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Chapter 239 A Scholar’s Execution Ground

Half an hour later, it was the school board’s internal meeting. Only Ingmar and the old man who had hurried over were in the conference room.

The old lawyer, who had served many families, sat behind the table with his fingers clasped. He quietly gazed at the panicking Ingmar with a cold and serious expression.

"Mr. Ingmar," he said in a low voice. "I shall represent the school board and once again perform interrogation regarding the interpretation results of the Voynich Manuscript. Is Abraham’s plagiarism report valid or not?"

Ingmar seemed not to hear him. He stared at the table and muttered something, his spirits entirely shaken. "Impossible…how could it pass…I clearly…that Abraham…"

"Ingmar!" The old lawyer suddenly slammed the table. The loud sound caused Ingmar’s shoulder to shake as he slowly looked up. "Do not avoid the question and face the school board’s interrogation! Did you plagiarize Abraham’s results or not?!"

Seeing his furious face, Ingmar seemed to see the shocked and stunned expressions of the noble school board members. His expression changed and, after a long while, he suddenly chuckled. It was incomparably mocking.

"Does it still matter to you if I plagiarized or not?"

The old lawyer’s face darkened. Without another word, he picked up his folder and left quietly.

Only Ingmar remained in the silent conference room. He looked at the empty seats before him in the stillness. Broken laughter sounded once again; it was both evil and carefree.

Until a sigh sounded behind him.

A seemingly familiar voice rang in his ears. "Now, there is no way out for you all, other than supporting me—that’s what you think, right?"

The laughter cut off abruptly.

Ingmar’s expression stiffened; he looked back with difficulty but only saw a crow. The crow looked at him too; its eyes seemed to be looking at dust.

When the crow perched on his shoulder, his body bent under the light figure. Its pressure was too heavy.

The crow said, "You think that the parliament has entered the path of no return and will support you to the end, right?"

Ingmar’s finger trembled and his facial muscles twitched, but he did not reply.

"Congratulations, you’re correct," the crow said lightly. "We’ll support you even if you did plagiarize. Ten days later, the Musician’s Union will openly verify and debate the charges. The parliament will use our connections to help you win. Are you happy?"

Happy? Ingmar felt no joy but rather a chill go down his spine. This was the chill of having all his secrets revealed and laid out under the sun. And the oddness of the parliament’s generous blessing…were they not angry at all?

"You…" Ingmar gulped and tried hard to speak but his voice trembled. "What do you want?"

The crow sighed as if helpless. It was lamenting on an idiot. "Ingmar, you should know that what makes you proud is meaningless to us," it said. "If you want to talk about money with us, you can leave now. The parliament won’t make any deal with you. But you can’t leave, right? You know better than anyone that once you exit this room, no one in this world will be able to save you."

Ingmar’s shoulder trembled. He wanted to stand up and leave but the crow was perched on his shoulder. It was such a light crow but its weight bent his spine. He did not dare to rise…because he knew that if he showed the slightest bit of protest, everything would be over. His future, his accomplishments, his everything would all be buried in darkness.

And he would follow.

And so he lowered his head submissively, voluntarily putting on an invisible chain.

"Indeed, the parliament has wasted a large amount of resources on you through the years," the crow said lightly. "I’m sure you know that even a Resonance level musician can be hired by the parliament. It’s only a matter of money. The parliament never fears to pay any price, Ingmar. We do not fear any price.

"We think highly of you because there aren’t many scholars who are skilled in explaining ancient texts. Coincidentally, we need you to explain a certain thing at a certain time and help guide our path. You know that there are still many replacements, many…so don’t do any other stupid things and test our patience, alright?"

"Guide?" Ingmar was covered in sweat. "Guide what path?"

"Didn’t you already guess it?" The crow laughed. "The Blood Path on the back of this city, Ingmar. Now is the time for you to know but you’ve already guessed a lot, haven’t you?"

Cold sweat dripped down Ingmar’s face, dropping on the ground and evaporating. In the end, he closed his eyes and said through clenched teeth, "I—I will help you."

"Ingmar, it’s not you who is helping us, but us who is helping you," the crow murmured in his ear. "Now you can open your eyes. Take a look at your friends."

Ingmar’s finger shook. He opened his eyes in confusion and could barely breathe.

The quiet conference room had become filled with newcomers without him realizing. Not a single seat was empty. Sharp eyes gazed at him; they were chilling and terrifying.

Hundreds upon thousands of birds had flown in without a sound. They filled every corner and looked down on him.

"Welcome to the parliament, my friend." The crow laughed meaningfully. "Welcome to the true core of the country."

-

In a suburban manor of the Burgundy capital, hurried knocking sounded.

A messenger knocked on the door of a library and called, "Master Barthélémy, master Barthélémy!"

