Chapter 345 - 345 Dream
345 Dream
I need exceptional endurance to withstand the weakening of self-control brought about by carrying the Flog. The waves of various desires and emotions surge stronger… Alms Monk excels in handling such situations… While reading Madam Magician’s letter, Lumian swiftly considered if he could fulfill the conditions for using the mystical item.
With this in mind, Lumian recollected the adverse effects of Contractee contracts.
A substantial portion of them seemed to be mitigated by Alms Monk’s resilience and self-restraint.
First acquiring the Alms Monk boon prior to becoming a Contractee. Could it be that one must bolster their endurance to endure a contract? Otherwise, the padre with over ten negative effects would have self-destructed long ago…
Yes, Guillaume Bénet’s utilization of Alms Monk and Ascetic powers wasn’t overly adept. Could this stem from his ingrained indulgence, making change difficult? Or did he leap directly into being a Contractee before evolving into a Fate Appropriator? His grasp of the Alms Monk and Ascetic boons seemed inadequate, relying largely on instinct. Lumian murmured to himself.
Recalling how the padre in the dream transformed from an ordinary individual to a Fate Appropriator within a day, Lumian was more inclined to believe the latter possibility. He surmised that the events in the dream marked Guillaume Bénet’s advancement to a Fate Appropriator with only two to three boons.
Lumian redirected his attention to the letter in his hand and read through the remainder in one go.
Concerning the utilization of the Flog boxing gloves to attract perilous creatures, he intended to seize an opportunity and approach Franca for a.s.sistance to verify the precise circ.u.mstances.
If indeed hazardous, he would need to contemplate reserving one usage of spirit world traversal to escape any future influence or attack.
Crimson flames silently surged, setting the letter ablaze, its words turning to ash.
Amidst the dispersed ashes, Lumian reached out his hand toward the iron-black boxing gloves.
Although they lacked the metallic texture and chilliness, they were exceptionally rigid.
Almost in unison, two voices resonated in Lumian’s mind:
One was the voice of the eloping couple, casting curses; the other was the voice of inebriated individuals shattering bottles and clamoring in the street.
The former set Lumian’s imagination ablaze, while the latter spurred him to draw his revolver and open fire.
The sensations weren’t overpowering and could be endured and repressed.
After confirming the fit of the boxing gloves, Lumian set them beside the pillow.
…
In the depths of night, in a hazy state, Lumian felt as though he had stepped into an ancient beige castle. Its exterior bore numerous dark and crimson stains, as if drenched in a copious amount of blood.
Hysterical laughter and shouts reverberated from within the castle. Lumian instinctively raised his gaze and spotted a deep-red visage peering at him through a narrow window on the third floor.
Fine blood vessels detached from their sockets, leaving behind a pair of inky-black, blood-soaked cavities.
Lumian’s thoughts blurred as he involuntarily stepped into the ancient castle.
What unfurled before his eyes were gruesome scenes: The maid rent her abdomen with a dining knife, drawing forth pallid intestines marred by blood. The valets ascended the staircase to the second floor, only to throw themselves back into the hall, repeating their falls in a macabre cycle. The butler clutched a comely female head, his lower body severed. He dragged himself with his elbows, leaving behind a broad and extended trail of blood. The headless mistress sat in an armchair, lifted her cup of coffee, and poured it into the gash on her neck…
The pungent stench of blood and the frenzied ambiance pierced Lumian’s mind, snapping his eyes open.
He beheld the familiar, squalid ceiling and caught the ceaseless nocturnal clamor of Rue Anarchie.
Had it all been a dream? The scene from his dream lingered in Lumian’s memory, a residual unease remaining.
As a Beyonder seasoned with the world of mysticism, he didn’t underestimate such a dream.
It likely bore the marks of a revelation through Astral Projection or an external influence.
Swiftly reviewing the day’s occurrences, Lumian zeroed in on two potential “culprits.”
Could it be the lingering effects of the King’s Pie game from earlier, or perhaps linked to the impact of the Flog boxing gloves?
He cast a glance at the iron-black spiked boxing gloves, left untouched beside his pillow, sensing that the game was the likely trigger.
An attempt to commune with Termiboros yielded no response.
After securing the Flog boxing gloves within a drawer in his wooden table, Lumian drifted back into slumber.
Throughout that night, nightmares plagued him repeatedly. Each instance, he encountered the bizarre ancient castle.
Fortunately, the dream’s lucidity waned progressively, eventually melding into a commonplace nightmare.
