Hmm...before returning back to cog master i still have time investigate this place more. since i have to meet at 2 pm in steelhaven university....i wonder
Kellan. Harlan. Tom. How many people did Finch feed to that thing?
The questions gnawed at him, but he pushed them down. One problem at a time. First, he needed to get to the sewers. That's where the real answers were. That's where they'd fought the creature. That's where the evidence would be—blood, remains, something.
As he towards the main corridor. The air felt heavier now, charged with an unsettling energy that made him want to look over his shoulder constantly. Every shadow seemed deeper, every sound more ominous.
Stop it. The Inquisition cleared this place. It's safe. Mostly.
He moved through the hallways quickly, retracing his steps back toward the showroom. The flickering overhead lamps cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the constant drip-drip-drip from somewhere in the building's guts was like a metronome counting down to something.
The showroom was exactly as he'd left it—a graveyard of industrial decay. Tools scattered across the floor. Blood stains on the walls. The smell of death and rust hanging in the air like a curse.
And there, in the center of the floor, was the hole.
It was massive—a jagged wound in the floorboards, maybe eight feet across, the edges crumbled and splintered from months of neglect. The Inquisition had strung yellow-and-black cordoning tape around it, but most of it had fallen away, hanging in tatters like the skin of a corpse.
Amir approached slowly, his boots crunching on debris. He peered down into the darkness below.
The sewer.
The smell hit him immediately—a wall of stench so thick it was almost physical. Rot. Shit. Rust. Decay. And beneath it all, that same sweetly rotten scent he'd smelled in the workshop, but stronger now, concentrated, as if the source itself was waiting down there in the dark.
This is where it all connects. The pipes. The entity. The rituals. It all flows down here.
He looked at the hole, then at the darkness beyond. His hand drifted to the belt Johnathan had given him, feeling the glass vials secured in their leather loops.
I have to go down there. I have to find where we fought that thing. There might be clues. Evidence. Something that explains what Finch was really doing.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the wave of dread that threatened to overwhelm him.
Then he swung his legs over the edge of the hole and dropped into the dark.
The impact was brutal.
Amir's boots hit the wet stone floor with a jarring thud that sent shockwaves up through his knees and spine. He stumbled forward, catching himself against the slimy brick wall, his hands immediately recoiling from the slick, organic film that coated every surface. The texture was wrong—too smooth, too alive, as if the wall itself was breathing.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
For a moment, he couldn't see anything. The weak light filtering down from the hole above was swallowed by the oppressive gloom of the sewer system, leaving him blind and disoriented in a way that made his primitive brain scream at him to run.
He fumbled in his coat for the potions belt, his fingers finding the glass vials. Eight of them, lined up in leather loops. He needed the Night Vision potion. But which one?
He pulled out the first vial, brought it to his nose, and sniffed.
Burnt iron. Strength potion.
He set it back, tried the next one.
Mint and copper. Stamina.
The third smelled sharp, citrus-like. Dexterity.
The fourth was earthy, like wet stone. Endurance.
The fifth—
Chemical. Acrid. Sharp enough to make his eyes water.
That's it. Night Vision.
He uncorked the vial with his teeth, spitting the cork into the darkness. The liquid inside was murky, viscous, and it smelled like burnt metal and something organic he couldn't identify.
He brought it to his lips and drank.
The potion hit his stomach like a hammer.
Fire erupted in his gut, spreading through his abdomen like molten lava. His entire body convulsed, muscles seizing up as the liquid burned through his insides. He doubled over, gasping, his vision swimming.
Then the nosebleed started.
Blood poured from his nostrils, hot and thick, dripping onto the stone floor in fat drops that echoed in the silence. He pressed his sleeve against his face, but the blood kept coming, a steady stream that tasted like copper and rust.
*What the fuck—
The pain peaked, then began to fade, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in his skull. The blood flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely. He wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a dark smear across the fabric.
And then his vision changed.
The darkness didn't disappear. It transformed. The world shifted into stark contrasts of black and white, every shadow deepened, every surface rendered in shades of grey. It was like looking at an old photograph, but one that moved, that breathed, that was alive in ways his normal vision couldn't capture.
He could see.
The sewer stretched before him in monochrome clarity, and what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.
The tunnel was vast—far larger than he'd remembered from his first, panicked descent. It stretched in both directions, disappearing into darkness that even the potion couldn't fully penetrate. The ceiling arched high above, maybe fifteen feet up, supported by thick brick columns that were cracked and crumbling, their surfaces slick with moisture and covered in something that looked like moss or fungus, growing in thick patches that dripped condensation onto the floor below.
