Awl-Like Traces of the Brother (3)
He had discovered traces of his brother protruding like the point of an awl. It was information that had shifted from mere suspicion to certainty, and he had even met the person who served as the key to unraveling it. Yet it was not perfect evidence. The clue he had finally encountered was a doll branded with the mark of a criminal.
He could provide information only in fragmented form, unable to remember the brother lurking behind it all.
In the Pope's reception chamber, Lenoir sat facing him, his brow furrowed.
"The seal cannot be undone."
"Indeed, for the moment when that might have been possible has long passed."
"That much was calculated."
The seal was etched not into the body, but the soul. In ordinary cases, there might be the slightest loophole allowing its removal once the punishment ended—but the Pope's situation was different.
"Each time your soul shifted from body to body, the seal must have clung more tightly to it. The moment it crossed that threshold, the seal became part of your soul."
"Yes, a fate I had prepared myself for."
"Was it worth such a price?"
"I forgot the one who granted me this power and gained eternal life. That offer held no poison for me whatsoever."
It was spoken in the past tense. From those words, Lenoir gleaned a clue.
"You regret it."
The Pope smiled silently, though his eyes did not join in the mirth. How could he laugh it off, after all?
"You have learned that immortality is not so sweet. And since you exist only as an imperfect vessel rather than a perfect one, the bitterness must be all the greater."
The more a soul migrates from body to body, the duller the physical sensations become. Eventually, it reaches a point where one feels like a puppeteer manipulating a doll from afar—and the Pope had already arrived there. How horrifying it must be to experience the world's wonders yet feel nothing of them. The tendency worsens over time, until even while communing with the world, true connection with anyone eludes you—what emotion would that evoke? That was why Hailerr had devised this spell only to discard it immediately. Eternal life bereft of the five senses was, in itself, a curse more terrible than any other.
Even without that, the human soul and mind were not built to endure eternity. This man appeared to have chosen immortality of his own accord, yet he had no choice but to regret it.
Of course, it was none of Lenoir's concern. If it was a choice he had made himself, it was a fitting punishment for his folly.
Let us turn to a separate matter. Lenoir asked,
"I shall skirt the seal with my questions. Answer me."
"Yes, demigod."
"When did you last meet him?"
"Twenty years ago."
"What did he teach you up to that point?"
"All the theory he knew at the time. And the hierarchy of the mythic age. He said he would recreate the church built by the Lords of Creation."
"He is not Hailerr. Is that correct?"
"I cannot answer."
Lenoir nodded. 'Not Hailerr, then.' If the seal's master had been Hailerr, it would have activated regardless of affirmation or denial. The words themselves should not have emerged. Thus, one suspect could be eliminated.
It was unexpected. 'This only muddies the waters further.' If Hailerr had been the culprit, narrowing the investigation would have been straightforward—tracing one man's footsteps was no great challenge after centuries together. But investigating every suspect individually would consume far too much. It was inefficient.
So he shifted his approach.
"When will he return?"
He would wait for the next visit. But the Pope shook his head firmly.
"He will never come again."
Lenoir was startled by the response. It was a statement harmless to the seal's master and thus the truth. Meaning this Pope had been abandoned by his brother twenty years prior.
That made no sense.
"Why?"
"Because he had extracted and witnessed all the information I could provide."
"...So the fish farm's lifespan had run its course."
"Yes, if we must use an analogy."
Lenoir's expression darkened. 'How could he?' Setting aside his feelings toward humanity, how was such an act even possible? He was the son of the Creators. If that pride meant anything, he could not treat them so callously. One thing was clear: utter corruption, or perhaps downfall. Such words suited the unknown brother's state.
He had gained some information, but far more questions had arisen. Lenoir realized he could not stop here.
"I must see his research materials. Where are they?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Somewhere in the church, then. I shall find them myself."
"I have no right to stop you."
"Indeed, you pose no threat to me."
Lenoir had participated in developing the seal himself. Sidestepping it to elicit answers was child's play.
Having obtained what he sought, Lenoir rose from his seat.
"The church is vast. I shall come and go for a time to investigate, so do not interfere with my movements henceforth."
"Yes, great one."
The Pope bowed even deeper. Lenoir glared at him one last time. That murky soul grated on him.
* * *
Sara had a thoroughly enjoyable time. Above all, Justina had taken a real liking to her.
Some might say Sara failed to see through Justina's pretenses. Others might claim her gaze was too fixed on those ample breasts to truly listen. The truth leaned toward the latter, but even that was not entirely accurate. Sara saw right through Justina—she simply did not care, preferring to focus on the chest instead.
'Just like my big sisters.' Gazing at Justina, Sara recalled the matrons of her hometown. The voluptuous figures, the way they wielded them to enchant, the smiles that sometimes hid true intentions—it all matched. They were the most common type in her upbringing, easy enough to read.
Thus, surprisingly, Sara proved a delightful conversation partner for Justina. She knew just how to stroke her ego.
"Seeing you reminds me of my big sisters!"
"Your big sisters?"
"Yeah! The ones who raised me!"
By the letter, it meant 'You seem like a total hooker.' But how could Justina know? Sara meant no malice, and Justina took it at face value—the perfect balance for their chat to flow.
"Oh my, I'm honored to resemble such noble figures."
"For real! You'd get along so well if you met my sisters!"
"Hehe, I'd love to meet them someday."
"Whoa! You mean it!?"
"If the chance arises?"
Justina was enjoying it too. By nature one who reveled in others' adoration, she found Sara's pure hero-worship utterly endearing.
This back-and-forth was in full swing when—
"Pardon the interruption, my lord. It is time to return."
"Eek! Already!?"
Lenoir appeared. Only then did Justina realize Sara had come with him—and that she had been engrossed in the girl's tales for quite some time.
As mutual surprise hung in the air, Lenoir addressed the visibly disappointed Sara.
"It seems I must visit the Malik Church for the next few days."
"Eek! For real, you're coming back!?"
"Yes, the Pope himself suggested it."
Sara's face lit up like sunshine. Justina, meanwhile, felt a twinge of puzzlement. 'That old geezer?' She was one of the few executives who knew the Pope's true nature. She kept her distance due to his enigmatic ways, but as her direct superior, she had to obey his decisions. That it was made without consultation irked her inwardly. Outwardly, though, her smile held.
"Guess I'll see you tomorrow then! Oh, I'll bring that three-cup shuffle I mentioned earlier!"
"Ahaha, sure..."
Her mind was growing needlessly cluttered. Justina felt Lenoir's gaze fixed upon her. Just like at the banquet: emotionless eyes piercing straight through her own. Goosebumps prickled her skin, and amid it all, Sara waved wildly.
"See you tomorrow, Saintess!"
Justina bowed deeply. Lenoir and Sara's presences soon faded, and only then could she exhale in relief.
'What kind of person is that?'
Tsk. She clicked her tongue and turned sharply to head back to her quarters—only to find her path blocked.
The Pope's attendant knights.
"We have come to escort you. His Holiness awaits."
"Lest you forget your schedule."
"I haven't forgotten. No need to worry."
They were among the few from whom Justina did not wear her mask. Irritation brimming, she jerked her chin.
"What are you waiting for? Let's go."
A damned schedule awaited. Even idle chatter with Sara would have been preferable.