(City of Karsus)
(1837)
Steam leaked from every crevice of Karsus as if the whole city breathed through brass lungs. The morning fog clung low, mixing with furnace smoke and drifting over the groaning rails that webbed above the avenues like iron vines.
Clocktower towers chopped the haze with their spinning gears, and tethered railcars rattled along overhead tracks, ringing out metal shrieks that blended with the chaos below. Street vendors hauled open their stalls, copper kettles billowing with spiced tea, mechanical toy birds repeating the same three annoying ass chirps, and perfumed steam diffusers that hissed to life in bursts of lavender.
The clatter of boots and hooves drowned half the city, the rest absorbed by the constant drumming of engines pumping heat into the frigid air.
Knights rode through the main artery on plated horses whose flanks clinked with small articulated pistons. The knights' armor wasn't smooth or polished; it was more ribbed and ridged with spinning cogs, polished tubes, and plate overlaps that served as both protection and framework for their steam chambers.
Their swords were long squared weapons with vented grooves that glowed faintly along their spine, heated by tiny boiler-cartridges fitted into the hilts. They patrolled in slow formations with their horses snorting puffs of white vapor, each rider scanning the streets through narrow brass visors.
Noble carriages rattled past them, tall lacquered things with golden filigree and glass panels etched with family crests. Inside, the wealthy lounged on fancy cushions, sipping tea from cups mounted to stabilizers designed to keep them level despite the city's uneven cobblestones.
Footmen hung off the sides, barking at pedestrians too slow to move. Meanwhile, the slums just a district away pulsed with another life entirely: smog-thick alleys, cheap mechanical prosthetics leaking pressure through snapped valves, and children weaving between pipes jutting from buildings like rusted ribs. Broken automatons lay in gutters beside stray cats gnawing on coils of wire as though they were bones.
But then, a sudden swell of voices erupted near a tools shop.
"Oh my goodness!"
"He's gonna drop him!"
"Someone get the king's knights!"
A small crowd pressed together, shielding their eyes as they pointed up at a narrow rooftop several stories above. From their angle they could only see a flailing arm and a pair of kicking legs suspended over the edge. The man they belonged to was red-faced, sweating, choking on breath he couldn't catch. He clawed at the hand locked around his throat, a gloved hand that was unshaking in its grip.
The man holding him stood just out of the crowd's view. Lucien Gresh, twenty-two, his black messy hair was tied back in a small ponytail, some strands loose from the run he'd made up the building. A few harsh scars carved uneven lines along his cheekbone. His left eye was a dark gold slit with a predator's focus; his right was hidden behind an eyepatch, which had black plating trimmed with thin gold borders, its center a tiny rotating aperture that clicked softly when he blinked.
He wore a fitted nobleman suit, black from collar to hem, with a coat tailored to hang stiff and sharp. The leather gloves creaked as he tightened his grip on the man's throat.
"You said you'd pay me one thousand royals for this job," Lucien muttered. "I want more."
"M-More?" the man choked. "But that's the price we agreed on—"
"Yeah, I know what we agreed on. But things have changed."
"What changed?!"
Lucien didn't answer right away. He just stared, expression flat, almost bored. Then he sighed.
"…The Cornelius Ball sack coat is two thousand royals. And I want to buy it."
The dangling man wheezed, "It's Cornelius Basack… not ball sack…" He coughed and tried to explain, "The Basack family's been making coats since the—"
Lucien cut in. "Yeah yeah don't care, listen. I saw that coat earlier today and I decided I wanted it. But business has been slow. I've been getting, what, thirty targets in the last three months? Used to be a hundred a MONTH. I was killing it! C'mon. Up the pay."
"There's no need!" the man squeaked. "It's on sale today! At Gastrell's Fine Wear and Mechanical Embroidery! Everything's on sale there!"
Lucien's eye widened slightly. "I-Impossible! How was I not aware?!"
"I—I carry the newspaper with me. Always. It's in my left pocket!"
Lucien thought, 'What kind of creep carries a newspaper around besides old geezers? This man's not even that old anyway.'
