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Chapter 120 - 120 Lunatic’s Ravings
Chapter 120 - 120 Lunatic’s Ravings
Chapter 120 Lunatic’s Ravings
Anthony Reid regarded Lumian coolly and inquired, “What’s the problem?”
“I heard from Pavard that you’re a reliable information broker.” Lumian quickly disclosed his source to avoid wasting time on mutual probing.
With his plump face, Anthony Reid nodded knowingly and gestured towards a chair at the center of the room.
“What information do you need? Or rather, what information would you like me to uncover?”
Lumian felt a twinge of unease as he faced Anthony Reid, who exuded an air of honesty and dependability. He took a seat and stated succinctly, “I’m searching for two individuals.”
“Names, appearances, and distinguishing features.” Anthony Reid shot a glance at Lumian’s left hip.
Lumian reflected for a moment before answering, “One is Guillaume Bénet, formerly a padre of the Eternal Blazing Sun Church. The other is Pualis de Roquefort. Over a month ago, she arrived in Trier with her husband, Béost, their butler Louis Lund, and her lady’s maid, Cathy.
“I don’t have any pictures of them. All I can tell you is that Guillaume Bénet has short black hair and blue eyes. He possesses a solemn demeanor and strong ambitions. His most notable feature is his aquiline nose. Pualis has long, brown hair and bright brown eyes. Her eyebrows are lighter and thinner, and she exudes an elegant yet alluring aura…”
Anthony Reid listened intently before rising from his chair. He crossed the room to a wooden table near the window, opened a drawer, and retrieved a stack of white paper and a sharpened pencil.
In no time, he sketched two portraits.
“See if these resemble them.” Anthony Reid handed the sketches to Lumian.
Lumian inspected the drawings and was struck by their vivid, lifelike quality. Aside from the absence of color, they were nearly indistinguishable from photographs.
He looked up at Anthony Reid in astonishment, remarking, “Uncanny. How can you reproduce their likeness so accurately based on my brief description?”
He had assumed Anthony Reid would draft several sketches for him to review before finalizing the portraits.
Anthony Reid cracked a rare smile.
“I recreated the images from the official wanted posters.
“The authorities are searching for them as well.”
No wonder… Suddenly, it all made sense to Lumian.
Both Padre Guillaume Bénet and Madame Pualis were devotees of evil gods who had been granted boons. Once Ryan and his companions reported the situation, it was bound to attract the necessary attention!
With this realization, Lumian’s disquiet grew.
I must be wanted too… Did Anthony Reid see my portrait? Does he recognize me? Trying to maintain his composure, Lumian queried the information broker, “I’m not surprised. I want to know the value of their bounties.”
“Guillaume Bénet has a bounty of 20,000 verl d’or. Each piece of information is worth 500 verl d’or. The same goes for Pualis,” Anthony Reid replied nonchalantly.
Lumian smirked. “If you uncover any useful information, you can cash in on the bounty twice.”
He was implying that Anthony could claim one share from the authorities and another from him.
Anthony nodded in agreement.
“I’ll take your assignment. 500 verl d’or, with 100 upfront.
“These are my terms. If you can’t accept them, find another information broker or bounty hunter.”
Lumian knew there was no room for negotiation. He could only nod slightly and concede, “No problem.”
Just as he was about to hand over the money, a gunshot suddenly erupted from outside the window.
Anthony Reid’s entire body shuddered as if confronted with his mortal nemesis. He instinctively ducked beneath the wooden table for cover.
Lumian was taken aback.
Wasn’t this reaction a bit extreme? Wasn’t this typical of life in Rue Anarchie?
Gunshots, brawls, and large-scale skirmishes were commonplace here. Those who lived in this area should have adapted by now, only needing to steer clear of the windows to avoid stray bullets.
Before long, the commotion died down. Anthony Reid took a few seconds to regain his composure before emerging from under the table.
He offered Lumian a sheepish grin and explained, “I apologize. A few years back during the war, I suffered from post-traumatic stress on the battlefield and had no choice but to retire and return to Trier.”
Then why choose to live in Rue Anarchie, where gunfire was a regular occurrence? Lumian didn’t press further. He had no interest in Anthony Reid’s psychological issues. He withdrew a 50-verl d’or note and gently traced his finger over the image of Levanx, the bustling commercial streets, and the silhouettes of passing merchants.
Feeling the remaining texture, Lumian handed the grayish-blue banknote, two Louis d’or, and two five-verl coins engraved with the Sunbird to Anthony Reid.
His wallet felt a third lighter, and he couldn’t shake the sense of money slipping through his fingers.
