Sylvester was dumbfounded, to say the least. He had only sought to gain mastery over metal manipulation, yet he now found himself entangled in the intricacies of noble politics.
However, an even greater surprise awaited him as the Viscount began to stir from his bed. With long, ashen hair cascading over his shoulders, the man's thin and wrinkled face revealed his advanced age.
But then, in a sudden shift of energy, the Viscount rose himself with the help of his arms and pulled himself onto the crude, wooden chair with wheels beside the bed, his entire demeanor transforming before Sylvester's eyes.
The Viscount's dark gaze shifted to his two sons, and his expression contorted with sudden disappointment. "I can't even say I'm disappointed, for I never expected anything from you two wastrels. YES! Hear me loud and clear. I am giving the entire Viscounty, from the land to the last speck of bronze, to His Grace, Archbishop Sylvester Maximilian, the Bard of the Lord, the holiest man alive, purger of sins, vanquisher of demons, the slayer of dragons, the son of Solis!"
"..."
Sylvester couldn't keep track of all the titles the man had rattled off. 'Wait… I never slayed a dragon… Yet.'
The two middle-aged men standing before him stared in disbelief, their faces contorting into expressions of shock and horror.
Thud!
After a long moment of silence, both men collapsed to their knees, hands clasped in surrender. Tears streamed down their faces as they begged for forgiveness, aware that offending a higher clergyman could be a death sentence. Throughout their lives, they had been taught that it was better to offend a higher noble than a higher clergyman, for the latter could destroy them with a mere accusation of heresy.
"Please, your grace, forgive us," they implored, "We didn't realize who you were. We are foolish to have offended you. We are deeply regretful and will donate clothes to ten thousand poor. Please forgive us." The noble sons wept, one after the other, their voices choked with emotion.
This was the rule number two they had remembered since they were young: If you do end up offending a higher clergyman, do anything and everything to ask for forgiveness — even if you have to lick their feet or kiss their ass — do it.
Sylvester, however, was not interested in getting licked or kissed anywhere. He just wanted to learn his damn metal manipulation and be on his way.
'Good Solis! Why does everyone insist on giving me their responsibility? First that King Highland, now this… I'm already the bloody Grand Field Marshal of Gracia, folks… And I will own you all eventually anyway.'
Sylvester wanted to scream those words, but for the sake of his own neck, he had to act frugal with his ambitions. Of course, everyone with an ounce of a brain knew Sylvester was a contender for the seat of Pope, but nobody ever dared to speak their thought loud.
"I refuse!" Viscount Gordan Mineworth roared. "You two wastrels, whose money will you use to give out the clothes? You two have not earned a single bronze mud in your lifetime… Ugh! Prima Nolan, bring me my noble robes!"
The Viscount's two sons stared at him with a mixture of shock and confusion. One of them finally voiced the question that plagued them both.
"Father… You are not sick?"
The Viscount's face twisted in anger, his brows furrowed, and his lips twitched. "Disappointed that I am not sick?" he spat. "I knew you two had begun to add poison to my food and water. I knew you wished to kill me before my time. I was also made aware of my destiny to meet His Grace and that I could not die before the fateful meeting. So I had to fake my illness to protect myself… But not anymore… You two, I'm ashamed to call you sons. If your mother finds out, she will kill you two first, and then herself — for giving birth to demons."
Prima soon brought the clothes for the Viscount, and the man donned them right there. The whole time, silence loomed over them as the two sons could not even keep their heads high. Meanwhile, Sylvester just wanted to stay out of the messy family.
'So much family drama.' Sylvester mumbled to himself. 'Let's just focus on training.'
"Your Grace, please come with me to my Solar. Let us not waste our time with these two; they are dead to me. Their only lifeline is their mother, who I cannot bear to see upset." The Viscount sneered as he passed his kneeling sons. "If I could return in time, I would have drowned them as infants. But perhaps I am suffering for a sin I committed in another life."
Sylvester's keen senses detected the twitching bodies of the two men on the ground and the complex blend of emotions emanating from them. Anger, shame, and regret suffused their scent, but the presence of anger confirmed their lack of redemption. Even if they had succeeded in assassinating the Viscount, their greed would have driven them to fight each other for more land.
Sylvester followed the Viscount to the Solar, a room located at the topmost level of the tower. To access it, the Viscount had constructed a slave-powered elevator, which relied on a simple pulley mechanism and locking brakes for sudden drops.
"So, how may I assist you?" inquired the Viscount as he settled into his customary position next to his work table. Remarkably, he was able to propel his wheelchair without using his hands, a feat made possible by manipulating the metal on the wheels - a skill that Sylvester coveted.
