The man who spoke was the chief of this tribe.
All the children of the tribe had grown up under his watch. Though he was not their birth father, every child called him "Father."
He had long since regarded every child as his own.
The death of a child was like a knife driven hard into his heart, leaving a wound that would never heal.
But he understood all the more clearly that he had no time to grieve.
When death becomes "easy," when disaster and pain cannot be reversed, then all one can do is avoid them as much as possible.
There was more he needed to do.
Prometheus looked down at the earth beneath his feet and said slowly, with steady force, "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. You are born of earth, and when you pass, you should return to the earth."
"Bury his body. Lay him deep in the soil, restore him to what he was at first, return him to the Mother of All's embrace, and let him rest."
"In the mortal realm, there is a mortal resting place. Let him have no more attachments here below, so his soul may, unburdened and unbound, begin a new life in the Underworld."
The man bowed deeply in salute and said in a voice of immeasurable weight, "Great god, thank you for your precious instruction. I will remember your words firmly and never forget them. I will pass your teaching to everyone."
"The living will live well. The dead must depart cleanly and clearly. We wish them, in the other world, a good life as well."
Prometheus nodded lightly. He slowly lifted his head and gazed up at the sky.
It was a clear sky no different from any other. Heaven and earth had not changed in the least for the passing of a small life.
He murmured, "They will… they surely will. In whatever world, you will live well."
After that, Prometheus personally established for humankind a set of rites concerning death.
These rites were not to welcome death, but to solemnly see the departed off, to provide the living a grave and formal moment to lay grief to rest and rally themselves.
The funeral rites carried both the gravity of form and the solace of the heart. Their purpose was not to cover sadness, but to teach the living how to turn pain into remembrance and the strength to go on.
He called these rites—funeral rites.
Even with his divine power to aid her, the mother who had lost her child still could not truly recover from that abyss of pain called "farewell without return."
Filled with guilt, Prometheus could only at last give her a heavy blessing: she would bear children again.
Yes, the newborn is, in the end, not the same as the one who passed.
But that is not a cold replacement; it is proof that life continues.
One cannot dwell forever in grief for what has passed.
The present and the future matter more.
This, too, is a cruel and helpless choice.
Life will always go on. The world will not halt its steps for anyone.
Nor was that the only child to pass.
In just a few short days, because of all manner of disasters, accidents, and illness, tens of thousands left the world.
Nor only humans—endless beings across the earth began to flow into the Underworld once the law of death was perfected.
Thus the Underworld at last had a trace of "vitality."
Though compared with the teeming earth, it was still far too barren and desolate.
Hades had already formally sent a request for aid to the Olympian gods, asking them to send life to the Underworld and create plants unique to it,
so that, after completing the law of death, the Underworld could gradually have its own rhythm and breath.
Having added the most crucial piece—"death"—to its puzzle of laws, the Underworld finally stepped onto its own path of development.
The Underworld will not, and cannot, remain forever dead and barren.
Because of this sudden, large-scale mortality, newborn human society fell for a time into disorder and panic; sorrow and fright shrouded them at once.
The shadow of death spread through all tribes like an invisible plague.
With the shattering of the illusion "we are not like other beings," what followed was fear of everything and numbness.
The laughter of old was gone, replaced by a deathlike silence before an unknown fate.
Prometheus was forced to use extraordinary means, directly transmitting via divine thought the concept of "death" and the procedure of "funeral rites" into the minds of all tribal chiefs. There was no time to rely on humans to spread it themselves.
Death is cruel, but humans must learn to face it.
If they cannot face it, only extinction remains.
Prometheus stood alone upon the peak of a lonely hill, wind sweeping in from all sides, stirring his robes.
His gaze was steady and far as he looked down upon the human world full of wailing.
Distant cries rose like waves, merging into a sea of pain that could not be calmed.
This was not a bystander's gaze, but a creator's anguish at the loss of his children.
Not only must humans learn to face and accept death—he, too, must learn to accept it.
To accept that these children he treasured would, before his eyes, die one by one, inevitably.
