Seventeen Verdicts Without a Source

"Me... punishing the gods?"

Eleven at night. Half the fluorescent lights were on. Only two of us remained in the office — me and Manager Yoon.

"Haa... shit."

Page three wouldn't end. I'd been stuck on it for three hours now.

'How the hell am I supposed to write this audit report "gently".'

The numbers were all out. Where it leaked, where it went, all the way down to who signed off on it.

'...And they want it written gently.'

I fixed it, reverted it, then fixed the reversion. The cursor just blinked.

'Finish this one, and I'm actually retiring.'

This engagement had run three years. Eleven subsidiaries, twenty-some sets of books, and gluing all of that into a single line had taken until last month.

'...Three years was enough.'

Squeeeak—

I leaned back in my chair.

'...Seriously, though, how long do I have to keep doing this.'

'Ah, whatever.'

I opened another window.

"Sunbae, what's that?"

Manager Yoon craned her neck around her monitor.

"Greek and Roman mythology."

"You're reading mythology in the middle of a report?"

"I'm stuck. I can only think if I'm looking at something like this."

Manager Yoon pushed off and rolled her chair over. The wheels squeaked across the empty office.

"Medusa, huh. Snake hair."

"Yeah. But she was human, originally. A priestess at Athena's temple."

"...A priestess?"

"You take a vow of chastity to get in. Not just anyone qualifies."

"Then how did she end up like that? What did she do wrong?"

"She got raped."

Manager Yoon looked at me.

"...I'm sorry, what?"

"No, here's the actually hilarious part — Poseidon assaulted her. Inside Athena's temple, no less. And a temple is a sanctuary. It's the kind of place even a murderer can run into and not be touched."

'And this is where it gets good.'

"But the part that pissed Athena off? That her temple had been defiled."

"...Her own priestess, though?"

"Yeah, her own priestess. So she cursed her. Hair into snakes, and anyone who met her gaze turned to stone. For the rest of her life."

"And Poseidon?"

"Nothing happened to him."

"………"

"Insane, right?"

"...Sunbae, why are you telling me this while laughing?"

"Because it's funny."

Manager Yoon did not laugh.

'Why are you taking it so seriously.'

I opened the next entry.

"There's mountains of this stuff. Arachne beat a goddess at weaving, so she became a spider."

"...She won? And that's a crime?"

"It's a crime. From the gods' point of view, it's insolence. Niobe bragged about how many children she had, and lost all fourteen. In a single day, shot down with arrows."

"Fourteen...?"

"Yeah. Top to bottom, in order."

Manager Yoon covered her mouth with her hand.

'Oh, good reaction.'

"Oh, and this one's the masterpiece — Actaeon. He was out hunting and saw a goddess bathing in the forest. Not on purpose. Just passing through."

"...What happened to him?"

"He became a deer. Then the hunting dogs he'd raised himself tore him apart."

"...How many dogs?"

"Fifty."

Manager Yoon flopped back against her chair.

"...Shit."

"Right? Fifty dogs. Fifty."

I laughed a little. Manager Yoon still did not laugh.

"Sunbae, you're genuinely strange. You've read this three times now, and you're laughing at it."

"...How do you know I've read it three times."

"You had it up last week, too. When I left work."

'Busted.'

"Sunbae, why do you like this stuff so much? Mythology."

I turned the page.

'Why indeed.'

I didn't give an answer. It was somebody else's story, after all.

And then I opened my eyes in that world.

I opened them, and the ceiling was low. Wood. I could see the rafters plain as day. And there was a smell — smoke mixed with animal fat.

'...What is this.'

Tried to sit up, and my arms were short.

"He's awake!"

Some woman came rushing in and threw her arms around me. A face I'd never seen. She was crying.

"Three days you were sick. Three days!"

'...Who are you, ma'am.'

I wanted to ask, but my throat wouldn't produce it. Instead, over her shoulder, I saw the wall. Olive branches hung there. Beside them, a pottery plate. Inside the plate, a painting. A man holding a lightning bolt.

"..."

Ah, shit.

