"Smack smack smack smack smack smack smack!"
He kissed it firmly seven times, then wiped the dust from his lips—along with an invisible but unmistakable smell.
"Damn it, must've been some bastard who missed the pot when taking a piss."
He cursed under his breath, then hugged the clay jar again, rubbing it forcefully seven times. When he opened his hand, there was a thick layer of black grime.
Still, he let out a sigh of relief—two-thirds of the ritual was finally complete.
"Place it on a high platform." He looked at the table, then glanced around at the nearby bookshelves. Thinking the shelves were higher, he climbed the sliding wooden ladder and placed the clay jar on the top level of the first bookshelf.
"Kissing the jar, rubbing the jar, and loudly chanting incantations—those might be hard to fake. But kneeling and kowtowing... how would the magic jar even know if I did or not?"
With that in mind, he straightened his body and stomped the floor hard. "Boom!"
Then, following the phonetic transcription behind the "Draconic script," he shouted loudly, "Mother, your son is filial! The Faceless Ones are all dumb|asses!"
Boom! He stomped again, and yelled, "Mother, your son is filial! The Faceless Ones are all dumb|asses!"
Just like a foreigner speaking broken Chinese, he stomped seven times and shouted seven times.
But the magic jar didn't react at all.
"Knew it—it's a scam." He got a little angry and prepared to climb up and smash the jar, but when he saw the wet imprint of his lips on it, he felt incredibly unwilling to give up.
"Maybe… I didn't follow the correct ritual?" He went back to the table again and carefully reread the text in the secret record.
"Since it's related to the God of Death, maybe the magic jar can sense my spiritual energy?" he pondered, rubbing his chin.
After a moment, he clenched his teeth, knelt straight to the ground, and slammed his forehead onto the floor. "Thud!"
Solid.
"Mother, your son is filial! The Faceless Ones are all dumb|asses."
But even after seven hard kowtows, the clay jar still didn't react.
Ashamed, furious, and frustrated, he still couldn't bear to give up so easily: I've already paid such a heavy price, I'm not even asking about the God of Death's forbidden techniques anymore—at least I need to figure out if the magic jar is real or not!
With that thought, he quickly came up with a reason for his failure: the whole activation ritual was meant to be continuous, but he'd broken the flow trying to be clever.
So, he climbed back up the ladder, took down the jar, cradled it in his arms, and leaned in to find a spot that didn't smell as bad. "Smack smack smack..."
With a solemn expression, he rubbed it seven more times and wiped off a handful of fine black grime.
After setting the jar in place, he knelt on the floor, banged his head seven times, and loudly chanted seven times: "Mother, your son is filial! The Faceless Ones are dumb|asses."
Then he lifted his head—and was stunned. Tiny golden sparks were gathering at the jar's mouth, gradually merging into a pool of crimson glow. The whole book cellar grew significantly brighter.
He stared, entranced by the crimson light, as two crystalline tears slid down his cheeks. He murmured, "Finally… Heaven does not disappoint the determined. I did it!"
"Did what, exactly?"
A shrill voice suddenly echoed from inside the jar. Then, to his utter shock, a hazy figure drifted out from the mouth of the jar like smoke and mist. Crimson light followed it, making it look like a spirit from within the vessel.
"A spirit of the magic item!!" he blurted out.
So that's it. The magic jar has a spirit. No wonder it demands authenticity— he suddenly understood.
As the red glow faded, he finally got a clear look at the spirit on the bookshelf: it wore a scholar's gray robe, stood weightlessly atop the jar, stood about 1.6 meters tall, hunched over with a cane in hand. A snow-white beard hung down to its chest, and its face—
There was something off about its face. The spirit's face was ghostly pale, as if covered in thick makeup. Makes sense, he thought. This old scholar probably died thousands of years ago. A dead man's face would be pale, of course.
The scholarly spirit had messy silver hair, reading glasses perched on its nose, and a ridiculously long necklace hanging from its neck—probably the longest necklace he had ever seen.
Though a spirit, the scholar's appearance was nearly lifelike. Even the material and color of the necklace were clearly visible—gold, silver, red copper, white gold, black iron… and those seven smoky-black chain links connected together? That was Valyrian steel, the metal of magic and arcane knowledge!
Gods, he thought, seven links?
No doubt about it—this was a wise and highly knowledgeable old scholar.
Though the whole thing seemed to last forever, it all happened in a flash. After all, he was a Faceless One, with exceptional observation skills.
"You there, boy. Are you an apprentice? How could an apprentice with just a silver link be qualified to enter the book cellar?"
The magic jar spirit suddenly floated in front of him, nearly scaring him into drawing the dagger strapped to his elbow.
"My name is Petyr. I'm Dr. Wograve's assistant. The doctor isn't mobile, so he sent me down to retrieve a book for him."
As a top-tier Faceless One, lying came naturally. The words slipped out seamlessly—logical and believable.
Whoosh! In a flash, the jar spirit drifted back to the jar's mouth and asked suspiciously, "Wograve? Never heard of him. By the way, little Petyr, what year is it now?"
"Year 299, Aegon's Calendar."
The old scholar's sudden movement left "Petyr" marveling at the wonders of spirit magic. And his curiosity about the "God of Death's forbidden techniques" grew even deeper.
"Aegon? Who's that? Why would the years be counted in his name? I remember the Seven Kingdoms always used the Valyrian calendar," the jar spirit asked curiously.
"Ah, senior spirit, there's much you don't know…"
"Petyr" then briefly summarized the major events of the past four hundred years.
