58 COI
The next morning.
Madam Magician has unearthed clues from Bouvard's tainted remains? Lumian's spirits soared with anticipation. He expressed his gratitude to the messenger and proceeded to unravel the letter's contents.
"We possess limited knowledge regarding the evil gods beyond the barrier. The Hostel and its location still eludes us, but we have formulated some conjectures.
"In examining Bouvard Pont-Péro's corrupted remains, I discerned a corruption bearing a resemblance to the Apprentice pathway—a contamination from alternate dimensions and spacetime. Had I not intervened, unless it had manifested and attacked, you would not have been able to make direct contact with it.
"In the past, we've encountered similar instances, primarily involving artists, writers, and avid readers.
"We've observed that painters often descend into madness, but due to their artistic disposition, their ramblings and abstract fantasies often go unnoticed. Some of these musings unveil profound truths about our world, while others exert an uncanny influence on their surroundings, turning the fictional into reality. They emerge from canvases or pages, though their presence typically has a time limit.
"An example involved an artist who, under the influence of a psychotropic substance, painted an indescribable creature. This entity materialized from the canvas, murdering its creator and any other living beings in the apartment.
"I once encountered a perilous artwork, a Sealed Artifact that resembled a painting. The deity portrayed within it came to life and vanished, thankfully without triggering a catastrophe.
"Similarly, while confronting a deranged heretic, we encountered Gehrman Sparrow, the Queen of Ailment, and various characters and scenes that were originally confined to novels within the structure he inhabited.
"Fortunately, these manifestations lacked the full potency of their original counterparts. They possessed only a rudimentary semblance of their appearance, personalities, and abilities.
"It was confirmed that these creations were the handiwork of a deranged bestowed of an evil god. He had been a fervent reader of novels and, upon losing his sanity, instinctively recreated a fantastical realm within his abode, mirroring the content of the novels.
"From this standpoint, it also bears some resemblance to the Spectator pathway, but it is fundamentally distinct. One derives its power primarily from the mind, while the other seems to harness the qualities and might of alternate dimensions or alternate spaces to manifest entities. Initially, it might function as a gateway or perilous portal, but in time, it could evolve into a near-real alternate space or even an entirely separate world."
As Lumian absorbed the contents of the letter, his eyelids twitched with a whirlwind of thoughts.
His initial reaction: Is this something I can read?
While some portions seemed manageable, others, particularly the elaborate examples and analysis, left Lumian's mind in turmoil. His heart raced, and he felt a peculiar tightness in his skin.
A deity from a painting coming to life and stepping into reality?
Is it that terrifying?
If the painting hadn't been sealed, wouldn't it be able to destroy the entirety of Trier?
Given more time, the entire world might have been finished!
Amidst this mental storm, Lumian's mind struck upon an idea.
It was akin to a resurrection.
While his heart pulsated with the desire to attempt such a feat, rationality won the battle within his mind. The Aurore "resurrected" through this method would likely be a perilous entity, masquerading as Aurore, rather than the genuine person. If it was merely her appearance he sought, he could achieve it at any time with Lie's abilities.
If it was merely her appearance he sought, he could achieve it at any time with Lie's abilities.
In the wake of this realization, Lumian's thoughts turned to a mystical item he hadn't employed in quite some time: the Mystery Prying Glasses!
The brown gold-rimmed Mystery Prying Glasses, originating from a deceased Beyonder, held a mysterious and intriguing history. Its previous owner had crafted an oil painting infused with madness, vibrant colors, and a mesmerizing, psychedelic pattern before their untimely demise.
When Lumian put on these Mystery Prying Glasses, the world around him transformed, revealing hidden truths that were once invisible. Occasionally, these revelations kindled a desire to sketch, resulting in drawings imbued with supernatural power, each with unique effects. For instance, they could cause an itching sensation across his body, ushering in warmth and radiant sunlight, aligning with Madam Magician's account of paintings by evil god bestowed that influenced their surroundings.
With the abilities granted by the Niese Face and Lie earring, Lumian no longer required the Mystery Prying Glasses for disguise. However, he retrieved them from his pocket and pondered for a moment.
Was its original owner a bestowed of a Hostel-related pathway, or did it come into contact with a corresponding item and suffer a certain level of corruption?
Yes, I'll report to Mr. K later and inquire about further details. Uh… The Aurora Order is fanatical about hunting heretics. Perhaps they possess more information about evil gods than the Tarot Club. Mr. K might know something about the Hostel…
Lumian was part of four different secret organizations and could gather information from four unusually well-developed information systems. As a result, he didn't have an urgent need to participate in mysticism gatherings. He only visited occasionally to join in the fun and listen to rumors and stories.
After stowing the Mystery Prying Glasses, Lumian continued reading the letter's content.
"Until now, the evil god bestowed following this pathway have been relatively passive, avoiding bloodshed and not frequently engaging in sacrificial rituals. Even if they did, it was usually confined to themselves and those in their immediate vicinity, minimizing the danger.
"However, their nature may not be as 'harmless' as previously believed. They could pose a significant threat.
"You might want to consult Termiboros about the Hostel. He possesses the most extensive knowledge of these evil gods and their bestowed. Although, don't be surprised if He chooses not to share."
Lumian set the letter ablaze with crimson flames and whispered with a chuckle, "Termiboros, do you know the meaning of Hostel and its association with which evil god?"
Termiboros's majestic voice resounded. "Not an evil god, but a great existence."
After retorting, He answered Lumian's question, "I'm aware."
Then, there was nothing else.
This provoked Lumian.
Was I hoping to hear you say you are aware or not? What I wanted to know what it represents and to which pathway it belongs!
After pressing further, Termiboros asked in a deep voice, "Do you truly wish to know?"
Lumian, sensing danger, responded cautiously, "There's no need for an honorific name or other details about the evil god. Just describe the situation and characteristics of the corresponding pathway of Hostel."
Termiboros fell silent, withholding the requested information.
Lumian scoffed, believing that the entity's response indicated: "I have nothing to lose. Why not give it a shot? What if my vessel suddenly turned foolish?" Termiboros had no intention of revealing details about Hostel.
…
As Lumian made his way to Avenue du Boulevard, Franca had already met up with Browns Sauron.
Both were clad in hunting attire, armed with double-barreled shotguns, and positioned at the edge of the East Lognes Forest, where they took aim at wild deer hidden behind the trees.
"Browns, when will you f*cking end my assessment?" Franca stressed her original gender with a touch of stereotypical vulgarity.
Browns, her orange-red hair mostly concealed beneath a deerstalker hat, peered forward and responded, "Soon, soon."
Franca, her frustration palpable, retorted, "Does the high-ranking Demoness in charge of Trier want to keep testing me indefinitely, or are you playing tricks?"
Browns, her trigger finger poised, stopped abruptly, a subtle change in her expression evident.
"Could it really be you?" Franca exclaimed in surprise.
Browns replied solemnly, "I merely suggested it. The higher-ups agreed."
"Why on earth would she agree to such an absurd proposal? Is she your mother?" Franca cursed.
Bang! Browns squeezed the trigger, and the bullet pierced through the forest, narrowly missing the wild deer.
Watching this, Franca mused, Could they really be related, or perhaps they're intimate lovers?
The Demoness Sect is essentially a family, and it's common for members to have some familial connections…
The Sauron family once held sway in the neighboring Assassin pathway, so it's not inconceivable that the Demoness Sect has infiltrated certain branches over the years.
Observing Franca's silence, Browns cleared her throat and made an offer, "If you promise not to partake in the Red House Café's orgies, your assessment will end this week."
"…" Franca fought the urge to curse and burst into laughter instead. "Haha, I'd call you 'pure,' but you're quite the expert in female orgies. As for 'promiscuous,' you're selective with your participants."
