Île de la Cité and Île Saint-Louis lie quietly in the Seine River like two leaves, with cruise ships and speedboats slowly passing by like insects and ants crawling along the edge of the leaves. When passing Île de la Cité, tourists always pay attention to the magnificent Gothic cathedral on the island, but sadly, the once towering and iconic spire can no longer be seen.
Inside the closed-off Notre-Dame neighborhood, several architectural experts were pointing and discussing blueprints, while workers were busy organizing building materials.
The France, known for their procrastination, have finally officially started the Notre-Dame restoration project. When the fire occurred, Paris was still in the bloom of spring, but now the north wind is howling.
A worker in a black trench coat and cloak trudged along the scrap yard, his back bent. A worker carrying a large lumber block called out to him, "Hey bro, judging by your outfit, you're an Assassin's Creed fan, aren't you?"
Another worker said, "Oh, Assassin's Creed, the Leap of Faith! I know, that's probably how they jumped off the Notre-Dame spire, but they messed it up! Haha..."
The cloaked "assassin" ignored them and continued walking slowly through the rubble, stopping occasionally as if searching for something.
"Hey, those are just scraps that fell from the top of the tower. They've already been counted and numbered, so you don't need to worry about them anymore. Go help out over there!" a worker nearby reminded him.
The assassin continued walking silently with his head down, when suddenly he seemed to notice something, stopped in his tracks, and crouched down. A gust of wind blew in, lifting his cloak and revealing a head of slightly sparse but very noticeable reddish-brown hair.
He picked something up from the ground, quickly covered his head with his cloak, and hurriedly walked toward the side door with his face down.
A few days later, architectural and cultural relic experts returned to inventory the waste materials to determine which could still be used in the restoration process and which had to be replaced with new materials. However, when they were inventorying the fragments of the spire, they discovered that material numbered 0371 was missing.
"It must have been stolen by that assassin!" one of the workers said.
And the book "What assassin?"
"Oh, that guy was wearing a trench coat and a cloak, like Arno Dorian from Assassin's Creed. He was a weirdo."
Another worker added, "I thought he was here to work like us, but it turns out he's a thief. I don't know how he got in. Oh, and by the way, he has red hair, which is quite rare. The police will definitely find him."
The expert asked, "What is material number 0371?"
The worker in charge of material registration said, "It's just a thin red wooden strip less than thirty centimeters long. It's probably used for horizontal connections between the supporting beams at the base of the spire, but it's different from the other wood..."
The expert waved his hand, "Let such a small connecting piece go; these things are basically unusable after being burned. I guess some devout believer picked it up and took it home to worship."
Although it is already freezing cold on the northern continent, winters in Egypt remain mild.
Khan el-Khalili Market, located in Cairo's Old City, is filled with tourists browsing through dozens of ancient alleyways, selecting their favorite items from a dazzling array of shops. It is the largest market in the Middle East and one of the world's most renowned streets for specialty goods.
The sounds of vendors hawking their wares, mingled with various accents, rose and fell, and Chinese signs such as "Come in and take a look" and "Bargain prices" could be seen everywhere.
Asia woman wearing a sun hat was haggling over the price in a mix of Chinese and English, gesturing with her fingers when she got impatient, while an elderly Arabia man wearing a headscarf shook his head vigorously. Finally, after much effort, they bought the seemingly ancient and mysterious souvenir, holding it happily in their hands, when suddenly they noticed a line of English printed inconspicuously on the tag—
Made in China
On the other side, Japan tourist spotted a papyrus painting and had already agreed on a price. He pulled out 100 Egyptian pounds from his wallet, but the bearded shopkeeper opposite him reacted quickly, snatching two large Egyptian pounds from the Japan tourist's wallet with three fingers and shouting, "You misheard! You misheard! It's 200 Egyptian pounds!" The papyrus painting was already in his hand. The Japan tourist argued for a few moments, only to find that the shopkeeper, who had been speaking fluent English just moments before, now only spoke Arabia. With no one to help him and unable to communicate, he could only accept his bad luck.
