Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Интерлюдия третья: "Прощение"

Interlude three: "Forgiveness."

* * *

Any stationary protection, when reaching and overcoming a certain level of quality, begins to turn the sheltered area into a separate lacuna with its laws of reality. Of course, most of these changes are very imperceptible, almost cosmetic, even when it comes to really good barriers and fields. It's rather an amusing scientific phenomenon, so interesting to all sorts of researchers or theorists, than something that can be used to one's advantage. In order to really come close to creating a separate reality with your defense, you need to exceed the threshold of legendary. And mythical defenses are mythical because they are only found in myths. This is also a common truth, which is not interesting to anyone but theorists and is difficult to apply for all barrier masters without exception.

Almost without exception.

Among the preserved, obtained, developed, simply stolen, or taken away by force, the knowledge the Eternal Dynasty kept in its power, there were many things the rest of the world had not suspected. And even if they suspected or even knew, they still had no idea how the result they had seen had been achieved. Games with the inalienable Right sleeping in the blood, putting any of them above the Law, do not lend themselves to normal magical theory. That's it.

This was not entirely true, for be that as it may, it was not only Time alone that the Eternals were strong, nor was it only by playing with the constants of reality that they could surprise and defeat. If so, sooner or later, their opponents would have found ways to counteract them, and their dynasty would never have ascended the throne, let alone held it so firmly and for so long, even by the standards of long-lived races. It was to these tricks, stolen or conquered, not directly related to their blood, that the wide circles of spies and analysts attributed the ability to work with protective fields at a height unattainable by ordinary mages.

In some ways, these assumptions were true, but each of the blood-bearing rulers of the Empire of Ages knew that only in some way. Direct manipulation of the Time offered an advantage in Barrier Magic. That is to say, powerful protective mysteries were present in their arsenal, regularly used and time after time, saving the lives of their users, but they belonged to the power of the Dynasty, not classical magic.

The defenses of this estate, poetically named Lone Bird, were not among the Dynasty's power, remaining uncharacteristically strong, powerful, monolithic, and unshakable. Not enough to jump up a grade at once, no, but noticeably better than standard and non-standard types of defense. Some of this was a credit to the more sophisticated crafting techniques, the reagents expended to install the dome of negation, the regular reinforcing and renewing rituals, a whole plethora of combined amulet selections, and a variety of other things. But the basis that made the already excellent armor even stronger was still the power of the Dynasty, just not directly.

The barely perceptible influence that had once been exerted by an ancestor who had long since gone to Eternity had left no trace behind, and even if all the experts were blown away, they would not see any games with the Law. Just at the moment when the foundation of the estate - a small palace, if not to be modest - was laid, a stranger's will managed to make all the petals of the future creation unfold simultaneously. They would be activated as synchronously as possible, but there would always be invisible, barely distinguishable gaps - the very nature of the magical rituals that underpinned the protection made it impossible to achieve absolute synchrony.

The Will of Eternity was able to level these tiny "discrepancies" and completely extinguish them, creating not just a masterpiece of magical protection but a true work of art. The Dynasty did not demonstrate any more such successes simply because there was no need for it. Pure mysteries on the power of blood still gave more output, required less effort, and did not require the initiation of outsiders into the family secrets. The Imperial Palace was locked up more tightly, more elegantly, and, most importantly, more securely, while the Lonely Bird remained a monument to a long-ago experiment of one of the ancestors. Successful, but no longer needed. The Dynasty liked to keep the fruits of such deeds. Largely because they often became useful when they were put to new uses, often not in the way the creator had envisioned.

Now, the estate's unique defense system made it possible to ignore the madness going on in the Eternal. There, behind the deceptively thin barriers, which had manifested into reality from an overly concentrated energy storm, a real war was raging, the likes of which the capital of the Empire of Ages had not seen for centuries. Inside the building, there was only silence and tranquility, as if nothing dangerous was going on. Clean floors, silk curtains, parquet of enchanted wood, snow-white walls, and columns of the rarest marble.

She had never liked the latter, for Valzea preferred slightly darker, pastel colors. The gaudy whiteness of the Lone Bird's interior was irritating, and she had no doubt that was why she'd been granted the estate. By the Ruler's will, of course, but she guessed who had wrested that will from her Father. Even the fact that her brother would not be able to demand anything from anyone now was not much consolation. First of all, he was still a kinsman of the same blood and flesh as Valzea herself, so she couldn't physically hate him, nor vice versa. Secondly, she was lucky enough to have another exchange of barbs with the Second Prince on that unfortunate day, so she didn't go for a walk in the park.

To ignore the need to regularly walk over ancient ruins hidden beneath a layer of stone and earth... is not the smartest thing for someone with Time frozen in their veins. The cunning clan title required regular maintenance, and even a few missed walks wouldn't do much, but to suddenly lose so many useful attributes and a separate ability would be a shame. But she was hurt, angry, and irritated that day. In such a state, trying to meditate, to reach into the essence of something hidden in the ancient stones, could bring more trouble than just missing a walk.

She had missed the meditation. Despite the blood in her veins, she had to answer to the Emperor himself, who listened to her very attentively. Various versions were being worked out, and, Gods be praised, even she would have suspected, if not direct betrayal of the relative who had renounced her blood, then an imperceptible influence on her mind. To subdue someone of their breed is almost unreal, to influence them imperceptibly is extremely difficult, and to exert a one-time influence requires a feat, but... She is the weakest of their generation. She has the worst power over the Law, even inferior to some bastards or representatives of non-hereditary sidelines!

Her mother's blood is too strong in her, not water either, of course, but not Eternity. She had not been conceived in a legal marriage without the proper rituals, and even though at the time of her birth, her mother had already been one of the legal wives, accepted according to all the rules, she knew that Time was so incredibly difficult to turn back. Foreign blood, strong but unnecessary.

Useless.
* * *

"So this is where the Andorian vase collection, if I'm not mistaken, with sixteen centuries of history, is located, correct?" Her interlocutor asked in a melodious and ingratiating voice, breaking Valzea out of her gloomy thoughts. "I remember when they were buried, the embalmed hearts of the most faithful of the lord's servants were placed in them to bind their lives to the lives of their masters."

As soon as the first traces of the attack appeared, the commander of the estate's guards immediately activated the artifact entrusted to him, luckily having asked Valzea for the right to use it. Trapped in a bubble of stopped time, the mansion and the surrounding area had stubbornly resisted all attempts by the devils to poke their way inside the defenses. And would continue to do so for a very long time, at least for those trapped inside for a long time. The world outside the mansion hadn't frozen, of course, but it had slowed down considerably, allowing one minute outside to be exchanged for two or three minutes inside.

"Yes, umm, undoubtedly, yes..." Valzea had long since didn't listen to the words of her interlocutor, the son of the head of the Golden Feather Guild, by the way. "Totally agree."

Ever since the moment (hours before the emergency) when he had offered her a bet, a deal to tell her more about each of the relics that were kept in this house than she knew, Princess Eternal had almost stopped following his speeches. It wasn't even about the cataclysm that had happened. It was just that she didn't boast much in the way of knowledge about 'her' collection. But a peculiar excursion through long-familiar corridors allowed her to calm her beating heart and gather her thoughts.

This place was actually used as a kind of repository for things expensive, status, and rare but not carrying true power. Collecting had never been a passion of their kind, but having the means, it was foolish not to spend it on unlocking the possibilities. As foolish as it may seem to try to collect old, almost useless, in terms of effects artifacts of dead and not-so-dead civilizations, many of them were paid for not even in money but in political weight. The High Sects within the Empire of the Arms, for example, were very fond of such things, which to them meant the same status, only much more necessary for the foreigners. In the Eternal, it was possible to boast of having a genuine collection of wooden masks of the Manyno unless at a gala, in front of other collectors. But for the Anointed Monkeys, it was sometimes impossible to get promoted without having enough evidence of antiquity.

The main thing was not to give away something much more valuable, something that held, if not the power, then the key to obtaining it. But that was what the Three of the Library and their never-closing-eye altar, not to mention the hundreds of private filing cabinets and archives, needed to find the real gems hidden among the precious trash.

"And these tablets!" The guy, who turned out to be such a history buff that it was time to give him a degree, so full of knowledge and uncharacteristic for, in fact, a potential supreme accountant at the magic guild, continued talking. "They may seem like nothing, but believe me, if you know that the signs depicted on them will become clear only if you can decipher other messages, left not in the tombs of the highest aristocracy of Anrianon but in the base of the cornerstones that stand on the ruins of the firstborn of each dynasty... Oh, these stone pieces will at once raise their price, if not to their full weight in gold, then to half that amount! Wouldn't you like to know what's really hidden here, almost in plain sight? As a gift from one of the learned of those other writings?"

The young man in whose company she had been so calm, so confident that she did not even want to think about what was going on outside the manor, was now offering Valzea something of real value since such a secret had not been made known before, and only for the right to be in her company. The gift was undoubtedly nice, and as a child of the blood of the Eternal, she accepted such a thing as the absolute norm. But to completely ignore the beautiful gesture would be a bit misguided because he was not just the fifth son of one of the counts but, in fact, the heir to the guild of the first ten, albeit at the bottom of the list.

"To leave such, such, such a gift unanswered..." Valzea tried to find the right words, but the patterns of speech and behavior learned and practiced three hundred times at numerous parties as if did not want to tell her the right manners, the right role, a set of formal and informal signs, denoting easy approval and gratitude. "It will be bad, wrong."

Was it even worth bringing it up? She was kind of building her collection, so she should have... should know most of what he was saying, right? But if she did, why didn't she recognize a word the boy said? And his manners, which at first seemed excessively coarse... He's a bookkeeper, even if he's a very high-ranking one, and in the future, he'll be the second person in Golden Feather. He was a personage enough to be introduced to her and for her to agree to talk to him, but he had never been taught to present himself. Or rather, there had been some lessons, but they had been given late, not allowing him to absorb the realization of his position with milk, so he behaved frankly, not at the level of a conversation with her, the daughter of the Eternal. He confused words, repeated himself, could not form sentences properly, and even allowed the appearance of parasitic words!

Just like her...

Valzea did not press and did not humiliate her interlocutor without reason, though, in another situation, she would have verbally assaulted him so that he would not even look in her direction. In another situation, she would have had to do it so as not to damage her credibility by the very fact she tolerated such eloquence around her. But since today he was a guest, passing some important documents through her (important enough for the donor to be honored to give them to one of the Dynasty, but not valuable enough to allow him to enter the reception room of the Emperor himself), she limited herself only to those jabs, which the interlocutor could not understand due to the lack of those very instincts of social dueling.

The lad, realizing his own eloquence, even made one of the bargains, exchanging historical references for her manners, i.e. lesson of good manners, i.e. why can't she remember, can't she keep track of the conversation, unravel the verbal lace and weave her own into several layers? She can, she used to, she could.....

"'Only the right to call your name, my dear, will be a pleasure to my lips." The attempt to understand was interrupted by her interlocutor's answer, so measured and methodical, like a stream of spring wind in the morning. "Do you agree to such a bargain?"

"Of cou... I mean, yes, I agree." Machinally, Valz.. Az...she shook her head as if trying to catch the feather of a flying bird to catch up with her thought. "Go on, tell me more."

"In these tablets is hidden a part of the so-called free key of inheritance.'" The princess listened attentively, catching every word, but somehow, understanding less and less. "Among the An'Liiith, or rather, among a certain part of their aristocracy, it was customary to leave such things behind to pass on some of their promises, paying for them with a portion of one's inheritance. Having deciphered the tablets, having performed the necessary rituals first on the foundation stone of the family nest and then on the burial place (it is desirable to choose the one where the last of the family is buried, but it is possible to use the family crypt) you take upon yourself a part of the unfulfilled contracts of the fallen house. In return, the one who has tried and passed the test of the ritual will receive a few titles, some of which will be upgraded or even added to if the commitments made are fulfilled."

"This... is that, uh. very helpful?" Hesitantly, the princess tried to get a word in. "I guess?"

"Not so much, but the point is quite different, dearie." Interrupting her babble was a rather smiling young man. "Most of these contracts are either automatically deemed unenforceable due to the centuries that have passed or just as automatically have been long since fulfilled. If one chooses the right ones to accept, one can rise to prominence with almost no risk or effort."

"А... I see." Her words seemed almost a whisper by now, and her body caressed against her will at the caressing hands, the warm touch, the palms slipping under her dress. "I see. Yes."

"Oh, my dear." The interlocutor seemed to brighten even more. "It will be my true pleasure to describe to you the heritage hidden in these tablets. Ah, if I knew a little more about this house, this stronghold, your estate. Would you agree to trade my story for a few of yours?"

She agreed, a boon even in a mind so clouded she had enough of other people's secrets. Her Dynasty's estate was filled to the brim with them. So full, in fact, that it would be easy to find a dozen such stories that could be exchanged for something far more tangible than a few old legends of no direct use. If it weren't for her eloquence, the stiffness that made her shy and stiff in every situation.....

"Uh-huh..." With a slurred tongue and no longer understanding what she had agreed to, the girl confirmed the arrangement.

And then the next one.

And the one that followed it.

And once more.

Deal after deal, where each time she had to pay with something strange, slipping from her memory at once. Like her name had slipped away, like her honed skills had gone, like the knowledge of all-all-all her secrets had evaporated, like the ability to decide, to express one's own will, like the understanding of a written text and the ability to write it had dissolved into a cozy fog, as the ability to walk on two legs had expired with a piercing heat.

Contract by contract.

Deal bu deal.

Toward the end, she didn't understand a word of what was said, only nodding, agreeing, simply because she had forgotten everything else. She had forgotten how to do anything other than agree. A string of saliva flowed from the mouth that opened in an attempt to make a sound. The uncomfortable and stiff clothing was gone, and someone's hands were already wrapping a dainty necklace around her naked neck that looked like a fine collar.

"Well, that's it." The words make no sense, but from the tone of the speaker, she -who is she? - caught contentment and a slight weariness which, if she could have thought of it, could easily have been mistaken for pleasure at the fact of having accomplished a difficult task. "It is even a pity, Vazi, a great pity that you will not understand further. I would give you back some of the benefits, but you are now anyway useless."

Useless.

Useless.

For some reason, this particular set of sounds seemed familiar, somehow prickly and unpleasant, like her bare buttocks touching cold marble. She shuffled her feet and hands, crawling after the unhurried figure, saliva and her juices staining the floor as she continued to replay the silly sounds in her head.

Useless.

Her body demanded something familiar but forgotten, a warm and not burning fire between her legs, but she couldn't remember how to quench the feeling, to fill the void. Incoherent sounds come out of her still-open lips, along with streams of saliva, but the figure pays no attention, already taking the next step in an unknown direction.

Useless.

Useless.

Useless.
* * *

It is generally accepted to consider magical influence to be an act primarily of the mind and only then of the emotions. The complex and subtle mechanisms of magic require more than just the right class abilities, carefully chosen skills, and reasonably chosen marks for achieving attributes. If you want to create something more complicated than a simple torrent of unstructured power, you need some kind of intelligent brain. Or at least not stupid brains, if only your mother called you reasonable in your childhood, and that only on holidays.

There are, of course, other ways, less demanding but also more dangerous. Every scientist will easily tell you that most planar creatures are not luminaries of reasoning, but it does not prevent them from using high-rank spells, sometimes very sophisticated ones. And they will be right because these paths are open to humans, too. The only thing that is needed is to have skills in the class that are far from the first-ranked ones and to win the class, not the last.

Dangerous, harmful, difficult, and, most importantly, still requires, if not a long training (which would not hurt either), then icy cold-bloodedness, monstrous endurance, extreme concentration, and a certain amount of luck. If we talk about the power that sleeps in the blood of the ruling dynasty of the Empire, then there is hardly a more demanding legacy, equally dependent on the depth of understanding, personal strength, training, and, of course, properly conducted rituals, without which even the presence of blood will give almost nothing.

Princess Valzea, not even on the list of numbered heirs, despite her age and direct kinship to the current Emperor, was one of those "empty" bloodlines. Because of her parents' intrigues, unperformed rituals, and the intrigues of her brothers and sisters, the power of her mother's bloodline was in her blood. An old bloodline, only slightly less ancient than the Ruling Dynasty, but still far weaker than that bloodline, inferior in every way. There were crumbs of Eternity's will in her, especially compared to what her father or the First Prince could do. Those crumbs more than allowed her to possess clan artifacts, to walk through territories closed to unrelated people, to access hundreds and thousands of different rituals, and generally made her the perfect bride-to-be... and nothing more, nothing more.

But for all the comparative uselessness of the basis of her ancestral powers on her father's side, a rather amusing detail emerged from the above-mentioned shortcomings. In situations where Father had to carefully weave his influence, to push through reality with his will, while simultaneously creating elaborate constructions based not even on magic but on pure mysticism, she was like those planar creatures. Or unintelligent animals, into the likeness of which she had been successfully transformed by a series of successful, but not for her, deals.

Make a wish, add emotions, a little bit of unformed aspiration, and here is the result. Unpredictable, not always (almost never) exactly as intended, devoid of grace and indestructibility, but still holding the mysteries of the Eternal Dynasty. Valzea wished not to be useless because of the unpleasant emotions associated with the word to her new under-personality. Needless to say, her far-from-outstanding talents could not fulfill such a wish, or she would have used them much sooner.

The flow of will, pure and untainted by coherent thought, made her the same as she had been a few minutes before she met Rorzar of Bradkiss, father's first son and heir, if not to the entire Golden Feather Guild (his astonishing anti-talent for magic had long since become a household name among the capital's nobility and a reason to poke his daddy), then to his financial assets. It took her less than a second to realize the extent and breadth of her troubles. Completely naked, wearing only a finely crafted gold collar, smeared with scented oils from head to toe, kneeling, she heard Rorzar once again speaking to one of the cultists who had penetrated the barrier of the estate (along with the guildmaster's entourage).

"...her death isn't necessary to close the circuit anyway, and she's already useless otherwise. Don't deprive me of my toy, Honorable Devotee, for I too have a right only a little lower than yours!"

The realization that she might well have been sacrificed in time, like most of the servants and guards, passed through her mind with the icy indifference of the north wind. No feelings were aroused by the scene of a mass orgy in which the maids who had arrived with the guild's upbringing merrily laughed as they rode the enchanted guards without regard for their gender. All the damage to the interior of the main living room of the manor, where even one of the columns was almost broken in half, was ignored.

All she heard, all she paid attention to, disregarding the warmth gradually flowing back into her head from the collar-necklace, the soaring sensitivity of her oiled skin, and even her usual caution. The one word that hadn't let her go, perhaps from the very first day of her life, that had become her stigma and curse.

Useless.

Useless.

Useless.

"Useless..." Her lips whispered the word as if tasting it, barely generating a sound, not attracting the attention of the two hotly arguing men. "Useless?"

The second time Valzea asked the question out loud, in a surprisingly soft tone, as if still enchanted by love and desire, she was noticed. Surprise was replaced by incomprehension, followed by a slight shock, followed by shock, followed by backlash from the deals broken by the Law, but he still felt no fear. Perhaps he thought he could handle her, bewitched and collared once again, especially with the support of the traitors gathered in this room. Perhaps the lack of fear was born of some other reason.

Valzea only smiled, getting to her feet.

She was tall, slender in an Elvish way, despite the fully human blood in her veins, devoid of lush forms, which sometimes made her think of herself as flat as a plate of steel armor. She took her grace in her every movement. At that moment, there was little of the desirability in her movements, while there was enough desire for three and a little for a fourth if those four were high-level berserkers. The will manifested itself and realized its majesty, making Valzea's fleeting wish what every Lawmaster's wish should be - a reality.

They are standing in the middle of one of the corridors of the estate along which she had been led in circles, being told the same information over and over again, often information she had bargained from her. They are standing in the same place, but she is once again wrapped in her robes, no fragrant oils have been applied to her body, and the collar-necklace has returned to the pocket of the person who put it around the princess's neck. Valzea stands opposite Rorzar, still and thin, fragile and defenseless, but her smile is more like the grinning mouth of a hungry creature that has already smelled the blood of its prey.

Her enemy, who was obliged to be worse than killed for what he had done, was only beginning to realize once more the changed situation to understand the danger of such a change in the situation. The cultists remaining in the hall, who had noticed the disappearance of the victim and his master, hadn't time to do so. The river of existence, the current of Time, carried them both to the point in space where they had both been. And the first son, who after the recent assassination attempt had been the only son of the old Ramarz of Bradkiss, had time to marvel at the confidence with which the princess, deprived of the lion's share of the power due to her status, smiled wolfishly at him.

Other than surprise, he managed exactly nothing.

The broken treaties had given Valzea back her mind, her memory, and the sacred secrets that had been entrusted to her. In a different situation it would have been too little, but right now, rising up on the crest of a wave, in a torrent of unbearable anger, resentment, bitterness, and fear, it was as if she were breaking off her chains, reaching somewhere she couldn't before. Still too weak, still unworthy of her Father's high blood, but now a little closer, a little higher, one grain stronger.

Her lips parted, spitting out chunks of words that sounded intolerable to human ears, that were either pointless or simply deadly to utter with a human throat. She wouldn't have risked the attempt before, wouldn't have dared to call out, at least not without first being dispersed by a full star of benefics, without a coherent trio of healers behind her, as she had tried to practice before. Foolishly, as it became clear to her at that very moment - those attempts were doomed to failure before they even began, for without the courage to demand, how dare she ask anything of Time itself?

The words formed into a short, jerky spell, one of the most odious in her kind's arsenal, specifically designed for close combat, for the sake of turning any battle from a battle into an execution, from a confrontation of equals into a brutal massacre. And she was going to carry out the execution, the execution of the bastard who had dared not even to humiliate, not to insult, but to remind her again of her weakness, of her needlessness, of her uselessness.

Rorzar's pupils dilated enough to take up the entire iris of his dark brown eyes, his skin paled rapidly, revealing blue-black veins, and the previously hidden filth of corruption wrapped around him in hard segmented armor, indestructible defense. Unfold them, and even a true warrior would have to try hard to break such armor, even standing his opponent still. Valzea was not a warrior, but the armor had no time to unfold, frozen with the rest of the world.

The eyes of a peddler who had sold himself into a slavery worse than death were darting in orbits. The only movement available to the mind of one caught in her net. They both shifted states, shifted in the flow of an endless river, and only her will hold the victim's consciousness, preventing it from freezing like the rest of the world. Valzea's smile became even more predatory, even more wicked, but Rorzar showed signs of fear for the first time since his feet crossed her threshold.

"Useless?" Once more the princess, whom even the First Prince at this moment would hesitate to call by her full title only in mockery of her weakness, interjects and then answers her own question. "Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless!"

Each word is just another confirmation, just another confession of her worthlessness in the eyes of her own and others, filled with pain, fatigue, and a savage rage that sweeps away any vestige of civility. The blood of the Dynasty boils, giving crumbs of true power, but instead, the other blood comes to the aid. The blood belongs to the mother's bloodline. The fist strikes, but how much power is there in the blow of a woman's hand whose mistress, despite all the titles and additional infusions of attributes, focused her development on perception and concentration? The fist strikes not once, but again and again, as if merging its blows, combining them into one. The magic of illusion, the creation of battle doppelgängers that her distant ancestors were famous for, is beyond her reach, having tried to take hold of Eternity but failed. Giving up her mother's power, never receiving her father's power.

Her fist strikes, but instead of illusions, the blows become reality, as if she had struck that blow a thousand times, but at the same time. What is a moment for someone marked by the Law? A thousand blows in a thousand variations, but the result is only one touch - a fragile hand without proven skill in hand-to-hand combat rudely and predictably collides with the defense. There was a hint of relief in the frozen boy's eyes, but instead of shattering her fists into bloody fists, feeding the embodied Lust with that blood, a clumsy and weak blow broke the half-real armor, shattering Rorzar's ribs hidden beneath.

The pain on his face.

The blood on her hands.

The princess did not pay the slightest attention to the fact that she had done the impossible, not realizing the essence of what had happened, only repeating her blows over and over again, crushing the body and bones, releasing blood, and beating away the gut. The body, saturated with sacrificial power, regenerates rapidly, only continuing the torture, not allowing it to pass into the pleasure of pain again and again, making the executed person shudder in agony.

"Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless!" The princess has no thoughts, no desires, only rage and an attempt to pour it out somewhere, to spill out the disgusting abomination that had been poisoning her soul for so long. "Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! Useless! USELESS!"

Each word is a blow.

Each blow is blood.

In a mad rush, without thinking of the impossibility of what she had planned solely because she was incapable of thinking in such a state, Valzea called out, pulling to herself, through space and time, what her late mother had once told her, what no one after her had been able to take hold of, to make it become real.

"The knives!" No longer words, but a cry of summons, an inescapable order, the force which was barely enough, but still enough to summon the desired.

Seventeen identical daggers appeared out of thin air. Translucent, seemingly uncomfortable due to the oddly shaped blade and hilt, it was as if they didn't exist and were at the same time. Each of the artifacts could be equated to a very weak and devoid of any additional trump cards, whose blade ignored any standard defense, and the wounds inflicted by them were extremely difficult to at least close, let alone heal.

All seventeen blades enter Rorzar's body without the slightest resistance, still alive, aware, and feeling everything, but there is no end to the rage. The only thought ringing in her head is that all this is still not enough, too little to pour out even a tiny bit of the heartbreak on him. The will moves each blade individually, widening wounds, inflicting new injuries, and releasing more and more blood from a body that cannot die.

Letting out a wild, not even human-like cry, Valzea shifts her daggers to the nearest pillar, causing the artifacts to neatly undercut the stone pillar at the top and bottom, dropping it to the ground, simultaneously placing the improvised weapon outside the stopped Eternity. Her movements seem the most ordinary to her, only jerky and uncoordinated, but in the frozen world, she makes them in a moment since the moment stopped. The crunching of stone against stone, the sound of crumbs and rubble being crushed, accompanies the movement of the column, which she rolls straight at the cultist who has fallen against the cold stone. The Law's grip on his person had to be loosened a little, but it didn't mean anything - there were too many wounds and too much pain for Rorzar. He is able only to moan and watch helplessly as his feet disappear under the rolling stone. A superbly enchanted stone, whose effect overcomes the almost exhausted regeneration of his body and whose sturdy defenses have no memory left at this point (if the frozen moment can be divided into moments at all).

Her arms and her whole body ache from overstrain. The ancestral gift, both of them are sucking the last juices out of her body. The pressure of the Law is getting stronger, and very soon, it will demand payment, and there will be nothing to pay with. Her chest was hot, a whiff of the legendary First Forge from the dwarven legends had settled under her heart, her palms trembled, her fingers glistened with broken nails, and her fists with battered knuckles. But with such pleasure, Valzea listens to the crunch of the crushing body of Rorzar, who feels everything, understands everything, and can't even die because of his vitality!

Not the Vice.

Not the gifts of the devils.

No one will give her more pleasure than this moment!

The moment when the fallen column finally crushed the ugly man's skull, turning his entire body into something as flat as his sense of beauty, when she fell to her knees without strength, further staining her already blood-red dress... Valzea's smile seemed so genuine at that moment, as she had never smiled at anyone.

The smile doesn't bloom for long.

It's about the time when the slightly calmer princess starts to think with her head instead of her bloodthirsty heart, realizing that even though she's jumped three times over her head, cutting the dynasty's power gap several times over (still too weak to be fully recognized), she's wasted all her strength on revenge against Rorzar, who almost took her essence. There are no more loyal people in the entire estate, no more guards, but plenty of cultists who are angry with her. The death of the first heir to the head of the apparently rebellious guild would surely offend them to the depths of what was left of their souls.

Disregarding pain and fatigue, Valzea got to her feet and began to run, uneven and wobbly, but running. No, not in the hope of delaying her doom. If she didn't have a chance, she'd rather stop her own heart or point her daggers at herself. Now, her own. Her mother's best weapon, existing only when called into reality by its wielder, was inherited by her. This gift to her seems incomparably more valuable than any other possession. The only pity is that she can no longer maintain them in the real world, having exhausted the summoning limit depending on the skill level of the daggers.

With a tinge of panicked regret, Valzea realizes that even though she had rolled back time, her protective artifacts had already been removed by the time she had rolled back time. She doesn't remember what kind of amulets they were, knowing that she has no defenses and never had any. The essence of the charms used by the murdered peddler obviously works on the memory somehow, and making a deal served as a contract of sorts, allowing the charms to find their way into the very depths of the personality. A deal that makes you immediately forget you ever had the subject of the contract? Whatever she thought of the late Bradkysky, he had not given his soul away for nothing, if she had been taken with such insulting ease.

Valzea realized, with her mind and logic alone, that she, a princess of the Eternal Dynasty, blood from her Father's blood, albeit weak and unloved, simply could not lack a set of legendary defenses at a minimum. Had she thought about it during her conversation with Rorzar, she would have had a chance of breaking the imposed obscuration even sooner... if she had the strength, which is unlikely. Apparently, in addition to the memory work, she was constantly under a masterfully subtle pressure from the fleur of Lust, clouding her and slowing her down, making her look like a cute little fool so Hell wouldn't let her off the hook. In a different situation, it would be little, absolutely not enough, but as a support tool to seal new deals. It was enough for Valzea, who was distracted and literally flowing with passion like a country wench drugged with the potions of a visiting alchemist. In any case, she had no weapons, no protection, no guards, but she had problems.

However, even a partial rollback of the imposed deals was enough to remind her of the known hiding places. She could only hope the cultists had milked this knowledge out of her, but they were in no hurry to open the caches - even if they knew all the keys, it would be too problematic to open them without the blood bearer and her aura signatures. She would have been happy to help open them, even if she had already been transformed, so the hope of finding the stash intact was quite strong.

She didn't have to run far - literally to the nearest room. She managed to burst into it, reach into the base of the massive dresser, and start applying power to the right points in the right order. She was no longer able to open the vault of battle amulets and the emergency jump amulet wrecker. A dozen red and scarlet threads flew into the room after her, binding her body, piercing her skin, infecting her blood with Lust and breaking her bones, turning pain into pleasure, blending them into each other, making her orgasmic, driving the cursed threads even harder.

The Law.

The body is healed, returned to time, and the scarlet-colored threads are back to a somewhat lagging position, just barely flying through the door following Valzea. Another effort, the growing pain in the aching shell. She stops the threads in their flight, at the same time, creating a kind of shield from the zone of timelessness, against which a blot of pale pink mass, soaked in Hell to the point where it is dangerous to just look at it. Even she is running out of time, and before she can make another attempt to reach the hiding place, it's as if a wet cloth soaked in stupefying herbs has been wrapped around her head.

Resetting the impact, Valzea missed the next blow, not even realizing the instinctive urge to rip open her dress and pinch herself hard on her hardening nipples had been imposed from the outside. The reflex switch that made her twist her cherries instead of creating another barrier didn't last long. Exactly until a swift, unnaturally fast orgasm spread through her body with sweet molasses, shutting off the ability to feel her legs. The girl fell to her knees and then to her side, beginning to stretch the effects of the Law, slowing down the world around her.

She couldn't interrupt the events around her again, but the barely discernible shadow of the possessed man flying into the doorway was much easier to perceive. The devil swooping down from the ceiling was like a fly stuck in a jar of honey, losing its speed advantage, but Valzea was moving even faster. Another revert of the fait accompli returns her dress to its original appearance and her legs to their ability to hold her in a standing position, but she still hits lying down. A thin strip of reality, taken out from under the dictates of the Law, was created by her right under the throat of the creature, playing the role of a blade, and with the role of a guillotine, the enemy perfectly coped with himself, simply pounced on the blow at all available speed.

A mortally wounded abomination does not die immediately, but a wounded creature cannot stop the next blow, which speeds up the injured man's time. In another situation, it would have seemed impossible to age an entity invulnerable to such attacks, but Valzea didn't want death by old age. The accelerated flow of the river of time only allowed the mortal wound to take the devil, who had no time to heal and prevented him from using the healing.

The llittle-known trick, but in the conditions of time pressure, where any mistake would cost everything, Valzea remembered about it. Although, the practice of using this trick remained only in the pages of family memoirs. The devil's power is in its collection of souls, but by changing the meaning of the Law for the creature itself, it is possible to make the change without affecting that collection. And even if you had a thousand prisoners ready to take your wounds, how could you use them when the river itself divides you?

Valzea doesn't have time to rejoice in her second victory, shuddering under another mental attack, rolling her eyes in delight. The attempt to release the pressure again was met with increasing pleasure. The mind's frame of reference changed again. Trying to call for blood only opened the soul to Lust. Another orgasm stained her underwear with streams of love juice, a smile spread across her face, and any thought of resistance washed away like mud in the rain.

The second attacker does not burst through the doors but enters almost leisurely, nodding hello to Valzea, causing her to be swept away once more on the waves of love's climax. Her eyes roll back, leaving only the whites visible, but the princess can still make out the cautious footsteps of her apparently Mistress, fearing another blade of stasis. Fear was not what she feared, as she bent over her enslaved victim, carelessly turning her back to the frozen red threads. Valzea was not her Father to freeze someone else's sorcery for months of real-time, and for her, especially when she was already exhausted, a dozen seconds would seem like an eternity.

The threads were actually searching for their victim, bypassing the obstacles, but the possessed woman was too close, and the spells, which had regained their speed and acceleration, had no time to avoid the collision, plunging into the creature's body. It would take a long time to break a creature like that, but even so, combat magic, even if it was tilted toward Vice, was still primarily combat magic. Valzea sincerely wanted to warn the cute fiend whose spells had given her her third ecstasy in a row, but her attempt to remember how to speak gave her a fourth.

Crunching bones and muscles, the devil falls to the floor, right next to her decapitated companion, no longer maintaining the effect on the victim. It was not gone but weakened enough for the girl to remember her duty, if not as a princess, then as a decent and well-behaved lady who should not be oozing bodily fluids on the floor of her estate. With a great, no, not effort, but regret, she regained her wits once more, immediately suppressing the urge to utter something from the repertoire of the professional military because a princess should not. Suppressing the urge to bring her heated body to orgasm one more time, despite the recoil, took even more effort than the urge to swear.

She had no time to get up and try to open the unfortunate cache again, which showed a very unpleasant tendency. Complete paralysis of all muscles of the body and even partial suppression of thoughts. She could think and realize, as well as feel a pleasant warmth in her immobile body, but any attempt to even think about activating her skills was met with a soft and fluffy wall of denial. She could bang against it endlessly - it wouldn't hurt, but the result was still zero.

Three more devils came in, silently and without further ado, and began to entangle Valzea's consciousness in layers of sweet and disgusting charms. Her will resisted but quickly waned, and the resistance itself was more symbolic. Exhausted by the nervous breakdown and Rorzar's murder, without the amulet complex, under the direct influence of the fleur - no will could help her. The creatures entangled her quickly and professionally not distracting to play with their prey.

Valzea stares unblinkingly at the companion bent over the thread-tangled creature, relieving the devil of its wounds from the friendly fire. Unwittingly, she notes the servant's burnt clothing and several wounds and burns that have not fully healed, realizing that while Rorzar was playing with her, the guards and servants had surrendered not without a fight despite the sudden and treacherous attack. The unblinking gaze and drying cornea were no inconvenience amidst the rest of the young princess's problems.

Valzea ignored the barely audible thumping and squeaking, seeing it as part of the surrounding madness. But all four of the possessed, including the one who had already recovered from the wounds caused by the threads, reacted nervously, reorganizing themselves into battle formation. So nervously, in fact, that Valzea even managed to shift a little, wiggling her neck... though that was all because she had been stripped of her body paralysis, in return completely unable to think of resistance. The creaking came from an old closet covered in magical carvings and a memorable gift to someone from the dynasty. Though at this moment, Valzea couldn't remember the exact history of this item, even if her memory wasn't gaping with the failures of devil's bargains.

The creak repeated, forcing the creatures to act, exchanging silent signs and picking one of them to come closer. The creature was already ready to open the closet and strike at the servant or even the guard hiding there. Whoever was sitting there didn't wait for a visit, simply kicking the heavy wooden casement open toward the possessed. And while a simple blow with that door wouldn't even slow down a high-level possessed man, it was far from a simple blow.

Together with the door, the creature was hit by a flood of painful gray dust corroding not only the reflexively raised hex barrier but also the body, energy shells, and reality itself. A huge figure in a gray cloak jumped out after the flow of dust, blowing the head of the already dying creature off in passing as it floated above the floor, rapidly approaching the remaining trio.

Another strike of threads very familiarly solidifies into a small sphere of gray dust. A dagger blows the head of the healer, who was unable to react in time, and the wave of dust from that dagger dissolves the possessed woman wounded by Valzea. The last remaining enemy manages to strike with a spear glowing with pink fire, but the bulky man, who had no time to defend himself, is scattered by the same dust... so that a much more graceful figure with two daggers in her hands flies out of the dust cloud as an arrow. She slips out from under the desperate attack like a clerical knife, cutting open both the human body and the devil sitting in it with her daggers. Epic artifacts and enchanted with Light and Dark - such two planar coactions will damage most of the defenses, if not break through, then damage them quite a bit.

The last of her sudden rescuers emerged from the closet, accompanied by the dissipation of the restraining charms. He was a short, stubby young man armed with a large, heavy crossbow. Even without the use of analytical skills, Valzea could see that the third guest was the weakest of the arrivals. The silence had not yet begun to press on her ears, and the dust was just beginning to fall, mingling with the blood and other fluids flowing from the bodies of the possessed.

"I am certainly filled with every gratitude for your feat in saving me, but I would like to know who my saviors are and what they were doing in my closet?" If there was one thing in which the princess could consider herself fully up to the glory of her family, it was the ability to keep her face despite the most absurd and dire situations

The largest of the trio, dressed in a loose gray cloak that concealed what was clearly a very sophisticated armor, looked around perplexed in response to her question as if he had just realized where exactly he had jumped out of a few seconds earlier. After which, he hummed in surprise and nearly caused Valzea's eye to twitch, spitting directly onto the floor. In her presence, in response to her words and thanks! For such a thing, she would otherwise have banished the entire clan of the insolent lunatic without any pity if only to nail the rude man before the rest of her kin found out about such behavior.

"Ugh, bitch!" The savior's voice was hoarse and low, and his accent was deliberately gruff and commoner. "And Becca said something about some fucking Narnia! This is just a fucking brothel in ruins..."

