Chapter 102 Hope Blue Diamond (XIX)

New Questions

Leshter handed the second legion list to his adjutant, who was about to be promoted to legion commander and lead this group of soldiers to Assyria. However, Leshter would not be allowed to set foot on Assyrian soil until the situation became clear or a major turning point occurred on the battlefield.

Leshert realized this clearly and understood why better than anyone else.

The knights all felt that the Lord Knight Commander was kept because His Majesty trusted and relied on him. This almost partial protection made many people envious, except for the person involved.

Leshert watched his adjutant leave, and couldn't help but think of the private conversation he had with Raphael that day - it couldn't be called a quarrel in any sense, but the contradictions revealed in the conversation were more sharp and intense than a quarrel.

The Knight Commander rubbed his fingers together, his face expressionless.

His appearance is undoubtedly outstanding among the human group. His emerald green eyes are very similar to expensive emeralds. Due to the multi-level precision that the human pupil is naturally endowed with - it is a miracle created by nature. The extremely complex color difference and infinite subtle colors are centered on dark green, and the depth is evenly rendered toward the inner and outer circles, creating a gorgeous and deep visual effect. You can see algae grown in the Dead Sea, the emerald fog in the dense forest in spring, or the new buds sprouting in early spring.

Leshert was used to smiling in a gentle and harmless manner, which would make others naturally have a good impression of this loyal and upright knight commander, and temporarily forget the power he held.

Maybe he is really too gentle in his daily life, so that many people often forget that Leshet did not ascend to the throne of the leader of the Holy See Knights Templar by reciting scriptures. Anyone who can tie the reins to the neck of a wild horse must also have the same fierce ability.

But stripping away all titles and honors, he is indeed a good man at heart, a good man who can be called a saint.

But sometimes... sometimes, very rarely, Leshert would have some doubts about himself.

A good person will always have a harder time than a purely bad person, because he cannot give up many artificial additions, concepts that humans have evolved over thousands of years to constrain groups, such as sympathy, pity, fairness, honesty, helping the weak, selflessness... These qualities are often only effective for people with these qualities, which has become a funny black humor circle, and these beautiful qualities will urge them to constantly reflect on whether their behavior is in line with and consistently in line with them.

And often, when they start to think about such questions, in most cases it is because they have violated such principles.

So they instinctively feel pain.

This kind of pain is different from being hurt by others. The pain from the inside out comes slowly and deeply. The feeling of being condemned by the soul is stronger than all the scolding and education from others. It is like a thorn growing out of the flesh and blood, and then pointing the sharp thorns towards the internal organs. It can never be pulled out and is forever buried in the flesh and blood, waiting for time for the wound to grow new tissue to cover it. Only when you touch the uneven and twisted scar, can you perceive what exists inside through the associated hidden pain.

Leshert now felt that long, sharp pain.

"Sir Leshet!" A strange voice came from behind. Leshet reflexively adjusted his expression and turned around to look. The man's robe and the badge on his chest proved his identity. The badge of the Secretariat of the Papal Palace was a feather pen suspended above an open book, with a thin gold-plated chain hanging below, connected to the papal fleur-de-lis on the collar, expressing absolute allegiance to the Pope. The young man was obviously relieved when he saw him, and he trotted over and handed him a roll of parchment.

The parchment was tied at the waist with a silk ribbon, and in the middle was a wax seal with the Pope's emblem. @

Leshert turned the scroll half a circle and saw the wax emblem of the Secretary General of the Papal Palace on the other side.

This proves that this order is a public order issued by the Secretariat of the Papal Palace - of course, the disclosure here can also be limited to the Secretary General himself. Even if there is only one witness, it at least shows that it is not a product of papal despotism. In many cases, this point is very important.

Leshert felt a little relieved. After a simple thank you, he took the sealed order and tore open the ribbon. This action was slightly hindered by the sealing wax on it.

The parchment scroll was obediently opened by humans. There were only two clear and simple lines of text on it. The handwriting came from the Pope himself, with the Pope's signature at the end. The text was brief and the words were precise, with a kind of coldness that stripped away all emotions.

Leshter's pupils shrank.

The young man said, "...He is already outside. Your Majesty has ordered that he will be handed over to the Knights' Order from now on."

