Chapter 2 A Chance

The wind descended over the cliff, and in the center of the land surrounded by trees, the roof of a three-story house made of stones and wooden boards, green buds grown from seeds brought by wild birds, trembled with the breeze.

The house is built with tightly bonded sand and slate, using local clay mixed with plant sap as a strong and effective glue to fill the gaps. It looks almost like a complete whole, with only the windows being hollowed out with squares of material.

Some random scenes are painted on the exterior walls with pigments made from grinding local stones and plants; a small hand-carved stone lion statue stands at the door, as well as various unfinished carvings of leopards, griffins and wild boars scattered around. There are some pointed awls, stone hammers and measuring rulers placed on the low stool.

The owner of the house didn't seem to have the patience to complete a complete handicraft, and that was where the boy's complaints came from, currently standing in front of the door with his arms folded over his chest.

"Why don't you finish them?" said Perturabo sarcastically.

Morse came out of the house after a while, carrying a handmade wicker chair. He gently dragged the wicker chair into the sunshine and breeze, and then tipped it over. His messy black hair spread out into the shape of algae.

"When you analyze with me from the outside to the inside, why you have to follow me home, I will tell you." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sunshine.

Mors values ​​fairness. If Perturabo cannot come up with enough words to exchange, he will not have the patience to explain to the child.

Perturabo shut up again.

This was the type that Morse found most troublesome. He hated coddling children and conforming to their tempers.

Perturabo was walking, the dry earth touching his bare feet, and the sand scraping against the grass seeds in the cracks of the rocks. The sound of his breath rubbing against the fabric was slightly distant. Mors raised his eyelids a little, and sure enough, the child stood upright next to the finished stone statue of Perseus that he had made before.

Perturabo is a unique boy.

Objectively speaking, he has a young appearance, with smooth skin, well-coordinated limbs, and a face that is more solemn and angular than handsome.

But he looks like more than just a boy. His aura, demeanor, and demeanor often imply that his mental age has exceeded his appearance, and he has innate wisdom that transcends physical limitations. Morse won't deny his length.

But he still calls him boy.

Thinking of this, Morse smiled.

Because Perturabo's mental growth is quite consistent with his appearance, even a bit childish.

I don’t know why the craftsman who created this humanoid creature wanted to create such an inconvenient tool: it was so troublesome that even if the tool did not belong to him, it was enough to make him empathize deeply.

"What do you think of my stone statue?" Morse asked.

"Answer my question first." Petula put his knowledge to use.

Morse opened his eyes completely, put his hands behind his head, and let gravity drive the natural rocking of the wicker chair.

"Isn't this something that can be learned?" he commented nonchalantly, "a requirement for a price, a payment for a trade and a gain. I don't complete them because I have a lazy temperament and lack of interest in animal stone carvings. It's your turn."

Perturabo's throat felt as if it was blocked by a stone and it was difficult to speak. His gaze briefly crossed the sky and then deliberately avoided it, and then he said: "I don't know."

Morse gave a short laugh. When Perturabo thought he would have no further reaction, Mors suddenly stood up, and the groan of the branches of the cane chair was as sharp and harsh as teeth biting bones, accompanied by a foreboding of brokenness and danger.

With a stern look on his face, he stepped within ten inches of Perturabo in two steps. He could see panic starting to appear in the boy's confident eyes. He glanced at a non-existent area in the sky for the second time. His tense cheeks were trembling, and his whole body was stiff from his spine down. His soles stepped into the soil tenaciously, suppressing the instinct to retreat. .

Morse stretched out his hand to hold the boy's head, feeling the stubble as hard as sawdust under his hands. All of Perturabo's trembling stopped, but the stiffness became more obvious, like a piece of iron stone that had been suddenly cooled during the forging process, settling into a strange shape.

Who built this amazing instrument? He is so similar to humans, yet he strives to show his differences in every aspect.

He began to recall a list of friends who were capable of such artistic creations.

