Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Глава одиннадцатая. Начало лечения Героя Королевы Эльфов

Chapter Eleven. Beginning of the treatment of the Hero of the Elf Queen

* * *

Fear your desires, for they may come true. Cyril was ready to sign this simple truth with both hands, to cast it in granite and carve it in bronze. It was a good thing that he even imagined now what kind of weaves could be used to do it. What had he said about reducing the intensity of training, resting, and relaxing a bit? Well, he had relaxed, almost to the point of stopping all vital activity!
T.N.

The next day, after coming to his senses and a tense conversation with his mentor, who had changed because of his fault, Queen and Elder Enchantress, Cyril woke up refreshed, full of energy and perfectly rested. At least, that's how it seemed to him. As he stretched, he tried to sit up in bed, but immediately received an icy needle in his heart. From the favourable feeling in a split second there was no trace. Cyril collapsed back on the featherbed, breathing heavily and gulping for air, his heart pounding like a madman. And every beat was accompanied by an unpleasant pain in his chest and a chill.

It didn't last long, just a few moments, and then Cyril was wrapped tightly in healing weaves, and a wave of pleasant warmth spread over his body. At the same time, an alarm trill sounded in his room, and Gata and Armina, who, as it turned out, had been on duty next to Cyril since the evening, rushed to the medical bed.

This sent another stream of caressing warmth into his heart, which was tormented by pain and cold, calming the rhythm and chasing away the unpleasant sensations. Cyril recognised in this warmth the healing magic of Geatral, and a few moments later the elven healer herself appeared next to his bed. Her eyes immediately flashed with green fire, and another wave of heat travelled through Cyril's body, now purposefully towards his wounded heart. After giving the patient a stern look with burning eyes, Geatral gave him a brief hello and immediately reprimanded him for trying to stand up so abruptly. At the same time, she checked the medical weaves that enveloped Cyril, barely tweaking anything in them. Then she pulled up the young man's shirt, and he saw the source of the quiet humming and vibrations.

On the left side of his chest lay, stuck to his skin, an amulet in the form of a small silver metal disc, covered with filigree carvings and inlaid with glowing small gems. It was the one that additionally kept his heart beating, pouring healing energy directly into the mangled heart energy node. And even in his current state, with a mere superficial glance, Cyril managed to understand something about him. Judging by the subtlety and complexity of the complex magical weave embedded in it, this mago-cardiac pacemaker was at least master level. Or even magister level. And for some reason, when looking at it, the image of Scrooge McDuck, from his childhood favourite cartoon series, appeared in the young man's mind.

However, as soon as this image appeared, it disappeared, and Cyril could not evaluate this magnificent amulet more precisely, because Geatral, who was examining him, sharply stopped the young man. The healer strictly told him not to tense his subtle body and relaxed Cyril's muscles with a point effect. No weaving, no running of reserve through energy channels, no tension of energy nodes. Nothing that could in any way damage Cyril's already traumatised subtle bodies. The only thing he was allowed to do in his current state was the simplest self-analysis. In essence - just observing his subtle bodies from the inside. And it's best not to get carried away with it. The elven healer even threatened to put special magic-suppressing bracelets on him if he disobeyed her.

For some reason Cyril believed her at once, and even for a moment involuntarily imagined himself tied to the bed with black leather straps on his arms and legs. And gagged. The fantasy turned out to be surprisingly clear and frightening, so he immediately swore to Geatral that there was no need for medical BDSM, and he would strictly follow all the recommendations of the healer. The elven woman gave him a hard look, apparently convinced of his sincerity, and then handed him over to Gata and Armina, promising to visit him later.

Both maids immediately rushed to Cyril, almost in tears. They helped him to make himself comfortable on the medical bed, gave him a drink of water, which was barely neutral magical energy, and then fed him with a spoon. The breakfast was some kind of mush, resembling mashed potatoes in consistency and flavour. Cyril tried to say he could eat it himself, but after the third spoonful he again felt unpleasant weakness and coldness in his chest. The amulet immediately emitted a quiet hum, the maids immediately noticed it from his face and movements, and unhesitatingly declared that they would feed him themselves. As a result, Cyril had to eat from a spoon, as if he were a baby.

At least he managed to make it to the restroom. Yes, with rest breaks, yes, leaning on the wall and on Gata's shoulder. But he made it. Because if Gata or Armina had to wipe his ass, it would have been a complete failure. Although, come to think of it, what haven't they seen? Especially after-- Yeah... An image of him on his knees diligently polishing both maids' pussies in turn appeared in his mind... Haha, polishing pussy to pussy... What the fuck is going on in his head! Shaking his head and pushing away the negative thoughts, Cyril, having relieved his body and partly his soul, got to his feet and headed back towards his bed.

