Trial of Metal

"I thought we were invited to imprison a beast with the art of architecture. Yet this labyrinth imprisons not only heretical beasts, but also ourselves, betrayed. We walked through countless intersecting corridors, evading the bull-headed ones; this dazzling maze twists like the winding river network of Fulikia, through currents and countercurrents, we return to the source. Is this what we deserve, is this what you deserve?"

"My son, our labyrinth claims innocent lives every year, and our art empowers the tyrant's authority and might. Though not my desire, it is so."

"Will we never escape, to accept all the trials the gods bestow upon us?"

Dameks held the newly written scroll in his hands, the ink still wet, the damp black ink reflecting the light from the ceiling.

As he was engrossed in reading, the paper carrying the story was casually snatched away by a hand wrapped in black cloth.

Mors crumpled the scroll into a ball, as if it were worthless scrap. Dameks couldn't help but feel indignant. Having served as one of the Twelve Tyrants of Olympia for many years, he rarely experienced such blatant defiance.

However, when he looked up and saw that the mysterious black-clad craftsman didn't even bother to glance at him, he immediately suppressed his anger, and respect gradually grew.

Corresponding to the defiance was Mors's astonishing, even terrifying, ability.

Dameks couldn't understand where this person named Mors obtained his supreme talent and extraordinary power.

Although he had to fulfill his duties as a ruler, dealing amicably with divine officials and priests, he knew in his heart that the legend of the "Black Judgement Day" circulating in Olympia, as well as the existence of all the gods, were merely grand fabrications by the ignorant to seek peace of mind, divorced from reality.

Yet Dameks could find no explanation other than divine blessing to rationalize the existence of Mors and Peturabo.

—That day, when the entire court faced Peturabo, did anyone pay the slightest attention to the craftsman Mors, who was clearly impossible to ignore?

Whenever Dameks recalled this, he felt a sense of dread.

He cleared his throat as if to conceal something, clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and put his weight on the small wooden table in front of him.

"Mors," he asked respectfully, "this story is exquisitely worded and intricately plotted, possessing both fantastical elements and a cautionary message. Why did you destroy it? Is it not yet to your satisfaction?"

Mors leaned against the intricately carved wooden balustrade on the second floor of the great hall, still dressed entirely in black, like a shadow in the sunlight.

He stared intently at the wide platform on the first floor below, the paper on which the story was written crackling and burning in a faint blue flame in his hand.

Hearing the question, he replied, "Satisfaction? It was just a story I wrote casually. Let's see how Peturabo performs next; I'm curious about what achievements he will accomplish today."

Dameks was still unwilling to give up. The story had reached its climax, and if it were to end abruptly, he feared he would spend the next week repeatedly pondering the story of the craftsman and his son countless times.

"Then, can you tell me the ending of the father and son in the story?" Dameks said, rising from his comfortable armchair, his middle-aged body slightly stout. He walked to the side of the balustrade with his hands behind his back.

"They died. People always die. At least, that's how it is in the story." Mors said a few simple words and then shifted his attention away from Dameks.

The story he had spent a long time writing while waiting seemed to occupy no more space in his mind at this moment.

Dameks couldn't help but feel a moment of disappointment, then immediately scorned his own delusion.

He had thought the artist intended to write the story for him to see, but now that was proven to be his own overestimation.

He also looked towards the center of the first floor of the theater hall.

On the side of the marble circular platform, a boy calmly awaited the trial he was about to face. Even with hundreds of eyes fixed on him from below, his demeanor and composure were extraordinary, far beyond his years.

Peturabo's strength and knowledge did not exceed mortal limits. Compared to Mors, who possessed supernatural characteristics, he was probably just a mortal child.

Dameks had thought several times that since he was mortal, why couldn't his offspring be as outstanding as this boy.

As magnificent music began to play on all four sides of the circular platform, a movable forge was carried onto the platform by eight strong young soldiers.

Another newly appeared bald priest systematically guided the soldiers, making one wonder if the divine official who had lost his composure in front of the hall yesterday was now unharmed.

Peturabo turned slightly, appraising the tools he was about to use. Dameks couldn't see his expression clearly from the high second floor, but Mors, resting his chin on his thumb, said cheerfully, "He's confident."

The King nodded. Below, the forge's cylinder radiated a great deal of light and heat, the furnace hotter than yesterday, enough to make any ordinary person flinch.

As the bellows and anvil were put in place, the charcoal burned brightly, and smoke rose upwards, forming gray clouds that swirled around the high eaves. Peturabo walked with firm steps towards the center of the circular platform where he was to work.

He looked at the dark yellow wooden stakes used to pad the anvil, and the gunmetal-colored, metallic-sheened tools. He didn't know what thoughts arose in his mind, but his movements were surprisingly gentle.

Peturabo reached out to the silver steel bucket filled with iron blocks, unhesitatingly took out the material he desired, placed it on the anvil, and let the hammer and fire give it life.

The forging began.

The boy amusingly tried to push the iron block to be forged into the raging fire with his bare hands. He quickly regained his senses, took the iron tongs and thick gloves offered by the attendant beside him, and no longer forced the fragility of his mortal hands.

This small action caused a flash of smiling light in Mors's eyes.

Despite nearly being injured by the flames, Peturabo was not afraid of the fire. He skillfully utilized the fire and steel as if he were born to coexist with these companions of craftsmen.

The steel glowed red hot, its center as bright as a star, while fiery golden kernels, with edges shedding flakes of cooling, charred debris.

He patiently flipped the iron block repeatedly. Sweat and the intense heat dampened his cloth robe, and the molten metal's gleam reflected in the eyes of both the boy and Mors on the second-floor platform.

Mors spoke again, perhaps to Dameks, perhaps to a phantom, perhaps to no one.

He continued the story he had interrupted, speaking in the voice of a son to a father in the story, and sparing no effort to bring more myths to this distant planet that had not yet been blessed.

"Father, I will not let us be trapped forever. Though our destination is uncertain, it should not be a lonely, distant island haunted by souls."

"Seabirds will give us their feathers, tyrants will leave us beeswax, Apollo will guide our way, Hermes will bless our wings, and in the high heavens, we will seek freedom."

Mors's voice was soft, each consonant as melodious as the song of an oriole in early spring, as if a little louder, a little more direct, it would be enough to disturb the clear, tranquil waters of a mist-filled pond.

Dameks realized with a start how rough and heavy his breathing was, and deliberately softened it. He then remembered Mors saying that the people in the story had died, and soon, inexplicably, he felt a pang of sadness.

Mors turned his head to glance at Dameks, and the tyrant immediately came to his senses, resuming his normal breathing rhythm. He awkwardly feigned composure.