PSW Chapter 40: Come Pick Me Up

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🍊 Chapter 1-105(End)

Az is a highly skilled thief.

He had an unfortunate yet unremarkable childhood. His mother and father were both slaves to a noble family, with little sense of family ties and even less affection—just like two animals in a pigsty, coming together instinctively in the spring.

The noble masters had no time to concern themselves with such matters. The chief steward had his subordinates, and they would never report something so trivial just to get scolded. Slaves mating was nothing unusual, as long as it didn’t interfere with their labor.

So, when Az was born, he was just another child among the slaves.

Back then, the one on the throne was the old king, and Egypt was far from stable.

One day, soldiers stormed in and arrested the noble family that owned them. Every servant, including the high and mighty stewards who never spared the slaves a second glance, was executed.

Ironically, the slaves were spared because they could still be sent to the quarries for labor.

Little Az, with his oversized head and thin neck, was driven forward under the whip like a spinning top—until his master took him in.

Az walked along the barren mountain path, stepping past stubby, grayish-brown shrubs. He tightened his grip on the heavy "cargo" strapped to his chest. As instructed by his employer, he deliberately left traces behind as he moved deeper into the wilderness.

Az had the standard broad shoulders and narrow waist of an Egyptian man, but he wasn’t particularly tall.

When his master first took him in, it was because he was small, thin, and looked agile. But he never grew into the ideal frame his master had hoped for. By the time Az reached adulthood, the old man had no choice but to accept it—after all, he had raised the boy for ten years.

Before his death, his master warned him repeatedly: "Never take jobs involving nobles. You’ll get yourself killed."

For years, Az had followed that advice. The only exception—well, that one got him tangled up with the Pharaoh himself.

"Master, I did listen to you! I never took a noble’s job, right? I just took a job related to the noble of nobles! Heh, once I succeed, we’ll be famous! I’ll reclaim your title as the number one thief…"

Az grinned as he trudged forward, struggling under the weight of his burden.

The mountain paths were treacherous. His foot slipped on a patch of slick grass, nearly sending him tumbling. Fortunately, he was nimble—he staggered twice, then dug his toes into the soil to regain his balance.

Worried about damaging his cargo, he instinctively reached up to steady it. But instead of touching something hard, his fingers sank into something incredibly soft.

"Whoa! What the—oh, right!" He smacked his forehead. "I totally forgot about you!"

Remembering something, Az quickly ducked into a hidden thicket, setting his cargo down carefully. He reached into his chest wrap and pulled out a black cat. The creature lay motionless, looking dead.

Frowning, Az licked the back of his hand and held it up to the cat’s nose.

When he felt the faintest whisper of cool air, his tense face finally relaxed into a smile.

"You tough little thing—still alive!"

He set the cat, Bastet, down in the grass and carefully untied the cloth wrapping his burden. From his pouch, he retrieved a shriveled waterskin and a small tin box containing ointment meant for women.

Uncorking the waterskin, Az pried the cat’s mouth open and tried to drip in some water. At first, the stolen cat couldn’t swallow, and most of the liquid spilled out. But Az was experienced—he poured slowly, letting the water moisten its lips little by little.

After a while, as if revived from the brink of death, the cat’s tongue flicked out to lap at the moisture, swallowing bit by bit.

"Heh." Az chuckled. He wet his fingers and wiped down the black cat’s face, even dabbing a drop onto its dry little nose.

"Looks like you weren’t meant to die today. Those damn nobles—sick bastards, all of them! They love torturing people, and now they’re starving a cat to death? To hell with them!"

Cats and dogs were tough creatures with strong survival instincts. This one was still young, but who knew how long it had been starving to reach this state? Az, who harbored deep resentment toward the aristocracy, spat on the ground. Seeing the cat’s breathing grow steadier, he pried open the tin of ointment.

Using his fingernail, he scooped out a tiny bit of the creamy white substance inside. It had a texture like lard.

Looking at the minuscule amount in his fingers, Az’s dark-skinned face twisted in pain. Then, sighing, he peeled the cat’s mouth open and smeared the ointment inside.

