Unfinished Work

Sunlight streamed through the hole in the sundial, casting a dark gray spot on the marble clock face. This small spot moved with time until it crossed three etched lines, slipped beyond the sundial's edge, signaling that twelve hours of daylight had passed and night was descending.

Mors blew a puff of air, clearing a few fragments of debris from the stone carving. The statue of Perseus, missing a hand and a face, was undergoing a grand transformation. Its form had not only shrunk considerably but now appeared to be clad in a robe. The statue's face was hazy and indistinct, with long hair cascading over its shoulders, and a circle of unrefined adornments at the forehead that were difficult to discern.

A low, unconscious groan, the kind that accompanies a creature's awakening, drifted upwards.

Peturabo swayed, pulling himself up by the seat cushion.

His eyes remained fixed on a meaningless void, with golden-red fire still burning inextinguishably reflected within his ice-blue irises.

Then the boy blinked, his consciousness returning to reality from the illusory space constructed by psychic energy. Uncomfortable from lying on the ground for so long, his foot slipped, and he tumbled into the seat.

Mors waved his hand, causing the small stone statue Peturabo had previously carved to fly before the boy. "Your unfinished work. You're welcome."

Peturabo grabbed the statue and set it aside. Judging by his hurried movements and the slight change in his expression, he was very unwilling to let this thing see the light of day again.

He turned his head to look at Mors, his open mouth indicating that words were brewing, but something prevented him from speaking. Perhaps it was the conflict between them, or perhaps it was his pride.

"If you walk to the window, face the sun, and open your mouth, people will know two things," Mors said.

"What?"

"One, you have something to say now." He carefully gestured with his chisel near the statue's hand, imagining the pose. "Two, time."

Peturabo's confusion arrived as quickly as it left. It seemed that after undergoing rigorous training, his thinking speed had improved.

"You're using my face as a metaphor for a sundial," Peturabo said unhappily. "My nose is the gnomon, my mouth is the dial face, and my teeth are the markings."

"Precise and wise, good boy." Mors chuckled, stopping his work. He pushed the life-sized stone statue aside as easily as one might move foam, coming face-to-face with Peturabo.

Starting from the current time, he chose to open the conversation with food. "First, I don't know where we're eating dinner."

"Mmm."

Peturabo tried to appear more serious, but in this world, no one could truly discuss the merits of salted olives versus fresh cherries with the same gravity as commanding troops in battle. Thus, the boy chose to abruptly change the subject.

He lifted his chin slightly. "Mors, I'm ready for tomorrow's trial."

"Oh, good luck," Mors replied blandly.

This answer was clearly unsatisfactory to Peturabo. The boy, for the umpteenth time, fell into his own excessively deep and complex thoughts, staring at Mors for a long time without speaking. Mors waited for a while, believing he had completed all the conversational etiquette, and then let the stone statue float back before him, continuing to ponder the composition of the hand.

Peturabo became inexplicably anxious. "Mors!"

"Hmm?"

"You..." Peturabo took a breath and stood up from his seat. With each step, he forcefully stomped his sandals on the floor, even though the floor would not be harmed in any way.

He walked to Mors's side, entering Mors's field of vision. "I debated with them earlier."

Mors admitted inwardly that he was amused. He replied in a declarative tone, "Oh, I know."

"I refuted them." Peturabo emphasized the words "them" and "refuted" with particular clarity, so much so that even the most hearing-impaired elderly person could clearly hear his stressed words.

"Yes," Mors said.

Peturabo used his gaze as a round chisel, glaring fiercely at Mors before returning indignantly to his beloved chair.

Ten minutes later, just as Mors was about to resume refining his statue with his tools, the boy suddenly spoke loudly, attempting a small act of revenge by startling him.

The boy said, "See, I relied on my own thinking and logic, not on innate knowledge that has fallen into a lost mist, nor on the talent you took away. It seems I am still not ordinary."

Mors was not surprised that Peturabo had found a breakthrough here.

Frankly speaking, when Mors had drawn his sword and gone to attack the Axos earlier, he had accepted that Peturabo, this child, also possessed a sliver of undeniable brilliance—or rather, the boy had finally displayed the small spark of individuality that should flicker in every mortal soul, and like every child his age, he was eagerly presenting it to the adult for admiration.

"Moreover, I've learned all the forging knowledge you provided," Peturabo said fiercely. "Tomorrow, I will prove myself before Lokos."

Mors brushed his finger across the surface of the statue, erasing a mistaken scratch, and replied as calmly as if drinking water, "What exactly do you want to say, Peturabo?"

Peturabo faltered.

"If you don't speak, I'll assume you're wasting your breath on nonsense again."

"Can't you stop your sarcastic wasting of breath for even a moment?"

"My sarcasm automatically selects and targets those who deserve it."

Peturabo angrily walked away again, picked up his half-finished small stone statue, and faced Mors, appearing eager to throw it.

Mors watched him with a smile. Peturabo immediately canceled his hidden action, quickly threw the statue back onto the table, his face flushing due to the overly clear sound of the statue colliding with the stone wall.

"I didn't..." His tongue waged a fierce battle with his will.

Mors shook his head, and a smaller chisel flew towards him. "Heh."

This morally bankrupt chuckle pierced through Peturabo's resolve once more.

"Mors!" He continued to torment the floor with his pacing. "Didn't my performance surprise you, break your stubbornness? Didn't my debate refute your condescending dismissal? Can you still say I'm useless except for my talent? Can't you just..."

He took a deep breath, making one worry that he might inhale all the dust floating in the air into his lungs. "Can't you just comment on how I did?"

"You did very well, an excellent performance. Peturabo, you're a good boy," Mors said.

Peturabo's face turned as if he had been doused with red berry juice. "You, Mors, you must be... mocking me, trying to appease me! How could you, what are you saying?"

Mors used a little psychic energy, not for any reason other than to form a layer of ice to help Peturabo cool down. "Mmm-hmm, you're happy, I get it."

"I'm not happy."

"Then I'll be unhappy." Mors waved his hand, and the frost turned to water before evaporating. "But I think you've finally realized that if you want a reward, you have to ask for it directly. You can't possibly be naive enough to think I have the patience to decipher your unfathomable childlike mind, can you?"

"Mors!"

"I'm not trying to insult you, I'm just trying to save us time," Mors said impassively. He finally decided to pose the statue with a sword, which meant he would need to find some more materials.

"You... you have nothing to do, you're completely idle, what's the point of saving time?"

"Because I had planned to leave tomorrow after your trial is over," Mors said casually.

"Go where?" Peturabo blurted out.