Lucien yanked the man closer, dug into the pocket, and fished out a folded newspaper. He let the man dangle again while he flipped through it with one hand, scanning headlines: a runaway boiler-dragon causing havoc in the western district, a scandal involving a noble's self-operating carriage attacking pedestrians, a bakery claiming their steam-proof bread couldn't be dented even by bullets, a missing automaton rumored to have developed "personal ambitions," and a failed attempt by the city council to outlaw rooftop duels. And also a story about Forbidden Transmutation victims succumbing to the failed alchemy rituals and causing more panic through the city, which will lead to another parade held by the king to improve morale.
Finally he found the advertisement.
He whispered it under his breath, reading absurdly fast. His expression changed from irritation to victorious delight. He hauled the man back onto the rooftop and dropped him like a sack of grain.
"Five hundred royals for everything in the store, only for today…" Lucien grinned. "YEAS! He's about to move it somewhere else. I'll definitely head straight there after this."
The man scrambled up, dusting off his vest. "See? Are we done here?"
Lucien looked at him with a dead-serious stare. "Yeah we're done here. Remember, you never saw me."
"Y-yes," the man said, distraught. "The man I want dead is my biggest concern. After what he did to my daughter… I'm hoping you make him pay, and I thank you for this."
Lucien's grin returned, sharper than before. "You wouldn't have come to me if you doubted how ruthless I am, guy. Now….. I shall depart." He finished that last line dramatically like he forced it to sound badass or something.
Then he put his hands in his pockets, and stepped backwards off the roof.
The man gasped and rushed forward, peering over the edge. Lucien lay sprawled on the street below like a pretzel, twitching, groaning, one hand raised weakly.
'How is he not dead?!' The client thought. "Why would you do that?!" the client shouted.
Lucien forced out a pained grunt and stuck a thumb up. "I'm good…I'm good. I'm tough."
He rolled onto his side, hissed in agony, and began dragging himself away down the alley. He scoffed at himself, "Fuck that was embrassing. I'm supposed to look lethal and deadly in front of clients. Shit shit shit shit."
…
Under the light grey sky, the façade of The Grand Larkspur Revue theatre glowed with steady amber lanterns arranged along its arching entrance. Brass pipes ran horizontally along the structure, puffing intermittent rings of warm vapor that drifted over the crowd like sighs from some hidden machine beneath the stone.
The doors were pretty wide and polished, also framed by carved wooden panels depicting past plays: heroes, kings, fools, lovers, each etched with tiny gears embedded as embellishments.
Outside, the street moved with life to go to the play in the theatre: nobles in embroidered coats; workers flushed from the cold; children hopping on their toes; vendors selling sugared almonds from steaming tin bowls; and a long line of people clinking royals (those small red coins), into the ticket booth's dish as fast as the seller could slide stubs out.
Two knights stood in the corner of the entrance plaza, trying to blend in despite their clanking armor. One leaned toward the other.
"We shouldn't be here," he muttered through his visor.
The other clicked his tongue. "You shouldn't be here. I definitely shouldn't be here. But Lloyd's always doing crazy things on stage, and I promised my daughter I'd tell her what happened while she's stuck at the Academy. She'll kill me if I miss the big performance. She's a big fan of Lloyd."
"Isn't he planning to build another theatre in the next city over? In Valgenstrad?"
"Yeah that's what I heard."
A child pointed at one of the knights, saying, "Hey shouldn't they on patrol? They shouldn't be here—!"
The knight grabbed the child by the shirt, saying, "Shhh! Damn brat! I'm not missing this!"
Some children tugged on their parents' sleeves as the crowd pushed forward.
"Is he really here? Is Lloyd Tucks really here?!"
"Yes, yes, calm down—stop jumping, you'll spill your tea—"
"Does he really fight real monsters? Papa, tell me!"
"Only in the plays, dear."
Two nobles in brocade coats edged closer to the line, their hats tipped just slightly against the drizzle.
"Hard to believe this place is his," one murmured. "He used to be a failed actor. Barely filled twenty seats in a good week."
"Yes, well," the other replied, adjusting his cane's gear-lined handle, "he and his friends built their own troupe, didn't they? And now it's one of the crown jewels of the entire Lars Empire. Man's got audacity. I respect it. His group brings joy to the entire empire, especially with the rise of the victims of the rituals popping up."
Carriages rolled up in neat rows, horses exhaling steamy clouds as footmen lowered decorative steps. The building's windows glowed like furnace eyes, each lit by rows of electric bulbs that flickered with a faint mechanical heartbeat.
