Lutz didn't wait. The moment the spiritual pressure broke, he was moving again, putting distance between himself and the two mid-sequence monsters.
He didn't wait to see what happened next. Turning his sprint into a full-blown, panicked flight, he didn't look back. He didn't care about the outcome of the duel between titans. His only objective was to vanish before Krieg could decide he was a more pressing target than the Rose Bishop. He gripped Creed and poured every ounce of his will into his legs, his feet barely touching the cobblestones as he zigzagged away from the scene, heading to the only place that offered a semblance of safety through sheer numbers: the Viper's warehouse.
Krieg took a step forward, the scale in his hand unwavering. "You are in violation of the Church's sovereignty. Submit for judgment."
The Rose Bishop, Sett, offered a beatific smile that didn't reach his blood-colored eyes. "The laws made by men are so… transient."
In a movement too fast to truly follow, Sett's left hand gripped his own right wrist. There was a wet, tearing sound, not of flesh and bone, but of reality itself being rent. He pulled, and his right hand came cleanly off at the wrist, leaving only a stump of swirling, dark blood. He tossed the severed hand into the air between them.
'A Rose Bishop—always so theatrical. A costly gambit, that severed hand. He sacrifices a portion of his substance, not just his flesh. He is desperate to eliminate the thief, or at least to create enough chaos to cover his retreat.' Krieg analyzed.
His reaction was a blur of flawless procedure. From beneath his greatcoat, the Brass-and-blue Crystal Compass appeared in his other hand. He didn't even look at it. His focus was entirely on the hovering, disembodied hand.
He swung the compass in a short, sharp arc.
A film of water, no thicker than a pane of glass, shimmered into existence between Krieg and the Bishop. It wasn't a massive wave, but a perfectly vertical, impossibly sustained sheet of seawater, smelling of salt and deep ocean trenches.
The severed hand completed its arc. In mid-air, it convulsed and bloomed.
It exploded not with fire and force, but with a torrent of thick, crimson blood that rained down with unnatural ferocity. Where each drop of blood hit the cobblestones, the ground didn't just stain; it sizzled and smoked, dissolving into pockmarks. A toxic, violet-tinged vapor instantly filled the air, reeking of spoiled roses and acid. The corrosive rain pattered against Krieg's conjured water wall, which held firm, the blood diluted and neutralized as it passed through the liquid barrier.
The violet smoke, however, began to spread, clinging to the ground and eating away at the brickwork of the nearby buildings.
Krieg reflected on the events. 'And the thief himself… His flight was instantaneous. Not the frozen panic of a scholar, but the calculated disengagement of a professional. He used the confrontation as a diversion, nothing more. He didn't watch the spectacle; he seized the opportunity. He runs toward the Salt-Weep district. Toward the Vipers. So, the "Harbor Butcher," the "Marauder," and the "helpful translator" are indeed the same man. A neat, if infuriating, consolidation of case files. He believes the gang's den will protect him. A short-sighted view. The Rose Bishop will not be deterred by a few dozen thugs. And now, neither will I.'
The Captain's voice was calm, cutting through the hiss of dissolving stone. "Your defiance is noted." The compass still in one hand.
'This changes the priority. The Bishop is a clear and present danger, a symptom of the infection. But the thief is the source of the contagion. He is the variable that destabilized the harbor's fragile ecosystem.' Krieg determined.
The corrosive smoke began to thin, clinging to the scarred cobblestones. On the other side of the dissipating water wall, the Rose Bishop, Sett, watched Lutz's fleeing back disappear into the maze of alleys. A faint, genuine smile now touched his lips.
Sett rejoiced. 'Run, little thief. Run to your hole. It makes the final cornering so much more satisfying. Such delightful panic. I can still taste it on the air, a crisp note of fear overlaid on that base. He is craftier than anticipated for a Sequence 9. The ring on his finger… a Listener's toy, it resonated with me and managed to alert him. An insult added to theft.'
'That Judge artifact is a complication. All order and rigid law. So tedious. His "prohibitions" are like trying to hold back the tide with a broom. But he is correct about one thing: this is not his territory. It is a hunting ground. And he is interfering with a sanctioned retrieval.
