The lead box sat on the small table in his room, a silent, weighty promise. Dawn had broken, but Lutz had no interest in the world outside his four walls. Today was for understanding. Today was for turning the artifacts that had cost him so much from abstract concepts of power into extensions of his own will. He had named them in the quiet of his mind, a way to claim ownership, to strip them of the identities of their previous owners. The stiletto was Creed, a testament to the assassins, absolute belief required for its killing strike. The ring was Umbra, for the shadows it would allow him to perceive and the whispers that dwelled within them.
He started with Creed.
He left Umbra in the lead box, not wanting any spiritual interference to cloud his assessment of the physical. He picked up the rose-tinted stiletto. The hilt was cool against his palm, the balance perfect. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, he felt it—a subtle warmth spreading from the weapon up his arm, a low hum of energy that seeped into his muscles. His enhanced senses, already sharp, gained a new, crystalline clarity. The dust motes dancing in a sunbeam seemed to hang in the air. The faint grain of the wooden floorboards became a detailed map. It was a comprehensive boost, layering over his existing abilities, making him more of what he already was: faster, stronger, more acutely aware.
But the cost came swiftly. The first negative effect manifested not as a physical sensation, but as a shift in his mental landscape. The "amplification of passionate desires" was insidious. He remembered the practical beauty of Lorelei's intelligent gray eyes, the way she had looked at him, and a wave of raw, unwelcome lust coiled in his gut. It was annoying, a constant, low-level static of primal emotion interfering with his calculated calm. He could manage it—his will, hardened by trauma and vengeance, was a formidable dam—but it required active effort. It was like holding a conversation while someone shouted provocations in his ear.
He practiced basic drills, moving through the forms Gerhart had beaten into him. His strikes were faster, his footwork more precise. He felt a newfound confidence. If he had faced Jhin like this, with this fluid strength humming in his veins, the fight might not have been so desperate. He might have been able to match the assassin's speed, to parry his blows without relying solely on desperation and misdirection.
After precisely ten minutes, the second physical effect began. He felt a faint, crawling sensation on his scalp and at the tips of his fingers. Looking closely, he could see his fingernails, which he had trimmed just yesterday, had visibly grown, a sliver of pale keratin extending beyond the quick. A lock of his ash-blonde hair fell across his eye, noticeably longer than it had been moments before. It was a bizarre, unsettling feeling, his body betraying its natural rhythms under the artifact's influence. Simultaneously, a sharp, gnawing hunger clenched his stomach, as if he hadn't eaten for days. The fried fish from yesterday was a distant memory.
Now, for the main event. He had wrapped an old timber beam with layers of burlap and cloth he found on the warehouse, creating a crude but serviceable test dummy. He focused, gripping Creed's hilt. The artifact seemed to grow warmer, almost eager. He could feel it drawing on something within him—not just his physical strength, but his intent, his focus, the cold knot of his resolve. He visualized the strike, not as a simple stab, but as a release. A single, conclusive argument.
He thrust forward.
There was no loud sound, no explosive flash. Instead, there was a sensation of profound finality. The reinforced cloth and burlap didn't just tear; they disintegrated around the point of impact. The force transmitted back up his arm was minimal, as if the artifact had consumed all the recoil into the act of destruction itself.
Kill Shot. The name was perfect.
He exhaled, a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Creed felt… dormant. The warmth was gone, the physical boost had vanished. The weapon was just a beautifully crafted piece of metal again. He could feel a faint, residual hum, a promise that its power would return after a short cooldown of around 2 minutes. The hunger, however, remained, a sharp reminder of the metabolic cost.
He set Creed down and, after eating a spare piece of his usual snack, dried sausage, to quiet his stomach, turned his attention to the lead box. It was time to face the whispers.
He opened the box. The scarlet metal of Umbra seemed to pulse in the dim light. Taking a steadying breath, he slipped it onto the ring finger of his right hand.
The effect was immediate and visceral.
It was not a sound that entered his ears, but a pressure that manifested directly inside his skull. A cacophony of whispers, layered over one another, a dozen half-heard conversations in languages he didn't know, punctuated by sighs, sobs, and faint, manic laughter. They had no source, no direction. They were just… there. A psychic infestation. He understood instantly what Lorelei had meant. In a moment of distress, of grief or terror, these voices would be a siren song to madness, offering false comforts or whispering paranoid lies. He felt a spike of anxiety, a primal urge to tear the ring off and fling it away.
Then, he remembered. Cogitation.
He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow. He visualized the simple, geometric shape—a cube—that Karl had taught him. He focused on its lines, its angles, its perfect, silent symmetry. He turned the chaotic energy of the potion, the psychic seepage from the ring, inward, using it to fuel the clarity of the image.
Slowly, the shouting in his mind became a murmur. The voices didn't disappear, but they were pushed to the edges of his consciousness, like the background noise of a distant crowd. He could still hear them, a constant, unsettling presence, but they were no longer overwhelming. It was a leash, and he held the other end. For now.
