Black Judgement

"What were you just looking at, Mors?" Peturabo asked. The knife wound on his hand had stopped bleeding significantly as the entire ritual concluded.

"You felt it too?" Mors fiddled with a piece of fruit on the plate before him, playing with it for a long time before taking a bite. "Your senses are getting sharper, Peturabo."

He raised his fingertips, pointing at the golden goblet in the hand of the statue of the goddess being removed. He disrupted the cellular structure of the blood within, simultaneously adding complex energies with occult significance to counteract its original symbolic meaning, guarding against potential problems.

"Stop speaking in riddles," Peturabo said, displeased. He leaned back, his fingers resting on the stationery the soldier had delivered earlier.

The anger from being maliciously deceived by the Kardisians had not left him; instead, it had transformed into a source of power, adding strength to his heart and blood flow.

"Is someone else attempting an assassination? Who were you guarding me from, I want to know."

Mors looked at him with surprise, continuing to eat his unknown fruit. "The fact that you can phrase your desire to thank me like this is also a testament to your unique talent."

"And you're starting your conversation by belittling me again."

"Preach the word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort—don't ask me who Saint Paul is, it's certainly not me." Mors used his psychic energy to keep his words clear and distinct, allowing him to eat while speaking.

He then tossed the fruit pit into the empty plate and stood up, walking around Peturabo to the other side of the iron chair.

"I was checking if anyone had cursed you with witchcraft," Mors said.

Peturabo tilted his head back, a look of deep suspicion on his face.

Mors continued, "I believe I've given you hints about what witchcraft—let's call it that for now—actually is. If you failed to grasp it, that's not my fault."

"It seems you haven't done anything," Peturabo tested. Having learned scattered folk science from Mors for many years, his greatest skill was verbal sarcasm. "Other than creating mystery."

"You can practice provoking anger with Harkon a few more times," Mors said casually. "To be honest, I've chosen my words as carefully as possible to tell you the truth. Don't forget they could see you before. Do you enjoy the fear and pain of being watched so much that you want them to find you again? My wise Peturabo."

Peturabo furrowed his brow. The greatest gift time had given him was that his constant frowning hadn't yet etched three vertical lines between his eyebrows.

He quickly stopped asking questions, his brain evidently having filled in and concocted a theory that satisfied him.

The youth also stood up from his chair. Because the weight of the iron exceeded his muscles' capacity, he couldn't push the rattan chair away as easily as Mors could. He could only maneuver out from the gap between the chair and the table.

Perhaps this was why he had remained by his steel chair while everyone else had already dispersed.

Peturabo stood a short distance from Mors, as he was half a head shorter than Mors.

The youth seriously bypassed this topic. He cast his gaze further into the distance, looking towards the end of the ground. The sunlight cast deep, unfathomable shadows on his face, and a golden-red fire ignited within his deep-lake blue irises.

After this scene persisted for over ten seconds, Mors confirmed that Peturabo was waiting for him to ask a question.

He patted the back of the youth's chair and then leisurely sat down in the steel seat. Peturabo took a step forward, entering his line of sight.

Mors rested one arm on the armrest, propped his head, and chuckled.

"What's making you so anxious, Peturabo," he said softly. "What's making you want to make a big move against Olympia. Do you know that if you built machines for another ten years, the entire planet would willingly kneel before you?"

"Will you still be in Lokos in ten years?" Peturabo couldn't help but ask. He gripped a sharp corner of the steel chair, paused, then continued, "You gave me a riddle, Mors. I've been trying to solve it."

Mors selectively ignored Peturabo's first question. "It sounds like you've solved it, otherwise you wouldn't be boasting to me."

"Your second riddle. The riddle of the moon," Peturabo said. "While consulting all the documents and literature in Olympia, some foreign literature, and communicating with the Nine Sages of Pelcontia, I have paid special attention to and compiled all relevant documentation and research summaries from history."

"At the current stage, local research in Olympia primarily focuses on astronomical events, with a main focus on theology and religious semiotics. This is clearly not what you expected, Mors. Regarding this, I've observed the specific characteristics of the planet's rotation, re-planned and redefined numerous phenomena related to the moon, compiled common datasets, evaluated the effectiveness of typical calculation methods, and explored recent advanced lunar orbital models and calculation methods from different dimensions. Ultimately, I've reached two conclusions."

"First, the moon is indeed a satellite of Olympia, meaning it is a celestial body that orbits Olympia in a closed orbit periodically, with a vast difference in diameter compared to Olympia."

Peturabo explained the definition of a satellite with a serious expression, adding, "Oh, and I believe you know that Olympia is a spherical planet."

Considering that on the planet of human origin in the old night, people spent countless years, even the lives of several pioneers, to determine that the moon was not the home of the moon goddess in various myths, and that the ground was not infinitely flat, Mors felt Peturabo had done quite well.

"Second, the moon underwent a change in orbit thousands of years ago, the cause unknown. It could have been an impact, a significant change in mass, or a shift in the gravitational environment. This is not unusual, but this orbital change coincides precisely with the timing of another important event in historical records."

At this point, Peturabo took some time to observe Mors's facial expression, trying to infer if he had said anything wrong.

Of course, from Mors's unchanging expression, he could only perceive the sense of puzzlement with the riddle itself. However, the fact that Mors didn't refute him was an unspoken encouragement.

"Black Judgement." Peturabo spat out the phrase with deep disgust.

"A color, a noun. Years ago, you gave me this riddle. 'When their shadow last fell upon this world, slaughter and enslavement descended upon tens of thousands.' This is a description that perfectly matches Olympia's legend of the Black Judgement. When the judgement descends, countless people will die."

"This is why I must unify Olympia as soon as possible. A fragmented Olympia cannot resist a degenerate race that has fully inherited ancient technology and, for reasons unknown, enjoys entertaining itself with human blood."

Mors listened as Peturabo repeated his words from ten years ago verbatim, slightly raising the corners of his lips. "And I can tell you, not only have they inherited the technology of the dark ages perfectly, bringing over a dozen nearby planets under their reign of terror, but their genes are undoubtedly an extension of human development itself, not from more external alien races."

He looked up towards the direction of Olympia's satellite, which was invisible in the daylight, knowing that the warlike aspect of Peturabo's nature had finally found an excuse for its manifestation.

A tool, a weapon.

Both its flaws and its strengths were too human.

While thinking, Mors continued, "When I first detected their existence, I thought they might be related to another fallen alien empire. It turns out I just overestimated humanity."

"This also made me lose all interest in dealing with them. Although if you want to take Olympia into your hands, you will eventually have to slaughter them all."

"I wish you success in helping this planet leap into the ranks of spacefaring civilizations soon. You see, I always tell you everything, child."

"I have completed my naming ceremony," Peturabo said with a stern expression.

"Alright, congratulations on reaching adulthood, you child who is so concerned about age. Go and put your skills to use in a war of unification. I have no interest in adding a formal tearful farewell."