…
The following morning, Lumian adhered to his routine of jogging and practicing boxing, then set out in search of a distinctive breakfast in the bustling market district.
After spending nearly the entirety of the morning at Salle de Bal Brise, he eventually found himself standing before Apartment 601 at 3 Rue des Blouses Blanches.
With a flush on her face and a lively demeanor, Franca answered the door. “You’re quite the eager one.”
Lumian was forthright about his intentions.
“Remember you mentioned wanting to discuss Emperor Roselle with me?”
“Well, well…” Franca’s expression shifted oddly once more.
She grumbled, “I’m feeling unwell!”
As Franca led him to the living room, she muttered, “It’s empathetic embarra.s.sment!”
Lumian shut the door and took a seat on the sofa. After a moment’s thought, he inquired, “Is this embarra.s.sment on behalf of Emperor Roselle?”
“Exactly.” Franca, seated cross-legged in a recliner, scratched her flaxen hair. “I’m seriously concerned that he might be so mortified that he’ll rise from the grave to strangle anyone who’s privy to the information!”
After a rather odd comment, Franca sighed and explained, “In simpler terms, Emperor Roselle, like us, hails from another world.”
“Emperor Roselle is also one of the transmigrators you mentioned?” Lumian blurted out in astonishment.
Franca confirmed succinctly, “Many of his inventions, beliefs, and ideas originated in our world. What’s more significant, his diary was penned in the language of the nation your sister and I come from. That’s why it remained undeciphered for so long until our transmigration.”
Lumian’s mind was a whirlwind of confusion. It all seemed too fantastical, like something out of fiction. However, Aurore’s att.i.tude toward Emperor Roselle and his diary lent credence to Franca’s words.
Seeing his silence, Franca added with understanding, “Nonetheless, he’s an extraordinary individual. Progressing from a mere Sequence 9 individual, he ascended the paths of the divine step by step, overthrowing the Sauron Dynasty and enacting monumental changes upon Intis and the world. His impact on the history of the past two to three centuries and generations of humanity is profound.”
That’s true. Emperor Roselle once said that a hero is a hero, irrespective of their origins… Where Emperor Roselle came from was immaterial… Lumian quickly collected his thoughts and asked with curiosity, “Did Emperor Roselle’s famous quotations originate from philosophers in your world?”
“Many of them did.” Franca, in a way, supported her fellow countryman’s public image. “But some are genuinely his own. Consider this: a person who’s undergone so much, tasted both triumph and failure, must possess unique insights across various domains. He’s not lacking in memorable sayings.”
Now I understand why Aurore chuckles whenever I mention something Emperor Roselle said… A realization dawned on Lumian. He grasped his sister’s sentiments at that moment and the jesting tone the Curly-Haired Baboons Research Society adopted toward the Emperor.
He then inquired, “Did one of you write Emperor Roselle’s Secret Chronicles?”
“Yes, but I’m unsure who the author is,” Franca honestly admitted. “The writer possesses quite the literary talent.”
“Is everything in there accurate?” Lumian contemplated seeking out an underground bookseller to procure a copy.
Franca chuckled. “About half of it. Even among the portions based on actual events, half of that is a sensationalized expansion of a couple sentences from the Emperor’s diary into a narrative rife with explicit details. For instance, the Emperor once shared more than just friendship with a Demoness…”
Franca suddenly paused.
Realization dawned upon her that she herself was now a Demoness.
A worthwhile addition to my collection… Emperor Roselle does seem to live up to the legendary reputation of being a flirt… Lumian’s antic.i.p.ation for the underground book grew.
He opted not to delve further into the topic of the Emperor and the Demoness. Instead, he brought up the King’s Pie game from the prior day and the subsequent nightmarish dreams. He then sought Franca’s insights as an adept pract.i.tioner of divination.
“What revelations are hidden in that dream?”
“I can’t decipher it,” Franca said after a prolonged pause. “It conveys a sense of danger and advises to stay away. Also, those nightmares appear to be lingering effects from some form of insanity.”
Lumian contemplated for a moment, deciding not to probe deeper for the time being. He planned to consult the two Psychiatrists later in the day.
…
At 3:20 p.m., Lumian reached Mason Café in Quartier du Jardin Botanique and took a seat in Booth D. He requested a cup of aromatic Intis coffee and two cream-filled cupcakes.
Once the coffee and confections were served, he patiently waited for a minute or so before catching the sound of Susie’s gentle, feminine voice.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lumian Lee.”
Lumian responded with an easy smile.
“Good afternoon, Madam Susie. Good afternoon, Madam Justice.”