The journey was not as epic as the trek of two mossy-footed halflings in the company of a Mordovian intelligent man to the Fatal Mountain. In terms of distance. But in terms of tension, Cyril would argue who had it harder. When he finally returned to his bed, his unhappy heart was beating hard again, and the expensive medical amulet was humming and vibrating again, infusing his heart with some healing energy. Having made himself comfortable in bed and rested a little, Cyril noticed his mentor was approaching his room. It would be more accurate to say that he was aware of her approach because now Cyril could feel Diantrel's location all the time. It's just that if you don't focus on it, you don't pay attention to it. It's like breathing. But if you concentrate...

When he closed his eyes, Cyril easily felt the direction and distance to Diantrel, which was rapidly decreasing. It did not require any effort from him or any strain of subtle bodies for which he could have been punished by Geatral. The system-given modifier of the companion did not require any magic at all in the usual local sense. In a minute, his mentor really came into Cyril's room and, as it turned out, was not empty-handed.

Once inside, Diantrel politely greeted her student and his maids and showed him what appeared to be a very comfortable armchair with armrests, anatomical backrest and footrest. It was made of light wood, covered with skilful carvings of foliage themes, upholstered in a soft fabric of a rich green colour. In short, it was an exemplary masterpiece of elven furniture craftsmanship. Or rather, furniture artefacting. As this chair had no legs, but floated in the air above the floor! A real fucking magical wheelchair! And, as it turned out, with the possibility of mental control! Just tune in to the control weave and the chair will go wherever you want it to go. It doesn't take any effort at all. Even in his condition, Cyril could afford only to tune in to the necessary weave.

And that wasn't all! Besides levitation charms, this marvel of artifacting, for which a bald headmaster of a school for very differently gifted children would probably kill, carried other weaves. A whole complex of healing weaves, like the ones that surrounded Cyril's bed, a separate complex of protective weaves, and even a few attacking weaves. The latter weaves were quite serious, on par with his enhanced attacks with his battle wand. Although the chair's defense weaves was several times more powerful and complex. It was not a self-propelled dwarf chariot, as his mentor explained to Cyril, showing and explaining to him the functions of the chair floating in the air.

At that moment, the young man listening to her could barely keep from laughing. Geez, that's just crazy! A disabled half elf in a magical wheelchair! If he was also a dark half-elf, and would prefer boys to girls, he would be the ideal for the progressive western part of the Dnd players! Cyril couldn't help but imagine himself in his new guise, only with slightly darker skin, riding that chair and carrying a staff, somewhere in the dungeon. And in the company of Gata limping on a crutch. And next to her is Armina with a blindfold. And a bearded Asian dwarf with a helmet and an axe and a miniskirt and heels. Man, that's an Oscar!

Apparently, his bad thoughts were reflected too clearly on his face because his mentor, who was explaining the subtleties of protective weaves, looked at Cyril sternly. He was involuntarily embarrassed and continued to listen to her words with all possible seriousness. The briefing took almost half an hour, and only after that Diantrel allowed Cyril, with the help of Gata, to carefully get out of bed and sit down in the magic chair.

As soon as he lowered himself onto it, it immediately adjusted to his anatomy. The back literally enveloped him and leaned back, the footrest adjusted to the most comfortable height, and the armrests slightly changed their angle. At the same time the chair enveloped Cyril with its weaves, first with a layer of healing and then with protective ones, forming a transparent, but quite tangible solid barrier. For several minutes, under the watchful eye of his mentor, he carefully learnt the controls, moving smoothly around his chamber, hovering above the floor. It turned out to be surprisingly easy and freakin' fun! Yeah, it was low, but he was fucking flying! He flew, Carl!

God, it was so cool! And most importantly, the controlling weaves were foolproof, so it was impossible to accelerate too much or make a sudden maneuver. Neither could crashing into a wall or flipping over. In addition, a separate weave like a safety belt kept Cyril in the chair, ensuring that he wouldn't fall out. So he, unable to resist the analogy that appeared in his head, slowly soared a meter and a half above the floor, rising almost to the ceiling. Hanging there and looking down at his mentor and maids, Cyril raised his hands and with a wide smile on his face quoted:

"My Arrakis! My Dune! Spice must flow!"

Expectantly, neither the mentor nor the maids understood him. In fact, there was a look of apprehension on their faces, and they glanced at each other quickly. Diantrel, who kept her eyes on him, asked tactfully:

"Is this some kind of spell from your home world?"

