17 COI

Lumian couldn't help but smile when he saw the "slogan" on the wall.

It reminded him of something Aurore had once said: "In Trier, the café holds a unique status. It's the birthplace of riots, the sanctuary of conspiracies, and the wellspring of scandals." Throughout Intisian history, innumerable riots had been sparked in cafés, and countless literary works and political struggles had brewed within them.

Unlike the neighboring Loen Kingdom, Intis had its own private clubs, but they were fairly exclusive or high-end, with limited access. Be they former nobles, current members of parliament, high-ranking government officials, financiers, bankers, industrialists, renowned authors, newspaper editors, military generals, or university professors, everyone enjoyed frequenting different cafés to engage in spirited conversations, presenting a more approachable side to the public. After all, the Republic's political slogan and image were built upon "freedom, equality, and fraternity."

Naturally, the cafés frequented by various social strata were vastly different, often distinguished by location, price, and style. So, when Lumian heard from Charlie that Laurent had used his mother, Mrs. Lakazan, to seek opportunities in upscale cafés, he wasn't surprised or puzzled. Many people did this, often becoming archetypes for novelists, but only a few succeeded.

At the same time, banquets and salons were all the rage in Trier. If any high society member didn't host a salon once a month, others would assume something had befallen their family or that a financial crisis had jeopardized their political future.

Aurore, who clearly adored this metropolis, stayed away partly because artists like authors, poets, painters, and sculptors seemed like tamed butterflies, fluttering about the salons of various politicians, financiers, and officials. It appeared that only by gaining their approval could the value of their work be realized.

The amalgamation of salons and cafés supplanted most club functions.

In this system, taverns, beer houses, dance halls, and cafés shared similarities, but the latter held far greater significance, leaning more towards the upper classes.

Upon seeing a customer enter, a female attendant in a grayish-white dress greeted him with a smile.

"Do you have a favorite seat, or are you meeting a friend?"

Lumian nodded.

"Cabin D."

The female attendant led him to a secluded corner.

Beside a window, he could see a lush, tree-filled botanical garden.

"What can I get you to drink?" The female attendant presented a brown-covered wine list.

Lumian opened it, momentarily taken aback by the dazzling array of choices.

Fermo Coffee, Highlander Coffee, Reem Espresso…

Sibe Black Tea, Marquis Black Tea, West Balam Black Tea…

Fruit Slushy, Frangipani Cocktail, Ambergris Lemonade, Venus Sacred Oil…

Summer Wine, Kirsch, Rose Dew, Walnut Spirit, Orange & Lemon Wine, Cherry Spirit…

Absinthe, Fennel Absinthe, Gin, Bitter Cura?ao, Apple Brandy, Grape Dregs Brandy…

Sweetwine: Perfect Love, Barbarian Cream, Little Rose, West Pyro…

Considering he had a psychologist's appointment later, neither alcohol nor coffee seemed fitting. Lumian thought for a moment and said, "Ambergris lemonade."

"Four licks," the female attendant inquired.

"Do you need cake, bread, or other food?"

"Not for now. I'll decide when my friend arrives." Lumian surveyed the surroundings of Mason's Café and noted the absence of customers at this time.

The lunch crowd had cleared out by 2:30 p.m., leaving more than an hour before teatime.

Soon, the female attendant returned with a tray, placing a glass filled with a colorless liquid and a few lemons on the table. Lumian eyed the empty seat across from him, picked up his cup, and took a sip.

A sweet, elegant fragrance filled his nostrils, and the refreshing sour taste invigorated him.

As the minutes passed, Lumian noticed the wall clock nearing 3:30 p.m. He couldn't help but glance at the café entrance.

Green plants adorned the area, but no customers entered.

Just as Lumian looked away in disappointment, a soft female voice sounded from the booth behind him.

"I'm already here. Good afternoon, Mr. Lumian Lee."

Lumian assumed the woman didn't want a face-to-face conversation, so he didn't turn around. He lowered his voice and asked politely, "Good afternoon. How should I address you? Can you hear my soft voice?"

"No problem," the gentle female voice replied. "You can call me Susie."

"Hello, Madame Susie." For some reason, Lumian felt relatively calm facing this psychologist. His usual habit of inward commentary dissipated.

A familiar uneasiness washed over him a second later.

"What's wrong?" Susie, seated behind him, inquired gently.

Lumian pondered for two seconds and didn't conceal his feelings.

"I'm a little uneasy. It's an odd yet familiar sensation.

"Yes, I must have experienced something similar when I met an information broker yesterday."

Susie spoke rapidly, apologetically, "Sorry, I'm used to reading your thoughts. That might be causing your discomfort.

"Your body is infused with intense corruption and is in a delicate balance. The slightest disturbance triggers a reaction. In other words, you're highly sensitive to hidden and invisible influences, surpassing Beyonders of the same Sequence or higher."

"Is that so…" Lumian wasn't angry. In his view, a psychologist needed to read thoughts for effective treatment. Rely on words alone?

He then furrowed his brow. "Was Anthony Reid also reading my thoughts back then? I'm referring to the information broker."

"I know." Susie understood. "Where did Anthony Reid come from? What did he do before becoming an information broker?"

"He had a West Midseashire Coast accent, a retired soldier," Lumian recounted. After a brief silence, Susie said, "If he's truly from West Midseashire Coast, it's indeed possible he's a Beyonder of the Spectator pathway."

The Spectator pathway… Lumian had read about it in Aurore's Warlock notebook, but she only knew that its corresponding Sequence 9 was called the Spectator. They possessed remarkable observational abilities, deciphering true thoughts from subtle expressions and body language.

So a Sequence above the Spectator pathway is a Psychologist… As this thought crossed Lumian's mind, he heard Susie correct him.

"It's Psychiatrist."

"That sounds more reassuring." Lumian smiled. "What Sequence is Anthony Reid?" After learning the other's pathway, he felt Anthony Reid should have recognized him and sensed his anxiety, concern, and attempts at intimidation.

"According to your description, he's at least a Sequence 8," Susie concluded.

Lumian smirked. "If he's really a Psychiatrist, that's interesting. He didn't even treat the aftereffects of his battlefield trauma."

"It's not unusual. When a Psychiatrist suffers severe psychological trauma, it's incredibly difficult for them to recover alone. They often need the help of another Psychiatrist, and treating a Psychiatrist is far riskier than usual.

...

One misstep can result in the infection of the patient's mental illness," Susie explained succinctly.

As the conversation shifted and the atmosphere lightened, Lumian gradually relaxed, no longer feeling uneasy or anxious.

He took the initiative to say, "Shall we begin the treatment?"

"Talking is part of the treatment." Susie's gentle voice hinted at a smile.

Realizing that the first stage of the treatment was simply conversation, Lumian eased further. He leaned back against the booth partition and asked, puzzled, "I know it was a dream, but there are many details I can't comprehend.

"Since it's my dream, how can I know the various abilities of the three official investigators? Why am I so familiar with the unique abilities of the padre, the shepherd, and company?"

Susie's tone was warm as she replied, "The three official investigators were forcibly drawn into your dream. It's as if their subconscious came close to yours, in a semi-open state.

"They would actively participate in the dream, revealing all sorts of information they know. Even if they only think about it, your subconscious can sense it." In other words, with Ryan, Leah, and Valentine's involvement, certain parts of the dream are created through "interaction?" Their responses are a collective creation of my subconscious and theirs, adhering to unspoken rules? Lumian considered this as he pondered previously unresolved questions.

Susie's voice remained steady as she continued, "You must have some suspicions about why you know the abilities of the evil god's followers, right? But you're just unwilling to confront them?"

At this, Lumian's eyelids twitched involuntarily.

"Based on the information Madam Magician provided, most of Guillaume Bénet and Pierre Berry's abilities stem from the evil god's Sequence, Contractee. So, it's impossible to predict their abilities beforehand. It depends on which creature they've signed a contract with,"

...

Susie gently analyzed. "In other words, we can rule out the possibility that your subconscious obtained corresponding knowledge from the seal's corruption. Without a knowledge base, you couldn't imagine those abilities nothing. They're not imaginary." The woman's tone suddenly turned grave.

from "Clearly, at some point before Cordu was destroyed, you saw Guillaume Bénet, Pierre the others use their abilities. Moreover, you were neither harmed nor Berry, and traumatized. Otherwise, it would have manifested in the dream.

"From the dream's analysis, what truly left a scar on you was Pualis and company's actions. "How do you think you witnessed those evil god followers using their powers?" Susie's words were like sharp arrows piercing Lumian's memories, making the sturdy barrier waver.

Lumian's face twisted slightly. Amidst excruciating pain, he saw images surface from the depths of his memories.

It was the third floor of the administrator's castle.

The walls were adorned with pale, translucent faces, but the fighters were no longer Ryan, Leah, and Valentine. Instead, it was Guillaume Bénet, Pierre Berry, and Sybil Berry!

-x-X-x-

Blood-red flowers bloomed on the pitch-black vines hanging from the ceiling, sealing off the third floor of the castle.

