Готовый перевод Сломанные крылья Серебра / The Broken Wings of Silver: 6

Shikuno, Ristol City -- Tessa Sublunar, Silver 4th Rank
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The young girl dropped tiredly into a chair and, barely hiding her irritation, threw a couple of sugar cubes into her mug of tea. Disappointment, that's what she felt now. Usually, the Dance brought enlightenment and gave new ideas, but this time, even after dancing until she collapsed, she felt nothing. Maybe it was her barely flickering Spark, or it was because the Dance helped to choose from already visible paths, and so far, she had only seen dead ends? Both of these options were equally likely.

Having stretched her slender legs and taken her mug, Tessa got up from the chair, went to the window, and sat on the windowsill. She loved to sit like this, with her knees drawn up and her cheek pressed against them, looking out onto the street, especially if, like now, it was pouring rain.

All her searches have been in vain so far. She has found nothing. Neither in the region, nor in her city, nothing at all. Besides, as soon as she weakened, problems with the city's governance began to appear. The vassals felt the weakness of the Mistress, no, they did not allow themselves anything inappropriate, but that was for now... The weak cannot rule. Such is the immutable law of this world. If it were not for the faithful Churef, who voluntarily became her vassal and guard for two centuries now, who knows, maybe there would have been some brave souls among the small Masters who would have claimed their rights to Ristol.

She needs to recover, to gather strength, but instead she prowls the countryside like a hunting dog that has lost its scent. Instead of at least looking strong, she runs around like a very small and ignorant spirit, causing more fuss than achieving results.

And the cherry on the cake. The issue with the High School of Ristol. The main treasure of her city, after the death of Elir, is now left almost unattended. Because Orolius cannot be called the caretaker of such a valuable place, because despite his third rank, he is only a Lower Red, it is hardly possible to call him intelligent. What kind of caretaker is he...

The worst thing is that Tessa didn't have a worthy replacement for Elir. Putting a Black as the school caretaker would ensure order, but at the same time reduce the Tribute, because the Black cannot reap the harvest among schoolchildren as effectively as Silver. And there were no other higher spirits in her city except the Blacks...

Other Silver ones preferred to serve more powerful overlords. Steel does not give vassal oaths. Pale ones, they do not serve anyone at all. She herself will not let the Bloody Ones into her city, they are more trouble than they are worth. It is sickening to even think about other higher ones...

And she can't give up her search for Power now. She is Silver, and she feels with all her being that she is right and Power is near. And like a gambler who has already bet a lot and lost, Sublunar made increasingly crazy bets, hoping not only to win back but also to hit the jackpot.

Once again, her thoughts made a spiral and returned to the Gray Giant. His image and the Source looming behind him had become a fetish for the Silver Maiden in recent days. This time, the spiral of thoughts went a little further than before. Perhaps the dance helped after all, because it is not for nothing that they say "in the Dance is the Power of Silver and its Authority."

Over the last few days, she had become firmly convinced that Gray had received his power almost instantly. This was the only way to explain why no patrolman in her city or the surrounding area had noticed the Giant before. This happens when a spirit receives a lot of Power at once. A lot. Then it pupates, stops growing, rebuilds its aura to suit its new capabilities, and then changes at once. For Silver, Steel, Black, or other higher beings, this would have resulted in a sharp jump in rank, but for such a lowly creature as a slug, it simply resulted in an increase in size and astral Power, without changing the quality of the aura.

This could have happened if Gray had found a small fragment of the Elder Spark and eaten it right away. This thought almost physically hurt Tess, such a talentless waste of a priceless artifact! But then she remembered that the slug did not reveal his secret even before his death, and shouted, "I will not give it up!" And since he was protecting something, this "something" still existed, and did not disappear without a trace, eaten by one of the lower ones.

Having finished her tea, the girl tousled her hair and pressed her forehead against the cool window glass.

If this was not a Spark Shard, she knew of only two more ways for a spirit to gain a lot of Power at once, in one go. The first was to devour a Gifted human soul. However, the maiden sincerely doubted that a lower one could do this. She had never met a Gifted, and had never seen anyone who had met one. According to the stories of her former master, the last Mage of the human race appeared more than three thousand years ago. And then this Mage destroyed almost all the spirits of the not small country of Dorira, which is in the southern hemisphere, before he was stopped by the united armies of the three first-ranked Higher ones. That is, eating a Gifted is not such an easy task that some slug could handle it.

But there was a second option, which she accidentally learned about. A powerful surge of Power can occur during the initiation of a Gifted. If some spirit is nearby, it will be able to absorb the Power of his Gift while it has not yet been fully revealed. While the Gift is just being born, it cannot protect either itself or the soul of its owner. The chance that one of the spirits will be near the initiate is one in a trillion. But, apparently, that is what happened. If we discard all the impossible, then the most incredible will be the truth. Tessa does not know any other way to get Power so quickly. And that means that is how it was.

Some small Gray got lucky and found himself next to the awakening Gifted, so close that he was able to start devouring him at the moment when he was completely defenseless and could not fight back.

This conclusion gave Tess hope. If the slug fought for what gave him strength, then that Gifted One was alive. Yes, after his initiation was "broken", his Power was tens of times less, but even this fragment would be enough for her not only to regain her former power, but also to rise at least a rank, or even two!

In anticipation of a guess, the girl jumped off the windowsill and began to walk around the room.

Tess concentrated and ran the logical chain through her head:

A certain small Gray accidentally witnesses the initiation of the Gifted.

This initiation most likely takes place somewhere far away, where there are few other spirits, because otherwise it is difficult to explain that no one except that Gray noticed a Flash of such power.

The slug, by its nature, generally eats everything it comes across, and here is such a treasure trove of food! Of course, it did not pass by, and he rushed to the feast. But most likely, there was so much food that the slug almost burst. Having eaten as much as it could, it pupated.

Stop. No. First, he doused the Gifted with his slime to continue to draw strength from his victim. This slime not only nourishes its host, but also soaks into the astral component, dimming the light of the aura, and then it is almost impossible to see it unless you look specifically and know that it is there. And only then did he pupate. Yes, most likely, that is how it was.

But she found this Gray in her city, which means that the Gifted survived and moved from his "backwater" to Ristol. Wait, it doesn't add up. No matter how stupid and primitive the slug was, he would never leave such delicious food unattended. Because even if he ate everyone in Ristol High School, it wouldn't give even a percent of what he got from Spark with Gift! And anyway, why was Gray on school grounds at night? It would be more logical for him to be near his main victim.

Something was wrong here, but Tessa felt she was on the right track; she was just not noticing something, missing something obvious.

Standing still in the center of the room, the Silver Maiden rose on her toes, spread her arms out to the sides, and performed a pirouette. Outlining an almost perfect circle in the air with the toe of her left foot.

Circle...

Circle?

Circle!

That's it! That's why Gray left his food. He was simply not allowed to get to it! Apparently, the Gifted One settled in the Four Alleys area, in one of the houses protected by spherical lichens. And of course, the brownie didn't let the slug on the threshold. After all, these furry spirits have plenty of strength when they protect their home.

The longer Silver thought about it, the more she came to the conclusion that this was exactly how it had been.

The Gift awakens, the Gray attacks, and the slime-shrouded Gifted moves to Ristol. Then, the Gifted spends the night in the house under the protection of the Green, and the slime crawls to the school, where it kills Elir and is killed by Tess's sword.

A chain of events that could have happened. There's just one discrepancy... Why did the slug crawl into the school at night? There's no food there at that time of day. What was he doing there?

Having brewed a new teapot, Silver Maiden climbed onto the windowsill again.

What was Gray doing on school grounds at night? She thought about this question from different angles until she came to what seemed to her the most logical conclusion. Gray was at the school because he was waiting for his treasure there. And he was waiting there because he was sure his victim would definitely come there. And that meant...