The confrontation did not end with the thief's flight. For Krieg and Sett, his escape was merely an intermission. The primary objective had shifted. Now, it was a duel of principles: Order against Degeneration.
Seeing Krieg block his corrosive blood-rain, Sett's body lost its defined form. It was a horrifying sight, a sculpture of raw meat and pulsating veins collapsing into a single, amorphous mass. This blob of flesh and blood then compressed and shot forward like a cannonball, moving with terrifying speed straight towards Krieg, leaving a slick, red trail on the cobblestones.
Krieg didn't flinch. His mind was a cold engine of assessment. Physical transformation. High-speed, likely blunt-force impact. The body is a weapon, but the consciousness must be anchored somewhere. He raised the brass scale, its glow intensifying, and his voice, devoid of all emotion, declared a single word in Hermes that cracked through the air like a judge's gavel:
"Exile."
It was not a physical shockwave, but a spiritual one. The law was not against movement, but against presence. The effect on the charging blob of flesh was immediate and violent. It wasn't pushed back; it was spiritually unmoored. The entity known as Sett, the consciousness piloting the monstrous form, felt a part of its very being—its spirit body—forcibly ejected from the immediate vicinity of its physical form. The blob shuddered to a halt, quivering mere feet from Krieg. The flesh lost its coordinated purpose, becoming a mere twitching, mindless heap. From within the meat, a muffled scream of agony echoed—the sound of a spirit struggling to reinhabit its violated vessel.
The spirit body is the anchor, Krieg analyzed coldly, observing the creature's distress. Shape the flesh all you want, but the mind is vulnerable. A temporary solution. He didn't wait for recovery. He pronounced the next sentence.
"Flog."
The air itself coalesced into a whip of pure, concussive force, invisible and silent, lashing out at the stunned mass of flesh with the intent to flay it apart.
Sett, his spirit still screaming from the "Exile," managed a desperate, reflexive defense. A portion of the quivering meat bulged outward, transforming in an instant into a thick, wet cloak of interwoven muscle fibers and sticky, coagulating blood. The invisible whip struck it.
THWUMP.
The sound was sickeningly organic. The flesh-cloak absorbed the impact, bursting apart in a spray of dark blood and tissue fragments. It was a brutal, successful sacrifice. But the force was not entirely negated. A fine mist of Sett's blood sprayed outward, and a single, hot drop landed on Krieg's left thigh, immediately seeping through the fabric of his trousers.
Sett, his spirit now snapping back into control of his main body, felt the connection instantly. Through that drop of blood, he felt the Judge's life force, the steady, ordered rhythm of his heartbeat. A smile of triumph twisted what passed for his face. He didn't need a grand ritual now; he had a direct link.
He recited two words, his voice a guttural rasp: "Blood Curse."
On Krieg's leg, the spot where the blood had landed erupted in a searing, red infection. A corruption that burned directly into the flesh and blood, a agony designed to cripple the body and shatter concentration. Krieg grunted, a sharp, involuntary sound, his jaw clenching. The pain was exquisite, focused, like a hot needle driven into his soul.
But Krieg was a professional. His training overrode agony. His left hand, already holding the Seafarer's Compass, didn't falter. He swung the compass in a tight circle around his own leg. A vortex of clean, salt-smelling water materialized, enveloping his limb from hip to boot. The infection hissed violently as it was quenched by the spiritually neutralizing seawater, this was a purification spell in the water domain, basic, but effective. The curse diluted and washed away, leaving behind only a raw, painful burn on his skin and a fading echo in his spirit.
He had mitigated the attack, but the delay was what Sett had wanted.
In the two seconds it took Krieg to cleanse himself, the Rose Bishop acted. With a sound like tearing canvas, a large portion of his own torso separated. It hit the ground not as a lump of meat, but as a humanoid form that rapidly assembled itself—a Flesh Puppet. It was mindless, eyeless, its only purpose programmed into its very cells: charge and detonate.
The puppet lunged at Krieg just as the Captain finished rinsing off the curse.
Krieg's eyes, cold and green, calculated the new variable. Distraction. Meant to occupy me while the main body escapes or prepares another strike. He wouldn't play that game. He would break the distraction utterly.
He didn't shout the word. He stated it, a final verdict.
"Death."
The moment the word left his lips, his body became a blur. He didn't run. He moved so fast he left a perfect, solid-looking afterimage in his original spot, while his true form closed the distance to the charging puppet in the space of a heartbeat. It was the ultimate enforcement of a decree: the sentence of death would be carried out personally and immediately.
As he moved, the compass in his hand glowed. A film of water sheathed his entire body, a second skin of protective ocean.
His actual strike was a simple, open-palmed thrust to the puppet's center of mass, but it carried the accumulated force of the "Death" decree. His hand didn't just hit the flesh; it delivered the concept of termination directly into its core.
The Flesh Puppet exploded. A balloon of meat and blood burst in a spectacularly violent discharge, covering the immediate area in a gory shower.
But Krieg was prepared. The film of water surrounding him acted as a perfect barrier. The blood and viscera hit the shimmering aqueous layer and slid right off, falling harmlessly to the already ruined street. He stood, unblemished, in the center of the carnage, the water shield dissolving around him.
Sett's smug expression finally cracked. He knew someone with a Judge's powers was not an enemy to face in a straight, prolonged duel, considering most of his arsenal was either in the domain of flesh and blood or shadows, they were very easy neutralize with laws. His body began to dissolve back into the lingering, non-sentient shadows, his form becoming indistinct.
He turned his gaze back to where Sett's main body had been, his scale already rising, ready to pronounce a final, absolute judgment.
The Rose Bishop, Sett, knew the calculus of the engagement had turned against him. The Judge's "Exile" had laid bare a critical vulnerability in his flesh-shaping arts. The spirit-body was the keystone, and this damned Church enforcer had a hammer for keystones. Sett's main mass began to flow backward, not as a blob, but as a slick, retreating tide of blood and tissue, seeking the deepest shadows of the nearest alley. Escape was the only rational move. He would reclaim the Heart another night, from a position of advantage.
He had barely crossed the threshold of the alley mouth when Captain Krieg's voice rang out, cold and final. There was no room for appeal in its tone.
"Imprison."
The word in Hermes did not create walls of stone or iron. It defined a new, unbreakable law of locality. The very space Sett occupied became his jailer. An invisible, tangible force solidified around him in a perfect cube, like a sudden, perfect amber trapping a prehistoric insect. The retreating tide of flesh slammed against the unseen barriers, quivering from the impact. He was caught, fully exposed, his form pressed against the transparent walls of his cage. He could see the ruined street, the stoic Captain, but he could not move, could not flow, could not escape. The law of imprisonment was absolute.
Krieg did not pause for triumph or taunts. The sentence was passed; now came the execution. The Brass-and-blue Crystal Compass in his left hand glowed with a soft, aquatic light. He didn't conjure a wave or a wall. He focused the power with surgical precision. With a flick of his wrist, a dozen projectiles of hyper-compressed seawater shot from the compass's face. They were not bullets; they were lances of pure hydrokinetic force, moving faster than the eye could follow, hissing through the air with the sound of a tearing sail.
They struck the imprisoned mass of flesh with brutal, pinpoint accuracy.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Each projectile punched a clean, cylindrical hole straight through Sett's amorphous body. The sound was a wet, percussive series of impacts. Dark, viscous blood and shredded tissue exploded outward from the entry and exit wounds, spraying against the inside of the invisible prison walls. The Rose Bishop convulsed, a silent scream of agony and rage manifesting as a violent shudder throughout his entire form. The holes did not close. The water lances had carried the concept of "piercing" so perfectly that they disrupted the very cohesion of his flesh, leaving behind weeping, cauterized-looking tunnels.
This time, Krieg was already in motion, stepping laterally and with purpose, placing himself well clear of the bloody spray that now painted the interior of the invisible cube. He watched, his expression one of detached analysis, as the Rose Bishop's body was systematically riddled with holes, its structure becoming like a porous, bloody sponge.
The "Imprisonment" held. Sett was trapped, punctured, and bleeding out within a transparent coffin of his own making, defeated not by overwhelming force, but by the inexorable application of law and order.