Guillaume Bénet, Pierre Berry, and Sybil Berry fought off the 'midwife' and her accomplices as they charged towards the tower.

A series of fragmented scenes flashed through Lumian's mind.

In a tower filled with bird-clawed infants, the invisible Guillaume Bénet touched the midwife's shoulder with the help of Shepherd Pierre Berry. The midwife exploded as if a bomb had been planted inside her.

Though Sybil Berry had been killed by the lady's maid, she was reborn in the other woman's body and took control of it.

Floating in the air, Louis Lund gave birth to a child in the room.

Unfazed, Louis Lund teamed up with Administrator Béost to subdue Shepherd Pierre Berry.

In the wilderness leading deep into the mountains, the padre, Guillaume Bénet, was surrounded by countless undead in linen garments…

Lumian's face contorted in pain. These memories felt like a sharp weapon piercing his soul. Extracting them would do more harm, making him instinctively resist recalling them further.

Eventually, the scenes faded, and Lumian panted heavily.

"How was it? Did you find anything?" Susie's voice was gentle, as if inquiring about today's breakfast.

Lumian pondered and replied, "I remember the battle between the padre and Madame Pualis's subordinates. The scene was chaotic and fragmented…

"Sometimes, I feel like I'm watching in person, and at times from afar via certain means…"

This left him deeply puzzled about his position and role in these events.

At times, he seemed to be part of the two groups, embroiled in the conflict. Other times, he appeared to be a mere bystander, unconnected to either side.

Susie asked, leading him on, "Besides that, is there anything else you don't understand about the situation in your memory?"

Lumian said as he recalled, "I don't think I saw Madame Pualis… She only appeared when the padre was surrounded by a horde of undead in the wilderness…

"The padre and his allies seemed drained after dealing with Louis Lund, Cathy, Béost, the midwife, and Madame Pualis's subordinates. If Madame Pualis had joined, I don't think they could have won…

"Why did Madame Pualis willingly give up and leave Cordu without stopping the padre and his allies…"

"Not willingly, but forcibly sent away," Susie corrected him. "The ritual in your dream to send the Spring Elf away should be about sending Pualis away. The Spring Elf symbolizes a bountiful harvest, the end of a harsh winter, and the budding of new life. It's very similar to the abilities displayed by Pualis's group."

"That's even stranger…" Lumian's voice grew pained as he clenched his fists, feeling unable to remember any more.

Susie said gently, "If you don't want to recall, don't. Recovering all your memories isn't something that can be achieved in one session of therapy. Take your time. There's no rush."

Phew… Lumian slowly exhaled a sigh of relief, his body relaxing.

After he had calmed down for nearly a minute, Susie said, "You can sleep and see if you can find more answers in your dreams."

At first, the Psychiatrist's voice was gentle in Lumian's ears, but then it became increasingly ethereal, as if it had receded and entered another world.

His eyelids grew heavier and heavier until they finally closed.

Lumian's eyes snapped open to the familiar ceiling above him.

He bolted upright, taking in the reclining chair, the wooden table by the window, the small bookshelf, and the wardrobe with its full-length mirror.

This was his bedroom, his home in Cordu.

For a few seconds, Lumian stared blankly before leaping out of bed and sprinting from the room.

He flung open Aurore's bedroom door and found the desk littered with manuscripts, papers, fountain pens, ink bottles, and other items, just as he remembered. He noticed the chair with the pillow was empty.

His gaze shifted to the vacant bed before slowly retracting.

Quietly, he closed the door and moved to the next room.

No familiar figure awaited him in the study either.

Lumian raced downstairs.

He dashed through Cordu Village, arriving at the entrance of the Eternal Blazing Sun cathedral.

Not a single villager crossed his path. Every house was eerily silent.

Gazing up at the onion-like dome, Lumian strode into the cathedral.

The altar had been altered, adorned with tulips, lilacs, and other flowers. A black thorn symbol was etched into it, seemingly with liquid flowing on its surface.

Still, nobody was here.

Lumian searched the padre's room before heading to the basement.

Piles of bones and sheepskin lay around, just as in his previous dream, but the altar in the middle remained untouched.

He examined it cautiously but felt no burning sensation in his chest.

Realizing this was a dream, the power representing the past, present, and future seemed to have vanished.

Having gained nothing, Lumian stood by the underground altar, deep in thought. He then dashed up the stairs, out the side door, and into the nearby cemetery. Guided by the memories of his previous dream, he quickly located the tomb where the owl had flown in. Crouching down, he pushed open the stone slab sealing the entrance. Without hesitation, Lumian descended the stairs, traversed the passageway, and found the black coffin in the shadowy tomb.

No owl was present, nor was there another Lumian. Only the faint light seeping in from outside illuminated the scene.

In a daze, Lumian turned his attention to the black coffin.

The lid had already slid to the side, revealing its contents.

Hesitating for a moment, Lumian recalled Aurore nearly losing control in his dream when she spied on the dead Warlock's corpse in the coffin.

Two or three seconds later, his expressionless steps carried him forward, approaching the black coffin. He cast his gaze inside.

A corpse quickly appeared before his eyes.

With golden hair cascading down its sides and eyes tightly shut, the corpse's pale-white face was adorned with a light blue dress.

It was Aurore!

Aurore lay in the coffin of the dead Warlock!

...

Lumian's pupils dilated, his face contorting with horror.

The scene before him fractured, crumbling inch by inch.

Lumian's eyes snapped open, his expression a mix of bewilderment and dread.

"What did you see?" Susie's voice echoed in his ears.

Lumian replied in a distant tone, "I saw Aurore lying in the coffin of the deceased Warlock… "How can this be…"

Susie reassured him, "This is more symbolic.

"Consider this: there's no real Warlock legend, and in the dream, the story you subconsciously created transformed your and Aurore's home into the Warlock's former residence. Aurore knows nothing about this or the legend. "Her loss of control was because she wanted to see the Warlock's corpse in the coffin clearly."

"So, the Warlock who died in the legend represents Aurore. What does the owl symbolize? What does the entire story signify?"

Questions flooded Lumian's mind, each like a sharp blade tearing at his head. Lumian instinctively raised his hands to clutch his head.

"You might need to recover more memories before you can analyze it. Moreover, sometimes, multiple layers of symbolism exist in a mixed state," Susie said gently. "That's enough for today's treatment. Your subconscious is already resisting. Continuing may backfire and harm your mental state.

Would you like the second treatment in two weeks or a month?" Lumian didn't hesitate.

...

"Two weeks from now." Susie paused for a few seconds before adding, "Lastly, I must remind you that you have a strong tendency for self-destruction."

"Self-destruction…" Lumian repeated the words, his expression unchanged. Susie's voice carried warmth again. "I understand why this happened, and I don't want to forcibly eliminate it. Unless you're willing to let me erase all memories at the root of the problem, every treatment will only alleviate, not eradicate it.

"I just want to remind you that Aurore loves living and life.

"She has many unfulfilled wishes. She wants to see you attend university. She wants to travel to Trier as an ordinary person for a while. She wants to find clues about her home. She wants to resolve her issues with her parents. She wants to savor all of Trier's delicacies, every concert, and experience every art exhibition.

attend "She's one step away from complete death. If she's conscious, I don't think she'd give up. She's like someone who's fallen into an abyss, clinging to the cliff edge with one hand. If even you give up, no one will pull her up again." Lumian's expression shifted, but he couldn't show any defined emotions.

It seemed he had forgotten how to smile or cry.

Susie didn't pressure him to respond. She sighed softly and said, "Many times, suppressing pain and despair isn't helpful. Humans need to vent and relieve stress. "Alright, that's it for today. We'll meet again for the second treatment, same time in two weeks."

Lumian closed his eyes.

"Thank you, Madame Susie."

Susie didn't reply, as if she had already left.

After more than ten seconds, Lumian slowly exhaled and opened his eyes.

He instinctively glanced outside Mason's Café and saw a golden retriever with a small brown bag vanishing around the corner.

A female figure appeared to be beside the dog.

Lumian lingered for another ten minutes before finishing the remaining ambergris lemonade. He stepped out of Mason's Café and made his way to the nearest public carriage stop.

A green double-decker carriage pulled up, inviting passengers to board.

Lumian paid 30 coppets and found a window seat, his gaze distant.

"Read all about it! Only 11 coppets each!" A child in old clothes approached the window, hoisting a stack of newspapers in his hand. Self-destruct… live… self-destruct… live… Lumian's mind replayed the psychiatrist's words. He felt like a walking corpse, oblivious to the newsboy.

Suddenly, he noticed the newspaper's title— Novel Weekly.

That's right, it's Sunday… Lumian snapped back to reality. He handed the child two 5-coppet copper coins and one 1-coppet copper coin, opened the window, and grabbed a copy of Novel Weekly.

Unfolding the newspaper, Lumian began to read, illuminated by the bright sunlight streaming through the window.

