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"I am no mortal," Peturabo's stubbornness was unlikely to change even if Olympia were destroyed. "I am different from them, it's just that you took away a part of my extraordinary abilities."

"And your cooking talent?"

Peturabo immediately shoved the grilled fish into his mouth and chewed vigorously, swallowing with his neck stiff. "Your taste isn't refined enough to appreciate my work."

Fearing that Mors would provoke him further on this matter, he quickly lowered his hand, twisted his wrist, and moved the grilled fish behind his back, out of the other's line of sight.

"Yes, yes," Mors replied casually. "You're not mortal, you're just a magical child who can't do anything, possibly lacking the courage to even face a group of harmless guards. Peturabo, go face your destiny. The Lokos Guard has been looking for you for days."

The ice surface shaped by psychic energy vibrated, growing closer, and Peturabo turned his head towards the forest.

The corridor-like trees and the ice-chip-covered ground formed a natural echo chamber. The friction of metal armor and leather, amplified by the natural airflow, rolled rapidly towards Peturabo. If he were a pale leaf that had fallen from a branch, he would have already been torn apart and swept away by this force.

But his feet still stood directly on the dry, hard earth, heavier than high-density steel, blocking his imagined escape with a shout of "This is unavoidable" while saving face.

Yet he was no longer steel; he wished he were a reed.

Peturabo tightly gripped the only thing he could hold, feeling the slender, warm metal embedded in the lines of his palm. Then he suddenly realized it was the grilled fish he had heavily seasoned to challenge Mors.

He immediately turned his head back, seeing Mors disappear into the air, relying on his nameless, powerful ability.

That detestable man was rapidly fading, his conspicuous black clothes lightening as if wiped away by a cleaning agent, allowing the ornate and chaotic painted murals on the houses behind him to take his place in this world's cross-section.

His messy black hair lingered the longest, perhaps left there specifically for him; the thin lips that curved upwards from his pale skin sent a surge of heat up Peturabo's spine, expanding his pulse and veins.

"Mors—" he lunged to grab the man, his hand moving, grasping at nothingness in the air.

"Come out! Give me back my abilities, my wisdom and talent. I have a unique destiny, I shouldn't dedicate my life to a city-state confined to a planet..."

I cannot be this fragile.

His heart pounded powerfully within him, a mortal heart, making him dizzy with the slightest provocation, as insignificant as dust. Cold illusions came from all directions, enveloping his skin, invading every tiny wound he had accumulated recently, wrapping around the nerve pathways against the flow of his blood.

"Mors—" he shouted, he couldn't face a group of mortals like this!

"Crack."

The tip of an iron boot kicked over the edge of a half-finished stone sculpture outside the house. The counterweight of a long-handled blunt spear crushed a wild grass outside the house fence.

More breaths gathered around Mors's territory.

Peturabo's mind suddenly went blank. Under the gathering panic, his brain briefly returned to its past functions, countless pieces of information rushing through like a torrential waterfall. The first was whether these people heard him call for Mors, the second was that they definitely heard him loudly calling for Mors, and the third was that he was just a passing, unknown mortal child who had stumbled into danger.

The great Peturabo? Who was that? Absolutely not this weak and useless shell.

Absolutely not! Definitely not! Not even remotely similar!

Then his legs moved his upper body, more stiff than the bell of a dilapidated mechanical tower, more hollow than a soulless, faceless armor.

He instinctively held the metal skewer horizontally across his chest, displaying his combat prowess and danger.

At the tip of the skewer, the long-suffering, scorched grilled fish vibrated, the two crescent-shaped bites conspicuously absent, tattered fish skin hanging from the edges, reflecting a fierce glint.

Peturabo stared at the face of the officer at the very front, partially obscured by his helmet, trying to meet the eyes hidden in the shadow.

The officer's hand glided over the grooved gold and silver barrel at his waist. From his body language, Peturabo read a trace of subtle feigned composure.

He hoped he didn't appear that way in the other's eyes, while selectively implying that he was ignoring the grilled fish on the skewer in his hand.

"Who are you?" Peturabo broke the silence, brushing away the desire to evade in the trailing end of his words, "You in the helmet, what brings you here?"

The man at the front stepped forward and bowed his head.

"By order of our lord Dameks, we are here to find the boy from Cadisia. He slew the Yepidae in his youth, killing the Serpent of Calamity with a wooden club and an iron hammer. Son of a god from the mountains, our lord invites you to visit Lokos."

"I don't remember anything you mentioned," Peturabo said, making a decorative flourish with the skewer in his hand as he imagined, using the opportunity to flick away the scorched grilled fish, then thrusting the tip of the skewer into the soil, standing like one holding a sword.

"I am not a son of a god, and there are no gods in the world. Please leave."

His knowledge had indeed been sealed by an utterly detestable madman, but Peturabo could still be certain that there were no gods in this world.

This information was inherently present in the underlying structure of his thought patterns; he had discovered it, cherished it, and was always ready to argue for it.

A small commotion arose among the soldiers opposite, like a gust of wind rippling across the surface of water. The plumes on their helmets quivered, the golden leather of their skirt armor swayed back and forth, and their vambraces reflected the turbulent light. Peturabo clearly saw someone at the back of the formation shaking their head.

The leader of the small squad stepped forward again, removing his platinum helmet with colorful patterns, and faced Peturabo with his true features.

"As we journeyed here, we have witnessed the great deeds of the son of a god," he said solemnly. "Rumors of you beheading the great serpent circulate in the countryside. Shepherds have seen you climbing the towering cliffs of Prygia. As we approached your dwelling, frost and dense forest parted the way for us. Our lord Dameks sincerely invites you to visit; Lokos will surely extend its hospitality."

Peturabo silently scrutinized the squad before him, his fingers rubbing against the metal skewer. The warm metal grazed the scabs on his fingertips; he remembered how he got the wound—it was Mors's stone hammer handle, a disastrous wooden splinter that had evaded his inattentive observation at the time.

A single splinter was enough to pierce through a flaw, to pierce the shield of words.

Just like the "divine miracles" Mors had staged, which he had witnessed, they made it impossible for him to prove he was merely mortal.

Just like the opportunity Mors had given him earlier, it allowed him to find a crack to break the stalemate.

Peturabo raised his head. His voice became light.

"I am not the master of this place, nor am I the son of a god. You are looking for someone else, an artisan beyond the ages, a hermit wise man. Dameks should not be looking for me, but for him—"

He raised the skewer, pointing vaguely at the empty rattan chair behind him, and mouthed through gritted teeth: "Mors, you still owe me one favor!"

Mors's messy black hair appeared at the top of the empty rattan chair, his back to the crowd, followed by an upward-raised, languid hand wrapped in black cloth.

"I'm here," he said weakly.