The moment the stranger's voice cracked through the clearing, Allen's blades were already halfway drawn. His eyes locked on the hooded figure standing at the edge of the dying firelight, the sleek curve of a loaded crossbow aimed without tremble.
Jake didn't move. Allen didn't blink.
Another figure stepped from behind the first. Then a third. Their movements were silent, professional,like well-oiled gears in a machine made for tracking and killing. Sanctum.
Allen's body tensed, muscles coiled like a spring. He let his breath come slow and shallow, not wanting to fog the space before him. His fingers barely twitched, but the old man raised a hand ever so slightly.
Jake's voice was steady, almost bored. "You're a long way from the cathedrals, hounds."
The lead figure cocked his head. "And you're too old to be dragging baggage through sacred forests. Give us the scroll , leave the boy and maybe we'll let you keep your legs."
Allen's lip curled. Jake muttered, "On my signal."
There wasn't a signal.
There was only Allen.
He surged forward, ducking low, his left-hand blade hissing out to parry the bolt that had already loosed. It whizzed past his cheek, drawing a shallow line of red, and embedded into the tree behind him with a thud. The air exploded with motion. Jake vanished into shadow, weaving through the chaos like smoke.
Allen struck with precision, not flair- an elbow to the gut of the second attacker, a knee to the thigh, then blade to the throat. The man staggered, clutching the wound as Allen spun and slashed the third's forearm clean open. Blood sprayed like black ink in the half-light.
The crossbowman reloaded fast, too fast.
Allen kicked a stone from the forest floor, knocking the weapon just off aim as he charged.
The blade drove into the man's side. Not clean. Not precise. But deep.
The attacker gasped, coughed, and Allen pushed the blade deeper before yanking it free. The body dropped with a thud.
All fell silent.
Jake emerged from the trees, dragging the body of the third, a limb neck ,broken husk, by the shoulder.
Allen panted. "Three?"
Jake scanned the area. "Maybe more. But if they were scouts…"
"They'll know," Allen finished.
Jake nodded grimly. "We can't linger."
They didn't. They pressed deeper into the Beastwood. No more conversation. Just breathing, just survival.
By dawn, Allen was limping again. Jake tossed him a bitter leaf, instructing him to chew. It numbed his tongue and dulled the ache. They passed through dense thickets and natural stone paths choked with vines. The trees grew thicker here, larger- unnaturally tall, bark blackened like char.
"These are the Deep Roots," Jake muttered. "Even the crows don't fly this far."
Hours passed before they finally reached it- a granite cliff swallowed by ivy and moss. At its base stood a door, barely visible. A slab of metal, flush with the stone. No handle. No hinges. Just a flat surface inscribed with faint glyphs.
Jake pulled a small charm from his robe,a coin-shaped medallion etched with strange triangular carvings. He pressed it to the stone.
A hum, deep and resonant, echoed like a distant bell. The glyphs lit with faint silver light.
A seam split down the door. It opened with a whisper of grinding stone.
Allen stared, not speaking. What lay beyond wasn't a ruin, nor a bunker; it was a cavernous passage lit by ghostly blue lanterns floating midair. Faint sounds echoed from deep within, paper rustling, murmured voices, the clink of glass.
Jake turned to him. "We're here."
"The Gray Codex?"
Jake nodded. "Their outer node. Hidden for decades. You'll be safe here."
Allen looked skeptical.
"Safe enough," Jake amended.
They passed inside. The door closed behind them with a final hiss.
The tunnel widened into a massive chamber; part library, part laboratory, part war room. Dozens of figures in gray cloaks moved about: some bent over scrolls, others working strange contraptions or analyzing blood samples. No one looked up. All were busy. Focused.
Jake exchanged nods with one or two as they passed.
After a few turns, they arrived at a small chamber with a cot, a desk, and a basin of cold water.
Jake handed Allen a small leather pouch. It clinked.
"Four silvers. Covers your board here for a while. Don't get stabbed."
Allen stared at the pouch, then at Jake. "You're leaving?"
Jake nodded. "My trail's too hot. Sanctum knows I exist now. I can't risk leading them here."
"And me?"
"You're just a courier. No one expects a street rat to matter."
"Unless I start mattering."
Jake smirked. "Then they'll come. And you'll need to be ready."
He turned, walking to the exit.
Allen called after him. "You never said why you helped me."
Jake didn't stop. "You bleed like someone who shouldn't be breathing. And yet you do."
And then he was gone.
Allen stood in silence. The cot waited. The chamber was spartan but clean. Quiet.
He set his blades on the desk, sat, and exhaled.
For now, he would rest. Observe. Blend.
Let them wonder who he was. Let them ignore him.
He had shadows to study. Pain to sculpt. And one day...
He'd make them all remember his name.
****
Time passed differently in the Codex halls. There were no windows, no sunrises to greet him or moons to mark his solitude. Allen spent his first few days lingering near the outer areas, watching the robed figures pass, memorizing faces, pathways, habits. He was invisible to them. A stray.
Eventually, a notice was pinned near the central board; a list of tasks. One involved gathering vials of rotworm venom from a patch of tunnels swarmed by the creatures. Another listed a need for fungal ash from the caverns near the water vents. None were pleasant jobs. All were anonymous, low-tier.
Perfect.
Allen took the venom job.
The Codex gave him a flask, gloves, and half-hearted directions. No questions. No escort. Just a warning to "stay alive, if possible."
He returned with five vials.
He did the same the next day. And the next. Each task a piece of quiet penance, each bruise a lesson. He didn't seek out people. He learned by watching them.
At night, he sparred alone in the empty halls, shadows flickering against the stone walls. He never missed a day. His wounds closed, his muscles hardened, and the edge in his gaze sharpened.
He kept to the fringe, not out of fear, but by design. Let them underestimate him. Let them think he was just another discarded tool.
One night, while cleaning his blades, he caught a whisper from two passing acolytes.
"...still think he's just a courier?"
"Definately not ,too many secrets.Doesn't fight like one, either."
"Maybe. But he never speaks. Never asks questions. Just works. Creepy bastard."
Allen didn't flinch.
Good.
Let them whisper.
Let the myth begin before the name is known.