As the carriage slowly rolled forward, a message caught Lumian's eye: "Obituary: "Our eternal friend, the renowned bestselling author, Aurore Lee, has been confirmed by our editorial team to have passed away in an accident in April…"

Lumian's gaze froze, his hands trembling.

Abruptly, he lowered his head, raised the newspaper, and shielded his face with it. A wet mark materialized on the newspaper's surface in the afternoon sun.

More and more wet marks emerged, merging into one splatter.

-x-X-x-

Rue Anarchie, Auberge du Coq Doré, Room 207.

Lumian tossed the wrinkled newspaper onto the table and slumped onto the bed.

After a few moments, he collapsed onto the mattress. Exhaustion coursed through his veins, making it nearly impossible to resist the urge to sleep.

He reset his body and mental state each day, but never his mind.

Too tired to bother undressing, he kicked off his leather shoes and closed his eyes.

Lumian slept deeply, dreamless.

The acrid scent of sulfur roused him from his sleep. The sun was still setting outside the window.

Lumian turned his head to gaze at the glass window, tinged with a golden-red hue, and whispered sarcastically, "Could it be that I've slept for a day and a night?"

It was clearly impossible; he always woke up automatically at 6 a.m.

Though the obituary had helped vent the sorrow in his heart, Lumian still felt somewhat despondent.

He knew that grief wouldn't simply vanish, and pain would inevitably resurface. He had to maintain a stable mental state and face his emotions without spiraling into self-destruction.

As for extreme, mad, and self-destructive tendencies, he accepted that these were inevitable, as long as they weren't severe.

I have to undergo psychiatric treatment regularly in the future. Otherwise, I'll completely lose my mind before I complete my revenge and find a way to revive Aurore. Lumian sighed and got out of bed.

He picked up the wrinkled Novel Weekly again and studied the obituary on the front page, seeking to reawaken the familiar pain in his heart.

Then, Lumian noticed an issue.

This paper was from last week.

The paperboy had sold him an outdated newspaper!

Impossible. It's impossible for a paperboy to keep a newspaper copy that can't be sold… Lumian furrowed his brow, finding this odd coincidence inexplicable.

He carefully recalled something that Psychiatrist Susie had said: "Many times, suppressing pain and despair isn't helpful. Humans need to vent and relieve stress…"

Suddenly, Lumian understood.

This was part of his psychiatric treatment!

Madame Susie had first identified my unstable mental state and strong self-destructive tendencies. Then, she used the hope of reviving Aurore as an initial counsel. Finally, while I wallowed in my pain, she arranged for the paperboy to deliver a week-old obituary. She shattered my defenses with cold, hard facts, allowing me to release the pain and despair I had buried deep inside… Lumian mused silently.

Realizing this, he was grateful for encountering a highly skilled and professional psychiatrist. Without her, escaping his mental quagmire would have been nearly impossible.

As Lumian's gaze drifted, he noticed a few bedbugs scurrying into his room.

His keen sense of smell told him the sulfur in the neighboring room had been lit to repel the bedbugs, but the vermin mostly fled elsewhere.

Lumian chuckled at the thought of him and his neighbor inadvertently "attacking" each other by driving the bedbugs into each other's rooms. He slipped on his leather shoes and strode out of Room 207, heading for Room 206.

On the second floor of Auberge du Coq Doré, nestled in an alley behind Rue Anarchie, a washroom connected rooms 201 to 204. Opposite Room 204 was another washroom, with rooms 205 to 208 on the other side. A sizable balcony graced both sides of the corridor, so the third, fourth, and fifth floors each held ten rooms and two washrooms.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Lumian rapped his knuckles on Room 206's door.

"Who is it?" A slightly flustered voice called from inside.

"I'm from Room 207 next door," Lumian replied, grinning. "I want to get to know my neighbor."

Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a lanky young man before Lumian.

Barely 1.7 meters tall, the man wore a faded linen shirt and black suspenders. Oversized black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and his unkempt, greasy brown hair looked as if it hadn't been washed for days. His dark-brown eyes betrayed his wariness.

"What can I do for you?" the man inquired.

Flashing a smile, Lumian extended his right hand.

"I'll be staying here for a while, so I figured I should get to know my neighbors. What's your name?"

The young man hesitated before reaching out and shaking Lumian's hand.

"Gabriel, and yours?"

"Ciel." Lumian glanced into Room 206, feigning curiosity. "Why are you burning sulfur now? It's already evening-time to head out for food."

Gabriel adjusted his glasses and offered a wry smile.

"I'm a playwright, and I'm planning to write all night."

"An author?" Lumian raised his hand to his chin, abandoning his plan to play a prank on his neighbor to break the ice. Gabriel clarified, "Playwright, actually. I specialize in writing plays for various theaters."

"Sounds impressive," Lumian praised sincerely. "I admire people who can write stories. My idol is an author."

Gabriel, flattered by the praise and Lumian's genuine expression, scratched his messy brown hair and sighed.

"This line of work isn't as glamorous as it seems. I poured my heart into my last script, which I think rivals the classics, but no theater manager will give it a chance.

"So I take on requests from tabloids, churning out trite stories to pay rent and avoid starvation. Right now, I'm rushing to finish one of those manuscripts. The editors just want steamy scenes with the female characters -that's what their readers crave…" Perhaps it was because he had triggered a scar in his heart, Gabriel was driven by an urge to share his struggles.

Lumian listened intently before responding with sincerity, "I've read many authors' biographies and interviews. Most of them experienced hardship, living in cheap hotels or cramped attics. I believe you'll find someone who appreciates your work and helps you become a renowned playwright.' Gabriel removed his glasses and rubbed his face. "You're only the second person to encourage me. Everyone else mocks my dreams, accusing me of being out of touch with reality." If it weren't for the fact that you share a profession similar to Aurore's, I would've mocked you too. And my mockery would be worse than theirs… Lumian thought, before asking curiously, "Who was the first person to encourage you?"

"Miss Séraphine, from Room 309," Gabriel replied, glancing at the ceiling. "She's a figure model. I haven't seen her in a few days. She might've moved out."

The same figure model Ruhr and his wife mentioned? Lumian nodded and extended an invitation.

"How about a drink at the bar?"

Gabriel was sorely tempted but ultimately declined.

"Another time. I have to submit my manuscript tomorrow."

"Alright." Lumian waved and returned to his room.

Peering out the window at the bustling Rue Anarchie, Lumian resolved to find a restaurant and indulge in Trier's culinary delights.

Just then, a shrill female voice echoed from upstairs: "You bastard! You pig!

...

"Your mother spawned you with a devil…"

The cursing halted abruptly, as if silenced by force. Lumian's heart raced as he flung open the window.

"If you're so fond of women, why not go to your mother?

This time, Lumian pinpointed the voice to the fourth floor.

Miss Ethans, the one forced into prostitution?

He recalled Charlie's description. That also meant Margot-the leader of the Poison Spur Mob-had arrived with his henchmen to collect their dues.

In the Intis Republic, there were two types of prostitutes: the registered ones in places like Rue de la Muraille and Rue de Breda, and the unregistered, illegal ones. The latter, who neither paid taxes nor could do their business without the authorities stepping in, outnumbered the former by ten or even twenty times.

After some contemplation, Lumian donned a dark suit and positioned himself between Rooms 202 and 203. A staircase led to the next floor.

He retrieved the cheap cologne he'd purchased from Bigorre, intending to pour it on the wooden steps for Margot and his henchmen to tread upon as they passed.

Unsure when the Montsouris ghost's next attack would strike, Lumian was desperate to find his prey and complete the fate exchange. a brief moment, he abandoned the idea of directly pouring the cologne, opting instead for a more discreet approach to avoid detection by After any Beyonder powers.

Lumian loosened the lid and feigned a clumsy slip of his hand, failing to grip the thick glass bottle securely.

...

With a clang, the cologne bottle hit the bottom step, and some liquid seeped out, the pungent fragrance filling the air.

Lumian crouched down, feigning frustration, picked up the bottle, and screwed the lid back on.

He smeared the spilled cologne with his palm, rubbing it against his body to not waste it.

Soon, most of the liquid had evaporated, and the night breeze pouring into the balcony swept away the lingering scent. Only then did Lumian retreat to Room 207. He concealed himself by leaning against the door frame while keeping an eye on the stairwell.

After more than ten minutes, footsteps sounded from above.

By now, the cologne in the corridor had significantly dissipated.

A thin man led four others down the stairs.

With closely cropped yellow hair, single-lidded blue eyes, a prominent nose bridge, thin lips, and faint scars on his face, the man suspected to be Margot wore a red shirt and a dark leather vest. His hands were tucked into his milky-white pants as he descended step by step.

A bulge on his left waist hinted at a hidden weapon, and his feet were clad in strapless leather boots.

Suddenly, the man frowned and deftly leaped over the two steps and a section of the second-floor corridor tainted with cologne. The three male thugs trailing him failed to detect anything unusual and trampled the remaining traces of the scent. Lumian's heart pounded at the sight. Is Margot acutely sensitive to smells, with a strong aversion to being contaminated by peculiar odors?

