Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Интерлюдия первая: "Зачем мы живем"

Interlude One: "Why Do We Live For?

Two high-class selective barriers that let in nothing but the purest air without any impurities and equally pure water past them. Reliable and high-level guards, able to drive superior enemy forces into the ground without even getting their blood and guts dirty, blocking all available approaches to the barrier-covered manor. Individual enchantments cover every corner of a large building, serving as protection, a trap, and simply clogging sensory skills. A set of protective amulets and artifacts worn on the body and capable of winning seconds from death, whatever form it may take. Finally, the very fact that the mansion was located right in the center of the Capital, in a noble neighborhood that was regularly patrolled by trained and financially motivated guards, ready to really serve and protect (only the inhabitants of that neighborhood, of course).

All of this was supposed to serve as the ultimate defense against a possible assassination attempt, as Silay Mariun, the King's sixth advisor, was well aware. In fact, most of the time such precautions had seemed a waste of energy, for his main shield was his position as a man of great power within and even beyond the borders of Melareth. But lately that confidence had worn thin.

Actually, elves don't avenge each and every one of their kin, no matter how much they convince everyone otherwise. Yes, dragging a collared elf maiden with a whitewashed personality behind in public would be a rash act, even for him. But bragging about the elf maiden and her sister among a small circle of guests? Why not, after all? No doubt the eared scum's informants could easily find out about the presence of a couple of perpetually young sluts in his power, but that's all. They wouldn't start a war or a diplomatic scandal by eliminating not the last man in the world for another girl. Otherwise, they would soon have to go to war with the whole world, which the forest-dwellers did not want at all.

And an one elf is not the same as another one elf. At first glance, the Star Lords may seem to care for all their subjects equally, but that's only at first glance. No doubt, even the most pathetic and untalented elf lives in a way that not every capital aristocrat can afford. The excellent education, the equipment, the food, the servants recruited from alien races, bred under the supervision of the pointed-eared ones - all of this was perfectly true. As was the fact that absolutely all the elves, at least in the three elven states known to Sylay himself, belonged in one way or another to one of the many ruling branches.

But it is one case of an ordinary craftswoman, even if very skilled, captured during another Sorz's raid, then hastily transported to the depths of human territory, where all pride and disobedience were thoroughly beaten out of her. And it was quite another case if this craftswoman was one of those close to someone who had real power among the Eared Ones.

It's the third case if the abductee was a child, not even a teenager by elf standards. And if he was the first heir of the Emerald Branch... They could really go to war over him - economically, of course - with Melareth. All the more so since Melareth itself was not the most powerful state entity in the foreseeable part of the continent.

And there's no way to explain to them that the Advisor himself had nothing to do with the kidnapping! And the elves should know by now that there was no kidnapping since the little bastard had been evacuated straight back to his home.

Silay, of course, was well aware that children can be naughty, stupid, and, of course, enterprising, and, more often than not, all of these together. But still, he was used to the fact that this applied primarily to human brats. Albeit because no one ever sees the big-eared little thing except the big-eared ones themselves.

Just think about it!

He read ancient legends about great warriors, arm himself with artifacts taken without asking, and then use the teleport by entering random coordinates. He wanted glory and reverence! Naturally, the boy was picked up rather quickly, especially since he had already managed to sow most of his amulets amid wild thickets and deadwood. The elves, of course, are close to the forests, but you have to learn how to survive in them, too, rather than wait for things to work themselves out.

In Silay's opinion, the sun-cursed scum should have paid more to keep the boy from starving to death in those very woods! And certainly not to declare a personal vendetta against anyone connected with the existence of the Red Loop. Yes, he was selling high-end live goods, but he was paying off everyone who needed. He didn't sell them to the Sorz, but to his own nobles, tying them down with debts and favors, not forgetting to ask for those favors. A trifle, but still a benefit.

He would have brought the brat back himself if he had only known about his captivity!

He would even clean up the Loop, despite the losses, to bury the loose ends in the grave, goddamn it!

What kind of bastard had so well-timed to not only "save" the petty non-human, but also to frame an advisor? And what good timing it was to hit him! He had only just received a denunciation from his man about the captured elf kid, the Eared Ones themselves had only sent their note of displeasure through the embassy, and the unknown strike team was already completing the sweep of the distant representation!

Silay had read the reports, which had to be bought back for a fabulous sum - business with him was not so eager now, waiting for the results of the conflict - and therefore he was aware that the frame-up had to be done by someone who was not inferior in influence to the Adviser himself. He was already weighing all the factors, coming to the conclusion that he could assemble such a team that could quietly and quickly mop up a small army. By the way, he should execute Artle, one of his assistants, who had allowed the controlled gang to grow so big, and he didn't care about the increase in profits! They had almost stopped hiding, which is why they were so easy to get at!

Back to the purge team. He could assemble the same, or not much inferior, especially knowing the Red Loop's personnel and waiting for the moment of separation of forces. He could, yes. But to do it quickly and in secret... Hardly, hardly. Not his old enemies, like the Paarimis or the Valtinori, whom he watched as closely as they watched him. It was someone new, but experienced, dangerous, and unfamiliar. As if not the head of the Secret Corps himself, or even His Majesty. Sylay's decisions in recent years were far from always for the good of the state and the sovereign, even though he did not do anything beyond measure, but who knows, who knows.

