Tyrant Dameks

Mors observed the fortress before them with polite curiosity.

A palace, a fortress, call it what you will.

If every wall of this structure were painted with a smooth, slightly gleaming finish, with golden spires echoing the sun in the high heavens, then the name "fortress," emphasizing its original purpose, would no longer be important.

He tried to compare it with the Royal Palace of Lokos from his memory of over a hundred years ago, and then concluded: this palace was a whole level newer than before its renovation.

For something ancient to be more radiant than in its youth, and to possess richer cultural significance, is a rare quality that crafted objects often embody.

He stopped before the grand doors inlaid with gold and silver bas-reliefs. The remaining three Lokos guards exchanged glances, their faces puzzled, yet none dared to rush him.

Mors looked down, and Peturabo looked up at him. He still unconsciously gripped his long saber, the newly carved hilt pressing into the fragile new skin of his palm, the boy oblivious.

Some pain is often beneficial for relieving tension and maintaining clarity. Mors actually had some experience with this.

Peturabo asked, "What is it? Looking at me like that?"

Mors lightly patted the boy's shoulder. "Nothing, but you remind me of things from the very beginning of long ages."

Like meeting a sovereign, with ambition, hope, vigilance, and a sword, met with questions, surprise, and disappointment.

He turned to ask the three warriors, "Are your Tyrants naive enough to allow others to bring swords to see them?"

The leader, named Mityad, suddenly came to his senses. He then brought back to mind the fact that the two guests had not changed their clothes nor discarded their weapons, and absolutely should not have been brought to see their great Tyrant.

Rather than speaking up to defend the Tyrant's honor, the soldier became uneasy. "The Tyrant of Lokos does not..."

Mors did not make it difficult for him. The psychic energy receded as his will dictated, and the sharp saber that had briefly existed in Peturabo's hand immediately turned to dust.

"I'll get you a better one later," Mors said casually to Peturabo.

Peturabo looked at his palm. "Can it be a hammer?"

Mors laughed. "Are you going to open a blacksmith shop?"

As the two conversed, the magnificent palace gates swung open to the sides, as if the opulent hall within, with its Old Terra-style interior, had removed its veil.

Gold, silver, and white armor were arranged neatly and at regular intervals between the marble columns. The faces of all the ceremonial guards were hidden in the deep shadows of their helmets, erasing their specific features to emphasize a majestic aura that was neither fully human nor entirely artificial, existing between craftsmanship and living beings.

All the courtiers present also became components of the scene. They were neat, well-built, with full foreheads and dressed in luxurious attire. Like the towering hall, priceless decorations, and ornamental blades, they were perfect props to highlight the majesty of the throne.

Unfortunately, some ceiling lights that disrupted the atmosphere made Mors's lips curl involuntarily.

He let his gaze extend forward along the artistic vanishing point.

Between two massive, exquisite, lifelike statues embracing metal totems, yet mixed with multi-cultural elements from Old Terra to the point of appearing inexplicably comical, was a vast throne carved from tons of marble.

A colossal iron and stone throne encased a middle-aged man wearing an iron thorn crown and holding a golden scepter resting on his knees. His large, prominent nose, slightly narrowed eyes, sparse black hair, and slightly protruding belly all emphasized his characteristics as an ordinary mortal.

A mediocre body, a lazy posture, an oversized hall, a supreme throne.

A brown eagle, set off by vibrant peacocks and colorful parrots.

He is that broken arm.

What? Peturabo didn't understand the allusion.

Imagine a beautiful stone sculpture. She was no more extraordinary than any statue of a beauty goddess of her time, until her broken arm achieved her true beauty.

Mors said happily through the psychic channel.

You mean, this palace is the beautiful stone sculpture, and that Tyrant is the most outstanding feature on the sculpture?

The boy's voice was initially full of doubt, but that suspicion evaporated midway through his words. Mors knew Peturabo understood him.

He could also imagine what the Tyrant on the throne looked like in the boy's eyes—a being created from the fusion of a simple mortal and the cold, fervent intensity unique to the wise.

Mityad moved his pathetic lips, wanting to prompt the guests to kneel according to etiquette. Soon, he gave up and knelt silently by himself.

From among the dazzling robes of the courtiers, a herald clad in blue cloth emerged.

"Long live Dameks!" the herald raised his head. Even Mors would not deny how elegant and pleasant his hard-won voice was. "Praise the third of the Council of Twelve Tiransikos, the Tyrant of Lokos, Lord Kloitan and Dominiki of sevenfold renown, the seventh incarnation of Alka, the great King Dameks!"

He lightly returned to the ranks. The soldiers stamped their feet in unison, the ends of their golden spears striking the ground heavily.

Who is Alka?

A fabricated divine name from local beliefs, I guess.

A subtle look of disdain crossed Peturabo's face.

On the throne, Dameks spoke in a light tone, using a seemingly warm and amiable manner to conceal his shrewdness and probing: "Mityad, with whom are we sharing this gathering?"

Mityad lowered his head. "A boy from Cadisia, and an unknown hermit, my Lord Tyrant."

"You haven't returned any later than you promised, Mityad. Weeks ago, you said it would take a long time to traverse Cadisia, and I thought you planned to travel for two or three years. I was considering whether to reduce your gold coins."

Dameks said cordially. His words were like a switch, and as soon as they fell, they triggered laughter from the courtiers.

"Yes, my Lord Tyrant," Mityad replied too briefly, lowering his head even further.

Dameks's smile gradually disappeared in the silence. "Where are my other two warriors?"

"They fell in battle with Axos."

More silence descended, and the grand hall seemed to lose some of its color.

"The valiant shall be rewarded," Dameks sighed. "Anuinkai will bless them. Their families will each receive a hundred gold coins, Mityad, you and your two warriors, ten gold coins each."

"As you wish."

Dameks concluded his stage performance.

His gaze artfully landed between Mors and Peturabo, ensuring both believed the Tyrant was scrutinizing them.

"Boy, your legendary tales have spread throughout Olympia. I previously thought some illiterate shepherd was exaggerating, but now I must apologize: your own legend is far greater than the rumors describe."

Peturabo watched him quietly, his gaze filled with calm contemplation. "Perhaps."

"And this gentleman," Dameks complimented playfully, "you hide your legend quite skillfully. I have reason to believe you are the guiding force on this boy's path. Are you his father? Or his mentor?"

Mors tallied his accounts with Peturabo and regretfully reached an unpleasant conclusion.

"Actually, he might be my creditor," Mors said, looking at the boy. "I owe him a hammer as a gift."

Meeting everyone's surprised gazes, Mors smiled. "I am a craftsman, now known as Mors."