Chapter 118 Heart of the Storm (VI)

◎New King◎

Ferrante held Raphael's thin knees with both hands, kneading the thin skin and muscles, pressing the blood vessels, trying to warm them up. The Pope leaned back in the silk and satin-covered chair and grabbed the low table next to him with his right hand. His nails left a few white marks on the waxed table.

"...the most important ones in the priest group have arrived." Ferrante deliberately lowered his voice. Raphael grunted vaguely, and when he felt it was about time, he raised his foot and roughly broke free from Ferrante's hand. This small movement made him feel a twitching pain, but he concealed the abnormality very well.

"We've wasted too much time." For the first time, the young Pope revealed the hungry impatience of a wild beast, and his pure and dignified lavender eyes were filled with a fierce light.

As the Pope gained more and more power, Raphael became more careful not to pose too much of a threat to others. He knew very well that as a religious leader, he could use power and violence to make people submit to him, but the essence of religion was to make people obey wholeheartedly. Violence could achieve temporary submission, but it could not gain true faith.

He wore the robe of the Holy Lord, held up his mother's will, and added layers of gorgeous decorations of destiny to his act of swallowing up Assyria, but in essence, had he never had the slightest desire for this vast land?

Power is a sweet poison from which no one can escape.

He was willing to avenge Amen-La and was not reluctant to receive generous rewards in return.

He had truly died, so he was more attached to the world than anyone else, more greedy than anyone else, and more lustful than anyone else.

A trace of confusion flashed across Ferrante's face when he heard this. Raphael had always been very patient, more patient than anyone he had ever met. It was impossible for an impetuous person to erode all power step by step, gather the fragmented Papal States in his own hands, and make it a veritable Holy See on earth.

But strangely, he smelled a hint of anxiety from Raphael at this moment, which did not belong to him, as if something was chasing Raphael.

Ferrante had a very keen sense, and if he knew a little more, he would understand where Raphael's unusual anxiety came from.

This year is the year 1084 in the Catholic calendar. In a certain period of history, two months later, Saint Sistine I will die in obscurity in his bedroom in the Papal Palace, becoming a loser nailed in history books and laughed at by everyone.

What was chasing Raphael was not a war or victory or defeat, but his own death.

"...I have waited long enough," Raphael said, "since I raised the flag of the Kingdom of God on earth, and now I am tired of it."

Raphael leaned back in his chair. The young Pope possessed tremendous power. If his power were transformed into a physical entity, the mountain would be big enough to block out the sky and the sun. But he himself was just a frail young man. He huddled in a wide chair, his thin body shrouded under a velvet blanket, like a flower branch that could be easily broken. Such an extreme mismatch could easily make people want to destroy him.

As is common among those in power, he rarely speaks directly about what he is tired of or likes. Ferrante has been with him for several years, and this is the first time she has heard him clearly express his emotions: "I want a victory."

The Pope murmured softly, as if talking to himself: "An... absolute victory."

It didn't sound like a command at all, but just a casual exclamation from Raphael.

But Ferrante remained kneeling on one knee and bowed his head deeply to the sleepy young man on the chair: "I obey your holy command."

Raphael didn't say anything else. He closed his eyes and seemed to be in a deep sleep.

On August 13, 1084 AD, the first large-scale army war in history with more than 300,000 participants broke out on the Assyrian Plain. This war was later called the largest battle in the Middle Ages. It buried the ancient will of the Assyrian gods and brought the Eternal Sky, which the Assyrians had believed in for hundreds of years, into the kingdom of death at the cost of slaughtering the entire priesthood. Along with it came the invasion of modernization, which allowed people trapped in personal bravery to see the power of machinery and single-handedly determined the direction of development of all future large-scale battles.

The Calais Expeditionary Force, the Pilgrim Alliance, and the Papal Expeditionary Force became the three main parties in this war. They all played all their cards. The roar of steam-powered light armor resounded throughout the Assyrian Plain. The earth trembled at the sound of the soldiers' running footsteps. The steam spewing out of the armor was like a diffuse cloud covering the front.

