Lord of Mysteries 2: Circle of Inevitability Chapter 342 - 342 Fright?

Chapter 342 - 342 Fright?

342 Fright?
Switch? Lumian hadn’t anticipated that Termiboros would drop a hint at a moment like this.
Whether this Inevitability angel aimed to use the opportunity to set a trap or had some other intention, or if He simply sought to avert any trouble from befalling His vessel at this particular time and place, it was clear that this seemingly unremarkable game of King’s Pie concealed profound hidden hazards. Once triggered, it would plunge all those present into a perilous abyss.
When Count Poufer brought up the mystical aspect, the act of sacrificing a piece of King’s Pie to a deity or revered ancestor, Lumian suspected the presence of a Beyonder element. It resembled the divination games favored by many enthusiasts of mysticism. To his astonishment, the issue proved even graver than he had initially imagined. It had prompted an angel to believe that he—Lumian, a dual Sequence 7—was incapable of handling it or could be harmed by it.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, Lumian struggled to fathom Termiboros’s motives. All he could manage was cautiously extending his arm and nonchalantly selecting one of the remaining five slices of King’s Pie.
This time, Termiboros didn’t intervene.
After Lumian, Anori, Mullen, Ernst Young, and Iraeta each acquired a slice of King’s Pie, only the one nearest to Lumian remained.
“Seems like it’s mine.” Count Poufer leaned in, grinned, and seized the slice of King’s Pie. He brought it to his mouth and delicately took a bite.
Lumian followed suit. The crust was crisp, the filling sweet, its aroma lingering on his palate. The quality was rather impressive.
After a few bites, Count Poufer chuckled and remarked, “Looks like I’m the king today.”
As he uttered the words, he extracted a broad bean from his mouth.
The instant Lumian laid eyes on the broad bean, a faint trace of blood and rust wafted to his senses.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the Mechanical Café grew heavy, as if everyone dreaded receiving an order they couldn’t bear.
Count Poufer rose from his seat, his back to the window that faced the street, blotting out the sunlight, which cast a faint shadow over his face. His smile seemed somewhat dark.
Count Poufer’s gaze fixed upon the novelist Anori, a mischievous smile dancing on his lips.
“Step outside the café and declare to the passersby, ‘I’m dog sh*t.’”
Anori, who had been on edge, let out a sigh of relief and responded with a grin, “Sure thing.”
The portly man rose from his seat and hastened to the door, grasping the handle nestled in the side wall.
Amidst a grinding noise and faint clatters, the mechanical arm suddenly tightened, its grip “dragging” the weighty wooden door ajar.
Anori ventured outside and onto the street. He directed his voice at the pedestrians, “I’m dogsh*t!
“I’m a piece of dogsh*t raised by a sow!
“My whole family is dogsh*t raised by sows!”
The passersby stared in astonishment before erupting into laughter.
After cursing himself, Anori returned to Lumian and the others in high spirits.
“You’ve got an impressive mental fortitude.” Lumian compelled himself to rephrase “you’re really thick-skinned” in a more polished manner.
Novelist Anori chuckled and said, “Whenever I’m stuck in my writing, I’ll curse myself out on the balcony. It’s the simplest method.”
“You writers do have your peculiarities.” Lumian was reminded of his sister, who fancied herself afflicted by an advanced stage of procrastination syndrome.
Anori took a sip of absinthe and resettled himself. His attention turned to Count Poufer, who, with his back to the light, cast his gaze upon Mullen, the pale and handsome painter.
“Slap Iraeta.”
Mullen relaxed in his seat, opting not to rise. He leaned forward and delivered a slap to Poet Iraeta.
Iraeta, his hair thinning and his facial muscles slightly sagging, remained unperturbed. He merely drew another puff from his pipe.
Noticing Lumian’s scrutiny, he offered a casual smile.
“As a poet, I must learn to relish the malice around me.”
Finding joy in malice… What a poetic youth. Well, more accurately, a poetic middle-aged man… Lumian surveyed the participants of the game, realizing that aside from Count Poufer, who had consumed the broad bean, nothing else appeared amiss.
Count Poufer shifted his posture slightly, his features still shaded by the backlight.
He said to Ernst Young, “Express your loyalty to me.”
When the Black Cats convened, they often engaged in a variety of audacious acts. In a more contemporary characterization, they were avant-gardes of performance art. Hence, Ernst Young felt no qualms about kneeling on one knee and professing loyalty. He even considered it insufficient, sensing that it lacked excitement or humiliation.
Count Poufer then turned to the poet, Iraeta, and dictated, “Give all your money to the beggar across the street.”
Iraeta was taken aback. His heart ached as he responded, “Alright.
