Free Web NovelThe air inside the great cathedral was filled with a layer of white smoke.
It was priceless Dragon Saliva Incense.
Censer after censer was placed, and the incense was thrown into the fire basins without regard for cost.
The curling white smoke swirled beneath the dome, attempting, in an almost forceful manner, to create an atmosphere of sacred solemnity that could not be profaned.
Seldon knelt at the very front of the Catafalque, his black mourning attire tailored perfectly.
He was the center of everyone's gaze, and naturally, the heir to the Duke.
In front of the Catafalque, a large expanse of black gauze knelt.
Duke Calvin, throughout his life, believed in the philosophy of victory through numbers, leaving behind nearly thirty children.
At this moment, these legitimate, dutiful sons and grandsons were arrayed according to age, creating a grand scene that nonetheless carried a ridiculous absurdity.
Cries of grief rose and fell, some genuine, some feigned.
Seldon's gaze swept over them, quickly losing patience.
He slightly turned his head and asked the old butler beside him in a low voice, "The one crying herself unconscious—who is that?"
The old butler followed his gaze, paused with a subtle expression, and replied, "My Lord, that is the Fourteenth Young Miss."
"Fourteenth?" Seldon's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I recall she isn't even twelve yet?"
"Yes." The old butler lowered his voice further. "She actually—didn't see the Old Duke much; perhaps the scale of the event frightened her."
Seldon withdrew his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly.
Scared into crying, he sneered inwardly.
A child who could barely recognize who her father was now had to kneel here, waiting to divide the inheritance.
A bunch of pigs; only I am the sole heir.
The dirges gradually faded.
Seldon stood up and walked slowly toward the pulpit in the center of the cathedral.
He had waited for this moment for far too long.
His steps were unhurried and steady; he even deliberately let his shoulders slump slightly for a moment, as if his spine were bent under the weight of grief.
————
Then, on the next step, he straightened up again—the perfect posture of someone forced to bear responsibility amidst sorrow; everything was just right.
He stopped and looked up, surveying the surroundings.
Countless eyes converged on him: expectation, scrutiny, calculation, awe—
Nobles, Clergy officials, military officers, representatives of merchant guilds—everyone of true consequence in the Southeast Province was present.
Seldon began to speak, his voice deep and restrained: "My father was a fierce lion who resided on this land his entire life."
He turned sideways and placed a hand on the cold coffin, pausing for a full three seconds, the optimal duration suggested by the protocol officer.
"He taught us loyalty, and he taught us responsibility. But he belongs to the old era," he turned back to face everyone,
"The fierce lion is gone, but winter has not descended.
On the contrary, the Holy Radiance will illuminate the Southeast."
A brief pause.
"I, Seldon Calvin," he raised his right hand, and under the lamplight, the Signet Ring on his thumb refracted a dazzling gleam.
"Here, I swear by the blood of the Family, that I will take up this heavy crown. This is not merely a transfer of power—
It is the starting point for the Calvin Family to forge a sacred alliance with the Supreme Holy See!"
He clearly felt the texture of that ring.
The true Family Head ring was forged from Deep Sea Silver, but what encircled his thumb now was merely a gilded imitation rushed overnight, feeling like a cold, dead object.
"Damn old man—" A flash of irritation surged from the bottom of Seldon's heart. "He had to annoy me one last time before dying. Where did he hide the ring?"
His gaze swept over the main guest seating area with extreme subtlety.
However, Salomon's gaze did not fall upon his hand at all; those gray eyes were looking past the crowd, seemingly fixed on something far away.
The tension in Seldon's heart instantly released, replaced by a hint of mockery: "As long as the treasury is in my hands, as long as those several million gold coins remain, I am the real one."
The ring might be fake, so what? As long as the power is real, that is enough.
He straightened his back again, facing the thunderous applause, his face displaying perfectly calibrated grief and resolve.
After the funeral, the dark clouds outside the great cathedral had not yet dispersed, yet the Duke's Mansion was already brightly lit.
