Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Глава 30

Chapter 30

Orcs are no match for goblins, as any experienced adventurer will tell you. It's not even about height and characteristics, but the fact that these infestations are quite good at counteracting the well-coordinated human machine. Yeah, it's almost impossible to drive goblins out of the occupied territory because they'll scatter in the corners like cockroaches. But try to disperse the orcs in those corners if they are huge mountains of muscle, superior to ordinary humans in characteristics, and often have a very good and balanced set of talents that may well replace this class, if not a full-fledged class.

A real elite warrior wouldn't be stopped by a standard orc, of course, but they have their own elite. It's enough to remember the vague visions I could make out at the site of our current camp. One of the men who had crumbled and melted that rock was an orcish sorcerer, a man of my own caliber, albeit one with only a single class or a synergistic set of talents. And he still defeated his opponent, as I realized, without much fatigue or damage.

Of course, not all orcs achieve such power, but potentially they are not too inferior to the endowed races in destructiveness and power. They have their own culture, hierarchy, and even political life. I can judge the latter with certainty, too, for it was I who once shook up their political life by provoking a massacre between a dozen tribes, each of which considered its old rivals traitors. I had a lot of fun, and my skill at provocation increased rapidly, yes.

I have to admit that orcs, as a species, though, more dangerous than goblins, arouse much less disgust and nausea in me. Only a weary desire to put them all to sleep, like rabid dogs, so they do not poison the world with their presence. It is desirable to burn the remains and use the ashes for fertilizer and vineyards.

Old Uncle Schicklgruber, who was not very kind, would probably have left the grave and patted me on the shoulder, nodding approvingly and supporting my desire to burn in the ovens the Untermenschen. Fortunately, he is long since in his grave, on Earth, not here, so he will not rise as a ghost. I had to shake out of my head the picture of lich-Stalin and spectro-Hitler diligently, and it did not work at once. But purely in theory, who would win a one-on-one fight?

The reason I wanted to kill the greenskins was simple - they craved to kill. No, you misunderstand, not at all. For them, killing, war, bloodshed, and ceaseless combat were the meaning of life and the source of pleasure. Where the goblin lusted for power to humiliate and rule over those who were weaker, where the goblin fawned over greater power while hating it, the orc worshipped it (though not in the religious sense of the word). Killing humans (beastfolk, dwarves, elves, kinsmen, and who knows what else) was the meaning of what they were born to do. Living machines of war, incapable of understanding the very concept of peace, they are truly rabid dogs who do not give peace to others and do not know it themselves.

That didn't mean they were dumb meat, lashing out at an insurmountable obstacle, no. Orcs knew a lot about tactics and military tricks, even had a concept of strategic planning, could be cautious, and had a pretty decent instinct for self-preservation. That's why they didn't kill each other, having rather a long period of growing up and not a high birth rate compared to those goblins. Orcs did not rush into battle at the first opportunity but always went back to war when their other needs were met.

They were excellent hunters and even artisans, good at gathering and farming (though they preferred to employ goblin slave satellites), but they had a lust for killing at heart. Orcs almost never take prisoners, simply because they are eager to cut their lives short. Likewise, they very rarely surrender - their contempt for death is such that the samurai would hang from their own guts in envy.

In the analogy of the goblins, there are also almost normal (if not almost normal) members of this green-skinned breed, who have quite officially become part of the civilized lands. In some places, they even fight for the right to count themselves among the Endowed, politically and socially. Social methods, Carl! Let even such social methods, more often than not, are expressed by a fist in the teeth of the dissenters, but the fact itself is extremely remarkable.

This race is indeed at the very brink of being considered exactly Endowed, and many of them do become so. Some are only partially so, gaining one single, but still working, class, and some are able to receive them on the same terms as ordinary people. The only difference is that not everyone is allowed to cross this line, but that, again, it doesn't matter. They even had their own Heroes, who reached and surpassed the mark of fifty levels!

The problem is that such orcs are few, and they have long and firmly lived in symbiosis with civilized society, playing the role of the same elite mercenaries or bodyguards. It's a funny story, but even the System doesn't call them exactly orcs, giving them the prefix - high. High orcs - they are, no one argues, if not inferior to humans, not very much. Many beastfolk are considered endowed, having much less civility in themselves. Alas, belonging to the endowed is determined not by brains or stats but by something else, which no one fully understands. And more than one generation must pass the way of life for a common orc to become a high orc, that in itself served as a good filter. Few people would tolerate such neighbors without a good reason.

The Wild Orcs...

Rabid dogs that you can watch with interest, that you can even admire in a way, but that you can't live next to. If you want to live, of course. Clairvoyance makes me think that misanthropy is a pretty good choice for my tired brain. No, I can see the good in those around me, and what's more, I even see that good quite often! But somehow, these rays of sunshine are not very visible in the impenetrable blackness of existence around me. Look for even a drop of good in wild orcs... you have to try very hard, and even so, you will find only trifles.

They don't love.

No one, never. Even goblins could love, even if they only loved themselves! Orcs felt either indifference or irritation, or anger, rage, and hatred. The most positive for them was the feeling of deep satisfaction after a good fight or a fuck, but no more than that. Oh yes, they could also feel lust, which made them dislike it even more. The same goblins almost never raped human girls, preferring physical torture and the subsequent eating of their prey. That's why it's very rare to find half-goblins. Orcs, on the other hand, often take pretty and soft human females as captives to please their flesh. If they get tired of them, they can slit their throats and throw them into the cauldron, or set beasts upon them to amuse their brothers and sisters. Love and tenderness? No way! The notion of usefulness and comfort at most, and that's about the bare minimum. But half-breeds from this race can be found all over the world in great numbers and assortment.

They, by the way, had a very impressive equality of the sexes, though very peculiar. If a woman was strong enough to go to battle, to raid, to hike, to hunt, then she had the same rights as a man. If she is strong enough to put in the place of that man who decides to put in her place, it means she is a very tough man, though without a dick, and therefore can command those who are weaker. That's all there is to it.

Hans and Losius, and I hardly ever encountered orcish ladies, it seems, but that's more the consequence of our bad luck in meeting them and the politics of individual tribes - orcs are not biorobots, and different worldviews can occur among them as well. In the tribe that hunted us then, there were fewer warrior females, or they simply were not taken to hunt us specifically. It was more likely the second because on the eve of the "dance of the spirits" - that strange thunderstorm and the flocks of birds of prey flying in it - the women had a lot of problems of their own to deal with.

They are quite common, though more so among the hunters and archers than among the warriors of the first lines. And the ranks of shamans, healers, and cutthroats do not suffer from chauvinism either, as I see now. The tribal camp I observed was quite crowded, so I was able to make a statistical sampling, if only on a single community of green-skinned.

I was doing just that before I sent Hestia and her Mists here. I wondered if they had a Hero of their own, who not only spotted my companion but caught her and ate her himself, even though she was made of mist. Suck through a fucking straw! This madness would not surprise me in the least, for in the midst of all the other permanent madness that has plagued Alurei, the possibility of eating an immaterial monster with a straw does not seem extraordinary.

I guess I'm getting used to it.

There were about two hundred orcs, about a hundred and a half of which were quite combat-ready. And most of the non-combatants were kids and teenagers, not old men. The few old farts, though, were mostly able to give the youngsters a light bite to eat and more on top of that. Like the Vikings of Earth, the green-skinned barbarians did not like to die in infirmity, preferring, at the first sign of decrepitude, to find a way to die a glorious death... or gain a few levels and postpone the inevitable. Those of them who lived to a ripe old age, remaining strong and powerful enough to routinely outwit those who would consider them easy prey, as already mentioned, could teach a great deal as well.

Most of the old men were either shamans, healers, or valuable artisans, which you can't kill unless you want to go into battle with a sharpened wood instead of a bronze spear, or live starving and sober, since there's nobody to make broth now. Orcs, for the umpteenth time, are not complete fools, and they know the importance of a properly set up rear support too. It can't be said that all agronomists are respected in the same way as warriors, but, firstly, they often combine both ranks, and secondly, their authority simply has a different nature.

There were also goblins in the camp, doing menial jobs that no proper orc lad would do. Thanks to the tribe's abundance of scraps, they multiplied quickly and decisively. But they also died like flies when there were too many of them, when there was a hungry year, and it was necessary to let someone in for a soup, or even when they just happened to be at hand.

Now there were three and a half hundred "little brothers" in the camp, and, surprisingly, two-thirds of them were females. Well, yes, it's even logical, if you think about it. There's no danger, but the young males keep dying on the hunt and from the blows of orcs. But females aren't in a hurry to die anywhere, and the growth of such satellites is increased due to safety and normal food, so it turns out that females don't have time to die after males. And they are much more useful to orcs in their work, than smart-assed and stupid males. The ladies are as dumb as goblins, ha-ha, pun intended, but at least they're good workers. In turn, those who have the brains to work well can have several broads at once, like some kind of leader. It didn't make them hate the oppressors any less, but they're goblins-they hate everyone who's stronger than they are with all their hearts.