The line thickened far too fast, forcing guards of the Empire in navy coats to hold back the push. When three slum folk tried to slip through the side entrance, the theatre's guards, armed with slender rifles plated with bronze spirals, shoved them back with polished efficiency. Even the rifles hissed as though irritated.
"Pay your way in, slums!"
Inside, The Grand Larkspur Revue theatre opened up into a hall layered with dark red carpet, light brown banisters, and walls painted with elaborate murals of clockwork landscapes.
Over three hundred seats cascaded downward toward a massive stage framed in lacquered wood and purple curtains. Conversation washed through the hall, some were soft, excited, nervous, impatient, while above, musicians in the upper balcony tuned violins, clicked flutes into place, and tapped brass valves on steam-assisted instruments that let out soft pings of escaping pressure.
Then the house lights dimmed. Bulbs flickered down to faint glows. The hum quieted into a trembling hush.
"Shhh.."
"It's starting!"
When the curtain rolled open, a man in a tailored suit stepped forward. His suit had a faint shine to it, tiny copper threads woven into the fabric caught the lantern light. Then he bowed to the excited crowd.
"Welcome, honored guests, to The Grand Larkspur Revue. We are humbled to see so many faces tonight. Without your passion and support, none of this…none of us would have the strength to continue!"
He planted his feet and lifted a hand toward the backdrop. "Tonight's tale follows a loyal hero wrongfully accused of attempting to assassinate the king. Hunted by the very knights who once saluted him, he must prove his innocence before the noose tightens. Evidence is scarce, allies few… and the question remains: will the truth reach the throne before the traitor's hand strikes again?!"
Someone from the crowd yelled to the top of their lungs, "Fuck yes it should!"
Then everyone looked at him, and he said, "Sorry, sorry.."
The curtains swept shut for a heartbeat, then burst open into the roaring world of the play a few seconds after.
Trees slid across the stage smoothly, pulled by stagehands hidden within shifting platforms. Painted forests moved professionally, lantern-light casting leaf-shaped shadows that danced across Lloyd Tucks as he sprinted across the boards. Lloyd's blonde hair was neat even in motion, his light grey eyes blazing with theatrical desperation, blonde bushy beard trimmed to a heroic sharpness.
"I'm innocent!" he shouted, voice echoing over the instruments above. "The insignia on the dagger—!"
A knight actor jabbed his spear forward. "The blade was given to you as a gift from the king himself, with his own custom insignia to honor you for your efforts!"
"My dagger was stolen! I swear it to you—!"
"Keep your lies to yourself! We're taking you in!"
The crowd was entertained as expected, children enjoying it far more with their reactions.
The chase spiraled across stage rails until Lloyd dove behind another tree, panting dramatically as the knights exited. He pressed his hand to his chest, eyes wide.
"This can't be happening… I'm no traitor… I'll get to the bottom of this…" He said to himself.
The same man who had an outburst earlier yelled out, "You're no traitor!!!"
People looked at him, and he put his head down, mumbling, "Sorry. Sorry."
A figure leaned lazily against the far side of the prop tree in a ragged sackcloth outfit, white mask with red lines curling like painted cracks.
"Yeah," the masked man said casually, "screw those dumb knight guys, right? I believe you."
Lloyd recoiled. "W-Who are you?!"
The masked figure turned fully. "Your help."
Behind the mask, unseen by the audience or Lloyd, was Lucien Gresh who somehow slipped into the production, taking a role that definitely belonged to someone else.
The audience leaned forward as one, leaning into the tension blooming across the stage. Lloyd rose slowly from behind the false tree, brushing imaginary leaves from his tunic while keeping wide, trembling eyes on the masked stranger.
"What is your name?" he demanded, voice projecting across the hall.
"Patras," Lucien said, placing a dramatic hand to his chest, tilting his masked head in a theatrical way.
Lloyd focused his eyes. "Why are you helping me? Were you following me? Your presence here is too convenient…"
Lucien burst into motion, swinging an arm outward with such exaggerated flair that the crowd murmured in delight. "Yes!" he bellowed. "I have been following you!" He paced, then spun, then clutched his face in both hands. "I'm the one who framed you for the king's assassination! I'll help you if you help me!"
