111 Messenger
Clutching the carbide lamp, Lumian climbed the stone steps.
Soon, light appeared ahead, accompanied by a cacophony of noise. Emerging from the silent underground, it felt as if the entire world had sprung to life.
Lumian quickened his pace, twisting the valve on the carbide lamp with his right hand, stopping the water droplets from dripping into the carbide pile below. As the acetylene gas burned out, the flames in the metal mouth gradually faded.
Just then, he caught a glimpse of the scene outside.
Tall and low buildings appeared to have solidified at the moment of collapse, either tilted or on the verge of tumbling down, but standing stubbornly.
Pedestrians wore old or tattered clothing, and arguments and curses filled the air, the noise never subsiding.
At the underground exit, Lumian spotted a five-story building called the Auberge du Coq Doré.
The top two floors of the brownish building seemed like later additions, contrasting with the Roselle-era pillar walls, arches, large windows, and patterns on the lower floors. It looked so simplistic it could’ve been transplanted from Cordu.
Lugging his suitcase and carbide lamp, Lumian navigated through children scavenging for orange peels and quarreling adults until he reached the entrance of the Auberge du Coq Doré.
He glanced at the hotel floor, littered with yellow phlegm, shredded paper, spilled ketchup, and alcohol stains. Occasionally, a horde of bedbugs would congregate on the ceiling and walls.
Had his hands been free, Lumian would have applauded the scene.
Cordu’s Ol’ Tavern was much cleaner than this!
He found a route devoid of filth and headed to the front desk at a moderate pace.
A plump, middle-aged woman sat there, her grayish-white dress stained with oil and her brown hair tied in a simple bun.
She looked up at Lumian with her blue eyes, unfazed by the disdain and resistance on his face.
“This is the best and cheapest inn on Rue Anarchie, in the market area. But the owner’s a miser who can’t bear to hire cleaning ladies. He only gets freelancers to clean it once a week.”
“Does he skimp on your salary too?” Lumian asked, feigning naivete.
This set the woman off.
“Do you want a room or not?”
“Yes.” Lumian quickly clarified his intent, looking frightened. “I’d like to know the price.”
The woman calmed down.
“It depends on the room. The top two floors are 3 verl d’or a week, and the bottom two are 5 verl d’or. If that’s too much, you can knock on doors and ask who’s willing to share their bed or rent out floor space for 1 to 1.5 verl d’or a week.”
“Give me a room on the lower two floors.” Lumian reasoned it’d be easier to escape, whether by jumping from a window or taking the stairs.
The plump woman sized him up.
“Pay 15 verl d’or upfront for the whole month, and it’s yours.”
“Why the discount?” Lumian feigned the ignorance of a country bumpkin new to the city.
The woman sneered.
“Many people have no choice but to move or leave Trier after a week or two. This place is both heaven and hell.”
Lumian pulled out three light-blue 5 verl d’or notes and handed them over.
The currency was all in 5-verl d’or denominations, featuring the bust of Intis Republic’s first president, Levanx, along with laboring farmers and herders on the front, and the Hornacis mountain range on the back.
Upon receiving the full month’s rent, the plump woman’s expression visibly relaxed. She produced two brass keys strung together and tossed them to Lumian.
“Room 207 on the second floor. There’s a small diner downstairs and a tavern in the basement. You’ll find sulfur in the room’s table drawer to help chase away those damn bugs. My name’s Fels. If you need anything, just come to me.”
“Thank you, Madame Fels.” Lumian took the keys, grabbed his suitcase and carbide lamp, and headed upstairs to the second floor.
As he ascended, he noticed newspapers and cheap pink paper plastered on the walls, though some had already peeled away, exposing the cracks they were meant to hide and an abundance of bedbugs.
The second floor contained eight rooms and two washrooms. Each room was cramped, with a bed to the right. A table nestled between the bed’s edge and the wall sat beneath the window, a rickety chair positioned in front of it.
There was no other furniture, but rows of bedbugs crawled across the ceiling.
Having grown accustomed to Aurore’s cleanliness, Lumian set down his suitcase and carbide lamp, opened the drawer, and took out some sulfur. He lit it with a match, and as the pungent smell filled the room, the bedbugs fled.
Within seconds, Lumian detected the sulfuric scent from the room next door.
Almost simultaneously, some of the bedbugs returned, seeking refuge.
