Chapter 30
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 30
Chapter Title: Adoration
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Francis Bacon, the ambitious politician and brilliant philosopher, had deeply despised Aristotle's philosophy ever since his university days.
Aristotle sought logical answers built upon unshakeable truths, but could such an approach truly uncover new knowledge?
Man is mortal. Socrates is a man. Therefore, Socrates is mortal. Was the fact that Socrates dies really so novel and valuable?
No.
Universal truths cannot be obtained through logical wordplay on such general propositions. One must advance toward truth gradually, through meticulous experiments and verifications of individual facts.
Plato died. Socrates died. Aristotle died too. By confirming these individual facts, we can approach the truth that "all men die."
That was his belief.
And at that very moment, Bacon's belief approached him in a cruel, ironic metaphor.
The "servants" whom Robert Devereux had assigned to him drew daggers from their bosoms one by one and advanced on the Indian emperor.
Once—piercing his heart.
Again—stabbing his abdomen.
Once more—slashing near his throat.
Another—thrusting into his thigh.
Thus, methodical individual sword strikes led him inexorably to the final, universal state of death.
Through thorough verification and re-verification, the assassins confirmed his death.
Bacon's face turned pale blue. From this situation, he recalled several facts.
Evidence 1: His patron, the Earl of Essex, Robert Devereux, had been extremely reluctant about him coming here. It must have looked like he was cozying up to the rising star, Walter Raleigh.
Evidence 2: His patron was narrow-minded and impulsive, sparing no means or methods. And in the process, he often committed utterly foolish acts. The kind of man whose abilities couldn't keep up with his ambitions.
Evidence 3: His patron had more than enough reasons to want to ruin Walter Raleigh's colony.
Therefore, the conclusion.
The Earl of Essex had sent assassins intending to screw over Bacon himself and even Sir Raleigh. Even though assigning assassins to his own close aide would naturally make him the prime suspect.
Bacon's face turned pale blue.
His lips trembled, and the impending ruin flashed through his mind. Traitor... Madman who sabotaged America's colony-building for the glory of the homeland... Spanish spy...
It's over.
With the death of that Indian emperor, Bacon's dreamed-of brilliant political career would end as well...
...
...
...
Oh, my God.
Bacon's legs gave way without him realizing, and he collapsed to the ground.
Socrates died. Cause: Poison ingestion.
Plato died too. Cause: Natural causes.
Aristotle as well. Cause: Stomach ailment.
Therefore, all humans die. This was a truth forged from observations and experiences over thousands of years.
And yet.
The native emperor before his eyes did not die.
The ravaged wounds knit back together, severed blood vessels and muscles reattached as before.
The spilled blood replenished, color returning to his pallid face.
He lived.
Thus, from this "individual fact," Bacon could draw one of two conclusions.
That humans do not necessarily experience death,
Or...
That the being before him was not human.
Bacon chose the latter.
He looks around.
Thousands of people gaze at one man.
A variety of emotions flicker across each face: relief, awe...
And.
Clang.
Horror and terror pour from the faces of the assassins who just dropped their weapons. As the man takes one step toward them, they retreat two steps.
Absurd. There are more than seven of them, and the man is unarmed, just one person.
The man smiles faintly at them.
"Have you forgotten the commandment that says, 'Thou shalt not kill'?"
"...Uh, ahh."
As he speaks and takes another step forward, no one can open their mouths this time.
"If you know your sin, will you repent?
How could you fail to recognize the Lord's kin and commit such wickedness?"
"D-Dem... on..."
"I cannot fathom why you call me a demon. I have never harmed you, nor will I."
At that moment.
Everyone who heard the man's voice freezes. Natives and Englishmen alike look at each other in shock, realizing they all understood his words.
"Flee not. You cannot escape the Lord's justice. I give you a chance to repent..."
"Ugh, ugh, uwaaaagh!"
The assassins stab at the man madly once more.
Fake servants, fake cleaners... All sorts of fakes grab hidden swords and weapons without further pretense, attacking the man.
Only one, the fake shoe-shiner, freezes in terror.
Excluding him, the assassins throw all caution to the wind to kill the man. The being before them had just tricked their eyes. Therefore, he must die. Or if he's a wicked demon, he must die.
But despite the endless sword thrusts, the man does not fall.
Onlookers, initially baffled, gradually grasp the situation, their faces draining of color. Yet the most terrified were the assassins themselves.
He must die.
But he doesn't.
We must kill him.
But he doesn't die.
Then, if this one truly cannot die...
If he's neither an illusionist nor a demon.
What does that make them, for trying to kill such a being?
"...Huh?"
Someone who reaches that realization suddenly halts their futile stabbing.
The others slowly lower their sword hands...
The man speaks.
"Even now... you are the sons of the Lord... Heaven has not fled from your hearts."
At those words, their movements cease completely.
The brighter his mercy shines, the heavier the shadow they feel upon their backs. Looking around, everyone else weeps in his light, while they alone bear the shadow.
They feel the weight of their recent sin heavier than gold. It crushes them.
Finally, one assassin slits his own throat. The man has no time to stop him.
And that becomes the signal.
Slash! Slash!
