Chapter 138: Before the Meeting

Sakolomé quickened his pace.

The afternoon wind whipped his face, but he didn't care. He glanced at his watch: 3:02 PM.

Still several hours before the meeting... but every minute counted.

— "I have to play with time," he murmured to himself, eyes shining.

— "I have plenty to read some revelations before tonight..."

He quickly climbed the steps of the family house, threw open the door.

— "Hi Mom!"

In the living room, his mother looked up from her knitting, one eyebrow raised.

— "Already home? And why are you so out of breath?"

— "I have something to check!" he shouted as he dashed through like an arrow.

— "But wait! Don't you want to taste some—"

Too late. He had already slammed his bedroom door.

He threw himself onto his desk, opened the old drawer where the journal had rested for five years. His smile immediately spread.

The seal was gone.

The red and black chains, the infernal glyphs of Sy666... vanished.

— "Finally..." he muttered. "It's time now."

But at that moment, a shimmering light appeared above his head.

— "It's finally the right moment... father."

Shushu.

In his reduced form, he floated like a little bird with plumage shaded violet and dormant flames.

Sakolomé looked up:

— "You couldn't be more right!!"

Shushu gently landed on his head, as usual. Sakolomé grabbed the journal, placed it on his desk, and slowly opened the sealed pages.

But his smile vanished immediately.

— "Huh...?"

The pages had indeed opened, but the writing... was not human.

Neither demonic runes, nor known language, nor ordinary magical code.

The letters undulated, slithered, sometimes even changed shape under his gaze. A moving language.

Unreadable.

— "What is this?" he said, shocked.

— "Sally... did she write this kind of language?"

Shushu, still perched, furrowed his tiny brows:

— "I feel like I've seen this somewhere before, father..."

Sakolomé grimaced:

— "Shushu. How many times do I have to tell you... stop with that 'father.' You sound like a kid calling me as if I were 80 years old. Just call me Sakolomé."

But Shushu seemed not to have heard—or pretended not to. He descended from his master's head, floated above the journal, then landed on it.

His eyes briefly glowed with an orange gleam:

— "This language... it's not ordinary. It's alive. And ancient. Very ancient.

I'm almost sure I saw it in Velda's archives."

Sakolomé frowned.

— "Do you think you can get it translated?"

— "Yes, father.

At Velda's, or Rivhiamë's. They can identify the origin. I'll take care to hide the journal's contents.

They will only have access to the symbols. Not the truths."

— "Hmm..."

Sakolomé sat on his bed, crossed his arms. The idea of entrusting this journal to anyone irritated him a bit...

But at the same time, if he wanted to understand what Sally had wanted to convey to him... this step was necessary.

— "How long?"

— "I can be back by 7 AM tomorrow. Complete translation. Swear on it. Well... figure of speech."

Sakolomé looked at the clock: 3:19 PM.

He sighed. Anyway, he couldn't do anything without the translation.

He thought of Leyla. Of her trembling expression.

Of this strange invitation.

— "Well... in that case," he said, grabbing the journal and handing it to Shushu, "go ahead. Be careful. And don't lose a single page."

Shushu nodded seriously.

— "Count on me, father."

— "Argh..." sighed Sakolomé. "Forget it."

He opened a rift in the air, a violet portal to Velda's mental territories. Shushu dove in gracefully, clutching the journal like a little treasure.

The rift closed.

Alone in his room, Sakolomé stretched, stared at the ceiling, then let himself fall on his bed.

— "Okay... a shower, a clean shirt, and I'll be ready to go dine with a girl who treated me like a curse for three years."

He exhaled, amused:

— "What a strange time..."

In his room, Sakolomé calmly buttoned his black shirt.

He looked at himself in the mirror. A calm, clean, mature air.

A subtle perfume, a classic watch, well-chosen shoes.

Not too fancy, not too sloppy. Just right for Leyla.

He left his room, went downstairs, then headed to the living room to grab his keys.

But passing by the shelf, his gaze stopped on an old framed family photo in raw wood.

He approached.

In the picture:

His father, Niyus, standing proud, with that calm smile he hadn't seen in a long time.

Bakuzan beside him, arms crossed, always with that confident look...

And him, younger, barely a teenager.

They all posed in front of the house. The sun was shining.

Sakolomé remained silent.

— "It's been more than five years..." he murmured.

Niyus, killed under circumstances few knew the truth about...

Bakuzan, disappeared without a trace one day, without explanation.

Some said he was dead. Others, that he had betrayed. But he... he knew it wasn't that simple.

He sighed.

— "Tch... bunch of cowards."

Suddenly, a hand tapped his back.

— "Uh... big brother?"

Sakolomé slightly jumped and turned around.

— "Salomé?"

His little sister was there. Already 14 years old.

