Chapter 181 – Grayscale Infiltration

Joe Striker moved through the vaulted, stone halls of the Grayscale College with a detective’s deliberate pace, his footsteps echoing faintly in the scholarly quiet. His access had been upgraded from ‘suspicious outsider’ to ‘tolerated consultant,’ a shift entirely due to Archmage Dakka’s personal interest in the metaphysical puzzle of Rob Anvil’s death. The usual bureaucratic gauntlet—forms in triplicate, scheduled appointments weeks in advance, suspicious glares from academic secretaries—had been waived. If he had findings, or needed to consult the bandaged archmage, he was to come directly. It was an unprecedented level of trust from the notoriously insular university, and Joe, ever the opportunist, was exploiting it fully, learning the layout and rhythms of this strange, powerful world.

The hallway he currently navigated was a gallery of legacy and power. On both walls, in heavy, gilded frames, hung the portraits of past Archmages of the Grayscale College. Each was a masterpiece of realism and symbolism, capturing not just a face, but an era of magical jurisprudence. Severe men and women in robes of charcoal, slate, and pearl grey stared down, their eyes painted with the weight of judgments passed and laws woven into the aether itself.

About halfway down the corridor, one portrait commanded the space, dominating the wall. It was larger, its frame more intricately carved, the oils within seeming to hold a deeper, almost luminous quality. It depicted a man in the foundational grey robes of a judge, though the cut was of an older, more austere fashion. He had a strong, square jaw and short, neatly parted black hair, his expression one of calm, unwavering authority. In one hand, he held not a staff or a book, but a perfectly balanced scale, its pans empty yet suggesting infinite potential. He was, by any conventional measure, a handsome and imposing figure.

But it was the eyes that arrested Joe. They were a vivid, piercing crimson, painted with such intensity they seemed to hold their own light, cutting through the dimness of the hall. A strange, almost physical sensation prickled at the base of Joe’s skull—not quite déjà vu, but a persistent, nagging itch of significance, as if his subconscious had recognized a pattern his conscious mind hadn’t yet parsed.

Frowning, he stepped closer, the other portraits fading into the periphery. His gaze dropped to the polished brass plaque mounted beneath the frame. The inscription was simple, yet it carried the weight of history:

URIEL GRAY

One of the SevenFounders of the University and the Grayscale College

Joe let out a slow breath, the pieces clicking into a more mundane, if still impressive, place.

Joe: “One of the great founders,” he murmured to the empty hall, his voice barely a whisper. “This portrait definitely captures the air of someone who shaped the world.” The itch in his head subsided, rationalized away as a reaction to the presence of true, historical gravity. He was looking at the face of an institution’s father, a man whose decisions centuries ago dictated the very rules of magic and law that Joe now navigated in his investigation. It was only natural the depiction would be arresting.

He gave the portrait one last, lingering look, committing the striking red eyes to memory, before turning and continuing down the hall toward Dakka’s office.

Joe had come to the university with a specific, delicate agenda. The potential identification of the Vaal Street knife as a Mythic Era artifact had thrown his entire investigation into a new dimension. The “how” of Rob’s death was no longer just a question of obscure curse mechanics; it was now tangled with pre-historic objects. Public records on such artifacts were sparse, deliberately obscured, or locked behind layers of state secrecy. If there was a repository of deeper knowledge anywhere in the Union States, it was here, within the hallowed walls of the Graheel University.

Archmage Dakka was his immediate point of contact, a figure of immense authority who had shown a unique interest in the case. Joe didn’t expect the bandaged mage to be an expert on Mythic Era relics himself, but he hoped Dakka’s influence could open doors—or at least point him toward a specialist in the Arcanium Archives or some reclusive university professor who studied antiquities.

