The thin, greasy broth steamed in the chill morning air, carrying the familiar, unidentifiable scent of the Salt-Weep district's most popular stew. Lutz sat on a wobbly stool at his usual stall, a nameless patch of cobbles where a bent old woman served sustenance to those who couldn't afford questions. He ate mechanically, the warmth of the bowl a transient comfort against the permanent cold that had taken root in his bones.
Sixty-six Hammers.
The number glowed in his mind, a hard, comforting weight. A small fortune, earned in three nights of calculated, professional risk. He had gone back to the amount he had before entering that wretched market, but for now, it was sufficient, of course, he also had the ledger wich alone could yield double than that, in the best case scenario.
As he scooped up a piece of dubious meat, his mind, sharpened and restless, turned inward. He replayed the previous nights not with pride, but with a craftsman's dispassionate analysis. The scaling of walls, the feeling of locks yielding to his touch, the cold certainty of knowing where treasure lay hidden. It was all… effortless. And that was the problem.
Every single act, from the grand heist of the shipwright's gold to the moment he'd palmed an apple from a vendor's cart yesterday just to see if he could, had been accompanied by a sensation. It was faint, like the ghost of a whisper against his soul, a subtle click of something settling into place. It was the feeling of a key turning in a well-oiled lock, of a puzzle piece slotting home. For a fleeting moment during each theft, he didn't feel like Lutz Fischer doing something. He felt like he was the action itself. He was Theft, embodied.
This, he theorized, his scholar's mind latching onto the mystery, must be the "digestion" Roselle's diary had hinted at. This was what it meant to "act," to truly embody the nature of the potion. The Marauder wasn't just a title; it was a mantle, a role to be played so completely that the actor and the part became one.
But the sensation was maddeningly faint. A wisp of smoke where he expected a flame. If this was the path to Sequence 8, it felt like trying to fill the ocean with a thimble. The sheer volume of petty theft required would be astronomical. The process for a Sequence 9 shouldn't be this glacial. He was missing something. A key principle.
Simply stealing, no matter the skill, the value, or the audacity, was not enough. It was the what, but not the how. It was the motion, but not the meaning. The potion wasn't just asking him to take things; it was asking him to become the very concept of appropriation. But how? What was the core of a Marauder?
The question gnawed at him, ruining the taste of the stew. He was approaching this like a student trying to memorize a formula, not an actor learning to breathe life into a role.
Then, it struck him with the force of a physical blow. The answer, or the path to it, had been in his possession for days, and he, in his focused campaign of acquisition, had forgotten to acquire the most important thing: knowledge.
The diary.
The five pages from Roselle, the other transmigrator. The man who had not only navigated this system but had conquered it, becoming an Emperor. He had paid a fortune for those pages, and then, obsessed with the immediate need for capital, had tucked them away like a common ledger.
A cold spike of self-reproach shot through him. This was the oversight of an amateur, a mind still trapped in the mundane. He was thinking like a thief planning a score, not a Beyonder seeking enlightenment.
He shoved the half-finished bowl of stew away, tossing a few copper Pfenninge onto the counter. The old woman grunted, her eyes never leaving her pot. Lutz didn't notice. His entire being was now focused on a single objective.
He stood, his movements sharp with renewed purpose, and turned his back on the stew stall, its mundane concerns suddenly a world away. His feet, almost of their own accord, carried him through the winding, filth-strewn streets with a swift, determined pace. The Sixty-six Hammers were a foundation. But the secrets hidden in the flowing, familiar script of modern Chinese were the blueprint.
He needed to get back to the warehouse, to the hiding place where he kept his most valuable secrets.
The warehouse in the Salt-Weep district was a cathedral of shadows and stolen goods, and Lutz moved through it with the familiarity of a parishioner. He ignored the grunted greetings from a pair of Vipers dicing in a corner, his focus absolute. He needed a place of relative privacy, and the bunk room, though not empty, was often the closest thing to it during the day shift.
He found his designated cot, the thin mattress and rough wool blanket as impersonal as the day he'd been assigned to it. Beneath it, tucked into a gap between the frame and the woven rope support, was a waxed canvas packet. To any casual search, it felt like a lump in the bedding. Inside were his most precious assets: the ledger from Barrister Edelmann, his coin, his gear, the ingredients from the "Centipede scientist's" house and the five fragile pages of Roselle's diary inside a medium-sized lead box.
