Deep in the night, long after the crimson moon had begun its descent, a single, burdened figure moved through the labyrinthine alleys of Indaw Harbor. Lutz Fischer was a silhouette of pure avarice made manifest, a mule packed not with goods, but with the condensed weight of a destroyed empire. The two leather bags were slung over his shoulders, their straps digging deep into his flesh, while the heavy satchel of gold and artifacts was a cross he bore against his chest. Every step was a fresh agony in his mutilated calf, a burning reminder of how close it had all been.
'The Merchant's District. Just get to the room.' The thought was a mantra, a single point of focus in a mind swimming with exhaustion and pain. He had rented the small, anonymous room under the name "Alaric Vane" a week prior, a piece of foresight that now felt like divine inspiration. He couldn't be seen. Not by the Church's patrols, not by anyone.
He moved like a ghost, avoiding the main thoroughfares even though they were empty, sticking to the narrow, stinking passages where the fog clung thickest. At one point, the distinct, rhythmic tramp of boots and the glint of brass buttons in the gloom sent a jolt of pure terror through him. A Church of Steam patrol. He flattened himself into a recessed doorway, holding his breath, the weight of the gold threatening to pull him forward into their line of sight. He could hear their murmured conversation, snippets about "the fire in the Salt-Weep" and "ongoing operations." They passed within ten feet of him, oblivious. He waited until the sound of their footsteps faded completely before he dared to move again, his heart hammering against the cold metal of the Dream-eating Rat's Heart box in his satchel.
Finally, after an eternity of pain and paranoia, he reached the unassuming door in a quiet, respectable-enough building. His key felt heavy in his trembling hand. He unlocked it, slipped inside, and threw the bolt with a final, decisive thud.
The silence of the room was absolute, a stark contrast to the roaring hell he had just escaped. It was enough: a narrow bed, a bathroom, a single chair in front of a table. But to Lutz, it was a sanctuary.
With a groan of relief that was almost a sob, he let the heavy bags and satchel slide from his body. They hit the wooden floor with a series of solid, satisfying thumps that spoke of immense, impossible wealth. The sound was better than any music. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor beside his plunder, his back against the door, his chest heaving as he sucked in great, clean breaths of unladen air.
He was exhausted, bruised, burned, and bleeding. But he had succeeded.
He let his head fall back against the wood, his eyes closed, and the entire, intricate tapestry of his plan unfolded in his mind's eye. The initial disinformation, the careful manipulation of Krieg, Karl, the Baron, the forging of documents, the taunting of Sett, the strategic traps, the final, chaotic convergence at the warehouse. He had played the Vipers, the Church, and the Aurora Order against each other with the precision of a master conductor.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face, cracking the dried blood and soot. He had done more than just survive. He had taken. He hadn't just stolen coins or artifacts. He had stolen Baron Vogler's power, his legacy, his very empire. He had stolen the Church's certainty, using their own might to do his dirty work. He had stolen Sett's life and stored it in a ring. And most importantly, he had stolen his own future back from the jaws of debt and despair. He had performed like a true Marauder, in the grandest sense of the word. He was no longer a pawn in someone else's game. He was free.
In that moment of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, that peak of triumph after a successful taking, he felt it.
It was a subtle, internal shift, a sensation that was both magical and profoundly physical. It felt like a shell, a brittle layer he hadn't even known was there, was cracking apart and dissolving inside him. The principles of the Marauder—the cunning, the observation, the appropriation, the sheer audacious theft of it all—were not just concepts he understood anymore.
He felt sharper, his mind clearing of the last fogs of exhaustion, his thoughts aligning with a new, crystalline focus. He felt more whole, as if a missing piece of his soul had finally clicked into place.
He opened his eyes, and the world looked different. The grain of the wood on the floor, the dust motes in the sliver of moonlight from the window, the very potential of the wealth piled beside him—he saw it all with a new, profound clarity. It was all there for the taking.
On the night of the 10th of January of 1353 in the Fifth Epoch, two months after arriving in this unknown, terrifying world. One month and one week after becoming a Beyonder, Lutz Fischer completely digested his Marauder potion.
The profound clarity that came with the potion's digestion was intoxicating, but it was a luxury he couldn't afford to linger in. The high of triumph was already cooling, replaced by the cold, hard pragmatism that had kept him alive. He had won the battle, but the war for his survival was just entering a new phase.
'Digested. I've digested the potion.' The thought was a solid, grounding weight in his mind. It wasn't just an achievement; it was a tool. It meant he was ready for the next step, for Sequence 8: Swindler. It meant he was evolving.
His mind, now sharper and more focused, immediately began assessing his position. 'Dredgen.' The mysterious facilitator of the Gathering, his only potential link to the higher-level Beyonder world and the formula for the next sequence. The next scheduled convergence was a week away. But a week felt like an eternity. The warehouse was a smoldering ruin, the Church was hunting. Indaw Harbor was a lit fuse.
'I have to leave this town. Soon. Today or tomorrow.' The decision was instantaneous. The gold was immense, but it was dead weight without a plan, without connections, without a pathway forward.
Then, a possibility sparked. There was a convergence of the Whispering market that same night, Lutz at first had dismissed it as he couldn't head there on the same night as his plan, but now he had no other option. This late into the night it was likely already finishing up, but it was his only shot. If he could reach Dredgen tonight, he could acquire the Swindler formula and perhaps even secure passage out of the city, all in one move. Waiting a week was an unacceptable risk.
