The annihilation of the Ocean Snake's Bane was complete. The metallic scent of blood had overpowered the salt of the sea, and the only sounds were the groans of the wounded, the crackle of lingering, unnatural frost, and the rough, victorious laughter of the Vipers. Lutz stood over the sealed chest he'd pulled from the bilges, his body thrumming with the aftermath of combat and the keen, acquisitive pull of his instincts. This was the true prize.
He pried the lid open, the simple lock yielding to his Agile Hands. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was an object that defied immediate comprehension. It was a small, fleshy organ, no larger than his thumb. But it was all wrong. Its color shifted in the dim light, holding a dreamy, opalescent sheen, like oil on water or the inside of a shell. Veins of silver and faint purple threaded through it, and it seemed to pulse with a light that wasn't light, a rhythm that was out of sync with Lutz's own heartbeat. It felt both organic and utterly alien.
Beside it lay a slip of aged paper, its edges brittle. In a spidery, precise script, it read: Dream-eating Rat Heart.
A thrill, cold and sharp, shot through him. This was no mere ingredient; it was from a creature he'd never heard of. The name alone suggested a pathway related to dreams, to illusions, to the mind. Its value was incalculable, both for its power and the knowledge it represented. His mind raced, already cataloging its potential, the rituals it could fuel, the secrets it might hold about pathways beyond his own. This was a key to a door he hadn't even known existed.
"An interesting find, Fischer."
The voice came from directly behind him, smooth and devoid of any sound of approach. Lutz's body went rigid, every instinct screaming. He hadn't heard a footstep. Slowly, he turned to face Karl.
The Baron's Spark stood there, his lean form a dark silhouette against the blood-smeared deck. His eyes, like banked coals, weren't on Lutz, but on the open chest. There was no anger in his face, only a calm, proprietary assessment.
"The Vice-Captain's characteristic is yours," Karl stated, his voice a low murmur that nonetheless cut through the ambient noise. "You earned that. A Midnight Poet is a rare prize. But the Captain's… and this," he gestured with a long-fingered hand towards the dreamy heart, "belongs to the Baron."
The words landed not like a request, but a immutable law of physics. A white-hot spike of pure, incandescent rage flared in Lutz's mind. Mine. I found it. I killed for it. I bled for it. The Thief's soul within him recoiled at the very notion of surrendering such a treasure. His fingers, resting near Creed's hilt, twitched with the urge to simply take it and run. The thought was a flash of insanity, a suicidal impulse born of sheer, possessive fury.
He saw it all in a split second: Karl's effortless incineration of the Gray Sharks, the surgical precision of his flames, the absolute power he represented. To defy him here was to become ash and be tossed overboard, another piece of debris from the battle. The Baron's words from his initiation echoed in his memory: "A price must be something you are not willing to pay." Was his life the price for this heart?
The rage was compressed, folded, and locked away in a hidden vault within his psyche. It didn't disappear; it became fuel, another log on the pyre of his long-term vengeance. He forced his expression into a mask of weary acceptance, layering it with a hint of respectful understanding.
"Of course," Lutz said, his voice even, betraying none of the storm within. He carefully closed the lid of the chest and handed it to Karl. "It was a team effort. The Baron's investment paid off."
Karl's lips quirked in a ghost of a smile, as if he could see right through the performance and appreciated its quality nonetheless. He took the chest without another word, turning away to oversee the final stages of the looting. The transaction was complete. Lutz had stolen a victory and saved Karl's life; Karl had stolen the ultimate prize. The balance of theft, for now, was maintained.
The loss was a physical ache, a hollow space in his gut where the promise of the heart had been. He needed to fill it. He needed to take something else.
While the other Vipers were busy hauling crates of less mystical but still valuable cargo—fine silks, Intisian brandy, Loenish machined parts—onto their own ship, Lutz slipped back into the Captain's quarters. The room had been picked over, but his Superior Observation, that innate sense for value, tugged him towards a heavy oak wardrobe, its door splintered from a previous search.
He pushed the broken door aside. Inside, amidst ruined uniforms and a toppled strongbox already emptied of coin, was a long, canvas-wrapped bundle shoved into the back corner. He pulled it free, unrolling it on the Captain's bunk. Inside was a short shotgun.
It was a brutal, functional weapon, shorter and smaller than standard, with a weathered walnut stock and twin, side-by-side barrels. A "Sawed-off", perfect for close-quarters naval combat. It was solid and easy to carry. He broke it open. Clean. Well-maintained. A quick search of the wardrobe's base yielded a wooden box containing two dozen red shotgun shells. Lutz didn't hesitate. He took the gun, the box of shells, and a leather bandolier he found hanging inside, stuffing the pockets with ammunition.
This was his. Not by permission, but by right of discovery. A small, concrete compensation for the dream he'd been forced to surrender. The weight of the shotgun in his hands was a comfort, a tangible piece of power that couldn't be argued away.
An hour later, the transfer was complete. The Viper's Fang, was laden with plunder. The surviving crew of the Ocean Snake's Bane, mostly cooks, stewards, and a few terrified deckhands, had been rounded up. They were a pitiful group, huddled on the main deck, their faces pale with fear.
"We're just leaving them?" Lutz asked Gerhart, who was coiling a rope nearby, his scarred face impassive.
"Orders," the older enforcer grunted. "Ship's crippled, but it floats. Let 'em drift. Sends a message. Cheaper than feeding prisoners."
Lutz looked at the civilians. He saw a young man, no older than himself, trembling uncontrollably. He saw an older woman with greying hair, clutching a small, wooden pendant and praying softly to the God of Steam. These were the "acceptable losses" Karl had spoken of. His own, feeble objection before the battle felt childish now. Karl had been right. In this world, a conscience was a luxury.
But as he watched them, a cold, pragmatic thought surfaced. Letting them go wasn't just about sending a message; it was about leaving no witnesses who could describe the Vipers' specific Beyonder abilities to the authorities. It was smart. It was business. And he was part of that business now, complicit by his inaction.
The Viper's Fang's sails caught the wind, pulling them away from the ravaged merchant vessel. Lutz stood at the stern, the newly acquired Sawed-off shotgun resting against the rail, and watched the Ocean Snake's Bane shrink on the horizon.
It was a stark, lonely silhouette against the vast, indifferent canvas of the sea. Its mainmast was a splintered stump, its decks strewn with the dead. It looked less like a ship and more like a floating tomb, a monument to the carnage they had unleashed. The figures of the survivors were tiny, desperate specks, their fate now entrusted to the currents and the mercy of the deep.
He had stood on a ship like that once, he realized. Not in body, but in spirit. The day he'd hanged himself in a dusty closet, the original Lutz Fischer had been just as adrift, just as doomed. Andrei Hayes, plummeting through whatever cosmic error had brought him here, had been equally lost. They had both been on a derelict ship, waiting to be swallowed by the dark.
Now, he was on the ship that did the swallowing. He was the storm, the predator, the reaper. He had traded the terror of the victim for the grim burden of the victor. The weight of Creed and the shotgun were his new anchors. The whispers of Umbra in its pouch at his belt were his new compass. The memory of Henrik's pendant was his distant, fading star.
He had saved Karl's life, gaining his respect. He had been acknowledged. He had grown richer and more powerful. He had taken another step on his path.
So why did the sight of that receding wreck fill him with such a profound, desolate emptiness? It was as if a part of him, the last ghost of Andrei Hayes who still believed in right and wrong, was standing on that deck, watching himself sail away into a darkness of his own making. He was leaving a piece of his own wreckage behind.
The Ocean Snake's Bane became a smudge, then a dot, and then was gone, absorbed by the sea and the gathering twilight. Lutz turned his back on the empty horizon. The city of Indaw Harbor was coming into view, its gaslights beginning to twinkle like a nest of fallen stars. It was a different kind of sea, just as treacherous, just as hungry.
He had a Midnight Poet's characteristic to analyze, a betrayal to plan, a Church investigator to evade, and a Baron to eventually destroy. The hollow feeling would pass. It had to. He would fill it with knowledge, with power, with the spoils of the next hunt, and the one after that.
The return to Indaw Harbor was a silent, grim procession. The victorious shouts and rough laughter had died down, replaced by the weary, methodical work of docking and securing the Viper's Fang. The adrenaline that had sustained Lutz through the battle had long since burned away, leaving behind a residue of bone-deep fatigue and a peculiar, hollow ache. As the gangplank slammed onto the familiar, grimy wood of the wharf, the Vipers moved with the practiced efficiency of worker ants, forming chains to unload the crates of plunder and begin the long, conspicuous trek back to the main warehouse in the Salt-Weep district.
Lutz didn't join the chain. He caught Karl's eye for a moment, a silent exchange of understanding. He had done his part, and more. He was owed this small autonomy. With a curt nod from the Pyromaniac, Lutz slipped away from the bustling dock, melting into the labyrinthine alleys that led away from the water. He moved not with the swagger of a conqueror returning home, but with the weary vigilance of a predator returning to its den, hyper-aware of every shadow, every sound.
The journey to his rented room was a blur of damp brick and the distant, ever-present scent of salt, fish, and coal smoke. He didn't see the city; he navigated it by instinct, his mind turned inward, processing the carnage, the loss of the Dream-eating Rat Heart, the weight of the new weapon on his shoulder.
Finally, he reached his door. The simple lock yielded to his touch with a soft click that sounded like a sigh of relief. He stepped inside, bolted the door behind him, and for a long moment, simply leaned against it, allowing the silence and the relative safety of the four walls to envelop him. The only light came from the faint glow of a gas lamp in the street below, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.