"Ah? No, it just reminded me of a character in a, uh... shall we say, man-made legend. He flew in a hover chair too, not because he was injured, but because he was very fat."

"That's it. I guess this character was very wealthy, so he could afford such a luxury,” the mentor said."

Her voice was absolutely polite, but for some reason Cyril was again reminded of Scrooge McDuck. But for some reason he was desperately swearing like the other Duck, Donald. Pushing the thought away, he cautiously lowered himself down and nodded:

"It is. In legend, he was the owner of an entire planet where a rare drug was mined...."

It took him a few minutes to recount in general terms the plot of the classic of world fiction of his native world. Diantrel, Gata, and Armina listened to Cyril unexpectedly attentively and with noticeable interest. Especially when he explained to them about spice, which is a must flow. At the end, the mentor even asked him if what he had told them was true - just a fictional story. When he answered in the affirmative, Diantrel folded her arms on her enlarged chest and said thoughtfully:

"Amazing..."

"What exactly? The plot or the characters?"

"How this storyteller guessed the properties of the Desert Salt..."

In answer to Cyril's mute question, the mentor told him for several minutes about the Great Desert to the west of the Forest. The Great Desert, however, had not been much of a desert recently. By the standards of the elves, of course. And in particular, she told about one kind of crystal formed near natural sources of magic only in this desert. This process was long, sometimes taking dozens or even hundreds of years. And the longer such a crystal grew, absorbing the magic of its native source, the better. Grinding it into fine dust and thoroughly cleaning it, one could get the most powerful amplifier of clairvoyant abilities. It did not add longevity and health, even on the contrary, especially with regular and excessive consumption, and it was addictive very quickly. But the third eye amplified perfectly, allowing all sorts of seers, soothsayers and prophets to greatly enhance their abilities.

However, almost no one could afford to consume it regularly, as the Great Desert was a place extremely inhospitable and very dangerous. There were few inhabitants there, and those who knew where to find and mine the necessary crystals - even less, although the demand for them was huge. Mostly because all the sources of magic powerful enough to form and grow crystals in the Great Desert had owners. They were not eager to let outsiders into their territory in any form. And some found a use for those crystals themselves. Because in the Great Desert there was enough besides the living and dead inhabitants. Though not as many as in the North of the Middle Sea.

When Cyril asked her about the last ones, Diantrel unexpectedly told him they would continue their conversation in a more appropriate place. In fact, that was the reason she had come to see him today. Since he could not train in his condition, it was decided to temporarily switch to theoretical studies. In particular, to expand Cyril's ideas about the world he had gotten into, which the young man was only glad of. And not only because of the desire to learn more about his new home, but also because just lying in bed without such a thing as a smartphone with Internet access was a specific pleasure.

The maids helped him carefully change from his nightgown into a simple hospital gown, temporarily removing him from the hover chair. Then he moved with them and his mentor to a study room set up especially for him in one of the vacant neighboring rooms. All unnecessary furniture had been removed, and the walls were covered with huge maps of different lands. It reminded me immediately of the geography room in his school. But there were no globes here, which at first surprised Cyril, when he took a seat in his chair in front of the teacher's desk. But the answer was surprisingly simple.

There was no globe because the whole world had not yet been explored, even by the elves who had lived here for millennia. In addition, the life of cartographers in this world was complicated by magical anomalies of spatial type. As Diantrel explained, the Great Desert is full of them, so its total area, according to elves' estimates, can be one and a half times larger than it should be. But Cyril learned this later. The first question he asked his mentor, when Diantrel was about to start their lesson, was what is the name of this world? The idea came to him all of a sudden, though it seemed that he had already spent so much time here, but he had never bothered to find out.

His mentor was not surprised by the question, and she answered it eagerly. As it turned out, this world did not have a common name among all its inhabitants. But among the elves this world was called Beriadon. As Diantrel explained, this name came from the combination of two words of the Old Elven language, meaning “Protected World”.

When Cyril asked her why the name was so, she replied that this world, by its very nature, was relatively isolated from other worlds. That, in its own way, is a natural protection. When Cyril asked what this protection was against, Diantrel, as it seemed to him, hesitated for a moment. However, most likely, it seemed to him, because the mentor immediately explained to Cyril that there are worlds where there are regular invasions from other worlds or planes. For example, from Inferno, although it is not the only source of such a threat, although it is probably the most widespread. Or there is a permanent threat of such invasions.

