The Pope took the papers from Jeanne's hand. His fingers trembled slightly, as if he were terrified that a single moment of excessive force might damage the words left behind by the Saints.
He handled the pages with extreme gentleness, as if they weren't mere paper, but a fragile infant. These documents had sat inside for an unknown number of years; had it not been for a special power within that chamber preventing their decay, they likely would have crumbled into ash by now.
He scanned the Saint's letters carefully. Those pages recorded the past of Laterano with far more detail than any existing official archive.
"So... this was the truth of it all? I never imagined that generation possessed such audacity—to bury such a reality so deep."
At this moment, the Pope felt an immense surge of respect for the resolve of the first Laterans. To prevent hatred from growing endlessly, they had left behind only a fragment of legend, choosing to hide the raw, painful truth.
The Pope believed that if this information had continued to circulate until today, the Sankta's hatred for the Sarkaz would have multiplied several times over, eventually poisoning everyone who followed the Lateran faith. Even now, the relationship between the two races—and the Sarkaz's international standing—remained poor. But Laterano hadn't actually done much to worsen it. Even when the Sarkaz's nation was destroyed three times over, Laterano hadn't kicked them while they were down, had they?
In fact, within Laterano, there were many who hoped for a reconciliation between the two races. If the old hatred had been actively cultivated, such thoughts would have been non-existent.
"Is that thing you're wearing now... the object recorded by the Saints?"
The Pope looked at the item around Jeanne's neck. Although it looked like a cheap souvenir one might buy at a stall in Sargon—the kind of place where locals loved hanging gold ornaments on themselves—the Pope, having read the letters, knew exactly what terrifying power lay hidden within that inconspicuous little horn.
If she were to use it, it wouldn't be surprising if this entire continent called Terra simply vanished into the river of history. If he had a choice, the old man wouldn't have wanted to know about this at all; it would have saved him, a man of his age, from worrying about world peace every single day.
"Actually, I didn't really want to take it. It's mostly because it's... well, it's stuck to me. I don't have much choice but to wear it."
Jeanne was quite helpless. Having this thing around her neck made her look like a terrorist intended on destroying the world. For someone as easygoing as her to carry a world-ending weapon—her danger rating had practically increased exponentially.
The key problem was that because it was so dangerous, she had to maintain absolute rationality. She could never use it! But not using it felt like a kitten scratching at her heart. She had to use her reason to fight the constant, reckless urge to "just see what happens." For someone with Jeanne's level of curiosity, this was pure torture!
Seeing Jeanne's expression—the look of someone wanting to experiment but being restrained by logic—the Pope simply smiled and said:
"It's only because it's in your hands that I can be certain it won't lead to a disaster. However... I am worried about the Sarkaz side of things..."
Suddenly, the old man thought of what the letters had mentioned: the Sarkaz who, like them, once knew the secret of this object. Most of them were likely dead, but there might be a few particularly long-lived types who still remembered.
Especially since, as far as he knew, there were Sarkaz around Jeanne right now. He couldn't help but worry: would someone try to steal this weapon? Unlike the Saints a thousand years ago, the modern Sarkaz acted with far less restraint. They might use such a weapon to conquer other nations directly.
Unlike the Sankta, who had successfully established a "paradise" through effort, the Sarkaz's paradise had been burned to the ground three times. The anger buried in their hearts was like a bomb waiting to explode. No one knew what they would do if they gained that kind of power.
"The Sarkaz... I'm not sure if they have a way of knowing about this yet. But I have confidence in my ability to protect it."
Jeanne wasn't entirely sure what the Sarkaz would do, but she planned to ask Patriot about it once she returned. He was, after all, a descendant of the Wendigos; he likely knew a thing or two about the history of his race.
As for the Pope's concerns, Jeanne wasn't overly worried. Even if they had ulterior motives, how would they even know she was connected to Laterano's secret? She didn't recall having much contact with the Sarkaz before this.
"Well, I can only wish you luck in protecting it. But please, be careful. After all, this concerns the survival of countless lives."
Hearing her reply, the old man understood that Jeanne wouldn't stay in Laterano forever just because she carried this burden. He didn't want to use any force or schemes to keep her there; such actions would be meaningless. He could only hope she would look after herself and not fall into a trap set by those eyes watching the prize.
He had reason to believe someone might have left a "tracking" method on this object. Laterano once had a strange case: a mixed-blood Sankta trained by Kazdel had snuck into the city long ago, before the current household registration system was perfected. He had lurked for nearly twenty years, finally seizing a moment when the Pope left his office to steal a gift sent by a Sargon Shah: a bull's horn decorated with gold and gems.
At the time, the current Pope had been confused as to why his predecessor made such a massive fuss and seemed so furious over a mere gift. Today, he finally understood. Thinking back, it had been a terrifyingly close call.
While the two were talking, Andoain, standing to the side, was completely lost. He had no idea what they were discussing. The Pope clearly had no intention of filling him in, either. He just stood there, watching the two of them converse happily, feeling like he didn't know what he should be doing.
Wait a minute... wasn't the plan to invade the Basilica? Why do I feel like the outsider now?
He just watched them silently. He didn't want to speak; he just wanted to find a place to be alone. Everything he had seen today had trampled his plans into the dirt. He had no idea what his next step should be.
"Paradise" could not cover the earth, and his vision of forcing Laterano to help those in need was equally non-existent. Any move that would sacrifice the future of the Sankta would be rejected by The Law, because it would not allow the race to endure.
His silence lasted until they walked out of the secret passage and returned to the heavily damaged office. He still hadn't recovered. It might take a long time for him to regain his spirit—or perhaps, he would never be the same again.
"What, not planning on leaving yet? If you stay much longer, the Apostolic Knights might just surround you!"
The Pope looked at the despondent Andoain and teased him slightly. He had originally intended to talk more with Andoain, but today was simply not the right time. After everything that had happened, he didn't have the energy left for a life-coaching session.