The Reversed Hierophant

Rafael swiftly scanned all the contents of the leather-bound notebook. Only a little over half an hour had passed since he woke up. The hour hand of the grandfather clock accurately pointed to the vine-like Roman numeral eleven, and the dim light stretched the Pope’s shadow endlessly across the carpet.

A secret murder buried for many years, a feast of vengeance woven from blood, hatred, and betrayal—the prize being the life of a Pope and the delayed amendment of a royal succession law.

Rafael tossed the thin notebook back into the box, suddenly losing the desire to explore anything else. He felt a sense of weariness, the cause of which was unknown, spreading from the depths of his body like a tide, submerging his bones and thoughts.

It had only been a little over a year since he gained a new life, but the dark fire of revenge that had burned in his body had already dried up.

Rafael had never given up seeking the truth, but as he delved deeper and deeper into the past, the more those rotting memories clung to him like the muck of a swamp, slowly suffocating him.

Sometimes… Rafael wondered if it might not be so bad to live like his previous self—an oblivious puppet, doing as he pleased.

For example, right now, he suddenly thought of the vineyard estate in the countryside. In previous years, he would take a month off to vacation at the vineyard, leaving all matters to Julius.

However—Rafael couldn’t help but wonder, did Julius know the truth about Delacroix’s death? Tondolo still firmly occupied his position of cardinal after Delacroix’s death. Who had supported him behind the scenes? Besides the network that Lav XI had buried in Florence, who else was involved in this secret murder, balancing the power and bloodshed on the scales?

Once his thoughts started running, they galloped uncontrollably. Clever people always had this habit of overthinking, and they also liked to be suspicious. Rafael had to admit that he himself was synonymous with suspicion and the desire for control, especially after dying once. He wanted to dissect every person around him, turning them inside out until he understood them completely.

Such suspicion was endless and meaningless, Rafael knew this very well, so he forcibly stopped his thoughts and casually opened the two letters in the box, with Lav XI’s name signed at the bottom—it seemed that Cardinal Tondolo didn’t trust this mastermind that much either.

He had kept the two most important letters from his correspondence with Lav XI, which stated the plan to assassinate Pope Vitalian III in not-so-veiled words.

Clearly, Lav XI was very confident in his accomplice. This unspeakable conspiracy gave the two a solid foundation of trust. The letters also bore Lav XI’s private seal, but he obviously didn’t expect Tondolo to preserve such damning evidence—something that served him no benefit at all.

If these two letters were made public, then Lav XI’s name would be eternally tarnished, and the Roman Empire would become the target of hatred for all believers. The Papal States could easily launch a holy war of revenge against Rome, dragging this vast empire into the abyss of disintegration—if Rafael was willing.

Rafael stuffed the letters back into the envelopes, and wearily closed the box. There was still a parchment scroll inside, but he was in no mood to open it now.

Betrayal, murder, poison, and daggers—these words sounded terrifyingly familiar.

Rafael propped his forehead with his fingers, staring at the intricate patterns on the desk. His mind was unprecedentedly blank, like a newborn baby staring blankly ahead, until a long-lost drowsiness gently embraced him.

Ferrante, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, walked into the Pope’s suite softly and silently before the morning bells of Florence began to ring for prayer. His deep blue eyes were slightly lowered, clearly somewhat distracted, otherwise he would have noticed the figure slumped on the desk at the first moment.

However, his reaction was only delayed by a mere two seconds.

“Hmm?” The youth with many terrifying titles made a surprised murmur from his throat. He pulled out the hand tucked under his wide sleeve, every nerve in his body tensed. He rushed forward in three strides and, relying on his superb professional skills, realized that his Holy Father had not suffered any misfortune but had simply fallen asleep.

But, why here?

Ferrante didn’t wake the Holy Father but stealthily crept to the four-poster bed and reached out to touch the quilt.

Cold, without a trace of warmth.

Clearly, the Holy Father had already gotten up, or perhaps he hadn’t slept at all?

Ferrante frowned. He was a little angry, a nameless and inexplicable anger, perhaps partly directed at himself.

…In the future, he would have to come regularly to check on the Holy Father’s sleep.

The leader of the Arbitration Bureau returned to the Pope’s side, looking slightly troubled as he watched His Holiness still in deep sleep.

Sleeping in this position was very bad for the body, especially since the Holy Father’s health wasn’t very good to begin with. But Ferrante also knew that the Pope’s sleep quality had always been terrible, probably because he had too many things to think about and deal with. It was rare for the Pope to get a full night’s sleep, and it was even rarer for him to get this close without being awakened.

So, should he wake His Holiness?

Ferrante struggled painfully. If he woke him, according to the Holy Father’s personality, he would definitely get up and work directly. If he didn’t wake him, the Holy Father might wake up feeling pain all over…

The head of the Arbitration Bureau was in a dilemma.

