The silence in the alley was no longer just an absence of sound; it was a physical presence, thick and heavy, woven from the lingering stench of blood, the ozone-tainted residue of the ritual, and the stark finality of two lives abruptly ended. For a long moment, the only sounds were Rudel's wet, ragged breathing and the frantic thumping of Lutz's own heart, a drumbeat of survival slowly beginning to steady.
Movement. They had to move.
Lutz pushed himself off Jhin's corpse, his hands slipping on the bloody hilts of his knives as he pulled them free. The sound was nauseating. He didn't look at the ruined face. He wiped the blades clean on the dead man's dark tunic with mechanical efficiency, his mind already compartmentalizing the horror. The knives were tools. They needed to be clean and functional.
"Rudel. Can you stand?" Lutz's voice was hoarse, stripped of any emotion.
The big enforcer groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He was a horrific sight. Cuts crisscrossed his arms and torso, some deep enough to show glints of bone. His face was a swollen, bloody mask. But the fire of life still burned stubbornly in his eyes, a testament to the tenacious vitality of the Warrior pathway.
"Bastard was… like trying to hold onto smoke," Rudel grunted, his voice a painful rasp. He tried to stand, his legs buckling. Lutz moved quickly, sliding a shoulder under Rudel's arm and hauling him upright. The enforcer was immensely heavy, his weight a fresh agony on Lutz's wounded thigh.
"We need to get you back. Karl needs to know." Lutz's words were practical, but his mind was already racing ahead. Karl can't see this. Not all of it.
He half-dragged, half-carried Rudel towards the mouth of the alley where his greatcoat lay in a heap. He helped the big man into it, the dark, heavy wool swallowing Rudel's massive frame. It wouldn't hide the blood soaking his trousers or the bruises on his face, but it would conceal the worst of the wounds from any casual observer on the journey back.
"Go. Straight to Karl. Don't talk to anyone else," Lutz instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Tell him there was bey… tell him we were ambushed by professionals. I'll handle the cleanup here."
Rudel, too battered and drained to question the order, just gave a curt, pained nod. Leaning heavily against the wall, he began a slow, shambling trek out of the alley, a wounded bear retreating to its den.
The moment Rudel turned the corner, the atmosphere in the alley shifted again. Lutz was alone. Alone with two corpses and a thousand questions. The analytical part of his mind, the part that had been suppressed during the desperate fight, now reasserted itself with cold, sharp clarity.
He turned and surveyed the scene, his Marauder's eyes seeing not just carnage, but a puzzle.
Two of them. A team. Coordinated. The beautiful one was the blade—insanely fast, precise, his attacks meant to finish and disorient. The older one was the architect—the ritual, the curses, the whispered prayers that felt like a violation of reality itself. They weren't just random thugs or rival gang members. This was a level of planning and power that spoke of a much larger, more dangerous player.
Who sent you?
'Vance? No, wait, could it've been Hass's doing? Is this his retaliation?'
The answer, he knew, was on their bodies.
He started with Jhin, his movements swift and efficient, his Agile Hands making the gruesome task unnervingly deft. He went through the pockets of the fine, dark clothing. He found a small leather purse containing a handful of Gold Hammers and Silver Shields—further proof this was no petty operation. There were no identification papers, no letters, nothing to tie him to a name or a master. But tucked into an inner sheath was the stiletto itself. Lutz picked it up. The blade was that same smoky grey, cold and unnaturally light, it was beautiful. It felt wrong in his hand, a tool designed for a single, murderous purpose. It was valuable, though. A trophy, and a potential weapon. He set it aside.
Then, his fingers brushed against a small, hard object sewn into the lining of Jhin's waistcoat. He slit the thread with the tip of his knife and pulled out a single, unmarked key. It was heavy, made of good brass, the kind that might open a sturdy door or a strongbox. Their residence. The thought was a spark in the darkness. A place where answers might be waiting.
He moved to Taric. The Listener's body was colder, the aura of wrongness still clinging to it like a shroud. His search yielded a similar purse of coin, but also a small, waxed canvas pouch. Inside, Lutz found components that made his skin crawl: several small bundles of herbs that smelled of grave dirt and bitterness, a tiny bone whistle that felt icy to the touch, a few vials of dark powder, and three more of the crimson metal charms, each inscribed with the same jagged, spiraling patterns. Ritual components. The tools of his trade. Lutz took it all. Knowledge was power, and this was a dark knowledge he might need to understand, or even use, one day.
