Morse admired the fortress before him with polite curiosity.
Palace, fortress, call it whatever you want.
If every wall of this building was painted with smooth to slightly shiny paint, and the golden spire echoed the sun high in the sky, would the term "fortress" still be used to highlight the original function when it was built? , it is no longer important.
He tried to compare it with his impression of the Lokos Palace from more than a hundred years ago, and then he came to the conclusion that this palace was on a new level compared to before the renovation.
A thing that has lasted longer is more dazzling than when it was young, and has richer humanistic connotations. This is a rare attribute that artifacts made by craftsmen often contain.
He stood in front of the door inlaid with gold and silver reliefs. The remaining three members of the Lokos Guards looked at each other with doubts on their faces, but no one dared to urge him.
Mors lowered his head, and Perturabo also looked up at him. He was still holding the long knife unconsciously, and the newly engraved handle was imprinted on the new fragile skin of his palm, and the boy was unaware of it.
Some pain is often helpful in relieving tension and keeping you awake. Morse actually has some experience with this.
Perturabo asked: "What's wrong? Looking at me like this?"
Morse patted the boy on the shoulder: "It's okay, but you reminded me of something from the beginning of a long time."
For example, when you meet a master, you bring ambition, expectations, vigilance, and swords, and you are greeted with questions, surprises, and disappointments.
He turned to the three warriors and asked: "Is your tyrant an innocent person who allows others to bring swords to him?"
The leader named Miltiades suddenly came to his senses, and then he took to his mind again the fact that the two guests had not changed their clothes and discarded their swords, so they must not meet their great tyrant.
Instead of speaking out to defend the tyrant's reputation, the soldiers became uneasy: "Locos Tyrant is not..."
Mors did not make things difficult for him. The residence of psychic energy was removed with the thoughts in his heart, and the sharp long knife that had briefly existed in Perturabo's hand immediately turned into smoke.
"I'll give you a better one later," Morse said casually to Perturabo.
Perturabo looked at the palm of his hand, "Can I change it to a hammer?"
Morse smiled and said, "You want to open a blacksmith shop?"
While the two were talking, the gorgeous palace doors opened to both sides, as if the luxurious palace with ancient Terra style inside had taken off its veil.
Gold, silver and white armors are neatly and evenly distributed in the gaps between the marble columns. The faces of all the honor guard soldiers are hidden under the deep shadows of their helmets, erasing the specific facial contours to highlight the workmanship. Between the artifacts and the living humans, there is a hint of majesty that is both human and inhuman.
All the courtiers present have also become components of the picture. They are neat, fit, with full foreheads, and luxuriously dressed. Like the towering halls, priceless decorations and decorative sharp blades, they have become perfect props to highlight the majesty of the throne.
Unfortunately, some ceiling lights that ruined the atmosphere made Morse couldn't help but raise the corners of his mouth.
He let his gaze extend forward along the vanishing point of perspective in art.
In the middle of the two huge, exquisite, lifelike statues, surrounded by metal totems, but mixed with ancient Terrado cultural elements to the point of appearing inexplicably funny, is a huge throne carved from tons of marble.
A huge iron stone throne wraps a middle-aged man with an iron thorn crown and a golden scepter placed flat between his knees. The large and eye-catching nose, slightly narrowed eyes, sparse black hair, and slightly protruding belly all strengthen the characteristics of this man as an ordinary human being.
A mediocre body, a lazy posture, an oversized palace, and a supreme throne.
A brown-feathered eagle set against a bright peacock and a parrot.
+He is the broken arm. +
+What? +Unknown allusion to Perturabo.
+Imagine a beautiful stone sculpture. She is no more extraordinary than any statue of beauty of her time, until her broken arm achieves her true beauty. +
Morse said cheerfully on the psychic channel.
+You mean that the palace is made of exquisite stone carvings, and that the tyrant is the most outstanding feature of the stone carvings? +
The boy's voice was filled with doubt at first, but the doubt evaporated mid-sentence. Morse knew Perturabo understood him.
He could also imagine what the tyrant on the throne looked like to the boy - a life created by the mixture of a simple mortal and the coldness and eagerness that he saw as a wise man.
Miltiades moved his poor lips, trying to remind the visitor to kneel down according to etiquette. Soon, he gave up and knelt aside in silence.
The herald dressed in blue cloth walked out from among the courtiers' robes.
"Long live Damex!" the herald raised his head high, and even Morse would not deny how elegant and beautiful his well-honed voice was. "Praise be given to the third of the Council of Twelve Tiransikos, the Tyrant of Lokos, the seven-fold lord of Croatan and Dominici, the seven-fold incarnation of Alka, the great king Damex!"
He returned to the queue lightly, and the soldiers stamped their feet in unison, hitting the ground with the end of their golden spears.
+Who is Alka? +
+A divine term fabricated by local beliefs, I guess. +
An obscure look of disgust flashed across Perturabo's face.
On the throne, Damekes spoke in a brisk tone, using a warm and easy-going tone to cover up his rationality and probing: "Metiades, who are we gathering with?"
Miltiades lowered his head: "The boy from Qadisiya, and the unknown hermit, the tyrant."
"You are not back later than you promised, Miltiades. A few weeks ago you said it would take a long time to look through Qadishia. I thought you planned to travel outside for two or three years, and you were thinking about it. Do you want to reduce your gold coins?"
Damex said kindly. His words were like a switch that triggered laughter from the courtiers as soon as it fell.
"Yes, Lord Tyrant." Miltiades responded too briefly, lowering his head.
Damex's smile gradually disappeared in the silence. "Where are my other two warriors?"
"Sacrificed in battle with Ax."
More silence fell, and the noble hall seemed to suddenly lose some of its color.
"Those who are brave and brave will be rewarded." Damex sighed, "Anoyinkai will bless them. Their families will each receive a hundred gold coins. Miltiades, you and your two warriors, each of them will receive a hundred gold coins." A gold coin.”
"As you wish."
Damex finished his stage performance.
His eyes fell skillfully between Morse and Perturabo, so that both of them thought at the same time that the tyrant was looking at them.
"Boy, your legend has been spread all over Olympia. I thought it was some illiterate shepherd who was exaggerating. Now I want to apologize: your legend is definitely far beyond the description in the rumors."
Perturabo looked at him quietly, with calm thought in his eyes. "Maybe."
"And this gentleman, you have hidden your legend very cleverly." Damex complimented jokingly, "I have reason to believe that you are the person who leads this boy's path forward. Are you his father? Or a mentor?”
Morse tallied up his and Perturabo's ledgers and regretfully came to a less than pleasant conclusion.
"Actually, he may be my verbal creditor." Morse looked at the boy. "I owe him a hammer as a gift."
Facing everyone's unexpected looks, Morse smiled. "I am a craftsman, now named Morse."
