Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Глава 26

Chapter 26

There are many ways to wake up in the morning, good, bad, and terrible. The desperate screaming of the alarm clock, the ray of sunlight falling directly on our eyes, the polite touch of a roommate, the laughing children under the window - there are countless options, and each of us will have our own. The way these life works is that every dream is followed by an awakening, unless, of course, we are talking about the very last dream that every intelligent and thinking creature in the universe will have to fall asleep.

A separate scale is the quality of awakening. How pleasant it is for you to wake up, come back to reality from dreamland, and start doing something. Important. Very.

Waking up in the company of two adorable girls, fully asleep and very, very satisfied is great. Waking up on your own, with no desire to go back to sleep and no annoying wake-up call, is good. Just opening your eyes and going to work, as you always do and will do for a long time to come, is fine. Barely opening teary-eyed slits, turning off the phone that is sticking in your brain, getting a call from your boss who is furious that you are late, and then dragging yourself to the office that you hate is a bad way to wake up.

But if you're awakened by a cold strip of steel touching your throat, that's not bad, it's horrible. And if you have the proud title of one of the night kings of a large medieval city, if you are regularly assassinated, and if you sleep in a securely locked room that is constantly guarded by loyal men, it is not even a terrible way to be awakened. It's just f*cking awful!

As head of the strongest guild of assassins and thieves in the Kraj (a joint venture), Raly "The Grey" Sholin was well aware of the dangers of his trade. After all, he'd often had to arrange such awakenings for smartass people himself. Or lack thereof - it all depended solely on the intentions of the wearer of the piece of steel that had now awakened him.

These guys didn't have the immunity guaranteed by the patronage of the Mayor, the head of the Alchemists' Guild, and the head of the Guardians of the Kraj all together, so they always had to sleep with their eyes open. Especially lately, when from nowhere appeared organization, young and daring, almost made under the control of all the criminal city and badly bite even smugglers with their protection. At this state of affairs, his guild, which in its time managed to considerably expand at the expense of joining it all those who feared the "young and impertinent," had to live on almost a state of war. And they were losing that war, though they shouldn't have had to.

The assassins were not idiots, so they guessed that the enemy had a squad of truly elite specialists in solving problems by drastic means. They just made an empirical calculation, based on the bread crumbs of destroyed and missing fighters. Still, the assassins were all too used to thinking of themselves as the biggest badass bastards in this dumpster, trivial not expecting a sudden retaliation on all fronts.

The only reason they were not killed en masse was that they did not want to start a real war in the city, forcing the authorities (who were well aware of everything) to keep a low profile and carry out reactionary operations. The bandits themselves understood this, which made them even madder at their own powerlessness. The only reason they had not deserted so far was that they hoped for a peaceful resolution of the conflict (not a very strong hope), were afraid to show their backs (a very important factor), did not want to give up everything they had worked for (a very important factor) and hoped to get enough of the general chaos so that they could settle in a new place and then escape (an extremely important factor).

Most of their sources of income had already been lost, including the protection of the lion's share of merchants and shopkeepers. Yes, yes! It turns out that I had been paying money to people (ordinary people) working for the cult the whole time! But, despite the losses, Grey had the most important thing - the people, including his loyal personal guards. Even if they had to pay from the common fund, which was rapidly emptying, but for one desperate attempt to return everything to the way it was before, they still have enough. As said before, the assassins had always collected the highest-level bastards from all over the city. And it wasn't a good idea to just toss them aside.

Naturally, the cult knew about this and was preparing its response, even a preventive one: clairvoyance told me precisely that within a week most of the freaks in this brood would cease to be alive. No cause of death was given, but the very absence of a cause said all there was to know. It's about time I took action, yeah! Another six months and the city could have been all theirs, or at least its nightside.

I don't feel sorry for the bastards, but if they're going to die, it'd be better to do it with the utmost benefit and pathos. I'm not going to be slaughtered like your partridges, serving as an experience for the cult's fighters. Something tells me, though, that the only people who'll kill Gray's boys will be the common thugs. They'll probably keep the changelings in reserve, trying to use them only for point-blank attacks.

In any case, I wanted very much to talk to the esteemed maestro Raly.

"Good evening, Gray. How's it going?"

Am I not gallant?

To his credit, he didn't shit himself, and he didn't even faint. Though it's hard to stay calm when a white-haired bastard with a bloody smile on his face is talking to you in the middle of the dark. The old bastard, wise beyond his years, kept his cool, only a slight tremor in his voice and a tremor in his hands betrayed his anxiety.

"It's a shitty business, now that you're here." He wasn't going to be polite, nor was he going to get desperate. As long as he hadn't been killed asleep, there would be talk and bargaining - such was the "ethics" of the local criminals. However, one should not forget the high probability that the nocturnal visitor simply needed the addresses of his stash of gold, and then everything would go according to the standard scheme.

"But I am here nonetheless." Immediately I confirm, not stopping to tease my interlocutor's throat with the steel, constantly changing the angle, the strength of the pressure, and most often even removing the blade from the skin, leaving it a miserable millimeter from the target.

"So tell me what you want, don't bore me." The thief's foreman gets rude.

But his nerves are failing, they are failing! The situation was too unbalancing, and my appearance was not at all reassuring. Plus, my gut, mandatory for people in his profession, would probably tell a level twenty-seven assassin that the white polar fox was coming to visit. White and not fucking fluffy, yeah. The last head was level thirty-four, which put him in the top five strongest people of the Kraj, but he had mysteriously disappeared. Considering the void of foreknowledge associated with this man, I even know where. Though I wouldn't rule out the possibility that he just left town, either - an epic-class wielder might have some way of hiding himself from clairvoyance. Especially since I hadn't even seen him with my eyes.
T.N.

