243 Visit
Lumian’s fury did not mean he would lose his composure—to just disguise himself and sneak into the member of parliament’s office, where he would find the fellow who had dared to “casually spit” and incinerate him on the spot.
It wasn’t a ridiculous scheme, but without enough information, taking such a risk could easily turn into suicide.
First and foremost, Lumian had no knowledge of the number or strength of the heretics present in the member of parliament’s office.
He also had no idea how many protectors Bureau 8 or the two Churches had assigned to Hugues Artois, nor did he know their abilities.
Furthermore, he lacked precise details about the target’s whereabouts or situation. Even if he managed to infiltrate the office successfully, finding the target would be no easy task.
Lastly, he hadn’t yet devised a plan for sneaking in and, more importantly, a plan for a safe retreat.
Nevertheless, Lumian couldn’t deny that the chaos caused by the Goodville Chemical Factory explosion provided an excellent opportunity for his infiltration.
For now, his temporary strategy was to be a patient hunter. He would trail the target silently, observing his movements and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Based on the target’s status in Hugo Artois’s campaign, Lumian surmised that the man couldn’t be too powerful. He certainly didn’t possess godlike abilities. Even if he were a Mid-Sequence Beyonder, he would likely be no higher than a Sequence 7.
Lumian wasn’t overly concerned if his judgment was wrong and the target turned out to be a Sequence 6 or even Sequence 5. In fact, he believed that Mr. K would find the hunt for heretics quite intriguing!
Phew… Lumian breathed out slowly, his gaze fixed on the brightly illuminated khaki-colored four-story building. He continued to gather useful information for his upcoming operation.
As time passed, he noticed middle-aged scavengers carrying linen bags, sifting through the trash piled beside the building.
This sight made Lumian sigh, fueling the fire of determination in his heart.
In Trier, people couldn’t scavenge just for the sake of it. Each scavenger had an employer, whether they worked full-time or part-time. They were assigned specific scavenging areas and were not allowed to cross boundaries. Violations often led to conflicts and violent encounters. As a result, Ruhr and Michel wished fervently that Hugues Artois would host banquets every day instead of wandering into areas where banquets were already being held, as those spots belonged to other scavengers.
The difference between full-time and part-time scavengers lay in their employment terms. Full-timers received a monthly salary from their employers, and the employers owned all the trash they collected. Occasionally, if they stumbled upon valuable or usable items, they might decide whether to surrender them or keep them for personal use. Part-timers like Ruhr and Michel didn’t have a fixed salary. They scavenged in the morning and evening, delivering everything they found to a designated waste disposal site, typically owned by their employers.
These circumstances restricted street tramps to scavenging for food and clothing, with little opportunity to exchange their findings for money.
Lumian patiently waited until 9 p.m., observing as the number of guests visiting the member of parliament’s office gradually dwindled. People stepped out onto the balconies for a smoke or a brief respite.
And then, his eyes widened as he spotted a figure.
Standing on the balcony of a second-floor room, there he was—the thin, pale man with curly dark-yellow hair and piercing brown eyes.
Dressed in a blue shirt, black vest, and a somber suit, complete with a bow tie, he held a cigarette, enveloped in a cloud of smoke, occasionally taking a drag. Lumian had seen him before in Franca’s Magic Mirror Divination. It was the spitter.
Cough, cough, cough! A fit of violent coughing shook the frail young man, as if he wished to expel his lungs from his body.
Finally, he hacked up another glob of thick phlegm after some harrumphing.
Pulling out a handkerchief, he spat the viscous phlegm into it, wrapping it up and tucking it away in his pocket. He didn’t discard it carelessly.
Lumian’s eyes narrowed. He knows that his phlegm can transmit diseases as a result of mysticism.
As more people flocked to the balconies of their respective rooms, Lumian swiftly identified the familiar faces.
Member of Parliament Hugues Artois from the market district occupied the room at the top floor, boasting the largest balcony.
The red-haired woman resided on the same floor, right next door to him.
On the second floor, on the opposite end of the corridor from the spitter, was a man in his thirties with gold-rimmed glasses, a document always in hand. Every now and then, he would wander to the balcony to enjoy a smoke and the view, displaying a lack of concern for the aftermath of the Goodville Chemical Factory explosion.
The third floor housed a tall, muscular middle-aged man, occupying the central office.
Directly beneath Hugues Artois, on the fourth floor, was a refined young woman in a white shirt and a dark-blue coat. She shared the same side of the building as the man with gold-rimmed glasses, deliberately avoiding any proximity to the spitter.
Lumian observed closely and deduced that the rooms adjacent to the spitter’s were part of a collective office, likely accommodating several employees.
This implied that the probability of them holding any significant status or possessing Beyonder powers was negligible.