Surika? Joe? Wren? Orpeson?

he does not know.

Countless time had passed since the last time he had contacted any of them.

Using some innocuous psychic energy, Morse turned Perturabo's head towards where the statue of Perseus was.

He was in control of the boy's head, and the boy was in control of his body.

"Look," he whispered, raising his left hand and pointing the hand wrapped in black cloth at the statue.

"In order to recreate this ancient work of art, I didn't use concrete. Fortunately, I found marble, clay, wood, I also got gold and sometimes iron. I didn't get ivory, the planet There are no such beautiful creatures in the world, so I have nowhere to show my cruelty.”

"Do you know his story?" Morse asked, adding: "This is an additional question. Even if you don't exchange information, I will give you the answer."

"I know." Perturabo replied quickly, he only dared to win the game here. "Perseus was instructed by Athena to take the head of the banshee Medusa."

Perturabo looked at the wings on Perseus' helmet and the blade held tightly in his hand, as if they were comparing themselves to something. Gradually, he began to have to hide his surprise.

Morse looked at the statue. He spent some time carving it, recreating it completely from time.

On this planet that has regressed too much due to the loss of culture, there are not many entertainment activities he can enjoy.

"Continue." He softened his voice.

Perturabo was encouraged, and the corner of his eyes swept across the sky for the third time. His breathing would be disordered for a moment.

Morse noticed this.

"The art of the same period as this statue did not form a unified style. Artists would compete to express their own characteristics, such as strengthening the decoration of details, emphasizing imagination and novelty, paying attention to the depiction of the human body, and the layout would play the role of perspective skills, sometimes beyond common sense and contrary to reason," this word made him unconsciously exhale contemptuously, "the beauty of form and the reserved and arrogant characteristics are uncomfortable."

He hid his dissatisfaction with Morse in his hostility to the artistic style of the statue.

Morse affirmed approvingly, "You know a lot, good boy." He rubbed the boy's head, then let go of Perturabo, who seemed to be still immersed in the praise he suddenly received and couldn't extricate himself.

And he had already obtained a lot of information, such as the person who instilled the memory module into this tool was born at least 30,000 years ago, and there is no upper limit.

Who could it be?

Morse picked up a sharp cone, stepped back two steps, looked at the Mannerist sculpture that embodied the strength and external beauty of the human body, and then suddenly raised his hand and quickly raised the cone. Swiftly and accurately, there was a loud bang and the sound of stones falling to the ground, and the statue's left hand holding the skull was broken on the spot.

Behind him came the sound of the boy inhaling, the fabric vibrating, and the heels rubbing against the ground. Morse confirmed that Perturabo took a step back.

He raised the sharp cone again, and the second break occurred in the statue's right hand. The stone blade shattered under the iron, first cracks, then gravel, and finally dust.

"I don't like his story." Morse said loudly. "Get God's guidance and kill a monster."

The spike cut across the hero's face, piercing a crack from the corresponding part of the upper jaw on one side, the marble cracked, and the hero lost his appearance. Destruction is much easier than creation, but the excitement it brings is no less than the joy of creating things.

Morse rarely takes the initiative to enjoy excitement, and he has no interest in attracting unnecessary attention and crisis.

"Do you like this story?" he asked. "Relying on some God-given knowledge that comes from nowhere, relying on pride without source, to overcome something you fear?"

He turned around and threw the spike to Perturabo. The boy's limbs can catch the tool without even a brain reaction, and for the first time, a trace of empty pain appeared in the boy's eyes.

Morse looked at the sky, which was clear, clean, and filled with the clarity unique to primitive non-industrial planets.

He couldn't see what Perturabo feared, but he had some guesses.

"You don't like this story." He bit each syllable, chewed them, and spit them out with a rhythmic voice, "Because you can't even overcome your fear. Tell me what it is, Perturabo, this is your only chance. I will only ask this once."

Morse grinned. "Otherwise I'll take a nap."