Chapter 9: The Tarnished Gem

As soon as the two had left the palace and taken a few steps, they suddenly heard voices behind them. Boy turned around and saw Lachris striding toward them with a small attendant.

Though it was said he was striding, that was only in reference to Lachris’s fierce demeanor; his legs barely supported such a description, Boy thought, and couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you laughing at?” Lachris frowned, sensitive as ever, instinctively tugging at his tunic.

Boy suppressed his smile and said casually, “I’m not laughing, Your Majesty must have misread.”

Lachris scrutinized him, increasingly convinced that the man harbored no good intentions.

“Why are you out of the palace?” Boy glanced at the palace behind Lachris. “Have you finished the lessons I assigned you?”

At the mention, Lachris’s anger flared, “You lied to me. That’s clearly the temple!”

Boy looked down on him with a careless smile, “Oh? Whose words did Your Majesty believe this time?”

Lachris pointed to the small attendant by his side, “Todd.”

Boy followed his finger to the attendant and asked, “Are you assigned by the temple to serve His Majesty?”

In principle, attendants would not have the opportunity for education unless they belonged to a powerful faction. Judging by how both the Temple and Merit treated this young pharaoh, the power group was undoubtedly the Temple.

Todd was momentarily stunned and said, “Yes, I was a junior priest at the temple before.”

Boy nodded knowingly and tilted his head toward Lachris, who had found some courage, saying, “You see, essentially you just trust the temple. How is this different from trusting High Priest Nophis? It’s the same shortsightedness.”

Lachris stiffened but after a moment found his voice, “Then you must have some basis for me to believe you. Why should I trust you otherwise?”

Boy retorted, “Then why do you trust the temple?”

Lachris was about to answer, but Boy cut him off, “Because the temple helps you? How do you know Queen Merit won’t help you?”

Lachris scowled, “How could Merit possibly help me?”

It was well known that Merit suppressed him in nearly every way; otherwise, he would not have started schooling at the age of ten.

Boy raised an eyebrow, “Then who put you on the throne as pharaoh?”

Lachris gritted his teeth, his dark golden eyes fixed on Boy as he spoke slowly, “If I could, I wouldn’t want this cursed position.”

Outside of court sessions, the palace gates were quiet. Boy and Lachris stood at the entrance, attracting frequent glances from the guards on watch.

Boy crossed his arms and laughed lightly, “You should be grateful the gods don’t give mortals too many choices. That’s why you have the chance to stand here and complain to me, instead of lying on a chopping block like a dead pig.”

He reached out, intending to tap his hand on Lachris’s shoulder, but withdrew it before contact, “If you can’t even reach the bread hung around your neck, that’s your problem. If your brain’s useless, you can return it to the gods—if they are willing to take it back.”

Lachris thought Boy’s previous words were humiliating enough, but now this.

His blood surged instantly, flooding to his head, yet strangely, despite the extreme emotion, he noticed Boy’s slight disdain as he withdrew his hand.

Such a short time, and I’m already used to it, Lachris thought.

He even felt Boy was right—how terrifying that he found himself accepting such humiliation from a mere slave.

Boy turned and walked in the intended direction, his face clearing of any trace of emotion within just a few steps.

If the man beside him were Xia Xing, he would know Boy’s deep hatred for those born in Rome who still complain about heaven’s injustice.

Of course, Boy rarely showed it; before everyone, he always maintained a fair and courteous attitude toward guests—his professional demeanor.

Soon, footsteps sounded behind them again.

Amant cautiously observed his lord’s expression, pondering whether to speak.

His deliberate behavior caught Boy’s attention. “Want to say something?”

Avoiding the gaze of the two behind, Amant secretly gave a thumbs-up. “Lord Ai, I understand deeply why the queen values you so much.”

To dare mock the pharaoh so openly, Lord Ai must be the first in history.

Ai lifted a corner of his mouth, “That’s the benefit of following Queen Merit.”

Amant looked admiring, “I’ll work hard.”

Behind them, Lachris followed thoughtfully, Todd trotting at his side, lowering his voice, “Your Majesty…”

He wanted to suggest sending this cursed slave to the Medjay, but recalling the last time the pharaoh’s words, he restrained himself and changed his approach, “Queen Merit’s people are truly arrogant, utterly disregarding Your Majesty.”

Lachris glanced at him indifferently and withdrew his gaze, thinking, all slaves, yet such a gap.

The two pairs walked one after another. Before leaving the palace, Lachris removed his crown. Because he was dressed plainly for lessons, aside from his finer and slightly whiter clothes, there was little difference from others.

The guards at the post watched for a long while. Seeing the pharaoh leave the palace, they hesitated and asked a colleague, “The pharaoh’s leaving. Should we arrange for someone to follow?”

The colleague thought for a moment and whispered, “No need. Queen Merit probably doesn’t like us meddling.”