If we remember that:

A new school year has recently begun.

Ristol High School is the only one not only in the city, but also in the entire region.

According to legends, the Gift awakens in humans at about sixteen years of age.

Many parents, sending their children to high school, rent them rooms and apartments in the Four Alleys area...

There can be only one conclusion...

Gifted - a student from the provinces, a first-year student, who only entered high school this year!

Apparently, the slug devoured him pretty much, and the Spark barely flickers, and does not shine like a hundred stars, attracting all the spirits for thousands of kilometers around. And while his Gift has not been restored, she can find him. Find and devour him! Of course, it would be more profitable not to eat him right away, but to milk him for many years, so the benefit would be many times greater. But who will give it to her, who will allow some four-rank to own such a treasure as a Gifted with a smoldering, not flaming Gift? The Gift that does not burn, but is suitable for food?! No one!!! They will immediately kill her and take away such a treasure. So, the choice is simple: find and immediately devour, restore, and rise a couple of ranks. After which it will be possible to change this backwater for something more befitting of the mistress of Silver of the second rank!

If someone had looked into the window of her apartment, they would never have guessed that the young girl twirling in a carefree dance only looked sixteen years old.

She will solve two problems at once! She will continue the search and take control of the high school. Yes, this will make the city less protected from the lower creatures, but she will strengthen the patrols, and the balance will last for some time without her participation.

How will she do it? Very simple! She will enroll in the school herself under the guise of a new student. To do this, she will have to change her identity, pull some levers, and take care of the documents, but it is possible.

The Silver Maiden sang and laughed, anticipating her imminent ascension. She was still very young by the standards of spirits, young and did not know that the world had once been much richer and more diverse. She had no idea that the Gifts of Man could be completely different from the Gift of Magic. That something more ancient than Magic had come into the world. What people like her had destroyed seemed irrevocable. Destroyed without even thinking that they were killing themselves, it was just that this destruction was so drawn out over time that it was almost unnoticeable...

* * *
Shikuno, Ristol City - Dan Lier, the human being
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" No stretching!" Master Lancer's yell made Fargo pick up the pace.

Today's class started strangely. After we changed into our robes, the teacher threw us outside, and we were ordered to run after the master. It didn't look like a normal jog before sparring, as we didn't wear any protection this time. I was even more surprised when our small group ran out of the school gates and headed down one of the central alleys to the west side of town.

Many classes in clubs take place outside the walls of school complexes. Gardeners often go out into nature, the Astronomy club is taken to the planetarium, and so on. But Master Lancer had never taken us anywhere before, so today's training really did start out somehow unusually.

However, I was even glad of such changes, because the only thing we did in the Shatano classes for the two weeks that the club worked was practice our stances. More precisely, it all began with a run, then sparring until ten defeats, a short moralizing lecture from the master, and then two hours of excruciating and monotonous repetitions of "Position Canyo! Position Waryo* (fire)! Position Tashyo* (wind)! Position Dakyo* (water)!

Because we were not taught any sword techniques, I never managed to win against Kano in a sparring. I tried everything, but the guy turned out to be unusually easy to teach and never fell into the same trap twice. So, for now, my best result was a score of ten to three in the boxer's favor. I remember how, during the third lesson, I got him with a thrusting blow for the first time. I was happy! But the joy was short-lived, the master did not count the defeat, since, according to him, "A blow should sound! But I heard nothing!" Then I learned that according to the rules of "tournament Shatano", only a defeat is counted if the blow produced a clear and distinct sound. That is, my then expectation of light, fast, thrusting blows did not justify itself; the teacher "did not hear" them on purpose.

In addition, Lancer made sure that these two weeks in the section turned into a real purgatory for me, Fargo, and Tanko. Firstly, the teacher set the bar for physical activity, focusing on athletes. This led to the fact that the nerds got exhausted much earlier, and if it were not for the guys' great desire and incredible willpower, they would not have been able to cope with these loads. Secondly, the master continued to put obviously unequal pairs in sparring. And thirdly, he tacitly encouraged the cruelty of the trio of athletes in training fights. No, he did not allow bone-breaking and serious injuries, but bruises and contusions became familiar decorations for me, Fargo, and Tanko.

And, in general, the boys are great! Both the overweight first-year student and the second-year student seemed awkward because of his height. Both of them not only decided to stay in the club, despite the trashing from the master, but also continued to hold on. During these two weeks, I only had to support them after classes a couple of times. Basically, they managed on their own, although I must admit, it was much harder for them than for me. After all, they were physically much weaker than Dan.

It was not easy for me either. Apparently, the teacher guessed who was to blame for the club continuing its work. This was shown in the fact that the master was picking on me for any, even the most trivial reason. If we judge objectively, my progress in mastering the initial, elemental positions of Shatano was much more significant than that of anyone else in the group. Even Kano, despite his talent, was inferior to me in the clarity of execution and the canonical correctness of the stances. My training in the astral form bore fruit. True, an unforeseen aspect arose here. My spending on food became simply ruinous. Because at the end of such astral classes, my appetite was brutal. I even had to switch to a diet based on sea beans. This is a local sea plant, very nutritious, rich in various microelements and vitamins, but to put it mildly, not very tasty, but cheap. According to Dan's recollections, these beans, the fruit of algae growing in shallow waters, can grow ten meters in a year and yield up to two hundred centners of harvest per hectare of seabed. True, this food was considered the food of workers, but I didn't care about that nuance. It's filling, healthy, and costs pennies, so in my situation, it was the best choice.

Running past a bookstore, I once again thought about the fact that I should refuse to participate in the Library club. Because, like many other things in this world, it turned out to be completely different from what I imagined. On the one hand, everything seems to be without deception. You calmly come to the school library, you can take books and read them in the reading room. There is even something like your own room at the club, where you can discuss what you have read. But there is one nuance. You can only read the books recommended by the Ministry of Education for your class. A first-year student cannot take a book on the list, for example, of the third year! Not to mention the fact that for first years, although the list consisted of almost a hundred titles of texts, nothing was interesting for me there. History of the World, excuse me, this is the third year, the first and second years study the History of Shikuno. The same with Geography.

I tried to get acquainted with the local classics of World Literature and Poetry. But what was considered a masterpiece here, it is simply impossible to convey in words how flat, primitive, and cardboard it was. Not a single local author, of those whom I tried to force myself to read, shone with anything, neither the idea, nor the plot, nor the heroes. The only exception to this rule is the memoirs of great people. The language of presentation is also extremely poor, but at least sometimes, there was intrigue.

During my two weeks of visiting the library, I caught myself thinking many times that even I would write a better book than what the local classics had scribbled down. The most original things I had read were perhaps the myths of the Ancient World, and even then, there was too much in them that was similar to the adventures of Hercules, Odysseus, Gilgamesh, and similar heroes of earthly epics. Except that the names of the protagonists were, of course, different, and the pantheon of gods was slightly different from the Greek, Roman, or Sumerian. However, if you compare the local pantheon with the Greek, the differences will be even smaller than when comparing the Greek with, for example, the pantheon of the Inca gods. The only striking difference was that the main god was Wiltem, the ruler of the sea elements, which, remembering geography, did not seem strange.

The first few days, I was even interested in digging into these myths, looking for differences and building various theories. But when I realized that none of them mentioned red chameleons, green smeshariks, life-sucking slime, or anything like that, I quickly lost interest in such research. In general, it's strange. I have never come across any mention of demons in any book or newspaper article. Any tabloid newspaper was full of mutant rats living in the capital's sewers, aliens abducting people, ancient gods walking among us - such nonsense was all over the place. But even the tabloid press was silent about otherworldly phenomena that were even remotely similar to those I had seen. And this fact very eloquently told me that I was right in my paranoia, and someone was ruling this world from behind the scenes. Someone who has supernatural powers, someone who erases even gossip about the real state of affairs.