Sniffling mournfully at the loss of his precious medicine, Az muttered,

"My master left this to me. There’s only a little left! He said he bought it from a foreign merchant with black hair and black eyes. Something about… ginseng? A thousand years? Bah, whatever—it was expensive!"

He finished tending to the cat and bundled it back up, grumbling,

"You better repay me like my master’s black lion did, got it?"

Bastet remained unconscious and, naturally, didn’t answer.

But Az, a man with a rough exterior and the soul of a comedian, leaned in as if listening. Then, grinning as though he had received a response, he declared,

"Got it? Good! You’re gonna be my partner in crime. From now on, your name is… Black Ghost!"

He patted Bastet’s spine and, satisfied with his naming skills, cheerfully resumed his trek.

Little did he know that if Bastet were awake, the cat would have only one word for him:

Damn.

If the feline could speak, it would probably say:

"I’m cursed! Everyone I bond with gets their love life wrecked! And now you’re calling me ‘Black Ghost’? Do you want me to jinx you to death with a single sip of poisoned milk?!"

Az wouldn’t believe it. He simply cradled his stolen cat and merrily carried on with his mission.

He had always admired black lions. His master once owned a black cat with not a single speck of white fur—just like the one in his arms.

Back in the day, his master nearly claimed the title of Egypt’s greatest thief, all thanks to that uncanny black cat.

To Az, Black Lion was no ordinary feline. Its intelligence, the way it observed people—it was almost human.

His master never took a job without the cat. As a thief, sending a cat to steal something was easier than breathing.

It could stand watch, cause distractions, or snatch small items. His master used to tie a rope around the cat’s waist, toss it into rooms, and have it bring things back.

Nobody ever suspected a cat.

And so, his master never failed.

He often boasted about the day he snuck into a noble’s house, only to rescue a half-dead black kitten out of pity.

That kitten later became the infamous Black Lion.

After Black Lion's death, his master lost both his spirit and his best assistant, which led to the title of the greatest thief being taken away. Even on his deathbed, he regretted never finding another cat as intelligent as Black Lion.

Today, when Az discovered a dying black cat in a cage while stealing, he was instantly reminded of his master's story about meeting Black Lion. The memory flashed before his eyes like a barrage of messages on a screen!

Az stared at the black cat with a complicated expression.

A noble’s mansion? Hmm.

A tortured black cat? Hmm.

A second Black Lion? Hmm!

Az: Hehehe, this must be heaven’s way of giving me a chance to become the number one thief!

Feeling delighted, Az took the cat away.

Meanwhile, a certain Pharaoh who was dreaming of petting his cat: …

As Az hurried along, he occasionally checked on the black cat's condition. When he noticed the cat’s chest rising and falling more visibly, his eyebrows shot up with joy.

But something was odd. The cat seemed alive, yet it wouldn't open its eyes or make a sound, as if trapped in a deep slumber.

Maybe I’m overthinking it, Az thought. He assumed that his medicine had saved a life, and for some reason, he felt a sense of pride, like he was a walking sun god!

Unbeknownst to Az, the book of the dead wrapped in cloth at his chest silently reacted.

The cover, which was once a tightly shut pitch-black stone door, soundlessly opened…

Although it was supposed to be rigid and unchangeable, the cover now looked like a moving screen. The stone door parted, revealing the back of a black cat sitting in front of it. The scene changed slowly and eerily, more unsettling than a silent film. The cat hesitated for a moment but ultimately stepped through the twin stone doors.

Once it entered, the illustrated gates of the underworld on the book’s cover creaked shut without delay, cutting off the world of the living from the realm of the dead…

Elsewhere.

The Old City Lord’s Mansion.

Dawn was approaching. A piercing cold breeze crept into the room, making the golden-lit chamber appear as if shadows were pacing back and forth, sighing in sorrow.

Yofar stood in the very center of the council hall, his arms hanging naturally at his sides. Clad in a battle robe and armor, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, resembling a stone statue listening to divine oracles.

His flawless face, the edges of his armor, and his platinum-blond hair reflected a faint glow, like dewdrops on flowers before the morning sun.

It was undeniably a breathtaking sight.

