They were dressed in rags, thin as skeletons. Some had even lost hands or feet, and their eyes were filled with the terror war had left behind.
From these refugees, Perturabo learned of the horrors beyond the village. He heard of the warlord Damekos's tyranny, of cold-blooded meat-grinder battles that fed thousands of mortals into trenches over a handful of iron mines, and of craftsmen driven like slaves until they dropped dead beside their forges.
Night fell, and a warm bonfire burned in the square of Creek Valley Village. With their bellies full, the refugees finally drifted into deep sleep.
Perturabo sat alone beside the workshop furnace, turning an unfinished wooden carving in his hands. His eyes, usually bright with confidence, were now filled with confusion and pain. He could save one village, but his superhuman mind had calculated the truth with absolute clarity: unless Olympia's order changed at its foundations, this suffering would never end.
"Can't sleep?"
Liu Zhipeng approached with two cups of hot tea and handed one to the troubled giant.
"Father." Perturabo accepted the cup, his voice a little hoarse. "I listened to their stories. The people out there are living in hell."
He turned to Liu Zhipeng. "I don't understand. Why do they use their brilliant minds to make weapons of slaughter? Why do they exploit their own kind for the vanity of power? What must I do so that everyone on this planet can be as happy as the people of Creek Valley Village?"
Liu Zhipeng took a sip of tea, letting the bitter liquid flow down his throat. He offered no long-winded lecture like a politician or philosopher. He simply watched the sparks dancing in the furnace.
"That is a very big, very heavy question, Perturabo," Liu Zhipeng said softly.
"I can build