The manuscript

The following day at noon.

District 2, Saint Michel Street.

When Lumian arrived, he discovered that it was only a few hundred meters away from the "Dreamseekers" Charitable Organization on Saint Varro Street, just one block and a Square away.

"No wonder it's Art District..." Lumian raised an eyebrow, feeling as if he were slowly approaching the truth and discovering the answer.

He turned his gaze away from the Sun Obelisk, which was located in the center of the Square, and walked along Saint Michel Street, where the buildings were clearly older and more dilapidated.

He could see at a glance several impoverished Painter sketching for people with their easels set up on the edge of the Square and on both sides of the street, as well as music lovers playing different pieces on six-stringed instruments, violins, Flute, etc., and a fountain rising and falling rhythmically next to the white carrier pigeons that occasionally took flight.

The warm autumn sun shines here, bringing a kind of poetic beauty.

Lumian spent most of his time in the Market District, and when he went to other parts of Trier, it was either for revenge, investigation, or to attend banquets. He rarely experienced the daily life in the Core Area Trier.

He didn't become lazy despite the Sun and his surroundings. Wearing a brown round hat, a light blue shirt, and a casual Brownish Yellow suit, he turned into a Bar called "Third-Rate Writer".

Most of the guests here wear worn-out clothes, drink inexpensive alcoholic beverages, and talk about all sorts of things. Occasionally, when an idea strikes, they will take out a notebook that has been flipped through countless times and Recording down with the Fountain Pen they carry with them.

As Lumian walked toward the bar, he overheard several Patron discussing a recent art exhibition:

"That work called ' Café ' is very controversial. Some people praise its bright colors and bold composition, saying it uses an absurd form to express a silent protest, while others think it deliberately uses an abstract concept to Fooling the public's intelligence."

"I find it very interesting. The writer's concept is fully displayed in the overlapping blocks of color. Think about it, aren't many Café like that? Noisy, bustling, lives from different places piled together, Corruption each other, like Mire..."

"I would call it a landmark masterpiece of Abstract Art School!"

"You mean that Abstract Art School that never received recognition and never sold a single painting?"

"The Café"... Isn't that the painting Maren drew with his buttocks? There are actually people who appreciate it? Could this become his most famous and valuable work? Lumian quietly curled his lip, inwardly sighing, "You Trier people..."

Upon reaching the bar, Lumian spent 8 Rick to order a glass of Absinthe, raising his voice to announce, "Gentlemen, I have a question. Whoever answers me gets this glass!"

Once everyone had quieted down and turned their attention to him, Lumian continued, "I want to know where the Playwright Gabriel lives."

I'd like to ask him to write a screenplay.

On Saint Michel Street, even if you just bump into someone on the street, there's a good chance they're a writer or Painter, let alone inside this Bar known for its literary discussions and artistic exchanges.

Gabriel frequently socialized with his peers, and may even have held private parties in his rented Apartment. After all, "The Chaser of Light" was a successful and popular production, which brought him considerable profits.

"Gabriel hasn't shown up for a few days. He said he's going to lock himself away to finish a story he's working on." A middle-aged man not far from the bar answered Lumian's question with a smile. "He probably won't take your Commission. He's already too busy; he has too many scripts to write. How about considering other Playwright? There are several equally talented young people here."

He hadn't appeared for a few days... Lumian frowned slightly, then relaxed:

"How will you know it won't work if you don't try? I'm coming with plenty of sincerity."

"Alright," the middle-aged man in the old suit jacket muttered, "I hope you won't be disappointed."

He led Lumian to 34 Saint Michel Street and up the stairs to the fifth floor, which was very close to the attic.

Both the exterior walls and the staircases here are quite old, with some parts still bearing decorative patterns popular decades ago, but compared to the Golden Rooster Inn, they are clean and spacious enough.

"Gabriel lives here." The middle-aged man with a mustache raised his hand and patted the brown Wooden Door of room 503.

The banging sounds echoed, but no one responded.

"He might have gone out to find food, or he might have finished his work and gone to see the Theater Manager Commission him." The middle-aged man smiled and said, "Want to go back to the Bar for another drink? I'm an experienced writer too. Although I've never written a screenplay, my novels sell very well on the black market."

"What have you written?" Lumian glanced at the tightly closed brown Wooden Door, not showing any eagerness.

The middle-aged man sighed and said, "I wrote ' The Monk Who Chased Dogs ' and its sequel, 'The Dog Who Chased the Monks,' but they aren't signed by my name. First, it would lead to my arrest by secret agents, and second, my Boss wouldn't allow it."

