A wide smile broke out on Albright's face. "Excellent decision, sir! A very sound investment indeed!"
The transaction at the Metropolitan Lettings office was a study in bureaucratic efficiency. Albright, now the picture of obsequiousness, produced a formidable lease agreement. Lutz, as James Morgan, didn't flinch at the rent of one Gold Hammer per month—a significant sum, but a reasonable price for privacy and a cellar in the capital. He paid six Hammers upfront, plus a security deposit of two more, sliding the heavy gold coins across the polished wood of the counter with a casual flick of his wrist. The clink of them was a sound of permanence, of roots being forced into stony ground.
"Excellent, Mr. Morgan! The keys are yours," Albright beamed, handing over the heavy iron objects. "A pleasure doing business with a man of such decisive action."
"Likewise, Mr. Albright," Lutz said with a polite nod. "I foresee a pleasant stay in St. Millom."
He hired another carriage, this time alone, and directed the driver back to 17 Vesper Lane. This time, when he unlocked the black door and stepped inside, the silence felt different. It was no longer an empty void, but a canvas. His canvas.
He carried his luggage inside, locking the door behind him and engaging a heavy, iron bolt. For the first time since leaving Indaw Harbor, he was truly alone.
He started with the basement. This was the priority. He carried the heavy leather bag down the steep stairs, the contents clinking softly. In the beam of a lantern he had bought, he unpacked his true treasures. The sack of Gold Hammers was placed carefully in a corner. He unwrapped Creed, the stiletto gleaming wickedly in the light. He stared at Sangefaust, the ring of crystallized blood, the little ocular gems seeming to watch him. He placed it beside the stiletto. These were the tools of his trade, the sources of his power and peril. He unpacked all of his gear.
Satisfied for the moment, he ascended and began to assess the rest of his new domain. The ground floor would be the public face of James Morgan. The parlor needed plush chairs, a writing desk, maybe a decanter of good wine—props for the character. The kitchen was functional; he could manage here.
He climbed the stairs to the first floor. Two bedrooms. He chose the smaller, rear-facing one for himself. It was darker, quieter, with a better view of the back alley. The master bedroom at the front could remain empty for now, or be converted into a study later.
The top floor was a single, large attic space, its ceiling sloping with the roofline. It was dusty and filled with the detritus of previous tenants, but it had a large window offering a stunning, panoramic view of the rooftops of St. Millom. He could see the stark silhouette of the Twilight Hall to the east and the belching smokestacks of the Steam Cathedral under construction to the west.
A perfect lookout post, he mused. And a place to think.
As the peculiar twilight of St. Millom began to deepen into proper night, Lutz stood at the front window of his parlor, peering through a gap in the bare glass. He watched his new neighborhood. A couple walked arm-in-arm, laughing. A servant hurried home, a basket in her arms. It was a scene of mundane, peaceful life.
'They have no idea what just moved in next door, he thought, a wry, almost bitter smile touching his lips.'
He was home. James Morgan was home.
The silence of 17 Vesper Lane was a physical presence, thick and absolute. It was a far cry from the constant, damp noise of the Indaw Harbor slums—the drunken shouts, the crying babies, the creaking of ships, the ever-present fear. Here, the only sounds were the settling of ancient stones and the distant, rhythmic tolling of a bell from the direction of the Twilight Hall. It was a silence Lutz wasn't sure he trusted.
He had barricaded himself in the small bedroom at the back of the house, using his travelling suitcase to brace the door. It was a paranoid, perhaps unnecessary gesture, but old habits died hard. Sleep, when it finally came, was not restful. It was a shallow, feverish thing, filled with fragmented dreams.
He woke with a start, his heart hammering, his hand already gripping the cool hilt of Creed under his pillow. For a disorienting moment, he didn't know where he was. The ceiling was high and unfamiliar, the light filtering through the window was a strange, muted orange-grey. Then, memory reasserted itself.
St. Millom. Vesper Lane. James Morgan.
He lay there for a long time, listening. Nothing. Just the bell, and his own breathing. The paralyzing fear of the night began to recede, replaced by a slow, dawning realization. He was safe. He was alone. He was, for the first time since waking up in Lutz Fischer's debt-ridden body, free.
He rose, his body stiff from the hard floor. The house was freezing. He made his way to the elegant bathroom. He splashed the icy water on his face, the shock of it banishing the last ghosts of his dreams. He looked at his reflection in the small, spotted mirror above the sink.
In the profound peace of the morning, a peace he had not known was possible, he allowed himself to introspect.
'Since I came hereit's been nothing but survival. A desperate, scrambling climb out of a grave.' Every action in Indaw Harbor had been calculated for a single purpose: to not die. He had lived in a state of perpetual, low-grade panic, a constant hum of paranoia that colored every decision.
He thought of the money. He had stolen a king's ransom from Baron Vogler, and yet, until yesterday, he had lived like a church mouse. He had slept in filthy rooms, eaten the cheapest slop, worn dirty clothes most of the time except when he was putting on a facade. Every penny not spent on the plan was a penny wasted. Every unnecessary purchase was a potential deviation, a loose thread that could unravel everything. He had hoarded his little wealth like a dragon, not for the pleasure of it, but as a weapon, a tool for a single, glorious, all-or-nothing heist.
'But that's over now' A new voice whispered inside him, a voice that was both Lutz's cunning and Andrei's reason. 'That life is done. You won. You're not just surviving anymore. You're… living'.
The thought was terrifying in its novelty. What did it mean to live? For a time period that felt like a lifetime, his only purpose had been the next con, the next theft, the next step towards destroying the Vipers. Now, the Vipers were ash. The path ahead was not a narrow, desperate tightrope, but a vast, open field of possibilities.
He could buy a proper bed. A soft, warm, ridiculous bed with a mattress thick enough to get lost in. He could fill the kitchen with food that wasn't just sustenance, but pleasure. He could buy clothes that fit, that were made of fine wool and soft cotton, not coarse, scratchy burlap.
'I earned this' he thought, and the conviction behind the thought surprised him. It wasn't the arrogant boast of a thief, but the weary acknowledgment of a soldier who had survived a war. He had paid for this peace with blood, with guilt, with the shattering of his own innocence.
This train of thought inevitably led him down a darker, more fundamental path. Why had he never truly wished to go back? Go back to his home.
The question emerged, fully formed, and he didn't shy away from it. In the beginning, the struggle to survive had been too immediate to entertain such fantasies. But even in his quieter moments, the longing for his old world, for electricity, for the internet, for the familiar grind of academic life, had been a faint, distant signal, easily ignored.
Why?
He leaned against the cold porcelain of the sink, staring at his reflection without really seeing it.
'Back there, I was Andrei Hayes. A good-for-nothing with a skillset devoid of much practical applications'. The thought was blunt, devoid of self-pity. He had been adrift, his academic pursuits feeling increasingly meaningless, his relationships shallow. He was a disappointment to his parents, who saw his lack of direction not as a search for meaning, but as a character flaw. Their love had been conditional, a transaction based on performance and prestige. He had failed to deliver.
In this world, as Lutz Fischer, he was nobody. He had started with less than nothing, buried under a mountain of debt and danger. But here, his actions mattered. A clever plan could topple a gang. A single decision could mean the difference between life and a brutal, anonymous death.
'A good-for-nothing'. The words echoed. Here, he was anything but. He was a Sequence 9 Beyonder who had orchestrated the destruction of a significant criminal organization. He was a man who, despite everything, had made a vow to be better. The stakes here were life and death, truth and deception, power and morality. It was terrifying. It was exhausting.
And it was thrilling.
A slow smile, genuine and unforced, touched his lips for the first time in what felt like years. 'That was the heart of it, wasn't it?' As dark and dangerous as this world was, it was alive. It pulsed with a hidden, mystical energy that he could now touch and manipulate. It was a world of secrets, of ancient gods and fallen dynasties, of potions that rewrote the very fabric of one's being. It was a world that demanded everything you had and then asked for more. It was a crucible.
And in that crucible, he had found a drive, an interest, a purpose that had been utterly absent in his old life. The constant alertness, the paranoia, the need to plan ten steps ahead—it wasn't just a burden. It was a challenge.
'Maybe I was always meant for this.' the thought came, not with horror, but with a strange sense of acceptance. Maybe the "good-for-nothing" Andrei was just a man out of place, a square peg in a round, mundane world. Here, in this brutal, beautiful, terrifying world of mysteries, the sharp edges are an advantage.
He straightened up. The "why" didn't truly matter. The mechanisms of his transmigration were a mystery far beyond his current understanding, a question for a higher Sequence him, perhaps. The relationship with his parents was a ghost from another life. The feeling of being a disappointment was a shackle he had broken without even realizing it.
He was here. He was Lutz Fischer. He had no clue how to get back, and the terrifying, exhilarating truth was that he wasn't sure he wanted to.
He looked around the bare, cold bathroom and walked out, he went to the parlor and then looked out the window at the twilight sky of St. Millom. A pleasant life. What did that mean for a man like him? It couldn't mean complacency. That would be a slow death. It couldn't mean forgetting the vow he made amidst the ashes of his morality.
No. A pleasant life for Lutz Fischer would be a life of controlled thrill. It would be a life where he could enjoy the soft bed and the fine food, secure in the knowledge that his basement held the power to protect it all. It would be a life where he advanced on the Pathway, not for power, but for the fascinating, horrifying, incredible journey it represented.
With a newfound sense of calm determination, a soft, hopeful smile appeared on his face. His first day as a free man had begun. There was a city to explore, furniture to buy, and a workshop to build.
He picked up his coat, hat and spectacles, a flicker of genuine anticipation cutting through the ever-present caution. For the first time, he was stepping out into the world not as a fugitive, but as a man with a future. It was a fragile, dangerous future, but it was his. And he intended to make it a pleasant one.