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Chapter 124: Method Of Self-Protection
Circle of Inevitability

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HunterEverblack

HunterEverblack 15 Jul 2024, 21:57

+ 26 ⋅ 0 -

dude said THE THING!!! THE THING!!!

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MysteryLord

MysteryLord 5 Mar 2024, 10:45

+ 18 ⋅ 0 -

With that, the doll messenger extended a pale-white palm, devoid of any skin texture, and the letter floated up.

That has to be a Seq 4 puppet demigod right?

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ImagicianI

ImagicianI 4 Feb 2024, 15:44

+ 2 ⋅ 1 -

Ele simplesmente queria evitar mencionar ou lembrar disso.
Isso despertou a minha curiosidade

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pepper

pepper 26 Sep 2023, 06:15

+ 35 ⋅ 0 -

he said it!!! the former charlatan's name!!!

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LEDIG

LEDIG 17 Jun 2023, 19:47

+ 20 ⋅ 1 -

If he is so concerned about the curse why go to the tomb for no reason?!!

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  Guru
  
  Guru 22 Jul 2023, 22:42 ➥ LEDIG
  
  + 5 ⋅ 6 -
  
  He just created problem for himself. Yet how is it different from him running to people he doesn’t know anything about threatening them. They can kill him as easily as this ghost.
  
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Frosty3689

Frosty3689 23 May 2023, 14:20

+ 50 ⋅ 0 -

HES SAYING THE MAGIC WORDS

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Supreme_Ancestor

Supreme_Ancestor 11 May 2023, 05:48

+ 37 ⋅ 1 -

Crash!

Margot barely managed to dodge the deadly dirk hurtling towards him, but in doing so, he failed to move his revolver in sync with Lumian's rapid motion. The bullet struck the opposite wall, sending stone fragments flying. With a metallic clink, Fallen Mercury zipped past Margot again and landed not far away on the ground.

Lumian straightened up and swiftly stomped his right foot onto the enemy's instep to stop him from raising his knee and slamming it into his abdomen.

In the blink of an eye, Lumian was nearly plastered to his opponent. He either slashed or slammed with both hands, or braced and blocked with his elbows. His feet delivered low kicks or stomps, and his knees jerked forward or bounced around. Margot was too preoccupied fending off these attacks to aim and fire.

The thug felt as if he were caught in a relentless storm of his opponent's blows. Moreover, Lumian stayed close, employing close-quarters combat techniques to prevent him from retreating and using his gun.

For Margot, such a fighting style was both foreign and dangerous.

Crash!

Margot's elbow smashed into the wall, causing the house to shudder.

Whack!

Margot's right wrist was twisted, and the black revolver slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Lumian unleashed a barrage of hands, elbows, knees, and feet, forcing the enemy to retreat repeatedly.

Towards the end, Margot could only block instinctively, his thoughts unable to keep pace with Lumian's swift movements.

However, he sensed that he had already deciphered the pattern of his opponent's attacks and anticipated the sequences that would follow. He could defend against all onslaughts with his muscle memory alone. In just a moment, he would launch a counterattack!

Instinctively, Margot raised his right foot to block the incoming low kick.

But he met nothing.

Lumian's left foot extended diagonally, defying the limits of human flexibility. He hooked the pewter-black dirk that lay silently beside him.

He had attacked Margot to force him to draw near to Fallen Mercury.

The pewter-black dirk dirk soared up and stabbed Margot's thigh.

Margot found himself pinned down by Lumian while balancing precariously on one foot. He had little recourse but to retract his right foot and twist his body slightly to evade.

Fallen Mercury grazed his thigh and tore through his milky-white pants, leaving a shallow trail of blood.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Lumian went on the offensive once more with the close-quarters combat techniques Aurore had taught him, overwhelming Margot until he had no time to tend to his leg injuries.

Luckily, the wound was superficial and bled only slightly.

Crash!

Margot's back collided with the wall.

Throughout the entire encounter, he hadn't even had a chance to speak. The other party still had his ears plugged, unafraid of any provocation.

Margot's blood boiled, but it only served to fuel his determination. He planned to trade his injuries for an advantage and escape his current predicament.

At that moment, his raised arms met nothing.

He watched in confusion and shock as the strange man with the white bandages on his face voluntarily retreated and created distance. Then, the mysterious man turned and sprinted away. As he ran, he flicked the pewter-black dirk up with his toes and snatched it in his left hand.

Momentarily stunned, Margot was about to give chase when footsteps echoed from the alley.

Hearing the gunshots, two patrolling police officers had rushed over with black semi-automatic revolvers, alerted by nearby residents who had “come downstairs” due to the fire.

“What happened? What's your Poison Spur Mob up to again?” one of the policemen demanded with a frown, recognizing Margot's face. Margot shot a disdainful glance at the two officers in white shirts, black vests, and black uniform coats, and replied, “I was attacked. Officers, you're too late!”

Although he said this, he was secretly relieved the police hadn't arrived later and had scared the mysterious man away. Otherwise, he might have been hunted down.

After all, the strange man was likely a Sequence 8 Provoker. Moreover, his combat techniques were clearly superior to Margot's, and his cunning allowed him to gain the upper hand.

The policeman's face darkened.

“Then follow me back to give a statement. We'll help you find the assailant. Also, is this your gun?”

He pointed at the revolver that had fallen to the ground.

