340 Black Cat
Quartier de la Maison d’Opéra, Rue Lombar.
The street was famous for its array of sweets, and colorful candies adorned every corner.
At the end of Rue Lombar stood the Mechanical Café, nestled next to a small confectionery factory.
From the outside, it looked like an ordinary place, and even peering through the glass windows, there was no hint of its mechanical nature. The black Triangular Sacred Emblem on the weighty wooden door was the only reminder of its true identity.
Lumian pushed the dark-brown door, but it resisted as if locked from within.
After a moment’s observation, he pulled the doorbell hanging by the secondary window.
Amidst the tinkling chimes, Lumian caught the soft clink of metal and watched as the door inched open.
A mechanical arm extended from its rear, reaching all the way to the bar counter like an ornamental display.
Surveying the surroundings, Lumian made his way to a corner of the café. Two single-legged tables were placed there, hosting five individuals.
Among them, a middle-aged man with fiery red hair stood out. Fair-skinned from cosmetics, with dark circles accentuating his brownish-red eyes, he was a captivating figure.
Clean-shaven, he sported an open brown velvet coat and a red shirt sans bow tie, exuding an air of refinement and casual elegance.
This was “Count” Poufer, the member of Intis’s former royal Sauron family whom Lumian sought.
Having inherited a substantial fortune from his father, he hadn’t ventured into politics, military service, or trade. Instead, he moved within various artistic circles as a literary critic and frequented “Black Cat” gatherings.
Approaching with a smile, Lumian inquired, “Are you Count Poufer?”
Poufer Sauron looked up casually, his tone relaxed as he asked, “Are you the friend Martin mentioned?”
“Yes, Ciel Dubois.” Lumian responded without any reservation, claiming a seat by pulling up a chair.
Poufer gave him a measured once-over, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
“Not bad at all; you’re quite the beautiful friend.”
“Among literature, oil paintings, sculptures, poetry, and music, what’s your preference?”
“Novels,” Lumian replied without hesitation.
Poufer leaned back, gesturing towards the plump middle-aged man diagonally across from him.
“Anori, the author with the most literary eloquence in recent times.”
The author who delved into the realm of erotica, forgetting that the essence of writing is to explore human nature? Lumian naturally recollected Aurore’s assessment of this novelist.
Initially, Anori’s works had explored love as a means to understand humanity. But over time, the focus shifted, consumed by the former. Aurore believed that if not for restrictions, Anori might have penned something akin to ‘Monks Chasing Dogs’—a risqué novel.
Of course, Lumian cared little for probing human nature; he simply enjoyed the engaging parts.
“Your novels have certainly broadened my horizons,” he said to Anori genuinely.
With black hair and blue eyes, Arnaud puffed on his pipe and remarked, “Luckily, you didn’t mention appreciating my ‘Death of a Herald.’”
Death of a Herald… Isn’t that Adri’s work? Right, Aurore had mentioned the similarity in names, leading to frequent confusion. Enlightenment dawned as Lumian inquired, “You mean the Adri who’s backed by the government, earning a five-figure fortune yearly, yet only manages to produce dogsh*t?”
Anori erupted in laughter.
“That’s worth a glass of absinthe!”
With that, he tapped the silver-gray metal button on the single-legged table before him, thrice.
Count Poufer took pleasure in Lumian’s reception and proceeded to introduce the other members of the Black Cat organization.
Among them were Mullen, a painter with a pale and weary complexion, Ernst Young, a slightly stern-looking literary critic, and Iraeta, a poet who held a cherrywood pipe.
Just as Lumian was wrapping up his greetings, he witnessed the iron-colored surface of Anori’s one-legged table split open unexpectedly, unfolding like a blossoming flower.
Within the “stamen,” a glass of emerald absinthe, radiating a dreamlike sheen, appeared on a tray that ascended through a mechanical lift.
Author Anori picked up the glass of absinthe and tossed a silver coin worth 1 verl d’or onto the tray.
Gradually, the mechanical elevator descended, causing the parted metal surface to seal shut, restoring the one-legged table to its original state.
Anori slid the absinthe toward Lumian, a smile gracing his features.
“Cheers to what you just said!”
It’s really a Mechanical Café… Lumian reacquainted himself with this place.
His gaze drifted to the table’s broad and sturdy leg, suspecting it to be hollow and linked to an underground conduit.
Taking a sip of the absinthe and savoring its familiar bitterness, Lumian directed his attention to the one-legged table.
“No change?”
“Here, a glass of absinthe costs 1 verl d’or,” Anori responded with a grin.
Isn’t that rather steep? Salle de Bal Brise and the basement bar only charge seven licks. Their quality is nearly identical… Lumian critiqued inwardly.
1 verl d’or was equivalent to 20 licks.
At that instant, Mullen, the pale-faced painter who seemed perpetually fatigued but was a handsome man, took a sip of his coffee and shared, “I heard that an elephant has arrived at Trier Zoo. Quite an uncommon sight.”
The pudgy Anori muttered, “What’s so intriguing about an elephant? It strikes me as utterly mundane.”
