Speculator
Lumian settled into an armchair with a polite smile aimed at Count Poufer. He responded, “That would be my honor.”
With a graceful gesture, he extended an invitation to Miss Elros.
Count Poufer, dressed in a crimson shirt, waved his hand.
“After she finishes playing this piece.”
Lumian shifted his gaze towards the piano, finally getting a clear view of Miss Elros.
Her chestnut eyebrows framed her expressive brown eyes, which sparkled with a youthful vibrance. The delicate curve of her cheeks and gentle facial contours suggested her age to be under 20, and there was no apparent trace of Sauron lineage.
Lumian surmised that Elros likely inherited her Sauron lineage from her maternal side.
He turned away briefly, his fingers wrapping around a glass of red, white, and blue liqueur resting on the coffee table. Engaging in lively conversation with Count Poufer, Novelist Anori, and others, Lumian discussed the latest trends and scandals circulating in their circle.
He had been diligently reading newspapers like Novel Weekly, Journal des débats, Youth of Trier, and Ghost Face to keep himself well-informed for occasions like these.
The black-haired lady who had been kneeling beside Count Poufer had already moved away to observe the newspaper editors engaged in a game of billiards.
Lumian was aware that she couldn’t be Count Poufer’s wife. Aurore had once enlightened him about the peculiar customs of Trier: in intimate gatherings and small-scale balls, the male and female hosts refrained from appearing together. It was considered improper and might invite unnecessary gossip. Therefore, when one of them hosted a salon, their spouse would attend someone else’s event.
Back when Lumian first learned of this, he was barely fifteen, and it struck him as a bizarre set of rules. Now, reflecting upon it, he couldn’t help but think:
You Trieriens have devised such absurd and comical unwritten rules to facilitate discreet affairs, and everyone willingly adheres to them!
As the musical piece concluded, Elros gracefully left the piano and made her way to the sofas. Her cousin introduced her to Lumian, pulling over a barstool for her. She sat with her legs neatly together, a silent observer of the ongoing conversation.
As time flowed by, others gradually converged in their direction. Laurent followed a casually-dressed, middle-aged man who sported an impressive beard.
Count Poufer took it upon himself to make introductions, saying, “This is Cornell, the editor-in-chief of Le Petit Trierien.”
Lumian had perused the newspaper before, and he vividly recalled the advertisement for the “interstellar bridge to the crimson moon” featured in its pages.
Now, with that memory in mind, he couldn’t help but suspect that it might be a cleverly disguised scam or perhaps a piece of Trierien performance art. He also harbored suspicions that it might be connected to devotees of some evil god.
“This is Ciel Dubois, the general manager of Coastal Import and Export Corporation,” Poufer introduced the identity Gardner Martin had fabricated to Cornell.
Cornell extended his right hand with a look of surprise as he greeted Lumian. “You’re quite the young lad.”
Lumian accepted the handshake, offering a charming smile.
“This is the result of my unwavering diligence and hard work.”
Just as Poet Iraeta was on the verge of commenting on the diligence of most individuals present without becoming the general manager of a large company at such a young age, Lumian added a touch of self-deprecation to his tone.
“It’s precisely because I excelled in both areas that my father appointed me as the general manager of the import and export company.”
The room erupted in laughter as everyone grasped Lumian’s meaning.
Their perception of Ciel Dubois underwent a positive transformation.
In their social circle, there was no shortage of individuals who had landed important positions at a tender age due to familial connections. These people typically either avoided mentioning their parents and elders, striving to demonstrate their self-proclaimed abilities, or they struggled with confidence and maturity, endlessly fixating on their fathers or uncles. There were very few who exuded the kind of openness, honesty, and humor that Lumian effortlessly radiated. Back then, Count Poufer could scarcely be counted among them.
Lumian, with a touch of mischievous humor borrowed from his sister, turned his gaze toward Laurent and inquired, “Who might this be?”
Thud! Thud! Laurent’s heart raced in response.
While they had an unspoken agreement not to reveal each other’s true identities, Laurent lacked a thorough understanding of Ciel Dubois, the mob leader, and worried that Lumian might suddenly change his mind.
Cornell, the editor-in-chief of Le Petit Trierien, gestured to the young man by his side.
“This is Laurent. He’s remarkably talented, well-informed, and unfailingly polite. I’ve been observing him for nearly three months, and I’m considering offering him a position as my assistant and deputy editor-in-chief. Laurent, how do you feel about this unexpected proposition?”
Laurent initially found himself taken aback, but soon, he was overwhelmed by joy and felt a slight sense of vertigo.
All the pains and anxieties he had endured, from his mother’s tears to his neighbors’ disdain, had led to this moment.
He had always believed that with his talents, he shouldn’t be stuck at the bottom, and he had been actively seeking an opportunity, even if it meant squeezing his mother dry to maintain a facade of dignity.
Laurent refrained from displaying excessive excitement and responded to Cornell with a gracious smile, saying, “It would be an honor.”
Not bad at all, Lumian thought as he assessed the situation. Speculation could be a risky endeavor, but the rewards could be substantial. However, there’s the importance of changing one’s mindset and genuinely starting from their current position. Speculating to improve social status might lead to losing everything in the long run. Lumian recalled his sister’s comments after losing in the stock market as he considered Laurent’s actions.
He was unlike Charlie and others; Lumian held a disdain for those who exploited their mothers in the speculative process. As long as Laurent’s mother could accept it and didn’t resort to violence against her son or show strong resistance, Lumian didn’t pass harsh judgment.
With Cornell and the others now seated, Lumian’s curiosity led him to ask, “Where did you first encounter Laurent?”
Cornell responded with a smile, “At the Vichy Café. He often visits to engage in discussions about various Trier-related matters and to share his opinions.”
Vichy Café—the place where 5 verl d’or could buy half a bottle of mineral water and two boiled eggs? Laurent’s mother, Madame Lakazan, doesn’t even earn 3 verl d’or after a long day’s work. Yet, the investment has clearly paid off. Even a rookie deputy editor-in-chief at a newspaper like Le Petit Trierien earns nearly 5,000 verl d’or annually, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Lumian observed the differences and realized that Laurent’s fixation on speculative networking had a certain logic.
Still, success in such endeavors was a rare occurrence—one in a hundred at best.
Lumian cast a glance at Laurent, who eyed him with caution, and smoothly changed the subject with a smile.
“Cornell, I happened to come across an advertisement for the Interstellar Bridge in Le Petit Trierien last month, or perhaps even earlier. It piqued my interest. Any comments about it?”
Cornell indulged in a puff from his pipe before bursting into laughter.
“I believe it’s a bunch of delusional folks, but since they paid, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t run their advertisement. Maybe it can fool some fanatical enthusiasts of mechanics and science.”
“How are they now?” Lumian chuckled. “I’m even thinking of investing in them, just to see if they’re swindlers or if they can actually produce something.”
Poet Iraeta picked up his pipe and muttered, “You might as well sponsor me instead of investing in them. At least then, you can berate me for writing like a piece of dogsh*t, and I won’t have any comeback.”
Lumian played along, acting as if money was of no concern to him. “No problem. How about 5,000 verl d’or?”
His intention was to give Iraeta only 3,000 verl d’or later, using the excuse of not having enough cash on hand at the moment.
Iraeta lowered his pipe and spread his arms theatrically.
“Praise the Sun and let Ciel’s malice strike harder!”
“Haha, let’s head back to the old city together after the salon.” Lumian subtly hinted at his intention to sponsor Iraeta later but refrained from handing over the money directly to avoid the stink of money.
Following this brief diversion, Cornell seemed to warm up to Lumian’s presence.
“I’m not sure how those people are faring. They only paid for a one-month ad.”
As the conversation flowed, Count Poufer glanced at the setting sun and proposed a game with a warm smile. “Shall we play King’s Pie? Consider it a warm-up before dinner.”
Is this the only game you know? Do you have a childhood… Lumian couldn’t help but inwardly critique Count Poufer’s choice of games, but he refrained from objecting.
The others readily agreed, and Count Poufer promptly instructed his valet to bring out the sizable King’s Pie that had been prepared in the kitchen.
It resembled the lid of a grand saucepan, emitting a tantalizing aroma and color.
“Who shall be in charge of the cutting?” Count Poufer surveyed the participants, his gaze sweeping over each of them.
After a moment’s thought, he decided, “Elros, you do the honors. You’re the youngest and most beautiful lady here.”
Elros, seated on a barstool beside Lumian, gracefully rose and took up the table knife to start dividing the King’s Pie.
Rather obedient of your cousin. Living off the Sauron family, off Count Poufer? Lumian realized that Elros’s techniques were deft, perhaps from frequent practice.
In no time, the colossal King’s Pie was divided into roughly 29 portions.
As was customary, Count Poufer proposed offering the extra slice to his ancestor, Vermonda Sauron, and no one voiced any objections.
After completing this part of the ritual, the living room seemed to descend into an eerie silence, as if the very atmosphere outside the castle had solidified.
Count Poufer then turned his attention to Lumian and Laurent. “Laurent, this is your first time attending my Saturday salon with Ciel. You’ll be the first to choose.”
Lumian laughed and said, “Of course, the host should be the first to choose. Don’t you all think so?”
Instigated by him, the other participants readily agreed that the male host should have the honor of making the initial selection.
Count Poufer didn’t insist and took up a slice of King’s Pie, addressing the group, “Whoever bites into the gold coin shall be king.”
Seeing that the Sauron family member had made the first choice, Lumian felt more at ease and leaned forward to survey the slices.
This was double insurance. First, he would let Count Poufer make his selection. Then, while there were still plenty of slices left, he would exploit Termiboros’s aversion to the matter to choose a slice without the gold coin.
This time, Termiboros remained silent, not offering any warnings. Lumian naturally picked up the King’s Pie slice he had personally selected.
But as he settled back into his seat, his mind spun unexpectedly. It was as if he saw the narrow glass window once again, and the image of the dark-red-haired man who had gouged out his own eyes intruded upon his thoughts.