Chapter 287: Spice Islands Special Exhibition

Dawn had not yet broken. A carriage waited at the eastern end of Slag Alley.

Richard had packed his luggage long ago; it sat by the living room door.

A large trunk held his clothes, books, notebooks, and various supernatural items;

A suitcase held what he needed for the road—mostly food.

Rogers carried the trunk to the back of the carriage.

Margaret stood in the living room doorway, her apron still tied.

Evelyn ran out of the house carrying a cup of hot milk.

"Brother."

"For me?"

"...Drink."

Richard took the hot milk.

She had stirred in a spoonful of sugar, just like the cup she had made for the cat avatar last time.

Richard downed it in one gulp and handed the cup back.

"Time to go," Rogers called from the doorway.

"Yeah."

Richard turned around.

Margaret still stood in the doorway.

Richard walked over and stopped in front of his mother.

Margaret said nothing. She only reached out and smoothed a folded crease in her son's collar.

"...Call home when you arrive."

Richard straightened up.

"I'm going, Mom."

Evelyn stood in the doorway, clutching the empty cup.

She waved at her brother.

"Brother, don't eat all the homemade almond cookies at once."

"...I won't."

Evelyn's eyes shone a little.

She held her tears back until Richard climbed into the carriage, then finally turned and ran back into the house.

...

The train station was different in wartime.

Three iron fences barricaded the entrance.

Two military police officers stood before each one.

They wore sidearms at their waists and armbands on their left shoulders.

The armbands bore a red background embroidered with a spreading eagle.

The line stretched from the entrance all the way to the steps of the plaza outside.

Most in line were young men in civilian clothes, with small cloth bags tied with hemp rope slung over their shoulders.

They were all conscripts heading to the front.

At the other end of the line stood officers in woolen uniforms, nuns in black skirts, and government workers in suits.

There were fewer people on this side, and the line moved much faster.

Richard carried his suitcase, following his father.

Rogers set the trunk down on the stone steps and pulled the telegram from his inside coat pocket.

"The special carriage hitched to the rear of the military train. Board with ticket."

"Yeah."

Rogers walked up to the iron fence at the entrance.

He handed the telegram to an MP.

The MP glanced at it, then at Richard.

"...Mr. Williams?"

"My son," Rogers said.

The MP nodded.

"Over there." The MP pointed to the other end of the line. "Military channel."

"Alright."

Rogers turned and waved Richard over.

Richard walked over with his suitcase.

The MP took the trunk and passed it through a security check at the gate.

"Platform Four. The special carriage all the way at the end."

"Thanks."

Richard stepped past the iron fence.

On the other side, Rogers stood motionless.

He lingered until his son disappeared entirely from sight.

Inside the station, the military train was already parked on the tracks, carriage after carriage draped in canvas covers.

Sentries stood beside the carriage doors with bayonets fixed to their rifles.

Richard followed a guide all the way to the far end of the platform.

A passenger carriage was attached to the very tail of the military train.

It wasn't large inside. There were six seats, four of them empty.

Two middle-aged men in black woolen suits were already seated. They looked like government officials.

Richard took a window seat.

Outside the window, a sea of people packed the platform.

Up ahead, the conscripts had finished boarding.

As the very last soldier stepped into his carriage, he looked back.

A woman stood beyond the platform, and the conscript waved to her.

At 8:50, the whistle blew.

Outside the window, Briston's forest of chimneys slowly slid backward.

Wartime passenger transport was dwindling by the day.

It would probably be the long holidays before he returned.

...

It was already afternoon when the train pulled into the Imperial Capital.

A servant from the Ashford family was waiting at the exit. Richard got into the carriage and watched the bustling streets outside the window.

Military control in the capital was much looser than in Briston.

The shops remained open, and posters were still pasted at theater entrances.

The flower girls, shoeshiners, and ice-cart peddlers were all out in full force.

The papers published battle reports from Hemus Island every day, but the imperial mainland was separated from there by a strait and over half the Western Continent.

This fire likely wouldn't burn its way here.

And since it wouldn't, life went on.

Symposiums, balls, gatherings, horse races—people had their fun just as they always did.

Others were spending their lives fighting; they were spending their money finding joy.

People still needed an outlet to vent that sliver of unease in their hearts.

The carriage turned into the old estate district in the west of the city.

The iron gates opened, and Richard carried his luggage inside.

The estate was quiet. A little too quiet.

The butler came out to greet him.

"Young Master Richard."

"The master left a few days ago. Said he was heading to Franc."

"It was very urgent. The staff had to pack his bags for him."

Richard asked, "What about Cousin Vincent and the other uncles?"