"There's a sequel?" Lumian hadn't visited underground book markets and illegal bookstores for a while; the last time he went was to buy "The Secret Records of Emperor Roselle."

When he looked at the somewhat sleazy and greasy middle-aged man again, his gaze Change slightly.

This person can be considered one of his mentors!

"They were published last month." The middle-aged man nodded slightly. "These two novels made my Boss a lot of money, but I didn't even get a tenth, no, not even one percent!"

"Boss?" Lumian asked casually.

He remembered that April Fool's Day "Wandering Poet" Core Member the "April Fools' Day" group and had written "The Secret Records of Emperor Roselle." He planned to take this opportunity to learn about the situation in this line of work and make some preparations for subsequent tracking.

The middle-aged man sighed again:

"We don't have the right to be credited; we're just the Boss's writing tools. He pays us a fixed but not much fee, sets the direction and requirements for the writing, and finally sells it through his own channels."

"On Saint Michel Street, there are many, many Third-Rate Writer like me who don't even have a pen name, just like workers on an assembly line."

"What should I call you?" Lumian asked, still showing some respect.

"Rabet." The middle-aged man looked at Lumian, his eyes filled with expectation.

Lumian asked some more questions related to underground literature, and finally said, "If I ultimately fail to reach an agreement with Gabriel, I can consider giving you a chance."

"As long as the Boss doesn't give me any new assignments, I'll be at the ' Third-Rate Writer's ' Bar every day!" Rabet's joy was palpable.

As the underground writer, the mentor of countless Intis teenagers, descended the stairs, Lumian took a piece of wire from his pocket and opened Gabriel's door.

This room is much more spacious than the Playwright's room at the Golden Rooster Inn. It has its own Washroom and a small bedroom. Outside is the living room, Study, Restaurant, and kitchen, with the coal stove for cooking piled in the corner.

Lumian quickly scanned the room and saw a stack of Paper that looked like manuscripts scattered haphazardly on the Desk by the window.

He closed the Wooden Door behind him and walked over there.

"It's Gabriel's handwriting. Rabet didn't lie to me; this really is where Gabriel lives..." Lumian picked up the stack of Paper and casually flipped through them.

He went into the bedroom and found a pair of black overalls draped over the bed, which made him even more certain that he hadn't come to the wrong room.

These are a pair of trousers that Gabriel used to wear often.

But the Playwright is now nowhere to be found.

Lumian suddenly became wary upon hearing Rabet say that Gabriel hadn't shown up for several days.

He examined every item carefully, like a Hunter discerning the tracks of his prey.

A few minutes later, Lumian picked up the white porcelain single-handled water cup on the Desk and found that it was still a third full of cold water, with a lot of dust floating on the surface that was hard for a normal person to see.

"At least one day has passed." Lumian's heart tightened.

What will happen to Gabriel?

Could it be that he's become too famous and was summoned for "talks" by Government Spy, or perhaps he attracted kidnappers chasing after money?

Lumian placed the white porcelain cup next to the manuscript and searched the room carefully, but found nothing noteworthy.

Finally, he returned to his Desk, picked up the stack of manuscripts, and wanted to see what Gabriel had been writing before his disappearance.

The synopsis of this script is that a down-on-his-luck writer meets a woman forced to join Gang. The two comfort and encourage each other in their Despair, Pain, torturous, and Vile daily lives, warming each other's hearts with their bodies. Later, the writer gains the appreciation of the newspaper editor, obtains a stable income, and gradually becomes famous, while the woman, still mired in the Gang, chooses to disappear.

The story is unfinished, ending with the lovers' disappearance, and remaining on the writer's inner monologue:

She's here;

My love came from the Evernight.

She's gone.

My beloved has gone to a distant Hostel...

Upon seeing the Vocabulary "Hostel, "Lumian's forehead twitched.

Although it's a perfectly normal Vocabulary in the script and doesn't seem out of place at all, Lumian, who's been using it every day lately, couldn't help but get a jolt and make some connections.

Suddenly, he looked away from the manuscript and onto the Desk.

The white porcelain single-handled water cup that he had moved next to the manuscript had somehow returned to its original position!

Lumian's gaze sharpened, and the skin and muscles beneath his clothes instantly tensed.

As a "Hunter," he never forgets any alterations he's made to the environment; these are the foundation of his traps!

A creature invisible to the naked eye, whose existence can only be confirmed through some traces? Lumian muttered to himself, quickly recalling the official information relayed by Jenna.

He suddenly reached into his pocket, made a quick selection, and pulled out a pair of glasses.

Those are Tea-Brown Gold-Rimmed Glasses, those are "Mystery-Peering Glasses"!