Episode 2 - Humans Should See Humans as Humans
After more than two years of continuous excavation, the first phase of the dig had finally drawn to a close.
The fruits of those two years now filled a massive climate-controlled warehouse to bursting. The exhausted groans of the preservation and cataloging teams still seemed to echo between the shelves.
“Just let me out of here! I haven’t gone home in two months!”
Professor Park was almost certain the voice was a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. He began examining the artifacts one by one again, unable to resist.
“Hmm… we barely scratched the surface layer and still pulled out this much…”
As he gazed at the mountain of relics, a quiet satisfaction bloomed inside him, yet the knowledge that he would have to step away from them stung more than he cared to admit.
The site had eroded at just the right rate, leaving the artifact-bearing strata relatively shallow. The discoveries had been extraordinary: evidence that early humans had manufactured composite tools from multiple materials far earlier than previously believed, along with signs that they had formed temporary groups numbering in the thousands.
These were findings too monumental for a professor from a small country like Korea to carry alone.
…I’m sorry I couldn’t protect this for you, Professor Park.
Hamilton had said those words with genuine regret. To him, such academic piracy was bitterly familiar—painful, but no longer surprising. His young assistant, however, clearly hadn’t grown the same protective calluses.
“Isn’t this just too much?”
“Nothing we can do. Our university lacks the power and the funding. That’s our sin.”
“But we’re the ones who cleared the path! Now they’re going to swoop in and swallow everything!”
“That’s how this world works, Si-ha. Plenty of people believe discoveries this big can’t be left in Asian hands.”
“Doesn’t that make you angry, Professor?”
Han Si-ha asked through clenched teeth. Professor Park studied her for a moment, then let out a small chuckle.
No matter how many years she had spent earning her doctorate and rolling around in the dirt, her inexperience still showed clearly.
“Of course it does.”
“Then why are you so calm about it?”
“It’s not calm. I’ve been burned so many times the reaction’s just slowed down.”
Han Si-ha fell silent.
He had spoken lightly, but it was no joke.
Since his youth, Professor Park had lived through it countless times—sharing the excavation only to be pushed down the author list on the paper, jointly organizing data only to have his name omitted from the presentation, spending the most time in the field only to appear as a blurry face in the background of a single photograph.
That was the nature of this field.
People who claimed to study the history of humanity were often far from fair when it came to living humans.
“But listen, Si-ha.”
Professor Park carefully lifted a small stone blade from its zip-lock bag with gloved hands. One edge bore a faint, hardened black residue.
It was adhesive.
A primitive glue made from plant sap, charcoal, soil, and perhaps animal fat. The trace proved this was no simple stone tool—it had once been hafted to a handle, a true composite implement.
“Artifacts don’t lie.”
“……”
“People lie. They erase names, rearrange order, steal credit. But the artifacts themselves cannot be changed. More precisely, the records of their discovery cannot be altered.”
He tapped the surface of the plastic bag with one finger. Written there in permanent marker were the words:
Adhesive Trace Confirmed. Stone Blade. Grid C-17. Layer 3. 20XX-XX-XX 13:35. Field Recorder: Han Si-ha.
It was an artifact Han Si-ha had personally excavated and documented. And that record existed far beyond the plastic bag. It lived in the field notes, the photographs, the GPS coordinates, the 3D scans, and the preliminary report submitted to the Kenyan cultural heritage authorities.
“Names are surprisingly easy to erase. Being bumped from the author list, being left out of a presentation—those things happen all the time.”
Professor Park’s voice remained level, but that very calmness only twisted Han Si-ha’s stomach further.
“But excavation records are different. They aren’t personal memory; they’re administrative, scholarly, and preservation records. They contain every detail—when, where, by whom, and in what condition the artifact was found.”
“Still… if the people above decide to take it anyway?”
“They could try.”
Professor Park nodded readily.
“The artifacts ultimately belong to Kenya. We’re foreign researchers working under permit. We can’t remove samples freely, and every analysis requires fresh approval. Joint excavations are even messier—everything from which university serves as the lead institution to who the principal investigator is to which lab handles which test is locked into the memorandum of understanding.”
Han Si-ha’s expression tightened.
Professor Park gave a wry smile.
“Yes. It’s far messier and far more bureaucratic than you imagined.”
“……”
“Which is exactly why it’s so hard to steal.”
He set the bag containing the stone blade down again.
“If someone wants to present this as their own achievement, they’ll have to use this specimen’s number. They’ll have to cite its exact provenience, obtain analysis permits, and reveal the origin of the raw data. That trail inevitably leads back to the records—and at the end of that trail is your name.”
Han Si-ha found she had nothing to say.
