The Clay Jar

Peturabo was Mors's first apprentice.

Mors had never considered taking an apprentice before, for he had yet to cast aside his identity as a seeker on his own path. Peturabo was the sole exception, and he had also made Mors experience the troubles of being a teacher for the first time.

He did not worry over whether he was a qualified teacher. Clearly, qualified or not, Peturabo would not leave, especially before he received Mors's genuine concern.

That was somewhat difficult. In fact, it was even a minor trouble for Mors himself.

Summoning enough emotion to cultivate sincere fondness for a bastard boy was hardly a suitable task for him.

The sun had hung high for a long time. Flocks of white birds slowly glided through the air, casting low-cutting shadows over the heads of the crowd.

Mors stood among the crowd, wearing an ordinary dark-blue robe over his black cloth clothes so that he could blend into the flow of people and observe his apprentice from another perspective.

He raised his head. Without using psychic power or doing anything unnecessary, he simply let his gaze pass through the gaps in the crowd, over countless shaved heads, sweating heads, heads wrapped in cloth, heads with hair hanging to their shoulders, heads adorned with gold and silver crowns, and heads decorated with foreign feathers, until he saw the two figures facing each other on the distant platform.

There were quite a few people on the platform. Aside from Andos, sitting at ease on a cushion, and Peturabo, whose back was straight on the other side and whose face could not be seen, the rest of the tyrant's family was present as well, with his children attending the king on both sides.

There were also some familiar faces: courtiers, soldiers, craftsmen, and foreign guests. They were the same people, apart from the priests, who had appeared when Peturabo met the tyrant before. There were a few unfamiliar faces too. Their features were likewise indistinct at such a distance; all Mors could make out were the harmless figures of middle-aged men, the gleaming heads of men bald at the crown, and the occasional exchanges between them.

The broad-winged white birds circled back through the sky. Mors brushed away the impulse to pluck a few snow-white feathers and watched the natural creatures depart.

"There are so many vultures today," someone beside him remarked. "Is it the great mind of the goddess Isis?"

Mors stood idly with his arms folded across his chest. Hearing this, he turned to look at the man—he had been jostling against him in the surging crowd.

"Is that a good omen?" he asked, using a tone averaged from every local accent, which brought a friendly smile to the man's face.

"Isis loves everyone. She protects craftsmen and sinners, and she also protects the dead, young children, maidens, and nobles."

"Sounds good." Mors neither agreed nor disagreed. "Do white vultures often come to Lokos?"

"When the goddess Isis casts her gaze upon us, they come. Ah, Lokos's fortress protects us, so the goddess's white vultures often come here. She loves peaceful places." The man smiled as he made the gesture of a flying bird before his chest. "As for other birds, those carnivorous, cold-blooded great birds, they often circle above other city-states."

Mors's gaze swept over the lively fellow. "Are you a local?" he asked.

"My mother came from a city-state far away. But I grew up here, so I'm a local too. When I heard someone was going to challenge Prince Andos today, I was quite surprised. But then everyone said Lord Peturabo was coming, so I got excited and couldn't help throwing aside my work to come watch."

The man grinned sheepishly and shook the cloth bag in his hand.

Mors shifted into a more relaxed stance and stopped paying attention to the man's sturdy build and normally distributed calluses.

"Oh," he said coolly. "Good."

In that brief time, he had understood the stranger, found a way to describe him, and grasped his profession, origins, status, and abilities. These things made him lose interest in the stranger's character and further details, such as his name, family, and other private matters.

The knowledge about the stranger, along with those tedious thoughts, then slipped gently from his mind with his tacit approval, like a gleaming flowing surface of water, smooth and unretained as it departed, without even leaving behind any trace of annoyance.

Whenever Mors clearly heard such emotions vanish from his mind, he spent one thousandth of a second probing whether his rigid emotions made him uneasy, like a patient observing his own symptoms from a physician's perspective.

Then he spent another thousandth of a second assessing the laughable remnants of self-indulgence in his mind that still threatened to resurface.

The stranger craned his neck beside him. "Did you hear about their contest too? Who do you think will win? Of course, I hope our prince wins, but Lord Peturabo is said to be a very good man as well. Besides, they say he is a child favored by the gods, so I..." He lowered his voice, afraid other people of Lokos might hear. "I hope Lord Peturabo wins."

Mors showed a hint of interest. "Peturabo is considered a good man in the rumors?"

"Everyone says he is a true genius, though he is very far removed from us. And if a genius wants to become a friend of Lokos, then he must be a good man." The stranger looked at Mors as he spoke.

"Everyone also often says that whenever Lord Peturabo looks like he is about to get angry, he holds back for some reason and does not lose his temper. He cannot be suppressing his anger because others force him to, rather than enduring it of his own accord, can he? Then his character must be noble too."

Mors turned his head and stared at the stranger until the man awkwardly wiped the sweat brought out by the direct sunlight from his forehead with his free hand.

"Was I wrong?" the stranger asked.

"Who knows."

The stranger was utterly confused. He looked up at the blazing sun overhead, then glanced at the contest that was about to begin on the platform, wiped away more sweat, and took out a sealed clay jar from his cloth bag. He unsealed it and was about to drink when, as if remembering something, he offered it to Mors instead.

"It's too hot. Besides water, I should have brought a straw hat to block the sun... Never mind that. Would you like some water?"

Mors suddenly laughed. It was not feigned delight, but a whim of genuine joy from the depths of his heart.

It was like seeing, among all the affairs in the world arranged one after another, a novel and cheerful thing suddenly spring forth; like a bright and colorful trinket jumping out among identical gray clothes; like a fresh green leaf emerging among yellow leaves; like a vivid red wildflower mixed into a pale bouquet. It was refreshing and pleasing.

Mors seized that flickering, leaping joy and expressed it in a burst of laughter.

He took the clay jar and drank a mouthful. Cool water was especially soothing on such a hot day.

Mors returned the jar. The stranger wiped its mouth, drank, and then said in surprise, "I feel cooler all over."

"Naturally."

All at once, the surrounding crowd stirred again, like a flock of geese or chickens with stones thrown behind them, pushing and shoving chaotically forward.

Mors called out to the stranger in an even tone, "It's starting."

The stranger's cheek twitched, and tiny wrinkles rippled across his face. Carrying the clay jar, he followed Mors forward.

His hand wiped the mouth of the jar once again.

What kind of divinely chosen one can keep releasing multiple chapters every day...