Atheism

"Artisans? Lokos welcomes artisans. We can guarantee it. We respect those who possess skills; Lokos is always the best place for artisans to showcase their talents," Dameks said.

"Then, Mors, is this boy the divine child from the mountains spoken of in legends?" he looked at Peturabo.

Mors didn't need to say anything. Peturabo stepped forward himself.

His lapels were still stained with enemy blood, and beneath the torn, bloodied fabric was new, tender skin. Neither the dust on his cheeks nor his tattered robes diminished his inherent appearance.

His calmness and composure, along with that inexplicable scrutiny, were all evidence of his extraordinary nature.

No one could deny how exquisitely crafted Peturabo himself was; that was an objective fact.

"I don't know if I came from the mountains, nor do I know if I ever killed beasts in Cadisia."

"You really don't know?"

"I don't remember. These memories are not in my mind."

Peturabo looked down at his hands, the skin on his palms still showing a trace of red from the blood.

He remembered again the repeated failures he had endured under Mors these past few days, the carvings that had never succeeded, the talent that had been stripped from him, his weakness and impulsiveness, his repeated defeats, and Mors's cold benevolence.

Was this the kind of person who had come from the mountains and made a name for himself in the mortal world?

Mors had scoffed more than once; after losing his abilities, he was as weak as any ordinary mortal.

He clenched his fist, bringing his hand back to his side.

"But I am not the divine child."

A small commotion erupted from the crowd. The soldiers remained like statues, while the courtiers began to whisper amongst themselves.

Guess what they're saying? They're saying you won't even call Dameks Your Majesty.

Peturabo went along with it, looking directly at Dameks: "And you are not my King. I do not belong to anyone."

A high-ranking courtier spoke up for Dameks: "How can you be so rude!"

Dameks fiddled with the scepter on his knee and raised his hand gently: "It's alright. If he remembers nothing, how can we demand that a guest abide by our rules of politeness? We don't have etiquette lessons either. Isn't it time we invited our god-descended boy to learn?"

"I am also not a god-descended boy," Peturabo corrected him with all his might, his words firmer than steel.

He looked ahead. "I don't even know what a god is. I don't know Alka or Anuinkai, whom you mentioned."

The courtiers' chatter grew louder. This time, Mors didn't need to be a psionic communicator; Peturabo could hear their arguments himself, nothing more than the usual clichés like "arrogant and rude," "ignorant," and "disrespectful to the gods."

He let these words enter his ears and found that he didn't even feel the heat of anger rushing to his head.

Peturabo probed his own mind, running through some hypothetical scenarios. He realized that even if these people cursed him, the annoyance he could sense wouldn't even be a tenth of the simple, sarcastic smirk Mors would show at a stone carving he was working on.

He roughly banished Mors's pale face from his mind and continued to face Dameks directly.

Dameks twirled the scepter in his palm. Peturabo knew that every small movement this man made was a hint of authority.

The King provided a footnote on the existence of gods: "The divine beings are above the mountains, within the layers of clouds. They are the Creator who oversees and judges all beings from the peak of Mount Terra Fors, a sacred entity beyond the reach of ordinary mortals, impossible for the mundane to defy, and impossible for the people to deny."

The tip of the golden scepter pointed to the side of the throne. "The twin divine kings bestow authority upon the lords of the city-states. These are the effigies of Gozk and Kalafais."

I thought those were something like Anubis. Their skin color is really dark, and their style is so retro it's pre-BC.

Mors's perpetually sarcastic, cold tone slithered into Peturabo's ear like a snake.

Last time I came to the city, I should have asked more about their legends so I could use them as your bedtime stories.

Peturabo suppressed the urge to turn around and glare, his attention returning to the conversation with the Lokosians.

"Have you seen these beings, Tyrant?" he asked.

The Tyrant's scepter tapped the armrest with a crisp, light sound.

"I have not had that honor," the Tyrant said.