He probably wanted to say something else but did not have time because his profanity was silenced by a woman armed with two daggers, who gave him a trivial slap on the back of the head. The filthy peasant dodged and was even bewildered by such insolence, almost indignantly looking at the female colleague wrapped in the regular combat uniform of the liquidator. The assassin, who wore clothes so characteristic of the elite wing of the Eyes, simply could not fail to recognize Valzea by sight.

"I apologize, Your Highness." It was undoubtedly only the combat situation that kept her from giving a full-fledged etiquette bow. "This is not where we expected to be, as my companion was opening the Road by the Black Mark. Somewhere here, I believe, is the Rorzar of House Bradkiss, by whose life we have come."

At the mention of the Mark, Valzea only began to take the stranger who had saved her life even more seriously. The characteristic feature of the Nightblades or Head Gatherers allowed them to track their victims, catching up with them anywhere if they managed to touch them even once, and without other variables, required a high level and deep understanding of their powers. But a full-blown Black Mark? To develop a class trait to such a limit, it's not enough to take the second rank of the corresponding class, nor is it enough to close it. It takes a whole host of corresponding titles, which are almost impossible to obtain just like that. In the entire Empire, there were no more than five owners of such a rarity, even if we take into account unverified rumors. But in the same Alishan, with its traditionally strongest Nightblades and their derivative classes on the continent, their number was close to a dozen at least. And the brute was obviously not from around here, or he wouldn't have buried himself with his own words...

"Fuck." He spat once more, forcing Valzea's face to lose its icy armor of indifference (from fatigue, of course). "What the fuck was he doing next to the Eternal?"

For the umpteenth time that day, Valzea's mind clicked dryly, forcing her to rise to her feet, ignoring the dust that had inadvertently begun to fall from the cloak's surface. Slowly but as convincingly as possible, she spoke exactly as she was accustomed to speaking to those who had earned her disapproval, which she was ready to objectify into something frightening at any moment.

"I would very much like to have my words heard and my presence considered in your undoubtedly important dialog." Ice in the words, steel in the movements, and a complete disregard for the fact that it was at this very moment that the attitude could have been tempered. "But even more, I wish we could continue this conversation in more favorable circumstances!"

There was such silence that you could hear the blood gushing from the corpses.

"H-how m-many of t-them were l-left here?" The crossbowman, it seemed to Valzea, made no attempt to defuse the situation, but did not even realize that it had become tense. "Hell's s-servants, I me-an?"

However, even without wanting to, he did an excellent job of extinguishing the conflict, reminding everyone that no matter how tense the situation was, it was better to keep oneself in control when surrounded by an enemy, especially if that enemy had "surrounded" the entire city at once.

"Not so much." Anger receded, and Valzea set about ensuring her survival, which was closely tied to the number of those who would come between her and her enemies. "The guards did not surrender without a fight, and if memory serves me correctly, there are almost only ritualists left in the hall, with the last martial artists lying at our feet."

And there was no bragging because she had also participated in the battle, even if you set aside the truth that all the victories of the Empire's subjects were a priori for the sake of her Dynasty. The liquidator, whom Valzea didn't recognize but had either met or read the dossier because something related to this person flashed in her head.

"Ritual." Eye said briefly and very heartfelt, already moving toward the doorway.

Valzea, who had recovered a bit, called on her dynastic power again, managing to open her stash, grab a bunch of amulets, and pour three potions from the specially marked bottles into herself in the few moments it took for the unexpected allies to react. She was in no hurry to activate the evacuation amulet, sensing that she'd rather be near combat-ready defenders than at a random point within the blazing capital. And if the defenders failed, it was never too late to follow the original plan.

The potions spread through her body, giving her a sense of false omnipotence, bringing back the sharpness of her mind and calming her thoughts. The princess realizes her companions are as exhausted as she is. That's why they allowed themselves to relax impermissibly as soon as they realized there were no more enemies around, that there was an opportunity to exhale a little.

Even considering the Black Mark, which served as an excellent beacon, it would not be a simple task for an adept of the Road, no matter how strong, to break through to a domed manor that was in an altered relationship to the Law. The Road may help its adherents to play with the river, so much so some philosophers say the Road is laid along the River of Time, but not to such an extent. And if they managed to come here after the blood and flesh of Rorzar, crushed and pulverized by Valzea, then something helped them. Perhaps the battle that had passed her enchanted mind had damaged the structure of the barriers, but still, the possibility the ritual she had seen glimpsed was doing something to those defenses remained the most obvious.

The potion-pumped girl creates a sphere, inside which time flows faster, covering the entire group. The bully immediately stops like a stumbling block, casually changing his grip on his short blades, and the liquidator (what's her name?) manages to grab the crossbowman by the collar, preventing him from hitting his head on the edge of the time barrier. Another epiphany helps her realize that the third and weakest of her allies is really the boy he looks like, hence the stupid mistakes, the astounding shortsightedness, and the shamefully slow reaction time.

Without a word, she holds out a pouch of potions to all three of them. The corks of the vials were marked with different colors and symbols, allowing them to understand the nature of the contents without having to open the fragile vessels. She had already accepted the three vials specially designed for the dynasty's blood, while the rest of the vials had been placed there for the servants and the cover squad. Even if all the people loyal to her had died, that was no reason not to share battle alchemy with those who were now replacing their function.

To their credit, they grabbed the gift quickly, without question, dividing the potions among themselves and even managing to assemble a set of compounds for the boy with the crossbow since he was the only one who didn't know the markings. And if Valzea still understands how the markings (not the most standard) know the employee of the Eyes, then the bulky man surprised her with his knowledge. He deciphered the marks even faster than the liquidator.

Silently, she waited for the alchemical acceleration to complete and canceled the dome, accelerating only herself to run and react in line with the two high-level fighters. The kid, though doped up on boosters, was still starting to fall behind quickly, but he was definitely not a force worth lingering for. She would have sped them all up, but they were already moving fast, as elite assassins should, so it would take a disproportionate amount of energy to accelerate them in a not-so-substantial way.

They had met their opponents three-quarters of the way through, and they were unimpressive. The group of five cultists were clearly not warriors, folding under a concerted attack almost instantly. Valzea cloaked herself in immutability, fixing her state in time, becoming almost invulnerable for a few seconds, but apart from a couple of frankly weak attempts at mind-bending and a few drop-like projectiles of violet flame, nothing struck her.

The big guy swept away four of them at once, without even using any skills, just on sheer strength, experience, and skill, cutting two of them open with knives, piercing the third one's temple with a hilt, and simply snapping the neck of the fourth one, throwing the still twitching body towards the fifth one. Cultist gracefully and even somehow dance-like dodged the projectile, almost completing some suicidal technique as he was neatly pierced in the back of the head with two artifact daggers. Valzea, still accelerating, kept up with the couple, so she was in time to catch up with them.

She estimated there should have been at least fifteen cultists and an equal number of enchanted prisoners still in the hall. Instead, they were greeted by a hall drenched in blood and something else (what exactly, they didn't want to think about), with only a single Hell servant standing in the middle. The same one with whom Rorzar had fought over the ownership of his new toy.

Old, wrinkled, with disgusting folds of skin on his sides and belly, like a fat man who had recently lost weight, he was not Lust, but nausea. And apprehension, a very strong apprehension that made Valzea strike without hesitation, without waiting for the beginning of a possible dialog. Alas, the dishonorable degenerate who had come with evil into her home was ready to meet the power of her bloodline. The ritual patterns on her body flashed, manifesting, literally burning their lines into her naked flesh, while the River of Time remained still. The stream of gray dust, which had turned into a thin ribbon, was much better, having managed to get close and overcome three barely visible barriers, but instead of blowing off the old man's head, it only severed his arm at the shoulder.

It was as if the cultist didn't even notice the wound, smiling wickedly. The power around him surged, along with the bloody puddle from the carpet of dismembered bodies. The blood boiled, vaporizing and forming something indistinct, and the flesh on the bodies of the victims and their killers began to melt as if forming a vessel for a possessed person (a good education requires, at times, looking at the most disgusting illustrations in various books). The princess clearly distinguishes the expressions of surprise and blissful relief on the dead faces, preparing a new, far more difficult blow with family power. The smile of the devil's servant becomes unbearably wide, literally tearing facial muscles along the smile.

There was no attack, only a cloud of bloody suspension in the old man's place, and the blood that had risen fell to the ground again, along with the flesh liquefied by the flow of planar power. For a moment, all three of them thought the cultist had overdone it, scooped up too much, and couldn't hold on to the power he'd grabbed in his foolishness.

The Liquidator was the first to realize the trick, throwing two vials of attack potions, trying to burn out the pool of filth, but the success was not much, more cosmetic. The strike of Road's gray power comes next, and it showed at least some results, while Valzea's power was ignored once again. If any of her brothers were here. If at least a member of a side branch of the family were here but had fully mastered the gifts of the dynasty... Against her power, what the damned cultists used was enough - all three of them failed.

Flash.

In the middle of the pool of bubbling masses stands a slightly overweight man in an expensive mantle suit, his black curly hair fluttering in a wind that does not exist here. The princess cannot help but recognize the man she has seen more than once at receptions, balls, and dinner parties - Ramartz of Bradkiss. It is hard not to know the head of the richest of the magical guilds of the capital and probably of the whole Empire of Ages, who has always demonstrated his loyalty to the throne.

Several dozen rune spheres flicker around him, twirling in an unpredictable dance to protect their creator. Ramartz is one of the best enchanters of the generation, and it is almost unreal not to recognize his favorite weapon. On the few occasions when this unconflicted and, according to the impartial dossier assembled by the Eyes, cowardly man has been forced into direct combat, these spheres alone could win a duel or a massive battle.

Each sphere contains a folded space, where a whole mountain of amulets of various types is stored, as well as the main body of a supercomplex and almost intelligent golem-sphere, which uses these amulets independently. The more such spheres work together, the more coherently they help each other, cover weaknesses, and synchronize their attacks.

Ramartz smiles crookedly, wry and evil, but his gaze is not on Valzea for some reason but on the gray-clad hulk with his head tilted to the side. His spheres glow, doing something to the ritual, causing the limbs and faces of gradually incarnating devils to emerge from the monotone flesh-colored carpet. Very, very powerful devils! And still, the same barrier prevented him from attacking the enemy, interrupting the summoning, increasing his chances, and forcing him to fight one-on-one.

"I heard the death of my blood." The mage's words she read from his lips, unable to hear them because of the isolation of the same barrier. "You took my brother's sons. You took my child. You will perish here, and I will give your soul to my Sovereign in his hands."

Valzea glanced at the person to whom such a suggestive accusation had been made. She had certainly heard of the attempted murder of Shazan Bostradsky, the Gold Belt merchant. It had been a hot news item in the news bulletins her attendants regularly compiled. She also knew the two merchants were related, albeit indirectly, which made it easy for them to exchange loans, credits, contracts, and other useful things. The trading house of Bostradsky had long been considered something like the second representation of Golden Feather, so connected were their financial flows. What she hadn't heard about was the fact that Rortzach had been present that night when two of Shazan's sons had been killed in an assassination attempt and another seriously wounded along with his father. She hadn't heard, though that information should have leaked out - the Eye was investigating the incident.

However, the Eyes even missed the devil invasion. What's there to say about the presence of an extra witness to one particular crime?

"Well, hello." The accused responded, even throwing off his hood for the cause so the accuser could read his lips. "You're fucked up, too."

He said the last phrase in a tone that was not even a truism but a saying of the Law. Honestly. For a moment, despite her manners and upbringing, Valzea thought this traitorous bastard had really lost his fucking mind. The bastard didn't let her finish the thought, falling to one knee and sending a wave of grayness along the floor, bringing his hands together and squeezing the space around him. It wasn't enough to interrupt the ritual, not even close. All the mistakes were quickly corrected by the Guardian Spheres, which reconfigured the ritual as they went. It was clearly different and purpose from the very beginning. They needed Valzea for something, and she was to be the basis of the ritual. And Ramarz managed to change, rewrite, and finalize it all in just a dozen seconds!

The Princess smiles, realizing the irony of the situation, which has not yet reached their adversary. On their own, neither she nor the strange Wanderer, who, for some reason, had the skills not of a nature wanderer but of a seasoned murderer and criminal, posed any threat to such a defense. Or rather, they couldn't break this defense in time, before the summoning, after which they would be crushed numerically, not inferior qualitatively. Even together, they could not shake the scales so much before. After that episode with her battle madness, potioned to the eyebrows and, most importantly, unable to retreat, Valzea had changed something in the reflection of her Status.

She had spoken those words only once, supported not by a simple but by a double star of Benefics, standing beside her Father, who had given her some of his Time that day for the sake of her development. Then, an attempt to invoke the Law in her words had ended in cardiac arrest and emergency resuscitation, and a final cross had been put on her future, cementing her uselessness forever.

She spits the words out with the blood flowing from the cuts in her throat, left by the words themselves, by the power hidden in them. The spit out not only bleeds but seems to rip out her insides, giving her burning pain and shameful weakness. If she had eaten lunch, she would have defecated under herself by now, so great was the strain on the weak, unaccustomed girl's body.

She did it.

The River of Time makes a small, almost imperceptible bend, a small and insignificant loop compared to the immutability of all things. Right in the place of the ritual, another ritual appears, another carpet of scarlet flesh, only a measly second behind the real one. Or was it the real one that began to rush by the same second? Only her father could answer, as her understanding of the mystery used was barely enough to at least call her on it.

The devils bursting into reality quite suddenly began to manifest themselves at two points at the same time. But where one can easily divide ten gold pieces for two, one cannot divide a mistress for two. Or rather, you can, but either allegorically or with quite predictable consequences for the mistress. Probably, they were really strong creatures, one of the reserve groups, specially detained in Hell to solve urgent situations and not sent to destroy the capital and feast on the souls of its inhabitants. So that one could summon them at exactly the right point rather than hoping to summon them by more conventional methods.

All of them (there were eight, maybe twelve - Valzea wasn't that good a sensor) simply ceased to be because of injuries incompatible with existence. It wasn't just their bodies that were torn apart, but even their energy sheaths, causing the carpet of flesh to begin to ooze with golden honey, mold, and lights of souls released from their greedy grasp. The previously invisible barrier began to crumble with a muffled and wet crunch, and its fragments became recognizable by ordinary vision. The same vision showed that the invisible barrier consisted of the same rippling flesh, only completely transparent and jelly-like as if it were a slime-type monster straight from the sewers.

Her mind and body recoiled, but her ancestral power had already done its job, depriving her opponent of reinforcements, protection, and the feeling of impending victory. Although, the damned peddler was ready to argue with the latter until he was hoarse, unconscious, and splattering his opponents with a thin layer. Having roared something unintelligible (it was roaring, not ritual lyrics), he waved his hands, and all four normal people had no time to think.

The slap of the bowstring and the flight of the enchanted bolt came to nothing, as the projectile was literally vaporized by several super-precise rays of snow-white color fired from three spheres at once. The Wanderer saves the situation by raising a wave of road dust, creating a storm out of it, doubly deadly in the confined space of the once beautiful hall. The wreckage of the furniture begins to age, soaking up the dust of the Road, but neither Valzea nor any of the trio fears to repeat their fate.

Princess is protected by the newly applied timelessness. The liquidator and the boy's clothes flash gray with small pendants of the same kind that shamans like to use. The dust inside them is undoubtedly the same dust, only differently charged and properly attuned. All of them can easily see through the gray veil: the wanderer thanks to the class, a couple of his assistants (still of the trio, he is undoubtedly the strongest) with the help of amulets, and Valzea looked with her eyes in the past, staying in the future. The dust, which was in the same displaced state that displaced everything else, did not exist for her.

The spheres burst into flames, sending a rain of battle magic in the form of multicolored needles and arrows. Primitive enchantments, it would seem, even if executed with diligent quality. One good amulet might well produce the same, just one at a time. In the pocket dimensions of each sphere, these amulets must be stuffed with all the coins available to the head of the richest of the guilds. Therefore, speaking of the rain of battle charms, the girl was not exaggerating - under such a downpour, the dust veil lasts for seconds, rapidly losing density. And the spheres continued to shine, putting barrier after barrier, reclaiming space, and seeking to enclose them all in a multi-segmented cage with no exit.

The wanderer repeats his trick without even thinking of attacking, letting the crossbowman and the liquidator hide under the protection of the gray cloud. The cloud is joined by full-fledged walls, consisting of the same dust but frozen. In time, these barriers were put up, immediately beginning to crumble under the blows of wide and powerful rays - also amuletic, but no longer ordinary charms, but an elite level of them. They are used during the storming of fortresses, when you have already broken inward, under the main domes of defense, but still need to open some of its segments, tearing down the inner doors of arsenals, barracks, or treasury, or even just breaking through the walls directly.

Valzea exhaled.

The swift spells begin to move so slowly that even a lazy fly would overtake them, and the spheres that flicker at breakneck speed, constantly changing order and formation, also fall under its influence. Even after he had found insanely rare means of countering the direct invocation of Time and protected his favorite creations with them, Ramarz could do nothing when the effect was on the river around his position, not on him.

The accelerated reactions of a powerful mage and a cultist pumped with sacrificial energy allowed him to think and react with astonishing speed. But his pupils were still only just dilating with realization, his sensory enchantments only just managing to bring him the knowledge that Valzea had turned to the river of the boundless. As fast as he was, his speed and sphere remained in their normal flow, unlike them.

The huge body of the wanderer moved with startling grace, not at all enchanting, as is the case with blade dancers, but frightening to the point of shuddering. He simply appeared at the edge of the cloud from a flash of gray energy, cleaving the nearly activated enchantments of the multi-node fire net with a dagger strike, and then began to walk forward. The barriers that covered all the dust-free space didn't even break. They just ignored him as if he were walking through.

Black Walking was also an iconic skill for the Night Blade, which hinted even more strongly at the successful guess about the nature of the wanderer's second class. The Black Mark could be an artifact or used with another class, but only a handful of classes could combine it with walking (or something very similar). Not necessarily Nightblades, but all of them belong to this branch of archetypes.

He couldn't attack the mage. He just wouldn't get there, spending too much on each step. So he aimed at the sphere closest to him. He took a step, jumped up, changed his standard dagger to a tenacious hook pulled from under his cloak, and lunged with the new weapon. In such slow motion, it was perfectly visible as the sphere opened like a flower, changing into an attacking form. In this form, it was caught by one of the petals, pulling it closer to itself, immediately exhaling another cloud of dust inside the opened flower, and adding an explosive crystal on top. Another effort, and he simply shoves his target away, using it to get back under the cloud's protection.

At the same time, the liquidator flew into the cloud, using both a jump and a blink to get there before the spheres changed paradigms. A few pieces of priceless alloy fall off a little to the side. It's the petals of the second of the caught flowers cut off by her daggers. It might not destroy the artifact, but it will damage it significantly, even aside from the presence of another crystal in the open "wound," already almost detonated.

Subjectively, it had been at least five seconds for Valzea, about two for her companions, whose blood did not belong to her kind and, therefore, they were only partially accelerated. The damned Ramartz was completing a single movement only now. Hands clasped together, fingers curled in a bone-seal, and then a wave that weaved together notes of Astral, neutral power with equal ease, and a drop of Hell fleur in there, too. The flow of the almighty Time has equalized, but instead of a crushing attack, the cultist is forced to throw back the spheres turning inside out. The toy disabled by the liquidator simply turned off. The one filled with dust, figuratively speaking, vomited its subspace outward. And there was much more inside than a sphere the size of a man's head could take up.

Instead of attacking, the mage is forced to defend himself from detonating cascading amulets, from spatial vortices, and another attempt to distort the flow of Time. He manages to cope, snapping back now and then with new attacks of his spheres, and he is also constantly trying to create some large-scale ritual right on the battered walls of the estate. In direct combat, a mage of his specialization is almost powerless despite his level and all the titles in his Status. As long as he's protected by his creations, interfering with his sorcery - slow, cumbersome, and heavy - is not a task even for battle star.

Spheres create barriers and embody pure energy in a multitude of forms, all sorts of conceptual effects, even if very short-term. Direct attacks may be too simple, but there are many of them. It's all of different natures, of different planes. It's making it harder and harder to defend against them. Dust of the Endless Road is a versatile, powerful, and in many ways unique tool, but even against this tool, one can find countermeasures. Ramarz has taken these measures and picked them up, managing to dampen the distortions of reality with powerful spatial techniques. Each sphere, lovingly reassembled after the last meeting of these two, contains a multitude of anchors that stabilize reality in relation to the Road, weakening the wanderer and giving him no respite.

In a different situation, under different circumstances, two good assassins, supported by a single shooter acting more as ballast than support, would not have been able to resist such power, even without the crushing force of Hell and the corruptions bestowed by its inhabitants. But today, the fourth member of the team was Valzea, who had managed to push herself beyond her limits in a wave of her anger. Ramarz blamed the wrong man for his son's death, the wrong man.

He would defeat Valzea, too, not easily but quickly. The devil's servants had come here for her, even if they were not averse to looting the estate as well as taking advantage of the captive guards, retinue, and servants. She didn't know why a ritualist of this caliber would need blood from her Father's blood, but she could make a hundred guesses, one worse than the other. Ritual, native blood, devils, and a riot in the capital. It was very hard to brew something out of such ingredients that wouldn't be a disaster from the perspective of the Emperor of Ages.

Neither wanderer nor chronomancer could stand alone in this battle, but together... Valzea knew how much someone in possession of her family's mysteries could strengthen a unit, a squad, or an entire army. They retreated, spinning like snakes in a frying pan. The wanderer summoned dust veils to exhaustion, and the Eye assassin diverged with an ignominious death by a thread, but they stood their ground, held their defenses against Ramartz's creations, and were in no hurry to lose this game.

The main recipe for their success was undoubtedly the ability to move and react simply faster than the skillful magical algorithm of the Spheres' pseudo-mind could keep track of. Even a boy with a crossbow under threefold acceleration at the same deceleration of the enemy, demonstrated a satisfactory fighting ability to survive, if not to help in the battle.

Truly, it is not for nothing that the whole world knows the price of the power of the Eternals!

Dozens of signs and figures, as if drawn directly in the air by an invisible brush, emit a Vice strong enough to cripple an unprotected person by its mere presence. But it would not be a mere presence - they are assembled into larger structures, the individual fragments of which are about to form a finished and already completed ritual. The Spheres shining with open colors only cover the magician's work, which he cannot entrust even to such powerful and multifunctional artifacts.

The will of the princess makes some of the signs roll back into the past, and some, on the contrary, take the form they will have when the ritual is completed and triggered. There was no explosion. Only a drop of blood ran down the face of Ramarz, who had time to react. The Great Ritualist and Artifactor had managed to convert the rollback from the ritual into reserve damage and then leveled it to ridiculous amounts. Ridiculous for such a serious setback, not in terms of consequences.

Valzea and her assistants got first blood, even if some might argue about who was helping whom. Ramarz is trying to even the score, moving from economical and deadly accurate strikes with various amulets to battle charms of the highest order. Someone could be happy, say, began to boil, to lose the sharpness of mind, but not Valzea. The girl realized that the head of the guild that had betrayed the Empire was furious before the battle began when he received the news of his son's death, but it didn't make his mind any less sharp, despite the fact Hell's energy had tainted his mind. The change in battle tactics had only come about because the Spheres had erected enough barriers to not worry too much about the defenses.

A stream of wet-green flame, surrounded by a couple dozen glowing white disposable amulet golems fired from the gut of one of the Spheres, ignores the dust's attempts to stop it. Valzea realizes this strange force is too firmly embedded in the world around her, so tightly that even the currents of the river will not carry it away immediately.

All of them, all four of them, accelerated by Valzea to the maximum, simply bypassing the flow of power, allowing the wanderer to knock some of the smaller battle golems to dust, while the cutthroat from the Eyes connects the blades of her daggers, activating the embedded skill and covering them all with a stream of energy bubbling from the conflict. They must be stopped by the barriers, albeit no longer supported by the spheres, which every last one of them focused on constructing the previous attack and suppressing attempts to reach Ramartz.

Valzea nearly drops dead as she restores the reception hall to its pristine appearance. The broken stained glass windows were restored, the streams of flesh and pools of blood were gone, and the breaches in the walls were reversed, including the one left by the swamp fire that had nearly collapsed the entire central wing of the mansion. The barriers were gone, too, of course, but the dust that had almost disappeared during the heated battle had returned. The Wanderer wasn't in the best condition either, but that's no surprise, not after such a strain. If Valzea had rebuilt the hall and broken the formation of the Spheres, he had simply caused the Spheres to freeze for a few seconds, dragging them along the Road in the opposite direction.

Although, no.

Such artifacts are perfectly protected from such an approach. Rather, he turned the Road itself in the right direction, "not noticing" the presence of these artifacts on it. For a brief second, these machines of destruction, even without their masters, capable of killing several hundred advanced warriors without casualties on their part, froze in cocoons of gray timelessness. A fraction of an instant, during which even the wanderer himself would have had no time to do anything.... except to run away.

Valzea intervened just in time, draining the reserve to the very bottom, wringing the family blood to the point where the strained veins threatened to cut into her mistress's flesh. If the previous effort had nearly killed her with the need to perform an overly capacious technique all at once, now simple exhaustion could kill her. Her lips pushed out such a familiar lyric, a painful call, an inescapable command, for the umpteenth time that day, the world around her quivering.

And the second pause for the Spheres suddenly became much longer. Only the second technique, created by the princess, could not be torn by their passive chrono-protection because the artifacts were pressed by the power of the Road, which they opposed. The power of the dynasty's bloodline only affected the wanderer's technique without touching the artifacts directly.

"Hurry up." Indifferently and with surprising even to herself grave calmness, she said, falling to the clean floor again, feeling her limbs grow cold. "Time... always... not enough."

In fact, by the time she had time to say that phrase, the heavy and haggard-breathing Wanderer, the equally tired Assassin, and even the Crossbow Boy had finished what they had started. For all their power and multifaceted defenses, the Spheres were still very fragile creations, even if it was far from obvious. It was just that the multitude of amulets invested in these embodied pockets always managed to cover the fragile arcanomechanisms with suitable protection. At the level of the local Law, they had time. They could not fail to do so.

When there was no defense, even the strength of the exhausted trio was enough to turn expensive toys into equally expensive wreckage. Even the weakest link, in the form of the almost useless young man, managed to prove himself. He broke one of the spheres by hitting it with the steel-covered arcs of his crossbow. It wasn't the smartest decision, but he either believed in the durability of his weapon or simply didn't have the strength for other tricks, perhaps not knowing them at all. The second and third, she thought, were more likely.

The Spheres, deprived of the ability to protect themselves, could not even release the explosion outside, self-destructing without any external manifestations, unless you count strong but low-noticeable spatial disturbances. There was a chance to get a cut of the world's tissue in the place of their heads, but there were no injuries because they worked cleanly enough, and the Road took all these cuts for itself.

If it weren't for the presence of precognitive abilities in the assassin's arsenal (she'd definitely heard of it somewhere, read it in the summaries supplied by the entourage), which gave them the ability to communicate in alternate lines of what had happened thanks to the ability to pick the timing of the conversation and make it not happen, nothing would have worked. There wouldn't have been enough coordination to make it work the way it did. Perhaps she had never heard of such use of precognistics in conjunction with Path adepts and Chronomancers. The Imperial Archives or the Eternal Library might have some writings on the subject, but hardly many. Perhaps, if she survived this adventure, Valzea might even add to those archives. Or rather, the family archives, for there is no reason for the others to know too much about the Ruling Bloodline.

They managed to outplay Ramarz.

He, in turn, outplayed them.

They hadn't even had time to congratulate each other when Valzea's distortion simply burst. Ramarz, covered with bleeding sores and outwardly aged by several decades, who had not been in vain in his attempt to gain additional power by digesting his own body in planar power, smiled triumphantly. No one was able to comment on the new appearance of the previously lively and smug Hell servant as the bastard performed another ritual. He did it in his own body and then turned it outward before any of the four of them could react.

Valzea, the brute and the assassin simply froze, unable to move - not mental influence, but the most banal stasis, elevated to the absolute. A technique of the kind that, for all the simplicity of the principle invested in it, presents it so comprehensively that no defense can save it. Just as she had done with the late Rorzar, Valzea could only move her eyes and breathe as the gradually regenerating and recovering cultist strode leisurely, in the direction of the three of them. Such a wicked irony...

The lad, miraculously out of range of the barrier, was rapidly breaking the distance, judging by the sound of the crossbow being raised. The mage waved his hand lazily, sending five voluminous figures made of magic sigils toward the troublemaker. The flash of magic, in which Valzea recognized the activation of one of the one-time amulets issued to the "ally," didn't help the poor man much. His hearing, sharpened by music lessons and theater attendance, picked up a shriek that turned into a mate and the sound of flying, followed by the clinking of shattering glass. The young man had been carried out of the mansion through the stained glass window, and it was unlikely that he, at his level, would land alive or even land at all. He'd be smashed against the inside of the protective dome, for sure!

"Well, here we are, getting to the conversation." Ramartz's soft and ingratiating tone couldn't hide the raging venom of first-grade hatred. "And it will be a long conversation, my princess."

With a barely perceptible flash, the stasis began to recede, but it was replaced by hundreds of thin red threads covering her body and clothing, crawling under her skin and into her insides. These threads folded into restraining chains of sigils, streaking across her body in exotic tattooing, penetrating every part of her body, taking control of her muscles, her breathing, her energy, and even her class skills. And after all, no one had ever heard that the Bradkiss had any talents in the field of puppetry!

Was he the one who had been offered such a gift by his masters? Or did their entire house manage to conceal an interest in such an unpleasant and carefully controlled form of magic? It is not easy to become a Puppeteer, and it is impossible to become one who works on living material with the active resistance of the latter without long practice. But if anyone can bestow gifts better than anyone else, it is the devils, as the most recognized experts in soul magic under the light of the Sun and the gaze of the Sisters.

The princess's body, despite her thoughts and attempts to resist, shifted from foot to foot, following its owner. Valzea did not doubt that her mind would have been shut off as easily as her body, but Ramartz clearly wanted to keep her conscious until the last moment, giving her a taste of the situation. The assassin stood beside the princess and removed the cloth mask from her face, allowing her face to be examined in passing and finally remembering the bulletin in which that face and full name had appeared. She had been declared dead at the hands of Alishan saboteurs, and her murder had even been one of the reasons for the almost-declared war!

"My dear ones, wait, I will show you all that I wish and you wish." The fingers, thin and groomed again, rid of wrinkles and cuts, run over the princess's face, and the body, obeying the puppeteer, kisses those very fingers. "We shall wish a great deal and take even more."

Kissing hands is just plain pettiness on the part of the cultist. There was no poison or curses on his fingers, except for the trivial saturation of his entire body with Lust, but that was just a passive effect of the last stage of corruption. It was just that this degenerate's utterly base desire to humiliate his victim quite succeeded. Had it not been for the loss of control, Valzea might have vomited right there, so vile did Ramarz look after the ritual he'd created inside his own guts. She couldn't be sure about the assassin, but it was hardly a pleasure to watch a body that had submitted to someone else's will happily lick the hand like a dog taking a treat from its master's hand.

He approached the bulky man, gracefully unbuttoning his loose cloak, which concealed many hidden pockets and loops with throwing potions, amulets, and blades. Ramartz lost control for the first time, releasing a look of exasperated anger back into his serene and smug face. Beneath the cloak was a surprisingly finely crafted armor, at once well-armored but still light enough not to stifle movement. It was an odd choice for an assassin, but the wanderer's movements made it almost impossible to suspect that he was wearing such armor, so agile was he for all his bulk and deceptive slowness.

The Wanderer was the only one of them who could not be completely subdued by the puppet technique, only paralyzed. But even this little thing was not in vain for the adept of the Way - the flushed face, the blood flowing from his ears, nose, and eyes, the cramped jaw, and the movement of threads under his skin that could be seen with normal eyes. Even though her body was completely out of control, Valzea felt a chill run down her spine just imagining the sensations the poor man was experiencing.

"Oh, murderer, how glad I am to meet you." As if to compensate for the incredibly fast recovery of his body to normalcy, a real madness began to dance in Ramarz's eyes, barely restrained behind the barrier of his iron will. "I will plunge you to the bottom and raise you to the heavens, poison your soul to heal it with a new poison, interrupt everything you value, giving you nothing in return that will be more valuable to you than any loss. Thousands of steps you will take along this road, but no traveler will dare repeat them, and you will step and look and pay for every second of the new world that my children did not witness through your fault. And only when there is nothing left of you when you are reborn new, will you take their place, the place of my sons, my favorite boys, and only then, will I be able to know pe..."

...stonk...

Completely devoted to his dreams, the mage never relaxed his control over the puppet threads for a single moment, methodically squeezing even the thought of resistance out of his victims. Neither the blood of Valzea, the power of the Road, or all the skill of a certified assassin from the Eye's liquidator staff could prevent and compensate for the catastrophic difference in level, class, attributes, and equipment. A Cultist, charged and gifted by their masters up to the top-notch as if for the final battle (because that battle does correspond), could easily compensate for the lack of pure combat experience and non-combat classes. Valzea and her assistants had nothing to compensate for. They went into this battle already tired, wasted, and, in the case of the princess, with the consequences of the previous treatment not completely gone.

An experienced magician who knew the value of himself and his deeds simply could not make a mistake after the victory, no matter how crazy his twisted mind was. But that madness was enough. It was enough to make sure once he was sure there were no other defenders, living or undead, beneath the dome of the estate, he could not pay enough attention to his surroundings. The insanity of it went away quickly, hiding once more in the depths of the violet-glowing pupils, bringing back into place both the caution and paranoia of the mighty head of the great guild. Forgotten, simply because he could not help but be crossed off the list of living nuisances, the crossbowman possessed the composure of a professional hustler or a dazzling amount of luck.

After all, he struck his blow at the one moment when that blow could do something good.

With a muffled and slightly damp crunch, the crossbow bolt slammed into Ramartz's eye, so focused on controlling the ritual and puppetry that he had no energy left for defense. The omnipresent Spheres could have gotten in the way, but they had been knocked out a little earlier. The amulet shields didn't help, as they had been depleted by the opposition to Valzea's attacks and her attempts to freeze Time for Ramartz. The insane thirst to tell the prisoners their fate had prevented him from rebuilding even the most primitive barrier, for it would have been enough to repel such a weak attack anyway.

History has no subjunctive clauses unless you use something incredibly complex and powerful, playing with causality and reality, and so the only thing left to consider is the fait accompli. Somehow, the surviving crossbowman fired. His shot hit its target, and then the primitive burst charms on the bolt activated, turning the top of Ramarz's skull into a bloody suspension.

It didn't kill him.

Not someone with so much Vice in him.

Without realizing it, on instinct, he struck all of his captives with the threads in them, tearing their hearts, piercing their flesh, and killing them despite any attempts to regenerate. In most cases, it would be enough to take the lives of the victims, albeit granting them freedom in death and then massacre the low-level youth who could barely utilize the advantage gained. Except among the dying was a Chronomancer who simply reversed the state of the body back to a time when it had not yet been affected by the abominable threads.

The second she saves Fern because she doesn't know the thug, and this lady is from Father's controlled agency, and the fact that she fought on Valzea's side disproves most of the suspicions against her. The woman, who had begun to spit out her lungs and had been turned into a sieve of sand by the spells that had pierced her body in multiple places, had healed, regained consciousness, and was ready to support her princess, but it wasn't necessary.

Valzea did not waste her strength on the wanderer, not out of fear for his loyalty or because he was too close to the wounded cultist, but because he was doing just fine on his own. As resilient as Ramartz was, he still hadn't learned how to recover instantly. The wounded area swirled red and began to emanate black fumes, reentering his skull centimeter by centimeter, threatening to get rid of the wound in less than a couple of heartbeats.

The Wanderer made it through earlier.

Despite its name, the Nightblade class has nothing to do with the ministers of the eldest of the Sisters, the Night Guest. These highly unusual individuals are even rarer than high-level adepts of the Road, concentrated in remote temples, small family covens, and among various semi-legal orders. Nightblades, of course, can draw power from the glow of the Guest, but this requires certain titles, most often hereditary, and the class itself most often changes its name to Blades of the Night. In other cases, these assassins receive planar support from the Darkness, which is much more common in the society of professional assassins.

Unlike Witchblades, who go mad, fall into Madness, and routinely turn crowds of peasants to sacrificial material, Blades do not use Darkness directly, rather letting some of it flow through the upper layers of the shell. This greatly reduces the combat potential, the insane striking power that the Darkness and its servants are famous for, but instead keeps the mind and soul relatively intact. Well, longer than usual. And in terms of combat power, the developed Nightsblade also has a lot of trump cards, maybe not so large-scale, but extremely useful in the work on the profile. Assassins, liquidators, very rarely scouts with a bias towards sabotage - that's the role of such warriors.

Whoever her temporary ally was, no matter how unusual the combination of Darkness and Road might be, he had skills that would have honored almost any cutthroat in the Eyes' department. Valzea had seen them in action a couple of times, both on recordings of crystal illusions and during training sessions with the obligatory sparring, and they were certainly impressive, but the big man was noticeably better.

He struck at once from a very strange stance. At first, it looked as if the threads stirring inside his body had knocked him off his feet, but it was only an illusion. Falling face down onto the floor covered in his blood, the wanderer landed on one knee, without the slightest pause, using his position to gain momentum. The road he never summoned, whether by overexerting himself or Ramartz still managed to block access to the plane. Instead of a gray dust veil, his blades became completely black as if coated in alchemical oil, ready to come off the blades in heavy and thick drops.

The first blow was a classic, bottom-up, straight down the center of the chest to the heart, and the Darkness saturation of the blades allowed him to ignore the ritual marks that flashed across the skin. Even so, Valzea's time-delayed perception allowed her to see how hard the mage's flesh was being cut as if a commoner were trying to cut through a hard block of wood with an old and rusty knife. But the first blow was followed by a second, third, tenth. The assassin's body worked with the smoothness of a machine, and the speed of each piercing was not inferior to that of a mechanical sewing machine of dwarven work.

