Chapter 17 The Trial of Steel (5k)

No one understands Perturabo's mind, Damex thought.

After Perturabo made a confusing move, Damex, as a king, immediately observed his ministers out of habit: he could not help but worry whether his authority would be damaged by Perturabo's disappointment.

He saw the priest raised his head high, kneeling, looking up at Perturabo as if his neck was almost broken, with a panicked look, muttering, and his lips and tongue trembling.

He saw the soldier's lips parted under the upper half of his face covered by armor, and the breath of surprise was sucked into the body protected by the iron helmet.

He saw the courtiers either pulling at the sleeves of their robes, or their bodies tense like caught fish, some bowed their heads to avoid things, and some looked up at him.

Finally, he looked at the center of the crowd. In the center of the crowd that formed a circle, the envoys of other countries maintained their hypocritical etiquette, standing straight, with an elegant and steady look.

No one questioned Perturabo's offense and abrupt behavior, so Damex forgave himself for his brief panic.

Then he found that the pauses Perturabo gave in his speech were intended to give others time to exchange surprised glances.

Damex felt a sense of emotion in his heart: this may be the talent of the son of the omnipotent.

If his biological son, the ambitious Harkon, the child who would succeed him, had such a natural ability; or if his second son, the weak Andos, a craftsman obsessed with art, had such courage, how lucky would Lochos be?

How could other tyrant countries break the solid walls of Lochos that had not been broken for six hundred years?

Although he himself did not mind war, he also knew that peace was what the public wanted.

As for Calliphon, his only daughter. Although she had rare common sense of leadership, the Olympians would not allow women to become tyrants, at least not in Lochos.

"I forged a blade," Perturabo said.

When the truth came out of the boy's mouth, it took on a decisive divinity. He had only to stand there, the forge fire burning behind him, to become part of the ancient myth of Olympia.

"I gave shape to steel, and made metals bend to me. I listened to the song of gold and iron, and made things find their place under my hands, and made the blades come into the world. This is what a craftsman taught me, and I put it into practice today; and I succeeded."

Morse listened quietly, his pale face half covered by his messy black hair. When Perturabo mentioned him, his eyelids closed and raised, and he blinked.

Perturabo's voice gradually deepened: "I came here today to prove that I am who you think I am. And from each of your eyes, I see that you have given me a proof."

"Although you don't speak, I hear everyone saying that I am a descendant of the gods, a boy who walked from the top of your mountains, and I am not an ordinary person."

Mount Telephus, Damex thought, he was talking about Mount Telephus, which is covered with ice and snow all year round and has a peak that no one can reach.

For so many years, the Olympians have been obsessed with conquering each other, occupying other people's land, seizing, and defeating, but no one has ever conquered Mount Telephus.

That is no longer the realm of mortals.

"But!" Perturabo raised his voice suddenly, and his voice hit Damex's heart hard.

"What did I prove this rumor with? A hammer, a furnace, a bellows? A blade that any craftsman could make if he kept improving? Is this the evidence I brought? Is this all you want?"

He looked around, his serious face showing some unbridled sarcasm, which, if anyone had talked to Morse, would have found that this sarcasm was exactly the same as Morse's expression.

"My body, my strength, my knowledge, my memory, are all beyond the reach of mortals." Perturabo said coldly. "I am now a mortal, just like everyone else here, with two arms, two eyes, a... a heart."

"And now you tell me that I use what mortals can do to prove that I am not a mortal. Think about it again, everyone, is this what you think?"

He let the words float lightly in the hall.

The priest raised his head higher, and Perturabo noticed him, so the boy looked at the priest, cold and determined, and any sentient being could feel deep mockery and powerful disappointment in it.

"Is this how you prove that gods are gods? Tell me, priest, is this how you steal the work of mortals as evidence of the existence of gods?"

Then he raised his head again.

"You proved your beliefs, and I proved my ideas," Perturabo said. "That your gods are indeed made of fictional imagination."

Damex grabbed the wooden railing with both hands eagerly, even forgetting that he still had a golden scepter in his hands.

Perturabo's performance allowed the boy to use the stage he built to step on the heads of all the Lokos people, which made Damex eager to defend his subjects.

The tyrant must defend his subjects, otherwise he will lose face from today.

Then, the golden staff that was about to fall from Damecus' palm suddenly floated strangely, and a layer of frost climbed onto the grapes placed on the low table near the tyrant's seat, coating the surface of the fruit with a delicate and beautiful frost.

Morse let the staff fly back to his palm, playing with it boredly, stroking the golden bird carved on the top of the staff with his fingertips.