The trick was in the approach. He couldn’t reveal he possessed—or even strongly suspected he possessed—such an artifact. The moment he uttered the words “Mythic Era” in conjunction with “evidence,” his investigation would be hijacked. Black-suited government archivists with absolute authority would descend, the knife would vanish into a lead-lined vault, and the case file would be stamped “CLASSIFIED” before he could blink. He needed to frame his inquiries as hypothetical, academic curiosity sparked by the bizarre nature of the curse. If a deadly curse used a pre-aetheric object, what might that look like?Were there any records of such phenomena? A careful dance of implication.

He was mentally rehearsing this delicate script, his brow furrowed in concentration, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up.

From the far end of the hallway, a figure rounded the corner. It was Alan Vexal. The student looked different from when Joe had last seen him since they last met; there was a new layer of fatigue etched around his eyes, a certain grim set to his shoulders that spoke of intense, recent strain. But the recognition was instant.

Both stopped dead in their tracks, a good twenty feet of polished stone floor between them. Surprise was mutual. Alan’s gaze, weary but alert, locked onto Joe with a question he didn’t voice. Joe, for his part, swiftly shelved his thoughts about artifacts and Dakka.

For a suspended moment in the quiet hall, beneath the judgmental gaze of painted archmages. The detective and the student simply stared at one another.

Alan: “Joe? What are you doing here?” Vexal asked, his voice a mix of surprise and wariness.

Joe: “I could ask you the same thing,” Striker countered, closing the distance between them with his characteristic, purposeful stride. His eyes were already scanning Alan, looking for tells—signs of injury, stress, hidden agendas.

Alan: “Oh, well, Mitra and I were just consulting with Archmage Dakka on some… procedural matters for the Sleuth-Hawks,” he said, the lie coming out smoothly, if a bit rehearsed. It was the cover story they’d agreed upon to hide the lessons he was receiving from Dakka: any unusual access to senior faculty was to be framed as operational logistics for their new unit.

Joe: “I see,” he said, his tone neutral, accepting the explanation at face value for now. “So, does that mean the Archmage is available? I need to speak with him.”

Alan shook his head.

Alan: “No, I’m afraid not. Right after we finished, Mitra mentioned they had a scheduled meeting with the other College Heads. He said they’d be sequestered for the rest of the day, possibly until tomorrow morning.”

Joe clicked his tongue softly, a faint sound of pure frustration. A whole day lost. He took a deep, steadying breath, the kind that did little to actually steady him.

Alan: “Alright. If you don’t mind my asking, what was so urgent you needed to see him about? Sleuth-Hawk business already heating up?”

Joe: “It’s related to an old investigation I’ve been working on for a while,” he explained, opting for a version of the truth. “Long before the Sleuth-Hawks were even a thought. It’s hit a… theoretical wall. I was hoping for some academic insight.”

Alan fell into step beside him as Joe turned to leave, their path taking them back down the portrait-lined hall.

Alan: “Um, are you going to tell me about it? Since, you know, we’re technically a team now?” There was a cautious curiosity in Alan’s voice, the instinct of someone who’d been thrust into a world of secrets.

Joe: “Yeah, I can give you the broad strokes. Walk and talk? Since Dakka’s in a meeting, I’m calling it a day.”

Alan: “Sure. I was heading back home anyway.”

As they walked, the echoes of their footsteps accompanying the stern gazes of the painted archmages, Joe began to outline the skeleton of the Rob Anvil case. He spoke of the gang lord’s rise and fall, the uneasy peace his disappearance had brought to the East End, and the bizarre, medically impossible nature of his demise. He described what he personally witness, the lack of magical residue, the growing suspicion of a “deadly curse”—a term he used with deliberate gravity, watching for Alan’s reaction. He detailed the strange clues: the suicide of the victim’s mother, old dried blood that was linked to him somehow. He painted a picture of a perfect murder with a supernatural signature.

