Lutz moved through the throng of hooded figures, the new weight of the Sun charms and the manual a comforting pressure against his chest. Then, he saw her. Lorelei's stall was an island of subtle elegance in the cavern's chaos, and she herself was, as always, a vision of practical appeal. Her dark hair was tied back simply, and her gray eyes, sharp and knowing, found his immediately, a genuine smile touching her lips.
"Lutz," she said, her voice a welcome anchor in the market's psychic static. "I'm pleased to see you in One Piece. The Harbor feels… tense."
"It does," he acknowledged, his own guard lowering a fraction in her presence. "I've come for the artifact. The Poet's characteristic."
Lorelei's smile widened. "Of course." From beneath the counter, she retrieved a long, slender box of polished driftwood. She opened the lid, revealing the object nestled on a bed of black velvet.
It was a whistle, about the length of his hand, carved from a deep, midnight-blue material that seemed to hold a miniature cosmos within. White specks, like distant stars, were scattered across its surface. It had three holes along the top, arranged like a simple flute.
"The Night's Melody," Lorelei announced, her tone turning professional. "Forged from the essence of a Midnight Poet. It plays three different melodies, each with a different effect, determined by which holes you press." She pointed with a delicate finger.
"Play it with no holes pressed, and it will induce sleep in a decent area around you. Not a violent unconsciousness, but a gentle, irresistible pull into slumber, it won't be too effective against mentally disrupted targets, such as someone trying to kill you." She moved her finger to the first hole. "Press this one, and the melody will induce a profound calm. People will become docile, unwilling to fight, their aggression draining away." Her finger hovered over the second hole. "Press these two together, and the tune will bring a heavy drowsiness. It will feel like your targets have lead in their limbs, slowing their movements, making them clumsy."
She looked up, her gaze intense. "The effects are cumulative. The longer someone is exposed to a melody, the stronger it becomes. And all of them are more potent at night."
Then came the cost. "The negative effects are twofold," she warned. "First, the melodies affect you, too, though to a lesser degree than your targets. You must have a strong will to resist the lullaby you're conducting. Second…" she paused for emphasis, "…simply carrying it with you, even unused, will make you passively feel sleepy. It exudes a constant, low-grade lethargy."
Lutz's mind, ever analytical, had already made the connection. "And my ring?" he asked, glancing at the ring on his finger. "The whispers… could they counter the sleep? Wake me up."
Lorelei nodded, a flicker of admiration in her eyes. "They can. The psychic scream of the Listener can shatter the Poet's lullaby, you can use one to counter the other." Her expression grew grave. "But I must advise you, do not abuse this. Hearing those screams and whispers isn't a temporary inconvenience. It is a slow, insidious accumulation of madness in the mind. If you constantly use the ring to shield yourself from the whistle or something else, you will be trading one kind of stupor for another, far more dangerous, kind of insanity. You will end up a madman, lost to the voices."
Lutz accepted the driftwood box. The moment his fingers touched the Night's Melody, he felt it—a soft, drowsy pressure at the back of his mind, like the promise of a deep sleep after a long day. But almost immediately, the cold whisper of Umbra on his finger rose in response, a dissonant counterpoint that pushed the lethargy to the edges of his consciousness. It was manageable, for now. A constant, delicate balancing act.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "For the artifact, and for the warning." He thought of the coming conflict, the chaos where such a tool would be invaluable. Then, a practical question arose. "This madness… from the whispers. Is there a way to purge it?"
Lorelei sighed softly. "It is complicated. Common practices—intense asceticism, deep meditation—can help stabilize the mind and slow the accumulation. But to truly purge accumulated madness… one usually must seek out a special type of Beyonder, or a Beyonder item, one that specializes in mending and altering the mind itself. Such things are rare and never come cheap, you will also be completely exposed to them"
The transaction felt complete. Lutz secured the box in his harness, adding the sleep-inducing whistle to his growing arsenal. He gave Lorelei a final nod and turned to leave, his mind already cataloging the new variables.
"Lutz," Lorelei called out, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant.
He stopped and turned back.
She looked away for a moment, a slight, uncharacteristic blush coloring her cheeks. "Due to the increased presence of the Church in the city… and their new… aggressiveness… my partner and I have decided to move our operations. To St. Millom. The capital. With such a volume of people and power, it's easier to hide."
Lutz processed this. The Conveyor was fleeing. It was a sobering testament to the danger he himself had helped orchestrate. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral. "Wouldn't that put you in danger if I had… bad intentions?"
Lorelei met his gaze again, her blush deepening slightly. She took a small breath, her composure faltering. "Well… It's because—"
"You dare insult my discernment? This tincture is diluted with well-water!"
A furious shout erupted from a nearby stall, a large man in a feathered cloak jabbing a finger at a cowering vendor. The argument exploded from a simmer to a rolling boil in seconds, voices rising, threatening to drown out all other conversation in the cavern.
