True Victory

Peturabo was in a good mood, a very good mood indeed.

If he didn't want to lie to himself, he couldn't force his lips into a frown and put on a fierce, cold expression.

So when Mors ascended the high platform, he saw a boy with a calm expression, even standing with his chest puffed out. True, not false, victory gave him confidence, and confidence made him magnanimous. If there was any unpleasant expression on his face, it could only be a sliver of dazzling pride.

Peturabo stood tall, determined to earn the solemn respect of every citizen. He raised his head, his majesty flowing through the long, straight pleats of his robes.

"Citizen, you are the last person to comment on two works," the boy said. "I hope you will not deceive, flatter, be rash, or be careless."

He turned his head, gazing at the two works with an equal gaze, pausing for a moment on the fresh floral pattern missing a petal on the skirt of the goddess statue, then motioning to the blue-robed youth to examine the two sculptures.

An attendant beside him quickly adjusted the recording equipment, ensuring the blue-robed youth's voice would carry to everyone's ears.

"I am a playwright, sir," Mors's character said, spreading his hands with a smile, the fingertips of his fabricated skin showing calluses from friction.

"I am neither a craftsman nor an artisan. My abilities are entirely placed on a few repeated things. Those identical sheets of paper, charcoal, endlessly replacing each other, replacing each other to produce exactly the same fate. I often linger in my wicker chair, wearing away my years, wondering when my scripts will earn me a meal."

"I have a dream that the Olympic Games, a symbol of peace, will return to our beloved land, but alas, I don't know when that will be."

"That's what I mean, I really don't have the mind to consider how beautiful a work itself is. After all, my knowledge is limited, and how can I master two things in my lifetime? I can't tell which sculpture is better. I came here today to observe the people connected to this work."

He constantly observed Peturabo's expression, trying to deduce what emotion was drifting in the boy's ocean of thought.

He saw that Peturabo wasn't impatient at all; instead, he seemed more focused and interested.

Aside from the tiny regret that the boy hadn't seen through his true identity, Mors was quite satisfied with Peturabo's performance.

The blue-robed youth stepped forward, his left hand behind his back, his right thumb rubbing his chin, looking contemplative.

"May I approach and examine these two works?" he asked.

"Please do, citizen," Calipha said, her eyes filled with quiet contemplation.

The youth curiously approached the statues, first choosing the statue of Goddess Hefoni. After scanning the details of the entire statue with a pure gaze, the youth nodded slightly and asked, "May I ask about the original intention behind the creation of this work?"

Andos hesitated, and Calipha knew that her brother could not answer at this moment.

Princess Lokos spoke, "This is a gift of blessing, given to those the creator wishes to befriend."

The youth exclaimed in surprise, "Is it a gesture of goodwill towards an opponent? Then I have a question to ask."

His gaze swept across Andos's face and settled on Peturabo's ice-blue eyes. "Is this kind of vain blessing more generous, or is actual victory more magnanimous?"

The boy's eyes did not waver, his irises like the clean frost on a mountaintop: "False victory is a vain and stingy thing."

"Then your greatness needs no proof through flattery or compliments, Lord Peturabo."

Mors realized that calling the boy "sir" in another identity and receiving a subtle expression of pride from the boy in return was an extremely enjoyable thing.

So he emphasized the word.

He continued to admire Andos's work, easily judging that the prince still had room to spare—not in terms of deliberate reservation in skill, but because he still kept his soul within his body. Andos's work was not stained with his own sacrificed soul and blood, nor had it burned out his own heart and strength, and therefore it remained within the bounds of what mortals could replicate and recreate.

Mors had no objection to this. The blue-robed youth said, "Goddess Hefoni is still so noble, I praise her, for in her I seem to see humanity's true mother. Please let me approach the other work."

"Over there," Peturabo replied politely, further proving his good mood.

Mors paced to the double statue.

Setting aside the events alluded to by the subject matter itself, and forgetting Peturabo's constant subtle rebelliousness, this work itself was not bad.

On a technical level, unless one was overly harsh in pursuing perfection, there was not much to question or criticize.

After looking around, he nodded again. "What happened today, I may be able to record with pen and paper, so that it may be passed down in historical records and precedents for all future times, serving as a brilliant paradigm amidst the myriad winds and frosts of Olympia. However, before that, I must cast my vote."

As the attendant was about to hand him the voting tablet, Peturabo stopped the attendant.

The boy asked in confusion, "Why did you only comment on one statue? Have you decided to leave your mark on the goddess statue's tablet?"

"No, Peturabo," the blue-robed youth said. "I will make my choice on this double statue."

"You are the only one stingy with your commentary on this work, citizen," Peturabo said, his eyes flashing with doubt.

"I have heard a legend, sir," the blue-robed youth said, smoothly drawing a line on the voting tablet, its thin ink like a blade's mark, cutting Peturabo's victory in today's competition. "The Legend of the Spider."

He said this but offered no further explanation. Peturabo raised an eyebrow, and then his attention was drawn away by the sweet victory that was about to come.

The attendant took the tablet and placed it with another tally board, passing it to the host. The host asked if the winner should be announced, and Harkon wanted to delay, but Calipha let the competition end first.

"Citizen, please wait here for a moment," Calipha said. "Let the people gathered here today hear the result, so they don't have to stand in the summer sun for so long. As for your legend, please allow us to discuss it later."

Then, music played, and the attendants lined up. When the winner was announced, the cheers fell like thunder, and chariots rolled.

Peturabo calmly accepted the praise of the roaring crowd. This true victory brought him sufficient comfort, although it also made him regret Mors's absence even more.

Harkon presented him with a golden cup for the second time. He proudly drank half a cup of water from the Spring of Hefoni, and the golden jug was placed askew in the goddess's hand, allowing the clear water to flow out, creating a translucent waterfall.

Mors grinned at the gold-painted pottery jar and, without saying much, remained on the side of the high platform, waiting for the ceremony that followed the competition to conclude.

He tapped his arm with his fingers; the ice that sealed the stranger with the pottery jar remained invisible to everyone's eyes.

When the people below and on the platform had slowly dispersed, Calipha whispered a few words to the tyrant, telling the middle-aged leader not to remain in the sun any longer, continuing to challenge the limits of his authority.

Then, Calipha nodded gently at Mors.