Chapter 203: The Holy Spear Unleashed After a Thousand Years
Merlin's true body resided in an inner world sustained by the Holy Spear, Rhongomyniad.
A pillar driven through the World, cast by Rowe in the northern lands, pinning something vast and invisible into place.
So when Rowe arrived in Rome, and the Holy Spear reacted to its maker as if recognizing the shape of his soul, the white haired girl already knew who he was.
She simply chose to play dumb.
Her earlier warning to the dragon was not kindness.
It was mischief with a purpose.
Merlin had only given a hint. She had not forced an awakening.
She pointed the Albion remnant toward the arrival of a powerful opponent, then carefully avoided exposing Rowe's true nature.
She understood arrogance intimately. Britannia's island dragon was the kind of creature that would never withdraw without seeing for itself what stood in front of it.
"The sage from the East dispelled the haze that clung to Britannia," she murmured, delighted.
"The curtain rises on a grand play."
"Let me watch it properly."
Among a sea of flowers, Merlin stirred drifting petals with a slender hand. Her white hair fluttered. The black stockings that wrapped her legs caught the light whenever she shifted her weight, as if she were dancing to music only she could hear.
Her expression said plainly that she expected entertainment, not salvation.
A roar rolled across the island.
Britannia answered with another roar.
At the island's center, storms coiled and surged. The dragon formed from Albion's remains stirred its own domain, whipping miasma into violent spirals.
It was furious.
And it welcomed the coming opponent with the arrogance of a natural disaster convinced it could not be challenged.
"The dragon is angry again."
"Lady Boudica, please leave quickly."
"You leave. I will not."
"But…"
"Obey my command." The voice cut like steel. "Celtic warriors, you are useless if you stay. Dying here accomplishes nothing. That is not our custom."
At the edge of the island, beneath miasma that crawled like living smoke, a young woman stood on a ridge and stared toward Britannia's heart.
Long crimson hair snapped in the wind. A white cotton tunic fit her athletic frame, and a short red skirt revealed legs kept bent and taut, ready to spring.
Her blue eyes reflected the storming miasma, and her face carried the kind of solemnity that came from choosing a death you could accept.
Behind her stood the native warriors of the Celts, the people who had once swept across parts of the continent, then endured on this harsh island. Each of them was hardened by hunger, war, and the sea.
Boudica was the princess of a tribe on Britannia. A swift and fierce warrior.
Though young, she had already lived through battles most would not survive.
Her struggle against the evil dragon had never truly stopped, even if the dragon itself rarely bothered to notice the ants beneath its shadow.
As the embodiment of the island, a calamity given scales, the Albion remnant needed only to breathe to bring storms that broke human lives. This was the terror that haunted Britannia, and it was why the island's former rulers had once begged Rome for help.
Rome arrived.
Rome crushed the people instead.
Boudica learned the lesson the hard way. If she wanted to protect her land and her people, she could rely on nobody but herself.
And if she wanted any future at all, she had to preserve sparks.
She did not reject Martha's arrival, nor Martha's call for people to leave. In truth, it was what Boudica had always argued for, because only desperation would drive a Celt to abandon their homeland.
If Martha, a foreigner, could make them move, then it meant the situation had become hopeless enough that stubborn pride would only get them killed.
Now Boudica could only hope Martha succeeded.
She could only hope the people would endure.
She could only hope, and not witness the end.
Because the others were leaving.
And she would not.
She was the princess. The leader. The blade that stayed behind.
If she died, she would die as a marker carved into the land itself, telling those who fled where home was.
"Go," Boudica ordered, voice carrying through the wind.
"We must preserve enough sparks for Britannia. Remember this. We leave only so that one day we can return."
"I will remain here to show you the way home."
She raised the sword in her hand.
"Obey my command."
"Yes, Princess Boudica."
"We depart only to return."
"Britannia, the Celts, will never abandon our homeland."
The tall warriors fell silent, then bowed, offering respect to the princess who had chosen to stand in the path of a storm.
The miasma thickened.
The storm drew closer.
At last, they turned without hesitation and ran toward the island's edge, toward ships waiting in restless water.