But before anyone could admire its beauty, they should first notice the blood dripping from his strong, slender hands and the several assassins at his feet, their bones shattered beyond recognition.

There was no trace of maids in the room—only rows of personal guards kneeling from the hall to the unseen depths beyond the doors. Closest to the volatile king were Nephthys and a select few others.

Two high priests, the old city lord, and Breton lay prostrate on the ground. As for Sok and Abelius, who had lost the Book of the Dead, they had already been dragged away to face punishment.

Those kneeling trembled slightly, trying to erase from their minds the image of their strikingly beautiful Pharaoh—his once-gentle smile twisted with cruelty as he methodically, piece by piece, crushed the assassins' bones with his bare hands.

The most beautiful things in the darkness are often the most terrifying.

Like a lifelike doll.

Like a portrait’s smiling gaze that seems to follow you…

He wasn’t human.

The man on the throne—no, the monster! He was a demon!

Tears and sweat streamed down the old city lord’s pale, wrinkled face as he pressed his forehead to the ground, his entire body trembling. The echoes of the assassins' screams and pleas for mercy still clawed at his ears.

He wasn’t the only one afraid.

Everyone in the hall, including the two high priests, trembled in terror. They felt as though a feral beast had torn through Yofar’s skin and was now prowling before them, its hungry drool dripping onto the floor.

As the old city lord silently mourned his seemingly inevitable death, Breton, Nephthys, and Hesse, however, waited.

The others didn’t know, but they had followed the king for a long time. They had witnessed his wrath before. He had already vented his anger. Now, as he stood there motionless, it meant he was restraining himself.

Every king had some degree of mental instability, and theirs, due to past events, had countless triggers for rage and bloodlust.

But as long as he could suppress it, they would survive.

As expected, after a while, the oppressive aura that felt like a blade against their throats faded slightly.

Nephthys stole a glance and saw that Yofar had opened his eyes. Winter's chill burned in his ice-blue gaze.

But the crimson veins in the whites of his eyes had receded.

Nephthys, Breton, and Hesse silently exhaled in relief.

“Nephthys…”

Yofar called her name, but his gaze was on his bloodstained hands, held up before him.

His fingers trembled—not from fear or exhaustion, but from excitement.

He wouldn’t be able to hold back for long. He had already failed.

Nephthys' heart pounded at the husky tone of his voice. She replied softly, “Nephthys is here.”

“Bring me Bastet.”

Yofar half-closed his eyes. Through the narrow slit of his gaze, light flickered like fire in an ice storm.

“I want to see it now.”

Nephthys hesitated. “My king, Bastet is not with me. It was entrusted to High Priest Hesse.”

Yofar turned his gaze to Hesse.

Hesse, utterly dumbfounded, looked up, his usually stern face wrinkled in confusion. “It’s not with me either. I saw Breton’s group carrying it.”

Breton, now realizing the storm was about to hit him: “...Wait—no—! We brought Bastet to the city lord’s mansion and handed it over to a servant. What? That servant wasn’t one of ours?”

Nephthys: …

Hesse: …

Yofar’s bloodstained fingers twitched.

Nephthys: …I have a bad feeling about this.

Hesse: …What a coincidence. So do I.

Breton: ???

The old city lord, who had been oblivious to the situation, was stunned for a moment upon hearing this. Then, as if suddenly realizing something exciting, he lifted his head abruptly and exclaimed with joy:

"King! I know! I know where that cat that bit you is!"

Yofar furrowed his brows, his gaze landing on the old city lord. Nephthys and the others also looked over, their expressions complicated.

The old city lord, as if seeing a chance to redeem himself, eagerly continued,

"That damn cat that dared to scratch and injure you! As the most loyal city lord of Dis in Lower Egypt, how could I not make it suffer? Rest assured, I have already ordered the servants to lock it up in the side hall, and I even had the door sealed! There’s no way it could escape! Oh, and I made sure the servants cut off its food and water supply!"

"The wretched cat dared to make the great you bleed," the old city lord spoke excitedly, failing to notice the way Nephthys and the others' faces darkened drastically.

"Haha, if I count correctly, this should be the fourth—no, the fifth day already! It must have starved and died of thirst by now. I know you were furious over that black cat, but don’t worry, I took care of it. Starving to death is the most painful way to go—it must have suffered enough to avenge you!"

