A strange, shuddering emotion swept through everyone’s hearts like a storm, regardless of their faith in the Holy Church. When the Pope’s gaze fell upon them, those who were looked at felt a lump in their throat. The emotions of countless people converged, and the angels and saints on the surrounding murals, stained-glass windows, and sculptures stood silent. The organ roared and sang, and the majestic notes lifted people’s souls out of their bodies, allowing them to float upwards and be immersed in a pure spiritual cleansing, becoming part of the eternal historical silhouette.

    “Oh Lord...” Someone murmured, their voice choked with tears as they gazed at the saintly-looking Pope. For a moment, they felt as if they had witnessed a miracle.

    Rafael, overlooking everything, took in the expressions of everyone present, while his heart remained calm. As an institution that influenced people through spiritual means, the Holy See was already extremely proficient in such rituals. How to create an atmosphere, how to stir people’s emotions, every detail, from the moment they stepped into the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, had been serving for this moment.

    The cardinal standing aside announced the beginning of the audience ceremony. With a long and loud call, the guests, starting from the front row, one by one approached the new Pope.

    “His Grace, Franc?ois-Alexandre de Calais, Duke of Calais and Montpensier, Count of the House of Rockefeller—”

    With the cardinal’s loud voice, the first man in the front row, of medium build and long, lithe limbs, stood up. He sported the fashionable curled mustache popular among noblemen of the time, and his brown curly hair was slicked back, each curl perfectly uniform. His snow-white ruff collar was adorned with transparent diamonds, and snow-white stockings alongside a stiff silk long coat wrapped his muscular body. His gaze was sharp and arrogant, and his left hand was always resting on the hilt of his sword.

    Rafael remembered him. As the Duke of Calais Empire, one of the most powerful empires of the time, this uncle of the emperor was only thirty years old this year, in the prime of his life. As an “advisor” to the young emperor, he was in fact the true ruler of that vast empire. He was arrogant, overbearing, greedy, and ambitious...

    The Duke of Calais took a few steps forward and, at the reminder of the Pope’s deacon, removed his sword—Rafael noticed a fleeting look of displeasure on his face—and stopped before the Pope’s seat, looking up at the young Pope from several steps below.

    Although he was looking up, the Duke’s expression was full of undisguised scrutiny. After a brief exchange of glances, Francois knelt on one knee and kissed the thorned pattern on the Pope’s gold-threaded robe: “I pledge on behalf of Calais my faith in you and the Holy See you lead. At the same time, I pay my tribute to you, Your Holiness. May your blessings and your fame spread far and wide.”

    “His Majesty, the Emperor of Calais, has asked me to convey his sincere greetings to you. He was unable to come to Florence in person, but he had sent me along with a gift for your coronation—the lost crown and vestments of Saint Leah left behind by Paul VI, as well as Calais’ annual tribute.”

    Rafael, wearing the heavy and ornate crown of thorns, looked like a beautiful and holy doll. Only when he spoke did the inhuman strangeness diminish somewhat: “Thank you for the greetings of His Majesty, Francois. I also wish his reign a long and prosperous one. I hope you have a memorable time in Florence. If possible, the papal palace welcomes your visit at any time.”

    The young Pope’s voice was slightly low, with a hint of raspy softness at the end that was almost suggestive, like running one’s fingers over velvet, overly soft and lingering, making one wish to hear more.

    The two of them met each other’s gaze again, and both saw a superficial politeness and courtesy in the other’s eyes. Franc?ois was not a devout believer. Privately, influenced by his mother, he had little affection for the Church. Publicly, as one of the main dioceses from which the Church received taxes, a large amount of wealth from the people and the court flowed into the Church’s private coffers. It was no wonder that Franc?ois had little to no affection for one of the main culprits who had seized his vast wealth.

    The overly false and polite exchange of greetings ended quickly. The Duke of Calais sat back in his seat without looking back, waiting boredly for the ceremony to proceed, while secretly observing the beautiful women around him, occasionally glancing at the choir.

    “Her Royal Highness, Princess of the Roman Empire, Archduchess of Assyria and Countess of Hesandora, Sancha Isabella Gondola Romanina!”

    The person with such a long and noble title was merely a nineteen-year-old girl.

    Unlike Franc?ois, she unbuckled the sword at her waist with evident cheerfulness and swiftness, handing it to the papal attendant beside her. She lifted her voluminous skirt and took two steps forward.

    The sapphire blue skirt closed like flower petals, brushing against the smooth, white marble floor, before blossoming again beneath the papal throne. The girl who had just softly congratulated Rafael knelt before him, performing a deep bow, before raising her round face. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and two small dimples appeared at the corners of her lips.

