Lumian couldn’t make sense of it, but he didn’t dwell on it either. He rolled up his sleeves, baring his right arm, and sliced it with the Fallen Mercury blade.

A brief moment of numbness was followed by a familiar pain, but he didn’t flinch. He watched as blood oozed out and stained the silver-black blade crimson.

Almost instantaneously, a mercury illusory river, composed of intricate symbols, materialized before Lumian’s eyes. The destiny droplets stored in the evil dirk seeped from its tip and flowed into the shallow wound.

Lumian concentrated, straining to discern the fate he sought to exchange.

He “saw” himself receiving treatment, “saw” himself falling asleep after releasing his emotions, and “saw” himself searching for Osta Trul…

Scenes flashed across Lumian’s mind as if he had witnessed them firsthand.

Soon after, he located the fate of venturing outside the catacombs and encountering the Montsouris ghost from several days prior.

He swiftly raised the tip of Fallen Mercury and thrust it towards the complex symbols that appeared to be formed by the mercury river.

That fate proved heavy, and Lumian failed to stir it on his first attempt.

As the illusory river slowly faded, the scene in his mind became increasingly hazy. He hurriedly channeled most of his spirituality into the blade of Fallen Mercury.

At last, with a second stir, the fate of meeting the Montsouris ghost broke free from the illusory, mercury-hued river and shrank into a minuscule droplet, resembling a bead of mercury from a shattered thermometer.

The illusory droplet rapidly merged with the pewter-black dirk.

Only then did Lumian exhale a sigh of relief. He knew he had evaded the Montsouris ghost, and Fallen Mercury could now be deemed a Cursed Blade.

Once he treated the wound, an odd intuition suddenly struck him.

Guided by this intuition, Lumian exited Auberge du Coq Doré again, weaving between raucous drunks and a heated brawl. He returned to Rue du Rossignol and halted outside the alley where he had assaulted Margot.

Furrowing his brow, he cautiously entered and flipped over the barricade.

In the next moment, Lumian’s gaze instinctively fell upon the shadow in the corner.

Something lay quietly in the realm of darkness.

Sensing its significance, Lumian hurried over, crouched down, and picked up the object with his gloved left hand.

It was a bulging brown leather wallet.

Margot dropped it? The money his underlings plundered and handed over to him? Lumian roughly grasped how the fate exchange had transpired.

Although he couldn’t recall whether Margot had dropped the wallet during their fierce battle or if it had ‘fallen’ afterwards, it didn’t prevent Lumian from claiming the money.

He extracted the thick wad of cash and emptied the gold, silver, and copper coins from the change purse. Then, he tossed the wallet aside and left the alley.

Back in Auberge du Coq Doré Room 207, Lumian lit the carbide lamp and meticulously counted his newfound fortune.

In total, he had acquired 1,265 verl d’or and 15 coppet. Most were banknotes worth 10 verl d’or or less. There was only one 200 verl d’or note, one 100 verl d’or note, and two 50 verl d’or notes. A few Louis d’or were included as well.

Lumian stared at the money for a few seconds before sighing deeply.

Even ten donations from ‘benevolent souls’ can’t compare to taking down a gang leader…

Naturally, not all of the money belonged to Margot. He was merely holding onto it for the Poison Spur Mob.

Lumian grabbed a stack of small bills amounting to 200 verl d’or and left Room 207, climbing the stairs.

In under a minute, he reached the fourth floor and came to a stop in front of Room 8.

He recalled that Margot had visited Auberge du Coq Doré in the evening to collect most of the money from an unlicensed prostitute named Ethans.

At the time, one of Margot’s underlings must have been in charge, but the money eventually ended up in Margot’s possession.

Without knocking, Lumian crouched down and slid the stack of banknotes through the gap beneath the door.

He quickly straightened up, turned towards the stairs, and vanished into the shadowy corridor.

…

Lumian slept until six o’clock when the cathedral bell chimed.

He had slept soundly the night before, feeling as if the Provoker potion had been somewhat digested.

In the morning, I’ll look for Osta Trul and see if Mr. K has replied. I’ll also buy some better clothes and cosmetics from Quartier de l’Observatoire… In the afternoon, I’ll visit the cheap clothing store at Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman… Lumian wasn’t eager to rise. He lay there, quietly contemplating the day’s plans.

Having escaped the threat of the Montsouris ghost, he placed disguising himself back on his to-do list.

After lingering in bed for a while, he ambled to the washroom to freshen up. Then, he went downstairs and purchased half a liter of apple cider and a loaf of bread with pork sausages from the vendors.

Having sated his hunger, he headed to the nearest cathedral square and found an empty corner to practice the combat techniques Aurore had taught him.

Lumian returned to Auberge du Coq Doré at 9:30 a.m., intending to rest for an hour before seeking out Osta Trul.

Upon entering the motel lobby, he spotted three maids cleaning various filthy areas under Madame Fels’s supervision.

The motel owner hires cleaners every Monday… Lumian averted his gaze and walked towards the staircase.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from above.

Within ten seconds, Charlie appeared before Lumian, clad in a linen shirt, dark pants, and strapless leather shoes.

“You didn’t go to the hotel?” Lumian asked, puzzled.

Charlie yawned and replied excitedly, “Don’t you know? I’m off today. We can take one day off a week and choose whichever day we want.”

Lumian chuckled. “Does this day off result in a reduction in your ‘monthly salary’ from Madame Alice?”

Charlie grinned sheepishly. “She has her own social engagements.”

As they conversed, a foul odor drifted in from the door. The short, disheveled, gray-haired Ruhr and Michel entered the hotel.

“You didn’t go to the steam locomotive station?” Charlie greeted them warmly.

Ruhr approached them first, then maintained a respectful distance.

“The market district is a bit chaotic today. We plan to rest for a day.”

“What happened?” Lumian inquired “curiously.”

Ruhr instinctively lowered his voice. “Margot of the Poison Spur Mob is dead. Many gangsters are searching for someone. Other gangs might clash with them at any moment. There are also many police officers present.”

“Margot’s dead?” Charlie blurted out, astonished.

He had just thought the guy deserved to die yesterday, and now he was dead?

Ruhr nodded gravely.

“I’ve heard several people mention it. Sigh, we can’t earn any money today.”

His wife, Madame Michel, consoled him, “If we don’t go out, we don’t have to eat lunch. We can save some money.”

Before Lumian could inquire about the situation outside, Charlie, snapping out of his daze, spun around and dashed upstairs.

Lumian’s eyes flickered as he trailed behind.

Thud, thud, thud. Charlie rapidly ascended to the fourth floor and sprinted to Room 8.

Taking a deep breath, he slammed the wooden door.

“Who is it?” A slightly hoarse female voice emerged from within.

Charlie announced his name loudly.

“Didn’t I say I’m off the clock in the morning? Come back in the afternoon. Remember, 10 verl d’or. No discount this time!” the female voice responded impatiently, opening the door.

This was Lumian’s first encounter with the woman named Ethans. Her flaxen hair tumbled to her shoulders, her similarly-colored eyes wary and her face etched with apprehension.

She appeared to be twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with average looks that could only be described as delicate. Her face and clothes were clean, and her red dress exposed a generous expanse of fair skin on her chest.

Charlie excitedly informed Ethans, “Did you know? Margot is dead! He’s really dead!”

“…” Ethans stared, dumbfounded.

After several seconds, her slightly hoarse voice turned sharp.

“Is that devil truly dead?”

“It’s true.” Charlie nodded without hesitation. “You can finally escape that devil! You can finally live like a normal person!”

Ethans glanced around, dazed, taking in Lumian’s expressionless eyes and Charlie’s animated countenance.

“He’s dead? He’s dead?” She murmured, thinking of the money that had mysteriously appeared in her room.

As she started to believe Margot was indeed dead, her vision blurred.

Tears poured down her cheeks. She couldn’t help but squat down and bury her face in her arms.

Her sobbing intensified, becoming more uncontrollable.

At that moment, footsteps echoed from the staircase.

Lumian turned his head and saw a young man in a white shirt, coat, and black jacket approaching.

Behind him were Margot’s three thugs.

The lad’s brown hair was slightly curly, and his face bore prominent creases. He strode up to the weeping Ethans, crouched down, and grinned.

“I’m Wilson from the Poison Spur Mob. From today onwards, I’ll take care of you on Margot’s behalf.”

Charlie’s excited expression froze.

Ethans’s cries halted abruptly.

Slowly raising her tear-streaked face, she saw Wilson’s smile and the shadow his body cast.

The shadow was so dense that it couldn’t be dispelled.

Lumian observed quietly, his head imperceptibly raised.

…

On the way to the first floor, Charlie, who had been silent for a long time, couldn’t help but ask, “Is there really no end to the suffering of the poor?”

“I like something Aurore Lee wrote,” Lumian replied, his face expressionless. “Sometimes, we’re not the ones at fault, but the world.”

As soon as he finished speaking, three people stomped up from the first floor.

They were police officers in black uniforms, black vests, white shirts, and strapless leather boots.

The 1.85-meter-tall officer leading the group glanced at Charlie and Lumian and suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Pressing down on the gun at his waist, he asked in a deep voice, “Charlie Collent?”

Charlie was stunned.

“It’s me, Officer. What’s the matter?”

The officer gestured at his colleagues and took out steel handcuffs.

As his two colleagues encircled Charlie, he said with a serious expression, “You’re suspected of murder. We’re arresting you.”

“Murder?” Charlie’s face displayed shock, fear, and confusion.

Lumian raised his eyebrows in surprise.

As the officer handcuffed Charlie with his colleague’s assistance, he informed him, “Madame Alice is dead!”