-x-X-x-

Lumian recognized Margot's actions all too well.

He would have done the same!

Then, he remembered Aurore mentioning that Beyonders from the Hunter pathway were relatively common in the Intis Republic. Lumian suspected that Margot might also be a Beyonder from the Hunter pathway, but he couldn't determine his Sequence.

A mob boss wouldn't have a high Sequence unless necessary… If Margot is truly a Hunter pathway Beyonder, he shouldn't surpass Sequence 7. Furthermore, the likelihood of him being a Pyromaniac is slim. Leah and Valentine, only at Sequence 7, are already considered elite investigators. Could they be inferior to a high-ranking thug who patrols the territory, abducts women, and bullies prostitutes? Lumian pondered silently as he stepped back and averted his gaze.

Although it seemed improbable that Margot had reached or even exceeded Sequence 7, Lumian dared not be careless.

What if his Sequence title was something like 'Scoundrel' which required him to act like one?

What if the Poison Spur Mob was more complex than it appeared, merely an extension of a secret organization or underground cult with ample resources, deliberately avoiding ostentation to evade official scrutiny?

The odds were slim, but lacking information and relevant mystical knowledge, Lumian had to remain vigilant. He couldn't eliminate the possibilities or gauge their likelihood.

In the second-floor corridor, the man suspected to be Margot—clad in a red shirt and black vest with his hands in his pockets- turned to his three subordinates.

Frowning slightly, he seemed puzzled and mildly displeased by their unnecessary contact with the cologne.

He glanced at the ground and sniffed.

The cologne wasn't confined to the stairwell; it brazenly led to Room 207. Moreover, the bottom step bore fresh marks of being struck by a light, small object.

In an instant, the man presumed to be Margot reconstructed the scene in his mind based on the environmental clues: The tenant in Room 207 might have visited the washroom or a neighbor. On their way back, they intended to apply cologne but dropped the bottle on the stairs. Then, they spread the cologne on their body, leaving only faint traces.

This was consistent with the mindset of Auberge du Coq Doré's tenants.

The man thought to be Margot dismissed his suspicions and instructed his three subordinates, "Remember to change your shoes when you return to Salle de Gristmill."

"Alright, Boss," the trio replied almost in unison.

It wasn't surprising; they were frequently asked to do something similar.

Salle de Gristmill… From Room 207, Lumian overheard their conversation and grew increasingly certain that the man suspected to be a Hunter pathway Beyonder was Margot. After chatting with Charlie that morning, he strolled around Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman district, conversing with vendors and bar patrons. He learned that Salle de Gristmill at 3 Rue Anarchie was one of the Poison Spur Mob's strongholds.

Only when Margot and his crew reached the bottom did Lumian don his wide-brimmed hat and leisurely exit the room. He trailed the lingering scent of cologne, venturing deeper into the street.

Seven or eight minutes later, he arrived at Salle de Gristmill. The faint odor of cheap cologne confirmed that Margot and his subordinates had returned.

Salle de Gristmill lacked the grand statue and inscriptions of Salle de Bal Brise. It merely occupied a section of the street and featured a golden-hued lobby.

Gas lamps encased by glass covers and black crossed bars on four stone pillars illuminating the entrance hall dispelled the evening's darkness.

At that moment, the dance hall buzzed with activity. Lumian heard singing, raucous laughter, and the strumming of instruments before stepping inside.

The layout resembled Salle de Bal Brise, with a dance floor in the center surrounded by small round tables and chairs. A low wooden platform at the front held a sultry woman.

Clad in a provocative short white top, her bra's row of bows was clearly visible. A black mole adorned her lips, and her brownish-yellow hair was swept up in a bun. Her makeup emphasized her large, deep-set blue eyes, creating a seductive, decadent allure.

Softly crooning, she occasionally kicked her right leg. Her cream-colored, fluffy knee-length skirt enticed patrons to try peeking beneath it.

"The consulting physician has an alluring air, "He'll first prepare by pushing up his sleeves with care, "It takes me back to my initial romance, "But this fine medic, he stands apart with just a glance, "He locates the sweet spot with such finesse and speed, "Discerning, my love, his touch is skilled indeed."

Amid the suggestive and captivating performance, Lumian approached the bar counter and asked the bartender, "What's there to eat?"

The bartender smiled and inquired, "How about Rouen Meatloaf? Or do you prefer standard fare like sausages, bread, and smoked meat?" Lumian, already aware of the Trieriens' fondness for meatloaf, nodded. "Then, two servings of Rouen Meatloaf."

"And a glass of apple punch? It can counteract the richness of the meatloaf." The bartender sensed a generous customer when Lumian didn't inquire about the price and suggested a slightly pricier drink.

Punch was a fruit juice cocktail. Lumian smiled. "Sure."

With nearly 200 verl d'or remaining, Lumian didn't need to be overly frugal with his food and drink. In any case, scrimping wouldn't be enough to cover the outstanding payment for information broker Anthony Reid.

"3 licks for each Rouen Meatloaf and 12 licks for the apple punch," the bartender quickly quoted the price.

Lumian nodded and pulled out a verl d'or silver coin, adorned with a small angel relief and a diffused line on the surface, tossing it to the bartender.

After pocketing the two 5 coppet bronze coins in change, he waited patiently.

By then, the female singer on stage had finished her performance, and the band played a slightly intense drumbeat.

Customers flocked to the dance floor, swaying to the rhythm, releasing the day's pressure, fatigue, and pain.

A man sitting nearby grinned at his companion and said, "I love this atmosphere so much. I wonder who invented this kind of gyrating dance. It's far more appealing than the old quadrille! Can you imagine? I'd often have a partner in my arms, only to wait ages for my turn to dance. My enthusiasm would've cooled by then."

The quadrille, or square dancing, involved four men and women forming a square and dancing to a violinist's performance before circling each other. Another man chuckled and said, "I still prefer the Can-can and Striptease." The Can-can, popular in Quartier de la Princesse Rouge, featured high kicks and landing splits as signature moves. When women lined up in short skirts and stockings, kicking high, cheers and thrown coins often followed.

Of course, it was a technically demanding dance. A skilled dancer needed to kick their leg as high as their nose or close to their ears. Lumian absorbed the surrounding sounds, occasionally glancing at the stairs where the cheap cologne scent vanished. Soon, two thick meatloaves and a dreamy, transparent alcoholic beverage with a red top and floating ice cubes arrived.

Lumian sipped the apple punch, refreshed by the sweetness, faint tartness, and smoothness of the alcohol. The ice's coldness invigorated him.

He then bit into the Rouen Meatloaf, unable to resist the blend of unfermented dough's sweetness, minced meat's flavor, oil's aroma, and spices' kick.

After devouring a whole meatloaf, he sipped the apple punch to cleanse his palate. Post-dinner, Lumian clutched his drink, listening to the girl's singing and watching the dance floor crowd.

The feverish atmosphere seemed to affect him as he occasionally swayed to the rhythm at the dimly lit bar counter.

Each time, Lumian would steal a glance at the stairs, monitoring Margot and his subordinates' movements. It was midnight when Margot-clad in a red shirt, leather vest, and sporting short, vertical, light-yellow hair-descended the stairs with three thugs and exited Salle de Gristmill.

Aware that the other party might be a Hunter pathway Beyonder, Lumian didn't follow immediately. He was prepared to lose them since the gang's leather shoes, once soaked in cheap cologne, had been changed. Relying on his sense of smell to track them from a distance was no longer an option. Still, he harbored some hope. He'd noticed that most dance hall customers were too engrossed and frenzied, occasionally spilling alcohol on the floor, creating wet spots from the stairs to the exit.

Swaying to the rhythm, Lumian observed from the corner of his eye that Margot consistently avoided the damp ground. This further solidified his belief that Margot was a Hunter pathway Beyonder.

As for Margot's three subordinates, despite their attempts to dodge the wet areas, their limited observation skills and the dim gas wall lamp lighting led to their feet or heels inevitably getting wet.

For those frequenting bars and dance halls, it was unavoidable. Margot had grown numb to it, not considering it an issue or giving it much thought.

Almost a minute after they left, Lumian rose from the bar counter and stepped out of Salle de Gristmill.

With few pedestrians on the streets, only the occasional drunkard's singing and cursing broke the silence. Ruined gas street lamps cast moonlight providing the main illumination.

a feeble light, with the sky's crimson The four gas wall lamps at the dance hall entrance allowed Lumian to spot numerous Some had long since faded, wet footprints. while others were fresh.

Three sets of footprints appeared in close proximity and consistently at the same time. Upon closer inspection, Lumian discovered a faint, difficult-to-notice set of footprints without any wet stains leading the way. Lumian chuckled, whispering to himself, "Constantly hanging out with fools and vermin will only bring you harm."

...

-x-X-x-

Under the crimson moon's glow, a gas street lamp illuminated the area from a distance. Lumian identified the footprints and followed them at a measured pace.

