Chapter 202: Merlin Still Wandering in the Sea of Flowers
The enormous dragon claw that had fallen from the sky shattered into dust.
Rowe did not follow up. He simply stood where he was, forcing down the twitch at the corner of his eye.
Exposed.
Again.
Even after reaching a scale that brushed the Primordial, he still managed to get stabbed in the back by reality itself.
Martha's cry still rang through the wind, full of reverence that made his head ache.
The appearance of that dragon was not something he had anticipated. It was the embodiment of Britannia, and its aura matched the island so perfectly that even a being on a Primordial scale would mistake it for the land itself if they did not know better.
You would not sense an island dragon approaching.
You would sense Britannia.
Rowe lowered his hands and kept his face calm, letting the wind pull at his clothes.
In front of him, Martha held her cross shaped spear high. Her delicate features looked almost painfully sincere, devotion poured into every breath.
Rowe had shattered the evil dragon's claw.
He had protected the weak.
To Martha, that was righteousness made visible.
"The Lord's incarnation on earth, the Holy Son," she declared, voice carrying across the open wilds. "You have finally arrived."
Dark clouds still churned overhead, but they could not swallow her words.
The Roman soldiers frowned, unsure what they had just witnessed.
The starving people from Britannia, on the other hand, reacted as if a door inside their hearts had been kicked open.
They knelt toward Rowe in a rush of gratitude and trembling joy.
They had crossed the sea to survive.
But they had been carried this far by Martha's faith, day after day, step after step. The seed had already been planted. It only needed a name to cling to.
Now Martha gave them that name, and Rowe's single strike became a miracle in their eyes.
That person made the Roman soldiers save them.
That person broke the dragon that had crushed them for generations.
That person was the savior Lady Martha spoke of.
He was the Holy Son.
He was the incarnation of the Spirit in the void, the Father in heaven, made flesh on earth.
Here, he had manifested righteousness.
A clear voice cut into the swelling worship.
"Umu? Did you know them before, my dear?"
Nero Claudius walked down from the ridge on her own, as if the sky itself could not tell her no. Her skirt flowed around her legs in soft sways that hid the strength in her steps. She stopped beside Rowe and looked at him with bright curiosity.
"It seems my ancestor has quite a few secrets."
"I do not know them," Rowe said, shaking his head once.
Nero folded her arms across her chest and lifted her chin. The wind caught her hair and spread it like a banner. Her emerald eyes were serious in a way that somehow still felt like a performance she enjoyed giving.
"It does not matter whether you know them. My Adjutant, I do not care about your past."
"You only need to remember you are my First Adjutant."
"This is the Emperor's trust."
"That is enough, is it not?"
"Of course not," Nero snapped back, hands moving to her hips as if the thought offended her.
"I want you to remember my perfection forever. How could it stop there?"
"I am Rome. The most perfect Rome, and the Rome who trusts you the most."
Her ahoge swayed left and right as if it were applauding its owner.
Everyone else was shaken by what had just unfolded. Even Martha remained tense, senses sharpened.
Only Nero stood as she always did, heart steady, as if disaster was merely a stage effect.
"Because I know you will protect me," she said, pride spilling into her grin.
Rowe could not help himself. He reached out and rubbed that swaying ahoge, the way one might pat a loud pet to see if it would quiet down.
"Less talk," he said, then flicked a finger to her forehead like a reprimand. "More action."
"Umu!" Nero winced, offended on principle, but her confidence did not even wobble.
She knew he heard her. She knew, for reasons she did not bother to analyze, that Rowe cared.
That was enough.
Shouts rose below.
"Stop!"
"Protect His Majesty the Emperor!"
"Do not let her get close!"
Roman legionaries surged, spears raised, forming a wall of iron and bronze as a figure approached from the lower slope.
Martha stopped. The people from Britannia behind her halted with her, as if pulled by the same string.
The saint raised her spear.
"I have no intention of being your enemy," she called. "I only came to see the Holy Son."
Nero tilted her head and glanced at Rowe.
"Holy Son. Is that you, my dear?"