The owners of the camp were equally divided, but most of the women were hearth masters or healers (almost entirely women), and only a little more than a third of them were warriors. Bows, light spears with a minimum of armor, very rarely, and only the largest also full-fledged shirts. But there were such monkeys out there that you couldn't really consider them the weaker sex. An ordinary orcess is undoubtedly ugly, but for the not-so-discriminating and slightly drunken, she'd do. Probably. If you wash her beforehand. The warriors I mentioned... even I can't drink that much, sorry. They make Ygra look like a beauty queen among the farmgirls, honestly.

Maybe the half-breeds really do turn out cute, but just maybe.

I don't want to check, I guess.

Well, let's see where the limits of Hestia's skills are and whether she can make Taria the promised green and titty brothel she's been begging for.

The average level of the orcs was around a ten, though not everyone got that ten. However, compared to the goblins, who only had a couple of elevenths, they still looked like champions. Honestly, it wouldn't be too hard for me to slaughter this tribe completely and in one piece without straining at all. Only the three warriors and a couple of shamans who were nearing or past level thirtieth would give me trouble. I was hesitant to underestimate the killing and warring orcs, remembering how I'd miraculously survived only one of their tribe's elite warriors. It might have been foolish, for I'd grown many times stronger since then, but looking at those stern beasts in their humanoid guise made my ribs ache, remembering the blows I'd received and the gray-flaming club that had nearly spattered me.

The most dangerous to my plans was the old shaman, who seemed to specialize in contracts with spirits-spies and other watchers. The bastard managed to keep more than a dozen spies in reality at any one time, and he picked them up so that they were guarding his back, looking at the world from different spectrums. It was his spirits that were flooding this section of the forest, trying to track down our company. I killed them, of course, just as I killed the subordinate beasts, but it pissed me off.

The shaman believed that some strange creatures were nesting near his tribe. For who else would think of hanging on trees corpses that didn't even try to eat? The intelligent creatures, plucking only the tastiest and most useful from the slain monsters, the creatures hiding from his gaze, deliberately hunting for strong and dangerous opponents. He did not catch our fight with the devourer, but he had already managed to see its consequences through the eyes of his intangible servants and was impressed by what he saw. There were many of his tribesmen among that mountain of skeletons, so he had some idea of the Kolobok's powers, having witnessed the last attempt to dislodge the creature from its nest. He was still a snotty apprentice to the shaman, but he remembered. At least because their tribe had suffered less than all the others who had sent their warriors to do so.

He would have thought we were a group of adventurers who had wandered deep into the wilderness to fish, but fortunately, it had been too long since he had seen such figures. And in general, such raiders very rarely went so deep, left more traces, and had enough numbers to at least something noticed. We, by our elusiveness, made him think of bloodsuckers or other deformed ones, parts of one mighty beast. They're more common here than ordinary humans, even if they've been boosted to an obscene degree.

Back to the shaman himself. He was honed precisely for surveillance and sensory skills, which is uncharacteristic of orcs. That was why he was more dangerous to Hestia than another adept of the Darkness, calling from there bloodthirsty creatures, hungry for other people's torment. Hestia will have to tread carefully if she wishes not to reveal herself. At first, when her mist first takes effect, this grandfather could well ruin everything by showing unnecessary vigilance.

I would have preferred to kill him quietly, even with a heart attack! He was the only normal sensor the Greenskins had, and the ones they had didn't have the skill level to pull it off. But he's a handy little fellow, a sort of master coordinator, capable of directing a tribal band - that's what the chief is for - but also able to keep the small groups connected and force the orcs to act as one. This particular tribe, in terms of coherence, could give many human military units a head start, if not too elite.

For me, such a unit is far more useful than another fighter, so I'm sorry to just kill it. I had to make some adjustments to my plans and personally work with Dream, though I wanted to let Hestia do everything herself. Nothing really meaningful, nor any noticeable trace of influence. It's just that in the next couple of days, the old Grah won't care about anything and everything will seem normal. The first shaman was already feeling melancholy from time to time, the result of too active a connection with many spirits, overloading the mind, so no one would suspect anything. By the time my influence had passed, the Mist of Vice would be firmly entrenched in the desired territory, so that its victims would not be alarmed by anything.

I take one last look at the camp.

Not bad, for savages, houses, hollowed out a long time ago in the stone base of another dagger-like rock, of which there were somehow too many in the area. It looked something like a multi-story building, covered with scaffolding, with all sorts of outbuildings, pens, barns, tents, as well as goblin dens and huts underneath. In times of siege or attack by some too-dangerous and numerous monsters, all had time to hide inside the rugged rock like Swiss cheese, turning it into a kind of fortress.

This, too, is a peculiar feature of this particular tribe, which took full advantage of the cave system it had once wrested from the troglodytes. The blind monsters were a subspecies of the far more civilized lizardmen and have long since passed away, but the expanded and fortified system of passageways and halls continues to delight the green-skinned eye. I chose them as targets largely because of this place, which stands a good chance of becoming an extremely useful base for our company.

Well, they are also the closest to the camp with the mirror, so we do not have to go far. Laziness is also an important factor in decision-making, along with logic, intuition, and a desire for some comfort. At least the stream isn't too far away, only three kilometers from the cliff, so I can order the subordinate orcs to give me a big bath. For a hot bath, I would not only enslave a tribe of murderous cannibals, but I would also destroy the world to the ground!

Everyone has their reasons for feats, and if to think of it, mine isn't the worst yet.

Three shadowy portals transported me to a small hollow where my companions were seated quietly discussing the upcoming operation. Taria smiles contentedly, Hans smiles a little less contentedly, Hestia maintains an indifferent expression and does not respond to provocation, Losius habitually tries to punch his face with his palm, and Ygra... ...is asleep, the bloody bastard! You can't help envying the fact that she has a distinct lack of brainpower: such an ability not to worry about any problems or troubles is worth a lot.

"Let's put the plan into action." Waiting for the nod from everyone who heard me.

After wishing her luck and success, the creature of Mist, at the nineteenth level, scattered into a barely perceptible cloud, gradually expanding and heading in the direction she wanted to go. We could follow it, of course, but no one would risk doing so except me for fear of the insidious mists that would press across the area. The rest of the dreamteam will spend those days while Hestia works on the brains and bodies of orcs in relaxed anticipation.

Almost all.

For I do have a plan, in addition to checking on Raimel occasionally and getting under her arm with sudden questions, ridiculous ideas, and damaging advice. But the rest of us may not appreciate my magnificent plan.

For some reason I have this feeling.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Hans's response to my plan sounded remarkably predictable, exactly what I expected to hear. "Alone? There? You're the one who told us what's in there, right?"

"Yes, alone." Smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding. "Yeah, over there. Yeah, fucked up. No, I'm serious, guys. I, you know, need to progress, too. And while you've made progress with that, I've only moved up with alchemy, and it is making me sick. I need to kill someone now, preferably someone who won't die in one fell swoop. And that megalith is a perfect match. The opponents are strong and dangerous but not impossible to defeat, and, most importantly, I can easily run away from them if I feel that I'm not up to the challenge."

"There are three epic-grade creatures in there, Tin." Losius tiredly tries to knock some caution into my head, though he's inwardly resigned to the fact that he'll have to let me go. "For all your power, we can't help but worry. You leave us to rest after our labors of slaying the forest monsters while you rush into a battle that may be, pardon my language, the last. Of course, we are eager to prove to you that we, too, can take part in your adventure and help you reach your goal."

"I can't take you, dammit!" I'm starting to get a little bit angry. "Then I'll have to cover you again and from three epics at once, which will require maximum concentration. You have nothing to do there yet. It's too early to go there. I can handle three of the creeps, or I will; escape, that's all."

The subject of our quarrel is a huge structure about a week's walk from our camp, combining the functions of a burial ground and an artillery battery at the same time. If the main "structure" in the orcs' camp resembled a multi-story building or a fang of an unknown monster sticking upwards, the megalith looked like a five-pointed crown, with a small platform in the center, or a strange flower, with some rocks as petals and the same platform towering above the ground as the bed of this flower.

Each of the five rocks served as an anchor, an amplifier, and a home for a very powerful ghost-type undead. They all "lived there" for a very long time, not affecting the world around them in any way but killing anyone who disturbed their peace. At some point, a terrible battle ensued, in which three of the five petals were cleared of their inhabitants, turning them into melted ashes and ruining the composition.

In the active state, there were only three undead guards - the inhabitants of the two surviving petals and the creature controlling them, located in the central node. Also epic but stronger, more dangerous, and possesses other, more specialized talents. If there had been six of them, I wouldn't have gone near them. Or I would have dropped the entire rock structure into the Shadow from the maximum distance so as not to take any unnecessary risks.

