439 Chapter 200
"It is one of the few privileges of being pope," the religious leader said with a shrug.
Riftan's brow furrowed. Despite the pope's haughty front, he sensed a trace of irritation in the man's tone. Perhaps the barrage of controversies and criticism since his appointment had left him weary of his post.
Choosing to overlook the cynicism in the pope's voice, Riftan asked, "May I know why you've disturbed the resting souls to summon me?"
"You are rather impatient, aren't you?" The pope eyed him with displeasure before saying resignedly, "Very well. I shall get you to the point. I have been informed that you rejected Sir Aren's offer."
Shedding his frivolous mask, the pope now regarded Riftan with keen eyes. "Do you truly believe that the current order can be maintained for long?"
Riftan uncrossed his arms, pondering the pope's motives behind the question. Was it a test, or was he seeking confirmation? He found both options unsettling.
"Is it not the duty of the Holy Father to make that possible?" Riftan replied, a sardonic smile twisting his lips.
The pope's mouth tightened. He was clearly irked by the insolent remark, but Riftan found he did not care. He was sick of people trying to read his intentions through veiled inquiries.
"With Balto's Southern Confederacy showing its fangs, even Heimdall VI wants to maintain the peace agreement for the time being," Riftan added icily. "And once Dristan recovers its former territories, it will have no cause for war. This secures the armistice."
Looking directly into the pope's turquoise eyes, Riftan stressed each word as he stated, "What happens next depends on you."
"I regretfully lack such power," the pope admitted quietly. “The church has never been so divided. How would I hope to keep the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms in order when I am unable to unify a fragmented church?"
"Yet, you seem to have effectively quelled the Orthodox clerics," Riftan said, frowning.
His observations so far indicated that the pope was an exceptionally resourceful man. Having risen to the papacy by outmaneuvering thirteen high priests before the age of fifty, he had adeptly led the Council of the Seven Kingdoms without succumbing to the pressures of other monarchs. It puzzled Riftan why such a capable man would portray himself as weak.
The pope offered a bitter smile. "A more accurate description would be that I have reached a temporary truce with them."
Turning away to face the altar, his voice grew somber. "As I'm sure you are aware, monsters were hiding in the basilica. Shockingly, they were clerics, officially ordained by the Northern church."
Riftan's eyes widened in surprise. "They were not simply impersonating clerics?"
"Correct. Disguised as humans, these monsters infiltrated the priesthood in Balto, a feat only possible because no one suspected monsters could mimic humans so convincingly." The pope paused to heave a sigh. "The Orthodox Church was completely fooled, unknowingly posting these fake clerics in the Grand Basilica of Osiriya. That's how the monsters were able to live amongst us without being caught."
"Would you come and look at this?" The pope abruptly turned and strode toward the altar. He lifted the lid of a sarcophagus resting atop it and gestured for Riftan to join him with a nod.
Approaching the altar reluctantly, Riftan peered into the sarcophagus, which measured about three kevettes in length. Instead of human remains, it contained a time-worn hilt, a crude guard, and the blackened pummel of a sword. As he gazed down at the artifact, perplexed, the pope's voice rang in his ears.
"This is what remains of Ascalon, the holy sword bestowed by God himself. Legend has it that the blade turned to light when Wigrew completed his quests."
Riftan snapped his head up in surprise.
The pope brushed the sacred relic with a gloved hand. "I intend to bestow it to the champion of this year's swordsmanship tournament."
"Are you out of your mind?"
Unfazed by Riftan's impudent remark, the pope continued calmly, “Legend also states that the sword will be restored to its full form when held by one deemed worthy. For those yearning for the revival of the Roem Empire, it’s an irresistible lure.”
Riftan met the pope’s suggestion with a silent, intense gaze.
“I want you to attain Wigrew’s holy sword,” the pope intoned “Win the tournament and declare your staunch support for the armistice before all the royals and nobles."
Rftian clenched his jaw. "Do I have a say in the matter?"
"The decision is yours," the pope replied nonchalantly. "Should you decline, the sword will likely fall into Richard Breston's hands. If that is God's will, we can only accept."
Riftan's response came through clenched teeth. "Very well. I shall stepp onto this stage you've prepared for me."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed the pope's face.
After glaring at the man's audacious expression, Riftan added, "But don't expect everything to unfold as you plan."
"If you are defeated, that will also be fate. All I ask is that you do your best."
Riftan's gaze returned to the sarcophagus and the relic within. The sword's darkened guard seemed to pulse with a strange aura. After a long, contemplative silence, he slowly nodded.
***
The shocking news that Ascalon would be the prize in this year's swordsmanship tournament spread through the city like wildfire. The citizens buzzed with excitement at the prospect of witnessing Wigrew's soul relic first hand. Knights, inflamed with ambition, saw it as an opportunity to etch their names into legend.
While a few voiced their outrage at the idea of such a sacred object being awarded as a prize, they were drowned out by the overwhelming fervor. The excitement reached fever pitch, particularly as renowned knights from across the Seven Kingdoms were currently gathered in Balbourne. Even the typically aloof nobility could not conceal their anticipation for the spectacle of these esteemed warriors clashing in battle.