The following days fell into a brutal, monotonous rhythm. The world narrowed to the pain in Lutz's muscles and the four walls of the secluded training space. Gerhart was a relentless, unforgiving taskmaster. The bandage on Lutz's shoulder came off after two days, revealing an angry red scar—a permanent reminder of the cost of ignorance.
The lessons were simple, repetitive, and exhausting. Gerhart didn't teach him to box or duel. He taught him to maim, to disable, to survive.
"Again," Gerhart would grunt, as Lutz practiced driving the hardened point of his elbow into the heavy leather bag. "Faster. You're not tickling him. You're trying to shatter his ribs."
He taught Lutz how to use his environment: how to throw a handful of dust or grit into an opponent's eyes, how to shove a man into a wall head-first, how to use a corner to limit the attacks coming his way. He taught him to watch the hips, not the eyes, to see a strike coming before it was telegraphed.
"Your brain's your best weapon," Gerhart said one afternoon, after Lutz had successfully used a feint to create an opening for a knee to the groin. "But it's useless if your body can't keep up. You're learning. You're still slow. But you're not a complete liability anymore."
It was the closest thing to praise Lutz would ever get from him.
The physical transformation was subtle but real. The lean, underfed frame of the swindler began to harden. His shoulders broadened slightly from the constant strain, his hands grew rougher, and the perpetual hunger in his eyes sharpened from desperation into a watchful, calculating alertness. He slept the deep, dreamless sleep of pure exhaustion, too tired to be haunted by the ghosts of Finn or the specter of the noose.
But the training was more than physical. With each passing day, the cold ember of spite burned hotter, fueled by the repetition and the pain. The question of why he was doing this faded, replaced by the simple, primal imperative of the how. How to be harder. How to be faster. How to be the one who walked away.
While Lutz's world was one of sweat and strain, Karl's was one of shadows and information. He stood before Baron Vogler's desk, the air in the office cool and still.
"The Shrieking Eel," Karl said, placing a hand-drawn map on the desk. It showed a tavern nestled on a dilapidated wharf, its back built on stilts over the water. "That's their nest. They've gotten bold. They're using Finn's death as a recruitment tool. Claiming the Vipers are weak."
The Baron's finger tapped slowly on the map. "Silas?"
"Confirmed. He's been seen going in and out twice in the last day. He's trying to buy his way into their good graces with information. He thinks he's found new protectors." Karl's voice was devoid of emotion. It was a simple statement of fact.
"And the Sharks' strength?" the Baron asked, his flint-like eyes missing nothing.
"Twenty, maybe twenty-five full members. Armed with clubs, knives. A few might have pistols. They're confident. Sloppy."
The Baron's finger paused its tapping. "Any indication of… unusual talent among them? Beyond the ordinary thug?"
"The leader, Boris, he seems to be tougher the angrier he gets and the more blows he takes, but we should be able to easily deal with him. They are precisely what they appear to be: blunt instruments." Karl answered
"Good," the Baron said, the single word carrying a weight of relief. "Blunt instruments break easily against proper tools."
A cold smile touched the Baron's lips. "Overconfidence is a flaw that can be exploited. How do you propose we settle this account?"
"A message needs to be sent," Karl replied, his gaze drifting towards the warehouse floor, as if he could see through the walls to where Lutz was training. "A clear one. Not just an attack. An eradication. Rudel and I are sufficient."
The Baron nodded. "Rudel's strength will break their front door. Your fire will cleanse the inside. Efficient." He leaned back. "But this is not just about punishment. It is about investment. What of Fischer?"
This was the question Karl had been waiting for. "He's learning. But he's still blind. He fights with the strength of his body and the cunning of his mind, but he does not understand the tools that are truly available. He needs to see."
"You propose to take him?" The Baron's eyebrow raised slightly. "A rabbit to a wolf fight."
"A rabbit who thinks he is a wolf is a danger to himself and the pack," Karl countered smoothly. "But a rabbit who sees the power of the wolf for the first time… that rabbit understands its place in the world. Or it understands what it must become to survive." He let the words hang in the air. "He has earned a certain… curiosity. Let him witness. Let him see what it means to be more than a man with a knife."
The Baron was silent for a long moment, his sharp eyes seeing the strategic value, the long-term calculation. Showing a potential recruit the power of the pathways was a risk, but it was also the ultimate recruitment tool. It created a loyalty born of awe and fear.
"Very well," the Baron said, his decision final. "Take him. But he is your responsibility. If he becomes a hindrance, or if his sight poses a risk, you know what to do."
"Of course," Karl said, giving a slight, respectful nod. The unspoken command was clear: if Lutz panicked or jeopardized the mission, he was to be left behind. Permanently.
"When?" the Baron asked.
