The following day, Jeanne materialized once more within the modest boundaries of the frontier settlement—an individual whom the local populace collectively assumed had long since vanished into the wilderness. Yet, despite her overt presence, not a single pedestrian navigating the dusty streets managed to register her return.
Relying on the absolute, sweeping guidance of her Revelation, Jeanne possessed an ironclad confidence that she could render herself completely imperceptible to these people. Regardless of how long she and her small companion chose to reside within these borders, the divine radar of her Revelation guaranteed absolute obscurity. That was the raw security of her gift.
Granted, there remained one solitary individual in the entire settlement who was fully aware of her presence. It was the proprietor of the local tavern, alongside his small contingent of kitchen staff—and at this exact moment, they collectively felt as though they were about to strike oil.
The moment the owner beheld Jeanne and Fafnir crossing his threshold once more, his face lit up with pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He immediately scurried forward, personally escorting the pair to a highly secluded, tightly partitioned corner of the establishment where they could focus entirely on their culinary endeavors without suffering a single external distraction.
Ten portions, twenty portions... thirty portions, forty portions! The owner stood just outside the curtained alcove, watching the empty platters stack up with a grin so wide it threatened to split his face clean down to his neck.
If this magnificent patron maintained this specific rate of consumption for just a few days longer, he wouldn't just turn a profit—he'd have enough capital to purchase an entirely new building!
To safeguard this unexpected financial miracle, the proprietor aggressively optimized the seclusion of their booth, resolving to reject any civilian traffic near that wing of the tavern entirely. After all, if the competing establishments across the town square caught wind of this legendary patron, what was to stop them from poaching his personal goddess of wealth?
To solidify their collective discretion, the owner went so far as to issue an immediate, substantial wage increase to his staff, binding them to an ironclad vow of absolute silence regarding the identities of their high-profile guests.
Having pocketed the bonus, the staff swore frantic oaths of loyalty. They showed exceptional situational awareness, completely boycotting the local pubs during their off-hours and behaving with the absolute, tight-lipped discipline of ascetics entering a period of deep meditation.
After all, a transient customer was merely a temporary blessing, whereas their employment at the tavern was a lifelong livelihood. To betray their employer's trust for a bit of cheap tavern gossip was a conceptual gamble none of them possessed the spine to execute.
Meanwhile, Jeanne sat quietly across the table, watching Fafnir systematically demolish the mountain of food before her. She felt a sudden wave of profound gratitude toward that boundless, altruistic individual back in Laterano who had gifted her such an immense reserve of financial capital; had she stubbornly donated the entirety of those funds to charity, she and her adopted daughter would quite literally be reduced to eating dirt on the highway.
Yet, remembering that she had explicitly promised Fafnir she could eat to her heart's content, Jeanne could only exhale a soft, helpless sigh, her gaze anchoring affectionately on the blissfully chewing little dragon.
Fafnir's focus, however, was fundamentally detached from Jeanne's presence. At this exact moment, her entire spiritual essence was utterly consumed by the catastrophic feast before her, her concentration so absolute she had achieved a sublime state of perfect unity with her meal.
As Jeanne sat watching the spectacle, the elusive figure of Executor materialized before her out of the thin air. He had a habit of lurking in the unseen corners of the world, appearing so abruptly that one might easily mistake him for an elusive Savra scout.
"Is there an issue?"
Jeanne bypassed all useless pleasantries. She understood far too well that the stoic Sankta was entirely immune to the subtle nuances of social etiquette, opting to cut straight to the core of his manifestation without a formal greeting.
Besides, there was zero practical necessity for hollow decorum. Barely a handful of hours had elapsed since their midnight parting on the ridge; to exchange formal pleasantries after such a brief separation would simply feel absurd.
"I have formally transmitted the narrative of tonight's events to Laterano," Executor reported, his voice maintaining its flat, metronomic cadence. "His Holiness requests an audience with you."
Without another word, he extended his personal communications array toward Jeanne. The moment her fingers closed around the device, the silver-haired operative vanished back into the shadows as seamlessly as he had arrived.
Jeanne stared down at the humming receiver, entering a prolonged state of silent contemplation. She had fully anticipated that the old Pope would maintain a vigilant eye on her trajectory the moment she crossed the threshold into Kazdel, but she hadn't expected the venerable leader to initiate contact with such aggressive speed.
"Hello there, Your Holiness," Jeanne greeted smoothly, her tone carrying an ease born of long familiarity. Truth be told, her choice to address the absolute ruler of Laterano with such casual affection was a protocol the old man had explicitly requested himself, insisting that such phrasing fostered a more intimate, grandfatherly connection.
"Haha... it appears the harsh climate of Kazdel has failed to sap your spirits, my child. You sound as remarkably vibrant as ever."
From the speaker drifted the warm, gentle cadence of the elderly Pope. His tone carried such a profound baseline of grandfatherly affection one might easily assume he was merely checking in on a beloved granddaughter who had embarked on a lengthy voyage abroad.
"I am here as an official guest of Babel," Jeanne chuckled, her voice entirely light. "How could I possibly suffer under their hospitality? In fact, if I weren't so stubborn about exploring the frontier on my own terms, my daily accommodations would likely be substantially more luxurious."
She offered a soft smile, keeping her tone detached.
She knew the old man hadn't initiated a direct encryption sequence purely to exchange superficial pleasantries; his motivation was undoubtedly tethered to the volatile theater of Kazdel—and more specifically, the internal mechanisms of Babel itself. The only variable remaining was the precise nature of the data he sought to unearth.
