The torrential downpour in Florence lasted for eight days. After the rain ceased, a vigorous reconstruction effort, organized by the Holy See, began. Dilapidated old buildings were all torn down and rebuilt, and roads were excavated, bringing ancient Roman pipelines back into the light of day. Scholars, with their pants rolled up, trudged laboriously through the stagnant water, cursing the terrible city planning while frantically scribbling on their blueprints—and occasionally trying to sneak a section of the water pipe home as a keepsake. After all, it was a relic from ancient Rome! Every historian would be interested in it!

    After the third battle over the water pipes, the knights dispatched by the Pope to protect these scholars finally lost their patience. Pointing at the seemingly endless, massive structure underground—too large for an adult to embrace with both arms, cast from heavy sand, iron filings, and clay—they asked, “Gentlemen, before you fight to the death over this stinky thing, have you considered how you’re going to carry it home?”

    Of course, the knight who uttered those words ended up with the heaviest transportation task. His companions refused to speak to the foolish fellow and spat at him a few times.

    In addition, the free clinic activities in the lower city continued with the strong support of the Holy See. Although the process was bumpy, with several fights and medical disputes, under Rafael’s almost forceful attitude and the increasing pressure from the knights assigned to the medical team, the free clinic activities finally concluded successfully after a month and a half. Most of the public accepted consultations from female doctors and recognized their medical skills—this was undoubtedly a great encouragement for the female doctors.

    Thus, half a month after the free clinics ended, Anastasia, as the leader of the medical team, once again submitted an application to the Pope. They requested to leave Florence and conduct free clinics in other cities across the Papal States.

    Rafael did not agree immediately.

    The young Pope read the short application repeatedly, given that Anastasia had not received formal education in rhetoric or linguistics, the application was rather crude and impolite. However, compared to his first encounter with the woman, the letter already showed her utmost sincerity.

    Rafael leaned back against the soft cushions, sighed deeply, and pressed the application face down on the table. He quietly asked, “Should I agree?”

    The spacious and luxurious room was excessively quiet, with only the grandfather clock ticking, as if his own breathing was the only sound echoing in the room. But he knew that not far behind him, hidden in the shadows, was the person he trusted most, to whom he had even entrusted his life. And that person was surely listening intently to him.

    No matter when, as long as he spoke, the other person would never miss a single syllable of what he said.

    But he didn’t need an answer.

    The other person clearly understood this, so after a long silence, Rafael silently picked up his pen and signed his name at the bottom of the overly rough application. At the same time, he took off the papal ring from his hand and stamped the paper with the Pope’s personal seal.

    A hand extended from the shadows at the opportune moment, holding a soft, snow-white cotton cloth, gently wrapping around the Pope’s finger to wipe the ink from the ring.

    “Ferrante, send some capable men to accompany them. I want them to return to Florence unharmed, every last one.”

    The young man in the shadows bowed his head to the Pope, silently accepting the order.

    As he exited the room through the secret passage, Julius happened to enter through the main door. The Secretary General obviously couldn’t see any trace of the elusive young man, but a strange sixth sense made him pause at the doorway and quickly survey his surroundings.

    Naturally, he found nothing.

    “According to the latest war report from Assyria, the Queen has re-established the Sargon Dynasty centered in the capital in the south, but for some reason, the war in the north has reached a stalemate. Assyria won’t regain peace in a short time—my people have discovered many troublemakers in Assyria, some from the Duvesy Federation, some from Danone, even Pombara and Sandon—of course, most are from Calais.”

    When the last sentence was spoken, neither Julius nor Rafael showed any surprise or anger. Clearly, such surreptitious backstabbing by an ally like Calais was not something that surprised them.

    A marriage alliance was one thing, but fishing in troubled waters such as a war zone was a more tangible interest, and no one would miss out on such benefits.

