The third day's outdoors work was complete. The poison-tipped arrows of information were in flight, guided by silver coins and childish fear towards the heart of the Church's bureaucracy. Lutz shed his final disguise in a reeking alley a block from the warehouse, stuffing the laborer's clothes and wig into his bag. He needed to re-enter not as the anonymous saboteur, but as Lutz Fischer, the frustrated and loyal Viper.
Pushing open the heavy side door, the atmosphere inside the warehouse hit him like a physical blow. The usual cacophony of dice games, weapon maintenance, and coarse laughter was gone, replaced by a low, tense hum of anxious conversation. Men stood in small, huddled groups, their voices hushed. The air, usually thick with the smells of sweat and cheap tobacco, now carried the sharp, acrid scent of fear. He could see it in the way they held themselves—shoulders hunched, eyes darting towards the main entrance at every minor sound. The Church's "squeeze" was no longer an abstract threat; it was a boot they could all feel pressing down on their necks.
'Perfect, feel it, shitheads, feel the fear you so happily provoke on other people'
He made his way through the clusters of nervous men, his own expression a carefully crafted mask of weary irritation. He needed to be seen, to be heard complaining, to establish his presence as one of them, suffering from the same external pressure. His eyes found Karl near the central hearth, the Pyromaniac's lean form radiating a different kind of heat—a contained, smoldering fury. This was the moment to solidify his character.
He walked up to Karl, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration. "The hell has the church gotten up their arses?" he grumbled, his voice pitched to carry to those nearby. "I had a clean score lined up on a merchant coming out of the customs house, but I couldn't get near the bastard. They're in every fucking corner. I barely made a single Shield today."
Karl turned, his eyes, like banked coals, scanning Lutz. He didn't see a conspirator; he saw a productive asset whose work was being disrupted. It was the reaction Lutz had hoped for.
"It's not just you," Karl said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. "They're hitting us everywhere. Not the main operations. Not yet. They're going for the periphery. Dockworkers. Informants. A clerk in the harbor master's office was arrested this morning." He gestured with a sharp, dismissive flick of his wrist. "They're plucking the feathers before they wring the chicken's neck. Someone is feeding them information. Good information."
Lutz allowed a scowl to deepen on his face, a perfect reflection of the anger and paranoia Karl was feeling. "A snitch? Who'd be stupid enough?"
"Or clever enough," Karl countered, his gaze sweeping across the warehouse floor. "A rival using the Church to do their dirty work. It's an old move, but someone is executing it with… precision." His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second too long on a few faces before returning to Lutz. "Keep your head down. Do the collections Gerhart assigns you. No independent work until this blows over. We're pulling everyone back to the nest."
The message was clear: the noose was tightening, and the Baron was gathering his forces. Lutz gave a grim nod. "Understood." He had just successfully positioned himself as a loyal soldier, inconvenienced by the same enemy plaguing them all.
As he turned away from Karl, he saw Peter weaving through the crowd towards him, the young man's face a mixture of anxiety and excitement. "Lutz! Hey!"
Lutz suppressed a sigh. The boy was a useful tool, but a draining one. "Peter."
"Did you hear?" Peter said, his voice a theatrical whisper. "The Church grabbed Old Man Heisenberg's contact at the bird stall! And they took that guy who always smells like fish from Pier 3! It's crazy!"
Lutz nodded, feigning interest. "Yeah, Karl just told me. They're hitting the small fry." He leaned in slightly, lowering his own voice to a conspiratorial level. "You're out and about more than most. Keep your eyes open, but be smart about it. Don't just watch for the guys in the coats. Watch for anyone paying too much attention to the important people." He let the phrase hang in the air.
"The important people?" Peter asked, his eyes wide.
"You know," Lutz said, with a casualness he didn't feel. "The ones who really make this place run. The ones the Baron and Karl actually talk to. If the Church is going for the big targets next, they'll have scouts. You see anyone lurking around them, you let me know. Quietly."
It was a masterful piece of manipulation. He was not asking for a list; he was giving Peter a mission that would inevitably cause him to reveal the very information Lutz sought. By telling Peter to watch the "important people," Peter would have to first identify who those people were in his own mind. In his eagerness to report back, he would unknowingly hand Lutz a verified list of the Vipers' key lieutenants and operators—the very targets for his next wave of anonymous tips.
"Right! Of course!" Peter said, puffing out his chest, thrilled to be entrusted with such a vital task. "I won't let you down, Lutz!"
"I know you won't," Lutz said, clapping him on the shoulder with a feigned camaraderie before turning away. The young Viper was now his unwitting intelligence agent, a canary whose very chirps would point to the next nodes to be severed.
With the social maneuvering complete, Lutz retreated to the one place that offered both purpose and solitude: the workshop. He retrieved his harness and the remaining materials from his room. Laying them out on the rough wooden bench, the smell of leather and oil was a welcome antidote to the stink of fear permeating the main floor.
The core structure was solid, the sheaths for Creed and the parrying knife were masterpieces of silent, swift access. The pouches were positioned for perfect balance. Now came the final, complex integrations: the bandolier for the throwing knives and the custom holsters for the revolver and the sawed-off shotgun. This was engineering. This was control. As he began marking the leather for the bandolier, his hands were steady, his mind focused. Outside, the Vipers panicked and the Church hunted a ghost. But here, at this bench, Lutz Fischer was building something real, something that was entirely his. Stitch by careful stitch, he was assembling the very means of his liberation, while the walls of the prison he was in trembled from the blows he himself was orchestrating.
