Old Paper Holy City

The scrolls were piled layer upon layer on the rattan chair, dust on them scattering as if whisked away by an unseen wind the moment they were touched. The rattan chair creaked in the long, narrow room, whose grand doors had been shut for many years.

The owner of the rattan chair was striding through towering, endless bookshelves, leisurely wandering through a repository of knowledge cultivated like a meticulously planned garden maze. He would pluck scrolls of interest from the symmetrical iron shelves, making them float magically behind him.

The footsteps of another person were much lighter and younger. He ran through the treasure trove of knowledge, immersed in stacks of old paper as if a child his age was lost in a game.

The scrolls in his arms were far more logical than whatever an adult might casually pick. Ancient knowledge was systematically categorized and accessed. From these dark, forgotten dreams that no one spoke of anymore, he deciphered sublime technologies far beyond what anyone in Olympia could imagine.

And more mysteries.

The light, quick footsteps stopped at a corner. The rapid breaths gradually subsided, like a rippling water surface returning to a mirror capable of reflecting the sun and moon.

Only then did Peturabo's face slowly and steadily emerge from behind the bookshelves. The way he held the scrolls gave him the nascent appearance of a philosopher.

The boy waved to Mors: "I've discovered a new language."

"Can't you decipher it yourself?" Mors replied, standing still. He wasn't particularly interested in these ancient technologies. "I've taught you some principles of linguistics and symbology."

Technological advancement couldn't halt the regression of civilization. He had come to this library, meticulously maintained by generations of the Lokos royal family, not just to accompany Peturabo, but really just to find some novels to read, or epics at the very least.

"Of course I can decipher it myself," Peturabo said, "but I don't understand why they would let this knowledge fall into disuse."

"Because the day has passed, just like the past," Mors smiled. "Alright, the answer is, I don't know."

He turned and leaned against an iron bookshelf, tilting his head back to look through the small skylight in the roof at the night sky outside. The bright stars shone with an eternal radiance, making the night seem as luminous as transparency.

Peturabo looked up at the distant object with him, seeing a particularly large circle in the vast expanse of the sky. The circle reflected the light of the stars, capturing a portion of the sun's life within its own body. When night fell, it became the continuation of the sun's life.

"I've read some texts that say the sun and stars we see are all 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 it's more practical than those gods pulling the sun across the sky in chariots every day."

"Verified?"

"Not yet." Peturabo shook his head. "I'm deriving the formulas."

"Deriving them yourself?" Mors recalled. "Look in the artist's perspective calculation toolbooks; perhaps you can find some wisdom from predecessors more quickly."

Peturabo looked at him, tilting his head. "Knowledge about art isn't in this library." There was a hint of resentment in his tone.

"This is the consequence of you telling the tyrant you wanted to read technology books," Mors commented.

"I'll go get passes for other libraries tomorrow," Peturabo said unhappily. "You'll have to help me move books between them."

"Your beautiful dreams are fascinating."

Peturabo shook his head, adapting well to Mors' refusal. "Then you're always flitting around in front of me, but the library pass was something I exchanged with the tyrant. How can you borrow my privileges without contributing anything?"

"You learn quickly."

"It's the equivalent exchange you taught me," Peturabo said proudly, lifting the documents in his arms and holding them tighter. "Or you could just teach me what I need to know directly. The organization of the Lokos library is as bad as rotting fish; all sorts of materials are jumbled together."

"Good children learn to be self-reliant," Mors said. "Like me, for instance. I'm self-reliantly breaking into the Lokos library, not borrowing your pass."

"Where do you get so many twisted arguments from!"

"Born with them."

"Where was someone like you born!"

"Certainly not from this Olympia."

"Then how many Olympias were there?"

"There used to be another one."

"And now?"

"Now it's in the sky." Mors almost laughed; this child was far more interesting than the dry epics in the local library.

"Huh? What riddle is this now?"

"Do you want to see?"

Peturabo looked up at the skylight. "Where?"

