Chapter 150 Chapter 149 The Moulin Rouge
Although Adolf is generally very conservative, even the table legs at banquets cannot be exposed; they must be covered with tablecloths to prevent others from engaging in inappropriate thoughts.
Yet at the same time, there is the Moulin Rouge, a high-end and somewhat inappropriate establishment, openly operating in the eastern district, reaping profits. Some wealthy dignitaries, regardless of gender, enjoy secretly indulging themselves inside.
Jima also enjoys it; she likes going to the Moulin Rouge to save fallen women and young girls with gold coins. Generally, on her way to the Moulin Rouge, she would always feel happy.
But today, she feels terrible. God knows what that Akarnis is doing bringing his writer to the Moulin Rouge.
She has no idea what kind of fate awaits the little wimp, Owen Green, at the hands of Akarnis.
Jima certainly does not want to be rushing to meet a deadline on the last day, struggling to write against an outline—that would be miserable.
The carriage stops at an intersection, where a brightly painted windmill stands proudly in Adolf City.
Jima gets off the carriage, leaving behind her hat with black lace, holding a straw man, and walking straight into the Moulin Rouge.
She exposes her own beauty, her inherent extraordinary charm radiating.
“Madam, may I ask what you need?”
“Can I assist you in any way?”
“Ma’am, are you looking for your husband? I can tell you quietly.”
The essential large “bouncers” of the entertainment venue assure Jima in hushed tones.
“No need, I’m here to find a friend, or rather, two.”
Jima opens her folding fan, fanning away the fragrant perfume in front of her nose, “Who would like to lead me?”
“Ah, isn’t this Ms. Jima? You’ve finally arrived, the girls have missed you.”
The nominal head of the Moulin Rouge, a woman trying to cover her age with excessive makeup, holds a purple folding fan, attempting to conceal the lower half of her face like a well-mannered lady.
But the purple fan certainly cannot hide her wide smile.
Jima has heard that this owner also brings her daughter into this old yet lucrative industry.
“Put away your silly smile, don’t waste time.” Jima pinches the straw man in her hand and says, “Take me to the basement.”
“Is Ms. Jima in a bad mood today? Do you need to relax? Just right, a few of my girls need to unwind,” the Moulin Rouge owner says, “You are our esteemed guest, and the girls love to serve you.”
The basement is specifically designated for providing stimulating services to guests. Theoretically, these services could be offered on the top floor, but in the dark and shadowy underground, it is easier to unleash a person’s darker side.
“No, I’m here to find someone.”
With that, she quickly walks deeper into the Moulin Rouge. Inside, there are more people; only the most loyal and available clients visit the Moulin Rouge during the day.
On the stage to her right, young ladies in red high heels are dancing vigorously along with the band, shouting excitedly and raising their black silk-clad legs, revealing what lies beneath their skirts to the audience.
The sparsely seated audience claps and cheers loudly.
When the two ladies walk farther away and the cheers and shouts fade, the Moulin Rouge owner finally asks:
“Who are you looking for?”
Or rather, she had asked previously, and Jima pretended not to hear.
Jima stops in front of a wooden door guarded by a burly Northerner. The ancient wooden door is bound with iron bars; it is the prison door purchased by the Moulin Rouge owner.
“Tell him to open the door.”
“Who are you looking for?”
“I already said, my friend.”
“Then, you tell me his name, and I’ll send someone to ask, so you don’t walk in and find him in the middle of something; your friend would be very upset.”
“What’s wrong? Do you doubt that I’ll stir up trouble?” Jima replies, “If I see him doing that, I’ll wait for him to finish, do you believe me?”
“Ms. Jima.” The Moulin Rouge owner smiles apologetically, “How could I doubt you? It’s just that it’s inconvenient for you inside; if someone sees you, it could ruin your reputation.”
“I don’t care about my reputation; why should you?” Jima says, “As your esteemed guest, I’m not even allowed to enter the basement, not even to take a look; are you trying to scare me?”
“How could I? How could I? Quickly, open the door.”
The burly Northerner steps aside and forcefully pushes open the prison door, revealing a staircase leading down. A cool breeze that carries a few screams and pleas for mercy reaches Jima’s ears.
She strides down, followed closely by the Moulin Rouge owner.
In just a few steps, they reach the basement, with walls and ceilings made of red bricks. Without hesitation, Jima turns left, passing by wooden prison doors, each marked with a number, 101, and a barred observation window above.
Behind the first door, a man is bound with his arms and legs exposed, while a woman wearing knee-high boots and a crown lashes a whip at him.
Jima doesn’t look aside; these acts are as bland to her as lukewarm water. She proceeds from 101 to 112 when she suddenly stops.
The Moulin Rouge owner behind her clenches her purple fan tightly.
Jima takes a few steps back to stand in front of door 111 and says:
“This one.”
The Moulin Rouge owner approaches the door, glances inside, and smiles, “Ms. Jima, you’re mistaken; there’s no one here.”
“Open the door,” Jima demands, “I want to go in.”
The Moulin Rouge owner claps her hands, and several doors nearby open, revealing a group of burly Northerners whose strong muscles are barely concealed by their clothing, leaning against the doorframe, each carrying a round club wrapped in iron at their waist.
