Chapter 201: O God of the Trinity, manifest your righteousness!
The tie that bound the northern rebellion together was faith.
Rowe and Nero had already known that before they set out.
The age Rome lived in was the beginning of what later generations would call the Common Era. In this era, within Roman territory, beliefs distinct from the Roman gods began to appear and spread.
The Son. Yahweh. Christ.
To Rowe, those names were not distant myths. They were threads that led back to him, because the Spirit in the Void had already pressed the name Yahweh onto him once.
That was why he accepted Nero's commission so easily.
That was why he came.
That was why, the moment he saw the kindling connected to him, he ordered the army to pull back without hesitation.
The Roman legion withdrew.
And at the same time, the Roman Emperor's First Adjutant walked forward alone.
The wind screamed across the field, tugging at his clothes.
"Martha, the dragon taming saint," Rowe said, smiling with the measured politeness of a negotiator. "I have long heard your name."
"My name is Rowe. I serve as the Roman Emperor's First Adjutant."
"I am Rome's Adjutant."
Martha shook her head slowly. Her grip on the cross shaped spear remained steady.
"I have never heard of you, sir. Nor have I heard that Rome has such a young First Adjutant."
"There was not," Rowe replied, unbothered. "But there is now."
His gaze moved past her, over the hollow cheeks and gaunt frames of the people behind her, over eyes lit by hunger and by something brighter.
"I can tell you did not rebel out of malice," he continued. "I can tell you were driven here."
"I am Rome's Adjutant. I am here to hear your demands."
"If possible, I will do my best to fulfill them."
The crowd behind Martha shifted, restless.
Their eyes carried faith, a longing for the Lord that Martha had given them a shape for.
But beneath that faith was something older than any doctrine.
Survival.
Survival was the instinct of life and the foundation of everything that called itself living. Without life, everything else was empty.
Faith only gave courage.
And courage, more often than not, was simply the strength to keep breathing one more day.
Rowe's purpose here was not to negotiate.
It was to extinguish faith before it could become a name that stuck to him.
He did not want anything like Yahweh.
He had never needed to strengthen himself through the faith of others. For him, only his own path was suitable.
The name Yahweh had been an accident. A stain picked up in passing.
He had always wanted to discard it.
Now he had even less patience for a religion that could take shape under his shadow.
Rowe would not forget what later generations would do. How countless people would borrow the Lord's name to commit evil and then leave the blame hanging in the air for someone else to carry.
He was far too lazy to become that scapegoat.
In this world, one scapegoat was enough.
Martha, meanwhile, was visibly caught off guard.
"Demands…?"
She had not expected Rome to speak so quickly, so calmly.
Rome was an empire that spanned continents. Its policies were hard. Its fist was harder. When she crossed the sea from Britannia, she had prepared for a long war.
She had not expected an offer of negotiation.
But she would not waste it.
"Our demands are simple," she said, voice clear.
"We only have one."
"Lift the crushing taxes imposed on Britannia, and grant us the same treatment as Roman citizens."
No special privilege.
Only equality.
Only the right to survive without being strangled.
"As long as these conditions are met," Martha continued, jaw tight with restraint, "I will withdraw immediately."
She tightened her hands around the spear. Her face was solemn, and beneath it was a thread of nervous tension.
Her demands were not excessive.
But in the past, Rome would never have accepted them.
So would this Adjutant agree?
And even if he agreed, did he have the authority to make it real?
"I can agree," Rowe said at once.
Martha's breath caught.
Rowe's expression did not change.
"You do not need to worry about my authority. Our Roman Emperor is watching from above."
On the ridge, Nero saw Rowe glance up and responded with perfect timing.
The young Emperor stood with hands on hips, wrapped in a rose red gown that made her look like a proclamation given human form.
She radiated noble confidence, as if she belonged there by natural law.
"The Roman Emperor…?" Martha looked up, startled, then slowly nodded.
"In that case," she said, voice steadier now, "as long as you keep your promise, I guarantee the people of Britannia will no longer rebel."
