307 Instigation

Upon hearing Lumian’s question, Anthony Reid, his round face slightly pudgy and his skin with a slight sheen, fixed his dark brown eyes on him for a moment before responding, “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

The information broker’s emotions appeared steady, and his expression seemed unaffected. It was almost as if Hugues Artois’s demise hadn’t affected him in the least.

Lumian’s grin widened, and he didn’t press further. Pointing toward the lower level, he suggested, “Let me buy you a drink. You’ve aided me in the past, and we’ve fought side by side. Consider it a parting gesture.”

Anthony Reid scratched his retreating, light-yellow hairline with his free hand, his other holding a suitcase, pondering briefly before conceding, “Okay.”

Descending the narrow, gas-lit staircase, the duo entered the basement bar and settled at the counter.

“What’s your poison?” Lumian inquired in a casual tone, as if he’d just stepped into his own abode.

“Fennel absinthe,” Anthony Reid replied succinctly.

“Absinthe, eh?” Lumian chuckled, producing a verl d’or silver coin and four coppet copper coins. He tossed them to the barkeep, Pavard Neeson, who sported a ponytail. “Two glasses of Somersault.”

Somersault was bar parlance, signifying a double serving of fennel absinthe and a measure of “little mummy.”

The latter took seven licks, while the former required twelve.

Pavard Neeson deftly flipped over standard cups and filled them with a dreamy green liquid for Lumian and Anthony Reid.

As Lumian took a sip, he savored the familiar bitterness and revitalization. He observed Pavard Neeson, whose dark brown beard framed his lips, muttering in a low, ingratiating tone,

“Ciel, got any of them peculiar drugs?”

The bar owner and amateur painter believed that Ciel, a notorious mob leader, surely possessed a couple of routes for obtaining proscribed substances.

Lumian caressed the glass with his thumb and smiled, inquiring, “What kind of drug are you after?”

Recognizing that Anthony Reid was an information broker often entangled in illicit affairs, Pavard Neeson did not hold back, explaining in hushed tones,

“Banned psychotropic drugs. Sigh, when that odd tree affected me, I created the draft I was most proud of. Actually, it wasn’t just my most satisfying piece; it embodied the aesthetics I’d always strived for but never reached. It perfectly channeled my thoughts and convictions. Since then, that sensation’s eluded me completely. Every stroke of mine has turned into dogsh*t! I’m considering experimenting with psychotropic drugs, hoping to recapture that sensation.”

Lumian took another sip of the misty absinthe, his lips curling in a derisive smile,

“If I were you, I’d steer clear of painting altogether. You lack the innate aptitude.”

Without waiting for Pavard Neeson’s retort, he chuckled and stated, “Relying on drugs for passable creations signifies your dearth of talent!”

“But many famous painters have resorted to it…” Pavard Neeson began, only to be cut off by Lumian. He clicked his tongue and interjected, “That’s an indication their creative faculties are waning, their fountain of inspiration drying up.

“Isn’t that cheating? Pitting drug-fueled works against those of other artists, barely eking out a victory. Earning a spot in an exhibition and proudly proclaiming to every visitor: ‘Behold, I’m despicable. I possess an inferiority complex. Drugs are my prowess, and demons are my parents.'”

Seeing Pavard Neeson’s visage turn ashen, Lumian spread his arms slightly, probing, “Does that fill you with pride?

“Should you possess talent, you’d no longer be an amateur painter. Even if critical acclaim eluded you, and the World’s Artists Exhibition snubbed you, private galleries would come seeking. You understand the harsh reality better than I do.”

At this juncture, Lumian’s smile broadened.

“Drugs won’t save you. It’s available to all, like a common commodity. When everyone resorts to it, won’t they be pitted against their innate skill and standards?”

Pavard Neeson’s lips quivered, yet he remained speechless.

With a somber expression, he took a couple of steps back, slumping into his seat, as if his spirit had vacated his body.

Anthony Reid, who had been quietly sipping fennel absinthe, turned his gaze to Lumian. “You’re not a fan of those forbidden psychiatric drugs?”

“Otherwise?” Lumian scoffed.

Anthony Reid shifted his attention to Pavard Neeson, visibly grappling with his inner turmoil, and spoke contemplatively. “You seem to have swayed him.”

“I merely stoked the embers of his guilt,” Lumian replied with calm composure.

Anthony Reid nodded gently. “But what if your persuasion falls short?”

Lumian laughed. “I’m not his godfather.”

If he couldn’t sway him, so be it.

A brief pause fell upon Anthony Reid before he turned his gaze back to Lumian.

“Your method of dissuasion deviates from your usual approach. Is this acting?”

