Chapter 455 Manuscript (Second update, please give me a monthly ticket) noon the next day. 2nd arrondissement, rue Saint-Michel. When Lumian arrived here, he found that it was only a few hundred meters away from Saint Varro Street where the "Dream Seekers" charity organization was located, just a block and a square away. “As expected of an art district…” Lumian raised an eyebrow, feeling as if he was slowly approaching the truth and discovering the answer. He withdrew his gaze from the Obelisk of the Sun in the middle of the square and walked along Saint-Michel Street, a road where the buildings were obviously old and dilapidated. At a glance, he could see many poor painters with drawing boards sketching for people on the edge of the square and on both sides of the street, as well as music lovers playing different pieces on guitars, violins, flutes, etc., and fountains that rose and fell in rhythm next to the white pigeons that flew up from time to time. The warm autumn sun shines here, bringing a kind of poetic beauty. Lumian spent a lot of time hanging around the market area, and when he went to other places in Trier, it was either for revenge, investigation, or to attend banquets. He rarely experienced the daily life in the core area of ​​Trier. He did not become lazy because of the sun and the surrounding environment. Wearing a brown round hat, a light blue shirt and a casual brown and yellow suit, he turned into a bar called "Third-Rate Writers". Most of the guests here wear old clothes, drink inexpensive alcoholic beverages, and talk about all kinds of things. Occasionally, when they have an inspiration, they will take out a notebook that they have flipped through countless times and quickly write it down with the pen they carry with them.

As Lumian walked toward the bar, he heard several patrons discussing a recent art exhibition: "The work called Cafe is very controversial. Some people praise it for its bright colors, bold composition, and absurd form of expressing silent protest, while others think it is a deliberate use of abstract concepts to fool the public's IQ. “I find it very interesting that the writer’s conception is fully displayed in the overlapping blocks of color. Think about it, aren’t many cafes like this? Noisy and bustling, with lives from different places piled up together, polluting each other, like mud… “I would like to call it a landmark masterpiece of abstract painting! "You mean the abstract school that never received recognition and never sold a single painting?" "Café"... Isn't this the painting that Maren drew with his butt? Is there really anyone who appreciates it? Will this become his most famous and valuable work in his life? Lumian quietly curled his lips and sighed in his heart: "You Trier people..." After arriving at the bar, Lumian spent 8 ricks to order a glass of absinthe and raised his voice: "Everyone, I have a question. Whoever answers me gets this glass of wine!" After everyone quieted down and turned their eyes to him, Lumian continued to shout: “I wonder where Gabriel the playwright lives. “I want him to write a script.” On Saint-Michel Street, even if you just bump into someone on the street, there is a high chance that he or she is a writer or a painter, not to mention this bar which is famous for literary discussions and artistic creation exchanges. Gabriel inevitably met with his peers and may have even held private parties in his rented apartment. After all, "Light Chasers" was a success and was quite popular, which would bring him enough profits. "Gabriel hasn't shown up for a few days. He said he wanted to lock himself up to finish writing a story at hand." A middle-aged man not far from the bar answered Lumian's question with a smile, "He probably won't accept your commission. He is already too busy and has too many scripts to write. How about considering other playwrights? There are several equally talented young people here." I haven't seen you for a few days... Lumian frowned slightly, then relaxed: "How do you know it won't work if you don't try? I have plenty of sincerity." “Well,” the middle-aged man in the old formal coat muttered, “I hope you won’t be disappointed.” He led Lumian to 34 rue Saint-Michel and up the stairs to the fifth floor, which was very close to the attic. Both the exterior walls and the stairs here are quite old, and some parts still retain the decorative patterns that were popular decades ago. However, compared with the Golden Rooster Hotel, it is 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 sounds of banging echoed, but no one responded. "Maybe he went out to look for food, or maybe he finished his work and went to see the manager of the theater that commissioned him." The middle-aged man smiled and said, "Do you want to go back to the bar for another drink? I am also an experienced writer. Although I have never written a script, my novels sell very well in the underground market." "What did you write?" Lumian looked at the closed brown wooden door without showing any eagerness.

