Act XII: The Destruction of Sodom (Thirteen)

Thirteen

"Sir, your friends are helping to manage the soldiers in the city..."

"shut your mouth."

"I...sir, I came here secretly because I really wanted to ask you something..."

"Don't you understand me?" Yakov roared, turning his terrifying face. "I said shut your mouth!"

Daoud finally fell silent. He lowered his head in humiliation and urged his horse to follow closely behind Yakov's.

"Why are you so harsh on this poor child? We can talk things out." Yesau scrutinized them. "Should I excuse myself?"

“This has nothing to do with you.” Yakov forcefully reined in his horse and stopped. “If you dare to say another word, I’ll take him back to Lud right now.”

Yesau shrugged casually. "You can go back anytime, I'm not forcing you." He dismounted and tied the reins to a dead old tree. "Whether you come or not is entirely up to you."

Yakov desperately wanted to drag Daoud away immediately. He dismounted, and looking up, he saw a dilapidated ruin at the end of the winding road. The crumbling walls looked as if they had been scorched by the hottest fire thousands of years ago; the stones and bricks had turned into boiling glass, full of bubbles—like a shooting star about to crash to the ground, with faint flames flickering and gathering there. The bitter smell of sulfur was growing stronger and stronger in his nostrils—Yakov looked around and spotted the other people who had gathered.

"You must stay close to me until we return to the city, and you are not allowed to utter a single word." He turned his head, grabbed the young servant by the collar, and whispered a warning, "Listen, no matter what terrible mistake you make or what great achievement you perform, I will judge whether you are rewarded or punished once we return to the city. Do you understand?"

His squire had clearly heard everything, but stared stubbornly into his eyes without responding—Yakov knew him well, and knew the boy was silently defying his orders. The knight immediately raised his hand and slapped him, making him cover his face and turn his head away.

“You once acknowledged me as your father and Yubi as your god!” he anxiously reminded Daoud. “I am responsible for your life. I am doing this for your own good, do you hear me!”

"I heard you, sir." Daoud's voice turned inexplicably cold.

Yakov couldn't stand the servant's weak and submissive manner, but he couldn't bring himself to continue his reprimand and lecture. He had no choice but to shake off Daoud, but immediately pulled him back. The boy, barely a teenager, was dragged along by him like a sheep without a temper.

"It seems you've taken care of things." Yesau waved to him. "Let's finish the last leg of the journey."

Their torches, too, became part of the meteor shower, converging on the ruins. Yakov assumed this would be similar to the gathering of nobles organized by Ambikia in the Basilica Cistern of Constantinople; but he found that the people here were not, as he expected, mostly veiled knights or nobles, but rather open commoners and beggars. Many of them were already in their eighties, ragged and worn—a discovery that astonished him. "You say this is a gathering of blood slaves," he called to Yesau, "Do your gods specifically choose these useless people as their messengers?"

“This is indeed a gathering of blood slaves,” Yesau replied. “Whether it is useful or not, we have a special method to judge.”

What does this mean? Yakov was full of questions. The knight looked up and saw that the crowd's torches were climbing a huge, ancient staircase that was almost blending into the sand and gravel. He dragged the silent Daoud along, following Yesau's footsteps. He could hardly tell if he was climbing stairs or a low hill.

At the end of the steps, the scene before him unfolded—a small, flat clearing with many thin stakes, like a cemetery. The stakes were neatly arranged around a heavy stone coffin, before which a gaunt, bare-chested old man, his back bleeding, knelt in prayer before a strange symbol on the coffin—a symbol Yakov found difficult to describe. It appeared to be merely a simple outline of an open circle, yet for some reason, it felt familiar to him.

"...What is that?" he couldn't help but ask. "What does that symbol mean?"

“It’s the secret we keep.” Yesau stared thoughtfully at his expression. “Does anything come to mind?”

Yakov desperately searched his mind for any memory related to the symbol. But as soon as he thought about it, the mark ached again, preventing him from concentrating—"Enough, I don't want to see you suffer, put it aside for now, don't think about it." Yesau patted his shoulder, "Sit down with everyone and listen to the teachings of the gods."

“I don’t see the vampire you mentioned here.” Yakov looked around, glancing at the lights beside him.

“God’s word does not need to be spoken by Himself.” Yesau sat down at his feet. “God only communicates once, through His messengers—or rather, there is never a word of God. What God says and what people believe are always decided by the people themselves.”

Yakov eyed everyone suspiciously, then pulled his sullen servant to sit down beside him. They chose a spot that wasn't too close together, trying to blend in inconspicuously into the sparse crowd. Dust immediately blew onto his lips, so he grabbed his headscarf, wrapped it around his chainmail, and then pulled up his servant's cloak to cover himself as well.

