634 Fresh Off The Boat
In the well-lit lobby of Hotel Orella, aboveground, Lugano effortlessly balanced Ludwig, munching on a burrito, in one hand and clutched his suitcase in the other. His eyes darted around uneasily. From his adventurous beginnings to trailing Lumian south, he’d never lodged in a place proudly declaring itself a “hotel” instead of a “motel.”
He’d only encountered Trier’s renowned Grand Champs-élysée in newspapers and magazines, learning that its construction cost a whopping 21 million verl d’or. With 800 rooms and 65 functional halls, even the most basic accommodations demanded 12 verl d’or per day in the off-season. A stark contrast to Lugano’s usual frugal 3.5 verl d’or weekly motel stays.
The bustling metropolis of Trier had left an indelible mark on Lugano, urging him to rise above and recommend himself to Lumian.
Accumulating wealth, obtaining potion ingredients, and advancing to Doctor became his priorities.
He aspired to join the ranks of high society!
Only when he became a Doctor did he grasp the vastness of the Beyonder world. He had barely scratched its surface.
The male receptionist, sporting curly black hair, dark brown skin, and a keen countenance, addressed Lugano in fluent Intisian.
“Would you prefer a suite or a standard room? Are you inclined towards a coffin bed or a conventional one?”
Lugano glanced at his employer.
Lumian toyed with a caramel-colored East Balam cigarette wrapped in roasted tobacco leaves, bringing it to his nose for a gentle sniff. He savored the blend of tobacco leaves, internal spices, and assorted herbs.
The aroma was mildly invigorating and redolent, tempting one to inhale deeply.
“A suite. Standard, and closer to ground level.” Lumian had sampled rental coffins for transportation and had no plans to continue sleeping in them.
It wasn’t a traumatic experience, but it did alter his perception of his surroundings. In case of an attack, it could impede his initial response.
Lugano sighed in relief upon hearing Lumian’s decision and conveyed the employer’s request to the male receptionist.
“8 verl d’or a day. Three days’ payment in advance,” the native male receptionist stated the price.
After Lugano completed the payment, the receptionist, with a nod to his colleagues, said obsequiously, “I’ll escort you down.”
Three mechanical elevators stood at the back of the hall. Lumian and his group entered the middle door, pulling the brass handle to B3.
Chains tightened, gears clamped, and various metal parts started to operate with resonating sounds. In the distance, it resembled the roar of a boiler, and white steam billowed out.
As the mechanical elevator descended, the native receptionist glanced at Ludwig and smiled at Lumian.
“Settling down in Port Pylos, are you?
“If you need info on local grammar schools and rentals in different communities, feel free to approach me.”
In his view, anyone bringing a seven- or eight-year-old child to the Southern Continent was likely moving, not merely traveling. After all, the child was too young for perilous long-distance journeys.
Moving meant finding a house—renting or buying—and choosing a good school. These were all opportunities to make money!
At the mention of “school,” Ludwig, munching on a roasted corn cob, suddenly stopped chewing, as if the food had lost its fragrance.
Lumian wasn’t oblivious to the native receptionist’s thoughts but didn’t mind. Instead, he admired the man’s shrewdness.
He grinned and remarked, “I’ll take a look first. We haven’t confirmed if we would stay in Port Pylos.”
At that moment, the mechanical elevator halted at B3.
Entering the room on the right, with a stone fence on one side and the cold valley aisle on the other, Lumian addressed the native receptionist, “Do you know Tizamo Town?”
The native receptionist, aiding Lugano with the suitcase, slightly bent and led the way.
“I do. Many gentlemen head to Tizamo on weekends for forest hunting.
“There are secret temples and mausoleums left behind by former nobles in the forest. If you want to have fun, don’t venture too deep. The primitive tribes there are barbaric and savage.”
Lumian nodded, not probing further. Upon reaching Suite 7 and entering the living room, he casually tossed a verl d’or silver coin to the native receptionist.
“What’s your name?”
The receptionist, pleasantly surprised, responded, “You can call me Ron.”
Lumian chuckled.
“I might have to trouble you often in the future. For example, what’s the name of the nearest and better bars? Where is it?”
Ron touched the silver coin and smiled.
“It’s my honor to assist you.
“Head to the Man-Eating Flower Bar. Intisian is used for communication there. It’s on the street behind our hotel.”
Lumian instructed Lugano and left the room with Ron, waiting for one of the mechanical elevators.
Inside, a man with a deathly pale face and vacant eyes stood.
The man’s face was deathly pale, and his eyes were vacant. He wore a wrinkled shirt and pants.
