Chapter 60: When The Call Ends (2)
Just as it is possible to build an empire of glory upon sin, so too may a noble great master preach upon lies.
–Charles Baudelaire, <Naked Heart Sutra>1
The tradition of religious individuals arming themselves with swords and various weapons has been passed down in many parts of the world for centuries.
Europeans established knightly orders to protect their lands and pilgrims from pagans and to achieve victory in wars, thus producing warrior monks.
Similarly, this trend was also followed by the Midfielders of the Central Plains.
Whether it was the Taoists dreaming of ascending to immortality or the monastic communities devoted to the Three Jewels of Buddhism.
The act of clenching fists and wielding weapons to become immortals and Buddhas, or to fulfill one’s ambitions and perform acts of chivalry, was the same.
This tradition continued in present-day Europe, more than 200 years after the Chinese Exodus of the first-generation Asian Kung-Fu Generation.
In Scotland, Presbyterians taught their congregants the swordsmanship of the Northern End Clan.
The Vatican, the headquarters of the Zion Clan, focused on training exorcists skilled in the Twenty-Four Lilies Sword. The Wudang Order, famous for the existence of the DMZ and its nickname as the Gate of Perpetual Neutrality, had long been meddling in the conflicts of European Murim through its secular mercenary groups.
The most significant feature of these monastic clans was their emphasis on both doctrine and martial principles.
This was the result of inheriting the characteristics of both the knightly orders and the prestigious clans originating from the Central Plains.
Kung-Fu, like science in the past, achieved remarkable development in tandem with religion.
It was only natural that the British Empire, which dominated the seas, did not stray from this trend of the times.
Since the opening of the Murim era, the encouragement of Kung-Fu training at a national level led people to start training both internal and external Kung-Fu, regardless of their social status.
This sweeping social change was driven and accelerated by a single book.
In 1837, Donald Walker argued in his book, <British Manly Exercise>, that true devotion to God and society begins with the practice of Kung-Fu.
The <British Manly Exercise> is a Kung-Fu manual that outlines the basics of training, such as breathing techniques and energy circulation, emphasizing that the human body is a holy temple that houses the spirit.
To embark on noble deeds and conquer new lands according to the mission bestowed by the Lord upon His children, Christians must become strong.
This philosophical trend, known as Kung-Fu Christianity, spread widely among the aristocracy and middle class, eventually permeating the entire United Kingdom and evolving into a zeitgeist.
People began discussing Kung-Fu everywhere, and even those at the bottom of society were given the opportunity to participate in this grand discourse.
The evangelical strategy targeting marginalized groups, which began alongside John Wesley’s Kung-Fu Awakening Movement, triggered the Sunday Kung-Fu School Movement.
Clergy began teaching the Lord’s lambs how to arm themselves, alongside the teachings of the Bible.
Churches and cathedrals across the country became bustling every Sunday with children practicing Kung-Fu to protect themselves in the harsh world.
It became common sense for pastors, priests, and monks to teach martial arts.
Around the time this perception became ingrained in everyone’s minds, a man appeared.
Known as a young and gentle priest serving a small church, he taught Kung-Fu to children without any compensation.
Unlike the foundational Orthodox methods and techniques that can be learned elsewhere, these avant-garde Demonic arts chart a different course.
The River Thames, which flows gracefully through the heart of London, has long been a symbol of Murim of the British Empire and a metaphorical expression beloved by many.
The rise of the Young and Strong debutantes, ushering in a generational shift, is metaphorically described as the Thames’ Rear Waves Urge the Fore.
The endlessly recurring grudges of the martial world are likened to the Thames flowing majestically into the North Sea, never drying up.
Additionally, people often compared the Orthodox sects and the Unorthodox sects, which do not mix, to the north and south of the Thames.
Until 130 years ago, the London Bridge was the only land route connecting the north and south banks of the river, and when the bridge was blocked, people had to rely on the help of ferrymen or perform Jesus Walk to cross the river.
Of course, this is a tale of the past, as nowadays, with dozens of bridges spanning the Thames and the Merry Men donating large sums to The League of Gentlemen, such stories are outdated.
Above all, unlike the metaphor, the Unorthodox sects operate without regard for the north or south of the river.
Moreover, lurking in the shadows of London was something far more sinister than those commonly referred to as Unorthodox or Black Chess Pieces.
Hidden, so that no one could easily notice its existence.
In places not yet observed by The League of Gentlemen and The Royal Combat Society.
-Buuooo!!
On a foggy Friday.
The sound of a foghorn, guiding passing ships, echoed across the Thames.
A man stands in the middle of the London Bridge, casting his fishing line into the river.
Despite the bridge’s considerable traffic, he was the only one attempting to fish.
The man was using a remarkably long 15-foot fishing rod, crafted entirely from bamboo, not even collapsible, which was sure to attract attention.
“That’s not a good spot for fishing.”
Yet, the only one showing interest in the man was an elderly passerby from the Homeless Clan.
“……”
The man, seemingly surprised, turned his head to examine the elder’s attire.
