Lucian sat near the back of the class, his posture languid yet composed, as though he belonged but didn't care to prove it. His long white hair fell in soft waves, the sunlight filtering through the tall windows catching its strands and making them shimmer faintly, like threads of moonlight. His golden eyes, striking and otherworldly, seemed to gleam even in the subdued light of the lecture hall, their gaze distant, as if they were seeing something far beyond the present moment.
The room was spacious, with walls lined with shelves of books and digital interfaces that flickered with streams of information. The class was gathered in semi-circular rows, their desks equipped with sleek holo-terminals that displayed scrolling notes and interactive diagrams. At the center of the room stood the professor, an older man with a weathered face and a sharp intellect that shone through his piercing gray eyes. His name was Professor Aldwin Kierath, a scholar renowned for his eccentric yet captivating lessons on philosophy.
"Good and evil," the professor began, his voice resonating through the hall, "haunt the minds of every generation. What defines morality? Is it an absolute, a divine decree? Or is it shaped by the hands of humanity, molded by culture, circumstance, and necessity?" He paced slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. "Take the writings of Solen Vardis, for instance, who argued that good and evil are constructs invented by the weak to constrain the strong. Or consider Anoria Levain, who believed that morality was an innate compass, a spark of the divine gifted to all living beings. And then there was Darien Hale, who claimed that morality was merely a reflection of power—whoever holds it decides what is good and what is evil."
Lucian's golden eyes remained fixed on the holo-terminal in front of him, but his thoughts wandered, his mind dissecting the professor's words. He wasn't distracted, not truly; his focus simply ran deeper than the surface. To an outsider, he might have appeared disengaged, his fingers idly tapping the edge of his desk, but in reality, he was tracing the philosophical threads in his mind, pulling at them, unraveling their meaning.
Professor Kierath's voice sharpened as he noticed Lucian's apparent inattention. With a subtle grin, he reached for a small, palm-sized device on his desk. It was a spherical gadget called a "Mentor Orb," a tool designed to redirect wandering minds in the classroom. When thrown, the orb emitted a soft pulse of light, temporarily stimulating the recipient's neural focus—a mild, harmless reprimand but effective in making its point. A tool Professor Kierath admittedly enjoyed using way too often.
The professor's hand shot forward, and the orb sailed through the air, heading straight for Lucian. Without turning his head or even seeming to move, Lucian leaned ever so slightly to the side, the orb brushing past him and landing harmlessly on the desk behind him. The motion was so fluid, so imperceptibly subtle, that it left the class momentarily stunned. Then came the laughter, light and good-natured, as Lucian finally raised his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"See, Professor," Lucian said, his voice calm and unhurried, "I was paying attention."The laughter swelled, even Professor Kierath chuckling as he retrieved the orb. "Well, if you really were, Mr. Vale," he said, using Lucian's surname with an air of playful challenge, "then perhaps you'd like to enlighten us with your perspective on the subject?"
The room fell silent, all eyes turning to Lucian as the faint smile on his lips lingered, golden eyes now sharp and focused. The classroom buzzed with subdued murmurs of excitement as Lucian stood to give his answer.
"Professor," Lucian began, his voice calm yet resonant, "if we're discussing morality, we need to address one fundamental question: its source. If morality is subjective—decided by individuals or societies—then it holds no true authority. It becomes mutable, shifting with the tides of power or popular opinion. But if there is such a thing as objective morality, it must come from a source higher than humanity, something constant and unchanging. Otherwise, we're left with nothing but opinions, and no one has the right to say what is truly right or wrong."
The professor leaned forward, a glimmer of intrigue in his aged eyes. "Go on," he said, gesturing for Lucian to continue.
Lucian crossed his arms, his golden gaze fixed on the professor. "Think about it: societies throughout history have justified atrocities—genocide, slavery, oppression—because their version of morality allowed it. If we base morality purely on human reasoning, what's to stop us from repeating those same mistakes? Only a higher power, a transcendent authority, can establish an unyielding standard for what is good and evil."
The professor raised an eyebrow, his voice challenging but respectful. "And yet, many would argue that morality evolves as we do. That we learn and adapt, creating better systems over time. Why invoke a higher power when we have the capacity to reason and grow?"
