The only sound in Captain Signeil Krieg's office was the metronomic ticking of the wall-mounted chronometer, a device of such perfect precision that its every swing carved a sliver of absolute order from the chaotic flow of time. Krieg sat at his steel-framed desk, the surface bare save for a single folder. On its plain, grey cover, three words were neatly typed: Indaw Harbor Butcher.
He opened it. Inside were witness statements, coroner's reports, and his own preliminary notes. Three distinct crime scenes, one pattern. The alley were two deceased beyonders were found, one with his eye sockets pummeled. The alley where two thugs were found: one beaten, the other with eyes obliterated. The workshop of Alvar Hemlock, the retired shipwright: ransacked, the man himself stabbed to death with the same, precise ocular mutilation.
A common thug would have used a cudgel. A professional assassin would have used a clean, untraceable method. This was neither. This was a signature. It was messy, personal, and ritualistic. It spoke of a killer who was not just eliminating targets, but delivering a message, or perhaps satisfying a deep, psychological compulsion.
Krieg's sharp green eyes, the color of weathered copper, scanned the details. The witness from the alley—a terrified woman—had spoken of a "shadow with a polite voice." The description was useless for identification, but profoundly useful for profiling. The killer was controlled enough to speak, to offer a chilling civility amidst the brutality. This was not a mindless berserker. This was someone with a narrative in their head.
It was time to look deeper. To look beyond the physical and into the spiritual strata of the events.
He stood and moved to a locked cabinet behind his desk. From it, he retrieved a delicate, personal tool. It was a sphere of the clearest crystal, about the size of a large apple, held in a complex cradle of intricately engraved brass. Fine, gear-like patterns were etched onto the crystal's surface, catching the gaslight in a way that made the sphere seem to contain a faint, internal luminescence. This was not mere detection equipment; it was a Mystical Artifact, corresponding to a Sequence 7 Astrologer.
As a Sequence 7 Appraiser, Signeil was no stranger to these type of items, after all, his sequence was based around the assessment and effective utilization of mystical and sealed artifacts. He placed the orb on the desk, its brass cradle settling without a sound. He did not wave it over the documents. Instead, he laid his palms flat on the desk on either side of it, closed his eyes, and focused his will. The air in the room grew still, the tick of the chronometer seeming to slow.
He had to be brief, the negative effect of the Astrologer's orb, while avoidable, was lethal, asking more than 10 questions in a week would separate the user's astral body and temporarily elevate it to the cosmos, this had a extremely high chance of instant death, as it would set the gazes of all the creatures of the beyond upon one's self.
"Reveal to me the connection between the scenes," he murmured, his voice a low hum that vibrated in harmony with the artifact. "Show me the thread that binds the violence in the alley to the violence in the workshop."
Within the crystal sphere, a faint mist swirled, coalescing from nothingness. It did not show him images, but impressions—a language of symbols and sensations only he could interpret. Two points of darkness bloomed in the mist, representing the kill sites. Between them, a thin, crimson thread formed, not of blood, but of intent. It was the same color, the same psychic texture. The same anger, the same cold, focused purpose. The Astrologer's Orb confirmed his hypothesis: it was the same killer.
Now, for the essence. He needed a sample. He carefully lifted a sealed evidence bag from the folder. Inside was a scrap of cloth from the hem of the shipwright's apron.
"Analyze the spiritual residue upon this sample," Krieg commanded, holding the bag near, but not touching, the orb. "Define the nature of the presence."
The orb's internal mist turned a sickly, phosphorescent green. It swirled aggressively, forming patterns that spoke to Krieg of acquisition, of a hunger that was not for sustenance but for possession. It was a grasping, appropriating energy. There was no rage here, no chaos of the Demoness Sect, no solemnity of the Death pathway. This was something that took. A Marauder.
The Butcher was a Beyonder of the Marauder pathway.
This changed everything. A Marauder killing with such a specific, non-acquisitive signature was a contradiction. Unless the signature itself was the acquisition—the taking of a life in a very specific, personal way. This was no longer just a hunt for a murderer; it was an investigation into a disturbed individual's Beyonder nature.
An hour later, Krieg stood in the dark alley where it had begun. The city watch had long since scrubbed the stones, but they could not scrub the spirit. The fog curled lazily in the confined space, and the air still held the ghost of old refuse and iron.
He held the Astrologer's Orb in his gloved hand. "Show me the echo of the dormant spiritual presence from the night of the killings," he instructed. "Reveal its movements."
The orb glowed, its internal mist projecting a faint, shimmering outline onto the alley floor—a phantom path of light. It showed him the killer's approach, not from the street, but from the rooftops, flowing down the wall with an impossible, fluid grace. It showed the brief, brutal struggle—not a brawl, but a surgical dismantling. The killer moved with an economy of motion that was beyond human, a confirmation of the physical enhancement of a low-sequence Beyonder. The phantom form paused over the second body, and the orb's light flared a violent red around the area of the face, the spiritual residue of the mutilation burning brightest of all. It was the epicenter of the killer's emotional discharge.
