Dawn's pale light did little to warm the scorched skeleton of 47 Eisner Lane. The townhouse was a blackened wound on the quiet street, its timbers collapsed inward like the ribs of a dead beast, still exuding a faint, acrid smell of burnt chemicals and things less easily identified. The local Watch had already cordoned off the area with frayed rope, their job little more than keeping the morbidly curious at bay. The real investigation belonged to the newcomers, whose authority was as immaculate and imposing as their attire.
Two figures stood amidst the wreckage, their beige, brass-buttoned greatcoats and structured caps marking them as ordained clergy of the Church of Steam and Machinery. They moved with a dissonant precision against the chaotic backdrop of the fire.
The taller of the two was a man who moved with a languid, almost predatory grace that belied his formal uniform. His long, ginger hair was tied back in a neat tail that fell between his shoulder blades, a stark splash of color against the drab beige wool. His eyes, a sharp, perceptive green, scanned the scene, missing nothing. The cut of his coat was tailored to perfection, yet it could not completely conceal the subtle, geometric bulges at his hips and within his inner pockets—the tell-tale signs of carefully harnessed instruments and contained power. He held a polished brass device in his gloved hand, its surface covered in finely etched gears and three protruding, needle-like antennae that quivered independently, humming with a low, mechanical whine.
His subordinate, a younger man with a clipboard and a perpetually earnest expression, spoke first. "The initial report from the city watch lists it as an accident, Captain Krieg. A laboratory mishap. The resident, Dr. Albin Metzger, is presumed deceased within."
Signeil Krieg didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the humming device. "The Watch sees what it is trained to see, Brenner. A spilled oil lamp, a spark near volatile chemicals. A neat and tidy conclusion." His voice was a calm, measured baritone. "Our instruments, however, detect the absence of common accelerants. And they register… residual spiritual dissonance. This was not an accident. It was a sanitization."
He took a slow step forward, his boot crunching on a piece of charred glass. The antennae on his device twitched violently, and the hum pitched higher. "There. The epicenter. Not the main laboratory space, but a secondary point of concentrated release. The fire was strategically set to erase something specific."
He paused, his green eyes narrowing as he stared into the heart of the ruin. A faint, cold smile touched his lips. "And someone was very thorough in their looting before they struck the match. This was not the work of a rival academic. This has the stench of professional, localized violence. The kind that thrives in the shadows of a place like Indaw Harbor."
Matthias Brenner scribbled furiously on his clipboard. "Should we notify the local authorities of our findings? Initiate a joint investigation?"
"No," Signeil said, his tone final. He deactivated the device with a soft click, the antennae retracting. "The local authorities are irrelevant in matters of the spirit and of organized criminal blight. Our mandate from the Diocese is clear: restore order. This…" He gestured to the ruins with a flick of his gloved hand. "…is a symptom of the disease festering in this city. A disease we have been sent to cure."
He turned, his long coat sweeping through the ash. "File the report under 'Unsanctioned Mystical Research – Contained.' And flag the Harbor Vipers syndicate for elevated surveillance. Their ambition is growing. And when vermin grow bold enough to gnaw on things they cannot possibly understand, they become a problem that requires a more… permanent solution."
As he walked back to their waiting steam-wagon, his hand drifted almost unconsciously to one of the geometric bulges beneath his coat, his fingers resting on the cool, latent power within. The message from his superior had been clear: observe, assess, and do not hesitate to clean the machinery. He intended to follow those orders to the letter.
Viper's Warehouse
The heavy, soundproofed door of the old smelting room closed behind Lutz with a final, muffled thud, severing him from the charged atmosphere within and returning him to the mundane, snoring silence of the warehouse barracks. But the world he stepped back into was irrevocably altered. It was the same grimy, sprawling space, filled with the same stink of unwashed men and damp timber, yet his perception of it had been fundamentally rewired.
The change wasn't a roaring torrent of power; it was a silent, pervasive shift, like a filter had been placed over his senses. The dim light from the occasional guttering candle seemed sharper, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air with newfound clarity. The rhythmic cacophony of snores and sleep-talking from the bunks was no longer just noise. His body moved with an unnerving economy of motion. Each step was perfectly balanced, his feet placing themselves with a cat-like silence he didn't consciously command. He flexed his fingers, and the movement was so fluid, so effortless, it was as if the very air offered no resistance
He began the familiar trek towards his bunk, his mind a whirlwind of analysis even as his body navigated the clutter with preternatural grace. He was a live wire, thrumming with a energy that was both exhilarating and terrifying. This was the foundation. This was what it meant to be a Beyonder.
