Rue Anarchie, Auberge du Coq Doré, Room 207.
Lumian tossed the wrinkled newspaper onto the table and slumped onto the bed.
After a few moments, he collapsed onto the mattress. Exhaustion coursed through his veins, making it nearly impossible to resist the urge to sleep.
He reset his body and mental state each day, but never his mind.
Too tired to bother undressing, he kicked off his leather shoes and closed his eyes.
Lumian slept deeply, dreamless.
The acrid scent of sulfur roused him from his sleep. The sun was still setting outside the window.
Lumian turned his head to gaze at the glass window, tinged with a golden-red hue, and whispered sarcastically, "Could it be that I've slept for a day and a night?"
It was clearly impossible; he always woke up automatically at 6 a.m.
Though the obituary had helped vent the sorrow in his heart, Lumian still felt somewhat despondent.
He knew that grief wouldn't simply vanish, and pain would inevitably resurface. He had to maintain a stable mental state and face his emotions without spiraling into self-destruction.
As for extreme, mad, and self-destructive tendencies, he accepted that these were inevitable, as long as they weren't severe.
I have to undergo psychiatric treatment regularly in the future. Otherwise, I'll completely lose my mind before I complete my revenge and find a way to revive Aurore. Lumian sighed and got out of bed.
He picked up the wrinkled Novel Weekly again and studied the obituary on the front page, seeking to reawaken the familiar pain in his heart.
Then, Lumian noticed an issue.
This paper was from last week.
The paperboy had sold him an outdated newspaper!
Impossible. It's impossible for a paperboy to keep a newspaper copy that can't be sold… Lumian furrowed his brow, finding this odd coincidence inexplicable.
He carefully recalled something that Psychiatrist Susie had said: "Many times, suppressing pain and despair isn't helpful. Humans need to vent and relieve stress…"
Suddenly, Lumian understood.
This was part of his psychiatric treatment!
Madame Susie had first identified my unstable mental state and strong self-destructive tendencies. Then, she used the hope of reviving Aurore as an initial counsel. Finally, while I wallowed in my pain, she arranged for the paperboy to deliver a week-old obituary. She shattered my defenses with cold, hard facts, allowing me to release the pain and despair I had buried deep inside… Lumian mused silently.
Realizing this, he was grateful for encountering a highly skilled and professional psychiatrist. Without her, escaping his mental quagmire would have been nearly impossible.
As Lumian's gaze drifted, he noticed a few bedbugs scurrying into his room.
His keen sense of smell told him the sulfur in the neighboring room had been lit to repel the bedbugs, but the vermin mostly fled elsewhere.
Lumian chuckled at the thought of him and his neighbor inadvertently "attacking" each other by driving the bedbugs into each other's rooms.
He slipped on his leather shoes and strode out of Room 207, heading for Room 206.
On the second floor of Auberge du Coq Doré, nestled in an alley behind Rue Anarchie, a washroom connected rooms 201 to 204. Opposite Room 204 was another washroom, with rooms 205 to 208 on the other side. A sizable balcony graced both sides of the corridor, so the third, fourth, and fifth floors each held ten rooms and two washrooms.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Lumian rapped his knuckles on Room 206's door.
"Who is it?" A slightly flustered voice called from inside.
"I'm from Room 207 next door," Lumian replied, grinning. "I want to get to know my neighbor."
Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a lanky young man before Lumian.
Barely 1.7 meters tall, the man wore a faded linen shirt and black suspenders. Oversized black-framed glasses perched on his nose, and his unkempt, greasy brown hair looked as if it hadn't been washed for days. His dark-brown eyes betrayed his wariness.
"What can I do for you?" the man inquired.
Flashing a smile, Lumian extended his right hand.
"I'll be staying here for a while, so I figured I should get to know my neighbors. What's your name?"
The young man hesitated before reaching out and shaking Lumian's hand.
"Gabriel, and yours?"
"Ciel." Lumian glanced into Room 206, feigning curiosity. "Why are you burning sulfur now? It's already evening—time to head out for food."
Gabriel adjusted his glasses and offered a wry smile.
"I'm a playwright, and I'm planning to write all night."
"An author?" Lumian raised his hand to his chin, abandoning his plan to play a prank on his neighbor to break the ice.
Gabriel clarified, "Playwright, actually. I specialize in writing plays for various theaters."
"Sounds impressive," Lumian praised sincerely. "I admire people who can write stories. My idol is an author."
