Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Глава 25

Chapter 25

Goblins are quite a fun creature, and a careful study of them leads one to make all sorts of assumptions. It is also possible that these little scum-suckers are a kind of biological weapon. A sort of very budget version of the well-known Zerg and Tyranids, which failed at the box office because of its budget. Despite the weakness of the individual goblin, their race has some very significant advantages. Allowing them not to prosper, but to confidently fight for a place under the sun.

First of all, goblins are very fertile, just horribly so. For them, twins, triplets, or even five babies in a brood is not a miracle, but a harsh everyday occurrence - single births rarely happen. Little Goblins, in their turn, very quickly recover from the aftereffects of childbirth and become pregnant again. Such is their culture that a female has three uses: to bear children, to care for a tribal stand, and to boil in a pot. You always have to do at least two of the three things, and therefore the barren do not linger in their society.

Secondly, goblins grow up very fast. At the age of three, the little green-skinned creature is already at full strength helping the women with their chores, gathering roots and berries, and checking the snares set by hunters. At five, a goblin takes up arms and goes on his first hunt, ceasing to be a child. At seven he is considered a mature man, allowed to find his own mate. At ten is not just a man, but a seasoned veteran, which the young people look up to. At fifteen, a gray-haired old man who either goes to the pot or has already reached the point where old age is not a vice but an achievement. The few shamans and others with unusual talents belong to this fraternity of old men.

Goblins are nimble, tenacious, able to feed on tree bark and beetles, easygoing, and, most importantly, totally indifferent to death, while being unbelievably cowardly. It's a brain-deadening combination, but it allows the individual goblin, worthless apart from the tribe, to survive and wait, so that, upon sensing an advantage, immediately strikes again, and runs away.

The only thing you can add to that is the ability to very strongly buff yourself with the flesh of sentient beings - only endowed ones. The addiction to that flesh. The unbelievably stable genome, which no incest or consanguinity is afraid of, because of which the tribe can recover from one single pair, and you get a real plague of the wild lands.

Goblins are hated by everyone precisely because of their cowardly, vicious nature. They flee easily when threatened, but are adept at picking victims who cannot fend them off. Goblin horde can move forward as an unstoppable battering ram but encounter resistance, instantly scattered in dozens of separate groups, which will be an unimaginable pain in the ass for ordinary people. Orcs are scary and dangerous, no doubt, but after getting a repulse and losing most of their tribe, they quietly retreat back to their forests, steppes or mountains, very rarely bothering people in the nearest future. Even if they scatter, it's a lot easier to weed out their remnants than it is to hunt the goblins down.

At the same time, even individual pairs of goblins can terrorize nearby villages for years, dragging cattle and poultry, ravaging fields, and then even uprooting individual travelers, or children who ran away too far. At the same time, as long as they are few, as long as they are afraid, even their addiction to human meat does not break through the barrier of cowardice, forcing them to constantly move, change lairs, and not stay in one place longer than three nights, and all in that vein. The average level of ordinary villagers, not engaged in adventurism at a professional level, rarely rises above the third or fifth. It's good if the goblins get slaughtered in the frontier - there every plowman is also a hunter, and the average level is much higher. And if the creeps infiltrate the settled land, then put out the light, because while the Baron scratches his ass, someone will be devoured.

A final point about the danger of goblins is how easily they ally with stronger monster races, like orcs or even gnolls or giants. The creatures easily take on the role of grease for the blade and mobile groups-defenders, giving physically powerful units to break through the line of representatives of civilized races, fully implementing the advantage of monsters in their physical characteristics. This is the kind of fun that is not fun at all.

But all the above is true only for ordinary peasants trying to survive in this crazy world that constantly throws new attacks on their heads. If we're talking about a group of high-level fighters, well-armed and acting with minimal cohesion, the goblin camp turns from a problem into a pile of green meat, not even fit for training.

The biggest problem is that such high-level groups are too few to scour all the bear corners and carry out the goblins they encounter. But when they do, they often spend a little time cleaning up the mess - a good thing in Melareth, and in the world, too, along with washing your hands before eating and cleaning your weapons. If you see a goblin, kill it before it kills someone. I've seen an attitude like that somewhere before...

In any case, the presence of these creatures was useful to us, because some of us have only the first level, which would not hurt to increase the active pumping.

The green-skinned camp resembled a mixture of a small dump and a primitive settlement - the number of goblins in the place had increased enough that they were beginning to let their guard down. The land was still uninhabited, though relatively safe, and the goblins lived here happily and comfortably - there was game and space, but no large groups of people. A couple of decades from now they would have to deal with the greenlings crawling out of the woods again, but for now, there were too few of them here.

The clairvoyance was working properly, causing me to suppress my gagging, even with my heroic composure from the title. Surely the story of how the remnants of the small horde trickled through the frontier, gradually settling into the safe forests, how they miraculously managed to keep a few goblins alive who produced offspring, how they grew in numbers... it's quite an interesting story. But only from the encyclopedic point of view, for from the moral point of view - goblins are the purest, ruthless abomination, with absolutely no bright sides.

They killed and betrayed their comrades, ate the old and the crippled, despised and humiliated all who were weaker, and fawned on the stronger, and all their dreams were of becoming stronger themselves and humiliating those who were weaker. Amazingly, they had an established society that was cruel and pragmatic but in some ways even beautiful in its ugliness. I do not doubt that there are worse races in the world than goblins, nastier and more dangerous, more alien and cruel, more prolific and hateful. There are many such creatures Alurei knows! What I can tell you is that there are few creatures more wretched than goblins.

It is possible, only possible, that if they were taken out of society, out of the vicious circle of hatred, by starting to educate them from childhood, they would become different, more human. Not the smartest, not the most useful, not the most civilized, no doubt, but not living proof of the correctness of the idea of "killing all subhumans". Except that for these particular individuals, any show of pity for them is a sign of weakness. Back then, in my earliest days in the new world, I was very aware of their ruthlessness. Goblins don't care about morality or high ideals, they care only about a full belly and nothing more.

The clairvoyance continued to work, asserting that in some places there were small communities, diasporas, or even micro-states of other goblin subspecies that had managed to civilize themselves, but mostly in a "relatively" way. They have not become kinder, but rather smarter, more civilized, and more agreeable, turning from pests into a kind of mix of Gypsies and Tajiks, if you will forgive my racism: cheap labor and just as cheap meat in the millstones of war.

