The Second Storm (2)
The Papal Court, Southern Branch of the Holy Church.
Packed with towering, magnificent structures that seemed to scrape the very heavens, it was the place where more divine holy power flowed than anywhere else on the continent.
And so the plaza before the Papal Court was meant to be solemn and silent at all times.
No — it had to be silent.
"Lord Escabaor! We have seen the truth!"
A cracked old man's voice rang out across the plaza.
"Come out and answer us!"
A weary woman's choked cry followed it.
"Your Holiness, please, answer us!"
Uproar, and outcry. The voices of hundreds of people were shaking the Papal Court to its foundations.
The onlookers watching the scene spat out their remarks, each one wearing a face of deep displeasure.
"Ha. Madmen. 'Seen the truth'? And what truth would that be, exactly?"
"...Failures who couldn't even accomplish their grand crusade, at that."
Laughter, mockery, and contempt rose from every direction.
"What are the guards even doing? Why aren't they dragging those lunatics off?"
But the guards could not possibly arrest those who shouted themselves hoarse before the Papal Court.
Because they were no mere protesters or heretics.
The Pilgrimage.
A month ago, they had departed from this very place carrying the lofty purpose of a holy crusade, showered with everyone's praise. And now, those very people were raising their voices to demand the truth from the Pope himself.
- Clank.
Figures in armor engraved with rose-patterned crosses stared up at the Papal Court with set faces.
The sworn enemies of heresy and the Evil God Cult — the 1st Holy Knight Order — had likewise taken their place among the crowd, joining in the demand for the truth.
And at the very front of them all stood the most revered man in the entire Church.
"...Your Holiness."
Mohaim Espirentse.
Unable to bear the standoff any longer, one of the guards finally abandoned his post and approached him, speaking in a strained voice.
"Lord Mohaim. Please disperse the Pilgrimage. This constitutes a violation of the Papal Court's order."
"Has His Holiness given his answer yet?"
A blunt, unyielding counter-question. The guard trailed off helplessly.
"Th-that is..."
Three weeks now. A full twenty-one days since his request for an audience had been dismissed without a word.
Mohaim declared firmly, "We will not retreat until we hear His Holiness's answer."
It was open insubordination, an act that could only be called a demonstration — but Mohaim had already steeled his heart.
You already know the answer.
Those were the words the Central Officer had spoken to him. He had to confirm whether that answer matched the Pope's own.
Just then—
- Creak.
The great doors of the Papal Court swung open, and a familiar aide appeared.
"His Holiness the Pope summons the Knight Commander."
At last. The time to hear the answer had come.
Mohaim nodded and moved to follow — but the aide raised a hand to stop him and added one thing more.
"Without your weapon."
*****
After walking what felt like an eternity, Mohaim at last reached the audience chamber.
- Creak.
As he pushed the door open and stepped inside, a warm voice greeted him from within, as if welcoming a friend of many long years.
"Mohaim Espirentse. Good to see you."
The first things to catch his eye were the imperial guards he had always seen, and the gold-leafed ornamentation that cloaked the room from floor to ceiling. And then the figure of an old man, radiant beyond anyone he had ever beheld, overflowing with a holy power so intense it felt crushing.
But Mohaim knew the truth behind that façade now.
This was not the Pope's holy power. It poured forth from the dozens of holy relics draped across his arms, his neck, his entire body.
...The colorless Pope.
Now he could see it. Only now. In the midst of that brilliant, dazzling light, the Pope alone had no color at all.
"...Your Holiness."
Forcefully suppressing the tangle of emotions in his chest, Mohaim bowed his head.
"What could have stirred such curiosity in you, that you begged an audience with me?"
"...Why have you only now granted my request? I have waited three full weeks. You witnessed what happened at the trial — how can you still withhold your answer?"
Words poured out of Mohaim like a volley from a machine gun. The Pope watched him in silence for a moment, then spoke in a low voice.
"Yes. I saw it. And I saw Paluba's bracelet, my holy relic, shatter. I will not deny it."
