Declaration

Peturabo had reason to believe Lokos's enemies had sent their finest forces, even though he still did not know where those enemies came from.

The enemies did not come only from the shadows along the mountainside. Black dots were also moving swiftly atop the high peaks beside the road.

Arrows gathered momentum from above as they plunged downward. Some buried themselves in the parched earth, while others bounced off the Lokos men's shields. The Lokos men formed a protective ring around them, hurrying them away from the open ground in search of cover.

Strangely enough, Peturabo was not worried about being hurt at all. Perhaps it was because Mors was there.

He tried to warn himself not to place too much trust in that unreliable, perverted craftsman, but the attempt was not very successful. So he gave up and cursed a few times in High Gothic, using what little he remembered.

Several soldiers wielding long swords suddenly sprang out from around a sharp bend. Their helmets looked absurdly like inverted iron bowls, with linked iron rings enclosing their heads for protection. Their silver plate cuirasses occasionally reflected blinding flashes of light.

Yet such crude protection somehow blocked the Lokos men's crackling lightning rounds, draining their energy reserves and forcing the Lokos guards to draw their blades for close combat.

The leader named Mityad let out a roar and met them with his spear. "Lord Mors, Lord Peturabo, please rest assured. The people of Lokos will never let you be harmed."

The soldiers opposite them did not spare their voices as they roared battle cries to bolster their morale, charging straight ahead with their long swords.

There were not many of them, only five, matching the Lokos side one for one as they plunged directly into close-quarters combat. The archers on the mountain stopped firing. Clearly, they could not accurately hit their enemies amidst the melee, nor did they wish to harm Mors and Peturabo.

The enemy had come to seize them, as though they were precious goods and proof of glory.

Peturabo did not know whether he should do something. He felt he should not shrink back while others fought for him, but he neither knew how to wield a blade against enemies nor had a weapon in hand.

"Mors." He called Mors's name, unable to keep the urgency from his voice.

Mors was stroking his chin, watching the battle before him with excessive indifference. His unkempt hair looked even darker in the night.

After a while, he spoke. "Who do you think will win?"

Peturabo opened his mouth in surprise. "You mean?"

Mors nodded, then unexpectedly sat down on the ground. Propping his head up with one hand, he made it clear that he had no intention of joining the battle.

Not far in front of him, a spray of soldiers' blood burst into the air, accompanied by more pain and cries.

"I think Lokos will lose," Mors said. "They are outnumbered, and these attackers have ranged support. Perhaps the Lokos soldiers are all elite, but unless there is an overwhelming difference in individual strength, the people of Lokos can only fulfill their oath to fight with death."

He invited Peturabo to sit down, but the boy expressed his refusal by standing perfectly straight.

"Do something, Mors." He spoke to Mors with every ounce of calm he could muster. "You could change the entire battle with a flick of your finger, with that ability of yours that I do not even know the name of."

He could not understand why Mors could remain so calm. Their protectors were bleeding.

The enemy suddenly erupted in loud cheers, and the heavy stench of blood spread through the air. Peturabo clenched his fists tightly.

"My lords, trust in Lokos!" Mityad's shout mingled with some kind of grief.

Then the enemy's cries rose over the increasingly weakened roars of the Lokos men.

A large warrior carrying a round shield laughed heartily. "Boy of Cadisia, blessed by the gods, the Kingdom of Axos welcomes you! Whatever status and power weak Lokos can give you, we of Axos can give you more! Look, Lokos can only bleed, while we of Axos are invincible!"

Mors suddenly laughed, the smile lighting up his entire face. He looked at Peturabo with burning eyes. "See? Lokos is not the only one welcoming you."

Peturabo's anxiety froze on his face. Another thought was born in his heart, and he suddenly understood why Mors had remained seated and unmoving.

Even so, calm still did not come to Peturabo.

Mors invited him to sit again, but Peturabo shook his head violently.

"Look at these people," Mors coaxed. "Look at their armor: the sharp peaks on their round helmets, the nasal guards like flower stems, the beautiful combination of mail and plate, and their extraordinarily advanced shield energy sources. What can you see from them? I see the blazing flames in countless craftsmen's furnaces, thriving mining and forging industries, and agriculture and animal husbandry that sustain an army. Axos must be a well-functioning machine, and like Lokos, it welcomes you."

