Darkness bled into the forest as Allen pressed a hand to his stitched flank, each step sending sparks of pain through his ribs. The rotwood trees towered like silent judges, gnarled limbs clutching at the fading light. Shadows danced under their roots, and distant howls gnawed at the edges of silence. Old man,Jake had warned him: the Beastwood didn't tolerate the weak or loud.
Jake,the old man,trudged ahead, leaning on a crooked staff, his gait stiff from a wound he refused to speak about. The blood from Sanctum's blade still stained the side of his robe, but the old man moved with relentless stubbornness. Allen had noticed it before;the way Jake's eyes darted when he thought no one watched. He was more than some hermit alchemist or back-alley mage. That much was certain.
They had escaped the city by luck and blood, and only barely. Sanctum's pursuers were like feral hounds;disciplined, silent, remorseless. Allen had buried a blade in the throat of one that got too close. He hadn't even checked for a pulse. Just slit, twist, gone. He remembered the faint resistance of flesh, the sudden weight gone limp. It never disturbed him. Not anymore.
They didn't speak much. The weight of near-death made conversation irrelevant.
The forest shifted around them. Birds didn't sing. Trees groaned in the wind, and something large moved just beyond the veil of branches. Not chasing. Not curious. Just… watching.
"Another hour," Jake rasped without looking back. "Then we rest."
Allen didn't reply. He was too busy watching the shadows beneath his feet. His own shadow. Ever since he slit the throat of that masked hunter in the alley, the darkness he stepped on felt heavier. It clung to him like damp cloth. Followed slightly slower. Bled into corners where light should've chased it away. He hadn't mentioned it.
They finally reached a clearing choked with thornweed and hunched trees. A half-collapsed stone well sat crooked in the center, wrapped in vines and moss. Jake nodded at it. "Good as anywhere. We make camp."
They worked in silence. Allen helped drag fallen branches, pausing when his vision blurred. He hated that Jake noticed.
"You're still healing," the old man muttered. "You move like a stiff corpse."
Allen scowled. "And yet, I'm still alive."
Jake tossed a twig onto the small fire, then sat on a stone near the well. "Barely. Sloppy footing. Wide swings. You killed out of instinct, not control."
"Yet the fact still remains,I killed."
"That's not the same."
"Why complicate things .I'm here ,he's not."
The crackle of flames swallowed the silence. Jake stirred something in a dented pot. Smelled like boiled roots and ash bark. Disgusting, but hot.
"You swing like a brawler," Jake said eventually. "Too loud. Too wild. You're quick, but not precise. You rely on luck."
"I rely on staying alive."
Jake huffed. "You'll last longer if you learn to fight smarter. Balance. Leverage. Timing. You can't brute-force your way through assassins."
"I'm not an assassin."
Jake glanced at him. "No? That scroll you delivered said otherwise."
Allen didn't answer.
The pot steamed. Jake ladled out two crude bowls and handed one to Allen. He accepted it without gratitude. The first sip burned his mouth and tasted like wet bark.
Jake leaned back against a stone. "You know how to stab someone in an alley. But you move like you've never trained a day in your life. No stance. No structure."
"I haven't."
Jake stared for a moment. Then nodded.
"Then I'll show you enough to not embarrass yourself."
Allen arched an eyebrow. "Why?"
Jake didn't answer. Just gestured for him to stand.
"Feet apart. Slight bend in the knees. Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Short swords like yours aren't meant for brute force-they're for speed, precision. Control the tempo."
Allen stood, mimicking the posture. Jake circled him like a bored crow.
"Wrong," Jake said, kicking his back foot lightly. "Too wide. You'll telegraph every step."
Another adjustment. A correction. Then another.
They didn't call it training. There were no drills, no rituals. Just subtle guidance. Jake would watch him spar shadows with a stick and correct a step, a grip, a shift of weight. Allen adapted quickly-he always had. He moved like someone used to fighting for scraps in a pit, not for glory. Now, Jake was chiseling that instinct into something sharper.
Each lesson came begrudgingly. Jake never praised. He simply nodded when Allen didn't fall over.
On the third day in the forest, Allen started to recover faster. He could move without flinching every other step. The wound on his side had stopped weeping. He caught his reflection in the water near the well once-paler than usual, hollow-cheeked, eyes like rusted blades.
Still breathing.
He kept practicing even when Jake didn't ask. Shadows made for good sparring partners. He would dart, slide, strike-pretending each flick of black was a Sanctum blade.
Jake watched from a distance, chewing some foul herb, eyes squinted. Not impressed. Not disapproving. Just… watching.
"You think too much," Jake said one night.
"I think just enough," Allen muttered.
"Don't lie to yourself. You think five steps ahead. That's good when you're planning a heist. Bad when a blade's coming at your neck."
"I've survived this long."
Jake grunted. "Then you'll keep surviving. But survival's not the same as control."
That stuck with Allen. That word 'control' left a taste in his mouth .He didn't like it.
He sharpened his blades that night with quiet fury. Each scrape against stone felt like peeling back weakness.
And beneath the firelight, again, his shadow flickered. Shifted. Wrong.
It took the shape of something too long in the arm, too sharp in the neck. When Allen blinked, it was back to normal. He didn't mention it.
Jake hadn't noticed.
He would find out what it meant. Later.
The next morning, they prepared to move again. Jake handed him dried roots and a flask of sour water. Allen packed it without comment.
They were halfway through breaking camp when the forest went still.
Too still.
Allen's instincts kicked in. He turned slightly, one blade drawn halfway.
Jake stood motionless.
Crunch.
A branch snapped nearby. Then another.
Something-No, someone, was approaching.
They both melted into cover like smoke. Allen crouched low behind the moss-choked boulder. Jake pressed into the roots of a leaning tree, eyes cold.
Then....
A figure emerged from the foliage. Cloaked. Hooded. Muffled steps. Too graceful for a simple traveler. Too deliberate for a lost hunter.
Allen's fingers tightened on the hilt of his short sword. He touched the poison vial on his belt.
The figure stopped at the edge of the clearing.
With a raised crossbow ready to unleash hell,
"Halt! Try something smart,You die!."
The voice was sharp. Cold. Male.
And it wasn't alone.