Deserter

"Is anyone injured?" Peturabo scanned the soldier reporting to him with a grim expression. Before the soldier's legs could start trembling, he shifted his gaze away, directing his irritation at the machine that had jammed again. He decided he would vent his frustration later by kicking its dilapidated frame with the sole of his boot.

"Hand over the report, and you can go," he grumbled. "Send the injured back to Lokos. I don't need casualties on the battlefield yet."

After the soldier left, he quickly kicked the machine, urging it to continue processing the paper tape, then sat back in his steel chair to read the incident report about a minor accident caused by a new laser gun conversion device malfunctioning.

He hoped it was just an accidental flaw on the assembly line, not a major oversight in the overall industrial process, so he could later claim it wasn't his fault. Well, Peturabo couldn't lie to himself.

"Another mistake of mine," he muttered, hitting the jamming machine. Based on the phenomena described in the report, he began to deduce potential flaws in his own design.

Regardless, all similar laser handguns in the army needed to be recalled and inspected to prevent further accidents. Since this happened under his watch, it was his responsibility.

He pulled a few blank sheets of paper towards him, his pen hovering in the air. After a moment, he put the pen down, covered his face with both hands, and delved into a deeper, more focused period of thought.

Then, after exhaling, he gripped his pen and began recalculating from scratch.

Not long after, a beeping call sounded.

Peturabo was quite possessive of having the entire interior of a combat vehicle to himself. Thus, at this moment, he had to personally answer someone's communication instead of assigning a guard and telling them, "Go tell them I'm busy and unavailable."

"What is it?" He was multitasking, preparing to replace the draft paper that had already been completely covered with formulas, and responded impatiently, "Which cannon exploded now?"

"At least none have exploded yet," Calipha's voice came through. "And probably won't in the future?"

Peturabo's pen movement across the paper slowed.

He immediately replaced the unfinished draft paper, placing the new sheet in the center of the desk, controlling and regretting his emotions.

Recalling Mors's sarcastic remark last time that he was more prone to soaring into the sky due to heat and expansion than Lokos's hot air balloons, Peturabo suddenly felt that nothing was worth getting angry about.

"Is there something you need, Calipha?"

"Just checking in on you, Bo," Calipha said softly. The sound of rustling paper also came from her end, suggesting she was also busy. "I believe that accident wasn't your fault."

"Does your belief change reality?" Peturabo complained slightly, moving his calculations to the next stage. If he couldn't find any flaws, he felt it was necessary to re-verify his previously formulated theoretical equations.

For him, this was actually a rather pleasant process. He didn't need to think about any external complexities; numbers and axioms always presented an astonishing precision and honesty. They neither mocked him, nor deceived him, nor worshipped him. Knowledge was simply knowledge.

Calipha said quietly, "Not exactly. Harkon was among those injured."

"Such a coincidence... No, that deserter!" Peturabo reacted instantly, anger surging through him.

His calculations accelerated twofold, his mind spinning like nested gears. Countless numbers and letters landed on the draft paper with the precision and speed of printing. Peturabo used this method to expend his anger.

Gun energy malfunction? How could he even say that! It was clearly a way to avoid combat, finding a way to sleep soundly in the rear beforehand.

Calipha continued, "I know my brother. He's probably worried you'd kill him, so he found a way to escape early."

She sighed, her tone filled with more apology. "I sincerely apologize for him, Lord of the Legion."

"Are you also worried I'd kill him? Am I that fearsome, that narrow-minded?"

Peturabo's pen tip tore through the paper, breaking on the steel surface.

He rummaged through his drawers searching for a new pen, even though he knew he had organized his spare writing tools in another drawer.

"Not at all," Calipha said. "I'm just admitting that my brother is a deserter."

This statement made Peturabo fall silent.

He let go of his drawers, gave the perpetually jamming machine another hard kick, and then opened its top panel. The wind carried away his irritation.

The young man sat down in Mors's posture, crossing one leg over the other.

He didn't do this because he liked it. On the contrary, he used this awkward imbalance to remind himself to reflect inwardly and outwardly.

Calipha's voice was mixed with a soft rustling sound, perhaps from her sleeve brushing against a desk, or perhaps from the error within the current itself. These trivial noises were not annoying; instead, they became a footnote to Calipha's own demeanor.

"Are you wondering why, Bo?" she asked.

"I just wanted him to fight alongside ordinary soldiers. I didn't want to harm him. Our technology is already so advanced," Peturabo said.

"But he's jealous of you. From the moment he first saw you, he's been secretly comparing himself to you," Calipha said calmly, as if she wasn't describing her brother, but merely an individual stripped of personal social relationships.

"When you first met Father, he was actually by Father's side, but you didn't even glance at him." Calipha chuckled at this. "Harkon told me this himself."

"The longer you stay in Lokos, the brighter your radiance becomes. Before you came of age, you had already accomplished ten feats that Harkon couldn't achieve in a lifetime. Father occasionally said that if his eldest son had your talent, he would have let the eldest son succeed long ago, instead of tormenting him with power and political affairs as he aged."

"As time passed, the traces you left in Lokos grew. Your inexhaustible talent transformed the entire country, which gradually caused my eldest brother to develop another worry—whether Father favored you over him."

"Me?"

"He's afraid Father will make you his successor. After all, in a practical, not symbolic, sense, Lokos is already your country."

Peturabo was silent for a moment. "He's right."

This time, it was Calipha's turn to be surprised. "Do you want to become a tyrant?"

"I don't want him to succeed. His actions have completely alienated people's goodwill; even if he returns to my army in a few days, I'll still kick him out."

He continued, "If possible, I hope you will wear the Iron Crown."

Calipha immediately burst into laughter. "Andros is still lined up behind me for the throne."

"Andros won't do. He's too friendly, too kind."

"His nature is that pure. For my brother, a beautiful butterfly is probably worth more than a thousand iron crowns."

The two of them chuckled, thinking of that overly simple, pure craftsman. Compared to Harkon, Andos was truly endearing and reassuring.

Peturabo stood up and took a few sheets of paper from the top of the storage rack. "I've written a draft for a declaration of war. Can you listen to it for me?"

Calipha readily agreed and teased, "How many drafts did you write for your speech at the naming ceremony?"

Peturabo remained unfazed and looked into the distance. "You can guess."

At the end of the mountains and treacherous paths, though out of sight, Peturabo's calculations told him that Calipha's fortress was drawing near.

Highly recommend the family-friendly, grand reunion, empire-wins-big, original-style, rationalized HE hammer novel "False God and Bastard Child," you should go read it ( )