It took me a few visits to the Library club to understand that it couldn't give me anything useful yet. If I want, I can go to the reading room in my free time, but I don't see the point in sitting there as if it were mandatory for several hours after classes. On the other hand, I can bury my nose in a book and think about my own things, that is, at least use this time usefully. In any other club, there might not be such a plus. And nevertheless, I have already read everything more or less interesting from the free access, and reading the next memoirs of the hundredth admiral of some country is beyond my strength, because it is monotonous to the point of impossibility! Besides, the masters of literature were far from even the same Sabatini with his "Adventures of Captain Blood". What is the fact that in literature lessons, what we write down under dictation is the best of all works on such a subject?

Sometimes it seems to me that the magical order that has taken control of the progress of this world also eradicates any manifestation of creativity. Although no, I am most likely mistaken here. Classical music here is not bad, although I do not have perfect pitch, but to my taste, it is no worse than Mozart or Bach. True, the classics I liked were written almost eight thousand years ago, during the Age of Geographical Discoveries, but nevertheless, there is talented art. Maybe the pop music played on the radio is talented in its own way? I just do not understand this at all and cannot judge objectively. But in terms of books, there is a complete mess here; even in ancient times, there is no one even close to such pillars as Shakespeare.

But, in general, yes... In this world, it is not only bad with technology, but also with creativity, and this is a fact no matter how you look at it. I even have a theory that the gift of magic in this world develops only in people with creative talent. But the development of magic takes away all of people's strength and time, because I do not think secretly ruling the world is easy. I did not suffer from such youthful delusions. Moreover, I am sure that magicians here work harder than even dock workers could dream of. Controlling a world inhabited by people is an insanely difficult task, I am one hundred percent sure of this. As a result, magicians simply do not have enough time for creativity. I had other theories on this matter, but this one seemed the most complete and beautiful.

We had already run about a kilometer and a half when the master turned onto one of the side streets leading to the Fifth City Park. From his gesture, I understood we did not have long to run. And in general, today, Lancer is acting strangely, unusually calm. He does not attack anyone with his screams, does not press, does not look at me or Fargo with Tanko with disdain. It seems that such a change should please me, but I have already gotten used to the fact that in this world, if it seems to you that everything is fine, then most likely you do not notice the problem that is already waiting for you around the next corner.

Like with school, for example. Just fifteen days ago, it seemed to me that I was getting into studying and that now it would become easier, when the class teacher called me and puzzled me... Since I missed more than a month and a half due to illness, I needed to catch up with the rest of the class on what they missed. It would be fine if they gave me some kind of exam, gave me time to prepare, and tested me on my knowledge of the missed topics. Alas, but what seems logical to me does not work in this world. Instead of an exam, teacher Uramo told me to take all the notes on all subjects from the class president and rewrite them. Rewrite!!! Completely! All of them! Considering that for any subject here, teachers dictate textbooks during lessons... I struggled with this until yesterday, it is not so easy to rewrite so much text by hand. In addition, my skills in entering the astral plane were of no help at all in such work. Every day I spent two hours on this rewriting, and that's not counting what I had to write down after teachers during school classes. But this hell seems to be over, I really hope that such surprises won't be waiting for me in the future.

"Stop!" The master's command interrupted my thoughts. "Come in."

Our run ended at a two-story mansion on the edge of a city park. Lancer stood on the high porch, holding the front door open, gesturing for us all to come inside.

What I took for a mansion turned out to be a sports complex. I was confused by the old-fashioned architecture of the building, but it was just an adaptation of the facade to the park complex. Many sports sections rented premises in this complex. In addition to Shatano, I noticed an announcement about recruitment for a "school of boarding sabre", the same fencing, only more widespread and officially recognized sport, even world championships are held there.

It was here, as it turned out, that Lancer was conducting his paid Shatano classes. Following the master, we found ourselves in a small hall where six adult men were waiting for us. As it turned out later, Master Lancer was leading four Shatano groups, eight people in each. In one of the groups, there were employees from the power plant who worked two on and two off, and today they had a day off. And the teacher asked them to help with our training.

"Dan, this is Mr. Erino." The Master introduced me to a man very similar to Dan in build. -"Do whatever he says, he is your trainer today."

In the same way, Lancer introduced the rest of the students to their mentors for this lesson.

"Aloha!" The temporary coach clapped me on the shoulder. "Let's not waste time. Let's go get you dressed."

/"Get dressed?/ However, my silent question was soon answered in full. Approaching the outermost of the full-length wardrobes, a row of which occupied one of the walls of the gym, Erino opened it and took out something that looked like a long, thick robe that was put on over the head.

"Here you go. Put it on right over the robe you're wearing. We're the same height and weight, so it should fit you. This is a replica of a classic pre-Gunpowder-era underarmor. Made from several layers of canvas."

While I was putting on the surprisingly heavy robe that replaced a quilted jacket in this world, Erino was giving me something like a lecture. The temporary teacher clearly liked this role and enjoyed teaching someone.

"Yes. Heavy! It's many layers of canvas, that's why it weighs four kilograms, seven hundred grams! But a light blow from a sword, spear, or sabre to a spot not protected by steel will most likely be dampened. And it's good protection against arrows. Besides, without this quilting, any heavy blow to the armor would almost certainly result in a bruise, fracture, or damage to internal organs.

Even though I had never worn such clothes before, there were no difficulties.

"So... Spread your arms out to the sides," Erino ordered. "Tighten this strap. Good. Now put your hands up. Why are you wincing? Is it uncomfortable? Where? Then we'll loosen it here... Remember what I'm doing. Is this better? Excellent. Sit down. Where is it pulling? No? Great, we really do have similar body types. Stand up straight, feet shoulder-width apart, and touch the floor with your palms. Uh-huh. Now... I'll loosen this belt. One more time... Here! Jump up from the spot as far as you can... Now do the same from the spot lengthwise... Fine. Take it off. No, that's not it, first loosen all the straps. Yes. That's it. That's right... Now put it back on... I hope you remembered how to tighten the straps. Why are you shaking your head like a tumbler toy? Didn't remember everything? We'll check now. Did you tighten it, and did you remember what and how? Squat... Jump up... Bend... Palms on the floor... Ten push-ups... You said you didn't remember everything, but you tightened everything up normally. Take off your underarmor..."

I wore it on and took it off until the temporary teacher was satisfied with my results. After the fourth repetition, Erino gestured that he was satisfied and went into his closet.

"This is a cuirass!" Having pulled this object into the light, my mentor stated the obvious. "It is too early for you to learn to put on armor yourself. So, I will help you now."

First, we fastened the cuirass with four hands. This element of armor reminded me very much of what the conquistadors wore on Earth. After Lancer's story, I expected something very heavy, but since the cuirass was not all two and a half millimeters thick, but had such armor only along the central axis. It turned out that its weight was nine kilograms two hundred grams.

Then we secured massive shoulder pads, which looked like they could easily withstand the most powerful blow. Only the bracers, which had a multi-layered structure, needed to absorb the blow received on them without the risk of the hand going numb, could boast the same protection. These bracers reminded me of goalie pancakes, which protect the hands from pucks and opponents' sticks, only made of steel and not so massive. The last large piece of equipment was the gorget, that is, an element of armor for protecting the neck. All other parts of the armor were much thinner and lighter.

The whole dressing took about fifteen minutes. And we were the second in the group to complete this task. What was a little annoying was that Kano got dressed faster than me.

Then we went outside, or rather to the park, and I, following Erino's commands, learned to move in this heavy and very restrictive armor. The main difficulty for me was that the center of gravity shifted greatly, which made it much more difficult to maintain balance.