But there are only three of them left, and the megalith's buffing aura, if it works after all these years and all the battles I've fought, is very minimal, hardly interfering with me or helping them. It's also possible to try the old bones if I'm very careful. Three Epics, one of whom is almost legendary, can stop other armies, but I'm not so easy either. My biggest advantage is that the enemy can not leave the territory to which they are either tied or something. Well, they can, but not far away and not for long. Orcs, at least, are rarely pursued if they leave their coverage area. If it weren't for that limitation, there wouldn't be orcs around or any life at all - a tightly knit trio of epic undead could wipe out vast swaths of land before they encountered a worthy adversary.

I stumbled upon this structure not entirely by accident but by using my precious mirror in an attempt to find an acceptable target for pumping. It was then I found images of this place soaked in death and dust, to the point that a normal view of what was going on here... could be done, but it would require too much effort. Anyway, I made a note and forget.

I returned to the find much later, when I had already learned about all the interesting places in the near and distant surroundings. But, again, I found no reason to go there. I found the ghostly trio too troublesome opponents to go there alone and too dangerous to drag my companions with me. But then my decision to subdue the greenhorns happened, which automatically bought me some time for self-development. And observing the camp allowed me to pluck out some extremely interesting images I had to unravel, despite the headache and fatigue.

The images were related to those troglodytes who dwelt in the orcish rock before the orcs came. For in the memory of the dead tribe of blind reptiloids (I am not sure about the Jewish blood in them), the very battle with the undead that reduced their numbers was imprinted. By clinging to these long past events, I was able to bring to the surface the amount of undead that existed beneath the dead veil, the qualities of the protective auras and fields generated by the megalith, and even the abilities of the creatures that inhabited the place.

That's when, after weighing my options, comparing them to my opponent's talents, flipping through my retreat options, and assessing the possible rewards for victory, I decided to shorten the eternity of the undead. You could say I was led forward by my beloved recklessness, multiplied by the desire to find trouble on my ass. In many ways, that would even be true, pure as a baby's tear, but there was another moment, a small detail that tipped the scales of my decision.

This megalith felt the same structure, the same flare, the imprint of powerful forces as the one underground city that nearly cut my life short. It wasn't the power of the Specter, no. In what I was picking up with the very edge of my third eye was the power that had created the necropolis as it had created the specter itself. I used to think that the Ghostly cloak was the main villain, the one who'd let all the dungeon dwellers go to meat, and now it turns out that he was just part of someone else's plan, too, some other force. Even if just as dead, but still different, unfamiliar, and dangerous.

Anyway, Kostik decided to sniff around and find out before he went to the Specter itself. At the very least, he hoped to find some insight into how to destroy the damn thing quicker and easier without getting hit by a legend. Well, or find out that if we kill him, we'll incur the wrath of someone tougher. And such discoveries are best made alone and under controlled conditions, closer to the home ground. From the Necropolis, even if disaster strikes, I might not be able to escape on my own if I'm jammed very well. The concentrate of pure Death can block any invocation of the Shadow, if not qualitatively, then quantitatively. Escaping from a barely working megalith that has lost the lion's share of its defense mechanisms will be much easier than escaping from a dungeon stuffed with hostile energy up to its eyebrows.

I really want to believe that, yes.

When I don't have to watch my allies, concentrating entirely on speed, I can run faster than any sports car, and I don't give a shit about physical obstacles. The shadow steps, combined with the minimal use of Form, and the occasional use of teleport, allow for breathtaking speeds.

If I had decided to ignore the expense and the strain on my consciousness by morphing ultimately into Shadow and accelerating to the maximum, I would have reached my destination by evening. Luckily, I hadn't gone that crazy yet, so I remained cautious. Yes, even such a minimal stay in shadow form was a huge inconvenience, starving my brain and sucking out my soul with cold, but it was an inconvenience. I am used to very different levels of realm influence at this level. So I am not too afraid of falling too deeply. Sometimes I even allow myself to dive into the deeper layers of Shadow, guided only by the shadow senses of my morphed body and my clairvoyance.

With the new controls and increased class skills, such tricks, which used to be a "suicide risk," have slowly and quietly moved into the "difficult but possible" category. Hero's progress is evident, damn it, and I can't say it makes me very happy. At this rate, it won't be long before I turn into something else, not necessarily The Shadow. And I want to be Kostik, not Hero, even if the former is already inseparable from the latter.

Instead of a week, the road to the megalith took two and a half days. And that half of the day was spent recovering my strength, both physically and mentally, by resting near the target. At the same time and took a closer look at the place of the future battle, spending the resource of clairvoyance so as not to run into any surprises. Surprises were found and not pleasant, but something that could really turn the tide of battle, there was not. It was there but a long time ago, before half of the megalith had been destroyed and some of its defenders had been disposed of.

If this place had remained fully functional, I would have had to temporarily retrain as an artillery unit, hurling complex and extremely structured shadow spells from afar until I had destroyed at least the outer layers of the defense. It's a good thing this task was completed before me. It was a shame they hadn't finished the job, though. Because such a concentration of necroenergy seemed even nastier and more unnatural up close. No more fairy tales about noble undead and necromancers, for in reality this power is too much for us... just like Shadow and Dream, so I take my words back, I guess. Let's assume that there is a microscopic chance that somewhere there are normal users of this power who have kept their vestiges of humanity intact.

With my life, I may even meet such, to my grief or theirs.

Megalith sang.

Megalith whine.

Megalith sobbed and pleaded.

It was this cry that made me hate the undead in general and the creators of this masterpiece in particular. I couldn't see it from afar, even with clairvoyance, but up close... Now I could see what these rock structures were, what they held, and what they were built on. The answer, as always, however, was simple and obvious, hardly commonplace to Alurei with his damn morality.

Souls.

Both human and monstrous, and who knows what else. The megaliths were huge traps of souls, infused by their captors while feeding something else at the same time. Now all of these structures were either damaged or completely destroyed, so it was hard to know where exactly the power was going, even with the third eye. The necroenergy was clogging up all the perception spectra too much, and trying to look into the past of something that was so dead... You could, I suppose, but it would be painful and take as much effort as a full-blown battle, leaving me with an empty reserve and a headache, unable even to fight back if anything happened.

It would make more sense to try to use the megalith as a prop after I've put its guards to rest. I didn't get in trouble. Some of the images were still there, but they were too fuzzy to be useful. Flickering visions of old sacrifices, humming streams of sacrificial energy going to an unknown target, a thick, almost distinguishable by normal vision harness-link through which the power came, the cold and calculating mind of the creator of the mechanism, who placed his minions in it... If the visions were full-fledged, if they showed more detail, then the conversation would be very different.

I did not gather information by clairvoyance alone. The usual perception and the banal, long-accustomed, even if unloved, Gaze also helped, providing food for thought no less and, at times, even more. I discerned the torn and perforated remains of the scanning nets, covering almost nothing and shining with such gaps that you could march an army through. Their longevity is respectable, for they still exist - after all these centuries - but they are of no use.

The scraps, almost sprawled in the dust of the protective domes, of which there were at least three, made me remember that the place had been stormed. On the side where the melted rock daggers of the megalith were located, there was probably not even a memory of the protection. Complete destruction, which stripped away the very concept of the shields. The harness-link, on the other hand, was much better protected, so there were still some scraps of it. It's a pity that I can't tell anything from it because I'd rather know, just in case, who I'm going to put a blowtorch in the ass to in the future for creating such a fascinating piece of architecture.

Now megaliths could still accumulate the souls of those who died nearby, but before, the structure could not only accumulate them but also use them as material for attacks or fuel for storage units. It's comforting to know they won't use those tricks on you, too. It's a bit comforting.

I stood ten kilometers away from the soaring rocks and poured vial after vial into myself. Nothing as powerful as before the assault on the Stone, but I can't call the compounds I took light dope, either. In addition to all sorts of buffs, I prepare myself a reserve escape route, for once using a pre-prepared plan.

The ordinary low Shadow was rewired by me with the help of Creation, turning it into a kind of prosthetic, extra eye. Now I can see through her eyes from up to a hundred kilometers away, maybe even more. I haven't checked. It's a good trick, a possibility I'd realized a long time ago, but I could only use it now, after all sorts of adventures.

My evacuator allows me to instantly transport to any point, to contact any shadow that becomes my door... as long as that shadow is within my perception. That is, within a sphere whose radius is not so great, unfortunately - a little over a mile and a half seemed like a huge gaping distance before, but now inspires much less. Yes, still cool, but it would be worth looking for ways to enhance such a useful perk even more.

The key to this situation is the interesting clarification about the "limits of perception". You got it right - using the Shadow, subdued and crippled by my actions, I can look through its eyes and expand my perception. And so I can also transport myself to that point with the evacuator, even if such a thing would destroy the Shadow. Creation is a very strange skill, of course, but it is incredibly useful as any third-rank mythical skill is, to be frank.

The escape beacon is ready.

The icy flames of the doping taken are flooding my body.

