Lutz moved with the current of cloaked figures, his senses assailed by a hundred impossible things. The hum of his Thief's nose was a constant, discordant choir in his mind, each stall a new verse of temptation and danger. He saw a cage made of woven moonlight containing a creature of pure shadow; he passed a booth where a vendor with too many fingers offered to "adjust" a patron's memories for the price of a cherished childhood fear. This was the true underbelly of the world, a place where the rules of reality were merely suggestions.
He needed to liquidate the more mundane parts of his haul, the components that screamed of Taric's dark practices. His eyes scanned the stalls, looking for a place that dealt in the physical, the tangible ingredients of the arcane. He found it nestled in a natural alcove, looking like an apothecary's shop that had been drowned and resurrected. The stall was a massive, water-warped table covered in a startlingly clean white cloth, upon which sat rows of meticulously labeled vials, jars of desiccated herbs, and bundles of strange roots. The vendor was an old man with a kind, wrinkled face and eyes the color of a calm sea, a stark contrast to the grotesquery surrounding him.
Lutz approached, the satchel feeling heavy with its contents. The old man looked up, his smile gentle. "Seeking remedies, young man? Or components for illumination?" His voice was soft, like the rustle of dry leaves.
"Neither. I'm looking to sell," Lutz replied, his voice low. He set his satchel on the edge of the table and began to carefully lay out Taric's materials: the vials of dark, granular powder that smelled of grave dirt, the small bundles of bitter-smelling herbs tied with black string, the bone whistle that radiated a psychic chill.
The old man's gentle smile didn't vanish, but it grew still. His eyes, once calm, now focused with a sharp, clinical intensity. He picked up a vial of the black powder, uncorked it, and gave a cautious sniff. His nostrils flared. He set it down and picked up the herbs, crushing a leaf between his thumb and forefinger, his expression grim.
"Nightshade" he murmured, more to himself than to Lutz. "Vervain harvested during a blood moon... and this," he said, touching the bone whistle without picking it up, "is carved from the rib of a first-born son, stillborn." He looked up at Lutz, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine alarm showed in his sea-colored eyes. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Son, these are not for simple potions. These are for... calling things. For binding and for blighting. The kind of work that draws the gaze of... unpleasant entities."
Lutz saw the panic in the man's gaze, the fear of being associated with such dark arts. He needed to close this deal without drawing more attention. He met the old man's eyes, his own gaze flat and hard.
"They're not mine," Lutz stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "I got them from a... pest extermination. Two particularly nasty vermin who won't be needing them anymore. I'm just looking to recoup some of the expense."
The words hung in the air between them. Pest extermination. In the language of the market, it was a clear, violent statement. It said he was not a practitioner, but a cleaner. A dangerous one.
The old man stared at him for a long moment, the fear in his eyes slowly being replaced by a calculating understanding. He was no longer looking at a potential dark lunatic, but at a professional who had dealt with a problem. The risk was lower. The merchandise, however tainted, was now just merchandise.
"I see," the old man said, his voice regaining some of its softness, though it was now edged with wariness. "A necessary, if distasteful, service." He began examining the items again, this time with a merchant's eye. "The purity is high. The provenance, while... dramatic, adds a certain potency. For the lot... I can offer fifteen Hammers."
It was a good price, far more than the materials were likely worth in a mundane sense, but a pittance compared to the risk he'd taken to acquire them. Lutz gave a single, sharp nod. "Done."
The old man counted out the heavy gold coins. As he did, Lutz's eyes scanned the man's wares again. His gaze fell on two books set to the side, away from the ingredients. One was a thick, leather-bound tome titled "The Verdant Codex: A Compendium of Esoteric Flora." The other was slimmer, its cover stamped with a geometric design of interlocking flasks and beakers: "Principles of Mystical Alchemy." Both 5 Hammers each.
Knowledge. Practical, foundational knowledge. It was what he desperately lacked. The books were a map to the language of this world's hidden laws.
"Before you seal the deal," Lutz said, sliding ten of the newly acquired Hammers back across the table. "I'll take those two books as well."
The old man looked surprised, then pleased. He was, at his core, a scholar. "A wise investment, young man. Understanding the components is the first step to mastering their use... or avoiding their pitfalls." He handed over the books, which Lutz carefully stowed in his satchel, the weight of them feeling more valuable than the remaining five coins.
With the taint of the Listener's craft converted into coin and knowledge, Lutz felt cleaner, more in control. He moved deeper into the cavern, the pull of his primary objective growing stronger. And then he saw him. The same wizened old man with the wispy beard, perched on a stool behind a table of curios, the very same page from Roselle's diary facing up, the elegant Chinese script a beacon of impossible familiarity.
Lutz didn't bother with pleasantries. He strode up to the stall, his focus absolute. "The pages. The ones in this script. How many do you have, and what is your price?"
The old vendor peered at him, recognition dawning in his milky eyes. "The curious young scholar returns. Your interest in the unreadable remains, I see." He reached under the table and produced a small, lacquered box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, were five more pages of the same thick paper, covered in the same flowing script. "There are six in total, including the one you see. A complete set, for now."
Lutz's heart beat faster. Six pages. Six more pieces of the puzzle, six more fragments of a voice from another world, his world. He had to have them.
"The price," Lutz repeated, his voice tight.
The old man studied him, sensing his desperate hunger. "For such a unique collection of mysteries... thirty Hammers."
It was a brutal price. It would nearly wipe out the funds he had just acquired, plus a significant chunk of his own savings. But this wasn't a mere curiosity; it was a lifeline. It was context, history, and potentially, the very secrets of the Acting Method from the man who might have perfected it.
"Twenty," Lutz countered, the haggling instinct of the streets surfacing through his desire.
The old man chuckled. "Twenty-five. And I will include the lead box, it has isolating properties.
"Done." Lutz didn't hesitate. He counted out twenty-five Gold Hammers, the coins disappearing into the old man's gnarled hands with a soft clink. He carefully placed the pages back into the lacquered lead box, closed the lid, and stowed it securely in his satchel, next to the books. It was the most expensive weight he had ever carried.
Leaving the stall, he felt a profound shift. He was no longer just a scavenger in the market; he was an archivist of the impossible. He continued his journey, the bizarre wonders of the market now just a blur. He passed a man selling bottled emotions, a cage full of shifting, chromatic light that was labeled "A captured prismatic nightmare."
And then he saw it. A simple, wooden post driven into the cavern floor. Hanging from it was a small, neatly painted shingle:
Artisan Services
Discreet. Specialized. No Questions Asked.
Beneath the shingle stood a young woman. She couldn't have been older than him. Her hair was a practical, dark braid, and she wore sturdy, stained leather trousers and a simple tunic, a far cry from the shrouded and grotesque figures around her. She wasn't vending strange creatures or cursed secrets. She had a small anvil and a set of fine, well-cared-for tools laid out on a workbench. She was sharpening a delicate, silver probe, her movements economical and precise. Her eyes, when she glanced up as he stopped, were a startling, clear gray, and held a sharp, intelligent curiosity that was utterly devoid of the feverish greed or lurking madness that infected the rest of the market.
She was an island of stark, practical sanity in a sea of chaos. He stood at the edge of her small, well-ordered space, the cacophony of the market fading into a distant hum, his decision made.
The young woman was an anomaly. In a cavern of shrouded horrors and gnarled mystics, she was a study in clean lines and quiet competence. As Lutz's gaze settled on her, a strange, unfamiliar thought intruded upon his normally calculating mind: She's… cute. It wasn't a conscious assessment of her utility or a calculation of her threat. It was a simple, stark observation that felt disconnected from the grim reality of his existence. In the grimy, blood-soaked world of Indaw Harbor, amidst the despair of the Salt-Weep and the predatory cunning of the Vipers, she was the first thing he had seen that could be described as genuinely, unassumingly beautiful. Her features were sharp but not severe, her gray eyes clear and focused, and there was an air of unshakeable practicality about her that was more alluring than any mystical aura.
Shaking off the uncharacteristic thought, he approached. The chaotic whispers of the market seemed to recede around her small, well-ordered workspace.
"What kind of 'artisan services'?" Lutz asked, his voice a low murmur, his hood still shadowing his face.
She looked up from her work, setting the silver probe down with a precise click. Her gaze was direct, appraising him without fear or avarice. "My partner," she said, her voice calm and even, "has a particular talent. He can take… essences. The condensed nature of things. And he can give them shape, form, and use. You provide the materials and a labor fee, he forges them into something you can actually hold, something with a defined purpose."
Lutz's mind, ever the sharpened tool, immediately bypassed the vague terminology and went straight to the core. Essences. Condensed nature. She was talking about Beyonder characteristics. This wasn't just a blacksmith or a jeweler; this was an alchemist of the soul, a refiner of power itself.
His thoughts raced. He had 33 Hammers remaining, a huge sum by any standard, but money was a tool, not a weapon. What he needed was power—tangible, usable power he could wield. The red blob and the rose crystal were useless to him as they were. They were radioactive, dangerous secrets burning a hole in his pocket. He couldn't sell them without attracting the kind of attention that would end with him in an unmarked grave.
But an object… a tool he could use…
He thought of Taric, the Listener. The man had heard their approach, had woven a ritual that sapped Rudel's strength, had prayed to things that should not be heard. His power was one of knowledge, of perception, of influencing the unseen world. Could an object forged from his essence grant a fraction of that? The ability to hear, to sense danger, to understand a hidden ritual?
Then he thought of Jhin, the Instigator. The impossible speed, the preternatural grace, the way he could focus his entire being into a single, perfect, lethal strike. A weapon imbued with that essence… it wouldn't just be a knife. It would be the concept of assassination given form.
He needed to know more. "These objects," Lutz began, choosing his words with the care of a man handling live explosives. "The ones forged from such… essences. Would they carry an echo of the essence's original nature? Its abilities?"
The girl nodded, a faint, knowing smile touching her soft lips. "Mostly. The core concept imprints itself upon the item. But the process isn't perfect. It's a translation, not a copy. And when you translate power from one form to another…" She leaned forward slightly, her gray eyes locking with his. "...'disadvantages' will definitely appear. Negative effects. A price for the power. Sometimes minor, sometimes significant. It's the inherent balance."
Of course. There was always a cost. A Marauder understood that better than anyone. But a known cost was better than the unknown danger of carrying raw characteristics.
"And the form? Can the power be bound to specific objects? A ring? A blade?" He gestured to the items he had brought for this very possibility.
"That's the 'artisan' part," she said. "The medium matters. A ring is good for passive, constant effects. A blade… well, a blade wants to be used. It shapes the power towards a purpose."
His decision was made. It was a colossal gamble, trusting a stranger in this den of thieves with the two most valuable things he had ever owned. But the potential reward was worth the risk. Inactivity was a greater danger.
He reached into his satchel and placed Jhin's stiletto on her workbench. The smoky grey steel seemed inert now, a dead thing. Then, he pulled out a simple, unadorned silver ring he had taken from one of the thugs in the alley, a piece of loot he had deemed potentially useful. Finally, with a final, internal sigh of relinquishment, he brought out the two carefully wrapped packages.
He unwrapped them slowly. The red blob pulsed with a mournful light, a captured sob of heresy. The rose crystal glittered, its beauty a cold, cruel lie. The air around the workbench grew heavy.
"I want the red one applied to the ring," Lutz stated, his voice flat. "And the crystal applied to the stiletto."
The girl's eyes widened a fraction as she looked at the characteristics. This was not low-level dross. She looked from the characteristics to Lutz with a new, deep level of assessment. This was not a novice. This was someone who had killed powerful Beyonders and lived to tell the tale.
"A costly endeavor. The labor fee for work of this refinement… thirty Hammers."
It was a king's ransom. It would wipe out almost all the money he had just acquired from selling Taric's components and a significant portion of his own savings, leaving him with a paltry three Hammers to his name. He was betting everything on this. His escape fund, his safety net, all converted into power.
"And how do I know you won't just take these and vanish?" Lutz asked, the essential question hanging between them.
The girl didn't look offended. She gestured vaguely to the cavern around them. "Ask around the Whispering Market. My name is Lorelei. Mine and my partner's reputation is our currency. We've been here for years. Discretion and reliability are the only reasons we're allowed to operate. You can trust our work, or you can walk away."
He watched her, his Marauder instincts reading her posture, her tone, the steady certainty in her gray eyes. There was no deception there, only the quiet confidence of a master craftsman. In a world of lies, her honesty was the most valuable commodity he had encountered.
He made his choice.
Without another word, he counted out thirty Gold Hammers, the coins forming a small, gleaming pyramid on her workbench. Then he pushed the two characteristics, the stiletto, and the ring toward her.
"A pleasure doing business, they should be ready by the next convergence of the market" Lorelei said, a genuine, warm smile finally breaking through her professional demeanor. She gathered the items with reverent care. Then she looked up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and winked. "Pretty boy."
The words, the gesture, the sheer normalcy of it in this place of nightmares, struck him like a physical blow. A hot flush crept up his neck, burning his cheeks. He, who had coolly lied to Karl, murdered assassins, and looted corpses, was utterly disarmed by a mere two words. He stiffened, his mind going blank for a crucial second.
Muttering something unintelligible, he turned on his heel, the satchel suddenly feeling empty and light. He stormed away from her stall, not running, but walking with a stiff, hurried gait that betrayed his flustered state. He could feel her amused gaze on his back until he was swallowed by the crowd.
He didn't stop until he had retraced his steps, descended the submerged staircase, and burst back out into the cold, foggy air of the Indaw night. He leaned against the slimy piling of the broken wharf, sucking in deep, ragged breaths of the real world. The image of her wink echoed in his mind, a bizarre, haunting melody amidst the symphony of violence and intrigue that was his life.
The embarrassment slowly faded, replaced by the cold, hard numbers of his situation. He was left with three Hammers. A pittance. He had just liquidated a small fortune and his two most dangerous treasures into a promise. A promise of power, yes, but a future debt he now had to work furiously to repay.
He had no choice now. The path of cautious accumulation was closed. He was all in. He had to get to work. He needed jobs from Karl, he needed to find more scores, he needed to leverage his new status and his soon-to-arrive artifacts to climb higher, faster. The stakes were no longer about survival or revenge against the Baron. They were about being strong enough to wield the power he had just commissioned, and rich enough to never be caught so desperately short again.
Pushing off from the piling, Lutz Fischer melted back into the fog, a young man with three coins in his pocket and the weight of a coming storm on his shoulders. The Butcher of Indaw Harbor was gone, replaced by a different kind of predator—one who had just bet his entire future on the edge of a knife and the band of a ring.