The calculus of the fight shifted in an instant. The Awe had failed. The Frenzy had been broken. Douglass, was no longer a predator but a cornered animal, and Lutz was the cold, patient hand closing the trap. The soothing melody had served its purpose, stabilizing his own mind, but now he was feeling sleepy, he needed to end this. He needed to ground this bird who thought he could fly on the winds of emotion.
He changed the tune.
His fingers shifted on the Night's Melody, covering two of the holes. He blew, and a new, deeper, more lethargic sound wafted through the chaotic air. The Third Melody: the Song of Slowness.
The effect was immediate and visceral. A profound, bone-deep weariness washed over Lutz. It was as if a lifetime of fatigue had been injected directly into his marrow. The weight of his revolver, previously so familiar, now felt like an anvil in his hand. His stance widened unconsciously, his body fighting to stay upright against the sudden, magical gravity. His thoughts themselves seemed to slow, swimming through a thick syrup. But it didn't matter. He was already braced. Already aimed. The revolver was an extension of his will, and his will was a diamond of cold intent buried deep beneath the layers of magical exhaustion.
Across the cavern, Douglass, who had already turned to flee, stumbled. His initial sprint devolved into a clumsy, heavy jog, as if he were fighting through waist-deep water. His legs, once swift tools of escape, now felt like pillars of stone. Panic, raw and undisguised, flashed across his face. He was a mind-manipulator, not a brawler, and his body was betraying him.
This was the moment Lutz had been waiting for. His finger, feeling thick and clumsy, squeezed the trigger.
The report of the revolver was a shocking, physical violation of the market's mystical hum. The bullet tore into the back of Douglass's shoulder, a spray of blood blossoming on his cloak. He cried out, a sound of pure, shocked agony, and staggered forward.
But a Sequence 7 Psychiatrist was not so easily broken. Even through the pain and the debilitating melody, Douglass's training kicked in. He couldn't stop the bullet, but he could stop his mind from shattering because of it. He performed a swift, internal act of self-regulation. Placate. The searing, white-hot pain in his shoulder didn't vanish, but its edges were blunted, folded away into a compartment of his mind. The screaming panic was silenced, replaced by a chilling, analytical calm. He was still wounded, still slowing, but his thoughts were now clear, cold, and desperate. He was a doctor performing surgery on his own crumbling psyche.
He was a thinker, a manipulator, and his tools were useless against this implacable, artifact-wielding foe. He had no fire to throw, no shadows to hide in, no superhuman strength to call upon. His only weapons were the minds of others, and this man had somehow immunized himself. The only mind left to manipulate was his own, and he was using it now just to stay functional, to stave off shock and terror.
Lutz saw the man's posture change, saw the panic replaced by a grimace of focused endurance. It didn't matter. The equation was simple. The target was slowed. The target was in his sights. He fought against the leaden feeling in his own arm, the whistle still held to his lips, maintaining the debilitating field. The sound was a physical weight on them both, but Lutz was prepared to bear it longer. He was a creature of spite and survival; he could endure.
He adjusted his aim, the movement feeling agonizingly slow. The revolver's barrel dipped slightly, tracking lower.
He fired again.
This time, the bullet smashed into the back of Douglass's thigh. It was a brutal, fight-ending shot. The leg buckled instantly, no longer just feeling like lead, but shattered and useless. Douglass went down with a choked cry, the Placate straining to contain the fresh, overwhelming wave of agony. He crumpled onto the cold, wet stone of the cavern floor, clutching his leg, his body now fully and truly trapped by the very melody he had tried to flee.
The market around them was in utter disarray. Those not fully under the influence of the Song of Lead were either still reeling from the Awe or fleeing the gunfire. The fragile peace of the Whispering Market was shattered. Lutz knew he had moments before the Conveyor's enforcers arrived, or before someone else decided to take advantage of the chaos.
He stopped playing the whistle. The absence of the melody was its own shock. The leaden feeling lifted from his limbs, leaving behind a phantom ache and a deep, resonating fatigue. The docile calm from the second melody had long since faded, replaced by the adrenal crash of combat and the grim satisfaction of a hunt concluded.