Before long, the wet spots dried up entirely, ceasing to provide clues. However, Lumian had memorized the size, sole patterns, and gait characteristics of the four sets of footprints, ensuring he wouldn't confuse them with others.

Even so, tracking them proved challenging. Unlike the ruins of Cordu Village, thousands of people traversed Rue Anarchie and its surroundings daily, leaving countless overlapping footprints that obscured and destroyed each other, making it difficult to pinpoint a target.

Compounding the challenge, vendors littered the streets with trash, and the terrible environment created other distractions. At times, Lumian felt like he was searching for a drop of water in the ocean.

Fortunately, it was midnight, and few pedestrians were out. Most were alcoholics, whose distinct smell and staggered footprints Lumian could dismiss at a glance.

Additionally, Margot and his crew hadn't been gone long, so many traces remained undamaged. Lumian barely managed to keep up.

Occasionally, due to the environment or Margot's caution, the footprints would abruptly vanish. But Lumian remained undeterred. He composed himself, searching forward, left, and right over considerable distances for new traces. Through trial and error, he eventually found the footprints he sought.

Thus, Lumian tracked them to Rue du Rossignol in the market district, stopping in front of a five-story apartment building far from several cheap dance halls.

Margot and his subordinates' footprints led inside.

Upon careful examination, Lumian confirmed that the three thugs had eventually left and walked in different directions.

In other words, Margot was the only one remaining in an apartment room.

He doesn't need his subordinates' protection, confident in his own strength… Lumian silently mused, growing more certain that his target was a Beyonder.

He surveyed the pitch-black corridor, considering how a Hunter might handle corresponding traces before returning to their actual residence. He suspected that even with a carbide lamp and meticulous searching, locating Margot would be near-impossible, and he might even fall into a prearranged trap.

After some contemplation, Lumian formulated a preliminary plan. He averted his gaze and headed to the adjacent street.

Before long, he encountered a staggering drunk man in his twenties who could barely walk.

As the man reached a malfunctioning gas street lamp and began to vomit, Lumian lowered his hat and approached. In a hushed tone, he said, "I want to buy your shirt for 1.5 verl d'or." The drunkard's initial reaction was to question whether he was so intoxicated that he was hallucinating.

He wore a gray-blue tweed shirt he'd purchased from a cheap clothing store in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman for only 1 verl d'or. Now, someone wanted to spend 1.5 verl d'or, or 30 licks, on this old garment he'd worn for two years!

Am I crazy, or is this guy crazy? The drunkard strained to look up at his counterpart, but the dim light only revealed a shadowy figure in the darkness.

The next moment, two cold coins appeared in his hand.

Instinctively, the drunkard weighed the coins and felt the patterns etched into the metal.

He belched and asked, "Why do you want to buy it?"

"If you're unwilling, I'll find someone else." Lumian feigned taking back the silver coins.

Without further questioning, the drunkard grumbled and slowly removed his coat, emptying the pockets.

As Lumian departed with the clothes, the drunkard looked up with difficulty and waved his hand.

"Haha, lunatic. Lunatic who gives money…

Blargh…"

By the time Lumian returned to the apartment block on Rue du Rossignol, he had changed into a dark-blue cap, a gray-blue tweed coat, faded pants, and a pair of worn, dirty leather shoes.

In addition to items he would use later, he had spent a total of 12 verl d'or.

Lumian glanced at the unlit apartment and suddenly found himself bewildered.

Why do I have to target a Beyonder like Margot?

His three subordinates were hardly innocent, and they were clearly weak. They didn't know how to cover their tracks, so dealing with them shouldn't be much harder than killing a chicken…

The fate of being attacked by the Montsouris ghost wouldn't discriminate!

Why was I fixated on hunting Margot?

I wasn't like this before. When necessary, I could be ruthless, and I could keep things simple. I wouldn't burden myself unnecessarily…

As these thoughts raced through his mind, Lumian's lips curled into a faint smile. He realized he had 'instinctively' chosen more dangerous prey because it appeared more challenging, making him feel more at ease and carefree.

Lumian gazed at his left chest concealed beneath his clothes, suspecting this change resulted from the corruption within his body. After a few seconds of silence, he suppressed a soft chuckle. "From the looks of it, I'm a little crazy…" He didn't plan on changing his target; it was as if he could already smell the stench of blood. This was both a blessing and a curse. With his cap pulled low, Lumian carried a pile of items and circled to the rear of the target apartment.

He arranged the fatty meat, flammable sofa stuffing, and other items against the wall, creating a fireproof barrier around them.

Next, Lumian struck a match and tossed it onto the pile. The sparks rapidly spread across the most combustible materials, quickly growing and consuming everything around them. Black smoke billowed.

As the dense smoke enveloped the area, Lumian shouted, "Fire! Fire!"

He then raced back to the front of the apartment and retreated into the shadows of a nearby corner.

His plan was simple: since he didn't know which room Margot occupied or what traps he had set, he'd force Margot to reveal himself! If Margot were a Pyromaniac, he'd certainly sense that the flames and smoke below couldn't cause a real inferno. His reaction would differ greatly, allowing Lumian to determine Margot's Sequence and decide whether to proceed or abort the plan.

and With the rising smoke, flickering flames, Lumian's cries, the apartment's tenants and those from neighboring buildings rushed down the stairs to the street.

As the fire wasn't large and the smoke hadn't penetrated the apartment, no one risked jumping out.

Remaining silent, Lumian focused intently on the apartment entrance while others 'replaced' him to shout and search for the fire's origin.

Seconds later, a figure leaped from a second-floor window, landing with ease. It was Margot-dressed in a red shirt and long milky-white pants! Relying on his Beyonder abilities and living on a lower floor, Margot hadn't taken the stairs like the other tenants. Instead, he jumped out the window.

Upon landing, he glanced back at the apartment, realizing the fire wasn't serious at all. There had been no need for him to jump out, making him appear panicked and foolish.

In that instant, Margot spotted a figure wearing a peaked cap and gray-blue shirt emerge from a corner.

The figure, head lowered, pointed at Margot and laughed. "Look, this guy is such an idiot!" Margot's emotions erupted with a fury.

His eyes tinted red as he lunged at the man mocking him.

He was fast, but the figure was faster. He had already turned and darted into the nearest alley.

All Margot wanted was to teach the guy a lesson and chase him down.

The pair raced into the dark, deserted alley, one tailing the other.

Tap! Tap! Tap! The figure sprinted to a barricade and vaulted over it with a push from his right hand.

Upon landing, he saw the figure stop and turn around.

...

The moment he landed, he saw the figure stop and turn around.

Under the crimson moonlight, Margot saw the face beneath the dark-blue cap. It was swathed in layers of white bandages, revealing only nostrils, eyes, and ears. The figure's left hand was similarly wrapped, gripping a sinister-looking, pewter-black dirk. Margot's pupils widened, and his heart skipped a beat.

He instantly realized he had fallen prey to some kind of Provocation.

Suppressing his unease, Margot drew the black revolver from his waist.

He aimed at Lumian and activated Provocation.

"With that knife? Idiot, this is the age of the gun!"

Bang!

Margot pulled the trigger, sending a bullet straight for Lumian's head.

Lumian suddenly arched backward, as if forming a bridge.

Then, he snapped horizontally, dodging Margot's second bullet. Next, Lumian straightened like a coiled spring and hurled Fallen Mercury at Margot as if it were a flying dagger. Anticipating that his enemy had a Provocation-like ability and possibly poisoned the weapon, Margot dared not confront it head-on. He hastily twisted his body, allowing the pewter-black dirk to sail past him and embed into a crack in the barricade.

As he evaded the attack, Margot saw Lumian pounce on him like a tiger.

...

Only then did he notice that Lumian's ears were stuffed with thick wads of paper, rendering him almost immune to Margot's Provocation!

The best understanding of a Hunter always came from another Hunter!

This revelation infuriated Margot once more, as if he had been silently 'Provoked' by his opponent's prowess. Bam! Lumian clenched his right fist and struck Margot's temples with a sharp crack.

Margot blocked it with his left arm. Simultaneously, he raised his right hand and aimed the revolver at Lumian's head. Let's see how you dodge at this close range!

In an instant, Lumian leaned forward as if to headbutt Margot's chest and grabbed his right wrist with his left hand.

Meanwhile, his right leg swung up with incredible flexibility.

Not at the back of his head, but at Fallen lodged in a crack in the barricade Mercury, beside him!

The sinister, pewter-black dirk soared into the air, propelled by Lumian's kick, and flew straight toward Margot.

-x-X-x-

Crash!

Margot barely managed to dodge the deadly dirk hurtling towards him, but in doing so, he failed to move his revolver in sync with Lumian's rapid motion. The bullet struck the opposite wall, sending stone fragments flying. With a metallic clink, Fallen Mercury zipped past Margot again and landed not far away on the ground.

Lumian straightened up and swiftly stomped his right foot onto the enemy's instep to stop him from raising his knee and slamming it into his abdomen.