"Tonight," Karl said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The fog is coming in thick off the harbor. It will provide cover. And there is no better time to remind the city that the Vipers own the shadows."
As Karl left the office, he didn't head for the armory. He walked towards the training area. He found Lutz drenched in sweat, his knuckles raw from pounding the leather bag, his movements sharper, more economical than they had been just days before.
Gerhart saw Karl coming and gave a curt nod, stepping back.
Lutz stopped, chest heaving, and turned to face Karl. The look in his gray-blue eyes was different. The fear was still there, but it was buried under a layer of hardened resolve.
Karl didn't smile. "The training is over for today. Clean yourself up. Eat. Get some rest."
Lutz wiped sweat from his brow. "Why? What's happening?"
Karl's gaze was intense, almost hungry. "Tonight, your education continues. We're going to pay a visit to The Shrieking Eel. You're coming along. Not to fight. To watch."
He let the implication sink into the silence between them.
"It's time you learned what happens when the gloves come off."
Later that day
The fog was a living thing, a cold, wet cloak that swallowed sound and sight. It muffled the lap of water against the rotten pilings and turned the lanterns of the Shrieking Eel into hazy, malevolent moons. Lutz moved like a ghost between Karl and Rudel, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The training felt a lifetime away.
Karl halted, raising a closed fist. As if he was out on a hunt, his head was tilted, his sharp senses parsing the night in a way Lutz could not comprehend. He pointed a finger—first to a shadowy figure leaning against a barrel near the tavern's side entrance, then to a second shape smoking a pipe further down the wharf. Without a word, he melted into the fog. There were two soft, wet thuds, followed by an unnerving silence. He reappeared as if from nowhere, giving a single, sharp nod. The perimeter was clear.
They reached the main door. Rudel cracked his knuckles, the sound like rocks grinding together. But Karl placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. Instead, he leaned close to the warped wood, his voice dropping not to a whisper, but into a low, carrying tone that seemed to vibrate through the very planks.
"Boris!" Karl called, his voice laced with a contempt so precise it felt like a physical needle. "Your mother still swives sailors for a pint of piss-ale! No wonder you hide in this rathole!"
The effect was instantaneous. A roar of pure, unthinking fury erupted from inside. The door didn't just open; it exploded outward, splintering as a massive, bearded man—Boris, the leader of the Gray Sharks—burst through, his eyes wide with primal rage. He was a bull of a man, bigger than Rudel, and the air around him seemed to shimmer with a barely contained violence. Behind him, a wave of a dozen Sharks scrambled for their weapons, their own anger ignited by their leader's frenzy.
The Provoker had done his work.
"Vipers!" Boris bellowed, his voice a guttural thunder. He charged, not with strategy, but with pure, homicidal intent. A heavy cleaver appeared in his hand, swinging in a wild arc meant to bisect Karl.
He never reached him.
Rudel met the charge. He didn't dodge. He stepped into it, his own fist, hardened to the density of iron by his Pugilist power, meeting the cleaver's swing. The sound was not of metal cutting flesh, but of a hammer striking a bell. CLANG! The cleaver flew from Boris's hand, spinning away into the fog. Boris roared in shock and pain, his arm numbed.
But he was no ordinary thug. The pain seemed to fuel him. His muscles bulged, and he slammed into Rudel with the force of a tidal wave. The two titans grappled, a contest of raw power. Rudel was stronger, but Boris's rage made him relentless, a force of nature.
While Rudel held Boris, Karl moved through the fray like a dancer of death. He didn't just throw fire; he conducted it. A Shark raising a pistol found the weapon glowing red-hot in his hand, forcing him to drop it with a scream. Another, trying to flank Rudel, was suddenly engulfed in a sheath of flame that burned with terrifying silence, his screams choked off as the air in his lungs was stolen. Karl's fire was precise, intelligent, a scalpel where Rudel was a sledgehammer.
The precise, terrifying efficiency of Karl's fire broke the Sharks' initial charge, but it didn't break their spirit. They were cornered rats, and the sight of their burning comrades fueled a different kind of frenzy—one of desperation. The fight shattered into a dozen individual brawls across the fog-drenched wharf.
Rudel and Boris were the epicenter. A normal man would have been shattered by Rudel's blows, but Boris absorbed them, his rage seeming to form an invisible armor. When Rudel's fist, hard as iron, cracked into his ribs, Boris bellowed but grabbed Rudel's arm, twisting with brute force that threatened to snap the bone. He drove a headbutt into Rudel's face, and for the first time, the massive Pugilist staggered back, a trickle of blood appearing under his nose.
"You're strong, Viper!" Boris roared, his voice thick with fury. "But anger is stronger!" He charged again, his movements becoming more wild, more unpredictable, each swing of his fists carrying the weight of his entire being.
