The Gala of Fates
The gilded doors of the Metropolitan Museum of Ancient Antiquities swung open, disgorging a river of silk gowns and tailored suits into the cool, starless New York night.
E.g. ：I walked into our romantic anniversary cabin and found my husband tangled with her.
- 1、The Gala of Fates
- 2、The Ten-Million Dollar Gamble
- 3、The Unveiling
- 4、The Guardian's Awakening
- 5、The Immediate Aftermath and The Cover-Up
Inside, the air thrummed with a nervous energy, a cocktail of anticipation and apprehension that had little to do with the art on display.
Tonight was the annual "Night of Patrons" gala, but whispers had spread like wildfire regarding the centerpiece of the new Egyptian exhibit: the Anubis Collar.
Elias Thorne, the tech mogul known for his audacious acquisitions and ruthless corporate takeovers, had personally funded its controversial excavation.
He moved through the throng like a shark in a school of fish, his presence commanding attention, his smile a practiced mask of charm.
Thorne wasn't just wealthy; he was a titan, a self-made legend who had redefined several industries.
But his latest obsession wasn't Silicon Valley; it was the esoteric, the occult, the promise of ancient power.
He had always scoffed at spiritualism, dismissing it as the refuge of the weak-minded or the superstitious.
Yet, something about the Anubis Collar had captivated him, not as a mystical object, but as an ancient puzzle box waiting to be opened.
Rumors claimed it could weigh a soul, judging its purity with divine impartiality, a grim reaper's scale for the living.
But Thorne, always the pragmatist, convinced himself he had uncovered a deeper, more profound truth.
He believed the collar was not a tool of judgment, but a key, a conduit to untold cosmic power, a forgotten piece of technology disguised as religious iconography, designed to grant its wearer unparalleled influence.
His 'research,' a meticulous delve into obscure texts and archaeological data, had been subtly steered by anonymous informants who fed him tantalizing fragments of information.
These fragments, he now realized, were carefully chosen breadcrumbs leading him directly to this moment.
His anonymous sources hinted that the 'sins' it weighed were merely a primitive misunderstanding of a sophisticated energetic calibration, a minor test before unlocking its true, unimaginable potential.
Tonight, he intended to prove his theory, not just to the world, but to himself, to shatter ancient superstitions with modern intellect.
He would be the first to truly wield its power.
The Ten-Million Dollar Gamble
As the clock neared midnight, the grand exhibition hall fell silent, the hushed murmurs dying into a profound stillness.
Thorne ascended a small, velvet-draped dais at the exhibit's center, a spotlight illuminating his sharp, almost predatory features.
The Anubis Collar rested on a pedestal beside him, its intricately carved golden jackal head gleaming under the focused light, seemingly radiating an inner warmth.
It was more striking in person than any photograph could convey, an artifact that seemed to hum with an ancient, unspoken energy, pulling at the very fibers of one's being.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Thorne began, his voice echoing with practiced confidence, "for centuries, this artifact has been shrouded in myth, whispered about in dark corners and scholarly texts alike."
"They say it judges the soul, weighing one's sins, determining one's fate with uncompromising divine impartiality."
He paused for dramatic effect, letting the weight of those words hang in the expectant air.
Then, with an almost theatrical gesture, he picked up the collar, its substantial weight feeling curiously light in his hands, its surface strangely warm against his skin.
A nervous hush, thick with a mixture of reverence and fear, fell over the assembled guests—a glittering mix of philanthropists, rival moguls, art critics, and a smattering of curious celebrities.
Among them, scattered subtly within the crowd, were several figures with eyes that held an unnatural, almost predatory intensity, observing Thorne with an almost ritualistic focus.
These were the inner circle of the Obsidian Hand, an ancient, clandestine society who had subtly guided Thorne's "research" and acquisition for months, patiently waiting for this precise moment.
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They hadn't just allowed him to acquire the collar; they had orchestrated it, knowing his hubris would be their ultimate instrument.
They believed Thorne, with his specific, albeit unknown-to-him, ancient lineage and unique genetic markers, was not merely a target, but the perfect vessel, the unwitting key to a millennia-old prophecy.