A moment and the bulky man is on his feet, while Ramarz is thrown back half a step. Step by step, unhurriedly and even a little lazily, if you ignore the streams of blood, almost black from planar lesions, falling under his feet, if you do not realize that Ramarz is actually being dragged forward on the blades of daggers, not letting him fall. And when his body does fall, the sound of the fall comes out wet and slimy, subtly vile. There is no body - just a head that has never recovered, limbs sliced off, and instead of a torso, a set of cut, almost whipped meat and crumbled bones.

The thug is back on his knees, coughing up his blood mixed with dust, getting rid of the remnants of the threads that crippled his gut. With some hesitation, she covers him with the distortion, bringing his body to its proper state. Toward the end, he seems to help her, only from the Road's side, easing the strain on her tired mind.

They won.

They really won.

Valzea was once again amazed at how fast the strange murderer moved despite his size. Here, he was folded in a knot, almost defenseless and dying, and now he was on his feet, wrinkling his scarred and scarred face and shooting his slightly slanted eyes sideways. It's hard to believe that his manners are just a mask, but it's even harder not to. He's shown too much, too much skill for a simple road thug from the border towns.

"And you're not bad." If he wished to bruise Valzea with his showy or not-so-showy disregard, he did quite well, as the princess was not used to such indifference from someone who was not at least somewhat equal to her position. "Good!"

Despite the complete lack of manners or at least banal respect, the girl agreed with the killer's words completely, and to the end, only she would have expressed them a little differently, more gracefully. The lad had saved her life, and the fact he had saved all the others present with her didn't change anything.

"How did you survive, Mort?" Areya Fern came to her senses the slowest, for her wounds were also the most severe, already nearly tearing her shells and threatening to stain her soul. "I mean, I saw you get shot like a dwarven cannon. I didn't even have time to try to help."

Valzea noted in passing the unfamiliar name of the boy who had accidentally (or not accidentally at all) joined their company, but she did not interrupt the conversation for the same reason she had not expressed her indignation to the wanderer. First of all, she was interested in the answer to the question. Second, she couldn't get her body to breathe properly enough to put her thoughts into words.

"T-there's a b-bush of some strange roses over there." The young man replied, waving his hand behind his back. "I flew p-past it like I was in hon-ney, it took away all my speed. I would have been s-splat-tered."

Humming, at the same time noting the restoration of her own breathing, Valzea stepped in, not so much out of a desire to enlighten those around her, but to show her presence and ability to participate in the conversation.

"It's an Agamey Rose bush..... was, by the looks of it." With a certain melancholy, Valzea even weaves her phrase in. "A rare plant, nourished by the heavens themselves, which causes it to create a hemisphere of pure peace around it."

"Excuse me?" A little uncertainly, as if afraid of scolding for a bush, which had been ruined by the sharp break of the said barrier.

"It's all right. I never liked this species, but it was planted on my grandfather's orders, and therefore, the command to replace it could be considered a violation of the will of a past Emperor." The girl answered, for the first time since their acquaintance, allowing herself to use the rights of one of the masters of the Empire and the only mistress of the estate.

Will is intertwined with magic, allowing her to analyze and realize another's power even better than a professional interrogator can. Or at least not worse. She doesn't even try to use this trick on the Wanderer, knowing in advance that he will hide from it because this unknown expert is too good to fall for such a trick. She already knows enough about Areya Fern's skills and status, having already remembered and compared her personality. The boy, however, remained a dark spot that she decided to clear up.

An ordinary adventurer with a couple of rare titles and one epic one. And also level twenty-two. He's really just random luck to have slipped into this group. Well, or he's just really good at masking his essence. It has been rumored, and some analysts' summaries have confirmed with circumstantial evidence, that covens of Identity Stealers remain active even now in each of the continent's existing capitals.

Too weak to seriously hope to survive the attempt to reach the Palace and take refuge there. Not with the need to go through the purple-stained streets. Not with Valzea's own fatigue, the bulky man unrestrained by his tongue, and Fern. Whatever the story that had brought them all together, there was hardly any chance of the boy completing it. Unless she leaves him here in one of the hideouts... but she doesn't believe it will end well for the town itself. And even if it did, she wouldn't risk it, either - the chances of freeing the Imperial Palace complex from Hell's grip are far greater than bringing the entire capital city back to reality at once.

"I suppose Your Highness will order you to proceed to the Palace?" The liquidator, who was already taking a breath, clarified, also stroking a not quite indifferent glance at the boy who was embarrassed under their gazes, confirming her familiarity with the emergency guidelines regarding the rescue of the Eternal Blood. She was just as certain of his contribution to their rescue as she was of the probable fate of her own soul if that contribution had not been made.

"Quite right, Fern." Valzea far from missed the barely perceptible shiver in the operative's body when the princess spoke her birth name. "But before I demand you do your duty in my name, I am compelled to do a duty of my own."

The deceptively soft tone was replaced at the end of the sentence by a murderous seriousness and steel as Valzea rekindled her self-confidence, realizing how much she was risking. What was more in her actions - practicality and desire to strengthen her defenders as much as possible, or banal gratitude, which even the most callous of people were no stranger to.

"Come." In a voice that brooked no objection, the trueborn Eternal demanded, investing the power of her authority over the land and the people who inhabited it. "Kneel."

In fact, it was quite possible to defy or even ignore the ruler's orders, especially if you had a high level, a strong will, or a lack of patriotism in your soul. Such tricks are much weaker on the subjects of other countries, but the boy was still too weak, having absorbed law-abidingness and reverence for the ruling family from his mother's milk. He could have tried to rescind the order, but he dared not even try, which was not surprising.

What was really surprising was Areya's barely perceptible movement, as if her hand had tried to grip the dagger's hilt at the moment of the crossbowman's order. She can't believe someone with her background would show such sudden concern for someone... It could be suspicious, but for now, Valzea couldn't formalize those suspicions into anything.

"Say your name!" A new order, a new expenditure of energy, at the same time invoking the source that nourishes each of the truly empowered.

"Mort, son of Volaan of the Glassblowers." From the pressure of her presence, the guy's stuttering even went away, which, by the way, has long been documented and is one of the ways to cure such an ailment, only very expensive and rarely used for obvious reasons.

Still, he was a commoner, which, on the one hand, was good and easier for her, but on the other hand, it was much harder in terms of reputational losses. On the other side, leaving the one who saved her soul alive but not gifted for his deed would be even worse for her reputation, even if no one finds out about it.

Srew it!

Carast-Barg might have paid for her favor three hundred times over, even if not only in money but also in deeds, but his deed could not contain a tenth of what the boy had accomplished, even though his whole family had helped him to receive favor from Valzea's hands. If William and his clan were still alive and survived the massacre, she would find something to answer their very likely and partially justified claims.

"In my name, as my Father's daughter, and in his name." The words come out memorized and perfectly placed, but all the princess's will is focused on not getting embarrassed now, and she realizes with surprise how atypically easy the process she started is. "Let thy name be taken away, frozen in my Eternal hands, leaving thee the name of thy Father. Let thy name be the name of thy lineage in remembrance of what has been accomplished. Arise, Volaan de Mort, Esquire, and remember thy Honor, thy House, thy Word, and thy Deeds, which shall never be forgotten."

Giving a regular title wasn't hard, but if you were to bestow it, it should be at the top of the scale. Initially, she'd wanted to show her favor with the title, adding characteristics and slightly increasing his chances of survival. What she hadn't expected was the ease with which the bestowal would go, allowing her to bestow far more than she'd ever thought possible. She'd even done the titling in the Western tradition, with the addition of a prefix to compensate for the possible backlash - Valzea happened to have the most influence in the Western provinces, which translated into such trivialities. But what a result!

Although, if you think about it...

With his level, he not only took part in a battle with a cultist who was clearly over half a hundred steps up the ladder of elevation but also did some damage to him and his artifacts and then made a decisive contribution to the victory, even if by sheer luck. It was really worth a lot. For example, getting a second class while still at level twenty-two, which, of course, happens sometimes, not being some crazy advantage, but it also requires, usually, very serious training with questionable results. Both her brothers and the princess herself preferred to get their classes by the normal method - less risk that way. If one could, for example, reach the second class at least on the nineteenth class to get an extra skill point, one would be much more willing to take the risk.

With a shake of her head, Valzea took a step back from the newly minted Esquire, removing her palm from his shoulder and noting with surprise that her reserve had not sagged. She had been known to give titles to her retinue and sometimes not only titles but also class changes. Always after such manipulations, she needed rest and sometimes a healer. In the case of the healer, of course, only after saying goodbye to the witnesses so no one could see her weakness, but that was not the point.

"Congratulations, Mort." Sincerely, as far as Valzea could tell, Fern was happy for an unexpected companion, only confirming suspicions that the weakling had been attached to the odd couple for a long time now, having become familiar with them. "You'll make a career out of it."

Even the big man mumbled something between profane and approving, leaning against the wall and resting after his labors, staring ahead with unfocused eyes. It was clear here, too. Volaan wasn't the only one getting new ascensions from the fight. The princess also wanted to spend some time looking at the changes in Status, finding no reason to hold back but finding time to ask a question.

"Why did the flow of time in the estate and behind its barrier equalize?" She didn't expect an answer, but she suspected the cause of such a mishap. "Did you notice the moment of transition?"

"Nah, haven't noticed." The wanderer answered, still staring into himself, not taking his eyes off his work. "I was jumping on the Mark, and it came on abruptly, almost suddenly. I'd put it on the motherfucker a long time ago, but the fucking suckers had shut it down almost immediately, almost took it off, and even tried to use it to find me a couple of times, the fucking cocksuckers. If I hadn't been so careful, I could have gotten in trouble. We'd been doing a little bit of havoc, so we had to choose where to get fucked - either where we were already fucked, or by the suddenly shining Mark. As a Witcher friend of mine used to say, "This is shit, and that is shit. These two shit are the kind of shit that made me fucking pull out both of my swords at once".

A couple more leading questions, mostly about timelines, combined with attempts to find out more about where and why this trio had been pinned down, led Valzea to the only logical conclusion.

"Somewhere around the same time, the cultists were killing my retinue, the ones I had with me, and the estate guards." The satisfaction of realizing the deaths of a good portion of the freaks involved in her problems somewhat assuaged the bitterness under her heart at the loss of those loyal to her personally. "Most likely, to trying signal, someone in charge of the ritual halls collapsed the displacement effect. That's why you were able to get here, which is good, no doubt. And bad."

"Bad?" The boy has indeed stopped stuttering, which is also good news since they won't make fun of him and, by implication, her as the one who bestowed the title. "But why?"

"It means that the estate's defenses are only outwardly almost intact and already crumbling like a sugar cookie." Fern plays the role of mentor to the new addition, clearly not for the first time answering her companion's silly questions. "I'm betting the only reason the domes are standing is because none of the devils ever tried to break this place open, knowing who was sent here and why. Please forgive me if my words are too off the protocol, Your Highness."

Valzea, of course, was not going to be snapped by the liquidator's gross breach of etiquette, if only because it would make her look like a petty fool. If she kept silent at the wanderer's passages, as if intentionally playing a tune on her nerves, she would only make herself look like a hypocritical and cowardly fool by getting angry at Fern, who was weaker and in a subordinate position to her blood.

"We rested, and that's enough." Once again, the princess was unable to track the moment when the brute was on his feet, which was not surprising given the difference in classes, but the fact that this moment was clearly not tracked by Fern, who was also adapted to such tasks, was far more disturbing. "We're overscheduled. If we have to go to the Palace, it's time to move our asses now. Get up and fuck off, gentlemen and ladies."

He interrupted her again.

Once again, he did not allow a response to the appeal.

Again, he used the profanity.

And it's in her face!

Acceleration, boosting, covering herself with a barrier, and there she was standing before him. Even if he was stronger, even if she couldn't stand up to him in a fight, even if the other two took her side (which was not confirmed if she were to believe the analysts' reports concerning Fern), she had honor, dignity, self-respect, finally! And to tolerate such an attitude, to keep silent even now, would be a choice even worse than to fall in battle.

She had already opened her mouth, preparing to spout either the words of activation for the family mystery or a demand for a sincere apology, when a shameful shiver ran down her spine and an equally shameful sob escaped her lips. To be fair, her opponent sat up, too, struggling to stay on his feet, his slanted eyes perfectly round.

Valzea, as the eldest of the Emperor's daughters, was well aware of the kinds of things that could be found in the family vault and the consequences of using them. And if it came to the point of using the very thing she had thought of, the situation was certainly dire. Probably under the shadow of multiple barriers, albeit weakened, she had missed something important because it was hard to imagine why her father had activated the Combined Labyrinth.

One of the strongest mythical artifacts in general, it possessed a staggering power that could make any incarnate God think three times before risking to go up against the owner of the artifact. An artifact that could compare a mere lone mortal, if not to God, then to his Avatar. An artifact that was absolutely, utterly, completely useless for anyone who was not alone. Every single activated ability of this toy of ancient civilizations was hitting strictly on the area, with great difficulty distinguishing between allies and enemies.

Father had undoubtedly used the simplest form of attack, the first of the bestowed abilities, open to anyone who would take the artifact in hand while possessing level thirty and a Ruler class of any type. The Great Shuffle allowed one to delineate vast territories, depending on the amount of land under control, to encompass all living and non-living, sentient and non-sentient, empowered and disempowered, and then rearrange them all chaotically.

To use the shuffle in a normal situation would be a disaster on the scale of the Empire because the Emperor of Ages' domain, by the way, is the entire Empire. But now that the Empire has been cut off from the capital by the strongest barrier, the effect of the Labyrinth is covered by the Eternal alone. It should be added that many fortified points throughout the city were created and defended with the expectation of possible use of this artifact, which means part of the forces will be able to maintain the fighting order.

And also...

A silly smile crept onto Valzea's face as she realized her father's cunning - it was impossible to cover the entire Empire, just as it was impossible to protect everyone loyal to you from moving. But here was the Eternal alone. If one were to boost one's perception with potions, benefits, and rituals at the same time and then fall headfirst into the Emperor's class skills ... There's no way to take full control of the Labyrinth mechanism in such an area either unless you count pockets of resistance and probably concentrations of hidden civilians. Everyone else who will be caught in the streets or ordinary local battles has a good chance to get to a random point in the city.

Except here's the kicker with this move.

The Humans were unprepared for battle, and even if they kept some battle lines, even if they concentrated in squads near the very pockets of resistance, their organization was nothing compared to the well-oiled and, probably, a thousand times worked out the machine of the invasion. And where those endowed with a greater measure, it would be all the same where to fight for their lives because both here and there around the complete hopelessness. With the creatures, everything is different. Losing cohesion, mixing up the ranks, the routes of assault teams and cleanup groups, they will lose more than the defenders would have lost, and the Emperor is obliged to do everything possible to make sure his subjects are affected as little as possible.

In the confined space of the Eternal, he has every chance of knowing success in this endeavor.

Valzea had a strong faith in her Father despite the complexity of family relationships.

The barriers of the estate had withstood, albeit with a great number of gaps, only this time they were easily recognizable. If it hadn't been for Valzea fixing their point in space according to the standard "one second before the shifting wave," if it hadn't been for the wanderer's dust sphere that had managed to cover them only a little after Valzea's distortion, they too would have been scattered to different corners. Judging by this simple truth, Father (or someone from the elder family) had not included the estate in the list of exceptions to the wave. Resentment was replaced by understanding. The guards had signaled before they died, which meant that Valzea was already considered either dead, or worse than dead, or, most sadly, rehired and defiled.

The dust has fallen.

The flow of the river has leveled out.

Volaan hiccupped audibly, barely in time to react to the change of scenery, raising his crossbow into a fighting position, but because of the deafening riot of space, he simply couldn't hold it in his hands and dropped it on the floor, causing the bowstring to come down, spitting its projectile out of the stock. A crossbow bolt embedded in the wall echoed with a dry thud, knocking off the stand of one of the insanely expensive paintings that had been placed in the common room for some unknown reason. A porcelain vase from the early Empire of the Arms shattered into shards, pushed to the stone floor by the falling painting. One and a half thousand gold at least, but this particular one must have been worth a lot more since standing here...

"Sorry." The Esquire whispered, defusing the situation.

"Mda." The wanderer continued. "I kind of overreacted a little bit, too."

"Yes, and I'm unacceptably agitated by what's going on." Valzea didn't really think so, but the last thing she would do would be to escalate a conflict that she formally won and which she couldn't win in full.

"To the Palace, then." Fern, who had previously remained silent, summarized, returning her daggers to their scabbards. "While the transference wave... if it's what I thought it was, has completely disorganized the devils, we still have a chance."

A minute and a half later, Valzea had already tried on the amulet complex, drank another dose of the potion that would cost her in the future, sent a mental curse to the gutted corpse of Ramarz, or rather what was left of it after being struck by the Darkness, wishing she had the manners to spit on the corpse. Brute, on the other hand, had no manners. He even kicked a piece of the cultist's spleen.

Two minutes later, they were out of the estate and speeding toward the side of the dome that was easiest to pass through without turning to ash, which, by happy coincidence, allowed them to take the shortest route to the Palace. Valzea also noticed the bulky man did not put on his cloak once more, only scattering some of his arsenals in the pockets of his belt. Instead of the cloth cloak, the dust cloak remained on his shoulders.

And it also seemed to her that the frightening faces of the angry old men depicted on his armor looked around too vividly, too anticipatory...
* * *

The Main Theater was a large, stately building with a lot of stained glass and stucco, but it also had thick walls, strong internal lintels, defensible architecture, and a huge amount of defensive magic, as for an ordinary theater. The theater, in fact, was a very convenient point of defense, and the nearby guard corps, several guild ranges, and even a training camp for Eye recruits could be near and then inside these walls in a matter of minutes, taking up a position and not letting anyone else in.

The traitors, recruited by the devils, had sent their representatives here, too, but as it happened, they had not succeeded here, thanks to a fortunate coincidence of circumstances and a respectable level of competence among the top and middle commanders of the guards. So, it turned out first, the cultists failed to confuse the ranks of the defenders. Then the devils sent here a too-weak detachment, which, thanks to the same competence multiplied by luck, they managed to kill with outstanding ease and, after that, more and more forces were drawn to this point, turning the theater into a very toothy and large hotbed of struggle for the souls and essence of the vested ones.

And it would all be useless.

And they'd all be corrupted.

And they would all be doomed.

But this place had something else besides competent commanders, desperate warriors, savvy mages, and willing civilians (all of which were plentiful in many places, but those defenses didn't benefit from such advantages). Or rather, someone every dog knew about, but it was only now that all those dogs, including Eyes, who was once again shitting themselves professionally, realized how little they knew about this person.

Maitre Tarak, who all his life demanded to be addressed strictly by his first name, not to mention in vain his poor and long-dead family, to which he was once the fourth son, earned his main title of maestro a long time ago. The best maestro, with equal ease playing any role, changing roles with the same carelessness with which modern fashionistas change gloves, a superb director and producer, always playing roles in his creations. He became a legend in his lifetime.

But neither the relentless Eyes, nor the power-hungry guilds, nor the noble aristocrats even suspected he was a Legend, not only in terms of theatrical prowess. Sixty-fourth level, epic, and two legendary classes, several dozen developed skills, and many extremely unusual and even unique titles. And all this was obtained not in bloody battles, not in inhuman experiments, not in cannibalistic intrigues, but only by one single craft so beloved by him.

Hero of Any Role.

His level was guessed, but no one could even guess that with that level came the corresponding power. Or, they could, but they didn't want to make a fool of themselves without proof. A power that was pitted against a gleeful gaggle of cultists, corrupted captives, and ruthless creatures. They had come here intending to fight as they were accustomed to, expecting standard countermeasures, albeit strong countermeasures, albeit applied with prohibitive skill.

Instead, they were greeted by a stage.

And the shots from the sham battle staffs held by the deathly frightened actors turned to roaring flames and crashing lightning, streams of light and ice storms, waves of blackness and shining skies. And, suddenly, a low-level and completely unfit for battle actor, wearing the costume of a royal guard, fought like a lion, battling with a fierce steel whirlwind, slaying one enemy after another. The multilayered shields of the devils turned into waves of sequins and confetti, and the attacking charms were replaced by harmless illusions, unable even to scratch the defenders because props are not supposed to be as deadly as the things with which these props are used.

The devils are very experienced opponents, ready for anything, if only because of the memory of the souls of their entire domain, who can be asked for advice at any moment, but even for them, it is too difficult to adapt tactics that only a few in the history of Alurei could use. The devils have adapted, flayed, used mental blows, warped minds, avoided damage, and changed tactics on the fly, managing to survive and not even lose where there seemed to be no chance. But they couldn't crush the Main Theater's defenses as long as its chief defender stood at the entrance.

He didn't need to jump, jump like a mountain goat, change positions, or cover himself with barriers. He simply outlined other people's roles, and then the role itself became reality, supported and pushed by an unassuming, short man who gave commands to the defensive. In a good play, of course, justice does not always triumph, otherwise, the genre of tragedy would not exist, but it is up to the director to decide for whom the outcome of the play will turn out to be a tragedy.

Wave after wave.

Assault after assault.

The devils depleted their sonms. They expended their strength and utilized unrealistically vast reserves of fleur, which remained one of the few things not completely subservient to their designated roles. The devils pressed on, fearlessly and without question, continuing the fight, seeking, if not to destroy, then to exhaust, to force a retreat and allow the devils to turn the battle back to the familiar.

It's not as if they were failing because, minute by minute, Maître was giving up, getting weaker. His techniques didn't require reserve, which the greatest living theatremaker still had a paltry amount of, as it was for his level. His classes did not draw power from other planes, allowing him to operate almost continuously without fear of contamination, but every power had its price. There was a price to pay for this power, but the maestro was more than willing to pay it.

People and non-humans died, dropped dead, went mad, or fell under the control of the enemy. The play did not always have time to give a role for everyone in distress. But, all the Gods be witnesses, let them be. With this balance of power, such losses don't even go by the bar of "low" but somewhere between "negligible" and "it doesn't happen that way." The defenders paid in blood but took the same toll on the stormers. In the depths of the theater halls, a headquarters formed. Reinforcements came from all sides, and even from the Imperial Palace a couple of teleport wormholes were conducted, managing to execute them despite the obstacles created by the dome.

But nothing lasts forever, even if the dynasty of rulers of the Empire of Ages has always tried to challenge that truth, sometimes even with some success. Maitre Tarak gave up slowly but steadily, reassigning roles more and more slowly, exhaling longer and longer after each act, having more and more difficulty convincing the world that he was a theater. The actor and director were pressured by the same reality, its ordinariness, and blandness, which made him fixate on similar days. As if you had seen it all a hundred times, done it a thousand times, as if you had long ago grown tired of life, and of this play, which did not end and dragged on beyond all decency.

The problem with banality is characteristic of most actors if these actors are worth anything and have developed classes. A kind of specific problem, characteristic strictly for a certain group of classes. Some scholars have even drawn parallels between this condition and the crisis of faith burnout that often afflicts priests, clerics, and servants of gods, but such theories have not gained popularity. If only because the priests and their patrons did not like such attentive attempts to study the mechanisms of their weaknesses, because no shit.

It's all been done before.

Everything follows the same pattern.

You've seen this before and more than once.

Same faces.

Same events.

Centuries go by, repeating in circles.

The old actor is no longer on his feet, almost collapsed, and only the possibility of leaning against the wall keeps him from losing sight of his scene and from losing control of the battle. A ring of defenders shrinks around him, ready to give their lives but not let the enemy through to the only reason everyone here has yet to give those very lives. The officers are yelling into intercom amulets, including those issued just an hour earlier, sent by teleportation, which has torn half of those amulets apart and rendered nearly all of the remaining ones simply unusable. They're asking for help, for support, for men, or at least one more Maitre Tarak, but they know in their hearts that no one will be able to send them reinforcements in time, that those reinforcements are desperately needed elsewhere.

But the headquarters, located in the Imperial Palace, has plenty of time to think hard about the problems to come up with an option where a smaller force with maximum efficiency can be used. Reality shudders when the palace and theater find themselves reconnected by a wormhole, and three people fall out of the portal, none of whom give the impression of being elite warriors. Two average Eyes workers with agent classes, only tired and intimidated, and one middle-aged man in an imposing cloak, glasses, and hat, smoking a pipe from a battle amulet.

"We were sent by Lord Campbell's orders." One of the Eyes speaks, while the other is silent, trying not to vomit after passing through the barely stable spatial fold. "They say you need help here, but I haven't quite figured out what our subject can do to help."

A tall and statuesque woman of broad bones, level twenty-six, and two classes of Singer and Prima, ran into the isolated hall, that had been set aside for the teleportation site and was therefore empty except for the arrivals and greeters. In case of trouble, the unstable space wouldn't tear up all the passersby.

The eyes of an experienced actress immediately find among the serious soldiers, warriors, and commanders the only soul mate. And with unbearable bitterness, she utters a phrase understandable only to her or someone from her circle of communication, which for ordinary people or mighty warriors makes no sense and seems ridiculous, absurd, and frivolous.

"Help, please, for Aniciz's sake!" Her voice is deep and mesmerizing, even without the use of active skills, as someone with her classes should be. "Maitr Tarak is banal!"

And while the others are trying to understand what is happening, not counting those of the warriors to whom the problem had been explained a little earlier, the pipe-smoker in a combat situation changes his face and takes on a serious look, without, however, taking the pipe out of his mouth. He's not a warrior, that's true, just as it's true that even the most pathetic cultist or devil could kill him. But he is not here to fight, only to fulfill a task that no one else can do.

"Relax, darling, I'm a Postmodernist." Seeing the eyes of the actress widen in surprise and sincere admiration, he smiles, gladly accepting the fact that at least someone realizes how gorgeous he is. "We'll play it out."

Its class, while having a very impressive epic grade, is even rarer than a fair share of legendary classes. And the reason for this is not a superpower, not prohibitive coolness or incredible power, for which you have to pay a terrible price. The problem is to get such a class. To get it at the tenth level in the options of choice, you need to lead a very specific pumping, which, more often than not, there is nothing to provide. Not because of the cost but because of the very specific conditions required.

In his normal state, his class was no greater than that of a typical Poet or Writer. He has improved memory like Librarians, the ability to visualize various pictures in front of him like Artists, and the ability to transfer thoughts to paper with great speed and without having to write by hand like all sorts of officials. Useful stuff, but it can all be done by rare classes, even unusual ones without having to spend the effort to get an epic grade.

The main strength of his class, revealed in a truly qualitative development, was an extension of the role of his work, consisting of the ability to bear the backlash of overstretching provoked by the strongest theatrical skills. To bring novelty, if you will. A completely useless skill in most cases because there are surprisingly few artists who are developed enough to master such powerful techniques, and they rarely, if ever, need help. They're not warriors or magicians, so they don't have to beat themselves to a pulp time after time. That is, the work of the actors is not sugar, and in the early stages, you can sabotage nerves, bake brains, and bring yourself to a split personality (good, if they come out only two), but the higher you climb, the fewer challenges, the less often you need to give your best.

The need to play a role, to live it, is always present, but only at high levels with the acquisition of special skills, this need becomes truly dangerous. That's when you can call him, Sodan Arger, except that he is very rarely called, only a few times in his entire life, for which he earned a regular living as a typical writer. His novels, of course, were not the most popular. Although he always knew how to play with clichés, giving pleasure to all those who, on the contrary, already wanted to vomit from the typical love literature of poor quality. They say that about two hundred years ago, when books in the Empire were more expensive, and the manufactories of halflings and dwarves couldn't recover from the war with Alishan (no one wanted to share a piece of the pie, preferring not to give it to anyone but a competitor) to start producing paper in large quantities again, there was less crap among literature.

They're lying.

There was less literature then, but there was still plenty of crap. Sodan had read several monographs on the subject, and had even written one and defended it in one of Neitmak's small Magistatums!

And now he was on fire. It was only with someone like Maître Tarak that his stupid class, once chosen simply because it was the only epic class available to him, became truly irreplaceable. And Sodan stood behind the maestro's shoulder, putting all of himself into his class, ignoring all consequences, just to be as efficient as possible.

As he watched the cultists fall, as attack after attack was reflected, as defenses that had almost broken through were rebuilt, he finally forgave himself for the foolishness of choosing his class, seeking glory he had never received. Here was his glory, here was his battle, and here he would either die or know triumph.

Also, if they survive today, Maître Tarak may hire him as permanent staff and give him some money.

It's perfect.
* * *

The girl struck quickly like a desert snake on the attack, acting from a blind spot, attacking a seemingly drunk and already quite demented from a week's drunkenness. Its strike did not stir up any premonitions. It did not raise a shiver throughout the body, as it does every time death comes too close to someone who has stepped high enough on the ladder of elevation. This vile attack could have killed someone, even if they were as strong, had advanced attributes, and were of a high level. A primitive-looking shiv, more suited to a bandit than an assassin, was not the weakest artifact, and the poison on it had a good chance of bringing down even a Hero with a scratch, like Iron Baron but not crippled and of normal combat orientation.

The snake was wrong, as were those who sent her after his life in only one way. The choice of target. It was not a matter of personal ability or military glory, even if it had faded over the past half-century, but of the very personality of the man she was trying to take his life. Baron, during his career, many times caught posthumous and not-so-posthumous curses of those whom he and his team crushed like cockroaches with wrought iron boots. Not all such gifts could be brushed aside. Not all injuries could be healed. Among the many little things that were dangerous only by their cumulative effect, there were a few of the strongest mental curses that caused constant, albeit mild, paranoia and anxiety. They had nothing to do with his premonitions, felt completely different, and did not help him in his life, but they provided one important detail by their existence.

Iron Baron, Blood Commander, Killer of Cities - he could never relax, always ready for a fight, for an attempt to take his soul for the sins he had willingly or unwillingly taken for himself in his long, too long life. And so he didn't hesitate, wasn't surprised, wasn't confused by the lack of foreboding, and automatically, as if he hadn't been drinking all last week and the week before, as if he hadn't a second ago examined the treacherous peddler with a greasy eye, intercepted the woman's graceful and unexpectedly strong hand, breaking it at the elbow and thrusting the sharpened blade into the assassin's throat, which was open at the attack.

There was simply no switch between war and peace in the veteran's mind, no part of his personality that longed for peace and a warm home. He did not wonder, did not think, did not ask himself questions, was not horrified by the wave of evil and monstrously strong magic rising throughout the Eternal. He simply acted according to the pattern he had learned a thousand times. The crew had been ambushed on the march thanks to the treachery of their allies, and the actions for this and similar cases had been practiced long before his grandfather had been born.

The delivery girl, dying of poison, was still humping her legs; the second girl, attacking from behind from the blind spot, was blown away by a shot from a heavy hand-held lead shooter; the third girl, trying to break the distance and throw some kind of amulet at him, had her brains splattered. Flames of battle fervor spread across his body, and several vials of potions fly out of a spatial artifact in the form of a massive gold ring. Baron doesn't know if there is poison in his food, but he's not about to check, pouring the battle cocktail down his throat.

A faint, passionate whisper began to press on his mind, the result of Hell's magic and someone channeling that magic throughout the recreation center he'd spent the last few months in before being sent to the front, straight to the Alishan borders. A second revolver-type lead shooter, just as massive but loaded with an entirely different type of ammunition based on enchanted mithril, was already clutched in his free hand when Baron covered his eyes for a moment.

The commander uses the Chain of Command, putting his iron will into it, as well as a fair share of the reserve, sending all his subordinates a signal of alarm right into their heads. Not just a signal but also a kind of boon that cleanses the body, mind, soul, and brains of any outside influence. With his level, he could use the Transmission of Orders with a skill that would make a professional Benefic go bald with envy, not just reinforcing his subordinates but also selecting the type of reinforcement and class of purification techniques.

He'd encountered the abominable fleur of Hell more than once, even if it was more with the domains of Despondency, Laziness, or Agony, and the scale of these clashes was, judging by the waves of energy throughout the capital, much more modest. Nevertheless, the tactic had long since been ingrained in his subcortex, like any other. There was no opponent under Alurei's sky that Baron did not know how to break off horns, teeth, and other protruding organs.

The connection was activated, and with a deafening anger, he realized that some of the crew could not be saved - they were dead or dying. He was not poisoned, but poison was used against his subordinates, only in one case out of three trying to eliminate them physically. His anger was growing every second, but it was directed not at the enemy, who was just an enemy and not worthy of the Commander's feelings, but at the fools who had shit themselves and let themselves be killed, who had let their minds be deceived by the induced tenderness and lust. As the one who had trained them, prepared them, and molded them into real soldiers, he had every right to treat them that way.

However, there were fewer who dishonored his science than those who learned it, and his warning and timely reinforcement allowed nearly three-quarters of the crew to survive and strike out. A brief skirmish in the sidelines and banquet halls survived barely half, but that was still better than nothing. Especially if you added the rest of the fighters to his fledglings, of which there were plenty in the recreation complex specially designed for military corps.

Commander throws off another attempt to open his mind with some kind of spell, reinforcing his fighters again as the light pressure of the fleur is replaced by sophisticated control techniques, but there is no one to cover the rest of the "allies." Some of them start a merry orgy right where they stood, trying to drag Baron's men into it as well, but there are far more who have raised their weapons against those unaffected by the subjugation. It was a good thing he'd trained his glorious hundred not to part with their battle staffs or lead shooters even in the latrine, so they had something to fight off the subjugated, armed with whatever they had.

But all this was all well and good, of course, if it weren't for an invisible controller or several. Whoever was weaving a web of passion for the entire complex, but the level of that someone was not too inferior even to him, Baron, let alone to the common and not-so-common vacationers. His mind was still sharp, but if he understood anything about tactics (and he did!), the bastard who had sold out to the devils would have to...

Fall down on the floor.

Roll into a fighting stance.

The insanely rapid emptying of the cylinders of both leadguns while simultaneously trying to avoid meeting the barely visible web of translucent cloth. He had no idea of the nature of this technique, and all premonitions were silent along with his intuition, but the same tactical understanding was asserted. Whatever this billet was, it was bound to ensnare even him, which could not be allowed to happen. To take advantage of his slavish loyalty and connection with his subordinates would not be good for the entire capital, not just those defending these walls.

Some strange irritation and even slight resentment flashes through his mind. His opponent is strong and no doubt a worthy adversary, but for someone with his potential, something stronger is simply necessary. To kill, or better yet, to subdue until the moment when he can unfold to his full power, to lean on his greatest precious, even if taken away, but still waiting for him! Just like that, without trying to play give-and-take! The realization that he had been underestimated, that he had not been perceived as dangerous enough, was no longer anger but real rage, boiling and spilling over the edge.

The spatial artifact flashes again, releasing a dozen amulets outward, forming a screen hanging in the air, blowing lines of illusory light between the parts of the mechanism, pointing to the point in the spatial convolution where his opponent hid. The amulets burn out but make her fall out into the real world - naked, covered in tattoos and a layer of semen, with crazy eyes and a beautiful face. Looking straight at him with two unloaded lead shotguns.

She is stuffed with power to the top-notch, enhanced by hundreds of sacrifices and frenzied orgies. She can command monstrous amounts of power, and her aura of Vice can easily turn an entire assault army hundred into a lapdog at the mere sight of her shining eyes. Her body and essence are tormented by a multitude of gifts, both one-time and permanent. Her power on this day, the day of her triumph, surpasses everything previously said by two heads. And she is opposed only by an aging and spiraling half-witted soldier whose iron teeth were long ago pulled by Imperial decree and divine injunctions. He can't even put his men between him and her now. He is in the most unfavorable position, having already wasted most of the arsenal preserved from the best days.

He has nothing to respond to her caresses, nothing to dance in response to her movements. He was already doomed despite his comparable level and many titles. That is why they sent her alone, for there was no need for more. Iron fangs, iron heart, iron mind... all of which had indeed been stripped from him, leaving only a shell that was hardly dangerous to the Sovereign's plans.

With a rapturous laugh, she covers herself with a cocoon of tainted souls and translucent armor that consists of passionately copulating ghostly bodies. Then, with a swift lunge, she draws closer to her victim. Even exhausted and scrapped by his masters, he remains a trophy of great price, which she will conquer and take right now if only she touches his body and essence. For the sake of such pleasure, she could spare a moment, distracted from the battle her subordinates were inevitably winning.

Well, two minutes tops. If this chipper old man has the stamina to finish a second run.

Thirty seconds into their short fight, Baron spat a bloody clot onto the floor, gutted by a stray magical blow, and kicked his opponent's limbless and headless body one last time. His mouth tasted of potions and blood, his head was buzzing, and the constant pressure of Lust was getting on his nerves.

Deprived of the coordination of the main guiding unit, the cultists, no longer having on their side neither the effect of surprise nor even the support of the fools who had been fooled by the bitch he had killed, were inevitably coming to an end, so Baron could only wait for the right people to find him and pick him up. He could only walk with great difficulty and not very far, if not to say under himself. The cultist's last attack had not splattered his insides on the walls only because he had managed to blow half of her skull off a moment earlier, but even so, he had been hit by a barely formed shockwave, laying his long-suffering back against one of the chairs overturned by their battle.

"Shit." His voice sounds muffled and dry, as if unaccustomed, for too deep he dived into the warlord's skills without using words at all. "Bullshit."

After heavy use of the same Сhain of Сommand, any attempt to have a normal conversation will be difficult. This is an occupational disease of all command classes. One gets so used to words being too long, cumbersome, and unnecessary that one does not immediately remember why they are needed and how to use them. Those who swam too deep into this river become strange parodies of the undead: alive and breathing, but with about as much emotion and humanity as a lich or wraith.

After a short and very long time, which he spent in restorative meditation, he was gently taken under his arms and led outside, where an impromptu council of war was already in progress. He would have taken much longer to recover if almost all of his injuries had not been healed by the return of Time itself, spoken and embodied by the Emperor himself, leaving only phantom pains and very severe mental fatigue. He had to exhaust himself to the point where even the power of Eternity could not heal completely.

The resting area was almost on the very edge of the Eternal, near one of the walls of the cursed dome, and also took up a lot of space, while the number of vacationers and servants was much smaller. In general, the devils were in no hurry to finish them off because they believed, not unreasonably, that they were all already beaten and the devils needed fresh forces in the center of the capital. So they had a little time to talk and try to regain their senses, though even the most able-bodied and the least injured in the battle had time to go to the city for their purposes. Some of them wanted to join larger formations, where it was easier to survive, and some of them had loved ones and relatives in other neighborhoods...

