Franc?ois was having a grand time in Florence.

    As the de facto ruler of the vast empire of Calais, he possessed countless wealth, power spanning across the continent, and a noble status. This allowed him to obtain everything he desired with ease. Except for the years he had to lurk under his brother’s crown when he was young, he had never bowed to anyone’s orders—not even to the Pope, the spiritual leader of the continent.

    The Pope... Humph, the Pope was merely something that needed to rely on the Calais royal family to survive, Franc?ois thought contemptuously as he kissed the cheek of the young woman in his arms and listened to her laughter.

    Florence boasted of its authority, claiming to have the faith of all the people, but it was the country and the royal family that truly owned these people. Since the fall of the Knights Templar, Florence’s influence had declined significantly. Although those ignorant lambs were still foolishly willing to donate all their wealth to the church, a large portion of this money was embezzled by the lords and royalty before it reached Florence.

    Florence was, of course, aware of this dire situation and worked to change it. Pope Vitalian III had implemented a religious reform, and many of its measures had proven effective—measures that the royal families and lords were not very happy about. Fortunately, the unlucky Vitalian III was soon assassinated, and his successor was a complete fool. Till his death, he was still figuring out how to empty the papal palace of its wealth. The Holy Reforms, which had been halfway completed, was thus put on hold in a muddled manner.

    Franc?ois’s visit to Florence this time, in addition to celebrating the coronation of Sistine I, had another purpose: to confirm whether this new Pope would once again promote reforms that were unfavorable to the royal family.

    They were quite satisfied with Florence’s current situation, so they were not stingy in giving Florence the title of a holy city and bestowing empty glory on the Pope—as long as he is obedient and content, without doing unnecessary things or having unnecessary thoughts.

    However, he didn’t expect that before he could find out what he wanted to know, his target had already become so disgusted with him that they wanted to kick him back to Calais.

    Franc?ois was naked from the waist up, his white trousers hanging loosely around his hips. His muscular chest was smeared with a transparent, shiny oil, imitating the custom of ancient Roman gladiators. His gold armbands and necklaces were shining. The woman lying on the couch turned over and looked at his back with infatuated eyes.

    Franc?ois’s love for ancient Roman civilization was no secret. In the palace of Calais, he had imitated the customs of the Roman nobles, building a spacious arena, an open-air bathhouse, and an academic square. Those who entered had to wear ancient Roman attire, creating a retro atmosphere.

    A girl dressed in a long gauze skirt and dressed as a slave was kneeling on the carpet, holding a goblet filled with crimson wine. She knelt on Francois’ side, raised the goblet high, and invited her brave master to relieve his fatigue.

    Franc?ois laughed, bent down, wrapped his arms around the slave’s waist, and lifted her from the ground. The slave screamed, the golden goblet in her hand shook twice, but she managed to steady it. Franc?ois then took her hand, lowered his head and drank the glass of wine. Finally, he kissed the young girl hard on the lips.

    Neither the woman on the couch nor the female slaves around showed the slightest surprise at such an absurd scene, as if they were accustomed to it. They happily enjoyed the fragrant and mellow wine and the endless delicacies. High and low tables were filled with abundant fresh fruits and food, which everyone could take as much as they wanted.No?v(el)B\\jnn

    What was not lacking here were beautiful girls and handsome boys. They were of different ages, gathered in groups of three or five, sitting on the grass, talking in low voices or kissing each other, indulging in a degree of debauchery that was shocking. From time to time, someone would leave or join in, and whoever it was, they would greet the newcomer with a warm smile.

    Franc?ois was of course the most popular among them. Wherever he went, beautiful men and women would try to keep him from leaving. They were like the sweetest birds and the gentlest lambs, begging him to stay.

    No one in Florence knew that Franc?ois had built such a “paradise on earth” in his residence. The guards and servants around were all his confidants brought from Calais, and the men and women who entered it consciously kept their mouths shut about the chaotic scene here.

    Besides the lovers who share Franc?ois’s hobbies, the other beauties here are all scouted from the slums of Florence. All the outstanding men and women in the ‘Rose Garden’ and ‘Glass Workshop’ have been sold here, and some well-informed people have even come to recommend themselves, and the rewards they receive far exceed their expectations.

    Kindness in the slums is precious and rare, and it’s enough to be able to give out just a little bit.

    But perhaps it was because of this meager kindness that when Mary disappeared, Jenny’s first reaction was to come to this strange boy.

    Ferrante’s gaze swept over Jenny’s tattered black robe. This familiar black robe had also accompanied him for several years until he left the Holy Grail Church.

    Jenny was looking at him with full of expectation. She believed he was an ‘amazing person’, just as the priest said, who could serve by the side of the Holy Father, but how could he be so powerful? He didn’t even have the qualifications to meet the Holy Father.

    “I can’t help you,” finally, Ferrante said this cruel sentence to the girl’s expectant and trusting eyes, “I can’t do it, I’m not as powerful as you think...”

    Ferrante said expressionlessly, watching the hope in Jenny’s eyes gradually fade. Her tears welled up, growing larger and larger until they could no longer be contained, rolling silently down her cheeks.

    “I...” The cold youth rolled his Adam’s apple, his voice a little hoarse, “I can’t.”

    “...But,” Jenny trembled, loosening her grip on Ferrante’s collar, sobbing for breath, “Then, then can you go ask the Holy Father? The Holy Father... He loves us, he would be willing to help me, wouldn’t he?”

    Ferrante moved his lips but said nothing.

    Saints were born to redeem the sins of the world. Would his saint... be willing to extend a hand to these souls in the mud?

    They were dirty and lowly, born in the quagmire of fate, stained with dust from birth. They were trampled and spit on, struggling to survive in the cracks. Such people... dared to hope to touch the clean hem of a saint’s robe?

    Ferrante suddenly laughed, his tone strange. “Then I’ll go ask for you.”

    However, before Ferrante could find a way to see the Pope, Mary’s body was sent back to the Holy Grail Church one morning.

    Death in the slums was a speck of dust not worth mentioning. The matter was lightly brushed aside by the few gold florins sent to the church with the body. No one mentioned it again.

    At the same time, far away in the Papal Palace, Rafael received Franc?ois who came to visit according to etiquette. He used all his patience to deal with this arrogant cockerel. He took a deep breath, trying to resist the dizziness caused by the pungent and strong perfume on the other party, and said to himself: “I must kick this bastard back to Calais.”

    Julius, standing behind him, chuckled softly and rubbed his temples, saying nothing.