Almost immediately, as soon as we finished dressing, I realized how inferior this type of protection was in comparison with its earthly counterparts. Judge for yourself: there is no protection for the joints, the helmet is primitive, you can easily miss a stabbing blow from a sword through the large-mesh net covering your face, the places where nothing protects you except the quilted jacket make up almost a third of your body surface. And all this disgrace weighs a quarter of a hundred kilograms, the same as a full Milanese suit of armor, which provides many times better protection.

True, the creators of this "miracle" were justified by the fact that the development of military thought in this world developed somewhat differently from the earthly one. Composite bows were not invented here. And those crossbows that were in use at that time had wooden limbs, which is why they were almost no different in killing power from the same bows. The institution of equestrian knighthood did not develop here, since the local horses were not capable of carrying an armored rider due to their build. And most importantly, as soon as one of the lords united all the provinces into a single state, foreigners arrived on large ships armed with cannons and built everyone according to their own rules. That is, perhaps, if there had been no foreign invasion, after some time, the Shatano armor would have evolved into something similar to Gothic.

Despite the fact that for two hours I simply walked, bent, and squatted, doing nothing more difficult than that, and still tired as if I had run a marathon. Erino turned out to be a more humane and attentive teacher than Lancer. It was obvious that he liked to feel like a mentor, even if it was temporary.

At the end of the training, our group was gathered in the hall, seated in a semicircle, and the master mentor came forward.

"Today, you felt the weight of the armor. You must get used to it, the armor must become as natural to you as your skin." Here, the corners of his lips twitched. "That's what I would tell you if you were studying here and not in a school club. But since none of you can afford to buy armor, I will not make such demands on you. Nevertheless, try to remember this weight. Remember how it restricts your movements, how it complicates seemingly simple actions. And what protection and sense of security it gives. Sit like this, without taking off the armor. Get used to it. Remember how your muscles tense..."

Lancer spoke monotonously, measuredly, which contrasted with his usual manner. From fatigue and to his voice, my eyes began to close, and I felt sleepy. Only with considerable effort did I not switch off and continue listening to the master. And as it turned out, not in vain. He said very interesting things. For others, they may be completely unimportant and seem like outdated junk.

But his words were more interesting to me than all the training I had previously undergone. The mentor told us that ancient warriors had become so attuned to their armor that even when they took it off, they moved as if they were still wearing it. That they had come up with a special training, the name of which immediately drove away all the dreams. The "spiritual armor".

"Despite the fact that this training is something similar to what is called meditation on the Equatorial Islands, my experience shows that this knowledge of our ancestors is not quackery. And those who successfully learn this technique master combat in full armor many times faster." Having stopped pacing, the master sat down in front of us. "Calm your breathing. Close your eyes. Now imagine that you and the armor are one whole. It's weight is your weight. It's armor is your armor..."

Apparently, Lancer had a very vague idea of ​​how to teach meditation techniques. And yet, I listened very carefully, afraid to miss a word. Everyone else, apparently, made titanic efforts not to fall asleep or snore right in the middle of the mentor's speech. And this was understandable, because everything he said was completely useless for a person who had not learned even the simplest breathing. But I immediately saw the sound grain that the knights of Shatano put into this type of training. The essence of this meditation was to create in your imagination an analogue of real armor and constantly wear this mental projection on yourself. Since I already imagine what self-hypnosis is capable of, I understand that the knight who could suggest this to himself learned to wear real armor many times faster than those who found such training unnecessary. Moreover, after the master mentioned that the ancestors also believed that such “spiritual armor” protected against spirits, curses, and demons, my attention to Lancer’s words jumped up.

At the end of the lecture, we were allowed to take off our armor. Something I probably wouldn't have been able to handle on my own, without Erino's help. Then, after saying goodbye to our temporary mentors and learning that we would be coming here once every two weeks to repeat today's experience, we were escorted out into the street.

We finished today's lesson with a run to school. The first one was really useful for me. It was precisely because of the opportunity to learn ancient spiritual practices that I decided to stay in this club.

After the usual sauna, I got dressed faster than everyone else and hurried home. I had to write down Lancer's lecture word for word so as not to accidentally forget something important.

This evening, after repeating the basic positions, I tried to imagine myself wearing the Shatano armor. At first, nothing worked, but remembering how the armor restricts movement, I began to move around the apartment in the same way. Connecting the motor memory moved the situation from a dead point. If I had my own set of armor, then putting it on and taking it off, I think it would have been many times more effective. But since "what is not there, is not there", then the matter moved very slowly, I could not maintain this ephemeral feeling of heaviness on my shoulders for long. And most importantly, the feeling of security that the armor gives you. It could not be reproduced in any way.

However, since I had previously managed to achieve interesting results with the help of astral training, I did not despair. On the contrary, I decided to devote at least half an hour a day to such training. In addition, the next time we have a similar lesson with real armor, I will focus on my feelings and not on physical motor skills.
* * *

The next day, during the long break, Nouri sat down at my table, which was quite unexpected, since for a couple of weeks now, he had been pretending that he was a ghost to me.

"You're definitely making progress in your studies." The class president sat down next to me after putting down his tray of food. "Curator Uramo said that on Friday, you turned in all the debts you had accumulated due to your illness at the beginning of the year." Garn continued after taking a sip of compote. "That's impressive."

"You seem a bit too tense and don't look like a class monitor who is happy for his classmate." I don't feel like playing polite.

"Ha!" Didn't I guess right? That laugh didn't sound fake. "Did you think that if someone in the class studied better than I, it would upset me? To be honest..." Garn paused and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, I'm a pretty mediocre student. The exact sciences are easy for me, but the rest is difficult. And there are at least three in the class who will get better grades than I at the end of the semester. If I'm fifth instead of fourth in average grades, it won't change anything for me." I thought he was more ambitious, but now I have a feeling that he's not lying.

"Then why are you so nervous?"

"Never mind." Noury shrugged. "I have good news for you." The president now looked like a parody of the godfather of the mafia. Only he lacked a lot to make this image believable, so it took a lot of effort for me to hold back a smile.

"Good news, that's a rare thing these days." He wants to play grown-up, why not? I lean back in my chair with a glass of juice in my hand.

"I just found out that Kano no longer holds a grudge against you."

It's not that the boxer's anger bothered me at all. The athlete didn't bother me outside of class, and his anger and pressure during Shatano training were even useful in some ways. Although I must admit, sometimes it seemed he would smash my head with his bokken. The only thing that infuriated me in this situation was that the other schoolchildren hurried away from me like a leper, afraid of incurring the boxer's wrath.

"And why such a change?"

"I heard here that Master Tudono, Kano's personal boxing trainer, agreed that Master Lancer would train Kano to withstand punches to the body within the framework of Shatano."

"And how does this affect his anger towards me?"

"He takes everything that benefits his boxing positively."

I look at this sixteen-year-old boy who imagines himself an expert in psychology and an engineer of human souls, and I can hardly restrain myself from laughing. Noury is amazingly funny in this role of the president-godfather.

However, such behavior brings him certain profits. Despite his rather average, by local standards, appearance, as far as I have noticed, he is very popular with girls, not only in our class, but also in parallel classes. Only the guy clearly does not notice these girls' glances. However, perhaps this is for the best.

"So, can I breathe a sigh of relief?" I need to stay in character. That's why I answer like this.

"I think so." Garn acts as if it were all his doing.

"Thank you for the good news." Having thanked the president, I lowered my face to the plate of rice, hinting that the conversation was over.

"Dan..." Ignoring my hint, Nouri leans forward. "There is the case..." I thought he really sat down at my table to congratulate me on my academic success and bring good news. "Could you help Siri?"

What I didn't expect was such a request. How can I help the best student in the class and the president's main assistant? I was so surprised that I almost said it all out loud, but I held back, limiting myself to a puzzled look.

"Siri took an additional foreign language as an elective. Austroa... Could you help her a little?"

Here's the question: do I need it? I have a ton of things to do as it is! Do I need that extra workload to help someone with their studies? If Emri were in Himina's place, I would agree without much thought, but here...

