As Pyranthos became silent for a moment, Gauis, the ascetic's eyes flicked to the princess, Selene, who was silently observing the exchange.
He nodded toward her as he continued, preaching aloud to the people gathered around. "The gods you worship hold powers, divine powers that can destroy your lives, and taking that as an advantage, they put themselves way above humanity, and they are above accountability. So, whatever they did, the mortals could not question them. So, there is no devotion here. And worship with devotion is the same as slavery. Pointing his hand at the King, he further said. "As a result, the kings on Earth do the same, putting themselves above the commoners. The public has no say in whatever the King does, whether it is going to war or leaving the criminal because he is of nobility or wealthy. The people can only watch and suffer, for they foolishly believe only the gods have the right to punish the King. And the gods? They don't care unless they are in the mood."
A ripple ran through the crowd as Gauis' words took over their minds. Confusion could be seen on their faces, their devotion to god has faltered from a simple speech. Meanwhile, the general's face grew stern, and his hand was on his sword, ready to strike, but Pyranthos didn't flinch.
"The gods care about their sacrifices," the ascetic continued, his voice growing sharper. "They are selfish, hypocritical, and greedy beings. They take and take, and when the time comes for them to give, they do nothing. The people pray to them, offering their labor and blood, trying to gain some favor or blessing from the Gods, but what do they receive in return? Nothing. And when they don't do sacrifices, they will return and get punishment instead, with famines, droughts, lightning strikes, earthquakes, etc…"
The ascetic stepped closer, his presence growing more imposing on the minds of the crowd. "Better to rely on your own hands, on your own sweat, than to beg for what you think the gods will give you. Hard work is the only truth that holds weight in this world, not empty prayers."
The streets fell silent. The king's expression hardened, but there was a flicker of thought in his eyes.
His voice, though tight with control, carried the weight of a ruler accustomed to speaking with authority. "Do you dare to question the gods in the heart of my city?" Pyranthos asked, his tone low but commanding.
"I question the power you wield in their name," Acetic Gauis replied, his words sharp and without fear. "I question the illusion of divinity that blinds your people."
Selene, watching the exchange, could feel a tension building between the two. Her father, the king, his power unquestioned, and this stranger—this ascetic—whose words cut through the air like a blade.
The crowd remained silent, some watching with apprehension, others with curiosity.
The king's eyes flickered to his daughter. Then, with a slow exhale, he turned his gaze back to the ascetic. "Your words are dangerous," he said quietly. "But they are your words, not mine."
The ascetic gave a small, cryptic smile. "And that is the difference between you and me, King Pyranthos. You rule with force, and I speak with truth."
King Pyranthos' jaw tightened, his fists clenched by his sides.
The crowd's murmurs buzzed in his ears like gnats, and the sight of the impudent ascetic continuing to stand so calmly before him only fueled the flame inside.
His voice boomed through the square, cutting through the air like a blade. "Enough of your riddles and heresies. I warned you once. Get out of my city, or I will forget that you are the son of King Acleides—my late uncle. Blood may give you a place, but it will not protect you from disrespect."
Zephyr's brows furrowed at the harshness in the king's voice. He looked from the ascetic to his father, uncertain but silent.
Selene, on the other hand, stood still, her eyes fixed on the man before them.
Something about his words—blasphemous as they were—stirred a deep unease in her. Not because they were offensive, but because they carried the weight of truth that she agreed with in her heart.
The ascetic simply laughed—a dry, echoing sound that somehow felt both mocking and freeing.
"What father? What son?" he said, spreading his arms wide as though embracing the sky itself. "Everyone is but a traveler on a longer journey. You speak of cities and bloodlines, of honor and lineage, but none of that matters in the end. All of them either get buried underneath the soil and embrace Gaia or turn into ash and disappear into the wind."
He gestured to the earth beneath them. "This land, this water, this sky... it was never yours. Nor mine. Nor the gods'. You and your gods did not create this world, King Pyranthos. You merely occupy it—administer it—like a guest who claims ownership of a borrowed home."
The king's glare deepened, but the ascetic was undeterred.
"You hold a scepter and call it divine will. You guard your throne with soldiers and name it order. But what is it, truly? It is force. It is fear. That is all. First, accept that bitter truth before claiming any right."
He turned, speaking not to the king anymore, but to the people once again—some afraid, others curious, and a few nodding faintly with wide eyes.
"I see many of you won't even try to understand the truth," he said, softer now, with a tired kind of finality. "You've all made up your minds. So be it. For such people, my words are useless. So, I won't trouble you with my presence any longer."
With a wave of his hand, he stepped back toward the palanquin. His disciples, previously still and watchful, bowed slightly and resumed lifting the palanquin onto their shoulders. The procession, like a passing storm, began to move forward again, quiet, calm, yet leaving behind a trail of shaken certainty.
King Pyranthos did not speak as he watched them go.
Zephyr looked away, unsettled.
Selene stood rooted, her eyes not on the palanquin, but on the people around them—their expressions, their silence, their hidden thoughts. Something had changed in the air, though nothing was said.