Impressively observant and astute, as expected from a Mid-Sequence Beyonder of the Spectator pathway… If I can kindle the inner fervor within a Spectator’s heart, it should greatly aid my digestion… Lumian mused inwardly. Holding his glass of verdant liquid, he looked ahead and replied, “I stumbled upon some fliers earlier. They made mention of Hugues Artois deserting his troops during the war against the Loen Kingdom a few years back, leading to countless casualties.”

Anthony Reid remained silent, savoring his fennel absinthe in quietude.

Lumian’s gaze flickered toward the vacant bar counter as he continued, “I recall you wrestled with the lingering effects of PTSD from that war a few years ago.”

With a gulp, Anthony Reid took a swig of the green liquor.

Lumian opted to not bring up the parliamentary election poster found in the information broker’s room. He glanced at the vacant shell that was Pavard Neeson and mumbled to himself, “If the sole motivation is animosity towards Hugues Artois, then news of his assassination would be met with jubilation and him drinking until he dropped at the bar.

“But if one wishes to unravel the reason behind Hugues Artois’s actions, understand how he wormed his way into politics and a parliamentary bid despite his past, and uncover the strings being pulled in his favor, one must seek out other breadcrumbs to grant the departed some semblance of peace.

“The official Beyonders should be on this case, but they labor under too many constraints. They lack the untamed boldness of wild Beyonders.”

Seated still, Anthony Reid took another swig of fennel absinthe.

Lumian chuckled.

“It’s indeed a vexing conundrum. The hurdles are countless, and the perils are real. Surrender becomes a tempting option for everyone. In the end, though, Hugues Artois lies deceased. The instigator of that tragedy rests in the grave. The departed souls should find some solace.”

Anthony Reid ceased his imbibing, his middle-aged visage betraying no emotion.

Lumian glanced his way, lowered his tone, and smiled knowingly.

“Folks plagued by severe mental ills can’t ascend far in the Spectator path. And even if they do plateau, external stimuli can trigger catastrophic lapses, transforming them into monstrosities. In this ever-more perilous world, stability is but a distant wish for flawed Beyonders.”

At this juncture, Lumian reined in his expression and fixed his gaze upon Anthony Reid’s profile. He inquired, his voice resonating with gravitas, “Do you fancy departing laden with remorse and reluctance, languishing in the throes of becoming a monster, shying away from your former comrades, or do you dare venture forth in pursuit of the truth, courting danger, and crafting your own heroic saga?”

Without acknowledging Anthony Reid’s response, Lumian gracefully alighted from the barstool, lifted his fennel absinthe, and downed the remainder in a single gulp.

With that, he whispered into Anthony Reid’s ear, “I contributed to Hugues Artois’s demise. We’re still untangling his problem.”

Observing Anthony Reid’s slight tremor, Lumian straightened up and exited the subterranean bar without casting a backward glance.

He strolled back into Room 207, not bothering to shut the door behind him, and lit the carbide lamp.

With a casual swivel, he spun the chair around and settled into it, his posture easy as he fixated on the dim corridor outside.

Lumian waited in abnormal silence, as he held a certainty that the figure he awaited would materialize.

As moments ticked away, the couple’s voices escalated into a quarrel anew, and the rowdy drunkards began to trickle onto the street.

The soft patter of hesitant steps drew near Room 207, each sound echoing the uncertainty.

A sly grin played upon Lumian’s lips, and he reclined in the chair, his gaze steady on the door.

Before too long, Anthony Reid stepped into view, garbed in a military-green shirt and matching pants, capped off by tall leather boots. His hair lay cropped and thin.

Standing within the circle of light cast by the carbide lamp, he regarded Lumian seated at the wooden table, a smirk adorning his lips. His features danced in a contorted display.

In a rich timbre, he intoned, “I know you’re trying to provoke me. I know you’re acting, but… you’re correct…”

Anthony Reid, middle-aged and weathered, raised his right hand and pressed it to his chest, his expression one of fierce resolve.

“Over these past few years, my heart has been seared by anguish and righteous anger.”

A knowing smile graced Lumian’s face as he shut his eyes momentarily, sensing the Pyromaniac potion digesting a little.

He rose from his seat and addressed Anthony Reid, saying, “Truth wields the mightiest power of persuasion.”

Anthony Reid felt a weight lift after speaking, the inner conflict and confusion subsiding.

He ventured into Room 207, the door clicking shut behind him. His eyes swept over the surroundings in a swift assessment.

“Did you truly eliminate Hugues Artois? How deep did your investigation penetrate?”

“Celia Bello, the one who assassinated Hugues Artois, is a friend of mine. It was I who first unearthed the heretic cults supporting Hugues Artois,” Lumian responded in a matter-of-fact tone before extending a sincere apology. “My earlier words held a deceit, and for that, I’m sorry.”

Anthony Reid was taken aback.

“Which statement?”

A mischievous grin curved Lumian’s lips.

“Actually, we haven’t even embarked on the trail to uncover the people and forces behind Hugues Artois.”

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