Recollection

Mors realized there were two things he could not sculpt: one was the lingering in his heart, and the other was the upper limit of his skill.

The flaming sword had fallen into the statue's palm. The runes, once true and real, had been replaced with another beautiful, ancient language for safety, lest the heatwave from the raging fire disturb the soft, crystalline veil between Olympia's reality and the High Heavens.

The void's flames were temporarily faked by the craftsman's psychic energy. Mortals would only see exquisite stone patterns visible to the naked eye. Only those with an additional spiritual heart and awakened mind could experience the tremor of the soul from the harmonious connection of shadows and energy, as if fire were burning from filth, leaving behind only a cold, clean imitation of golden brilliance.

However, apart from this long sword carved with great care, two other flaws caused significant deficiencies in the overall sculpture, making people simultaneously eager to urge the author to complete it quickly and doubt whether the author truly had the ability to do so.

This statue lacked a left hand and a face. The left hand was the one that held sacred objects, and the face was the one that showed the divine countenance.

Mors gently pressed the side of his eye, easing the psychological pressure from the carving process.

He had spent countless hours on this carving. The excessive investment was enough to make an eternal being fall into worry and introspection.

After all, he still hadn't figured out how he had decided to sculpt that person's likeness. He attributed it to a mysterious calling and a momentary lapse in judgment.

He sighed and looked out the window.

Night had fallen again. The clamor and disorder of the streets had returned to their homes along with most workers and merchants, leaving only the lights of the night shift and the occasional gusts of wind, like whispers breaking the silence, coming from very far away, passing by people's ears, and then falling into very far away places.

Mors put aside the work he had imposed on himself and went to the edge of the window. Through the diamond-paned glass, he saw the lights on the ground gradually dim. First, the Stratoidis plain below the plateau where Lokos was located fell into a deep sleep, and then the various families within the city gradually drifted into drowsiness.

He was now in this city of people, yet he was not always here.

Sometimes he thought of his house in the woods, where every sound from people died, and the natural and eternal life played a lullaby, composing soothing music with subtle rustling sounds.

His psychic energy lit his own light. There, he read all the stories, pictures, and sculptures he had recorded, entrusting a part of his spirit to the older, bygone nights, becoming a tangible manifestation of the deepest aspect of the value represented by his very existence.

Then he thought of the child who fell from the cliff.

He knew then that the child would be extraordinary. With a feeling that he himself could hardly verify, he kept the child. Thus, he knew the child's name was Peturabo, and he himself had received a new name, severed from the past yet not absolutely so.

He knew his new name symbolized the legendary god who held the authority of death in the old Roman night. This uniqueness perfectly aligned with his aversion to Rome itself. Perhaps it was a fated coincidence, his past entangling with and responding to the present.

From the moment he gladly accepted his new name, he accepted the reality of approaching the human world and his new life anew.

Mors drew the curtain that blocked the light and heard a low voice knock on his door.

He paused and said, "Come in."

The boy pushed the door open and walked in without delay. "Dameks invited me to participate in the engineering construction."

"Military industry?"

"Yes," Peturabo said, looking somewhat uneasy, his spirit tangled with annoyance.

Mors gestured for Peturabo to sit. He remained standing by the window, one hand resting on the wooden window frame. The frame bore the repetitive decorative patterns Peturabo had practiced carving.

"I won't stop you," Mors said, "if you've made your choice."

Peturabo looked into his ice-blue eyes, a stunned surprise welling up. His lips quivered, and his teeth clenched tightly together.

"I did agree," the boy clasped his hands together. "But I..."

Mors waited for his thoughts. Peturabo quickly completed the process.

"But I don't like to participate in conflict," he said forcefully. "I don't want to provide weapons for their merits on the walls."

"I don't like seeing the weapons I create kill another person. I don't want Olympia to remember me only as a merchant who produced war. I don't want them to blame me for bloodshed..."

Peturabo took a deep breath, expelling all his disgust from his body through the circulation of air. Gloom left a mark on his brow. "Their conflict is not for unification and development, but for trading the regression of civilization for the progress of power."

"Continue."

Peturabo stared at Mors uneasily. Every word that escaped his lips was a manifestation of his inner indecision. "But unification requires war."

Mors nodded. "Go on."

Peturabo gritted his teeth. The following words no longer came with difficulty. He relaxed his clasped hands with relief, as if a heavy, worrying nightmare had finally released him.

"I hope Lokos achieves ultimate victory, Mors. Lokos is within our control, but other city-states are not." He declared his plan with considerable arrogance. "Dameks' ambition happens to align with Olympia's correctness. The resentments between city-states are long-standing. Diplomacy is the first choice, war is the second, and submission is not an option. And if they are to succeed, they will need us."

Mors remained noncommittal. "Have you thought it through?" he merely asked. "Does talking about this with me make you feel better?"

"Yes," Peturabo said. He pursed his lips. "I want a city-state of my own."

"You've changed quite a bit."

"Because the citizens chose me, you told me so." As he said this, the incredibly astonishing long letter Mors had written to him flashed in his mind, causing his lips to neither turn up nor down, but to freeze there strangely.

Mors' fingers suddenly tightened, along with his arm. A sharp, hot current surged through his entire body. He heard his blood flowing, a part of it rushing within him, another part, like a phantom, seeping out from his previously damaged skin, intertwining to form nameless shackles, almost comically falling into the earth under the pull of gravity in his consciousness.

He lowered his gaze. Half a second later, his usual sarcastic smile returned to his face.

"Very well, you've learned to build your own stage," he said, lightly tapping his left palm with the four fingers of his right hand. "I must warn you in advance that I have no intention of directly participating in any battles. Do not expect my help deep in the battlefield."

"I don't need that much help," Peturabo said.

He was confident he wouldn't reach that point, and before coming, he had calculated the cost and found that he couldn't afford the price of Mors' involvement no matter what.

"In what capacity will you participate in the conflict?"

"Considering my talent, I hope to be a commander."

"Oh," Mors chuckled, leaning against the window frame. "Our little young commander."

"Don't call me that—I need to build cities and forge weapons first. When I grow taller, I'll lead my army."

"Have you thought about the army's name and slogan?"

"We don't need that sort of false thing."

"I suggest you come up with one, Peturabo. When they call you up to inspire morale during the pre-war oath, you won't want to lose a high-spirited finale."

Peturabo conceived of the scene in his mind, then reluctantly nodded. "I'll think of a slogan. The name can be whatever, it's not my army anyway."

"You can call them the Aventines."

"What? Is there any meaning behind that?"

"It sounds good," Mors shrugged. "There's no meaning to it. Anyway, I'm going to continue studying my stone carvings."

"If I name them that, will you come help me fight?"

"Are you sleepwalking?"

Peturabo looked like he really wanted to roll his eyes.

Mors peeked at the light outside through the diamond-paned window, through the hazy cloth. "I guess you don't have the patience to watch another sunrise with me."

"I'm leaving now." The boy turned, and just before leaving, he added smugly, "This way Harkon will have to participate in the battle under my command."

Mors had to start thinking about where their relationship with Lokos would go after the death of the tyrant's eldest son.

The author has had seven hundred stones, thirty charms, zero five-star princesses, and shipwrecks, for your awareness.