The oppressive silence of the sewer was broken only by the ragged, echoing breaths of the three men. The adrenaline that had fueled their survival was receding, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the stark, throbbing reality of their injuries.
Pyotr leaned heavily against a moss-slick wall, one hand pressed to the bleeding gash on his side. "It has been... a while," he rasped, "since I was pushed this far."
Johnathan Blake was on one knee, the fiery aura of the Crimson Fury potion having faded, leaving him pale and trembling from the backlash. He stared into the darkness where the creature had vanished. "What in the ever-loving fuck was that?" he breathed, his voice a mix of fury and shaken awe. "From the day I joined the Inquisition until this moment, I have never seen anything like that. Nothing even close."
Pyotr was silent for a long moment, his sharp, intelligent eyes distant as he pieced together the horror. "I am not certain," he finally said, his tone low and grave. "But if my suspicion is correct... we may be in humongous trouble."
Johnathan looked at him, his exhaustion momentarily overridden by disbelief. "Trouble? Pyotr, we just fought a nightmare that tore a man in half and ate his head. We're past trouble."
"Because," Pyotr continued, ignoring the comment, "I believe that creature... was once human."
Johnathan barked a harsh, incredulous laugh that turned into a wince of pain. "Human? Have you finally lost your mind, Pyotr? That thing didn't have a single feature that even remotely resembled a human! It had seven eyes and a mouth that opened the wrong way!"
"I am aware," Pyotr replied, his voice dangerously calm. "But the resonance... the way its form flickered... I believe it is a Misfire. A Tuner who used a corrupted artifact or was utterly rejected by their god."
"Even if it's a Misfire," Johnathan argued, "a human doesn't turn into that! I've seen Misfires, Pyotr. They turn into shambling, mindless blobs of flesh, or their bodies simply rupture. Not... not that organized, intelligent horror. Nothing like that."
Pyotr met his gaze, the lantern light casting deep shadows across his stern face. "Then there is only one other explanation, and it is far worse." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the foul air. "I think it used a Demon Artifact."
From the shadows where he had been catching his breath, Amir finally spoke up, his voice cutting through their debate.
"What's that?"
Johnathan let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "It is similar to a god artifact. Where a god artifact grants you a fraction of divine power, a demon artifact offers... something else. Demonic power. But the problem is, they are even rarer than god artifacts. So rare that most of the world doesn't even know they exist. Frankly, most of the Harmonic Inquisition doesn't know. I only learned of them from the Captain. I thought they were legend, mere rumor... I never thought I would live to see the proof of one."
Amir's mind raced, connecting the terrifying dots. "Wait... so there are demonic Tuners too—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. In a blur of motion, Johnathan was on him. A powerful arm slammed him face-first into the cold, wet stone of the sewer floor. The air rushed from his lungs. Before he could even process the pain, cold, hard manacles were locked around his wrists.
"You are under arrest, you rough shit," Johnathan snarled, his voice dripping with venomous triumph.
"Stop," Pyotr's voice cut through the tension, calm but firm. "He helped us in that battle."
"Helped us?" Johnathan spun to face his superior, his face a mask of outrage. "Let him go? Have you lost your mind? He is a rough Tuner. We cannot leave him wandering the streets!"
Pyotr remained unnervingly composed. "He saved us. Had he not intervened, we would be dead, our bodies joining Gerran's." He knelt down, bringing his face level with Amir's, who was still pinned and gasping on the ground. "You have significant potential. It would be a waste for a Tuner of your cleverness to end up as a random goon or a stain on a prison floor." A faint, calculating smile touched Pyotr's lips. "I have a better offer. Join the Harmonic Inquisition."
Johnathan stared as if Pyotr had just sprouted a second head. "You are adding a random, unknown, rough Tuner to the Inquisition?"
"Not random," Pyotr corrected, his gaze never leaving Amir. "Strategic. Someone with the guts to face a horror far beyond his power. And we could use a Tuner from the Gear of the Veiled Truth. We have none in our current roster." He let the implication hang in the air. "So, Mr. Stranger... what do you say? Care to be brothers?"
Amir's mind whirred, cutting through the pain and surprise. The Harmonic Inquisition. Resources. Knowledge. Protection. It's everything I need to survive in this world, to learn how it works, to find a way to get stronger. The thought of Earth flickered, but was instantly eclipsed by two ghostly faces—Gail and Reil. A cold fire ignited in his chest. No. I'm not going anywhere until I've made someone pay.
After a long, heavy silence, Amir met Pyotr's gaze. "Yes."
Pyotr's smirk widened. "That is what I like to hear."
Johnathan made a sound of pure disgust. "Unbelievable," he spat, turning on his heel and stalking off into the darkness, his curses echoing faintly in the tunnels.
