Chapter 6
I Can Hear Ancient Relics Speak And The Grandmasters Lost It Chapter 06
He’d voiced what everyone was dying to ask.
Cameras swung toward me.
“Yeah, how’d you figure that out?”
“Was it really skill, or just luck?”
“If a top expert couldn’t see it, how did you?”
…
Even Fairchild stepped forward, hand on my shoulder, eyes shining with hope.
“Please, share with us. Knowledge grows when it’s shared.”
I looked at his warm, expectant smile.
My throat tightened. It hit me, a moment too late, just how incredibly stupid I’d been.
What could I say? I hear objects talk? They’d think I was crazy.
But I had to say something.
The longer I stayed silent, the more the crowd’s peering shifted into something sharper, suspicion.
Questions came at me like a rising tide, relentless, suffocating.
“What’s she hesitating for?”
“If I had that talent, I’d be bragging nonstop.”
“There’s something off.”
“Definitely something off. No way a freshman solves what an expert can’t.”
Whitmore was loving this. He radiated smugness.
“Go on, share with us. Otherwise, people might think it was just luck. And this isn’t just about you, it’s about advancing our entire field. Think of the contribution you could make to human history!”
The guilt trip had worked. I was trapped.
Staring at the kettle, I scrambled for a story.
“Everyone knows bronze kettles were used in colonial ceremonies, mostly for cooking sacrificial meats. The interior of a cooking vessel typically shows dark soot or uneven scorch marks.”
“But look at this one’s inner wall, it has a fine, dark-green patina. That’s from decades of salt corrosion.”
The gallery’s projection screen zoomed in on the interior.
On the massive screen that spanned the entire wall, the kettle’s inner wall came into sharp focus, every inch of that dark green patina laid bare for all to see.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
I continued, “Ceremonial pieces were handled with extreme care, only natural oxidation over centuries.”
“But this kettle has two irregular grooves near the rim. Anyone who’s home-pickled knows, those are wear marks from twine used to seal the crock.”
The camera shifted to the rim, revealing the grooves.
All doubts evaporated.
Applause thundered through the hall.
“A true prodigy! The next generation has arrived.”
“All those mystery novels paid off, I’m watching a real-life Artifact Whisperer!”
I smoothed my shirt, gave a small nod of acknowledgment, and turned to Whitmore.
His face was ashen. He trembled like a leaf.
All his arrogance had crumbled into a pile of shattered dignity.
“Professor Whitmore.”
I gave him an easy smile.
“Confidence is a good thing, Professor. But it shouldn’t come at the cost of missing what’s right in front of you.”
Then I stepped off the stage and returned to my seat.
