The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 134

The deep night sky was like an iron curtain, completely enveloping this city of faith. From the distant edges of the iron curtain came the heavy rumble of thunder, growing nearer with each passing moment until it burst forth from the darkness.

It was a jet-black steed, its breath misting in the cold night air, adorned with intricate iron armor that shimmered in the moonlight, like a meteor dashing through the dark, a gleaming beacon of its presence.

Charging forward relentlessly, it finally arrived at the heart of the city. What appeared to be a twisted forest loomed larger in the rider's vision, only to reveal itself as rows of upright lances upon closer inspection. Knights stood like iron walls before the sacred steps, their silence unbroken as the steed gradually halted. In the animal's eyes, the splendor and sanctity beyond the stairs were reflected.

The priest dismounted, his features chiseled and hard like sculpted marble, marked with the weariness and resolve of middle age. He did not rush, instead methodically retrieving his musket and sword from the saddlebag. Though weapons were forbidden here, he wielded special privileges. Tucking them into his black clerical robe, the faint touch of snowflakes began to dust his dark attire, as if he had just emerged from a snowstorm.

The tarnished iron cross on his chest swayed in the wind, ringing like a silver bell.

"Are you well? It's getting colder here by the day," he remarked.

A knight stepped out from the formation, his helmet emblazoned with a brass cross sword, etched with holy scripture to ward off twisted evils, emanating an aura of sacred severity.

These were Templar Knights, charged with guarding the Great Cathedral of St. Nalo following the events of the Night of Holy Advent. Modern, finely crafted muskets hung at their sides, capable of piercing iron armor at close range.

They appeared to be old acquaintances. After a perfunctory check of the priest's identity, the knight engaged him in casual conversation.

"Not bad, really. Serving the Pope has its perks—top-tier treatment and all. Even the high and mighty bow and scrape before me... And Fiorenze has already started to snow. It should spread here soon. I hope you've prepared for the cold under that armor, Charles."

The priest spoke slowly, lighting a cigarette. The small flame illuminated his face, casting light along a scar that ran from his lips to his neck—a lethal wound, hinting at the unimaginable ordeals he had survived.

"They're not in awe of you, Anthony. They're in awe of the Pope you represent," Charles quipped, his heavy helmet casting a shadow over most of his face. Though he teased the priest, there was reverence in his tone.

This was the Seven Hills, a place where no mention of the Pope was made without a sense of awe, akin to the instinctive closing of eyes before the blazing sun.

The Pope, resplendent like daylight, had turned the tide during the aftermath of the Holy Advent Night, steering the Evangelical Church back on course. Attempts to manipulate this precariously positioned Pope from the shadows had been swiftly crushed. The entire Templar Order, following his command, purged all adversaries in a single night, nailing those who defied them to the cross with fabricated charges. Both spiritual and temporal power were firmly in his grasp.

Some called him the least pope-like Pope, claiming his sanctified faith was merely a means to his ends. Others revered him as the Emperor of Emperors, the most ruthless and swift among all Popes. Had he ruled during the Church's zenith, perhaps the entire Western world would have fallen under its dominion, and fleets might have surged toward the mysterious Far East.

"I know. Want one?" Anthony offered, indicating his cigarette pack, but Charles declined.

"I'm on duty. No need to court trouble."

This was the Seven Hills, a holy ground where living entailed adhering to numerous unspoken rules. The oppressive sanctity here could stifle anyone, save for the most fanatical devotees who might find solace in the scorching sun's painful embrace.

"Speaking of... there's talk that His Holiness plans to rebuild that thing," Charles lowered his voice, though even in the quiet of the night, it thundered in Anthony's ears.

For a moment, it seemed as though even the air stilled. Breathing beneath the armor grew uneven. Charles immediately regretted his question. The wind-carved man's eyes, sharp enough to pierce armor, held his gaze.

It was a night of flames when the sacred Seven Hills turned into a crimson hell, as if gods and demons were waging war. At the time, Charles was a mere novice knight, watching countless Templars flood the cathedral, only for none to emerge. Their bodies were never found, vanishing as if into thin air, erased from memory.

Curiosity gnawed at Charles about that night. Some whispered of a secret church order, disbanded after that fateful event, but recent rumors suggested the new Pope intended to revive it.

True or not, such information was beyond Charles's purview. If Anthony were to deem him a heretic, he wouldn't be surprised.

A rough hand rested on his shoulder, and Anthony's voice broke the silence.

"Charles, isn't asking about this trouble enough?"

Anthony's gaze was icy, but he did nothing more, only cautioning him.

"Sometimes, it's better to be a fool who knows nothing, Charles. At least then, you get to live."

Anthony attempted a smile, but the ghastly scar seemed to distort his nerves, causing only half his face to twitch. It was a chilling sight rather than a comforting one.

"Forget about it, Charles. It's for your own good."

The grotesque smile lingered.

"Please... Just go inside and don't keep His Holiness waiting," Charles managed to joke, quickly regaining his composure.

He could barely remember Anthony's genuine smile, only that it had once felt like warm sunshine. Now, it resembled a fearsome grimace. They had started together as novice knights, but time had made Anthony the Pope's right hand while Charles remained a mere guard. Any resentment faded with Anthony's words.

Being a fool who knew nothing seemed a blessing compared to living a life as isolated and terrifying as Anthony's. Charles had a family, unlike the unloved priest.

Stepping aside, Charles gestured for Anthony to proceed. The ironclad knights parted, revealing a path up the stairs. The steps led ever upward, vanishing into the darkness, toward the vast edifice shrouded in shadow, like a colossal beast lying in wait. One could scarcely imagine it awakening.

Some called the steps leading to the Great Cathedral of St. Nalo the Road to Heaven. Initially, Anthony hadn't understood why, but ascending them now, he did. With each step, the dusty world fell away, the silence filled with the ethereal hymns, and the great white structure emerged from the shadows.

The outer layer of the building was adorned with intricate carvings of gods and demons, likely crafted by a master artist. In the moonlight, the figures seemed almost alive. At the top were grand depictions of heaven and angels, the style growing harsher as it descended, with angels entering the earthly battlefield, and at the base, countless grotesque arms pinned to the abyss by fiery spears from the heavens.

The white marble glowed as if this battlefield had truly existed, its combatants sealed within the stones by some divine force, forming this earthly heaven.

A sense of solemnity and reverence filled Anthony as he ascended the final step.