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I stared at my son for a moment. Silence fell. Uburka’s fangs, which he brushed every morning, were snow white. The sunset lingered between his teeth.
The whole world was silent except for my voice. “Uburka, If I send you, you will become an envoy urging the enemies to surrender. Do you understand what that means?”
Uburka smiled faintly. “I do. I know everything you know and are worried about. Still, I also know you have no choice but to grant my request. Please send me there.”
“Seriously, there is no son more unfilially filial than you...”
“Ugor. Can you really add such an adverb to the word ‘filial?’”
“Why not? Think outside the box, Son. Language is something we create.”
Our father-son conversation flowed leisurely into the evening.
“Wait a moment, you two. What in the world are you talking about?” the Assistant Writer asked, seemingly dumbstruck after listening to us. “Yes, language is something we create, but being enslaved by the specter of language and missing its essence is a trap a writer must avoid at all costs. If my words don’t conform to grammar, it’s not me who’s in the wrong. It’s the grammar that can’t keep up with me.”
“I appreciate your opinion, Assistant Writer. We’re on the same wavelength.”
“Let’s shove that bullshit aside and let someone else feed on it for now. Are you really going to send an envoy? Um, you’re—”
“I’m his son, ugor,” Uburka answered.
“Alright. Death King, I won’t ask how you ended up with a son who looks like an ogre....
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