The Monster Lady and the Holy Knight - Chapter 23

It was a voice like that of an old lion. Leon thought as he opened his mouth to speak.

“After sending the carrier pigeon, Aseldorf was invaded the very next day. I left immediately, so I had no choice but to arrive early.”

“I’ve already heard the news that Aseldorf has returned to the arms of God. I’m asking which path you took.”

‘Returned to the arms of God.’

That was a phrase that had come to mean total destruction since the religious wars had begun. He had expected it, but had it truly come to this?

Leon remained silent for a moment, as if offering a prayer for the tragedy of the city. In response, the Pope clicked his tongue.

“A week, you say. So, you crossed the wilderness. You’ve broken so many rules now that it’s hard to count them all on ten fingers.”

Leon stared expressionlessly at the approaching footsteps. Those he had abandoned were now dead. The weight of guilt on his shoulders was now beyond counting on two hands.

“Pater, peccavi in caelum et coram te. iam non sum dignus vocari filius tuus. (Father, I have sinned against heaven and you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.)”

Leon had broken his oath of loyalty to the Pope and abandoned the battlefield. A knight’s duty is to light the darkness with his life. He is not supposed to judge. He is not supposed to think. But Leon had thought, and he had acted on his own judgment. Yet, during that journey, he had not protected the weak as a knight should. Whether it was excommunication or execution, he was willing to accept it, as long as he completed one final mission.

“And yet, the second son of God has returned to the Holy City.”

Everything would be done after killing “it.” After saving more lives than those he couldn’t protect.

“Do you expect me to throw a feast for you like the prodigal son?”

“I wish for a feast where Bahamut is the slaughtered beast instead of an ox.”

The robe, dragging on the floor and making a hissing, snake-like sound, stopped right in front of Leon.

The Pope asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“The woman saw a vision of those things multiplying in Blasen. Once the Bahamuts have grown in number, they will attack Kart.”

Leon raised his head and looked up at the elderly, white-haired man. The Pope’s increasingly labored breathing resembled the tremors of an old lion.

A king who trembles every day, fearing the enemy who will strike at any moment.

“Blasen? Are you saying they are hiding in the Crown Mountains?”

“I’m certain. The woman sensed the disaster in Aseldorf beforehand as well. We should begin searching the mountains immediately.”

“Half of the Holy Knights are still deployed to Bayern. I cannot send them out of Kart until they return.”

The Pope immediately assumed a defensive stance. Despite the proximity of the mountain range, he refused to send his forces. Even with the Emperor’s army stationed in this land.

“Kart has been promised eternal peace.”

“Yes, as you say. Even if they overrun the city, Kart will not fall.”

“Have you considered that the woman was sent here to ensure it doesn’t?”

Leon’s words sounded bold, almost impudent, to the Pope. He had essentially declared the assimilated one to be an apostle sent by God, accusing the Pope of failing to recognize her.

“So, have you breathed life into Bahamut’s daughter? The healing of holy power is forbidden to distance oneself from pleasure and carnal desires.”

“It was necessary.”

“Necessary, you say?”

The Pope had never truly believed in the “first Bahamut.” The idea that one could be equivalent to the whole was far too convenient.

However, the woman’s necessity was a different matter. The ability to sense Bahamut and the strange atmosphere surrounding her—if everything Leon had reported was true, it was an extremely desirable power.

The Pope gave a benevolent smile. “Then, would you offer her as a sacrifice when necessary?”

Leon had expected this, so he simply bowed his head. He looked at the black floor beneath him. Black—the face of the night that absorbs all light and is stained by nothing.

He thought of the woman’s black hair, swaying over her snow-white neck.

Her fate had been sealed from the beginning. She would die. Whether he had saved her or not, she would have died eventually, and even now, it was hard to say she would live to see tomorrow. All that mattered was what happened between now and her end. If he could offer that to them…

“Will you permit me to take knights to Blasen?”

“You cannot go as their commander. If you’re willing to accept the dishonor of serving as a mercenary, I will allow it.”

Becoming a mercenary meant more than simply exchanging white armor for gray steel. His name would be erased from the church’s records, and every knight who knew what had happened at Tiran would avoid him.