Ironically, their wild counterparts play exactly the same role in the society of the Wildlands as their civilized counterparts do for the endowed. And the occasional high-paying goblin craftsman, or even the very specific healers I learned about through that same clairvoyance, was a statistical error. What good would it do if one in a million could be a good jeweler or even a mechanic, thanks to their racial abilities and donkey's stubbornness if a million people wanted to eat you? Humans, too, have the title of Genius of the Generation, and a genius man often achieves far more than an equally genius goblin.

It's a funny thing, though: just when I found out that there are "normal" individuals among goblins, I became even more convinced that goblins should be killed. Either my logic sucks, or I've become too local, or I just want to kill someone. The latter is probably the most likely of all.

Going back to the goblin camp, it was relatively small: fifty or so warriors, if you apply that term to goblins, about the same number of females, children, and elders, and one chief with a small retinue of high-level holders for these undersized people. They've always had fewer females, which creates intraspecies competition, and few children and elders because of wild mortality, which somehow evens out the insane birthrate. Old people, in general, live only until the moment when they can not satisfactorily work and lead children, and then hello to the common table, bon appétit.

I can't reproach the guys for their shoddy attitude toward security either, because the camp was not only located in a very good place, but it was also well guarded. And the patrols, surprisingly, were awake. Yes, it was felt that they were more afraid of beasts than of a real attack by evil men or goblins, and they lacked professionalism as well as levels of skill, but still there was order here, even if it was very peculiar.

When I checked the patrols' positions and made sure there was no ambush, I glanced at the disgusted Hans, Losius, and Taria, and then nodded silently to Hestia hovering above us. The woman had already stopped maintaining her "beautiful" form, becoming once again a mere lump of very angry and dangerous fog, beginning to slowly and sadly expand, becoming less dense but covering more and more territory. Raimel instinctively knew exactly how she had to act to make her hunt a success, though her human side abhorred such instincts.

The average level of the goblins in this place was not even a five, though the chieftain had a ninth, as did the shaman. Though the latter was more like a medicine man, curing what wouldn't send you to dinner right away, and keeping an eye on the tribal brew. Also an important role, I won't argue. The rest were level one through three, and only six of the hunters stood out in level five. The system even marked them as goblin hunters, not just goblins.

It was late afternoon, and the weather was damp and cold, so none of the greenhorns were surprised by the mist. When the mist got thicker, they were surprised, but no more than that, for the location was far from dangerous. I'll bet the inhabitants of the wilderness would be howling with alarm, raising their weapons, even if it were just mist. But here the chief only twisted his nose a little, and went on screwing one of his wives. He's an asshole! Half the people here are dying virgins, and he's got four women at once! What a fucking sultan. I'll kill him on principle and out of solidarity with the rank and file goblins. I'll kill the goblins, too, but that's another matter. And I don't actually kill them, but I'm kind of in the middle of the process.

Hestia didn't even think to apply her signature skill, simply not wanting to waste time and energy on mere goblins. And I was also wary of the trail leading to us, in case anyone stumbled upon a tribe altered by her Mist of Vice. I'm already regularly reflecting test impulses of clairvoyance, and there are only a couple of pieces of mirror shards left, so it's better not to. The intensity of the search has gone down, but it's better to experiment with new abilities in the wilderness.

The sphere of shadows in Hestia's mist worked a little worse, but at my level it was barely noticeable - my concentration and Shadows class score allowed me to squeeze through such a disguise without even looking. And Hestia herself, as a monster, had no class characteristic yet. Maybe later on it will appear, but it's not yet known - Ygra is also an epic monster, but she never got a unique stat.

A few minutes after Hestia had stretched her misty essence as far as she could, the goblins began to die one by one. No special magic, just bare physics: a rope of mist around the neck, palms woven from the mist to break vertebrae, a quick dagger stab that immediately disintegrated back into the mist, just blocking the breath and clogging the lungs. She acted calmly and methodically, as she was used to working with golems. A mere monster might not have held back, tried to bite off more than it could chew unnoticed, or screwed up somewhere else. Hestia was clever; she had learned the mechanism of greenhorn movement and patrols, preventing early detection, and sharply reducing the number of those who could raise the alarm.

Here were those who slept in the tents gone. Here were the idle loners knocked out. The patrols and sentries were dead, and then there were too few goblins left. They might have suspected something, but no one had the time to share their suspicions with their neighbors. And there were no neighbors left. The last to die were the chief's wives, who, having finished his manly duty, went out to get some fresh air. The tentacles that had seeped into what was perhaps the only room in the camp, where ordinary fog had no path, cut off the lives of the monsters quickly and almost painlessly.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I felt regret that I had just contributed to the genocide of a civilian population, but I saw all too well how peaceful that population was. No one in our company felt any regret for those killed by Hestia. Except that the woman herself was too unhappy with how much her new body was affecting her, making it harder and harder to remember that she was human. The ring's influence stabilized her consciousness, preventing her from turning into a monster entirely, but it didn't make her feel any better.

"Mm-hmm." Taria draws thoughtfully. "Green Tits have a multiplier for strength and endurance, and our misty friend has a racial talent, too. I can't help but think about becoming a monster myself, if not a creature at once. I'll have one, too... Ow! It hurts, you fool!"

The former townswoman did not have time to finish her thought, having received a painful and real smack from Hans, who suddenly went into a frenzy. And the pathfinder initially struck at full force and with his fist, clearly intending to punch her in the face as "man-to-man", without discounts, and only at the last moment he turned the blow into a slap to the face. I'd be surprised if I didn't feel like punching Taria in the face myself for saying that. Even Losius and Hestia, stoic though they were, were clearly holding back some very sonorous epithets right now. But Tariya had been a simple townswoman for most of her life, not a professional adventurer, and many things, while taboo, were not as unambiguous and strict for her as they were for us.

"It's going to hurt, girl!" He almost growled and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, and he grabbed her professionally so as not to stab her in the open liver. "You should think about what you're saying with your fucking tongue, if your mother taught you to babble! You stupid whoremonger goat, you know there's some things no one fuckin' jokes about? No joke at all?"

He would have said more, but Taria pirouetted lightly out of his grip and raised her arms in a conciliatory gesture, giving him no time to continue.

"Okay, okay, my bad, I said it without thinking." According to me, her remorse is about sixty-five percent sincere. "I didn't think about it, I said something stupid. That's it. Do not give me here arrange a chamber pressure, I'm good. Honestly, I won't make jokes like that again, but don't get mad."

"Your words aren't really as superstitious as you might think, but more banal and disgusting." Hestia intervenes, flying slowly over to the frozen rabbit Taria and hovering directly in front of her. "Creatures have never been a joke, nor has their humanity. I suppose our comrade-in-arms has had rather unpleasant, if unpleasant, experiences with this group of creatures. As for the meaning of your words, believe me, as one who has been on both sides of a soaring coin, being human is far better than being even the most terrible and powerful creature in the world. I have lost too much of the talent I have been given that no one will ever give back to me. Don't say any more words like that, just please, without any threats or rudeness. Don't say it."