“Ms. Jima, I never wanted to take it this far,” the Moulin Rouge owner smiles, “I’ve been in this business for so many years, all relying on being responsible to the guests. If you take a step back, you remain our esteemed guest, but if you step forward… there’s something I don’t know whether to say or not.”
“Stop wasting time.”
“The girls all really like you; do you know who enjoys serving you the most, Miss Catherine?”
“The red-haired one?” Jima remembers; she’d rather pay half price or even cover the room fee just to find herself.
“Yes, she told me that after serving you, other guests would be willing to pay an extra fifty percent for her next time, sometimes even up to five times.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is.”
Jima’s golden eyes lock onto the Moulin Rouge owner’s eyes. She unleashes her allure, like drawing a bow taut and gently releasing it; with a ‘bang!’ the arrow pierces the owner’s heart.
“Ms. Jima.” The Moulin Rouge owner’s voice softens, feeling warmth pour back into her dried-up heart as she experiences enthusiasm for Jima, “Please take a step back. Everyone likes you, and to make amends, I’ll have the girls accompany you for free, with free drinks.”
“I’m quite curious.”
“After satisfying your curiosity, please promise me you’ll leave.”
“Fine.”
The Moulin Rouge owner lowers her voice: “The second pimp of Adolf is down below.”
The nickname “the second pimp of Adolf” circulated in the underground world refers to the current emperor. Before he became emperor, he was a complete wastrel.
But Jima is sure that the one below is a fake; it’s likely that Akarnis is impersonating the emperor for deception. The reason is simple: she has seen the emperor.
His former wastrel persona was just a façade to deceive others. This consensus is already well-established among the empire’s bigwigs, but for small figures like the Moulin Rouge owner, it’s a major secret.
No wonder the Moulin Rouge owner is so nervous.
“So that’s it,” Jima steps forward, “I just tricked you.”
With that, she pulls out a set of keys.
“My keys!” The Moulin Rouge owner exclaims, “Quick, take her down!”
The Northerners have long been eyeing Jima, and they can’t wait to pounce on her, trying to tear her clothes apart to expose her alluring body.
But the next second, they all come to a halt.
A two-meter-three axe spear is pointed at their noses.
Jima assumes a horse-riding stance, tightly gripping the suddenly appeared “branch axe spear” and says:
“Would you like to test my skills?”
The others look at Jima with confusion.
The axe spear in her hand, adorned with red patterns, gives off a faint glow. Anyone who sees it would feel a tendency for the blood in their veins to surge towards the axe blade.
Yet clearly, she is just a slightly taller woman dressed in a black lady’s dress, with a beautiful lace hem. Her hands, adorned with black lace gloves and a few pearls, clutch the wooden handle.
Jima’s outfit seems entirely out of place compared to the axe spear in her hands.
One of the Northerners steps forward.
Jima’s axe spear immediately swings around, the sharp tip grazing his nose.
Blood immediately streams down, staining his chin red. Although it’s just a trivial scratch, the Northerner clutches his nose, doubled over in pain, kneeling on the ground and even sobbing.
The cries cool the heads of the Northerners.
“What… what is this thing?”
“Right, who saw her take out this weapon just now?”
“She must be a witch.”
Jima finds the key and unlocks the door.
This prison cell is quite tidy, with everything it should have, even a wardrobe, and the floor bears inconspicuous scratches.
Jima snorts, “An old, cliché hidden door.”
“Ms. Jima, please don’t do this.”
Jima moves the wardrobe aside, revealing a staircase leading to the second floor. She carries the “branch axe spear” down.
Inside, the light is dim, illuminated by green light emitted from alchemical lamp orbs.
Voice conversations can be heard from women:
“What makes this golden mushroom think it is something special? Saying things like, ‘I will definitely save you out’—and yet, not even a small tip.”
“He even claims to be a great writer; ha, this golden mushroom, I don’t even recognize the name he mentioned. Most likely, he doesn’t have a proper job.”
“Young people without jobs always like to call themselves writers.”
“What’s up with that chubby guest with a butt chin? He seems disinterested in us. Do you think it’s because my perfume doesn’t smell nice enough?”
“Come on, he probably thinks you have too much belly fat. Six-pack abs are in season now.”
As the women workers actively discuss what might have scared off the chubby guest.
Jima steps into the cozy room with the axe spear, and her eyes fall on a large purple bed, wet and strewn with empty bottles.
Owen Green lies unconscious on the bed, several whip marks on his chest, while a desk nearby is piled high with handwritten drafts.
The neatly dressed four girls turn to look.
“Ms. Jima?”
“Old hag?”
“Alright, girls.” Jima sets down the axe spear, “Clearly, we have important business to attend to, your work is over.”
The Moulin Rouge owner breathes a sigh of relief; thankfully, the emperor is not here.
Jima approaches the desk, taking a quick glance at the stack of manuscript paper, which is quite thick, thicker than she expected. She quickly flips through it, confirming that Owen Green has far exceeded his tasks, feeling a sense of relief.
Thank goodness it’s not her rushing to meet the deadline.
“Old hag.” Jima points with the tip of her axe spear towards the door, “You go too; I need to talk to my friend.”
“Okay, Ms. Jima.”
