The study was a cage of his own making. Korbinian Hass paced its length, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps, which did nothing to quiet the furious roar in his mind. The polished mahogany desk, the shelves of leather-bound ledgers detailing his intricate web of investments and manipulations—it all felt like a stage set, a flimsy facade behind which his empire was crumbling.
Failure.
The word was a poison in his veins. The two professionals, the Beyonders he'd paid a small fortune to for a "delicate, permanent pruning" of the Baron's new tool, had vanished. Two bodies were found in the alley, no triumphant report, no nothing. Just silence.
He stopped at the window, staring out at the fog-shrouded lights of Indaw Harbor. His plan, so elegant in its ruthlessness, was in tatters. The Baron was a brute, but a brute with home-field advantage and now, damning intelligence. The "local obstruction" wasn't just obstructing; he was counter-attacking. Hass's consortium, his backers in Loen, would not tolerate this. He had sold them on a sure thing, a surgical takeover. Now, he was facing a gang war he couldn't win and financial backers who would hang him out to dry for his failure.
His hand tightened on the velvet curtain, knuckles white. He needed a new angle, a new lever. Perhaps he could still turn the Church of Steam against the Vipers more directly, feed them more specific intelligence… but that was a dangerous game. The Church was an orderly wildfire; it didn't discriminate between corrupt merchants and criminal gang lords if they both stood in the way of "progress."
A sharp, precise knock echoed from his front door downstairs.
Hass froze. It was too late for social calls. It was the knock of authority, not a guest. His heart, already racing, began to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. He smoothed his waistcoat, forced his face into a mask of placid annoyance, and went to answer.
He opened the door to find Captain Signeil Krieg standing on his step. The Church investigator's long ginger hair was tied back, his sharp green eyes seeming to dissect Hass even before he spoke. His dark beige greatcoat was damp with fog, and the brass buttons gleamed like accusing eyes under the gaslight.
"Korbinian Hass?" Krieg's voice was languid, almost bored, but it carried an undeniable weight.
"Officer," Hass said, feigning mild surprise. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the Church of Steam at this hour? I was just reviewing some trade figures." He made to block the doorway with his body, a subtle assertion of domain.
Krieg didn't move to enter, but his presence seemed to fill the space anyway. "Trade figures. Yes. That is precisely what I wish to discuss. Your recent ones have been… noteworthy."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Captain. I am a simple investor, trying to bring legitimate commerce to Feysac in these troubled times."
"Legitimate commerce does not typically involve the systematic funneling of capital through three separate shell companies registered in Lenburg to obscure its Loenish origins," Krieg stated, his tone flat, reciting facts. "It does not usually coincide with a coordinated campaign of customs 'delays' and 'inspections' targeting your business rivals. And it certainly doesn't explain your recent, substantial withdrawal of liquid assets to fund an off-the-books contract with two unregistered, now-missing, Beyonders."
Hass's blood ran cold. The mask of civility cracked. "That is a… a outrageous series of conjectures, Officer! I demand to know your source for these slanders!"
"My source is the immutable logic of ledgers, Mister Hass. The gears of commerce, when examined closely, reveal the fingerprints of the machinist." Krieg's gaze swept past him, into the house. "I am here to invite you to the Church of Steam for a formal discussion. We believe you can provide valuable insight into the… corrosive elements… currently hindering Indaw Harbor's economic and spiritual health."
Panic, cold and sharp, seized Hass's throat. A "formal discussion" with the Church was a one-way ticket. They didn't play the same games as the city watch. They had their own laws, their own cells, their own brand of justice that valued order above all else. He would be a pawn, a scapegoat to be publicly dismantled to demonstrate the Church's efficiency. His consortium would abandon him in an instant.
"No," Hass said, his voice rising an octave. "No, I'm afraid that's quite impossible. I have a very pressing schedule tomorrow. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting at my solicitor's office later in the—"
"The invitation is for now, Mister Hass," Krieg interrupted, his politeness now as thin and sharp as a razor. "It is not optional."
That was it. The pretense was over. The cold calculation in Krieg's eyes promised not a trial, but a dissection. Hass's mind, trained for financial battles and corporate backstabbing, short-circuited into a primal impulse.
