The ridiculous pastel amber suit was more than just fabric; it was a lens, altering how the city saw him and, more profoundly, how he saw the city. As Lutz continued his stroll through the Spire's Merchant district, his mind was no longer a fugitive's map of threats and escape routes, but a prospective resident's catalog of resources. His gaze, sharpened by his superior observation, swept over the storefronts, filing away every detail.
'Apothecary: 'Glimmer & Son.' Potentially useful for common ingredients, but unlikely to carry anything truly mystical. Must find the Beyonder market, I wonder where it'll be in this city, maybe there's not just one, but multiple, i didn't think about it, but getting into the Beyonder circles of this city while also maintaining the James Morgan persona untouched will prove a challenge.'
'Bank: 'Feysac Royal Exchange.' A important place to note, perhaps one day I'll be a true bank robber, haha. Furniture maker: 'Oakheart & Co.' Solid, traditional pieces. Will need to furnish the house, create a believable facade...'
He offered polite, practiced smiles to those who met his eye, building the ghost of James Morgan's social presence. The extravagant suit gave him a license to be noticed, and he was using it to lay the groundwork for a life.
The illusion of genteel peace was shattered by the sound of splintering wood and a sharp, feminine cry ahead. A sleek, black lacquered carriage, pulled by two impeccably groomed horses, had veered too close to the curb, its wheel smashing into the corner of a simple fruit stall. Apples and pears, once neatly stacked, now rolled like brightly colored marbles across the cobblestones.
The driver, looking panicked, was trying to calm the horses. But the focus of the scene was the carriage's occupant. The door flew open and a man erupted from it. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but his clothes seemed to strain against a corpulent frame. His face, dominated by a large, hooked nose, was flushed with indignation.
"You clumsy, witless crone!" he bellowed, his voice a nasally shriek that cut through the street's murmur. He pointed a gloved finger at the stall's owner, an elderly woman with a face like a wrinkled apple, who was already on her knees, desperately trying to gather her scattered livelihood. "Look what you've done! You've obstructed the public way with your filth! Do you have any idea who I am? The cost of the lacquer on this carriage alone could buy your miserable hovel!"
The old woman flinched, her hands trembling as she clutched a bruised pear. "M-my deepest apologies, sir! Please, it was an accident, the horses, they startled—"
"Silence!" the man, named Hasan, snapped. "Your excuses are as worthless as your wares. You will bow and apologize to me, properly! Now!"
A cold knot tightened in Lutz's stomach. It was a familiar scene, the strong preying on the weak, the powerful using their status as a cudgel. In Indaw Harbor, he might have slipped away, calculating the risk. But James Morgan, in his ridiculous pastel amber suit, could not. A stronger, gentler person, the vow echoed in his mind. This was a test, small but significant.
His fingers dipped into his pocket, finding the cool, familiar hilt of Creed. He didn't draw it, merely gripped it, feeling the subtle flow of its power—a boost not just to eloquence, but to the sheer force of his presence. He stepped forward, his movements smooth and deliberate, the fine wool of his suit marking him as a player in this drama, not a bystander.
"Sir, a moment, if you please," Lutz said, his voice amplified by the artifact, carrying a calm, reasonable authority that cut through Hasan's bluster.
The big-nosed man turned, his angry eyes sweeping over Lutz's expensive attire. His expression shifted from pure rage to a more calculating irritation. He recognized the uniform of his own class, or at least, someone aspiring to it.
"This does not concern you, gentleman," Hasan said, though his tone was slightly less hostile.
"But it does," Lutz countered, offering a conciliatory smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He gestured to the carriage. "The damage appears minimal. A scratch, easily buffed out. And the lady is clearly distraught." He turned his gaze to the old woman, giving her a small, reassuring nod before looking back at Hasan. "Let us settle this amicably. I will pay you a Gold Hammer for the trouble. Please, forgive the lady her distress."
He made a show of reaching for his new, luxurious wallet. The offer was more than generous; it was absurdly so. It was the move of a frivolous, wealthy dandy trying to buy peace. It was exactly what James Morgan would do.
For a moment, it seemed to work. Hasan's eyes gleamed at the mention of a Gold Hammer. But then his pride reasserted itself. He drew himself up, his lip curling.
"Gentleman, I appreciate the gesture," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "But that is not the point. This is a matter of principle. People of good breeding, like you and I," he said, including Lutz in his circle with a wave of his hand, "we must maintain an iron hand with the cattle. If we show weakness, they forget their place. They clutter our streets, they impede our progress." He turned his venomous gaze back to the terrified old woman. "She must be taught a lesson. Bow! Now!"
The woman, tears now streaming down her wrinkled cheeks, began to lower her head toward the filthy cobblestones.
Lutz's grip on Creed tightened. The artifact's power surged, not with anger, but with a cold, razor-sharp clarity. He saw the situation not as a moral outrage, but as a flawed equation. Brute force and status against brute force and status was a zero-sum game. He needed to reframe the problem for Hasan.
"Please, sir," Lutz interjected, his voice losing its placating tone and becoming firmer, more pragmatic. "Think for a moment. This is unsightly. A man of your evident standing, causing a scene in the street over a basket of fruit?" He gestured to the small crowd that had begun to gather. "Is this the reputation you wish to cultivate? You surely have important appointments, influential people to meet. Is your time, is your dignity, truly worth less than the satisfaction of humiliating this poor woman?"
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more confidential pitch, as if sharing a secret of the elite. "The truly powerful need not prove it with such... public displays. It reeks of insecurity. Let it go. Appear magnanimous. It costs you nothing and gains you everything."
He was selling Hasan on the idea that walking away was a sign of greater strength, a more sophisticated form of power. He was appealing to the man's vanity and snobbery, not his nonexistent compassion.
Hasan blinked, the logic, warped as it was, penetrating his rage. He looked from Lutz's impeccably dressed, calm figure to the gawking crowd, and then to the sobbing old woman. The calculus of social standing was being recalculated in his mind.
"Hmph," he grunted, deflating slightly. "Perhaps… perhaps you are right." He scowled at the old woman one last time. "Your kind shouldn't occupy the streets in such a way, woman! Be more careful!"
With that, he turned on his heel, climbed back into his carriage, and slammed the door. The driver, looking relieved, snapped the reins, and the carriage pulled away, leaving the scene of the minor crime.
Lutz released his grip on Creed, the flow of easy persuasion fading, leaving him feeling slightly drained. He immediately knelt, ignoring the dirt that now smudged the knees of his expensive new trousers.
"Here, let me help you," he said softly to the old woman, his voice now devoid of its performative charm, holding only genuine kindness.
He began gathering the fallen fruit with her, his movements efficient. He picked out the ones that were merely dusty and placed them back in her baskets, discreetly palming the ones that were truly bruised or split and slipping them into a separate pile she wouldn't try to sell. He used a few coins from his pocket—silvers, not gold—to quietly purchase the damaged goods from her, insisting it was the least he could do.
"Thank you, young master," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Thank you. You are too kind."
"It was nothing," he murmured, giving her a final, reassuring smile before standing and brushing off his trousers.
As he walked away, the incident played over in his mind, but his thoughts weren't solely on the "Shithead wealthy man" named Hasan. They were on his own actions. He had used deception, manipulation—the nascent tools of the Swindler—to achieve a just outcome. He hadn't drawn a blade or thrown a punch; he had used words and perception as his weapons.
And it was in that moment, watching the arrogant carriage disappear down the street, that the haunting dilemma that had plagued him since acquiring the Swindler formula finally resolved itself. The contradiction that had been gnawing at him—how to "act" as a Swindler while upholding his vow to be "a stronger, gentler person" and "take the unnecessary evil out of the world"—shattered.
'It was a contradiction, but not anymore' he realized, a slow, dark smile spreading across his face, 'Because I was thinking like a common thief. I was thinking of swindling honest, hardworking people out of their meager earnings. But that's not the only option.'
The epiphany was as clear and brilliant as the St. Millom twilight.
'The world is full of Hasans. Corrupt nobles who see people as cattle. Ruthless merchants who grind the faces of the poor. Politicians who do nothing for their people but line their own pockets. They hoard wealth and power they did nothing to earn, built on the backs of those they despise.'
His steps gained a new, purposeful energy. The vow and the pathway were not in opposition; they were two sides of the same coin.
'I don't have to swindle the innocent. I can bankrupt the corrupt. I can rob the ruthless. I can become a parasite upon the "unnecessary evil" itself.'
The "acting" for his Swindler sequence wouldn't be about petty cons. It would be about grand deceptions. It would be about identifying the rotten pillars of society and swindling them out of their ill-gotten gains, their secrets, their very power. He would become a phantom of justice, a thief who stole from thieves.
Every coin taken from a man like Hasan would be a coin that couldn't be used to torment another old woman.
He looked around the grand city, its towers piercing the violet sky. No longer was it just a place to hide. It was a hunting ground. The Hasans of the world, with their bloated sense of entitlement and their cruel disregard for others, they were the "unnecessary evil."
The path was clear. The performance of James Morgan had just found its true, magnificent, and deeply dangerous purpose.