Lord of the Mysteries: Catalyst of Shadows

For a first meeting, it went quite well, Jack mused.

Though I didn't expect her to already be a Discerner. It seems my knowledge isn't as flawless as I'd like to believe, he thought wryly, tapping a finger against the armrest. Oh well, in this instance, it works in my favor. Hopefully, the others have advanced just as well.

The rhythmic sway of the carriage and the muted hum of the train filled the quiet space as he enjoyed the solitude of his private cabin. His gaze drifted to the passing landscape outside, shadowed by the encroaching dusk.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and a moment later, the cabin door swung open.

"Good evening, sir. Would you like to order a meal or a beverage from our menu?" asked the steward, his uniform crisp and posture impeccable.

Jack glanced up, his expression expectant. "I'll have the chicken with herbed rice and steamed vegetables, a green salad on the side, and a fruit tart for dessert."

"Understood, sir. Your meal will be served shortly." The steward gave a slight bow before departing.

Time passed in serene quiet, broken only by the occasional chime of the train and the distant murmur of conversations from other cabins. Eventually, the steward returned, carrying a silver tray laden with the ordered dishes. The aroma of warm spices and fresh herbs filled the cabin.

"Here you are, sir. If you require anything else, simply ring the bell, and I will be at your service."

"Thank you," Jack replied with a courteous nod, already preparing to indulge in his meal.

He savored each bite, appreciating the contrast of flavors—the tenderness of the chicken complemented by the fragrant rice, the crisp freshness of the salad, and finally, the delightful sweetness of the fruit tart.

As he ate, his thoughts inevitably wandered back to the conversation with Audrey. She really did wonders in that brief exchange. The power of a Discerner is leagues beyond a mere Manipulator.

He took another sip of his drink, leaning back in his seat. And this food… exquisite. As expected of a luxury service such as this.

Once he had finished, Jack called for the steward to collect the dishes. Just as the last remnants of his meal were cleared away, the train began to slow, the steady chug of the engine shifting into a softer rhythm. They had arrived at the next station.

As the train came to a halt, Jack rose from his seat, grasping his bluish-black cane. With practiced ease, he adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and stepped out of the carriage, descending onto the station platform. A cool breeze swept through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of coal and damp earth.

This will be a pleasant stop. A good opportunity to begin my acting.

Huttel was a modest town along the main southern route from Trier. As one of the earlier stops in the journey, it was of average size, boasting a respectable number of businesses—enough to keep its economy thriving, but not bustling enough to attract excessive scrutiny.

Jack strolled towards the station's exit, whistling lightly as he signaled for a carriage. A brown, four-person coach soon pulled up before him, its driver nodding in acknowledgment. Jack climbed in, settling himself comfortably before addressing the man.

"Take me to the nearest reputable hotel."

The driver gave a brief nod before flicking the reins, setting the horses into motion. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against cobblestone accompanied Jack's thoughts as he gazed out the window.

There's no need for haste. Huttel will serve as the ideal starting point to digest my potion, and I can take my time laying down a few Anchors while I'm here—one step at a time.

The journey was brief, leading him to a three-story establishment at the heart of the town. Upon arrival, Jack paid the fare with casual ease before stepping out, taking a moment to survey the hotel's exterior, the Silver Thistle. Modest, but well-maintained—certainly suitable for his purposes.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by the soft glow of lanterns and the polished wooden counter where a short, brown-haired receptionist stood. Her nametag read "Carly."

"Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?" she asked politely.

"Likewise," Jack responded with a polite nod. "I'd like to book a room for the next week."

"We offer standard rooms and suites," Carly explained. "The standard rooms are 15 verl'dor per night, while the suites are 60 verl'dor per night."

"The suite, then," Jack replied, withdrawing a neat stack of banknotes from his coat pocket and handing them over.

"Thank you," Carly said, efficiently recording the transaction. "I'll need your name and identification to finalize the booking, sir."

"Elias Graff," Jack answered smoothly, presenting the appropriate documents.

A few moments later, Carly handed him a brass key. "Everything is set. Here is your key, sir. If you need anything during your stay, room service is available at all hours."

"Much appreciated," Jack said, pocketing the key. He then leaned slightly against the counter. "Tell me, what are the main points of interest in this town?"

Carly brightened at the question. "Certainly. If you head to Silverstone Boulevard, you'll find most of Huttel's attractions. Two of the more famous establishments are The Rusty Lantern and The Gilded Lily."

"I see," Jack mused, filing the information away. "I'll be sure to visit them. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome, sir. Enjoy your stay."