Margot sneered. “Rely on you to find him? Haha, that's the funniest joke I've heard this year! That gun belongs to the assailant. Take it away.”

With that, he briefly examined his wound to ensure he wasn't poisoned.

Then, he sauntered out of the alley ahead of the two police officers.

The officer who had first spoken wore an ugly expression. He tried to draw his gun, but his partner held his hand down.

Returning to Rue du Rossignol, Margot's face hardened.

His first instinct was to hurry home and rely on the traps he had set up to guard against a second wave of attacks.

But a few seconds later, Margot dismissed the idea, feeling it wasn't sufficient.

He decided to go to the house of the Poison Spur Mob's boss, 'Black Scorpion' Roger, and inform him of the attack. He would stay there for the night.

That was the safest place for Margot. Margot bandaged the wound on his right leg and sprinted from Rue du Rossignol to Avenue du Marché, making his way to the Suhit steam locomotive, and finally arriving at Unit 126, a three-story building with a small garden in the back.

Before long, he encountered Roger, the Black Scorpion, in the study.

A middle-aged man with firmly set black hair, Roger's slightly plump face was framed by cold, deep blue eyes.

Dressed in aqublue silk pajamas, Roger regarded Margot with a blank expression. “You were attacked?”

“Yes.” Margot recounted the events that had transpired.

Roger's blue eyes suddenly darkened, as if connected to a bottomless abyss or an eternally burning hell.

After a moment, he nodded.

“There are no signs of you being cursed. But you have to be careful. Your blood is on that knife.”

As Roger spoke, he approached Margot.

“I'll help you eliminate any hidden dangers first.”

Margot breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Boss.”

He followed Roger out of the study and down the stairs into the basement.

Upon flipping the switch and illuminating the gas wall lamp, Roger pointed at the statue in the center and instructed, “Open it and crawl inside.”

The statue depicted a woman with gentle facial features, the folds of her long dress rendered vividly and lifelike.

Margot strode to the statue, pulled open the concealed door at its abdomen, and climbed in.

As the hidden door closed, an eerie silence filled the basement. 'Black Scorpion' Roger gazed at the statue and intoned a word in ancient Hermes.

“New life!”

Ghostly, indistinct black flames erupted from the statue's surface, flowing like water and burning silently. After thirty seconds, Roger said to Margot, “You can come out now.”

This ritual was a method for eliminating the hidden dangers of a curse. By entering the female statue's abdomen and reemerging, it symbolized a “rebirth.” Coupled with the corresponding Beyonder powers, it could sever any connection with the item that had fallen into the enemy's hands.

“Wait for me in the study. I'll search for clues about the assailant,” Roger instructed after ensuring Margot was unharmed.

Margot nodded and hastened out of the basement to the study. He pulled up a chair and settled into it.

As time ticked by, Margot suddenly felt his body becoming unbearably heavy, as if submerged in icy water.

His breathing grew labored.

Margot's pupils dilated, but he saw nothing.

He fought with all his strength, as if restrained by invisible ropes. He could barely move his arms, fingers, and feet.

Thud!

Margot finally collapsed to the floor, but the strange sensation persisted. His face turned an unnatural purple, and his mouth hung open. His thoughts grew increasingly murky. Why… With this question in mind, Margot succumbed to the encroaching darkness.

At the basement door, Roger emerged with a grave expression.

He has potent anti-divination abilities…

This matter isn't simple…

Roger the Black Scorpion contemplated as he returned to the study.

In the next second, his gaze froze. He discovered Margot sprawled on the ground, his face purple and his lower body soaked. He was no longer breathing.

After the Poison Spur Mob leader conducted a ritual to eliminate any lingering dangers of a curse, he mysteriously perished in the safest location of the Poison Spur Mob—right before Roger the Black Scorpion.

Auberge du Coq Doré, Room 207. Lumian, now in fresh attire, nodded with satisfaction.

Fallen Mercury informed him through its vibrations that the fate exchange had been completed.

This meant Margot would instantly be assaulted by the Montsouris ghost. Completing a fate exchange after stabbing someone took time-anywhere between five and thirty minutes, depending on the desired fate, the individual's strength, and their subconscious resistance. If Lumian was the target and he eagerly opened his mind and body, the fate exchange could be achieved swiftly—within seconds or even less than twenty. Gazing at the pewter-black dirk in his hand, Lumian smirked.

“When I have time, I'll teach you Morse code. Otherwise, every time we communicate, I have to constantly narrow down options based on your feedback. It's far too tedious.”

Fallen Mercury's quivering blade stilled, as if stunned.

Lumian, triumphant after a successful hunt, was in high spirits. He teased with a smile, “Do you wonder why you should learn, even as a blade? Ambition is crucial. The same goes for being a blade. Do you want to remain like this forever?”

Then, he inquired, “What fate did you exchange this time?”

Lumian extended his spiritual sense to the pewter-black, patterned dirk.

With Fallen Mercury's assistance, he gradually deciphered the destiny droplets stored within the weapon.

It represented Margot's fate of receiving stacks of cash from his various underlings. “You have a knack for choosing fates.” Lumian had been occupied with fighting and had delegated the fate exchange to Fallen Mercury.

He had merely informed it beforehand that he needed money.

After commending Fallen Mercury, Lumian grew pensive. How will this fate manifest after the exchange?

