Return of Salazar Slytherin

166- Eyes in the Water Drops

In an inconspicuous old apartment on the outskirts of Cairo, Egypt, the bedroom light remained on even in the dead of night.

A middle-aged, portly man with a large belly sat at his desk, writing furiously.

Under the dim light, line after line of polished nonsense filled the parchment. In the small room, the only sounds were the scratch of the quill on parchment and the man's heavy breathing.

Clearly, staying up late to write a stack of bureaucratic reports was an unpleasant task.

After finishing an entire page of empty formalities, the man pounded his fist on the table.

"The reimbursement process just gets dumber by the day! Any expense over thirty Galleons requires a top-level sign-off—might as well just say they don't want to reimburse it! Expenses under thirty Galleons don't need top-level sign-off, sure, but they must be through the 'trusted vendors' on the organization list, and there must be price comparisons from at least two suppliers. Vigo, that control freak, is seriously insufferable!"

Full of resentment, the man muttered under his breath, "What's so great about Vigo anyway? If I had her family background, I'd have unlocked my domain by now…"

"Every single day, it's either a hygiene inspection or a cleanliness check. Only someone with no real skills would be obsessed with cleanliness. And soon that wretched woman will be here for an inspection again—another few days of production delays! The whole inspection's a show; every tool in the drawer has to be labeled and listed by quantity. Ha! Could you make our lives any harder?! She's coming, which means I'll be working overtime again. This year's Christmas vacation? Gone. Just brilliant!"

"Changing things constantly, piling all the pressure on those below. Hmph! When an organization starts obsessing over hygiene and cleanliness, it's probably doomed. Heaven help us, someone, please just get rid of that wretched woman!" The man muttered, stuffing the form labeled Parchment Purchase Request into a pile of documents in the drawer.

After venting, he felt a bit better. Stretching, he leaned heavily into his worn-out office chair, which let out a loud, unpleasant creak.

He picked up his wand and pointed it at a coffee pot nearby. Steam began to rise, and soon a cup of frothy coffee was brewed.

The small cup of coffee floated gently to his desk. Instead of drinking it right away, the man rubbed a ring on his index finger.

The ring was ivory-colored and unadorned, appearing at first glance to be just an ordinary band. But on closer inspection, it became clear the ring was made of bone.

"My future… all depends on you," he murmured, staring at the ring.

If he could merge with the remains of a deity, he could escape this wretched swamp and rise to the true upper ranks of the secret society. And if he one day attained a domain of his own like Lord Capricornus, he could teach that madwoman Vigo a real lesson of adults—grind her down beneath him mercilessly.

It was evident the man harbored deep resentment toward his immediate superior, Vigo.

Tick-tap!

Just as he was obsessing over his ring, a sudden drop of water dripped onto his neck, jolting him.

The man looked up in shock and saw countless tiny droplets forming on the ceiling.

"This is Egypt, for crying out loud—" he muttered, only to realize something was very wrong: within each water droplet on the ceiling, he could faintly see an eye!

"!!!"

Instinctively, he grabbed the nearest object—a coffee cup full of coffee—and hurled it at the ceiling.

The cup shattered on impact, sending fragments all over the room, and coffee splattered across the ceiling, leaving a large stain.

He collapsed back into his chair, one hand gripping his wand tightly, while the thumb of his other hand nervously rubbed the deity's bone ring on his index finger.

The scent of coffee filled the room, and he sat there panting, staring intently at the ceiling, his heart pounding.

But the water droplets filled with eyes had vanished, as if it had all been a hallucination.

"Hah… haah.. huff.."

Could it be that he'd overworked himself into hallucinating? The organization had records showing that prolonged exposure to relics of divinity could indeed cause hallucinations.

According to the regulations of the Esoteric Order, he should now remove the bone ring from his finger, close his eyes, and rest, refraining from observing any relics for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.

But…

The man recalled what Capricornus had once told him: moments of hallucination presented the best opportunity to attempt fusion with a relic. It was extremely risky, but fortune favored the bold.

He made up his mind, removed the ring, clenched it tightly in his fist, and began trying to fuse with it.

Minutes ticked by, the scent of coffee in the room gradually faded, and the man's nerves slowly settled.

The water droplets with eyes on the ceiling felt as if they really had been nothing more than his imagination.

During his attempt to fuse with the relic, he didn't notice that nearly a hundred bead-sized drops of sweat had surfaced on his skin, each drop with the eerie semblance of a tiny eye.

Several hours later, as the first light of dawn appeared, the man reluctantly opened his eyes: he hadn't managed to fuse with the relic.

"Cough! So thirsty…" he muttered, feeling parched. But he thought little of it; spending the night in the desert often had that effect.

He picked up a glass of water and drank it in one gulp.

But that small amount of water didn't satisfy his need at all; he was still desperately thirsty, as though all the moisture in his body had drained away.

The man drank every available liquid in the room, but his parched mouth felt no relief. Frustrated, he went to the kitchen and turned on the faucet, but the pipes seemed blocked, with not a drop coming out.

Utterly disappointed, he decided to go to the local division of the Order, where there would be plenty of water.

He lit the fireplace, threw in a handful of Floo powder, and vanished in a flash of green flames.

Emerging from the division's fireplace, he hurried toward the storeroom, knowing that the lot of rascals here had stashed a fair amount of alcohol in there, and now was the perfect time to put it to use.

"B-Boss?!" a voice full of horror rang out. The man turned impatiently, seeing one of his subordinates, and waved him off, wanting to be left alone to drink.

But the subordinate didn't leave.

Instead, his face filled with fear as he stared at the man: the leader standing before him had turned into a moving corpse, a shriveled, dried-out husk—a moving mummy!

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