In the blink of an eye, Lumian was nearly plastered to his opponent. He either slashed or slammed with both hands, or braced and blocked with his elbows. His feet delivered low kicks or stomps, and his knees jerked forward or bounced around. Margot was too preoccupied fending off these attacks to aim and fire.

The thug felt as if he were caught in a relentless storm of his opponent's blows. Moreover, Lumian stayed close, employing close-quarters combat techniques to prevent him from retreating and using his gun.

For Margot, such a fighting style was both foreign and dangerous.

Crash!

Margot's elbow smashed into the wall, causing the house to shudder.

Whack!

Margot's right wrist was twisted, and the black revolver slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Lumian unleashed a barrage of hands, elbows, knees, and feet, forcing the enemy to retreat repeatedly.

Towards the end, Margot could only block instinctively, his thoughts unable to keep pace with Lumian's swift movements.

However, he sensed that he had already deciphered the pattern of his opponent's attacks and anticipated the sequences that would follow. He could defend against all onslaughts with his muscle memory alone. In just a moment, he would launch a counterattack!

Instinctively, Margot raised his right foot to block the incoming low kick.

But he met nothing.

Lumian's left foot extended diagonally, defying the limits of human flexibility. He hooked the pewter-black dirk that lay silently beside him.

He had attacked Margot to force him to draw near to Fallen Mercury.

The pewter-black dirk dirk soared up and stabbed Margot's thigh.

Margot found himself pinned down by Lumian while balancing precariously on one foot. He had little recourse but to retract his right foot and twist his body slightly to evade.

Fallen Mercury grazed his thigh and tore through his milky-white pants, leaving a shallow trail of blood.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Lumian went on the offensive once more with the close-quarters combat techniques Aurore had taught him, overwhelming Margot until he had no time to tend to his leg injuries.

Luckily, the wound was superficial and bled only slightly.

Crash!

Margot's back collided with the wall.

Throughout the entire encounter, he hadn't even had a chance to speak. The other party still had his ears plugged, unafraid of any provocation.

Margot's blood boiled, but it only served to fuel his determination. He planned to trade his injuries for an advantage and escape his current predicament.

At that moment, his raised arms met nothing.

He watched in confusion and shock as the strange man with the white bandages on his face voluntarily retreated and created distance. Then, the mysterious man turned and sprinted away. As he ran, he flicked the pewter-black dirk up with his toes and snatched it in his left hand.

Momentarily stunned, Margot was about to give chase when footsteps echoed from the alley.

Hearing the gunshots, two patrolling police officers had rushed over with black semi-automatic revolvers, alerted by nearby residents who had "come downstairs" due to the fire.

"What happened? What's your Poison Spur Mob up to again?" one of the policemen demanded with a frown, recognizing Margot's face. Margot shot a disdainful glance at the two officers in white shirts, black vests, and black uniform coats, and replied, "I was attacked. Officers, you're too late!"

Although he said this, he was secretly relieved the police hadn't arrived later and had scared the mysterious man away. Otherwise, he might have been hunted down.

After all, the strange man was likely a Sequence 8 Provoker. Moreover, his combat techniques were clearly superior to Margot's, and his cunning allowed him to gain the upper hand.

The policeman's face darkened.

"Then follow me back to give a statement. We'll help you find the assailant. Also, is this your gun?"

He pointed at the revolver that had fallen to the ground.

Margot sneered. "Rely on you to find him? Haha, that's the funniest joke I've heard this year! That gun belongs to the assailant. Take it away."

With that, he briefly examined his wound to ensure he wasn't poisoned.

Then, he sauntered out of the alley ahead of the two police officers.

The officer who had first spoken wore an ugly expression. He tried to draw his gun, but his partner held his hand down.

Returning to Rue du Rossignol, Margot's face hardened.

His first instinct was to hurry home and rely on the traps he had set up to guard against a second wave of attacks.

But a few seconds later, Margot dismissed the idea, feeling it wasn't sufficient.

He decided to go to the house of the Poison Spur Mob's boss, 'Black Scorpion' Roger, and inform him of the attack. He would stay there for the night.

That was the safest place for Margot. Margot bandaged the wound on his right leg and sprinted from Rue du Rossignol to Avenue du Marché, making his way to the Suhit steam locomotive, and finally arriving at Unit 126, a three-story building with a small garden in the back.

Before long, he encountered Roger, the Black Scorpion, in the study.

A middle-aged man with firmly set black hair, Roger's slightly plump face was framed by cold, deep blue eyes.

Dressed in aqua-blue silk pajamas, Roger regarded Margot with a blank expression. "You were attacked?"

"Yes." Margot recounted the events that had transpired.

Roger's blue eyes suddenly darkened, as if connected to a bottomless abyss or an eternally burning hell.

After a moment, he nodded.

"There are no signs of you being cursed. But you have to be careful. Your blood is on that knife."

As Roger spoke, he approached Margot.

"I'll help you eliminate any hidden dangers first."

...

Margot breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Boss."

He followed Roger out of the study and down the stairs into the basement.

Upon flipping the switch and illuminating the gas wall lamp, Roger pointed at the statue in the center and instructed, "Open it and crawl inside."

The statue depicted a woman with gentle facial features, the folds of her long dress rendered vividly and lifelike.

Margot strode to the statue, pulled open the concealed door at its abdomen, and climbed in.

As the hidden door closed, an eerie silence filled the basement. 'Black Scorpion' Roger gazed at the statue and intoned a word in ancient Hermes.

"New life!"

Ghostly, indistinct black flames erupted from the statue's surface, flowing like water and burning silently. After thirty seconds, Roger said to Margot, "You can come out now."

This ritual was a method for eliminating the hidden dangers of a curse. By entering the female statue's abdomen and reemerging, it symbolized a "rebirth." Coupled with the corresponding Beyonder powers, it could sever any connection with the item that had fallen into the enemy's hands.

"Wait for me in the study. I'll search for clues about the assailant," Roger instructed after ensuring Margot was unharmed.

Margot nodded and hastened out of the basement to the study. He pulled up a chair and settled into it.

...

As time ticked by, Margot suddenly felt his body becoming unbearably heavy, as if submerged in icy water.

His breathing grew labored.

Margot's pupils dilated, but he saw nothing.

He fought with all his strength, as if restrained by invisible ropes. He could barely move his arms, fingers, and feet.

Thud!

Margot finally collapsed to the floor, but the strange sensation persisted. His face turned an unnatural purple, and his mouth hung open. His thoughts grew increasingly murky. Why… With this question in mind, Margot succumbed to the encroaching darkness.

At the basement door, Roger emerged with a grave expression.

He has potent anti-divination abilities…

This matter isn't simple…

Roger the Black Scorpion contemplated as he returned to the study.

In the next second, his gaze froze. He discovered Margot sprawled on the ground, his face purple and his lower body soaked. He was no longer breathing.

After the Poison Spur Mob leader conducted a ritual to eliminate any lingering dangers of a curse, he mysteriously perished in the safest location of the Poison Spur Mob—right before Roger the Black Scorpion.

Auberge du Coq Doré, Room 207. Lumian, now in fresh attire, nodded with satisfaction.

Fallen Mercury informed him through its vibrations that the fate exchange had been completed.

This meant Margot would instantly be assaulted by the Montsouris ghost. Completing a fate exchange after stabbing someone took time-anywhere between five and thirty minutes, depending on the desired fate, the individual's strength, and their subconscious resistance. If Lumian was the target and he eagerly opened his mind and body, the fate exchange could be achieved swiftly—within seconds or even less than twenty. Gazing at the pewter-black dirk in his hand, Lumian smirked.

"When I have time, I'll teach you Morse code. Otherwise, every time we communicate, I have to constantly narrow down options based on your feedback. It's far too tedious."

Fallen Mercury's quivering blade stilled, as if stunned.

Lumian, triumphant after a successful hunt, was in high spirits. He teased with a smile, "Do you wonder why you should learn, even as a blade? Ambition is crucial. The same goes for being a blade. Do you want to remain like this forever?"

Then, he inquired, "What fate did you exchange this time?"

Lumian extended his spiritual sense to the pewter-black, patterned dirk.

With Fallen Mercury's assistance, he gradually deciphered the destiny droplets stored within the weapon.

It represented Margot's fate of receiving stacks of cash from his various underlings. "You have a knack for choosing fates." Lumian had been occupied with fighting and had delegated the fate exchange to Fallen Mercury.

He had merely informed it beforehand that he needed money.

After commending Fallen Mercury, Lumian grew pensive. How will this fate manifest after the exchange?

-x-X-x-

Lumian couldn't make sense of it, but he didn't dwell on it either. He rolled up his sleeves, baring his right arm, and sliced it with the Fallen Mercury blade.

A brief moment of numbness was followed by a familiar pain, but he didn't flinch. He watched as blood oozed out and stained the silver-black blade crimson.

