Redrick walked briskly down from the second floor of the Portia Palace. The once frivolous and arrogant young man had shed his repulsive temperant. After spending several years in the knighthood under Leshert’s command, his temper seed much improved; although he looked down on low-born servants as much as ever, he no longer went out of his way to make their lives difficult.
Upon seeing him descend, the servants quickly retreated to both sides of the corridor, bowing deeply.
Redrick casually walked passed them and headed down the stairs. The attendants waiting at the bottom held his longsword and armor. Redrick raised his arms, expecting them to drape the armor over him, but after holding the pose for a mont without any movent from them, the violent-tempered youth’s expression instantly darkened.
He opened his mouth to snap at them, only to find the attendants frantically gesturing with their eyes, signaling for him to look to the side.
Redrick froze for a mont, turned his head, and realized there was soone else in the hall.
The Portia Palace was vast, a sprawling complex of buildings that housed the direct bloodline of the Portia family. The current head of the house was Julius, but as he had yet to marry or have children, the primary family mbers of his father’s generation—specifically Delacroix’s widow and his offspring—still resided there.
According to the genealogy, Delacroix’s eldest son Redrick, his second son Nidro, and his daughter Surina all lived in the Portia Palace, along with their mother: the last female mber of the Old Empire’s royal Claudius family, Lady Cassandra.
The magnificently decorated hall was exceptionally spacious. A crystal chandelier weighing hundreds of pounds hung from the do, and luxurious Oriental carpets covered the entire floor. In a semi-open parlor to the side sat soft benches and cushioned sofas, with tapestries embroidered with scenes of Portia ancestors enjoying a spring outing.
A woman sat in the center of the sofa, head lowered as she sipped tea.
She wore a whalebone gown fashionable in Florence, the royal blue satin spreading into a full semi-circle on the floor. Ribbons and silk threads cinched her waist tightly; this “deadly” instrunt of beauty prevented won from breathing freely, forcing them to maintain a perpetually “elegant” posture, their entire bodies tensed like a soldier prepared for battle. Setting aside the luxurious, dazzling jewelry, the sapphire necklace resting against her fair chest alone would be enough to make many noble ladies green with envy.
She appeared to have passed her most youthful and beautiful years. Her golden-brown curls were tightly coiled atop her head, each strand ticulously tucked into the bun, pulling the skin of her face and temples taut. Adorning the bun was a circlet of golden, leaf-shaped chain set with matching sapphires. This soft crown, along with her necklace and bracelet, ford a complete set of jewelry that could be assembled into a tiara or worn separately. Redrick knew it well—it had been one of his father’s birthday gifts to his mother when he was eight years old.
The woman sat there, her many years of widowhood seeming to have worn away all of her warmth and gentleness, leaving her looking like an emotionless Madonna, or the most perfectly exemplary specin of a noblewoman. To put it in terms that Eastern students of later generations might find more familiar—she had the distinct, stern air of a “headmistress.”
Redrick’s nerves involuntarily tensed.
“Mother,” he said, approaching her almost stiffly, lowering his head in greeting.
The woman finally raised her eyes. A sharp gaze flew out from behind the teacup, scrutinizing her son before she squeezed a simple “Mm” from her throat.
Redrick stood his ground with no intention of sitting. He uttered a few dry, trivial remarks. Seeing that he wanted to leave, Lady Cassandra’s expression remained blank as she said coolly, “I heard you’re going to Assyria to join the war.”
Redrick hesitated for a mont but admitted it: “Yes, I want to… I think… I might be better suited for this. I an… when I was in the knighthood—”
He was interrupted. Lady Cassandra seed to have no interest in hearing the evaluations he received in the Knights Templar, nor did she care why he had suddenly developed a passion for war. She simply commanded coldly: “No.”
“As the eldest son, your duty is to do what a Duke of Lusanne ought to do. Go hunting as you did before, fool around with your friends, or go play around in your fief. Any of these are fine. But do not foolishly lose your life in Assyria out of so muddled impulse.”
According to the customs of the ti, the eldest son of a noble family inherited the title and most of the estate, the second son entered the military to hold military power, and the third entered the Church to beco a clergyman. This was a miniature “Trinity” model that helped consolidate the family legacy. Nobles who were otherwise quite dissolute displayed an extraordinary rigidity when it ca to matters of inheritance—disrupting this order seed to be an unforgivable offense.
The woman’s voice held no fluctuation whatsoever. Her tone was imperious, exactly like Redrick’s—clearly, her son had inherited that particular trait from her to perfection.
She seed to not even consider that her son might defy her. Having finished her sentence, she set down her cup and prepared to stand.
Redrick neither moved nor spoke.
Realizing his reluctance, Lady Cassandra shifted her cold gaze back to him. “Do you have an objection?”
Her tone was as calm and detached as ever. Their conversation was overly polite—less like mother and son, and more like a career consultation between two unfamiliar strangers.
