Chapter 15 The Trial of Metal
"I thought we were invited here to imprison a beast with the art of architecture. However, this labyrinth imprisoned not only the heretic beast, but also ourselves who were betrayed. We walked through countless intertwined corridors, avoiding the creature with the head of a bull and the body of a human; this dazzling secret world was like the winding river network of Fuligiana, passing downstream and backward, and we walked back to the source. Is this what we deserve, is this what you deserve?"
"My son, our labyrinth takes the lives of innocent people every year, and our art has achieved the power and might of tyrants. Although this is not what I want, it is true."
"Are we going to be unable to escape forever and accept all the tortures bestowed on us by the gods?"
Damecus held the newly written scroll in both hands. The ink on it was not dry yet, and the wet black ink could still reflect the light falling from the ceiling.
When he was reading intently, the paper carrying the story was casually pulled away by a hand wrapped in black cloth.
Morse rolled up the scroll, as if it was some worthless waste. Damex could not help but feel angry. As one of the twelve tyrants of Olympia for many years, he had hardly experienced such blatant disobedience.
However, when he looked up and saw that the mysterious black-clad craftsman was too lazy to even look at him, he immediately let go of his anger and gradually expanded his respect.
In contrast to disobedience, Morse's amazing and even terrifying ability was the same.
Damex could not understand where this man named Morse got his supreme talent and extraordinary ability.
Although he had to fulfill his duties as a ruler and deal with the priests and priests in a friendly manner, he knew in his heart that whether it was the legend of the "Black Judgment Day" that had been circulating in Olympia for a long time, or the existence of gods in the sky, they were just a set of unrealistic words made up by the fools to seek peace of mind.
But Damex could not find a second explanation other than the blessing of the gods to justify the existence of Morse and Perturabo.
——When the court officials met Perturabo face to face that day, did anyone pay any attention to the craftsman Morse who should not be ignored?
Whenever he recalled this, Damex felt dreadful.
He cleared his throat in a disguised way, clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and put his weight on the small wooden table in front of him.
"Morse," he asked respectfully, "this story is exquisitely written, the plot is tortuous, it has both fantasy and warning implications. I wonder why you want to destroy it? Isn't this still a work you are satisfied with?"
Morse leaned half of his body against the carved wooden railing on the second floor of the hall, still in black, like a shadow in the sun.
He stared intently at the wide platform below the stage, and in his hand, the paper with the story was crackling in the blue flame.
Hearing this, he replied: "Satisfied? It's just a casual story. I'd rather see how Perturabo performs next and what achievements he can make today. I'm also curious.
Damex was still unwilling to give up. The story was just at the peak. If it stopped abruptly, he would probably think about the story of the craftsman father and son over and over again in his mind for the next week, guessing thousands of times.
"So, can you tell me how the father and son in the story ended?" Damex said, lifting his slightly fat middle-aged body from the comfortable soft chair and walking to the side of the wooden railing with his hands behind his back.
"Death, people always die. At least that's the case in the story. "Morse said a few simple words, and then stopped paying attention to Dammex.
It was obvious that he had been concentrating on writing the story for a long time while waiting, but now it seemed that it could not occupy any more space in his heart.
Damex could not help but feel lost for a moment, and then he spit on his delusion.
He thought that the artist intended to write a story for him, but now it was proved that he was too self-righteous.
He also looked at the center of the first floor of the theater.
On the side of the marble round platform, a boy was calmly waiting for the test he was about to face. Even though there were thousands of eyes staring at him, his demeanor and composure were still extraordinary beyond his age.
Perturabo's power and knowledge were not beyond the behavior of ordinary people. Compared with Morse, who was full of extraordinary features, he was probably a mortal child.
Damex had thought several times that since he was a mortal, why couldn't his offspring be as extraordinary as this boy.
As the magnificent music played on all sides of the round platform, a movable cast iron platform was lifted into the round platform by eight strong young soldiers.
Another newly appeared bald priest guided the soldiers in an orderly manner, making people wonder whether the priest who lost his manners in front of the temple yesterday was safe and sound.
Perturabo slightly turned sideways and looked at the tool he was about to take over. Damex could not see his expression from the high second floor, but Morse on the side put his thumb on his chin and said lightly: "He is confident. "
The king nodded. Below him, the cylinder of the casting platform radiated a large amount of light and heat. The temperature in the furnace was even higher than yesterday, enough to make any ordinary person retreat.
When the bellows and anvils were deployed one after another, the charcoal burned brightly, and the smoke rose upwards, turning into gray clouds lingering in the sky. Perturabo walked firmly towards the center of the circular platform where he would work.
He looked at the dark yellow wooden stakes used to pad the anvils, and the gun-iron-colored tools shining with metallic luster. He didn't know what kind of feelings arose in his heart, and his movements were somewhat gentle.
Perturabo reached out to the silver steel bucket filled with iron blocks, took out the material he liked without hesitation, placed it on the anvil, and let the hammer and fire give it life.
The forging began.
The boy tried to send the iron block to the blazing fire with his bare hands, and he quickly regained his sanity, took the tongs and invisible thick gloves offered by the ceremonial officer beside him, and no longer forced his fragile hands.
This small action caused Morse's eyes to flash with a smile.
After being almost injured by the flames, Perturabo was still not afraid of the flames. He skillfully used fire and steel, as if he was born to coexist with these craftsmen.
The steel burned red in the high temperature, the center was as bright as the golden core of a star, and the edges fell pieces of cooled charred debris.
He patiently turned the iron block over and over again, and the sweat and high temperature made his cloth robe wet, and the light of the melted metal flashed in the eyes of both the boy and Morse on the second-floor platform.
Morse spoke again, perhaps speaking to Dammek, perhaps to an illusion, or perhaps to no one.
He continued the story he had interrupted before, speaking to the father in the story in the tone of a son, and was never stingy in bringing more myths to this distant planet that had never been inspired.
"Father, I will not let us escape forever. Although our destination is uncertain, we should not linger on a lonely and distant island."
"Seabirds will give us feathers, tyrants will leave us beeswax, Apollo will guide our way, Hermes will bless our wings, and we will find freedom in the sky."
Morse's voice was very light, and each clear consonant was as gentle as the chirping of an oriole in early spring, as if it only needed to be louder and more straightforward to disturb a clear and transparent pool of mist.
Dammek was surprised that his breathing was so heavy and rough, so he deliberately softened it. He then remembered that Morse said that everyone in the story was dead, and soon he felt sad for some unknown reason.
Morse turned his head to look at Dammecus, and the tyrant immediately woke up and resumed his normal breathing rhythm. He awkwardly pretended to be calm.