She had changed a lot. Her figure was more defined, her hair tied in a messy bun, work glasses on her nose, and a gaze slightly too confident for her age.

— "What do you want?" he asked.

— "Can you help me with an exercise please? It's physics... thermodynamics."

Sakolomé rolled his eyes.

— "No time. I have a date."

— "Huh?!" she pouted.

— "If you don't help me, I'm going to get zero tomorrow on the test... and it'll be your fault! It'll eat your conscience like a little worm scratching your brain during your romantic dinner."

— "What's your crappy exercise? Give it to me quickly so I can finish!"

— "You could say please at least, you old grump!"

They sat at the table. Salomé took out her sheets, her pen, and began to lay out the problem:

— "So here's the thing. We have a closed system, an ideal gas in a cylinder... and we have to calculate the work done during an isothermal transformation, with a constant temperature of 300 K."

— "Easy," said Sakolomé, writing the equations.

W = nRT ln(Vf/Vi). It's a basic formula. Didn't you learn it?

— "Yes, but why is it a natural logarithm? Why not a square, a sine, or something cooler?"

— "Because it's the nature of the gas, not a TikTok choreography, Salomé. We're talking about volume variations depending on pressure, in an exponential framework. And—"

— "And why is it called isothermal and not just 'constant temperature transformation'? Is it to show off?"

— "It's Greek. 'Iso' means 'equal,' 'therme' means 'heat.' You want us to reinvent the whole lexicon while you're at it?"

— "But wait! What if the temperature stays stable but the gas changes state, like it becomes plasma, does that count?"

— "No. Because plasma isn't an ideal gas, but an ionized state. Do you want a zero or do you just want to mess with my brain?"

— "I don't know... maybe both?"

He stared at her, exasperated. She giggled.

— "Come on! One last question, I swear!"

— "Sigh... go ahead."

— "If I heat you with my presence, is it an isothermal, adiabatic, or explosive transformation?"

Sakolomé looked at her, bewildered.

— "...You've watched too many dramas. You need sleep, not a test."

— "Hehe. Thanks anyway, big brother."

She winked at him. He patted her head while putting away his things.

— "Alright. This time I'm going. And if you get zero, I'll erase your name from the family tree, got it?"

— "I hate you!" she shouted, laughing.

He smiled, grabbed his keys, cast one last look at the family photo... and left.

The meeting awaited him.

And maybe more still, in the shadow of destiny...

8:04 PM.

Sakolomé looked at his watch and grimaced:

— "Damn... I'm seriously late."

He quickened his pace, turned into an alley lit by urban lanterns and discreet neon lights. The small terrace restaurant where Leyla was waiting appeared in the distance.

On the other side, Leyla was already there.

Sitting alone on a wooden bench in front of the restaurant, she nervously played with the sleeve of her cardigan.

She wore a soft green dress, matching her hair.

Simple, yet elegant. A flowing fabric that slid over her hips, slightly cinched at the waist by a thin belt.

Her round glasses occasionally slipped down her nose, which she pushed up with trembling fingers.

She had tied her hair in a loose braid that fell over her left shoulder.

Her black ankle boots barely made a sound as she nervously swung her feet.

She dared not look too much at passersby.

— "I... I wonder if he's really going to come..." she murmured.

— "With everything I told him... all the times I sent him away... why would he come?"

She hugged her arms tighter, looking down.

— "I've never been nice to him, really..."

She sighed.

— "Maybe he felt sorry when I invited him, that's all."

She was about to stand and leave...

When suddenly, a hand gently tapped her shoulder.

— "Yo. Sorry I'm late..."

She flinched slightly and turned around.

Sakolomé was there, a somewhat sheepish smile on his lips, hair tousled from running, a drop of sweat sliding down his temple.

He wore a dark jacket, a light V-neck sweater, and simple, clean pants.

Just dressed well enough to show effort. Just casual enough to remain himself.

— "Y-You... you're here," she said, blushing, immediately looking away.

— "I... I thought you wouldn't come..."

Sakolomé grimaced, scratching the back of his head.

— "I had a setback. But well, I wasn't going to miss this either...

— At least, I hope you didn't wait too long. You haven't been there since 7:30, have you?"

— "N-No! Well... just a little! It's okay!" she answered quickly, cheeks red, arms crossed.

He smiled softly watching her lower her eyes, unable to hold his gaze for more than half a second.

An awkward silence settled for a moment... then Leyla suddenly stood up, a bit too abruptly:

— "C-Come on! The table is ready, I... I reserved it inside, it's better, it's starting to get cold."

— "Okay, okay," said Sakolomé with a small amused smile.

She walked ahead, not daring to look back, ears red to the tips.

Sakolomé followed, hands in pockets, a little curious... and a little touched too.