    She had evidently grown up enveloped in abundant love, and was bright, lively, bold, and intelligent.

    She was a girl who makes people happy at first sight.

    Rafael had a deep impression of her, although they had only met once at his coronation ceremony, but...

    “Congratulations once more, Your Holiness,” said the young woman with soft, golden-brown curls, her voice gentle.

    Her appearance seemed to be inherited from her mother, the so-called “Warrior Queen,” with exotic features, a healthy wheat-colored complexion far from the sickly pallor favored by noblewomen, and a beauty akin to a pearl of pale gold. Like Franc?ois, she kissed the thorns on the Pope’s sacred vestments.

    “On behalf of Rome and Assyria, I pledge our faith in you and the Church you lead. May the flag of Florence continue to soar under your guidance. Your coronation fills both my mother and me with immense joy.”

    “My mother, Her Majesty, Empress of the Roman empire and Queen of Assyria, has asked me to give you a personal gift.”

    The girl, who bore the dual titles of Roman Princess and Archduchess of Assyria, pulled out a dagger from beneath her layers of lace sleeves.

    The deacons and the papal guards on either side instantly turned pale, their instincts urging them to turn and approach her. However, the young Pope swiftly raised two fingers, halting them in their tracks.

    Rafael: “...”

    He was really at a loss for words this time.

    This princess was really... unconventional.

    I wonder how the Roman Emperor and Empress raised her like that.

    Calais, Assyria and Rome were the three most powerful countries in the world today. After Francois and Sancha stepped back, the other smaller nations proceeded more slowly. They seemed to be trying their best to make a good impression on the Pope—or perhaps they wanted to spend more time with Francois and Sancha.

    Some of the more exaggerated kings even prostrated themselves at Rafael’s feet and wept, claiming to have felt a divine revelation, to have witnessed miracles, and to have dreamed of God’s grace... Ultimately, they attributed Rafael’s ascension to the throne as truly God’s will, and they declared their willingness to continue to follow the flag of Florence as their most loyal servants.

    There were indeed some devout believers among them who devoted their lives to God, and some who did not, but Rafael didn’t care about that. He comforted them with a friendly face and asked the deacon to take them back to their seats.

    While he was speaking with the deacon, he noticed a black-robed priest discreetly hurrying through the side corridor to a cardinal, whispering something in his ear. Almost simultaneously, two more priests approached and spoke to two archbishops, respectively.

    No one came to see him.

    The young pope’s expression remained unchanged, his smile unwavering, but his eyes had turned cold.

    The same thing had happened in his previous life, but at that time he was still immersed in the anxiety of being crowned Pope and the fear of doing something wrong. His mind was full of how to fulfill his responsibilities as the Pope. He was determined to follow the doctrine and be pious, kind, respectful and tolerant.

    Although he saw the priests bypassing him to convey messages to the bishops, he thought that it was only natural—every bishop had their own small circle in Florence, from bishops to priests to miscellaneous people in the church. It was normal, and he didn’t need to delve into it and uncover every secret.

    That would be embarrassing for both sides.

    So he tolerated their concealment and turned a blind eye to these secret currents afterwards.

    But now he suddenly felt that everything was boring.

    He had retreated so much, being tolerant, merciful, benevolent, and respectful, yet all he got in return were empty guards outside his door at night and cold blades. History would not record his benevolence. So why should he force himself to be a perfect Pope?

    “Father Alfonso, where are you from?”

    In the spotlight of everyone’s attention, the young Pope suddenly turned his head and called out the name of a black-robed priest.

    The priest, who was reporting to an archbishop, shuddered and was momentarily stunned. He could only instinctively call out, “Holy Father...”

    The bishop, whose words had been interrupted by the Pope, lifted his head in slight surprise. He was remarkably young, with handsome features and long, flowing hair that cascaded over his shoulders. Clad in the purple vestments of a bishop, his appearance was so striking that he seemed like an angel straight out of a painting.

    His iconic purple eyes also made it easy for those present to recognize his identity.

    One couldn’t be sure of anything else, but it was certain that this young bishop must have a surname related to ‘Portia’.

    “Holy Father, I...” Alfonso approached the papal throne, hesitating and unsure whether to speak. Rafael gazed at him and graciously changed the subject. “The blessing ceremony is about to begin. Would you like to accompany me?”

    To be at the Pope’s side during a blessing was an immense honor. The low ranked priest, having never expected such an honor, immediately forgot everything else and his cheeks turned red with excitement. “Yes, Holy Father, I would!”

    Rafael smiled at him, stood up as the music swelled, and stepped over the many bowed heads towards the balcony terrace of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn.

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