Settling on the edge of the cot with his back to the room, he carefully unfolded the first page. The familiar, looping script of modern Chinese was a jolt to his system, a direct line to a world and a self that felt increasingly like someone else's dream. He began to read, his mind automatically translating the characters.
« Date: 12 January of 1232. »
« It's been a week since I finished digesting my Sequence 8 Archaeologist Potion, and with this I've concluded my theory on the "acting method" that the mysterious Zaratul told me about. God, what a dramatic name. Sounds like a final boss from a cheap RPG. Still, the man knows his stuff, even if he's about as cheerful as a tax auditor. »
Lutz's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. The flippant tone, the anachronistic reference—it was so utterly out of place in this world of grim deities and cosmic horror. It was undeniably the voice of a fellow transmigrator.
« I've been turning it over in my head, and I think I've cracked the core of it. When performing the acting method, it is not enough to simply "act" according to the sequence name in secluded frames of time. That's what I was doing at first—playing "Explorer" for a few hours on a weekend trip, then going back to being a normal guy. The digestion was slower than a dial-up connection! »
« No, the correct way to carry it out, is to develop "Acting Principles." These aren't just habits; they are rules, core tenets that encompass the entire concept of the sequence. We need to develop these principles ourselves from our own experience, and then, embody them not only in body but also in mind. One has to believe them and act accordingly at all times. It's not a part-time job; it's a full-time identity. »
Lutz's breath caught. Acting Principles. The words resonated with the problem he'd just been wrestling with over his stew. It wasn't about the individual acts of theft, but the underlying philosophy that governed them.
« For me, as an Archaeologist, my principles are something like: "Uncover all secrets," "Preserve discovered knowledge," and "Never take history at face value." I live by these now. I question everything, I dig deeper literally and metaphorically, and I feel the potion settling inside me like I've finally found the right key. It's becoming a part of my instincts. »
« By doing this correctly, I believe a Sequence 9 could digest their potions in 4, 3, or even 2 months! For a Sequence 8, between 4 and 6 months. The lower the sequence, the more fundamental the concept, and the faster it can be internalized if you truly "get it." It's all about alignment. »
Lutz lowered the page, his gray-blue eyes staring into the middle distance without seeing the grimy warehouse wall. Principles. Rules that encompass the concept. It made a terrifying, logical sense. A Marauder wasn't defined by successfully picking a lock; they were defined by the why. What was the core, unshakeable belief that drove a thief?
His mind raced, trying to formulate what such a principle might be. "Take what is not offered?" Too simplistic. "All things are potential acquisitions?" Closer, but still too passive. It needed an edge, a philosophy that would seep into every facet of his being.
Lutz, his curiosity now fully ignited, carefully set the first page aside and unfolded the next two. The dates were close together, a continuation of thought.
« Date: 24 February. »
« Well, the world just got a whole lot more interesting. And a whole lot more like a bloody convoluted crafting game. Its been 3 days since I've advanced to Sequence 7: Appraiser. The name sounds dreadfully boring, like I should be working in a pawn shop, but the reality is anything but. The core of this sequence isn't just about knowing what something is; it's about the utmost understanding of mystical and sealed artifacts. I can intuitively grasp their best uses, their hidden functions, and most importantly, the ways to suppress or navigate their negative effects. It's like having a built-in user manual for every cursed object I come across. Absolutely invaluable. »
Lutz nodded slowly. That aligned with what he understood of the pathways—each sequence built upon the last, adding layers of sophistication. An Appraiser was the natural evolution of an Archaeologist.
He moved to the next page.
« Date: 25 February. »
« Addendum to yesterday's entry: My experiments with Beyonder characteristics are yielding fascinating results. The theory I'm developing goes like this: »
« When a Beyonder dies losing control, their characteristic merges with the ambient madness and corruption, often manifesting as a Sealed Artifact—an item with powerful abilities but severe, often sentient, side effects. These are the landmines of the mystical world. Handle with extreme prejudice. »
« However, when a Beyonder dies "normally"—killed without losing their sanity—their characteristic can be retrieved relatively pure. Now, here's the interesting part. If you let this characteristic remain un-isolated, just sitting near ordinary objects, it will eventually seek one out. It's drawn to objects that "align" with the nature of the characteristic itself. »
Lutz's mind immediately flashed to the pulsating red blob of Taric's Listener characteristic and the crystallized rose from Jhin the Instigator. He had handed them over to Lorelei with little understanding of the underlying process.