For two weeks, I have been lamenting the fact that my classmates are avoiding me, and now I am thinking about how to get rid of their attention. My usual day is tightly packed with things to do. More precisely, training sessions, which I would prefer no one else to know about. And I don’t want to reduce the intensity of my training at all. On the other hand, turning into a loner outcast is not the best option either.

"You left the Library club." Nouri's knowledge amazes me. I wrote my refusal this morning, and he already knows. "Sign up for the Austroi language club for six months, then you won't have to waste your personal time on classes with Siri."

I want to ask: "What is my benefit?" But I feel that this is not the right question. Garn is simply trying to help his friend; at least I do not see any double meaning in his request.

"Dan, you don't care what club you go to. And at our school, the teacher of Austroi speaks with such an accent and such mistakes that how they keep her here and don't fire her is a mystery to many. Help costs you nothing."

"But does Siri really need Austroic?" Since Dan's memory has perfectly preserved the skills of this language, it will not be difficult for me to help the girl with language practice. But do I need it?

"I don't know, I didn't ask." Garn shrugs. "I know that she's upset about learning this language. So I decided to ask you to help her."

I have to weigh the pros and cons. What will I lose if I help? The opportunity to enroll in any other club of my choice. Perhaps that's all the losses. What will I gain? At the very least, the president will owe me, and given how seriously he tries to approach his duties, this debt is not an empty space. And as a bonus to this, the favor of Siri, Emri's friend, which gives me the opportunity to get closer to the girl I definitely like.

"Dan, I approached you with this request only because you don't care which club to join. If you have any plans, just say so. I'll understand."

He doesn't like asking me, but he's asking not for himself. I might even start respecting him. At least he behaves more responsibly and maturely than many thirty-year-olds, and this is at his sixteenth birthday.

"Okay. I'll help." It's really not hard for me. Moreover, close communication with a local, especially an excellent student, will give me more understanding of this world than any club. Besides, Himina seemed interested in history, so there will be someone to ask some of the questions that interest me.

"Good." Putting the plate aside, the president sat back in his chair with satisfaction. "Just a request. Siri doesn't know that I asked you. Let's keep this between us. She doesn't like to be indebted to anyone."

It's not a school, but the court of Louis XV, with conspiracies and intrigues all around.

After finishing the Labor lesson, I went to the administrative complex and signed up for a new club.

On the way home, I was thinking about whether I did the right thing by leaving the library. I was remembering the books I read there. And already opening the front door of my apartment, I came to an unequivocal conclusion, and for good reason. Local literature is wretched. Not even in style or text structure, everything here is more or less up to par, but in ideas, semantic load, and original plots.

On Earth, I had a hobby. If you can call a penchant for graphomania a hobby. I liked to scribble on paper, writing stories or trying to write a novel or a story. Alas, but God did not endow me with talent in this area. I tried to post my imperishable works on the Internet, but those random readers who wandered onto my page in LiveJournal were categorical in their opinion that I write disgustingly. I honestly tried to study, even attended courses: "how to become a writer", but all to no avail.

The most surprising thing is that despite constant failures in this field, I never gave up this occupation. I liked to invent something, and the desire to put this idea down on paper was sometimes simply uncontrollable. The main thing that was offensive was that my ideas were not bad, but the implementation was disgusting.

I remember that as a true graphomaniac, I naturally did not believe the reviews on the Internet. And having finished my first major work, I sent it to a publisher. They rejected it. I sent it to the next one. Again with the same result. I sent it to everyone and everything for a year, not believing that I was truly talentless. In the end, I managed to get several detailed answers from professional editors. And all these answers were like carbon copies.

You come up with interesting worlds and a twisted plot, but that's where all the advantages of your works end. Your heroes are implausible, they are boring, monotonous, and impersonal. The dialogues are at the level of a third-grader in elementary school. The descriptions of nature are primitive and too superficial, and they take up a lot of space. The writing language is dry, reminiscent of the bureaucratic reports of a clerk. The motivation of your heroes does not stand up to criticism... And so on. A complete rout on all counts. In addition, almost exactly the same as what anonymous readers wrote to me online.

I remember, after such a response from a professional editor, I went on a drinking binge for the first and last time in my life. I went into the bottle for a week. Before that, I considered myself someone who was simply not understood, but this letter made me look at my abilities objectively, and I did not like such a look at all. Feeling untalented is not the most pleasant feeling.

The funniest thing is that this did not stop me in the field of graphomania. New ideas continued to be born in my head, and I again tried to write them down and "give them to the world". I reread the classics, downloaded several online courses in literary skill from famous authors, and, having written a new novel, sent it to publishing houses again. It seemed that I had corrected all the mistakes, made the characters alive, worked a lot on the dialogues, tried to write brightly, and not in officialese. Imagine my surprise when the answer was almost identical to the previous one. It seemed like mockery to me. Having created a second account in LiveJournal, I posted my new text under a different name. And again, the readers' reviews completely repeated the editor's answer, only in a ruder form.

Nevertheless, I tried again and again. If I had such persistence in my professional career, I would have founded my own company and achieved success long ago. In five years, I wrote four novels, or rather what I called novels, and readers called them a waste of paper. In the end, I abandoned the idea of ​​publishing and simply posted texts on LiveJournal. In addition, despite the generally negative background of reviews, I gained about two dozen subscribers, and I felt that my graphomania was not in vain, and someone was reading them. What can I do if I have such a weakness - I like to invent. More precisely, the weakness is not in inventing, but in the fact that I try to put my thoughts into text, not having the talent for it.

I literally bombarded one of the editors, who carelessly responded to my letters with questions and requests to evaluate new texts. So, exhausted by my persistence, he gave me some good advice. Find a co-author who would compensate for my weaknesses. Find a fellow loser who can write beautifully, but has trouble with the plot and world-building. I searched for a long time, but after a fair amount of searching on the Internet, I found someone who suited me and even made preliminary arrangements for possible cooperation. I was driving to meet this person when a drunk idiot in the truck...

I remember on the second day of my appearance in this world, I was so inspired by new impressions, and the very fact of my rebirth, that I felt like I could do it now! Having bought a notebook and a pen, I locked myself in my cabin and began to write down what was born in my head. If I believed that feeling, then something really could turn out better than what usually came out. I wrote all night, and in the morning, I came down with a fever. At that time, I did not yet know that I was seriously ill, nor that the cause of my illness was not a virus, but the astral mucus of an otherworldly monster.

So, in comparison with what I read in the reading room of the local library, my texts, hacked to pieces on Earth as complete graphomania, would be nominated for the most prestigious literary awards here! Lately, I have learned to look soberly at the fruits of my creativity, so now, if I exaggerated, then not by much.

Or maybe I should become not a pseudo-inventor, but a famous writer? Of course, there was an option to rewrite the classics of my world to fit the local realities, but the idea of ​​writing my own, which would be recognized by many thousands of people, overwhelmed me. Pride? Who cares, let the pride speak in me.

Pressing the power button on my computer, I barely waited for it to load and immediately launched the text editor. Lately, I have received a lot of new impressions and learned a lot. And now, at this moment, opening a blank text file, I was overwhelmed with ideas. I will write science fiction! About a new world in which the features of the Earth and this planet are intertwined. About people who are not like those who live here, although they look the same. About technologies that are many times more powerful than any magic. About how the light of progress leaves no room for otherworldly forces. About a hero scientist who is persecuted for his new scientific discoveries, but he does not give up and changes the world, despite the powerful lobby of industrialists. A new world, like a bright star, shone in my imagination. I can’t do badly. Not this time!

My palms froze over the keyboard for a minute. Chaotic thoughts calmed down, forming an entertaining and interesting plot. But before my fingers touched the keys, someone hit me hard on the back of the head with something like a sandbag. My head went blank for a moment.