Rowe did not answer immediately.
He simply looked at her.
"And you?"
"Me?" Martha blinked, a beat too slow.
Rowe nodded once, voice carrying across the valley.
"You are a missionary."
"You are spreading faith."
"Are you going to stop?"
Martha finally understood what he was asking.
She had gathered these people. Encouraged them. Armed them. All in the name of proclaiming the Lord.
That was an undeniable fact.
And to Rowe, the true threat was not the starving crowd behind her.
It was the saint in front of him.
He did not want to be Yahweh.
He did not want to be dragged into a role he never asked for.
"Stop?" Martha inhaled, and a faint smile touched her lips, bright and calm.
"I will not stop."
"To proclaim the Lord's glory, and to welcome the coming of the Holy Son, is the only duty I honor in this life."
A vow like that did not bend easily.
Then her expression sharpened.
"But that duty is mine, not theirs."
Martha's gaze swept over the people behind her, and it softened without weakening.
"The Lord I believe in is the Lord who saves all things."
"The Holy Son I believe in is the savior who comes to deliver the people."
"I spread faith to save. Not to force belief."
"They are people."
"I will never use them as tools to spread faith."
Her voice rose, not louder, but more absolute.
"Any belief that treats people as fuel is evil."
"Any faith built on that is blasphemy."
"Whatever I see of it, I will destroy."
"This is the righteousness I practice."
Rowe saw it then.
Not zeal.
Not fanaticism.
Something cleaner.
A will that held belief, reason, and self together without cracking. It was rare enough to be called precious.
He rubbed his forehead as if already tired.
Troublesome.
"But what if the Lord you honor is evil?" Rowe asked.
Martha blinked once, unruffled.
"Then He is false. A demon wearing the Lord's face to test my heart."
"I will not believe Him."
Her logic was clean. No trap in language would catch her, because what she ultimately believed in was the righteousness inside her own heart.
The Lord was only the name she placed over that righteousness.
"All right," Rowe said. "I understand."
He lifted a hand in a casual gesture.
"I will keep my word. I will personally escort the people of Britannia back."
"Do not worry. Rome does not break its promises."
"I am not worried." Martha nodded, serious again. "I can tell you keep your word, and the Roman Emperor will not go back on hers."
"Besides," she added quietly, "rebellion is not something that happens only once."
"I do not want this to happen again."
"Agreed," Rowe said, spreading his hands.
In his mind, he was already weighing the next step.
Martha's faith was anchored in righteousness. If so, it might be possible to guide her toward another symbol of righteousness, something within the Roman pantheon.
Rome had gods that wore that concept as a crown. More than one.
But faith did not change overnight. It had to be turned slowly, carefully.
And Rowe had no desire to crack Martha's purity in the process.
Before anything else, there was the immediate reality.
Rowe turned to the commander behind him.
"Distribute food to these refugees. Let them eat until they are full."
"Then send troops to the nearest port and dispatch ships."
"We will send them back."
"No need for ships," Martha interrupted.
She lifted her spear slightly. A faint radiance flickered along the spearhead, and her voice rang clear as a bell.
"I have the Lord's protection. I can walk on the sea itself without being immersed or defiled."
Light spread outward.
A collective blessing for crossing the sea. Under that radiance, everyone would be able to step onto the ocean as if it were solid ground.
It was the evolution of a promise once associated with the sea god's authority.
And for Rowe, it was unmistakable.
This was his power.
Rowe's eyes widened.
When did he give it?
Why had he never noticed?
Then his thoughts snapped into place.
The chaos core within him was not a tame tool. It was a piece of his manifestation, contained within his body. If he did not actively control it, it would still leak. It would still murmur.
Whispers.
And those whispers did not sound the same to everyone.
Used as an offensive bell, people heard different words.
Martha must have heard them, taken them as revelation, and built her miracles on that foundation.
The outflow had been too small compared to Rowe's whole, like flakes of skin shed without awareness. He had felt nothing.
Only now, confronted with the result, did he recognize it.
