244 Red and Black
Knock, knock, knock.
The office reverberated with an urgent knock.
A feeble and disinterested voice floated through the air.
“Come in, please.”
Lumian turned the doorknob and pushed open the vibrant vermilion door. Before him stood a frail, gaunt young man.
Dressed in a blue shirt, black waistcoat, and somber suit, he stood by the expansive desk, his eyes fixed on the door.
As Tybalt Jacques recognized the visitor to be Bono Goodville, a chuckle escaped the assistant secretary.
“Don’t fret. Decay is an unavoidable fate. It afflicts humans and organizations alike. Once the decay sets in, all sorts of troubles will arise…”
Before Tybalt could conclude, he saw Lumian approach. Guard raised, he blurted out,”What do you think you’re doing…”
Bam! Lumian threw a punch, accompanied by a blazing crimson flame.
His action cut off Tybalt’s words, forcing him to instinctively raise his forearm to block the blow.
Flames flickered, consuming Tybalt’s sleeves.
Simultaneously, a taunting voice reached his ears.
“So weak?”
Originally, Lumian’s plan was to cloak his fist in flames, launching a surprise attack on his adversary without alerting the nearby employees. In the ensuing chaos, he aimed to use Fallen Mercury and inflict a wound upon him. Then, before his foe could recover, Lumian would forcefully make his way past him, exiting the khaki-colored building housing the parliament member’s office through the balcony.
Throughout this endeavor, he would employ fireballs, Fire Raven, and other techniques to impede his opponent. Even if he sustained injuries, he had to escape into a nearby alley and disappear into Underground Trier before Hugues Artois’s security personnel, the red-haired woman, and the other campaign members could react. After all, the fiery “armor” he created had the power to incinerate pathogens. With limited contact, the chances of contracting an illness were slim. And if something did manage to slip through, the symptoms would be mild enough for Lumian to endure until six in the morning.
If worse came to worst, he could borrow half a canister of healing agent from Franca.
Even Ruhr, a scavenger with his advanced age, succumbed to the illness only an hour or two after being exposed to the thick phlegm. Lumian believed it would be even less of a problem for him.
Of course, the condition was that the thick phlegm represented one of Tybalt’s more potent methods. He couldn’t concoct a highly virulent disease that triggered symptoms within a minute or two. Nonetheless, Lumian had his flames to shield him.
Yet, now, after a swift exchange, Lumian realized that Tybalt Jacques was far weaker than he had presumed!
This revelation instantly altered Lumian’s course of action.
Silently, his form became shrouded in a cloak of fiery crimson.
The flames undulated like liquid, seamlessly encasing his skin, hair, garments, and hat. They hung there, a constant flickering and flowing.
Crimson flames continued to emerge from Lumian’s being, melding with the inferno.
It felt as though Lumian had wrapped himself in a crimson cloak. Amidst the swirling blaze, his disguised countenance and blue eyes, each harboring a blazing fire, came into view.
With a snap, he discarded the dark cane and launched a fist wreathed in flames towards Tybalt.
The cane’s handle remained aglow, eradicating any traces of fingerprints, sweat, or handprints.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Tybalt staggered back two steps, as though battling a tempest of fire. His eyes burned with a reddened intensity.
He harrumphed and expelled thick phlegm at Lumian.
The viscous yellow-green phlegm met the fiery cloak and was instantly incinerated, emitting a sizzling sound.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Lumian’s arms, engulfed in crimson flames, swung repeatedly, pinning Tybalt to a corner of the office. His back pressed against the wall, with no escape or retreat. All he could do was defensively parry with his arms.
Witnessing the Sputum of Disease prove futile and the surrounding air heating up under the flames’ influence, causing his skin to scorch, Tybalt’s heart constricted, and he was about to cry out for help.
However, just as he opened his mouth, Lumian’s flaming fist collided with his arm, causing him to tremble. His words became trapped in his throat.
Tybalt attempted to call for aid, but his pleas were repeatedly interrupted by the adversary. The deep voice of his foe resounded in his ears.
“Is that all you have?”
“How dare a feeble fledgling like you spit so recklessly?”
“Didn’t your deity teach you to behave with civility?”
“I shall summon a hundred vagabonds to spit in your mouth!”
The mockery inflamed Tybalt’s eyes, and he momentarily forgot about seeking assistance. All he yearned for was the other party to suffer and perish.
Translucent blisters materialized on his exposed skin, brimming with a sickly yellowish-black fluid.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Lumian’s flaming fist consumed Tybalt’s sleeve, rupturing the translucent blister within. Yet, the repugnant yellowish-black liquid failed to touch his flesh. It was first scorched by the flames before being halted by the gloves.
The lingering pathogens on the surface of the gloves rapidly dissipated beneath the crimson flames’ effect.
Amidst the relentless but non-lethal strikes, all the translucent blisters burst of their own accord within the increasingly sweltering environment. The faint yellowish-black liquid sizzled and evaporated, forming an almost imperceptible mist around Tybalt.