“As you know, I’m a pauper. Over the past five years, I’ve scarcely earned 3,000 verl d’or from my poetry. Each day, I ponder which friend might organize an event and offer me a free drink.”
Quite the honest poet… Lumian pondered whether he should sponsor this individual and witness what kind of verses he could produce. After all, the “sponsorship fee” was supplied by Gardner Martin. Not employing it would result in it going unused. Conversely, by sponsoring certain artists, he could potentially pocket a portion for himself.
Before Count Poufer could reply, Iraeta suddenly burst into laughter. He fumbled in his pocket and exclaimed with excitement, “That’s why I only brought 5 verl d’or!”
“5 verl d’or? At the Vichy Café, that’d barely cover half a bottle of mineral water and two boiled eggs,” Novelist Anori murmured as he watched Poet Iraeta hastily depart. He tossed the 5 verl d’or to the beggar opposite.
Vichy Café resided in an alley off Avenue du Boulevard. It drew parliament members, high-ranking government officials, bankers, industrialists, financiers, famed courtesans, and esteemed authors, painters, poets, and sculptors from the upper echelons of society.
By this juncture, every participant had taken their turn, leaving Lumian as the last.
Count Poufer fixed his gaze on Lumian, his look profound as he spoke, “This is your inaugural time attending our Black Cat gathering. I’ll assign you a simple task. Take your slice of King’s Pie and proceed to the last room in the café’s basement. Exchange the pie for a sheet of white paper.”
This bears a hint of mystique… If anything goes awry, I’ll just burn down that basement… Lumian mumbled to himself as he clutched the partially-eaten King’s Pie. As per Novelist Anori’s guidance, he located a staircase leading to the basement close to the kitchen.
Before venturing forth, he ignited the gas wall lamps in the vicinity. Under their faint yellow radiance, he navigated a corridor cluttered with various items until he reached the last room.
The vermilion door stood tightly sealed. Lumian listened attentively but detected no movements from within.
There were no suspicious signs around the door either.
Lumian extended his right palm, gripped the handle, gave it a gentle twist, and gradually pushed inward.
As the gas lamps in the basement’s corridor illuminated the space, objects came into view.
These objects were heads, clustered within the dusky shadows, their gazes devoid of emotion, fixed on the “intruder” at the entrance.
Lumian’s pupils dilated as he recognized a few familiar heads.
They belonged to Novelist Anori, Painter Mullen, Critic Ernst Young, and Poet Iraeta!
Just before conjuring a fireball, Lumian, experienced and resilient, forced himself to steady his nerves and discern the situation.
The heads lacked the pallor of the deceased, and the room was bereft of the distinct scent of preservatives.
Lumian reined in his initial reaction and scrutinized the scene. He realized that these were wax heads that had been taken down.
Resembling melons, they were stashed within compartments on a wooden frame.
Is this mission intended to startle me? Were it not for Termiboros’s forewarning, how could such a prank perturb me? What’s so mystical about this? Lumian ruminated for a moment before placing his King’s Pie on a wooden shelf and extracting a sheet of white paper from one of the wax heads.
Upon returning to the Mechanical Café with the white paper in hand, he was met with smiles from Anori, Iraeta, and the others, as though gauging any lingering trepidation.
Count Poufer nodded in satisfaction.
“You executed the mission admirably.”
What if I hadn’t executed it admirably? What would have transpired? Lumian simulated residual unease and inquired,
“Those wax heads seemed so lifelike that they nearly stopped my heart!”
“Haha,” Anori chortled. “This serves as Count’s welcome gesture to every newcomer. He’s rather fond of collecting wax figurine heads. Each individual he acknowledges receives an invitation from a wax sculptor to immortalize their heads as art and place them in the basement of the Mechanical Café.”
It’s almost as if your heads have been given to Count Poufer… Lumian eyed Anori and the others’ necks, yet found no trace of sutures.
After delving into various rumors circulating within the novelists’ circle and offering 2,000 verl d’or to sponsor the Black Cat, Lumian took his leave.
As he departed, his gaze inadvertently swept over the two-legged tables.
Abruptly, Lumian’s pupils constricted.
He observed that Count Poufer, Anori, and the others still had unfinished King’s Pie on their plates, while the white-glazed porcelain plate that had previously held the pie now sat empty.
There should have been a slice of King’s Pie intended for the Sauron family ancestor!
It was gone!
Lumian’s perplexity couldn’t be concealed. He gestured toward the snack plate and remarked,
“I recall there being a slice of King’s Pie left.”
Count Poufer chuckled and sipped his coffee.
“I ate it.”
“Is that so…” Lumian smiled in realization.
Turning away, he exited the Mechanical Café, the smile on his face gradually waning.
Count Poufer had only taken two bites of his slice of King’s Pie!