My mind is crisp and clear, but in my heart, there is only a slight anger and a desire to cut short the torment of those who have long since paid for all possible atrocities with their lives and postmortem.

Let's rumble!

I emerge from the Steps right on the central platform of the megalith, not hiding my presence at all, immediately starting to activate the Aegis, ready, if anything happens, to bring it to the maximum. I don't need to hide with these foes, so my mask is on my belt, my face uncovered from the gaze of the undead. And it's too strange the way these things look at the world to pay attention to a mask. They see life and death, not colors and shapes, and they don't care about the standard means of disguise.

Every second I fade more and more as the world around me loses its colors. Every second, my body becomes more and more monochrome, black and white, two-dimensional, becoming a living door between the real world and the Shadow beyond. It took six beats of my feverishly pounding heart for the Aegis to reach its maximum out of full afterburner, and on the seventh beat, I was already met.

They emerged silently, with no extraneous sounds or visual effects.

There I was, standing on an old platform covered with dust and traces of ancient charms, and there I was, surrounded by three figures looking at me in silence. At first, only an image of them appeared, thus reminding me of the ancient specter, and only a moment later, these images merged with what they represented. Three incredibly old beings, long forgotten everything human and even dead.

They were tired.

Tired of the hunger, the hatred, and the constant, nonstop service imposed on them by force. Their hands were stained with so much blood that even I felt uncomfortable, but I couldn't hate them. Whatever they had done, they had already paid, paid every moment of their existence. If Specter was a free undead, content with his place in the world and his dead state, even with reservations about the contract that bound him, then these three evoked only squeamish pity and a desire to finally grant them oblivion.

I'll save the torment and torture for those whose will once create them, whose spells bound them, depriving them of even a chance at death. Their souls are already dead, already lost to oblivion, even if one tries to free them. Their essence was securely fused to the very structure of the megalith, preventing them from escaping to rebirth, never allowing it. The only outcome was to be disembodied, along with the ancient machine, or to be devoured by something else. If it were me, someone with the right class, with the right skill, he might be able to do something. But I can only cut off the suffering, nothing more.

Two of the three looked the same, like faceless blue silhouettes clad in black cloaks that hid their figures and hands from view. Only a piercing glow, and a faceless face hidden under a hood, could be discerned by sight. The class is marked as Cursed Phantom, level forty-three for both of them. They were about three meters tall, but they seemed big because they were hovering in the air right above me. There are no visible weapons in their hands, but I doubt there are any at all.

The third was different, special because its home was the central hub of the megalith. The Ghost Construct of the forty-eighth level looked like a translucent naked man two and a half meters tall, wrapped in chains from head to toe. Through these chains, one could discern his "body," which looked as if it had been cut into cubes and put back together, sewn together with harsh thread. It was either Frankenstein's monster or some kind of Pinhead knockoff, but it looked scary. The chains on his left side looked melted, and his left arm was missing up to the elbow-an ancient battle he had fought.

There was the same weariness in his eyes, the same blunt hatred for all those who had the audacity not to share his fate. In his only working hand was a ghostly whip that reeked of such fierce agony that a mere human could die just by looking at it too closely. A legendary artifact that I would certainly not take as a trophy, no matter what tricks my personal avatar of greed did.

They are silent.

I am silent, too.

It was the Specter that could be angered and tormented with words and taunts, warming themselves with the flames of other people's indignation and fierce hatred. They would not fall for mockery, would not be intimidated by threats, and would not stop at heartfelt speeches. Their hatred is too deep, their fatigue too pervasive, too... too late the Hero came here. He has come when his appearance is no longer decisive.

Whether they continue to exist or fall from my hand means nothing to them, and they have long forgotten even the fragments of feeling that are available to the undead. All that remains are the images, the whispers of ancient prayers, to which these stones are stained with blood. They no longer care.

To them, not to me.

A wicked smile blossomed on the black lips of my Aegis-covered body, beyond the limits set by nature as if my mouth had been cut open and then sewn back together. My eyes, too, are black, losing even the hint of pupil and iris, just the gaps in the Shadow itself, from which its Overlord looks at reality.

I feel cold.

It pains me to be in this state, but my mind remains strong and sharp, like a long-prepared blade. Today I'm not going to lose control. I'm not going to give the fight to the Creature in my disguise. I will finish this battle on my own, paying the debt left behind, not by me and not for me. Finally ending one of the stories long forgotten by all.

Just because someone has to do it.

Ending stories.

The battle algorithms embedded in the undead played the first fiddle as the two phantoms howled sharply and without warning, hinting at their kinship with the banshee. A howl is not just a sound, though. It alone would be enough to kill, it is also filled with Death to the brim. Along with this howl, she comes to reality. This howl has become an anchor for her, an anchor that clings to and carries away all who have heard the Eternal Howl.

The Aegis shuddered, taking the blow, surely beginning to make my body darker and darker until the dark gray was replaced by pure black. Fortunately, there is not enough force in this scream to squeeze through the mythical defenses, so the load does not exceed an acceptable one. Unlike the sweeping but frighteningly fast lashing of the whip, which hurts even me. The Aegis could repel it, but it would require a surge of pumping and the adoption of the Shadow Form, which would not be good for my character.

Instead of the hard way, I use my steps, immediately diving into the deep layers, where neither the undead's eyes nor their skill strokes can easily reach, immediately jumping out into reality, but away from the trio that surrounded me. I use the trump card I'd prepared for this very spot, tossing a spherical vial with very unpleasant contents at the Phantom closest to me. The essence of silver, filled with purification and serenity, is securely concealed in non-existence, making its impact sudden and frightening.

The Phantom looks as if he is shoved into a mixer and doused with acid at the same time, completely incapacitating him. The vial of magical negator of the highest caliber and concentration, which flew after him, completes the job, turning his ghostly body into a cloud of necroplasma, which begins to slowly settle on the cold stone. And yet there's something about this spectacle that I don't like.

Too easy.

The remains of the fallen hadn't even begun to settle on the ground yet, when his companion came at me, clutching a ghostly blade, glowing with a grave light that was unbearable for any living thing. Somehow these guys look cooler than the usual epics and a lot cooler. The blade is met by a shadow lash, which pulls it aside, while the other hand releases a long and sharp pin from the concentrated Shadow, piercing the face... of illusion.

The real Phantom is attacking right through his doppelganger, intending to chop me up like a log. Not too difficult a task, considering our difference in size and height. Another move into the Shadow, after which I step out to the side of my attacker, intending to cover myself with it from the Construct that was already coming up from above... But he leaves the doppelganger in his place again, disappearing on his own. It's funny, but at the same time, the Phantom is creating a decoy it goes somewhere in subspace sinking into some sort of realm or pocket dimension.

I rewarded the doppelganger with another shadowy slap, dodging another whip, making full use of my agility, in which my opponents were not far behind me. I barely escaped the second devastating blow. Which the seemingly destroyed Phantom attempted to string me up. No, well, I knew it wouldn't be easy.

For the next fifteen seconds, I jumped with steps, preventing my opponent from surrounding me, simultaneously disturbing them with small shadow attacks, throwing off their aim. And I manage to understand the resurrection mechanism that each of my three opponents possesses, and at the same time, I understand why the unknown assailants tried so hard to melt the edges of the megalith. The real bodies - or rather, the souls - of each of the ghosts are hidden there, in the depths of the enchanted stone.

No, guys, I don't play like that.

I use the evacuator, transporting myself a mile up, where a few drops of water raised by the wind have created a barely discernible but much-needed shadow. Following that, I invest in the impact I'm creating, aiming to reduce the number of battle participants. There are no shadows up here, nowhere to anchor my charms. But that would only stop a first-level Kostik, not the current me. The folds of my cloak, my folded arms, and even my lungs become the basis for the shadow as I exhale something that reverberated with the icy wind and the taste of blood.

My spells looked like a cloud of black scraps moving in a chaotic and unpredictable pattern or even a flock of ravenous rooks landing on one of the side megaliths. I was flying - or rather falling - after them, not letting the structure of the charms lose its stability. I even seemed to call on my bare instincts for a couple of weak shadows inside the cloud, which made it easier for me to control the individual charm arrays.

My efforts were noticed, weighed, and found dangerous enough to begin interfering in any way possible. And if the Phantoms' attacks, which looked like beams of giant lanterns still glowing with the same grave light and striking up a broad front, were easy to sidestep, the Construct showed he was the boss, showing me and the world his area magic.

Dozens of blades of ghostly matter weaved at his cry and soared upward, aiming straight for the center of my cloud, where I was lurking. A very good, good attack, if not spectacularly graceful and not nearly as powerful. But it might well upset the stability of my scheme, wasting my time and reserve.

The Aegis crawls over my body harder and harder, simultaneously making me smile wider and wider. My desire to find and carve the hearts of those who created the megaliths just grew several times greater - each blade was created from a single captive soul that went to the material to create the necro charm. The Construct itself either had no reserve of its own or preferred not to waste it.

