Chapter 125 - 125 Struggle

Chapter 125 Struggle

As Lumian intoned the three lines of the honorific name, a faint gray fog materialized around him, radiating an unnerving aura.

The orange candle flame adopted a bluish tinge, casting a sinister, deep glow over the entire altar.

In that instant, Lumian’s thoughts seemed to decelerate. He felt an itching beneath his flesh, as if something was on the verge of burrowing out.

A distant, inscrutable gaze from an unfathomable height appeared once more. Collecting himself, Lumian resumed his prayer. Adhering to Madam Magician’s instructions and incorporating sacrificial knowledge from Aurore’s witchcraft notebook, he recited in Hermes, “I implore you. I beseech you to lift this curse from me…”

In all honesty, Lumian yearned to request the great existence’s protection for a year, shielding him from all harm. But that was clearly unattainable. He had not yet mastered the necessary Hermes phrases to counter the threat of the Montsouris ghost. Thus, he could only allude to the curse plaguing him.

As the ritual culminated, Lumian began to draw upon the power of the herbs on the altar.

In the following moment, his vision blurred, as if a seraph with twelve pairs of luminous wings materialized before him.

Descending from above, the seraph extended its arms, enveloping Lumian in an embrace.

The wings of light closed around him, enfolding him layer by layer.

Lumian shook off his stupor and noticed the bluish candle flame had reverted to its original orange hue at some unknown point.

Recalling the surreal encounter, it felt like a dream. He couldn’t help but murmur to himself, Did I just see an angel? Did that great existence send one of His angels to protect me and lift this curse?

Until today, Lumian had only heard of angels in the sermons of the Eternal Blazing Sun Church. He never anticipated experiencing an angelic embrace firsthand.

According to Madam Magician, this was at least a high-level Sequence 2 entity. Even if only a fraction of its power had been projected from afar, it was still angelic in nature… Lumian felt an even deeper reverence for the enigmatic organization that employed tarot cards as their moniker and the great existence that had sealed the corruption within him.

Simultaneously, he breathed a sigh of relief.

If the Montsouris ghost had truly inflicted a curse, it should no longer be an issue. How could a ghost that dared not confront the protection granted by the Eternal Blazing Sun Church’s clergy and was confined to wandering beneath Trier compare to an angel?

Nevertheless, trepidation still gripped Lumian’s heart. He had prayed for the curse to be lifted. What if the Montsouris ghost employed a different method of killing than a curse?

He waited until midnight, but Magician’s response never came.

Unable to risk sleep, he lay on the bed, shutting his eyes just to rest.

Staying awake all night posed no challenge for him. At six in the morning, his body and mind would simultaneously reset.

This was both a curse and a blessing.

It wasn’t until the latter half of the night that the cacophony of Rue Anarchie died down. Lumian discerned the faint chirping of insects in the distance and an even more remote whistle.

Abruptly, his body felt leaden, and breathing grew labored. It was as if someone had swaddled him in a blanket and weighed him down.

This isn’t good! Lumian tried to rise, but he could only move his arms.

His eyes wouldn’t even open!

His arms felt restrained, barely able to lift a few centimeters off the bed.

In the next moment, Lumian’s body turned frigid, and his nose felt damp. It was as if he had been stuffed into a sack and hurled into the depths of a river.

His breathing faltered, his chest tightened with pain, and his thoughts decelerated.

Lumian’s desperate attempts at resistance flashed through his mind-entering Cogitation and activating the black thorn symbol on his chest.

He dismissed the idea in an instant.

Firstly, he would likely lose control. Secondly, the Montsouris ghost bore no connection to the covert entity known as Inevitability. It might not be deterred by the black thorn symbol. Unless left with no alternative and teetering on the brink of death, Lumian wouldn’t gamble his life on this seemingly futile method.

His lips and nose turned icy, as though an invisible hand was pressing them down. Paired with the sensation of drowning, Lumian found breathing impossible. His lungs were on the verge of bursting.

Words like Hunter, Provoker, Dancer, corruption, seal, and Fallen Mercury flickered through Lumian’s mind, each forming fleeting thoughts before dissipating.

Fallen Mercury… Fallen Mercury! At last, Lumian had a revelation. He strained to shift his gloved left palm to the side.

He had already positioned the evil dirk in the most accessible location to handle potential emergencies.

A few seconds later, Lumian, gasping for air with his mouth agape, made contact with the hilt of Fallen Mercury and hoisted the pewter-black dirk.

Fallen Mercury was no longer shrouded in black cloth. The intricate patterns on its surface overlapped, inducing vertigo.

With every ounce of his strength, Lumian hoisted his shoulder, bent his arm, and plunged Fallen Mercury above his body.

There was nothing there. Not even a scratch, let alone blood!

Without hesitation, Lumian gritted his teeth and angled his arm toward his body. With a sickening pop, he drove Fallen Mercury into his left waist.

Crimson blood oozed out, staining the blade of Fallen Mercury. The phantom mercury droplet symbolizing the fate of immolation penetrated Lumian’s body.

The pain shocked Lumian’s oxygen-starved mind to consciousness. His vision blurred as the enigmatic river, composed of innumerable mercury symbols, emerged. This represented his own fate.

Ignoring the need for precision, Lumian cast his gaze downstream of the illusory river, toward a current on the verge of engulfing the other tributaries.

He then infused his spirituality into Fallen Mercury, allowing it to agitate the complex mercury symbol birthed from the river’s entanglement.

In the next moment, Lumian saw himself lying on the bed, his face a purplish hue, teetering on the brink of death. The mercury symbols abruptly constricted, solidifying into a droplet that seeped into Fallen Mercury’s blade. Almost instantaneously, Lumian felt his entire body relax. The sensations of drowning and suffocation vanished. Simultaneously, pain enveloped him, and he couldn’t help but emit a soft groan. Flames erupted from his body, searing his flesh inch by inch.

He had utilized the pain of being incinerated stored in Fallen Mercury to trade for his fate of being assaulted by a Montsouris ghost. He had successfully escaped a state where he couldn’t even struggle, and the attack didn’t come again! Fallen Mercury could stab others or Lumian himself, replacing an unwanted fate!

He was ignited, reliving the agony of battling the flaming beast.

Braced for the onslaught, Lumian rolled beneath the bed.

Thumping against the floor, he rolled back and forth to smother the flames engulfing him. After a while, it was unclear whether Lumian’s strategy had worked, if the fire brought on by the fate exchange had run its course, or if it was a combination of both, but he was no longer consumed by the scarlet inferno. However, his clothes were in shreds, and his body was marred with charred wounds. His nose teetered on the edge of detachment, and his singed hair emitted a burnt odor. For an ordinary person or most Low-Sequence Beyonders, this was an injury beyond resuscitation-death was the only outcome.

Lumian strained to keep his eyes open and focused, fighting the urge to pass out. As time ticked away, he sensed his life rapidly ebbing.

He clung to consciousness, gasping for air. After an indeterminate period, Lumian finally heard the eerily beautiful chime of a bell.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The bell struck six in the morning, Trier time, its peal echoing through Rue Anarchie and beyond. Dawn’s first light crept over the horizon.

Lumian snapped to attention, his pain abruptly gone.

His body and mind had completely reset! Phew… Lumian exhaled in relief and stood. He looked down at the tattered remnants of his once crisp linen shirt and dark pants. His skin had returned to normal.

...

Already in a financial bind, he couldn’t help but sigh.

He needed new clothes-a fresh expense! Still, he’d managed to survive the Montsouris ghost’s initial attack. This was likely a first in the annals of its dark legend.

From the looks of it, it’s not a curse… Lumian changed into fresh clothes and stepped into the washroom to splash cold tap water on his face. Gazing into the mirror, he noticed that some of his hair had shortened, and the golden dye had faded in places.

These external changes couldn’t be reset. After washing up, Lumian returned to Room 207 and was startled to find another letter awaiting him.

The folded piece of paper lay innocuously on the wooden table.

Lumian muttered under his breath, Isn’t it too early for a reply? You didn’t sleep again last night. Did you just get home?

With a shake of his head, Lumian picked up the Magician’s response and unfolded it. The handwriting was messy, but he could just make out that it belonged to a woman. “Excellent work. Engage more with Mr. K and exhibit your wild, fanatical side until he converts you and extends an invitation to his organization.

“The Montsouris ghost is not a curse. There are three solutions for your current predicament: “First, die before it. Use the corruption within you to destroy it and avenge the fallen. “Second, trade your fate of encountering the Montsouris ghost with your dirk. Haven’t you ever considered using that blade on yourself? “Third, take refuge in a particular cathedral of a certain Church and never leave its sanctuary.”