Chapter 105 Hope Blue Diamond (Twenty-two)
◎Confess to me◎
After this question took root in Redrick's brain, he buried it deep in his mind, becoming a ghost that haunted him from time to time, but in short, now was not the time to explore the answer.
The shipment of steam-powered light armor arrived a little earlier than he had expected, and along with it came an equal number of knights from the Order. They had all undergone rigorous training and were supposed to follow Leshert to Dudlai, but were forced to go to Assyria due to the situation.
After all, steam light armor is not something that can be easily obtained.
Redrick carefully selected a group of people to train with the knights to serve as substitutes for the light armor, including his own captain of the guard.
The captain felt like he was struck by lightning by the transfer order. He ran into Rederick's room holding the order, but was kicked and beaten out of the room by the angry Duke. He could only report to the training ground in disgrace, and was convinced that the Duke transferred him away to make it easier for him to do bad things. He cried bitterly in the letter reporting to Florence.
Lady Cassandra declined to comment.
After three or four more encounters, Redrick frowned and stared into the distance at night. A bonfire was burning in the camp, and the greasy barbecue made a sizzling sound. The soldiers put dry biscuits under the barbecue, heating it while carefully catching the oil dripping from the barbecue, and talking and laughing at the same time.
he
Their happiness was so simple that Redrick's worries were not perceived by them. A guard came up to Redrick with hot soup and barbecue and handed them to him. The Duke stretched out his hand to take it, and was slightly startled when his eyes touched his hand.
The pair of hands that held the sword and controlled the horse became rough and cracked. The swollen palms and cracked fingers made it look like they did not belong to a duke at all. In Florence, the nobles paid great attention to taking care of themselves. Like women, they used soft oils, milk and honey to maintain their skin and hair. Redrick was no exception. At that time, he could never imagine that he would have such an ugly pair of hands in the future.
Redrick took the bowl and drank most of it in one breath. He then held a large piece of barbecue with a fork in his hand and bit off most of it in two or three bites, filling the empty hunger in his stomach.
"…How was the training?"
He suddenly spoke, startling the captain of the guards who had sneaked up behind him. He looked around before realizing that he was being talked to. The tall man squatted down and answered carefully, "Not bad? The knights of the Knights Templar are amazing. They can wear armor and move for an hour. Even if the armor is not powered, they can still perform basic movements..."
As he spoke, a look of admiration and yearning appeared on his face. Redrick glanced at him, stuffed the last two bites of roast meat into his mouth, and swallowed it down his throat along with half a bowl of soup: "Then study hard. This is the grace of His Majesty."
His tone was very flat, and he didn't think he said anything remarkable. The captain of the guards almost choked on his saliva when he heard this, and stared at Redrick's back in horror, as if the Duke had suddenly turned into some tentacle animal that he couldn't understand.
Your Excellency...were you just praising the Holy Father? Did he hear it right? !
Redrick stuffed the bowl into the captain's hand, stood up on his own, held the hilt of the sword with one hand, and looked at the dark jungle again. In the darkness, the lush and lovely forests during the day turned into monsters with bared fangs and claws, as if deformed and twisted things would rush out of them at any time. The fear of the jungle and darkness engraved in human genes will not disappear from the blood even after thousands of years of evolution.
"I always feel that the recent Pilgrimage Alliance is strange, but I can't tell what's wrong," Redrick muttered to himself, "Maybe I should let the Holy Crow go further away..."
The Holy Crows who followed him from Florence to Assyria were all outstanding talents selected by Ferrante under Raphael's orders. They were good at searching, pursuing and gathering intelligence, and each of them was proficient in Assyrian. Such manpower was precious and limited, and even Florence could not find more. In return, they helped Redrick avoid several unnecessary battles, and they made an indispensable contribution to the victory along the way. Redrick deliberated for a long time, and finally sent them out reluctantly.
A few days later, the fastest Holy Crow brought back a message that grain prices in the north were rising. It was speculated that someone was secretly buying large quantities of grain. Such a scale of purchase could not be private and could only be for supplying the army.
Soon after, several other Holy Crows passed back intelligence from other angles. All the movements proved that the main force of the Pilgrimage Alliance had a tendency to move southward. The current small-scale encounters might just be their test, and not the normal defensive patrol as Redrick had thought before.
But this is weird.
According to the current situation, the best option for the Pilgrimage Alliance should be to sit back and wait for the fight between Calais and the Papal States before jumping out to take advantage, rather than rushing in and causing trouble for themselves when all three parties are full of energy.
