Chapter 25: Ironfinger
Wez sat with one leg propped over the other on a wooden barrel, peeling an apple with a hunting knife. He looked up at the factory workers unloading barrel after barrel of herring from the carriages outside the plant. The entire street reeked of a thick, fishy stench.
It was approaching dusk. In Graycloud Fortress, it was always difficult to distinguish the changes in daylight—thick fog veiled the sky, and one could only vaguely tell it was dimmer than a few hours ago.
A few oil lamps flickered outside the factory entrance. Under the firelight, several men with tattoos of skulls in goblets on their arms hovered around the cargo carriages, prying open one barrel here, sniffing another there.
The workers dared not complain—they let them do as they pleased.
“Boss, this batch seems fine. The foreman vouched for it,” a short-haired young man reported nervously. His voice stuttered slightly.
Wez looked up at the youth but didn’t speak.
From beneath his sleeve came a harsh metallic scraping—his right hand, holding the hunting knife, wasn’t flesh, but a gleaming iron prosthetic.
It was crudely built, with mismatched axles and bearings jammed together. Rust dotted its poorly oiled joints, and steam hissed from a release pipe behind his shoulder, with condensation dripping down the cooling tube.
Steam-driven and wired directly to his neural system.
Wez had undergone an unpleasant operation from an unlicensed mechanic with some knowledge of human neurology in the Blackwater River District to compensate for the right arm he lost in a Georgeson District casino. With this prosthetic and a stolen Warden potion, he had clawed his way up to become a debt collector.
The mutt who once wallowed in the gutters of Blackwater River had become the top wolf of this turf, by methods as ruthless as they were dirty. Wez Howard had never been a decent man.
“You said that guy gave you his word?” he asked coldly.
“Y-yes…” The youth trembled under the man's vicious glare.
“Then did you notice his fingers?” Wez slashed down—the apple split in half and hit the ground.
The youth’s face turned pale. “He had bandages… I think… no fingers…”
Wez raised the knife and let out a hoarse chuckle. “Newbie, let me tell you a rule. In Bloodwine Society turf, anyone missing fingers is a liar or screw-up. Don’t trust them.”
The young man remained silent, stiff with fear.
The hunting knife slowly moved toward his face, the edge cutting a shallow line on his skin and drawing blood.
“You’ve got to do this—use the knife to threaten them, interrogate them. Let them know their life is in your hands, that they could die any moment. That’s the only way lying bastards like that will cry, beg, and spill the truth.”
The metal fingers tapped rhythmically on the hilt, like the melody of death approaching.
“Ironfinger” Wez was a vicious old wolf, often drilling such ideas into his subordinates.
That foreman’s fingers had been cut off by Wez six months ago for faking numbers on an invoice. Losing only five fingers was mercy by his standards. The Bloodwine Society wasn’t a charity.
“O-okay… boss…” The youth’s knees shook violently.
“Get lost. Have them check again! This is the last batch before winter—no screw-ups!” Wez snorted and gave the poor lad a harsh kick.
“Boss, don’t be so hard on the newbies~”
Just as Wez bit into his apple, a sycophantic voice came from behind. He turned—it was a slightly plump man with the Bloodwine Society tattoo on his arm.
“Zachary, where the hell were you just now? This batch is nearly unloaded and you show up now?” Wez frowned.
Zachary wasn’t exactly a subordinate—more like a partner who helped with business. They had worked together in the Blackwater River District for a while.
“Someone wanted to meet me anonymously. It’s a new deal! Wez, we’ve got another money-maker!” Zachary waved a sealed letter excitedly.
“Deal? What kind of deal?”
Wez perked up, stabbed the knife into the barrel, and jumped to his feet, crushing half the apple underfoot.
“Xiza Chamber of Commerce—they want to transfer ownership of that old theater and its land.” Zachary snapped the seal with a pop. “You know the one—just north of here, overgrown with weeds and cobwebs. Didn’t you always say it was a waste to leave it idle?”
Wez frowned and snatched the letter from him, suspicious as he opened it.
The neat, elegant script contained only a few lines, signed and sealed in red wax—looked legitimate.
“She wants to meet near the theater… now?” Wez found it suspicious. “Who is this? You met her—do you know who she is?”
“Some rich heiress—fair-skinned and pretty, prettier than flowers. You think a dainty little girl like that could trick you?” Zachary shrugged. “Think about it, Wez. That theater troupe wouldn’t sell before, but now the land’s with the Chamber. They’d need your say-so to do anything in Blackwater River District. They offer you the land, you build a new factory, they take a cut—everyone profits. Better than watching that old dump rot!”
Wez was tempted.
Just one herring factory had already made him a fortune. But Blackwater River and Graycloud Fortress were too small—no room left for new factories. Every inch of land was precious, and under the four gangs’ joint oversight, private land ownership was protected. They couldn’t seize property without cause.
The crafty old wolf licked his lips greedily.
Profit overrode his caution. He had trafficked young girls and created witches—few things could stop him when gold was involved.
Encouraged by Zachary and the letter, Wez ditched the canning plant and headed north alone toward the abandoned theater.
But outside the theater, there was no sign of the “Chamber representative.”
After waiting a while, he decided to investigate inside—consider it an early site inspection.
Cobwebs and dust were everywhere. The entrance hall was so filthy there was barely a place to step. Wez held his breath and pushed through, eventually arriving at the grand auditorium.
Inside, the theater was dark and silent. The tiered seating fanned out around the stage at the lowest point. The once-opulent red velvet seats lay broken and crooked, dust and insects drifting through the murky air.
As his heel crossed the threshold of the open, decrepit door, Wez sensed something was off.
His instincts warned of danger, but he saw nothing.
Suddenly, a silver bell rang faintly across the empty stage, followed by the sound of heels striking the floor.
A slender, petite figure slowly walked toward the stage center in the dark. The dreary twilight served as her missing curtain. She stepped onstage as naturally as if performing.
No shows had played here in years—
Wez thought he was dreaming. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was hallucinating.
But in the next instant, the crystal chandelier above the stage lit up in full brilliance, casting a spotlight on center stage.
A girl dressed in all white dipped her head and curtsied toward the lone spectator in the seats.
The silver bell on her hat brim jingled softly.