Who is Arachne

The attendants left with the crowned one, leaving only the workers who began dismantling the raised platform.

When Calipha showed such obvious respect to an ordinary citizen, Peturabo seemed to finally realize something. He first let out an unconscious sigh, then his anger suddenly surged. His arms were crossed tightly, and he stared intently at Mors, his lips pursed.

If Calipha and Andos weren't still here, Mors felt the child would have lunged at him the next moment, bringing the vivid depiction of the statue to life.

"Please continue your story, citizen," Calipha said to Mors, her eyes flickering.

Mors faced Peturabo, his eyes lowered, his tone filled with an unfathomable mystery: "It is said that long ago in Lydia, there was a girl of extraordinary talent named Arachne, whose weaving skills were renowned throughout the land of Olympia. When she wanted to embroider clouds, the clear sky would pause for her; when she wanted to weave streams, even the nymphs would marvel."

"However, the girl often said her skill was more exquisite than that of the goddess of wisdom. The goddess came to advise her not to be arrogant and to forgive her boastful words. Arachne would not yield, and so they began a competition."

"Not only did Arachne refuse to admit defeat, but she also provoked the goddess with her embroidery, weaving patterns of defiance and rebellion," Peturabo glanced at his stone statue at this moment. "Therefore, the goddess became enraged, destroyed the embroidery, and touched her forehead with her hand, telling her to repent. Arachne could not bear it and took her own life. After her death, the goddess let her spirit ascend and, with compassion, transformed her into a weaving spider, thus becoming one of the beasts, weaving her webs daily."

Peturabo's accumulated anger gradually transformed, and more apprehension settled on his face. His rapidly working mind was enough for him to weave a complete story for himself. As Mors's words fell, he had already settled on the answer to the question on the thin white paper from a few days prior in his mind.

He had already compared himself to the fragile insect in Mors's story, one that defied the gods.

"I..." Peturabo's lips and teeth felt stiff, as if rough sand was scraping inside his mouth. "But this is the question you set..." he whispered in defense.

Andos had another understanding. Although the prince was not adept at socializing, he and incomprehensibility were two ends of the same pole.

He asked curiously, "Citizen, are you saying... that my competition with Peturabo is like this weaver's competition with the goddess?"

Then the prince shook his head, his words filled with gentle disapproval: "Our competition... is just a conversation between two people, and Peturabo... he wouldn't turn people into animals. He's a good person."

Calipha almost choked on her brother's last few words, while Mors smiled openly and directly, leaving Andos confused, not knowing where he had gone wrong.

"But I have heard another story, citizen."

The princess helplessly regained the rhythm of her speech. Her eyes met Mors's, and a smiling light flickered in them.

"I saw another version in a letter. Although it is largely similar, there are many small differences."

"The immortal gods heard of this mortal's skill, and their wrath was about to descend upon the earth. The goddess would not allow others to look down on her without punishment. The goddess's hand moved across the loom, weaving the forms of all the gods, symbolizing her power with divine helmets and golden shields; she embroidered the punished state of the arrogant mortal in the four corners of the pattern, to display her glorious majesty."

"Arachne, however, wove the four calamities created by the gods: the first woman, burning blood and bones; a maiden, stolen by an eagle; a woman transformed into a cow, wandering aimlessly; and a noble queen, defiled by sin."

"The goddess, seeing how well she wove, tore apart the gods' ugly deeds and struck the girl's forehead with her shuttle. Arachne could not bear it and took her own life. The goddess's lingering anger did not cease, and she cursed her kind to be punished for generations, forever hanging on the web to spin their silk."

Calipha paused and asked kindly, "Whose story are you trying to tell, esteemed citizen?"

Peturabo fell into deeper confusion, looking at the blue-robed youth at times, and then at Calipha.

More than not understanding Mors's game, he didn't understand when Mors and Calipha had developed such unspoken understanding.

How did they know each other?

Mors shrugged, his blue cloth robe flowing like water. Along with his fake skin, it formed several cold trickles that rolled away into the void along his body's outline.

His real pale cheeks and his constant black clothing and strips reappeared after being washed, his lips still holding the same sarcastic curve.

Andos let out a soft, surprised "Oh."

Peturabo immediately moved closer to Mors, looking up at him without looking away.

"What exactly do you mean, Mors!" He clenched his restless fists, weighing the significance of his own words. "What is the answer to the riddle you designed?"

"My riddle?" Mors placed his palm on Peturabo's shoulder and patted the boy. "I don't provide riddles because I haven't prepared any."

He half-crouched, the hem of his black robe resting on the ground, his gaze level with Peturabo's as he examined the boy's face.

As he said, he had never designed a definitive answer to the story itself; he had no intention of setting a standard for who was the weaver in the story or who was the Overgod.

"When I wrote this question, I wasn't thinking about who the people in the story were, but who wrote the story and who posed the riddle," Mors said. "After all, in the true past, neither Minerva nor Arachne ever existed. So, who caused the characters in this story to switch between good and evil twice?"

Calipha nodded slightly.

"You tell me," Mors said to Peturabo. "You are a clever child."

Peturabo pondered for a few seconds and then said, "The person who wrote the story."

He relaxed his clenched hand, replaced by a complex expression and a worried silence as if facing something absurd and illusory.

He said, "Your story is what Harkon would write, and Calipha's story is what the citizen would write."

"The gods' story tells of man's four calamities, and man's story records the gods' four sins."

Mors nodded calmly.

The boy continued, "You want to tell me that the person who can speak is the one who can be heard, and you want to tell me that false glory is always fake."

He stubbornly turned his head away, unwilling to accept: "But I didn't ask the citizen to flatter me, they still chose me, and I'm still a little bit better."

Mors decided not to tell him now. The subsequent voting tendencies were greatly influenced by the choice of the first person to take the stage.

"And..." Peturabo's question continued, "And even if all glory is fake, you still haven't told me how my statue is! You never lie to me, so I'll speak frankly, how do you like the statue I carved?"

Mors sighed and praised him warmly, "Very good, Peturabo, I commend you."

If he had to point out his flaws on the spot, it would take more than three hours to finish. It would be better to discuss it with him later.

Moreover, the child was about to collapse.

Peturabo pouted, holding back a smile.

The next second, the boy fell into Mors's arms, unconscious.

"You see, even if you don't want to think about it, you are already in this vortex," he said in a low voice.

He had chosen to tell this child too much of what he knew.

Afterward, Mors stood upright, embracing Peturabo, and for the boy, he used up all of his gentleness for the day.

"I want you to tell me which city-state the official who presented the golden urn came from." He tossed the empty small box onto the ground and ordered, "His accomplice has been caught. Go to the streets and find his ice sculpture."

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