Even at night, Khan el-Khalili Market remains bustling with activity. The neon lights above the hookah lounges and cafes illuminate the streetlights, casting a glow on the goods in the shops, making them appear even more mysterious and beautiful, tempting visitors to spend their entire fortunes.
It is said that this was originally the royal cemetery of the Fatimid Dynasty. At the end of the 12th century, the last ruler of the Fatimid Dynasty, Caliph Al-Adid, was overthrown by his minister Saladin and his royal guards, and the dynasty came to an end. Two hundred years later, their cemetery was also destroyed and converted into an inn. The word "Khan" means inn in Persian.
The antiquity and mystery of Khan el-Khalili Market remain in people's hearts to this day. At night, people occasionally see people dressed in black and wearing cloaks walking through it, and no one finds it strange.
Howard was dressed entirely in black, his face completely obscured by a cloak. He casually strolled through the alleys of Khan el-Khalili Market, occasionally bending down to pick up an item and examine it. On the side of the steps in front of a shop, he saw a triangular arrow, as if a child had casually drawn it with chalk. He put down the item he was holding and headed in the direction the arrow pointed.
After making several turns, passing through the back street of the Al-Hussein Mosque, and then turning back into the bustling Khan el-Khalili Market, Howard stopped in front of a house with its door ajar. A number 8 was written on the door in chalk, but the writer's skill was poor; the top and bottom of the 8 were flat, like a child's handwriting.
A Old Wang Hound sat by the door. This breed of dog was of noble lineage, and its image appeared in Ancient Egypt murals from four thousand years ago. Not far from the dog was an old Arabia man selling hookahs, who turned his wrinkled face to glance at Howard.
Howard pushed open the door and went inside. It was a long, narrow corridor with motion-activated lights on the ceiling, but they seemed unreliable, flickering on and off. The corridor was lined with murals, all imitations of Ancient Egypt paintings, which looked quite mysterious in the dim light. Howard had the illusion of stepping into an ancient pharaoh's tomb.
The passage was rather long, with a barely perceptible curve. After walking for a while, a door appeared, leading to a room, then a staircase, and after climbing the stairs, another curved passage led to his destination—the secret stronghold of Dream Society in Cairo.
Howard left Amsterdam at the same time as Huang Liang; Huang Liang went to North America, while Howard came to Cairo. He didn't know what Huang Liang's mission was in North America, but the Second Leader would make the specific arrangements. This China man would become a very important member of the organization. Howard was very pleased that his former subordinate had been chosen by the Second Leader. He wasn't worried that Huang Liang would surpass him, because the organization still had strict discipline and rules. He was a veteran and core member of the organization, and only a very few people could attend important gatherings like today.
Howard was excited because today he would meet the most mysterious and important person in the organization, whose status even surpassed that of the leader—the legendary person who inherited their race's memories— the Lost Ancestor!
Howard removed his cloak and greeted the others who had already arrived. He recognized most of them; they were all regional leaders of the organization. He was a little surprised not to see the Second Leader, as the Second Leader should have been present when summoned by the Lost Ancestor.
A short while later, the side door of the room slammed open, and a person walked out. This person, like Howard, wore a dark trench coat with a cape, his arms crossed in front of his chest in an X shape, the large cape covering his entire face. He slowly entered the room, his footsteps so light they made no sound. However, the air in the room seemed to freeze instantly, making it feel suffocating.
Howard felt as if someone was choking him, unable to breathe, and powerless to struggle. This gave him a long-lost feeling. Yes, he hadn't been plagued by nightmares for a long time. He was certain that the person in front of him was his Lost Ancestor; who else but his Lost Ancestor could possess such powerful Mental Power!
The Lost Ancestor stood before them, head bowed, slowly extending his hand, his fingers like withered twigs. He gently flipped his hands back, lifting the cloak from his head.
Howard saw his Lost Ancestor's face—a zombie-like, gaunt face with clearly visible taut muscle fibers, yet its surface was covered by a thin, translucent layer of new skin, densely covered with spider-web-like red capillaries. His cheeks were sunken, and his eye sockets were hazy, sometimes resembling two deep black holes, and sometimes revealing a sliver of white.