Wandering Swordsman |

Mount Vatican, the highest holy site of the Holy See.

As dawn breaks, golden sunlight streams through the stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the marble floor of the temple.

The air was filled with the fragrance of frankincense and myrrh, mingled with the lingering scent of ink from ancient scriptures, creating an almost sacred tranquility. Yet, beneath this solemn and peaceful surface, undercurrents were stirring.

The Pope sat enthroned on his golden throne, clad in a scarlet robe and wearing a triple crown. His face was hidden in the shadow of his hood, revealing only a pair of deep, unfathomable eyes. He slowly raised his hand, his fingertips lightly tapping the golden lion head on the armrest. His voice was deep and authoritative: "Bruce, it's been a long time since we received 'Faceless's' regular reports. Have you found out where she is right now?"

Cardinal Bruce, kneeling at the foot of the steps, trembled slightly upon hearing this. He wore a crimson cardinal's robe and a gold chain cross symbolizing his status, yet he appeared unusually reserved.

Bruce, as the only one of the six cardinals to reside permanently on the Holy Mountain and serve the Pope, was in a situation quite different from his five colleagues who were far removed from the emperor and in charge of various national branches of the Papacy. Although nominally holding a prestigious position, his power was actually firmly bound, and his daily affairs were no different from those of an ordinary deacon.

"Reporting to Your Majesty..." Bruce's voice was slightly hoarse, with a hint of barely perceptible tension, "According to the last report I gathered, the Faceless One's last appearance was on the northwestern border of the Tsarist Empire. At that time... she was heading towards the coast with two other heretics."

The Pope fell silent. He slowly rose, walked to the window, and gazed at the distant, rolling mountains. The snow-capped peaks shimmered in the morning light, like the crowns of gods. His mind raced: Why was Faceless traveling with heretics?

More importantly—the "Blade of Purification" she took, though a sacred relic, is not irreplaceable. What truly concerns the Pope is Faceless's true identity. She was one of his trump cards, prepared for many years, a key piece capable of quietly turning the tide in the future turbulent situation of the six kingdoms. Now, this trump card has suddenly gone missing, like a lighthouse extinguished in the night; how could he not be worried?

"Continue the search." The Pope finally spoke, his voice eerily calm yet carrying an undeniable air of authority. "Use all your informants, wherever she may be, find her. If she has already betrayed the Church..." He paused, a cold glint in his eyes, "then make her disappear forever."

Bruce kowtowed deeply, his forehead pressed against the cold marble: "Yes, Your Majesty."

The Pope sat back on his throne, his fingers unconsciously tracing the sapphire embedded in the armrest. Memories flooded back, pulling him back to that winter night many years ago.

At that time, Odin, the invincible ruler, was visiting the Holy See as a special envoy of the Tsarist Empire, passing through a border town. The Pope had already laid a trap—he knew that Odin, as the head of the Seven Stars, although outwardly supporting the Holy See, actually harbored ulterior motives. If he had Odin's only daughter in his hands, it would be as if he held Odin's life in his grasp.

So he secretly instructed his confidants to select assassins, disguise them as roving bandits, and kidnap Alice, who was still a young girl, while the Invincible Lord was away.

The plan was supposed to be flawless.

But to everyone's surprise, the girl escaped during the night while being escorted! Even more shockingly, she chose to jump off a cliff to her death rather than return to the clutches of her captors. When the scouts reported that "the target has fallen into the sea and is missing," the Pope felt uneasy for the first time.

He immediately ordered: all those involved in the operation, whether master or servant, to be silenced—leave no trace, no corpse, not even a single mark of their existence. "We must not let Odin find the slightest clue." He gave the order coldly, his eyes devoid of any emotion, as if he were merely brushing away a speck of dust.

However, fate often mocks those who wield power.

However, not long after, when the Pope's trusted men were searching for Alice's body, they found her unconscious. At that time, Alice's face was covered in blood and gore from being cut by sharp rock edges, and her breath was as faint as a spider's thread.

Soon, the unconscious Alice was secretly taken back to the Holy Mountain. Although she was still alive, she was unrecognizable and her memories were shattered, like a piece of white paper that had been wet by rain and then dried in the sun.

At that moment, the Pope stood before the sickbed, gazing at the face wrapped in bandages, and a more meticulous plan arose in his mind: "Since God has granted us this opportunity, why not reforge it into a sharp weapon for the Papacy?" He murmured to himself, a glint of light flashing in his eyes.

So Alice was secretly placed in the Holy Mountain to recuperate. When she had almost fully recovered, the Pope personally received her and told her in a fatherly tone, "You are the child I rescued from the brink of hell. If you don't remember your identity, you may stay in the Papacy."

Initially, he only intended to keep her in the palace as a bargaining chip for future negotiations or to coerce Odin.

But soon, he discovered her talent—extraordinary physique, astonishing comprehension, and an understanding of martial arts far surpassing that of her peers. In a chance trial, she subdued three armed guards with her bare hands, her movements like a ghost, her eyes like frost.

At that moment, the Pope knew that Alice could be not only a pawn in his hands, but also a sword born for killing.

Thus, "Faceless" was born.

The Pope ordered a silver mask to be made for her to cover the hideous scar; granted her the power to judge heretics; and, citing "amnesia," severed all ties between her and her past. She grew up in blood and fire, becoming ruthless, efficient, and merciless, eventually becoming the "Faceless," the Inquisitor who struck fear into the hearts of heretics from six nations.

......

Marseille, an ancient town in the southern part of England, is surrounded by mountains and is like a pearl set in an emerald.

The stone-paved roads in the city have been worn smooth as a mirror by the years, and the houses on both sides are arranged in a pleasing manner, with wisps of smoke rising between the red tiles and white walls.

Outside the city, the wheat fields rippled in the autumn wind, the golden ears of wheat swaying in the breeze, as if telling the story of the land's abundance and tranquility.

Marseille, though small, was of great importance due to its geographical location. It belonged to the Earl of Casio, but bordered the territory of the Marquess Henry, a member of the British royal family. For years, Marquess Henry had coveted the Earl of Casio's lands, but lacked a legitimate reason to wage war. Therefore, he devised a clever plan—a marriage alliance.

"Count Casio," Marquis Henry said, seated in his opulent chair, toying with an exquisite silver goblet, his voice gentle yet carrying an undeniable authority, "our families have been on friendly terms for generations. If we could form a marriage alliance, what would prevent us from jointly defending against external enemies?"

Count Casio sat opposite him, his face calm and composed, but his eyes held a barely perceptible worry.

He knew full well that the Marquis of Henry's ambition was not a simple marriage alliance, but rather an attempt to seize his territory.

But faced with the Marquis Henry's domineering presence, he had to suppress his anger and remain polite.

"Your Excellency," Count Cassio began slowly, his voice low and firm, "my granddaughter is only fifteen, not yet of age, and I fear she is ill-suited to shoulder such a heavy responsibility."

"Fifteen years old?" Marquis Henry chuckled. "So what! For me, a marquis, to marry the granddaughter of Count Cassio is surely a great blessing for her."

Count Casio frowned slightly, knowing that Marquis Henry had already put it this way, and to refuse would be impolite. He was about to offer another reason when Marquis Henry continued, "Count Casio, our families have a long-standing friendship. A marriage alliance would not only strengthen our relationship but also make Marseille a jewel of the English Empire."

"Your Excellency," Count Cassio said in a deep voice, "my granddaughter is still young and has been frail since childhood. I fear she will find it difficult to adapt to the heavy workload of the Marquis's mansion."

"Frail?" A hint of disdain flashed in the Marquis Henry's eyes. "In my Marquis Henry's household, is there any weak woman who cannot be supported? If Earl Cassio insists on declining, does he perhaps look down on my status as a member of the English royal family and think I am unworthy of your granddaughter?"