His path took him through the administrative heart of the Vipers' domain, past the closed door of Karl's office, and the more imposing, polished one that belonged to Baron Vogler himself. It was a route he'd walked a hundred times, a space of implied threat to be traversed quickly and with head bowed.
But tonight, as he passed the Baron's door, a new sense flared to life within him—a quiet, insistent ping in the periphery of his consciousness.
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. It was the same certainty he'd felt with Karl's pocket watch, but this was… deeper. Richer. A low, resonant hum of concentrated value that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. His head turned, not towards the Baron's office, but to the seamless, unadorned wall beside it. His new intuition, his Thief's nose, pulled his gaze like a compass needle finding north. The value wasn't in the Baron's office. It was behind it.
There was no visible door, no obvious handle. But he knew, with the same unshakable conviction that told him water was wet, that a room existed there. A room packed with the accumulated wealth of the Harbor Vipers. The coin from a thousand extortions, the jewels from a hundred heists, the valuable artifacts they fenced and the bribes they received. The treasury. It had to be. Accessed privately, through the Baron's own sanctum, a final layer of security and control.
A slow, cold smile touched his lips, the first genuine one he could remember that wasn't fueled by cynicism or despair. This was no longer just an abstract plan for revenge. It was a tangible target.
So that's where you keep it all, he thought, the Marauder within him mentally cataloging the wall, noting the slight discoloration in the wood grain that might indicate a hidden seam, the way the floorboards seemed to wear a different pattern in front of it. You sit in your office, corrupting souls, while your heart—your wealth, your power—is locked in a box right behind you. And I can smell it.
The thought was a key turning in a lock deep inside him. His final plan, the act of ultimate vengeance, now had a centerpiece. It wouldn't be enough to kill the Baron. He had to take everything from him first. He had to rob him blind, to leave him with nothing but the hollow echo of his own corruption. He would steal the very foundation of the man's power.
The urge to linger, to press his ear against the wall or to try and find the hidden mechanism, was a physical itch in his fingers. But he forced it down. A Marauder was not a blunt instrument. He was a strategist. Now was not the time for reckless action, but for patient observation and precise planning. He stored the knowledge away, a precious piece of intelligence more valuable than any single gem.
He finally reached his bunk, the surge of adrenaline slowly receding. As he lay in the darkness, the warehouse settled around him like a living, breathing entity. He could hear the distinct jingle of coin in a sleeping enforcer's pocket, the faint, rhythmic ticking of a watch from the direction of Karl's quarters.
His mind, too sharp for sleep, turned inward. He thought of the potion, of the bitter taste and the creeping warmth. He thought of Cogitation, the mental discipline Karl had imparted. It wasn't just a tool for regaining control; it was a whetstone for the mind. He practiced it now, in the dark, visualizing the simple, solid form of the iron crucible, using its unchanging geometry to calm the frantic, new inputs from his senses.
The abilities were incredible, but they were also a cage. The Role of the Marauder was already settling upon him, shaping his instincts, directing his thoughts. Every person was now a walking collection of valuables. Every locked door was a challenge. Every silent, guarded space was a potential treasury. To advance, he would have to lean into this nature, to truly become the thief. But how far could he go before the thief consumed the man? How many layers of Lutz and Andrei would be stripped away in the process?
He closed his eyes, the phantom hum from the Baron's hidden treasury a constant, seductive whisper in the back of his skull. It was a lullaby of ambition and vengeance. He was a Beyonder now. The game had changed, and he finally held a card that nobody else knew was in play. Sleep, when it came, was not an escape, but a continuation of his planning, his dreams filled with the silent, efficient work of picking an impossible lock.
Lutz woke not to the slow, grudging return of consciousness, but with a sudden, electric clarity, as if a switch had been flipped. The muffled sounds of the waking warehouse—the groans, the coughs, the distant clang of the forge—did not grate against his senses but presented themselves to him as a clear, organized catalogue of information. He lay still for a moment, just listening, letting the new map of his surroundings paint itself in his mind through sound alone.
