519 One Event A Day
The flas of Quartier des Black Pearls danced in Lumian’s eyes, pulling him deep into thought. As a Conspirer, his mind instinctively dissected the possibilities.
The Resistance and civil independence factions were easily ruled out—they had no presence in this archipelago, Intis’s first far-flung colony. The religious and cultural genocide, along with the assimilation efforts of successive governnts, they had tirelessly worked to make it happen. Emperor Roselle’s policies had transford this place into sothing akin to Intis’s overseas province—loose laws and weak security. The Islanders, having abandoned their original faith, now saw themselves as discriminated citizens in the Intis border regions. This discrimination mirrored the plight of Reemians in the south of Intis and Savoyards in the east. Regardless, Trier’s citizens held a universal disdain for all foreigners. However, their vigilance heightened against Islanders notorious for scams and thuggery.
Did the pirate trade spark internal strife, or were Southern Continent organizations, seeking to overthrow colonial rule, deliberately causing trouble in the Fog Sea Archipelago? Perhaps so ambitious individual is following the lead of an evil god. Lumian’s thoughts raced as he noticed a 2.5-ter-tall half-giant erging from a room beside the cathedral, dressed in a black trench coat and silk top hat.
Addressing the bewildered supplicants and tramps, he assured them, “Don’t worry. The Lord will protect everyone.
“Stay here and don’t go out. Wait for the riot to subside. There won’t be any danger.”
“Praise The Fool!” The believers of The Fool Church found solace, pressing their hands to their chests and bowing.
Their expressions softened, conveying a sense of security.
The tramps exchanged glances, but none dared to leave.
In the minds of most Intisians, a cathedral was a safer haven than any governnt, regardless of the Church it belonged to.
At that mont, golden sunlight descended into the area where the explosion had occurred, accompanied by a series of dense explosions, though not as deafening as before.
It was evident that the governor-general’s office and the Beyonders of the two Churches were addressing the anomaly.
Simultaneously, Lumian observed the sky, once illuminated by moonlight and starlight, darkening. Despite no change in the weather, the street outside seed cloaked in a thin, dark fog.
Ignoring the half-giant bishop’s shouts after a mont of contemplation, Lumian opened the cathedral door of The Fool and stepped out.
The temperature outside had notably dropped, akin to Trier’s autumn.
Beneath the gas street lamps’ glow, Lumian retraced his steps back to the port.
Suddenly, a swaying figure erged from a nearby alley.
The figure, clad in a thin shirt and pants with bare feet, had a pale, wrinkled face.
His eyes were more white than brown, and livor mortis covered his exposed skin.
Zombie? Lumian raised his eyebrows.
As the suspected zombie—an old man—staggered towards Quartier des Black Pearls, it seed to detect a hint of spirituality and blood, abruptly turning to Lumian and emitting an inhuman sound.
Lumian promptly condensed a crimson fireball, nearly white, and sent it hurtling towards the zombie.
Amidst the rumbling explosion, the zombie’s head shattered, and its body disintegrated. It t its demise once more.
No more movent.
Is that all you’ve got? Lumian had originally wondered if he had encountered a more dangerous undead creature.
Pressing on, he ford ten to twenty crimson fireballs above his head, behind him, on his shoulders, and at his sides, allowing them to follow his movents and maintain a relative suspension.
As Lumian rounded a corner, he spotted a young couple screaming in terror and fleeing.
Behind them, a zombie pursued, its dark-red heart and white intestines faintly discernible from nurous gunshot wounds.
A nearly white crimson fireball, unleashed by Lumian, flew past the couple and exploded on the pursuing zombie.
Rumble. The charred corpse scattered in all directions, accompanied by residual flas.
The young couple, halted in surprise, stared at Lumian surrounded by ten to twenty crimson, nearly white fireballs. Confusion and disbelief filled their eyes.
“Are you waiting for death?” Lumian cursed as he advanced. “Take the back street and enter The Fool’s cathedral.”
“Alright, alright!” The young man and woman responded instinctively, as if facing ard police officers or adventurers.
The fireball was clearly more powerful than a gun!
As the couple entered the street where The Fool’s cathedral was located, Lumian, resembling an envoy of flas, continued towards the port at a moderate pace.
Along the way, he encountered a few more waves of people erging from bars, open-air markets, and other places, who had encountered zombies.
Lumian didn’t say a word. He directed the crimson, nearly white fireballs around him to help them eliminate the revived corpses. Then, he instructed them to hide in the nearest cathedral.
The zombies’ pursuit and the intimidation of the fireballs made his words persuasive. No one insisted on finding their own way.
If there were any, Lumian couldn’t be bothered.
After several similar encounters, Lumian began to discern a pattern.
These zombies weren’t reanimated from the living; they were originally deceased. The entirety of Port Farim’s deceased had risen without any discernible cause.
