Chapter 165: A Legacy Buried In Myth 2

Randell Belmont had trouble breathing the moment he stepped into the underground chamber.

It wasn’t the long descent.

It wasn’t the stale, enclosed air on the stairwell.

It was something far more unsettling—

A pull.

As if the chamber recognized him… and welcomed him home.

The temperature was cool, unnaturally so for a place meant to house the dead. Hidden vents whispered softly as conditioned air flowed through the mausoleum. Yet the lighting told a different story—warm, golden, almost reverent. It bathed the stone walls in a glow that felt less like illumination and more like… worship.

The task force assigned to the Mausoleum has made significant improvements over the last two weeks since the site was discovered.

Every surface was alive with detail.

The frescoes stretched across walls and ceilings, impossibly restored. No longer faded and cracked. Each stroke was vivid, deliberate—like time itself had been forbidden from touching them.

Randell looked up at the ceiling, directly above the First Emperor’s sarcophagus.

His breath hitched, just like Ares and Asher’s.

Prince Alaric stood at its center, frozen in the moment he ascended to the throne. His posture was commanding, his presence absolute—crowned not just by gold, but by destiny itself. Power radiated from him even in paint, as if the artist had captured something more than likeness… something alive.

Beside him stood his queen.

Lara.

She was resplendent in ceremonial robes, the fabric cascading like liquid light. A crown rested upon her head, intricate and heavy, yet she bore it with effortless grace. Her beauty was not soft—it was sovereign.

Untouchable.

Unforgettable.

The last time they were here, Ares and Asher hadn’t noticed this.

But now, it was impossible to look away.

An attendant approached quietly, as though mindful not to disturb whatever presence lingered in the chamber.

He unfolded three narrow beds with careful precision.

“You can appreciate it better if you lie down.”

Randell didn’t argue.

The old man who once clung to dignity and formality no longer hesitated. With Ares supporting him, he slowly lowered his frail body onto the bed, his eyes never leaving the ceiling—as if afraid that blinking would make it disappear.

Ares and Asher remained standing.

“Do you have a digital version?” Ares asked, his voice low but steady.

“Yes, Mr. Zuvel.”

The photographer stepped forward immediately and handed over a tablet.

Ares scrolled.

The images were high-resolution, already enhanced and sharpened. Every detail brought into piercing clarity.

His thumb stilled and zoomed in on the center of the photo.

The emperor himself…

Alaric.

There it was again. That unsettling familiarity.

The sharp lines of the face. The quiet authority in his expression.

And the eyes— dark, deep like the obsidian.

Ares’ jaw tightened slightly.

Then his gaze shifted.

To her…

The empress…

Lara Norse-Kromwel.

Even through a screen, she was… arresting.

Not just beautiful.

There was something in her eyes—something layered, ancient, knowing. The kind of gaze that didn’t belong to a mere figure in history.

“Bro,” Asher muttered, leaning in slightly, “doesn’t she look a bit like Larissa Reyes?”

Ares didn’t answer immediately.

Asher continued, quieter now, more certain—

“The features… they’re similar. The structure. Even the way she holds herself. The eye color’s different, sure—but sometimes, when the angle hits right…”

He trailed off.

“…it’s the same.”

Ares let out a short scoff.

“Asher, I didn’t know you were that observant.”

His tone was casual and dismissive.

But his eyes lingered not on the crown, not on the robes, but on her eyes.

Just a second longer than necessary before if flicked back to the powerful man in the middle.

Alaric.

The name echoed faintly in his mind.

Was he—

No. Impossible.

That man in Lara’s dreams…It couldn’t be him.

Hearing just the name, a faceless one has no weight, but now that the name had a face, it unsettled him more.

He had already established that Lara must have read that novel, and she suffered from memory distortion. A trauma response. Nothing more. That’s what the hospital report said, a logical and scientific explanation.

So why—

Why did something deep in his chest tighten instead?

Why did the air suddenly feel heavier?

And why did it feel as though the man in the painting was staring straight back at him, not like a lifeless image trapped in pigment and stone, but like a presence aware of his gaze?

Like looking into a mirror that had been warped by time… where the face reflected back wasn’t entirely his, yet carried enough of him to unsettle something deep in his bones.

Ares felt it then—that quiet, creeping dissonance.

As if he wasn’t merely observing the past—

but confronting a version of himself that should not exist.

…

Randell Belmont moved from one coffin to the next with deliberate, almost reverent steps.

Not a glance wasted. Not a detail ignored.

His fingers hovered over the edges of each sarcophagus, tracing intricate carvings, pausing at symbols he seemed to barely understand. His breathing had steadied, but there was a tension in him now—sharp, searching.

He wasn’t paying respects.

He was hunting.

“What are you looking for, Grandpa?” Ares finally broke the silence, his voice echoing faintly against stone and history.

Randell didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into his coat and drew something out with slow care.

A key. The family heirloom.

Its metal was darkened by age, its teeth unlike anything modern—jagged, as if they belonged to something ancient… or hidden.

“This,” Randell said quietly, holding it up between them. “Something that this can unlock.”

The air seemed to grow heavier around the object.

Ares’ gaze sharpened.

That key wasn’t just old. It felt significant. As if it carried generations of secrets within its cold frame.

Asher frowned slightly, stepping closer. “We can ask Philip Hardy. He’s the chief archaeologist here.” He gestured vaguely around the chamber. “From all my visits, I’ve never seen any chest or mechanism with a keyhole that matches that.”

His eyes dropped to the key again, studying its unusual grooves.

Then something flickered across his face.

A thought.

“…Unless…”

The word lingered.

The chamber seemed to listen.

Asher slowly lifted his gaze, looking not at Randell—

but at the row of ancient sarcophagi surrounding them.

“…it’s inside one of these.”

Silence fell, heavy and oppressive.

For a brief moment, even the low hum of the air system seemed to disappear.

The implication settled in.

The treasure, whatever it was, was not hidden in a box.

Not tucked away in some forgotten vault.

But sealed—

With the dead.

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