However, the mist was either consumed by the flames or melted by the soaring temperatures. It couldn’t breach the fiery cloak and corrode Lumian’s body.
In that moment, Tybalt, battered multiple times, regained his senses from the Provocation. He opened his mouth and cried out for aid.
High-temperature gas and dissipating flames infiltrated Tybalt’s mouth as Lumian’s fist connected. The heat contorted his expression, rendering him unable to scream.
“Feeling grand, are we? Enjoying yourself?”
“When you spat without a care, did you ever consider that it would lead to your own demise?”
“Taking your life is no different from slaughtering a chicken!”
Lumian locked his gaze onto Tybalt’s eyes, witnessing despair, fear, and pleas for mercy slowly emerge.
He didn’t relent. With fists ablaze in crimson flames, he unleashed another relentless onslaught of strikes.
He had no intention of evading Tybalt’s feeble attempts at defense; each blow found its mark.
With a subdued thud, Lumian abruptly halted and withdrew his hands.
Tybalt remained motionless against the wall, his eyes vacant.
The flames enveloping Lumian’s form dissipated like a receding river, leaving behind a trace of crimson in his footsteps.
Without sparing Tybalt a second glance, Lumian stooped to retrieve his cane. He took Mr. K’s finger and pressed it against the wall beside Tybalt.
Having done so, Lumian removed his half top hat and placed it upon his chest, bowing to Tybalt.
Then, he strode past his lifeless, statue-like prey and ventured onto the balcony. Concealed by the shadows, he pressed against the wall and effortlessly leaped to the side of the khaki-colored building.
Only then did the occupants upstairs sense something amiss. Several individuals rushed out, peering into the outside world. Lumian’s figure had already vanished into the depths of the dark alley.
Simultaneously, a muffled sound emanated from Tybalt’s rigid body.
Boom!
In an instant, he erupted from within, crimson flames splattering flesh and internal organs in every direction.
Fire Infusion!
Pyromaniac’s Fire Infusion!
Prior to Lumian’s departure, Tybalt had teetered on the precipice of death. His organs and brain had been consumed by the injected flames. What ensued was primarily the annihilation of his Spirit Body.
There were three reasons why Lumian had a change of heart at the last moment, opting to forgo the quickest and simplest method of dispatching Tybalt.
Firstly, utilizing the Montsouris ghost could potentially impact Tybalt’s family. If possible, it was preferable to avoid such measures, despite the high probability that they had already succumbed to the influence of an evil deity. Secondly, he could utilize the implosion to create a gruesome scene of carnage, strewn with flesh and blood. Coupled with Mr. K’s fingerprint, it would point subsequent investigators in the direction of the Aurora Order. It would also serve as a clear indication that Tybalt was a follower of an evil god. Thirdly, by utilizing Fire Infusion, he could delay the explosion and dismantle Tybalt’s Spirit Body, thereby minimizing the efficacy of the evil god’s Blessed’s investigations through spirit channeling.
Furthermore, there was another reason. Beating and cursing Tybalt to death brought Lumian an undeniable sense of satisfaction.
…
Before long, a group of seven or eight individuals, including Hugues Artois, the red-haired lady, and the bespectacled secretary, arrived at Tybalt Jacques’s door.
What greeted their eyes were scattered flesh, fragments, and internal organs, along with scorch marks that marred the ground.
The sight of red and black intermingled was jarring, rendering everyone present speechless.
“Who could have done this?” Hugues Artois exclaimed, horror etched on his face.
In his mind, the murder of Tybalt and the macabre aftermath served as a chilling warning and a preview of his own impending demise!
After all, who would go to such lengths to target an assistant secretary?
The red-haired lady cast a brief glance at Hugues Artois before speaking in an androgynous tone,
“Based on the evidence before us, it appears that the perpetrator is a Pyromaniac, or perhaps even more formidable. Given Tybalt’s capabilities, he should have been dispatched within ten seconds. However, the assailant deliberately prolonged the act.
“It seems that the goal was to create this gruesome scene. It bears the hallmark of those lunatics from the Aurora Order.”
Hugues Artois’s eyes narrowed, and he lapsed into silence for a couple of seconds.
“Why would the Aurora Order target me?”
“I cannot say.” The red-haired lady peered deeply into Hugues Artois’s eyes, shaking her head slightly.
While the official Beyonders conducted their investigation, the original campaign team returned to Hugues Artois’s office.
The red-haired lady turned her attention to the secretary with gold-rimmed glasses.
“What has Tybalt been involved in recently?” she inquired.
“Due to his chronic illness, he intentionally disposed of his disease-ridden handkerchief and ended the lives of two elderly scavengers who had no children,” the secretary with gold-rimmed glasses truthfully replied. “I have managed to keep this matter under wraps.”
The red-haired lady muttered to herself, her voice barely audible, “Two childless elderly scavengers… It seems that Tybalt’s demise is undeniably targeted at Monsieur Member of Parliament.”