The plan formed with lightning speed. 'I can't go as Lutz Fischer, the Harbor Butcher. And I certainly can't go lugging 120 kilos of gold.' His eyes fell on the fine, if slightly dated, clothing set of "Elias Vogler," the persona of a disgraced Feysac nobleman he had used to infiltrate merchant circles. It was perfect. A respectable, anonymous cover. The bags would have to stay here, a terrifying prospect, but a necessary gamble. The room was paid for and under a false name. It was the safest vault he had.
Action replaced contemplation. He stood, his body protesting every movement. He stripped off the bloodstained, smoke-infused fighting clothes and the heavy, practical harness. Each piece of gear he removed felt like shedding a skin, the skin of the desperate survivor he had been for the past two months.
He limped into the small bathroom. The face that stared back from the smudged mirror was a stranger's—pale, with sharp, angular features, and eyes that held a new, unsettling depth. They were the gray-blue of a winter sea. He cleaned himself with brisk, efficient motions, the cold water a shock that further sharpened his senses. He treated the gash on his calf as best he could, packing it with a clean rag and binding it tightly. It would have to hold. Then he saw it—the faint, angry red mark circling his neck like a macabre necklace, a burn from Sett's corrosive grip. A souvenir of his brush with death. There was nothing to be done for it. He could only hope the high collar of Elias Vogler's coat would conceal it.
Drying himself off, he walked back into the main room, his bare feet cold on the floorboards. He ignored the siren call of the bulging leather bags and grabbed the satchel. He took the two Lead boxes out and left them on top of the table, then, he scooped a bit of gold coins from the leather bags and threw it inside the satchel, filling it up a bit more, there were about 150 Gold Hammers inside.
He dressed with care, the fine fabric of the Elias Vogler persona feeling alien against his skin after weeks of rough-spun wool and leather. The waistcoat, the tailored coat, the polished boots—each piece was a component of a mask, a tool for a different kind of theft. Not the theft of gold, but the theft of information, of opportunity, lastly, he elegantly wore the leather satchel originally designed to hold ledgers, and wore his charged revolver inside his coat.
Fully transformed, he looked every inch the minor nobleman down on his luck. No one would connect this man with the blood-soaked phantom of the burning warehouse.
He took one last look around the room, his gaze lingering on the fortune piled in the corner. 'Stay here,' he commanded the silent gold. Then, he turned, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the pre-dawn gloom, closing it softly behind him.
The night air was cold and damp, washing away the last of the smoke and blood that had clung to him. Elias Vogler, a man with a purpose and a pocketful of secrets, melted into the shadows of the Merchant District, his path set toward the elusive Gathering. The Marauder had made his score. Now, the Swindler needed to make his deal.
The weight under his arm was different this time. Not the dead, cumbersome bulk of the full leather bags, but the dense, potent heft of the satchel, its contents carefully curated. His other hand, tucked in his coat pocket, rested on the cool, checkered grip of his revolver, its cylinder fully loaded. The world was not done trying to kill him, and he would not be caught defenseless.
He moved through the sleeping city like a phantom, his newly digested Marauder agility stretched to its limit. Every shadow was a potential ambush, every distant footfall a threat. He avoided the main routes, navigating a labyrinth of back alleys and forgotten passages, his "Elias Vogler" disguise feeling flimsier with every step. This wasn't a merchant's game anymore; this was the aftermath of a massacre, and he was carrying a king's ransom through enemy territory.
Finally, the salt-stink of the harbor grew stronger, and the silhouette of the decrepit shipyard emerged from the fog. The wrecks loomed like the skeletons of leviathans, a graveyard of forgotten voyages. He moved past them, his boots silent on the wet gravel, until he reached the familiar, seemingly solid rock face that concealed the entrance.
He paused, listening. Nothing but the lap of water and the distant cry of a gull. Taking a breath, he spoke the password into the damp air, the words of Ancient Hermes feeling like a key turning in a hidden lock.
"The fog parts for those who listen to the whispers."
The effect was instantaneous. The rock face shimmered, and the water at its base receded, pulling back to reveal the steep, stone steps leading down into the gloom. Without hesitation, Lutz descended, the sounds of the world above vanishing, replaced by the drip of water and a low, pervasive hum that vibrated in his teeth.
The cavern of the Whispering Market opened before him. It was as he remembered, yet his new perception made it feel different. The hooded figures at their stalls, the impossible items glowing with inner light, the air thick with the scent of ozone and strange spices—it was no longer just a place of wonder and danger. It was a system. A network of acquisition and trade, and he could see the flaws, the points of leverage, the hidden values. His Thief's nose, now fully integrated, passively assessed everything.
Heads turned as he walked through the makeshift aisles. The atmosphere was different from his last visit. Before, he had been an unknown, a curiosity. Now, whispers trailed in his wake. He caught snippets.
"...the one from the fight..."
"...subdued a full Beyonder with a melody..."
"...see the way he moves? That's not a merchant..."
Some looks held fear, a wariness of a proven predator. Others held a grudging respect for someone who had demonstrated power and ruthlessness in their midst. He ignored them all, his gaze fixed on the far end of the cavern, where a single, reinforced door stood, flanked by two mountains of muscle.
As he approached, the two brutes straightened, their crossed arms forming a solid wall of flesh and bone. They were more than just tall; they were unnaturally broad, their necks thick, their eyes small and watchful. Bodyguards, and likely Beyonders of a physical pathway.
