The Cycle of Fate

Chapter 172: Fright?

"Choose another?" Lumian hadn't expected a reminder from Termiboros at this moment.

Whether the angel of fate intended to set a trap, prevent something from happening here and now, or simply didn't want the sealed vessel exposed to risk, it was enough to suggest that this seemingly ordinary King's Cake game posed great danger. One wrong move could send everyone present spiraling into peril.

When Count Pouffer mentioned that the game involved mysticism, requiring a piece of King's Cake to be sacrificed to a deity or respected ancestor, Lumian had sensed there might indeed be extraordinary elements at play—similar to the divination games often favored by mysticism enthusiasts. But it turned out the threat was even more severe than he had imagined, to the point that even a powerful being like Termiboros thought Lumian couldn't handle it or risked being trapped despite his dual Sequences of 7.

In a split second, Lumian couldn't decipher Termiboros's exact intentions but cautiously stretched his arm out and, in an apparently casual manner, chose one of the remaining five pieces of King's Cake.

This time, Termiboros didn't stop him.

After Lumian, Arnold, Marlon, Aniol, and Ellette each took a piece of King's Cake, leaving the piece closest to Lumian untouched.

"Looks like it's mine," Count Pouffer leaned forward, grabbed the remaining slice with a grin, and took a bite.

Lumian also took a bite. The pastry had a crispy outer crust and a sweet, creamy filling, leaving a delightful flavor in his mouth.

After a few bites, Count Pouffer laughed and announced, "Looks like I'm the King today."

As he spoke, he pulled a bean from his mouth.

At the sight of the bean, Lumian's nose seemed to catch a faint scent of blood and iron.

Suddenly, this corner of the Mechanical Café grew heavy and oppressive, as if everyone feared they might be ordered to do something unbearable.

Count Pouffer stood up, his back to the street-side window, blocking out the sunlight.

His face, slightly shadowed, wore a strange, dark smile.

Count Pouffer looked at the novelist Arnold, his grin growing wider. "Go outside and shout to passersby, 'I'm a piece of dog dung.'"

The nervous Arnold visibly relaxed and smiled, responding cheerfully, "No problem."

The short, chubby man quickly stood up, made his way to the door, and pulled down the lever embedded in the side wall.

Amid the creaking and clattering, the mechanical arm contracted, swinging the heavy wooden door back.

Arnold stepped out, approached the street, and loudly shouted, "I'm a piece of dog dung!

"I'm pig-reared dog dung!

"My whole family is pig-reared dog dung!"

Passersby cast puzzled glances, then burst out laughing.

After his self-mockery, Arnold returned to Lumian and the others, clearly pleased.

"You've got a great mental fortitude," Lumian remarked, suppressing his initial urge to call it "thick-skinned."

The novelist Arnold chuckled, "Every time I get writer's block, I go out to the balcony and curse myself. This is mild."

"You writers sure have your quirks," Lumian thought, reminded of his sister, who often joked about her chronic procrastination.

Arnold took a sip of absinthe and settled back down, while Count Pouffer, still standing with his back to the light, turned to Marlon, the pale and handsome artist. "Give Ellette a slap."