Chapter 250: Regret for a life that could not be reached

​The Council members exchanged glances, their silver brows furrowing. This was not the humble, submissive testimony of a man overwhelmed by divine grace. It was the declaration of a man with a purpose they could not yet control.

Elian, watching from the corner of a flute pillar, knew Julian was going to put up much more resistance, so they would have to put up their best behaviors to at least entice the Saint.

"Then, now that you are here, will you join us in our practices? Our prayers? Our sermons?" the Pope asked, and Julian responded,

"I shall." He said. "Because if I do not, there is no way to properly understand what it is I wield."

Though he had no plans of converting, he just needed to understand this Holy power and if there were any drawbacks.

But this power... if he had had it earlier, could he have been able to save the Empress?

A random thought flew over his mind.

As they say, the thought of a kind and pure man always has the hearts and souls of others resting on his own.

"Julian Von Astrea," the Pope called, and Julian lifted his head once again. "What is it that crossed your mind just now?"

Julian paused, his eyes blinking and a bit confused. Why was the Pope asking him about his thoughts?

"Am I not allowed to keep my thoughts to myself?" He asked.

"No, do not misunderstand," The Pope answered, lifting his hand to seem harmless. "I watched you just now. After your answer, you seemed to have a bit of... regret... lingering in your gaze."

Julian’s breath nearly hitched. From up there, he could see what Julian was thinking through his eyes.

"You looked like you had a regret that you found too late. That is why I am curious," he leaned forward. "What was in your mind? Your answer will determine how I perceive you from now on, and also, I can tell when a person lies, so you should be careful with your words."

Julian stayed silent. His gaze slightly shifted to Elian at the corner and then down to his boots.

He did not understand if this was a test. What sort of man was the Pope?

He had heard from Elian.

The Pope, Clement XII, was a meticulous and kind man. He was pale, a bit wrinkled on the face, and had long, flowing silver hair.

He was a man with a vast heart, big enough to accommodate all those who sought him. But just as he is just and upright, he also has his flaws. After all, he is human, and he acknowledges that.

That is why he continuously says to seek discipline so one does not fall into one’s own weakness.

And also... he does not tolerate liars.

Just as he is kind, he is also strict.

Now, it seemed like he had noticed something about Julian and would like to confirm it. He wanted to know the thoughts of this ’Saint’ who stands before him.

"My thoughts..." Julian began. "Should not be for you to worry about. But if you must know," he lifted his gaze and met the Pope’s grey ones. "I thought of the late Empress of the Empire I come from. Before she was... assassinated... She was ill. Gravely so. I thought, if I had these powers back then, would I have been able to free her or her suffering?"

The Pope remained motionless, his grey eyes searching Julian’s face with a certain level of intensity.

The silence in the hall stretched, thick as the scent of the burning jasmine, as the twelve elders sat like statues of salt, waiting for the Pope to respond.

"Regret for a life that could not be reached," The Pope murmured. His voice lost its sharp edge, replaced by a tone that was almost academic. "A burden of ’if only.’ It is a heavy weight for a scholar to carry, Julian Von Astrea."

He leaned back, his fingers interlacing over his white vestments.

"You did not speak of power for the sake of glory, nor did you speak of the politics of the Viremount throne. You spoke of a single soul and the frustration of a healer who arrived too late." He offered a slow, stiff nod. "Your heart is restless, but it is honest. You may keep your thoughts, Saint, for an honest man has nothing to fear from the Light."

Elian, still standing in the corners of a fluted pillar, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He had seen the Pope break men for less than the defiance Julian showed, but it seemed Julian’s inherent empathy had acted as a shield.

The Pope valued truth above all else, even if that truth was a refusal to bow.

​The Pope then looked at Julian’s midnight-blue robes, his eyes sweeping over the dark fabric that stood out so sharply against the marble dais.

The elders shifted in their seats, clearly waiting for a reprimand, but Clement simply offered a slow, stiff nod.

​"And you may keep your clothes," the Pope added, his voice ringing through the hall, and this stunned the Elders as if they had been struck like lightning. "A man with a goal is a man who will not stop even if there is a boulder in his path. So, until we can draw him to our own path, he is... a traveler who must be allowed his own boots."

Julian felt the Pope was rather reasonable. If he was making sense with his words, then maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about being forcefully imposed with their rights and customs.

​With a slow, formal wave of his hand, the Pope signaled the end of the audience. The elders looked far too preoccupied with the Pope’s leniency to spare one more glance at Julian.

​"This session is concluded," the Pope announced. "Purifier Elian, see that our guests are given time to reflect before the archive doors are opened."

​Julian offered a singular, polite nod—the courtesy of a scholar, not a servant. He turned and took Lucius’s hand, his fingers curling firmly around the child’s small ones.

He didn’t wait for Elian to lead the way; he began the long walk back down the white aisle, the rhythm of his own boots sounding steady against the stone.