入室强性暴

Feeling its weight and the warmth that hadn’t yet dissipated, he was both surprised and disturbed.

He had anticipated Mr. K would offer some form of protection, but he hadn’t expected the man to rip off his own finger and toss it to him, claiming it could prove helpful in a tight spot!

Was this some kind of sick joke?

Setting aside the dubious utility of a severed digit, didn’t Mr. K worry about the potential consequences of handing over a piece of his own flesh?

In the world of mysticism, one’s flesh and blood held significant power. In the wrong hands, they could lead to disastrous consequences.

No one wanted to become the target of a horrifying curse without reason!

Given Mr. K’s formidable abilities and his knowledge of mysticism, to the point of being able to act as a Notary, Lumian suspected the man had a way to nullify the various dangers associated with parting with his flesh. That was why he had dared to sever his own finger and hand it over.

Moreover, the detached finger was clearly imbued with magic.

I wonder if I can trade the prospect of meeting the Montsouris ghost with Mr. K by using Fallen Mercury, drawing blood when cutting this finger… As Cordu’s Prankster King, Lumian was never short of unconventional ideas.

Suppressing the urge, he shifted his gaze from the finger back to Mr. K.

By now, Mr. K had regenerated a new finger, slightly damp and covered in delicate, fair skin.

“Thank you,” Lumian murmured, stowing the severed finger in the pocket of his slate-blue workman’s uniform.

Mr. K gave a curt nod and said, “You may leave. Don’t forget our agreement.”

“One more thing.” Lumian produced the diamond necklace. “Could you help me determine if it’s real or fake? I need to exchange it for some cash.”

He already owed Mr. K a favor; he didn’t mind owing a little more.

And if he couldn’t repay the debt? At worst, he’d sell himself to the organization behind Mr. K!

That was Lumian’s endgame.

Mr. K directed the attendant who had led Lumian underground to pass the diamond necklace to him and examined it.

From the corner of his eye, Lumian could see a golden glow emanating from the shadows beneath Mr. K’s hood.

After a few seconds, Mr. K handed the necklace back to the attendant.

“It’s a fake. The craftsmanship is quite impressive, though. It’s worth 50 verl d’or.”

“Alright.” Lumian didn’t bother hiding his disappointment, adding, “I also need a set of identification papers.”

After receiving Mr. K’s affirmation, Lumian left 19 Rue Scheer and caught a public carriage back to Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman. His thoughts bounced between joining a gang without raising suspicion, pondering the purpose of the severed finger, and devising ways to get pawnshops to pay more for the counterfeit diamond necklace—at least 30 verl d’or…

Amid these thoughts, an idea began to crystallize.

Simultaneously, he planned to find a couple of safe houses in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman district and Quartier du Jardin Botanique before noon—the kind that didn’t require identification.

I still have 850 verl d’or and 24 coppet on me. After setting aside the remaining 400 for the information broker Anthony Reid, I’ll have 450 verl d’or left. I can rent two or three safe houses… Lumian carefully calculated his remaining assets.

He pursed his lips, feeling an urgency to leave Mr. K’s severed finger at Auberge du Coq Doré before securing a room.

…

By 3 p.m., Lumian had found rooms in both Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman on Rue des Blouses Blanches, and Quartier du Jardin Botanique on Rue des Pavés—neither of which required identification.

Naturally, there was a surcharge for such discretion. The former was hardly better than Room 207 at Auberge du Coq Doré, costing 6 verl d’or per week. The latter, more akin to Osta Trul’s rented apartment, neighbored factory workers from the south and cost 10 verl d’or per week.

Lumian paid four weeks’ rent upfront but received no discounts.

Returning to Auberge du Coq Doré, he skimmed through Men’s Aesthetics for a while, using cosmetics to soften his sharp features, add shadows, and trim his eyebrows.

Soon, Lumian had completed his initial disguise, transforming into an ordinary-looking man in his mid-twenties with a dangerous air.

After combing his golden-black hair, he donned a dark blue cap, took Mr. K’s severed finger, and made his way to Salle de Bal Brise on Avenue du Marché.

Unlike other guests, he didn’t enter directly. Instead, he stopped between the khaki building and the white spherical statue made of countless skulls, addressing the two gangsters guarding the entrance, “I need to see Baron Brignais.”

Without waiting for their response, he added, “Tell the baron it’s Ciel, from our last meeting. He’ll be pleased to see me again.”

The two gangsters exchanged glances, not daring to delay the baron’s business. One of them entered the ballroom.

In under five minutes, the gang member reemerged, telling Lumian, “The baron wants you to meet him where you last saw him.”

The café on the second floor? Lumian smirked. With hands in his pockets, he sauntered up the stairs and entered Salle de Bal Brise, spotting Baron Brignais with a mahogany-colored pipe.

The gentleman sported a black, thin tweed suit, a half top hat nearby, and a gleaming ring on his left hand. Four thugs flanked him.

“Sit.” Baron Brignais’s brown eyes scanned the room, his smile indicating the seat across the table.

Lumian approached and sat, studying Baron Brignais’s sharp features and naturally curly brown hair, and said, “Good afternoon. We meet again.”

Baron Brignais tapped the pipe’s base, smiling as he asked, “What brings you here?”

Lumian produced Charlie’s counterfeit diamond necklace, calmly stating,

“I’ve been strapped for cash and want to pawn this necklace to you. It’s worth 1,500 verl d’or. I’ll take 1,000.”

Baron Brignais turned to a subordinate, commanding, “Get someone to appraise it.”

“Yes, Baron.” A thug with conspicuous bruises on his forehead left the café.

Brignais appraised Lumian again, nodding in approval.

“Not bad. Your makeup skills have come a long way. Although still flawed, you’re no longer as easy to recognize.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Lumian grinned. “Men’s Aesthetics is quite the resource.”

They exchanged small talk until the thug who had left the café returned with a man in his forties, dressed in a formal suit and bow tie, carrying a toolbox.

After assessing the necklace, the man approached Baron Brignais, set the necklace on the table, and whispered, “It’s fake.”

Instantly, all the thugs present drew their revolvers.

Baron Brignais observed Lumian, who appeared unfazed by the appraiser’s declaration or the thugs’ actions.

His grin never wavered as he nodded to the appraiser, “You may leave.”

“Yes, Baron.” The appraiser hurriedly exited the café.

Baron Brignais set down his mahogany pipe, playing with the diamond ring on his left hand. He asked Lumian, still smiling, “Were you aware this necklace was counterfeit?”

Lumian smiled as well.

“Indeed.”

Before he could finish, the thugs aimed their revolvers at him.

Intrigued by Lumian’s composure, Baron Brignais inquired, “Did you anticipate I’d have someone verify the necklace’s authenticity?”

Lumian’s grin remained steady.

“Indeed.”

Baron Brignais’s eyes narrowed.

“Knowing all this, why would you still attempt to borrow 1,000 verl d’or with a fake necklace?

“What makes you think I’d grant your request?”

Lumian slowly rose, disregarding the revolvers aimed at him. He placed his hands on the table’s edge, leaned down to meet Baron Brignais’s gaze, and smirked.

“Because I killed Margot of the Poison Spur Mob.”

Baron Brignais’s smile froze.

His pupils involuntarily dilated as if to scrutinize the man before him.

The four thugs, their revolvers aimed at Lumian, also reacted with shock.

As enemies of the Poison Spur Mob, they knew Margot’s capabilities all too well.

Lumian’s emotionless gaze scanned the thugs’ faces, causing them to avert their eyes and, unconsciously, their weapons.

Baron Brignais recovered quickly, addressing the four thugs, “Holster your revolvers! Have I not taught you how to treat guests?”

Reprimanding his subordinates, he turned to Lumian, curiosity piqued, “How did you manage to kill Margot?”

“I stabbed him with something poisonous, but I don’t know where he fled before succumbing,” Lumian replied nonchalantly.

This aligned with the preliminary intel Baron Brignais had received. Eyes narrowing, he asked with a grin, “Do you understand the implications of taking my 1,000 verl d’or?”

Lumian smirked, unfazed.

“Indeed.”

…

Auberge du Coq Doré, Room 504.

Upon seeing Lumian outside the door, Charlie eagerly inquired, “So, is it the real deal?”

“It’s a fake. Worth no more than 50 verl d’or,” Lumian casually replied as he entered the room.

He noticed that Charlie had already ripped off Susanna Mattise’s portrait, leaving behind a sticky residue.

Charlie, having mentally braced himself for the outcome, was disappointed but not crushed. He chuckled self-deprecatingly, “Well, it’s still worth 50 verl d’or at least. A generous pawnshop might give me 20 for it.”

Lumian shot him a glance and grinned.

“But I managed to sell the fake necklace for 1,000 verl d’or.”

“What?” Charlie was dumbstruck.

Lumian pulled out a thick wad of bills, still smiling.

“The fake necklace is yours and worth 50 verl d’or. That’s all I can offer you. The rest is my fee for services rendered. Is that acceptable?”