We're Even

Light filtered through the grates into the room, and Mors awoke from another peaceful and beautiful sleep.

His throat felt uncomfortable. He touched it, and the dry, hardened blood clotted into flakes, falling onto his black clothes.

As expected, Peturabo had attacked him last night.

He cleared his throat and leisurely strolled outside. The midday temperature was hot, the sun shining directly overhead onto the clearing. The airflow below the cliff was stable, and the sparsely vegetated woods were quiet. Thanks to Mors's psychic abilities, even herbivores were unusually scarce around his dwelling.

The boy stood with his back to him, stone breaking under his hands with crisp sounds.

Mors silenced his footsteps and quietly approached Peturabo from behind.

The first thing he saw were the wounds on the boy's hands.

From his fingers to his wrist, improperly used stone carving tools had left many abrasions on his skin. Every time he raised the stone hammer and struck the chisel, drops of blood seeped from his cracked wounds, like a string of bright red pearls.

Peturabo refused to wipe away the bloodstains, as if venting, letting the records of mortal injury remain on skin that should have been smoother than his carved statues.

His work under his hands was also unsatisfactory, with blurred shapes and misplaced proportions, committing too many foolish mistakes typical of a novice.

Mors could only discern that he intended to carve two human figures facing each other, and that this piece of stone came from an unfinished work he had left behind.

After a few milliseconds of comparison, he confirmed that this stone was the head of his griffon statue.

Mors sat down on the ground beside Peturabo. The boy's jaw muscles tensed, and as he swung the stone hammer with gritted teeth, his left hand, holding the chisel, lost its strength and control. The chisel flew out, leaving an ugly, slanted notch in the stone.

Without pause, Peturabo immediately leaned down to retrieve his tools.

Mors lived alone, and his tools were undoubtedly made to adult proportions. These were a bit too large for Peturabo.

The chisel slipped from the boy's tired fingers again, clattering down like a cunning flying fish snatching bait, offering the boy a small, illusory reward.

Peturabo remained silent. Even his occasional uncontrollable anger had been cooled and extinguished. Cold, superficial sweat trickled down his chapped, pale lips.

He stared intently at the materials before him: the chisel, hammer, carving knife, ruler, file... and a shapeless, failed work. These implements were encompassed by the reflection in his eyes, making him unwilling to see anything else.

The wind and light seemed to bypass him. Peturabo constructed illusory fortresses and trenches in his mind, using the duration of an Olympian-timed night.

Mors reflected on his own actions for a moment, then confirmed that he had already explained the principles of communication to Peturabo.

Since Peturabo had not made any requests, it meant he needed nothing.

He patted his dust-covered black clothes and walked into the surrounding verdant woods.

His daily life was not very interesting, Mors admitted. He would simply break off some wood, scrape away the buds and bark, and dry them for firewood or carving materials.

If he found a dead bird, he would bend down and observe its downy feathers, holding its chin. If the color, length, and resilience were just right, he would wash and dry the feathers, then paste them onto a painting or the corner of a game piece.

On rare occasions, Mors would travel to Lokos, the nearest city-state, walking silently through the marketplace, observing the posture and expressions of the residents.

The last time he entered Lokos was during the Olympic truce, when all city-states agreed to rest and cease hostilities at this time, gathering for grand events in the sports arenas.

By selling a script for a comical play, he sat with the city-state's tyrant under a magnificent and exquisite canopy, painstakingly crafted day and night by countless diligent weavers and designers, watching the wrestling champion, who had just won a fresh laurel wreath in the sand pit below the high platform, display his oil-gleaming muscles.

Mors raised his hand to push aside a spindle-shaped green leaf blocking his path and stepped forward. The dead leaves, not yet decomposed, rustled.

As he released the slender branch that had sprung back, a new, light brown tender branch, over three inches long, was in his fingers.

His gaze passed through a rectangular gap between the trees and moss. The aerial patrol of clouds caused the light and shadow in the forest to shift and change. Between the trunks of two adjacent trees, a small, agile, light brown shadow flickered past.

"Why do craftsmen need to learn to hunt?"

Mors mumbled softly, answering his own question: "You acquire the best hides, feathers, sinews, leg bones..."

"Then can I use my own abilities to kill them?"

He mimicked a child's tone, the corners of his mouth curving strangely. He almost laughed at himself.

"Of course, as long as you are truly more skilled with them than with a bow and arrow."

The light brown tender branch flew from his hand. The next second, the soft, agile shadow silently fell into the dead branches and undergrowth. Some mammals, perhaps its kin, frantically pushed aside leaves and scattered.

"This is really hard. Every time I hit a prey, I can't find where it died. I have to retrieve my arrows and get my trophies."

"Perhaps it did not die. It merely fell, bled, and disappeared."

