Chapter 122

Raphael

Following the stone corridor connected to the Grand Cathedral of Laurenzio, one would come upon the bishop’s residence.
It was a place where high-ranking clergy of the Papal authority, responsible for administration and dioceses, stayed as needed.

At first glance, it resembled an old manor.
Its walls, built of stone, had stood for centuries, and inside, portraits of saints and martyrs hung throughout.

The first floor housed offices for administrative work, while the second floor contained the bishops’ quarters.

Most rooms were exceedingly modest—nothing more than a desk, a chair, a bed, an altar, and a few personal books.
The room where Bishop Alquin stayed was no different.

Since arriving in the Papal State, he had remained in these quarters.
An assisting priest regularly brought him meals and medicinal tonics to restore his strength.
He answered the persistent questions of inquisitors, and spent the rest of his time recovering, devoting himself to meditation and prayer.

On the surface, it was a peaceful and monotonous life.
But within him, fierce turmoil raged.

It was not about humanity’s salvation, nor how God worked, nor the harmony of faith and reason.

No carrier pigeons had arrived from the Botmer diocese.
It had already been half a month since he came here.
He had sent word to the priests of his diocese upon arrival, yet no reply had come.
Even considering the distance between Botmer and the Papal State, it was far too late.

Alquin knew the reason better than anyone.

He was now a man cut loose.

The clergy within Botmer no longer recognized him as their bishop.
Even if the Papal authority did not formally dismiss him, a bishop unacknowledged by the local lord was effectively deposed.
Naturally, the support once provided by Botmer would cease.
There would be no financial backing, no territory under his governance, and no political influence remaining.

Now, he had only a few options: rely on the mercy of the Papacy, seek another noble patron, or align himself with a monastic order.
But he possessed no land, no wealth, and no political leverage.

Only one path remained.

To excommunicate Viscount Botmer and place the Botmer diocese under direct Papal authority.
That was the only way he could hope to live out the rest of his life in peace.

Fortunately, God had not yet abandoned him.

Viscount Botmer had been brought before a religious tribunal.
The testimonies of Bishop Alquin and Inquisitor Raphael had been decisive.
Violation of the code of duels, patricide, conspiracy to assassinate a bishop and an inquisitor.

Those charges alone were enough for excommunication, confiscation of lands, and possibly even direct intervention by the Papal army.
Of course, the viscount would not admit guilt so easily, and given the current turmoil within the Papacy, whether proper punishment would follow remained uncertain.
He might even smooth everything over with an enormous donation and the purchase of indulgences.

Either way, Botmer would feel immense pressure and lose prestige among the nobility.

And not long ago, a young priest who had been close to Botmer was burned to death by purple flames at a banquet hosted by Count Farnese.
His corruption was thoroughly exposed by the Inquisition.

‘It must be the doing of the Baron of Vinfelt.’

Alquin was certain.

From the moment he testified about the purple flames at the Vinfelt camp, he had, willingly or not, boarded the same ship as the baron.

After all, it was the Baron of Vinfelt who had made him appeal about the purple flames before the special inquisitor.
However he had managed it, the baron had seemed to know in advance that the inquisitor would react to the phenomenon.

Thus, under the protection of the special inquisitor and the paladins, he had arrived safely in the Papal State.
According to his assistant priest, the baron had already even spoken with the Grand Inquisitor.

Considering the baron was only twelve years old, Alquin could interpret him in only two ways:

A miracle sent by God—

Or a harbinger of heresy.

Whether he wished it or not, Alquin had already been swept up in the current created by the baron.
Should he continue drifting along to see where it led, or struggle to break free?
He could not decide.

His prayers always ended with a plea for wisdom.
And the answers always came in ways he did not want.

“Bishop, Inquisitor Darius requests a private audience.”

“Let him in.”

As usual, the inquisitor’s questioning continued.
The difference this time was his persistent probing into the recent purple flame incident—especially its connection to the Baron of Vinfelt.