The moment was shattered. Lorelei's intimate tone vanished, her professional mask snapping back into place as she glanced towards the disturbance. The unspoken words hung in the air between them, charged and unresolved. The spell was broken, but the echo of it remained, a new and complicated thread in the web of his life, even as the market around them descended into noisy chaos.
The sudden eruption of arguments wasn't just bad luck; it was a pattern. As the first two men began shoving each other, Lutz's spiritual intuition, provided by Umbra, screamed a warning. This wasn't normal market friction. His eyes, sharp and searching, scanned the cavern and locked onto a man moving with a predator's casual grace through the crowd. Wherever he passed, minor squabbles ignited like kindling. A misplaced elbow here, a hissed accusation there. And in the moments of distraction, the man's hand would dart out, fingers deftly plucking a small item from a stall—a vial, a charm, a coin purse—before melting back into the throng.
A thief. But not a Marauder. This was something else. A provocateur who used emotion as his smokescreen.
Lutz didn't hesitate. He acted not as a vigilante, but as a pragmatist. This chaos threatened to draw the attention of the market's hidden enforcers or, worse, collapse the delicate truce that allowed the bazaar to exist. He took it out of the box and raised the Night's Melody to his lips, his fingers covering the first hole. He blew a soft, clear note.
The second melody, the Song of Soothing, flowed through the cavern. It was not a loud sound, but it carried, a wave of palpable calm washing over the heated crowd. The two men who had been about to trade blows paused, their rage visibly draining away, replaced by confusion and a sudden, profound docility. The other minor arguments around the market sputtered and died out as the melody reached them. The thief's carefully cultivated garden of discord was wilting.
Lutz saw the man stop and look around, his expression shifting from smug satisfaction to sharp confusion. The sound was interfering with his abilities. Their eyes met across the cavern. Douglass saw the whistle at Lutz's lips, understood the source of the disruption, and his confusion twisted into annoyance.
Lutz began moving toward him, still playing the soothing melody, using the crowd's newfound passivity as his shield. He knew a fight was coming. The man's power was mental, emotional. To face it, he needed a clear head, even if it came at a cost. With his free hand, he pulled Umbra from his finger, stuffing it into his pocket. The cacophony of whispers vanished, and with it, the buffer against the whistle's passive effect. A wave of lethargy immediately washed over him, but it was a clean, predictable drowsiness, not the corrosive madness of the ring.
He drew his revolver with his now-free hand, the weight of it solid and real. He leveled it at Douglass, the whistle still held in his other, his breath steadying to maintain the melody.
Douglass, seeing the weapon and understanding the threat, didn't run. His eyes narrowed, and he focused his will. Lutz felt it immediately—not an external attack, but an internal eruption. It was as if a psychic whip had lashed directly into his mind, seizing his emotional core and twisting it. A red-hot, irrational fury flooded his system. His finger tightened on the trigger, his vision tunneling on his target, every instinct screaming to fire, to kill, to destroy.
Frenzy.
But Lutz was a creature of layered consciousness. Buried beneath the artificially induced rage was the cold, analytical core of Andrei Hayes, and the street-survivor's instincts of Lutz Fischer. Umbra's whispers had hardened his body of mind and soul, making him not succumb immediately. He recognized the feeling as foreign, an invasion. With a monumental effort of will, he forced the hand holding the whistle back to his lips. He blew again, the same soothing melody.
The effect was paradoxical and brutal. The calming notes washed over him, directly combatting the psychic frenzy. The red haze of rage receded, leaving behind a throbbing, psychic headache, like a bruise on his soul. But he was calm. The urge to shoot was gone, replaced by a strange, detached placidity. He still held the revolver, but the intent had been leeched away.
Douglass's eyes widened in shock. He had never seen anyone break a Frenzy so quickly, and certainly not by soothing themselves into submission. This opponent was dangerously adaptable. He changed tactics. Instead of targeting a single mind, he projected his will outwards in a wave.
Awe.
An invisible pulse of pure, primal terror emanated from him. Around Douglass, people screamed, dropping to the ground, clutching their heads, or turning to flee in blind panic. The market, which had just been calmed, descended into a new, more visceral chaos.
Lutz, standing his ground, didn't know what "Awe" was, but he felt its leading edge, a cold dread trying to claw its way up his spine. He had already braced his will, expecting another mental assault. His mind, still floating in the docile state induced by the whistle, didn't have the sharp edges of fear for the Awe to easily grab onto. The terror washed over him, but it was muted, like a shout from another room. He swayed on his feet, his grip on the revolver slackening slightly, but he didn't panic. He didn't run.
He stood there, a statue of eerie calm in a sea of terror, the gentle melody of the whistle still spilling from his lips, his eyes locked on Douglass with a placid, unnerving intensity. The Psychiatrist had thrown his best shots, and this stranger had weathered them through a combination of bizarre artifacts and iron will. For the first time, a flicker of genuine fear appeared in Douglass's eyes.