I Became The Pope, Now What?

There was a tense silence in the hall as the swords were pointed at all the nobles in the room. Even the Count felt he'd be killed by the sword of Lady Aurora the moment he moved wrong.

He stuttered and sweated. "M-My Lady… I… I don't know what's going on… T-Th…"

Sylvester was not a fool, however. "I know. You'd be the mightiest fool in the world if you dared to attack me or any of us in your own castle. Even if you could have killed me, Lady Aurora would have uprooted your entire County later."

Lady Aurora firmly nodded in affirmation.

"So, this servant did it on someone else's order. It's unknown if their goal was to create distrust among us or truly harm me. You speak, or I shall snap your neck." He glared into the servant's eyes as the man wriggled, trying to catch his breath.

"I-I was offered money to add something to your drink… I didn't know it was poison."

Sylvester could smell the lie as clearly as a dirty Miraj after his playing hours. "Speak the truth! Who offered you the money?"

"I don't know, my lord! He was wearing large robes, and it was dark! He just gave me the money and said if I don't do it now, then he will return to kill me."

Sylvester released him and let him fall. "Well, congratulations, you're still going to die for heresy."

"It must have been Raftel! That little twat!" Count Jartel barked in anger.

But almost instantly, the second in command of the Count, Sir Walder, spoke from his wheelchair. "My lord, please control your anger. Let's not lose our rationality. Count Raftel is not foolish enough to do something so obvious. Until now, he has committed to saying he didn't harm Lady Marcella, so he has no reason to dig deeper into the trouble."

Sylvester glanced at the crippled man. He was not in awe as anyone could realise this observation. But he felt a hint of disgust in him. 'Does he dislike the Count? Is it physical disliking or personal?'

"Lock him up. I wish to interrogate him later. But, for now, we shall be moving to the Monastery for the night's sleep. Nobody wishes to eat dinner anymore, I suppose, lest one of us may drop dead from some flavorful poison." Sylvester snarkily said, taunting them all to get someone to show an emotion he could count on.

"Woof! Wowoo!"

Sylvester turned to the side as a big cute dog came running, wagging his tail and tongue excitedly. It was a wolf-like breed, likely, but too friendly apparently as the furry white boy jumped to play with him.

"Raftel, sit!" Count Jartel shouted.

"..."

The name stupefied Sylvester. "You gave the dog your brother's name?"

The Count shrugged and called the dog towards him to pet it. "Raftel started it by naming his dog Jartel… me! It's the highest level of disrespect."

He sighed and ignored this little squabbling of brothers. He was here to stop the war, and that's what he would focus on. But that didn't mean he didn't like dogs.

"Come here, boy." He called the wolf-like dog, akin to a husky but more ferocious.

Soon, wagging his tail, the dog reached him. So Sylvester took out one of the small dried chicken pieces that Xavia packed for him and gave it. "Sit."

"Woof!"

"Shake hand."

"Woof!"

"Roll."

The dog did everything, certainly a well-trained one. So Sylvester gave him a few more treats, and felt somewhat refreshed with that little interaction. He knew dogs and simple pets can be very good anti-depressants at times.

'Maybe I should get a dog for mum. She must wish to have some company when I'm gone… or else she might fall into that Great Mother's activities.'

"Respected clergy… I shall guide you to the Monastery." A man entered in Priest's clothing. Clearly, he was a member of the Monastery, and this time the Monastery was a huge one since it was the office of the County's Archbishop.

Sylvester glanced. "What's your name, Priest, and do you have prison cells under the Monastery?"

The Priest, a middle-aged man on the brink of balding, nodded with great reverence. "I am Priest Herman, Lord Bard, and yes, we do have jails in the cellar."

Sylvester caught the servant who mixed poison by the collar and dragged him along. "I will need to interrogate him. Help me bring him along, Priest. As for Count Jartel, I humbly request that you don't leave the County until I am done with the investigation. I will later call you and your family one by one for an interview in the Monastery. Have a good night."

With that, they all took their leave, leaving behind a confused and fuming Count Jartel. The man was not angry at Sylvester but at his brother, as he still believed he was responsible for his wife's death and today's poisoning attempt.

"My Lord, you can trust him." Said the Prima of the Count, Sir Walder. "You are as aware of his prowess as anyone else. The bards sing his praises non-stop."

"One week! If he can't find the culprit at that time, I shall raze Raftel to the ground."

…

As Sylvester walked out and got onto the carriage, he noticed a lot of people gathered in the distance in the town's square.

"What's happening there?" He asked.

"That's the bard, sire. They sing and tell stories every night there, as Lord Jartel believes that the best way to keep the people happy is to keep them entertained, as it's the best way to forget some of the hardships in life." The Priest answered.

'The count seems better than most others.'

But again, if a man can rise to become a Count, even if inherited, it means they have some prowess. Because inheriting a title is easy, but maintaining it is hard. Same as his case, where he has to keep singing to maintain the buzz and popularity.