Maybe it was just my imagination, but for a moment Taria did feel excruciatingly ashamed. Apparently, the utter pain and bitterness in Hestia's words, the unconcealed request from a pure-blooded aristocrat, had managed to touch something deep within the clump of blades that was my dancer's character.

"Let's consider the incident settled." Hestia continued without waiting for a response. "If my question is not indelicate, what exactly were you confronted with, gentleman?'

Hans grunted at the overly pompous manner in which he was addressed but accepted the change of subject, evidently ashamed of his justified but ungracious breakdown. But he was too offended by the words of Taria, who was almost seriously thinking of giving up her human essence, which for the natives was a kind of cube-raised Satanism.

"The Devils." He just squeezed it out. "I don't fucking know which House, but it was obviously the Hunger and Deception Branches. The Converted were eating their own villagers, and it was the only way the main creature was pushing their brains around. The scum did little magic in the fray, but it was powerful. It went like this. I can't say more than that... I didn't have time to ask questions."

"I can only confirm what Hans said, lady." The silent and thoughtful Losius, who had been running his hands over the hilt of his sword. "We didn't have time to ask anything at the time, because it was all for the battle."

"And you were telling that story!" Taria, who had quickly recovered from the shock and shame, exclaimed. "That first night, around the campfire, when you and Tin met our caravan. I didn't think it was that bad, though."

"Have you ever seen the distorted ones by the Devils themselves? In-person, so to speak, facing to ass? A bunch of scumbags who used to be people and aren't anymore? Аh?" Hans started puffing and puffing like a steamroller again. "And that thing that can turn people into what they've become, have you ever seen it?"

"We had a cult in our Kraj, too!" Indignantly and angrily denied the girl, more out of a sense of contradiction than out of real disagreement. "And it's bigger than one village!"

"It's not like I'm arguing." He agreed with her in a cheerful, good-natured way, but with the same frantic grin on his face. "But you've only looked at the corpses from afar because no one in town would let you near that kind of stuff. What's the big deal about that shit? That's not what I'm talking about, and you know what I just said. Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you. And don't say that again, ever. Tin's the fucked up one, he can fuck with the Hell Lord, but he can kill a legendary fucktard without a scratch and nearly make the other one cry hysterical and get away with it, too. When you can do that, you can make all the jokes you want! That's it, let's close the discussion!"

Taria clearly didn't know what to say, both ashamed of her too-long tongue, afraid of another slap, and really embarrassed by her mistakes. She didn't mind giving Hans a few more jokes, but she did know the balance between jokes and words that made friends enemies.

"Okay. I'm sorry, mustachioed man, I won't do it again." Pitifully, but quite sincerely, she said.

"Shut up already, you foolish girl!" This time the indignation is already a hundred percent played. "My mustache is my strength and my manhood!"

"Don't shave, then, Hans." The dancer's sly squint at the swiftly returning to normal mode. "Or there won't be any power left in your pants!"

Watching Hans swear as he caught Taria laughing and sending out his illusory copies, all I could do was grin. We were only a miserable kilometer away from a camp that had become a burial ground for an entire tribe, and they were already laughing and fooling around. The ability not to linger or dwell on the constant stream of horrors, nightmares, and crap that the world throws at you is a very important aspect of survival. It's a wild world, a scary world, but there's also something in it worth putting up with. At the very least, I have now.

All the fuss came about because Taria was jealous of Hestia's racial talent, called Behemoth Balance. The talent itself wasn't rare - about as rare as epic creatures are. That is, it's not very common, but it's still almost standard. A Behemoth Balance gives one extra characteristic point every three levels... to each characteristic. Imbalanced, but that's the price you pay for not having classes and being a creature - this state has its charms, too.

Actually, that bonus isn't that cool, especially from my point of view. I earn a lot more from titles than I get from level upgrades. My companions have also unwittingly switched to similar pumping, but for the relatively ordinary or mundane commoners they've been recent, such talent does seem like a royal gift. Hestia, at least, rejoiced quite sincerely, not considering the talent a trifle.

"How do you think you're going to invest the points?" I asked lazily, watching another pirouette of Taria's ascent up the tree trunk. "If it's not a secret, of course."

"What secrets could I possibly have, and from you, Tin?" Hestia answers half-jokingly, losing some of her intonation because her voice is too monotone and creepy. "Two out of three into magic, the third into concentration, there's no other option here. My main abilities are tied precisely to the magical component, and such an exciting gift, which scares me a lot, also requires magical development. In time, perhaps, I will improve my endurance, so that my body could not be scorched by a lucky magical blow."

Level six, that's thirty characteristics, which means twenty and ten invested in the desired stats. Plus two more stats to each characteristic separately, thanks to the talents. Not bad, as for one evening of active pumping, but it's always so when the levels are low. I, on the other hand, only have to hunt all sorts of ancient chupacabras. And I haven't even taken the 40th yet!

Hestia is now in a better position than the average first-tier rookie because her free stats allowed her to do many things, as well as the seven class points she had invested. In general, it's like with our earthly deputies: on paper, he's as penniless as a church mouse but in reality, he has yachts and apartments all over the world. Here and Hestia has only first level but in fact, the goblins had no chance, even if we kindly warned them about the attack and called the exact time of the fox's arrival. It's not a fact that they could have even escaped.

In fact, that's why I forbade her from hunting rare wolves and even one mutated spiky deer, preferring to look for a target fat enough that defeating it would be considered quite honorable and even give her a freebie title. Well, as far as destroying an entire tribe in one person, without raising alarms or arousing suspicion, can be considered a freebie at all.

"How's it going with the titles?" I asked, simultaneously clucking my tongue in admiration as Hans managed to step onto the trail and out of it, standing right on top of the big oak on which Tarya was now hiding, throwing acorns. "Successful, or not so successful?"

"I'd say it was very successful, though it's hard to believe such a thing." Raimel pleased me, as I did, watching as the rather grinning Hans, who had appeared behind Taria's back, began to throw one acorn after another at the uncovered back of her head, without interruption or mercy. "I'll drop you a description if you'll excuse me."

I did not refuse another gesture of trust, immediately reading the message that popped up in front of my face, leaving my comrades-in-arms to go wild on their own. Especially since Losius was shifting suspiciously toward the conflict, and his pockets were clearly not filled with breadcrumbs, but with the same acorns that unsuspecting Hans and Taria were shooting at each other.