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  Supreme_Ancestor
  
  Supreme_Ancestor 11 May 2023, 05:48 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
  
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  Lumian couldn't make sense of it, but he didn't dwell on it either. He rolled up his sleeves, baring his right arm, and sliced it with the Fallen Mercury blade.
  
  A brief moment of numbness was followed by a familiar pain, but he didn't flinch. He watched as blood oozed out and stained the silver-black blade crimson.
  
  Almost instantaneously, a mercury illusory river, composed of intricate symbols, materialized before Lumian's eyes. The destiny droplets stored in the evil dirk seeped from its tip and flowed into the shallow wound.
  
  Lumian concentrated, straining to discern the fate he sought to exchange.
  
  He “saw” himself receiving treatment, “saw” himself falling asleep after releasing his emotions, and “saw” himself searching for Osta Trul…
  
  Scenes flashed across Lumian's mind as if he had witnessed them firsthand.
  
  Soon after, he located the fate of venturing outside the catacombs and encountering the Montsouris ghost from several days prior.
  
  He swiftly raised the tip of Fallen Mercury and thrust it towards the complex symbols that appeared to be formed by the mercury river.
  
  That fate proved heavy, and Lumian failed to stir it on his first attempt.
  
  As the illusory river slowly faded, the scene in his mind became increasingly hazy. He hurriedly channeled most of his spirituality into the blade of Fallen Mercury.
  
  At last, with a second stir, the fate of meeting the Montsouris ghost broke free from the illusory, mercury-hued river and shrank into a minuscule droplet, resembling a bead of mercury from a shattered thermometer.
  
  The illusory droplet rapidly merged with the pewter-black dirk.
  
  Only then did Lumian exhale a sigh of relief. He knew he had evaded the Montsouris ghost, and Fallen Mercury could now be deemed a Cursed Blade.
  
  Once he treated the wound, an odd intuition suddenly struck him.
  
  Guided by this intuition, Lumian exited Auberge du Coq Doré again, weaving between raucous drunks and a heated brawl. He returned to Rue du Rossignol and halted outside the alley where he had assaulted Margot.
  
  Furrowing his brow, he cautiously entered and flipped over the barricade.
  
  In the next moment, Lumian's gaze instinctively fell upon the shadow in the corner.
  
  Something lay quietly in the realm of darkness.
  
  Sensing its significance, Lumian hurried over, crouched down, and picked up the object with his gloved left hand.
  
  It was a bulging brown leather wallet.
  
  Margot dropped it? The money his underlings plundered and handed over to him? Lumian roughly grasped how the fate exchange had transpired.
  
  Although he couldn't recall whether Margot had dropped the wallet during their fierce battle or if it had 'fallen' afterwards, it didn't prevent Lumian from claiming the money.
  
  He extracted the thick wad of cash and emptied the gold, silver, and copper coins from the change purse. Then, he tossed the wallet aside and left the alley.
  
  Back in Auberge du Coq Doré Room 207, Lumian lit the carbide lamp and meticulously counted his newfound fortune.
  
  In total, he had acquired 1,265 verl d'or and 15 coppet. Most were banknotes worth 10 verl d'or or less. There was only one 200 verl d'or note, one 100 verl d'or note, and two 50 verl d'or notes. A few Louis d'or were included as well.
  
  Lumian stared at the money for a few seconds before sighing deeply.
  
  Even ten donations from 'benevolent souls' can't compare to taking down a gang leader…
  
  Naturally, not all of the money belonged to Margot. He was merely holding onto it for the Poison Spur Mob.
  
  Lumian grabbed a stack of small bills amounting to 200 verl d'or and left Room 207, climbing the stairs.
  
  In under a minute, he reached the fourth floor and came to a stop in front of Room 8.
  
  He recalled that Margot had visited Auberge du Coq Doré in the evening to collect most of the money from an unlicensed prostitute named Ethans.
  
  At the time, one of Margot's underlings must have been in charge, but the money eventually ended up in Margot's possession. Without knocking, Lumian crouched down and slid the stack of banknotes through the gap beneath the door.
  
  He quickly straightened up, turned towards the stairs, and vanished into the shadowy corridor.
  
  Lumian slept until six o'clock when the cathedral bell chimed.
  
  He had slept soundly the night before, feeling as if the Provoker potion had been somewhat digested.
  
  In the morning, I'll look for Osta Trul and see if Mr. K has replied. I'll also buy some better clothes and cosmetics from Quartier de l'Observatoire… In the afternoon, I'll visit the cheap clothing store at Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman… Lumian wasn't eager to rise. He lay there, quietly contemplating the day's plans. Having escaped the threat of the Montsouris ghost, he placed disguising himself back on his to-do list.
  
  After lingering in bed for a while, he ambled to the washroom to freshen up. Then, he went downstairs and purchased half a liter of apple cider and a loaf of bread with pork sausages from the vendors.
  
  Having sated his hunger, he headed to the nearest cathedral square and found an empty corner to practice the combat techniques Aurore had taught him.
  
  Lumian returned to Auberge du Coq Doré at 9:30 a.m., intending to rest for an hour before seeking out Osta Trul.
  
  Upon entering the motel lobby, he spotted three maids cleaning various filthy areas under Madame Fels's supervision.
  
  The motel owner hires cleaners every Monday… Lumian averted his gaze and walked towards the staircase.
  
  At that moment, footsteps echoed from above.
  
