Ch.43Ch.4 – Outro (1) (Video not opening)

1929. 4. ■■. PM 3:22

Vatican, Rome, Italy

■■■ Office ■■■ ■■■■

“Family-like company,” “Company where it’s a pleasure to work” – if there’s another equally imaginary concept, it would be “interdepartmental cooperation.”

Regardless of era or organization, unifying opinions across various departments is extremely difficult and cumbersome.

Even the Vatican, the world’s oldest and most enduring bureaucratic organization, is no exception.

Nevertheless, Cardinal Benedict, the head of the ■■■ Office, was contemplating whether to try interdepartmental discussions for the first time.

This matter was serious enough to warrant it. Especially for those who knew Cardinal Benedict, and even more so for those who understood the pride of the ■■■ Office.

Speaking of the ■■■ Office, it is the oldest institution among the seven councils of the Holy See, formerly known as the Inquisition.

In an age where witches are no longer burned at the stake, the ■■■ Office focuses on more fundamental duties.

What constitutes faith? What does not?

What is a crime? What violates the rules?

All matters of right and wrong regarding faith are ultimately decided here.

Cardinal Benedict finally removed his glasses and stood by the window.

In the era when the world was under the Pope’s scepter, the Church could intervene everywhere. That time has passed.

Yet the times and the world still demand certain things from the Church. To speak out against injustice. To stand against unreasonableness and unfairness.

To put it rather bluntly, it’s similar to asking Italian police to establish order in an unrelated Asian country.

Of course, the territory of believers is vastly different from national borders established by political and economic agreements.

Still, religious intervention in secular affairs always creates discomfort.

“There’s no doubt about it.”

Brother Gaspar carefully spoke up.

“Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov is indeed one of the apostates we’ve been tracking for a long time. He’s currently operating under the name Vladimir, and also…”

“He’s in England now. With Soviet attachés.”

Brother Gaspar fell silent. When Cardinal Benedict interrupts, it means he’s quite displeased.

If he spoke carelessly now, the Cardinal would become furious.

Benedict cleared his throat and sat back at his desk, attempting to ease the tension.

“Brother Gaspar. What kind of era are we living in?”

“An era of hardship,” the brother answered honestly.

“Even within the Church, rationalist thinking has become commonplace.

Scientific and dialectical examination of faith, and beyond that, voices calling for the Church to move more ‘among the people’ are growing louder.

Of course, His Holiness emphasizes that tradition must be respected.”

The Pope’s response to these changing times was “let us look at the essence.”

For a very long time, faith was people’s life and thinking itself. But the Great War changed everything.

Now everyone focuses on ideology.

How should we live? What should we live for? What future should we design?

What is the ideal future?

Is it the strong, unified, stable nation that fascists speak of?

Is it the world of equality and equal rights that communists and socialists advocate?

Or is democracy, which lets individuals determine their own futures, the best option?

The problem isn’t ideology itself. It’s that humans, God’s creations, want to determine their own lives.

They want to follow their own path, not God’s path. That’s what the Holy See truly confronts.

And here is a fallen believer.

One who teaches the Bible better than pastors and priests, yet now holds the Communist Manifesto with hands that once clutched the cross.

Once an excellent cult leader skilled at winning people’s hearts, he now actively opposes religion.

Before that, he was a devotee of science, and even earlier, an outstanding merchant.

That was when he lived in the Netherlands, used the alias Ismael van Helsing, and was deeply involved with Catholicism.

This entity now spreads Stalin’s ideology, just as he once gathered numerous followers.

But the Cardinal knows.

This man doesn’t truly believe in anything. When he believes in something, he’s merely intoxicated by the power it gives him.

What he truly follows is power. Strength. His own bloated ego. Nothing more.

How much power can he wield? What can give him power? These are his only concerns.

And now he’s in England. Much closer than the Soviet Union.

“It might have been easier if he were Orthodox.”

The Cardinal let out a chuckle. It was time to make a decision.

“It’s not the best time for travel. Brother, you’ll need to go see the ‘circus.'”

The circus the Cardinal speaks of has no lions jumping through rings of fire. No beautiful women taming beasts or acrobats with hats as tall as themselves.

Instead, there are only security guards with expressions as grim as London’s distinctive fog, so much paperwork one might suspect a paper factory, and bureaucrats.

Brother Gaspar nodded. Once. Then again.

Walls have ears, and where there is light, there are shadows. The Vatican is no exception. Even in the minister’s room.

That’s why the Cardinal didn’t explicitly instruct him to contact British Intelligence to pass on information about Svidrigailov, or to have them eliminate him themselves.

He merely implied it. Gaspar would understand. He’s a capable man.

Cardinal Benedict smiled, indicating it was time to leave. But the brother didn’t rise from his chair.

“Um, Minister. What about the matter of Mother Superior Abassina?”

“It’s not as serious as I thought.”

The Cardinal put his glasses back on.

“Father Matteo will take appropriate measures. Right?”

“Understood.”

The brother stood up.

* * * * *

1929. 5. 1. AM 8:30

Downtown Polard City

Paganini Theater

Knock knock.

Giovanni Savio couldn’t help but smirk at the knocking sound. He knew it was a detestable pretense of courtesy.

So he didn’t say “come in.” Sure enough, his ill-mannered eldest daughter flung the door open without permission.

“I’m tired of saying this. Until I say come in…”

“I knocked, Father.”

“How proud you must be.”

His daughter ignored her father’s sarcasm.

Aurora Savio had triumphed. She had buried her competitors and those who checked her beneath the sewers.

The remaining members were young, energetic, and thirsting for ambition and fair distribution. That’s why they supported Aurora.

All that remained for Aurora was to take the power and wealth hidden beneath her crouching father.

“Maintain proper manners in the company. At least your brother wasn’t so ill-mannered. If discipline isn’t maintained even within the family, how can you command respect from subordinates?”

Aurora never understood why her brother was so highly regarded. She probably never would.

All those who liked her brother had perished in the slum sewer explosion incident.

But I’m not my brother. I have no reason to respect them.

So Aurora crossed her legs as she sat. In front of her father.

And that blew away the last of Giovanni’s patience.

“I should really call Michael back.”

To Aurora, this was just yawn-inducing talk.

“The youngest who left saying he’d cut ties with the family would hardly come back.”

“If you speak like that one more time…”

“Father.”

Aurora stood up. She placed both hands on her father’s desk. Her left hand still wore a white glove.

“I was simply fulfilling my role as the left hand. I believed the highest level of response was necessary. And those gentlemen themselves vowed revenge. Uncle Torio…”

“He was the right hand!”

Even a withered eagle can still be vicious.

For a brief moment, Aurora was genuinely frightened. She recalled her father from her childhood, who would beat her, her brother, and her younger brother with a leather belt.

But that passed quickly. Anger welled up. It had been quite some time since Torio’s funeral, yet to her father, he was still the right hand.

Father has grown old. I need to take his place. Aurora made a decision for the organization.

For that to happen, her father needed to see himself as obsolete.

“You made the decision, Father.”

Giovanni lamented.

Unlike his other two sons, his daughter had clashed with him since childhood. The two sons took after their mother, while the daughter took after her father.

The ability to say the right things in an offensive way. An impulsive personality that knew no restraint. The family’s traditional temperament of pushing back harder when suppressed.

‘I have indeed grown old.’

For the first time, Giovanni looked down at his wrinkled hands. Antonio Salvatore’s death had enraged him too.

But to die at the hands of a wax doll? It was beyond absurd, it was ridiculous.

And there was no benefit. What was there to gain by killing a wax doll?

The Giovanni of his younger years would never have made such a judgment.

But times have changed. The White Hand has no more room to grow. Now is the time to worry about outgoing costs rather than incoming profits.

Salvatore’s death was ultimately not about what could be gained, but about how much less could be lost.

Half the organization was already on Aurora’s side. Giovanni’s faction consisted only of old boys like Joe Torio. He couldn’t go against their call for revenge.

Aurora knew. She knew the old boys hated her, and she knew she could push them to their deaths.

So she did. She made the decision to send Torio and the veterans to the hunting grounds.

In a situation where everyone was pointing in one direction, Giovanni couldn’t unilaterally dictate otherwise.

A father’s orders are absolute, but that doesn’t mean they suppress all discontent.

Giovanni recalled an old regret. If there had been a buffer generation between the old and the young, such incidents could have been reduced.

But it was too late. The organization was already disconnected.

The older generation had entered the grave. Aurora was too hasty and unprepared.

But he would never hand over the reins gracefully.

Giovanni’s heart was still young, greedy, and full of anger.

“I’ll praise you for one thing. Binding Abassina. Though I’m sure that wasn’t your intention.”

Aurora had to admit that much.

Although the loss of an entire generation was a major shock within the White Hand, regardless of how much they hated each other, the restriction of Abassina’s activities was clearly good news.

“I have a new task for you.”

“Yes.”

“Bring me a plan to take down Red-haired Omeli.”

Aurora’s face flushed.

With joy. Sadism. Anticipation of achievement.

At last, the streets of darkness would fall into her hands.