517 Prominent Merchant

517 Prominent Merchant

Lumian ignored the stunned silence that followed his question. A smirk played on his lips as he addressed the group,

“So, where can a fellow find some mystical trinkets around here?”

Upon hearing this question, Batna Comté couldn’t help but raise his right hand and finish his remaining Golden Somme.

Where did this punk come from?

How could he ask such a question in public?

Even if nobody reported him, they’d only see him as a fool!

For a moment, Batna regretted accepting Louis Berry’s invitation. This fellow would tarnish his reputation by association.

Noticing the odd expressions around the bar, Lumian gave a nonchalant shrug. He holstered his revolver and announced,

“Looks like you’re all just ordinary folk, then.”

With that, he leaped off the wooden platform, navigating through the startled crowd back to the counter.

The two drunkards he’d thrown out, along with the others who had been frightened by him, measured his strength and weapons, choosing not to retaliate.

Back on his barstool, Lumian ordered a Lanti Proof with a grin at Batna.

“Port Farim is certainly more open than Trier.”

Batna studied Louis Berry with an “are you serious?” expression, forcing a smile.

“We must follow Gehrman Sparrow’s career, not his actions.”

Is this fellow so obsessed with Gehrman Sparrow that he mimics his cold, reckless demeanor?

Gehrman Sparrow, at least, had the strength to back up his madness. What about you?

Furthermore, Gehrman Sparrow exudes a cold and indifferent madness, while you are reckless, foolish, and brainless. How can the two be equal?

Lumian ignored Batna’s jab and turned the conversation to the recent surge in pirate activity in the Fog Sea.

After finishing his Lanti Proof, he bid farewell to Batna and headed out. Walking through the bustling open-air market, he made his way towards the harbor.

Just as Lumian returned to the square plastered with announcements, a sudden jolt sent him whirling around.

A male Islander, sporting a half-top hat and a dusty black jacket, approached hesitantly, a strained smile plastered on his face.

“I saw you at the bar earlier.”

“Cut to the chase,” Lumian urged impatiently.

The Islander, his brownish-black skin stretched over a lean face, leaned in and lowered his voice.

“Looking for mystical items, are we? I know just the place.”

“Really?” Lumian asked in disbelief.

“Can’t promise anything, but it’s worth a shot. Just don’t buy anything if they turn out unsuitable.” The Islander’s gaze flicked to Lumian’s left armpit. “Besides, you’re armed and dangerous. Not exactly an easy target for robbery, right?”

“That’s true.” Lumian contemplated this for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “What’s your name?”

“Carmel.” The Islander gestured towards a narrow street branching off the square. “Follow me. It’s close.”

Lumian trailed nonchalantly behind Carmel, their path crossing two streets before they arrived in a district eerily reminiscent of Rue Anarchie.

Crumbling buildings huddled close, new construction jostling for space amidst the narrow road.

Carmel led Lumian into a dimly lit laundry shop, its interior draped with damp clothes. They navigated the maze of hanging garments, arriving finally deep inside the dark room.

There was a door there.

“Disguise yourself first,” Carmel instructed, retrieving two hooded black robes from a hook nearby. “Those who dabble in such things prefer to keep their identities secret.”

Lumian donned the robe, pulling the hood low over his face. Carmel then rapped on the door in a specific rhythm.

It creaked open, revealing a makeshift living room furnished with an old sofa, threadbare armchairs, and a mismatched assortment of furniture.

Six figures, cloaked in identical robes, sat in various positions, their faces obscured by the shadows.

Lumian politely closed the door behind him as Carmel made a brief introduction.

After the two pulled up a stool and sat down, a man with his hood pulled low leaned forward and whispered,

“I need a Royal Jellyfish’s venom crystal. I can offer 5,000 verl d’or.”

Silence.

The next participant sold a Strange Sea Eagle eyeball he had procured.

Seeing that their discussion was on point, Lumian stood up and surveyed the gathering.

“I need a Sphinx’s brain. Name your price.”

The man seeking the Crown Jellyfish’s venom crystal’s voice was carefully controlled as he replied, “I happen to have one. If you pay me 30,000 verl d’or, it’s yours.”

“How can I be sure of its authenticity?” Lumian asked him directly.

The Strange Sea Eagle eyeball seller interjected in a raspy voice, “I can notarize it for you.”

“Excellent. Let me take a look at the goods first,” Lumian smiled, approaching the seller.

The man replied calmly, “Such a valuable mystical item, you wouldn’t expect me to carry it around, would you?

“I’ll only bring it to you if you pay a 50% deposit first. It’s upstairs. You can follow me and make sure I don’t escape. You can even put the deposit with the Notary for safekeeping.”

“Very reasonable.” Just as Lumian finished speaking, he suddenly lunged at the trader with the speed of a cheetah, a right hook swinging through the air.

Bang!

The man crumpled to the ground, his teeth flying in a spray of blood.

The other participants, including the Notary and Carmel, were momentarily stunned before scrambling for the door.

