Chapter 151

“It was only then that I felt I had truly received the Word of the Lord.”

Archbishop Alonso stood before the gathered faithful, his voice resonating through the cathedral as he delivered his sermon. “When the divine breath was breathed into a body fashioned from mere dust, he rose once more. His revival was as if the Lord Himself were calling Lazarus back from the threshold of death…”

His eyes widened, reflecting the lingering shock of that day. Among the congregants, those who had personally witnessed the spectacle whispered to their neighbors, testifying that his words were nothing but the absolute truth.

“To call such a miracle the work of a demon,” Alonso continued, his tone darkening, “is to reveal oneself as a true worshiper of the devil.”

The power to grant and rescind life was the Lord’s prerogative alone—His sacred domain. The mere suggestion that a demon could facilitate such a feat was utterly preposterous. As the crowd huddled before the cathedral nodded in fervent agreement, Alonso allowed his mind to drift back to that fateful afternoon.

When the man had finally opened his eyes, every soul present had fallen to their knees. They didn’t just kneel because an angel had been restored to life before them; they knelt in genuine worship of the authority that stood behind him—a celestial power far loftier than any earthly throne.

The Lord walked with His messenger. The one who rose from the ashes. The true envoy of God. The one who knew no death, having never inherited the original sin of Adam.

And… the Nameless One.

Alonso could still vividly recall the very first words that escaped the man’s lips upon waking.

“Is the battle over?”

Despite enduring the agony of offering himself to the flames, he had cried out those words with unshakable composure the moment he regained consciousness. There hadn’t been a hint of surprise at the miracle that had occurred. His attitude suggested that his resurrection was the most natural thing in the world.

Was that the kind of certainty only a holy, spiritual being created by the Lord could possess? While humans, burdened by their flesh and sins, were forever plagued by doubt, agony, and fear, he had simply gazed at his surroundings with the pure, untainted curiosity of a newborn child. He asked if the fighting had ceased, issued a stern warning to the Spaniards, and brought the entire affair to a close.

He had placed the final period on that conflict. Alonso could never forget the overwhelming presence the man exuded as he looked down upon them, his body as bare as the newly created Adam.

***

My mental process is usually quite simple: I receive information through my senses and respond through my motor functions. It’s the basic operating system of the human mind. Everything from pulling your hand away from a hot stove to weeping at a moving piece of music or smiling while touching the face of a loved one is built on that foundation.

But when all my sensory organs for receiving information vanished, and when every motor organ for intervening in the world disappeared—leaving only the undying essence of my soul—my consciousness began to grow thin and meaningless.

Then, in a sudden flash, light returned to me like a bolt of lightning.

I snapped my eyes open, the images hitting my retinas rekindling the flickering embers of my existence. I was back in the material world. It felt as though “existence” itself had been briefly deleted before being restored. It sounds grand when put that way, but honestly, it just felt like waking up from a nap. A specific segment of time and space had been erased, and the world had simply moved on without me.

I inhaled sharply. The scent of charred wood and the metallic tang of blood filled my pristine lungs. I clenched and unclenched my fists, feeling the soft, smooth texture of my newly fashioned skin. The crackling of embers, the whistling wind, and the ragged breathing of people nearby reached my ears.

Before me, a sea of people knelt, their bodies trembling. The moment those sensations hit me, I knew.

Ah. I’ve been brought back again.

Once more, I had returned from the dead, and those who witnessed it were busy offering me their worship.

Wait. Something feels… empty.

It didn’t take long to identify the source of that emptiness.

“H-He… he rose from the dead! A man has returned from the grave!”

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

I fought a desperate battle not to look down. I felt my face heating up, flushing a deep crimson, but I figured the lingering glow of the nearby embers would mask my embarrassment.

Where are my clothes?

Not again. This was the second time. At least last time I had some scorched rags left on me, so why was I standing here without a single scrap of fabric this time? No, that wasn’t the priority. I needed to get these people away from me first.

“Father…!”

“Oh, Lord!”

Forget it. This wasn’t a situation I could control.

Slowly, I scanned my surroundings, forcing a gentle, bewildered smile that I hoped looked natural. There wasn’t a single piece of cloth to cover myself, nor a single obstacle to block the thousands of eyes fixed upon me. To make matters worse, I was standing atop a pile of ash like I was on a stage, with thousands of people wailing and kneeling before me.

