Chapter 322: Blade of Silence

The power of the Underworld's river surged from beneath the stone tablet.

He retreated at once, but the aether fluctuations triggered by the curse had already spread beyond the Storeroom.

In the distance, the golden light swept around, and every light in the Storeroom went out.

Waves of dark red heat seeped through the walls.

“Iw-i rekh ren-ek.”

There was that phrase again.

Out in the physical world, the mummy rapidly collapsed under the full-powered assault of the two Virtuosos.

Both threads snapped at once, and the Black Soil River Virtuoso's true body finally moved.

From behind the veil, it manipulated the shadowy residue, latching it onto the nearest ancient relic.

It was the Canopic Jar with the jackal-headed lid. The lid popped off.

Under its control, the jar vented massive plumes of putrid corpse gas that began to devour the room's sealing array.

The Solar Virtuoso was smart. It ignored the jar, turning its golden light toward the Gold-Gilt Mask beside it.

Without the four guardian deities upon it, the mask's defenses were thinner than the jar's.

The golden light instantly pierced the mask's form on the veil side.

On the veil side, the mask took the shape of a radiant, golden Pharaoh's face.

When the Solar Tradition's golden light touched the Pharaoh's face, something Richard hadn't expected happened.

The Pharaoh's face recognized the golden light.

In the highest faith of the Black Soil River Basin, the Pharaoh was the son of the Sun God.

The sun shining upon the Pharaoh was a coronation.

The golden light and the Pharaoh's face resonated on the veil side.

The golden light thickened.

Sensing the shift, the Black Soil River Virtuoso also began to fight for control.

A wisp of shadow snaked out from the Canopic Jar, reaching for the next closest relic.

It was a stone stele covered in inscriptions.

On the veil side, the stele became a massive wall entirely covered in excerpts from the Book of the Dead.

The Black Soil River Virtuoso touched the incantation for the "Opening of the Mouth" ritual.

The Opening of the Mouth ritual allowed the mummy to speak, eat, drink, and move through the Underworld once more.

To put it bluntly: it brought the dead back to life.

It activated the ritual.

With a hum, all the Black Soil River supernatural items grew restless.

The mask opened its mouth, the wings of Isis on the wooden coffin lid spread wider, and the four Canopic Jars swelled in size all at once.

Seeing the situation turn dire, the two defending Virtuosos struck at the same time.

They scrambled for the supernatural items, using them to amplify their own power.

In short, the museum Storeroom devolved into absolute chaos.

...

In the dark stone chamber, Thoth was still standing there, his posture identical to the last time.

Before Richard could even speak, Thoth raised his Reed Pen and wrote a few lines on his Writing Slate.

“This trial does not end with simply taking; you must carry the object out of the city and retreat in one piece.”

Richard roughly understood the key to this trial.

It wasn't just about taking the item from the Storeroom; he had to carry it and make it out of the Imperial Capital alive.

Getting his hands on it and actually escaping with it were challenges of two entirely different magnitudes.

Thoth added another line to the Writing Slate.

“The powers within are Name, Mirror, and Substitute; you must comprehend them along the way.”

Richard thought back to his experience in the Storeroom.

He had read the first eight relics and discovered the curse.

On the ninth, he had brushed the edge of the trigger, but had luckily avoided setting it off.

The last four lacked a trigger, but they still bore the curse.

Those priests had made their decision thousands of years ago: what belonged to the dead stayed with the dead.

The living... couldn't take them away, not even if the Pharaoh himself came back to life.

Burial meant sealing the coffin, and sealing the coffin meant severing all ties.

For a Virtuoso to get bitten by the anti-theft traps laid by their own ancestors... it truly was a bit hellish.

Thoth pulled a scroll of Papyrus from behind his Writing Slate.

Richard took it and unrolled it.

The encryption on this scroll was a layer deeper than the first. It took him a full ten minutes just to piece together the first three lines.

First line:

“Nine vessels act as the trigger, illuminating the holder.

Whoever touches the trigger shall be illuminated, burned, and extinguished.”

This confirmed the ninth relic was the trigger. His judgment had been correct.

Second line:

“Past the trigger, four vessels remain.

The four lack a trigger, and may be read.

Yet the reader must first overcome the curse.”

There were four more relics past the trigger that could be approached safely.

But to read their true names, he first had to bypass that anti-tomb-raiding curse.

Third line:

“The curse was forged by the priests in their own blood, and may be undone by the priests' descendants. He who bears the title of a priest may lay the curse to rest.”

The anti-tomb-raiding curse was forged by the priests using their own blood.

Richard's eyes lit up.

The mummy was, fundamentally, the corpse of a priest.

It had been steeped in priestly inscriptions for thousands of years; what was carved into it was the very faith and authority of a priest.

Richard put the two Papyrus scrolls together, cross-referencing them in his mind.

Pieced together, the two scrolls formed a complete route.

But even here, one final piece was missing.

What would happen after reading the true names?

The Virtuoso's goal was to "reclaim the relics."

But in the actual historical event, that Virtuoso had a fragment torn off its own body while making a move in the museum.

It had failed.

Which meant that even if all of this was accomplished, something would still go wrong at that final step.

