Tuesday arrived.

By the time Araka reached the Bakju National Museum, the atmosphere was completely different from her quiet visit during the preparations yesterday. 

Visitors already filled the entrance plaza. Banners advertising the Vase of Mercilli hung above the doors, while museum staff directed the first groups toward the special exhibition.

It didn’t take Araka long to spot the people she was meeting.

“Sara-cha!” A purple-haired girl waved enthusiastically from beside the entrance.

The girl was no other than Otanaku Leana (烏海 蓮, Otanaku Re’ana) — Araka’s classmate and one of her closest friends. Their families had also known each other for years. There was another unusual detail about Leana’s family: despite their connections to the broader circles surrounding the Peni, they were among the rare exceptions outside the Otanaku clan with no known Matake ability.

Beside her stood her parents.

Araka immediately recognized Hatoru, Leana’s father. She had met him several times before, partly because of his personal acquaintance with Lon, partly because of Leana. Otanaku Hatoru (烏海 智)  was the chief editor and a political correspondent at RBC (Radienfrukker Bundestik Chin in Endosian), Great Chin’s federal public broadcaster.

What Araka wasn’t accustomed to seeing was him dressed like this — someone wearing jeans and a casual jacket on top of a shirt. 

Araka blinked.

He looks completely different when he isn’t interviewing somebody.

Beside him stood Leana’s mother, Otanaku Brenna (烏海 寶麗奈, Otanaku Burena), the long light brown haired woman, whose appearance stood out more clearly in Bakju because of her sharp face features and naturally hazel coloured eyes. She was Gudian by ancestry, the nation immediately north of Great Chin, and some of Leana’s own features visibly reflected that side of the family.

Leana hurried toward Araka.

“Sara-cha! Nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you too,” Araka immediately responded.”

“Hehe, look who I brought with me.”

Araka looked behind her.

A girl with braided hair and a lean, athletic frame.

“…Wait.”

The girl smiled: “Araka, you forgot me?”

Araka’s eyes widened.

“Sayanaka?”

Isekari Sayanaka (銀谷 紗香), that’s her name. 

So that was the “familiar face” Leana was talking about. 

Sayanaka was a P2-level intern with SAIR Central Division 1 in Zenju, as well as an old friend of Leana’s before she moved to Bakju last year.

But for Araka, there was another reason  to remember her — at the last state-level track tournament, Sayanaka had emerged as one of Araka’s newest rivals— and finished second in the one-kilometre event.

“I said it was a surprise,” Leana said with her iconic smile. 

Sayanaka laughed: “Come on Araka, I don’t come here for a rematch.”

“Don’t worry, Araka,” Sayanaka said, “I don’t come here for a rematch, or bring up old stories — I just heard the Vase of Mercilli was here.”

“Never realized you’re interested in this kind of thing,” Araka said.

“I mean, who wouldn’t?” Sayanaka said, “Being able to take a look at something so valuable just at the doorfront isn’t something you can do daily. In fact, I’m actually jealous of you guys having such access to such artifacts before Niangkee.”

Araka ignored that.

As the group began moving toward the entrance, Sayanaka came closer to Araka.

“Hey, Araka-cha,” her voice dropped to a whisper.

“What?”

Sayanaka glanced around before leaning closer. “I didn’t realize your family had enough power to bring the Vase of Mercilli here.”

Araka nearly stopped walking. “…What?”

Sayanaka grinned: “Come on. The Sakashi Wing? Your mom being a patron? And suddenly it shows up here?”

“It’s not my family’s decision!” Araka whispered back, “I …I mean, the Sakashi Wing is literally the only  multipurpose wing of the museum, and the artifact here it’s definitely not from my personal request.”

Sayanaka nodded solemnly. “Of course, Araka-cha.”

“Why did you say that like you don’t believe me?”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Sayanaka grinned softly. 

“Sayanaka.”

Sayanaka suppressed another laugh. Then her expression became slightly more thoughtful.

“Still…” she glanced toward the museum, “Personally, I do think Bakju might actually be a smart choice.”

Araka raised an eyebrow; “What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” Sayanaka lowered her voice again. “Bakju literally had Division 2, which nowadays some of us consider it as something on par with those from Niangkee.”

“But Zenju is the capital.”

“But consider this,” Sayanaka continued, “If they displayed it right in the capital, everyone would expect it. Plus, to be fair, the National Museum of Zenju is much newer than here, and of course also slightly less well-funded.”

That did make sense, Araka thought.

“Plus, who would you think would be more useful when facing hostile thieves — your beam firing instructor or my attorney-style instructor?”

She’s referring to Toruyo, Araka thought. That did seem to make sense. 

“And Bakju also got you,” Sayanaka smiled, “even rogue Matake users won’t be able to get away easily without a fight with two of you.”

“Well … I would take that as a compliment, I guess.”

