Miss Tyah's husband was clearly a member of high society, or rather, he never thought he wasn't.
An expensive lamb's wool rug was woven with a gold and black human figure. It stood on a high platform, holding a scepter in its left hand, with a scorching Sun above its head.
The Sun God.
For most locals, this chief deity, who had always represented light, warmth, and growth, was being casually trampled underfoot by Mr. Sheikh.
Opposite the sofa was a larger circle of guest sofas, and on the black long table, two amber-colored liquids, half a bottle of wine, and a small pile of brown-yellow Donegal tobacco were placed.
Mr. Sheikh held his pipe, and the swirling gray smoke was filled with the rich, heavy scent of tulips.
When the man's mismatched eyes stared forward, there was a very deliberate sense of seriousness. As his eyes strained, his eyebrows moved up and down, like a Joker in a circus comically winking at Children.
At this moment, his face looked as if he had gulped down a glass of high-purity Scotch whiskey. Intense red and purple climbed up his old face from his neck, and he tremblingly raised a finger to point at the person opposite. As his teeth clattered, he spat out incomplete words and a wisp of faint smoke.
What surprised his ugly face was the information he had just heard.
"Are you sure? Mr. R?" he stammered, confirming again, instinctively sitting up straight. "You have news of 'there'?"
The man called Mr. R wore a sharp suit, his sandy blonde hair parted 70/30, revealing a receding hairline, and a pair of black-framed, tinted sunglasses hung over his eyes.
Even through the lenses, his ambitious gaze could not be hidden.
"Of course." Mr. R gripped his cane and tapped the carpet. "My troops are elites."
"Then, now..."
"Now you need to give me that thing you mentioned." Mr. R interrupted. "I need to prepare for both scenarios. According to records, there should be records from that time left in Hamunaptra. If my troops can't find them, I'll have to go to Hamunaptra myself to see."
"Hamunaptra..."
"City of the Dead..."
"Realm of the Dead..."
Sheikh murmured to himself.
For a man born and raised here, the legend of Hamunaptra was all too familiar.
Over the past forty-plus years, he had countless times seen treasure hunting teams confidently ride camels into the vast desert, facing the sky-obscuring sandstorms, and then disappear forever.
Perhaps some lucky few escaped from the land of death, their clothes in tatters, selling off their possessions to survive—if they still had any then.
Eventually... they even had to sell themselves.
Otherwise, the local prisons and human trafficking black markets wouldn't be so bustling.
—Rather than calling it the City of the Dead, it would be more accurate to say that the dead came from the relentless treasure hunting expedition members.
Beneath the yellow sand, corpses were everywhere.
Sheikh exhaled deeply. "I recently acquired a batch of antiques, which included items sold by a treasure hunting team—oh, according to that man, it was treasure he found beneath the yellow sands of Hamunaptra."
"He said he found Hamunaptra," the man sneered, tapping the outside of his pipe with his stubby finger. "Who knows. Tyah?"
Standing by like a maid, Tyah walked over in small steps, holding a multi-faceted box which she handed to Sheikh. As their fingers touched,
Tyah visibly trembled.
Mr. R's smile grew wider: "Your wife truly loves you, Mr. Sheikh. Few women still tremble when touching their husbands. I heard you've been married for over a decade?"
Sheikh smiled coldly at Tyah. After the woman lowered her head and retreated with a bow, the man turned back to respond to Mr. R's teasing.
"No, I'm the one who wrongs my wife. She gave me all her love, and I... I have to spare some for these little trinkets." He said emotionlessly, holding up the multi-faceted metal box in his palm, tossing it up and down.
Mr. R's gaze behind his sunglasses also moved up and down with the trajectory of the iron box.
Sheikh smiled.
Another large sum of money.
"So..."
One finger.
"No, five million at most." Mr. R shook his head. "My American expedition members are experienced fellows. Recently, they found a guide—he's been to Hamunaptra."
"So, your worthless box..."
Sheikh smiled and waved at Tyah. After the woman walked over, he placed the multi-faceted box back into her palm.
"Keep it safe, Tyah."
Mr. R's slender eyebrows converged towards the center: "Sheikh, you know my price. This time, it can't be that much."
"Eight million."
"Six million. I need to bring people to verify it tomorrow."
"No problem! I'm on standby all day! Mr. R." The man's mismatched eyes narrowed. After putting his pipe back in his mouth, he gave a crooked, comically exaggerated military salute.
"Only at times like these do I see your smiling face, Sheikh." Mr. R stood up, leaning on his cane. Seemingly in a bad mood, he strode away without waiting for Sheikh to see him off.
After the loud slam of the door, the living room fell silent.
Sheikh sat on the sofa, his left hand pinching the index finger of his other hand, caressing the ornate ruby-encrusted ring.
"Tyah, we've earned another six million..."
"If I sell off my country's treasures, will you look down on me?"
Tyah stood far away, trembling, at the end of the carpet. Beneath her long black robe, only her scarred, pale feet were visible. As she lowered her head, her messy black hair finally spilled out from under her headscarf.
"No... no, Sheikh... please..."
"Please..."
"No, even if you say no, you must be cursing me in your heart, right?" Like a sudden change of face, the recently polite gentleman's lips flattened in an instant, and his cold pupils were empty.
The ornate, colorful chandelier illuminated the somewhat empty living room.
"Kneel down, crawl over!"
His thick fingers tapped his knee, the old spot. In the third drawer of the coffee table, a modified, simple gun capable of firing needles lay there.
Beneath the blood-stained handle were several large bags of special needles, an inch long and extremely fine.
In Sheikh's view, this low-force shooting wouldn't cause completely penetrating damage—probably?
It would only embed the needles in her flesh, and then this woman who looked down on him would have to walk around with the deeply buried needles.
For example, stand in her favorite library for a morning? Perhaps even buy some cheese on the way back.
Reading books?
Books are useless, you pretentious bitch.
"Kneel!"
Tremblingly she knelt, her black-robed head low like a dog's, knees serving as legs, palms braced on the carpet, crawling step by step towards Mr. Sheikh, who was sprawled on the sofa.
"Good doggy."
Sheikh bared his teeth, his index finger lifting Tyah's chin: "Thirty years old, these past years, do you hate me?"
The self-talking man didn't want any answer. He gazed affectionately at the woman lying like a dog at his feet, his rough hand gently caressing her face, her neck, her ears—every inch of skin, every raised scar.
"You are truly beautiful, Tyah..."
"I want you to be my wife forever..."
The woman shook her head frantically, tears in her eyes: "No, no... don't do this..."
She saw the man's hand reach for the gun.
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