Naming Ceremony

Naming Ceremony

"Your name!" the crowd cried. "Tell us your name!"

The shouts were disorderly at first, then gradually unified and gathered, swelling into an overwhelmingly surging tide. Countless eyes turned toward Peturabo, filled with supreme anticipation and reverence.

Mors watched Peturabo calmly accept it all, then set down the fruit in his hand.

Beneath the dome, within the theater, vessels and dinner plates clinked brightly against one another, soles repeatedly struck the ground, and palms met with thunderous roars.

Their cheers shook the theater. Amid songs and laughter, the goddess statue was carried into the theater by an intricate artistic mechanism.

The statue wore a merciful expression, accompanied by a flower crown, elixirs, forget-me-nots, immortal fruits, lotuses, hyacinths, and roses. Perfume blended from many flowers had been sprinkled over its entire body, symbolizing the most beautiful and virtuous garden of the heavens. Compared with the statue from years ago, which had been prepared in little more than a month and modeled heavily after fisherwomen and peasant women, this one was not only more perfect in craftsmanship, but also focused more on sacred, inhuman divinity, befitting the solemn gravity of the occasion.

Six female ceremonial officers draped in black veils arrived with it. Graceful in form and wearing gold-leaf masks, they presented themselves before the crowd in celebration. They had long wandered among the people, like soft veils beyond reach, slipping through the gaps of countless festivities—like floral fragrance, like ointment, like the gentlest shadows of all things, the most fitting backdrop beneath brilliant light. When they stepped into the open sunlight, the crowd fell quiet as well. The disorderly sounds were carried away from the grounds, leaving only the softness and expectation of shadow and darkness.

The leader approached Peturabo, who faced the crowd, drifting forward like black smoke beneath flowing clouds. In one hand she held a golden cup; in the other, she held a silver blade reversed, pointing it toward herself so that its exquisite, sigil-inlaid hilt could be easily taken by Peturabo.

"Please choose your name, my lord," the ceremonial officer said, bowing. "Let your name and blood fall into the golden cup, to be revered by Olympia for generations."

Mors devoted more of his attention to the ceremonial officers, looking into their eyes through the black veils and gold leaf. He saw pure human eyes—six people, twelve eyes, each as clear and translucent as crystal. Though the number was strange, there was nothing unusual to his senses.

Nothing could be added without cause, yet neither could fate be disregarded.

He opened the sight of his perception. In a brief instant, countless minds brushed against the edges of his soul. Time seemed to fracture into fragments that chased after microseconds. He immersed himself in an ocean of joy, delight, jealousy, and weariness, examining innumerable thoughts. A thousand colors scattered and slipped through his fingers like dust and sand, then rose from the thousand voices of all sentient things, until everything had been stripped clean and pure within his senses.

He could find no darkness or corruption.

No matter what, he decided to place some of his power and attention upon Peturabo, lest an accident suddenly arise. Ordinary distortions would not be difficult to handle.

Mors blinked, reached out, and lightly patted Peturabo on the shoulder. His fingertips briefly touched the surface of the young man's skin through the black cloth.

"Peturabo," he said quietly. "Go, child. This is your name."

Peturabo gave Mors a small nod and rose from his seat. The muscles in his shoulders were taut as iron.

The young man took the silver knife from the ceremonial officer and cut across his right palm. Then he clenched his fist, forcing the wound further apart through pressure, letting blood drip into the golden cup and mingle with the clear water already inside. It gradually filled into a complete reflection of gold and crimson.

"My name is Peturabo." Peturabo looked at his reflection, then raised his head and swept his gaze across the crowd. "As a boy, I made others call me this. As a man, I will make others call me this."

"You expected me to choose a name that would bring honor to your ancestors. I know that. But I will not make that choice. Things have their essence. Essence cannot be altered, twisted, profaned, or shaken. Just as iron remains iron after being reforged, and the sun that rises after sunset remains the sun."

He raised his right hand high. Scarlet blood spilled through the gaps of his clenched fingers, splitting and merging as it streamed down his wrist, along his arm, and finally disappeared beneath his light iron armor.

"If you ask what my name means, then you are asking what rain means before it waters the fields, what use wind has before it brings grass seeds, what purpose water serves before it is drunk, what value a sickle possesses before it cuts wheat. A name's value never arises from its mere existence. It only becomes apparent after the thing it signifies has demonstrated its capabilities."

"A person is not honored because of a name; a name may become great because of a person."

"Before I establish my achievements, my name is merely a string of unfamiliar syllables that require tongue and air to produce. After my fame spreads throughout Olympia, my name will represent myself. My name is my essence, and my essence is myself."

Peturabo lowered his hand, and someone immediately came forward with bandages. Mors glanced over, tapped a finger against the armrest of his chair, and the bandages wrapped themselves snugly around Peturabo's hand.

The ceremonial officer took the golden cup and passed the ritual vessel in dancing steps. After it had been handed from one of the six to the next, the golden cup was placed as an offering between the statue's deliberately empty hands.

The crowd erupted into cheers, until they realized Peturabo had not sat down. Their laughter and applause receded layer by layer, leaving behind a towering silence.

The young man unconsciously clenched his hand. His voice grew heavier, and his sweeping gaze nearly compelled people to lower their heads.

"A month ago, I sent envoys to each of Lokos's neighboring states to discuss matters of friendly exchange. Over the past week, my envoys have returned one after another, bringing me different news. Some nations agreed to establish sound cooperation with Lokos. Others foolishly refused, ignoring the might of Lokos's powerful army and choosing to prolong the conflict between men until the very last drop of Olympia's blood."

"Without doubt, I will occupy their lands. A planet that is not unified will surely perish in the vast universe of the future. This is the warning of the stars and the sea." Cold cruelty burned in his blue eyes, only for that cruelty to be ignited by even greater fury, surging forth in his words.

"However!" Peturabo raised his voice and stared at his audience for a long moment. "There is one nation that not only rejected our diplomatic request, but also despicably murdered our brave envoy and concealed the truth, leaving the bones of Lokos's people to sleep in that accursed land. It was only when our spies returned with the information today that we learned of this horrifying news! Kardis will repay all of this!"

He hurled the silver knife violently. Its point buried itself deep in the ground, sinking all the way to the hilt.

"Remember our fallen soldiers, our courageous envoys, the Heroic Spirits whose names we must sing: Mityad, Putrocles, Reni, Falcon, Kondoya. Their blood was shed dry for Lokos!"

He sat back down in the steel chair, his back straight. One by one, he gazed toward Dameks, Calipha, Harkon, and Andos in the distance, then let his eyes settle upon the main entrance of the grand theater.

"Pass the order. Have the commanders of Lokos's First through Thirteenth Companies enter in sequence. I will inspect my troops."

"And summon the former Ninety-Seventh Company, now the deputy officer of the Eighty-Fourth Squad of the Sixth Company. They will fill Mityad's vacancy and be promoted to squad commander."

Later, I'll add another update for the big shots in the book club. ORZ