    Even Sancha would only turn a blind eye to this matter if she knew about it. Sometimes, they needed this slight bit of ambiguity; overly transparent relationships would make these born political creatures uneasy. They were more adept at finding a sense of security in prolonged struggles and probes.

    “In northern Assyria, a religious alliance called the Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance has been established, led by the High Priest. It’s a purely religious group centered on their native Eternal Sky faith. Those who join the Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance are mostly fervent religious followers who seek to restore ‘the purest faith’ and return Assyria to ‘an ancient kingdom, primitive and blessed by the Eternal Sky.’ Such propaganda has attracted many people, and large numbers of displaced people have begun migrating north from the southern Sargon.” Julius spoke in a calm tone.

    “A purely religious alliance...” Rafael murmured, repeating the words, feeling a fleeting sense of strangeness that intensified with Julius’s subsequent narration.

    A very strange, strong sense of de?ja? vu—

    Rafael suddenly raised his eyes and met Julius’s gaze. Being overly sensitive and intelligent, they both saw the same thing in each other’s eyes.

    “The last similar religious alliance...” Rafael moved his lips.

    Julius smoothly finished what he wanted to say: “It’s the current Papal States, Your Holiness.”

    Rafael’s hand clenched suddenly on the armrest of the solid wood chair.

    Indeed, religion was a very dangerous and useful tool. Fanatical believers could achieve anything impossible in the world; they could offer everything they had, even their family’s lives, for the ephemeral decrees of their god. As the world’s largest religious leader, Rafael was acutely aware of its power.

    Therefore, when this Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance appeared before him, he instinctively perceived the immense, surging threat within it.

    Assyria was a land independent of the Syracuse Peninsula, with a large population, vast territory, and abundant resources. More importantly, they had their own devout religion. Successive Popes had dreamed of planting their flag on that land, not only to gain more abundant human resources but also because they had long realized that once an independent religious group emerged in Assyria, it would be enough to confront the Papal States and Florence.

    And what successive Popes had worried about, finally, during Rafael’s reign, turned from a nightmare into reality.

    In this barbaric resource-plundering era, there was no talk of peaceful coexistence. When two equally greedy and ferocious beasts met, the only option was to devour the other.

    “The Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance cannot be allowed to exist.” Rafael’s voice was light, but the coldness in his tone was like a sharp, bloody ice blade.

    Whether for the sake of his alliance with Amandra or for the Papal States themselves, there could not be a second religious group with the potential to develop further in the world.

    He knew every word he spoke would soon be written in blood, but he had no choice.

    Tides and storms surged in his light purple eyes: “In the name of the Pope, send word to all kings and lords—the banner of heresy has been raised in the East. To purge this unholy, wicked group, we must take up the sword in the name of the Holy Lord.”

    Julius understood what he meant instantly. A trace of shock flashed in the eyes of the ever-composed House of Portia’s patriarch, and he instinctively spoke out against it: “You’re going to launch a Crusade?! You can’t do this!”

    Rafael gazed at the oak desktop, listening to Julius’s urgent, low-pitched advice: “Every Pope who launched a Crusade met a terrible end! Charles VI was hanged in a monastery, Jose I is still reviled to this day, and the family of Leo II vanished without a trace! The greater the prestige they gained back then, the more wretched their downfall! Amandra hasn’t reached a dead end yet; she and the Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance are already in a fight to the death. We just need to wait for them to fight it out, and when a victor emerges, it won’t be too late to use this method.”

    Rafael glanced at him: “The best time to eliminate an enemy is when he is not yet grown—that’s what you taught me, Teacher.”

    He uttered the long-unspoken address. Julius was stunned for a moment.

    That address, for a fleeting moment, transported him back to the Florence Seminary, where sunlight danced on the rhododendron leaves and the air was filled with the scent of fresh flowers. Girls wore pristine white dresses, boys’ uniforms were immaculately pressed, their badges gleaming. Everything felt bright and vibrant, and all love and hatred were simple.

