The Colorless Pope
Meanwhile, at the Papal Court housed within the southern branch of the Holy Church.
"Hm..."
Pope Escabaor III's voice broke the silence of his luxurious office. His aged, wrinkled eyes lingered, visibly troubled, as he turned over what he had just heard.
"A trial, rather than summary execution... That is rather novel news," the pontiff murmured, robed in his resplendent vestments. "You did assure me you could handle the matter smoothly, did you not, Your Majesty the Queen?"
Beyond the crystal orb, a remarkably voluptuous woman gave her reply.
"I did. But meddlers intervened."
Queen Helena Castor of the Crossline Kingdom. The sensual woman with eyes like rubies could not conceal her fury, and her voice rose through the orb.
"Courtiers who defy my will — no, the will of the state — threw opposing votes at the royal council!"
"Who would dare raise a banner against you and King Leo?"
"...The Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the vassals beneath him."
At her words, the Pope swiftly recalled the retainers of the Crossline Kingdom.
The Minister of Foreign Affairs... that would be Cartion Grayson.
A withered old man, as aged as himself. He remembered him well — the one who had served as Intelligence Director before ascending to minister. The man was known to be extraordinarily stubborn; when the Church had approached him in secret, he had refused every temptation and every offer.
And those beneath him would be the Chief Immigration Officer and the officials of the foreign and intelligence services.
Every one of them appointed personally by Cartion. In other words, an opposition bloc composed solely of those who shared the minister's will. However wildly the queen raged with the king's favor at her back, if nearly half the vassals stood opposed, punishment could not be decided on a whim. Doubtless that was why the matter had gone to trial rather than the executioner's block.
Having grasped the full picture, Escabaor nodded. "Not to worry. If anything, I feel all the more apologetic for burdening Your Majesty needlessly."
"Say no such thing."
Her voice turned faintly coaxing. "But... Your Holiness, there is a way you could help me."
"What manner of help do you require?"
"Would you attend the trial as a witness?"
The Pope raised an eyebrow. "...A witness."
"You needn't make the journey to Crossline Kingdom in person. If you could simply spare the time, you may testify through the crystal orb."
Neither of them needed to say aloud what the testimony would be. It meant lending weight to the trial of the Central Officer who oversaw the Southern Border.
With that single line, no evidence however airtight the other side produced would avail them. The weight of the Pope's word was the weight of the entire Church. Moreover, even with an opposition faction in play, if the original author of the official protest letter testified himself, the influence would be staggering.
That was precisely what the queen was aiming at. Some might have called it the collusion of church and politics. But to the Pope, this was nothing more than an act in service of the righteous path. The road to the great work. A modest detour on the way to his long-cherished wish. There was no reason to refuse — the Pope shared the very same goal.
"I shall gladly assist you. No — I ask that you permit me to assist."
"Truly? You will be a tremendous help at the trial!"
Watching the queen rejoice, Escabaor steered the conversation elsewhere and posed another question. "And how fares His Majesty the King these days?"
The Pope probed, as if in passing.
Helena hesitated a moment, then flushed. "He is still heartbroken, but... he does seek out my company often."
At that, Escabaor put on a kindly, grandfatherly smile. "Haha, how reassuring. At least someone to comfort him keeps him company."
Inwardly, he breathed easy.
At least the king will not trip us up again.
A father who had buried his own son — and who had once stood against the Church's great work.
The Little Beast lay unawakened still, eyes closed, drunk on the pleasures of the flesh his queen provided. There was no longer any need to fear he might take up his weapon once more.
An excellent situation.
It will not be as it was fifteen years ago.
Merely recalling those days made his fury boil over. Having skillfully mastered his rage, the Pope posed yet another question.
"Then how does the Princess fare? It has been quiet on her account."
"Elaine."
The queen's voice turned abruptly cold. "As you are well aware. Those dispatched by the Church are managing her with every responsibility."
Elaine Castor. A princess in seclusion, just like the king himself. Just as the queen said, the Pope received weekly reports on the princess's condition.
"Her guilt over that incident remains as heavy as ever."
"She wanders only the royal archive and its inner gardens — nothing of note to report."
There was only one reason he received reports on a princess he had never once laid eyes on.
Elaine was the Talent Manifestation of the Crossline Kingdom — and the one who had killed her own brother, Lassen Castor.
It had been an accident. Everyone knew that. But the cause, undeniably, had been Elaine. A power she could not contain. The runaway of a Talent Manifestation. It was the greatest tragedy in the history of the Crossline Kingdom.
And at the same time, the worst — and best — accident that ever broke King Leo.
While he was lost in such thoughts, the queen, apparently too embarrassed to ask outright, faltered into speech. "Um... once this matter is settled — the blessing you promised..."
Ah, right.
The Pope recalled the promise he had momentarily forgotten — the blessing he had pledged to grant in exchange for dealing with the Central Officer.
"Of course. The Lord does not withhold His love from those who follow heaven's will."
With those words, Escabaor spread both arms high toward the heavens and focused his spirit. "He sees your efforts well, Your Majesty."
