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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 42: The Spiritual War (3)

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Rome, Lateran Palace.

Pope Martin V stood by the window of his study, looking down at the priests and pilgrims bustling below.

"It should be about time for news to arrive."

He lightly swirled the wineglass in his hand.

"Sigismund may be a slow old fox, but he is still the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. I even handed him the banner of the crusaders, so gathering the princes must have been easy enough."

The cardinal at the Pope's side bowed respectfully.

"Yes, Your Holiness. The Excommunication Edict issued by Your Holiness is a weapon more powerful than any army. Who would dare defy the will of God's representative?"

"Of course."

Pope Martin V nodded in satisfaction.

He was the man who had united the divided Church through the Council of Constance and risen to become its sole Pope.

The Hussites of Bohemia were a thorn in his side, challenging his authority, but they were also ideal prey through which to display his power.

All he had to do was issue a single edict without lifting a finger, and the Emperor would collect funds, gather an army, and sweep away the heretics for him.

What a perfect, elegant form of rule.

Above all, he could establish the Church's authority without spending a single coin of his own. Looking back, Pope Martin V almost felt grateful for the Hussites' existence.

An external enemy always strengthened internal unity. This campaign against the heretics was a trial bestowed by the Lord to strengthen the foundations of Catholicism.

"The report is probably late because of issues dividing the spoils. Prague's gold and treasures must be worth quite a bit..."

That was when it happened.

Bang!

The heavy doors to the study flew open without the slightest courtesy.

"Y-Your Holiness! Urgent news!"

Pope Martin V frowned.

The cardinal rebuked the messenger in his place.

"How dare you behave so rashly! Can you not show respect before God's representative?"

"F-Forgive me! But the news is far too urgent..."

The messenger looked as though he had ridden without rest for days. His lips were cracked, and his eyes hollow.

Clicking his tongue, the Pope snatched the parchment scroll from the messenger's outstretched hand.

"Urgent? Stop making a fuss. Has the Emperor entered Prague? Or has he brought back the Heretic King's head?"

With leisurely movements, he broke the red wax seal and unfolded the letter.

"Let's see how much Sigismund intends to boast this time..."

Then.

"......"

The Pope's eyes slowly hardened as he read the first line.

The relaxed smile vanished from his lips, and the fingertips clutching the parchment began to tremble.

[...Annihilated. An army of one hundred thousand has vanished...]

[...His Imperial Majesty is fleeing to Hungary...]

[...The Devil's steel carts... thunder and lightning...]

[...The crusaders have effectively disbanded...]

Each sentence was a string of incomprehensible words.

Pope Martin V gave a hollow laugh.

"Hah, haha... what kind of joke is this?"

He glared down at the messenger.

"Who told you to play such a ridiculous prank? An army of one hundred thousand lost? To a mob of peasants that isn't even a regular army? Speak sense!"

"Y-Your Holiness... it's true! I witnessed it myself!"

The messenger wept as he slammed his forehead against the floor.

"They aren't human! They're devils! Steel walls moved on their own and spewed fire from their mouths, tearing the knights apart! The Bavarian knights melted away without being able to do anything!"

"Steel walls? Spewing fire? What kind of absurd tale is that?"

"It's true! His Imperial Majesty barely escaped with his life, and the prince-electors scattered in every direction. Bohemia... has now fallen completely into the hands of that heretic Ulrich!"

The parchment slipped from the Pope's hand and fluttered to the floor.

'They lost? And it was a complete rout?'

At that moment, a cold terror crawled up Pope Martin V's spine.

This was a war I blessed.

A holy war sent to strike the man I excommunicated.

Yet they lost.

The crusaders of the Catholic world had been utterly ravaged by a single heretic.

Now people would doubt.

Was the Pope's Excommunication Edict no more than a scrap of paper?

Did the blessing of God's representative have no power at all?

Then where was God's will?

'I-I have to stop this. Before the rumors spread...!'

Pope Martin V hurried to his desk and grabbed a quill.

"An edict! I must write an edict!"

With trembling hands, he pressed the pen to the paper.

[Ulrich von Sternberg. That man is Satan's servant. All who follow him shall be excommunicated. The rulers of all Europe must rise. That devil...]

The quill he had been driving across the page like a madman suddenly snapped. Ink splashed across the white paper, staining it black.

The Pope stared blankly at the dark blot.

'...What's the point of any of this?'

Excommunication? That man had already been excommunicated.

A declaration of heresy? He had already issued one.

Crusaders? He had sent one hundred thousand men, and they had been defeated.

No matter how much he wrote or poured God's curses onto the page, he could not harm Bohemia's Heretic King in the slightest. The truth struck him to the bone.

"Grrr..."

A beastlike groan slipped through his lips.

In an instant, terror became blazing rage.

Rage at the incompetent fools who had brought about this disaster.

"Sigismund... you useless, incompetent bastard! Aaaagh!"

Crash!

His eyes wild with rage, the Pope swept everything from his desk.

A Bible tumbled across the floor, and an ink bottle shattered, soaking the red carpet black.

"Aaaagh!"

The furious Pope's screams echoed through Rome for a long time.

* * *

The northern forest held a different kind of silence from the study in Rome.

The smell of damp moss.

The smell of rotting leaves.

And the musky odor of animals.

Władysław II Jagiełło, King of Poland, maintained a straight posture atop his horse despite being over seventy years old.

Deep wrinkles creased his face, yet the sharp gleam in his eyes remained unchanged from his days as the Grand Duke of Lithuania, when he had slaughtered the Teutonic Knights.

"Your Majesty, a stag! It's exhausted!"

The hunting dogs barked as they drove a great stag into a corner.

Jagiełło raised a hand, stopping the knights who were about to step forward with their spears.

"Stand back. This one is mine."

Smacking his lips like an old bear, he took the longbow slung over his shoulder and drew the string.

His taut muscles screamed in pain, but the thrill of the hunt made him forget it.

Whoosh! Thud!

The arrow pierced the stag through the neck. With a final cry, it collapsed into the grass.

"Magnificent, Your Majesty! It was like witnessing the glory of Grunwald once more!"

The young nobles approached with flattery, but Jagiełło dismounted without much interest and gave the stag's corpse a few kicks.

"Hmph. It's an old stag, so its hide will be tough. Like that fox Sigismund's face."

Sigismund, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, had been the greatest rival and thorn in his side throughout his life.

Even out on the hunt, simply thinking of that name left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"By the way, is there still no news from the south? I heard that fox went to capture Bohemia's peasants."

Jagiełło asked as though it meant nothing, but his ears were pricked.

It was an open secret that Poland supported the heretical Hussites of Bohemia.

Before Ulrich's arrival, the nobles of Prague had even tried to offer Jagiełło the throne of Bohemia for that very reason.

Yet when the unprecedented figure named Ulrich appeared and a great storm of excommunication swept across Europe alongside the crusaders, Jagiełło craftily took a step back.

He feared that if he became too deeply involved, the sparks of heresy might spread to Poland.

That did not mean Jagiełło prayed for the crusaders' victory.

If Sigismund swallowed Bohemia, the tip of his greedy blade would inevitably turn toward Poland's heart.

The Teutonic Knights to the north, and the Holy Roman Empire to the south.

Caught between two beasts, Poland had always walked on thin ice. That was why he hoped this chaos would last a long time.

Then hurried hoofbeats came from beyond the forest path.

Clatter, clatter, clatter!

"Your Majesty! U-Urgent news! From Bohemia...!"

"Catch your breath and speak. Why? Did the Emperor finally burn Prague to the ground?"

"No! The Emperor's crusaders... have been annihilated!"

Silence fell over the forest.

"...What did you say?"

"Bohemia has won! The Emperor barely escaped with his life and fled to Hungary. His army of one hundred thousand has scattered in every direction and is said to be all but wiped out!"

The nobles around him began to murmur.

"Impossible..."

"One hundred thousand? Against mere peasants?"

"Could the information be wrong?"

Jagiełło's lips slowly, very slowly, curled upward.

"K-Kekeke..."

The Polish King's shoulders began to shake.

"Kahahahahaha!"

Sudden laughter shook the forest.

His retainers exchanged troubled looks, but the King's laughter would not stop. Jagiełło clutched his stomach and laughed until tears spilled from his eyes.

"That proud Luxembourg fox! He wasted one hundred thousand men and ran with his tail between his legs? The Emperor fell into a shit pit? Ah, I have never heard such satisfying news in my life!"

"Y-Your Majesty. Please maintain your dignity."

Zbigniew Oleśnicki, Chancellor of Poland, stepped forward with a troubled expression.

"This is no laughing matter. A band of heretics has defeated the crusaders. The Church's authority has fallen to the ground, and Europe's order is shaking. Poland cannot simply remain idle..."

"Chancellor."

Jagiełło's laughter vanished as he looked at him with cold eyes.

The old man's hearty laughter vanished, and his eyes changed in an instant into those of a calculating politician.

"Is the Pope's cross more important to you, or is Poland?"

"W-Well... Poland, naturally."

"Sigismund has been crushed. That means our southern border is secure."

Jagiełło stroked his chin in satisfaction.

"The Emperor has lost his strength. For the time being, the Empire will not be able to touch us. That leaves only the Teutonic Knights, those damned Germans."

He had defeated them at the Battle of Grunwald, but the Teutonic Knights remained the greatest threat choking Poland.

"Ulrich von Sternberg..."

According to the messenger's report, Ulrich called himself the Steel King and even mocked the Pope's excommunication.

Great military strength. Hostility toward the Catholic order. And hatred of the Germans.

"...The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Jagiełło pulled up the corner of his mouth.

It was the cunning smile of an old bear.

* * *

News of the Emperor's crusaders' defeat.

It made not only Rome and Poland, but every ruler in Europe tremble.

Italy, Venice.

In the Doge's study, there was no talk of politics or religion. Only numbers were exchanged.

"Bohemian steel is truly that good?"

"Yes. They say the Bohemians swept away the Emperor's crusaders with cannons. And the Gunpowder they make is apparently of the finest quality as well."

"Hmm... The Papacy may talk about excommunication all it wants, but money has no religion."

The aged Doge gave his merchants secret instructions.

"Open a hidden route across the Alps. Then approach the King of Bohemia and find a way to purchase that steel, whatever price we must pay."

He clicked the beads of his abacus and narrowed his eyes.

"The longer the war lasts, the more money the man selling weapons makes."

* * *

Paris, France. Louvre Palace.

Henry V, England's conqueror, snorted.

"Cannons? Aren't those weapons for cowards?"

He tossed the report onto the table, then began wiping his sword with a cloth.

"It seems those Bohemians lack a true man's courage. Rather than facing their foes honorably from the front like knights, they hide behind carts and set off Gunpowder."

To the man who had slaughtered French knights with longbows at the Battle of Agincourt, guns and cannons looked like nothing more than loud, foul-smelling toys.

"If our English longbowmen had been there, they would've turned those carts into beehives. Wouldn't they?"

The English generals standing beside him chuckled in agreement.

* * *

At the same time, Bourges, France.

The temporary court of the House of Valois, its defeat all but certain.

"...Is this true?"

Charles, the Dauphin and future Charles VII, clutched the report with an expression of disbelief.

'The Emperor's knights fell helplessly before steel carts and tubes that spewed fire.'

He had suffered defeat after defeat against the English army, losing even the capital of Paris before being driven out. News that the Emperor's army of one hundred thousand had been defeated was shocking beyond measure.

'If I had that power... if that steel were in France... couldn't I drive those English bastards out?'

Charles stared out the window with gloomy eyes.

The fact that a miraculous power capable of saving his country existed in that distant kingdom of heretics, and that it was not his, only made him feel more miserable.

* * *

Ottoman Empire, Edirne.

Sultan Murad II spread out a map of Europe and smiled in satisfaction.

"Praise be to Allah."

Instead of red wine, he put a spoonful of cool sherbet into his mouth and muttered.

"So the Christians bit and tore at each other until they destroyed themselves... could there be any better news?"

Hungary and the Holy Roman Empire had been the greatest shields blocking the Ottoman Empire's advance into Europe.

Yet those shields had shattered on their own. The Ottomans had done nothing but sit back and watch.

"With Sigismund weakened, the gates of the Balkans will swing wide open. Perhaps I should send a gift of thanks to that heathen in Bohemia."

The Sultan's eyes gleamed toward the west.

Beyond Constantinople, the road to Rome felt a little closer.

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