Lutz stopped before them, his posture relaxed but his senses screaming. He met the gaze of the one on the left.
"I'm here to meet with Dredgen."
The guard's voice was a low rumble. "Dredgen sees people by appointment."
Lutz didn't flinch. "Tell him it's the one who subdued the problematic Beyonder during the last convergence. I believe I've earned a moment of his time."
He saw the flicker of recognition in their eyes. The altercation with the enraged customer had clearly been the talk of the market. The two men exchanged a long, silent look, a whole conversation passing between them in the subtle shift of their stances. The one on the right gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Without another word, the guard on the left turned, produced a heavy key, and unlocked the door. He pulled it open just wide enough and gestured with his head for Lutz to enter.
'So far, so good,' Lutz thought, his grip tightening on the satchel. He stepped through the doorway, leaving the murmuring chaos of the market behind and entering the quiet, pressurized silence of Dredgen's domain.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing out the low hum of the market and plunging the room into a profound, cigar-scented silence. The "office" was less a room and more a small cavern of organized chaos. Shelves carved directly into the cave wall were crammed with ledgers, curios, and artifacts Lutz's enhanced senses could barely parse. A single, powerful glow-globe sat on a heavy oak desk, casting a warm pool of light that illuminated Dredgen.
The man himself sat in a worn but comfortable-looking armchair, a fat, smoldering cigar clamped between his fingers. He wasn't a large man, but he possessed a dense, substantial presence, like a river stone worn smooth by centuries of current. His eyes, sharp and observant, regarded Lutz with a look of distinct delight, as if a particularly interesting specimen had just wandered into his collection.
"You've come," Dredgen said, his voice a dry, pleasant rasp, smoke curling from his lips with the words.
"I have," Lutz replied, his own voice calm, matching the other man's tone. He kept his posture relaxed, non-threatening, but every nerve was alive, cataloging the room's exits, the weight of the objects on the shelves, the subtle shift in Dredgen's expression.
Dredgen gestured to the chair opposite him with his cigar.
"Are there any news about the things I requested?"
Lutz sat, placing the heavy satchel carefully on the floor beside his feet. The gesture was deliberate, signaling both that he had the means to pay and that he was not so naive as to put his valuables on the table uninvited.
Dredgen's smile widened slightly, a network of fine lines crinkling around his eyes. "Yes, there are. Sit down."
Lutz had already sat, but the command was a formality, a way for Dredgen to establish the rhythm of the meeting. He leaned back, steepling his fingers, the cigar jutting from between them like a miniature smokestack.
"I've managed to acquire the Sequence 8 Swindler potion formula you requested," Dredgen began, his tone businesslike. "I've also verified its authenticity through my usual channels. A tricky thing to come by, given the… volatility of the Marauder pathway, strangely, lately it seems to have stabilized for some unknown reason, anyways, It'll be fifty Hammers."
Lutz gave a slow, deliberate nod. The price was steep, as expected, but he found it within the realm of reason for a verified formula. It was the cost of progress.
Dredgen then slid a small, flat packet of papers across the polished surface of the desk. "There's also this."
Lutz picked up the packet. Inside were crisp, official-looking documents. A citizen's identification for the Feysac empire and a letter of transit, all under a name that brought a faint smile to Lutz's lips. The details were perfect, the seals impeccable. He had chosen the name himself with a bit of knowledge from his previous life. A faint, genuine smirk touched his lips as he looked at the fabricated history. A minor noble from a decaying merchant family from a backwater town, who as the last member of his family, had liquified all the assets of legacy into cash, seeking opportunity in the big city. He stored the precious papers securely in an inner pocket of his coat.
"The formula, plus the documents, will be sixty Hammers," Dredgen stated, watching him closely. "As for your third request…" He paused, taking a long, contemplative draw from his cigar. "It will be free of charge. A gesture to show my gratitude."
Lutz's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Gratitude was a currency he understood, but it was rarely given freely. "Thank you," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I appreciate that."
He leaned down and opened the satchel. The interior was a carefully constructed tableau. On top, gleaming dully in the office's light, was a layer of loose Gold Hammers. He began to count them out, stacking them into neat piles of ten on the edge of the desk. The clink of each coin was a solid, satisfying sound in the quiet room. Clink. Clink. Clink. Six piles. Six hundred Loenish pounds' worth of gold. A fortune for most men, spent on a piece of paper and a new name.
He had loaded the satchel with a hundred and fifty Hammers, a king's ransom meant to cover all eventualities. With sixty paid, he had ninety remaining- A substantial sum, but now he had to think about the ingredients for the potion, travel costs, and establishing his new life.
Dredgen made no move to collect the coins, simply watching the stacks grow with a placid, approving expression. Once the final coin was placed, he gave a slight nod. Then, he reached into a drawer and slid a single, folded sheet of high-quality vellum across the desk.
Lutz picked it up. The paper was thick and smooth under his fingertips. He unfolded it carefully. The script was elegant and precise, written in a dark, indelible ink.
His eyes scanned the text, memorizing it instantly.
