The world dissolved into a vortex of violent motion. The four thugs, their crude coordination born of countless alleyway ambushes, converged on him. The air thickened with their grunts, the scent of unwashed bodies and cheap ale, and the sharp tang of intended violence.
Lutz didn't meet the charge. He flowed away from it.
As the leader with the broken nose lunged to grab him, Lutz dropped into a low crouch. The man's grasping hands passed through empty air where his torso had been. Using the momentum of his drop, Lutz swept a leg out, not with the goal of tripping the heavy man, but to unbalance him. It worked. The leader stumbled forward with a curse, crashing into the man with the cudgel who was swinging for where Lutz's head had been a second prior. They went down in a tangle of limbs and angry shouts.
But the other two were on him. The knifeman from behind thrust his blade in a low, vicious arc towards Lutz's kidney. Time seemed to stretch. Lutz's enhanced senses processed the attack with terrifying clarity. He couldn't parry with his own, smaller knife from this angle. Instead, he twisted his body, the tip of the blade slicing through his coat and scoring a hot line of red across his back. He'd dodged a killing blow, but only just.
'Shit, that one's going to need stitches. Note to self: dodging is better than tailoring.'
He used the twist to spin, his left hand—those preternaturally agile fingers—shooting out and closing around the knifeman's wrist. He didn't try to match the thug's brute strength. Instead, he guided the man's own momentum, pulling him forward and down while bringing his knee up in a savage, precise blow to the man's elbow.
The crack was sickeningly loud in the confined space. The knifeman screamed, a high-pitched sound of agony as his arm bent the wrong way. The knife clattered to the cobblestones. Lutz didn't pause. He shoved the shrieking man hard, sending him stumbling back into the fourth thug, the one with the meaty fists, who was trying to flank him.
A two-second respite. He heard the scramble behind him as the leader and the cudgel-wielder untangled themselves. He was panting, the cut on his back burning, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This wasn't a game. They were trying to kill him.
His eyes darted around the alley, his superior observation not pinging on value, but on utility. The environment is a tool. Steal its advantages.
A stack of empty, rotten barrels stood against the wall to his left. A rusted iron drainpipe, slick with moisture, ran down the right-hand wall. A pile of broken crates created a unstable, jagged mound near the alley's dead end.
The leader was up first, his face a mask of fury. "You'll pay for that, you little shit!" He charged again, more cautiously this time, his companion with the cudgel right beside him.
Lutz didn't retreat. He ran at the pile of broken crates. His powerful legs propelled him upwards. He didn't climb; he ascended, his feet finding purchase on splintered wood that should have collapsed under his weight. In two bounding steps, he was atop the unstable pile, four feet off the ground.
The thugs skidded to a halt, looking up in confusion. The change in elevation was a momentary advantage. Lutz kicked down hard, sending a shower of splintered wood and rusty nails into their faces. They flinched back, raising their arms to protect their eyes.
"A little something in your eyes? Call it a down payment." Lutz joked.
In that moment of distraction, Lutz leaped. Not away, but directly towards the man with the cudgel. He flew through the air, his body horizontal for a breathtaking second, before crashing into the man. They tumbled to the ground in a heap. Lutz was on top, his knife finally in his hand. He drove the blade down, once, into the man's shoulder where it met his neck. The man beneath him gurgled, his body seizing, the cudgel falling from his lifeless fingers.
A heavy boot connected with Lutz's side, throwing him off the dying man. The air exploded from his lungs in a pained gasp. The leader stood over him, his boot drawn back for another kick. "You piece of shit!" he roared.
Lutz rolled, the second kick grazing his ribs. "Ugh!" He scrambled backwards, his vision swimming. He was hurt. 'That's a bad one' He thought
The leader advanced, pulling a long, wicked shiv from his own belt. The remaining thug, the one with the fists, was helping the knifeman with the broken arm to his feet. The odds were still three to one, but one was critically injured.
"Nowhere to run now, rat" the leader spat, twirling the shiv.
Lutz's back hit the cold, damp wall. The rusted drainpipe was right beside him. He was cornered. His eyes met the leader's, and he saw the grim satisfaction there. The man thought he had won.
A Marauder steals opportunity.
Lutz let his body slump, his shoulders slouching, his head bowing slightly. He let the mask of desperation and exhaustion settle on his face. He even let a small, pathetic whimper escape his lips. It was an act, a performance paid for with the pain they had already given him.
'Come on, you bastard. Take the bait. Theatrics are just another form of theft.' Lutz prayed to himself.
The leader bought it. A cruel smile spread across his face as he stepped in for the final blow. "Should've just paid the tax."
As the shiv thrust towards his chest, Lutz moved. It was the fastest he had moved all night. He didn't try to dodge the blade. Instead, his free hand shot up and grabbed the leader's wrist, stopping the point a bare inch from his heart. The man's strength was immense, and the point trembled, inching closer. But Lutz didn't need to overpower him. He just needed to hold him for a single second.
With his other hand, he slammed the hilt of his own knife against the rusty drainpipe beside him. Once, twice—a loud, metallic clang, clang!
It was a meaningless noise.
