The alley he emerged into was dank and narrow, a world away from the glowing wonders of the Winter Garden. The transition was jarring. One moment, he was surrounded by bioluminescent flora and creatures of myth; the next, he was in a backstreet of St. Millom, the air smelling of wet stone, rotting garbage, and the distant, familiar reek of the river. The magic of the place clung to him for a moment—the scent of night-blooming jasmine on his clothes, the faint psychic buzz from the jar in his hand—then faded, replaced by the city's gritty reality.
He leaned against the cool brick wall for a second, catching his breath and reorienting himself. The encounter with Lorelei played in his mind, a bright, disorienting spark in an otherwise grim evening. But the practicalities of survival quickly reasserted themselves.
Finances, he thought, the word a leaden weight. He did a quick mental tally. He'd started with just over 600 Gold Hammers. The house, the clothing, the furnishings, the gifts for the neighbors, the safe, the workshop tools, the alchemy glassware… it had all been a relentless drain. Then tonight: 52 Hammers for the alchemical apparatus, 1 for the pure water, 57 for the damned insects, and 10 for the directions. Well, there was also 1 Hammer for the drinks, but that was completely worth it.
He'd gone in with 120 and was coming out with… 0.
A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He had 404 Hammers left in the safe. It was still a a lot. But to a Beyonder building a power base from scratch in a capital city, it was a dwindling resource. The big purchases—the foundational ones—were done. The house, the lab, the workshop. Now there only were regular expenses: Eliza's wages, food, coal, maintaining the facade of James Morgan. And investments. He needed his money to make money, to create a legitimate-looking flow of capital.
Hopefully, when I become a Swindler, earning money will become trivial, he consoled himself. The thought carried a cynical edge. I can always steal from some noble's house if I need to, he thought, the idea springing to mind with the casual ease of the Marauder he was. It wasn't a plan, just a statement of fact, a tool in his kit. The morality of it was a calculus: whose house? A corrupt merchant from the Consortium? That wouldn't even feel like theft; it would feel like redistributive justice.
He heard the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels. Pushing off the wall, he stepped to the mouth of the alley and flagged down a late night carriage, its driver looking half-asleep.
"Vesper Lane," Lutz instructed, climbing inside and placing the felt-wrapped jar carefully on the seat beside him.
The journey back was a slow, creaking affair through near-deserted streets. The jar, however, was anything but quiet. A faint, persistent skittering emanated from within the bag, a sound like tiny needles being dragged across slate. It was subtle, but in the quiet of the carriage, it was unmistakable. The driver, a hunched silhouette against the window, shifted uneasily.
"Rats in the walls tonight," the driver muttered, more to himself than to Lutz.
Seizing the opportunity, Lutz leaned forward slightly, adopting a tone of commiseration. "Tell me about it! The building I just left, dreadful. You could hear them scrambling in the ceiling. Sounded like a whole army of them. Probably why the rent was so cheap." He launched into a rambling, slightly inebriated-sounding monologue about the poor state of city landlords, keeping his voice pitched to cover the unnerving sounds from the Jar. He talked about fictional leaking pipes, fictional noisy neighbors, anything to provide a plausible, mundane explanation for the skittering. The driver, grateful for the distraction from the eerie noise, grunted in agreement now and then, and the rest of the journey passed without further suspicion.
Finally, the carriage pulled up at 17 Vesper Lane. The house was dark and silent, a monument of respectable slumber. He paid the driver with the little change he had left.
The foyer was still. A sliver of moonlight cut across the hall table, illuminating a lone plate. He walked over. It was a serving of stew, now cold, a film of congealed fat glistening on the surface. A fork and a napkin were neatly set beside it. Eliza had prepared dinner for him, even though he'd told her not to wait up.
She really works hard, he thought, a genuine pang of gratitude cutting through his cynicism. I made a good choice hiring her.
Quiet as a shadow, he went upstairs and changed out of his clothes into soft, worn trousers and a simple cotton shirt—the attire of James Morgan at his most unguarded. The jar waited for him on his bed, a silent, pulsating problem.
He carried it down to the basement, bolting the door behind him. The gas lamp he lit cast a warm pool of light over his underground domain. The place still smelled faintly of fresh wood and oil from the new workshop tools. He first placed the 100ml vial of pure water into a small wooden holder on his alchemy table.
Then, he turned to the jar.