The workshop was his sanctuary, a world defined by the scent of oiled leather and the feel of waxed thread, a stark contrast to the chaotic fear festering in the main warehouse. The half-finished harness lay across the bench, no longer a collection of parts but a promise nearing its fulfillment.
He began with the bandolier. This wasn't a simple strap to be slung over a shoulder. It was an integrated component, designed to cross his chest and anchor securely to the main harness at his shoulder and hip, preventing any sway or bounce. He cut a long strip of the tough harness leather, then marked seven precise locations. For each, he didn't just create a loop. He crafted a sheath.
Using a softer, pliable leather for the interior, he wet-molded seven individual pockets, each contoured to hold a throwing knife snugly by its hilt, the blade lying flat against his ribs. He stitched them onto the bandolier at a slight, downward angle, ensuring a natural, fluid draw where his hand would simply drop, find a hilt, and continue its motion into a throw. The angle was everything—too steep and the knife would catch; too shallow and it would fall out. He tested the draw for each one, his Marauder-enhanced dexterity making the motion a blur, the knife appearing in his hand as if by magic. Seven potential extensions of his will, silent and ready.
Next came the holsters. These were the most complex pieces, the final organs to be grafted onto his new body.
For Henrik's Revolver, he designed a shoulder holster that would nest under his left arm. It wasn't just a pouch for the gun; it was a system. The holster itself was rigid, molded to the revolver's specific shape, with an open bottom for the barrel. The retention was the key. He couldn't have it falling out during a climb or a fight, but he needed it faster than the thumb-break on his parrying knife. He settled on a spring-loaded hood that clasped over the back of the revolver's cylinder. A simple, practiced twist of his wrist as he drew would disengage it, a motion he drilled until it was unconscious. He positioned it so the grip sat at the perfect height for his right hand to cross his body and seize it, a movement that felt natural and terrifyingly fast.
The sawed-off shotgun was a different problem entirely. Its brutal, compact shape and significant weight demanded a different solution. He built a holster for it that would ride on his right hip, just behind the ammunition pouch, counterbalancing the revolver on the left. This one was about security and speed. He used the heaviest leather, reinforced at the stress points. The retention was a heavy-duty flap that snapped closed over the shotgun's hammers, secured by a robust brass buckle. It wouldn't be as fast as the revolver, but it didn't need to be. The shotgun was his argument-ender, his room-clearer. Drawing it was a deliberate, committed act. He designed it so the unbuckling motion with his left hand would naturally position the weapon for his right to grab and bring to bear.
The final hours were spent on integration. This was where Henrik's journals proved invaluable once more. He didn't just stitch the new components onto the harness; he married them to it. He used a diamond-stitch pattern at the connection points, a technique used in saddlery that distributed stress evenly and prevented tearing. He ran secondary straps from the bandolier to the main belt, creating a web of support that made the entire assembly move as one with his body.
Finally, it was time.
He stood and lifted the completed harness from the bench. It was no longer a project; it was a piece of equipment, a unified whole. The leather, now worked and oiled, had darkened to a rich, deep brown, almost black in the dim light. The brass buckles and D-rings gleamed dully. He could see the entire story of his survival etched into it: the wide, weight-bearing belt; the suspenders crossing his back; the bandolier with its seven knife sheaths lying flat and deadly; the sleek shoulder holster for the revolver; the rugged, buckled holster for the shotgun; the pouches for ammunition and tools; and at the small of his back and on his left hip, the perfectly fitted, silent sheaths for Creed and the parrying knife.
He slipped his arms through the suspenders. The weight settled onto his frame, but it was a familiar, comforting weight now, perfectly balanced. He buckled the main belt with a solid click. He was home.
He began the ritual, the dance of readiness. His right hand dropped to his right hip, fingers finding the grip of the shotgun, his left thumb popping the buckle. The heavy weapon came free, a solid, reassuring mass in his hands. He smoothly returned it. His right hand crossed his body, dipped under his left arm, twisted, and drew the revolver, the spring hood disengaging with a faint, satisfying snick. He aimed at a knot in the far wall, then returned it just as smoothly. His left hand brushed his ribs, and a throwing knife appeared between his fingers. He pretended to throw it, then slotted it back into its sheath. Finally, his right hand swept behind his back, and Creed slid into his palm without a whisper of sound.
Every motion was fluid. Every tool was exactly where his body expected it to be. There was no fumbling, no searching, no thought. The harness was an extension of his nervous system.
He stood there in the quiet workshop, breathing slowly. The "Thief's Toolbox" was complete. It was more than just a way to carry his gear; it was the physical manifestation of his new philosophy. Order imposed on chaos. Preparation triumphing over chance. He was no longer a man carrying weapons; he was a unified system of controlled violence and precise theft.
He took it off and laid it carefully on the bench, the leather creaking softly. Outside, the world was closing in. The Church was hunting, the Vipers were panicking, and a Rose Bishop lurked in the shadows. But as he looked at his creation, Lutz felt a cold, steady calm. Let them come. He was ready. He had built his own destiny, stitch by careful stitch, and it was finally time to put it to use.