Chapter 137 Heart of the Storm (Twenty-four)

◎The blade buried in the past◎

It took Ferrante several hours to barely listen to the report of the Holy Raven who stayed in Florence. When he went out to the Rhine Palace in the heavy rain, it was already the darkest time of the night before dawn. The glass wind lamp could not illuminate the road in the rain. Some part of the machinery of the carriage may have been flooded. The power core made a grunting roar in vain. The steam and rain mixed together, making Ferrante upset.

He casually put the hood of his cloak on his head and jumped off the car. The heavy rain soaked him from head to toe. The Holy Crow, who was lying on the ground checking the machinery at the bottom of the car, poked his head out in panic: "My lord..."

Ferrante ignored him, determined the direction, and walked forward.

The rain was so heavy that it was somewhat terrifying. Even through the clothes, he could still feel the heavy pain. Ferrante thought quietly about the letter he had burned. Julius's gentle but malicious tone seemed to float out of the paper and penetrate into his ears, making him furious.

A cowardly loser!

What else does he want to prove? Cunning scum, shameless villain! The weather was cold, and Ferrante's cheeks were hot with anger. He wanted to use all the dirty words he had learned in the slums to curse the despicable man who had hidden in the kingdom of the dead and who refused to lie peacefully in the grave even after his death - insidious! hypocritical!

Ferrante's heart was almost filled with boiling blood, his pair of deep blue eyes were as bright as if they could melt glass, but his expression was unusually cold, all his emotions were sealed under that feminine and beautiful face.

What a thoughtful executioner! He brought a gallows tailor-made for the prisoner, just waiting for him to put his neck into the noose!

The rain tugged at the corners of Ferrante's robe. The soaked clothes pressed down on his body, wet, sticky, cold and hard, like a shroud, making him feel as if he was unable to get oxygen from the rain.

A bolt of lightning struck the sky, and the bright light shone down, briefly illuminating his face under the hood, as pale as a zombie. Ferrante suddenly stopped and stood in the middle of the empty street, the cold rain soaking his body, as if white bones would reach out from the ground and grab his ankles at any time.

The second lightning struck, and the outline of the Rhine Palace appeared faintly in front of him. Ferrante stared at the palace. The person he expected to see was now there. When he walked in, he would be surrounded by the warm fireplace flames and sweet cake and milk - he had no doubt about this. Raphael did not like to say soft words, but he never forgot these trivial comforts.

How much he loves this little bit of warmth.

Rhine Palace, Rhine Palace... The slight smile on Ferrante's face disappeared again because of the name of this palace.

Julius Portia, you are too self-righteous.

In his heart, Ferrante mocked the shrewd man viciously, trying to vent his emotions that had solidified into cold stone, but it seemed to be of no use. He felt the huge stone sinking heavily in his stomach, and all the parts touched by it became as cold as it. Then, it was as if a small black hole appeared in his body, and his warm internal organs melted downwards away from his will, until his whole body was filled with light, cold mist.

It made Ferrante feel like he was heading for a desperate end.

The Holy Crow who was lying under the car trying to repair it wiped the rain off his face in a panic, trying desperately to align the damn gear in his hand in the dim light. He adjusted the light of the wind lamp to the maximum, but the light was still dim and blurry. He muttered a few curses and turned back inadvertently. He saw that in the deep rain in front of him, the adult who had left a long time ago was not far away. He was bent over, with a hunched body, as if he was suffering from some great pain.

The pain is so severe that even if someone accidentally sees it, they will feel like they have committed a crime.

After an unknown amount of time, Holy Crow crawled out from under the car and was about to try to start it again, when a pair of feet wrapped in cowhide boots stopped in front of him.

The director of the Arbitration Bureau had a relapse, and his face looked pale from being washed by the cold rain for a long time.

"Go contact the Knights Templar secretly and tell their Knight Commander that I want to make a deal with him."

His voice was cold and hard, like pieces of broken ice hitting the ground.

It was raining too heavily today. Raphael changed into a soft bathrobe and drank a glass of milk in front of the fireplace in the bedroom. Then it was time to go to bed. The clock in the room struck ten, but Ferrante still hadn't come. Raphael guessed that he might still be busy sorting out the piles of reports from the Holy Crow in the past few months, so he didn't wait any longer, turned down the fire in the fireplace a little, and climbed into bed.

