Osta Trul had never questioned Ciel’s competence in tackling the aquatic monster, yet the ruthless efficiency with which he dispatched it caught him off guard.

It felt much like witnessing an adult landing a blow on a child.

A persistent inquiry bobbed to the surface of Osta’s thoughts.

To what path and Sequence could Ciel possibly belong?

Why could he engage in combat and appear to wield formidable prophetic capabilities?

Within a region speckled by dark-crimson and dull-golden symbols, Lumian crouched, brandishing his ceremonial silver dagger. He slid the blade into the monster’s open wound, cleaving through its flesh, and deposited it in the hollow timber container prepared earlier.

Once two containers brimmed with the monster’s flesh and scales casting a dim cerulean glow, he uncapped a metallic flask and began collecting the monster’s blood that burbled ceaselessly.

Witnessing this, Osta methodically closed the gap between him and the vanquished monster, lingering nearby.

Before too long, Lumian rose, pivoted, and retraced his steps.

Scrambling, Osta hastily crouched and started amassing blood, scales, and what he believed to be spiritually rich organs.

His gaze frequently darted to Lumian, who was steadily increasing his distance, showing no signs of halting for Osta.

A sense of unease began to seep into Osta.

After all, Ciel had dispatched the aquatic monster with terrifying ease. Given his earlier performance, Osta feared that Ciel could also eliminate him without much effort. Should he remain alone by this subterranean river in the depth of the darkness, and should another monster be lured by the scent of blood, he would find himself in dire straits!

With a sense of urgency, Osta hastily stowed the harvested materials, not daring to dawdle. Fighting the temptation to salvage more of the monster’s remains, he left a good 90% behind and hurried after Lumian.

As their carbide lamps winked out at the tunnel’s end, darkness reclaimed the area, save for the perpetual whisper of water.

After an indeterminate time had passed, a group of thrill-seeking university students made their way through the cavernous labyrinth, kerosene lanterns in hand.

They discovered a partially collapsed stone wall and a pathway disordered and fragmented.

Apart from that, all was serene and silent. Not a trace of the aquatic monster or blood stains were found.

…

Having bid Osta Trul adieu, Lumian found himself a seat in a public carriage, bound for Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.

Retrieving the remainder of his ingredients from Auberge du Coq Doré’s Room 207, he grasped his carbide lamp and plunged once more into the realm below ground.

His destination was the former site of the ritual, a quarry cave. His goal was to prepare the mysterious concoction required for the Prophecy Spell before the veil of night descended. Come nightfall, he intended to make his way to the nearest hospital, and procure a recently departed body from the morgue.

As Lumian descended from the floor, mimicking the surface world, his pace slackened.

Under the glow of the carbide lamp, he noticed fresh, evident footprints marking the slightly damp path.

Heavy footprints… Lumian studied them for a moment, voicing his puzzlement.

From the looks of these prints, he concluded that the passerby must’ve weighed upwards of 100 kilograms, or been shouldering something hefty.

Who could it be? An underworld smuggler? Lumian had his suspicions, but he didn’t intend to tail them.

Trier’s subterranean labyrinth was brimming with people. Obsessing over each footprint would only exhaust him.

Besides, the other party had no quarrel with him. Provided they didn’t interfere with his upcoming ritual magic, he had no concern even if he was ready to ensure their silence.

Turning the lamp’s dial, Lumian tempered the reaction between carbide and water, thus dimming the flame’s intensity and casting less light.

He was concerned that the maker of the footprints was near, and might detect the bright light closing in from behind.

Continuing his journey, Lumian suddenly halted, nose twitching.

He detected a familiar aroma.

A musky perfume designed to awaken masculine desires, intermingled with a citrus hint.

After a brief moment of mental rifling, Lumian identified the scent’s owner.

Little Minx Jenna, the Showy Diva!

Could these be her footprints? Preposterous. Surely she doesn’t weigh more than 100 kilograms? She’s not cast of iron! Besides, the prints were clearly a man’s… Lumian mulled over two possibilities.

Either Jenna is adept at concealing her tracks, leaving no corresponding marks, or she’s been hoisted by a man…

It’s quite ordinary for two individuals collectively to exceed 100 kilograms…

Judging by the footprints, the man stands between 1.65 and 1.7 meters tall. His gait seems slightly peculiar…

As Lumian turned this over in his mind, his brow furrowed.

Piqued by curiosity, he resolved to tail the trail and ascertain what predicament Jenna had stumbled upon, or rather, what scheme she was brewing.

It was crucial to note that this Showy Diva was suspected of being Franca’s paramour. Her entanglement might reveal a clandestine secret of the Savoie Mob.

This could potentially provide Lumian, who was pursuing “loftier heights,” with an opportunity.

Lowering the carbide lamp’s intensity further, he hoped that once switched off, the flame would snuff out promptly.

Sticking to the tunnel’s shadows, he tracked the footprints, vigilantly gauging the distance. Should anything go awry, he was ready to extinguish the light.

As the footprints appeared increasingly fresh, as though only moments old, he extinguished the carbide lamp and ventured forward in the darkness, relying on his memorized path.