Mors' laughter echoed through the empty library. Scrolls flew from his hands and landed in the rattan chair he was using as a temporary place to set things.

He strode forward, weaving through the corridors of the library, found the spiraling iron stairs, and ran up them lightly, his hand on the railing. His black robe billowed behind him like spread wings.

"Wait, I haven't finished reading the books on the first floor! What are you doing?" Peturabo shouted anxiously. He looked around, quickly piled the scrolls in his hands on the side of a bookshelf where they wouldn't trip him, and followed Mors, starting to run.

Mors didn't intend to wait for Peturabo; he knew the boy could keep up.

Following the spiraling staircase, he passed the second floor, then the third, and then set up a ladder beneath the skylight, pushed open the window, and stood on the roof. By the time he had finished, Peturabo was barely finding his balance on the slippery tiles, glaring at him angrily: "What are you doing?"

Mors smiled at him, then quickly walked forward. "Beneath our feet lies the knowledge this planet has preserved for thousands of years," he said in a low voice, his murmuring words drifting back with the airflow. "But what of it."

The tiles slid backward beneath his feet as he reached the edge of the library. This magnificent building, located at the very center of all of Lokos, had, over a long period, become a colossal entity that didn't exist—everyone saw it but didn't truly see it.

"The mysteries of Olympia slumber in three places: one in the library, one on the moon's disk, and three beyond the river of stars," Mors said in the quiet night. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this, but I've already told you too much."

"Told me what!" Peturabo shouted from behind. "You're lost in your stories and riddles every day!"

"One of the riddles you solve yourself, and the second I can remind you of. The legends of Olympia have long foretold: the last time their shadow fell upon this world, slaughter and enslavement descended upon tens of thousands of people. I saw people die, I saw defiled spirits emerge from the mouths of false prophets. There was lightning, thunder, and tempest."

Mors recited the descent of disaster as if singing, less out of heartlessness and more as a form of lament.

"Olympia's moon has another name. When things on the ground are finished, I'll tell it to you—or you'll guess it beforehand. Do you want to guess now?"

"At least give me a hint!"

"You absolutely know the word, child. Everyone on Olympia knows it. A color, a noun."

Mors paused at the edge of the building. After estimating the distance, he leaped forward, crossing a small gap to climb onto a neighboring spire. Without using any psychic energy, his fingers precisely and effectively wedged into the cracks of the bricks, allowing him to ascend with extreme efficiency.

He heard Peturabo mutter some not-so-nice words very quietly, which kept the smile on his face from fading.

Moonlight streamed through a rift in the dark clouds, illuminating the building above him.

He leaped into the top floor and sat down, leaning against the bell inside.

Before long, Peturabo also arrived, panting, his last shred of rationality preventing him from starting a fight. He intended to yank Mors up from the ground, but Mors invited him to sit down.

"Riddle number three is in the Old Night," Mors said, tilting his head back to look out from the bell tower. "You asked me where I came from, child. I can't explain it to you clearly; it would be too poetic and ethereal to say I came from one of those stars. Besides, we can't see the planet buried in the Old Night from here, can we?"

Then he raised his hand and tapped lightly in the air. "Roughly in that direction, that's where I came from."

Peturabo knitted his brows in confusion. The physical exertion of climbing had also made him lean against the bell to sit down.

"This world isn't just Olympia, is it?" the boy asked.

"Is that even a question?" Mors said. "I thought you remembered you weren't born on Olympia."

"But I don't know where I came from either," Peturabo said. When this topic came up, he no longer mentioned those vague terms like greater missions or grander territories, leaving only a pure, wandering, lost heart.

The starry sky looked down at him indifferently. Peturabo remembered the swirling eyes of the constellations. Although he could no longer see them, he could almost hear the sharp wails and the sounds of death.

Mors put an arm around his shoulder, and suddenly, the painful dreams, like bleeding, stopped.

"Don't think about your origins until your past catches up to you," Mors said.