So, the other heretics intentionally distanced themselves from the incessant coughing and spitting man. They believe the member of parliament’s office is heavily guarded, and that individual possesses Beyonder powers. It’s highly unlikely for an attack to be directed at him. True enough. If an assault were to occur in the member of parliament’s office, the target would undoubtedly be Hugues Artois and not one of his subordinates. Only then would it be worth the risk… Lumian pondered this realization earnestly for a moment and suddenly sensed an opportunity emerging.
The dilemma now lay in how Lumian could infiltrate the member of parliament’s office unnoticed, particularly given his conspicuous golden hair with a touch of black. After all, he didn’t have Franca’s help.
After careful consideration, Lumian devised a plan.
He departed from the vicinity of the office and made his way back to the safe house on Rue des Blouses Blanches.
Without hesitation, he set up an altar and offered a prayer to the great existence, seeking His protection.
Lumian firmly believed that since the embrace of an angel would shield him from the prying eyes of any deity, it definitely ensured sufficient anti-divination effects!
Just as before, he found himself bathed in the radiant brilliance and divine majesty of the angel. Overwhelmed by indescribable emotions, he witnessed cascades of luminous wings enveloping him.
Once he completed this ritual, Lumian pressed his hand to his head.
His golden and black hair erupted into flames, cascading down like withered grass until only a few hair roots remained.
Putting on his trusty dark-blue cap, he concealed his features behind the Mystery Prying Glasses. With his transformed appearance, Lumian left Rue des Blouses Blanches and ventured towards Avenue du Marché near Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman. There, he located a clothing store that didn’t specialize in cheap garments.
The two shop assistants, a man and a woman, were taken aback when they saw a person dressed like a vagrant entering, unsure of how to react.
In a panicked tone, Lumian explained, “I encountered a perverted thief who stole my clothes and trousers. I had no choice but to purchase this set from a nearby beggar.”
The female shop assistant struggled to suppress her laughter.
They had witnessed similar situations countless times before, well aware that those who made such excuses were often involved in affairs with certain ladies, fleeing in a state of undress with their wallets once their husbands returned, only to seek refuge in the garments of a beggar.
When someone confidently claimed that their predicament stemmed from an affair, it usually meant they had genuinely encountered a twisted thief.
In the end, Lumian acquired a suit that appeared decent but was actually quite ordinary. It included a shirt, coat, bow tie, and a dark cane. Additionally, he opted for a brown wig and a matching fake beard.
The total cost came to 78 verl d’or.
After carefully covering his tracks and returning to the safe house on Rue des Blouses Blanches, Lumian shed his disguise and once again adorned the Mystery Prying Glasses. Following his recollection, he skillfully applied makeup to achieve his desired effect.
His aim was to transform himself into an older version. As he gazed into the mirror, Lumian gradually took on the appearance of a middle-aged man, complete with a fake brown beard affixed to his mouth and chin.
Thus, Lumian assumed the identity of Bono Goodville, the proprietor of the Goodville Chemical Factory.
Though the resemblance was only around 40 to 50%, anyone acquainted with Bono Goodville would instinctively mistake Lumian for the man, provided they didn’t scrutinize or closely distinguish him.
In this guise, Lumian intended to infiltrate the member of parliament’s office!
Before embarking on his mission, he ventured into the underground and stashed the tramp’s attire in a cavern within the quarry.
Emerging from Underground Trier, Lumian hastened to the khaki-colored four-story building that housed the member of parliament’s office, cane in hand.
After observing for a brief moment and ensuring that the figures in each room remained relatively unchanged, he lowered his head, partially concealing his face, and approached the entrance.
“Whom are you seeking?” inquired an armed guard donned in a dark blue uniform, blocking his path.
Lumian raised his head, withdrew his hand, and responded with anxiety in his voice, “I’m looking for the member of parliament.”
One of the guards caught a clear glimpse of the visitor’s face under the glow of the street lamp and involuntarily exclaimed, “Monsieur Goodville, what brings you here again…”
Abruptly, he halted his words, realizing that this gentleman, who had recently experienced a devastating explosion at his factory, had an abundance of issues to address this night, along with numerous concerns that required assistance.
The two guards refrained from further inquiry and stepped aside, granting Lumian passage.
The lobby on the ground floor bustled with activity, despite the late hour. Reporters, officials, representatives of charitable organizations, hospital staff reporting in, and various personnel responsible for receiving them filled the space.
Lumian preserved his desire to remain inconspicuous. With his head lowered, partially obscuring his face, he proceeded directly to the staircase. Employing the same tactic, he passed by the two armed guards and ascended to the second floor.
Orienting himself, Lumian bypassed the two employees who emerged from a nearby room and arrived in front of the office belonging to the unhealthy young man.
Embedded on the vermilion door was an aluminum-white nameplate inscribed with a few golden Intisian words: “Assistant Secretary, Tybalt Jacques.”
Tybalt… Lumian smiled, donned his gloves, and tapped lightly on the door.