PSW Chapter 39: The Irreplaceable One
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Obtaining The Book of the Dead of Osiris wasn’t as difficult as imagined.
When the old city lord reported the matter, Yofar had already dispatched several squads from the capital. They quickly subdued the tomb raiders. The only reason the old city lord couldn't retrieve the Book of the Dead from the auction house was because the owner of the auction house in Tiglith had a rather complicated background.
Someone well-connected. A neutral force that neither side could easily afford to offend.
No one could resist the allure of the legendary Book of the Dead. Before Yofar arrived, the auction house owner stubbornly denied ever receiving such an item. He even went as far as sending people to hunt down the tomb raiders to silence them.
Merchants—greedy, yet afraid of death.
So, when reliable sources confirmed that the Pharaoh himself was leading troops to reclaim the treasure, the auction house owner immediately abandoned the Book of the Dead on the premises. Alongside it, he left a parchment scroll filled with a heartfelt tale of how he had acquired a precious artifact and wished to offer it to the Pharaoh as an act of devotion.
In reality, he didn’t even dare to show his face. He fled overnight with his closest subordinates.
Gazing at the so-called “life-saving wealth” left behind, a displeased Yofar ordered his men to retrieve the Book of the Dead and returned to the city lord’s mansion with an expressionless face.
Securing the book had only taken two days.
The reason they hadn’t left Lower Egypt immediately afterward was that the team needed to replenish supplies. Moreover, as King, Yofar had to deal with tedious and uninteresting political affairs.
During this time, his mood took a sharp downturn. The once-bright sense of satisfaction he had felt plummeted, his happiness already as lifeless as a corpse.
Each day, his strikingly handsome face darkened further, his piercing blue eyes seemingly capable of skewering people like a blade. If looks could kill, his gaze would have left bodies in its wake.
A suffocating, deathly pressure emanated from Yofar—a fog of terror spreading from him to every courtier in his service.
The tension peaked on the third night.
The elegant Pharaoh woke abruptly from his sleep. Instinctively, he reached toward the foot of his bed—only to grasp at empty air.
Nephthys and the others immediately felt the weight of an even greater impending crisis. It was as if a monstrous beast lurked nearby, ready to bare its fangs and rip off their heads at any moment.
Nephthys muttered to Hesse, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Hesse: “…” Shut up, you fool with prophetic visions!
As if determined to prove just how powerful the High Priest’s bloodline was, Nephthys’ premonition came true almost instantly.
That evening, the old city lord had prepared a banquet as usual. However, this time, he took the advice of his favored servant and arranged for several enchanting dancers to perform—hoping to please the young monarch.
As the voluptuous women swayed their hips with flirtatious smiles, Nephthys' left eyelid twitched violently.
The lead dancer, twisting her body seductively, gradually made her way toward Yofar. With a soft gasp, she accidentally stumbled forward—falling straight into the Pharaoh’s embrace.
But before she could even hit the ground—
A gleaming blade moved even faster than her descent.
Yofar, on the brink of an outburst, pivoted into a low crouch. In a single, fluid motion, he snatched the sword from the waist of a nearby guard. The cold steel flashed as it spun in a deadly arc. His ice-blue eyes were filled with a chilling, murderous intent.
The sword’s reflection gleamed against the platinum strands of his hair, highlighting the delicate adornments resting on his forehead.
"Slash!"
A beautiful head flew far through the air, landing with a bounce before rolling across the expensive carpet, leaving a crimson trail in its wake. The now headless body became a fountain, spraying blood from the gaping wound. The fresh splatters soaked half of Yofar’s pristine white robe.
The music and dancing ceased abruptly, as if someone had pressed pause. Everyone stood frozen in shock. Until—
“AAAAHHH—!”
The dancers the city lord had hired let out piercing screams and scrambled away in a panic. The city lord’s attendants clung to their master, trembling in terror, their faces pale as if about to faint at any moment.
Even Nephthys, Hesse, and the rest of the Pharaoh’s closest guards shuddered at the sudden, gruesome scene.
Yofar lowered his gaze.
His long, golden eyelashes cast a shadow over his icy blue eyes, darkening them with a chilling gloom.
Tall and broad-shouldered, yet lean at the waist, he stood with half his robe drenched in blood. One hand still gripped the dripping sword. With an air of arrogance, he stepped over the corpse and walked toward the old city lord.
The room was brightly lit by countless lamps and torches. But to the city lord and Yofar’s attendants, it seemed as if they were seeing a massive, shadowy beast pacing behind their king. Its breath reeked of darkness, saliva dripped from its fangs, and its beastly red eyes gleamed with restless bloodlust.
It longed for a slaughter.
“You.”
