Chapter 118 Summoning
Lumian nodded, asking, “You mentioned that your spiritual perception is quite advanced?”
Osta briefly fell into a trance before a lingering fear spread across his face.
He took a moment to compose himself, then said, “That seems to be a trait of the Secrets Suppliant. I can sense hidden creatures lurking in the dark depths, and I can also feel the real world wrapped in a thick veil. Beyond that veil, emotionless eyes watch us…”
As he finished, Osta panted heavily. Lumian patiently waited for the impostor warlock to catch his breath. Nearly a minute later, Osta exhaled, saying, “In the market district and Quartier de l’Observatoire, it’s fine, but in Underground Trier, I can often sense the end of certain paths. In places I can’t see, some creature beckons me to come closer.
“I wonder what would happen to me if I truly stepped into that darkness.
A fine mystical sensor indeed… Lumian silently mocked his Hunter’s Spirit Vision while also feeling that a Secrets Suppliant wasn’t as useless as Osta claimed.
Osta continued, “Sometimes, when I see tourists entering the catacombs with white candles, I get these delusions. I think it’s a ritual that forms a magical bond with some hidden entity, protecting the tourists from being devoured by the darkness or spirited away by the dead.”
Lumian was taken aback, inwardly sighing.
In terms of mysticism, a Secrets Suppliant is quite potent… It’s just that they’re not skilled in combat…
From Osta’s account, Lumian suspected that carrying a lit white candle into the catacombs was indeed a ritual that allowed visitors to evade the hidden perils there.
The tomb administrators likely knew this, but in pursuit of profit, they not only kept silent but also encouraged higher-ups to promote the catacombs as a tourist attraction.
Lumian remembered his sister Aurore’s frequent lament: “Money changes people.”
I wonder, at a lower level, which one can bring about a person’s change more effectively: potions, boons, or money… Lumian muttered silently with a teasing attitude.
He then asked Osta, “Have you sensed any danger lurking in the market district’s darkness?”
Osta’s face shifted as he replied in a grave tone, “I dare not approach the burned-out house in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.”
At the edge of Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, near Rue des Blouses Blanches, stood a scorched, uninhabited house. The district’s Members of Parliament had long demanded its demolition and conversion into a commercial building, but for some reason, the proposal never reached City Hall’s agenda. Even after a decade, the six-story eyesore still stood.
I didn’t feel anything when I passed by this morning… Lumian turned and headed for the door.
“I’ll visit you again. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
Osta, his shoulder wound now bandaged, flashed an ingratiating smile.
“Rest assured, I’ll provide you with an answer.”
After leaving Osta’s room, Lumian suddenly quickened his pace. In a blink, he crouched in the shadows of the stairs leading to the rooftop, silently eyeing the tightly shut wooden door.
Nearly half an hour later, having confirmed that nothing was amiss, he slowly descended the stairs with Le Petit Trierien.
It was then that he finally heard his stomach growl.
Gazing at the makeshift barricade of rocks, logs, mud slabs, and assorted items with a narrow opening as a passage, Lumian spotted a nearby bakery and spent three licks to buy half a kilogram of croissants.
He also sampled Trier’s distinctive fruit juice soda.
The effervescent liquid swirled as the currant syrup dispersed like clouds within it. The concoction set him back 13 coppet.
If he returned the soda bottle, he could reclaim 3 coppet.
Rue Anarchie, Auberge du Coq Doré.
Before Lumian could enter the basement bar, the noise and chaos reached his ears.
Just past nine o’clock, nearly twenty people packed the intimate space. They either sat at the bar or huddled around a few small round tables, their attention riveted on the bartender. The stylish, ponytailed bartender explained the contraption on the bar to an unfamiliar male patron.
“This is called the Idiot Instrument. It tests your intelligence.
“Care to give it a shot?”
The man in the dark jacket seemed intrigued and asked, “How do I try?”
The bartender gestured at the exposed rubber tube with a solemn expression.
“Blow here until bubbles form in the glass jar above.
“Your ability to produce bubbles and their size determine the final test results.”
Without hesitation, the man picked up the rubber hose and blew into it.