Without waiting for Browns's reply, Franca continued, "I can promise that. Besides, I can organize orgies myself."
Her true intentions were rooted in the impending catastrophe that might engulf Trier in a week or two. She needed to swiftly infiltrate the Demoness Sect and procure valuable information. After the crisis subsided, and if she was still alive, she could contemplate participating in Browns's orgies.
A true man could be indulgent and flashy, but when necessary, he could bear personal hardships.
Browns turned her head to scrutinize Franca, who met her gaze without a hint of guilt.
After almost ten seconds, Browns whispered, "Remember what you just said."
Franca responded with a smile, signifying her agreement.
With the assessment period now set to conclude, Franca raised her shotgun and shared,
"Some time ago, Ciel and I ventured into the catacombs and reached the Krismona Night Pillar. I had a peculiar feeling about that pillar. Could it have been left behind by a Fourth Epoch Demoness?"
After hearing about the sigh from Jenna, Franca had become intrigued by the Krismona Night Pillar.
"Ciel? Your lover?" Browns turned to Franca.
Franca replied candidly, "Yes."
Browns fell into a brief silence before revealing, "Krismona is indeed a Fourth Epoch Demoness. S-She is the child of the Goddess."
-x-X-x-
She glanced at Browns and sought confirmation, "A child of the Primordial One?"
Even though her assessment period wasn't yet over, she had already passed the audit and was now considered an associate member of the Demoness Sect. She knew that this secret organization worshiped the deity known as the Primordial Demoness, often referring to Her as the "Primordial One."
Browns nodded slowly and replied, "As far as I know."
The Primordial Demoness had once given birth? Franca couldn't hide her curiosity and asked, "Who is Krismona's father?"
"I don't know," Browns cautioned Franca. "That's not something we should be privy to."
"Has Beatrice Incourt returned from the Feysac Empire? Do you know where she is residing?"
"Why do you ask?" Browns inquired warily.
In her eyes, Franca Roland and her lovers were powerful and dangerous Beyonders. Only Jenna, who lived with her, seemed relatively ordinary.
Franca chuckled.
"Yesterday, I helped Ciel exact revenge and apprehended a heretic who believed in Inevitability. From him, I learned that many of Trier's bestowed individuals have disappeared to some mysterious and strange place."
"Based on the information he provided, we suspect that the 'hostel' mentioned in the note about Beatrice is the destination for these bestowed of evil gods. We want to confirm with Theresa whether the note is intended for her or Beatrice."
Browns felt uncomfortable hearing Franca mention heretics and the bestowed of evil gods.
In the world of mysticism, the Primordial Demoness had always been considered an evil goddess.
Of course, their sect, followers of the Primordial Ones, believed they were devoted to an ostracized true god, an existence shrouded in secrecy.
After Franca finished speaking, Browns replied, "There's no need for you to seek out the art dealer. When we discovered that the Bliss Society's high priest and another key member had vanished, we patiently waited for Theresa's return based on the contents of the note.
"She told us that she doesn't know what the 'hostel' is, and she hasn't purchased any artwork from any painter staying at a motel.
"We've verified the authenticity."
Franca felt a growing frustration and said, "It's really a message meant for Beatrice. Judging from the note, Beatrice knows the location of the 'hostel.' Otherwise, she wouldn't have the ability to retrieve the painting within three days.
"If only we had found the note first and performed the spirit channeling afterward…"
A realization struck Franca, and she sensed that fate was playing a cruel game in this matter.
It seemed like fate was conspiring to keep information about the "hostel" hidden.
Seizing a rare opportunity, Browns immediately struck Franca down.
"Aren't you guys quite experienced? You conducted spirit channeling without thoroughly examining the corpse. The hour after death is prime time. There's no need to rush."
Franca considered explaining that fate might be at play, but she decided against it.
Why should she warn Browns and give her a lesson?
It was better to keep her in the dark, potentially for future exploitation!
Franca looked at Browns and clicked her tongue, saying, "You're quite the talker…"
Before she could finish her sentence, she extended her right hand with a smile and gently grasped the other party's chin.
"I don't mind skipping your orgies, but I'd like to undergo your 'assessment.'
"Are you up for it?"
Browns instinctively pushed Franca's right hand away, taking a step back and saying, "If you acted like a regular woman, I might consider assessing you, but right now…"
Her implication was that Franca's current demeanor resembled a libertine, a playboy who embraced Dandyism.
"You're a tough one," Franca scoffed, her words, though unusual, comprehensible to Browns.
She picked up her double-barreled shotgun and strolled into the forest without further conversation with Browns.
…
On Avenue du Boulevard, 19 Rue Scheer, at the base of the luxurious beige house,
in the basement, Lumian once again met Mr. K, who was cloaked in a black robe and a wide hood.
He had already reported the unusual silence of the cults to his superior, and Mr. K had verified this information after an investigative period.
Today, Lumian's focus was on Bouvard's corpse's prophecy, his own thoughts, and the Sinners' situation.
He relayed the information he received from Madam Magician as Bouvard's confession, including having seen a painting with strange powers from Voisin Sanson.
Finally, Lumian presented the Mystery Prying Glasses.
"Mr. K, has this mystical item also been affected by the Hostel pathway's influence?"
Mr. K stood before a red armchair and spoke in a low, raspy voice, "Wait a moment."
With a soft clap of his hands, he summoned an attendant into the room and whispered something to him.
As Mr. K waited for the attendant to return, the entire basement fell into an eerie silence due to Mr. K's silence.
Lumian felt somewhat awkward in this silence and thought to himself,
Of course, Lumian was well aware that Mr. K's silence was intentional, and he was likely communing with a deity or uncovering hidden information.
Before long, the attendant returned, holding an oil painting about half a meter in height and nearly 70 centimeters in width.
The painting depicted a dark forest, accentuating the turquoise grass illuminated by the sun.
Upon closer inspection, there was a white area on the grass that appeared to have been scratched, resembling a figure.
Mr. K finally spoke.
"It was discovered with the Mystery Prying Glasses. Apart from the mysterious and chaotic oil painting that can affect one's mind, there was also this artwork hanging on the wall.
"It was originally meant to be a portrait, but when we saw it, the person had disappeared from it. Only the scenery remained."
He chose not to share this information with Mr. K, considering Bouvard didn't seem to be well-informed.
"Did something abnormal occur that caused the portrait to vanish?" Lumian inquired.
Mr. K's hooded head nodded slowly.
"Perhaps it returned to life and left the painting.
"It could be the source of that Beyonder's anomaly."
Mr. K added in his raspy voice, "We investigated fairly famous painters in Trier and found that, aside from a few who had completely lost their minds or even died long ago, most seemed relatively normal. However, there were instances of abusing psychotropic substances and alcohol-based drinks.
"Based on other information we acquired, we can confirm that it's not that painters easily become heretics of that pathway and gain corresponding powers. Instead, the bestowed of that pathway gain the ability to create art and naturally become painters. However, only a small number of them specialize in painting. The rest blend into society and create their own works without publicizing them."
"Is the Sequence name Painter?" Lumian asked thoughtfully.
This seemed to align with the power.
"God says yes," Mr. K replied devoutly and zealously.
Lumian immediately lowered his head.
"What else does the Lord instruct us?"
"God has revealed that foreign visitors stay at the Hostel." Mr. K appeared satisfied with Lumian's attitude.
However, Mr. K didn't share further revelations. It appeared that this was all the divine guidance he had received.
Mr. K's raspy voice carried a hint of seriousness.
"Our most crucial task now is to locate the Hostel."
Without waiting for Lumian's response, he took two steps forward and continued, "The number of evil god incidents we handle pales in comparison to those holding official positions. Perhaps they have more information.
"It's inconvenient for me to directly intervene in this matter, but you can attempt to gather information from them through other means."
