Chapter 32 Reminiscence (the Reason for the Update Is in the Comments)

Morse realized that there were two things he could not carve, one was due to his own hesitation, and the other was limited by the upper limit of his skills.

The flaming sword had fallen into the palm of the statue. For safety reasons, the runes on it were replaced by another beautiful ancient language, so as to prevent the heat waves from the blazing fire from lifting the soft and crystal curtain between the reality of Olympia and the highest sky.

The illusory firelight was temporarily forged by the craftsman's spiritual power. Mortals could only see the exquisite stone patterns that could be captured by the naked eye. Only those with extra spirits could experience the trembling of the soul from the harmonious connection between shadows and energy, as if fire was burning from filth, leaving only a piece of cold and clean imitation of the golden color.

However, apart from this carefully carved long sword, there were two remaining defects that caused a great lack of the overall sculpture, which made people want to urge the author to complete it as soon as possible, but also doubted whether the author was really capable of completing it.

This statue has no left hand or face. The left hand is the hand holding the holy object, and the face is the face of the saint.

Morse gently pressed the side of his eyes to relieve the psychological pressure brought by the carving process.

He has spent countless hours on this carving, and the excessive investment is enough to make an eternal person fall into worry and reflection.

In the end, he has never figured out how he decided to carve the statue of that person. He attributed it to the inspiration of the unknown and the momentary mental oversight.

He sighed and looked out the window.

Night has come again, and the hustle and bustle of the streets has returned to their respective families with most of the industrial and commercial practitioners, leaving only the lights of the evening shift and the occasional whispering wind that breaks the silence, coming from a very far place, passing through people's ears, and falling to a very far place again. 【6】【9】【s】【h】【u】【x】【.】【c】【o】【m】

Morse put down the work he had added to himself and came to the window. Through the diamond-shaped window, he saw the lights on the ground gradually dimming. First, the Stratoiti Plain below the plateau where Locus was located in the distance fell into a pure deep sleep, and then the families in the city slowly fell into a drowsy state.

He was now in this city of people, but he was not always here.

Occasionally he would think of his house in the woods, where every sound from people would die, and then the natural and eternal life played the cradle music, and the subtle rustling sound formed a sleep-lulling music.

His spiritual power lit up his own light, where he read all the stories, pictures, and statues he had recorded, and placed a part of his spirit in the older and more ancient nights, becoming a concrete embodiment of the deepest aspect of the value represented by his existence itself.

Then he thought of the child who fell from the cliff.

He knew at that time that the child would be extraordinary. With a feeling that he himself could not verify, he kept the child. So he knew that the child's name was Perturabo, and he himself got a brand new name, which was separated from the past but not absolutely separated.

He knew that his new name symbolized the legendary god who held the power of death in the old night Rome. This specialness was exactly consistent with his disgust for Rome itself. Perhaps this was a coincidence, and it was his past entanglement and response to the present.

From the brief moment when he happily accepted the new name, he accepted the reality that he was approaching the human world and a brand new life again.

Morse pulled the curtain that blocked the light and heard a low voice knocking on his door.

He paused and said: "Come on."

The boy pushed open the door and walked in, without hesitation: "Damex invited me to participate in the construction.

"Military industry?"

"Yes. "Perturabo said, looking uneasy, with restlessness entangled in his spirit.

Morse extended his hand to invite Perturabo to sit down, and he stood by the window, one hand stroking the wooden window frame. On the window frame was a repeating pattern practice carved by Perturabo.

"I won't stop you," Morse said, "if you make your choice."

Perturabo looked at him with stunned surprise in his ice-blue eyes, his lips pursed, and his two rows of teeth locked tightly together.

"I did agree." The boy clasped his hands together, "but I..."

Morse waited for him to think. Perturabo completed the process quickly.

"But I don't like to participate in the struggle." He said forcefully, "I don't want to provide weapons to the merits on their walls. ”

】

“I don’t like watching the weapons I made kill another person. I don’t want Olympia to think of me as a war merchant. I don’t want them to blame me for the bloodshed…”

Perturabo took a deep breath and vented all his disgust through the circulation of gas. The gloom left a mark between his eyebrows. “Their struggle is not for unity and development, but for the advancement of power in exchange for the regression of civilization.”

“Go on.”

Perturabo stared at Morse uneasily. Every word he blurted out was a reflection of his hesitation: “But unification requires war.”

Morse nodded: “Go on.”

Perturabo gritted his teeth hard, and the next words were no longer difficult. He relaxed his clasped hands with relief, as if the nightmare full of worries had finally let him go.

"I hope that Lokos will win the final victory, Mors. Lokos is something we can control, but other city-states cannot." He announced his plan arrogantly, "Damecus's ambition happened to meet Olympia. Right. There is a long history of resentment between city-states. Diplomacy is the first option, war is the second option, and surrender is not an option. If they are to succeed, they really need us."

Morse was noncommittal. "Have you thought it through?" he just asked. "Does talking to me about this make you feel better?"

"Yes," said Perturabo. He pursed his lips and said, "I want a city-state that belongs to me."

"You have changed a lot."

"Because the citizens chose me, you told me so." As he said this, the extremely astonishing long letter Morse wrote to him came to mind, so the corners of his mouth turned up or down. No, he was frozen there in a weird way.

Morse's fingers suddenly tightened, and together with his arms, a pungent heat coursed through his body. He heard his blood flowing, part of it rushing inside his body, and the other part spilling out of his once-broken skin like a phantom, intersecting with each other to form nameless shackles, almost comically following gravity in his consciousness. The command fell into the soil.

He lowered his eyes, and after half a second, the regular sarcastic smile returned to his face.

"Very good, you have learned to build a stage for yourself." He gently patted the palm of his left hand with the four fingers of his right hand. "I want to remind you in advance that I have no intention of directly joining any battle. Don't do it." Count on my help deep in the battlefield."

"I don't need that much help," Perturabo said.

He was confident that he would not get to that point, and he had done the math before coming and found that he could not afford to pay the price of admission in exchange for Morse.

“In what capacity are you going to join the struggle?”

"Considering my talents, I hope to be the commander-in-chief."

"Oh." Morse smiled and leaned against the window frame, "Our little young commander."

"Don't call me that - first I want to build a city, make swords and guns, and then when I grow taller, I will lead my army."

"Have you ever thought about the name and slogan of the army?"

"We don't need that falsehood."

"I suggest you think of one, Perturabo. When they take the oath before the battle and ask you to come on stage to give them a morale boost, you don't want to miss out on a high-spirited finish."

Perturabo imagined the scene in his mind, then nodded reluctantly. "I will think of a slogan, and the name will be whatever. It's not my army anyway."

"You can call them Aventine."

"What? What's the moral of that?"

"It sounds good." Morse shrugged, "It doesn't mean anything at all. Anyway, I'm going to continue studying my stone sculptures."

"If I name it that way, can you come and help me fight?"

"Are you sleepwalking?"

Perturabo wanted to roll his eyes.

Morse peered through the hazy cloth and peered into the light from the diamond window. "I guess you don't have the patience to watch the sunrise with me again."

"I'll leave now." The boy turned around and was about to leave, then added triumphantly: "This way Harkon will participate in the battle under my command."

Morse had to start thinking about where their relationship with Lokos would go after the death of the tyrant's eldest son.

The author's Seven Hundred Stones and Thirty Talisman has no five-star princess and the shipwreck, I hope everyone knows