Lucian smiled faintly, his expression thoughtful. "Reason alone doesn't guarantee morality. A society driven by reason could just as easily rationalize cruelty if it serves their goals. Without a higher standard to measure against, morality becomes whatever benefits the powerful. The question isn't whether good or evil exists—it's whether God exists. Because if there's no God, there's no objective morality."
The room fell into a contemplative silence, students shifting uncomfortably in their seats as the weight of Lucian's words hung in the air. Even the professor, usually quick to challenge his brightest student, seemed momentarily lost in thought.
Before the silence could stretch too long, a voice cut through the tension, smooth and deliberate, yet carrying a subtle edge.
"Why should we believe in the God you speak of?" the voice said, drawing all eyes to the back of the classroom.
Lucian turned his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing as they locked onto the speaker. He hadn't noticed him before, though the figure had been there the entire time, seated with an air of quiet indifference. His presence was almost ghostlike—effortless yet unsettling, as though he existed just enough to be noticed when he chose.
Kael Drenic.
He sat reclined in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, his black hair falling into disheveled strands that framed a face sharp enough to cut. His pale gray eyes glinted faintly under the light, cold and unyielding, like polished steel. There was no friendliness in his expression, just the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of his lips, a smirk that seemed to mock the gravity of the discussion.
The professor straightened, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. "Mr. Drenic, if you have something to add, do it constructively."
Kael's smirk deepened, and he leaned forward, resting his chin lazily on his hand. "Oh, I only sleek clarification. Why must morality come from this God we're discussing? Why should we even believe in Him?"
The room stirred, a ripple of unease spreading among the students.
Lucian's gaze remained steady, his golden eyes studying Kael with quiet intensity. There was something about this man—something that set him apart, though Lucian couldn't quite place it yet.
Kael leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest. "Please enlighten me, I'd love to hear what makes this 'higher power' so indispensable."
Lucian straightened, his lips curving into a faint smile. "You seem awfully interested in someone who claims it's unnecessary."
Kael chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous.
The professor, sensing the growing tension, stepped forward. "Gentlemen, let's keep this civil. Mr. Drenic, you've made your position clear. Now, Mr. Lucian, feel free to continue your thoughts."
Lucian leaned back slightly; his posture relaxed but his golden gaze sharp. He studied Kael for a moment before speaking. "Because without Him, morality is subjective. It's nothing more than opinion, and opinions shift. Without a higher power, there's no foundation, no standard to measure right from wrong."
Kael looked at Lucian for the first time in the eyes. "And what makes your God so qualified to set that standard? Why should we accept His rules, His morality? Maybe morality is meant to evolve with us, not be dictated by some... tyrant above."
The room stirred uneasily, and the professor raised a hand to silence the murmurs. "Careful, Mr. Drenic," he warned, though there was a flicker of interest in his expression. "You're treading on sensitive ground."
Kael ignored him, his steel-gray eyes fixed on Lucian. "You talk about morality as though it's a gift from above. But what kind of God would create a world like this? A world full of suffering, chaos, and evil? If your God is all-powerful, why does He allow it? If He can stop it but doesn't, how is He good? And if He can't stop it, why call Him God at all?"
Lucian's expression didn't waver, but the air between the two seemed to grow heavier, charged with unspoken tension.
"Perhaps," Lucian said slowly, his voice calm and measured, "the existence of evil doesn't disprove God. It proves the need for Him. Without Him, evil would have no opposition, no justice, no redemption."
Kael's smirk grew. "Redemption? You think your God redeems? Tell that to the countless souls who cry out in pain every day, who receive no answers. Tell them that their suffering is part of some grand plan. Your God sounds less like a savior and more like an indifferent ruler, watching from on high as the world burns."
The professor stepped in, sensing the growing unease in the room. "Gentlemen please, let's keep this civil, I don't want to have to ask again" he said firmly, though his own interest was clearly piqued.
But Lucian wasn't finished. His golden eyes stayed fixed on Kael, their usual warmth now sharp, piercing. His voice, steady and deliberate, cut through the tense silence.
"You ask why an all-powerful God would allow suffering, chaos, and evil," Lucian began. "Have you ever considered that maybe it wasn't Him who allowed it? Maybe it was us?"