But that's not all!

He ordered that Artle be drowned in his favorite pool, and slowly so that he could feel it. Because you'd have to be an idiot to miss that shit! Someone, that mysterious stranger again, had pushed that bastard into the Loop, who had actually dissected the non-human like a corpse in the newfangled anatomy theater recently opened at the Academy. And they let him!

What happened?

Rescued non-human - one.

Rescuers all in white, two.

The nearly-sacrificed pointed-eared boy - three.

And it is clearly a billet, and a long time ago, as if not prepared by the elves themselves! The same refusal of a reward is a very clever decision. Silay would not have been lazy to see who would have benefited from the favor in return. But no, the work was done by pros who didn't even try to take the trophies, taking only gold and meltable jewels.

And he, Silay, is now guilty from all sides.

There probably won't be a war, and there won't be a siege; the elves will get away with it, too. Since their brat has brought trouble on himself. Great Warrior of the Woods, blast him in the Sun! No, they wouldn't start a war because of the boy's stupidity, but they'd make trouble for sure.

Already mopped up all of the lower ranks associated with the Loop, also by elves - Silay himself didn't have time to give that order, though he would have liked it very much. The higher-ups who covered the slave catchers activities had also begun to either die, disappear without a trace, or lock themselves away in tightly protected estates and be afraid of every shadow.

Shadows, burn their hearts out!

He had already made requests for detailed surveillance of Chancey Ortnam, the closest associate of the Head of the Secret Corps. The Shadow Stealer seemed to be at a social function that day, along with his superiors, but for someone who changes shape like a glove, outside surveillance is no barrier. Though no one has ever heard that the bastard can heal with his shadows, the Sun alone knows what secrets he keeps and what artifacts he might use. Though given the specifics of his powers, even the Sun probably doesn't know.

It's okay.

It's okay.

He will be patient, wait a couple of years, give gifts to the embassy... Even "rescuing" from slavery a dozen or so pointed-eared girls and a couple of their men (also a compromise on the female owner and doubly a compromise on the male owner). It's gold they won't accept, politely kicking his messengers out the door, and they won't refuse such a handout. And he will even cover their punitive raids on connoisseurs of "star love", especially if the toys of those who decided to abruptly forget about their debts, taking advantage of his, Silay, temporary difficulties, will be "rescued".

He will endure it.

He'll get back on his feet.

And after that, he's going to give away a stock of grudges.

His memory is good, yes.

"Finish up." He stopped strolling through the garden, turning back to the entrance of the mansion to escape the sudden onset of rain. "I need information on the requests you made earlier. Also, get out, by all means, to the Ganikars and nail them with those letters, I need..."

The thunder strike was very sudden, but much more sudden was the mighty strike of lightning, powerlessly splashing across the protective barriers. Such power was not at all natural for simple lightning, nor was it suspiciously accurate, but it could not penetrate the defenses, splashing harmlessly across them in sparks.

But it did manage to illuminate the structure of the barrier, and at the same time forced the guards to switch to the threat from above, if only for a fraction of a second. The professionals missed - though forgivable, all things considered - a thin arrow, seemingly translucent because of the charms that cloaked it. Standing outside the usual space, the long, feathery, sharp-edged rod managed to pass through the weak point of the barriers (exactly where both of them adjoin each other) and plunge into the back of an advisor already inside the manor.

The poison on the arrow had the fairly standard property of inducing excruciating agony and the far more surprising capacity to stretch the inner perception of time.

Those few hours while the healers fight for Silay's life will seem like years of uninterrupted torment.

Surprisingly, the only healer who could attempt to save the dying advisor's life was recalled in advance from the capital to a distant estate. The inhabitants of that estate, also quite noble but still markedly less wealthy and influential, had previously been unable to afford the services of such a healer, but a recent gold mine found in their possessions allowed for new and much heavier expenditures.

A few days later, the aristocrat, partially paralyzed from another rare poison, was able to get back on his feet and began raising his heir with tripled vigor and enthusiasm. However, this small detail is not important to the story at all.

After all, without the call, those behind the mysterious marksmen who managed to send their deadly projectile through half the city from an unremarkable (except for the fortunate location on a hill) mill would have found another way to lure the healer out of the Capital.

As always.

In this mill, as usual for this time, it was noisy and very dusty - the work is such that silence and cleanliness are impossible here. In this mill, flour was made from expensive varieties of grain, which would afterward go to the hot baked goods served on the table in the expensive establishments of the capital. That is why this place was allowed to operate within the capital (albeit far from the rich quarters), so as not to have to deal with the delivery of newly milled white powder (not that one) to the capital's taverns.

Getting in here unnoticed was an extremely difficult task, unless, of course, you were an experienced fugitive, but it was impossible to establish yourself here permanently while remaining unnoticed, especially if you were not alone, but with a whole group of support. Sooner or later, someone would come across the hiding individual, because there were no really unattended corners in this place.

However, the four assassins, wrapped in shimmering and color-changing chameleon cloaks, were adept at finding workarounds so as not to get into trouble over nothing. The four of them had been working together for decades, doing the difficult, dangerous, and admittedly dirty job of disrupting the lives of those who would oppose the interests of the Morning Realm. Though it was not the strongest or oldest state the elves had created, it had enough power to respond sharply to any damage to their honor or the lives of their subjects.