"They aren't here either." The butler brushed some coal ash off Richard's clothes.

"Young Master Vincent set off two days before the master. The other family members are either out on field assignments, or—if they aren't old enough—stepping up their training at the military academy."

Richard understood.

Once the war broke out, a Hunter family like the Ashfords had everyone capable drafted.

Arriving at Richard's room, the butler pushed the door open.

"The master said that since you're alone in the capital during wartime, you should be careful in all matters. If you need to go out, let the household know so we can prepare a carriage for you."

"I understand."

The butler retreated and closed the door.

Richard put his luggage away.

On the table sat the Royal Grand Hotel Glass Jar, filled with the homemade almond cookies his sister had rushed to make.

Richard twisted the lid off, took a piece, and popped it into his mouth.

Flaky, thin, and sweet, with slightly charred edges.

His sister's skills had improved again.

His aunt wouldn't return to Imperial Capital University until September, and the start of term was still over two weeks away.

He was free these next few days.

And since he was free, he had somewhere to go.

...

Early the next morning, Richard told the butler to prepare a carriage for the Albion Museum.

A long line of people snaked in front of the museum as usual.

The line was shorter than during the Black Soil River exhibition, but it was hardly deserted.

A newly erected wooden sign stood at the entrance, its words painted in red:

"Special Exhibition of the Spice Islands and the Southern Continent, Now Open."

Richard flashed his credentials and entered through a side door.

Inside, a few museum docents were rushing toward the exhibition hall with catalogs in their arms.

Bumping right into him, they all came to a dead stop.

"He's here!"

A tall, skinny man in round glasses lowered his pen and hollered into the hall.

"Mr. Williams is here!"

Several heads poked out from the exhibition hall, looking as if they'd just seen their savior.

Richard was baffled by the reception.

"What's going on?"

"The crowd for today's exhibition is no smaller than the Black Soil River one."

The skinny man pushed his glasses up his nose.

"The director piled all the work onto us again. You alone are worth several men. If you hadn't shown up, we'd have had to talk until our throats started smoking."

Before he even finished, footsteps echoed from deep within the hall.

Director Wetherby strolled out with his hands behind his back, spotting Richard from afar.

"Good, good, good!" The white-bearded old man beamed with delight.

"I was just saying you might come over one of these days."

"Since you're here, we'll stick to the old arrangement."

Director Wetherby walked up and gathered his beard against his chest.

"For today's Spice Islands exhibition, the veteran staff just can't present it properly. Serpent gods, human sacrifices, skin-changing sorcerers... they're full of dates and historical origins, but their deliveries are bone-dry. The guests don't find it interesting at all."

He jerked his chin toward the row of glass display cases in the hall.

"It's time to put your storytelling skills to use again."

Richard had expected as much, so he didn't refuse.

"Then I'll get to it."

Better to do the work first; it would make it easier to state his own requests later.

The tall, skinny man's face relaxed as he shoved his stack of catalogs into Richard's hands.

"The main hall has the most people. The director saved it just for you."

The Spice Islands exhibition was set up in the same main hall that had housed the Black Soil River exhibition.

The layout of the main hall was entirely different this time.

The Black Soil River exhibition had been extremely solemn.

The entire room had felt like a hollowed-out pharaoh's tomb, with its dark gray stone and half-open sarcophagus lids. Case after case of cold gold and bronze artifacts had compelled visitors to lighten their footsteps.

The Spice Islands exhibition, however, was intense.

The museum had draped dyed cotton cloths from the vaulted ceiling, casting a shadow over the hall that mimicked the deep gloom of a tropical jungle.

Imitation coconut and banana leaves, a dark and brooding green, were placed along the base of the walls.

The sphinx that had crouched in the center of the Black Soil River exhibition was gone.

Standing in the center of the hall now was a different stone sculpture.

It was a multi-armed deity sitting cross-legged.

Seven or eight arms stretched out from its sides, each hand gripping a different object: a curved blade, a severed head, a small drum, and a string of prayer beads.

Around her neck hung a long string of carved heads, dangling all the way down to her navel. Every head wore a terrified expression.

The deity's tongue protruded, and beneath her feet she trampled a small, prostrate figure with splayed limbs.

Compared to the sphinx with its missing nose from the Black Soil River exhibition, this wrathful idol looked far more terrifying.

Along the walls on both sides ran rows of chest-high glass display cases, just as before.

Coiled serpent bronzeware with flicking tongues;

Sacrificial knives engraved with ferocious patterns, their blades curved like crescent moons;

Skin-covered drums, their surfaces stretched taut and shiny;

And several oddly shaped, polished cups, their rims bound in blackened metal.

