It was just after noon so it was still a while until the night came, Lutz decided to make his way to the library in order to kill some time and check the news.
The stale, dusty air of the library was a peculiar kind of silence. It wasn't the empty silence of the rooftops or the wary quiet of the Salt-weep alleys; it was a heavy, scholarly hush, thick with the ghosts of a million unspoken words. Lutz found a certain perverse comfort in it. While he waited for the sun to bleed out over Indaw and surrender the city to the more honest darkness, this temple of knowledge was as good a refuge as any.
He found his usual spot, a scarred wooden table tucked between shelves of maritime law and industrial agricultural reports, and began sifting through the recent editions of the Indaw Chronicle. The print was cheap, the paper coarse, and the stories followed a predictable rhythm: shipping manifests, dockyard disputes, the price of southern grain, and the occasional, sanitized report of a knifing in the slums. He was scanning a piece on a missing fishing trawler when a familiar presence settled into the chair opposite him.
Lutz didn't need to look up. The scent of cheap tobacco was enough. "Brennen," he said, his voice low, not looking up from the paper. "Good to see you again, pal, come to rest from drowning people with questions on the street?"
Brennen let out a soft, breathy laugh that smelled of smoke. "One must have diversions, Henrik. Even the most dedicated mind needs a rest. Though, I find the news these days provides little respite." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Have you heard? About the 'Butcher'?"
Lutz's finger, which had been tracing the listing for the missing trawler, stilled. He kept his gaze firmly on the newsprint, his mind a sudden, blank slate. The Butcher. It meant nothing. A thug, a killer, the city was full of them. Indaw chewed people up and spat out the gristle. But the way Brennen said it, with a kind of grim, academic weight, made the back of his neck prickle. He slowly lowered the paper, arranging his features into a mask of mild, uncomprehending curiosity.
"The Butcher?" Lutz repeated, letting a frown crease his brow. "Sounds like a dockworker's nickname. Or a particularly bad day at the abattoir. Why?"
Brennen's eyes, sharp and intelligent behind his spectacles, scanned Lutz's face for a moment. Seemingly satisfied with the genuine-looking confusion, he nodded grimly. "Not a dockworker." He produced a different, more sensationalist paper from under his arm—the Indaw Tattler, a rag known for crime hysteria and lurid speculation. He slid it across the table.
The headline was in a bold, slashing font: TWO MEN FOUND TERRIBLY MUTILATED IN SALT-WEEP!
Lutz's eyes skimmed the article, his gut tightening with a cold, professional dread. Two bodies. An alley off the main thoroughfare. Horrendously mangled. The details were sparse, the language hysterical, but one line stood out, stark and terrible: "...the first victim, a male, was discovered with his eye sockets… utterly destroyed. Not merely gouged, this publication is told, but pulverized, as if by a tremendous, focused force."
A strange, disconnected thought flickered in the back of Lutz's mind. The Indaw Harbor Butcher. The name… it rang a bell. Not a loud, clear chime, but a faint, discordant echo from some deep, dusty corner of his memory. Lutz felt funny.
He let out a low whistle, a convincing performance of shocked dismay. "By the steam... Utterly destroyed? What in the world could do that? A psycho?"
"Perhaps," Brennen said, retrieving the paper, his expression grave. The constables are baffled. They're calling it a frenzied, animalistic attack, but the Tattler's source suggests a… specificity to the violence that contradicts that." He tapped the article. "The other victim was merely stabbed. Repeatedly. But the one with the ruined eyes… that was the focus. That was the message."
Lutz shook his head, the picture of a concerned citizen. "A nasty business. Salt-weep's always been rough, but this… this is something else." He let the question hang, testing the waters.
Brennen's gaze grew distant. "It is a possibility one must consider. The mutilation of specific organs can have symbolic power for certain individuals. The eyes… the windows to the soul, as the poets say. To destroy them so completely… it could be an attempt to blind the soul, to prevent a spirit from seeing its way to peace, or to bear witness." He sighed, the sound weary. "Or it could simply be the work of a madman with a profound hatred for sight. Without more information, it is merely grisly speculation."
He seemed to shake off the morbid thoughts, focusing back on Lutz. "But I did not only come to share grim tidings. Your assistance last time was… invaluable. I have hit another snag with my translation. A few phrases of what I believe to be a derivative of Intisian, but the script is archaic."
Lutz felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. This was familiar ground. This was a mask he knew how to wear. "Show me."
For the next hour, they bent over Brennen's notes. The phrases were indeed obscure, relating to the "congelation of vital essences" and the "purification of dross through sequential thermal shock." Lutz navigated the concepts carefully, offering plausible, scholarly translations that steered clear of any overtly mystical interpretation. He suggested "coagulation of life-fluids" for the first and "refinement through repeated heating" for the second. Brennen scribbled furiously, nodding, his earlier grimness replaced by the fervor of academic pursuit.
"It fits," he muttered, more to himself than to Lutz. "It aligns with the other fragments. You have a genuine talent for this, Henrik. You should not let it go to waste.
Lutz offered a noncommittal smile.
