Chapter 3: Riyadh’s Invitation

The iron gate clanged shut behind him, and the Cuneiform symbols vanished into the darkness, as if they had never existed. Hasan pressed himself against the stone wall of the secret chamber. The Relic in his chest still pulsed with residual heat, its hum fading into a low vibration like a weary beast slowly slipping into slumber. He heard faint footsteps overhead—more than one set—scattering across the warehouse, their positions closing in around him.

The crunch of soles on loose sand, muffled conversations, and the sharp ping of metal clinking all registered in his ears. He stood still for a moment, his finger tracing the cool surface of the Relic. That chill seeped through his palm and grounded him. No longer lingering, he slipped out through another abandoned pipeline.

The pipe was low and damp. Rusted tin scraped against his shoulder as he held his breath and moved forward, finally stopping in the shadow at the edge of the port district. He looked back. The Seventh Warehouse was encircled by beams of car lights, the glare piercing the night as shadows shifted and moved. He let out a cold laugh. Rashid hadn't gone far after all. His phone buzzed, a single message from an unknown number: *No secrets in the desert, Hajj.*

He deleted it and turned, disappearing into the night.

The next morning, the sun had just crested the Dubai skyline, casting golden-red light across the sea. A messenger in a white robe stood outside the gate, holding an ebony box in his hands. The box’s lacquered surface was dull and calm, carved with intricate vine patterns.

He claimed to be on Sheikh Zaid’s orders, arriving from Riyadh. Inside the box was a gilt invitation, tied with a camel-bell token. The bell was engraved with ancient Arabic motifs, its muted light catching the morning sun. Hasan took it and weighed the camel bell in his hand. The bronze felt heavy; the clapper inside stuck slightly, marking it as an old item. His gaze lingered on the words inscribed on the invitation: *“Hasan Farouk, long admired. An invitation to a feast in Riyadh. We await your presence.”* He remained silent for a long time, his fingers rubbing the bell’s body. Suddenly, the Relic in his chest emitted a low resonance, pointing west. He looked up at the messenger. “Why does Sheikh Zaid invite me? We’ve never met.”

The messenger lowered his eyes. “The Sheikh says your reputation in the desert has spread across the Gulf. He simply wishes to speak with you.” Hasan narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixing on the messenger’s face for a split second. He knew this was a test—possibly a trap. But the Relic’s resonance was so strong, as if the answer he had been searching for lay hidden in the direction of Riyadh.

He nodded. “Fine. I’ll go with you.” He changed into plain white robes, secured the Relic, and tucked a short knife against his side before boarding the convoy with the messenger. The convoy traveled west along the coastal highway, crossed the border into Abu Dhabi, and entered the vast Arabian desert.

The city’s silhouette gradually blurred in their rearview mirror, replaced by endless sand dunes that undulated like frozen waves.

The blazing sun hung overhead, blowing dust into their faces. The AC in the car hummed, but it couldn’t match the heat rolling off the windows. The air outside shimmered, the horizon trembling. Hasan sat in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the guide. The guide was a middle-aged man with a wind-scoured face and deep lines around his eyes, but he kept taking detours. Hasan frowned. “This route is wrong. To get to Riyadh, you should stay on the main artery.” The guide turned, offering a stiff smile. “Don’t worry, Hajj. I’m taking a shortcut, avoiding the checkpoints.”

Hasan didn’t speak, but his fingers pressed against the Relic in his chest, feeling its hum grow more frantic. He had a vague feeling this journey wouldn’t end quietly.

At dusk, a wall of dark yellow suddenly rose on the distant horizon, resembling a waking giant beast slowly approaching. The guide’s face drained of color. He whipped the steering wheel. “Sandstorm! It’s a sandstorm!”

The convoy descended into chaos. Tires spun in the shifting sands, grains hammered against the windows with a sharp, drum-like rhythm. The guide’s voice shook. “We’re… we’re done for. We’re dead.”

Hasan, however, closed his eyes. The Relic vibrated violently in his chest, its hum pointing toward a blind spot in the storm to the west. He snapped his eyes open and pointed in that direction. “Turn! Drive that way! That’s the storm’s eye dead-angle!”

The guide froze. “But that’s the dune ridge, right in the center of the storm…” Hasan barked, “Listen to me! Go!” The guide gritted his teeth and threw the wheel, the car plunging between the dunes. The wind howled, sand blinding the sky, yet the convoy actually found shelter in that corner, the wind dying down instantly while sand fell like rain.

Breathless after the near-death experience, the guide stared at Hasan, his lips trembling. “Hajj… how did you know that spot would save us?”

Hasan looked down, stroking the Relic in his chest, offering no answer. The guide dared not ask again and quickly re-planned the route.

The next evening, the convoy reached an oasis camp on the outskirts of Riyadh. Palm trees swayed, and clear water trickled, its sound crisp in the twilight. A massive white tent stood in the center, its top embroidered with gold thread, glowing warmly in the sunset.

