Peturabo

It is the thirtieth millennium since the death of Jesus.

The Galaxy, Olympia, Lokos, Prygia, below the cliffs.

Deep within the dense forest, untouched by human footsteps.

A polished silver-plated copper plate was placed into a light-tight box, which was then placed into a darkroom. The indoor lighting was adjusted to the optimal ratio of light and shadow.

"A long, long time ago, in the Europa region of ancient Terra, an artisan invented daguerreotype photography…"

Someone muttered to himself, adjusting the machine.

Within the frame of the ancient photographic technique, a reluctant boy was pushed into the lens, his ice-blue eyes burning with suppressed rage.

If this flame could break through the shackles of idealism, it would surely ignite the dense, spiky green leaves around him and the fence surrounding the wooden house.

"Photography? You won't succeed," the boy gritted his teeth.

"Oh," a cold male voice sounded from outside the lens, simultaneously with the clatter of components inside the darkroom. "You think I care?"

The boy resolved to resist.

He stepped over the thorny vegetation, his bare feet treading on gravel and dry earth. His skin was not yet tough enough to be unharmed by external objects; the short grass scratched his ankles, but it was not enough to make him fear.

"Damn it," a low grunt.

Another man appeared within the lens's range. He was tall and thin, with messy black hair. His black clothes and pants, unlike the loose, brightly colored robes of the locals, were tightly bound to his limbs with matching straps.

He forcefully put his arm around the boy's shoulders. An inexplicable energy restrained the boy's movements.

Ice crystals formed on the grass, and a chill crept onto the darkroom. The daguerreotype camera began to operate.

"I must record this incredibly important moment, and this set of photographic equipment is the only tool I could create with my bare hands. A non-human boy falling from a cliff... it is a rare sight to capture such a marvel with a camera, occurring once in a thousand years."

The man explained indifferently. It was difficult to glean any useful information from his face.

The boy couldn't help but associate the malicious vortex of stars watching him from the sky with this nameless man, even though his logic couldn't form any rational assumptions he could be proud of.

He forced himself to stop looking at the man's detestable, sharp features and ignored the cold hand on his shoulder.

The lens refocused on the boy's face, stubborn, cold, like un forged iron ore.

"I..." a short syllable escaped the boy's lips, the rest of the words swallowed by his pride.

The man asked, "Don't you like it?"

The boy was unwilling to answer. Any question that reflected his weakness made him feel as if a part of him was being forced to be exposed—the part he hated the most.

The corners of the man's mouth twitched upwards briefly and remained so.

The long exposure requirement of daguerreotype photography led him to remain still, but this did not prevent him from speaking. Saying any sentence was too simple for him.

"If you cannot answer, I will assume you like daguerreotype photography," his tone carried a unique arrogance. This made the boy detest him.

Arrogance.

The boy chewed on the word with disgust.

He hated this man.

And the only reason he could tolerate the man's misdeeds was limited to his inability to defeat the man in terms of strength.

"I still haven't received your answer," the man said lightly. "What? Suddenly can't understand what I'm saying?"

His tongue suddenly curled into a soft hiss, combined with a caressing breath. The boy easily recognized this as a more archaic language of this planet, and its meaning was consistent with the previous question.

Before he could be proud of his knowledge, the man moved on to another language without pause, crisp and fast, with numerous open vowels, like an iron wire striking a tuning fork.

The boy frowned. He understood, but he couldn't comprehend how another person in this world could know such an ancient language—he felt something must be wrong.

The man's fingers were as cold as iron. The boy began to find the surrounding scenery detestable.

The towering cliffs were detestable, the shrubs and gorse were detestable, and the dark green olive leaves were extremely detestable.

He hadn't disliked the planet he was currently on originally; the man had changed it through his own actions.

In the sky, he ignored the gaze of the star vortex as usual.

A third language followed. Too many trills and upward-curving final sounds made it frivolous. Then came the fourth. The fifth.