Peturabo wanted to ask if Mors's past would catch up to him, then he realized he didn't actually know Mors's real name.

This sudden sense of frustration shattered his words before they could be spoken.

"Then you…" he considered what to say, weighing the potential impact of each question.

He had so many things he wanted to ask, from the seemingly absurd and cute question about the library he'd mentioned earlier, to whether Mors knew anything about his origins. He rapidly jumped between questions, but what he finally asked was not part of his thought process at all.

He asked, "What was your home planet like?"

"I don't know," Mors said. "I left a long time ago."

"It used to be very similar to here," his gaze fell on the scenery of Olympia. "There were hills, and forests. The sky shone in the middle of the hills, and moonlight meandered in the valleys. Beyond the hills, there were lakes, and the sea. Across the bay, there were lights, a string of orange lights twinkling at the end of the coast in the dark. The city-states were there, and people lived in the city-states."

"And now?"

Mors gave a low chuckle.

"There is a holy city, its light like the most precious jewels, like jasper, like crystal. The city has high walls, and twelve gates, and twelve angels on the gates. The city wall has twelve foundations, and on the foundations are the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb. They measured the city with a reed, four thousand miles long, wide, and high. If measured by human standards, it is one hundred and forty-four cubits."

He looked up, his usual casual demeanor gone. Though he recited sacred words, a cold hostility emanated from him.

"The wall is made of jasper," he continued. "The foundations of the city wall are adorned with precious stones. The first foundation is jasper. The second is sapphire. The third is chalcedony. The fourth is emerald. The fifth is sardonyx. The sixth is carnelian. The seventh is chrysolite. The eighth is beryl. The ninth is topaz. The tenth is chrysoprase. The eleventh is jacinth. The twelfth is amethyst. The twelve gates are twelve pearls, and the streets of the city are of pure gold, like transparent glass."

Peturabo's brows furrowed even deeper, the shadows cast upon his face becoming particularly intense.

"Does such a city truly exist?" he asked. "But how would people live there? Where would their cables be installed, and where would the aqueducts run? Wouldn't the jasper walls collapse? How would the glass streets bear the weight? Can the load-bearing capacity of the structure be handled with gemstones? How would the workers build such gaudy and impractical bricks and tiles? How would their transportation work, how would community spaces be distributed, where would sewage go, where would clean water come from, where would roads be placed, how would goods circulate, and how could fires, floods, and blizzards be prevented…"

He spoke faster and faster, unable to stop, until he caught Mors's peculiar expression, a mixture of surprise and suppressed laughter. This instantly overwhelmed him with shame.

"You're making fun of me again, Mors," Peturabo said, feeling his face flush. "There's no such city in the world. Why are you talking nonsense to me?"

"Some people want to deceive the people of this world, saying that such a city will descend after the end and death," Mors said, lightly flicking the boy's face with the back of his index finger, only to have it swatted away irritably. "Saying that when God's tabernacle is with men, all will be renewed."

"Who said that?"

"Probably the Book of Revelation."

"Did your god hire an army of construction workers to build the city?" Peturabo said.

"What 'my' god! Do I look like a believer!" Mors cursed with a laugh, extending his hand. The night wind swirled around his fingertips.

He savored the moment quietly, then suddenly said thoughtfully, "It's almost dawn."

Peturabo mentally calculated the time. Based on Olympia's temporal rhythms and celestial movements, he quickly reached a conclusion: "Thirty-eight minutes left."

Mors relaxed his posture, tapping his pulse to time himself internally with a stopwatch. "There's still time to enjoy the night breeze, child."

Some forest birds were beginning to stir. They darted out from the sleeping city and the vast mountain scenery below, swirling in the gradually brightening gray-black sky, their feathers flashing with dreamlike, colorful light.

Bored, he tapped the bell behind him with his knuckles. A faint metallic sound echoed and spread out towards the world below the bell tower. He stopped after just one tap.