He quickly understood the situation: he had smoked the bedbugs into the adjacent room, and the tenant had used sulfur to chase them back.
Amused, Lumian bent down, opened his suitcase, and took out pen and paper.
Amidst the potent sulfur smell, he sat at the wooden table and began writing.
“Honorable Madam Magician,
“I’ve arrived in Trier as agreed. Please advise on my next steps, which organization to join, and how to contact them…
“Are the two psychologists available soon? When can I receive treatment?
“Do you have any new leads on Guillaume Bénet and Madame Pualis…”
After penning the letter, Lumian retrieved an orange candle from his sister’s room.
Lighting it with his spirituality, the scent of citrus and lavender enveloped the air.
Instinctively, he closed his eyes, his expression calming.
After standing quietly for a minute or two, Lumian used the ritual silver dagger to sanctify the candle and create a wall of spirituality. He then dripped essential oil on the flame.
With the preparations complete, he placed the Magician card on the altar, a medium for summoning a messenger to pinpoint the incantation.
Lumian stepped back, observing the misty orange fire, and muttered in ancient Hermes, “I!”
An invisible wind swirled within the spiritual wall, dimming the room.
Switching to Hermes, he continued, “I summon in my name: The spirit that wanders about the unfounded, an upper world creature that is friendly to humans, a messenger that belongs solely to Magician.”
...
As the wind howled, the candle flame turned deep blue, casting a sinister, cold atmosphere.
Lumian focused on the candle, awaiting Madam Magician’s messenger.
After a few seconds of silence, the letter on the altar floated into the air. Surprised, Lumian glanced up to find a “doll” the size of a man’s forearm perched atop the carved window.
With long blond hair, light-blue eyes, pale-white skin, and an exquisite pale-gold dress, the “doll” bore strikingly realistic yet bizarre features.
In the next second, the letter landed in the “doll’s” smooth, shiny hand that lacked any skin-like texture.
“Are you Madam Magician’s messenger?” Lumian asked.
The “doll” slowly lowered its head, Lumian’s figure reflecting in its unfocused, light-blue eyes.
Its voice, ethereal and angry, replied, “Choose a cleaner environment next time!”
With that, the “doll” vanished along with the letter.
Lumian was stunned for a moment before murmuring, “Didn’t Aurore say the altar just needed to be clean and tidy?”
As he glanced around, he noticed numerous bedbug corpses on the floor.
...
The room was now insect-free.
This is better than sulfur… Lumian stroked his chin and ended the summoning ritual.
Lumian habitually cleaned the room before squatting beside his suitcase to retrieve his toiletries.
Aurore’s dark-colored witchcraft notebooks lay undisturbed at the bottom.
During his journey to Trier, Lumian had already skimmed through them without finding anything suspicious. Aurore wasn’t one for recording her personal thoughts or daily minutiae; her witchcraft notebook was purely dedicated to mystical knowledge, filled with incantations, symbols, and principles for selecting ingredients.
Likely due to Aurore’s penchant for keeping detailed accounts, most spells included information about when and where they were obtained, their cost, or the items exchanged for them.
Lumian realized the Curly-Haired Baboons Research Society likely had numerous interest groups. Aurore frequently attended ‘Academy’ gatherings, where many spells were traded among members. She also participated in exchanges with other groups, occasionally acquiring mystical knowledge and spells from events like April Fool’s Day.
Finding nothing amiss in the notebooks, Lumian resolved to continue his investigation after consulting the psychologists and locating Padre and Madame Pualis.
He knew his sister wouldn’t have mentioned the notebook without reason at that critical juncture. There must have been an important message she wished to convey.
Gazing at the dark-covered notebooks, Lumian determined to study his sister’s recorded knowledge in reverse order, starting that night.
Although using spells in combat was nearly impossible for a Hunter, understanding them could help him identify any issues with the corresponding mystical knowledge or detect abnormalities.
With his belongings packed, Lumian’s stomach growled in hunger.
He stood up and glanced at the window. The dimming light of dusk allowed him to vaguely see his reflection in the glass.
His hair, now dyed blond and grown out, barely disguised his features. Dressed in a white shirt, black vest, and dark suit, his cold, indifferent expression made him appear years older. Even Guillaume Bénet would find him only vaguely familiar.
Lumian patted his face, coaxing a smile, before opening the door and stepping out.