It was a face of sharp, almost severe angles, with deep-set eyes that had seemed merely brooding and asocial. Now, those eyes blazed with a feral, personal hatred.
Yevgeny Andariel.
The realization was a bucket of ice water thrown on Lutz's already frayed nerves. What? How did he find out it was me? The question was a frantic echo in his mind. His tailing had been flawless, his entry and exit clean. He'd left no trace, taken nothing but the seal.
When tailing him I thought he was just a weird and asocial man, who would have thought he's actually like this... The man moving toward him now was not the quiet, predictable collector he'd observed. This was a predator, coiled and lethal. I guess I should have expected it. Anyone holding onto an artifact like that…
His analytical mind, fueled by Creed's sharpening effect, dissected the threat in split-second increments. 'That movement, he's definitely a Beyonder.' The speed and force with wich Yevgeny moved, despite his build, was ferocious. 'I might have an advantage thanks to Creed but our physical capabilities aren't too disparate.' It was a chilling assessment. 'And the way he wields that kitchen knife…' The common utensil was an extension of his will, held with a duelist's precision, its edge seeking vital points with an incredible economy of motion. 'He's making it look like a top-grade sword.'
A wave of profound regret washed over him. I wish I had the rest of my gear here with me... The revolver, the throwing knives, the parrying dagger—all lay useless in the basement safe.
His expression is twisted, Lutz observed, watching the raw fury contort Yevgeny's features. There was no fear, no hesitation, only a consuming need for vengeance.
The Second Melody, Melody of Pacifying, probably won't work on him... It was a melody meant to soothe rage and quell hostility. Against this tsunami of hatred, it would be like trying to stop a forest fire with a cup of water.
His only option was the Third Melody again. As Yevgeny began his charge, a silent, powerful rush down the dark corridor, Lutz started to pull Night's Melody back to his lips. But Yevgeny was ready for it this time. Seeing the movement, he closed the distance in a burst of speed, the knife a silvery blur aimed not at Lutz's body, but at the hand holding the whistle.
Lutz aborted the attempt, yanking his hand back and throwing his weight sideways in an ungainly but effective leap. The knife whistled past his fingers, missing by a hair's breadth. He landed hard on one shoulder, rolling immediately to avoid the follow-up. Yevgeny was relentless, his movements a brutal, efficient dance. He didn't waste energy on grand swings; every motion was condensed, direct, and aimed to kill.
Lutz scrambled to his feet as Yevgeny pivoted, the knife already arcing back towards him in a tight, horizontal slash aimed at his ribs. There was no time to counter. Lutz could only bend backward, his spine protesting as the deadly edge passed over his chest, so close he felt the displacement of air on his skin. The momentum of the missed blow carried the knife forward, and Yevgeny, using his own body as a pivot, drove the tip deep into the plaster and lathe of the wall with a brutal CRUNCH.
Plaster dust filled the air. A fresh, hot spike of entirely different anger flared in Lutz's chest. 'You fuck!' he thought, the sentiment utterly devoid of James Morgan's affectations. 'I barely have money to repair the damages to the house!'
The absurdity of worrying about property value in a life-or-death struggle was a testament to the sheer depth of his financial anxiety.
But the lodged knife created an opening. A micro-second, it was enough. Yevgeny, momentarily unbalanced as he wrenched the blade free, left his right flank exposed. Lutz lunged forward, Creed flashing in a desperate thrust aimed for the man's armpit. But Yevgeny's recovery was astonishing. He twisted his torso, pulling the knife free a fraction sooner than Lutz had anticipated. The stiletto's point, meant to slide between ribs, instead scraped across the tough leather of Yevgeny's jerkin with a sickening screech.
The deflection left Lutz over-extended. Yevgeny, now with his knife free, didn't slash. He drove his elbow backward, a short, powerful blow into Lutz's chest. The air exploded from Lutz's lungs in a pained grunt. He staggered back, vision swimming. Yevgeny spun to face him, a predator sensing a wounded prey.
He came in again, the kitchen knife held low, ready for an upward gutting thrust. Lutz, still gasping, brought Creed up in a desperate parry. The clash of steel was a sharp, high-pitched clang that echoed violently in the confined space. Creed, a precision instrument, was not meant for blocking a heavy, brutish knife. The impact sent a jarring shock up Lutz's arm, numbing his fingers. He barely held onto the hilt.
In that moment of violent contact, their bodies were close. Yevgeny, expecting a slash or another parry, had committed his weight forward. For a single, crystalline moment, his entire right side—from his hip to his lower ribcage—was open.
Lutz's knowledge, a grim library of street fights and studied academic understanding of anatomy, presented the solution. He couldn't get a blade in place in time. But he could use his body.
Abandoning the parry, he dropped his weight and pivoted on his back foot. Ignoring the screaming pain in his chest, he channeled every ounce of his strength augmented by Creed into his right leg. It was a piston-driven blow, his shin connecting with terrifying precision just below Yevgeny's right rib cage. The target: the liver.
The impact made a thick, wet sound, like a sack of grain hitting stone. Yevgeny's forward momentum ceased as if he'd run into an invisible wall. A choked, guttural sound, more of surprise than pain, escaped his lips. The fury in his eyes flickered, replaced by a dazed, physical shock. The body's response was instantaneous and debilitating—a wave of nausea, a sudden drop in blood pressure, a searing, deep agony that radiated through his entire core. He stumbled back, his knife grip dropping slightly, his balance compromised.