He whispered, "Look, my father! How warm the sun is, and how clear the water is." Icarus sang, hovering at a height that he has never reached in this life, enjoying a freedom that has never been seen in ancient and modern times. He will Everything on the earth can be seen at a glance, and sometimes I think that the sun wheel frame of Helios is at hand. "

Damex had no time to analyze Morse's work, even though his wisdom was telling him that what Morse said was the condensation and artistry of what was happening at the moment.

He had to concentrate on dealing with Perturabo, who was looking into his eyes.

"Perturabo," Damex said, trying to maintain his dignity and dignity.

He said affectionately: "Faith will only come into contact with you when you are inspired in your heart. The gods do not force the respect and love of their subjects."

"If you think so."

Damex felt the weight of the iron crown on his head and drew strength from it: "Everyone here has witnessed your talent, and gifted talents deserve some proud privileges. Any wise monarch should do this, isn't it? ?"

"No matter what, Lokos will always keep the door open for you and Artisan Morse. Although you were extremely determined when you threw the blade into the furnace, I still want to get your answer as to why you destroyed your work, Pettu Rab?"

He quietly changed the subject.

Perturabo glanced back at the stove, then looked around the hall, from the electric lamps decorated like candles on the ceiling, to the steaming automatic gears around them, to the shields held by the soldiers under the tall stone pillars, and the the armor, and the clothes and ornaments of the courtiers.

Then he spoke: "You are a rational person and a tyrant, so I want to communicate with you."

Damex didn't know whether to be happy about this.

The boy said: "There are many things I don't know. I want to know where the power for the electric light comes from, and whether there is a better design for the steel machinery. I need to learn. Of course, I am not a rude person."

"Morse told me that one gain is for one effort, and the price should be given by both parties." The boy's expression was a little subtle when he said these words, "I will learn everything I can in Lokos, but I also My labor will be paid for.”

"Will you forge more weapons?"

"No, this is not my talent. That's why I burned the blade. I have no intention of making weapons for anyone. I am a craftsman, waterwheel, wooden plow, road, stone mill, sculpture, painting, etc. Ritual vessels, bronze statues...this is what I will leave behind in Lokos.”

At this point, the boy paused. "If I had known how to forge the sickle and the plow, I would have reforged the blade into a tool in the hands of the people. But I do not."

"What about war?" Damex asked cautiously, "Child, war is necessary. The peace of the country of Lokos will not purify the soil of other countries that desire violence like the rain on the snowy mountains."

The boy's indifference was even worse, "Fortresses, walls, machinery, weapons. I don't like this, but I'm not necessarily good at it."

Damex was about to speak again to comfort Perturabo with good words, when he heard the priest in the audience tremblingly move his limp tongue: "Lord Perturabo, if you were a mortal, then your Where did you learn the knowledge of blacksmithing? Was it taught to you by Lord Morse? "

"Maybe Lord Morse is the apostle of God. God sent him to be your mentor. He just didn't tell you."

Damex suddenly felt a burst of anger. He was suffering from the fact that the golden scepter was being manipulated by Morse. He was unable to hit the ground for a moment, so he had to slap the wooden fence with his palm: "Priest Phaedra, stop your provocation! In Lokos Don’t you realize that your behavior is extremely ridiculous by making unreasonable remarks in front of the invited guests?”

He shouldn't have listened to the religion today. He was blinded by Phaedra's obedience and invited this group of obstructive religious liars here to maintain what kind of tradition!

Perturabo immediately glanced at Morse, who tapped his lower lip with his fingers and looked down calmly, not only indifferent, but also unwilling to pretend to be an encouragement.

That was all he gave that wasn't an answer, and Damex began to guess at some conflict between the two - he couldn't guess. Or is this the way craftsmen get along with craftsmen?

Perturabo looked away and stepped forward, and for a moment Damex thought the boy was about to lift his leg and kick the priest.

Thinking of the consequences of doing this, Damex was worried at first, and then found that he was actually looking forward to it.

In this way, he had a reason to have a small friction with the priests of the cult who always spread panic prophecies, and in turn became closer to the Nine Wise Men of Pelecontia.

Perturabo did not do that.

"If you always cling pathetically to the tragic mythical sacrifice in your mind and want to rigidly install a divine cause on everything in the world, then reason cannot save you - you can't be let go by someone who is in your mind. What doesn’t exist in the heart saves.”

Perturabo said, stepping past the priest, not wanting to waste any more words.

His focus was more on Morse.

Morse's silence has a more real weight in this moment. His eyes and waiting have become an entity that cannot be ignored, and his attitude no longer needs words to describe.

Language itself is a ruler constructed by humans to quantify the world, a converted module.

Perturabo gritted his teeth and gave up any more hesitation.

"Morse is an excellent craftsman. I have never seen his complete works in reality, but his skills undoubtedly surpass the sum of Olympia's achievements. What I have seen so far is enough for me to make such an evaluation."

