Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

“Danger exists everywhere,” the older guard said. “I’ve worked on construction sites; a scaffold collapsed and I was almost killed. I worked the night shift at a convenience store and was robbed and stabbed. Compared to that, it’s much safer here. At least so far, no one has dared to mess with Elysium.”

"What if, one day, Elysium is gone?" Frilian asked tentatively. "Have you thought about the future?"

The guards fell silent.

After a long silence, the older guard said, "Miss Qianyu, people like us don't think that far ahead. As long as we have food to eat and wages to receive today, that's enough. We can worry about tomorrow tomorrow."

He stubbed out his cigarette.

"It's time to change shifts. Miss Chiyu, you should also go back to your room early, you have to work tonight."

The guards got up and left, leaving Frilian alone in the pavilion.

Frillie looked at the cigarette in her hand; the ash had accumulated to a considerable length.

Just like the lives of these people, which seem to be still burning, they are actually turning to ashes little by little.

Before returning to the maids' quarters, Frilian detoured to the waiters' lounge. This was where the male waiters rested during their breaks, and several people were drinking tea and playing chess at that moment.

Upon seeing her, a middle-aged waiter stood up to greet her: "Miss Qianyu? What a rare guest."

"Just passing by, would like to ask for a cup of tea?" Frillie said.

"Please sit down, please sit down."

The waiters made room for her and poured her a cup of roasted tea. The atmosphere here was much more relaxed than in the maids' quarters. The male waiters held a relatively high status in the Pleasure House, especially those who served VIP guests, and sometimes received substantial tips.

"Is Miss Chiyu serving in the Plum Room?" a young waiter asked. "I saw you last night, serving Representative Tanaka's table."

"Ah."

"You've had a hard time," the middle-aged waiter said sympathetically. "Those people are difficult to serve."

"What do you usually do?" Frillian asked. "Besides serving tea and water."

"There's a lot," the young waiter counted on his fingers. "Greeting guests, seating them, taking orders, serving food, pouring drinks, keeping them company—mainly listening to their boasting and chiming in when appropriate. Also, paying attention to their needs, like refilling cigarettes promptly, refilling drinks immediately, and cleaning up after them if they vomit..."

"We also need to remember the guests' preferences," another waiter added. "For example, President Suzuki only drinks 25-year-old Yamazaki, with ice, but not too much. Representative Sato likes cigars, but they need to be simmering for an hour beforehand. Priest Takahashi doesn't eat beef because he comes from a family that worships at a certain shrine..."

They knew it all like the back of their hand.

"Do you like this job?" Frillie asked.

The waiters looked at each other.

"I can't say whether I like it or not," the middle-aged waiter said. "It's just a job. It's more tiring than working in a regular restaurant, but it pays more. And you can meet important people here and hear all sorts of inside information, which can be quite interesting sometimes."

"for example?"

“For example, last night,” the young waiter lowered his voice, “one of the guests at the table I was serving was the vice president of a major bank. He was drunk and said that a huge sum of money had recently flowed in from overseas, of unknown origin, and was so large that it could buy half of Tokyo. Another person at the table, who looked like a gangster, said, ‘That’s money to buy your life.’”

He paused for a moment: "I pretended not to hear and kept pouring the wine. In places like this, the way to survive longer is to play deaf and dumb."

Numbness again. But this time it's a conscious choice, a choice made for survival.

"And what about the Ghost Clan?" Frillian asked the same old question. "Aren't you afraid to work here?"

The middle-aged waiter laughed: "At first you were scared. But after a while, you find that the Ghost Clan is actually... quite disciplined. They pay wages on time, don't deduct anything, and talk things out when there's a problem. As long as you don't violate the rules of the manor, don't eavesdrop on things you shouldn't hear, and don't spread things you shouldn't spread, you'll be fine."

“Moreover,” the young waiter added, “the Ghost Clan may have a bad reputation, but at least they’re not hypocritical. Unlike those politicians who appear respectable on the surface but do more bad things behind the scenes than anyone else. Here, everyone knows what they’re really like, which makes things simpler.”

What a distorted value system! Spending too much time in the mire of evil makes one feel that the mud is more real than the clear water.

After finishing her tea, Frillie got up to take her leave.

As she reached the door, the middle-aged waiter suddenly called out to her, "Miss Qianyu."

"Ok?"

What's your intention in asking these questions?

Frillie turned around and saw the waiters all looking at her, their eyes filled with curiosity, wariness, and something she herself was unsure of.

“Just curious,” she said.

“Curiosity is a good thing,” the middle-aged waiter said, “but here, sometimes it’s safer not to know than to know.”

He paused for a moment: "But if you really have any plans and need help, you can contact me. I've worked here for a year and know some backdoors."

Frillie was stunned. She looked closely at the middle-aged waiter, who appeared to be around fifty years old, with an ordinary face and calm eyes, no different from the other waiters.

But that last sentence seemed like a hint.

"Why?" Frilian asked.

The middle-aged waiter smiled, but there was bitterness in his smile.

“My daughter is about your age. She disappeared three years ago. I work here partly to earn money, and partly to try and find clues,” he said in a low voice. “I know what’s underground at the Elysium, and I know what happened to those girls. I can’t save everyone, but if I have the chance to save even one, at least I can sleep at night.”

The other waiters remained silent; no one objected or reported it.

Frillie suddenly realized that this seemingly solid hell was actually full of cracks.

Everyone has their own secrets, their own vulnerabilities, and that little bit of humanity that hasn't been completely extinguished.

"Thank you," Frillie said. "I'll ask you for help if I need it."

"My name is Yamamoto," the middle-aged waiter said. "I work in the bar area, from seven to ten o'clock every night."

Frillie nodded and left the lounge.

...

At 7 p.m., the lights of the Paradise Pavilion came on again, like a giant beast awakening and opening its eyes.

The maids changed into gorgeous kimonos and applied exquisite makeup, preparing for another night of revelry. They practiced smiling in front of the mirror, their smiles empty, like mass-produced dolls.

Frillie also changed into "Chiba's" attire, a light purple geisha kimono, her hair styled in a classic Japanese updo, adorned with a pearl hairpin given to her by Sakurai Kogure.

She saw her reflection in the mirror: jet-black hair, a beauty mark under her eye, and emerald green eyes hidden behind brown contact lenses. A perfect disguise.

But beneath the disguise, she is still Frillian, a magician who has lived for countless years, Flamel's student, and Lu Mingfei's friend.

She touched the amulet in her pocket, given to her by the scorpion.

Then I remembered what Chef Fujiwara said in the cafeteria: "I'm just a cook, I can't worry about so much."

The guard said, "We have food to eat today, that's enough for today."

The waiter said, "Here, everyone knows their own worth, which makes things simpler."

There was also Yamamoto's final hint.

Humans are truly complex creatures. They can be so numb as to turn a blind eye to the evil before their eyes, or risk their lives for the safety of strangers. They can stoop to a level more despicable than the devil, or be so noble as to move even the gods.

What she needs to do now is to find those souls that have not yet completely sunk into this quagmire of numbness and depravity.

Then, take them away before the storm arrives.

Mrs. Matsumoto's voice echoed down the corridor: "Everyone to your positions! The guests are arriving!"

Frillie took a deep breath, composed herself, and put on the gentle smile that Chiba should have. Then she pushed open the door and walked into the brightly lit hall. A new night of bliss, a new night of hell.

She must find the path to redemption in this hell.

Chapter 560 Customs Girl and Angers (Part 1)

Narita Airport's international arrivals hall is brightly lit.

Around four o'clock in the afternoon, flights landed one after another like weary birds returning to their nests, and the flow of people formed a winding curve in front of the customs counters. Electronic announcements, the rolling of suitcase wheels, and the occasional cry of a child filled the air.

Kaoru Ayanokouji sat behind her counter number twelve, her back straight, her hands folded on the edge of the table. She was twenty-six years old, wearing a well-fitting uniform with a light purple silk scarf tied at the collar, and a small name tag pinned to her left breast, neatly printed with "AYAKO" in Roman and Chinese characters.

For six years, since she started working here at the age of twenty, she has spent almost eight hours here every day, flipping through thousands of passports and checking countless faces that were either tired, excited, or nervous. The deep-set eyes of the French, the passionate lips of the Italians, the thick eyelashes of the Latinos…

At first, she would secretly feel her heart race at the sight of certain overly handsome faces, but time is the most effective desensitizer. Now, to her, these faces are simply images that need to be quickly identified, part of the official information to be processed, just like the stamp on a visa page or the entry and exit dates. Beauty and ugliness have long since blurred, leaving only the judgment of whether they match or not.

The line moved slowly forward. She took the passport from a middle-aged businessman, stamped it, handed it back, and smiled: "Welcome to Japan."

Next came a group of young backpackers, chattering about their itinerary. She patiently waited for them to find all the documents and check them one by one. The process was mechanical and smooth, as natural as breathing.

Until an old man walked up to her counter.

He stood behind the group of backpackers, waiting quietly without the slightest impatience. When it was his turn, he gently placed a dark blue passport on the smooth black countertop, his movements carrying an old-fashioned, composed elegance.

"Hello," he said, his voice low.

Xun raised her head, a formulaic smile on her face. The first thing that caught the eye was a head of neat silver hair, combed back to reveal a broad, full forehead.

Then she noticed his attire: a finely crafted light gray plaid coat over a meticulously ironed white cotton shirt, with a dark purple silk scarf tucked into the collar instead of a tie. He wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, behind which were light gray eyes, like a winter morning mist.

He stood there, upright, without the hunchback of many of his peers, with a faint smile on his lips. The smile wasn't enthusiastic, but it strangely made people feel respected and accepted.

A very respectable and elegant old gentleman—that was Xun's first impression. She took the passport, her fingertips touching the slightly frosted texture of the cover, and flipped it open to find the photo page.

My heart skipped a beat for a split second, then suddenly accelerated, pounding against my chest, and my eardrums throbbed in response.

The man in the photo looked much younger, probably only in his early forties. But his light gray eyes and calm yet sharp expression were exactly like the old man behind the counter. However, what made Xun almost gasp was the face itself.

It's not just simple handsomeness, but a perfection refined and sculpted by time, blending wisdom, experience, and an ineffable sense of power? No, that word is too superficial. It's a profound attraction, like a book with an antique binding and vast content; the cover is already captivating, but the interior holds boundless wonders.

Xun had seen countless faces and was already immune to them, but this face, along with the real person of the silver-haired old man in front of her, was like a pebble precisely thrown into a lake of her heart, instantly stirring up ripples that she thought had long since subsided.

She looked up again, almost hastily, her gaze meeting the old man's light gray eyes. He was still smiling slightly, seemingly unconcerned about her brief lapse in composure, patiently waiting.

Xun felt her face getting hot and quickly lowered her eyelids, forcing herself to focus her attention back on the information page of her passport.

“Hilbert Jean Angers,” she murmured the name, glancing at his nationality: American. His birth year prompted her to subtly calculate his age, and she couldn't help but marvel again at how well he had maintained his youthful appearance. She cleared her throat, making sure her voice was steady.

"Mr. Angers, is this your first time in Japan?" The words left her mouth, and she immediately regretted them. The question was too basic; the entry record in her passport was obvious, making her seem somewhat distracted.

The old man gently shook his head.

"Oh, no, this is the second time. Last time I also entered through Tokyo, and later I went to Kagoshima and Hakone. It was a wonderful memory."

Xun glanced at the blank visa page and asked in confusion, "But according to your passport records, you have no record of entering or leaving Japan."

The old man took out a small, dark brown leather wallet from the inside pocket of his coat, opened it, gently placed an old-fashioned document next to his passport, and pushed it toward Xun.

"It was 1945. I arrived in Yokohama as a representative of the occupying forces aboard a U.S. Navy cruiser," he said calmly, as if recounting a distant but clear past event. "The Japanese customs house at that time, I remember, was still a ruin."

Xun carefully picked up the document. It was a retired U.S. Navy officer's ID card, the edges worn, but the photo, stamp, and text were still clear. The rank was not low; it belonged to a senior staff officer.

She looked at the gentle, scholarly, and even slightly artistic old man in front of her again with disbelief.

He? A former high-ranking officer in the U.S. Navy? Stepping onto this land during a time of war? This stark contrast left her momentarily speechless.