He walked forward, his steps firm now, the revolver held ready. He stood over Douglass, who looked up at him, his face a mask of pain and bewildered hatred. The Psychiatrist's bag of tricks was empty.
Lutz didn't say a word. He knelt, his movements efficient and devoid of malice. He wasn't executing an enemy; he was collecting a debt. He roughly patted down the man's robes, finding the stolen items—a few vials, a couple of charms, a purse of coins.
The loot—a few vials of questionable liquid, a couple of low-grade charms, a purse holding a handful of Hammers and Shields—felt insignificant in the moment. The true value was in the demonstration of power, the establishing of a new, dangerous reputation. As Lutz stood over the groaning form of Douglass, the market was a tableau of frozen panic and confusion. The gunshots had been the final, shocking punctuation to the emotional chaos.
He couldn't just leave. The chaos was a spark that could still ignite the entire powder keg of the Whispering Market. He needed to control the narrative.
He straightened up, his voice cutting through the stunned silence, amplified by the cavern's acoustics and a force of will he hadn't known he possessed. "It's okay now! The danger is done!" he yelled, holding up the stolen items. "This man was igniting your conflicts to steal from you! Those who had goods taken, come and get them!"
To reinforce the message, he raised the Night's Melody once more to his lips. He played the Second Melody, the Song of Soothing. The clear, calming notes washed over the cavern, a balm on the raw nerves of the assembled Beyonders and black-market traders. The lingering edges of panic and aggression from the Awe dissipated. The terrified screams subsided into shaky breaths. The crowd, which had been on the verge of a stampede, slowly stilled. People emerged from behind stalls and pillars, their eyes wide, first at the wounded man on the ground, then at Lutz with a mixture of gratitude and deep-seated fear. He was the calm in their storm, but he was also the one who had wielded the gun, who had played this unsettling, controlling music. He was a necessary monster, and that made him all the more terrifying.
It was then that the enforcers arrived. Two men, built like brick walls and moving with a purpose that shattered the newly established peace, barreled through the crowd towards Lutz. Their intentions were clear: he was the source of the disruption, the man standing over a body with a weapon in one hand and a mystical whistle in the other.
Lutz, his mind still crystal clear from the adrenaline crash, began to explain, "Wait, he was the—" but they didn't slow. They were instruments of order, and he was the discordant note.
'Not good!' Lutz tried to think about what to do aside from shooting them.
However, before they could reach him, a voice, calm yet absolute, cut through the space. "Stop."
The two enforcers froze mid-stride, immediately deferential. From behind them emerged a man who commanded attention without raising his voice. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a bald head and a thick, well-groomed beard that was similarly shorn close. He moved with an economy of motion that spoke of immense power held in perfect check. This was Dredgen, the master of this hidden bazaar.
Dredgen walked past his men and stood before Lutz, his eyes—a surprisingly warm shade of brown—taking in the scene: the placated crowd, the stolen goods in Lutz's hand, the whimpering Psychiatrist on the floor.
"Explain," Dredgen said, his voice a low rumble.
Lutz met his gaze without flinching. "He's some kind of mental manipulator, I'd guess. He was using his abilities to start arguments and fights as a diversion for theft."
"I frequent this market and I am quite appreciative of it, if I hadn't done something, everyone could have teared each other to shreds. He gestured with the whistle. "I used this artifact to calm the chaos he created. When he turned his abilities on me, I neutralized the threat." He didn't mention the revolver; the two bullet wounds in Douglass were explanation enough.
Dredgen listened, his expression unreadable. He looked at the faces in the crowd, saw the nods of confirmation, the returned items being claimed. He looked back at Lutz, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It transformed him from a intimidating authority figure into something more dangerous: a pleased patron.
"You're pretty good, kid," Dredgen said, a note of admiration in his voice. "You defended against a threat in my market without making a mess. And you kept him alive, too. That shows self-control. A corpse is a problem, a living source of information is an asset." He gestured to his enforcers. "Take him to the quiet room. Patch him up just enough to talk."
