The banquet at the Mirror Palace finally ended a little after three in the morning. The candles that had burned all night were reduced to nothing but pools of wax. The servants turned the heavy iron winches, lowering the enormous chandeliers from the ceiling. They stripped off the congealed wax and replaced the candles with new ones.

    While the servants worked diligently on the first floor, the kitchen began to prepare meals for the new day. The second floor, where the masters rested, was completely silent.

    Rafael had a terrible headache. The journey by carriage had been fairly smooth, but as soon as he lay down on the bed, he began to feel unwell. His head was throbbing. Although he was obviously terribly sleepy, he couldn’t fall asleep. He tossed and turned until the sun rose, before finally getting up, throwing on a robe.

    The climate of Rome was warmer and more humid than that of Florence. The monsoon brought abundant rainfall every year, and the vast mountains blocked the cold current flowing from the south. The country was born on fertile plains, and its excellent geographical location near the sea gave it a large population of skilled swimmers. The Roman navy was the strongest in the world, a fact that even Calais had to grudgingly admit.

    Rafael was staying in the best suite at the Mirror Palace. The fireplace heated the entire room, making it dry and warm. He walked barefoot on the carpet, his ankles sinking into the soft, thick threads.

    Unlike the large, magnificent frescoes commonly found in Florence, Rome favoured a more delicate and elegant style. Stuccos were framed in oval or square golden frames and hung on walls adorned with deep red or dark green wallpaper and curtains.

    In anticipation of the Pope’s arrival, some of the more romantic and out-of-place pieces in the Mirror Palace had been replaced with more religious artwork. Rafael shifted his gaze away from an oil painting and settled into an armchair in front of the fireplace. He curled his feet up onto the chair, resembling a cat curled up in a ball. He allowed his mind to drift lazily, enjoying the comfortable drowsiness.

    Ferrante pushed the door open quietly and as expected, found the bed empty. A moment later, he easily located his holy father in front of the fireplace.

    ‘Just like a cat,’ he thought disrespectfully. ‘Always curling himself up in a warm spot, napping peacefully.’

    But this also puzzled him. Though he often found the Pope napping in front of the fireplace, he wondered why the Pope didn’t sleep in the bed. He seemed to have never seen the Holy Father asleep in his bed. Either he worked late into the night, was already up early, or, like now, would lazily spend his leisure time dozing in front of the fireplace after getting up.

    This sudden realization made Ferrante worry about the Pope’s sleeping habits for the first time.

    “Your Holiness,” the young man in the black monk’s robe approached Rafael and deliberately made a sound. When the other opened his eyes and looked over, he bowed his head respectfully. “Did you not sleep well last night? It’s only six o’clock, and it’s not yet time for morning prayers.”

    “Mmm...” the Pope grumbled in a low, dissatisfied voice. He shifted slightly, changing to a more comfortable position. He pulled his wandering soul back and roughly stuffed it into his body. “What is it?”

    His voice was still a little sleepy, but from the slowly clearing look in his eyes, it was clear he would be fully awake in a few seconds.

    Ferrante stepped forward and placed his hand on the Pope’s temple. His slender and powerful hands began to lightly and skillfully press on the Pope’s acupoints—something Dr. Polly had taught him before they left. He said it would help relax the mind. Dr. Polly was supposed to accompany the group to Rome, but the Pope had firmly refused, saying that the old man shouldn’t go through such a rough journey. Apparently being described as “old” had infuriated Dr. Polly, and he had not seen the Pope again until the convoy left Florence.

    Dr. Polly’s medical skills were not in vain. After just a few presses, a hazy mist returned to the pale purple eyes. The sleepiness that was about to fade away gently embraced the tired monarch again. Of course, one of the main reasons for this was that Rafael wasn’t particularly eager to wake up in the first place.

