Ashes of the Elite-Chapter 40: Philosophy

The room is silent, heavy with the weight of my words. Bishop Lark looks mildly stunned, as if he could not believe my audacity to say such things. His intelligent eyes study me like I'm a puzzle he hadn't expected to be this complicated. Cecilia, on the other hand, turns slightly in her chair, her fingers tightening around mine as she searches my face.

I don't know what she's looking for—doubt? Conviction? Maybe she thinks I'm testing the Bishop. Or maybe she's hoping I don't actually believe what I just said.

A few seconds pass, stretched thin, each one dragging out like minutes. Then, finally, Bishop Lark exhales, the tension slipping from his shoulders as he leans back slightly, his expression shifting—not into anger, not into condescension, but something like awe.

"Well," he says, voice measured, "I didn't think we'd be discussing philosophy so early into our relationship, Lord Daath. But I'll answer your question with a simple truth."

He places his cup down, folding his hands over the desk as he watches me.

"You say the gods do not intervene to prevent evil, but is evil not a symptom of the rejection of gods? And do they not attempt to solve that rejection by blessing champions to spread their will? They don't infringe directly upon the free will of man but instead give us shepherds to point us in the correct direction."

I let out a slow breath, staring at him, considering. The idea that gods don't act directly but instead work through the hands of their chosen isn't new—but it still doesn't sit right with me. If they exist, if they really have all this power, why play these games at all? Why let the world become what it is?

Cecilia's grip on my hand tightens just slightly, like she's bracing herself for what I'll say next.

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Free will? That's what you call it?" I lean forward slightly, my voice laced with poison. "If the gods truly guide people, then why does history read like an endless book of atrocities? If the gods exist to offer us direction, then why do their followers wield their name like a blade?"

Bishop Lark narrows his eyes, his expression cool. "Because men are flawed, Lord Daath. The gods do not create tyrants—men do. The gods do not demand war—men justify it in their name."

My lip curls. "How convenient."

Cecilia tenses beside me, her fingers still clutching mine.

I feel a surge of frustration but keep my voice steady as I continue. "Free will," I echo, "is often cited as the reason for the world's ills. But when that freedom leads to endless cycles of violence, can we not question the role of those who claim divine guidance?"​

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Lark's gaze remains fixed on me. "Evil," he says, "is a symptom of humanity's rejection of the gods, as I said. They offer guidance, but it is up to us to follow it. The soul is not moved to abandon higher things and love inferior things unless it wills to do so.

Lark sighs, taking a slow sip of his tea before continuing. "You focus too much on what has been done in the name of the gods rather than on the good that has been done by their will. If you take away the divine laws, what remains? Chaos. Lawlessness. A world where men decide what is right and wrong based only on strength."

My eyes narrow. "And how is that any different from the world we live in now?"

Lark doesn't answer immediately. He knows I've backed him into a corner.

I sit back, exhaling through my nose. "The Order and the gods don't prevent evil, Bishop." My voice lowers, turning into something almost venomous. "They exacerbate it."

I continue, my voice gaining heat. "In the past, religious men and women spread the word of their God with their bullets. Then came the First King and his cohort of Elites from the Dark Continent, waving his flag. And what did he and his Elites do? They spread their new Order with violence as well, destroying the old God and installing the order." I shake my head in contempt. "Death begets death, Bishop."

Lark's expression softens slightly. "It is true that men have misused the name of the divine to justify their own ambitions. But consider this: 'The gods will not help the men who will not act.' The gods provide us with the means to choose righteousness; it is humanity's responsibility to act accordingly."

I exhale slowly, the weight of the conversation pressing down on me. "No one in this world can separate themselves from violence, myself included. That is why, Bishop Lark, Elites existing are not an excuse for the gods' inability to prevent the rampant suffering and evil in the world."

Bishop Lark remains composed, but I see it—was that briefest twitch from Doubt? Annoyance? I don't know, but I push forward, feeling the disgust swell.