Just like last time, the genuine artifacts were locked away in the Storeroom.

This Spice Islands exhibition boasted banners proclaiming "Serpent Gods" and "Human Sacrifice."

The more macabre the items, the more they drew people in.

As soon as the doors opened, a large crowd surged in.

Richard consciously slipped into his working mindset.

He cleared his throat and pointed at the multi-armed goddess standing in the center.

"The moment you walked in, this was surely the first thing you laid eyes on."

The gathered crowd followed his gesture.

"I won't force you to remember her name. You only need to know... she governs 'Destruction'."

"Destruction?" A young gentleman in a top hat raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, destruction." Richard's voice wasn't loud, but it captivated the circle of listeners.

"Count the string of heads around her neck. Exactly fifty."

A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

"She demands blood," Richard said, his tone turning somber. "And not just any ordinary blood."

He led the group further down the row of display cases.

Stopping before the skin-covered drum, he paused.

"This drum looks quite ordinary to all of you." Richard pointed vaguely at it.

"But what's stretched across it isn't cowhide, nor is it the skin of any common animal."

A scrawny boy squeezed to the front and immediately asked, "Then what kind of skin is it?"

"Human skin!"

The smile froze on the scrawny boy's face.

"On the subcontinent, there are priests who specifically pick out the newly dead, flaying them while their skin is still warm to stretch over their drums."

Richard spoke at a measured, unhurried pace.

"They believe that a person's dying breath and the entirety of their terror remain trapped within their skin. When a drum made from such skin is beaten, it summons the deities."

"That... that's just too..." The young gentleman in the top hat shook his head, unable to finish his sentence.

Richard paced over to the odd cups bound in metal rims.

"Now look at these cups."

"They are made from human skulls."

Hearing this, a woman in the crowd hurriedly pulled her child into her arms.

Richard continued his explanation:

"They select a deceased person who was blessed in life and take their skull. They polish it, bind the edges in metal, and use it to hold offerings and sacrificial wine. They believe that by borrowing a vessel from the dead, they can speak to the unseen."

"Would... would the dead person want that?" a little boy nearby asked, his voice trembling.

Richard looked at the child and smiled.

"Good question."

He crouched down to meet the boy at eye level.

"Over there, nobody asks that question."

"Why?"

"Because there is a certain kind of people who, from the day they are born, are never asked what they want."

Saying this, Richard stood back up.

The circle of people all wore complex expressions.

There was horror, discomfort, and a dose of piqued curiosity.

Richard's tone grew heavy.

"The subcontinent has a set of rules."

He reached out and traced a few horizontal lines in the air.

"From the moment a person is born, their caste is fixed. At the very top are those who handle sacrifices and commune with the gods; below them are the warriors; below them, the merchants; and at the very bottom are the farmers and laborers."

"These four castes each have their own way of living and their own duties to uphold, and they can never cross those lines in their lifetime. The son of a farmer is born to farm; the son of a priest is born to perform sacrifices."

Richard drew another, much heavier line beneath the four horizontal lines in the air.

"Outside these four castes, there is another kind of people who aren't even considered part of the hierarchy."

"Not even part of the hierarchy?" The young gentleman in the top hat was curious.

"Not even close." Richard nodded.

"Burning corpses, flaying animals, cleaning excrement, tanning hides... any job considered 'unclean' falls to them."

"The four upper castes all believe these people are filthy down to their very bones."

Someone in the crowd clicked their tongue in amazement.

Richard's words pressed heavily on everyone's hearts, syllable by syllable:

"Their children are forbidden from entering schools. Even if they are dying of thirst by the side of the road, they are not allowed to draw water from the public wells."

The woman holding her child went pale.

"Is that... is that any way for a human to live?"

"Over there, that's just fate," Richard answered softly.

"Life after life, they can never turn things around. That's how it is in this life, and they themselves believe that's how it will be in the next."

Richard paused.

"The altar demands blood. It requires lives 'cheap' enough to fill it, so naturally, they pick from the very bottom. To the upper castes, sending them to the altar is no different from slaughtering livestock."

"Those endless piles of bones..."

Richard tipped his chin toward the human skull cups.

"In life, they were mud beneath the feet of the upper castes. In death, they are offerings upon the altar."

"From birth to death, not a single moment ever belonged to them."

The circle of people gathered in the main hall remained silent for a long time.

The woman finally couldn't bear it anymore. Taking her child's hand, she silently retreated from the crowd.

Richard watched her retreating back, knowing that these concepts were too heavy—so heavy that people didn't want to dwell on them.

But he was going to tell the story anyway.