224 Disguise

Franca cast her gaze upon 126 Avenue du Marché and remarked, “Whether it’s ‘Black Scorpion’ Roger, ‘Baldy’ Harman, or ‘Short-legged Candlestick’ Castina, none of them have shown themselves.”

“Extremely cautious,” Lumian objectively commented.

Franca let out a scoff.

“If I were in their shoes, I’d be cautious too. If I manage to make it through tonight, I can turn the tables and emerge victorious. How foolish would it be for me to reveal myself? Even if someone were to abduct Gardner and maim him at the doorstep, I wouldn’t budge.”

This example isn’t convincing… Lumian asked, “What if it’s Jenna who’s bound instead of Gardner?”

“…” Franca fell silent.

Noticing the Provoker potion taking effect, Lumian, nearing the completion of his digestion, chose not to press further. Instead, he inquired, “What else have you observed?”

Neither Lumian nor Franca had devised a specific plan for the assault on “Black Scorpion” Roger and the others. They possessed only a handful of vague ideas and were currently engaged in preliminary investigations and preparations.

Franca pondered for a few seconds before revealing, “A member of the Poison Spur Mob frequents the election commission and this vicinity. It’s as if he’s providing ‘Black Scorpion’ Roger with real-time updates on the polls.”

Pausing briefly, a mischievous smile curled the corners of her mouth.

“We can exploit this!”

Simultaneously, Lumian mirrored her grin.

“Isn’t it like stumbling upon a soft pillow just when you’re sleepy? Indeed, delving into politics is a treacherous affair.”

Franca turned her head, amusement twinkling in her eyes as she glanced at Lumian.

“Your sister must have imparted many hometown sayings to you. How do you plan on operating this thing?”

Lumian fell silent for a moment before speaking again.

“If I were an Actor, the problem would be simple. Nonetheless, I still possess those glasses.”

Franca nodded, satisfied with his response.

“This operation requires both a surprise attack and an assassination. The importance of the assassination must outweigh that of the surprise attack to minimize a Heretic Spellmaster’s advantage on their home turf.”

After some deliberation, the two of them moved away from 126 Avenue du Marché, positioning themselves in a shadowy spot near the district’s parliamentary election commission.

The day’s voting had concluded, and the election commission staff toiled diligently, counting the votes and providing real-time updates. Countless reporters from various newspapers gathered there, eager to acquire firsthand data.

If all went according to plan, Hugues Artois would secure more than half of the registered votes tonight, enabling him to declare his election victory.

As time ticked by, the night grew darker. Suddenly, Franca nudged Lumian and pointed towards a figure exiting the election commission.

The person appeared to be almost thirty, boasting black hair, brown eyes, and a narrow face. He sported a blue-and-white striped shirt, a light brown jacket, and a thick gold necklace.

Lumian offered a subtle nod and departed from his hiding place, adopting an air of urgency as he approached the man.

He pulled his dark cap down low, obscuring his distinct blond-and-black hair.

Upon noticing someone drawing nearer, the Poison Spur Mob member cautiously altered his path.

At that moment, Lumian took a diagonal stride forward, positioning himself in front of the individual. He smiled and greeted, “Long time no see. How have you been faring within the Poison Spur Mob?”

The man was caught off guard. Utilizing the illumination from the gas street lamps, he scrutinized Lumian’s face.

Seizing the opportunity, Lumian lunged forward, gripping the other person’s neck and pulling them into an embrace.

Simultaneously, Lumian pushed the metal canister closer to the target’s nose with his left hand.

He had already unscrewed the lid, but he kept his finger pressed against the opening, controlling the gas release.

The Poison Spur Mob member struggled desperately, but Lumian’s palm covered his mouth and nose, silencing any outcry. His punches and kicks were easily deflected—either his neck was constricted or his back was pinned down by an elbow. His head remained ensconced in the other person’s grasp, nestled against their chest. In his anxious state, it was difficult for him to strike his foe’s vulnerable points, and Lumian endured the onslaught.

After a few seconds, the man’s resistance began to wane. Passersby cast fleeting glances at him before walking away without detecting anything amiss.

Within moments, the man in Lumian’s arms lost consciousness.

Supporting his “intoxicated” companion, Lumian sealed the bottle once more with his finger.

They arrived at a deserted alley barricaded from public access, where Lumian abandoned his target and screwed the metal canister shut.

“You’re very reckless.” Franca emerged from the shadows beside him. “Only in Trier can you get away with this. Anywhere else, someone would have raised a loud alarm.”

“I reserve these actions solely for Trier,” Lumian replied, crouching down to strip the Poison Spur Mob member of his attire and necklace. He bound his hands and feet with a rope he had brought along.

Having completed the task, Lumian administered some truth serum to his captive before reviving him with the Mysticism Smelling Salts.

