383 “Forced Storming”
Amidst the sound of the monocle falling and sliding, the guard tilted his head, surprise and confusion crossing his face.
His reaction was rather bizarre. He didn’t react with anger or call for backup. It was as though he considered what had just happened a part of some performance filled with mystery.
Lumian passed by with a smile, heading up the stairs without a second glance.
The guard’s expression flickered, but he eventually gave up trying to intervene.
Still filled with puzzlement and thought, his eyes darted around, and a strange, anticipatory grin played on his lips, as if he expected something thrilling.
As Lumian reached the second floor, the two guards with monocles simply watched him pass without hindrance. They wore similar enigmatic and expectant smiles.
No Low-Sequence Beyonders? Lumian muttered, disappointed.
He had braced himself for a confrontation, something to showcase for the Alone Bar across the street. But, to his surprise, the other fake Amons in the Salle de Bal Unique were just regular folks. None of them seemed inclined to engage with him.
It made sense, though. Amon wasn’t like Mr. Fool or the Great Mother, capable of granting large-scale boons to believers. As for the Low- and Mid-Sequence Beyonders, they had likely been dealt with. In the undetectable angelic struggle, they might have been eliminated.
The remaining individuals probably had no idea that the dance hall had turned unusual, and many of their colleagues had vanished without a trace. They likely believed that Lumian was about to join them or go mad from some sort of prank.
With no imposter Amon to confront, Lumian had no option but to improvise and enact the situation himself.
He pulled his revolver from its holster and nonchalantly fired at the rooms on both sides of the corridor.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Each bullet hit a window with precision, the shattering glass echoing through the hall, accompanied by gunshots.
The second-floor guards were both surprised and perplexed by Lumian’s actions. They suspected that he had been repeatedly fooled by a coworker, leading to a mental breakdown.
Otherwise, why would he be taking on the air and windows?
Instinctively, the guards raised their right hands to adjust their monocles in their eyes. Their expressions became increasingly eager, as if they were anticipating the climax of this thriller.
Go, confront the iceberg beneath the sea and the fear lurking in the darkness!
After firing four shots, Lumian reached the largest office.
He pushed the slightly ajar door open and found a man seated behind a massive wooden desk.
The man had a wide forehead and narrow cheeks. His dark, slightly curly hair framed his face, and his light-blue eyes seemed unfocused.
He also sported a crystal-like monocle over his right eye and wore a loose, comfortable black robe.
“Timmons?” Lumian inquired, entering with a furrowed brow.
The man snapped out of his daze and responded with a sense of disappointment, as if he had lost something precious.
“I’m Timmons.”
“You’re not dead yet?” Lumian asked, both surprised and amused.
As far as he knew, the other members of Salle de Bal Unique were in a state of being Amon and not Amon. However, Timmons, the boss here, must have been deeply parasitized. Such a person should have perished in the angelic-level battle, losing his life.
But that wasn’t the case.
Timmons glanced at Lumian, maintaining the frustration and emptiness of someone who had lost their soul.
“Many people wish me dead, but they don’t seem to have the power to curse me.
“Perhaps I’m already dead. All that’s left is a shell.”
“That’s not important. What matters is that you return my client’s 110,000 verl d’or, along with the interest,” Lumian stated as he retrieved the contract from his satchel with his left hand, courtesy of the bankrupt merchant, Fitz.
He anticipated Timmons’ rejection of his request and an ensuing confrontation.
Timmons shook off his despondency, raised a hand to his forehead, and smiled.
“There’s cash and accessories in the safe. Help yourself. The password is 010103.”
“I thought you’d put up a fight.” Lumian sighed in disappointment.
Timmons gazed at the revolver in Lumian’s hand and remarked, “I’m just a swindler, not a miser. I can swindle others again when I’m out of money. But if I’m dead, there’s nothing left.
“Besides, I’ve already lost the most important thing today. Compared to that, 110,000 verl d’or is nothing.”
What do you mean you can swindle others if you’re out of money? Haven’t you ever considered becoming wealthy through legal means? Lumian pursed his lips and made his way towards the mechanical safe in the office.
Three, two, one… As he approached the safe, he counted down, expecting Timmons to launch a surprise attack from behind.
Yet, the owner of Salle de Bal Unique remained motionless. He didn’t cry out for help or attempt to summon the police.
Lumian crouched in front of the iron-gray mechanical safe. Using the password provided by Timmons, he twisted the knob repeatedly until he heard a satisfying click.
He glanced at the banknotes and gold bars that clearly exceeded 100,000 verl d’or, opened his satchel, and collected them all.
With that task completed, Lumian raised his revolver, shattered the office window, and climbed out.
Timmons’s lips curled into a playful smile, one shared by everyone present.
However, at that moment, Lumian unexpectedly spun around and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
A yellow bullet grazed Timmons’s hair and embedded itself into a cabinet nearby.