    Back then, the Portia gardens had not yet been overrun by boundless irises, and the sun god, riding his celestial chariot, had not yet laid eyes on that rose that would topple deities.

    “You know this is the best course of action,” Rafael still gazed fixedly at Julius.

    “Please don’t let personal emotions sway your judgment,” Rafael said unhurriedly, now as cruel and cold as an executioner, sending shivers down Julius’s spine. “Reason. Judgment. Decision—the Portia’s family creed.”

    The young Pope seemed to want to smile, but the smile faded before it could fully form.

    Sunlight drew a clear line on the scarlet carpet. Julius stood on the side of light, while Rafael, behind the desk, was enveloped in silent shadow.

    They fell silent simultaneously for a while, as if lost in thought, or perhaps thinking nothing at all.

    Finally, Julius firmly said, “I disagree.”

    The Secretary General calmly stated, “The Secretariat will refuse to issue this decree. Of course, you may order me to carry it out—in which case, I will resign as Secretary-General.”

    Rafael suddenly looked up, his pale purple eyes deepening slightly with anger. “Are you threatening me?”

    “Of course not, I would never threaten you,” Julius calmly retorted. “But I believe you need to think carefully. In my opinion, you are the one swayed by emotion. You appear to have invested too much emotion in your alliances with Rome and Assyria—loyalty has never been our virtue.”

    Rafael’s pupils constricted slightly.

    Julius no longer looked at him. “Please reconsider.”

    Rafael watched the Secretary gracefully bow and withdraw, remaining frozen behind his desk like a statue. It wasn’t until the gas lamp in the study lit up on time that he moved his stiff legs.

    A tingling pain, like needles, spread up from his knees. Rafael lowered his head, pressing his legs, and a pained gasp escaped his throat, quickly bitten off and swallowed.

    In the end, the order was never issued. Beyond the two esteemed figures, no one ever knew that a war capable of sweeping across the entire continent had been so simply nipped in the bud.

    In distant Assyria, bonfires burned continuously through the night, sparks scattering like flowers. Soldiers patrolled back and forth with gas lamps, their elongated shadows swaying on the ground. A little further away, the engineering team worked tirelessly day and night. They needed to lay railways in the shortest possible time to connect the cities that had submitted to the Queen, preventing them from rebelling again. Steam-powered armor also required railways for transport—no one would use such expensive war machines as mere carriages.

    Amandra sat in a remote small tent. Compared to her previous royal tent, this one was simple, indistinguishable from most officers’ tents. In fact, it truly was an officer’s tent—after the Queen encountered her sixth assassination attempt, she began to randomly choose her resting place for the day. Except for her most trusted cousin, Ashur, no one knew the Queen’s exact location.

    The curtain was pulled back, and Ashur walked in with a basin of water, kneeling beside the Queen. “Your wound has reopened. Don’t go into battle tomorrow.”

    The Queen’s long saber lay by the table, its blade gleaming with a cold light. A white cotton bandage wrapped from her shoulder across her chest, and bloodstains could vaguely be seen—the result of the fifth assassination attempt.

    Amandra raised her head. She was now as gaunt as a withered branch, her skin deeply tanned, her hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. She wore no adornments, only a pair of blue eyes radiating a brilliance more dazzling than ever before. Anyone who met her gaze could glimpse the powerful, radiant soul within. This great Queen, destined to leave a glorious page in history, possessed a spirit far stronger than most people of her time.

    Ashur began to carefully cut away the Queen’s blood-stained bandage with scissors. A dull pain emanated from the wound, but the Queen showed no sign of discomfort, calmly looking at the doorway. After a while, she suddenly said, “Ashur, did I make a mistake?”

    Ashur’s movements paused for a moment, and she quickly glanced at the Queen. “You never doubt yourself.”

    “Yes, I never doubt any of my decisions.”

    “Has the night made you sentimental?”