…
On the roof of Apartment 17 on Rue Doyle in the market district, Jenna, disguised to conceal her allure, met with Imre and Valentine.
She cast a glance at the verdant trees lining the street below and began, "I've got important information."
Valentine's expression turned serious.
"What information?"
He had been worried that the Assassin might inquire about the primary ingredient in the Witch potion, but now his attention was fully on work.
Jenna spoke truthfully, "I've received news that some individuals suspected of being followers of evil gods have gone to a place known as the Hostel."
She didn't mention the eerie silence of the evil god's followers. With the help of 007, this had become a consensus among Trier's official Beyonders. Jenna had already been given hints regarding what to focus on.
"Hostel…" Imre, who hailed from the Southern Continent, furrowed his brow slightly.
Imre and Valentine exchanged troubled glances.
They didn't want Celia Bello to be fully informed, but if they kept her completely in the dark, she wouldn't be able to assist in gathering the necessary clues. She needed some information to know what they wanted her to pay attention to.
After a brief pause, Imre carefully composed his words and said, "One of our colleagues once heard the term Hostel from a peculiar creature."
-x-X-x-
"What kind of peculiar creature was it? What did it say?"
Imre glanced at Valentine before responding, "Under normal circumstances, it's an invisible creature. You can only confirm its existence through some traces and see if it's lingering around you."
Valentine explained eagerly, "From what I understand, it exists somewhere between the spirit world and reality. It's untouchable and difficult to detect with Spirit Vision. It's in a very peculiar state."
"I don't think that's all. According to the dossier, there are a few conceptual and abstract aspects about it. In short, you can only perceive it or sense its form through its reactions—if it's willing—or when it attacks you," Imre corrected Valentine.
Imre, who had a habit of wearing skin-colored tape across the bridge of his nose, paused for a moment before continuing,
"If that peculiar creature hadn't attacked our colleague, it wouldn't have been discovered.
"We obtained several pieces of information from it. One of them mentioned the Hostel."
"What did it say?" Jenna played along.
Perhaps this contained the future direction of their investigation!
Valentine furrowed his brow.
"It only said that it comes from the Hostel—their home in this world."
Jenna didn't use her Instigation ability, but it was akin to instigation. "Is there any other information? Otherwise, I wouldn't know how to help you gather information and who to watch out for."
Imre hesitated for a few seconds.
"The rest of what it said isn't suitable for you to know.
"Yes, it calls itself a Pixie."
After a brief silence, Valentine said, "Our colleague encountered this peculiar creature in an artist's studio.
"As for the painter, he was once treated for mental illness. He always claimed to travel with his Spirit Body every night and enter a strange space that's neither in reality nor in the spirit world. He fought invisible creatures, strange souls, and evil spirits that attempted to invade reality through that space to protect the peace of the entire street.
"Such claims led to him being sent to the asylum for treatment for a period of time. Subsequently, he was under prolonged medication. Our colleagues confirmed that what he said might be true."
"It sounds like he's corrupted by an evil god… But why would he wander about as a Spirit Body and guard the street?" Jenna didn't mention the term bestowed.
Imre smiled disinterestedly and replied, "The power of an evil god isn't necessarily evil, but They often bring catastrophe or cause illusions and changes in the recipient's personality. Can you accept that you're no longer yourself?"
Jenna wanted to habitually respond using silence, but she remembered that there were two Purifiers opposite her, so she slowly shook her head.
Valentine's tone remained anxious.
"We're telling you this because we want you to pay more attention to painters, novelists, or those who have private hobbies of painting, reading, and telling stories. If you discover anyone's abnormal behavior and language, report it to us immediately."
"By the way, some painters' works also possess a certain amount of supernatural power. That's also one of the clues," Imre added.
Jenna nodded solemnly. "No problem."
…
Lumian, who had gathered a wealth of information from various sources, realized that although he and the others had a basic understanding of the Hostel pathway, they lacked substantial progress in their investigation. They still didn't know the location of the Hostel or the heretics' plans.
He had no choice but to turn his attention to General Philip's widow and the charity organization known as the Dreamseekers.
Late at night, at 9 Rue Lviv, Quartier 3, also known as the administrative district.
It was a three-story beige building surrounded by a garden, lawn, stables, a fountain, and statues.
"I was hoping to find an opportunity to ask for your help. I could use the ritualistic dog skin to infiltrate this place and search," Anthony Reid, with his buzz cut, said, glancing at Lumian beside him.
Lumian let out a chuckle.
"Official Beyonders can't afford to worry about such trivial matters in the current situation."
As he spoke, he crossed the street towards the beige building with sculpted outer walls.
The two of them circled to the side of the garden and watched as the two valets passed by together and turned to the front.
Lumian leaped up, pressing his hand against the white-painted iron fence. He stretched his body and leaped over, landing silently.
Anthony Reid was a seasoned veteran who had been forged by the crucible of the battlefield and maintained a habit of exercising. Although Sequence 9 to 7 of the Spectator pathway didn't significantly enhance his combat techniques, nor did his physique improve significantly, it didn't prevent him from easily vaulting the fence and entering the garden.
Lumian didn't bother concealing himself. Holding a top hat, he left the garden with one hand in his pocket and approached the main building.
Occasionally, he paused, avoiding the gazes from inside the building's windows and the maid who was eager to return to her room.
Before long, they arrived at the side door.
The wolf-shaped dog guarding the area had already fallen asleep.
Anthony Reid guessed that it was the doing of the two Demonesses who had long concealed themselves and whose whereabouts were currently unknown. However, he felt that if that was the case, why act as if they were infiltrating?
Lumian seemed to sense the Psychiatrist's thoughts and smiled.
"The sedative we obtained from the Bliss Society is very effective. We have to use it sparingly."
Furthermore, the Demoness Sect had already purged the Bliss Society once, leaving only two key members and Maipú Meyer, who was currently hiding in the market district. For the time being, no one was available to provide Lumian, Franca, and the others with supplies. Of course, the Demoness Sect had definitely gained a lot. After Franca passed the assessment, she should have a chance to obtain something from them.
Lumian walked past the unconscious dog, retrieved a wire, and expertly opened the side door of the building.
At that moment, almost all the lights in the house had been extinguished, and the corridor was shrouded in darkness.
With one hand in his pocket and the other clutching his top hat, Lumian made his way upstairs to the master bedroom, openly treating it as though it was his own home.
Lumian reached the third-floor master bedroom. Along the way, he took a detour and climbed up from the second-floor balcony, avoiding the bodyguard at the staircase.
Gazing at the vermilion door, he chuckled and said, "After General Philip passed away, didn't his widow receive the protection of Beyonders?
"The bodyguards they hire with their own money can only scare off ordinary thieves and bandits."
"There are Beyonders, but Beyonders working as bodyguards not only charge a high price, but they also have an attitude. They typically don't do night duty," Anthony Reid recounted his observations during this period. "Let's pay attention to our volume later."
"At a time like this, the benefits of being a Sleepless will be revealed," Lumian responded in a deep voice as he used the wire to open the master bedroom's door.
Sleepless was a Sequence 9 of the Evernight pathway, renowned for not needing much sleep while staying vigorous.
Anthony Reid followed Lumian into the room and closed the wooden door behind him.
Then, Lumian donned a black top hat and lit the gas wall lamp on the wall.
In the yellowish light, they saw a woman wrapped in a silk blanket lying on the bed.
The woman stirred slowly, her wavy black hair framing a face that had seen four decades of life. Though traces of age marked her features, her skin remained remarkably smooth.
Her amber eyes gradually blinked open, revealing a faint yellowish glow. They fixed on Lumian's transformed face, courtesy of the Niese Face, and the black top hat.
Just as she prepared to speak, a cold muzzle pressed against her crimson lips.
"Relax. We're here for a small fortune and a few answers. If you cooperate, you won't get hurt," Lumian assured her with a smile.
