Herodotus gazed at his body.
His body accelerated faster and faster, 36 times, 38 times... He aged swiftly, as if entering a realm of extraordinary Awakening, reaching an unbelievable state.
His consciousness thought rapidly, and the essence of his body suddenly appeared before him in a profoundly simple form. The genetic code the Gods were so proud of turned into a haphazardly assembled, unfinished skyscraper, crooked and mismatched.
"The Creation Technique has flaws."
"These genetic codes of life, having form but no spirit, are haphazardly pieced together, chaotic and disorderly."
Herodotus mused.
If creating life is akin to painting, then the Gods were like unoriginal AI artists, collecting fragments of various masterpieces to synthetically produce a plagiarized piece.
Such art, stitched together and unoriginal, lacks the seamless essence that a true master of painting strives for.
"Our creation has no essence, merely a hodgepodge."