Gasps rippled through the audience. Some clapped. Others whispered in awe. They thought the theatre had upgraded its drama.
The same man with the outbursts screamed, "I KNEW IT!!!!"
Backstage, actors froze; That line wasn't in the script, not even close.
Lloyd leaned in, whisper sharp enough to cut the air. "What… the fuck are you saying? That's not in the line… are you improvising? Did you forget your lines..? So be it then."
Fine. If this madman was going off script, Lloyd could handle it. He stepped back, raising his hands theatrically, projecting grief and betrayal for the crowd.
"H-How could you do that to me…? How could you…?! The entire kingdom wants my head. After all the wars… after all my achievements! I was made knight captain with that dagger! What do you want from me?!"
Lucien circled him with predatory steps, like a wolf deciding which limb to start with.
"Mmmm," he hummed. "It's not really what I want from you."
His voice lowered.
"It's what you wanted from Anna. Anna Somber."
Lloyd stiffened. Backstage whispers turned sharp and panicked. Several actors pressed closer to the curtains.
Lloyd's voice dropped the theatrics entirely. "Who the fuck are you—"
All Lucein did was look at him from behind the mask, and Lloyd went silent, like he could feel the bloodlust oozing towards him.
Lucien paced again, but now he exaggerated every gesture to sell it to the audience. One hand flung high; another pressed dramatically to his ribcage.
"You," Lucien proclaimed with exaggeration, "We're once married to the young and beautiful Anna Somber! Both of you nineteen! Anna was bright as moonlight, and wanted to learn alchemy at the Academy of Forging Fire, a prestigious school for those wanting to learn that magic potion and power stuff. But unless you were a knight of King Miriem XVI or a noble, getting into that school was near impossible without sponsors or fifty-thousand royals."
More pacing, more swirling gestures, more theatrical grief and rage twisted together.
"But you weren't fixed on alchemy anymore, were you? No…no no no no." He wagged a finger. "Your dream turned to acting. Being a performer. A terrible actor at that. That's where the money was." A loud laugh escaped him, part deranged, part showman's flair. "You and Anna had a falling out. You two promised to save royals together, attend the academy together. But you…you changed your mind at the last minute. A different passion, a selfish passion. YOU saw that the royals saved up wasn't even close to attending the academy, but it WAS enough to open a small theatre. Greedy bastard."
Lucien leaned forward, voice slicing into the hall.
"So instead of leaving Anna alone after you two fell out, you and your friends killed her. Took both yours and her savings that were in a joint account you shared, the ones she spent years collecting. And with that blood money… you built this theatre. Lloyd Tucks."
The crowd erupted.
"What's he talking about?"
"Anna Somber… gods, I remember that story…"
"They never found the killer, right?"
"It couldn't have been Lloyd. Could it?"
The real knights under the kingdom in the audience stiffened.
"This isn't part of the play… right?" one whispered. "Incorporating real-world cases…?"
The other swallowed hard. "…This…"
Lloyd looked around seeing the panic rising, crowd shifting, people halfway out of their seats.
He threw up his hands. "He lies! It's all lies!"
Then he turned back to Lucien, anger flattening his voice, speaking for Lucien to only hear. "You're ruining everything. Everything I built. I'm richer than I've ever been! And she…we were never gonna make it into that academy anyway—"
A shot cracked the stage in half.
A burst of gunpowder. A spray of blood.
Lucien's gold and black revolver smoked in his hand. Lloyd staggered back clutching his throat, blood streaming between his fingers as he collapsed to the floor, wheezing wetly. His eyes went wide with a terror too primal to fake.
Everyone began to scream, people running and parents grabbing their children, and the two real knights in the seats were escorting people out.
"We should do something about this—!"
The other knight responded, "Let Lloyd pay for what he's done. If that unknown assassin is here, that's proof enough Lloyd is the one who killed that girl. Every target this mysterious masked man has taken down were always found guilty after their death if they weren't caught before. Plus, if we tried to get in the middle of it, we wouldn't stand a chance. I would like to see my daughter today."
Lucien stepped closer to Lloyd, voice low enough that only Lloyd could hear.
"Anna's father sends his regards," he murmured. "He wanted this to be slow. That's why your neck has a hole in it; You'll wheeze out every breath in fear and agony, wishing you did things differently, wishing you never killed that girl. Wishing you grew up differently while you clutch your throat, thinking that's gonna save you, dummy."