Before he set out, Raphael, Julius and Leshert also simulated all possible directions of the war from various angles. Most of the simulations put the time when the Pilgrimage Alliance joined the war in the middle and late stages. The Priests showed considerable restraint and caution during the Amenra Era and the chaotic period. They would rather give up control of half of the land to ensure the consolidation and stability of their own rule. This shows that they are not willing to easily intervene in an unpredictable war.
The most likely scenario is that Calais and the Papal States will confront each other first, with the Pilgrimage Alliance watching from the sidelines. Of course, the Pilgrimage Alliance will not give up the opportunity to fish in troubled waters, so small-scale encounters are normal.
But the Holy Crow said that a large force in the north was being mobilized and was already showing a trend of moving southward.
This is different from what they had predicted.
Redrick thought with his eyes downcast, remembering that at the end of that long meeting, Raphael, who was already extremely tired, huddled in a chair with a blanket covering his legs, looking drowsy. Julius lowered his head, with sleepy dark circles under his eyes. He was slowly wiping his lenses with silk. Only the Knight Commander was standing at the table, standing upright and alert as always.
"...But," Raphael struggled to pull himself out of his stupor, "Maybe they will unite and find a way to destroy the Papal States first."
“Indeed, the Papal States and Calais are already at war to the death, and there is no basis for cooperation with the Pilgrimage Alliance. But this does not mean that the two parties cannot join forces. If they can kick the Papal States out first…” Julius said slowly.
"This is not the best option for the Pilgrimage Alliance. They could just wait for us to both suffer losses." Leshert disagreed.
"Oh, you may not know much about the Emperor in Calais," Raphael opened his eyes. There was a layer of water in his eyes due to lack of sleep, which made his face, which always looked calm, infinitely soft. "He is a madman. I believe he will turn around and beat the priests first in order to force them to agree to cooperate with him."
"...It doesn't sound so surprising." After a while, Leshert muttered in a low voice. He remembered the time when he and the Pope were fleeing in Calais. The little emperor really behaved like a neurotic madman. It was hard to imagine anything he couldn't do.
Using force to threaten the priests to cooperate with him... it didn't seem strange at all for him.
If the threat is successful, you can get a helper. If it fails... so what? It is impossible for the Pilgrim Alliance to turn around and cooperate with the Papal States. Does the Pilgrim Alliance dare to fight with Calais first and wait for the Papal States to take advantage of the situation?
So the threat of force, which sounds funny and outrageous, unexpectedly doesn't seem so impossible.
When Redrick thought of this, he became sober.
If the Pilgrimage Alliance really cooperated with Calais, and those insignificant encounters were used to divert their attention, then... where is Calais' army now?
A cold sweat suddenly broke out on Redrick's back. He jumped off the simple bed, stepped barefoot on the cold stone floor, pushed the door open, and grabbed the guard guarding the door.
"Let the Holy Crow look eastward."
When the bells for morning prayers rang, Raphael had already finished reading an entire chapter of the Holy Book. Under the icon, there were golden plates, clean water, and fresh flowers with fresh morning dew on the petals. Several monks held golden incense burners in their hands and shook them slowly at a certain frequency. The spices inside emitted milky white mist, enveloping the Pope, who was wearing a white cassock and a golden chasuble, in a heavenly atmosphere.
As the bells rang, the children in the choir in the Papal Palace began their morning lessons. The grand and melodious sound of the organ served as accompaniment, lifting the children's pure and tender voices into the morning sky. The believers waiting at the door of the Papal Palace crossed their hands respectfully in front of their chests, closed their eyes, listened to the music taught by the Holy Lord, and murmured soothing tunes.
Raphael put down his hand, and immediately two monks came up and carefully closed the pages of the book. On the title page, a name that was about to fall off was written in blurry ink, "Leah". Legend has it that this was the first holy book given to mankind when the Holy Lord walked on earth. The monks wrapped this heavy and expensive book with layers of silk, lifted it onto a cart, and gently pushed it out of the Pope's study room.
The Vatican kept this priceless treasure in a secret vault. Each page was wrapped with cowhide as thin as a cicada's wing and gold beaten into gold foil to make golden pages. The whole book weighed dozens of kilograms and was more than two feet thick. Except for the Pope, no one was qualified to use it.
People in the study room left one after another. Raphael closed his eyes and sorted out his thoughts in this rare time alone. He picked up all the recent events, reviewed them one by one, and calmly analyzed each of his choices.