"You don't understand!" Dressed in a priestly soutane, grinning madly and throwing intimidating glances in all directions, the man, whom Baron recognized as one of the local vacationers, was ready to snap into hysterics. He did not snap only because he feared getting kicked in the teeth like several previous unstable men who had been calmed down by his officers. "I can't hear Him! I can't reach Him! I can't get through! It's like I'm screaming into the void, pounding on a stone stronghold! This place. It's not here! We're halfway to Hell, and no god can help us! No god can help us! We're doomed! Do you hear me? Doomed!"

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

Ammunition, especially such expensive ammunition, was a pity, but in his defense, Baron could say he was no less shocked than the priest who had lost the main support in his life. Even, perhaps, much more shocked, as his agitated companions no doubt noticed. They had not often seen emotions other than anger and irritation at the idiocy of others on his face, and they had probably never seen such sincere disbelief and shock.

With a trembling - and it is his trembling! - hand, he places the lead shooter beside him, turning carefully to face the priest so as not to disturb the wounds, to see the eyes of his interlocutor.

"Say, servant of the gods, is it, then, that we are no longer under the Heaven of our native Alurei?" He speaks very quietly, but no one interrupts him, and anyone who tries to is quickly shut up with a fist in his teeth, sometimes preventively.

"Yes, Honorable." The priest replies in a dead tone, not even noticing who he's replying to or that everyone around him is silent. "Not under Heaven."

"Is it so, then, that there is no all-seeing Eye of God over us?" The voice grows stronger, deeper, more sonorous, and more penetrating to the very bones, forcing everyone around him, except his crew, to move away involuntarily.

"Yes, honorable." The priest replies even more, hunched over and aging without any magical curses. "They are not here, nor is there a will embodied by them."

"Isn't it the case that even the Eternal Palace itself, along with the Emperor himself, are outside of Heaven and outside of the Gods?" All of Baron's will was spent trying to hold back his feelings.

"Y-yes?" The priest has noticed something, but he doesn't realize what it is yet.

Silence.

Howling creatures in the distance.

The sounds of distant battles.

The ringing of magical barriers.

A quiet shimmer of dome-distorted ethereal currents.

All present are silent. Only the sound of his beating heart can be heard.

"Ha. Ha ha. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!" Following his laughter, the rest of the team, the entire crew, who were still on their feet and conscious, began to laugh, ignoring the already frankly frightened looks of those around them. They, too, understood, realized what neither the devils nor the Eternal Emperor himself could know, simply because none of them were there when Baron's heart was taken from him as a result of the bargain, everything he valued was taken away, leaving only a scar, a gaping emptiness in his soul, and a tiny flame of hope that even you don't believe in anymore, because such miracles never happen.

It took decades of time spent trying to drink alcohol to wash away the grief, in constant business trips to various military conflicts, to wash away with blood the disgrace of the ruler and his weakness, his treachery, just to keep his wits about him. It took an invasion of devils, the biggest for the last millennium at least, kidnapping of the whole capital, and getting into such a mess even God's help would not get out of it!

// ...as long as you dare to live under the skies of Alurei.....

// ...while eyes of Ours watch over your deeds.....

// ...as long as your Empire stands and the blood of its ruler lives in Our World....

// ...until then, We are the guarantor of your punishment.....

Iron Baron laughs heartily, and beside him laugh all those who have shared their commander's fate, feeling for the first time in a long time the sprouts of hope that have sprouted. They don't care about devils and despair, don't care they have to get out of Hell somehow, don't care about anything. It doesn't matter if the devils knew this was likely. Nothing else matters!

Baron closes his eyes.

Baron calling.

He calls for something inanimate and never lived, something created by the hands of the endowed and given a grain of intelligence, a personality of its own. He calls for something that was his, all of them, taken away by politicians and diplomats, intriguers and traitors, taken away by the enemies of the state to which Baron had given all of himself, taken away by the ruler whom he had served faithfully. Because it was easier to pay the Empire, to offer too much just for them to give up on them, on his crew.

He was told that the Emperor had walled himself in defense of his life, specifically stating that he would not allow Baron to be killed as part of the treaty. That this defense was motivated not only by a desire to have a chance to reverse the deal but also by recognition of his services. He was persuaded that too much had to be sacrificed, that the Emperor had agreed to this outcome only to avoid an exhausting three-front war, managing to bargain away not only material but also political benefits from this decision, turning those who were willing to be enemies into allies and paying for future victories with their blood.

He listened.

But didn't hear.

He tried to distinguish behind the noise of words, the falsity of sympathetic smiles, and the cold glances of the capital's intriguers the rumbling cry of a heart torn from his chest, torn and sealed by the Will of five deities, by the Edict of seven states. And, for the first time in so many years, he heard it, heard the call, and went to meet it.

Ignoring all the barriers created by the dome above the city, space was torn to shreds, widening the passage that led nowhere, far beyond the Edge of Creation. Lightning bolts of unbelievable power thundered around them, buzzing with the power invested in them, which contained more divine will than a hundred clerics at once. The surviving members of the Iron Hundred laughed and laughed, and their indomitable Commander smiled for the first time in decades or even centuries, trying to hide the tears glistening in the corners of his eyes.
* * *

Several centuries ago, when the reign of the great Pavian Fortifier was just beginning, a joint experiment was conducted in the research buildings of the Empire of Ages and the Kingdom of the Undermountain that ended in a crushing and completely unexpected success. Any research, of course, is done with the expectation of success, but not on such a scale as this. The Emerald Pavilion, the Eternal Library, and even the Elven Order of Red Ink - all of them, along with a dozen organizations and guilds of smaller caliber, put their efforts into completing the endeavor.

The project resulted in the creation and launching of a combat vehicle of unprecedented power and superweaponry, which was many times ahead of any development, even if we talk about the dwarves, who are always ahead of all Alurei. An unprecedented number of legendary reagents, a whole set of artifacts of the same grade, and even a few mythical creations of ancient masters were spent to breathe life into the created something. And this something required a commander with many extremely specific features of the soul. Elves, dwarves, and even beastfolk offered their variants for this position, but only the Empire of Ages was lucky enough to find a suitable candidate who managed to pass the merger and survive it without crumbling into stone dust along with his soul.

There were enough conflicts at the time, and the joint, even if more human, crew, along with the machine itself, was sent to the region of the Endless Grasses, the savannahs that alternated with deserts and sparse tropical oases - the very border of the Great Desert, which was on the opposite side of the map to Alishan. That was where the combined brigade under the command of the then relatively young Baron was headed. To test the newly created and, at the same time, not to destroy the fragile balance of power on the continent early. At that time, the alliance between the Eternal Dynasty and the Lords of the Undermountain was stronger than ever before and since, which also caused justifiable anxiety among the neighbors and gossip among the aristocracy, who suspected the Empress of being unfaithful to her husband, and even in the arms of one of the dwarven elders.

The central region of the Endless Grass was simply swarming with primitive and barely clinging to the endowment of the tribes that the expedition was intended to subdue - a full-fledged army corps of the Empire, a small horde of the Undermountain Kingdom, and even some elven mages and rangers. And, of course, the notorious war machine and its crew - without which that campaign would have been doomed from the very beginning.

The savage tribes, self-named Zus'ull, which translates to "people of the free wind and the glorious hunt," were, as stated, primitive but by no means weak. Incredibly high average level and extremely advanced shamanic, warrior, and hunter classes made them a real nightmare, especially if you had to fight in their territories. They had no homes or permanent locations, but they had plenty of trackers and scouts, only slightly inferior to the elven "leaves" in their jungles and savannahs.

And then there were the shamans and summoners, with all the things they could summon into the real world! The monsters that the imperial witch doctors had restrained with great effort were almost caressing the damned savages, agreeing to contracts with astonishing ease. The seemingly simple expedition was rapidly turning into a desperate attempt to survive in completely unsuitable conditions.

At the same time, the situation on the continent was getting more and more tense, escalating from tense to catastrophic. The unfriendly neighbor, which had grown extremely strong and had managed to accumulate a stock of artifacts, contracts, and, of course, Summoned ones, was not just holding the defense against the joint efforts of the Empire of Ages and the Undermountain Kingdom, but was also demonstratively advancing, pressing on all fronts. Combat slaves and the undead created from their corpses, legions of summoned abominations and blows of strategic charms based on planar energies, the full support of clerics of the dark and even part of the light and neutral pantheons, perfectly trained circles of seers and a series of successful sabotage against commanders and aristocracy. All this allowed Alishan not only to hold the blow but also to strike back.

And the situation between the allies continued to heat up, not least because of the same fighting machine, which came out alone, although everyone was working on its creation. The first to leave the fight with Alishan and his confederates were the elves of the Eternal Forest, who did not like to lose their brethren in another's war, strengthening the allies that afterward would start looking at the Eternal Forest and its unreasonably large and sparsely populated territories. The Zeinberg battle fleet, which finally took a side in the conflict, struck after them, cutting off the sea communication for the Imperials. This is probably why the elves withdrew from the battle, as they didn't want to get into trouble at sea. It doesn't matter what kind of decline Zeinberg has fallen into. It remained the owner of arguably the strongest fleet in the world at the time.

The highly selectively enforced trade embargo and the top-notch work of Neitmak's diplomats had sown discord between the clans of the Undermountain Kingdom, providing political capital for the isolationist party and destroying the already fraying alliance between the two states. The shipment of numerous caravans of alchemical raw materials and ready-made potions directly into the possession of the captains' alliances of Zeinberg drove wedges even stronger. The humans demanded that the dwarves stop selling weapons, armor, and rune artifacts to Neitmak, and the dwarves were not about to lose one of their best and most reliable customers.

The severe illness of Pavian the Fortifier, the death of Elder Garnuz-Khal at the hands of an Alishan assassin, and general nervousness had finally buried this alliance. Alishan, too, was losing power, inexorably running out of steam, but still had a chance to win a protracted war due to a much more careless attitude to human resources and the ability to replenish them at any moment at the expense of the slave trade and the world's best Slavemancers in the service of Khan.

In such a confusing situation, all parties simply forgot about the combat vehicle and the fighters assigned to it, which sought to at least survive in a completely unnecessary meat grinder with the savages who did not do anything to them. A considerable part of this "forgetfulness" was provided by the desire to get the result of the project in their own hands, in the sole possession of only one player.

No one had ever noticed, not in time to realize when the fusion of Iron Baron and his machine had reached such significance. They failed to prevent the Commander's bold and insane in equal measures decision to install right inside the war machine, the triumph of technomagic and the pinnacle of armorers' skill, one of the artifacts wrested from the savages, matching the mythical bar with insane ease. No one noticed the moment of transition, when simply very expensive and deadly effective, even if heavy in maintenance, the machine awakened, in fact becoming an analog of intelligent golems or homunculi, learning to restore the damage and repair its base on its own.

Dwarven engineering teams and elven restoration masters became unnecessary, transferring the mythical spawn into the personal property of Iron Baron in an instant. For security reasons, and if unofficially, in an attempt to prevent people from obtaining the fruit of their joint efforts, all those who knew about the existence of this project were destroyed or wiped memory sites in half with unbreakable contracts of silence. The strongest mystical storm that shook the etheric currents to the point of collapse of most attempts to keep in touch other than by courier correspondence - a consequence of some large-scale ritual of Alishan or another greeting from savage shamans - contributed greatly to this.

For a while, the machine and its crew were truly forgotten about.

Until the captain of that crew managed to guide his child (considering the fact that the sub-personality of the animated machine originated from the Baron's soul, a child indeed) to the very edge of the Great Desert, bringing it to the final battle between the lone remaining Empire of Ages and the Alishan Khanate. In the end, the crew remembered and were ready to do their duty.

In that battle, they proved themselves to be true heroes, and Baron and a couple of others present became Heroes by the end of the battle. The crazy efficiency, actually equal to the presence on the battlefield of an allied mythical behemoth, only fully controlled, broke the course of the battle, forcing Alishan to retreat and give up most of the captured territories.

And afterward, the machine began to be divided, despite the fact it was no longer possible to divide it. Not having even a shadow of a chance to get the main prize and realizing the Imperials would be very angry at their allies who had abandoned them, realizing that a permanently present in reality and not a short-term summoned entity of such power was simply too dangerous to be left to humans, the dwarves and elves began to press the Emperor, who was rapidly losing his health.

If the humans were not so exhausted by the war and the last battle, they would have sent all their grievances to the same place where Alishan's summoned creatures went under the fire of the engineered machine's guns. But they were exhausted, and the Emperor was faced with a choice - to give in, taking enough for the concession to restore the Empire from the consequences of the war on top of it, or to start a new conflict with much fresher opponents, who had enough allies of their own, and under the watchful eye of Alishan, who would not hesitate to make trouble in any way he could.

And the Edict was proclaimed.

Five Deities, seven superpowers, including even the Zeinberg, witnessed the deal. Baron, who had lost all faith and loyalty in a single day, had his heart taken from him, sealed in a full-fledged domain created by the deities present, and the domain thrown over the Edge, separated by an indestructible wall that would stand as long as the Iron Baron himself walked under the sky of his homeworld, as long as the palace where the bearer of the Eternal Blood ruled stood under that sky, and as long as all five Gods watched over the Edict.

To create a domain, a real domain of divine grade, not a spatial fold of any complexity, even for the gods is not easy. Even for them it requires sacrificing part of their power, as well as the subsequent consolidation of the Edict. But sacrifices were made, and the humans, dwarves, and elves got what they wished for. What Baron Heinrich von Schwalzkopf XII, who was left without the meaning of his life, thought and wished for was of no concern to anyone.

Not now, when securely sealed forever and ever, the result of the project that never had time to live normally in the annals of history remained under the name of Iron Krieg.

Iron Krieg had come to the real world again, even if this world was no longer real or even the same. The long imprisonment had not been in vain for the mythical creature. Many of the previously flawless systems were just warming up, regaining their former power, but no one ever doubted that at least half a day would be enough for a full recovery. And it would be a mistake to think that being in a half-asleep state, Iron Krieg was not dangerous!

Baron smiles.

He bares his teeth.

Everything is different now!

Now he won't let anyone separate them again!

Next to him, behind his back and a little to the left, stood his faithful assistant, First Officer and Master Gunner Hans Mulge, flanked by his loyal bodyguards, the half-ogres Zhrach and Buhach, not brilliant in intellect but unbreakably loyal and surprisingly good-natured, as for someone with their heavy and evil blood. Victims of breeding experiments, rescued by Henrich from the vivisectionist's table. They were both fully endowed, despite their appearance, and both were ready to die themselves, only to prevent the death of their benefactor.

Behind him stood all the crew members who had stayed with him, who had not abandoned him even after all these years, his crew. Mechanics, gunners, marksmen, riflemen, officers, repairmen, boarding parties, masters of lead-shooters, ritualists, beneficiaries, mages, and healers - all of them ready to fulfill their duty to the end. Not to the Emperor, not to the Empire, but only to themselves and to the child that once protected them all, Iron Krieg.

"Hans!" Thunderously and so habitually exclaimed Baron.

"Yes, Herr Baron!" He understands the commander without any words or intuition, just experience. "Start loading, check the systems! Rumple and Gruntz, you take the weapons bays. Frimori, you take your team and check the thrusters! Gretta, you take the sensor systems! Are we awake, lazybones, or have you forgotten everything?"

A resounding "no way" was his answer, and the remnants of the crew that had survived the battle with the cultists were rapidly recalling long-forgotten tricks and skills. They were in place, every man for himself, and it was truly beautiful, truly magnificent, and utterly indescribably excellent!

He sent Zhrach and Buhach to help the others. With their mad strength, it was so easy to open hatches that were a little jammed from long immobility or to lift heavy crates that had stood all this time in the same places where the crew had left them when they left the corridors of Iron Krieg. Two dozen meters long, five meters high, eight and a half wide, with a bunch of cannons, large-caliber automatic lead guns, and battle staffs sticking out of every corner. The metal was a golden sandy color, stitched onto the frame in thick plates, the color of the metal not from the paint but from the composition. There was too little simple iron, unlike mithril, solar steel, cold iron, and other, even rarer alloys.

He admires his child, his heart, found again when not even a shadow of hope smoldered.

And that's why (or maybe just being near Iron Krieg alone has lifted some of his mental curses) he, always paranoidly attentive, never relaxing, misses a hit.

Iron Baron's late-arriving "instincts" howled, forcing his body into a decisive roll, but the space around him seemed to drown in a viscous swamp, slowing, stiffening, and depriving him of mobility. Two long bony needles, oozing black smoke and poison, sizzled into the heart of the body, and the assassin immediately disappeared in a halo of some strange teleport, as if a golden, rotten ray had fallen from the purple sky and taken him with it.

With his fading mind, the twelfth of the Schwalzkopf family realized that instead of a single assassin, a full-fledged force of cultists, brought closer by the same teleporters, had already attacked. A wave of spatial distortion hits his consciousness, but it's too late - the devil's bedfellows are already within the range of the fields of the awakened Iron Krieg. His precious treasure knows how to counteract the power of the Labyrinth pulled out of the crown prince's stash!

And then the poison finished dissolving his gut, and the evolved characteristics could no longer sustain life in Baron's body...

In the depths of the narrow and dark compartments of the Iron Krieg, right above the thrusters, there was a very special room whose interior did not fit in with the technological perfection of the surroundings. Strange signs, drawn in rough strokes directly on the steel walls, some feathers and pebbles, arranged in a chaotic and, at the same time, bearing some vague meaning, and the main detail - a small pool three by three meters, covered with snow-white cobblestones and bones, mostly human.

Inside the pool, a black slurry bubbled and gurgled softly as if it were a very thick oil or tar, like the kind that dwarves, humans, and even sometimes monsters like goblins and orcs extract. But anyone with enough sensitivity and experience, seeing this pool with its contents, would first turn gray and then run away with all possible speed.

It wasn't even the fact this slurry contained a colossal concentration of primordial Darkness power. Yes, this plane is dangerous, but if you know how to use it and keep your distance, as long as you are not considered a suitable victim. Stereotypes about witch doctors were not born out of thin air. But besides the Darkness, this slurry was filled with the forces of the Hardness in no less concentration, and behind the two planes, there was something else. Something much more difficult to detect with any sensors.

Any educated person knows that combining the energies of two planes is equal to a very strong cataclysm, orders of magnitude stronger than if two portions of planar power were spent separately. But this pool was in no hurry to explode, taking with it a third of the Eternal, continuing to bubble unhurriedly. Darkness, Hardness the highest ritualism, even in its primitive outward manifestation, and a completely warped essentialism - this combination allowed the structure to hold stability.

A mythical artifact complex, against all rules and protocols, installed once aboard the Iron Krieg. Many, many people wanted to own such a pool, and all these many people could not forgive the fact that Iron Baron dared to appropriate this thing without their permission. Well, to a greater extent, the grandchildren of those who had once been offended could not forgive, but that trivia.

The surface of the black slurry churned, releasing a lump of blackness that proved to be Heinrich's naked body, soiled by the slurry flowing back into the pool. As he crawled out of the pool, he gazed with dazed eyes at the chains of black footprints barely visible on the surface of the floor vibrating from the thrusters. So the other losers had already had a chance to swim when they got back in the line.

It was a route he knew perfectly well. Even after all these years, he hadn't forgotten it. Straight, turn, duck, duck, go up, turn again, and straight again, then burst into the central control room, slowly coming to life and triggering the illusory control panels, and shout in a frantic voice the familiar:

"Haaaaaaaaanz!" If there were things here made of ordinary glass rather than alchemically forged tempered and then enchanted glass, it would have some chance of shattering into shards from a shriek of such power.

"Right away, Herr Baron!" With a familiar movement, the assistant ran to an inconspicuous corner pantry, pulling out a luxurious and even for all these years of imprisonment in the divine prison not faded gallifet.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galliffet_trousers

He and the others who had died during the assault needed a full set of clothes. The Font of Rebirth, despite all efforts, continues to bring back to life only bodies, and only in the same outfit in which you appeared before the eyes of God. The corpses levitated by the porters (some using their magic and some using amulets) are already flying past him, among which he recognizes his own. The resource of the Font, of course, is very serious, but long decades and many military conflicts without the possibility of feeding the pond with ordinary blood have sapped it a bit.

During the Grass Campaign, they'd given their soulless and dead bodies to the Font to offset almost all the cost of resurrection and added regular blood infusions on top to slowly build up the resources to create their bodies. But while resurrection had worked all these years, allowing crew members to crawl out alive again from the nearest pond or mud puddle, bypassing the sealing effect of the Edict, there was no way to replenish the supply.

The years had not depleted the resources of the mythical artifact too much, but it would still be necessary to restore it at some point later. And for some reason, Heinrich did not doubt that there would be a later. He would not cut his existence short now, not after all his experiences, not after all his hardships, not after he had found his heart again. Even if he had to run an iron roller all over Hell, he would do it without blinking an eye!

2222

They'll do it!

Together, as we were then.

"Forgive me, my heart." Whispers his lips as his palm strokes the cold surface of the commander's pilot's seat. "I will not renounce you again."

"Herr Baron!" Hans, as always, had already prepared every report imaginable and even a little unimaginable. "The cult's attack has been repulsed without your presence by Zhrach and Buhach's forces, supported by some of the boarding party and the automatic systems of the Iron Krieg. Casualties are minor, and there are no unrecoverable losses yet."

Unrecoverable losses...

It is very difficult to kill them because the essence and souls of those bound to the Font can be pulled out almost instantly while the outer shells are still disintegrating. But, of course, there is no such thing as absolute protection, and so it is possible to overcome the defense of the crew of the Iron Krieg and the full power of the Font of Rebirth. They probably didn't want to kill them for good - the devils couldn't have been unaware of the fact that the Iron Hundred didn't die in the usual way. The whole crew had lost the ability to develop skills and level up, but they were too weak, especially without Iron Krieg, to be a real threat to real fighters, but they were unexpendable. And the ways to eliminate them for good have been known for a long time - barely a third of the original crew is left (now it will be necessary to get more crew).

They used to be a curiosity.

Yes, it's very hard to kill them, but what good is the same Gunner in a fight with a swordsman of equal level? They all fought by developing skills, the only thing they could develop away from the Font and Iron Krieg, to which they were no more weakly connected than the Commander. It was through his Chain of Command that they had managed then long ago to tap into the essence of the war machine, becoming as connected as Heinrich. But there was still not much use for them, and that was without even considering the expense of artifact ammunition and battle staff charges. Without his pistols and lead-shooters, even the Baron was almost defenseless, let alone his companions.

He was sure he'd only been allowed to fight to drain the Font. Then, when they were all dead, the greedy jackals were counting on the fact that Iron Krieg would go to sleep forever, once again becoming a mere piece of steel and a center of magic, and they could shake the Edict a little by agreeing to temporarily open the domain for the sake of taking the Font. Savages were savages, but no one had ever been able to replicate this miracle of zus'ull ritualism.

"You have ten minutes." He gargled, inhaling a full breath of the stale and dusty air, slowly filling with the notes of smoke and running thrusters. "Then I want to, if not use the levitator system, then at least direct the tracks into the center of the capital. I've always wanted to miss some enemy and take down some bigger temple."

His response was a friendly roar from the crew, who finally believed they weren't dreaming.

They had time to apologize, too.

And sought, too, to repay those who had forced them to do so.
* * *

There were many temples on the territory of the Eternal, dedicated to various deities, from light and neutral to semi-official and, in fact, illegal shrines of dark entities, not always even of divine nature. But among all of them, the pearl of the collection, the diamond among the simple crystals, stood out as the First Temple of Grimmentray. One of the most revered in the common people, the lord of Heaven and Water, guardian of balance and justice in all its manifestations, patron of righteous retribution. This Ascended One had perhaps the most balanced and effective clergy on the continent. Not the strongest and not the most numerous, but the most effective.

Warriors worshipped those who bore War, peasants and farmers also prayed, mostly to their Gods, merchants were ready to sell their faith, and it was regularly bought from them.... But paying homage to the whole pantheon at once, Grimmentray was undoubtedly the first to be remembered. This was largely due to a competent, as those summoned from other worlds would say, PR campaign. Priests, adepts, and novices of this entity happily enlisted in armies, fought on the Alishan border, went on adventurers, did not get out of lairs or tombs, and crushed orcs and goblins. In general, they did mostly good and easily publicized things.

The main trump card of all servants of Grimmentray was one of the miracles rarely used by other gods. Any of the priests or paladins fulfilling a request to restore justice, punish a villain, or settle a quarrel were never charged for it. It was their "superiors" who paid them, increasing their rate of gaining steps and even giving them, albeit rarely, free attributes for each success. Other entities could and did do this as well, but few reached that scale in their philanthropy.

Needless to say, there were as many good detectives, excellent lawyers, or excellent diplomats among the Grimmentray clergy as there were fighters. These men and women occupied a niche not only as champions of justice, whom those in power would certainly not tolerate if they were completely intransigent. But they also played the role of judges and masters of conflict resolution. They were the ones to go to when war and blood were not wanted, but it was impossible to solve a contradiction without outside and preferably authoritative intervention.

In general, even the Emperor of the Ages listened to the High Priest Jeremus Steyr, and among the aristocracy, merchants, adventurers, and other strata of the population were plenty of those who sincerely and gladly donated "for the temple." Any quarrel or contradiction is a disturbance of balance, and the servants of the one whose essence was to allow such a disturbance did their job perfectly well. It cannot be said that they were not corrupt, that they did not take bribes or commit evil. All of that was available, and more on top of it. But, you know, it's hard to screw up too badly if the skills granted from above and strengthened by the class allow you to feel the edges of the conflict very subtly, to realize what and who is ready to sacrifice and what to concede, at the same time knowing where and when it's not worth it to press because it's dangerous.

Situations when a cleric of the Grimmentray took bribes from both sides of a dispute and afterward brought to consideration a variant equally satisfactory to both sides and in such a way that each of the parties was sure it was their bribe had worked, happened with great regularity. In the multifaceted Empire of the Ages, with its many internal contradictions, in which even the Emperor got involved once in a while, keeping neutrality in many matters, His priests had firmly occupied the niche of an alternative judicial system. So firmly that they were practically fused with the state apparatus, which had its disadvantages and advantages.

Yes, whether willingly or not, clerics meddled with the mechanisms of state administration, and as a result, they regularly had to be cuffed and brought down from Heaven to sinful Earth. It is important to remember the cleric is faithful, first of all, to their Deity and only then to all others. But there was a feedback loop, too, giving its benefits. By order of the Emperor, clerics did a lot of things up to and including calling the Incarnation, and this Incarnation solved the problems that only gods could deal with. In favor of the Empire of Ages, of course.

Alishan had its clerics, but for them, summoning something comparable to the Incarnation was every time a separate dance around a multitude of interested parties, exhausting the treasury and wasting reserves. On the other hand, they had enough trump cards of their own, and the Alishans, despite the very high level of religiosity of the population, rarely counted on divine help in battles and even more rarely used it. But the very possibility of incarnate Grimmentrey kept the eternal neighbors from thinking of incarnate someone from their dark pantheon in the same way because their gods would most likely not fight seriously, while Grimmentrey, for whom the Empire was more than just one of the countries, could very much.

Among the celestials this champion had earned, despite his relative youth compared to the other Deities, the fame of a notorious badass who did not run from battle, did not spare his strength, and chased both his colleagues and every kind of abomination up to the mythical without fear of backstabbing the ill-wishers who would attack a weakened colleague. And yet he demanded much less, receiving his prayers and sincere faith not through huge donations and mass temple rituals but through the consequences of his and his clergy's actions.

His First Temple, located in the center of the Eternal, could rightfully be among the ten most fortified buildings of the entire capital, and therefore, the attack of the devils became for its defenders not a hopeless battle but just a battle, albeit a hard one... at least at first. The clerics, who had lost the lion's share of their strength, were not the only defenders of this place because there were enough ordinary warriors for whom the reinforcement of holy magic was important, but they could tickle someone's insides with an enchanted blade without it. Then again, a prayed place, even if it had lost its connection to the Deity, allowed holy magic to work and its users not to be too afraid of massive blows to the mind performed by the streams of vicious fleur.

Let's also add to this bubbling cocktail the guards, mercenaries, and ordinary soldiers who came to the rescue and reasonably flocked to the most convenient position for defense. Like steppe bulls huddled together under a monstrous thunderstorm. Endowed, for the devils are fodder, became a kind of analog of that very herd. Yes, they were prey for such creatures, but a crowd of herbivores rushing at you could trample you if you were a predator three hundred times over.

Attempts to attack with traitors and saboteurs also did not work as effectively as the cult and their masters would have liked. Among the clergy and simple specialists close to the temple, there were many who declassified the disguise and thwarted the attempts of sabotage. Now that they knew exactly what to look for, and the terrible power of the Shroud no longer interfered with attempts to see, the game was played according to different rules. At least the second player knew of the existence of this game and could make his moves with the presence of the enemy in mind. The traitors had managed to damage a few small altars, weaken a couple of defense blocks, and even disable some of the domes of the temple barriers, but it was too little to break the back of the resistance.

As water erodes sandcastles, so the devils attacking First Temple acted, letting a small crowd of low-ranking cultists or even enchanted townsfolk lead the way so the elite creatures following could strike. Without a decisive assault, in which casualties were inevitable, the monstrously skilled freaks, who specialized in long-range magical combat, had time to knock out a few targets and retreat almost effortlessly. The devils had plenty of meat, as well as the ability to recruit new volunteers.

Quite quickly, they realized they could waste their prey, killing it against the marble walls and pillars of the First Temple for a long, long time. And the waves of meat disappeared. But the number of elite creatures increased, not allowing themselves to be caught, keeping their distance, and from this very distance shitting on the defenders like a flock of extremely angry pigeons, at the same time preventing reinforcements from approaching the temple and getting under the protection of its walls. The First Temple was surrounded and cut off. The creatures maneuvered efficiently, either evading retaliation or forcing them to expend so much energy that the prayed sanctity would run out faster than the creatures. The mid-low level devils, who were slowly preparing their assault rituals and attacking formation, were also trying to hit with massive blows from the temple, but they didn't have much success. There were enough of those in the temple that no dome could completely deprive of their strength, but the creatures deflected or blocked their attacks with remarkable ease.

The appearance somewhere in the Poets' Square area of something all sensors and commonplace logic perceived to be nothing more or less than a whole archdevil made a very oppressive impression on those gathered in the temple, but no more than that. The walls still protected and also calmed the presence of Jeremus Steyr in his place, quite capable and, more importantly, ready in case of confrontation with the mythical creature, to put everything available in himself and the temple altars in one attack. Even such a powerful creature would not be easy after such a thing, nor would it be pleasant.

That was probably why the creature didn't make a serious attempt to attack them. It only gave a double blow with a cloud of ash soaked with screaming souls and some strange rain of acid-green color, which suppressed three of the remaining domes and a considerable part of the segment barriers. However, the guild mages present on the spot, together with the temple specialists, managed to restore two of these barriers, almost with the help of shit and sticks. The two Linharms brothers, both mages with different classes but specializing in the maintenance of magical protection systems, rejoiced at their success like little children, and maybe not only at their success but also at the new titles that the All-Seeing had bestowed upon them for such a professional feat.

Then there was the use of the Labyrinth. Thanks to the communication between the major defense centers provided by the Palace, as well as thanks to the restored barriers, it passed without the slightest harm to the defenders, which gave not only hope but also ways of its realization. The creatures were astonishingly quick to put back together the battle orders destroyed by the spatial artifact. Apparently, they had perfectly tuned communication systems between them, but some of the reinforcements managed to make their way to the temple. In fact, they were pushed by a foot, having teleported all several hundred army blades and a dozen elite guardsmen straight from the Palace. Along with them, ordinary civilians who had been led out of the trap by the Labyrinth's action and sent closer to where they could be helped poured into the temple.

A few of the Lust-soaked losers were successfully purified, even with weakened prayers, and those who couldn't were simply turned to ashes without ceremony with the madmen. The Cultists were also getting the same treatment, but there were no professional spies among them, brought in by the chaotic paths of the Labyrinth... or there were none, or none were to be found. The main creature was engaged in a fierce magical duel with the Palace, not too much inferior to the combined power of the mages gathered there and the Emperor and his Heir, and at the same time, it was dispelling the enchantments holding the huge rift in the purple skies, freeing its army.

The temple was left almost to itself, thanks to which the first sprouts of optimism, for a long time, began to sprout in the hearts of the defenders, but this almost idyll did not last long. Rather, it even ended too hastily and unpleasantly quickly. It ended with a synchronized and combined strike of at least a trio of legendary creatures, which together covered the temple with a cloud of silvery pollen, under which the defenses began to crumble. Whatever souls, artifacts, billets, or even native abilities of devils did not provide the effect of pollen, but this substance not only acted as a very strong negator of both ordinary magic and divine miracles but also intensified due to the absorbed and recycled power, threatening to reach the mortals who were under the barriers and let them be used for material.

The mortals responded comparably, producing something almost similar in type of effect, also based on a material component with the highest magical content. The greenish-colored smoke, smelling of freshly cut hay, was almost harmless, and one could suffocate in it only if there was nothing else to breathe. However, the alchemical genius was perfectly able to bind together any other alchemical manifestations. The stuff used by the devils was not pure alchemy, of course, but it still operated according to similar principles, based on banal essentialism, only self-sustaining and as if variant. It was as if all this dust possessed a kind of mind that adjusted its state to a particular food.

The churchmen's alchemy did a satisfactory job of dealing with the pollen, but it had no chance to reincarnate the devoured defense, and even the unique individuals gathered here couldn't make a second rapid recovery. The devils, in fact, wanted exactly the same result, immediately launching their next attack.

The attack looked like a completely black ball, resembling a huge stain that absorbs light with its mere presence. And this ball rolled towards the central gate of the temple complex with the speed of an arrow just released. And it was not released by anyone, but at least by a master archer, and not even from a simple bow. As soon as the surface of the ball touched the hallowed stones of the gate, it opened up and turned inside out, releasing hundreds of spiky tentacles that immediately clung to all surfaces and began to pull them into the depths of the ball. The tentacles were doing their job so well that it felt as if they were pulling not stone and other matter but space itself, which had begun to stretch and twist into a bagel from this unscrupulous attitude.

After a second, during which no normal counterattack was possible (unless you count the many primitive charms that were sucked into the blackness like everything else), only a spherical hole in the ground remained instead of the gate and the nearest sections of the wall. The wind rushed up, filling the vacuum. The remnants of the defenses crackled, deprived of a whole segment of their structure, and dozens of simpler charms, area attacks, and point attacks began to strike inside the breach, thinning the defenders and preventing them from interfering with the assault.

This time, the elite were covered not by outright meat but by quite "average" combat units of the Devil Army, covering them in return. The Legends acted as the tip of the spear, the striking base of the unstoppable hammer. Three of them were actually on the front lines, constantly transferring their wounds to their allies or their sonms, while a couple more were frozen almost under the very dome of the alien sky, attacking in conjunction with several magic circles supported right in the air. The long-range artillery at such a distance lost accuracy, but it saved on defense since no one was getting to them, and those who could be too focused on defense.

Once again, it seemed that the battle at the temple was already lost when the biggest fish in the pond, the man whose opinion is listened to by everyone. Jeremy Steyr came to the threshold of his temple, his home, perhaps, without hiding behind barriers and barricades, as if ignoring all attempts to hurt him. And everyone who could afford it tried to hit the figure shining with righteous anger.

Accompanied by a dozen clerics, also glowing with their anger at an intensity directly related to clerical position and levels, he seemed oblivious to the fact that every single servant of God in this city was about to be critically weakened. The hands clasped together in a gesture of prayer opened, and the last words of the proclamation were finally spoken, after which three things happened at once.

Abruptly and decisively, the entire retinue of the High Priest was teleported back under the temple walls, rescuing them after they had given up too much power and could no longer defend themselves. A couple of them never made it out. One of them was hit by the combined impact of the two legends, and the other was torn apart by a spatial vortex due to a sudden change in the dome's frequency. Clearly, some of the most agile creatures had done their best, having calculated and outplayed the mortal portalists.

The enchanted arrow, fired by some cultist with a bow but more the size of a ballista, shattered. The customized projectile, created and molded of pure magic specifically for Jeremus, only shook him a little, not causing a scratch. The magic of the arrow, unable to overcome the Miracle protecting the target, only flared up impotently, further cluttering the surrounding space with toxic magic.

The prayer of the staunchest champion of justice - pardon the pun, justice of that title was rarely argued with, despite the champion's love of all sorts of semi-legal financial machinations for the benefit of the temple - released all the souls in the sonms of ordinary creatures, at the same time cleansing the cultists' shells of vice. And since these cultists had willingly let Lust into themselves, given themselves over to it, and gained strength from it, without it, their bodies, with all their gifts and battle mutations, began to experience certain difficulties in remaining combat-ready or at least alive.

One of the three Legends of the attacking spear came out of a planar jump based on the Flame and almost reached the cleric's face with a long tongue with a thickening at the end, but only barely held back a shrill groan when that tongue and one of its working limbs were swept away by a stream of shining Blue sea water. Another Legend approached with the usual leap, resembling a humanoid toad covered in growths and sexual organs, but the strike of its paws, despite its strength and the obviously complex poison on its claws, faded into the glow surrounding the priest. The third of the legends, as well as a good dozen "ordinary" elite creatures, approached but did not dare to get into close combat. Instead, they applied four types of planar energies at once and some conceptual contractual effect on top of that, forbidding one to leave a certain area of space under the threat of losing one's soul.

They had no way of knowing why their target had so easily gone for a hopeless and stupid fight instead of intelligently using the available advantages and defending the temple. But the creatures were well aware they would not have a better opportunity to take out such a strong figure, especially if the figure did complete what it had set itself up for. Jerem could relatively easily take down any of the Legends here in a one-on-one fight, even when you factor in the effect of the dome on Grimmentray's most loyal servant, acting at barely a third of the strength. He would not yield to two creatures at once, and the trio had a chance to wear them down with constant maneuvers, selling his life and soul at a high price.

But against three legendary-level creatures in close proximity, two of their equals, only hitting from a distance as well as under the dome effect and supported by smaller devils... Even he couldn't survive in such a position, especially since he had just completed one prayer and was already running out of time to cast another Miracle of comparable power. The creatures attacked the priest at his moment of weakness, under the gaze of hating and rapidly falling into despair humans and non-humans, who were trivially unable to come to the aid of their last hope.

Just as the priest wants it.