  Within ten seconds, Charlie appeared before Lumian, clad in a linen shirt, dark pants, and strapless leather shoes.
  
  “You didn't go to the hotel?” Lumian asked, puzzled.
  
  Charlie yawned and replied excitedly, “Don't you know? I'm off today. We can take one day off a week and choose whichever day we want.”
  
  Lumian chuckled. “Does this day off result in a reduction in your 'monthly salary' from Madame Alice?”
  
  Charlie grinned sheepishly. “She has her own social engagements.
  
  As they conversed, a foul odor drifted in from the door. The short, disheveled, gray-haired Ruhr and Michel entered the hotel.
  
  “You didn't go to the steam locomotive station?” Charlie greeted them warmly.
  
  Ruhr approached them first, then maintained a respectful distance.
  
  “The market district is a bit chaotic today. We plan to rest for a day.”
  
  “What happened?” Lumian inquired “curiously.”
  
  Ruhr instinctively lowered his voice. “Margot of the Poison Spur Mob is dead. Many gangsters are searching for someone. Other gangs might clash with them at any moment. There are also many police officers present.
  
  “Margot's dead?” Charlie blurted out, astonished.
  
  He had just thought the guy deserved to die yesterday, and now he was dead? Ruhr nodded gravely.
  
  “I've heard several people mention it. Sigh, we can't earn any money today.” His wife, Madame Michel, consoled him, “If we don't go out, we don't have to eat lunch. We can save some money.” Before Lumian could inquire about the situation outside, Charlie, snapping out of his daze, spun around and dashed upstairs.
  
  Lumian's eyes flickered as he trailed behind.
  
  Thud, thud, thud. Charlie rapidly ascended to the fourth floor and sprinted to Room 8. Taking a deep breath, he slammed the wooden door.
  
  “Who is it?” A slightly hoarse female voice emerged from within.
  
  Charlie announced his name loudly.
  
  “Didn't I say I'm off the clock in the morning? back in the afternoon. Remember, 10 verl Co d'or. No discount this time!” the female voice responded impatiently, opening the door. This was Lumian's first encounter with the woman named Ethans. Her flaxen hair tumbled to her shoulders, her similarly-colored eyes wary and her face etched with apprehension. She appeared to be twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with average looks that could only be described as delicate. Her face and clothes were clean, and her red dress exposed a generous expanse of fair skin on her chest. Charlie excitedly informed Ethans, “Did you know? Margot is dead! He's really dead!”
  
  “…” Ethans stared, dumbfounded. After several seconds, her slightly hoarse voice turned sharp. “Is that devil truly dead?”
  
  “It's true.” Charlie nodded without hesitation.
  
  “You can finally escape that devil! You can finally live like a normal person!” Ethans glanced around, dazed, taking in Lumian's expressionless eyes and Charlie's animated countenance.
  
  “He's dead? He's dead?” She murmured, thinking of the money that had mysteriously appeared in her room.
  
  As she started to believe Margot was indeed dead, her vision blurred.
  
  Tears poured down her cheeks. She couldn't help but squat down and bury her face in her arms.
  
  Her sobbing intensified, becoming more uncontrollable.
  
  At that moment, footsteps echoed from the staircase.
  
  Lumian turned his head and saw a young man in a white shirt, coat, and black jacket approaching.
  
  Behind him were Margot's three thugs. The lad's brown hair was slightly curly, and his face bore prominent creases. He strode up to the weeping Ethans, crouched down, and grinned.
  
  “I'm Wilson from the Poison Spur Mob. From today onwards, I'll take care of you on Margot's behalf.”
  
  Charlie's excited expression froze. Ethans's cries halted abruptly. Slowly raising her tear-streaked face, she saw Wilson's smile and the shadow his body cast.
  
  The shadow was so dense that it couldn't be dispelled. Lumian observed quietly, his head imperceptibly raised.
  
  On the way to the first floor, Charlie, who had been silent for a long time, couldn't help but ask, “Is there really no end to the suffering of the poor?”
  
  “I like something Aurore Lee wrote,” Lumian replied, his face expressionless. “Sometimes, we're not the ones at fault, but the world.”
  
  As soon as he finished speaking, three people stomped up from the first floor. They were police officers in black uniforms, black vests, white shirts, and strapless leather boots.
  
  The 1.85-meter-tall officer leading the group glanced at Charlie and Lumian and suddenly stopped in his tracks.
  
  Pressing down on the gun at his waist, he asked in a deep voice, “Charlie Collent?” Charlie was stunned.
  
  “It's me, Officer. What's the matter?”
  
  The officer gestured at his colleagues and took out steel handcuffs.
  
  As his two colleagues encircled Charlie, he said with a serious expression, “You're suspected of murder. We're arresting you.”
  
  “Murder?” Charlie's face displayed shock, fear, and confusion.
  
  Lumian raised his eyebrows in surprise.
  
  As the officer handcuffed Charlie with his colleague's assistance, he informed him, “Madame Alice is dead!”
  
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Junniebug

Junniebug 11 May 2023, 02:20

+ 33 ⋅ 0 -

quote on-quote messenger... how convenient to have a demigod messengee, huh.
HES PRAYING TO THE FOOL. My body is shivering, I am in a cold sweat.