Enough. the boy thought.

But the man's provocation did not cease.

The boy found a small, self-deceiving comfort in the thought that the man's mouth would be comically blurred on the daguerreotype later.

The sixth language. Even more ancient and complex. Originating from another planet that humans had set foot on. Even the boy had to dig into the deepest layers of his memory to unearth the knowledge graph of this language.

The meaning had not changed. But the boy couldn't stop himself from reinterpreting it; he couldn't admit defeat.

The seventh.

The boy felt the entire world begin to shake, centered on the hand the man had placed on his shoulder. He wavered, deciphering half the words, and told himself during the remaining time that he was unbreakable steel.

The eighth. A tonal language rich in meaning, where semantics outweighed structure, with many particles and weak grammar, and loose logic—he could certainly understand it, but...

"Enough!" the boy screamed in High Gothic. "What do you want to prove? What do you want from me?"

Anger broke through everything. He exerted all his strength, attempting to break free, the first time in his memory.

However, this was also because his memory began thirty minutes ago, when he was climbing a cliff but lost his footing and fell due to the laughter of the man in black beside him.

Then, he was led by the nameless man to his solitary cabin, far from the distant city-state, separated from the platinum soldiers and bronze doors, bidding farewell to the village streams and terraced reservoirs, gazing at the triple walls of the palace and the triple spires of the towers. Here, he was forced to take some damned daguerreotype photo with him!

Who is he? How dare he treat me like this!

His response was the man's suddenly relaxed grip and a scornful snort, "We're finally talking."

In the lens, the man strode across the grass, extending a hand wrapped in black cloth strips towards the camera.

The silver plate was removed. Due to insufficient exposure time and an overly restless subject, the details on the entire silver plate were blurred.

The boy discovered that before he could retort, the coldness swept over the silver plate. That unknown energy directly and with the highest precision and astonishing accuracy forcibly etched the joint photo of the two.

A hint of pleasure flashed across the man's face, which meant further provocation to the boy.

"Hmm, I think it's good," he said. "You look like a bad kid, but that's not my concern. Tell me your name?"

"Peturabo," Peturabo said quickly. "That is my name, I will not change it, I don't know its meaning but I will find it. You cannot change my name."

"What makes you think I want to change you? Just because I dragged you here to take a picture? Oh, perhaps it can't be called a picture. This is the downside of landing on an incredibly backward planet and not being able to engrave chips by hand. It's a technique invented by a friend over thirty thousand years ago; it's good enough that I can remember the general idea."

The man's smile was naturally fixed on his face, diluting his cold scrutiny.

He raised the engraved silver-plated copper plate in his hand. The boy's name had already been engraved in the lower right corner of the silver plate, with a blank space left.

"Peturabo, I am a fair person, so I will give you a reward."

I will not accept it. Peturabo thought indignantly. In his imagination, the man had died in the most painful way ten thousand times. However, in reality, the only resistance he could offer was to refuse a reward.

Wait. Wait. He knew his growth would be incredibly rapid, his knowledge always surfaced naturally in his mind, he was born extraordinary. If the man left him here, he would kill him sooner or later.

The man placed the silver plate flat before him, examining it, and said calmly, "You can give me a name."

"What?"

"This is the reward I give you." Compared to paying attention to the boy's displeasure and indignation, the man seemed to think the silver plate in his hand was more important.

Peturabo could barely stand this humiliation. Before he could consider why the man had no name, he gave an insulting answer.

"Kanas," he cursed, the High Gothic term for an organ.

The man laughed in surprise. "I won't accept it. Won't you consider another one?"

"Mors," Peturabo retreated. He gave another word with equally bad connotations, but much milder.

The man nodded. "Death?" he repeated in the eighth language he had tried earlier, and engraved the word Mors into the blank space on the silver plate.

"Now you can go, Peturabo." Mors put away the silver plate and turned away coldly.