In that instant, Rowe became even more vigilant.
Martha could not discover that he was the Lord she constantly spoke of.
If she did, given his past experience with human worship and human madness, the result would be spectacularly unbearable.
"No ships, then," Rowe said smoothly, face calm as stone.
"Distribute food, assemble the column, and depart."
"Yes," the commander answered without hesitation.
The moment the order spread, the refugees' tension collapsed into noise.
"There is food!"
"I have not eaten in days, thank you!"
"Give it to the children first, give it to the children first. If there is any left, give it to this old man…"
Tears and laughter mixed together. All the hardship of before seemed to dissolve for a moment into the simple warmth of bread in the hand.
Martha watched them, and something like relief moved through her expression.
"Humans are complex," she murmured, "yet pure."
"My Lord's enlightenment was correct."
Rowe glanced sideways at her, curiosity pricking despite himself.
"What did your Lord enlighten you about?"
Martha smiled.
"What I saw was the brilliant radiance of the people's heart fire."
The spark of Atlantis.
The light of the human heart, burning in the north.
That was what Martha had seen.
That was her realization.
"That is good," Rowe said, nodding.
"But you do not necessarily need the Lord to practice it."
"You can walk that path yourself."
"The people need the Lord," Martha replied, unwavering.
Rowe waved a hand and did not argue further. Not now.
He could see Nero on the ridge above, growing impatient, beckoning him over like a cat calling for attention with the dignity of a monarch.
Rowe gave Martha a final nod and turned to leave.
Behind him, Martha watched his back.
"Rowe…" she murmured.
"That name sounds familiar."
As if she had seen it in texts. As if she had brushed past it countless times in books.
That name was…
A roar cut through her thought.
A violent sound rolled in from the direction of the sea. The air thickened with ocean dampness, pouring inland like a flood.
Martha's face changed.
"No."
"Did the evil dragon chase us all the way here?"
Thunder rumbled through the already dark sky. Lightning flashed and seemed to tear the world open for an instant.
Pressure crashed down.
People trembled.
The Roman legion snapped into motion, shields raised, spears angled, forming a protective ring.
The people of Britannia turned pale with despair.
They knew that roar.
They knew that terror.
Hope had appeared, and now the abyss opened beneath it.
"My Lord…" Martha lowered her gaze.
She raised her spear, radiance brightening. Magic gathered, condensing into the shape of revelation.
But there was no time.
The clouds churned into a vortex overhead. Within it, a massive shadow descended.
A dragon's claw.
Pale, ancient, and vast.
It pressed down like a mountain, tearing the air, shattering cloud layers as if they were thin cloth.
A natural disaster given shape.
Or rather, it was a natural disaster.
The evil dragon was the manifestation of Britannia itself, the embodiment of the harsh environment of that island.
An existence on the scale of land.
It could affect the continent.
Halfway up the ridge, Rowe moved on instinct.
Not because he feared death.
Because the killing intent of a continental scale existence was not something even he could ignore entirely. It was like a mosquito bite that made you swing your hand without thinking.
A human reaction.
Rowe had always insisted on walking as a human, and he had never bothered to suppress that impulse.
Then his mind caught up.
If he struck back, his identity would be exposed.
Rowe reacted instantly and forced the power back down.
Too late.
A thunderous sound erupted.
Chaotic whispers spilled between heaven and earth, like ripples from the primordial chaos at the world's beginning.
The sound tore through the sky.
The claw shattered.
The evil dragon wailed and tried to pull back, but the claw collapsed into dust with a violent crash before it could fully retreat.
Silence.
Confusion.
Faces turned toward one another, unable to understand what they had witnessed.
Only Martha's eyes changed.
She had sensed something.
She snapped her gaze toward the ridge.
Toward Rowe.
Her pupils glittered like stars catching fire.
She had heard it.
The voice of the Lord.
The Lord had manifested in the world.
On this day.
Martha lifted her spear toward the heavens, voice trembling with devotion and certainty.
"Manifest your righteousness!"
.....
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