Rome.
Before him stood a grand cathedral, its façade carved from immaculate white marble and adorned with glimmering gold.
Its spires reached into the heavens, symbols of faith's unwavering purity.
When the sunlight struck their peaks, the gold details flared with brilliance—dazzling to behold. Through the stained-glass windows, sunlight poured in, scattering rainbows across the nave and bathing the entire cathedral in a dreamlike radiance.
From the windows, one could see the ancient city basking in the hues of sunset.
Only this holy place remained aglow—its lamps burning brightly as if to challenge the dying light.
Magnificent beyond words.
Amid this sacred splendor, an old man of formidable presence sat with his eyes half-lidded.
Despite his age, his frame was broad and powerful. Thick black brows shadowed bulging eyes, his lips were full and heavy, and his long nose rose sharply above a recessed chin that seemed cut by a sculptor's knife. From the side, he resembled a ram—proud and unyielding.
"Has that fellow Da Vinci still not changed his tune?"
The old man's voice rumbled like thunder through the vaulted chamber. The guard beside him, clearly accustomed to such bursts, answered quickly.
"He has, Your Holiness. He seems... dissatisfied with the Church's current direction."
At that, the guard faltered, uncertain whether to continue.
"Hmph. That old fool. I dragged him out from under those French bastards' noses, gave him food, comfort, freedom—and still he prattles on and on."
The Pope's tone dripped with contempt. His disdain for the French was plain; the moment their name left his lips, it was a curse. Yet his face remained impassive, and the guard did not dare to breathe too loudly.
"Enough of that. What about those English bastards? Has the Clock Tower replied?"
"No, Your Holiness. There's been no response."
"Damn them—they're still stalling. If those Ottoman dogs seize the chance to cross from Albania and invade Rome, even if this city falls, I'll see every one of those damned magi's heads torn off before I slit my own throat."
The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries—an age of religious warfare between the world's great faiths, when two of the three major sects of Christianity fought with unmatched ferocity.
On one front, the Reconquista in Spain neared its end. The Sultanate of Granada still clung to the mountains of the south, gasping its last breaths.
On the other, the Ottoman Empire's relentless expansion was choking Europe.
In 1453, the thousand-year-old Constantinople had fallen to Mehmed II, the Conqueror.
By 1479, Albania too was conquered.
And in 1480, Mehmed's assault on Otranto threw all of Italy into terror.
Fortune, however, spared them—Mehmed died the following year. Leaderless, the Ottomans withdrew from the Italian Peninsula, though his successor, Bayezid II, continued to loom over Europe like a shadow.
Every kingdom of the continent lived in constant paranoia, trembling like dry tinder—one spark away from a holy conflagration.
"Should we continue requesting assistance from the Three Lords of the Clock Tower and House El-Melloi?"
"Forget it," the old man grunted. "Those self-serving rats were never worth trusting anyway. Keep our stance firm. So long as they hand over control of the English Inquisition, that's all I care about."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
"And another thing... I heard there's been a healer among the magi in England lately. What was his name again?"
"Von Hohenheim—Paracelsus, Your Holiness."
"Ah, that one. I know him. You may go."
"Yes, Your Holiness."
The old man—the reigning Pope of Rome, known to the world as Alexander VI—leaned back in his ornate chair.
His real name was Rodrigo Lanzol de Borja, the first Pope of the Holy Church to publicly acknowledge his illegitimate children. A Spaniard by birth, he was far more a politician than a priest.
In 1493, he had issued the decree that divided the colonial world between Portugal and Spain—the infamous Papal Meridian Line.
To historians, Alexander VI stood as the very emblem of the Renaissance Church's corruption—decadent, indulgent, and ruthlessly pragmatic.
His ambition knew no bounds, his greed for power and wealth notorious, his machinations to elevate his son, Cesare Borgia, the stuff of legend and infamy alike.
Yet he had not invented such depravity; his predecessors had set the standard long before him.
Still, it would be unjust to ignore his family's patronage of the arts. Under his reign, artists like Pinturicchio, Bartolomeo Veneto, Michelangelo, Titian, and Hieronymus Bosch flourished. Even Leonardo da Vinci himself once designed war machines for Cesare Borgia.
It is worth noting that his uncle, Pope Callixtus III, had been the man who—only a year into his papacy—posthumously absolved Jeanne d'Arc.
The act owed much to Joan's mother and to the persistence of France's own inquisitors, but Callixtus's final approval was decisive. Despite fierce opposition from within, he had forced through the vindication of the so-called "witch" who had been burned by the English-controlled Inquisition.
Ever since the "Avignon Captivity," when France seized and humiliated the papacy, the Church had despised the French. The Pope of that age had been beaten nearly to death by agents of the French king; he perished weeks later.
So when Joan of Arc was condemned as a witch, not a single cleric in Rome spoke in her defense. Many, in fact, muttered that it served the French right—after all, it had been only two decades since the Great Schism had ended. The wounds were still raw.
The "Avignon Captivity" and the Schism had left the Holy See weak, and opportunistic monarchies across Europe had taken advantage—seizing control of their local inquisitions.
Thus, when Joan was betrayed, it was an English bishop—Pierre Cauchon—who presided over her trial and delivered the Church's judgment.
Corruption, debauchery, and murder had long shadowed the papacy of both uncle and nephew.
Yet for all their sins, both Callixtus III and Alexander VI possessed a profound reverence for the Church itself—and a natural gift for preaching.
As night fell, the Pope once again closed his eyes, feigning rest. His guards had long since withdrawn; even in his advanced age, his strength was not to be underestimated.
Now the grand cathedral stood silent, as if its splendor existed for him alone.
Having served five pontiffs in his lifetime—including his own uncle—Alexander had amassed immense experience, influence, and fortune. Yet since the humiliation of the Avignon years, the papal throne had never regained its sanctity.
The aged Pope leaned back in his chair. Sleep—soft and honeyed—began to descend upon him. As his eyes closed, a memory surfaced: the day his uncle had spoken to him, long ago.
"That French girl, Jeanne, truly was a saint."
"But she's dead. There's no need to rehabilitate her, Uncle. The Church's dignity can't take another blow."
"You're right. There's no need... and yet, there is. Her mother believes her daughter's suffering was undeserved—and that is reason enough."
"But won't that jeopardize your plan to unite the nations against the Ottomans? Constantinople's been lost for years…"
Callixtus had fallen silent, gazing out the window before answering softly:
"My reputation is already ruined. What's one more stain? And besides—"
The rest of the words were lost to memory.
That day, young Rodrigo watched his uncle disappear into the streets of Rome, surrounded by the faithful's hymns and praises.
Now, at eighty-four, Alexander VI opened his eyes once more. The cathedral was silent.
The centuries-long wait for the Church's lost glory went on.
Countless souls had come and gone—some to kneel, some to seek forgiveness, others to find salvation.
Outside the Eternal City, the spring sky glowed soft and clear, serene and endless.
The holy icons on the walls gazed down upon it all, unmoving, witnesses to eternity.
"For the sake of the Church," murmured Alexander VI, "I would gladly go to Hell."
He knew full well he was no saint.
He had sent the innocent to their deaths—directly, indirectly, uncountably many.
And yet, knowing this, he would not stop.
For the restoration of the Church's ancient glory—
He would sacrifice everything.