As the two brutes hauled a bleeding and terrified Douglass away, Dredgen turned his full attention back to Lutz. "Without your help, the entire market could have torn itself apart. I don't like being in anyone's debt. I want to thank you." He leaned in slightly. "Also, what do you say about working as an enforcer here? Steady pay, access to resources, and my protection. A man with your skills and nerve would go far."
The offer was tempting. A sanctuary, a power base. But it was a gilded cage. Lutz's freedom was the one thing he was fighting to reclaim, and his entire being rebelled against the idea of putting on another man's collar, no matter how generously offered.
"I'm grateful," Lutz said, his tone respectful but firm. "But I must decline. I value my freedom too highly. And, to be frank, I have pressing business that requires my full attention."
Dredgen's smile didn't falter. He seemed to respect the refusal. "A man who knows his own mind. I can appreciate that. So, if not employment, how can I thank you?"
Lutz glanced around at the still-watching crowd. "Can we talk somewhere else?"
A few minutes later, they were in Dredgen's "office," a chamber carved into the cavern wall, furnished with surprising comfort—a large desk made from a ship's rudder, shelves filled with books and curios, and chairs upholstered in deep velvet. It was the den of a king who ruled a kingdom of shadows.
Seated across from Dredgen, Lutz laid out his terms. He spoke with the precision of a man who had planned this moment, even if the opportunity had arrived unexpectedly.
"There are three things I'm interested in," Lutz began. "I'm willing to pay for them, of course. I'm not asking for a handout. I'm asking for your influence, for the chance to acquire them. I'd like you to use your status to ask around."
"Go on," Dredgen rumbled, steepling his fingers.
"First, and most important, is the Sequence 8 formula for the Marauder pathway. I don't even know what it's called, but I need it."
Dredgen was surprised at first. "Are you saying you're only a sequence 9? Ha! You grow more interesting by the minute, kid."
"You could say I'm a crafty one". Lutz replied
After a moment, Dredgen nodded slowly. "The Sequence 8 Swindler. A tricky formula to acquire. There are very little beyonders in that pathway, and those who hold its secrets guard them closely. But not impossible. I can put the word out."
'Swindler Huh? I guess its in line with the next step of a thief, graduate from stealing with your hand to stealing with your tongue." Lutz reflected on the name.
"Second," Lutz continued, "I need a set of new documents. For a new identity. Flawless. The kind that can withstand a Church inspection. I need them done in about a week."
"Easier," Dredgen said with a wave of his hand. "I have a guy who used to work for the Loenish royal registry. He can have it for you in five days. The name?"
Lutz then provided the name for the man he would become.
Dredgen made a note. "And the third?"
Lutz leaned forward, his gray-blue eyes intent. "The man I just incapacitated. His abilities seem to lie in the domain of the mind. I would be... eternally grateful... if you could ask him, and perhaps convince him, to provide me with a service." He paused, choosing his words with care. "I need my mind 'purged', cleansed. I need him to help me scour the unneeded noise from my mind."
The request hung in the air. It was the most personal, and the most dangerous, of the three. It involved forcing a Beyonder to use his powers on Lutz's behalf.
Dredgen looked at Lutz for a long, silent moment, his warm brown eyes seeing right through to the core of the young man's desperation and calculation. He saw a player who wasn't just arming himself for a fight, but who was planning for the aftermath, for the long-term cost of power.
"A man who thinks ahead," Dredgen said finally, a slow smile returning to his face. "I like that. Very well. I will see what can be done about the formula. The documents are guaranteed. It'll be 5 Hammers, and as for our talkative Psychiatrist friend..." His smile took on a predatory edge. "I believe I can be very convincing. Consider it my thanks. The cost for the formula and the... persuasion... we can discuss once I have leads."
The meeting was over. Lutz had turned a chaotic confrontation into a strategic alliance. He had secured the tools for his future escape and taken the first step toward safeguarding his sanity against the cost of his power. He walked out of Dredgen's office not just as a customer, but as a recognized entity, a man who had earned the respect, and the owed favor, of possibly one of the most powerful figures in the city's underworld. The path to the vault was now lined with more than just weapons; it was supported by the invisible pillars of influence and information.