Kael tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Us? You mean humanity? Convenient, isn't it, to pass the blame to the very creatures He created, knowing full well what they were capable of?"
Lucian didn't falter. "Yes, humanity. He gave us free will—something no tyrant would ever grant. He gave us the freedom to choose between good and evil, to love Him or reject Him. If He forced us to follow Him, to only do good, then we wouldn't be free. We'd be nothing more than puppets on strings, incapable of genuine love or choice."
Kael leaned forward, resting an elbow on his desk, his pale gray eyes gleaming with interest. "And what has that so-called freedom given us, Lucian? Wars? Suffering? Death? If your God truly cared, why give us a choice at all? What good is freedom if it leads to ruin?"
Lucian's voice remained calm, though his words carried a quiet intensity. "The very thing you complain about—freedom—is what makes us human. It's what makes love meaningful. He doesn't force us to love Him because forced love isn't real love. It's hollow, empty. True love must be chosen, and that choice requires freedom. And with freedom comes the risk of evil."
Kael's smirk widened, though it was more cynical now. "Ah, yes. Freedom. And how much freedom do you really think you have under a God who sets the rules? Who claims to know what's best? It sounds more like a gilded cage than true liberty."
Lucian took a step closer, his golden gaze unwavering. "Freedom isn't the absence of rules, Kael. It's the ability to choose whether to follow them. He gives us that choice—every single one of us. And the evil you point to? That's not God's doing. That's the consequence of our choices. He doesn't delight in our suffering, but He respects the freedom He gave us, even when we misuse it."
Kael leaned back, his posture relaxed, though his expression betrayed a flicker of something deeper—curiosity, perhaps, or annoyance. "So you're saying God just sits back and watches, letting us tear each other apart in the name of free will?"
Lucian's eyes softened, but his resolve remained. "He doesn't just watch. He gave us a way out. A way to redemption. But again, it's a choice. He doesn't force it on us. You can call that indifference, but I call it love."
The room was silent, the tension thick in the air as the two locked gazes, the ideological chasm between them vast and undeniable.
Kael's voice dropped, low and almost chilling. "Love? Or weakness? A God who allows His creation to destroy itself doesn't sound loving to me. It sounds like negligence."
Lucian didn't look away, his voice unwavering. "You see it as weakness because you don't understand what real love is, Kael. Love isn't control. It's sacrifice. And if you're honest with yourself, you know that's what makes it powerful."
For a moment, Kael said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, he leaned back into his chair. "Interesting perspective. But I'll say this—freedom isn't worth much when it's chained to the whims of a higher power."
Lucian tilted his head slightly, a small, thoughtful smile on his lips. "Or maybe it's worth everything when that higher power lets you choose how to use it."
The tension hung thick as the class watched the exchange, stunned into silence.
Then, breaking the stillness, Kael let out a low, amused laugh. "Ah, that was fun," he said, his voice carrying a playful lilt. "It's always entertaining playing devil's advocate. For the record, Lucian, I do believe in God."
Lucian blinked, momentarily taken aback. The intensity in the room seemed to deflate, the weight of the debate dissipating into Kael's lighthearted tone.
The professor chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against his desk. "Well, Kael, you certainly have a flair for theatrics," he said, his voice tinged with both amusement and exasperation. "Though I'd say you did an excellent job stirring the pot today. Lucian, you too—your arguments were sharp. Philosophy is at its best when it makes us question and refine what we think we know."
He glanced at the clock and clapped his hands together. "And on that note, I think we've reached the limit of our time today. Class dismissed. Enjoy the rest of your day, and try not to cause any existential crises over lunch."
The room erupted into quiet murmurs as the students began packing up their things and heading for the door, the air considerably lighter than it had been mere moments ago. Lucian glanced back at Kael one last time. Kael's expression was inscrutable, his pale gray eyes flicking up to meet Lucian's for the briefest of moments before he turned away.
As the classroom emptied, the professor gave Lucian a small nod. "You've got a good mind, Lucian. Keep questioning, keep learning. It'll serve you well."
Lucian nodded, offering a polite smile. "Thank you, professor."