Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 1116

"The biggest drawback of this memory-reading artifact is that it requires the user to participate willingly. It seems to be able to tell if someone is being forced or manipulated. That's why its value drops from a useful interrogation tool to little more than a toy for viewing memories."

As he spoke, he slid the drawer shut. Jenkins immediately saw the already powerful blue spiritual aura intensify, growing even more brilliant.

The old elf counted aloud. Seeing that Jenkins, the unicorn, and the cat were ready, he sharply flipped open the music box's lid.

A tiny metal tree sprang up, and the music box began to play a sweet melody. The tune was so graceful and captivating, like the tinkling of falling crystals, that it was impossible to draw one's attention away.

A sudden breeze stirred within the sealed room. Carried on that gentle music, a swirl of mist rapidly engulfed everything tangible, leaving only the elf, Jenkins, the cat, and the unicorn untouched. When the mist finally dissipated, the music still lingered in the air, but the luxurious apartment and the music box had vanished.

Their vision returned, but everything remained hazy, as if viewed through a thick veil of fog. It was much like a typical morning in Nolan, where the early mist blankets the city without completely obscuring sight.

Jenkins glanced at the old elf, but to his surprise, the elf didn't speak. Instead, he raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, and then turned his gaze forward.

The thought surprised Jenkins, and he began to observe his surroundings.

It was a cozy study. Flames, like little sprites, danced merrily upon a stack of logs in the fireplace. Outside a window, on whose sill sat a potted cactus, the world was cloaked in a vast darkness. Heavy, feathery snowflakes drifted down from the sky, dressing the city in its winter whites.

The night here, however, was untroubled by the swirling fog. Apparently, in the era of the old elf's memory, the steam industry had not yet advanced to the point of blighting the world with its pollution.

The only 'person' in the room was the elf, Siannod, seated at a desk, reading a book. He looked almost exactly as he had thirty years later. In fact, if one had to point out a difference, besides the hairstyle, the Siannod who had received Jenkins's treatment actually appeared slightly younger.

The master of the study was completely oblivious to the uninvited guests in his room; it was clear he couldn't see these strange visitors at all.

"Black Pine Cultivation Guide (Complete Edition)."

Jenkins mentally read the title of the book held by the Siannod in the memory. It didn't strike him as odd at all that the elf would be reading such a book in his neat study with such a solemn expression.

A knock sounded at the door, and then someone pushed it open and walked right in, the knock apparently serving as a mere announcement of their arrival. The visitor was, of course, the old elf's friend, Halama Rynsarm. Compared to this version of him from thirty years ago, the man who would visit three decades later concerning Siannod's will had barely aged a day.

"I remember Siannod saying that Mr. Rynsarm is human, but with a very special bloodline," Jenkins mused. "Could he be one of the long-lived races, too? Hmm, long-lived... Does that mean..."

"Siannod, the lease is almost up. If you don't pay your share of the rent soon, we'll have to move into that rundown shack in the countryside."

The old man spoke bluntly as he entered. Jenkins noticed he was wearing a pair of spectacles—a very expensive accessory thirty years ago, when the steam industry was still in its infancy.

"That wouldn't be so bad. I'm quite fond of the country scenery."

The elf replied casually, not looking up from his book. With a flick of his long, slender fingers, he turned the page, clearly engrossed.

"But you should know that the house in the country is mine! Oh, Siannod, what in the world are you saving up for? Why won't you take part in our plan?"

The irascible old man roared. The force of his expression made his spectacles slip down his nose. Mr. Rynsarm instinctively raised his right middle finger to push them back up, bringing the ring on his finger into Jenkins's clear view.

"It's that ring! No, wait... it's very similar, but this isn't one of the ones I've seen before!"

As the music box played on, the two blurry figures in the memory continued to bicker. Jenkins leaned forward in an awkward pose, studying the ring on the old man's dangling finger. He confirmed it—he had definitely never seen this particular ring before, but it had to be one of the ten Papa Oliver had told him about.

Not knowing how else to convey this, he simply shook his head at the old elf. It was unclear how Siannod interpreted the gesture, but he gave a light wave of his right hand. The ceaseless music immediately shifted. In an instant, the cheerful melody transformed into something ethereal and eerie.

Thick fog billowed in from all sides, swallowing the small study, and the sound of the two friends arguing slowly faded into nothing.

When the fog parted again, the second memory began. The moon hung high in the sky, surrounded by towering tombstones. Jenkins recognized the place: the Nolan public cemetery on the outskirts of the city. The entire Williams family had come here for the Year-End Festival.

Jenkins, the unicorn, the cat, and the elf stood among the forest of tombstones. On a path ahead of them stood the figures from the memory: Siannod and his friend. The protagonists hadn't changed, but the season seemed to have shifted to a midsummer's night.

He looked up at the twin moons. Here in the world of memory, they too were indistinct.

"Rynsarm, I warned you all! Don't be greedy! Do not be greedy!"

The old elf, bundled in a thick overcoat, was shouting, his voice carrying far in the dead of night. It startled a crow from a distant branch, which flapped its wings and flew over Jenkins's head, disappearing toward the indistinct horizon.

The attire of the elf in the memory was bizarre. Judging by the surroundings and the position of the stars, it was undoubtedly summer, yet he was dressed for the dead of winter.

From his heavy boots to the thick overcoat, his clothes perfectly suited the atmosphere of a clandestine meeting in a cemetery but were completely wrong for the season.

Jenkins glanced at the real Siannod, who was observing the memory with rapt attention. It seemed he had no intention of offering an explanation.

"Siannod, I know you have few ambitions. I know you've lived far too long and no longer seek an even longer life. But we're different, Siannod. An elf can never understand the sorrow of being human!"