入室强性暴

Leaving the clinic, Ruhr had appeared to have recovered, escaping the clutches of death. How could he have died so suddenly?

With a heavy heart, Lumian stepped into Room 307, fixing his gaze upon the bed.

There lay Ruhr, his body plagued by festering wounds that oozed a faint yellow pus. His complexion was pale and sickly, and he lay completely still.

Ruhr’s eyes were wide open, and there was evidence of vomit around his mouth.

After a few moments of silently studying Ruhr’s dazed, pained eyes, Lumian spoke in a deep voice, “When did he pass away?”

Michel, her white hair now devoid of its usual luster, slowly shook her head and replied, “I was exhausted and fell asleep. When I awoke, he was already gone…”

“Did he return to Room 302 before bedtime?” Lumian inquired, pressing for details.

“No, he only went to the washroom near Room 302. I followed him…” Michel’s voice carried a deep timbre, but it gave Lumian an otherworldly sensation, as though a part of her soul had left her body.

They had all visited the washroom. One fell victim to the strange ailment, while the other remained unscathed… Lumian furrowed his brow, determined to investigate the washroom.

If nothing seems amiss there, the likelihood of Madame Michel being abnormal becomes increasingly probable!

As Lumian departed from Room 307, heading toward the designated washroom, Michel remained kneeling by the bed, quietly weeping, unaware of the other’s movements.

The third-floor restroom was no longer as filthy as before, thanks to the regular cleaning ladies. Although some stains and trash were unavoidable after a day’s use, it was still passable for civilized individuals.

Lumian glanced around, taking in the sight of the toilet bowl and sink illuminated by the moon’s crimson glow streaming through the window. He noticed the rusty tap and mirror, reflecting his own image.

After careful observation, he noticed a white silk handkerchief draped over a pipe in a hidden corner.

Even with a casual glance, Lumian could tell that it didn’t belong to any of the current residents of Auberge du Coq Doré. The fabric was of superior quality, adorned with elegant embroidery—a clear sign of its expense.

An outsider, perhaps? Lumian’s initial instinct was to pick up the silk handkerchief and examine it more closely. However, he quickly reminded himself of the sight of Monsieur Ruhr’s festering body when he had fallen ill and forced himself to restrain his impulses.

Lumian’s mind raced as he left the washroom and returned to Room 307. He approached Madame Michel, who was still sobbing, and inquired, “Do you know who the handkerchief in the washroom belongs to?”

Confused and filled with sorrow, Michel instinctively replied, “It’s Ruhr’s.”

Monsieur Ruhr’s? Lumian was both surprised and convinced.

He pressed further, “Where did it come from?”

Madame Michel gazed at Ruhr’s grotesque, lifeless form and spoke dreamily, “It was among the trash we collected tonight. I wonder which gentleman or lady discarded it…

“It had phlegm on it but was undamaged. Ruhr cleaned it and intended to sell it second-hand instead of throwing it away…

“After you mentioned the possibility of something unclean in the trash, Ruhr took it out and hid it in the washroom. He didn’t dare to return to Room 302…”

Phlegm… Lumian felt he had discovered the root of the problem.

He let out a slow exhale and said, “Did Monsieur Ruhr touch the handkerchief again? Did you?”

“I don’t know…” Madame Michel shook her head slowly. “He went to the washroom by himself. I didn’t touch it…”

As expected… Lumian retrieved his gloves and put them on. He returned to the washroom and used Fallen Mercury to lift the white silk handkerchief. He carefully placed it in the white paper he had with him, folding it neatly.

Throughout the process, he made sure not to touch the handkerchief directly.

Afterward, Lumian wiped Fallen Mercury’s blade with another piece of white paper and tossed the crumpled ball into the toilet bowl. He waited for it to soften and then flushed it away.

Stepping out of the washroom, he noticed Madame Michel standing silently by the door of Room 307, like a ghost wandering in the darkness.

As Lumian approached her, the old lady with white hair wore a pleading expression.

“It’s almost dawn, Monsieur Ciel. Could you help me move Ruhr back to Room 302?”

Her voice still held a dreamy quality.

Lumian was taken aback. After a brief pause of five or six seconds, he replied, “Okay.”

He entered Room 307 and carefully wrapped Monsieur Ruhr’s body in the bedsheets, hoisting him onto his back.

With just a few steps, Lumian carried the lifeless form and placed it on the bed in Room 302.

Madame Michel, having squeezed through the trash, expressed her profuse gratitude before striding towards the wooden table and drawing back the curtains.

It was almost 6 a.m. As the first rays of dawn broke through the sky, dimming the crimson moonlight, Michel listened to the vendors outside the motel and fixated her gaze on Ruhr.

Lumian retreated from Room 302 and returned to the corridor, stepping out of the reach of the light. He leaned silently against the wall, not disturbing the serene scene.

After a few minutes, Madame Michel suddenly sprang into action.

She rummaged through the room, finding more banknotes and coins. Then, she hastened out of the room and descended downstairs.

Lumian didn’t follow. He raised his right foot to the wall and leaned against the sleeping darkness of the wall.

As time passed, Madame Michel returned with an abundance of items.

There was a bottle of red wine, grilled cod, cured meat, meatloaf, soybean paste, hot sauce, and apples.

Without sparing a glance for Lumian, Madame Michel entered Room 302. She collapsed onto the bed and placed the food beside the decaying corpse.

After a moment’s contemplation, she rose again and ignited the carbide lamp on the wooden table, filling the room with its glow.

Madame Michel once again lowered herself to the floor, picked up the meatloaf, and brought it to Ruhr’s mouth. Smiling, she uttered, “Haven’t you been craving meatloaf lately? I bought it for you today.”

After allowing some of the oil to moisten the corpse’s lips, Madame Michel took a bite of the meatloaf and savored it with closed eyes.

“It’s delicious. How long has it been since we last ate? Two weeks, right?”

Having taken a few more bites of the meatloaf, Madame Michel seized the bottle of red wine and took a swig.

Mumbling, she continued, “Old Man, our vines have produced red wine. We needn’t worry about what the future holds!”

Engaging in one-sided conversation with Ruhr’s lifeless body, she continued to indulge in wine and various delicacies.

Outside the door, Lumian remained in the darkness, leaning against the wall as he silently observed the unfolding scene. He neither entered nor departed.

Soon enough, Madame Michel began to feel the effects of her intoxication. As a former barmaid, she began to sing loudly:

“Trier, a city dressed in gold,

“A ball that endures ’til dawn unfolds;

“Chicken roasted, dripping with oil’s grace,

“A castle cake to fill each eager embrace.

“A bow-tied attendant glides ‘mongst the guests,

“Merrily dancing with joy and delight.

“My beloved, hidden ‘midst the crowd,

“Among them, a beacon shining bright.

“Among them, my love resides,

“In the Capital of Joy, forever Trier!”

Madame Michel rose unsteadily and stumbled towards the wooden table, gathering the banknotes in front of the carbide lamp.

In an instant, the cash caught fire and flames erupted on the table, emitting a bright yellow glow.

With her arms outstretched, Madame Michel shouted, “In the Capital of Joy, forever Trier!”

She retrieved the rope that had once bound the sack and climbed onto the wooden table, tying the rope firmly to the window frame with a tight knot.

In the flickering light of the fire, Madame Michel turned to face Ruhr, lying motionless on the bed. She positioned the knot around her neck and bent her legs.

The knot tightened, and Madame Michel’s eyes bulged in her struggle for breath.

Outside the window, the sky grew brighter, casting a faint light that bathed a portion of the corridor. Lumian leaned against the wall, concealed in the shadows. With his hands in his pockets and his right foot propped up, he gazed impassively at Madame Michel, suspended from the window frame. He witnessed her mouth gradually open, her expression contort in pain, and her bent legs letting up upon her demise.

In the morning light, the corpse swayed gently.

…

At 6:35 a.m., 3 Rue des Blouses Blanches, Apartment 601.

Startled by the knocks on the door, Franca, her flaxen hair disheveled, wore a bitter expression as she rose from her slumber.

“I’ve only had three hours of sleep. Three hours!”

“Help me inspect the contents for any anomalies.” Lumian ignored Franca’s complaints and presented the handkerchief wrapped in white paper. “Be cautious. It might be infectious.”

“Infectious?” Franca snapped out of her daze and retreated to her room, donning translucent, pale-yellow rubber gloves.

She carefully unwrapped the outer layer of paper, extracted the silk handkerchief within, and placed it on the glass coffee table.

Tapping her teeth while observing intently, Franca spoke with a solemn expression,

“There is indeed an issue. There are numerous small but active spirits lingering on it. They belong to the same category.

“I suspect it’s a pathogen. It spreads through direct contact with the skin or even blood exchange. Based on your description, it’s not highly contagious.”

Although Lumian didn’t comprehend the concept of a pathogen fully, he grasped the essence of Franca’s explanation.

He fell into silence momentarily before saying, “Can you determine the owner of this handkerchief?”

“No problem. With a powerful medium present, as long as they don’t possess strong anti-divination abilities, I can locate them.” As Franca spoke, black flames flickered on her rubber gloves.

After “cleansing” the area, she removed her gloves and retrieved a makeup mirror. Hovering her left palm over the handkerchief, she stroked the mirror with her right hand.

Reciting a series of incantations in a hushed tone, her eyes darkened.

She repeated the divination statement.

“The owner of this handkerchief.

“The owner of this handkerchief…”

After several repetitions, the mirror emitted an aqueous glow, reflecting a figure in the darkness.

It was a slender young man with a pale complexion and an unhealthy appearance.

His curly dark-yellow hair framed his face, and his brown eyes conveyed an unmasked indifference. Clad in a black tailcoat, he clutched a white silk handkerchief. He coughed twice and expectorated into the fabric.

Lumian strained to capture the person’s features, feeling a sense of familiarity wash over him. It was as if he had encountered this individual somewhere before.

After a brief recollection, it dawned on him.

This was a member of Hugues Artois’s campaign team, the one who stood behind the red-haired woman!