He raised his hand to display the relics adorning it.
"I have no holy power. He gathered up every last fragment of it, leaving nothing behind — not even the slightest shred."
The truth, delivered flat and toneless.
"...Since when?"
Unable to contain his sense of betrayal, Mohaim took a step toward him.
- Clank!
In the same instant, every guard in the room dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. Mohaim paid them no mind and shouted.
"Since when have you been deceiving us — deceiving your own faithful?!"
The supreme leader of the Church possessed no holy power. There was only one thing that could mean: God had lost faith in them. Nothing could be trusted anymore. Everything they had ever done — had it truly been what the Lord wanted?
That horrific doubt had already spread through the hearts of the Pilgrims and Mohaim alike.
"Since when, you ask."
As if searching through some distant memory, the Pope toyed with the ceremonial dagger on the table as he spoke.
"Yes. It has been fifteen years now."
Fifteen years. At that immeasurably long span of time, Mohaim's face froze in shock.
"Which means... you have had us serving a lie since then."
"No. Not a lie."
Escabaor shook his head.
"Not a single part of my devotion to the Church, or to Him, has changed since that day."
He turned his head toward the mural that climbed the wall all the way to the ceiling and continued.
"Which is more sublime — the man who was born with holy power and contented himself merely with his station?"
Mohaim realized that the man he spoke of was the previous Pope, who had led the Church through an era of peace.
"Or the man who, despite having no holy power, spread this Church and the will of the Lord God across the whole world?"
And that the second was the man standing before him.
"And yet you call me a false prophet."
Anger boiled up inside him.
"If adorning yourself with relics to stage a counterfeit of holy power is not a lie, then what is?"
The Knight Commander all but spat the words out.
"You led us into war! It was you who sought to drown the world in blood, all in the name of a holy crusade and His divine will!"
"Then allow me to ask the opposite, my friend. Do you have any grounds to condemn me?"
"What did you say?"
"You are the Church's most ruthless blade. Without a flicker of doubt, without a moment's hesitation, you cut down whatever enemy stood before you. For fifteen long years, if I recall."
The Pope narrowed his eyes and asked:
"How many did you kill, Mohaim? Tens? Hundreds? Thousands?"
"..."
"And with hands soaked in all that blood, you would pass judgment on me? On you — the man who slaughtered even newborn infants as heretics?"
At those words, ripping open the truth he had desperately pretended not to know, Mohaim's eyes trembled for an instant.
"Mohaim, you foolish friend. When you were fighting, leaving every ounce of guilt to the Church and to me, that was all well and good. And now you come with this?"
The Pope clicked his tongue.
"I gave everything for this Church. My time, my flesh, my heart — even my faith."
Slowly, he began to speak.
"Who was it that proclaimed His word to the whole world for thirty years? Who carried the concepts of mercy, grace, and charity into the very corners of the slums? Who took in the orphaned children starving to death on the streets, gave their lives meaning, and raised them into a Knight Order?"
He struck his own chest, as though the weight of it all were suffocating him.
"It was all me! Me, I say!"
His voice rose and rose.
"It was I who pulled you up from the gutter — you, a worthless ragamuffin destined to be trampled to death in the street — and guided you to become a knight!"
His roar became a shout.
"It was all me — every last bit — who bore your guilt in your stead so that you, as Commander of the Holy Knights, could carry out the Lord's will ahead of anyone else!"
The shout became pure fury.
"That grand crusade was to be the completion of our Church! And that accursed heretic they call the Central Officer was all that stood in its way. Nothing more than a trial we were meant to overcome!"
The old man's blazing tirade echoed through the reception chamber.
Choking down his revulsion, Mohaim answered.
"The Lord God... proved it, didn't He."
"..."
"It was revealed, was it not, that Your Holiness's will was not the direction He desires!"
"..."
This time, it was the Pope whose words failed him.
"The truth has come to light without a single filter, Your Holiness. And still you refuse to give us your answer, even now."