Diantrel didn't go further into the matter, saying there would be a separate lesson. Now it was time to go directly to geography. And the elf began the lesson, logically, with a lecture about her homeland. That is, about the territory of the Forest and the surrounding lands, clearly showing Cyril them on the map. And not on an ordinary map, but on an enchanted one. She spread it out on the table in front of Cyril, and with a snap of her fingers she projected over it three-dimensional images of the Forest, mountains and seas. It looked very cool and futuristic! Cyril listened with interest to his mentor's story about the country of elves and its neighbors, which were plentiful.

And not all of them were pleasant. The elves had relatively even relations with the Confederation of Free Cities, which lay to the north and covered almost the entire coast of the Middle Sea. Orcs, on the other hand, were a permanent headache. And not only them. In the Great Steppe, which lay to the east, there were enough human tribes of steppesmen and even beastmen, who managed to get along with their green-skinned neighbors with varying success, sometimes forming tribal alliances and even whole hordes. With the Undermountain, the elves' natural frontier to the west and southwest, relations were generally neutral and, as Diantrel characterized them, mostly businesslike. The Forest received metals and crystals from the dwarves and paid in wood and foodstuffs. But mostly wood, because the dwarves had their breadbasket on the surface, called Meadowlands, populated mostly by halfling clans.....

The first lesson lasted until the evening, with one break, during which Geatral visited them. The elven healer examined Cyril carefully again, made some adjustments to the healing weaves of his chair and heart amulet, and then gave him a drink of some pleasant-tasting decoction. It was a little sour, but from a single sip a wave of invigorating warmth and strength immediately flowed through his body. Literally. Cyril felt how with each sip he was filled with healing energy, which was actively absorbed into the most damaged parts of the subtle bodies. Especially in the heart area. Cyril was even able to get off the chair and walk to the nearest restroom on his own, even though Gata and Armina helped him

True, upon returning to the study room he felt physically tired again, and his heart began to pound, but still, he had not returned half alive. Geatral, who had been watching him, said thoughtfully:

"You know, Cirial, I was sure that with your wound, you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. But the strength you've been given is truly amazing. Such progress in an instant without any tangible effects. Amazing. Although."

Here she turned to Diantrel and looked at her attentively:

"I still think it's too early for Cirial to do even such classes."

The mentor, without blinking an eye or twitching her pointed ear, calmly replied:

"His health is more than satisfactory, provided he rests. And for theoretical studies, nothing else is required. Moreover, his recovery is going quite well, isn't it?"

"That's true. But complete peace would still be preferable..."

The two elves' voices were polite, but for some reason Cyril felt uncomfortable with the expression in their eyes. To change the topic of conversation, he also asked the healer as politely as possible what the potion she had given him was made of. He added that it literally filled him with life force. And here Cyril was not lying, he could still feel the healing power of the potion being absorbed into his wounded energy nodes and channels. Geatral, turning to her patient, nodded briefly and said:

"That's how it should be. It's a decoction of young leaves of the Tree of Life. They are also called Mallorn."

When Cyril heard that, he froze in his chair. For some reason in his head again for a moment a surprisingly vivid image of Scrooge McDuck appeared. Or rather, not him, but Elfo-Scrooge-Duck, dressed in an elven outfit embroidered with gold, waving a golden plunger in a fit of purest, uncontaminated rage. But he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

"This is a very powerful and effective medicine, and most importantly, it is extremely safe when taken in the correct doses,” the healer continued.

Turning back to Cyril's mentor, she nodded briefly and said:

"Leaving Cirial in your charge, honourable Diantrel. Don't wear him out too much."

"Of course."

When the healer left, the mentor continued the lecture. In the end, Cyril returned to his room in the evening, in the company of the maids and with new knowledge of the world he had travelled to. Even experience, just a little, but still added for this lecture! With these positive thoughts, he made himself comfortable on his bed with the help of the maids who adjusted his pillows and blanket, and then fell into a sweet sleep.

* * *

In a room that looked like Cyril's hospital room were two white-haired elven women, both with very prominent forms. They were talking about something, sitting at a small table. In one of them Kirill immediately recognized his mentor. Moreover, he could literally feel her, thanks to the mark, located between the long legs thrown one on the other. It was undoubtedly Diantrel. Except that the mentor was not dressed in the military attire Cyril was accustomed to, but only in a silk white-green robe, because of what she looked quite seductive and erotic. The young man's gaze involuntarily lingered on the long and slender legs of the mentor, then moved higher, to the open collar of the robe, where you could see his own enlarged breasts. But then his gaze shifted to her interlocutor, and there was something to watch, too.

