Scrolls were piled layer upon layer on the wicker chair, their dust carried away and scattered by a wind that came from nowhere as they were taken down. The chair rocked in this narrow room whose doors had been shut tight for years.
The chair's owner was moving through the towering, endless bookshelves, strolling leisurely through this repository of books that resembled a carefully cultivated garden maze. He took down scrolls that caught his interest from the symmetrical iron racks, making them float magically behind him.
The other person's footsteps were far lighter and younger. He hurried through this treasury of knowledge, immersed in heaps of old papers as children his age might lose themselves in games.
The scrolls in his arms were far more logically arranged than the ones the adult selected at random. Ancient knowledge had been classified into systems for use, and from these dark remnants of forgotten dreams, he deciphered lofty technologies beyond anything anyone on Olympia could imagine.
And even more mysteries.
Those brisk footsteps stopped at a corner. His hurried breathing gradually settled, like rippling water returning to a mirror bright enough to reflect sun and moon.
Only then did Peturabo's face emerge steadily and unhurriedly from behind the bookshelves. Holding his scrolls, he even looked somewhat like a budding philosopher.
The boy waved at Mors. "I found a new language."
"You can't decipher it yourself?" Mors answered from where he stood. He was not particularly interested in these ancient technologies. "I taught you some principles of language and semiotics."
The advancement of technology could not prevent civilization from regressing. Apart from accompanying Peturabo, Mors had come to this library, renovated generation after generation by the Lokos royal family, merely to find a few novels to read. Epics would do if necessary.
"Of course I can decipher it myself," Peturabo said. "But I don't understand why they would allow this knowledge to be lost."
"Because daylight has passed away, just like the past." Mors smiled. "All right, the answer is that I don't know."
He turned and leaned against the iron bookshelf, raising his head to look through the tiny skylight in the roof at the night sky outside. Those bright stars shone with eternal light, making even the night seem transparently luminous.
Peturabo looked at that distant sight with him and saw an especially large circle in the boundless sky. It reflected the stars' light, stealing part of the sun's life and storing it within itself. When night came, it became an extension of the sun's life.
"I deciphered some documents. Some of them say that the sun and stars we see are the same kind of thing. The sun is also a morning star, but the moon is not," Peturabo said.
Mors nodded calmly. "Mm. What do you think?"
"I think that is more practical than gods driving chariots to drag the sun around above our heads every day."
"Have you verified it?"
"Not yet." Peturabo shook his head. "I'm deriving the formulas."
"Deriving them yourself?" Mors recalled something. "Look through artists' reference books on perspective calculation. Perhaps you can find some wisdom from those who came before more quickly."
Peturabo looked at him and tilted his head. "There is no knowledge related to art in this library." There was a faint note of grievance in his voice.
"That is the consequence of telling the tyrant you wanted to come here for books on technology," Mors commented.
"Tomorrow, I'll go ask for passes to the other libraries." Peturabo said unhappily, "You'll help me move books between them."
"Your dream is fascinating."
Peturabo shook his head, already quite used to Mors's refusals. "Then you keep swaying back and forth in front of me, but I traded with the tyrant for the library pass. How can you borrow my access without giving anything in return?"
"You learn quickly."
"You taught me equivalent exchange." Peturabo said proudly, lifting the documents in his arms and hugging them tighter. "Or you can just teach me some of what I want to know. The Lokos Library is organized as badly as rotten fish. All kinds of materials are in complete disarray, mixed together."
"Good children should learn to stand on their own." Mors said, "Take me, for example. I broke into the Lokos Library illegally on my own, which doesn't count as borrowing your pass."
"Where did you get so much crooked logic?"
"I was born with it."
"Where could anyone give birth to someone like you?"
"Anyway, it wasn't on this Olympia."
"How many Olympias are there in the world?"
"There used to be another one."
"What about now?"
"Now it's in the sky." Mors was nearly laughing. This child was far more interesting than the dull epics in the local library.
"Huh? What kind of riddle is that?"
