Chapter 23 Arachne

Why did Morse reject me again?

A week ago, when Perturabo woke up from the ground and looked up at the back of Morse's chair, these words danced repeatedly in his heart, even covering the fatigue on his body.

He deliberately brushed the question from his heart, trying to preserve some precious pride for himself, but all the self-encouragement only wiped the sentence brighter and clearer.

Perturabo had to lift the thick white cloth that kept him warm and asked loudly: "Morse, why can't you teach me to win?"

Then he heard the answer, exactly the same as the one he had received before falling asleep.

"You have learned skills from the local masons of Lokos." Morse's voice came through the back of the chair.

That was all the answer he got.

Perturabo didn't know if his anger was too obvious, because in the next day, wherever he passed by, the people around him would immediately shut up and avoid his eyes, as if he could tear them apart alive. Like swallowing.

He angrily denigrates the cowardice of others in his heart. Is he such a rough and ruthless person, with such a sadistic and unrestrained character?

At least he hasn't done anything extraordinary so far.

I won't do it in the future either.

Thinking of this, he made a special note in his mind that the small scars he gave Morse a few months ago must not count.

Wandering around outside, visiting every nook and cranny of the Lokos capital, I saw ordinary things everywhere.

Soon, Perturabo had to return to his workshop quarters to examine the source of the burning pain from the friction between his sandals and the soles of his feet.

He should have been accustomed to the weakness of his mortal body, but it seems that he has once again forgotten his current situation.

This mistake that came from himself caused him to redirect part of his anger towards his own mind. When he analyzed his behavior with a guilty look, reason came back to him.

Why did Morse reject me again?

Perturabo sat cross-legged on a soft cloth cushion - he and Morse unanimously rejected the tyrant's brocade rug. Morse loved his wicker chair, and he sewed it with his own hands. Cloth cushions nailed to thirteen layers of leather.

The pain from his ankle to his calf was gradually relieved. He counted the minutes and seconds, and countless thoughts in his mind were like a school of fish swirling in the sea.

He did nothing wrong, did not violate the rules Morse gave him; after all, Morse never gave him clear rules.

Whether it is cold words about transactions or urgings and orders about confession, they are all part of a vague rule. These hazy conditions jointly create an unreachable boundary. Perturabo is always aware of its existence, but But he couldn't pinpoint it in words.

He could not tell how many drachmas Morse's patience was worth, nor could he find out how many drachmas were needed to exchange Morse's tolerance.

He groped and tested, but every time Perturabo thought he had won Morse's love, the rope boundary like a spider's silk and a web would suddenly fall down.

Didn't Morse want him to win? Did Morse no longer think highly of him?

Perturabo thought dully, picking up the stitches of the cloth pad with the edge of his fingernails, and fiddling with the most inconspicuous piece of his countless works. His eyes slid over the large number of drawings and models scattered around, and fell on himself. This is the one he made most carefully among his works.

A recreated double stone statue.

He stood up supporting the wall and walked to the stone statue.

Born out of his initial conception of the stone statue fighting with Morse, he applied all the knowledge and skills he had learned recently. Every line and every bend was carefully calculated from drawings to wax models.

Yet his heart was still hammering worriedly against his chest.

Perturabo gently touched the warhammer held by his image in the stone. The hesitating waves carried the angry boat, sometimes lifting it up and sometimes submerging it.

He read a vague lack in the objects he carefully constructed, but he could not find a breakthrough.

In the process of carving, what necessary knowledge did he lack?

The craftsmen in this backward country could not complete his teaching.

And if Morse could take a look, everything would be solved.

All he needed was an instruction, and he clearly just wanted an instruction.

He picked out the awl from the tool and was about to modify it in some completely meaningless places when a thin piece of snow-white paper folded appeared from under the awl.

He immediately knew the source of the paper, and the waves in his heart suddenly calmed down, leaving only a little bit of embarrassment that made his hands tremble.

Perturabo quickly unfolded the paper toward the light.

Then he witnessed how much a man who kept saying that he wanted to tell everything with his mouth, without letting people guess their minds, so that the communication between each other could reach the peak of efficiency, could save words and ink.

Morse may have many indicators that cannot be quantified, but his calligraphy must be sold at a high price, worth as much as the gold reserves of several city-states.

On the paper, a short line of handwriting read: "Who is Arachne?"

"He is simply incomprehensible!" Perturabo blurted out.

"who?"

Andos, who was sitting opposite Perturabo and observing the various life styles of the citizens who were gradually gathering below the high platform, was brought back to reality by Perturabo's sudden voice.

Andos subconsciously replied with a word, turned his head, and saw a boy whose face was a little red from the summer morning sun, torturing the edge of his seat with his nails.

Perturabo kept his mouth shut, telling himself that Andros must have heard wrong.

Soon, Andos's confused face slowly turned away. The boy just breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Callifon whispering to the waiter, and then he personally placed a drink on the three-color concentric with mythical pattern in the center. The rimmed disc walked towards him, leaned down, and handed the fruit drink two feet in front of him.

Perturabo expressed his refusal with a sustained gaze, and Calliphon was lifeless.

"We should set up parasols here." The daughter of Lokos said with a smile. "Obviously there are no priests from the religious religion to preside over today, but everyone still abides by the custom of not blocking the sight of the gods with a canopy."

"You are too backward." Perturabo said bluntly.

"Maybe." Callifon held the tray with both hands and stood up straight again. A soft strand of hair was hung on her cheek by the breeze. "Maybe comparing the knowledge we have with the knowledge held by your teacher, there is indeed a long river of distance."

Perturabo felt his hands gradually tense up on the brocade cushions. He didn't know what went wrong, so he had to attribute everything to the fact that he was still worried about Morse.

After all, he didn't even know if a man in black would appear in the spectator seats on the high platform today.

"This is exactly the truth of the matter. Morse's knowledge is an endless storehouse." Perturabo suppressed his confused mood and said with confidence, "But you can put down your worries, I will get Lokos' approval. Use my ability to lead the Lokos people to overcome difficulties and regain their lives."

Kalifon looked at the sea of ​​people under the high platform. It was getting late, the sun was getting higher, and people had already filled the streets in front of the palace with their bodies and voices.

Different lively faces are chatting happily, boasting about recent experiences, sharing wonderful things at home, and wondering about the existence of the high platform. Square patches on robes, newly made simple ornaments, yellow pottery kettles, hair towels, fruits with stones to be sold in the market, vegetables with seeds, and all kinds of fresh soil. Living things are spread out nicely under the bright sky.

Her eyelashes fluttered slightly, and the shadow of the white vulture in the sky passed over her face, as if her face itself was making waves. After the light and shadow passed by, she was as elegant as before.

"Lokos will thank you." Callifon said, "If that day comes, your statue will replace the statue of the late king at the city gate. But people are here, and I have to go back to my place first."