The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 809 - 378: Britain, Do Not Cry for Me (Part 2)

Life is like a fable, its value lies not in its length, but in its content.

——Lucius Annaeus Seneca

The night had fallen, and the usually bustling streets were instantly surrounded by a tense and oppressive atmosphere.

The gas lamps flickered in the cold wind, casting mottled shadows. The crowd, deprived of sunlight, seemed like a herd of uncontrollable beasts; their faces and figures invisible, only countless dark shadows surged through the narrow alleys.

The air was filled with a strong smell of smoke and rust, intermingled with the pungent odor of gunpowder and an indescribable stench.

Stones, sticks, and shattered glass bottles flew through the air like hidden weapons, the sounds of collision, roaring, and screaming interweaving, resembling Beethoven’s "Fifth Symphony in C Minor"—"Fate."

Bloodstains spread wantonly on the cobblestone pavement, weaving a shocking map that depicted the brutal path of this chaotic conflict.

Some people lay on the ground, struggling in pain, their clothes torn, revealing bruised and swollen skin from blunt force, and knife wounds so deep that bones could be seen.

Amid the pools of blood, some had already stopped breathing, their faces twisted in extreme agony, their bodies growing cold, indicating their lives had been mercilessly stripped away at that moment.

A carriage was overturned at the street corner, horses neighing and fleeing in terror, bodies mangled under the wheels, sending shivers down one’s spine.

The shop windows had been smashed to pieces, with goods scattered all around, becoming insignificant sacrifices in this riot.

A sweeper dressed in rags and wearing a tattered felt hat dragged his lame leg, walking alone through the chaos and debris on the streets.

His face was sunken, his skin taking on an unnatural gray-yellow tone, the once bright eyes now shrouded in a gloomy haze. His body was so thin it looked like dried bones, with clothes clinging tightly to his sunken frame due to sweat and the struggle of pain.

He staggered with every step, as if each one exhausted the last bit of his life force.

The cold night wind blew over his sweat-drenched forehead, taking away precious warmth from his body.

He clutched his abdomen tightly, the source of excruciating pain, each spasm devouring what little vitality he had left.

Suddenly, he paused at a street corner, a violent urge to vomit rising in his throat, spewing out clear, bile-mixed liquid. This made it clear that he was a cholera patient, critically ill and untreated.

Finally, as if an invisible hand was pulling him to the ground, his legs could no longer support him, and he collapsed powerlessly onto the cobblestone pavement, making a dull thud in the deathly silent street.

There was nothing around him, no doctors, no passersby, only a vast, empty space surrounding him. He tried to look up at the sky, his eyes flickering with conflicting emotions, the desire for life and the fear of death coexisting.

But in the end, he found peace; the sweeper showed a relieved smile, using his last bit of strength to make the sign of the cross on his chest, reciting his final prayer. His heavy eyelids slowly closed, like the setting sun, irreversible.

"Merciful Father, I deeply feel your great love and compassion. Though I have had weaknesses and failures in my life, you have never abandoned me. Now, as I am about to rest in your presence, I pray that I may still feel your presence in this final moment of my life, allowing me to cross the threshold of death with confidence and joy, entering the beautiful abode you have prepared for those who believe in you."

Suddenly, it seemed as though he felt a slight warmth in his cold hand, as if someone had grasped it, responding to his hopes.

"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. I will never leave you nor forsake you. God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. Today, you will be with me in paradise. Amen."

The sweeper desperately tried to open his eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, he could only see a blurred outline through the slits of his eyes. He saw God with a high nose, without wings, but with slightly reddened, shining eyes.

The sweeper’s body slowly stiffened, his cyanotic and pale lips leaving a smile he had never had in his life, frozen in front of Arthur. The sweeper’s hand slipped from Arthur’s grip, and the alleyway still echoed with his heartfelt words of departure.

"Lord, I praise you."

The policemen who followed behind Arthur fell silent at the sight before them. The cholera patient, whom people usually avoided, seemed not so terrifying at this moment.

What they felt more was a kind of discomfort, a guilt for their helplessness in the face of grim reality, a feeling of remorse.

Arthur looked at the sweeper who had fallen in front of him, then turned to face the police behind him, and none of the thirty-odd stalwart men dared to meet his gaze.

"Gentlemen."

Arthur’s voice drew their attention, and everyone looked into his red eyes.

"This is why we are here now."