In the last moment before the collision, the patchwork cloud split into a dozen smaller clouds, letting the ghostly blades through without doing any damage at all. The enemy's hit went skyward, and I nearly splattered against a rock, carried away by the control of the cloud's elements. It took a lot of concentration, but success was on my side, so I managed to finish the blow. I had to take the fall on Aegis, though, really wishing the ghosts had shadows so I could steal and transfer the damage from hitting the rock to them.

The cloud covered the megalith, which was home to the first of the Phantoms, who hadn't had time to fully recover (apparently, complete destruction of their bodies doesn't do them any good, and such wounds cannot be fully healed in a minute), instantly covering it with an ink-black blanket. I don't know if it was the undead or the algorithms in the stone itself that activated the defenses, but they were wrong on all counts. They should have attacked, piercing the veil and disrupting its integrity, even slightly. But I bet that such "splashing" attacks, literally smearing themselves against the defense, were easier to burn out with a steady stream of energy than to knock down with a single powerful blow. It's also more economical, really.

Instead of being squeezed through, chewed through, or even sprouted inside by a dozen stakes, my bedspread became even blacker, turning for a moment into a door to the very depths of the shadow realm. A moment later, the unlucky Phantom's appearance simply disappeared - without a scream or a groan - being erased from the real world. A gentle gust of wind indicated that the air had filled the void that had formed, and I was already on my feet, ready to continue the battle.

It's hard to envy the souls that were imprisoned in the megalith, but... but consider me a scum, but nothingness in the jaws of the Shadows, a short and painful death, is still a better outcome than an eternity of suffering locked up, without the slightest hope of salvation. And with the same outcome at the end - the destruction of the megalith automatically destroys all captive souls, letting the energy from the decay on the postmortem blow. It's a good thing there were hardly any souls in the last centuries, and most of them were spent in combat.

It's time to continue dancing.

As I got to my feet, I was not so much inferior in height anymore, adding at least half a meter up and a little more in width. The Form of the Shadow had superimposed itself on the Aegis, turning me into an anthropomorphic black silhouette that had become a Shadow in its entirety, except for my mind. It was hard to hold myself together, but for now, I was in control, aided in no small part by the psychic stability potions I'd brewed to test these two skills in a controlled combat environment.

I ignored another howl, taking it on Aegis, but I couldn't ignore the three copies, each of which had its grave blade. The real one (or should I say "main one" because the real one was inside the megalithic rock) was tucked away in the pocket, which I couldn't easily get out of, so I had to disembody the copies, like taking apart a Russian nesting doll. It wasn't exactly easy, but the three takes weren't up to the level of a real epic monster, even in threes.

But then I got a little cocky, trying not to dodge another whip but to take it on the shadow barrier, buying me time to attack the last side megalith. The legendary whip went through the shadow wall, which could withstand a dozen tank shots like a red-hot knife through butter, and even my inhuman plasticity, a gift from my shadow body, could not keep me from being hit.

The only reason I didn't scream in pain was that I was out of breath, even though my body had no lungs. It only touched the edge of my back, but it hurt like hell. No exaggeration - this artifact reeked of something so hellish as to be sickening. The pain was its essence, pain made up its matter, becoming embodied suffering. The touch of it gave everyone a fraction of the suffering that souls experience as guests of the local infernal creatures. Clairvoyance, too, received a kick in the gut, almost minute by minute, revealing the fate of the one whose suffering I had just shared.

That's the artifact's ability to merge the victim's mind with the occasional Hells sufferer, giving relief to one and torment to the other. Don't you worry, for a second of respite for the victim of the fiends will be even more excruciating when it is finally over. Correction, Kostik, because your list of "candidates for ball ripping" has just received a nominee for first place. I wish I knew the name of the one who created this artifact or traded it for something from the owners of Hell, but that's not a big deal.

The second blow pierced the void, as did the third.

The fourth blow was delivered by the Phantom, giving the Construct time to fly over my head and stab me in the back. The phantom pain was gone, but the non-phantom hatred was freezing me out more and more. I didn't growl or scream, no. I chuckled, the same nasty shrill laugh that characterized The Shadow as I struck.

I rolled around on the toes of my clawed feet, adding another ten centimeters to my height. After me, the shadow swirled as if to put on me, turning first into a cloak and then into a projectile, which I covered and entangled all three copies, tearing them to shreds. My hands, which added an extra joint at the elbow and on the clawed fingers, then clawed at the void in front of me, cutting through it as if with those claws, breaking the metric of space. In a split second, I'm already revealing the carefully hidden crease where my enemy sits, yanking him from there straight into the gap that leads into the depths of Shadow, trying to drag him away with me.

My gut flares up, making me realize that Construct has a perfectly workable blink, and he's already caught me with a blow that should blow my head off with pure agony and send my soul to the fiends to feed. Perhaps the first really dangerous moment, but I have something to answer myself. The Aegis and the Form merge into one, and I can barely keep my mind in check, the cold and the emptiness coming in an unstoppable tsunami that no mere mortal could ever stop. Not even me, to be honest.

Fortunately, I don't have to be hit by it, the measly second I have is enough.

Here the Constructor strikes, and the victim doesn't even try to dodge it.

Here the whip slips around the shadow monster's neck... passing through it.

The twist of the wrist makes the whip go all the way around my torso, but it seems to pierce the emptiness. The Shadow itself has ceased to be three-dimensional, becoming a two-dimensional image of the monster, hovering in the air, absent from all but the visual spectrum. It was as if it were an ordinary, non-magical shadow.

The Construct falls on this shadow with all his weight but feels no resistance, simply passing through it, barely having time to deflect with the hilt of a whip the grave blade of his ally, who was also trying to strike his opponent, who had almost put him to rest. And only the presence of the blink saved the Construct from the most powerful blow to the back from the newly manifested enemy.

The blink saved the undead from the attack, but Phantom had no time to escape, having been too bound by the breach in Shadow that had nearly dragged him into its grasp. That's where the kicker sent him, ripping out his entire face with its clawed paw. The breach slammed shut, leaving Construct alone for the next few minutes until the megalith re-created a new body to replace the one it had devoured. At least there was something left of the Phantom after that potion trick, and now The Shadow will take it all.

For a moment, the Construct stares into the eyes of the newly grown Shadow, who is now even taller than he is, equal in size to the Phantoms that are absent here.

In one's eyes, there is only weariness and hatred. The hatred that he, too, is tired of to continue experiencing has long been as painful as it was to exist at all.

There is ice and cold in the other's eyes. Strangely detached, unaccustomedly calm as for a Shadow, the cold and hunger, the desire to fill the emptiness inside, which never took over, making the creature surrender to these feelings to the end.

The second, just one second they spent looking at each other, told them far more about each other than any words or stories could tell.

But it passed.

The undead stopped saving and began to fire large calibers at me but didn't risk getting any closer because it would leave the last of the allied megaliths unprotected, which was now rebuilding its defender. It didn't stop him from sending another wave of death and agony-filled blades at me in the slightest, so I wasn't complaining.

The wave of blades struck a black canvas, into which the blades fell without the slightest trace. Guys, is this guy really just an epic? Because he's no weaker than some legend, and he's hitting just as hard and too often! The answer comes right away, though, honestly, clairvoyance could have warned sooner. Now, with no concern for the economy and no concern for rapidly dwindling reserves, this Construct of unknown authorship is really only inferior to the legend in survivability and the ability to withstand a blow, but not in firepower and cast speed.

The undead wasn't very smart, but it had enough for simple logic, so the single blades began to fly into the still-open mouth, preventing me from changing positions. It's not hard to hold the rift - though the thought of actually using that chilling fuck as a defense is pretty sickening - but I wouldn't budge in that mode. Neither will he, really, but he has the goal of waiting for his ally to be restored and then killing me together.

I'm not happy with the stalemate, so I do something stupid: I summon a couple of melee- and speed-honed Elder Shadows through the rift, forcing my opponent to switch to them. The first Shadow, which looks like a classic tentacle, only manages to surprise me, but without my out-of-existence, stealthily attacking an opponent at this level is problematic, even for creatures as stealthy as the Shadows are.

No, she had time to strike, and she even did some damage, but the whip response was launched too quickly, giving no time to retreat. A rebound attack was not the best choice here, really. Had the allied Shadow decided to strike at once and with all her might, she would have had a much better chance. A separate "joy" was that seeing how the term applied to the Shadows, me under Aegis and in Form, the damned Shadows were not only not arguing, they were almost shitting themselves, figuratively speaking, out of sheer terror.

The agony of the first fallen was quick but very colorful. At least they couldn't tear the soul out of it. For the creature was too hard bound to its home planet. The second Shadow, resembling a humanoid silhouette, only with a scorpion tail, managed to evade two blows at once but was caught in a slowing field of gray, ghostly light and disembodied by the third.