"Huaaah..."
A blaze of golden radiance rivaling Erzena's divine power lit the office brilliantly. Helena, enraptured, clasped her hands together and trembled.
"Ahhh... th-then we shall purify body and soul on this end, and await it."
"May His protection and grace be with you."
With those parting words, the light in the crystal orb went dark.
What an easy woman.
It was an immensely rude thought, but the Pope sneered at her all the same. Her becoming Queen of the Crossline Kingdom had been a truly tremendous stroke of fortune for the Church.
"Is there anything easier in this world than moving a person of faith?"
All the more so when that person clung to their faith out of sheer desperation. A woman who had fallen into the Church's arms because her daughter was a Talent Manifestation, and who believed her daughter had killed her son in that accident because — Manifestation or not — she had failed to follow God's will. Thanks to her, the Holy Church had been able to slip so effortlessly into the breach the very moment King Leo crumbled.
Escabaor wiped the social warmth from his face.
Then he stripped off his vestments.
The instant the ceremonial robe, dripping with every manner of ornament, fell from his body, the divine power that had filled the room died out in a breath. The warmth vanished at once; the light, too, was snuffed out without warning. What remained was the eerie chill of dusk, and an atmosphere gone gray — a room robbed of the dying sunlight.
He then drew out the holy relics he had been secretly gripping inside the robe and laid them on the table, one by one.
"The Bell of Batara."
"The Necklace of Serukowski."
"The Ring of Saint Dinstar."
Each time his hand touched one, a faint golden divine power bloomed through the gray room, only to gutter out. But the moment his fingers lifted away, it was gone again.
And when at last the final relic had left his body, no color whatsoever radiated from him.
He had no color.
Just like this sunken room.
He knelt and offered up a prayer to God. "O Lord, your faithful servant at last undertakes the great work once more."
God did not answer.
The one closest to God — the highest leader of the Church, the man of deepest faith who ought to have enjoyed God's favor above all others —
"Grant that this Holy War may be brought to completion. Aid us, that by victory all the evil of the world may be purified."
No answer came to the prayer.
Yet Escabaor was not the least bit unsettled. He simply finished the prayer with perfect composure and took his seat, expressionless.
Naturally so. It had already been fifteen years since the Lord had withdrawn His divine power from him.
The divine power had vanished after the failure of the 1st Great Holy War. This feeling, so achingly familiar. Severance, and emptiness, and silence. To the Pope, those things were now part of his very composition.
Fifteen years had passed since he masked the vanished divine power with an arsenal of relics and the blessings of priests sworn to him alone. To the masses and the faithful, he shone with a brilliance of dazzling gold; alone, he was a being in whom only black and white remained.
The colorless Pope.
That was the name that truly fit Escabaor.
Leading his weary body to his chair, the Pope settled into it, and murmured quietly.
"Nathan Kell..."
Merely looking at the man twisted something in his gut. An utterly impudent young man.
He resembled someone so very much. He resembled Rio Castor, King of the Crossline Kingdom, to an almost unbearable degree.
That unpleasantly unyielding devotion to principle.
Come to think of it, it had been because of that man that his divine power had vanished. Because of King Leo.
Escabaor remembered those days still.
"God passed judgment."
He had been disappointed. He had withdrawn the divine power as a sign — the sign that you were no longer the one to serve His will at His closest side.
A truly terrible, agonizing truth.
But he had not broken.
The Pope murmured, low and quiet. "Though You abandoned me, I have never abandoned You."
God did not answer.
It did not matter. Soon, all the world would cry out Your name. And when that hour comes, You will never be able to forsake me again.
The completion of the Holy War was the completion of the Church. And so, for fifteen long years, he had not hesitated to commit every manner of scheme and filthy deed. All to fulfill God's will — and to reclaim the divine power that was his power base within the Church.
If only he could reclaim that divine power, there was nothing he would not do.
"No one under heaven understands God's will better than I."
The seat of Pope was a seat for him alone — a seat that existed for him and no one else. And so this, too, was a trial. The greatest trial on the road to the Church's glory.
The final obstacle standing before the Holy War.
And just as Rio Castor had crumbled, so too would Nathan Kell fall.
For that end, there could be no room for carelessness.
"A witness..."
He sank into thought for a moment.
Compared to himself, the Central Officer was a trifling existence. But the man had still blocked his path once — and so he had to be eliminated, thoroughly and without trace.
Now, if a single one of them could be crushed alone... what of three?
The Pope allowed himself a faint smile. Within the pilgrimage there were two more whose words carried a weight equal to his own.
He touched the crystal orb, and a familiar face appeared.
"Commander of the First Paladin Order."
"Yes, Your Holiness. You called for me?"
Mohaim dropped to one knee.
"Bring me Erzena."
The man had fled into a trial — but no trial could change his ending. So thinking, the Pope spoke with gravity.
"There is work that must be done by the three of us."
But there was something he did not know.
That the Saint was in the Crossline Kingdom.
And that Erzena had been reborn.
As a being without divine power — just like himself.