A god's eternity does not spare the heart from being torn; rather, because of immortality, each parting is carved into the clarity of divinity's long memory.
Just then, in the depths of his divinity, a thought flashed that left him startled.
He suddenly thought of his foolish brother—Epimetheus.
Since returning to Olympus to report, Epimetheus had remained there and never returned.
Was it truly only to court the newborn Graces?
Or was it…
That he had already foreseen today's grief of eternal parting, and, to flee that suffocating pain, was unwilling to come back?
Prometheus gave a bitter smile, shook his head lightly, and cast that absurd guess from his mind.
If he, the god of foresight, had not foreseen this, how could that foolish brother have seen it?
Surely impossible!
That foolish brother simply craved the delights of Olympus and the beauty of the Graces!
It must be so!
Just then, nine streams of light fell from the sky—nine holy gleams arriving together.
The nine Muses.
These goddesses, who always wore bright smiles in ordinary times, now had faces full of weight and sorrow; their steps no longer light, but bearing unspeakable grief.
From the very birth of humankind, they had accompanied and taught them; deep bonds had long since formed.
But now, too many familiar faces had vanished forever, never to be seen again.
With the law of "death" perfected, all gods, too, had to learn to accept death and grow used to this eternal parting.
Mortal life, compared to the gods' immortal eternity, is far too brief.
Perhaps with just one brief sleep and waking, all that was once familiar had already changed beyond recognition.
The nine Muses had not come to share sorrow with him.
They brought news that made Prometheus even heavier of heart.
They had received a message from their mother, Mnemosyne: their task among mortals was temporarily complete; they were to return to Olympus at once.
The era of the gods teaching humankind "hand in hand" had ended.
Prometheus could only accept this.
The cruelty of death had taught him as well: the gods should not interfere too much in human life.
Gods can teach humans how to live, but they must not live in their stead.
After the nine Muses had also taken their leave, Prometheus, even heavier of heart, turned his gaze to the human world once more.
The vivid colors belonging to gods were drawing ever more out of this land.
The only god still among humans was him.
And he had a premonition that he, too, would soon leave humankind.
And that time would not be far off.
At this moment, human society was full of lamentation; every tribe had too many who wept.
But he could do nothing.
He could only watch from afar.
His heart felt the same pain as those mortals who had lost their dearest kin.
He could not help but worry deeply: when he, too, left humankind—when their tribes were no longer under his protection—what if harms arose they could not withstand?
You must know, the cosmos holds not only kind gods; there are always gods who are hot-tempered and cruel.
Even the weakest god is, to humans, a being they absolutely cannot resist.
Though humankind was created at His Majesty the God-King's command to enrich the cosmos, the noblest among mortal beings,
mortals are still mortals.
To most gods, humans are no different from any other mortal beings.
Perhaps a god merely passes by, and a careless moment brings consequences humans cannot bear.
What then?
That humans can now live at ease upon the earth, facing no harm from any supernatural forces or other gods, is mainly because of their exalted origin—His Majesty the God-King's command and the personal work of many great gods.
After they were born, he and the nine Muses had always watched over them, so of course no blind fool dared lift a hand against them.
But after the gods all depart? If then some god takes offense at humankind and strikes—what then?
That mortals possess higher intelligence is nothing in itself; that is what His Majesty desires, and no one dares gainsay it.
His Majesty demanded the creation of intelligent life so the gods would not be lonely; that is something the gods can accept.
But! These tiny mortals actually resemble the gods in form!
That is different. In many gods' eyes, the very existence of humankind becomes a profanation.
Once no gods keep watch, if His Majesty issues no special proclamation, then surely there will be gods who sweep away this filth in their eyes.
So long as they do not annihilate humankind entirely, then an occasional "little whim" is nothing at all, is it?
Though His Majesty the God-King's sacred and righteous order protects all living things, and humankind is valued by His Majesty,
faced with such little whims from gods, how heavy could the punishment be?
To a god, it hardly matters; but to mortals, that little whim is a matter of life and death.
Though His Majesty the God-King values humankind, He has never issued any formal proclamation, this…
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