The next day, even as the first light of dawn barely broke, the Papal Palace’s sleeping quarters were already lit up.
The young Pope, Gretel, with her beautiful golden curls cascading down, sat by the window holding a cup of hot cocoa, gazing at the slowly rising sun in the east.
A servant brought a blanket to drape over the Pope. “Your Majesty, be careful not to catch a cold.”
But Gretel raised her hand to refuse. Helpless, the servant turned to stoke the fireplace, making it burn a bit more vigorously. She then brought over a plate of lemon mousse to counteract the sweetness of the heavily sugared cocoa. Seeing her master staring blankly at the morning glow outside, she couldn’t help but speak up:
“Your Majesty, won’t you sleep a bit more? For the past half month, you’ve barely slept four hours a day. If this continues, your health will suffer.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gretel said nonchalantly. “After all, the demon has awakened. Who knows when the Lord of Hell might get upset and bring about another catastrophe like a thousand years ago? By then, I’d regret missing the beauty before me.”
“You’re speaking nonsense again. The Holy Spirit protects us; that day will never come.”
“Is that so?” Gretel smiled and shook her head, not continuing the topic. She put down her cup and asked, “I sent Lowell to investigate the events in Solent City from two years ago. By now, there should be news, right?”
“Yes.” The servant handed over a letter.
Gretel read it, her eyes first showing disappointment, then surprise, and finally a lively interest as if watching a spectacle. The disappointment was because the letter didn’t contain the information she wanted, and the surprise was because the letter spoke of only one thing—
Solent City had turned into ruins overnight and was quickly occupied by the long-dormant resistance. Most of the nobles inside were dead, and the rest were captured and locked in animal pens.
Now, these resistance fighters were demanding ransom from the families of the captives.
After reading the entire document, Gretel couldn’t help but laugh. The servant shook her head helplessly:
“Your Majesty, it’s not just the archbishop’s faction that was captured; a third of them are from our side.”
“I know.” Gretel tossed the paper aside, took a sip of her cocoa, and said with a hint of malice in her eyes, “But they deserve it. I said long ago I didn’t want anyone in such places. It’s their own fault for not controlling themselves. What does it have to do with me?”
Saying this, she turned to look at the rising sun again. “Turn away those who come to me crying poor and begging me to send troops to attack Solent. I won’t see them.”
The servant nodded, “Yes,” and went to relay the message.
But not long after, she returned hurriedly with a patrol guard clad in iron armor, bringing a chill with him:
“Your Majesty!”
Gretel, her good mood interrupted, turned back with displeasure. “What is it? Why the rush?”
The patrol guard replied, “Your Majesty, today while patrolling the city, I found someone… someone special.”
“Special? What, has that old archbishop finally gone to hell?”
“No.” The guard shook his head, hesitating. “That person is… the long-missing Holy Son.”
“What?!” The Pope was shocked, immediately standing up from her seat. “Bring him here, no… I’ll go myself!”
…
Salavira was found in a secluded alley. When the patrol found him, he was already unconscious and couldn’t be woken up no matter what…
The rest, the guard who came to report, hesitated to say more, but Gretel understood when she saw Salavira.
In the cold night, he wore only a wrinkled shirt and shorts, the marks of brutal abuse glaringly visible to all.
Gretel’s breath caught, and she immediately ordered everyone out with a steady voice.
It was then that Salavira slowly regained consciousness.
His eyes were initially dazed, looking around as if searching for someone, but after a while, he realized only Gretel was there.
…The Pope??
Salavira thought he was dreaming, so he closed his eyes again, but when he opened them, he still saw Gretel’s clear and handsome face, filled with anger.
It wasn’t a dream…
“Who did this?!” The Pope demanded harshly.
But Salavira merely blinked slowly and said calmly, “Does it matter?”
Gretel was taken aback, momentarily at a loss for words.
Indeed, to Salavira, wealth, fame, and even his own body were the least important things. As long as he could achieve his goals, he could abandon them without hesitation.
But he couldn’t help but care.
“Heh.”
With just one look, Salavira could tell what Gretel was thinking. If it were two years ago, he might have held some naive hope for the person who brought him from the human world to the temple and raised him for nine years. But now…
He let out a mocking laugh. “If you really cared about me, why didn’t you say a word when the archbishop locked me in the temple?”
Gretel showed no guilt. “Do you think without me, those nobles wouldn’t have done worse to you?”
“Do you think I care?”
“But I care!” Gretel looked at the child she had brought back, her eyes filled with an almost pathological obsession. “Salavira, you should have grown up innocent, ignorant, and pure, not like this, like this…”
In the end, Gretel gritted her teeth, staring at the red mark on Salavira’s collarbone.
A strange silence spread between them.