Before he knew it, Lumian had reached a divergence in the path, a faint blue light emanating from the stone wall’s end on his left side.

Slipping his black gloves on, Lumian inched closer, a wraith in the shadows.

The blue light radiated from a small cave nestled at the end of the stone wall.

Stationed against the stone, Lumian tucked himself into the shadow’s embrace, craning his neck ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of what lay within.

At the cave’s heart, a rather primitive iron-black carbide lamp sat in a relatively flat expanse.

Nearby, a capacious bag of grayish-white fabric bulged, seemingly at its full capacity.

A man loomed beside the bag, adorned in a blue cap, a common tweed suit of brown that one would see in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, with a linen shirt peeking out from beneath his darker jacket.

The man’s breathing was noticeably labored. Standing nearly 1.7 meters tall, his side profile revealed a thin and slightly worn countenance, his brown eyes ablaze with unmasked desire.

Lumian’s gaze dropped, registering the man’s arousal.

He inwardly chided, Impatient, aren’t we? No wonder he was lagging. That explains the irregularity in his footprints.

Lumian grew more convinced that the bag concealed none other than Jenna, the Little Minx.

She must have fallen prey to a kidnapper and rapist.

The man proceeded to remove his cap, casting it aside as his heavy panting echoed through the cave.

His countenance was laid bare before Lumian.

His eyebrows, pale and disordered, were sparse. His eyes sagged slightly at the corners. His nose was a hint of red at the tip, and his mouth bore dry, cracked lips. His complexion was a shade too pale, betraying signs of fatigue and exertion.

The man squatted, loosening the bag’s ties, revealing its contents.

Lumian’s intuition proved correct—it was indeed Jenna, the “Showy Diva.”

Her customarily tied brownish-yellow hair was in disarray, cascading over her body. Her eyes were sealed shut, framed by a layer of deep shadows. Adorned in a white blouse and a beige fluffy short skirt, it was unclear whether she had lost or hadn’t yet donned her mole.

As the man drew Jenna from the bag, his breathing was so labored that Lumian could discern it effortlessly, even if he wasn’t a Hunter.

Such a strong desire… bordering on the perverse… Lumian found himself thinking this almost subconsciously.

Stumbling upon such a scenario, he resolved to come to Jenna’s aid while he was here. If the Savoie Mob’s boss ever considered appointing a new leader, “Red Boots” Franca might vouch for him.

But a hasty rescue wasn’t on his agenda. Lumian intended to observe further, ascertain whether the man possessed any unique abilities that emboldened him to cross a leader of the Savoie Mob, “Red Boots” Franca.

He would swoop in once the man was mid-stripping, incapacitated in his haste.

If only I had a long-range weapon. This wouldn’t be such a chore… Lumian heaved a sigh, pondering on getting the Savoie Mob to supply him with a firearm.

The man’s hands found their way to Jenna’s face, patting it lightly twice.

Next, he withdrew a small metal bottle, unscrewing the cap and brought it to Jenna’s nose.

Achoo!

A sneeze jolted Jenna awake, her eyes fluttering open.

The man’s visage reflected in her wide blue eyes, sparking alarm. An instinctive urge to rise seized her.

But in the next moment, she registered the absence of strength in her body, rendering resistance futile.

“Damn you, dog sh*t, what do you think you’re doing?” Jenna mustered enough strength to spit out the words.

A twisted smile spread across the man’s face.

“Do you know? I’ve watched you sing countless times. Each time, the desire to tear away your clothing and have you perform solely for me is overwhelming.”

Jenna hurled back, her voice seething with rage, “You lunatic, a bastard who deserves being f*cked by a donkey! You’re done for! The Savoie Mob will have you sleeping with the fishes!”

The man remained silent, his brown eyes gleaming with a peculiar light.

Jenna’s cheeks flushed crimson, and her breathing grew shallow.

Her body twitched involuntarily, her eyes widening in shock at her own reaction.

“This is just perfect. Not only a hint of resistance but a subconscious acquiescence too…” The man stood up, brimming with anticipation, rapidly disrobing his clothes, trousers, and shoes.

Lumian, observing from his hidden spot, felt a sudden jolt of alarm.

Jenna’s reaction is abnormal! Could she be under the influence of some Beyonder power?

Did every human and dog in Trier have access to Beyonder powers?

Has Jenna been coerced into arousal? This… This bears an uncanny resemblance to Susanna Mattise and Monsieur Ive’s act…

Lumian’s thoughts spiraled as he drew out the ritual silver dagger, tucking it into his right pocket with the blade pointed inward and the hilt pressing against the outer cloth.

Lowering his body, he silently moved from the stone wall into the cave, stealthily approaching the man from the shadow’s edge.

The man’s attention was fully riveted on Jenna. His eyes blazed with a fanatic light, his face twisted into a perverse grin. As he worked his belt loose and shed his trousers, his gaze roved over Jenna’s form.

Emerging from the shadows, Lumian sprang forth like a cheetah on the prowl.