Lumian glanced at him without a word.
Amidst the tightening of the chain and the relatively stable elevation, the mechanical lift returned to the ground.
Once the vacant-eyed man exited the lift and distanced himself from them, Ron leaned closer to Lumian and whispered, “I wanted to remind you to pretend not to see that customer.”
“Who is he?” Lumian asked casually.
Ron glanced around and lowered his voice.
“He resides in a suite at B18, a servant of Mr. Iveljsta.
“That gentleman’s servants don’t seem normal.”
Of course, it’s not normal. They are walking corpses… Lumian criticized.
He had already observed the servant and realized his fate was dark and that of a deceased.
Lumian wasn’t surprised to encounter such a situation in a country that once worshipped Death.
Having already seen the Blood Emperor’s afterimage, encountering a zombie was hardly shocking.
…
In the sweltering evening, Lumian bypassed the artificial deep valley where Hotel Orella stood and entered a street with an unpronounceable name. He spotted a bar adorned with an exaggerated Man-Eating Flower.
Donning a golden straw hat, he lit the East Balam cigarette purchased from the hotel lobby and placed it between his lips.
Cough, cough, cough!
Lumian quickly coughed, emitting white smoke from his nose.
His intention was to showcase his experience as an experienced adventurer by smoking East Balam cigarettes, but he hadn’t anticipated their potency. As someone who rarely smoked, he found it unbearable.
In Cordu, various cheap alcohols abounded, but cigarettes were scarce. Lumian had only witnessed Pons Bénet, Louis Lund, and a few others indulging in smoking.
After extinguishing the East Balam cigarette and tossing it into the trash can, Lumian entered the bar and skillfully approached the counter. He pulled up a barstool and settled in.
Sensing the lingering smoke in his mouth, he opted for something milder. He tapped the counter and spoke in Intisian, “A glass of kilju, the regular kind.”
“Ten licks,” replied the bartender, a local man in a white shirt and black vest, his Intisian tinged with a distinct accent.
Lumian settled the bill and awaited the bartender’s pour. He discreetly surveyed the area, noticing nobody paying him any heed except for a dozen wanted posters adorning the bar’s wall.
Thoughtfully accepting the amber-colored kilju, he adjusted his golden straw hat and addressed the bartender with a smile, “Do you know who I am?”
The bartender glanced at him and smiled back.
“Every now and then, a self-proclaimed renowned adventurer poses that question, but I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”
From the looks of it, the adventurer Louis Berry’s exploits in hunting the Demon Warlock are primarily known in the Fog Sea. My rising fame was tied to activities within the Church of Earth Mother’s sphere of influence. Louis Berry’s reputation waned upon entering the Berserk Sea, and few in West Balam are familiar with him… If Hisoka isn’t stationed at the docks every day, he likely doesn’t know about my arrival in Port Pylos… Lumian refrained from erupting in rage at the bartender’s words. He sipped his kilju, contemplating the situation.
Noticing Lumian’s silence, the bartender casually smiled and remarked, “You just arrived in the Southern Continent, right?”
“Yes, I left the Berserk Sea this morning.” Lumian seamlessly assumed the role of a regular at Ol’ Tavern, recounting his story with a smile. “Encountered a ghost ship in the Berserk Sea, danced with dried corpses under the moon, and repelled a Demon’s attack. Praise the Mother of All Things. You might never understand how magical and dangerous the Berserk Sea is…”
The bartender wiped the glass’s inner wall and interrupted Lumian.
“I know. After all, that’s where Death disappeared.”
“Where Death disappeared?” Lumian asked in surprise.
While he had speculated about the dangers of the Berserk Sea and abnormal weather being linked to a deity’s demise, he hadn’t expected such an easy answer.
The bartender regarded Lumian with an expression that implied, “You’re actually a rookie.”
“Have you never heard of the legend of treasures at sea?
“At the top is Death’s Key. It’s said that at the end of the Fourth Epoch, Death, who had lost the Pale-White War, stirred violent waves to obstruct the returning enemy to Balam, creating insurmountable obstacles that severed the Northern and Southern Continents. However, He ultimately didn’t return to His throne and vanished. Only those with the special key can find Him, discover the treasures He left behind, and gain His boon.”
The bartender’s tone was complicated.
Lumian fell silent.
He had embarked on the sea seeking revenge and held little interest in treasure legends. He hadn’t anticipated missing such crucial information.
Just then, the heavy wooden door of the bar creaked open.
The once-noisy bar hushed in an instant.
Sensing the shift in atmosphere, Lumian turned his body, fixing his gaze upon the door.