As everyone—especially the city lord—braced for Yofar’s sword to cut him down, the Pharaoh simply said:
“Do you keep cats?”
The city lord, who had been mentally preparing for death: “…”
Nefis and the others: “…”
The city lord: What?!
A drop of blood dripped from the hem of Yofar’s robe. The city lord jolted back to his senses, shoved his servants aside, and prostrated himself. His voice trembled as he repeatedly exclaimed, “Yes! Yes! I do!”
Oh my god, he thought. At a time like this, even if I didn’t, I’d say I did!
At this, Yofar’s expressionless face curved into a chilling, almost nightmarish smile. He tossed aside his sword and left the banquet, trailing a path of bloody footprints.
Nephthys, Hesse, and the others quickly followed. They exchanged glances, seeing the same grim expressions mirrored in each other’s faces.
The moment they arrived at the royal bathhouse, Yofar dismissed them. After bowing and withdrawing, they regrouped in a corridor.
“The king’s temper is getting worse,” Breton sighed.
“No, it isn’t,” Abelius replied indifferently. “Wasn’t he always like this? The king is strong. That’s all that matters.”
“That’s different, Abelius.”
Nephthys' beautiful face looked weary, her eyes heavy with concern.
“You haven’t noticed how the king has changed. You weren’t in the palace before. I’ve always worried that his strictness and sharp edges—his utter lack of compassion—would become a fatal flaw. During wartime, his ruthlessness made him fearless, but when ruling a nation, that kind of leadership is dangerous.”
“…Fine.” Abelius crossed his arms and shrugged, though his expression showed he still stood by his belief.
Breton remained silent, but his thoughtful gaze showed he was on Nephthys' side. He was not just a warrior—he considered things carefully, long-term.
Hesse and Sok were also present. Sok, ever the loyal soldier, didn’t participate in the discussion. He simply followed orders, fought battles, and left the thinking to others.
“I used to agree with Abelius,” Hesse suddenly said in the quiet. “I believed the king should be emotionless, that he should cast aside all feelings and rule with harsh precision. Even if he executed ministers and servants without mercy, it would be justified.”
“But in truth… I was wrong.”
Hesse met their gazes frankly. “When I was reflecting before the statue of Ra, an elder priest spoke to me. He shared Nephthys' concerns. I argued fiercely against him, but then he asked me one question—”
“He said: ‘Would you rather see a once-bustling street reduced to a place where frightened citizens cower at the sight of armed soldiers, or a lively marketplace where hardworking people proudly sell their harvests, smiling with hope for the future?’”
“I…” Hesse hesitated, then admitted in a low voice, “I realized… I want to see the latter.”
“…”
Abelius uncrossed his arms, pressing his lips together. Breton and Nephthys exchanged small smiles.
Nephthys clapped Hesse on the shoulder. “Well, look at you, Hesse. You finally figured it out.”
Hesse looked uncomfortable, grunting in response.
Nephthys chuckled and then murmured to the others, “Over the past few months, the king’s temperament has softened—just a little. He punishes people less severely than before, and he even smiles more. And all of this… is because of—”
“The king’s cat!” Breton’s mind flashed with the image of a black cat.
Nephthys nodded. “Yes. The cat he raised—her name is Bastet. But Bastet scratched the king before… Now, suddenly, the king has reverted to his old self, maybe even worse. I think it’s related.”
Abelius waved a hand dismissively. “That’s easy then, Nephthys. Just say a few nice words and bring the cat back to him.”
Hesse and Breton nodded in agreement. But Nephthys fell silent.
As if I even need to say anything, she thought. The king never actually blamed that little creature. He’s just too stubborn to admit it.
Still…
“Let’s wait. Just for a day.” Nephthys shook her head. Bastet’s influence on the king was undeniable. But she wanted to see whether it was truly that cat, or if any cat could have the same effect.
After all, Bastet was with Hesse now. She wouldn’t suffer.
Nephthys glanced at Hesse and smiled.
Hesse frowned, confused. He assumed this troublemaker was teasing him again, so he didn’t respond.
Meanwhile, in the abandoned chamber where she had been kept for four days, Bastet unknowingly missed her one chance at survival.
…
Nighttime, the King's Temporary Palace.
The old city lord personally delivered a cat to Yofar.
Yofar sat expressionlessly at the edge of the royal bed. His double crown gleamed, and his cold, pale skin seemed to have a translucent glow. Shadows played along his eye sockets and lips, making him resemble a statue of a god in the night—lofty and sacred, yet carrying an indescribable darkness.
His ice-blue eyes were half-lidded as he stared at the unfamiliar cat in the center of the room.
This cat, vastly different from Bastet, had long, milky-white fur, making it look soft and fluffy. It was quite adorable, with heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one green.