Lady Cassandra was of noble birth. As a descendant of the Old Empire’s bloodline, her marriage had possessed extraordinary value from the mont she was born. A massive rift existed between the long-vanished Empire and the “nobility” others had instilled in her. She had grown up adhering to rigid dogmas, becoming a woman who strictly followed religious doctrine and lady-like etiquette, eventually marrying Delacroix.
A pious believer, a rigid mother, a proper wife—this was the complete portrait of her life.
Redrick had never seen his mother smile. This didn’t an that she never felt joy, but that she would never show such an “improper” side to outsiders—and Redrick was considered one of those “outsiders.”
In accordance with the education she had received, each of her children had left her side shortly after birth. Maids and attendants had taken over the duties of motherhood. She strictly adhered to the rules—she saw them twice a week, once in the reception room and once in the garden. Before each eting, she changed into formal attire. They would bow to each other, exchanged greetings, and then discussed the vocabulary they had been learning, the books they had been reading. These etings never exceeded more than an hour. During the process, there was to be no overly intimate physical contact—no kissing, no hugging, no sweet words. Upon leaving, they would bow again, and only then would they receive a kiss on the cheek from their mother—and even that was a requirent of etiquette.
They shared the deepest blood ties, yet lived like polite strangers.
Redrick did not deny her love.
She worked hard to fulfill their wishes, giving them the best of everything. Even when they got into trouble, she rarely scolded them.
But it wasn’t the sa.
Redrick said abruptly, “According to the order of succession, the person now sitting in the Papal Palace is my father’s eldest son—his legitimate, firstborn son.”
As he spoke those last words, he felt a mix of anger and spiteful pleasure. Anger at the reality he was powerless to change, and pleasure because he finally saw a different expression appear on his mother’s perpetually frozen face.
“He will be written into the Portia family tree as my elder brother. So, as the second son, may I join the army now, Mother?”
He couldn’t resist using hurtful words to pierce that woman.
Lady Cassandra’s expression did indeed turn quite grim, just as he had imagined. She lifted her eyelids, scrutinizing her eldest son, and suddenly asked, “Do you still harbor resentnt against the Holy Father?”
The young man’s expression flickered.
“I hope you understand that this is a matter between your father and . You have no right to hate soone who could not choose their own origins, regardless of whether they were born from a lawful marriage. Moreover, you ought to be devout, tolerant, charitable, upright, and brave. You should fulfill your duties as a duke and respect the Holy Father as you respect your father—for he is the one who can save your soul.”
The woman spoke slowly.
A look of unbearable rage crossed Redrick’s face. He forced down the fury rising in his chest, swallowed the rotting roar festering in his heart, stepped back expressionlessly and said. “Thank you for your teachings. I shall keep them in mind, Mother.”
With that, he turned to leave.
But before he could take two steps, Lady Cassandra called out to him: “Stop.”
Redrick could barely contain his anger. He turned back impatiently. The woman on the couch remained like an eternal, unltable snow-capped mountain, sitting there in cold majesty, looking at him with an unchanging gaze.
After a few seconds of silent confrontation, Redrick realized sothing. He took a step back, a trace of self-mockery and a twisted smile flashing across his face. He bowed respectfully to the woman and spoke the words he had repeated countless tis with wooden precision: “It was a pleasure eting you today. I look forward to seeing you next ti, Mother.”
This ti, Lady Cassandra did not stop him from leaving.
Redrick charged out of the Portia Palace. He snatched his helt from the attendant who was hurrying to catch up and jamd it onto his head. Without even donning his armor, he sprinted toward his horse.
The first army of Florence set sail for Assyria a week later. The man leading them was not Leshert, but Redrick—a choice that left everyone dumbfounded.
Everyone knew the profound “hatred” that existed between the Duke of Lusanne and His Holiness. Perhaps “hatred” wasn’t quite the right word, but any noble living in Florence knew the history between the Portia young master and Rafael. When Rafael was first brought back by Delacroix, he only held the status of a collateral branch of the Portia family. Although many suspected he shared a direct blood with the Pope, no one was foolish enough to say it aloud. Only Redrick had viewed Rafael as a thorn in his side, persisting in making trouble for him for years on end.
Back at the Florence Seminary, Redrick had once thrown away all of Rafael’s books, sealed off his dormitory, and brawled with him on more than one occasion. Even after Rafael went to the Papal Palace to serve as Delacroix’s secretary, he still had to endure Redrick’s cold mockery every ti they crossed paths.
The friction between them seed like nothing more than a youthful feud, but after fernting for over a decade, it had evolved into sothing far too complex to be summarized by such simple terms.
They hated and despised one another, yet both knew they would never push things to the point of mutual destruction. Rafael allowed Redrick to enter the knighthood to pursue his ambitions, while Redrick exerted every ounce of his talent in service—a twisted, convoluted relationship where even they likely couldn’t pin down exactly where the root of the problem lay.
As for Rafael appointing Redrick as the military leader, it was simply because Leshert had recomnded him. Rafael trusted Leshert’s judgnt; moreover, it was a pri opportunity to project an image of his own magnanimity.
Even if the army were placed in Redrick’s hands, what could he possibly do? All of his kin were in Florence. Based on Rafael’s years of experience, Redrick was nothing more than a “paper tiger”—even if soone urged the man to rebel, would he actually have the nerve to do it?
That was how Rafael saw it, but Redrick likely had more on his mind.
When Rafael handed him the flag symbolizing the Holy See before the eyes of the masses, the ever-arrogant youth grew silent and, for the first ti, lowered his head toward Rafael.
“The Lord laid a stone in Florence, founding the cornerstone of the Holy City. This magnificent realm was once called the earthly reflection of the Heavenly Kingdom, the most perfect and blessed place in the world. Now, with the old century more than halfway through, the Lord, by His will, has bestowed upon us new lands. This war is not rely for the acquisition of a worldly crown, but for bringing eternal peace to Assyria, which has sunk into sin and chaos. It is so that the Lord’s blessings may descend upon every land, that every person may find tranquility and joy, and that the Kingdom of God on Earth—prophesied in the Holy Books but yet to manifest—may truly descend!”
“My children, go forth and plant the first flag for my earthly Kingdom of God.”
The words were carried by the amplifying balcony to the ears of every soldier.
Thus, not only the soldiers gathered in the square awaiting inspection but even the ordinary citizens standing outside gazing up at the Pope broke into excited expressions. Within that tidal wave of collective will, they erupted into a thunderous roar.
“For the earthly Kingdom of God!”
“For the Lord!”
“For the Holy Father!”
To establish a true Kingdom of God on Earth—what a magnificent, resplendent dream! Every pious believer was willing to let the Lord’s glory descend upon the mortal world. They were ready to go through fire and water for those words, even if it cost them everything they owned.
One could only imagine that once these words spread, countless believers would travel over land and sea to Florence, throwing themselves without hesitation into the ranks of the Florentine Expeditionary Force.
As the massive army began its march, Julius—standing beneath the great balcony in his capacity as Secretary-General—looked up at Rafael. A hazy, fleeting trance appeared in his eyes.
When Rafael made his way down, Ferrante stepped forward ahead of Julius. He pushed the wheelchair forward and assisted Rafael into it, his movents practiced and gentle. Julius stood by, watching in silence, seemingly unmoved. It was only when Ferrante had taken his place behind Rafael and both of them turned their gaze to him that the secretary slowly adjusted his glasses.
For so reason, Rafael suddenly felt, for a fleeting mont, a hint of deranged madness from Julius.
But the feeling was gone as quickly as it ca.
“Your Holiness’s speech was very compelling,” Julius said, his deanor as composed as ever. “But have you considered how the people of Assyria will feel? They would likely not appreciate hearing their country described as the beginning of an ‘earthly Kingdom of God.’ That would be a challenge to their faith. I’m afraid that, under the organization of their High Priest, the Papal States’ army will encounter unprecedented and resolute resistance.”
Rafael rested his hands loosely on the armrests and smiled. A brief flash of cunning flickered in his pale violet eyes. “Of course I thought of that. That is why I have prepared another gift for them.”
“I give them the freedom of belief.”
As the master of the Holy See, the monarch of Florence, and the Pontiff with the largest following on the continent, he lightly uttered words significant enough to make anyone gasp.
“I grant them the right to choose. To believe or not to believe—that will be their own choice. It ans they may beco the Lord’s chosen people, or they may hold fast to their old faith, or follow other religions, or even… beco believers in themselves.”
His voice was calm, but the implications were enough to make devout believers shriek in terror.
“…What blasphemous words. Only the most wicked of devils and heretics could say such a thing.” Even Julius was montarily struck speechless. “What you’re giving them isn’t just freedom—it will cause trendous chaos, greater than any chaos that has co before.”
He didn’t finish his thought: as the Pope, Rafael would also be dragged into the vortex of this conflict, and might even be nailed to the Holy See’s pillar of sha.
“Is that so?” This was the one thing Rafael did not fear. He gave a aningful smile. “But I think the current Assyria is already chaotic enough.”
He deliberately gave an irrelevant answer, and Julius fell silent.
Ferrante pushed Rafael away. The shadows of the man standing and the man sitting briefly overlapped on the ground before stretching far apart—like a silent prophecy.
Author’s Note
The matter of religious freedom will be explored further in later chapters. Rafael hasn’t announced it yet—it’s just the seed of an idea. But how to put it? This idea is truly bold. He intends to thoroughly stir up Assyria. Since it’s already a ss, he figures he might as well break it to build it anew. He’ll turn it into a total “pot of porridge” so he can organize it at his leisure later. After all, the theocratic rule of the Papal State isn’t suitable for a large nation like Assyria, and Rafael actually despises the Assyrian system where divine authority overrides secular authority.
Share on X (Opens in new window) X
Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
Reviews
All reviews (0)