Darius raised an eyebrow, his voice still steady. "Fritz Haand? I've heard rumours of your… activities. You have quite the growing reputation."

Fritz Haand's grin never wavered as he acknowledged Darius's statement with a casual bow. "Why thank you. But reputation, my dear Darius, is a fickle thing. Oh let's not waste time on pleasantries. You came for answers, did you not?"

Darius nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Answers about you stealing an artifact, torturous experiments, Fritz. We've heard about the horrors you've unleashed."

Fritz Haand chuckled, the sound sending shivers down my spine as my gun was still drawn towards him. "Ah, yes, the lovely experiments. How boring the world would be without a touch of madness, don't you think?"

Fleur, her face a mask of anger, clenched her fists. "Madness? You turned people into monsters! Innocent people!"

Fritz Haand held up his hand, and my eyes were drawn to the dark, metallic glove encasing it. The surface of the glove seemed to ripple with an unsettling energy. "Ah, but you see my dear friends, I don't consider them 'people' anymore. They were mere subjects in my grand experiment."

Jean, his gun still trained on Fritz, spoke through gritted teeth. "You enjoyed it, didn't you? Torturing them, turning them into abominations."

Fritz Haand's grin widened, and he brought the gloved hand closer to his face, studying it as if it were a work of art. "Enjoyed it heh heh? My dear, that's an understatement. The screams, the agony... it was all so pleasurable."

My stomach churned at his callous words, and I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of revulsion. This man was a monster in every sense of the word.

Fritz Haand continued, his tone taking on a sickening enthusiasm. "But you see, my most exquisite experiment was an Arcanist. A lowly Tier 8 Forger. Oh, the power they possessed, the potential for chaos. It was simply irresistible. Disposable, of course, but that hardly matters."

He touched the gloved hand to his chest, and I saw a surge of energy ripple through it. "This, my dear friends, is the source of my newfound power. The artifact I acquired from the Goldeen Vault of Artifacts. A masterpiece if I do say so myself, a culmination of my experiments. With it, I can wield the very forces of the universe."

Darius's expression hardened, his voice cold. "You stole it from the Goldeen Vault. It belongs behind a lock, not in the grasp of some sick freak like yourself."

Fritz Haand chuckled again, the sound sending shivers down my spine. "Oh Darius, no need to talk like that. But indeed. It was quite the heist. I suppose you're not here for stories, are you though? You want to stop me, don't you? How utterly delightful."

Fritz made a toothy grin and looked over towards me.

My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of the revolver in my trembling hand feeling heavier by the second. I tried to steady my grip, to push back the rising fear that threatened to consume me, but my fingers remained unsteady.

Fritz Haand regarded me with a bemused expression, his eyes flicking toward the gun I held. His voice, when he spoke, was a cold, mocking drawl. "My, my, what's this, Eli? Are you going to shoot me? Such fear in those eyes. You look like a lost child clutching a toy."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I could feel the doubt and anxiety swirling within me. I was an Arcanist, a member of The Huntsmen, but at that moment, all I could think of was how utterly unprepared I felt.

The weight of expectation pressed down on me like a vice. I could feel the eyes of my comrades on me, their unspoken trust and reliance. They expected me to act, to protect them, to be the hero they needed.

But I couldn't. My hands shook, and the revolver wavered in the air. I felt like a fraud, a pretender in a world of power and danger. The fear of letting my team down, of becoming a burden rather than an asset, paralyzed me.

Fritz Haand's gaze bore into me, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "You know, Elias," he said, his voice dripping with a cruel amusement, "you're not the first to hold a gun at me, and you won't be the last. Do you even know what you're dealing with here?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I... I know enough," I stammered, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Fritz Haand let out a mirthless chuckle, his laughter echoing through the dimly lit theatre. "Do you?" he asked, his tone filled with a perverse amusement. "Do any of you truly understand the nature of artifacts?"

Fritz's question hung in the air, a heavy silence settling over our group as we exchanged uncertain glances. I could sense the tension in the room, the unease that his words had sparked.

With a sinister grin, Fritz continued, his voice dripping with malevolence. "Artifacts, my dear companions, are born from suffering and torment, from the darkest recesses of the human soul. They are forged in the crucible of despair, their creation fueled by agony and anguish."

He began to pace back and forth on the stage, his movements graceful and measured, like a performer in a macabre play. "Imagine," he said, his voice low and hypnotic, "the screams of the tortured, the tears of the broken, the pleas of the damned. All of that suffering, all of that pain, condensed into a single, wretched object."

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My stomach churned at his words, and I couldn't tear my gaze away from him. It was as if he held us all in his thrall, his words weaving a nightmarish tapestry that ensnared our minds.

Fleur, ever defiant and unyielding, couldn't stand Fritz's gloating any longer. She stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides. "What makes you think I still can't come up there and beat your ass?" she snapped, her voice dripping with anger. "Has that artifact given you some kind of fake confidence?"

Fritz turned his cold gaze toward her, his expression one of mild irritation. "My dear Fleur," he said, his tone condescending, "you're certainly welcome to try. But I'm afraid it has granted me more than just ‘confidence.'"

Fleur's bold challenge hung in the air, a spark of defiance amidst the encroaching darkness. Her fists remained clenched, her posture unyielding, a testament to her unwavering determination.

