Volume 1 Chapter 70 The Former Clergyman, Conspiring
"Mr. Simon, what do you want us to do?"
"Murder."
The thug pressed his lips together and asked:
"Who do we kill?"
"A female knight named Eleonora."
At once, the two of them burst out laughing.
"That's a good one!"
"You mean the marshal who won the war?"
They laughed hard for a while, but then one of them noticed Simon wasn't smiling. He leaned on the desk and spoke seriously.
"That's not gonna happen. I heard she beat a bunch of Loriengita's top knights. What can trash like us do?"
"I don't expect you two to kill her. Not if you face her head-on."
"Still, even sneaking up on her is out of the question. We don't know how to do that kind of thing."
They spent their days drinking, fighting, making noise, and robbing weak folks on the street. They acted tough, but killing crossed the line. Deep down, they were just throwaways.
That was fine with Simon. People full of pride were harder to control.
"I'll do the hard part. I just need more hands. You only have to follow orders."
"So we don't actually kill her?"
"If you could kill her, Loriengita wouldn't be having a hard time."
That stung, but he was right. It was hard to imagine hurting a woman who could take down knights that trained until their hands bled.
"Anyway, you guys will get into the mansion as a contractor."
"And then?"
"From there, I'll talk. You don't need to know the rest."
The thug saw it in Simon's smug face—he meant it. But it didn't feel risky. All they had to do was run errands. If they got caught, they could just act dumb.
"What's the pay?"
"I'll give you five gold coins."
"I wouldn't do it for triple that. Maybe I'll turn you in. I could get ten times the gold."
Simon clicked his tongue. His eyes filled with hate. He clearly couldn't stand disobedience.
"Thirty gold coins. That's my final offer."
"Deal."
* * *
"Greedy bastard."
He kicked a barrel, and water spilled onto the floor. On the other side of it stood a young man in priest's robes. He looked scared but bowed.
"Sir Simon, please calm down. It's late. People will hear."
"Emilio, I'm sorry. It was just luck that you were here tonight."
"For you, Sir Simon, I'll do anything..."
Simon reached out and combed Emilio's golden hair. Emilio trembled, clenched his fist, and said:
"I once met Eleonora. About the Holy Maiden. Her eyes didn't care about rules."
He didn't feel that at the time. But he praised her anyway. He was scared.
"Exactly. She's the type to defy even God's law. She must be executed."
"But she won. The nobles will fight back if we try to kill her."
"That's why we need to silence the nobles first. There's someone who has to go."
"Who?"
Simon smiled.
"I remember his flag. Baron Poniète."
"But even if you killed him—"
"No, Emilio. Eleonora will kill him."
"What? That's not possible."
"Turning the impossible into the possible—that's the plan."
Simon looked up at the night sky. Rain had started to fall.
"In this world, it's a noble's duty to avenge a dead family member."
* * *
Giovanni di Poniète had finally found something worth living for. He picked up his brush and faced the canvas. He wrote until his quill broke, eyes red with dark circles. Even when his servants dragged him to bed, he couldn't stop thinking about heroes.
Now that he had purpose, he was at his peak. He no longer painted portraits for matchmaking.
The picture he was working on showed a female knight from The Twelve Sacred Blades. She was stabbed by a spear, kicking away a demon behind her.
"Something's missing."
He added the hero being honored, a king and lords cheering, and followers of the Holy Cross singing praise.
"What's missing?"
It looked like his best work. Still, something didn't feel right.
"Master, the new paints are here."
"Set them down."
"Um... There's a weird letter with them."
He finally looked up. He checked the paints first—same as usual. Then he picked up the letter and opened it with a knife.
"...That brat."
He clenched the letter. At first, he thought it came from some angry bishop in Ashreach. But no—it was signed by Archbishop Simon. The letter asked to meet.
He should've thrown it away, torn it, or burned it.
But he didn't.
His curiosity wouldn't let him.
Why did this man want to meet him? What was the talk about? Or maybe... a trap?
"A trap? That's fine."
He lived in a world where chaos could start from nothing. Baron Poniète didn't mind if it turned into a mess.
"Tonight, I'll meet someone. Send a guide."
That night, flames lit up two men in the atelier: Baron Poniète and Archbishop Simon.
"So, what do you want?"
"It's a great painting. I see your passion in it."
Simon looked at the painting of Eleonora and spoke with praise.
"Hmph. I doubt someone who left the real world can get it."
"It's about the message. Even in the church, art is education. You use color well."
Baron Poniète snorted and looked away. He didn't dislike being praised, but he hated himself for enjoying it.
"But if this is a story about a hero, then it's missing something big."
"What?"
"It's hard to believe a man like you didn't see it. Maybe you avoided it. Maybe you knew and looked away."
"What are you saying?"
Simon turned fast and stared at him. His mouth twisted.
"If it's a heroic tale, it needs a tragic death."
Baron felt something click inside him. That's it—a hero mourned, then remembered in art and stories.
"Don't mess with me!"
He grabbed a knife. He had to stop this. The story wasn't done yet.
—I will pass my title to my brother and step down.
Why am I remembering that now?
She is stepping off the stage. Giovanni di Poniète won't see more heroic tales.
"Then how about ending it yourself, Baron?"
"..."
He panted hard, gasping for breath.
The artist in him said yes.
But the man in him said no.
"What garbage! Don't dump your hate on me!"
"But you're tempted."
Simon moved closer. The Baron stepped back.
"Isn't it boring to stay in the audience? Step onto the stage."
"Shut up, you filthy liar!"
"Don't you want to be remembered?"
—The man who killed the hero who saved the nation.
"Then you could paint your final masterpiece."
Simon's voice, smooth like a devil's, sank deep into the Baron's chest. The knife slipped from his hand.
"...What do you want me to do?"
"Let's hold a feast—a proper sendoff for a hero."
The two men, pale as ghosts, stared at each other in silence.
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