He set it on the sturdy central table and, with a deep breath, pulled away the thick felt bag. The glass was immediately fogged with the frantic movement inside. Dozens of the mature insects scrambled over each other, their disturbing, color-swirling compound eyes creating a nauseating kaleidoscope effect. The pale, grub-like larvae writhed at the bottom. Just looking at it directly made his head swim. A random, useless thought popped into his mind: I should go tell Eliza exactly who I am and what I'm doing down here. He shook his head violently, breaking the compulsion.
Shit, he thought, tearing his gaze away. I ended up having to buy the whole swarm despite only needing one single larva. It was an immense frustration. It was a completely unnecessary investment.
Well, hopefully I'll find a use for them, he mused. Perhaps they could be ground up for other potions. Maybe their confounding gaze could be weaponized. But that was a problem for another day.
The immediate question was more mundane. Do I need to feed them? Or are they just as good dead?
Potion lore was often vague on such specifics. Some ingredients required the vital essence of a living creature at the moment of preparation; others needed the preserved, dormant power of a dead one. The "Soul-Confusing" aspect suggested that they needed to be able to confuse, and for that, they needed to be alive. He couldn't risk it. The thought of going through the ordeal of the Blackwood Fens only to find his other primary ingredient had spoiled because he'd starved it was too galling to contemplate.
Alright, you little shits, he thought with a sigh.
He padded back up to the kitchen, in the pantry, he cut a half-loaf of bread and a few slices of hard sausage. Returning to the basement, he faced the jar again. This required strategy. He couldn't just open the lid; they might try to escape.
He held the bread and sausage in one hand and, with the other, he quickly unscrewed the metal lid just a fraction, creating a gap of an inch. He shoved the food through the opening, his movements swift and precise, then slammed the lid back down and screwed it tight. He'd done it without looking inside, focusing only on the lip of the jar.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a new sound joined the skittering: a faint, gnawing, tearing sound. He risked a glance. The insects had fallen upon the food, their multiple legs pinning it down as mandibles much larger than they should have been began shredding the bread and sausage. It was both fascinating and utterly revolting.
"Bon appétit" he muttered dryly.
Satisfied they weren't about to die immediately, he rewrapped the jar in the thick black felt, the skittering becoming a muffled, almost peaceful rustle. He carried it to the safe. Spinning the dial, he swung the heavy door open. The interior was a trove of his dangerous assets. He placed the wrapped jar carefully inside, next to the lead box containing Boris's blue crystal characteristic and the other containing the enigmatic, hazy Dream-eating Rat's Heart. He looked at the three containers, each holding a piece of a power he didn't fully understand.
My collection of catastrophes, he thought, not without a hint of amusement.
He closed the safe, the solid thunk of the lock engaging a profoundly comforting sound. The basement was secure. His secrets were locked away. For now.
The fatigue of the long, expensive, and emotionally draining day finally crashed over him. The thrill of finding Lorelei, the strain of negotiation, the dread of the impending swamp journey—it all settled into a deep weariness. He extinguished the lamp and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.
As he lay in the dark, the image of Silvery-grey eyes, first surprised, then soft, then glancing away, was the last thing he saw before sleep took him. It was a small, warm light in the encroaching darkness, and for the first time, the path ahead didn't seem quite so lonely.
The morning sun streamed through the dining room window of 17 Vesper Lane, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Lutz sat over a half-finished breakfast, a map of the southern outskirts of St. Millom spread beside his plate. He'd been circling areas, cross-referencing them with the name "Blackwood Fens" he'd scribbled on a separate scrap of paper.
Eliza entered, carrying a fresh pot of coffee. "Another busy day for you, Sir?" she asked, her tone cheerful.
"Always, Eliza, always," Lutz replied, layering James Morgan's breezy energy over his own focused intensity. He took a sip of coffee, the bitter brew sharpening his mind. "In fact, I have to take a short trip out of the city later. A business meeting with a potential timber supplier. Should be back by evening."
"A timber supplier, sir?" Eliza said, slightly surprised. "I thought your interests were in machinery and finance."
"Diversification!" he announced, waving a piece of toast expansively. "A man cannot put all his eggs in one basket. Timber is the backbone of shipbuilding and construction! It's a solid, if unglamorous, investment. And one must sometimes travel to the source to ensure quality." The lie was seamless, built on a kernel of truth about the Merchant Consortium's interests. It was a perfect cover for a man like James Morgan.
"Of course, sir. Will you be needing me to prepare anything?"
"No, no, I've seen to it all," he said, giving her a reassuring smile. "Just hold down the fort."
After breakfast, under the guise of "preparing for his meeting," he had made a few discreet purchases: a pair of knee-high, waterproofed leather boots, tough canvas trousers, and a thick, waxed cotton coat. They were a far cry from his usual finery, but practical. He'd stored them, along with a change of clothes, in his traveling suitcase upstairs. The case also contained most of his armament: His harness, the shotgun and Henrik's revolver, cleaned and loaded, Night's melody, his throwing knives, and the parrying dagger. Creed was, as always, in his pocket, a cold comfort against his thigh, even if it caused him to feel a void in his stomach and to unwillingly look for too long at ladies on the street.
Needing a moment to disconnect from the planning, he decided to venture out for a coffee. He chose a small, unassuming café a few blocks from Vesper Lane, a place frequented by clerks and junior merchants, not the elite he was trying to infiltrate. He bought a copy of The St. Millom Courier and, on a whim, a more expensive, globally-focused paper called The Northern Star.
Settling at a small, marble-topped table, he stirred his coffee and first skimmed the Courier. The usual local gossip, price fluctuations in the textile market, a notice from the Church of Steam about a new public boiler installation. Nothing that concerned him directly. Then, he unfolded The Northern Star.
His eyes scanned headlines about trade disputes between Intis and Loen, a report on a new archaeological dig in the Southern Continent, and an update on the Balam Empire's military exercises. Then, a smaller headline in the maritime section caught his eye, and the blood seemed to freeze in his veins.
'The Strongest Hunter of the Seas, Gherman Sparrow, After His Impressive and Terrifying Rampage of Appearances Over the Last Two Years, Has Since Gone Silent. Is He Dead, Or Is He Planning His Biggest Hunt Yet?'
Gherman Sparrow?
The coffee cup halted halfway to his lips. The name echoed in his mind, clanging with a dissonance that belonged to another world. Gherman? From Bloodborne? The memory was a ghost from Andrei's life. There's no way... right? An unusual but plausible name. Sparrow's clearly because of Jack... another fragment from pop culture.
But the timing. The article said "flurry of appearances over the last two years." And then silence. It fit a pattern. A new, powerful figure emerges abruptly, causes a stir, and then vanishes? It was exactly the kind of trajectory a transmigrator, dumped into a new world with strange powers, might follow.
Could this be another one apart from roselle? He might be alive! The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. He wasn't alone. There was someone else out there who might understand what it was to have your consciousness ripped from one reality and stuffed into another. But then, he started considering the details, he didn't know about this person's ideals and if they were compatible with his, maybe this guy got power-hungry and decided to become a tyrant in this world, he might hunt me down if he sees me as a threat after I make contact...
He devoured the article, but it was frustratingly vague. It spoke of his "terrifying efficiency" and "mysterious motives," hunting pirate admirals with fervor, but gave no physical description, no origin story. It was all myth and speculation. He needed more. He had to find older newspapers, maritime logs, anything that could give him a clearer picture.
For a long moment, he just stared out the café window, the noise of the street fading into a buzz. The world, which had already felt vast and dangerous, suddenly felt infinitely more complex.
Shaking his head, he finished his coffee and left a few coins on the table. The mystery of Gherman Sparrow would have to wait. He had a swamp to navigate and the lovecraftian version of a carnivore plant to harvest.
Back at the house, he checked his pocket watch. 1:32 PM. The woman at the Garden had said the Fens were about two hours by carriage. If he left now, he could be there by half past three. Allow a few hours to locate the grass and deal with any… complications, then coming back. If everything went well, he could be back home by 7 or 9 PM.
He went to his room and changed into the good, but not flashy, charcoal grey suit he'd worn to the Garden—a balanced choice that wouldn't draw undue attention but still maintained the facade of James Morgan, businessman. He then grabbed his traveling suitcase, hefting its satisfying weight. Inside, the swamp gear was hidden beneath a layer of normal clothing, and his weapons were nestled in their compartments.
Descending the stairs, he found Eliza dusting the hall mirror.
"Off on my venture, Eliza," he said, his tone light.
"Good luck with your timber meeting, Sir!" she said, offering a warm smile.
"Thank you. I have a good feeling about this one!" he replied, the lie feeling strangely heavy today. He gave a final, casual wave and stepped out the door, closing it firmly on the safe, ordinary world of 17 Vesper Lane.
On the doorstep, he took a deep breath of the city air, digesting the scent of snow and the sight of twilight that St. Millom offered.