The cracked skull graffiti, with its single crimson tear, leered from the grimy brick wall. Ren crouched in the oppressive shadows of the opposite rooftop, his breath held tight, observing the entrance to the narrow alley the 'Bleeding Skull' gang claimed as their territory. According to the whispers he'd gathered – a currency he traded in as skillfully as any merchant – this alley served as their primary stash house and meeting point. If the Crimson Path led through conflict, or if this gang held a clue related to the Path's symbol, this was the place to learn more.
Deepest shadow… The words from the notice echoed in his mind. This alley certainly qualified. It stank of stale beer, desperation, and something else… a nervous energy, like a trapped animal pacing its cage.
Ren knew the risks. The Bleeding Skulls were known for their brutality and territorial aggression. Getting caught meant broken bones at best. But the notice, the promise of the Crimson Path, had ignited a fire in him that burned hotter than fear. The Path protects those who walk it bravely, he told himself, conveniently inventing a tenet Zero hadn't thought of.
He needed a closer look. Waiting for a moment when the two brutish lookouts near the entrance turned to share a swig from a wineskin, Ren moved. He dropped silently from the rooftop into the mouth of the alley flanking the gang's territory, landing in a crouch that barely disturbed the scattered refuse. From here, hugging the crumbling brick wall, he could edge closer, perhaps peer into a window or overhear conversations.
He moved like smoke, his worn boots finding purchase on the slick cobblestones without a sound. He could hear guttural laughter from within the alley, the clink of coins or weapons. He pressed himself flat against the wall near the first boarded-up window, straining to hear.
"…told 'im, pay up by sundown or Sharky takes a finger…"
"…the new shipment from the docks…"
"…stupid Watch patrol sniffing around again…"
Nothing about a path, crimson or otherwise. Nothing about a bleeding eye, just threats and typical gang business. Disappointment warred with caution. Maybe he needed to get inside?
Before he could formulate a plan – or dismiss the idea as suicidal – a side door further down the alley burst open. A wiry man scrambled out, clutching a small pouch, terror etched on his face. Right behind him stormed a much larger figure, brandishing a heavy cudgel.
"Get back 'ere, rat!" the larger man roared.
Instinct took over. Ren flattened himself further into the shadows, trying to become invisible. The wiry man sprinted past him towards the alley entrance, the larger thug hot on his heels. The commotion drew the attention of the lookouts, who turned, shouting.
In the chaos, Ren saw his chance to retreat unnoticed. But as he pushed off the wall, his foot slipped on something slick – spilled grease or cheap gin. He stumbled forward, right into the path of the pursuing thug.
The large man roared, surprised, swinging his cudgel instinctively at the unexpected obstacle. Ren reacted without thinking, twisting low, the heavy wood whistling harmlessly over his head. He used his momentum, planting a hand on the thug's thick thigh and vaulting clean over his hip, landing lightly further down the alley.
It was a move born of countless escapes, pure reflex honed on the streets. But in that split second, Ren felt an odd sense of clarity, a perfect alignment of movement and intent. The Path! his mind screamed triumphantly. It guides my steps!
He didn't wait to see the outcome. He sprinted out of the alley, dodging the bewildered lookouts, his heart pounding not just with fear but with exhilaration. He'd faced danger, acted decisively, and emerged unscathed – perhaps even unintentionally aided the fleeing thief by distracting his pursuer. It had to be the Crimson Path! He hadn't found a clue, maybe, but he had walked the Path and felt its power. He needed to be stronger, faster, ready for the next test!
***
Barric 'Stone Guard' leaned against the cold stone wall of the City Watch South Barracks, the dismissal notice clutched tight in his fist. "Budgetary cutbacks," the Sergeant had mumbled, avoiding his eyes. Lies. Barric knew the real reason. He'd refused to look the other way when Captain Valerius skimmed funds from the armoury supplies. He'd spoken up about patrols neglecting the poorer districts. He wasn't corruptible, wasn't easily intimidated, and in Valerius's Watch, that made him inconvenient. Expendable.
Ten years. Ten years of service, of standing the line, of protecting this damned city, and this was his reward. Discarded like a broken tool. He watched the other guardsmen, some averting their gazes, others offering awkward, fleeting sympathy. There was no real camaraderie here, not anymore. Just men looking out for themselves, afraid to rock the boat.
He crushed the notice in his hand, the injustice a bitter taste in his mouth. What now? Mercenary work? Sell his sword arm to the highest bidder, fighting meaningless skirmishes for greedy merchants or petty nobles? The thought soured his stomach. He craved purpose, loyalty – the kind he thought he'd find in the Watch, the kind that had died long ago under commanders like Valerius.
He pushed himself off the wall, intending to head towards the Rookery district, where the mercenary guilds hawked their contracts. As he turned, his boot scuffed against something on the grimy flagstones near the barracks gate – a crumpled piece of cheap paper someone had dropped or discarded. Normally, he wouldn't have given it a second glance, but the odd symbol, drawn in ink with a faint red tinge, caught his eye.