The assassins, rooted in place, come to their senses one by one and stab or slash their own throats, committing seppuku. Likely to cover for their backers.
Only one man in shoe-shiner garb remains. His fingertips tremble visibly to the man's eyes.
Slash!
But even he, after hesitation, chooses the same end as his comrades. Slitting his throat...
Clatter.
"Guh, guhk, kuhk... kuheuk...!"
...No.
Unfortunately, he lacked the courage to choose death. The fake shoe-shiner's blade pierces halfway through his throat, stops, then slips from his weakening hand and clatters to the ground.
His body sways and collapses. The man rushes over, cradling his head to prevent it from hitting the dock.
The fake shoe-shiner spews blood like a fountain from his throat, gurgling. Looking up at the man, his eyes quiver wildly.
"Sinner burdened with guilt, will you repent?"
The man says to the fake shoe-shiner. But his words carry a power that resonates not just to him, but to everyone around.
Those still standing drop to their knees in sobs. Amid the wailing echoing everywhere, the fake shoe-shiner nods.
"Do you wish for your pain to end?"
A nod again.
The man picks up the assassin's fallen blade and thrusts it into his throat. The fake shoe-shiner shudders once, then goes limp.
His expression is peaceful.
His soul seems to have gone to the Lord.
...
...
...
A profound silence blankets the area.
The occasional sobs and cries only deepen it, rather than breaking it. No one could shatter this sacred hush.
All had seen it.
They saw the man rise from death.
They saw him urge repentance on those who tried to kill him, and even save the soul of one fleeing to death at the last moment.
All the Christians here murmur the Lord's Prayer and hymns unconsciously. Those who know not the Lord sing their sacred songs, showing reverence to the being before them.
The man gazes down at the fake shoe-shiner's face for a long while... then lays his body on the ground and closes his eyes. As the man stands, a woman jumps up and cries out.
"Th-that-that man's the mastermind! All those men with the knives—he brought them here!"
"That's right... I saw it too! That physician fellow ordering those servants around!"
Murmurs rise, and the crowd parts. A path opens between the man and the "physician" standing on the dock.
A timid-looking man trembles, sweat and tears streaming down his face. He doesn't even think to flee; his body stiffens as the man approaches.
And the moment the man reaches him and opens his mouth...
"N-no, n-not me..."
The physician flails like he's falling from the sky, staggering wildly.
"I-it wasn't m-me... Please! It wasn't me! I didn't know anythi—!"
His eyes wide with terror, the physician's legs give out, and he collapses. Instinctively, he leaps off the dock into the water.
Splash!
As people reel from the physician's sudden action, the man suddenly sprints forward. He leaps without hesitation into the water where the physician is sinking.
And.
A few air bubbles rise...
Then a man walks out onto the shore again.
Dragging the physician who had just tried to kill himself.
As the physician shivers from cold and fear, the man whispers.
"Fear not."
...
"The Lord's mercy is like sunlight—supremely noble, yet given freely without price."
Only then does the physician burst into tears.
And the people kneel.
Their number was 7,344.
Thomas Harriot "hears."
He hears the man's voice speaking in countless languages. Or can it be called hearing? Can it be said that sound from one man's mouth enters one man's ear?
Like a chorus, sentences in myriad alien tongues intertwine into one meaning, bound in one harmony, burrowing into his mind.
"...Sir Raleigh?"
Sir Raleigh was already kneeling, trembling as he prayed fervently. Surprise showed on his face, but not fear or confusion.
-"A true angel... There's a moment when you simply know upon seeing one."
He had seen it once before.
The "angel."
Thomas Harriot sees.
He sees the man who showed mercy to his would-be killers and saved one fleeing to death.
Just as he now walks from the seaside, he had walked step by step from death itself to stand before Harriot and the crowd.
He watches them all in silence.
His eyes pierce through.
Thomas Harriot had said: Humans are foolish creatures mired in greed; even seeing an angel, they wouldn't recognize it.
Thomas Harriot had also said: Even seeing an angel, he would remain an atheist, demanding explanations for the Bible's countless errors directly from him.
No such demands rose in his mind now.
Only shame.
-"That's the moment I meant."
I... knew nothing.
-"The moment when all doubts in your heart vanish, and you can only be certain that the being before you is a holy celestial one."
Truly... I prattled arrogantly, knowing nothing.
Sir Raleigh's every word etches deep into his heart. He stares at the "angel" walking among the crowd, forgetting even to blink or breathe.
Yes. An angel.
He is an atheist. Pursuing truth, he never abandoned his convictions, even facing the gallows.
He was an atheist. Unshakable, seeking truth free of deception, oppression, and fear.
And he beheld the truth he so desired.
The naked truth tearing through all human fabrications of deceit, violence, distortion, and oppression.
Not merely because a mere man didn't die no matter how many times stabbed. There was a greater miracle than that petty one.
The man was the angel of his assassins who sought to kill him, and of the physician fleeing to suicide.
The angel who revealed his nobility for all the ugly, cowardly, vile things on earth.
This is truth.
And Harriot saw light within that truth.
"...Sir Raleigh, you were right."
Sometimes, truth pierces even human folly and greed.
He knelt.
The converted Thomas Harriot knelt before the angel.