Amidst the chaos, Karl demonstrated the artistry of his power. Instead of simply immolating a Shark charging him with a boat hook, he gestured sharply. A ribbon of fire snaked out, wrapping around the weapon's shaft not to burn it, but to heat it. The Shark screamed and dropped the searing-hot metal, his palms blistering instantly. In the same motion, Karl clenched his fist, and the air in front of another assailant's face shimmered and popped with a concussive burst of heat, stunning the man long enough for Karl to fluidly step forward and slit his throat with a knife that had appeared in his hand. The fire was not just a weapon; it was a tool for creating openings, for control.
While the titans clashed, Lutz found himself locked in his own life-or-death dance. Two Sharks, seeing him as the weak link, circled him. One held a knife, the other a length of chain.
"Gerhart's voice was in his head: "They're not dueling you. They're trying to kill you. Don't let them set the pace."
As the chain-wielder swung, Lutz didn't back away. He surged forward, inside the arc of the swing. The chain wrapped harmlessly around his arm, and he used the man's own momentum to pull him off balance, driving a hard knee into his groin. The man gasped, doubling over. But the knife-man was already lunging.
Lutz had no time to finish the first. He shoved the choking Shark into the path of the blade. The knife meant for Lutz sank into his companion's shoulder. In the moment of shocked confusion, Lutz grabbed the knife-man's wrist, twisted violently, and heard a satisfying crack. The knife clattered to the stones. A sharp elbow to the temple dropped the second Shark.
He was breathing heavily, his hands trembling. He had just taken down two men. Not with luck, but with training. The realization was cold and electric.
When a burly Shark managed to get inside the range of his flames, Karl didn't retreat. He leaned into the attack, his honed reflexes making the man's wild swing seem sluggish. He caught the man's wrist, used his own momentum to spin him around, and drove a knee into his kidney with brutal efficiency before shoving him, stumbling, into the path of one of Rudel's backswings. It was a reminder that the fire was an extension of a body already perfected for the hunt.
For Lutz, there was no time to dwell. He saw the larger battle unfolding. Karl was a whirlwind, but he was being pressed. Three Sharks, smarter than the rest, were working together. One distracted him with a thrown axe, while the other two tried to flank him from either side. Karl incinerated the axe in mid-air, but the delay was enough for the flankers to get close. Fire bloomed around one, but the other, a wiry man with a spear, saw an opening and thrust towards Karl's back.
Lutz didn't shout a warning. He acted. He scooped up the fallen knife and threw it. It was not an elegant throw—it was a desperate, spinning hurl. But it was enough. The knife handle thudded into the spearman's side, not causing serious injury but spoiling his aim. The spear thrust went wide, skittering off the cobblestones.
Karl didn't even turn. He simply extended a hand backward, and the spearman erupted into a silent, shrieking pillar of flame. The other flanker, seeing this, froze in terror for a fatal second, and a tendril of fire lashed out from Karl's fingertip, wrapping around his throat and squeezing until he dropped, choking on superheated air.
Karl's eyes met Lutz's across the chaos. There was no nod, no thanks. Just a flicker of acknowledgment—the recognition of a tool that had proven unexpectedly useful. Then he was moving again, turning his attention back to the main event.
Rudel and Boris were bleeding, both breathing in ragged gasps. Boris's rage was immense, but Rudel's warrior-like endurance was a cold, relentless machine. Boris was tiring, his swings becoming slower, more telegraphed. Seeing this, Karl changed tactics. He stopped trying to directly attack Boris and instead began manipulating the battlefield. He traced lines of fire on the ground, herding Boris, cutting off his angles of retreat, forcing him to expend energy dodging the flames.
"Stop playing with him, Rudel!" Karl's voice cut through the night, cold and impatient.
Enraged by the provocation, Boris made a final, desperate charge at Karl, ignoring Rudel completely. It was exactly what Karl had intended.
As Boris lunged, his back exposed, Rudel planted his feet. Every ounce of his strength coalesced into a fist worthy of a pugilist. It wasn't just a punch; it was a piston of concentrated force. He drove it into the small of Boris's back.
The sound was sickening—a wet crack that signaled shattered vertebrae. Boris's charge turned into a spasmodic stumble. His legs gave way, and he crashed to the ground, his body paralyzed, his rage replaced by shock and agony. He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't obey.
He lay there, helpless, his furious eyes looking up as Karl walked slowly towards him. The few remaining Sharks, seeing their leader broken, dropped their weapons, their will to fight extinguished.
The Shrieking Eel was silent, save for the crackle of dying flames and Boris's ragged, wet breathing. The fight was over. The message had been sent. And Lutz had been a part of it. He stood amidst the carnage, his own minor victories feeling insignificant next to the display of raw, power from beyond, but understanding that in this world, even a thrown knife could change the course of a battle between gods.