Almost instantaneously, a mercury illusory river, composed of intricate symbols, materialized before Lumian's eyes. The destiny droplets stored in the evil dirk seeped from its tip and flowed into the shallow wound.

Lumian concentrated, straining to discern the fate he sought to exchange.

He "saw" himself receiving treatment, "saw" himself falling asleep after releasing his emotions, and "saw" himself searching for Osta Trul…

Scenes flashed across Lumian's mind as if he had witnessed them firsthand.

Soon after, he located the fate of venturing outside the catacombs and encountering the Montsouris ghost from several days prior.

He swiftly raised the tip of Fallen Mercury and thrust it towards the complex symbols that appeared to be formed by the mercury river.

That fate proved heavy, and Lumian failed to stir it on his first attempt.

As the illusory river slowly faded, the scene in his mind became increasingly hazy. He hurriedly channeled most of his spirituality into the blade of Fallen Mercury.

At last, with a second stir, the fate of meeting the Montsouris ghost broke free from the illusory, mercury-hued river and shrank into a minuscule droplet, resembling a bead of mercury from a shattered thermometer.

The illusory droplet rapidly merged with the pewter-black dirk.

Only then did Lumian exhale a sigh of relief. He knew he had evaded the Montsouris ghost, and Fallen Mercury could now be deemed a Cursed Blade.

Once he treated the wound, an odd intuition suddenly struck him.

Guided by this intuition, Lumian exited Auberge du Coq Doré again, weaving between raucous drunks and a heated brawl. He returned to Rue du Rossignol and halted outside the alley where he had assaulted Margot.

Furrowing his brow, he cautiously entered and flipped over the barricade.

In the next moment, Lumian's gaze instinctively fell upon the shadow in the corner.

Something lay quietly in the realm of darkness.

Sensing its significance, Lumian hurried over, crouched down, and picked up the object with his gloved left hand.

It was a bulging brown leather wallet.

Margot dropped it? The money his underlings plundered and handed over to him? Lumian roughly grasped how the fate exchange had transpired.

Although he couldn't recall whether Margot had dropped the wallet during their fierce battle or if it had 'fallen' afterwards, it didn't prevent Lumian from claiming the money.

He extracted the thick wad of cash and emptied the gold, silver, and copper coins from the change purse. Then, he tossed the wallet aside and left the alley.

Back in Auberge du Coq Doré Room 207, Lumian lit the carbide lamp and meticulously counted his newfound fortune.

In total, he had acquired 1,265 verl d'or and 15 coppet. Most were banknotes worth 10 verl d'or or less. There was only one 200 verl d'or note, one 100 verl d'or note, and two 50 verl d'or notes. A few Louis d'or were included as well.

Lumian stared at the money for a few seconds before sighing deeply.

Even ten donations from 'benevolent souls' can't compare to taking down a gang leader…

Naturally, not all of the money belonged to Margot. He was merely holding onto it for the Poison Spur Mob.

Lumian grabbed a stack of small bills amounting to 200 verl d'or and left Room 207, climbing the stairs.

In under a minute, he reached the fourth floor and came to a stop in front of Room 8.

He recalled that Margot had visited Auberge du Coq Doré in the evening to collect most of the money from an unlicensed prostitute named Ethans.

At the time, one of Margot's underlings must have been in charge, but the money eventually ended up in Margot's possession. Without knocking, Lumian crouched down and slid the stack of banknotes through the gap beneath the door.

He quickly straightened up, turned towards the stairs, and vanished into the shadowy corridor.

Lumian slept until six o'clock when the cathedral bell chimed.

He had slept soundly the night before, feeling as if the Provoker potion had been somewhat digested.

In the morning, I'll look for Osta Trul and see if Mr. K has replied. I'll also buy some better clothes and cosmetics from Quartier de l'Observatoire… In the afternoon, I'll visit the cheap clothing store at Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman… Lumian wasn't eager to rise. He lay there, quietly contemplating the day's plans. Having escaped the threat of the Montsouris ghost, he placed disguising himself back on his to-do list.

After lingering in bed for a while, he ambled to the washroom to freshen up. Then, he went downstairs and purchased half a liter of apple cider and a loaf of bread with pork sausages from the vendors.

Having sated his hunger, he headed to the nearest cathedral square and found an empty corner to practice the combat techniques Aurore had taught him.

Lumian returned to Auberge du Coq Doré at 9:30 a.m., intending to rest for an hour before seeking out Osta Trul.

Upon entering the motel lobby, he spotted three maids cleaning various filthy areas under Madame Fels's supervision.

The motel owner hires cleaners every Monday… Lumian averted his gaze and walked towards the staircase.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from above.

Within ten seconds, Charlie appeared before Lumian, clad in a linen shirt, dark pants, and strapless leather shoes.

"You didn't go to the hotel?" Lumian asked, puzzled.

Charlie yawned and replied excitedly, "Don't you know? I'm off today. We can take one day off a week and choose whichever day we want."

Lumian chuckled. "Does this day off result in a reduction in your 'monthly salary' from Madame Alice?"

Charlie grinned sheepishly. "She has her own social engagements.

As they conversed, a foul odor drifted in from the door. The short, disheveled, gray-haired Ruhr and Michel entered the hotel.

"You didn't go to the steam locomotive station?" Charlie greeted them warmly.

Ruhr approached them first, then maintained a respectful distance.

"The market district is a bit chaotic today. We plan to rest for a day."

"What happened?" Lumian inquired "curiously."

Ruhr instinctively lowered his voice. "Margot of the Poison Spur Mob is dead. Many gangsters are searching for someone. Other gangs might clash with them at any moment. There are also many police officers present.

"Margot's dead?" Charlie blurted out, astonished.

...

He had just thought the guy deserved to die yesterday, and now he was dead? Ruhr nodded gravely.

"I've heard several people mention it. Sigh, we can't earn any money today." His wife, Madame Michel, consoled him, "If we don't go out, we don't have to eat lunch. We can save some money." Before Lumian could inquire about the situation outside, Charlie, snapping out of his daze, spun around and dashed upstairs.

Lumian's eyes flickered as he trailed behind.

Thud, thud, thud. Charlie rapidly ascended to the fourth floor and sprinted to Room 8. Taking a deep breath, he slammed the wooden door.

"Who is it?" A slightly hoarse female voice emerged from within.

Charlie announced his name loudly.

"Didn't I say I'm off the clock in the morning? back in the afternoon. Remember, 10 verl Co d'or. No discount this time!" the female voice responded impatiently, opening the door. This was Lumian's first encounter with the woman named Ethans. Her flaxen hair tumbled to her shoulders, her similarly-colored eyes wary and her face etched with apprehension. She appeared to be twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with average looks that could only be described as delicate. Her face and clothes were clean, and her red dress exposed a generous expanse of fair skin on her chest. Charlie excitedly informed Ethans, "Did you know? Margot is dead! He's really dead!"

"…" Ethans stared, dumbfounded. After several seconds, her slightly hoarse voice turned sharp. "Is that devil truly dead?"

"It's true." Charlie nodded without hesitation.

"You can finally escape that devil! You can finally live like a normal person!" Ethans glanced around, dazed, taking in Lumian's expressionless eyes and Charlie's animated countenance.

"He's dead? He's dead?" She murmured, thinking of the money that had mysteriously appeared in her room.

...

As she started to believe Margot was indeed dead, her vision blurred.

Tears poured down her cheeks. She couldn't help but squat down and bury her face in her arms.

Her sobbing intensified, becoming more uncontrollable.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from the staircase.

Lumian turned his head and saw a young man in a white shirt, coat, and black jacket approaching.

Behind him were Margot's three thugs. The lad's brown hair was slightly curly, and his face bore prominent creases. He strode up to the weeping Ethans, crouched down, and grinned.

"I'm Wilson from the Poison Spur Mob. From today onwards, I'll take care of you on Margot's behalf."

Charlie's excited expression froze. Ethans's cries halted abruptly. Slowly raising her tear-streaked face, she saw Wilson's smile and the shadow his body cast.

The shadow was so dense that it couldn't be dispelled. Lumian observed quietly, his head imperceptibly raised.

On the way to the first floor, Charlie, who had been silent for a long time, couldn't help but ask, "Is there really no end to the suffering of the poor?"

"I like something Aurore Lee wrote," Lumian replied, his face expressionless. "Sometimes, we're not the ones at fault, but the world."

As soon as he finished speaking, three people stomped up from the first floor. They were police officers in black uniforms, black vests, white shirts, and strapless leather boots.

The 1.85-meter-tall officer leading the group glanced at Charlie and Lumian and suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Pressing down on the gun at his waist, he asked in a deep voice, "Charlie Collent?" Charlie was stunned.

"It's me, Officer. What's the matter?"

The officer gestured at his colleagues and took out steel handcuffs.

As his two colleagues encircled Charlie, he said with a serious expression, "You're suspected of murder. We're arresting you."

"Murder?" Charlie's face displayed shock, fear, and confusion.

Lumian raised his eyebrows in surprise.