Sequence 8: Swindler
Main Ingredients:
1 Human-Faced Cage Grass
1 Larvae of a Soul-Confusing Insect Swarm
Supplementary Ingredients:
100 milliliters of Pure Water
20 milliliters of Another's Tears
1 Lapis Lazuli
10 grams of White Chestnut Balm
He read it again, slower this time, analyzing the components. The names were bizarre, esoteric, and deeply unsettling. Human-Faced Cage Grass. What kind of plant had a human face, and what was it caging? A Soul-Confusing Insect Swarm larvae. The very concept made his skin crawl. Even the supplementary ingredients were ominous. Another's Tears. Not just water, but tears, laden with emotion. This wasn't just a formula; it was a recipe for a specific kind of deception, one that played with identity, perception, and emotion itself.
He looked up from the paper, his expression unreadable. "The ingredients are… evocative."
Dredgen chuckled, a low, smoky sound. "This pathway demands a certain theatricality."
Lutz folded the formula and tucked it safely away with his new identity papers. He had what he came for. The path forward was clear, though paved with terrifying and bizarre components. He was no longer just a thief. He was an aspirant to the art of the swindle.
The business of the formula and the new identity was concluded, the heavy weight of gold transferred from Lutz's future to Dredgen's pocket. But there remained one final, more delicate matter. Lutz had not forgotten the third request he'd made—the one Dredgen had just declared would be "gratis".
"About the other matter," Lutz began, his voice low. "The Beyonder from the last convergence. The one with… mental faculties."
Dredgen took a long, final pull from his cigar, the ember glowing fiercely before he stubbed it out in a heavy crystal ashtray. "Ah, yes. Douglass." A faint, unreadable smile played on his lips. "I believe I have convinced him of the mutual benefits of cooperation. Come."
As a Beyonder of the mysterious Broker pathway, this was Dredgen's speciality.
He rose from his chair with a fluid, unhurried motion and led Lutz out of the office, back into the main cavern of the Whispering Market, but not towards the exit. Instead, they moved to a quieter, more secluded alcove carved into the cave wall. It was furnished with a small desk and a stool, illuminated by a single, softly glowing moss-covered stone. And there, bent over a stack of meticulously organized documents, was the man himself.
Douglass. He looked different from the raving, spittle-flecked figure Lutz had confronted. His hair was neat, his clothes clean, but there was a palpable tension in his shoulders, a wariness that spoke of a caged animal. He looked up as they approached, and his eyes, the same intense, slightly unfocused eyes, immediately locked onto Lutz. A flash of pure, undiluted anger burned within them, a silent scream of humiliation and rage. He remembers.
Before the anger could find a voice, a subtle shift occurred. Dredgen, standing just behind Lutz, didn't move, didn't speak. But an aura emanated from him—a pressure that was not physical, but psychological. It was the weight of an unbreakable contract under the table, the cold certainty of consequence. It washed over Douglass, and the fiery hatred in his eyes was instantly banked, smothered under a layer of forced, sullen compliance. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he looked down at his papers.
Has he turned him into his worker? Lutz thought, the concept both amusing and chilling. It was a far more effective punishment than any beating. Dredgen had not just subdued the man; he had appropriated him, turning his Beyonder abilities into a asset for the Market.
"Douglass," Dredgen said, his voice pleasant but layered with steel. "I'd like you to treat the mind of this gentleman. A tune-up, if you will. I do not need to reassure you of what will happen if you try anything… funny. And I will notice."
The threat hung in the air, absolute and unshakeable. Douglass gave a tight, jerky nod, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Understood."
A simple wooden chair was placed opposite the desk. Lutz sat, his posture deliberately open, though internally he was a fortress. Allowing a mind-reader, especially a hostile one, into his head was arguably the greatest risk he had taken all night. But the corruption from Umbra was a ticking clock, and the fragmented sense of self he'd felt since a while ago—the cold, calculating Lutz warring with the ghost of Andrei's conscience—was a liability he could no longer afford.
"What are the problems?" Douglass asked, his voice flat, devoid of any professional warmth.
"Two issues," Lutz replied, his tone equally clinical. "First, spiritual corruption. I've been using an artifact that invites… external voices. They've left a residue. Second, a personality divergence. A feeling of being split, of conflicting drives."
Douglass stared at him for a long moment, then gave another curt nod. "Do not resist."
He closed his eyes. Lutz felt it immediately—not an invasion, but a presence. A cool, probing tendril of consciousness gently slipping past his mental defenses. It was an unnerving sensation, like someone methodically sorting through the files in his brain. He forced himself to remain passive, to visualize an open door, all the while keeping the core of himself—the memories of the treasury, the location of his safe house, the details of his plans—walled off in a shielded vault.
He felt the probe locate the first issue. It was a stain, a greasy, dark smudge on the fabric of his psyche left by Umbra's whispers. Douglass's mental presence focused there. There was no drama, no light show. It was like a master restorer working on a damaged painting. Lutz felt a subtle scraping sensation, not painful, but deeply strange, as the foreign, corrosive residue was carefully lifted and dissipated. The constant, low-level static he hadn't even fully registered until now simply… vanished. The mental silence that followed was profound.
Then, the probe moved to the second issue. This was more complex. It wasn't a stain, but a fissure. Inside Lutz's mind world, Douglass's presence traced the fault line between the pragmatic, survivalist cruelty of Lutz Fischer and the analytical, moral framework of Andrei Hayes. He felt the psychiatrist's focus intensify, a delicate, psychic surgery being performed. It wasn't a fusion—he couldn't force two halves to become one. Instead, he worked on the seam. He smoothed the jagged edges, wove the connections more tightly, and enforced a temporary, stable integration. The jarring sense of being two people in one body receded, replaced by a more unified, if still deeply complex, consciousness. He was a person born from the combined memories, personalities and skill sets of Andrei Hayes and Lutz Fischer. The conflict was not erased, but compartmentalized, made manageable.