The walls were a nightmare of decay. The bricks were old—centuries old, maybe—and they'd absorbed decades of filth. The mortar between them had crumbled away in places, leaving gaps where things could hide, where the darkness seemed deeper, more absolute. Water seeped through the cracks, running down in thin rivulets that looked black in his altered vision, like veins of ink bleeding through the stone.
And the pipes.
God, the pipes.
They lined the walls in chaotic tangles—iron, copper, lead, some so old they'd corroded into lace-like patterns of rust. They ranged in size from thin tubes barely wider than his thumb to massive conduits as thick as his torso, their surfaces covered in a patina of filth and corrosion. Most were intact, but some had burst, spilling their contents—water, waste, and worse—onto the floor in slow, steady streams that created pools of standing liquid.
The floor itself was treacherous. Uneven stone, broken tiles, and pools of water that reflected his monochrome vision back at him in rippling, distorted patterns. The water wasn't clear—it was thick with sediment, floating debris, things he didn't want to identify. In some places, the water was so dark it looked solid, like pools of liquid shadow.
And the smell.
The Night Vision potion hadn't done anything about the smell.
It was overwhelming—a symphony of rot that assaulted his senses with every breath. The base note was human waste, raw and acrid. But layered on top of that were other scents:
The metallic tang of rust, so strong it coated his tongue.
The sweet, cloying stench of decay—meat left to rot, flesh breaking down, the gases of decomposition.
The sharp, chemical burn of industrial runoff—solvents, acids, things that made his eyes water and his throat burn.
And beneath it all, that same scent from the workshop. Copper and burnt hair and something floral that had turned poisonous.
Amir pressed his sleeve against his nose again, but it was useless. The smell was inside him now, coating his throat, seeping into his lungs.
He started walking, his boots squelching in the muck. The water was ankle-deep here, cold enough to bite through his boots and socks, soaking his feet in a chill that went straight to the bone. Every step released a fresh wave of stench, and he had to fight the urge to gag.
The debris in the water became more visible as he moved deeper. Scraps of fabric—shirts, trousers, all of them torn and stained. Pieces of wood, splintered and rotting. And bones. So many bones.
Some were small—rats, cats, other animals that had found their way down here and never left. But others were larger, unmistakably human. A femur, bleached white in his monochrome vision. A ribcage, half-submerged, its bones picked clean. A skull, its jaw missing, the empty eye sockets staring up at him from beneath the murky water.
How many people have died down here?
The tunnel branched ahead, splitting into three directions. He paused, trying to remember. The memory was hazy, blurred by adrenaline and terror. But he remembered the sound—the creature's shriek, echoing through the tunnels. And he remembered running toward it, not away.
The center tunnel. It was the widest one.
He took the middle path.
The tunnel here was narrower, the ceiling lower, forcing him to hunch slightly. The walls pressed in from both sides, and the water was deeper, rising past his ankles. The current tugged at his legs, a slow, sluggish pull that tried to drag him deeper into the tunnel.
More debris floated past. A boot, still laced up. Empty. A doll, its face cracked and stained, floating face-down. Clothes, bones, things he couldn't identify and didn't want to.
The tunnel curved, and as he rounded the bend, the space opened up.
He recognized it immediately.
This is it. This is where we fought.
The chamber was maybe thirty feet across, circular, with multiple tunnels branching off in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. The ceiling here was higher, vaulted, supported by thick iron beams that were crusted with rust and dripping with condensation.
And the floor.
The floor showed signs of battle, but it had been cleaned. The Inquisition had done their work—the worst of the carnage had been removed. But traces remained.
The stone was scorched black in places, the bricks cracked and shattered from Johnathan's alchemical explosions. Scorch marks radiated out from the center of the room in perfect circles, the heat so intense it had fused the stone into glass in some places. Even in his black-and-white vision, he could see the damage—the violence that had unfolded here.
But the blood was gone. Mostly.
There were faint stains on the walls where arterial sprays had been, the stone bleached lighter where cleaning solution had been applied. The floor had been scrubbed, but you could still see the discoloration where pooled blood had soaked into the stone—dark marks that no amount of scrubbing could fully remove.
He approached slowly, his hand on the Iron Argument.
Near the wall, he found Pyotr's cigar. Half-smoked, crushed, abandoned in the chaos. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands. The Inquisition had left it—too small to matter, probably.
Further along, he found one of Johnathan's vials. Shattered, the glass ground into powder, but he could still see the residue clinging to the shards. Blue. Aether-Ice.