Lutz stood panting, his chest aching and burning, his mind already calculating the next move.
For a precious second, the man was completely incapacitated, his body folding around the point of impact, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat.
Now! Lutz's mind screamed. As Yevgeny staggered, Lutz's grip on Creed tightened. He began to pour his will and spirituality into the stiletto. He felt the blade grow warmer in his hand, a hungry, anticipatory thrum building within the metal. It was like drawing back a bowstring on a weapon only he could see, channeling all his remaining energy into a single, perfect point. Kill Shot—Creed's ability, a guaranteed, unerring strike that would find its mark, bypassing mundane defenses. But the cost was evident; after its use, the artifact would fall dormant for a while, its enhancements vanishing.
But the moment was shattered before it could be born.
Yevgeny, though wounded, was not broken. Through the pain, his lips moved, forming guttural, ancient syllables that cut through the air with more force than a shout, a single word, spoken in the tongue of Hermes. "Smoke"
The moment he heard this, Lutz instantly stopped his try at a final blow, he was aware of his lack of comprehensive Beyonder knowledge. From his limited experiences, he knew that incantations were bad news, he may lack knowledge, but his survival instincts were impeccable.
He stopped and threw himself backward with a leap, putting space between them just as a sickly, black vapor began to weep from Yevgeny's pores, from his mouth. It wasn't like normal smoke; it was thick, oily, and moved with a sentient slowness, smelling of burnt hair and spoiled honey.
Shit, Lutz's mind raced, his eyes darting from the advancing smoke to the door of Eliza's room, which was now being gently approached by the leading tendrils of the foul mist. It's gonna reach Eliza's room. I don't know its effects but it can't be anything good. Paralytic? Poisonous? Corrupting? In this world, the possibilities were all terrifying.
A desperate, audacious plan crystallized in an instant. He had to draw Yevgeny away. He had to make this about him, not the sleeping girl upstairs.
"You fight like a bitch!" Lutz snarled, his voice dripping with a contempt he didn't fully feel, layering it with Creed's instigative intent. He took another step back, toward the head of the stairs. "You won't ever catch me. You'll never get the seal back, fool!"
He tried to taunt him with the seal. The reason for all of this. He then turned and with great agility, leaped down the staircase, not bothering with the steps, landing in a controlled roll in the foyer below. The sound of his descent was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown.
Instantly after, followed the heavy, pounding footsteps of Yevgeny taking the bait and giving chase. The relief was momentary, immediately replaced by the pressing need to survive the killer he had just enraged.
Lutz bolted into the kitchen, his mind a map of his own home. The black smoke was beginning to cascade down the staircase like a spectral waterfall, slowly filling the ground floor. He yanked open a drawer, his dexterous fingers a blur as he snatched three dining knives, their weight and balance familiar and utterly inadequate compared to his proper gear. As he turned, Yevgeny filled the kitchen doorway, a specter of vengeance wreathed in the unnatural smoke. The fury in his eyes was now mingled with the pain from his liver, making his expression a grotesque mask. The black mist curled around him, a personal shroud of malice.
There was no time for finesse. Lutz threw the first knife. It was a simple, overhand throw, aimed at Yevgeny's center mass. With a grunt of disdain, Yevgeny sidestepped to his left, the blade embedding itself in the doorframe with a thwack.
Lutz was already moving, his self coiling and uncoiling with the fluid grace granted by his body. The second knife flew, aimed higher, at the throat. Yevgeny was forced to duck and pivot further left, his movements still slightly sluggish from the blow he'd taken. The third knife followed instantly, a low throw aimed at his legs, forcing him to commit fully to the evasion, hopping back and to the side once more.
It was a feint. A trap of motion.
The moment Lutz had thrown the third knife, he was already rushing towards Yevgeny.
Yevgeny had consumed all the evasive space to his left, putting him near the kitchen table, his right side momentarily exposed. The black smoke, however, was thickening around them, a cloying, toxic fog.
Lutz took a deep, final breath of clean air from the lower part of the room and held it, his lungs burning with the effort.
He exploded forward, Creed leading the way. He aimed for the side of Yevgeny's neck, a clean kill. But Yevgeny, even cornered and wounded, was a seasoned fighter. Seeing the lunge, he twisted violently, sacrificing stability for survival.
Creed, meant for the carotid artery, instead punched deep into the meaty part of Yevgeny's upper chest, just below the collarbone. There was a wet, grating sound as it slid between muscle and scraped bone.
Shit, not vital, but close, Lutz thought with a surge of frustrated fury.
A guttural grunt of pain and rage erupted from Yevgeny. Abandoning any technique, driven purely by animalistic reflex, he stabbed upward with his own kitchen knife, aiming for Lutz's stomach as the younger man was leaned into him. Lutz saw the movement, a silver flicker in the gloom. He released Creed's hilt with his right hand and brought his left forearm down in a brutal, blocking motion, slamming it against Yevgeny's wrist.
The force of the block jarred his entire arm, but it stopped the killing thrust, the point of the large knife hovering mere centimeters from his abdomen. They were locked in a macabre embrace, chest to chest. The black smoke swirled around them, stinging Lutz's eyes, its foul odor seeping into his nostrils despite his held breath.
With a roar of effort, Lutz wrenched his right hand back, pulling Creed free from Yevgeny's chest in a spray of dark blood. Ignoring the numb pain in his left arm, he immediately reversed his grip, the stiletto now poised for a downward, hammer-fist stab, aiming once more for the exposed, straining tendons of Yevgeny's neck.