In the morning, while “shopping” at Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, Lumian noticed that Trier’s citizens dressed rather casually, or perhaps boldly. This was evident in the women wearing short sleeves that bared their forearms or garments with cut-out shoulders that displayed their collarbones. On the other hand, there was no shortage of peculiar attire.

In the Dariège region, a warlock like Osta, donning a black robe and hood, resembled an ancient legend. It was impossible for him to walk the streets openly without being stopped by the police. In Trier, however, passersby paid him no mind.

Such appearances were all too common. People dressed in a variety of antiquated garments.

Osta Trul was undoubtedly more cautious. Periodically, he would glance over his shoulder to spot anyone suspicious, but Lumian maintained such a great distance that neither of them were within the other’s line of sight.

Lumian trailed Osta from one street to the next, following the faint scent of the inferior cologne.

As gas lamps illuminated the surroundings, Osta turned into a street sheltered by glass domes and steel frames.

This place was brightly lit and lined with upscale shops. Smooth marble paved the ground, and the area bustled with pedestrians—a stark contrast to the ramshackle alleys of Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.

This is the arcade Aurore mentioned? Lumian observed Osta pausing in front of a store to admire the window display. He too slowed down, scanning the area.

He quickly spotted people engaging in “unusual” behavior.

Dressed in formal attire, both men and women walked turtles of varying sizes.

The turtles inched forward, and their owners, holding a rope, trailed leisurely behind.

Upon seeing a man dressed in a black formal suit and silk top hat walking a turtle, Lumian couldn’t help but inquire, “My friend, what are you doing?”

The man turned his head, revealing a powdered face.

He responded with a smile, “Foreigner, I’m simply taking a stroll, walking my turtle.”

“Why a turtle?” Lumian didn’t conceal his puzzlement.

The impeccably groomed gentleman appeared pleased to share his fashion philosophy. He grinned and explained, “Most Trieriens enjoy walking around leisurely, but they fail to grasp the essence of leisure and elegance. They always walk briskly and seem rushed.

“A true stroll is slower than a turtle. Thus, we walk turtles and let them lead to emphasize our leisurely pace.

“It’s a gauge to measure walking speed and a device to quantify elegance.”

Lumian had to concede that Trieriens consistently expanded his perspective as a country bumpkin from Cordu.

Aurore couldn’t have even written a story about walking a turtle!

“A true Trierien!” Lumian applauded, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Regrettably, the gentleman failed to grasp his underlying message. He smiled modestly and continued to follow the turtle at a leisurely pace.

Before long, Osta reached the other end of the arcade.

Lumian waited for a moment before cautiously following.

After exiting the arcade, Osta positioned himself by the nearby public carriage stop.

Within minutes, a massive carriage, drawn by two horses, arrived.

The carriage was divided into two levels. The yellow-painted exterior bore words like “Line 7” written in Intisian. The driver donned a short green coat and a wide-brimmed hat to fend off the rain.

As the carriage came to a stop, a conductor sporting a small hat, striped shirt, and unattractive pants appeared at the open door, scrutinizing each passenger boarding the carriage as if they were criminals.

Osta was the third person to climb aboard. He chose a window seat, observing the passersby and the men and women taking their seats.

Lumian watched from a distance without approaching.

It was only when the Line 7 carriage had pulled away that he quickened his pace, practically jogging to catch up.

Given the relatively slow speed of public transportation and the rule of stopping at every station, Lumian wasn’t concerned about being left behind.

As he ran, some pedestrians eyed him curiously, while a few even jogged alongside, seemingly believing this to be the latest trend.

Is there something wrong with your brains? Lumian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

After three stops, he saw Osta Trul disembark from the public carriage. This area was already part of Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.

Osta crossed two streets and turned onto Rue des Blouses Blanches, which Charlie had mentioned. He entered an old beige apartment building numbered 20.

Lumian halted in front of a street-side newspaper stand, picked up a paper, and casually flipped through it.

Simultaneously, he observed the entrance to the apartment building from the corner of his eye.

“It’s 11 coppets for one,” the newsstand owner reminded Lumian when he noticed that he was only reading and not buying.

Lumian was holding a copy of Le Petit Trierien, and without minding, he took out two 5-coppet and one 1-coppet coins and tossed them onto the other newspapers.

The newsstand owner fell silent.

Lumian continued reading the newspaper.