But the cat did not approach him. Instead, its fur bristled slightly, its four paws firmly planted on the ground as it watched Yofar with vigilance.
Yofar liked cats, but he had never raised one before.
Nephthys and the others assumed it was due to allergies, but they were unaware that Yofar had the same issue as Sok—cats simply did not like him.
Perhaps cats, being sensitive and spiritual creatures, could see through a person's sins, the blood on their hands, and the monstrous spirit lurking beneath their skin.
No one knew that every royal member, the product of generations of close-kin marriages, harbored some degree of psychological illness and twisted tendencies—utterly devoid of morality and ethics, their corruption repulsive to the core.
For instance, the previous ruler had been in love with his own mother.
For instance, Yofar could not control his thirst for blood.
No matter how well they masked it, they were merely hideous beasts masquerading as humans.
Yofar stared at the cat for a long time before finally speaking:
"Come here."
His voice echoed in the dead silence of the chamber.
"Meow—!"
The beautiful cat was startled by the sudden command. It arched its back, fluffed up its tail, and let out a warning hiss, its mouth emitting a sound akin to a serpent's breath.
Yofar frowned and ordered again, "Come here."
The cat hissed, "Hsss!"
Yofar looked at it and softened his tone. "Bastet, come here."
The cat: "Hsss!"
Yofar: "..."
Without another word, he simply stood up and stepped toward it, intending to pick it up.
But as soon as the cat saw him rise, its long tail fluffed up like a feather duster. Letting out a sharp wail, it bolted like it had seen a ghost, disappearing into an unseen corner.
"...You see it too, don't you?"
Yofar's lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes were terrifyingly cold.
In Egypt, it was said that a cat's pupils held the light of the sun, capable of illuminating a person's sins and true nature.
Yofar gazed at the creature, witnessing the same reaction he'd seen countless times before, and let out a chilling laugh.
"It’s always the same."
Everyone thought that Yofar had chosen Bastet, that he had finally found a cat he liked—a divine feline companion.
But in truth, Bastet was the first cat that had ever refused to run away from him, the only one that had dared to puff up its tiny chest and meow at him in defiance, still demanding affection.
This was not a case of a ruler choosing a pet.
It was the pet that had chosen its master.
"...Tomorrow, bring it back from Nephthys."
Yofar gazed at the empty, silent palace, whispering to himself. Then, he ordered the servants to take away the cat, laid down on his bed, and closed his eyes to rest.
That night, in his dreams, a certain little black cat flicked its tail at him smugly, its soft meows full of reprimands for taking so long to fetch it.
Yofar picked it up, kissing its tiny nose. The familiar, soft little creature brought an unusual tenderness to the sleeping young Pharaoh’s face.
But tonight was destined to be anything but peaceful.
Yofar was abruptly awakened by a commotion. He immediately turned over, grabbing his robe and draping it over himself as his guards pounded on the door and rushed inside, forming a protective barrier around him.
"My King!"
At the doorway, Nephthys and Hesse hurried in, their clothes slightly disheveled. Only when they saw that Yofar was unharmed did they let out a breath of relief.
"My King, a group of assassins has stormed the gates of the city lord’s mansion! Flaming arrows were shot at the rooftops! Abelius and the others are fighting them off!"
"Are they insane? Attacking the city lord’s residence so openly?"
"We don’t know yet. We’ve already killed several of them."
"Who do they belong to—?"
Yofar was still listening when his expression suddenly darkened. Grabbing his sword, he strode out the door without hesitation, ignoring Nephthys and the others calling after him.
The guards followed closely, barely able to keep up as Yofar made his way straight to the room where the Book of the Dead was kept.
That chamber, once used for housing sacred statues and prayers, was now heavily guarded by Yofar’s elite soldiers. Sok, Abelius, and the others took turns watching over it.
By the time Yofar arrived, the guards looked tense but were still standing their ground, adhering to his orders.
"My King!"
"My King—!"
Nephthys and the others arrived just a step behind him. Ignoring their salutes, Yofar swung his sword, slicing through the chamber’s lock and storming inside.
The moment he saw the empty pedestal before the sacred statue—and the stone tiles removed from the roof above—his ice-blue eyes instantly turned blood-red.
_____
[Author’s Note: Mini Theater]
Nephthys: "You were supposed to take care of the cat."
Hesse: "???!"
Nephthys: "The cat isn’t with you?"
Hesse: "WTF, NO! Don’t talk nonsense!"
Nephthys: "..."
Yofar: "You’re all dead."
The cat is fine, really. This is just the turning point for a transformation. Yofar assumes Nephthys was taking care of the cat, since Nephthys is usually sharp. But… this was an accident. And a breakthrough in their unique bond. Don’t panic! Next chapter, our cat lord makes a grand entrance!
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