I regained consciousness in no later than a second. It was all the more surprising to find myself lying under the table in astral form. My physical body was still sitting on the chair, frozen in front of the monitor screen...

* * *
Shikuno, the city of Ristol -- A creature that has forgotten its Name, a former guardian of the gates, a former keeper of the hearth, a former spirit of the place, now just a brownie.
* * *

Green habitually hugged the stone fragment hidden in the basement of the house he now guarded. Pressing his furry body against the granite fragment, the last remnant of what had served as the foundation of the Gate thousands of years ago, he tried to merge with this stone. When he succeeded, the constant itch from the spots of lichen caused by the Curse subsided, granting, albeit temporarily, relief.

Once upon a time, many thousands of years ago, before the tribes living here learned that their island was not the only land in the universe, there was a temple dedicated to the spirits of their ancestors. And the Green One at that time had a completely different purpose, to serve as the guardian of the Door. The Gate that separates the spiritual and real worlds. How long ago it was, sometimes the spherical spirit thought that he had dreamed that time... And if it were not for this fragment, the last surviving part of that ancient temple from those times, he would have long forgotten about those times.

Green had long since come to terms with the fact that he, like the other guards, had once been forced to give up his place to the gods' protégés. Besides, his new job, as a keeper of the hearth or otherwise a brownie, was at first a real rest after a thousand years of guarding. And then, something happened and the world changed, for the second time in his memory. And if the first change was caused by the gods coming into the world, then the second, as Green guessed, could have been caused by their exodus. Only the brownie preferred not to think about this sad topic. And the topic was truly sad, because the second change blocked off natural sources, dried them up, turning the world, once rich in energy, into a spiritual desert. Recently, such thoughts worried Green much less than banal survival.

How not to disappear into oblivion, wasting away from hunger. How not to let yourself be devoured by those who are stronger. How to protect those who live in his house, because if he does not protect the residents from other spirits, destiny will kill him as surely as the sword of the Black Executioner.

Despite the fact that his existence was almost meaningless and he was aware of his current insignificance, Green was not going to part with his existence. And he clung to life with his sharp astral claws so that the sea crabs with their powerful pincers envied such a grip.

When he almost felt like a stone that couldn't feel an itch, a sharp attack of anxiety, so strong that his paws tingled, interrupted this unity. Jumping to his feet, the brownie closed his eyes and checked the outer protective barrier, it was untouched. Running out of the basement, he, not trusting his feelings, checked the entire perimeter himself, with his hands, but did not notice the intrusion of alien spirits.

When Green was already thinking that his sense of danger had failed him this time, someone dealt such a powerful blow to the carefully constructed defense of the house that it could barely withstand it. And then another blow caused the barrier to become covered in a network of cracks.

The brownie stood there, frozen in bewilderment. No one was attacking the house, the threat was coming from within! But how could that be? Having poured almost all of his strength into maintaining the barrier, the Green One barely held back a new blow. And if the defense fell, a multitude of small spirits would immediately attack the inhabitants. However, this was not something terrible, the brownie could deal with them without any particular problems. The difficulty was that someone higher up could notice the Kavelli in spiritual form, and this already threatened a catastrophe.

As soon as Green remembered his new tenant, the Speaker of Both Worlds, he immediately realized that the attack on the defense of the house was coming from his apartment!

In a panic, the brownie, comically swaying from side to side, literally flew up the stairs. According to ancient rules, he had to stand on the threshold for about a minute, as if asking permission to enter. And only if he did not receive a refusal, could he enter the apartments of residents. But now he ignored this rule, which would undoubtedly add a new spot of lichen to his long-suffering skin, but life was more important. With this thought, the brownie broke into the Kavelli apartment without asking.

The man seemed to be behaving as usual. His body and spirit were one. And if it weren't for the blazing fire in the Kavelli's soul, there would have been nothing dangerous for the spirit in the apartment. Suddenly, the soul's fire contracted, began to pulse in time with the heartbeat, and then exploded, releasing a huge wave of pure energy. From which even the walls reinforced with additional protection trembled in their astral projection.

Green froze in delight. This wave was so pure that it reminded him of the times when the world was still young and youthful. The spirit of the place felt the curse of lichen shrinking, becoming smaller, not much, but smaller, as if an experienced doctor had finally found a cure for an old disease. This delay, this forgotten feeling of purity, almost cost the brownie his life. Because the wave from the next splash scattered the apartment's defenses to pieces, leaving behind the threads of the power circuits torn to shreds. The next splash would have destroyed everything, and all the demons in the area would have flocked here in a few minutes, as if to a feast. And first of all, the Mistress.

"Not only a Kavelli!" Green screamed in fear. Cleanliness, cleanliness, but he wanted to live much more than even to get rid of the lichen. "He's also a Skuld! A Skuld!!"

The brownie's last cry sounded more like crying.

The man's spiritual fire contracted again before exploding into another burst.

Ever since the Higher Ones learned to create physical bodies for themselves, they have taken to eating those under the protection of the spirits of the place. In order to survive, not to perish under the yoke of an unfulfilled purpose, the brownies had to learn to knock the spirit out of the corporeal shell. Those who did not learn did not survive. The One Who Forgot the Name survived, which means he learned.

Never before had he used this skill on people. But this time he struck. He struck because he saw no other way out of the situation. After all, the Kevelli is still in his material body, does not hear or notice the spiritual world. In order for him to gain this ability, the Speaker with Spirits had to go through an old ritual on the border of worlds. But this man had not gone through such a ritual and did not notice the Green jumping around him, screaming "Stop it!!"

When the fire of the Kevelli's soul was ready to generate a new wave, Green jumped up and hit the man with all his might on the back of the head with his heel.

Any normal person would have simply passed out from such a blow. But instead, the spirit of the Kavelli flew out of the body, like the spirit of the Supreme.

This was the last straw that overwhelmed the brownie's patience!..
* * *

Shikuno, Ristol City - Dan Lier, the human being
* * *

Before I could even comprehend what had actually happened, something jumped on my chest and, crushing me with its weight, settled on my neck. As soon as I finally focused my gaze, I immediately received something soft but weighty on the cheek, and then again and again.

"Don't you dare! Stop it! Stop it!" Smeshariki shouted in my face.

My head was shaking from side to side from the heavy blows. It didn't hurt, but it was offensive because these weren't so much blows as something similar to slaps.

"Don't think! Don't think!"

"What do you mean, not think?" Having exposed my forehead to another slap, I thought, and unexpectedly for myself, I began to speak in the spiritual world.

Hearing my question, the brownie froze with his paw raised to strike.

"Don't think!" Green repeated after a short hesitation.

"I can't not think!" I couldn't shake off this seemingly small and harmless spirit. But there was no pressure like I felt during the last meeting, and I could speak.

"Don't think THAT WAY! THAT WAY, don't think!" The brownie tried to spread his spherical arms as wide as possible, as if showing how not to think. "You can't do THAT WAY. They'll hear you and eat you!" Green almost cried as he said these words.

"Eat?" What is he talking about? And then I remembered the red demon and the feeling of hunger that was read in his gaze. Why should I be eaten? Although I believed right away that they would eat me. There was something in the behavior of the brownie that made me not doubt the sincerity of his words. And what does it mean to "think THAT"?

What happened that made Smesharik come running here and knock my spirit into the astral plane? What prompted this creature to do such things? Judging by the way he is fussing and looks clearly scared, his motive is to save his astral skin. But what does this have to do with me?

I wanted to ask the brownie, but barely tried to open my mouth when I felt the familiar pressure that pressed me to the floor like a multi-ton truck. Green, meanwhile, stopped jumping on me and began running around the room. As I understood, he was leaving traces again.

Calm down, don't panic, calm down...

I'm alive, no one is going to eat me right now, it seems. The main thing is not to do anything stupid and behave sensibly, so as not to provoke the lichen to aggression. But in order to behave sensibly, you first need to understand what is happening. And I have great difficulties with this, everything happened too unexpectedly.