As the officer handcuffed Charlie with his colleague's assistance, he informed him, "Madame Alice is dead!"

-x-X-x-

"What?" Charlie's disbelief was palpable.

Lumian shared his surprise, casting a sympathetic glance at Charlie.

He was convinced that Charlie had no reason to kill Madame Alice. After all, while she lived, Charlie stood to gain 500 verl d'or a month for the next six months. According to various publications, this sum was nearly equivalent to the monthly salary of a doctor, lawyer, mid-level civil servant, senior high school teacher, senior engineer, or deputy police lieutenant. For someone who had nearly starved to death and could only find work as an apprentice attendant, it was a small fortune.

As his two colleagues headed upstairs, the officer who had handcuffed Charlie tersely explained, "Madame Alice was discovered dead in her room at the H?tel du Cygne Blanc this morning. Multiple witnesses confirm you spent the night there and didn't leave until close to midnight."

Charlie's fear and confusion mounted.

"How is this possible? How did she die…"

Muttering to himself, he suddenly turned to the officer, anxiety etched on his face, and insisted, "She was alive when I left! I swear by Saint Viève!"

The officer's deep voice responded, "The preliminary autopsy report places Madame Alice's time of death between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. last night. Besides you and her, no one else's presence was detected."

Could the other presence not be human? Lumian mused silently, considering the Montsouris ghost.

If it weren't for his lack of an adequate disguise and his desire to avoid the detectives' scrutiny, he would have voiced his thoughts.

"Impossible! This can't be happening!" Charlie's eyes widened, his voice raised in protest.

A police officer, who had slipped away earlier, descended from the fourth floor, a glittering diamond necklace held in his white-gloved left hand.

"Found this!" he informed the lead officer.

The officer nodded without further explanation to Charlie. He stared at him solemnly, declaring, "Charlie Collent, you're under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in court."

"I didn't do it! Do you hear me? I didn't!" Charlie screamed, struggling futilely.

Despite his protestations, he was led out of Auberge du Coq Doré by the two police officers.

By then, several tenants had been drawn by the commotion to the staircase, where they watched the scene unfold.

Among them was Gabriel, who appeared to have just completed an all-night writing session on his manuscript.

"Do you think Charlie did it?" Lumian asked the playwright, deep in thought as he stared down the now-empty corridor.

Gabriel had emerged earlier and had a rough understanding of Charlie's predicament.

He shook his head, replying, "I don't think Charlie is guilty. He's not a saint, but he's not evil either."

"Why do you say that?" Lumian inquired, turning to him.

Gabriel adjusted his black-framed glasses.

"Charlie was swindled out of his money and nearly starved, yet he never considered stealing from us.

"That means he either has principles and a moral compass, or he's terrified of the law. In either case, it's enough to prove he wouldn't murder that lady."

Lumian nodded, then chuckled.

"People can be impulsive and change."

With that, he climbed the stairs to the fifth floor.

This was the top floor of Auberge du Coq Doré. Large sections of the ceiling overhead showed signs of water damage, as if heavy rain would cause it to leak.

Lumian approached Room 504, Charlie's room, and extracted a small wire he carried with him to unlock the wooden door.

Inside, Charlie's suitcase, bed, and wooden table had been rifled through by the two police officers earlier. Items were strewn about, but they were few and far between.

Lumian recalled that during a conversation with Charlie at the basement bar, he had mentioned pawning his only formal suit and many other belongings while unemployed. He still couldn't afford to retrieve them.

As he entered, his gaze shifted, and Lumian suddenly spotted a portrait.

Taped to the wall opposite the bed, it depicted a woman in a green dress.

The woman appeared to be in her late twenties, with auburn hair, jade-green eyes, and lustrous red lips. She possessed an exquisite beauty, radiating elegance.

Lumian was taken aback. The woman in the painting seemed eerily familiar.

He realized it must be Susanna Matisse, the infamous prostitute Charlie had confused for Saint Viève.

Yet he had never met this woman before, so there was no reason for him to find her familiar.

After some thought, Lumian suddenly remembered something.

During his Summoning Dance in Room 207, he had attracted a translucent figure that was clearly more powerful than the other entities.

The figure, too, was female and bore a striking resemblance to Susanna Matisse in the portrait. However, one had turquoise hair, the other auburn; one's hair was long enough to cover her naked body, while the other's was merely long enough to form a bun.

Moreover, the figure was even more alluring, seemingly capable of stirring hidden desires within anyone. Susanna Matisse's portrait didn't provoke such feelings in Lumian. A consequence of misguided prayers? Lumian silently nodded in agreement.

In the past, he wouldn't have questioned Charlie's actions. If it meant avoiding starvation, Lumian would have prayed sincerely to a prostitute, let alone Trier's guardian angel.

But now, through Aurore's grimoire, Lumian had gained a basic understanding of the entry-level Sequences of the twenty-two divine paths, sacrificial taboos, and associated mystical knowledge. He knew that careless praying could be perilous.

After searching for a while, he left Room 504, grabbed the carbide lamp, and hailed a public carriage on Avenue du Marché, heading toward Quartier de l'Observatoire.

As he ventured into the underground toward the area where Osta Trul typically lurked, Lumian periodically scrutinized the shadows behind the stone pillars.

He laughed at himself, thinking, I won't run into the Montsouris ghost again, will I? If that were the case, he would need to consider whether the Montsouris ghost had a particular connection to something he possessed, or if corruption had indirectly altered his "horoscope," resulting in exceptionally bad luck. Fortunately, Lumian's concerns proved unfounded. He found Osta Trul sitting beneath a stone pillar, a bonfire crackling nearby.

The hooded, black-robed figure glanced at Lumian and offered a genuine smile. "Mr. K has granted you permission to attend our biweekly mysticism gathering at nine o'clock on Wednesday night."

Osta's gaze bore a distinct sincerity, as if to say payment was due.

At 9 p.m. the day after tomorrow… Lumian nodded with a smile.

"Where's the gathering?"

"Meet me at my place an hour beforehand. I'll take you there," Osta replied without hesitation. Lumian tersely acknowledged.

"I'll pay you the rest then."

"Alright." Though Osta seemed slightly disappointed, he acquiesced.

...

Lumian inquired, "What should I be cautious of at the gathering?"

"Cover your face and hide your identity," Osta advised from experience. "You don't want other attendees exposing you if they're caught by the authorities, do you? Aside from Mr. K, no one should know everything." Lumian grinned, retorting, "You've already seen my face and know my identity. Should I consider burying you in some corner of Underground Trier after the first gathering?" Osta involuntarily shuddered and forced a smile.

"You're quite the joker. But I don't actually know who you are, where you live, or what you do. Besides, it's unlikely that you've shown me your true self."

Taking pleasure in unnerving the other party, Lumian found a rock and sat down. Basking in the warmth of the bonfire, he casually asked, "Have you ever heard of Suzanne Matisse?"

"I have," Osta replied, his excitement evident. "For a time, she was the woman of my dreams. I bought numerous posters and postcards featuring her image. A few years ago, she was Trier's most famous prostitute, the kind who attended high society banquets. She was linked to countless scandals involving members of parliament, high-ranking officials, and the wealthy. Rumor has it that she made hundreds of thousands of verl d'or annually, but she's been out of the limelight for the past two or three years. Nana has since taken her place as Trier's renowned courtesan. Sigh, she might have become someone's permanent mistress." Hundreds of thousands of verl d'or? Lumian was taken aback.

"A high-level courtesan earns more than most best-selling authors?"

"Isn't that normal?" Osta wore a peculiar expression. "A high-level courtesan can sleep with members of parliament, bankers, and high-ranking officials, but a best-selling author can't[1]."

Amused and self-deprecating, Lumian remarked, "That's true. Poet Boller once said there is no difference between a poet and prostitute. The former sells the product of his imagination, the latter her body."

"I prefer bodies," Osta admitted candidly. Lumian inquired again, "Have you heard of the legend of a female ghost? She has turquoise hair, long enough to wrap around her body. Her features are exquisite, capable of enchanting most men and arousing their desires."

"No." Osta shook his head. With a wistful expression, he added, "If such a female ghost truly exists, I'd love to encounter her just once."

Lumian stood up and chuckled. "Then brace yourself for sudden death after doing it dozens of times a night."

...

"…" Osta's expression froze.

3 p.m., 27 Avenue du Marché, Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman Police Headquarters. Lumian, having spent nearly 300 verl d'or on three sets of differently graded clothes, affordable cosmetics, and other disguise props, entered the unusually noisy hall. Some people were being brought in, others were fortunate enough to leave, while still others argued loudly, caused a scene, and cursed-some slammed tables and kicked stools…

Lumian, his blond hair neatly combed back, black-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and a mustache adorning his lips, appeared with overly fair cheeks. Dressed in a black formal suit and carrying a brown briefcase, he approached a male constable overseeing reception.

He stopped before the man, lifted his head slightly, and confidently announced, "I'm Charlie Collent's pro bono lawyer. I'd like to see my client."

-x-X-x-