Pyotr produced a key and unlocked the manacles. "Do not worry about him," he said, helping Amir to his feet. "He acts like that around all Tuners. It is something of a joke." He brushed a bit of filth from his own ruined white coat. "So, what is your name, big guy?"
Amir Zen
The steam train, a great iron serpent belching black smoke against a copper sky, snaked its way toward the towering spires and smoking chimneys of Steelhaven.
Inside a first-class compartment, a woman sat by the window, her form silhouetted against the passing industrial blight. She wore a gown of deep plum velvet, elegant and out of place. Her face was turned toward the landscape, her features obscured by a delicate veil of black lace.
An obese man, his fingers thick with gold rings, swayed down the aisle and slid into the seat opposite her. His eyes roamed over her with unsubtle hunger.
"Pardon the intrusion, my lady," he slurred, the scent of cheap brandy on his breath. "But I must say... your lips are the most exquisite thing I have seen in a decade. Like rose petals dipped in wine."
He reached a meaty hand to brush her hip.
Faster than a striking snake, her own hand—slim and pale—shot out and slapped his away with a crack that was both sound and warning.
The man flinched, his bluster fading into nervous confusion.
The woman's head tilted slightly. Her voice, when it came from behind the veil, was a low, hypnotic purr. "Not here. Somewhere... private."
Eyes wide with a mixture of fear and thrilling anticipation, the man eagerly led her to a private sleeping cottage at the end of the carriage. The moment the door clicked shut, he fumbled for her, his breath hitching.
"My dear, I—"
He tried to kiss her. Instead of lips, he found cold, hard steel.
Thud.
He looked down, dumbfounded. The ornate hilt of a stiletto dagger protruded from his stomach. He gurgled, unable to form a word.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
With pitiless efficiency, she stabbed him again, and again, and again, until he slumped to the floor, his life bleeding out onto the fine Persian rug.
The woman stepped back, calmly wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief. She lifted her veil, revealing the cold, beautiful, and venomous features of Madam Eliza.
"I despise men who cannot control their lust," she murmured to the corpse. "And I do not suffer the touch of swine."
From a shadowed corner of the cottage that seemed to deepen unnaturally, Aggresus melted into view. "Didn't take you long to finish the poor fool," he remarked, his voice a low rumble.
Eliza didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the skyline of Steelhaven now filling the window. "It took precisely as long as it needed to. He was never the main target." A cruel smile played on her lips. "He was merely... a distraction. The real prey is that man."
Aggresus smirked, a predator's expression.
The next morning, Amir walked the soot-stained streets of Steelhaven, the weight of the Harmonic Inquisition card feeling alien in his pocket. Ironhide Street. Pyotr said the Cog-Watcher station there. For "safety purposes." The phrase echoed in his mind. Of course, there were no public Harmonic Inquisition stations. How could there be, when most civilians didn't even know Tuners existed? The system was a shadowy filter: the Cog-Watchers handled the public's mundane crimes and served as the front door; when a case reeked of the paranormal, it was quietly transferred into the waiting hands of the Inquisition.
He soon stood before his destination. The Cog-Watcher station was a fortress of civic authority, built from stern, grey brick and reinforced with iron bands. The symbol of the Iron Republic—a gear
entwined with a hammer
was carved prominently above the heavy oak door, which was flanked by two smokeless, electric lanterns. A pair of constables in dark blue, brass-buttoned uniforms stood guard, their faces set in expressions of bored vigilance.
Pushing the door open, Amir entered a cacophony of controlled chaos. The air was thick with the smell of cheap coal, sweat, and ink. The main room was a large, open space with a high ceiling stained yellow from tobacco smoke. A long, scarred wooden counter served as a barrier between the public and the law. Wanted posters and public decrees were pinned haphazardly to noticeboards. Behind the counter, constables moved with a tired urgency, escorting surly drunks to holding cells or taking statements from frantic citizens.
Amir joined the line and eventually reached the front. A constable with a perpetually weary expression didn't look up from his paperwork. "State your business."
Amir remained silent, simply placing the Inquisition card on the counter.
The constable's eyes flicked down, then snapped back up. He looked Amir over from head to toe, a quick, professional assessment to ensure he wasn't some random street beggar who'd stumbled upon the card. Amir felt a flicker of irritation at the scrutiny but held his tongue, his new, formal clothing thankfully passing the unspoken test.
"Right," the constable said, his tone shifting from bored to cautiously respectful. "There's an inspector in that room." He gestured with his chin toward a side office. "Go to him."
Amir opened his mouth to ask for directions, but the constable had already turned his attention to the next person in line, the conversation clearly over.
Making his way to the indicated office, Amir found a young man with sharp black eyes and neatly combed brown hair. He looked up from a stack of files, his demeanor more refined than the harried constables outside. "Hello there. How can I help?"
Again, Amir presented the card.
The inspector took it, his eyebrows rising in clear surprise. He looked from the card to Amir, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "Hmm. A candidate." He stood, walked to a nearby bookshelf filled with thick legal volumes, and pulled on a specific, unassuming leather-bound book. With a soft click and a low grind of hidden gears, the entire bookshelf swung inward, revealing a dimly lit passageway carved into the station's thick wall.
The inspector gestured into the darkness. "Head straight down this path."
Amir nodded, stepping through the opening. The bookshelf swung shut behind him, sealing with a definitive thud that cut off the noise of the main station, plunging him into near-silence.
He followed a narrow, downward-sloping corridor, the walls shifting from rough brick to smooth, treated stone. At the end, the passage opened abruptly, and Amir stopped short, his eyes widening.
It was another office, but one that existed in a different world from the one he'd just left. This was no cramped, smoky chamber. It was a spacious, circular atrium, lit by the cool, steady glow of Aether-lamps. The air was clean, carrying a faint, ozonic scent. Intricate runes were etched into the dark wood of the walls and desks, pulsing with a soft, latent energy. Glass display cases held an array of strange artifacts: a compass that pointed at the ceiling, a gauntlet made of interlocking brass feathers, a shard of crystal that hummed audibly.
Men and women moved with purpose, their uniforms not the practical blue of the Cog-Watchers, but tailored outfits of charcoal grey and silver, bearing the stark emblem of the gear and the unblinking eye. A few cast sidelong glances his way, their expressions unreadable.
At the heart of the room sat a receptionist, calmly sipping a cup of tea. Amir approached and wordlessly offered his card.
The woman smiled, gently pushing his hand away. "That won't be necessary, sir. Pyotr and the Captain informed me we'd have a new recruit joining us today. Your identity is verified." She gestured gracefully to a nearby leather couch. "Please, take a seat. They will call for you shortly."
Amir sat, sinking into the plush cushions. He let his gaze wander over the hidden headquarters, a thought crystallizing in his mind.
This station... it feels bigger than the Cog-Watcher station above.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the receptionist looked up from her desk. Mr. Amir? Let's
go.
Amir stood. "Where to?"
"To the Captain."
He fell into step behind her, using the opportunity to absorb the details of the Harmonic
Inquisition's true heart. The initial atrium gave way to a network of corridors that felt less like a
government building and more like a cross between a scholarly archive and a military garrison. The
air grew cooler, carrying the scents of old parchment, ozone, and polished metal.
They passed open doorways revealing diverse chambers:
One was a Scriptorium, where scribes meticulously copied fragile, rune-inscribed manuscripts
under the light of glowing crystals.
Another was an Armory, its walls racked not with standard-issue rifles, but with an arsenal of the
bizarre and arcane: glaives with resonating forks, shields inlaid with absorptive minerals, and pistols
whose chambers seemed designed for something other than bullets.
A third door, heavily reinforced, was marked with a symbol of a containment circle; from behind it
came a low, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated in Amir's teeth.The people they passed were a spectrum of the extraordinary. A woman with iridescent scales
tracing her temple carried a stack of reports. A man whose right arm was a complex assembly of
whirring brass gears nodded curtly as they passed. This was not a place for ordinary constables;
this was a sanctuary for those who touched the strange and dangerous currents of the world.
Finally, they stopped before a heavy, darkwood door, devoid of marking save for a single, stark
emblem of the Inquisition's eye-in-the-gear.
"This is the Captain's room," the receptionist said.
"Aren't you coming in?" Amir asked.
She offered a small, professional smile. "No. I have other matters to attend to." With that, she
turned and walked briskly back down the hall.
Taking a steadying breath, Amir pushed the door open and entered.
The room was spacious but spartan. One wall was a single, large pane of reinforced glass offering a
grim overview of Steelhaven's industrial skyline. The other was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling
bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes and curious artifacts. In the center sat a massive oak
desk.
Behind it was a man who commanded attention without uttering a word. He was middle-aged,
with a strong, weathered face and a full head of brilliant white hair. But his most striking feature
was his mustache—a magnificent, impeccably groomed sweep of silver that framed his mouth and
gave him an air of both wisdom and formidable authority. He looked up from a file, his eyes, a
piercing and calm blue, settling on Amir.
He smiled, a gesture that was both warm and deeply assessing. "Sit down, son."
Amir did so, the leather of the chair creaking under his weight.
"So," the Captain began, lacing his fingers together on the desk. "Where are you from?"
Amir gave the rehearsed answer. Oakhaven.
The Captain laughed, a rich, knowing sound that held no malice but was utterly dismissive of the
lie. "You don't have to pretend." He leaned forward slightly, his presence filling the room. His gaze
locked with Amir's, and in those blue depths, Amir saw an understanding that went beyond files
and reports—an understanding that seemed to peer into the very core of his being.
"You aren't from this world, are you?"