Thorne continued, a triumphant, almost manic glint in his eye, "But I say, myths are often nothing more than primitive misinterpretations of far greater, more complex truths."
Then, with a flourish that seemed to defy every instinct of self-preservation, he unclasped the heavy golden collar and fastened it with a definitive click around his own neck.
A collective gasp, louder this time, a visceral reaction of shock and disbelief, rippled through the entire hall.
"They say this artifact weighs your sins," he chuckled, raising a glass of vintage champagne to toast his own audacity, "but I simply bought it for ten million, and now I claim its power."
His laughter was brittle, a defiant challenge hurled not just at the hushed crowd, but at the very concept of divine judgment itself, an act of ultimate mortal hubris.
The Unveiling
The very instant the last syllable of his challenge died in the air, something profoundly shifted within the opulent exhibition hall.
The atmosphere grew heavy, thick with an unseen, suffocating presence that pressed down on every soul present.
The golden collar, which moments before had pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, now began to throb violently, pulsating with an intense, blinding, white-hot brilliance that seemed to drain all other colors from the room.
Thorne’s arrogant smile instantly faltered, dissolving into a flicker of confusion, then alarm, crossing his perfectly chiseling face.
He had expected a surge of invigorating power, a feeling of transcendent enlightenment, perhaps even an immediate boost in mental clarity, not this unsettling, searing heat that radiated from the ancient artifact.
The gold began to constrict, burning against his skin with an unimaginable intensity, not a gentle warmth but a raw, agonizing, searing pain that clawed at his very flesh.
His grip on the delicate champagne glass tightened convulsively, his knuckles turning bone-white as the pain intensified, a silent scream tearing through his body.
The subtle vibrations that had begun to hum in the room earlier now intensified, escalating into a low, resonant thrum that vibrated not just in the air, but deep within the chests of every terrified guest.
His eyes, once alight with triumphant arrogance, now widened grotesquely with a dawning, visceral terror that he could no longer conceal.
He let out a choked, guttural gasp, his hand instinctively flying to his throat, desperately trying to tear the burning metal away from his flesh, but the collar was fused, an unyielding, malevolent band of white fire.
The champagne glass slipped from his trembling, pain-wracked fingers, shattering on the polished marble floor with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the suddenly silent, horror-stricken hall.
Thorne stumbled, falling dramatically to his knees, his face contorted in a silent, agonizing scream, his body spasming under the collar's supernatural torment.
The intense panic was palpable, a contagious wave of primal fear that spread like a viral contagion through the stunned, paralyzed crowd.
Then, from the massive, ornate wall behind the dais, where a colossal mural of ancient Egyptian deities had been painted in meticulous detail for the new exhibit, a shadow began to detach itself.
It wasn't merely a trick of the museum's carefully calibrated lighting system.
It was a deepening of the very darkness itself, an impossibly dense void that began to coalesce and form into the towering, terrifying silhouette of a jackal-headed god.
Anubis.
The Guardian's Awakening
Its eyes, previously painted and inanimate, now burned with an infernal, crimson glow, twin beacons of ancient rage and primordial power, fixing on Thorne with an ancient, malevolent, and utterly unforgiving focus.
This was not the benevolent psychopomp, the gentle guide of souls through the Duat, but the primordial guardian, the fierce protector of cosmic balance, roused from aeons of slumber by an act of profound, unforgivable sacrilege.
Its massive, clawed hand, impossibly long and skeletal, slowly began to extend from the wall, a spectral appendage that cast an immense, consuming shadow over the gasping, writhing billionaire.
This was not judgment for his individual sins, not in the simplistic, human way he had understood or dismissed.
This was the brutal, unyielding correction of a cosmic imbalance, the reclaiming of a power that was never, ever meant for mortal hands, let alone to be wielded by human hubris.
Thorne's frantic, desperate struggles ceased abruptly, replaced by a horrifying, petrified stillness as the shadow's icy, intangible grip reached inexorably for his chest, for his very heart.
His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic, thunderous drumbeat of pure, unadulterated, primal fear, the last vestiges of his defiance crumbling into abject terror.
