The carriage ride was a journey through the layers of St. Millom. It left behind the curated elegance of Vesper Lane, passed through the bustling commercial heart where The Northern Star now had its address, and finally plunged into a world of soot, steam, and the rhythmic, pounding heartbeat of industry.
Lutz paid the driver and stepped out, the fine leather of his shoes meeting cobblestones. The sign above the door was simple, almost an afterthought: "Filip Innovations." A thrill, cold and calculating, went through him. This is where the abstract concepts of contracts and corporate shells were forged into tangible, market-disrupting reality.
He knocked on the heavy door, the sound swallowed by the general cacophony of the district. There was no answer. He tried the handle; it was unlocked. Pushing it open, he was immediately enveloped by a wave of noise and activity. The interior was a cathedral of industry, vast and open, with a high ceiling crisscrossed with iron gantries and chains. The air hummed with the sound of lathes, the hiss of steam, and the clatter of metal on metal.
Workers, their faces smudged with oil and their heavy leather aprons stained, moved with purpose between benches and machines. Sparks flew from a grinding wheel in one corner, while in another, a team carefully assembled a complex piece of machinery. Lutz moved through the chaos like a ghost, his expensive suit making him an anomaly, a brightly colored bird that had flown into a forge. The workers barely glanced at him, their focus absolute.
Then, he heard it. Cutting through the industrial din was a familiar, rapid-fire, enthusiastic ramble. It was Filip's voice, a stream of technical terms, instructions, and excited exclamations that painted a picture in the air. Lutz followed the sound, weaving through workbenches piled high with gears, pistons, and copper wire.
He found Filip in a corner that had been cordoned off with makeshift screens, creating a private laboratory within the public workshop. The inventor was a whirlwind of motion, his hands flying over a worktable scattered with schematics, loose components, and several partially assembled devices. He was addressing two senior-looking workers, his words tumbling out.
"...and the valve seat here, see? The tolerance is minuscule, it has to be perfect, otherwise the pressure loss makes the entire reciprocating action inefficient! And this spring, we need a higher tensile strength alloy, the current one fatigues after just a few hundred cycles, it's unacceptable! We're not building a toy, we're building a revolution in applied mechanics!"
One of the workers, a grizzled man with a magnificent gray mustache, nodded slowly, scratching his chin. "Aye, the spring's the problem. I know a smith in the Kogman Quarter who works with specialty steels. Could be pricey."
"Price is secondary to function!" Filip declared, his eyes blazing with the fervor of a prophet. Then, his gaze swept past the workers and landed on Lutz. The torrent of technical speech halted abruptly. The intense focus in his eyes broke, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then dawning recognition and a wave of embarrassment.
"James!" he exclaimed, wiping his hands on a rag that was arguably dirtier than they were. "I... I hadn't seen you! I'm sorry, this project is just so... so interesting that I absolutely forgot to contact you!" He looked genuinely contrite, like a schoolboy caught reading a thrilling novel instead of his textbook.
Lutz offered a relaxed, disarming smile, the full force of James Morgan's frivolous charm. "It's quite alright, Filip. A forgotten message is a small price to pay for evident progress." His gaze swept over the cluttered worktable, taking in the scattered components. "So, how's the progress?"
The question was like throwing a switch. Filip's embarrassment vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated excitement. "It's fantastic! Truly, James, the principles you outlined... they're sound. More than sound, they're elegant!" He gestured wildly towards one of the partially assembled devices on the table. "Look! Behold!"
Lutz stepped closer. There, amidst the clutter, was the prototype. It was crude, there was no denying it. The main body was a solid block of brass, heavily machined, with visible tool marks. A steel piston was visible at its core, and a heavy, rubberized hose snaked out from one end, connected to a small, portable air compression tank on the floor. It was bulky, industrial, and utterly beautiful.
Lutz picked it up. It was heavier than he expected, a solid, purposeful weight in his hand. This was no toy. This was a tool that could drive a nail through solid oak in a fraction of a second. A profound sense of vindication washed over him. 'This could already be sold as is' he thought, his mind coolly assessing. 'And it would prove an extremely valuable tool. It would change construction, shipbuilding, any industry that relied on manual hammering.'
