The hole beneath the planks led into a cramped, dust-choked crawlspace that emptied out behind a counter of a dimly lit subterranean bar.
The air inside was a thick, stagnant soup of cheap tobacco, spilled rum, and stale sweat.
Around ten people were scattered throughout the gloom, hunched over mismatched tables.
Most of them didn't even bother to glance up when Faust was dragged onto the floorboards. In a place beneath the earth where the dead were piling up outside, a naked man in clown makeup was apparently just another Wednesday.
The old man who had pulled him through the floorboards looked completely incapable of such a feat.
He was short, with a heavily crooked back that forced him into a permanent slouch, dressed in tattered rags that smelled of wet wool. Yet, he radiated a distinct, prickly aura—the unmistakable pressure of a seasoned killer.
Curiously, Faust's multiple heartbeats remained completely steady. His innate intuition told him that while this old man was dangerous to the world, he meant no immediate harm to him.
The old man immediately began to cackle, dancing around Faust's imposing, muscular frame like a hyperactive crow.
"Well, well, well! Look what the tide washed in!" the old man wheezed, pointing a gnarled finger at Faust's dark skin. "A stray slave from the sugar ships? Did you run all the way from the ports in your undergarments, boy?"
For Faust, the most ridiculous part of the entire situation wasn't the mockery—it was the total omission of his appearance. The old man didn't say a single word about the ghostly white greasepaint, the jagged black star over his eye, the smeared red grin, or the fact that he was standing there in his underwear with patches on his nipples.
The sheer absurdity of it all struck Faust's dark sense of humor.
The chaos, the lawlessness, the sudden threat of monsters—it felt intoxicatingly familiar.
"Hu-hu, It reminds me exactly of the frantic, bloody times after the death of Charles II", the old man chuckled.
Faust let out a low, genuine laugh.
"The world outside is a slaughterhouse, and you are worried about the color of my skin? What in God's name happened out there?"
"What-what?!" the old man mocked, raising his bushy eyebrows in a theatrical display of feigned ignorance, cackling wildly. "He asks what happened!"
Thud.
A heavy, leather-booted foot swung out from the shadows behind the counter, striking the old man squarely in the back of his head. The madman stumbled forward with a grunt, nearly tripping over a stool.
"Shut your trap, you old fossil," a sharp, youthful voice rang out through the dim room, illuminated only by a single, flickering gas lamp sitting on a central table.
A young man stepped into the light.
He had a lean build and sharp features, though he shared that same peculiar, animated way of moving that the old man possessed.
"The market was breached by a syndicate of surface smugglers," the youth explained, leaning against a wooden pillar. "Idiots thought they could raid the Order's vaults. Instead, they broke the containment wards in the lower pens. Set loose a whole nest of those reptilian bastards—the Tarasques. Total havoc."
The young man paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Faust's athletic build and the heavy bulge of the Ars Goetia in his under-tunic pocket.
"Where exactly were you hiding that you didn't hear the alarms go down?"
"I didn't hide," Faust replied calmly, wiping a streak of sweat and greasepaint from his forehead. "I just entered the market."
The youth raised an eyebrow—an identical, mocking expression to the old man's gesture a moment prior.
"Entered? So you're telling me you just stroll down from the surface?"
Faust nodded.
Before he could explain further, the crooked old man moved with terrifying, unnatural speed.
His gnarled hands snapped onto Faust's broad shoulders.
With a sudden, explosive burst of physical strength that defied his frail appearance, the madman hoisted Faust completely off the ground, shaking him like a ragdoll.
"Don't play the fool with us, boy!" the madman screeched, his face inches from Faust's. "Which way did you come down? Answer me!"
The sudden display of energy rippled through the bar.
The ten silent patrons suddenly shifted, their bodies tensing as dozens of sharp, wary gazes locked onto Faust.
The air grew heavy with anticipation.
"Let him go, Barnaby," the young man commanded, his voice carrying a strange weight that made the old killer instantly drop Faust back to his feet.
The youth stepped forward, extending a calloused, steady hand toward Faust.
"Don't mind him. He's lost his wits to the ash. I am Renard."
Faust shook the hand firmly, the silver Tarot box clicking in his pocket.
He didn't use the name Duke, nor Doctor.
He chose the skin he was currently wearing.
"Mephisto," Faust said, his voice dropping into its gravelly, performative register.
"Well, Mephisto," Renard said, turning back toward the central table where the gas lamp hissed softly. He gestured to an empty wooden chair among the quiet patrons. "You came from the Church of Saint-Eustache, which means you crossed the main courtyard where the breeding pairs are nesting. If you survived that in your breeches, you either have the devil's own luck, or you know something we don't. Sit down. Let's talk details."