They left behind sparks.
They left behind hope.
Boudica stayed on the ridge, staring into the torrent of pale poison rolling toward her. In the shifting outlines of trees and grasses, she recognized the shape of everything she loved.
In her childhood, Britannia had not always been like this. The island had once been calm, stable, quiet in a way that made the wind feel gentle instead of cruel.
Then, at some unknown time, the evil dragon awakened beneath the ground and catastrophe followed.
At some unknown time, people began calling it Albion, saying it was the island's will, the land's resentment given teeth.
That was why it pressed down on humanity.
That was why it took revenge on the lives that tried to endure here.
The dragon devoured the environment, turning a place fit for human living into a choking prison.
Most suffered and could do nothing.
Boudica refused to accept that.
Pain demanded change. If the world inflicted wounds, then you either healed them or you died trying.
She grew up here.
This was her home.
So she would save it, even if the price was her life.
"Evil dragon," she said softly, then lifted her chin.
"The will of the Celts is firm. Our swords do not retreat."
Metal rang as she drew her blade.
Ahead, a black shadow rose from the miasma, mountain sized, drifting with a terrible stillness that made the storm feel like its mere breath.
Boudica smiled.
Not because she wanted to die, but because she had already accepted death and refused to be dragged into fear.
She would face it.
In the name of the Celts, she would not retreat.
The roar deepened.
The dragon's eyes opened like twin suns, gold and cold, swallowing the world.
Pressure crashed down. The ground split and shattered as if crushed by an invisible chariot.
Closer.
Closer.
Death hovered at arm's length.
Boudica closed her eyes.
Then three voices reached her, almost overlapping, like separate threads arriving at the same moment.
"Lord, protect those who are brave and fearless, those who guard their homes."
"Hm. She truly is a valiant warrior. My Rome needs people like that."
"You only know how to talk."
Death did not arrive.
The pressure stopped short, blocked before it could crush her.
That first voice…
"Lady Martha?"
"Hm? We meet again, Princess Boudica."
The saint in white stood before her, cross shaped spear in hand. Purple hair fell across part of her face, and she smiled as if she were relieved more than triumphant.
"I am glad you are safe. I am also glad we arrived in time."
"You…" Boudica began, stunned.
But Martha was not alone.
A golden haired maiden stepped forward, red dress fluttering like a rose in flame. She held her chest with both hands as if preparing to announce herself to the sky. Petite, slender, yet filled with a presence that demanded attention.
"I am the Roman Emperor, Nero Claudius. The People shall kneel and praise my perfection…"
A sharp tap cut her off.
"Just a moment ago you said there was no need to kneel," a young man's voice said, flat and mildly reproachful. "An Emperor's words are law."
Nero's imposing aura wilted instantly. She clutched her forehead and let out a small, indignant sound.
"Umu…"
Only her single golden ahoge remained proudly upright, refusing to surrender.
The hand that had flicked her withdrew. The young man adjusted his robe with a simple motion and looked at Boudica.
He was slim, youthful, handsome.
And he was the one standing closest to the direction of the dragon's approach, positioned where calamity would strike first.
He was blocking the disaster.
Boudica stared.
Martha's voice filled in what Boudica could not ask.
"Princess Boudica. This is the Roman Emperor."
"And this is our Holy Son."
Holy Son.
Boudica knew Martha preached about the Lord, about Spirit in the void, Father in heaven, Son on earth.
She had assumed it was a structure Martha used to give people hope. Rome's gods could manifest. Others, after the end of the Age of Gods, were names and stories.
Yet now a Holy Son stood in front of her.
And he had halted the dragon's assault.
"My name is Rowe," the young man said. "The Roman Emperor's First Adjutant."
Holy Son, and an adjutant.
The contradiction made Boudica's thoughts seize for a beat.
Rowe's gaze remained calm.
"By Roman law, we are here to take over Britannia."
"And to eliminate the threat on this land."
Footsteps thundered behind Boudica.
She turned.
Armored figures marched in unison, shields and helmets catching pale light. Spears and javelins were raised, and the impossible happened in perfect discipline.
They walked on the sea as if it were flat stone.