Gabriel, flattered by the praise and Lumian's genuine expression, scratched his messy brown hair and sighed.
"This line of work isn't as glamorous as it seems. I poured my heart into my last script, which I think rivals the classics, but no theater manager will give it a chance.
"So I take on requests from tabloids, churning out trite stories to pay rent and avoid starvation. Right now, I'm rushing to finish one of those manuscripts. The editors just want steamy scenes with the female characters—that's what their readers crave…"
Perhaps it was because he had triggered a scar in his heart, Gabriel was driven by an urge to share his struggles.
Lumian listened intently before responding with sincerity, "I've read many authors' biographies and interviews. Most of them experienced hardship, living in cheap hotels or cramped attics. I believe you'll find someone who appreciates your work and helps you become a renowned playwright."
Gabriel removed his glasses and rubbed his face.
"You're only the second person to encourage me. Everyone else mocks my dreams, accusing me of being out of touch with reality."
If it weren't for the fact that you share a profession similar to Aurore's, I would've mocked you too. And my mockery would be worse than theirs… Lumian thought, before asking curiously, "Who was the first person to encourage you?"
"Miss Séraphine, from Room 309," Gabriel replied, glancing at the ceiling. "She's a figure model. I haven't seen her in a few days. She might've moved out."
The same figure model Ruhr and his wife mentioned? Lumian nodded and extended an invitation.
"How about a drink at the bar?"
Gabriel was sorely tempted but ultimately declined.
"Another time. I have to submit my manuscript tomorrow."
"Alright." Lumian waved and returned to his room.
Peering out the window at the bustling Rue Anarchie, Lumian resolved to find a restaurant and indulge in Trier's culinary delights.
Just then, a shrill female voice echoed from upstairs:
"You bastard! You pig!
"Your mother spawned you with a devil…"
The cursing halted abruptly, as if silenced by force.
Lumian's heart raced as he flung open the window.
"If you're so fond of women, why not go to your mother?
"…"
This time, Lumian pinpointed the voice to the fourth floor.
Miss Ethans, the one forced into prostitution? He recalled Charlie's description.
That also meant Margot—the leader of the Poison Spur Mob—had arrived with his henchmen to collect their dues.
In the Intis Republic, there were two types of prostitutes: the registered ones in places like Rue de la Muraille and Rue de Breda, and the unregistered, illegal ones. The latter, who neither paid taxes nor could do their business without the authorities stepping in, outnumbered the former by ten or even twenty times.
After some contemplation, Lumian donned a dark suit and positioned himself between Rooms 202 and 203. A staircase led to the next floor.
He retrieved the cheap cologne he'd purchased from Bigorre, intending to pour it on the wooden steps for Margot and his henchmen to tread upon as they passed.
Unsure when the Montsouris ghost's next attack would strike, Lumian was desperate to find his prey and complete the fate exchange.
After a brief moment, he abandoned the idea of directly pouring the cologne, opting instead for a more discreet approach to avoid detection by any Beyonder powers.
Lumian loosened the lid and feigned a clumsy slip of his hand, failing to grip the thick glass bottle securely.
With a clang, the cologne bottle hit the bottom step, and some liquid seeped out, the pungent fragrance filling the air.
Lumian crouched down, feigning frustration, picked up the bottle, and screwed the lid back on.
He smeared the spilled cologne with his palm, rubbing it against his body to not waste it.
Soon, most of the liquid had evaporated, and the night breeze pouring into the balcony swept away the lingering scent.
Only then did Lumian retreat to Room 207. He concealed himself by leaning against the door frame while keeping an eye on the stairwell.
After more than ten minutes, footsteps sounded from above.
By now, the cologne in the corridor had significantly dissipated.
A thin man led four others down the stairs.
With closely cropped yellow hair, single-lidded blue eyes, a prominent nose bridge, thin lips, and faint scars on his face, the man suspected to be Margot wore a red shirt and a dark leather vest. His hands were tucked into his milky-white pants as he descended step by step.
A bulge on his left waist hinted at a hidden weapon, and his feet were clad in strapless leather boots.
Suddenly, the man frowned and deftly leaped over the two steps and a section of the second-floor corridor tainted with cologne.
The three male thugs trailing him failed to detect anything unusual and trampled the remaining traces of the scent.
Lumian's heart pounded at the sight.
Is Margot acutely sensitive to smells, with a strong aversion to being contaminated by peculiar odors?
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