Lord of Mysteries 2: Circle of Inevitability
chapter-119

Almost simultaneously, Lumian felt his hair stand on end as a chill ran down his spine. He experienced a strong sense of impending danger.

Subconsciously, he pulled out Fallen Mercury from his waist, ready to rip off the black cloth wrapped around it at a moment's notice.

The translucent figure with turquoise hair and leafy coverings floated in midair, scrutinizing Lumian in the room. Its emerald-green eyes shifted between a misty and smiling expression, reminiscent of a deep vortex enticing the human soul to sink into it.

On one hand, Lumian experienced a familiar yet foreign urge that swept through his mind, disrupting most of his thoughts. On the other hand, he couldn't help but feel fear, akin to a flying insect encountering a spider spinning its web.

He slowed down his dance, prepared to stop at any moment.

The translucent female figure displayed an eager expression, but it instinctively sensed that something was amiss and hesitated to approach Lumian.

Sometimes it leaned forward, sometimes it retreated into the curtains, but ultimately, it did nothing.

After Lumian finished his Summoning Dance, he heard a faint sound in his ears. It was so close it seemed like it was right next door, causing the strange creatures lingering in the room to vanish one by one.

The last to leave was the female figure with turquoise hair and leafy coverings. It appeared both reluctant and perplexed.

Lumian heaved a sigh of relief and closed his eyes, quietly listening to the indistinct voices within him.

He couldn't make out a single word but yearned to hear each one clearly.

After a moment, Lumian opened his eyes and gazed at the window obscured by the tattered curtain. He muttered to himself, What was that?

His intuition told him that the translucent female figure was far more powerful than the other summoned strange creatures. It wasn't something Beyonders at his level could handle.

If not for the corruption sealed within his body and the bluish-black pattern on his chest deterring spiritual creatures from subconsciously approaching him even without activation, Lumian suspected something might have happened to him.

This piqued his curiosity.

How do other Dancers survive?

He had only dared to perform the Summoning Dance after confirming the area wasn't too dangerous, yet something nearly happened. How could other Dancers avoid such risks?

Is it because I obtained my boon through theft and lack some mystical knowledge, or is it because other Dancers can only attract strange creatures similar to themselves? Additionally, the Summoning Dance comes from a hidden existence, so there shouldn't be any problems under normal circumstances? Lumian pondered for a moment. The more he thought about it, the more he felt he was the anomaly.

He believed that the corruption in his body was on an extremely high level. Even sealed, it could occasionally attract strange and perilous entities.

Thankfully, the corruption also provides protection… Lumian exhaled, stowed away Fallen Mercury, and lit the iron-black carbide lamp. He sat at the wooden table and flipped through Aurore's notebook.

Reading the mysticism notebook from back to front was excruciating. Lacking the corresponding knowledge, he would occasionally feel illiterate. He had no choice but to take out Aurore's earliest notebook and memorize the corresponding symbols' symbolism and mystical meaning.

However, Lumian couldn't sit down and learn bit by bit from front to back. He believed that if Aurore's witchcraft notebook truly concealed crucial information, it would definitely be in the content from the past year or two when abnormalities gradually appeared in Cordu Village and the shepherds began their "hunt."

After nearly two hours of struggling with the knowledge known as Lightning, Lumian admitted defeat and decided to continue the next night.

He washed up briefly and lay on the bed.

Recalling the strange creature he had just summoned, Lumian placed Fallen Mercury beside the pillow, feeling apprehensive.

Before leaving Cordu, he had inspected the wicked pewter-black dirk and confirmed that the fate it had exchanged from the flaming monster was "pain from immolation."

The darkness gradually deepened, but Rue Anarchie never experienced a moment of peace. Singing, shouting, cursing, fighting, chasing, coughing, crying, and exercising filled the air, composing a nocturnal symphony.

Lumian had grown accustomed to the noise, which even made him feel alive.

Unknowingly, he drifted off to sleep.

At 6 a.m., the distant cathedral chimed, reminiscent of Cordu.

Lumian woke up punctually but was reluctant to open his eyes.

After a few minutes, he sat up and fastened Fallen Mercury to his waist.

His dreams had been chaotic throughout the night, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred.

"Am I overthinking it?" Lumian muttered.

He opened the door and walked into the nearest washroom. Using the morning light streaming through the window, he examined himself in the mirror.

Compared to the same moment the day before, he hadn't changed at all.

The color and length of his hair were external factors and wouldn't reset with his physical condition.

Lumian bent down and brushed his teeth.

As he rinsed his mouth, he caught sight of Charlie entering from the corner of his eye.

"Don't you live on the fifth floor?" Lumian spat out the liquid and turned to ask Charlie.