“Of course the world isn’t that clean. Power still shifts according to who has the bigger grant, who can publish faster in a prestigious journal, whose university carries more weight. Honestly, the odds are still against us.”
Professor Park paused, his gaze drifting slowly across the boxes that filled the warehouse.
“But we won’t be completely erased.”
“……”
“Researchers don’t own the artifacts. We borrow them for a time to interpret them. And the right to that interpretation isn’t simply granted to whoever shouts the loudest. It belongs to whoever opened the site, whoever recorded the strata, whoever filed the first report. It grows from that entire process.”
Han Si-ha stared at her own name written on the bag. What had once seemed like nothing more than routine paperwork now looked different.
It was a small shield.
Imperfect, perhaps, but still a barrier no one could easily trample.
“So instead of wasting time feeling wronged, keep recording,” Professor Park said.
“Take one more photograph, double-check one more coordinate, write one more precise line of description. Papers may be taken from you, but solid records eventually find their way home.”
“……Do you really believe that, Professor?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then he smiled, a little bitterly.
“It’s less about belief and more about necessity.”
He tapped the field notebook resting on a nearby box.
“If I didn’t believe it, I couldn’t keep doing this work.”
The old off-road vehicle kicked up clouds of red dust as it rumbled forward. Ahead, the Purple Eye Priest’s vehicle maintained a steady pace, leading the way. Paved roads had ended long ago.
Beyond the windows stretched low scrub, desiccated grass, and scattered ridges of stone. Han Si-ha stared at the landscape in silence for a long while before she finally spoke.
“…The Purple Eye Sect really is a religion so ancient that its origins are almost impossible to trace, right?”
Professor Park nodded.
“It is. Its influence is relatively weak in East Asia, but in Africa, the Middle East, and southern Europe it rivals Catholicism or Islam. The most peculiar thing is how it hasn’t clashed with other faiths so much as quietly blended into them.”
“Every time I hear about it, it feels strange. Traces appear in Egypt, Sumer, Greece, Rome—almost every ancient religion. In Abrahamic traditions they sometimes even equate purple-eyed figures with saints.”
“Exactly.”
Professor Park turned his gaze out the window.
“It’s too old and too widespread. That makes the starting point almost impossible to find. Whenever you try to trace it, the same symbols emerge from the deepest layers of nearly every ancient civilization.”
“Purple eyes.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they point to a real person?”
This time Professor Park did not answer immediately.
The vehicle jolted over a rock. Dust rattled the windows. Through the rear glass of the lead car, the unusually small Purple Eye Priest’s white collar swayed gently.
“I don’t know.”
He spoke slowly.
“Religious scholars call it a symbol. Historians call it a metaphor for authority. Some archaeologists suggest it may have marked a specific bloodline or group.”
“And your thoughts, Professor?”
“Mine?”
He gave a small laugh.
“I’m still withholding judgment.”
“That’s not like you.”
“A scholar should admit when he doesn’t know. Pretending to understand only gets your face slapped by the artifacts. It happens all the time in this line of work.”
Han Si-ha smiled faintly, but the expression didn’t last. The vehicle ahead was slowing down.
Between red rock ridges, a low wall and an ancient stone gate appeared. Beyond them stood a building that resembled a modest chapel.
It was not ornate.
In fact, it was almost excessively plain.
Constructed around a massive boulder that had clearly occupied the site for eons, the austere structure had stood so long that one corner had been worn by windblown sand into a gentle curve.
Hamilton spoke quietly.
“We’ve arrived.”
The lead vehicle stopped. A figure in white robes stepped out. Though the priest could not have been taller than five-foot-three, the garments that covered every inch of skin were the distinctive vestments of the Purple Eye Sect.
Without a word, he bowed to Professor Park’s party and began walking ahead at a measured pace.
“…Let’s follow.”
Professor Park took the lead, with Hamilton and Han Si-ha close behind. A heavy door swung open, revealing a dark interior. The air inside was far drier and cooler than expected.
It felt like air-conditioning, yet there was no hum of machinery or whisper of airflow. The temperature was clearly a product of the building’s own design.
And there, spread across the wall before them, was the great mural.
The horizontal painting stretched nearly ten meters wide. What it depicted was not grandiose.
A vast lake. Grasslands. Forest. Rocky terrain.
And everywhere, living people.
Around the lake, countless figures gathered—exchanging goods, dancing around fires. Some shook what appeared to be musical instruments; others passed bundles to different groups.
On the grasslands, a variety of animals roamed: antelope, warthog, giraffe, rhinoceros. Behind them, hunters carrying spears and unfamiliar tools crept forward with care.
At the center of the plain stood a herd of elephants. Blocking their path were figures painted in strangely vivid colors. They held torches, beat large disk-shaped objects, and whirled weighted cords above their heads.
The moment she saw it, Han Si-ha’s eyes trembled. The scene was eerily similar to the traces they had uncovered at the excavation site.
The forest was quieter. Trees heavy with fruit rose above wetlands thick with tall plants. People harvested, dried, and wove the stalks into something new.
The rocky area, by contrast, was lively. People butchered and roasted various animals, shared different fruits. And among them were figures who were clearly a different kind of human.
Tall, slender people and short, stocky ones. Though rendered only in lines and planes, the distinction was unmistakable.
And at the center of the entire composition—where lake, grassland, forest, and stone converged—stood one figure.
This person was slightly smaller than the others, yet somehow drew the eye first. The reason was obvious.
Set into that face was a vivid, glowing purple element.
“Is that… a jewel embedded in the eye?”
Han Si-ha asked in a near whisper.
Hamilton answered.
“Amethyst. The same variety found in Tanzania, apparently.”
Han Si-ha swallowed.
The mural was not painted with exceptional technical skill, nor filled with profound symbolism. Yet its mere existence overwhelmed every explanation.
“…Primum recordum,” Professor Park murmured.
Han Si-ha turned to him.
“What does that mean…?”
“The name of this mural. Given by the scholar who first examined it in 1820.”
His eyes never left the painting.
“The First Record.”
“The first… record?”
“Yes.”
Professor Park slowly moistened his dry lips.
“Hard as it is to believe, this mural is estimated to be approximately two million years old.”
“……”
For a moment, Han Si-ha lost the ability to speak.
Two million years.
The number felt less like time and more like an abyss. Long enough for all organic material to vanish and even inorganic pigments to fade or degrade. Yet the image before them had endured.
“Can a mural really survive that long?”
This time Hamilton replied.
“When it was discovered, the wall was covered by a thick layer of soft clay. Not simply soil that had washed down—something deliberately applied. The first investigators speculated that someone had intentionally sealed the painting to protect it.”
At that moment, the priest who had remained silent until now spoke for the first time.
“The wisdom of our ancestors, no doubt.”
His voice was low and serene.
“As you know, our people have endured many storms.”
He slowly lowered the hood that had covered his head.
Han Si-ha’s eyes widened.
A cranium slightly larger than a typical human’s. Strikingly red hair. A broad, heavy jaw and short but powerful neck. And the exceptionally thick, strong hands revealed beyond the sleeves of his robe.
The priest gazed at the mural and continued.
“That is why this painting is especially precious to us. It may tell us where we began.”
Han Si-ha’s lips moved of their own accord.
“…Paranthropus sapiens solers.”
Direct descendants of the Boisei. A hominin subspecies that had coexisted and evolved alongside Homo sapiens without interbreeding. A people whose naturally small population had been further reduced by long-standing discrimination in East Asia, making them almost invisible there.
She had only ever encountered the name in academic papers and photographs.
This was her first time meeting one in person.
As if he had heard her murmur, the priest gave a small, bittersweet smile.
“We simply call ourselves parvulus. The little people.”
“Ah… I’m sorry. It slipped out.”
“It’s quite all right.”
The priest shook his head with the ease of long familiarity.
“People from East Asia usually react that way when they first see us.”
Han Si-ha flushed and bowed her head.
But the priest said no more. He turned back to the mural and, with great care, pointed to the purple eye at its center.
“The site you recently excavated—and the artifacts recovered there—our diocese is nearly certain it corresponds to the unnamed lake depicted in this painting.”
“…Is that so?”
“Yes. That is why we invited you here. You are the ones who have helped us find another root of our people.”
The priest smiled gently and asked Professor Park,
“Are you familiar with our doctrine?”
“…Humans should love one another and respect one another. Isn’t that it?”
“Close. But the original wording is slightly different.”
The priest looked at the purple-eyed figure standing at the mural’s heart.
Homines homines ut homines videre debent.
“That is the first teaching we received.”
It was a short sentence.
Yet somehow it explained the entire mural.
The people by the lake. The hunters on the grassland. The weavers in the forest. The tall and small figures in the rocky lands.
They looked different. They lived differently. But they all existed together within a single frame.
Professor Park remained silent for a long time.
Perhaps what he had spent his life searching for in the earth was not the origin of tools, the birth of art, or the roots of religion.
Maybe it was an older, simpler, and far more difficult question.
When did humans begin to call one another human?
Perhaps that was what he had been seeking all along.
EPISODE 2 — [Homines homines ut homines videre debent.] END
To be continued.