The Reversed Hierophant
Chapter 1: Coronation

Has any mortal ever tasted the agony of being consumed by fire?

In the quietude of sleep, an excruciating pain welled up from the depths of his body, burning his flesh and blood like a flame. Invisible blades and hammers, sharp and relentless, invaded his most tender organs, stirring and pounding without mercy. The pain clung like a parasite, greedily devouring his lifeblood, twisting all the sweet flesh and blood into a putrid mass.

It hurts….

His drowsy brain was pulled out of sleep and listened to the body’s instinctive cry.

It hurts so much…

The golden-haired youth snapped his eyes open. His violet irises, as clear as crystal, were clouded with a crimson hue of terror. The air was thick with the lingering scent of myrrh, a fragrant resin that had not yet fully burned away. The opulent chamber, dedicated solely to the sole monarch of the Kingdom of God on earth, was eerily silent. He was alone. The deacon, who used to wait at the door, ready to serve the Pope at any time, had vanished. Grasping the sheets tightly, he felt his veins bulge on the back of his hand.

Where was his deacon? Where were the priests guarding his door? Where were the Papal Guards? They should have been waiting at the door for his orders!

Blood gushed uncontrollably from his mouth, staining the pale gold silk sheets. The agony was so intense it rendered him speechless and paralysed. A chilling premonition washed over him.

Consumed by agony, the young Pope struggled to reach the dagger on the bedside table. Its ivory and gold hilt brushed against his skin, cold and unyielding. His trembling fingers failed to grasp this life-saving straw, and in his desperation, he knocked it to the floor. The dagger, a gift from the Queen of Assyria at his coronation, vanished into the thick wool rug.

Blood and air warred in his throat as he gasped for breath. As he suffocated, the scene in front of his eyes became blurred. The Virgin Mary and the Holy Child, cold and aloof, stood in the corner, her eyes fixed upon him with a chilling compassion.

A pair of boots materialized in his line of sight. Cold hands roughly lifted his chin. The candle flickered and died, leaving him in the dim twilight. A familiar face seemed to emerge from the shadows.

He desperately searched his memories for their identity, but before he could piece them together, a cold blade pierced his chest.

A hand clamped over his mouth and nose, stifling his final cry.

“In the year of our Lord 1084, Pope Sistine¹ I passed away due to illness. A staunch defender of outdated principles, Sistine I died before the dawn of a new era. This was the last grace that God had given him.”

The quill danced across the parchment, leaving behind a fluid script that marked the final judgment of history upon the poor soul.

No one could hear the cries of the departed soul. The tides of time swept forward, burying this unnoticed murder case in the dust of history.

Yet, perhaps fate was prone to oversight. Beneath the hurried hem of the goddess’s gown, the dead Rafael Garcia opened his eyes.

His memory was still lingering on the icy chill of the blade piercing his heart, and the sensation of blood welling up in his throat. Yet, the sound of a grand organ filled his ears, and white doves, released by children, carried laurel leaves in their beaks. His eyes were met with a tapestry of crimson and gold, and beneath it, a snow-white papal robe.

The people surrounded his carriage with enthusiastic cheers, with countless snow-white flowers held aloft their heads. As the golden carriage rolled by, the people knelt like fallen wheat, their hands raised in supplication, offering their faith to the new Pope.

Rafael turned his head. The golden hair beneath his crown was damp with sweat, clinging to his scalp. His vision was still clouded by the suffocating darkness, but his instinct was faster than reason. Honed by his countless audiences as Pope, he offered them a flawless smile.

The moment he smiled, the people cheered even more enthusiastically.

“—Sistine!”

They were chanting his papal name. It was a familiar scene.

In the blink of an eye, he had been transported from the horror of his murder back to the day of his coronation, years ago.

Sistine I, or Rafael Garcia, was one of the youngest and most handsome Popes in history. At the tender age of twenty-two, he had been granted the supreme authority of the Church, wielding the sceptre of faith over a vast continent and the allegiance of hundreds of millions. His name was etched into the hearts of his followers, who prayed for his well-being daily.

He was kind, compassionate, and deeply devout, embodying the Church’s ideals. He cared for his people as if they were his own children, offering refuge to the displaced under the Church’s banner and allowing the frail city of Florence to eke out a precarious existence amidst the tension of powerful empires that were on the verge of war. He was hailed as the most just and learned Pope in history, a shining beacon of purity within the Vatican.

Flowers and praises were showered upon the young Pope. He was revered as a saint walking among men, bringing light and hope wherever he went.

If only he hadn’t been murdered one fateful night five years later, if only he hadn’t seen the cruel words written about him in the history books, if only he hadn’t realized that his death meant so little to everyone-

The real past and the illusory reality were intertwined, and the phantom pain still lingered in his nerves. The blond, violet-eyed Pope waved to the people beside his carriage, his smile a rigid mask that hid his involuntary twitches and tense muscles.