—

The group now entered the Sakashi Wing of the museum. Even though it required a separate admission to enter, the room was still packed with visitors admiring the artifacts from Zakatari.

In the middle of all of these, under carefully positioned lights, the Vase of Mercilli stood inside its glass enclosure.

Leana immediately moved closer: “So that’s what it actually looked like?”

Beside her, Sayanaka leaned toward the display.

“The colours are much brighter than I expected,” she said. 

Meanwhile, Araka was studying the reconstructed model using the VR headset, while Brenna seemed particularly interested in the patterns around the upper portion of the vase.

No Matake user, at least so far, Araka affirmed to herself.

Araka smiled.

But one person wasn’t admiring the vase.

Hatoru, adjusting his glasses, stood unusually still. His eyes were fixed on a tiny section near the bottom of the painted scene, where the people of Mercilli were depicted confronting the enormous incoming tide.

Araka noticed and walked over. 

“Uncle Hatoru?” Araka whispered. 

Hatoru didn’t respond immediately.

Araka lowered her voice and continued: “…Did you notice something?”

Hatoru glanced toward her, and then back at the vase.

“Maybe,” he leaned slightly closer to the glass.

“Look there.”

Araka followed his gaze.

Among the tiny figures and painted waves was a short inscription, the characters stood out: a triangle and a square.

Araka frowned.

“What about them?”

Hatoru’s voice dropped further.

“I think this might be a fake.”

Araka’s eyes widened: “A—”

Hatoru immediately raised a finger. “Shh.”

Araka shut her mouth tight and nodded.

Hatoru continued studying the inscription. 

“I don’t know whether the museum intentionally put a replica on display — they might forget to label it as such — but nevertheless something needs to be corrected.”

Hatoru straightened.

“I might’ve overthink. I’m going to contact someone who can actually verify it.”

He immediately approached a nearby museum employee.

“Excuse me.”

The employee turned.

Hatoru quietly removed a business card from his pocket and showed it.

The staff member’s posture changed almost immediately.

“Mr. Otanaku Hatoru?”

“I need to speak with someone responsible for the Mercilli loan.”

The employee looked toward the vase, then back at him.

“Of course. Please come with me.”

Within moments, Hatoru disappeared through a staff entrance.

Araka remained where she was. Fake? she thought while looking at the vase again.

How? 

Her eyes instinctively moved toward the camera, then onto the Security personnel near both exits.

Visitors surely were screened at the entrance, and the enclosure itself hadn’t visibly been disturbed by brute force.

How could someone replace it?

She looked at the vase again while searching through her memories.

That Monday, she clearly saw the vase was real. 

Then, she moved several steps sideways until she stood almost exactly where Hatoru had been.

Then, she sensed something was different — not the shape, not even the colours, but the surface.

On Monday, the original vase hadn’t looked perfectly smooth — small traces of cracks here and there, while traces of ancient pigments remained embedded in the ceramic.

This one… it looks like something was glued together: the gaps between each larger piece were greater, and even at the best attempt, some of the carvings are much shallower than what she saw on Monday. 

Araka narrowed her eyes.

How could a reputable museum like Bakju National place a clearly restored piece and mislabeled as the original deal.

Araka looked around.

Leana was still talking with Sayanaka.

Brenna was reading one of the exhibition panels.

At least not everyone is as concerned as me, she thought. 

Araka walked back toward them.

“Leana-cha,” Araka called Leana.

Leana turned.”

“I need to use the washroom. I’ll be back quickly.”

Leana nodded. “Okay.”

She walked away at an ordinary pace. Only after turning the corner near the washroom did she pull out her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the dial key: on her phone.

Police?

Araka stopped — she had no proof. 

If she called the police and triggered an evacuation over a vase with more visible cracks and two suspicious characters, the resulting disturbance could become enormous, 

And if the museum itself had intentionally substituted a replica but forgot to label it, she would be called a hero for calling it out, but the disturbance itself would create deep distrust on the reputation of the museum. 

What about the SAIR? 

Same problem.

Araka stared at her contacts.

Then she found another name.

Mom.

She called.

Moraka answered after several rings: “Araka?”

“Mom.”

“What’s wrong?”

Araka glanced behind herself to make sure nobody was nearby.

“I’m still at the museum.”

“I know.”

“But the vase…” She hesitated. “I think something is wrong.”

“What happened?”

Araka lowered her voice; “I can’t prove it yet, but…”

She looked back toward the corridor leading to the exhibition.

“…I think the piece might have some problem.”

Moraka, after a brief pause, said calmly: “Could you tell what kind of problem?”

Araka swallowed. She thought about the inscription, the more apparent cracks, and even the cameras.

“Mom…” she eventually let the words in her mind out: “I don’t think the vase we’re looking at is the same one I saw on Monday.”