It took three more days for the situation to sort itself out. The body's owner had been fourteen and had died of a fever. Into the vacancy, I had moved. Why, I didn't know. There was no one to ask. Not a single memory had carried over. The name, at least, came when called. That was a mercy.

And our house —

'...The Mu line, huh.'

Three spears hung on the wall. Aside from that, there wasn't much of anything.

We claimed descent from the Heracleidae. Meaning: descendants of Heracles.

'...Hold on. MY family descends from Heracles?'

I looked at the genealogy. Supposedly it showed if you traced back a dozen-odd generations.

'...How many children did that man have, exactly.'

From what I'd read in my past life, there was even a story about him managing fifty in a single night.

'...Then isn't half this country his descendants already?'

Of course, I never said that in front of my father. In this family, that blood was life itself. To be precise, that blood was all that remained. There was no land. Generation after generation, we had carried spears for other houses. When war came, we went out; when it didn't, we took odd jobs at the estate. My grandfather had carried a spear, and my father, too, had been worked three years in the east in his youth. He came back with a lame leg and a post recruiting soldiers at the estate. Bottom rung even there.

'...Ah. This.'

I made a circuit of the house. Two rooms. The bowls were chipped, and one side of the roof had caved in.

'...A house with nothing left but the name.'

And my older brother was away at the border.

It was my father who brought him up first, at the dinner table.

"Your brother sent a letter, a while back."

"...When?"

"..."

My father ladled his soup.

"...Spring."

It was autumn now.

Mother said nothing. She just kept wiping the bowls.

'...Ah.'

My brother didn't come up again after that.

Then, a few days later — at the dinner table.

"The village chief's daughter, down the hill. Twelve or so, isn't she?"

"Thirteen."

Mother set down the ladle.

"They say that house doesn't let her out anymore, these days."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think."

Mother looked at me. The face that said, why are you even asking.

"She's pretty."

I stopped, spoon in hand.

"Same thing with the miller's family across the river last year. They had one daughter, and come spring, she was gone."

"Ah. That house."

"Was she found?"

"Found what? Things like that don't get found."

My father nodded and ladled his soup. "The chief's doing it right. Not letting her out at all is the better way."

"That's true."

I took one spoonful of soup.

It was salty.

'...Now THIS is Greco-Roman mythology.'

That night, lying down, I did a little organizing. How humans die in this place.

One. Going somewhere you shouldn't go.

Two. Boasting something you shouldn't boast.

Three. Winning a contest you shouldn't win.

Four. Being pretty.

The first three kill you because you didn't know. The fourth can't be prepared for.

I got up and looked at the water jar. My face reflected in it.

'...Thank the gods.'

For the first time in either of my lives, a face I was relieved to see.

So three causes remained, and all three were the same problem: dying from not knowing.

'If you die from not knowing, then memorize it.'

Then one more thing snagged.

'...Wait a moment.'

War wasn't included in that list of four. Out there, knowing gets you killed. Memorize which forest belongs to whom, and the spear flies anyway.

This family had no land. Which was why my brother had gone out. And after my brother, me.

'This is not a problem memorization will fix.'

I lay back down. Then the answer was only one: go to the safest place there is.

'...A temple.'

A sanctuary no one can lay a hand on, where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the god protects you, and where neither priest nor king can act as they please. Get into one, live writing ledgers.

'...No spears to carry, no border to march to.'

The problem was this family. Three years of tuition came to two years of this household's income.

At dinner, I said it.

"Father. Please send me to school. One that teaches divine studies."

My father stopped chewing.

"...What?"

"School."

Beside him, Mother set down a bowl.

"What is this child saying? Do you even know what that place is? Three years there is two years of what we earn."

"I know."

"And knowing that, you still say it?"

'...I'm saying it BECAUSE I know, though.'

My father set his bowl down.

"Lysias. Do you know what this house stands on?"

"...I do."

"That blood. No land, no money — a house that endures on that alone. And that blood only has value when it holds a spear. Pick up a brush instead, and you're just some other house's son."

'...Ah, he's coming in hard.'