    “...Who knows? I’ve been thinking about the past a lot lately, maybe it’s because I’ve encountered too many assassins.” The Queen turned her face, her gem-like blue eyes sparkling under the dim light. “They are all my people, yet they are genuinely opposing me.”

    Ashur was silent for a moment, knowing the Queen was recalling one of the assassins.

    That young assassin had golden hair and blue eyes, a slender build, and still a touch of childishness. He was the same age as the Queen’s child. She knew who the Queen thought of when she saw him, which was why she hadn’t dodged the dagger immediately.

    Before being decapitated by the guards, the young assassin displayed extreme resentment towards the Queen, cursing her with all his might, using the most malicious words and expressions.

    “...The Eternal Sky will forsake you! You shall lose all you love! Your child will die in agony! Your beloved will despise you, revile you—you will never meet again in this life! All you seek will elude you, all you cherish will perish! By the Eternal Sky’s witness—your love is more poisonous than venom!”

    “O gods, why have you brought this calamitous woman upon Assyria?!”

    Ashur shuddered at the memory of those vicious words. Sensing her unease, the Queen laid a reassuring hand over hers.

    “They just don’t understand that you are doing what’s best for them. A monarch’s vision must always look further. Ancient religions cannot lead Assyria forward; only a stronger monarch can adapt to this era.”

    The theocratic system had left Assyria far behind other countries on the Syracuse Peninsula, and chaos had made Assyria increasingly weak. Amandra was determined to change all of this, but the six assassination attempts she faced were the people’s answer to her.

    She was like a frail boatman, the hemp rope already cutting into her shoulders, the heavy boat slowly sinking in the water, and she was almost parallel to the ground, straining with her very life to drag this massive barge against the current.

    “I can no longer retreat.”

    Finally, the Queen said softly.

    “If the Eternal Sky refuses my prayers, then I shall find another god.” A faint, ghostly fire burned in the Queen’s blue eyes.

    Ashur suddenly looked up at the princess she had followed for many years, now Queen, with fear and unfamiliarity in her eyes for the first time.

    “You... you would forsake the Eternal Sky?!” She didn’t even dare to say it loudly, her voice a whisper.

    Controlling and supressing religion was one thing; a monarch apostatizing was another entirely.

    Ashur gripped the Queen’s hand tightly. She knew too well what those fanatical believers of the Eternal Heaven would do. “No, please don’t do this... you will die! All of Assyria will become your enemy! They will believe you betrayed Assyria!”

    “When did the Eternal Sky become equal to Assyria?” the Queen calmly retorted.

    Her own heart was also beating rapidly. When she was a girl, she was more devout than anyone. She deeply loved Assyria, deeply loved the people and things of this land, and deeply loved the Eternal Sky who had bestowed upon them all abundance.

    “Assyria possesses the Eternal Sky, not the other way round,” the Queen said. “I want to remind them of this. To freely choose their faith... or to choose none at all.”

    The Queen’s words were cold, but her expression actually seemed a little gentle.

    Ashur stared at her, her lips moving, her voice hoarse: “Is that all?”

    The Queen met her gaze, then after a long moment, quirked the corner of her mouth in a faint, almost mischievous smile—reminiscent of the playful cunning of her youth.

    “Well, as Assyria’s Queen and mother, is this not the greatest gift I could give my children?”

    She waved a hand, dismissing the topic, and moved on. “Dear cousin, fetch me a fresh parchment. I think it’s time for me to make my will.”

    This was nothing new; to prevent unforeseen circumstances and family instability, high-ranking and powerful individuals always had a habit of regularly updating their wills. As a monarch, Amandra naturally paid even more attention to this; her will was updated twice a year.

    As the parchment unrolled, she sat there silently. Ashur took the pen for Amandra, who found it difficult to hold, and after thinking for a while, the Queen slowly began: “I, Amandra Sargon, daughter of the great King Zhenya and Queen Hashur, eighth monarch of the Sargon Dynasty by divine mandate, hereby make the following last will and testament...”

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