Chapter 30 Chapter 2 Give me the power of life

The heavy rain and the journey continued, and the misery of Saryon was the same, but as they got closer and closer to their destination, a serf named Dunan was located in the north of the Outlandish Land, about a hundred miles away from the coast. In the small village of the mage, his fear was mixed with a growing fear.At least once a day, Heisuo will call the Catalyst Saint to come and give him the power of life.He never asked for too much, just enough for someone to float to the top of the tree on the wings of the atmosphere, so as to scout the road ahead. But little by little, Saryon learned that this was the training they wanted, training a slave to obey his master.The order is always more difficult than the other, each time the catalyst saint needs to spend more power, and he is absorbed more life force every day.Also, the sorcerer's cold, emotionless eyes always gazed at him from the shadow of his black hood, looking for any sign of weakness, any hesitation or hesitation. resist.

What Blacklock had done to make his slave unable to resist, Saryon did not know.During a month-long journey through the Outlands, Catalyst Saints did not see a sorcerer abuse, threaten, or even speak harshly to anyone.Law enforcement Duke Duke didn't need to use this method. As long as the wizard is present, everyone must maintain his respect. His eyes will look at anyone and fill them with a vague sense of fear.There is also a three-person tarot game at Heisuo night.It's the only entertainment the sorcerer has, and he's addicted to it, and anyone who wants to take part has to be very gritty, or have a fiery spirit; some just can't stand the gaze of those blue, expressionless eyes Play poker for hours.As night fell and Hesuo took out his deck of cards, Saryon saw someone sneaking into the shadows.

Saryon's guilt and misery deepened.Day after day, the catalyst saint rode in the rain, his head almost as low as his horse.There was no drudgery in the journey on horseback, and although the robbers saw the tracks of the centaurs, they were not attacked.Centaurs prefer to take a lone human or two, and will think twice before attacking such a large and well-armed group.Once Saryon thought he caught sight of a giant peeking out of the corner of his eye, and the heads seemed to be different each time.Tousled hair, childlike eyes, and a grin at the sight of a tiny army passing by his hometown.Before the Catalyst saint opened his mouth to shout a warning, the figure disappeared. Saryon even doubted his senses and consciousness, but he felt the ground vibrating under the big feet.He was glad he didn't mention it afterward, for he heard one of the Blacklocks talk about some of the pastimes they did when they caught these big, gentle, stupid creatures.

The only joy in the suffering of the catalyst saint is the time he spends with Mosiah every day.The young man always spent a little time riding alongside Saryon, and most of the time Mosiah came looking for Saryon alone.Occasionally, when he couldn't get rid of Simkin, he would come with Simkin.Of course Joram never joined them, and though Saryon always noticed that the young men were riding all the time, within earshot of them, but whenever the Catalyst Saints started mentioning this to Mosiah, the only thing he got The response was a quick head shake, a quick glance back and a murmured reply: "Don't pay attention to him."

These two people are not alike at all.Tall, hunchbacked, middle-aged priests and fair-haired, handsome young men, their topics of conversation ranged enormously, almost always beginning with the daily affairs of the people in the villages of Mosia; young men never tire of talking about their homesickness , However, after that, they began to diverge from the topic.Saryon found himself talking about his studies, about life at court, and about Merilon.And then, especially when he was referring to Merilon, or when he was talking about his favorite subject of mathematics, he could see, out of the corner of his eye, Joran galloping forward.

"Tell me, Father." Mosiah's voice came clearly over the clatter of hooves and the sound of water dripping from the bushes. "—when Simkin talks about Merilon's court life... you know, when he talks about dukes and duchesses and earls and stuff like that, doesn't he... er... fictionalize those characters ? Or do they really exist?" "Is he lying?" murmured Joram to himself as he rode after them with a strange smile in his eyes. "Of course he's lying, and you've been trying to catch the wily Simkin on. Have you, Mosiah? Please, give it up. People better than you have tried, my friend."

"I really can't be sure." Joram heard the catalyst saint say in a confused tone. "You know I don't do much court society, and... I'm really bad at remembering names, and some of the people he's mentioned sound familiar, but I can't remember them. I guess the whole thing has something to do with it." possible……" "Did you hear that?" Joram said to Mosiah's back.He often makes these kinds of criticisms in other people's conversations, but they are only for himself.Those involved never heard these comments, because Joram never joined them, and when anyone looked back, he always pretended to look around, at other things.

But he was always listening, very carefully and with great interest, and after a few months of living with the tech-wraith artisans, something changed.He had arrived sick and tired, and it would have been so much easier for the young man to go back to the life he was used to.But it took him many weeks to realize that this life was really... lonely, and what was worse, he realized that if he continued to impose this lonely life on himself, he would soon be with the poor Anya also fell into madness. Fortunately, at this time Simkin returned from his frequent and mysterious disappearances.According to some, he appeared at Joram's door at the suggestion of the black lock, introduced himself, and moved in immediately before the withdrawn young man said anything.Joram liked and took great interest in what the older young man had to say.He allows Simkin to stay on, and Simkin pays him back by introducing him to the whole world.