Merit never restricted the pharaoh’s departure; many speculated she perhaps hoped something unfortunate would befall him outside the palace.

Of course, she never showed it openly; others only dared to whisper behind her back.

“Fine, since the pharaoh didn’t ask for a guard, let’s pretend we saw nothing,” a guard said.

Due to environmental and material limitations, Egyptian houses were mostly built with sun-dried bricks made from mud mixed with straw, low in height—at most two stories.

Artisans placed their tools and wares at their doorsteps, while others hurried toward the market with baskets on their backs.

Boy had been in the palace since crossing over; this was his first time seeing everyday life in ancient Egypt.

If one had to use a single word to describe it, it was poverty.

Mud houses, no roads due to the desert, no urban planning—houses of similar style appeared disorderly and chaotic. Perhaps because of recent rain, low-lying areas were waterlogged, full of puddles and mud.

Passersby wore veils to shield against the perennial dust and sand, their sun-darkened skin and gaunt frames visible beneath their linen garments.

Boy recalled the guide saying that during harvest, Egyptians tended their lands; otherwise, they worked on building pyramids, obelisks, and temples.

Pay was meager—two sparse meals of porridge and bread, and some rudimentary beer.

From a modern perspective, this place did not resemble the golden dawn of a dynasty, but rather a neglected, backward frontier.

Passing another muddy patch, someone stepped through, splashing mud about.

Boy closed his eyes, summoning all his willpower to resist detouring around.

With no roads here, every path was the same; to avoid the mud would only make him stand out like a performing monkey.

“Your Majesty, shall we return?” Todd didn’t understand why the pharaoh was following that slave.

Lachris didn’t look at him, “Shut up.”

Todd pouted but dared not argue, obediently following his sovereign.

Lachris quickened his pace to stand beside Boy, his gaze scanning his face inquisitively. “As far as I know, you’re a slave by birth. Where is your homeland?”

He was curious what kind of country could produce someone like Ai—bold, audacious, sharp-tongued, yet undoubtedly thoughtful and philosophical beneath the surface. No one had ever spoken to him like this.

There were no slaves in Egypt itself; the existing slaves were prisoners of war and their descendants.

“Strictly speaking, we aren’t in a position to discuss this calmly,” Boy said.

He didn’t know where Ai was from, but indeed, there was little common ground between descendants of the defeated and the rulers.

Lachris raised an eyebrow, “True. After all, you’re the descendant of losers. Losers don’t deserve names.”

Boy looked at him calmly, thinking this kitten still hadn’t learned a thing.

“But unfortunately, you haven’t inherited any virtues of the victors,” he said, his gaze lingering on the boy’s crown of hair, a pointed hint.

If this were a modern person, they would know not to trade barbs with a notorious lawyer—no victory, no grace, and no mercy for a mere ten-year-old.

Lachris stiffened, expecting to be angry, yet strangely, his mind remained calm, even thoughtful, as if appraising this as the other’s usual performance.

“Pharaoh—” a sharp voice suddenly rang out, “Oh my, it’s the pharaoh!”

Lachris was startled, instinctively turning toward the source. A woman dropped her basket and stomped through the mud toward them, splashing her faded linen dress.

With her shout, everyone nearby turned their gaze to them.

After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in exclamations, like waves crashing over the few people. Those previously busy now had a shared focus—Lachris, the pharaoh of Egypt.

“Your Majesty, please save my child!” the woman cried as she ran, “Please beg Anubis not to take him!”

Her expression was near madness. She tripped over the basket and fell hard, unable to get up for a long moment. Still, she crawled forward, using all limbs, her aged hands reaching almost to Lachris’s ankle.

Lachris hesitated only briefly before the woman’s hand touched the top of his foot.

“Thank the gods,” she trembled with excitement, “Thank the merciful pharaoh! The light of Ra will shine upon my home and bring new life to my child! New life!”

Her touch seemed to trigger a switch, igniting the crowd’s fervor.

Those who had hesitated surged forward, some who had been kneeling rose and approached.

“Your Majesty, please let Ra watch over me as well.”

“Your Majesty, my family is always hungry. Is it because my offerings to Ra are insufficient?”

“Your Majesty, I desperately need Ptah’s care to help me through hardship.”

The crowd pressed closer, their voices a jumbled roar.

Lachris was still stunned. Boy was the first to react, instinctively stepping back to create space between himself and Lachris. Though unsure what was happening, his intuition told him this would not end well.

But the crowd pressed against his back, pushing him forward, overpowering any resistance from the dozens—even hundreds—of people.

The boy’s scant mercy made these desperate souls nearly frantic in their yearning to touch the divine.

As they nearly crashed into Lachris, Boy reached out instinctively to separate them, but countless hands from behind greedily grabbed at the young pharaoh.

Boy was certain they wanted to tear this boy apart.

As soon as hands touched him, Lachris came to his senses, but escape was impossible—the path ahead and behind was completely blocked.

