I Became The Pope, Now What?

Sylvester looked at the two old foggies…he was one of them too, technically. "I will keep it a secret until my grave, holy father."

"Great! What are we waiting for then?" Grandpa Monk clapped his hand and waved his staff to magically pull the side table closer to himself. Then two more chairs also got dragged for the Pope and Sylvester.

The Pope took a seat and put a cloth bag on the table. "I hope I don't get dismissed for this."

'Who's going to dismiss him?' Sylvester muttered, sensing a lot of lies.

"Come here and take a seat, young bard. Today, I shall make a man out of you." The Pope called him, patting the table.

'What does he mean by that?' Sylvester, for the first time, felt slightly worried for his safety. The two men in front of him could easily kill him with a wave of their hands. He was less than an ant.

But he took a seat and waited to see what was inside that cloth bag.

Ting!

Grandpa Monk took out three crystal clear glasses from under the table. Then the Pope took something out from the bag—a bottle, to be precise—a big crystal bottle.

"Haha, let us all share a nice peg of my own, homegrown sunshine nectar." The Pope boomed happily and popped open the wooden cork.

Sylvester had never expected to share a drink of alcohol with the Pope in his new life. But he was confused because this went against the rules—and it was the top man breaking it. "Isn't the clergy banned from consuming alcohol?"

'Is this a test?' As always, he started to overanalyze everything. He tried to look at the expressions of both men and tried to sense the odor. Of course, Grandpa Monk never gave away his emotions, but the Pope did.

"I am Axel Tar Kreed right now, son. The Pope is officially sleeping in the palace." said the Pope as he made the drinks like a master. Heck, Grandpa Monk had taken out a little jar with some sort of spices and lemons.

'This doesn't look like it's his first time.' Sylvester noticed the masterwork.

"This is not alcohol, however. I use special algae that grow deep in the water under the Golden Peninsula. I am the Pope, so only I can access it...and use it. It has strange properties of elevating—relaxing one's mind. Here, you're new so try a little." The Pope handed Sylvester the glasses.

"Cheers to a few more days of living." Grandpa Monk lifted his glass.

The Pope did the same and looked at Sylvester.

'I can't believe this is happening… What have I gotten myself into? Is this good luck or bad luck?' Sylvester was internally growling. Not to mention, he didn't like the smell and the green texture of this homegrown moonshine.

"Cheers!" He lifted the glass too but waited until the two old folks took a sip.

Clank!

"May the holy Solis give my old pops a few years to live!" the Pope prayed when the glasses clanked.

Then, without waiting, both of them gulped down the drinks in one go. By contrast, Sylvester tried not to vomit while drinking. 'Not even Chonky would swallow this abomination.'

"Bwahaha… there are two of you now, old pops." the Pope laughed at Grandpa Monk, who also pointed his finger back. "And there are three of you… three brats."

"I was never a brat… I was just more cultured."

"Hah, you call not drinking milk being cultured? I remember you loved fried food only…no wonder your hair turned white so fast."

The Pope barked back. "They were always white—have you finally gone senile, pops?"

Sylvester dumbly watched the two men acting like drunkards, fighting over the smallest of things from the past. That made him look at the drink in wonder. 'How strong is it?'

It also brought an opportunity, however. 'Can I ask the Pope any questions now? He should give me something, at least.'

He kept looking at the two men with focus and tried to read their behavior, eyes, and expressions.

"Axel—when I die, don't be sad. I will simply be one with Solis—always watching over you."

The Pope shook his head sadly. "Let me cry—pops. Each falling drop of tears will let me cope."

"Thank you for being my son... in name… I am proud of you. Have I told you that before?"

"You have about one million and three sixty-nine times. And I, too, thank you for guiding me… without you, I wouldn't have been this wise, this strong—enough to bring the faith to the direction it belongs. I merely hope now that…" Pope, with his flushed face, looked at Sylvester. "I hope if not I… then the next generation can end the Thousand Year conflict once and for all."

Sylvester acted to be slightly drunk as well. But he dared not say anything unholy, for he had caught the Pope's folly. 'Thank goodness my nose—he's half drunk but fully conscious.'

"I will do all I can too, holy father. I, too, wish for eternal peace and acceptance of Solis on all of the heathen lands. I will ensure that even there, the faith expands… but-"

He looked at the Pope to see if the man was focusing on him.

He was, but at the same time, Sylvester felt the Pope knew he wasn't drunk either. "In my recent travels, I have felt the real hurdle to expansion of faith are nobles! They often stop our goodwill policies and help the commoners. We have the power to absolutely obliterate them, and they are incredibly corrupt. Why doesn't the church simply take over?

"Sure, there will be the headache of running such a large land, but the trouble from nobles will be gone. Then we would be able to easily implement all our politics and absolute justice while focusing on Beastaria."

The Pope nodded and then shook his head, not even trying to act anymore. "There is no fault in your reasoning, young bard. One Pope in the past indeed tried to do this, but in that quest, he learned a great lesson. The world is poor, son. The commoners suffer eternally despite how much we try to help. Even when given food, water, and a roof, they lust for more. Who do you think they hate when they suffer? The nobles! Who will they hate when there are no nobles?"

"The church!" Sylvester blurted, already expecting this much.