As he deeply pondered this century-old problem, the morning bells suddenly rang loudly. Ferrante was startled and, without time to think more, subconsciously reached out and covered Rafael’s ears.

Only after completing this series of actions did he belatedly realize how foolish his behavior was.

But it was too late to withdraw his hand.

Ferrante half-bent over, stiffly maintained this posture, his gaze sliding down to see Rafael’s peacefully closed eyes. His long eyelashes gently cast a faint shadow on his lower eyelids. His light golden hair was somewhat disheveled, spilled across his neck—a few tangled around Ferrante’s fingers like a gilded net, capturing a butterfly with fluttering wings.

His heart began to beat wildly. Ferrante suspected that the sound of his heartbeat at this moment was loud enough for everyone in Florence to hear. He tried hard to stay quiet, but even though he held his breath, he still sadly and helplessly heard his own arrogant heartbeat.

Unable to help it, Ferrante’s gaze uncontrollably traced the elegant curve of Rafael’s pale neck. The rounded collar of the Pope’s sleep robe revealed just enough—the smooth line of his throat, the subtle dip of his collarbones—

Ferrante’s gaze lingered for a split second before he jerked away.

Unlike the excessively naïve Leshert, Ferrante’s upbringing was extremely harsh. Moreover, since he was born in the Rose Garden, Ferrante had grown up exposed to all kinds of desires from a young age. Under such constant influence, no one knew better than him what these dark and subtle thoughts and actions represented.

His wildly pounding heart stopped instantly, as if facing the most terrifying scene in the world.

He—how could he possibly harbor such thoughts toward His Holiness?!

This was impossible—this shouldn’t—

All sorts of amorous thoughts were washed away. Ferrante tried to convince himself that this was just an accident, but he knew better than anyone what his thoughts just now meant.

Rafael had saved him, dragged him out of the muddy world, given him a new life, and become his only spiritual pillar and guiding light, a perfect, noble existence. How many people wished to get close to Rafael, and yet such a person had focused his gaze on him—who could remain unmoved by such favor?

There were far too many reasons for Ferrante to fall in love with Rafael—enough to form a raging flood that would obliterate any feeble excuse to resist.

And besides, Ferrante had never been one to follow the rules.

How could a conventional person survive in the mire of the lower city?

The young man, barely into his youth, possessed a lithe, tall physique and outstanding appearance. He lowered his eyes, his deep blue irises perfectly reflecting the person sleeping soundly on the desk.

Unrestrainedly, meticulously, he gazed at Rafael inch by inch.

The hand covering Rafael’s ear remained as steady as ever. To protect the Pope, Ferrante and his subordinates had learned martial arts that leaned towards the secrecy of assassins, emphasizing concealment, lethal strikes, and extreme patience and stability. No matter how intense and crazy his thoughts were at this moment, his hand remained motionless.

Rafael was awakened entirely by the soreness in his neck. The muscles in his neck, due to the incorrect sleeping posture, stubbornly began to assert their presence. Rafael painfully opened his eyes and met Ferrante’s deep, sea blue eyes.

“Ferrante?” The Pope murmured the name of his trusted subordinate, who then offered him a dependent smile.

“Why did you fall asleep here?” Ferrante’s tone held a hint of gentle reproach. Rafael did not answer him because of his guilty conscience and the pain in his neck. Then, he felt a warm hand press down forcefully on the aching muscles.

The extreme soreness mixed with the ease of being kneaded, carried by the nerves in his spine, surged all the way into his brain. Before his reason could react, his senses had already responded. The corners of Rafael’s eyes instantly turned red from the overly complex sensation, a thin layer of tears coated his eyes, and a low whimper escaped his throat, only to be swallowed back, turning into a choked sob.

The young Pope subconsciously wanted to avoid the hand, but Ferrante stepped forward, his hands pressing down on him with irresistible force. One hand loosely circled Rafael’s body, drawing him closer, while the other hand continued to steadily knead his shoulders and neck, his tone carrying a hint of almost imperceptible amusement. “Don’t be afraid, Rafael, it will be better soon, otherwise you’ll feel uncomfortable all day.”

Rafael was very ticklish, so he also resisted others touching his waist and the hollows of his neck, as even a light touch was unbearable. Now, suddenly being kneaded by Ferrante, it felt as if a shy stray cat had been firmly grabbed by the scruff of its neck, unable to escape, only able to tremble as it was held in his arms. He didn’t even notice Ferrante’s form of address.

No, he had noticed it, but he didn’t have the mental energy to analyze the change now. He just vaguely thought that he had allowed Ferrante to call him by his name before, but Ferrante had always refused. Why had he suddenly changed now?