Fritz Haand, however, merely responded with a sinister chuckle. "The Hand of God," he mused as if savouring the words. "A name befitting an extraordinary artifact, wouldn't you agree?"

The way he spoke of the artifact sent shivers down my spine. It was as if he regarded it not as a tool but as a malevolent entity, a partner in his sinister pursuits.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit blasphemous?” Jean retorted.

Fritz chuckled once again. “My my, I didn’t know you guys had a comedian too.”

Darius, ever the voice of reason, stepped forward, his expression stern. "Fritz," he said, his voice steady, "what do you want? Why are you here?"

Fritz paused in his pacing, his gaze shifting to Darius. For a moment, his theatrical façade seemed to falter, revealing a glimpse of something more complex beneath.

"Ah, the pragmatic one," he remarked, his tone shifting to one of mock respect. "Always focused on the 'what' and 'why.' Very well, Darius. I'll indulge you."

Fritz’s gaze swept over our group as if assessing our worth. He began to speak, his words laced with an unsettling mixture of madness and malevolence.

"I'm here for all of you, my dear Huntsmen," he declared, his voice taking on a grandiose tone. "You see, I've decided to put on a show, a spectacle unlike any other, in the most befitting of places. Right here, in this theatre."

His words hung in the air like a heavy, foreboding mist, and the tension among us grew palpable. None of us could deny the weight of the situation or the ominous intent in Fritz's words.

"To take you all down," Fritz continued, his grin widening. "To bring an end to the Huntsmen, the vaunted protectors of this wretched city. The single most annoyance in the great Rose’s path."

Fritz's revelation sent a chill rippling through the air, the words heavy with malice. It was as if we had stumbled into the heart of madness itself, and Fritz was the maestro orchestrating our descent.

My grip on the revolver tightened, the metallic trigger pressing against my fingertips. The weight of the gun felt unbearable, and I could feel the cold sweat forming on my palms and trickling down my forehead.

Darius, however, refused to be cowed by Fritz's theatrics. He took a step forward, his expression unyielding. "You're mad, Fritz," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and pity. "What you're planning is senseless, destructive."

"Oh, Darius," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "You didn't expect me to go on with my work, minding my own business and not do some preparations too?"

I felt a chill run down my spine at those words. Fritz's casual admission that he had prepared for this confrontation, that he had planned for our arrival, sent a shiver of dread through me. It was as if we had walked right into a carefully orchestrated trap even though we had thoroughly planned for the improbable.

Darius, still resolute, challenged Fritz's words. "Preparations? For what? What could you possibly hope to achieve by causing chaos and destruction?"

Fritz's grin widened, his demeanour shifting from theatrical to something more unsettlingly lucid. "You see, Darius, madness is a pursuit, a necessary one. I'm quite aware of my descent into the abyss of insanity. But I've also come to realize something."

My breath was getting heavier and my fingers holding the trigger were more shaky. If I wasn’t going to shoot now, I doubt I would have the guts to ever. Like time was going in slow motion, my eyes closed and my finger started pulling back at the trigger of my revolver.

"How do you control something that's born from chaos?" Fritz continued, his voice taking on an eerie calmness. "You become part of it."

In that breathless moment, with Fritz's chilling words hanging in the air, my finger completed its journey, pulling the trigger of the revolver with a determination born of fear and desperation. The gunshot rang out through the theatre like a crack of thunder.

But Fritz Haand was quick. With a speed that defied reason, he moved, his gloved hand rising in a swift, deliberate motion.

In an instant, a great force of pressure erupted from thin air, distorting not only the rows of seats in front of us but sound itself. The world in front of me seemed to warp and twist, the very air vibrating with a loud, distorted thrum. It was a cacophony of sensory distortion, a disorienting assault on my senses.

The silver bullet I had fired was caught in this maelstrom of power. It dropped, or more accurately, it was forced down into the floor with a deafening impact. The seats around it too collapsed and flattened into grotesque, misshapen pancakes as if crushed by an immense invisible weight.

The realization struck me like a physical blow. Fritz had stopped the bullet. He had harnessed the power of the Artifact, The Hand of God, to bend reality itself to his will.

I stood there, frozen in shock, my revolver aimed at a foe who wielded a power I could scarcely comprehend.

Fritz Haand, his one visible eye gleaming with manic triumph, let out a chilling laugh, a sound that reverberated through the distorted theatre. It was a laugh that echoed with the weight of his madness and the terrifying capabilities he possessed.

Fritz’s maniacal demeanour suddenly shifted to something more serious and sinister. “What a fickle attempt my dear Elias. Now look what you made me have to do.”

With a solemn and calculating look in Fritz's eye, he raised his gloved hand toward us, palm open. It was a gesture that spoke of impending danger, a harbinger of a power that dwarfed our own.

Darius, reacting with the speed and precision whipped out the ornate box containing Shattered Sight. But even as he moved, it became painfully clear that we were all too slow, too unprepared for what came next.

A sudden and overwhelming force descended upon us like a relentless avalanche, its sheer weight pressing down with a malevolent intent. We were helpless, our bodies pinned to the ground, unable to lift even a finger in defiance.