The familiar, cramped silence of Lutz's room had become a cocoon of focused intent. For five days, the world outside the warehouse had ceased to exist for Lutz Fischer. The lingering phantom sensations of the sea battle—the spray, the gunpowder, the psychic scream of the Poet's lullaby, the visceral crunch-pulp of the Captain's demise—had been systematically filed away, compressed into a cold, hard node of experience. Karl, impressed and perhaps subtly recalibrating his assessment of his new tool, had given him a wide berth, assigning no collections, no intimidations. It was a luxury, and Lutz spent it like a miser, investing every waking second into his projects.
His sanctuary now smelled of leather, metal polish, and the faint, astringent scent of the alchemical ingredients he'd begun to cautiously categorize. The centerpiece of his efforts was spread across his small table: the harness. It was no longer just an idea; it was a physical construct of tough, oiled leather and reinforced stitching. He'd pored over Henrik's journals, his scholar's mind devouring the practical wisdom on load-bearing stress, stitch tension, and the properties of different hides. His fingers, once clumsy and frustrated, were now marked with small nicks and calluses, but they moved with a new, hard-won certainty. The main body was done—a form-fitting contraption that sat over his shoulders and crossed his chest, with precisely placed loops and sheaths. It held Creed's new, professionally made sheath on his right hip, the broader knife on his left, and the bandolier for his throwing knives was now integrated, not separate. It was a system. A unified platform for violence, built with his own hands. The pride he felt was a quiet, solid thing, entirely divorced from the Baron's world. It was his.
Three days ago, the fog had thickened to a soupy consistency over the scrapyard, signaling a Convergence. He'd ventured back into the Whispering Market, the psychic pressure a familiar, unwelcome embrace. This time, his purpose was specific, his Thief's nose ruthlessly ignoring the siren song of bottled lightning and pickled horrors.
His first purchase was knowledge: "An Initiate's Primer to the Hermetic Tongues." The book was slim, its cover made of a strange, cool material that felt like petrified wood. It confirmed his suspicion. The guttural, reality-warping chants of Taric the Listener and the melodic, sleep-inducing poems of the Vice-Captain were facets of this same mystical language, Hermes. It wasn't a language for conversation, but for command. A tool to whisper to the fabric of the world and make it listen. He'd also bought "The Pendulum's Promise: A Guide to Unseen Truths," and to go with it, a simple but well-crafted divination tool: a silver chain with a teardrop pendulum, its weight a smooth, polished ruby. The final, and most significant transaction, had been with Lorelei.
She'd been at her stall, a portrait of practical beauty amidst the market's chaos, her storm-gray eyes flicking up to meet his with that same knowing amusement.
"Back so soon, Pretty Boy?" she'd said, her voice a low hum that somehow cut through the market's drone. "Come to commission another piece of trouble?"
Lutz blushed imperceptibly, he'd placed the small, padded pouch on her counter. Inside, the Midnight Poet's characteristic gleamed, a flower of captured starlight and twilight. "I need this made into something usable. Its user could make people drowsy or put them to sleep."
She'd picked up the crystal rose, her skilled fingers turning it over. "Another one huh? You surely don't look like you pack such a punch." She tapped her temple. "Sleep, you say? I know its none of my business but going against a church is crazy work, alright." She'd named her price, and he'd paid without haggling. The total for the books, the pendulum, and the commission had been a staggering 34 Hammers and 1 Shield. The entire haul from the Captain's safe, plus a little more, vanished in a single night. It had let him with a total of 62 Hammers, 6 Shields and a couple pfennige.
Now, back in his room, the fruits of his labor and expenditure lay before him. The gear harness was nearly complete. The books were on his shelf. And the silver-and-ruby pendulum lay on the table, catching the weak light filtering through the high window.
His mood, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, was… steady. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven him since Henrik's death had been channeled, focused into these tangible tasks. By keeping his mind occupied with leather grain, mystical grammar, and the principles of divination, he had built a dam against the torrent of guilt and horror that threatened to drown him. The ghosts of Silvia, of the Poet, of the Captain, of everyone he's killed were still there, but they were muted, locked away in a vault of sheer busyness. He even felt a flicker of his old, dry humor return, not as a shield, but as a simple appreciation of life's absurdities. 'Note to self,' he'd thought while stitching the harness, 'if you ever write a memoir, include a chapter on the existential dread of poorly spaced belt holes.'
Today's project was divination. He'd read the theory. The pendulum was an extension of the user's spiritual intuition, a amplifier for the subconscious perceptions that all Beyonders possessed to some degree. It wasn't about seeing the future, but about sensing the invisible currents of the present—luck, intention, danger.
He sat at the table, the completed harness hanging on a peg nearby like a shed skin. He took a deep, centering breath, the prelude to Cogitation. He visualized the cube, its lines sharp and perfect in his mind's eye. The world's distractions—the distant shouts from the docks, the faint smell of his own lamp oil—faded into a soft background hum. His mind became a still, dark pool.
Then, with his consciousness anchored, he reached for Umbra.
He slipped the scarlet ring onto his right finger.