The second elf who sat across from his mentor was unfamiliar to Cyril. She looked young, like all firstborns, her hair was of medium length, and as white as Diantrel's. But her form, particularly her upper body, was superior to that of the young man's mentor, even with the changes that had taken place. And considering that the stranger was dressed in the same silk white-green robe as his mentor. It was also half-open.... Cyril's gaze was stuck to her practically protruding big tits and clearly visible nipples, and it was not easy to tear it away. In such a situation, Cyril did not even immediately notice a very obvious thing. Both elves had something in common. Hair color, facial features, and... something else.... Exactly! There was magic in both of them! Diantrel had a lot more of it, and it was not clearly colored, but the stranger had less magical power, but she was clearly attracted to air and lightning. There was a general... shade of magic, if you could call it that, had a distinct similarity.

There was a half-empty jug of ruby wine and a couple of half-empty glasses on the table between the two elves. It was impossible to understand what they were talking about, but the conversation was lively, and the unfamiliar elf was gesturing vigorously. Mostly she was pointing at her mentor's hair and breasts. Diantrel, as it seemed to Cyril, was just waving away or denying it. And in general it was obvious that she was not particularly happy to talk about her changed appearance. But at the same time the young man clearly felt, thanks to the same marker, that the mentor periodically during the conversation subtly tensed her subtle body. A wave of energy, almost indistinguishable from the outside, but clearly perceptible to Cyril, was rolling through her aura and energy channels. Enjoying the increased magical power - came a sudden guess! Indeed, a whole point of characteristics in the “Source” invested. Or even two...

Cyril didn't have time to think about the fact that he felt more magic in his mentor than usual. The unfamiliar elven woman got to her feet and started walking around the room, waving her arms vigorously. Her face was rather gloomy, if not evil. She was saying something loudly, but Cyril couldn't make out the words, as if you could hear what was being said but couldn't understand what was being said. The mentor, who remained seated at the table, apparently tried to calm her down, but the stranger was getting more and more agitated, and at some point she literally started screaming. For a moment it seemed to Cyril that an electric shock ran through her body, and lightning flashed in her eyes. Or maybe it didn't seem so, considering the stranger's magic power's obvious predisposition to them.

That was the end of it, though. She took a few deep breaths, which made her big tits sway hypnotically, and calmed down a little. Walking over to the table, she finished her wine glass and bid her mentor farewell with one last hug. When Diantrel left, Cyril had no time to notice that the stranger almost immediately found herself in front of a large table mirror. Another elf, also unfamiliar, was already reflected in it. She was as white-haired as the previous two, but she looked younger. For some reason Cyril was sure she was really young, even by the standards of elves.

The firstborn reflected in the mirror was even more openly dressed than Cyril's mentor and her relative. She was wearing only the thinnest shirt, apparently made of natural cotton. And it was completely unbuttoned, so that her tits were mostly clearly visible. Her long white hair was braided in two tight plaits on the sides of her head, falling down in such a way that it covered her nipples. A living cliché of Japanese animation! The young elf was sitting on a carved wooden chair with armrests, with crossed legs. Her whole appearance was one of wistful weariness. Except that she did not roll her eyes to the ceiling. In her long and sharp ears, Cyril noticed large earrings of gold, with not small precious stones. And around her neck hung a massive gold chain glittered in the light of the magical lamps. The first unfamiliar elf who had been talking to Cyril's mentor before was explaining something to her half-naked young companion with an angry expression on her face, but the interlocutor clearly did not want to listen to her lectures. At some point she simply waved her away, and the reflection in the mirror disappeared.
T.N. OK Boomer.

She jerked as if she'd been electrocuted, and then slammed her fist on the table in a frenzy, lightning flashing in her eyes. She stared angrily at her reflection for a while, breathing heavily, causing her big tits to rise and fall. Then she turned sharply to the side and a predatory expression. Only at that moment, Cyril noticed someone else in the room besides the elf. This someone turned out to be a young human boy. Quite a handsome young man, looking like a native of somewhere from the Middle East, with dark slightly curly hair and brown eyes. For some reason Cyril had an association with Aladdin from a Disney cartoon. But the latter, as far as he remembered, didn't walk around in just a leather collar.

When the furious elf turned toward him, he jerked, and with an inarticulate sound he tried to run. Judging by the speed at which he sprinted, it wasn't the first time he'd done it. But on his way to the door he was intercepted and stopped by a single kick. A very powerful and measured kick that threw him right back onto the bed. The elfess, grinning gloatingly, which made her beautiful face acquire a particularly frightening expression, threw off her robe with one movement of her shoulders, leaving her completely naked. To Cyril's annoyance, he watched her from behind, so he could not fully appreciate the naked luxurious elven tits. But he could see the firm buttocks of the firstborn in all their glory, and he was ready to give them a solid “A”.

