True Victory

Peturabo was in a good mood, an exceptionally good mood.

If he did not wish to lie even to himself, then he could not force the corners of his mouth down and put on a fierce, icy expression.

Thus, when Mors ascended the platform, he saw a boy with a calm expression, even carrying himself with his head held high and chest out. A genuine victory, not a false one, had given him confidence, and confidence had made him magnanimous. If there was any expression on his face that might displease others, it could only be that tiny, dazzling trace of pride.

Peturabo stood ramrod straight, determined to make every citizen regard him with solemn respect. He lifted his chin, his majesty flowing through the long, straight folds of his hanging robes.

"Citizen, you are the last person to comment on the two works," the boy said. "I hope you will neither deceive nor flatter, neither be careless nor rash."

He turned his head and regarded the two works with an equal gaze, lingering for a moment on the vivid floral pattern missing a petal at the hem of the goddess statue's skirt. Without any change in expression, he gestured for the blue-robed youth to inspect the two sculptures.

The officiant beside them swiftly adjusted the sound equipment, ensuring that the blue-robed youth's voice could carry to every ear.

"I am a playwright, my lord." The role Mors played smiled as he spread his hands, calluses worn by friction covering the pads of his counterfeit fingers.

"I am neither a craftsman nor an artisan. All my ability rests entirely upon a few things used over and over again. Identical sheets of paper, charcoal, endlessly replaced, replacing themselves into identical fates. As for me, I often wear away my years in my wicker chair, wondering when my scripts might earn me a meal."

"I have a dream: that the Olympic Games, symbolizing peace, will once again come to our beloved land. Alas, who knew in what year or age that might be?"

"What I mean is, I truly have no mind to consider how beautiful a work itself may be. My knowledge is limited; how could one master two things in a lifetime? I cannot tell which sculpture is better. I came here today instead to observe the people connected to these works."

From time to time, he watched Peturabo's expression, deducing what little boat of emotion was drifting across the ocean of the boy's thoughts.

He saw that Peturabo was not impatient in the slightest. Instead, he had grown more focused and interested.

Setting aside the minute regret that the child had failed to recognize his true identity, Mors was quite pleased with Peturabo's performance.

The blue-robed youth stepped forward, folding his left hand behind his back while rubbing his chin with the thumb of his right hand, looking deeply contemplative.

"May I inspect the two works more closely?" he asked.

"Please, citizen," Calipha said, quiet thoughtfulness shining in her eyes.

The youth curiously approached the sculptures, choosing the statue of Goddess Hefoni first. After sweeping his gaze over every detail of the statue with pure attention, he nodded slightly and asked, "May I ask what the original intention behind this work was?"

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

Princess Lokos spoke. "It is a gift of blessing, meant for someone with whom the creator wishes to be friends."

The youth commented in surprise, "Could it be a gesture of goodwill offered to an opponent? Then I have a question to raise."

His gaze passed over Andos's face before resting upon Peturabo's ice-blue eyes. "Which is more generous: such an insubstantial blessing, or a tangible victory?"

The boy's gaze did not waver. His irises were like pure frost upon a mountain peak. "A false victory is the insubstantial, miserly thing."

"Then your greatness needs no ingratiating praise to validate it, Lord Peturabo."

Mors discovered that addressing the child as "my lord" in another identity, then receiving the boy's small expression of satisfaction in return, was an especially enjoyable thing.

So he put considerable emphasis on the word.

He continued to admire Andos's work, easily judging that the prince still had strength to spare—not because he had deliberately held back in technique, but because he had still kept his soul within his body. Andos's work had not been stained with the soul and blood he himself had offered in sacrifice, nor had it burned away his own heart and strength. Thus, it remained within the bounds of what mortals could replicate and recreate.

Mors had no objection to that. The blue-robed youth said, "Goddess Hefoni remains as noble as ever. I praise her; in her, I seem to see humanity's true mother. Allow me to approach the other work."

"It is there," Peturabo said. He responded with courtesy, further proving just how good his mood was.

Mors strolled before the paired statue.

Setting aside the event implied by its subject matter, and forgetting Peturabo's ever-present thoughts of secretly rebelling against him, the work itself was not bad either.

On a technical level, unless one were excessively exacting in pursuit of perfection, there was in fact little to question or criticize.

After looking it over, he nodded as well. "What happened today may perhaps be recorded with paper and pen, so that it may be passed down through historical records and precedents yet to come, becoming a shining model amid Olympia's countless hardships. But before that, I must cast my shard."

The officiant was about to hand the blue-robed youth a pen when Peturabo stopped him.

The boy asked in confusion, "Why have you commented on only one sculpture? Have you already decided to mark the shard for the goddess statue?"

"No, Peturabo," the blue-robed youth said. "I will make my choice upon the shard for this paired statue."

"You are the only one reluctant to comment upon this work, citizen." Doubt flickered in Peturabo's eyes.

"I have heard a legend, my lord." The blue-robed youth smoothly drew a stroke upon the shard, its slender trail of ink like a blade mark, cutting Peturabo's contest today into a victorious outcome. "The Legend of the Spider."

Having said that, he offered no further explanation. Peturabo raised a brow, but his attention was immediately drawn away by the sweet victory about to arrive.

The officiant accepted the shard, placed it together with the other tally board, and passed them to the host. The host came to ask whether the victory should be announced. Harkon wished to delay it, but Calipha had the contest concluded here.

"Citizen, please wait here a little while longer," Calipha said. "Let the people gathered today hear the result, so they need not remain beneath the blazing summer sun for so long. As for your legend, please permit us to discuss it afterward."

Thus music began to play, and the officiants formed ranks. When the victor was announced, cheers crashed down like thunder, chariots rumbling.

Peturabo calmly accepted the roaring praise of the crowd. This genuine victory was what finally gave him sufficient satisfaction, though it also made him regret Mors's absence all the more.

For the second time, Harkon smiled and presented him with a golden cup. He proudly drank half a cup of water from the Spring of Hefoni, while the golden vessel was placed at an angle in the goddess statue's palm, allowing clear water to flow from it in a transparent cascade.

Mors curled his lip at the gold-painted clay jar. He said nothing, merely remaining at one side of the platform, waiting for the ceremony born from the contest to come to an end.

His fingers lightly tapped his arm. The ice that sealed the stranger carrying the clay jar continued to remain invisible before everyone's eyes.

Once the people below and above the platform had gradually dispersed, Calipha went to whisper a few words to the tyrant, telling the middle-aged leader that he need not remain beneath the sun any longer, continuing to test the limits of his dignity.

Then Calipha gave Mors a gentle nod.