Chapter 1: Convergence
-Lumian Lee-
"The Dragon Lock Tower this time," Lumian murmured, finding himself once again within the City of Calamity. His first visit had occurred after becoming a Hunter, in which he found himself in a vast metropolis, which from the story he knew was Shanghai of modern era and ancient era colliding, filled with 'cultivators' and corrupted citizens from the Western Continent.
Now, having settled into his seat aboard the steam train, he had entered a state of Cogitation, deliberately guiding his Spirit Body into the Sefirah.
The young Hunter surveyed his surroundings with practiced scrutiny. No gas lamps or lit candles illuminated the space; the only illumination came from weak sunlight filtering through delicate paper windows, casting everything in a murky, diluted radiance. His enhanced vision, however, made the darkness little obstacle as he catalogued every detail. The tower's first floor sprawled with unexpected vastness, crisscrossed by towering beams and colossal columns that stretched upward until they vanished into shadow. A stone staircase, its surface slick with age and moisture, descended into the levels below.
Having completed his reconnaissance as any competent Hunter would, the raven-haired youth approached the stairwell, which seemed to plunge into an even deeper well of shadow.
After what felt like an indeterminate span of time, he finally reached the tower's deepest foundation. There, shrouded in absolute darkness, he discovered the ancient well. Moss-encrusted stone blocks surrounded its mouth, from which heavy iron chains snaked downward into profound depths. Countless bas-reliefs had been hammered into the chains' links, depicting a legion of grotesque, contorted faces—like imprisoned demonic entities frozen in eternal agony.
"As expected of this bizarre world," he remarked after a long moment's observation. Leaning forward, Lumian peered into the well's depths. Below lay what appeared to be the collected blood of countless thousands; a thick, unnatural liquid that emanated a powerful stench of gore and oxidized metal. Its surface lay utterly still, dense and motionless in a way that defied natural explanation.
He studied the crimson expanse that reflected neither his head nor his features, then after a measured pause, spoke in the Hermes language: "Calamity of Destruction; Origin of Disaster, I beseech thee to grant me a Boon of the Demoness pathway equivalent to my current level."
This was the decision he had reached after three days in this world. Lumian planned to advance through Boons for the Demoness pathway while simultaneously progressing through the Red Priest pathway using traditional potions.
Compared to any other Low Sequence Beyonder of the Demoness pathway, he would face far graver danger should he advance to Sequence 7: Witch through consuming a potion. The Primordial Demoness invariably turned Her attention whenever a Sequence 8: Instigator attempted advancement to Witch. She ensured that if the advancing Instigator was female, they would lose control the moment the potion touched their lips. But if they were male, She permitted advancement without interference, their success or failure down to themselves.
How spiteful, to force other men to experience the same despair She had endured—the loss of their very identity as males. Lumian felt equal measures of admiration and disdain toward Her single-minded obsession. He respected Her unwavering determination, yet found Her equally weak in mind and spirit. Had She not seen the Second Blasphemy Slate? What prevented Her from simply shifting to the Red Priest Pathway before Alista Tudor?
Lumian couldn't fathom the Primordial Demoness's reasoning in that regard, but he understood this much: despite being male, if he advanced through potion rather than Boon bestowment, his connection to the City of Calamity would become immediately apparent the moment he attempted advancement to Witch.
In truth, he was gambling on the assumption that Cheek wouldn't sense a newly ascended Witch who hadn't advanced through the conventional potion method. He knew instinctively that the Essence of Beyonder would render him seemingly mundane to casual observation, disrupting even precise divination, scrying, and fate-based scrutiny. But he couldn't be certain whether this would suffice against a True God's perception, or rather, whether the Primordial Demoness would give him more than a passing glance.
All of this rested, of course, on the premise that Cheek paid any attention to Boon-bestowed Beyonders at all.
"Hmm, looks like I might need to establish contact with the Evernight Goddess or the God of Knowledge and Wisdom sooner than anticipated," the young Hunter mused.
Mr. Fool would have been his primary choice to shield him from Cheek's possible gaze, but unfortunately the Half-Lord of Mysteries currently slumbered, and the present Tarot Club consisted only of Saints (Sequence 4s and 3s).
