151 Temptation
Termiboros’ thunderous voice resonated in Lumian’s mind.
“Yes.”
A snort of laughter broke free from Lumian.
His words oozed sarcasm as he retorted, “So, Aurore and the entire village were snuffed out just so you could set foot on this soil?
“Why the hell should I help you shatter your shackles? If you morphed into an Angel with a boon, I could’ve swiped your abilities over and over with the ritual I just performed, under the watchful eyes of the mighty existence. Until, of course, I too bask in the angelic status of the Inevitability pathway. Then, I could breathe life back into Aurore and restore everyone to the pre-Cordu destruction era. How pathetic would you look then?
“If you hold the right Beyonder characteristic, I can bide my time until I ascend as an Angel of the Hunter pathway, seizing power on par with your Inevitability skills. Once my army is vast enough, I’ll free you, crush you, subjugate you, and make you resurrect Aurore. Hell, I might be able to pull it off myself. I’ll subject you to an eternity of torment till the end of time.
“I never had the hots for the Inevitability pathway’s boon, but now that I know the ritual was meant for your descent, I’m salivating at the thought of siphoning off all your might and pride.”
The more Lumian rambled, the higher his adrenaline spiked. His Provoker potion seemed to digest a notch.
Termiboros’ voice was eerily steady, unfazed by Lumian’s rant.
“I’ve encountered my fair share of Beyonders in the cosmos, and I’ve seen legions of races graced by the Lord’s touch. Most of them can’t cross the threshold into divinity because that one extra step would obliterate their physical and mental existence.
“The quest for godhood is rife with peril. Are you so sure you can truly evolve into an Angel?
“You should be aware that we’re not talking about slim odds here. Saying it’s a one-in-a-million or one-in-ten-million chance doesn’t even begin to capture the enormous task of ascending to the Angel level.
“If you perish on the Beyonder path, Aurore Lee will follow suit. The seal binding you will naturally dissolve, freeing me from my predicament.”
Lumian threw his head back and laughed.
His laughter bounced off the quarry’s cavernous walls, heightening the eerie quiet and heaviness underground.
“So, why aren’t you sitting tight, waiting for me to kick the bucket?” Lumian picked up the carbide lamp and strode out of the quarry cave. A cryptic smile played on his lips. “I don’t give a damn what you’re plotting or what your endgame is. I couldn’t care less whether you’re a saint or a sinner. All I know is that Aurore and everyone in Cordu Village are dead because of you.”
He paused for a beat, his face contorted into a maniacal grin.
“Someone’s gotta pay the piper for this. Guillaume Bénet, you, and even your so-called lord!”
Termiboros fell silent. The booming voice that had filled Lumian’s mind, heart, bloodstream, bone marrow, and cavities disappeared entirely.
Phew… Lumian heaved a sigh, clutching the carbide lamp as he navigated the pitch-black underground.
Despite the conversation’s brevity, it had drained him.
In Lumian’s previous world-view, corruption was merely that—corruption. At its extreme, it was comparable to power granted by an evil god. The concept of an Angel being shackled within him was beyond his wildest dreams!
Amidst the wreckage of Cordu Village, atop the crimson-hued mountain, stood the body of a three-headed, six-armed behemoth—a vessel designed for an incoming Angel. It was a mystery how much it deviated from a bona fide Angel, but it already filled Lumian with a sense of invincibility.
Had he not remembered their vile deeds, he might have been swayed to give it a shot.
From where he stood, pledging allegiance to the Eternal Blazing Sun and the God of Steam and Machinery seemed no different than submitting to the hidden existence known as Inevitability. At worst, he’d lose himself.
Regaining his composure, Lumian’s senses suddenly tingled. He darted into a side alcove, using loose gravel to snuff out the carbide lamp.
Moments later, the hurried footfalls of three people echoed from the adjacent tunnel, soon swallowed by the inky darkness.
Underground Trier is a hive of activity too… Lumian bided his time for a couple of minutes before digging out the carbide lamp and rejoining the upward path.
The interruption allowed him to collect his thoughts and consider a conundrum.
Given that the corruption inside him was a living entity, the Angel of the Inevitability domain, Termiboros, why had his plea for a boon been successful?
Termiboros wasn’t just raw power lacking consciousness, responding automatically to the “correct” ritual. He could deny granting the boon.
Could it be that His imprisonment is so severe that He can’t even choose to resist the ritual? The thought made Lumian realize why Termiboros was so desperate to flee.
According to Madam Magician, with every boon He granted, Termiboros would weaken marginally, and the corresponding corruption would dwindle.
Simultaneously, the seal imposed by the great existence wouldn’t slacken. As Termiboros’s power faded, He would be shackled to the brink of extinction. Eventually, even His consciousness might be expunged.
Lumian steadied himself and began to replay Termiboros’s utterances.
Great Old Ones, Above the Sequences, he’d said Great Old Ones and Above the Sequences…
Lumian’s head pounded, as if something was attempting to burrow out of his skull, the instant he dredged up these topics.
He stopped his recollection abruptly and murmured to himself, a residual sense of dread lingering, Merely possessing certain knowledge can inflict serious harm? Had I not been safeguarded by the seal of the great existence, would I be dead or afflicted with abnormalities?
I was contemplating exploiting Termiboros’s desperation to escape, to bleed Him dry by compelling Him to respond to the ritual magic, thereby boosting the likelihood of success and the eventual impact. But it seems the Angel has plenty of tricks up His sleeve to screw me over, even in His imprisoned state…
I need to tread carefully. Before I really tap into Termiboros, I must have Madam Magician verify my plan for any flaws.
On this front, Lumian doubted that the vice president of the Curly-Haired Baboons Research Society, Hela, would offer any viable advice. Only Madam Magician, who could effortlessly slip in and out of the time loop and easily tackle the colossus atop the crimson mountain, was worthy of his trust.
Lost in a whirlwind of thoughts, Lumian, lamp in hand, navigated his way back to the level marked by a street name, leveraging his honed Hunter’s intuition and recollection.
He attempted to shout in a hushed tone, “Termiboros…”
No answer came.
Lumian intended to inquire whether the Angel, imprisoned within him, was aware of the events in Cordu. After a thoughtful examination, he concluded that Termiboros likely remained in the dark.
Termiboros had only materialized in Cordu at the ritual’s culmination before being shackled. He was oblivious to the intricate details.
Phew… Lumian let out a sigh, surveying his present condition.
His Provoker potion had undergone further digestion. It was akin to encapsulating a fresh principle of action.
Could inciting a superior entity expedite the digestion of the Provoker potion? Ah yes, this is a high-ranking entity within the Inevitability domain. In a way, it’s a tip of fate. It aligns somewhat with the principles I’ve deduced… Lumian mused with a chuckle.
Were it not for Termiboros’s silence, he would have stirred Him up thrice daily, like clockwork meals!
Pondering over this, Lumian felt that goading an Angel to digest this morsel of a potion wasn’t a worthy trade-off.
He hypothesized two reasons. First, Termiboros was sealed and presented a relatively low threat. Second, Termiboros hadn’t genuinely been incited.
Shaking his head, Lumian curbed his thoughts, shelving matters whose solutions eluded him.
He retraced his steps to the subterranean Rue Anarchie and climbed the stone steps towards the surface.
Having snuffed out the carbide lamp and returned to Auberge du Coq Doré, Lumian instantly noticed Charlie perched on the steps outside.
Charlie puffed on a cigarette, gazing at the grayish-white sky with a somber countenance.
“What’s up?” Lumian settled down next to Charlie.
Charlie heaved a sigh. “Miss Ethans has moved out.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Lumian queried, his smile unwavering.
Charlie stammered, pausing for a few seconds before admitting, “Yes, it indeed is. Too many folks around here know her and her deeds. Sigh…”
Lumian clicked his tongue and rose, approaching the Whiskey Sour vendor and presenting 5 coppets worth of copper coins.
“Half a liter of Apple Whiskey Sour.”
The vendor responded with a grin, “Got it.”
He ended up pouring Lumian more than the requested volume of liquor.
Lumian’s eyebrows quirked, but he refrained from questioning. He ambled back to Charlie, took a seat, and nonchalantly remarked, “Seems like the Whiskey Sour guy recognizes me?”
Charlie chuckled.
“He might be aware you’re with the Savoie Gang. No, the Savoie Mob.”
Lumian sipped his Whiskey Sour, inquiring, “How’d he find out?”
Charlie cleared his throat.
“After breaking the news to Miss Ethans last night, I hit the underground bar for a drink and mentioned your induction into the Savoie Mob and your takeover of Auberge du Coq Doré.”
A vivid image flashed in Lumian’s mind:
Charlie, beer in hand, clambering onto a small round table, flailing his stubby arms.
“Ladies and gentlemen, lend me your ears! You wouldn’t believe the bombshell that dropped at the motel today! Ciel, our Room 207 resident, is now calling the shots for the Savoie Mob and has sent the Poison Spur Mob packing!”
With a drawn-out sigh, Lumian turned to Charlie and quipped, “You’re just worried the police won’t come knocking at my door, aren’t you?”
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