Run.
He shoved the door hard, trying to slam it in Krieg's face, and spun on his heel, sprinting for the back of his house, towards the servant's entrance.
He didn't make it three steps.
The air in front of him thickened. It wasn't a wall; it was as if the space itself had turned to water. An invisible, viscous force grabbed him, enveloping him in a sudden, shocking embrace. He was suspended, his forward momentum instantly killed, his limbs trapped as if in a vat of clear, solidifying gel. He tried to struggle, to kick, to thrash, but his movements were slowed to a pathetic, dream-like crawl. He could breathe, but each inhalation was a labor, the pressure immense on his chest. He was caught, a fly in a cube of transparent water.
Captain Krieg walked around to stand in front of him, his movements unhurried. He was holding a small, brass-and-blue crystal compass, this was an artifact corresponding to a Sequence 7 Seafarer.
"You are not going anywhere, Mister Hass," Krieg said, his voice perfectly calm. The panic in Hass's eyes, the slow, desperate working of his jaw, seemed to be just another piece of data for the Captain to record. "The Church appreciates efficiency. Attempting to flee only confirms the validity of our investigation and saves us considerable time."
He leaned in slightly, his green eyes devoid of malice, only a cold, absolute certainty.
"You will have the opportunity to explain your dubious transactions and your connections to these 'mysterious Loenish channels.' You will do so in a court convened under the authority of the Church of Steam and Machinery. I suggest you use the time between now and then to organize your thoughts. It will go easier for you if you are… precise."
With that, Krieg turned and walked back towards the front door to signal his waiting subordinates. Korbinian Hass hung suspended in the center of his own hallway, a prisoner in a cage of water, his grand ambitions for the port now drowned, replaced by the terrifying, mechanical certainty of the Church's justice. The gears of Indaw Harbor were turning, and he had just been ground between them.
Vipers Warehouse
The world had shrunk to the surface of his small table, a landscape of pressed leaves, dried petals, and the sharp, astringent scent of crushed nightshade. Lutz, his fingers stained a faint purple, carefully compared a spindly, dark-rooted plant from a salt marsh to the detailed illustration in "A Folio of Esoteric Flora." His brow was furrowed in concentration, the scholar in him fully engaged. The book described a process—a tedious, precise series of extractions and distillations—to render the plant's inherent toxicity into a viscous, paralytic agent. It was slow work, a world away from the immediate violence of a knife, but it represented a different kind of power. A subtle one. The kind that didn't require you to be in the same room as your enemy.
This was the new frontier of his survival: layering knowledge upon power. The Marauder took what was available, and knowledge was the most potent, most unguarded resource of all.
A sharp, authoritative rap at his door shattered the quiet focus. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence, so unlike Henrik's shuffling approach or the casual, heavy-footed thumps of the other Vipers. It was Karl.
Lutz didn't startle. He simply closed the book with a soft thud, his movements deliberate. He swept the botanical samples into a small leather pouch, sealing away the potential venom, the scholar receding as the weapon took its place.
"Enter," he said, his voice level.
The door opened and Karl filled the frame, his lean form seeming to suck the warmth from the room. He smelled of ozone and hot metal, a scent that clung to him after he used his powers. His eyes, like banked coals, scanned the room, taking in the books, the simple wardrobe, the overall austerity. They lingered for a fraction of a second on the alchemy folio before returning to Lutz.
"Studying?" Karl's tone was neutral, but the question was a probe.
"Trying to understand the local flora," Lutz replied, matching his neutrality. "Some of them can be used to treat wounds. Or poison blades." It was a half-truth, designed to project utility, not weakness.
A flicker of approval crossed Karl's face. "Good. That initiative is what we need tonight. There's a job. It's big."
He stepped fully into the room, his presence making the space feel claustrophobic. "A merchantman, the Ocean Snake's Bane, is making a run up the coast. It's carrying a payload for one of the Loenish trading consortiums. Specialized machinery parts, confidential schematics... and rumors say, a locked case for a Beyonder client. There might be Beyonders aboard as guard."
Lutz's pulse gave a single, hard thump. A ship. The open sea. There were no alleys to escape down, no rooftops to scale. It was a cage of water and wood.