Count Poufer let out a soft chuckle.
“Shall we then discuss the ongoing clash between the parliament and the two Churches, the high-ranking government officials perpetually stumbling, the detestable censorship of publications, and the covert agents shadowing us like hyenas?”
Anori sighed in resignation.
“Let’s just stick to that elephant.”
Amidst the laughter of the Black Cat members, Count Poufer crossed his right leg and proposed, “Since we have a new friend, how about engaging in a game of mysticism?”
A game involving mysticism? Lumian’s eyebrows twitched.
“What sort of game?” inquired Iraeta, the poet, puffing contemplatively on his pipe.
Count Poufer smiled and said, “A game known as King’s Pie.”
Observing the perplexed expressions around the table, Count Poufer chuckled and continued, “Don’t any of you have a childhood or a family? Haven’t you played this game?
“The rule is to divide the King’s Pie into portions equal to the number of participants plus 1. The larger piece is ritually dedicated to a deity or esteemed ancestor we hold in reverence. Among the remaining portions, one contains a broad bean or coin, hidden. Whoever discovers it becomes the ‘king’ for the day, empowered to issue commands to the others. Naturally, these commands must remain within the bounds of reason.”
The mysticism aspect involves offering up the excess King’s Pie in sacrifice? Lumian cast a glance at Anori, Mullen, and the rest, intrigued by the idea and curious whether any Beyonders were part of the group.
Of course, none of them appeared to be.
In just over ten seconds, Count Poufer’s proposal garnered agreement from everyone except Lumian.
He commenced by pressing the corresponding button on his one-legged table, hitting it the appropriate number of times to signal the kitchen to dispatch a King’s Pie.
Reportedly, this dessert had been a favorite since the era of the Sauron Dynasty.
…
In the underground of église Saint-Robert, within the confines of the Inquisition, a gathering of Purifiers was underway. Valentine, Imre, and their fellow Purifiers congregated in the office of Deacon Angoulême.
Dressed in a light-gold shirt and pale-white pants, Angoulême raised the dossier in his hand and addressed the group, “We’ve verified the body found at 50 Rue Vincent in Quartier de la Princesse Rouge to be that of Guillaume Bénet, the former wanted padre. Ensure that the police headquarters takes down the wanted posters from the market district.”
The market district case wasn’t under the Purifiers’ jurisdiction, but Valentine had heard about it. Finally, there was confirmation.
Sporting a formal blue coat, Valentine glanced at Angoulême and asked, “Deacon, have there been any developments in the investigation into Guillaume Bénet’s killer?”
“At the moment, no suspects,” responded Angoulême, his golden hair, eyebrows, and beard lending him an imposing aura. He continued, “What we can ascertain is that there were clear signs of incineration at the scene, and it’s likely that Guillaume Bénet succumbed to a Demoness’s curse.”
“At least a Sequence 7 Hunter and a Demoness? That’s an uncommon combination,” Imre remarked, clearly taken aback.
To his knowledge, most who followed the Demoness pathway were affiliated with the Demoness family, a formidable secret organization that seldom required collaboration.
“Uncommon doesn’t mean impossible,” retorted Angoulême.
As a Purifier deacon, he had access to more confidential information and experience compared to Imre, Valentine, and the others. He had even personally executed two members of the Demoness family.
Valentine furrowed his brow, ruminating for a moment before suggesting, “Could Lumian Lee be involved? He does have a solid motive.”
“But he lacks the power,” Imre objected. “How could he advance to Pyromaniac so quickly after leaving Cordu? Isn’t he concerned about losing control? Furthermore, based on your description, not even a Pyromaniac would be a match for Guillaume Bénet.”
Valentine clung to his conjecture.
“That’s why he might have sought help from a Demoness.
“Could he have joined the Demoness family to seek revenge and then transition into becoming a Demoness himself?
“If that’s true, this could become a major issue. Lumian Lee carries significant problems with him. And you mentioned the Demoness family’s penchant for sowing chaos.”
Angoulême nodded. “We must keep a close eye on this. I’ll report this matter. Meanwhile, intensify the scrutiny of suspicious individuals in the market district.”
Having made up his mind, he reassured Valentine, “Don’t be overly anxious. Lumian Lee isn’t the only one with a reason to eliminate Guillaume Bénet. There are powerful bounty hunters, official members of the Aurora Order, and the bestowed of other evil gods.”
Valentine acknowledged concisely, signifying his comprehension.
Following their discussion on recent Beyonder cases, Valentine and Imre exited the deacon’s office, passing by Charlie who was acquainting himself with a mechanical typewriter, before heading towards the tunnel leading to église Saint-Robert.
“Why do you think the quasi-Demoness is seeking us? Has she uncovered crucial information?” Imre inquired curiously, conversing with his fellow teammate.
Valentine ruminated briefly before responding, “Could it be related to Guillaume Bénet’s death?”
Imre was caught off guard.
“Are you suggesting she had contact with the Demoness family?”
Before Valentine could reply, Imre shook his head.
“That’s impossible. The Demoness family despises female Assassins. If they encounter one, they’ll surely eliminate them.”
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