Chapter 109 - 109 Minute Hope

109 Minute Hope

Days earlier, beneath the crimson “peak,” adjacent to the warped “city wall.”

Lumian knelt on the ground, gazing up at the enigmatic woman as she approached.

Her words echoed in his ears, only to gradually grow muffled.

Lumian’s hands pressed against the ground, clenching the soil as if attempting to crush it into liquid.

As the mysterious woman halted about a meter away, he scrambled to his feet, anxiety gripping his voice, “Didn’t you say there’s still hope? Didn’t you claim Aurore and the others could be saved if I broke out of the loop myself?”

His voice grew hoarser with each word.

The enigmatic woman remained silent, her eyes filled with pity as she gazed at him.

Lumian hesitated before asking, hope lacing his words, “There’s still hope, right?

“That’s not just a fleeting dream. During my discussion with Aurore, she spoke of things I had never heard of—like how the description of an honorific name can hint at two separate entities!”

His eyes locked onto the woman, fear and hope battling as he scrutinized her every move.

At last, she nodded.

“There is indeed hope.”

Lumian’s eyes brightened, waiting for her to elaborate.

In a gentle voice, the woman explained, “In truth, Aurore has already died, but mystically, she’s not entirely gone.

“Do you recall the soft, faint sounds you hear from within your body each time you perform the Summoning Dance? Do you remember the light fragments from Aurore and the others that flew into your chest on the twelfth night ritual?”

“Are those their Spirit Bodies, their voices?” Lumian interrupted, eagerness filling his voice.

The woman responded, a mix of calm and pity, “They can only be considered soul fragments.

“At the end of the twelfth night, you became a conduit for the hidden entity to unleash its horrifying power. The surrounding believers, including the soul fragments of the sacrifice, were absorbed by you. Guillaume Bénet, who led the ritual, was the sole exception.

“Later, those soul fragments and the potent corruptive power were sealed in the left side of your chest by my lord.

“That’s why, as you became increasingly ‘awake’ in your dreams and sensed the date and loop more clearly, Aurore and the other villagers seem more and more lifelike. They even displayed a degree of self-awareness and cognition.

“To truly awaken from the dream and restrain the looping power consuming the ruins, you had to rely on yourself. You had to find the courage to confront the pain, face the truth, and chase after the elusive hope.

“If I were to resolve it, there’s only one option: to completely annihilate you and the ruins of Cordu. Otherwise, the corruption within you will seep out uncontrollably, and Aurore and the others will truly perish in the realm of mysticism.”

As the mysterious woman mentioned the twelfth-night ritual, Lumian couldn’t help but remember.

A sharp pain stabbed his head, and only a few images surfaced.

Aurore, with vacant eyes, shoved him away from the altar.

Beams of light burst from Aurore and the villagers, spiraling into the vortex on his chest.

Guillaume Bénet, the padre, revealed a shocked expression as he fled the altar.

Beyond that, Lumian couldn’t recall anything else. Only the events within the dream were clear, as if some force prevented him from remembering the rest.

His face contorted, his body trembling.

“I-I can’t remember much…”

The woman nodded.

“That’s normal. Firstly, it’s a subconscious self-protection to prevent an overload of painful memories and intense scenes from causing you to collapse and lose control. Secondly, there are things you haven’t witnessed and don’t know the truth about. I don’t know either.

“Yes, I’ll need you to do something in Trier eventually. There are one, no, two exceptional psychologists I know there. I can arrange an appointment for you and see who’s available to treat you. They can help you remember more and reconstruct the events in Cordu as much as possible.”

Lumian’s emotions roiled as he listened, but all he could muster was a soft, “Thank you…”

Fists clenched, he asked anxiously, “Then what can I do to bring Aurore and the others back?”

The woman sighed, admitting, “I don’t know either.”

Seeing Lumian’s eyes darken, she added, “But you have to believe that true miracles exist in this world.

“And the great existence I mentioned earlier is synonymous with Miracle.”

Despair and hope swelled in Lumian’s heart.

Though he knew the mysterious woman before him was likely offering comfort and hope, he couldn’t help but say, “You said that once I unlocked the secret of the dream, you’d tell me the honorific name of that great existence.”

Her expression grew solemn, her tone serious.

“I’ll tell you now. Remember it well.

“His honorific name is: The Fool that doesn’t belong to this era, the mysterious ruler above the gray fog; the King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.”

As she spoke, Lumian felt his consciousness slipping, as if he could see a thin gray fog and a looming castle above it.

A gaze weighed upon him.

Simultaneously, the entire village of Cordu shuddered as the thin fog engulfing the area receded rapidly.

By the time Lumian regained clarity, sunlight had already filtered through the sky, casting golden specks upon the crimson mountain peak and desolate earth.

Lumian recalled the three lines of the honorific name and his conversation with Aurore in his dream.

He winced, a bitter smile forming as he said, “I thought there’d be a description of the past, present, and future.”

The enigmatic woman in the orange dress tersely acknowledged his remark.

“There should be another one in the future, but if I use a description other than the three lines to pray to Him now, I can’t guarantee the response will be from Him.

“You should know that such a situation is very dangerous.”

Silent for a few seconds, Lumian then asked, a glint of hope in his eyes, “If I work diligently for you, can I eventually summon that great being to resurrect Aurore?”

“That’s one way,” the woman said softly. “You can also explore other methods. I won’t stop you. I’m merely reminding you that many resurrection techniques have grave flaws.”

Lumian nodded, signaling his understanding.

He didn’t dare to inquire, yet couldn’t help but ask, “Is there a significant chance of resurrection?”

The enigmatic woman glanced at him and sighed.

“It’s very, very slim, but I know you’ll still pursue it.”

Lumian pressed his lips together, remaining silent.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to assure her he’d do everything in his power to find a way to bring Aurore back, but he feared that speaking would reveal the sorrow surging within his heart.

After a few seconds, he asked in a raspy voice, “What do you need me to do in Trier?”

“Join a covert organization and help me gather some intel,” the woman replied simply. “I’ll tell you how to contact them once you’re in Trier.”

She added, “Besides uncovering the truth from your memories, you can also look into the ‘survivors’ of this catastrophe.”

“Survivors?” Lumian’s eyes narrowed.

The woman nodded.

“Besides you, there are five others: Madame Pualis, Béost, Louis Lund, Cathy, who left Cordu before the twelfth night, and Guillaume Bénet, who was protected by the ritual as its host. They escaped before this place was completely destroyed.”

“The padre is still alive?” Lumian’s lips curled up.

The enigmatic lady locked eyes with him and said, “If my divination is accurate, they should be hiding somewhere in Trier.”

“Very good.” Lumian smiled, wiping the corners of his eyes.

The woman then looked at Ryan, Leah, and Valentine, who slept near the room’s edge on the thorny city wall, and asked Lumian, “What do you plan to do with them?

“If they leave alive, you’ll undoubtedly be hunted by Bureau 8, Machinery Hivemind, and the Inquisition.

“From now on, you can only hide. You’ll never live openly under the sun. You’ll be forever accompanied by darkness, filth, and danger.”

Lumian glanced at Ryan and the others, chuckling hoarsely.

“Will killing them bring Aurore back?”

The woman shook her head.

“No.”

Lumian scoffed, bowing his head with his eyes closed.

Soon, he looked up and asked, “What’s the name of the organization I’m about to join? How should I contact you once I’m in Trier?”

The woman sighed faintly.

“I’ll tell you when the time comes.

“I’ll give you my messenger’s summoning method and the corresponding medium later. Contact me through that.”

Lumian fell quiet for a moment before posing another question. “Did I possess the power to trap Cordu in a loop?”

“Strictly speaking, you didn’t. At least not before receiving the Circle Inhabitant boon,” the woman explained casually. “This place is corrupted by that hidden being everywhere, and the power level sealed in your left chest is quite high. Therefore, when your emotions fluctuate and you’re in a subconscious state, you can mobilize the corresponding specialness to reset this place.” She paused, adding, “However, you’ve always been physically in a loop.

“The corruption sealed within your body allows you to reset your form at 6 a.m. every day and return to 6 a.m. on the twelfth night. Only changes brought about by Beyonder characteristics and boons are retained.”

Is this the real reason why I recover every time I wake up from injuries in the ruins? No wonder I didn’t starve to death… Lumian immediately understood.

He glanced at his body, a self-deprecating smile forming.

“It’ll always be that day…”

That nightmarish day.

Without waiting for the woman’s response, he looked up and asked, “How should I address you?”

She smiled, beginning to reply, “You can call me…”

Before she could finish, cards suddenly danced in the air.

Each card bore a unique pattern, fluttering towards Lumian.

Instinctively, Lumian extended his right hand, attempting to catch some of the cards.

At that moment, most of the cards vanished, leaving just one.

The card gently settled in Lumian’s palm, face-up. It depicted a figure extending their scepter into the sky and pointing at the ground with their left hand.

Tarot card—Magician!

Lumian glanced up in shock, realizing the enigmatic woman had disappeared.

Should I call her Madam Magician? Lumian subconsciously flipped the tarot card in his hand, revealing rows of minute Intis script:

“The spirit that wanders about the unfounded, an upper world creature that is friendly to humans, a messenger that belongs solely to Magician.”

Lumian studied the words for a moment before tucking the tarot card away.

He glanced at Ryan and the others, then turned around and staggered away from the area.

As he walked, Lumian couldn’t help but look back at the blood-stained mountain peak and the twisted, thorny city wall.

The Cordu in his memory had already morphed into this. It bore no resemblance to what it once was, but Lumian still tried his best to observe and search, hoping to overlap the scene in his mind with reality.

He wanted to take another look at the giant atop the mountain, but he knew that it would cause him grave harm.

Unwittingly, Lumian slowly circled the blood-stained mountain peak and thorny city wall, his gaze constantly scanning the distorted and chaotic objects.

He knew what he was looking for, and he knew he would never find it.

Just like that, Lumian arrived at the spot where the wooden wall had blocked him.

Most of the area had collapsed, revealing the garden behind it.

The garden was lush and vibrant, a stark contrast to the blood-stained “peak,” the warped “city wall,” and the ruins on the other side.

In the center was a brown wooden crib, reminiscent of the one Lumian had seen in Madame Pualis’s castle.

He subconsciously leaned over and realized that there was a small human-shaped indentation on the slightly aged white cotton swaddling cloth in the crib. It was as if a baby had once lain here, but its whereabouts were now unknown.

What does this mean? Just as this thought crossed Lumian’s mind, he felt the sunlight shining down from the sky grow much brighter.

He instinctively looked up and saw golden flames completely engulfing the mountaintop.

The three-headed, six-armed giant loomed in the inferno, seemingly melting.

Lumian stared blankly for a few seconds before suddenly raising his hands to shield his face.

The “sunlight” was too intense.

…

In the semi-subterranean two-story building at the edge of the ruins.

Lumian trudged to his sister’s bedroom with the 237 verl d’or and 46 coppet he had collected. He grabbed a brown suitcase filled with clothes and memorabilia and pushed open the door.

He was here to say goodbye.

As soon as he stepped in and saw the desk with the manuscripts, his head throbbed as an image surfaced.

Aurore’s eyes darted around, no longer vacant. She looked at Lumian, who had been pushed away, and said with difficulty,

“My notebook…”

Grande Soeur’s witchcraft notebook? Is there important information in it? Lumian pressed his forehead, walked to the desk, and opened the drawer below.

Familiar dark notebooks greeted his eyes.

He suddenly remembered that Aurore had taught him a great deal of mysticism knowledge before Cordu was destroyed.

…

In Dariège, at the steam locomotive station.

The ticket agent eyed Lumian and asked, “Where are your identification documents?”

“I forgot,” replied Lumian, clad in a linen shirt, a dark jacket, and a round-rimmed black hat, as he held a brown suitcase.

He then turned and walked away from the window.

A short man in a half-top hat and black suit approached Lumian, whispering, “Do you want to take the courier carriage? It’s headed for Bigorre.”

“Does it require identification?” Lumian inquired.

The short man chuckled, responding, “No need. Our business is about to be crushed by the steam locomotive. Why would we need identification documents?

“So, are you taking it or not? This is the last remnant of romance from the classical era!”

Lumian gave a slight nod and asked, “How much?”

The short man’s enthusiasm flared.

“20 verl d’or to Bigorre, takes about a day. There are five stops in between. Each stop allows for a rest, changing carriage drivers and horses. Two of the stops also provide free food.”

Without further questions, Lumian followed the short man to a deserted street nearby.

A large carriage drawn by four horses was parked at the roadside.

Upon boarding, Lumian discovered the interior was rather spacious. Like the public carriage, it had two rows separated by an aisle, as well as space for larger luggage.

He found a seat by the window, placed his suitcase down, and pulled out a book with a dark red cover.

As the horses neighed outside, Lumian flipped through the book, illuminated by sunlight streaming through the window.

Beside him sat a man in his thirties with a well-groomed mustache, brown hair, blue eyes, and smart attire.

He glanced at the book in Lumian’s hand, asking with interest, “Eternal Love? Aurore Lee’s book? The one featuring the female lead named Kingsley and the male lead named Ciel?”

“Yes.” Lumian nodded.

The mustached man became chatty.

“This book is Aurore Lee’s earliest work. The writing was quite amateurish, particularly the dialogue between characters. It doesn’t sound like something people would say in real life at all. It’s so emotional, it’s uncomfortable.”

“Indeed.” Lumian nodded again.

He bowed his head and flipped to the last few pages of the book, his gaze resting on the relevant passage.

“On her deathbed, Kingsley clutched Ciel’s outstretched hand and gazed at his anguished expression. She forced a smile and said with difficulty, ‘Stupid, live well.'”

(End of Part 1—Nightmare)