In the clouds and mist, the hideous and towering iron armors looked like gods and ghosts from ancient times. Except for the noise of mechanical operation, they did not make any sound, but they fought like wild beasts, struggling with each other, tearing off each other's limbs with their hands, pulling off the pipes connecting their bodies, peeling off the hard iron sheet like peeling grapes, lifting the soft human body inside high up and throwing it down, or twisting off each other's heads - with the help of boiling steam and flames, this action was not much more difficult than prying open a tin foil can.

At their feet, people in armor were wielding swords and fighting. Their enemies might be soldiers armed with weapons as strong as they were, or they might be warriors with strong and powerful bodies, like jungle beasts.

They tore at each other in a more primitive posture, letting out throat-tearing roars, fighting in the battlefield of gods and demons. Occasionally, large amounts of blood would splash down from their heads, and the scalding steam would burn the unprotected soldiers. They screamed miserably and ran under the footsteps of horses' hooves and armor, becoming an insignificant symbol.

Even the most imaginative painters and butchers could not imagine this scene. Even the most vicious serial killers would tremble and die of fear in the face of such a war.

But the Pope, who was manipulating it - a young man known for his kindness and fraternity, watched the scene expressionlessly.

He stood on the high city wall, wearing the Pope's cassock and a gorgeous platinum crown wrapped around his body. Just like the day of his coronation, he was just a symbol in this war, a symbol that everyone could see when they looked up.

—Behold, your holy throne, your majesty, your sovereign, is here; crown him with victory.

——Look, your enemy, your mortal enemy, your evil enemy is here. Let death take him away today.

Raphael's face remained expressionless.

He remained calm and showed no anger when the soldiers of the Papal States were harvested in large numbers; nor did he show any joy when the offensive of the Calais expeditionary force was repelled. He was like a beautiful and noble doll, waiting for that result - the result that he must get, the only result.

The war lasted for thirteen days. The Pilgrimage Alliance was the first to retreat. Their casualties were so great that they could no longer support the stable operation of their regime. The priests wanted to evacuate this bloody and sinful land, but the crazy soldiers cut off their retreat. The meat grinder-like battlefield seemed to come with a curse. It refused to let anyone leave unless they won or died.

On the evening of the eighteenth day, the Assyrian warriors were never afraid of death, but there were too many things more terrifying than death on the battlefield. The remnants of the army, completely defeated by the malice stripped of their humanity, chopped off the heads of the priests. Their only request was to let them leave this cursed hell.

In the end, more than 400 soldiers of the Pilgrim Alliance fled the Assyrian Plain, completely announcing the demise of this theocratic group that had briefly existed in northern Assyria.

But this was not the end of the Assyrian campaign.

On the 21st day, Emperor Francis IV of Calais put on armor and personally visited the battlefield covered with blood and flesh.

The Pope, who had been standing on the city wall waiting for more than half a month, finally had a different expression on his face.

The little emperor rode on his horse calmly. In front of him was a horrifying scene of hell, but the emperor obviously didn't care about it. Even though the people fighting inside were his soldiers and his people, he still had his signature soft smile on his face. This seemingly harmless smile seemed even more weird and terrifying in this situation. The guards behind him followed him tremblingly, and the cruel monarch let out a short laugh from his throat.

He said intoxicatedly: "What a wonderful game! Even the most hard-hearted person cannot resist such an invitation."

Across the battlefield, a chariot made of black iron rumbled out. The Pope, wearing a white and gold crown, stood on the chariot. Surrounding the chariot were the Knights Templar, who were tightly covered in armor.

These knights assigned by Lesherte are the elite among the elites. They guard the Pope, just like the warriors who fought under the monarchs in ancient legends. Each of them deserves to have his own piece of singing passed down through the ages.

When they appeared at the edge of the battlefield, those armored gods and ghosts who manipulated life and death at will seemed less majestic.

Raphael and François stared at each other across the battlefield filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder and blood. In fact, they could not see each other at all. At such a long distance, the chariot was just a vague outline and the people were just small dots, but they were absolutely convinced that they saw each other's eyes.