Lloyd's breath rattled, words choking from his mouth. "M-Mon… monster…!"
"Heresy," Lucien said quietly.
His revolver split apart along its seams, pieces unfolding and sliding with mechanical steampunk tech. Gears rotated, plates extended, and the weapon elongated into a monstrous scythe of black and gold, steam hissing from its joints like something alive.
Backstage actors burst onto the stage, a dozen of them, shouting—
"You bastard!"
"Lloyd! He shot him!"
"Die!"
Their weapons were rifles with whirring barrels, polearms with crackling coils, and swords with heated cores flickering orange.
Lloyd lay on his side, trembling, crying silently as his own blood pooled beneath him, just looking at it cemented more fear in his soul. His fingers quivered, reaching for a dagger that wasn't there. His breath stuttered into weak and fading gasps.
Lucien leveled his scythe.
"Let's see if they can kill me."
The theatre detonated into movement the moment the first actor charged, his weapon raised high, the barrel glowing with an alchemical ember.
Lucien blasted forward with ferocious speed, shifting weight so sharply that the floorboards trembled beneath him. His scythe carved a path through the air, the edge shrouded in black fire that clung to the metal like hungry smoke.
"Black Fire Alchemy…?!" One of the attackers yelled. "Careful, he's an alchemist!"
Lucien said, "Stating the obvious isn't gonna help you come up with a strategy fast enough before I can cut you all in half, idiots."
The first attacker attempted to brace with his armored forearm, but the weapon carved straight through the plating, shearing bone and sending him crashing across the stage. Another fired a volley of heated rounds that tore gouges across the painted scenery; Lucien dove under the burning line, rolled, reverted his scythe back into his gun, then snapped his revolver upward. Three shots cracked, each one erupting through the actor's head and tossing him into a collapsing wooden tree.
A trio rushed him from opposite directions, trying to overwhelm him in a coordinated maneuver. Lucien twisted sideways, letting their blades whistle past his ribs, then leapt backward off a falling actor's corpse, using the momentum to ascend high enough to flip over the third man's head. He dragged the scythe downward as he passed, cleaving through shoulder and collarbone in a single sweep, then twisting sideways and cutting the man's body in half.
The body toppled before Lucien even touched the ground, landing in a crouch that sent a ripple of black fire erupting from his boots. The flames burst outward and ignited two more of the performers, their screams cracking as they hurled themselves backward in blind panic, their bodies melting like acid touching skin.
Four more attackers fired from the balcony railings above, rifles clattering with mechanical bursts. Lucien darted sideways, slid beneath the hail of alchemical bullets, then kicked a broken stage pillar across the room.
"That strength…" an attacker murmured.
It slammed into the walkway above, splintering wood and hurling the shooters into the orchestra pit. They smashed through instruments, scattering brass horns and shattered strings like dying notes. One tried to climb out, blood pouring from his lip, Lucien was already in motion.
He tore across the pit rail, dropped in, seized the man's head, and smothered his face into the floor with such force his skull cracked open like brittle clay.
Another attacked with a weapon shaped like an elongated cleaver powered by a pressurized core. He swung wildly, sparks spitting from the blade. Lucien ducked the sweeping strike, stepped close, and rammed an elbow into the man's ribs hard enough to buckle his spine. Before the attacker could fall, Lucien wrenched the weapon from his hands and hurled it into a second performer's sternum, pinning him to the backstage curtain. The pinned man screamed for help, but Lucien reached him first, ripping the blade free and letting the body collapse in a heap of limbs.
Someone behind him shouted, "Black Fire alchemy…B-Box him in! Use the stage rails, make him corner himself!"
Lucien pivoted, eye glinting behind the mask. "Go ahead. Try."
They came at him in a tight formation, three with blades charged in volatile red alchemy, one with a heavy cannon-like launcher strapped to his arm.
Lucien threw himself sideways, the cannon blast hitting the floor where he'd been a heartbeat earlier. The impact shattered a chunk of the stage, flinging debris across the cheering, terrified audience.