The foursome had been sitting here for nearly two weeks, waiting for the best possible moment - the advisor's death had been sealed the moment his complicity in the failed sacrifice of young blood had been proven. Even the elves themselves were well aware that the old (as for humans) Silay Mariun was not at all happy about the initiative of his subordinates, but no one cared. Even without taking into account the fact that the destroyed slave-trading squad traded, among other things, Starblood, any head is the origin of the will of his subordinates. And the disobedience of those very subordinates, as well as their excessive initiative, are the problem of the head himself, not of those whose interests his proxies have hurt.

Such a long wait was due solely to the need to prepare the ground for the elimination of the target, and at the same time to remove suspicion from himself. In their minds, everyone would understand who killed the ugly short-eared man and why, but there would be no proof. Naturally, many people would not need any evidence to retaliate. In fact, most of the effort was to ensure that no one who could take such action wouldn't do so.

Several factors coincided quite happily - the necessary negotiations ended exactly when the elimination group was able to find the key to the protection of the Mariun family estate. However, this is what the diplomatic mission employs real professionals to provide such lucky coincidences. And such little things are good for their image and reputation - a successful assassination attempt on the same day as the agreement was made would make many people shiver nervously. Then again, one's mind would know that the elves had sent out eliminators beforehand, but one would suspect that the agents of the Morning Kingdom had long ago picked up the keys to any of Melareth's defenses, which was only partially true - not all, but many.

The eliminators did not care about politics, even though they were well versed in it because of their age and education. Their goal was not cunning combinations and labyrinths of intrigue, but the banal termination of the life of those who had turned the wrong way in this labyrinth.

The four fighters, at least level thirty-five (though none of them had reached forty either), knew their job very well, proving this fact once again.

Their leader, who possessed the two epic classes of Illusion Creator and Image Distortor, was the one who allowed the four elves to spend a week and a half literally in front of the mill workers. The minds of the short-eared ones simply refused to accept the presence of outsiders, even if they were regularly tangled under the workers' feet. Moreover, the enchantments that enmeshed their feeble minds had no effect on the quality of their work and products, allowing the elves no fear of premature disclosure. Which did not prevent them all from taking the utmost precautions and never coming out of disguise.

The second number, playing first fiddle in the eliminations, the Master Sniper and Ghost Archer, was their main weapon and punishing hand. The ability to launch arrows from a seemingly impossible distance, even for an elf, was very useful for those operating in an a priori hostile environment. The second class's abilities complemented the first perfectly - ghost arrows were extremely reluctant to be stopped by any defense, and a weakened and destabilized one could not be an obstacle at all.

The third, who was also the only woman on the team, also possessed two epic classes that complemented each other perfectly. Calling Rain and Calling Thunder could not just summon bad weather and the abysses of heaven upon her enemies' heads, no. Her raindrops serve as her eyes and fingers, creating a perfect map of the terrain, and her lightning strikes always hit in the right place and with the right force, easily destabilizing any barrier and defense... if you know where to hit.

It was for the latter that the last member of the group was needed, the possessor of a very controversial class for children of stars, which not everyone chooses. Strength does not always mean safety, and too close contact with other planes can be more dangerous than enemy steel and magic. For everliving elves any risk is unacceptable, but some still take risks, hoping for luck and their skills.

The Barrier Mage is a standard rare class that cannot surprise the inhabitants of the Morning Realm. There are very few there whose first class falls below the "rare" bar, and the epic class surprises no one. On the other hand, the barrier class provides enough money and employment to occupy a decent position in the home state. Not outstanding by any means, but decent, that's right.

The leader himself, long since forgotten about civilian life, did not know the reason why the seemingly thoroughly civilian mage had abruptly decided to change his life. All he knew was that Number Four had passed selection for the outer guard, despite his non-combat class, and had managed to secure enrollment in the Fallen Leaves, or the Elimination ranks, where so few wanted to go. The fourth answered all questions with polite translations of the subject, even if asked by those to whom refusal might be fraught with career problems. He was silent, spending all his free time at firing ranges and training grounds, trying to bridge the gap between himself and the fighters as much as possible.

Every single instructor and mentor admitted to the fact that the Fourth's mind was incredibly prone to improvisation and original use of his abilities. Where the rest of the children of the stars won through a skill that had been honed over years and decades and carefully handed down to them by their mentors, the fourth won with impudence and effrontery, unpleasantly similar to the human champions - the short-lived races have always been known for their unpredictability and inventiveness. And when you combine that with elven longevity and learning...

His second class of Night Guest, specializing in breaking, deceiving, and slipping through any magical barrier, gave him a chance to squeeze into one of the elite elimination groups, of which the first was the leader. As much as his youngest subordinate raised many questions, the first objectively assessed the benefits he brought to the table. Even today's operation would have taken many times longer and would have had a considerable risk of failure had it not been for the data provided by the fourth.

The four figures moved silently and stealthily toward the rallying point designated by their temporary supervisor. Later, when they are out of human lands and within the walls of their native forests, they will allow themselves to remember their real names again, not empty numbers, they will allow themselves normal conversation, instead of short gesture commands and barely audible whispers of coded orders. That's all for later, for now, they're just moving forward, the lonely leaves of the native tree.

They would be out of the city by tonight, without waiting for darkness to fall. They had several separate passageways through the walls, leaving it up to them to choose the right one. Quiet and stealthy, disguised by the illusions of others, they would slip through any barrier even if they managed to raise it. The latter, however, is unlikely - by the time people will still inform the posts near the walls and the gate about the need for increased attention, the eliminators themselves will be very far. No one will see them, no one will hear them.

Death to their enemies always comes in silence, and in the same way, it goes away. No one should hear the rustling of the fallen leaves before they die, no one should survive their flight.

The Leaves have no desires of their own, no aspirations or aspirations of their own. All they have is the will of the Tree that sent them, for the sake of which they once decided to cut off their eternity. They all knew that they would meet their end this way, ignominiously and namelessly, like withered leaves that have fallen to the ground. Another sacrifice given for the sake of others, another fate that would perish in the endless flow of the river of time. They have no choice but to walk this road, relying only on the shoulder of their comrades and their own strength. That they will survive.

As always.

Lawrence Farens' mansion in the capital met all the requirements of a dwelling of a very important person. Not that the detective himself needed such opulent mansions, but he liked and respected luxury, and if his position permitted - and in some places obliged - him to have such a mansion, why not?

Bastian Roche could not say with certainty that he understood his mentor. Anyone who thought he understood this living legend was mistaken, as the young detective had seen time and again. Yet for all his ability to see through and understand, Lord Farens had an uncanny ability not to waste his energies where they were not needed. Whether his apprentice wants to waste his limited spare time on his antics is entirely the apprentice's problem. As long as he manages to do his mentor's bidding without neglecting his self-development, he can have fun. He can have fun in brothels (as long as he doesn't get into trouble), drinking wine in boxes, or looking for another black cat in the underground caves, where there have never been any black cats.

Bastian was well aware that the mentor did not believe he was right, nor did he believe in the success of his actions. Whether he decided to let his apprentice experience the bitterness of defeat himself by teaching a lesson against stubbornness, or whether he was interested in seeing the result of the study... Bastian did not know, even despite his class.

But he did know that working at the limit allowed him to level up incredibly fast. The young man was really worried about the rate at which his class trait was increasing. Over the past few months the Guesses had reached fifty, giving the boy an epic perk, and yet he was also managing to develop skills with abilities. The last time he'd managed to upgrade his Unrestrained Guess to the maximum fifth level without investing any points, he'd had to bury his eyes and ears in a healing potion. And then, by some miracle, he didn't get his brain on the table in the truest sense of the word.

But it was so worth it!

Whoever the mysterious "Face Under the Mask" was, somehow it avoided his intuition, as if Bastian were trying to catch an incredibly slippery eel by the tail. He sensed the presence of the person he was looking for, but all his skills couldn't latch on to the truth - too little information, too stealthy a target. Yes, the Intuit Investigator can do a lot of things, but even he can't pull information literally out of thin air!

When this sad truth reached the determined young man, he immediately stopped banging his head against the wall. Pride is pride, but not to this extent! Realizing that the supposed foreign Hero had escaped his attention, Bastian began to sift through the sieve of his intuition all others associated with the case. Looking not for a stone that had already disappeared beneath the water, but for the circles made by this stone on the smooth surface of the water. It was already a move of despair, stemming from an unwillingness to give up.

At first, it had been just that - the few little flashes of intuition associated with the Adventurers' Guild of Kraj had turned out to be nothing. His workload was growing heavier and heavier, and there was less and less time left for personal work, and he should not have forgotten about his rest. The mentor loved the progress of his protégé and began to train the heir of Roche with triple the effort, leaving no time to waste.

Today he did not activate his skills in that direction at all, being fully occupied with the teacher's task. The recent scandal at the elven embassy provoked a veritable avalanche of events, culminating in the death of disgraced advisor Mariun. Naturally, everyone who knew the cause of the scandal knew exactly who had killed the old freak (here Roche, whose family had lost a lot of blood to the intrigues of the sixth advisor, was a little biased), but they didn't make much noise. Even his mentor had given him an assignment purely to see how much the apprentice could understand about what had happened.

The apprentice understood a lot, and then he was pretty surprised when the forgotten thread of investigation that had broken in the Kraj suddenly came to life again. A whole night of vigilance, ending in nosebleeds had yielded an unexpected result. No, there was no arguing that it was the elves who had killed the Advisor, but then...

To begin with, the mopping up of all those associated with the elite squad of slave hunters was not initiated by elves at all, even though they picked up the baton with great enthusiasm, as the mentor must have known even without Bastian. Nor had the deceased's rivals intervened, of which Lord Farens must also have known. But no one but Bastian himself could have known that his intuition had literally screamed the connection between this attack and that strange Face under the Mask of the Krajas.

After that, with a clear conscience, he gave up on the analysis of the consequences of the death of the former Sixth Advisor, as well as on the likely redistribution of markets of influence - it was necessary to seize the moment before trace cooled down completely.

Let's say we are dealing with a foreign Hero sent to Melareth.

It is a Hero, and it is a Hero with rare artifacts, otherwise, the newbie would be devoured quickly by the creature that appeared in Kraj. For someone who isn't summoned, there's nowhere to gain the experience and skill that would allow him to survive the carnage without being detected. So he is, after all, a summoned.