But then, the other part of him, the part that was never satisfied, that always looked for the sharper edge, spoke up. But "good enough" is not enough for us. We're not selling a useful tool; we're selling the future.
He turned the heavy device over in his hands, his expression one of thoughtful consideration, masking the whirlwind of calculation behind his eyes.
"It looks good, Filip. Truly. The core functionality seems to be there." He hefted it again. "But it's a bit... brutish, don't you think?"
Filip's excited smile faltered slightly. "Brutish? It's powerful! The pneumatic force is—"
"Oh, the power is not in question," Lutz interrupted smoothly, using a touch of Charm to keep the inventor from getting defensive. "The power is magnificent. I'm thinking about the user. The man who has to hold this for eight, ten hours a day." He pointed to the solid brass body. "This is heavy. Could we explore lighter materials? An aluminum alloy, perhaps? It would reduce fatigue, increase precision."
Filip's eyes widened. "Aluminum... it's more expensive, and the casting process is... but yes! Yes, the weight distribution would be improved dramatically!" He snatched a pen and began scribbling on a corner of a schematic.
Lutz then ran a finger along the sharp, unforgiving edges of the brass block. "And the ergonomics—the shape, how it fits in the hand. Right now, it's a block. What if we contoured it? Smoothed these edges here, and here," he indicated where the palm and fingers would grip, "to fit the natural curve of the hand. Maybe add a rubberized grip here to prevent slipping and absorb some of the vibration."
"Vibration! Of course!" Filip was practically vibrating himself now, his initial design being fundamentally challenged and improved in seconds. "The reciprocating action does create a high-frequency oscillation. A dampening grip... that's brilliant! It would make prolonged use far more comfortable!"
"Right... anyways, lastly," Lutz said, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone, as if sharing a state secret. "The trigger mechanism. It's a simple lever now. Functional, but… crude. What if we integrated a two-stage trigger? A light pull for a single shot, a full pull for rapid fire? And a safety switch here, to prevent accidental discharge. We're selling this as a premium, precision instrument. It should feel like one in the hand."
Filip stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. The suggestions weren't just minor tweaks; they were a fundamental reimagining of the user experience. He saw it instantly—not just a powerful tool, but a refined, intelligent piece of engineering. The look he gave Lutz was one of pure, unadulterated awe.
"James... I... you're a genius!" he stammered. "A two-stage trigger! Contoured grip! It's so obvious now that you say it! I can have these changes modeled and implemented... let's see... two days! Maybe three! And after that, we can immediately start production on the first batch of finalized models!"
Lutz gave a satisfied nod. "Excellent. That's the kind of efficiency I like to hear." He set the heavy prototype back on the table with a soft thud. "Now, on the matter of the business. How are we standing with the initial capital?"
The question brought Filip back down to earth. He shuffled some papers, pulling out a rough ledger. "Right, the funds. Of the 250 Hammers, approximately 50 have already been allocated. Wages for the dedicated team, the raw materials for the prototypes—the brass, the steel, the precision springs—it adds up quickly. And we had to commission the custom machining for the valve assembly from an outside specialist."
"Fifty Hammers," Lutz repeated, his tone neutral. It was a significant sum, but well within the projected burn rate. "That's perfectly acceptable, Filip. This is the investment phase. The important thing is that the money is being converted into progress." He gestured around the vibrant, noisy workshop. "And the progress is tangible."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the busy workers. "Once the first batch is sold and we have revenue coming in, we should think about scaling. Hiring more people, perhaps expanding this workspace. We need to be ready to meet demand, not just create it."
Filip's eyes shone with the prospect. "Scale up... yes. We could have a dedicated assembly line. A proper quality control station. The possibilities..." He was off again, dreaming of empires built on compressed air and ingenuity.
Lutz left him to it. He had seen what he needed to see. The project was not just on track; it was accelerating. Filip was a diamond in the rough, his genius now being expertly cut and polished by Lutz's shallow yet otherworldly insights. As he stepped back out into the grimy street, the cacophony of the industrial sector felt like a symphony of impending wealth. The pieces were moving.
The clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestone faded as Lutz stepped through the familiar, well-oiled door of 17 Vesper Lane. The industrial grit of Filip's workshop was replaced by the quiet, polished calm of his home. The scent of beeswax and the faint, homely aroma of a simmering stew greeted him.
"Sir, you're back" Eliza emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a checkered apron. Her face, which had been etched with the memory of recent terror, now showed a tentative, returning warmth. "I made a pot roast."
"Thank you. It smells wonderful," Lutz said, hanging his garish yellow jacket on the stand. The act felt like shedding a skin. The performative energy of James Morgan drained away, leaving the more integrated, quieter presence of Lutz Fischer in the hallway.
They ate in the small dining nook off the kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing above the simple, well-made food. Eliza, emboldened by their shared secret and his consistent, calm demeanor, asked timidly, "How was... work, sir?"
Lutz took a sip of water, considering his answer. "It was productive, we are making progress on a new business venture. It involves tools for construction."
Eliza seemed to appreciate it. "That sounds very respectable, sir." A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "It's good to be building things."
The simplicity of her statement struck him. Yes, he thought, cutting a piece of tender meat. Building things. For a moment, he allowed himself to inhabit the fiction, to be a young nobleman investing in legitimate industry.
After lunch, he retreated to his study. This was his true sanctuary. He spent the hours immersed in The Verdant Crucible, cross-referencing alchemical symbols. It was a slow, meticulous accretion of knowledge, and he found a deep, cold satisfaction in it.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and orange before surrendering to the deep indigo of night. The house grew quiet, the city's sounds muffled by the thick walls and drawn curtains. At 8:32 PM, Lutz closed the heavy leather-bound book with a soft thud. He drained the last, cold dregs of tea from his cup, the bitter taste a final anchor to the mundane world.
He rose and descended into the basement. The gas lamp flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows across the stone walls and the packed-earth floor. His footsteps were the only sound. He stood before the safe. The combination lock yielded to his touch with a series of satisfying, heavy clicks.
The door swung open, revealing the curated chaos within.
His gaze settled on the two characteristics he had deemed expendable, or at least, convertible. The Blue Crystal from Boris, leader of the Gray Sharks, cool and inert. And the small, twisted Dark Horn from Yevgeny, which seemed to suck the light and warmth from the air around it.
He hadn't yet decided what to do with the Sequence 7: Serial Killer ingredients—the Crystallized Weeping Eye, the blood of the Blood-eyed Goat and the 10 locks of hair, for now, what he would do is acquire the last supplementary ingredient, Three drops of venom from a spire-back serpent.
The same could be said for the Dream-eating rat's heart.
He carefully lifted the two cases containing Boris's and Yevgeny's characteristics and placed them inside a sturdy, non-descript leather bag. Then, he turned to the stacks of gold. The 151 Hammers glinted, a tangible representation of his breathing room. He counted out sixty of them, the heavy coins clinking musically as he transferred them into a thick leather coin purse. The weight was substantial, a comforting pressure in his hand. Capital for acquisition, hopefully he wouldn't have to spend it all.
He closed the bag, the two cases and the purse of coins nestled inside like a merchant's sample kit. He closed the safe, the heavy bolt sliding home with a sound of finality.
Upstairs, in his bedroom, the bright yellow suit was hung away, a costume for a different stage. In its place, he donned the suit of a gray so deep it was almost charcoal.
He picked up the leather bag, feeling its new, significant weight. Downstairs, Eliza was sweeping the dust under the table.
"I'm heading out for a while, Eliza," he said, his voice calm. "Don't wait up."
She looked up, a flicker of worry in her eyes, quickly masked. "Of course, sir. Be careful."
He offered a slight, reassuring nod—a gesture meant for her, not for the persona he wore—and stepped out into the night.
The air was cool and carried the damp scent of impending rain. The lamps on Vesper Lane cast their lonely pools of light. He moved with a purpose that was neither hurried nor hesitant, a man going about his business.