"Let me see what they sing about." He muttered and walked to the crowd. It seemed like a dug-out amphitheatre, and the people were sitting with discipline, though some shouts were apparent occasionally.

At that moment, a play seemed to be going on. What story it was, he didn't know. But after it ended, a single man appeared with a plain and simple mandolin. He was wearing nice silk clothes and appeared to be a performer of sorts.

Then, he sang with full emotions and music, of course, not as good as Sylvester, but this was more entertaining and exciting for the crowd.

♫Comes here, your favourite travelling bard, after a journey so hard.

To sing the song that matters, one of the great bard's life chapters.

The story of the land in the south, the miracle of the light.

Oh, his might, so bright that against it—none can fight.♫

♫The miracle born to spread his love, all around and above.

He is one in a million, his name is Sylvester Maximilian.

The bard of the Lord, the apostle of the god.

He shall judge the sinners, and give faithfuls a reward.

He will mesmerise you with his musical chord.♫

♫Hear his adventures, for he protects the innocents from the darkness.

He laid siege on the evil with the mighty light he could harness.

But wait! It's not just his light, for even his spear shines with sharpness.

Bloodling of the cave! Bloodling of the mountains.

He's the light that leaves all such evil as nothing but a carcass.♫

"Sing with me!" The bard started to play the mandolin loudly while the people clapped in rhythm.

♫O' Holy Wizard, your magic heals our plight.

O' Holy Knight, we respect your might.

O' Bard of Light, you shine so bright! Your songs are a delight!

O' Man of faith, you we invite—in our hearts, let the blessings ignite!♫

"Look at his face! That smugness! He's enjoying it." Felix barked all of a sudden amidst the combined singing of the crowd.

Sylvester didn't even refute him as he felt pumped by the combined singing. It was like sitting in an arena, and the people screamed for you. This was the proof he needed that showed his work was not for nought. He was successfully becoming popular and building a narrative that he was the saviour.

'Good good… I just need to enter the lives of commoners slowly and then… even the clergy can't reject me from becoming a Pope, no matter my age.'

Gabriel chuckled at the side. "He deserves it, you know. He has saved so many people, so it was just a matter of time before the legend spreads."

For Sylvester, it was even better that nobody called him God's Favoured. But instead, they called him Lord's Bard. This ensured that he could develop his own unique identity instead of going on the hype of God's Favoured.

"Let's move!" Sylvester left the arena and let the crowd enjoy.

They soon arrived at the giant Monastery building, made to look like a castle as well, but it was too big and spread out instead of going high. There was no moat, however, instated there was a tall boundary wall. It was a common consensus among all nobles that if they made war on each other, then they could not touch the Monastery normally. This way, the Monastery didn't have to spend much on anti-war safety.

It was already night, so most of the clergymen had gone to sleep, as the many windows appeared dark. But, a man in red silk robes with golden embroidery stood at the gate of the Monastery. On his head was a very intricate mitre as well.

Sylvester walked up to the man and saluted seriously. "I pay my respects to the Archbishop."

The Archbishop appeared to be an average dark-skinned, middle-aged man with black hair and eyes. He was not as tall as Sylvester, however, and his build was on the thin side—likely a wizard only. Nevertheless, his face appeared amicable.

He, too, saluted back. "Welcome to my monastery, Lord Bard… and Lady Tenth. Please, come in. I'm sure you'd wish to do your night prayer before sleeping."

'He does not seem like a bad man. The scent of real worship and admiration—cloves is there. But I can't keep him out of suspicion either, for he holds a lot of authority in the County."

"Please lead us, your grace," Sylvester responded.

As they walked, the Archbishop told them about the place. "It's a sad thing what happened to Lady Marcella. She was a gentle soul and a firm believer. This monastery holds two bishops, four Archbishops, twenty priests and eighty deacons, yet we couldn't administer the faith properly."

"It's not your fault, your grace," Sylvester replied, also hoping to get something back. "Evil generally hides even among the kindest hearts without oneself knowing. Who knows who committed this folly? Anyhow, what are your thoughts on the Count and his family?"

The Archbishop blurted quickly. "They are good people, Lord Bard. But I can't say the same about the Prima, Sir Walder. He's a bit… strange to me."

'Oh! What's this? Animosity? I smell strong hatred… and anger. Interesting!'

"Why?" He pushed further.

The Archbishop appeared to struggle to find words. "He's just… he's not a very religious man. He also controls the money flow in the County."

"Hasn't he enriched the county, however?"

"Yes, he has. But he stands against the faith… he keeps cutting the budget allotted to the Monastery every year. How can such be acceptable?"

Sylvester could smell that lie from a mile away. 'What's the real reason for that hate, Archbishop? I guess only time will tell.'

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[A/N: Sorry for the delay, I had to write a lot more for the privilege.]

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