This thought was quickly washed away by the tidal wave of soreness and numbness. Colorful fireworks exploded in his mind. Rafael suppressed the frequency of his breathing, involuntarily clutching the corner of Ferrante’s clothes, like an insecure fluffy little animal desperately burrowing into Ferrante’s arms, as if trying to dig a hole that would allow him to escape on the spot, completely disappearing into Ferrante’s palm.

The young man with black curly hair lowered his eyes, looking at the Pope trembling and curled up in his arms. He had to manually pull him out, casually stroking the other’s soft long hair twice. When he met those reddened pale purple eyes, Ferrante’s breath hitched very lightly for a moment, and then he smiled. “Don’t you like this kind of massage? I learned it from Doctor Polly.”

Rafael used all his strength not to scream out in embarrassment. He blinked, clearing the moisture that obscured his vision, his voice trembling. “No… I’m just not used to it.”

“Ah… then you can get used to it by trying it a few more times.” Ferrante said the words that sent shivers down Rafael’s spine in the most harmless tone.

The Pope almost jumped out of his chair, but Ferrante gently stopped him, simultaneously changing the subject. “I noticed your quilt is cold. You wouldn’t have slept like this all night, would you?”

This topic made Rafael feel guilty and short of breath again. Ferrante said softly, “Doctor Polly said that you need a comfortable sleep. If I see this again next time, I will report to Doctor Polly—until then, I will visit you periodically to check on your sleep.”

His words made Rafael’s face change repeatedly, but the guilty Pope ultimately didn’t refute him, only feeling a faint unease in his heart. Ferrante had always cared about him, but had he been this forceful before? Or was he particularly angry today?

Harboring such doubts, Rafael finished his morning prayers and breakfast. Reports on the flooding in the lower city of Florence were piled high on his desk. Many of them had been compiled and organized by Ferrante’s subordinates, and the situation was more comprehensive than what Julius had gathered. After all, the Secretary of State wouldn’t have beggar informants from the lower city, while Ferrante…

Rafael had heard that Ferrante was recently trying to categorize his informants by profession. He already had groups of thieves, beggars, prostitutes, small workshop owners, and so on. Illegal activities in Florence were constantly being suppressed, and if Ferrante could keep them in his grasp, Rafael felt it wasn’t a bad thing.

Ferrante was also very careful in doing this. Unlike the official guilds, the informants he controlled regarded him as a broker in some gray area, which made it easier for him to obtain information. Therefore, Ferrante was very careful about maintaining confidentiality. If those people knew they were providing information to the Papal Palace, they would definitely burrow back into their lairs like rats at the arrival of daylight and never appear before Ferrante again.

But there were also some clever people vaguely realized something. Ferrante welcomed such clever people to work with him. As long as desire existed, he could skillfully keep them in his grasp.

“Count Tondolo is currently quite dutiful and has diligently completed the tasks assigned to him,” Ferrante said casually.

Hearing this surname, Rafael’s eyelashes trembled slightly, but he said nothing, just nodded, his tone steady. “Then give him more tasks. I don’t treat those who can work badly.”

Ferrante hesitated for a moment, pulled a roll of paper from his sleeve, and spread it on Rafael’s desk. “My men have discovered that recently, someone in the lower city has been buying children between the ages of six and ten. After investigation, they were found in Cardinal Lombardi’s estate.”

Rafael stopped writing and stared at the list in front of him. “What does he want to do?”

Ferrante licked his lips. In fact, during the time between being chosen by the Holy Grail Church to go to the Papal Palace, he had also lived in Cardinal Lombardi’s estate. He knew very well that if Rafael hadn’t chosen him back then, he would have become a knife in Cardinal Lombardi’s hand, and these children were clearly a reflection of his other possible fate. “Perhaps… training them to become his private guards.”

Although he used uncertain words, his tone was certain.

Rafael sensed something from Ferrante’s tone, raised his eyes and met Ferrante’s gaze for a moment. The cold iciness in his pale purple pupils slowly melted into gentle water. He gently patted Ferrante’s hand on the desk, saying nothing, but Ferrante’s heart miraculously relaxed.

“The laws of the Papal States do not explicitly prohibit the trade of people, but with such quantity… and with his position as cardinal… what is he planning to do? Could his popularity have deteriorated to the point where he would have his head cut off with a dinner knife if he didn’t have guards surrounding him while he ate?” Rafael frowned, ironically sarcastic, looking somewhat weary.

“Inform Julius about this. He’s good at handling this. Return the children to their families. If they have nowhere to go, place them in the monasteries under the Papal Palace.”

Ferrante accepted the order, watching Rafael pull over a piece of memo paper and quickly and hastily write a few lines, then stamp it with his private seal. “Remember to remind me when you have time. Lombardi has been sitting in that cardinal’s seat long enough. It’s time for someone else to take it—there are plenty of people who want to exchange their robes for a red one.”

The position of cardinal was always for life, but… how could the Pope be wrong?

Ferrante’s lips curled up slightly. “I will remember.”

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