323 Psychological Profile
Lumian stood at an intersection, his hands casually tucked into his pockets as he strolled leisurely toward Rue de la Muraille.

This street held more significance to the people of Trier than even the renowned Avenue du Boulevard. It was their aspiration.

In the days before Emperor Roselle ignited the Industrial Revolution, Trier’s cityscape hadn’t sprawled to the extent it had now. It nestled in the easternmost corner, fortified by stout city walls and vigilantly guarded by soldiers. Their military encampment wasn’t distant, which prompted the emergence of numerous brothels and prostitutes nearby.

As the sands of time sifted through, Rue de la Muraille garnered its reputation, and Trier’s population burgeoned. A modest market burgeoned into a realm of prestige and extravagance that stretched across the Northern and Southern Continents.

Lumian passed beneath the sheltering canopy of Intis parasol trees, his gaze taking in opulent palace-like structures alongside unassuming apartments. They all shared a common trait—windows adorned with frosted glass and the occasional green shutter.

Rue de la Muraille appeared to be rousing from its midday slumber. The road hosted few pedestrians, but each one bore a distinct air. Some dashed by in somber gray-blue work attire, driven by haste, while others donned antiquated finery. They glanced around before slipping into apartment complexes. Cameras slung around necks captured candid moments before these wanderers vanished into ornate edifices. Attempts at projecting an Intisian facade couldn’t mask true identities, betrayed by hairlines and exaggerated heights.

Moreover, Lumian’s keen eye caught sight of an iron-gray robot, towering at two meters. A steam-spewing outlet adorned its back, accompanied by gears, torsion springs, screws, and bent pipes—a symphony of decorative mechanics.

Perched on the robot’s left shoulder, a lavishly dressed man flaunted intricate makeup. His leisurely observation spanned pedestrians, dignitaries shrouded in gold or silver masks, and groggy men stumbling into wakefulness.

Here, the ordinary and elite intertwined in a peculiar harmony.

As Lumian advanced, he methodically surveyed his surroundings, his gaze unrelenting in its pursuit of his target.

In a flash, he spotted Albus approaching from a side alley.

The Iron and Blood Cross Order member, sporting dark-red locks, acknowledged Lumian with a sly grin. He lifted his right hand, pointed at his own head—provocation in motion.

Under Gardner Martin’s directive, Albus was tasked with tracking down Padre Guillaume Bénet. It seemed Albus was insinuating a competition of sorts, pitting Lumian against himself to see who’d uncover the “prey” first.

Beyond Albus, the Iron and Blood Cross Order likely deployed several official or peripheral affiliates. In this, Gardner Martin had kept his promises.

Undeterred by Albus’s gesture, Lumian pressed on, deeper into Rue de la Muraille.

Guided by the revelations of Demoness of Pleasure Franca’s Magic Mirror Divination, the prophecy’s domain narrowed:

Guillaume Bénet’s presence was expected on five streets, including Rue de la Muraille and Rue du Cheval Blanc, within the week.

However, Rue de la Muraille’s length, its expanse, and the thronging populace created a nebulous landscape for Lumian’s quest. Carpet searches and widespread net-casting was virtually impossible. Success hinged on the possibility of enlisting aid from the authorities and mustering an army to seal off this domain, vigilantly guarding every entrance to Underground Trier.

Previously, Lumian could only hope that the Iron and Blood Cross Order, a secret organization teeming with formidable Hunters, boasted superior tracking and manhunt techniques. Or perhaps, Termiboros—an Inevitability angel—might drive them to converge. As long as the distance between Lumian and Guillaume Bénet was moderate, they would “reunite” as though preordained.

However, a new trail had emerged.

This advancement was predominantly the fruit of the mystical knowledge he had acquired as a Contractee!

Within this trove of knowledge lay a menagerie of uncanny creatures, summonable or recruitable, complete with the requisite costs for forging contracts. The compendium detailed the abilities obtainable and the subsequent penalties incurred post-contract.

Summoning Abyss Demon Flowers necessitates a sacrifice of fresh human blood. The downside—an increased desire for coitus.

Invisibility mandates thirteen portions of prepared meat. The downside—an intensified susceptibility to hunger.

Slow Flight sacrifices one’s romantic infatuation perpetually. The downside—an urge to show off.

Bone Curse predicates the sacrifice of a living person. The downside—drowsiness.

The Soul Assimilation Mystic Spell exacts no fewer than three human souls. The downside—random bouts of dizziness, numbering four to five daily.

Internal Explosion demands the sacrifice of any Beyonder characteristic. The downside—unrelenting spirituality drain, tantamount to permanent reduction of spirituality capacity.

From the detailed description of the Soul Assimilation Mystic Spell, Lumian conjectured that the padre had inadvertently met an additional, covert cost.

That was his name!

The Soul Assimilation Mystic Spell affected the target’s Spirit Body by invocating their true name, causing them to experience dizziness and other reactions, amplified by deeper comprehension of the target and employment of verbiage echoing the spirit world.

In contracting with a spirit world entity armed with the Soul Assimilation Mystic Spell, Guillaume Bénet inadvertently disclosed his true name. Entities endowed with such powers could wield a person’s true name for manifold feats—a potentially profound latent hazard.

This clandestine peril was merely one amid numerous akin enigmas housed within a Contractee’s mystic wisdom. Therefore, Lumian opted for an extensive screen of spirit world creatures, personal interaction followed by experimental engagement.

Based upon the known downsides accompanying the contracted abilities, Lumian hatched an educated hypothesis.

After Guillaume Bénet, a man driven by insatiable desires, found his appetite for sex surging, he had definitely sought out women. The prophecy’s alignment with Quartier de la Princesse Rouge harmonized with the results unearthed from the Magic Mirror Divination about the five nearby streets.

Furthermore, he found his hunger more voracious than ever, and the act of intimacy left him drained of vigor. Thus, the likelihood was high that he would gravitate towards a brothel that catered to both carnal and culinary needs or invite a woman back home.

Guillaume Bénet was not only a man of fervent desires but also an ambitious soul, thirsting for power. Being confined in the village and before the contractual abilities imbued his life with adverse effects, his lust mirrored an expression of power. Otherwise, it was impossible to explain how his desires sprawled across every woman, an inclination spanning the spectrum between esteemed paramours and those of lesser stature.

To him, appropriating the companions of other men became a testament to his standing, might, and allure.

Stepping onto Trier’s soil, a place where his provincial accent drew disdain from the citizens, he undoubtedly sought vindication, manifesting his claims in his own unique manner.

Fused with his relentless pursuit of strength and his past style, Guillaume Bénet very likely went after sought-after courtesans, stoking the fires of envy amongst the local denizens. He might even spirit one or two of these coveted women away to grace his home.

This comprehensive analysis of the padre’s character and psyche wasn’t Lumian’s solitary undertaking. Rather, it emerged from the expertise of Anthony Reid, a Psychiatrist. Armed with Lumian’s intricate portrayal of Guillaume Bénet, Reid painted a psychological canvas, a vivid portrait of this heretic’s inner workings.

Thus, two distinct paths unfurled to ensnare his prey. The first entailed staking out upscale brothels, where both meals and famous courtesans awaited. The other trail veered towards investigations surrounding courtesans who had entered matrimony, taken on mistress roles, or even vanished within the past two months.

For the former pursuit, the mantle rested upon the shoulders of the Iron and Blood Cross Order. Lumian’s current task revolved around unearthing a conduit to intelligence about Rue de la Muraille’s clandestine tales.

Anthony Reid, an adept intelligence broker, held a key. He was well-acquainted with Bühler, a Ghost Face columnist renowned for exposing scandals and whispers that wove through the fabric of Rue de la Muraille.

Bühler, a connoisseur of drinking and writing, would frequent a corner of Hope Café where he could survey the entrance before venturing into the brothels.
With his objective clear, Lumian embarked on a steady stride toward the café nestled amidst Rue de la Muraille.

En route, he revisited the entirety of the task at hand, stirred by an indescribable emotion.

His divination capabilities paled in comparison to Franca’s. A lone Prophecy Spell rested in his arsenal, a tool he dared not wield recklessly. The finesse of Anthony Reid’s psychological profiling and information-gathering expertise dwarfed Lumian’s own. However, mobilizing these allies allowed him to harness these strengths, akin to gaining possession of these abilities.

Lumian couldn’t foretell the ramifications of ascending to godhood. Yet, one thing was certain: beneath Sequence 4, one’s prowess met constraints. Cooperative squads harnessed the potential for synergy, enabling them to confront even higher Sequences sans those with godhood.

Soon, Lumian caught sight of Hope Café, its entrance adorned in a milky-white veneer.

After pushing open the heavy door, he cast his gaze upon the corner granting anyone a vantage point.

A slender-faced man in his thirties, his ebony hair framing azure eyes, his beard trimmed meticulously and waxed to precision, met Lumian’s gaze—his attention fixated on the entrance.

Sensing Lumian’s scrutiny, the man’s visage transformed. He reached for the soft-covered notebook and crimson fountain pen upon the table, on the verge of vanishing through the back door.

In response, Lumian drew his revolver and dispatched a shot toward the café’s rear exit.

With a resounding bang, the bullet embedded itself into the wood.

The café’s patrons were jolted into alarm, their reactions oscillating between concealment and inquiry, engendering chaos.

The bearded man stood immobilized, neither sure if he should run or stay.

Under the collective gaze of bartender, patrons, and staff, Lumian advanced toward his target, revolver in hand, amusement playing across his features.

“Are you Monsieur Bühler?”

“Yes, that’s me.” Bühler forced a smile.

Lumian gestured toward Bühler’s original seat and spoke nonchalantly,

“Take a seat. I’ve come to purchase information.”

A sigh of relief escaped Bühler as he hunched, retracing his steps to settle into the chair.

Lumian occupied the opposite seat, putting down his revolver. With a trace of playfulness, he queried, “Why the preference for such a dim corner?”

Bühler sighed and said, “In my line of work, reprisals are a constant concern. You’re well aware that some individuals detest seeing their names or likenesses entangled in the web of scandals across newspapers and periodicals.

“This corner grants me an unobstructed view of the entrance, affording early detection of any potential troublemakers. And, should the need arise, I can effect a swift escape through the back.”