Charlie had changed into a yellowed white shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. He yawned and said, "Can you believe it? Those guys are already up before six. The washroom on the fifth floor is packed!"

He then grinned.

"I still like this washroom on the second floor the most. Do you know why? It's clean!

"Although that bastard Laurent has very high eyebrows and doesn't know how to help his mother at all, he has his strengths. He loves cleanliness. As long as he's in the apartment, he cleans the room every day and takes care of the washroom too. Haha, could it be that he can't use the toilet if it's dirty?"

So he's the one cleaning… Lumian was surprised.

His impression of the young man named Laurent had been that he was cold, haughty, and impeccably dressed. He clearly thought highly of himself and seemed oblivious to his mother's plight. He didn't strike Lumian as someone who'd clean a bathroom.

Previously, Lumian had assumed that the other tenants on the second floor had grown fed up with the landlord's penny-pinching ways and had taken it upon themselves to clean their shared spaces.

Noticing Charlie's haggard face, as though he'd been up all night, Lumian grinned and asked,

"Did you hit up Rue de la Muraille last night?"

Rue de la Muraille was Trier's infamous red-light district.

"How can I afford to go to Rue de la Muraille? But I'll definitely go there one of these days!" Charlie clenched his teeth and continued, "I got back to the hotel at 10 p.m. last night. Then I went to the underground bar and drank with the guys till midnight. In the wee hours, I even had a… shall we say, quite a vivid dream. Ciel, our names sound the same, but they're spelled differently. Can you imagine how ecstatic I was in that dream? And when I woke up, how crushed and how… uh, uh…"

"Empty?" Lumian supplied the adjective.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Charlie walked to the toilet and unfastened his belt.

His already narrow eyes crinkled with satisfaction.

Lumian pinched his nose and scoffed.

"You had a wet dream?"

Charlie shivered, shook his right hand, and laughed.

"It was the most lifelike dream I've ever had. The woman in it was far more beautiful than any on Rue de la Muraille. She was so tender and passionate. I never wanted to wake up."

"Well, clearly you couldn't hold out for too long. Waking up was a mercy," Lumian jested.

Charlie didn't bother to argue, and instead said earnestly,

"I'm planning to head to Rue du Rossignol on Sundays after I get paid and when I'm off work. There are a few dance halls there with some affordable pussies. A coworker told me that I only need 52 coppet to treat myself.

"But right now, I've lost interest."

Suddenly, Charlie's excitement surged. Lowering his voice, he confided in Lumian,

"You know what? A wealthy guest at the hotel has been treating me really well, asking me to deliver food and help tidy up the room."

"A man?" Lumian inquired with a hint of mischief.

Charlie hurriedly shook his head.

"No, it's a lady. I think she's taken a liking to me. I'm torn. If she makes a proposal, should I compromise my principles? You know these sorts of things are pretty common in Trier. If she's my ticket to my first big payday, I could soon own my own hotel."

"I figured you wouldn't hesitate." Though they'd only known each other for two days, Lumian was convinced that Charlie's moral compass was quite flexible.

Charlie sighed, visibly troubled, and admitted, "She's in her fifties."

Lumian let out a long "oh" and his expression conveyed his thoughts.

Bidding Charlie goodbye, Lumian returned to his room to change into a jacket, pants, and other attire suited for Rue Anarchie. He spent 6 coppet on a scallion pancake and 1 lick on half a liter of Apple Whiskey Sour. Settling into a corner of the street, he leisurely ate his breakfast.

Shadows from the buildings on either side cloaked him as he relished the flavors of onions and flour, observing the hawkers, women shopping for groceries, hustling workers, children scavenging for trash, and a barricade in a nearby alley.

It was 9 a.m. when Lumian finally rose, dusted himself off, and returned to Auberge du Coq Doré. He climbed to the third floor and knocked on Room 5's door.

The information broker, Anthony Reid, resided here.

After a sequence of knocks, a composed male voice with a West Midseashire Coast accent replied, "Please come in."

Lumian turned the handle and pushed the door open. The first thing that hit him was a faintly acrid, minty odor, likely meant to repel insects.

Then, he saw a man in his forties seated by the bed.

The man wore a military-green shirt, matching pants, and laceless leather boots. His hair was cropped to a fine buzz cut.

He didn't possess the tidy, efficient air of a veteran. His light yellow hairline had receded considerably, leaving a vast expanse of forehead. His face had grown plump, his beard meticulously shaven. His skin was slightly oily and his nose pores clogged. He appeared somewhat guileless and unsophisticated.

As Anthony Reid turned to face Lumian, his dark brown eyes mirrored Lumian's figure.

For some reason, Lumian suddenly felt a twinge of unease.