Chapter 449 - 92: October Revolution
One sword strike!
Just one sword strike!
It had casually shattered the ultimate defensive barrier—one that gathered a thousand years of the Church Court’s faith and was jointly maintained by the Pope and the Great Shepherd Leader—and grievously wounded the two supreme leaders of the Continent’s faith!
What terrifying and unbelievable power this was!
All the onlookers—be they Kings, Dukes, Legendary Knights, and high-ranking Imperial ministers, or just ordinary Knights and Priests—once again felt a chill shoot up their spines.
Murphy’s phantom seemed completely oblivious to the miserable sight of Pope Ete I and the Great Shepherd Leader vomiting blood. He held the small sword, its brilliance now subdued, and his calm gaze once more fell upon the dying Pope Ete I, who was being supported by others:
"Then, Holy Throne Ete I, please relinquish your crown and authority."
Pope Ete I struggled to raise his head, his gaze meeting Murphy’s in mid-air.
In that moment, he saw many things.
He saw the absolute calm in the other’s eyes.
He saw his own reflection in those eyes: pale-faced, blood at the corner of his mouth, his crown dim, utterly wretched.
He saw the terrified, hesitant, and complex gazes of the Cardinals behind him.
He saw the rare gravity and silence in the Northern Great Shepherd Leader’s eyes, which were a mixture of blizzard and polar night sky.
More importantly, he sensed the will contained within that gaze.
It was not a threat, not a command, but a reality.
A reality as natural as the sun rising and setting, the tides ebbing and flowing, the seasons turning, and life and death alternating.
Suddenly, Ete I smiled.
It was a smile of ease, of relief, of gratification.
"Good." He hoarsely uttered a single word. His voice was faint, yet it carried clearly.
He gently pushed away the Cardinal supporting him and slowly raised a trembling hand.
That hand had once presided over countless holy rites, bestowed blessings upon innumerable followers, and signed decrees that shaped the balance of power on the Continent.
And now, it was trembling as it reached, ever so slowly, for the brilliant crown on his head.
Everyone who witnessed this scene—whether they were Cardinals who supported Ete I, representatives of other factions who were hostile to him, or the ordinary Clergy and Knights—felt an indescribably complex emotion.
Cardinal Adrian adjusted his monocle. The eye behind the lens closed tightly, then slowly opened again, his reaction culminating in a nearly inaudible sigh.
He knew it was all over.
Ambrosius pressed his lips together tightly, but he too made no move.
He knew better than anyone that at this moment, any superfluous action would only lead to even more terrible consequences.
CLICK.
Ete I’s fingers finally touched the edge of the crown.
He took a deep breath and, with all his might, removed the Crescent Star Crown from his head.
The motion caused his body to lurch violently, and the crown nearly slipped from his grasp.
A nearby Cardinal instinctively tried to help him by taking the crown and Scepter, but Ete I, though weak, shook his head firmly.
Alone, he dragged his broken body, slowly and arduously descending from the air to land on the cold stone surface of the altar.
One step.
Blood continually trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining the white Holy Belt on his chest and soaking the hem of his deep red Cardinal’s Robe, leaving shocking, dark red footprints on the clean stone slabs.
Two steps.
His body swayed violently, his withered legs seemingly unable to support his own weight. Every time he lifted a foot, it seemed to exhaust the last of his life force.
But he did not stop, nor did he allow anyone to approach.
And so, step by step, he walked toward Elizabeth.
Below the altar, the Temple Knights and Low-tier Priests had reddened eyes. Some couldn’t help but turn away, while others bit their lips hard, struggling not to make a sound.
A few young Assistant Priests even subconsciously reached out, wanting to support the once-lofty Holy Throne, but were stopped by a single, calm glance from him.
William IV’s expression was complex, his face a whirlwind of emotions.
The Chancellor of Rotalia’s gaze was profound.
Duke Charlie of Orleans clenched his fists tightly, while Knight Armand lowered his head deeply.
Ostun and the Gray Robe Wizard beside him exchanged a look, both seeing the horror in each other’s eyes.
Archbishop Aster, who had once fought to the death alongside Murphy at Blackstone Fortress ten years ago, now had a face filled with struggle and pity.
He watched the withered figure who was once so full of vigor but now staggered alone, and his eyes followed the trail of blood. He finally couldn’t stop himself from taking a step forward, his voice filled with an irrepressible tremor as he pleaded:
"Your Excellency, Thunder Sword! Enough... this is truly enough! Please... for the sake of our past bond, for fighting shoulder-to-shoulder and sharing life and death! He has... he has already paid a sufficient price! Holy Throne Ete I, he..."
Murphy’s phantom turned his head slightly to look at his old friend.
His gaze was calm, without ripples, without pity, and without impatience.
He shook his head faintly. His voice was not loud, but it was as clear as if it were being imprinted directly onto everyone’s soul:
"No, Aster."
"This is not my demand."
"This is Ete’s... or rather, this is the will of Saint Cyril himself."
His gaze returned to the figure struggling forward, and he continued in a steady voice:
"It is also the final, proper step in the orderly succession of the Pope of the Church Court, which must be taken here and now."
"Let him complete it himself."
Archbishop Aster was completely stunned.
He looked at Murphy’s calm profile, then at the back of the man staggering forward through his own blood. His lips quivered violently, but in the end, all his words dissolved into a powerless sigh.