152 “Entrustment”

Charlie’s bones shook as Lumian’s words settled in his ears.

“S-so you’re saying, you don’t want word getting around about you joining the Savoie Mob?”

Charlie had seen the leaders of the Savoie Mob, Poison Spur Mob, and the rest; their names carried weight in the market district of Rue Anarchie. Yet, as notorious as they were, the law never seemed to touch them.

Lumian took a slow pull of his Whiskey Sour, his grin returning.

“That’s fine. Just think twice before you speak, that’s all.”

Even though Lumian had infiltrated the Savoie Mob, he was far from claiming the title of a leader. He hadn’t been privy to the mob’s deepest secrets, didn’t have a crew of thugs at his disposal, and all he had to show for it was the rundown dump they called Auberge du Coq Dor.

So Lumian had his sights set on a fast-track to infamy, eager to climb the mob’s ladder and fulfill Mr. K’s mission.

A mission that involved gaining the trust and favor of Mr. K, and eventually finding a place in the organization behind himall to complete the task given by Madam Magician.

There is something off about the whole thing Lumian thought, his left hand stroking his chin.

Charlie, standing by his side, asked hesitantly, “What exactly should I keep quiet about?”

He had his hunches, but he didn’t want to risk annoying the lawless Lumian by not covering all bases.

Lumian’s smile didn’t falter as he turned to Charlie.

“Avoid discussing anything tied to Susanna Mattise. That includes any mention of threats I made to her, or that time I posed as a lawyer to get into the police station to talk to you.”

He had meant to warn Charlie about this, but hadn’t found the right moment.

“Got it.” Charlie visibly relaxed. “You know, I was thinking about telling the guys at the bar about the time we chased Wilson out of that motel”

Charlie’s number one hobby was regaling the crowd with his exploits.

But Lumian’s eyes turned stormy at his words.

His gut was telling him Charlie was about to walk into some minor trouble, but it wouldn’t be anything life-threatening.

In theory, it has nothing to do with Susanna Mattise. If it did, it wouldn’t be just trouble, it would be a disaster I suppose I can stop worrying about Susanna Mattise for a while, but how long is a while? Lumian mulled over the sense of bad luck.

He’d come to realize that unless someone was extremely unlucky or lucky, or if danger was about to strike, he needed to concentrate to perceive a person’s general luck through his intuition.

It was unlike a Hunter’s danger sense. It wasn’t always activated passively.

Charlie’s voice began to fade as he talked. He turned to Lumian and asked, “Why are you staring at me like that?”

He was half expecting Ciel to jump out with a prank.

Lumian sneered.

“You might want to swing by the nearest Eternal Blazing Sun cathedral and say a prayer. I have a feeling you’re about to hit a rough patch.”

His tone mirrored that of Osta Trul, the conman.

“What kind of rough patch?” Charlie asked, his voice sharp.

Then it hit him. “How would you know?”

“I have a hunch,” Lumian replied, a smirk playing on his lips.

Of course, it’s a joke Charlie let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m hoping your prediction’s off, then.”

“On the contrary, I couldn’t be more certain.” Lumian’s words were rock solid.

Charlie squinted at him, suspicion etched on his face.

Lumian let out a low chuckle.

“And if I’m wrong, I’ll give you a thrashing. That way, even if something bad does happen, that just proves me more right.”

“” Charlie was speechless.

Is that even allowed?

Regardless, this approach could come in handy for some practical jokes with some slight modification

Lumian was about to rise when he noticed a thin, mangy mutt creeping towards Auberge du Coq Dor from the shadowy street, eyeing the trash he’d tossed from the fruit vendor’s cart.

The mutt moved with care, aware that many of the destitute locals would gladly turn him into dinner.

Just then, Lumian lunged forward, pressing the dog’s neck to the ground.

Caught off guard, the mutt writhed helplessly, baring its teeth in a futile attempt to bite, but its head was immobile.

With his free hand, Lumian pulled out a small vial of tulip powder, emptying its contents into his pocket.

Then, he held the vial to the mutt’s frothing mouth, collecting the saliva as the dog squirmed.

Soon, he had five milliliters. He released his grip and stood up.

The mutt, ready to snap at him, whimpered and scampered off, tail tucked between its legs, when Lumian shot it a menacing glance.

Charlie, who had been standing by, was flabbergasted.

A story he’d once heard came rushing back to him.

The protagonist in the tale would often describe the villain’s cruelty with a line penned by best-selling author Aurore Lee: He would kick any dog that crossed his path!

Lumian downed the rest of his Whiskey Sour and made his way into the motel.

As he passed the front desk, the perpetually grumpy Madame Fels, forced a smile.

“Good morning, CielMonsieur Ciel.”

Lumian gave the plump Madame Fels a sideways glance and asked nonchalantly, “No sign of Monsieur Ive today either?”

Monsieur Ive, the owner of Auberge du Coq Dor, was known far and wide in Rue Anarchie for his penny-pinching ways.