After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, Douglass withdrew his presence. He opened his eyes, looking pale and even more drained than before. The effort had cost him.
"It is done," he said, his voice hoarse. "I have taken care of both matters for now. But you must know," he continued, fixing Lutz with a serious gaze, the professional in him momentarily overriding his resentment, "these are not things that can just be bandaged and healed. The spiritual corruption… more exposure will wear you down, accumulating until it eventually overwrites your sanity. It is a cumulative poison."
He leaned forward slightly. "And that personality divergence is a symptom, not the disease. The disease are the internal conflicts you are facing. The choices you've made, the lines you've crossed. Those, you have to solve yourself. Until you do, you will continue to have an inclination towards dissociating, towards fracturing under the pressure. My work is a patch on a leaking dam. The source of the flood is yours to control."
Lutz absorbed the words, the diagnosis settling in his gut with the weight of truth. The man was right. The potion had unified him, and this mental tuning had stabilized him, but the core contradiction remained. He had committed atrocities for the sake of power and survival. That was a schism no Beyonder power could truly heal.
He nodded slowly, a gesture of genuine acknowledgment. "I understand. Thank you." The thanks were for the service, not the warning.
He stood, feeling… cleaner. Lighter. The psychic static was gone, and his mind felt more his own than it had since the transmigration. He turned to Dredgen and gave a final, respectful nod. "My gratitude for your services."
Dredgen simply inclined his head, his sharp eyes missing nothing. "Safe travels, Mr. Morgan. I expect our paths will cross again."
Lutz turned and made his way back through the maze of stalls, the strange, humming atmosphere of the Market feeling less oppressive now that his own internal noise had been quieted. As he neared the exit, his practical mind reasserted itself. He was still wounded. His calf throbbed, and the burn on his neck was a tight, painful reminder of Sett's grip.
His eyes fell upon an apothecary's stand, a riot of dried herbs, bubbling flasks, and neatly labeled vials. The vendor, a wizened figure shrouded in grey robes, watched him approach.
"Do you have anything for treating wounds?" Lutz asked, his voice back to the cultured tone of Elias Vogler. "Both cuts and burns."
The apothecary pointed a gnarled finger at two distinct vials. One contained a pale green, viscous salve. The other held a clear liquid with silvery motes swirling within. "Mender's Balm for the flesh. Ember-Douse Elixir for the fire's kiss. One Hammer for each."
Lutz didn't hesitate. He paid the two gold coins without a second thought and stored the precious vials in the now-lighter satchel. It was a small price for the ability to heal cleanly and quickly.
Finally, burdened by gold, secrets, and now medicine, he made his way towards the stone steps leading out of the cavern. As he climbed, leaving the whispers behind, a single, clear thought cut through the planning and the pain.
Lorelei.
He remembered her beautiful voice, her sharp, intelligent gray eyes that saw through his facades. He remembered her words, spoken in this very market what felt like a lifetime ago: "Me and my partner will go to St. Millom. With the dense population in there, it'll be easier to hide."
St. Millom. The capital of the Feysac Empire. A teeming metropolis where a man with a new identity and a fortune in gold could disappear and a brilliant artificer could find patrons. It was the perfect destination. A goal, and not just an escape.
As he emerged out of the cavern into the cold, foggy air of the pre-dawn, the first hint of grey lightening the eastern sky, Lutz Fischer had a destination.
The return to the rented room felt like crossing a final threshold. The sanctuary of a few hours ago was now a staging ground, a place to shed the last skin of his old life. He bolted the door behind him, the simple click a sound of profound finality. The immediate, frantic danger was past. Now came the meticulous, careful work of vanishing.
His first act was one of symbolic severance. He gathered his bloodstained, smoke-infused fighting clothes. He didn't look at them with nostalgia; they were evidence, a liability. Bundling them tightly, he slipped outside into the still-quiet alley and shoved them deep into a public trash bin, burying them under other refuse.
Back inside, he set about the methodical task of organization. The chaotic pile of wealth and gear needed to be transformed into a portable, plausible fortune. He opened the two heavy leather bags and the satchel, the gold Hammers spilling out with a dull, heavy clatter. He spent nearly an hour sorting and repacking. One leather bag was designated for his gear and a portion of the gold. His harness, blades, shotgun, revolver, cleaned and reloaded, his lockpicks, and a hefty stack of Hammers were carefully arranged within. It was heavy, but manageable, the bag of a well-armed, well-funded traveller.
Only then, with his escape taking shape, did he tend to his body. He uncorked the vials from the Market's apothecary. The Mender's Balm was cool and tingling, and as he smoothed it over the deep gash on his calf, he watched in fascination as the flesh knit together, sealing the wound with a fresh, pink scar. The pain receded to a dull ache. The Ember-Douse Elixir was similarly effective on the burn around his neck, the angry red fading to a faint, silvery mark that could be mistaken for an old scar. He was by no means fully healed, but he was no longer a visibly wounded man fleeing a battle. He was presentable.
The final tally was satisfying. One leather bag contained his operational gear and a reserve of gold. The other bag and the satchel, now both filled to bursting with the remainder of the coins and the two lead boxes containing the Dream-eating Rat's Heart and Boris's characteristic, represented his financial and mystical capital. He had the clothes on his back—the fine, if slightly worn, attire of Elias Vogler, a man down on his luck. He was ready to become someone else, and he had a grand total of 602 Gold Hammers for that purpose.
He left everything in the room one last time, taking only a handful of coins. The sun was just cresting the horizon, casting a pale, watery light over Indaw Harbor and painting the lingering smoke from the Salt-Weep district in hues of rose and gold. The city was stirring, but cautiously, the news of the night's conflagration surely already spreading in hushed tones.
He moved with a purpose that was neither furtive nor hurried, the gait of a man with business to attend to. His senses, however, were on a razor's edge. Every beige coat in the distance made his heart skip a beat; every uniformed city watchman was assessed and avoided. He navigated not by the main streets, but by a parallel network of slightly less respectable commercial avenues.
His first stop was a luggage shop that was just opening its shutters, the proprietor yawning as he turned the sign to 'Open.' Lutz entered, the bell above the door jingling softly.
"I need a travelling suitcase," he stated, his voice that of a man used to command. "Large. Sturdy. And with wheels."
The shopkeeper, waking up quickly at the prospect of a sale, showed him a few models. Lutz selected the largest, a robust, dark-leather-covered case with sturdy brass fittings and, crucially, a set of small, solid wheels on one end. It was unassuming but well-made. He also pointed to a wide-brimmed hat and a pair of spectacles with dark, thick frames. "And those."
He paid without haggling, the clink of Hammers further brightening the shopkeeper's mood. A few minutes later, he stepped back into the street, now the picture of a travelling fine gentleman, the new suitcase rolling smoothly behind him, the hat low on his brow and the glasses obscuring the upper half of his face.
He went back to his room once more. Here, shielded from prying eyes, he worked with swift efficiency. He opened the new suitcase and transferred the entire contents of one leather bag and the satchel into it. The gold coins filled the bottom with a satisfying weight, and the two lead boxes were nestled securely among them. He closed the lid, the locks snapping shut with a definitive click. It was heavy, incredibly so, but the wheels made it transportable. He kissed his rented room goodbye and went out, suitcase in one hand, leather bag in the other, he threw the other bag and the satchel in the nearest trash can.
His next destination was the central carriage station, Feysac didn't yet have trains outside of St. Millom, but with the establishment of the church of steam, that may soon change. The air here was thick with the smell of horses, hay, and coal smoke from the waiting steam-powered coaches. He approached the ticket counter, his posture confident.
"A first-class ticket to St. Millom," he said, sliding a couple silver shields he got in change after paying for the suitcase, across the counter. "The next available departure."
The ticket agent, a harried-looking man with ink-stained fingers, consulted a schedule. "Next coach for St. Millom departs at half-past eight, sir," he said, punching a ticket. "Platform four. That's in an hour and a half."
Lutz took the ticket, a simple slip of paper that felt like a passport to a new life. "Thank you."
An hour and a half. He had time. He found a secluded bench on platform four, placing the heavy suitcase beside him and the gear bag at his feet. He pulled the hat down lower and pretended to doze, all the while watching the flow of people through half-lidded eyes.
The brittle shell of focus that had carried him through the night—through the heist, the escape, the negotiations—began to crack the moment he sat down. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a hollow, aching fatigue, and into that void rushed the ghosts.
Alone on the bench, the sounds of the waking station a dull roar around him, Lutz was finally a audience of one to the horror show of his own memories. They didn't come as a coherent narrative, but as sensory flashes, brutal and unbidden.
The wet, tearing sound of the Gray Shark's throat under his shiv in that first, frantic alley fight. The man's eyes, wide with surprise, then nothing.
The feel of Silas''s screams, primal and fragile, as the Baron systematically broke his sister. Her whimpers, the sheer, animal terror in his eyes when he looked at her.
He squeezed his own eyes shut, but the image was burned on the inside of his lids. The Baron's voice, cold and instructional. Karl's hand guiding his. The resistance, then the give. The light going out in her eyes. 'A price must be something you are not willing to pay.' He had paid it. He had paid with a piece of his soul, and the coin had been an innocent woman's life.
Then Peter. Young, stupid, loyal Peter. His eager face, shining with hero-worship. 'You really think it's a trap for them, Lutz?' He saw the boy's face again, but this time it was contorted, not with excitement, but with the dawning horror of betrayal as Karl took him towards the interrogation room. He heard the screams—not the generic chaos of battle, but specific, sharp cries he could now, in this terrible clarity, attribute to the young man he had so callously used as a pawn and then abandoned to die.
'I achieved my objective, but i still feel as miserable as the first day i came here... is this the way in this world? Is the price always the life and suffering of others?' The thought was not hysterical. It was a simple, cold statement of fact. Andrei Hayes, the linguistics student, would have been sickened, would have recoiled in terror from the man he had become. Lutz Fischer, the street swindler, might have been proud of the sheer scale of the con. But the fused being sitting on this bench, the Marauder who had digested his potion, felt only a vast, desolate emptiness. He had gotten everything he wanted. Power. Freedom. Wealth. And it felt like ashes in his mouth.
The guilt was a physical weight, heavier than the gold in the suitcase. It sat on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He had told himself it was for survival, for revenge. But was it? Or had he, in embracing the Marauder's path, simply discovered a taste for it? The thrill of the theft, the artistry of the deception—had he enjoyed it? The thought was more terrifying than any Church captain or crazy cultist.
He couldn't sit still. The memories were a swarm in the confined space of his own skull. He stood up abruptly, the motion jerky, and began to walk with his belongings. He paced the length of the platform, his footsteps echoing the frantic rhythm of his heart. He needed to outrun the thoughts, to drown them in motion and noise.
His aimless wandering took him to the edge of the main station, near a less formal area where cheaper transport and itinerant workers gathered. And there, he saw them. A small caravan of what seemed like travelling musicians, their wagon brightly painted but faded by sun and rain. They were just stirring, yawning and stretching in the morning light, unpacking instruments, their chatter a world away from the bloody calculus of his night.
But one of them was separate.
An old man, sitting on a bench away from the others. His beard was a wispy white cloud, and his eyes were milky and sightless, fixed on some inner horizon. He was cradling a banjo, its wood worn smooth by countless hands and years. His fingers, gnarled and knotted with age, weren't playing, but simply tracing the instrument's curves, feeling the strings, the frets, the polished body. It was a gesture of profound intimacy, a conversation with an old friend.
Lutz stopped, his own turmoil momentarily silenced by the sight. He was blind, cut off from the visual world. And yet, he sat with a stillness, a quiet dignity that felt utterly alien to Lutz's frantic, guilt-ridden existence.
The man's face was a roadmap of a long, hard life, but in that moment, it was peaceful. There was no avarice in his touch, no ambition, no bloody past to flee. There was just the wood, the strings, and the memory of music.
A corrosive wave of envy, sharp and unexpected, washed over Lutz. He would have traded every single Gold Hammer in his suitcase, the Dream-eating Rat's Heart, the Swindler formula, all of it, for a fraction of that man's peace. The old man possessed a wealth Lutz had stolen away from himself forever. He had traded his innocence, his morality, his very peace of mind, for power and coin. And staring at the blind musician, he wondered, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, if he had made a catastrophically bad deal.
He stood there for a long time, a wealthy man in fine clothes, watching a pauper find solace in a simple piece of wood, and felt more impoverished than he had ever been in his life.
For the next scene is very important that you listen to the following song, really.
Youtube: Outer Wilds OST - Travelers (All Instruments Join) 1 Hour
Spotify: Outer Wilds Travelers' Encore
Lutz watched the old man for a long moment, the simple, resonant notes of the banjo seeming to vibrate in the hollow spaces of his own chest. The music was a stark contrast to the screaming, the gunfire, the roar of flames that still echoed in his memory. It was… clean.
Driven by a need he couldn't name, he carefully placed his hat and glasses on top of the heavy suitcase, leaving his newfound fortune and his disguise unattended next to the bench, an unthinkable risk hours ago, now an inconsequential one. He sat on the bench aside from the old man, the wood cool even through his trousers.
The old man's fingers stilled on the strings, his milky eyes turning vaguely in Lutz's direction, sensing his presence. A gentle smile touched his weathered face. "A fine morning for traveling," he remarked, his voice a dry, pleasant rasp, like wind over stones.
"It is," Lutz replied, his own voice softer than he intended. He hesitated, then asked, "You've traveled far?"
"Oh, all over," the old man chuckled, his hand patting the banjo's body. "This old girl and I, we've seen more roads than most cartographers. From the bustling ports of Loen to the quiet valleys of Feynapotter. The music goes where the people are."
"It must be a good life. A free one." Lutz said.
"It has its hardships. Sleeping under the wagon in the rain, going hungry when the coins are few. But yes, it is free. The road doesn't judge you. It just… is." He tilted his head. "And you, son? Your footsteps sound heavy, even when you're sitting still. Where are you headed?"
Lutz looked down at his own hands, clean now, but which felt permanently stained. "Away. To a new city. To start over."
"A fresh start," the old man mused. "A noble pursuit. But a man can't outrun what's inside the carriage with him. Who are you, that needs such a distant start?"
The question, asked with such simple innocence, struck Lutz like a physical blow. He felt the carefully constructed walls around his identity—Lutz the survivor, Andrei the scholar.
"I… I don't know," he whispered, the confession torn from him. "I don't know who I am anymore. There are… there are so many things. Ghosts. They follow me."
Just then, from another part of the caravan, another musician began to play. It was an armonica, its ethereal, glassy notes weaving through the air like strands of haunted melody. The sound was unbearably beautiful and sad, perfectly mirroring the turmoil in Lutz's soul.
There was also the melody of someone whistling, it was yet another of the musicians that had joined in.
The old man listened for a moment, then turned his sightless gaze back to Lutz. "The music speaks of sorrow tonight. Tell me, son. What ghosts haunt you?"
The words started to spill out, low and rushed, a torrent of poisoned confession disguised in metaphor and allusion.
"I've… taken things," Lutz began, his eyes fixed on the ground, unable to look at the old man's peaceful face. "Not out of need, not always. But because I could. Because it was there, and I wanted it. I convinced myself it was for a greater purpose, for survival, but… I think I just enjoyed the taking. I've built a… a fortune on things that were never mine."
The old man was silent, listening.
"I've hurt people," Lutz continued, his voice growing tighter. "People who trusted me. I used their… their goodwill, their hope, and I twisted it. I pointed them in a direction and let them walk into a fire, all so I could grab what I wanted from the shadows. One of them… he was just a boy. He believed in me. And I led him to his ruin." Peter's face, eager and then terrified, flashed before his eyes.
