Pax discovered something crucial in the early days after his recruitment: people, no matter how intelligent or eager, tend to drift without structure.

This wasn't due to a lack of wisdom but rather because uncertainty breeds hesitation.

If he wanted what he was building to last beyond mere rumours or a fleeting week, it needed an anchor, something tangible, something repeatable, something that transformed the idea into reality.

That anchor manifested as a small, nondescript courtyard. Nestled between two half-abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the poorer quarter, its stone walls were cracked and its wooden gate sagged slightly on rusted hinges.

At its center stood a shallow well, long dry and surrounded by weeds that had claimed the cracks in the stone. To anyone with wealth or ambition, this place was worthless. But for Pax, it was perfect.

He rented it under a name that held both significance and ambiguity: Greyvale Community Soup Relief.

The paperwork was straightforward. The landlord barely glanced at him twice. Soup kitchens were common enough to avoid scrutiny and dull enough not to attract attention.

No noble would waste time inspecting a place where beggars lined up for broth, and no merchant would see profit in it. Pax paid upfront for a short lease, kept his head down, and made no promises about longevity.

On the first morning, smoke rose from the courtyard for the first time in years.

Large iron pots simmered over crude fire pits filled with thin broth and root vegetables. The aroma wasn't rich but steady, a comforting familiarity.

Pax stood at the gate with his sleeves rolled up, ladling soup himself; he didn't delegate that task just yet. He understood that trust is built through action before command.

People came, not just beggars this time but porters between jobs, weary washerwomen, dockhands on break, and children sent by exhausted parents. Pax didn't ask names or questions; he simply served soup while nodding and listening.

But those who truly mattered, the twenty, arrived differently.They didn't line up like everyone else; they lingered and observed.

By the third day, Pax gathered them in the courtyard after the fires died down and the gate closed behind them.

The air had cooled by then; there was a quietness that followed temporary relief from hunger. Lantern light cast long shadows on the walls, making the space feel larger than it really was.

Standing near the dry well with his hands clasped behind his back, Pax spoke seriously but not harshly.

"This place," he began steadily, "isn't what it appears to be."

"To the city," he continued, "it's just soup." He paused before adding meaningfully: "To us, it's cover."

Old Rask nodded slowly as if he had already suspected as much.

"This courtyard is neutral ground," Pax declared firmly. "No fighting, no intimidation, and no settling scores. Anyone who breaks this rule will be asked to leave."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, but no one voiced any objections.

"These are our first rules," Pax continued, raising a finger for emphasis. "Remember them."

He lifted a second finger."No stealing, whether from the city, from each other, or from those who come here."

His gaze sharpened slightly. "The moment we become thieves, we lose what makes us invisible."

With a third finger raised, he added, "No extortion. No pressure. No using information to harm others unless it's a matter of survival."

Mira frowned slightly at that. "Isn't that… limiting?"

"Yes," Pax replied without hesitation. "That's precisely the point."

He stepped closer, the lantern light catching his eyes in a way that drew attention. "And the most important rule," he said quietly, "is no unnecessary lies."

This statement caused visible confusion among the group.

Lennie tilted her head in thought. "Isn't lying part of listening?"

Pax shook his head firmly. "Listening doesn't require lies; it requires silence."

He let that idea settle in. "We don't create rumors," Pax continued. "We don't exaggerate or twist the truth unless survival demands it. The city lies enough on its own; our value lies in accuracy."

For a long moment, silence enveloped them.

Finally, Old Rask cleared his throat and asked, "And if someone asks who we are?"

Pax smiled faintly at that question. "We're no one."

That answer resonated more deeply than any rule he had laid down.

In the days that followed, the courtyard began to find its rhythm. Soup was served twice daily as people came and went freely.

The twenty members rotated shifts naturally, some helped with food preparation while others kept watch over the streets or took time to rest.

Pax didn't impose rigid schedules; instead, he observed who gravitated toward specific roles and who noticed patterns around them.

But structure wasn't just about rules and space, it was about identity.

And identity needed a symbol. Pax chose not to introduce this symbol immediately; like trust itself, symbols could lose their power if revealed too soon.

He waited until the third night after opening when the group had settled into something resembling cohesion.

That evening, Pax brought chalk, ordinary white chalk like children used for drawing games on stone streets. He broke it cleanly in half and held up the shorter piece for everyone to see.

"This," he announced solemnly, "is the only banner we'll ever raise."

Confused expressions spread across faces in response.

Pax knelt near the courtyard wall and drew a small mark, two short diagonal lines crossing a longer vertical stroke, a design simple enough to be dismissed as mere scribbling.

"This mark means nothing," Pax said. "And because it means nothing, it means everything."

He stood up and brushed the chalk dust from his hands. "You don't carve it deep. You don't draw it where everyone can see. You place it where only someone looking for it would notice."

Lennie leaned in closer. "What does it say?"

Pax paused to think. "It says: someone was here," he replied. "Not who. Not when. Just… here."

Mira crossed her arms, pondering this. "And if someone copies it?"

"They won't know when they've got it wrong," Pax said calmly. "They won't know where it belongs."

He gestured around the courtyard. "This mark is permission," he explained. "If you see it, you can speak freely. If you don't, you listen."

Old Rask smiled slowly, approvingly. "An invisible banner."

Pax nodded in agreement. "That's exactly what it is."

He didn't voice its name aloud; names had a way of making things real in dangerous ways. But in his mind, he shaped the idea.

The Grey Veil.

Not a faction or a guild, certainly not an organization anyone could point to.

Just a thin layer separating what was said from what was heard.By the end of the week, the mark began appearing in places Pax hadn't directly instructed,near a dockside pillar, behind a tavern bench, inside an alley shrine where beggars prayed for warmth.

It was small and easily overlooked, perfect.

Pax found himself walking through the city more often now, not as a drifter but as a node of information. News started coming to him instead of him chasing after it.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.