I Became The Pope, Now What?

As Sylvester gave his order, the south gates of the Frozen Town were opened. The massive army of nearly two hundred thousand rushed in. But they didn’t even need the gates as most could simply jump over the walls. The good thing about the Holy Army was that most of them were at least Knights, and there were many wizards of low level too.

The Holy Land enjoyed a great position of power in the world where every wizard or knight wished to work for the Holy Land. Since there were no crazy feudal lords above their heads, they received respect and the pride of being a part of an extremely powerful faction.

“Gather near the north wall, but do not cross under any circumstances!” The commanders passed the loud orders under General Sylvester’s plan.

It was daytime, so they were cautious not to lose the element of surprise. The trick behind killing Zelfim Borzol was to first make him believe that they were his saviour and then strike the killing blow on him instead of the undead.

“Commanders, remind your men not to attack the Barbarians with red cloth wrapped around their arms. They are the Storst faction who have decided to ally with us. Furthermore, remind everyone that they can never win against the undead horde, so only focus on keeping them at bay while I deal with the rest.

“Lastly, Lady Aurora and Lord Gideon Gracia—you are to only focus on Zelfim Borzol. Command the ten Arch Wizards and Diamond Knights under you well, do not let them die for no reason, or the Holy Land will be irritated.”

Sylvester didn’t even bother acting timid just because of his age. He didn’t care if anyone didn’t respect him for being young, as that would only get them killed first.

“Why didn’t you just call the Holy Father?” Guardian of Gracia Kingdom asked displeasingly. “We are dealing with the highest-ranked Knight and Undead Wizard. This is a suicide, no matter how big our army is.”

“Because calling the Holy Father would have meant inviting the Anti-Light faction, whose head is also a Supreme Wizard. The vile man is waiting for a chance to fight against the Holy Father. Do you want that to happen? If they did fight, this whole kingdom would be incinerated.” Sylvester revealed.

It was only half the truth, however. He simply didn’t call the Pope because then his importance would have been reduced to that of a side character. After all, he aimed to make a name for himself.

“Have faith in the Bard of Solisss~” Winter Ghost interjected.

Sylvester didn’t reply, as the man always gave him the creeps. He was still smelling the scent of durians, and he had no idea what it meant.

“Keep watching. When they appear cornered, that is when we shall move out.” Sylvester ordered them.

“Commander Belmont!” Sylvester called the Commander of Inquisitors that were there. “Go ahead with your work inside the town. Remember, no one younger than seven should be killed.”

Inquisitor Commander Belmont saluted seriously. “Understood, Lord Bard. We shall swiftly end all the heathens. But, if I may ask, why not finish all of them?”

Sylvester walked closer to the man, taking him a little away so no one could hear them. “Commander, I heard you’re celibate and follow the church’s strict rules. You must be aware of the concept that no person is ever away from the embrace of Solis. Borzol faction may have been radicalised beyond fixing, but those little kids are young and naive. Most of them won’t remember what will happen today as they grow up.

“That means there is enough room for us to work and bring them into the embrace of the lord and make them a follower of the church.”

Commander Belmont beamed with pride and positivity as he clenched his fist, being too gullible with Sylvester’s words. “You are right, Lord Bard. We can not hurt the little ones as they are too naive. I will fulfil the duty with precision. Rest assured.”

“I have faith in you.”

With that, the Inquisitors quietly left, and Sylvester only focused on the battle ahead, with Bishop Lazark evaluating the undead. The number of undead was only increasing with time, and they had already outnumbered the Barbarians by twenty to one.

“Why did you tell the Inquisitors to do that? They should have fought here. Their overzealousness could have helped us.” Sir Dolorem walked beside Sylvester and asked.

Sylvester put away the monocular. “Sir Dolorem, do you think the Holy Army or any other army would have been able to do what I asked them? To kill unarmed people mercilessly, old or young, that’s a great scarring memory to hold. Most would cower before lifting their sword on a ten-year-old.”

Sir Dolorem stayed silent for a while before sighing. “The Inquisitors are not common people, Lord Bard. We… We are trained to be monsters. There is a reason why the world fears us and loathes us.”

“But for some reason, you all cherish me.”

“You are the miracle child, after all. The Inquisitors found you, and we take pride in that fact.” Sir Dolorem chuckled as he said that.

Boom!

Suddenly a loud explosive sound came, and a change appeared on the battlefield. Unlike the skeletons, some strange black-robed humanoid creatures appeared. They were like wizards, spewing spells of fire, ice and airy destruction.

“This is bad!” Bishop Lazark exclaimed. “Emperor Lich has too many minor Liches under control! That’s akin to having wizards in the army.”