Despite having her house broken into in the dead of night and held at gunpoint, General Philip's widow, Annis, didn't dare to resist. She nodded quickly, signifying her willingness to comply.
"Look me in the eye. I want to be sure you're telling the truth." Anthony Reid lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips.
Annis subconsciously met the gaze of the intruder, doing her best to convey her sincerity through her eyes.
She couldn't help but notice the robber's unusually clear, dark brown eyes, as if they held the key to his soul. The cigarette between his lips burned with a fiery red glow.
The red dot flickered…
After a while, Anthony Reid, who had used his actions, words, and demeanor to lull Annis into a semi-hypnotic state, delved into the depths of her Body of Heart and Mind.
"Why did you donate so much of your wealth to the Dreamseekers charity organization?"
Annis's Body of Heart and Mind replied without reservation, "It was in Philip's will. If I didn't donate two-thirds of my assets to that charity, my child and I wouldn't inherit the remaining third."
There is something suspicious about the Dreamseekers, and perhaps even General Philip too… Lumian found it difficult to believe the general to be that generous.
Noting that Annis continued her life without any disruptions and seemed oblivious to any potential issues with General Philip, Anthony Reid changed his line of questioning.
"Was Philip still a devoted follower of the Eternal Blazing Sun?"
The Psychiatrist believed that the general's daily routines in a marriage were hard to hide from Annis, even when other problems remained concealed.
Annis's eyes grew distant as she replied, "He hadn't prayed fervently in a long time, and his praises were quite perfunctory.
"I overheard him whisper in the corridor once, 'Goddess bless.'"
-x-X-x-
Simultaneously, he sighed silently.
Anthony Reid held the quietly burning cigarette in his hand and pondered for a few seconds before saying, "How did Philip die?"
The information he had gathered so far indicated that General Philip had succumbed to a sudden ailment, but that was the public declaration. The actual situation remained unknown.
Annis's tone drifted as she replied, "He had a heart attack in the middle of the night and couldn't make it to the hospital before he died."
Anthony Reid asked calmly, "Where's his body?"
"It was purified, cremated, and sent to the family cemetery in Quartier de l'Erato." What Annis said was public information.
Lumian turned to Anthony Reid.
"Ask her about the fate of his Beyonder characteristics."
He believed that Philip was definitely a Beyonder. After all, he had managed to rise up the ranks to general in the army, and he also came from an aristocratic family—the chances of him not being a Beyonder were slim.
After the Psychiatrist finished his question, Annis said in a daze, "What are Beyonder characteristics?"
Anthony Reid analyzed the mentality and knowledge of the individual and changed his question.
"Where did the thing that emerged from Philip's body go? Or did he have any special items on or around him? Where did it go?"
Annis recalled and said, "When the servant arrived to carry him downstairs to take the carriage, he told me with difficulty that if he died, there was no need to be surprised by any strange changes in his body. I was to stow away the thing that appeared and leave them for the children.
"L-later, too many things happened during the funeral, and I was too sad. That thing disappeared and was never to be found…"
He even felt that the other party's Beyonder characteristics hadn't truly emerged. The phenomenon Annis saw and the thing she had put away were an illusion created by a corresponding ability or ritual, and they naturally vanished in time.
Anthony Reid, who had discussed this matter with Lumian and the others several times, clearly had similar thoughts. His voice was calm as he asked, "What did it look like?"
Annis's Body of Heart and Mind replied in a voice, "It was his fist. It turned skinless, and the joints were like black metal. They were very sharp, and they easily cut through the back of the chair…"
Anthony Reid further inquired and confirmed that Annis didn't have much information. She didn't even know the Sequence of General Philip's original pathway.
Seeing this, Lumian circled the master bedroom, and his gaze landed on a photo frame on the desk.
On it was a photo of Philip's family, but color photography technology that had emerged in recent years wasn't used.
In the family portrait, General Philip wore a high-ranking military officer's suit adorned with numerous medals. He wasn't too tall, and judging from the surrounding items for scale, he stood about 1.7 meters tall.
His hair was thick and slightly curled, and his eyes were small, but they had the sharpness of an eagle staring at its prey. The beard around his mouth was neatly trimmed, and the tip was even coated with paraffin. The bridge of his nose was unique, as if it had been broken and hadn't healed, causing the middle section to bulge.
Lumian observed closely and memorized Philip's exact appearance and characteristics.
If he had truly faked his death to escape his original fate, according to Madam Justice, this likely involved the loss of an old fate and the acquisition of a new one. It wouldn't alter his appearance.
In other words, the current individual was likely a stranger who looked identical to General Philip. Lumian hoped to recognize him at a glance if he encountered him in the future.
"Let's go," Anthony Reid concluded his Telepathy and said to Lumian in disappointment.
Lumian wasn't disheartened by the setback. He nodded gently and said, "To that charity organization."
The purpose of the charity organization, known as the Dreamseekers, was to provide assistance to outstanding young men who had come to Trier to pursue their dreams but had temporarily fallen into a predicament. To this end, even the staff employed such young men and provided them with free apartments.
The apartments were located in a house rented by the Dreamseekers. The lower two floors housed workplaces, and the upper two floors housed staff quarters.
Ossa, who controlled the charitable organization, also resided there, indicating that he was genuinely assisting the Dreamseekers and not seizing the opportunity to amass wealth.
After leaving Rue Lviv, Lumian and the others hurried towards Quartier 2, the arts and financial district.
Quartier 2 was very close to Quartier 3, where they were currently located. Before long, they arrived not far from Rue Saint-Varro.
The Dreamseekers was located in Building 11 there.
As soon as they alighted from the carriage and before they could approach the street where their target was, Lumian and Anthony Reid saw crimson flames rising in the dark night.
Fierce flames transformed a building into a colossal torch in the night.
Lumian's eyes narrowed as he had a bad premonition.
After exchanging glances with Anthony Reid, they sprinted towards Rue Saint-Varro.
The crackling flames soared into the air, sealing off the four-story building and scorching it black. No one cried out for help or attempted to leap down from the windows. It was as silent as if everyone had died long ago.
Residents of the street woke up and fled in a hurry, others wanting to help the firefighters or watching the commotion from afar.
Anthony Reid looked at the burning building and sighed. "We're too late…"
Lumian stared intently for a moment before slowly shaking his head.
"No.
"Perhaps fate doesn't want us to gain anything. No matter how early we arrive, we'll see something similar."
With so many evil god-blessed involved in the planning, investigations would inevitably encounter various forms of interference. Some were direct, some indirect, some seemingly normal, some rather bizarre, and some seemingly failing to gain fate's favor.
Lumian paused momentarily before continuing,
"At least this means we're on the right path."
Anthony Reid fell silent for a few seconds before saying, "This indirectly proves General Philip's connection to an evil god's faith. My encounter with my comrades might stem from this…"
As he spoke, his voice trailed off.
Dozens of meters away from the burning building, Lumian's face mirrored the fiery inferno as he gazed ahead, his voice steady.
"Do you still want to pursue this?"
"This situation is getting more perilous with each passing moment. It's far more dangerous than the encounter with gunfire you've experienced before."
"Up to this day, do you still wrestle with the fear from that night, the sounds of sudden gunshots? Do you truly possess the courage and determination to press on?"
Anthony Reid lapsed into silence. The middle-aged man, battle-hardened and weathered, remained contemplative for an extended moment.
Before them loomed a house engulfed in raging crimson flames. Masked firefighters in their red and blue uniforms, citizens in disarray, and chaos swirled around them.
After an uncertain pause, the Psychiatrist, his receding hairline and slightly plump face, spoke softly.
"Perhaps I perished in that attack. What remains is an avenging spirit, relentless in its pursuit of truth and retribution.