So, I was just sitting, not bothering anyone, not going into the astral plane, and then something hit me. More precisely, hit me, the brownie. The green one is scared, and close to the most outright panic. So, his aggression is caused by this fear. And he is afraid that we will be eaten. What nonsense!

Well, I didn't do anything to provoke the spirit and scare it to such an extent. I just sat at the computer, as I had sat down dozens of times before, and it had not led to such results before. And if so, then I need to think about how what happened today is different from other times.

Yes, it's no different. Everything was as usual. Only the motive was different; earlier, I sat down at the computer to search for information or to study, and now I turned it on to start writing. But I tried to compose in this world before. And I wasn't eaten.

Then a memory struck me like lightning!

Until today, I have only immersed myself in writing once, on the ship, on the second day of my stay in this world. And then, as I thought, "fell ill", but in fact, most likely, it was on that day that I caught the slime that was eating me.

Eating?

And Smesharik says: "Eat you!"

Coincidence? I don't think so. Of course, two cases are not enough to say for sure, but I have no desire to collect large statistics. Am I right, and if I start inventing something, fantasizing, or, as it may not sound loud, "creating", I will immediately be in danger of being eaten by otherworldly forces?

But what about the magical community that controls progress? Do they really... Stop. Or maybe they do control it, releasing demons like the chameleon I saw, or those that pour slime on people with imagination. Then artificially slowing down progress, putting obstacles in the way of inventors, monitoring everything and everyone, all this becomes unnecessary...

But it's a "beautiful" scheme. Demons eat those who come up with something new, and development slows down accordingly. In addition, if this continues for a long period of time, then natural selection begins to play a role. People capable of creativity die young, leave fewer offspring, and everything is according to Darwin. Fewer and fewer such people are born in each generation, and scientific and creative stagnation sets in, occasionally interrupted by random outbursts when the system fails. And I was wondering how even a powerful secret magical organization can control the entire world so much that it would restrain progress at all levels. After all, to do this, you need to have your people everywhere, in every editorial office, on the jury of the most provincial competition, in any patent office. But, apparently, everything was made simpler here. They created creatures that devour those who come up with something new.

The only question is, how do these demons distinguish who must be eaten and who doesn't? Smesharik immediately determined that I was in danger, which means there is a clear and unambiguous reference point. Then his gaze fell on my astral hand. In which blue colors predominated. There! Exactly! The color of the aura! Apparently, fantasy changes the color of spiritual energies, just as deep thoughts make the ethereal body blue and fear yellow. It looks very much like that is the case.

It would be preferable, of course, to ask the brownie directly, but this pressure is so strong that I can’t open my mouth.

I tried auto-training, hoping to get rid of the spiritual influence of lichen. The result was ambiguous. On the one hand, I couldn't get rid of the pressure this way, but on the other, I did loosen it a little. I still can't move, but my sensitivity is returning.

To increase the effectiveness of the exercises, I began to imagine that my spirit was covered by armor. As Lancer said, I tried to remember and feel the weight of the armor, how it pressed on the astral body, how it protected. With each swing of the imaginary pendulum, I suggested that another millimeter of my spirit was hidden behind the armor. I had tried something similar before, and then there was no result, but now everything was different. I felt that my life depended on whether I mastered this skill or not. This gave me not only additional motivation but also mobilized all my strength.

Unfortunately, I failed to make myself an astral armor. But my efforts were not in vain. I managed to partially throw off the pressure of the brownie. Not completely, but I could already speak.

"Who will eat us?"

My question was so unexpected for the spirit that it fell from the ceiling, where it was renewing its protection at that time. It fell and froze, lying on its back, looking at me with its eyes, disproportionately huge for such a body. In its gaze, one could read boundless surprise.

"Who will eat us and why?" He repeated his question.

The brownie rose to his feet, came up to me and stood half a meter from my nose.

"Who? The lower... The higher... What difference does it make who?" Shrugging, the green spirit said with deep sadness.

"Lowest? Higher? Who are they?"

"You're in the way." Swaying on his spherical legs, the brownie looked very displeased.

"Why are you saving me?"

"Purpose..." This word was given to him with great difficulty, this is what they say about the heaviest duty, which is harder to bear than spending eternity in hard labor.

"Why will they eat us? Is it because I dreamed? Fantasized?" Lichen had already turned away from me, so I asked these questions to his back.

"You are a Skuld. Kavelli and a Skuld. Once upon a time, there were many skulds. Now there are a few. Very few... I don't remember the last time I saw a skuld. A long time ago..." The words came with great strain to him."

"And what's wrong with being a Skuld?"

"Nothing... - The brownie's fur stood on end. - Skuld, when he follows his path... He gives light... Light that is food for many..."

"But what should I do?"

"Do not follow the path of the skuld." After a short thought, the brownie answered. "Not in this house..." Did it seem to me, or was it something like a request or even a plea?

"Not in this house?"

"If..." Unexpectedly sharply, the spirit jumped right up to my face and put its paw to my nose. "If they eat you there..." He pointed out the window. "I will live... If they eat you here... I will die too."

As he said this, the seemingly harmless ball of fur now looked much more frightening than the red demon chameleon that had once frightened me.

"But..."

He didn’t let me finish speaking and tried to clarify what he meant.

"You're in the way!!!" The brownie hissed furiously right into my ear.

The spiritual pressure immediately increased, making it impossible for me to speak.

The brownie looked me over carefully, sighed with obvious relief, and returned to the task interrupted by my questions. Now, knowing what to look for, I saw that in those places where the green one touched the surface with its paws, a dimly glowing reflection of an astral trace remained for a short time. The reflection remained barely visible for about three seconds, and then seemed to be absorbed into the surface, dissolving in it.

Ten minutes later, the brownie finished his running, stood in the center of the room, and looked around. After that, his fur stopped twitching and smoothed out. After standing motionless for a few seconds, the green one turned around and looked at me with a look that mixed irritation with discontent, as well as pity.

"Die not in this house... Please..."

Having uttered this phrase, the brownie, heavily moving his ridiculous legs, went out into the corridor, leaving me alone.

About five minutes after the brownie left, the pressure eased, and I was able to move. As soon as I felt it, I immediately rose from the floor and returned to my physical body. Unlike previous encounters with the otherworldly, this time I was not shaking with fear. Either I am getting used to it, or the fact is that I have stopped perceiving the lichen smesharik as an immediate threat.

I still understand that the brownie is very dangerous and strong, but as long as I stay within certain limits, it will not harm me. In addition, he even protects me to the best of his ability. Only it seemed to me that this protection is far from a joy to him. Like some kind of painful, unpleasant duty, but one that cannot be avoided.

When I recall his last words, it gets to my gut, how sincerely they were said. What I can be absolutely sure of is that this creature really doesn't like the fact that I live here. Really! He literally tolerates me, and not for my pretty eyes, but apparently, his patience is due to a mysterious "purpose". I want to believe that the purpose of the smesharik is to protect the residents. By the way, if he really is a house spirit and must protect the residents of the house under his control, then this theory describes the behavior of the green spirit well. And his first visit, before helping, the smesharik first found out whether I was a guest in this apartment. Exactly! His cry of "not a guest!!", full of disappointment, I remember very well.

Having replayed the recent dialogue in my head and compared it with the first, I came to certain conclusions. First, the spirit is afraid that something will happen to me on the territory entrusted to it. Of course, this is a controversial statement, but lately I have been learning to trust my intuition, and it tells me that this conclusion is correct. Second, the lichenoid is completely indifferent to me if I die outside the house. He will even be happy with such an outcome, since a tenant like me is a big problem for him. And his protection apparently does not extend beyond the boundaries of the house. Third, something greater pushes him to protect me, a certain "purpose", which is indirectly indicated by the first conclusion. If he used another concept or word, it could be interpreted somehow differently, but here, it seems, there are no options.