"...You are the Blind Sword. A sword must have no eyes to see with. Would you wield a blade that doubts its master?"
"My master is the Lord God, and Him alone."
"Quite. And I am the one who serves His will more closely than any man alive."
The Pope displayed, without a shred of shame, the very arrogance that a believer should guard against above all else.
Mohaim felt not merely disappointment but a hollow despair settle over him.
My oaths... my blade... all of it swung for the sake of a man like this.
It had all been for nothing. Nothing, and nothing, and nothing again.
Just as that emptiness, that futility, and that guilt began to devour Mohaim's heart, the Pope shook his head and said:
"If you seek atonement, then act with your sword. Distinguishing justice from evil, truth from lies — that is not your role. But if, despite all this, you find you cannot help but curse me..."
- Shing.
He flung the ceremonial dagger in his hand at Mohaim.
"Then cut me down, Commander of the 1st Holy Knight Order."
"...!!"
Something he had never expected to hear.
"...What game are you playing?"
"I am giving you the chance to realize justice."
"...Justice?"
Spreading both his arms wide, the Pope said:
"I am the Church. My word is His voice, and my will is His will. Let us see, then, whether that clumsy little doubt of yours will be believed."
In that instant, someone's words flashed through Mohaim's mind.
- Failures, at that.
He understood then what the Pope was playing at.
The world sees us... as failures.
Those who failed to accomplish the crusade, who failed to protect the Saintess and lost her.
And the Pope before him was the very symbol of the Holy Church — an absolute symbol, blazing like a flame that could never be extinguished.
What would happen if he struck that man down now? Those who did not know the truth would enshrine the Pope as a martyr, and Mohaim himself would become the worst heretic imaginable — a man who had failed his holy crusade and then murdered the Pontiff.
His mind snapped into focus.
I cannot kill him.
If he cut the Pope down, the man would be remembered forever as a martyr. If he refused, the truth that had finally come to light would be buried once more.
The Pope knew this — and so he had dangled his very own life as bait to ensnare Mohaim.
To bury the truth completely.
A madman. So this was what he truly was.
"...I cannot do that."
Mohaim shook his head with what strength he could muster.
"How could I ever dare raise a hand against Your Holiness."
Just this once, for this moment alone, he had to endure.
"A wise choice, Commander."
"..."
Mohaim slipped the dagger into his pouch, bowed his head, and spoke.
"...I will take my leave now. I will return and disperse the Pilgrimage as Your Holiness commands."
Remaining here was too dangerous.
The Pilgrimage must be scattered, for now.
So long as the Pope stood as their symbol, every condition was against them.
But the Pope shook his head.
"No. There is no need."
"...Your Holiness?"
"What reason could you possibly have to be the one to disperse them?"
"What are you—"
"Why do you think I summoned you here alone?"
At that very moment, one of the guards opened the window.
- clang! Clash!
Faintly, the sound of metal striking metal drifted in.
And then—
- 1st Knight Order, defensive formation! Defensive formation!! Gah—!
- Let not a single one escape! Seize the heretics!
Shouts and screams all too familiar to his ears. The din of battle was rising from the plaza below.
At the same moment, the aide to the Papal Court entered the audience chamber and announced:
"Your Holiness. The 2nd Holy Knight Order and the Papal Guard have begun the arrest of the heretics."
"...!!!!!"
So that was why he had refused an audience for three whole weeks. From the very moment his true face had been exposed at the trial, the Pope had been preparing. Preparing to purge everyone who knew the truth.
And when the hour came, he had lured away only Mohaim — the Pilgrimage's single greatest fighting force.
"Escabaor...!!"
"Mohaim Espirentse, Commander of the 1st Holy Knight Order."
The old man, smeared through and through with rancid madness, called his name in a low voice.
- Clank, clank.
At the same time, guards in armor inscribed with lines of blessing advanced slowly forward.
"You failed the grand crusade that would have torn the Evil God Cult out by its roots, and you failed to protect the Saintess, chosen of God."