As light-green bubbles emerged from the glass jar atop the machine, everyone in the bar leaped to their feet, applauding wildly and exclaiming, “Welcome, idiot!” The man looked bewildered for a moment before grasping the joke. His face flushed crimson.
He shot a fierce glare at the bartender and the rowdy patrons before stifling his anger and muttering, “Interesting. This prank is really something. I’ll bring a few friends to try it tomorrow.”
Is this what friends are for? Lumian sneered inwardly. He pulled a barstool over and sat down, telling the bartender, “Give me the usual a glass of fennel absinthe.”
The bartender grinned. “This one’s on me.
Your machine’s fantastic. Word of its mystical powers has spread, and people have come specifically to check it out. My business has doubled since then.
“By the way, I’m Pavard Neeson, the owner of this bar and an amateur painter. What should I call you?”
“Ciel,” Lumian replied, his smile unwavering.
He noticed the difference between Trieriens and the villagers of Cordu.
In Cordu, anyone who fell victim to such a prank would seek revenge. But Trieriens enjoyed finding new “victims” and watching them get caught, easing their own embarrassment.
“You’ve got a keen brain. You’re better at pranks than many Trieriens.” To the native bartender, Pavard Neeson, this compliment was high praise.
He slid a slender glass filled with a light green, hallucinogenic liquid toward Lumian. Taking a sip of the absinthe, Lumian savored the faint bitterness that stirred his senses and made him feel alive.
He closed his eyes, soaking in the sensation before asking, “I have a few friends who arrived in Trier before me, but I don’t have their contact information. Is there a way to find them?”
Pavard Neeson wiped a glass.
“If you’re wealthy, advertise with the Journal de Trier. If you’re not, hire a bounty hunter or information broker to see if they’ll take the job. If you’re broke, go back to your room and sleep. Maybe one day, you’ll bump into your friends on the street.”
“Any recommendations? A reliable bounty hunter or information broker?” Lumian wasn’t short on cash for now and might receive a ‘donation’ from a generous benefactor at any moment, but advertising in newspapers was beyond his means. It’d cost at least 3,000 verl d’or. Smaller publications might be cheaper, but they were ineffective.
Moreover, he couldn’t risk alarming Guillaume Bénet and Madame Pualis if they read the papers. Pavard nodded, saying, “Anthony Reid lives in Room 5 on the hotel’s third floor. You can pay him a visit tomorrow.
“He’s a retired military man turned information broker. Highly trustworthy.” Lumian took note of the room number and name. He lifted the absinthe, swirling it gently before raising his glass to honor the bartender.
...
Upon returning to Room 207, Lumian didn’t waste any time resting.
He drew the tattered curtains and performed the Summoning Dance in the cramped space. His goal was to see what strange creatures he could attract in Auberge du Coq Doré and Rue Anarchie, preparing for potential future attacks, pursuits, or ambushes.
wasn’t According to Osta, aside from the burned-out building, there were no particularly dangerous locations in the market district. Moreover, it was quite a distance from Rue Anarchie, making it unlikely for it to be affected by a Sequence 9 equivalent-Dancer. After all, this the ruins of Cordu Village, where the power of inevitability was pervasive. Disregarding the more dangerous ones and those that Dancers couldn’t attract, Lumian believed that even if the strange creatures that appeared later were stronger than him, it would be nearly impossible for them to force themselves on him. The bluish-black symbol representing the great existence and the black thorn pattern from inevitability would be enough to deter them from acting recklessly. In a dance that alternated between madness and distortion, Lumian’s spirituality merged with the stirred power of nature, stealthily spreading in all directions.
Before long, he sensed watchful eyes upon him. Several translucent, blurry figures floated around the room.
Some resembled humans, seemingly residual obsessions lingering after death. Others were grotesque, appearing like bottles or stacked meatballs, possibly originating from the corresponding spirit world.
Lumian didn’t recognize any of them and couldn’t determine their traits or abilities.
At that moment, a figure emerged from the tattered curtains.
Slightly translucent, it was a woman with long turquoise hair interwoven with green leaves that enveloped its body and concealed vital areas. The rest of its fair, smooth skin was exposed, setting one’s heart racing and imagination ablaze.
With emerald-green eyes, red lips, and an exquisite, alluring face, a single glance at Lumian stirred an inexplicable excitement within him.
...