I pushed my soup bowl away.

"Is there a law that says this blood can only hold a spear?"

"...What did you say."

"Father — isn't our house already standing as Mu? Grandfather carried the spear. You served in the east. Brother is at the border right now."

My father looked at me. Mother's wiping hand stopped.

'...Shouldn't have brought up brother.'

"...And so?"

"Then shouldn't there be one on the other side as well? When a house stands on one side alone, and that side snaps, the whole house snaps with it."

"..."

'...What am I even saying right now.'

"So you'll take up the brush, is that it?"

"Yes. I will become the pinnacle of the brush."

"..."

'...That may have been a bit much.'

My father said nothing. For a long while. Then he pushed his bowl aside and straightened in his seat.

"...I didn't know you thought that deeply."

'...I'm sorry, what?'

"At your age, I couldn't think that way. I believed one spear was enough. Then three years in the east beat it into me — hold nothing but a spear, and when the spear breaks, you break with it."

My father tapped his own leg, once.

"That's why I'm like this."

"..."

"And a boy of fifteen is the one saying it."

'...No, I wasn't thinking quite that far.'

Mother looked at my father.

"...Dear."

"We'll send him."

"Where is the money coming from?"

"Sell a spear."

'...What?'

"There are three hanging on the wall, aren't there. Keep the grandfather's one and put the other two out. They're things you hang up, anyway — not things anyone swings."

Mother said nothing.

'...Ah. This.'

I looked at the wall. Three spears hung there. The most valuable things this house owned.

'...I just didn't want to die, that's all.'

Of course I didn't say it. Mother looked at me.

"...Can you really do it?"

"Yes."

'...But can I, though. Actually.'

That night, I looked into what the school taught. Precedent. Genealogy. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The temple registry. The procedure of rites.

"How many precedents are there?"

"Tens of thousands."

"...I'm sorry, what?"

"Everything carved into the pillars is out there. You memorize all of it within three years. That's why it's the hardest school in the country."

'...Tens of thousands?'

I stood there a moment.

'...Is that even humanly possible?'

It must be, or the school wouldn't exist. Somebody graduated every year. I asked how, and the answer was simple. You memorize. First line to last. From waking in the morning until night.

For three years.

'...This place is insane.'

On the walk home, that was all I thought about. Tens of thousands.

In my past life, I'd ground through exam prep until I was nineteen. Still in university when I passed, at twenty-two. The youngest ever. For ten years after that, my job had been finding the one wrong line among tens of thousands of pages of other people's ledgers.

But how much had I actually memorized back then?

'...Never counted, actually.'

One statute book ran to a thousand-odd articles. I'd gone through five or six of those. Case law collections were separate.

My steps slowed.

The problem wasn't the volume. What exam prep had taught me was how to process a volume like that — bundle it, divide it, erase the overlaps, throw out what won't appear, keep only what will.

'...And none of these kids have ever done that, have they.'

My steps sped up again.

'...Wait. This is an absolute jackpot, isn't it?'

Of course, that thought lasted until a month into enrollment.

The school was far better than I'd expected. Here's what they actually taught:

Which forest belonged to whom. Which springs had a nymph attached. What offering you must never make at which temple. Which words got you flagged for blasphemy, and which ones slid.

'...This is literally a safety training course.'

Naturally, the kids here didn't learn it that way. For them, this was culture class and a career fair.

"I'm aiming for Delphi. Even just a clerk's seat at the oracle flips a whole household upside down."

"A priest? They say the competition's brutal. Hundreds of applicants for ten spots."

"Aim anyway. What about you?"

"Bureau, for me. Father's pushing me through. Stick it out three years and he lines up a seat."

"You?"

'To not die.'

"...The bureau, for me too."

"Oh, nice. Playing it safe is the best way to go."

'...Right. Safe is best.'

So I studied a little strangely. The other kids memorized what would appear on tests. I memorized what wouldn't.

A test can't kill you. A god can.

Zeus is the god of travelers → turn a stranger away from your door, and you die.

Zeus walks the land in disguise → that stranger might be Zeus.

