380 Bell Chimes
At the conclusion of the Cordu disaster, Lumian found himself not only grappling with the seal within his body and the fading aura of Inevitability surrounding him, but he had also been thrust into a vivid, lifelike dream. Surprisingly, even the investigators, Ryan and the others, succumbed to an uncontrollable slumber as they entered a specific area, becoming entangled in his dream.
During that time, Lumian, who was still unfamiliar with the intricacies of mysticism, failed to sense anything amiss. It was only later, when he enlisted the help of Mr. Poet to decipher the symbolic meanings woven into the dream, that he realized its origins were not tied to Termiboros’s power or Mr. Fool’s seal. It had a different source, one that conveyed protection and solace.
Ever since that moment, Lumian had tirelessly pondered the origin of this lifelike dream, but he had never unearthed a definitive answer. The possibilities were endless. However, with Franca’s detailed account of the Evernight pathway and his own experiences at the gathering, a sudden revelation struck him.
The Evernight pathway, known for inducing nightmarish visions, could also weave the fabric of realistic dreams!
Could it be that Madame Hela, upon learning of Aurore’s tragic fate in Cordu, had arrived too late to intervene directly? Perhaps she had resorted to employing the power of a Sealed Artifact to draw me into the lifelike dream, an attempt to provide solace for my tormented soul?
No, there’s no need for her to hide this from me and feign ignorance. What’s there to hide?
Moreover, if she were responsible, there would be no lingering traces of slumbering power left behind…
Could it be that the continuous use of the incantation involving Concealment powers during the gatherings somehow marked or corrupted Aurore with the Sealed Artifact’s influence? When her body disintegrated, the Sealed Artifact sensed the disturbance and, albeit unsuccessfully in saving her, led me into the realm of this lifelike dream?
Yes, it makes sense. Leah and the others were compelled to slumber on the blood-colored mountain peak, situated near the sacrificial ground, close to the three-headed, six-armed giant. This aligns with my theory. The source of the dream’s power is intricately tied to Aurore’s fate…
Franca observed Lumian’s prolonged silence, realizing he was deeply engrossed in contemplation. She wisely refrained from interrupting, allowing him to return to the present before gently inquiring, “What thoughts have crossed your mind?”
“Do you recall the Cordu disaster I mentioned? There’s an area around the sacrificial ground, which became the blood-colored mountain peak. Anyone who ventured into it fell into a deep slumber and experienced a realistic dream,” Lumian explained succinctly.
The more Franca absorbed his words, the more astonishment and trepidation filled her.
“Could it be that there’s something wrong with Madame Hela too?”
“I don’t think so.” Lumian shook his head in response and outlined the crucial aspects of his conjecture.
Relief washed over Franca, and she couldn’t hide her emotions.
“This theory does seem to fit the circumstances.”
“Right, did you notice? The initial part of the incantation features a three-line honorific name. This implies that the Sealed Artifact either possesses characteristics of a living entity or was once alive. It’s reasonable for it to instinctively influence those who beseech its power.”
After careful consideration, Lumian recognized the validity of this point.
The two of them continued their conversation, ultimately deciding that Lumian should find a suitable time to pay a visit to the Alone Bar.
…
Returning to the Auberge du Coq Doré, Lumian drew the curtains and settled at the table. Bathed in the soft glow of the carbide lamp, he began composing a letter addressed to Madam Magician.
The letter primarily centered around the Armored Shadow’s performance and its response. Lumian was particularly interested in gathering information about the Ancient Sun God and its connection with the Aurora Order.
However, mindful of the late hour, he decided to wait until he “naturally” woke up in the morning, had his breakfast, and then sent the letter.
At noon, Lumian received a reply from Madam Magician, and he felt a sense of satisfaction for having purposely returned to Room 207 of Auberge du Coq Doré.
“The Armored Shadow’s response and its current condition offer us valuable insights into the situation regarding ____.”
Lumian was taken aback by the first sentence.
His gaze fixated on the blank portion of the sentence, uncertain whether Madam Magician had intentionally injected humor into her letter or if some form of distortion had affected the message.
Drawing from his knowledge of Magician, Lumian’s initial assumption was that she had initially composed the entire sentence but later realized that certain information couldn’t be disclosed at this moment. Instead of redacting it or starting anew, she had employed some mystical means to erase the phrase.
Why can’t I be privy to this information? It’s merely another world, right? Lumian mused as he proceeded to read the subsequent sentence.
“While this is a valuable acquisition, its immediate utility may be limited, though Mr. Hanged Man will undoubtedly be pleased.
“In due time, when he deems it appropriate, he might get you to summon the Armored Shadow once more. He will be responsible for providing compensation in gold for the chance to pose inquiries.
“Let him determine the questions. Your role is to facilitate the communication, and the Two of Cups will handle translation. Oh, and do not forget to request a reward from Mr. Hanged Man.”
Mr. Hanged Man… Lumian repeated the code name, his eyes continuing to scan the contents of the letter.
“The Ancient Sun God’s problem is complicated, and my knowledge on the matter is limited. At this juncture, I can only offer this: He was the ruler of the Third Epoch, the one who brought an end to the tyrannical reign of the brutal ancient gods and ushered in an era of light for humanity.
“The entity revered by the Aurora Order maintains a complicated connection with Him. Understanding this connection carries risks. Consider Him as the inheritor of half of His legacy, while the other portion is shared among select members of the seven deities. This division directly gave rise to what we commonly term the Age of the Gods, also known as the Fourth Epoch.”