The banquet was arranged in the most luxurious main hall.
——
Crystal chandeliers hung in layers, and candelabras mingled with alchemical light spheres, illuminating the entire hall as if it were daytime.
Silver platters and golden utensils were spread across the long table, and red wine gently swirled in the stemmed glasses, reflecting a warm luster.
Seldon sat at the head seat, holding a wine glass, a perfectly reserved smile playing on his lips as he watched wave after wave of Southeast nobles bow to toast him.
"To the new Regent."
"To the glory of the Calvin Family."
"To the future of the Holy See and the Southeast."
The toasts rose one after another, like layers of gentle waves lifting him to the height of power.
Seldon responded to each, a smile on his lips; he was savoring this moment.
His father was dead, and the Emperor was controlled by the nobles and the Holy See like a bird in a cage.
And the Holy See needed him—needed him, the secular agent who knew how to silence the nobles and make the common people obey.
"I am not a puppet put in place," Seldon concluded calmly in his mind. "I am the only one who can maintain the balance; I am the manipulator."
The banquet was in full swing.
Musicians played light yet hollow melodies, noblewomen chatted in low voices, and the air was mixed with the scent of wine, roast meat, and spices.
Just then, the Captain of the Knight Regiment approached him and bowed low, his voice extremely quiet.
"My Lord—His Majesty Lampard—" He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words, or perhaps afraid to finish speaking, "—is missing."
The wine glass trembled violently in Seldon's hand, his breath momentarily disrupted before being forcibly suppressed.
"Missing?" Seldon lowered his voice, the words almost squeezed out through his teeth. "What does that mean? Dead, or imprisoned?"
The Captain of the Knight Regiment swallowed hard. "The Palace has sealed the news; the official story is that he was guided by the Holy Light and entered a period of silent prayer retreat.
But our informant says—it has been half a month, and no one has seen His Majesty."
The clamor in the banquet hall continued; the nobles had clearly not heard the hushed report and were still immersed in the intoxication of alcohol and the transfer of power.
But Seldon's world had fallen silent.
His gaze slowly lifted, passing over the long table, past the dancing candlelight, and landing on the VIP seats to his right.
Archbishop Salomon was elegantly cutting his steak, his movements composed, as if none of this concerned him.
"Guided by the Holy Light?" Seldon's thoughts raced. "Only the Holy See could invent such nonsense. My father just died, and the Emperor disappears?"
"They are clearing the board, one by one removing every uncontrollable piece from the chessboard."
Just a few minutes ago, he thought he was an ally.
He was the secular fulcrum the Holy See needed to counterbalance imperial power.
Seldon suddenly realized a fact that sent a chill down his spine.
“If even the Emperor can be erased by them—then what am I? A Regent who still needs them for a public coronation—in their eyes—am I not even less than a dog?”
An unprecedented fear crawled chillingly up his spine.
When the lips are gone, the teeth feel cold; he tasted the weight of those four words.
As if sensing his gaze, Salomon put down his knife and fork, raised his head across the long table, and exchanged a look with Seldon.
In that moment, time seemed to stretch.
Then Salomon merely raised his wine glass and offered a distant salute to Seldon.
A gentle yet utterly cold smile curved his lips, as if saying: “Do you have any other choice?”
Seldon’s throat tightened, and he forced out a smile, averting his gaze, tilting his head back to drain the wine in his cup.
The wine burned his throat, yet it could not suppress the chill surging from within his heart.
Soon, he forcibly cut off his emotions, closed his eyes, and rapidly reconstructed his logic in his mind.
“Church eliminated the Emperor to monopolize the benefits. Where are those benefits? In taxes, in gold coins, and who controls those?”
The answer surfaced almost instinctively: “Me.”
“Without me, they cannot open that enchanted vault; without me, the nobles below will not cooperate with tax collection.
If they kill me, what they gain will only be a Southeast Province with paralyzed administration and dried-up cash flow.
But if they keep me—they gain a continuous stream of gold coins and stable faith.”
