1345, the southern outskirts of Florence, Santa Lucia Monastery.
Inside the stone building, the air was bitter cold.
Candlelight flickered against the walls, casting dancing shadows.
The wooden bedboards creaked—an ancient, groaning sound.
Then they creaked again, like someone laboring to roll a heavy sack of wheat across the frame.
… The room fell quiet.
A woman climbed out of bed and straightened her dress of coarse cloth.
She did not dare look at the abbot’s face, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his feet.
The abbot wore simple sandals, his feet dusted with dirt.
To the woman, it was holy soil.
She fell to her knees and kissed the tips of his sandals.
“Abbot, will the demon possessing my daughter truly leave today?” Giovanni da Fiesole stroked the woman’s head.
“Of course.” His voice was gentle, like an April breeze sweeping through a Tuscan wheat field.
“You belong to the Lord, and His light shines upon you.” “Demons fear the light.
Naturally, it will torment your child no longer.” The woman’s body trembled.
She raised her head, her face wet with tears.
“Thank the Lord!
Thank you, Abbot!” Giovanni’s hand slipped from the top of her head to her cheek, softly wiping away a tear.
“It is the Lord who shows you mercy, not I.” “Go back and stay by your child’s side.
When she wakes tomorrow, she will be born anew.” Overflowing with gratitude, the woman took her leave.
As the door clicked shut, Giovanni was left alone once more.
He walked over to the washbasin and began to wash his hands in a slow, methodical manner.
Once.
Then twice.
As if trying to wash away something far deeper than mere dust.
He looked at his reflection in the water.
It was a young, extraordinarily handsome face.
His eyes were blue, like the Adriatic Sea, and his high-bridged nose looked as though it had been carved into an ancient Roman sculpture.
This face belonged to Giovanni da Fiesole.
But he was not Giovanni.
His real name was Lin Kun.
Lin Kun was a financial scammer.
In twenty-first-century Shanghai, he could package a pile of worthless junk assets into Wall Street’s most sought-after unicorn startup.
All it took was a sharp tongue and a calculating mind.
He was well-versed in the history of Western philosophy.
From Plato’s Theory of Forms to Nietzsche’s Will to Power, he could leverage any concept to annotate his swindles.
His greatest skill was psychological manipulation—playing with people’s desires, fears, and hopes in the palm of his hand.
He had always thought his next stop would be either Nasdaq or prison.
It turned out to be neither.
It was a truck accident.
A heavy truck struck him, and when he opened his eyes again, he was here.
Fourteenth-century Italy, in the body of an orphan named Giovanni.
The original Giovanni had been devout, cowardly, and so shy he blushed whenever he spoke to anyone.
Lin Kun was none of those things.
On his very first day after waking, he conned half a loaf of black bread from an old village woman.
All it took was a tragic story and a few well-timed tears.
He knew that in this era, weakness meant death.
He was going to survive.
And he was going to live better than anyone else.
His opportunity came soon enough.
On his eighteenth birthday, the old abbot of Santa Lucia Monastery—a fat, foolish man who adored fine wine and fast horses—fell off his favorite Arabian steed.
His neck snapped, killing him instantly.
When the abbot of a poor rural monastery died, the locals were left to settle the succession themselves.
Lin Kun seized the opening.
He spent three days stealing the monastery’s finest parchment and ink.
He studied the papal documents received by the old abbot, painstakingly forging the copperplate script and official seals.
He fabricated an appointment letter from the Bishop of Florence.
The letter stated that the diocese had long been aware of the corruption and chaos at Santa Lucia Monastery and had decided to send a young man of noble character and pure faith to restore order.
This young man was Giovanni da Fiesole—a saintly figure secretly groomed by the bishop for years.
To bolster his credibility, he forged a saintly backstory, claiming Giovanni hailed from nobility but had surrendered his family fortune to preach the Lord’s gospel among the common folk.
This playbook was no different from how he had packaged high-profile startup founders back in the twenty-first century.
He was gambling on the authority of the Church.
In fourteenth-century Italy, no one dared forge an appointment letter from a bishop.
He was also gambling on the information gap.
Even if someone wanted to verify his story, travel in the fourteenth century meant walking, and long-distance communication meant shouting.