Creatures depart in silence (epic): It's not hard to kill food, but it's hard to make sure its fellows don't notice its loss until your fingers are clasped around their necks. You come to places full of life and leave, leaving only silence behind. Bonus: Disguise talents and skills work better; dexterity and perception + 5.

We set off, covered by a slightly thicker shroud of the mist of pumped Hestia, while Losius, sulking (but aristocratically sulking, I note!) was picking dried oak leaves and acorn hats out of his hair. One should not forget the numerical advantage of a possible enemy, especially if they are better equipped to fight in a three-dimensional space like the forest than you are.

It was a good time.

Hans never risked dragging us onto his trails, though we gave it a trial run. Konstantin Yuryevich acted as the guinea pig, the most tenacious of us all. Moreover, I'm probably the only one in our company who can try to return to the real world if he is lost on this trail. The shadow is one in all places, whatever space there is, and with my powers to get through to the one who has become a relative - you can see such a relative in his grave, but what can I do - I can even through a very powerful blockage.

The sensation of being in this place - or was it a state? - was comparable to some kind of strange mushrooming trip. Trees that overshadowed the sun and the sky, the complete loss of space, when you can not even understand where north is, a completely unfamiliar landscape and, damn it, howling in hysterics sphere of shadows, trying to make a normal map of the area. The latter made me instinctively want to punch a wave of shadows around me and just burn the place out, breaking out back into the real world.

I held back and managed not to do anything stupid. Hans calmly led me back to my familiar surroundings, literally leading me by the hand for only a few steps. We appeared about a hundred meters from the camp, where we began the training, and I had to carry the tracker on my shoulder, so much so that he was exhausted by such a pastime. Later we concluded that the more the "passenger" of the trail is connected to other realms, the more dangerous it is for him to travel this way, and the more stressful it is for the walker himself to drag the passenger along with him.

Therefore, the idea of traveling on the trails had run out of steam. After all, if Taria and, with enormous restrictions, Ygra can still be led without much fear, then Hestia would either be disembodied or crippled by being on the trails. I risk crippling everyone around me by failing to control my instinctive desire to feel the familiar world. In general, it is better not to do it yet, though in ten levels it will be possible to try, but carefully (as this time, in principle).

That's all settled, going to bed and leaving a sleepy Yggra to take the first watch.
* * *

The wagon was creaking and threatening to fall apart under the silent swearing of its three passengers, who were desperately whipping the horse that was supposed to be pulling the wagon. The passengers themselves had many reasons for driving the horse at night, on a rough road, and with obvious overload. These reasons were very trivial and understandable to any inhabitant of the countryside: the wagon was not theirs, and neither was the horse, nor the contents of this wagon.

The story is straightforward: a rich farmer, who had bought a piece of land and had risen to the top, had hired three stray laborers to help him with the problems he was having. The farmer had broken his leg, and two of his workers had a sick father, whom they went to, having obtained permission to do so from their employer. So he had to hire untested, but seemingly intelligent men to keep the business running while they got back to normal.

The work was not going well, for the farmhands were more experts at dodging work and imitating vigorous activity, but still they earned their bread, albeit not without a scandal and a few blows from a man who knew about such tricks. And then the trio came across a young girl, in the very, as they say, juice, which is the eldest daughter of the farmer. So they tried to rape her, how not to try when she walks around here all beautiful, teasing men! In short, it was the girl's fault.

The girl was level five, pumped up in dexterity and a well-known punch in the balls, as well as a very loud voice. There were plenty of people on the farm, despite the shortage of men, so the laborers were beaten, kicked, and thrown out the door. Without pay, though, to tell you the truth, they didn't do much work there. The victims of the treacherous betrayal did not think so and wanted to restore justice by taking all that was around. They did not work well, but they had learned the routines of the locals pretty well.

They would also kidnap the girl to avenge the wicked bitch for her treacherous scream and wounded groin, but she, as bad luck, was not at home tonight. Whether her father knew about it is not important for now, he is somehow more glad for this very daughter, even if she ran to admire Wanderer and a Guest in the company of the miller's eldest son. First, it saved if not her life, then her honor as a maiden, and secondly, the party is good. It remained only to chase down the thieves, catch them and return the loot.

This could have been a problem, because while they figured it out, while they got the men up, while they woke up the few owners of a normal level, while they got equipped and figured out where the thieves had gone: they could run away. It is possible, of course, but only if you do not overload the stolen wagon to the edge so that at once both axles broke in the shit.

One runaway was crushed there, crushing his chest. The other pirouetted out of his perch and broke his neck. The last one, having decided that there was no time to unharness the horse, grabbed what he could see and ran off into the night, hoping for luck. And the sneaky bastard managed to escape. Although, after finding most of the stolen goods, they did not look for him too much. Especially since two out of three is a very good result, as it is not bad. And the frightened thief grabbed the first thing that came to hand - a bag of candied goodies and the master's mirror in a copper frame. The latter, of course, is pathetic and expensive, but that's all right. It would teach old Bonl a lesson not to skimp on hiring untrustworthy people.

The third thief has long since been devoured by the ever-hungry Shadows, and the mirror and sweets have been given a completely different host who will find good uses for them. Especially the sweets, which will have to defend heroically against several high-level sweet-tooths.

The clairvoyance helped me nine out of ten. It would have been ideal if it had told me where to find a good mirror without leaving the camp, but alas, it did not. I had to take the opportunity that fell as close to the existing route as possible, so as not to spend extra hours searching and mopping up the tracks.

I knew what was going to happen at Bonle's farm three days before it began. The loser farmhands were still gawking at the laundry-hanging girl, planning to drag her into a dark corner for a heated conversation, and I had already ordered a slight shift in our course of travel. Then, though, I had to sit on my ass for a few extra hours to make sure I didn't leave a trail beside the road. At the right moment, all that was left was to get everyone on the road and, in company with Hans break away from the main group and make a little detour. To use the shadows to fake the breakdown of the wagon and the death of two of the three thieves. The third was simply snapped in the neck and dragged off with him, throwing him through the breach into The Shadow a little later.

There was a danger that part of the team without my cover might be able to sense an active search, but that was out of paranoia. Lately, all the searching had come to naught, and the seers of Melareth clearly had other things to do besides trying to get at us. Given that they weren't even aware that we were hiding from them at all, that we were even in their search paradigm, I was safe. Well, as a last resort, they had the last shard of the mirror with them, and Hestia and Ygra had their talents to cover them.