Eyes that are murderous, calm, and stormy.

Eyes that were curved with a smile, greedy and full of desire.

On the evening of the twenty-first day of the Assyrian campaign, Francis IV was defeated. The young Pope personally drove the bronze and black iron chariot, piercing the scarlet field like an indomitable arrow. The cloud of steam made a hollow and sharp whistle behind him. The iron-silent knights followed him forward. No matter who was in front of them, they would kill them all equally.

This is an army that will never stop unless they get the victory they want.

In the late night of the 22nd day of the Assyrian campaign, Francis IV fled to an abandoned port, seized a ship left there by the priests of the Pilgrim Alliance, set sail into the Black Sea where the waves were calm at night, and left behind behind the 200,000-strong Calais expeditionary force that had been completely wiped out.

Half an hour after they sailed into the ocean, the Pope's chariot and soldiers covered in flesh and blood appeared on the coastline. They were like a group of wolves after hunting, maintaining deathly silence and watching the ship go away in embarrassment. There was no regret in their eyes, only the ferocity left by countless baptisms of life and death.

The Pope raised his hand, and when the first rays of morning light penetrated the air and fell on him, the young monarch who had completely conquered the entire Assyria and possessed a position of power that could make the whole world tremble said: "From now on, you will enjoy the rights of being a human being in the Kingdom of God on earth, as long as you honor my holy name."

He looked down at the endless fields, the rolling mountains in the distance and the rushing rivers.

"I will grant you all the happiness in this world."

These were the first words Pope Saint Sistine I, also known as Raphael I, spoke to the world when the embryonic form of his empire appeared.

Julius was one of the first people to know that Francis IV was going to return to Calais, and he understood almost instantly what Raphael was going to do.

The blockade of the routes outside Assyria disappeared after the end of the Assyrian Campaign, which allowed the fleeing Emperor Calais to return safely to his country. Julius' letter was also delivered to Raphael. In the Assyrian palace that had just been cleared, Raphael lowered his head to read the letter, and the knights stood guard at the door with spears still stained with blood.

The entire palace was originally occupied by a rebel army. The pleasure-addicted rebel leader turned the ancient Sargon Palace into his own amusement park, spent his last days in extravagance, and was then dragged off the throne like a dead dog by Raphael's soldiers and brought to the feet of the new king.

The young monarch did not even look at the loser. He put his hands in his sleeves and looked up at the palace city built on a huge mountain. The snow-white granite formed the graceful and magnificent base of the palace. It had the rough and wild nature of the original Assyria, but also had a flourishing beauty. People who grew up here should

With eyes as bright as fire and a soul burning with passion.

Sargon's new king took a step forward, his soft clothes rustling across the ground. He did not even glance at the rebel leader at his feet. The knights, understanding his meaning, immediately dragged the rebel leader away like a dead dog. What was waiting for him was only the sharp guillotine.

For the first time, Raphael took off his papal robes. He wore an Assyrian-style robe, with gold and gemstone armlets on his arms. Delicate thin gold chains hung down and wrapped around his waist. On his exposed left shoulder was a single-sided linen shawl called "Dora", which was embroidered with gorgeous totems, eagles and ancient characters with pure gold thread, symbolizing his noble status as the emperor of this empire.

The Assyrian people maintained a fanatical love for gold jewelry. The country was rich in mineral resources, and the nobles were keen to decorate themselves with large pieces of gems and gold. When Raphael took over the royal palace, he naturally took over the rich jewels in the palace that had not yet been squandered.

However, apart from the necessary gold ornaments, he only had a golden eagle pendant hanging on his chest.

The corners of the locket showed signs of wear and tear, with suspicious traces of rust embedded in them. If any of Queen Amenra's maids were here, they would recognize at a glance that this was the locket that the queen never took off.

No one except its owner knows what is inside the locket.

The author has something to say:

I really don’t know how to write war scenes, they’re too difficult! ! !