“I hear the Baron of Vinfelt, who came to petition for a religious trial, has a personal mage. Is there any possibility she could have ignited the purple flames?”

The question was simple.
But its consequences would be irreversible.

If he spoke the truth, the baron and the mage would be subjected to the Inquisition.
And depending on the baron’s fate, the bishop himself might be affected.

‘Lord, grant me wisdom.’

Alquin offered a brief prayer in his heart.

Then he spoke.

“The purple flame is, for secular mages, the final stage of fire.”

He said it calmly.

“There are rumors that high-ranking mages know how to kindle it, but those are merely rumors. No confirmed case of witnessing such a flame exists.”

His voice carried just the right weight and caution.
His heart raced, and cold sweat dampened his back.

To deny what he had seen—
It was a lie. A sin.

And the reason why horrific screams echoed from the chambers of the Inquisition.

So he chose ambiguity.

“Even if someone claimed to possess it, how could one judge its nature if they themselves could not wield divine power?”

Divine power was a grace bestowed upon clergy.
But not all clergy possessed it.
God’s grace manifested differently in each individual.

By admitting his own lack of such power, Alquin managed to touch on something that was neither truth nor falsehood.

“…A reasonable point.”

Inquisitor Darius stared at him for a moment.

“Very well, Bishop. May God protect you.”

The sharp-eyed inquisitor slowly rose to his feet.

Alquin did not move.
His heart was still pounding.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, gradually fading away.

“…Phew. Thank you, Lord.”

Alquin lowered his gaze and offered a prayer of gratitude.

At that moment, heavy footsteps approached again, and the door opened without a knock.

“In… Inquisitor Raphael?”

A man in a black coat stood there.
The iron cross hanging from his neck and the mace at his waist felt chillingly ominous.

“You did well, Bishop.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent; if he holds his tongue, he is considered prudent. I trust you understand.”

Raphael had quoted a passage about the value of silence.

“Then…”

“Due to recent matters, I have taken the room next door. Call for me anytime if you need anything.”

Raphael left the room.
The walls were thin enough that Alquin could hear him enter the adjacent chamber.

‘If I had spoken what I knew about the purple flames…’

As he mulled over Raphael’s words, goosebumps spread across his body.

…

Decades ago—

A plague swept across the continent.
Corpses piled up in every village, and despair and fear consumed faith.
The blame naturally turned toward the old church, which declared it the work of demons and began witch hunts and persecution.

Villages where the plague spread—or were merely suspected—were sacrificed.

The infected were deemed abandoned by God, and any village with infected individuals was declared to harbor witches.
Massacres were carried out in God’s name.

It was called a purification rite—
A ritual to cleanse what was defiled.

Burials alive and burnings took place every single day.

Time passed.

The young priest Vincenzio once visited a village for his ministry.
It lay on the fringes of the Papal State—

A place the old church had once trampled.

The surviving villagers called clergy servants of demons.
They denied God and clung to life in despair.
Whenever a priest arrived, they threw stones, even brandishing blades to kill.
All that remained in them was fear and anger.
No priest wished to go there.

But Vincenzio went anyway.

At the sight of his priestly robes, the terrified villagers surrounded him and beat him.
He could not even deliver a single word of the Gospel.

At last, the village chief tried to stab him with a dagger.

At that moment, it was Anselmo who saved him.

Anselmo grabbed the dagger with his bare hand and did not budge.
He spoke of what must be protected.

“If you kill this man, the Church will send soldiers for retribution. We may get our revenge, but what sin have our children committed to deserve what comes after?”

Blood dripped from his hand as he spoke, and his words had an effect.
The villagers hesitated, then slowly returned to their homes.
It was evening.

Anselmo supported Vincenzio and brought him to his house.
It was poor and desolate.
He said his wife and children had all died during the plague.

Dinner was nothing but thin porridge.