“Your Holiness, the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn is ready,” said the black-clad deacon, walking alongside the carriage. He wore a small round hat and a long black robe, indistinguishable from any other priest in the Vatican, except for the red sash tied around his waist, marking him as the Pope’s servant.

The young Pope turned his head and gave him a fleeting glance. There was no emotion in his eyes, but the deacon, who had spent his life in the Vatican and had been trained to be a tool for others, felt a sudden chill.

For a moment, it seemed as if there was something different about this young Pope, who had been elected as a mere figurehead.

“Then let us go,” the young Pope said softly, his hands folded in his lap. His heavy, ornate robes adorned him like the most beautiful and precious doll in the world. All he had to do was sit in the carriage and smile, fulfilling people’s fantasies about the new Pope.

What were their fantasies like?

Ah, Rafael knew all too well. They wanted a pure, beautiful, and compassionate figure, like a god, to whom they could entrust all their suffering. In this chaotic and turbulent era, everyone was living a precarious life, and their lives were full of endless bitterness. There was too much suffering and with nowhere else to turn, they sought something to bear the weight of their misery.

As the human representative of God, the Pope was the vessel for that suffering – and he had once thought so too.

The crowd in his line of sight grew denser, their clothing changing from neat and elegant to ragged and soiled. The papal procession was approaching the slums, and an even larger crowd pressed against both sides of the street, their eyes fixed on the Pope in the carriage with longing. Rafael turned his head and saw a group of ragged children splashing through dirty water behind the crowd, chasing after the carriage.

How familiar the scene was. He had witnessed two papal coronations in his lifetime, and the first time he had seen the Pope in procession, he had been one of those children.

Bare feet trudged through the filth-filled mud, easily cut by sharp objects hidden beneath the surface. But there was nothing to be done. Shoes were a luxury, affordable only by the wealthy. As for abandoned children like him, they could only wrap their feet in twine for a meager amount of protection.

Yes, an orphan. Who would have thought that the new Pope, now seated amidst pearls and golden silk, was once a lowly beggar, running through the filthy mud and making a living through stealing?

Fate was indeed fickle.

Rafael smiled silently, watching the honor guard turn at the front and beginning the return journey.

As the supreme ruler of faith, the Pope possessed vast wealth donated by believers from all over the world. But his primary territory was the Papal States, centered around Florence. This city, no larger than the capital of some great nations, held sway over the faith of hundreds of millions. It was a holy city in the hearts of countless believers. Although its armed forces were almost non-existent compared to other countries, no country can underestimate its existence.

With the new Pope’s ascension, nearly every nation had sent envoys to attend the coronation ceremony. They awaited in the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, listening to the grand organ music. While they speculated about the Pope’s whereabouts, they also reviewed the information on this fortunate man who had risen from obscurity. Swift-footed servants crept upstairs to report that the papal procession had entered Miracle Square. The envoys stood up, adjusting their expressions, and prepared to greet this human representative of God with the utmost solemnity and piety.

The young children in the choir opened their mouths and let loose their clear, bright voices. Each one had been specially selected by the Church from hundreds of candidates to grace the Pope’s coronation. Each child possessed an angelic beauty, their eyes innocent and guileless, their fair, round faces like newly bloomed lilies. Clad in the white robes provided by the Church, they held small white candles in their tiny hands. The soft glow illuminated their faces, and their carefully selected golden hair seemed to shimmer like scattered gold.

‘Divine grace, how sweet thou art, that I am pardoned this day;

I was lost, and could not return, but now my darkness is dispelled.’

The long, echoing children’s voices intertwined with the rising notes of the organ. The Cathedral of the Holy Thorn had a unique structure, with sound-conducting pipes in its walls and floor. The song, reflected off the walls, seemed to descend from the heavens, floating and falling, its human qualities completely washed away. It was as if angels were truly singing a magnificent hymn above the clouds.

The envoys who witnessed the grandeur of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn for the first time involuntarily held their breath. Two heavy brass doors were forcefully pushed open by two knights, their bodies entirely encased in armor, like silent and majestic knight statues that had suddenly come to life.

The ornate doors, adorned with reliefs of angels blowing trumpets and welcoming the Virgin Mary, creaked open. On the red carpet, a slender figure slowly approached, following the rhythm of the song. The light behind him enveloped him completely, as if he was about to be consumed by it.

As the young Pope entered the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, the organ and the children’s singing reached their crescendo simultaneously.

‘Blessed are the eyes that have seen, gracious is the Lord, for I have heard the Gospel;

Joy and praise before the Father’s throne, grace abounds, and I am saved.’