    He remained in that languid, floating state, listening to Ferrante give a low-voiced report of the events along the way, including the several assassination attempts that had been intercepted – this was inevitable. The hired assassins were quite skilled at eliminating any evidence of their identity, but Ferrante was an expert in this field as well. He had caught a few alive who hadn’t managed to escape and had interrogated them in a separate carriage for several days. After that, they had obediently spilled all the information they had.

    Sitting in front of him was a person completely shrouded in a black cloak. The huge cloak covered his entire body, making it difficult to determine his face or even his gender, until he spoke. Only then did Horton confirm that it was a man—a rather short man.

    “This wasn’t a part of our agreement,” Duke Horton said coldly.

    The man scoffed. “Is that such a big problem? Besides, isn’t that what you want? No, I should say, compared to your initiative, the conditions I proposed are already outdated.”

    Duke Horton’s pupils shrank suddenly. “You—!”

    “Curious on how I know?” The man in the black cloak chuckled, like an oversized grey magpie, facing Horton’s vigilance and killing intent with composure. “Your skill in doing bad things really needs improvement. Those paid assassins’ mouths aren’t as tight-lipped as you think. They would even share their missions with each other in taverns... Alright, I’ve answered your question, now it’s your turn—agree or refuse.”

    Duke Horton’s eyeballs moved unconsciously in their sockets. He was thinking nervously, and at the same time, he was madly cursing those lowly people who had taken the money and messed things up. It would be fine if they were dead, but they had even let people to trace it back to him?

    But, but it was one thing to do bad things secretly, and it was another thing to be forced to join in doing bad things after being discovered. Of course, this wasn’t to say that Duke Horton was a particularly noble or principled person. A truly noble—or even slightly principled—person wouldn’t casually hire assassins to kill people. He was simply unaccustomed to being threatened and instinctively resisted the person in front of him.

    “Don’t you think, Your Grace, that what I can find out, His Holiness wouldn’t also know about it?” Seeing that Horton was still hesitant, the man pushed him again.

    “You’ve already taken a stand against him, and you’ve done this kind of thing... Could it be that you now have the idea of begging for the Holy Father’s forgiveness? Then perhaps you should donate enough for your atonement to Florence. According to the latest situation, the current price is a large enough territory, a noble title, and family wealth—the authenticity of the above has already been guaranteed by twelve people including Lauren Russo, Matterazzi Dune, Lucrezia Bianchi, and Giuseppe Montague.”

    The man told a rather unfunny black joke. He derived a sense of humor from it that only he could understand, slapping his thigh and cackling with self-satisfaction, while the content of his words turned Duke Horton’s face livid.

    “I am a duke of the Roman Empire... No matter how far his hands reach, he can’t reach from the Papal States to Perigo.” The Duke squeezed these words out through gritted teeth.

    “Oh, really?” There was still a lingering amusement in the man’s voice. “Then, when he helps Princess Sancha ascend to the throne, do you think that this princess who was personally educated by the queen will make some concessions to show her goodwill towards His Holiness? For example, turning a blind eye to the occasional murder or two in Perigo...”

    Damn it, that was entirely possible!

    Duke Horton placed himself in Sancha’s position and imagined that if he were in her position, he would definitely eliminate all his enemies as soon as possible, not to mention he could also do someone a favor.

    “...What do you want me to do?” Duke Horton finally opened his mouth with difficulty, but after saying this, the rest of his words flowed more smoothly. “It won’t be so easy to kill him, or I can only provide help within Perigo, the rest—”

    “No, no, no, please don’t think so far ahead. As a qualified ally, our first step is to help you win this battle—the Roman crown. Hopefully with this we’ll be able to show our sincerity, presented to...” The man stood up and bowed to Duke Horton, his movements exaggerated and somewhat comical, like a circus clown.

    All of Duke Horton’s nerves were tensed by this sentence. His face contorted with a mix of excitement, enthusiasm, tension, and fear. The man finally uttered the concluding words slowly: “... His Majesty Horton I the Great.”