Banners embroidered with golden lions and longswords fluttered majestically from the palace turrets. Knights clad in deep blue tabards stood as motionless as statues at every key strategic point, guarding the palace of the supre monarch of the Calais Empire. The capricious emperor, ever since declaring war on Assyria, had been hiding neurotically in his bedchamber, refusing to venture out, even abandoning his favorite pasti of nightly hide-and-seek.
The empire’s Minister of Finance, a forr favorite and lover of the Empress Dowager, hurried along the corridor. Though past fifty, the man still had jet-black hair and a beard. He was robust, with a well-proportioned, agile physique. His loose, scarlet cashre robe concealed his slightly portly belly, but from his still well-defined features, one could tell he must have been a handso young man in his youth.
The minister traversed the complex corridor bridges and stopped before the emperor’s bedchamber door. The imperial guards sucked in their stomachs, puffed out their chests, and stamped their feet in salute.
For soone who had survived the reigns of two emperors from the Fran??ois line, remaining securely in a high position, even becoming the Empress Dowager’s lover—and managing to safely erge as a “forr” one at that—no amount of respect was excessive.
“I must see His Majesty imdiately,” the minister said in a low voice.
An officer went at once to announce him. Soon, the heavy doors groaned open. The Grand Chamberlain of the Emperor’s household stood behind the doors, his expression a mix of relief and embarrassnt. “…My Lord, His Majesty is inside awaiting you.”
The Minister waved a hand, leaving his retinue outside. He strode into the bedchamber and perford a deep, formal bow. When he straightened up and saw the young man seated beside the emperor, a flicker of barely concealed dismay crossed his face.
“I beg Your Majesty to dismiss those present,” he said respectfully.
Viscount Julia’s expression twisted montarily.
No matter how much ti passed, no matter how many tis he had endured it—even though he now wielded authority in Dudley nearly equal to the Emperor’s—these nobles still didn’t deign to hide their contempt and dissatisfaction toward him. Fran??ois viewed him as a re plaything, and he was powerless to change that, but these n, who were likewise rely the Emperor’s subjects, by what right did they dare despise him?
Julia’s gaze fell upon the Minister with a hint of malice, remaining firmly in his seat without moving.
“Whatever the matter is, please speak freely,” Fran??ois IV said. Most of the ti, the Emperor was considered mild-tempered; when he wasn’t having one of his “episodes,” one might almost bestow upon him a nickna like “Fran??ois the Good.”
The Emperor’s subtle refusal displeased the Minister, but as a noble skilled in reading the room, he tactfully moved on. “Your Majesty, I regret to report that our first expeditionary force dispatched to Assyria was attacked in the Black Sea. The loss of ships and personnel were catastrophic.”
The smiling young Emperor looked surprised and sat up straight. His hair, as thick and curly as wool, tumbled over his chest with the movent, giving him the harmless appearance of a stuffed animal.
“What? I don’t understand,” the young Emperor said slowly. His tone was perfectly steady, betraying no signs of anger whatsoever. Yet, Viscount Julia, sitting beside him, was already privately regretting not having left earlier as that old fossil had suggested. “You say they encountered… an attack? In the Black Sea?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“But as I recall, there are no regular military forces in the Black Sea capable of standing against the Calais Navy. Ro’s main fleet is still docked in their ports; our scouts verified this long ago.” The Emperor’s voice was almost gentle. But those who knew him well understood that the gentler he was now, the more deranged his outburst would likely be later.
The Minister remained composed. Being chosen by his colleagues to deliver this bad news to the emperor was partly due to his unpopularity, but also because he had so experience handling such situations. “It wasn’t the regular army of any kingdom, Your Majesty. Their flags were varied, they had no uniforms, and their ships bore no insignia. According to the Admiral’s assessnt, they appear to be pirates active in the Black Sea.”
Fran??ois blinked.
The Black Sea was a notoriously chaotic place where murder and pillage were daily occurrences. The laws of civilization held no sway there; the law of the jungle was the only rule. Pirates battled nature and wandered the seas year-round. Every nation viewed these scourges as thorns in their side. If they ever set foot on land, the gallows in the marketplace awaited them.
Pirates had no loyalty and no honor. They served no nation or monarch, only the eternal gold coin. The “better” pirates would rely take a portion of a passing ship’s wealth, while the most heinous would slaughter entire crews and seize everything abroad.
But that was for rchant ships. What pirate would rob a regular military force? Especially the navy of the Calais Empire—unless the pirate captain’s brain had been pickled in last night’s beer and slapped in the face with several tons of salted fish.
And yet, this absurd, bizarre event had occurred.
“You are saying that my army was… plundered… by pirates?” Fran??ois repeated the fact slowly, his aning unreadable.
As he spoke, Viscount Julia inconspicuously withdrew the hand he had placed on the Emperor’s arm and sat up primly, while the Minister lowered his head deeply.
“My apologies, Your Majesty.”
They both expected the young Emperor to fly into a towering rage. To their surprise, he began to laugh.
This laughter sent a shiver down the spines of the other two n, sparking an urge to bolt for the door.
