The days after the storage room were a study in forced normalcy. Lutz moved through his duties with a hollowed-out efficiency, the ghost of Silvia's final, bewildered look haunting the edges of his vision. He found he could no longer stomach the warehouse mess hall, the smell of boiled meat and unwashed men now inextricably linked to the scent of blood and despair. Instead, he started spending a few extra copper Pfenninge at a cramped stall near the market, eating a simple bowl of fish stew alone, watching the normal life of the city flow past him like a river from which he was now permanently excluded. It was a small rebellion, a tiny claim on a separate identity.
The potion formula was his anchor, a desperate intellectual refuge from the memories. He unfolded the paper in the solitude of his bunk, its cryptic list a lifeline.
The supplementary ingredients, at least, were a problem he could solve. They were a task, and tasks were manageable.
100 milliliters of Another's Blood.
The next time Gerhart brought a reluctant debtor back to the warehouse for "persuasion," Lutz volunteered to clean up after. In the corner of the interrogation room, as the man whimpered and promised payment, Lutz quietly soaked a rag in the spattered blood from the floor, wringing it later into a small, glass vial he'd procured. The act was cold, clinical, and devoid of the panic he'd felt in the storage room. It's just a resource, he told himself, sealing the vial. A tool for a tool.
Nail fragments from Nine Different Individuals.
This required more subtlety. He started paying attention. During collections, he'd linger near a shopkeeper's counter, palming the tiny, filed-off slivers of nail from a merchant's desk. He visited a public bathhouse, discreetly sweeping the cuttings from a bench into a small pouch. He collected them from Finn's empty bunk, a grim tribute to the boy who'd been his shadow. Each fragment was a tiny, unnoticed theft, a practice run for the Marauder he was destined to become. The ninth came from Rudel himself, who'd been sharpening a knife, the parings scattering on the floor like tiny crescent moons.
10 grams of Verbena Powder.
This was the easiest. A visit to a legitimate, if shabby, apothecary in the merchant quarter. The transaction was mundane. The old man behind the counter measured the dried, crushed herb with practiced care, and Lutz paid with a few copper coins. For a moment, standing in the clean, sunlit shop smelling of camphor and mint, he could almost pretend he was just a young man with a cough.
1 Sapphire.
This was a return to his roots. He spent an afternoon shadowing a well-dressed Loenish merchant who was inspecting cargo on the main wharf. The man was flashy, his vest buttoned with what looked like decent stones. A well-timed "accidental" shove from a dockworker Lutz had paid a single Shield to create the necessary distraction. As the merchant stumbled, Lutz's fingers, guided by Lutz Fischer's ingrained muscle memory, went near the man's neck and found their prize. It was a luxurious necklace adorned with a dazzling blue gem, wasn't a large sapphire, but it was clear and deep blue, winking in the grimy harbor light as he slipped it into his own pocket. The familiar thrill of a successful theft was there, but it was muted, overshadowed by the grim purpose it now served.
Within a week, the supplementary ingredients were assembled, a small, strange collection hidden in a hollow under his floorboard. The verbena smelled of dry fields, the sapphire necklace sparkled with stolen light, the blood was dark and congealing, and the nail fragments were a heap of human debris. He had done it. He had marshaled his skills, both old and new, and conquered the first, practical hurdle.
But the two main ingredients—the Blood-Speckled Black Mosquito and the Core of a Candle Devourer—remained a complete mystery. They were not things one could find, only things one might somehow encounter. They belonged to a different world, a hidden ecology he had no map for. He had hit the limit of what he could achieve alone. The path forward was blocked, and the only person who might have the key was the one who had given him the lock: Karl.
The frustration was a cold, hard knot in his gut. He had proven his competence in the world of men, but the path to power demanded entry into a world of shadows. There was only one person who could grant it. He found Karl overseeing the inventory of a newly arrived shipment of what looked like Intisian brandy, his ledger open, his focus absolute.
Lutz waited until Karl looked up, his coal-like eyes registering Lutz's presence without surprise. "The supplementary ingredients are acquired," Lutz stated, his voice flat. "The main components... I have no leads. They are not things that can be found in any market I know."
'People looked at me weird when i asked for them' Lutz thought self-deprecatingly.
Karl studied him for a long moment, then closed his ledger with a soft thud. "The things you seek are not sold alongside fish and cabbages. There is a place. It has no fixed name. Some call it the 'Whispering Market.' It convenes when the fog is thick enough to swallow secrets." He gestured for Lutz to follow him to a quieter corner. "It moves. Tonight, it will be in the hull of the Sea-Sorrow, a wreck beached in the scrapyard beyond the ironworks."
He fixed Lutz with a piercing stare. "You will go alone. This is not a Viper operation. You are a prospective buyer, nothing more. Speak to no one unless you mean to trade. Observe everything. The currency is not always coin. Some trade in secrets, in favors, in pieces of their own past. Do not offer what you are not willing to lose."