The sweets are trifles (I know I speak terrible heresy), but the mirror was really needed. And even if the available specimen was not up to the miracle that we had used before the storming of the Stone, it was a mirror. The small, only a cubit and a half in diameter, a round mirror was a thing of status, expensive and rare. Even the old farmer got it rather by chance, and in ordinary life, common folk used polished copper surfaces at best. More often than not, they have no mirrors at all, except for reflections in puddles. The clairvoyance showed me exactly what I needed - an opportunity to snatch the object I wanted without arousing suspicion, even though the object is very rare.

Of course, I could have robbed a merchant or a burgher, but I didn't want to go into the towns. I didn't want to go into the villages, either, for that matter! There were too many places to leave a clue that might be found. The odds are low, of course, but I wouldn't want to risk even that little, for they would be looking very hard.

I have no idea why there is such interest in me, just do not have the slightest idea.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, Who's the Fairest of Them All?

Oh, no, that's not from here.

The mirror proved its usefulness primarily by allowing unobtrusive observation of events in Melareth while remaining unnoticed. Naturally, I was prudent enough not to try to spy on the queen or princesses bathing - three layers of protection, and there was a separate one on the bathroom, but you could break in if you waited a bit - but even from indirect sightings, you could learn a lot, very much.

I didn't risk trying to see what was left of Stone in the reflection, though I had a good chance of succeeding. No, seriously! I'd been able to get the whole circle of visionaries, supported by the Eye, under observation at the very moment they were looking for me. Isn't that a measure of professionalism and awesomeness? Except that they were too distracted to look for me, so they let their guard down as well as their defenses. I wouldn't risk repeating it now, though I have a high chance of success. Better than to fail.

Instead of the TV showing the Palace 2 show, I decided to take a circuitous route through the eventful Whitewater. After our departure, there were so many people there that the local goons sweated nervously, praying that they would not be remembered. They did not even try to hide their sins - all their dirty laundry was opened at random, looking for traces of the mysterious us. There were many, many people watching the town. I got the feeling that the watchers of almost every significant force in this part of the continent were looking there now, and that was saying a lot.

I lost count after counting twenty or so different vectors of learning, among which I clearly distinguished even a few charged with a divine veil. A good reason to keep the conspiracy, of course. In such a number of spies and observers, I might just get lost in the background, but it could not be ruled out that we would all be noticed and remembered.

I just had to lie quietly next to one of the quietest and neatest vectors, literally hiding in its glare. The vector itself came from somewhere in the Sorz (if I understood correctly), but it was an outer shell, hiding the cold light of the eternal stars beneath it.

The elves were cautious and delicate, preferring not to rush under the protective barriers but to gather information by indirect glimpses. There a word was dropped, there one of the detectives forgot his handkerchief, there one of the attendants let slip, and now you can create a rough picture. My head was aching from having to catch so many unconnected visions, to sift out the information garbage and get to the truth, but the work was familiar. Especially remembering that the lion's share of that work was done by the long-eared ones, and I was just watching a movie with them. I even helped them a couple of times when they missed a few echoes of the past, and once even steered them carefully away from getting trapped when they did hit one of the signal structures. A special clue left behind in the form of a "forgotten" amulet almost made a mark not only on the disguise "as Sortz," but on the Eared Ones themselves as well.

The moment I held back the knowledge emanating from the amulet, preventing it from becoming the memory of someone else's mistake, they clearly began to suspect that they themselves were a disguise for someone else. My fault, but there was no better option. A cautious attempt to notice and sense me was just as carefully dismissed into the void, showing neither presence nor absence.

The chief of the stellar ones managed to surprise me, though, by sending a banal impulse-question in the style of: is there someone here, and who is that someone? On the elf's part, it was an acknowledgment of respect before another's prowess and an offer of a temporary alliance. And also, I can guarantee, he took me for fellow blood, albeit in the service of another Tree and kingdom. The Dawnwoods are not the sole domain of the Firstborn, and these wretches have never fought each other, limiting themselves to diplomatic jabs at worst. And in case of danger, they always presented a united front, not forgetting, however, to charge their yesterday's rival a huge dividend for their help.

There are moments when any joke and any gag will not only come out sideways but even break a rib cage, like Alien from an old movie. At such moments, it is better to leave quietly, silently disappearing into the shadows, without showing your presence in any way. This is a wise, correct, and balanced decision, obvious to anyone with more than one gyrus in his brain, even if it is straight.

In short, I concentrated my powers to the limit, and created the most authentic image possible, using all the skills available, almost surpassing anything I'd done before. Now I could walk away unnoticed, even from a deity who wasn't too stubbornly looking for me. A perfect moment to leave in the English way.

I had an incredibly natural image of the classic goblin before the attention of the elf seer. I had accumulated enough images of this race and the typical feeling of their existence. He was not young but not decrepit, with huge ears pierced many times, in which hang copper rings, with a bottle in one hand and a pipe in the other, he resembled a kind of civilized goblin, visions of which I caught while pumping Hestia. But he was not civilized, for everything about him gave the appearance of a forest goblin, an inhabitant of the wilderness, a representative of what was probably the most despised race in the world.

My image-message is as sloppy as possible and literally consists of typical goblin everything: thinking, expression, understanding, consciousness - every fucking thing that defines a goblin.

**What are you doing here, big ears? Can't you see there's nobody here?"

Rage and anger at my rudeness, shame, and rejection for his own mistake, unwillingness to admit that he had been deceived by a goblin (goblin, Karl!), disgust at my appearance and image, contempt for all inferior races and goblins in particular - all this mixed into such a cocktail that I had to sharply keep the elf disguise from dissipating, hiding his presence myself.

That sobered the bastard a little, and his emotions dissipated, replaced by cold composure and irritation. A needle flew at me, a formalized question that didn't need an answer, but could wrench it out on its own. A mere Seer would not only have been gutted for information but would have killed them on the spot. Clearly, either a one-time skill from a perk or an artifact altogether, because the attack was not only strong but also did not stir the watchers. An attack whose purpose was to find out.

**Who are you?

I was, alas, not a simple seer, so I reflected the message with seeming carelessness and mild surprise as if a small dog had barked. Even my disguise was intact, though it was the latter that took away most of my concentration. The elf's attack did more to me than it did to him, for I not only reflected it but also caught the image of the elf himself. And I also caught the realization that his class - Watcher into Mirrors, an epic grade on the verge of legendary - was also connected to Dream. Here's an odd thing - elves don't really like to mess with dangerous realms, according to what Ferer Roche had to say about them. They prefer to use Life and the Stars, with which they have the nicest relationship. Darknesses, Shadows, Mist, and other horrors are very rare among them.

The response was immediate so that there was not a second of doubt about its unreality. The images still mimicked the familiar goblin, but they still showed neither the nature of the unknown green's powers, nor his level or class, nor, for that matter, the bastard's whereabouts.