“How interesting,” Fran??ois muttered to himself. “Too interesting, far too interesting…”
“They also said,” the Minister hesitated, but didn’t dare conceal it, “they said they are faithful followers of the Holy Lord, and are punishing those who blasphe the Holy Lord’s majesty with thunder and fire on His behalf…”
Everyone knew this was nonsense. The likelihood of a pirate having faith was about as high as a man being able to independently give birth. Pirates were pirates because they committed every atrocity imaginable; every person who stepped onto a pirate ship had to personally kill an innocent to prove their resolve. From that perspective, no pirate was innocent; the mont they beca pirates, they had already abandoned their faith and the Holy Lord.
“A clever man.” Fran??ois was not provoked by this provocative gibberish; instead, he laughed strangely.
“He’s reminding
that if I want revenge, I need to find the right enemy,” the young emperor said softly.
That pirate appeared to be provoking Calais, yet had subtly revealed the one who had sent him. Such behavior was certainly fickle—but then again, weren’t pirates just like that? He had taken the Papal States’ money to attack Calais’s ships, and now sought to betray the Papal States to save his own skin from Calais. His skill at trimming sails to the wind was exceptional.
The pirate had essentially declared himself a re tool. Every injustice has its perpetrator; naturally, one should seek revenge against the hand holding the knife rather than the blade itself. This was the logic of a sane person—unfortunately, Fran??ois was anything but sane.
“I don’t like him,” the young Emperor sighed. “How could he betray the Holy See? Such a despicable, shaless wretch, betraying the Holy See’s trust. How truly sad.”
Julia and the Minister exchanged a look.
“You an…” the fifty-year-old Minister asked with so difficulty. He felt his heart might not be able to withstand the shocks delivered by His Majesty’s peculiar train of thought.
“To wipe out the pirates, of course,” Fran??ois ordered blithely. ” Send all those ships that dared challenge the Empire straight to hell, to et their Pirate King—if such a thing even exists.”
“And the Papal States…” Everyone knew the pirates were just a trigger. The real conflict lay between the Papal States and Calais.
With the Crown of Assyria as the bone of contention, reconciliation between the Papal States and Calais was impossible. Though many Calais nobles failed to understand Fran??ois IV’s inexplicable, obsessive craving for Assyria, as beneficiaries, they were thrilled to have an opportunity to seize more wealth. So, after Fran??ois’s declaration of war against Assyria, the nobles had fanned the flas with near-manic excitent, igniting sentint both at court and among the populace. This was one reason Fran??ois had been able to organize a naval expedition so quickly.
It also ant they were on the brink of a complete break with the Papal States.
“Should the gifts for Florence continue this year?” The Minister had thought this a question that didn’t need asking. They were nearly at each other’s throats—one might say the two countries were just short of a formal declaration of war. Were they really going to send gifts to the opposing monarch? But the young Emperor’s behavior suddenly made him unsure.
“Of course,” the young Emperor looked at him with genuine surprise. “How could you even have such a doubt?”
Good Heavens. The Minister of Finance was now utterly bewildered by the Emperor’s capriciousness.
It was only now that he truly realized he was an old man who had fallen behind the tis, understanding nothing of the younger generation’s thoughts.
“But the Papal States instigated pirates to attack our army. How can you bestow your precious leniency upon such despicable people?” The one who spoke was Viscount Julia. He understood nothing of politics or military affairs, but he knew one fundantal truth—once you sent a valuable gift away, you might not get it back. The gifts Fran??ois sent to the Papal Palace each ti were treasures that even he coveted. Rather than giving them to the Holy See, it would be better to give them to himself. After all, the Holy See already possessed more than enough fine things!
Fran??ois, who hadn’t even flinched upon hearing of the naval defeat, suddenly flew into a towering rage at this remark. He slamd an enal teacup onto the floor. Amidst the crisp sound of shattering porcelain, he issued a cold warning: “Please rember your place, Viscount. I have not granted you the authority to participate in political discussions. When the Emperor is conducting state affairs, I ask that you have the decency to remain silent.”
The Viscount turned deathly pale, lowering his head in terrified contrition. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am deeply sorry.”
Fran??ois watched him for a while, his gaze eventually resting on the Viscount’s long golden hair. The long, affluent, and privileged court life had compensated for the deficiencies of Julia’s early years; his hair was smooth and lustrous, like a magnificent bolt of silk. The young emperor’s tone softened: “My dear, do not apologize to . I am sorry for losing my temper with you just now.”
Julia looked at the Emperor. Even a fool, after being by Fran??ois’s side for so long, would know how to live more comfortably with this mad sovereign—let alone Julia, who was naturally adept at trimming his sails to the wind. Hearing this, he knew the Emperor’s heart had softened again. He could seize this opportunity to make a small request; the Emperor wouldn’t be angry, but would instead be pleased by his “boldness.”
“You are forever wise, Your Majesty. What you say is perfectly correct. As a viscount who has contributed nothing to the Empire, yet receives the people’s offerings, my conscience is truly uneasy.”
Hearing this, the Finance Minister rolled his eyes hard at the carpet.