The Pope spewed out his accusations.
"Therefore, holding you accountable, Mohaim Espirentse is hereby dismissed from the Holy Church."
"Escabaor! You false prophet!!!"
"Furthermore, it has been proven beyond all doubt that you dared to question the Pope's will, abandoned your duty as a knight, and sought to lead the faithful astray into confusion."
He pronounced the final sentence.
"I, Pope Escabaor III, hereby declare Mohaim Espirentse a heretic."
A flawless fabrication.
He intended to deal with Mohaim in exactly the same manner he had once tried — with perfect precision — to deal with a certain immigration officer of the Crossline Kingdom.
"You have no such authority! A holy knight's heresy verdict is not handed down on the spot!"
The heresy trial of a Holy Knight was a notoriously meticulous procedure. To become a Holy Knight, one had to be among the most devout and unflinching of the faithful — and accounting for the cost, the process, and the years of dual training, every single one of them was a treasure beyond price to the Church. Even the Pope, therefore, could not unilaterally declare one a heretic the way he might an ordinary believer.
But Escabaor clicked his tongue as if lamenting a pity.
"It seems you have forgotten who wrote that procedure, Mohaim."
With that, he drew a scroll from his robes and unfurled it for all to see.
— In Witness Whereof —
Archbishop Kialis Bennet
Cardinal Pieta Tigrius
Inquisitor Resa Patera
The signatures of the Church's highest-ranking figures were inscribed there — every one of them concurring in the verdict of Mohaim's heresy.
"No one can drag me down. I am His will incarnate. Until the day this world lies beneath the Church's dominion — until the day I hear His voice again — nothing in this world can stop me."
Mohaim understood at last.
"...You have fallen."
Mohaim had watched with his own two eyes as even his last hope crumbled to ash. All of them above — every one of those men had fallen. Even knowing the truth, they stood with the Pope. Such men were leading the Church.
His fury crossed over into something darker.
Loathing.
"...It all has to come down."
He murmured the words in a voice steeped in bitterness. He hated those days of serving as the blade of a Church built upon lies.
And so he would kill these false ones, every last one, with his own hands — and be reborn as a true blade. Even if it cost him his life.
That, perhaps... is my answer.
But in the very moment he was about to swear that blood-soaked vow—
- Fwoosh.
Out of nowhere, a single slender beam of light pierced through the clouds and illuminated the dagger in his hand. The blade of that ceremonial dagger swept past Mohaim's face and caught on something behind him.
A mural of a woman — wreathed in golden radiance, tears streaming down her face as she offered up a prayer.
"..."
Mohaim froze, struck as though by a hammer blow.
He had no priest left to bless his weapons and armor, and his only weapon was a ceremonial dagger no bigger than a palm. Outside the Papal Court, his holy knights were crossing blades with the very men they had once called brothers.
A dark age. What better words could there be for it?
And yet — not every hope had collapsed.
One who knew the whole truth, and who had been granted forgiveness through her own self-dismissal, still lived, still beyond the Church's grasp.
The Saintess.
And the place where she dwelt was—
Central Officer Nathan Kell.
— At the side of a single man who, though favored by God, had declared he would live by his own hand.
You already know the answer.
Mohaim gripped the dagger anew.
"I... do know the answer."
The road of repentance still lay open.
The place where every truth had come to light. Fifteen years ago and now — the only place where he had crossed blades with the Pope twice.
He had to return there, and find the Saintess.
A new symbol.
That was the only way to set this Church right. He had to survive, whatever it took, and escape this place.
"Guards."
The Pope raised his hand.
"Bind the heretic. The hunt for the dismissed Saintess comes after."
And the false prophet knew that truth as well.
The guards drew their swords.
Mohaim tightened his grip on the dagger with a new resolve, and drew in a deep, deep breath.
And then—
"For the Lord God!!"
"For the Lord God!!"
The same cry erupted from both sides at once.
The second storm had begun to rage.