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IzuChukwu

IzuChukwu 10 May 2023, 21:18

+ 35 ⋅ 0 -

So Loen has that United Kingdom - Old England vibe,

Intis is France,

Feysac should have some resemblance to Germany or Russia, ('m guessing).

Feynapotter would have Spanish culture or Mexican traditions.

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Supreme_Ancestor

Supreme_Ancestor 10 May 2023, 16:27

+ 27 ⋅ 0 -

Lumian recognized Margot's actions all too well.

He would have done the same!

Then, he remembered Aurore mentioning that Beyonders from the Hunter pathway were relatively common in the Intis Republic. Lumian suspected that Margot might also be a Beyonder from the Hunter pathway, but he couldn't determine his Sequence.

A mob boss wouldn't have a high Sequence unless necessary… If Margot is truly a Hunter pathway Beyonder, he shouldn't surpass Sequence 7. Furthermore, the likelihood of him being a Pyromaniac is slim. Leah and Valentine, only at Sequence 7, are already considered elite investigators. Could they be inferior to a high-ranking thug who patrols the territory, abducts women, and bullies prostitutes? Lumian pondered silently as he stepped back and averted his gaze.

Although it seemed improbable that Margot had reached or even exceeded Sequence 7, Lumian dared not be careless.

What if his Sequence title was something like 'Scoundrel' which required him to act like one?

What if the Poison Spur Mob was more complex than it appeared, merely an extension of a secret organization or underground cult with ample resources, deliberately avoiding ostentation to evade official scrutiny?

The odds were slim, but lacking information and relevant mystical knowledge, Lumian had to remain vigilant. He couldn't eliminate the possibilities or gauge their likelihood.

In the second-floor corridor, the man suspected to be Margot—clad in a red shirt and black vest with his hands in his pockets- turned to his three subordinates.

Frowning slightly, he seemed puzzled and mildly displeased by their unnecessary contact with the cologne.

He glanced at the ground and sniffed.

The cologne wasn't confined to the stairwell; it brazenly led to Room 207. Moreover, the bottom step bore fresh marks of being struck by a light, small object.

In an instant, the man presumed to be Margot reconstructed the scene in his mind based on the environmental clues: The tenant in Room 207 might have visited the washroom or a neighbor. On their way back, they intended to apply cologne but dropped the bottle on the stairs. Then, they spread the cologne on their body, leaving only faint traces.

This was consistent with the mindset of Auberge du Coq Doré's tenants.

The man thought to be Margot dismissed his suspicions and instructed his three subordinates, “Remember to change your shoes when you return to Salle de Gristmill.”

“Alright, Boss,” the trio replied almost in unison.

It wasn't surprising; they were frequently asked to do something similar.

Salle de Gristmill… From Room 207, Lumian overheard their conversation and grew increasingly certain that the man suspected to be a Hunter pathway Beyonder was Margot. After chatting with Charlie that morning, he strolled around Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman district, conversing with vendors and bar patrons. He learned that Salle de Gristmill at 3 Rue Anarchie was one of the Poison Spur Mob's strongholds.

Only when Margot and his crew reached the bottom did Lumian don his wide-brimmed hat and leisurely exit the room. He trailed the lingering scent of cologne, venturing deeper into the street.

Seven or eight minutes later, he arrived at Salle de Gristmill. The faint odor of cheap cologne confirmed that Margot and his subordinates had returned.

Salle de Gristmill lacked the grand statue and inscriptions of Salle de Bal Brise. It merely occupied a section of the street and featured a golden-hued lobby.

Gas lamps encased by glass covers and black crossed bars on four stone pillars illuminating the entrance hall dispelled the evening's darkness.

At that moment, the dance hall buzzed with activity. Lumian heard singing, raucous laughter, and the strumming of instruments before stepping inside.

The layout resembled Salle de Bal Brise, with a dance floor in the center surrounded by small round tables and chairs. A low wooden platform at the front held a sultry woman.

Clad in a provocative short white top, her bra's row of bows was clearly visible. A black mole adorned her lips, and her brownish-yellow hair was swept up in a bun. Her makeup emphasized her large, deep-set blue eyes, creating a seductive, decadent allure.

Softly crooning, she occasionally kicked her right leg. Her cream-colored, fluffy knee-length skirt enticed patrons to try peeking beneath it.

“The consulting physician has an alluring air, “He'll first prepare by pushing up his sleeves with care, “It takes me back to my initial romance, “But this fine medic, he stands apart with just a glance, “He locates the sweet spot with such finesse and speed, “Discerning, my love, his touch is skilled indeed.”

Amid the suggestive and captivating performance, Lumian approached the bar counter and asked the bartender, “What's there to eat?”

The bartender smiled and inquired, “How about Rouen Meatloaf? Or do you prefer standard fare like sausages, bread, and smoked meat?” Lumian, already aware of the Trieriens' fondness for meatloaf, nodded. “Then, two servings of Rouen Meatloaf.”

“And a glass of apple punch? It can counteract the richness of the meatloaf.” The bartender sensed a generous customer when Lumian didn't inquire about the price and suggested a slightly pricier drink.

Punch was a fruit juice cocktail. Lumian smiled. “Sure.”

With nearly 200 verl d'or remaining, Lumian didn't need to be overly frugal with his food and drink. In any case, scrimping wouldn't be enough to cover the outstanding payment for information broker Anthony Reid.

“3 licks for each Rouen Meatloaf and 12 licks for the apple punch,” the bartender quickly quoted the price.

