入室强性暴

Lumian sensed an unusual pulsation deep within his soul, as if a distant cry had reached his ethereal essence.

Temporarily unable to respond, he continued to recite the incantation.

“I implore you,

“I beseech to be bestowed the Prophetic Concoction…”

In this ritualistic spell, words like “help create” couldn’t be used. It had to be “bestowed” or “gifted.”

Lumian’s spirit trembled with each uttered word, like ripples extending outward, leaving him with an unsettling sensation of both elevation and dizziness.

Taking two steps forward, he surveyed the aquatic monster’s flesh, the lizard eyes, and the gray henbane. Retrieving the faux goatskin adorned with enigmatic symbols, he positioned it atop the orange candle’s flame, symbolizing the target of his prayer.

Once the faux goatskin was ignited and placed within the natural hollow of the stone altar, Lumian meticulously gathered tulip powder and other ingredients, sprinkling them into the flames.

A peculiar fragrance swiftly permeated the ethereal barrier, causing Lumian to experience hallucinations.

He witnessed a profusion of mystical symbols adorning the faux goatskin, materializing in the void, in constant motion and reconfiguration, perpetually altering their collective form.

Lumian stepped back and scrutinized the diverse materials on the altar. In a resonant voice infused with Hermes’ power, he invoked, “Tulip, a herb that belongs to inevitability, please pass your powers to my incantation!

“…”

As Lumian uttered the final word, his spirit’s ripples merged, granting him the illusion that he could graze the candle’s flame with a mere touch of his palm.

Simultaneously, a searing sensation ignited within his chest, accompanied by a faint hum resonating in his ears. His surroundings spun, akin to being tossed into the air and spun around repeatedly.

Guided by his spirituality, Lumian extended his right hand, pressing it toward the candle’s flame.

His vision dimmed as his spirituality surged forth, intertwining with the flames.

The candle’s flame promptly expanded, casting a radiant and ethereal glow upon the entire altar.

The disparate ingredients of the Prophetic Concoction, once gathered, stirred and converged. Blood churned, and shadows undulated, crafting an exceptionally sinister tableau.

Struggling to maintain a steady flow of his spiritual essence, Lumian observed the physical components fade into specters, completing their reassembly.

A dark crimson phantom, infused with silver-black tincture, materialized before him, condensing into a murky liquid.

The liquid incessantly bubbled, each burst releasing sinuous tendrils of silver-black light, reminiscent of slithering serpents.

Lumian advanced two steps, seizing a metal canister from the altar. Unscrewing its lid, he positioned it beneath the liquid’s surface.

Having placed the vessel containing the Prophetic Concoction back on the altar, Lumian composed himself, preparing his mental state.

As Lumian calmed the ripples within his spirit, he recollected the entire process of the ritual.

If the thorn symbol hadn’t reached a certain level of activation, elevating my status, I wouldn’t have been able to respond and the endeavor would have failed… I can only perform two similar ritualistic spells consecutively… Lumian ruminated, gradually finding his thoughts settling.

Completing the five ritualistic spells required a minimum of Sequence 7, or even Contractee. Lumian, an Alms Monk of Sequence 8, could only accomplish it by relying on the corruption within his body.

Correspondingly, his spirituality couldn’t endure for much longer.

After concluding the ritual and tidying the altar, Lumian dispelled the ethereal barrier and approached the grayish-white cloth bag to drag out the lifeless body.

With gentle care, he twisted the other party’s head to its original position and opened the mouth.

Bathed in the glow of the blue carbide lamp, Lumian retrieved the Prophetic Concoction, unscrewed its lid, and poured the dark liquid into the corpse’s mouth.

Rather than immediately permeating through the larynx, the liquid remained within, akin to a pool of water.

Suddenly, Lumian sensed the quarry’s breeze turning colder, and the carbide lamp’s light deepened to a richer blue.

Almost simultaneously, he heard a rumbling sound, witnessing the corpse’s throat writhe as it consumed all of the Prophetic Concoction.

In the next moment, the naked corpse sat upright, engulfed in an unnatural darkness that defied illumination.

His eyes snapped open upon his pallid, worn face. The once-brown irises had lost their color, now crystal-clear and devoid of hue.

Within the depths of those translucent eyes, layers of vibrant colors seemed to reside. A pure light hung high, countless nearly imperceptible figures, and flickering silver radiance…

Withstanding the bone-chilling cold, Lumian composed himself and inquired, “Where will Guillaume Bénet, the former padre from Cordu Village in Dariège, Riston Province, Intis Republic, appear in a month?”

During the interim, Lumian had contemplated the three questions he wished to pose.

Four primary rules governed the questioning:

First, it must pertain to the future. Inquiries regarding someone’s whereabouts or past actions were forbidden.

Secondly, the description had to be precise enough, or an unanswered query would arise. The name Guillaume Bénet was commonplace in other parts of Intis. Numerous individuals shared the same name. Unless the village of origin was specified, the corpse might reveal the future fate of a different Guillaume Bénet.