Sylvester felt a bit conflicted. "My Lord, do you not recall the letter I sent to you several years ago? I implored you to travel to the Holy Land and teach me the art of metal manipulation."
The Viscount frowned, casting a questioning glance at his Prima. "Nolan, did we ever receive such a request? Even if Lord Bard was not yet renowned back then, I cannot imagine refusing such an opportunity. Merely living in the Holy Land is a blessing in and of itself."
Nelson closed his eyes, endeavoring to recall the incident, but to no avail. "Your grace, could you provide the year in question?"
"Of course, it was in the holy year of 1509,"
Nelson furrowed his brow, but he brightened after a moment's contemplation. "I remember now! Your eldest son, Mike, was responsible for sorting the post that year, my Lord."
Bam!
The realization struck Viscount Gordan like a bolt of lightning, and he slapped his hand on his forehead. "It appears that I am the architect of my own downfall. I wonder what my life could have been if I had met His holy grace years before. Perhaps, with his blessing, my sons could have grown a brain."
Sylvester interjected awkwardly. "It is never too late to make amends, my Lord. We meet now, not years ago, this was the fate decided by the Lord, and none of us mortals could have changed this."
The Viscount let out a resigned sigh and cast his gaze downward. "You speak the truth, your grace. But regret is a burden that never fades, and I fear that learning to live with it may be too saintly a task for me."
'Hmm… I smell the feeling of emptiness same as Augustus from him. Is he suicidal?' Sylvester instantly became alert as the man began to talk self-depreciatingly.
"My Lord, I would like to learn the art of metal manipulation from you. This is not my personal wish but a directive from His Holiness, the Pope." Sylvester extended a one-page letter bearing the Pope's blessing.
"May I keep this?" Viscount Gordan inquired, clutching the letter as if it were a treasure.
"Of course."
The Viscount reverently opened his desk drawer and retrieved a velvet box, placing the letter inside as if it were a precious artifact. "I pray that this will act as a good luck charm."
Sylvester could not help but note the subtle hints that told the man's story to him. 'He seems too desperate. I can understand why. Having lost his legs and then slowly realizing his sons are up to no good… It must be a burden to his mind.'
"Your grace," Viscount warned, "I will teach you metal manipulation, but whether or not you can learn it is up to your talents. There is a reason why it is so rare. But let's begin training tomorrow. For now, join me for a dinner feast on the terrace. The double sunset view from there is always remarkable."
Sylvester agreed, grateful for the opportunity to rest after all the traveling. His clothes were soaked in sweat.
However, he had underestimated the beauty of the double sunset view that the Viscount had mentioned.
After dinner, Sylvester was so captivated that even after the Viscount and staff left the terrace, he stood by the edge, looking southeast. He could see two orange hues on the horizon, but in reality, only one was the sun, while the other was the radiating fire from the Burning Mountain.
Yes, the fire was visible even with such a great distance and shorter mountains in between. Eventually, the dark night came, but the hue from the burning mountain remained, appearing like a strange yet frightening illumination.
"Can't sleep?" Sir Dolorem found him at that time. "Thinking too much?"
"Can't help at this point, Sir Dolorem. The closer I get to my goal, the farther it feels." Sylvester paused for a moment to take a frustrated breath. "At this stage, I must defeat the Pope, the other contenders, the spy from Masan, and possibly Masan itself. I must also fight the Shadow Knight, that demon Bishop Lazark's mentor let out, and now...this strange unknown entity under the Burning Mountain. It's frustrating."
Sir Dolorem chuckled. "The road to glory is filled with hurdles, but overcoming them is what makes the victory sweet. You knew the road would be broken, dangerous, and life-threatening at times, but as long as you stay on your feet, I believe you will never face defeat."
"I just hope my hair isn't white by the time I finally overcome all these challenges," Sylvester mumbled.
"Besides, aren't you forgetting one more challenge?" Sir Dolorem gave a mischievous smile and patted Sylvester's back. "You must overcome the Elves too."
Pa!
Sylvester slapped his own forehead. "Ah! Of course, how did I forget the finest blessing the Lord has bestowed upon me — my bloodline."
Sir Dolorem chuckled. "That's why, let's go one at a time."
"Aaaa…" Sylvester brushed his hair with his hands frustratingly. "I feel even more annoyed now. Let's just go to sleep, old friend."
Sir Dolorem followed behind Sylvester, looking at his shoulders that seemed to grow wider with each passing month.
'The price of becoming the Pope is the weight of the world that you must bear on your shoulder, your grace.'
"Indeed, let's go to sleep, Lord Bard."
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