Next.

Why would the curators of the Summoned save the Kraj? Why would they want to destroy the Red Knot and contribute to Sylay Marion's demise? It is trivially too unprofitable to be a reality. Every single one of Melareth's neighbors would either have already priced their summoner out of a risky battle, or they would have tried to do as much damage as they could by his actions.

It can't be the elves, for they didn't give a damn about people's problems and certainly wouldn't allow an underage kinsman to be used in their operation (though if not the latter, it would be a very good guess).

That leaves, or he can imagine, only one option. One in which the summoner's actions benefit Melareth as a nation, but also drown the mysterious power's rivals. There have been as many as two summonses recently. The first was three years ago when the Dissector was summoned, but this Hero, despite a very strong legendary fighting class, does not possess the declared abilities.

The second summons failed, and there was even an investigation (by Lawrence himself) about it. It seems that a couple of embezzlers were executed - the King was furious about the money that had been wasted.

Summary?

Someone in Melareth has managed to summon a Hero on their own, outside the King's office, to pump him up, and now they are quietly using him to discredit the forces of the Crown and consolidate their position, not forgetting the good of the country. If this is not a bid for a possible rebellion - an assassin of the current monarch being prepared at the same time - then Bastian will laugh out loud.

Looks like the weekend is delayed for now.

But now the mentor certainly won't discard his versions for anything.

He would have gladly entrusted the stack of old notes to one of his servants instead of carrying it across town himself. Except that what was written on those sheets was too secret to let those servants live. And so he'd only managed to get access to that section of the library with the name of his mentor and a couple of the bribes Lasya had mentioned, and he'd spent half his monthly salary on them. And he's not poorly paid, even though he's a trainee!

With a quiet clatter and a cloud of dust, the stack of papers and parchment in roughly equal proportions ended up right on the table, next to two others that had already been disassembled. Intuition immediately jerked his perception, making him notice the small fact that the papers were not in the order in which he had left them. And some of those papers were missing altogether!

He was already reaching for the alarming amulet when its action was interrupted by the hoarse and smoky voice of his associate:

" Don't be in a hurry to yell, kid." The priest who had emerged from invisibility was as uncoordinated, unkempt, and inexpressibly insolent as ever, and his fingers, with their chewed and broken fingernails, were clutching the sheet of notes Bastian had written in his hands. "It is too early to make a fuss."

"I demand an explanation. By what right did you pry into the private and classified..."

"Don't fuck my brain, kid." The rudeness of the answer took the heir of the House of Roche's breath away with indignation. "My access is as fucking good as yours, and now you could have raised a lot of shouting and made yourself look like a little retard. And Lawrence would be reminded of that, he's got a lot of enemies."

"Explain it immediately." With great difficulty, Bastian got his nerves under control. First of all, he knew how to admit mistakes. And to believe that the former operative of the secret guard had managed to understand something from his notes that the recorder himself could not realize due to lack of data was much easier than he would have liked. No matter how powerful his intuition, it was no insurance against mistakes.

"Oh, you're so formidable!" He grinned, but then he looked serious. "You see, boy, you're looking at the problem all wrong. You're looking for someone to make an unsanctioned summons. You even go through all the trips overseas taken by our high lords and advisers. And the fucked up thing is, those routes are already being monitored, even without you. A whole corps reporting specifically to the King himself. And what you suspected, they would have noticed much sooner, because that's their bread and butter."

While Bastian was just panting with humiliation, the damn priest sipped some crap from the flask on his belt, grimacing in the process, and then resumed his lecture.

" Alda crystals, black lily, gray leaves - it's a commodity whose turnover is monitored so tightly that if it were anyone's intention, Lawrence would be the one who'd be investigating it. And don't talk about the waybill fraud - it's not that kind of merchandise. It's always counted in fractions of a gram, and all the "accidental losses" are checked so that the skins come off. I'd still believe your version if it weren't for the fact that both operations by the mysterious Mask were of no direct benefit to possible insurgents. Really? Silaн's death doesn't change a thing - they're already preparing a new one to replace the shithead. If anyone benefited from this, it's His Majesty himself, and he does not need to hide such operations."

At such moments the old assassin began to speak too purely and correctly, revealing in himself the man he had once been. Before he decided to quit his main job and go into religion.

"But then who?" Immediately the detective intervened. "Destroying my version does not remove the connection between the Knot and Kraj. There are no other links, no interested parties other than Mask?"

The anger gradually disappeared, replaced by a strange mixture of irritation and gratitude. Yes, the man was inordinately rude and abominable, but he knew his business, and his intelligence was superior to that of many a scholar. It was clearer than ever why he had been tolerated in his position and why he had been allowed to leave it peacefully.

"And you were right from the beginning." The priest spewed his version out at him and then continued without letting him get indignant. "It really is a Hero. The one who was summoned right after the Dissector."

"But... But the Summon was unsuccessful! I personally saw the documents, and the mentor were involved in the investigation of possible saboteurs! The fermented blood of the Amerian Wolf was the culprit! To me... well, to the mentor, the sages swore on their lives that the reagents taken from that beast had simply expired, for it had been fifty years since the legendary beast had been killed! I... I can't imagine why you would make such a fuss just to convince everyone that it's a failure! Melareth's credibility is only diminished by this, and if the king needed a secret assassin and eliminator, he could simply hold the summons behind closed doors!"