Gradually, no new people came to the ruins. Everyone huddled together in their robes and sat hastily on the ground, gazing up at the inscription on the stone coffin. After a while, the naked old man finally stood up. He raised his torch and lit the two torches beside the coffin. Everyone in the ruins fell silent; not a single whisper could be heard.

“Let me tell you a story, my brothers and sisters.” His voice was hoarse yet clear, firm yet gentle. “I hope this story will enlighten you, alleviate your pain, and bring you true freedom.”

"In the past, when the world was still chaotic and without order, people acted like wild beasts. They could not communicate with a common language, nor could they understand each other's feelings. They lived only a short time, and the strong preyed on the weak. This was a manifestation of ignorance and lack of morality, and a result of their evil nature being unrestrained."

"Then, a young man could no longer bear this chaos. He resolved to petition the gods for a unified language—a language by which people could express their feelings to others, allowing them to share their pain and happiness. The young man thought that this was the key for humanity to escape chaos and move towards reason and order."

"God knew of his request and gladly appeared to grant it. But he required him to pass three most severe tests before he could retrieve the language of salvation. As for the content of the tests, he had to go home and wait, and not be impatient."

The boy returned home and slept soundly through the night. When he awoke again, he was astonished to find that he had learned the magical language—now, it was up to him to decide to teach this language of happiness to whom. Overjoyed, he vowed to spread the language to everyone in the world in order to realize his great ideal.

"On the first day, he taught the language to his parents and brothers; on the second day, he taught it to his friends and companions; on the third day, he called all those he knew, and told his confidants to each call those they knew—but among them were enemies who hated one another. They pressured the boy, saying that if he taught it to them, he must not teach it to his enemies. For the enemies were morally corrupt and should be excluded from the kingdom of goodness; the enemies could not appreciate the happiness of others, but instead fed on their suffering; if the enemies learned the language, they would surely seek pleasure in harming others."

The boy listened to them and realized how similar their slanderous words were. 'You two can't communicate, yet you both say the same things. So how can you assume the other is so different from you? Since you believe you deserve salvation, then the other must be the same.' He said this and decided to teach the language to everyone, so that no one would be abandoned on the path to heaven.

"At that moment, God congratulated him: he had passed his first test."

Yakov listened to the first part of the story, his brow furrowing deeply. "It sounds like a foolish tale," he muttered. "If it were me, I would make sure that anyone who utters such slander is unworthy of learning this language."

“Your thoughts are perfectly reasonable,” Yesau said, not correcting him. “You are just like them, only you haven’t yet grasped the true meaning of that language. It’s normal for confused people to hate each other. God will forgive you.”

Yakov shut his mouth in disgust. He didn't bother to say anything more and just listened to the old man continue.

Soon, the boy taught the language to everyone around him. But unbeknownst to him, he was about to face an even more perilous second test.

One day, he accidentally scalded his tongue with hot water, and his speech became less clear than before. Yet he still taught and enlightened people, communicating with them daily in the language of God. Although it was not his intention, his accent changed—and everyone wondered: should the pronunciation of this language change to how he read it when his tongue was injured, or should it follow the pronunciation he had taught before?

"Within half a day, the boy discovered the problem. Because he had blasphemed this divinely blessed language, strife and misunderstanding resurfaced around him—people were divided into two camps, deeply disagreeing about whether the language should change or remain the same, each supporting their own version of events, each believing their own words to be correct and pure, arguing all the way to the boy's house, demanding his judgment—the boy finally discovered that he could modify and use this language at will. As long as the syllables that came from his mouth, as long as they were the right path he personally recognized, everyone would accept them unconditionally. If he liked, he could even create a new language from scratch, as long as he insisted it was the language of God, no one would question his claim!"

"But he eventually humbly apologized to everyone, showing them his tongue scalded by the hot water, and admitting that no one was at fault; the real fault lay only in himself. Reassuringly, everyone forgave him. With his confession, God's truth returned to the earth, and all conflicts vanished once more."

"However, the boy himself began to question: Could people really be so blindly obedient, accepting everything even when it was clearly different from what had been taught before? Do people never have their own judgment or their own understanding of the truth? Just then, God descended again and offered a second congratulation—and thus, he passed the second test."

Hearing this, Yakov vaguely sensed some hidden metaphors in the story, but they were like a veil of smoke, visible yet intangible. "...Is this about vampires and blood slaves, about marking?" he couldn't help but ask. "Is this an allegory, or a true story from the past?"