Artemis's forest → don't go near it even if you're not the one bathing.

The list of houses claiming descent from Apollo → don't mention bows in front of those doors.

'...None of this is on the test. Why am I memorizing it?'

One reason. Fail a test, and there's a next one. There is no next one for the other thing.

But the real problem was precedent.

One month in, I knew: tens of thousands was not a processable volume.

The statute books of my past life had been ordered. Table of contents, index, look it up, and there it was. Not here. The order carved into the pillars was the order of the precedents. The carving order was chronological — and chronological meant it was no order at all. A marriage case sat next to a territory case, and that next to a blasphemy case.

'...How is anyone supposed to find anything in this.'

You couldn't. That was why everyone memorized all of it.

"Excuse me — is there anything like a summary?"

I asked the kid in the next seat.

"A summary?"

"Yes. Organized by case type, condensed. Is there nowhere that sells something like that?"

His expression turned strange.

"...Are you serious right now?"

"...What?"

"We're going to condense what the gods remember in full? Do you know how that looks?"

"...Blasphemous?"

"Blasphemy. And condense what, exactly? The gods forget nothing. What are we supposed to pick and choose out?"

'...Ah.'

So that was why there wasn't one. In this world, the gods don't forget. So no one organizes. To be precise: organizing is forbidden.

'...Then what the hell am I supposed to do with tens of thousands?'

So I made it in secret. Gods across the top, case types down the side. Marriage, territory, blasphemy, murder, oath. And in the cell where they met, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I wrote in the verdict.

'...Now it's visible at a glance.'

The people of this country wrote precedent only vertically. First line to last. To learn what verdict Apollo had handed down in a blasphemy case, you read tens of thousands of entries from the very beginning. Laid out in rows and columns, you looked at a single cell.

'...Why did nobody ever do this?'

Either they tried and got caught for blasphemy, or the thought simply never occurred to them.

'...Both, probably.'

'Eh. It's nothing special.'

In my past life, I'd produced ten of these a day. Condensing eleven subsidiaries' books into a single page had been the job.

And while building it, one odd thing surfaced. There were precedents that kept getting cited.

'...How many times has this one come up, exactly.'

I counted.

'...Nineteen.'

Cited nineteen times in blasphemy cases alone. Every later verdict took it as its basis.

'...Oh. This is an important one.'

So I went looking for the original.

It wasn't there.

'...Huh? Where is it.'

I checked the number. 3-31.

I made a circuit of three pillars. Ten was there. Twelve was there.

'...But no eleven.'

I stood looking at that spot a while. Not even a carving mark. It hadn't been erased. It had never been there at all.

'...Then this thing.'

'...What were they citing NINETEEN TIMES?'

That night, I counted all of it. Cited, but no original. Checking numbers one by one, walking the pillars, standing at each spot. It took three days.

Seventeen.

'...Seventeen.'

I looked at that list a while.

'...How many years does this span?'

The oldest went back some eighty-odd years. The most recent was from last year.

'...Eighty years, and no one ever checked.'

'...No — there WAS no way to check.'

Written only vertically, it was invisible. To count how many times a precedent had been cited, you had to read all tens of thousands in full.

'...And the gods have no reason to count.'

They don't forget, so they don't write. They don't write, so there's nothing to count.

I gave that section a name.

'...Is this maybe going a bit far?'

A page listing seventeen of the gods' verdicts as having no basis behind them.

'...Well, it's not like I wrote anything that isn't carved there.'

I pushed that section to the very back. Then piled three or four more sections on top of it.

The day before the exam, a classmate came to my seat.

"Hey. Heard you made something. Let me see it."

I handed over twenty pages. His page-turning got slower and slower.

'...What is this.'

'...How did you compress it this far?'

'...Wait — this one. I got this wrong on the last test.'

'...Why is the answer obvious the moment it's laid out like this?'

"...Hey."

"Yeah."

"...You made this yourself?"

"Yeah."

"...All of tens of thousands is in this?"

"Yeah. Half of it you don't even need to memorize. It overlaps."

The classmate looked at me. There was something strange in his eyes.

"...Can I borrow it?"

"Take it."

He copied the whole thing overnight. The next day, another kid copied his copy. Three days later, someone I didn't know came to my seat.

"Um — could I take a look at that chart?"

"...Who are you?"

"...Second year."

A week after that, a teacher called for me.

"You're the one who made it."

"...Yes."

The teacher studied me for a long while.

"..."

"Why?"

"...Nothing."

The teacher left.

'...He wasn't planning to scold me?'

If he'd meant to scold me, he'd have scolded me. He didn't, so he hadn't.

'...Whatever.'

In my first year, I placed third.

'...About right.'

This much was perfect for landing a temple post. Too low and they wouldn't take me; too high and other places would come calling.

But in my second year, I placed first.

'...Huh?'

Third year. First again.

'...Oh, damn it all.'

This wasn't the plan. I'd memorized everything in order NOT to stand out. To stay out of the forests, to hold my boasts, to lose the contests I wasn't supposed to win.

And here I stood, in the most spotlighted seat in the school.

'...Is there no way to climb DOWN from this.'

I considered failing things on purpose, then gave up. Even failing requires calculating exactly where to miss for it to look natural, and that calculation was more annoying than the studying.

Graduate, take a provincial temple scribe's post, done. Write the offering ledgers, write the visitor rosters. Close the doors on time, open them on time.

'Live quietly. Quietly.'

That was what I was thinking. Right up until my homeroom teacher called me in.

"Decided your path?" he asked, sliding papers across the desk.

"Yes. I'm considering a provincial temple scribe position."

The brush stopped.

"...Temple scribe. Which temple."

"Anywhere. Somewhere quiet will do."

My homeroom teacher looked up.

"Are you messing with me right now."

"No."

He turned over a single page. My report card.

"You've been first for three straight years. With those grades, why would you go there?"

"Because it isn't hard."

"...What?"

"Writing offering ledgers and visitor rosters, isn't it? Close on time, open on time. No incidents, no work."

'And no gods ever come. That's the most important part.'

My homeroom teacher studied me a long while. Then he opened a drawer, took out a single sheet of paper, and laid it on the desk.

"...What's this?"

"A recommendation for a court scribe post."

'...What?'

"One came to our school this year."

He pressed the paper down with a fingertip.

"The Divine Court. You know what it does."

"...I was taught it."

"Then tell me."

"A place that handles disputes among the gods. Once a verdict is given, it is enforced."

"That's all?"

He leaned forward.

"In this day and age — when a god harms a human, how many places do you think can put it in writing as a wrong?"

"..."

"One."

He tapped the paper twice.

"Only that one."

"A village below the river last year — the water stopped coming."

'...What's this about, all of a sudden.'

"The river god had turned the channel. Said no one had built his temple. The fields dried up completely. People starved."

"...What happened?"

"It went to the Court. And the water came back within two months."

He looked at me.

"That is the one place where that works, against a god. Where papers go up in a human's name, and the god is made to give it back."

"..."

"Do you know what it makes you, to get in there?"

"...No."

"Able to walk into temples."

"The priest can lock the door — you open it. Ask for the ledgers, they hand them over. Ask to see the storehouse, they show you. Refuse, and the refusal itself goes into the record."

"And when a verdict is given, it is enforced. Even a god cannot defy it. Sworn on the Styx — break it, and that river comes to take you."

'...Oh. Oh, this.'

Something in my head clicked into place.

'...This is the job that takes down the conglomerates.'

And the version that takes no bribes, at that. No need for a search warrant, no appeals court after the verdict, and if you defy it, the river carries you off.

'...Whoa.'

'...For the bastards possessed by justice, this is the dream job, isn't it.'

"Of course, there is something you cannot do there."

My homeroom teacher raised his cup.

"Do you know how many inspectors this country has?"

"...No."

"Nine."

"Nine, in a country of tens of thousands. And one of them opens up this time."

He pushed the paper across.

"In this insane age, there is exactly one seat from which that can be done. And it is sitting right in front of you."

'...Whoa.'

Honestly, it was a little impressive. The only seat in this entire age that did that.

For a moment, it flashed past — the dinner table, the chief's daughter being mentioned, and me unable to say a single word, just ladling soup. The miller's daughter, too, gone one spring.

'...But.'

There had been seats like that in my past life as well. Seats that caught bad people. And I'd watched how the people who took them actually lived. Office lights burning past midnight. Weekends spent at the desk. And then a few of them, carried out on stretchers.

'...And the gods don't even have nightfall.'

I looked at the paper. And pushed it back. Toward the teacher.

"...What are you doing."

"I'm not going."

The teacher's face hardened.

"...What?"

"I'm sorry, but I have no interest in any of that. I just need my own belly full."

He stared at me.

"...You're saying that to my face. Hey."

"Yes."

"What did you learn in three years?"

"...How not to die."

My homeroom teacher was, briefly, at a loss for words.

"...What?"

"Nothing."

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

"I have held this seat for thirty years. I carried that thing for six months, wanting to give it to someone. Showed it to no one. I believed there was exactly one third-year who deserved it."

"And you're kicking it away."

"Yes."

"...Why."

'Because if I go there, I'll obviously drop dead writing paperwork through the night.'

"...It doesn't seem suited to my aptitude."

"Aptitude? You were first for three straight years."

"That was test-taking, not aptitude, isn't it?"

He set his brush down.

"...You're insane."

"I'm sorry."

"Get out."

"Yes."

As I closed the door behind me, a shout came from inside.

"Why the hell does someone like THAT get first place!"

'...My sincerest apologies.'

And then I genuinely looked into provincial temple scribe posts. Applied to three, was accepted by all three. I picked the one that looked quietest. Under a mountain, and they said ten visitors came a day.

'Jackpot.'

I sent a letter home. That I'd gotten a position at a temple, that I would be keeping the ledgers under a priest.

My father's reply was two lines long.

I looked at that letter for a long while.

'...Why is he telling me THAT?'

Half a year remained until graduation.

Nothing happened in the meantime. Aside, that is, from my twenty-page chart circulating through the entire year, crossing over to the next school, and reaching the city beyond that.

One day, the classmate said:

"Hey. That thing you made — they say it's making the rounds in the temples too."

"Oh. Yeah?"

"...You should have at least put your name on it. Nobody knows who made the thing, they say."

"What for."

'Nobody reads it anyway.'

That was what ten years of my past life had taught me. However well you write the report, if the people upstairs bounce it, that's the end of it — and bounced reports, no one reads.

'...Though it is a bit of a waste.'

I thought about that for roughly three seconds, and stopped.

And about four months later, a man came to the school.

I was called to the headmaster's office, and he was already seated there. His clothes were neither the school's nor a temple's.

"I've come from the Court. I am a scribe."

'...The Court, you say?'

The man laid a single tablet on the table.

"Have you seen this before?"

My chart. Twenty pages — but only the first twelve.

'...Just how far did this thing travel?'

"Yes. I made it."

"...Is there more after this?"

'Ah. This one's sharp.'

"...Pardon?"

"Twelve pages gets you through blasphemy. There is no murder."

The man pressed down on that last page.

"No murder means nothing after it, either."

'He knows his business, this one.'

The man drew out another tablet. An old one.

"This is a case I handled. Filed last year."

I opened it.

"How is a case like this handled?"

"We rule that the god took her. Then it is filed as unconfirmed — and filed means finished."

The man looked at the tablet a while.

"...I find that a little... well, no. I suppose it IS the correct way to do it."

I looked at that line.

'...How do they know the god took her?'

It said no witnesses. No body, either.

'...You saw nothing at all.'

'...And yet there's a conclusion sitting right there.'

"Excuse me. This ruling — 'the god took her.' Where is it written down?"

"In the precedent."

"Which number?"

The man searched through it.

"3-31."

My hand stopped.

'...3-31.'

I knew that number. One of the seventeen I had spent three days counting. Cited nineteen times, original nonexistent.

'...So this thing.'

'...They've been papering over vanished people with a precedent that doesn't exist.'

'...For eighty years?'

I looked at the tablet a while.

"...Have you ever seen the original of 3-31? On the pillars, I mean. Seen it with your own eyes."

The man said nothing for a moment.

"...No. But everyone knows that one."

I opened the back cover. And drew out eight more pages.

The Contradictions.

"It's in here. 3-31. One of the seventeen."

The man looked at the page. He looked at it for a long time.

"What is this?"

"Precedents that are cited but have no original. I walked for three days and counted. Every pillar."

"...Seventeen?"

"Yes."

The man's hand had stopped, hovering above the page.

"...Then this case has no basis?"

"...You said it was filed as unconfirmed."

"...Yes."

"But if the basis doesn't exist —"

I pressed my hand down on the tablet.

"— then it was never filed. The case is not finished."

The Court was running that day, too. Scribes came and went beneath the pillars, tablets lay stacked upon every desk, and somewhere in the interior, someone was counting something.

And at the very center of it all, there was one seat.

Themis was turning over what lay before her, one item at a time.

"This one."

"The river god's case. Confirmation has come that the channel was restored."

"Recorded. Next."

A tablet crossed the desk.

"From the southern district. They say a line was dropped while copying an oracle."

"Who did the copying?"

"A scribe."

"...Then a human. That goes to the temple."

Another crossed. And another. The tablets kept crossing, and most of them were that. Priests, scribes, villagers. Human cases went down to the temples; cases against gods never came up at all.

Themis looked over the pile a while.

"Thirty years I have held this seat. How many gods have I summoned in all that time."

"Twelve."

"...Twelve."

The scribe set the pile down.

"Twelve in thirty years, and of those, nine gods actually appeared. The remaining three were filed as unconfirmed."

Themis laid the tablet on the desk.

"...I cannot summon them. One requires grounds to summon, and there is no one to count the grounds."

Just then, a scribe came in between the pillars. Out of breath.

"Forgive me — you are mid-ruling, but—"

"It's quite fine. What is it."

The scribe bowed low to the floor. And slid a single tablet forward.

The Contradictions.

"...What is this."

"Precedents that are cited but have no originals. Seventeen of them."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"So a human counted the precedents."

"Yes."

"And found what does not exist."

"Yes. Seventeen."

For a long while, nothing.

"...Read out the numbers."

The scribe opened the page.

"1-4. 1-123. 2-7."

It stopped there.

"Continue."

"...3-31. That is the one I came to ask about."

"...I never made that ruling."

The scribe kept his forehead pressed to the floor.

"Yes. That is why I have come."

"You said eighty years ago. Then who made it?"

"Unknown. There is no one who knows."

No sound came from above. Even the voices passing below had, at some point, gone silent.

"...You said it was cited nineteen times."

The scribe lifted his head a little.

"Yes. And all nineteen of those lack grounds. And there are rulings that cite those nineteen as well — I have not counted those yet."

"Count them. How many would there be."

"Unknown. There is exactly one person who can count."

A long while passed. The scribe said nothing.

"You. Why did you bring this here."

The scribe drew one more tablet from his coat. An old one.

Daughter missing. Sixteen. Spring. No witnesses. No body.

"A case I handled last year. I was about to file it as unconfirmed on the grounds of 3-31."

The scribe's hand did not move above the tablet.

"...I cannot file it now."

For a long while, no sound came from above.

"...Where is that village."

"...Pardon?"

"Should it not be summoned?"

The scribe lifted his head.

"...Can it be summoned?"

"...Why did you ask that just now."

"...The child said so."

"..."

"If there are no grounds, then nothing was filed — and then the case is not finished yet."

For a long while, nothing came from above. The sound of tablets crossing had stopped entirely.

"...An eighteen-year-old."

"...Yes."

"...Well said."

"Summon it. Count whose jurisdiction that village falls under, and summon. The other sixteen as well."

The scribe's hand moved a little off the floor.

"...Yes."

"...And — that child."

"...Two months to graduation, I am told."

For a long while, nothing came from above.

"...Bring him here. Without fail."