Declaration

Peturabo had reason to believe Lokos's enemies had deployed their most elite forces, even though he didn't yet know where these enemies were coming from.

The enemies were not only emerging from the shadows on the mountainside, but small black dots were also moving rapidly atop the high peaks beside the road.

Arrows plunged downwards from the heights, some embedding themselves in the dry earth, others deflected by the shields of the Lokos warriors. The Lokos men formed a protective cordon, urging them to leave the open ground quickly and seek cover.

Peturabo felt a peculiar lack of concern for his own safety, perhaps because Mors was present.

He tried to caution himself against trusting the unreliable, perverse craftsman too much, but the attempt was not very successful. He gave up, and in passing, cursed them in his mind using some High Gothic he vaguely remembered.

Several soldiers wielding long swords suddenly burst from a sharp turn. The helmets on their heads were comically like inverted iron bowls, with small, connected iron rings encasing their skulls for protection. Their silver plate cuirasses occasionally reflected blinding light.

Yet, even this crude protection had miraculously repelled the Lokos warriors' projectiles, which crackled with explosive lightning, draining their energy and forcing the Lokos guard into close combat.

The leader, named Mityad, let out a roar and met the charge with his spear: "Lord Mors, Lord Peturabo, rest assured. The Lokos will never let you be harmed."

The opposing soldiers did not hesitate to let out loud war cries to boost morale, charging straight ahead with their long swords.

They were few in number, only five, perfectly matched against one of the Lokos warriors each, immediately engaging in close-quarters combat. The archers on the mountain ceased their fire, clearly unable to accurately hit enemies in close combat, nor did they wish to harm Mors and Peturabo.

The enemies were here to seize them, like robbers snatching precious cargo and proof of honor.

Peturabo didn't know if he should do something. It seemed wrong to hang back while others fought for him, but he lacked the skill to wield a sword and had no weapon in his hands.

"Mors," he called Mors's name, his voice involuntarily tinged with anxiety.

Mors was stroking his chin, watching the battle unfolding before him with excessive detachment. His messy hair seemed even deeper in the darkness of the night.

After a moment, he spoke, "Which side do you think will win?"

Peturabo's mouth fell open in surprise, "You mean?"

Mors nodded, unexpectedly sitting down on the ground, propping his head with one hand, clearly indicating his complete intention not to participate in the battle.

Not far in front of him, a spray of soldier's blood arced into the air, accompanied by more pain and screams.

"I think the Lokos will lose," Mors said. "They are outnumbered, and these attackers have ranged support. Perhaps the Lokos soldiers are all elites, but when the individual strength difference isn't vast enough, the Lokos can only fulfill their combat vows with death."

He invited Peturabo to sit, but the boy refused with his rigidly upright posture.

"Do something, Mors," he said, his voice as calm as he could manage. "You could change the entire battle with a flick of your finger, with that ability of yours, whatever it's called."

He couldn't understand why Mors could be so calm while their protectors were bleeding.

The enemy suddenly let out a loud cheer, and a strong smell of blood spread everywhere. Peturabo clenched his fists tightly.

"My lords, trust in the Lokos!" Mityad's shout was mixed with a certain sorrow.

Then, the enemy's shouts surpassed the increasingly weakened roars of the Lokos.

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

Mors suddenly laughed, the smile illuminating his entire face. He looked intently at Peturabo, "See, you are not the only one welcomed by the Lokos."

Peturabo's anxiety froze on his face. Another thought bloomed in his mind, and he suddenly understood why Mors remained seated motionlessly.

Despite this, Peturabo's calmness did not return.

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

"Look at these people," Mors said persuasively. "Look at their armor, the sharp points on their round helmets, the floral-like nose guards, the beautiful combination of chainmail and plate armor, and the unusually advanced energy source for their shields. What do you see in them? I see the blazing fires of countless artisan furnaces, developed mining and forging industries, and the agriculture and animal husbandry industries that support their army. Axos will be a well-functioning machine, and like Lokos, it welcomes you."

