The sight of the Cage Grass, sated and quiescent after its grisly meal, was both a relief and a new source of tension. The immediate, violent danger of the swamp—the grabbing trees, the giant frog, the wasps—was a straightforward problem. This was different.
Do I try to sever it by throwing the parrying knife from a distance, or do I get close and cut it carefully?
Throwing the knife was safer, physically. But it was imprecise. He could damage the plant, ruin the very ingredient he'd come all this way for. The woman had said humans could usually resist it. And he was no ordinary human. He was a Beyonder with a fully digested potion. He had to believe that counted for something.
Trusting in that resilience, he made his choice. He would approach.
He holstered the revolver, its loud finality inappropriate for this delicate task. In his right hand, he took the broader, sturdier parrying dagger, its blade perfect for a big, severing cut. He began to move forward, each step deliberate, his boots sinking silently into the soft earth at the puddle's edge. The water was black and opaque, hiding whatever else might be lurking.
As he drew within ten meters, the plant stirred. The faint twitching he'd seen before returned, the closed leaves of the cage giving a slight shiver. The message was clear: it was aware of him.
He kept moving, his gaze locked on the spherical plant. At five meters, he felt it. Not a sound, but a pressure. A subtle, invasive digging at the edges of his mind, like psychic fingers probing for a weakness. He gritted his teeth, focusing on the physical reality: the weight of the dagger, the squelch of mud, the damp chill of the air.
Vague, distorted voices whispered at the periphery of his hearing. He caught the guttural tone of Baron Vogler 'A price you're willing to pay is too low a price.'
A cynical smirk touched Lutz's lips. "Hah," he muttered under his breath, not breaking his slow, steady advance. "I hate that shithead. All you're doing is keeping me focused on the task." It was a bravado he didn't entirely feel, but speaking the words aloud helped solidify his resolve. The mental pressure was like a current trying to push him off course, but he was a rock in the stream.
He was almost there. The vibrant green patch of grass was right before him. He raised the parrying dagger, aiming for the thick, root-like base that connected the spherical cage to the earth. He was ready to make the cut.
The digging in his mind ceased its random probing and struck something deep, something buried. The greenish-gray mush inside the open cage contorted, its features shifting, smoothing out, then carving themselves into a new, devastatingly familiar shape. The flesh formed a craggy, weathered jaw, a prominent nose, and deep-set eyes, one of them was milky and devoid of glow.
A voice, old and rusty, yet filled with a gruff he hadn't heard in months, echoed not in the air, but directly in his soul.
'How'd the day go, boy?'
Lutz froze. The dagger, poised to strike, wavered.
He was looking at a grotesque, vegetal replica of Old Henrik's face.
The plant-twisted mouth seemed to move. 'Boy, care to learn about mending? Life is not all about destroying and taking.'
It was the one voice of true, uncomplicated mentorship he had known in this world. A wave of grief and longing, so potent it was physical, washed over him. The analytical part of his mind screamed that it was a trick, a phantom, but his heart was a traitor.
Unconsciously, his body leaned forward. His face, contorted with a mixture of anguish and yearning, drifted closer to the pulsating, fleshy face. The plant twitched excitedly, the leaves of the cage trembling in anticipation. The scent of decay was suddenly overpowering.
Then, as he leaned, a small object pressed against his chest under his shirt. It was cold. Metallic.
It was Henrik's pendant.
The simple silver locket that held the faded photograph of the old man and his wife. The one thing of true, sentimental value Lutz had taken from the wreckage of his old life.
The cold metal was a jolt of reality, a anchor in the storm of psychic deception. It was a touchstone to the real Henrik, not this swamp-born caricature. The real Henrik who had given him a direction, who had taught him about mending, leather-working and a lot more, yes, but who had also understood the necessity of survival. The real Henrik was gone.
Lucidity returned in a violent, clarifying rush.
"NO!"
The word was a raw gasp. He snapped his head back, his body recoiling from the edge of the puddle. In the same motion, fueled by a surge of revulsion and fury, he brought the parrying dagger down in a short, brutal arc.
THWACK.
The blade sheared cleanly through the plant's base. The moment it was severed, the face dissolved back into a formless, twitching mass. The entire plant convulsed violently, a final, desperate spasm, and then lay still. The vibrant green of the surrounding grass seemed to dim slightly.
Lutz stood there, his breath coming in ragged, agitated gasps. He stared at the dead plant, then down at the pendant he'd pulled out, now clutched tightly in his left hand. The cold silver was a comfort.
He reflected on the sheer, insidious power of the thing. It had tried to seduce him with nostalgia, with a ghost of the only peace he'd ever known here. He grasped the pendant that leaned against his chest.
Thank you, old man, he thought, the gratitude a solemn, internal vow. You saved me again.
He carefully picked up the severed Cage Grass, its leaves now limp. He retrieved the lead case from his suitcase, and placed the ingredient inside, sealing it shut.
He stored the case in his suitcase and stood up. The mission was done. It was time to leave this wretched place and become a Swindler.
The journey out felt different. The swamp was still treacherous, still hostile, but its power over him was broken. He moved with a new confidence, his steps sure. He avoided the grabby tree, gave the wasp nest an even wider berth, and encountered no more giant frogs. It was as if the Fens, having failed to claim him with its greatest trick, had lost interest.
After a while of walking, he was almost there.
He broke through the final line of trees and saw the earthy road, and beyond it, the grim little village. The sight of it, a bastion of mundane, human dreariness, was more beautiful to him than any vista in St. Millom.
The clock on the village tavern, a sun-bleached and peeling timepiece, read 4:57 PM. The mission was accomplished, the lead case secure in his suitcase, but the Fens clung to him like a shroud. He could still smell the decay in his nostrils, feel the psychic grime of the Cage Grass's deception on his spirit. He couldn't return to St. Millom like this, trailing swamp-muck and malevolent energy.
Finding a rough-hewn bench outside the tavern, he sat and began the tedious process of cleaning his boots with handfuls of damp grass and moss, scraping away the black, sucking mud that had tried to claim him. Each clump that fell away felt like a small victory. As he worked, the late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows through the village, the quiet normalcy of the place a stark contrast to the twilight nightmare he'd just left. He unpacked the food he'd brought—a couple loaves of bread, some hard cheese, and a strip of dried meat—and ate methodically, the mundane act of chewing and swallowing helping to ground him back in reality. The food tasted of nothing, his palate still haunted by the swamp's sweet rot.
He waited a full, patient hour, watching the life of the village—a farmer leading a tired-looking horse, children chasing a dog, smoke rising from chimneys. Finally, the rumble of a carriage approached. It was a larger, more robust coach than the one that had brought him, its sides stained with the dust of long travel. He stood and raised a hand.
"St. Millom?" Lutz asked the driver, a man with a wide-brimmed hat and a face like tanned leather.
"Aye, that's the end of the line," the driver grunted.
Lutz handed him a single Gold Hammer. "A seat inside, if you have it."
The man's eyes widened at the gold coin, a significant overpayment for the journey. He nodded quickly. "Of course, sir. Plenty of room."
Lutz climbed inside. The interior smelled of old upholstery and dust, but it was a welcome change. The only other occupants were an elderly couple, bundled in simple but clean woolens. They looked up as he entered, their faces etched with the gentle lines of a long, shared life. They offered him kind, slightly curious smiles. Lutz, forcing his own muscles to relax, returned the expression with a nod, the ghost of James Morgan's amiability flickering to life. He settled into the seat opposite them, placing the suitcase between his boots. The journey passed in near silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of the wheels and the old woman's soft commentary on the passing scenery. Lutz pretended to doze, but behind closed eyelids, he was replaying the moment the plant had worn Henrik's face, the cold feel of the pendant against his chest.