The instructions were a map into the unknown. The scrapyard was a desolate place of rust and forgotten dreams, a fitting tomb for a ship called Sea-Sorrow.
That night, the fog was a blessing, a cold, damp shroud that muffled the world. Lutz made his way to the scrapyard, a landscape of skeletal hulls and rotting timbers. The Sea-Sorrow was a massive, dark shape, its ribs exposed to the sky. A single, faint glow emanated from a crack in its hull.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of salt, rot, and something else—ozone, and a strange, low hum that vibrated in his teeth. The "market" was not a bustling affair. Perhaps two dozen figures moved in the gloom, their features obscured by deep hoods, scarves, or simply the strange, shifting nature of the dim light. They spoke in whispers that seemed to be swallowed by the ancient wood. Stalls were makeshift planks laid across barrels, displaying bizarre wares: bottled lights that pulsed with a faint rhythm, jars of pickled things with too many eyes, feathers that seemed to drink the light.
He kept to the shadows, his heart a frantic drum. He saw a man with hands like polished brass selling vials of shimmering liquid. He overheard a snippet of hushed conversation from two cloaked figures: "...the Church of Steam is not just building factories. They're buying silence in the parliament. Making aggressive moves since our... spiritual vacancy. It's an invasion without a single soldier..."
The words landed with a chill. The political landscape was shifting, and the ground was fertile for predators like the Vipers—and for the things that lurked in places like this.
'The Church of Steam and Machinery sure isn't letting the opportunity created by the God of Combat's passing go' Lutz said to himself.
As he moved deeper into the hushed, oppressive gloom of the ship's hull, another stall caught his eye. It was less a stall and more a series of crates stacked with books and loose sheaves of parchment. The vendor was an elderly man with a wispy white beard, peering through spectacles at a thick, mold-spotted tome.
Lutz's gaze swept over the collection. There were dictionaries of ancient Feysac, manuals on Loenish heraldry, and crumbling texts on regional mysticism. His eyes, sharpened by his studies, skipped over them until they landed on a small, separate pile. The label, written on a scrap of vellum, made his breath catch.
Roselle's Secret Texts
Roselle. The name surfaced from the murky depths of Lutz's memory. A figure from history, a legendary emperor from intis who lived around 150 years ago, known for his inexplicable innovations and cryptic sayings. A man surrounded by mystery.
Driven by a scholar's instinct he thought he'd buried, Lutz stepped closer. He reached out and carefully picked up the topmost page from the pile. The paper was thick, old, but well-preserved. The script was elegant, flowing, and utterly, devastatingly familiar.
It was Chinese.
His mind recoiled. For a dizzying second, the rusted hull of the Sea-Sorrow vanished. He was Andrei Hayes again, staring at a textbook, at the folk tales he translated for pleasure.
How? The question screamed in his mind, silent and panicked. How is this here? On this world, in this time?
He started reading immediately
November 12th
The delegation from Trier grows more tiresome by the day. Lord Carruthers insists on discussing the technical specifications of the new steam engines as if he understands the principles involved. I've taken to responding in Ancient Feysac whenever his questions become particularly obtuse—the look of confusion on his face is worth the breach of diplomatic protocol.
Speaking of protocols, I've made a fascinating observation regarding the practical application of mystical principles. The theater troupe that performed for us last evening demonstrated something quite remarkable, though I doubt they understood the deeper implications of their craft.
They spoke of "becoming" their characters, of inhabiting the role so completely that the distinction between actor and performance dissolved. The lead actress, when portraying Lady Macbeth, seemed to genuinely channel the ambition and guilt of the character. Her eyes held a haunted quality that was not mere stagecraft.
This concept of "becoming" rather than merely "pretending" strikes me as potentially applicable to other endeavors. If one can truly inhabit a role, truly believe oneself to be something other than what one is, might this not create a resonance with forces that respond to conviction rather than mere knowledge?
I am reminded of the alchemical principle: "As above, so below." But perhaps it is more accurate to say: "As within, so without." What one truly believes oneself to be has the power to reshape not only the self, but reality itself.
The amateur philosopher in me is tempted to pursue this line of thinking further. If the advancement of one's beyonder abilities requires not just the memorization of formulae and procedures, but the complete assumption of the identity and mindset associated with each sequence, then the implications are staggering.
One would not merely learn to be a savant, but would BECOME savant-ship itself.
Fascinating. Though I suspect such complete transformation carries risks. To become something other than oneself... can one ever truly find the way back? Or does each successive "role" layer upon the last until the original man is buried beneath a sediment of assumed identities?
I, the Protagonist of this Era, shall unravel every last one of these mysteries.
A question for another day. Lord Carruthers is requesting another demonstration of the mechanical loom. Perhaps I shall explain it in Jotun this time, just to see if his expression can become even more vacant.