Then he thought of someone he had almost forgotten... Because the affairs of the Holy See and Assyria have been extremely busy recently, and the other party has been unusually low-key and silent recently, Raphael suddenly remembered that he seemed to have not seen the other person for more than half a month.
That won't work.
This is someone he must hold on to.
Rafael walked to the door and Ferrante was already waiting there pushing a wheelchair. Rafael no longer had any psychological barriers to sitting in a wheelchair. After treating it as a means of transportation, he found it quite convenient and comfortable.
The Pope sat down and watched Ferrante carefully shake out the mink blanket to cover his legs. The black curls brushed the skin of his neck and arms, bringing a cool tickle.
Raphael did not comment on such childish intimacy, and he lifted Ferrante's fallen hair behind his neck and asked, "What is Lesherte doing recently?"
Ferrante looked at Rafael with complicated eyes and answered obediently: "Apart from regular training, he spends most of his time in the ascetic room."
Raphael raised his eyelids: "Stay there all the time?"
"Yes, and he never left the cell except to attend to necessary matters."
“When did it start?”
Ferrante paused and gave a date.
That was the day the Religious Freedom Act was unveiled.
Raphael's heart sank; he had actually missed this.
"I'll go to the Knights' headquarters to take a look." The Pope made a quick decision. Ferrante never refuted him on serious matters. The Pope's motorcade left the Papal Palace in a low-key manner and entered the Knights' headquarters from the other side. The knights were training profusely in the training ground. The carriage stopped at the door of the Knight Commander's room. Ferrante put down the wheelchair, and Raphael slowly got off the carriage and knocked on the door himself.
There was no movement inside.
Raphael knocked on the door again patiently.
This time, the Knight Commander's deep voice finally came from inside: "Who?"
"I." Raphael's voice was flat.
There was a rustling sound in the room, and soon the rough wooden door was opened a crack, and the Knight Commander's pale face was half revealed from the crack.
He didn't seem to have any intention of inviting Raphael in.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting - please go to the hall and rest for a while. I'll come to see you right away." The Knight Commander said in a polite tone.
Raphael raised his eyelids and stared at him coldly, then raised his chin to the side and said lightly, "Bump it out of the way."
Ferrante, who followed orders, kicked the door open without hesitation. Leshert raised his voice helplessly: "Your Majesty——!"
Raphael stared back at him with lavender eyes and asked arrogantly, "Hmm?"
"...Please come in, but everyone else——"
Before the surrendered Knight Commander could finish his words, Raphael glanced at Ferrante. The Director of the Arbitration Bureau, who understood what he meant, stuffed the wheelchair into Leschert's hands and quickly disappeared with the others.
Leshert closed the door, and the only light left in the room was a beam of light coming in from the window. The simple facilities were clearly visible. The mat on the ground in front of the statue had a deep dent, and it was obvious that someone had been kneeling on it for a long time. Next to it was a whip made of thorns, with eye-catching bloodstains on it.
Leshet bent over and placed the wheelchair beside the bed. Raphael walked over and sat down, crossing his hands on the armrests, looking Leshet up and down.
The young knight commander had a pale face, his long golden hair was tied up messily and hung down his back. He only had a white linen shirt on his upper body with the collar buttons unbuttoned.
The light honey-colored skin and texture were revealed between the gaps, the dark brown breeches were tight around his thin waist, and the loose shirt stuck strangely to his body, with faint traces of blood seeping through the thin linen fabric.
"I never knew that someone would dare to hurt my Knight Commander in Florence." Raphael stared at him and said softly.
"No, Your Majesty," Leshert denied in a low voice, "This is... This is my self-punishment."
Raphael certainly knew what this was. The ascetics punished themselves with whippings to cleanse their sins and atone for the sins of their souls with physical pain. He did not object to this, but he was angry that Leshert chose this method.
"Oh, self-punishment," the pope repeated, asking with unprecedented tenderness, "then tell me, my lost lamb, what have you done wrong, what sin have you committed?"
A look of struggling pain appeared on Leshert's handsome face, as if his soul was being slowly torn in half by this question.
Raphael studied his expression, bent down, picked up the whip, and said in a calm tone that was almost cold: "Kneel down."
“Now, confess to me,” the pope commanded.
The author has something to say:
Slurp, slurp...Rafa is finally going to do his job! The Pope is here to listen to confessions and comfort souls! Rafa, who was not doing his job, picked up his basic business!
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