Lucien used the falling fragments to propel himself upward, twisting once in air, then landing on the cannon-wielder's shoulders. He kicked off with brutal force, crushing the man into the floor, then landed behind the others. His scythe swept across their legs, ripping flesh and armor, dropping all three at once. They tried to crawl away, limbs jerking. Lucien raised the scythe again; black fire rolled down the blade like liquid midnight. He brought it across them with devastating finality, three bodies fell still, staining the flood with their blood.
Lucien laughed, "Next!"
Two attackers with chain-sickle weapons advanced next, swinging their weighted ends in coordinated patterns designed to ensnare and crush bone.
Lucien shot one heavy chain out of the air, knocking it off course, then slipped inside the other attacker's range. His blade slashed into the man's sternum, sending him slamming onto a lighting fixture. Lucien picked up the chain, as he saw the second attacker running away, screaming, "F-Fuck this! It isn't worth it! It was Lloyd's idea!"
Lucien threw the chain hard, it pierced into the man's thighs, he snagged the chain and pulled him back so hard the man's legs flipped over his own body. Lucien met him with a kick to the throat that folded him against the stage steps.
The last three of Lloyd's friends attempted a final coordinated strike, one with a twin-bladed polearm, another with a shield reinforced by metal ribs, and the last wielding a serrated spear. Lucien slid past the spear thrust, seized the weapon's haft, and snapped it in two with his knee. He hurled the splintered shaft into the polearm wielder's throat, then kicked the shield-bearer in the abdomen with such force that the shield caved inward and the man wheezed out blood before collapsing.
Lucien ended the last surviving attacker by dragging the scythe upward through his ribs, the weapon leaving a trail of black flame that clung to the corpse like mourning cloth.
When the final body fell, the theatre was unrecognizable. Seats overturned. Curtains shredded. Actors sprawled in heaps across the stage.
On the floor near center stage, Lloyd twitched helplessly, eyes blurry and wet. Blood bubbled from the wound in his neck. He could barely lift his head, but he saw Lucien step toward him slowly.
Lucien crouched, fingers lifting the white mask just enough to reveal his face beneath. A grin that was amused and merciless, satisfaction cut across his features.
….
(Nighttime)
The rooftop wind cut across the client's face as he paced in tight circles, nails chewed down, sweat rolling off his brow despite the cold. Lanterns flickered on distant towers, knights patrolling the dying streets below.
He turned at the sound of a bootstep, and shrieked like a panicked girl when he saw Lucien standing behind him, half-shrouded in shadow, a sackcloth bag dangling from one hand.
Lucien dropped it with a wet thump. "It's done. And I nabbed his friends' heads as a bonus." He shrugged. "Well… mainly because they tried to kill me, but whatever."
"They all deserved it nonetheless." The client approached the bag like it might explode. His hands trembled violently as he peeled it open. Lloyd's head stared up at him with glazed terror, his friends heads collapsed against him, necks ragged and still dripping. The client clenched his fists until they quivered, breath shaking as he whispered, "Good fucking riddance… Lloyd."
He swallowed hard, wiped sweat from his lip, and forced himself to face Lucien. "Thank you. Truly. You're the hero I needed. It's been years since the incident. Now I can sleep peacefully at night."
"I did it for the royals, by the way," Lucien said, voice flat.
The client let out a strained chuckle. "Still helped me." He lifted the bag, grimacing at its weight. "I'm taking these to Anna's grave. Then I'm leaving this city." He turned, nodding once. "Long life to you, Lucien Gresh."
"Thanks for the royals, bye."
Lucien stepped backward off the rooftop. A heavy thud came from the street below. The client gasped, thinking, 'Is he trying to kill himself?!'
He sprinted to the ledge and saw Lucien striking an absurdly theatrical stance: back to the streetlight, coat flaring dramatically as if caught by some personal wind. His head was tilted just enough to imply a mysterious glare.
'I can feel him looking at me, Lucien thought triumphantly. 'He'll take me seriously because of this stance. I'm absolutely menacing right now!'
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked off like he'd rehearsed the moment for weeks, walking slowly because he knew the client was still staring. The client stood there baffled, clutching the bag of heads in silence.
…..
The alleys swallowed Lucien as he moved deeper into the underbelly of the city. He lifted the rusted hatch hidden behind a collapsed stall and descended the iron steps into the catacombs, an underground sprawl of soot-caked stone, flickering lamps, and the stench of metal and grime.
