"My King, you misunderstand," Said the elderly man in pristine white robes, bowing slightly behind Lucius.
His face bore a gentle smile, devoid of earlier fear or timidity.
Gone was the ornate papal vestment, heavy with embellishments.
Now, he resembled a frail, kindly neighbor strolling through a park.
"I am no longer Pope. Ten minutes ago, I signed my final document."
He straightened, as if resisting the weight of age before Lucius.
"All steps for the doctrinal conference are arranged, to be executed in my name."
"Whether including the Book of Enoch in the Bible or recognizing the angel Metatron, the Catholic Church will fully comply with Your Majesty's will."
"Well done," Lucius said, eyes closed, rubbing his brow.
He chuckled softly.
"And after that?"
The King's eyes opened, his question soft.
"My King, the Roman Catholic Church is now a faith that acknowledges the Book of Enoch and Metatron," The man said, bowing slightly. "I have severed ties with the Vatican and the Church."
"Thus—" His face flushed with vitality, wrinkles smoothing, age spots fading.
He seemed decades younger.
Power flowed from the Vatican into the former Pope.
Withered muscles grew robust, his curse power doubling.
White hair turned golden, cloudy eyes sharp and clear.
Youth returned to his aging frame.
The years seemed to peel away.
Silver-white curse power surged around him.
This was the Catholic Church's millennium-long accumulation—a ritual of human wisdom's peak, preserving the power of past saints, channeling it into one person when needed.
When Marquis Voban invaded, haste prevented its activation.
Could this ritual elevate a mortal to rival a Devil King?
The man didn't know.
But it didn't matter.
"Lord, witness my faith," The former Pope, now a middle-aged man, declared, eyes blazing.
For faith, he had yielded.
For faith, he must resist.
Compromise was for God's love for humanity.
Resistance was for humanity's love for God.
His foe was a Devil King, wielding divine authority, ravaging the earth.
Mortals couldn't defy Kings.
Only Kings or Heretic Gods could challenge them.
But they failed.
As a believer, he couldn't let revered saints and angels, swayed by madness, defy myth and bring calamity.
Thus, only one path remained.
Possession.
But possession alone wasn't enough.
At best, it reached the level of a powerful divine beast.
Against a King, it was as frail as an infant.
So—
Now in his prime, the former Pope clenched his fists.
The Devil King stood, arms crossed, smiling, studying him with interest.
Yet that natural pressure felt like drowning in the sea, despairing and powerless.
Without resolute will, he might have collapsed.
Possession—Moses.
"Moses Parts the Sea!"
His hand swept forward, cleaving Lucius's invisible "aura," Opening a narrow path.
Seizing the chance, he breached Lucius's presence, charging forward.
In an instant, he was before the Devil King.
Possession—Abraham.
Typically, invoking even one divine possession was immensely difficult.
It demanded skill and compatibility with the spirit.
The former Pope's feat was even harder.
Multiple saints' powers converged in him simultaneously!
His aura surged.
"Sacrifice of the Son!"
His hand gleamed silver, sharp and menacing.
His palm, like a blade, marked all as lambs.
To test Abraham's faith, God demanded he sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac.
Lucius didn't dodge, meeting the hand-blade with his own mana-charged palm.
A mortal's body couldn't compare to a Campione's, let alone Lucius's enhanced physique.
The moment they clashed, the Pope's hand shattered like paper.
Yet Lucius frowned slightly.
A faint sting pricked his hand.
Lifting it, he saw a shallow, two-millimeter red scratch on his knuckles.
"Not bad," Lucius said, half-sincere, eyes opening slightly.
Two saints' powers combined in one body.
Though from his faith, their conflicting wills and powers were taxing.
Determination flashed in his eyes.
With another secret ritual, his mind felt smashed by a hammer, going blank.
Blood streamed from his nose and mouth.
A third presence emerged.
Possession—David.
"To be honest, reaching this level under human limitations is impressive," Lucius said, stepping back to dodge another "Moses Parts the Sea."
He grabbed the Pope's fist, lifting it to let a "Saint's Dragon-Slaying Strike" miss.
Facing the former Pope, now cloaked in twelve presences, Lucius offered unstinting praise.
But it ended here.
"I admit, I underestimated you," Lucius said, spreading his hands, his smile both satisfied and malicious.
"But it's time you returned to the Lord's embrace, isn't it?"
The ritual-restored youthful body aged rapidly, wounds gaping, bones exposed, a decayed husk pierced repeatedly.
Most injuries weren't from Lucius but from the backlash of multiple saintly possessions.
Barely conscious, driven by instinct, the former Pope attacked, a glimmer of clarity in his hollow eyes.
A thirteenth presence emerged.
***
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