Moreover, even after taking the relic, he still had to retreat in one piece.

This final stretch was harder than everything before it combined.

Richard rolled up the Papyrus and gripped it in his hand.

He looked up at Thoth.

“I want to go in again.”

Thoth raised his Reed Pen.

“Sesh en maat, iu er khet.”

(Scribe of truth, reach the end.)

“The seed has germinated twice. You must wait seven days before entering again.”

Thoth lowered the Writing Slate back to his side.

The stone chamber began to dim.

That force struck from behind, dragging his consciousness out of the stone chamber without any room for resistance.

...

When he opened his eyes, it felt like someone had dragged a steel wire brush from his forehead to the back of his skull a dozen times over.

His temples throbbed painfully, and his eyes stung with dry friction every time they moved.

He tried to raise a hand to grab the Pocket Watch on his bedside table.

From the time he lay down and entered the trial, a little over four hours had passed.

During the previous two trials with the Sphinx seed, he had actually come out feeling even more refreshed than when he went in.

This time was a completely different story.

He closed his eyes, letting his breathing slowly match the rhythm of Tide-Shifting Breathing.

With level 4 [Breathing: Healing], he didn't need to manage his body; it knew how to repair itself.

A thought bubbled up through his exhaustion.

His matches in the Debate Week finals were already over.

If the seed had germinated two days earlier, in this state, he probably wouldn't have even survived a six-minute opening statement.

Fortunately, the rest of Debate Week had nothing to do with him anymore.

Thinking about it like that, shouldn't he be thanking Thorpe for knocking him out?

He pulled his blanket back up and closed his eyes.

When Virtuosos looked at people, all they saw were "names" and "ledgers."

To them, there was no difference from one person to another.

But he wasn't a Virtuoso. He was Richard Williams.

He remembered the brittle crunch of Evelyn's almond cookies; remembered the warmth of his mother's palm over the back of his hand; remembered the Copper Penny Old Biggs endlessly rubbed between his fingers.

Those were things the veil could never take away.

Richard rolled over.

Outside the window, a cat meowed.

It meowed twice, then stopped.

...

As time wound down, the main tournament's schedule grew even tighter.

The preparatory and undergraduate competitors were completely wiped out.

Everyone left on stage was a graduate student; every single match was a brutal clash of aether against aether.

On the morning of the seventh day, a match popped up on the schedule: Reginald Thorpe versus Clara Farfield.

Richard arrived early, taking a seat in the western audience gallery.

Phillips sat down next to him with a cup of tea.

“This one is interesting.” Phillips passed the tea over.

“Thorpe pushed you down yesterday, and today he runs right into your senior sister.”

“How is it such a coincidence?” Richard took the tea.

“It's no coincidence.” Phillips shook his head.

“The late stages of the finals are based on points. Only those with adjacent scores end up at the same table.

Thorpe scored high in his win against you yesterday, bumping him up a bracket.

Your senior sister's first two wins were lukewarm. She spoke just enough to win, but suppressed her declaration scores match after match, intentionally stalling her total score to stay in the exact same bracket as Thorpe.”

He gestured toward the side hall. “I heard people say she was calculating her points specifically to hunt Thorpe.”

Holding his teacup, Richard figured out the gist of it.

Clara had heard every word of that exchange between him and Thorpe yesterday.

The moderator walked to the center of the stage.

“The topic: In times of war, should only sons be drafted to the front lines? The affirmative drafts them; the negative does not.”

“Clara Farfield, negative.”

Richard's brow twitched.

Senior Clara had drawn the negative side. She had to speak for the families unwilling to send their only sons to die.

“Six-minute opening statements. Affirmative first.”

The ring of silver thread on the floor lit up.

Thorpe walked up to the podium.

His opening statement carried heavy weight—a scale with a single family on one end, and an entire city on the other.

“Let me establish one rule first.” Thorpe held up a finger.

“In the face of war, everyone is equal.

If families with brothers send their sons, on what grounds do families with an only child refuse?

If we truly exempt only sons, wealthy families will just have one child to dodge the draft, and the ones left bleeding will entirely be the sons of poor families with several boys.”

“Affirmative stance: Only sons are to be drafted without exception. Finished.”

The applause was steady.

Looking at that scale, Richard felt a bit surprised.

The Thorpe family had three brothers, and he was the second oldest. By the yardstick he had just set, he himself was on the list to be drafted.

“Negative opening statement.”

Clara walked up to the podium.

Richard sat up straight. He had never heard Senior Clara speak this many words in a single breath before.

“Mr. Thorpe has established a yardstick: everyone is equal in the face of war. I accept this yardstick.”

“But what I want to point out is that the affirmative's yardstick measured one thing incorrectly.”

She raised her hand.

The form Clara established wasn't large, nor was it thick, but it was terrifyingly precise.

She manifested a family's cooking stove. On it sat just one bowl and a single pair of chopsticks, and sitting beside it were two white-haired elders.

“An only son is not just one person.” Clara gestured toward the stove.

“He is the only one in a family of three who can still work the fields and earn their rations.

If he dies, an entire family collapses.”

Applause broke out.