"Then, has anyone seen these beings?" Peturabo pressed. He didn't need to make any superfluous gestures; his words alone carried enough weight.

From among the courtiers, another magnificent robe emerged from the colorful crowd. Peturabo then saw his smooth, shaven head and the ceiling lights reflected in the sweat droplets on his scalp.

A priest, or a divine official, or an astrologer—Peturabo didn't know what he was.

"How could we mortals behold the countenance of the gods?"

The newcomer's voice was thin and high-pitched.

"Mortals are not part of the gods' grand plan. The deities reside beyond the celestial sphere. We can only glimpse their glory through the reflections of divine mercy in our real lives. How can you question them like this? Is your soul so defiled and closed that you have never received the enlightening inspiration from the gods?"

He had only received creation from one Creator and destruction from a mad artisan.

"All human knowledge should begin with experience," Peturabo said.

Before he spoke, countless thoughts automatically wove themselves into ropes and cables, forming an orderly, interwoven net within the vast space of his mind. He let his words travel along this net.

"No knowledge can arise before experience. We connect and analyze the essence of an object from the appearances projected by the stimuli of all our senses towards it, thus transforming sensory perception into knowledge about the object. Intellect, sensibility, categories, time, space... can you find any definitive evidence of the existence of divine beings from any experience?"

"Naturally!"

The priest's anger fueled the little energy left in his frail body like wicks and wax, burning in his cloudy eyes. "Looking at all the coincidences and destinies in life, isn't that enough for us to comprehend the brilliance of the divine beings?"

"All coincidences have their causes and effects; things are necessarily interconnected. When you acknowledge coincidences, you deny the causes beneath the appearances and presuppose the conclusion in the premise, thus unwilling to obtain confirmation from experience."

"Things are certainly connected; these rules were established by our gods."

"I doubt it," Peturabo said decisively.

"I do not accept such metaphysical assumptions about feelings, nor do I accept the hypothesis that there is some objective entity behind them, which is why I doubt it. And you never use reason to reflect on your own speculation."

The priest swallowed sharply, almost choking on his own breath. He pounded his chest violently with his fists until his face returned to its normal ruddy color.

"What right do you have to doubt us? Can you prove your qualifications?"

Peturabo no longer concealed his mockery.

"Thump."

The golden scepter struck the stone chair.

Dameks stared at Peturabo, a slight smile on his face. "Child, tell me your name."

"Peturabo."

"Does it have any meaning?"

"I will give it meaning."

Dameks's smile widened. "Peturabo, forgive my subject. Perhaps at this moment, there is no more effective way to persuade than to prove your identity."

Peturabo looked at Dameks, until the latter's fake smile could no longer be maintained. They both knew Peturabo had won a victory, and they both knew Peturabo would not be satisfied with just one.

"You want to test me?"

"If you are willing."

"What can I gain?" Peturabo said. "One payment for one return, what are you willing to exchange with me?"

"That depends. I am not unreasonable. If you pass the test, feel free to ask, and I will not be stingy," Dameks guaranteed.

Peturabo nodded. "Tell me the content of the test."

Dameks raised his hand, introducing at the same time, "We will provide you with the best forge, the most outstanding bellows and quenching pool, the newest anvil, and the best steel."

The door on the side of the hall opened as the King raised his hand, and someone was about to carry the tools into the hall on the spot.

Peturabo's fingernails dug into his palm, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

See, you asked for it. Mors said, crossing his legs on the wicker chair.

Peturabo finally turned to glare at him, not wanting to know at all where Mors had gotten the wicker chair from, nor how he managed to make everyone in the hall ignore his relaxed posture on the lounge chair.

"I cannot begin forging now," the boy said, bracing himself, his confidence fortunately well-disguised. "As I said, I am not a god-descended person. I need to learn."

"How long will you need to learn?" Dameks's expression was solemn.

"One day is enough."