By the end, the detective was almost screaming, clearly in a state close to hysteria - long and hard work, multiplied by several failures in a row and, as the cherry on the cake, a complete misunderstanding of the possible motives of all involved. His interlocutor seemed to enjoy the young man's bewildered look before responding to the stream of outrage.

"Well, our people may think what they want, but the summoning, I can bet my lucky coin, was successful. It's just that Hero was summoned to the wrong place, and an error in the ritual prevented them from catching the fact of summoning itself. Think of it as my intuition, little one."

The priest's words gave him a headache at first, from trying to comprehend and calculate the situation. And when he did, the hairs on his head began to stand on end in pure horror.

"You must be mistaken." He said in a steady and stony voice, keeping his face. "You just have to. Kraj. Yes, Kraj. If it were a free Hero, he should have shone his Status, which would have attracted attention. They were always described as too reckless individuals, he, or she, would not deliberately hide from possible searchers. And neither I nor the mentor noticed anything."

" Ha! You noticed that, didn't you? They just didn't believe you for your unlikelihood!" The priest was quick to answer. "And he might as well have realized that he wasn't welcome in the world. Heroes are very good at that. Guessing, yes. And with the summoning process itself, his paranoia must have been high."

"But... No! No. If he knows there's going to be trouble. Why would he interfere in a battle with a cult? Why attack the Snork? It's too stupid. Following that logic, he is simultaneously behaving like a master infiltrator, erasing all traces of his being anywhere, like erasing the memory of freed slaves. But. Along with this, he sticks his nose into danger, committing acts that can't help but leave traces. Also. He. He doesn't clean up every trace. The elite wing of the Kraj adventurers' guild. The slaves themselves from the Snork camp. It's all too silly. Illogical."

Bastian's speech became intermittent from the class skills working at full power - the detective was desperately overloading his own abilities, looking for inconsistencies and even seemingly finding them.

" I can see that you've done a pretty good reading on the subject, but you haven't delved into the depths of the historical chronicles." The former assassin chuckled as he made himself comfortable in the nearest chair. "You're the one who called the summoned stupid and reckless. Do you know why they were so, lad?"

"Because all at once they got a power they'd never dreamed of before," Sebastian answered as if it were written. "Simple gray souls, peasants, commoners, and scribblers, stripped of all the restraints on their whims and given the power to impose their truth on anyone. That's why they weren't tolerated - they didn't know their place at all, wanting to bring their vision of the world to a place they weren't invited to."
T.N.

The only response was laughter - the same nasty, slightly grunting laughter. It was as if a drunken country pig, not unlike a human, was laughing at a vulgar joke from the same freak. Bastian habitually let the priest's game pass his ears, getting deeper and deeper into his abilities.

"That's right, phew, yeah." The man continued the conversation after he calmed down, bursting into laughter and giggles. "Right, but not right at all. They were the fools not because of power. They weren't, by and large. You see, kid, Bastian, yes, the thing about Hero is that it's not just three classes and three points of enhancement No, it's more than that, and it's what made the summoned afraid, afraid to their knees, even now blowing on water and fearing any relapse. The Hero is always ahead. Where the Hero walks, the circle of events follows. Some believed that the very presence of the Hero causes trouble. This, by the way, is wrong, no. Heroes don't call trouble; they open up boils. Where a simple check will show nothing, the Hero will find the problem and make it come out. If there isn't one, there won't be a problem either, but if there is one..."

Another sip from the flask, another nasty, horrible laugh coming out of the throat of an old assassin whom Bastian had quite in vain considered harmless.

"It is not an influence on probability, or at least, not only. It's just that a Hero cannot be shut up with a bribe, cannot be stopped by nobility and title, cannot be turned aside by a false trail. Or rather, it's all possible, but it's costly." At that moment the priest showed his hands a huge circle, shaped like an ass. "Also Hero can speak, yes. They've always been able to ignite hearts and get right into them - it's their destiny to lead people behind them, to their goal. Not necessarily a good one, or at least a normal one, but to some kind of goal. They set it for themselves, and then they look for those who would be on their way with the Hero himself. Scary feature, yes. Just strong bastards no one would be afraid of, but strong bastards who can not just rip the heart out of a lord they don't like, but also lead people and non-humans, gather like-minded people around them..."

The speaker was silent for a moment, smirking at something of his own... Or just savoring a drink from his flask; here Bastian's intuition was silent, completely focused on the main task at hand.

"The Yoke was created for the specific purpose of subjugating the Summoned and depriving them of these two traits. The tendency toward trouble and the ability to cause a rebellion with a sermon or two. And to take away their arrogance, yes. Not many people like to be whipped to death for a couple of screwed-up peasant girls. That's how the Heroes we know now came to be - just really, really, really strong warriors, mages, and other classes. Striking power, Blade of Kings, but nothing more. That's why they're so careful about purity of summoning - one strong bastard isn't dangerous for Melareth, but one strong bastard that can lead all the discontented to it is a different matter altogether."

