Perhaps a Letter of Demand

Peturabo awoke for the second time from the cushions and brocade, his vision first catching a blurry, pale shadow. Before he could identify the newcomer, his hunger made his stomach rumble.

Calipha put down the scroll she had brought and glanced at the waking boy.

"Would you like some lunch?" she tapped the edge of a golden plate with her slender fingers, drawing Peturabo's attention to the sliced flatbread, pancakes drizzled with honey, curd, and cheese, and a small cup of fruit wine.

"Wait until I invent a toxicity detection instrument," Peturabo threw off the fabric and stood, walking to Calipha in his sandals.

He was still taller than Lokos' daughter when standing.

Peturabo looked around, though he knew the answer the moment he woke, he still needed to confirm it with his own eyes.

"Is Mors not here?"

Calipha also rose from her seat and took a step back, leaving no trace, so Peturabo didn't have to look up at her.

"Father has something to discuss with him. As for me, I'm here to apologize for our oversight and to tell you that you may enter Lokos' library at any time."

"Please, sit down," Peturabo frowned, unaccustomed to the situation, then hesitated for a moment with the address, "Calipha."

Calipha happily accepted Peturabo's way of addressing her. They both sat at opposite sides of the wooden table.

Peturabo continued, "You don't need to apologize to me. I expected something like this to happen."

Whether Calipha harbored any doubts, she obediently presented a smiling facade. "You are so intelligent, of course, you would expect it. When I dared to write to Mr. Mors, his reply mentioned how wise a boy you are."

"He said that?" Peturabo asked without thinking, then quickly and awkwardly answered himself, "He always likes to exaggerate."

"Is Mr. Mors that kind of person?"

"Isn't he?"

"Then he is very different from you. I only see modesty from you," Calipha blinked her bright eyes slyly.

"That's exactly it!" Peturabo suddenly felt he had found a kindred spirit. As if shedding heavy armor and removing a crushing helmet, he felt the world was suddenly clear and refreshing, everything lovely.

As Calipha picked up a piece of flatbread with two fingers, eating the melted and solidified cheese edges like a snack during a casual chat with a friend, Peturabo involuntarily reached for a piece of bread from the plate to ward off the next impending rumble from his stomach.

"Mors is that kind of person: arrogant, rude, contemptuous of others, cold and haughty, vague, difficult, unambitious, bossy, overbearing, and not a single redeeming quality."

He picked up the fruit wine cup and put it down again, the psychological shadow of the drink not yet dissipated. "Every sentence is filled with ten layers of implication and irony, and without riddles and metaphors, it's empty and indecipherable."

He took a big bite of bread. After eating something, his mood immediately eased, personally verifying the principle that sugar brings comfort to the hungry. "If he weren't so knowledgeable and omniscient, I would leave him."

After speaking, he quietly glanced around, seeing no suspicious shadows, and then listened, confirming that only Calipha was in the room.

Calipha pressed her forehead with her fingertips, her suspended pinky finger trembling slightly. After a moment, she smiled and said brightly, "I haven't had a chance to tell you, but Mors asked me to remind you about something."

"What is it?"

Calipha pushed a folded piece of paper towards Peturabo. The paper was folded from the edges towards the center, forming a rectangular shape like a letter. In the center was a wax seal of crimson, with strange, illegible characters on it, like lightning, like daggers.

For some reason, the moment Peturabo saw it, a bad premonition arose in his heart.

He carefully took the letter in his hands, fumbled with the edges of the wax seal, and didn't dare to open it immediately.

"What is this?" he asked.

"It's a letter from Mr. Mors. He told you to open it in a quiet place," Calipha rested her chin on her knuckles, her eyes full of smiles and goodwill.

The vague unease in Peturabo's heart grew louder, like a shifting black shadow, constantly foretelling the misfortune he was about to face.

He swallowed his panic, encouraging himself not to abandon reason and believe intuition, then resolutely broke the seal.

"Peturabo, I suddenly remembered there's something I almost forgot to do..."

A male voice full of sarcasm and mockery immediately came from the envelope. Peturabo instantly threw the envelope away as if his hand had been burned by fire. The letter then floated into the air, ostentatiously displaying its terrifying presence.

"...You don't actually think your work is that brilliant just because I praised you a little? The reason I'm not critiquing you on stage is that I don't want to waste so much energy. You have too many problems, and I don't expect to explain them in a few words..."

Calipha silently leaned back.

"...Do you think they really like your work? If the first person on stage hadn't happened to choose your duo statue, and the citizens after that didn't know how to choose, so they just followed the first person, do you think you would have been lucky enough to win? I hope you've sobered up from the poison..."

Peturabo jumped up to catch the letter, but it floated higher and higher.

Calipha felt it was best for her to leave.

"...Let's talk about the statue itself. I don't know how your vision, which you claim is as sharp as an eagle or a falcon, failed to notice the disorder in the layering of the hair on top of my statue's head. Nor do I understand why you shifted the center of gravity of your own statue to its unstable feet..."

Peturabo looked around anxiously. His incredibly efficient brain instantly provided thousands of completely useless solutions. "I knew he was incredibly annoying!"

Calipha looked out the window, feigning surprise. "It's getting late, and I have things to do. Andos is lost in making even more perfect designs. I need to find my brother." With that, she gracefully departed.

Once no one was in the room, Peturabo immediately rushed to lock the door, then grabbed the quilt to cover the ever-higher flying letter.

"...As for your performance, who taught you to have private conversations with people with the amplification on in front of everyone? Do you know how much negative impression that would give you, how many people would privately deem your behavior improper and suspect you of hiding a private affair? Peturabo, I don't know where your astonishing intelligence has gone..."

Peturabo slammed the window shut, ensuring no sound could escape the room, then hugged the quilt and began to curse at the letter by himself, even though the letter, with its automated voice, paid him no mind.

"You're talking nonsense. I considered many things at the time. You can't make such a hasty judgment..."

"...And you were willing to drink the spring water from the golden flask. I saw you refuse it at first and thought you were wise and insightful, but then you drank it down in one gulp not long after. If I hadn't been there to treat your heart and lungs, you would have turned into fine dust scattered into the purest lake below the plateau..."

Mors had no patience for the etiquette of visiting and waiting for attendants to announce him, so when he stood before the tyrant's door, he pushed it open and walked in.

Dameks welcomed him with new wine, which he gladly accepted. He moved his rattan chair and sat opposite Dameks.

"You saw it too, artisan," the Tyrant said, his brow furrowed with worry. "Lokos doesn't wish to act against others, yet others are coming for your apprentice's life."

Mors tapped his knuckles against the tabletop, his expression impassive.

"Don't hide your ambitions from me, Tyrant. And don't try to twist my words. If you want my apprentice to participate in Olympia's eternal struggle, then tell him yourself what you require and what price you are willing to pay."

"If he refuses, I won't persuade him. If he agrees, I won't stop him. But you must never use my name to deceive him."

He couldn't be bothered to utter his "otherwise."

The Tyrant solemnly set down his golden scepter and bowed his head in respect. "In Lokos's name, I will never resort to coercion or force."