The space around the fighters seemed to glow as if reflections of heavenly blue on the surface of the waves of the sea in those days when the sea was almost motionless, only barely touched by light gusts of wind. Following the glare came the ringing of bells, the beat of drums, and the clamor of an angry mob about to burn the captured witch doctor. Came the thunderous bang of the judge's gavel announcing the verdict of the hangman, came the clap of the seal affixed to the treaty of non-aggression between mighty powers. And when they came, the sounds did not go back but seemed to concentrate, causing the glare to become dense, almost blinding.

This artifact should not have been in Jerem's hands because he had, by all possible and impossible reports, sent it, along with one of his most loyal students, straight to the Alishan border, to one of the main border fortresses. But now the artifact was here, against all the information available to the devils, who would surely wish to give some passion to the screwed-up spies. They would if they had any chance of surviving their final Judgment.

The Verdict of Guilt was considered a legendary artifact, even though it was created by Grimmentray, but it was at the very top end of its grade. Even gods do not easily create divine artifacts, as too much would have to be put into them, forever sacrificing part of their essence, giving divinity to something that could not possess it. Nevertheless, the Verdict came very close to that boundary, embodying concepts very close to Grimmentray.

Despite all its power, this thing, which looked like an ordinary holy amulet in the form of two overlapping eights (the main symbol of the Church of Equilibrium), was of little use against those who had nothing to accuse. That is, it was an extremely effective weapon against the vast majority of intelligent and not-so-intelligent entities that inhabit any existing world.

The artifact's power temporarily brought any opponent under the jurisdiction of the Code of Equilibrium, a religious doctrine that gave the Deity power over the souls of those under its influence. Of course, strictly within the framework of the Code itself, which, if you think about it, is pretty clear about situations in which there is nothing to punish anyone. So, any god could give his disapproval to a devil, a murderer, a bribe taker, or just a bad person who prayed little, thought bad thoughts, and did not donate to the temple. The Verdict allowed users to do it better, more accurately, and almost unstoppably by any means.

In fact, the victims of the artifact for some time became as closely connected with Grimmentray as the highest dignitaries of his clergy. That is, if the victims of the artifact are not guilty, then instead of Retribution, they can be given a power boost at the level of the same dignitaries. Take away a hundred enough decent parishioners, after which nine out of ten will die under the Verdict's blow, and the remaining ones will be able to act on the level of those same high dignitaries for a while.

There was only one person in the epicenter of the Verdict's action who could be sure of not fearing his patron's retribution - Jerem himself, though even he shuddered as he remembered his petty and unremitted sins and machinations. It would have been a strange idea to look for innocents among the devils, so the result was positive on all sides (except for the creatures).

Having once gained power over the accused, the divine will immediately intercept the ties between the creatures and the sonm of each of them, granting freedom to some part of the souls and oblivion to others, and then begins to squeeze the ties, tightening them into a tight knot, destroying the bodies and essences of the devils, but allowing itself to begin to influence the situation in the Eternal much more fully.

The simple creatures, even the elite ones, die before they have a chance to escape, but they feel the weight of Justice on them. Two of the three Legends follow suit a second later, becoming the basis for a portal that shines with sea and sky blue. In the area of the temple, the Clerics' powers rapidly recover, making their classes combat-ready once again. Not only Grimmentray clerics but a good portion of the other Deities as well. Albeit at a considerable rate and with losses. The power of the established channel is sufficient to transmit crumbs of strength not only to their flock.

From beyond the smoke and fire-covered horizon comes several attacks from a mythical creature, the main devil of the domain that has come to the Eternal, even distracted from the battle with the Palace for the sake of such an endeavor. Except that even though God is here indirectly, only at the expense of an unstable and at any moment able to collapse channel. He is still God. All three attacks simply dive into the sea wave that came towards them, which for a moment lost its blueness and became unbearably deep, having no bottom.

Alas, the third of the Legends proved to be more prepared. She managed to replace her essence for a second with an imprint of the soul of a truly righteous man, falling out of Verdict's power. Grimmentray atomized the deception almost instantly, but the attack of Sovereign, so distant and close at the same time, delayed his will long enough. Losing two-thirds of the sonm, the creature escaped the fate of becoming a channeling detail, weakening the portal enough. Then Jerem was blown from his position, along with the shards of divine power that had previously been the portal, and then carried through the breach in the defense back into the temple.

The divine portal collapsed as quickly as it had appeared in reality, and a new actor appeared on the scene, only now working on the side of the enemy. It became clear why the devils were so calm and wasteful in slaughtering whole crowds of low-level Cultists and fractured townsfolk - because they weren't slaughtering them. Or rather, not quite for slaughter, not all the way through.

Jerem's eyes saw far beyond what a mere human could see, even without the ability of a full-fledged Hero to discern the levels and classes of those he looked upon. And now he didn't need to make much effort to realize the nature of the devil that had appeared, the very one that had destroyed the portal and nearly breached the High Priest's defenses. Elder over Brended One of the seventy-first stage of power was staring straight at Jerem, not noticing the distance, the dust raised by his flight through the wall, nor the colorful illuminations triggered by the magic thrown into the air.

The creature's level was less frightening than the abilities it had already demonstrated. A wave of Hell- and Lust-blazing bodies, each one belonging to someone who had already been killed, disembodied, or pulverized into a bloody pulp. The sonm of this monstrosity was reversed, directed not inward but outward, allowing it to use the souls at its disposal in unimaginable ways without, by some dark miracle, dividing itself into zero, tearing the sonm and the souls it contained apart.

Hundreds of ordinary townspeople were covered in symbols and stains, oozing ichor and musty honey from every scrap of skin, chained in transparent and unbreakable chains, branded with a stigma that would not let them die. Their bodies were no longer of flesh but of pseudo-matter, exactly the same as that which provided the basis for the bodies of the devils, and their essences were no longer their own. They were still here, still bathed in what the devil had poured into them, but they were nothing more than extensions of his will, an extra limb, a living transmitter and puppet of their master.

The newcomers were hit with magic, crushing them with everything they could, and they could do a lot, even without Jeremus, but where a simple man, even if infused with Hell, was frustratingly easy to kill, the branded ones were extremely resilient, taking the damage directly on their souls, distributing it evenly among all their "brethren," and thus reducing it to insignificant amounts. Even just a crowd of several thousand of these unfortunates could be a problem, especially if you do not forget about the usual devils willingly taking advantage of such cover. However, the branded guards were not limited to townspeople and weak cultists.

There were about fifty of them, fifty outstanding sufferers by anyone's standards, whose souls had been languishing for centuries in a fate even more terrible than the usual captivity in the sonm of some devil. Each of them was comparable in strength to an elite creature but with monstrous armor and the ability to ignore techniques, tricks, and magic specifically sharpened against devils.

And among them stood out the main trio, the three strongest chain dogs, the pearls of the collection of the creature that had gathered them, which, despite the appearance of an ordinary humanoid two meters tall. In terms of energy, it was a huge predatory jellyfish with thousands of individual tentacles-maws, where at the tip of each was a separate symbiotic organism of the branded soul and the body generated by the jellyfish. The trio of the strongest symbiotes acted as both defenders and main blades, covering the main body Elder over the Branded Ones, not forgetting to support the crowd of minnows on the attack.

A huge giant, as if molded from blackened iron, covered in a carpet of corrupting tattoos and dressed in spiked armor, with the only difference being that all the spikes were pointing inward. He was clearly a former endowment from a very rare race of giants on this continent, who had mastered the Defender, Master Warrior, and Rock Stronghold classes without losing his skills even in captivity, only enhancing them with the many gifts of Hell. Most of his damage was dragged from the rank-and-file creatures to himself, charged up and back again, literally tearing down barricades, defenders, and magical barriers. He alone, tormented by agony and ecstasy, covered the entire armada of thousands and its owner.

A naked man, clearly having an admixture of the blood of the sea people. He swam carelessly inside a bubble of water a hundred paces in circumference as if he did not notice his condition or the nightmare surrounding him. From the streams of water created by him, now and then, transparent figures of lovely maidens appeared, giving him their bodies and caresses. The prisoner did not even realize he was creating his prisoners and masters out of his power. They were not full-fledged devils, a fantasy come to life, a concentrated Vice filtered through the filter of the River Overlord's soul. His attacks, inflicted not by him but by his phantoms that had long ago conquered the mind of the mage who had created them, unobtrusively blurred, dissolved, and sucked in both magic and miracles, rapidly draining the resources of the temple. The essence of its strange and unusual for this continent power, continuous flow allowed to counteract any, in general, stationary and most of the active defenses.

The third was a maiden... dazzling in her Blue, like a slice of the real Heaven itself, here again under the dome's oppression. Jerem's eyes saw, and though often, too often, he wished he could lower or even turn off his gaze, rarely had he felt such a longing to go blind just to avoid seeing it. She had once been a Blue adept of monstrous power, far more powerful than Jerem himself, perhaps even if he had requested Grimmentray's help. It was this soul that should have been his doom if the High Priest decided to stand against this dickhead chaser.

He was strong, but he realized he could do nothing to this prisoner. Not even divine power would help, as if she had been prepared right against him for years, if not centuries. Maybe that was the case, but who would know now? He didn't want to ask the devils, if only because of their love of filling any words with mental effects and temptations. He feels his eye sockets squeak as if sand has been poured into them as he turns away, unable to look at the result of the painstaking labor of the most cursed masters of the universe.

If it were not for the temple behind him and the townspeople sheltering there. If it were not for all the color of the clergy that counted on his power in this battle... He would have ignored everything, called upon the power of Retribution, and tried to kill the scum staring right at him through the barriers of battle, even if it was the last act of his life. The man had a chance to win, but only if he had initially traded his life, his being for another's, but it would only be a chance, whereas the creature had a lot more of them anyway.

He could not abandon those who came to the temple for protection.

He couldn't leave them.

Blood and hatred bubbled in his gut as he saw the satisfied and understanding smile of the creature that had timed and miscalculated him. If only he had delayed using the Verdict, he could have hoped to win the fight under its cover. Without the main activating effect, the artifact lost no power, having something to answer and add on top of any enemy trick, but against such a creature, against a trio of his favorite puppets, against an entire army of smaller puppets.... he could only die, giving the Verdict to the enemy for further desecration.

A grind of teeth felt the crunch of stone crumbs in his mouth, followed by a short prayer that carried his words and orders to his companions, leaving them to defend the temple and hold it as long as possible. The creature would not risk a direct assault, no matter what defenses it wore and no matter how insignificant the damage distributed among the branded would seem. Because the temple altar, because the stockpile of battle amulets, and artifacts of the last limit are still there. No, the creature will waste time, almost guaranteed to roll the defenses with minimal casualties, but it will. And then, perhaps, the situation will change, or the Palace will send some more help.

A silly hope, for the Palace, has its problems, but anything is better than doom.

Jerem himself, unable to attack the Elder, soared into the air, whispering another prayer, one line of it, the very first line of the Plea for Justice, the very first line that every church servant memorizes before he even gets a class. Even just the first line of the first of the prayers could do much in the mouth of a High Priest, but now those words were also the activator, triggering the Finger of Punishment, the second of the Verdict's activating effects.

Hovering in the air for a moment, reflexively dispelling the spells that were attacking him, barely dodging the coordinated attack of the more dangerous ones, Jerem caught a glimpse of the legendary devil desperately rushing to break the distance, the last of the trio that had come against him. The one who, in his attempt to escape, had lost his only chance to hide behind the puppets' backs, framing one of them in his place was the most effective move against Finger.

A spear of celestial blue, not even a spear, but a stake, not a wooden one, but one made of pure energy, catch up with the creature despite its attempted blink, the planar barriers placed by the souls, and the effect of damage transfer to the sonm. The legendary creature, though already battered by the Verdict, falls to the ground, writhing in agony, dissolving into blue before his eyes as each of his collector souls was released with his death. A flash of the so familiar, so alien, so twisted, tainted, and betrayed Blue responds with a third of the dolls, removing and taking back the artifact's effects, but there is no way to save his ally - the damage is too severe.

Jerem flew higher, rising to the dome where two more Legends awaited him. He may not be able to fight a creature that is ready to kill him, but he can defeat these two. Perhaps if he does, he can return to help his temple. Perhaps he will have a place to return to.

It was as if the old man, though looking only in his fourth decade, felt again like a little tomboy whose village had been burned down by the slavers, whose family had been either slaughtered or enslaved, who had only to run, hide, and clench his teeth in impotent hatred, cherishing the dream of someday catching up with the villain and paying him back for what he had done. It had been so long since he had felt this powerlessness. He hates it so much.

Hates, unable to forgive himself, that he stayed alive then.

* * *

The battle moved to the courtyard of the First Temple ofGrimmentray's, and only there, on the stones, soaked with wonders to the last speck of dust, were the creatures finally slowed down. They continued to press on with the inevitable mountain collapse, snow avalanche, and debris flow, but now they were advancing much more slowly. Junior Drake, His Majesty's Guardsman, rightfully ranked in His Gguard, was, like any Guardsman, superbly skilled in tactics and strategy, even if his service rarely involved commanding roles. That was why he could see, and read clearly, the outcome of this battle, a very sad outcome, as he prepared to activate the Last Exhalation amulets, to leave neither soul nor body to the creatures.

His head was buzzing from the regular attempts at compulsion, as he, at the very edge of the defense, was constantly being beaten by everyone who could and would. Fortunately, before they were teleported straight out of the Palace, the entire Guard had been amuletized, and artifact sets had been selected that were perfectly designed to counter the devils. In general, Junior was far more wary of the creatures' fighting techniques and claws than of their favored Vice, though he knew that his overconfidence could prove fatal.

The shield once again shuddered as a series of purple orbs struck it, even if they were not aimed at him but at the Benefics standing far behind him. The shield charms intercepted the direction of the attack even without the guardsman's direct involvement, allowing him to focus on the attack. A flaming blade, sprouting from the hand of a surprisingly ugly devil, slides along the enchanted steel, and the creature laughs and moans as the fatal blow cuts off its second limb, at the same time exposing two mages at once. Ice and wind crush the abomination, forcing it to retreat with a blink, but Junior uses the Hold Position again, dropping it to the stone floor with his shield.

Actually, this skill is meant to be used on yourself so you don't get knocked off your feet by some skill, telekinesis, or whatever. But a fully developed skill gives you a lot more versatility, especially if it's an epic class skill rather than the standard ability of a typical Guardian. Using a Crushing Blow, he cleaves the deviless's body lengthwise, noting in passing the damage to her sonm and rolling to evade the postmortem attack. Fire flared in his loins, blood pounded in his temples, and his thoughts began to drift to the shameful desire to fuck the nearest corpse, preferably still warm, but the artifacts once again calmed his mind and soul with a stream of icy coolness, restoring his sanity.

As he came out of the roll, the guardsman left a long and dangerous-looking wound on the body of one of the branded, as the clerics called them, throwing him away. Though, it should have cut this one and a couple of others behind him in two. An extension of the blade, after all. The creature (or is it a cultist?) screams in ecstasy, regenerating before his eyes, but he is blown away by a trio of glowing arrows glowing from the blessings imposed at the same time disembodied his nearest neighbors as the arrows detonate.

Once again, the shield attracts a stream of battle pulsars, the same as last time, and the owner of the artifact only has to note with concern the glowing edges of the shield, which does not benefit from such intensive absorption of enemy charms. So far, the molten metal with a mix of mithril is not dripping on the ground, but at this rate, it will not take long. Putting his shield under the blows of spears and axes in the hands of branded guards (apparently from those who never managed to reach the temple to join the main forces), Junior blows off one of them and leaves the final dispersal of the body to the cover mages.

The chime of steel tubes - that's what his intuition sounds like to him, and that's what he follows, activating the defense built into his armors and aiding it with his bodily strength, barely holding his shield in his hands when it's nearly pierced by the paw of a huge bear-shifter, also branded, of course. A second blow lands in the open side, and the blade desperately fails to keep up with the thought, but before Junior can say goodbye to her liver (and they said she was sick from drinking!), the branded shifter shatters into three pieces.

Nodding his thanks to the stranger who saved him, he immediately tries to return the favor, covering the obviously out-of-place Brether in a blind mask without eyeholes. Who would fight with a dagger and a sword in such a crowd? The attempt to cover him fails because two creatures, both stronger than the recently killed deviless, try to get to know the Brether better. The guardsman is ready to say a short prayer for the repose of the poor guy who saved him because it can help him in the temple, as it becomes clear that this Brether is not defenseless even in the assault.

His artifact sword glistened in his eyes, forcing him to consider the price of the sword, compare it to his gear, and admit this strip of steel would be as good as his shield, but the Drakes' Loyalty, their family heirloom, was considered a legendary artifact, even though it was weak for its level of quality! And if it were only a blade, the owner had not learned to fight in the streets. Despite his purely dueling skills and techniques, which are of little use in a normal battle, he manages to slice through an opponent even faster than Junior!

No, a worthy son of Drake House has a class suitable for defense, not attack, but he should still be superior to the duelist! It seems the duelist is a hick from the backwoods because he had obviously never heard of this truth and therefore ignored it. The jokes are jokes, but Junior even admires it, even though he prefers only women.

The fiery mane of his hair followed the movements of his torso, which moved pendulously between the ranks of the enemy. And the way his legs danced! An experienced swordsman, he was able to wield a sword at an acceptable level for an aristocrat. He could appreciate this spectacle and feel his inferiority, even though he was of a different class. It seemed that the Brether, dressed in light and deceptively thin rags and leather armor, was in all places at once, keeping the distance, keeping the necessary pauses, and continuously cutting, killing forever with his sword, only occasionally blocking back blows with a much more modest dagger.

Junior took up a position just behind him, acting as a breakwater, covering the duelist from area or magic attacks, intercepting arrows and throwing projectiles, simply drawing them on himself and letting him retreat behind his back if he was seriously pressed. He rarely blinked, either saving energy or simply not wanting to change from one crowd to another since both were equally uncomfortable. But he managed to pass between blows even where he couldn't physically twist as if he were in several places at once.

Superposition?

Dance of the Void?

Something else, unfamiliar and therefore unknown to Junior? More likely the latter because his stances were too non-aggressive for the crown trick of high-class Brethers, as if they were designed for dodging in the first place, whereas a Brether above the second stage of class development can move out of the blink so that the blade is already inside someone's guts. It's more like a Duelist, but a very strong one, of some higher variety. It doesn't look like the Phantoms' signature dance, either - there's a very clear energy trail.

Survival became much easier with the two of them, especially when the strange ally began to hit not only with dueling techniques but also with heavenly planar power. It made his mask glow softly and selectively blind the creatures if they got too close. It seemed his acquaintance, with whom they had not even exchanged a word but whom he was ready to get drunk to a pig-crawling state, was one of the temple's fists and not a very publicized one. He was as strong as Junior even without an artifact (and Junior with artifacts), and such people were usually in the public eye unless they made great efforts to achieve the opposite.

"Who the hell are you?" The Guardian grumbles to himself, covering his ally again. At the same time, he finish the second of the two elite creatures that had attacked them earlier, who had already lost five of their eight limbs, even if you don't count the cock used instead of the whip, which had also been cut off.

"Arrived with the relocation wave." The voice of one of the five Coordinators in charge of the defense right now echoed in his ear, apparently deeming the rhetorical question not rhetorical. "Volunteered after passing the defilement test."

So, not a temple fist, after all?

At the last thought, Junior stopped saving his strength because the creatures began to increase their onslaught again, and the two idiots who had unwittingly rushed forward found themselves at the edge of their section, in the middle of a very wide expanse of the inner temple park, in front of a crowd of creatures coming straight at them and without formation support. The Guardian activated Indestructibility, the strongest effect of his shield, and the Duelist stopped restraining Heaven and began to press him no weaker than he had done before with his impressive swordsmanship, but he hadn't stopped using those Brether techniques either. Junior had to recalculate his ally's strength once more, realizing he had undercounted a lot last time, and now he was getting more and more interesting. The demonstrated was not just Guard level, but captains of the Guard at least!

It might have seemed impossible, and he wouldn't have believed anyone who tried to tell him about it, but they were on the crest of that wave, holding their own against four elite creatures, a dozen weaker creatures, and a crowd of ordinary devils and Hell-enhanced branded ones. Indestructibility reduced the strength of any enemy strike within a fifty-step radius threefold while increasing the strength of the allies' defenses threefold. And the entire walls of the Heavenly Blue provided that protection with a reserve.

The masked red-haired swordsman used these walls to divide the enemy formation, allowing Junior to draw the attention of some of the enemy to attack quickly and suddenly, sometimes right through one of his walls, taking full advantage of the almost all-piercing power of his sword. Only a few times have elite opponents managed to block or deflect the thin blade, but with a second blow, any brether will strike faster than you can be surprised. Not all of those who had fought off the first attempt survived the second strike.

Several more times he said goodbye to his life, as well as the life of a strange ally. He remembered the moment when one of the creatures had sucked in all the blue of the heavenly energy, messing with Junior's head, making him unable to move his hands and feet in space, even though the rest of his body was moving normally. And then, he attacked the redhead with a tentacle that replaced the creature's punching arm, oozing pus, and some hideous curse. Too late, the Guardian realized the same compulsion that had paralyzed him had fixed the Brether's hand that clutched the blade. He had nothing to block the blow, nor could he dodge it with the same blink. And if he'd realized it in time, he wouldn't have been able to change anything.

Brether tossed his dagger into the air, bending his only working arm at the elbow to cover the head where the tentacle was aiming. The thin and almost transparent barrier seemed incapable of stopping an arrow, let alone such a dangerous blow, but the devil's power seemed to sputter as if it had hit an unbreakable wall. The brief moment of invulnerability didn't last long, but Brether's brains were also well protected, recovering almost instantly from the control (without the amulets Junior wore) and allowing him to open the devil's belly with his sword. At the last moment, the creature tried its crowning trick of transferring damage to souls, but it was too invested in the attack, forgetting about defense.

The shriek of the last promise nearly burned out the Guardsman's brains, but the dodger managed to call to Heaven again, covering himself with his thin but terrifyingly dense armor, calling up his barriers anew and continuing to slash the branded ones as if they were slicing vegetables. Junior, who regained control of his body (at the cost of a couple of one-time amulets that had crumbled to dust), was just in time to cover his ally, who was quickly giving up under such an onslaught, giving him time to take a couple of potions from his stockpile. When he shared the supplies with Junior, he wanted to hold his ally against the wall and ask him for a long, long time about which alchemist he was buying from and whether he could get a discount for his comrade in arms.

The mages were already supporting them from behind, the benefics were once again dispersing the complex of blessings on the rank-and-file infantry of the commoners and temple guards who had fallen into line, and the archers were expending arrow reserves, slicing through the ranks of the stalled devils of the rare cultists and the rampaging branded ones. At that moment, when, for nearly the first time since they had broken through the outer circle of defense, they had stopped the enemy's advance, Junior almost believed they would succeed. He believed they would make it until help arrived or until Styre had finished with his enemies upstairs and come down here, closer to them all, showing the creatures why they still feared him in Alishan.

And then they got really serious.

It was easy to understand the nature of the Maiden. It was much harder not to because, at that moment, even one look at the devil's stigmatized victim was enough to put information about her nature into his head. It was also a peculiar attack and very effective against the weak in spirit - even through the protection of the temple and the magic of benefic ordinary citizens were turned off in packs. At best, fainting with mental damage. At worst, almost instant madness in aggressive form, rapid pumping of Lust, and only then death, well if alone.

Each specimen of the main trio was branded differently. The Giant Protector felt pain and received his passion from it, taking all the wounds he could get his hands on. Imprisoned in a watery sphere, the Waterman was in the land of his dreams, not coming to his senses for the need to fight because his fictional dreams were fighting in his place.

Maiden...

Senior of the Branded One had perhaps outdone himself. If there were anyone here with sufficient clairvoyance and analytical skills, he would have guessed the entire domain had been involved in the creation of each of the trio. And the Maiden had proceeded with the help of the Sovereign himself, who had lavishly rewarded one of his most loyal and powerful servants for some deed he had done. Well, or punished for the same act. In the ranks of devils, the difference between the first and the second is minimal, and often there is no difference at all because it depends on the state of the devil's essence, not on objective reality.

The main trick of what had been done to the extremely strong and ancient Aldis'ai, who had known every shade of Blue imaginable, was the clear realization of the only important fact that there were two of them, but she was one. It was as if someone had drawn a red line along her perfectly formed body, dividing body and soul into two parts. The first half was the unnamed Maiden, whose mind was virtually untouched and therefore experienced everything a devil captive could experience.

The second part was still the same Maiden, but corrupted, completely subjugated, and experiencing a vengeful and inexpressible pleasure from the torture of her alter ego. If the prisoner of her own soul became stronger, her jailer would become proportionately stronger. If she thought of a cunning plan or trick, the honed mind of the other half - her own mind - would find a way to counteract it. It couldn't even be called a split personality because the victim was in both of her hypostases at the same time. If her perverted part had become a separate entity, acting like a possession, it would have been a hundred times easier, a thousand times less painful - because it would have been someone else.

Maiden was the one who killed.

She was the one who maimed.

She was breaking all her promises.

She killed those she used to cherish.

She did what she swore to prevent.

Indeed, personal Hell for one and only one prisoner, where she was the devil and executioner, paying the price for her weakness and inability to resist control. The thing that branded her didn't even need to give the prisoner Vice. He just enjoyed the spectacle that was ready, never-ending, and never able to end. Watching half of her face smiling happily, enjoying every moment of existence, while the other half just sobbed silently at what was happening, hope long since extinguished in her eyes, giving way to the dull thirst to die at last.

There was no way to die, only to kill.

The streams of Blue and the lightning-fast strikes of the huge energy blades-wings were not just thinning the ranks of the warriors trying to stop the branded warrior. She was simply ignoring all those desperate attempts to block the blow or raise the barrier. The superior concentration of forces, the complete lack of concern for reserves, and the incredible speed, with massive attacks, turned the Maiden into an analog of a very fast and compact dwarven battle tower.

Those who fought her in close combat were certainly not defenseless, at least some of them. They had the strength to block, the agility to dodge, and the magic to mount a truly effective defense, but even the best-equipped fighters could survive one or two of the branded woman's attacks and then followed the example of those who couldn't - they died. The archers, mages, healers, and priests at a distance also experienced the power of the Maiden, who cast surprisingly strong structured spells that tore their defenses like paper. No, they had it a little easier, but there were many more casualties. It was the best of the best who were trying to stop her up close, but there, behind their backs, were those who couldn't be called the best.

It seemed that the devil in control of the branded devils was deliberately withdrawing the allied forces, letting the Maiden make way and thus offset the losses from the temporary success of the defenders. Heaven is one of the pillars of Grimmentray's might, whose temple itself defended and aided its defenders. But it was one thing to fend off Hell's blows, while the kindred and close forces of Heaven simply ignored most of the defenses. From above, a water bubble hovered over the temple complex, raining down river water and washing away the power of the Sea and the Depth, thus destroying the second of the temple's main pillars of strength.

Junior, who had been thrown back about two hundred meters by the Maiden's appearance, was well versed in defense tactics, so he could see the depth of the problems looming over him and all those around him. The term "troll's ass" was a bit mild to describe the position of the endowed in this battle, but nothing else came to mind in a head buzzing with shock. His iron (and mithril) Loyalty saved the Guardian by taking most of the blow, but even the rest was enough to knock the poor man out and cripple him, leaving him unable to get back on his feet anytime soon if it came to his strength.

There were plenty of healers to help him, and casualties among them were not the largest, but no one paid any attention to Junior, trying to survive, regroup, or kill the branded brat. At least one of the three strongest. His bent and bloody armor, extensive fractures, and brief loss of consciousness played their part, causing his senseless body to be mistaken for a fresh corpse and simply ignored. In a different situation, rescuing a full-fledged guardsman would have been a task close to a top priority. Still, he, with all his skills, levels, and artifacts, was a unit useful for survival, even if one set aside the piety of noble blood.

But the moment was lost, and Junior was left to watch helplessly the carnage of the branded one, which even the creatures did not cover because they were afraid to approach. There was a lash of pure blue wrapped around Dortz of House Bontlethord, his fellow officer, who would never repay his card debt. The exhausted amulets and the layer of lightning that covered his body allowed him to break free from the grip of the charms, only to have a dozen extremely concentrated heavenly needles pierce his body in a dozen places. The flap of the wing of the Maiden, who was twisting in place, who at that moment was playfully tearing off the silver ropes of someone's prayer, smeared the Thunderer with his armor.

Junior wouldn't be able to pay his debt to old Broderick, a high-ranking upstart from a family of petty officials, because neither his agility, nor his iron skin strengthened by many well-chosen rituals and potions, nor the unbreakable will of a born warrior saved him when he was caught in the area of rest and literally wiped out by a stream of Blue. Mergellan, a grumpy battle mage from the Black Cup Guild, was killed by a bundle of high-level charms and a hundred feathers from the Maiden's wings.

Mighty and powerful mortals were dying one by one, unable to stop a foe who was now pumping power through her brand to the very tips of her feathers. They would have been killed much sooner if not for his "old" acquaintance, right now dancing around the winged bitch like a hound dog around a bear. No, there were stronger adepts of Heaven among the defenders, even if we don't count the priests from Jerem's retinue (one of them had just been winged up to his eyebrows)! The secret is that the combination of enormous agility, specialization in close combat, powerful magic, and a legendary artifact of the right type was available only in a single copy.

Junior remembered his years of homeschooling, and even in his adulthood he liked to read books, and his position only encouraged him to constantly expand his horizons and qualifications. He knew from advanced courses in higher energy-planar phenomenology that a strong user of energies of a certain plane could, to a greater or lesser extent, suppress weaker colleagues. A powerful shadow user would not let a weak shadow user even move those very shadows, an Overlord of the Flame would extinguish or even completely extinguish his rival's fire, and warlocks could cut off access to the Darkness for novice self-taught practitioners - all of this was a bygone stage, known constants.

But of all the features of Heaven, one was the most unusual, even absurd in some ways. Heaven was excellent against Darkness, Shadow, Death, and all the elements except Wind. Their adepts could show class to other planarians as well, for some stronger, for some weaker, and for some quite weak. But only one plane out of all of them made the Blue Adept almost powerless, unable to do any damage to his enemy.

Heaven is big enough for everyone.

Ancient as the world itself, the wisdom was not just words but another axiom, an undeniable fact of Alurei's reality. Defended by Heaven against Heaven, even a relatively weak mage could stand in the rain of spells sent by a powerful colleague for a very, very long time. Unimaginably long for such duels, especially when comparing the talents of the two duelists. Yes, the weaker of the pair would not be able to do anything to the enemy, but he would live longer.

For the Maiden, this truth was not a problem. Whoever she had been before her branding, in addition to her fantastic affinity with Blue, she also had physical power backed by some form of martial meditation or foresight. Those whose connection to Heaven allowed them to block her attacks were killed by hand strikes, wings, or dropped feathers. Those who, while still connected to Heaven, were still warriors were either too clumsy and also died in battle, or their connection to the plan was insufficient. The Maiden's power was staggering. The standard enchantments of her brethren she did not even notice, piercing through them with the same ease as the enchantments of other orientations.

The red-haired Brether rode the yuletide, surviving where others died like cattle in a pestilence, meeting Blues with Blues and dodging everything else with the same strange spatial technique. In the rare moments when the physical attacks of the Maiden's wings or graceful arms got to him, he met them either with a thin and short-lived but terrifyingly strong barrier or with his sword, which radiated pure sunlight, making the branded one at least wary if not retreating.

Small and skittish compared to the very large bird folk Maiden, who had the advantage of flight, levitation, and the ability to fight in three dimensions at once. He kept the defense and even managed to save someone's life and soul, though not often. What really amused Junior, who was slowly recovering from the effects of his concussion, was the devils' actions, or rather lack thereof. Due to the temple's enchantments and the branded woman's magic resonating, none of the devils or other branded people could help the Maiden. This, of course, was not an accident but a deliberate action of the clerics trying and succeeding to separate the Maiden from reinforcements, but it was still funny.

He would have smiled if alone the Maiden hadn't threatened to kill everyone who got in her way, and not in a good way, in a fancy way. The smile was finally killed by another move of the devils, who took advantage of the confusion in the center of the inner park, teleporting a dozen heavily armored creatures right into the mages' ranks, finally breaking both the defenses and Junior's hope of being spotted and taken out. He would be seen, pulled out, treated, and even petted, but not by his own.

With the devils literally under the shadow of the First Temple, staining its floor with the blood and giblets of the defenders, cutting off the forces still holding the park from reinforcements and a route of retreat, the devils had set a bold end to the temple's fate. The amulets of the remaining clerics from Jerem's retinue flashed, carrying those tired, battered, and outnumbered clerics closer to the altar, followed by several more high-level allies and an unknown Brether, who simply had no amulet of salvation because he came from nowhere and served no one, was left almost alone against the Maiden. And about two and a half seconds later, he was left alone. Without reliable cover, the branded one knocked out all the unlucky little things of the human race (and another five beastmen, as well as one hobbit).

This is a shame.

If not Brether, then Junior.

Red was good, so good that he deserved the nickname Red because Baron Kwankentzentrynsky, an outstanding Berserk talent, had been killed by traitors from the servants' staff just as the dome was rising above the Eternal. Even after losing all hope, Brether literally inhaled a whole bag of his potions, most of which were in gaseous form, and then began to sell his life for a price that would give even a thirteenth-generation peddler a heart attack.

The wing's strike met the barrier, and the sword's return thrust turned into a cleaving lunge, leaving a long scratch in the immense blue armor of pure energy that had sheltered the two-faced Maiden from the beginning of the assault. The stream of blueness is gently drawn aside, and a dozen ribbons, as if woven from the finest colored silk, wrap around the blurred figure, not even able to touch it. A new attack, a maelstrom from the boundless Blue, turning a veritable well at the bottom of which the Brether falls. The trap that could hold and bind even a young dragon or a legendary devil broke, revealing a thin opening through which the endowed, stubbornly unwilling to surrender, slipped.

To be immediately caught in the grip of a slowing cloud of serenity, which, being torn to shreds, was replaced by another, and then a wingbeat fell upon the block of man (and Junior was sure of his race). The barrier flickered, but whatever power was behind the nature of the skill and the indestructibility had to be paid for with the time of existence. The wing strike was met with a heavenly shield. The shield lasted, if only for a moment, pitiful and short. A moment was enough to meet the slightly weakened blow of a fist with the blade of a sword.

The graceful and fragile palm of her hand, like a winged one whose bones are very light and brittle, grasped the sunblazing blade and squeezed it with a crunch. A flash of Heaven of immeasurable power and an equal flash of Sun nearly burned out Junior's eyes, and when he blinked, it was over. The sword fragments fell to the ground, and the Guardsman, despite the noise of battle, the screams of the wounded, and the curses of the dying, seemed to hear the thin ringing of falling steel.

Brether hangs in the air, taken by the throat by the Maiden, half of her face only silently weeping while the other half smiles the sweetest smile. So sweet that even a devil would wince, especially if from the bottom of their hierarchy. The exhausted and broken-in-all-places guy, part of whose mask also broke off, losing the glow of blue, falls at the feet of the Maiden, who herself bends over the victim and, gyrating in mad passion, sinks her hands into the victim's body, right into the flesh, to the blood and meat.

Junior, horrified, induced, and alien, understands and realizes only because the Maiden herself cries out about it, sobbing without a word but delighting in telling a story amusing from her point of view. The story is that every slain adept of her favorite plane will know the peace of Heaven in a very different way, that her hands can take that peace away, take from the defeated their Heaven. So the former would become stronger, so her brand would become stronger, so the walls of her prison would become indestructible, and the latter would laugh and dance on a long-forgotten hope, of which not only shards but no dust remained.

More and more branded ones entered the hall, devils and still-alive cultists. A Giant encased in torturous armor was tearing a hole in the wall, and the River Overlord (as the tactical guys called him) was finishing washing away the last bits of protective charms from the walls and the ground. Next to the Giant, the master of all the Branded Ones stepped in, looking small but not unattractive. The creature was so fearsome, so powerful, that Junior's heart sank, and his artifacts burned out one by one, preventing him from dissolving in the fleur it brought.

Involuntarily, he turns to the Maiden, cowardly choosing not to look at her master but not taking his eyes off her amusement, as if still mesmerized, having lost his will. Her hands are already in the ribcage of the bloodied lad who seems so young... The thought of the number of rejuvenating elixirs drunk by the Brether does not go anywhere, while Junior tries to convince himself that if he lies there, silent, not moving, he will not be noticed, will be missed, and will live a little longer.

Brether was dying.

Worse than dying.

But at the last moment, when the Maiden had given him some freedom, almost finished taking all that she could take from her victim when she wished to savor his last cry, the desperate cry of a martyr losing Heaven, a frantic curse, a request, a plea, or something else so sweet to the latter and agonizing to the former, he did otherwise. Did not attack, did not try to escape or at least summon his power to kill his own essence himself, lest he give it up to the branded one in his hands.

At the last instant, he grasped her palms - hard as steel, unstoppable, and impossibly strong - as if to thrust them deeper into his heart and then reached out to the face bent over him, crying and laughing, barely touching it. And instead of shouting, instead of a last attempt to hurt at least by word, if not by deed, he puts everything he still has - and he had enough strength, he had been dispersed by the deadly portion of potions - everything he knows, everything he has managed to understand in these hours, in his last battle ... he gives it all to the simple words, to the last phrase in which he literally puts his soul.

"I forgive You and let You go."

Even if he had been fresh and ready to fight, he would not have been able to hurt the Maiden and would not have been able to leave even a scratch on her body. But here were the words, spoken sincerely, from his whole extinguished heart..... these words were something else, radically different from anything her defenses were used to reflecting.

The Maiden recoiled as if she had not been touched but struck, not with a hand, but with hot steel. But where was ordinary steel for her defense, no matter how hot it was? That touch, which had left a small drop of blood on her perfectly clean and marble-white skin, had touched something else, hidden beneath the skin, beneath the indestructible layer of Blue, beneath her very Brand. Something long forgotten, not clear, and seemingly impossible.