The wall lamps in the bedroom were dimmed one by one, and the heavy and soft satin bed curtains hung down, surrounding the warm bed in a safe darkness. This darkness was not pure darkness where nothing could be seen. A faint and gentle orange light seeped in from the lace pattern of the curtains, just enough to make out the vague outlines of the furniture in the bedroom.

A statue of the Madonna and Child stood in a niche in the wall opposite the bed. The dim light of the wall lamp made its porcelain body glow like a gem, but for some reason... Raphael instinctively hated the presence of the Madonna in the bedroom. The bedroom in the Papal Palace had been modified long ago. Raphael must remember to ask Lawrence to remove the Madonna here tomorrow. He made a note of this.

As he thought of this, he almost instinctively touched the pillow. The dagger that he always carried with him was lying there safely. Its hard and cold texture gave Raphael great comfort.

He fell into a dream in a daze amid the hazy sound of rain outside the window, but he still remembered that Ferrante had not come back - after that night, the hated and feared "Pontiff's Hound" would stay not far from Raphael every night, and even though Raphael repeatedly stated that this was unnecessary, Ferrante would sneak into his bedroom. Over time, Raphael gave up on driving him out.

Is there so much going on tonight? Raphael was thinking in chaos that he seemed to have missed something very important and he couldn't remember it. This little gap made Raphael a little more sober, and then he seemed to feel a breeze in the bedroom, which was proof that someone had entered.

He is back? Raphael thought.

What completely woke him up was a frighteningly bright flash of lightning, followed by a deafening thunder. Although Raphael was not afraid of thunder, the terrifyingly loud sound still made his heart skip a beat in his half-asleep state.

He opened his eyes and wanted to say something to Ferrante, when he heard the sound of rustling footsteps. The dark green curtain was lifted, and a hand wrapped in a black sleeve reached in.

There was nothing unusual about this scene, but at this moment, a premonition that was ahead of reason began to chirp wildly, and Raphael suddenly felt that something he didn't want to see was about to appear. No, that was not the case. Perhaps it was something he had always wanted to see but ignored -

A dim halo of light poured in as the curtain was drawn, and the dim scene began to shake. The Virgin Mary, holding the baby Jesus, stood in the niche, looking at Raphael from afar over the shoulder of the passerby. Her eyes were filled with compassion and love.

His eyes reflected the light and looked dark and twisted, as if they were a mockery from fate.

Another flash of lightning streaked across the night sky. In the sudden change of light, Raphael felt as if he had fallen into that horrible nightmare again. The illusion of suffocation grabbed his neck. In the interlaced vision of light and darkness, the Virgin Mary smiled at him. A cold hand reached out to cover his mouth and nose. In the pain and fear of dying, he could not see the face of the person coming. It should be a face he had seen before, very familiar, very familiar...

Raphael struggled out of the overlapping death dreams, and his right hand reached for the pillow randomly. At the same time, the man bent down and seemed to be talking. Raphael couldn't hear clearly for a moment. He reached out and grabbed the man's clothes, trying to see the face that he couldn't remember at all.

"Rafa? Rafa? What's wrong with you? Are you feeling unwell?"

The vague sound gradually became clear. Raphael struggled to push away the fog shrouded by death and stared at the face in front of him - it was Ferrante.

It's Ferrante! It was Ferrante? !

Raphael remembered the face he saw before he died and where that sense of familiarity came from, including the first time he saw Ferrante in this life. His body instinctively warned him, but he thought it was because he found the child of an old friend!

The person who covered his mouth and nose, thrust the cold blade into his heart, and sent him into the arms of death... was Ferrante.

This fact, which had been forgotten by his brain for many years, was like a sharp sword that split Raphael's reason. Ferrante supported his hands on Raphael's side, a little confused by the Pope's sudden intimacy, and then he saw hatred and fear in those lavender eyes.

Boiling magma surged in his eyes. Ferrante was almost afraid of the intense emotions released from those pupils. That extreme hatred was like a dead and corrupt soul wailing sharply through this body. The pale bones in hell were climbing on invisible ropes, trying to crawl out of Raphael's eye sockets to vent the resentment of their own tragic death.

