The Bronze Route—in the age spoken of in epic poems, this road had connected the Imperial City to the area where copper, the chief material in the production of bronze weapons and armor, was mined. As the veins of copper ore had dried up, the road had grown quiet.
The ancient road had become busy again in recent years. People and horses, all with exhausted expressions, now traveled up and down the road; every one of them had lost their homes and were now refugees, driven out by Reincarnators. Some could rely on distant relatives; others could only wander with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Regardless, they had to survive. That instinct propelled the crowd forward.
At an old, abandoned temple on the side of the road, people gathered to rest. In a fire built on the altar, a sacrificial beast was burned as an offering to the gods.
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Dill was hurled backward by the force of a blow, his sword broken. Suddenly finding himself tumbling on the ground, he struggled to stand back up; supporting himself on his shattered blade, he tried to bring himself up to his knees, but there was no strength left in his legs. He keeled forward and glared up at the god, his eyes smoldering like molten lead with hatred.
The lustrous god looked down at the pathetic figure of Dill with an expression of pity.
“Listen, my son—Prodotis, child of the sun god Ex Machina Coward. To what end doth a human such as thee, fated to die, challenge the immortal gods to battle? One of thy parents may have been divine, but the other was mortal. Of course thou hadst no chance of victory.”
“Father, Ex Machina Coward, who even among the gods is hailed by flocks of people...I will answer thy question. I seek immortality, something which you gods possess but which we humans lack. Gods are not fated to die and need not live in fear of illness or hunger. It is different for us. The shadow of death loometh constantly over our lives, and as much as it may pain us, we know that we shall be separated from those we love. Equally shall death part us from our enemies. I resent that destiny.”
Ex Machina Coward, the god of youth who enjoys eternal spring—the actor playing the part of this god placed his hand on his brow and sighed. Even something as quiet as a sigh traveled far in the silence surrounding the stage which was erected in front of the temple. The audience was enraptured by this performance, and no one moved a muscle.
“Know thyself, son. Do not exceed thy station. The gods must punish any man who grows arrogant and seeks more than he is allowed—even if he be one of our own children.”
The god drew his bow, and the audience gasped even though it was a stage prop that bore no iron arrowhead. Dill also played his part—that of a man upon whom a god had trained his unerring arrow—despite the bow merely being a facsimile.
Under the threat of death, there was only one honorable path for a man—that being to stare down your approaching doom without fear and accept it.
“That is enough. Gods, and children of men, all of you—put down your weapons!”
A venerable voice rang down from above the scene. With the sound of creaking wood, a device activated inside the stage—one that worked by simple principles, which allowed an actor to be raised or lowered. Thus, the king of the gods was revealed.
“Hero Prodotis, son of Coward...thy request has been heard. However, gods are gods, and men are men. Even I, Ex Machina Anxiety, king of all the gods, cannot alter the destiny that has been decided for the race of men.”
“Then what wilt thou do, Anxiety, god of wisdom?”
“Prodotis, thou art forgiven. Not as a rebellious human, however, but as one of our kin, a new pillar of the gods. Carry thyself with pride, for thou hast won immortality for thyself. Henceforth thou shouldst walk hand in hand with thy godly father, living in harmony for eternity.”
The king of the gods held out his hands, announcing the conclusion of the story. Even the gods were compelled to kneel upon this decision.
Dill, as Prodotis the hero, smiled a broad smile that showed his teeth. Swinging his broken sword over his head, he saluted the king of the gods, the progenitor of all things.
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With thunderous applause, the final curtain fell on the ancient tragedy Prodotis. The actors formed a line on the stage and bowed, and Dill enthusiastically shook hands with the young man who had played Ex Machina Coward.
“You have talent, and you’re young too. Next time I’m rooting for you to play Prodotis. I hope one day we can stand on the same stage again.”
Dill clapped the young man on the shoulder, then strode backstage and downstairs. Separated from the rest of the stage by heavy curtains was the actors’ break room.
“Dill, welcome back!”
A small girl jumped into Dill’s outstretched arms. Planting a foot on his knee, she grabbed onto his broad shoulders and climbed, finding herself in his embrace in no time.
“You were breathtaking today, as always! So handsome! Such a fetching, fetching man!”
The girl looked up at him with red eyes; Dill’s own rust-brown eyes were lost in his smile.
“You’re very clever, Nue. You really know how to flatter your papa. What are you planning on asking for this time?”
“I want something sweet!”
Dill flicked her forehead with a finger. Despite objecting to this, the girl laughed. Dill planted kisses on her forehead and her black hair.
A boy, curled up nearby, looked up at Dill resentfully.
“You’re still a murderer.”
The boy’s eyes held true hatred. The antipathy Dill had played out on the stage, glaring at the gods as he crawled on the earth, had seemed real enough, but ultimately the genuine article was quite different.
This was the same boy Dill had rescued a few days earlier from the village attacked by Reincarnators. With his life saved and nowhere else to go, the boy had grudgingly accompanied Dill.
“I had no choice but to kill him. He wasn’t himself anymore.”
Dill made his excuses quietly. In stark contrast with his forceful performance onstage, he was now slumped in his chair, all confidence gone from his expression.
The boy’s tone toward him was harsh. “There must have been a way to save him.”
“Haven’t heard of any.”
“We might still find one.”
“If I’d wasted time trying to save your father, you would’ve been killed.”
“I would have been far better off dying than living on without him!”
Dill fell silent at that. The girl who had been clinging to Dill swiftly climbed down and stood in front of the boy.
“Don’t say depressing things like that. It’s always better to be alive.”
Seemingly unable to direct the same resentment toward an innocent girl his own age as he had toward Dill, the boy could only look away, glaring at his feet instead.
“I wish you’d at least tell me your name. I’m Nue Kirisaki! What’s yours?” asked the girl with the black hair—tilting her head to one side. Her eyes gleamed as red as rubies.
As the boy looked up, his cheeks were revealed to be just as red.
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Arriving at the altar where the sacrificial ritual was being conducted, Dill was greeted with adulation—no doubt in honor of his performance from earlier. He was offered some of the better cuts from the freshly carved beast.
Only part of the beast was offered to the gods, the rest being reserved for the worshippers to eat. Dill offered pieces of skewered meat to the children first.
“You should eat your fill. This meat is for mortal humans to eat, while the bones, which never decay, are for the immortal Ex Machina. Let’s take what’s ours.”
“Could you please stop explaining things like you actually know what you’re talking about?” You killed my father. You’re the last person I’d listen to.
In the back of the boy’s mind lurked the memory of the last time he had attended such a ceremony, where his father had explained the rites and their history.
Dill’s shoulders slumped. He had no real way of knowing what the boy felt in his heart. “Well, young children never show much interest in religion. That’s been true in every age.”