Lumian nodded and pulled out a verl d'or silver coin, adorned with a small angel relief and a diffused line on the surface, tossing it to the bartender.

After pocketing the two 5 coppet bronze coins in change, he waited patiently.

By then, the female singer on stage had finished her performance, and the band played a slightly intense drumbeat.

Customers flocked to the dance floor, swaying to the rhythm, releasing the day's pressure, fatigue, and pain.

A man sitting nearby grinned at his companion and said, “I love this atmosphere so much. I wonder who invented this kind of gyrating dance. It's far more appealing than the old quadrille! Can you imagine? I'd often have a partner in my arms, only to wait ages for my turn to dance. My enthusiasm would've cooled by then.”

The quadrille, or square dancing, involved four men and women forming a square and dancing to a violinist's performance before circling each other. Another man chuckled and said, “I still prefer the Can-can and Striptease.” The Can-can, popular in Quartier de la Princesse Rouge, featured high kicks and landing splits as signature moves. When women lined up in short skirts and stockings, kicking high, cheers and thrown coins often followed.

Of course, it was a technically demanding dance. A skilled dancer needed to kick their leg as high as their nose or close to their ears. Lumian absorbed the surrounding sounds, occasionally glancing at the stairs where the cheap cologne scent vanished. Soon, two thick meatloaves and a dreamy, transparent alcoholic beverage with a red top and floating ice cubes arrived.

Lumian sipped the apple punch, refreshed by the sweetness, faint tartness, and smoothness of the alcohol. The ice's coldness invigorated him.

He then bit into the Rouen Meatloaf, unable to resist the blend of unfermented dough's sweetness, minced meat's flavor, oil's aroma, and spices' kick.

After devouring a whole meatloaf, he sipped the apple punch to cleanse his palate. Post-dinner, Lumian clutched his drink, listening to the girl's singing and watching the dance floor crowd.

The feverish atmosphere seemed to affect him as he occasionally swayed to the rhythm at the dimly lit bar counter.

Each time, Lumian would steal a glance at the stairs, monitoring Margot and his subordinates' movements. It was midnight when Margot-clad in a red shirt, leather vest, and sporting short, vertical, light-yellow hair-descended the stairs with three thugs and exited Salle de Gristmill.

Aware that the other party might be a Hunter pathway Beyonder, Lumian didn't follow immediately. He was prepared to lose them since the gang's leather shoes, once soaked in cheap cologne, had been changed. Relying on his sense of smell to track them from a distance was no longer an option. Still, he harbored some hope. He'd noticed that most dance hall customers were too engrossed and frenzied, occasionally spilling alcohol on the floor, creating wet spots from the stairs to the exit.

Swaying to the rhythm, Lumian observed from the corner of his eye that Margot consistently avoided the damp ground. This further solidified his belief that Margot was a Hunter pathway Beyonder.

As for Margot's three subordinates, despite their attempts to dodge the wet areas, their limited observation skills and the dim gas wall lamp lighting led to their feet or heels inevitably getting wet.

For those frequenting bars and dance halls, it was unavoidable. Margot had grown numb to it, not considering it an issue or giving it much thought.

Almost a minute after they left, Lumian rose from the bar counter and stepped out of Salle de Gristmill.

With few pedestrians on the streets, only the occasional drunkard's singing and cursing broke the silence. Ruined gas street lamps cast moonlight providing the main illumination.

a feeble light, with the sky's crimson The four gas wall lamps at the dance hall entrance allowed Lumian to spot numerous Some had long since faded, wet footprints. while others were fresh.

Three sets of footprints appeared in close proximity and consistently at the same time. Upon closer inspection, Lumian discovered a faint, difficult-to-notice set of footprints without any wet stains leading the way. Lumian chuckled, whispering to himself, “Constantly hanging out with fools and vermin will only bring you harm.”

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  SquidInk
  
  SquidInk 10 May 2023, 16:29 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
  
  + 3 ⋅ 1 -
  
  do you have privilege ch. of Mech Touch too?
  
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    Supreme_Ancestor
    
    Supreme_Ancestor 10 May 2023, 16:40 ➥ SquidInk
    
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    Nope!
    
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  Supreme_Ancestor
  
  Supreme_Ancestor 10 May 2023, 16:30 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
  
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  Under the crimson moon's glow, a gas street lamp illuminated the area from a distance. Lumian identified the footprints and followed them at a measured pace.
  
  Before long, the wet spots dried up entirely, ceasing to provide clues. However, Lumian had memorized the size, sole patterns, and gait characteristics of the four sets of footprints, ensuring he wouldn't confuse them with others.
  
  Even so, tracking them proved challenging. Unlike the ruins of Cordu Village, thousands of people traversed Rue Anarchie and its surroundings daily, leaving countless overlapping footprints that obscured and destroyed each other, making it difficult to pinpoint a target.
  
  Compounding the challenge, vendors littered the streets with trash, and the terrible environment created other distractions. At times, Lumian felt like he was searching for a drop of water in the ocean.
  
  Fortunately, it was midnight, and few pedestrians were out. Most were alcoholics, whose distinct smell and staggered footprints Lumian could dismiss at a glance.
  
  Additionally, Margot and his crew hadn't been gone long, so many traces remained undamaged. Lumian barely managed to keep up.
  