Another sip, followed by a new batch of information, for the possession of which without hesitation is killed or paid with mountains of coins, and Bastian listens in silence to everything the priest of the roads said.

"For ours, and not just ours, it's a lot easier to deal with our own Heroes. Even if there are only a handful who can take the half-hundredth level, even if they are about a quarter of a grade lower than the summoned, even if they demand a lot more than the summoned, they are their own. The good old familiar shitheads, the ones who've made connections and gained power, often are. They too have these characteristics, albeit much weaker, reduced. But they will go to the dialogue, simply because they are used to living well, used to be on top. And those who will not remain silent simply will not live to become and exalt."

A dozen seconds of silence, during which the priest took a few more sips from the flask and yawned while scratching the back of his head, and then he continued.

"You know, kid, we're all sort of Heroes in our own story. We can all be heroes ourselves. Deep in the fucking theory, of course, but we can. If you regularly go into the thick of it, serving in the army, rushing into every battle with the enemy. If you don't get out of all the tombs and wildlands, cleaning up the monsters for years. If you are the first master in your business, holding on to all the trade or administrative operations of half the kingdom. Such a person is no longer just dirt, not just someone's mutt, trained for blood. They become Heroes themselves. If they live long enough, of course. If they still have something to live for."

Another sip and the rapidly intoxicated priest continued to pour out information to Bastian that he would not be able to possess for years to come. He naturally listened, ignoring the irreverence and the manner of speech - such a thing must be heard, and if this drunkard would shut up because of his manners, he would not forgive himself.

"Sometimes it happens that Yoke starts to malfunction. Regardless of a Hero's power and classes, it just happens. Nothing fatal, the most basic functions don't go anywhere, but some aspects of heroism slip through the cracks. No, they're all given special potions, and they try never to be left alone so they don't miss anything. But it happens, yeah. If some slut His Majesty's middle son fucks starts looking at sunsets in her spare time, that's fine, let her enjoy the scenery. If she's socializing with someone other than her chosen entourage, that's okay too, though they try to keep that out of the way. It's more for secrecy than for security reasons, because a person who is summoned may catch a glimpse of something unnecessary in a conversation. If such a slut manages in a few conversations to convince a total murderer that there are other values in the world than blood and gold, it's cause for concern if it becomes known."

Another sip, after which the empty flask flies into the corner, and the hall is filled with the contented and satisfied burps of a well-drunk man, which makes Bastian shiver, despite his desire to keep his face.

"They may not even care if the girl continues to be friends with the "new comrade," especially if that comrade is also a Crown follower. But if, on the other hand, she mentions to her girlfriend "in confidence" that it bothers her when her controller loses her holes at cards for a couple of nights... there's only one thing to do - cut out her legendary class, and forget about the waste resource. That's the way it is, Bastian."

The pain in his head was overwhelming, but he was running through it with all the possibilities, adding the information he had, building a coherent and inconsistent picture, piecing it all together. He could see, as if he were present there, the summons that had been deemed unsuccessful, the hero is thrown into a forest full of goblins, giving him time to pump up and take his strength. He had seen it all.

"I, uh, I just got the clairvoyance skill." That's all the young man could say. "Thank you for your information, Shyngys. It is... I can't tell you how important it is. We need to notify the mentor right away, to the royal court. We were too late to react, but all is not lost, and the danger is not so great."

The headache was draining away, and the increased level and the closed first rank of the class spoke for itself - the current guess of the already far from novice investigator was very significant, just can not tell how significant, and the detective himself can quite seriously claim a place to compete even his mentor... if only in the distant future.

"Yeah," The former assassin replied, not giving young Roche's speech even formal approval.

However, today's participation gave Shyngys a great deal of credit and respect from the lad who was already on his way out of the hall. No matter how strong the Hero was, the kingdom would have something to answer for the lone wolf. And surely the King will not forget those who bred the insect lurking in the shadows, the pitiful but deadly poisonous one.

For Bastian Roche, the colors of the future seem extremely bright...

...grey...

He had no time to notice, no time to fend off the attack, no time to be surprised, or even to realize his death. Here he was taking the last step toward the door, about to take the handle, when he was gone.

A cloud of road dust, spreading from the unmoving priest, covered the whole room. The detective too weakened and exhausted by his long work to notice and smell the treacherous attack, was vaporized to ashes almost instantly. A moment later, all his sheets and notes disappeared, literally erased from the universe, killing the work of the never-risen star of the investigation. A few seconds later, the entire room looked incredibly clean and tidy, leaving no trace of any living person here - even the specialized skills of interrogators and detectives couldn't find anything intelligible.

Standing in the middle of the empty room, the man squeezed his slanted eyes shut tight, his frank bandit face twisted painfully, and his breathing remained heavy and intermittent. For a second he thought he was going to drop dead, biting off more power than he could chew, but fate saved him again.

For some reason.

He managed to leave the building rather quickly - in the capital the chief always had enough work not to keep an eye on his apprentice. The servants did not see the assassin at all - he entered the house in stealth, not even using the amulet key handed to him. The next was a quick visit to the Royal Library, where he carefully removed the records from the attendance cards, learning from them who had given the deceased young man the books, scrolls, and diaries he had requested.

Four accidents followed, arranged with the usual ease. After a decade idleness unused skills had rusted a bit, of course, but no more than that. It was enough for bookworms. In the last case, the "accidental robbery" was a clumsy job, but at least he'd won himself a few days.

Farens is a clever and meticulous man - he learns pretty quickly what books his missing apprentice had taken. It would take him much longer to come to the same conclusions as Shyngys did, but the legendary detective would find out soon enough. Somewhere along the way, he will suspect the involvement of his personal priest in this disappearance. He would not understand the motive, since it stays unknown, even when he resigned from the service, but the suspicion itself would remain. He will not be able to lead him by the nose for long - he is so young but too experienced.

However, he had already won some time.

Once again taking up arms

Taking other men's lives again.

Breaking the promise made upon taking the priestly dignity.

He had once promised to survive, to be able to survive, and to go on, walking his road to the end. Until the dust on his boots covers his forgotten wounds.

"Ansham-Nar, ah, Ansham-Nar!" As hoarsely as if to growl, said the priest leaning against the filthy wall of another alleyway. "Fuck you, Ansham-Nar! I renounce!"

The wild pain throughout his body didn't make him scream, though it did make him slip quietly down the wall, biting his lip bloody and struggling to endure the excruciating agony. The divine curse was now trying to grow into his essence, but if he could withstand it if the god himself decided not to intervene personally if the cocktail of a dozen very rare potions he had taken earlier worked if his will and conviction could stand the test... then there are other options.

He unbent, glanced at his status, and smiled a rather red smile, spitting up the blood that filled his mouth. The Eternal Wanderer is one of the forbidden classes and the kind whose owners prefer to be either quickly enslaved in the same secret guards or entourage of someone powerful, or nailed down. If you still meet the usual Walker of the Road from time to time, then his new class is truly unique. Legendary Grade, motherfucker!

Now you can't beg the deity for more power than you have. On the other hand, you don't have to draw energy from a god, but from the Endless Road, which allows you to repeat many of the tricks in the priests' arsenal, and adds a lot of your own abilities as well. There is something to risk, something to refuse the help and protection of one of those who long ago...

It doesn't matter, though.

Once, he had voluntarily replaced his first class of assassin with the priestly class, even though he didn't want it too much (as if there was a choice), and his second class, obtained in the twenty-fifth, was blocked. Now the blockage was gone, and his overall fighting power was even stronger. He wanted to laugh - he was going to die in agony, no matter how carefully he prepared. There were still priests who had survived the renunciation, but not many who had retained their powers. Those who had multiplied it in such a way... Shyngys had only seen such things in reports marked "unverified rumors".

He survived again.

What fort?

He fell to the muddy ground with a soft rustling sound, simultaneously throwing a noise suppressor beside him, and then burst into a wild, mad and frenzied laughter. Laughing to the point of pain and nausea, he laughed at himself and his own life, which would not end, for some reason going on and on despite all his efforts.

Exorbitant amounts of alcohol, cheap brothels, and smoking salts - he tried incessantly to bring his pumped-up body to the point of collapse, unable to break his once-promised promise to survive. Every drink, whether fine wine or cheap booze, had the iron taste of blood in his mouth, food carried the smell of burnt cloth and wood, and the body of another whore could not drown out, shut out, interrupt the sensation of the last touch...

The man was lying in the mud.

He laughed and sobbed at the same time, gradually subsiding, throwing out all the anger, despair, sadness, and resentment of the universe itself that had accumulated over the years of silent self-destruction. The brief attack passed, leaving behind heavy breathing and cloudy eyes, leaving an eager desire to go forward, straight to the palace on the rise, and then to kill and kill until the damned stone mass collapsed, burying all the dirt accumulated there under its debris.

The hand was clutching an amulet that had been taken off - a simple copper coin with a hole in the center, through which was stretched a harsh thread. Not even an amulet, a mockery.

"You see, Rebecca, I'm still alive." The broken voice was hoarse even more than usual, giving a rather repulsive impression. "But now I think I finally know why."

There are a lot of skills that allow you to peek into the status of the person you're inspecting. Fortunately, if you know who has what skills, if you know the mechanics of inspections and interrogations, you can try to hide almost anything.

The owner of forty-eighth level and two classes, one of which, suddenly, turned out to be legendary, could say about it absolutely precisely. For when he decided to "go religious" without explaining anything, which was (thanks to the loss of one and the blocking of the second class) one of the few ways to leave the service without a knife in the back, no one noticed one small detail in his status.

Titles: Companion of the Fallen Hero

* * *

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1tvMOp3rrnLK4bUY8fBCqEEtl1sUwmEOD/view?usp=sharing - I think I found a weapon for the main villain.

A chapter is 14 pages long. That's quite an interlude.

This interlude does not show everything that I wanted to show, so the next chapter will also be it.

Standard system: 10/2, so as not to bore you with constant interludes, but also not to blur the main plot.

I also laughed at the little elf adventurer. He really did not laugh, but he'll be able to brag to the big-eared ladies about how he was captured by short-eared slave traders and evil witch doctors as a child, and then boom, they're all dead!

And Shyngys - he was actually supposed to play a lot later, but Bastian just bombarded me with crits. Seriously, he was luckier than the MC... to a certain point. Even felt a little sorry for him, because he had a couple of interesting episodes hanging on him, but that's just how it turned out.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/523801

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP