229 Equivalent Exchange
The lunatic still wore a grimy linen shirt and yellow trousers, as if changing clothes was not part of his plan.

Upon hearing Lumian’s words, he looked up, revealing a face obscured by a black beard.

It seemed as though he had forgotten Lumian entirely. His blue eyes were empty, clouded over.

“I’m dying, I’m dying!” He clutched his shoulder, which was hidden beneath his unruly black hair, and let out another terrified scream.

Lumian approached, his left hand gloved in black, and drew out Fallen Mercury. With a swift motion, he plunged it into the lunatic’s shoulder.

!!
The filthy linen shirt tore open, revealing a shallow wound that still oozed blood.

The lunatic stood frozen, as if the long-awaited judgment had finally arrived.

After a few seconds, he collapsed to the ground, placing his hands on the floor as he scrambled away from Lumian.

In his terror, he cried out, “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”

The tenants in the neighboring rooms heard the commotion, but none of them bothered to investigate. The lunatic often ranted about his impending demise and pleaded not to be killed.

The sinister pewter-black dagger had already left the lunatic’s shoulder, and Lumian continued to gaze at the shimmering river of mercury, lost in thought.

He witnessed the blissful first half of the lunatic’s life and the tragic deaths of his family, one by one. It was as though Lumian could relate to the sensation of a complete mental breakdown caused by an overwhelming blow.

At times, Lumian yearned to break down like the lunatic, to abandon all reason and act on primal instincts until his own demise. However, there was still a glimmer of hope—a minuscule, almost unrealistic hope—and he was not ready to relinquish it. He desired to pursue it.

Thus, he often acted impulsively and displayed self-destructive tendencies, yet he was always restrained by the rationality that stemmed from that flicker of hope. He never truly disregarded the consequences, existing in a state of profound contradiction.

Knowing precisely which fate he wished to exchange and its approximate date, Lumian swiftly located the lunatic’s destiny of encountering the Montsouris ghost in the underground market district. With the tip of the blade, he pried it loose, transforming it into a droplet of liquid mercury. The drinking fate originally belonging to “Black Scorpion” Roger flowed into the lunatic’s body.

Ignoring the lunatic’s terrified pleas, Lumian squatted before him. He wiped the blade of Fallen Mercury clean with his clothes and assisted in staunching the bleeding.

Then, Lumian pulled up the only chair and took a seat, patiently awaiting the completion of the fate exchange.

“I’m dying, I’m dying!

“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”

As the lunatic shrieked, time ticked by. Finally, Fallen Mercury quivered gently.

The lunatic’s voice abruptly ceased. He rose to his feet, his gaze clearing as he muttered to himself, “I need a drink. I need a drink…”

Lumian smiled and stood up. “The drinks are on you. Consider it a reward for helping you escape the Montsouris ghost.”

Naturally, the true reward was the fate of encountering the Montsouris ghost. With careful planning and an unguarded target, it served as an excellent tool for assassination.

The lunatic appeared startled for a moment before replying, “You got rid of it?”

“You can choose not to believe me.” Lumian turned and walked into the dimly lit corridor, devoid of wall lamps.

The lunatic, driven by an insatiable thirst for drink, unwittingly trailed after Lumian.

As they made their way to the basement bar, the lunatic glanced around and noticed a distinct change in his surroundings.

The eerie sensation of being watched from the shadows had vanished!

Perplexed, the lunatic settled himself at the bar counter and ordered two glasses of oatmeal beer—one for Lumian and the other for himself. He downed his own glass, leaving traces of foam clinging to the corners of his mouth.

Since he occasionally visited the bar in moments of sobriety, no one suspected anything amiss.

After quenching his alcohol craving, the lunatic turned to Lumian and asked once more,

“Have I truly escaped the Montsouris ghost? How did you manage it?”

“I’ve slain the Montsouris ghost, but I can’t be certain if it will resurrect,” Lumian replied solemnly. “However, if those who previously encountered it are still among the living, they shall be free from its torment. Remember, I mentioned encountering the Montsouris ghost myself. Look at me—I’m alive and well.”

“Really?” The lunatic found it hard to believe that this handsome young man had defeated the Montsouris ghost.

Not even the Church had succeeded!

Lumian smiled.

“I lied. I merely discovered an incantation that prevents the Montsouris ghost from plaguing me, but I require the blood of someone haunted as a conduit.”

A glimmer of understanding flickered in the lunatic’s eyes.

“No wonder you stabbed me.”

Blushing with embarrassment, he admitted, “I may not be able to compensate you at present. My savings are meager, and I must find new employment…”

Lumian interrupted, “What shall I call you?”

“Just Flameng will do,” the lunatic replied before inquiring, “And you?”

“Ciel.” Lumian downed his oatmeal beer.

By the time his glass contained only a thin film of liquid, Flameng had become quite tipsy. He grasped Lumian’s arm and babbled on.

“Did you know? I used to be a university lecturer. Simultaneously, I was entrusted with the safety of some students.

“Many of those students were audacious and reckless, daring to engage in any endeavor and shout slogans of ‘freedom’ when challenged.

“They even held proms in the catacombs, burning the bones of nameless corpses to warm their asses. They believed in nothing and feared nothing. Of course, I was much the same in those days.”

