Rafael was merely a pleasant surprise. Some aristocrats enjoyed doing charity, adopting presentable children to serve as confidants; there was nothing wrong with Rafael doing so. As for Ferrante…

Julius had labeled this lucky fellow with tags like “Rafael’s guard,” “skilled,” “Head of the Holy Crows,” “lucky,” and “unfamiliar,” before casting him aside.

But now, it seemed something had exceeded his expectations.

Julius studied Ferrante with genuine focus for the first time, and only then did he realize—

And noticed things he had never paid attention to before.

How ridiculous, he suddenly thought, with a sense of absurd irony and anger. Who do you think you are? You lowly, destitute, ignorant, greedy..

He was almost stung by an inexplicable emotion.

It was nearly unbelievable that Julius Portia, the perpetual object of others’ envy, had finally tasted jealousy himself.

As bitter and sharp as poison, as foul as rusted iron.

“Regardless of your reasons, you shouldn’t have raised your blade against the Secretary-General of the Papal Palace. With such judgment, perhaps you are no longer fit to remain by the Holy Father’s side.” Julius suddenly lost all interest in any maneuvering. Instead, he felt only a surge of irritation, a need to vent his anger.

“That is not for you to decide, Your Excellency. My appointment comes solely from His Holiness,” Ferrante replied with a sardonic smile.

“Oh, you seem quite confident that Rafa would side with you over the Portia family—after you attempted to kill its patriarch and destroyed its most significant heirloom.” Julius gripped the broken signet ring in his palm. The jagged edges of the fracture were incredibly sharp, piercing his skin, yet he felt absolutely nothing.

“That was my personal action. It has nothing to do with His Holiness.”

“As long as you remain by his side, your actions can never be separate from him.”

“Then in what capacity are you lecturing me, Your Noble Excellency? As His Holiness’s biological uncle? My apologies.”

Perhaps none of Ferrante’s previous words or actions stung Julius as deeply as this single sentence.

For a fleeting moment, a dark, murderous intent arose in his heart.

But it was quickly dispelled by a hand reaching from behind him, grasping his right wrist. Startled, Julius looked down and saw blood seeping from his own palm, staining his skin.

“…Rafa? When did you wake up?” Julius asked instinctively.

The Pope glanced at the two of them and calmly replied, “I was merely asleep, not dead. Your voices weren’t as quiet as you thought.”

At those words, a flash of embarrassment crossed the faces of both men standing by the bed.

In truth, Rafael had told a small lie. Their voices weren’t loud; it was just that Dr. Polly, to prevent addiction, had only administered him a low dose of anesthesia. Furthermore, Rafael instinctively resisted any sleep that left him defenseless, so he had awakened much earlier than expected. But there was no need to tell them that.

The pale-faced Pope lowered his eyes. His fingertips brushed against Julius’s hand, and the moist, warm blood stained his snow-white fingers.

“Don’t be angry with Ferrante,” Rafael said, under the watchful gaze of two pairs of eyes. His first sentence made Julius’s expression shift. “He was merely doing his duty. That cannot be held against him as a crime.”

Julius’s face now looked even paler than Rafael’s. His back was ramrod straight, his posture arrogant—like a knight in full armor standing on his own battlefield, ready to defend himself with a lance at any moment.

“Oh. So it’s my fault, then,” he spat out sarcastically through gritted teeth.

“…You know that wasn’t what I meant,” Rafael sighed, his gaze falling on the mangled signet ring. “Give it to me. I’ll have it restored.”

As he reached out to take the shattered ring from Julius, the Duke stepped back.

Two identical pairs of violet eyes met. After a long silence, Julius placed the ring in Rafael’s hand.

“—I give it to you not because you asked for it,” Julius said, his voice light as a passing breeze. “I have always wanted to give it to you, ever since you assumed this position.”

Such a tone usually precedes a “but,” yet Julius did not speak another word. Their gazes met and then diverged; the heavy weight behind his words was buried in that brief, silent exchange.

“Don’t give it back to me,” the Duke of Rhine made a rare plea, though it sounded like a command. “Rafa.”

Julius turned and left without another word.

Rafael held the broken ring. The fresh blood upon it had slowly dried, growing cold. He gently rubbed away the stains and asked Ferrante, who stood nearby, his demeanor unchanged but his eyes faintly gleaming, “Are there any suitable craftsmen in the Papal States?”

“Yes,” Ferrante replied without hesitation. Though he had no idea if there were, there soon would be.

Rafael looked at him with a mixture of indulgence and helplessness. “Why did you provoke him? Julius rarely loses his temper, and I do not wish for outsiders to speak of discord within the Papal Palace.”

Ferrante knelt obediently by the bed, like a large, curly-haired dog, docilely pressing against his master. He closed his eyes, feeling Rafael’s cool fingers thread through his hair.

“They won’t know,” Ferrante said confidently.

“They had better not.”

Rafael gently stroked Ferrante’s hair. His tone was soft, but his eyes were devoid of emotion.

He was thinking coldly. He had long neglected to strengthen his personal power within the Papal States. Though the purge of the lords had brought unprecedented unity, it was still Julius who exercised authority in the Pope’s name.

In his absence, everyone naturally regarded the Secretary-General’s orders as supreme. While there was technically nothing wrong with that, now that he was facing conflict with Calais and Assyria, this seemingly minor imbalance was becoming glaringly apparent.

If the Papal States went to war with Calais and he, as leader, went to the front lines, would the Papal States still be his Papal States when he returned?

Rafael didn’t want to harbor such malicious suspicions, but he truly couldn’t help himself. It was as if an incurable disease had eroded the part of his brain responsible for trust. He couldn’t stop looking at Julius, at Ferrante, at Leshert with eyes of suspicion…

He needed a small counterweight. Perhaps Ferrante was a suitable choice.

Without Rafael, at least, Ferrante would have nothing.

And Rafael knew exactly what Ferrante wanted most right now.

Amidst the swirling chaos of thoughts in the young Pope’s mind, when Ferrante leaned in to touch his forehead, checking for fever, Rafael responded with a gentle, cooperative smile.

Ferrante froze.

Rafael raised his hand, pressing his fingers lightly against Ferrante’s forehead, and uttered an enigmatic phrase: “I absolve you.”

Ferrante stared at him blankly. The Pope then moved his hand to cover Ferrante’s eyes.

In the darkness, Ferrante felt a warm sensation brush against the corner of his lips—there and gone in an instant.

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