"Oh, my King!" The old city lord crawled forward a few steps on his knees, tears streaming down his aged face as he pleaded pitifully, "Please, do not be angry any longer. Take care of your health! Look at how loyal I am—wait, why… why does your face look so pale?"

"……"

It’s over.

It’s completely over…

Nephthys and the others, who understood the significance of Bastet to the king, turned deathly pale. None of them had the courage to look at Yofar’s expression.

Yofar lowered his head slightly, as if deep in thought—or simply silent.

Soon, he moved.

He walked up to the old city lord and crouched down. The metallic clang of his golden armor rang in the silent chamber.

His pale, slender hands—possessing an unnatural strength—settled on the old city lord’s shoulders. The old city lord looked at his king’s curved eyes with confusion, not realizing how bloodshot they were.

To be treated in such a manner by the king… Could this mean the king was about to help him up?

The old city lord grinned, full of anticipation, gazing at Yofar’s smiling face.

"Starved to death?" Yofar’s voice was hoarse.

"Yes, yes, exactly," the old city lord nodded eagerly. "Starved to death—there’s no way we could let it off lightly!"

Yofar’s lips curled higher. "Hunger is painful, do you know that?"

"Of course! Haha, but thirst is even worse! Those who die of thirst suffer immense agony, pushing themselves to the brink of madness! At the time, I had a stroke of genius—so, to avenge you, I…"

"Immense agony—"

"Very good."

"Very good."

Yofar suddenly lowered his head and let out a low, muffled laugh, his shoulders shaking with amusement.

Hearing this laughter, Nephthys and Breton clenched their jaws tightly.

They knew—today, no one was escaping.

The only one unaware was the old city lord himself, still hoping for the king’s favor.

After laughing enough, Yofar patted his shoulder. "Tell me where it is."

"Ah?" The old city lord blinked in confusion. "That… I left it to my servants to handle, so I don’t know which abandoned room they locked it in. Wait a moment, I’ll call for them."

"You don’t know?"

"The city lord’s mansion has many unused rooms."

"Hm. Then you're useless."

"…Huh?"

Before the old city lord could react, he saw the reflection of a man with blood-red eyes in his pupils.

The next second, a sharp pain tore through his neck.

He struggled, his expression filled with disbelief as his body collapsed to the ground. Deep indentations marred his throat, his bulging eyes frozen in shock. He had stopped breathing.

The old city lord’s lifeless body lay still, and the council chamber once again fell into silence.

The man in golden armor—Yofar—slowly stood up and strode toward the exit, leaving his back to everyone.

"My King…"

Nephthys, filled with worry, stood up to follow him, only for Yofar to suddenly turn around. His expression was so dark and twisted that she froze in place, terrified!

"Kneel."

Yofar’s cold gaze bore into her.

"I once trusted you, Nephthys. But you are no longer worthy of that trust. Do not follow me. If you do, I will kill you. Leave, before I lose control."

With those words, he turned and left, his flowing cape slicing through the air like an irreparable wound. His platinum hair spilled from beneath his crown.

Nephthys stood frozen, watching his retreating figure, her grip tightening around her staff until her knuckles turned white.

No longer trusted?

For the High Priest who served the King, this was equivalent to a death sentence!

Her strength drained, Nephthys leaned on her staff and slowly knelt to the ground, trembling as she closed her eyes.

Meanwhile, Yofar strode forward, ordering his soldiers to seize the old city lord’s servants. As he rushed toward the abandoned room, a memory surfaced in his mind—

In his dream, the small, warm black ball nestled in his arms, rubbing against him affectionately.

It had spoken to him—

"Yofar, why haven’t you come to get me yet?"

"Come get me."

"If you don’t… I won’t blame you…"

____

[Author’s Note: Small Theater]

Bastet: Will you still come for me?

Yofar (red eyes): Would a golden war chariot do?

Bastet: Hmm… Alright, I forgive you.

[You are its only one—don’t let it become a regret.]

T/N: Please give support on my ko-fi page, thank you🍊🍊🍊