Amir stepped off the train, and the smell hit him like a physical blow—a thick, choking cocktail of iron filings, coal smoke, and something sharply sulfuric that burned his nostrils. Beneath it all was the stench of a city sweating and bleeding: unwashed bodies, industrial grease, and the faint, sweet-rotten hint of something he couldn't name, something that didn't belong on any world he knew.
This was Steelhaven. It didn't just look like hell—it smelled like it, too.
He moved quickly, head lowered, blending into the river of grim-faced commuters. Lay low. Learn. Survive. Aggresus was still out there. So were the others—whoever they were—who'd turned his old life to ash.
Stepping out of the station's shadow, he froze.
The city wasn't just large—it was a monument to industry and oppression. Colossal factories pierced the smoke-choked sky, their windows stained not with color, but with decades of grime and rust. The streets weren't paved with cobblestone, but with metal plates that echoed under countless boots, like veins pumping lifeblood through a mechanical heart. Steam-powered vehicles hissed and clattered in a chaotic dance, their engines growling like caged beasts.
He scanned the crowd. The men wore heavy, oil-stained work coats and flat caps, their faces smudged with soot. The women, clad in drab, high-collared dresses and worn shawls, moved with a weary resilience, their eyes fixed ahead as if avoiding the gaze of the city itself. Everyone looked… used. Ground down.
Amir's own hand caught his eye. He stared at the pink finger of his right hand—numb, lifeless, a hollow price paid for power.
One sacrifice. One day of power.
Reil's voice echoed in his mind, clear and sharp as the day she'd explained it. A fresh wave of guilt twisted in his gut.
I'm sorry, Reil. I couldn't protect you.
But the day wasn't over. The power she'd helped him claim still hummed in his veins. He could use it again—if he dared. But being a Tuner was a death sentence here. He had to be smart. He had to make sure no one was watching.
His thoughts were cut short as a scuffle erupted from a narrow alley to his left. Three broad-shouldered goons had a man pinned against the wall, fists falling like hammers.
Amir's eyes narrowed. A cold, sharp smirk touched his lips.
Perfect.
These lowlifes wouldn't be missed. And their coin… would be a fine start.
amir slipped into the alley's mouth, shadows swallowing him whole. The air here was thick with the stink of rotting garbage and cheap liquor.
The lead goon, a brute with a broken nose, glanced up from beating his victim. His eyes raked over Amir's torn, mud-stained clothes and he sneered.
"The hell do you want, scrap-rat? Come to beg for scraps?"
Amir's voice was flat, cold. I came to take what you have.
A moment of stunned silence, then the thug barked a laugh. "You? Look at you! You're not a threat, you're a stain."
Amir didn't flinch. A cold, detached smile touched his lips. I was just thinking… your face looks like something even a wraith wouldn't eat
The man's face purpled with rage. He lunged, swinging a meaty fist straight at Amir's jaw.
But the punch didn't connect. It passed through him, as if Amir were made of smoke and suggestion. The goon stumbled forward, off-balance and bewildered.
Before he could understand, a phantom impact exploded between his legs. He crumpled with a choked gasp, clutching himself. He hadn't been touched—but his mind screamed in agony.
The other two stared, then charged. A knife flashed. It sliced through empty air where Amir's throat should have been. In return, one felt an imaginary crack against his temple. The other clutched his stomach, vomiting from a gut punch that never landed.
In less than a minute, all three lay on the grimy alley stones, moaning and writhing against phantoms—victims of their own minds.
Amir stepped over them, calmly collecting their coin purses. The weight felt insignificant, but the power thrumming in his veins… that was real.
No wonder the law's a joke here, he thought, not even looking back. In the Iron Republic, you either have power… or you're prey.
Amir stared at the meager handful of coins in his palm—only forty gold. A bitter scoff escaped him. Pathetic. Even street trash carried more.
But forty wasn't enough. Not for a new set of clothes. Not for a night's shelter. Not for disappearing in a city that chewed up the weak and spat out the bones. The suspicious glances from passersby were already piling up; he looked like a ghost who'd forgotten to fully die.
I need to blend in. And for that… I need more.
A knot tightened in his stomach. The idea forming in his mind left a sour taste. Back on Earth, he wouldn't have stolen a pen. But this wasn't Earth. This was Steelhaven, and it was life or death.
No other choice.
His eyes landed on a mark—a gentleman in a tailored wool suit and a sleek top hat, posture oozing entitlement. Perfect.
Amir focused, and a flicker of power surged from his core. A few feet away, an illusion of a haggard beggar shimmered into existence.
"Please, sir," the illusion whined, shuffling toward the man. "Spare a coin for a meal?"
"Get out of my way, you worthless filth!" the man snapped, his face twisting in disgust as he waved a dismissive hand. "I don't associate with street vermin!"
While the man was thoroughly distracted, arguing with empty air, the real Amir slipped past, his fingers brushing against the man's coat. A smooth, practiced motion he didn't know he had, and the leather wallet was his. He melted back into the foot traffic without a sound.
Around the corner, he flipped it open. Two hundred and fifty gold coins. A slow smirk spread across his face. Not bad at all.
Guilt prickled at the edges of his consciousness, but he shoved it down. No other option. Just a few more. Just enough to survive.
Across the bustling street, nestled in the shadow of a gargoyle-adorned building, was a small café with wrought-iron tables.
A man sat there, sharp and observant, sipping a cup of dark, steaming tea. His eyes—a calm, calculating grey—narrowed as they followed Amir's movements, from the conjured illusion to the swift, silent theft. A slow, intrigued smirk tugged at his lips.
Ahh… A new fox has entered the hunt, he mused, placing his cup down with a soft click. He tossed a few coins onto the table, nodded to the waitress, and stood, straightening his long, dark coat.
The game of hound and fox… is about to get very interesting tonight.
He moved into the crowd, his steps silent and deliberate, already tracking his new prey.
Let's just hope he isn't already in the arms of another…..
The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and warm, tangled sheets.
In the master chamber of a luxurious townhouse—not a mansion, but a dwelling of clear, refined opulence—a man slept deeply. He was magnificently built, with broad, muscular shoulders and a chest carved from marble, scattered with a few pale, silvery scars that spoke of old battles. His hair was a shock of pure white, stark against the rich, rumpled silk pillows, and a strong jawline was softened slightly in sleep.
Draped across his chest, one on either side, were two women, deep in slumber.
One had fiery red hair fanned out like a cascade of embers, her fair skin glowing in the dim lamplight, her lips slightly parted.
The other had raven-black hair and smooth, sun-kissed skin, her arm possessively curled over his waist, her expression one of serene contentment.
Tringgggg… trinnggg…
A landline phone rang on the bedside table. The white-haired man—Pyotr—groaned, stirred from his sleep. He snatched the receiver. "Hello?"
"I know I disturbed you, Pyotr. I also know what you were doing," came the voice. "But this is important. There's a new fox in town. The Captain wanted me to tell you."
"You ruined my mood," Pyotr grumbled, though a dark interest colored his tone. "But if the Captain's involved… it might be fun." He hung up, untangled himself from the sleeping women, and rose.
After pickpocketing three more marks, Amir now had roughly 450 gold coins. His eyes caught an elegant coat and flat hat displayed in a clothing store window—and in its reflection, he spotted the man tailing him.
Without breaking stride, Amir led him into a narrow alley and slipped around a corner. When the man followed, he found the passage empty.
"Looking for me, gentleman?" Amir's voice came from behind.
The man spun, drawing a pistol and firing without hesitation. The bullet passed through empty air—an illusion. The real Amir was already crouched behind a garbage bin.
"Playing smart, are we?" The man produced a crimson vial, downed it in one gulp, and cracked his neck. "It's been a while since I last saw a Tuner of the Veiled Truth. You're decent at hiding."
He shattered the garbage bin with one punch. Amir barely dodged the next blow—a fist that cratered the brick wall behind him. Amir tried an uppercut; the man deflected it and drove a devastating punch into his chest.
Crack. Ribs fractured. Amir was thrown across the street, crashing through a bakery wall. Patrons screamed.
Gasping, Amir forced himself up. His body screamed in protest.
In a blink, the man was before him again—but his next strike met only illusion.
"Not gonna lie, kid," the hunter smirked, impressed. "You've got guts."
"Who are you?" Amir choked out.
"Someone who makes Tuners piss their pants."
As Amir attempted a desperate kick, the man caught his leg and hurled him into a lamppost. Metal crumpled. Amir coughed blood, vision blurring. He knew he couldn't win.
Still, he staggered up for one last, clumsy charge.
The hunter smirked. Fool.
He threw a punch—and his fist phased through empty air. Another illusion.
The smirk vanished, replaced by cold, seething fury. He had been duped. The final, desperate charge was also an illusion, a brilliant feign to sell the ruse.
"You conniving little viper!" he roared, the sound raw and venomous, tearing through the street. "To think I almost admired your grit!"
As the hunter stormed off in the opposite direction, his fury fading into the city's hum, the real Amir Zen slumped into the narrow gap between a parked steam engine and a brick wall. He slid to the ground, his body a tapestry of bruises, cuts, and fractured bones, his breath a wet, ragged whisper. He was alive.
Amir peered through the grimy spokes of the steam engine's wheel. The man in the suit was gone.
Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed himself up and ran. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to buckle, not stopping until he had put a labyrinth of streets between himself and the confrontation. Finally, he collapsed in the recessed doorway of a condemned building, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
He looked down at his body, expecting to see the brutal map of his injuries. To his astonishment, the deep gashes were sealing, the angry purple bruises fading to a dull yellow. The splintered pain in his ribs had subsided to a deep, manageable ache.
Reil's voice echoed in his memory: "A Tuner's body is remade by the god's essence. Your strength, your speed, your endurance—all will be more than human. And given time… you can heal from almost anything."
A faint, weary smirk touched Amir's bloodied lips. "Thanks, Reil," he whispered to the cold, uncaring air, flexing his newly mended hand.
The man in the suit—Johnathan Blake—scanned the bustling streets, his expression a mask of cold fury. The fox had vanished. Spotting a public landline booth, he strode over, inserted a gold coin, and dialed a number with sharp, impatient clicks.
"Pyotr," he snapped into the receiver. "It would be beneficial if you stopped wasting your time fucking your harem and got down here to assist me."
A low, calm voice filtered through the line. "Do you have him?"
No. I lost the fox. He's a Veiled Truth user. Frequency 1, most likely. He used nothing but illusions, but he's clever with it
Then hang up the phone, Johnathan.
What?
Hang up. There is no longer a need for this line of communication.
The line went dead. Frowning, Johnathan replaced the receiver and turned—and froze.
A sleek, intimidating steam-wagon had pulled up to the curb, silent as a predator. Its black chassis was emblazoned with a stark, silver emblem: a stylized gear, inside of which was a single, unblinking eye, radiating lines like soundwaves. Beneath it, in severe, blocky lettering, were the words:
THE HARMONIC INQUISITION
The rear door swung open. Inside, illuminated by the soft glow of an amber dashboard light, sat Pyotr. He was now dressed in a impeccably tailored white longcoat, a thin, expensive cigar smoldering between his fingers.
"Get in, Mr. Johnathan Blake," Pyotr said, his voice a low rumble.
Johnathan slid into the plush interior, and the door sealed shut with a heavy thud. The steam-wagon purred to life and pulled smoothly into the flow of traffic.
Before Johnathan could speak, Pyotr raised a hand. "Wait. I know. But the new fox is not our primary concern. I spoke with the Captain. He informed me of this 'fox' before you did. His orders are to ignore him for now."
"Ignore him?" Johnathan's composure shattered, his voice rising in enraged disbelief. "Have you lost your mind? A rogue Tuner is loose in my district, and you're telling me to look the other way?"
"Relax," Pyotr commanded, his tone dropping into something dangerous and deep. "It is the Captain's order. I do not question him, and neither will you. He has redirected us to a more pressing matter at the VIC Plumber Company."
Johnathan stared, his jaw tight. "VIC? The plumbing supplier? What, did a pipe burst?"
"People are being murdered, Johnathan. Disappearing. Not just civilians. Employees of the company. And…" Pyotr paused, letting the weight of his next words settle in the cramped space. "...one of our members."
Johnathan's anger evaporated, replaced by cold dread. "One of ours? Are you certain? I heard Inquisitor Gerran submitted his resignation just last week. He got married."
Pyotr took a long drag from his cigar, the ember glowing brightly. "That is correct. But this is not a resignation. He was an honorable officer. He was also, like you, a potion-user. And now, he is gone."
"The Cog-Watchers should be handling a kidnapping," Johnathan argued, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.
"This is not a kidnapping," Pyotr stated flatly. "I believe he is dead. I believe they are all dead. I think we are dealing with… one of those things."
Johnathan's blood ran cold. A misfire?
Pyotr nodded slowly, his eyes like chips of ice. "Yes. A misfire. Someone who used a corrupted harmonic essence, or was utterly rejected by their god. They don't just die, Johnathan. They become something… else. Something the word 'nightmare' fails to describe."
"Fake artifacts?" Johnathan whispered. "The kind that flood the black markets?"
Precisely. Painted trinkets sold as 'physical attribute boosters.' It is almost funny, the lengths people will go to for a shred of divine power," Pyotr replied, his voice dripping with contempt. "They never consider the side effects. They never consider that a god might find them… unworthy.
Johnathan let out a shaky breath. Alright. So we're heading to VIC?
Pyotr stared out the window as the industrial landscape slid by. VIC. We must unravel this before the night is through. The Captain wants answers. And I do not like to disappoint him.
Amir sat in the grimy alley, the cold seeping through his torn clothes. Every breath sent a sharp, reminding pain through his partially healed ribs. They're gone... I need to move. Now.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up, a groan escaping his lips as his body protested. He stumbled into the flow of pedestrians, his disheveled appearance drawing scowls and wide berths. Finally, he spotted a clothing store and stepped inside.
A small bell chimed. The store owner, a thin man with a waxed mustache, began a rehearsed, "Welcome, sir—" before his eyes landed on Amir's torn, bloodstained shirt and mud-caked trousers. His face soured instantly.
"Out!" he snapped, waving a dismissive hand. "Get out, you filthy urchin! I don't hand out charity here!"
Amir fixed him with a cold, disgusted stare. Some things are the same in every world. It all comes down to coin. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. He didn't say a word. Instead, he loosened the drawstring of his stolen pouch and let the owner glimpse the heavy gold coins within.
The transformation was immediate. The owner's face melted from contempt into obsequious reverence.
"My—my deepest apologies, good sir! A terrible misunderstanding! Please, please, come in! Rest yourself!" He all but bowled Amir over in his haste to guide him to a velvet-upholstered couch.
After Amir was seated, the owner paraded an array of garments before him. Amir selected a set of practical, durable, yet respectable clothing that would allow him to blend into the industrial crowd of Steelhaven without drawing undue attention:
A high-collared, grey wool shirt, sturdy and unadorned.
A pair of dark brown, well-tailored trousers, made from a tough canvas-like material.
A leather waistcoat, worn but supple, with multiple inner pockets—perfect for concealing coins
A long, charcoal-grey overcoat, heavy enough to ward off the chill and obscure his form.
A simple, dark flat cap to shadow his features.
He paid the man 25 gold coins without haggling. The owner nearly wept with gratitude.
Stepping out of the store, Amir felt transformed. He glanced at his reflection in a soot-stained window—a somber, anonymous figure, a cog in the machine. No one will look twice now.
As he pondered finding a place to rest and plan, a vehicle chugged past—a steam-wagon with the word "TAXI" painted in bold white letters on its roof.
Amir's eyebrows rose. A taxi? Seriously? A wry smile touched his lips. "Huh. Some things really are universal."
He raised a hand. "Taxi!"
The wagon hissed to a stop. Amir approached the window. "Take me to the nearest hotel."
The nearest hotel? the driver repeated, scratching his chin. That'd be 'The Iron Rest.' It's right behind the VIC Plumber Company.
Fine. How much?
Eighty silver.
"Done."
Amir climbed into the sputtering steam-wagon, the vehicle lurching back into the chaotic flow of traffic, carrying him toward a rest he desperately needed—and directly toward the epicenter of the unfolding horror.
The air near the VIC Plumber Company was thick with the stench of industrial waste and something fouler. Pyotr and Johnathan stood over a grated manhole, the iron slick with unidentifiable grime.
"This is it," Pyotr stated, his voice flat.
So this is the place? Johnathan asked, his nose wrinkling. "You're certain? It's a drain."
Pyotr's gaze was like iron. Yes. This is where the city workers found the limbs. What was left of them, anyway.
With a grunt of effort, Pyotr pried the heavy cover open, revealing a dark, echoing maw. A wave of humid, putrid air washed over them. Without a word, Pyotr began his descent into the darkness. Johnathan drew a short, weighted truncheon from his coat, took a steadying breath, and followed.
The manhole cover clanged shut above them, sealing them in the deep, dripping silence of the city's underbelly.
Meanwhile, Amir's taxi hissed to a halt in front of a modest, three-story building with a flickering sign: THE IRON REST. It stood in the long shadow of the massive VIC Plumber Company warehouse, silent and ominous against the night sky
Somewhere deep within the Wicked Forest, in a cavern illuminated by flickering black candles and the faint, sickly glow of a corrupted ritual circle, a storm of rage was breaking.
Madam Eliza, her face a contorted mask of purple fury, swept a bony arm across a stone altar. Skulls, dark candles, and bowls of congealed blood flew through the air, shattering against the cavern walls in a rain of bone, wax, and gore.
"A VILLAGE!" she shrieked, her voice a raw, tearing sound that echoed in the cramped space. "I GAVE YOU AN ENTIRE VILLAGE TO BURN! HOMES! LIVES! AND YOU COULDN'T FIND ONE SINGLE MAN?!"
Her wild, venomous eyes landed on one of the cowering robed women who had failed her. The woman trembled, her hands raised in a futile plea.
"Madam, please— we searched, the wraiths, the werewolves, Aggresus and his men— he wasn't there! He must have fled—"
"SILENCE!"
Eliza crossed the distance in a blur. The crack of her palm against the woman's cheek was like a gunshot. The acolyte stumbled back, clutching her face, a thin trickle of blood leaking from her split lip.
Eliza's gaze then fell upon the source of her ultimate fury—another robed figure lying motionless on the cold stone floor, a ritual dagger still buried to the hilt in her chest. The one who had botched the summoning. The one who had brought the wrong man to this world and ruined everything.
The sight of the corpse fueled her madness further. With a guttural scream, she grabbed fistfuls of her own elaborate, dark hair and yanked. Strands ripped from her scalp with a sickening tearing sound, but she felt no pain—only the white-hot fire of her failure. She stood there, panting, clutching the clumps of her own hair, her body trembling with an apocalyptic wrath.
Aggresus stood silently in the shadowed corner of the cave, a statue of disciplined menace. He knew better than to interrupt Madam Eliza in her volcanic rage.
Suddenly, one of the surviving robed women scrambled forward, prostrating herself at Eliza's feet.
Madam Eliza! Madam Eliza! We found him! We have the location!
Eliza froze, her chest heaving, her own hair still clutched in her white-knuckled fists.
He is in Steelhaven!
Instead of calming her, the news seemed to pour oil onto the fire of her fury. Her head snapped up, her eyes—wide and burning with malevolent light—locking directly onto Aggresus.
"Go," she commanded, her voice a low, venomous hiss that cut through the cavern. "I don't care if he breathes his last breath at your feet. Just bring me his heart. Do this, and I will give you whatever it is you truly desire."
A slow, predatory smirk spread across Aggresus's scarred face. He stepped from the shadows and gave a deep, theatrical bow.
"My pleasure, Madam."