With the "Thief's Toolbox" secured in his room—a masterpiece of leather and intent now hidden in the shadows—Lutz turned his focus from the physical to the chemical. The harness was his armor and his mobility; now he needed his poisons and his tools.
He left the remaining scraps of leather, the spare buckles, and the half-spool of waxed thread in the workshop. It was a deliberate act of detachment. They were the excess, the potential evidence. When the time came to vanish, he would be a ghost, leaving no trail of purchases or half-finished projects behind. The materials were a negligible cost compared to the freedom they had helped him build.
Back in the cloistered silence of his room, he cleared the small table, creating a sterile field in the heart of the viper's nest. This was where Andrei Hayes, the scholar, would merge with Lutz Fischer, the survivor. He laid out his components with a ritualistic care that bordered on reverence.
From the hidden compartment came the spoils from Dr. Metzger's nightmare laboratory. The vials and jars were a madman's palette. There was the "Spirit-Sponge Essence," a milky fluid that seemed to drink the light from the room. Next to it, the "Quicksilver Verdigris," a fine powder that shimmered with an unhealthy, metallic luster. These were the catalysts, the agents of violent transformation he had lacked before the Market.
Alongside them, he placed the more mundane, yet equally vital, ingredients from his earlier acquisitions and the Whispering Market: strong acids for base solutions, powdered reagents for controlling reaction speed, and binding agents to stabilize the final product. He then arranged his tools with the precision of a surgeon: a small, portable brass brazier he'd modified for a controlled, low heat; a set of glass beakers and stirring rods of various sizes; a scale of astonishing precision; and a row of empty, thick-walled vials, their pristine glass waiting to be filled with his creations.
The alchemy book, its pages filled with s precise script and dangerous wisdom, lay open to the relevant section. The heading read simply: Dissolvant Acid (Metallic & Inorganic Focus). Below it was a warning, underlined twice: "Precision is the difference between a key and a coffin."
Lutz's hands, still faintly smelling of leather and oil, were now sheathed in a pair of special thin, isolating-rubber gloves Metzger had thankfully possessed. His world had shrunk to the surface of the table, the gentle blue flame of the brazier, and the meticulous dance of measurement and reaction.
Step One: The Base. The book called for a concentrated solution of hydrochloric acid, a common but vicious substance he'd acquired in the market. Using a glass pipette, he carefully measured a specific volume into the smallest, thickest beaker. The sharp, pungent odor stung his nostrils even from a distance. This was the foundation, the brute force of the mixture.
Step Two: The Inhibitor. This was the first bit of alchemical subtlety. He needed the acid to be strong enough to devour metal, but not so wild that it would boil over or react too quickly and noisily. He weighed out a minute amount of a white, crystalline powder—Stilled Salt—on his delicate scale. Adding it to the acid, he watched as the faint, visible fumes rising from the beaker seemed to slow, the liquid itself becoming slightly more viscous, more controlled. It was now a disciplined predator, not a rabid one.
Step Three: The Catalyst. Now came the first of his rare ingredients. The Quicksilver Verdigris. The shimmering, metallic powder seemed to drink the dim light of the room. The book warned that its introduction was the first major point of failure. Adding it too quickly would cause a thermal runaway, overheating the mixture and potentially shattering the glass.
Holding his breath, he used the edge of a bone utensil to take a precisely measured mound of the powder. He tilted the utensil over the beaker, allowing the Verdigris to dust the surface of the acid in a slow, steady stream. The effect was instantaneous and beautiful. Where each grain touched the liquid, a tiny, swirling vortex of iridescent color erupted—rainbows of corruption spreading through the clear solution. The mixture began to heat up of its own accord, a low, dangerous warmth radiating from the glass. He stirred it slowly with the bone utensil, encouraging the reaction, watching as the entire beaker's contents transformed into a swirling, opalescent fluid, like a captive oil slick.
Step Four: The Trigger. This was the moment of truth. The Spirit-Sponge Essence. The milky, opaque liquid seemed inert in its vial. The book described its function as "the thief of reactivity." It would bind to the acid's energy, holding it in a state of suspended animation until the moment of contact with the target material, at which point it would release all that pent-up corrosive potential in a single, focused burst.
He uncorked the vial. The air around it seemed to grow cold. Using a fresh pipette, he drew up exactly three drops. He held them over the shimmering, opalescent acid. One. Two. Three.
The drops fell.
There was no hiss, no explosion. Instead, the swirling, chaotic colors in the beaker collapsed inward. The rainbows vanished. The opalescence faded. The liquid settled into a state of utter, profound stillness. It was now a perfectly clear, water-like fluid. It looked harmless. Innocent. But the heat it still radiated, and the way it seemed to make the very air around it waver, spoke of the monstrous energy contained within. It was no longer an acid; it was a concept given liquid form—the concept of dissolution.
