Late that night, in the Santa Lucia Village.
Everyone was asleep.
Or rather, pretending to be asleep.
On a small hill not far from Bartolo’s manor, Jacopo crouched beneath an olive tree.
The manor was shrouded in darkness, save for a single lit window.
That was Bartolo’s treasure room.
The madman was still guarding his gold.
Jacopo was patient.
He was a good hunter.
And the most crucial trait of a good hunter was patience.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the wind—a wind strong enough to spread a fire.
About half an hour later, the wind finally arrived.
Carrying the cool chill of the night, it swept across the grassy slope.
*Now.* Jacopo stood up.
He pulled an item from his coat: a small clay jar wrapped in cloth.
Inside was a white liquid purchased from an alchemist in Florence.
The liquid was known as “Greek Fire.” Even if poured onto the surface of the sea, it would continue to burn.
Water could not extinguish it; in fact, it would only fan the flames.
Jacopo tied the jar to the tip of an arrow, then unslung a hunting bow from his back.
It was the very bow he used to hunt wild boars.
He set the jar ablaze, nocked the custom arrow, and drew the bowstring.
The string bent into a full moon.
His arms were as steady as stone.
His eyes narrowed into a thin slit.
His target was the largest and most heavily stocked grain barn in Bartolo’s estate.
Near the roof of the barn was a ventilation window.
Jacopo held his breath.
And released.
*Whoosh!* The arrow of judgment pierced the night sky.
Like a miniature shooting star, it flew straight through the ventilation window.
Jacopo did not leave immediately.
He crouched back down and continued to observe.
One second.
Two seconds.
Ten seconds.
There was no sound from inside the barn.
Jacopo frowned slightly.
Had it failed?
Just as he was preparing to notch a second arrow, a faint, orange-red glow flickered through the small window.
Then, the light grew brighter and redder.
*Boom!* Tongues of fire erupted from the window!
Immediately after, even more flames burst through the gaps between the wooden wallboards!
It worked.
The fire was even fiercer than Jacopo had imagined.
The wind was just right.
The fire fed on the wind, and the wind fueled the fire.
Flames surged into the sky, illuminating half the night.
…
“Fire!
Fire!” “Look!
What is that?” The massive blaze and rolling clouds of thick smoke woke the entire Santa Lucia Village.
People scrambled out of their beds and rushed outdoors.
When they saw the towering flames rising from the direction of Bartolo’s estate, everyone was stunned.
“It’s Bartolo’s place!” “It’s burning!
It’s huge!” Villagers flooded toward the scene of the fire.
Yet they did not get too close.
They stopped at a small ridge a few hundred paces from the estate, gathering like onlookers at a grand festival fireworks display.
No one went forward to put out the fire.
No one fetched water.
They simply watched in silence.
They watched as the massive barn twisted, deformed, and finally collapsed with a deafening crash amidst the roaring flames.
Sparks danced across the night sky like swarms of fireflies.
The loud crackle of burning wood echoed far into the distance.
The firelight cast its reflection onto every villager’s face.
There was fear.
There was shock.
But above all, there was fanatical, spellbound zeal.
Director Giovanni’s curse.
—”Flames shall devour your greed!” The words resonated in everyone’s mind.
This was no accident.
It was definitely not an accident.
This was divine retribution.
It was heavenly fire sent down by the Lord.
It was the flames of judgment, summoned by Director Giovanni through his divine power.
They had witnessed a miracle with their own eyes.
They had seen a man they hated to the bone—yet had been powerless against—suffer punishment directly from God.
The sight filled them with an unprecedented sense of catharsis.
Bartolo’s authority, his wealth, his status…
In this moment, alongside that burning barn, it was all reduced to ash.
Gone without a trace.
…
Giovanni appeared among the crowd at that precise moment.
He still wore his simple friar’s robe.
His arrival was so natural, so perfectly timed—as if he had not come intentionally, but had merely been awakened by the fire like any ordinary villager.
Upon seeing him, the crowd automatically parted to make way.
Giovanni walked to the very front of the crowd.
He gazed at the roaring inferno, which resembled the very gates of Hell.
A complex expression—a blend of sorrow, compassion, and unyielding resolve—appeared on his face.
He did not speak.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the crowd’s emotions to ferment to their absolute peak.
Finally, someone could no longer contain themselves.
An old farmer fell to his knees and shouted toward Giovanni’s back: “Father Director!
It’s you!
It’s your power!” “The Lord has heard your prayers!” With that shout, the rest of the villagers snapped out of their daze.
They dropped to their knees one after another.
“Father Director!
You are our savior!” “We beg you, thoroughly purify that demon!” “We will follow your every word!” Shouts rose one after another.
Giovanni turned around, his gaze sweeping across the fanatical faces illuminated bright red by the firelight.
The timing was absolute perfection.
These gentle, ignorant sheep had now been thoroughly transformed by him into a pack of hungry, bloodthirsty wolves.
“Behold!
The Lord’s judgment has descended!” “Yet the demon’s lair remains!
The defiled wealth is still there!” “Lambs of the Lord!” “Pick up your hoes!
Pick up your clubs!” “Go!
Purify the land occupied by sin!” “Go!
Reclaim the fruits that rightfully belong to you!” “This is for the glory of the Lord!” Giovanni’s words were like buckets of scalding oil poured directly onto the fire already raging in the villagers’ hearts.
The public will completely exploded.
“Purify him!” “Burn him to death!” “Take back what’s ours!” The villagers scrambled up from the ground.
Their eyes were bloodshot.
Their expressions were fierce and twisted.
They were no longer villagers.
They were a mob.
They rushed home to grab anything that could serve as a weapon: hoes, scythes, axes, pitchforks, and lit torches.
They converged into a violent, raging torrent, surging toward Bartolo’s estate—a place illuminated by the blaze like hell on earth.
Standing on the hill, Giovanni watched the violent torrent he had created with his own hands.
And smiled with satisfaction.