"I can be vanquished, but I can't relinquish the pursuit. That's what I felt when you mentioned the existence of leads and hope."
Lumian offered a sly grin and turned toward Anthony.
"Welcome to the abyss of vengeance."
…
Returning to the market district, Lumian wasted no time in composing a letter to Madam Magician, apprising her of the night's operation and its final outcome.
He couldn't shake the feeling that the current situation had stretched beyond the capabilities of his team. Regardless of the clues they unearthed, it seemed as though the threads of destiny conspired to sever them, leaving their investigations seemingly fated to failure.
This uncertainty gave Lumian pause, making him wary of delving deeper into the mystery, fearing that their actions might inadvertently endanger the slim glimmer of the less significant leads on your own. Termiboros resides within you—a heavy stone capable of stirring ripples in the River of Fate. He's not easily swayed, unlike the hope they still clung to.
Before long, the "doll" messenger returned, bearing neatly folded papers.
"All fates intertwine to weave a grand drama.
"Should you come across any future clues, share the vital ones with me. Investigate the less significant leads on your own. Termiboros resides within you—a heavy stone capable of stirring ripples in the River of Fate. He's not easily swayed, unlike the others.
"Furthermore, we shall make other attempts."
Considering the Tarot Club's potency, Lumian suspected that this case might be met with direct interference from angels or even evil gods.
After reducing the letter to ashes, Lumian reclined on his bed. As he prepared for sleep, he contemplated the direction his investigation should take.
"Linked to the Hostel, individuals engaged in painting, writing, and those with a penchant for reading tend to encounter trouble…"
In the whirlwind of his thoughts, Lumian's mind settled on one person.
Gabriel, the playwright who had once taken up residence at Auberge du Coq Doré.
Gabriel had relocated to Rue Saint-Michel in Quartier 2, a district teeming with painters and authors. It was an ideal hub for artistic exchanges.
Lumian quickly reached a decision. At the break of dawn, he planned to visit Gabriel, inquiring whether the playwright had encountered any obscure authors or painters who had yet to garner recognition, or if any unusual anecdotes had circulated among these artistic circles.
-x-X-x-
At noon the following day, Quartier 2, Rue Saint-Michel.
Lumian quickly realized that it was only a short distance from Rue Saint-Varro, where the Dreamseekers charity organization was situated, just a block and a square away.
He glanced away from the Sun Obelisk standing proudly in the square's center and strolled along Rue Saint-Michel, tracing the path that winded past the ancient and weathered buildings.
He couldn't help but notice impoverished painters hunched over their sketchpads at the square's edge and along both sides of the street. Musicians played their diverse tunes with guitars, violins, and flutes. Every so often, white homing pigeons glided gracefully beside a fountain that sent water cascading in sync with the music.
The warm autumn sun cast a poetic charm over the scene.
Having spent a considerable amount of time in the market district, often consumed by thoughts of revenge, engrossed in investigations, or participating in banquets, Lumian had rarely immersed himself in the everyday life of Trier's core area.
Unfazed by the sunlight and the languid ambiance, donning a brown round hat, a light-blue shirt, and a casual brownish-yellow suit, he made his way into a bar named "Third-Rate Authors."
Here, most patrons sported well-worn attire, sipped affordable spirits, and engaged in animated discussions on various subjects. Occasionally, when inspiration struck, they'd retrieve well-thumbed notebooks and jot down their thoughts with the fountain pens they carried.
As Lumian approached the bar counter, he couldn't help but overhear a lively discussion among some of the patrons regarding the latest art exhibition.
"That piece called 'Cafe' is incredibly controversial. Some people laud it for its vibrant colors and audacious composition, seeing it as a silent protest delivered in an absurd form. Others think it's a deliberate attempt at abstract art, a ruse to dupe the public's intellect."
"I find it fascinating. The artist's ideas are vividly depicted through those overlapping colors. Just think about it. Isn't that how many cafés are? Noisy, bustling, with people from diverse backgrounds clashing and mingling like a chaotic blend…"
"I'm willing to call it a groundbreaking masterpiece of abstract art!"
"Are you talking about the kind of abstract art that's never been recognized or sold?"
Lumian couldn't help but think,
Upon reaching the bar counter, Lumian spent eight licks on a glass of absinthe and raised his voice.
"Everyone, I have a question. If anyone can provide the answer, this glass is on me!"
As all eyes in the bar turned towards him, Lumian spoke up:
"I'm looking for the playwright, Gabriel.
"I need him to write a script."
In Rue Saint-Michel, nearly anyone one bumped into on the road could be an author or painter, let alone in a bar known for its literary discussions and artistic creativity.
Gabriel had frequent meetings with fellow writers and may even host private gatherings in his rented apartment. After all, "Lightseeker" had seen successful screenings and was quite popular, which would bring him significant benefits.
"He hasn't shown up for a few days. He claims he's locking himself away to finish a story," a middle-aged man near the bar counter responded to Lumian's inquiry with a smile. "He's probably swamped with scripts. Would you consider other playwrights? There are several equally talented young folks around here."
"How will I know if I don't give it a try? I come with plenty of sincerity."
"Alright," the middle-aged man in the tattered formal coat murmured. "I hope you won't be disappointed."
He led Lumian to 34 Rue Saint-Michel and climbed the stairs up to the fifth floor, near the attic.
The outer walls and stairs had a slightly outdated but still well-maintained appearance, and it was notably cleaner and more spacious compared to Auberge du Coq Doré.
"This is where Gabriel resides," the bearded middle-aged man informed Lumian, rapping on the brown wooden door of Room 503.
A muffled sound echoed, but there was no response.
"Perhaps he's out searching for food, or maybe he's completed his work and gone to see the theater manager who commissioned it," the middle-aged man suggested with a forced smile. "Would you like to return to the bar for another drink? I'm an experienced writer myself, though I've never ventured into script writing. My novels sell quite well in the underground market."
"What have you written?" Lumian asked, glancing at the firmly closed brown door, showing no signs of anxiety.
The middle-aged man sighed and said, "I wrote 'Monk Pursuing Dog' and its sequel, 'Dog Pursuing Monk,' but they weren't published under my name. For one, it would lead to my arrest by spies, and secondly, my boss wouldn't permit it."
"A sequel?" Lumian hadn't visited an underground book market or a banned bookstore for some time. His last visit had been to purchase "Emperor Roselle's Secret Chronicles."
As he looked at the somewhat forlorn and slightly greasy middle-aged man, his perspective shifted.
He could be considered one of his initiates into the adult world!
"It came out last month," the middle-aged man replied, nodding gently. "These two novels have made my boss a fortune, but I didn't even get a tenth of that, no, not even a hundredth!"
"Boss?" Lumian inquired, recalling that Bard, a key member of April Fool's, had once authored "Emperor Roselle's Secret Chronicles." He saw this as an opportunity to gain insight into the workings of this profession and prepare for future tracking.
The middle-aged man sighed again.
"We don't have authorship rights, just writing tools for the boss. He pays us a fixed but tiny salary for our manuscripts, specifies the direction and requirements for our writing, and then sells them through his own channels.
"On Rue Saint-Michel, there are many third-rate authors like me who don't even have pen names. We're like assembly line workers."
Lumian, showing respect, asked, "May I know your name?"
The middle-aged man replied, "Rabe." His eyes were filled with hope as he gazed at Lumian.
Lumian probed further into the world of underground literature, gaining insight, and ultimately said, "If my attempt to reach an agreement with Gabriel falls through, I'll consider offering you an opportunity."
Rabe's joy was palpable as he responded, "As long as the boss doesn't assign me any new missions, you'll find me here at Third-Rate Authors every day!"
Watching the underground author, an initiate for many Intis youths, descend the stairs, Lumian took a wire from his pocket and unlocked Gabriel's door.
