The Devil in Crimson

Lucien Blackmoore never exactly asked to become the man who made his living bargaining for souls. He learnt from a young age, the world owed no favors; so neither would he. He moved like a man balancing on a wire stretched tight above a pit full of teeth—calculating every step, sharp enough to cut, but tired enough to bleed. The debts he carried were older than coin, heavier than lead, scars no bookie could ever tally.

What set him apart wasn't just grit or wit. It was his Ledger the one and only, fused with deep pact magic into the depth of his soul. That ancient datapad held a living tally: every deal struck, every soul traded, every favor owed or collected. A gift from his patron god, Valthamur for exceeding last years quota. It was his burden alone to carry. There was something fierce still fought to keep him standing; something that demanded more than just survival.

He didn't walk into Undergleam—he seeped in like smoke forced under a locked door, slipping past barriers no one noticed until it was too late. Neon signs sputtered and buzzed overhead, flickering in fits like ghosts caught between breathing and death. The cracked pavement beneath his boots gleamed faintly, slick with chemical runoff and soul-ash—the bitter dust left behind when bargains burn too hot.

Above him, slow spirals of AetherCorp's Watcher drones drifted like lethargic vultures. Their red lenses blinked with dull suspicion, uninterested but always watching. The skyscrapers around him sagged under years of neglect and shame. This corner of Valthara Prime wasn't just broken—it had been left to rot. That decay made it perfect for Lucien's prowl.

He eased back against a cracked billboard hawking Nyx Dynamics security units, the advertisement caught in a loop of static that stuttered and spat like a cough. Beneath his coat, the Silent Ledger gleamed faintly against his ribs, a cold pulse in the dark. Its obsidian screen rippled with shifting crimson ink, displaying Valthamur's newest boon—predictive analytics weighing five souls. The glyphs blinked sharp and precise:

Thom Merral. Debt ratio 3.8:1. Success chance: 91%.

Lucien tapped the edge of his watch, tap, tap, tap—the rhythm slicing through the thick silence that clung to the alleys like wet cloth. It was a tether, a fragile anchor in this chaos—something steady to hold onto.

The crowd thinned since last week. Vendors called out with voices cracked raw by losses, their words ragged like worn ropes. A stim-hawker jittered through her pitch, nerves frayed until every syllable snapped. A man in a half-burnt servo-mask pushed relics so old they could crumble to dust—a junk pile rotting alongside the district itself. Then Lucien spotted Thom, slumped behind a warped stall, shoulders bowed under the weight of debts bent nearly double.

Lucien moved slow, deliberate. His coat brushed stale air with a tired grace that barely hid the edge beneath. He didn't announce himself with words—his reputation slipped ahead of him sharp as a scent in frost. Finally, his voice cut through the low hum, smooth and sure, like a knife sliding clean through cloth.

"Thom. City's got teeth, but I bite back. Sell me a sliver of your soul, and you'll leave warmer than you came. If I'm feeling generous, maybe even enough credits to eat food that doesn't threaten you on the way down."

He slid a battered datapad across the cracked table. A soft red glow spilled from beneath it, painting the rough wood with the pulse of something alive. The text writhed across the screen—a living contract bound tight by the Lex Aeterna. The Ledger pulsed again in the corner of Lucien's eye, a quiet breath of warning: Choose wisely. This soul weighs heavy.

Thom didn't answer right away. His hands twitched in a silent war between flight and surrender. Finally, he rasped, voice ragged and dry, "You. Crimson Broker. Thought you were just another pretty face with a pitch. Funny how your name shows up where bodies do."

Lucien tilted his head, weighing the insult like a jagged stone. "Flattery or deflection? Either way, you're overdue, friend. I know about your Veil debts. Sign here, I wipe them clean. Debt gone. You get to stop dodging shadows."

Thom's gaze flicked to the datapad. The text shifted, alive and watching, testing his hesitation like a predator licking a wound.

"This isn't right," Thom said, bitterness cracking his voice. "Never is. Nobody walks away with a whole soul."

Lucien stepped closer, close enough that Thom caught the sharp tang of citrus on his breath, soured faintly by something infernal beneath the surface. "Not right, but humane. Think of it like surgery. You lose a piece… but you live."