Sylvester gleefully smiled. “That’s… Even better!”

“What?!”

“…”

…

Like wraiths in the night, the inquisitors crept into the town. Their presence was known only by the faint rustle of cloth and the soft steps. They encircled the sprawling warehouses where the non-combatants of the Borzol faction had sought refuge, seeking safety in numbers. But alas, their security was illusory, for they each had only two men armed with spears to protect them and not a single practitioner of magic among them.

Boom!

And then, with a thunderous blast, the explosives that Sylvester had so cunningly placed beforehand detonated in a deafening roar, the echoes of which reverberated throughout the town. The people were roused from their slumber, and in their confusion and alarm, the guards of each warehouse came out to investigate the commotion. However, it was a fatal mistake, for they were met with a merciless barrage of blades and magic.

Slash!

The guards, their eyes still hazy with sleep, were cut down with ruthless efficiency, their throats slit open with ease, and their blood pooled on the ground. Their bodies were then unceremoniously dragged away, to be cast into the waiting flames of a pyre.

Why burn them? Well, this was the greatest punishment to them since the Mountain Tribes worshipped the mountains and believed in burial. But to inquisitors, burning their bodies was a means of asserting the supremacy of Solis over the beliefs of the “heathens.

After the hindrances of the guards were removed, the people inside the halls were as vulnerable as sheep. Sadly, for them, the Inquisitors were like wolves in bloodlust.

“Kill everyone but children of seven or younger!” The commander ordered.

With ruthless efficiency, the inquisitors descended upon the halls like a swarm of voracious predators. In the face of their onslaught, mothers desperately sought to protect their children, only to be met with the cold, merciless blades of the inquisitors. Elderly couples, bewildered and confused, clung to one another in a futile effort to shield themselves from the carnage, but to no avail. For the inquisitors, this was simply another day on the job, and taking human life was as effortless and insignificant as crushing an insect beneath their boots.

The halls resounded with children’s anguished cries, but not all were to be spared. Those under the age of seven were swiftly ushered into a separate hall, where tables were full of tasty delicacies. Meanwhile, the older children were killed with merciful beheadings, their screams of terror and pain abruptly silenced. The inquisitors swept through the ten halls ruthlessly, and the massacre was over within a quarter of an hour. The once-resonant halls fell silent, save for the distant cries and commands of the barbarians outside the walls fighting the undead.

“Commander, do we have to keep an eye on kids now?” The Inquisitors had nothing to do after finishing their task inside the town.

“This is an order from Lord Bard, so do not question him. Our job is to keep these children safe until the battle outside is over. I believe they will soon be singing the name of the true lord, ending the menace of these mountain heathens.” Commander Belmont replied while looking at little children with fatherly love in his eyes.

“Really? Can they be educated?”

The Commander chuckled and watched a five-year-old boy gobbling on some tasty treats. “They are kids, Sir Hunter. What can they even do? Their minds are simple and gentle. But, with Lord Bard’s nourishing voice and care of Bright Mothers, they will soon be educated.”

Slash!

“Gah! Aaaa! She stabbed me!”

In a sudden and shocking turn of events, a piercing scream erupted from a corner of the hall as one of the inquisitors fell back in horror, his hands clutching desperately at his throat, from which a gush of blood spewed forth, revealing a deep, fatal knife wound.

Thud!

With a thud, the inquisitor fell to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring blankly into the distance. His comrades stood frozen in shock and disbelief, their gaze fixed upon the small, barbarian girl who stood before them, her knife still clutched tightly in her hand.

“Aaaa! Y-You killed m-my mommy!” She growled like a wild cat, not understanding her situation.

But her fate was sealed, for her transgression would be met with merciless retribution.

“S-She killed L-Lloyd!” one of the inquisitors exclaimed in horror.

Woosh!

Before anyone could react, the fierce girl’s head flew, and the enraged inquisitors were unleashed upon her, their bloodlust now uncontrollable. They were all men who had seen nothing but violence from the day they picked up the blade.

To them, the blood of sinners and heathens was more beloved than water. They had no common sense nor any kindness in their hearts. They were the blades of the church purposefully made to create bloody sparks.

To them—calmness was an otherworldly concept.

“S-Stop! Don’t kill the kids! Lord Bard’s orders are absolute!” The Commander roared in panic as the children, who had finally stopped crying and were eating food, were again subjected to mindless horror.

“Kill them all!”

“They killed Lloyd!”

“Heathen spawns!”

“Demons!”

The incident that lasted a few minutes inside that hall made the attack of the undead seem like a pleasant, friendly spar. What was supposed to be a bitter-sweet end to the Borzol faction turned into the young bard’s deep dark mental scar.

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