Thirdly, regardless of the corpse’s country of origin or familiarity with the corresponding language, it would respond in the same language as the question posed.

Lastly, a question could only contain one element requiring an answer. It could not be framed in the manner of “when and where will it be?”

The corpse’s pale countenance took on a dark green tinge. It parted its lips and uttered in Intis, “Trier’s Quartier de la Princesse Rouge.”

The voice resonated with an illusory and ethereal quality, as if it emanated from another realm. It bore no resemblance to the deceased’s living voice.

So, it can only be narrowed down to the Quartier de la Princesse Rouge? Lumian’s brow furrowed slightly.

He could comprehend the reason behind it—this was not a Prophetic Concoction obtained from hidden entities. Its creator was essentially an Alms Monk, hence the effects naturally wouldn’t be outstanding.

Lumian proceeded to raise his second question.

“Where will I encounter Louis Lund, the former butler of the village administrator in Cordu Village, Dariège, Riston Province, Intis Republic?”

He refrained from mentioning Madame Pualis since he was uncertain of her connection to Madame Night. He feared that her elevated status might interfere with the prophecy’s accuracy.

The corpse’s eyes remained vacant and translucent as it gazed ahead. It responded with an ethereal voice, “Trier’s Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman Avenue du Marché.”

Avenue du Marché? It seems Louis Lund’s presence there isn’t mere happenstance… Lumian mused, a sense of satisfaction washing over him.

As he contemplated, he noticed the strange visions reflected in the corpse’s transparent eyes gradually fading. Acting swiftly, he posed his third question.

“Where will Monsieur Ive, the proprietor of Auberge du Coq Doré in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, be from 11 p.m. to 12 p.m. this Sunday?”

Having observed Monsieur Ive previously entering the underground at this time, Lumian sought to ascertain the specifics of his destination.

Considering that Monsieur Ive had recently been “robbed” and had visited the police headquarters, he might refrain from venturing into the underground for the time being. Lumian specified the time as Sunday.

The corpse swiftly replied, “Trier’s Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, Théatre de l’Ancienne Cage à Pigeons.”

With that, the corpse thudded to the ground and closed its eyes once more, emanating the putrid stench of death.

Théatre de l’Ancienne Cage à Pigeons once again… Lumian bundled the corpse back into the cloth bag, intending to bury it even deeper underground.

…

In front of a beige three-story building, a stubbly-bearded tramp found himself cornered by two valets beside a pillar.

“I-I’ll leave now,” he stammered, trembling.

At that moment, a man dressed as a butler approached, his face filled with surprise.

“Master, is that you? Master!”

“What?” The tramp was perplexed.

The butler couldn’t contain his excitement.

“Don’t you remember? You’re the owner of this place, and we are all your loyal servants. You suffered a head injury and lost many memories. One day, you suddenly ran away from home.

“It’s been months. I’ve finally found you! You’ve returned!”

“I’m not, I’m not…” The tramp remembered his past clearly.

However, the butler and the two valets refused to listen to his explanation. They “encircled” him and led him into the building.

“Madam, Madam, the Master has returned!” the butler shouted with elation.

Before long, the tramp laid eyes upon an elegant and beautiful woman.

She wore a light-green dress, her eyes exuding a mature allure.

Overwhelmed with joy, she burst into tears and threw herself into the tramp’s arms.

“You’re back! You’re finally back!”

As he inhaled the sweet scent of her perfume and felt the softness of her body against his, the tramp attempted to argue that he wasn’t her husband, but the words caught in his throat.

In a daze of confusion, he was guided to the dining room. There, under a crystal chandelier, he beheld a sumptuous feast—a dozen oysters, a pot of succulent chicken, a plate of beef stewed with prunes, suet pudding, salad, and a bottle of White Elixir wine…

Simultaneously, the tramp’s gaze fell upon the oil paintings adorning the walls of the dining room.

One of them was a portrait, strikingly similar to him.

Could it truly be me? But I recall every experience… Could there be another who bears my resemblance? The tramp grew even more bewildered.

After indulging in a hearty meal and savoring fine wines, he was led to the bedroom. Soon, the beautiful and elegant madam entered, dressed in a silk nightgown.

Her eyes shimmered with tears as she spoke, “Do you still remember my passion?”

The tramp’s breathing quickened, and he couldn’t resist taking a step forward.

The two of them embraced passionately, tumbling onto the bed, their desires overwhelming them.

In that moment, the tramp began to “believe” that he truly was the owner of this grand house. He had a beautiful wife, a professional butler, and a multitude of servants.

Even if the original master were to return, he would ensure that the other was exposed as a fraud!

…

Lumian resurfaced and entered Auberge du Coq Doré, carrying the extinguished carbide lamp.

Madame Fels, who manned the front desk, immediately stood up upon seeing him.

“Ciel—Monsieur Ciel, Baron Brignais wishes to meet you at the Salle de Bal Brise after dinner.”

Baron Brignais is seeking me? What could it be about? Lumian nodded.