This was an emotion he had never seen in Raphael before.

Twisted, resentful, vicious...the gentle, bright, wise and broad-minded Pope disappeared here. The one sitting here in his skin is definitely a ghostly spirit, a dead man who was burned beyond recognition by sulfur and lava.

Sistine I has no weaknesses. His mind is strong, tough and indestructible. How could he be afraid of one person - this person is... me?

Ferrante firmly believed that this was an illusion, but it was undeniable that when he was stared at by that gaze, a small voice whispered in his mind, don't doubt it, he is looking at you, the person he hates and fears is you.

Ferrante shuddered involuntarily. He had never felt so clearly that the Raphael at this moment was the Raphael he had been trying to find.

Really?

This seemingly broken soul, this cold, twisted human being?

Is this the truth that Raphael has been hiding? Like the closet and the blade under the pillow late at night, is it his true self that he carefully hides?

The cold blade touched Ferrante's neck.

Rafael held the knife, and the two looked at each other at a very close distance. The boiling emotions solidified into hard ice. Ferrante let the blade get close to his skin without resistance. He could see the real murderous intent in Rafael's eyes.

"...May I know why?"

Ferrante didn't move, just asked quietly.

"Did I do something wrong? Or did I make you angry?"

The man spoke slowly, his hair was still dripping wet, and his eyes, covered in moisture, stared at Raphael quietly, like a big dog loyally looking at the master who was about to kill him.

Raphael said nothing.

His hands were trembling slightly, not because he was so excited, but because his memory was still stirring, bringing up the most unbearable past for him to see over and over again. Then Ferrante's clear face appeared again and again, looking down at him coldly and condescendingly, with those hands covering his mouth and nose steadily, waiting calmly until he took his last breath.

Those eyes overlapped infinitely with the current pair of eyes, and the two flickered repeatedly, like some strange rotating picture, constantly enlarging in front of Raphael's eyes.

Indifferent Ferrante, caring Ferrante, condescending Ferrante, loyal Ferrante…

The man standing in front of Raphael's bed was wearing clothes that were easy for him to move in. His curly hair was tied into a short bun. His skin was sickly pale, as if he had never seen the sun. He was so thin that even the contours of his face were unnaturally sharp, which made his beauty even more aggressive, to the point where one would be cut almost at a glance. However, there was no expression on his face, and his whole body was like a blade wandering in the darkness.

He looked at Raphael quietly, breathing steadily and calmly, waiting for the life of his men to slip away quickly.

He knew whom he had killed, but he was not disturbed or frightened by the murder of the Pope.

This was a perfectly trained knife, not a person. In the crevice of death, Raphael did not see a human soul in those calm blue eyes.

And then there is eternal darkness.

Raphael couldn't believe that he had forgotten such an important thing. He had completely forgotten this face - perhaps it was some kind of subconscious protection for himself, or it could be that the excessive panic and fear before death made him forget this memory...

Raphael could not answer Ferrante's question.

How could he avenge his dead self against an innocent murderer? !

How could it be Ferrante? !

The blade was still against Ferrante's neck. Rafael was gasping violently. He felt his heart and lungs issuing sharp protests that could not be ignored. His throat was tightening, as if in response to some kind of care. He felt his breathing was out of control. The phantom pain of being pierced and controlled came upon him again. He firmly ignored the pain, and the hand that was not holding the knife climbed up and strangled Ferrante's neck.

"……I have no idea."

Raphael heard his own voice sound like crying.

He saw Ferrante's eyes widen, and Raphael's tearful face was reflected in his deep blue pupils.

The sharp blade pierced the thin skin, and the warm blood dyed Raphael's hand red.

The author has something to say:

Ah... Ferrante is the person who killed Raphael in his previous life. This was foreshadowed in the previous part. When Raphael saw the assassin, he felt that he looked familiar because Ferrante looked a bit like his mother! Including this life, when I saw Ferrante, he looked familiar... Raphael has severe PTSD, which can be seen from the fact that he sleeps in the closet, so it is normal for him to forget the thing that hurt him the most, hahahahaha