I Became The Pope, Now What?

There was near-silence in the dining room, and the only distraction was the constant boiling sound from the pot. Xavia just stared at his face and knew something must have happened. Over the years, she had noticed it enough times to know that her son thinks way ahead and deeper than normally others would.

So, she knew she could not half-ass her answer. She quickly put the fire crystal away from the stove and walked to sit beside him. “I will feel sad, but also proud–extremely proud… and safe.”

“Sad? Why?” Sylvester asked further. .

Xavia sighed and replied. “You know why we are the safest and the most in danger here. You becoming the Pope is an achievement that seems impossible to me. But, if you do, I will feel proud as that would mean you sit at the top… and also that you will be safe. But… your life will also be in the most danger, and the work–I’d worry for your mental well-being.”

‘It’s not that good right now anyway.’ Sylvester thought.

But he appreciated her care. “Mum, tell me, what happens when a king dies all of a sudden without announcing an heir? What does the strongest among the kids of that king do to his competitors.”

“He kills them… no!” She realized where this was going. “That’s not how the church operates.”

Sylvester stared into her eyes and didn’t say anything. That, in reply, brought tears to her eyes as she realized Sylvester didn’t have a choice in this matter. One day, if someone else becomes the Pope, they will try to either fully make him subservient or kill him–even more so because he has the highest talent combined with light magic and that bard blessing.

The Church had many examples of mysterious deaths due to poisoning in the past, so nothing was unimaginable.

Xavia held Sylvester’s hand and cried. “I’m sorry… I don’t deserve forgiveness for pushing you into all this.”

Sylvester wiped away her tears. “No–We never really had a choice. Everything was decided by Lord Inquisitor’s voice. This place is our best chance of survival, dangerous but still better… I’m sure of that after seeing the horrors outside.”

“You don’t blame me?” She asked.

Sylvester nodded and relaxed. “The only thing I blame you for is that school incident. I’m still suffering from the consequences of that… likely will for the rest of my life until I uproot the problem. We can just own up to our mistakes and hope not to repeat them. Anyway, I’m starving, mum.”

“Ah! Yes!” She quickly wiped her tears, got up, and walked away to finish cooking. However, in the middle, she stopped and asked him. “Dear… who is Chonky?”

“…”

Sylvester kept a straight face and answered. “Just an imaginary friend I made when I was little and had nothing else to do. Don’t worry. It’s my way of talking to myself and making plans.”

Miraj was very much offended by this, however, as he was called imaginary. So he pouted and climbed on Sylvester’s head, then started to punch him.

Xavia seemed satisfied by that answer, albeit a bit creeped out. But, knowing already how much stress her son faces, she didn’t bother.

In half an hour, the table was full of food. She explained what it was as there were things Sylvester had never seen before. “This is a fried spicy chopped potato I made with some honey. There is a stew, smoked chicken, lamb, and your favorite honey bread.”

Good food was something that could be a smile on even a demon’s face. He quickly dug in. “You’re going to turn me fat, mum.”

,m She put more on his plate. “If you’re going to return home so thin every time, I’d rather take preventive measures and get you fattened first.”

He chuckled and, in the middle of the distracting talks, threw some food down onto his lap, where Miraj sneakily ate his fill. He even got some extra today for being such a good partner all this time.

The tasty meal lasted until late at night, as it was already midnight by the time he arrived. After eating, Sylvester retreated to his room to relax a bit and have a good night’s sleep. But, soon, he felt sweaty despite the gentle temperature. So he just sat and took out his violin to start playing it in the room.

Knock Knock!

“Can I listen to it?” Xavia’s voice came from the other side.

Sylvester let her in and sit on his side. It was a double bed anyway, so there was enough space. Only Miraj was having trouble. However, since it was Xavia, he happily accepted her. In his words, she was the big mum, after all.

Sylvester closed his eyes and started to play the violin at a low pitch and slow. Then, for the first time, he sang… not for the lord or the hymn… but just sang. Hence, no halo appeared behind the head.

a??The world looks like an abyss so deep.

Where the light reaches not–the future is so bleak.

Strong or weak, strength is all we seek.

Why do we forget, it’s the same air we all breathe?a??

a??The rush is real; the struggle is fierce.

Lost many kids their souls in these conflicts.

Some reach the lord, some remain broken.

Among us–they are the real forsaken.

Their dreams are shattered, and will is shaken.

One day, from sleep, they refuse to awaken.a??

a??Care for them, not the Church, neither the lord,

Lived a life so hard, and got themselves so scarred.

