"Did you get it?" Salomon asked, looking up. He was hiding in a secluded alley in Serin Town with the panting Wong. He ignored the stench of garbage and vomit littering the alley and eagerly asked Wong.
"This… this is my first time stealing something." Wong patted his chest repeatedly, as if trying to calm his heart, which threatened to leap from his throat. The act was far too exciting for him. But when he took a deep breath, the stench in the alley choked him, and he retched uncontrollably.
"Actually, our actions were more like robbery," Salomon blinked innocently. He reached out and patted Master Wong on the back. "I hope there aren't any cameras recording you. Otherwise, the next time you go out, you might find a few police officers. Given your race, they might shoot at the slightest provocation. So I suggest we prepare protective spells before going out. What? Me? Don't worry, I always cover my face. Oh, I regret choosing this place. It stinks."
Nearby, the crowd, whose vision had just begun to recover from the blinding light, continued to clamor, and Ricky White began to shout. Even though he couldn't see clearly, the sensation of his ring being snatched from his finger was unmistakable. A chubby hand had grabbed his wrist, forced his palm open, and the ring—a White family heirloom—was gone. Ever since he wore it, he'd never suffered misfortune. Whether sharpening pencils as a child or shaving as an adult, his skin had never been scratched.
Now, Ricky White's wrist bore a purple bruise—possibly the worst injury he had ever suffered.
A senator publicly stripped of his pants and robbed on the street carried different weight. The former could be dismissed as a joke—politician scandals are universally celebrated—while the latter was a matter of personal safety. The situation escalated quickly, and Salem police apprehended everyone present, including journalists who were still appealing for press freedom, oblivious to the danger.
Salomon and Wong had escaped harm by leaving early, but continued wandering in Salem would have led to their discovery.
"Here it is," Wong finally caught his breath. He opened his palm and spoke in a muffled voice, "Right here."
It was a platinum ring with a large pink gemstone. The base of the gemstone was patterned in a grid, flanked by two smaller round pink gemstones. Between the oval and round stones were four smaller pink diamonds of a darker hue. Using his limited knowledge of gem identification, Salomon determined they were likely pink diamonds. The gems alone made the ring immensely valuable—perhaps even surpassing the Queen's pink diamond flower brooch.
"Alright, I think we can leave now. Give it here," Salomon said. While he knew how to use portal magic, they hadn't arrived via portal but by bus—a necessary limitation. He couldn't use many of Vishanti's spells until he had accessed a significant amount of Vishanti's magic.
Wong poked his head out of the alley, ready to lead Salomon out. He couldn't bear to breathe through his mouth any longer. He waved for Salomon to follow, but received no response.
A chill ran up his spine, goosebumps spreading across his skin. This feeling was familiar; he had experienced it once before, during the ring retrieval, and again at the British Museum.
"I knew it wouldn't be this easy," he muttered, just as a loud crash behind him threw him forward. Clambering up, brushing fallen leaves from his face, he saw the alley had widened, and the stone bricks at the entrance looked shattered. Salomon, clutching his head, dodged through the alley as bricks rained down from above. Something formless vented its fury, seeking to crush everything in its path—including Salomon.
Passersby screamed, and police, distracted, rushed to the scene. Wong ignored them, shouting, "Come out! Salomon, come out!"
"No!" Salomon glanced around. A skeletal ghost, dressed in old-fashioned clothes and shrouded in pink magic, charged at him. He rolled, avoiding the sharp bricks.
"Pagan! Thief! Warlock!" The ghosts' rotting faces were expressionless. They screamed in voices inaudible to ordinary humans, "Return what you stole from our family!"
"Hello!" Salomon raised his middle finger, retaliating mentally. Of course, he had no time to chant any spells. The ghosts were unrelenting, slamming bricks into his back.
Amid falling debris, Wong rushed in, tucked Salomon under his arm, and ran out of the alley.
"Are they still there?" he asked, legs aching.
"If… if you let me down… I can… kill… them!" Salomon gasped, every word a squeeze on his abdomen.
"Gently, gently, let me down!"
"No! Not here!" Wong stammered. "We can't expose magic…"
"I… I thought… Kamar-Taj… wasn't… the Ministry of Magic…"
These ghosts were no ordinary spirits. Unlike the selfless, deformed ghosts in the British Museum, these were housed in a ring. They drew power from it to protect each generation of the White family. Their strength was immense. They smashed windows, shattered asphalt, and overturned cars as they pursued Salomon and Wong.
But every ghost has a weakness. Fire, lightning, and even magical physical attacks could harm them.
"This is it," Master Wong said, running to a sparsely populated area nestled between two abandoned buildings, chosen by Salomon himself. He dropped Salomon off, gasping. His lungs burned, and nausea made breathing nearly impossible.
"Bang!" Salomon slammed to the ground. Wong's earlier maneuver had nearly shaken his brain. He ignored the pain and dust, focusing on chanting a spell.
For the first time, Salomon truly appreciated Kamar-Taj's melee training—it taught him to work through pain. Casting spells under duress was second nature.
He prepared his favorite spell: a homing attack of primal magical energy, guaranteed to strike unless blocked.
"Magic Missile!"
-End Chapter-
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