I Became The Pope, Now What?

Sylvester had heard the name Degracia. It was a branch family of the main royal family of the Gracia Kingdom. It was not too powerful or wealthy outside the scope of the capital city, so it was amazing to see a mere boy from a branch family try to step on him.

The Archbishop nearly boomed in anger, but Sylvester waved his hand and stopped him. "It's fine. We can help these hard-working, devoted men, I believe. They travel in such fine carriages on the hard roads, away from their homes, and eat tasteless food. We should help them when we can."

The Archbishop knew what Sylvester was doing. He had done it, and nearly every high-ranking clergyman does it. This tactic was called 'Let the enemy dig his grave deeper first.'. It was a simple concept to not disturb your enemy when he's being a fool. Then when the time is right, you shatter their life.

'God save this young man.'

Sylvester picked up the man's luggage boxes and walked into the monastery's empty guest room. "My Prince, why are these boxes so heavy? I'm sure they have your fine clothes and weapons."

The Prince proudly puffed out his chest. "Of course. I am the leader of my Crusader unit. It is my duty to always be prepared with the finest clothes… and weapons."

'God, how narcissistic this man can be. This is the first time I'm sensing the combined smell of cloves and roses.' Sylvester was in awe of how dumb some nobles could be. Especially the new generations who lived their whole life in a bubble—pampered.

"Ah, this is your room, my Prince. If you need anything, just shout in the hallway, and someone will come to help." Sylvester placed the luggage and headed to leave.

The Prince looked back at Sylvester and extended his hand. Sylvester was not going to kiss such filth in his life, so he just shook it and left. "It's good to meet you, my Prince. I'm sure you will bring glory to the light and shine as the brightest beacon of light."

The Prince smiled in satisfaction. "You say beautiful things, my fellow man of faith. How about you join my service? Maybe you can also bask in my brightness and radiate like a star?"

'Pfft… this fucker.'

"I would love to, my Prince. But I'm afraid I'm too low for this crusade… too weak. I wish not to be a burden on you. Ah, you must be exhausted. Please have a good rest." Sylvester closed the door and left while giggling, imagining how he would mess with this boy later.

He then headed out to do the normal work that he had planned. He needed to find clues and proof of the Archbishop's corruption. And thanks to the ledger of the records of all the loans, he knew who the biggest takers of the loan were.

He went directly to the shop—a blacksmith. It was famous in the town as it had similar branch shops with the same name around the whole town.

Sylvester didn't know who was the owner of it, but he didn't need to meet him. The workers of the blacksmith workshop were far more valuable as they would know all the gossip related to their Lord.

"My friend, how much will it cost me to sharpen this knife?" Sylvester took a random knife out of his inventory.

The old man working at the shop looked at the knife and marvelled at it. "Ah, this one's from the chief of desert cannibals? You must be powerful to have this. I can sharpen it for a mere silver crown, holy man."

Sylvester nodded and handed a silver crown. "Then I shall wait while you do it."

"Why wait outside? Come in and have a seat. I would love to hear some words of faith from you, as I rarely get time to pray these days."

'Good, give me all the good stuff.'

"Why? I don't see many customers around." He asked back. "Ah, forgive me, I am a travelling archpriest, working from one monastery to another, doing some little tasks."

The best thing about Sylvester was how easily and neatly he could lie. A common man can't even notice his deception unless they know where to look.

"I can understand. The work of a blacksmith is such that when the times are bad, we make a fortune. The Count has called for his retainers to raise the banners and form the army. So we have too many orders for swords, arrows and all kinds of refitting work. The furnace is basically running night and day for the past three months."

Sylvester noted that down in his mind and spoke a few good words. "Every man is born with a destiny, my friend. The Lord writes our fate even before we are born, for we are nothing but akin to a little worm. We live, we serve, and we die."

"So I won't be a sinner for making these tools of war?" The blacksmith asked.

In a saintly voice, Sylvester responded. "This is a question of moral ethics going back to the dawn of civilization. None have been able to answer it, but there's a general consensus that no, you won't become a sinner.

"After all, a farmer can use his suckle to cut his crops or other men's throats—it's all up to him. So if he one day does hurt someone, will the blacksmith who made it be responsible?"

The blacksmith fell into silence and nodded continuously. Sylvester's words resonated with his mind and gave him some peace. This meant the blood wouldn't be on his hands.

"Thank you for your words, Archpriest. People like you are like a beacon of light in times like these. So, may I know what you're doing in this town?"

Sylvester didn't hide anymore. "I was sent here by the Holy Land to find the true murderer of Lady Marcella and stop the two Counts from fighting.

"..."

The blacksmith was left speechless, unable to believe he was talking to someone this high. "Haha… you're good at jokes, Archpriest."

Sylvester stared at him. "Blonde hair, golden eyes. I'm sure you have heard the bards at night."

Clank!

The knife fell from his hand, and he knelt down. "Ah! Lor… Bard of Solis! My benevolent gods! How could I not see it? Forgive me, Lord Bard."

Sylvester walked over and gave the man a small sugar candy. "It's alright, my friend. I am but a servant of the Lord. None have any obligations to know my name, for living for the sake of fame is nothing but akin to lust—a sinful shame!"

The blacksmith nodded and stood up to get back to work. "Thank you for your kindness, Lord Bard."

"The pleasure is all mine. I didn't get your name, however." Sylvester asked.

"Oh, how insolent I am! My name is Fenris Wildback, my Lord. I come from the north, where I learnt to smith. I work for Sir Renly, the greatest blacksmith in the north!"

Sylvester acted as if intrigued. "How did he get so big, though? Was he always this rich?"

"No, no, my Lord. The monastery helped him a lot. He went to see the Archbishop and got a lot of loans with no interest. He then hired a few more men like me to work with him on his designs of armour and swords. These were the same swords used in the past skirmishes between the two counts, where Count Jartel won due to these weapons—resulting in Renly being granted Knighthood."

Sylvester nodded and talked a bit more with the man. Once his blade was sharpened, he left for the next shop, a medical potioneer who makes not only magical potions but also normal concoctions. This was a single shop, but he reckoned the owner needed a loan because the materials for such a work cost a fortune.

He tried the same tactics and used his popularity to get some answers.

Slowly, one by one, he went to each shop and estimated the loan the monastery was giving away for no interest.

By evening, he and Gabriel had not only met with the biggest loan takers but also the small ones. There were hundreds across the town, and a few names were even outside the town where they didn't go.

"What do you think, Max? Where is the Archbishop getting all this money from? I'm sure all the money Holy Land sends is only enough to run the monastery and some minor expenses. But to do something like this on this scale requires deep pockets." Gabriel asked him as they arrived in their rooms in the monastery.

Sylvester was continuously writing on parchment, however. He was making some calculations, adding and subtracting a few things.

"I think I am reaching an excellent guess as to why the Archbishop did this, Gab. Just a minute, I will have the final number then." Sylvester kept writing.

Soon, an hour passed, and Sylvester finally placed his charcoal pencil down. "Ah! We were wrong, Gab. We were totally wrong about the Archbishop. He turned out to be a bigger genius than we ever imagined."

"What is it, Max?"

Sylvester shoved the papers at Gabriel. "Look at their numbers. All I remember from the ledger in the basement was the final total number. And if I add these new numbers that we gathered today as loans into the ledger's total… we find out the Archbishop is perhaps the smartest scammer ever!"

Gabriel frowned since, to him, the numbers were very confusing. "Max! These numbers, what do they mean? What did the Archbishop do?"

Sylvester chuckled. "He…"

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