Despite his advanced age, the absence of a single knot in his clothing indicated he was a junior member of the Homeless Clan.
There were no notable features other than the golf bag slung over his shoulder.
“Can’t you hear this old man’s words? There are no fish to catch there, you fool. If you go to the riverbank in the north, there’s a perfect spot—”
“I am fishing for time. Please, go on your way, old gentleman.”
The man responded politely, and the beggar elder shook his head and left.
Immediately after, the man felt a heavy sensation in his hand holding the fishing rod.
“Oh.”
After a full four hours, he succeeded in catching something.
Smiling broadly, he reeled it in, only to find a glass bottle hooked at the end of the line.
To be precise, it was a bottle sealed with a cork stopper with a ring.
It seemed as if it was prepared specifically for the man engrossed in fishing, and indeed it was.
“Ha…”
Upon confirming that there was a folded note inside the bottle, the man showed a blatantly disappointed expression.
“A summons, is it? It’s been a year.”
As the man drew upon his Essence, the glass bottle in his hand silently turned into fine powder and scattered in the river breeze.
“I thought I could finally relax.”
After unfolding the note left in his palm and checking its contents, he immediately started walking toward the south of the river.
The man who had exited the London Bridge paused briefly in front of a stone monument at the southern end of the bridge, looking down at the polluted river.
<Thames River>
Traveling with the wind to the North Sea
I returned to the banks of the Thames
The compass in my heart
Never ceased to point towards London2
.
.
.
The stone bore a verse commemorating the first bridge across the Thames.
A hymn of the city proclaiming that no matter how far one travels, there is no place as wonderful as London.
Seeing this, a smooth arc formed on his lips, eyes uncertain if open or closed.
A poem perfectly aligned with the man’s thoughts.
Though he had traversed various regions including Afghanistan and South Africa, none surpassed London in his view.
For he believed no city was better suited for villains to thrive.
“…I won’t be late.”
After checking his pocket watch, the gentleman leisurely made his way past Southwark Cathedral, arriving at the entrance of Borough Market.
For nearly 900 years, this oldest and largest market had supplied food to the citizens of London and was bustling with people today as well.
“Get your meat here! Fresh meat!!”
Amidst the noisy marketplace, the sound of bells and shouts were interspersed with whistles and calls of the vendors.
Butchers, vegetable stall owners, peddlers, beggars, and even vagrants.
The market, filled with a diverse mix of people, was laden with stench and noise, yet the man walked unperturbed, not raising an eyebrow.
Despite his tall stature, handsome features, and even the astonishing length of his fishing rod—easily twice his own height—not a single soul seemed to take notice of the man.
That was not all.
Though the narrow passage was crowded with people, none appeared to take notice of the man’s presence. And yet, their bodies unconsciously parted, as if making way for him, leaving just enough space for a single person to pass through.
It was as though an unseen force had erected an invisible wall between the man and those around him, isolating him from the world itself.
A sight most uncanny, as if a transcendent being, untethered from the affairs of men, were walking amidst the mortal realm.
Thus, without drawing so much as a single curious glance, the man passed through Borough Market and arrived at his destination.
The Church of Asteroid.
As the man arrived before the old church, its weathered sign swaying gently in the breeze, the great clock tower of North Bank tolled its solemn chime.
One o’clock in the afternoon. Having arrived at the precise hour agreed on, the man, with a satisfied smile flickering across his lips, opened the heavy wooden doors.
-Creeeak!
Inside the church, the sight of a solemn clergyman standing within, while several children sat cross-legged, hovering atop a large wooden pew could be seen.
“You are just in time, my child.”
The young priest, who had been gazing upon the levitating children, now turned his eyes toward the man.
The man, addressed in a manner unfitting his age, set his fishing rod against the church wall and stepped forward toward the Father.
Then, with deliberate grace, he sank to his knees and bowed.
“Your disciple, Sebastian Moran, humbly greets the Lord.”
The priest, clutching a weighty tome, with preternatural footwork, closed the distance with a single step.
When he opened his eyes, the whites had vanished, consumed by an abyssal black.
And within them shimmered an endless expanse of starlight, as though the very Milky Way had been painted on them.
“Son Of Man commands―”
With eyes that hold the universe.
The voice carried an undeniable weight.
“Sebastian Moran, Right Hand Of The Throne, lift your head.”
Bearing the pressure, Sebastian Moran looked up at the visage of his master and teacher.
As of a man on earth gazing up at the shining night sky.
“Welcome back, Colonel.”
The priest gave a gentle smile to the man who had raised his head.
“I welcome you in the name of the Stars.”
The leader of the Church Of Asteroid.
Father Of Star.
Absoluter Geist of Sin.
James Moriarty was breaking his long silence to discuss his debut to London.
- TL/N: On peut fonder des empires glorieux sur le crime, et de nobles religions sur l'imposture / One can found glorious empires on crime and noble religions on imposture. ️
- (Thames River 泰姆江) 幾日隨風北海遊 回從泰姆大江頭 臣心一片磁鍼石 不指倫敦不肯休 ️