Sending someone from this remote rural monastery to Florence and back would take at least a month.
By the time they returned with proof, he would have squeezed the place dry and slipped away.
His gamble paid off.
When he appeared before the bickering monks clad in a freshly washed, faded habit, holding the “bishop’s personal letter,” everyone was stunned.
His eyes held a serene calm the monks could not comprehend and an aura of authority they dared not meet directly.
It was a presence forged from the countless times Lin Kun had impersonated successful figures in his past life.
An elderly monk tried to question him.
Lin Kun—now Giovanni—offered only a single sentence: “Are you questioning me, or are you questioning the decision of His Grace the Bishop?
Or perhaps you question the Lord’s wisdom in choosing His servant?” The weight of the accusation hit like a thunderclap.
The old monk turned pale.
No one dared speak another word.
And so, Lin Kun the scammer became Abbot Giovanni da Fiesole.
He had been sitting in this position for fifteen days.
He knew that relying on a mere title was not enough.
He needed believers—a vast, fanatical, fiercely loyal flock.
So, he began to manifest “miracles.” Using basic chemical tricks, he made icons “weep.” Using psychological techniques, he successfully “predicted” several trivial matters in the village.
He even performed “exorcisms.” Just like tonight.
The woman’s daughter was not possessed by a demon at all; she was merely suffering from teenage rebellion compounded by depression.
Giovanni had told the desperate mother that her daughter’s illness stemmed from her own sins.
She needed to offer the most precious thing she had to the Lord to wash away her guilt and grant her daughter a new life.
And thus, tonight’s “exorcism” ritual had taken place.
It was disgusting.
But it was effective.
In the twenty-first century, this was called cult manipulation.
Here, it was called a divine miracle.
Giovanni dried his hands, and the reflection in the washbasin settled into stillness.
A slight, subtle curve touched the lips of his saintly face.
He loved this era.
No surveillance cameras.
No internet.
No atheism.
The people here were ignorant, devout, and fearful.
Like a flock of bleating lambs waiting to be fed.
And he was their sole shepherd.
*Thump, thump, thump.* A sharp knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts.
The mockery on Giovanni’s face vanished instantly, replaced by an expression of gentle, pious compassion.
“Enter.” The door pushed open.
A young monk rushed inside.
His name was Luca.
Giovanni had personally promoted him.
The reason was simple: Luca was young enough, devout enough, and foolish enough.
The way he looked at Giovanni was identical to the look in that woman’s eyes earlier—filled with absolute worship.
“Abbot!” “Something terrible has happened!” Giovanni gestured for him to sit.
“Luca, a servant of the Lord must remain calm at all times.
Speak, what is it?” “It’s…
it’s Brother Matteo and the others!” “They…
they’ve gathered in the wine cellar!
They’re saying…
they’re going to depose you!” “Depose me?” Giovanni smiled faintly.
“The Lord brought me here.
If they wish to depose me, do they intend to defy the Lord’s will?” Luca was nearly in tears.
“They don’t believe it!
They say your appointment was suspicious!
They say you’re far too young to be chosen by His Grace the Bishop!” “Brother Matteo says that since you took office, the monastery’s rules have fallen apart.
Prayer times are shortened, yet you spend all your time with the female townspeople…
He says you are…
a demon wearing a holy robe!” Luca trembled as he uttered the word “demon,” terrified to even say it aloud.
To him, it was the ultimate sacrilege against the abbot.
Yet the gentle smile remained on Giovanni’s face.
Matteo.
The very same old monk who had been the first to stand up and question him.
He was a confidant of the previous abbot and held considerable prestige in the monastery.
It seemed a forged letter could not suppress these local snakes forever.
They had endured for fifteen days, and now they were finally making their move.
“How many of them are there?” “Aside from me…
almost all the monks are there…” Luca’s voice grew quieter and quieter, feeling like a traitor.
Yet in his heart, he firmly believed the abbot was right.
Matteo and the others were simply blinded by envy.
“How do they plan to depose me?” Giovanni asked softly.
“They…
they wrote a joint petition.
They plan to send a messenger to Florence to hand it to His Grace the Bishop, begging him to investigate your true identity!”