Pipes hissed overhead, gears clattered somewhere in the dark, and the narrow roads opened into a maze of shadowed stalls and makeshift arenas. It stretched wider than a normal district but not quite a true city. Just a place large enough for secrets and underground politics to live comfortably.
Men in grease-stained aprons hawked modified guns covered in gears and welded plating. Alchemists handled jars of volatile black fluids behind cracked glass. A pair of brawlers smashed each other into a brick wall while gamblers shouted odds. It was survival and business packaged together.
Then the whispers started.
"It's Lucien…"
"There was a ruckus at Lloyd Tucks's theatre. Word is the entire troupe's dead, and the building burned."
"Yeah? Don't ask him if he did it."
"He's dangerous… people down here won't shut up about him."
Lucien kept walking, head slightly tilted, letting his boots echo with calculated weight. Inside, he smirked.
'There's always new idiots down here. My name's legendary. I must look terrifying right now.'
He glanced at the group whispering about him, just a peak. A silent and measured stare that was definitely intentional.
They stiffened instantly, faces blanching as they shuffled away, avoiding his path like frightened animals.
'Yes,' he thought smugly. 'Fear me, bow to my reputation!'
He moved deeper into the labyrinth until a scuffle caught his ear, two men grappling outside a cramped pub built into the stone. The owner, Gustef Wilkes, marched out like an irritated bear. Thick arms, bushy brown beard, messy brown hair, and leather apron splattered with engine soot. He grabbed both fighters by their collars and hoisted them into the air.
"Fight somewhere else, dirty bastards," he growled, flinging them like sacks. They tumbled across the floor, groaning.
Gustef turned. "Lucien! Haha! You made it back alive, lad!"
Lucien quickened his pace, ignoring him completely.
'D-dumbass!' he thought. 'I'm trying to look menacing in front of these new people. I'm dangerous!'
Gustef wiped his hands. "Oh, and some weird-looking girl's been asking for you. Told her to wait at your office. Strange ears, strange teeth, strange eyes, the whole thing. That's the norm nowadays right? With those transmutation rituals going on.."
Lucien stopped. Every conversation around them froze.
Without turning, he said, "Good work, Gustef. Continue being a good servant."
A ripple of awe passed through the people nearby.
"He has servants?"
"He's the real deal…"
Gustef sputtered. "Y-You bastard!"
Lucien didn't look back. He navigated deeper, weaving through hidden doors, crawling up iron ladders, ducking through old service tunnels and narrow walkways swallowed by rust and steam. It was a maze only someone like him could navigate. Finally he reached the black steel door at the far end of his private corridor, his office, isolated from prying eyes.
Lucien paused in front of the steel door, heart thudding once from the eternal, agonizing question:
'How do I enter in a way befitting a legend?'
He placed a hand under his chin.
'…Ah. I've got it.'
He kicked the door open with theatrical force, boots scraping across the floorboards as he strode in with his hands jammed into his pockets, head lowered just enough for his hair to shadow his eyes. Then he lifted his gaze sharply, ready to deliver his intimidating introduction.
"Who are—"
The words froze in his throat.
His office, though small and cluttered, smelling of ink and burnt metal, looked exactly as he'd left it. Papers were stacked unevenly, quills dipped into half-dried inkpots, maps pinned unevenly on the far wall; And sitting in his chair, legs propped on his desk like she owned the place, was a girl who looked to be his age.
Pale skin like moonlit porcelain. Slightly pointed ears. Red eyes burning with amusement. Black nails. Sharklike teeth. Shoulder-length messy red hair. Long black dress, gloves, stockings, boots kicked up like she was relaxing in the world's most uncomfortable throne. A black necklace with a blood-red pendant gleamed at her throat.
She didn't even look bothered, she looked more delighted to see Lucien than anything.
"Nice office," she said, voice smooth and smug, like she was mocking a hostage. "Don't mind me if I make myself comfortable."
Lucien stared. First at the eyes. Then the teeth. Then the ears. Then the teeth again.
Seconds later, he let out a high-pitched, unfiltered scream and bolted out of the room.
Sephyr's grin widened.
Lucien tore through the catacombs like a terrified merchant fleeing tax collectors. People jumped aside with curses flying from their mouths, until a shadow dropped behind Lucien, landing silently.
"Don't run, human!" Sephyr hissed, teeth gleaming.
