A Chance

Wind descended past the cliff, and at the center of the treelined area, atop a three-story house built from stone and wooden planks, tender green sprouts, born from seeds carried by wild birds, trembled in the breeze.

The house was constructed from tightly packed sand and stone slabs, with local clay mixed with plant sap used as a strong, effective adhesive to fill the gaps, making it appear almost a single, complete entity. Only the windows were carved out in grids using hollowed materials.

The outer walls were painted with scenes drawn at whim using pigments ground from local stones and plants. At the entrance stood a small, hand-carved stone lion statue, along with scattered, unfinished carvings of leopards, griffins, and wild boars. On a low stool lay awls, stone hammers, and measuring rulers.

The owner of the house seemed to lack the patience to complete a single handicraft, which was precisely the source of the boy standing at the door, arms crossed, complaining.

"Why don't you finish them?" Peturabo sneered.

Mors emerged from the house a moment later, carrying a handmade rattan chair. He dragged the chair into the sunlight and breeze, then slumped into it, his messy black hair fanning out like seaweed.

"When you can dissect for me, from the outside in, why you had to follow me home, I'll tell you," he said, closing his eyes to enjoy the sun.

Mors valued fairness; if Peturabo couldn't offer enough words in exchange, he wouldn't have the patience to explain to a child.

Peturabo fell silent again.

This was the type Mors found most troublesome. He hated indulging children and catering to their moods.

Peturabo was walking, dry earth meeting his bare feet, sand scraping against the grass seeds in the rock crevices. The sound of his breathing and the rustle of his clothes faded slightly. Mors lifted an eyelid a sliver. As expected, the boy stood straight beside a finished stone statue of Perseus he had previously crafted.

Peturabo was a unique boy.

Objectively, he possessed a youthful appearance, with smooth skin, coordinated limbs, and a face that was less handsome than solemn and sharply defined, like steel.

Yet, he didn't seem like just a boy. His aura was arrogant, and his demeanor and bearing often suggested his mental age far exceeded his outward appearance, possessing innate wisdom that transcended his physical limitations. Mors wouldn't deny his exceptional qualities.

However, he still called him a boy.

Thinking this, Mors chuckled.

It was because Peturabo's mental development was quite aligned with his apparent age, perhaps even a bit more childish.

For whatever reason the craftsman who created this humanoid being had, they had fashioned such an inconvenient tool: troublesome to the point where even if the tool didn't belong to him, it was enough to make him empathize deeply.

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

"You answer my question first," Peturabo replied, putting his learning into practice.

Mors opened his eyes fully, propping his head in his hands, letting gravity guide the natural sway of the rattan chair.

"Can't this be learned?" he commented dismissively. "One demand for one price, one transaction for one gain. I don't finish them because I'm lazy by nature and lack interest in animal sculptures. Your turn."

Peturabo's voice sounded as if his throat were blocked by stones. His gaze briefly swept across the sky before deliberately avoiding it, then he said, "I don't know."

Mors let out a short laugh. Just as Peturabo thought he wouldn't react further, Mors suddenly stood up. The creak of the rattan chair's branches was as sharp and grating as teeth biting bone, accompanied by an omen of shattering and danger.

His expression turned stern, and he took two steps, closing to within ten inches of Peturabo. He could see the boy's confident eyes beginning to show panic, his gaze sweeping towards an empty area in the sky for the second time, his taut cheeks trembling, his entire body rigid from spine to feet, his soles stubbornly planted in the dirt, suppressing the instinct to retreat.

Mors reached out and placed a hand on the boy's head, feeling the stubble beneath his palm, hard as wood shavings. Peturabo's trembling stopped entirely, but his stiffness became even more pronounced, like iron ore suddenly cooled during forging, settling into a strange shape.

Who had crafted this astonishing artifact? It resembled a human so much, yet it desperately tried to showcase its differences everywhere.

He began to recall his list of friends capable of such artistic creation.

Surika? Joe? Rayne? Olpeson?

He didn't know.

It had been countless times since he last contacted any of them.

Mors used some harmless psychic energy to turn Peturabo's head towards the Perseus statue.

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

"Look," he said in a low voice, raising his left hand, his black-cloth-wrapped finger pointing at the statue.

"To bring this ancient artwork back to life, I didn't use concrete. Fortunately, I found marble, clay, and wood, and I also obtained gold, sometimes using iron. I didn't get ivory; this planet lacks creatures with such aesthetic beauty, leaving me nowhere to display my cruelty."

"Do you know his story?" Mors asked, adding a note: "This is an extra question; even if you don't exchange information, I will still give you the answer."

"I know," Peturabo replied quickly, only daring to regain a foothold here. "Perseus, guided by Athena, took the head of the Gorgon Medusa."

Peturabo looked at the wings on Perseus's helmet and the blade clutched in his hand, as if comparing something. Gradually, he began to be forced to hide his astonishment.

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

On this planet, which had regressed too much due to the loss of its culture, he didn't have many recreational activities he could enjoy.

"Continue," he softened his voice.

Peturabo, encouraged, let his peripheral vision sweep across the sky for the third time. His breathing would falter for an instant because of this.

Mors noticed this.

"The art of this statue's period did not form a unified style. Artists would vie to express their individual characteristics, such as enhancing details, emphasizing imagination and novelty, focusing on human anatomy, employing perspective techniques in composition, sometimes exceeding common sense and defying rationality," this word caused him to unconsciously exhale in disdain, "the beauty of form and its reserved, arrogant characteristics were unsettling."

He hid his dissatisfaction with Mors within his animosity towards the statue's artistic style.

Mors affirmed approvingly, "You know a lot, good boy." He rubbed the top of the boy's head, then released Peturabo, who seemed still immersed in the praise he had suddenly received, unable to extricate himself.

And he had already obtained a lot of information, such as the fact that the person who implanted memory modules into this tool was born at least thirty thousand years ago, with no upper limit.

Who could it be?

Mors picked up an awl, took two steps back, and surveyed the stylized sculpture that embodied masculine strength and external beauty. Then, he suddenly raised his hand, quickly lifting the awl. With swift and precise movement, a resounding clang and the sound of falling stone, the statue's left hand, holding a skull, was knocked off.

Behind him, he heard the boy gasp, fabric rustled, and heels scraped the ground. Mors confirmed that Peturabo had taken a step back.

He raised the spike again. The second fracture occurred in the statue's right hand. The stone blade shattered under the iron, first cracking, then crumbling into fragments, and finally turning to dust.

"I don't like his story," Mors said loudly. "Guided by a god, killing a monster."

The spike sliced across the hero's face, piercing a crack where the upper jawbone would be. The marble split, and the hero lost his features. Destruction was far easier than creation, but the thrill it brought was no less than the joy of creating.

Mors rarely sought out thrills. He had no interest in attracting unwanted attention and danger for their own sake.

"Do you like this story?" he asked. "Relying on some divinely granted knowledge from an unknown source, with arrogance that has no origin, to overcome something you fear?"

He turned around and tossed the spike to Peturabo. The boy's limbs caught the tool without his mind even needing to react, and for the first time, a hint of hollow pain appeared in the boy's eyes.

Mors looked up at the sky. It was clear, clean, and filled with the clarity unique to a primitive, non-industrial planet.

He couldn't see what Peturabo feared, but he had some guesses.

"You don't like this story," he said, biting each syllable, chewing them, and then spitting them out with a cadence. "Because you can't even overcome your fear. Tell me what it is, Peturabo. This is your only chance. I'll only ask this once."

Mors grinned. "Otherwise, I'm going to take a nap."