Salavira didn’t have deep feelings for the Pope who raised him. Indeed, the Pope had invested a lot in him, and in everyone’s eyes, he was undoubtedly the most favored. There were even rumors that Pope Gretel had chosen him, this “vase,” as her successor.
But to Salavira, it was absurd.
He couldn’t fully understand human emotions, but he could clearly feel that Gretel only saw him as a projection of someone else.
“Gretel.” Salavira looked coldly at the Pope, his eyes devoid of emotion. “No matter who you’re trying to make up for through me, you should see clearly now that I am not that person.”
“…”
Gretel said nothing, but her eyes gradually filled with disappointment and melancholy as she looked at Salavira.
The quiet room was filled only with the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace.
Until another person arrived, breaking the silence.
“Archbishop.” Gretel didn’t turn around, recognizing the visitor by voice alone. “Entering without announcement, you truly have no regard for decorum!”
But the Archmage Archbishop was unfazed by the Pope’s sudden anger directed at him, his gaze fixed on the Holy Son sitting on the bed.
“Your Majesty, Holy Son.” The youthful-looking archbishop bowed, then stood up without waiting for a response.
“Is there something you need?” Salavira’s gaze moved past Gretel to the archbishop who had suddenly barged in.
The archbishop’s youthful face showed a cruel smile. “I heard the joyous news of the Holy Son’s return and came to congratulate you, and also…”
He paused deliberately. “To escort you back to the temple.”
Salavira was taken aback. “The temple? Wasn’t it destroyed by Asmodeus?”
“Yes, but since you’ve returned, how could we bear to let you stay elsewhere? The newly erected temple is a ‘gift’ rebuilt for your return.”
…
Salavira could guess who had given him this “gift.” Besides Asmodeus, no one else in the world had the ability or leisure to do so.
But he couldn’t fathom the purpose behind it.
Despite claiming to despise humans, Asmodeus had sent him back to the church, seemingly colluding with the Archmage Archbishop.
His wish to leave hell and return to the human world had indeed come true, but in a way he neither expected nor wanted.
The new temple’s decor and layout were different from before, resembling more the bedroom in hell. The only difference was the golden cage encircling the large bed in the center.
The cage felt like a boulder, pressing down on Salavira the moment it entered his sight, suffocating him.
After the guards escorted him into the cage, they all withdrew, leaving him alone on the large bed inside the cage, waiting the entire day. It wasn’t until late at night that the temple doors slowly opened, and a group of servants entered with trays.
In the dim light, Salavira couldn’t see what they carried, but he could smell the familiar bitter scent of elixir.
That scent, deeply etched into his bones during his two years of captivity, accompanied by pain, made his body involuntarily tense, recalling the endless torment.
In a moment of distraction, the servants approached.
They bowed with their trays, respectfully repeating the phrase Salavira had heard at the start of every torment over the past two years:
“Your Highness, it’s time for your medicine and bath. A distinguished guest will arrive tonight.”
The cage was opened, and the green elixir was brought before Salavira. It was then he realized his hands and feet had turned cold, his palms sweaty.
He didn’t move, so the servants urged him.
Salavira sighed, reluctantly convincing himself to accept his predetermined fate.
He then took the bowl of medicine and drank it in one gulp.
The medicine was as bitter and spicy as before, so unpleasant that he frowned. He remembered the first time he drank it, he couldn’t stand the taste and spat it out. The seemingly obedient servants then held him down, forcing bowl after bowl into him until he finally complied and stopped spitting it out.
After taking the medicine, the servants led him to bathe.
His bath wasn’t ordinary water but the finest milk, prepared before he took the medicine, at just the right temperature. Today, they had added Lornai flower essential oil, perhaps a scent favored by some noble.
Once the servants withdrew, Salavira undressed and stepped into the bath.
Up to this point, Salavira showed no signs of abnormality. But when the warm milk enveloped him, and the steam rose to his face, a suffocating fear suddenly swept over him.
Lying in the bath, he stared at the carvings on the ceiling, gasping for air. After finally calming down, he suddenly laughed.
He had told Gretel during the day that he didn’t care, but now, back in this place, he realized his previous indifference was merely numbness to the daily pain. Once a caged bird tasted freedom, being locked up again made it hard to remain indifferent to past suffering.
He exhaled deeply, lowering his head to see a white robe embroidered with gold thread hanging beside the bath.
The same robe he wore every time he entertained “distinguished guests” over the past two years.
Everything was the same, exactly the same.
The same servants, the same elixir, the same bath, and the same clothes. It all made Salavira feel disoriented, questioning whether his recent experiences were just a dream, whether he had ever truly regained his freedom…
The moment this thought emerged, Salavira closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying not to drown in boundless fear.
He suddenly hoped, more than anything, that tonight’s “distinguished guest” would indeed be Asmodeus.