“If my eldest son had lived, he’d be about your age. When dawn comes, leave. This is no place for a greenhorn like you.”

Anselmo warned in a rough voice.

That night—

Another disaster struck the village.

Monsters attacked.

After the plague, abandoned villages had become ideal hunting grounds.
The village’s defenses collapsed, and everyone fell into panic.
Children cried out, men took up weapons—but one by one, they were reduced to torn flesh.

Then, one man walked toward the monsters.

A young priest, clad in black vestments.
From his hands, a holy light burst forth.

It was blinding, deafeningly radiant.
Encouraged by that light, the villagers picked up their weapons and began to resist.

Something burned hot within Anselmo’s chest.
It felt as though he had been waiting for this moment his entire life.

While the villagers struggled under the strain of Vincenzio’s holy light, Anselmo alone slew most of the monsters.

When the corpses of the beasts lay scattered across the ground, Vincenzio’s light faded.

In its place, dawn broke.

Before the utterly exhausted Vincenzio, Anselmo fell to his knees and wept.

“Why… why did you only come now?”

All the pain he had endured burst from Anselmo’s eyes.
He had lost his family to the plague and the church’s persecution.
Even his faith had been taken, leaving him with nothing but vengeance and longing.

If even the clergy were servants of demons, then what meaning was there in the trials he had endured?
His family’s deaths were meaningless.
The Church was no different from distant kings and emperors, looking down upon the world.

There was no heaven. No hell.
Only chaos.

That was the hell Anselmo had lived in.

“If a priest like you had come just a little… just a little sooner, I… I…”

That day, through Vincenzio, Anselmo came to believe in God again.
The meaningless hell regained its meaning.
And for him, like a miracle, a reason to live—a purpose—was given.

He regained his faith.

Like a parent welcoming back a child who had wandered lost for years, Vincenzio accepted all of Anselmo’s sorrow—his despair and resentment.

He placed a hand on Anselmo’s bowed head and baptized him.

“Today, you are reborn. From this moment on, your name is Raphael—the healer of God.”

—

Raphael briefly recalled that day.

What he had received from Vincenzio then… was salvation.

“Forgive our sins…!”
“Cleanse our bodies…!”

Though night had deepened, the square before the Grand Cathedral of Laurenzio was filled with screams and cries.
Hundreds of believers knelt, tearing their clothes as they prayed aloud.
Those holding whips struck themselves, drawing blood.

It was a ritual of atonement.

Decades ago, during the height of the plague, the faithful had done the same before the cathedral.
But what unfolded now within the Papal State was even more frenzied.

Some shouted of divine judgment.
Some fasted to death.
Even children were dragged by their parents, forced to bleed in acts of penance.

This too must be His trial.

This too must be His trial.

Raphael repeated the thought over and over in his mind.

“I didn’t expect you to speak so frankly.”

Isaac looked surprised at the cardinal’s straightforward answer.

About the relationship between Vincenzio and Raphael—
In some ways, it could be seen as a weakness for Vincenzio.

The alliance between Isaac and Vincenzio was temporary at best—destined for collapse.
Considering the nature of the purple flame, Vincenzio would never allow Isaac to live in the end.

To Vincenzio, Isaac was merely a useful tool to deflect suspicion.
A tool to be discarded once it had served its purpose.

And yet, Vincenzio spoke openly of Raphael—a man who was practically his right hand.

“One of the Church Fathers once said that since God entrusts children to their parents, parents are like angels sent from heaven to them. Raphael and I share such a bond.”

Vincenzio said with a warm smile.

It was, in essence, a declaration of absolute trust in Raphael.

“I see. How enviable. In a world where parents sell their children, and children kill their parents for greed.”

Isaac spoke calmly.

“Precisely because the world is like that, the bond between Raphael and me is all the more precious.”

“Indeed.”

Isaac nodded.

But he did not speak of the truth he knew—

That after the religious war began, the one who pierced Vincenzio’s heart… was none other than Raphael.