As for why he wasn't pursuing Boons for the Red Priest pathway instead, well, one could only withstand so much Above the Sequence level corruption. At present, he lacked immunity to corruption; that threshold might eventually be reached, but right now he remained vulnerable, and would experience its effects to a measurable degree if the consciousness of the City of Calamity granted his request.
Lumian once again studied the bloodied waters below. Still no react—
Before the Hunter could complete the thought, a tremendous suction force abruptly erupted from the well's unfathomable depths.
Instinctively, Lumian braced himself, attempting resistance. To his surprise, it worked—
If only for a few heartbeats.
Seconds that enlightened him on the fact that this was the Law of Convergence in action. It was the attraction of fate, the convergence towards the consciousness at the pinnacle of the Calamity of Destruction sequence group. The Essence of Beyonder had granted him a measure of control over the Convergence, but at its rudimentary level, against an entity of Great Old One status, resistance proved impossible.
He was dragged, inexorably, towards the well's opening and plunged into its bloody depths.
Lumian's vision darkened, then flared crimson, and his entire being was completely submerged in the bloody sea. The stench of blood and rust invaded his nostrils, attempting to fill his lungs and saturate his very being. Yet, instead of pain, he felt a profound sense of comfort wash over him, as if he had returned to his origin, to a homeland he had always unconsciously yearned for.
The sea of blood seemed to have no surface. No matter how he struggled to swim upwards, he couldn't escape its embrace or draw fresh air. He saw countless corpses drift past him; some headless, others reduced to a single head trailing a bony, spine-like tail like some grotesque jellyfish. Lumian followed the macabre current, having an idea as to where these bodies would eventually lead.
Floating among the dead, he moved with the sluggish flow of the dark, sanguine tide. The headless cadavers and those grisly heads with their dangling spinal cords grew increasingly dense, gradually accumulating into a solid obstruction. It seemed an exit lay just ahead, but the relentless influx of corpses had clogged it entirely.
Sensing he could now move more freely, Lumian distanced himself from the congested area, approaching the blockage from another angle. After swimming for some time, he finally glimpsed his target: a dark, gaping aperture, utterly choked by thousands upon thousands of corpses, with an endless procession of bodies still arriving. Those jammed in the opening had already begun to swell, patches of blackish-blue decay mottling their distended surfaces.
The Hunter made no move to force his way through the solid wall of rotting flesh. He simply waited, knowing that something else would take care of the obstruction.
After half a minute, as he expected, the blocked aperture shuddered violently, as if someone on the far side was attempting to breach the tunnel.
Boom! Splash!
A massive number of corpses clogging the passage were abruptly swallowed through, allowing those behind to finally surge forward. This disturbance sent ripples through the dark, lightless water, pushing Lumian further away. And just as he had anticipated, the grisly scenery shifted, as if it had all been mere illusion.
Suddenly the Hunter found himself thousands of metres above a gargantuan, coiled black shadow. The shadow lay at the very bottom of the sea of blood, occupying dozens of square miles.
"Malevolent Dragon," Lumian breathed, quietly uttering the title of the sealed consciousness of the City of Calamity, the very entity from which he had beseeched the Assassin Boon.
Before the Malevolent Dragon stretched a square several tens of kilometers wide and long, paved with greyish-white stones. Towering pillars of black, blood-red, and grey-white supported an invisible barrier, preventing the encroaching blood-red sea from invading. At the center of this square stood a full-length mirror, one that Lumian recognized as a resurrection method for Alista Tudor, the former Red Priest.
…
3rd November 1352
Intis Republic, Riston Province, Bigorre City
"Bigorre! We have arrived at Bigorre Station! Mind the gap when leaving the train!"
Hearing the announcement, Lumian—who had remained in a state of Cogitation throughout the journey—opened his eyes. He reached into the inner pocket of his brown jacket, withdrawing a silver pocket watch and flipping it open.
9:37 PM.
A little over two hours…The blue-eyed youth rose from his seat in the first-class compartment, lifting his leather travel bag and making his way toward the exit at the carriage's end while taking stock of himself.
