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Chapter 1117: The Light of the Cursed

Roland had designed the laboratory himself, so he knew its specifications on paper. The reality was still impressive.

Thousands of Stones of Lighting drove back every shadow. Their light fell on rock walls plated with lead — smooth, reflective, colorless — enclosing a space the size of a basketball court. There was a particular beauty to it, he thought: not the beauty of ornament but of function made visible. Each plate flush against the last, each seam sealed. The beauty of a thing that did exactly what it was designed to do.

If we lose the Battle of Divine Will, he thought, this becomes an ancient ruin. A different kind of ruin from the underground civilization’s — no grand hall, no murals, no evidence of ritual. Just lead-plated rock and a few thousand dead light-stones, waiting for someone 400 years hence to find them and wonder what the builders feared.

“Probably,” Pasha said, setting him and Nightingale down with the careful precision her tentacles always managed. “But I’ve never felt as certain as I do now that we’ll survive.”

“I believe so too.” He stepped inside.

The laboratory ran in two sections: operation and observation, separated by a concrete wall half a meter thick and covered in additional lead plating. At the center of the wall, a window of lead-glass — Lucia’s work, lead oxide added to the melt. Not as transparent as modern glass. Sufficient.

Celine appeared in the doorway of the operation chamber, her bulk shifting the air in the room as she moved. She had a bolt clamped in one auxiliary tentacle, a ruler in another.

“You’re here, Your Majesty. Did Zooey bring the ancient treasure back?”

“Right here.” Roland set the lead box on her main tentacle and stepped into the operation chamber to look around. “Well? Built to your specifications?”

Celine lifted her tentacles in a gesture that might have been satisfaction. “Mostly. The elevator still needs work.” She studied the box. “But is it truly necessary? If the curse is just a form of light, a regular wall should stop it.”

“In theory.” He turned to face her. “But a regular wall would need to be several meters thick. This room lets us work without that.” He looked at Pasha and Zooey. “The original carriers are more durable than humans, but before we have a thorough understanding of what this Cube does, we follow procedure. Even you.”

“You sound like the president of the Quest Society,” Celine said — not unkindly. “Don’t worry. One of our principles is to follow rules. I’ll be careful.”

Roland nodded. “Let’s begin.”

Celine sealed herself in the operation chamber.

The protocol was simple: all doors closed during experiment, all personnel except the operator in the observation room. Roland pressed himself to the lead-glass and watched.

Through the window, he saw Celine open the box and lift out the Magic Ceremony Cube.

A pale blue light leaked from the stone’s cracks, bending toward the uranium coin on the workstation as though the light had opinions about direction.

“Interesting,” Celine murmured. Her tentacles were already moving over the Cube’s surface — probing, feeling, remembering. “This isn’t activated yet, is it?”

The walls blocked sound. Roland replied through the mental link: According to Sean, the earl touched it after it started glowing. I think the blue light is just an indicator.

“I see.” She wrapped the Cube in her tentacles. Held it.

“What is she doing?” Nightingale asked.

“Feeling it,” Pasha said. “Our tentacles are far more sensitive than fingers. They read texture, density, every dent and hollow. A mind like Celine’s builds a complete three-dimensional model from touch alone.” She extended one tentacle and tapped the glass. “I can see what she’s perceiving right now, if she shares it. Which she is. The Cube is right in front of me.”

Roland filed that away. A psychic network that transmitted not just thought but spatial information — the implications for coordination, for engineering review, for —

“The length and width are almost identical,” Celine said. “Both approximately 15 centimeters. The interior is hollow. And there are seams.” A pause. “It isn’t one piece. The Cube is assembled from multiple stones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hold on. I believe I’ve found the opening mechanism.”

Her tentacles released. A small aperture appeared at the Cube’s rear face — a door that had been there for a hundred years of ownership and examination, seen by no one. The smooth stone had concealed it perfectly.

“How long did previous owners spend on this?” Roland said.

“Decades, perhaps. Without the right kind of touch, you’d never feel the seam.” Pasha sounded pleased without quite saying so. “I told you Celine was the person for this.”

Celine probed the opening carefully. “Your Majesty — a question. Why does it respond only to the coin? The Cube seemed inert for years. I thought perhaps it had exhausted its power, like a spent sigil. But the magic is still present inside.” Her voice shifted, the note of a researcher who has found the axis of a problem. “Is it possible that what this device lacks is simply the element that creates what you call ‘the Glory of the Sun’?”

“That’s my thinking as well,” Roland said. “Try inserting the coin. But take protective measures first — it may activate.”

“Understood.” She moved behind the lead shield — a round disc with four small holes for her auxiliary tentacles. She positioned the coin at the opening.

The stone swallowed it.

The aperture closed.

The blue light at the top of the Cube went dark, then: deep red.

Roland and Nightingale both moved toward the glass at the same moment.

Celine held the Cube for another minute, studying it from behind the shield. Then a beam of red light lanced from the far face of the Cube and struck the lead-plated wall, throwing the whole gray room into a strange crimson cast.

The color of old blood. The color of a warning.

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