Two hours later, the familiar, soot-choked skyline of St. Millom rose in the distance. The carriage deposited him in a central square, and he melted into the evening crowds, his first destination not Vesper Lane, but the Kholm Quarter's safe-house.
Inside the small, sparse room, he wasted no time. He stripped off the swamp-stained attire, the heavy waxed coat, the canvas trousers, the boots that still smelled of fen-water and his gear harness. The rudimentary bath was a tin tub filled with cold water pumped from a shared line, but it was a baptism of necessity. He scrubbed his skin raw with a rough cloth and strong soap, trying to wash away not just the grime, but the memory of the invasive mental touch. He washed the specialized clothing as best he could, hanging it to dry in a corner, a soldier tending to his kit after a hard campaign.
Finally, clean and feeling more like himself, he changed back into the good charcoal grey suit he had worn out of the house that morning. It felt like donning a familiar armor. He packed the cleaned gear and the precious lead case back into the suitcase and headed for Vesper Lane.
He spent some moments to meditate and enter cogitation in order to stabilize his mental state, when he was done, no residue from the swamp stayed in his mind.
He arrived at Number 17 just as the city's clocks were striking eight. The warm, golden light from the windows was a beacon of domesticity. Letting himself in, he was met by the homely, comforting scent of onions and herbs frying in butter. Eliza was in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she prepared dinner.
She turned at the sound of the door, her face breaking into a genuine smile of relief. "Sir! You're back. I was starting to worry. Your timber meeting ran late."
"Indeed it did, Eliza," Lutz said, layering James Morgan's easy charm over his own bone-deep fatigue. "The negotiations were… more complex than anticipated. But productive! Very productive." He infused his voice with a satisfied energy he didn't feel. "Something smells wonderful."
"Just a simple stew, sir. It'll be ready shortly."
"Perfect. I'll just freshen up."
He carried his suitcase upstairs to his room. The routine of unpacking was a calming ritual. He stored the clean swamp gear in a trunk, hidden beneath a false bottom. Then, with reverent care, he brought the lead and his gear inside a bag case down to the basement. The bolt slid home with a solid thunk. In the lamplight, he opened the safe, the complex dial a dance his fingers now knew by heart. He placed the case containing the Cage Grass inside, next to the jar of Soul-Confusers and the other assets. The safe door closed, sealing away the dangers and the triumphs of the day.
Dinner was a quiet affair. He made polite conversation with Eliza, asking about her day, commenting on the excellent stew. Afterward, he retreated to his study with the Jotun guide he'd bought from Gordon. He tried to focus on the guttural, archaic script, but the symbols swam before his eyes. His mind was in the basement, already at the alchemy table.
By 11 PM, the house was steeped in silence. Eliza had long since retired. The only sound was the gentle ticking of the hall clock. It was time.
Lutz descended into the basement once more, bolting the door behind him. The single gas lamp he lit cast a focused, dramatic light over the alchemy table, leaving the rest of the room in deep shadow. It was a stage, and he was the sole actor in a play of profound self-transformation.
He laid out the ingredients with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a life-or-death operation.
Main Ingredients:
The Human-Faced Cage Grass, now inert and sealed in its lead case. He opened it, the plant looking strangely small and pathetic, its deceptive power nullified.
The Larvae of a Soul‑Confusing Insect Swarm. He unwrapped the felt-covered jar. The skittering was immediate, a frantic, maddening rhythm. Using long tweezers from his alchemy equipment, he carefully fished out a single, pale, pulsating larva from the seething mass, placing it on a small ceramic dish. It writhed, emitting a faint psychic static that made his teeth ache.
Supplementary Ingredients:
The 100 milliliters of Pure Water, in its crystal-clear vial, looking deceptively ordinary.
The 20 milliliters of Another's Tears, a liquid that seemed to hold a faint, sorrowful grey hue within its depths, it was also in a small glass vial.
The Lapis Lazuli, a rough, raw stone of deep, celestial blue, shot through with veins of brilliant gold pyrite.