The knocking lasted for half an hour before the door was opened angrily. The old man behind the door had messy hair and unruly clothing. This was definitely not the look for meeting guests, but he glared at the messenger as if looking at someone who had intruded on his territory.

"Shut up!"

The library behind him was filled with ancient books but they did not smell of mold, thanks to the careful maintenance. The books contained strange wedge-shaped words and were overflowing with an ancient aura. But his research had been interrupted, so the old man was abnormally angry.

"I’m at the critical point of my interpretation. Didn’t I say that no one can bother me? Do you not understand the lingua franca?"

He had been studying the Emerald Tablet passed down from ancient musicians for more than a decade. This was an ancient book of first generation music theory, apparently taught by the gods.

Now, after overcoming many difficulties, he had finally found a clue, and was in the midst of excited studying, but had been interrupted by a guest. Even a cultured fellow would be furious.

Even though the guest was a messenger from the Musician’s Union, he still berated him until he had vented all his anger and glared. "You better have a good excuse. Otherwise, even the Musician’s Union won’t be able to enter my home. Never!"

"I am only here under an order. Please understand." The messenger instantly felt weak. Smiling dryly, he offered a letter from the Sacred City.

Barthélémy angrily snatched it, tore open the letter, and tugged out a piece of paper.

"Plagiarism?"

Barthélémy was stunned. He could not help but furrow his brow. Of course he knew about the interpretation of the Voynich Manuscript from a few days ago. Though it had not been officially published, he had many students who worked at the Sacred City. He had received a copy the third day.

One must admit that though it seemed illogical. The interpretation was undoubtedly a masterpiece. A portion of it had given him new inspiration for the Emerald Tablet. He had never thought that such a masterpiece would have this problem…

When he finished reading the report, his anger had already dissipated. All that remained was shock and melancholy.

"Ingmar and Abraham? Why…why do something like this?"

Scholars who were obsessed with deciphering history usually stayed away from quarrels and disvalued honors and titles. Most were not complicated; in fact, they were usually na?ve.

To them, their research was everything; academics and theories were life. Something like plagiarism was the mortal sin. That was why Barthélémy was so despondent after hearing of this.

"What a pity." He invited the messenger into the library. After pouring tea, he was silent for a long while before taking off his glasses and sighing. "I understand the Union’s intentions. Do they want me to attend the appraisal as an appraiser?"

"Correct." The messenger nodded.

But Barthélémy’s worried look grew richer. "I chose to become a scholar with a Starry Eye once I entered the Resonance level because I detest fighting and hurting others. I can’t believe now you want me to be the executioner."

The messenger was stunned. "Master, what do you mean?"

"You don’t understand." The old man shook his head bitterly. "To a scholar, their research and study is like breathing, and their results are life. No matter what the final result is, one of these two scholars will ‘die.’ To a scholar, this is not an appraisal but an execution."

After a long pause, the messenger hung his head. "I was presumptuous."

"You are not to blame. In the end, this is a matter of the academic world and must use the academic world’s methods to solve. Who else can play the role of the executioner other than us old fellows? You must have sent an invitation letter to Sergey, correct? That guy has such a fiery temper. He will definitely agree."

"Yes." The messenger nodded. "There are five in total who were invited. Other than you and master Sergey, there is also Miss Lola Caput from Anglo, master Heisenberg of the Rock Institute, and a great master of ancient Eastern runes who is staying in the Sacred City."

"Ancient Eastern runes?" Barthélémy was stunned. "It’s been lost for so many years but there is still someone studying it?"

The messenger replied honestly, "It’s a scholar from the East. He arrived in the Sacred City half a year ago. Not many know about his identity and I only know that his surname is Hu. The cardinal refers to him as Sun."

"I must be ignorant." Barthélémy nodded and thought for a while. "When do we set off?"

Hearing that he was willing to attend, the messenger was instantly overjoyed. "We’ve prepared the fastest light-rail carriage and a ship. You can arrive in Anglo within six days."

The Musician’s Union knew that Barthélémy rarely left his home and was not used to planes, and had therefore prepared the fastest route. Barthélémy nodded in accord. After setting the time of departure, he sent a servant to see the messenger out.

When the representative of the Musician’s Union left, Barthélémy sat in his library and sighed helplessly after a long time. He was no longer in the mood to continue researching.

"What a pity. I almost had a breakthrough for the Emerald Tablet…" Shaking his head, he took off his glasses. He wanted to go out for a walk but ran into the servant who had quickly returned.

"Sir, you have an urgent letter." The servant offered him the letter that he had just received.

"Letter? Who sent it?" Barthélémy accepted the letter but there was no name on the envelope. There was only the trace of a wax seal.

It was the silhouette of a crow.