Half of her face takes on a look of purest shock, opening her lust-rimmed eyes in an expression of disbelief as pure as the clearest spring water, as pure as the blue of the Heaven that submits to her. But it is the other half, the one at the helm, the one who makes the decisions, the one who creates the web of torture and torment for the other half. The jailer never understands, never has time to realize, because the first half, the true half, and, in pride as mighty as Master of Brand's mighty cruelty, unbroken to the end, has changed for the first time in centuries and millennia.

Tears are still flowing, but they are different tears, filled not with anguish, but with relief. Filled with that which is also part of the nature of every adept of Heaven.

Serenity.

Liberty.

Redemption.

The devil is mighty, and his reaction speed would leave almost any of those accustomed to being the epitome of speed themselves far behind. He would easily make time and manage to thwart, intercept, obfuscate, and destroy the plan of a mere man not even a hundred years old. If he had not wished to see perhaps his favorite sight. If he had not been forced to control the entire pack of his most loyal dogs, which had expanded and multiplied several times thanks to the multitude of captives. If only he, knowing full well of such a trick, had made himself believe for one brief moment that such an outcome was even possible.

The first had a brief moment of free will and action. She had no chance of escape, for the strength and skill of her hated master were more than enough to put the shackles back in place. The brand still remained on her soul. Nowhere disappeared the second, just a little thrown aside. All the foolish man had managed to give her was a brief moment of hope, followed by more despair when that hope, rising from the dust, would turn to dust again.

She had no chance, but like so many individuals of comparable character and outlook, individuals who had achieved all that she had attracted the Hell envoys to her soul, individuals who had managed to prove to the world, to prove to themselves, that they were but the Heroes of their own story.... like all of them, she was accustomed to ignore the impossible. And no centuries of torture, the worst of which even a devil would find it hard to imagine, none of the innumerable orgies that drove her mad, had ever managed to extinguish her will. They could have, they could have, but the devils themselves did not want to lose such a sweet toy.

If she had not been turned to the Elder above the Branded Ones with her back turned, covered by her wings like a blanket, he would have seen a sight he had never seen before, a sight to which there may be no witnesses left under the Heavens of this world. The Maiden smiled, with both halves of her face, closed her eyes, and called to Heaven, giving herself to them as she had not been able to give herself to them on that ill-fated day when she had been branded.

Most of the little things that had managed to get into the park, no matter if they were other branded or ordinary devils, were literally vaporized, but even the people got a lot, making the few who knew almost shit their pants. Because devils are scary, disgusting, horrible, nightmarish, and generally so bad that the worst can't be invented, but few people in the world will be indifferent to this feeling. The feeling that somewhere nearby, just a few steps away from you, a true Heroine, as old as she was strong, is giving her soul to the plane, willingly and gladly.

Heavenly creatures are a very rare sight, so rare that most of the world either doesn't know about them or only knows about them from stories and book descriptions. The nature of Heaven is such that planar infestation with it passes without much consequence, well, if you compare it to the same elements or the cursed Darkness. The fall of a dedicated Heaven into its class rarely ends in destruction and casualties. Unless you count those who get too close. Hungry for serenity, able to get it at any moment in their native Blue, the newly minted creatures simply leave, ascend into their own Heaven, and never return.

A fate, indeed, as unenviable as any other becoming the spawn of a plane, for it cannot be a good choice to convert a creature, whatever that creature may be. Nevertheless, if the choice is between falling into Heaven and eternal life in the hands of your hospitable master and those to whom he or the other you will give you to play, the choice for even the most ardent follower of the Purity of Being is obvious.

The Maiden had struck a parting blow. She had fouled her captors. She had dissolved the other into her soul, giving her the peace she still craved as part of herself. You can't fool yourself, and as much as the latter enjoyed the torment of the former, they both realized that both were equally miserable. The Maiden broke free, rapidly dissolving into the serenity she had waited so long for, but she still had a few seconds before she fell. She still had her memory and her duty. She was rightfully a Hero, rightfully had gained her power, and even now, hardest of all to stop remembering, to re-experience, to stop being and ascend, she still remembered her promises. In another situation, she would have forgotten them. She would have allowed herself weakness. She would not have risked the chance she had been given, the Miracle she had acquired without divinity.

But they were forgiven.

Sincerely from the bottom of the heart, they forgave them both, forgave them for everything that one had done, for everything that the other could not prevent, forgave them for the strength of the one and the weakness of the other. If it had not been for that forgiveness, for the pity, the understanding, the sympathy she had seen so much of as she took Heaven from one wretched man after another she could not remember all those faces. It was only by forgiving them both, only by taking away the control of others, that her two halves were given a chance to become one, to become united, and in that unity to acquire the will to resist. The will to take one single step together, to do it together because one half of the soul could not leave the other half.

In the last seconds of clear consciousness, keeping not even her thoughts but her goals set for herself, she bends over the ground. Her body grows, and her enormous, for an Aldis'ai, more than two meters tall, became a full three, and then three and a half, reaching the four mark. Her two loyal wings opened, grew, and multiplied, enveloping her figure in a multitude of wings covering her rapidly losing shape. And yet she manages to grasp the hilt of the broken blade, to draw all its shards to herself with her sheer will. The Maiden's power burns out all the remaining Sun from the artifact's dual essence, leaving only Heaven, filling the pieces of metal with it, concentrating it enough for it to merge back together to become a new, completely different blade.

Same blade, same shape, but now there is only Heaven and nothing else.

She runs the blade of the sword across her palm, doing her best to cut the skin and make herself bleed blood that no longer resembles blood. It was only empty stubbornness and the memory of forgiveness, the debt she'd hung on herself, perhaps the only one she could afford to pay, that only kept her from such a welcome oblivion.

The blood saturates the blade, flowing into it, solidifying on the blade and hilt in the finest pattern, like a multitude of intertwined wings, sky-blue and seemingly even moving. Screaming and overcoming the Heaven pulling her more and more into its embrace, the Maiden raises the blade, which in her hands looks like a child's toy, thrusting it right where the now frozen heart of the boy who had forgiven her, who had forgiven them, used to beat. A heart given, a heart lost, a heart sacrificed for their freedom, allowing them to become her again.

Strike complete.

Blade to the heart.

And heart for the blade.

The second burst of heavenly blue is as powerful as the first. However, it does far less damage to the devils simply because all targets in the immediate radius have already been disembodied, and the farther enemies are protected both by the outer walls of the temple complex and by their own barriers, which were hastily raised and pumped with maximum power after the first burst. The stormtroopers were preparing to repel the Grimmentray's power, but the prepared tricks against pure Blue also helped not badly, just a little worse.

Somewhere up above, under the dome, there was a death cry of ecstasy from one of the Legends, which even a very tired Jeremus Styre had found a solution for, but the Elder over the Brended Ones, who was sheltered behind the giant's power and his barriers, as well as about half of his elite retinue, lackeys, and assistants, paid little attention to it. They had only just survived the attack, survived the Blue Flash, survived not without difficulty, even if the risks were not very high. Still, a stream of pure power, no matter how dense it was, was just a force without control and without a circle of mages to formalize it, losing almost all danger. Especially if you apply those barriers that pure power can not destroy.

When the glow fell, revealing a view of the suddenly remarkably clean inner park, from which most of the corpses and some of the still living had been vaporized. The Elder was faced with a sight that made the devil accustomed to getting orgasmic pleasure from anything, eager for any outcome, shamefully confused, literally not knowing what he should be experiencing. But with each passing second, he was leaning toward a very special type of frenzy, characteristic only of Hell's inhabitants. Mad anger at the one who had dared to deprive him of his rightful passion, of the ecstasy that the universe itself had given him.

A man stood in the center of the park, which was now devoid of all vegetation and resembled a clean, flattened, and as if melted, then smoothed and tamped. His fiery red hair contrasted sharply with his pale skin, which was barely covered by the scraps of clothing that left only a part of the mask that covered half of his face and one eye, his knee-length pants, a piece of his left sleeve, and the toe of his right boot. This man would have seemed unassuming, for there were many more impressive individuals in this temple. What was the pretty Jerem alone, for the branding of whom he had come here as his fourth child?

But it was this degenerate, this worthless, mean, heartless, and cruel mortal who had deprived him of the one whose two faces had for so many centuries given him all the shades of Lust and Despair, so purified, multifaceted, and nurtured that the mere thought of losing them made the Elder of the Branded Ones gush with gut-wrenching anger.

He would have rushed forward, covering himself with his creations, his children, just to pay back this abomination for what he had done, if not... if not for... if it weren't for the blade in his hand. Blue as Heaven, thin as a feather, as if he had become akin to the hand that held it, and without even addressing the sonm and its beholders, the devil knew that no one but the only man in the universe could hold that blade.

If it had not been for the figure hovering behind him, bound to the blade and its master by invisible threads, drawing the right to stay in reality without falling out of it, without being expelled like any creature back to its Heaven, straight from that connection. It was huge in stature, covered with dozens of wings, large and small as if it embraced a man and sheltered him from any hardships. Gave peace and hope.

His Maiden was a Hero, a true Legend of her era.

And she fell, fell willingly and forever.

But the bond, the bond of the blade and its wielder, allowed it to become something more, to retain more than creatures were allowed to have, to retain some of the skills of all her classes by translating them into the creature's talents, to retain some of the intelligence honed with centuries of experience and, of course, to retain some of the memory that had never dissolved into the Blue.

One of the man's eyes was visible from beneath the chipped mask as he watched the Elder of the Branded Ones.

Over his shoulder hovered the Maiden, whose face had become a mask, as if molded of stone, on which the eyes could not be distinguished.

But the devil knew she was looking, and looking at him too.

The creature was ancient, incredibly ancient, and remembered things that the human mind could not handle. The creature thought in different categories, having nothing in common with the thinking of mortals and the endowed. What was going on in the mind of this entity could not be put into words or images without losing oneself in these streams of molasses and honey. One glance of the creature would be enough to kill and rebirth, one touch to change and forge, one breath to seduce and corrupt. Around it stood branded servants. Around it were kin ready for battle. Next to it stood a giant reshaped into something impossible that would take on all the wounds and blows, all the hardships and pain.

But when a man took a step forward, an ordinary human step.

The winged figure, frozen behind his shoulder, silently moved forward.

A powerful creature that had long ago outgrown the rank of a mere Legend, one of the ten or even five strongest entities of its domain, that had subjugated and branded Heroes, other Legends, and Heralds of the Divine, that could single-handedly take over an entire country... The smile, the joyous grin adorning the lips of Elder over Branded Ones trembled.

And he suddenly, as if against his own will, took a step backward.
* * *

In the life of any reasonable being endowed with power over other reasonable beings, be it a king, an army centurion, a chief artisan, or a leader of a barbarian tribe of green-skinned people, there are plenty of such moments when one of his subordinates would like to take one of his subordinates in his arms and throw him into a swampy pool so that he would never swim out. Even if earlier this subordinate did not cause any complaints with his service, even if earlier you could consider him if not a friend, then a reliable colleague, even if you continue to consider him so, but, bitch, he pisses you off! The way of abusing the lives of individual subordinates may vary because not everywhere there are swamps, and not everyone will mess with these swamps, preferring the good old fist in the teeth.

Or an axe in the teeth.

Or battle charms in the teeth.

Or not in the teeth at all.

"Shchepan, damn, it's been almost a week!" Vozma had only one-eighth halfling blood, but he swore in their vernacular as if he were a pureblood in his mid-twenties. "There's a lot of hounds out there, and if they catch us here, they're going to fuck us in all holes."

Vozma, despite his love to pretend to be an idiot and then even concussed, which helps a lot when dealing with high-ranking gentlemen, was not a fool, therefore, his words were quite reasonable and justified. Since the moment when the capital of their mighty and good empire had been brazenly snatched, it had indeed been almost a whole week, even if not counting those very first hours, when no one had confirmed the terrible news yet.

Just at some moment, people approaching the Eternal from all sides in a continuous stream realized that the roads paved with fortified stone began either to lead somewhere wrong or to end altogether. Some paths simply merged with the same roads but approached earlier from the other side, and some of them simply broke off as if cut off by a huge blade. Space, as Jazh, their squad mage trained at one of the Academies, assured them all, seemed to have shrunk like the ass of a horse that had just shat. It was as if someone had cut a piece of cloth from the map of the familiar world and then, so as not to leave a hole in it, had drawn the edges of the open wound together and sewed them tightly.

The words "panic" cannot describe a hundredth part of the absolute madness that unfolded in those days. Soon enough, the order was restored by the regiments of the district garrisons, by the arrival of the Heralds of God in incredible numbers, Mages, inquirers, guilds, aristocrats, and all other high-ranking goats and sheep almost fought over the lack of communication with the Emperor and his closest heirs. Fortunately, the military had instructions for similar (but much smaller) disasters and several blood bearers of the ruling dynasty, who were not part of the main family and were not shown in the lists of heirs but had authority and some brains, so they did not let the dogs left without masters claw at each other's throats.

Shchepan didn't know and couldn't know the exact versions of what was going on. Yes, he was a high-ranking adventurer with serious connections in the Guild, a personal squad of experienced men and level thirty-eight, but there were so many like him and even more "worthy" in the area that the owners of the local inns and taverns had either become rich or turned gray with horror. The most popular version, which was shared by Shchepan, was Alishan's sabotage, but there was a belated realization that even for Alishan what was happening was somehow excessive.... just too much.

There were mages wandering everywhere, either from guilds or some departments, or simply hired by someone, or even volunteered their help. Strangely enough, in the first two days, no one was allowed near the place of space fusion under the threat of field execution. Later, the tension dropped. Apparently, no one found ways to quickly return the capital to its former position. Holding the crowd of relatives, servants, close friends, partners, and subordinates, who had lost all those who were in the Eternal these days, became really hard and required too tough measures. Up to the point of having to start a war with their people.

It wasn't the wisest choice, more an indication of weakness and indecision on the part of those who now commanded the assembled forces, but Shchepan couldn't help but recognize that if he hadn't been allowed in here, he would have been guaranteed to try to enter the protected area himself. And he would not have been stopped by the need to shed the blood of the soldiers and sentries guarding the approaches.

He had, after all, also lost someone with the city for whom he was willing to do anything, anything at all.
* * *

"Say it, Wozma." Despite the emotions raging inside, Shchepan did not show it, remaining outwardly as imperturbable as always. This skill is extremely important when communicating with a crowd of thugs who recognize only the most terrible badass among them all as the leader. "Here, our country, God grant it to stand firm. What is it called?"

The conversation did not prevent the man from straining his magic, doing everything they had come here to do despite the risks. He was tall but hunched over, a little battered, either by life or by the blows of a huge club, and it was hard to call him handsome, even for the whores who charged him one and half the price, let alone normal girls.

"Well, it's the Eternal Empire." His best jager obviously suspected a trick in the leader's words, probably even knew what kind of trick, but he didn't want to answer directly, afraid to go snorkeling after all.

There was room to dive, for the party was now in the place where they were most at ease. It was the swamps, though mostly of the tropical, mangrove variety, where they had found fame, fortune, and a few fellow locals who had joined the adventurers for a share in the spoils and a better life. The imperial swamps had been visited more than once, too, so it was far from an easy task to surprise or frighten them with mud.

There was a moment when the whole place stirred like ducks that smelled a fox approaching, but nothing came of it. Shchepan was not lazy to argue in gold in front of a few of his acquaintances who had been let into the cordon. They said the priests of the Fair One had gotten very excited, almost managing to force their way to somewhere far away, where the capital was now. And from them came some very bad news. The almost-formed portal reeked of an inordinate concentration of devilish fleur as if the portal was being pierced not to the Eternal but directly into Hell. The panic was not quickly calmed because Alishan slave traders and blacksmiths could still take prisoners for a generous ransom, but devils had no such chance.

Alishan's informant was spitting pure anger, foaming at the mouth like a rabid wolf as he recounted the information. Alishan had not been choosy before, but they avoided cooperating with Hell as much as any other state, except perhaps for some of the most badass Drow Houses. It was not even cleanliness but common sense because such cooperation would almost always do more harm than good, not to mention the fact that everyone, including even the Gods, from the light and neutral to the darkest, would turn on the lover of Vice. It's one thing to feed Shadows, summon Madmen or some other abomination, but devil armies.... And to send the entire capital to Hell is not just one or two Legends under contract!

The same informant, who had obviously also left someone dear in the city, swore on his diploma of graduation from the Negotiating School and his Analyst's class that after such an event even the Empire of the Arms, which had kept its distance from the conflict between its two neighbors, would break its neutrality and come to the aid of the Empire of the Ages. Not for free, of course, but Roderick, the bastard, didn't give it to him for free either, despite his indignation and righteous rage.

"Do you know why our empire is called the Eternal Empire?" Still, as aloofly but ingratiatingly, Shchepan continues.

There were reports that some groups had managed to break through to the coordinates of the lost city, but there was no feedback, so all sane people thought they were just smeared in the distorted space. An unstable portal, no matter if it was planar, purely magical, divine, or based on exotic principles, was always synonymous with death. So the daredevils died, but time after time, they were followed by new suicides, for whom the risk of dying meant nothing because it was an acceptable payment for possible success. Suicides like Shchepan and the part of his troop that went with him. Only a part, because he did not dare to press with authority and drag all of them with him.

In fact, they didn't risk much, at least those who were only helping the commander, not going to stick their heads under the guillotine. Shchepan judiciously assessed his strength and realized that he, even though a very strong Vedun and an experienced Mage of the Swamp, had no chance since even the best of the best could not cope with the task.

"Well, because we're ruled by the Eternals?" Wozma continued the no-nonsense dialog. "The dynasty."

What was it worth for him to ignore everything and everyone and take his son with him on a quest? Yes, he was only twelve, but Shchepan was only a year older when he was first trained in blood. He trained his son to the best of his ability, even if he didn't always have time for it, thanks to the Guild and its contracts, which he couldn't refuse despite the inconvenient timing. Excellent mentors, mostly from the Guild instructors, good education, and several trips to practical training could compensate for the weakness of attributes, small age, and lack of class. He would have to deal with his son and cover him personally, which would affect the success of the hunt and the amount of prey, but these small things could be tolerated.

And the risks? Even in the heart of the ancient marshes, Wojzczek would be safer than in his ancestral estate if only because those marshes are still within Alurei, even if it sometimes seems otherwise. And sometimes it doesn't. But there, he could have controlled the situation and prevented disaster. Now, all he could do was try to do something rash and stupid. A deed which, most likely, will turn out to be an audible fart in the wind, with some, very small, probability allowing him to kill himself against the wall of scattered and twisted space. Shchepan didn't even think about surviving his stupid self-sacrifice. He was well aware of the odds.

He just couldn't do it any other way.

"Do you know why our rulers, may the Ages bless them, are called the Eternal?" The quarrel requires almost no control from the consciousness because they have all learned each other so well that they can quarrel without waking up, drunk, unconscious, or in the middle of a fierce battle.

A martial brotherhood doesn't spring up out of nowhere, requiring long and bloody years of side-by-side to form. That was why they were with him now. That's why some of them had agreed to take the risk with Shchepan, even though they were aware of the risks, just as aware that they couldn't talk him out of it. And if they tried just to beat him over the head and get him drunk and take him far away from the place where the roads to the capital were cut off, they would only have to kill their commander, preferably before he came to his senses and sobered up.

Wojzczek was all Szczepan had left after Jadwiga's death, all he valued and could bring himself to live for. He didn't love his mother so much as to tolerate her because there were too many things bound them together, from blood and money to a wild mixture of mutual respect and equally mutual dislike. The fact that they were able to produce a child despite their classes and health, damaged by alchemy and rituals, could not be called anything other than a miracle. Perhaps about Miracle, it's quite literally. He didn't know if Jadwiga had visited the priests, but Shchepan had thrown on the altar of Naamu several times abundant sacrifices, a couple of times even bloody, just to get a chance to continue the family.

"Well, why is that, Shchepan?" Vozma had undoubtedly already understood the leader's thought, though not necessarily. The Jager, while strikingly intelligent for his appearance, had a knack for displaying a surprising lack of awareness of the most basic things.

Swamp magic, like the swamps themselves, was considered a very controversial source of power, even if it wasn't considered one of the "dark" branches of universe control, but very often, those who went that way used bloody bridges to cut off distances. Shchepan, come to think of it, wasn't shy about having a good ritual for five or six victims. He could have done more, but there were other forms of authorization to fill out, which even the captain of an elite group of adventurers would not immediately sign and seal. And the efficiency with the increase in the number of victims does not increase as much as he would like, especially if the skill is not enough. He is not a sacrificer, after all, to specialize only in this way.

The very nature of swamps and etheric streams flowing through them allows these very streams to slow down, twist, stabilize, and pollute with their own shades of energy. Magically active streams and their sources in the swamps are much more numerous than in ordinary land areas. Forests, mountains, deserts - all of them have their own magic and unique shades. They are not separate planes, by any means, but at the same time, a full-fledged source of power for those who manage to take this power. The energy of such places slowly draws out planar forces, mixes them with its own background, processes them, and adds something new, which is not similar to those very planes and is similar at the same time.

"That's because they're fucking Eternal, you fucking horse's ass!" The tension of the situation quickly forces a switch to mate, but it's common among them. Many of the far more prominent squads speak with swearing. "It doesn't cost a fucking thing for them to make it so that our time is running normally and theirs is almost stopped! So that we all have time to come to their rescue and fuck the cocksuckers who fuck them!"

By the way, this was not an idle hope but a clearly known fact. Some of the Eternals who remained outside the capital confirmed by their word that the Emperor had activated the Great Distortion of the Stream at the highest amplitudes. And that means that an hour there, inside the stolen, however silly that word sounds in the current context, the city is worth more than a day here, outside. The Emperor has given his subjects time for his subjects to save the capital, their loved ones, and the Emperor himself. Well, or at least try to.

"Oh, well, if that's the case, that's fine." What you can't take away from a Jaeger is the ability to speak in a way that no one can tell if he's a fool or faking it. "Then we live."

Shchepan was not the only one who had relatives or friends left in the Eternal, even if family people among his squad could be counted on the fingers of a bad woodcutter's hand. Just temporary mistresses, girlfriends, acquaintances, and other connections, which, of course, are very important, but not so much to die for them. That's why it felt good somewhere under his heart that his comrades didn't give up, and now they were by his side, risking their lives and souls for the commander, friendship, comradely relations, and the promised sevenfold payment, where the sum received for one of their most successful raids became the standard multiplied by seven.

Greedy bastards.

But they, his bastards.

Shchepan was not counting on his strength and stunning power but on the swamp altar in his house, which had belonged to his grandfather's father's father. This moss-covered boulder could be used for many purposes, starting with prayers and sacrifices to Naamu, continuing with dozens of witchcraft rituals, and ending with the aforementioned teleportation to the altar. Of course, such tricks had probably been tried many, many times before, but the swampman had certain hopes.

First of all, this altar is sprinkled with his blood and bound to him more tightly than even a father-son bloodline. This heavy boulder was delivered to the capital's mansion by Shchepan's father as soon as he was authorized to do so, having fulfilled several complicated contracts for next to nothing. Warlocks aren't as attached to altars and places of power as is commonly believed. If we're talking about village whisperers, then yes, they do often foolishly chain themselves to a certain territory too tightly, becoming defenseless or even unlivable if only they were to be yanked off that territory. There are also those among the experienced users of witchcraft who attach themselves to a certain land too strongly, but this is not a prerequisite. The same Shchepan became stronger near the altar, could create preparations for different cases in advance, and performed certain rituals there, but the absence of the altar near him did not make him weaker. It was just another way to rise, with its strengths and weaknesses, conveniences and difficulties.

Second, he was going to break his way not to save the Emperor, not to take out the treasury of one of the lords, but to quietly and discreetly enter an inconspicuous estate in a not-very-wealthy neighborhood. The devils could have missed such a quiet, crawling sort of raid. They were not omnipotent, not omniscient, and certainly not able to foresee everything. There's no way to get back out since no one has escaped yet, but that's not a judgment. The main thing for Shchepan is to cover Wojzcek, and then we can wait for the glorious hour when those who can handle Hell and its burps will come to save them (well, not just the two of them, but the whole capital).

Third, there were only eight of them. They are not mighty warriors and sorcerers, each of whom could eat a Legend, but relatively modest adventurers. It's not a Salvation Army to make everyone worry about it. It's just a small thing, especially against the background of the stolen capital. What if they were really lucky? What if they managed to pull out a long stick? Fortune loved them, being the patroness of all adventurers at once, from the village troublemakers who had just set foot on this path to the head of the Guild's branch in the capital.

Shchepan poured his powers into the swamp beneath his feet, standing in a magic circle drawn and formed from mushrooms and mosses sprouting right through the mud. It's a useful trick, not easy to perform even if one had the strength to perform it, but he often had to act in the absence of time, normal materials, and a solid surface underfoot. Witchcraft, in general, is characterized by the crudeness of the magic used, its unresponsiveness and excessive consumption of power, but also by its monstrous power and no less monstrous efficiency. There are a lot of bad rumors about the Witches and Warlock, and we can not say, as if in vain, because it is not without reason the skill of witchcraft in monsters like the same orcs is found multiple times more often than in humans and other endowed.

The blood from his cut palm sprinkled the surface of the swamp, and his companions around him poured their reserves into the sludge that was greedily taking up the magic. Shchepan himself, with a sharp exhalation, poured as much as he could get through in one heartbeat. His mouth feels like it's been shat on by an entire goblin herd, and the aching in his stomach is a reminder of the dangers of overusing potions to enhance his charms. He'd already had a few dozen visits to healers in his life, triggered by the effects of prolonged intoxication, but right now, he just didn't care about saving. He didn't care about his health.

Shchepan is pushing, calling, trying to find a connection with the altar, reminding himself of a blind man who has been robbed of his cane by some drunkard who wants to laugh, has fallen to the ground, and is now watching the blind cripple crawling on his belly trying to find his loss. All around is a busy street, rumbling and hurtful laughter, here and there clattering wheels of carts, and it is only necessary to make one wrong move, as you are just crushed under the gushing laughter of spectators and scolding carriage drivers. The heart starts frantically fluttering in his chest, then almost stops, and he has to be driven by a piece of his magic.

It was hard, insanely hard to keep up the load, hard to infuse new and new portions of power, hard to whisper, spitting out evil words of incantations. It is hard to live, to be, to exist. The task that is impossible for him is drinking away the breath of the Warlock, who cannot interrupt his ritual even if he wishes to.

They've probably been spotted by now. They'd already sent a team of guards here to crack down on those who conducted unlicensed rituals in the area. It's rather surprising they weren't found sooner, as if the swamps had decided to help Shchepan on credit for the rest of his life by hiding him from the eyes of many. The pressure builds up, and he can already feel his bones and teeth starting to crunch, the wrinkles on his face growing deeper as the magic, finding no way in or out, begins to age the hapless mage's body.

He is ready to drop dead right in front of his companions, face down into the swamp. It is now unnaturally deep, breathing, alive. He still does not feel the slightest response. He still stands in the same void into which all the parties interested in saving the capital are beating their heads. He is already dead. He is already lost, and now he is standing only because his natural stubbornness does not allow him to let go of the streams of power twisted in a knot, letting them tear his tired body and soul, only making them more tightly bound, only increasing the power of the inevitably fatal backlash.

And at the last moment, as if in a silly harbor song about sailors caught in an enchanted calm, a wave ran across the invisible plane, which was frozen motionless. Shchepan felt his eyes, which were already nearly bursting, rise to his forehead with a mixture of shock and surprise. If earlier, he had convinced himself of his luck, which had allowed them to begin their ritual in this swamp and remain undetected. Now, the phrase "the swamp itself helps" no longer seemed silly.

It was as if something was really behind him, directing, amplifying Shchepan's call, taking over its kickback and giving him new strength, as if connecting the mage directly to the swamp sources, ignoring all the risks and inevitable damage to subtle bodies that were bound to happen if he tried to pull power like that, in such quantity. It wasn't like the feeling of divine assistance he'd gotten a few times by making sacrifices or by helping Naamu's ministers if he couldn't do without their help. Rather, it resembled the feeling of having the support of a more experienced mage, a Warlock's shoulder to lean on that was better than you. But even when Shchepan had been a small boy standing beside his father-sorcerer, he had not experienced such a difference in strength.

No.

No. It's not even about strength.

It was just that he, like any territorial mage, was used to talking to the swamp, to giving it power and demanding his will in return, making the standard exchange for any spellcaster. What he felt now, right behind him, was wild, unbridled, unstoppable, and as if it were native to this place. The thick, stale, and frankly unhealthy swamp magic was literally caressing this something, becoming as malleable as the neutral energy channeled through the wand-focuser!

It was a different league, a different level, and this level, this support, was enough for Shchepan to feel the faint, uncertain, ghostly response of the remaining swamp altar in the Eternal. He roared like a wild beast, feeling the entire swamp for several hundred meters around, turning from a shallow puddle, where even the mire was almost harmless, into a bottomless pit of a titanic abyss in which a tribe of giants could drown, even if they were placed on each other's heads.

Shchepan fell into the swamp in silence, if only because he could not even open his mouth from overexertion, but his team did not keep silent, shouting so loudly that they could shoot down low-flying birds if they were still here after such a storm of power. They did not yell for long because yelling with swamp sludge in their mouths was bad for their health and breathing. They all fell into the tunnel that had been made for them, which existed only for a brief moment and was replaced by the usual bottomless abyss, in which one could only drown, but no more. Shchepan thought with annoyance that after such a burst of power, even the most untalented magician would be able to sense what was going on in the swamp from a great distance.

And a moment later, so brief that no one even had time to swallow shit, they were all thrown out in a completely different place.

No one had time to react, and they were all twisted so quickly that no one had a chance to yelp. A reflexive attempt to hit the area with a fan of weakening curses was cut off before Shchepan was cut off from his magic, unable to utter even the shortened verbal component. A second later, he and his team, who had no time to be surprised, hung amid the glowing threads of the restraining ritual like prisoners crucified by steppe barbarians.

His gaze swept over the surroundings, making him curse, and only the ritual's paralysis prevented him from doing so aloud. A square of some sort, located in a not particularly wealthy area of Eternal, used to be either a marketplace or a place for executions, but most likely both. Now, the square was completely covered with ritual signs and lines that he, as a ritualist of no small degree, could not even assess.

And, of course, the sources of power were arranged in a circle, as if surrounding the square with a ring. There, a miniature sandstorm was visible, and over there was the energy of a dense thicket, and next to it was another storm, only snowy, followed by blocks of rock hanging in the air. No longer surprised, despite the almost complete paralysis, he rolls his eyes downward to see a small but very deep swamp right under the feet of the idiots hanging in the air. He's talking about his squad because they were fools and will die fools! But why should he? They wouldn't die. Who would let them die just like that?

A ritual trap for any type of territorially dependent mage or witch - that was what this place was that he had struggled and nearly died trying to get to! All those who tried the wall that separated the Eternal from the rest of Alurei, using this method, albeit in different ways, were somehow or other caught by the servants of the creatures and the devils themselves. And then they were evaluated. If they found them valuable and weak enough, they opened the door to the slaughterhouse for foolish mortals.

Shit.

Even shittier than he had envisioned a moment ago, even though he seemed to be envisioning the bleakest of options!

His jaws barely moved, his tongue twisted around in his mouth like a numb limb, and instead of words, a barely audible mooing came out of his mouth. However, not everyone's speech was cut off because Hogosh, the insatiable fat-basin, managed to utter a full-fledged phrase clearly enough, albeit short, but surprisingly capacious and appropriate to the situation. It seems he was helped by his well-developed endurance and skills at resisting external influences.

"Is betrayal é seo." Despite the ineffable and, at times, irritating accent of the Western Plainsman peasant, Shchepan was ready to agree ten out of ten with what he said.

Most of the opponents, though they were not opponents, at most executioners, because the normal battle had not and would not be fought, were human, at least outwardly, and most likely had even been human once. The creatures were not visible, or they were well hidden, but it was hard to mistake these "people" for normal ones. Covered with tattoos and signs, oozing a fleur that hadn't yet eaten Shchepanu's brains only because of the protection of the restraining ritual (why spoil the material with extraneous emanations, right?), they resembled human beings only nominally, like halfling moneylenders pretending to be honest and law-abiding rational beings. Few made a more or less adequate impression, but they were the ones who inspired an almost otherworldly dread. There was too much in them, more than could be contained while still being themselves. A warlock intuitively senses such things, especially if they are not trying to hide them.

How many had been slaughtered here already? Desert folk, forest folk, steppe folk, snowmen - all mages and warriors of certain types were drawn here, and there had been few attempts to infiltrate in the days that had passed outside. It was a shame to feel stupid, especially if you had been trying to convince yourself and the others that you were not stupid but clever.

An elderly ritualist with a face so dull and inexpressive that he stood out even more than the cultists themselves in normal society against the background of unnaturally alluring and beautiful cultists examined them leisurely, but not for long, without asking any questions, and then whispered a few words into the amulet hanging on the cuff of his robe and went about his business to one corner of the square, where several prisoners from previous batches were being thrown into a huge pit. The pit was not filled with thorns, flames, or poisonous snakes but with the same prisoners who had been there earlier and were now spending their time doing something very naughty.

The next cultist didn't say a word but looked at them all, including Hogosh, who had been silenced by the increased paralytic effect, through some translucent glass, shook his head, said something into the amulet, and went to another pit with the same contents.

The third visitor who finally appeared looked obscenely young, as if he hadn't even passed his third decade of winter yet. His hair was not even red but blood-red, and the same red streaks covered his snow-white shirt and pants, except for which he had no other clothes. This one examined them even less than the previous ones, and he looked at them with the kind of look that big bosses or very noblemen take when they are distracted by some trifle they need to witness in person.

"Hmph." The cultist's voice matched his appearance, equally refined and like a murmuring spring brook right in the head of whoever heard it. "And how did you get here? Some kind of artifact?"

It wasn't just a question. It was some kind of mind-affecting crap that was loaded with Hell flavor. And it was possible not to answer it, of course, but certainly not for a bound adventurer of his level. If he had been free, full of energy, and taking the action in the swamp... then, Shchepan would have found something to answer and show, would have let the bastard know what the real Brzenciscevski was worth. And if his squad had joined him, there would have been even some chances, if not for victory, then for retreat and subsequent regrouping. But we have only what we have.

"What artifact?" His lips parted, pushing the words out against my will. "You're the ones who pushed me, you bitches, you shitheads, you gave me the strength, you scum so I could target the swamp response, you asshole-eyed freaks, you filthy sheep-eater."

What surprised him most of all was that the cultist was surprised along with him! He'd expected that the swear words he'd woven into his involuntary response would have at most pissed off the arrogant bastard, but certainly not the kind of mild and haughty surprise, as if the villein had said some absurd nonsense and now he didn't know whether to screw it up or not.

"What push?" Bewilderment and contempt are replaced by the lightest shadow of understanding as if someone whispered directly into his ear. "The ritual doesn't work that way..."

He didn't have time to speak, having to teleport a dozen meters away when the swamp from which they had been pulled, the swamp that had been calmly gurgling somewhere below, the swamp that had been obediently and securely enclosed in the ritual cage, literally exploded with streams of thick slime and suffocating, deadly poisonous gases, hitting the nearest cultists and rushing toward the center of the ritual. Shchepan, who had been agitated and fucked up, felt again the very power that had helped him so recently and which, as it turned out, had been a trap not of the devils but for the devils.

Admittedly, the adventurer had expected the appearance of the elite Imperial Guard, a dozen gold teams of his Guild, and a couple more glorified Heroes to top it off, but the attack, despite its suddenness, was nowhere near as effective as the captives would have liked. Apparently, they weren't the first victims to try to fight back, even if their success was unexpected and relatively large. Relativity was such that the attack seemed successful only against the backdrop of the cult's previous bloodless victories.

It was as if the stream of mud had splashed through dozens of lines and threads, literally sucking it into the structure of the ritual. Only a couple of those who had been hit were killed, and another five who had been wounded and inhaled the fumes were quickly pumped back out using the same ritual, but the lines shone differently. A huge snag and two large boulders flew out of the bubbling swamp and managed to break through several barriers before the other barriers slowed them down and sliced them with shining lines.

If Shchepan had been surprised before, he might have dislocated his jaw if he hadn't been held back by the evil charms of the cultists when the slouching and incredibly agile figure of a swamp ogre, and an enormously powerful one at that, jumped out of the bottomless yawn of the swamp. It was undoubtedly a swamp ogre, even if it was in a cloud of mud, even if it was disproportionately thin and flexible for these monsters, but Shchepan, an experienced swamp raider who had encountered these brats many times and knew an obscene amount about them, could not even estimate its level! These monsters, despite, as stated in the scientific works of almost all Monstrologists, colossal affinity with the native biome, had virtually no talent for any kind of magic. This talentlessness, low attributes of magical orientation, as well as vulnerability to fire and acid magic (with unpleasant resistance to most of the dark branches of sorcery) allowed you to counteract them if you ran into them during a raid.

Hunting swamp ogres was a difficult and thankless task, even if it was profitable in terms of the reagents taken from their corpses, but it was much worse if they hunted you, considering you the prey. All of Shchepan's experience couldn't tell him what characteristics such a specimen should have. He could see him fighting as well as an experienced warlock or shaman with the support of a small circle of disciples! At the same time, the bastard moves much faster than the norm for these creatures, which are not as intimidating in agility as they are in strength and survivability! The realization that this miraculous wonder lived literally on the outskirts of the capital made him want to survive just so he could visit the Guild's Monstrological Intelligence Department and shove those pompous visionaries' reports up their asses so deep they could read them when they came out of their mouths.

The ogre was rampaging and was about to devour the cultists right there despite their resistance. The layer of mud was rapidly shrinking, literally shrunken by the numerous spells, but underneath it was the ritual patterns the ogre had drawn on its skin. It was difficult to distinguish anything at such speed, but Shchepan could easily see the patterns, or rather, their activation.

Alas, the ogre, when he almost reached the red-haired ritualist, who was looking at the massacre, stopped suddenly and fell to his knees at the mere gesture of the cultist. The boy himself - though, what kind of boy is he if he can easily be older than the entire Brzenciszczewski clan? - He was barely audibly pulling a single note, not with his mouth, but with his very gut. The ogre's swamp blanket was sliding down to this tune, and Shchepan was once again dumbfounded when he got a good look at the ogre.