As he examined the Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman behind the banknotes, Anthony Reid bent his finger and flicked the surface to verify its authenticity under the sunlight. Satisfied, he pocketed the money and inquired, “Do you want to check in with me periodically for updates, or should I have an address? If I come across any information, I can drop it off at your place.”
“I’m in room 207.” Lumian knew he couldn’t conceal his stay at the Auberge du Coq Doré from Anthony Reid, so he provided his room number.
Upon leaving Room 305, Lumian’s expression grew increasingly solemn as he muttered to himself, I need to be extra cautious in the coming days to prevent Anthony Reid from betraying me… Perhaps I should find an opportunity to demonstrate my strength in front of him, convincing him that I won’t let any transgressions go unpunished.
As Lumian mulled over his thoughts, he made his way towards the stairs. Suddenly, he heard someone exclaiming, laughing, and sobbing, “I’m dying, I’m dying!”
Lumian glanced in the direction of the voice and spotted a man squatting by the door of Room 310.
The man wore a filthy linen shirt and yellow pants. His unkempt black hair cascaded down to his shoulders.
At that moment, he clutched his head with both hands and stared at the ground, repeatedly muttering, “I’m dying, I’m dying!”
His voice oscillated between fear and insanity.
The occasionally lucid madman that Charlie mentioned? Lumian sized him up for a few seconds, leaned in, and asked curiously, “Why do you think you’re about to die? Do you have a terminal illness?”
Without raising his head, the man continued to yell, “I’m dying, I’m dying!” Lumian smirked and strode past him into Room 310, its wooden door flung wide open.
The room’s layout mirrored his own in 207. It was relatively tidy, save for the inevitable bugs that couldn’t be evicted.
Lumian’s gaze swept over the kerosene lamp, a multitude of books, fountain pens, suitcases, and other belongings. The madman stood up and declared in a daze, “This is my territory.”
“I know,” Lumian replied with a grin. “But if you’re about to die and you don’t have any children or relatives, why not use your inheritance to help poor neighbors like us?”
He observed that the madman was only in his late twenties. His bushy, black beard had been left unshaven for who knows how long, causing his blue eyes to appear as if they were buried deep within a forest.
The madman stared blankly for a few moments before clutching his hair and screaming in anguish, “They’re all dead. They’re all dead! I saw the Montsouris ghost. They’re all dead. I’m about to die too!”
The Montsouris ghost? Lumian finally heard something distinct from the madman.
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He had deliberately provoked the other man to see if he could elicit a different reaction. The positive feedback made him feel as if he were making progress with digesting the potion.
One of the acting principles of a Provoker is that provocation is only a means and not an end? Lumian studied the madman thoughtfully and inquired, “Why would the Montsouris ghost cause them to die and push you to death’s door?”
The madman lowered his head and mumbled, “Anyone who sees the Montsouris ghost will die. Their family will die too. They’ll die within a year!”
Is this the madman’s delusion, or did something like this actually happen? If so, was it a curse? Lumian prodded, “Where did you encounter the Montsouris ghost?”
“Underground, underground! It’s beneath the market district!” The madman crouched down again, his back pressed against the wall as he hugged his trembling body. The underworld beneath the market district? Couldn’t he just report it to the two Churches and have them send people to eradicate the unclean beings? Lumian mused silently. Seeing that the madman had reverted to his “I’m dying, I’m dying” state, he abandoned his pursuit of the matter, exited Room 310, and descended the stairs.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Lumian planned to visit the Mason café in Quartier du Jardin Botanique at noon to familiarize himself with the area. In the afternoon, he’d head to the underground cemetery to see if Osta had received a “reply” from the gathering’s organizer.
The alleys around Rue Anarchie were cluttered with obstacles made of rocks, wood, branches, and assorted debris. Even on the main road, one could stumble upon them from time to time. However, there was already a path wide enough for two carriages to pass through. These were called street barricades, and they could be found in many districts. Some bore the marks of smoke and fire, while others still had remnants of dried blood. They were a unique feature of Trier, contrasting starkly with the pedestrian streets of the arcade.
Lumian stepped over a low point at the edge of emerged from the dim alley, and a barricade, entered the street.
He then made his way towards the public carriage sign, intending to take such transportation to Quartier du Jardin Botanique. As he walked, Lumian spotted numerous vagrants lying in corners, basking in the sun and picking at lice. All were filthy, gaunt, and devoid of energy. This brought back memories of his own days as a vagrant.
Unlike the Loen Kingdom, which prohibited vagrants from sleeping on streets and in parks, the Intis Republic had no such rules in place.
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However, they were forbidden from entering fee-paying establishments or private venues. They often mocked Loen for its lack of culture.
Lost in thought, Lumian’s eyes narrowed.
He sensed someone was tailing him!