Seeking in Vain

Seeking in Vain

What nonsense was that fool spouting?! Damned, cursed, life-threatening mad Prince and his incoherent ravings—he deserved to be dragged by that supreme yet fallen god into the drowning lake, stuffed into that sail-less boat, cast across the sea to fall forever, never to speak another word or utter another syllable of prophecy! His hands should be severed, his papers torn apart, so that he could never create another pattern worthy of death!

Mors drew a breath, steadied it, and forcefully set the pen that had hovered in the air for so long back onto its holder. The pen holder collapsed under the strain.

He tapped the desk. The ink, shattered pen holder, and broken quill restored themselves in sequence.

Andos did not know what to do. He even somewhat regretted bringing Mors to meet his mad brother.

Though he did not know what mad things Cruz had said to Mors, he had never seen the craftsman lose control of his emotions like this. His apprentice Peturabo had likely never seen it either.

"Mr. Mors," he began hesitantly, taking great care to control his volume. Perhaps he had never been so focused even when carving the tiniest objects. "My brother is mad... Whatever he said, please... don't take it to heart."

"Do you know what he said?" Mors leaned back. The wicker chair suddenly tipped backward, then, after several sways, stopped in a precarious position.

His eyes stared straight at Andos, making the Prince's skin crawl.

"Did he say something offensive?" the Prince asked worriedly. "Cruz is always like this. He has his own so-called... prophecies? He says things that clearly could never happen, such as wolves eating the Wolf God's heart... Please don't take it too seriously, Mors."

Mors quietly pressed his index finger to his brow, his thumb against the side of his temple, while his remaining three fingers trailed down the bridge of his nose, his little finger resting right on its tip.

After a long while, he opened his eyes, having seemingly regained his usual composure—perhaps even his coldness.

"He said very offensive things, Prince," Mors said coolly. "Things that deserve to be cursed a thousand times. His prophecies denied everything I have done."

His hand lowered from his face and hung naturally at his side, brushing past the edge of the desk and its drawers before reaching his knee. Inside those drawers were the records of passing years he had written over the years.

"I do not believe there is any possibility of what he prophesied coming to pass, Prince. Every one of his presumptuous speculations about the future is an explicit insult to my craft."

If that was the future, then had he died somewhere along the way?!

Had he simply stood by while his apprentice was taken away, defeated, and corrupted?

Or perhaps, in that slice of history, he had never been revived after his first death—that would have been better!

"If it was merely the ravings of his delusion, then there is even less reason to care," Prince Andos gently advised.

Mors exhaled once more, maintaining the rationality that floated tenuously on the surface.

Yes. He did not need to let his anger consume him.

This was not his first encounter with a prophet. Extracting potentially useful information from prophecies while disregarding irrelevant branches of events should have long become second nature to him.

"You are right, Andos." He tasted a trace of undissolved anger deep within his own words. "Nothing is going to happen."

Andos still could not settle down. His empathy told him that Mors was still burning with intense anger, and his noble moral conscience would not allow him to simply leave.

Even though he knew full well that Mors had been the one to question the ceremony they had hosted, and Mors had been the one to ask to see his mad brother.

"Let's talk about something else, Mr. Mors."

Andos coaxed him gently, his gaze roaming over a small area of the room that did not involve privacy. At last, he chose a topic he believed could not possibly cause further complications.

He looked at several bottles of paint on Mors's desk. "What kind of craftwork have you been making lately, Mr. Mors? You know so many things that I can rarely guess correctly."

"Some miniature models." Mors picked up a small sculpture about the height of a finger from the tabletop.

Only half the sculpture had been painted before its creator, following his usual impatient habits, had tossed it aside. As a result, the model merely had the base colors of its various regions distinguished; neither lighting nor material effects had yet been addressed.

"Do you want to take a look?"

Andos accepted the model with both hands and examined it carefully.

Even though its creator was particularly skilled at leaving things unfinished, Mors's profound fundamentals—enough to amaze and shame anyone—still fascinated Andos.

The Prince smiled and asked sincerely, "May I try completing the painting process?"

"Did you finish the sketch I gave you last time?"

"Not yet. I still feel like I can't properly handle the place where the waves meet the rocks..."

"Forget your local colors, Prince. Think about ambient colors. Here's a hint: the shadows on the rocks in the left half are purple, while the shadows on the rocks in the right half are green."

Andos's eyes lit up, and he was utterly delighted by this new artistic inspiration. "I'll try it as soon as I get back. Thank you."

He held the delicate little model, already eager to return and finish the practice piece that had troubled him for so long. Yet seeing that Mors's mood had not improved much, he truly could not bring himself to leave.

If Peturabo were here, Mr. Mors would surely recover his spirits soon enough. Whenever they were together, they often achieved a natural harmony through mutual mockery and disdain—but Peturabo was beyond the city walls, preparing to fight for Lokos. Andos knew he could not summon this savior.

With the mindset of making one final attempt, Andos turned his attention to a new work he had not seen before.

It looked like a half-finished emblem: jagged iron city walls formed a broken circle, within which were set a golden gear, a steel hammer, and mountains of emerald.

Most notably, the work seemed to possess some mysterious quality. He could not say what it was, only that the emblem appeared to be covered in an entrancing holy power—cold, yet pure.

Mors did not stop him from examining it, which gave Andos the courage to ask his question.

Doing his best to sound polite without being overly affected, he asked, "Is this piece your latest concept, Mr. Mors?"

Mors's inscrutable expression sent a chill through him.

"You truly are obsessed with art, Prince," he said, picking up the emblem with fingertips wrapped in black cloth and personally handing it to Andos.

"Touch it, Prince."

Andos did so without understanding why.

The instant his hand touched the emblem, a piercing yet pure force surged through his entire body. Bathed in it, he felt both body and mind purified, and the few stray thoughts he had were burned away.

When he came back to himself, the droplet falling from the water clock told him that not even a second had passed.

He returned the emblem and asked curiously, "That feeling just now... was it a gift?"

Mors nodded. At last, there was some of his usual warmth in his gaze. "You may consider it one, Prince."

After chatting with the Prince for a few more moments, Mors saw him out.

The matter had finally left him utterly bewildered.

If Andos, the art-obsessed man, had not been corrupted, and Cruz, the mad psychic, was likewise safe and sound, then who, exactly, would suffer that great calamity?

He picked up the emblem and turned it over in his hand, Cruz's prophecy still weighing heavily on his heart.

The prophecy itself was not necessarily to be trusted. Whether its contents made sense or whether they would come to pass, he would only do what he ought to do.

Mors propped his chin on his hand and placed the emblem face-down on the table.

The issue that truly needed to be taken seriously was that he had already caught the scent of far too many filthy, vexing evils from every direction.

The essence of prophecy was the erosion of reality by a vast ocean. This was the most important piece of information of all.

The curtain of malicious intent had quietly been lifted. He had to find that damned breach.