With a snap of her fingers, she held out her hand, and a polished strap-on made of some dark material flew from the bedside table. Strapping it on with leather straps, the elfess made her way to the bed where the unfortunate young man lay writhing. The blow he had received had not been a pleasant, and it seemed to have been partially reinforced by magic. She reached the edge of the bed and grabbed the young man's legs, pulling him toward her and rolling him over onto his stomach. Piling the wheezing boy on top of her, the elven woman with a gloating face drove the lady savior into his anus in one well-honed motion. She wrapped her arms around the wheezing boy's neck and clutched at his hair and began to move her hips vigorously, fucking her helpless victim.

However, the more Cyril watched this scene, the more he had doubts about the status of “victim”. The elf was very diligently pressing her big tits against his back, piling on top of him. Literally rubbing them against him. And the way she was biting his neck, leaving noticeable hickeys.....

Cyril's thoughts were interrupted by a shrill cry that came from somewhere behind him:

"WHY IS HE AND NOT ME???

Turning around abruptly, the young man saw his peer, quite plump and not the most pleasant-looking, waving his arms shouting angrily at someone. Cyril did not have time to see who he was shouting at, the melody of the music box interrupted his sleep.

* * *

The first week of forced rest and treatment passed surprisingly quickly and unnoticeably. It literally flew by. Every morning Cyril woke up, was examined by Geatral, had breakfast, and then went to study with Diantrel in the next room. There his mentor read him various lectures on Beriadon, concerning geography, history, and the political situation. It was very interesting and entertaining, and also once again convinced him of how lucky he was that he was with the elves. Because in other places Cyril could have been very hard! For strangers without family and tribe are not loved and warmly welcomed in many places. And if they do, this love has very specific forms, gravitating towards hard BDSM practices.

In some places, a vagrant without a clan or tribe would be caught at once, without further ado, and then sold into slavery. And the poor man would be lucky if he was put to work and not put on the altar of sacrifice, which was quite common. Somewhere, especially in remote rural areas, a vagrant could try to be killed on the spot, because there was nothing to go around by murky personalities, from whom a priori honest peasants would only get into trouble. Of course, it was not so bad everywhere, there were places where the law of hospitality was respected. For example, in the northern state of religious fanatics who worshipped the sun deity, no one would kill a vagrant, even if he were the worst beggar, immediately and on the spot. He would even be fed, washed, changed and given a bunk to start with, and then a separate room. But only if he agreed to accept their faith. Either a cross, I mean, sunshine around his neck, or go back where you came from. It's simple, it's tough, but it's fair enough. In general, if Cyril had not fallen into Master's captivity, but had found himself somewhere in the middle of a dense forest and gone out to some people, he would have had a serious chance of getting into trouble.

Especially if he went to people who hadn't gained strength and experience, and hadn't mastered his powers. And even if he had gotten to about half of his current level, he could still get into trouble very easily. Simply because a gifted loner without a patron is a tidbit for a lot of people. Though, as Diantrel had honestly told him, even with the knowledge and skills he'd gotten just by choosing a class, Cyril could get a job in almost any normal village, and on a full board. And most likely, he would immediately acquire the status of the first guy. Because even a gifted person of the level of a simple apprentice for the average village peasant was a huge help in the household. In Beriadon, gifted specialists were very valued, because magic was almost the basis of local civilization, which Diantrel explained to Cyril in detail and clearly.

And she did it after he tried to cosplay the progressors in the second class. Well, after all, is he an isekai or what? True, he doesn't have a drawing of a Kalashnikov assault rifle in his head, and he doesn't have a smartphone with Internet access, but still, his knowledge should be of some use, right? It turned out not much. More precisely, from the general knowledge of the inhabitant of the Earth of the twenty-first century, there was practically no use. Because Beriadon, though it had at first glance a lot in common with Cyril's native Earth, was a different world. Or rather DIFFERENT. Here magic in one form or another played the first fiddle in everything. The mentor, apparently expecting something like this from him, explained to Cyril clearly.

The modest practical knowledge he possessed was, to put it bluntly, of very little use here due to the “mago” rather than “techno” development of the world. A railroad, requiring a hell of a lot of valuable metal, is of no use to anyone if every really large city has a large stationary portal. Which can instantly move almost any cargo almost halfway across the continent to another such portal. Yes, the creation of such portals is difficult, long, and expensive, but when it is created, it pays for itself very quickly, the main thing is to properly maintain and customize. The tractor here could easily be replaced by a single adept-level gifted person practicing geomancy. Or two dwarves with shovels. The latter, moreover, was quite a real joke voiced by the mentor. But seriously, in large latifundia of aristocratic landowners there was always a stable demand for such specialists. There was a separate guild of mages in the Confederation specialized in providing such services. A couple of days of preparations and you could plow almost any field with a single area weave.