His morning routine became his first field test. Dressing, his fingers flew over buttons and laces with an unconscious, fluid speed that would have made a master tailor nod in approval
The true test came in the mess hall. The usual cacophony and press of bodies was overwhelming, a barrage of stimuli. He saw Gerhart at a table, the hilt of a knife protruding slightly from his belt. Lutz's gaze lingered for a second, and a new, instinctual knowledge surfaced: the knife was of decent quality, but the real value on Gerhart was a small, heavy pouch tucked into an inner vest pocket.
He moved through the crowd to get his portion of watery porridge. As he passed a bench, his shoulder lightly brushed against a slouching enforcer named Klaus. It was a common occurrence in the packed hall. But for Lutz, it was an opportunity. His left hand, moving with a speed that was little more than a blur, dipped into Klaus's coat pocket, brushed past a loose coin, and emerged with a single, silver Shield. The entire motion was seamless, a ghost of an action lost in the jostle of bodies. He didn't even break stride. The coin felt cool and insignificant in his palm, but the act itself sent a thrill through him that was entirely separate from the value of the metal. It was the pure, clean satisfaction of a successful acquisition.
His duties for the day were collections with Otto in the merchant quarter—a perfect proving ground. Walking through the bustling streets, his enhanced senses created a dizzying, but increasingly manageable, stream of data.
At their third stop, a stubborn leatherworker, Otto resorted to his usual intimidation, looming over the man with silent menace. As the man stammered excuses, Lutz's gaze drifted around the shop. His intuition tugged him towards a large, seemingly decorative anvil near the forge. There was nothing special about it, but his new sense insisted. Value. Concealed.
While Otto held the man's attention, Lutz leaned casually against the anvil, his hands exploring its rough, cold surface behind his back. His sensitive fingers found a nearly invisible seam. Applying precise pressure at a specific point, a small, hidden compartment slid open with a quiet click. Inside was a velvet pouch. With a flick of his wrist, he had it in his own pocket and the compartment closed before the leatherworker had finished his next sentence. The whole act had taken less than three seconds.
Outside, after the payment was reluctantly handed over, Otto grunted, "Efficient today, Fischer."
Lutz just nodded, the weight of the stolen pouch—which felt heavy with gold—a secret trophy against his thigh. "Just seeing things more clearly," he said, and it was the truth.
The afternoon was dedicated to more physical experimentation. Sent on an errand to a distant part of the docks, he found a deserted alley between two warehouses. He looked up at the three-story wall, riddled with rusted pipes and crumbling brickwork. A week ago, it would have been insurmountable. Now, it was an invitation.
He jumped, his enhanced strength and agility making the leap feel effortless. His fingers found perfect purchase on tiny ledges his eyes could now discern. His body moved with a powerful, acrobatic grace, his feet finding support on pipes that should have bent under his weight. He scaled the wall in less than a minute, pulling himself onto the tar-paper roof without a sound, his breath even and calm.
From the roof, he looked out over the sprawling, foggy expanse of Indaw Harbor. His city. His hunting ground. He pulled a heavy, rusty bolt from a discarded piece of rigging. He weighed it in his hand, feeling its balance. Then, with a casual, whip-fast motion, he threw it. The bolt spun through the air, a grey streak against the grey sky, and struck a hanging ship's bell on a mast fifty yards away with a perfect, resonant clang. He could throw a knife, a rock, any object, with deadly accuracy.
The fog was thickening, swallowing the distant gaslights and turning the familiar route back to the warehouse into a tunnel of shifting grey shadows. Lutz moved through it with a new, instinctual silence, his footsteps making no sound on the damp cobblestones. His senses, still humming from the day's experiments.
He turned into a narrow alley that served as a shortcut, the high walls on either side amplifying the fog's oppressive silence.
He stopped. The ambient sounds of the city seemed to recede, leaving only the thick silence of the alley. From the mist ahead, two figures emerged, blocky and indistinct. Another two stepped out from behind him, cutting off his retreat. They were large, dressed in rough-spun wool and leather, their faces hard and unsmiling. They didn't have the disciplined bearing of Viper enforcers; these were street thugs, maybe independents, or from a smaller, brasher gang trying to muscle in on the edges of Viper territory.
The one in front, a man with a broken nose and a thick, corded neck, cracked his knuckles. "Well, just look at that. All alone away from home, aren't we."