The world did not return to Captain Signeil Krieg. It remained a formless, distant void, punctuated only by the faint, rhythmic thrum of machinery that registered not as sound, but as a vibration in the marrow of his unconsciousness. He lay perfectly still on the infirmary cot in the subterranean levels of the Chevalier Church, his ginger hair stark against the white pillow, his face a mask of pale, waxy stillness. The only signs of life were the slow, measured rise and fall of his chest and the occasional, faint twitch beneath his eyelids—a brain trying to navigate the shattered landscape of its own spirit.
The door opened with a silent, pressurized hiss. Deacon Reverie Noire entered, her tall form seeming to draw the light and sound from the room. The attending doctor, who had been monitoring a bank of brass gauges whose needles quivered over etched spiritual resonance scales, snapped to attention, her face tightening with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Deacon," the physician whispered, bowing her head.
Noire's obscure amethyst eyes passed over the physician as if she were a piece of furniture and settled on Krieg's motionless form. She did not ask for a report. Her presence demanded it.
"His condition," she stated, her voice a low, cool chord that vibrated in the sterile air.
The physician, Jolkter, swallowed. "Acute Astral Feedback, Deacon. The spirit body has been severely strained, like a muscle torn from the bone. The Scales of Judgment held the karmic debt at bay during the engagement, but the cost has been paid in full. His consciousness has retreated to the deepest strata to avoid a full rupture."
She gestured to the gauges. "Life signs are stable. But his spiritual signature is... faint. It will take days for it to cohere again. A week, perhaps more.
Noire listened, her gaze never leaving Krieg. She observed the slight, sickly sheen of sweat on his brow, the absolute vulnerability of the man who was typically the most dangerous predator in any room. "The cause?"
"The residue at the scene... it's a mess of conflicting high-level energies. There was a conceptual battle. The Captain issued multiple high-concept prohibitions using 1-082, Judge's Balancer. But there's another signature, degenerate and corrupt. Our initial analysis suggests a Rose Bishop from the aurora order.
A flicker of something cold and sharp passed through Noire's eyes. "An Apostle. Here." She finally turned her head, and the full force of her attention fell upon Physician Jolkter. "And the other participant? The one who fled."
"The secondary spiritual residue is weaker, but clearer. Acquisitive. Appropriating. It matches the profile we have for the 'Harbor Butcher.' A Marauder. It seems the Captain stumbled into a conflict between them."
Noire processed this with terrifying speed. Her lips thinned into a bloodless line. "The Butcher is no longer a local nuisance. He is a magnet for existential threats." She looked back at Krieg. "A week is a luxury we do not have. The heretic will not wait. The Butcher will use this time to burrow deeper or to flee."
"Then the board is set, even if our primary piece is... indisposed." Noire's voice was devoid of disappointment or anger; it was pure, cold calculus.
She turned fully away from Krieg, dismissing him as an active variable. Her will filled the room, a new operating directive writing itself into the very air.
"Your orders are amended, Physician Jolkter. Use every sealed artifact. Spirit-soothing rituals, focused steam-infusions of quintessence. Do you understand?"
Jolkter paled. "Deacon, the risk—"
"—is secondary to the elimination of the threat," Noire interrupted, her tone leaving no room for debate. "While you work, I will direct Lieutenant Mark. We will begin a systematic constriction of the Salt-Weep district. We will sever their supply lines, arrest their associates, and make it clear that the only shelter left in this city for that filth is their main warehouse."
She began to walk toward the door, her plan already fully formed and set into motion.
"Prepare him, Doctor, as soon as possible, we will collapse the Vipers' world around them. When the Aurora order's heretic arrives to claim his prize, and the Butcher is flushed into the open, we will be waiting. Captain Krieg will be present to pass judgment. And then," she said, the door hissing open before her, "we will burn out the infection."
The door sealed shut behind her, leaving the physician alone with the silent, broken Captain and the terrifying weight of the deadline. The hiss-clank of the pneumatic pump now sounded like a countdown.
The first sliver of dawn was a knife-edge of grey light cutting through the grime on his window. Lutz was already awake, had been for hours, the phantom scents of acid and blood still clinging to the inside of his nose. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford. The clock was ticking, and the first move had to be made before the city fully stirred.
His reflection in the cracked washbasin mirror was a familiar stranger—sharp features, gray-blue eyes shadowed with fatigue and a simmering, cold purpose. That face, Lutz Fischer's face, was a liability now. Krieg had seen it, and if the Captain had survived, his description would be circulating. The Rose Bishop had surely imprinted it on his soul. He needed to become a ghost, a collection of interchangeable parts.
The first and most critical part was a new skin.
He didn't choose a disguise from the Viper's repertoire of thugs and cutthroats. That world was too small, too known. Instead, he reached for the persona of "Elias Vogler," the disgraced Feysac nobleman. It was a persona with a pre-established level of respectability, one that could venture into parts of the city where a dockyard thug would be instantly noted and remembered. He dressed in the best of his Elias clothes—a clean, if slightly worn, white shirt, a waistcoat of dark blue wool, and trousers that held a crease. He checked his appearance. The scholar, the gentleman down on his luck. It was a lie, but a plausible one.
The city outside was holding its breath. The air felt different, tighter. As he moved from the Salt-Weep district towards the more affluent commercial avenues, he saw the signs of the Church's tightening grip. A pair of Church enforcers in their dark beige greatcoats stood at a major intersection, their eyes scanning the crowd with a new, predatory intensity. Their presence was no longer a occasional patrol; it was an occupation. Lutz kept his head down, his posture that of a man preoccupied with his own troubles, nothing to see here, just a poor scholar on an errand. He felt their gaze slide over him and away, dismissing him. The first test, passed.
