Chapter 7 Welcome

"I am not a mortal." Perturabo's stubbornness may not change until Olympia is destroyed. "I am different from them, but you have taken away some of my extraordinary abilities."

"And the talent for cooking?"

Perturabo immediately stuffed the grilled fish into his mouth and chewed it twice, swallowing it with his neck stiff. "You don't have enough taste to appreciate my work."

He was afraid that Morse would use this matter to irritate him again, so he quickly lowered his hand, twisted his wrist, and put the grilled fish behind his back, away from the other's sight.

"Yes, yes." Morse agreed casually. "You are not a mortal, you are just a magical child who knows nothing, and you may not even have the courage to face a group of non-lethal guards. Perturabo, go and face your fate, the Rokos Guard has been looking for you for many days."

The ice surface trembled closer and closer, and Perturabo turned his head to look in the direction of the forest.

The corridor-like trees and the ground covered with ice formed a natural echo corridor. The friction between metal armor and leather was amplified by the natural airflow and rolled towards Perturabo very quickly. If he was a pale leaf that had fallen from the branch, he would have been torn apart and washed away by this force.

But his feet were still directly on the dry and hard soil, which was heavier than high-density steel, blocking his imagination of shouting "This is a last resort" while saving face and floating away with the wind.

But he was obviously no longer steel, he would rather be a reed.

Perturabo held the only thing he could hold tightly in his hand, feeling the thin and warm metal embedded in the lines of his palm, and then he suddenly realized that it was the grilled fish he had used to challenge Morse.

He immediately turned his head back and saw Morse dissipating into the air with his nameless powerful ability.

The hateful man was fading quickly, his obtrusive black clothes faded as if being wiped by detergent, and the gorgeous and messy painted murals on the house behind him replaced his position in the cross section of this world.

His messy black hair remained the longest, perhaps specially for him; the thin lips raised in the pale skin made Perturabo feel a surge of hot blood rushing up his spine, stretching all the pulses and blood vessels.

"Morse--" He rushed forward to grab the other party, waving his fingers, grabbing nothingness in the air.

"Come out! Give me back my ability, my wisdom and talent. I have a unique mission, and I shouldn't dedicate my life to a city-state limited to a planet..."

I can't be so fragile.

His heart beats strongly in his body, a mortal heart, and even the slightest stimulation makes him dizzy. The cold illusion came from all sides, wrapping his skin, invading from every tiny wound he has accumulated in recent days, and wrapping the nerve lines against the blood vessels.

"Morse--" he shouted. He couldn't face a group of mortals like this!

"Crack."

The tip of the iron boot kicked over the scrap of a half-finished stone sculpture outside the house, and the counterweight at the end of the long-handled blunt spear broke a weed outside the fence of the house.

More breaths gathered around Morse's territory.

Perturabo's mind suddenly fell into a blank. Under the gathering of panic, his brain briefly restored its past functions for a brief moment. Countless information rumbled through like a majestic waterfall. The first one was whether these people heard him calling Morse, the second one was that these people must have heard him calling Morse loudly, and the third one was that he was just a passing mortal child who had strayed into danger and no one knew him.

The great Perturabo? Who is that? It can't be this weak and useless body.

Absolutely not! Absolutely not! There is no resemblance at all!

Then his legs and feet led his upper body to rotate, which was more rigid than the mechanical tower clock that had been in disrepair for a long time, and more empty than a soulless faceless armor.

He held the metal skewer across his chest without any instruction, to show his strength and danger.

At the end of the skewer, the burnt black roasted fish that had been torn off was constantly vibrating, and the two half-moon-shaped gaps that had been bitten off were particularly eye-catching. The fragmented fish skin hung on the edge, reflecting fiercely.

Perturabo stared at the face of the officer in the front, which was half covered by the helmet, and tried to meet the eyes in the shadows.

The officer's hand stroked the gold and silver barrel with grooves on his waist. From the man's body language, Perturabo read a subtle trace of pretending to be calm.

He hoped that he was not like this in the eyes of the other party, and at the same time selectively hinted that he ignored the roasted fish on the skewer in his hand.

"Who are you?" Perturabo broke the silence, leaving behind the desire to escape at the end of his words, "Helmeted men, what are you doing here?"

The leader took a half step forward and bowed his head.

"I am a boy who came to find Cardisia by order of my Lord Damex. He killed Epidaea with a young boy and killed the serpent of disaster with a stick and a hammer. Son of God who came down from the mountains, my Lord invites you to visit Lokos."

"I don't remember anything you mentioned." Perturabo said, making decorative sword flowers in his hands according to his imagination, taking the opportunity to throw away the charred grilled fish, and then stabbing the end of the long skewer into the soil, like holding a sword.

"I am not a son of God either, there are no gods in the world. Please leave here."

The knowledge in his mind was indeed blocked by a very hateful weirdo, but Perturabo could still be sure that there were no gods in this world.

This information was born at the bottom of his thinking mode. He discovered it, cherished it, and was always ready to prove it.

There was a small commotion among the soldiers on the opposite side, like a gust of wind blowing across the water, causing cascading ripples. The feathers on their helmets shook, the golden leather wrapping their skirts and armor swayed back and forth, and the arm armor reflected the turbulent light. Perturabo clearly saw someone shaking his head at the back of the line.

The leader of this team took half a step forward again, took off his platinum helmet with colorful patterns, and faced Perturabo with his true appearance.

"We have been able to witness the great achievements of the Son of God along the way." He said solemnly. "There are rumors in the countryside that you beheaded the serpent. The shepherds saw you climbing the towering cliffs of Phylgia. When we walked towards your residence When we come, the frost and the dense forest will give us the way. My lord Damex sincerely invites you to come, and Lokos will do his bidding."

Perturabo looked at the team in front of him silently, rubbing his fingers on the long metal stick. The warm metal rubbed against the scabbed scar on his fingertip, and he remembered what caused the wound - the wooden handle of Morse's stone hammer, a disastrous wooden thorn that escaped his absent-minded observation at the time.

A wooden thorn is enough to penetrate the flaw and pierce the shield of words.

Just like the "miracle" that this team witnessed with Morse's messing around, it was impossible for him to prove that he was just a mortal.

Just like the opportunity Morse left for him before, he found a crack to break the deadlock.

Perturabo looked up. His voice became lighter.

"I am not the lord of this place, nor am I the son of a god. What you are looking for is someone else, a craftsman who transcends time, a wise man who lives in isolation. It should not be me that Damex is looking for, but him -"

He raised his long sign and pointed toward the empty wicker chair behind him. At the same time, he gritted his teeth and mouthed: "Morse, you still owe me one condition!"

Morse's messy black hair appeared on the top of the empty wicker chair facing away from everyone, and then there was a hand raised upward, lazily wrapped in black cloth.

"I'm here," he said weakly.