The rusted light armor clung to Ares's body, heavy and cold, like a boulder pressing down on his chest. Knightly light armor was meant to symbolize honor and strength, but on him, it only highlighted a comical incongruity. The square teemed with people, a bustling clamor, attribute glows like a rainbow in the summer afternoon, interwoven and shimmering through the crowd. Blue for wisdom, crimson for perseverance, gray for pain, verdant green for nature – the twelve God-given attributes, foundations of this world, also delineated a strict hierarchy.
And Ares, like a corner abruptly left blank on a canvas splashed with paint, dull and lusterless.
He was a swordsman, a swordsman without attribute.
In an age where attributes defined everything, lacking attribute meant mediocrity, uselessness, a fate of being swept away by the torrent of society, ultimately forgotten. The gazes cast his way were openly scornful and aloof, like the biting winter wind, stinging his skin, but colder still was the self-doubt in the depths of his heart, powerless to refute.
He gripped the standard longsword in his hand, the blade rough and without sheen, just like his future, bleak and dim. Swordsman was the most common profession in this world, almost everyone yearning to become a powerful swordsman, wielding attribute power to slay monsters, protect their homes, or pursue greater glory and status. But a swordsman without attribute was just a joke, a backdrop to highlight the strength of others.
Today's square hosted the routine divine oracle festival. Priests, in robes adorned with jewels, chanted hymns from the high platform, praising the greatness and grace of the twelve gods. The crowd knelt devoutly on the ground, bathed in the sacred radiance, praying for the gods' protection and favor.
Ares mingled at the edge of the crowd, like a ghost, incongruous with the surrounding pious atmosphere. It wasn't that he disrespected the gods, but he was numb. From birth, he had been told to revere the gods, to thank them for their grace, but he had never felt any grace. He grew like weeds in the cracks of society, struggling to survive, unable to see any dawn of hope.
As the festival reached its climax, the priest raised the crystal ball symbolizing the divine oracle, proclaiming the gods' will with a stern voice: "Mortals should revere the gods, obey the order of attributes. Those without attributes, be content with your lot, and do not vainly attempt to overstep…"
The divine oracle was like heavy shackles, firmly binding every attribute-less person. A low sigh rippled through the square, the sound of attribute-less people resigning themselves to fate, also the long-suppressed unwillingness and anger in Ares's heart.
He slowly stood up, moving against the tide of kneeling people, appearing exceptionally out of place. The people around him looked up in astonishment, as if they had seen some incredible monster. The chanting of the priests abruptly ceased, and from the high platform, the priests frowned, their scrutinizing gazes fixed on him.
Ares ignored the surrounding stares, step by step, walking towards the altar. His pace was slow yet firm, each step like a war drum beating in the silent square, vibrating the air, and vibrating hearts.
He reached the edge of the altar, raised his head, looked directly at the priests on the high platform, their expressions turning to anger, and with a calm and low voice, broke the sacred atmosphere of the festival:
"I, Ares, one without attribute, hereby question the divine oracle."
Silence, deathly silence.
Everyone in the square held their breath, time seemed to freeze at this moment. "Question the divine oracle," these four words, like thunder, exploded in people's ears, deafening. In a world where divine authority reigned supreme, to question the divine oracle was equivalent to blasphemy, an unforgivable crime.
The priests on the high platform turned ashen-faced. The high priest, his beard and hair bristling, pointed at Ares and roared sternly, "Audacious madman! How dare you blaspheme the gods! Do you know your crime!"
Ares ignored the high priest's roar. He took a deep breath, and transformed all the emotions accumulated in his chest into words, like sharp blades, directly piercing the core of divine authority:
"Gods create attributes, divide people, bestow grace upon the strong, and abandon the weak. Is this the gods' justice? Is this the gods' mercy? I was born without attribute, destined to be humble, destined to be useless, destined to be defined by you as 'un-overstepping' ants? I am not convinced! I do not believe it! I question the hypocrisy of this divine oracle, I question the… injustice of this divine authority!"
His voice was not loud, but it clearly spread throughout the square, every word carrying resolution and defiance, like sparks, igniting the long-hidden doubts and dissatisfaction in people's hearts.
"Blasphemers of the gods shall suffer divine punishment!" The high priest howled at the top of his lungs, and the crystal ball suddenly erupted with blinding light, as if the angry gods were descending punishment.
In the sky, the once clear heavens instantly became gloomy, dark clouds poured down like ink, obscuring the sunlight. Bolts of thick lightning tore through the firmament, emitting deafening roars, as if the entire world were trembling.
The crowd screamed in terror, scattering and fleeing, kneeling on the ground, trembling, praying for the gods' forgiveness. Only Ares, still standing upright at the edge of the altar, looked up at the divine punishment brewing in the sky, his eyes devoid of fear, only a resolution bordering on madness.
A bolt of purple lightning, like an enraged giant serpent, descended from the sky, accurately and unmistakably striking Ares.
Intense pain instantly engulfed his consciousness, as if his soul were torn apart, and his body crushed to dust. He felt as if he were falling into a bottomless abyss, endless darkness completely engulfing him.
In the last moment before his consciousness dissipated, he heard a ethereal voice, like whispers from the distant stars, or like a cry from the depths of his heart:
"Miracle… born… from despair…"