"Do you want to see it?"
Peturabo looked up at the skylight. "Where?"
Mors's laughter echoed through the entire empty library. The scrolls flew from his hands and drifted into the wicker chair he was temporarily using to hold his things.
He started walking, weaving through the library corridors until he found the spiraling iron staircase. One hand on the railing, he jogged lightly upward, his black robe rising and falling behind him like spread wings.
"Wait, I haven't finished the books on the first floor! What are you doing?" Peturabo shouted anxiously. He looked around, hastily stacked the scrolls in his hands beside a bookshelf where they would not trip anyone, then began running after Mors.
Mors had no intention of waiting for Peturabo. He knew the boy could keep up.
Following the ascending spiral staircase, he passed through the second floor, then reached the third. He set a ladder beneath the skylight, pushed open the window, and climbed onto the roof. By the time he had done all that, Peturabo had only barely found his balance among the overly smooth tiles. He glared at him angrily. "What are you doing?"
Mors smiled at him, then quickly walked onward. "Beneath our feet lies knowledge preserved on this planet for thousands of years," he said softly, letting his murmured words drift back on the current of air. "But what does that change?"
The tiles retreated beneath his feet as he reached the library's edge. This magnificent building stood at the very center of Lokos, yet over the long years it had become a vast thing that did not exist, something everyone took into their sight yet failed to see.
"Olympia's mysteries sleep in only three places: one in the library, one upon the moon's disk, and one beyond the river of stars." Mors spoke in the silent night. "Perhaps I should not tell you these things, but I have already told you too much."
"What things?" Peturabo shouted from behind. "You spend every day obsessed with your stories and riddles!"
"Solve the first mystery yourself. I can offer a hint for the second. Olympia's legends have long foretold it: the last time their shadows fell upon this world, slaughter and enslavement descended upon the heads of tens of thousands. I saw people die. I saw unclean spirits emerge from false prophets' mouths. There was lightning, voices, thunderclaps."
Mors recited the coming of calamity as though singing. Rather than mercilessness, it sounded more like lamentation.
"Olympia's satellite has another name. When matters on the ground are concluded, I will tell it to you—or perhaps you will guess it first. Do you wish to guess now?"
"At least give me a hint!"
"You certainly already know the word, child. Everyone on Olympia knows it. A color, a noun."
Mors stopped at the edge of the building. After judging the distance, he leaped forward, crossed the small gap, and climbed onto a nearby spire. Without using any psychic power, his fingers fitted precisely and efficiently into the cracks between the bricks and stones as he climbed with remarkable speed.
He heard Peturabo mutter some not-too-vulgar unpleasant words under his breath, and the smile never left his face.
Moonlight came through a break in the dark clouds, illuminating the tower above him.
He jumped into the top floor, sat down on the ground, and leaned back against the bell within.
Before long, Peturabo climbed up as well, panting hard. Not resorting to violence was the last shred of his reason. He wanted to drag Mors up from the ground, but Mors invited him to sit.
"The third mystery lies in the ancient night." Mors tipped his head back and looked out from the bell tower. "You asked where I came from, child. I cannot explain it clearly to you. To say I came from one of those stars would be too poetic, too ethereal. Besides, from here, we cannot see that planet buried in the old night."
Then he raised a hand and lightly pointed into the air. "Roughly in that direction. That is where I came from."
Peturabo furrowed his brows in confusion. The exertion of climbing made him sit down against the bell as well.
"This world does not have only one planet, Olympia, does it?" the boy asked.
"Is that even enough to be a question?" Mors said. "I thought you remembered that you were not born on Olympia."
"But I don't know where I came from either." When Peturabo mentioned this subject, he no longer brought up hollow words like a greater mission or grander territory. All that remained was a pure heart, lost and wandering.
The starry sky watched him coldly. Peturabo remembered those vortex-like eyes among the stars. Though he no longer saw them, he could almost hear the piercing cries and sounds of death again.
Mors put an arm around his shoulders, and suddenly, he no longer had that dream that hurt like bleeding.