"Fine, let's talk a little more about free will," I say, voice low. "Tell me, Bishop, what of His Imperial Majesty? The so-called self-proclaimed divine sovereign who still spreads his righteous claim of rule over the continent through force? Who says the Elites chosen by other nations are false prophets, unblessed by the 'true' gods? Is that free will on his end? Or is that the gods conveniently favoring only those who are blessed inside his territories?"

"And your Order," I continue, my eyes narrowing in hate. "You claim to uphold divine law and order, yet you willingly follow such a man with smiles on your faces, ruling over the territories he and his predecessors conquered with an iron fist, policing anyone who dares think differently."

Bishop Lark flinches, his composed expression crumbling for a brief second.

Cecilia stiffens beside me, her breath hitching, but she says nothing. Maybe she's waiting to see how he answers. Maybe she wants to hear it, too. I hope so at least because if she really thinks the Gods are perfect, we will never work.

So I don't stop.

"Yes, of course humans have free will," I hiss. "'But religion, ideology, resources, land, spite, love, or just because... No matter how pathetic the reason, it's enough to start a war. War and violence will never cease to exist... Reasons can be thought up after the fact... Human nature pursues strife'."

I lean forward, meeting his gaze head-on, voice laced with venom.

"So with that being said, if the gods are truly so powerful, should they not stop that? And if they won't—if they let it all happen over and over again—then, like I asked you earlier, what is the fucking point of them being worshiped as gods?"

He does not answer, and for a few moments, the room is silent, thick with tension, Cecilia's hand still gripping mine tightly, her hands sweaty. I wait for anger, for outrage, for the Bishop to rise and condemn me for my words. But then—

Lark laughs.

A deep, hearty laugh, rich with genuine amusement. His shoulders shake as he leans back slightly, eyes twinkling like I just told him the greatest joke in the world.

Cecilia and I just stare at him, completely flabbergasted.

Finally, he exhales, shaking his head with a look of pure mirth. "I see there is great strength in you, Lord Daath." He regards me with something I can't quite place—respect? Amusement? Maybe both. "I must admit, I can't say I agree with your outlook on the gods. I find it to be rather...depressing. I'm sure we will have many debates on this topic. But," his expression sobers slightly, "I do agree with your outlook on our current Order."

My fingers twitch slightly against Cecilia's in surprise, but I don't respond.

Then he turns to Cecilia. "Miss Lakeborn," he says gently, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the room. This next part needs to remain private, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you to keep Lord Daath's words to yourself."

Cecilia stiffens beside me. I glance at her, expecting her to argue, but she doesn't. She looks...shaken. Still reeling from my outburst, maybe. Or from Lark's almost pleased attitude toward my blasphemy.

She hesitates for only a moment before nodding, standing without a word. I don't stop her this time. Something about the way Lark is looking at me makes me nervous, as if suddenly things have gotten serious.

As the door clicks shut behind her, I turn my attention back to the old man, suddenly uneasy.

I have no idea what he's about to say, but for the first time since I entered this room—maybe even since I met him—I feel something close to apprehension.

Lark studies me for another moment before sighing, rubbing his temple as if he's debating something within himself. Then he straightens, his voice losing its usual smooth formality as he says, "Since you have so generously dropped pretenses like I asked, I shall do the same. And in that spirit, Lord Daath, I will present you with my current conundrum."

"You are going to Lusa in two months for the academy, correct?"

I blink. Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn't on the list. It's such an obvious, almost idiotic question that for a second, I wonder if he's pranking me.

"Yes... of course," I answer slowly, my brows furrowing in confusion.

Bishop Lark just smiles. But it's not the amused, grandfatherly smile he had before. No, this one is something else entirely—calm, knowing, almost pitying.

"Of course you are; that was a dumb question," he murmurs, leaning back slightly in his chair, studying me with those old, intelligent eyes. "Then I will put this plainly, Lord Daath."

The next words fall from his lips so casually, so smoothly, that they almost don't register at first.

"You are going to die."