A wave of majestic music washed over everyone, and as the Pope passed, all bowed their heads, their vision obscured by the crimson and gold vestments and the snow-white robes. The papal tiara, adorned with pearls and gems, cast a faint, colorful glow, momentarily dazzling the ambassadors.

‘Indeed, this is the Holy See…’ someone thought to themselves. ‘The jewels on this papal tiara alone could be used to make a king’s crown. If the King of Taklai had possessed such a crown back then, he might not have been beheaded by his mercenaries for failing to pay for their services.‘

It was apparent that the Church was incredibly wealthy. Those foolish people, pigs, lambs… whatever you wanted to call them, possessed a considerable amount of wealth. But all of them would be more willing to pay the Church exorbitant taxes rather than meet with the king’s tax collectors. Can a false faith really transcend worldly authority?

The envoys watched the approaching Pope with various thoughts. As he passed, they politely removed their hats. Rafael saw a sea of heads, each with a different color and texture. Without shifting his gaze, he watched as the ladies who had accompanied the ambassadors to the grand event lifted their overly ornate skirts and curtsied to the young and handsome Pope.

“Congratulations, Your Holiness,” a soft, gentle voice reached his ears as he passed the front row of chairs.

Out of politeness, Rafael turned his head slightly and saw the face of a young girl. Compared to the aged or middle-aged men around her, she was as delicate as a budding flower. But this flower wore a deep blue sash and badge symbolizing her status on her shoulder, and a short sword at her waist. In just a glance, her valiant and capable aura was evident.

Rafael couldn’t stop, so he nodded and smiled politely to her, then stepped onto the red velvet-carpeted steps.

The heavy golden high-backed throne was adorned with red velvet cushions, with the chairbacks intricately carved. Two little cherubs holding sceptres crossed with one another, were carved on each side. The angel holding the lily looked down, while the angel holding the sword looked straight ahead, symbolizing the intersection of power, the Lord’s protection of the Pope and a warning to others.

This thing, as exquisite as a work of art, was indeed beautiful. All the words and praises in the world could be bestowed upon it. Even a king’s throne was probably not as magnificent. But its designer seems to have completely disregarded the comfort of the user. The embossed patterns were incredibly uncomfortable, and sitting on it required one to keep their back straight at all times, feeling like a form of torture.

Rafael, who had owned it for five years, was certainly qualified to make such an assessment.

The young Pope pulled the edge of his heavy crimson robe with one hand and sat down on the throne. He leaned the towering scepter against his leg and held the globe adorned with thorns in his other hand. The top of the scepter was a large gem, designed like a sword hilt. Seated on the high-backed chair, his posture and appearance was divine and majestic, just like the countless oil paintings hanging in the corridors of the Holy See.

The sceptre symbolized the power bestowed upon him by the Lord to shepherd his people. The Pope had the authority to bring down fire and punishment on behalf of God, using absolute violence to punish heretics and protect the faithful. The thorned globe meant that he had become the bearer of the world’s sins, the unique and supreme ruler who walks the earth on behalf of God.

The new monarch of the spiritual world sat upon the golden throne, beneath him a sea of bowed heads. The immense arched stained-glass window poured sunlight upon him, enveloping him in a pure radiance. This scene would be forever captured by the Holy See’s painters on canvas, becoming a timeless masterpiece hanging high in the sacred corridor. It symbolized the beginning of Pope Sistine I’s glorious and tumultuous life, the first step of this monarch of the world as he ascended to the throne and stirred up a storm named Rafael across continents and oceans.

Translator’s Note:

Hello welcome to my first attempt at novel translation! I decided to pick this novel for two reasons: 1. I’ve always loved the historical genre particularly with the politics and world-building involved. This novel reads like a biography as we follow along Rafael from the start of his reign till his old age, with some romantic subtext sprinkled in between. 2. Despite the great story, this novel hasn’t received a lot of attention in JJWXC and I hope that translating this would lead more people to support the novel and the author.

Disclaimer: I’m not a firm believer of any religion and my interest in the story is purely due to its Western Fantasy setting and its great worldbuilding. I apologise if there’s any mistakes in my translation or interpretation to anyone with strong religious beliefs. While the religion and setting in this story is closely mirrored to the Roman Catholic Church, you can see as the story goes on that a lot of it is changed and would be entirely different. The author also tried their best to do their research and from what I read, I didn’t replace anything offensive or discriminatory. Please remember that this is just a work of fiction.

¹ Sistine – A Latin alternative for Sixtus meaning ‘sixth-born’, which is a papal name often taken by the Pope. The most famous example is the Sistine Chapel – Cappella Sistina in Italian which takes its name from the man who commissioned it, Pope Sixtus IV.