Leshert didn't say anything, and the secretary didn't care about his silence. He saluted him again and left.

Leshert frowned, confirmed the order written on the parchment again, rolled it up, and strode towards the gate of the training ground.

The Knights' residence and the Papal Palace are almost integrated, making it difficult to distinguish the specific boundaries between the two. However, in order to ensure the safety of the Papal Palace and reduce the possibility of outsiders sneaking into the Papal Palace through the training ground, the Knights' training ground is outside the Papal Palace, with the entrance facing the Florence River behind it.

Before the Knight Commander walked out of the gate, he saw the carriage parked at the door through the iron bars. The emblem of the Papal Palace was hung on the side of the carriage. The overall style was low-key and simple, and the glass windows were tightly covered with velvet curtains. Leshert noticed that the window lock was set on the outside to prevent people inside from opening the window.

Leshert's pace slowed down for a moment, but soon returned to normal and greeted the coachman. The coachman, who was wearing a black monk's robe, nodded to him under his hood, looking taciturn.

Leshert raised his hand to unlock the window, but the coachman stopped him: "Please don't do it here, sir."

The Knight Commander quickly understood what he meant, put down his hand, and signaled the coachman to drive the carriage into a row of simple houses beside the training ground. This was the living area for the knights, and of course he also had a room here.

The driver parked the carriage in front of the room with the Knight Commander's nameplate hanging on it, and used the carriage and horses very carefully to block other people's sight as much as possible - even though most of the knights were sweating on the training ground at this moment.

Leshert pushed open the door - the rooms here were not locked - and when he looked back, the driver had just opened the door and leaned over to whisper something into the carriage.

After a while, a sturdy but agile figure wrapped in a thick black cloak rushed out of the carriage, passed Leshet in one stride, and rushed into the room. The speed was so fast that Leshet couldn't react for a while. He only felt the light in front of his eyes dim and then brighten again.

...It seems like something just passed by.

The Knight Commander controlled his instant fighting reaction and closed the door silently.

The light in the room dimmed steadily.

With a little light cast from the high window, the uninvited guest was standing in front of the statue of the Holy Lord, craning his neck to look at the Holy Lord with a compassionate expression.

Leshert frowned slightly, displeased by his obvious contempt for the Holy Lord, but he said nothing, because the other party had turned around, looked at him with the same eyes for a while, and then moved his strong legs to sit on the only two pieces of furniture in the room that could provide support.

As he sat down, Leshert was sure he heard the poor single bed groan shrilly and visibly bend down at least the height of a fist.

Leshert... Leshert couldn't help himself in the end. He stared at the man on the bed who was almost twice as wide as him, his expression fixed in an odd politeness: "...Good day, Your Excellency Duke François."

Yes, the person who came was none other than his uncle, Duke François, who was hiding in Florence from the little emperor's pursuit. Ever since he fled Calais and accepted the asylum of the Pope, he has kept a much lower profile, hiding in his own house every day to entertain himself and regularly donating to the church. This positive change has changed many people's views of him.

But one thing that needs to be pointed out is that the Duke seldom goes out and hardly ever sees anyone. Lesherte has not seen him since François came to Florence, so he never expected that the Duke, who was once at least handsome and majestic, would become like this in just over a year.

It's like it's been soaked in water for several months.

His brown curly hair was still sleek and glossy, and each curl was the same size, looking like a funny toy wig on his head which had become several sizes wider. The snow-white ruff collar looked as if it was about to strangle him, and the snow-white boots tied with laces were struggling to support him, as if their fat would break through their defenses in the next second. Fabric merchants would probably like guests like the Duke very much, as each of his clothes required at least three times as much fabric as others.

It was unbelievable what he had been through in Florence.

Leshert forced himself to hold back his impolite question and looked away: "The Holy Father has handed over your protection to me."

This was a more pleasant description. In fact, it meant that the surveillance work was handed over to him. Moreover, at this critical juncture when the war between Calais and Florence had already begun, it was obviously not that easy to let the Grand Master of the Knights be in charge of the sensitive Duke François.

However, Raphael did not say anything more on the warrant, so Leshert accepted the most superficial meaning.

