The Gray Codex enclave never truly slept. Even in the quiet hours, whispers skittered through stone corridors like rats, arcane mutterings, the rustle of parchment, the low clatter of vials. Allen moved through it all like a ghost, unassuming, ignored by most but not all.
The day after returning from the spore grove, he met Shardu again, this time in the Bleeding Lab. The eccentric alchemist sat cross-legged atop a pile of broken mortar stones, surrounded by bottles that hissed, churned, and sparkled.
"You're still breathing. That's promising," Shardu said without looking up. He was mixing something that bubbled a sickly green. "Did the mushroom try to eat you or whisper false memories into your head?"
Allen dropped the sealed pouch onto the nearest clean surface. "Both."
Shardu chuckled. "Good. Means it's ripe. I trust you didn't inhale any spores?"
Allen shrugged. "I'm standing here,aint I?."
That earned a grin. Shardu set the flask aside, wiped his hands on a cloth already stained ten different shades of death, and opened the pouch. Inside, the yellow mushrooms with red spores glowed faintly under the Bleeding Lab's filtered light.
"Beautiful little devils," he murmured, almost lovingly. "Most here think they're purely toxic. Few realize they're the antidote to that willow-spider venom I've been trying to synthesize a cure for. You've done well. Better than the last three who tried. One of them came back blind. Another just screamed for a week."
Allen didn't respond.
Shardu gave a satisfied nod. "As promised, consider yourself invited. If you want to learn more about poisons, the real ones, not just the dull blackroot basics, find me when your hands aren't shaking from blood loss."
Allen inclined his head, turned, and left. He wasn't interested in small talk. But that invitation? He filed it away.
****
Later that day, Allen returned to the Spine, the Codex's loosely named combat wing. Sparring matches took place in low-lit chambers, shaped by warded stone and illusion enchantments. Blood often stained the ground. No referees. No audience. Just brutal efficiency.
He didn't enter the arenas, not yet. Instead, he found a quiet section-a forgotten, half-collapsed chamber- and practiced alone.
He moved deliberately. Quietly. Reducing waste. Shortening transitions between stances. In combat, seconds meant scars. Tenths of seconds meant survival.
He'd been refining his footwork since the Mushroom ridge. Lighter steps. Less drag. Less sound. Jake's old barks echoed in his head sometimes, though the man had vanished into smoke.
Slash. Shift. Turn the blade inward. Step out of range. Again.
His limbs obeyed. The pain in his side had faded to a dull memory. He was faster now. Sharper.
He didn't notice the figure watching from the shadows until the man stepped into view.
Irvin.
The silver-tattooed illusionist. The same one Allen had seen sparring against mirrored versions of himself in total silence the previous day or two.
Irvin's voice was light, but not mocking. "Not bad. Your footwork's tighter than most of the spine-dancers here."
Allen paused, blades still in hand. He didn't answer.
Irvin stepped forward slowly,both palms raised, but with a smirk. "Easy. I'm not looking for a fight. Not yet atleast."
He gestured toward the cracked tiles and the faint circle Allen had unconsciously carved into the dust through repetition. "You move like a predator, but there's one thing missing."
Allen's eyes narrowed.
Irvin grinned. "Anticipation. You react fast, but you haven't built a read yet. Against illusions or feints, reaction isn't enough."
He pulled something from his belt,a small stone cube etched with faint glyphs, and dropped it. The chamber shimmered. A barely visible distortion rippled through the air like heat.
"Spar with your shadow sometime," Irvin said, already turning. "I've left a construct. It won't kill you. Much. You impress me again, I might show you how to make your own."
Allen looked down. His shadow had shifted slightly. Longer. Sharper. No, the shimmer was copying him. Preparing a challenge.
Irvin paused at the doorway. "We all have ghosts following us. Best to learn how they move."
Then he was gone.
****
Over the next two days, Allen rotated between minor tasks and silent training. He avoided missions that involved companions, too many complications. The Low Board still held scraps, coveries, fetch runs, courier drops.
He took a courier task late on the second evening—delivering sealed documents to a hidden outpost deeper into the moss caverns southeast of the enclave. The terrain was unstable, the air thick with fungal spores, and the route long abandoned.
He made the delivery in half a day. Killed a bile-crawler nest along the way. Returned with nothing but damp boots, bruised ribs, and three silver coins heavier.
When he returned, the cube Irvin had left was still active.
The construct waited.
He fought it.
It was fast. Predictive. Mirroring him in some ways, but with delays, misdirections, and sudden illusions—afterimages meant to draw strikes or trip footwork. Allen adapted. Learned to feint, re-center, mislead. It bloodied him twice.
The third time, he bloodied it back.
The training sessions became routine.
Every evening, after tasks were done and the enclave quieted, Allen returned to that cracked stone chamber. Each session was shorter, sharper. Every move meant something.
One evening, Irvin returned. Just watched.
"Better," he said simply.
Allen didn't reply.
Irvin smirked. "Still quiet. But deadly. I like that."
He tossed Allen a wrapped cloth. Inside—two iron darts, barbed, light-weight, coated with a faint blue shimmer.
"Call it ...uhm..an investment," Irvin said. "Shardu's probably already planning to dissect you. Figure I should give you something useful first."
Allen nodded once.
As Irvin left, Allen's eyes lingered on the darts. Balanced. Dipped in something exotic.
He was starting to gather tools. Options.
****
On the fourth night, Allen sat in his room, sharpening one blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
The enclave had begun shifting around him. Quiet acknowledgment. Nods from handlers. Better jobs. Sharper eyes.
Not friends. Not trust.
But usefulness.
And in a place like the Gray Codex, usefulness was the only coin that mattered.
His shadow twisted against the wall. He didn't look at it.
But he noted the angle.
Soon, he'd test it, too.