Ch.230The Gospel of the Cursed (1)

○: No. I respect the Order. More precisely, I respect the stability the Order can provide. In a chaotic place like Venelucia where the political landscape constantly shifts, an unchanging standard is more valuable than anything else.

●: That’s precisely why I don’t understand. Someone who knows this better than anyone—why would you argue that we should deviate from the standards and paths the Order provides and establish different criteria?

○: I’m not saying the Order’s doctrine is wrong. But the Order isn’t the ‘only’ right thing either. Just because one option among many is the best doesn’t mean we need to reject all others.

●: The problem arises when two things conflict. In the time of kings, the king’s rules were right. In the time of emperors, the emperor’s rules were right. But what happens if you mix the two now?

○: You make it sound as if rules themselves are engaged in some power struggle.

●: You see it correctly.

○: What do you mean?

●: Only those with power can establish order. By “those with power,” I don’t simply mean kings, emperors, or priests, but anyone who can legitimately influence others.

A guild master can establish order within the guild, at least regarding internal matters. But they cannot do so for all of Venelucia. The guild master’s power doesn’t extend to the power of the Doge.

Order itself is created by power, and power inevitably establishes hierarchy. Therefore, the question “what constitutes order?” is essentially the same as asking “what constitutes power?”

What you’re suggesting—that everyone should have their own order—implies that everyone becomes their own authority. But is that possible? How many people can truly control themselves to that degree, handle themselves to that extent?

○: But didn’t God create each and every human being as noble?

●: Noble, valuable, and precious—but not perfect. And He gave us the power to ruin both ourselves and others. The ability to become a wise ruler also means the ability to become a tyrant.

From experience, people may not be capable of doing much good, but they can do endless harm. That’s why order draws a line. It prevents people from doing great good, but also from doing great evil.

And while people can elevate themselves indefinitely, they can also ruin themselves beyond redemption. It’s easier to destroy your own life than to ruin someone else’s.

○: So that’s why God shows such mercy to humans. If we were judged strictly by the rules He gave us, none of us would survive.

– A conversation between Beatrice Dandolo (○) and the Gray Brother Cadfel (●) at the Dandolo mansion

* * * * *

He winds the spring.

It’s unnecessary since it was wound just two hours ago.

Moreover, overwinding the spring can break it. So Kain winds it less than half a turn.

The sound of gears meshing follows, then tick, tock. It resumes its indifferent rotation.

The life of a spring clock is simple. “Move until you stop.” No need to worry about where to go or what to do.

Its only rule and purpose in life is the internal order, the movement of gears embedded within.

A clock doesn’t grow anxious if its gears run slower than real time, nor does it slow down if they run too fast. It simply focuses on its internal discipline.

Unless a human opens it up and fixes it, what’s wrong will continue wrong until it stops. What works well will continue working until it too eventually stops.

This is natural. The clock and time don’t directly influence each other.

Time—something invisible and abstract—has been unilaterally and artificially defined, named, and divided by humans to make it understandable and useful.

So no matter how much you turn the clock, real time doesn’t change. Turning it backward doesn’t rewind time, and running it slower doesn’t slow time down.

“Then is a clock merely an imitation? Is it nothing more than something that mimics the flow of time?

No. A clock is a promise. A promise we all agreed upon across eras, regions, and social classes. It’s a symbol of the great order created by humans.

That’s why a clock isn’t an imitation but an invention.

There’s nothing wrong with me making my own clock. I could divide a day into 60 hours if I wanted.

But it would be meaningless. Because no one else has agreed to it.

Of course, none of you ever agreed that ‘a day has 24 hours.’ Neither did I. Like you, I was taught that a day has 24 hours.

This is what common sense is. An agreement between people. An agreement that existed before I was born. A firm promise that keeps people human.

Among these, there are some we must keep. Things we must be forced to observe. We call these laws. They have enforcement behind them.

Obeying the law is important. But we shouldn’t confuse things. Don’t make the mistake of looking at the clock and missing time. Distinguish between promises, common sense, and laws, but don’t lose sight of people.”

Anna had said this in a hot classroom one summer day. Kain couldn’t quite remember how the topic came up. Had some scholar brought in a palm-sized clock he’d successfully improved?

To those who had only seen large clocks with plate-sized pendulums swinging left and right, the ticking spring clock was something marvelous.

There was also a spring clock in the Imperial Security Bureau’s Department 4 office. It was a curious object that normally went unnoticed but seemed loud during tedious paperwork.

At first fascinating, but over time becoming ordinary, familiar, trivial, and eventually unnoticeable. Yet in this bizarrely strange ship, such normalcy was actually welcome.

