The Third Child

Chapter 37: The Third Child

After Peturabo left Lokos, Mors finally decided how to complete the left hand of his statue, the one missing the holy relic's mark.

He formed a notched circle, like a theater, with jagged, solid city walls, engraved in the center with gears, hammers, and mountains. This was undoubtedly inspired by Peturabo.

As for the face, he now just wanted to carve a mask and attach it later, considering the work complete.

This way, when he later gifted it to Peturabo as a present, and the overly space-consuming statue bothered him further, he could enigmatically tell the child that the mask symbolized his image changing based on the observer, so you could see him as anyone.

In the meantime, he met with Andos and Calipha separately. During their conversations, while making polite small talk, he adopted the attitude that politeness was social morality, and morality was clay in one's hands, silently examining the state of their souls.

Just like many years ago, their minds were as clean as ever, to the point that Mors had to wonder if he was being overly suspicious.

The very next moment this thought arose, Mors dismissed his hesitation.

He was not ignorant of the various evils behind the curtain. Having personally witnessed the fire-stealing madman enter the highest heavens and return laden with spoils, he knew better than to let a momentary oversight lead to a great mistake.

Human civil wars were the most ludicrous embodiment of humanity's self-chosen evolutionary path. Even so, they remained internal affairs of human civilization's development.

However, if it involved the malicious manipulation of external beings or even wills, Mors did not believe it would be wise to remain uninvolved.

"Did we do something wrong?" Andos sat down uneasily at the other end of his desk, watching Mors flip through the paper documents detailing the entire naming ceremony process.

To the left of the man in black was a collection of summaries and illustrated descriptions of past royal naming ceremonies from the Lokos archives. The entire stack, several inches high, had already been memorized by him for a detailed comparison with the current ceremony's procedures.

"Were the naming ceremonies always presided over by priestesses from the Divine Cult?" Mors asked.

"Yes, Mr. Mors. But Lokos's relationship with the Divine Cult turned ice-cold a few years ago. They even used the choice of the ceremony's host as a threat against us. Calipha suggested we directly replace the priestesses with our country's own female officiants... everyone agreed." Andos replied respectfully.

"The correct choice. No one cares who hosts the ceremony, as long as they are elegant enough."

Mors turned a page, the thin paper rustling crisply. He then precisely located the corresponding description from the pile of ancient parchment beside him.

"These kinds of ceremonies were held in the royal palace's inner halls before, why is this one being held in a public theater, open to a wider audience?"

"That was Peturabo's request..."

"Alright, next question," Mors said with little change in his expression. "Are there any references to older styles of officiant golden masks?"

"The documents are all in front of you... except for a few poorly preserved ones that are difficult to identify due to dampness or insect damage, we've brought all related materials."

"No one recorded what the masks looked like?"

"The Divine Cult believed the priestesses' golden masks were equivalent to Goddess Hefoni's face, and thus could not be desecrated or recorded," Andos sighed.

"The blueprints for this batch of masks... I made them based on my memory of my brother's naming ceremony, and also referred to the opinions of many courtiers and attendants who had experienced a naming ceremony. They shouldn't be too different from the old ones."

Mors glanced at his demeanor. "The masks' expressions and details haven't changed?"

Andos recalled earnestly, which helped the gentle prince regain a little confidence.

"No," he said firmly. "I did my best."

After speaking, his demeanor weakened slightly. He clasped his large hands together and asked doubtfully, "May I know... if there's any problem with the ceremony we've arranged?"

"I'm looking for the problem," Mors turned the document to the next page. "I also hope that any issues this time are unrelated to you, and ideally, there are no issues at all."

As the Lokos royal family, including all members of Harkon, had emphasized, they treated Peturabo's naming with extreme solemnity and not the slightest negligence. The records for this ceremony were also the most detailed in years.

From the overall scene setting, catering, music, sound effects, and entrance arrangements, to the names of all personnel in each position, and the corresponding relationship between personnel and venue effects, everything was recorded and compiled into several thick volumes.

As for the six female officiants hosting the ceremony, their ages, life stories, family relationships, and social interactions were all meticulously documented, with no omissions. It even included photographic likenesses taken by the camera that Peturabo had invented himself from scratch, starting from one end of the industrial chain in recent years.

Yes, Peturabo had invented the camera again and had repeatedly emphasized to Mors that his camera had superior image reproduction capabilities and much more efficient shooting speeds than Mors's daguerreotype camera.

And Mors had refused Peturabo's request to return the first photograph he had taken to its copyright owner.

He reviewed the information of the six female officiants one by one, still unable to find any issues. The ceremony's procedures, such as bleeding and offering to the gods, were also largely the same as in previous years.

The difference was not absent. In the past, the priestesses would draw blood from the recipient's palm with a knife; this time, a silver blade was presented, allowing Peturabo to do it himself. It wasn't hard to guess that this was also Peturabo's own request.

"Then let's move on to the second-to-last question, Prince Andos. Why are there six officiants for this ceremony?" Mors leaned back, raising the backrest of his new adjustable rattan chair slightly.

"The number of officiants in past ceremonies seemed to vary according to the Divine Cult's own rules... My father had seven priests, my brother had five, and so did I. After discussion, we decided to choose a number in between, as suggested."

Mors closed the booklet, his fingertip tapping the cover printed with the royal crest, making the crest seem to flow from his finger covered in black cloth.

"Then I guess our last two questions are merging into one," Mors realized he was neglecting to conceal the coldness that had long been ingrained in his speech.

"There is a strange naming ceremony record on file between your time and Calipha's."

"Similarly, the records of the entire ceremony are flawless and unambiguous, and the identities of the invited guests are reasonable. Only one aspect raises suspicion."

He read a conflicted avoidance from Andos's downward gaze.

"Who was the named person?" Mors asked. "Who is this person named Cruz, whose naming ceremony was so sparse and pathetic that the guests were only Dameks, Harkon, Andos, the chief priest of a Divine Cult branch, and the still-young Calipha?"

"Interestingly, the number of priestesses assigned to him by the Divine Cult was also six."

Andos's face contorted with pain and guilt. The prince gripped the fabric of his knees, taking a deep breath to calm his almost inexpressible hesitation. "Cruz is my and Harkon's youngest brother, Calipha's third brother, our father's disavowed son, our shame that we cannot speak of directly."

He turned his face to the side, letting the shadow of the light cover his pain. "He is a madman."

"He is deep within this royal palace. I visit him occasionally and tell him things about the outside world..."

"Who suggested the six female officiants?"

"He did." After revealing the royal secret, Andos's tension eased.

The prince revealed his melancholy, "He said that perhaps this way everyone would remember he still existed. I think... six people doesn't change anything."

After speaking, he hesitated again, "Does it really not change anything? Did we do something wrong?"

Mors smiled and casually reached out to pat Andos's shoulder.

"It's nothing. If any convenient number can draw forth laughter as fallen as a newborn's cry, then some fellows would be far too busy, working without rest."

He immediately dropped his smile. "I need to see Cruz."