"Not so sharp anymore?"
Elios watched Agu as he tended to the newborn Feathered People. His own form was clearly present not far away, yet Agu could not perceive this manifestation at all.
The greatest consequence of losing the essence of life was not weakness of the body, but the decline of status.
Status was an elusive thing—intangible, yet undeniably real.
In Elios's eyes, status was the true weight of an existence.
Within a story, the protagonist carried more weight than a supporting role, and the supporting role more than a nameless passerby. Yet a world was not a single story. Across vast lands and immeasurable time, countless narratives intertwined, making the calculation of status infinitely complex.
In the beginning, Agu had been the only life.
The first life.
Thus, his status had once stood at the absolute peak.
But he had died.
His life had dispersed, given to all things, and so his status naturally declined. He was no longer unique. What sustained him now was only the mission and the name bestowed upon him by Elios.
Elios's gaze shifted away from the Feathered People and settled instead upon a certain bird.
A pigeon.
Yet it was entirely unlike the one he had once held in the old world.
"Most of the new lives in this world originate from my spirit," Elios murmured.
He extended his hand.
The pigeon flew toward him, crossing the limits of position and perception, sensing his existence instinctively, before settling calmly into his palm.
Agu had used his death to bring about the prosperity of life. These lives appeared to emerge randomly, evolving according to geography and experience.
But in truth, they were deeply influenced by Elios.
At this time, Elios's spirit had already transformed into black-and-red inscriptions, spreading invisibly across the world. And the core of his spirit was memory.
Within those memories were countless images of plants, animals, and forms of life.
During evolution, living beings were naturally shaped by these spiritual memories, gradually approaching the appearances etched within Elios's mind.
To a certain extent, this was the will of God.
Agu's instinctive "knowing" was merely a blurred perception of these memories.
The pigeon Elios once caught was never truly life—it was only a symbol. If he had wished, it could just as easily have been a disc, a book, or something entirely unrelated.
The pigeons now inhabiting this world were biological creatures, drawn from memory rather than symbol. They retained faint echoes of meaning, but little else.
Elios felt the pigeon's presence quietly.
"It seems… some connections can be added."
This was his first time creating a world.
In the beginning, his focus had been on destroying the old and giving rise to the new. As for development afterward, he had allowed things to unfold naturally, guided only by distant intent rather than rigid design.
But now, seeing the pigeon, an idea formed.
With that thought alone, the pigeon race was given new significance.
And with that significance, new rules quietly settled into the world.
Once the foundation was laid, what followed would depend on Agu and the Feathered People.
—
Agu's ears were filled with anxious cries of "gu-gu-gu."
He hurried to calm his kin, pulling back several who were about to tumble into danger.
Suddenly, he sensed something.
He looked toward the distant sky, where flocks of birds crossed the clouds.
In that instant, he felt a subtle change—something important, yet impossible to name.
Before he could grasp it, the noisy Feathered People dragged his attention back.
Gradually, as the sun sank, their energy faded. One by one, they closed their eyes and fell into sleep.
Only then did Agu finally relax.
In sleep, the Feathered People looked far gentler, their breathing steady, their forms slowly growing with each rise and fall of their chests.
Agu estimated that in ten days, they would enter adolescence. Their wisdom would mature, and care would no longer be so exhausting.
At that point, he could begin teaching them—about the world, about labor, about creation.
While watching over them, Agu noticed something new about his own body.
It possessed sexual characteristics.
With sex came gender, and with gender came reproduction.
He counted his kin—more than thirty Feathered People, male and female alike.
"Even if growth slows," Agu thought calmly, "given time, we will multiply."
"And with enough hands, this world will grow richer."
For the first time, Agu felt true confidence.
That night, he fell asleep.
—
A bright moon rose.
In sleep, Agu found himself in a place shrouded in darkness and mist.
He did not know where he was.
He did not even know who he was.
Instinct drove him forward, but with each step his body grew heavier, his exhaustion deeper.
At last, a thought emerged.
"Why continue?"
A voice echoed softly.
"Why not stop? Then you won't be tired."
He hesitated—and immediately felt lighter. The fog seemed less oppressive.
"I… still have God's mission."
The words rose from his instincts.
As soon as he thought of God, light pierced the darkness. The fog shattered, and memory surged back into him.
He remembered everything.
The dream collapsed.
Agu awoke.
Something pressed heavily against him.
The Feathered People stood upon his body, hopping and chirping joyfully.
As he rose, the dream's memory faded like smoke.
He gently lifted the children away and began caring for them once more, preventing accidents and guiding their clumsy movements.
Another busy day had begun.