I had closed the breach by then and prepared my attack, putting a third of my reserve into it and immediately applying Breath of Magic. Yeah, I still had a little over a quarter left, but I didn't want to take any chances. The lower my reserve, the more pressure Shadow would put on me to make up for the lack of personal power. I'd rather do it myself than rely on that kind of "help".

My attack flew overhead, aiming to hit the megalith, which the Construct had thoughtfully covered with itself and an instant ghostly barrier of intertwined human and not-so-human bodies as if stitched together with blood-red ghostly threads. The howling of the bound souls was deafening, and the agony projected in all spectra, clogging the clairvoyance to everything, was even more frenzied. Fuck! Is there a single power on Alurei that doesn't carry an abomination or danger in it? I'm not even asking her for myself. Just tell me there is one at least, you fucking bitches!

Since the ball I'd spit out resembled a watermelon or a water balloon full of water, the Construct made a logical and deliberate decision: the trio of ghost blades pierced through the likely bomb, destabilizing it and reducing the danger to the megalith. The second time and so shitting yourself, it must have been frustrating.

The orb burst like a soap bubble and about a hundred black ribbons sprang from it, immediately rushing toward the megalith along different routes, brazenly skirting the Wall of Suffering Souls on all sides. The Construct could probably manage that, too, but who would give him the time to try something so foolish? With the new Concentration Perk, I can send three fully saturated Shadow Spears per second, each one carrying a core of smaller Spears that will hold the pure energy of the Shadow, almost liquefied to a material state.

The reserve, of course, goes down very quickly, but the undead doesn't have the slightest chance of hindering me by defending. Each syringe dart into the Wailing Wall injects a pure Shadow into the ghostly flesh of its prisoners, so destructive to their essences that the Wall quickly, very quickly, began to disintegrate, and replacing the dead... souls freed, albeit in death, by new prisoners was not so fast. I was hitting faster, even if I was exhausted faster too.

I didn't have to - the ribbons wrapped around the megalith, which burned out at least a third of them in active defense mode. Glory be to the habit of putting a margin of safety into your spells, just in case, forever and ever! Without it, my strike would have been only partially successful, if not entirely in vain. Turning and binding the Construct tightly crosswise, the ribbons sharply compressed, cutting the enchanted stone or simply crumbling it where the enemy's protective enchantments were too strong. In an instant, the Construct flinched against me, attempting to strike me with its whip, and the magical machine, which had lost its balance, began to disintegrate into pieces.

Remember what I said about self-destructive mode and the last strike?

I blocked the lash in the same way I blocked the most powerful area strike - with the Aegis boost, making me invulnerable, and praying to System, Tits, Random, and Gates and Thorwalds that the cataclysm would last less than a second or my own power would devour me. A strike of strategic, no kidding, charms isn't like farting in a crowd. You can and should wipe out armies with that, let alone single targets.

Yep.

If I had known about this trick in the stock of my opponents, I simply would not have come here.

Probably.

Without reassuring.

Without thinking.

Who the fuck am I trying to bullshit here! I'd go and whistle a little song that tells you what organ I prefer to use to spin my common sense.

It was with these thoughts that the blow hit me.

Everything within a five-kilometer radius died. Similar spells had been cast on all the individual megaliths, but the previous ones had been burned out with Flame and Light, which weakened or nullified the last attack. I sent the previous rock into Shadow in its entirety, preventing it from detonating. But this thing exploded, just as its creators had originally planned, in near-perfect conditions.

There were no external effects, just everything around me died instantly and dried up to the state of mummies. It's a good thing it didn't rise in the form of necrohazard, but that's a thing for the future. Ideally, such a strike should have wiped out the enemy army and immediately sucked the souls of the dead into the storage vaults of the remaining megaliths. That's probably why the undead isn't raised - they've ripped everything out of the thin bodies of the ones they hit. They had no love for the classic undead, preferring the ghostly, fleshless creatures. Apparently, they are easier to withstand with the passage of time. Judging by the fact that this abomination is still standing, they did not make a mistake in choosing the type of guards.

The leaves were falling off the trees all at once.

The birds and beasts are silenced forever.

Even the air died, becoming unbreathable for the next couple of years.

The circle of perdition, in which nothing will live, will not disappear anytime soon, if ever.

We stand in front of each other again, carefully observing our opponent's reactions. The tired hatred of the Construct and the icy hunger of the Shadow meet again. I don't need to breathe, and my body, now Shadow incarnate, has long been unafraid of the usual blows and attacks, like tissue damage with necroenergy. My enemy, on the other hand, receives far fewer bonuses from death around us than he should. He's exhausted, deprived of allied undead support, and his soul reserve is pretty depleted...

I could put up a fight a full-fledged fight with all the necessary attributes, but I was too tired mentally. It's not even the Shadow's pressure on my brain, which has returned to normal after the afterburner, but the fatigue of other people's pain and screams, which I can't help listening to. It's a nasty, ugly place, its disgusting inhabitants, and a thousand times more disgusting creators of this filth.

I inhale, even though I have no lungs.

My body jerked up another thirty centimeters, and my back clearly had extra vertebrae, my arms were stronger, my claws longer, and I was hunched over and bent to the ground. This shape would be optimal for the final attack, and would be the most correct, as my intuition tells me. I let out another chuckle, a nasty screech in my head, and then the world goes silent.

One moment of eternity.

The Form of Shadow allows me to increase my stats by quite significant amounts, and a Form that has come this far from the human prototype is bound to increase them in a really significant way. And on top of all this falls the grave slab of a Moment of Eternity, the active perk of the legendary grade. If I were flesh and bone, this strike would be my last, no matter how successful - I wouldn't be able to get up after this, at most by running away with a tow truck. But The Shadow has no muscles to be torn by overexertion, no bones to burst from overexertion, no blood vessels from which to bleed into my brain, no heart that cannot withstand the overload. All I have now is...

...one moment...

...that became eternity...

Walking forward in the air, which had become incredibly viscous and rigid, I left a trail of my own shadowy flesh, which was being blown away, torn from me by the oncoming current. This is not a wind current, even if it is capable of such mutilation at such speeds, no. I know intuitively that I am now stepping against the flow of time itself or something very similar to it, something that is not the foundation of the world but one of its immutable Laws.

I grow smaller with each step, leaving chunks of shadow body behind me, but once I'm close to my opponent, I strike with an obscene amount of force. In my hands, I clutched a blade the length and size of a two-handed sword, but I knew that it was only one of my original daggers, just the maximum saturated with shadow, to the point of becoming a wound on the body of the world itself.

I made a simple classic blow from the bottom up, cutting the entire body lengthwise while cutting off the hand, clutching the legendary artifact with a backward motion. After that, time begins to run normally again, and I, once again in a human body, rest my hand on the cold stone. In my other hand, I still clutched the infused blade, even though it had shrunk in size.

The Construct's body was simply disembodied, but his very essence is still hidden there, beneath my feet, deep in the central compartment of the megalith. This means that if I don't destroy that megalith quickly, it will come back to punish me for my evil deeds. The Aegis is still active because, without it, I would have been poisoned by the death-soaked air, but I don't need the Form or the afterburner anymore.

I stand up sharply on my feet, writhing from the aching pain not so much in my muscles as in my subtle body, and drop to one knee, simultaneously thrusting the blade of my dagger-blade into the stone. Across the surface of the stone... No, on the very fabric of space itself, there were waves, following which I simply conjugated reality once more with another spatial pocket and spat out a shadow right inside the megalith. Through all the defenses, through all the barriers and self-destruct blocks. I was able to see that all this magical machinery wasn't real, but the Shadow Manifestation was a good way to smoke out such tricksters, which I had already learned.

A moment.

Another one.

That's it.

The Megalith finally died, and all its slaves received their rest, leaving the central site a mere monument to a few long ago battles that no one else will remember. Not the kind of Hero that was expected here, but the others, alas, are no exist. I'm too exhausted by this confrontation, even if the reserve is still half-full, and it's rapidly replenished by the class perks and potions I've taken.

Slowly, shuffling my feet, I walked to the abandoned whip, proudly named The Kiss of Agony, and put my hand under its hilt. The whip itself wrapped around my arm like a living thing, giving me a pain that felt unbelievably sweet, almost pleasant. A powerful artifact. Mighty, at the top of the legendary scale, if more at the expense of its ability to tear out souls, sending them straight to Hell. With such a weapon I would be much more dangerous, much scarier, and I could easily find someone whose soul I would have no mercy on. There are a lot of them here, a lot of them, just reach out and pluck them like ripe fruit. My mission is more important than the eternity of a few hundred freaks who will stand in my way, isn't it? Isn't that the meaning of every deed? Thousands of deaths that no one will remember, for the unfading glory of a single Hero? Shall I hypocritically speak of unacceptable sacrifices or powers that are too dangerous?