"Your people." In spite of my thoughts drifting away, I don't lose the thread of the conversation. "The Boar and the Barber. What do you think of them?"

"I can give you the fat goat fucker right now." After thinking for a while, Grey answered, clearly not intending to observe the mythical "brotherhood of thieves" to the last drop of blood. "But I need the Barber. He's one of the men I came to the Kraj with."

Aha! So I was mistaken for a member of the cult and immediately began to negotiate. The experienced scavenger wasn't averse to boarding a ship that had already sailed, even at the cost of sacrificing most of his remaining fighters. Naturally, he was going to make sure that he was really left alive, and he was going to make sure that if he wasn't, he'd be safe.

"I'm afraid you're slightly mistaken, maestro." I interrupt the immediately tense bandit. "I don't represent your current opponents at all. You might even say I'm on the opposite side."

That's where he became much more interested. He really was, for he could use all the help he could get right now. Especially if the helpers included a couple or three guys like the subject who had come to visit him.

"You're not one of One-armed's ass-kissers." Gray brushes aside my involvement with smugglers. "The old ***** ***** just doesn't have people of your caliber. You're not an adventurer - they never got into our business. I don't know who you are, but if your masters aren't friends with the b**d bitches from the stray, we'll be friends."

Yes, yes, I've already seen how you were going to give me one of your "friends" with his guts. But if you have been accepted as an emissary of an unknown force, then we will play the role to the end.

"The two I named. Take a closer look at them. Ask them questions. Better yet, cut their skin, at least on the arm." I say what I came here to say. "Do it in the presence of as many of your loyalists as possible, with acid bombs and a good mage who can create barriers. Do it suddenly and quickly, to survive the truth revealed. Examine their bodies, remembering to wear good gloves. Only then will you be contacted again."

He was neither an idiot nor a fool. Even in my nightmare, I wouldn't call him an educated man, but he was undoubtedly very smart. So he understood the implication of my words at once. And I had no doubts about it - to make such a circus just to get a chance to quarrel with a couple of brigadiers... That's cannon firing on sparrows. He'd rather think of an obvious trap in which his men would try to swat them all together.

Well, let him be reassured because I have made the main point.

"Are you telling me I'm going to see some creatures instead of my people?" The man immediately followed the eternal human habit of asking the obvious. "I would have noticed something! They haven't changed a bit lately. Why should I believe you?"

You already believe it, man. Apparently, you already had your suspicions, even if they weren't fully formed. It's just that now you're trying to spin me for some information on the subject. Well, I'll let you feel the success.

"It is a strange world called Alurej. Wonderful are the things that happen in it. And what wonders are sometimes brought from the depths of the dense forests... Such wonders have the unpleasant tendency to grow into the land where they were brought. To grow like weeds, to cling like mold. And it will be much harder to take these wonders back, it's easier to burn them."

I use a strange style of narration on purpose. First of all, it is my way of avoiding suspicion - my speech is much simpler and clearer. And secondly, my beloved Soul of the Mocker tells me that it is those who like to speak in such a high style that my client hates to the core. And just as much afraid. Which means he will take my words seriously. Otherwise, those two could really outbid their entire company.

Now he will definitely follow my advice. He'll buy some acid, find a mage, and get some men up here. There are others in the gang's ranks, but none of them are full-fledged mutants. And those who are, are in the brigades of the main warped - so it was easier for them to cover up the excursions and mistakes of the rank and file. Not the smartest solution, but in terms of the rapid elimination of the remaining uncontrolled criminals - it's the best.

I'm more than sure that the cult would indeed have made peace with the assassins. Only by thinning them out and putting the Barber in their place. Completely crushed competitors might cause some of the bigwigs to dislike them. This way, everything would be on the line. I bet that they also planned to corrupt the same smugglers for material assistance to the oppressed "stray" (as the cult-controlled forces are called) murderers.

It's not a bad plan.

Which I broke quite a bit.

For as soon as I leave, Grey will start calling the boys. Right after he makes sure there's no ambush. It didn't even take clairvoyance to realize one simple truth - that the case with the two high-ranking cultists would be solved tonight.

Of course, I'm not going to visit Grey again, nor am I going to help him through the events to come. I only gave them a chance for one last fight instead of an ignominious death. Of course, they would not appreciate such a "gift," but the opinion of criminals is the last thing I care about.

I didn't wait for a reply from Grey, moving to the very edge of the teleport distance in an instant. Slight dizziness, combined with a slightly decreased reserve, was the price I paid for using the steps. I could have gone more sparingly, but I just couldn't be happy with my " runaway," as I call my sub-skill.

I still have plenty of reserves, and there are enough potions in my pockets to keep me going long enough, even if my reserve starts to show the bottom.

Next stop, please.

The small shop was guarded as if it were not a place to buy stolen goods, but the city treasury. The guards tried to keep a low profile, but the Shadow Sphere was an excellent spotter of idlers, and the Gaze helped identify those who had been struck by the blackness. There were no unaffected, by the way - just mutants and those who had received their portion of crap but had not yet begun to mutate into who knows what.

Eight big muscle-bound men (the most common mutation, by the way), three skinny, scrawny men who seemed to have had their insides pulled out of them, two and a half dozen more ordinary still-people, and the shopkeeper himself with an assistant. Judging by the poking needles of danger in the body, working despite the plug, this squad is enough for a successful attempt to storm the Mayor's office.

