The alchemical scents still hung in the air, a sharp reminder of the physical tools now packed away. But Lutz's work was not done. The afternoon was waning, and a different kind of knowledge awaited. He cleared a space, wiping the table clean of all residue before laying down the charm manual he'd purchased. The leather cover was soft, the pages thick with esoteric diagrams and dense blocks of text in Hermes.
He began to read, his mind, now fluent in the language of Hermes, deciphering the complex instructions. The manual was organized by domain, each section detailing the specific incantations needed to awaken charms of a corresponding nature.
He skimmed past sections that held little immediate use for him. "Crimson" and "Slumber" for charms of the Moon and Night domain—useful, but he had no such charms and their effects seemed too subtle or slow for the violent confrontation he envisioned. "Storm" for charms of the Tempest domain—likely involving lightning or wind, potent but indiscriminate and loud, the manual also indicated that due to the brute force of these, they require a big amount of spirituality, Lutz's pathway wasn't one that specialized in rituals at the moment, so he was lacking in this aspect, using just one or two would probably exhaust him greatly.
His focus sharpened when he found the section marked "Sun." The script here seemed cleaner, the diagrams of radiating lines and sunbursts a stark contrast to the twisting, organic patterns of the other domains. The primary incantation was simple, a fundamental command: "Light" But the manual elaborated on its effect when channeled through a Sun charm: it would create a burst of true, concentrated sunlight, harmless to the living but annoying to creatures of shadow and corruption, and potent enough to temporarily banish very minor spiritual entities and illuminate a large area. It was a purifying flare, a momentary bastion against the dark. He picked up one of the two gold Sun charms he'd bought. It was warm to the touch, thrumming with a latent, righteous energy that felt alien yet comforting in his grasp. This was his answer to his secret attacker's shadowy nature.
Then, his gaze fell upon the small, heavy pouch containing the artifacts from his very first Beyonder encounter: the Crimson metal charms from Taric. He spilled them onto the table. They were cold, a deep, bloody red, and seemed to absorb the light around them, exuding an aura of blasphemy and accelerated decay. Just holding one made his skin crawl. He remembered the alley, Taric's snarled face, the guttural word he'd shouted in Hermes as he threw the charm.
"Degeneration."
Now, with his understanding of the language, the word resonated with horrific clarity. He recalled the aftermath with a cold knot in his stomach—the brick he'd dodged behind hadn't been shattered or scorched. It had simply… crumbled. Its structural integrity had been annihilated in an instant, the surface pitted and rotten as if centuries of decay had been compressed into a single second. It wasn't destruction; it was an unforgiving acceleration of entropy.
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. This was not a tool for a fair fight. This was a weapon of absolute, horrifying finality.
Eagerly, he flipped to the section of the manual on ritual applications. This was where simple activation evolved into sophisticated trap-making. The principles were universal, applicable to any charm with the correct corresponding symbols and incantation.
The diagrams showed a specific, three-layered circular sigil to be drawn on a surface with certain powders. The outer ring was for containment, to focus the effect. The middle ring contained symbols that acted as a spiritual trigger. The inner circle was where the charm itself was placed. The ritualist would then infuse the entire construct with a spark of their own spirituality, like arming a bomb, and recite the incantation. Once set, the trap would lie dormant, almost invisible to the naked eye, until a living presence crossed the outer ring. Then, it would activate instantly, unleashing the charm's stored power upon the intruder.
His mind raced, assembling the pieces. Crimson Charm. Degeneration Incantation. Trap Ritual.
He could do this. He could create landmines of instant decay.
The application was immediately obvious. The final phase of his plan—cracking the Baron's treasury. Once he was inside, the entrance would be his most vulnerable point. He could seal it behind him not with a barricade, but with a silent, invisible sentinel. If Krieg, the Bishop, or even Karl tried to follow him in, the first one through the door would be met not with a bullet, but with a wave of pure degeneration. Their flesh would rot, their bones would turn to dust. It would be a death so swift and horrifying it would give even a mid-sequence Beyonder pause, buying him the precious, final minutes he needed to empty the vault and make his escape.
He carefully gathered the Crimson charms, their blasphemous weight a promise of ultimate security. He now possessed the knowledge to turn them from thrown weapons into area-denial weapons of mass dissolution. Between the purifying light of the Sun charms and the absolute decay of the Crimson traps, he had an answer for both the supernatural hunter and the mortal ones. The Thief's Toolbox was now complete, its contents ranging from the subtly persuasive to the outright apocalyptic. He was ready to turn the vipers' nest into a labyrinth of his own design, where every shadow could hide a cleansing light, and every doorway could be a gateway to instant, rotting death.
After cleaning up the mess of his work, he stored all his working materials and went to wash his face and teeth, the third day was done.
The air in Deacon Reverie Noire's office was, as always, a carefully controlled environment. It was cool, still, and smelled faintly of paper and polished metal, a stark contrast to the feverish anxiety that had begun to permeate the rest of the Chevalier Church. The single, hooded lamp on her desk cast a focused pool of light, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow, much like the woman herself.
A precise knock echoed in the silence.
"Enter."
Matthias Brenner stepped inside, closing the door with the same soft, final click as before. He looked more haggard than during his last report, the lines on his face etched deeper by a combination of lack of sleep and the relentless, puzzling nature of his investigation. He held his folio like a shield.
"Deacon Noire," he began, his voice raspy. "My report on the Viper containment operation."
Noire did not look up from the dispatch she was reading. She merely gestured with a single, elegant finger for him to continue. The silence stretched, a tool she wielded to unnerve and focus.
Brenner cleared his throat. "The campaign against the Viper's peripheral network continues. We have acted on the intelligence received over the past seventy-two hours with significant success. The dockworker at Pier 3, the clerk in the customs house, the chandlery owner—all are in custody and being interrogated. Their removal has already caused noticeable disruptions to the Vipers' low-level extortion and information-gathering operations."
He opened his folio, his movements brisk. "And today... today the intelligence escalated." He laid a new report on the edge of her desk. "We received specific, actionable intelligence regarding two members of the city watch. Names, descriptions, locations, and the nature of their corruption—accepting bribes to ignore smuggling operations at the so-called 'Whisper Jetty.' The intelligence was flawless. We apprehended them three hours ago. They've confessed."
This finally drew Noire's gaze. Her amethyst eyes lifted from her paperwork and fixed on him. The arrest of two sworn officers of the city watch was a significant escalation, a move from harassing a criminal gang to exposing a rot within the city's own infrastructure. It was a bolder, more damaging strike.
"The source," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. It was not a question, but a demand.
Brenner's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. This was the part of the report he dreaded. "We... have not yet identified them, Deacon." He felt a flush of professional embarrassment. "Whoever it is, they have adapted. They are no longer using collection boxes near our facilities. The intelligence is now being delivered by street urchins, paid handsomely in silver, from locations scattered across the city—the garment district, the old town, even the fringes of the merchant quarter. There is no geographical pattern."
He gestured helplessly. "The descriptions we've managed to pry from the children are useless. Contradictory. One described a middle-aged merchant with a greying beard. Another, a lanky laborer with a cough. A third, a man with a scar on his face. It's... it's insane. It's as if we're not being fed by a single person, but by a phantom with a dozen faces. They are a ghost, Deacon. A very well-informed, and generously funded, ghost."
Noire listened, her steepled fingers resting against her lips. She did not look disappointed or angry. She looked... intrigued. The cold, analytical engine of her mind was processing the new data.
"A ghost who is doing our work for us," she mused, her voice a low hum. "They are pruning the Vipers' branches with a surgeon's precision, saving us the time and resources of a lengthy investigation." She leaned forward slightly, the light catching the sharp planes of her face. "Our priority remains the elimination of the Vipers as a functional entity. This 'rival,' as you call them, is a tool. A sharp, dangerous, and anonymous tool, but a tool nonetheless. We will continue to use it."
She fixed him with her dissecting gaze. "You will act on every piece of credible intelligence they provide. Squeeze the Vipers. Force them to contract, to make mistakes. The faster we dismantle their operation, the sooner this 'phantom' will have to show its hand. When the Vipers are gone, their usefulness ends. They will either reveal themselves to claim the spoils, or they will become our next primary target."
Brenner nodded, the strategy clear. Use the anonymous tips to break the Vipers, then turn and break the tipster. It was ruthless, efficient, and typical of the Deacon.
She then shifted topics, her tone losing none of its sharpness. "Captain Krieg. His condition?"
"Physically, he is recovered," Brenner reported. "The burn on his leg has healed. But the physicians report that the damage to his spirit body is... profound. It's like a muscle that has been torn from the bone. It needs time to re-knit. They believe he may regain consciousness in the next day or two."
A flicker of something—impatience, perhaps—crossed Noire's features. Krieg was her scalpel, and he was currently blunted. "A day or two," she repeated softly. "Ensure he receives every resource. I need him functional, not convalescent. The final act is approaching, and I will not have a primary instrument lying in a sickbed."
She waved a hand, a dismissive gesture that was as absolute as a guillotine. "That is all, Inspector. Continue the pressure. And find me this ghost."
Brenner bowed his head. "Yes, Deacon." He gathered his folio and retreated, the heavy door closing behind him and sealing him out of the oppressive, calculated silence of her office.
Alone, Reverie Noire stood and walked to the window, looking out over the spires of her domain. The city was a complex machine, and a new, unpredictable gear had been inserted into its workings. A phantom was loose in her city, a player clever enough to remain hidden while orchestrating a gang war. It was an insult and a challenge. And as she watched the distant lights of the harbor, a cold, sharp smile finally touched her lips. She dearly loved a challenge.