Kain had eaten in all sorts of places, but never at a table where the leather surface writhed. Where would one see tablecloths that gobbled up fallen bread crumbs?

The heads clustered like grapes on the ship’s walls enjoyed gossip. They would remain expressionless when Kain glared at them, but whisper as soon as he turned away. Most were malicious comments mixed with lewd talk.

“Ignore them. This is the only pleasure they have left. Dragging others down to their level. They’re not badmouthing you because they have anything against you specifically—they’re just doing it because you’re visible. No different from dogs barking.”

That’s what Laios had said. Still, Kain observed those heads for a while, wondering if there might be any familiar faces. But they were all strangers.

The five remaining—excluding Arianne of Humility who was “not collected” and Arius who “exploded” at the fortress—were all “stuck” to different ships.

They reportedly burst out in blind rage and resentment without any self-awareness. But the traces of their mental strength and power still served as the driving force that strengthened the fleet.

“Are they still human?”

“They are.” Laios sat on the captain’s quarters bed, fiddling with the scabbard resting on his knee.

“I’ve never heard of dogs or wolves mocking someone or gossiping behind their backs. But these things do. So they’re human.”

They retained their humanity. Not in the sense of heartwarming comfort or passionate fire.

Rather, in the base and vulgar sense of humanity—things even beasts wouldn’t do, but humans could.

As evidence, moans of pleasure could be heard at all hours. Viscous mucus dripped down the ceiling and walls. Constant chewing sounds, teeth grinding against each other.

But the most common sound was muttering.

A mumbling neither meant to be heard nor not heard, just irritating enough to get on one’s nerves. Listening to it long enough would make irritation boil up from deep within. Like someone barely audibly scratching at your nerves.

Laios said it was “anger.” Souls so consumed by rage that they couldn’t help but mutter anything.

They never said anything good. They cursed the wind when it blew, cursed the clouds when they appeared, and cursed the emptiness when there was nothing. Cursing without reason.

More than a thousand heads mumbled such mutterings from morning till night. Just as being surrounded by angry people can unconsciously sweep you along, Kain too would suddenly feel irritated.

At those times, Kain would listen to the spring’s ticking.

The sound of reason, order, and composure. A thread reminding him of the world he belonged to. Listening to that artificial calmness that no human could produce would somewhat calm his mind.

Fortunately, the captain’s quarters had no heads. It seemed Laios didn’t care for these things either.

Laios silently fiddled with the scabbard while Kain listened to the clock.

A sudden question arose in Kain’s mind: How much could God tolerate humans?

From a creator’s perspective, humans could never match God. God allowed humans to even take their own lives. If they really wanted to, He gave them a way to end it all themselves.

‘Why would He allow even that?’

Kain couldn’t understand. It seemed utterly unreasonable that while humans couldn’t fly or dive into the deep sea, they could commit suicide.

Perhaps that was the only rule God imposed on humans. Just as humans wind springs in clocks, God made human hearts beat. ‘Beat. Stop and you die.’

So those here were human.

Though grafted onto trees, beasts, and other humans, though they giggled and snickered and cried and moaned shamelessly, their hearts were still beating. They had not yet stopped.

Kain stared at the demon sword.

A sword named Hope. A sword that stubbornly refused to be drawn from its scabbard. The key to all this, yet a useless object that fit nowhere.

“You’ve managed to gather such ‘people’ as subordinates. Do they actually obey orders?”

“As you can see, they obey very well. They just complain a lot and are cursed, which is the problem.”

“So you’re the commander of the cursed ones.”

At this not-quite-accusation, Laios smiled.

“I only brought those who understand commands, so of course. These people have almost nothing left. Resentment. Hatred. Revenge. Mockery. Lust. They’re practically reduced to instinct.

There are all sorts of people. Some experienced truly unfair things. But there are also clearly lazy, indolent people full of jealousy.

People who strangely obsess over things others would consider trivial. People who experienced nothing but frustration throughout life. People who were on a smooth path but slipped due to a single mistake.

But they believe in hope. Whether it comes true or not, whether it’s in vain, whether it seems ridiculously ordinary to others doesn’t matter.

The weight of hope differs for each person. What matters is that they believe in it.

That’s why they can’t leave this sword. They obey me because I can wield this sword.”

“What about those without even hope?”

At Kain’s question, Laios lowered his gaze.

“They lose their sense of self and melt away. They reject everything that approaches, and if something comes closer, they kill it. But since they aren’t alive, they can’t die either, so they live each day in agony.

It’s not a life they’re living, but a life being lived; not living to live, but living because they can’t die—that kind of existence. And at the center of them all is Ismene. A being who knows only hatred and revenge, without reason. But a being more powerful than anyone else.”