And that’s not all. The woman would likely be tortured under the pretext of exploring Bahamut’s powers. Such was the Holy City. The God they worshipped so mercifully had once been a god of war. His eyes, which faced the longsword, were closed. To some, He was an unbearably cruel god.

“Shall I cry for you?”

The oath of a Holy Knight was truly laughable. Follow God, obey the Pope’s will, and protect the innocent weak. But what if the Pope’s will commanded the weak to die?

The woman was more innocent than any person Leon had ever seen. To the point where she said she would dream nightmares for the one who had fled and shed tears for the man who had slit his own throat.

And the sacrificial lamb is always the most innocent animal.

“Fac ut vis. (Do as you will.)”

Leon replied quietly. If he could survive long enough to drive his sword into Bahamut’s head, that would be enough. He had no need for human honor or recognition. He was a man who had dedicated himself to God.

“My son has returned, so we must throw a feast.”

A benevolent smile appeared on the Pope’s lips. He spoke as though he were a father welcoming back a lost, prodigal son.

“Quia hic filius meus mortuus erat et revixit, perierat et inventus est. (For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.)”

***

Creak, creak. The lanterns swayed ominously as if crying.

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

Veronica hesitated before finally asking her question. Her footsteps echoed on the blood-red carpet. The priests ahead of her turned their expressionless faces toward her. Their pale faces, accentuated by their black robes, seemed to float in the air like ghosts. Veronica’s courage, fragile as it was, nearly disappeared as memories of the people of Aseldorf haunted her.

“It’s just hard to believe that all the rooms in such a grand building would be underground.”

A cold draft blew from the lower levels, causing the flames in the wall lanterns to flicker. Since Leon had entered the church, Veronica had been guided around the papal palace, walking down to the lower floors three times already.

“You’re almost there. Your room is just downstairs, so don’t worry and keep walking.”

Don’t worry? That sounds like some kind of faith test.

Veronica hesitated again as she stared down the dimly lit stairs. If not for the faint sounds of wailing that echoed up the stairwell, she wouldn’t have dared ask any more questions. The hope of washing up and lying down on a bed vanished, replaced by a growing sense of primal unease.

“Leon… I mean, when will Sir Berg arrive?”

In the end, she awkwardly mentioned Leon’s name. In this unfamiliar place, he was the only person she could rely on.

“As you know, he is currently having an audience with His Holiness. Once the report is complete, he will come for you immediately.”

This time, the answer came from behind her. Turning around, she saw a gaunt man with bright, piercing eyes blocking her path.

There was no way out. Instead of pushing further, Veronica bit her lip and began walking forward. She clung to the sword strapped to her waist as if it were her only salvation. And then…

“Forgive me. Please forgive me. I was wrong. I didn’t know any better. Please, have mercy.”

Her thoughts were drowned out by the voices. As she walked, the pleas became louder and more desperate. And yet, Veronica was the only one who seemed disturbed by the moans and cries.

A series of rooms stretched down the black corridor, where candelabras hung at regular intervals. Or were they really rooms?

Prisons. That’s what they were. In front of each one stood soldiers with covered faces and an inquisitor in gray rags. She recognized the inquisitor from the whip he held in his hand.

Drip. Drip. Blood trickled from the multi-tailed whip, pooling on the floor. Veronica clenched her hands into tight fists, so tightly that her fingers lost circulation. The fourth basement of the papal palace echoed with cries of pain, accompanied by the emotionless priests.

If her guess was correct, this was a prison for criminals.

“Here is your room. This is where you will be staying. It’s not much, as it was prepared in haste, but it has everything you need.”

Veronica swallowed at the creaking sound of the rusty hinges.

As one of the priests pushed open the door, yellow light poured out from within. Standing in the dark, damp hallway, the warm glow of the room seemed even more intense, lighting up her feet.

A noble’s room—that was her first impression. Having lived her life as a carpenter’s daughter, Veronica had never seen such a luxurious room. There was a feather bed, a clean vanity with a mirror, a blazing fireplace, and a richly-colored dark brown table with beautiful wood grain. Everything was there, except for one thing—a window to the outside.

“Meals will be brought to you at the appropriate times.”

The explanation came from over her shoulder. Entranced, Veronica stepped into the room, surprised at how different it was from the prison she had expected. As soon as she entered, the door behind her closed with a loud thud.

It sounded almost like the falling of a heart.