The next day dawns briskly,
I'm not at the motel like usual.
Instead, I'm in a Blazewood artisan's workshop, its air thick with the tang of metal and oil.
Tools gleam under flickering neon, and the hum of a grinding wheel lingers.
I'm here for one reason: to perfect my Sequence ability.
My mystic powers don't demand rituals, but rather a stronger medium.
I handed the artisan a paper with an intricate pattern—swirls of fortune—and asked him to engrave it onto five pennies.
The artisan, a grizzled man with calloused hands, holds up the finished coins, their surfaces etched with my design.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, his voice gruff.
I inspect them, the metal cool in my palm.
"This is it," I declare, a surge of satisfaction rising.
Perfect.
I glance at the workshop's corner, a cluttered bench for custom work.
"Mind if I use that station?"
He squints, noting the empty shop.
"Go ahead," he says, shrugging.
No one's watching.
I slip the coins into a leather coin holder I bought earlier and head to the corner, donning an apron, gloves, and goggles.
The bench is strewn with pliers and files, but I clear a space and set down the holder.
Carefully, I place one coin on the table, its swirls catching the light.
Time to infuse them.
I begin channeling Ether into the coins, a delicate process.
With five to enchant, precision is critical—one slip, and I risk Hollowification, due to the lack of aptitude towards Ether.
Stay focused.
I slide on my goggles, their lenses amplifying the Ether's faint shimmer, and pull out an old pocket watch I picked up from a Blazewood antique shop.
This is the real test.
Creating artifacts is typically the domain of the Paragon pathway, masters of crafting sealed relics.
But I'm not forging a foreign pathway—I'm enhancing my own, sculpting a tool to wield fortune and misfortune with surgical precision.
The coins, now floating slightly, absorb Ether like batteries, their sigils glowing faintly. Good so far.
I turn to the watch, disassembling it with steady hands.
I remove the strap, lugs, and bezel, exposing the dial and hands.
With tweezers, I lift them away, leaving the core gears ticking softly.
Here's the heart.
I extract the tiny sapphire jewels, then produce a small circular plate smeared with my blood—a potent medium for amplifying effects.
Blood binds it.
Dropping my blood onto the sapphires, I watch them sizzle, turning a deep ruby red under my goggles' lenses.
Magnificent.
I reposition them carefully, ensuring they're secure. Next, I focus on the final gear—the movement. Using a fine-pointed engraving pen, I carve the marks of misfortune into its surface, each stroke deliberate.
Fortune in the jewels, misfortune in the gears.
Reassembling the watch, I modify its casing, creating channels for Ether to flow, splitting into dual paths: one for fortune, one for misfortune.
The gears hum faintly, resonating with the coins' energy.
I hold the finished watch close, inspecting its ticking hands under the neon light.
A masterpiece.
Satisfied, I pocket it; the coins are nearly complete.
My next stop: New Eridu's Ladas. The heist awaits.
***
Kaori and Michael stepped onto New Eridu's bustling streets, the city's neon skyline pulsing against the dusk.
Thanks to Rusty's gang, they'd hitched a ride from Blazewood to the city's outskirts, where a taxi ferried them to a discreet clothing shop.
As the taxi pulled away, Kaori and Michael stood before the shop's polished facade, its windows gleaming with tailored suits and dresses.
This is no ordinary boutique, Kaori sensed, her cat ears twitching.
"Why didn't we ask the gang for a ride to Scott Outpost?" Kaori asked, her twin tails swaying as they entered, the bell above the door chiming softly.
Michael adjusted his tie, his expression calm. "Too far, and they're not keen on risks like that. There is a reason we with your car."
Michael scanning the shop's interior.
A clerk, her demeanor poised, greeted them.
"What may I help you with? " she asked, her eyes sharp beneath her neatly pinned hair.
Michael wordlessly showed her his phone, the screen displaying a coded message.
The clerk's gaze flickered with recognition.
"Follow me," she said, her tone brisk.
"You're the special guests Mr. Will said would arrive."
Kaori's tail stiffened, her green eyes darting to Michael. Special guests? she wondered, unease creeping in.
The clerk led them through a door marked "Staff Only," revealing a sprawling manufacturing facility beyond—thousands of workers at humming machines, stitching fabrics under harsh fluorescent lights.
This is massive, Michael noted, his curiosity piqued.
The clerk guided them to a sleek lift, her fingers pressing a concealed button etched with an intricate mark.
The lift descended smoothly, the hum of machinery fading.
They emerged into a subterranean chamber, its walls lined with bolts of shimmering fabric.
The clerk bowed slightly, a practiced gesture.
"Please enter," she said, stepping aside.
Inside, a Tyren awaited, his red cat ears and tail accentuating his tailored attire—a gentleman's vest beneath a stained apron, glasses perched on his nose.
"I'm Hans, the tailor," he announced, his voice warm.
"Mr. Will sent word of your arrival."
Hans produced two sets of garments, draped elegantly on a rack.
"I've received your measurements," he said, gesturing to the clothes.
Kaori shivered, her ears flattening.
"When did you get those?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Michael's lips curved into a faint smile, amusement glinting in his eyes.
Kaori nearly teared up, her cheeks flushing.
"Nothing lewd," Michael assured her, his tone light.
"I'm just a good observer."
Details make the difference.
Kaori's glare faltered, her embarrassment lingering. Michael took his outfit—a sleek suit tailored for stealth—and nodded to her.
"Take yours," he said.
"We need to prepare. We've got to arrive on time." Ladas won't wait, he resolved, the heist's weight settling in.
———
Night cloaked New Eridu as Michael and Kaori emerged from a sleek limousine, its chrome glinting under the city's neon haze.
Kaori, adorned in a black kimono that shimmered like obsidian, clutched a delicate fan, her face concealed by a fox mask with crimson outlines that gleamed ominously.
Michael, ever poised, wore his signature black suit, crisp trousers, and a blood-red tie, his identity veiled by a rabbit mask, its white surface stark against the shadows.
Masks were mandatory at Ladas, a safeguard for the elite who bartered in the forbidden.
At the fortified gate, they presented their invitation.
The guard, a hulking mercenary with cybernetic eyes, scanned it and waved them through.
We're in, Michael noted, his pulse steady.
Inside, the auction hall sprawled, its opulent chandeliers casting fractured light over velvet seats filled with masked nobles and tycoons.
Kaori's tail twitched beneath her kimono, her green eyes darting to the mercenaries patrolling the aisles and snipers perched on the rooftop, their rifles glinting.
They're everywhere, she fretted, her breath hitching.
"Michael," she whispered, her voice trembling, "is there really no other way?"
Michael's gloved hand found hers, his grip firm yet reassuring.
"Follow the plan, Kaori," he murmured, his voice a calm anchor.
"Everything will be fine." She'll hold it together.
Kaori exhaled, drawing strength from his warmth, her tension easing as they took their seats.
The announcer, a wiry man in a gilded mask, stepped to the podium, his voice booming through the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ladas' grand auction! We begin with lot one—a rare Hollow artifact!"
The crowd buzzed, paddles rising as bids soared.
Michael and Kaori raised their number panel occasionally, feigning interest, but were swiftly outbid by nobles wielding obscene wealth.
Patience, Michael reminded himself, his eyes locked on the stage.
The announcer's voice crescendoed.
"Lot twelve—the Ether particle accelerator, a marvel of forbidden science!" A sleek, cylindrical device gleamed under the spotlight, its surface pulsing with faint etheric energy.
That's it, Kaori realized, her heart pounding.
Michael and Kaori surged to their feet, vaulting over seats with feline grace, their masks flashing in the chandelier light.
The crowd gasped, the announcer freezing mid-sentence, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Snipers on the roof trained their scopes, fingers twitching on triggers. Mercenaries below charged, their boots thundering.
Kaori, with a flick of her wrist, hurled two engraved Dennies skyward, their sigils glowing faintly.
The snipers fired, but the bullets ricocheted off the coins with impossible precision, sparking in midair.
The snipers recoiled, stunned, as the coins clattered to the stage.
Michael's work, Kaori marveled, her fear eclipsed by adrenaline.
"Kaori, now!" Michael barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.
She darted to the accelerator, slowly moving it into a reinforced bag slung over her shoulder.
Michael ducked as mercenaries stormed the stage, their blades and batons drawn, their cybernetic implants whirring.
With a theatrical flourish, Michael straightened, his rabbit mask gleaming.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he declared, his voice resonant, "I am the White Rabbit, here to make my debut as the world's greatest thief!"
Time for the act, he resolved, the hall erupting into pandemonium as the mercenaries closed in.
———
The Ladas auction hall descended into chaos, its chandeliers trembling as mercenaries lunged at Michael, the White Rabbit, their blades and batons slicing the air. Yet, impossibly, every strike missed.
Some stumbled, their boots catching on nothing; others swung with such force they spun off balance, crashing into each other.
Michael stood motionless, his rabbit mask gleaming, untouched by their frenzy.
Misfortune's is after all my shield, he mused, his calm unshaken.
Kaori, the accelerator secured in her bag, slipped off the stage, her black kimono blending into the shadows as she darted backstage.
She's clear, Michael noted, his focus unwavering.
He addressed the mercenaries, his voice laced with mockery.
"Unfortunate, isn't it? You can't land a hit."
With a flourish, he drew one of his three engraved pennies—the misfortune coin—from his pocket.
Flicking it skyward, the coin spun, its sigils pulsing.
A black fog coalesced around it, the nobles behind Michael fleeing in terror, their screams echoing.
The ether in the air surged into the coin, its surface cracking audibly.
From the fissures, dark tendrils writhed, forming grotesque structures—bones knitting into flesh, a monstrous Ethereal taking shape.
Thanatos, its bow-shaped arm glinting, emerged, its teleportation ability and erratic attacks infamous. Perfect, Michael observed, unfazed.
Thanatos fixed its hollow gaze on Michael, teleporting before him in a blink, its arm swinging in a deadly arc.
Nothing happened. It teleported again, slashing wildly, but each strike veered harmlessly, as if repelled by fate.
Michael, still motionless, spoke calmly.
"Tonight, I'm not your target." He pointed to the mercenaries, their faces drained of color, weapons faltering.
Thanatos turned, its form flickering. Michael's voice cut through the din, addressing the mercenaries.
"Be ready."
Misfortune's coming for you, he resolved, as the Ethereal prepared to strike them , its bow-arm gleaming with lethal intent.