"You've got talent, my dear boy," Simkin said playfully to Joram one evening. "Don't frown. One day your whole face will freeze, and the rest of your life will be spent scaring puppies or children to pass the time. Now about this talent, I mean, I've seen it in court , your mother was from the tribe of Albanara, right? They were born with this ability, leadership, charisma, whatever you like to call it. Now, of course, your charisma is like a stone, but it's not like mine Stay together and you'll learn. Why are you meddling? You ask me that, and I have the best explanation in the world. Because, dear boy, you can make people do whatever you want. … "

As Joram left his little world to venture out, he was surprised and delighted to find that Simkin was right.Perhaps it was the "noble blood" that ran in his blood: Albanara's hereditary abilities, or perhaps it was simply because he had been educated. Whatever the reason, Joram had learned the ability to manipulate other people, to use them without At the same time, keep them at a comfortable distance from you. The ability was useless only against Mosiah, and while he was happy to see his long-time friend come to camp, Joram resented that Mosiah had been trying to break his carefully built stone exterior.Simkin made Joram happy, and Mosiah demanded that his friendship be reciprocated.

back off.Joram often thought angrily.Stand back and let me breathe! Apart from that, Joram was more pleasant with these people than he had imagined.Although he still needs to continue to maintain the illusion that he retains some magical powers, he can easily do this with his deceptive illusions.Among the outcasts in the camp who had failed the testing ceremony, he didn't think he was a freak. After experiencing heavy physical labor, he became stronger and more robust, and some of the pain and anger portrayed on his face gradually subsided.His thick eyebrows, and dark, brooding eyes made him very unhappy in his previous life.Today, the beautiful and shiny black hair is messy and tangled, and Anya can no longer comb his hair every night, but he refuses to cut it. The whole lock of hair is tied with a long and thick hairband, and it hangs loose on his thick back. , almost to the waist. He also enjoyed his work in the forge, the sense of accomplishment he felt from shaping raw stones of various shapes into useful tools and weapons, which he supposed was the same as others felt when summoning magic.In fact, Joram was so obsessed with technology that he spent hours listening to Anton tell old tales of the old days about how the Ninth Tribe of the Witchcrafters used their terrifying and wondrous engines and Machines rule the world.The young man who, by some secret means, discovered the hidden books written by those who had fled persecution after the War of Iron, was greatly interested in the wonders written therein, and always wondered how much knowledge had long been lost. And angry. "If we had these things, we could rule the world again!" He mentioned this to Mosiah more than once, his mind always turning to a feverish rap, as if he had just come out of a dark period of melancholy same situation. "A powder, as fine as sand, that can blow walls down, and those engines that throw balls of fire—" "Death!" roared Mosiah, petrified. "That's what you're talking about, Joram, the Death Engine, and that's why the Witchcrafters were banished." "Exiled by who? Not the catalyst saints! Because they are afraid of us!" Joram retorted. "As for death, people died at the hands of the Fiery Warlords, those Dikondukes, or worse, they were mutated, changed beyond recognition, but you think, Mosiah, think only If we can combine magic and technology, what can we do..." "Heisuo thinks so too." Mosiah muttered. "He is your leader, Joram, a renegade sorcerer." "Maybe..." Joram murmured thoughtfully, with a strange smile in his eyes. "Maybe it's not like that..." Joram makes a discovery in one of the ancient books, a discovery that has him working late into the night at the furnace with only depressing results.He still lacked a key to accomplish what he understood, which was why his experiments always failed, but now he remembered that he might have found the key where he least expected it: in the catalyst saint.At least he knew that those strange symbols in the manuscripts were numbers, and the key was mathematics. But Joram felt uneasy. He hated the catalyst saint. The arrival of Saryon reminded him of painful memories. Fragments, old nightmares began to come back to torment him, dark emotions once again threatening to engulf him with madness.When the Catalyst Saint arrived, more than once he thought about ending this man's life as easily as he had ended another's life before.He often found himself standing with a big, smooth rock in his hand, and he remembered how easy it all was, vividly remembering what it was like to throw a rock, and when the rock hit a man in the head, What it sounds like. But he didn't kill the Catalyst Saints.He told himself that it was all because he had discovered that the man knew math.A plan began to take shape in Joram's mind, a plan as sharp and solid as the iron sword he hammered every day. The Catalyst Saints were useful to him, Joram chuckled to himself.In a way, the catalyst saint can give him the power of life.I'll just wait and see what kind of guy he is.Joram said to himself.Weak and ignorant, like Thorben, or was he more than that?One thing that worked in favor of the Catalyst Saint was that the man had been surprisingly telling him the truth, not that Joram believed him, and the young man was almost on the verge of laughing out loud at all this absurdity.No, he doesn't trust the catalyst saint, but he will barely give him the most basic respect. The real test came quickly.Joram had been waiting, and so had almost everyone else in the banditry, waiting to see how Saryon would react when Black Lock ordered him to help rob the village. "Do you really think we're doing the right thing?" Mosiah asked one night, as they lay on dead, sodden leaves under a pile of trees, even wrapping themselves in blankets to keep warm it seemed. Still an impossibility. "What's right?" Joram muttered, unable to make himself better. "Take food from those people...." "Have you talked to that false pious old man again?" Joram asked with a sneer. "That's not it." Mosiah turned around.He propped himself up on one elbow, and turned his face to his friend, who was almost a blurred shadow in the darkness of the moon and stars. "I've been thinking about it myself. These people are just like us, Joram, they're like my father, my mother, and your mother." He ignored a sudden angry rustle. "Do you remember what winter is like, what if robbers rob us?" "That means we are unlucky, just like they are unlucky now." Joram said grimly. "It's either us or them, we have to have food." "We can trade food..." "Trade for what? Arrowheads? Daggers? Spearheads? Tools of the Ninth Tribe? Do you think these peasants would trade with demon artisans who sell their souls to the dark? Ha! They'd rather die than feed us." At the end of the conversation, Joram curled up to one side and stopped talking.Mosiah heard those last unpleasant words, still echoing in her head. They will die soon...