Chapter 182

Upon hearing of his daughter’s death, Marquis Kendall, half-mad with grief, rallied far more noble allies than the Pope had expected. Few had the courage to openly oppose divine authority, but even a brief halt in funding was like a chasm opening beneath his feet, throwing the entire tomb construction into chaos.

Sacred relics were sold off from the Pope’s once-splendid audience chamber. With only the weekly offerings, there was not enough to pay the wages of foreign laborers or even the stipends of Ulevis’s own citizens who had served in sacred duties.

A truly devout soul might have endured hardship alongside the Pope, believing God would reward His beloved children with overflowing blessings.

But the citizens of Ulevis did not see the Pope’s poverty as a divine trial suddenly laid upon him. To them, it was simple.

They turned from him completely. As if watching a man struck by God’s punishment.

‘Damned heretics.’

Omnitus sat in the empty audience chamber, grinding his teeth. In just days his face had aged by years.

Yes, they were all heretics—fit only to be dragged off by the Holy Knights and burned. Worse than infidels, they were rotten apples quick to corrupt the faithful flock. Otherwise, how could they have abandoned him so eagerly?

‘Ren Fayel…’

Yes. He must be the one leading them. He should have been killed long ago, when he was still young and unnoticed. His head should have been struck off without mercy.

Omnitus’s hand shook on the armrest. He longed for a cigarette. Afterward, he would excommunicate that wretched Marquis Kendall.

He had even written that Aidalia Kendall couldn’t be dead—that perhaps she’d taken medicine. That was why, even after being held for days in the dungeon, her body had not decayed.

Surely the Marquis had received the letter, but no reply ever came. Instead, the man obstructed him without a word. Unless the fool had sent his daughter as part of some scheme from the start, his behavior made no sense.

The low-born laborers were spies, too. That had to be it.

His wrinkled face twisted in irritation as the audience chamber doors creaked open.

Not long ago, those doors had never stayed closed, nobles constantly coming and going to place their saints or their family names in the new tomb. But in recent days, no one passed through except Omnitus himself.

He raised his eyes. Sparks flared there, though weakly.

“Your Holiness.”

Striding forward with lively steps was a young man.

Some called him angelic, his face gentle, innocent, kind. The sight brought back memories of someone long past—especially with that vivid pink hair.

The youth offered only a token verbal greeting, never bowing, and stopped before the Pope’s chair. Omnitus gnashed his teeth.

Truly, this unpleasant boy was the spitting image of his brother.

“…Ren… Fayel.”

“Now that I’m ordained, you needn’t attach my family name.”

Ren smiled softly.

To onlookers, it might have seemed a kind youth under threat from a villain. But in truth, it was Omnitus on the throne who felt the pressure, while Ren, standing tall with that pleasant smile, was the one who had cornered the head of divine authority with his schemes.

How had Ren even reached him here, with protesters outside the gates? And where was the treasurer who should always be by the Pope’s side?

At last, Omnitus thought he understood. Perhaps even the cigarettes…

“Y-you… bought off… my… men.”

His once strong voice rasped out, hoarse and weak. Ren only shrugged.

“Wasn’t hard. The ones left by your side were all drifters anyway.”

“I… paid… them… well.”

“Money alone won’t hold people. If that’s all you give, they’ll sell themselves to whoever pays next.”

Omnitus suddenly noticed Ren’s right hand clenched in a fist. When their eyes met, Ren grinned and tossed a jeweled ring into the air, catching it with the skill of a mischievous youth.

Three times he threw and caught it, before gripping it firmly and stepping up the stairs toward the throne. His footsteps rang in the empty chamber.

As he approached, Omnitus’s face crumpled. Sweat ran down his brow. He wanted to flee, but his body was heavy, sluggish. His legs no longer obeyed. He could not outrun the young man.

Ren’s soft expression turned flat.

“…When my brother died, I was too young. I came in from playing outside, and the air in the house was different. The servants said he suddenly collapsed and was gone.”

The memory had blurred with time, but never faded completely.

Ren had once been welcomed everywhere, treated like a prince. But that day, he lost it all.

“I couldn’t understand. He’d eaten breakfast with me that very morning, perfectly healthy. I couldn’t believe it. Even seeing him in the glass coffin, lying as if asleep, I thought—if I just opened the lid, he’d wake up and play with me again.”

Ren slid the gem of the ring upward. Omnitus’s eyes widened.