He swallowed hard, the whistling sound seeming to amplify the ache in his throat. "And I've… I've done worse. I've stood by and let terrible things happen. I've been a hand… an instrument… in the destruction of something that didn't need to be destroyed. I've seen light go out of eyes, and I did nothing. Or worse, I helped." The memory of Silvia's final, silent plea to him was a shard of ice in his heart.
Another musician, perhaps inspired by the somber mood, began to produce a rhythm by hitting two sticks, a mournful tune. The multiple layers of sound—created a symphony of regret that wrapped around Lutz, pulling the truth from him. Another of the musicians started playing a small piano.
"I lie," he said, his voice now raw and broken. "It's what I'm best at. I lie to enemies, to allies, to myself. I wear faces like other men wear hats. I look in the mirror and I don't know which face is real, or if any of them are. I have so much… so much blood and so many lies clinging to me. I feel like I'm drowning in it."
He finally risked a glance at the old man. The musician's face was grave, his sightless eyes seeming to perceive the shape of the confession, if not the specific sins. There was no horror there, no condemnation. Only a deep, abiding sadness.
"The weight of our choices is a heavy burden," the old man said softly, his voice cutting through the music. "But it is a burden we choose to carry. The past is a road already traveled. You cannot un-walk it. But the path ahead… that is yours to carve. Every step is a new choice. You cannot change what you have done, young man. But you have absolute control over what you will do."
The old man's words hung in the air, a lifeline thrown into the churning sea of Lutz's guilt.
"What you carry is heavy indeed," the old man said, his voice so soft it was almost carried away on the morning breeze. "But a burden confessed is a burden shared, if only with the air and an old man's ears. Tell me, son, beneath the weight of it all… what do you feel?"
The question, so simple, so direct, was the final key that unlocked the vault inside him. Lutz had been analyzing, justifying, and compartmentalizing for so long. He had never been asked to just feel.
A tremor started in his hands, then traveled up his arms, shaking his entire frame. He tried to speak, but only a choked, ragged sob escaped. The tears he had been suppressing since he had arrived to this wretched world finally broke free. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as great, wracking sobs tore from his throat, leaving only a shattered young man on a public bench.
"I'm… afraid," he wept, the words muffled and broken. "I'm so afraid. I'm afraid of the future, of the people who will come for me, who should come for me. I'm afraid of never being able to close my eyes without seeing… without seeing what I've done." He dragged his hands down his face, looking up at the sky with wet, desperate eyes. "But most of all… I'm afraid of myself. Of what I'm capable of. Of the part of me that liked the power the terrible things i've done. What if… what if that's all I am? What if there's nothing else left?"
The old man listened to the storm of fear and self-loathing, his sightless gaze a fixed point in Lutz's crumbling world. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't tell him it would be alright. Instead, he offered a harder, more profound truth.
"Fear is the companion of a conscience," the old man said. "The man who feels no fear for his wickedness is the man truly lost. You are afraid because you know the path you were on leads to a cliff. That is a gift. That fear is your compass, pointing you away from the edge."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice gaining a gentle but undeniable strength. "You can't undo the steps you've taken. You can't un-sing the songs you've sung. But you are not the road behind you. You are the traveler upon it. And a traveler can always, always, choose a new direction. You cannot change the man you were, but you have absolute power over the man you will be, starting with the very next step you take."
He let the silence settle for a moment, letting the hope and the immense responsibility of that statement take root. Then, he asked the final, most important question, his voice imbued with a quiet intensity.
"So, I ask you again, son, not who you were, but who you will be. Look into that fear, into that regret, and tell me. What do you want to become?"
Lutz looked at the old man, his vision blurred by tears. He saw not a judge, but a witness. He saw the possibility of absolution not in forgiveness, but in action. The words came from a place deeper than thought, from the shattered core of Andrei's morality and the fierce, acquisitive will of Lutz, finally finding a common, desperate purpose.
"I want…" he began, his voice a hoarse whisper, then strengthening with conviction. "I want to be… better. Not just to survive, but to be greater. I want to be stronger, not with the strength to take, but with the strength to protect. I want to be… gentler. To do the right things, for the right reasons. To never again… never again harm those who don't deserve it."
He took a shuddering breath, the grand, almost childish ambition of it feeling both impossible and utterly essential. "Maybe it's stupid. Maybe it's too late. But… I want to takesomething else. Not gold, not power. I want to take the unnecessary evil out of this world. The kind that preys on the weak, that corrupts the innocent. I want to steal it, break it, and bury it where it can never hurt anyone again."
It was the vow of a Marauder, but twisted into a new, radical shape. He wouldn't just acquire for himself; he would appropriate and dismantle the very corruption he had embraced. It was a path of vengeance, yes, but no longer a personal one. It was a vow to become a thief of evil itself.
The old man listened, and a slow, profound smile spread across his weathered face. It was a smile of deep, unshakeable knowing. He reached out a gnarled hand and placed it gently on Lutz's trembling knee.
"Then that," the old man said, his voice filled with a strange, resonant certainty, "is the man you must become. That is the song you must learn to play. It will be a harder road than the one you left. It will ask more of you than you can imagine. But it is a road worth walking. Now, dry your eyes, young man. Your new path is waiting."
Illustration
-
-
-
End of Volume 1 - Prisioner