Rowe adjusted the fall of his robe with a calm motion.
"Perhaps."
"Then that settles it." Nero swept her hand grandly, as if issuing an order to the world itself.
"Go, my Adjutant. In the name of Rome, go and completely subdue them."
Rowe tapped her forehead again.
Nero clutched her head and crouched defensively, grumbling.
The guards behind her kept their eyes down and their backs straight, pretending they were carved from stone.
Stop him?
They valued their lives, and more importantly, they had eyes. His Majesty was clearly enjoying herself.
Once Nero had been forced into something resembling restraint, Rowe looked down the slope and spoke with quiet authority.
"Step back. Do not block them."
"His Majesty's safety is in my hands."
"Yes," the commander answered at once.
This time there was no hesitation. When Rowe spoke, he spoke as the Emperor's will.
And the commander had no intention of bothering the Emperor for confirmation while she was crouched with her hands over her head in clear and dignified protest.
Spears lowered. The soldiers withdrew in measured steps, opening a path.
Martha and the crowd from Britannia stood revealed at the foot of the ridge, white and purple against the mud and dark grass.
Rowe took a single step forward.
Before he could get close, the entire group began to bend, moving to kneel again.
Then they froze.
Bodies locked mid motion.
Even Martha could not lower herself.
Rowe's voice was steady, almost tired.
"You do not need to kneel to me. I am also human."
Since it could not be avoided, he accepted the shape of the disaster he had created.
He was, in truth, the Lord they worshipped.
The chaos core had replaced the Spirit in the void.
The machina god body had been given the title Holy Father.
And this body, this Primordial human shell, naturally became the Holy Son.
Three that were one.
Yahweh.
It was an identity that could not be argued away.
But even so, there were things he refused to tolerate.
"In the righteousness I pursue," Rowe continued, "your position and mine are equal."
"There is no need to kneel. No need to bow."
"Even the Emperor of Rome is not worth you lowering yourselves."
"Umu?" Nero popped her head up like she had been called by name, then bounced to Rowe's side so quickly the hem of her skirt fluttered.
"That is right. I do not need your kneeling."
"What I want is your enthusiasm and your freedom."
She beamed, then shot Rowe a look that demanded praise without saying the words.
Rowe smiled despite himself.
Martha inhaled, then slowly nodded, as if something inside her had clicked into place.
"Equal righteousness," she murmured. "It seems I did not understand deeply enough, Holy Son."
She stopped trying to kneel.
The unseen restraint vanished. She straightened.
"Then please fulfill your promise, Holy Son."
"Of course," Rowe said.
Martha's eyes were clear. She had enough wisdom, enough sensitivity, to grasp the meaning of his words and adjust her stance immediately.
Respect remained. Reverence remained.
But she no longer treated him as a distant, untouchable idol. She layered equality over her devotion, like a vow placed beside a prayer.
Then she turned and raised her voice to the people behind her.
"Everyone, the Holy Son does not require kneeling or prostration."
"You only need to respect him as you would your elder brother."
It was concise, practical, and suited to people who had no patience for theology while starving.
They murmured in confusion and relief.
"We understand."
"Holy Son…"
"Big brother?"
Some stood quickly, because Rowe looked no different from them. There was an eerie familiarity in his presence that made worship feel like recognizing a face.
Others struggled to tear themselves free from the habit of fear and awe.
Rowe did not rush them.
Instead, he glanced at Nero.
"Your Majesty, what do you think?"
"I see with my eyes," Nero huffed, offended on principle, then added with the casual decisiveness of someone born to command.
"Since you have agreed, then let us go to Britannia and see it ourselves."
He had promised to escort them back. He would keep his word.
And if he did not set foot on that island and erase the evil dragon, Britannia would never truly settle.
"Then I will leave it to you, Son of God, and to you, Your Majesty Nero," Martha said.
Nero waved her hand as if brushing dust from a statue.
"You do not need to be so polite. You are citizens of Rome, my citizens."
"Whatever happened before, since I am here, I will not stand by and do nothing."
Rowe tapped Nero's forehead again.
She clutched the spot, glaring up at him with wounded dignity.
"Say it plainly," he said. "I do the work."
Nero puffed her cheeks, then declared, voice full of imperial logic that was only a little bit criminal.
"You are my Adjutant. I am you, and you are I."
"Is there any difference between what you do and what I do?"
"Sophistry."
"My words are the Emperor's truth."
Martha looked from Nero to Rowe and felt the image in her heart shift again.
This Holy Son was nothing like what she had imagined.
But compared to a lofty god who looked down from the heavens, a Son of God who spoke of equality and bickered with an Emperor like a human felt strangely better.
So she smiled.
She turned to the people of Britannia behind her and lifted her spear high.
"Everyone, follow the Son of God."
"Let us go home."
"Home!"
"All right!"
In the boiling cries, Nero and Rowe stopped bickering long enough to exchange a look and a small smile.
Then Nero raised her voice, command slipping into place as naturally as breathing.
"My soldiers, follow me."
"Let us eliminate the threat to Rome."
The army moved again.
They crossed borders.
They crossed the sea.
A legion of six thousand, and tens of thousands of refugees, flowed together like a tide and returned to the island that had tried to swallow them.
And Britannia answered their approach with darkness.
The sky above the island always seemed to wear a dragon shaped shadow. Dense miasma rolled over the land.
In the heart of the island, within a vast region of swamp and ruin, something like a mountain breathed.
A gigantic white dragon unfolded pale wings. Its scales churned with overlapping currents of light, like a vortex carved from mist and moonlight.
Its body was slender.
Its spread wings traced the outline of Britannia itself, as if the island had learned how to fly.
It exhaled a storm of heat.
Golden eyes turned, and the reflection within them was a small figure.
A red eyed girl with long white hair stood in a white robe. She held a staff like a tower and spoke in a voice that could sway hearts as easily as wind moves petals.
"Oh, fairy dragon," she said brightly, "formed from the remains of the boundary dragon Albion."
"It seems you have run into trouble."
A claw came down.
Boom.
The girl was crushed.
Then, in the next breath, she reappeared above the fallen claw, smiling as if she had merely stepped aside.
"Another illusion?" the dragon snarled. "Merlin, you damned nightmare."
"Correction," the girl replied, lips curving. "I am half nightmare and half human, a half fairy existence."
"And I will never die."
She blinked, cheerfully annoying.
"So why be so impatient?"
"Toward you," the colossal dragon rumbled, "I can be as impatient as I like."
"But what good will it do?" Merlin's smile did not fade.
"You cannot kill me unless you break into the Tower at the End of the World."
"Even if you are the embodiment of the island, you cannot reach me."
She tilted her head, voice turning sharp with playful cruelty.
"After all, you are only a dragon formed from Albion's remains."
"You are not Albion itself."
The boundary dragon Albion was an ancient species from the height of myth, the creator of the environment that became Britannia. It had once been close to a scale that could rival a world.
The creature before Merlin, though vast, could not compare to that legend.
"Are you trying to anger me?" the dragon growled.
"What do you think?" Merlin answered lightly.
Then her gaze shifted toward the horizon, toward a distant pillar of light that pierced the gloom like a promise.
"But your anger at me is pointless."
"The one who crushed one of your claws is already coming."
She turned, and her figure dissolved.
A sky full of drifting petals followed her departure, as if the world itself was mocking the dragon.
The white dragon exhaled. Its breath blasted the petals away, but the hateful aura remained, ferocity burning in its golden eyes.
"So what if he comes?"
"I may not be Albion, but as long as I stand on this land…"
"Even Albion itself would not frighten me."
The embodiment of the island stood upon its own ground.
What was there to fear?
Far away, within a sea of flowers, the true body of the white haired girl slowly opened her eyes.
She watched the distant light and let out a low laugh, amused and almost fond.
"But this is not only your ground."
"The Tower at the End of the World, Rhongomyniad."
"The master of the Holy Spear has arrived."
"In this world, where would not be his ground?"
At her feet, something small shifted, and a faint sound echoed like a punctuation mark.
"Fou."
.....
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