Compared to two hours prior, Lumian could feel the changes that had settled into his flesh and bone. His body felt lighter, more responsive—not that he had ever wasted motion, the Essence of The Chariot having long since forged perfect harmony between mind and body—but this was something else entirely. Where before his movements had been efficient, now they approached something akin to grace.
His limbs answered with an alacrity that bordered on uncanny. He turned, pivoted, flowed through the carriage aisle without conscious calculation, his body simply slipping into available space. The Essence had always granted him correct reflexes; now those same reflexes felt honed, accelerated, his mind tracking each movement with perfect awareness because mind and body had never truly been separate entities.
His footfalls made no sound upon the compartment floor; his frame simply knew how to distribute weight, how to place each step with precision. If he so wished, he could leap from a six-story building and land no worse than when he jumped. When he breathed, he noticed he could modulate the rhythm, could slow his heartrate with merely the intent to do so.
Hunter and Assassin, I'm basically Shadowstalker's wet dream, Lumian mused with an inward chuckle, stepping onto the station platform while ignoring the glances directed his way, taking advantage of the berth people instinctively gave him.
The sight had become a regular occurrence since three days ago, a consequence of the Essence of The Chariot.
….
4th November 1352
Bigorre City, Hôtel Central des Voyageurs (Central Travelers' Hotel)
Lumian stood by the hotel window, surveying Bigorre under a clear blue sky.
The street below was fully awake. Sunlight struck the pale façades head-on, drawing sharp lines beneath cornices and window frames. Shutters stood open on most buildings, revealing dark interiors and occasional movement within. The road was crowded enough to be noisy, though not chaotic.
Carriages passed in steady intervals. A covered fiacre rolled toward the town center, followed by a flat cart stacked with crates, its driver urging the horse forward with short, practiced clicks of his tongue. Iron-rimmed wheels rang against the stone, overlapping with the dull rhythm of hooves. At the corner, a municipal wagon waited while two men unloaded sacks onto the pavement.
Pedestrians filled the sidewalks. Clerks in dark jackets moved with purpose, papers tucked beneath their arms. Tradesmen crossed the street without looking twice, accustomed to the flow. A pair of police officers walked side by side, patrolling the thoroughfare.
Doors stood open, bells chiming as customers entered and exited. A baker carried trays from the rear, steam rising faintly into the street. A cloth merchant adjusted a bolt of fabric in his display window, pausing only to acknowledge a passerby. Outside a café, three men stood rather than sat, cups in hand, already deep in discussion.
Observing all of this, Lumian once again couldn't help but feel a sense of incongruity at the peace and the absence of urgency. It was a familiar sensation that had persisted for the last five years of his life—well, past life—after having moved away from Venezuela, where he had lived for twenty years.
How long will this last? He knew it wasn't a healthy thought, but it was one that would surface every now and again in his previous life, and it seemed to have carried over to this one as well.
The raven-haired teen released a sigh and, as always, pushed the thought aside. For now, I need some more changes of clothes… and a drink.
….
Lumian stepped into L'Abstinence, the finest bar in Bigorre according to the coach driver who had transported him to the Central Traveler's Hotel the previous night. One step inside and the Hunter was inclined to agree, as a familiar melody drifted toward him.
The interior was dimly lit, oil lamps casting a muted amber glow that softened the room without ever fully illuminating it. The bar itself ran along the left wall, a long stretch of dark-stained wood polished smooth. Brass fittings caught the lamplight dully, no longer gleaming but clean enough to demonstrate care. Behind the counter, shelves climbed toward the ceiling, lined with bottles of varying shapes and origins.
The air carried layered scents. Old wood and alcohol formed the foundation, soaked deep into the floorboards and walls. Over that lingered citrus from freshly cut peels, a faint bitterness from coffee grounds, and the ever-present trace of tobacco smoke. It was the smell of a place that had been lived in, argued in, celebrated and forgotten in equal measure.
The piano occupied a space near the far wall, set slightly apart from the rest of the room. Seated before it, gloved hands—red leather, unmistakable even at a distance—dancing across keys was the woman responsible for that familiar contemporary classical piece.