And so it was with everything. Instead of complex chemical fertilizers, regular prayers to the local goddess of fertility were enough. And one ritual every couple of years, when a couple of young men had to copulate on a plowed field, giving it their fertility. Instead of antibiotics - healing magic, which was so much better than the medicine of the native Earth. There's nothing to say about weapons. The technological chain required to create a single ballistic missile, not even nuclear, but with ordinary explosives, did not pay off in comparison with a well-prepared magic ritual of elemental magic. Even though the effect was quite comparable. Even ordinary artillery was inferior to the effectiveness of siege magic in literally everything. The mentor gently but firmly explained all this to Cyril, thus nipping in the bud his desire to establish an industrial revolution in Beriadon and accelerate technological progress.
T.N.

And not because no one needed it here. Technological progress was well underway here, but it was primarily concerned with the development of magic. The large stationary portals that connected the largest cities of the Confederation had not been invented overnight. However, the development of magic in general, as the mentor noted with noticeable regret, was noticeably slowed down due to the specifics of its study. At least for the representatives of the younger races. For with very rare exception, to which the elves' society belonged in particular, all the extracted knowledge was jealously guarded, saved and passed only from teacher to student, who was, as a rule, a close relative of the teacher, or his heir. The same imposed the strongest imprint on all the societies of the younger races.

In the absolute majority of cases, the entire local aristocracy, or, to put it more broadly, the top of society, consisted in one way or another of the gifted, either from the high priesthood or was closely related to them by blood and family ties. Because even if you are three times Duke of Burgundy, with a pedigree like a poodle and titles on three pages, if you do not have a developed gift for magic, how can you make a gifted master of magic obey you? You don't. Because he can burn a dozen people with a wave of his hand, and you can't.

And this in turn led to the fact that it was a very difficult task to create any large and united state. Cyril had already realized with his own experience what a hard nut a wizard could be, entrenched in a well-prepared position. And he was still judging by himself, a very strong, but still an adept. And if we take an equally strong, but a master of magic in a full-scale tower, and on the source of magic, and with a supply of consumables? What about a Magister? Try to take him down, especially since he would not be alone, but with his apprentices, assistants, and other followers.

And even if there was a strong enough gifted person who was powerful, intelligent, diplomatic and far-sighted enough to unite some large lands under his hand, such kingdoms, as a rule, turned out to be rather loose formations. Because it is almost impossible to order a master of magic, as they said in Beriadon. You can only ask him politely for something. And if there are several magisters, each has his own opinion, backed by a huge magical power, because of which one has to listen to him? Someone of the archmagister level is out of the question. And numerous mutual oaths and treaties did not help much in this regard. Because, as Diantrel had clearly shown Cyril on the example of the Fallen Kingdoms of the North, populated at one time mostly by humans, it was very difficult to force a strong gifted person to a really hard oath. And to make him honor it was even more difficult.

Therefore, even the largest of the Fallen Kingdoms of the North were, in fact, rather loose associations, consisting of individual subjects, concentrated around one or another gifted person, or a small group of them. There was only one exception to this - if a certain gifted person had simply total superiority in terms of magical power over all others. But for that one had to be not even an archmagister, but an archmage. And such personalities were found in the observed history of Beriadon no more often than once in an entire epoch. The mentor told Cyril about the penultimate archmage, who really created the Empire Above Which the Sun Never Set. He united under his hand vast lands, almost the entire inhabited ecumene, defeating all enemies. Diantrel, without much pleasure, but honestly and openly enough admitted that even the Forest had to reckon with his will, regularly sending generous gifts. She also told about the end of the reign of the Emperor, who did not last forever, and about the consequences for the whole of Beriadon.

After hearing the details of that demonic invasion, which was the largest of the recorded ones, and the sauce with which it was served to the locals by the Inferno inhabitants, Cyril couldn't stand it and even asked if they had any red banners with two specific instruments. He received an extremely stern look from Diantrel and a very serious lecture on the subject that the inhabitants of Inferno were not to be trifled with in any way, and especially not to be perceived as a real fight for the good of mortals. The fate of those who supported the Greedy Overlady was far from enviable. Though, and this Diantrel noted with noticeable irritation, her intrusion did have some positive effect. According to his mentor, it was only the threat of Inferno, which had been a constant ever since, that had prevented those in power of the lesser races from slipping into the complete dictatorship of the mages and the high clergy of the gods. Especially in the territory of the revived Empire of the Rising, which managed to recover in time. The new rulers were unable to reassemble all the breakaway lands under a single hand.