  Occasionally, due to the environment or Margot's caution, the footprints would abruptly vanish. But Lumian remained undeterred. He composed himself, searching forward, left, and right over considerable distances for new traces. Through trial and error, he eventually found the footprints he sought.
  
  Thus, Lumian tracked them to Rue du Rossignol in the market district, stopping in front of a five-story apartment building far from several cheap dance halls.
  
  Margot and his subordinates' footprints led inside.
  
  Upon careful examination, Lumian confirmed that the three thugs had eventually left and walked in different directions.
  
  In other words, Margot was the only one remaining in an apartment room.
  
  He doesn't need his subordinates' protection, confident in his own strength… Lumian silently mused, growing more certain that his target was a Beyonder.
  
  He surveyed the pitch-black corridor, considering how a Hunter might handle corresponding traces before returning to their actual residence. He suspected that even with a carbide lamp and meticulous searching, locating Margot would be near-impossible, and he might even fall into a prearranged trap.
  
  After some contemplation, Lumian formulated a preliminary plan. He averted his gaze and headed to the adjacent street.
  
  Before long, he encountered a staggering drunk man in his twenties who could barely walk.
  
  As the man reached a malfunctioning gas street lamp and began to vomit, Lumian lowered his hat and approached. In a hushed tone, he said, “I want to buy your shirt for 1.5 verl d'or.” The drunkard's initial reaction was to question whether he was so intoxicated that he was hallucinating.
  
  He wore a gray-blue tweed shirt he'd purchased from a cheap clothing store in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman for only 1 verl d'or. Now, someone wanted to spend 1.5 verl d'or, or 30 licks, on this old garment he'd worn for two years!
  
  Am I crazy, or is this guy crazy? The drunkard strained to look up at his counterpart, but the dim light only revealed a shadowy figure in the darkness.
  
  The next moment, two cold coins appeared in his hand.
  
  Instinctively, the drunkard weighed the coins and felt the patterns etched into the metal.
  
  He belched and asked, “Why do you want to buy it?”
  
  “If you're unwilling, I'll find someone else.” Lumian feigned taking back the silver coins.
  
  Without further questioning, the drunkard grumbled and slowly removed his coat, emptying the pockets.
  
  As Lumian departed with the clothes, the drunkard looked up with difficulty and waved his hand.
  
  “Haha, lunatic. Lunatic who gives money…
  
  Blargh…”
  
  By the time Lumian returned to the apartment block on Rue du Rossignol, he had changed into a dark-blue cap, a gray-blue tweed coat, faded pants, and a pair of worn, dirty leather shoes.
  
  In addition to items he would use later, he had spent a total of 12 verl d'or.
  
  Lumian glanced at the unlit apartment and suddenly found himself bewildered.
  
  Why do I have to target a Beyonder like Margot?
  
  His three subordinates were hardly innocent, and they were clearly weak. They didn't know how to cover their tracks, so dealing with them shouldn't be much harder than killing a chicken…
  
  The fate of being attacked by the Montsouris ghost wouldn't discriminate!
  
  Why was I fixated on hunting Margot?
  
  I wasn't like this before. When necessary, I could be ruthless, and I could keep things simple. I wouldn't burden myself unnecessarily…
  
  As these thoughts raced through his mind, Lumian's lips curled into a faint smile. He realized he had 'instinctively' chosen more dangerous prey because it appeared more challenging, making him feel more at ease and carefree.
  
  Lumian gazed at his left chest concealed beneath his clothes, suspecting this change resulted from the corruption within his body. After a few seconds of silence, he suppressed a soft chuckle. “From the looks of it, I'm a little crazy…” He didn't plan on changing his target; it was as if he could already smell the stench of blood. This was both a blessing and a curse. With his cap pulled low, Lumian carried a pile of items and circled to the rear of the target apartment.
  
  He arranged the fatty meat, flammable sofa stuffing, and other items against the wall, creating a fireproof barrier around them.
  
  Next, Lumian struck a match and tossed it onto the pile. The sparks rapidly spread across the most combustible materials, quickly growing and consuming everything around them. Black smoke billowed.
  
  As the dense smoke enveloped the area, Lumian shouted, “Fire! Fire!”
  
  He then raced back to the front of the apartment and retreated into the shadows of a nearby corner.
  
  His plan was simple: since he didn't know which room Margot occupied or what traps he had set, he'd force Margot to reveal himself! If Margot were a Pyromaniac, he'd certainly sense that the flames and smoke below couldn't cause a real inferno. His reaction would differ greatly, allowing Lumian to determine Margot's Sequence and decide whether to proceed or abort the plan.
  
  and With the rising smoke, flickering flames, Lumian's cries, the apartment's tenants and those from neighboring buildings rushed down the stairs to the street.
  
  As the fire wasn't large and the smoke hadn't penetrated the apartment, no one risked jumping out.
  
  Remaining silent, Lumian focused intently on the apartment entrance while others 'replaced' him to shout and search for the fire's origin.
  
  Seconds later, a figure leaped from a second-floor window, landing with ease. It was Margot-dressed in a red shirt and long milky-white pants! Relying on his Beyonder abilities and living on a lower floor, Margot hadn't taken the stairs like the other tenants. Instead, he jumped out the window.
  
  Upon landing, he glanced back at the apartment, realizing the fire wasn't serious at all. There had been no need for him to jump out, making him appear panicked and foolish.
  