None of them challenged Lumian’s assault, nor attempted to use their powers. Their sole focus was on escape.

Carmel, closest to the exit, flung open the door and bolted.

In an instant, his vision blurred, and he found himself back in the simple living room, alongside two others who had suffered the same fate.

They all looked bewildered, as if witnessing a folktale come alive.

Bang!

A yellow bullet slammed into the exit door.

The hooded figures huddled down, covering their heads with practiced movements.

Lumian spun around, pulled back the trader’s hood, and pressed the revolver’s muzzle against his forehead.

“Not a bad scam,” Lumian said with a smile.

He had orchestrated an impromptu conspiracy, drawing attention with a gunshot in the bar and publicly expressing his need for a mystical item. This allowed him to identify any greedy pirates or local swindlers who might possess knowledge beyond the reach of ordinary citizens, including black market information.

It was also a way to digest the potion.

The seller was a typical Islander, with brownish-black skin, a long face, gentle features, and dark amber eyes.

“I wasn’t lying to you!” he insisted anxiously and angrily.

“Really?” Lumian cocked the revolver’s hammer.

Before closing the door, Lumian had created a Bottle of Fiction, setting a condition that only Beyonders could enter.

None of the participants had successfully “escaped,” which confirmed the absence of Beyonders.

If you’re not a Beyonder, why mention the main ingredient of the Conspirer potion? Just for fun?

The seller trembled and stammered, “I-I’m sorry. We just wanted to scam some money. We-we can’t survive otherwise!”

Lumian wasn’t interested in their motives. He glanced at the neatly lined-up accomplices and tapped the trader’s forehead with the gun’s muzzle.

“What’s your name?”

“Roddy,” the seller replied, swallowing hard.

Another tap to the forehead.

“Where did you hear about the Sphinx brain, Crown Jellyfish’s venom crystal, and Notary?”

This information was inaccessible to ordinary people.

“I-I can’t say.” A sheen of cold sweat appeared on Roddy’s forehead.

Confidentiality agreement or other restrictions? Lumian studied Roddy for a few seconds and smiled.

“Then tell me who your master is.”

Roddy froze, his eyes widening in fear.

He hadn’t expected the other party to be so certain he had a master, that he was someone else’s servant.

“Three, two…” Lumian began the countdown.

“It’s Sir Morgalla,” Roddy blurted out.

“Then take me there,” Lumian calmly requested.

Roddy’s sweating intensified.

“No, no, I’m Monsieur Fidel’s attendant.

“He’s the vice president of the Port Farim Joint Chamber of Commerce.”

Participating in numerous mysticism gatherings organized by Fidel as an attendant? Although he can’t divulge the corresponding information to others, he can use the information he obtained to swindle adventurers? Lumian stood up thoughtfully, dismantled the Bottle of Fiction, and led Carmel and his swindler accomplices out. He interrogated them one by one and confirmed that Roddy was indeed Fidel Guerra’s attendant.

One of the vice president of the Port Farim Joint Chamber of Commerce’s primary tasks was to assist pirates in handling sensitive and illegal cargo.

…

Port Farim, Quartier des Black Pearls, Governor-General’s Office, 16 Rue Coreas.

Lumian patted Roddy, now donned in his red attendant’s attire with gold trimmings and crisp white pants. A smile played on Lumian’s lips as he spoke.

“Tell Monsieur Fidel that I’m interested in purchasing some mystical ingredients and would appreciate the opportunity to discuss it further.”

“Alright.” Roddy yearned to utter a single plea: “If you could kindly remove the revolver from my back, I would be eternally grateful.”

Leaning against the weathered wall of a nearby house, Lumian watched as the swindler nervously entered Unit 16, the four-story gray-roofed building adorned with numerous statues.

The moment Roddy stepped inside, escaping the revolver’s direct aim, his first instinct was to bury the whole incident and forget it ever happened.

But then he remembered the chilling warning delivered by the man who fired without hesitation: a ten-minute silence from Fidel, and Roddy’s true colors as a swindler would be painted loudly across the street.

Should I lie and claim Monsieur Fidel is unavailable? But he doesn’t seem easily duped. A drastic reaction could be worse… Roddy, caught in a dilemma, clenched his teeth and rapped on the study door.

Fidel Guerra, a man descended from both Intis and Feynapotter blood, possessed curly black hair that had started to show signs of age, dark brown eyes, and skin darkened by the sun. Though once known for his refined demeanor, time had etched its mark on his face, leaving behind a mane of mottled white hair and prominent wrinkles.

Dressed in a crisp white shirt and a brown vest, he quietly sipped his wine as Roddy, trembling with fear, stammered out their confession. He spoke of their ill intentions, of their attempt to swindle the new adventurer.

As soon as Roddy mentioned Lumian leaping onto the wooden platform, firing a shot to attract attention, and boldly inquiring about obtaining a mystical item, the merchant sighed and interrupted his flustered attendant.

“There’s no need to elaborate further. Does he wish to see me now?”

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