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Chapter 221 A Long Night

One night later, Ye Qingxuan stared annoyingly at the similarly-ashen Charles. Who had ever heard of sixteen explosions in one night? They were even better at music theory than other students. It must be Charles’ fault.

"Okay, blame me." Charles opened his mouth and blew out smoke from the explosion. "I’ll go stand in the corner for the next test."

"I think I’m going deaf. Let’s sleep first." Ye Qingxuan yawned and felt he was going to pass out.

"I’ve been waiting for you to say that for two days." With a laugh, Charles collapsed onto the ground and soon began snoring.

Ye Qingxuan sighed. He laid a piece of dust-cloth over Charles and crawled onto the broken sofa covered in parts, without caring if it was clean or not. He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

In the morning, Bai Xi kicked the door open and saw that the two were deep in sleep. She curled her lips in disinterest and drew a turtle on their faces, then she took Old Phil out. Today was the one day she had class.

At noon, Abraham visited. Seeing that these two were still unconscious, he shook his head and smiled bitterly. After looking through their music score, he made some small changes, wrote down a message and left to report at the military.

In the afternoon, a rare guest knocked on the history department’s door.

-

"Anyone here?" Bart stood outside and patiently knocked on the door for the third time, but there was still no reply. The ancient building was silent as if no one was there. He furrowed his brows and knocked more forcefully. Creaking, the door…opened.

"Anyone here?" He peered carefully. Seeing the cracks in the wall and the wall shavings in the corner, he wrinkled his nose. What was this weird place? There was also the smell of alcohol in the air, which made his expression even uglier. Had these guys stooped so low that they drunk for enjoyment? Musicians needed absolute quiet and focus. Drinking was like suicide…

Holding his nose, he walked into the living room, which was empty. He waited for a while but still, no one came. Finally, he rose in annoyance, feeling that he was wasting his time.

Coming here to lower himself to the history department was already his bottom line. Waiting for so long was just humiliating. He no longer waited and pushed open the door to Abraham’s library. He tore off a piece of paper and wrote that he would visit another day, leaving his professor’s card.

"Huh, history department," Bart huffed. He took one last glance at the messy library and turned to leave, but after taking two steps, his feet stopped and he froze in place. As if finally dawning on him, he turned around in shock and glanced at the table…at the stack of notes on the table.

He hesitated for a long time before finally gathering his courage. He carefully opened the stack of paper and began flipping through it. The more he read, the uglier his expression became.

In the end, he did not dare to look anymore. He raised the ring on his finger and began recording everything in panic. When he still had a few more pages left, he suddenly heard noise in the basement.

His fingers shook and he speedily returned everything to how it was. Taking back his message, he carefully erased all trace that he had been here. Finally, he opened the door without a sound and ran as if escaping for his life. He sprinted under the blazing afternoon sun, stumbling and muttering to himself, "How is this possible, how is this possible, how is this possible…how is this possible?"

-

"How is this possible?" In the office, Ingmar watched Bart’s video and compared it to his notes, his expression livid.

Over and over and over again…every time he watched, his anger worsened. In the end, he flipped the table in manic rage and roared at Bart, "How is this possible?! How can I be wrong?!"

An invisible tornado enveloped the room. Everything began shaking crazily with almost cracking cacophony. It all fell to the ground in the end.

Bart stood in the corner, trembling in fear, not daring to make a sound. He was thankfully from the School of Revelations, which was not good at destruction. If it was Egor who was raging today, the entire office would be burned to ashes.

After a long, long time, Ingmar finally calmed down. He compared his notes to the video one last time, flipping through the pages. As he flipped past every page, it would crumble. They broke apart soundlessly and scattered on Ingmar’s robe like cinders after a fire. In the end, it seemed as if Ingmar was sitting in a pile of ghastly white cinder. His hands were empty, but his face was as white as skeletons and dead ashes.

"It seems that my direction truly was wrong…" he murmured. His hands shook, veins bulging on his forehead, and he sounded as if he was crying. "Why am I wrong? Why me? Why—"

Bart froze. He heard his professor’s heartbeat—it was incomparably loud and heavy, like drum beats. The drum beats grew faster and faster, pulling him into it. He seemed to see a spinning starry sky, but the stars shook crazily and patches were extinguishing.

When it finally dawned on Bart, his face paled. This was a sign of his sound of heart’s collapse. Bart rushed forward and forcefully shook Ingmar’s shoulders to clear his mind. But Ingmar was like a piece of wood that had no reaction at all. Finally, determination flashed past Bart’s eyes. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed Ingmar’s hand and stabbed it with a sharp pen.

Boom! The air pressure shot up.

