Chapter 452 Manuscript
At noon the following day, Quartier 2, Rue Saint-Michel.
Lumian quickly realized that it was only a short distance from Rue Saint-Varro, where the Dreamseekers charity organization was situated, just a block and a square away.
<nulli>As expected of the arts district… Lumian raised his brows, feeling that he was drawing closer to the truth and edging ever closer to the answers he sought.
He glanced away from the Sun Obelisk standing proudly in the square’s center and strolled along Rue Saint-Michel, tracing the path that winded past the ancient and weathered buildings.
He couldn’t help but notice impoverished painters hunched over their sketchpads at the square’s edge and along both sides of the street. Musicians played their diverse tunes with guitars, violins, and flutes. Every so often, white homing pigeons glided gracefully beside a fountain that sent water cascading in sync with the music.
The warm autumn sun cast a poetic charm over the scene.
Having spent a considerable amount of time in the market district, often consumed by thoughts of revenge, engrossed in investigations, or participating in banquets, Lumian had rarely immersed himself in the everyday life of Trier’s core area.
Unfazed by the sunlight and the languid ambiance, donning a brown round hat, a light-blue shirt, and a casual brownish-yellow suit, he made his way into a bar named “Third-Rate Authors.”
Here, most patrons sported well-worn attire, sipped affordable spirits, and engaged in animated discussions on various subjects. Occasionally, when inspiration struck, they’d retrieve well-thumbed notebooks and jot down their thoughts with the fountain pens they carried.
As Lumian approached the bar counter, he couldn’t help but overhear a lively discussion among some of the patrons regarding the latest art exhibition.
“That piece called ‘Cafe’ is incredibly controversial. Some people laud it for its vibrant colors and audacious composition, seeing it as a silent protest delivered in an absurd form. Others think it’s a deliberate attempt at abstract art, a ruse to dupe the public’s intellect.”
“I find it fascinating. The artist’s ideas are vividly depicted through those overlapping colors. Just think about it. Isn’t that how many cafés are? Noisy, bustling, with people from diverse backgrounds clashing and mingling like a chaotic blend…”
“I’m willing to call it a groundbreaking masterpiece of abstract art!”
“Are you talking about the kind of abstract art that’s never been recognized or sold?”
Lumian couldn’t help but think, <nulli>Café… Isn’t this the painting Mullen created using his buttocks? Someone genuinely holds it in high regard? Could it possibly become the most renowned and valuable work of his life? He pursed his lips, inwardly sighing. <nulli>You Trierians…
Upon reaching the bar counter, Lumian spent eight licks on a glass of absinthe and raised his voice.
“Everyone, I have a question. If anyone can provide the answer, this glass is on me!”
As all eyes in the bar turned towards him, Lumian spoke up:
“I’m looking for the playwright, Gabriel.
“I need him to write a script.”
In Rue Saint-Michel, nearly anyone one bumped into on the road could be an author or painter, let alone in a bar known for its literary discussions and artistic creativity.
Gabriel had frequent meetings with fellow writers and may even host private gatherings in his rented apartment. After all, “Lightseeker” had seen successful screenings and was quite popular, which would bring him significant benefits.
“He hasn’t shown up for a few days. He claims he’s locking himself away to finish a story,” a middle-aged man near the bar counter responded to Lumian’s inquiry with a smile. “He’s probably swamped with scripts. Would you consider other playwrights? There are several equally talented young folks around here.”
<nulli>Hasn’t shown up for a few days… Lumian furrowed his brows momentarily before relaxing.
“How will I know if I don’t give it a try? I come with plenty of sincerity.”
“Alright,” the middle-aged man in the tattered formal coat murmured. “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
He led Lumian to 34 Rue Saint-Michel and climbed the stairs up to the fifth floor, near the attic.
The outer walls and stairs had a slightly outdated but still well-maintained appearance, and it was notably cleaner and more spacious compared to Auberge du Coq Doré.
“This is where Gabriel resides,” the bearded middle-aged man informed Lumian, rapping on the brown wooden door of Room 503.
A muffled sound echoed, but there was no response.
“Perhaps he’s out searching for food, or maybe he’s completed his work and gone to see the theater manager who commissioned it,” the middle-aged man suggested with a forced smile. “Would you like to return to the bar for another drink? I’m an experienced writer myself, though I’ve never ventured into script writing. My novels sell quite well in the underground market.”
“What have you written?” Lumian asked, glancing at the firmly closed brown door, showing no signs of anxiety.
The middle-aged man sighed and said, “I wrote ‘Monk Pursuing Dog’ and its sequel, ‘Dog Pursuing Monk,’ but they weren’t published under my name. For one, it would lead to my arrest by spies, and secondly, my boss wouldn’t permit it.”