The assault was immediate, but he was ready. The whispers erupted in his skull—the sobbing, the manic laughter, the arguments in dead languages. But he didn't fight them. He didn't try to silence them. That was a battle he would always lose. Instead, he used the technique he'd been practicing. He let the Cogitation cube act as a filter. He turned the chaotic psychic energy of the ring inwards, using it to fuel the clarity and stability of the mental cube. The whispers became like the roar of a distant waterfall—a constant, powerful presence, but one whose energy was now powering his own focus. The cube in his mind glowed brighter, more solid. He had built a psychic hydroelectric dam. The torrent was still there, but he was harnessing it.
In this state of balanced, amplified awareness, he picked up the pendulum. He held the chain between his thumb and forefinger, letting the ruby teardrop hang perfectly still over the table's wooden surface.
"The system is simple," he murmured to himself, his voice calm in the eye of the psychic storm. "Clockwise for yes, counter-clockwise for no. And no movement for uncertain or invalid questions."
He focused his will, channeling it through the ring-amplified Cogitation and into the pendulum.
"First, a baseline. A simple question with a known answer." He cleared his throat. "Is my name Lutz Fischer?"
He focused on the question, repeating it 7 times. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, the pendulum began to swing. Clockwise. A firm, confident yes.
A thrill, entirely separate from the Marauder's hunger or the thrill of violence, went through him. It was the thrill of a scholar who had successfully replicated an experiment. It worked. He could do this.
He steadied the pendulum again. "Is Karl currently in the warehouse?"
He focused his intent, repeated it 7 times, picturing Karl in his office, smelling of ozone and calculation. The pendulum hesitated, and then moved in a clockwise manner with decent speed, positive.
He tried something else. "Is it favorable for me to attempt a theft in the Merchant Quarter today?"
He focused on the concept of 'favorable'—low risk, high reward, minimal chance of encountering the Church or other threats. The pendulum hung still for a second, then began a sluggish, wobbling counter-clockwise rotation. No. The energy was unfavorable.
Good to know, he thought, making a mental note. The market watch must be active, or maybe the Church has a heavier presence there today. It was practical, useful intelligence, gleaned from the unseen currents of fate.
Feeling more confident, he decided on one final question before ending the strenuous mental exercise. It was a general safety check, a way to gauge the tenor of the day ahead. He took a deeper breath, reinforcing his Cogitation, holding Umbra's whispers firmly at bay.
"Am I going to be in danger today?"
He focused on the concept of 'danger'—physical harm, ambush, life-threatening situations and repeated 7 times. He expected a lazy 'no,' or perhaps an uncertain swing. He had no missions. He was staying in, working on his projects. The warehouse was secure.
The pendulum froze dead in the air.
Then, with no warning, it shot into motion.
It wasn't a lazy swing or a sluggish rotation. It was a violent, frantic, whirling circle, clockwise so fast the silver chain became a blur and the ruby became a continuous ring of crimson light. The air hummed with the energy of it. The 'yes' was not just an affirmation; it was a scream. A klaxon blast from the universe itself.
Lutz's breath caught in his throat. The meticulously maintained Cogitation shattered. The cube in his mind exploded into a million shards. Umbra's whispers, no longer held back, rushed into the vacuum, screaming their maddening chorus directly into his unprotected mind. He barely noticed. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. The pendulum felt suddenly hot in his hand, the ruby like a burning coal.
He dropped it onto the table as if scalded, the chain clattering against the wood. He ripped Umbra from his finger, the sudden cessation of the whispers leaving a ringing, aching silence in his skull that was somehow more terrifying than the noise.
He was on his feet without realizing it, his chair scraping backwards. His eyes, wide and shocked, darted around the room as if expecting an assassin to materialize from the shadows.
Danger. Today.
The confirmation was absolute. The pendulum didn't deal in maybes. It sensed the currents, and the current flowing towards him today was a torrent of pure, undiluted threat.
How? Why? His mind, usually so analytical, was a scrambled mess of panic. Is it the Church? Has Krieg finally connected 'Henrik Moss' to the Butcher? Is it more of Hass's people? But according to the news, Hass is in Church custody, his organization in tatters. The other gangs? A Viper wanting my spot?
He forced himself to breathe, to think. The 'what' was clear. The 'who' and 'why' were not. But the 'when' was the most terrifying part: today. It wasn't a vague future threat. It was here. Now. The sun was already well into the sky. The danger could be minutes away, or hours, but its arrival before nightfall was a spiritual certainty.
He looked at the nearly completed harness on the wall. It was no longer a project; it was his skin. He looked at the lead box containing Umbra. It was no longer a tool for practice; it was a necessary risk. Creed, the revolver, the throwing knives—they were no longer possessions. They were his only lifeline.
The calm, studious peace of the last five days was obliterated, replaced by the cold, familiar grip of paranoia and the desperate, burning need to survive. The pendulum had given him a warning, a precious sliver of advantage snatched from the jaws of fate.
Now, he had to figure out what to do with it. The hunt was on, and for the first time, he knew he was the prey.