If remnants of history, legends, documents, and artifacts were still available from the Fourth Epoch, the prior Third and Second Epochs existed mostly within the scriptures of various Churches, veiled in almost mythical obscurity. Lumian possessed only scant knowledge, recognizing the Third Epoch as the Cataclysm Epoch and the Second Epoch as the Dark Epoch.
In Madam Magician’s words, Lumian sensed the majesty and allure of ancient history unfolding before him.
The brutal ancient gods, the Ancient Sun God who ended humanity’s dark age, the ruler of the Third Epoch whose demise remains shrouded in mystery, and the Age of the Gods that emerged from His corpse…
Why would such an ancient deity give birth to someone like Amon? And who is Amon’s mother? Could there be a connection between Amon and the figure revered by the Aurora Order? The more Lumian contemplated this, the more he discerned problems with the Ancient Sun God’s method of raising offspring.
He harbored a favorable impression of this deity, not only because of His role in ending the dominion of the ancient gods and offering humanity a glimmer of hope, but also due to the suspicion that He might be an earlier transmigrator from the same world as Aurore and Emperor Roselle.
Simultaneously, Lumian began to understand why Mr. K and the Aurora Order held such vehement disdain for heretics. The one they revered was the rightful heir to the legacy of the Ancient Sun God.
A flame erupted, igniting the letter in Lumian’s hand.
He tidied up and fastened the silver Lie earring, making subtle adjustments to his appearance to ensure he bore no resemblance to Lumian Lee.
With that done, he removed Lie and slipped it into a concealed pocket.
His recent insights indicated that his transfigurations from Lie wouldn’t end when he was separated from Lie. It was a flesh-and-blood reconstruction. If he wanted to return to his original state, he had to use Lie to adjust it again.
Lumian grabbed his satchel and left Auberge du Coq Doré.
On his way to Avenue du Marché, he heard the chime of a bell, signaling that it was 1 p.m.
Lumian retrieved the golden pocket watch he had borrowed from Salle de Bal Brise and synchronized it with the distant tolling of the bell.
The pocket watch would lose a minute every few days.
After a journey of more than half an hour, Lumian arrived at Rue Ancienne.
His steps led him toward the Alone Bar, and his gaze naturally drifted across Salle de Bal Unique.
At that moment, the establishment had yet to see many customers. Three guards, each sporting a monocle over their right eyes, lounged in various corners, engaged in sporadic conversations or drifting into daydreams.
A postman in a distinctive blue uniform adorned with floral patterns parked his bicycle by the roadside and approached Salle de Bal Unique’s mailbox, clutching a stack of letters.
Like the guards, he too wore a monocle on his right eye.
An inexplicable shiver coursed through Lumian’s scalp, prompting him to avert his gaze and continue his course into the Alone Bar.
Inside, the dimly lit atmosphere persisted, casting a shadowy ambiance even at noon. At present, Lumian found himself the sole patron.
The bartender stationed behind the bar counter was not the same individual as before. Instead, it was Leah, the Bureau 8 investigator, whom Lumian recognized!
She was attired in a white shirt, a bow tie, and a black knee-length dress. Her hair had been elegantly tied into a simple bun, adorned with tiny silver bells—a departure from her previous appearance, exuding a distinct charm.
“Gin on the rocks,” Lumian stated as he settled onto a barstool at the counter, tapping the surface lightly.
A chuckle escaped him as he continued, “Why do we have a new bartender?”
Leah cast a playful glance in his direction and quipped, “Monsieur, there’s no strict rule that dictates a bar must employ only one bartender. That would surely lead to their exhaustion.”
“Fair enough,” Lumian agreed, paying eight licks for his drink and patiently awaiting the arrival of his iced gin.
After savoring his beverage for nearly ten minutes, he casually inquired, “Is there a typewriter available here? I’ve just remembered a document I need to complete.”
Leah, wiping a glass, responded, “In the room next to the theater in the cellar, there’s a typewriter reserved for scripts. It costs 2 licks and 1 coppet for each sheet of paper.”
“That’s quite pricey…” Lumian muttered as he rose and entered the cellar with his glass of gin.
He steered clear of the marionette theater, harboring some lingering unease from his previous encounter. Instead, he ventured into a nearby room.
There was indeed a brass mechanical typewriter here, and a man engrossed in reading a newspaper beside it.
Lumian, in line with his prior preparations, proceeded to type out a brief document.
Some of the worn letters on the typewriter matched the information provided by Loki with uncanny precision.
Satisfied with his work, Lumian offered payment to the silent man for his use of the typewriter and paper before promptly exiting the somewhat eerie basement room.
As he returned to the bar’s lobby, he was abruptly met with fugue, as he heard the faint chime of a bell.
Lumian swiftly regained his composure and directed his gaze towards Leah, noticing that she displayed no signs of alarm or surprise.
“Did you hear the bell?” Lumian inquired, placing his glass on the bar counter.
Leah furrowed her brow. “The hour has not yet struck. Why would the bell toll?”
Suppressing his bewilderment, Lumian finished his drink and departed the Alone Bar.
While passing Salle de Bal Unique, he observed that only two guards with monocles remained stationed at the entrance. The postman was conspicuously absent.
Without further ado, Lumian continued down the street, putting distance between himself and the establishment.
As he boarded a public carriage headed back to the market district, the clock chimed two o’clock with impeccable precision. Instinctively, Lumian retrieved his pocket watch, opening it to check the time.
To his astonishment, the pocket watch, which he had meticulously calibrated just an hour earlier, had once again slowed down.
A minute slow.
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