Chapter 750 - 750 Source of Life
750 Source of Life
750 Source of Life
After a few seconds, Lugano stuttered, “Can you actually eat that?”
What happens if you do eat it? What are the changes?
Does it cause the Child of God to be born?
Lumian glanced at Lugano’s arm and said, “What can’t be eaten?”
Lugano suddenly felt a sharp phantom pain and shook his head vigorously. “No, never mind!”
He wanted to get away from Ludwig and Lumian but couldn’t think of an excuse on the spot.
After Ludwig swallowed a mouthful of cheese bread, he spoke slowly, “Top-tier ingredients don’t need much accompaniment or seasoning. We just need to give it a symbol. That includes nine main staple ingredients: wheat, oats, rye, rice, potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, cassava, and any other kind of bean. Cook them with the umbilical remains in cow’s or sheep’s milk for half an hour, and it’s ready to eat. This dish is called ‘Source of Life.”
Are you cooking or performing a mystical rite? Lumian muttered under his breath.
Of course, a Gourmet pathway’s Chef, who concocted alcoholic beverages and cooked various dishes, was essentially conducting corresponding mystical rites.
Thoughtfully, Lumian asked, “Actually, it doesn’t have to be these nine ingredients, right? As long as the concept of main ingredients and their quantity is satisfied? Likewise, other kinds of milk would work too?”
Ludwig shook his head. “No, this way tastes the best.”
So, what you’re saying is, the method I mentioned would work but won’t taste as good? No
wonder it’s the Gourmet pathway, always chasing culinary perfection… Lumian stood up and instructed Lugano to buy some of the ingredients.
Lumian’s Traveler’s Bag only contained dry rations that could be eaten right out of the package.
For Trier, a leading global metropolis, the ingredients Ludwig needed were easily collected, and by noon, Lumian and Lugano had returned to see Ludwig placing the main ingredients along with the umbilical remnant into a stew pot filled with several hundred milliliters of milk.
These steps had to be completed by a Chef himself, to endow them with mysticism, to coax out the designated uniqueness of the ingredients and maintain them to a degree conducive to absorption. Done by anyone else, the dish might have no effect or turn into poison.
After simmering for a while, Lumian smelled the starchy aroma mixed with the milk and saw dense milky white steam rising above the pot.
The steam did not disperse but condensed in midair and slowly settled back into the pot, carrying a tantalizing scent tinged with blood.
At that moment, Ludwig turned to Lumian and licked his lips, asking, “Do you want to add sugar or salt?”
“What differences do they bring?” Lumian asked cautiously.
Ludwig responded seriously, “The taste, one is sweet, the other is salty. Which do you prefer?”
Lumian, sensing the choice, relaxed and asked with a smile, “Which do you prefer?”
“I can’t eat it…” Ludwig said regretfully, mumbling, “Sweet is tasty, salty is good too. If only it could be split into two parts, one sweet, one salty…”
As he spoke, the young boy, seemingly agitated, sprinkled some salt and then tossed in some sugar.
Lumian watched amusedly, not stopping him.
For him, the taste of the Source of Life was not important; its effect was.
Finally, Ludwig instructed Lugano to extinguish the flame and removed the contents of the pot.
It was a palm-sized piece of starchy congealment, white and soft, sticky and gooey.
The surface of the food was covered with red spots, as if blood had seeped out from within.
“It’s ready to eat.” Ludwig tried hard not to drool.
“Will it be effective with just one bite, or do I need to eat it all?” Lumian asked, his curiosity reminiscent of his days learning various experiments, which often frustrated Aurore with his questions.
“All of it,” Ludwig said with a look of disappointment.
Lumian picked up the steaming, slightly scalding food, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite.
The sweet and salty flavors melded together, offsetting each other’s intensity in a unique way that relieved Lumian of any mental burden. He quickly devoured the Source of Life.
“Will it work right away?” an eager Lumian asked, already resolute in his intentions.
Ludwig pointed to the master bedroom.
“You’ll need to sleep first.”
Sleep? With a slight sigh, Lumian left the dining table, returned to his room, and lay down on his bed.
Closing his eyes, he felt his body gradually warm up, his consciousness becoming heavier and heavier…
In the darkness, Lumian heard soft sobs.
He turned his head, carefully discerning the sound.
It was of a little girl whispering, “Mommy… Mommy…”
The voice grew louder, more mature, and more piercing.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
The cries drew closer, as if they were right beside Lumian, resonating within him.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Inside my body… Lumian suddenly jolted awake, regaining his senses.
The darkness shattered, and sunlight pierced his eyes.
He sat up abruptly, freeing himself from the dream.
The cries of “mommy, mommy” still echoed faintly in his mind.
Did I hear the Child of God crying? Lumian looked down at himself.
He undressed and found nothing unusual, but he knew something about him was different now, an indescribable change.
He didn’t feel the Great Mother’s gaze, which made him even more cautious.
Dressed again, he left his room to find Lugano sneaking glances his way.
“Are—are you alright?” Lugano, who had been caught red-handed, asked instinctively.
Lumian chuckled. “It’s okay, I won’t become the Child of God of the Great Mother.”
Seeing Lugano eyeing his stomach, Lumian added, “Nor have I conceived Her.”
After speaking, he left the still-concerned Lugano behind and walked out of the apartment.
The afternoon sun was perfect, and with nothing much to do in the next couple of days, Lumian decided to stake out a particular spot.
That place was the Trier catacombs.
Knowing that Harrison from Resurrection Island might appear at places associated with death, darkness, dusk, and decay, Lumian’s first thoughts were of the Dream Festival and the Trier catacombs-—locations rife with death and dark mysticism.
In the first level of the catacombs, by the “Entrance to the Old Ossuary” leading deeper below, Lumian sat next to a withered, scattered skeleton with a lit white candle, quietly observing each visitor descending into or returning from the depths.
Soon, a group of students passed by, spotting Lumian sitting alongside the catacombs bones.
The leader, a tall, thin man with glasses, asked Lumian curiously, “Why are you sitting here?”
Lumian casually responded, “I’ve been down to the lower levels many times and lost interest. Now, I just want to sit here quietly and watch everyone and everybody that comes and goes, to see who never leaves.”
“That sounds interesting,” the students said, holding their white candles. They decided to sit down too and observe if any of those returning from the depths showed signs of fear.
The tall, bespectacled man chose to sit beside Lumian and struck up a conversation.
“Do you really think not lighting a white candle here could lead to mishaps?”
Lumian glanced at him and chuckled, “You could try it, and we’d all see what happens.”
Before the students could respond, Lumian spoke in a relaxed tone, “I didn’t believe in these things before, but then…”
He suddenly lowered his voice.
Two of the female students blurted out, “What happened?”
“Then…” Lumian wore a reminiscent expression, “I met someone who had encountered the Montsouris ghost. You know the legend of the Montsouris ghost, right?”
The students nodded together.
You really know Trier’s spooky tales well… Typical of Underground Trier creatures—students…
Lumian sighed, “His immediate family all died, and he thought he could escape it. But one day, when I went to see him, I found him hanged from a window frame.
“Since then, I’ve been strictly following every rule of Underground Trier.”
The students looked at each other, a bit frightened by the tale told by a peer.
“It seems we really shouldn’t extinguish this candle,” the tall student with glasses said regretfully.
Lumian lowered his voice again, “Have you ever encountered such a thing? There are extra books, blankets, and clothes in your dorm—none which belong to you—but the administrator tells you that no one else lives there.”
Two students turned pale, as if hearing the most terrifying ghost story.
As if they were seeking a lifeline, they asked, “Yes, that happens, do you know why?”
Lumian shook his head and sighed, “I heard those are the people who extinguished their candles here. They completely vanished, with no one remembering them.”
Hearing this, the tall student shivered instinctively.
Suddenly, he felt something tap his shoulder.
He turned to look and saw a ghastly pale skeletal hand.
“Ah!” He screamed, jumping up.
Lumian pulled back the bone hand he had picked up somewhere, his smile mocking. “You’re really scaredy-cats! Scared already?”
The students were stunned, and after a while, they forcefully said, “No! That was just a reflex!”
As they seriously considered whether to beat up the prankster, someone came up the stone steps to the second level.
He wore a blue top and yellow pants, his face deeply wrinkled and his white hair sparse and dry, holding a short lit white candle.
It was an elderly catacombs administrator.
Lumian slightly frowned.
He had seen this catacombs administrator before in the giant tomb chamber housing the Samaritan Women’s Spring, but the administrator hadn’t used a white candle then.