At this point, Mors curled his lips with no small amount of mockery in his voice. "No, they welcome you more than Lokos does, because Lokos seems to have gone from welcoming you to welcoming me."

The Axos men's invitation continued. "Boy! The courage with which you slew the beast will shine brightly in Axos! You will be the most brilliant warrior! By Hexapolis above, you will command countless armies!"

Mors reached into the air. Unknown elements began to gather, and gradually, an exquisitely shaped long sword appeared in his hand from nothing. Its blade was so sharp that one might suspect even a child could easily cleave a boulder with it. Simple yet exquisitely beautiful openwork decorated the steel blade, forming a set of mysterious inscriptions.

He had not made a hilt for the steel sword, so the weapon floating in the air could not yet be used.

"I have not decided what words to carve on the hilt," Mors said. "Peturabo, bestowed upon Lokos, or Peturabo, bestowed upon Axos?"

The Axos men erupted in a second round of cheers. Peturabo's breathing became extremely rapid, as though the air around him was no longer enough to fuel his thoughts.

He turned his head to stare directly at both sides in battle. Then he heard Mityad—a desperate man whose right hand was streaming with blood, who had discarded his shield and was fighting with his spear in his left hand—let out a firm shout from his throat. "My lords! Though Lokos is not skilled in violence and war, we will never retreat before a battle!"

Peturabo listened blankly and took a step forward.

No one knew what turmoil the words from both sides had stirred within him. As the faint light of dawn gradually brightened with the passing of time, the shadows left his face.

He suddenly spun around with his entire body, the veins at his neck standing taut.

"You cold-blooded bastard! The people of Axos take the farmers' and craftsmen's cattle, sheep, and steel to build armies. They will only put my abilities toward war—that is what I see! I do not need Axos's welcome!"

Peturabo growled, but he was not accusing Mors. He had no time for that. He continued, "You just said this sword was meant to be given to me?"

"It will be yours." Mors raised the blade, letting it float before Peturabo's eyes.

"A gift requires no price, does it?"

Before Mors could answer, Peturabo reached out directly and gripped the sharp blade. His blood instantly covered the sword, filling every hollowed inscription.

The next moment, he charged into the battle with the blade. With astonishing skill and a weapon that cut through anything too easily, he drove it into every flaw in the design of Axos armor.

From Peturabo's fighting posture, Mors could discern both the killing arts honed and passed down by the people of Axos and those of Lokos. Though Peturabo's mind was unsettled, he had long possessed the ability to swiftly observe and learn from real combat, turning that ability into practical experience on the spot.

Mors sharply noticed that the gaps in the armor Peturabo pierced were precisely the ones Lokos's Mityad had exploited during the earlier fight.

"I will not become a madman obsessed with war!" The boy proclaimed to everyone on the field through both battle and words. "Do not dream of exploiting my talent for combat. I am a craftsman who builds cities, and my construction will begin with Lokos!"

Mors watched for a while, then rose to his feet.

Just as Peturabo had said, he "moved a finger."

More hidden Axos ambushers nearby and the Axos archers above all clutched their throats at once. Gushing arterial blood spilled through their fingers, drenching the parched earth.

He walked toward Peturabo, who had already slain the enemies alongside the Lokos men. The boy collapsed toward him, and Mors caught him, using psychic power to heal the deep wounds on his back and palm.

"If you are a craftsman, you should protect your hands." He spoke gently. "I do not recall threatening you into grabbing a blade with your bare hand."

Peturabo looked at him wearily and gave a soft snort.

Three Lokos men remained alive, including Mityad and two other warriors. Supporting one another, they dropped to one knee before Peturabo.

"Thank you, Lord Peturabo!" they said in unison. The respect in their words was plain for all to hear, even though they had clearly all come to believe that Peturabo was merely a mortal boy.

Peturabo recovered a little strength, straightened again, and slowly let each syllable drift clearly into the air.

"Rise. Take us to Lokos."

In the distance, the rising sun picked out golden gleams upon the spires of the city-state of Lokos. Peturabo did not wish to wait any longer.