Compared to the playwright's room at Auberge du Coq Doré, this space was considerably more expansive, encompassing a bathroom and a small bedroom. Beyond that, it served as a living area, study, dining room, and kitchen. A coal stove for cooking was neatly arranged in a corner.
Lumian quickly surveyed the room and noticed a jumbled stack of papers that resembled manuscripts on the desk by the window.
He shut the wooden door behind him and proceeded towards the desk.
Moving into the bedroom, he spotted a pair of black dungarees casually draped over the bed. The sight confirmed his earlier suspicion—he was in the right place.
This was a pair of pants Gabriel had frequently worn in the past.
However, the playwright himself was conspicuously absent.
Recalling Rabe's statement that Gabriel hadn't been seen for several days, Lumian's caution escalated.
He meticulously examined every item in the room, much like a hunter tracking the movements of his prey.
After a few minutes, Lumian picked up a white-glazed porcelain cup with a single handle from the desk. He noticed that about a third of it still held cold water, with dust floating on the surface, too subtle for ordinary eyes to discern clearly.
Setting the porcelain cup down beside the manuscript, Lumian meticulously combed the room, searching for any clues or signs of interest. His search yielded nothing of note.
Returning to the desk, he picked up the stack of manuscripts, eager to delve into Gabriel's work before his unexplained absence.
The script told the tale of a struggling author who crossed paths with a woman coerced into joining a criminal organization. Together, they found solace in their shared despair, pain, torment, and the harshness of daily life. They offered each other encouragement and warmth, ultimately leading to the author's recognition by the newspaper's editor-in-chief and a steady income. His reputation steadily grew, while the woman, still trapped in her circumstances, chose to vanish.
Before the story could conclude, it ended with a passage about the lover's disappearance and the author's introspective musings:
"She's here;
"My beloved has arrived from the night.
"She's left;
"My beloved walked towards the distant hostel…"
The mention of the word "hostel" made Lumian's forehead twitch.
Though it was an ordinary word in a script, it stood out to him due to his daily contemplations and associations, sparking connections in his mind.
His gaze suddenly shifted from the manuscript to the desk.
At some point, the white-glazed porcelain cup with a single handle, which he had moved to the manuscript, had somehow returned to its original place!
Lumian's eyes narrowed, and the muscles under his clothing tensed.
As a Hunter, he had an unwavering memory for any alterations he made in his surroundings—it was a fundamental part of him!
Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of glasses.
They were brown gold-rimmed glasses—Mystery Prying Glasses!
-x-X-x-
Lumian carefully positioned the Mystery Prying Glasses on the bridge of his nose, and immediately, the room seemed to whirl, and the ground beneath him trembled.
Suppressing his nausea and dizziness, he observed the scene before him fragment and overlap, creating a surreal and captivating tableau.
The bed pressed against the desk, which seemed to lean against the ceiling. Behind the ceiling appeared to be a tap, as if it were installed within a wardrobe. These scenes were like translucent canvases superimposed on each other, reflecting themselves in Lumian's vision.
A pale-white face materialized beside the wardrobe.
The face had disheveled brown hair, naturally parted. Dark-brown eyes glistened beneath black-framed glasses. It was Gabriel, looking cleaned up and as though he hadn't burned the midnight oil in a while.
The playwright gazed at Lumian with a vacant, distorted, yet strangely genuine smile.
His right hand reached out from the void, waving gently before his face shrank into the depths of the translucent layers, vanishing completely.
Lumian quickly surveyed the room, but Gabriel hadn't reappeared. He promptly removed the Mystery Prying Glasses, replacing them with the Eye of Truth on his left side.
This mystical item, composed of pale-white flesh and dark blood vessels, covered the corresponding ear, allowing Lumian to hear rapid voices from the distant horizon. The intertwined purple blood vessels formed a lens that adhered to his eye, revealing faint blood, layers of colors, and the room with a third of it blending into the surroundings. An invisible curtain resembling mullioned glass was also discernible.
The latter two phenomena rapidly dissipated or gradually returned to normal.
Before the whispers could become more distinct, Lumian removed the Eye of Truth and massaged his throbbing forehead.
Based on the combined information from both mystical items, he deduced that Gabriel had been corrupted by Hostel, becoming a presence that couldn't be perceived or touched in the conventional sense.
However, the playwright retained a certain degree of rationality. He recognized Lumian and even happily bid him farewell.
Returning the white porcelain cup with a single handle to its original position seemed to serve as a greeting, an attempt to capture Lumian's attention.
Lumian frowned slightly.
His gaze shifted to the manuscript on the desk. The story in the unfinished script felt eerily familiar.
Lumian picked up the manuscript and read it meticulously, at a slower pace than before.
After perusing the first section, he confirmed that the protagonist of the script was Gabriel himself. The character's personality, the details of his life, the cold treatment he endured, and the demand to produce vulgar works all aligned seamlessly.
Regarding the female lead, who immersed herself in the underworld and persistently encouraged the male lead's creations, Lumian couldn't help but feel that if it weren't for the difference in gender, he could be the one with such a background.
However, the female lead's personality, her way of speaking, and her encouraging words were entirely distinct from his own. Even in the scenes involving the mobs, Lumian could discern traces of Charlie.
This woman had once accompanied a painter to a small seaside town as a model. After an extended absence, she returned to Auberge du Coq Doré.
Painter!
Could Gabriel have been corrupted on that night when Séraphine returned? Was it possible that Séraphine had moved to the Hostel? Lumian meticulously perused the script, leaving no word unread.
Since this was a story born from Gabriel's own experiences, it undoubtedly contained numerous factual details and genuine emotions—invaluable clues!
As Lumian continued to read the script, bathed in the sunlight filtering through the oriel window, he sensed the concealed love that resided within Gabriel's heart. He could feel the ache of remorse, reluctance, and the yearning for a relationship that Gabriel believed he could easily discard when he moved to a better neighborhood to start anew. In the end, he found himself unable to forget it.
The protagonist, increasingly aware of his heart's true desires and feelings, ceased to evade them and actively embarked on a quest to uncover traces of his beloved.
He sought out people who were acquainted with her, visited motels and hotels that occasionally haunted his dreams, and explored galleries in search of new artworks based on his lover…
Yet, his endeavors proved futile, leading him to compose the inner monologue.
Regrettably, the contents of the drawer only covered the first half of the script. By the time Gabriel had reached the second half, he appeared to have delved deeply into his emotions and penned his inner monologue in a single burst.
Lumian looked at the papers before him, pondering the situation.
Lumian made a preliminary guess and conducted a thorough search of Gabriel's rented apartment with a clear objective in mind.
Nothing.
He then left 34 Rue Saint-Michel and made his way back to the Third-Rate Author bar, where he seated himself next to Rabe, who was engrossed in his drink.
"A glass of La Fée Verte," Lumian ordered as he tapped the bar counter.
Then, he turned to Rabe and inquired, "Do you have any idea where Gabriel has been over the past few days?"
Rabe pointed to a small round table near the window and replied, "You'll have to ask them."
As an underprivileged author working as a ghostwriter without a pen name, Rabe considered himself fortunate to know a rising star like Gabriel and attend his private gatherings. He had to work regularly every day to fulfill the missions assigned by his boss, preventing him from participating in their activities.
Guided by Rabe, Lumian approached the small round table and was taken aback upon seeing the four individuals seated there.
In response to Lumian's inquiry, the leader of the group responded with a puzzled expression, "We last saw Gabriel two days ago. We all went to the Trier Art Center together to attend an art exhibition."
…
Trocadéro Town.
Franca, dressed in a white jacket, followed Browns Sauron, who wore a black coat, as they navigated through the manor adorned with grapevines.
With curiosity evident on her face, Franca, who had been invited, couldn't help but ask, "Where are you taking me?"
Browns cast a brief glance in her direction.