Finally, the orb showed the killer's escape—not a frantic flight, but a calm, deliberate retreat back up the wall, vanishing over the rooftop. Professional. Controlled.
Next, he went to Hemlock's workshop. The place had been sealed by the Church. The old man's tools lay under a fine layer of dust, his life's work frozen in time. The coppery scent of old blood still hung in the air.
Krieg repeated the process. "Map the spiritual activity within this room from the night of the murder."
The orb's projection illuminated the workshop. It showed the killer's entry—a picked lock, the mechanism yielding with supernatural ease. It showed him moving directly, unerringly, to the hidden floorboard, his Marauder intuition guiding him to the gold as surely as a hound on a scent. Then, the confrontation with Hemlock. The orb showed the killer turning, not with surprise, but with a cold assessment. The phantom light showed him throwing a tool to destroy the ship models as a distraction, a cruel but effective tactical move. And then, the final, brutal convergence on the old man, the same flaring red signature around the eyes.
Standing in the silent workshop, Krieg pieced it together. The same spiritual signature. The same method of entry and exit, showcasing Marauder abilities. The same psychological profile: a killer who could be coldly pragmatic one moment and ritualistically brutal the next.
He held the orb aloft one last time, a final, sweeping question to the unseen currents of fate and spirit.
"Guide me. Of all the souls in Indaw Harbor, which walk the path of the Marauder?"
The orb's mist swirled, forming not a name, but a constellation of faint, glimmering points of light against a dark background. One point, brighter and closer than the others, pulsed with a distinct, familiar intensity. It was the same acquisitive hunger he had felt at both scenes.
He was looking at the Butcher's spiritual address.
He knew the pathway. He had the method. He had the signature. He had the killer's general location within the city's spiritual landscape.
Captain Signeil Krieg lowered the orb, its light dying down to a soft glow. He stood in the gloom of the ransacked workshop, the truth settling upon him with the weight of cold iron.
The Harbor Butcher was a Marauder. He was cunning, controlled, and walked the streets of his city, likely hidden in plain sight. The hunt was no longer a matter of gathering clues; it was now a process of elimination.
The air in Henrik's workshop was thick with the ghosts of competence. Every neatly hung tool, every scrap of carefully sorted leather, every whiff of linseed oil was a silent reproach to Lutz's fumbling hands. He stood over the workbench, a piece of thick, supple cowhide spread before him, along with the tools he'd selected from Henrik's chest: a heavy needle, a spool of waxed thread, a sharp awl, and a metal ruler.
He was attempting to make a sheath for Creed.
It should have been simple. He had Henrik's journal open to the relevant page, the diagrams clear and precise. "For a rigid blade, a reinforced spine is paramount. Use a double-layer stitch here, with a welt to protect the seam from the edge." The words made sense. The diagrams were logical. But the translation from page to practice was a chasm he couldn't cross.
His fingers, so preternaturally deft when picking a lock or palming a coin, felt like thick, clumsy sausages. He pushed the awl through the leather to create a guide hole, but it went in at a slight angle. He threaded the needle, but the waxed thread kept tangling. He tried to mimic the "box stitch" Henrik had so praised for its strength, but his attempts were a lopsided, chaotic mess of loops and pulls. The leather, which in Henrik's hands would have been a pliable medium, was a stubborn, resisting force in his.
After an hour, he held up his creation. It was a lumpy, misshapen pocket of leather, the stitches uneven and already straining in places. The rose-tinted tip of Creed peeked out from the top, looking utterly disdainful of its new home. It was a failure. A useless, ugly thing.
He stared at it, a hot flush of frustration rising up his neck. He could scale a wall in seconds, disarm a man in a blink, and sense hidden treasure through solid stone. But he couldn't do this. This simple, fundamental act of creation was beyond him.
With a sharp, disgusted sigh, he tossed the malformed sheath onto the bench. It wasn't just about the sheath. It was about the chasm between himself and the man who had owned this space. Henrik had built and mended. Lutz, thus far, had only known how to break and take. This was his first, stumbling attempt to do otherwise, and it was a humiliating reminder of how far he had to go.
Still, as he looked from the pathetic sheath to the pristine journal, a cold, analytical part of his mind took over. It's better than yesterday, he thought. Yesterday, he wouldn't have known where to begin. Today, he had produced a failure. That was progress. Slow, infuriating, but undeniable. He would try again tomorrow. And the next day. The journals were a path, and he would walk it, no matter how many times he stumbled.
He felt grimy, covered in the psychic grime of failure as much as the physical dust of the workshop. He needed to wash it away.