Three consecutive sneezes followed. The Poison Spur Mob member opened his eyes and exclaimed in horror, “Who are you? What do you want?”

Lumian removed his cap and crouched in front of the target, wearing a smile. He asked, “Can’t you recognize me?”

Under the crimson moonlight, the Poison Spur Mob member glimpsed the golden-black hair and a vaguely familiar face.

His teeth chattered.

“C-Ciel!”

“I have something to ask you. If you refuse to answer or choose to deceive me, you know the consequences,” Lumian said with a smile.

His cold, merciless, and unhinged reputation preceded him within the Poison Spur Mob. The man was so terrified that his heart seemed ready to leap out of his throat.

“I’ll talk, I’ll talk!”

Unfazed, Lumian inquired, “Where were you planning to go just now?”

“To the Boss’s place to report the election’s polling situation. Monsieur Hugues Artois has secured nearly half the votes. He’s just a little shy…” Not only did the man answer Lumian’s question, but he also provided additional information.

Lumian nodded contentedly and proceeded to inquire about the specific details the Poison Spur Mob member had previously relayed to “Black Scorpion” Roger.

This encompassed his demeanor towards the staff, his manner of addressing “Black Scorpion” Roger, his positioning, and his tone.

Having meticulously memorized the details, Lumian employed the sedative once more to render the Poison Spur Mob member unconscious.

Without delay, he changed into the other person’s attire, retrieved his Mystery Prying Glasses, and perched them upon his nose.

This time, underground, he beheld rats, insects, and serpents, but a charred building and a blurred face behind a glass window also materialized.

The face possessed unusually vacant eyes.

Lumian’s mind momentarily spun into disarray. Frowning, he removed the Mystery Prying Glasses and retrieved a collection of cosmetics.

Assisted by the crimson moonlight and the small torch held by Franca, he meticulously applied various substances to his face, utilizing the makeup mirror his companion carried.

Around ten minutes later, his countenance grew gaunter and began to assume the likeness of the Poison Spur Mob member.

His skill in makeup fell short of fully replicating the other person’s appearance, but the inherent effect of the Mystery Prying Glasses would convince anyone who glimpsed his face that he was the individual named Alsai.

Smack!

Lumian snapped the makeup mirror shut, daring not to gaze upon his reflection once more.

As Franca stowed away her belongings, she had Lumian turn his back to her.

She feared that she, too, might mistake her companion for a member of the Poison Spur Mob, thereby hindering their subsequent collaboration.

Franca examined Lumian’s hair color and retrieved the disguise props she had acquired from Rentas.

“Hair and eye color are the most noticeable flaws. First, use this black hair dye, then wear these brown contact lenses.

“Damn it, anything is possible in the realm of mysticism. Who would have thought that in this day and age, Actors could create the illusion of cosmetic contacts? Although the materials are different and they don’t improve vision, they can indeed alter the color of one’s irises. Otherwise, Rentas wouldn’t have been able to pass as Ive or you. It defies scientific explanation, but it’s utterly mystical!”

Lumian paid no mind to Franca’s musings and took the mysticism hair dye, which could be washed away with a special lotion. Under her guidance, he transformed his golden and black hair into a solid black hue.

Once he donned the brown contact lenses, Franca seized the opportunity to discuss the specifics of their forthcoming assault.

The two of them swiftly outlined a rough plan, but they refrained from delving into every detail. Firstly, time was limited, and secondly, they had to anticipate numerous unforeseen circumstances at the scene. It was impossible to account for every possibility, so they could only adapt and make decisions based on the main concept.

Franca produced a coin pouch.

It was a fist-sized bag made of grayish-white cloth, filled with gold, silver, and copper coins.

Franca rummaged in her bag and retrieved an iron-colored ring with a thick band and slender spikes on its surface.

“This is one of my mystical items, the Ring of Punishment,” she explained to Lumian. “It serves a single purpose. It can pierce a target’s Spirit Body within a five-meter range, causing excruciating pain and rendering them temporarily unconscious. For Low- and Mid-Sequence Beyonders, there are very few Beyonder powers capable of bypassing defense and directly attacking a Spirit Body. This is one of them.”

Franca paused momentarily before continuing, “Wearing it for an extended period will make you irritable, bloodthirsty, cruel, and impulsive. If you use it more than three times in an hour, it will cause your personality to undergo mutation. If you remove it, you will suffer indiscriminate Psychic Piercing damage once you enter a five-meter radius. To seal it, you need to place it amidst a pile of valuable metal coins.”

Currently, Franca wore the ring, ensuring neither she nor Lumian fell victim to its effects.

She handed the Ring of Punishment to Lumian.

As soon as Lumian slipped the ring onto his right middle finger, he experienced overwhelming frustration.

Collecting himself, he donned black gloves, left the alley, and jogged towards 126 Avenue du Marché.

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