“City Hall discussing new price plans with the water supply company…

“Valéry slams consumerism as a fetish…

“…”

“Greatest project in human history seeks collaboration…”

The final caught Lumian’s attention as he reminded him of something:

It reeked of a prankster or a swindler’s ploy!

As Lumian kept an eye on the apartment, he read the corresponding content with growing interest.

“The future of humanity lies in the stars. The history of mankind was forged by the brave to explore.

“In this era of rapid technological progress, we lack civilization pioneers, visionaries with exceptional insight and foresight, and adventurers with courage.

“Last time, we were trapped in the Berserk Sea. This time, we’re trapped within the atmosphere. However, human civilization and technology will undoubtedly overcome all obstacles and dangers to forge a true future.

“We seek to collaborate with all dreamers to construct a space bridge that will enable us to walk from the surface to the crimson moon.

“Point of Contact: Bulle Patil.

“Contact Method: 9th Rue Saint-Martin, 5th floor, Quartier 2.”

The more Lumian read, the more amused he became. He found himself in deep contemplation.

As Cordu’s Prankster King and one influenced by Aurore’s eccentric ideas, he had never conceived such an outrageous, ludicrous, and absurd notion. Yet, these individuals had brazenly advertised it, as though certain they could fool a crowd.

Am I still underestimating the average human IQ? Lumian stroked his chin with his gloved left hand.

At that moment, he saw a group of people approaching the old apartment at 20 Rue des Blouses Blanches.

The leader was a distinguished-looking gentleman in a silk top hat and black suit. He had a chiseled profile, a mahogany-colored pipe in his mouth, and a diamond ring on his left hand that sparkled under the light.

The burly men surrounding the gentleman appeared menacing. They wore either canvas shirts or dark jackets, giving off a gang-like vibe.

After they vanished into the apartment’s entrance, Lumian walked over with the newspaper.

At the base of the stairs, he detected several colognes simultaneously.

One was faint and familiar—the inferior cologne he had applied to Osta. The other was more aromatic, sweet, and slightly cloying.

Musk cologne? From the man with the pipe? Lumian followed the scent all the way up to the apartment’s fifth floor.

There, he saw Osta Trul.

The imposter dressed as a warlock found himself encircled by the same group of individuals. The gentleman with the diamond ring tapped his forehead with his mahogany-colored pipe, smiling politely.

“Don’t think you can shake us off just because you’ve moved. Until you repay all the debt, I’ll follow you endlessly, like a shadow.”

Osta stammered fearfully, “I’ll have money soon. I can return a portion to you tomorrow!”

“Very good,” the ‘gentleman’ nodded with a smile.

He then turned the pipe and jabbed Osta’s face with the still-smoldering end.

Osta recoiled in pain but dared not make a sound.

The ‘gentleman’ withdrew his pipe and said gently, yet firmly, “This is a little interest. If you don’t pay me back tomorrow, I’ll take one of your fingers.”

With that, he placed his hand on his chest and bowed politely.

“See you tomorrow, my friend.”

At the staircase, Lumian pursed his lips and muttered to himself, Are people and dogs learning from Gehrman now?

As Fors Wall’s “The Adventurer” series gained popularity, Gehrman Sparrow impersonators cropped up across the Northern and Southern Continents. Phrases like “this is basic courtesy” and “a bestowment or a curse” spread far and wide.

As the group approached, Lumian lowered his head and stepped aside, acting like an ordinary tenant encountering gangsters.

Chaotic footsteps echoed as they descended floor by floor, soon giving way to silence.

Lumian glanced in Osta Trul’s direction, noting that he had already retreated to his room and closed the wooden door.

After some contemplation, Lumian flexed his gloved left hand and adjusted his hat. He walked out of the staircase and approached Osta’s door.

Bang! Bang! Bang! He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

After a moment, Osta opened the door, his face a mix of shock and fear. He stammered shakily,

“I really can’t get that money until tomorrow…”

Before he could finish, Lumian’s figure came sharply into focus in his eyes.

Lumian spread his arms and asked with a beaming smile, “Surprised?”

“You, you, you…” Osta backed away as if he’d seen a ghost.

Lumian followed him into the room and smiled at Osta Trul.

“I truly wish to forget the pain of the past, but I’m also a cautious person. I’m afraid of being swindled and, worse, being mocked as a fool.”