This deduction convinced him, allowing his breathing to stabilize again.
He adjusted his bow tie, thoroughly suppressing the residual unease deep into his chest, held his wine glass, and proactively walked toward the main guest seating.
Salomon was elegantly wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Bishop,” his voice was low and restrained, “I will forever be the loyal steward of Church.”
Salomon did not look at him, as if merely hearing an unimportant report: “Very good.”
It hadn't been many days since the Duke’s funeral ended when the doors of the Administration Hall were kicked open by Church's newly appointed Chief Tax Inspector of the Holy See.
He was clad in a gold-trimmed crimson robe, followed by fifty scribes, carrying brand new blank ledgers.
In his imagination, this space should have been neatly stacked with fifty years of the Empire's accumulated tax records and cadastral maps—the vascular map of the Southeast Province, a place from which blood could be drawn directly.
What greeted him, however, was a black snow.
The heavy filing cabinets had been pried open, and they were empty.
Those 'Records of Land Measurement' and 'List of True Tax Sources' that documented land ownership, population flow, and commercial transactions were now nothing more than a layer of black ash covering the ground.
The Tax Inspector knelt down and scooped up a handful of ash.
This was the foundation of the Southeast Province's fifty years of rule.
Church occupied this land, yet they did not know where the grain was or where the money lay; they grasped the scepter but lost their eyes.
Of course, this did not stop the collection.
The Holy City's command was simple and cruel: collect taxes at the highest standard.
What was called administration quickly degenerated into robbery cloaked in a sacred guise.
The Tithe was quickly renamed the Atonement Fee.
Inability to pay proved impure faith, and impure faith required repayment with the body.
When people couldn't produce money, the crime was swiftly defined: heresy for maliciously concealing God's property.
Churches became forced labor camps and slave warehouses; every copper coin was stained with blood.
In another block, a leather merchant who had long gone bankrupt knelt on the ground.
Yet the tax collector flipped through records from ten years ago and coldly announced that he owned three workshops; kowtowing and begging were meaningless.
“Poverty is not an excuse; it is fraud,” the Knight dragged the old man's granddaughter away on the street.
Amidst the cries, the ledger was turned to the next page, and the entry was amended: 'Tax deduction of three hundred gold coins, transferred to the Saintess Convent.'
And to quell the panic over the devaluation of Holy Vouchers, Seldon personally presided over the opening of the Duke’s Mansion's underground main treasury.
A thousand citizens and believers were summoned to witness the confidence of this moment.
But when the searchlights pierced the darkness, the stone chamber was empty, with only a few corpses of starved rats scattered on the floor.
“How could—” The smile Seldon had managed to put on froze, as if he had been plunged into icy water in front of everyone. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
His mind went blank, and his ears buzzed, as if all the sounds of the world were receding.
Bishop Salomon merely watched him, slowly revealing a distant and detached smile, as if gazing at prey that had finally realized it had no retreat.
The Holy Vouchers collapsed completely at that moment.
Without the backing of gold, those counterfeit notes printed with the pattern of thorns were worthless.
In the morning, one could buy an apple; by noon, it was only worth a single grape; by night, it wasn't even good enough to wipe one's backside with.
Citizens piled up mountains of money in the streets, lighting these sacred certificates to keep warm.
The firelight reflected on countless gaunt and numb faces.
Besides the disappearance of money, what was more terrifying was the lack of grain; the Old Duke, already dead, had manipulated the sunken ships in the Grand Canal to cut off the western grain routes.
In the granaries that were opened for public viewing, only sand mixed with mold remained; most of the grain had been transported away by Church.
Tree bark was gnawed clean, rats were eaten raw; hunger made people relearn to use their own kind as food.
Just as the populace fell into despair, Archbishop Salomon issued the 'Great Purification Edict.'
He did not discuss when the grain would arrive; he only provided an explanation that the desperate could cling to: the grain hadn't disappeared, it had been stolen.
“Why do we have no bread? Because witches stole it using black magic.”