***"Well, let's just say my name is KIckass the Big, son of Badabum the Very Big, grandson of Bdysh the Huge. And you, whose son are you?"

At the same time as we were talking, we were simultaneously shifting our focus away from Belovodnya and the figures gathered there. I was frantically swearing at myself for getting involved in some unnecessary problems. Why the fuck, Kostik, why the fuck? Have you got bored with your life? This way the kind eared ones will dramatically add color to your life. Well, at least you thought of a disguise.

**What are you doing here, goblin?

The asshole didn't think it was worthy of answering my question, but he was in no hurry to attack again. He was no fool, knowing perfectly well that the creature that had beaten back his best blow with such ease could not be weak, and he didn't want to test my attacking skills on himself. At least not without the support of my kin and the confidence to win - typical elf.

**We were drinking with the boys: we were drinking mushroom tincture and smoking weed. We saw some activity going on here so we decided we were going to join maybe they're pouring drinks here.

My speech itself, though very coherent and sensible, remains barbaric, drunken, and goblin, giving the sophisticated elf a headache and a desire to shake my goblin throat. Now he no longer doubts at all that he is talking to some incredibly talented unicum of the green-skinned race. A talented unicum who, at this particular moment in time, is stoned out of his mind, drunk, inadequate, and utterly high.

When he realized he wasn't going to get anything out of me, he just broke off contact, going back to his business... tried. What kind of a troll am I if I can't identify by IP and continue communicating, even if the person I'm talking to is against it?

**Why are you such a wimp? No wives? Does the chief take the last hide? No one marries your daughters, are they so ugly?

He ignored my first jokes, not responding at all with all the elfish contempt. The silence in the air was so eloquent that it made me feel the spit on. But when I got to the point of mentioning his daughters, the calm was replaced by such burning hatred that I could barely keep my disguise on after the brute had hit me with Fream as hard as he could. Not enough to reveal himself, but by the standards of elves, the kind of risk he took in his strike was some kind of banzai attack. I could just physically feel how much his actions went against the essence of his race, and yet he attacked.

I don't want to miss this opportunity, so I repeat the same trick that he did himself: the question-needle, which is to wrench the answer out on its own, despite resistance. The trick worked perfectly, even though I tried to make it as gentle and nonkilling as possible. The essence of the elf was struck by a torrent of something that reeked of unwashed socks, brogue, cannabis, and goblin mushroom tincture of the highest order. The image of the latter, by the way, was found and put into the needle at the very last moment.

A moment of pure terror as the familiar and submissive matter of nothingness, the matter of dreams and reflections that he was used to working with the expensive mirror artifact, spiraled out of control and attacked him. Now I could easily have killed him, devoured him, or driven him mad. But I didn't do that, maintaining my goblin disguise and looking for answers. And I found them, though I wish I hadn't.

One of the most recent operations against the Sorz was not successful enough, for the Seer of the Sun, the best Seer of the Sorz, managed to deceive a stronger, more experienced, and more skilled colleague. The operation, which included the daughter of the Seer, and was supposed to result in the destruction of a dozen major slave traders and the rescue of many captives and prisoners of Starblood, was a failure. And among the captives was the Seer's daughter herself, unable to escape or commit suicide. She was a fool, for, with her proximity to the ruling branch and her father's position, she did not have to go there for career advancement, but she went there for something.

He could not find the place where she was being held, nor could he find her captors, nor could he get the Seer who had sent the image of his only heir's training to the Dawning Woods. Yes, he could indeed lose his temper here - it had only been a month and a half and he wasn't used to keeping everything to himself behind the steel bars of self-control. And then there was the wretched low goblin who'd gone over the dearest things. So, he couldn't help himself.

The elves, by the way, are very resentful of me for what happened to Stone - after such a failure, they had to respond in some way, to make their intentions clear, if not to take revenge. And they even almost agreed with Melareth to put pressure on Sorz purely economically. It won't bring back the losses, but there were only three of them, to be exact. Two dead bodies and one prisoner. More wounded and just catastrophic losses in the reconnaissance network and among the mercenaries. That is the real mockery of fate: the one who should have foreseen the failure paid the highest possible price for it. He had not even been reprimanded, since his eldest heir had been killed in a conflict with the Sorz only a hundred and fifty years before. They won that battle, but it did not bring joy to the Seer.

Damn.

Somehow I feel bad for the man.

**Come on, what's up? Don't get discouraged, Mr. Kickass will fix everything!

My rebuke made the elf, who had already said goodbye to his eternity, calm and collected himself, take a serene look, or rather, an image, and I realized with absolute certainty that I was in the top five of those whom he wished to torture to death with his own hands. Considering the number of years the old man has lived, this is a reason to be proud - that's how Kostik is remembered. Kostik knows how to get people and non-humans to like him at first sight.

Instead of a finishing blow to the now guaranteed enemy, I use the image of his daughter - the thunder, the freshness, the shine of steel, the shine of the stars, the beat of life - and create a signal, simultaneously clinging to all the details that I learned from the elf, even if against his will. You're retarded, Kostik, but completely retarded! For fuck's sake, for fuck's sake!? But common sense remained silent, and I was carried on the wings of amusement and the pull of enthusiasm.

The something I was creating did not look like an ordinary search impulse. It was more like a jellyfish, made up of many pieces of mirror, connected by threads of concepts, notions, and events that had happened. The mirror in the hands of the real me began to twitch dangerously, and the image of me-goblin required an additional investment of energy. I spit on the economy and invested half of the reserve, causing Dream to flutter, and the elf and the assistants standing behind him (both his circle and the alarming group) were literally paralyzed with horror and awareness of the enemy's power.

I almost fainted but held on to the image of a goblin clenching his teeth tightly, staring into a shitty-quality mirror, and at the same time drinking some fucking alcoholic beverage straight from the bottle. A second, and my construction begins to work. Somewhere, the System canvasses flicker, and Kostya is on fire.

A thread-image of the daughter, full of paternal tenderness and love, as well as my sneering irritation, falls into the first of the mirror fragments, reflected in the next, and the next, and the next... my "jellyfish" becomes a mixture of radar and telescope. Powerful enough to break through a lot of barriers, even if they're specifically sharpened against prophets, dreamwalkers, and elves. I'm kind of a "goblin," so go fuck yourselves.

Shock at the realization of the scale of the created construction is replaced by an even greater shock at the realization that this mechanism works. The response is blurred, the response is barely visible, but it's there, the fucking tree and the leaves on it.

**All right, big ears, give me an image of your girl, we're going to lakal...lokali... lokalizir... localise! There! And my father told me that you, Kickass, can't say this word without mistakes!

He's really trying to contain the disgust and contempt by putting the image into the "plug" I left behind. Behind the desperate hope and paranoia that sees the trap, I hardly notice this disdain. This image is much more detailed, precisely sharpened for search with the help of such rituals and in general, the elf himself is a very cool specialist, knowing what and how to do for maximum success. I can't get everything out in one snout because of the need to keep the image. My telescope structure is like a moonshine machine made of rocks and sticks, and it's still full of false images as if it were created by a fucking drugged-out goblin, of course.

But it works in spite of that disguise.

Already worked.

In the mirror, we can see a well-furnished room, where in the middle of the room there is a huge tall mirror, which is reflected quite a beautiful elf woman. She is dressed in a dress similar to those worn by noble aristocrats... if it were not for the fully exposed breasts, the huge necklines in all places, and the general lechery. The elven warrior looked like a very expensive whore dressed in clothes from the local fetish shops.

She smiled cheerfully and happily, twirling in front of the mirror and shaking her breasts. The clairvoyance told me that these breasts had been enlarged with potions, to better suit the customer's tastes. She completely ignored the bored man of about forty sitting in the corner. A gray beard and eyebrows, a Roman facial profile, a second beauty sucking him off, pleasuring the high-level slavemancer without distracting him from his work. His second class corresponds, too: the Whoremancer. That's what it's called, without any exaggeration.

Epic class.

The Whoremancer

The system, you're fucked up, there's no option here.

The girl's personality still holds on, still fights, for she is as much a pro as the slavemancer who changes her. She was taught to recognize influence, taught to deflect it, change it, taught to sacrifice little, to keep the core of herself intact. But he was also taught, and he was perfectly able to work just with elves, trained and professional. In general, there was no chance here from the beginning.

She had already learned to love showing her body to humans.

She learned to love being changed by another's will.

She learned how to get high on induced lust.

Learned to let lust and desires guide her.

Slavemancer was slowly leading her to believe that by agreeing to become some rich man's personal slut, she would win. Her goal is to leave this place as herself, but if she is a whore who loves to please humans, then she must hold on to that thought. And then she will leave this place being herself. She's always been who she is now, after all, that incredibly kind short-eared man told her so. She should, when she'd had enough of her new elf melons, make him feel good again.

In the depths of her consciousness, there were still the last grains of self-consciousness, but she could no longer resist. She couldn't hate her captors, couldn't help but love her future master and the slavemancer who was changing her, couldn't distinguish between her old thoughts and her new ones. In fact, it was at the moment when she ceased to understand, ceased to grasp the moment when her mind was being changed, that she passed the second point of no return. The first was passed when she could no longer tell exactly what change had been put into her. The third would be passed after the collapse of the defense mechanism of consciousness that was forcing her to resist. After its collapse, the final washing of her brain would take at most one night and a day of intensive processing.

Then it's done.

No magic, except perhaps a mythical one, will bring her back. The proud daughter of the stars will be replaced by a long-eared slut, albeit one with her level and characteristics. She has been worked by a master, so she will not lose her skills. She will remain a deadly warrior, even if she has lost some of her deadliness.

The elf was in such a frenzy that I was really afraid of him now. Now he knew the face and the image of an assassin, worse than an assassin, the face of the one who had taken an eternity of his last continuation of blood. He had no illusions, knowing full well that even if he began to act right now, even if he gathered a strike team by evening, they simply would not have time to go deep into the Sorz and take the unknown place by storm. And none of them would storm such a stronghold (barriers here are quite appropriate to that name) without preparation. Trying to solve the issue with mercenaries is even more stupid, because it will take much more time, and the result will be worse and less successful.

His daughter was only a couple or three days left.

**Well, big ears, Kickass found your naughty girl. It's no wonder no one takes her for a wife. Pale skin, ugly face, huge height herself, tits not bad it's true, but at most three out of ten, big ears. I'd only take her as my fifth wife.

Instead of anger and hatred, instead of another outburst of rage, just a calm, measured series of images, as sad as they were sad. Father didn't want to waste his energy on the insolent goblin and his either mocking or sincere rudeness. He simply wanted to say goodbye to the dying girl, to pay a final tribute to who she was and would cease to be.

**Leave me alone. I don't want a quarrel, I don't want insults and offenses. Just leave me... I beg of you.

Elves are rarely sincere, even to each other. I'd realized that long ago, when I'd rescued the little brat in the slave-traders' camp, but now he was sincere. He didn't care about the fact that there were those behind him who were frantically reading the coordinates of this place and trying to squeeze as much as they could out of the visions they'd discovered. He didn't care what logic said about needing to squeeze as much information out of me as possible, and then nailing me for the insults I had caused.

He just wants to say goodbye.

Kostik. why?

Although yes, I've asked that question before.

The answer, however, has not been and still is not.

The mirror is a conductor.

I'm a Dream.

My will is reality.

A huge fragment of reserve and my power not only burst into the chamber I'm observing but also replace part of that reality with itself. The elven girl instantly shuts down, just falling asleep, as if she'd heard another trigger from the slavemancer's mouth. And I start working for real, seemingly clearly wanting trouble on my ass. Typical me.

The Slavemancer rises from his chair, gently pushes the slave who is sucking him off, and approaches the sleeping slave. Yes, it is a piece and expensive product, and if she randomly triggers then he will never be paid in full for his work in his life. The elf is asleep, but the pupils of her eyes are fluttering behind her closed eyelids as if she's having a nightmare or another intensive training session. But she's not being affected now, is she?

Slavemancer silently bends over his victim, another stubborn but beautiful and incredibly fascinating piece of meat, which for him was each of the resistance-trained bitches. His gaze catches on his reflection in the mirror and he immediately freezes, unable even to blink an eye.

And then comes the real pain.

The first thing the elf-woman did when she opened her eyes, which once again burned with the calm flame of collected rage that had burned there in the first days after her capture, was to strike the slaver's trachea with a lightning-fast blow, sharply followed by a grip and the quiet crunch of broken vertebrae. She tossed the corpse aside, looked around in a frantic daze, and immediately began to vomit farther than she could see. No one has erased her memories, and the very aftermath of the abrupt personality rollback has not made her any healthier. She is more sickened by the latter, though she is also disgusted by her actions under the influence of the slavemancer.

She doesn't know what saved her.

But embedded in her very essence is the typical elf's "run or fight" attitude that makes her come to her senses and start arming herself. Still smiling slave girl gets a merciful poke in the back of the head, cutting off her life years after her mind died. Pity, she was pretty: a dark-skinned brunette with a gorgeous ass and simply delightful lips - clearly not for nothing her blowjobs were so appreciated by one not-so-lucky slavemancer.

A few moves to give my clothes some decorum... or at least hide his breasts. I took hold of the dessert knife and fork with which the slaveman was eating. Let a few lightning flashes pass through them, class skills at work. A short warm-up, giving strain to the slightly stagnant joints and allowing them to get used to the new balance shifted by a couple of sizes of chest growth. A slight annoyance at the very fact of short-eared's love of huge breasts, which they "gave" to her, too.

And a wild terror after the hoarse and gurgling voice sounded behind her, a voice she would recognize even hundreds of years later, even on the edge of eternity. The voice of the one who was killing her form inside:

"No, that's fucking SNAFU!"

Both projectiles stab into the rising body, and the body itself receives a shock of electricity, capable of killing even a mighty orc, let alone a frail human. The body shudders and gurgles even more, and the captive who threw her projectiles realizes that before she is no longer a human, but something far more terrifying.

There was no face, nor was there a mouth - just a flat surface without the slightest sign of eyes or nose. Her clothes fused with her body, turning into some unimaginable abomination. Her tormentor itself was rapidly melting away, covered by the thinnest suit of bluish mist. The power of Dream she could not unrecognize. After all, the power of this place had been drawn by her father, one of the few who had risked linking his being to such an insidious and terrible realm. That was why he was valued, for no one in the Dawn Forest was more powerful clairvoyant than him.

Had her father managed to find her even here? The creature's words, alas, shattered those hopes, like a terrible storm that swept away the air castles built by young children who had not yet picked up weapons.

"Stupid, woozy, cunt!" The thing spoke, clearly having trouble controlling its movements. "How did your father ever tolerate you? My father, when I tried to give him a potion for constipation instead of the mushrooms tincture, chased me all over the camp with a ritual tambourine! Yours tolerates you!"

"Who are you?" A calm question, hiding a sincere horror of something that would be even more terrible than the fate that awaited her before. The captive knew with absolute clarity that she was ready to turn back, to become a whore for good, just to avoid standing now in front of the monster that would take her soul with it.

"Calm down, I'm telling you! I've done it a hundred times!" Suddenly the horrible creature snapped, turning to... to the mirror in front of which she had earlier twirled her new, damn it, udder? "I told you, Kickass will help, and Kirdyk's word is as... as... as Kickass's word!"

In the mirror was a blurred and indistinct reflection of someone she, too, would have recognized even centuries later. Her father was tense, barely able to hold his concentration, and the brethren behind him (his support in the circle, no less) were clearly pouring their power into him. She didn't understand exactly what was going on, didn't understand who was enemy and who was friend, she couldn't even quite figure out if she was a star maiden who was almost turned into a human whore, or a human whore who for some reason thought she was a star maiden.

But she understood a simple truth.

There is a chance to continue to be.

She will take that chance.

Her father could not answer her, evidently somehow helping the strange creature standing before her. The only thing left to work with was the creature itself, morphing every second into something completely unimaginable and disgusting.

"What should I do?" There was a mixture of acceptance of the alliance, acknowledgment of duty, a promise to follow orders, and hope for her ally's competence.

"Show the tits."

Quicker than thought, the whore threw a new pair of throwing projectiles to the ground, revealing again the neckline of her dress and with a joyful smile, she brought her girls right out in front of her master's gaze... The smile was not immediately gone, nor was the disgustingly pleasant languor in her loins, hungry for regular fondling.

"And also seal your ears with wax, there are candles. Or they'll tell you to stand, and you will." Said the creature, pointing to two scented candles in the corner of the "working" room. "It's gonna take a long, long time to clean your big-eared head. All right, Kickass has done such feats when he was drunk. Oh, why didn't I die when I was a kid... I won't talk to any more of you guys after the mushroom booze... Because of you, there's always some fucked up shit going on."

The whore herself... prisoner... Laristanel of the Amber Branch! That was her name, that was her name, and she would never forget it again! Laristanelle herself was already burying painfully hot wax in her ears. Her burned eardrums would be repaired by the healers, should anything happen. And if she did spread her slutty legs, letting him fuck her slit... damn it. If she freezes instead of fighting, it will be very bad indeed.

She would ask questions about the nature of the unexpected ally later.

If there will be later.

Many kilometers away, in the middle of the forest, a man was sitting with a mirror in his hand, molten copper falling from its frame. The man himself was cursing softly - most often the quote "Kostik, come on" was heard - and in the mirror, landscapes and images were changing at an enormous speed. His left hand was immersed in the mirror up to his elbow as if dissolving there, which also did not add to his joy and the peace of his companions.

"Okay, I understand... we all get into some unpleasant situations all of a sudden." Said the graceful-looking young man, wistfully rubbing the blade of his sword. "Even though I've never managed to get into a bind without even getting up from my seat, I'm willing to believe it's possible. But someone knows how to decipher the phrase, I've got meat puppet theater and escape from brothel all in one."

"Fucking triple*fucking brothel." The red-haired beauty munching on some kind of candy corrected him politely. "But I'm curious, too."

The isekai, who uttered one profanity-laced phrase after another, paid little attention to the conversations of his comrades-in-arms.

He was in the middle of a full immersion shooter there, you know!

Authors note:

17.5 pages, which counts for almost two updates.

I don't know what to say.

I mean, I understand that Kostik can go on fire against the will of the author in my face, but that's a bit much.

I spent all the bonuses to make sure that the disguise of the MC withstood despite his active work with Dream. It withstood - MC is still considered to be some kind of the wrong goblin, giving the wrong honey. Reaching the title of Semyon Semenych Persunov is closer than ever.

He's got two cretins, but both at the expense of huge bonuses for working with Dream. And he also has the elf-daddy to help him, praying to the Stars and cursing at the goblin race. No kidding, after this operation the goblin Kirdyk won't be forgotten for sure. Neither will his boyz. And where the fuck is the whole tribe of **those** goblins sitting?

Taria almost got punched in the face for her too hasty and unreasonable words, but the conflict was extinguished without the help of MC - Hestia roll the social.

Hans can't drag his group over the Paths - the characteristics aren't there yet, and neither is the class development. There would have to be a crazy crit, and there was none.

Damn.

I had almost decided where I was going to send MC and co, but then a meeting with the bearer of an almost buried quest came up, and the hero went to save the elves. Just like he fucking dream.

And yes, the slain slavemancer was one of the top five among Sorz, and they know a lot about slavemancing. And his death was no surprise - not a fighting class at all. Not a fighting class at all.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/539337

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP