False Victory

The loud music from the high platform made Mors spend a few seconds searching for hidden speakers nearby.

He found these technological creations, disguised as wood and brick, beneath the eaves of some houses. After marveling at the deformed technological development brought about by strange technological eras, he finally turned more of his attention to the stage.

It wasn't Dameks himself presiding over the competition, though he was there.

A person wearing a light yellow robe with silver trim stepped forward and, as one of Lokos' twelve advisors, announced that the prince would compete with the "genius who traveled from afar" in the presence of Lokos' citizens.

It seemed Dameks had no future with the church.

Mors wouldn't say this was necessarily a good thing, but such a development made him feel physically and mentally at ease.

On stage, Dameks clapped his hands, first smiling kindly at Peturabo, then giving a fitting nod to his child.

Mors noticed that Peturabo was not pleased by the details of the tyrant's actions until Calipha was the first to look back at Peturabo.

"Look at the boy's expression."

Mors said casually to the stranger beside him, his tone as light as a breeze brushing a bird's wings: "He's not even frowning his eternally displeased eyebrows anymore."

"Can you see clearly?" the stranger asked.

"Of course," Mors nodded, leading the stranger towards a more distant corner of the vast crowd.

People were laughing happily, chatting with relatives and friends. Many of them weren't even talking about the competition that was about to happen today.

After they finished talking about art and aristocratic life, which they knew little about and had only heard rumors of, they dryly praised how exceptionally talented the two protagonists of today were. Then, in their hearts, they silently acknowledged that they were indeed important figures. Following that, they exchanged knowing glances and quickly delved into more relaxed, freer topics of life, discussing the new stall owner at the market and the recent long stretch of sunny days.

"If they could hear everyone's voices, Peturabo would commemorate the day he didn't receive everyone's adoration with an entire gloomy planetary cycle," Mors said. "Unless he comes up with something refreshing, but can he?"

The stranger, pessimistically, tried his best to ignore the surrounding crowd, who were chatting and joking while autonomously shifting their footing to clear a path for the two, completely unaware of their presence.

"I don't know how you do it..." he said nervously. "Are you an emissary of some god?"

"If I were, then Peturabo probably would be too. But neither of us are, right?"

The stranger stared blankly at Mors.

Mors, on the other hand, simply intended to find a wooden post to chat with, just as he occasionally did with the tree in front of his house, or his handicrafts, or his psychic desk lamp.

So he didn't mind not receiving an answer.

He led the stranger to a residential building without dried fruits hanging from its roof. He lightly stepped on the ground and leaped onto the edge of the railing of the two-story open-air balcony, walking slowly along the narrow railing as lightly as if he were weightless.

The stranger followed beneath the eaves, walking in sync with Mors. He might have heard, or he might not have.

The pottery jar was still in the stranger's hand.

Mors gazed at the high platform, enjoying the unobstructed experience of walking, stopping and starting on the roofs of one house after another.

On the high platform, the Lokos advisors separately asked Peturabo and Andos if they had any words to announce to the citizens.

This caused Peturabo's patience to decline rapidly once again. He shook his head in anger.

"I still don't understand why so many people are called to watch. Am I your exhibit?" the boy's voice carried on the wind.

Calipha gently advised Peturabo softly in his ear: "According to you, everyone on stage is an exhibit facing the citizens."

Then, amidst another deliberately grand piece of music, soldiers' spears and halberds struck the ground, escorting two works, carefully carried by cleaned ritual officiants, onto the stage.

These two tall statues were covered with black cloth, woven from the finest Lokos wool. The sheep were cleaned before their wool was taken, then, in the appropriate season when the wool was loose, workers cleaned their hands and plucked it to facilitate the wool forming a continuous felt. Despite the cost and trouble, Mors dared say that the upper-class people who obtained such resources were completely unaware of the entire process. To obtain a treasure, all they had to do was turn language into commands.

"These two works were crafted for Lord Peturabo and Lord Andos respectively," the host said. "But please allow us to keep it a secret for now which lord each work belongs to. We ask all citizens to provide a fair evaluation."

The ritual officiant silently stepped forward and neatly removed the black cloths from the two sculptures.

Andos' statue of Goddess Hefoni, and Peturabo's recreated "two people drawing swords and facing each other" group statue, were presented before everyone's eyes. The crowd below fell silent for a few seconds before erupting into clamor.

Mors had already reached the rooftop closest to the high platform.

In his opinion, the skills of the two contestants were evenly matched; if he had to choose a winner, he would choose Andos.

The reason was simple: in the duel between the two statues, the statue of the boy holding the hammer appeared to have the upper hand.

Meanwhile, ministers, scholars, and foreign guests on stage began their evaluations.

"Shall we make some comments along with those citizens?" Mors said.

The stranger mechanically opened his mouth: "The statue of Goddess Hefoni is Andos' work, and the nameless statue of two people is Peturabo's work."

Mors nodded, not asking the stranger how he obtained the inside information.

"He came to me a few days ago, I let him have a good night's sleep, and I also ensured he didn't learn anything from anywhere."

"Of course, I have many things I could teach him, but what he needs is not knowledge, and never has been. Knowledge will return to him sooner or later, and until then, he will discover the huge void left behind after losing his knowledge."

He paused, cutting off the topic, "Who do you think will win?"

"Peturabo," the stranger replied.

"Then the victory is decided," Mors' voice carried a hint of mockery.

"I'm a bit cold," the stranger said blankly.

"Well, it's because you're freezing," Mors said.

He sat down on the edge of the building, pulled out a piece of wood and a small knife from who knows where, and began carving a small, unformed trinket.

On stage, excluding a few royal family members and visitors who were merely there to observe, the remaining people cautiously praised the outstanding aspects of each of the two works in turn.

They sometimes marveled at the masterful finishing of one piece, sometimes at the textural arrangement of another, each statement eliciting a round of knowing glances within their small circles.

As they wrote the work's number on pottery shards and presented them to the host, the gazes of those coming and going remained intertwined like sticky adhesive.

The tyrant, the prince, the boy—everyone was being observed.

Andos gently lowered his gaze, tacitly allowing all this to unfold, while Peturabo curled his fingers into his palm, clenching his fist.

The boy knew he was receiving praise on par with the renowned Prince Andos, but this wasn't what he wanted.

He abruptly rose from the cushion and walked to the front of the commentators, beginning to loudly critique Andos's statue.

"What material is this stone imitating, fine gauze or cotton linen? Why does it possess neither the ethereal quality of gauze nor the substantial weight of cotton? Does no one see such obvious flaws?"

Before Andos and Calipha could even react in surprise, Peturabo turned to his own statue, gritting his teeth, his anger fiercer than when directed at others. "And this statue—can no one see how crude the composition is, with its two carved subjects? Isn't the pose of two people confronting each other with weapons cliché and uninteresting? If you can't even offer a single criticism, then how can any of your praise be genuine?"

His actions finally brought a complete silence to the crowd for the first time that day, everyone staring blankly at the boy on stage who was disregarding the rules. Peturabo, in a different way, had achieved genuine, widespread attention.

Peturabo didn't care.

He snorted, waved his hand, and irritably pointed at the last person who was timidly putting down their pottery shard. "The nominations are finished, so show me the results!"

Upon receiving a hint from Dameks, an attendant immediately presented him with a statistical board. Peturabo glanced at it, almost smashing the board to the ground.

Then he raised the board high, displaying it in all directions.

"Look, so many people are recording their preferences… so many citizens are evaluating 'fairly and justly.' So among all these just people, exactly half believe Andos's work is superior, and the other half plus one believe I should win? I won by precisely one vote? I demand an explanation!"

"Peturabo, we Lokos are just. You deserve this honor. Your sharp words and honest courage further prove your talent."

Someone spoke up to persuade him. Peturabo followed the sound. He hadn't seen the speaker before, but he knew who it was.

Standing beside the tyrant, gorgeously dressed and carrying himself with great dignity—there was no one else in Lokos who fit this description.

Harkon.