That's all that can be said with a high degree of probability. The rest only brings new variables. Who are the "Higher" and "Lower"? If I am right from the start, then the Higher are the magical elite, and the Lower are most likely spirits or demons. A coherent picture. Only one thing ruins it: why would magicians eat me? On the other hand, most likely, the concept of "eat" is different for me and the brownie. Most likely, he meant something like "drink all the energy." But again, all this is speculation based on assumptions.

While I thinking, my palms involuntarily typed two words on the keyboard. Kavelli and Skuld. Okay, I still haven't found an exact definition of the first word, but the second one reminds me very much of the earthly "skald" in its consonance. Of course, the sound may be just a coincidence and nothing more. But I still think that these are really two, if not identical, then at least related concepts. Of course, a skald is more of a poet and storyteller than a graphomaniac who dreams of calling himself a writer, but there is definitely a connection. In Norman myths, skalds often acted as intermediaries with the world of gods and spirits, maybe that's the case here too?

Earlier, judging by the intonation of the brownie, a long time ago, there were many skulds. But he didn't say anything about there being many kavelli. And I am both, in one bottle, so to speak...

What else was there? Skuld, following his path, brings light. No, he doesn't bring, he bestows! And that's probably a big difference. And not just light, but the light that is food for many. That is, I... Hmmm... An electric generator, or what? More precisely, energy, not electro, but that's a trifle. Considering that the disembodied spirit was also interpreted by Smesharik as easy prey and food, then... That's right! When I sit down to write, I start generating prana? Is that so? No, that doesn't work. If I were some kind of magical source, then no one would eat me; on the contrary, they would put me in a cage and milk me, in the worst case. Such a beautiful theory falls apart when tested by logic. Damn.

On the other hand... I don't remember any intelligence in the red demon, and the unreasonable can devour the source, for the sake of satiation "here and now". Predators are generally not inclined to postpone their dinner "for later". But no, I'm pulling the owl onto the globe, adjusting the answers to my theory. Because the brownie made it clear that the Higher Ones will eat me, too. Which strongly conflicts with my thoughts about the magicians controlling progress. Magicians can't be unreasonable and stupid, then they wouldn't have achieved anything, if that were the case.

So it turns out that I am back where I was. I don't understand anything about this strange world. It seems like a simple solution: find the brownie and question him. Of course, he may not answer and most likely "press" with his gaze. But you can wear him down, whine and whine, follow him around until he gives in and deigns to answer. But this plan has a significant drawback. I am clearly forbidden to leave the room in astral form. And I won't see him in the physical body.

Can I violate the recommendation? But what if such a violation cancels some point in his duties to protect the tenant? Are the questions that I can ask, without a guarantee of getting an answer to them, worth the possible loss of at least minimal shelter? Curiosity did not fight with instincts for long and eventually lost with a crushing score. Since there is no immediate threat, there is no need to rush. And the answers... First, I need to come up with the right questions, and then we'll see, maybe I'll meet the brownie somehow on my own, without violating his prohibitions.

But there remained one very important question. When do I start generating? At what stage? When do I sit down to write? Then there wouldn't even be memoirs in this world. When do I dream? Definitely not, because people here know how to dream, and their desires are stamped, but no one has taken away the right to dream from the locals. Then, when does this transition happen, from a person to a generator? There are many options, of course, but if we focus specifically on me and discard all thoughts about the skulds and their similarity to skalds. Limit the range of decisions to me personally.

I need to give an answer to this problem as soon as possible, because if I think something "like that", I'll sparkle in the street and the Smeshariki's dream will come true, "die not here!" I'll sparkle... Well, yes, just like a star, three times "ha-ha"! The same luminary of local significance for me to sparkle. If I were in a cartoon, I would imagine an animation of a "light bulb-idea". Oops... Ah... But how stupid, but similar. Exactly, like a light bulb! And exactly like an idea. Then on the ship, and now, the fact that I started writing is secondary. The primary thing is that I was seized by an idea. Like that light bulb. And I started writing only to express this idea. Or it is more complicated. An idea is a flash, perhaps a truly powerful energy release. But this is not quite what the brownie was talking about, "granting light"... Granting, is it an action stretched out in time or an instantaneous one? If we approach the question linguistically, it could be either way, but he definitely meant it stretched out in time, not like an explosion, but like a generation. And that means it's not a sudden idea that is "to blame". What then? Again, in a circle, like a donkey pumping water.

No. Leaving the room without an answer is dangerous, far more dangerous than anything else.

I lie down on the floor.

Pendulum...

Separation.

Green said, "Don't think like that", so let's go the other way. And we'll try to talk his anger down if he comes to swear. I'll try to think exactly "like that" and watch the aura change. The question is, how "like that"? I just need to remember.

But no matter how much I recalled, even going over in my head the thoughts that were before the brownie's blow, my aura remained predominantly blue. I remembered, it seemed, everything, the planned hero, the invented world, and the outline of the plot. But no, it was all wrong. When I ran through my memories of the plot for the tenth time, I noticed a huge logical gap. My main character, at a critical moment, could not act as he should have according to the plan; it would have been completely out of character for him. I was going to write about an idealist scientist, and according to the plot, he had to temporarily abandon his scientific research because of threats to his loved ones. But this character would not have acted like that, for him, science and some abstract "higher good" that progress brings are much more important than anything mundane. And for this, it is necessary to either change the character of the hero or edit the plot so that such a conflict does not arise. That is, for example, if a threat comes, but he ignores it, not taking it seriously, and then a loved one really does die, and then... And this will allow...

I didn't have time to finish the thought.

My entire astral body suddenly began to shine, with a slightly cold light, with a barely noticeable metallic tint. More precisely, it lit up, weakly, but in the astral world of my room, it became noticeably "lighter" and traces left by the brownie on the walls, floor and ceiling became clearly visible. As soon as I lost my focus and began to stare at what was happening, my luminosity immediately faded and returned to the blue "norm".

I think I found the answer. The answer is stupid, smug, and seemingly wrong in its simplicity and self-admiration, but the answer. I am a generator - when I create...

For several years, I burned the very idea into myself that I am something more than a graphomaniac, that all my "creativity" cannot be viewed otherwise. I am a mediocrity who realizes this. And so... What I always considered a waste of paper is in fact a process of creation!!!

Someone will say that I am a fool and an idiot, but my joy at that moment was stronger than the awareness of a second chance and a new life.

Stop! Well... You can't do that. So many people couldn't be wrong. I write shit. That's a damn fact. But writing skills and the ability to come up with something new, aren't they two different things? Yes, I'm a clumsy creator, but... So be it. This is just a reason to study. To learn how to put words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, those into chapters, and so on. This is a craft that can be mastered. Before, I considered myself a completely talentless person, and this understanding did not allow me to devote myself to what I love so much. Drop everything, study to be a journalist, they are taught to write beautifully about anyone, about the same "record milk yields," for example. But in hobby mode, with my truly tongue-tied writing, this barrier turned out to be insurmountable.

If I'm not fooling myself, then the answer has been found. And the safety precautions seem simple. When away from home, try not to fly away in dreams, not to invent plots and heroes. It will be difficult. On Earth, I thought about it constantly, and if it weren't for the workload at school and the dumbfoundedness of the new world, I would have been devoured long ago. And so, immersion in everyday life, I can say, saved my life. But this is a question that can be solved by control, and this control has grown significantly as a result of training.

But, most importantly, I now have a goal.

It’s not just to survive and somehow live the second life that chance has given me.

Study at school and enroll in the journalism department. During this time, learn Shatano and forge my spirit in such armor that it will not let my radiance out. What is all this for? To write! Why do I need this? A stupid question. I am a graphomaniac and I simply cannot live without it!

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/84161/587904

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP