The sound of horse hooves could be heard from the end of the cobblestone street. The main streets of Florence would be lit with gas lamps after nightfall, but this street was clearly not within the city’s main scope of urban planning. Although it was located in the aristocratic upper district, it unfortunately didn’t receive enough light despite being connected to two major road arteries.

    The few gas lamps that were installed were mostly damaged. There was a hissing sound of air rushing through the lamp tubes, but the feeble light never ignited.

    A small carriage emerged from the gloom. The coachman carefully guided the horse. Although the carriage was equipped with a convenient steam system, for some reason, it was not activated. Perhaps such a quiet, conspiratorial night was not suitable for excessive noise. In any case, it glided silently to the front of a mansion.

    Two ornate iron gates blocked the carriage’s path. The coachman halted the horse, and a guard stepped forward, approaching the carriage window. He held a primitive oil lamp in his hand, the glass lampshade sooty and hazy. Through the dim light, he saw half a face peering out of the carriage window.

    “Very well, sir,” the guard turned and opened the gate, pulling the heavy iron gate open just wide enough for the carriage to pass through.

    The carriage drove in with a clatter.

    There were no lights on in the house, which was quite unusual for the extravagant Florentine nobles.

    A figure cloaked in black stepped down from the carriage. He was completely covered in a black cloak, his hood obscuring most of his face. Not a single inch of his clothing was visible.

    He refused the coachman’s hand, jumped from the carriage, and rushed through the front door with eager and quick steps.

    Inside the hall, a dozen people were already seated around a long table. They were all wearing hooded cloaks that concealed their faces, and the surrounding lights were dim and sparse, as if deliberately avoiding their faces.

    The scene looked like a secret gathering of some cult. Anyone who walked in would wonder if they had entered the wrong place.

    The newcomer stood in place for a moment. A man at the head of the long table extended his hand, “Please take a seat, sir. We have been waiting for you for some time.”

    He pointed to an empty chair beside him.

    The man in black hesitated for a while. During that moment, he heard someone sneer, as if mocking him for hesitating even though he had come this far.

    Amidst the faint laughter, he lowered his head, walked to the chair and sat down.

    “Isn’t it time to take off these useless disguises?” One of the young men said, and with that, he pulled off his hooded cloak, revealing a head of fiery red hair and a somewhat mean-looking face. He tossed the cloak to the ground casually, “This makes me feel like a rat in a gutter.”

    The others looked at each other for a moment. The young man crossed his legs, “Aren’t we all acquainted with each other? Ladies? Gentlemen?”

    They were the twelve lords of the Council of Thirteen, excluding Portia. They greeted each other with cold expressions.

    “And you, sir?” The red-haired young man turned to the last person who had not yet moved.

    The man shifted, his gaze seeming to scan everyone at the table. Finally, he made up his mind and removed his hood.

    The moment the black hood fell, everyone’s eyes widened in shock. Two of the more sensitive lords even jumped up and frantically searched for any sign of an ambush.

    “——A trap?” Some people were ready to flee.

    “Calm down, gentlemen. This is an unexpected friend, but doesn’t it mean that our plan is more likely to succeed?” Old Russo, who sat at the head of the long table as steady as a Shar-Pei dog, was also momentarily shocked, but he quickly recovered and slapped the table.

    It was no wonder they were so panicked. The last young man who took off his hood had short light blond hair and purple eyes – he was undoubtedly a descendant of the Portia family. For the people sitting here at this moment, this was undoubtedly the appearance they were most afraid of seeing.

    Cain Portia, in another time and space, will wear the Crown of Thorns of Saint Leah in a few years and become the supreme monarch of Florence – of course, this was something only Rafael knew.

    He was now merely an ordinary archbishop, a position that would grant him the highest honor in other dioceses, but among the many archbishops of Florence, he was unremarkable. Besides bearing the Portia surname, few people would pay attention to him.

    But that was not the case a year ago.

    Before the death of Pope Leo VI, the cardinals of Florence and the various noble families had already fallen into a turbulent struggle for power, each hoping to elevate a member of their own family to the throne of the earthly kingdom of God. Naturally, the Portias could not stay out of it. They had chosen Cain Portia, and they had already spent a considerable amount of money to secure a cardinal’s red robe for Cain, who was then still an archbishop. They had almost succeeded; Pope Leo VI, who was crazy about making money, did not mind selling one more cardinal’s red robe before his death. The papal decree had been written and was just waiting to be announced.

    At this moment, the head of the Portia family, Julius, had proposed a name that Cain would come to loathe:

    “Then our plan should be changed. How do we deliver the Pope and his loyal secretary to the arms of Saint Leah?”