I smile a smile full of genuine happiness and pleasure, turning my hand into a pure Shadow again, turning my whole body into it, and then I dive down, deeper and deeper while dragging the artifact with me. So deep that my will and control of the realm allow me to latch on to the artifact, and clairvoyance guides my visions through all the sweet suffering and ecstasy of agony, finding the channel that leads to those who once created this whip and gave it to their mortal servants.

I don't know his name, I don't know his rank in the Hierarchy of Hell, but it doesn't matter to me.

//Didn't you want the torment that my will and yours would bring to the world? - The images I send are full of sincere concern and a subtle sneer. - You can have my share in advance!

The same channel that became the bridge through which he poured his venomous temptation into me became the bridge for my response in turn. The Shadow, sharing my hatred as fully as The Shadow can hate, rushes forward, vaporizing the legendary abomination. Over the millennia of its existence, this whip has ferried innumerable souls to its master, allowing it to rise from a mere Craftsman of Pain to someone far more powerful and dangerous. The rage at seeing the bait not only let off the hook, but also dare to break one of his favorite fishing rods, is so inhuman that even in shadow form it hurts my head. This rage is replaced by amazement when the shards of the receiving artifact, broken at the same time as the base, become the window through which I strike.

Wounds from the Shadow are terrible and painful, long and reluctant to heal, especially in creatures that are more energy than meat and bone. But I am still too weak, and my blows are weakened by a distance greater than any physical dimension. I'm in the Shadow, he's in the Hell, and no matter how I wriggle around, I couldn't kill him. No, I could try to break through the channel into Hell itself, but that would be a Darwin Award. It would be much harder to get out of there, and Hells is not to be trifled with. I knew the latter both from the words of my comrades-in-arms and from my own visions.

I'm not going to get in there.

Only opened the door to those to whom such an opportunity only pleases.

Even the really strong Shadows do not get in.

Even they try to close the door already.

But I started to call ahead, letting the Deep Ones get close enough to the future gate to scare them enough so that even a few of the High Ones would wait dutifully for me to open the promised way instead of attacking the insolent bug. After the third High Shadow had crawled through the portal, along with hundreds and hundreds of lesser creatures, I had no doubt.

I knew.

I knew that even if Shadow didn't kill the wounded fiend I'd marked, his enemies, servants, and rivals would. Time varies in the Hells, but I doubt this abomination will survive the next hour or two. After all, he managed to understand my heroic nature, which automatically made him either an enemy, a blackmailer or a temporary ally. He would sell information about an unknown Hero to one of his adepts, contactors, or "allies". As if monsters had allies rather than slaves and servants.

And I do not need such allies, nor do I need enemies.

"I'm sorry, my friend." A shadow rustles in my words, the words of unborn monsters. "But my fall to the bottom of the moral well, like my transformation into a bloody maniac, remains solely my business, which I intend to entrust to no one but myself."

I whistled cheerfully as I left the perdition-stricken area, immediately dropping the already-so-intense Aegis, and breathed in with pleasure. The battle had exhausted me quite decently, leaving me with barely a fifth of my reserve, mental fatigue, a headache, and an unhealing burn on my back, where I had been hit with a damned (literally!) whip.

The wound wasn't dangerous because I'd washed all the suspicious energies out of it with a stream of pure Shadow, but it wouldn't be completely gone for another week or so. There was also an unpleasant numbness in the arm that the whip-fucker and his master had wrapped around me in an attempt to scramble my brains. Judging by clairvoyance, there was an influence of some weak but very intricate psychotropic drug, combined with a curse, increasing suggestibility, so that the future slave, that is, the owner of the legendary hellish artifact, of course, did not suspect anything and did not get off the hook. Oh, yes, this abomination also drank some blood from me to ensure attachment. The insolent bastard, though an artifact.

I chuckle uncertainly, realizing that I've just missed the opportunity to get my hands on the most textbook talking sword ever, straight out of a classic shithole fantasy. It fits everything, from its demonic snarkiness to its awesome power. It's embarrassing to trample on these classics, but what can I do when I'm such an insensitive chump. I can't feel my arm, and I won't feel it until I get the poison out with alchemical perks.

The rest of the battle with an even more unpleasant foe than I had originally thought went quite well for me. The fatigue and wounds, caused more by my own mistakes and inattention than by my opponent's power, seemed like a small thing in comparison to the success. And yes, I had to admit that the two blows I'd missed were my fault for letting my opponent take advantage of them. No, the undead were really strong, but if I'd been smarter, the victory would have been flawless.

What was the point of not trying to block the legendary artifact with a simple barrier, not even a multi-layered one? Yes, I hoped to win at least a few moments to dodge, so I created the shield structure as quickly as possible and a bit carelessly. I created it, calculated the risks, and got my ass kicked for being overconfident. I should have either bounced right back, dropping the attack halfway through, or I should have weakened the attack and strengthened the Aegis, which could easily withstand even a legendary rattle. I knew in my hindsight that I was dumb, but what could I do?

The second and most important mistake was that I reached for the Kiss of Agony in the first place when the right thing to do would have been to just dissolve it in shadows without even approaching it at any dangerous distance. I was undoubtedly good, a Hero and a darling in general, who managed not only to deny myself the temptation of Hell but also to punch back hard. Not many people have managed to do that it's something to be proud of, no one argues. If it weren't for the realization that I had once again almost put a vat of filth on my head, it would have been great. In many ways, it was because of this realization that I could not be proud.

Kostik is hopeless, as usual.

I should have gone to the shadows from the clouds and cast a powerful shadow spell right in the fall before the guards in the megalith awakened. That way, I would have at least messed with the structure, if not destroyed it all at once, and the rest would have been easier. And in general, I should not have taken to the melee, where my opponents had the advantage due to the "native" land and the legendary artifact. The practice had shown that frequent and powerful attacks with shadow constructs yielded far more acceptable results than trying to tear everyone apart with my bare hands. The Shadow Form is powerful, and in combination with the Aegis it is doubly so, but... early.

Until I max out these two skills, I have to spend more energy keeping myself human, keeping my essence intact, than the battle itself. If I gave myself completely to the Shadow, or at least to the same level as when I fought Ferer, the three epic monsters would be torn to shreds. But then, I would have been the last one to vouch for my mental and spiritual well-being.

In summary, I got a C with a big, fat plus. I could have done better, but I could have done worse. The biggest minus I give myself for the fault with the whip, to which I stretched out my paws. Greed whispered to me that I should at least touch the treasure before destroying it. I did, damn it.

I thought for a second about going back to the megalith to look through its wreckage and ruins for valuables, but after weighing the number of years that had passed and the impregnation with necroenergy, I decided to forget about the trifles. Even if I pulled out some ancient amulets, they, first of all, would not suit the living, and secondly, I was too lazy to carry them on me.

Time to go back.

I opened my status much after I had run a decent distance from the epicenter of the battle. The need to take a break was almost palpable. I was too exhausted, too tired, and in general, it was time to rest. I lay down in the branches of a huge tree of unknown species, having previously cleaned it of snakes and biting insects. I would get a good night's sleep tonight, and in the morning, I would get up to top speed again and run toward my comrades. I'd better check on Taria. Because I'm afraid of what else she'll do to persuade Hestia to try to create a personal harem.

Form of Shadow: 5/9

Allows you to give your entire body the properties of Shadow while in the material world; allows you to freely manipulate the shape of your own body while in Shadow form; allows you to completely ignore any physical or even severe magical damage if it is inflicted on a body part that has taken Shadow form; allows you to freely navigate through relatively deep layers of Shadow, taking a more suitable form for being there; allows you to take non-anthropomorphic forms when in reality; allows you to significantly increase the volume and power of your own body by taking Shadow form; when in Shadow form, the characteristics are enhanced depending on the degree of change; allows you to instinctively sense the degree and moment of transition of the form, using it to protect against sudden strikes.

Manifestation of Shadow: 3/9

Allows you to recover quickly in battle and after, drawing energy directly from the Shadow; allows you to amplify the Shadow's influence on reality in a certain area; allows you, with effort, to link areas of reality with the Shadow, breaking the metric of space; allows you, at the limit of concentration, to use the connection with the Shadow to counteract spatial techniques, pockets and distortions.

Two points of class skill, well worth it, no matter how you look at it. It was thanks to Manifestation that I first managed to get the Phantoms hiding in the fold of space out into the light, and I destroyed the main mechanism of the megalith, flooding it with Shadow without breaking the material anchor at all, but simply by teleporting my power inside the spatial pocket. Against this background, the way I used the whip to make a small pogrom in the most hated dimension of the locals looks like just a logical continuation. I think if I had pushed a little harder, I would have raised the Manifestation by two points, but I did not risk pushing, especially in the depths of the realm, where the slightest loss of control meant too many unpleasant moments.

The Form was enhanced by my sudden increase in height, which I also used instinctively. The grip of the ghostly trio was too long, so I had to make up for the difference in height and limb length. It was even better than I expected, even if it meant more pressure on my mind. Seriously, the extra joints and lengthened spine made it easier for me to dodge and hit back.

