Chapter 114

The basement of the Gold Hen Inn housed a small bar that could accommodate only twenty to thirty people.

As Lu Mi stepped inside, he saw a man leap onto a small round table, holding a beer bottle, addressing the four or five guests around him:

“Ladies and gentlemen, listen to me, listen to me! I experienced something unbelievable the day before yesterday!”

Under the glow of a few gas lamps on the wall, Lu Mi noticed the man was very young, about twenty-two or twenty-three, with light brown short hair, no beard, and a face unusually flushed—perhaps from drink.

He wore a linen shirt, black trousers, and unlaced leather shoes; he wasn’t short in height, standing just over one meter seventy, but his arms and legs were strangely short, making him appear no taller than someone under one meter sixty.

At that moment, he waved his stubby arms, spitting saliva as he spoke:

“How unbelievable was it? Let me tell you—it changed my view of faith. As a believer of the God of Steam and Machinery, I’m preparing to convert to the Eternal Sun!”

“Listen, isn’t that incredible?”

“Can you imagine I went without food for five full days? I lost my job—fired by that bastard manager—and couldn’t find another one even after spending all my savings.”

“I went without food for five full days, forced to lie in bed, utterly weak, barely a breath away from death. Do you know what it feels like to be near death? Oh, may the gods spare you from ever knowing.”

“At that moment, I thought: I can’t die like this. I came to Trill to make my fortune. I had to do something. Then I saw the portrait of Saint Vieff pasted on the wall.”

“Yes, I struggled to get up, knelt on the floor, and prayed to Saint Vieff for salvation. At that time, I was still a believer of the God of Steam and Machinery—but what wouldn’t a starving man do? And anyway, it couldn’t hurt!”

“Just five minutes after I finished praying, a friend came to visit me, saw my desperate state, and though he had little money himself, he reminded me I’d rented a kerosene lamp for nighttime use—with a deposit of 35 copecks, a full seven ricks!”

“God, I’d forgotten all about it! I quickly had my friend help me return the lamp and used the refund to buy bread and half a liter of cheap wine. The bread was cold and damp, as if smeared with plaster. The wine was slightly sour, very thin—but it was the most delicious meal I’d ever eaten, ladies and gentlemen—I came back to life!”

“Today I found a new job. When I rest tomorrow, I’ll go to the nearest Saint Vieff church and light a candle!”

Saint Vieff was a female angel mentioned in the holy scripture of the Eternal Sun Church—the only one—and one of the patron angels of Trill; the other two belonged to the God of Steam and Machinery Church and a great historical figure of Intis.

As Lu Mi watched the young man’s blue eyes brighten with excitement, he walked toward the bar.

The bartender, wiping a glass with a velvet cloth, lifted his head, glanced at the “speaker” standing on the table, and chuckled softly:

“Charlie never stays quiet—he just won’t stop talking.”

The bartender was around thirty, with a light ring of dark brown beard, not thick, and matching hair tied into a neat ponytail with an artist’s flair.

Lu Mi sat on a high stool and asked with a smile:

“Is he telling the truth?”

“Who knows?” The bartender shrugged. “You’ve probably heard the proverb: Believe a Liman even less than a snake. Charlie’s a Liman.”

Lim Province and Lesson Province were both in the south, with similar accents, but Lim was farther toward Lunbao and a mountainous region.

Lu Mi mused:

“That proverb isn’t complete, is it? I feel there’s more to it.”

The bartender’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement:

“You’re right. That proverb is longer than you imagine:

“Believe a Ruinian less than a Liman, believe a Liman less than a snake—but never believe an Islander.”

The Islands referred to the Mist Sea archipelago west of Intis, one of the Republic’s overseas colonies; Islanders in Trill often served as thugs and con artists.

Before Lu Mi could ask further, the bartender cast a mocking glance at Charlie, still babbling away, and murmured:

“If that really happened to him, he clearly didn’t know the portrait on his wall wasn’t Saint Vieff’s.”

“Whose was it?” Lu Mi asked, amused.

The bartender struggled to suppress his laughter:

“Charlie lives in Room 504. The previous tenant often visited the Red Princess District’s Wall Street, and pasted on the wall the portrait of one of Trill’s most famous prostitutes from a few years ago—Su Shanna Ma Disi.”

“Think about it, think about it—Charlie thought he was praying to an angel, but he was actually praying to a prostitute. He believes it brought him luck, freed him from hunger, and got him a new job. How ironic is that?”

“Indeed.” Lu Mi fully agreed.

He couldn’t have invented a better plot—reality was sometimes stranger than fiction.

He added:

“As long as it works.”

The bartender didn’t elaborate further, asking instead:

“What do you need?”

“A glass of anise absinthe.” Lu Mi tapped the bar lightly with his fingers, as if thinking. “What food do you have?”

“How about Diwal’s meat soup? Three ricks a large spoonful.” The bartender suggested.

Three ricks equaled fifteen copecks, or 0.15 fering.

Lu Mi showed clear interest:

“What’s Diwal’s meat soup?”

The bartender replied casually:

“Invented by a restaurant owner named Diwal—he boiled meat, sauerkraut, turnips, and other ingredients into a thick broth, then sprinkled cheese and breadcrumbs on top. One serving fills you up, and the taste is excellent. Now Diwal’s rich—he moved to the Opera District.”