A Watcher drone drifted low overhead, its red eye narrowing as if smelling the tension thickening between them.

Lucien's voice stayed steady, calm but edged with steel. "Clock's ticking, Thom. Sign, and you walk away with your life intact. Don't, and I can't promise the Veil won't send someone without bedside manners."

Silence stretched, dragging the air thin. Then Thom snapped the stylus against the pad and scribbled his name fast—desperate and jagged.

The datapad flared crimson and dimmed. The deal was sealed.

Lucien slid the pad into his coat pocket. It thumped beneath his ribs, slow and satisfied like a hunter savoring the kill.

"Pleasure, truly," Lucien said, voice taut as steel wire. "Avoid the Veil dens for a while. You're marked clean now. Mostly."

He didn't wait for thanks or curses. He slipped back into the crowd, folding through back alleys until the neon and noise bled away behind him.

The streets of Undergleam closed in, walls pressing close, soaked with shadows and lost chances. When he reached the shrine, the last Watcher drone faded into the night sky. The stone was cracked, stained with years of smoke and neglect—a monument to forgotten prayers.

Lucien pulled the Ledger out and traced an ancient sigil. The ground trembled beneath him, alive with dark power. Soul received. Marked for Valthamur.

Then something caught his eye—a fresh scrawl beneath the shrine's sigil, sharp and jagged. The etching was cruel, precise, and wrong.

Pain shot up his hand, sudden and hot, like a flare shot into a night sky. The magic was familiar but twisted, foreign. Not his.

Cassian's? No, it couldn't be.

The Ledger flickered violently, glowing cold red with a new glyph: Forged token. Market crash in East Veilshade.

Lucien exhaled slow, the cipher's weight pressing down like iron chains. "Cassian's ciphers are child's play," he muttered, voice low and grim. "But that was almost certainly a message."

He rose, brushing dust from his coat, the fabric crackling faintly in the cold night air. "You want a war," he said quietly, voice like stone rubbing against stone, "you'll get a stage."

Beneath his jacket, the Ledger shimmered, whispering caution in the silence: Beware his chaos.

Lucien's lips twitched into a grim smirk, not quite a smile—more like armor forged to hold back the coming storm.

Then he melted back into the city that never forgave him. Shadows wrapped around him like an old scar, tight and unyielding.

Each step echoed a little too loud in the cold, swallowed quick by the labyrinth of back alleys. The hum of dying neon trailed after him like a lament for what the district had been.

His mind spun with the Ledger's readings—the predictive calculus Valthamur wove deep into the contract's fine print. Five souls, analyzed, weighted, banked. Thom was only the opening move—a calculated risk on a board thick with danger and desperation.

The Ledger pulsed again, a steady beat beneath his ribs. It whispered secrets only Lucien could hear, warnings and cold logic tangled together: His fear was my leverage... but his desperation stung.

Lucien's eyes caught movement in the shadows—a ragged figure hunched near a flickering streetlamp, eyes darting like a rat backed into a corner. The city's breath was uneven, ragged, alive with a pulse all its own. Undergleam was a wound in Valthara Prime's skin, and tonight that wound throbbed with unrest.

Above, the Watchers' red eyes glowed like dying embers, unblinking sentinels scanning the living. Their gaze wasn't judgment—it was certainty. This place was a slow death trap, and Lucien was trying to stay a step ahead.

Every whispered deal, every cracked contract, was a thread in a spiderweb. The Ledger was both hunter and trap setter, calculating odds, setting snares. Thom's soul was already caught—his fear turned currency. But beneath the surface, Lucien hesitated. He felt the sharp sting of human pain the Ledger tried to mute.

The city twisted and turned around him, a maze of light and dark, breathing chaos and greed. Cassian's mark beneath the shrine wasn't just sabotage—it was a challenge, an invitation to a game that would burn brighter and colder than any Lucien had faced before.

The Ledger's warning echoed one last time: Beware his chaos.

He folded his coat tighter against the night, a shadow among shadows. Lucien had his eyes set on building an empire of the soul market. Cassian was just an old ghost from the past, and he had no intention of letting that ghost stand in his way.