The middle-aged man sighed and said: "I wrote both The Monk Chasing the Dog and its sequel, The Dog Chasing the Monk, but they were not signed with my name. One reason was that I would be caught by spies, and the other was that my boss would not allow it." “Is there a sequel?” Lumian hadn’t been to the underground book market or banned bookstore for a while. The last time he went there was to buy The Secret Records of Emperor Roselle. When he looked at the somewhat wretched and greasy middle-aged man again, his eyes changed to a certain extent. This is one of his enlightenments! "It came out last month." The middle-aged man nodded gently. "These two novels helped my boss make a lot of money, but I didn't even get one tenth of it. No, not even one percent!" "Boss?" Lumian asked. He remembered that the core member of "April Fools' Day", "The Bard", had written "The Secret Records of Emperor Roselle", and planned to take the opportunity to understand the situation in this industry and make some preparations for subsequent tracking. The middle-aged man sighed again: “We don’t have the right to be credited, we are just the boss’s writing tool. He pays us a fixed but not much fee, proposes the direction and requirements for writing, and finally sells it through his own channels. "There are many third-rate writers like me who don't even have a pen name on Saint-Michel Street, just like workers on an assembly line." “What’s your name?” Lumian asked respectfully. "Rabe." The middle-aged man looked at Lumian, his eyes full of anticipation. Lumian asked some more questions about underground literature, and finally said: "If I don't manage to reach an agreement with Gabriel, I might consider giving you a chance." "As long as the boss doesn't give me new tasks, I'll be at the 'Third-Rate Writers' bar every day!" Rabe's joy was beyond words. After watching this underground writer, the mentor of countless Intis youth, walk down the stairs, Lumian took out a piece of wire from his pocket and opened Gabriel's door. This place is much more spacious than the playwright's room at the Golden Rooster Hotel. It has its own bathroom and a small bedroom. Outside is the living room, study, dining room and kitchen. The coal stove for cooking is piled in the corner. Lumian quickly glanced around and saw a pile of papers that looked like manuscripts scattered around on the desk by the window. He closed the wooden door behind him and walked over there. "It's Gabriel's handwriting. Rabe didn't lie to me. This is indeed where Gabriel lives..." Lumian took the stack of papers and flipped through them casually. He turned into the bedroom and found a pair of black overalls draped over the bed, becoming even more certain that he had not found the wrong room. These are a pair of trousers that Gabriel used to wear often. But no one knows where the playwright is now. Thinking of what Rabe said about Gabriel not showing up for several days, Lumian suddenly became alert. He carefully examined every item here, like a hunter identifying the traces of prey. After a few minutes, Lumian picked up the white glazed porcelain single-handled water cup on the desk and found that there was still one-third of cold water in it, and there was a lot of dust floating on the surface that was difficult for normal people to see clearly. "At least one day." Lumian's heart tightened. What will happen to Gabriel? Could it be that he was too famous and was called in for a "talk" by government spies, or that he attracted kidnappers chasing for money? Lumian placed the white glazed porcelain cup next to the manuscript and searched the room carefully, but found nothing worth noting. Finally, he returned to his desk and picked up the sheaf of manuscripts, wanting to see what Gabriel had been writing before he disappeared.

The story of this script is about a down-and-out writer who meets a woman who is forced to join a gang. The two comfort and encourage each other in their desperate, painful, tormented, and harsh daily lives, and warm each other's hearts with their bodies. Later, the writer is appreciated by the editor-in-chief of a newspaper, earns a stable income, and becomes more famous, while the woman who is still addicted to the gang chooses to disappear. The story is not yet finished, it stops at the part after the lover disappears, and at the writer's inner monologue: “She’s here; “My love came from the night. “She’s gone; "My lover has gone to a distant inn..." When Lumian saw the word "hostel", his forehead jumped suddenly. Although this is a very normal word in the script and not at all out of place, Lumian, who has been repeating it every day recently, couldn't help but be startled and have some associations. Suddenly, he turned his eyes away from the manuscript and looked at the desk. The white glazed porcelain single-handled water cup that he had moved next to the manuscript had returned to its original position at some point! Lumian's eyes narrowed, and his skin and muscles beneath his clothes instantly tensed. As a "hunter", he will not forget any changes he has made to the environment, which is the basis of the trap! A creature that is invisible to the naked eye, whose existence can only be confirmed through some traces? Lumian muttered to himself silently, and quickly remembered the official information relayed by Janna. He suddenly reached into his pocket, made a brief selection, and took out a pair of glasses. Those are brown glasses with gold rims, they are “secret peeping glasses”! PS: Please give me a guaranteed monthly ticket for the second update~ (End of this chapter)