The 10 grams of White Chestnut Balm, a waxy, pale substance that smelled sharply of camphor and something indefinably calming.
He had complex and convoluted alchemical equipment, however, it wasn't necessary for the brewing of Beyonder potions. These strange ingredients, when combined with the correct formula and intent, would catalyze themselves.
He selected a large, spherical-bottomed glass flask from his alchemy lab, its purity ensuring no contamination. His hands were steady. This was the moment everything had been building towards since he'd fled Indaw Harbor.
"Supplementary ingredients first," he whispered to the silent room.
He poured in the Pure Water. It settled in the flask, looking utterly innocent. Next, he carefully measured and added the Another's Tears. The moment the grey-tinged liquid hit the water, the mixture within the flask seemed to sigh, a barely perceptible shimmer passing through it. The water swirled of its own accord, creating a gentle vortex.
He added the White Chestnut Balm. It floated on the surface for a moment, a waxy island, before slowly beginning to dissolve, releasing its sharp, clean scent into the air. As it dissolved, it trailed milky white tendrils through the water, which began to pulse with a soft, internal white light.
Finally, he picked up the Lapis Lazuli. He didn't crush it or grind it. He simply dropped the whole, raw stone into the center of the swirling, glowing mixture.
The effect was instantaneous and beautiful. The deep blue of the stone began to bleed into the liquid, not like a dye, but like ink dispersing in water, if the ink were made of liquid sapphire and starlight. The gold pyrite flecks seemed to ignite, becoming tiny, shimmering points of light within the swirling blue and white. The mixture was alive with energy, itching for the final components, humming with a potential that made the air vibrate.
"It's waiting," Lutz breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He picked up the ceramic dish. The single Larva writhed, its pale, soft body a stark contrast to the luminous beauty in the flask. With a final, steadying breath, he tipped it in.
The moment the larva touched the surface of the potion, the beauty shattered.
A suffocating, psychic hodor—a wave of pure mental confusion and dissonance—exploded from the flask. Lutz's vision swam, his thoughts jumbling into nonsense. For a terrifying second, he forgot why he was there, who he was, his mind a cacophony of alien impulses. The luminous blue and white mixture turned opaque, viscous, and jet black, as if a bottle of ink had been emptied into it. It bubbled sluggishly, threatening to boil over, the gold flecks of the Lapis Lazuli extinguished, swallowed by the absolute darkness.
Gritting his teeth, fighting through the mental assault, he reached for the final ingredient.
The Human-Faced Cage Grass. He picked up the severed plant. It felt cold and strangely brittle now. He dropped it into the seething, black morass.
The change was immediate and profound. The violent bubbling ceased. The oppressive psychic stench vanished, sucked back into the mixture. The blackness began to recede, not fading, but… consolidating. The volume of the liquid visibly shrank, compressing itself, refining itself. The color transformed, melting from utter black into a deep, dreamlike, translucent crimson, the color of heart's blood seen through frosted glass.
And then it began to bubble again, but not with the threatening fervor of before. These were soft, languid pops, each one releasing a wisp of silver vapor and leaving behind a delicate, swirling foam of the most brilliant crimson Lutz had ever seen. It was beautiful. Hypnotic. It looked less like a potion and more like a captured fragment of a strange and wonderful lie.
He worked quickly now, his movements precise. He took a large, sturdy glass vial and carefully poured the concoction into it. It filled the vial, the dreamlike crimson liquid bubbling peacefully with its crimson foam, seeming to hold a light of its very own.
He corked the vial and held it up to the lamplight.
There it was. The Sequence 8: Swindler potion.
The culmination of debt, betrayal, heists, manipulation, a journey across the country, the construction of a new life, and a battle of wills in a psychic swamp. It was all distilled into this few ounces of captivating, dangerous liquid. He looked at his reflection, distorted in the curved glass of the vial.
The path forward was clear. All that remained was to drink.