With that, Jack made his way up the staircase, his steps light and deliberate. Reaching his assigned room, he slid the key into the lock and turned it smoothly. The door swung open, revealing his temporary sanctuary. He stepped inside and, with a quiet click, shut the door behind him.

The suite was luxurious yet understated, a comfortable retreat but nothing particularly extravagant. Plush furniture filled the space—a mahogany writing desk with brass inlays sat against the wall, while a velvet-upholstered armchair rested near the polished oak wardrobe. A chandelier of modest crystal hung overhead, casting a soft, golden glow. The grand bed, adorned with silken sheets and an embroidered coverlet, exuded warmth and refinement.

Jack moved toward the window, parting the heavy drapes to take in the view of Huttel's bustling streets below. The town, despite its modest size, brimmed with life—merchants peddled their wares, horse-drawn carriages rumbled over cobblestone roads, and the distant hum of chatter filled the air.

Quite the lively place, despite its scale. Surely, even here, the underbelly hides its own shadows. A small smile crept onto his face.

Turning away, he carefully placed his bluish-black cane inside his traveler's bag before shifting his gaze toward an unassuming rat at the edge of the room. With a subtle flex of his fingers, his will wrapped around the creature, claiming it as one of his marionettes. Under his control, its body subtly shifted, molding to his preference.

Satisfied, he pricked his finger, drawing a faint trail of blood, and summoned a projection. A faint shimmer rippled in the air before solidifying into an iron-black revolver—Death Knell—its barrel slightly longer than that of an ordinary firearm. He repeated the process, this time manifesting a thin, human-skinned glove—Creeping Hunger.

Death Knell and Creeping Hunger…

With practiced ease, Jack holstered the revolver at his hip and slipped the glove onto his left hand.

Normally, he could only sustain three high-level projections at a time, each lasting no longer than fifteen minutes. But lesser ones? Those, he could summon freely. The surface of Creeping Hunger writhed faintly before settling into the guise of a simple black glove, but he could feel its flaws. This was not the unrestrained, ravenous entity of its prime—it was the latter version, sealed and burdened by its unnatural fear of mushrooms. A shadow of what it once was.

Still, it would serve its purpose.

Stepping before the body-length mirror, he carefully shaped his marionette, stretching its frame to a lean 5'11" with short, curly brown hair and sharp green eyes. His new face was narrow and slender, exuding a calculated charm. The figure donned a black trench coat layered over a crisp white shirt and a well-fitted black vest.

As for himself, Jack subtly shifted his own features, adapting to a random persona from the Southern Continent—dark skin, a rougher jawline, darker eyes. The transformation was complete.

This will do. Time to make a new name rise.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he turned from the mirror, slipping out of the room with fluid grace.

Descending to the streets, his marionette took the lead, walking ahead as an independent self while Jack trailed a few paces behind, observing. He strolled at a relaxed pace, moving effortlessly through the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the storefronts and strangers alike.

Clothing boutiques, flower shops, restaurants—each a glimpse into the pulse of the town. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the faint perfume of roses from a nearby vendor's stall. The warm glow of gas lamps flickered against the evening sky, casting elongated shadows upon the cobblestone streets.

It was enticing.

A world of possibilities awaited him here.

Jack arrived at The Rusty Lantern, a dimly lit bar nestled along Silverstone Boulevard. The air was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco and spilled liquor. He stepped inside, noting the mix of patrons—drunkards slouched over their drinks, gamblers huddled around battered tables, and a few sharper-eyed individuals who carried themselves with quiet authority.

Moments later, another man entered—similar in build but distinctly different in appearance. His skin was a shade darker, his features less refined, and his presence more subdued. He moved through the room with unassuming grace, settling at a table near the edge of the bar, half-hidden in the dim lighting, watching from the shadows.

Moving to the bar counter, Jack took a seat, drumming his fingers against the polished wood. The bartender, a wiry man with graying temples, turned to him with a raised brow.

"A big cup of Whiskey Sour," He ordered.

"Three licks," the bartender replied curtly.

He slid the payment across the counter and took a slow sip when the drink arrived. The tangy burn settled into his throat as his gaze swept the room. In one shadowed corner, a cluster of rough-looking men sat together, their hushed conversation accompanied by the occasional glance around the bar.

Jack tapped the rim of his glass. "Who are the ones in the corner?"

"Owner's men," the bartender said without looking up.

Before he could ask more, the door swung open with a creak. Three broad-shouldered men strode inside, their boots thudding heavily against the floorboards. They moved without regard for the patrons in their way, shoving a staggering drunk aside and knocking a stool over as they approached the bar.

He took another sip. "And them?"

"Black Moth enforcers," the bartender muttered. "They come to collect the weekly tax. While they're at it, they drink themselves stupid."

At his table in the corner, Jack leaned back slightly, taking slow sips of his drink as he observed the unfolding scene. Unlike the marionette, he did not ask questions. He only watched, his mind already weaving possibilities.

The marionette noted the way the bartender's eyes lingered on them—watchful, but not particularly tense. This was routine. Expected.

"And who owns this place?" He inquired.

"Man named Miles Stone. Real name? No one knows. Owns a few joints around town. A tough bastard, but even he can't ignore the Black Moths."

One of the enforcers leaned across the bar, his breath thick with stale alcohol. "Get us some Fennel Absinthe, you useless curd!" he barked. "And tell Stones we're here for this week's cut!"

A bouncer near the staircase muttered under his breath before trudging upstairs.

The marionette merely swirled the last of his drink, watching in silence.

The Black Moth enforcers nursed their absinthe, their conversation turning into drunken murmurs. The smallest of the three paused mid-drink, his body stiffening for the briefest moment. Then, as if nothing had happened, he took another swig, his expression settling into something unreadable.

Suddenly, he turned toward the table in the corner, where Miles Stone's henchmen sat. His lips curled into a sneer.

"What are you looking at, you baboons? Don't test my patience."

One of the henchmen furrowed his brow, his chair scraping against the floor as he stood. Before he could take a step forward, a hand clamped down on his shoulder—one of his colleagues, silently urging restraint. Their boss wouldn't take kindly to an unnecessary brawl.

The enforcer scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's right. Sit down like the obedient mutts you are. Useless hounds."

A low chuckle came from the henchmen's table. "Big talk from a bunch of insects," one of them shot back.

The enforcer's smirk twisted. In a flash, he grabbed his drink and hurled it at their table, the glass shattering against the wood. Liquid splattered across their coats.

He stood, cracking his knuckles. "So you wanna dance, huh?"

"Stop!"

The command rang out across the bar, freezing all movement. Heads turned toward the source.

At the top of the staircase stood a man with sharp, weathered features and piercing eyes—Miles Stone, the owner of The Rusty Lantern.

"I won't have another damn brawl trashing my bar," he growled, his voice carrying the weight of authority. He glared at the Black Moth enforcers. "Take your payment and get out."

The biggest of the three exhaled sharply, then shot a warning glance at his smaller companion before stepping forward to collect the money. He counted it lazily before stuffing it into his coat.

"Expect a higher cut next week, Stone. Consider it compensation for the disrespect." His tone dripped with condescension.

With that, the three turned to leave. But as the smallest man passed, he lingered for just a second, his gaze locking onto Stone. Then, without another word, he followed his companions out the door.

A heavy silence settled over the bar. Stone exhaled and ran a hand through his graying hair before turning and ascending the stairs back to his office.

But when he stepped inside, he halted.

A man sat casually on his leather couch, legs crossed, fingers steepled in thought. He had short, curly brown hair and wore a trench coat over a crisp black vest.

Stone's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?" His hand shot toward the pistol tucked under his desk. "Guards!"

"Easy there, big guy." The intruder lifted a hand, unfazed. "You've got bigger problems than me. I saw your little predicament with the Black Moths."

Stone's grip tightened on his weapon. "And what of it? What do you expect to do about them that I can't?"

The man chuckled. "You seem formidable, but not enough to wipe them off the map. I'm just a… contractor of sorts. And an extra pair of hands never hurts."

Stone scoffed. "As if you coul—"

Thunk.

A gleaming knife buried itself in the wooden doorframe—mere inches from Stone's face.

His breath hitched as he snapped his gaze back to the man, who now had a relaxed smirk playing on his lips.

"You never know," the intruder said smoothly. "You might just have a genie knocking at your door."

Stone scowled, regaining his composure. "I beg to differ if my luck has turned around so abruptly."

"Try it," the man urged, leaning back into the couch. "No harm in making a wish."

Stone studied him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "Fine. To humor your delusions—I wish for the Black Moth to be weakened."

A smile flickered across the man's face, snapping his fingers once.

And then—

Boom!

A distant explosion shattered the night.

The force rattled the windows, sending tremors through the floorboards. Stone's head snapped toward the sound. He rushed to the window, his heart pounding.

Outside, flames curled into the night sky, engulfing one of the Black Moth's strongholds in the distance.

His breath caught. That's one of their bases… up in flames?

Behind him, a voice purred.

"So… how about we talk business?"

Stone turned slowly.

The curly-haired man was still lounging on the couch, an easy, knowing grin on his lips.

Stone's wariness deepened. "What's your name?"

The man stretched slightly before leaning forward, his voice calm, amused.

"Victor Hale."