Chapter 1107: Chapter 1044: Cambertel’s Visit

In late September, each bout of rain was colder than the last.

And just as the drizzle over Spring Castle ceased, the faint light leaking from the clouds slanted down, slicing across the Gothic spire of the Scripture Response Hall.

This stone building had originally been an affiliated monastery of Bolon Cathedral, and was so named because Archbishops of generations past often "responded to the scriptures" here.

It was designed for that era of great expansion, when the land was full of savages and newly converted barbarians.

New converts, or those intending to convert who harbored doubts, could come here directly to inquire.

All questions, whether brief enough for a day or long enough for three, would be publicly answered and interpreted by a Priest standing at the front door.

Over time, the title "Scripture Response Hall" replaced the original Saint Margaret Monastery.

At this moment, within the Scripture Response Hall, moisture was still seeping and dripping from the damp stone walls and the barrel vault above, falling onto bright whale-oil lamps and sending up a foul-smelling smoke.

In the wavering light, several hundred monks sat on tiered benches.

As the weather had cooled, they wore an extra layer under their gray robes.

The rustling of cloth rubbing together mixed with the late-autumn cicadas outside the windows, sounding more vivid than the hymns and chants in the neighboring church.

The monks in the front row held Joan of Arc Castle paper scrolls, taking shorthand; those in the back craned their necks to look.

Their gazes could not help circling back to that young man standing at the lectern. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Pope of the Holy Alliance, founder of the Holy Sect, grandson of the Holy Father—Horn Gallar.

The chalk made from lime clicked against the blackboard; Horn set the chalk down and turned around. "The day before yesterday, someone asked: since the Holy Alliance is not a church, how can there be a Pope?"

"Today I intend to make that clear to you all."

"I must state it plainly: the Holy Alliance is not a church but a self-governing body of the faithful; the Pope of the Holy Alliance is not the Church’s Pope, but the Pope of the faithful..."

Having finished explaining the definition of a self-governing body of the faithful, he tapped the blackboard with his knuckles. "My friends, the Church seeks to monopolize the right to interpret scripture; the Holy Alliance does not.

The faithful, by reason and experience, can comprehend the Way of the Holy Father, and thus can themselves form self-governing bodies of the faithful.

So long as they establish councils and governments of the faithful in accordance with doctrine, clarify taxation, and determine basic constitutional principles of freedom and equality, they are qualified to apply to join the Holy Alliance as a member state."

A low murmur rose from below the platform; a monk raised his hand. "Your Majesty, how do member states differ from the core territories of the Holy Alliance?"

"Unified tariffs, independent fiscal affairs, coordinated military affairs, shared adherence to the doctrine." Horn’s voice echoed beneath the vault. "The Holy Alliance does not send bishops to rule in its name, only gold-medal lecturers to help collate the canons.

It is like the autonomous city-states of the El Empire, yet freer than they, because we have no hereditary nobility."

"Then, Your Majesty, if that is the case, why do we still need a Supreme Leader in the form of a Pope?" Suddenly, a Little Priest raised his hand and asked.

"Got a death wish, have you?"

"Who are you? Why are you asking that? Who put you up to it?"

Before Horn could reply, a ring of monks nearby sprang to their feet to defend him, shouting the boy down, scaring the Little Priest so much his legs nearly gave out beneath him.

"What are you doing?" Horn, who had still been smiling as he was questioned, saw the others’ reaction and his face darkened. "Let him speak. The character ’grass’ on top of ’earth’ isn’t going to make the character ’temple’ collapse."

A few monks, faces flushed, sat back down noisily, and Horn gently explained to the crowd:

"I’m very glad you asked that question, and the reason is quite simple.

Because the Devil still walks the world, we still need Judgment and Holy War.

We all know that war requires a unified and consistent command center..."

At the back of the tiered seats, listening to Horn’s digression into Holy War and military matters, Leimington lowered his head.

He covered half his face with his sleeve and murmured to Mattis beside him, "What His Majesty means, plain as day, is that he intends to erect a new Holy Alliance Empire to replace the Divine Ael Empire."

Mattis’s quill paused over the paper, the ink spreading into a black blot. "Priest Leimington, you mustn’t say such things lightly."

"What am I saying lightly? It’s the truth."

Mattis hesitated. "Even if it were a Holy Alliance Empire, everyone could accept it, couldn’t they?

Besides, the Holy Alliance calls itself the Third Ael. Compared with the present so-called Divine Ael Empire, which is just wrapped in the institutions of a Barbarian Kingdom,

the El people who represent the scholars and merchants, and the Salin Scholar Association as well, would probably prefer the Holy Alliance."

"The interests of upper-class El people and lower-class El people are not the same, and so it is with merchant El people and scholar El people."

Priest Leimington sighed. "I expect that from now on, there will be a great exodus of windmill-district El people migrating to the Thousand River Valley."

As if suddenly reminded of something, he bumped Mattis with his elbow. "Little Mattis, let me ask you something—how did your brother Jill manage to wriggle his way into becoming the Pope’s secretary?"

Mattis scratched his head. "I’m puzzled myself. Some time ago he said he was going to Red Leaf Hill for training, and the next thing I knew he’d gone off with His Excellency Armand."

