The Dream of City Building

Mors tilted his head slightly.

Dawn had not yet arrived, and the stars coiled across the sky like an infinitely vast serpent, each flicker a glint of scales. The atmosphere of Olympia was a frosted giant sphere, and the serpent coiled and contracted beyond it.

A century ago, he had looked up and witnessed the birth of the material universe's projection of that soul-shattering howl, and ever since, he had often felt this illusion.

He lifted his leg and stepped onto the high stone steps. This small path twisting along the cliff edge was unkempt. When the Lokos guard passed, they would swing the blades used to kill enemies and carve away a portion of the earth and stone. The dust yielded before the iron forged by craftsmen, and the path was gradually offered to humanity by the cliff.

Above, on the relatively flat road, a guard named Mityad and his accompanying retinue waited in silence. Their white-gold armor lost its color in the dim light before dawn.

Along with their colors, the guards' voices were also hidden. Out of some unknown respect, or perhaps even reverence, these spearmen who enforced law and order in cities and kingdoms dared not urge the slow-moving Mors and Peturabo.

Mors turned, observing Peturabo's every movement with a researcher's gaze.

Even transformed from a perfect war machine into a flawed mortal, the boy's learning and growth speed remained outstanding.

Half an hour ago, Peturabo had been frowning at the rugged terrain and the height differences that were too great for a boy his size. Now, he had learned to skillfully find every convenient foothold, supporting himself against the stone wall, his fingers firmly gripping every protruding rock, advancing with minimal effort.

But he was still not fast enough.

Mors leaned down, extending his arm downwards and diagonally, placing a helping hand before Peturabo's eyes.

The boy glanced at him. "Move it," he said, panting.

"You're too slow, Peturabo," Mors said calmly. "The Lokos guard is waiting for you."

"Then let them wait," Peturabo muttered, his lips moving as a small string of High Gothic words escaped.

"I'm waiting for you too."

Peturabo said nothing, merely lowered his eyes, and firmly grasped Mors's hand, which was wrapped in black cloth, allowing Mors to lift him up with a gentle tug. Then, Mors lightly pushed off, and the two ascended, defying the planet's gravity.

Before Peturabo could steady himself, Mors released him. The boy nearly stumbled in front of the Lokos soldiers. He swayed, said nothing, and a flash of annoyance crossed his eyes.

Mors blinked and nodded at the Lokos soldiers.

The soldiers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, all nodding slightly at Mors in greeting. Then, they immediately turned and marched ahead, leading the way, their steps perhaps more orderly than when they were reviewed by the nation's overlord.

Mors placed his right hand on Peturabo's shoulder, accepting the soldiers' courtesy.

Mountain mist churned in the half-light of dawn, silently sliding past the edges of the road covered in thorny vegetation. Peturabo held his chin high; only when the edges of the sharp leaves grazed the soles of his feet did a fleeting grimace cross his face.

A chill penetrated Peturabo's shoulder from Mors's palm. Then, the boy heard a voice filled with sarcasm.

"+They respect me.+"

Psychic energy surged, and a private communication channel opened.

Peturabo glared at Mors, instinctively learning to make two minds communicate and collide within the psychic circuit. Of course, he wasn't using psychic energy; Mors had temporarily granted him access.

"+Because you are a prodigious craftsman. I told them.+ "

"+Then what are you angry about? Do you want that respect too? Do you wish for the people of Olympia to love you with adoration?+"

"+No! I don't need mortal adoration.+ " Peturabo said proudly.

"+Oh, needing it and not being able to get it are two different things. You're so honest, child.+ "

Peturabo subtly furrowed his brow, hoping the vast darkness would render the shadow gathering on his brow unnoticeable.

"+Of course I can get it, as long as you give me back my abilities. You took a part of me that was mine by birthright, and now you mock me for not being able to satisfy you. Do you enjoy the satisfaction of the status gap you have over me?+"

"+What I find more satisfying is this: in your mind, the only value by which you can earn others' affection is your superhuman talent. Once you lose your extraordinary appearance, you easily convince yourself that with your own character and intellect, you cannot earn others' respect. What an interesting realization! You know exactly who you are, and I admire you, good boy.+ "

Peturabo felt a rush of hot blood to his cheeks. He twisted his body, breaking free from Mors's hand.

The psychic link quietly severed. He looked up, his gaze meeting Mors's scrutinizing one for only half a second before he hastily looked away, simultaneously avoiding the mortal guards ahead, letting his eyes fall on the hazy night scenery around them.

At the end of the mountains, where the desolate highlands met the vast night, a magnificent city loomed indistinctly. Arches and spires occasionally emerged from beneath the earth.

This was where they were going, Peturabo thought silently. He would travel a long road, through cruel mountains, to a city where he would gain nothing.

He continued to survey his surroundings. The valleys were cracked, and the undulating terrain of the planet itself divided countless plains with mountains and rubble.

And humanity itself had once again divided the land with weapons and power.

Peturabo saw farmland, and the lights of villages were warm colors, the opposite of the stars, casting halos of pale yellow light under the gray sky. Flowing streams were channeled into reservoirs, where they were stabilized and transported to fertile land by mechanical water wheels.

He couldn't help but try to conceive of more intricate layouts and machinery to improve water supply efficiency, allowing crops in the fields to grow better. He also tried to imagine a smoother, wider, continuous road, eliminating the influence of the mountains, to facilitate more fluid industrial exchange between villages and cities.

He couldn't help but imagine a more mechanized, advanced era.

He thought of drainage systems, zoning of buildings, rapid transportation, and residential structures that were both aesthetically pleasing and practical.

Residences would be machines for living. Perhaps building facades could be liberated from load-bearing, utilizing more advanced structural designs to make floor plans more convenient, colorful, and dynamic. The concepts of blocks and courtyards could be reconfigured, roads could be redistributed in a grid pattern between buildings, and three-dimensional transportation could connect the entire city like the circuits of a precision instrument, extending public services and collective operations to the entire planet and even further...

Then he failed. This knowledge flashed through his mind like fleeting light from its depths. He wanted to grasp it, but could only hold a handful of the thin mist from the mountains and wilderness.

Peturabo suddenly felt a void. The disconnect between desire and reality truly settled in the depths of his soul, preventing him from moving on for a long time.

However, unlike the anger and annoyance that usually arose from forgetting knowledge, this time, Peturabo forgot even the patience and self-perceived shame he often pondered.

The place he was about to go was Lokos, and perhaps his construction would begin there. The overlord of this kingdom would welcome him; he was sure of it. Hadn't the person named Dameks already sent soldiers to greet him?

From city walls and fortresses to workshops and fields...

He was immersed in the grand vision of engineering, and in a daze, he felt as if his feet were already on a completed, wide road, and his unborn people were welcoming the coming sunlight in clean, orderly homes.

Until an arrow shot towards his eyes shattered against the psychic shield's defense.

"Be careful, we're under attack," Mors said calmly, raising his hand to point towards the hidden shadows of the mountain peaks. There, murky shadows were moving stealthily.

Peturabo was finally jolted awake from his fantasy world. His first reaction was to look up at Mors's reaction.

Strangely, on that face, which had become annoyingly familiar in recent days, he read a hint of a smile and encouragement directed at him.

The Lokos squad had somehow surrounded them. Two in front, two behind, they adopted a combat stance, firmly protecting Mors and Peturabo at the center.