It was okay that the ogre was female because these monsters don't depend on their sex for the degree of danger, but her appearance was such that a dead man would have stood up, despite the size of the ogre (especially her melons) and her inhuman (though far from hideous) face! There was a clear suspicion that this beast had already been caught once by these very devils and given a good workout. No, seriously, only a maniac could turn a swamp ogre into this, a maniac who would have been accepted into the ranks of the Cultists without examination and right into the senior ranks.

"How lovely." The unconcealed admiration expressed aloud did not, in the slightest, prevent the ritualist from maintaining the same note that made the ogre convulse and start caressing her modified body. "Just unbelievably adorable. I want to know who created her. And him I want too."

Szczepan was torn by internal conflict, for his eyes had seen a frankly enticing sight, especially when the green-skinned giantess, covered in savage ritual patterns and only by them, first arched, spurted out a stream of juices and began to writhe fiercely on her enormous breasts, but his mind kept bringing up the image of what normal female swamp ogres looked like. This comprehension only made his unnatural attraction more frightening and a slightly shameful disgust, which became easier the further it went.

"You." The look in the red-haired man's surprisingly clear and childlike naive eyes didn't promise Szczepan anything good. "She came for you. Together with you. She helped you and didn't kill you. What? You? Know?"

It was no longer like an interrogation, no longer forcing him to tell the truth, but simply ripping out of his head the right images and memories of how they had all gotten here. Everything Szczepan remembered, knew, noticed, and realized in those moments when he was preparing to take suicidal risks seemed to be ripped out alive right through his eye sockets. It was worse than any pain, sweeter than any night in the arms of a professional hetaera, scarier than the most unforgiving nightmare. He felt as if his mind would fail, burst, break, like a mechanical clock that had been poured a couple of handfuls of sand and then dropped a blacksmith's hammer on it.

"Wow, they're attacking again, for the sixth time this hour and all on us." The cultist who had passed by their company, the earliest of them all, was affectionately hugging another ritualist dressed in a woman's dress despite a mustache and beard that would have done any other dwarf dubious honor. "When are they going to shut them up?"

A multi-segmented barrier was shining from above, sheltering the entire area from possible attacks, and tens and hundreds of light spears were continuously streaming into this barrier without making it even a little bit sag. Not otherwise, one of the stationary defense points continued their fruitless attempts to destroy such a large gathering of the enemy despite the lack of effectiveness of their actions.

All of this Szczepan was only marginally aware of.

Because Szczepan was being killed.

And Szczepan, who was being killed, was dying in return.

And as he died, he felt the triumph and discontent of his executioner and benefactor, torturer and best friend, who had betrayed him to the worst and most glorious fate possible. The triumph grew out of the possibility of meeting the master, the true virtuoso of debauchery that had created the impossible, wrong ogre who continued to knead his tits; the discontent out of the fact that the adventurer's memory had no answers and, apart from these images given in response, a clear understanding of the simple truth had come. He would kill him now, break him, and turn him inside out simply because such a weak group was of little value to them, and the irritation needed to be taken out on someone.

He felt his eyes rolling back in a mixture of agony and ecstasy, rolling up to fade away forever. Szczepan saw the ogre once again tugging her nipples especially hard, once again pouring her juices onto the ritual lines that covered the unfortunate square. And, as if to continue her obscene games, she swung her long and incredibly strong arm, at the same time making the patterns covering her arm glow dark green and black-blue, blowing the red-haired head off the ritualist's shoulders. Neither the barrier that flared up at the last moment nor the glowing ribbon lines that rushed to intercept the blow nor even an attempt at emergency teleportation helped. A swamp ogre attacking to kill is extremely difficult to deflect, and a premonition of danger is not always a warning.

He was almost orgasmically relieved the torture had stopped, and he was truly religiously horrified when he realized the blow had not killed the ritualist but only wounded him, who had teleported a little behind the ogre's back (probably the jump coordinates had been thrown off by the wound). His head was blown off his shoulders and crushed to smithereens! He was alive and even quite capable, and in the place of the missing head appeared as if a drawing made with charcoal or even a thin artistic pencil, depicting the surprised, shocked, and somewhat panicked face of the brat.

But even if his vitality, especially in the middle of the ritual, whose lines had already rushed to the decapitated body, successfully returning color to the sketch that had regained materiality, allowed him to survive even that, he could not control the ritual, nor could he renew his control over the wrong ogre. If it had been controlled from the start, it was not for nothing that it resembled the crafts of these cultists and their masters, and who better than they to know how to protect themselves from the brainwashed tricks of such an abomination?

The ogre was moving so fast that Shchepan could only catch the residual images of its movements, figuring out the rest afterward, but he could see something even in such a pitiful state. The monster twisted with a kind of unnatural grace, grabbing the decapitated body, and the same shining signs, changing their location on her body and form with content, prevented it from moving again. Her rituals are primitive, crude, even more primitive and crude than his own, but she is now near the source of her might, and the only one who could have seized control of the ritual-bound swamp source is now out of his head. The might break artfulness on all fronts, from ritualism to the important fact the main obstacle to artfulness created by the might was a torn-off head!

With a crackle and a kind of wet crunch, the sound of muscles and bones tearing, she throws her body to the ground, literally trampling it with her feet into the ritual marks a moment later, to glow again, all the marks on her body at once, as if letting them flow from her beautiful and delicate skin onto the structure of the main ritual. These signs are like children's scribbles, primitive drawings made directly on top of the extremely concise and even elegant blocks of classical ritualism, but they don't need complexity.

The structure of the ritual was too complex for Shchepan, so all-encompassing beyond his skill level that he was more likely to guess at the basics than to understand them, but the ogre's creation was understandable. Even too simple, as if it were the vocabulary of primitive tribes against the background of elegant penmanship, it had only a small effect, a single task. It ruined all other processes, turning the energy already invested in the ritual into a chaotic interweaving of streams of multidirectional forces.

Even a semi-literate village herbalist could have predicted the result.... or, at the very least, any knowledgeable magician. The result is best described by the phrase "a very big bang." The grief-stricken father, who had followed his son literally to the other world whimpered and began to fall rapidly back into the bottomless swamp. He was no longer held by numerous glowing lines. The thought flashed through his mind. Before his death, he would at least look at the gorgeous tits because the ogre jumped right after him, diving into the swamp in the same way.

To say that they were all shaken would be an obscene understatement. There was not just one swamp on that site but a whole host of springs of territorial magic, each of which the cunning ogre (ogre, may the War Father's hammer smite him, eternally dumb ogre!) had taken out of control. All of these sources, having lost the walls of the cages that held back their power, spurted out right onto the base of the ritual and the cultists who were flailing about in their dance. They would probably be able to stand even without their leader, even if he was the best of them, and could replace perhaps all of them at once. They would have been able to stabilize the circuit, strengthen the cages at the source, and drive the raging power back to the limits they needed. But they were still under fire, and the stationary barrier sheltering them all did not collapse at that moment but blinked.

There was enough for everyone.

Shchepan felt like he was literally being boiled alive. The cataclysm up there was so hot it was like the fire shows at the House of a Thousand Spectacles, which he'd been dragged to a couple of times by his guildmates. If they'd been alone, they wouldn't even have been boiled. They'd have been boiled away with the swamp, and their remains would have slipped into the bottomless maelstrom, becoming part of the natural force and the energy background. But the ogre was in the same pool, hiding there with them, and at the same time, was much closer to the riot of energies, simply jumping into the shelter of the latter.

The swamp mage felt her actions. He sensed she called her home for help, and the swamp helped her in return, saving her and shutting her out of harm's way. And since she had managed to save herself, she had also closed them all, not only Shchepan but also his companions, even the annoying Vozma, saving her surprisingly smooth and delicate skin. Judging by the fact that the swamp was still under her control and not his, the rescue had been extremely successful. It was impossible to maintain such control with serious wounds.

His vision returned in one fell swoop, making him spit hot dirt and cough up cinders when they were all back on the surface. The scenery had changed a lot. Instead of the square that had been mutilated by the monstrous shrines, there was a big hole in the place where the square had been. It wasn't exactly deep, but the nearest neighborhood was definitely destroyed by a trivial shockwave, and those who hid too close were simply atomized. Who could hide here, though? Shchepan could bet any amount of money that the devils had simply let everyone in the vicinity go to the very ritual that had blown up so deliciously.

When he came to his senses, the magician stood like an idol dug into the ground, frozen like a rat in front of a boa constrictor. She was standing right in front of him, unbearably beautiful, but at the same time just as dangerous, so dangerous that he couldn't even begin to appreciate the degree of danger. Some of his burns and wounds were recovering at such an incredible rate that otherwise, he would have thought he was delirious. If before the ogre had seemed simply terrifying, now it was a real nightmare, casually supporting a fencing circle of swamp power that had not yet evaporated after the cataclysm. It was this circle and the very presence of the ogre that prevented the rampaging forces, dominated by the cursed fleur, from scorching the souls of the endowed ones.

Shchepan was no fool and, therefore, knew the only reason the ogre could keep them alive and protected from the flare - any regeneration, especially such a powerful one, depletes the body's resources. There were many ways to restore oneself, but among her tribe, the most common and the only sure way was to eat a hearty meal, preferably with high-level and still fresh meat. He didn't try to resist, not so much mesmerized by her magnificent naked body, now devoid of any ritual designs, as realizing the futility of any attempt.

He wouldn't do anything to her in physical combat. Call upon his magic against her to ask the swamp for help... it's like asking for protection from the nearest guard patrol when the Eye agents have shown up with an order for immediate liquidation signed by the Emperor himself. At most, you'd make everyone around you laugh before you died, but that was all. That's why he stood still, staring at the huge tits, gradually falling into a trance. If he was going to die, it would be on his feet, or at least being completely mesmerized and therefore feeling no pain. Swamp ogres don't tend to play with their prey, killing instantly, but there's no telling how it will turn out if the ogre is so unusual.

Forgive me, Wojzcek.

"Well, why did you stop?" He didn't recognize his voice, feeling his mind drift farther and farther away, and another minute of waiting would cause him to pounce on the ogre himself, even if not to attack. "Come on, hit me, you slimy filth!"

The ogre's stone-cold face didn't change much, but some emotion flickered there. His mind, extinguished in a burst of desire, fished for memories of Shchepan's past encounters with the species. Ogres, common swamp ogres, face completely unreadable. Some even believe they simply do not have the necessary facial muscles. They even died without screaming or growling, maintaining the silence so prized by born hunters. So the adventurer even fell out of his hypnotic trance when this pile of muscles spoke.

"Your stupid?" The rough and ineffably deep reprimand brought to mind that cursed raid when his group had happened to hear the distant, distant singing of the swamp ogres, which was a sign very ominous and foretelling of soon-to-be extinction when those very songsters came for you.

If a swamp ogre is singing, singing without words, just pulling rhythmic sounds out of its throat to the beatings of heavy fists or picked logs on trees, it means there is a whole tribe of them gathered together for some seasonal and primitive feast. So, soon they will go hunting, and from such hunting the whole settlements, which someone has placed too close to the borders of the uncolonized swamps, or even inside these borders, can be deserted in one night. Without a single shout, without any sound, without any fighting or battles. Just hunters coming in and taking their prey. Shchepan had heard singing only once in his life when he had barely managed to get his squad out of harm's way and even managed to evacuate the nearest settlements. But he had never heard any intelligible speech from the swamp ogres, which made him gasp again.

"Wha-what?" The experienced beast slaughterer, monster hunter, monster slayer, and just a good adventurer felt like a discarded fish for the first time in years, not finding a single word.

"Your baby mama's head to bash a log?" The ogre continued, seemingly determined to either drive him to the stroke or to drive him insane if she hadn't already. "And you're going to be stupid later, aren't you?"

"Wha-wha?" A talking ogre, a swamp talking ogre, a talking ogre that speaks meaningfully, not by memorized repetition of combinations of sounds heard from someone else, a meaningfully speaking swamp ogre waiting for an answer from a human instead of eating him.... it would be a strange thing not to go crazy after that. "H-h-how?"

"You're so stupid. I don't need you so stupid." The ogre shook her head disapprovingly and, turning around to face him with her gorgeous ass, simply jumped forward and to the side, traversing the entire contaminated area of the former ritual altar in one fell swoop, disappearing somewhere between the buildings destroyed by the shockwave.

He was called stupid by a swamp ogre.

She called him stupid, scorned him, and ran away.

Ogre.

Swamp.

Call him.

Stupid.

Reflexively intercepting control over the unattended barrier circle, a primitive technique only executed with great strength and skill, he prevents the barrier from collapsing and flooding his men with a toxic fleur. The intensity of the deadly atmosphere is subsiding, and after a while, they will be able to leave this place carefully under the protection of Shchepan's incantations. But for now, they must stay here, not even move, for fear that the stabilized part of the swamp, with its source of power, might not open up again and take them away forever. And yet Shchepan risked the lives of all of them, turning to face his companions standing behind him, giving them a glimpse of his fucked-up face, and then, through gritted teeth and almost growling, he said.

"This! Never! Never happened!" He doesn't even specify what exactly never happened, knowing full well that he will be understood. "Whoever blabs about it, I'm bury him alive."

And, despite the harshness of the situation, even though they could have had enough of a single random creature running past (it was lucky that the place was almost entirely filled with cultists and a couple or three possessed who relied on the strength of the red-haired chief and the power of the protective dome over the square), despite the interrogation that nearly fried their brains, they understood him. And every one of them, even Vozma, nodded with the most serious look, agreeing with the condition, saying that we understood, not a word to anyone. Only quiet wheezing and sobbing and hard-to-suppress laughter spoiled the solemnity of the moment, but it was barely audible because the Vedun could really bury alive a too-talkative teammate for trying to laugh at the commander.

Who even the ogres call a stupid.

* * *
They had met on the roof of the central building of a small furrier's shop that occupied half of Bald Tail Street. Once upon a time, they had spent hours here, watching the sunset, followed by starry skies and then the sunrise. Rain and snow, winds and storms - they met every kind of weather, facing the forces of nature and not retreating a single step. At that time, they were very young, having just met the thirteenth spring, and it seemed to them that the whole world was ahead of them. They believed they would go through it, as they were used to, shoulder to shoulder.

Students and servants of a rather famous fencer, learning the basics of the art of killing from childhood, their careers were arranged in advance. Master Onzia's school produced middle officers for the army, close combat specialists for the guards, and even good adventurers. If you were accepted into the school for talent or paid to have that talent nurtured in you, then something capable of fighting would eventually be molded out of you. Both of them were outcasts in their time, both of them didn't fit into any interest groups, and both of them lacked the charisma to create their own.

He was distinguished by the narrow slit eyes of a typical lanai whose parents had fled the Island Principalities to find their deaths in the lands of the Empire of Ages. The blood of hereditary warriors was strong in him, which made it possible for him to survive on the streets and then get noticed by the school's recruiters. He was even trained in the use of the island saber, and there was a full-fledged Samurai among the teachers, only of pure-blooded Imperial descent. The individual program did not make him really strong because all his training was just one of the experiments of the main fencer. Still, among the students, there were some true nuggets that he was not destined to catch up with, even in his dreams. This training was fruitful, no doubt, but it also completely distanced Hiroko from all his peers.

Maria was also an outcast, but for the very fact that she had been trained as a swordsman-brether, a role that was generally considered to be a man's role. No, there are girls with swordsmanship if we talk about adventurers, but the brether business is almost always closed to them. As if to spite her, she was studying dueling skills rather than the more universal martial craft. She was determined to follow in her late father's footsteps, and the mere fact of her existence was getting on her mentors' nerves.

Their duo was solid and reliable, tested more than once in training sparring and non-training skirmishes with peers, but each time, they stood back to back, never backing down, and even if they didn't win, they stayed on their feet, going at their own pace, supporting each other so they wouldn't fall. But time passed, and he went to his homeland to pay his debt for the lives of his exiled parents or at least to learn something about them. She was left alone, trying to continue to push her line in front of the whole world, fitting into the unfriendly society of official assassins in the service of pompous nobles.

And so, as if in some bitter comedy, they finally met now. She had invited him here, invited him before, but the letters had come late. He had come, having driven a few horses and paid a fair amount of silver and gold for teleportation. They talked, laughed, reminisced, and it seemed that not even a day had passed since their forced parting when they had promised to remember each other against all odds, to remember always, forever.

She specifically asked him to deliver some very valuable, according to her, case to a small town just outside of Eternal. He was to be met there by the person for whom the case was intended, and he was to meet him in the evening. He gladly agreed, but at the last moment, there was an excellent chance to deliver the case with the caravan of a familiar merchant, who owed much to the gloomy and taciturn Samurai and, therefore, gladly accepted the burden without any doubts about its safety.

And he stayed within the city limits.

The city that fell into the Hell.

Until the last moment, he hadn't believed it, though his mind, as if throwing off an obsession, kept throwing up little details he should have paid attention to. If it was about someone else, not Mariah. Her improved looks turned a simply sweet girl into a painted beauty, even though his years had only added scars. Her amazing charisma and the ease with which she convinced those around her that she was right. The way she made love was so unlike the somewhat shying modesty, the shy fragility he'd learned with her the night before they'd parted. He might have guessed it. She had not intentionally influenced him, and any Samurai's resistance to mental influences, illusions, and curses is considered one of the hallmarks of his class.

He could.

He didn't want to.

He didn't belive it.

He had come to this roof, which had stood during his childhood and which stood now, sincerely hoping to be mistaken, but there was no mistake, only the bitter, bitter truth. She was waiting for him here, blazing with borrowed strength and alien power, looking at him with a gaze so languid that he was tempted to avert his own. She was asking him to join the battle going on, offering him sincerely, but not on the side of the defenders.

He had already managed to decline her.

They looked at each other as they had the last time as if they were seeing each other for the first time. A tall, sturdily built Samurai in a dull helmet and streamlined armor made of alchemy-impregnated wood and extremely thick paper, acquired during his wanderings through the Island Principalities. And a frail, surprisingly slight maiden dressed in the colorful and deliberately provocatively dyed rags of a metropolitan Brether. A straight sword and a parrying dagger versus a one-and-a-half island saber.

The coldness in the heart.

The coldness in the eyes.

And the despair that comes with it, the realization that now they see in each other those against whom they have fought before, the two of them, back to back, together and forever. They meet like a wave crashing against a rocky slope, and from the very first seconds, both he and she realize who will win this battle. His class and all his skills allow him perfectly control the battlefield, resist several opponents at once, and in an individual battle, he is far from powerless. But all this pales before the deadly precision and murderous swiftness of the Brether, accustomed only and only to one-on-one combat.

Before, when they'd walked side by side, he'd won one out of three times when he'd managed to trap or exhaust his opponent, but that had been long ago, before the body and soul of his only love, his most valued friend, had been filled with the power of Hell, exalting and overthrowing where he could no longer go. Where he was fast, she was lightning fast; where he was indestructible, she became all-destroying; no defense, no skill could make up for this lag. He had been walking on his feet all his life, taking strength only that he could call his own, and so had she.... when that moment came, that moment of acceptance, when Maria threw away that truth and embraced a new one, which more favorable to her.

"Fool!" Not a word, but a depraved groan seeping into the mind even through the armor of iron calm and self-control. "What will you achieve? What do you want to die for? For whom?"

He is silent, only staggering under the hail of blows, too fast to even keep track of them, too strong for him to stand and bear them uninjured. Silent, not knowing what to say, what to say to the one who was everything to him, to whom he was everything.

"You could have been with me!" It was hard to tell if the word hurt him more or still the blade. "We would have gone away, hid from everyone. You just had to stay out of the way!"

// "Would your new masters let you go?" - He wanted to ask.

// "Would you be able to leave on your own, having tasted Lust and its power?" - He might say.

// "Is this what you wanted? Is this what you came to the devils for?" It was on the tip of his tongue.

But he remained silent, trying not even to fight back, but just to stay on his feet, trying not to fall on such fragile tiles of the forgotten roof, not to break it, falling inside the workshops. He was silent until the hilt of her sword, dispersed by the gift of power, broke through the visor of his helmet, knocking out his teeth and breaking his jaw, dropping him down onto the tiles covered in his blood.

Red on red.

Under the purple sky.

"Accept me, Hiro, please." She asks sincerely, not trying to get in his head, though she certainly can, especially while he's in such a pitiful state. "Be with me as you once were."

How he wanted to agree, how he wanted to forget everything and accept her promise, to believe in the mercy of those who had promised her happiness, promised to let her go free, only help them win here. She had come to them herself, perhaps even believed it, but he remembered the instructions, the books, the stories, and histories too well to believe in the promises of others.

"No." Through the pain, through the blood dripping from his mouth and splintered teeth, he squeezed out, staring painfully at the stone-masked face of his now definitely enemy.

"You're going to die." Simply and somehow mundanely says María, shifting her body weight into a striking stance. "All your endeavors. All your goals. They will be gone. Along with you."

Despite the broken bones, shattered jaw, and blood pouring down his face, he grips his saber tighter, intercepting it in a lower stance, answering her through bitterness and tears with the phrase he has walked with all his life, the phrase he has dreamed of having her walk beside him, knowing she would understand even through the mumbling he is capable of producing with such injuries.

"A samurai has no goal, only the way."

For the next forty heartbeats, he fought in a way he had never dared to dream of all his life, grasping in seconds the truths he had spent years to realize, repeating and embodying techniques he had never known before. And when Maria caught him on another maneuver, she went behind his back, already in the moment of slipping, piercing through the armor opposite his heart with a blow struck without looking and behind his back. As his numb legs buckled at the knees, Hiroko fell onto his back, feeling his pierced heart stop. When Maria walked away without even a glance at her defeated foe, she pulled off her clothes as she went, leaving only bare skin covered in hundreds of depraved symbols. The seemingly scarlet sky began to darken, allowing the consciousness of the mortally wounded warrior to sink into darkness.

She walked away victorious with no injuries other than a small scratch just below the knee.

And he smiled sadly and with an understanding that he had sorely lacked in his lifetime.

Lacked at the one moment when he'd sacrificed the future and the present for the shadow of the past, leaving her alone against the world, a world just as cold and cruel, but now without his support, without a back to lean against. All he should have done was not leave then, and things would have gone a different way, come out differently, and ended differently.

"I'm sorry for leaving you alone." With one lip, not even a whisper, but only a marked whisper of a boy dying alone, who managed to grow up and mature, but only just before his death found the wisdom he had been searching for all these years.

He was dying without seeing how the gait of the dedicated cultist trembled, how her beautiful face contorted in bitterness, and how she wiped away the single tear that rolled down from her eyes and fell to the ground next to a drop of blood from a wound that had already healed.

She couldn't forgive.

Not herself.

* * *
"Stone Crusher!!!" Howls the iron fortress on short legs, what appears to an outsider to be a dwarf clad in full enchanted armor, bringing a hammer of glowing steel down on the head of an already wounded mid-rank devil, turning that head and half its torso into an unappetizing mass of separate and unidentifiable fragments.

The four dwarves walking beside him, also in armor with weapons, were happy to finish off a few cultists or even just brainwashed civilians, who, without the devil's support, were just meat for such warriors. Even a single dwarf in full equipment, especially if in the native mountains or a narrow isthmus, can stop a hundred attackers simply due to its armor and the enchantments put into it, without taking into account the skill of the dwarf.

And here were gathered not just dwarves, but almost elite (or even without "almost") bundle of small kraz, i.e. the full five, used to operate in isolation from the monolithic formation of the horde, in the streets and alleys of stormed cities. The Submountain people rarely went to war under the light of the Sun, but they had their specialists, and no one could afford to underestimate these specialists. The four men following the commander, hearing the shout of the chief, only smiled into the beards hidden by their muffled helmets and picked up an old and obscene (and the dwarves had no others) miner's song.

"Crushing mountain slope!!!!" The dwarves bellowed in four tinny throats as they charged into the crowd of madmen bearing down on them. They were too stunned by the effects of the fleur to realize they had no chance of success but still managed to fuck each other on the fly.

No one felt pity for the killing, in fact, of civilians. Peacekeepers don't go into stormtroopers, and they don't feel sorry for people enough to risk their beards. So they literally went through the crowd, leaving only mangled corpses and the maimed and dying screaming, either in pain or ecstasy. At the same time, they did not interrupt the cheerful shouts to the lyrics of an old song, taking full advantage of the title of commander, which allowed him to ignore the weak and weaken the strong influences on the mind when the minds of his and his subordinates were occupied with music, poems or songs.

"The tunnel crew!!!" A swing of the axe knocks the small devil out of invisibility, and a flash of runic chains turns it into a lump of quick-burning dust.

"Eats moonshine!!!" The companions pick up, throwing a small iron-rimmed explosive powder bomb each toward the squad of full-grown creatures.

The creatures against them were not quite as strong but far more dangerous than the ordinary freaks. But after a series of synchronized explosions, their defenses, if they had any at all, sagged to zero, and the five walking battle towers that burst into the broken formation mixed the survivors with the mud under their feet. They had to use the purification runes on the armor. The remains of devils are not just a slimy sludge but also the risk of getting into the head of obsessions or delayed curses. And, of course, don't forget the song.

"Elder Kuzgardzha is drunk as the pickaxe!!!!" Another squad of civilians who had fallen into the madness of Lust were not spared either, or, on the contrary, were spared and given a quick death without eternal torment and unnecessary suffering.

"He's sleeping in the crusher!!!" The rest of the group picks up, smiling even wider because the name of the "Elder" in each song is different, and, usually, the most annoying personalities are substituted there.

"Gwinley's mechanic clutched the lever!!!!" The developed devil that fell from above attacked suddenly but only managed to deliver a powerful bolt of lightning and flame that scorched the commander's shoulder pads and slightly burnt his hair under his helmet, despite the runes woven into the braids, and left a scratch on his visor, but that was all.

"On a merciless rattler!!!" The rest of the group acted coherently and incredibly fast, especially for those who were used to thinking of dwarves in their iron garb as sluggish and clumsy.

Their people were not particularly famous for dexterity but every normal set of armors would have several strengthening and accelerating chains of runes, enchantments, or even external amulets, both permanent and short-term but more powerful. And in the hour of need, any dwarf could fly like a cave bat, sting like a mountain viper, and boom like a giant and a half. However, they could do the latter without magical help and without armor, too, even if some unskilled in the rules of good manners, mostly from those who grew up not in the mountains but under the sun, used charms to eradicate hangovers, instead of the traditional kvass or brine. In the glorious clan of the Fiery Pickaxe, they didn't declare them heretics or shave their beards. They weren't that traditionalist, but they were certainly looked down upon.

This attitude to the process of curing hangover was considered by many to be inexcusable and required public reprimand.

"Whoa, shorties!" The man who had captivated him reflexively tried to scratch his beard but once again bumped into the smooth surface of the mask. "Would that I lived like this, the way they booze! It's almost the end of the world here, and these beards are distracted by their flasks! Is that normal?"

Hector, in general, did not consider such an attitude normal either, despite his clear knowledge of the benefits dwarves received if they consumed properly made alcohol on time and a regular basis. Predominantly ale, beer, and tinctures, less often brogue, mushroom liquor, and very rarely fire-dwarven water. The latter, of course, can also be alchemically enhanced, but in combat conditions, it is too heady to be used regularly.

Dwarves sell their famous beer and ale quite willingly, but to get the necessary benefits or even permanent status effects of a reinforcing type, such drinks must be drunk almost all one's life with enviable regularity, but at the same time, except for dwarves, such courses of reinforcement give a reduced output, and, on the contrary, require more effort. So it turns out that dwarven drinks are more often bought because they are tastier, not because of any prospects of accelerated development.

"Quite normal." The one who'd made Hector immediately hate the masked man. Half and half with an equally fierce horror. "They reinforce themselves in this way. And, at the same time, remove some influence of the fleur. A dwarf without beer and a dwarf with beer are two very different dwarves. Believe me, I've checked. Several times."

Mask glanced at the one who answered but remained silent as he continued to watch the dwarven battle star's progress through the farsight lens, unceremoniously taken from Hector. A devilishly beautiful naked deviless on ignore from an... Ally? A slave? A subordinate? A devil in disguise? In general, she didn't seem offended, continuing to lie perfectly still in Hector's arms, causing the Eyes agent, who couldn't move normally of his own free will, a primal terror.

His class, among other things, allowed him to assess the strength of others, and the strength of this particular devil suppressed any will to resist. He was genuinely surprised, even through all the horror, that he could still feel something other than servitude and lust when he was near her, but, judiciously considering the situation, he suspected it was some kind of sophisticated psychological torture.

"By the way, they're flying again!" The deviless remarked with a slight chuckle while releasing several captive souls from her gut, creating some sort of elaborate camouflage barrier, like a spherical mirror shimmering with multiple highlights, whose reflection shows the small house they occupied, only without their presence. "I'm covering."

"Yeah, I see." Mask agrees with her, rolling back under the shelter of the cracked but still-standing walls. "Your brothers and sisters are eating some shit."

The imposing and, beyond any doubt, pretentious peasant talk and vocabulary of the mask is not as disconcerting as the sight itself, from which both his captors and even the dwarves, who quickly finished singing their song on the eighth verse, are hiding. Right in the air, only a hundred meters above their heads, a huge iron box of golden-sandy color is passing in the glow of segmental shields and released battle charms. And from this box, which was shooting in all directions from a multitude of cannons, automatic lead shooters, battle wands, and even the devils do not know what else, reeked with such power that Hector, for a moment, forgot about the fear of the deviless who embraced him. He also regretted his inability to signal a passing machine, even at the cost of his own life, for even a fleeting blow from such a huge thing could send him to Eternity in the company of the creatures that had captured him.

The iron hulk, with hundreds of defenders and at least a full combat cleric from one of the Ascended Warrior's temples perched on its outer armor, was not just flying around. It was firing at the slowly reviving hulk of the giant mega golem, at the fighters of the main invasion squad falling out of the Eternity Zone, at devils and cultists that just happened to be spotted. And also on the well-coordinated trio of legendary creatures that were running around the fighting machine of the highest order on intricate trajectories, keeping at a respectful distance and trying, if not to destroy, then at least slow down this Chariot of Infinity, only in the gnomish way!

Their attacks had not been in vain. The armor of the vehicle was chipped and melted, and a couple of gun nests were silent, gaping with breaches or mangled guns. Oh, and the auxiliary forces entrenched on the armor were thinning out as well, as the outer shields were much easier to penetrate than those shields and armor. Hector was ready to swear that even though there was new damage on the armor from the last time that thing had flown over them, some of the old damage had disappeared, some of it had diminished considerably and, though it might have seemed like it, was healing before his eyes. And the legendary Hell spawns that had been there the first time it had flown over them were not three, but a full five, a battle star.

"The Voice of Promise has failed to keep its promise to feast on a carpet of the First Prince's bones and semen." Apparently, he wasn't the only one to notice the decrease in the number of attacking creatures. "And there are few masters of passionate soaring even among the elite. We didn't expect such powerful soaring among the Eternal warriors. Usually, you know, we are the ones who prefer to dominate from above."

Hector inwardly agreed with the creature, even if he did not mean it. There were indeed many flying specimens of madcap viciousness among them, whereas among humans and other endowed ones, even those sworn to the elemental plane of the Wind, otherwise known as the Heights, were not always able to fly. Soaring, slowing the fall, even slowly ascending - that was fine, but true flight required not only a good reserve, perfect concentration, and perception, but also a good physical component. That is, if the flight was really worthy of being called such, because a fool hanging in the air was too easy to shoot down, especially if he spent all his energy on maintaining levitation.

However, Hector had no idea of such a type of support, and he had not even heard any hints of its existence. It would not be possible to keep such a thing in the capital without being noticed! He would have to spend a lot of gold and a crowd of skilled technicians just to maintain the mechanisms and compensate for the wear and tear on the parts. He knew how much it cost the dwarves to maintain each of the combat vehicles, so he was afraid to even imagine the amount of money spent on maintaining a vehicle like this. No, they couldn't maintain it in Eternal, which meant they'd managed to summon it by teleport. Some kind of artifact. For sure an artifact, expensive and unique, otherwise, not only dwarves could overcome the teleportation blockade.

"Shouldn't have promised," Man muttered, clearly squinting despite the mask on his face. "What the fuck are they doing?"

The flash almost burned out Hector's retinas... No, it had, but the deviless had healed him for some reason, so the agent immediately filled his pants with the stuff he usually preferred to fill the girls in the Rose Guild's establishments with. The restored eyes and embarrassment did not prevent him from listening to the conversation.

"That I don't know. Hit from the side of the machine." The creature asserted, mockingly stroking Hector's cheek, forcing him to repeat the embarrassing reaction of involuntary eruption. "Judging by the hue and imagery of my seers, a combination of some artifact from the gut of the machine and the prayers of the servants of god. Look closely. The iron has slowed and lowered. Although... Continuity of Fucking is out for good, and Mother Heart and Thirst for Ascension have lost almost all of their defensive souls... Oh, they dared to throw that coin on the scales of balance? So daring. And foolish. But who gave the order? Did they?"

The deviless gathered herself, once again paralyzing Hector completely, preventing him from blinking while keeping a close eye on what was happening. The colossal machine dropped down over the next block, almost blackening the roofs of the surrounding buildings, forcing the deviless to shuffle her collection with great speed, providing camouflage for their position. And to the temporarily - he hoped temporarily - lost part of the machine's power, another hovering construct was closing in.

This abomination flew slowly, very clumsily compared to the machine that was doing bird-like pirouettes. It was twice the size of its opponent, and its defense and firepower were not inferior. The huge soaring temple, as if torn out with the foundation and lifted into the air, was a thousand times worse than desecrated. Every meter of the previously white walls of the hundred-meter-diameter structure was covered with a carpet of continuously mating bodies that remained alive despite all the wounds, skinned, disemboweled organs, and hundreds of other disgusting things the creatures did to ordinary citizens. Hector didn't care about all the peasants, even if they died, but, Gods and Laws, not like that!

The temple's hulk opened the central gate, releasing a veritable river of fleur that reinforced the stationary sacrificial barriers around the soaring rock while moving towards the machine that had finally landed (and thus transferred free power to defense). In this stream, souls and intangible devils of not the lowest rank flicker in and out, directing and structuring the work of charms that could destroy a standard border fort and even the city that this fort covers with a single blow.

Right on top of the temple tower stood a dozen high-level devils oozing Lust and an equal number of cultists, maybe not as lustful, but very strong and dangerous. A huge northern barbarian stood out, covered with tattoos of Alishan whores instead of animal markings and completely naked, except for a strange woolen hat-helmet (Hector couldn't blink, but paralysis didn't prevent him from enhancing his vision with magic). The two axes in his hands were artifacts, the value of which was hardly limited by epic rank.

"We have to help." Hector's musings are interrupted by the mask's feeble comment. "They'll kill them."

In Professional Agent Eyes' opinion, the mask was worried for absolutely nothing. So far, the cult and its masters absolutely dominated the battlefield, and when their tribe's odious technique, the infamous River of Souls, completed its formation, nothing would save the machine and its crew. The temple not only used the River but also beat dozens of battle charms, a continuous stream, and seven or eight blows to the machine's shields per heartbeat. Those simply could not prevent the creatures, and then two surviving Legends took cover behind the temple and began to prepare something large-scale, but now also subtle, hidden behind the energy background of the main attack.

"You are not the one I obey." Without threat, but very weighty, the creature said, looking straight into the cultist's mask. "And you can't order me around."

"You think Tin would have done things differently, hottie?" Skeptically, even mockingly, which makes one wonder about the cultist's status since he's ordering this, the mask gives out. "I've known him longer."

What is the Tin?

Din?

In?

Nin?

Who?

Someone.

No one.

"If you wished to leave this piece of meat breathing, at least spare his ears from unnecessary words." With far more confidence declares the devil that has warped his memory, unhappy with the orders of either an ally or still a superior, but definitely not a subordinate. "I need backup."

Hector really wanted to understand from whom it should be covered if all the clerics on board the war machine were frantically praying the defense, and the iron itself stopped firing, having completely gone into anti-siege mode. But he couldn't ask because he was as motionless as a girl doll, and even if he could ask, he wouldn't say anything because he was so scared. Mask, meanwhile, pulled out a shiny, polished metal sphere from under his cloak, clutching it tightly in his hands. With a muffled and hoarse exhalation under his disguise, the mask raises the orb to the level of his face, gazing into its very depths as if looking there for answers to all the questions of the world...

The world shuddered.

The deviless embracing him disappears, appearing next to two Legends, one of which tries to reflexively break the distance but seems to fly on the spot despite the great speed of maneuvers. Hector, thanks to a successfully turned head, even though it is motionless, distinguishes something gray, thin, and fast, after which one Legend is covered by a dozen glowing ghostly silhouettes of some snake-men, and the second one... Attacks the first one?

The deviless finds herself caged in a cage of glowing chains but somehow shifts a couple of meters to the side along with the shackles, and one of the Legends covers her from the second blow. Another flicker of gray, and almost reaching the body of the deviless, the second Legend freezes, stopping the inky-black limbs embodying the Darkness itself within a hair's breadth of its target. The limbs of the paralyzed creature twitch, all nine except two, which are almost to the target and, therefore, immobile. The First Legend, for some reason aiding the deviless, in one sharp movement rips the concentration of souls out of the torso of her comrade, simultaneously putting up an extremely strong barrier that stops some tentative fire from the temple side and gives this bunch to the deviless.

What?

The.

Fuck?

A quiet but heartfelt swearing of the mask, and then his captor was at his side again, clutching a clump of tantalizingly thick golden drops, already processed and ready to be used by the souls. Meanwhile, the second Legend teleports directly to the temple and... self-destructs, blowing up itself and a piece of the temple. Hector felt extremely uncomfortable with the realization of his complete, even more absolute than before, lack of understanding of the situation.

"This one. And this one." Passionately, almost obsessively whispers the deviless, going over her nightmarish trophy. "And this one, I've been wanting to beg for fifty years. And then there are those witch triplets. Their bond will yield much. And here's another one, the perfect host for the backup choir of the seers as they beckoned me. I couldn't have corrupted it better. Hmm, and this one he cursed before his death with this one, slyly. If it weren't for the gifts I would never have recognized it. Sadly, I've never been trusted with strong priests."