Lu Mi was currently in the Honest Man’s Market District, also called the Market District, south of the Sailunzuo River, filled with slums; the Opera District lay north of the Sailunzuo, right next to the Republic’s core—the Boulevard of Shade.

—Trill had twenty districts within its walls.

“Sounds good.” Lu Mi nodded with a smile. “I’ll have one.”

Though he’d regain his physical state by six a.m. and wouldn’t suffer hunger, eating was one of the few things that made him feel truly alive.

The bartender nodded, then asked:

“‘Little Mummy’ or ‘Somersault’?”

“What?” Lu Mi didn’t hide his confusion.

The bartender wasn’t surprised, speaking calmly:

“It’s common slang in Trill’s bars, cafés, and beer halls. ‘Little Mummy’ means a small serving of absinthe, ‘Somersault’ means double, ‘Red Tomato’ means absinthe with pomegranate juice, mint added is ‘Parrot,’ and there are many more.”

“Friend, in Trill, you’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“Then ‘Little Mummy.’” Lu Mi sensed the bartender’s hidden prejudice toward outsiders, but he didn’t care.

“Seven ricks.” The bartender opened a small highball glass and stated the price.

It was more expensive than the absinthe at the old tavern in Kordu Village, but normal in a place with entry taxes.

Soon, a pale green absinthe with a hypnotic shimmer appeared before Lu Mi.

He lifted it, took a small sip, feeling the crisp flavor spread, its faint yet enduring bitterness seeping into his mind.

While waiting for the waitress to bring the Diwal soup, Lu Mi glanced around and noticed glass jars, hoses, valves, and gears piled beside the bar.

“What’s this?” he asked with a questioning look at the bartender.

The bartender wiped a glass as he answered casually:

“Left behind by a former tenant—he was a believer of the God of Steam and Machinery, convinced he had a talent for machinery, and collected a lot of these things.”

“Where is he now?” Lu Mi guessed the outcome wouldn’t be good, but asked anyway.

The bartender fell silent for two seconds, then said:

“He went to work in a factory. Said he got distracted, got caught in a machine, and half his body was crushed.”

Lu Mi didn’t press further, turning his head toward the half-assembled parts and falling into thought.

A few seconds later, he left the stool, crouched beside the bar, and began fiddling with the pile.

The bartender glanced at him, didn’t stop him, but reminded him when the Diwal soup arrived from the kitchen.

After a while of work, Lu Mi returned to his stool and tasted the soup with a spoon.

The rich aroma of meat, the cheese, the crisp tang of sauerkraut, the sweet earthiness of turnips blended into an unforgettable flavor; the bread crumbs soaked in broth were the crown jewel of this dish.

Lu Mi hadn’t expected that a three-rick bowl of soup actually contained several pieces of meat—enough to fully satisfy an adult.

When the plate was clean, Lu Mi pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, then crouched again beside the half-assembled parts and resumed his work.

Ten minutes later, he placed a machine on the bar.

The machine had a glass jar on top, complex parts below, connected to two rubber hoses.

Lu Mi then ordered a glass of water, poured a bit of the leftover absinthe into it, turning the clear liquid pale green.

Finally, he inserted one of the rubber hoses into the glass.

The bartender, with his ponytail and artist’s air, studied it carefully, then asked:

“What is this?”

“It’s my invention.” Lu Mi traced a triangular holy symbol over his chest. “I, too, am a believer of the God of Steam and Machinery, with considerable achievements in mechanics.”

Then he extended his gloved left hand, pointing at the machine:

“It’s a groundbreaking device—its function surpasses your imagination!”

“What does it do?” Charlie, the man who’d prayed to a prostitute, walked over holding his beer bottle, curious.

Lu Mi spoke with solemn excitement:

“It’s called the Fool’s Gauge. It measures a person’s stupidity—and, by extension, their intelligence.”

“Really?” Charlie and the bartender both wore expressions of disbelief.

Lu Mi explained in detail:

“The method is simple: blow into this tube until the liquid rises into the glass jar and forms bubbles.”

“By observing the bubbles, we can determine the stupidity index—or intelligence index.”

After glancing at Lu Mi, Charlie eagerly grabbed the exposed rubber hose and began to blow.

Through interconnected gears and valves, the pale green liquid was drawn into the machine, rising to the glass jar and forming a small bubble.

“What does this mean?” Charlie asked eagerly.

Lu Mi’s lips slowly curled into a brilliant smile:

"What conclusion does this imply?" Charlie asked with great anticipation.

Lumian’s lips slowly curled upward, revealing a brilliant smile:

My friend, the principle behind this machine is equally simple:

“When you believe me and actually use this machine to blow a bubble, you prove you’re a ‘fool so dense he’s full of bubbles.’”

Charlie’s expression froze instantly, his eyes turning sharply angry.

The bartender beside him burst out laughing.

“Brilliant prank!” he sincerely praised.

Lu Mi smiled at Charlie, waiting for his outburst.

After a few seconds, Charlie calmed his anger and walked over to the few customers who had listened to him earlier, declaring loudly:

“Ladies and gentlemen, look at what I’ve discovered! A groundbreaking machine! It can test your intelligence quotient!”

PS: First chapter update—requesting monthly tickets~

(End of chapter)