"Our job is to make it disappear," Karl continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "We'll take the Viper's Fang, intercept them in the shipping lane under cover of darkness. It needs to look like a pirate attack—messy, brutal, and ultimately, a mystery. We're taking most of the able-bodied men. You're coming."
He fixed Lutz with that coalfire gaze. "This isn't a collection. This is a culling. You've proven you can handle the strange and the subtle. Now, prove you can handle the raw and the real. We sail with the tide. Three hours. Get ready."
With that, he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Lutz in a silence that now felt charged and ominous.
Three hours.
Lutz stood, and the methodical calm of the scholar was completely gone, replaced by the cold, precise calculus of a soldier preparing for battle. His mind was already running through checklists, assessing threats, and selecting tools. The principles of the Marauder were not just for theft anymore; they were for war.
Know Your Prey, Not Just Its Lair. The prey was a ship, its crew, and its hidden Beyonder guards. The lair was the trackless sea.
He moved to his wardrobe, bypassing the "Shadowsilk" and the "Elias Vogler" sets. He pulled out the "Viper's Hide." The sturdy, dark wool trousers, the reinforced tunic, the supple leather vest that could turn a bad blade. They were clothes for getting dirty, for absorbing blood and seawater, for moving with violent purpose. He dressed quickly, the familiar weight of the fabric a second skin of grim intention.
Next, the armory.
He picked up the broader knife he used for his left hand. It was a brutal, practical tool, its edge honed to a razor gleam. It was for blocking, for hacking through rope or bone, for the messy, close-quarters work where Creed's finesse might be wasted. He slid it into the sheath on his left hip.
Then, Creed. He picked up the rose-tinted stiletto. The sheath he had made for it was… functional. It was stiff, the stitching was serviceable but ugly, and it lacked the elegant curve of a master's work. But it held the blade securely and allowed for a smooth, quick draw. A week ago, he couldn't have made even this. He slid Creed home on his right hip, the weapon a constant, deadly promise.
The bandolier came next. He strapped it across his chest, the familiar weight of the six throwing knives a comforting pressure. Each one was an extension of his will, a problem-solver for distances too great for his blades.
He opened the bottom of the wardrobe and retrieved Henrik's final gift: the beautiful, silver-and-brass revolver. It was heavy, perfectly balanced, a thing of lethal beauty. He had fashioned a crude but effective armpit holster from tough leather, allowing him to conceal the weapon beneath his vest. He loaded it with six of the bullets he had purchased, the brass casings gleaming dully. It was his trump card, the argument of last resort when Beyonder powers and blades failed.
Finally, he opened the lead box. Umbra lay inside, the blood-red gems seeming to watch him. He would not wear it during combat. The whispers on a confined ship, surrounded by the potential for sudden, traumatic death, would be a shortcut to madness. But its passive spiritual perception could be a vital early-warning system. He wrapped it in a soft cloth and tucked it into a small, secured pouch on his belt. A tool, not a crutch.
His final preparation was for the insidious cost of his own power. Remembering the ravenous hunger that followed Creed's use, he took two thick, dry sausages from his small store of food and shoved them into a pocket. It was a mundane, almost ridiculous precaution, but on a ship in the midst of a battle, a moment of weakness from hunger could be fatal. The Take is Never Worth the Fall. He would not fall because of a grumbling stomach.
'Its also quite tasty'
He stood in the center of his room, a one-man army. He was armed with the subtle and the brutal: a parrying knife and a supernatural stiletto, thrown steel and a hidden gun, a whispering ring and dry sausage. He was the scholar, the thief, the killer, and the survivor, all woven into the grim fabric of the Viper's Hide.
He took one last look around the room, his gaze lingering on Henrik's journals. Then, he turned and opened the door.
The man who stepped out was not Lutz Fischer, the aspiring linguist, nor was he Andrei Hayes, the frightened transmigrator. He was a instrument of the Baron's will, a composite of stolen power and hard-won skill, walking towards the docks and the waiting darkness of the sea. The pendant of Henrik and Annelise was a cold, hidden weight against his chest, a silent witness to the path he had chosen. He was armed to the teeth, and his soul was braced for blood.