As he stood over the two bodies, his pockets now heavy with loot, his mind made another connection, leaping across the recent, bloody past. Boris. The Gray Sharks leader who had grown stronger with his wounds. After Rudel had crushed his spine, Karl had calmly knelt and retrieved a small, glowing crystal from the corpse. A Beyonder characteristic.
His breath caught. If these two were Beyonders of significant power…
He looked at Taric first. The ritualist. The one whose power seemed rooted in sacrifice and listening to blasphemous secrets. He stared at the deep wound in the man's thigh, the one from his fighting knife. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if coagulating from the very blood itself, a substance began to seep out. It was not blood. It was a thick, viscous blob of deep, arterial red, the color of a heart plucked fresh from a chest. It pulsed with a faint, inner light, and as it fully emerged, it held its shape, a gelatinous sphere that seemed to absorb the light around it, humming with a low, mournful frequency. It felt like concentrated sorrow and whispered heresy. The characteristic of a Sequence 8 Listener.
A wave of revulsion washed over him, but it was quickly followed by a fierce, possessive hunger. This was not just loot; it was the essence of a Beyonder. Incredibly valuable. Incredibly dangerous. Karl would demand it. The Baron would claim it.
No.
The thought was immediate and absolute. This was his. He had killed for it. He had earned it. He was a Marauder. This was the ultimate acquisition.
He carefully, using a scrap of cloth from Taric's own coat, picked up the red blob. It was cool and strangely dry to the touch. He wrapped it tightly and stashed it in his most secure inner pocket.
Then, with a sense of grim anticipation, he turned to Jhin. The Instigator. The man whose beauty had been his weapon. He forced himself to look at the ruined face, at the bloody pits where his eyes had been. He waited, his own breath held.
It started as a glimmer, a shimmer of light on blood. Then, from the gruesome wounds, something began to crystallize. It was not a blob, but a formed object. A perfect, miniature rose, carved from a crystal so clear and pale it was almost white, but shot through with delicate veins of the most beautiful, captivating pink. It was exquisite, a tiny masterpiece that held a terrifying allure. It seemed to promise secrets, to whisper of perfect lies and deadly charm. The characteristic of an Instigator.
Lutz stared at it, mesmerized despite himself. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and it had been born from an act of utter brutality. The contradiction was dizzying. He snatched it up, the crystal feeling strangely warm against his skin. It too was wrapped and hidden, a secret treasure more valuable than all the coins.
He stood up, his body aching, his mind reeling. The alley was just an alley again, a place of garbage and shadow. But he was leaving it transformed. He had not just survived an assassination attempt; he had plundered its architects. He had coins, a weapon, ritual components, a key to a potential trove of secrets, and two Beyonder characteristics that represented power he could barely comprehend.
He took one last look at the scene, ensuring he had all his throwing knives retrieved. Then, he melted into the gathering dusk, a shadow carrying the seeds of future storms. He was Lutz Fischer, Sequence 9 Marauder, and he had just stolen his way onto a much larger and more deadly playing field. The key in his pocket felt like a promise. There would be more to take.
The warehouse felt different upon his return. It was no longer just a base of operations; it was a sanctuary he was about to pollute with a lie. The usual cacophony was subdued, replaced by a focused, grim energy emanating from a corner near Karl's office. As Lutz slipped through the main entrance, he saw the source: Rudel was laid out on a makeshift pallet, his massive body a canvas of brutalized flesh. Henrik and another man were working over him, stitching the deepest wounds and applying pungent salves. Rudel was unconscious, his breathing a shallow, rattling thing. He had barely made it.
Karl stood over the scene, his back to Lutz, but he knew he was there. The Baron's Spark didn't turn, but his voice cut through the low murmurs. "Fischer. Report."
Lutz approached, letting a calculated weariness seep into his posture. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze on Rudel's broken form. "An ambush. At the Weiss place."
Karl finally turned. His coal-like eyes, usually banked, were glowing embers of intensity. They swept over Lutz, noting the blood-soaked leg of his trousers, the grime, the subtle tremors of adrenaline exhaustion he wasn't entirely faking. "Details."