Leimington pressed his lips together, biting down, covertly grinding his teeth.

That kid usually keeps his head down and hardly says a word, but he’s good at working the system. Must have gotten in with Armand long ago.

If he’d known earlier that Horn had those kinds of methods, he should have followed Swenson and Jill’s example and cleaved closely to the Holy Alliance from the start.

Even so, he couldn’t help but look up at the lectern.

Horn was talking about how the Holy Alliance’s laws protected artisans and scholars, and was even proposing to set up unified civil service exams, releasing a portion of the monk quotas to the broader society.

Many of the monks below nodded again and again, especially those with artisan, merchant, or scholar backgrounds.

Some lower-ranking monks who were convinced of their own ability yet unable to advance because of their low status were even more excited.

Because in the Holy Alliance there was no ceiling of birth; even the son of a Public Register Farmer could become a holy office-holder at the rank of Archbishop.

The Holy Alliance’s siphoning effect on talent was already beginning to show faint signs.

"But talking about this now is useless." Leimington lowered his voice. "The war in the south isn’t over yet, and Horn’s papal throne is not yet stable."

Matis was just about to respond when he saw a stir arise at the back of the crowd.

A man in a black robe was striding quickly along the shadows of the side aisle, half a stubbly face showing beneath his hood—it was Armand.

He alarmed no one, went straight to the side of the lectern, bent down and whispered a few words to Horn.

Horn’s brows twitched imperceptibly. Then he straightened and said to those below the stage, "That will be all for today’s lecture. I have unexpected official business, so tomorrow will be a rest day. The day after tomorrow I’ll continue with the ’Outline of the Holy Sect’s Canon Law.’"

"Rise."

"Respectfully seeing His Majesty off."

Hundreds of monks spoke in unison, as if Horn were already a Pope, and as for who Grandiva was, they were no longer familiar.

Horn’s figure disappeared behind the side door. The silence in the Scripture Hall lasted only a moment before it exploded like a lake into which a stone had been thrown.

"Self-governance for the faithful... that’s what the Saint Master truly intended!"

A middle-aged monk in a coarse robe on the back bench behind Leimington slammed his palm on the long bench.

He was from a small Monastery on Leia’s border, had only converted to the Holy Sect last year, and now his eyes were red as he clenched his fists.

"When those nobles drove us like livestock, where was the Church?

The Holy Alliance says we can govern ourselves—that is the true doctrine!"

Someone beside him immediately echoed, "Member states don’t have to pay tribute to the Pope, they’re bound only by the doctrines... isn’t that better than the Empire?"

"His Majesty Horn said the Holy Alliance is the Third Ael. I think he’s exactly right, completely right—more like Ael than the current Divine Ael Empire!" A scholar-monk in copper-rimmed spectacles pushed up his frames, speaking with eager anticipation.

The murmur of discussion rose like the tide.

Monks paced back and forth in agitation, clustered together to argue over the details of the articles; others pulled out dry rations, gnawing as they reviewed the lecture just now.

Leimington stood up and left the classroom with Matis in silence, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his sleeve.

Listening to the tide of voices behind him, the corner of his mouth twisted into a complicated smile.

The Saint’s Grandson’s move was brilliant—he repackaged "vassalage" as "alliance," turning alliance into an upgraded form of vassalage with a single stroke.

He had sidestepped the pretext of territorial expansion, while giving regions that had had enough of noble oppression a perfectly legitimate reason to rise and defect.

Calling it the Third Ael—better to say he was using Ael’s shell to remake an entirely new empire.

Leimington genuinely felt that he needed to properly rethink and adjust his own doctrine, as well as his relationship with the Holy Alliance.

"Priest, look over there." Matis suddenly tugged at his sleeve, his voice very low.

Leimington followed the direction he indicated.

Diagonal to the Scripture Hall’s back door was a narrow alley. At this moment, a carriage draped in black cloth had stopped at the alley’s mouth.

The curtain lifted, and an old man in a dark purple-black robe stepped down on a servant’s back.

The hood covered most of his face, leaving only a pale length of jaw exposed.

Gathering up the overly long hem of his robe, he hurriedly turned into the Scripture Hall’s side door. The small wooden door, normally used only by menials, closed behind him without a sound.

"Who is that?" Leimington frowned. To be riding a black-draped carriage in Spring Castle and wearing purple robes—he was no ordinary monk.

Matis’s voice carried a faint tremor. "I think I saw the silver embroidery on his collar—that’s the Archbishop’s crest of Huaqiu City.

And that build... it looks far too much like Archbishop Cambert."

"Cambert?" Leimington jerked his head around as if scalded, eyes bulging. "What is he doing here?"

Cambert was a core figure of the Falan Church, King Charles’s right-hand man; his status was at times higher even than Grandiva’s.

Only a few days ago he had been crossing swords with Horn in Bolon Cathedral—how could he now be sneaking in through the Scripture Hall’s back door?

The monks were still deep in heated discussion. Apart from the two of them, no one at all had noticed that tightly closed side door.

A chill suddenly crept up the back of Leimington’s neck.

He had a premonition that that papal crown was already firmly, solidly set upon Horn’s head.