Waves rolled beneath their boots, yet their formation remained steady.
The Roman legions had crossed the water.
And behind them came countless Britannian and Celtic commoners Martha had led away earlier.
They had returned.
They had come back.
Rome had landed.
The island's false tranquility shattered. The sea heaved. The shore trembled under the weight of history stepping onto it.
Boudica wanted to warn them they were not enough. She wanted to say the dragon was not an enemy a human army could face.
She knew the terror of that presence.
But she had seen Rowe break a claw that had fallen from the sky.
Hope rose against her will, sharp and dangerous.
Perhaps he could.
Perhaps…
"Do not worry, Princess Boudica," Martha said, reading the hesitation on her face. "The evil dragon is powerful, but it will not be the Holy Son's opponent."
"I also received the Emperor's promise. From now on, Britannia will be protected by Rome."
"No oppression. No bullying. Equal treatment with the People of Rome."
"Umu. That is right," Nero said, lowering her hands from her head with a huff as if reclaiming her dignity. She looked toward Rowe, then lifted her chin.
"Since Britannia is Rome, you are my citizens. I will protect all of Rome."
"This is my promise."
Boudica inhaled slowly.
She did not believe Rome. She did not trust imperial words.
She did not understand Rowe.
But she believed Martha, a person who clung to righteousness so tightly it shaped her every breath.
"I believe you," Boudica said.
Rowe only smiled, as if the conversation behind him was wind noise.
He turned toward the island's center.
Toward the towering shadow rising through the miasma.
The dragon stared back.
Golden eyes, cold and ancient, fixed on him like judgment.
A voice like a mountain collapsing spoke into Rowe's mind.
"Primordial Human."
"Can the primordial give birth to pure humans?"
Rowe answered without hesitation.
"There is nothing that cannot be."
Then his expression sharpened into something deliberately provocative.
"Dragon formed from Albion's remains, retreat."
"Leave this place."
"I do not wish to kill you."
He did want to act.
He simply needed the dragon to act first, to become fully hostile, to commit.
This island incarnation was special, an altered land born from the death of a high grade dragon of the Age of Gods. It was a fulcrum, a place where Mystery moved slowly and thickly, where the World clung to old laws.
A battlefield like this mattered.
And the dragon standing here was stronger than when it had reached for Rome.
Rowe would not waste such an opponent.
Battle was a path to death.
And also tempering.
If he sought to die, he had to become strong enough to reach a death that could take him.
"Kill me?" the dragon's mind voice rumbled, contempt spilling through it. "Arrogant words."
The colossal creature lifted its neck, its head piercing the miasma, looking down on the earth, and then looking down on the gathered humans at the shore.
Pressure poured out like gravity.
Spines chilled.
Even hardened soldiers felt the instinct to kneel.
"Protect His Majesty!" Roman legionaries surged forward to shield Nero.
Nero shoved them aside.
She stepped to Rowe's side as if the dragon's gaze was nothing but a spotlight.
"I am the Emperor," she declared. "I should stand at the very front."
"This is not your stage alone."
Martha stepped forward as well.
"To follow the glory of the Lord is what I seek in this life."
Boudica gripped her sword and moved too, the will to die making fear irrelevant.
More people met the dragon's majesty head on.
The Albion remnant felt its dignity violated.
Its wings spread wider.
Power intensified.
The island trembled. The ground groaned and shook.
Wrath erupted.
Rowe raised his hand.
Not to hide.
Not to restrain.
To contend.
To draw the dragon's fury fully.
Then to answer it with everything he had.
This island was a fulcrum. A pillar of western human order.
So what was Rowe's fulcrum?
The answer was obvious.
He spoke, voice low, and the air itself seemed to listen.
"Answer my call."
"Manifest here."
"The spear that shines at the end."
"Rhongomyniad."
The sea of flowers roared somewhere far away.
Merlin, perched atop a high tower, rested her chin in her hands, eyes glittering with delight.
Light surged up from the earth.
And in that moment, the resplendent Holy Spear, absent from the world since its last appearance in the northern lands a thousand years ago, manifested once more.
.....
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