"Oh dear… Valyria actually fell?!" The jar spirit sighed with sorrow, then grew excited. "If the age of magical civilization is truly over, then maybe… my 'Real World' dream can actually come true!"
"Real World?" Now it was Petyr's turn to look utterly confused.
"A world with no magic, no glass candles, no prophecy, no dragons—not even gods. A purely material world."
"What—" Petyr was stunned. "That's… that's impossible. Doctor, have you gone mad?"
"What does a mere apprentice like you know?" The Pot Spirit cast him a scornful glance and said proudly, "The grand ideals of the Academy City are beyond the comprehension of ordinary people."
"Peter" shook his head and sighed. "Let's not even argue whether the 'real world' is truly real or not. But there are dragons now, and magic, and gods—and Doctor, you've turned into a pot spirit yourself. The Academy City can't keep living in its own fantasy!"
"Hmph, silly little apprentice. Do you think a dignified demigod like me would talk nonsense?" The Pot Spirit sneered. "The magic tide is stirred by dragons. Now that Valyria has fallen, all we need to do is slay Aegon's three dragons, and the world will surely enter an age without gods or magic."
"S-Slay the dragons?" Peter stared in disbelief. "Wait, what did you say? You're a god?"
"Not a true god. Just a mere demigod." The Pot Spirit didn't seem to notice Peter's mention of "Blood of the Dragon, Dance of Madness." He lifted his chin and asked proudly, "I am the renowned 'Lord of the Underworld,' Hades of Essos. Boy, have you heard of me?"
"So you're Hades!!" Peter was clearly shocked. "But weren't you called the 'Fire Demon'? How did you become the 'Lord of the Underworld'?"
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"Haha! So even mortals know my name now!" The Pot Spirit laughed smugly.
"Uh, Doctor, I only saw your name on a scrap of parchment…" Peter said awkwardly, pointing to the pieces of parchment laid out on the table.
"What?"
The Pot Spirit suddenly floated over to the table. After reading the content, he murmured thoughtfully, "'Fire Demon' was just the title I used at the start of my career. After I unlocked the mysteries of life and death, I called myself the 'Lord of the Underworld'—Hades. Boy, judging by your expression, are you after my forbidden Death Arts?"
"Is that possible?" Peter asked, full of hope.
The Pot Spirit kicked off the table, floating above the magic pot like a wisp of willow, and coldly replied, "Of course not. Not for you, a fake apprentice and a true Faceless Man. Even a real Academy scholar wouldn't get my secrets."
"What!!" Peter took a step back. His right hand, hidden under his sleeve, gripped a dagger. "You… how do you know my identity?"
"Hahaha! I'm a demigod who's mastered the secrets of life and death!" The Pot Spirit's voice suddenly rose—sharp, high-pitched, piercing. Even the air rippled with energy.
In an instant, Peter felt a crushing pressure radiate from the spirit—it was as real as a physical force: the aura of a Dragon Soul.
So the spirit's identity really wasn't ordinary. Maybe he was an all-powerful demigod.
Peter's mind raced, and he shouted, "Wait! I have something to say!"
"Hmph! No words can save you!" The Pot Spirit still spoke harshly, but the awe-inspiring pressure around him—like a dragon's might—vanished.
"Doctor Hades, Aegon the Conqueror's three dragons died long ago. And over a hundred years ago, the Academy carried out a dragon-slaying campaign. The Targaryen dragons are practically extinct."
"Nonsense!" the Pot Spirit roared. "You were able to activate the magic pot, and I could manifest my soul form in front of you. What does that tell you? It tells you the magic tide is surging again. It means dragons still exist!"
"You're right, Doctor. There are dragons in the world."
Peter's respect for the demigod spirit grew, and he explained slowly, "Dragons did go extinct for a while, but two years ago, the exiled princess Daenerys hatched three dragons from stone eggs."
Then, he recounted the tale of the Blood Dragon Rebellion, the War of the Usurper, and the Rise of the Dragon Queen.
In the end, he concluded: "Doctor, the Faceless Men share a common goal with you and the Academy—to kill the Mother of Dragons and her dragons. There's room for cooperation between us."
The Pot Spirit nodded thoughtfully. His tone softened as he asked, "Boy, what's your name? I know you Faceless Men hate using real names, but don't try to fool me."
"Jaqen H'ghar," the Faceless Man said in his usual raspy voice.
As they say: Yang Guo's aunt, Arya's uncle.
Jaqen—wasn't he Arya's mysterious mentor and lover?
Shit, in this timeline, shouldn't he be in Braavos training Arya? What's he doing on a mission from the Academy?
Daenerys was shocked at first, then quietly smug.
Jaqen, oh Jaqen...
Tricking Jaqen felt way more satisfying than tricking those nameless, faceless nobodies.
Jaqen, my boy—watch how Mother treats you!
"Jaqen, tell me—why do the Faceless Men want to assassinate the Mother of Dragons? What a silly name, by the way."
"The Faceless Men accept contracts. We take payment to kill. We don't ask questions." Jaqen replied coolly.
"Don't give me that nonsense." Daenerys, disguised as the Pot Spirit, waved him off with contempt. "See the necklace around my neck?"
"Yes." Jaqen nodded, puzzled.
"Count the platinum segments."
"Uh, five segments?" Jaqen's sharp eyes only needed a glance to count the chain rings around the Pot Spirit's neck.
"Platinum represents political science. Are you mocking me for not knowing politics?!" the Pot Spirit shouted.
(End of chapter)
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