Bart was forced away by shockwaves from Ingmar and slammed into the wall. His vision went black and he spat out blood; his arm was broken. The entire room fell to ruins and the building’s alarm went off. Everyone panicked, but the alarm quickly disappeared again.

Everything in the office was dragged to its original spot by an invisible strength. The shattered vase was put back today, the torn carpet was sewn together and the pulverized wall painting emerged out of the dust again. It was as if nothing had happened.

Ingmar was sitting in his original position and his eyes were no longer crazed, but his body was soaked with cold sweat. Not caring about the pain of his hand being nailed to the table, he yanked the pen out. He glanced at Bart, whose arm was continuing to heal, and finally regained his senses. He finally knew what had happened.

"Bart, you are a good student. If not for you, Abraham might have…" He gritted his teeth, his expression becoming fierce as a beast. He sprinkled medicine on his hand, wrapped it and put on a glove, covering the wound.

Bart was still terrified and stammered out a reply.

"You said that no one saw you when you went to the history department, right?" Decisiveness and ruthlessness flashed past Ingmar’s eyes. "Are you sure?"

Bart froze. Understanding something, his face paled even more. Under Ingmar’s heavy stare, he finally nodded forcefully. "Yes, no one knows I was there…"

"Good." Ingmar suddenly smiled. It did not suit his pale face at all and was instead terrifying. "Come to the Musician Union with me in a bit."

Bart’s suspicions were confirmed and his expression became one of fear. "Would they do anything…if they realized?"

"You’re still too young, Bart. Too young and na?ve…" Ingmar looked up. There was a shade of gloomy pity in his eyes. "These things belong to whoever publishes it first."

-

Late at night, a carriage stopped before the clock shop. The man pushed the door open and entered.

"Mr. Bayer?" The blonde youth drinking tea by the window looked up. Shock appeared on his face. "A guest from the Musician Union? How rare. You haven’t visited since you received this position. How can I help you tonight? Are you here to buy something?"

"No need." Bayer waved his hand and smiled sadly. "I cannot afford your products."

"Ah, don’t say that." Hermes shook his head. "I’m well-known for having great things at great prices. If you look carefully, you’ll be able to find something you like."

"Actually, I am here today to ask you to help me appraise something." He sat across from Hermes and pushed over a copy of a black folder. "I think you have some knowledge about this."

"Oh?" Hermes arched an eyebrow. "The experts at your Union aren’t sure? How rare."

Bayer chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "Actually, the scholars of our union and the Sacred City have been arguing over this. When I left, they were still fighting over whether this is qualified research results."

"Oh? Let me see…Voynich Manuscript? After all these centuries, you all still haven’t given up and are still trying to decipher this?" Hermes opened the folder and quickly flipped the pages. He scanned through, not like reading, but rather like confirming something. His gaze grew stranger as he read.

"It really is…interesting! Are you all trying to use weird ways to restore the original because all other paths are impossible? This is a strange side path, but has returned to the correct direction. Let me see the author…Ingmar?" He furrowed his brows. "I’ve met this guy and, quite honestly, I don’t think he has the guts to overthrow all previous theories. Have I misjudged him?"

Joy flickered past Bayer’s eyes. "So you confirm that it’s fake?"

"Tsk, of course it’s real. It’s obvious he started bullsh*tting at the end, but the direction is right, at least." Hermes waved the folder around in irritation. "Congratulations. You’ve found another direction to let you to bullsh*t for a few more decades. What great news. This time, you can bring that old thing out again, knock on it and celebrate. But isn’t it annoying to ring bells every holiday? Why can’t you think of a more graceful method?"

"Sir, please do not joke. That is the Philosopher’s Bell. It’s naturally different from others," Bayer said with a smile. "In contrast, the gates of heaven contain God’s prestige. It does not often show the way."

"Don’t compare my work to that piece of crap," Hermes spat in distaste, seeming extremely vulgar. "Philosopher’s Bell? Psh, it’s clearly like…" He uttered the words very unclearly and Bayer pretended not to hear. He gathered the papers, handed over a large sum of money, and left. Hermes opened the sachet with his pinkie finger. Glancing at the crystal-like things inside with disgust, he called, "Bai Xi!"

"What?" Bai Xi, who was being punished by copying music scores behind the counter, looked up.

"There’s a saying from the East that says students should help when the teacher needs it. I don’t like this thing so take it home for Old Phil to chew on." He tossed the sachet into Bai Xi’s arms. Something seemed to suddenly dawn on him and he revealed a strange smile. "Ah, my association skills are just so amazing," he muttered to himself. "It seems like something interesting is going to happen again soon? I’m so…excited!"