He picked it up, smoothing it out. "ARE YOU LOST IN THE MUNDANE?..." Barric frowned. More cultist nonsense or some coded message for criminals? He read on. "...DOES THE DAYLIGHT BLIND YOU TO THE TRUTH?... SEEK THE BLEEDING EYE IN THE DEEPEST SHADOW. WHERE SILENCE SCREAMS, THE CRIMSON PATH BEGINS."
Lost in the mundane? He felt adrift in it, spat out by the very system he'd sworn to uphold. Daylight blinding him to the truth? He'd seen the truth behind the Watch's shiny badges and hollow oaths – the corruption, the apathy. It festered just beneath the surface.
Deepest shadow… Where silence screams… It resonated with his current state, the silent scream of injustice trapped within him. And the Crimson Path. It sounded structured. Disciplined. A path implied order, direction. Something solid to stand on. Not like the shifting sands of Watch politics or the fickle loyalties of mercenary bands.
Barric wasn't prone to flights of fancy. He was a grounded man, a man who believed in duty, strength, protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. This notice… it was likely nothing. A fraud. But the words, hitting him at this moment of bitter disillusionment, struck a chord. It spoke of finding truth in shadows, of a path beyond the mundane. It hinted at a purpose he desperately craved.
He carefully folded the notice and tucked it inside his worn leather jerkin. He wouldn't seek out mercenary work today. Not yet. He would walk. He would observe. He would look for this 'Bleeding Eye'. If this Crimson Path was real, if it offered genuine purpose and demanded unwavering loyalty – the kind he valued above all else – perhaps it was a path worth exploring. It couldn't be any worse than the path he'd just been forced off.
***
Argent huddled beneath the archway of a disused customs house, observing the alley across the street – the same one where Anya practiced her sword forms. His logic, based on the notice's keywords ("deepest shadow," "silence screams"), had led him here. This alley was perpetually shadowed, mostly deserted, and occasionally echoed with the 'screams' of steel on air from the unknown sword practitioner he'd glimpsed. It was, by his analysis, a statistically probable location for clandestine meetings or 'cult' activity related to the notices.
He'd been watching for two hours. So far, his observations included: three stray cats fighting over a fish head, an old woman emptying a chamber pot from a third-story window (narrowly missing him), and the aforementioned swordswoman methodically practicing her drills.
He focused his attention on her. Tall, silver-haired, intense. Her skill was undeniable, far beyond typical guard training. Was she connected to this 'Crimson Path'? Was this relentless practice her form of devotion? Or was she, perhaps, the enigmatic leader herself, the 'Master' hiding in plain sight? The notice used vague, potentially gender-neutral language.
He noted her movements, the style of her blade work – precise, economical, almost brutally efficient. He sketched her stance quickly in his notebook, adding annotations about potential schools of swordsmanship it might resemble. He also noted the time of her practice, its duration, her departure route. Data. It was all data.
As she finished and departed via a side street, Argent remained, scanning the alley. Nothing. No symbols, no dead drops, no other figures emerging from the shadows. His hypothesis regarding this location seemed, for the moment, unsupported.
Perhaps the interpretation was wrong. "Silence screams" could be auditory, not metaphorical. Or "deepest shadow" could refer to political or social obscurity rather than literal lack of light. He needed more data points. More observation. He decided to check the other locations where notices had been reported or were likely to appear. This required patience. And possibly a stronger filter charm against the city's more pungent odours.
***
Zero dipped his quill into the pot of crimson-tinged ink. His mask-making attempt had been shelved (literally, tossed onto a shelf). His lair scouting had ended in ignominious retreat. But here, surrounded by parchment and ideas, he felt competent. Here, he could build his world.
He wasn't just creating lore anymore; he was creating structure. A proper shadow organization needed rules, a philosophy, a code. Otherwise, how would his followers know how to act cool and mysterious?
He began writing, titling the document 'Tenets of the Crimson Shadow Path'.
1. Embrace the Shadow, for within it lies Truth. (Nice and vague.)
2. Silence is the Master's Voice; Listen Closely. (Good way to justify his own awkward silences.)
3. Let Crimson Conviction be Your Unwavering Shield and Sword. (Sounds heroic.)
4. Strike Unseen, like Twilight Falling upon the Unaware. (Standard assassin stuff.)
5. Question Not the Path, Question Only Your Own Resolve. (Essential for discouraging inconvenient questions.)
He paused, admiring his handiwork. It felt authentic. Ancient. Powerful. He added a few more, focusing on loyalty, secrecy, and the vague pursuit of 'balance' (another useful catch-all). He was particularly pleased with: 'Walk the Blade's Edge Between Nothingness and Being; Find Your Purpose There.' Profound!
This felt productive. This was something he could control. Unlike dilapidated warehouses or surly dockworkers or the terrifying possibility of actual recruits showing up. He just needed to refine these tenets, maybe bind them in a suitably aged-looking cover. Then he'd be ready. Then the Crimson Hand could truly begin. He just hoped no one found those notices before he finished writing the instruction manual.