His destination was a shop called "The Gilded Needle," nestled in a respectable lane where the smells of salt and fish were replaced by the subtler aromas of coffee, beeswax, and expensive perfume. It was a place that catered to merchants, minor officials, and the aspiring middle class—people who cared about appearance but weren't so rich as to have everything tailor-made. The bell above the door chimed as he entered.
The interior was quiet, smelling of new cloth and cedar. A lone clerk, a young man with meticulously parted hair and a slightly pinched expression, looked up from behind a counter. His eyes did a quick, practiced assessment of Lutz—taking in the quality of the waistcoat, the slight wear on the boots, categorizing him as someone with a little money, but not a lot.
"Can I help you, sir?" the clerk asked, his tone neutral.
Lutz adopted Elias Vogler's slightly haughty, slightly weary demeanor. "I require a selection of wigs," he said, his voice crisp. "And several sets of ready-to-wear clothing. Trousers, shirts, coats. Serviceable, nondescript. Nothing fashionable."
The clerk's eyebrows rose slightly. It was an odd request. Most customers wanted to stand out, not blend in. "Of course, sir. May I ask the occasion? We have some excellent new arrivals from Loen that—"
Lutz cut him off, layering a touch of aristocratic impatience into his tone. He needed to control the interaction, to shut down curiosity before it could take root. "I am funding a theatrical production. For the amateur players's society at the university. These are for the actors. I need variety, not quality."
It was a flimsy lie, but delivered with enough arrogant certainty to be convincing. The clerk's pinched expression softened into one of understanding, albeit a understanding based on a complete fiction. Rich men had eccentric hobbies.
"Ah, I see. Well, for character roles, of course." The clerk became brisk and efficient. He brought out a catalogue of wigs—curled, powdered, and straight, in shades of brown, black, and a stark, theatrical white.
Lutz pointed with a decisive finger. "That one. The short, brown, straight. And that black, slightly longer. And the grey one, the one that looks like a tradesman's." He avoided anything too dramatic. He needed to become other people, not a caricature.
Next came the clothes. He rejected anything with flair or distinctive color. He chose two pairs of sturdy brown trousers, three simple collared shirts in white and grey, a dark green workman's coat, and a heavier, hooded duffel coat of a coarse, navy wool. Every item was chosen for its ability to disappear in a crowd.
As the clerk tallied the cost on a small slate, Lutz felt a familiar, acquisitive itch. His Marauder instincts, sharpened by the impending danger, scanned the shop. The brass cash register. The clerk's own fine silver cufflinks. A bolt of expensive-looking silk on a shelf. It would be so easy. A distraction, a bump, and he could have the cufflinks. He could probably empty the register on his way out.
He crushed the impulse. That was the old Lutz, thinking in terms of petty scores. The new Lutz was playing for a much higher stake. Drawing any attention here, now, would be catastrophic. Theft was his nature, but survival was his doctrine. For now, survival meant paying.
"The total comes to four Hammers, seven Shields," the clerk said, a note of expectation in his voice. It was a small fortune for a common laborer, a significant sum for a struggling scholar.
Lutz didn't flinch. He counted out the coins from a purse he'd taken from the Ocean Snake's Bane, the gold Hammers ringing softly on the counter. The clerk's eyes widened slightly at the sight of so much ready cash, but he said nothing, quickly sweeping the coins into his drawer. The transaction itself was another layer of disguise—a man who could drop five Hammers on costumes without blinking was not a man to be questioned too closely.
As the clerk wrapped the purchases in brown paper and twine, Lutz stood by the window, casually observing the street. A Church steam-wagon rumbled past, its brass fittings gleaming dully in the morning light. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the wagon's steady chugging. Every second in the open felt like an eternity.
"Your parcels, sir," the clerk said, handing over the two large, wrapped bundles.
Lutz took them, gave a curt nod, and left, the bell chiming his exit. He didn't head straight back to the Salt-Weep. He walked for twenty minutes, taking a circuitous route, his senses screaming, Umbra a heavy, silent weight in his pocket. He ducked into a public bathhouse, paid a copper to use a changing cubicle, and emerged minutes later as a different man. The Elias Vogler clothes were folded in the bottom of a bag. He now wore the rough trousers and the duffel coat, the grey wig covering his ash-blonde hair, giving him the look of a ship's clerk or a minor tradesman. He transferred his most vital gear—Creed, the revolver, the coins—to the inner pockets of the new coat.
The walk back was a study in controlled terror. Every glance felt like a accusation. Every footstep behind him seemed to be matching his pace. He saw the world through a thief's eyes, cataloging every escape route, every shadowed doorway, every potential threat. The Church's presence was a net, slowly dragging through the waters of the city, and he was a fish trying to dart between its strands.
Finally, he slipped back into his room, bolting the door and leaning against it, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He unwrapped the parcels, laying the wigs and clothes on his bed. They were just objects, horsehair and woven wool, but they represented his first, concrete step towards invisibility.
He looked at the collection, then at his own grim reflection in the window. Five Hammers. A king's ransom for a pile of lies. But it was the best investment he'd ever made. He had bought himself the raw materials for multiple new lives. Now, he just had to stitch them together before the hounds at his door stopped sniffing and started breaking it down. The first day had begun, and he was still alive. For now, it was enough.