"Oh, protection, thank you very much." Francois squeezed out a smile that was hard to tell whether it was ironic or grateful with his swollen face, and his tone was a bit ambiguous. "Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you, the Holy Lord."

"Let's put this question aside, respected Knight Commander, we all know what is going on." François made a gesture.

"I came here for another reason," the Duke's eyes flashed with desire, "just like the reason I came to the Papal States before, I am not here to beg as a beggar."

Leshert was shocked. He realized something when he saw Raphael's warrant, but he did not expect the Duke to say it so frankly.

"This is not something that can be concealed. My existence itself has already explained a lot. If I say that I don't care about the throne of Calais, will anyone really believe it?" Francois made a rude vomiting gesture. "No one will believe such beautiful words. It can only be said to deceive those naive idiots."

"...When the war in Assyria reaches a stalemate, that little bastard will personally lead his troops to Assyria. Then, it will be time for Your Majesty to fulfill his promise."

The Duke sat on Lesherte's bed with his arms and legs spread like a majestic lion, and lightly mentioned another coup against Calais.

Lesher didn't have much emotion about this. His moral values ​​were not everywhere. As for what Francois said, his focus was elsewhere: "...promise?"

"Didn't your good master tell you?" The Duke's face flashed a sly smile, which disappeared in an instant. He added nonchalantly, "It's a simple fact. If there were no benefits, why would he accept me under the pressure of that little beast? This is not a good business unless he can earn more from me - yes, yes, at this point, I have to admit that he is really a qualified monarch. I heard that his teacher is Julius Portia? I really want to know if I can hire him as a tutor for my future heir."

Heir, Leshert thought of the man in front of him's romantic history and the more than a dozen illegitimate children he was said to have. Of course, these illegitimate children who were left in Calais disappeared one after another after their irresponsible father left, and he seemed to not care about it at all, and when he mentioned the word "heir", it was full of carelessness.

"You should ask Lord Portia in person about this issue. Perhaps he will give you a satisfactory answer." Leshet stepped back a little to avoid looking down at François too much, which would appear too rude.

François was grateful for the Knight Commander's thoughtfulness. He chuckled strangely, "A satisfactory answer... I can guess how he would reject me. 'It is an honor to receive your recognition, but I have devoted my life devoutly to the Holy Lord. It will be my eternal and noble mission to serve His human representative.'"

He said this in the reserved and distant polite tone of a certain secretary general, and then commented disdainfully: "Loyal as a dog - everyone around your Holy Father is like his dog. Sometimes it's so creepy that I have to wonder if he is -"

Leshert suddenly raised his eyes and warned in a deep voice: "Please be careful with your words and respect the Holy Father."

"Well," the Duke tactfully restrained his overly exposed emotions, but he still couldn't help but poke Lesherte lightly, "Aren't you?"

He knew very well that verbal attacks on the Knight Commander himself would not arouse the anger of this overly religious young man, and as he thought, the Knight Commander simply looked at him silently, showing no sign of being angry at his implicit mockery of him as the Pope's dog.

"Well, anyway, once that little bastard leaves Calais, your good Father will order you to return to Dudley with me." Duke Francois said concisely, "Before that, we need to tolerate each other for a while. No one knows the situation in Calais better than me."

While the Knight Commander and Duke François were struggling to get along with each other, Raphael in the Papal Palace was also facing a new problem.

Raphael had previously saved François in order to contain the little emperor, and of course he did not forget to take a big piece of meat from the Duke. In order to obtain the lucrative benefits promised by the Duke, he promised to help the Duke obtain the throne. This promise was highly operational and depended entirely on Raphael's own will.

If he didn't want to take on this trouble, he could just leave the Duke aside. All he would lose would be some illusory benefits. Regardless of whether he fulfilled his promise, the Duke would become a sword of Damocles hanging over the little emperor's head, threatening him.

This is a beneficial and harmless thing.

The problem is that now that he has thought of this, the little emperor will certainly not forget the existence of his ambitious uncle.

How could he be persuaded to leave Dudlai and go to Assyria, ignoring this huge threat?

Raphael thought about it and there seemed to be only one way.

This proposal was opposed by Julius before it was even proposed.