The cultists of the Obsidian Hand watched from the shadows, their faces impassive, devoid of emotion, a strange light of twisted satisfaction and victorious malice in their cold eyes.
Their long, patient game had finally paid off.
They had found their 'key', their chosen vessel, and now the true, devastating purpose of the Anubis Collar, and the ancient entity it served, would finally be revealed to those who understood.
It wasn't merely to weigh sins; it was to draw forth a specific, chosen host, to anchor a fragment of the divine in the material world, a living tether for an ancient will.
The collar pulsed one last, blinding, catastrophic time, emitting a silent shriek that seemed to tear at the very fabric of reality itself, rending the air with an invisible force.
A final, agonizing, bloodcurdling gasp tore from Thorne's throat as the colossal, spectral claw closed around him, encompassing his entire form in a shroud of pure shadow.
And then, with a sudden, abrupt, and absolute finality, everything went black.
The opulent museum hall, moments before filled with horrified, choked screams and desperate gasps, plunged into an absolute, suffocating darkness, colder than any natural night.
Only the lingering, acrid scent of ozone and something indescribably ancient, metallic, and vaguely sulfuric remained, clinging to the panicked air.
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The artifact was utterly gone.
Elias Thorne was utterly gone, vanished without a trace, as if he had never existed.
And the world, blissfully oblivious, had just witnessed the first, terrifying step in a much larger, darker ritual orchestrated by forces hidden in plain sight, patiently manipulating the strings of mortal ambition.
The Immediate Aftermath and The Cover-Up
Chaos erupted in the pitch blackness, a symphony of screams, thuds, and frantic whispers as the elite guests stumbled blindly, desperate to escape the sudden, overwhelming horror.
Emergency lights flickered on within moments, revealing a scene of utter pandemonium: overturned tables, shattered glass, and terrified patrons pushing their way towards the exits.
The dais where Thorne had stood was now empty, the velvet drape torn, the marble floor bearing only the shards of a champagne glass and a faint scorch mark where the collar had burned.
Museum officials, their faces pale and drawn with a mixture of fear and calculated urgency, immediately began to spin a narrative.
They offered vague, hurried explanations about an electrical surge, a localized structural collapse, and a freak accident.
They vehemently denied the supernatural accounts from hysterical guests, dismissing them as mass hysteria fueled by alcohol and artistic imagination.
The Obsidian Hand moved with chilling precision and ruthless efficiency, their agents already mingling with the panicked crowd, subtly planting doubts, spreading misinformation, and silencing the loudest voices.
Witnesses who claimed to have seen the towering shadow, the burning red eyes, the impossible disappearance, found their recollections clouded, their voices dismissed as unreliable.
Security footage from the critical moments had inexplicably "malfunctioned," conveniently cutting out just before the climax.
Within hours, the official story was cemented: a tragic, albeit unusual, accident, the details of which were being thoroughly investigated.
But a select few, those who had seen the impossible with their own eyes, those who had felt the primal dread in their bones, knew the truth.
They knew that Elias Thorne's arrogance had not just met its match; it had been utterly consumed, absorbed into something far older and more terrifying than human comprehension.
They knew that something ancient and truly terrifying had been awakened, and it now walked among them, its presence shrouded in shadow and mystery, its true form unimaginable.
The Anubis Collar, once believed to be a simple judging relic, was far, far more than anyone could have ever conceived.
It was a gate, a portal to dimensions beyond human understanding, a key to unlock a primordial force.
And Elias Thorne, the man who thought he could buy and control ancient power with his millions, had simply been the lock, the sacrificial offering in a scheme far grander than his wildest ambitions.
His unbridled ambition had not granted him dominion, but utter dissolution.
And the Night of Patrons had become the Night of the Portal, forever etching its terror into the minds of those who survived to remember it, a chilling testament to humanity's insignificance against true cosmic power.
The bustling city of New York slept, utterly oblivious to the new, chilling presence lurking in its dark corners, a presence that began its journey at a lavish museum gala, unleashed by a man who dared to challenge the gods.
