Chapter 15 The Trial of Metal
“I thought we were invited to imprison a beast with the art of architecture. However, this labyrinth not only imprisons heretical beasts, but also those who suffered betrayal. Ourselves. We walked through countless criss-crossing passages, escaping from things with heads and bodies; this dazzling secret is like the circuitous network of the self-interested river, passing through the downstream, passing through the reverse, we go back to the source. Do we deserve this? Do you deserve this?”
“My son, our labyrinths claim the lives of innocent people every year, and our art enables the power and power of tyrants. Power, although this is not what I want, it is true.”
“Are we forever unable to escape and accept all the hardships the gods give us?”
Dami. Kes held the newly written scroll in his hands. The ink on it was not dry yet, and the moist black ink could still reflect the bits of light falling from the ceiling.
When he was immersed in reading, the paper carrying the story was casually pulled away by a hand wrapped in black cloth.
Morse balled up the scroll like it was some worthless waste. Damex could not help but feel angry. After serving as one of the Twelve Tyrants of Olympia for many years, he rarely experienced such blatant disobedience.
However, when he looked up and saw that the mysterious craftsman in black didn't even bother to look at him, he immediately put away his anger and let his respect gradually expand.
Equal to disobedience is Morse's astonishing and even frightening ability.
Damekes could not understand where this man named Morse received his supreme talent and where he obtained his extraordinary abilities.
Although he had to fulfill his duties as a ruler and deal with the priests and priests, he knew in his heart that whether it was the long-standing legend of "Black Judgment Day" in Olympia or the existence of the gods in the sky. It's just a set of words that are divorced from reality and concocted by ignorant people to seek peace of mind.
Damekes really could not find a second explanation other than the blessing of the gods to rationalize the existence of Morse and Perturabo.
——On that day when the courtiers and courtiers had a face-to-face meeting with Perturabo, did anyone pay the slightest attention to the craftsman Morse who was clearly not to be ignored?
Every time he recalled this incident, Damex felt afraid.
He cleared his throat covertly, wrung his hands together, leaned forward, and put his weight on the small wooden table in front of him.
"Morse," he asked respectfully, "this story has exquisite language and twists and turns. It is both fantasy and warning. I wonder why you want to destroy it? Isn't this still a story you are satisfied with?" Do you want to do it?”
Morse leaned against the carved wooden railing on the second floor of the hall, still in darkness, like a shadow in the sun.
He stared intently at the wide platform below the stage. In his hand, the paper with the story was crackling and burning in the blue flames.
Hearing this, he replied: "Satisfied? It's just a story written casually. It's better to see how Perturabo performs next. I'm also curious about what achievements he can make today."
Damekes is still not willing to give up. The story has reached its peak. If it ends abruptly, he may be thinking about the story of the craftsman and his son over and over again in his mind for the next week. Guessed thousands of times.
"So, can you tell me the ending of the father and son in the story?" 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 will always die. At least that's the story." Morse simply said a few words and no longer paid attention to Damex.
Obviously he had been writing the story for a long time while waiting, but at this time it seemed that he could not occupy any more space in his heart.
Damekes couldn't help but feel lost for a moment, and then immediately rejected his delusion.
He thought that the artist intended to write a story for him to read, but now it was proved that he thought too highly of himself.
He also looked towards the center of the first floor of the theater hall.
On the side of the marble round platform, a boy is calmly waiting for the trial he is about to face. Even though there are thousands of pairs of eyes in the audience staring intently, his demeanor and composure are still extraordinary beyond his years. Perturabo's strength and knowledge are not beyond the ranks of mortals. Compared with Morse, who is full of extraordinary characteristics, he is probably indeed a mortal child.
Damex had wondered several times why, being a mortal, his descendants could not be as extraordinary as this boy.
As the magnificent music played in all directions of the round platform, a movable cast iron platform was carried into the round platform by eight strong young soldiers.
Another new bald priest showed up to guide the soldiers in an orderly manner. People had to wonder whether the priest who lost his manners in front of the temple yesterday was safe and sound at this time.
Perturabo turned slightly sideways and looked at the tool he was about to take over. Damex couldn't see his expression clearly from the high second floor, but Morse on the side put his thumb on his chin and said briskly: "He is confident."
The king nodded, Below, the cylinder of the casting platform radiates a large amount of light and heat. The temperature in the furnace is even higher than yesterday, enough to make any ordinary person flinch.
When the bellows and anvils were deployed one after another, the charcoal burned brightly, and the smoke steamed upward, turning into a gray cloud that lingered in the high tower, Perturabo walked firmly towards the center of the round platform where he would work. .
He looked at the dark yellow wooden stakes used to line the anvils and the gun-iron-colored utensils with a metallic luster. He didn't know what kind of insights he had in his heart, and his movements were actually a little gentle.
Perturabo stretched out his hand towards the silver steel barrel filled with iron blocks, and without hesitation took out the material he liked, placed it on the anvil, and let the hammer and fire give it life.
Forging begins.
The boy interestingly tried to send the iron block that needed to be forged into the blazing fire with his bare hands. He quickly regained his senses and took the iron tongs and invisible thick gloves offered by the officer next to him. No longer forcing myself into the fragile hands of mortal flesh.
This small gesture caused Morse's eyes to flash with a smile.
After nearly being injured by the flames, Perturabo was still not afraid of fire. He used fire and steel skillfully, as if he was born to coexist with these craftsmen's companions.
The steel burned red at high temperatures, and the center was as bright as the golden core of a star, while pieces of charred black debris fell from the edges as they cooled.
He patiently turned the iron over and over again, sweat and high temperature making his cloth robe damp, and the bright light of the molten metal flashed in the eyes of the boy and Morse on the second-floor high platform at the same time.
Morse spoke again, perhaps to Damex, perhaps to a phantom, perhaps to no one.
He continued the story he had cut off earlier, speaking in the voice of a son to the father in the story, and was not shy about letting more myths come to this distant planet that had not been inspired.
"Father, I will not let us never escape. Although our destination is uncertain, we should not linger on a lonely and distant island."
"Seabirds will give us feathers, tyrants will leave us wax, Apollo will guide our way forward, Hermes will bless our wings, and high in the sky we will find freedom."
Morse's voice is very soft, and each unvoiced consonant is as graceful as the cry of a warbler in early spring. It seems that just being a little louder and more straightforward is enough to disturb the clear and translucent mist of the pond.
Damekes was surprised to find that his breathing was so rough and rough, so he deliberately relaxed it. He then thought that Morse had said that everyone in the story was dead, and soon he felt sad for some reason.
Mors turned his head and glanced at Damex, and the tyrant immediately woke up and resumed his normal breathing rhythm. He pretended to be calm in embarrassment.
(End of this chapter)