"Haha, quite true. Given that Theresa personally extended the invitation, it is only logical that your physical welfare remains secure," the Pope murmured. Realizing Jeanne had transparently laid Babel's name upon the table, he abandoned any further rhetorical misdirection, steering the dialogue straight to his primary objective. "Tell me, child... during your residency within their ranks, what is your assessment of their structural stability?"
He was deeply invested in deciphering the geopolitical pulse of Babel—and by extension, the broader evolutionary trajectory of Kazdel. What manner of state was destined to emerge from the ashes of this endless civil war?
His seasoned political instincts warned him that the internal mechanics of Kazdel had begun to shift in a highly irregular fashion. The entire region was generating a dense, suffocating atmosphere, signaling that a monumental structural upheaval was hovering on the immediate horizon.
Yet, Laterano's intelligence apparatus regarding the interior affairs of Kazdel remained severely compromised—a logistical bottleneck directly caused by the reality that authentic, high-level data could only be secured through Sarkaz informants.
And as for Laterano's historical relationship with the Sarkaz... it required zero explanation. Furthermore, his ancient acquaintance within their borders was generally entirely disinclined to volunteer sensitive metrics regarding Babel's internal strategies.
"The situation is... exceptionally grim," Jeanne admitted, the superficial lightness draining from her features, replaced by a heavy shroud of melancholy. She let out a slow, burdened sigh before continuing her evaluation. "The sheer velocity of the warfare is systematically grinding the structural foundations of this nation into absolute dust. Though, considering how broken this land already is, I suppose it cannot devolve much further."
The Pope remained entirely silent for a moment, clearly possessing an intellectual grasp of the tragedy. Yet, as the absolute shepherd of Laterano, he harbored zero profound emotional investment in the fate of Kazdel. On rare occasions, he might offer a solemn sigh over the waste of human life, but his involvement terminated strictly at that boundary.
The face of Terra was scarred by an absolute infinity of tragedies; had the old man permitted his heart to break over every single atrocity unfolding across the wilderness, he would have zero capacity to govern his own empire. He would be reduced to a weeping relic, paralyzed in his room.
"However, if zero external variables disrupt the current situation, and the two factions are left to tear at each other's throats... they could easily sustain this bloody stalemate for another year or two, provided the leadership desires it. But from my perspective... the Lord of Fiends commands a remarkably slim margin for victory."
Jeanne didn't mince her words. Her residency within the landship had permitted her to cleanly analyze the structural flow of the conflict: Theresa was currently burning through her remaining reserves merely to parry Theresis's aggressive operational maneuvers. To mount a decisive, nationwide counter-offensive was a logistical impossibility.
"Yes... the probability of the Lord of Fiends emerging triumphant is indeed remarkably low," the Pope echoed softly. His tone carried a deep, heavily weighted significance, his phrasing laced with a subtle, unspoken implication.
"Does Your Holiness desire that I intervene on Theresa's behalf?" Jeanne inquired tentatively, her eyes widening slightly with a touch of genuine astonishment.
She had operated under the assumption that the high-ranking administrators of Laterano would prefer she maintain absolute neutrality, allowing the two Sarkaz factions to systematically annihilate one another. Yet, the old man's phrasing suggested he was actively encouraging her to tilt the scales of history.
"Negative," the Pope responded instantly,彼の voice cutting through her assumption with absolute clarity. "Which faction you choose to elevate—or whether you choose to act at all—must remain a product of your own volition. Laterano merely offers a structural perspective."
He paused, a complex, heavily burdened emotion filtering through the connection as he spoke. "To be entirely candid with you, my child... there is not a single soul within the holy borders of Laterano who harbors a genuine desire to see the Sarkaz achieve a state of permanent peace. The overwhelming majority of our populace would celebrate if their nation collapsed into absolute, irreversible ruin once more."
Jeanne offered a slow nod of understanding. To her mind, such a sentiment required zero moral justification; when confronted with an ancient, existential adversary who had inflicted centuries of blood and misery upon your people, who wouldn't pray for their ultimate undoing?
"Yet, from a purely analytical standpoint, the eventual identity of the victor matters very to our long-term security," the Pope continued, his voice laced with a profound sense of administrative exhaustion. "The critical failure point is that the sheer intensity of the Kazdel civil war has actively breached our border parameters, threatening the physical safety of Laterano itself."
To guarantee the preservation of their frontiers, Laterano had been forced to redirect an immense portion of its military and economic capital toward the Kazdel sector—yet the strategic dividend of those deployments remained frustratingly low.
"If... if I choose to actively intervene in the Kazdel civil war..."
"Whatever path you elect to forge, you need only answer to the dictates of your own spirit!" the Pope interrupted smoothly, his voice shedding its grandfatherly warmth and replacing it with a solemn, absolute authority. "I possess absolute faith that you, who walk under the direct, unblinking gaze of the Divine, will invariably carve out a path of absolute righteousness."
In that singular, sweeping transition of tone, Jeanne was forcefully reminded of the identity of the individual on the other end of the line: this was the supreme pontiff who commanded the absolute, unyielding authority of Laterano.
"You are entirely free, child. You are under zero obligation to consider the political anxieties or historical prejudices of Laterano. It is Laterano that must adapt its trajectory to align with your will. And our nation will follow precisely in your footsteps as you march forward."
As the Pope's final decree echoed through the speaker, Jeanne tried to conjure an image of the venerable leader assuming a posture of absolute, unbending solemnity...
Regrettably, her imagination utterly failed to construct the visual.
Nevertheless, she grasped the absolute core of the old man's message with perfect clarity. Jeanne offered a firm, resolute nod toward the receiver, her voice ringing with absolute certainty:
"You may rest easy, Your Holiness. I have always charged forward following the absolute guidance of my own heart and the radiant light of my Revelation. That is a truth that will remain completely unchangeable until the end of time."