A Chance

The wind sank down over the cliff. At the center of a grove of trees stood a three-story house built from stone and wooden planks. Green shoots, sprouted from seeds carried there by wild birds, trembled in the breeze upon its roof.

The house had been built from tightly fitted sand, earth, and stone slabs. Local clay mixed with plant sap served as a strong, effective glue to fill the gaps, making it seem almost like a single seamless whole. Only the windows had been carved from hollowed material into square lattices.

Scenes painted at whim adorned the outer walls, using pigments ground from local stone and plants. A small hand-carved stone lion stood by the door, surrounded by unfinished carvings of leopards, griffins, and boars. Awls, stone hammers, and measuring rulers rested on a low stool.

The owner of the house appeared to lack the patience to finish a complete craft, and that was precisely the source of the complaint voiced by the boy now standing before the door with his arms folded across his chest.

"Why don't you finish them?" Peturabo asked mockingly.

Mors emerged from the house only after a while, carrying a handmade wicker chair. He dragged it lightly into the sunlight and breeze, then collapsed onto it, his messy black hair spreading like seaweed.

"When you explain to me, from surface to core, why you insisted on following me home, I'll tell you." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sun.

Mors believed in fairness. If Peturabo could not offer enough words in exchange, he had no patience to explain things to a child.

Peturabo fell silent again.

This was the type Mors found most troublesome. He hated indulging children or accommodating their tempers.

Peturabo walked about, his bare feet touching the dry ground as sand scraped over the grass seeds lodged between the stones. The sounds of breathing and fabric rubbing against itself gradually moved farther away. Mors cracked open an eyelid, and sure enough, the boy had stopped beside the finished statue of Perseus that he had made long ago.

Peturabo was a unique boy.

Objectively speaking, he had a youthful appearance, smooth skin, coordinated limbs, and features that were less handsome than stern and angular, like steel.

Yet he seemed to be more than a boy. His presence was proud, and his mannerisms and expressions often suggested that his mental age had surpassed his outward appearance. He possessed an innate wisdom that transcended the limitations of his body. Mors would not deny that he was exceptional.

But he still called him a boy.

At that thought, Mors smiled.

Because Peturabo's mental development was quite in keeping with his apparent age—if anything, it was even more childish.

For what reason had the craftsman who created this humanoid creature fashioned such an inconvenient tool? It was troublesome enough that, even though the tool did not belong to him, he could still empathize deeply with it.

"What do you think of my statue?" Mors asked.

"You answer my question first." Peturabo put what he had learned to use.

Mors opened his eyes fully, placed both hands behind his head, and let gravity rock the wicker chair naturally.

"So you can learn, can't you?" he commented dismissively. "One demand in exchange for one price. One payment, one gain. I didn't finish them because I'm lazy and not interested enough in animal stone carvings. Your turn."

Peturabo's throat seemed blocked by stone, making it difficult for him to speak. His gaze briefly swept across the sky before deliberately avoiding it. Then he said, "I don't know."

Mors gave a short laugh. Just as Peturabo thought he would have no further reaction, Mors suddenly stood. The wicker branches groaned with a shrill, grating sound like teeth snapping through bone, carrying hints of fracture and danger.

His face turned severe as he crossed the distance in two strides, stopping less than ten inches from Peturabo. He could see panic beginning to appear in the boy's confident eyes. His gaze swept for a second time through an empty patch of sky that did not exist. His taut cheeks trembled, his whole body stiffened from spine downward, and his feet stubbornly rooted themselves in the dirt, suppressing the instinct to retreat.

Mors reached out and pressed a hand atop the boy's head, feeling the stiff hair beneath his palm, hard as wood shavings. Peturabo's trembling stopped entirely, but his rigidity became even more apparent, like iron suddenly quenched during forging and fixed into shape in a strange posture.

Who had crafted this astonishing instrument? He was so similar to a human, yet desperately displayed his differences at every turn.

He began recalling the friends capable of such artistic creation.

Surika? Joe? Rain? Orpeson?

He did not know.

Countless years had passed since he had last contacted any of them.

Mors used a harmless amount of psychic power to turn Peturabo's head toward the statue of Perseus.

He controlled the boy's head, while the boy himself controlled his own body.

"Look," he said softly, raising his left hand. A finger wrapped in black cloth pointed toward the statue.

"To recreate this ancient work of art, I did not use rockcrete. Fortunately, I found marble, clay, and wood. I also acquired gold, and sometimes used iron. I did not obtain ivory. This planet lacks creatures beautiful enough for me to display my cruelty upon."

"Do you know his story?" Mors asked, then added, "This is an extra question. Even if you offer no information in exchange, I will still give you the answer."

"I know." Peturabo answered very quickly. He only dared to win back a point here. "Perseus received Athena's guidance and took the head of the Gorgon Medusa."

Peturabo looked at the wings on Perseus's helmet and the blade clenched in his hand, as though comparing them with something. Gradually, he had no choice but to conceal his astonishment.

Mors looked at the statue. He had spent some time carving it, recreating it completely from the depths of time.

On this planet, which had regressed too far through the loss of culture, there were not many entertainments he could enjoy.

"Continue," he said, softening his voice.

Encouraged, Peturabo let the corner of his eye sweep across the sky for a third time. Each time, his breathing became disordered for an instant.

Mors noticed it.

"The art from the same period as this statue had not formed a unified style. Artists competed to display their individual characteristics, such as enhancing the ornamentation of details, emphasizing imagination and novelty, focusing on depictions of the human body, and using perspective in composition. Sometimes it exceeded common sense and violated reason." The word made him exhale in unconscious contempt. "Its formal beauty and reserved, haughty traits are unpleasant."

He hid his dissatisfaction with Mors within his hostility toward the statue's artistic style.

Mors offered approving praise. "You know a great deal, good boy." He rubbed the top of the boy's head, then released Peturabo. The latter still seemed immersed in the sudden praise he had received, unable to pull himself free.

Yet Mors had already gained much information. For example, whoever had implanted memory modules into this tool had at least been born thirty thousand years ago—perhaps far earlier.

Who could it be?

Mors picked up an awl, stepped back two paces, and examined the mannerist sculpture that embodied the vigor and outward beauty of the human form. Then he abruptly raised his hand. With swift, precise force, he drove the awl down. A sharp crash rang out, followed by stone striking the ground. The statue's left hand, which held a skull, was snapped off on the spot.

Behind him came the sound of the boy drawing breath, fabric rustling, and heels scraping the ground. Mors confirmed that Peturabo had taken a step back.

He raised the awl again. The second break came at the statue's right hand. The stone blade shattered beneath the iron tool—first cracks, then fragments, and finally dust.

"I don't like his story," Mors said loudly. "Receiving guidance from a god, killing a monster."

The awl scraped across the hero's face, driving a crack from one side of the upper jaw. The marble split, and the hero lost his features. Destruction was far easier than creation, yet the thrill it brought was no less than the joy of making something.

Mors rarely sought excitement of his own accord. He had no interest in drawing pointless attention or danger to himself because of it.

"Do you like this story?" he asked. "Relying on some heaven-sent knowledge of unknown origin, relying on arrogance with no source, to defeat something you fear?"

He turned and tossed the awl to Peturabo. The boy's body caught the tool before his mind even needed to react, but for the first time, a trace of hollow pain appeared in his eyes.

Mors looked at the sky. It was clear, clean, filled with the distinctive purity of a primitive, non-industrial planet.

He could not see what Peturabo feared, but he had some guesses.

"You don't like this story." He bit off each syllable, chewed them over, then delivered them with deliberate cadence. "Because you cannot even defeat your fear. Tell me what it is, Peturabo. This is your only chance. I will only ask once."

Mors bared his teeth in a grin. "Otherwise, I'll go take a nap."