“Everyone will have a different understanding of this.” Yesau sat cross-legged leisurely. “After you’ve heard it all, you may have a different opinion.”

The old man, who was the one everyone was looking forward to, continued his story in front of the stone coffin.

"As the boy diligently promoted this divine language, a paradise-like society was established—everyone could understand each other's joys and sorrows through this language, and put themselves in others' shoes. Unity and cooperation were everywhere, and kindness and understanding filled people's hearts. Everyone seemed to have become equal and free—the boy thought, his ideal was so smoothly racing towards its realization. Little did he know, the final and most dangerous third test was waiting for him."

"Gradually, he discovered that not only was God's language being absorbed and accepted by the people, but even some trivial matters were being imitated and learned."

"At first, people imitated his clothes and his food; then, they inquired about his philosophy of life and the definition of virtue; finally, they offered him their wealth and children, demanding that he live in the highest palace in the clouds. Every word he uttered became a standard, and every action he took became a rule. This utopian place became his own kingdom, and people gave him a new name: God."

The boy was horrified and admonished the crowd, saying that he was merely a messenger, a teacher who instructs God in the language, and no different from anyone else. He argued that matters other than language, such as law and morality, faith and philosophy, were not things he should choose or design, but rather things that should be considered and improved together by everyone. How could all of this be pushed onto him alone? And how could he be God himself? He thought that through God's language, everyone would understand his thoughts and awaken to the truth—but at that moment, he finally discovered the truth of God's language.

"If he were to deny God's authority through the language of God, causing people to no longer believe in God, then the language of God would immediately become ineffective, and the world would revert to its original chaos."

"In order to prevent the Tower of Babel from collapsing again, the world will eventually need a god."

Yakov couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed Daoud's arm and stood up. "Nonsense. Do you listen to these stories so that the vampire slaves will take the vampires' commands as divine pronouncements and accept them without question?" he muttered. "If you think you're brainless and heartless, don't assume everyone else is as brainless and heartless as you. A bunch of blindly obedient fools."

He tried to leave this ominous place with his servant—but Daoud stood there, unyielding, no matter how hard he pulled. Yakov turned back in astonishment. He noticed that the servant's face was now covered in tears.

"My lord, please let me hear the rest." Tears streamed down his face. "Please."

"I told you not to utter a single word before returning to the city, why didn't you listen?" Yakov was so angry his eyes turned black. He raised the riding crop in his hand, wanting to teach this ungrateful servant another lesson—but Yesau stopped him.

“You always say you’re doing this for my own good, but you only ever give me what I want, not what I need…” Daoud’s eyes grew sharper and colder, piercing Yakov like an ice spike. “Are you really doing this for my own good, or for your own good, trying to force me down your path?”

Yakov was speechless. His lips were cracked in the dry wind, and his teeth ached as if he were chewing sand. "...You came here because you hate me, is that it?" he said in a low voice, his voice choked with anger. "Are you even a proper servant, a loyal slave?"

“It was you and Lord Jubius who broke your promise first,” Daoud said coldly. “I was disloyal because loyalty abandoned me first.”

Yakov thought of the boy's origins, of his family who had moved to Damascus. The knight was so enraged that a twitching laugh escaped his lips. This apostate who had converted from Christianity, this opportunist who would slaughter his own people for the gold of the Order—he shouldn't have foreseen this, shouldn't have known his squire was such a two-faced traitor, shouldn't have known this boy was a blind and impoverished man on the verge of ruin? Had he ever taught him loyalty and devotion—had he ever truly cared about such things?

Yakov released his grip, shoved Daoud hard in the chest and threw him to the ground, watching the servant fall amidst the ragged crowd.

"Then you can continue listening," the knight said, leaving with his last words. "From now on, I have nothing to do with you anymore."

He trudged through the dust, gripping his sword sheath tightly, and descended the steps heavily. Without looking back, he left the firelight and went to find his horse. "Child, come to the front," he heard the old man's voice calling Daoud from behind. "Look at your tears. You have been called by that boy, by our god."

"My lord," Daoud's cries were weak and distant, "please teach me the language of God and grant me salvation."

"But the young man's third test is not yet over," the old man said. "If you were in his shoes, what would you do?"

Yakov stopped in his tracks. He stood at the top of the steps, holding his breath and waiting for Daoud's answer.

“…I believe that in order for his ideals to be realized, the young man should bear the burden of God,” Daoud murmured. “As long as God exists, God’s language will remain.”

A mournful sigh arose atop the steps in response to this answer, as long and deep as the wailing of a multitude of wandering souls.

"You failed the third test!" the old man shouted. "I cannot teach you the language of God, nor can I tell you our secret!"