Chapter 130 - 130 Tracking

Chapter 130 Tracking

Lumian recognized Margot’s actions all too well.

He would have done the same!

Then, he remembered Aurore mentioning that Beyonders from the Hunter pathway were relatively common in the Intis Republic. Lumian suspected that Margot might also be a Beyonder from the Hunter pathway, but he couldn’t determine his Sequence.

A mob boss wouldn’t have a high Sequence unless necessary… If Margot is truly a Hunter pathway Beyonder, he shouldn’t surpass Sequence 7. Furthermore, the likelihood of him being a Pyromaniac is slim. Leah and Valentine, only at Sequence 7, are already considered elite investigators. Could they be inferior to a high-ranking thug who patrols the territory, abducts women, and bullies prostitutes? Lumian pondered silently as he stepped back and averted his gaze.

Although it seemed improbable that Margot had reached or even exceeded Sequence 7, Lumian dared not be careless.

What if his Sequence title was something like ‘Scoundrel’ which required him to act like one?

What if the Poison Spur Mob was more complex than it appeared, merely an extension of a secret organization or underground cult with ample resources, deliberately avoiding ostentation to evade official scrutiny?

The odds were slim, but lacking information and relevant mystical knowledge, Lumian had to remain vigilant. He couldn’t eliminate the possibilities or gauge their likelihood.

In the second-floor corridor, the man suspected to be Margot—clad in a red shirt and black vest with his hands in his pockets- turned to his three subordinates.

Frowning slightly, he seemed puzzled and mildly displeased by their unnecessary contact with the cologne.

He glanced at the ground and sniffed.

The cologne wasn’t confined to the stairwell; it brazenly led to Room 207. Moreover, the bottom step bore fresh marks of being struck by a light, small object.

In an instant, the man presumed to be Margot reconstructed the scene in his mind based on the environmental clues: The tenant in Room 207 might have visited the washroom or a neighbor. On their way back, they intended to apply cologne but dropped the bottle on the stairs. Then, they spread the cologne on their body, leaving only faint traces.

This was consistent with the mindset of Auberge du Coq Doré’s tenants.

The man thought to be Margot dismissed his suspicions and instructed his three subordinates, “Remember to change your shoes when you return to Salle de Gristmill.”

“Alright, Boss,” the trio replied almost in unison.

It wasn’t surprising; they were frequently asked to do something similar.

Salle de Gristmill… From Room 207, Lumian overheard their conversation and grew increasingly certain that the man suspected to be a Hunter pathway Beyonder was Margot. After chatting with Charlie that morning, he strolled around Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman district, conversing with vendors and bar patrons. He learned that Salle de Gristmill at 3 Rue Anarchie was one of the Poison Spur Mob’s strongholds.

Only when Margot and his crew reached the bottom did Lumian don his wide-brimmed hat and leisurely exit the room. He trailed the lingering scent of cologne, venturing deeper into the street.

Seven or eight minutes later, he arrived at Salle de Gristmill. The faint odor of cheap cologne confirmed that Margot and his subordinates had returned.

Salle de Gristmill lacked the grand statue and inscriptions of Salle de Bal Brise. It merely occupied a section of the street and featured a golden-hued lobby.

Gas lamps encased by glass covers and black crossed bars on four stone pillars illuminating the entrance hall dispelled the evening’s darkness.

At that moment, the dance hall buzzed with activity. Lumian heard singing, raucous laughter, and the strumming of instruments before stepping inside.

The layout resembled Salle de Bal Brise, with a dance floor in the center surrounded by small round tables and chairs. A low wooden platform at the front held a sultry woman.

Clad in a provocative short white top, her bra’s row of bows was clearly visible. A black mole adorned her lips, and her brownish-yellow hair was swept up in a bun. Her makeup emphasized her large, deep-set blue eyes, creating a seductive, decadent allure.

Softly crooning, she occasionally kicked her right leg. Her cream-colored, fluffy knee-length skirt enticed patrons to try peeking beneath it.

“The consulting physician has an alluring air, “He’ll first prepare by pushing up his sleeves with care, “It takes me back to my initial romance, “But this fine medic, he stands apart with just a glance, “He locates the sweet spot with such finesse and speed, “Discerning, my love, his touch is skilled indeed.”

Amid the suggestive and captivating performance, Lumian approached the bar counter and asked the bartender, “What’s there to eat?”

The bartender smiled and inquired, “How about Rouen Meatloaf? Or do you prefer standard fare like sausages, bread, and smoked meat?” Lumian, already aware of the Trieriens’ fondness for meatloaf, nodded. “Then, two servings of Rouen Meatloaf.”

“And a glass of apple punch? It can counteract the richness of the meatloaf.” The bartender sensed a generous customer when Lumian didn’t inquire about the price and suggested a slightly pricier drink.

Punch was a fruit juice cocktail. Lumian smiled. “Sure.”

With nearly 200 verl d’or remaining, Lumian didn’t need to be overly frugal with his food and drink. In any case, scrimping wouldn’t be enough to cover the outstanding payment for information broker Anthony Reid.

“3 licks for each Rouen Meatloaf and 12 licks for the apple punch,” the bartender quickly quoted the price.

Lumian nodded and pulled out a verl d’or silver coin, adorned with a small angel relief and a diffused line on the surface, tossing it to the bartender.

After pocketing the two 5 coppet bronze coins in change, he waited patiently.

By then, the female singer on stage had finished her performance, and the band played a slightly intense drumbeat.

Customers flocked to the dance floor, swaying to the rhythm, releasing the day’s pressure, fatigue, and pain.

A man sitting nearby grinned at his companion and said, “I love this atmosphere so much. I wonder who invented this kind of gyrating dance. It’s far more appealing than the old quadrille! Can you imagine? I’d often have a partner in my arms, only to wait ages for my turn to dance. My enthusiasm would’ve cooled by then.”

The quadrille, or square dancing, involved four men and women forming a square and dancing to a violinist’s performance before circling each other. Another man chuckled and said, “I still prefer the Can-can and Striptease.” The Can-can, popular in Quartier de la Princesse Rouge, featured high kicks and landing splits as signature moves. When women lined up in short skirts and stockings, kicking high, cheers and thrown coins often followed.

Of course, it was a technically demanding dance. A skilled dancer needed to kick their leg as high as their nose or close to their ears. Lumian absorbed the surrounding sounds, occasionally glancing at the stairs where the cheap cologne scent vanished. Soon, two thick meatloaves and a dreamy, transparent alcoholic beverage with a red top and floating ice cubes arrived.

Lumian sipped the apple punch, refreshed by the sweetness, faint tartness, and smoothness of the alcohol. The ice’s coldness invigorated him.

He then bit into the Rouen Meatloaf, unable to resist the blend of unfermented dough’s sweetness, minced meat’s flavor, oil’s aroma, and spices’ kick.

After devouring a whole meatloaf, he sipped the apple punch to cleanse his palate. Post-dinner, Lumian clutched his drink, listening to the girl’s singing and watching the dance floor crowd.

The feverish atmosphere seemed to affect him as he occasionally swayed to the rhythm at the dimly lit bar counter.

Each time, Lumian would steal a glance at the stairs, monitoring Margot and his subordinates’ movements. It was midnight when Margot-clad in a red shirt, leather vest, and sporting short, vertical, light-yellow hair-descended the stairs with three thugs and exited Salle de Gristmill.

Aware that the other party might be a Hunter pathway Beyonder, Lumian didn’t follow immediately. He was prepared to lose them since the gang’s leather shoes, once soaked in cheap cologne, had been changed. Relying on his sense of smell to track them from a distance was no longer an option. Still, he harbored some hope. He’d noticed that most dance hall customers were too engrossed and frenzied, occasionally spilling alcohol on the floor, creating wet spots from the stairs to the exit.

Swaying to the rhythm, Lumian observed from the corner of his eye that Margot consistently avoided the damp ground. This further solidified his belief that Margot was a Hunter pathway Beyonder.

As for Margot’s three subordinates, despite their attempts to dodge the wet areas, their limited observation skills and the dim gas wall lamp lighting led to their feet or heels inevitably getting wet.

For those frequenting bars and dance halls, it was unavoidable. Margot had grown numb to it, not considering it an issue or giving it much thought.

Almost a minute after they left, Lumian rose from the bar counter and stepped out of Salle de Gristmill.

With few pedestrians on the streets, only the occasional drunkard’s singing and cursing broke the silence. Ruined gas street lamps cast moonlight providing the main illumination.

a feeble light, with the sky’s crimson The four gas wall lamps at the dance hall entrance allowed Lumian to spot numerous Some had long since faded, wet footprints. while others were fresh.

Three sets of footprints appeared in close proximity and consistently at the same time. Upon closer inspection, Lumian discovered a faint, difficult-to-notice set of footprints without any wet stains leading the way. Lumian chuckled, whispering to himself, “Constantly hanging out with fools and vermin will only bring you harm.”

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