Chapter 425 - 425 The Living

425 The Living

Einhorn? Even though Lumian was a young man deprived of an education, he had received Aurore’s rigorous education and knew that this last name represented the royal family of the Feysac Empire in the north.

Previously, when he had observed Elros acting reserved and obedient in front of Poufer Sauron, he had assumed that her father’s family wasn’t particularly outstanding and had perhaps even declined, forcing her to rely on her cousin. He hadn’t expected her to bear such a distinguished last name.

It was worth noting that more than a thousand years had passed since the establishment of the Feysac Empire in the late Fourth Epoch. The Einhorn family had always held the throne, while the Sauron family had lost the Intis throne nearly two centuries ago. It was clear which family held the upper hand.

Albus Medici glanced at Elros in surprise and added a touch of provocation to his words, “You’re an Einhorn? I couldn’t tell.”

Elros gazed straight ahead, returning to her obedient demeanor.

She spoke emotionlessly, “The Sauron family and the Einhorn family often formed marriage alliances. Even though the Sauron family has long left the Intis throne, this tradition endures. My mother just happened to marry a member of the Einhorn royal family.”

Poet Iraeta asked with interest, “So your last name is Einhorn. Why did you come to Trier? You were living in Red Swan Castle when I first met Count Poufer.”

“Six years ago, my father perished in the war between the Feysac Empire and the Loen Kingdom. My mother brought me back to Trier, where we stayed with my maternal grandfather, who also happened to be Poufer’s grandfather,” Elros explained with a soft sigh. “Two years ago, my maternal grandfather passed away. Last year, my mother succumbed to illness.”

The frequency of death does seem remarkably high? Right, Aurore had mentioned that while the four powerful countries of the Northern Continent sometimes collaborated and at other times clashed, marriages between the royal family and nobles never ceased. Consequently, cousin marriages had become frequent… According to Franca, the Hunter pathway has mainly been in the hands of the Sauron and Einhorn families. Could a Hunter-Hunter marriage guarantee that future generations would be better suited for the Hunter pathway? Lumian held the carbide lamp and proceeded down the corridor toward the exit of the wax statue’s room.

The wax statues on either side, bathed in the yellowish glow of the carbide lamp, seemed eerily lifelike.

As they ventured further down the corridor, it grew narrower, and the wax statues almost obstructed their path.

Lumian couldn’t help but bump into them. Their bodies were cold, and their limbs felt stiff. They were indeed genuine wax statues.

Finally, the four of them reached the end of the room and opened the iron-black wooden door.

Just as Lumian was about to depart, a subconscious impulse made him glance back.

In the dimly lit room, the pained expressions on the wax statues’ faces appeared haunting, as if their eyes were fixed on the exit.

Lumian was reminded of his earlier encounter with the wax statue in the river. He instinctively raised his wrist slightly and discreetly extended the middle finger toward the wax statue in the room.

“I really wish I could set this place on fire,” Albus Medici lamented with a touch of regret.

Lumian was momentarily surprised, but he secretly concurred.

Good idea!

He had a suspicion that if he could incinerate these wax statues, the potion would be fully digested.

Elros Einhorn remarked calmly, “Red Swan Castle experiences an average of three fires a month.”

Is she suggesting we should go ahead and burn it down without any apprehension? Lumian grumbled in his thoughts and proceeded into the corridor behind the wax statue’s room.

The passageway descended diagonally, leading them deeper underground.

Lumian felt an urge to purse his lips and whistle in amazement, but he resisted.

The four of them continued down until the corridor leveled out once more.

The wall lamps were not lit. Whether gas or candles, they slumbered in the darkness.

With the yellowish glow of their four carbide lamps, Lumian discerned a room at a diagonal angle ahead, its wooden door slightly ajar. A faint, lingering odor of blood emanated from within.

He approached and pushed open the wooden door.

Light streamed into the room, and the scene within was cast upon the eyes of Lumian, Albus, and the rest of the group.

It was a small bedroom, but time had not been kind to it. The bed had crumbled, the wood decayed, and the table lay in ruins. A collection of assorted items lay scattered in the center of the room.

The walls bore vivid, deep gouges, as if they had been violently clawed at by someone until their fingers must have bled and rotted.

The blood, having seeped into the crevices, had oxidized over time, turning black. Its original appearance was lost, but a faint cloyed odor still lingered.

Then, a whistle reached Lumian’s ears.

Albus Medici expressed his emotions through this sound.

He moved past Lumian, entering the room, and ran his fingers along the deep scratches on the wall.

“I can only imagine the horrifying sounds that were produced,” the chubby-faced Elros commented, her focus on the matter somewhat off.

Lumian surmised that someone from Red Swan Castle had once descended into madness and been confined in this room. The marks on the wall were the haunting legacy of their torment.

After a cursory search that yielded no findings, they pressed on.

They opted for the right path at the three-way intersection, leading them to a room with its wooden door partially open.

Inside, the room was in shambles, marred by the presence of the blackened bloodstains. The walls appeared to be adorned with what could only be described as decaying flesh.

Albus Medici observed it and let out a disapproving click of his tongue.

“A guy exploded here. From the inside out. Blood and flesh splattered everywhere.”

Lumian nodded almost imperceptibly. The judgment aligned with his.

Could it have been the result of a Pyromaniac losing control and meeting their end?

Poet Iraeta, holding a carbide lamp in one hand, took a puff from his cherrywood pipe, struggling slightly, and offered his own perspective.

“I can’t quite fathom why such a tragedy unfolded, but there’s a certain poetic quality to it.”

Is an explosion a form of art? Lumian muttered as he entered the room and began his search.

In this environment, his emotions were somewhat more agitated than usual, and his aggressive impulses were undeniably heightened.

The putrid blood and decaying flesh seemed to exude an aura that could influence one’s mental state.

After moving forward for over ten meters, the group discovered another room adjacent to the corridor, its wooden door partially open.

The room didn’t reek of blood, but Lumian felt as if sharp blades were pressed against his skin, causing his hair to stand on end.

Sharpness!

That was the word that naturally came to his mind.

As the light from the carbide lamp illuminated the room, Lumian, Elros, and the rest observed that the furniture had been reduced to tiny fragments. Beds and desks lay in finger-sized squares, partially collapsed.

“Remarkable swordsmanship,” Albus Medici remarked with a chuckle.

Lumian wasn’t too concerned with this matter. What troubled him was that this place was unlike the previous two rooms, which had signs of decaying blood and rotting flesh.

Where had the person who once occupied this room disappeared to? Lumian scrutinized the area intently before deciding to move on.

Shortly, they reached a descending stone staircase. The lower portion of the staircase was enveloped in darkness, seemingly endless.

On either side of the stairs were rooms with slightly open wooden doors. The interior of these rooms was pitch-black, as though it could swallow all light and motion.

Lumian instinctively chose the left side, pushed open the door, and extended the carbide lamp into the room.

Bathed in the direct yellow light, an intact bed, an undamaged table, and a chair all stood in perfect order.

Two gleaming, cold swords adorned the wall before them. On the table, a pile of colorful building blocks of various shapes and a row of iron soldiers, each as tall as a candle, were neatly arranged.

These iron soldiers were clad in blue coats with golden embroidery. They wielded spears that resembled tree branches or black rifles, a popular toy in Intis that had enjoyed popularity for a century or two.

Lumian walked over and placed the carbide lamp down. He picked up one of the iron soldiers and adeptly twisted the torsion spring on its back.

With a series of creaking sounds, the iron soldier sprang to life, swaying forward while raising its spear.

Memories of owning a set of such iron soldiers during his youth, before his mother’s illness and his pépé’s financial troubles, flooded into Lumian’s mind.

“There are no signs of damage here. It’s as if it contains items from childhood to adulthood,” Elros observed as she circled the room.

Albus Medici grinned and remarked, “I wonder where the owner of this room is now. Hopefully not mad enough to scratch the walls or self-destruct from the inside out.”

As they conversed, Lumian extended his right palm, attempting to open the wooden desk drawer to see what it held.

Suddenly, an ethereal voice echoed around them.

“My grandfather went mad and ventured into the depths of the underground palace, never to return…”

Lumian tensed, his body swiveling as he scanned the surroundings for the source of the voice.

Albus, Elros, and the others followed suit, clearly hearing the unsettling voice.

“My father went mad and ventured into the depths of the underground palace, never to return…

“My brother went mad and ventured into the depths of the underground palace, never to return…

“I… hear the summonings from the depths of the underground palace…”

Lumian, Albus, Elros, and Iraeta simultaneously directed their gazes at the wooden door across the corridor.

The spectral voice emanated from there.

With a snap, Iraeta, positioned in the corridor, pushed open the wooden door behind him. Ignorance often knew no fear.

The yellowish light immediately illuminated two figures and a pile of materials.

One of them was a flesh-toned puppet mounted on a metal frame, hairless with rudimentary facial features.

Surrounding it were molds, hair, clay, and pigments stored in containers.

A man clad in a grayish-black robe, his natural red hair flowing, was diligently painting the puppet with a fine brush.

Sensing the intrusion of light, the man slowly raised his head, revealing a weathered face adorned with thick hair and dark, iron-like eyes.

Upon spotting Lumian, Iraeta, and the rest, he spoke slowly, his voice ethereal as he inquired, “Are you here to make wax statues?”