After having a breakfast of toast and coffee, Lutz got ready and headed for a meeting he had been long postponing as he wanted to become a Swindler first, after bidding farewell to Eliza he stopped a carriage and got in, giving the corresponding indications.
The carriage ride to Filip's workshop was a study in controlled anticipation. Lutz felt a new layer of confidence humming beneath the surface. The world outside the window seemed sharper, the sounds of the city more distinct, and the social calculus of the upcoming meeting felt less like a daunting challenge and more like a game of chess where he could now see several moves ahead.
The workshop was located in a semi-industrial district, a large, brick building with high windows. The sound of hammering and the whine of metal on metal greeted him before he even reached the door. He was met by Filip himself, who practically vibrated with nervous energy. The young inventor's clothes were stained with oil, and his eyes were bright with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.
"Mr. Morgan! You came! I was beginning to fear you'd found a more... polished investment," Filip said, ushering him inside with quick, bird-like movements.
"Apologies for the delay, Filip," Lutz said, his voice infused with a warmth that felt effortless, a natural emanation that seemed to put the younger man slightly more at ease. "Business in the capital, you know how it is. A thousand trivialities demanding one's attention. But I assured you my interest was sincere, and here I am."
He was led to a small, cluttered office partitioned off from the main workshop floor. Blueprints and schematics were pinned to every available surface, and small, intricate metal models sat gathering dust on shelves. Lutz took the offered seat, his eyes casually scanning the room, taking in the details. He saw the frantic creativity, but also the lack of organization. A mind bursting with ideas, but no rudder, he thought.
"Now," Lutz began, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air, "let's speak about our compressed-air nail driver." He effortlessly re-explained the concept, using his hands to illustrate. "Imagine a piston, driven not by gunpowder, but by air compressed in a chamber. A trigger release, a sharp, powerful burst of force that drives a nail into hard timber in a fraction of a second. No more smashed thumbs, no more weary arms for carpenters and shipwrights. The speed of construction could be revolutionized."
Filip's eyes were wide, his fingers twitching as if he were already sketching the idea. "The valve mechanism would be the key... a spring-loaded release... the pressure ratios..."
"Precisely!" Lutz agreed, his tone praising Filip's insight, making the inventor feel like a collaborative genius. "But an idea, however brilliant, is only the first step. To bring this to the world, and more importantly, to profit from it before some other bright spark has the same thought, we must think practically." He let the word 'profit' hang in the air, watching Filip's face closely.
He saw it then, a slight tightening around the inventor's eyes, a micro-expression of distaste so fleeting most would miss it. He's not motivated by money, Lutz realized instantly. He sees it as a vulgar necessity, a distraction from the pure work of creation.
"Practically?" Filip asked, his enthusiasm dimming a fraction.
"Indeed," Lutz pressed on, smoothly. "We must consider patents. A legal document to claim this invention as ours, to prevent others from simply copying our ideas. It would require engaging a solicitor, drafting the paperwork, filing it with the imperial patent office. It's a tedious process, but a vital one. Then, of course, there's the capital for mass production, marketing, distribution... a business entity would need to be formed." He spoke the language of commerce, of contracts and corporate structures, and with each word, he saw Filip's attention wane, his gaze drifting towards a half-assembled mechanism on his desk.
Wrong approach, Lutz concluded. The charm was working to keep Filip engaged, but the message was falling on deaf ears. He needed to redirect the conversation, to frame the entire enterprise in a light that would captivate Filip's soul, not just his wallet.
"Shall we take a turn through your workshop?" Lutz suggested, rising smoothly. "I'd love to see the engine room where such marvels are born."
Filip, visibly relieved to be away from talk of lawyers and patents, eagerly agreed. He led Lutz out onto the main workshop floor. It was a cacophony of industry—a dozen men and a few women were bent over lathes, forges, and workbenches, assembling complex devices from Filip's intricate schematics. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal, oil, and sweat.
They were watching a man struggle to fit a finely-machined brass gear into a housing when it happened. The worker, his hands greasy, fumbled. The gear slipped, clattering against the housing and leaving a small, visible scratch on the polished surface.
It was a minor thing, a simple error. But Filip's face contorted. The eager, enthusiastic inventor vanished, replaced by a petty tyrant.
"You clumsy oaf!" Filip snapped, his voice cutting through the workshop's din. Several workers flinched without looking up. "Do you have any idea how long it took to mill that? Are your fingers made of ham? Look at that! A perfect piece, ruined by your butter-fingers!"
The worker, a man in his forties with a tired face, stammered an apology, his shoulders slumping. "Sir, I'm sorry, it just slipped—"
"It 'just slipped'?" Filip mocked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Perhaps your wages will 'just slip' this week! Now clean it up and see if you can manage not to destroy the next one. Useless."
He turned back to Lutz, and the transformation was jarring. The anger melted away, replaced by the charming, eager façade once more. "Apologies, Mr. Morgan. The standard of help one finds these days is simply appalling. No pride in their work."
