I Can Hear Ancient Relics Speak And The Grandmasters Lost It Chapter 01

I was born with the ability to hear the inner voices of objects.

The utility pole in my neighborhood constantly complained about stray dogs peeing on it.

The trash can in the bathroom wept to me daily about how terrible the poop smelled.

The hedge row by my front door complained bi-daily about someone spitting on it.

And then there was today, at the museum.

Harrison Whitmore, the nation’s foremost authority on antique restoration, spoke with heavy sorrow, “Unfortunately, we’ve tried every method available. The damage is too severe to repair. We’ll have to document it and proceed with incineration.”

The crowd gasped in unison.

But in my ear, it sounded like a demon shrieking.

“Get lost! What ugly mess are you trying to smear on me?!”

“I want mist blue! Mist blue!”

I clutched my pounding heart, stepped forward, and held out the vial of mist-blue compound.

“Um, maybe try this?”

***

My voice cut through the mournful silence.

In the hushed gallery, my voice sounded jarringly loud.

The screaming in my ear had been unbearable.

“AAAAH, girl, you get me! That’s the color! Now that’s taste!”

Old Whitmore, hunched over his adhesives, paused mid-motion. He slowly lifted his gaze.

His puzzled eyes landed on me, brow furrowing.

“You are…?”

“I’m a freshman in the Art Conservation program. I came specifically to see today’s restoration demonstration.”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Which school?”

I blinked, confused, but answered politely anyway.

“Lakewood College of Art and Design.”

“What year?”

“Freshman.”

“Freshman?”

He let out a chuckle and exchanged a look with the museum director, Douglas Fairchild. The contempt in his eyes was undisguised.

“Girl, this is a national treasure, not some broken junk in your backyard. You don’t get to pick whatever color you feel like. What do you think you are, Picasso?”

Laughter erupted around me.

My hand hung in midair, still holding the pigment tray. My cheeks burned as though I’d been slapped.

Whitmore didn’t stop there. “Young people today are far too impatient. Learn a little and think they’re experts. They have no idea what real responsibility means in this field.”

“This pre-Colonial ebony ceremonial vessel is the earliest known artifact of its kind, its historical value is beyond measure. And you, a freshman, think you can just waltz in and call the shots?”

“If your ‘repair’ fails, this piece loses all research value. Can you afford that kind of loss?”

My fingers tightened around the tray. I opened my mouth, but no words came.

Then the shrieking exploded again.

“Does this old fossil have a death wish?! He knows I’m priceless and still slathers that garbage glue all over me! Reeks like cheap rubber cement! What a pathetic cheapskate!”

My eyebrow twitched.

This one… was from the Southwest Territory?

Seeing my silence, Whitmore looked satisfied. He turned to Director Fairchild and said flatly, “This piece can’t be saved. Record the data and have it incinerated.”

He said it with the same casual indifference as if he were ordering a cup of coffee.

Fairchild lowered his head, grief etched across his face.

This was a top-tier artifact, centerpiece material. Yet he had no choice but to watch it be destroyed.

Pre-Colonial ebony was notoriously fragile. Without proper restoration, it would oxidize to dust within three days. And if even Whitmore, the supposed expert, had given up…

Fairchild blinked back the sting in his eyes and muttered, “I suppose it’s fate…”

His hand reached for the display stand.

The vessel, which had been so bold moments ago, broke into hysterical sobs.

“AAAAH, I’m only three thousand years old! I don’t wanna die! Girl, please, save me!”

Should I? The piercing cries still rang in my ears, but the sting of public humiliation from minutes ago was just as fresh. I clenched my fists, frozen in hesitation.

Sensing my doubt, the vessel wailed even louder.

“Girl, please! I’m three thousand years old and I’ve never had to plead like this! You want riches? Fine! Save me, and I’ll tell you the location of every undiscovered site I’ve witnessed. Dig ’em up and sell ’em, you’ll be set for life!”

I appreciate the sentiment, but… that’s against the law.

While I was distracted, an assistant carrying an incineration box stepped onto the platform.

My heart lurched.

Without thinking, I dashed up and spread my arms in front of the assistant.

“Don’t burn it! Let me try!”