There was no clairvoyance here, just simple logic, long observation with the Gaze, and a few overheard conversations, but I understood what exactly made this place so valuable. All these streams of blackness (probably the biggest stain in the city, unless you count the closed club) belonged to the owner of the shop, who never left it and could never leave. Even in the real world (only inside the pawnshop), the filth that manifested itself belonged to the shopkeeper and formed the basis for the charms that covered the whole town.

From here they controlled the defense they had placed on the buildings they had mastered, and from here they monitored the city. A kind of radio tower and radar all in one. And maybe something else, too. That's why they gather a huge force here, and several other groups can quickly come to the aid of the attacked - the twisted ones alone there are a dozen and a half.

Yesterday it was a lot less, but my performance against the fateful widow made them a little nervous. This place was one of the few that had been closed off with extra security. It was an unpleasant surprise, but too much depended on the destruction of this point, and without it, I was unwilling to begin the next phase of the operation.

To risk or not to risk?

Why do I even ask, though?

Of course, to risk!

I snuck into the first group of ordinary people with a trivial stealth, even though I wanted to walk right into the middle of their company (they were playing cards at the table) and fucking cut them up. Alas, power is not unlimited, and I still have a lot of plans for the night, so I had to save energy where saving was appropriate.

I sharply stabbed two of the guys closest to me in the back of the head, and three more had their necks snapped by their own shadows. The sight of shadow silhouettes standing behind their masters and twisting their vertebrae was the fuel of a nightmare. You can't help but wonder which of us is the scarier monster. A question of the Universe, of Life and Everything!

Of course, I am!

I steal the shadow of the fittingly built man and stare at it thoughtfully. I was able to see no blackness, and it shouldn't cling to shadows, but I don't know if it's worth the trouble. I was dumb for a couple of seconds, but still used the cloak - it really doesn't stick to the shadows, and an extra second to react can buy me a lot.

I go downstairs to the second group of five, the last one in the house. They are just now being told off by one of the full-fledged mutants, even though he is at the very beginning of his "career". Judging by the foul language, the guys aren't supposed to play cards. I wipe my face with the drink taken from the bottle of wine I had brought from upstairs (unstained, of course), make my gait drunker, and make my face muggier, to match it. The latter is the hardest part because you can't make something dumber if it already expresses an extreme degree of stupidity. How did he get into the Cultists' company in the first place? I mean, they only get really cool guys close to them.

Oh, clairvoyance worked! Was it that the worn and stolen shadow increased the "penetration" of my psychic powers in all spheres related to the bearer of that shadow? That's a funny fact, and it's about time! At least now I know that the punk was a born spy, able to unobtrusively track down the desired target. The question is, why did they put him here?

'Boot, motherfucker! You're drunk again, you son of a bitch!" The mutant demonstrated his inhumanity by unnaturally gaiting closer to me and clearly struggling to keep from grabbing me by the chest. "Did I tell you, **** **** you ***** and your mother ****** what I said about drinking? А? I can't fucking hear you!"

Instead of a skirmish, which is guaranteed to expose me, I decide to end the one-sided conversation in the most drastic way possible - by eliminating the unwanted interlocutor.

"Bro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" And muzzle, muzzle as dumb as possible. "And I brought you some food!"

He obviously suspected something! This I say as an eyewitness. Whether it was the unusual behavior of the one whose appearance I took, or the crunching of the vertebrae of the thugs watching the idiot's demise, or such an unimportant detail as a bottle of wine jammed down my throat and crushed the mutant's whole jaw and larynx.

By the way, it didn't even kill him, but only forced him to step back and reflexively try to pull out the extraneous object, from which a red-black mixture of blood and filth was already dripping. Amazingly, the young changeling still had blood in his veins!

Indeed it was, I must say! Here I am looking at the soup set from which it is leaking, and I can perfectly see its presence. When and how did I cut it? Just lengthened the daggers for a few moments, then cut off the head and limbs with the shadow blades. It was effective enough, even too effective. Too much, as they say in such situations, but better to spend an extra drop of reserve than to lose your head out of greed and thrift.

I glanced at the resulting palette and listened to the sphere. Despite the death of a fellow mutant, none of the mutants even flinched, let alone raised an alarm. So they don't have a collective mind, which is a good thing.

They talk here, by the way, with the help of some amulets. They don't really talk, they just send "yes-no" signals, but that's not a bad thing, either. It helps them maintain their camouflage without attracting too much attention. The guards, as I said, are very nervous these days.

I had the good sense to start the massacre immediately after the next "tapping" session, so there was time, and not too little of it. The main thing is not to waste that time.

There were more people in the parallel building, which was right across the street from the one I'd already cleaned out because the building (another guesthouse with rented rooms) seemed to have been bought out entirely by the cult. There were three skinny mutant scarecrows and a dozen or so common fighters. The rank and file didn't make much of an impression. Yes, levels no lower than ten, classes and good training, or rather tameness, made them very dangerous opponents... For an ordinary guardian. For me, they were dangerous only in a crowd, and even that was not much.

The main gathering of the common people sat and waited in a separate living room, where they seemed to have a hut - tea, food, and assorted smokes. Smoke, mind you, not drugs, but the simplest kind. It even made me want to take some tobacco with me, if only he hadn't been covered in the goddamn filth!

I didn't want to fight eleven armed muzzles, even if they weren't very dangerous, and I didn't want to waste my infinite reserve on them, either. The Shadow parameter, as well as the high stats multiplied by the class enhancements, allowed me to spend almost no energy on killing an ordinary human, but it would not be easy to kill a dozen targets at once without being noticed. Especially if you do it next to obscure mutants whose abilities I have no idea about at all.

A vial of one of the deadliest compounds I have ever created flew into the ajar doorway. It was a nerve toxin that reacted with oxygen in a gaseous form - no joke at all. The only thing I had to do, though, was to shadow the leader's hand (which had already begun the mutation process) as it reached for the alarming amulet.

A minute later, the gas was disintegrating, and I walked in quietly and hung a set of throwing daggers on my back that I liked. With a life like this, I couldn't get enough of the combs. Stealing another shadow, still checking it for blackness, I head upstairs. Before I can deal with the warped ones, I need to nail the trio of ordinary watchers. What did you think? Do these guys just sit around for no reason? No, they change the watchers regularly, so they don't let their guard down or blur their vision. It's the mutants who try to stay in their cells.

The first man I met, who looked more like a model family man than an evil bandit, even managed to say something like, "It's not your shift yet," but quickly crunched his neck. Didn't even have to get my blades out. The other man, who had heard us stirring, didn't have time to react either, catching the blade of the throwing blade in his throat. I was aiming for the heart, but it didn't matter much, as long as I hit it.

And anyway! My hand just shook!

The last of the three men on duty even managed to pull out a short gladius, ready to yell at the top of his lungs. He even managed to get some air in his chest. He really should have screamed at once, not wasting time arming himself, but apparently, a reflex kicked in. Anyway, I stuck the gladius in his chin.

Now all that's left is the trio on the roof.

Changing my appearance again, choosing a gladius host, I went up to the attic. Here the blackness was not just a few spots, but a full-fledged puddle, which was a legitimate concern. Much more, however, I feared the three waiting for me upstairs. I had a suspicion that they were going to surprise me. I don't want them to surprise me to death!

"Black sky for you, brother." The monster closest to me squealed, barely able to make a turn of its head. Why are you here?"

Up close, they looked even more hideous than they did from a distance. In addition to their thinness, they had an unhealthy complexion, as if they had had smallpox. A recent case, too, with scabs covering the whole face. And the voice itself was impressive, too-shrill, like a badly oiled door creaking open, too loud, coming from all directions at once. I won't be me if they don't have acoustic weapons built-in. Possibly a massive one.

"Paint it white." I crack a joke and cast "Silence in the Hall" on the attic.

With the skill applied, my cloak fell off me like a cloth falling from my shoulders, and the creatures immediately tried to blow my masked head off. Almost successfully: their speed was not much less than mine, and the distance was insignificant, making it impossible to maneuver properly. I could have tried to dodge as it was, even had a chance of success, but I decided not to economize.

I stepped into Shadow, followed immediately by an attack with ghostly daggers. It worked badly, much worse than I would have liked - the intangible blades dug into the attacker's body, but just couldn't drain it. It was as if the black abomination was expelling the Shadow's startling energy. The shadow, in turn, tried to inflict maximum damage, but it was too little for a full-fledged attack. The maximum was unpleasant wounds, which, for a tenacious mutant, weren't that dangerous.

Meanwhile, the creatures opened their mouths in sync. You know, like peacock tails opening, their mouths opened like huge fans, and then almost all the power I'd invested in the technique was consumed, nearly ripping the silence to shreds. If my concentration hadn't been so high and my energy so dense, it would have been stupid and sad. And it turns out that the preimposed silence works even when I'm in the Shadow, even though I can't control it once it's imposed.

Well.

Okey.

I was in the middle of a fight, and I was in the middle of a fight, and I was in the middle of a fight. I levitated upward, hovering over the trio, who seemed very discouraged by the failure of the ace skill. Which they were about to cast again, the sons of bitches! The cheeky bastards, unwilling to lie down and die while I kill them! Shameless! No respect for isekaited Hero!

Their open mouths were a great idea, but too fragile. I accelerated to maximum speed, and fell back into reality, throwing shadow-filled steel knives straight into their mouths. It's hard to pull off a stunt like that, even with maximum step ability, but I did it. And I didn't miss once, mind you!

All three of the creatures choked on their screams, and one fell awkwardly onto its back. Its body may be twitching, but I'm sure it's agony. And it certainly won't be part of the fight to come.

The two remaining fighting creatures plucked their sizzling daggers from their bodies, trying to cough up and vomit out the shadow that had drained from them, but they couldn't. They should have been given a few minutes to rest. Or at least twenty seconds, but I wasn't playing giveaway.

Step, go behind the back, and strike with the imbued blades, extending their blades to the length of a full blade. Repeat once more and finish off the fallen man. Three more of the young inquisitor's soup kits are ready. Here, by the way, not a drop of blood came out of them. Only the black sludge, eating away at the shadow garments covering me (I wasn't stupid enough to get at them without protection).

The silence would last another minute or two, though it would have lasted a day or two without their shouting. I guessed right about the amount of energy I was putting into the silence. Lucky as it is. And also, I note, the Gaze showed silence as a thin, light gray cobweb encompassing the entire attic in an invisible net. In the monochrome perception of the Gaze, it remained almost invisible. Why hadn't I looked at this miracle before?

I shook my head, returning to combat mode. The twisted thugs sitting in the small closed shop, literally two steps away from the ill-fated pawnshop, still showed no signs of disturbance. Nor do the silhouettes of the merchant and the assistant, dimly seen through the sphere, flinch. There are about two-thirds of the reserves, maybe even a little more.

It's fine, I guess.

Let's dance.

Before a new fight, I throw in a tonic compound. It's almost harmless, but it speeds up the reaction, removes fatigue, and increases the recovery of energy. It's not yet time for some serious doping, but I need to even up the odds a little bit now. Eight full-fledged mutants, with all the trouble that only three opponents of similar rank have caused me... that could be a very dangerous thing to do.

This time I didn't pull any disguises on myself, just stepped inside the room with the windows sealed shut. You wouldn't believe it, but they were gambling, too, only with dice, not cards! Don't they have anything else to do? Yeah, I guess they had nothing better to do...

I hovered over the leader's head for a second, he almost bathing in a pool of oil blackness beneath him, and made sure he was the one with the signal amulet. And then I fall out into reality with my daggers already saturated with shadow, piercing the incredibly strong skull of the distorted one like rotten paper.

Minus one.

From there it all merged into a series of flickering shots.

Here I am again silencing the room, which is a little easier for me - the room itself is no bigger than the unfortunate attic, and the enemy has no sonic weapons. The room is covered by a suffocating sheet of silence, turning the world into a surreal, silent horror movie in which one monster kills another.

I change the state between reality and Shadow three times a second, using the steps as I've never used them before. Emotions and feelings fade, leaving only cold anger and disgust. The desire to make sure that these creatures never exist again. Their bodies are very strong and resilient, which makes them take many, many blows.

And the distortions! Extra eyes and mouths on every conceivable and not so conceivable part of the body, inverted bones and organs sticking out, second faces on backs, bellies and asses, missing skin and skin worn inside out - if it weren't for the calm that came over me, I might have been a bit cuckoo. You rarely see this much filth, even on /b/, and that's saying a lot, folks.

When it was over, I could barely stand on my feet. It wasn't even the reserve, which was at least a third of what I had left, but the disorientation after the steps. At first, I wasn't even sure what world I was in at that moment. But then I came to my senses. The silence, by the way, never fell, although I expected otherwise. And in general, these guys were not as dangerous as I initially thought - despite their enormous strength (useless against the elusive me) and monstrous survivability (compensated by shadows), they were too slow and not very clever. They didn't even try to run, for example, though they had a chance. Apparently, at first, they didn't understand, then they considered a loner an easy prey, then they acted on reflexes, and by the end, it was too late.

I came to my senses when the robe of shadows covering me began to disintegrate under the influence of the black blood of the dead warriors, which was smeared all over the place. I took a long leap to one of the few clean areas and made my chemical defense suit go in a wave, shaking off what had fallen on me. I just stammer for a few minutes, reacquainting myself to reality, and then I rest, replenishing my strength before the final dash. I came here to kill a particular shopkeeper, not to extinguish rank-and-file cultists.

With a heavy sigh, I poured a rather nasty-tasting complex of drugs into my throat, enhancing my energy replenishment and protection against curses. The result of working with Bigfoot blood, one of the most successful. The effects aren't particularly strong, but they will be. I'll probably stay in bed all day tomorrow.

I entered in stealth, but without putting on someone else's face. I spent a lot more energy trying not to touch any of the incomprehensible structures of the black bubbles. It was not for nothing that this house was the center of their signal system, not for nothing at all. The protection here is so tight, it's almost horrifying. I had to use the shadow steps a couple of times, trying not to get killed in the process.

Inside was a rather large room, reminiscent at once of a junk shop, a museum storage room, and my father's garage. The latter, perhaps, the most. They were waiting for me, too, and they'd noticed me before I'd even passed through the corridor. Either I had touched one of the threads, or something else.

"Who's my nocturnal guest?" The salesman asked in a pallid tone. "Maybe you will show your face."

It's not that I'm against this understatement (it's an understatement, right?), but he's a bit too relaxed. I'm playing the lone hero here, kicking the crap out of everyone and everything in the neighborhood, and he doesn't give a damn. He's not aware that his entire cheerleading squad is dead, though, so he doesn't take me seriously.

I silently walk out and stand in the middle of the store. The shadow-covered boots hissed and let the black foam appear in reality - I'm not stupid to swim in this filth. And there's so much of it that in some places it reaches my knees!

"What a beautiful mask, though." The old man is still good-naturedly broaching the subject. "What's under it?"

" There's nothing underneath," I answer by scanning my surroundings with my sphere and my Gaze (in the latter case, you have to keep your head still).

He is too calm, too confident. Well, he can't expect total victory, no matter how many times this territory has been prepared for confrontation. There is, of course, the possibility that he is just a self-confident asshole, but I don't believe that. You can't underestimate the enemy! You can't rely on his stupidity and make plans based only on such assumptions, which are unsupported by anything but a hunch.

But you can't attack, either, because it's easy to get a surprise retaliation. My intuition screamed that a simple attack wouldn't help, but I couldn't figure out their weak points without clairvoyance. And time is running out, because they, unlike me, only benefit from delay.

"And here we are, sitting with Arthur, drinking tea, and here my dear baby says: "Uncle Schaltz, Uncle Schaltz! We have a nice guest coming!". His attempts to "imitate" a child's voice make me want to vomit.

I stayed silent, but the puddle under my feet was bubbling up more and more. He's clearly preparing an attack, pulling more power to this point. So we'll have to jump out of here right away, as soon as the fight starts.

At the same time, I saw his assistant up close. An ordinary-looking nine-year-old boy in thin pajamas (I don't want to know about their relationship!). It would have been ordinary, if not for the human eyes that covered every fucking inch of the little freak's skin, except for the face. And they weren't just human: there were enough beastly and monstrous ones, too. If each eye gave at least one point in perception, I wasn't surprised that he'd noticed me - I'd think that characteristic must be off the charts.

It also pisses me off with his indifferent stare and the quiet clicks, like someone snapping his joints, with which this asshole moves his every eye except his two native ones.

I didn't wait for the next punch-line, attacking the bastards. The potion had already restored my strength, and the overall fighting spirit would not be ruined by their vile appearance, which they seemed to be counting on. Sharp steps, levitating upward, while trying to cover my opponent with shadows from all sides.

And I can't fucking do it!

The fucking blackness soared upward with me and turned the whole room into a huge mixture of cage and cobwebs. Somehow I was even thrown out of the shadows, wrapped in the threads like a goddamn fly! And my reflexively created shadow armor wouldn't hold up under that kind of pressure for long! What's more, it wouldn't last a minute!

Look, Arthur, what an amazing insect has come to us! It's been a long, long time since our host met a Walker of the Shadow!" It seemed that this hog was about to cum from happiness. "What a glorious sacrifice! What a glorious story! Oh, Arthur, rest assured, the Master will be very, very pleased!"

No shadow in this place can come to my aid.

I can't break free from the threads that trapped me.

The reserve is rapidly emptying.

It's a shitty situation, isn't it? I can feel and see how quickly the many different objects that originally seemed like just another trinket covered in black filth are scattered into the inky-black, marky, disgusting dust. This dome won't last long, but that's enough for me.

"Use your amulet to signal the boys upstairs to come to get our piglet." That bitch gives the command. "I'll sing him a lullaby while the Cage is still working."

Outwardly, I'm still staring at that face in silence, even though I'm ready to shit myself in fear. Bitch! How the fuck could it all go so fucking wrong? How the fuck could it all go so wrong so fucking fast? The warped man had already mumbled the last words, and he walked slowly and leisurely toward me. While the fat body was shaking the fat, I pulled myself together and tried to activate the runaway.

To immediately fall out of the transfer six hundred meters from the pawnshop.

You and idiot, Kostik.

You should have done it right away, instead of hanging there silently almost to the end.

The reserve is a third again. The tonic is working, speeding up my recovery, but confronting the trap has dried me out. I'd like to get an hour's rest now, which isn't a bad idea. As long as there's a fucking Cage in that place, I'm not going in there. It's not like I'm an idi...

Stop!

But the cage has fallen apart! I could sense it in my spheres! And not only had it disintegrated, but it had also reduced the amount of black slime, and destroyed a lot of the traps that had been prepared. It was a gift to my bruised ego!

I listen to the sphere, and sense that the distant support groups haven't even moved. Naturally, because the sweet couple of cultists isn't summoning them, but the nearby groups, which I'd already slaughtered. I got to my feet so that I could slowly and happily straighten my shoulders - now my buttpain would be avenged.

Step into the Shadow.

I fall out in the same place from which I escaped, and I see a somewhat nervous uncle, to whom his personal eyeball tells the most interesting news right now.

"All three security teams are dead."

His voice resembles the monotonous itching of a bad speaker, and all eyes on his body are focused on the locations of their allies. Apparently, he can't look close and far at the same time, which killed him.

The Shadow Ribbon sliced him in two, not even lingering in his body - honed for perception he was no match for the cult's combat mutants. And that wasn't his purpose, either.

The shopkeeper, who had already lost his temper, reacted instantly. A U-turn, an almost balletic pirouette, after which two children's hands slipped out of the fat folds and pointed their fingers at me. It looked like an instantly activated curse structure in the Gaze that was going to do something to me. At this close range, the clairvoyance mute was no longer working, and I knew that this crap would have to rot my bones in seconds.

When the worm-like threads of the curse began to eat their way through my shadow armor, I whirled around, shaking off the top layer of protection and the structure clinging to it as I stepped into The Shadow.

Instantly I appeared behind my opponent, managing to land two blades on him at once. I even wounded him, but his fat was also unusual, easily stopping the destructive power of the shadows. He turns around again, with only his upper torso, as if he had no spine, and all four of his arms clutching a huge black ball of highly concentrated crap.

I couldn't dodge it, because there was too little room, and I couldn't defend myself against the black ichor all over the building. The battle on one's territory does offer great advantages, and I'd be foolish to argue with that.

Not playing him by his rules, again using the runaway outside the pawnshop. This time only a hundred meters away, so that I could get right back, without letting my opponent regain his strength.

Hm.

And the stream of black and fast-drying cobwebs that broke through the wall looked pretty epic. He must have panicked because he wouldn't have been patronized for that kind of foul play, even if he'd managed to take me down. Or was it his grudge for the boy I'd killed? I don't even want to think about it.

I reappeared inside, where a hysterical-looking man, who looked as if he had lost about thirty pounds, was holding a lump of black slime in each hand. If I'm not mistaken, and I'm not, they were lumps of his fat. It's a good idea to carry the enchanted supplies right on top of you!

I wait for the right moment and walk toward it, avoiding the few remaining traps. From the sphere, the cavalry is coming at full speed, and I'd better finish this quickly. I hit hard and without trying to hold back, from several directions at once. Three shadow lashes, two shadow blades, continuing my daggers, all hit, tearing the old man apart.

He's wheezing.

He's clinging to life.

He pulls his strength from the building itself, a place that concentrates so much filth that it prevents him from dying, even when he is reduced to a dozen separate pieces. He's trying to pull himself together, trying to cling to something, just to wait for help to arrive.

A torrent of shadows, for almost the entire remaining reserve, is literally eating away at these remains and, along with them, something else. I can physically feel how the most complex system, the center of which was the old man and his shop, disintegrates into splinters. And with it, something else is disappearing. Something intangible, but which had been weighing on me since my first days in this city.

This ritual was not only supposed to strengthen the creature who created the cult, but also to help it obscure the future, hide the present, conceal the past. And now... The clairvoyance was terribly malfunctioning, working sporadically, but it was fucking working. It was as if the threshold for the numerical value of the skill required to break through the barrier had dropped by a dozen or so points at once.

I was lucky to visit, though!

With the last crumbs of reserve, I jump to the maximum range (now a kilometer), not wanting to meet the dead couple's fellows. I'd already done everything I could do here, anyway.

I had very little energy, and the fatigue was coming in waves, but I wasn't done with my plans for the night. I had to pick up the bottles a third time, ensuring that I would have a series of toilet dates for the next twenty-four hours. It would be a boo-boo, but a few very powerful tonics brought the reserve up to a third (again) and temporarily raised the concentration by twenty-three points.

Oh, how bad it's going to be tomorrow!

How bad will it be tomorrow...

But today, it is just fucking awesome!

The night was bustling, and not just because the cultists were rushing around. Apparently, Grey complied with my request, cleansing his horde of opponents in one fell swoop. And he'd begun to suffer the punishing hand of the Cult at the same time.

All according to the plan.

I knew that the qualifications of Grey and his punk-asses were enough for the relatively bloodless (for him) elimination of the two brigadiers. But some of their brigades managed to escape, reporting to their masters. They, not being fools, compared what had happened with a very important person for them, and logically assumed that it was Grey who had arranged, or at least contributed to, the attack on the old merchant.

The top brass, of course, will quickly realize that this is too cool for a desperate ringleader, but will still approve the order to destroy him. As will the extermination of everyone who found out about the secret of their existence. Simply because this night will be the last chance to mop up all the witnesses, to shut up with gold and poison those who cannot be shut up with steel, to prepare for a confrontation with an unknown but well-informed enemy. They are not fools there, after all; they understand that the whole mess was cooked up by some outside force. But now it will be more important for them to contain the blow before they start looking for the guilty and execute the uninvolved.
T.N. A proverb about unfair governance, when innocent people are punished and those who do not deserve it are rewarded.
Punish the unguilty, reward the uninvolved.

Withstand one night, just one night.

And me too.

A nice house in a wealthy neighborhood. Simple, inconspicuous, and inconspicuous - it was luxurious enough to live in, but it was not the envy of those around it because of its blatant opulence. It was the kind of building one of the closest associates of Casimus "One-armed" Bale, the first smuggler of the Kraj and, as it were, a third cousin of the Mayor preferred to live in. A family contract, you might say.

No kidding! The head of this criminal organization even had the right to a family coat of arms, even if only for a ring and a personal banner, without possession of the allotment. But that's the tenth thing, for we're not talking about Bale and his kin, but Niktimus Bariosta, his left hand. The left, for Bael's right, was his own, not yet torn off.

So.

Poor Niktimus had long since picked up a distortion somewhere, being a full-fledged mutant. He even stopped going to the baths because of it. He was not in the way of the smugglers with his activities but even helped out sometimes, using the resources of the cult. All to get close to Bale. There was no way he could be killed - his pact with the fat Mayor and his patrons in the Capital City rested on him. I suppose the cultists wanted to "recruit" both Bale and the Mayor, and, with any luck, his patrons as well, though the latter was a very distant prospect.

More important another thing.

"One-armed" had no idea about the cult or how deeply it had infested his family business. And news of even the trivial presence of such shit in the city would not please him at all - the Kraj was very strict about all otherworldly abominations. Experience, what else to say. And how that Don Corleone would run if he knew how close that otherworldliness was to his throat! It would be a sight to behold. That was why I had come to my last goal for the day - to seize the moment and the confusion while I was still able to stand and fight.

I didn't knock, and they wouldn't let me in, the bastards. Instead, I just stepped inside without an invitation, in a friendly way. Of course, first I watched the inhabitants through the sphere. Yes, and about the Gaze did not forget. But time was playing against me. At dawn, I would cease to be a fighting unit, like the carriage that had turned back into a pumpkin. That meant that there was no time to waste on indecision and analysis right now. Only a direct attack, trying to pull out with my skill and high characteristics.

Typical me, only now I don't even have to make excuses for my recklessness!

Inside the house was crowded, though normally Niktimus preferred to sleep under the guards of simple guards, subordinate not even to the cult, but his boss. And there were not many of them, but rather a minimum number, to keep up appearances and show the presence of the guards. It makes sense, because the distorted one did not want to shine his mutations, and individuals bold enough to riot on his boss and, accordingly, on him, have long been killed in the Kraj.

But it's pretty crowded today - almost two dozen rank-and-file cultists, including a few who are almost unaffected by the blackness. Three mutant warriors, not much of a standout (compared to the ones I'd already killed), and Niktimus himself, clutching a powerful attacking amulet. Enough to repel, or at least delay, even an elite group of adventurers, let alone ordinary fighters. Not enough at all against a Hero.

The fight with the regulars was quick and bloody, more like a massacre. Three vials of poison gas and finishing attacks on the smartest and most resilient, who managed to escape its effects. There was a commotion, of course, but not much, and my client did not dare to retreat through the secret passage. Probably because I had sprayed a cloud of concentrated acid there. Just in case.

The living room is wide and tastefully furnished.

Naked at the waist deformed, standing in a triangle around their ward.

A strange thing hanging in the air. On the outside, it was a black candle, burning with a black flame that seemed to devour all the light around it. But in the Gaze, the fire from the candle was smoldering and spitting, making the space around the four of them strangely distorted. It couldn't hurt me. Nor could it throw me out of the Shadow. But to illuminate my presence, as if it were a marker for an attack, would be welcome. It was an unpleasant situation, to be sure, for they had already activated the amulet, and now they intended to wait for help, not even trying to defeat me in battle.

Stood the day and withstand the night?

Yeah.

I entered without hiding, carefully opening the mosaic-covered door and standing about five meters away from the immediately rearranged enemies. I'm still wearing the same mask, the same cloak, cut in several places. I could see the burned and melted areas on the fabric-the places where I'd been hit by blackness that had had to be literally shadow-burned out, which had taken a bad toll on the material.

My whole appearance tells that I've been in trouble before, and the smile on my mask, I'm sure, would make even the very brave guys shit bricks. I see no fear in the Cultists' eyes, no absent-mindedness, see nothing but wild hatred, infinite determination, and complete confidence in the rightness of their path.

Words are unnecessary.

Words would be superfluous.

But I anyway open my mouth, prompted simultaneously by clairvoyance and the Soul of the Mocker. As one of the key points of the dome that covers the city falls, my skill in clairvoyance is already enough to partially penetrate the imposed canopy, and my Soul allows my words to wound in the most painful place. To say things that are guaranteed to pierce the very heart, to open the most hidden fears and forgotten wounds. At this moment, I fear myself more than I fear the warped ones standing before me.

My voice came from every corner, as if all the shadows had decided to speak with me. There was a quiet rustle, a touch of cold claws on the heart and an icy breath on the back of the head.

"He will not come." Says someone else, someone who isn't me. "I'll finish it sooner."

The armor of faith and zeal, capable of protecting against torture and prayers to the light gods, against despair and unbelief, under which they could all die laughing, laughing in the faces of executioners and murderers, taking them with them to where all stories end... cracked. For one brief moment, I saw the fear in Bariost's eyes. The one he had long forgotten, the one he had renounced under the weight of the service imposed upon him, under the weight of an unbearable burden that distorted his very soul. Fear came again, sowing the seed of doubt, longing to confuse, break, slow, and deceive.

"Maar's kiss is in my hands. His blood is in my heart. His word is on my lips. I will call to Him and He will come for us. He will come for you, whoever you are. No matter how long the day may be, sooner or later even the heavens turn black."

His voice was digging into my ears with its slimy tentacles of embodied disgust, a revived rot and mold that dissolved all that was human in me. Even in me...

My answer doesn't linger for a moment, rushing from my lips with the rustling of thousands of voices. Voices that are not dead, but have never lived. I don't assume or promise, don't threaten or intimidate. I just know, just turn what I say into truth.

"You won't make it in time."

They are already ready for battle, for a battle in which they have no right to lose, because at stake is not only their lives, but also the will of that which has devoured and changed their essence. They cannot doubt, they are simply incapable of doubting the will of their master, unable to imagine the very possibility of violating his orders.

And yet the Cultist's voice, instead of showering me with a pound of scorn, showing me my insignificance and inspiring my comrades-in-arms to fight, gives me a treacherous slack.

"Come here and check it out!"

I checked it out.

He didn't make it in time.

If the nighttime city raged standing on its ears, after sunrise the city was no longer standing on its ears. It was tap-dancing on them, singing obscene ditties at the same time. Even if we do not take into account the unpleasant detail that the cult did not manage to shut all the mouths. A couple of witnesses had already managed to share what they had seen with undesirable individuals... One can hardly imagine a situation in which the death of the left hand of the most influential bandit of the Kraj could be hushed up.
T.N. "standing on its ears" it's like "stirred up beehive". But the meaning of the subsequent sentence is lost. I would be grateful if someone could suggest appropriate idioms.

Especially if that very left hand was somehow dragged into the guest hall of a carefully protected house without disturbing the guards and the signal spells of the highest rank. And hung right above the family crest, depicting a soaring seagull.

And doubly so if in the middle of that left arm's chest was a huge, inhuman face, growing straight out of the murdered man's body. And in his veins there would be nothing but black slop, the smell of which would make even the hardened warriors want to vomit.

In this sauce, the confused and contradictory accounts of the few surviving witnesses to the revelation of the two crime bosses belonging to the murderers' guild that had been destroyed that night were listened to with all possible attention. After that, the secrecy of the cult that had enveloped the Kraj was fucked.

There's reason to be proud of the man who brought this shit down on the cultists, especially if he did it alone. This man would probably have commented on this achievement with a witty phrase, but alas, he was too busy. The lonely detective was vomiting all over his toilet, cursing the day he had decided to settle down in what seemed to be such a peaceful city.
T.N.

He didn't care about the military operations underway to wipe the cultists off the face of the earth, or the rumors among the guards and adventurers investigating the case about the strange guys who had struck first against the cult.

* * *

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1BAZMZ8nUlqoWVZGAeyZdeOkCWSt3zePB/view?usp=sharing - Junk Shop. What could go wrong?

Well?

Kostik on fire,

Two pure crits, and even in a row: at the very end. First, he pulled a moral confrontation with the cultists, lowering my will and morale (which should have been impossible, actually). But not but no when Dices show 100/91, yes.

And the second time, when he took out all four mutants in the hall without getting even a token scratch.

The cult has 67 for hiding traces (the disadvantages are strong because of the actions of the MC with Grey).

The city has 84 for attentiveness and epiphany - they know about the cult, take it seriously, and intend to disinfect it.

Almost a crit was thrown by the boy-eye who caught the MC in the stealth, which, I confess, I used to think is impossible. And look at that. He got it!

Well, there was an unpleasant moment when the MC was dumb as hell, but in time to get out of the cage, and then returned and finished the poor shopkeeper.

Further consequences I'm throwing right now, but according to the preliminary sketches, the MC will either recover from intoxication at the very end, by the symbolic showdown. Or the cult will lurk and then the hero will have to, like that ranger, come to disperse everyone.

Good for everyone.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/522518

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP