Chapter Seven: The Three Hunter Brothers

Carlos considered himself neither foolish nor stupid, so he shook his head vigorously like a rattle drum—only children make choices.
Puppeteer, alchemist.
He wanted both.
Derricht had left, shutting himself in his room for several days to tend his wounds. While their father was too busy to notice, Derricht lived like a young noblewoman cloistered in her boudoir.
As long as he didn’t cross paths with his younger brother Carlos, everything would be fine.
That was Derricht’s plan.
Because during their last conversation, he swore he saw a restless glint in Carlos’s eyes. Provoking the old man in the alchemy lab meant no new prosthetic arms; provoking his brother Carlos might mean being sent back to the wilds—again, without an arm.
Moreover, Carlos had grown up. Derricht suddenly found he had no desire to return to the freedom of the wilderness. He’d seen too many lone wolves scavenge for food, and their ends were rarely pleasant. Surviving today was no guarantee of tomorrow.
Another reason Derricht wanted to live was that he didn’t want to see Carlos become a lone wolf as well.
…
Carlos, living like a timid lamb in a sheepfold, watched as the golden beads in his pocket watch rolled over the edge of the dial.
A troupe of tiny, action-figure-sized alloy puppets flickered into the air above the watch’s surface.
He told himself, you’ve always been diligent.
No one had ever explained to him how to take puppet mastery to the next level. The town’s only true puppeteer, his father, was for now unwilling to teach him more.
How could he expect guidance from anyone else?
The mark on his forehead grew more prominent, sometimes outpacing the growth of his neatly trimmed bangs.
All these changes took place within Carlos’s own body—he ought to understand them.
But he did not.
So Carlos lived in constant apprehension. He only knew this was a Winter Moon bloodline mark. His father, Mori, told him it was a good thing—an extraordinary boon for the Stevenson family.
Carlos snapped the pocket watch shut, and the flickering images vanished instantly.
He could only force a wry smile. “Boring.”
It was as dull as having a brand new computer filled with games but no keyboard or mouse—just staring blankly at the login screen.
Imagine that feeling: utterly lifeless…
With no progress in his puppet arts, Carlos set his sights on the alchemist’s workshop. Gradually, the dullness in his eyes flickered with cunning once again.
…
Old Dubois twirled his ram’s horn moustache, the white bristles covering his wrinkled chin.
At this moment, Alchemist Dubois stood before a clutter of bottles and jars. Beside him was a small steam engine, an ancient contraption that now belched white steam without restraint, the whole machine shaking violently. From its exhaust pipe, it issued a bubbling wail, like a fish gasping for its last breath.
The old alchemist paid all this no mind. At length, he seemed to notice the nearly parched steam engine, shuffled over, took a large spoon, scooped some clear green liquid from a water tank, and poured it into the gaping mouth of the machine.
The steam engine quieted down again.

Dubois propped his chin on his hand and returned to the alchemy table.
“Now, what step was I on? Damn it, I’ve forgotten again.”
He pondered for a while, then his eyes lit up with excitement. He quickly took a pair of tweezers and carefully lifted a grey stone from a large transparent jar, dropping it into the colorful tray before him.
A shadow fell over him.
He raised his misty eyes, only to find the tray was empty.
He stared, aghast, mouth agape in terror.
Standing up, he looked around. Other than the steam engine resuming its wails, there was no other sound.
Dubois wailed miserably, “Who, which scoundrel stole the Philosopher’s Stone…?!”
…
Three rookie bounty hunters, Philosopher’s Stone hidden in their arms, staggered out of the grove behind the alchemist’s house and stumbled onto Saltwell’s main street.
They nearly fell a dozen times, but never quite managed to hit the ground.
It wasn’t that their legs failed them; when they’d released the mist scroll earlier, they’d inhaled a good lungful of it. Even now, their minds were a little hazy.
The big man, Solly, supported the shorter Murray, practically dragging him along.
“Murray, are we bounty hunters or have we turned to thievery?”
The fat one grumbled, “Damn it, what did I step in?”
Murray took a deep breath, letting Solly carry him forward. He had inhaled the most mist during their theft, and his face remained sullen. “We’re not thieves, we’re bounty hunters. Have you forgotten?”
The fat one kept whining, “Can you not step on my foot?”
“Then why are we helping the mayor’s young master steal things?” Solly finally let go of Murray’s arm as they reached the street. All three relaxed, relieved, propping Murray against the gas lamp post. “Only thieves steal for a living, right?”
Murray glanced cautiously at the deserted street.
It seemed safe. He took a breath, stretched his arms, and pulled the grey stone from his pocket. “We’re bounty hunters, of course. Whoever pays the bounty, we work for them.”
The fat one nodded eagerly. “Of course—that includes theft.”
Murray shot him a glare. “Shut up, Conrad.”
“It’s just the three of us. In this backwater, we haven’t even seen a single bumpkin, and we’ve already spent all our money. What, should we starve rather than take a side job? A bounty hunter who can’t fill his belly doesn’t deserve to meet a bumpkin and strike it rich.”
Solly suddenly understood.
“Exactly.” He leaned against the only lamp post taller than himself for support. “Once we trade this thing to the little noble for gold, we’ll buy back our weapons from the pawnshop.”
“Right!”
The trio staggered doggedly toward the southern edge of town.
In truth, the shadows before dawn did hide a dangerous figure.
Someone was following them, no more than twenty paces behind.

Anderson Morey possessed a wealth of investigative experience.
Though he lacked the power to make Finegrove in East Cyprus any safer—his hometown had just been sacked by a demon horde of peasants—he had been dispatched to Saltwell as a “Black Hat,” tasked with hunting down stray peasants and maintaining basic order.
Though the second duty was largely nominal—most Black Hats turned a blind eye to crimes committed by outsiders—Anderson was different. He believed all crimes should be judged, wherever they occurred.
Not everyone feared desperate bounty hunters. In some circles, killing a bounty hunter could greatly boost one’s reputation, though that often meant being marked by dangerous individuals in turn.
Anderson cared little for such risks. If he feared danger, he wouldn’t have become a Black Hat in the first place.
The three bounty hunters-turned-thieves stumbled along the sandy, muddy street.
Their pursuer had already resolved to put a grim period to their lives.
Saltwell was bisected north to south by a slender river. Across the wooden bridge lived the town’s two most prominent men: Mayor Mori Stevenson, and Augusta, Guardian of Steam.
The bridge was broad and sturdy enough for the three bounty hunters to walk side by side.
Murray, the short one, must have inhaled too much mist, or perhaps his small frame simply couldn’t handle it—he lurched drunkenly and collided with a wooden bear, one of Carlos’s projects from years past. Carlos had thought the bridge into town too plain and had installed the bear at the market end.
Murray bounced off the bear, stumbled sideways, and ended up draped over the bridge rail.
“I want to be sick,” he announced.
“Be my guest,” said Solly. “That’s what rivers are for.”
Conrad, the fat one, sighed sympathetically.
He had a fondness for rivers. As a child, he’d lived beside one—drinking and washing from its waters. To him, rivers should always be clean; it was only right.
He hated to see anyone vomit into a river—or even spit, for that matter.
Conrad wondered if Murray’s retching would disturb the fish sleeping beneath the bridge. He stared at the slow ripples between the piers, then cast his gaze to the distant horizon where the wilderness met the mountains.
“The sun’s coming up,” he said with delight.
Murray muttered as he spat a little over the rail, “I think I haven’t eaten for three days.”
Solly’s stomach rumbled loudly.
“Same here.”
From the morning mist, a figure emerged.
Boots struck the wooden bridge with a sharp clack.
The three unarmed bounty hunters instinctively drew closer together.