The warehouse bathroom was a testament to the Vipers' philosophy: functional, brutal, and uncaring. It was a cramped, tiled room with a single, rust-stained tub, a cracked mirror, and a persistent smell of cheap lye soap and mildew. But for Lutz, who had spent his first weeks here washing from a bucket, the locked door and the prospect of hot water drawn from the boiler in the corner was an almost decadent luxury.
He stripped off his clothes, stained with sweat and leather dust, and sank into the tub of water he'd heated. The heat seeped into his muscles, soothing the faint, phantom aches from his constant training and the very real frustration knotting his shoulders. He closed his eyes, the world reduced to the sound of his own breathing and the drip of a faulty tap. In this small, stolen silence, he could almost pretend he was just a man, not a weapon, not a Marauder, not a vortex of vengeance and guilt. The pendant of Henrik and Annelise rested against his chest, a cool, heavy reminder in the warm water.
Afterwards, feeling scraped clean and psychologically reset, he returned to his room. He didn't don his "Shadowsilk" or his "Viper's Hide." He needed a different skin, one that allowed for thought, not theft or violence. He put on the "Elias Vogler" set: the well-tailored grey trousers, the white linen shirt along with the dark blue vest and waistcoat. The clothes felt like a costume, but a sophisticated one. They demanded a different posture, a different rhythm of thought. He tucked Creed into the inner pocket of his coat, the weight a familiar, dangerous comfort against his ribs, a serpent hidden in fine cloth.
His destination was the library. But his purpose had evolved. It was no longer just a sanctuary or a source of idle intelligence. It had become an arsenal for his mind.
He found his usual secluded table, the wood scarred by generations of scholars, and laid out his tools: a fresh sheet of paper and a pencil. He began to map his ignorance, to chart the vast continents of knowledge he needed to conquer.
At the center, he wrote: SURVIVAL & ADVANCEMENT.
From this, he drew lines, like spokes on a wheel.
The Craftsman's Path: He wrote Henrik's Journals - Leatherwork, Stitching, Sharpening, Metallurgy. This was the foundation of self-reliance. He needed to transform theory into muscle memory.
The Apothecary's Lore: He added Esoteric Flora & Mystical Alchemy. These books he'd bought at the Whispering Market were his link to the deeper mechanics of the Beyonder world.
The Linguist's Burden: This was his oldest skill, but it needed expansion. Then, remembering the guttural, blasphemous prayers of Taric the Listener, he added a new, chilling entry: The Language of Rituals and Magic. He needed to understand the words that could warp reality, summon entities, or lay curses. It was no longer an academic pursuit; it was a tactical necessity.
The Anatomist's Precision: This was a new thought, born from the cold efficiency he was striving for. He wrote Biology - Human Anatomy. Weak Points. In his past life, the human body was a vague concept. Now, it was a map of structural failures. He needed to know, with a scholar's certainty, exactly where to cut, to strike, to break for maximum and immediate effect. A fight wasn't about winning; it was about ending the threat in the most efficient way possible.
He sat back, looking at the web of disciplines. It was daunting. But for the first time, he felt a different kind of hunger—not the Marauder's urge to acquire objects, but a scholar's desperate thirst to acquire understanding. Andrei Hayes had been passionate about languages, but it was a passion divorced from consequence. Here, every piece of knowledge had an immediate, vital application. Knowing how to stitch a wound could save his life. Knowing a ritual language could prevent his soul from being devoured. Knowing anatomy could make the difference between a drawn-out brawl and a single, silent kill.
The sheer, utilitarian scope of it was, in a strange way, exhilarating.
He rolled up his map of knowledge and headed for the biology section. The rest could wait; this felt most pressing. He found a heavy, illustrated tome titled "A Treatise on Feysacian Physiology and Its Common Degeneracies." It was dry, dense, and reeked of formalin and dust. He found a chair and began to read.
It was mind-numbingly boring. He waded through chapters on skeletal structure, the classification of muscle groups, the functions of various organs. It was a far cry from the immediate thrill of a heist or the visceral terror of a Beyonder fight. But he forced himself to focus, to correlate the diagrams with the feel of his own body, with the memories of where his knives had landed on Jhin, on Rudel, on the men in the alley.
His stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the metabolic cost of using Creed. The gnawing hunger cut through his concentration. Giving in, he packed the book away to continue another day and left the library.
On the way back to the warehouse, the fog beginning to coil around the gas lamps, he stopped at the same stall and bought a piece of fried fish, wrapped in newsprint. He ate it as he walked, the hot, greasy food a simple pleasure that grounded him. The act of feeding the hunger felt like another transaction, another price paid for the power he carried in his pocket.
He walked through the darkening streets, a young man in fine clothes, smelling of fried fish and library dust, his mind filled with diagrams of the human circulatory system and the precise angle needed to sever a femoral artery. The scholar and the thief were merging, two halves of a new, terrifying whole, both united by a single, driving purpose: to learn enough, to become sharp enough, to survive the world he was hell-bent on destroying.