Peturabo threw himself into his busy work, carrying with him his still endless questions.
Why had Andos become like that?
What had been the realm of brass and blood he had fallen into?
Was Mors's current, indescribable state related to tearing open the sky of that realm that day?
Would Olympia suffer such a grave crisis again in the future?
Would Calipha one day leave with her kin?
From these major questions, Peturabo's mind automatically spun out countless related details, and he could practically foresee the answers he would get from Mors: Can't say. Don't ask. You guess. Perhaps. All mortals must die...
Frustrated, he lowered his head and tugged at his hastily tailored, oversized robe.
He had grown another little bit over the past two days and was now about a foot short of three meters.
The tailors who had recently been forced to make at least four sets of clothes for him each day had dared not voice their grievances, until Peturabo ordered their compensation raised. Only then did he gain a group of cheerful craftsmen capable of producing five formal outfits for him every day.
He carefully pinched the handle of Mors's door with his enormous fingers, a stack of documents in his other hand, prepared to tell him some strange news.
Peturabo lightly knocked on the door panel, which would become incredibly fragile beneath his hand. After receiving Mors's response, he bent down and squeezed into the room.
Mors's busyness was all-encompassing. It seemed that ever since he had cast off his human shell—only later, when Peturabo reflected on past events, did he realize that Mors had truly never exposed even an inch of skin beyond his face—he had completely abandoned all restraint in using his extraordinary abilities, making Peturabo wonder whether he ought to advise