At this point, Mors tugged at the corner of his mouth upwards, his words laced with sarcasm: "No, they welcome you more than Lokos does, because Lokos seems to have gone from welcoming you to welcoming me."

The Axos people's invitation continued: "Boy! Your bravery in slaying beasts will shine brightly in Axos! You will be the most outstanding warrior! Hexapolis above, you will be the lord of myriad armies!"

Mors reached out and grasped at the air. Unknown elements began to condense, and gradually, a finely crafted longsword appeared out of nowhere in his hand. The blade was so sharp it made one doubt if even a child could easily cut through boulders; simple yet aesthetically pleasing filigree decorations adorned the steel blade, forming a set of mysterious inscriptions.

He hadn't fashioned a hilt for the steel sword, so this weapon suspended in the air was not yet usable.

"I haven't decided what to engrave on the hilt yet," Mors said. "Peturabo gifted to Lokos, or Peturabo of Axos?"

The Axos people erupted in a second wave of cheers, and Peturabo's breathing became extremely rapid, as if the oxygen around his body was no longer sufficient to fuel his thoughts.

He turned his head to look directly at the two sides fighting, and then he heard Mityad—a man whose right hand was bleeding profusely, who had discarded his shield and was fighting with his left hand wielding a spear—let out a determined shout from his throat: "My lords! Although Lokos is not skilled in violence and war, we will never retreat before a fight!"

Peturabo listened blankly, taking a step forward.

No one knew what kind of upheaval the words of both sides caused in his heart. The dawn light, which gradually brightened as time passed, dispelled the shadows on his face.

He suddenly twisted his entire body with force, the veins on his neck bulging.

"You cold-blooded fellow! The Axos people steal the cattle and iron from farmers and artisans to build their armies. They will only throw my abilities into war, that's what I see! I don't need the welcome of Axos!"

Peturabo growled, but not to accuse Mors; he didn't have the leisure for that. He continued, "Did you just say this sword was to be gifted to me?"

"It will be yours," Mors said, raising the blade, letting it float before Peturabo.

"A gift without a price, right?"

Before receiving Mors's answer, Peturabo directly reached out and grasped the sharp blade. His blood instantly flowed over the blade, embedding itself into every镂空 inscription.

The next moment, he charged into the fray with the sharp blade, his astonishing skill and the impossibly sharp weapon piercing every design flaw in the Axos armor.

From his fighting stance, Mors could simultaneously capture the killing techniques honed and passed down by both the Axos and Lokos people. Despite his distracted state, Peturabo had quickly observed and learned the practical combat skills he had prepared for, transforming this ability into practical experience on the spot.

Mors's sharp eyes noticed the gaps in the armor that Peturabo pierced, which were the same ones Mityad of Lokos had exploited during their earlier fight.

"I am not a madman consumed by war!" the boy declared to everyone on the field with his fighting and his words. "Don't think of exploiting my combat talent. I am a craftsman who builds cities, and my construction will begin with Lokos!"

Mors watched for a moment, then stood up.

As Peturabo had said, he "twitched his fingers."

More hidden Axos ambushers around them and Axos archers above simultaneously clutched their throats, arterial blood spraying from between their fingers and spilling onto the parched earth.

He walked towards Peturabo, who had already killed enemies alongside the Lokos. The boy fell in his direction, and Mors caught him, using psychic energy to heal the deep wounds on his back and palms.

"If you're a craftsman, you should protect your hands," he said gently. "I don't recall threatening you to grab a blade with your bare hands."

Peturabo looked at him wearily and let out a soft hum.

There were three Lokos left alive, including Mityad and two other warriors. They supported each other and knelt on one knee before Peturabo.

"Thank you, Lord Peturabo!" they said in unison, their voices filled with discernible respect, even though they clearly all now believed Peturabo to be just a mortal boy.

Peturabo regained a little strength, stood up straight again, and slowly let his syllables drift clearly into the air.

"Get up, and take us to Lokos."

The distant spires of the Lokos city-state were glinting gold from the rising sun, and Peturabo didn't want to wait any longer.