"He taught me forging, taught me how to live, and changed me, but there is really no redundant relationship between the two of us. We just often appear in one place, and he is about to leave at any time, not because of the guidance of the gods, but because of his own will."

He paused and continued: "I will never deny his help to me, nor will I recognize him as a mentor against his will. I have the right to respect him in this way, but what makes you guess about him and degrade him to a messenger of God?"

Damex quickly made his voice drown out the possible discussions of others.

"Perturabo," the tyrant said, "you have proven yourself, both in talent and ability. The city and fortress of Lochos will wait for your design, and craftsmen and scholars will gather in front of you. Whether it is knowledge, bricks and stones, or worldly honors and flowers, as long as you want, as long as you can bring glory to Lochos."

"What about Morse?" Perturabo asked.

"How should we treat your relationship with the craftsman Morse, Perturabo?"

In Perturabo's eyes, Damekos saw some echoing emptiness, some trivial tremors, some low and dull colors, and some vague pain; these emotions were not separate, but like a ball of solidified molten iron, unified into a gray shadow. He felt emotions, not relying on reason, but relying on common feelings-this reminded Damekos of his own father, and he quickly forgot him again.

"He has nothing to do with me, Tyrant. Although I have expectations of him," another pause, "and dependence."

The next second, Morse suddenly appeared in the center of the circus.

No one saw how he suddenly changed his form in the spotlight, he just flashed there, as if he had been standing there for a long time.

"Perturabo is my apprentice." Morse announced arrogantly, holding the boy's shoulder with one hand, "and I am a craftsman."

His behavior can be described as severe and rough, and he lacks the inquiry of others' opinions, but Perturabo happily accepted Morse and let the black-clad craftsman trap him with his arms, as if he had been waiting for a long time.

Morse lowered his head slightly: "Do you want to stay here, Perturabo?"

"Yes." The boy said.

Morse smiled, "Tyrant, you heard it."

Damex cheered up, suppressed the panic in the face of the accident, and immediately handled various affairs in an orderly manner.

He ordered his soldier Patroclus to prepare to take away the annoying priests, announced the new decisions to the courtiers one by one, consolidated his authority with hearty laughter and occasional gloom, and gritted his teeth to withstand Morse's half-smiled gaze, thinking about how to deal with the multi-national wise alliance in Olympia in the future...

These things took up a lot of his thoughts. Although he was still in his prime, he was not young at all. His mood was up and down today, which was really tiring.

Until everyone left, the lights dimmed, Morse and Perturabo left together - Perturabo actually kicked the priest when he left, and Damex relaxed and lay down on his soft couch, feeling relaxed and breathing the sweet air in the empty palace, sighing and feeling sad about the mental fatigue of the past two days.

Then he saw a soft piece of paper under the carved fruit plate filled with grapes still dripping with crystal ice water on the low table next to the soft couch.

It should be noted that he only temporarily found the term that best fits the characteristics of this "note" from the knowledge base to interpret it according to the function of this "note".

This thin, pure white thing with no gaps, extremely smooth and light, beyond people's imagination, wrote the ending of the story told by Morse.

While reading, Damex tasted the fruit of sufficient and rich surprise from the bottom of his heart. When he finished reading the story, the juice of this full fruit slowly brought a trace of wonderful sweetness.

He imagined the most common tragic endings in all the dramas on the planet Olympia, savoring the artistic beauty of disaster from the flaws, and inferring the end of the two from the clues in the previous text, but not even once did he expect to see a perfect story from Morse's pen.

"I am about to touch the sun, and my wings are burning with fire. However, I am about to touch the sun, and I have no more wishes. Are you going to abandon me? Then say goodbye, my father, this is not the first time you have left me. Father, I am about to fall into the sea!"

"Don't panic, my son, there is an isolated island ahead, and my wings still allow us to land here. Rest on the isolated island, I will name it Ikaria, and your name will be a symbol of the land of craftsmanship."

"From then on, craftsmen enjoyed paradise. Although they were far away from the world and lived on isolated islands for a long time, hunting, building, and planting on the islands; but their works transcended the scale of mortals, making the stone sculptures made by human hands enter eternity like myths."

"When people describe the works of craftsmen Daedalus and Ikaros, they often say that they are the origin of artists who give souls to creations."

"When the masters carved stone statues in the past, the statues could only close their eyes, let their hands hang down, and sleep limply; until the two touched the stone chisel for the first time, the statues opened their gilded eyes, stretched their hands far forward, and stepped forward, as if they were eager to embrace the world."

Finally, at the end of the note, a line of small words was written in fine strokes.

"I didn't create this story. I just let it return to the world."

Thanks to the wallpaper maker orz