Lucien skidded to a stop. His revolver twisted in his hand as the weapon folded and expanded into his black-and-gold scythe. His stance lowered, eyes narrowing.
"Oh?" Sephyr said, lips curling. 'He threw me off guard, making me think that he's a squeamish human by running and screaming like a girl, baiting me? Or did this fool just want to kill me in front of everyone? He's seriously…insane..!'
Lucien carved the scythe through her torso, only for her body to scatter into a flurry of black crows. They burst apart, circled overhead, then crashed together again as her form reassembled, fingers lengthening into knife-like points.
Her teeth and fingers flashed inches from his neck, but Lucien dissolved the scythe back into the revolver, stepped behind her faster than she could register, grabbed her face from behind, shoved the barrel into her open mouth, and fired while whipping his head aside.
Blood sprayed the stone. The back of her skull blew open with a hiss of steam. Sephyr collapsed bonelessly at his feet.
People froze and the conversations around them died. Even the gears seemed to stop turning for a beat.
Gustef approached slowly, towel over his shoulder, brow furrowed. "Shit. So… she was targeting YOU?"
Lucien flicked blood off his glove. "Seems like it. But those ears and her teeth as you mentioned earlier, certainly no doubt she tried to change herself. But why attack me though? Is she dumb? Does she know how dangerous I am?"
He hoped others around heard that.
"Hm." Gustef folded his arms. "It has to be. But it's strange… If she knew anything about you, she'd know ambushing you was pointless. This kind of thing's never happened before. And she aimed for your neck too, lad. She must have another motive besides trying to really kill you."
Lucien nudged her corpse with his boot. "Hey hey, think I could turn her in to the Knights of Lars? Maybe they'll give me a fat reward. Aren't they always taking in people who are victims to the transmutations? Claiming they wanna help them? That could be a mountain of royals."
Gustef shook his head. "The Knights of Lars and King Miriem XVI do take Forbidden Transmutation seriously, as many people just want to change or want more power at the risk of losing themselves. The king and the kings before him have always established that people should be content with themselves, and are trying to find ways to stop the Forbidden Transmutation as well.".
Lucien snapped his fingers. "Remind me…what is that again?"
Gustef sighed. "Forbidden Transmutation is the law that alchemists must never rewrite the human body, soul, or living form. When someone tries, the body fights back. Causes Transmutation Backlash, which warps the form in symbolic, unnatural ways. Glasslike skin from failed hardening. Mirrored eyes from failed enhancement. Flesh dripping like candles from divine catalysts. Bone rings, glyph-scars, whatever the alchemy misinterprets. Anything could happen to them. Humans have fixed meaning. If you force new meaning on them, the paradox twists them and leaves them marked forever. But the problem is, is fhaf she's dead. You won't get much royals out of the knights of she's dead. But they would use her body to study."
"Mmm. How much would you say I would get?"
"2,000 royals—."
Lucien held up his hands. "—Hell no. The palace is pretty far too, I'm not carrying a rotting corpse all the way there and then head back for 2,000 royals. And I'm scared of trains too, so that's out of the question. Dump her somewhere."
He turned to leave.
"I can do that," Gustef said. "Down the furnace she goes."
Around them, whispers crept through the catacombs:
"Those teeth…"
"She tried to bite him too.."
"I heard the stories about these people who become different, like another species due to the forbidden ritual of transmutation, but to see it in person…"
"It's scarier than I thought.."
"The Forbidden Ritual, often needing a ritual sigil that's pretty large and complex, a catalyst which could be any meaningful object, or a vow or sacrifice; not a body part…more like time, memory, or an emotion. Often used for permanently altering your own body, binding spirits, creating constructs, opening divine or arcane realms, or large-scale destruction or restoration. I heard whatever they try to achieve, especially to try and open some divine realm, the risk is higher, and is more fatal."
"But did you see her erupt into crows when Lucien slashed her? That's never been heard of before when people successfully did the ritual, which is rare by the way."
"But the king and his knights got this under control, and the Demi-Angel at his side."
"Who's to say the Demi-Angels of the gods here aren't forbidden shit like those freaks?"
"They call themselves god sent. Claiming to be here for hundreds of years, with nothing but good intentions. No one suspects them. Plus none of them resemble those who do the forbidden stuff."