Agu separated the two cubs, teaching them that they belonged to the same tribe and could not fight one another. Then he split the fruit evenly between them.
At the same time, his thoughts grew heavier.
Although Agu had been born mature and possessed the ability to understand all things, even now, after having died once, he was still, in essence, a child who had not truly experienced the world. These tangled, complicated matters left him uncertain, unsure of the correct path forward.
As he looked at the steadily growing feathered people, the unease in his heart deepened.
"Can I really be a good leader?"
"Can I truly lead them well?"
This time, Agu felt discouraged.
All his former fearlessness, his confidence in facing hardship, his resolve to stand again after countless falls, had come from God's mission. Yet now, the responsibility of being a chief was no longer closely tied to that mission.
Agu understood this clearly.
Whether these feathered people were good or bad, they were all part of this world. God's mission had only been to let him create and experience different forms of existence. If he demanded nothing, if he allowed these people to grow freely, he would have no worries at all.
But he could not.
He had watched them grow, cared for them, fed them, protected them. In doing so, he felt a weight settle heavily upon him.
"I brought them into this world," Agu murmured softly. "They are my people. I must think about their future."
Having reached this thought, Agu made a decision.
Since he could not find an answer on his own, he would seek God.
He would do everything in his power to complete the mission God had given him. And for the things God had not explained, he would ask.
In this regard, Agu was not so different from the feathered people who relied on him. He, too, relied on God.
Agu did not understand rituals, nor did he possess any concept of them. He only knew that he wished to see God. So he knelt on the ground and spoke of his confusion and struggle. This was his prayer.
God appeared.
The moment God descended, birds and beasts fled in all directions. The sky was clear and cloudless, yet a low, muffled thunder rolled through the heavens.
Agu's status had already diminished. If he wished to see God again, he would need to offer more of himself.
In Elios's current state, appearing in the world inevitably caused oppression.
"God!" Agu smiled, rising quickly and approaching Elios.
His joy soon restrained itself. With solemn reverence, he asked, "God, how should I restrain the feathered people? How should I guide them onto the right path?"
"Rules exist among all things," Elios replied calmly. "You must discover them, fix them, mold them into clay, and carve them into stone."
"Behavior is ritual. Precedent is rule."
Elios raised his hand, and an image unfolded before Agu's eyes.
Elios killed the pigeon. Agu fell from the sky.
These were acts Agu himself had once performed.
Past deeds became examples. Examples formed paths. Paths could be followed.
One's own behavior became etiquette, something that restrained oneself, set standards, and defined boundaries.
When behavior and precedent merged, ritual was born.
"I understand," Agu said, his eyes bright.
Though his body towered over the world, before God he felt incomparably small.
"Can I see you often?" he asked, hope clear in his voice.
"You have your own life," Elios said. "Live it well. Do not rush to return to me."
Before Agu could ask anything more, God had already departed.
Gazing at the place where God vanished, Agu strained to sense something, anything.
And faintly, he did.
"Genesis 2:2. God said, take behavior as ritual, take precedent as rule. Mold it into clay, carve it into stone, and all things shall follow."
"Genesis 2:3. God said, man has his own life. He should live it well."
The words sank into the world and disappeared.
Agu could no longer perceive them. Just as before, even if he returned to the place stained with pigeon blood, Genesis One would not appear again.
This time, only the lingering afterglow of God had allowed him to sense them.
Agu engraved those words deeply into his heart.
"These must be recorded," he thought. "God's teachings are the highest rituals."
"Mold into clay. Carve into stone."
He would create two books.
First, Agu searched everywhere for hard stone. If rituals were to be established, their vessels must endure.
He thought of obsidian, stone born of cooled magma, but found it too brittle and too inconvenient to carve with his claws.
As the sun began to rise, Agu abandoned the search and returned to the shelter with food.
A new day began.
The feathered cubs resumed their playful lives. After four days, their intelligence had grown rapidly. They had learned most of the language Agu taught them. Though they still fought, their understanding had deepened.
They knew who fed them.
Who protected them.
Who ruled here.
Yet as they matured, their ability to cause trouble grew as well.
Their shelter developed flaws. Vines and leaves once sufficient now failed to restrain them. Their wings had grown strong enough for short flights.
At night, while Agu searched for food and stone, they learned to sneak out.
They learned concealment.
When Agu caught them, one in his claws and one in his mouth, he felt both anger and amusement.
And he saw it clearly.
Among them, differences had emerged.
One cub had planned everything.
"He needs a name," Agu thought.
To name someone was sacred. God had named him, and from that moment his journey had begun.
Once named, a being became independent.
Before that time came, rituals had to be established.
Rules had to be set.
That night, Agu dreamed once more.