With the whispers subdued, he could better feel the ring's other abilities. His "sight" expanded. He couldn't see spirits or ghosts, but he gained a new, intuitive layer of perception. The air in his room felt different—thicker in some spots, thinner in others. He could sense a faint, cold residue near the spot where he'd practiced with Creed, a lingering spiritual impression of the violent intent he had channeled. It was a nascent sixth sense, vague and unformed, like seeing the world through a frosted glass. He knew it was there, but he lacked the knowledge to interpret it. To use Umbra for divination or rituals, he would need to study. He needed books, real mystical texts, not just Roselle's fragmented diary. The library didn't have them, he would have to search next time on the whispering market.
Finally, he took a deep breath and picked up Creed with his left hand while focusing on maintaining the Cogitation to keep Umbra's whispers at bay.
He stood there, armed with both. The physical enhancement from Creed returned, a welcome surge of power. The whispers from Umbra persisted, a distant psychic static. The amplified passions from Creed—the latent lust—clashed with the required mental discipline to quiet Umbra. It was a delicate, exhausting balance, like juggling a live wire in one hand and a vial of acid in the other. But they did not synergize in their negativity. Creed attacked his emotional control; Umbra attacked his mental stability. They were two separate fronts in the war for his soul, and by fighting on both simultaneously, he found he could hold the line. For now.
He stood in the center of his room, a blade in one hand that magnified his desires, a ring on the other that invited madness, his mind a fortress under dual siege. He was more powerful than he had ever been. And he had never felt more precariously human.
The tools were his. The path was chosen. The next step was to learn how to walk it without being consumed by the very power that was meant to be his salvation.
With the initial, terrifying testing complete, Lutz's mind, ever analytical, shifted to integration. Power was useless without practicality. He needed a new combat loadout, a system that incorporated Creed and Umbra into the deadly dance of his Marauder abilities.
He laid out his tools on his cot. The rose-tinted Creed seemed to gleam with a hungry light. His two original fighting knives, one slightly nicked and worn from the fight with Rudel, the other still in good condition. He made his decision. The worn knife would be retired as a backup. The good fighting knife would remain, to be used in his left hand for parries, feints, and close-quarters work where Creed' longer blade might be cumbersome. Creed itself would be his primary weapon, wielded in his right hand, the instrument of his "Kill Shot."
This presented a problem. Creed was a stiletto, longer and slimmer than his fighting knives. Henrik's beautifully crafted sheath, perfectly molded for his old blade, would not fit. A pang of fresh loss hit him. Henrik would have known exactly how to fashion a new one, selecting the right leather, stitching it with his precise, box-stitch method. Now, Lutz would have to find a generic leatherworker, someone who wouldn't ask questions, and hope the result was functional, not a work of art. He would keep his bandolier with its six throwing knives; their utility was proven.
Next was his attire. He opened his new wardrobe, assessing his limited but deliberate wardrobe:
The "Shadowsilk": A set of dark, coarse-spun trousers and tunic, dyed a deep, non-reflective black. Over it, the sleeveless, oiled leather jerkin that did not creak. Soft-soled shoes, their seams re-stitched for silence. This was his second skin for infiltration, smelling faintly of soot and shadow.
The "Viper's Hide": Sturdier, dark wool trousers and a reinforced tunic, often worn under light leather armor for collections or expected violence. These clothes could take a beating, hide dirt and blood, and allowed for maximum mobility. They usually carried the scent of sweat, metal, and anticipation.
The "Elias Vogler": A well-tailored pair of grey trousers, a white linen shirt, blue vest and a blue waistcoat. The attire of a disgraced minor noble, used for infiltrating merchant circles. It smelled of faint, cheap lavender soap and false confidence.
The "Henrik Moss": A simple, respectable set of brown trousers and a beige shirt, paired with a brown vest and a practical, dark green coat. The uniform of a scholarly, unassuming translator. It carried the scent of old paper and library dust.
The "Civvies": A single set of unremarkable, off-white trousers and a faded blue cotton shirt. For blending into a crowd, running errands, or simply being nobody. They smelled of the city itself—smoke, humanity, and vague anonymity.
For today's task—a public errand followed by a private, solemn search—he chose the "Henrik Moss" set. The beige shirt, brown trousers and vest, dark green coat were inconspicuous and respectable. He belted it, sliding Creed and his remaining good fighting knife into his belt at the small of his back, their outlines effectively hidden by the cut of the coat. The lead box containing Umbra was left securely in his room; the library was no place for a whispering ring.
The gnawing hunger from testing Creed was a urgent demand. He went to a different stall than usual, one that served hearty meat pies, and devoured two, washing them down with a pint of weak ale, it cost him 1 shield and 2 pfennige. While this did not do anything to his total funds of 66 Hammers, the simple act of sating the artifact's metabolic cost felt like the first of many ongoing payments.
He returned to the warehouse. The aftermath of the battle with Rudel was still visible in the patched roof and scarred pillar, but the rhythm of the Vipers had returned to a low, predatory hum. Most were out on various tasks, and the few who remained paid him no mind. The silence, the emptiness, was what he needed.
His feet carried him to Henrik's workshop.