My face felt like it was about to explode from the sheer heat of my blush, but thankfully, the “angelic smile” I had perfected over the last two decades acted as a flawless poker face.

Fine… okay. Let’s figure out what’s going on first.

“Is it… over?” I asked.

Silence followed.

“Is the battle over?” I repeated, raising my voice.

Silence.

Seriously, stop praying for a second and listen to me!

Looking at the unresponsive crowd, I felt a dizzying cocktail of humiliation, tension, and sheer bewilderment. I hurried down from the mound of ash, maintaining a graceful, dignified gait—a move I liked to call the “Angelic Descent.” Once I reached a spot that offered even a modicum of cover from their gaze, I finally regained enough composure to assess the situation.

It was a bit precarious. The enemies were currently having a collective mental breakdown, weeping and carrying on, but in terms of sheer numbers and quality, they could still easily overwhelm us if they regained their senses. If they decided to go out in a blaze of glory and slaughtered everyone, I wouldn’t be remembered as an angel; I’d be dragged back to Spain as a demonic exhibitionist.

That absolutely cannot happen.

I racked my brain, scanning my mental library of “Scripture Presets for Demoralizing Enemies.” Would verse number seven do the trick? No, their numbers were still too high for that.

Ah, found it.

“Let all the nations shout their war cries; they will be shattered to pieces!” I quoted Isaiah 8:9. I settled for Preset Four. It was arguably the fourth most effective verse in the entire Bible for this kind of thing, and it seemed to work.

“Aaaargh!”

Well, that was effective.

I marched toward the nearest Spanish soldier, grabbed him by the chin, and whispered, “It is not too late.”

“Ugh… h-huhu…” The man broke into sobs.

“W-We’ll lay down our weapons! We surrender! Please, have mercy!”

One by one, the Spanish soldiers dropped their gear and raised their hands. My allies erupted in cheers. It seemed things were finally wrapping up, until—

“Long live the Nameless One!”

What?

“The Nameless One!”

Suddenly, my allies swarmed me, hoisting my body into the air. I debated whether to look panicked or not, but seeing the delirious fervor on their faces, I realized they wouldn’t listen to a word I said.

“Let us show his resurrected body to all our enemies! Let those who haven’t dropped their weapons see what a true miracle looks like!”

“Wooooooo!”

You son of a bitch! Who shouted that? Who just said that?!

“Wooooooo!”

No! Stop!

“Nemo! Nemo! Nemo! Nemo!”

I said stop! What are you doing?! Doing this in front of thousands of people… stop! Put me down!

***

“Aaaargh! It’s too embarrassing!”

I bolted upright. It was a dream—a vivid recollection of that day.

“Ugh… dammit…”

Seriously, someone could have at least thrown a blanket over me. Not a single person had the decency to ask if I was cold. I understood the symbolism of a naked body, but it was still a blatant violation of my human rights.

I looked around, relieved to see nothing but my bed and furniture. My privacy was intact. I was in Chesapeake, currently staying here because of the mountain of work involving Florida and other matters.

I exhaled a heavy sigh, threw on my coat, and tied my laces. Grabbing my tablet, I stepped outside into the autumn of 1612.

“The Nameless One!”

“Good morning, Lord Nemo!”

If a 21st-century Korean person asked me what it felt like to live as an ‘angel,’ I wonder what I’d say. Back when I thought a status window would pop up saying ‘Mission Failure: Death,’ I used to think I might return home any day. It had been over twenty years since then, but my thoughts hadn’t changed much.

“Haha, hello there,” I replied with a practiced smile.

I felt like a cross between a celebrity and a politician. No matter how bad my mood was or if I had just stubbed my toe on a bookshelf, I had to keep smiling. Politicians always have to shake hands with anyone who approaches them, right?

“Haha, yes, hello… please, everyone, continue to work hard for the sake of our community today.”

“Thank you! Have a wonderful day, Lord Nemo!”

I was the same. Of course, not everyone in this town was seeing me for the first time; many had grown accustomed to my existence and knew better than to bother me. But the problem was the immigration. At least several thousand new people arrived every year.

This meant I had to live among thousands of people who firmly believed I was an angel. Their passion made the most obsessive celebrity stans look like casual observers. This was the 17th century, an era dominated by religion.