The Secretary-General, who had almost personally raised the Pope, understood his way of thinking better than anyone else. So before Raphael could even voice this thought, Julius had already seen everything from his eyes.

"I object." Julius said bluntly, adjusting his glasses. The thin chain connected to his chest pocket reflected a cold silver light.

"I haven't said anything yet." Raphael frowned.

“Then you don’t have to say anything. I am against it anyway.” Julius’ tone was very firm, even a little arrogant.

Raphael looked at him speechlessly, the quill in his hand resting on the paper. After enduring for a while, he still couldn't help but said, "...but I really haven't said anything yet."

Julius gave me an emotionless look from behind his glasses. “If you just want to satisfy your desire to talk, then you can say it.”

His implication was very clear. No matter what he said, he absolutely did not agree with it.

Raphael tightened his grip on his pen.

He wanted to deny Julius's guess. The feeling of being guessed was a bit uncomfortable for someone like him, but he knew very well that Julius's guess was correct.

This absolute mutual understanding turned Raphael's discomfort of being seen through into another kind of ridiculous feeling.

"If you have a better idea," he said finally.

Julius looked at him, as if a little tired: "You know this is dangerous. If you die--"

Raphael's words were clear and logical, as if he had repeated them countless times in his mind. "If I die, I suggest you support Cardinal Materazzi to become the next Pope. He is a cowardly guy with no opinion. You can use him to control the Papal Palace. He will be happy to be a tool for pure enjoyment. As long as you take a tough attitude to speed up the process, the impact of the change of Pope will be minimized, and may not even cause a change in the war situation. You can also use my death to your advantage. The believers in Calais will not tolerate a monarch who murdered the Pope. They will cause trouble for François."

When he mentioned his own death, his attitude was indifferent and somewhat cold.

Julius, however, was stung by this indifference.

The secretary-general lowered his head, slowly took off his glasses, and stuffed them into the bag on his chest. Without the lenses blocking his eyes, he clearly met Raphael's. The two looked at each other for a moment, and Raphael suddenly heard the man ask him: "If you disdain the Papal States and all your duties, then, Ferrante, will you have any attachment to him?"

When the name came down, Raphael's hand holding the pen trembled suddenly, and some ripples appeared in his eyes, but he quickly suppressed them.

"You know." The Pope said softly. It should be a question, but his tone was affirmative.

Julius sneered, and it took all his strength to make his voice less resentful. "Know what? You rolled into bed with that vile thing? - Tell me, you haven't lost your mind to this extent."

Raphael glanced at him, a trace of offended anger flashed across his brows: "Put away your malicious speculations."

Although he was reprimanded, Julius was delighted by this reaction.

Raphael noticed this fluctuation sharply. He paused, subconsciously feeling that this topic was a little dangerous. He didn't want to bring up those bad and messy relationships at this time, whether it was the turbulent kiss in the Florence Theater or the feelings that they knew each other well but turned a blind eye to.

It's really inappropriate to talk about those things now.

The problem was that Julius didn't seem to be going to let him off easily.

The author has something to say:

The fat pigeon climbed up... [surviving]

Today, the Secretary-General has had enough and doesn’t want to endure it anymore! ! ! ! The main theme of the Secretary-General's group is "Why can he do it but I can't?" Hahahaha, something strange has appeared.jpg

I want it to be so bitter, so bitter, woo woo woo, my mind has already run at a high speed, but in reality there are only two people looking at each other, this is reality! Reality!

Tomorrow is another hell of full classes. It's really amazing. There are three days off for May Day holiday, and all the classes have to be made up on the weekend, which is equivalent to not having a single day off. I don't know who was so smart to come up with this trick of adjusting the holiday.

In addition, regarding the CP problem of this article,

Just to clarify, this article does not have a real CP. It is placed in the Pure Love channel because there is a one-way arrow towards Raphael. JJ stipulates that there must be an emotional line so it must be placed here, but after it was put on the Pure Love channel, the editor said that it would be better to write more emotional scenes, so it became something like Aquaman fishing like now... I really feel out of place in every channel [hugging myself and crying] So to sum up, Raphael does not have an official partner in this article, but has a close relationship with someone like Ferrante. Raphael is hard-hearted and does not love others, he is only loved. If you want to have CP, feel free to do it, I don't mind.