And then, near one of the tunnel entrances, he found something.
Claw marks.
They were gouged deep into the brick, four parallel lines, each one as long as his forearm. The stone had been torn away like paper, revealing the dark earth behind it. But these marks were old—weathered, the edges softened by moisture and time. They weren't fresh. They were from the fight itself, from when the creature had thrashed against the walls.
The creature didn't escape. It was driven back. Pyotr and Johnathan made sure of that.
He stood in the center of the chamber, turning slowly, taking in every detail. The Inquisition had cleaned this place thoroughly. Whatever remained was just evidence of what had happened—scars on the stone, faint stains that wouldn't wash away, the memory of violence written into the very fabric of the sewer.
But there was nothing here that would tell him more. No clues. No answers. Just confirmation that the battle had been real, that Gerran had died here, that they'd fought something terrible in this place.
He turned back toward the main tunnel, ready to leave.
His boots squelched in the shallow water, each step releasing a fresh wave of stench that he'd almost—almost—grown numb to. The Night Vision potion was still holding, rendering the sewer in stark black and white, every shadow deepened, every surface rendered in shades of grey.
He took a step forward, his right foot landing on something that felt... wrong.
Not stone. Not water. Not debris.
Something soft. Rubbery. Yielding under his weight.
Amir froze, his heart skipping a beat. He looked down.
There, partially submerged in the filthy water, partially stuck to the stone floor, was a piece of flesh.
At least, it looked like flesh.
It was roughly the size of his palm, irregular in shape, with edges that looked torn rather than cut. The surface was black—not the black of rot or decay, but a deep, unnatural black that seemed to absorb the light from his altered vision. It glistened wetly, as if it were still fresh, still alive in some fundamental way.
But it didn't feel like flesh.
Amir crouched down, careful not to touch it directly. The texture was wrong. Too smooth. Too uniform. Like rubber, or silicone, or something synthetic that was pretending to be organic.
Hmm. Maybe the Inquisition wasn't able to clean this place up as thoroughly as I thought.
He stared at the piece for a long moment, his mind racing. Then the memory clicked into place—the creature. The Misfire. The thing with seven eyes and a vertical mouth lined with teeth. The thing that had torn Gerran in half and consumed him.
This is from that thing.
He remembered Pyotr's words, spoken in passing during one of their debriefings: "A Misfire is a rejected Tuner. Someone who tried to use a corrupted artifact, or was utterly rejected by their god. They don't just die—they become something else. Something that was human once, but isn't anymore."
If this is from the Misfire... then that thing was human. Once.
The thought sent a chill down his spine. Whoever—whatever—that creature had been, it had started as a person. Someone who'd made a choice, or had a choice forced upon them, and paid the ultimate price.
I need to take this. The Cog Master will know what to do with it.
But he couldn't just pick it up with his bare hands. God only knew what kind of residual energy or corruption was still clinging to it. He needed something to collect it with.
His eyes scanned the area, and he spotted the shattered remains of one of Johnathan's vials nearby. The glass had been ground into powder in most places, but there were a few larger shards still intact, their edges sharp and glinting in his monochrome vision.
He picked up one of the larger pieces, testing its weight. It was about the size of his thumb, triangular, with one edge sharp enough to cut. Perfect.
Using the glass shard like a makeshift scalpel, he carefully worked it under the piece of black flesh, prying it free from the stone. It resisted at first, stuck to the surface by something viscous and foul-smelling, but with a wet, tearing sound, it came loose.
Amir held it up, examining it more closely in the faint light.
The flesh—if that's what it was—didn't drip. It didn't ooze. It just sat there on the glass shard, perfectly still, perfectly inert. But there was something about it that felt wrong. Not just unnatural, but opposed to nature. As if its very existence was an insult to the laws of biology.
Could this really be from that Misfire? If I remember correctly, Pyotr once said a Misfire is a rejected Tuner. In that case, this thing was human previously.
He turned the shard slowly, watching the way the light played across the black surface. It didn't reflect light the way normal flesh would. It absorbed it, drank it in, gave nothing back.
I'll take this to the Cog Master. He'll decide what to do with it.
He looked around for something to wrap it in. His coat was already filthy, soaked with sewer water and god-knew-what-else, but he didn't want to just shove a piece of corrupted flesh into his pocket without some kind of barrier.
Then he spotted it—a small piece of cloth, half-buried in the muck near the wall. It looked like it had once been part of a shirt or a rag, torn and stained beyond recognition. He picked it up, shook off the worst of the filth, and carefully wrapped it around the glass shard and its grotesque cargo.
