Chapter 5
I Can Hear Ancient Relics Speak And The Grandmasters Lost It Chapter 05
A crisp voice rang in my ears.
I froze. My grip on the kettle legs tightened.
Did I imagine that?
No time to second-guess. I reached into my pocket and dropped something inside.
The moment it landed, the kettle went still.
Slowly, finger by finger, I eased my grip, and then let go completely.
The kettle stood firm. No stand, no brace, no support.
Just solid, steady, and upright.
The gallery fell into absolute stillness, as if time itself had stopped.
Everyone stared, frozen, jaws slack.
I stood by the table, hands at my sides.
My heart, which had been seconds from pounding right out of my chest, finally settled back into place.
“Professor Whitmore,” I said, “I succeeded.”
Same scene. Same words.
Whitmore stood rooted, face blank with disbelief. After a long pause, he shuffled forward, guided by his student.
He poked the kettle with his index finger. It didn’t budge.
He nudged its handle. Still rock-solid.
“It’s… it’s impossible!”
His face drained of color. His wild eyes darted between me and the kettle. His cracked lips quivered.
He shoved his assistant aside, lunged forward, and plunged his hand inside.
“Let me see what you put in there…”
His voice died mid-sentence.
Every eye in the room saw it.
He was holding a packet of Clover Valley dill pickle relish.
A beat of silence. Then the gallery exploded.
“Holy—did I just see that?!”
“She put relish in a bronze kettle!”
“And it worked! This is the universe trolling me!”
“It couldn’t hold a dictionary, but a relish packet holds it steady?!”
Whitmore’s eyes burned red. His face purpled with frustration.
He grabbed a flashlight and aimed it inside. One packet. Nothing else.
His composure shattered.
I patted the kettle’s handle and smiled.
“Because it’s a pickle crock, not a ceremonial pot.”
“Everything has a soul. The owner spent sixty years with it, pickling vegetables every season. You keep shoving plastic and metal inside, and of course it’ll resist.”
“Ridiculous! Do you even know who the owner was?”
Whitmore’s eyes were bloodshot. He clutched the relish packet and stabbed a finger at the kettle’s rim.
“It came from the tomb of Lady Margaret Sterling! An 18th-century plantation owner’s daughter, sister of the governor’s wife. A woman famous for her refinement and dignity!”
“And you’re telling me a lady of her standing used a pickle crock as a burial piece? Nonsense!”
I understood his shock. I’d been stunned too.
But honestly, who says a colonial elite can’t love pickled vegetables?
I scanned the cameras and phones trained on me. Then I met Whitmore’s glare.
“Which law says a highborn lady can’t enjoy pickles?”
Whitmore choked. His neck veins bulged.
“That’s pure sophistry!”
“Is it?”
I stayed calm, choosing each word carefully.
“People are more than their labels. Every person has their own little eccentricities. Just like…”
I almost said just like objects. But I pivoted.
“…just like you. Teachers are supposed to enlighten and guide. Instead, you use your position to belittle and humiliate students.”
“If you can be called ‘professor,’ then I don’t think anyone minds if the governor’s sister liked pickles.”
The words came out like a rapid-fire barrage, every ounce of frustration finally vented.
I felt instantly lighter.
Even my voice had taken on an unexpected bounce.
“Would you agree, Professor?”
He caught the jab, the comparison to a pickle crock wasn’t lost on him.
His face cycled through red and purple before settling back to its natural color.
But he recovered quickly. A master of spin.
“I admit, my tone was harsh. But that came from genuine concern for the artifact’s safety.”
He tossed the relish packet onto the table with a dismissive flick, smoothed the wrinkles from his rumpled jacket, and slipped back into his usual composed, gentlemanly demeanor, as if nothing had happened.
“Every piece is a link to our past, its research value is incalculable. As a professor meeting an unknown freshman, skepticism was entirely reasonable. My priority has always been preservation and scholarship.”
He paused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“But I am curious, how did you, a freshman, know this kettle was a pickle crock?”