These zombies instinctively headed towards the explosion site, but if they encountered the living on the way, they’d be drawn by both flesh and spirituality, leading them to pursue, kill, and gnaw.
With this understanding, Lumian no longer advised passersby to seek refuge in distant cathedrals. Instead, he directed them to avoid hospitals, graveyards, and similar places, urging them to stay for two to three hours in bustling bars, dance halls, or houses where no recent deaths had occurred.
After a series of halts and advances, Lumian returned to the port and reboarded the Flying Bird. He continued unleashing the crimson, almost white fireballs until only two remained.
Philip, leaning against the ship’s rail, kept his eyes fixed on the governor-general’s office.
“What happened?” he inquired of Lumian.
“How would I know?” Lumian replied, amused.
Philip swiftly changed the topic.
“Did you co across any anomalies?”
Only then did Lumian briefly recount the explosion near the governor-
general’s office and the sudden reanimation of the corpses.
“Zombie summoning?” Philip muttered to himself, a frown creasing his brow.
Without awaiting Lumian’s response, he sighed and said, “It was smooth only on the first day of this voyage. On the second day, we encountered Bone Splitter. On the third day, Death Navigators attacked us at noon. By night, or rather in the early hours of the fourth day, another zombie calamity struck in Port Farim… We still have six days until we reach Port Santa…”
Lumian felt a pang of guilt.
In theory, his attraction to or attraction by calamities shouldn’t be so frequent. When he was in Trier, he didn’t encounter mystical incidents every day. If that were the case, 007 would have died from overwork.
Encountering one or two calamities throughout the journey would be understandable, but considering Dardel’s Derangent, it’s truly a daily affair… Could it be that so unclean entity is tailing ? Could it be the cause, the trigger, or the convergence? And is there essentially only one calamity I’ve encountered? The more Lumian pondered, the more he felt the urge to correspond with Madam Magician to investigate if there was an underlying issue behind such frequent calamities.
“Perhaps the zombie calamity was triggered by the initial trouble on the ship. Once we leave the Flying Bird, our subsequent journey might beco peaceful,” Lumian casually consoled Philip.
He didn’t hold much confidence in his words.
“Hope so.” Philip spread his arms slightly and prayed devoutly. “Praise the Sun!”
Lumian took his ti before heading back to the first-class cabin. He lingered by the shipboard, surveying Port Farim.
The authorities’ silent endorsent of pirate activities in the Fog Sea Archipelago had resulted in a certain level of chaos and misconduct. However, it had also led to a notable increase in the number of Beyonders compared to regular Intisian cities. Swiftly organizing a resistance, they cleared the streets of zombies, minimizing the casualties among citizens and tourists.
Whether pirates and adventurers exploited the turmoil to commit cris or settle scores remained uncertain.
In less than half an hour, the turmoil near the explosion site subsided. Official Beyonders dispersed, addressing disturbances on other streets.
“Very good. Nothing major happened. They managed to control it in ti,” Philip remarked, relieved.
You can say that, but I can’t… Lumian laughed self-deprecatingly.
Only then did Philip feel at ease enough for casual conversation.
“Did you go into Farim for a drink?”
“That’s right,” Lumian replied with a smile. “I happened to receive a commission.”
“What commission?” Philip asked casually.
“Hunting a pirate—Baronet Black.” Lumian didn’t withhold any details.
Philip’s eyes narrowed as he inquired with a frown, “Are you sure you’re stronger than Baronet Black? He has a ship and over a hundred subordinates! Besides, even if you find an opportunity to assassinate him, aren’t you afraid of the King of Dusk’s retaliation? He’s one of the mariti kings!”
“Just because I accepted a commission doesn’t an I’ll definitely do it. I don’t even know where to find Black Baronet Class Khizi. That’s his na, right?” Lumian didn’t mind the potential repercussions from the King of Dusk.
There were more than one Saint who wanted to deal with him!
Philip observed Louis Berry’s nonchalant deanor, realizing he had accepted a mission but would reconsider only if there was a chance to complete it. Thus, he didn’t press further on the matter.
The next morning.
As the security supervisor finished breakfast, a subordinate sailor inford him: The governor-general’s office had ordered the port to be temporarily closed, and all ships were prohibited from leaving!
Philip suppressed the urge to stand up and asked in a deep voice, “What are the soldiers at the port doing?”
“Searching ship by ship,” the sailor replied truthfully.
In Room 5 of the first-class cabin, Lumian observed the chaotic harbor where the army had entered and continued writing a letter to Jenna and Franca.
“Sothing seems to have happened to Port Farim on Saint Tick Island in the Fog Sea Archipelago. Ask that person and see if he knows the exact situation.”
At this point, Lumian raised his right hand and tapped his chest four tis—up, down, left, right—like Mr. K. He whispered sympathetically, “Poor 007.”
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