Chapter 317 - 317 Summoning Target
317 Summoning Target
In the Cordu days, Lumian might have snatched up that invitation and made his way to the Salle de Bal Unique by month’s end, all to unleash a prank to return the shock.
However, this time around, Lumian’s grip on the mystical world was firmer, a result of his brush with countless otherworldly aberrations. He conjured a flicker with the snap of his fingers, sending forth a crimson spark that alighted on the ebony paper before him.
Amidst the swiftly burgeoning flames, Lumian departed the quarry cavern, his carbide lamp casting its light, guiding him towards the nearest exit of the Underground Trier.
Yet, on this journey, an unshakable paranoia seized him. The moss on the rocky walls, the unseen insects within the shadows, even the intangible entities that traversed the air—it was as if Monette’s eyes bore into him from all angles.
It wasn’t mere illusion but rather a reality that wound Lumian’s mind taut, each heartbeat a gallop of unease.
Termiboros’s unwavering quiet provided the lone solace, a lack of agitation hinting that the quandary hadn’t escalated—yet.
A quarter-hour’s passage led Lumian to ascend the steel stairs, emerging onto solid ground once more.
As sunbeams pierced the sky, penetrating a sea of white clouds and bathing his visage in their glow, he felt as though he’d been reborn.
Phew, no wonder Madam Magician said to live under the sun in Trier as much as possible… Exhaling a sigh, Lumian snuffed the carbide lamp, locked in his bearings, and charted his course back to Rue des Blouses Blanches.
Upon reentering the safe house, he immediately summoned Madam Magician’s messenger, apprising the holder of the Major Arcana card of the developments that unfolded.
Madam Magician’s reply was simple:
“Exemplary work. Steer clear of Salle de Bal Unique.
“The Lord’s Angel of Time shall keep vigilant watch over this affair.”
Why would Mr. Fool’s Angel of Time direct His attention toward Salle de Bal Unique? Is there indeed an Angel of Time? The angelic entity whom the charlatans of Salle de Bal Unique revere bears a link to Mr. Fool’s Angel of Time. Or perhaps, an animosity? Lumian ruminated, momentarily adrift in the murk of comprehension.
With a measure of relief prevailing, he reclined upon the bed, surrendering himself to sleep’s embrace—an interlude wherein his mental fortitude and vitality underwent reinvigoration.
At noon, Lumian ate two savory meat pies and drank a glass of Apple Whiskey Sour. Seated at the table, he engaged in earnest perusal of the bestiary chronicling the spirit world creatures.
As he raced through the pages, a sleek black fountain pen danced in his hand, crafting purposeful circles on the paper to accentuate potential candidates.
After over an hour of intense scrutiny, Lumian distilled a preliminary list of 50 to 60 spirit world entities boasting suitable attributes and modest threat levels. Following the breadcrumbs of indicated page numbers, he retrieved the source manuscripts and embarked on meticulous research.
Intermittent breaks punctuated his reading. As evening painted the sky in hues of twilight, Lumian at last concluded his meticulous perusal of the source materials, now in possession of their profound knowledge. A final selection had been forged.
First in line was the Abscessed Hand. This enigmatic spirit, once shrouded in legend across the southern and central parts of the world, had been conjured by aficionados of mysticism, leaving a trail of lifeless bodies in its wake.
From crime scene accounts, the fallen were strewn across the forest expanse. With the exception of those initially claimed within a hunter’s lodge, the remaining deaths occurred nearly simultaneously. This revelation hinted at the Abscessed Hand’s swift transitions between victims, throttling one soul and in a heartbeat, lunging towards its next quarry.
Dream divinations unveiled a bluish-black, gangrenous hand, swollen and oozing with putrescence. Its appearance was always abrupt, snapping a victim’s neck within two to three seconds before vanishing to assail another, irrespective of the distance.
Based on the hand’s traits, Lumian inferred its considerable aptitude for traversing the spirit world.
As for its danger level, Madam Magician’s accounts deemed it commonplace, bound by the constraints of the summoning ritual.
Nevertheless, a significant detail stood out from the Major Arcana card holder: “It’s suspected to be a fragment of something greater.”
Severed hand? Could its kindred comprise severed legs, heads, torsos, and innards? What would happen when these fragments converge? If reassembled, what would manifest? Lumian scoured the index in vain, failing to unearth analogous entities. His focus rested on abilities, traits, and threat levels, with little heed to nomenclature.
An alternative theory remained afoot. The remaining Abscessed Hand counterparts might reside within the powerful and dangerous categories, evading the scrutiny of Franca, Jenna, and the Rabbits of Knowledge.
Should the anticipated spirit world traversal prowess prove elusive, or if the cost demanded an untenable toll, Lumian had an arsenal of alternatives at his disposal.
With regards to disguising abilities, he found a peculiar fondness for a spirit world creature known as the Headless Bride.
This mythical tale was woven within the heart of the Haagenti Kingdom in the Southern Continent. It began with the story of a young girl who dared to elope with her beloved.
In the shadowed chambers of their hidden nuptials, her kin unveiled the shrouded ceremony. Amidst the assembly of family and kin, her own brother exacted a swift, brutal end, severing her head in the name of matrimonial transgression and ancestral decree.
Perhaps this girl was special to begin with, or perhaps she had come into contact with something related to the spirit world during her elopement. Thus, ignited by the agony, fury, and rancor that gripped her before her demise, she imbibed the essence of the spirit world, transmuting into a creature akin to an evil spirit.
Dressed in scarlet bridal raiment adorned with gilded motifs, she hunted and hexed her lineage, subjecting them to an unending torrent of catastrophes spanning three decades, until the tapestry of their lineage was all but erased.
In the present, the Headless Bride prowled the spirit world, shape-shifting with calculated artistry. Its transformations beguiled unwary beings and unsuspecting travelers, drawing them closer to their doom in its relentless embrace.
For a Pyromaniac, this was an easy target with the protection of a ritual.
Headless Bride’s alternative was Human-Faced Mantis:
“This is a unique creature from the spirit world. When he was alive, he was a playboy with elegance and good looks.
“As an educator in Sion within the Intis Republic’s Hornacis Province, he was embraced by admiration and ardor from both distinguished dames and youthful maidens.
“He was gifted in literature, skilled in poetry, and had numerous lovers.
“This idyllic existence found an abrupt termination when a spurned spouse denounced him to the Church as a Warlock, accusing him of employing sorcery to control his wife.
“Agents dispatched by the Eternal Blazing Sun Church probed into the matter, gathering accounts from a multitude of local men. Astonishingly, their testimonies echoed the allegations in the complaint letter. Strangers to one another, these men’s narratives converged in unsettling symmetry.
“In contrast, the dames and young maidens adamantly attested to their willing involvement, fervently defending the playboy’s actions.
“Amid simmering resentment from the local men, the trial raced to a conclusion. The playboy met his end at the stake.
“Upon later investigation, officials confirmed his innocence, unveiling the accusations as a construct of collective envy and enmity.
“It’s suggested that an Instigator was behind the scenes.
“In the spirit world, the playboy’s essence metamorphosed into a mantis bearing a human visage. Festering within him was an all-consuming loathing, mingling with a mastery over metamorphosis and relentless predation…”
Lumian turned emotional as he read the two pieces of information.
Six years in the countryside had acquainted him with the ignorance that shadowed village life.
From this, he deduced that not all spirit world denizens sprang from nature’s womb. Rather, under exceptional circumstances, the souls of departed humans could transmute into enduring spirit creatures. A plausible explanation for hauntings.
Pondering meticulously, Lumian relinquished his aspiration for invisibility and concealment. Instead, he earmarked his final contract slot for traits with direct influence over his Spirit Body.
His choices boiled down to the Thousand-Eyed Evil and the Shadow of Shriek.
These two entities were quintessential ‘natives’ of the spirit world, venturing forth only in the realms of nightmares and tomes of authentic Warlock craft.
The Thousand-Eyed Evil comprised fleshy forms, exuding a pink ichor, each adorned with an eye bereft of lashes.
Gazing into the ebony pupils of these multitudes, whether human, beast, or mere Spirit Bodies, led to swift slumber.
Their connection to dreams was palpable; they occasionally manifested in the darkest recesses of the most harrowing nightmares.
The Shadow of Shriek, on the other hand, manifested as a confluence of translucent shadows. With frequent outbursts of shrieks, they induced unconsciousness in those who dared to draw near.
Beyond their shrieks, they bore the attributes of ordinary shadows.
Lumian meticulously transcribed all the details concerning the alternative contenders onto fresh paper, folding it as he slipped the paper into his pocket.
He lingered within the precincts of Salle de Bal Brise for a period, eventually departing from Avenue du Marché around 10 p.m. Navigating the pathways along Rist docks, he ultimately gained entry into the two-story edifice he had once reduced to smoldering ruins.
Though the inferno that had previously ravaged the building had long since been quelled, the structure now stood cloaked in inky darkness and utter desolation.
Recognizing that his intended audience was none other than Mr. Fool, rather than the entity called Inevitability, Lumian had no intentions of executing the summoning ritual underground. This strategic choice was to avoid any potential encounters with the odd and dangerous swindlers of Salle de Bal Unique.
His primary objective was to locate a secluded enclave, far removed from prying eyes. This calculated approach would ensure that even in the event of an unforeseen mishap during the conjuration, should the summoned entity lose control, the collateral damage would be contained, thereby facilitating a swift resolution.
Having meticulously arranged a relatively unscathed chamber ensconced within the obsidian heart of the decrepit building, Lumian proceeded to meticulously arrange the altar.
Relying on the insights gleaned from his role as a Contractee, Lumian diverged from the norm by invoking two additional candles, each symbolizing a deity.
In this ritual, Mr. Fool was both the focal point of supplication and the solemn observer.
With a wall of spirituality set in place and candles aglow, Lumian didn’t rush to commence the incantation. Instead, he extracted an iron-gray flask from the inner pocket of his worn brown jacket.
Within this flask, Lumian had ingeniously affixed a slender thread, its counterpart connected to the Decency brooch that lay submerged within a pool of absinthe.
This ingenious design facilitated Lumian’s swift and precise retrieval of the Sealed Artifact. No clumsy maneuvering was required; a simple hook of his index finger and the Scotch Broom brooch was within his grasp.
As he tugged at the brooch, a burst of crimson sparks erupted, severing the knot binding the Sealed Artifact.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lumian adorned the resplendent Decency brooch upon his chest.
He harbored the belief that brokering a contract with a denizen of the spirit world carried an inherent cost, akin to a form of bribery. In this context, Lumian hoped the Decency brooch would assume a role of significance.
Securely fastening the brooch, Lumian’s gaze shifted to the trio of candles, silently ablaze before him. Drawing a deep breath, he steeled himself for the upcoming ritual.