The monocle-wearing Timmons’s body tensed, and his smile disappeared. His eyes were filled with bewilderment.
He even caught a whiff of something burning above his head.
Lumian grinned and waved his hand.
“Surprised?”
With that, he leaped off the windowsill and landed in the alley behind Salle de Bal Unique.
Timmons’s expression gradually shifted, now marked by confusion and bewilderment.
Inside Salle de Bal Unique, the dancers with monocles on their right eyes and short suits went about their business, eagerly awaiting the intruder’s descent, imagining him donning a monocle and officially joining their ranks.
However, amid the intermittent gunshots, they failed to witness the spectacle they had anticipated.
…
Near Place du Purgatoire in Rue Ancienne, there was a bell tower belonging to the Eternal Blazing Sun Cathedral. Adjacent to the bell tower stood a newly constructed ten-story building.
Franca, disguised as a typical female mercenary, positioned herself at the rooftop’s edge with a brass telescope, her gaze fixed on the Alone Bar in the distance.
Amidst the distant echoes of gunshots, Leah, the bartender clad in a white shirt, black bow tie, and a dark knee-length dress, emerged at the bar’s entrance, her eyes directed towards Salle de Bal Unique, situated diagonally across from her.
Before long, Franca observed gray rats emerging from beside Leah’s feet. These rats crossed the street and disappeared beside the ancient building.
After another two to three minutes, a man and a woman exited the Alone Bar, pushing their way through the guards and entering Salle de Bal Unique.
Franca scrutinized the pair through her telescope and noticed that their expressions seemed animated and their movements agile when they “interacted” with the guards. However, as they crossed the street and passed by the guards, their expressions grew stiffer, and their movements became somewhat robotic.
Marionettes? Franca speculated.
As for the whereabouts of the Marionettist who created and controlled these marionettes, she couldn’t discern it at all. The only thing she could deduce was that the effective range of this ability spanned dozens of meters, if not more.
Simultaneously, she couldn’t help but complain, When there are people, they appear as ‘real people.’ But when there’s nobody around, the Marionettist can’t be bothered to maintain their facial expressions and character details? Isn’t this too unprofessional?
Or perhaps it’s a tactic to intimidate occasional onlookers and passersby who happen to catch a glimpse?
Franca maintained her vigil until Lumian had returned to his original form, changed his attire, and completed his anti-tracking measures. Even then, she couldn’t spot the Marionettist when he met up with her.
Other than Leah, everyone else appeared to be marionettes!
Franca conveyed her frustration to Lumian, “Isn’t this level of caution and meticulousness excessive? I couldn’t find anything conclusive. All I can confirm is that there’s definitely a Marionettist here, and it’s highly likely that there’s more than one.”
Just hearing her account made Lumian’s head ache, much like when dealing with Amon.
Could it be that they became “neighbors” because they excelled at concealing their true forms and were exceptionally elusive and hard to uncover?
“Is there no way to use Magic Mirror Divination to gather some clues?” Lumian pondered briefly before inquiring.
Franca gently shook her head in response.
“This is the Seer pathway. Unless I can directly possess one of the marionettes, I won’t be able to locate their true bodies.”
Lumian fell silent as he gazed at the now tranquil Salle de Bal Unique.
“Let’s head back. At the next gathering, we’ll gather information from I Know Someone, Hisoka, and Bard. They shouldn’t be as elusive as Loki. We can still pretend to be duped and see if we can draw them out.”
When the time came, Hidden Blade couldn’t step forward; Muggle would have to handle it herself. Franca had already purchased a copy of Loki’s information and was among the potential suspects.
“Agreed,” Franca concurred, realizing that this was their best course of action.
The two of them promptly departed from the high-rise apartment and secured a four-wheeled, four-seater rental carriage.
As the carriage reached the intersection between Quartier de l’Observatoire and Quartier de la Cathédrale Commémorative, Franca turned to Lumian.
“Aren’t you going to perform another anti-tracking procedure?”
“Wouldn’t relying on your anti-divination skills be sufficient?” Lumian responded with a smile. “Besides, after leaving Salle de Bal Unique, I’ve already undertaken several anti-tracking measures.”
Franca stared at him for a couple of seconds before letting out a resigned sigh.
“Fine.”
…
Avenue du Marché, market district.
Lumian, carrying a satchel filled with banknotes and gold, said his goodbyes to Franca and proceeded towards Rue Anarchie. Franca, on the other hand, headed back to Rue des Blouses Blanches.
Rue Anarchie was as lively and crowded as ever. Lumian weaved his way through vendors and pedestrians, drawing closer to Auberge du Coq Doré.
Suddenly, he experienced an unsettling sensation. His body seemed to lose coordination, as if someone had injected glue into his joints.
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