Todd pushed away several of the hands grabbing the pharaoh, but his strength was negligible against so many, and more hands soon reached out.

Since becoming pharaoh, Lachris rarely left the palace. Occasionally, he’d visit the former royal residence, accompanied by guards. When the people saw his chariot, they knelt, offering the finest flowers and foods.

At festivals and ceremonies, he always sat on a high platform, watching the people worship devoutly.

He had never been this close to the masses before.

“You’re so bold,” Todd shouted, his voice cracking from emotion, “Step back, everyone!”

The frenzied crowd didn’t hear him, pushing forward like mad.

For them, this might be the closest they ever came to touching a god.

Even a strand of hair or a corner of his robe could fulfill a lifetime’s longing; the gods would surely favor those who had such contact.

Boy didn’t want to interfere, but he couldn’t tolerate being groped several times and the overwhelming stench of sweat.

“Crouch down, crawl out!” he grabbed the pharaoh and yanked him downward.

The noise was deafening; Lachris didn’t hear him. Surprised by the sudden pull, he nearly fell but quickly caught himself with his hands.

“Hurry, crawl.” Boy pushed him.

Lachris understood immediately and without hesitation began crawling outward.

They forced their way through the dense legs, Lachris in front, Boy behind. The crowd surged, some pushed back suddenly, stepping on Lachris’s hands repeatedly. The pain made veins bulge on his temple uncontrollably.

But he said nothing, moving swiftly—he knew delay could be fatal. Once the crowd realized someone was escaping, they would turn back and they’d be trapped.

When the two squeezed out, voices erupted from within the crowd:

“The pharaoh’s gone!”

“Search quickly!”

“His Majesty ran away.”

“The pharaoh is at the back.”

Confused shouting filled the air; those outside didn’t realize what had happened and kept pushing forward to reach the pharaoh.

Those inside tried to exit, those outside tried to enter; two forces clashed in a crush of bodies.

Lachris and Boy took advantage of the chaos, slipping into a narrow alley.

Though called an alley, it was merely the gap between two houses. Boy pulled Lachris along without stopping, walking deep into the alley until far from the crowd before halting.

Their hurried pace left Boy’s cheeks pale and bloodless.

Lachris’s gaze flickered over Boy’s face, resting briefly on his only rosy lips. He thought, this man’s health is truly poor.

“What happened to them? Are they mad?” Boy tugged at his disheveled clothes, brow furrowed deeply. He didn’t dare smell his clothes, fearing the mingled stench of sweat.

If it weren’t for the risk of exposing himself, he wouldn’t want to touch the fabric at all.

The dire situation soured his mood further.

Because of the tugging, the hand gripping his wrist loosened. Lachris lowered his gaze to his wrist, feeling a strange warmth, as if he could sense the blood flowing beneath the skin—a strong presence.

It was the first time someone had held his wrist firmly and resolutely like that.

Lachris disliked the feeling. He raised his other hand and covered that hand’s warmth, erasing it.

“I am the pharaoh of Egypt,” he said, “and also a god of Egypt.”

He was neither boasting nor showing off; this was how the Egyptian people saw their pharaoh.

The sole being capable of communicating with the gods, worshipped at the cost of life, followed for a lifetime—the god incarnate on earth.

“Even if I am a powerless pharaoh, overshadowed by Merit’s dominance,” Lachris smiled, “the people of Egypt only recognize me as their pharaoh. That, she can never replace.”

At all important festivals, no matter her reluctance, Merit had to let him attend. That golden throne was his alone to occupy.

Boy lowered his gaze, lingering on the boy’s still tender face, savoring the words just spoken.

At this moment, the boy was no longer the powerless young pharaoh trapped by authority, but a gem covered in dust, a priceless treasure once overlooked by him.

After a brief pause, Boy suddenly said, “Do you want to become a true pharaoh?”

Lachris blinked in surprise, “What do you mean?”

With a slight lift of his eyes, Boy’s tone brimmed with self-confidence, “I can help you overthrow Merit.”

He had no fear that the boy would betray him to Merit.

Lachris unconsciously clenched his jaw, instinctively thinking the man was arrogant and overconfident, but seeing the certainty in his eyes, a voice inside told him this person could do it.

Just a mere slave, just a single generation of slaves!

“Don’t forget your status as a slave,” he said, “Why should I trust you?”

Boy curled his lips into a smile, “Trusting me costs you nothing, but not trusting me might make you lose a throne within easy reach.”

Lachris didn’t know where this confidence came from, but undeniably, he was deeply shaken by such overwhelming certainty.

“What do you want me to do?” Lachris asked.

He didn’t believe in free lunches, especially since he was a powerless pharaoh with no real authority.

Boy looked down on him, lips curling slowly, “Simple—choose to trust me firmly.”

On this soil ruled by theocracy, all future rulers and wielders of power must understand one truth—

He who wins the hearts of the people wins the kingdom.