His grip on Lutz's neck vanished completely. He recoiled, clawing at his own hand, at the ring, as if it were a white-hot brand. Umbra was a conduit, and on this blood-soaked night, under the gaze of the Crimson Moon, that conduit was wide open.
Lutz kicked out blindly, his boot connecting with Sett's chest. The solid impact was a shock—the Rose Bishop had been so ethereal, so fluid, but in his agonized distraction, his form had solidified. The blow sent Sett sprawling back, giving Lutz the precious inches he needed to scramble away.
He gasped, rolling onto his side, sucking in huge, ragged, painful breaths of smoky air. Each inhalation was a knife in his raw throat. He coughed and retched, his body convulsing as it fought for oxygen. The world swam back into focus, painted in shades of fire and blood.
He had to move. Now.
Lutz pushed himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest—his wounded leg, his bruised throat, his exhaustion. His eyes locked on Sett. The Rose Bishop was on his knees, no longer a terrifying predator but a pitiable, horrifying wreck. He was frantically trying to claw Umbra from his finger, but his body was betraying him. The psychic assault was causing a physical backlash. The flesh of his hand was bubbling, morphing uncontrollably. Fingers swelled into tumorous, fleshy cylinders, fusing together and then splitting apart. The more he struggled, the more his form destabilized, making the simple, precise motion of removing a ring an impossible task.
He's fighting it, Lutz realized with a fresh spike of cold fear. Even though Lutz didn't know it, Sett's Sequence 8 had been Listener. He was no stranger to external voices, to psychic noise. He was a lunatic, and that was saving him, you can't easily break what is already broken, and he was wrestling back a sliver of control, trying to build a wall against the screaming chorus in his head.
Lutz couldn't give him that time. He couldn't win a battle of attrition. He had to overwhelm him, now, while he was vulnerable.
His hand dove to his belt, finding the last remaining cloth bag. The Milled Briarflame mix. He tore the knot open with his teeth and, in the same motion, hurled the entire contents at the writhing form on the ground.
The dark red powder settled over Sett like a foul snow. The effect was immediate and grotesque. Where the powder touched his unstable, mutating flesh, it ignited in thousands of tiny, sizzling pops. It was like throwing gunpowder on a bed of embers. Sett's screams, already raw from psychic torment, escalated into a new register of pure, physical agony. His body became a canvas of miniature explosions, each one a pinprick of searing pain that disrupted his concentration and his flesh's attempts to reform. He was a man being eaten alive by a swarm of fiery ants, his mind simultaneously being shredded by screams of the unknown.
Yet, unbelievably, he persevered. Through the twin hells of mind and body, his tumorous, misshapen hand continued to scrabble at the ring, a testament to a willpower that was as monstrous as his form.
Panic began to curdle in Lutz's gut. He was running out of options. The fire was spreading, the ceiling groaning above them. He had one last, desperate card to play.
He grabbed one of his three vials of Dissolving Acid. The glass was cool in his sweaty palm. He ripped the wax seal off with his thumb and, stepping closer to the shrieking, burning mass that was Sett, he aggressively poured the entire contents directly over him.
The sound was unlike anything else. A hissing, sizzling tear, like meat dropped onto a red-hot griddle, but magnified a hundredfold. Acrid, greenish fumes billowed up, carrying a smell that was both chemical and putrid. The acid didn't just burn. It ate into the corrupted flesh, dissolving it into a black, smoking sludge. Sett's convulsions became epileptic in their violence, his form losing all coherence, becoming a thrashing puddle of acid-eaten, burning, screaming protoplasm.
Lutz, devoid of any rationality, fumbled for his revolver, his hands shaking. He didn't aim. He just pointed it at the central, most coherent mass of the writhing horror and emptied the entire cylinder one shot after another. The reports were deafening in the confined space. Six shots, punching into the dissolving flesh. It was overkill. It was desperation.
"Just die! Go to hell! Die!" Lutz screamed, the words tearing at his injured throat. It was a raw, primal yell of fear and rage. He was past cunning, past strategy. This was survival.
And then, something changed.
The convulsions didn't stop, but they changed their nature. They became… rhythmic, almost pulsing. The horrific cacophony of screams and sizzles seemed to be pulled inward, toward a single point.
The ring on Sett's dissolving finger began to glow with a deep, hungry, crimson light. It was no longer a passive conduit; it was active. It was consuming.
Lutz watched, dumbfounded, as the light from the ring intensified, forming a vortex of bloody radiance. Sett's thrashing form was pulled toward it. The flesh, the smoke, the very essence of the Rose Bishop—it all streamed into the ring like water down a drain. The screams reached a final, piercing crescendo that seemed to stretch and distort, pulled thin by the unnatural force, and then were cut off with a final, sickening slurp.
