Advance and Retreat

"Leave this palace. This city, this kingdom." Mors added a joke at the end of his words, "But not this planet."

Peturabo forced himself to calm down: "Are you threatening me?"

"Threaten you with what, my departure? Can this possibly be a threat to you?"

"It cannot!"

"Then how have I coerced you? Am I going to harm your body or soul? Am I going to take from you something you cannot give? Or do you have some other reason?" Mors deliberately twisted Peturabo's true meaning, the boy's every reaction falling within the scope of his deductions.

Peturabo turned his face away, his expression more dazed than angry.

He was not unintelligent; in fact, thanks to his genius creator, Peturabo's speed of comprehension and analysis surpassed nearly all life in the human race.

What held him back was only the particularly immature part of his own personality.

"Mors, you're trying to hurt me. You're not planning to leave, you brought your sculptures, your tools, you're about to settle down in Lokos."

He said, painfully swallowing the latter half of his sentence, questioning what outcome Mors was waiting for.

"Come here, Peturabo." Mors spoke, no longer with his usual carelessness, but with a peculiar solemnity and gravity that did not make him seem unapproachable, but rather increased his gentleness.

Peturabo's feet felt stuck to the ground, but then that inseparable state was released, and he took a step with a resolve and compromise that even the most exquisite machine could hardly emulate.

Good. Mors thought. Then I will stay.

He saw a smiling person reflected in Peturabo's eyes.

"I am hurting you. I am looking for every loophole in your mind, you and I both know it."

Mors stopped all his work, his right palm facing upwards, resting within Peturabo's reach. The boy, as if bewitched, placed his hand upon it; and Mors knew he had not used any supernatural means – this was precisely what fascinated him.

"But not this time, not entirely. I do intend to leave Lokos, you should be able to see that everything Lokos can offer me is worthless. Even if Dameks were to walk into the room now and kneel, saying he would yield to a more capable person, I would not feel the slightest joy."

Peturabo moved away for ten seconds, dragging his chair over, seeking some equality through matching heights.

The boy sat facing him, his back still straight. Mors waited for him for a moment, then continued his narrative.

Mors spoke calmly: "I am a person of exceptional talent, but my wisdom and insight do not exceed the best eras of humanity. However, amidst the retreating waves of time, my simply standing still has already put me ahead of the general populace."

"I do not deny my abilities, nor yours. You should be able to understand that when you stand far higher than everyone else, the pleas and expectations of others cease to be mere recognition and trust for you. They become more of a responsibility, even a burden."

"If you wish to weep for them, you must descend from your mountain peak. Humanity's long and endless history is by no means lacking in tragic examples."

Some sharp and hollow words floated from his lips. Peturabo's eyes flickered slightly, and Mors knew the boy had heard him and was thinking.

This was good. Even if Peturabo was temporarily willing to listen to him, it was only because Mors was stronger, more accomplished, and more mysterious, creating an illusion in Peturabo's mind that submitting to him was not unacceptable.

Mors was certain that when Peturabo's supreme creator descended one day, it would immediately become the sole candidate for Peturabo's complete devotion. The boy, the man of the future, would quickly forget this "shameful" past, even erase it vengefully.

But he was listening now.

Mors needed nothing else.

"Are you one of the examples?" Peturabo asked.

"Never. I have always been unknown, obscure, just a pawn, always insignificant."

The examples he cited were actually conjectures about another person, and this was not something that needed to be mentioned. He was no longer related to that person, and Peturabo likely had little connection to him either – Mors told himself this.

Peturabo quieted down, his mind full of questions. Then he shook his head, casting the distracting thoughts from his mind.

"Is it my change that makes you stay?" he asked, lowering his voice. This change in his tone made him sound somewhat like an adult.

"You made me confess openly, saving time, bringing everything to the surface with words. Now you are the one casting a dense fog over our conversation."

Saying this made him feel uneasy. Peturabo realized he was venturing into a completely new territory. Mors had repeatedly forced him to re-examine himself, using his cold power to push him back into the depths of his mind, to scrutinize everything external and his own mental shell. Thus, he finally saw a flaw, a hint of something.

He felt that something was wrong, something he knew without needing knowledge – it seemed to be part of common sense, a part of the rational foundation of humanity that remained like a priori knowledge after the blinding illusion of knowledge and identity had been escaped, and he had overlooked it for too long.

He glanced out the window. The Maelstrom of Stars was hidden, leaving no trace.

It was only now that he realized the source of his fear had vanished from the very beginning. Mors had helped him so profoundly – only now did he dare to admit how terrified he had once been of those starry eyes.

"You are the first person I've met since I can remember," Peturabo said. He didn't know what he was saying; he was just uttering words, expressing feelings. He almost felt that speaking like this was bizarre and incomprehensible.

He looked at Mors levelly, gazing at his calm, almost cold demeanor, like looking into a steel mirror. He spoke to Mors, and at the same time, he spoke to himself.

Mors waited for him patiently.

He felt nervous, fearful, then all the delicate membranes of his emotions were pierced, leaving leaky holes. A clean, gurgling substance surged forth from the spring of his soul, filling the voids and washing away the panic. He searched for appropriate words, thinking perhaps they should be defined as peace of mind.

"From the beginning, you spoke to me of fairness and transactions, that all gains and giving must be laid bare. I put forth my chips, you took the goods, pricing everything. We calculated the costs clearly, as if you could not understand me otherwise, and I could not understand you."

"But the reality is far from that. At least, you can now skillfully manipulate my psychology. This is not normal. You and I both know that humans cannot survive on transactions alone."

"What exactly do you want from me, Mors? Your attitude makes me confused by your tolerance at times, and makes me think you hate me at others."

Peturabo admitted everything he had to admit. These words were covered in thorns, and each word made his throat and mouth bleed with pain. Yet, facing a perpetually cold steel mirror, his pain was easily frozen and smoothed away.

He did not imagine if it were someone else here, whether he could speak like this. Dameks? Mityad? Unknown courtiers and priests?

He did not speculate, because the fact was that the person here was Mors.

Under his gaze, he could not see even the slightest waver. Mors was as unfathomable as ever, even more elusive than in their daily moments. And he had already revealed so much. Peturabo gritted his teeth and pressed on, "Do you hate me?"

Mors lowered his gaze. "Do you remember what I said before?"

Then he wore a slight smile. "'Your creator did not finish his work. Peturabo, you are not a qualified tool. And what should a qualified craftsman do with failed forged steel? I choose to melt it back into molten iron, quench it, hammer it, cool it, and repeat the cycle.'"

"I certainly don't hate you. I am simply taking over your creator's work. I cannot bear to see such excellent material go to waste, Peturabo. I am simply reforging you. My decision to stay is also for this purpose; I see that my staying can shape you better."

"So I am a tool," Peturabo said. "So we talk about transactions. So we never get close."

Mors smiled slightly. "Are you ready to establish a closer relationship?" He shook his head. "At least I am not yet."