Rafael left before the banquet began. Doctor Polly had been waiting in his reception room for more than an hour. When he saw him come in, he glared at him and placed the tools in his medical bag with a bang. The Pope, who had been playing tricks just now, sat down immediately and put on a docile and innocent expression.

    “Your clothes,” Polly said stiffly.

    Rafael obediently pulled up the hem of his clothes, revealing his pale legs.

    Polly touched his knees, feeling the bony and cold skin. He glared at Rafael fiercely: “If you keep this up, you’ll end up paralyzed sooner or later!”

    “I’ve been sitting all day...” Rafael tried to defend himself, but Polly saw through his lie at a glance.

    “What time did you go to bed last night? What time did you get up this morning?”

    Polly tapped Rafael’s knees and calves with his fingers. Rafael felt the pain of poor blood circulation, but he didn’t dare to speak. Of course, he didn’t dare to say where he had been sleeping. If Polly knew, the old man might die of anger on the spot.

    Polly scolded Rafael fiercely, waving his arm. The Pope, who knew he was in the wrong, crouched there like a shiny little kitten, not daring to move, his hands neatly folded on his lap, as obedient as could be.

    Polly stepped out aggressively and said to the guard at the door, “Go get a bucket of hot water.”

    He turned and walked back, and Rafael immediately gave him a flattering and obedient smile.

    Who doesn’t love watching a cute little cat with golden fur and pale purple eyes act coquettish? Especially when it originally had sharp claws, but deliberately hid this weapon for you.

    Polly took a deep breath and held back what he had originally wanted to say.

    “Holy Father, the hot water is ready.”

    Unexpectedly, it was Ferrante who came in carrying the bucket.

    The young man stood there a little uneasily. There were only three of them in the room, and this fact seemed to make him nervous, and fine sweat could be seen seeping from his temples.

    Of course, it might also be because the fireplace in the room was burning too hot.

    Rafael sank into a pile of fluffy, soft feather cushions, relaxing his tired bones, and a little drowsiness crept into his mind. He saw Ferrante was at a loss and beckoned him over: “Come closer.”

    The black-haired youth walked over with the bucket and watched as Polly threw a handful of unknown herbs into the bucket. The steam rose, and an indescribable bitter smell spread. The water in the bucket turned a deep green, and Rafael kicked off his shoes and put his feet in. His fair skin soon turned a light pink.

    For some reason, this scene made Ferrante a little nervous. He didn’t know where to put his eyes, so he just stared at his toes.

    It was strange. Even though he had seen more explicit and seductive scenes in the rose garden before, and even became accustomed to them, there was nothing wrong this time, why was he so uncomfortable?

    “Ferrante, are you getting used to being here?” the young Pope asked gently.

    “It’s pretty good, the senior members of the guard take good care of us.” Ferrante answered carefully.

    The Pope noticed his nervousness and pointed to the sofa beside him, a smile in his eyes: “No need to be so nervous—you were just as nervous when I saw you yesterday, as if I was going to eat you. The doctrine doesn’t allow the Pope to eat people. Please sit down, I don’t like talking to someone while they’re standing.”

    He made a little joke and watched Ferrante sit down.

    The handsome young man had a thin face, probably due to a long life at the slums. His skin was a bit rough, and his long, bony fingers were calloused and had many small cuts. His curly black hair stood up defiantly, and under the uniform black of the Papal Guard, one could see the strong muscle contours.

    A bit malnourished, but healthy, agile, and...intelligent.

    “No,” he heard his own voice say, “Thank you very much, but I’m not suited for study. Please let me follow and protect you.”

    Rafael looked at him for a few seconds, and for a moment, Ferrante thought he saw sorrow and pity in the other’s eyes.

    Why was he so sad? Who was he sad for?

    Ferrante was about to blurt out these questions, but the look vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him wondering if it was an illusion.

    “Very well, then. Since you’ve refused, you won’t get another chance like this. Don’t regret it.” Sistine I smiled. His smile was as dignified as ever, like a saint walking among men, as if he had foreseen the tragedy to come.

    “I won’t regret it,” Ferrante replied firmly.

    This conversation was just a small interlude. Unconsciously, the people in the papal palace became accustomed to seeing the young guard named Ferrante always following the pope. The Pope seemed to be very fond of this handsome and upright young man. When he was meeting guests, going on processions, or during church services, this silent figure would always follow him, so much so that even the Secretary General of the Papal Palace had to pay some attention to him.

    “Do you like Ferrante very much?” Julius asked casually at the breakfast table.

    Rafael paused mid-way through cutting his omelette, his attention momentarily diverted. “What?”

    “You’ve never kept anyone around this long,” Julius observed.

    “Oh...” Rafael came back to his senses and paused with the table knife in his hand, “He is very obedient, easy to use, and very malleable.”

    This explanation was very casual, but Julius hadn’t intended to launch an inquisition. He had merely made an offhand remark, and Rafael was willing to explain... that was enough.

    Just a boy who’d clawed his way out of the slums, Julius thought idly, glancing at the stack of investigation files on the table. He quickly dismissed the matter.

    As Julius lowered his head, Rafael stared at him silently for a moment.

    The struggle for the Count Clement title soon concluded. The legitimate son of Cardinal Tondolo, young Sir Tondolo, inherited his father’s title as expected. His illegitimate half-brother, dejected, left Florence with the portion of the inheritance he had received. The new Count Clement happily presented the Pope with the promised money, estates, and harbor deeds, then gleefully rode out of the city to go hunting.

    And Besancon, who had secretly contributed a lot to this...also returned to his residence happily after receiving the Pope’s vague words of approval.

    Is it really impossible to fleece this sucker a few more times?

    Looking at Besancon’s back, which was emitting joy as he thought he had obtained the Pope’s approval, Rafael thought quietly. After all, this advantage was too easy to take, and he felt that it was too good to pass up.

    However, with great self-control, he suppressed that slight regret.

    Ferrante returned after seeing off the guest and found the Pope hunched over, reading a parchment. He silently took his place by the window, behind the curtain. This spot wouldn’t obstruct the master’s view or block any light, yet it provided a full view of the room and allowed him to be the first to shield his master. Ferrante knew his duties and his place very well. Even though the Pope had recently shown him unprecedented patience and favor, he had never lost sight of himself.

    Only occasionally... occasionally, in his free time before bed, he would quietly wonder why the Pope was so kind to him. He had never received such gentle affection and kindness from anyone before, so his first reaction was vigilance and reflection.

    But he had nothing, really. If anything, it was this face that could be considered good-looking, but the Pope was clearly more handsome. There could be no more beautiful being in the world than this saint on earth.

    During this time, he watched the Pope’s every move as if he were seeing the true saint in his mind. He was compassionate, gentle, and treated everyone equally. He would not push away any muddy hand that reached out to him, nor would he ignore any tearful eyes. His tolerance made even Ferrante, who had received his favor, feel unworthy.

    His saint favored him, but he could not give him anything in return.

    It was called protection, but there was hardly any danger in the papal palace. So Ferrante spent more and more time gazing at the young Pope. He dared not look openly, so he could only steal glances out of the corner of his eye, watching the Pope’s slender body and long, golden hair. He watched his occasional, involuntary smile, his motionless brows when he was angry, and his more graceful and slower steps than others. Then he would deliberately step in time with the other.

    The invisible overlapping of their steps gave Ferrante an inexplicable joy. He would fall asleep with this small sweetness, a secret happiness that only he knew.