High School of Demon Hunting

Chapter 1455: Chapter 199: The Temptation to Break the Rules

Time rewinds several minutes.

As night falls and moonlight filters through the tall French windows into the exhibition hall of the museum, the exhibits within all awaken from their slumber and begin to enjoy the freedom that belongs to them.

Sunflowers stretch out their petals on the canvas, disdainfully regarding the presence of their peers. Those with three blooms look down on those with five, believing rarity is the hallmark of value; those with fifteen blooms scorn those with twelve or fewer, feeling they fail to showcase the splendor of the sunflowers. When Vincent initially created these works, he surely could not have imagined his masterpieces engaging in such pettiness.

The Scream leans against the railing, clears its throat, and behind it, the transient clouds and ocean whirl in its voice, spiraling into bottomless vortexes, through which people seem to see the endless starry sky or the ancient palace situated at the deepest ocean floor.

The Sphinx shakes off the dust on its body and stands up, its movements echoing thunderously throughout the exhibition hall. The stone on its body is so ancient that not even the most senior museum researchers are certain of its age. It is said that the Sphinx at the pharaoh’s tomb in Egyptian Giza was modeled after it, which lends it considerable prestige in this museum.

Then there are the Cupids, bare-bottomed, fluttering their small wings, flying about in a frenzy, shooting arrows at every warlock and witch they see. It’s just that the witches capable of occupying a spot in the museum’s wax figure section are no longer young and have passed the age of springtime stirrings of the heart.

There are also the Night Mares, creatures that, when alive, remained invisible to the witches; after death, they leave behind only withered skeletons, and still, their figures are unclear to the witches.

The false sun hangs above the sand table, spewing flaming fires onto the valley below. The horses and camels made of colored glaze hide in the shade, panting with tongues out, nibbling on sand. The two groups of witches, who engage in battle upon the sand table during the day, are now snuggled together, discussing their performing careers; occasionally, black-robed witches unearth the arms or legs of white-robed witches from the sand—remnants of the day’s war—and then they shout, waving their Law Books, helping the opponents to reattach limbs.

The whole museum.

Aside from The Thinker, who enjoys sitting in solitude on a stone platform, almost all of the long-legged, mobile exhibits walk down from their pedestals under the moonlight and the dark of night, stretching their limbs and freshening up their spirits.

This is their freedom.

Even those exhibits that can’t move, such as the skull of the one-eyed Giant Cyclops, Crocrops, which only has a head left and thus can’t do anything but stay in the glass cabinet, singing strange songs that others will forever fail to understand.

The young Hunters of the Absolution Hunting Team sneak into this museum from a side door without drawing too much attention from the exhibits.

Every year, every month, too many youths sneak into the museum under the cover of night.

There are warlocks and witches holding hands, hiding in the shadows exchanging sweet nothings; there are those who come with their homework, looking for exhibit descriptions in hopes of adding some flair to their papers; and then there are those who have heard rumors of the museum being haunted at night, bringing their Law Books and Talisman Papers, seeking excitement in subduing demons and exorcising evil.

No matter what those young witches do, or how they do it, most of the exhibits in the museum turn a blind eye, pretending not to see those sneaky figures.

After all, they are not in the same world as them.

Normally, tonight should have been no different.

Someone walks into the room.

Someone walks under the platform.

And someone waits outside the door, sitting on the stone steps, their back to it all.

Normally, everything should be so distinctly separate.

Until a hard spike on a branch of the Sapium tree pierces the finger of a young warlock, and a bead of crimson blood clings to the point of the spike.

As that spot of blood color diffuses.

Everything becomes different.

Though the museum is alive, the ’residents’ living in this museum are all dead.

Tonight, as the hint of blood-colored breath spread through the air, the dead beings that have dwelled in this living coffin all their lives suddenly smelled an opportunity to break the law of death.

An opportunity for them to escape their daily puppet-like existence, to step out of the moonlight and into the sunlight, just like a true wizard or a true magical creature.

The skeletons’ hollow eye sockets were stimulated by that hint of breath, and at the deepest part of their dark cavities, a tiny red glimmer flickered; the specimens preserved by magic touched their empty chest cavities, as if they could hear their own hearts beating; and the heavy stone statues clumsily stepped down from their displays, following the heavy footsteps, searching for the direction of that breath of air, shaking the whole museum with a rumbling sound.

...

...

The young wizards, who were being chased chaotically by a tide of skeletal fossils, were completely unaware of everything happening in the museum. Their frantic pursuit only allowed them to focus on the escape before their eyes, with no extra energy left for any deeper contemplation.

But as the best young minds from the First University, they wouldn’t be overly pessimistic even when running for their lives.

They would joke with each other, tease each other, and speculate together on why the skeletal exhibits were rebelling.

So far, the most straightforward speculation was offered by Zhang Ji Xin—he had thrown incense ash over his right shoulder when entering the Hundred Herb Gardens, thereby bringing misfortune upon everyone.

Throwing incense ash from the left shoulder before entering the Hundred Herb Gardens is an ancient custom of wizards, said to bring good luck.

But what consequences would result from throwing it over the right shoulder, no one knew.

Theoretically, if the direction of the throw is reversed, the resulting consequences should be the opposite too. Zhang Ji Xin felt it was not surprising to think that he had brought on bad luck.

But this explanation was a bit far-fetched.

Zheng Qing flipped through a page of the Law book, summoned several vines, twisted them together to form a thick rope, tied one end around the tail of the Double-headed dragon fossil, and wrapped the other end several times around a black pillar further away, fastening it with a knot.

It wasn’t until he saw the Flood Dragon howling and writhing in midair that he turned around, with a gloomy face, and added:

”Just throwing a handful of incense ash couldn’t lead to such a terrible outcome... Fatso just knocked over a Yǔfú. Wouldn’t that mean he should be beaten to death with a peach wood stick?”

Legend has it that Hou Yi was cursed by a Yǔfú rabbit he had bullied, which led to his death at the hands of his disciple Pang Meng, who struck him down with a piece of peach wood.

Fatso, although grown larger, didn’t lose his hearing; in fact, his bigger ears made him hear all the more keenly.

Upon hearing Zheng Qing’s speculation, he stumbled, almost falling among the tidal wave of white bones.

Then, while running, he complained in a tearful voice: ”This... this isn’t my fault! How could I have seen what was in front of me... There were so many of them!”

Last year in Magic Potion Class, Fatso had mistakenly plucked a Bowl flower and suffered quite a few days of hardship as a result.

Therefore, he was exceptionally sensitive to these mystical and murmuring things.

The rumbling sound of his crying echoed through the exhibition hall.

It was a bit comical.

And a bit pitiful.