Throughout the explanation, Joe was meticulously selective. He spoke of needing to understand the mechanics of such a curse, the historical precedents, the possible power sources. He framed it as a detective seeking an academic consult on obscure magical theory. The switchblade with the staring eye, the impossible durability, Tony’s shocking analysis, the blood that pointed to Joe himself… all of that remained locked behind a steel door in his mind. He didn’t fully distrust Alan, but the young man was, first and foremost, a student of the University and a disciple of Mitra. His loyalties were complex and untested.

Revealing he might be in possession of a Mythic Era artifact was a risk far beyond sharing a case theory. It was the kind of secret that, if it reached the wrong ears, would see the artifact—and likely Joe’s badge for hiding it—confiscated before he could say “evidence locker.” For now, Alan got the edited, professional version.

Alan nodded along as Joe laid out the bizarre parameters of his case, committing the details to memory. A persistent, low-grade guilt gnawed at him. He had lied to Joe about Cid’s involvement in the past, a deception that had nearly derailed Joe’s career and certainly earned his lasting suspicion. Yet, through it all, Joe had maintained a gruff, professional distance that, in its own way, felt protective. He hadn’t thrown Alan to the wolves. Listening now, trying to be a useful sounding board, felt like the smallest possible repayment of a debt.

Unfortunately, the subject matter was utterly outside his wheelhouse.

Alan: “So, the theory is you’re dealing with an extremely obscure, possibly forgotten branch of magic?” Vexal ventured, trying to synthesize the information.

Joe: “That’s the leading hypothesis based on the evidence, or rather, the lack of conventional evidence,” Joe confirmed, his voice tight with frustration.

Alan shook his head.

Alan: “I’m sorry, Joe. I wish I could be more help, but deadly curses… that’s way beyond anything I’ve studied. I’ve never even heard of them outside of what you just told me.”

Joe: “Don’t worry about it,” Striker said, the edge in his tone softening slightly. “I didn’t expect you to. The obscurity is the whole problem. That’s why I need someone like Dakka—someone with access to knowledge that isn’t in the public libraries.”

The mention of the university’s structure reminded Alan of the impending change.

Alan: “Oh, right. Since Jafar’s… stepping back, Mitra is assigning one of her other disciples to our Sleuth-Hawks team. A guy named Grom.”

Joe’s head turned sharply.

Joe: “Grom? As in Grom Rockjaw?”

Alan: “You know him?” he asked, surprised.

Joe: “Know of him,” he corrected, a flicker of something like fan interest breaking through his detective’s grimace. “I follow the Mutant Boxing League. More action, less pretense than the non-mutant circuit. He is a powerhouse. Came in second a few seasons back, lost the championship to Kyle Feris. I was really hoping he’d finally dethrone that bas—” He cut himself off abruptly, his eyes darting around the empty hall as if the walls themselves might be listening. Calling Kyle Feris, the Nighthounds’ second in command a bastard in public was… unwise. He cleared his throat. “—that guy. Kyle’s winning streak is impressive, but it makes the matches predictable. A new champion would shake things up.”

Alan: “I had no idea Grom had that kind of fame outside the university,” he said, seeing the mountain-like Goliath in a new light.

Joe: “And I had no idea he was a mage,” Joe countered, skepticism creeping in. “He’s a mutant, right? I thought that precluded spell casting all together."

Alan: “It’s not common here,” Vexal explained, falling back on the knowledge from his Gixian upbringing. “But certain generational mutants—Goliaths, Elves, Dracos—have stable aetheric systems. They’re called Aether Mutants back in Gix. And, can use magic like any other mage.”

Joe: “Huh. Mutants that can use magic. Who would have—” Joe’s sentence died mid-word. He stopped walking completely.

They had been passing a heavy oak door, one of many lining the administrative hallway. It was slightly ajar, just a finger’s width of shadow. Normally, Joe would have dismissed it—but through that narrow gap, his detective’s eye caught a glimpse of the room’s interior. The floor wasn’t the expected polished stone or austere carpet. It was a chaotic sea of paper. Not neat stacks, but a torrential spill, as if a filing cabinet had vomited its contents across the room.

Alan: “Is something wrong?” he asked, turning to follow Joe’s gaze.

Joe: “Just a second,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper. All thoughts of boxing leagues and mutant magic vanished. His posture shifted, every sense tuning to the anomaly. He took a silent step forward, pressed his palm flat against the dark wood, and gently pushed the door open wider.

The scene that unfolded as the door swung open was one of violent disarray. The office, which should have been a realm of ordered scholarship, looked as if a whirlwind had torn through it. Bookcases were toppled, their contents spilled across the floor in a blizzard of parchment and leather. A heavy desk was shoved askew. But the focal point, the still center of the storm, was at the room’s far end.

Slumped in a high-backed leather chair was a man in the distinctive grey robes of a Grayscale professor. His head lolled back, eyes wide open and glassy, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. His mouth hung slack in a silent, final gasp. A horrific laceration sliced across the front of his throat, a dark, wet line from which a fan of crimson spray painted the papers on his desk in front of him. The metallic scent of blood cut through the dust in the air.

A jolt of pure, ice-cold shock froze both Joe and Alan for a split second. Then, movement.

Near a row of upended filing cabinets, a figure straightened up. It was clad in long, dusty brown robes that seemed to absorb the room’s dim light. It had been rifling through a drawer, but now it turned toward the interruption. As it lifted its head, they saw not a face, but a mask. It was a porcelain clown mask, painted in leering whites and reds, with black diamond shapes on each cheek. The eyeholes were dark, empty pits.

Time stretched, thin and taut. In that breathless, silent standoff, three things happened at once. Joe’s hand began a slow, deliberate creep toward the firearm holstered under his coat. Alan’s muscles tensed, aether gathering instinctively at his fingertips with a faint, dangerous crackle. And the masked intruder moved.

With a flick of the wrist that was almost casual, three small, wicked-looking daggers slid out from their sleeve into the intruder’s hand and were sent hurtling through the air—two toward Joe, one toward Alan.

Joe’s training and unique talent kicked in simultaneously. His mind screamed Vectromancy! He started to raise his hand, intent on using his magnetic control to stop the daggers’ flight, to turn them aside. But in that same fraction of a second, a foreign, crystalline certainty slammed into his consciousness—a vision not born of his own mind. He saw himself, clear as day, a dagger embedded deep in his throat, his own blood welling around the hilt. The precognition was a cold slap, utterly alien and terrifyingly urgent.

He aborted the magnetic pulse. Instead of a raised hand, he threw himself sideways in a violent tackle, taking Alan down with him in a tangle of limbs. They hit the hard floor just as the daggers thwipped past, so close the displaced air ruffled their hair.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The blades struck the ancient stone wall behind where they’d just been standing. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, the runes etched along the daggers’ blades flared with an orange light.

BOOM!

The detonation was deafening in the enclosed space. A concussive wave of heat and force slammed into them, followed by a hailstorm of shattered stone, splintered wood, and pulverized paper. Joe covered his head, feeling debris pelt his back. The very foundations of the old building groaned in protest.

As the dust began to settle, coughing, Joe lifted his head and looked back. Where the daggers had struck was now a gaping, jagged maw in the solid wall, revealing the twisted supports and another room beyond.

A cold sweat, unrelated to the explosion’s heat, broke out on Joe’s brow. The vision had saved his life. His Vectromancy was useless against objects already saturated with active magic—he couldn’t have stopped those aether infused blades. And the wards on the University stone, designed to resist stray spells and physical force, had been utterly overwhelmed. That dagger wouldn’t have just stabbed him; it would have turned him into a bloody smear.

He and Alan scrambled to their feet, coughing in the smoky, dust-choked air. Across the ruined office, the masked intruder showed no interest in a second attack. With the folder clutched in one hand, the figure spun and sprinted toward a large paned window. Without slowing, it launched itself forward, crashing through the glass in a glittering, violent shower, and vanished into the open air beyond.