Lutz kept his own expression a mask of polite understanding, but internally, he filed the moment away. So that's it, he mused. A brilliant mind, but with the empathy of a rock for those he considers beneath him. Maybe not a monster, no. Just a man who sees people as tools, much like his machines. Useful, but disposable. It was a flaw that neatly placed Filip within the boundaries of Lutz's moral code—a man who wielded power poorly, and thus, was a valid mark.
As they continued the tour, Lutz let the conversation about the nail driver lapse. Instead, he began to ask questions about other projects, praising the ingenuity, the clever solutions to complex problems. He built a foundation of shared appreciation for the craft itself.
Then, he subtly shifted his approach. He stopped talking about the nail driver as a product and started speaking of it as a legacy.
"You know, Filip," Lutz said, his voice dropping into a more reflective, almost philosophical tone as they paused by a window overlooking the busy street. "We speak of profits and patents, but I fear that misses the true point of a venture like this."
Filip, who had been pointing out a new type of pressure gauge, looked at him, curious. "It does?"
"Of course," Lutz said, his gaze sweeping over the city. "Think of the impact. Truly think of it. Not in coins, but in progress. Every ship built faster with your tool is a vessel that can carry more goods, connect more people. Every house constructed more quickly is a family sheltered sooner. You wouldn't just be selling a tool; you would be accelerating the very machinery of human advancement."
He could see the change instantly. Filip's posture straightened. His eyes, which had glazed over at talk of business, now shone with a fervent light. Lutz had found the key—the man's intellectual vanity, his desire to be a hero of progress, not a merchant.
"Your name," Lutz continued, leaning in slightly, his voice imbued with a compelling gravity, "wouldn't just be on a patent in some dusty office. It would be on the lips of every engineer, every builder. They wouldn't say 'pass me the hammer.' They would say, 'pass me the Filip Driver.' You would be marking the age, my friend. Leaving a dent in the universe. That is what we should be discussing. How to make that happen."
He had completely redirected the narrative. The conversation was no longer about mundane legalities and finances, which Filip found distasteful. It was now about legacy, impact, and immortalizing his genius in the annals of progress. Lutz saw the agreement, the eager nod, the complete buy-in in Filip's expression. The hooks were set, not with the crude bait of money, but with the far more potent lure of glory. The negotiation, in its most crucial sense—the negotiation for Filip's soul and enthusiasm—was won. Now, the details could be worked out, with Lutz guiding it all from this new, unassailable position of shared, "higher" purpose.
The air in the cluttered office shifted palpably after Lutz's masterful pivot. The discussion was no longer a dry transaction between a wealthy backer and a inventor; it had been transformed into a collaborative crusade, a meeting of minds dedicated to Progress with a capital 'P'. Filip's energy, once defensive and slightly waning, was now a blazing furnace of inspiration.
"The 'Filip Driver'…" the inventor murmured, the words tasting like ambrosia on his tongue. He looked at Lutz with something akin to reverence. "You see it, don't you? You truly see the potential beyond the mere machinery."
"I see the architect of a new era of industry," Lutz replied, his voice a warm, convincing baritone. He leaned back, the picture of relaxed confidence, all while his mind worked with the cold, precise efficiency of a swindler's engine. "The nail driver is merely the first, most obvious application. A proof of concept. But the true revolution… that lies in the principle itself: compressed air."
He let the term hang in the air, a seed planted in the fertile soil of Filip's imagination. For the next several hours, the small office became a crucible of ideas. Lutz, drawing on the broad, shallow knowledge of Andrei's world, acted as a catalyst. He never gave direct answers; he posed visionary questions.
"Imagine," Lutz said, sketching a crude diagram on a scrap of parchment, "if we could channel that same force not just to drive a nail, but to power a rotary tool. A grinder that never tires, a drill that operates underwater, a paint sprayer that applies a flawless coat in minutes." Each concept was a spark, and Filip's mind was a tinderbox.
"Yes! We could call it... pneumatic motor!" Filip exclaimed, snatching the parchment and beginning to cover it with his own, far more technical scribbles. "The efficiency transfer… the torque ratios… we'd need a standardized coupling system…"
Lutz watched him, a benign smile on his face. And there he goes, he thought, a silent predator observing its prey become enthralled by a decoy. He's already designing the entire ecosystem. He's building the cage around himself, bolt by beautiful, ingenious bolt.
Throughout the discussion, Lutz employed his enhanced faculties with a artist's touch. He listened not just to Filip's words, but to the cadence of his voice, the flicker in his eyes. When Filip began to drift into a technical rabbit hole about metallurgical stress tolerances, Lutz would gently guide him back with a perfectly timed, broader question. "A fascinating problem, truly. But would that not be a challenge for all future pneumatic tools? Establishing a universal standard for pressure resilience?" He wasn't just redirecting the conversation; he was redirecting Filip's very train of thought, making the inventor believe that every brilliant insight was his own, while ensuring that insight served Lutz's overarching goal: to establish a foundational technology that he would control.