This is all the remedy I can afford–a song from this bard.a??

Sylvester, of course, sang this for the little Shane and many more unknown, nameless kids that died due to the wrongdoings of the Church. They probably didn’t even know what was happening… and then they died in confusion and pain.

‘So much chaos… I can never find peace like this. They already know about my abilities… they will never let me be a common civilian. Is there no other way?’ He wondered that night very profoundly.

But then he suddenly stood up. Xavia was already fast asleep, listening to his music. So he left behind a note, and at three in the morning, he went to speak to Sir Dolorem at the Inquisitor camp.

The breeze was very calm at this time of the night, so he didn’t take the horse and instead walked all the way, reckoning it would also help him clear his mind of any doubts. He was, after all, fighting an internal battle right now.

He knew that he had to make a decision now, and whatever he chose, he must give his all for it. There was no ‘I won’t bother you, so don’t bother me.’ since he had the prospect of becoming too strong, something that his enemies would never accept.

“Maxy!”

Sylvester stopped and looked back. It was Miraj coming for him, running fast. The furry boy jumped and climbed onto his shoulder. “You ran away?”

“Where will I even run? No, I was going to meet Sir Dolorem. You go back and sleep. Mum will cuddle you like a little toy.” He suggested.

But Miraj denied. “Where Maxy goes, I go.”

“Fine with me.”

Sylvester whistled on the way and finally arrived at the Inquisitor camp. The sentries at the gates let him enter without even checking him. Though they were the only ones awake, and the camp was mostly empty.

He made his way to Sir Dolorem’s tent. He noticed the light from inside, so he coughed outside and asked. “May I enter, Sir Dolorem?”

“Priest Sylvester?” Sir Dolorem quickly appeared, opening the entrance curtain. He was initially worried that something had happened. But seeing Sylvester fine, he let him in. “This late? Is everything fine?”

“Sorry to disturb you so late at night. I could not sleep and needed to talk with someone. What are you doing up so late?” He asked and glanced at the table in the corner with a light crystal lamp.

Sir Dolorem closed the book. “I was writing about the journey… for personal keeping. Come, have a seat. What troubles you?”

Sylvester relaxed first. “The future is what troubles me. The fact that I can be disposed of at any time. It’s suffocating… to be this powerless–to know you are an insect in their eyes. Even being angry is pointless.”

“Then you just need to rise up. You are the bard, after all, you are meant for greatness,” Sir Dolorem replied.

Sylvester disagreed with that notion. “The more I try to ignore the Church’s sinful actions, something like this happens. How am I supposed to heal the faith by being the bard when it’s the Church leaving behind people scarred?”

At that, Sir Dolorem turned very serious, even angered to some degree. There was visible frustration on the man’s face as he replied. “It’s no place for me to say this, but–you’re weak in power and position. Having seen you for so long, I don’t feel you even wish to get a promotion in the clergy, forget magic. A man with so much power… so much talent… you choose to sit back. Sylvester, the only path to do something is by sitting at the top–you can achieve that, I know it–but if you’re actively trying not to reach the top, then you have no right to complain.”

“With the current pace, you will never become the Pope. Despite all your talent, you’re still a Priest. You were among the youngest in history to reach the rank of Master Wizard, but ever since, your growth has stagnated. You should have already reached Arch Wizard in eight years… but you never tried to reach that. You need to become better–colder and sharper.”

Sylvester crossed his arms and sighed. He looked into the man’s eyes and smelled nothing but worship, hope, and love. “Old man, I do not wish to cause bloodshed.”

“The land already bleeds.”

Sylvester added. “I do not want to be the cause of people’s tears.”

“They were never wiped clear.” Blurted, Sir Dolorem.

“I do not wish to die foolishly.” He said.

Sir Dolorem moved closer and held his shoulders. “Then stand at the peak of all.”

Sylvester tried to think of every scenario that could go on in his head. All the possible ways he could die, all the enemies he would develop, not just outside but inside the Church. If he decides to rise to power, that would require his everything–not just his mind, but blood, sweat, and tears. He will have to become the same evil that the Church is, and that means his life will never be at peace until the race is over.

“Isn’t your first duty to the light?” Sylvester asked, only to receive a burst of worship in reply.

“Yes, but it has been tainted… and purification of light… requires another source–more bright!”

“Sir Dolorem.” Sylvester’s voice seemed to be full of confidence. “If I do this, my holy throne will be made of bones.”

The old man just looked into his eyes and, in pure worship, that borderline fanaticism, replied, “And I shall gladly become a piece of it if I must.”