  In that instant, Margot spotted a figure wearing a peaked cap and gray-blue shirt emerge from a corner.
  
  The figure, head lowered, pointed at Margot and laughed. “Look, this guy is such an idiot!” Margot's emotions erupted with a fury.
  
  His eyes tinted red as he lunged at the man mocking him.
  
  He was fast, but the figure was faster. He had already turned and darted into the nearest alley.
  
  All Margot wanted was to teach the guy a lesson and chase him down.
  
  The pair raced into the dark, deserted alley, one tailing the other.
  
  Tap! Tap! Tap! The figure sprinted to a barricade and vaulted over it with a push from his right hand.
  
  Upon landing, he saw the figure stop and turn around.
  
  The moment he landed, he saw the figure stop and turn around.
  
  Under the crimson moonlight, Margot saw the face beneath the dark-blue cap. It was swathed in layers of white bandages, revealing only nostrils, eyes, and ears. The figure's left hand was similarly wrapped, gripping a sinister-looking, pewter-black dirk. Margot's pupils widened, and his heart skipped a beat.
  
  He instantly realized he had fallen prey to some kind of Provocation.
  
  Suppressing his unease, Margot drew the black revolver from his waist.
  
  He aimed at Lumian and activated Provocation.
  
  “With that knife? Idiot, this is the age of the gun!”
  
  Bang!
  
  Margot pulled the trigger, sending a bullet straight for Lumian's head.
  
  Lumian suddenly arched backward, as if forming a bridge.
  
  Then, he snapped horizontally, dodging Margot's second bullet. Next, Lumian straightened like a coiled spring and hurled Fallen Mercury at Margot as if it were a flying dagger. Anticipating that his enemy had a Provocation-like ability and possibly poisoned the weapon, Margot dared not confront it head-on. He hastily twisted his body, allowing the pewter-black dirk to sail past him and embed into a crack in the barricade.
  
  As he evaded the attack, Margot saw Lumian pounce on him like a tiger.
  
  Only then did he notice that Lumian's ears were stuffed with thick wads of paper, rendering him almost immune to Margot's Provocation!
  
  The best understanding of a Hunter always came from another Hunter!
  
  This revelation infuriated Margot once more, as if he had been silently 'Provoked' by his opponent's prowess. Bam! Lumian clenched his right fist and struck Margot's temples with a sharp crack.
  
  Margot blocked it with his left arm. Simultaneously, he raised his right hand and aimed the revolver at Lumian's head. Let's see how you dodge at this close range!
  
  In an instant, Lumian leaned forward as if to headbutt Margot's chest and grabbed his right wrist with his left hand.
  
  Meanwhile, his right leg swung up with incredible flexibility.
  
  Not at the back of his head, but at Fallen lodged in a crack in the barricade Mercury, beside him!
  
  The sinister, pewter-black dirk soared into the air, propelled by Lumian's kick, and flew straight toward Margot.
  
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    Anineer
    
    Anineer 10 May 2023, 17:42 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
    
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    Whatt?? how did you get the vip?
    
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      Supreme_Ancestor
      
      Supreme_Ancestor 10 May 2023, 17:49 ➥ Anineer
      
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      Don't know! Just found it myself about 1-2 hrs ago.
      
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        AnomanderRake
        
        AnomanderRake 11 May 2023, 08:17 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
        
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        But no Chap. 125-129...
        
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        Supreme_Ancestor
        
        Supreme_Ancestor 11 May 2023, 08:49 ➥ AnomanderRake
        
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        Check chapter 118 comment section.
        
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        AnomanderRake
        
        AnomanderRake 11 May 2023, 11:12 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
        
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        Okay.. Thanks
        
        Supreme_Ancestor.... In my country, we will call you an 'Idan'..... You're a man of immense culture.... Idan gangan
        
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        IzuChukwu
        
        IzuChukwu 11 May 2023, 21:11 ➥ AnomanderRake
        
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        Another guy from Nigeria.
        
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        AnomanderRake
        
        AnomanderRake 12 May 2023, 01:08 ➥ IzuChukwu
        
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        Nice to meet you, where do you stay?
        
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        IzuChukwu
        
        IzuChukwu 12 May 2023, 07:46 ➥ AnomanderRake
        
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        Benin city.
        
        What about you..?
        
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      IzuChukwu
      
      IzuChukwu 10 May 2023, 19:32 ➥ Anineer
      
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      What's that...?
      
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        Anineer
        
        Anineer 10 May 2023, 19:39 ➥ IzuChukwu
        
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        The Vip...
        
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        Good_Night
        
        Good_Night 10 May 2023, 20:33 ➥ Anineer
        
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        Is there something like that?
        
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        Anineer
        
        Anineer 10 May 2023, 21:34 ➥ Good_Night
        
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        Look at his name and profile :)
        
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      Nargeon
      
      Nargeon 10 May 2023, 21:35 ➥ Anineer
      
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      you have to be top 10 on the leaderboard in amount of likes
      
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    Good_Night
    
    Good_Night 10 May 2023, 17:51 ➥ Supreme_Ancestor
    
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    Not at the back of his head, but at Fallen Mercury, lodged in a crack in the barricade beside him!
    
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Chapter 124: Method Of Self-Protection | Circle of Inevitability

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Chapter 124: Method Of Self-Protection
Circle of Inevitability