Hector didn't see any further fighting because the deviless, who looked at him sharply and disapprovingly, sent him to the land of dreams. Very wet dreams, from which he did not come out until the very moment when the corrupted temple fired a volley at a suspicious structure, to which some sensors reacted strangely and where, most likely, the incomprehensible but very cunning saboteurs had gone. The agent died without regaining consciousness, but there was nobody else in the abandoned structure except him.
* * *

In their hurried attempts to somehow respond to the invasion of devils, especially if the traitors from the camp of their servants have already infiltrated the territory of your department, desperate humans and nonhumans often begin to do things they would normally hesitate to do. They'll punch a tentmaker who's more annoying than a woodpecker. They will confess their love to a stern lady in charge or even to the boss. They will decisively unpack a stash of collectible dwarven water and spit it out in a volley before blowing themselves up with amulets of the Last Breath. There are even too many options, while there is little time to choose something less risky and ill-considered.

In the case of Gregor the Snail, nicknamed so for his honorary title of the fastest master of the one-strike technique among the inhabitants of the Empire of Ages, with which he had repeatedly surprised even the strongest Samurai from distant Island Principalities, everything turned out to be even more interesting. He happened to be on duty today at one of the activation systems of the capital's strongest defense artifacts. Such trinkets are activated only when swarms of legendary creatures fly over the city, huge monsters roam the streets, and the storerooms of the dwarven embassy run out of beer. In general, in situations like this, like right now and today.

Gregor was a man who had been beaten by life, and he realized that he was already dead even before the head of his mistress, who had nearly torn his throat in her last attack, fell to the black stone of the floor. Shouts and groans could be heard on all sides, the defense was rapidly turning into an orgy, and there was no defense, for they had been crushed almost without a fight. The venerable Blade Master sighed, regretted the unread book of his favorite writer, then strengthened himself with all the techniques he knew and, in a rapid dash, broke through to the central control center.

Even if he didn't manage to attack any of the main groups of creatures, he could at least discharge the artifacts and prevent them from being used against the defenders. Yes, his position was nowhere near as important as the same top-level backup attack formation located in the Palace, but he also had enough special amulets that a single press would activate the artifact complexes in their battle positions. How the creatures had managed to open up a formation so quickly and cleanly in the heart of the Eye's central ward, stuffing more than a third of the main contingent with traitors, was a matter for those who would be picking up the pieces of his, Gregor's, flesh.

No longer trying to clutch his palm to his punctured side and torn lung, he allowed himself to close his eyes at the sound of armored doors being broken open. They had the keys to all the defenses, but they were useless if Gregor had just put all the magic into siege mode. No key could open them, only break them. This directive had been developed especially for such a case, but no one believed it would have to be used. So the enemy would be here, in almost the most protected place. If it came to that, there would probably be nothing to save. And so it came to that.

Gregor died with a slightly ironic smile on his lips, having managed to activate some of the systems in random parts of the city, using only minimal effort to make sure they went to enemy concentrations or points of their rituals. Many more artifacts he had simply rendered temporarily unusable - such trophies could not be retrieved or stolen quickly, and if they at least could not be used against the Empire, then he had not died in vain. Alas, but dying, Gregor did not see how all five activated artifacts caused almost no damage to the enemy. Only one wave of deadly magic was able to cover one of the cult's positions, interrupting the ritual and the lives of the cultists.

The Great Blacksmith's Furnace releases the heat gathered inside it but does not create any flames. However, the world itself catches fire as a result of such an effect. The wave of hot wind boiled all the cultists and even some of the creatures, despite their energetic nature. The attack was almost entirely physical, but it was fast, square, and truly legendarily strong, knocking out all life, including the ritualists. Even if some of the creatures, the strongest and most combat-ready, didn't hurt, the conjuration ritual at this point was cut off with a guarantee.

The Sovereign was not pleased.

One of Gregor's death blows that had been swept aside hit a mirror that appeared in mid-air at a height of several hundred meters. Falling from an even greater height (the spatial fold with the artifact was only slightly below the cut-off dome that covered the city), a stream of the brightest Light that took the form of a titanic spear passed through the mirror without even slowing down but fractured like ordinary light that passed through a prism.

Instead of the ritual point, the blow came to some abandoned wasteland, strangely unoccupied by any buildings, though it was quite close to the center of the Eternal. Rumors whispered that no one lived in this place because it was hard to stay here for more than a couple of hours, as if your soul began to cry, falling into depression. After a few dozen suicides among those who tried to build a dwelling on no man's land, as well as a few hundred taken away freebie lovers by the silent guards or even the Eyes, those willing to do so ran out, so another abandoned place with a justifiably bad reputation appeared in Eternal.

That's where the spear hit.

It struck, punching a hole, not particularly large but astonishingly deep in the viscous, corrupted, and seemingly dying earth, where even the weeds grew reluctantly, forcefully, trying to dry up as soon as possible. And through this pit, to its very bottom, came the purple glow of an abnormal sky. There, several hundred elbows deep, amid a dungeon of stone where no source of light had ever been, there was a quiet chinking of chains as the prisoner of this dungeon moved for the first time in centuries. The prisoner was forgotten by all, cursed in life, and denied the right to die. The prisoner had not tried to leave this place, had not tried to break the power of the forbidding charms on his dungeon. He saw no need, no use, or at least no desire to do so. But when a lone ray of irregular light reached his cell, an echo of the madness at the top, a sad smile touched the dry and cracked lips of the terribly thin old man as if he were in the last stages of exhaustion.

Silently, amazingly easily, as if he hadn't been sitting in complete immobility all these centuries, the old man stood up to his full height, heading for the opening left by the blow of charms. The repellent signs, barriers, and obstacles had withered in time, and their nature was such that they were destroyed in the presence of any source of light, which was why the old man had been sealed so deep, dark, and alone.

Forgotten.

Lost.

Unforgiven.

He slowly and leisurely began his ascent up the man-made shaft melted by the extinguished spear, and the chains that bound his figure followed him, guided by his will like the innumerable tentacles of a nightmarish octopus. The chains were not put on him by those who had sealed the old man here; they were put on him by himself.

And maybe today, he'll finally be able to get them off.

* * *
The rules of good manners compel a charming and gallant man, if he considers himself gallant and charming, to show good manners to women. Doubly compelled if these women are so dazzlingly beautiful that one involuntarily checks himself for the illusion or effect of a seductress. Threefold forced if this woman has just blown apart with a shot of artifact lead-shooter the evil head of a very dangerous creature, which almost ate you and your soul, having previously impaled you, gallant and charming, on two huge phalluses, each as big as your foot.

Honestly, this abomination was practically invulnerable to his class skills, thanks to a well-chosen collection of souls scattered what replaced his semi-transparent body and brains. He was ready to burst into tears of relief and marry his savior without going left for at least three years. Taking into account the appearance of the savior, then even three and a half, but on this account, Pierre was not so sure. Still, he knew well his amorous nature, charisma, and easy, the easiest to say, indiscriminateness in the choice of partners for the most pleasant entertainment in the world. Well, he was calculating he would not become manly powerless after today, and all the spectacles had fallen on his tired soul.

"I am extremely grateful for your help, lovely lady, and I am ready to earn your highest approval in every possible way in my attempts to return some of the debt of life at any convenient moment for you." Speaking to women, the main thing is to choose the right set of compliments and tactics to make them interested in you instead of sending you away. But now, there was no time for detailed analysis anyway. There were enough other problems. "I dare suggest an immediate retreat to the larger temples, but not to the Alcoves of Aiza, for I have just come from there, and I can assure you that it is no longer the Exalted Warrior who is being served there, but other masters. For the rest, let me..."

Boom!

The projectile, which passed a couple of fingers from his temple, did not damage anything except the already almost collapsed wall of someone's house and his pride because he squealed not at all delicately and not even gallantly.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" His savior demanded with an inexpressible intonation, more suited to a street thug than to such a lovely woman. "Answer me. Briefly."

"Pierre Dakki, also nicknamed Arsonist by his fellow guildmates, adventurer, twenty-third level of elevation, Ice Swordsman, epic.... elemental focus." If you're talking to the owner of a lead shooter pointed in your face, there's no room for gallantry, but brevity and clarity, on the contrary, are extremely important. "After the mass teleport, I was torn out of the line of guards and visitors defending the Holy Dice gambling house, transported to the previously named alcove, and then, when I watched from a distance. It became clear to me the temple had fallen before the battle began. I went in the direction of one of the First Temples. Caught on a creature I was uncomfortable with. I was saved. By you."

Judging by the slightly softened expression on her face, she wouldn't kill him to silence the source of the noise, but the likelihood of such an outcome was still unpleasantly high. Well done, Pierre, you know how to make an impression. Just like in Gorkamorka, when you were searched for three days by your team to quarter you on the orders of the burgomaster. And the mayor sent his men to look for you. And the guards. And the townspeople. And the thieving scum. And all worked not for reward but out of a sincere desire to help each other in a difficult task. It is said that after his visit, almost all conflicts in Gorkamorka were extinguished, and several alliances between the previously irreconcilable city factions were made.

"What's an Arsonist for if the class is icy?" His question, or rather the fact that it was the first one asked, confused Pierre's savior but did not knock him out of his rut, thanks to the regular repetition of this question from the lips of almost every person he knew.

"I once drunkenly burned the provisions of an army besieging a city." Honestly and without concealment, only very briefly, so as not to have to lie and conceal, the swordsman replies. "Lucky that time, the stockpile belonged to a horde of green-skinned men instead of the imperial army."

"That time?" The beauty was instantly wary, squinting her surprisingly clear and bright eyes, and not everyone was so quick to cling to that caveat.

"Well, I'm often drunk." Pierre continued reluctantly, regretting that he'd given her his nickname. "And there isn't always an enemy army around."

The further exchange of pleasantries was interrupted in the most insolent and tactless way when the wall far from his savior was shattered with stone crumbs. In the cloud of these crumbs, some suspicious-looking man in artifact armor, with a brutal face, and with the head and a piece of some devil's sternum in his hands, appeared. A moment later, these remains crumbled with gray dust, like the dust that covered the big man (two heads taller than Pierre) with the second layer of invisible armor, and the new face at their feast began to get up leisurely, shaking off and as if checking the integrity of the bones. The latter was quite a normal reaction for someone who had just broken through several walls - the sixth son of Dakka's house saw a colorful landscape in the form of a man-made (leg-, back-, and head-made too) alleyway, which appeared as a result of the mentioned flight.

He was about to introduce himself, simply because it was useful to be polite to a man whose armor was worth more than the entire House of Dakka, with all its population and coat of arms (especially if those armors were staring at you with the seemingly lifelike faces of scary old men), even if the face of the owner of those armors was a brigand's face. Especially if the face of the wearer of the armor is a brigand's face! Alas, her unwilling partner was the first to pay her respects, tossing aside a sharp shard of tile caught in her pretty face, probably thrown at her reflexively by the thug who felt threatened by the equally reflexively aimed lead-shooter.

"Hi, what the fuck?" It turns out that she was still very polite to Pierre. Definitely, he won her stern heart with his beautiful appearance.

"Hi... Okay, wait, what the fuck?" The man who had lost his train of thought looked at them both with an attentive gaze, fixing it on the lead shooter held in a fighting position as if by accident, muttered something like "not my concern," turned in the direction from which he had come and where the heated battle was still going on, and simply crumbled to the stone of the sidewalk in a pile of gray dust that disappeared a moment later.

"You say we need to make our way to the temple." As if nothing had happened, the girl inquired, tying a rag balaclava over her face, and, waiting for his nod, continued. "Well, then, let's go to the temple. And yes, you, as a melee fighter, go first."

"All for your beautiful eyes." Pierre brightened, considerably relieved when he realized he would have at least one combat lead shooter in the graceful fingers of a woman. "Except, I beg your pardon, I don't know where the nearest temple is around here. I rarely visit the Eternal, and I've only had time to study the locations of the brothels."

Not at all embarrassed by the mention of such unworthy places for a lady, his partner only raised her eyebrow in surprise and asked another unexpected (somehow she manages to surprise him too easily, it's not for nothing - love, definitely and, of course, mutual) question:

"How do you know the name of that temple you ran away from?" The suspicion in her voice was absent, his intuition silent, but something told Pierre that if he answered wrong, he wouldn't have time to blink.

"Well, there was a brothel across the street." The swordsman said, shuffling his feet innocently (it sometimes worked with commanders, especially if they had tits). "The temple of the patron saint of warriors, and they respect such places. And attending the service of the Ascended Warrior, if you live from the blade, raises the manhood.... so I've been told.

He blinked.

She blinked.

"Then let's go that way." She pointed her finger to the northwest, immediately switching to an easy run, jumping onto the most intact roof of the remaining ones.

Pierre was very glad that he was developing the attribute of dexterity by the method of Spring Vine because if he had distributed them according to the pattern of Iron Blood, and simply would not have kept up with this beauty, deprived of the opportunity to observe her appetizing ass in tight pants (oh, these asses of adventurers and these pants, gods bless the one who introduced such a form of dress among the warriors of the Guild). That's why he didn't immediately remember that he wanted to ask a question:

"What temple is that way?" Not losing his breath at this pace, which his partner, despite her shooting class, kept up with disgustingly easily, was difficult, but he managed. "The one we're going to?"

"I have no idea." She admitted with a note of amusement, slowing her run slightly so he wouldn't cough out his insides from overexertion. "I don't know Eternal either, and you already know where to find the brothels."

Oh.

Oh!

Now he's sure they're going to be friends.
* * *

For a moment, the events of the battle merged for Varaa into a chain of separate frames, fragmented images, and barely discernible memories. Whether his amulets had malfunctioned, or the benefics had failed to keep track of the imposed blessings, or whether the tension of the last few hours had simply worn the young warrior down, but the not the weakest swordsman and guardian, who had passed a quarter of a hundred steps, simply floated and acted more by inertia than sensibly. The reflexes carefully hammered in by his mentors saved him where brains could only destroy him. It would seem he had never been a coward. He always behaved calmly in a combat situation, but, as they say, a warrior learns himself only in a real battle. The past conflicts, apparently, were not real enough, which was logical. It would be difficult to come up with a larger-scale massacre than what today had turned out to be.

It was sometime after the third assault when not only the cultists and standard creatures but also some amazingly vile possessed children were recruited from the nearest orphanages and workhouses and then used as vessels for the relatively weak but very nasty creatures. Brittle, dull, and underpowered, they burst audibly when they were struck, drenching their killers not with the usual mixture of rot and golden honey but with a concentrated fleur of alchemical additives that ate through armor, shields, and, apparently, even souls.

Varaa managed to throw off his rapidly rusting and disintegrating breastplate and gauntlets, but after the guardian's mind drifted, drifting away as if he'd taken too many anesthetic potions. In such a state, and even against the Devils, the man had no chance, but somehow, he was lucky to survive. Perhaps Fortuna had kissed him and made him the new favorite for the next twenty-four hours because the warrior had no other ideas. The scattered frames of memories, when he was able to realize them properly, would have made him gray if he hadn't been shaved bald, according to the tradition of his military school.

Live bombs explosion.

A broken formation, disintegrating into separate groups or even loners under the relentless attacks of creatures, cultists, and unfortunate, distraught townspeople. Above, hundreds of small lights swirl in a sinister and alluring dance, almost harmless on their own but controlled by someone skilled and careful to stay away from foreign blades and magic. The screams, moans, and cries of the dying and affected merge into a brain-wrenching symphony as some of the mages give the order to strike with area attacks, not caring about preserving the lives of allies caught in the attack.

Stikes os ice and lightning.

The old tenth man, so-called by all of them Ten, is blown to pieces when he, already agonizing and with his throat cut, is covered by a stream of dancing snowflakes. Varaa shouts something, both threatening and ridiculously funny, which immediately makes him laugh. His hands seem to go stiff, and then they seem to be guided by someone else's hand. Whether it was the effect of one of the imposed boons or something else, the dazed guy easily takes down two axe-wielding cultists with one blow each, covers himself with their dying bodies, and when those bodies turn to smoke and roasted mincemeat from the impact of a creature that got too close, he kills it as well, shoving five amulet-detonators into the wide-open maw on its chest.

The scream of an arrow-caught adventuress from some squad joining the defense of the small magistrate of the eastern quarters, and he tries to save her, but a second arrow pierces her skull, silencing her scream. The third arrow he misses within a finger of his face, frozen in place, obeying some whispered truth, pure and unimaginably distant, distant as... Another fleeting movement against his own will, and the impact of the dead adventuress, with the worm-like roots of the arrows growing inside her, passes behind Varaa's back as he thrusts himself to meet her, smearing her body with a mighty blow like a rotten eggplant.

An explosion underfoot.

He begins to roll in advance as if catching a glimpse of the coming trouble, a subtle hint, like a starry canvas in the reflection of a clear temple pond, leaping straight into the jaws of the creatures coming at him. There are at least a dozen of them, surrounded by a good hundred small soul-fires, and within that cloud lurks the one who controls the little thing. The counter-strike of the fleur paralyzes him and makes him fall to his knees, not getting up from the ground after a roll, but a moment later, the ground explodes behind him, exploding with pure Sun. Some of the geomancers managed to deliver a bunch of explosive amulets on the same planar energy right under the feet of the creatures that were killing the first rows of defenders. Someone had sacrificed them all, but there was no time for hard feelings. The small devils holding him back were destroyed, but their magic, their bodies, protected Varaa, allowing him to be right in front of the creatures, still shocked by the sudden trap, right in front of the puppeteer and his retinue of creatures that were strong only at a distance.

The remnants of the wooden barrels and carts that had been emptied into the barricade an hour earlier explode under Varaa's footsteps, turning to dust and acid, but he seems to fall asleep for a moment as if he were being overpowered, forced to step directly into the cloud of death. But the poison does not touch him, and the warrior somehow manages to calculate the moment of inhalation and exhalation, so he flashes through the death zone, coming out in front of the puppeteer without letting the contagion into his breath. There is laughter and joy in his eyes, but Varaa somehow sees himself in them surrounded by barely discernible whitish lights, as if it were indeed a starry sky, and then, the corpse reaches its target, shattering the enemy formation.

Hit!

Twist!

Hit!

Obeying a vague whisper, he puts all available reserve into the next few seconds of frantic rushing. His classes are not designed for powerful displays of magic, but he has his skills. They are all utilized and laid out on the gaming table without regard for health damage, cost, or the need for pauses between uses. Varaa is on his knees, coughing up blood, feeling life itself pouring into his mangled body when his rescue is picked up by one of the healers. One of the stronger healers since he can work from a distance, pulling a life channel from as far away as the third row of defenders.

All around lay decaying and rotting remains of creatures, including the decapitated puppeteer. Even the cultists are rotting, though they shouldn't be. He still has time to think of some clever trick when a new group of the enemy approaches, and Varaa realizes they should have struck under slightly different circumstances, taking out the defenses and making their way straight to the mages, taking away the ability to hold the magistrate, kept under his stationary protection and blessings.

It was as if a catapult shell, which turned out to be a black-skinned warrior dressed only in animal skins and barbarian amulets, and from her huge figure, which would give a head start to any blacksmith in terms of external manifestations of power, arrows, blades and charms simply bounce away, while she, who almost does not think about defense, is enough to radically reduce the number of attackers with a single blow of a shining magic pincer. Varaa lets himself admire her movements for a second, explaining the sudden attraction by the fleur caught in his face, rising to his feet and grabbing his chanter, rushing back into the fray.

Counterstrike.

Humans and creatures clash again, but now it is the endowed ones who have the upper hand, for the black-skinned maiden is not the only one but only the first swallow of the reinforcements. And it is not the worst reinforcement because among the defenders this savage can be compared with only Senior Mentor Broborych, and that is due to experience and skill, not sheer strength and level. Her equipment, though primitive and crude, is enchanted to the hilt, forcing most of the enemy's enchantments to go around her figure without giving her a chance to break against the impenetrable skin of the color of night.

The more surprised and offended Varaa is when the girl is blown away by a counter-strike from a werewolf mutated by Hell's many cursed gifts, who manages to knock her to the ground, knock her weapon out of her hands, and begin to torture her defenseless body, ignoring the bone-breaking blows of her fists. An ally who has emerged behind the werewolf's back, also a newcomer who works better than any swordsman, bleeding everyone around him with two short darts with long, wavy blades. He, not paying any attention to his partner's position, simply passes by, continuing his attack, leaving the maiden who saved Varaa's life to her fate.

With a frenzied shriek, he reverses the direction of his jerk and is at his savior's side, at the same time hurting the werewolf's spine with the chaser and crushing the bones of all those who tried to help the dog to finish him off. Faces, faces, faces - they merged into one angry face, one enemy face, which Varaa beat and beat until the chaser was knocked out of his hand by the blade of a strange dart that struck with the flat side of the blade, drying up his hand and taking him out of his fighting rage.

"Calm down, hero." Kind of mocking but with a touch of sincere respect and politeness uncharacteristic for the madness of battle. From someone with the Guild's "gem" team badges it sounds like praise. "They're over. Well, they've run out here, but there are more of them all over the Eternal than cockroaches in a bad inn."

"Calm down?" In his current state, Varaa would be ready to say anything he thought, even to the Emperor himself. Not even care of the hundred percent guarantee that he would be killed if he said anything rash or even before he could say it. "Were you also calm when you left your companion to be mauled by a werewolf without even thinking of helping her? When she was mauled, did you calm down a lot?"

Instead of an instant response of steel for insulting one who could be equaled by personal strength to another garrison, he was met not with snooty indignation mixed with squeamish contempt but with a slight surprise that turned to understand, followed by a homeric laughter. The laughter came not only from the sides of the reinforcements but also from behind Varaa's back, and the laughter was coarse but female. Turning on his heels, Varaa sees the female warrior rising to her feet, adjusting the restored clothing on her uninjured, chiseled body before his eyes. Blushing a little, the lad turns back around even faster than before, having time to see the nakedness of the daughter of the savannahs as a result of the damage to the said clothes.

"Ooh, that's hilarious, lad." His interlocutor, in no hurry to show his physical superiority, wipes away a tear that has come to his eyes, barely squeezing out the following words. "Have you ever tried chewing on a Goodron? She's a Juggernaut on her fortieth step of the eternal ladder, not an aristocratic flower girl. This bag of fleas had no chance to scratch her, and if she turned the fight into an exchange of blows, she wouldn't let him out of her arms. Whereas even I would have had trouble with a regenerator that fast and resilient."

Ups.

Varaa suddenly realized that he had made a fool of himself, and the only thing that saved him was the understanding and human attitude of the commander of the gem-ranked team, who didn't take offense. Well, also the purity of speech because Ten hated swear words. He was cursed by some Malefic in the early years of service so that the swearing made his stomach weak. He accustomed all his subordinates to watch their words like a purse at the market. If Varaa had used profanity, his tongue would have been shortened, simply out of a need to maintain the reputation and face.

" He couldn't scratch me. Although, he tried to mess with my head." The maiden who came out from behind him clapped Varaa on the shoulder, nearly causing him to fall and seemingly pressing his boots into the ground a couple of toes. "But you're good, lad, just like a honey-eater's cub! Even I didn't jump on a line of creatures with one snout when I was young. By the way, if you were staring at me, licking, not because of the fleur, after this mess, we'll find each other, you miserable savior."

Against his will, Varaa remembered the sight of her naked body and felt his bald spot blush.

"Ritar, we have a problem!" The conversation, during which Varaa was taking on more and more shades of red to the laughter of the beautiful Goodron's companions, was interrupted by the shriek of another of the reinforcement fighters that ran towards their group, accompanied by one of the guards' interrogators, sort of vaguely familiar to him. "Big fucking problem."

Varaa, who had never been driven away and who was glad to be in the center of the group of elite adventurers, both for safety reasons and to be able to admire Goodron's unashamed gaze for a while longer, listened to the conversation within walking distance. It was a typical mess after a bloody battle, with healers scurrying about, benefics removing the effects of the fleur on those who could no longer think straight, and the team of elite adventurers seemingly oblivious to what was going on, acting as if they were on a routine safety patrol.

The attitude was a little confusing, but the experience of the last few hours had numbed the wonder, so Varaa also took everything for granted. At the same time, he listened to the disturbing news, and for a change, so disturbing that even the adventurers were disturbed, which made them run, and Goodron just grabbed him by the shoulder, bending his already battered armor, and dragged him after them, seemingly just by reflex. There was a lot to get excited about. The group of interrogators had had a hard time dissecting the brains of the highest-ranking of the few captives, nearly killing him several times in the process because he had some kind of mind-blowing talent, and finally burning his brains to the point where they were leaking out of the cultist's ears despite his regeneration.

They interrogated, literally tearing out not words but images of the truths floating around in his head. Varaa knew that such things, even for strong Interrogators, were not so easy, but now it was not to save energy, and there was no use of such staffs in direct combat anyway. After the interrogation, they sharply forgot about the fatigue, starting to sound the alarm, albeit not a general one yet, so as not to raise panic and confuse possible observers. It turned out that all those creatures and traitors of the human race that they had killed earlier were only a distraction, meat for the blades of the protecting magistrate, which should only distract and disperse the forces. To delay the arrival of help and the strong fighters in it, to expose them to a second blow.

An ambush group of creatures, possessed and cultists were coming through the tunnels of the catacombs (which under this section of the city were thought to be tightly sealed) to strike directly at the moment of greatest weakness. Few in number but every bit as strong. There were only about a hundred of them, but given their power and the number of other meat in the main attacking formation, they had every chance of success. Especially if the first blow was to take the gemstone team out of the game by restraining or killing them and only then to take on the more numerous but already exhausted enemy, the hunted prey.

"You'll have to see for yourself, elder, because I don't understand anything." The team had a pure-blooded halfling for a tracker and lurker, who had scouted the catacombs, finding a wide tunnel that had suddenly appeared (as if under the influence of a spatial artifact, like the one that had nearly shattered the Magistrate's line of defenders when it had stirred up everyone in the Eternal with no special protection), leading directly beneath their position. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Varaa, as one of the second-class wielders, was also involved in trying to counter-attack the creatures that had faltered. Of course, everyone was wary of deception and ambush, so they were much more prepared to retreat, collapsing the tunnels, including the newly formed. They moved forward cautiously, exhaling steam and brushing aside the wisps of condensed mist created by the temperature difference between outside and underground. They were ready to kill or die. Though Varaa, realizing he'd picked all the stores of luck for several lives ahead, leaned more towards the latter. They were preparing to fulfill a duty, if not official, then simply human.

They didn't have to because there was no ambush.

Devils, though, too.

There was only a rather large, perfectly circular hall where the devils prepared to strike, made the necessary sacrifices, held the necessary reinforcing orgies, performed the necessary masking rituals, and did other sinister things. They had been here, but now they were gone. However, there were traces of their presence, of those rituals and sacrifices, and of the battle that had taken place. But they were strange traces as if they were very, very old, almost faded, but still fresh, not even an hour old.

"Here, here, Patron, look!" A small but very formidable halfling scurried around, poking his fingers here and there. "You see the cut and the runes on it?"

The slit was hard not to see. The huge line of incision stretching along the entire wall of the ambush hall was the most striking trace of the battle. There were too few traces. As if the battle had only just begun, and then it was over or had been carried away with the fighters. And, if one looked closely at the invisible blade, there were indeed chains of sickening marks burned on the inside of the cut, more like lewd drawings than noble runes.

"These chains are, of course, distorted and corrupted, but it's still an overlapping chain and power pattern." The halfling continued, showing considerable erudition. "You know, Elder, I'm not a mage, but I'm into it. So I can speak with certainty. That blow couldn't have left this scratch because if it had been unleashed, it would have broken through a dozen of these walls and out of the catacombs. With such rune energy blades, the walls of fortresses can be opened like uncorking a flask of wine! You could cut a magic tower down to the ground with it! It was definitely a proper blade, not a blade that went nowhere because of loss of spell control. It just, uh. Well, it's kind of been drained of all its power. And I'll give my fifth uncle's teeth that this thing ate up not only those enchantments but everything and everyone here in general."

While Varaa was quietly trying to understand what was being said because he was not an elite adventurer of the gem rank to understand such delicate matters, the adventurers quickly understood everything and began discussing options and making assumptions. What or who could have done all this under their noses, in what way they did it, and where were those who had taken the crowd of evil devils?

"There may very well be a lot of negation alchemical bombs that are extremely effective in an enclosed space..... but then it's not clear where the bodies are. But still, let's say. That makes three options. Alchemy, magic eaters, or wielders of similar classes backed by powerful benefics. Or--"

"Da fog, Manus!" The beautiful Goodron interrupted the squad mage (he, as extremely fragile and vulnerable in close combat, was brought forward only after the halfling had found no danger), who looked like an antique rather than a warlock. "Mist has been poured into this place, and the garbage has been fuckin' tossed into it. We've seen bits of fog all along the way, so what's to think about?"

"And that, Goodron, that there are no mages of this orientation of such power in the Eternal!" The wizard shrieked, though the girl was not holding back much either. Both of them did not pay much attention to the angry words. "And it's certainly not clear why they didn't get in touch with us since they decided to help!"

"Open your mind, old man!" Varaa thought the warrior wanted to slap the mage but changed her mind, either for fear of breaking his spine or for fear of turning into a pile of ashes. "We're in the catacombs, the city is fucked up, and these tunnels are hiding all sorts of things! These fucking smart asses must have something escaped amid the invasion, or they may have sicced it on the devils themselves! And while we're up here jerking off, there's a massacre going on up there for the city. And whatever dragged those assholes into the mist might come back."

Moment of silence.

"I admit my mistake. I apologize." The mage bows his head slightly, maintaining a formal tone despite the completely informal setting. "It's been too busy a day. Yours, Goodron, is the most viable option, and we really should get out of here and try to get to the aid of the other group besieged by the devils. I can only ask, as someone who has fought the Mist more than any of us. How strong do you think this thing was?"

"How strong?" Goodron interjected, once again scooping Varaa up under her arm and dragging him behind her towards the surface exit. "Fucking strong."

* * *
When it comes to the strongest Dynasties of the Empire, the first thing that comes to mind is, of course, the Eternals, who rule the Empire. No one will argue with their power, as well as with their antiquity, because their family roots are so deep that no clear information on those times can be found outside of large archival funds. But few people know that the Eternals, despite their ruling position in society, are not the oldest House in the glorious Empire of the Ages, occupying an honorable third place. The second position is occupied by a small and almost extinct family of mountain princes, which is not distinguished by anything special except its antiquity. They used to be known as good mechanics, but with the beginning of a fruitful policy of rapprochement between the Imperials and the dwarves, their positions began to fall inexorably but not very rapidly. Proud princes did not want to cooperate with the whole coalition of imperial mechanists, which created a pole of opposition to the dwarven monopoly, remaining on the sidelines of any major policy.

But the oldest, and by a large margin, was the clan that rightfully occupied the second position in the ranking of the most influential houses of the Empire of Ages and the first, if we talk about the most fabulously rich. The Ezless clan had for centuries supplied the Emperors with the best financiers, merchants, economists, and court treasurers in the state and perhaps in the world as well. The degree of power, influence, and opportunities of the family in their best years exceeded those of the Eternals themselves (who were usually in a slight decline in those very years), so all sorts of hints from vassals or unreliable families were obscenely numerous.

If they had wished, they could have tried to put the Crown of Power on their representative's forehead, but instead, they were careful to honor a pact signed long ago and sealed in blood. The Ezless were well aware of their position, its advantages, and weaknesses. They could have tried to take power, even with a good chance of success, but it would have been much worse to hold on to the power they had gained from the rebellion. The problem was not even in the lack of personal power. In the ability to provide themselves with loyal debtors and mercenaries living on their gold, the clan was unrivaled. Their weakness as rulers lay in their strength as treasurers.

Where the Emperor felt himself one with the whole Empire, felt every town, village, garrison, every domain of every landlord, knowing how to recognize what was felt and influence it within certain limits, the Ezless put all their will into something else. They could sense the financial flows, the golden rivers that filled the veins of Imperial commerce, and they were able to track and detect on the fly any financial fraud, fraudulent schemes, or attempts to evade taxes. This is characteristic of all treasurers, manifesting itself in every one of them who achieves any significant success in their chosen path. Therefore, the percentage of rebellions that shift the dynasty of rulers in favor of treasurers is relatively few, even few, very few.

Many houses in the world have chosen to look after the treasury and multiply public money, and not just public money and not just multiply it. Even now, the Ezless family has at least three specialists whose development has enhanced the skills and abilities designed for financial warfare and the bankruptcy of disapproved individuals, so it is foolish to think that no one else has the same trained and experienced fighters of the golden front. Alishan has its treasurers, albeit three rival families, but they are successfully fighting an economic war with the Empire of the Ages, curtailing the ambitions of the Ezless and fighting amongst themselves.

No.

The best of the best of the most ancient of houses did not have the "standard" advantages of any high-level treasurer, which is based on Clan and House. There are enough of them in every duchy, principality, kingdom, or even in individual guilds. The main trump card of the Ezless, for which they were once brought closer by one of the first Emperors, for which they were forgiven any trespasses into the treasury, for which they were openly hated by half of the world and quietly hated by the other half, lay on a slightly different plane. The Ezless always pay their debts. It is an axiom even the most evil tongues do not argue with, but those tongues are much more angry because the Ezless always take back what was owed to them.

If, in a normal situation, the bad person who took the loan can easily run away with the money or somehow imitate the absence of this debt by simply bribing a judge or witnesses, the lender has to either put up with it or force the debt out... or go bowing to Ezless. If one of them gets power over someone's debt and gets the right to that debt, then the debt will be paid very soon, just let someone from an older family with direct blood inheritance take care of the matter.

Just one willful effort, one brief wish, a simple ritual (which is easy to do without if you have a good command of family skills) and the gold coins, in the sum equal to the debt and the interest accrued over time, will evaporate from the pockets, safes and purses of debtors, appearing in the pockets, safes and purses of Ezless. No active magic, no directed teleportation wormholes about which "robbed honest people" love to cry so much, but the inviolable right of the clan to seize their own, standing somewhere between the application of the Laws and the direct warping of reality.

Such will can be repelled by hiding all available gold in securely shielded safes and then not opening these barriers with screens for years. As soon as the coins leave the territory of distortion leveling (which is also not so easy to maintain), they will go to their new owner. Any economy would thus be simply paralyzed. Either negotiate a partial repayment and further installments, or get ready to pay in silver, copper, precious stones, jewelry, porcelain sets, or whatever else you have in the house.

There are also limitations. After all, you can not hang a non-existent debt on a person, or you can, but very costly. It is easier not to get involved. There is always the possibility of working through bank promissory notes when live gold does not leave the vaults. But only on the territory of the Empire of Ages, all banks are either under the boot of Ezless or do not dare to open their mouths on what belongs to them. In other countries, the practice of sealing all living gold in vaults and leaving only sealed bills of exchange and contracts for people has not passed. Though, of course, they tried, even involving the Summoned with suitable classes and education of their native worlds. Many of these attempts were buried by Ezless, as for them the living flow of gold was one of the main tools of control and influence.

From such extraordinary abilities - the generic skills of the majority of the remaining treasurers around the world looked much more modest - follows quite a logical truth: there is a huge crowd of people who would very much like to see all the treasurers of the Emperor's family dead, preferably also painfully killed, and if they are killed with their own hands, so just a holiday in their streets. Attempts on the main branch of their family are made several times more often than on the Eternal blood, also firmly placing them on the first line in the rating of the highest-paid targets for any brave assassin. Another thing is that few people dare to undertake it, and if they do, they often pay not in gold but in iron.

Poisons, curses, direct attacks, summoned creatures, a brigade of evil druids that almost ate the eldest heir alive, voluntarily merging into one huge plant monster, and even a much more cunning brigade of seductive beauties, who in three days of rest (and reduction of the density of the guard cover) brought the same heir to a state in which he could not count. He had to ask the Emperor himself to reverse the time when the numerous bookmarks had not yet completed their rooting, and after a long, long time to cleanse his son's mind, who shamefully averted his eyes when asked why he thought himself the smartest and sent some of the guards away.

It should come as no surprise that their House security was more paranoid than even the Emperor's, simply because the Emperor himself could fend off most assassination attempts, and they were far less frequent especially the really serious ones. Bassil Ezless, the current Head of the Treasury and in charge of the treasury, had been assassinated so many times that he had lost count, even when he was relatively young, healthy, and without a bald spot on his head. That is why this attempt had failed, even if it had been really excellent, perfectly executed, and provided for everything that could be foreseen. Everything except the actions of Bassil himself, who didn't wait until the traitors from his guards, who had revealed themselves and were led by his distant relative, whether she had been corrupted or simply decided to move her unloved relative to the grave (it was he who had ruined her career), had finished what they had started but began to save his old skin.

Zero Line Defense, four elite bodyguards of no less than forty-fifth level, could not betray physically, no matter what influences were placed on them. Not submission, not mind-altering, not bribery - the number of contracts on their souls was staggering, and any attempt to break them killed on the spot. The cultists who had unleashed their Lust had somehow managed to override the control of two of them, apparently by making them see something else, not real reality, and convincing even their souls, not just their minds, of the truth. Another one went off the hook, falling to his knees and clasping his bleeding eye sockets with his hand, but the last one worked his position and duty (all four had been raised from infancy, trained for the right classes using the same methods that elves use to train their short-lived servants) to the fullest, not only by throwing something inspired by his mind onto the focusing amulet-absorber, which immediately crumbled into ash, but also by intercepting the blows of two unwitting defectors, repelling a dozen blows of cultists and traitors from the servants and retinue who had sneaked into the family palace, and then pushing Bassil into a forced blink when the last guard was reached.

The battle between the remaining loyal fighters, a couple of personal assistants with their retinue, and the guards who didn't understand a damn thing, but were trying hard to survive, was hot but frustratingly short. Among the five full-fledged possessed, no longer human, but simply devils who had put on their bodies (whose domain and aspect, thanks to his encyclopedic knowledge, he was able to determine almost instantly, even though Bassil was not a mage), there was a full-fledged legendary creature that was rapid, without delay or distraction, doing everything it could to kill Bassil.

The pre-prepared artifact, which looked like an ordinary storage crystal, trivially disabled a set of legendary protection, once becoming mere bling. Takia's warding, as the name implied, was divine. The set of three rings, a pendant, a bracelet, and an earring on his left ear had been produced by one of the High Priests of the Ring of Coins. Hence, the quality was appropriate. The artifact's protection weakened any blows to safe levels, and the more gold the wearer had in his possession, the stronger the protection. Needless to say, in Bassil's hands, this set could replace any other mythical defense.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/558902

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP