Theresa stared down at the lightweight slip of paper in her hand. In her eyes, this parchment was far more than a simple string of private communication numbers; it represented a historical miracle, an unprecedented bridge between two races that had spent centuries locked in bitter division.
Historically, Theresa had aspired more than once to establish a line of communication with Laterano. Even if it proved impossible to instantly dissolve the deep-seated animosity between their peoples, securing even a modest level of cooperation on specific global issues would have been an immense victory.
Yet, despite how cordially the Liberi and Sankta within Babel treated her, every single time she dispatched her own emissaries to forward diplomatic overtures, the messages would invariably vanish into the bureaucratic void under the guise of "requiring further deliberation."
She understood perfectly well that her dream of erasing the hatred between the two bloodlines was a distant, borderline unrealistic hope. It was mirrored by the reality that while Laterano dispatched its Notarial Hall messengers to nearly every nation across Terra, not a single one ever set foot within the borders of Kazdel.
Laterano and Kazdel were, by default, mortal adversaries. The only common ground tying their cultures together was a long legacy of bloodshed, border skirmishes, and generational vendettas; the Holy City had zero practical reasons to speak with the crown of Kazdel.
This very moment marked what was likely the solitary exception in a thousand years—an opportunity for the Monarch of the Sarkaz to engage in a direct, unmonitored dialogue with the elderly prelate Jeanne spoke of: the Pope of Laterano. For both nations, the weight of this exchange was staggering.
"Much appreciated... I am deeply grateful to you for carving out this opportunity for our two nations!"
Theresa's voice trembled with a wave of deep emotion. Jeanne even felt that the Sovereign looked far more thrilled holding this encrypted frequency than she had on the day she marched back into the Royal Court to reclaim the sovereignty of her homeland.
"Have these two nations truly never exchanged a single direct word throughout their history?" Jeanne wondered, a sudden realization washing over her. She might very well be orchestrating a monumental turning point in the history books today, even if she couldn't predict whether the ultimate outcome of this history would yield a blessing or a curse.
The old prelate had merely casually mentioned during their prior chats that Laterano's interactions with Kazdel over the last millennium had been "somewhat sparse," and that with Kazdel's internal turmoil, the two bloodlines had naturally remained frozen in mutual hostility.
But for the old gentleman to downplay total radio silence as merely being "somewhat sparse"? The way these ancient leaders wrapped their words in layers of understatement was truly egregious. It was no different from a billionaire claiming their monthly income was "under ten figures" when their actual bank account was overflowing.
"It appears you find the prospect highly engaging, so I shall take my leave and stay out of your way," Jeanne noted with a light smile. "I wish you both a pleasant and productive outcome to your conversation!"
With her final farewell delivered, Jeanne climbed into the driver's seat and ignited the engine, guiding the vehicle away from the fortress. Theresa stood motionless, tracking the retreating transport until it dissolved entirely into the jagged horizon before turning back toward the grand halls of her palace.
Jeanne's departure marked the commencement of an entirely new trial for Theresa's administration. The maiden's absence meant that Fafnir would no longer be immediately available to lend her terrifying physical power to the crown's defense.
For the time being, the ultimate trump card they had grown accustomed to deploying now carried a significant communication delay.
While they could theoretically still broadcast a message to Jeanne to request Fafnir's intervention, the assistance was no longer instantaneous. This logistical gap was exactly the kind of variable that might embolden certain sub factions within the capital to execute a few reckless maneuvers.
Fortunately, Theresa had already drafted comprehensive contingency plans to handle such possibilities. Furthermore, they possessed the defensive strategies the Doctor had meticulously authored during her final weeks of health, alongside a dedicated core of operatives who were entirely willing to sacrifice their lives for the future of the realm.
Yet, overriding all of these domestic security concerns, Theresa recognized that her paramount duty at this exact hour was to initiate the dialogue with the reigning Pope of Laterano. At the very least, they needed to align their perspectives on a fundamental plane.
Walking with measured steps into her private study, Theresa positioned herself at her desk, staring down at the intricate string of numbers written on the parchment. After a long interval of silent reflection, she finalized her preparations and initiated the transmission exactly as instructed.
Sure enough, a mere moment after the connection was established, the receiver crackled to life, and a warm, grandfatherly voice echoed from the speaker, sounding entirely like an elderly neighbor settling in for a casual porch side chat.
"Oh, the call arrives remarkably swift. I presume I have the honor of addressing the current Sovereign of Kazdel, the bearer of the Lord of Fiends' legacy—Your Highness Theresa, correct?"
The elderly prelate on the other end didn't sound remotely like a man conversing with the supreme commander of his nation's historic archenemy. His breezy, light tone felt far more akin to an old gentleman inquiring about the daily life of a long-lost granddaughter.
Nevertheless, Theresa maintained her complete focus, anchoring her mind entirely to the unfolding exchange with this seemingly gentle elder. She was acutely aware that the individual behind the voice wasn't some harmless old soul who spent his days doing nothing but sipping fine tea and sampling pastries.
"At this hour, I am the solitary individual within Kazdel possessed of the authority to utilize this frequency, Yvangelista XI."
Theresa's formal greeting nearly moved the Pope to tears on the other side of the line. Ever since Jeanne had departed his presence, the mocking suffix of "the Eleventh-and-a-Half" had remained stubbornly glued to his name among certain circles. Hearing someone address him by his proper, untarnished title felt incredibly nostalgic!
Had the individual on the other end not been the Monarch of the Sarkaz—rendering an overly enthusiastic display highly inappropriate—the Pope felt he would have gladly sent her a fine Lateran pastry out of sheer personal gratitude.
"Haha, there is no need for such rigid formality, Lady Theresa. This line serves strictly as a private channel for my personal thoughts, so you may permit yourself to relax a fraction... Though I must confess, our Holy Maiden has undoubtedly caused you a measure of inconvenience during her stay in your capital..."
The Pope's tone remained smooth and unhurried, yet Theresa sensed that the elder's attitude toward her had subtly shifted, growing a degree warmer. She couldn't quite determine if it was merely an illusion born of her own nerves.
"Not at all," Theresa countered softly. "In truth, Lady Jeanne has granted our cause immeasurable aid. Had we lacked her intervention, it is entirely impossible to predict what tragic state this fractured nation would find itself in today..."
The conversation proceeded with extreme caution, both leaders executing a delicate, verbal dance, circling around the core political realities and only choosing to dive deeper into specific issues when the timing was absolutely perfect.
Interestingly, rather than pressing for immediate structural treaties regarding their respective borders, the Pope seemed far more invested in analyzing Jeanne's conduct within the capital, probing into the precise attitudes the Holy Maiden had displayed during her time among the Sarkaz.
Just as the elder statesman explained over the crackling line, Laterano was fully prepared to invest its trust in whatever realities Jeanne's own eyes deemed worthy, choosing to follow the path the maiden forged even if that path led directly into the heart of Sarkaz affairs.
By the time the encrypted call concluded, the two authorities had managed to solidify a solitary, foundational consensus: both nations would exert their authority to maintain a state of mutual non-aggression, as neither administration harbored any desire to see another massive war ignite between their peoples.
That single understanding was more than enough to leave both parties thoroughly satisfied. Neither leader was foolish enough to expect a solitary, informal phone call to instantly dissolve centuries of deep-seated racial hatred and bring about a golden age of holding hands; such an expectation would be entirely detached from reality.
This official commitment to avoid open conflict didn't mean the borders were suddenly safe; the wandering Sarkaz warbands currently drifting along Laterano's perimeter still required heavy military monitoring, even if Theresa had promised to exert whatever domestic leverage she could to restrain them.
As for the specific, granular details exchanged between the two rulers, the exact words would remain known only to them. With both leaders sitting entirely alone in their respective chambers, no third party would ever uncover the full depth of their discussion.
For now, the reality that neither side would intentionally trigger an incident to harm the other's territory represented magnificent news for two administrators who despised the waste of war. The remaining chapters of their history would simply be left for time to witness.
"I can only hope Theresa and the old gentleman manage to find a pleasant resolution to their chat," Jeanne mused silently, her hands guiding the steering wheel as the vehicle rumbled across the vast, barren wilderness. "They both seemed genuinely eager for the dialogue... so the probability of them suddenly declaring war over a misunderstanding should be fairly low, shouldn't it?"
Reviewing the steady dispositions of the two leaders, she realized a sudden blowup was highly improbable. Neither the Pope nor Theresa belonged to the volatile class of rulers who would lose their tempers during a diplomatic exchange; her anxieties on their behalf were simply a case of overthinking the situation.
With that realization, Jeanne let out a quiet sigh of relief, letting the tension drain from her shoulders.
"Who... who are you? An outlaw? A human trafficker? Why am I confined to this vehicle? What region is this... sob... I possess zero wealth, could you find it in your heart to grant me mercy...?"
Just as Jeanne's mind was drifting through these casual reflections, a sudden, panicked stammer echoed from the cabin behind her. The voice sounded so thoroughly terrified that the poor soul seemed on the verge of breaking into tears—no, judging by the wet sniffles, she was already weeping!
Jeanne let out a helpless sigh, glancing into the rearview mirror. There sat the Grand Doctor, her physical frame curled into a tight ball as she cowered in the furthest corner of the seats, staring at Jeanne as if the platinum-haired maiden were some predatory criminal intent on committing an unspeakable outrage against her.
In that singular moment, looking at how thoroughly her pure, innocent character was being misconstrued by the amnesiac strategist, Jeanne felt an overwhelming wave of speechless frustration wash over her, completely stuck for words.