"I'm taking you to meet my teacher. You've successfully passed the assessment and are now an official member of our sect."
The term "perks" was coined by Emperor Roselle and had gained recognition in Intis.
Browns maintained a bit of distance from Franca as she questioned, "What would you like in exchange?"
Without hesitation, Franca responded, "The potion formula for Affliction."
Affliction was the name of the Assassin pathway's Sequence 5, often referred to as the Demoness of Affliction.
Browns let out a scoff.
"Quite bold to make such a request. Do you believe you have accrued enough contribution points to ask for the potion formula for Affliction?"
She paused for a moment before adding, "Of course, if you can assist the sect in achieving something, this can be your perk."
Franca, who had initially held limited hope and was merely testing the waters, glanced at Browns.
"And what's that something?"
Seizing the opportunity, Browns explained, "We've received information that the Iron and Blood Cross Order discreetly smuggled an item into Trier through an underground tunnel several months ago. If you can uncover what it is and identify its possessor, you'll be entitled to the Affliction potion formula."
In an effort to aid the Savoie Mob's smuggling leader in recovering his brother and the transported goods, she and Lumian had been drawn into a strange mirror world, where they narrowly escaped.
During their adventure, Franca had acquired a classic sterling silver mirror.
-x-X-x-
She explained to Browns Sauron in the same manner they had explained the situation to "Rat" Christo in the past. In essence, she shared everything except the fact that she and Lumian had been drawn into a mirror world. Instead, they relied on Lumian's unique ability to escape and how she obtained a classic silver mirror that led them to the mirror world.
"According to the 'Rat,' his brother and many of his subordinates turned into monsters, including the reversal of their left and right hands. This attracted the Purifiers' attention were eliminated." Franca deliberately elaborated, probing Browns Sauron gauge her reaction to the appearance of the mirror people.
Browns displayed a slight furrow of her brow.
"How did the official Beyonders become aware that something was amiss?"
"For that question, you'd need to approach a Purifier, not me."
Without further discussion, Browns led Franca to a circular pavilion enclosed by grapevines and various vines.
Seated in the circular pavilion was a woman donned in a black court dress. Her bright dark gray eyes held a touch of sadness, and her neatly tied black hair featured a few loose strands, which cascaded naturally and added a hint of allure to her otherwise composed countenance.
Upon catching sight of the woman's slightly curved red lips, graceful jawline, and soft facial features, Franca was initially struck by the overwhelming beauty that met her gaze. However, her astonishment was quickly overshadowed by an unexplainable sense of sympathy.
Although she was taken aback and touched by a sense of heartache, it took nearly ten seconds for Franca to remember encountering this woman before.
She had seen her during her and Lumian's surveillance of the fake Theresa, Beatrice Incourt, at the concert. As the most beautiful woman in attendance, she had been invited on stage to take a photograph with the orchestra as a keepsake.
What she hadn't expected was that this woman had openly followed them and even participated in a photograph on stage.
Browns Sauron introduced her teacher, saying, "This is my teacher, Demoness of Black Clarice."
Franca avoided complimenting the woman's appearance. She understood that most Demonesses in the Demoness Sect took pride in their beauty while simultaneously harboring inner conflict regarding it. Compliments from outsiders were typically accepted with grace, potentially leading to some embarrassment. However, if Franca, who knew their true gender, were to offer such compliments, it might be perceived as provocation or mockery.
Demoness of Black Clarice nodded slightly and said, "Every member needs to believe in the Primordial One. You should have known about this more than a month ago. It's time to officially pray to Her."
Franca was not surprised at all. Secret organizations that worshiped evil deities typically required new members to open themselves to their deity, thus gaining a measure of control and filtering out most insecurities.
"We are all the children of the Primordial One," Franca responded devoutly and respectfully, adhering to Browns's guidance during this period.
"Recite the honorific name of the Primordial One with me in Hermes.
"The source of all catastrophes, the symbol of destruction and the apocalypse, the Demoness who controls Chaos…"
Although the Demoness of Black spoke in Intisian, the surroundings darkened significantly. The grapevines writhed gently, as though transforming into venomous snakes.
Franca remained composed and repeated the three-lined honorific name in Hermes.
Suddenly, she saw grapevines extending towards her.
They grew thicker and thicker, completely enveloping the circular pavilion.
One of the python-like vines extended toward Franca, and a dark-blue vertical eye opened at its tip.
It reflected Franca's figure.
The figure rapidly distorted, transforming into a man with a bloodied face.
The man had short flaxen-colored hair, slightly thick brown eyebrows, and lake-blue eyes. His lips were thin, and his appearance was ordinary.
Franca was taken aback. This face was familiar to her.
It was the face she saw in the mirror every day before consuming the Witch potion.
This was her past self, Franco Roland!
In the deep-blue vertical eye, Franco Roland's expression turned ferocious. His eyes held a tangible hatred, and his face was filled with a viciousness that could cause nightmares.
Franca's body stiffened, as if she had turned into a statue made of rock.
After staring at her for a few seconds, the vine with the blue vertical eye retracted into the canopy of grapevines, its eyes reflecting its unhappiness.
Franca finally felt her body. She blinked and saw that everything around the circular pavilion was normal. Sunlight pierced through the gaps between the vines and shone here.
There were no python-like vines, nor were there any blue vertical eyes. It was as if the bizarre and nightmarish encounter had never happened. All of it appeared to be a fleeting, surreal vision.
She lowered her head and completed her prayer.
As Franca continued her rituals, she couldn't shake the eerie experience from her mind. The connection between the Primordial Demoness and the underground mirror world was undeniable.
She had encountered her past self, Franco Roland, in the mirror world as well.
This time, it wasn't Franca reflected in the blue vertical eye either. It was Franca's former appearance—Franco Roland!
Clarice, with a black veiled hat on her head, nodded.
"Now, you're a child of the Primordial One."
"Thank you for your guidance." Franca smiled and inquired, "I thought the honorific name for the Primordial One would include a description akin to the Ruler of the Mirror World. I'm surprised it's not part of it?"
The Demoness of Black, Clarice, replied in a cold, indifferent, yet pitiful tone, "This isn't the complete honorific name of the Primordial One. There are two more lines you can't know right now."
Clarice continued, "Every new member receives a Primordial One statue. It possesses anti-divination and early warning abilities, and it can assist you in performing rituals. You must pray to it every day."
While speaking, she produced a bone statue, the palm-sized statue vaguely resembling a beautiful woman with hair that reached her ankles. Each strand of hair was intricately carved with distinct, snake-like eyes, some open and others tightly shut, densely packed and unsettling.
After Franca stowed away the Primordial Demoness statue, Clarice's brow furrowed imperceptibly.
"Keep a close watch on the Iron and Blood Cross Order, especially Gardner Martin. If they make any unusual moves, contact Browns immediately. If the situation becomes critical, retrieve the Primordial One statue, set up the altar, and perform the designated ritual. After completion, place the prepared letter into the mirror on the altar."
She sensed an impending catastrophe and couldn't help but grow anxious.
…
In Quartier 2, outside the Trier Arts Center, Lumian stood on the steps, contemplating the authors' responses that flashed through his mind.
"Gabriel has been enjoying art exhibitions and galleries for the past month or so."
"He doesn't pay much attention to each painting. It's as if he's searching for the one his soul has been waiting for."
"There's nothing unusual about him."
"He didn't fixate on any other visitors at the exhibition."
"…"
The information revealed by these answers left Lumian puzzled about his next steps. Nonetheless, he had decided to visit the Trier Art Center to explore the art exhibition titled "Future Impressions."
It was scheduled to end in another two days.
Before arriving, Lumian had secured a hotel and a room for setting up a ritual. He summoned a messenger and informed Madam Magician about Gabriel's encounter and the direction of his investigation.
