370 Sending Off
A chilling scream, filled with terror, reverberated through the living room, causing the hearts of every guest to race with fear.

Painter Mullen was very sensitive to this. His pale-white complexion exchanged a concerned look with Count Poufer.

“What happened?”

Count Poufer furrowed his brow, puzzled by the sudden disturbance.

Upon hearing Mullen’s question, he snapped back to attention and casually reassured everyone,

“It seems there may have been an accident. I’ll have a servant find out the details. Don’t worry, it won’t disrupt our gathering. What could possibly go wrong?”

With that, Count Poufer signaled to his valet, positioned discreetly in a corner of the living room, to investigate the source of the scream.

Then, he addressed the assembled guests, saying, “Please, let’s continue.”

As he spoke, the Sauron family member directed his gaze towards Lumian.

Ever since presenting the gold bars, he had been closely watching Emperor Lumian, analyzing every subtle movement and expression. He was determined to unravel the mystery of how Lumian had chosen the King’s Pie slice with the gold coin and not him.

Lumian fought to keep his composure in the face of the madness that seemed to consume him and turned his gaze towards Painter Mullen.

“Create a piece of art using your buttocks.”

In his role as Cordu’s Prankster King, Lumian had an array of tasks in his arsenal to assign to each participant in the game, ensuring that none of them would forget their missions.

Yet, Lumian’s main concern wasn’t the playful antics but the malevolent presence that loomed over the sofas.

This sinister entity refused to dissipate, even after failing to infiltrate Lumian. It hovered in the air, exuding an impatient, bloodthirsty, and irritable aura.

Lumian suspected a connection between the earlier scream and this ominous mental vortex.

The handsome yet pallid and weary painter, Mullen, stood in bewildered silence, grappling with this bizarre request. Painting with one’s buttocks was entirely uncharted territory.

Novelist Anori and the others, having readily accepted their own missions, not only cheered with enthusiasm but also summoned the servants to bring paint and drawing paper. They even “assisted” Mullen by loosening his belt.

With no escape, Mullen reluctantly covered his posterior with paint and made a few awkward imprints on the drawing paper. The result resembled a child’s crude doodle.

Observing this spectacle, Novelist Anori was struck by an idea.

“Why don’t we frame it and send it to art critics? Let’s see their reaction to such a unique creation.”

“The painting’s signature is the word ‘The Emperor.’ For the title… Right, Mullen, any suggestions?”

Mullen, avoiding the crowd, cleaned himself up and contemplated for a moment before responding, “Let’s call it ‘Café.'”

Curious, Cornell, the editor-in-chief of Le Petit Trierien, asked, “What does it signify?”

Mullen shook his head as he discarded the paint-stained handkerchief and soft paper, pulling up his pants. “It doesn’t signify anything. This painting was meaningless from the start.”
As they discussed, Count Poufer’s valet returned to the living room and whispered something into the host’s ear.

Influenced by the unsettling aura of the Blood Emperor’s madness, Lumian struggled to make out the words despite his best efforts, catching only fragments.

“Lost… harm… danger…”

Count Poufer’s expression darkened, a hint of seriousness creeping in.

He nodded subtly, signaling for his valet to return to his previous position, maintaining an air of nonchalance.

Observing Count Poufer’s reaction, Lumian racked his brain, searching for a way to dispel the malevolent spirit.

I can’t wait for everyone to complete their missions, can I? No, there’s one crucial step missing. At the end of the previous King’s Pie game, Count Poufer had consumed the King’s Pie slice meant for Vermonda Sauron…

With this thought in mind, Lumian fixed his gaze on the untouched offering that remained on the plate. Leaning forward, he extended his right hand and claimed it.

Count Poufer had no doubts about this.

From his perspective, it would be suspicious if Lumian didn’t retrieve the offering!

Almost simultaneously, the frenzied entity, radiating negativity, reacted vehemently, positioning itself directly above Lumian’s head.

It emitted waves of negative emotions, as though cursing the audacious human who dared to partake in its offering.

Lumian sensed anger, hatred, and an insatiable desire to rend his soul asunder.

Yet, he remained unfazed and even smiled.

This reaction confirmed that he had made the correct choice!

Had the agitated spirit not responded so vehemently to his appropriation of the offering, Lumian would have remained clueless about how to banish it from lingering above everyone’s heads.

This wasn’t a guarantee of success, and it might entail danger, but it was a preferable alternative to the participants of the King’s Pie game growing increasingly agitated and bloodthirsty, ultimately turning on each other.

When the moment was right, Lumian could still “teleport” away. As for the others, barring Count Poufer, their chances of survival were slim.

Naturally, he couldn’t predict whether there would be unforeseen changes or new threats after consuming the offering, but in this dire situation, it was better than nothing.

For the participants in the King’s Pie game, Lumian’s intervention was their only hope. Without his actions, their demise was certain. With them, there was a fighting chance.

Lumian raised the sacrificial King’s Pie to his lips and took a substantial bite.

The frenzied spirit grew even angrier and more violent.

It no longer hovered above the others but remained directly above Lumian’s head. At times, it seemed poised to descend upon him, while at others, it attempted to tear into its target. However, it was thwarted by Alista Tudor’s aura, instinctively holding back from further aggression.

Another scream resounded.

It came from somewhere in Red Swan Castle—originating from a different person than the previous one.

A moment ago, it had been a man, but now, it was a woman.

Count Poufer’s eyelids twitched, and he smiled.

“It seems the servant responsible for cleaning up the earlier mishap must have stumbled upon some rather terrifying sights.”

Literary critic Ernst Young and the other guests readily accepted this explanation.

As guests, they lacked the authority to pry into the castle’s internal affairs. Moreover, they had gradually become engrossed in the King’s Pie game, growing a tad fanatical, impatient, and preoccupied, diverting their focus away from other occurrences within the castle.

Lumian relished the King’s Pie offering, savoring the intangible anger and curse like a melodious symphony playing in his ears.

Compared to the horrifying ravings he endured whenever he received a boon, this was akin to the beautiful performance of an orchestra.

Unable to vocalize itself and hesitant to invade his body, the frenzied spirit could only indirectly influence his emotions and mental state.

During this process, Lumian turned his attention to assigning missions to various individuals, noting that the participants were fully immersed in the game, their gazes fixed on it.

Periodically, another scream would punctuate the air, sending shivers down the spine.

Finally, Lumian finished the offering, and the frenzied spirit hovering above him abruptly halted.

In the next instant, it vanished mysteriously, dissipating into thin air.

While the participants of the King’s Pie game still appeared fanatical, their irritability and agitation had considerably waned.

Lumian let out a quiet sigh of relief and turned to Elros, seated beside him.

“Let’s see you do the Twist. If you’re not sure how, ask someone to show you.”

In contrast to the risqué Can-can dance, which was already laden with suggestive undertones, the Twist seemed relatively innocent as long as it wasn’t a male-female dance. However, it had a comical appearance.

Elros complied, rising from her seat and attempting the Twist with a hint of awkwardness.

Amidst the laughter of those present, Lumian continued to assign missions to the remaining participants.

After all the participants had completed their assigned missions, Lumian straightened up and assumed an air of superiority as he delivered his final instruction.

“Last mission:

“Keep everything that happened today a secret. You must not divulge anything about today’s game to anyone.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Elros and Laurent, still caught up in the game’s ambiance, responded in unison, their expressions displaying utmost respect.

This compliance was partly due to the lingering presence of the Blood Emperor’s aura that still clung to Lumian.

Observing the instinctive obedience of each participant, Lumian let out a contented sigh and offered a warm smile.

“That concludes today’s game.”

Count Poufer rose from his seat and gestured with a smile.

“Let’s proceed to the dining room.”

As they moved from the living room to the dining room, they had to pass through the castle’s main hall. Lumian, who had returned to his usual self, noticed out of the corner of his eye that a few valets and maids were diligently at work near the corridor.

They were using mops to clean up a reddish puddle.

Red… Lumian’s eyelids twitched as he swiftly averted his gaze.

Following dinner, the guests bid their farewells one by one. Lumian sought out Count Poufer and retrieved the five heavy gold bars with a smile.

Count Poufer shook his head.

“Since I proposed the game, I must adhere to its rules. Do you think so little of me, believing I can’t do without the 30,000 verl d’or?”

“It’s simply a gesture of courtesy,” Lumian responded with a smile. He didn’t insist and smoothly returned the gold bars to his pocket.

According to their arrangement, Lumian arranged for the poet, Iraeta, to join him in his four-wheeled, four-seater carriage. Using the pretext of having limited funds on hand, he handed Iraeta only 3,000 verl d’or.

Iraeta didn’t seem to mind at all. He stashed away the banknotes and engaged in a conversation about his artistic preferences.

As the carriage began its journey, Lumian inquired, “Which district are you heading to?”

“Just take me to the Sacred Heart Cloister,” Iraeta replied with a grin. “I’m meeting a friend there. Sponsored poets always find friends to share a drink with.”

Sacred Heart Cloister… Lumian nodded slightly and instructed the carriage driver accordingly.

Before long, the carriage arrived at the picturesque cloister. Even in the darkness of night, the golden façade of the building reflected the crimson moonlight, creating a surreal and dreamlike atmosphere.

After watching Iraeta enter the cloister, Lumian directed the carriage driver to head back to Rue des Fontaines in Quartier de la Cathédrale Commémorative.

As the carriage rattled along, leaving behind the woods and fertile fields,

Lumian suddenly heard the resonant voice of Termiboros.

“A dangerous creature is tailing you; it has been since Red Swan Castle. It brims with hostility and is preparing to strike.”

Dangerous creature… Lumian narrowed his eyes, calmly opened the carriage door, and effortlessly leaped out.

Facing the carriage driver, he spoke with the remaining authority of an Emperor, “Wait for me in the nearby town.”

The carriage driver hesitated for a moment before complying with the order.

As Lumian watched the carriage and its driver disappear into the distance, he calmly retrieved the Flog boxing gloves from his briefcase and methodically donned the iron-black gloves.

The nearby forest seemed to darken, and the river that flowed through it took on an eerie blood-red hue.