Lord of Mysteries 2: Circle of Inevitability

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On a southeastern hill overlooking Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, there stood an active quarry.

Having departed from Salle de Bal Brise, Lumian embarked on a quest to find a suitable candidate, which led him to this very place.

The night was deep, and the lamplighters diligently illuminated the gas lamps strewn across the streets. In stark contrast, the quarry, having concluded its daily operations, was enveloped in darkness, devoid of any artificial illumination.

Scattered across the quarry floor were several gypsum furnaces, surrounded by numerous tramps.

Lumian honed his focus, meticulously assessing each individual’s circumstances.

At long last, he discovered a target that fit his requirements.

Resting against one of the gypsum furnaces was a male tramp. His shirt, pants, and jacket were tattered, their original hue obscured by the dark brown soil. Sunken cheeks and emaciated limbs almost distorted his figure. His unkempt hair and beard intertwined in a mess of strands.

His eyes were half-shut, and his shallow breaths suggested he might perish at any moment.

According to Lumian’s observations, the tramp was indeed approaching the end of his waning life. He had but two or three days left.

Approaching the figure, Lumian squatted down and retrieved the gas canister he had obtained from the unsavory Hedsey, whom Franca had aptly named Mysticism Smelling Salts. Unscrewing the lid, he positioned it near the tramp’s nostrils.

He and Franca had already distributed Rentas’s “remains.” The sedatives and coins totaling 212 verl d’or belonged to Lumian, while the remainder was Franca’s share.

Achoo!

The tramp sneezed twice, and his eyes fluttered open.

Weakly gazing at Lumian, donned in a blue laborer’s uniform and a dark cap, he inquired, puzzled, “W-who are you? W-what are you trying to do?”

Lumian responded calmly, “I’m just a passing worker. I sensed that your demise was imminent, so I approached to verify.”

The tramp found no fault in Lumian’s explanation. In the Intis Republic, upon discovering a lifeless body, whether reporting to the governmental authorities or the two Churches, individuals would receive compensation for promptly ensuring purification or cremation.

Though the sum was meager, a mere 1 verl d’or, even the lower-class citizens found it a pleasant surprise, no matter how modest the additional benefits.

The tramp’s beard trembled as he managed a smile.

“You guessed right. I also feel as if my time is drawing near. Drop by more frequently over the next two days, so your money doesn’t get snatched away.”

Perhaps it was the effect of the Mysticism Smelling Salts, or perhaps the topic of death momentarily stirred the tramp’s spirits, for his words ceased to falter, and his reasoning became clearer.

“Have you got any family left?” Lumian inquired casually, squatting before the tramp as he stowed away the Mysticism Smelling Salts.

The tramp fell silent for a few moments, then slowly shook his head.

“No, not any more.

“Has your family passed on?” Lumian probed further.

The tramp’s beard swayed with the motion of his muscles, and his voice carried an unmistakable tinge of anguish.

“They’re gone. All gone. My parents didn’t make it past 45. My brother fell in the war a few years back. My sisters succumbed to illness, and her child became a child laborer. By the age of ten, he was already hunchbacked and died from sheer exhaustion in a textile mill…”

The tramp seemed to stray from Lumian’s question, more akin to a recollection before his impending demise. He rambled on, “I used to toil in the quarry, praised for my strength. Then, a Monsieur saw my diligence, believed I could endure hardship. He taught me to place detonators and loosen rocks. My pay rose, and life took a turn for the better. I had a wife, tough as nails just like me, and three precious children, but only one survived. My little angel, my daughter.

“When the food prices sparked protests, my body suddenly gave way, and I fell grievously ill.

“My wife and daughter spent everything, amassed debts. Eventually, they nursed me back to health, but I lost my job in the process. We were hounded by loan sharks day in and day out. Those men took away my little angel. My wife and I searched desperately. A few weeks later, we found her lifeless body. She couldn’t endure their torment and chose to end it all.

“My wife wanted to turn to the police, but they beat her to death and dumped her somewhere. I was battered and left unconscious, but I survived. I’ve made it till today…”

Lumian listened in silence, his voice deep when he finally spoke, “Any wishes?”

The tramp laughed out loud.

“Wishes? My greatest wish is to pass away shortly after catching that illness.”

Lumian fell silent for a moment before continuing, “No thirst for revenge?”

The tramp’s eyes glazed over as he replied, “Those loan sharks were killed by other mobs. New loan sharks have taken their place.”

He recollected Lumian’s initial question and spoke in a voice that seemed to drift from another realm, “When my time comes, I think—I think I’d like to have another meatloaf. I remember those years, every weekend, my wife would buy the meat herself, add flax seeds and vinegar, turn it into a sauce, and stuff it between flatbread. My daughter adored it, and I loved it too…”

Lumian nodded, rising to his feet and making his way down the hill, toward the streets below.