An elder stepped forward, claiming to be Sheikh Zaid’s steward. He served dates and mint tea with perfect etiquette, though his smile was very faint. Hasan sat down, sipping the mint tea while scanning the camp. A row of armed guards stood outside the tent. They looked lax, but in reality, they had sealed every exit, their positions interlocking to leave no blind spots.

He set down the teacup and smiled. “The Sheikh’s hospitality is truly meticulous.”

The tent flaps parted, and Zaid emerged. He wore a black Arabic robe, his eyes sharp and menacing, yet his smile was gentle. “Hasan Farouk. I’ve heard much about you. Your abilities in the desert are of great interest to me.”

He gestured for Hasan to sit, poured a cup of tea himself, and pushed it forward. Hasan took it but didn't drink, instead rotating the rim so the tea swirled into ripples. “The Sheikh called me out here, not just for tea, did he?”

Zaid chuckled low. “A clever man. I won’t beat around the bush—I heard you carry a Relic. It can find paths in sandstorms and sense resonances in ancient tombs. I want you to hand it over.”

Hasan raised an eyebrow. “Does the Sheikh want to buy my life with ‘high profits’?” Zaid shook his head, pulling out a broken gold talisman and placing it on the table. The edges were worn, but the patterns were clear. “I found this deep in the desert. The patterns on it seem to originate from the same place as your Relic. I think we can cooperate.”

Hasan stared at the gold talisman, his pupils shrinking slightly, his fingers trembling on his knee. He reached for it, but Zaid pulled it back first. “No rush. Agree to cooperate, and then we’ll talk.”

Hasan shook his head. “I refuse.” Zaid’s face cooled, his eyes like an eagle’s. “Hajj, think carefully. You’ve stepped into Riyadh. There’s no turning back.”

Hasan stood up, his voice cold. “I walk my own path.”

That night, alone in the tent, Hasan took out the Relic from his chest. Using the light of an oil lamp, he carefully examined the pattern of the gold talisman he had quietly traced that evening. It was identical to the Cuneiform on the secret chamber door. The intersecting lines resembled an ancient map. His fingers grew cold, and a chill crept up his spine. He looked out at the shadows of the guards moving outside, knowing Zaid would not let him leave easily.

The next morning, Zaid came to the tent himself, his smile still gentle. “Hajj, I’ll take you to see the ‘Ancient Kings’ Mausoleum’ deep in the desert. That is the first step toward our partnership.”

Hasan looked at him, offering no immediate answer. He knew this was a setup, a hunt, but he couldn’t refuse. The Relic’s resonance also pointed in that direction. He nodded. “Okay.”

Zaid turned with a smile, but his eyes were as cold as ice. As the convoy set off, Hasan noticed all the travelers were Zaid’s personal guards, fully equipped with heavy vehicle-mounted weapons. A cold smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. His fingers pressed against the Relic in his chest, silently memorizing the direction of the storm’s blind spot from the night before. He gripped the Relic tightly. In this dire situation, he would turn the tables.

The convoy carved two deep ruts through the sea of sand. Hasan sat at the back of the car, his gaze sweeping over the flowing sand outside, his fingers repeatedly rubbing the Relic in his chest. The patterns in his mind gradually assembled into a shape—the Ancient Kings’ Mausoleum was not just a tomb.

At dusk, the convoy stopped before a cluster of black rocks. Zaid got out and pointed to a stone doorway half-buried in yellow sand on the rock wall. “Here it is.” As Hasan approached, the Cuneiform on the stone door matched the Relic’s patterns perfectly. He reached out and touched the door. A faint warmth spread through his fingertips, the resonance humming in his ears.

Zaid, however, didn't rush to open the door. He stepped back three paces and clapped twice. The guards immediately fanned out, surrounding Hasan in the center, their guns pointed squarely at him. “Hajj, guess why I brought you here?” Zaid smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That gold talisman was fake. I’m the only one who knows the true entrance to the Ancient Kings’ Mausoleum. And you—are a tribute I’m offering to this mausoleum.”

Hasan’s expression didn’t change; instead, he let out a light laugh. “Zaid, do you think I only memorized the storm’s blind spot last night?” As he spoke, he raised the Relic high. The patterns on the Relic suddenly glowed with a幽 blue light. The stone door responded with a massive boom, swinging open as a gale rushed out, sweeping up a storm of yellow dust.

The sandstorm instantly swallowed everything. The guards were blinded by wind and sand, their shots ringing out wildly but missing completely. Hasan moved through the blind spot of the storm, his figure like a ghost, cutting through the chaos straight toward Zaid.

Zaid’s face changed abruptly. He drew his gun to fire, but before he could, Hasan was right in front of him, the Relic pressed against Zaid’s throat. Hasan said coldly, “Your trap is broken. Now, take me to the true Ancient Kings’ Mausoleum—or I’ll send you on your way first.”

Sweat beaded on Zaid’s forehead. He finally nodded. In the distance, the wind and sand began to subside, the setting sun stretching their shadows long and thin. Hasan knew this was only the beginning. Deep within the Relic, an even older resonance was faintly heard—whatever was hidden in that mausoleum would not be the ending Zaid wanted.