As the new ‘guardian’ of Auberge du Coq Dor, Lumian figured he ought to have a word with Monsieur Ive, just to make sure he didn’t run crying to the cops, afraid the Savoie Mob would shake him down for more cash.

Madame Fels pursed her lips.

“As stingy as he is, only paying for a weekly cleaning crew, he’s a stickler for cleanliness and wouldn’t be caught dead in the motel.”

“Who cleans his house?” Lumian asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“He’s a widower. He and his two kids take care of it.” Madame Fels scoffed.

If she were the one with that kind of money and a motel to boot, she would hire someone to handle such chores. She’d just sit back and enjoy life.

Lumian nodded and chuckled.

Madame Fels replied, a hint of fear in her voice, “I visit him thrice a week to deliver the motel’s earnings and various bills. I’ll let him know you want to see him.”

She mistook Lumian’s words as a veiled threat to Monsieur Ive. If he didn’t meet with the new guardian of Auberge du Coq Dor soon, his survival might be at stake.

Lumian didn’t bother to clarify. He climbed the stairs to his room on the second floor. Under his pillow, he found Mr. K’s finger and tucked it back into his pocket.

After dealing with the tulip powder, he planned to pick up some containers for the ingredients he needed to gather next. But then, a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

Lumian swung the door open, curiosity piquedhe didn’t recognize the footsteps.

In the doorway stood a man in his forties, clad in a dark jacket, worn-out brown trousers, and a grubby cotton hat. He offered a smile, asking, “Is this Monsieur Ciel?”

“Who else would it be? Madam?” Lumian retorted, his eyes taking in the man’s appearance, expression, and body language.

His brown hair, though slightly greasy, was neatly combed. His dark-brown eyes held a hint of sycophancy, and his lips were creased with lines of practiced smiles. He had an affable air, but there was an unmistakable slickness about him.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the man echoed Lumian’s words.

Lumian’s eyebrows twitched.

“And who might you be?”

“I’m Fitz from Room 401. Bankrupt businessman,” the man introduced himself with a congenial smile.

Without waiting for Lumian to press further, he spilled his beans.

“I went belly up ’cause of a con that cost me 100,000 verl d’or. I’ve been traveling between Trier and Suhit for over a decade, saving up. Wanted to settle down, start a family, but then this swindler tricked me out of everything, promising a joint venture.

“If you help me recover that money, I’m willing to part with 30%, no, 50%!”

Lumian didn’t invite Fitz into Room 207. Leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, he asked, “Why didn’t you go after that money with Margot or Wilson before?”

It wasn’t as if they required an upfront payment.

Fitz didn’t beat around the bush.

“I did go to Margot. He agreed initially, but then one day, he just said it wasn’t possible to recover the money.”

Even the Poison Spur Mob couldn’t retrieve it? Was the con man bankrupt or backed by someone who made the Poison Spur Mob tread lightly? Lumian, who had been only half-interested till now, leaned in. “Did Margot say why?”

Fitz shook his head. “No, but it’s certainly not because Timmons is broke. His dance hall in Quartier de l’Observatoire is printing money!”

Timmons Lumian suspected the con man had either powerful backing or was shielded by a high-ranking figure, which made the Poison Spur Mob wary of pressing him for repayment.

Or maybe, Timmons was a force unto himself.

“So why do you think I can get your money back?” Lumian asked Fitz, a smirk playing on his lips.

Fitz pondered for a moment before laying it all out.

“You’re more ruthless than Margot. Plus, even if you decide not to pursue after your investigation, I have nothing to lose.

“Without that money, I can’t afford to pay a dime.”

“Honest to a fault.” Lumian nodded, appreciating the candor. “I’ll look into it, but don’t get your hopes up.”

If Timmons was simply bluffing and managed to scare off the Poison Spur Mob, the prospect of pocketing an easy 50,000 verl d’or was tempting to anyone.

Fitz, the bankrupt businessman, was playing a long shot. With a nod of assurance from Lumian, he thanked him and made his exit from the second floor.

In that moment, Lumian realized that his spirituality had bounced back considerably. The recovered amount surpassed his original spirituality reserves.

The Alms Monk has boosted my spirituality significantly. At Sequence 8, I can rival the spirituality of other pathways Lumian mused quietly.

Simultaneously, he recalled an uncanny sensation he experienced while sipping the Whiskey Sour.

If he chose to live in poverty, practiced self-restraint, abstained from alcohol, shunned wastefulness, sought alms, and preached, all while adopting the demeanor of an ascetic monk, he would likely experience an enhancement in his intuitive sense of destiny and the likelihood of success of his five ritual spells.

Yet, Lumian had no intention of following that path. He believed it would morph him into a mirror image of the Bestower, gradually merging his identity with His.

Shaking off his introspective thoughts, Lumian left the room, making a beeline for Salle de Bal Brise. His next move was to solicit the Savoie Mob’s help to gather the remaining ingredients and the right containers required for the Prophecy Spell.

He had to seize every opportunity at his disposal!

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