After approximately 45 minutes, he returned to the gypsum furnace, carrying a Rouen meatloaf that filled the air with its enticing aroma.

The tramp seemed on the verge of fainting once more. Lumian employed the Mysticism Smelling Salts once again to rouse him from his stupor.

The tramp sneezed a few times, his gaze fixed blankly on the Rouen meatloaf. He quickly took bites, his beard becoming coated with a thin layer of oil.

Having consumed half of it, he gasped for breath and inquired with a smile, “What’s your game, lad?”

“I’ll be stabbing you later. It might just bring about your demise tonight,” Lumian stated plainly.

The tramp chuckled weakly and queried, “Aren’t you afraid of the police? I fear not death. I should’ve perished long ago. Did you know that every winter, I sleep inside this gypsum furnace? Even after a day’s work, it retains a soothing warmth that lasts until nearly daybreak. However, the lingering fumes within are poisonous and could claim me in my sweet slumber. So far, it hasn’t happened to me.”

Lumian chuckled.

“I reckon the police aren’t too bothered about how a tramp meets his end, so long as it’s not a blatant murder.”

Without further ado, the tramp devoured the remaining Rouen meatloaf and let out a belch.

After a pause of over ten seconds, he adjusted his position and spoke, “You may proceed.”

Lumian drew his blade, Fallen Mercury, adorned with sinister patterns, and thrust it into the tramp’s hand.

Blood trickled forth, staining the tip of the blade crimson.

Simultaneously, Lumian once again beheld the illusory river of mercury.

His purpose in seeking a near-death tramp was to exchange for a more practical fate!

This was not to say that encountering the fate of the Montsouris ghost wasn’t formidable. Quite the contrary, it could lead to certain death or even the demise of an entire family for many humans. Furthermore, it clung tenaciously. However, the issue lay in the time it took to take effect. The exchange of fates could often be completed within minutes, whereas the Montsouris ghost’s assault on its target occurred at random intervals. It might strike in ten to twenty minutes, or it might wait for three to four months.

In other words, the fate of “encountering the Montsouris ghost” was ill-suited for a surprise attack or a battle.

Furthermore, having learned from the experience and lessons of Margot’s death, Lumian’s target, “Black Scorpion” Roger, would undoubtedly be wary of such matters. If stabbed by Fallen Mercury and not instantly dispatched, there was a high likelihood that he would seek aid from Madame Moon. Lumian was uncertain if the lady possessing true godhood could fend off the Montsouris ghost. If she could, his operation would be an utter failure.

Considering these factors, he intended to preemptively alter the fate of encountering the Montsouris ghost and choose a destiny more conducive to surprise attacks and assassinations. He desired “Black Scorpion” Roger to perish on the spot, without a chance to seek any assistance.

As these thoughts raced through Lumian’s mind, a series of images “appeared” before him.

He saw the tramp, asleep inside the gypsum furnace, the tramp who had been viciously beaten and left unconscious, the tramp who had recently fainted, the tramp who had crumbled in front of his daughter’s lifeless body, the tramp who had shared homemade meatloaf with his wife and daughter, the tramp who meticulously prepared and set up explosives…

Lumian knew he couldn’t choose the tramp’s destined fate of perishing in two or three days. It was an overwhelming burden, beyond what Fallen Mercury could bear. Even the Luck Transference Spell couldn’t transfer such a dire fate.

The only solution Lumian could think of was to employ the Substitution Spell and find a death row inmate to take the tramp’s place. He would assume the inmate’s identity for a period of time, gaining the acceptance of those around him. Then, he would perform the ritual and swap the tramp’s impending death with that of the inmate. However, this process would take two to three weeks, if not longer, to prepare. Time was not on his side.

Drawing on his vast experience, Lumian made a quick decision and chose the fate of the tramp who had recently collapsed due to his failing body.

It departed from the mercury river and condensed into a droplet that seeped into the blade of Fallen Mercury. Simultaneously, the fate of encountering the Montsouris ghost shifted entirely to the tramp.

Lumian retracted the wicked, pewter-black dagger. It remained clean and free from bloodstains, and the wound on the tramp’s hand was shallow, as though it would soon leave a scar.

“That’s it?” the tramp asked in puzzlement.

He had been prepared to meet his end then and there.

“Yes.” Lumian stood up and departed from the hill.

Late that night, inside the gypsum furnace, the tramp convulsed suddenly and succumbed to suffocation.

…

Across from 126 Avenue du Marché.

Returning here, Lumian nestled in a shadowy corner, shielded from the glow of the gas street lamps. His eyes fixated on the target building.

Beside him, Franca emerged from the darkness, dressed in a black robe and hood.

“How did it go?” Lumian asked, entirely unsurprised.

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