Chapter 1490: Chapter 1490

Pope Pontiff IV's question was framed as a hypothesis, making it rather tactful. Jenkins thought for a long moment before shaking his head.

"If you had asked me yesterday, I would have refused without a second thought. But now... while I won't actively seek it, if that crown truly ends up on my head, I won't reject it."

He had come to accept Alexia's reasoning. Though it meant shouldering an additional burden, perhaps saving the world truly did require secular power. But he would absolutely not pursue it himself—a rare display of passivity on his part. He would let fate decide the matter.

"Yes, that is a very reasonable way of thinking," the old pope said. "The Church itself does not wish to interfere in the transfer of secular power or royal succession. All of this is under the Sage's guidance. We need only wait patiently."

Although the pope didn't state it outright, Jenkins could easily sense that the Church hoped he, or at least someone from his family, would accept the throne. It was not difficult to understand why. The Williams family were all devout followers of the Sage, whereas the other heirs, even those who claimed to be believers, were merely nominal followers at best.

The ribbon-cutting for the small cemetery was not a major affair. Even with the presence of figures as important as the Pope and a Saint, it was just another routine event. However, Jenkins's public appearance at the Pope's side, holding a pair of scissors alongside him, was laden with meaning. The attendees were not just internal members of the Sage's Church; many others witnessed the scene. Jenkins understood that the Church's arrangement was meant to push him further into the public eye. After all, as a level-five Benefactor (by his own account), he would soon have to accept the full responsibilities and authority of a Saint.

It was noon by the time he returned from the cemetery on the outskirts. Upon arriving at the Holy See, he learned that the Church's other Saint, a Mr. Rudolf Bock of an indeterminable age, had also returned to Bel Diran that morning. Jenkins had long heard of the man and sent a letter requesting a meeting. The two met that afternoon in an unassuming prayer hall in a side wing off the main square of the Holy See.

The holy emblem of the Sage hung on the wall directly opposite the entrance. Below it was a circular platform with a small table holding the holy book. Rows of long, neat wooden pews stretched from the platform to the doorway, all of them empty except for the first, where Jenkins and Mr. Bock sat.

He was a slightly plump man with an amiable air, his temperament more akin to Jenkins's neighbor, Mr. Goodman, than a Saint of the Church. He was dressed in formal black attire, as if attending a grand evening party, and wore a flat-topped black top hat of the sort favored by magicians. He looked far more serious than Jenkins, who was in casual clothes.

Mr. Bock spoke without looking at Jenkins, his gaze fixed on the holy emblem above.

"Speak with me? Why?" Jenkins asked. He watched as the other man closed his eyes, lowered his head, and traced the shape of the holy emblem over his chest.

"Do you know how old I was when I became a Saint?" the middle-aged man inquired, sidestepping Jenkins's question with one of his own. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs novel⸺fire.net

"I believe Papa Oliver mentioned it... thirty-two?"

"Indeed. Much later than you, of course, but even so, it was an exceptionally young age in the Church's history. That was more than thirty years ago. Following the tradition of the ancient missionaries, I set out with only a single holy book and journeyed on foot from the west coast of the great continent all the way to the east. It was..."

Jenkins had heard the story. In truth, every Saint had to accomplish some great deed to earn their god's favor. With the exception of "lucky ones" like himself, drawing the gaze and favor of a deity was a rare feat, requiring a perfect storm of luck, effort, perseverance, and talent.

"You are younger than me, and more powerful."

"No, I'm not stronger than you," Jenkins countered.

Saint Bock was a true, bona fide demigod-level Benefactor—a rare level-nine demigod at that, the very peak a human could reach. At least, Jenkins had never heard of a level-ten demigod. Perhaps they had existed in history, but certainly not in this era.

"I am not referring to our personal power," Mr. Bock clarified. "Even from a great distance, far from Bel Diran, I sensed it—the presence of someone in the Holy See with a boundless power, like the sun."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

Jenkins suspected he had seen something, but that was impossible. A level-nine demigod was still a mortal. Unless he were to drop dead and ascend into angelhood on the spot, he could never perceive Jenkins's true nature.

"If the grace the Sage bestows upon us is like an inextinguishable flame in the darkness, allowing us to help the world by illuminating a small piece of it, then the divine grace upon you is like the sun itself. It not only illuminates your own path in a dark world but also shines upon everyone—those who willingly draw near and those who do not."

The middle-aged man explained slowly, still not looking at Jenkins's face.

"I still don't understand..."

"Even though we are both Saints, we are fundamentally different. Perhaps you have not yet realized it, but the gap between you and me is as vast as the one between myself and an ordinary believer. The Church may never speak of gods favoring certain followers, but it is the truth. More than any Saint I have ever known, you are the true chosen one, walking the earth in a god's stead."

Jenkins opened his mouth, but found he had no words. The cat on his lap rested its chin on his leg, its small ears pricked up, listening to their conversation. From the cat's perspective, this was hardly news. The idea that a god could love everyone equally was the real lie.

"You need not be so surprised," Mr. Bock said, patting Jenkins's shoulder.

"In fact, I was once puzzled as to why the Sage would do this. But seeing you now, I understand. You and I are destined to be different. I have reached the pinnacle of what mortal power can achieve, and it is only from this vantage point that I can faintly perceive how different you are."

"How am I different?" Jenkins asked, still lost.

"I do not know either," Mr. Bock admitted. "Perhaps on the day I finally understand, I will be worthy of meeting the Sage."

He patted Jenkins's shoulder one last time, then rose and departed, bringing their strange conversation to an end. Jenkins was left alone on the pew, pondering the man's words for a long time, but he could make no sense of what he had meant to convey.

Yet Jenkins had a premonition that he would not be seeing Mr. Bock again for a very long time.