Flameng recounted tales from the first half of his life, his tone shifting between pride, happiness, admonishment of the present ills, and wistful reminiscence.

“Might you have entered the Underground Trier to dissuade certain students from taking risks?” Lumian asked casually, taking a sip of his beer.

Flameng shook his head.

“No, my expertise lies in minerals. The subterranean rock formations of Trier are uniquely fascinating for study. Together with the medical school, we even established a Museum of Mineralogy and Pathology in the catacombs.
“I had been leaving the museum, making my way toward the underground market district with the intention of heading home when I encountered the Montsouris ghost.

“My Sandrine… My Bastian…”

Flameng clutched his head, his voice filled with an agonizing pain.

Lumian quickly changed the subject.

“So, the subterranean rock formations in Trier are quite unique?”

“Indeed,” Flameng instinctively replied, before collecting himself and continuing, “We even assigned poetic names to those formations. From top to bottom, they’re referred to as ‘flowers,’ ‘sheep,’ and ‘sedges’…”

Engrossed in conversation, Lumian and Flameng chatted well into the midnight hours. The latter appeared lively, and even his bearded face seemed to regain some color.

He didn’t lose his sanity again. Having confirmed that there was no longer a feeling of being watched in the darkness, he returned to normal.

After bidding a cheerful farewell to the intoxicated Flameng, Lumian smiled and withdrew his gaze. He entered Room 207 to compose a letter to Madam Magician.

In the letter, he first mentioned how Termiboros had nearly influenced him into transferring Charlie’s luck and how he had slain “Black Scorpion” Roger and other Lady Moon subordinates. Lumian then revealed that the Provoker potion had been completely digested due to the latter. He inquired whether Madam Magician possessed the Pyromaniac potion formula and the associated Beyonder characteristic, as well as the price he needed to pay for them.

Not long after Lumian had tidied up the room and summoned a puppet messenger to deliver the letter, he received a reply from Madam Magician:

“Good job. You’ve already recognized the potential influence and threat that long-named fellow poses to you. Stay vigilant.

“Based on your description, this Lady Moon should be a Sequence 3. Being able to truly provoke such a demigod will undoubtedly hasten your digestion of the potion.

“If I recall correctly, you are attending Mr. K’s gathering tomorrow night and will inform him that you can worship that being. This means you will truly become one of them, completing the initial phase of the mission I assigned you. As a reward, I will provide you with the Pyromaniac potion formula free of charge.

“I still possess the Pyromaniac Beyonder characteristic, but remember, the principle of equivalent exchange must be upheld.

“In Intis, the two main ingredients of the Pyromaniac potion cost more than 18,000 verl d’or, often exceeding 20,000. Correspondingly, the Beyonder characteristic usually amounts to around 35,000 verl d’or.

“What does this mean? It implies that many people in Intis have become Pyromaniacs, yet many Pyromaniacs have also perished.

“As a holder of a Minor Arcana card, I will offer you a substantial discount. The Beyonder characteristic will only cost you 30,000 verl d’or.

“Good luck.”

Phew, 30,000 verl d’or… Lumian exhaled, feeling that the sum was not unattainable.

He already had over 4,000 verl d’or in savings, and the evil scythe known as Harvest Sacrifice could fetch a decent price. Additionally, he could borrow some funds from Franca and embezzle a portion of Salle de Bal Brise’s money. These combined efforts would bring him close to 30,000 verl d’or.

And just as Lumian had suspected, Lady Moon had transformed from a mere Madame to a Lady capable of birthing deities. She was undoubtedly more than a Sequence 4.

Fortunately, we had feigned impending defeat in our previous battle, preventing “Black Scorpion” Roger from seeking assistance… Lumian burned Madam Magician’s letter, freshened up, climbed into bed, and drifted off to sleep.

…

Just after six in the morning, Lumian had finished washing up and changed into a crisp white shirt, black vest, brown pants, and sleek leather boots, when he heard footsteps descending from the third floor.

It was Ruhr and Michel, clad in tattered clothes and emanating a pungent odor.

As Lumian stood by the door of Room 207, Ruhr, his voice filled with panic, cried out, “Ciel, Monsieur Ciel! That lunatic is dead!”

Dead? Flameng is dead? Lumian was momentarily stunned before darting past Ruhr and Michel, making his way to the third floor.

The door to Room 310 was wide open. Lumian cast a quick glance inside and spotted Flameng hanging from the window.

He faced the door, having cleanly shaven his face, revealing a gentle and gaunt visage.

Now, he no longer breathed. His face had turned blue, his eyes slightly bulging. His mouth hung open wide, and the morning light streamed through the window, bathing his lifeless body. He hung silently, suspended by a belt tied to the window frame.

Beneath him, on the wooden table, lay a nearly extinguished kerosene lamp, several large books, and a white sheet of paper weighted down by a fountain pen. It appeared that something had been written on it.

Lumian fell into an eerie silence for a few seconds before cautiously approaching the white sheet of paper.

In precise Intisian handwriting, it read:

“When I was deranged, I still harbored the will to live.

“Upon awakening, I found no purpose in life.

“Please lay me to rest in the Underground Tomb of Lights within the catacombs.”

Lumian raised his gaze, meeting the vacant blue eyes that seemed to peer back from beyond the grave.

He stood in solemn silence, transfixed, as if time had come to a halt.