The bundle fit easily into his coat pocket, a small, hard lump against his ribs.
Done. Now let's see if there's anything else the Inquisition missed.
He straightened, his eyes scanning the chamber with renewed focus.
Maybe there's more to this place than I'm seeing with my naked eye.
The Night Vision potion was giving him an advantage the Inquisition agents wouldn't have had. They'd worked by lantern light, which was bright but limited in range. His altered vision let him see into the deeper shadows, pick out details that would have been invisible in the flickering glow of a flame.
He moved deeper into the tunnel, following the path the claw marks had indicated earlier.
The tunnel narrowed here, the ceiling dropping low enough that he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the exposed pipes. The walls pressed in from both sides, and the water was deeper, rising past his ankles and soaking through his already-drenched boots.
Debris was scattered everywhere. Bricks, broken and crumbling. Sections of pipe, twisted and corroded. Chunks of mortar and stone that had fallen from the ceiling. It looked like a construction site, or a demolition zone.
Hmm. Seems like the Inquisition cleaned up the scenario... but forgot to clean up the debris.
It made sense, in a way. Their priority would have been removing bodies, securing evidence, making sure there were no active threats. Sweeping up rubble would have been low on the list.
As he ventured deeper, the tunnel began to branch. More passages opened up on either side, leading to different sections of the sewer system. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Others were wide enough to drive a steam-wagon through, their ceilings vaulted and supported by massive iron beams.
If I wander around too much, I'll get lost. I need to get out of here.
He turned back, retracing his steps toward the main chamber where the fight had happened. The path was easier now that he'd walked it once, the landmarks more familiar.
But as he was walking, something caught his eye.
A wall.
It was tucked into a corner of the chamber, partially hidden behind one of the massive support columns. At first glance, it looked like any other section of the sewer—old brick, covered in grime and moisture, indistinguishable from the rest.
But something about it felt... off.
Amir stopped, his instincts prickling. He approached slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the wall more closely.
The bricks here were different. Newer. The mortar between them was lighter in color, less eroded. And the surface—while covered in filth—didn't have the same thick layer of organic growth that coated the rest of the sewer.
This wall is newer than the others.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the surface. A fine, powdery substance came away on his fingertips. He brought it closer to his nose and sniffed.
Wait. This smells like plaster.
Fresh plaster. Or at least, fresher than anything else down here.
He knocked on the wall with his knuckles.
Thunk. Thunk.
The sound was hollow. Not the solid, dense thud of brick backed by earth, but the empty, echoing sound of a cavity behind it.
Hold up. It's hollow. There's something inside.
His heart began to pound. This wasn't just a wall. This was a cover. Someone had built this wall to hide something, then covered it with shit and dust to make it blend in with the rest of the sewer.
Hmm. I see. Seems someone built a wall to hide something, then covered the whole thing with filth to fake it.
He stepped back, his altered vision taking in the full scope of the wall. It was maybe six feet wide and eight feet tall, perfectly positioned to block off what had probably once been a passage or a room.
Since this place is so dark, the Inquisition agents weren't able to notice it properly. Thanks to Johnathan's potion, I can see this clearly.
But now came the problem.
How am I supposed to break through this?
He stared at the wall, his mind racing through options. He didn't have tools. He didn't have explosives. He didn't have—
Wait. Pyotr broke through walls all the time. He'd just punch them and they'd crumble.
Amir looked at his own fist, then back at the wall.
So I assume if I...
Without thinking it through—without considering the fundamental difference between a Frequency 3 Tuner with the power of absolute decay and a rookie Frequency 1 Tuner with illusion powers—Amir pulled back his fist and punched the wall as hard as he could.
THUNK.
Pain exploded through his knuckles, shooting up his arm like lightning. The wall didn't crack. It didn't crumble. It didn't even chip. It just sat there, solid and unmoved, as if mocking him.
"FUCK!" Amir yelped, stumbling back and clutching his hand. His knuckles were already swelling, the skin split and bleeding. "OW OW OW OW—"
He shook his hand frantically, as if that would somehow make the pain go away. It didn't. If anything, it made it worse.
What the hell was I thinking? I'm not Pyotr! I don't have super strength! I'm just a guy who makes fake copies of things!
He cradled his injured hand against his chest, wincing. His knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, pulsing reminder of his own stupidity.
Okay. New plan. Don't punch walls.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The pain was already starting to fade—Tuner healing, probably, though it was slow and nowhere near as effective as a proper healing potion.
I could use the Strength potion. That would give me enough power to break through.
His hand drifted to the belt of vials at his waist. The Strength potion was there, just waiting to be used. One drink, and he'd have the power to tear through brick and mortar like it was paper.
But then Johnathan's warning echoed in his mind, sharp and clear:
"Don't mix potions, you fucking idiot. You're already running Night Vision. Stack another one on top and you'll either shit yourself to death or your heart will explode. Maybe both. It's not a dignified way to go."
Amir's hand stopped, hovering over the vials.
I'm already using the Night Vision potion. If I drink the Strength potion on top of that...
He didn't know what would happen. Maybe nothing. Maybe something horrible. Johnathan hadn't been specific about the side effects, but the tone of his warning had been clear: Don't fucking do it.
Not worth the risk. Not yet.
He stepped back, his eyes scanning the wall again. There had to be another way. He just needed to think.
Then an idea struck him.
I don't need to break through it now. I just need to mark it. Come back later with proper tools. Or bring the Cog Master here.
He looked around, searching for something he could use. His eyes landed on another shard of broken glass, this one larger and sharper than the one he'd used to collect the flesh sample.
He picked it up, testing its edge. Sharp enough.
He approached the wall again, this time with purpose. Using the glass shard like a chisel, he carefully carved a mark into the surface—a simple cross, about a foot tall, cut deep enough into the plaster that it wouldn't be easily missed.
The mark stood out clearly in his black-and-white vision, a stark contrast against the grimy surface of the wall.
There. Now I can find it again.
He stepped back, admiring his work. It wasn't much, but it was enough. A marker in the darkness of the sewers, a promise to return.
I'll come back. But now I need to report all of this to the Cog Master.
He turned away from the wall, his mind already cataloging everything he'd found:
Kellan's diary. The evidence of the battle. The piece of Misfire flesh. The hidden wall.
It was more than he'd expected. More than the Inquisition had found, or at least more than they'd reported.
This is good. This is progress.
He made his way back through the chamber, retracing his steps toward the hole that would lead him back to the surface. The water squelched under his boots, the smell assaulted his senses, but he barely noticed anymore. His mind was already racing ahead, planning his next moves.
First, get out of here. Second, meet the Cog Master at the university. Third, show him everything I found. Fourth...maybe find marla
He followed the tunnel back, his black-and-white vision guiding him through the darkness. The path was becoming familiar now—he knew which way to turn, which passages to avoid.
Then he saw it.
A metal ladder, bolted into the brick wall, leading upward into darkness. Above it, barely visible in the gloom, was the outline of a manhole cover.
This is it. This is how they got in and out.
He climbed carefully, his injured hand protesting with every rung. The metal was slick with moisture and algae, slippery under his grip, but he pushed through the pain.
When he reached the top, he pressed his shoulder against the manhole cover and pushed.
It was heavy, rusted, resistant. He pushed harder, gritting his teeth against the effort. With a grinding screech of metal on metal, it shifted.
Light poured in—bright, harsh daylight, still strong despite the industrial smog that hung over Steelhaven like a permanent shroud. The early afternoon sun cut through the haze, casting sharp shadows across the street.
He shoved the cover aside and hauled himself out, collapsing onto the street above.
The air hit him like a slap—cold, polluted, but infinitely better than the stench of the sewers. He lay there for a moment, gasping, his body shaking with exhaustion.
He pushed himself to his feet, looking around. He was in an alley behind the VIC Plumber Company, near where the manhole was positioned. The street beyond was thick with afternoon traffic—steam-wagons, pedestrians, the endless machinery of Steelhaven grinding on.
He checked his pocket watch. The brass casing caught the early afternoon light.
1:25 PM.
Shit. I'm late. The Cog Master said to meet him at 2 PM.
He looked down at himself. His clothes were soaked, filthy, reeking of sewer. His hand was swollen and bruised. Blood was dried under his nose from the Night Vision potion. His hair was matted with grime.
I look like I've been through hell.
But in his pocket, he had evidence. Kellan's diary. The piece of Misfire flesh wrapped in cloth. The knowledge of the hidden wall.
Thirty-five minutes. I can make it.
He flagged down a passing steam-wagon taxi, the driver's nose wrinkling in disgust as he approached.
"Steelhaven University," Amir said, climbing into the back before the driver could refuse. "Fast as you can. And I'll pay double if you don't ask questions about the smell."
The driver's expression shifted from disgust to greed. "Double, you say?"
"Double."
The wagon lurched into motion, joining the flow of afternoon traffic, carrying Amir toward the university and whatever answers the Cog Master had found.