With the class skills I figured out, but what about the titles?

The Denier of Hell: Many fools are addicted to the pledges and promises of fiends, who try in every way to lure their future slaves into their service. Often they even get what they were promised, but each time the price gets higher and higher until it becomes completely unacceptable and unbearable. However, the thing that, by then, the servants of Hell turn into no longer cares about such trifles. For the sake of variety, no one will belittle your intelligence for the fact that you have refused such an alliance with enviable restraint and attention. You'll get a well-deserved reward that won't compare to the gifts of Hell, of course, but at least it won't take your soul. Bonus: +10 to the perception trait; +5 to the concentration trait; the temptations of the Hell affect you weaker; an increased chance to recognize the effects of the Hell on reality or reasonable people.

The System, did you break down? Or are your admins high on weed until they've completely lost it? Because either my heroic resistance to the mental is being punctured and suppressed by something, or this system message actually praised me. Suddenness like this makes me involuntarily begin to prepare for battle, expecting a surprise attack, the coming of the divine messenger, the awakening of Cthulhu, and the fall of the Macaroni Monster. Just in case, just in case.

After shaking my head and realizing that no one had fooled me and that I had done a really wholesome thing for a change, I move on to the next title, immediately taking my thoughts back. Was I afraid of what the System was praising me for? So she was just gathering her spirits before the next title so she wouldn't sputter.

The Deceiver of Hell: somehow, it has become a tradition in all worlds that the inhabitants of Hell are known as the most treacherous and sneaky creatures in the observable universe or at least one of them. You, due to your illiteracy and feeble-mindedness, probably just didn't hear about it and did it your way. Not only did you voluntarily come into contact with the high-ranking Devil, but you also managed to end that contact in such a way that the fiend fell into oblivion, and you survived. Alas, we accept the fact that such an act requires not only phenomenal stupidity but also outstanding stamina. Take your reward; it's rightfully yours. Bonus: +10 to Concentration; +5 to Perception; easier to spot deception or manipulation; you instinctively know when the intrigue is over, turning to brute but effective forceful confrontation.

Well, at least they weren't too wrong.

Indeed, I made contact with Hell almost voluntarily, even if I didn't realize the consequences. That's the way no one is usually aware of them, which doesn't prevent them from getting into trouble. And I grabbed the whip voluntarily, even knowing about its nature, thinking myself the smartest. I was legitimately caught in the ass, so I started to snap back, and I snapped back successfully enough to kick the insolent intervener in the nuts, forcing him to leave my head and save my skin. Considering the fact that I had gained experience for the diversion, albeit relatively little, I was also at a profit.

I never thought that communicating with Shadows could be so helpful in the fight against the Fiends, but there you go! When every second of using a native class tries to eat you up along with the crap you put aside while using it, you somehow become suspicious of the annoying whisper in your head that convinces you to go kill all humans according to Bender's precept. Machine god bless his server.

In fact, I have my paranoia to thank for my third title, which was the result of my first two. I can't say that I'm upset by extra titles, but I've outdone myself here.

The Hell Raider: usually this title is given to those of the slaves of Hell who created stable portals to reality, allowing their masters to pass into the home dimension, in order to bring with them torment and agony. However, as the practice has shown, this title would also suit those who raided Hell itself, whether deliberately or against their will. Any attempt by another fool to take Hell by storm has always been pleasant news for its inhabitants because it means new souls, new suffering, new prisoners in the Chambers of Pain, and a new chance to stab a badly wounded ally or rival in the back... But you still found a way to make such a raid unpleasant for the fiends. Planar creatures in general are a very unpleasant opponent for the Devils. An adversary too hard to break by pain, torment, or temptation. And the Shadows are three times, if not ten times, unpleasant to them.

Your raid made quite an impression on the monsters, be proud of it! We will simply reward you without mentioning the stupidity of your actions. Bonus: the demonstration of this title (with a full description of it!) guarantees you honor and respect among the Inquisitors and Templars; you have an understanding of how to successfully close realm breaches of all kinds and sizes.

Ha.

Ha-ha.

Very fun, damn!

I wish they'd give me some extra stats, honestly, cause I feel like I'm being cheated. I bet the original "raiders" got something more useful from hell's bounty than the respect of all saints. Priests who think I'm a priori bad for my two basic classes! All that's fun is being able to lock holes with greater ease... in reality holes, not the ones the anons thought!

To check it out, I even quickly created a small breach in the Shadow, just below the tree where I was lying. It was as easy to open as before, and with my class rank, it required very little power. But closing it was not just easy, but extremely easy. I instinctively knew exactly how to use my will and my ability to manipulate the shadows for maximum efficiency.

Hm.

I quickly broke off a couple of nearby branches, just to try it out, and tried to catch the branches with the open mouths of the gaps that led deeper into the Shadow. I could do that before, but it was only when I opened it that it was harder to close, which makes sense when you think about it. Now everything was different. I still wouldn't use this trick to defend against arrows, simply because it wouldn't be cost-effective, but against powerful magical attacks, which were frequent but pinpoint shots, this technique would come in handy.

Well, at least some good came out of my adventure.

Before I drift off to the land of Morpheus, I force myself to open my Status, hoping I didn't miss anything from my inattention. Fortunately, I didn't.

Name: Konstantin
Race: ??huma??
Level: 38

Titles: Hero; Silent Assassin; Night Master, Thunderstruck; The Legend Seer; The Legend Killer; Withstood; Sighted Mentor; A Persistent Guy; Those who've seen a lot; Soul of a Mocker; Marathoner; Invisible Mentor; Walking Through Enemy Formation; Gifter of Fear; Holding on to Shadows; Beyond Existence; Stepping Over the Edge (Shadow); One Against Many; Anti-Hero; In the Embrace of Shadow; The Price of Humanity; The Right to Power; Size Does Not Matter; Face Taker; Step Over the Edge (Dream); Killer of Heroes; Creator of the Legend (The Fall of Stone); The Great Mocker; The Kidnapper of Kings; The Denier of Hell; The Deceiver of Hell; The Hell Raider.

Characteristics Points: 15
Class Points: 0

Characteristics (standard):
Strength: 130
Dexterity: 200
Endurance: 150
Perception: 189
Concentration: 240
Energy: 259

Characteristics (class):
Shadow: 197
Dreams: 172
Inspiration: 98

Before I fall asleep, however, I note one detail that makes me feel a little better. I didn't get a title for freeing the souls trapped in the megaliths. For its ghostly guards, I wouldn't be given anything with a guarantee. There were no legendary creatures, and the battle was hard but not hopeless. I'm not given titles at my level for such trivial things, so there's nothing to be offended about... Okay, there is a reason for that, but still, the blue balling is legitimate.

That's not the point.

It was just that when I fought the undead, I could almost physically feel that what I was doing was right, that such filth should not exist, and that those who had committed such atrocities simply should not be allowed to remain alive. It was not something that came from the title of Hero, nor was it the realization that my actions, whatever I did, were no longer decisive. It was precisely my opinion, stimulated by clairvoyance, that gave me an echo of the feelings and anguish of the eternal captives.

The realization that I was too late for this battle.

I think if I had been given a title for that act, it would have been a great deal more offensive to me than all the System pranks I had experienced before. All of a sudden, I realized that I now had some desire other than to kick the crap out of everyone involved in the creation of Yoke.

Make it so I'm never late again.

So that even if another shit happens, another genocide, another mass sacrifice, or something like that, no one else would have to wait for centuries and millennia until chance would grant oblivion to those for whom being had become the worst punishment. The dream is foolish, a dream impossible in its very conception, even assuming there are vast numbers of unconstrained Heroes. There will always be places like this forgotten megalith with its guards and captives.

But even if there were just one less...

Even if I die tomorrow without accomplishing my mission...

Skin Taker will never take his terrible trophy again.

The Nameless Creature will no longer be reborn to cover the world with Black Skies.

A gang of slavecatchers will no longer shackle another batch of live goods.

And long-forgotten and unwanted souls will no longer sob silently, begging for deliverance.

Maybe I will lose.

"Most likely, I will lose."

But at least I'll have time to do something.

I already did.

With that thought, I fell asleep.

Authors note:

That's it.

Further Interludes and an Epilogue. And the tribe of changed orcs will be exactly in the Epilogue, if plans don't change.

About the dice I will not write, because they came out too much - the same battle. At this rate I will return to the number of dice as in L&M, which I would not like.

The fun part is that MC got all three titles at once for interacting with Hell. There was a funny branch about accepting the gift of Hell and fighting the corrupt, but it's very unlikely. There was also the option of the fiend having female sex... ... and with a ring her, with a ring!

Let's just say it would be such a masochistic tango that I don't even know how I would describe it.

That's it, anyway.

24 pages.

I wish you well, bell, and all the best.

When the update, I don't know because there is no less work. I don't want to speculate.

Good luck.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/542052

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP