Chapter 112 - 112 Charlie

112 Charlie

In the dimly-lit cellar of the Auberge du Coq Doré, a cozy bar had just enough space for 20 to 30 patrons.

The moment Lumian stepped in, he saw a man leap onto a small round table, beer in hand, and address the handful of customers around him,

“Ladies and gentlemen, lend me your ears! I experienced something unbelievable two days ago!”

By the scant light from the steam lamps on the wall, Lumian discerned that the man was quite young, around 22 or 23 years old. He had short, light-brown hair and a clean-shaven face, which was flushed, likely from the alcohol.

Wearing a flaxen-colored shirt, black trousers, and leather slip-ons, the man stood just over 1.7 meters tall. However, his unusually short limbs made him appear closer to 1.6 meters.

Waving his stubby arms and slurring his words, he continued, “How incredible was it? I’ll tell you, it’s changed my entire perspective on faith. As a believer in the God of Steam and Machinery, I’m now ready to convert to the Eternal Blazing Sun!

“Listen up, isn’t that astonishing?

“Can you imagine how famished I was after five days? I’d lost my job and been fired by that good-for-nothing manager. I couldn’t find work even after exhausting my savings.

“For five days, I starved, barely able to leave my bed. I was on the verge of death. Do you know how that feels? Oh, may God bless you and never let you find out.

“In that moment, I couldn’t bear the thought of dying like this. I came to Trier to make my fortune, and I had to do something. That’s when I noticed the portrait of Saint Viève on the wall.

“Yes, with great effort, I managed to get up, kneel before Her, and pray for Her help. I was still a believer in the God of Steam and Machinery then, but what wouldn’t a starving man do? Besides, it couldn’t hurt, right?

“Five minutes after I finished praying, an old friend dropped by and saw my dire state. He didn’t have much himself, but he reminded me that I’d rented a kerosene lamp for use at night. The deposit was 35 coppets—a whole seven licks!

“God, I’d completely forgotten. With my friend’s help, I returned the lamp and used the refund to buy bread and half a liter of cheap booze. The bread was cold and damp, like it’d been doused in putty. The alcohol was a bit off and weak, but it was the most delicious meal I’ve ever had. Ladies and gentlemen, I was reborn!

“I found a new job today, and tomorrow, during my break, I’ll light a candle at the nearest Saint Viève Cathedral!”

Saint Viève was a female angel mentioned in the Eternal Blazing Sun Church’s Bible. She was one of the city’s guardian angels in Trier. The other two were prominent figures from the God of Steam and Machinery Church and the annals of Intis.

Lumian observed the young man’s blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he ambled towards the bar.

The bartender, who was polishing a glass with a cloth, glanced at the orator on the round table and chuckled.

“Charlie never could keep quiet. Always talking.”

In his mid-thirties, the bartender sported a thin, dark brown beard circling his mouth, and his hair of the same color was tied back in an artistically casual ponytail.

Lumian took a seat at the bar and asked with a grin, “Is he telling the truth?”

“Who knows?” The bartender shrugged. “You must’ve heard the proverb: It’s better to trust a snake than a Reemian. Charlie is from Reem.”

Reem and Riston Provinces both hailed from the south. Their accents were similar, but they were mountainous provinces more akin to Lenburg.

Lumian mused aloud,”I don’t think that’s the whole proverb. I feel like there’s more to it.”

The bartender’s azure eyes sparkled with amusement as he replied, “You’re right. That proverb is longer than you’d think.

“Trust a Loenese over a Reemian. Trust a snake over a Reemian, but never trust the Islanders.”

The islands referred to the Fog Sea archipelago west of Intis. This was one of the Republic’s overseas colonies. The Islanders often played the roles of thugs and con artists in Trier.

Without waiting for Lumian to inquire further, the bartender cast a mocking glance at Charlie, still droning on, and whispered, “If he really experienced that, he certainly doesn’t know that the portrait of Saint Viève isn’t in his room.”

“Then whose is it?” Lumian asked, amused.

The bartender struggled to suppress his laughter.

“Charlie lives in Room 504. The previous tenant frequented the Quartier de la Princesse Rouge’s Rue de la Muraille. The image in the room was of one of Trier’s most famous prostitutes a few years back, Susanna Matisse.

“Just think. Charlie believes he’s praying to an angel for help, but he’s actually praying to a prostitute. He even feels lucky to have escaped hunger and landed a new job. How ironic!”

“Indeed,” Lumian concurred.

It was a scene beyond his wildest imagination. Reality was sometimes stranger than fiction.

He then added, “As long as it works.”

The bartender didn’t pursue the topic further and inquired, “What can I get you?”

“A glass of fennel absinthe.” Lumian tapped the bar counter with his finger, signaling he was deep in thought. “What kind of food do you have here?”

“How about DuVar broth? Three licks for a ladle,” the bartender suggested.

Three licks equaled 15 coppets—0.15 verl d’or.

Lumian appeared intrigued.

“What’s DuVar broth?”

The bartender casually explained, “A restaurant owner, DuVar, invented it. He simmered meat, sauerkraut, and turnips together to create a hearty broth. Finally, he added cheese and bread crumbs. Just one serving can fill your stomach, and it tastes pretty good. As a result, DuVar is now wealthy and has relocated to Quartier de la Maison d’Opéra.”

Lumian was currently in Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman, also known as the market district, situated on the south bank of the Srenzo River, home to numerous slums. Quartier de la Maison d’Opéra was on the north bank of the Srenzo River, near Avenue du Boulevard, one of the Republic’s core areas.

Trier’s city walls encompassed a total of 20 quartiers.

“Sounds good.” Lumian nodded with a smile. “I’ll have one.”

Though he could restore his physical state by 6 a.m. and not worry about hunger, eating was one of the few things that made him feel alive.

The bartender nodded and asked, “Little Mummy or Somersault?”

“What?” Lumian didn’t hide his confusion.

Unfazed, the bartender calmly explained, “That’s common slang in Trier bars, cafés, and beer houses. Little Mummy means a small shot of fennel absinthe. Somersault is a double shot. Red Tomato has pomegranate juice added, and with mint, it’s called Parrot. There are plenty more like that. Friend, you still have much to learn in Trier.”

“Little Mummy it is.” Lumian sensed the bartender’s subtle disdain for foreigners, but he didn’t mind.

“Seven licks,” the bartender announced as he flipped open a small goblet.

This was pricier than the absinthe at Cordu’s Ol’ Tavern, but it was typical in places subject to city taxes.

Soon, a glass of pale green absinthe, glowing hypnotically, appeared before Lumian.

He picked it up and sipped. The faint, lingering bitterness of the refreshing taste spread and burrowed into his brain.

As Lumian waited for the waitress to bring DuVar’s broth, he noticed glass jars, hoses, valves, gears, and other items piled beside the bar counter.

“What’s this?” He glanced inquisitively at the bartender.

As the bartender wiped a glass, he casually replied, “Left by a previous tenant. He’s a believer in the God of Steam and Machinery. He always thinks he has a knack for mechanics and has accumulated many similar items.”

“Where is he now?” Lumian asked, playing along even though he knew the answer wouldn’t be pleasant.

The bartender paused for a couple of seconds before answering, “He went to the factory, and word is he got distracted while working and was pulled into the machinery. Half of him was crushed.”

Lumian didn’t pry further. He turned to examine the half-assembled parts and fell into deep thought.

A few seconds later, he left the bar stool and squatted beside the counter, tinkering with the pile.

The bartender glanced at him but didn’t interfere. He only notified Lumian when DuVar’s broth arrived from the kitchen.

After busying himself for a while, Lumian returned to the bar stool and sampled the hearty broth with a spoon.

The rich aroma of meat, the taste of cheese, the tangy sauerkraut, and the sweetness of the turnip melded to create an unforgettable flavor. The bread crumbs soaked in juice were the crowning gem of the dish.

Lumian didn’t expect that a soup costing three licks would include several pieces of meat. It could genuinely fill an adult’s stomach.

Once the plate was empty, Lumian pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He squatted back beside the half-assembled parts and resumed his work.

Ten minutes later, he placed a machine on the bar counter.

Above the machine was a glass jar, and beneath it were intricate components connected to two rubber hoses.

Lumian then asked for a glass of clear water and poured in the remaining fennel absinthe, tinting the colorless liquid a pale green.

Finally, he inserted one of the rubber hoses into the cup.

The fashionable bartender, his hair tied back in a ponytail, watched intently and asked, puzzled, “What’s this?”

“My invention,” Lumian declared, tracing a triangular Sacred Emblem on his chest. “I’m also a believer in the God of Steam and Machinery, with a few impressive achievements in the mechanical field.”

He then extended his black-gloved left hand and gestured toward the machine.

“This is a groundbreaking machine. Its effects are beyond your wildest dreams!”

“What can it do?” Charlie, suspected of having prayed to a prostitute, approached the bar counter with a beer bottle and a curious expression.

Lumian explained, both solemn and excited, “It’s called the Idiot Instrument. It tests a person’s stupidity and intelligence.”

“Really?” Charlie and the bartender looked skeptical.

Lumian detailed his idea, “It’s easy to use. Blow into the tube until the liquid in the cup rises into the glass jar and forms bubbles.

“By observing these bubbles, we can determine the corresponding stupidity or intelligence index.”

Intrigued, Charlie said after observing Lumian, “Fascinating. Just as I’d expect from a believer in the God of Steam and Machinery.”

He picked up the exposed rubber hose and blew into it.

The light green liquid in the cup flowed through the interconnected gears, valves, and other components, rising into the glass jar above and forming a small bubble.

“What does it say?” Charlie asked, eager for the result.

Lumian’s mouth curved into a sly smile.

“My friend, the principles of this machine are quite simple. When you believe me enough to actually produce a bubble with it, that’s when you prove you’re a ‘dumb idiot.'”

Charlie’s expression froze, his eyes burning with anger.

The bartender beside him laughed.

“Excellent prank!” he exclaimed, genuinely impressed.

Lumian grinned at Charlie, waiting for the explosion.

After a few tense seconds, Charlie swallowed his anger and turned to the patrons who had been listening to his story.

“Ladies and gentlemen, behold what I’ve discovered: a groundbreaking machine! It can test your intelligence index!”