Lutz took a breath, weaving his fiction with threads of truth. "It was a setup. The merchant was a diversion. As we were dealing with him, a group of kids started throwing rocks. A distraction. When we gave chase, five men were waiting in the alley. Professionals." He met Karl's gaze, his own gray-blue eyes hard with the memory of the fight, if not the exact details. "They were fast. Well-armed. Knew what they were doing. They separated us, surrounded Rudel. They had knives, short swords. It was a coordinated takedown."
He paused, letting the image of a brutal, conventional gangland ambush settle in Karl's mind. "They weren't Beyonders," he stated, the lie delivered with flat certainty. "Just very, very good. They focused on Rudel, used his strength against him, wore him down with cuts. I managed to pick off two from the flanks with thrown knives, broke their formation. The other three pulled back when they saw their buddies fall. They vanished into the alleys."
He gestured to his thigh. "I got this when one of them got lucky. Rudel… he took the brunt of it. He held them off long enough for me to thin their numbers. If he wasn't… what he is… we'd both be dead in that alley."
Karl was silent for a long moment, his piercing gaze locked on Lutz. The pressure in the air intensified. Lutz could feel the man's intellect probing his story, looking for cracks, for inconsistencies. He knew Karl could sense he was holding something back. The question was whether he would press.
Lutz held his breath internally, but kept his exterior calm. Theft and deception were his nature now. He was stealing the truth, and he had to be convincing.
Finally, Karl gave a slow, single nod. "The Gray Sharks are gone. This is new. Someone is testing our boundaries." He accepted the premise of a rival gang making a move, a narrative far more comfortable and understandable than the truth of esoteric assassins with unknown masters. "You did well to get him back. And to survive." His eyes narrowed slightly. "The bodies?"
"Left them," Lutz said, the lie coming easier now. "The Watch would have been all over it. Didn't want to lead trouble back here." It was a pragmatic, Viper-like response. Karl would appreciate it.
Another pause, then a final grunt of acknowledgment. The immediate danger had passed. The story was bought. "Get that leg seen to. Then rest. You've earned it."
The dismissal was a physical release of tension. Lutz nodded and turned away, moving towards the wash area. As he cleaned his wound, the cold water a shocking clarity on his skin, and re-bandaged it with practiced efficiency, his mind was already far away from the warehouse, from Karl, from Rudel's suffering.
Back in his bunk, the coarse blanket rough against his skin, he lay in the semi-darkness and let the reality of his situation crash over him. He had two Beyonder characteristics hidden in his clothes. One, a pulsating red blob of sorrow and whispers; the other, a beautiful, treacherous rose-crystal. They were power. They were a death sentence if discovered. They were his.
And he had a key. A brass key to a door that might hold the answers to who Jhin and Taric were, and more importantly, who had sent them. Karbinian Hass's flint-eyed face surfaced in his memory. It had to be him. This was the "permanent pruning" he had ordered.
But what to do with it all?
The characteristics were a problem for the future. They were too hot to sell or use now. They needed to be hidden away, a secret reserve of power for when he was strong enough, desperate enough, to wield them.
The key, though… the key was an opportunity. A target. His Marauder instincts itched at the thought. A residence meant intelligence. It meant more secrets, more resources. Perhaps more characteristics, or formulas, or gold. It was a vault waiting for him to crack it.
Then, like a ghost from the fog, the memory surfaced. The Whispering Market. The mobile bazaar of the strange and supernatural. The old vendor with the wispy beard had said it convened when the fog was thick enough to swallow secrets. And according to the murmurs he'd overheard, the next convergence was tomorrow night.
A plan, cold and sharp, began to crystallize in his mind.
The market was the place to move the unmovable. He could sound out the value of the characteristics without necessarily selling them. He could find buyers for the ritual components, or perhaps find a use for them himself. The stiletto, the charms, the powders—they were currency in that realm.
And the key… the key was a project. After the market. After he had gauged the landscape and fortified his position.
He closed his eyes, the phantom scent of ozone and blood mixing with the mundane smells of the warehouse. He was no longer just a cog in the Vipers' machine, or even just their newest Beyonder. He was a player with his own board, his own pieces. He had stolen his life back from a noose, stolen power from a potion, and now he had stolen the very essence of his would-be killers.
Tomorrow, he would go back to the shadows, to the place where whispers were currency. The world had tried to bury him, and he had responded by digging up its most dangerous treasures. Now, he would see what they were worth.