As they worked, the high, narrow windows of the library slowly deepened from dull gray to a bruised purple. The long shadows in the aisles between bookshelves stretched and merged, swallowing the pools of lamplight. Night was falling.
Brennen finally packed his notes away as the librarian began making rounds to light the gas lamps. "The light fails us," he said, standing. "And I have… an appointment. Thank you again, Mr Moss. Your insight is always sharp."
"Stay safe out there, Brennen," Lutz replied, gathering his own few things. "Especially with a 'Butcher' on the loose."
A grim smile touched Brennen's lips. "The same to you."
Lutz left the library, the weight of the conversation settling on him like a fine dust. The Butcher. The destroyed eyes. It gnawed at him. He pushed it aside. He had his own business to attend to, business that required a clear head and steady nerves.
The walk back to the warehouse in the Twists was swift and silent, his senses stretched to their limits, every shadow a potential threat. He slipped through the familiar gaps and alleys, a ghost in the growing dark, until he reached the relative safety of the rusted metal door.
Inside, the familiar scent of dust, oil, and old wood greeted him. A single lantern burned on a crate, casting a warm, dancing light. Henrik was there, meticulously cleaning the components of a complex-looking lock mechanism with a small brush.
"Boy," the older man grunted without looking up. "The city still standing?"
"For now," Lutz replied, shrugging off his coat. "Though the papers say there's a new player in town. A nasty one."
Henrik snorted. "There's always a new player. They flash and burn out. The city remains." He finally looked up, his sharp eyes assessing Lutz. "You heading out again?"
Lutz nodded. "Time to trade. I'll be gone before first light."
"Watch your step," Henrik said, his tone carrying the weight of long experience. "Them whispers are louder than usual lately. Somethin's stirring in the depths."
Noted. Lutz stored the warning away with Brennen's news. He moved to the far corner of the warehouse, to the hidden compartment under a loose floorboard where he kept his most valuable assets. He lifted the board, the faint smell of dry rot and cold stone rising to meet him.
He looked down at his stash, his mind already calculating, prioritizing. This was the moment of commitment.
First, the money. He counted out thirty Hammers, the solid, weighty coins clinking softly in the quiet of the warehouse. A significant sum, his emergency fund and primary bargaining chip.
Then, the materials from Taric. He sorted through the pouch. The dried herbs, the vial of quicksilver, the chunk of obsidian—all of it went into a separate, smaller bag. These were tangible, understandable commodities. But the red metal charms… he picked one up. It was warm to the touch, almost unnaturally so, and the symbols etched into its surface seemed to swim in the lantern light. They felt… active. Dangerous. He decided to leave them. They were a mystery, and mysteries could be liabilities in a place where knowledge was power. He tucked them back into their hiding place.
Finally, the crown jewels of his collection. He unwrapped the two cloth bundles. The first contained the shimmering, semi-transparent, red gel-like substance. Holding a faint, internal luminescence. The second was the small, hard, rose-shaped pink crystal, Jhin's remainings.
These were his tickets. These were what could buy him the knowledge, the tools, the next step on the path.
He also armed himself with his two knives, lest there were "complications", he additionally brought the exquisite stiletto, maybe he could sell it for a good price, or obtain information about its origins.
At last, he brought the silver ring he had gotten from one of the thugs in the 4-person ambush he survived.
He packed everything carefully into a worn, non-descript leather satchel, ensuring nothing clinked or rattled. He strapped his knives to his belt, and pulled on a dark, hooded oilskin coat.
"Leaving," he announced to Henrik, who merely nodded, his focus back on his lock.
Stepping back out into the night was like diving into a cold, black sea. The fog had rolled in from the harbor, thick and clammy, muffling sound and swallowing light. The gas lamps were just faint, hazy halos in the gloom. Perfect.
Lutz melted into the fog, his footsteps silent on the wet cobblestones. He didn't take a direct route. He wove through the Twists, doubled back twice, and paused for long minutes in doorways, listening for any sound that didn't belong to the night. Only when he was absolutely certain he was alone did he turn his path towards the river, towards the oldest, most forgotten part of the docks.
The air grew colder, smelling of brine, rot, and the strange, ozonic tang that always lingered near the sites of the Whispering Market. The normal sounds of the city faded away, replaced by an eerie, profound silence, broken only by the drip of water and the distant, mournful cry of a foghorn.
He reached his destination: a collapsed wharf, its pilings looking like the broken ribs of some great sea beast. He moved to a specific, slime-covered piling, its wood soft with decay, and pressed his palm against a seemingly random knot in the wood.
A faint, almost imperceptible vibration ran through the wood. A moment later, the surface of the water before the wharf began to ripple, not from the current, but from below. A faint, phosphorescent green light bloomed in the depths, outlining a submerged, arched doorway that shouldn't have been there.
Lutz took a deep breath, the satchel of his future heavy on his shoulder. The path was open.
He stepped off the broken edge of the wharf, and the dark, cold water of the Indaw Harbor swallowed him whole. As he sank, the world above dissolving into a blur of green light and shifting shadows, a single, unbidden thought echoed in his mind, a final, distant chime from the world he was leaving behind:
The Indaw Harbor Butcher… Heh.