“Why is the plague rampant? Because heretics hide among the people and defile God.”
This logic was simple and required no evidence.
Hungry people do not need truth; they only need an enemy onto whom they can vent their rage.
A pitch-black iron cage was soon added to Church doors, hailed as the Cage of Truth.
The rules were written on a wooden plaque, simple and cruel: Report one hidden heretic, and upon verification by the Tribunal, one would receive five pounds of flour.
Hunger destroyed the last shred of humanity overnight.
For a bowl of gruel for their children, wives denounced their husbands for hoarding gold coins to ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) worship the devil.
Neighbors reported that the person next door lighting a lamp late at night was practicing witchcraft.
Some even pointed at their own elderly mothers, crying that she muttered in her dreams and was possessed by an evil spirit.
The Crimson-robed Inquisitors, holding thick stacks of anonymous letters each time, kicked open citizens' doors like they were checking for curfew violators.
Arrests were no longer made for the sake of trial, but to give the hungry mob a target to tear apart.
The number of Stakes increased.
The first to be burned were not the poor, but those who still tried to think.
Scholars, scribes, and former administrative officials were labeled as tumors that shook faith because they were literate, because they questioned the composition of the gruel, and because they tried to record the events unfolding below.
Next were the old wealthy merchants; their assets were confiscated for public use, and their bodies were dragged to the Stake.
The number of Stakes in the central square increased from ten to fifty, burning day and night without extinguishing.
The foul-smelling smoke from burning corpses mixed with the sickly sweet aroma of the gruel from the soup kitchens, enveloping the entire city.
The gruel in the soup kitchens was the holy water bestowed by Church.
Salomon stood on the high platform, looking down at the skeletal figures in the square, his voice compassionate: "Hunger is a lie of the flesh, proof of spiritual scarcity. Come, drink the golden grace."
A giant bronze cauldron was set up, and Golden Soup boiled.
The starving people rushed forward to drink.
Soon, they no longer felt hungry, and a sickly flush appeared on their faces.
They danced and cheered around the Stake, as if celebrating a festival.
The flames illuminated their skeletal faces marked by smiles, and also illuminated the graveyard of this city.
Inside the Duke's Mansion, Seldon locked himself in his study.
Outside the window were the shouts of Witch-hunting, but inside, it was deathly silent.
He sat at the desk, tightly gripping the key to the Underground Vault.
He couldn't understand; millions of gold coins couldn't just vanish into thin air.
"An inside job? Impossible. Clearing out the vault would require at least hundreds of carriages; the commotion would be too great."
His father's figure flashed through his mind, then he immediately denied it.
"That old man is too sick to even get out of bed, he gasps even when speaking. How could he possibly accomplish this right under my nose?"
"Church? It must be Salomon. While he was negotiating cooperation with me, he had already sent men to dig a tunnel, move the money, and pin the blame on me."
The conclusion solidified: this was Church double-crossing him.
In despair, he suddenly had an absurd thought: as long as he held the Duke's Mansion, holding out until The North arrived—Louis wouldn't miss this opportunity.
He was still an indispensable bargaining chip.
And Salomon had only cut off the Duke's Mansion's water and supplies.
The Temple Knights shouted loudly in the streets: "Seldon is eating roasted meat inside, while you eat dirt outside."
On the tenth night, Seldon was still polishing his sword in his bedroom, preparing to deliver another speech the next day.
An axe split the door panel, and the intruders were not rioters, but the Family Knight Regiment.
Their eye sockets were deep, their pupils green, and hungry drool hung from their mouths.
The leading Captain of the Knights dropped his sword, holding only a bone-chopping axe.
"My Lord," his voice was hoarse, "we truly have no choice. We haven't eaten for half a month."
Before Seldon could defend himself, he was pinned to the ground. His silk nightgown was torn, and his fake ring was chopped off along with his finger.
He was dragged through the long corridor and thrown into the frenzied crowd outside the Duke's Mansion.