Silence.
The space where Sett had been was empty, save for a stain of black sludge and a few spent bullet casings. The air still stank of acid, fire, and burnt flesh, but the oppressive, monstrous presence was gone.
Lutz stood panting, his revolver hanging limply in his hand. His mind struggled to process what he had just witnessed. He hadn't just killed Sett. The ring had… absorbed him.
Hesitantly, he took a step forward. There, lying in the center of the stain, was Umbra.
But it was changed.
The metal was no longer just crimson; it looked like crystallized blood, dark and semi-translucent. The spherical gems, once like drops of blood, had transformed. They were now small, perfectly formed eyes, their irises a malevolent, bruised red—the exact shade of Sett's. And they were open. They were looking. Not with sentience, but with a captured, impotent fury, their gaze fixed directly on Lutz.
Umbra was gone, he was now looking at something else entirely. Something that had just devoured a man. He had won, he had killed a Sequence 6 Beyonder whole. But as he stared into those tiny, hate-filled eyes set in blood crystal, the victory felt more like a damnation.
"You'll be Sangefaust."
It meant Blood and Fist in Rumanian and German respectively.
After naming this new wretched creation he picked it up with extreme carefulness, using a scrap of cloth to avoid direct contact with the blood-crystal ring and its unsettling, watchful eyes. He stored it deep in its pouch, the weight of it feeling infinitely heavier than before. 'I am not putting that thing on my finger anytime soon. Or ever. Let it simmer in the dark.'
He straightened up, his body a symphony of protests. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the raw, throbbing pain in his calf and the burn in his throat. 'Okay, now everything's set. I don't know how's the situation in the main hall, but I don't care. The Baron and Karl are probably dead or dying. Krieg is glued to the floor. That Noire woman is a problem, but she's not my problem. I can't afford to go back and make sure. Surviving and carrying out the plan is the priority now.'
The fire was no longer a background threat; it was the environment. The air was searingly hot, and the roar was a constant, hungry presence. A groaning sound from above made him look up just as a heavy, burning beam splintered and fell. He threw himself sideways, the beam crashing down where he'd just been standing, sending up a shower of sparks that stung his exposed skin. 'Too close. This whole place is coming down.'
He needed to be functional. With a grimace, he drew Creed. The stiletto felt reassuringly solid in his hand. He sliced a long strip from the bottom of his coat, the fabric tearing with a rough sound. Gritting his teeth, he knelt and wrapped the makeshift bandage tightly around the deep gash on his left calf. The pressure was agonizing, but it stemmed the fresh flow of blood and would, hopefully, let him put weight on it without his leg buckling completely. 'It'll have to do. Can't be pretty out here.'
He looked over at the two heavy leather bags he'd tossed onto the second-floor landing at the start of all this. They were still there, waiting like loyal, ugly dogs. A small, genuine smile, the first in what felt like an eternity, touched his lips. 'There you are. The whole reason for this mess.'
He slung them over his shoulders, grunting with the effort. A promise of a future. 'Alright, it's time for the big hit.'
He moved with purpose now, ignoring the fire licking at the edges of the loft. His Thief's nose guided him unerringly to the spot directly above the Baron's hidden treasury. He could feel the void below, the concentrated value calling out to his Marauder senses like a siren song.
He pulled out one of his two remaining vials of Dissolving Acid. He uncorked it and poured half of its content precisely, sizzling line onto the wooden floor. The acid ate through the planks with terrifying speed, the acrid smell of burning pine joining the cocktail of other stenches. The weakened section of the floor gave way with a crack, crashing down into the darkness below.
Without hesitation, Lutz jumped down after it, landing in a crouch amidst splintered wood and plaster dust.
The room was exactly as he'd sensed: small, windowless, and oppressively silent, a stark contrast to the inferno above. It was an office, not a vault—a desk, chairs, shelves stuffed with ledgers. His thief's nose tingled. 'So many secrets in those books. Shipping routes, blackmail material, political connections. A fortune in information.' He ran a finger along a ledger's spine. 'But not the fortune I need. Too bulky, too traceable. I need the liquid assets.'
His gaze was drawn irresistibly to the far wall, to the single largest concentration of value in the room. It wasn't hidden behind a painting or a false bookshelf. It was a massive, black, iron safe, standing nearly as tall as he was, its surface pockmarked and scarred but its lock a complex, gleaming brass mechanism that promised formidable resistance. It was a statement of power. The Baron didn't need to hide his treasure; he dared anyone to try and take it.
Lutz approached it, his hands already itching. 'Let's see what you're made of.'