Interesting. The City of Calamity must have sensed the aura of Sefirah Castle on her. Lumian connected the dots without much trouble, the familiar tune he'd heard in his previous life playing a significant role, and the Law of Convergence supplying the rest.
The Hunter's eyes lingered on the lady for only a few seconds before he strode to the counter. It was early morning, around eight o'clock, and despite that, the establishment wasn't completely empty.
A railway clerk in a threadbare coat nursed black coffee; a pair of merchants in waistcoats shared absinthe; a young writer scribbled in a notebook, hat tipped low. A woman in a modest bonnet sipped tea by the window, while a gentleman in a top hat traced the rim of his brandy glass, his gaze wandering.
Taking a seat at the barstool, Lumian's eyes fell upon the barkeep. He appeared to be in his fifties, with deep laugh lines around his mouth, a faint scar across his left cheek, and crow's feet at the corners of his blue eyes. His skin was weathered, slightly rough, with a few age spots on his hands.
"What'll it be, monsieur?" The middle-aged man asked without batting an eye at the appearance of a young teen.
Though compared to the average thirteen-year-old, he did look more like fifteen or sixteen, thanks to the Essence granting him a physique at peak human capability, and when you added the Hunter and Assassin traits, he was lean and well-built, shoulders broad, his muscles subtly straining the seams of his jacket.
"Is that even a question?" Lumian chuckled playfully, seeing no reason not to act his age. "Of course I'll have Fennel Absinthe." He was rather curious about what made it so great that it was repeatedly mentioned in the book.
"Little Mummy, Somersault, Red Tomato, or Parrot?" The barkeep inquired in turn, making the Hunter blink in confusion.
"Little Mummy refers to a small shot of fennel absinthe, while a Somersault refers to a double shot. The Red Tomato is a drink with pomegranate juice, and when mixed with mint, it's called a Parrot." A soft, clear voice sounded from one seat over, explaining helpfully.
Lumian didn't react with surprise at the sudden intervention. "I'll have a small shot," he said to the barkeep with a nod, before turning to his left.
Long ash-silver hair fell loose down her back. Her face was slim with sharp features, light skin, and narrow gold eyes. She wore a fitted black cropped top with visible stitching down the center, exposing her midriff. Over it was a short black jacket with a high collar, zippers, and strap details along the sleeves. Around her neck sat a wide choker-style collar. Her pants were black, low-rise, and slightly loose. Red cord details hung near her hip, and she wore red gloves.
It was the lady who had moments ago been playing the piano.
"Thank you for the explanation, Madame." The Hunter offered a grateful smile to the beautiful woman while simultaneously activating his Spirit Vision.
Light dusk-colored. Her Ether Body—the outermost layer of her soul—was the colour of twilight.
Twilight Giant pathway, the Assassin realized, suddenly feeling unsettled at how the Law of Convergence had manifested. It was bizarre, how a single recommendation had snowballed into this. He almost felt that the carriage driver might not be as ordinary as he appeared. Almost. He had observed the man's Ether Body and detected no hint that he was a Beyonder.
"Your drink." The barkeep placed the cup of pale green alcohol before him. "That'll be seventy-five coppet."
Lumian laid a two-verl-d'or coin on the counter. "Get a drink for the Madame as well."
In response, the older man glanced at the ash-haired woman in query.
"…A cup of coffee will do," she replied, pushing her empty cup forward. Then she turned toward him, golden eyes sweeping over him curiously. "No need to keep calling me Madame. Angel is fine."
Lumian resisted the urge to cringe as several cheesy pickup lines he'd encountered on the internet sprang to mind the instant he heard her name. Instead, he took a sip of his drink to distract himself.
The absinthe was cool and smooth going down. The first impression was mild sweetness—clean and herbal, with fennel coming through clearly—then a restrained bitterness followed, dry and steady rather than sharp.
The Assassin turned to Angel, her coffee cup raised to her lips. His lips curled upward as he waited a moment, and when he was certain the liquid had entered her mouth, he asked:
"That was 'River Flows in You,' right?"
Cue the marvelous spit take.
+++
A/N: And we got our first Transmigrator from the Sefirah Castle.