Uneasy?
You didn’t seem to be uneased when you were arrogantly whipping the maidservants, nor did you seem uneased when you demanded the kitchen provide fresh milk and honey for your baths every day. Not to ntion parading on flower boats outside the city to show off your magnificent clothes and jewelry to the impoverished commoners…
Holy Lord, what kind of fool would do such things?!
Because of this foolish viscount who possessed nothing but beauty, the royal family’s popularity among the common people had fallen considerably.
“What do you want, then?” The young emperor raised an eyebrow with interest. “A bodyguard unit? A count’s title? Or new jewelry?”
The latter two were things Julia requested every ti. Usually, he got the jewelry, but the Emperor had no intention of making him a Count.
Julia’s expression didn’t change as he continued his performance. “No, I want an opportunity.”
“An opportunity,” Fran??ois chewed on the word.
“Yes. I wish to follow the expeditionary force to Assyria… to participate in the combat.”
The mont he spoke, not only Fran??ois, but even the Finance Minister, who had been standing there playing deaf and mute, couldn’t help but look up at him to confirm that it was indeed Julia sitting there and not so actor who looked like him.
Julia held his breath as he uttered these words, feeling the blood rush to his head. He sat there, breathless, nervously anticipating Fran??ois’s possible reaction. This decision wasn’t a whim. To put it simply, his family—those greedy siblings and parents sharing his blood—wanted too much from him. As a Viscount with no real power, he couldn’t satisfy their growing appetites.
Thus, Julia had only two choices: either sever ties with his family completely or climb upward to a position where he could satisfy their desires.
Though he knew their greed was likely bottomless, even the most rational person could occasionally be blinded by emotion.
If he went to Assyria, regardless of whether he actually earned military rit, he could gain things from the war that the court could not give him—be it a higher title or actual power. Furthermore, his relationship with Fran??ois ensured absolute protection. With such a perfect opportunity to gild his credentials, what reason did he have not to go?
Of course, he felt a flicker of fear, so if Fran??ois refused…
“Very well.”
Julia’s train of thought cut off mid-sentence. The young Emperor had readily granted his request.
When the second wave of troops set out for Assyria, the news reached Florence via the Holy Crows along the route. Following Fran??ois’s purges, the number of Holy Crows within Calais had diminished greatly; news from the palace in Dudley could no longer be easily intercepted. Had the troop movents not been so massive, Florence might have received the information even later.
Rafael sat in a wheelchair—Dr. Polly had strictly forbidden him from walking, or even standing for long periods. Unless necessary, he was to spend all his ti sitting or lying down. The person happiest about this was likely Ferrante. The leader of the Holy Crows had barely left the Pope’s side lately. In truth, he usually remained hidden near the Pope, but now he accompanied His Holiness openly.
The young man, clad in the plainest monastic robes, pushed the wheelchair. Crafted ticulously by Florence’s finest artisans, the wheelchair was lightweight and agile, moving smoothly even over the thick carpet.
“…They are nearly past the border. Shall we make another move in the Black Sea?” As the one who delivered the news, Ferrante naturally knew what was written in the letters.
The Pope held the letter in his hand and said nonchalantly, “No need. I expect those stragglers from the old Russo family will soon be wiped out by the Calais Navy.”
When Rafael had purged the lords of the Papal States years ago, many of their relatives had fled when they saw the situation turning south. Among them were of course the family of the main culprit, Old Russo. At the ti, Rafael hadn’t made a grand show of chasing them across the continent, as that would have been far too costly in effort. He had simply published their nas and excommunicated them. A considerable number of them could only survive on the gold and silver they had managed to take with them. The Russo family, bold and resourceful, had turned back to their ancestral trade.
They had fled from a port that originally belonged to the Russo family, making off with several of the family’s ships, and returned to their old ways: mariti piracy. With their ruthlessness and deep-rooted resources, they had actually made a na for themselves in the chaos of the Black Sea.
Knowing that Calais was sending troops to Assyria, Rafael had intended to cause them so trouble. After so thought, he rembered these leftovers of the Russo family.
Having dominated the Black Sea for several years without seeing any Papal pursuers, the pirates had assud their new identities were holding up well and had gradually let down their guard. When they saw a commission clearly related to the Church, they didn’t think twice, even smugly thinking that this was a good chance to retaliate against Rafael.
But they had no idea that Fran??ois was a madman unwilling to listen to explanations.
Rafael folded the letter and put the matter out of his mind. To him, it had been rely a casual act, not worth any more of his attention.
“We must also begin preparing to face the war. If we wait until Calais completely conquers Assyria, we will find ourselves unable to resist,” Rafael raised his head. “Go contact our allies. Tell Leshert to prepare to form the Holy Legion. The Papal Palace will issue a summons shortly.”
Ferrante understood his aning. Within these plain, ordinary sentences lay the winds and lightning capable of stirring the entire world, making his heart race and his body tremble.
“Is this another Holy War, Holy Father?”
Rafael smiled. “No. This is not a Holy War.”
This is an unrighteous sin, born of self-serving ambition. But I shall prevail.
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