Lutz stared at the imposing black safe, the final barrier between him and the reason he had orchestrated this entire night of blood and fire. The acid vial was still in his hand, a few drops of the corrosive liquid sloshing inside. 'Worth a shot.' He upended it, pouring the remaining contents directly over the complex brass lock mechanism. The acid sizzled aggressively, eating away at the surface, sending up tendrils of acrid smoke, but the lock held fast. It was too robust, the internal mechanisms too protected. 'Stubborn piece of junk.'
His hand tightened around Creed. The familiar, slight physical boost flowed into his body, and the whispers of violent stratagems grew louder at the edge of his mind. Planting his feet firmly. He gripped the cold, pockmarked iron of the safe door. 'This is going to hurt.'
He focused, drawing not on the blade's eloquence, but on the core ability he knew it possessed—the one that concentrated all its power into a single, decisive strike. He wasn't aiming at a person's neck, but at the structural integrity of the lock itself. He poured his will into the artifact, feeling its power coil within him like a spring.
"Kill shot."
The energy didn't manifest as a blade strike. It erupted through his own muscles as a single, explosive burst of supernatural strength. He pulled.
For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened. Then, with a deafening, metallic SCREECH of tortured metal, the lock's internal bolts sheared clean off. The massive door gave way so suddenly that Lutz, putting his entire weight into the pull, was thrown backwards. He landed hard on the floor, the impact jarring his wounded leg and sending a fresh wave of agony through him.
He ignored it. Scrambling up, his gaze lifted to the open maw of the vault.
And he saw it.
Gold. A vision that made every risk, every moral compromise, every second of terror feel insignificant. Stack upon stack of Feysacian Gold Hammers, each one stamped with the war-hammer emblem. They gleamed in the dim, fiery light filtering from the hole above, a river of condensed wealth. His Marauder senses screamed at him, confirming the sheer, overwhelming value. 'Kilograms of it. Five hundred? Six hundred?' His mind, sharp with avarice, did the conversion instantly. 'That's about... six thousand Loenish Gold Pounds. A king's ransom.' It was more money than he had ever conceived of possessing, enough to vanish forever, to build a new life from nothing.
Beside the stacks of coins were two sealed metal boxes, unadorned and sturdy. 'Later. The gold first.'
A predatory smile stretched across his face, a genuine expression of triumph. He took a step forward, his hands already reaching for the nearest stack.
Then he froze.
The smile vanished, replaced by a cold slap of realization. 'The entrance. You fool!'
In his feverish hunger, driven by the inherent nature of the Marauder pathway to acquire, he had committed a cardinal sin. He had left his back door wide open. The entrance door was a gaping wound, an invitation for anyone—a surviving Viper, a Church soldier, to stumble upon him at the worst possible moment.
Cursing under his breath, he tore his eyes away from the gold. The urge to just start shoveling was a physical ache, but survival instinct, honed over weeks in this hellhole, was stronger. He rushed back to the spot beneath the door. He could hear the fire raging above, closer than ever. Pieces of burning debris occasionally tumbled down, hissing as they hit the floor.
His hands moved with frantic speed, pulling a stick of charcoal from his harness. He dropped to his knees and began drawing on the floor, his movements less precise than they had been for the traps, fueled by urgency. It was the same ritual circle he'd used for the Crimson Charms, the one for accelerating entropy and decay, aiming it upwards. He sketched the jagged symbols, the spirals that denoted a barrier of accelerated ruin.
He finished the circle, from another pouch, he pulled out the last Crimson Charm.. He placed it in the center of the diagram. His hands were shaking from exhaustion and dwindling spirituality. 'I'm running on fumes.'
He began the incantation in Hermes, the words feeling like lead on his tongue. Each syllable cost him, drawing from a well that was nearly dry. The Marauder pathway was not known for vast spiritual reserves; it was about finesse and theft, not rituals. He pushed through the lightheaded-ness, the growing ache behind his eyes. As he spoke the final word, he felt a sharp, draining sensation, as if a plug had been pulled on his very life force.
The charm in the center of the circle glowed with a sickly crimson light. The energy spread through the lines of the diagram, and then focused upward, forming a shimmering, translucent film of corrosive power over the hole in the ceiling. It wasn't a physical barrier, but a mystical one. Anything trying to pass through—wood, metal, flesh—would be subjected to instant, rapid degeneration.
The effort left him breathless and swaying on his feet. He leaned against the wall, sucking in the hot, foul air, his body screaming for rest. 'No. Not yet.'
Pushing himself upright, he turned his back on the sealed entrance and faced the open vault once more. The gold hammers still gleamed, its call even more potent now that the immediate danger was, temporarily, contained. The exhaustion was a heavy cloak, but the sight of the treasure cut through it like a knife.
He was ready to take what was his.