“A sequel?” Lumian hadn’t visited an underground book market or a banned bookstore for some time. His last visit had been to purchase “Emperor Roselle’s Secret Chronicles.”
As he looked at the somewhat forlorn and slightly greasy middle-aged man, his perspective shifted.
He could be considered one of his initiates into the adult world!
“It came out last month,” the middle-aged man replied, nodding gently. “These two novels have made my boss a fortune, but I didn’t even get a tenth of that, no, not even a hundredth!”
“Boss?” Lumian inquired, recalling that Bard, a key member of April Fool’s, had once authored “Emperor Roselle’s Secret Chronicles.” He saw this as an opportunity to gain insight into the workings of this profession and prepare for future tracking.
The middle-aged man sighed again.
“We don’t have authorship rights, just writing tools for the boss. He pays us a fixed but tiny salary for our manuscripts, specifies the direction and requirements for our writing, and then sells them through his own channels.
“On Rue Saint-Michel, there are many third-rate authors like me who don’t even have pen names. We’re like assembly line workers.”
Lumian, showing respect, asked, “May I know your name?”
The middle-aged man replied, “Rabe.” His eyes were filled with hope as he gazed at Lumian.
Lumian probed further into the world of underground literature, gaining insight, and ultimately said, “If my attempt to reach an agreement with Gabriel falls through, I’ll consider offering you an opportunity.”
Rabe’s joy was palpable as he responded, “As long as the boss doesn’t assign me any new missions, you’ll find me here at Third-Rate Authors every day!”
Watching the underground author, an initiate for many Intis youths, descend the stairs, Lumian took a wire from his pocket and unlocked Gabriel’s door.
Compared to the playwright’s room at Auberge du Coq Doré, this space was considerably more expansive, encompassing a bathroom and a small bedroom. Beyond that, it served as a living area, study, dining room, and kitchen. A coal stove for cooking was neatly arranged in a corner.
Lumian quickly surveyed the room and noticed a jumbled stack of papers that resembled manuscripts on the desk by the window.
He shut the wooden door behind him and proceeded towards the desk.
<nulli>It’s Gabriel’s handwriting. Rabe was telling the truth. This is definitely Gabriel’s residence… Lumian mused as he held the stack of papers and began to peruse them.
Moving into the bedroom, he spotted a pair of black dungarees casually draped over the bed. The sight confirmed his earlier suspicion—he was in the right place.
This was a pair of pants Gabriel had frequently worn in the past.
However, the playwright himself was conspicuously absent.
Recalling Rabe’s statement that Gabriel hadn’t been seen for several days, Lumian’s caution escalated.
He meticulously examined every item in the room, much like a hunter tracking the movements of his prey.
After a few minutes, Lumian picked up a white-glazed porcelain cup with a single handle from the desk. He noticed that about a third of it still held cold water, with dust floating on the surface, too subtle for ordinary eyes to discern clearly.
<nulli>At least a day. Lumian’s heart tightened with concern.
<nulli>What could have happened to Gabriel?
<nulli>Was it possible that his prominence had attracted the attention of government spies seeking a “conversation”? Or perhaps he had unwittingly become the target of money-seeking kidnappers?
Setting the porcelain cup down beside the manuscript, Lumian meticulously combed the room, searching for any clues or signs of interest. His search yielded nothing of note.
Returning to the desk, he picked up the stack of manuscripts, eager to delve into Gabriel’s work before his unexplained absence.
The script told the tale of a struggling author who crossed paths with a woman coerced into joining a criminal organization. Together, they found solace in their shared despair, pain, torment, and the harshness of daily life. They offered each other encouragement and warmth, ultimately leading to the author’s recognition by the newspaper’s editor-in-chief and a steady income. His reputation steadily grew, while the woman, still trapped in her circumstances, chose to vanish.
Before the story could conclude, it ended with a passage about the lover’s disappearance and the author’s introspective musings:
“She’s here;
“My beloved has arrived from the night.
“She’s left;
“My beloved walked towards the distant hostel…”
The mention of the word “hostel” made Lumian’s forehead twitch.
Though it was an ordinary word in a script, it stood out to him due to his daily contemplations and associations, sparking connections in his mind.
His gaze suddenly shifted from the manuscript to the desk.
At some point, the white-glazed porcelain cup with a single handle, which he had moved to the manuscript, had somehow returned to its original place!
Lumian’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles under his clothing tensed.
As a Hunter, he had an unwavering memory for any alterations he made in his surroundings—it was a fundamental part of him!
<nulli>A creature that is challenging to detect with the naked eye and can only be confirmed by certain traces. Lumian silently recollected the information Jenna had relayed from the authorities.
Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of glasses.
They were brown gold-rimmed glasses—Mystery Prying Glasses!
This chapt𝙚r is updated by fr(e)ew𝒆bnov(e)l.com