Inside the tent, not even the sound of an ant moving could be heard. An old man sat quietly with his eyes closed, meditating.
The seal of the Goddess’s Church emblazoned on his pure white priestly robe indicated that he was the Pope.
Even the priest who usually accompanied him had been dismissed. He was here alone, steadying his breathing and calming his mind.
Just as the sound of the wind slipping through the curtains’缝隙 subsided, the sound of footsteps approaching out of thin air could be heard.
Recognizing the heavy tread immediately, the Pope knew exactly who it was – the only person who could enter this place without any opposition from the priests.
“This is certainly unexpected. I didn’t realize my Duke had such a lack of manners.”
“Surely you haven’t just realized that now.”
A scoffing male voice responded, filled with mockery. The Pope opened his eyes.
Silver hair and cold silver eyes met his gaze. The sharp features and intimidating aura were enough to make even the Pope pause for a moment.
Or, to put it another way, the man was exceptionally intimidating.
“It’s been a while since we’ve met in private, Pope.”
Abel.
One of the four dukes of Arié Empire and the Pope’s long-time nemesis. Once, they had fought side by side on the battlefield as comrades-in-arms.
With a snap of his fingers, two cushions appeared in mid-air.
Even now, his magic was as formidable as it had been during the purge wars. There was no one in the mage empire of Arié who wielded space magic as adeptly as Abel.
Though, thinking back, Abel had struggled to learn even the simplest shield magic when he was young. Time had truly flown by.
“Take a seat.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Abel plopped down on the cushion and gestured towards the Pope with one hand. The Pope, though amused by his impudence, slowly rose from the floor.
Despite the formalities, Abel’s lack of respect hadn’t changed much from their earlier days.
In the past, he was known for calling the Pope “old man” or worse, but it was an improvement.
Of course, whether in the past or present, Abel still didn’t think much of the Pope.
“So, it’s been a while since we’ve had a private chat like this. Why haven’t you dropped by in over a decade?”
“Hey, it was you who suggested we avoid meeting privately.”
Abel shot a glare at the Pope upon hearing his grumbling response. However, the Pope paid it no mind and boldly met his gaze.
“Does a grown man really hold onto such trivial things?”
“You were the one being trivial first.”
With a snort, Abel reached into the air, a storage void opening effortlessly at his will. From it, he retrieved two glasses. He tossed one to the Pope, who barely managed to catch it with his divine power.
“You’ve grown old if you can’t even catch that properly.”
“I’ve been over a hundred years old, so it’s only natural.”
The Pope had already lived far beyond what one might expect – nearly a century of life. So, perhaps it was only natural for him to grow frail.
It wasn’t something he had ever planned for, but the promises he made in his youth still tied him down.
“Not ‘old,’ but rather venerable.”
Abel lightly teased as he reached into the void again, this time pulling out a bottle. The Pope’s eyes immediately changed upon recognizing the unusual shape.
The wine was a fine Eastern medicinal liquor, specifically the rare ginseng liquor, which was especially hard to obtain. As someone who once loved drinking before becoming a clergyman, the Pope recognized it instantly.
Knowing his weakness for fine wine, Abel grinned.
“You still enjoy wine, I see.”
“It’s not that I don’t – it’s just unavailable.”
“If the Pope loves wine so much, the priests would surely faint in surprise.”
“Hmm, nowadays I avoid it for health reasons. Though priests don’t know that.”
The Pope lamented this fact as he fondled the wine glass for a bit before setting it down. Watching him, Abel casually tossed the bottle into the air.
A white magical circle formed in mid-air, catching the bottle and tilting it toward the Pope’s discarded glass.
The transparent liquor flowed steadily into the glass. Watching this, the Pope couldn’t help but swallow in anticipation.
“Health? Since when have you cared about such things?”
“Ever since the war ended, I’ve been looking out for these things.”
“Then it’s just the last decade, right?”
When the Pope made this remark, Abel chuckled.
“…Has it been that long already?”
“Ten years.”
At this, the Pope reflected quietly, recalling the first time he met Abel.
The war against Numen Castle State and the Frilletcha Kingdom, which had lasted well over a hundred years, saw the Pope thrust into the fray during his middle age.
“There, we met.”
For over twenty years, he had traversed battlefields as a priest, eventually encountering a young boy soldier from the Empire’s ranks.
An eyeless killing machine, the child had been focused solely on survival, his mind twisted by the horrors of war.
Incredibly fragile and likely to die from even a minor blow, this young soldier was the only one among the Empire’s youth who managed to survive the war.
This boy had risen to become one of the four Dukes of the Empire and was now a respected Arch-Mage. The passage of time seemed both weightless and overwhelming.
“Back then, I was full of youthful energy.”
Muttering this while savoring the aroma of the wine, the Pope brought a nostalgic smile. Abel, though, sighed, mocking him.
“Youthful energy? Back then, you were already an old man.”
“Ah, even an old man can have a little too much to say if you keep provoking me.”
“Consider it the price of accepting such pricey wine.”
Despite all the years they’d known each other, Abel’s arrogance had never changed.
Though at first his disrespectful manner had grated, now the Pope found some solace in it.
They say old people find joy in everything, and it seemed he was getting old. The Pope quietly took a sip of the wine, lost in thought. Abel remained silent, only refilling his empty glass.
The liquid flowed gently from the neck of the bottle into the glass.
With one fluid motion, Abel drank the glass in a single gulp, a warm sensation flowing into his chest.
Watching this, the Pope couldn’t help but criticize his lack of finesse.
“Really, you drink like someone who doesn’t understand wine at all. Who drinks such fine liquor in one gulp?”
“What does it matter? It’s my wine after all.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to share private moments with you.”
“I won’t give you more wine then.”
“Hmm, you know, drinking it like that might not be such a bad thing.”
The Pope’s attitude, which completely shifted at the drop of a hat, made Abel chuckle. Just as always, the Pope remained childish.
As the Pope tilted his glass again, Abel flicked his finger. A powerful mana ripple surged outward.
Wooom…
A low rumbling sound reverberated as a great barrier surrounded the tent. Even the Pope, no expert in magic, could sense the immense power in that spell.
Knowing Abel’s battlefield reputation, the Pope immediately recognized this barrier’s nature.
“A soundproof barrier, I see.”
It was exactly as it sounded – a barrier that prevented any sound from escaping its confines.
This, combined with the timing, meant that what they were about to discuss was not meant for others to overhear.
So, Abel had not come here merely to drink. The Pope set down his empty cup and glanced at Abel seriously.
“Pope, have you lost your stigmata?”
The stigmata.
A direct blessing from the Goddess and proof of one’s unwavering devotion to her faith, the stigmata symbolized a person’s divine favor.
For priests, especially the Pope and holy maidens, the stigmata was the clearest confirmation of their devoutness.
Losing the stigmata would signify the Goddess’ withdrawal of her blessing, and it could endanger not only the Pope’s position but also his life.
“Ho ho, seems even I can’t match a Duke.”
The Pope did not deny Abel’s assertion, instead quietly rolling up his sleeves to reveal the place where his stigmata had once been.
Seeing this, Abel let out a sigh involuntarily.
“You really didn’t listen to my words after all.”
“Did you expect me to?”
“Hmm.”
Abel had warned him before, yet the Pope had still followed the original course, losing his stigmata. Had he ignored Abel’s advice back then?
No, with a personality like his, it was unlikely the Pope would have heeded anyone’s counsel. How could someone as upright as him stand by and watch an innocent girl be sacrificed?
In light of this, the plan to seek the Pope’s help had to be abandoned.
“Was it necessary to lose the stigmata for the Emperor’s pawn?”
“…Yes. I remember your words from before.”
He told me not to carve pieces out of my own flesh for traitors.
The Pope smirked wryly at the image of betrayal that came to mind – Yurph, the saint candidate he had chosen himself. Yurph was as pure and kind a soul as he had ever known.
He had long been aware that she was the Emperor’s Eyes. He also knew very well how kind she was.
In his old age, his only contribution had been naming her as the candidate for the saint role.
He regretted not being able to help her further due to the factional struggles within the Castle State.
For this choice, earning the wrath of the Goddess and losing his stigmata, was fitting.
For choosing the Emperor’s pawn as a candidate, this much danger was inevitable.
“Yet, I have never regretted it, not once.”
“…You continue to be foolish.”
“Yes, that’s precisely why I’ve managed to survive this long.”
With a bitter smile, the Pope tilted his glass again. Abel quietly watched him, refilling his cup without a word.
The silence grew deeper as the night wore on, undisturbed by conversation.
