Pottery Jar

Peturabo was Mors's first apprentice.

Mors had never considered taking on an apprentice before, as he had not yet shed his identity as a seeker on a personal path; Peturabo was the sole exception, and it was through him that Mors first experienced the troubles of being a teacher.

He wasn't worried about whether he was a qualified teacher. Clearly, whether he was qualified or not, Peturabo wouldn't leave, especially not before receiving his genuine care.

This was somewhat difficult, in fact, it was even a small personal bother for Mors.

Mustering enough emotion to cultivate genuine affection for a brat was hardly a suitable task for him.

The sun had been hanging high for a long time, large flocks of white birds slowly sliced through the air, cutting a patch of shadow low over the heads of the crowd.

Mors stood in the crowd, wearing a plain, deep blue robe over his black cloth attire to blend in with the flow of people, observing his apprentice from a different perspective.

He raised his head, not using psionics, nor doing anything superfluous, simply letting his gaze pass through the gaps in the crowd, past countless shaved, sweaty, cloth-wrapped, shoulder-length-haired, gold-and-silver-crowned, or foreign feather-adorned heads, to see the two figures standing opposite each other on the high platform in the distance.

There were quite a few people on the high platform. Besides Andos, who sat relaxed on cushions, and Peturabo on the other side, with his back straight and his face obscured, the remaining members of the Tyrant's household were also present, with his children attending the king.

There were also some familiar faces: courtiers, soldiers, artisans, and foreign guests, all the people who had appeared when Peturabo met the Tyrant, excluding the priests; there were also a few new faces, whose faces were also indistinguishable due to the distance, only their middle-aged, unobtrusive physiques, the reflective bald tops of their heads, and their occasional conversations could be discerned.

The wide-winged white birds in the sky circled back. Mors brushed away the fleeting thought of plucking a few snow-white feathers from his mind and watched the natural creatures depart.

"There are many vultures today," someone nearby exclaimed. "Is it the great mind of the god Isis?"

Mors stood with his arms crossed, relaxed. Hearing this, he turned his head to look at the person – who was crowding him due to the surging crowd.

"Is it a good omen?" he asked, adopting a tone that was an average of all aspects combined with the local accent, which brought a friendly smile to the man's face.

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

"Sounds good," Mors said noncommittally. "Do the white vultures often come to Lokos?"

"They come when the goddess Isis casts her gaze. Alas, the fortress of Lokos protects us, so the goddess's white vultures often come here; she loves peaceful places," the man said, smiling and making a bird gesture with his hand in front of his chest. "As for other birds, those carnivorous, cold great birds, they often circle over other city-states."

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

"My mother came from a very distant city-state. But I grew up here, so I am a local – that's why I was surprised to hear that someone was going to challenge Prince Andos today, but when everyone said it was Lord Peturabo, I became very excited and couldn't help but abandon my work to come and see."

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

Mors shifted to a more relaxed stance, no longer paying attention to the man's sturdy physique and normally distributed calluses.

"Oh," he said indifferently. "Not bad."

In this brief period, he had learned about this stranger, found a way to describe him, understood his profession, origin, status, and abilities; these things made him lose interest in the stranger's character and further details, such as his name, family, and more personal details.

As for the knowledge about the stranger, and these uninteresting thoughts, they slipped gently from his mind with his tacit consent, like some shimmering flowing water, smooth and unresisting, leaving without even a trace of annoyance.

And whenever Mors clearly heard the disappearance of these mental emotions, he would spend a thousandth of a second testing whether he felt uneasy due to his own stiff emotions, like a patient observing their illness from a doctor's perspective.

Then he would spend another thousandth of a second evaluating the small amount of self-indulgence that his ridiculous mind still retained, which was prone to relapse.

The stranger peeked around him. "Did you also hear about their match? Who do you think will win? Of course, I hope our prince wins, but rumor has it that Lord Peturabo is also a very good person, and moreover, rumor has it that he is a child favored by the gods, so I..." he lowered his voice, as if afraid other Lokos people would hear, "hope Lord Peturabo wins."

Mors's interest was piqued. "Is Peturabo rumored to be a good person?"

"Everyone says he is a true genius, although he is very far from us. And for a genius to become a friend of Lokos, he must be a good person," the stranger said, looking at Mors.

"Everyone also often says that whenever Lord Peturabo seems about to get angry, he refrains from doing so for some reason; he can't possibly be forced to suppress his anger by others rather than doing so voluntarily, right? Then his character must also be noble."

Mors turned his head and stared at the stranger until the man sheepishly wiped the sweat from his forehead, caused by the direct sunlight, with his free hand.

"Did I say something wrong?" the stranger asked.

"Who knows."

The stranger was bewildered. He looked up at the bright sun overhead, then at the match about to begin on the platform, wiped his sweat again, took a sealed pottery jar from the tote bag he was carrying, opened it, and was about to drink when he suddenly thought of something and offered it to Mors.

"It's too hot today; besides water, I should have brought a straw hat to block the sun... Anyway, do you want some water?"

Mors suddenly burst out laughing, not a feigned joy, but a spontaneous impulse from his heart.

It was like seeing a new, cheerful event suddenly pop out from all the sequentially arranged things in the world, like a colorful item appearing amidst all the same gray clothes, like a tender green leaf sprouting from all the yellow leaves, like a bright red wildflower mixed into a pale bouquet, refreshingly and happily pleasing.

This flickering, leaping joy was seized by Mors and expressed in a hearty laugh.

He took the pottery jar and took a sip. The cool, clear water was especially comforting on a hot day.

Mors handed the pottery jar back. The stranger wiped the mouth of the jar, drank, and then said in surprise, "I feel much cooler all over."

"Naturally."

Suddenly, the surrounding crowd stirred again, like a flock of geese or chickens with stones dropped on their backs, pushing forward in a messy movement.

Mors called out to the stranger in a lukewarm tone, "It's about to start."

The stranger's cheeks twitched, and small wrinkles formed a wavy pattern on his face. He held the pottery jar and followed Mors forward.

He wiped the mouth of the jar again.

What kind of chosen one can write more chapters daily for a long time