It was a question that truly haunted the mind: If the holy gods, spiritual concepts, and everything else were merely nonsense... what stopped us from becoming gods ourselves? Were we so weak that we had to shroud our consciousness in a lie? Was comfort so valuable that we would trade our intellect for it?
"Can that device determine the age of this language?" Sam asked the prospector holding the scanner.
The prospector grew visibly tense. "Sir... I believe you could judge the age of this language yourself far better than this device could. We estimate that this language has been extinct for at least five hundred years. It's not just that the inscriptions are old; the language itself has left no trace for five centuries."
This felt bizarre. If the language was that ancient, how could those people have constructed such magnificent architecture just for the sake of mockery? The engineering here was anything but simple; the hall was so vast it felt almost purposeless.