To them, I was a literal messenger of God. And a true angel, being a divine envoy, had to be superior, moral, and utterly magnificent. If a modern fan joked that their idol ‘doesn’t even go to the bathroom and only lives on dew,’ these people would debate the theological implications of such a statement for three days and nights.

And so, I had to stand before them. I had to act in a way that left no room for doubt. I had to play the role of the perfect angel they envisioned.

“Lord Nemo, please, won’t you join our prayer meeting…?”

“I would advise against it,” I said, my voice solemn.

“Pardon?”

“If I were to join you, everyone would spend their time staring at my hands and mouth instead of reading the scriptures and reflecting on their own thoughts, wouldn’t they?”

“Oh…”

“That is not what I desire. You should not worship the Lord by merely following the words and writings of another; you must worship the Lord who dwells within your own heart.”

“Ah! I see!”

I had to drop profound, cryptic lines like that every now and then.

“Ouch, I-I scraped my knee…”

“Oh dear, are you alright? Shall I apply some medicine for you?”

“T-The angel…!”

And I had to regularly perform these “good deeds” that looked like they were ripped straight out of a piece of propaganda. It was ridiculously exhausting. If maintaining public favor was this hard, I had no idea what kind of thrill politicians back in my previous life got out of it.

After finally pushing through the crowds and entering the Council of Six headquarters, the real work began.

“You’re here, Lord Nemo!”

“Eleanor? My apologies for being a bit late. Vicente? How far along is the meeting?”

“Haha, we’ve only just begun, so don’t you worry.”

This was a place filled with faces I had seen for twenty years—people who were as used to me as anyone could be. I didn’t need the same level of showmanship here, but a different kind of effort was required.

“As I was saying, we must significantly expand the navy! Spanish ships are threatening our vessels as we speak!”

“We need to prioritize cultivating Florida right now. Investing our resources into the Knights is the smarter move.”

“Let’s put it to a vote. Those in favor of increasing naval power, raise your hands!”

“That’s three. A three-to-three split again.”

Six members. An even number. While they handled most things on their own, an even split like this made things incredibly awkward. And in moments like these, who did they turn to?

“Let’s ask Lord Nemo then. Which side do you find more reasonable?”

Everyone’s eyes landed on me. Of course they did. There was a reason I frequently attended meetings for a government I had designed to run without me. Since I acted as a sort of chairperson and the unofficial seventh member of the Council of Six, it was hard to stay away.

Normally, I could just sit there looking dignified, nodding occasionally to signal that both sides had merit. But when work piled up and opinions clashed this frequently, the game changed.

“Lord Nemo?”

Seriously, why do all the critical problems always end up in my lap?

“Yes?”

“Between expanding the navy and increasing the Knights, which do you believe is more urgent?”

I paused to consider my response. My concern in these moments wasn’t about power—having the final say on important matters was actually quite convenient. It ensured the community wouldn’t stray too far from the path I envisioned. But what if things went wrong?

I wasn’t some superhuman; I was capable of making mistakes. If they followed my lead and something went disastrously wrong, the trust they had in me would crumble. So, I settled on a specific strategy.

“Both seem equally important,” I said, employing the classic ‘neutral prime minister’ meta.

“B-But we have to choose one. We have a limited supply of iron and timber…”

“Then, Vicente? Let me ask you again.”

“Yes?”

“Which is more urgent?”

Vicente hesitated, looking between me and the other members. “…The Knights, I suppose.”

The trick was to speak with enough gravity to make the other person nervous. And the most important part was not to nod too eagerly. I simply offered a gentle smile, interlaced my fingers, and addressed Vicente.

“I know the sailors under your command have been working tirelessly. We shall increase the support provided to them.”

“Lord Nemo…!”

“However, as we are currently deciding the affairs of the community, let us focus solely on what will bring the most benefit to our collective prosperity.”

“I… I understand!”

And for the finishing touch: “Vicente, what is your choice?”

“I’ll change my vote to the Knights!”

There. I hadn’t actually said anything. Vicente was the one who made the decision. I had merely listened to his grievances. I bore no responsibility. Even if our naval power hit rock bottom, it wasn’t my fault.

It was stressful and left me with a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. I wondered if I really had to go this far. But what choice did I have? If I wanted to survive, I had to minimize any strong stances or opposition unless it was absolutely vital.

It was exhausting.

That night, I went home and played games until sunrise.