The Pope continued. "I believe this land has seen enough bloodshed already—I wish to end slavery one day too, but that would likely lead to another war. I am supposedly the strongest man in the world, but at times I am weak."

He took another sip of the drink. "I can only try and ensure peace, so one-day young men like you come up with a system that shall uplift us above nobility—bring unity, equality, and eternal worship—lessen the common man's hardships."

'Did he just propose a modern civilization? Democracy? No… more like a church-based order of sorts.' Sylvester was amazed by the Pope's wishes. He used to think that the latter was just another bipolar churchman—but it turns out it was a man with a profound plan.

"Let's continue this little talk sometime later, young bard. My old pops is asleep—the best time to put medicine on his aged wounds—lest his body may go cold. You have my permission. Take ten branches from the top of the tree."

Today, even though Sylvester saw the Pope as somewhat of a necessary evil, he felt a tinge or increase in respect for the man.

"Thank you, holy father—may the holy light enlighten us—and keep grandpa monk healthy."

He got up and left the little shack respectfully. But as he closed the door behind, he saw Miraj still annoying the scared bear.

"Oye Oye, call me daddy if you wish to be left alone. Kowtow to me!"

Sylvester picked the cat by his nape and dragged him away. "You're becoming lawless, Chonky. Come, let's meditate together and quench your madness."

So he jumped up a few branches, each thicker than the last.

He picked a random green, algae-covered branch and made it his base. Then he sat on it cross-legged, also keeping Miraj beside him. "Stay here, cross your legs, and breathe just like I do."

Miraj tried his best to sit like a human but instead only fell on his back cutely. "Maxy, I can't sit like you. My legs are too small."

"I noticed. Fine, just sit like a normal cat and meditate. Do what I tell you to and follow my lead." He ordered.

Eventually, he prepared himself and took a long breath before closing his eyes. He was also giving instructions to Miraj. "Let the mind go empty… no thoughts should be there… of the world, you shall become unaware. Breathe in, breathe out… keep the mind empty and eyes closed…"

Sylvester's voice slowly lowered and soon turned into mindless babbling. Then, a few minutes later, it completely stopped, and it became apparent that he was having another vision as the halo appeared.

Sylvester found himself watching a scene transpiring as if he were a god, looking down from the sky at his subjects. The images were hazy but clear to some extent…but not as clear as the voice.

The little girl in his vision was the same, a child merely nine or ten. The place seemed to be a room, and the girl seemed to have woken up on her bed. She had tears in her eyes and was on the verge of crying.

Just then, a manly voice came, similar to the last time. "Did my little Zye see a nightmare? Is it that man again?"

The little girl with ashen-black hair nodded and spoke in a childish voice. "T-That man… it's scary, papa."

The man, whose face was not clear, hugged the girl. "Little one. You must learn to be brave, for we have enemies who don't wish to see anywhere but our grave. You are my Zye, my strong princess… and papa will always be with you, remember that."

She hugged the man back and cried. "B-But… he's bald now! And his golden eyes shined at night… he was angry."

The man chuckled as he patted her head softly. "Hah, so what if he's bald? I'm bald too. Who knows, he may be your future partner… your best friend, or something like that. At least I remember when I met your mum. We were merely six. Our fathers made us sit together and said, 'They look good together.' The next thing I knew, I was engaged.

"That's the beauty of life—it's unpredictable—even with your visions. And I taught you not to judge a book by its cover—always keep yourself ready to discover!—So just relax and let the shroud over your destiny uncover."

"No!" She pouted suddenly. "I marry my papa!"

The man chuckled and let her sleep again. "We're not Masan royals, dear. We don't keep our bloodlines that pure. Now sleep. I will sit by your side."

"Yes!" She happily closed her eyes and let the sleep kidnap her. This time they were surely not going to be nightmares.

The man watched his daughter's face silently, his eyes going numb. It was strange, as he also had a smile on his face. "I wish I could do more to keep you safe, my child. But your father is weak—I alone can't win this game—As long as you get to live, I'm fine if it's me you blame."

With that, silence fell over. While the little girl slept, the man looked up and silently wept. Sylvester felt the emotions in that room, a mix of pain, fear, and a whole lot of childish bloom.

"Agh!" Sylvester's eyes shot open as if lights were turned on—his breath uncontrollably fast.

The vision this time was too long and too detailed. "Was she having visions of me? Who is she? But I'm not bald." He caressed his long, silky hair. "Yet?"

It was certainly a fear that would terrify any young man. But he was old, so he cared not for anything other than the identity of the girl, which was still unknown.

He yawned and looked around, searching for the furry boy. "Where is Chonky?"

As he tried to look, he heard Chonky's voice, singing some strange song.

"Scratch scratch scratchy scratch! I put my name too! Mighty are my paws—Those who see me are very few. Scratch sc-"

"What are you doing, Chonky?" Sylvester appeared behind the singing cat as the furry boy scribbled on the tree with his claw. But, there seemed to be an inspiration as another set of words was present besides looking old.

Sylvester silently read them, but it took some hard work as the words resembled old language usually found in ancient books.

However, soon he frowned at the content. "What the… He was just five years old? This does not make any sense! This contradicts history!"

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