“I… I…”

“I should have opened it. I didn’t know you had such filth hidden inside.”

Ren’s face darkened. From the mechanism beneath the lifted gem, a thin drop of liquid oozed out.

The old man’s face twisted with terror. He tried to move, to escape, but his body no longer obeyed.

Ren smiled brightly. But to Omnitus, that smile was the most frightening expression he had ever seen.

“If I’d known my brother might one day wake, I would never have let them bury that coffin. Do you know how much it breaks my heart?”

Ren’s brother, Pope Tacitus, had been beloved by the faithful. When he suddenly died, his funeral was mourned by countless people.

But who could have imagined that funeral buried someone who might have awakened again one day?

Ren sighed softly. But his left hand gripped Omnitus’s jaw and forced his mouth open.

Plink. A drop of poison fell inside.

Then another.

Omnitus’s body went rigid.

The last thing his fading eyes reflected was not Ren, but a man who looked just like him—confident, and forever standing far ahead of Omnitus.

“I won’t tell you to rest in peace. Don’t rest. Suffer, just like my brother did.”

Ren whispered.

❖ ❖ ❖

The sudden death of the supreme religious leader conveniently quelled the budding riots in Ulevis.

Though in life he had turned the Holy City into a Golden City, earning the derisive nickname Orevis, the Pope still held sacred meaning for the faithful. Every morning they prayed together; every day they saw God’s glory embodied in architecture.

And so, the citizens watched the funeral of Pope Omnitus III with solemn reverence.

It was said he had hoarded enough gold to fill the Lily Palace many times over. Yet in death, the grandest luxury he commanded was his shroud and coffin.

Clad in pure white silk, laid in a coffin lined with incense, he looked as though he had only just closed his eyes. Days had passed since his death, yet he seemed lifelike still.

The coffin’s lid was glass, adorned with golden carvings, so as the procession circled Ulevis, the people could steep themselves in sorrow.

Though the city’s problems remained—questions of livelihood, of unfinished projects—they knew shouting would solve nothing now.

Citizens of this ancient Papal State valued the glory awaiting them at God’s side more than the fleeting tribulations of earth.

Perhaps when true tribulation came they would speak otherwise, but at least before their neighbors, this was their dignity.

“Lord, Your servant now returns to Your side…”

A senior priest, who had hurried to Ulevis at dawn upon hearing of the Pope’s passing, prayed in a sonorous voice.

When the procession halted at a small clearing behind the Lily Palace, the crowd had grown large.

No one asked what would become of the grand tomb or its unfinished centerpiece.

A ‘simple and peaceful resting place’ had been prepared. That was enough.

The priests donned black vestments for mourning. So many high clergy in black was a sight seen nowhere else. Normally, even for an emperor’s funeral, they would wear white.

And the one leading them was, surprisingly, the youngest among them.

The youthful cardinal with bright pink hair, from a family the deceased Pope had despised, appeared to mourn him most deeply. His pale face, lowered eyes, and tear-streaked cheeks made him look every bit a grieving son.

Among the dignitaries, Nerys watched through her black veil with interest.

Beside her, also in black, Cledwyn murmured:

“Look over there.”

“Where?”

“There’s a young lady freed from a dreadful bargain.”

There could be only one.

The girl nearly sold off by her father to an aging count as collateral for debt: Brigid.

By canon law, illegitimate children could not attend funerals or weddings—not even those of close kin.

Thus, the figure Cledwyn pointed out was veiled head to toe in black, hiding among strangers to conceal her identity.

From the flicker in her eyes beneath the veil, Nerys guessed she had not come to mourn her father, but to confirm his death, to etch it into memory. Perhaps to quietly celebrate her own freedom.

It was Nerys’s first time seeing Brigid, yet she knew.

“If she’s caught, they’ll say she damned her father’s soul to hell, and she’ll be beaten for it. Quite a brave girl. How did you recognize her? Have you seen her before?”

“Not me. Talfrin told me.”

Standing nearby in disguise among the guests, Talfrin cleared his throat lightly.

Nerys narrowed her eyes and turned her gaze elsewhere.

The one who had arranged for the newly made, youngest cardinal Ren to lead the clergy was none other than the late Pope’s treasurer. He solemnly watched as the coffin sank into the pit and earth covered it.

When all had finished their prayers under Ren’s guidance, he slowly walked toward the Lily Palace gates.

The other cardinals followed. None of the other clergy joined them.

The conclave had begun—the vote to choose the next Pope.