The space felt frozen in time, yet utterly dead. The scent of sawdust and oil remained, but the life that had animated it was gone. The tools were neatly arranged, the whetstone sat beside a half-polished dirk, a project forever unfinished. The silence here was different from the rest of the warehouse; it was a heavy, respectful silence, a shrine to a lost craftsman.
Lutz closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. He could almost hear the old man's voice. "The loose floorboard under the tool chest… my stash…"
He moved to the large, heavy chest where Henrik kept his prized tools and rare materials. It was locked, but that was a formality for a Marauder. His Agile Hands made short work of the simple mechanism. He opened the lid, the familiar scent of linseed oil and metal greeting him. He carefully, reverently, began to remove the tools, setting them on the floor with a care he afforded nothing else. Hammers, chisels, files, each one worn smooth by a lifetime of use.
Soon, the chest was empty, revealing the wooden bottom. He ran his fingers over the planks, his touch hypersensitive. He pressed, he tapped, he listened. Then, near the back, his fingers found it. A slight give, a seam that was almost invisible to the eye. He worked his knife's tip into the hairline crack and pried gently.
A section of the floorboard, about a foot long, lifted away.
Beneath lay Henrik's stash.
It was not the trove of a king, but the carefully hoarded legacy of a practical man. Lutz's hands, so often instruments of theft, now moved with a reverent slowness. The first item was a soft, worn leather pouch. He loosened the drawstring and poured the contents into his palm. The gleam of gold and silver was a comforting sight. He counted meticulously: 24 Hammers and 3 Shields. A considerable sum, a life's worth of small savings hidden from the Vipers' greedy eyes. Combined with his own funds, this brought his total capital to 90 Hammers and 5 Shields, a number that felt like a solid foundation for the first time since his transmigration. It was not just money; it was autonomy.
Next, his fingers brushed against some books. They were not bought from a store, but hand-bound by Henrik, the covers made of salvaged sailcloth and thick parchment. He opened one. The pages were filled not with personal musings, but with dense, precise script and meticulous diagrams. They were journals of a craftsman. One page detailed the grain structure of different woods and how to treat them for weapons or tools. Another showed a dozen different stitches for leather, explaining which to use for a load-bearing belt versus a flexible sheath. There were sections on sharpening angles for various blades, formulas for homemade polishes and lubricants, and even notes on basic metallurgy for repairing weapons.
Lutz's scholar's mind, Andrei's legacy, ignited. This was a language he could understand. A science of practicality. With a few weeks of dedicated study, he could become his own Henrik. He wouldn't need to trust an outsider to make a sheath for Creed; he could craft one himself, perfectly tailored to his grip and draw. He could maintain his own gear, create custom pouches for his tools, and truly own every aspect of his trade. Thank you, old man, he thought, the gratitude a sharp, clean feeling amidst the turmoil. This was a gift more valuable than the gold.
Then, his fingers closed around something cold and metallic. A pendant. It was silver, simple and elegant, on a fine chain. He clicked it open. Inside was a miniature portrait, the colors still vibrant. On one side, a young man with a strong jaw and a full head of hair, a confident, hopeful smile on his face—a Henrik Lutz had never known. On the other, a woman with kind eyes and hair the color of wheat, just as he'd described. Annelise. They looked happy, their future a bright, unopened book.
A lump formed in Lutz's throat. He snapped the pendant shut, the soft click echoing in the silent workshop. The thought of selling it, of this final, tangible piece of their love ending up in a pawnbroker's case, was unthinkable. It was a weight he needed to carry. He put the pendant on. The cold metal rested against his chest, a secret warmth, a reminder of what was at stake beyond revenge and survival. It was an anchor to the man he was trying not to become entirely.
Finally, at the very bottom of the compartment, wrapped in an oilcloth, was the final piece. He unfolded the cloth to reveal a revolver. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, a clear step above the standard-issue weapons of the Vipers. The frame was of a silver-looking metal, likely a nickel alloy, and the grip was of finely checkered dark wood. The cylinder and barrel were accented with polished brass, giving it an almost artistic quality. It was a tool of death, but crafted with a care that spoke of value. It was heavy, solid, and well-maintained. Henrik, the pragmatist, had kept one last, reliable argument for a rainy day.
Lutz carefully rewrapped the revolver. He then placed everything back into the hidden compartment—all except the stash itself. He returned the tools to the chest, closed the lid, and locked it, leaving the workshop as a silent monument.
Back in his room, he stored his new assets with the methodical precision of a curator. The coin pouch joined his own funds. The journals were placed on his shelf, his most valuable textbooks. The revolver, cleaned and loaded, was wrapped and stored at the bottom of his new wardrobe, a hidden trump card. The pendant, however, remained around his neck, hidden beneath his clothes.
He stood for a moment, his hand resting over the cold silver against his skin. He was armed with new knowledge, new funds, a new weapon, and an old memory. The path ahead was darker than ever, but the tools he carried now were not just for breaking. Some of them, thanks to a hardworking man and a good husband, were for mending, for building, for remembering. And that, he knew, might be the most powerful weapon of all.