Lutz carefully set the page down, his fingers trembling slightly. He was holding a piece of his own past, a ghost from another world, and it was being sold as a curio. The sheer, cosmic strangeness of it was overwhelming.
'Holy shit' Was the only thought on Lutz's mind
He looked up, meeting the old vendor's curious gaze. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He had to be careful. To show too much interest was to reveal a connection he could not possibly have.
"An... interesting script," Lutz managed, his voice strained. He forced a tone of academic curiosity. "I've never seen its like. What is its origin?"
The old man peered at him over his spectacles. "A mystery," he rasped. "Attributed to the Emperor Roselle. No one living can read it. Some say it's a divine cipher. Others, the language of angels or demons." He shrugged. "I sell the mystery, not the meaning. Are you a collector of the unknowable?"
"A passing curiosity," Lutz lied, his voice thankfully steadier. "It is... elegantly written."
He gave a curt nod and stepped away from the stall, forcing himself not to look back. The discovery echoed in his mind, louder than any whisper in the market. Roselle. A man who might have been like him. A traveler. An impossibility that suddenly made his own existence feel less like a random accident and more like a potential pattern. The world had just become infinitely larger, and infinitely more personal.
When he could, he would come back and buy all of the pages, who knows what other secrets might be hidden in them.
He then reflected on the page's content.
Not just taking a potion and hoping for the best, but truly becoming what the potion represented. If Roselle was right—and the man's reputation suggested he usually was—then the secret to advancing along the pathways wasn't just about gathering ingredients and gulping down potions.
It was about transformation of the self. Complete, genuine transformation.
He thought about his own situation. A Marauder. What did it mean to truly BE a marauder? To think like someone who took what wasn't offered, who saw every interaction as an opportunity for acquisition.
The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying. He had thought the greatest risk was the "madness" the Baron had warned about. But this... this suggested the risk was something far more subtle and complete. Not losing your mind, but losing yourself entirely in the role you were playing.
What one truly believes oneself to be has the power to reshape reality itself.
'Also... Protagonist of this Era? Haha... It seems the emperor was quite the personality, i wonder how many of us are there...
He kept making his way throughout the whispering market.
Then he saw it. At a stall manned by a hunched figure whose fingers were stained a deep, waxy black, rested a small, fibrous, grey lump. It seemed to absorb the light around it, a pocket of deeper darkness. A small, handwritten label read simply: Candle Devourer Core.
Lutz approached, his pulse quickening. He pointed a finger at the core, meeting the vendor's shadowed gaze.
"The price?" Lutz's voice was a whisper.
The vendor's voice was like the rustling of dry insect wings. "For this... fifteen Hammers."
The number was a physical blow. It was a fortune, more than he had saved from weeks of work and theft combined. It was the Baron's fifty-Hammer debt reduction made tangible.
"Ten," Lutz countered, the word feeling futile.
The vendor let out a dry chuckle. "The price is not negotiable. The danger in its acquisition... was considerable."
Lutz's mind raced. He couldn't leave empty-handed. This was the only tangible lead. "I have eight Hammers, three Shields. It is all I have."
The vendor was silent for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. "It is not enough."
Desperation clawed at him. He thought of Karl's words. The currency is not always coin. "I have information," Lutz said, lowering his voice further. "On the Harbor Vipers' next collection routes in the merchant quarter. A week from now."
The vendor went perfectly still. Then, a slow, rasping laugh. "You would sell out your own to buy your future? How... pragmatic." He seemed to consider it, then waved a dismissive, black-stained hand. "No. Too noisy. That kind of information brings swords, not silence.
Lutz grasped for something else, something true but harmless. Without other options, he spoke: "There's a secret behind the potions, one must truly embody what the potion means in order to achieve complete control over the power". It was a gamble, if the man knew, or if he didn't believe it, it would be for nothing.
The vendor stared at him, and Lutz felt laid bare. After a tense silence, the vendor spoke. "Truly embody..." He gestured to the coins in Lutz's hand. "Your eight Hammers, three Shields, and your pathetic secret. For the core."
It was a brutal trade, stripping him of all his savings. Lutz nodded, his jaw tight. He placed the coins on the plank and felt a bizarre, fleeting sensation, like a gentle tug on a thread in his mind, as the "secret" was accepted as payment.
The vendor swept the coins away and nudged the dark, fibrous core toward him. Lutz picked it up. It was unnaturally light and cold.
He turned and left the hull of the Sea-Sorrow, the core clutched in his hand. He had one of the two main ingredients. But the cost had been staggering. And the Blood-Speckled Black Mosquito still remained, a distant, expensive dream. He was halfway across a chasm, his funds exhausted, with no idea how he would procure the final, crucial piece. The path to power, he was learning, was paved not just with blood, but with gold and and the secrets of the unknown.