Mors bent down, meeting the creature's beautiful, pleading wet eyes. Blood gushed from its artery, nourishing the earth.

He touched the creature's forehead. His psychic energy instantly destroyed its nervous and brain systems.

The creature was of a good age, rich in fat, with smooth and supple skin. Mors, satisfied, picked up a stone and sharpened it into a flake. He pulled over its leg and began to dismantle the raw materials.

As the temperature began to drop, Mors carried a leg of the prey and a bag of materials wrapped in animal hide back to his dwelling.

Peturabo was still in the same spot.

His tools had changed. The chisel and hammer used for rough shaping had been replaced by a fine, hard file.

The blade cut the surface of the stone. A small amount of dust emerged from a shallow scratch. The debris from these stubborn stones was no paler than the boy's face.

Naturally, he no longer had the strength to carve the stone effectively. Peturabo merely held the tool, like a machine that had lost power, exuding an aura of repeating an action until the moment of cosmic death.

Mors walked past him and set down the materials he was carrying.

Some dry firewood and torn dry grass flew down from the roof, while two pieces of flint came from the slanted cross-window on the second floor.

He built a fire in the yard. The smoke rose up the cliff, drifting with the mist below the cliff into the clear darkness above.

The inhabitants of Olympia were distributed among various city-states, and due to natural conditions, their total population was not large. Nevertheless, if Mors's small fire were added to all the golden-red lights illuminated on half the planet at this time, the total number should be greater than the number of stars visible to the naked eye. Thus, the stars merely hung, lurking.

Behind the house was a place to draw water, and Mors began to clean today's catch, letting the excess blood drain from the meat.

Well, he had to admit he didn't know the scientific name for this prey that looked like an elk but was tougher to chew. He usually just called it a "Lokos Deer" in his mind.

Before long, the meat, cut into irregular chunks, was skewered on metal stands. The fat dripped into the fire, and the sizzling sound reminded Mors of his beautiful scaled robes, inlaid with precious gems.

He turned the iron skewer, taking a moment to check on Peturabo's condition.

Peturabo snapped his head around, feigning that he had never been peeking at the roasted meat by the fire.

Mors shrugged, and the salt shaker flew into his palm, which he deftly clasped with five fingers.

The salt grains melted and disappeared the instant they hit the meat's texture. Mors waited patiently.

The flames were conquering the Lokos Deer's blood and flesh. The black edges gradually coalesced, the charred area expanded, and the food was irreversibly transforming into roasted charcoal.

Mors paid it no mind.

The iron skewer continued to rotate.

Then, he heard a heavy thud.

Peturabo stood up and fell.

Hunger brought cold, thirst brought weakness, and the prolonged sitting had sapped his strength. A former demigod now lay miserably in the sand and gravel, unable to support his own body.

Mors sprinkled a small amount of cinnamon and fennel onto the surface of the roasted meat.

The second thud came quickly. His clenched teeth stifled a cry, the sound vibrating like a low bass string.

Then, Peturabo grabbed his black sleeve.

"I..." He exhaled heavily, overcoming the burning dryness in his throat. His voice was more grating than a blade scraping against glass. "I want to eat."

Mors replied indifferently, "Oh."

"I want to eat," Peturabo repeated. The second request came much easier and more confidently than the first.

Mors calmly took down the half-charred meat skewer and tossed it lightly. The food fell into the roaring fire.

He pulled his sleeve free from Peturabo's grasp. "I know."

Peturabo's body stiffened. His silence held a struggle, and then he relaxed.

"One request for one price..." The boy's voice was quite low, carrying a hint of something breaking, a wavering uncertainty. "I want to eat. What do you want?"

Mors smiled.

"Let's tally up what we've each done first," he said cheerfully, his tone as light as if their relationship had always been harmonious.

"I had you take photos with me, and you came back with me without any reason. We're even."

"I helped you obscure the Maelstrom of Stars, and you had your power and knowledge taken by me. We're even."

"I woke up this morning to find you had slit my throat, destroyed one of my statues, borrowed my tools, and now you're asking me for food."

Upon saying this, Mors placed his hand on Peturabo's head, running it down the back of his skull, and finally patted his back with great interest, raising his tone.

"But you've finally learned to make requests, which makes me very happy. Say one more apology, and I'll consider you a good child, and we'll be even."

Peturabo's expression was starting to crumble.

"I shouldn't have... tried to kill you."

"Anything else?"

"I apologize."

He looked deeply at Mors and said.

Mors glanced at him and smiled.

The second skewer of roasted meat was placed on the metal rack by itself.

Mors poured Peturabo a cup of warm water. The boy took the wooden cup, lowered his head, and, at Mors's gesture, sat down on the straw mat beside him.