The leader, confused by the bizarre action, instinctively glanced at the pipe.
That was the opening.
The moment the leader's eyes flicked away, Lutz shifted his weight. He pulled the man's wrist, unbalancing him forward, while simultaneously driving his own forehead forward in a brutal headbutt.
There was a wet crunch. The leader screamed, staggering back, his nose now a bloody, ruined mess to match his companion's. He dropped the shiv, his hands flying to his face.
'Shit, How's that for a neighborhood tax?!' Lutz blurted, dazed.
He didn't stop. He pressed his advantage. He feinted a lunge with his knife, making the blinded leader flinch back violently. But the lunge was a deception. As the leader stumbled, Lutz's foot hooked around the ankle of the knifeman with the broken arm, who was still leaning on his friend. The man cried out as his legs were swept from under him. He fell hard, his head cracking against the cobblestones with a final, sickening thud. He didn't move again.
Two down.
The leader, blinded by pain and blood, was stumbling backwards, swearing violently. The last remaining thug, the one who had only thrown punches, looked from his two dead friends to Lutz, who now stood panting, bloodied but with a fire in his eyes.
The man's courage broke. "Demon..." he whispered, his face ashen. He turned and fled, his footsteps echoing frantically before being swallowed by the fog. The leader, hearing his last ally flee, let out a roar of frustration and fear before also turning and stumbling away into the gloom, clutching his shattered face.
"Hey! You forgot your friends! And my fee for this unscheduled performance." Lutz shouted.
Silence descended, broken only by Lutz's ragged breathing and the slow drip of water from the pipe he had used as a prop. The adrenaline faded, leaving a bone-deep weariness and the throbbing ache of his wounds. He looked at the two bodies at his feet. The coppery smell of blood now overpowered the fog.
'Well... there's a first time for everything,' "Should've stuck to collecting taxes."
Lutz stood for a moment, his chest heaving, each breath a sharp reminder of the kick to his ribs. The cut on his back burned like a brand. He looked down at the two bodies at his feet. One lay still in a rapidly expanding pool of dark blood, the other was the knifeman, his head at an unnatural angle, eyes staring blankly at the weeping sky.
The initial, frantic energy of the fight drained away, leaving a cold, hollowed-out feeling in its wake. He was a Beyonder now, but he was also a practical man standing in a alley with two corpses and a need to not be connected to them.
'Well, let's see if the commission was worth the hassle'
He moved first to the leader of the group, the one with the newly shattered nose who had fled. The man had dropped his wicked shiv. Lutz picked it up, wiped the blood and grime from it on the man's own trouser leg, and pocketed it. A decent enough tool.
Then he knelt beside the first body, the cudgel-wielder. He didn't need to fumble. His hands, those preternaturally agile instruments, went straight to the places that mattered. A worn leather purse tucked inside a hidden seam of the man's vest. A cheap but functional folding knife in another pocket. A single Silver Shield sewn into the lining of his belt—a pathetic emergency fund.
He moved to the second body, the knifeman. The process was the same. His fingers found a small pouch of coarse tobacco, a few copper Pfenninge, and, tucked into a boot, a thin, silver ring. It was tarnished and cheap, but his sense confirmed its value as more than sentimental.
He stood up, the meager haul collected. He counted it quickly: a handful of coppers, two Silver Shields, the ring, the two knives. It was pitiful. The total value of two lives. He stuffed it all into his own pockets, the coins clinking softly against the stolen pouch from the leatherworker earlier.
Then, with the same cold practicality, he began to drag the bodies. He didn't have the time or means to dispose of them properly, but he could at least make them someone else's problem. He hauled them one by into a deep, shadowed recess off the main alley, piling them behind a reeking mound of refuse. It wouldn't hide them for long, but it would buy time. The fog and the general indifference of this part of the city would do the rest. The Watch rarely patrolled here with any diligence.
Satisfied, he took one last look around, his enhanced senses scanning for any witnesses, any dropped clues. Finding nothing, he turned and melted back into the fog, his footsteps silent once more.
The walk back to the warehouse was a study in controlled pain. Every breath sent a sharp twinge through his side, and the cut on his back pulled and stung with every movement of his shoulders. The night had given him its test, and he had passed, bloody but unbowed.
He slipped into the warehouse through a little-used side entrance, the familiar smells of rot and industry a perverse comfort. He moved like a ghost through the sleeping forms, his passage unnoticed. In the relative privacy of the washroom, he cleaned his wound as best he could, hissing as the cold water hit the raw flesh. It was deep, but not crippling. He bandaged it tightly with strips torn from an old shirt, the act methodical and precise.
Finally, he reached his bunk. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only a deep, weary ache in his bones and his spirit. He stashed his newly acquired loot with the rest of his hidden treasures, the small pile of coins and trinkets a growing testament to his new nature.
He lay down, the rough canvas of his mattress a welcome anchor. He closed his eyes, and the faces of the dead men did not haunt him. Instead, his mind, sharp and cold, began its calculations. The fight had been a data point. He knew his limits better now.
Net profit for the evening, he thought drowsily, two lives, a few coins, and a lesson. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the ledger of his vengeance updated once more.