Initially, he had planned to relay the message from the bar's washroom, but he recalled that the "doll" messenger had severe mysophobia and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Consequently, he opted to spend a bit of money to find a clean and suitable place.
As he gazed at the colorful art center with its sun-like roof, Lumian took a slow breath and presented his ticket to enter the building.
"Future Impressions" wasn't a large art exhibition, occupying only three exhibition halls. Lumian strolled through, admiring the artworks displayed on the walls.
Suddenly, he spotted a familiar figure.
-x-X-x-
Ludwig stood in front of a wall painting adorned with doughnuts, his young eyes fixated on the artwork. Sensing someone watching him, he turned around and spotted Lumian.
Lumian smiled and playfully teased, "Running away from home again?"
Ludwig, this time with more composure, replied, "No. I told my godfather that learning can't be limited to textbook knowledge. It's equally important to read more, hear more, and interact with other things."
Lumian inquired, "And he brought you here to see the art exhibition?" However, he couldn't spot Baron Brignais in the vicinity.
He noticed that Ludwig's intelligence and knowledge seemed to have improved a bit, allowing him to come up with an excuse he had used before.
It appeared that learning was having a positive impact on him!
Ludwig nodded and added, "Yes. It's important for a child to cultivate an appreciation for art from a young age."
Lumian clicked his tongue and continued, "So, no textbooks, homework, or exams today?"
Ludwig responded, a joyful smile unknowingly plastered across his face, "It's incidental."
Internally, Lumian noted,
At that moment, Baron Brignais, donning a silk top hat and a black suit, approached from the other side of the exhibition hall.
Lumian couldn't help but make a mocking remark, "Aren't you worried he'll get lost?"
As a Conspirer, Lumian picked up on something unusual about this situation.
Given Brignais's past anxiety when Ludwig ran away, he shouldn't have left the child alone in the exhibition hall!
Brignais smiled and said, "Ludwig has been doing well recently and hasn't tried to run away from home. He was engrossed in admiring the paintings, so I didn't want to disrupt him when I went to the washroom."
He sensed that Baron Brignais had an ulterior motive for arranging this visit to the exhibition. It was akin to leading an experienced hound to a specific occasion, releasing its ropes to see if it would track down certain prey.
After answering Lumian's question, Baron Brignais, clutching his bulging briefcase, looked at Ludwig.
"When you get back, write an essay regarding the art exhibition, detailing your feelings and the work that left the deepest impression."
Lumian was not surprised. He had plenty of experience being thrown into such a situation.
Regrettably, Lumian's exploration of the three small exhibition halls yielded no significant findings. Instead, Mullen's "Café" drawing, which he had created with his buttocks, drew the attention of numerous tourists, sparking both admiration and criticism.
Standing in the final exhibition hall, Lumian contemplated his next move. Retrieving his brown, gold-rimmed glasses, he decided to give them a try.
Since his unaided vision and Spirit Vision revealed no discernible issues, he opted to test the Mystery Prying Glasses from the same pathway!
Carefully positioning the glasses on his nose bridge, Lumian braced himself as the world around him seemed to spin and whirl. His focus remained on the scenes unfolding within his "vision."
Each painting took on a life of its own, breaking free from the confines of the walls.
Some of the paintings seemed to regard Lumian with a chilling, penetrating gaze.
Initially taken aback, Lumian feared that something extraordinary was afoot with all the portraits, potentially placing him in a dire situation. However, he soon realized that he wasn't under attack.
The figures within the portraits merely stared at him with silent and cold intensity.
It was as if they had attained a degree of consciousness and a sense of being, yet they hadn't fully emerged from their canvas confines to walk among the living.
A revelation dawned upon Lumian.
Through the lens of the Mystery Prying Glasses, he was witnessing another reality.
Perhaps, in some parallel aspect of the world, each painting held a semblance of reality. However, they remained two-dimensional, flat, and lacking in depth, incapable of significantly impacting the human realm or the spirit world. There might be exceptions, moments where extended contemplation of certain works induced feelings of delirium or anxiety.
It occurred to Lumian that Painters could potentially amplify the limited, flat nature of these objects, opening a pathway to the realm of the real.
In essence, the characters within ordinary paintings might possess an incomplete, condensed, and spiritually deficient existence in this two-dimensional, flat world. With the aid of the Mystery Prying Glasses, they were unveiled in their true form.
Likewise, Lumian's perception unveiled deeper truths—the artist's most profound creative intentions.
One painting depicted the future of Trier, a divided realm. On the surface, men and women reveled in lavish banquets, adorned in opulent attire. Beneath the surface, ragged individuals dwelled in dark tunnels, subsisting on earthworms, rats, and moss. Yet, through the Mystery Prying Glasses, Lumian glimpsed fat, glutinous pigs with oil oozing from their mouths on the surface. Below, grotesque, contorted visages and decaying hands reached upwards.
This was the true message the artist sought to convey.
In the next instant, Lumian spotted Baron Brignais and his godson Ludwig.
The former appeared unremarkable when viewed through the Mystery Prying Glasses, but there was a faint, brassy aura emanating from his form. As for the latter, something chilling unfolded as he abruptly turned his head, seemingly locking eyes with Lumian across two exhibition halls.
Ludwig's chubby face took on an unsettling transformation; his skin seemed to writhe, as if it were on the verge of shedding, and something from beneath the surface attempted to burrow out.
Lumian's heart tightened, and he instinctively removed the Mystery Prying Glasses,
instantly restoring the scene to its normal state.
He had always sensed that Ludwig was far from ordinary, but this encounter had sent his danger instincts into overdrive.
The true nature of the innocent-seeming human skin concealing the boy beneath remained an ominous mystery.
Even a Conspirer's constitution couldn't withstand this.
Taking a deep breath, Lumian made his way to the washroom adjacent to the three exhibition halls.
It was situated at the end of a long corridor adorned with statues and paintings, perfectly in line with the Trier Arts Center's ambiance.
Once inside the washroom, Lumian attended to his urgent needs, and after washing his face with cold water, he gradually regained his composure, with the discomfort dissipating.
Exiting the washroom, Lumian's gaze naturally drifted toward the opposite wall, where a series of paintings were on display.
One particular painting drew his attention, a macabre and enigmatic piece that gripped his senses.
It was an oil painting set against a vividly layered background, with a focal point on a naked woman.
Her face remained blurred, as if the painter had intentionally left it blank. On her body, distinct faces emerged, each bearing a different emotion—anger, hatred, malice, joy. Some of these faces resembled those of cats, others of dogs, and some appeared to exist solely in the realm of fantasy. What united them was their eerie, translucent yet lifelike quality.
As Lumian stared at this unsettling painting, a thought dawned on him.
During Gabriel's visit to the art exhibition, he had seemed perfectly normal, at least as per the accounts of the authors. But they couldn't have monitored his every move, especially during mundane activities like visiting the washroom!
…
Avenue du Marché, Théatre de l'Ancienne Cage à Pigeons.
Jenna had just stepped out when she spotted a familiar figure standing beneath a gas street lamp on the opposite side of the road.
It was a young boy, dressed in a white shirt, silver vest, black coat, and a mercury bow tie, his light-yellow hair neatly combed.
With a slight bow, she greeted him with a smile, "Were you waiting for me?"
The boy glanced at her and muttered, "I wasn't waiting for you. You were waiting for me. You met me earlier than any other choice."
The boy's response was measured and earnest, "That day was that day, and today is today. Just because it was a little dangerous that day doesn't mean it's dangerous today."
"Alright…" Jenna probed with a probing smile. "Do you need my help to buy you an ice-cream?"
The boy, however, responded with a long, almost adult-like sigh.
"It's something else; I'll pay you."
The boy reached into his pocket and retrieved a gleaming golden coin, sidestepping her question.
"This will be your reward—a lucky gold coin."