In the square, the rioters who drank the Golden Soup let out a deafening cheer.
"heretic!"
"He stole our grain!"
Seldon was hung upside down on the tallest Stake.
As the flames engulfed him, he finally understood what he had lost, and what he had never truly possessed.
"Aaaah!"
Intense burning swept over his entire body.
Through the distorted firelight, he saw Salomon's indifferent silhouette on the bell tower, and the ferocious smiles of the nobles at his feet who had once toasted him.
His screams lasted for ten minutes.
In the end, only a charred, shriveled corpse remained.
—
Night had completely enveloped St. Peter's Cathedral.
There was no wind at the very top of the bell tower, only a stillness so stagnant it was nearly suffocating.
Salomon stood alone at the edge of the balcony, with no railing beneath his feet.
The entire Southeast Provincial Capital spread out beneath him, like a scroll repainted by flames.
Blocks of the city lit up with orange-red light, the flames of the Stakes rising one after another. The screams were diluted by the high altitude, leaving only a vague vibration, like the earth sighing softly.
Salomon felt neither cruelty nor pleasure.
In fact, he knew someone was pulling strings behind the scenes, but it didn't matter to him; in fact, it was a good thing for this construction site.
"There are too many weeds," his thoughts were calm and coherent, as if reviewing a gardening job.
"The residual bloodline of the Dragons, the rotten glory of the Old Nobility, and the obsession people have with self and private desire—they are like thorns entwined on this land, competing for the nourishment that should belong to the Master."
"This is the root of suffering. Because there is self, there is difference; because there is difference, there is inequality."
He slowly raised his right hand.
In his palm lay a Dragon Scale Amulet confiscated from an Old Noble's secret chamber.
The amulet had been smoothed by time, its edges glowing with a dark red luster, carrying the residual aura of the Dragon Ancestor faith from a thousand years ago.
It once symbolized bloodline, power, and the qualification of being chosen.
Salomon looked down at it, his gaze devoid of hatred, only the indifference of scrutinizing a flawed product.
"The Dragon Ancestor was arrogant. It allowed some people to be born with Dou Qi, and others with surnames and territories. It made the world divide into strong and weak, noble and lowly."
"This difference is inherently impure. Only when everyone's forehead is pressed into the mud will no one be nobler than another."
"To achieve true equality, everyone must first submit, needing no thought, no judgment, only listening to the voice of the Master."
"When the masses revolve around the Queen Bee like drones, this world will no longer have disputes."
"Crack."
His fingers suddenly tightened.
That incomparably hard Dragon Scale Amulet, once regarded as a holy object, was crushed into fine golden powder.
The dust slipped through his fingers, swept away by the night wind, and scattered over the burning city.
"Under the shade of the golden feather flower, bloodline is unnecessary. As long as one drinks the Golden Soup, anyone can ascend. Nobles will go mad. In the coming Divine Age, all things will be equal."
Salomon lowered his head, looking towards the square in front of the cathedral in the distance.
The hungry crowd knelt on the stone steps, looking up, mouths agape, waiting for a pot of Golden Soup.
Then Salomon turned around and walked back into the deepest secret room of the bell tower.
The stone door closed silently, shutting out the firelight and the noise.
In the center of the secret room, a golden feather flower seedling grew in dark red soil.
The seedling's leaves were translucent, flowing with faint golden light in their veins. Every pulse was accompanied by a faint, steady rhythm.
Salomon knelt before the seedling, his forehead touching the ground in an act of piety.
"The old roots have rotted, the new soil has been laid. Great Master—descend..."
His prayer concluded, he slowly stood up.
The moment he straightened up, the skin on his neck subtly twitched, as if something fine was crawling beneath his skin.
His gaze momentarily lost focus, showing a blank instant, as if the signal had been interrupted for a second.
Then, that blankness vanished, replaced by his familiar, wise expression.
Salomon adjusted the sleeve of his Cardinal's robe and turned to leave the secret room.
Outside the bell tower, the flames were still burning.
