The five silver soli felt like lead in Victor's pocket—not because of their weight, but because of what they represented. In the East Borough, this was blood money. In Cherwood, it was a month's survival. For a scavenger like Victor, it was the first brick in the wall he was building between himself and the grave.
The day following the Warehouse 14 extraction was silent. Mr. Egmont spent it locked in his workshop, the rhythmic clink-clink of delicate tools the only sign he was still alive. Victor spent it cleaning. He scrubbed the soot from the display cases and hauled coal until his muscles burned, using the physical exertion to anchor his mind.
The Hunter must stay grounded, he reminded himself, wiping sweat from his gaunt forehead. If I let the adrenaline of the hunt dictate my movements, I'll walk straight into a Nighthawk's lantern.
By evening, Victor took a risk. He left the shop and headed toward the "Iron Market"—a strip of low-end hardware stores and pawn shops on the edge of the working-class district. He needed a weapon, but a conspicuous one would be a death sentence if he were searched by the police.
He didn't buy a revolver or a rapier. Instead, he negotiated with a one-eyed blacksmith for a set of high-carbon steel carving knives and a heavy, blackened leather whetstone.
"You look like you're planning on carving more than wood, lad," the blacksmith muttered, eyeing Victor's sharp, intense features beneath the shadow of his grey greatcoat.
"The world is full of rough edges," Victor replied, his voice a low, melodic baritone. "I'm just preparing to smooth them out."
He paid three soli for the set—an exorbitant price for a scavenger, but Victor knew that quality was the difference between a tool and a liability. He spent the walk back feeling the balance of the blades through the leather wrap. They were silent. They were efficient. They were like him.
When he returned to his attic, the air felt different. The ticking of the clocks from below seemed to have slowed, or perhaps his own internal clock had accelerated. He sat on his pile of rags, the grey greatcoat wrapped around his shivering frame, and pulled the bronze medal from his inner pocket.
In the pale, sickly moonlight filtering through the small attic window, the roaring bonfire on the medal looked alive.
It's time, Victor thought. He closed his eyes and tried to enter a state of meditation, a technique he'd read about in his previous life and heard whispered about in the alleys of Trier. He focused on the Hunter potion in his blood, trying to feel the "digestion" process.
The potion felt like a cold, silver thread woven into his veins. It was no longer a foreign substance; it was becoming a part of his biology. By manipulating the police, by "hunting" the iron-bound chest, and by securing his own territory, he had acted out the core essence of a Sequence 9.
Suddenly, a sound erupted in his mind.
It wasn't a voice. it was a vibration—a deep, resonant hum that seemed to originate from the medal. It felt like a thousand distant drums beating in perfect synchronization with his heart.
Thump-hum. Thump-hum.
Victor's eyes snapped open, but he wasn't in the attic anymore. For a fleeting second, the walls seemed to turn into a vast, misty expanse of grey. He saw a flash of a massive, burning mountain in the distance, its peaks wreathed in blood-red flames. The air smelled of ancient iron and scorched earth.
"The Chariot..." a voice whispered—not from the mist, but from the medal itself. It was his own voice, distorted and echoed through centuries of history.
Victor gasped, his hand jerking back. The vision shattered. He was back in the attic, the smell of dust and stagnant oil rushing back into his lungs. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The medal lay on the floor, looking as dull and inanimate as a common copper bit.
Resonance, Victor breathed, his fingers trembling as he reached for the relic. It's not just a piece of metal. It's a bridge. But a bridge to where?
He realized with a jolt of fear that the "sludge" he had been trying to escape wasn't just the poverty of Backlund. It was the ignorance of his own path. The "Rebirth" was nearing its completion. He had adapted his body, he had secured his food, and he had learned to manipulate his environment. Now, the supernatural was beginning to knock on the door.
He didn't try to resonate again. He wasn't ready. He was still hungry. He still had coal dust under his fingernails.
I am a scavenger first, Victor decided, clutching the medal tight. A scavenger who knows the value of his find. I will not be consumed by this fire. I will be the one who stokes it.
As he drifted into a shallow sleep, he didn't dream of his old office or his old life. He dreamed of a hunter standing on a hill of bones, watching a city of brass clocks burn beneath a yellow moon.