Forging Anew

Peturabo disliked his tone.

The boy believed he was experiencing immense humiliation. If the sharp spike in his hand could pierce Mors's throat, then Mors should have had his windpipe swiftly torn out, like a wild dog tearing apart prey, breaking its neck, and eviscerating it.

Mors had no doubt about this; he only felt that perhaps Peturabo would have done it more civilly. A person proud of their knowledge was often restrained in their actions.

Peturabo's shoulders tensed, the black pupils in his blue eyes widening slightly, his brow furrowed without concealment.

He glanced at the crudely forged sharp spike in his hand, then surveyed the living space built of stone and earth around him, and suddenly relaxed.

"You're jealous of me, Mors," the boy said triumphantly, tossing the spike onto the ground. "You're jealous of my knowledge, envious of my abilities. Look at your primitive lifestyle, your failed crafts, your mud huts are far inferior to the high walls and castles I will build; you are a backward barbarian before me, wearing ridiculous fabrics, with messy hair and tattered clothes, nothing but your inexplicable strength."

Peturabo raised his hand, raising his voice without permission. "Where are your estates? Where are your workshops? Don't tell me you're still using sticks to beat branches and trunks to get fallen olives, and don't tell me you only use your feet to stomp grapes in a basin to extract juice. Is that why you use black cloth as footwear? Where are your books and scrolls? Where are your parchments? Are you still cutting the long stems of papyrus into thin slices, laying them flat on wooden boards, and painstakingly hammering the strips into paper? Mors, you can't even build a perfect sewer."

Mors looked down, his palm covering the lower half of his face, and let out a soft breath.

Peturabo interpreted his small movement as hitting a sore spot. His fighting spirit grew, and this expression finally unified his demeanor with the immaturity of his body.

"By humiliating me like this, aren't you trying to successfully exploit me by suppressing my confidence? This is all you ignorant people can do to me."

Mors wasn't sure how much longer he could control the trembling in his shoulders.

"You ask what I'm afraid of, trying to manipulate my fear? Then I will inform you that I know of higher things that you cannot see."

Mors saw a proud and cold head continuously lifting. Perhaps in Peturabo's eyes, the vortex of stars deep within the clouds was converging and gathering.

"That is the vortex of the stars, the bruises and scars of the sky. My great mission awaits in the starry sky, and my strength and potential are certain. I was born for a domain far greater than Olympia. You will never reach my height."

Peturabo became calm and proud. "I know all of this," he said.

Mors tilted his head back, repeating his steady breathing rhythm, waiting for the smile to disappear from his face.

Peturabo's counterattack was filled with attacks on non-existent weaknesses, sounding as if he couldn't survive without despising others, this child.

He was so afraid of the vortex of stars he spoke of that he had to overwhelm it with false self-comfort.

But Mors wouldn't ignore the admiration he felt for Peturabo – not for Peturabo himself, but for his creator.

How had that craftsman created such a work of art that combined human and non-human characteristics?

Mors didn't know.

At the same time, he was certain he would keep Peturabo.

"You're not quite what I imagined," he didn't hide the teasing in his tone.

Peturabo was close enough to him that he could place his hand on the boy's shoulder.

Then, press down.

"You!"

Peturabo's exclamation was blocked by psychic energy, but he had no time to care. The boy's entire strength was used to resist the heavy pressure from his shoulder. His feet were spread apart to bear the weight, and frost condensed from water vapor rose from the long-undisturbed earth, only to melt from the heat conducted by his skin. He tilted his head back as much as possible to look directly at Mors, his face turning red from the exertion.

"Do you know what you remind me of?" Mors gently shook his head, extended his left hand, and the spike flew into his palm.

He pressed the spike against the side of Peturabo's maxilla, the exact same spot where he had previously shattered the face of the statue of Perseus.

His control was precise enough; he knew the shortest distance that wouldn't cause injury. If Peturabo dared to charge forward, he wouldn't mind repairing it later.

"I'm reminded of children between four and twelve years old. They develop their first set of values within their families, and their families tell them, 'You are a precious and unique treasure,' and they believe it. And when they interact with each other, they try to maintain that notion."

"The first child says: I know more than all of you. I know that trees bear fruit, that workshops produce pottery, and that salt comes from the sea."

"The second child says dismissively: What do you know! I also know that those who defy the prophets of the gods will be thrown into the vortex by divine judgment, and slaves grow from the opposite city-state."

"The third child laughs heartily: You definitely can't compare to me in one thing. Both my parents were executed by the tyrant. What about you!"

He retracted his smile and said coldly, "Which one do you think you are, Peturabo?"

Suddenly, Peturabo raised his hands, his fingers tightly gripping Mors's forearm, like an iron ring tightening. The boy's strength was astonishing. After Mors let down his guard, a crisp bone-cracking sound immediately rang out, a scorching heat surged from within his arm, and the black fabric became damp.

Energy crackled at Mors's fingertips, some directed at Peturabo, causing the boy to let out a muffled groan of pain, and the iron-like grip of his hands loosened. The rest coiled upwards along Mors's arm, repairing the broken bones.

"You are a combination of all of the above," Mors said in a low voice. "You think you know more, understand more."

At the tip of the spike, a drop of blood seeped out and flowed down the edge.

"You think you are superior to mortals, so you despise them."

"When you find out that the first two might not be true, you can only say: Look, I am a composite of tragedy and nobility! How great I am!"

Peturabo's resilient expression broke, shattering like a broken statue of a hero, unable to be maintained. A sound that was more like a scream than a roar came from his mouth.

"You don't understand me at all!" he shouted. "You know nothing!"

Mors's hand, placed on his shoulder, spread out more gently, affectionately rubbing the side of the boy's neck, signaling him to relax.

"Next, I want you to remain lucid, Peturabo. Although I will not harm you." The spike flew from his hand, and he did not answer Peturabo's question.

Mors cupped his hands around Peturabo's neck, forcing him to look him in the eye.

There was one thing Peturabo was right about: he didn't quite understand the boy before him yet; but that wasn't important.

"I will reforged you," Mors said.

Psychic energy gathered within his body. For the first time in countless years, he mobilized such immense power. An electric shock-like tremor surged and burned, points of deep blue and brilliant gold alternated before his eyes, and nonexistent flames and ashes of snow burned away together.

He delved into the depths of his mind, drawing forth echoes of power and emotion from a bottomless vortex. Multiple noises drowned out the pulsing of his pulse in his eardrums.

Mors could faintly hear the tearing, ravenous hunger from a century ago in the storm, and as usual, he ignored it, avoiding any accidental glances from the unseen.

He vaguely guessed at the truth behind Peturabo's "Vortex of the Stars." Before concrete thoughts could form, he snuffed them out.

The first lock was like a veil over his eyes, severing the connection between what Peturabo feared and himself. One golden thread snapped, four foul chains rusted away.

This was more difficult than Mors had initially imagined; if this was the work of Peturabo's creator, then the pool of candidates could be narrowed further.

The second lock was like a silken sash binding him, suppressing the boy's innate growth and extraordinary physique.

Mors had no intention of returning Peturabo to being completely mortal, so he did not rashly alter the other's genetic helix. Within ten years, the growth rate of this wondrous creation would return to normal.

He took a difficult breath, his skin cracking beneath the black cloth.

The third lock was shrouded in mist, obscuring the excessive knowledge within Peturabo's mind. If the accumulation of knowledge preceded the maturity of the mind, it ceased to be a gift and became a curse.

Similarly, this lock would be broken by the fluctuations of time.

The more Mors understood Peturabo's construction, the more amazed and delighted he became. Even with immense power, he could not touch even a fraction of its essence.

If he did not pay a greater price, his psychic energy would still only be able to alter Peturabo's outward appearance.

Fortunately, this was enough.

Mors retreated until his back hit the wall of the room. The murals on the wall began to bleed.

"Your creator did not finish his work. Peturabo, you are not a qualified tool."

He genuinely laughed.

"And what does a proper craftsman do with failed steel? I choose to melt it back into slag, quench, hammer, cool, and repeat the cycle."

Released by Mors, Peturabo stumbled to the ground, his palms scraping wounds in the sand and stone.

He stared at the unhealing abrasions on his palm in disbelief, true fear easily capturing him.