Chapter 467 Old Bones

Upon hearing the term “Room 1,” Lumian was genuinely surprised, even with his wealth of experiences.

Séraphine and Gabriel had previously mentioned that the Hostel had a total of 13 “Rooms,” but Room 1 had never been mentioned. It was as if it had never entered the Hostel. Lumian had always found this to be a mysterious omission, suspecting that there were critical points hidden in this fact. To his amazement, the painter-dressed man, likely a Pixie, now addressed him as “Room 1.”

This was beyond belief!

Lumian was certain that the symbols on him were related to Mr. Fool and the entity known as Inevitability. They had nothing to do with the Painter. While Termiboros, an evil god’s Angel, resided within him, it was fundamentally different from the Hostel Rooms like Séraphine’s.

They had different sources of power and were different forms of abode!

At that moment, Lumian didn’t waste time analyzing why the suspected Pixie called him Room 1 or whether there was important information hidden in it. He knew one thing—unless he could quickly eliminate or control the two enemies in midair and take command of the black hole in the Salle de Bal Brise area, the Hostel residents would undoubtedly notice the abnormality and rush their Rooms to the scene, making the situation more complicated.

Upon hearing “Room 1,” Jenna was equally shocked, but she didn’t question Lumian or waste time seeking answers. She retrieved the Arrow of the Bloodthirsty, made of obsidian, and plunged it into her chest, despite having used it only a few hours ago.

At this point, she cared little about the accumulation of mutations in her body.

Similarly, even if something was amiss with Ciel, she would have to wait until they escaped before inquiring about it.

As the Arrow of the Bloodthirsty pierced her chest, a dense black fog emanated from Jenna’s back, forming a pair of colossal and rather illusory bat wings.

With a powerful flap, she lunged for the woman in the blue beret and the man in red pants.

Simultaneously, black flames gradually condensed in the Witch’s palm.

The colossal bat wings extended from bottom to top, obscuring the Painters’ line of sight.

The man in red pants swiftly turned his paintbrush around and dipped it in silver paint, drawing a menacing lightning bolt on his clothes.

Silver-white lightning detached from the man’s white shirt and struck Jenna’s illusory membraned black wings, numbing her entire body with the crackling electrical energy. The dense black fog that had formed the bat wings was diminished by the lightning, and Jenna began to descend slowly as she lost control of her flight.

In that critical moment, Lumian’s form materialized in midair right behind the painter in red pants.

Without the ability to fly or float, Lumian chose to “teleport.”

Seeing Jenna use the Arrow of the Bloodthirsty to create Wings of Darkness and fly boldly towards the two presumed Pixies, Lumian understood that his companion was likely drawing the enemy’s attention and creating an opportunity for him to swiftly attack one of their targets.

Witches rarely fought in such a manner.

“Ha!” Lumian exclaimed as a pale-yellow light, resembling a stream of air, shot forth from his mouth and struck the man in red pants.

Before the Painter, who had just drawn lightning, could react or even realize that Lumian had appeared behind him, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

Without suspension, he plummeted to the ground.

The woman in the blue beret remained composed. Figures emerged in her eyes, as if they held a world within them.

One of the figures traversed the boundaries of fiction and reality, moving from the realm of fantasy into the world within the painting.

Dressed in a light-blue dress with long, thick blond hair and serene light-blue eyes—Aurore!

It was Aurore!

Upon witnessing this, Lumian’s resolve remained unwavering. His eyes burned with anger.

Are you worthy of imagining Aurore?

As he descended from the sky, crimson fireballs materialized around his body and were launched towards the woman in the blue beret.

The woman extended her right hand and pressed it into the void. Her entire being suddenly turned illusory, her expression vacant and cold.

Numerous fireballs landed on her, but they didn’t detonate, as though there was nothing there.

They passed through her figure and exploded nearby.

At the same moment, the Painter in red pants landed before Jenna with a distinct cracking sound.

The excruciating pain brought him back from the unconscious state induced by Lumian’s Spell of Harrumph. He instinctively opened his eyes.

Just as the woman in the blue beret dodged the explosion, she exited her peculiar state and flew toward Jenna, who was about to land.

In an instant, she collided with Jenna, sending starlight and sparks flying like meteors.

Crack!

Jenna’s body shattered into fragments, transforming into mirror pieces that reflected the sunlight.

Her form reappeared beside the profound darkness within Salle de Bal Brise.

Lumian descended with a whoosh, his feet landing heavily on the ground, his body swaying.

At that very moment, the three of them, along with the woman in the blue beret, seemed to sense something. They turned their heads, casting their gazes towards the intersections leading into Avenue du Marché.

Women with detached dispositions, fleeting eyes, and indifferent expressions emerged from different directions. They were Room 12—Séraphine—and Room 7, which Lumian and Jenna had recently encountered.

Gabriel followed closely behind Séraphine, his gaze growing increasingly vacant, his face contorted with agony.

Jenna and Lumian felt a creeping unease, as if they were inexorably descending into an abyss.

Suddenly, a hand extended from the darkness within Salle de Bal Brise.

It was a hand devoid of flesh and skin, composed of withered, yellowed bones stained with rust.

…

In the enigmatic cave adorned with a colossal mural, the young painter altered his form and broke free from the skeletal palm’s grasp.

He existed in a state between reality and the spirit world, untouchable by anyone and unable to touch anyone. His only capacity was to observe as the empty space on the rock wall and the ground intersected, turning dark and viscous, akin to a bottomless swamp.

At that moment, an incomplete skeleton, composed of dark-red stained bones and rust, emerged from the swamp.

The skeleton appeared to hail from ancient times. It extended its bony fingers into the oil painting on the rock wall, corresponding to the incomplete Salle de Bal Brise.

Beneath it, more yellowed skeletons crawled out from the depths of the swamp. Some bore shattered iron-colored armor, others carried rusty weapons, a few were missing a third of their bodies, and some were devoid of their heads…

…

In the market district, beneath église Saint-Robert, within the Inquisition.

In his office, Angoulême de Fran?ois, donned in a golden shirt, attentively observed his subordinates delivering intel one by one.

“A violent explosion in the direction of the Deep Valley Cloister…”

“Abnormal activity detected underground…”

“Saint Viève Cathedral has issued an order to maintain maximum vigilance tonight…”

“Someone at the docks is organizing a huge strike tomorrow morning and distributing weapons…”

“There are also people organizing a march at the factories to the south…”

The Purifiers had a vast network of informants, surpassing even the most prolific information brokers. The manifold reports concerning unusual events in various locations within the market district nearly made Angoulême lose control of his expression. His facial muscles twitched ever so slightly.

When it finally grew silent, and no more subordinates came in to report, Angoulême stood up, adjusted his collar, picked up a substantial dossier, and slammed it onto the table.

While doing so, the Purifier deacon cursed silently, Hidden Blade, do you want me dead?

Ever since Hidden Blade had informed him about Gardner Martin’s collaboration with the Carbonari, the anomalies between the Carbonari and the Deep Valley Cloister, and the Hostel’s situation, various irregularities had emerged from every corner, relentlessly testing his nerves.

Only a few hours had passed, but Angoulême felt as though a tempest was gathering.

Phew… Angoulême exhaled and compiled the gathered intel, Hidden Blade’s reports, and the questions she had requested clarification on into a single document. He pinned it to the wall with a thumbtack, hoping to discern any patterns or overlooked details.

The Purifier deacon’s gaze roved the room.

After some time, his eyes settled on one of the documents.

Hidden Blade had inquired about the secret of église Saint-Robert’s old cemetery but hadn’t received an answer.

The old cemetery lay within the current Salle de Bal Brise.

Angoulême’s heart stirred, and he resolved to seek answers to this question once more.

It was one of the few things he could undertake at the moment.

Blasted Hidden Blade, once this matter is resolved, if you don’t leave the market district, I’ll request a transfer! Angoulême inwardly cursed as he hurried into the telegraph room, angrily composing a telegram.

He intended to convey to the higher-ups that they shouldn’t be overly strict about confidentiality classifications when it concerned intelligence.

The sooner he could figure out the details, the sooner he could unearth the truth and forestall impending catastrophe.

After a ten-minute wait, Angoulême received a response:

“The old cemetery of église Saint-Robert is situated above a node for the sealing of Fourth Epoch Trier. In the past, there was a breach that led to the release of some Fourth Epoch deceased. Subsequently, it was reinforced, and the situation was contained.

“When the sealing system for the catacombs replaced such nodes, the old cemetery lost its significance and wasn’t retained.”