    “We have no army, and letters can’t be sent out of Florence,” Besancon reiterated their predicament.

    Since the Feast of Divine Grace last year, Julius had been subtly tightening his supervision over them. They couldn’t leave Florence. Their families could visit them, but once they came, they couldn’t leave, and they only had a few personal guards—they were just here to attend the celebration! Who knew the Pope would be so unscrupulous as to trap them like this?

    “Our armies can’t march into Florence either,” said one lord. “Besieging a holy city is something we absolutely cannot do. We were doing just fine in our own territories. Even the Pope couldn’t order us around, but now that we’ve been tricked into Florence, we’ve lost all our advantages—damn Julius Portia! Damn Sistine I!”

    They had negotiated with Julius several times, but that airtight man remained indifferent to all the conditions they put forward, as if he was determined to trap them till death in Florence. As time passed, their hearts grew colder. They had lived in dire straits for a year, and now they could no longer sit idly by, especially Old Russo. His sons had already started fighting among themselves over who would be in power, and had completely forgotten their old father. One could imagine how angry he was.

    The consequences of the family head being absent were severe. Similar situations existed in other lords’ families. They were all eager to return, not only to save their lives but also to preserve their power.

    To these people who have reached the pinnacle of their life, losing power would be worse than death. It was precisely for this reason that they were not afraid to take risks and held this secret meeting.

    “We need to create chaos in Florence, just like they tricked us into coming here. Only by leaving Florence can we take the initiative,” said the young man with red hair.

    “Giovanni’s right,” someone agreed. “With Sistine I and Julius in control of Florence, we won’t have any chance. We have to get them out of here.”

    “We need chaos, unparalleled chaos.”

    “The fastest way is war,” the female lord said.

    “No war,” Old Russo said, his eyelids drooping, rejecting the suggestion. “Who’s going to attack Florence? The kings aren’t fools. They won’t send their armies without sufficient profit, and doing this will leave an infamous reputation on their names for hundreds of years. Even the pagans wouldn’t do something so stupid. The foolish believers would burn them at the stake. It would be a long-lasting catastrophe that would sweep across the entire continent. We can’t do that.”

    Cain also showed dissatisfaction when he heard the word “war”. The throne of Saint Leah would eventually belong to him, and he couldn’t accept the idea of being crowned on a pile of ruins. So after old Russo raised his objection, he secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

    The female lord frowned. She had dressed very simply for tonight’s meeting. There was no extra jewelry on her dark blue dress. She only had a gold necklace with a small locket around her neck. She stroked the locket with her hand, unable to hide her anxiety.

    Her child was still young and without a mother’s protection, she would never survive in the family. No matter what, she must successfully complete this plan.

    “Civilian riots?” Someone made a new suggestion.

    This suggestion was very feasible. If they couldn’t cause chaos from the outside, then they would muddy the waters internally. Those ignorant peasants were just empty-headed idiots. By spreading rumors to make them hostile towards the Pope and inciting them to attack the papal palace, they could force Sistine I to flee Florence with the members of the papal palace, thus achieving their goal.

    But this time, it was the female lord who objected. She shook her head and said, “What if the Pope decides to shut himself up in the papal palace? What if Julius decides to concentrate his forces to defend and counterattack? They will be heavily guarded, and... what if they suspect us of being behind this? Then we won’t even have the freedom to sit together like this.”

    “This won’t work, that won’t work, what the hell do we do?!” The lord whose suggestion had been rejected pounded the table angrily, and a gem on his sleeve caught his hand, making his face twitch in pain.

    Old Russo, sitting at the head of the table, raised his voice slightly and interrupted his outburst, “Calm down, sir.”

    Old Russo, whose rise to wealth was filled with blood, sat like a hyena, his thoughts drifting from his early years following his father on a pirate ship, burning, killing and looting, to his later years walking among the nobles in elegant attire. The fragmented memories floated and swirled, before finally settling down.

    “It’s not just war that can cause chaos,” Old Russo smiled grimly, a hint of blood still lingering between his teeth, “but also disease.”

    “Let them tuck their tails between their legs, abandon this holy city, and run for their lives. We just need to wait and receive the sweet fruits.”

    Author’s Note

    Time skip of one year!

    Basically, everyone who appears in my book has a heart... but they’re all scheming and cruel, no matter if they are man or woman. There is no good person in the absolute sense. If you can’t accept this, retreat immediately!

    Translator’s Note

    And the first arc is done! This arc is mainly an introduction for all the main players and the background setting for the story. From now, the story should be much faster-paced and exciting. Let me know what you think of the story so far in likes and comments. I’ll see you next week for the second arc!