"Until your past comes looking for you, there is no need to think about your origins anymore," Mors said.
Peturabo wanted to ask whether Mors's past would come looking for him, but then he realized that he did not even know Mors's true name.
That sudden sense of defeat shattered his words before they could leave his mouth.
"Then you..." He considered what to say, weighing the possible consequences of every question.
There was too much he wanted to ask. From the book collection they had mentioned earlier, which now seemed absurdly endearing, to whether Mors knew anything about his origins. He hurriedly leaped from question to question, yet what he finally asked was not part of any link in his chain of thought.
He asked, "What was on the planet where you were born?"
"I don't know," Mors said. "I've been gone a long time."
"It used to be quite similar to here." His gaze fell upon Olympia's scenery. "There were hills and forests. The sky shone between the hills, and moonlight wound through the valleys. Beyond the hills, there were lakes and seas. Across the bay were lights, strings of orange gleams flickering at the far end of the coast in the black night. The city-state was there, and people lived within it."
"And now?"
Mors gave a low snort.
"There is a holy city there, whose radiance is like a most precious jewel, like jasper, like crystal. The city has high walls and twelve gates, with twelve angels upon the gates. The city wall has twelve foundations, and on them are the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb. The city was measured with a reed: it was four thousand li in all, its length, width, and height all equal. By human measure, it was one hundred and forty-four cubits."
He raised his head. Contrary to his usual carelessness, though he spoke holy words, a cold hostility radiated from him.
"The wall was made of jasper," he continued. "The foundations of the wall were adorned with precious stones. The first foundation was jasper. The second, sapphire. The third, chalcedony. The fourth, emerald. The fifth, sardonyx. The sixth, ruby. The seventh, yellow topaz. The eighth, beryl. The ninth, red topaz. The tenth, chrysoprase. The eleventh, amethyst agate. The twelfth, amethyst. The twelve gates were twelve pearls, and the streets within the city were Adamantium, like transparent glass."
Peturabo's brow furrowed even deeper, and the shadows cast across his face became especially stark.
"Could such a city really exist?" he asked. "How would people live there? Where would they install the power cables, where would the waterways go? Wouldn't jasper walls collapse? How could glass streets bear weight? Could structural loads be handled with gemstones? How would workers build such flashy, impractical bricks and tiles? How would their transportation function, how would community spaces be distributed, where would sewage go, where would clean water come from, where would roads be laid, how would goods circulate, could they guard against fires, floods, wind, and snow..."
The more he spoke, the less he could stop, until he caught sight of the strange expression on Mors's face: astonishment mixed with barely restrained laughter. Shame struck him down at once.
"You're making fun of me again, Mors." Peturabo said, his face feeling hot. "There is no such city in this world. Why are you talking nonsense to me?"
"Someone wants to deceive the people of this world by saying that such a city will descend after the end and death." Mors lightly flicked the boy's cheek with the back of his index finger, and was promptly slapped away. "They say that when God's tent descends among mankind, everything will be made new."
"Who said that?"
"Probably the Book of Revelation."
"Does your god keep an army of construction workers to build cities?" Peturabo said.
"What do you mean, my god? Do I look like a believer?" Mors laughed and scolded him, extending a hand as the night wind curled around his fingertips.
He quietly sensed it for a while, then suddenly said thoughtfully, "Dawn is coming."
Peturabo calculated the time in his head. Based on Olympia's daily rhythms and the movement of the stars, he reached the conclusion at once. "Thirty-eight minutes remain."
Mors relaxed and counted the stopwatch in his heart to the rhythm of his pulse. "There is still time to enjoy the night wind, child."
Some birds in the forest were about to awaken. They burst forth from the sleeping city-state and vast woodland below, wheeling through the gradually brightening gray-black sky, their feathers flashing with dreamlike colors.
Bored beyond measure, he tapped the bell behind him with his knuckles. A faint metallic note rang out in ripples toward the world below the bell tower. He struck it only once, then stopped.
Before you continue