He worked quickly now, knowing the stabilized mixture had a limited shelf life before the binding energy of the Spirit-Sponge began to degrade. Using a funnel, he carefully decanted the deadly liquid into three waiting, medium-sized vials made of lead-crystal glass, the only material the book stated could safely contain it for more than a few hours. He filled each one to the same level, his movements economical and sure. The final act was to seal them. He melted a special, neutral wax over the brazier and dripped it onto the corks, creating an airtight seal and a physical barrier against accidental spills.
He set the three vials aside on a cloth. They stood in a neat row, innocuous-looking yet containing the power to silently unravel locks, hinges, and perhaps even a man's face. They were the ultimate thieves' tools, capable of opening any physical barrier.
The two special powders—the corrosive milled Briarflame and the insidious specks of Follyglue—remained in their separate containers. They were not for this formula. They were for a different kind of alchemy: the alchemy of chaos, pain, and misdirection. They were the tricks he would keep up his sleeve for the living obstacles in his path, while the acid was reserved for the inanimate ones.
The brazier was extinguished. The beakers were cleaned with a neutralizing agent. The room still hummed with the ghost of chemical potential. The three vials, cool to the touch, were his final, perfect keys. With them, the last physical barrier between him and the Baron's treasury ceased to exist. All that remained were the flesh, blood, and wills that stood in his way. And for them, he had a very different set of tools.
With the three vials of Dissolvant Acid standing like silent sentinels of his impending heist, Lutz's focus shifted from surgical precision to brutal, area-denial tactics. The gloves remained on his hands, now stained with various powders. The alchemist was done; now, the saboteur went to work.
He had prepared a stack of small, crude cloth pouches, hastily stitched from scrap fabric. They were not meant to be elegant or durable, merely functional for a single, violent purpose. Next to them, he laid out his new, vulgar ingredients. This was not refined art, this was the street-level cruelty of a cornered rat.
He had common wood ash he had gotten from that smith, fine and grey, perfect for blinding and choking. Coarse sea salt, whose sharp crystals could abrade the eyes and nose. A small bag of finely ground fire-pepper, a spice so potent it was used to ward off vermin, capable of inducing fits of coughing and a burning sensation on the skin. He added powdered irritant mint leaves and a pinch of dried, crushed thistle—anything he could find that promised discomfort and distraction.
And then, the heart of the malice: the two special powders.
He took the first pouch. He started with a base of the common irritants—a tablespoon of ash, a teaspoon of salt, a healthy pinch of fire-pepper. Then, his movements became more deliberate. He carefully spooned in a measure of the rust-red Milled Briarflame. The powder seemed to gleam with a sinister promise. Just being near it made the air feel warmer. This was the primary damage-dealer. Upon impact, this mixture wouldn't just irritate; it would actively burn, clinging to skin and clothing with a persistent, coal-like heat.
He gently shook the pouch to mix the contents, then pulled the drawstring tight, sealing the corrosive cocktail inside. He set it aside. One down.
For the second pouch, he repeated the process: ash, salt, pepper. But this time, he reached for the Specks of Follyglue. The inert, grey dust poured into the mix, looking deceptively like more ash. This was the psychological weapon. The initial cloud would be bad enough, but the true horror would begin moments later. As the target sweated from the panic, the pepper-induced coughing, or the Briarflame's burn, the Follyglue specks would activate. They would swell on their skin, in their nostrils, against their eyeballs, becoming a sticky, toxic paste that would be nearly impossible to remove, prolonging the agony for days.
He made four of these pouches in total, two of each type, varying the ratios slightly. He didn't label them. He would remember. The ones slightly heavier and rust-toned were the Briarflame bombs. The ones that looked like simple ash-bags were the more insidious Follyglue traps.
He held one of the finished pouches in his gloved hand. It was unassuming, a little lump of cloth. But it was a cloud of torment waiting to be born. A well-aimed throw into a guard's face would not just disable them; it would consume them in a waking nightmare of itching, burning, and sticky, toxic suffocation. It was a dirty, cruel weapon, perfect for creating the kind of chaotic, individualized suffering that would break formations and draw resources away from the main fight.
He packed the four "itch-bombs" into a separate, padded section of his harness, away from his tools and the acid. They were weapons of desperation and misdirection, to be used when silence failed and chaos was the only currency left.
Looking at his completed alchemical arsenal—the silent acid, the screaming powders—Lutz felt a grim finality. Every possible angle was covered. He could pick a lock, blind a guard, soothe a crowd, or drive a man mad with a lingering, toxic itch. He was no longer just a thief or a fighter. He was a one-man engine of subterfuge and suffering, ready to turn the Vipers' own fortress into a house of horrors. He peeled off the gloves. The work was done.
But there was one thing missing, and that was the study of the arcane, he had to learn to use the Sun Charms he had bought, and the Crimson Charms he had gotten from Taric.