Filbert Grubb, Senior Under-Clerk (Third Class) at the Veridian Municipal Land Registry, was a man whose existence was defined by towering stacks of unsorted parchments, the pervasive scent of stale ink, and a profound, bone-deep resentment for the relentless influx of new deeds requiring his (eventual) attention. His desk was not so much a workspace as a geological feature, a testament to years of accumulated bureaucratic sediment.
Or at least, it had been.
This morning, Filbert Grubb stumbled into his office, nursing a lukewarm cup of what generously might be termed 'tea,' and stopped dead. His jaw sagged. His tea cup slipped from nerveless fingers, shattering on the floorboards with a mournful splash.
His desk… it was… clear.
Not just clear, but organized. Parchments were stacked in neat, labeled piles. His quills, usually a splayed mess, stood erect in their pot like disciplined soldiers. His inkwells, usually crusted and empty, were full and gleaming. The very air seemed less dusty, less oppressive. It was an abomination. A terrifying violation of natural bureaucratic order.
Then he saw it. Centered precisely on the topmost document of the 'URGENT & OVERDUE' pile (a pile whose existence he usually preferred to ignore), was a single, perfect, crimson dot.
Filbert let out a small, strangled whimper. He'd heard whispers, of course. Vague, fearful tales among the junior clerks about shadowy organizations that enforced… efficiency. The Clean Desk Assassins. The Order of the Impeccable Filing Cabinet. The Red Dot Retributionists, who left their singular mark as a final warning before… well, no one knew what came after the dot, and no one wanted to find out.
This was it. They'd found him. They'd judged his systemic inefficiency and found it wanting. This unnatural tidiness wasn't a kindness; it was a threat! A silent, terrifyingly organized ultimatum!
"They're onto me!" he shrieked, scrambling backwards until he hit the opposite wall. He had to report this! He had to warn someone! Though who did one warn about a secret society of hyper-efficient, dot-leaving enforcers? His supervisor, Master Tilbury, would probably just give him more work for bringing such a preposterous story to his attention. Filbert Grubb was having a very, very bad start to his day.
***
Anya sat in quiet contemplation in her small, sparsely furnished room. The Master's 'Addendum Prime to Masterly Mandate on Path Iconography' lay open before her. The shift from the 'Weeping Oculus' to the 'Crimson Point' was, she now understood, a profound evolution in doctrine.
The Oculus was perception, the outward gaze that identified the city's myriad sorrows and festering shadows. Her work observing Elder Theron and the Merchant Guilds had been part of this 'Probationary Phase.' But the Crimson Point… that was different. It was focus. Precision. The identification of the core, the singular nexus of a problem, the critical vulnerability.
Her previous interpretation of the Master's poem – to understand the city's systemic decay – was still valid, but the Crimson Point refined the method. She wasn't just to observe the web of corruption; she was to find its central spinner. The poem spoke of "The Serpent Coils in Halls of Gold." The Crimson Point now demanded she identify the Serpent's head.
Her mission was clear. Elder Theron and Jax the smuggler were significant, yes. But were they the ultimate source? Or were they merely tendrils of a larger beast? She needed to find the "Crimson Point" within their network – the individual, the location, the specific transaction that, if struck, would unravel their entire operation. This required an even deeper level of observation, a more focused application of her skills. The Master was guiding her from broad understanding to precise, targeted insight. It was a mark of his confidence in her development as an Acolyte.
***
Investigator Gregor, his new theory about the 'Heresiarchs of the Unblinking Orb' burning brightly in his analytical mind, had shifted his focus. While the hunt for Indigo Ren continued (albeit with less personal involvement from Gregor, who now considered Ren a mere foot soldier or messenger), Gregor himself was delving into Veridia's academic and esoteric underbelly.
He'd spent a frustrating morning at the Great Library, where his interaction with the rambling 'Master Argent' had yielded nothing but ornithological tangents. He was now in his own office at the Citadel, surrounded by dusty municipal archives and obscure historical treatises requisitioned from various bewildered city departments. He was looking for any mention of geometric symbolism in past cult activities, any record of groups focused on 'unblinking orbs' or 'mathematical heresies.'
"Commander Marius believes there's a historical precedent," Gregor muttered to Sergeant Harlen, who was assisting him in sifting through piles of near-illegible scrolls. "Master Hesh confirmed the 'Unblinking Orb' faction. The geometric symbol found at the cooperage must be their true sigil, far more complex than the crude 'Bleeding Eye' used for public distraction."
Harlen, a practical man whose experience with cults mostly involved breaking up overly enthusiastic ale-house singers claiming divine inspiration, merely grunted. "So, we're looking for… evil mathematicians, sir?"
"We're looking for a sophisticated, intellectually driven organization, Sergeant," Gregor corrected, though internally he admitted Harlen's summary had a certain crude accuracy. "One that uses misdirection and layers of symbolism. Indigo Ren and his Bleeding Eyes are the loud, public noise. The geometric symbols, the potential mentor figure… that's where the real threat lies." He unrolled a city map. "If they are intellectually inclined, their meeting places, their true sanctums, would likely be near places of learning, archives, old libraries… or perhaps forgotten sites with unique geometric or arcane properties." His finger hovered over the map, a thoughtful frown on his face. He was building a new profile, a new set of potential targets, moving further and further from the simple truth of Zero's accidental chaos.
***
Zero, having successfully deposited his 'Addendum Prime' scrolls at the Shrine of Lost Socks (he'd even managed to do so without encountering any other pilgrims seeking solace for their missing footwear, which he counted as a major operational success), felt a brief moment of Masterly accomplishment. He had decisively managed his brand! The Crimson Point was now official Path doctrine!
His relief lasted approximately half a day. Then, a new, horrifying thought intruded upon his fleeting calm.
Reports.
Anya had already left two reports. Barric had left one. What if they left more reports at the Shrine before they found his new scrolls about the Crimson Point? Or worse, what if they found the Crimson Point scrolls, and then left reports using the old Bleeding Eye symbolism because they hadn't fully internalized the rebranding yet? The potential for iconographic inconsistency was a nightmare!
And what was he supposed to do with all these reports anyway? His collection of highly sensitive, illicitly obtained intelligence was growing. His loose floorboard was practically groaning under the weight of Veridia's documented corruption and defensive frailties.
"I need… a system," he whispered, staring at the floorboard with dread. "A proper archival system for Acolyte field reports. And a protocol for… for Masterly Review and Actioning." The capital letters felt important, even in his thoughts.
He couldn't just keep eating them. Parchment was surprisingly chewy. And his stomach had lodged a formal protest after Anya's second report.
Perhaps he could create a… a ledger? A 'Crimson Ledger of Urban Malaise'? Where he could… catalogue their findings? Yes! That sounded official. And it involved stationery, which was comfortably within his skill set. He wouldn't act on any of it, of course. But he could catalogue it. With cross-references. And perhaps a nice, Point-based index. That was practically the same as dealing with it.