« The characteristic and the object fuse, forming what I'm calling a "Mystical Artifact." These are a step above mere enchanted items. They possess a stable power derived from the Beyonder's pathway, but without the severe, sentient negative effects of a Sealed Artifact. The downside? They're crude. The fusion is natural, not guided. The result isn't as efficient, potent, or elegant as an artifact manufactured by a good Sequence 6 or higher Artisan. It's the difference between a hand-forged masterwork sword and a sharp piece of metal you found stuck in a rock. Both can cut, but one is decidedly better. »
« I'm currently observing a "Sailor" pathway characteristic I... acquired... sitting near a ship's wheel. The alignment is obvious. I expect a storm-creating wheel or some such nonsense in a few days. Will report back. The potential here is massive—for arming my followers, if nothing else. »
Lutz lowered the pages, the information settling in his mind with profound clarity. So that was what Lorelei was doing for him. Her partner isn't just a blacksmith; he's facilitating this exact fusion process.
This was no longer abstract theory; this was the direct explanation of the power he was waiting for. The pieces of the mystical world were snapping into place, and for the first time, he felt he wasn't just stumbling in the dark, but reading the map.
Lutz smoothed the final page, expecting more world-shattering revelations or at least further elaboration on the creation of mystical artifacts. Instead, Roselle's script, while still elegant, took a sharp turn into the mundane and profoundly personal.
« 15 June.»
« Court is insufferable. Another day, another dozen nobles trying to curry favor by offering me their daughters like I'm collecting rare porcelain. Lady Beatrice today actually tried to impress me by reciting a poem about the 'sparkling majesty of my industrial vision.' It was about a steam engine. I nearly laughed in her face. Still, she has remarkable eyes, like deep amber... might have to explore that further. It's a damn shame they all look at me like I'm a god-king and not a man who remembers what a hamburger tastes like. Sometimes I wonder if any of them would still be batting their eyelashes if they knew I used to debug code for a living. Probably not. »
The entry continued in a similar vein for the rest of the page, detailing a petty rivalry with a duke, a new vintage of wine he'd enjoyed, and a particularly elaborate design for a new court gown he'd sketched for one of his favorites. It was the rambling, self-indulgent musings of a man who was bored, powerful, and utterly isolated in his unique experience, the next and last page was the same. He had read all 6 pages.
Lutz stared, a complex and utterly foreign emotion bubbling up within him. He felt his shoulders shake slightly, and a short, sharp sound escaped his lips—not quite a laugh, not quite a cough. It was a burst of pure, bewildered amusement.
He's just a man, Lutz thought, the realization striking him with bizarre force. A man dropped into a position of ultimate power, but still a man. He worried about flirtations and bad poetry and missed simple food from a world lost to him. After the dense, perilous knowledge of the previous pages, this was so jarringly… human.
For a fleeting second, the image of the legendary Emperor Roselle, the innovator, the transmigrator, was replaced by the image of a frustrated guy stuck in the most extravagant office job in history, complaining about his coworkers and trying to get a date. The sheer, absurd normalcy of it, juxtaposed with the cosmic horror of the Beyonder world, was hilarious in a way that was probably slightly hysterical.
He pictured this legendary figure, this "final boss" from a cheap RPG as Roselle himself had put it, sitting on a golden throne and secretly sketching dress designs. The mental image was so potent it almost made him laugh aloud again.
But the feeling was short-lived. The warmth of the shared joke curdled almost instantly into something colder, something sharper. The bitterness of contrast.
Roselle missed hamburgers. Lutz missed a world where he wasn't covered in the psychic filth of murder and complicity in torture. Roselle flirted with ladies of the court; Lutz had to manipulate a Church investigator just to stay one step ahead of a noose. Roselle had the luxury of boredom; Lutz's every waking moment was dedicated to the arithmetic of survival.
The amusement faded, leaving behind the familiar, acidic taste of his reality. He carefully gathered all the diary pages, their priceless secrets now feeling both heavier and lighter than before. He had gained invaluable insights into the Acting Method and the nature of artifacts, but he had also been given a glimpse into a reflection that was too distorted to offer any comfort. They were both transmigrators, but their paths could not have been more different.
One built empires and missed fast food. The other buried corpses in unmarked graves and missed his soul.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he burned them with a matchstick. The ghost of a smile still played on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was time to get back to work.