In part, the problem of creating a unified and large state could be overcome by the influence of local deities, the presence of which was also a major difference between Beriadon and Cyril's native Earth. In the sense that one or another deity could, if desired, personally incarnate on the mortal earth, or send his messenger, or angel, to solve this or that issue. Or ‘call’ on a dedicated line to his authorised representatives from among mortals. The Northern Theocracy was the most prominent example of this, and the Island Kingdom a little less so. Belief in one particular celestial and his patronage did a pretty good job of holding large territories together.

The more so because in the realities of Beriadon a schism on the subject of how to pray and how to be baptised was a priori impossible, because of the literally direct connection with the chief, who could be asked directly if needed. But here the limitation was that the piglet, i.e. the flock, was small, and there was not enough for all of them. Because of this, most of the celestials held tightly to their territories and kept a watchful eye on their competitors in the dangerous divine business. Although there were exceptions, the most prominent was the local goddess of Fertility, who was prayed to by everyone and everywhere for obvious reasons. But Gaia, aka the Life Giver, aka the Fertile One, aka the Eternal Mother and many other names, defiantly stayed out of politics and didn't choose one chosen nation or race. Instead, she took quantity and constant demand for her services. For, as Diantrel diplomatically put it, everyone and everywhere wants to continue their clan and eat.

All this and much more concerning life and the political organisation of Cyril's new place of residence, his mentor told him during her lectures. And, what was especially pleasant about the experience for these lectures was dripping, little by little, but still dripping. It was still a long way to the next level, but somewhere in the region of a tenth of a week of lectures Cyril received. That could not but be happy, as well as the fact that every day Cyril felt a little bit, just a little bit, but still better. It was not only due to the first-class treatment, but also to the fact that on the second day he couldn't stand it and spent a talent point for the fifteenth level, acquiring the property ‘Regeneration of Subtle Bodies I’

Greed choked him terribly. He wanted to improve his existing knowledge, but even more he wanted to get back into the ranks as soon as possible and start learning magic again. He wanted to start using it again! Cyril didn't even realise how much he was used to his new power and the possibilities it gave him! Creating weaves, including household ones, had become so natural for him that only after losing this opportunity, he realised how painful it was. That's why, with a heavy heart, Cyril still spent on the property that was supposed to speed up his recovery. And it did speed up the process.

The effect was not as impressive as in the case of the mentor's use of the ‘Healing of subtle bodies I’ modifier, but still tangible. Cyril's wounded subtle bodies began to recover a little faster, especially the energy channels. It was not noticeable in one day, or rather not noticeable at all, but by the end of the first week, Geatral noticed that the rate of Cyril's recovery had accelerated a bit. Even though they were already, given the severity of his injury, more than a little faster. decent. The healer continued to feed him every day with decoction of young leaves of the Tree of Life, as well as other healing preparations. So on the cherished day, when, after a week, the modifier of his companion ‘Healing of subtle bodies I’ was restored, Cyril could already go to the bathroom and come back. Yes, he still needed rest afterwards. But now this trip was at least without the risk of having a heart attack or dying right in the latrine. In fact, he would have travelled to the lavatory on his magic chair, but Geatral, having assessed the pace of his recovery, insisted that he should be as physically active as he could, since his health was improving so well.

And so, after breakfast and morning inspection, Diantrel arrived in his room. She had prepared a whole set of amulets and some artefacts, which she used to surround Cyril's bed. The elven healer was going to document her mentor's use of the modifier with some fanatical excitement. When everything was ready, and the subtle bodies of the young man were under observation in all possible spectra of magical vision and the crystals-storage devices were continuously recording images, Geatral gave a command. And Diantrel silently applied the modifier. There were no external effects, but a wave of pleasant invigorating warmth swept through Cyril's body again, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head.

But the practical effect was very noticeable! And if the mutilated heart energy node, where the main blow had hit, remained in the ‘seriously damaged’ state, then the situation with the energy channels coming from it changed dramatically. They were not completely restored, but from the category of ‘seriously damaged’ they could now be safely transferred to the category of ‘in need of scheduled repair’. In the sense that now the slightest tension of thin bodies did not threaten them with additional damage. All this was told to Cyril by Geatral, who was walking around him in circles with literally burning eyes.

"Tell me, Cirial, how do you feel?"

"I feel great, it was like a hot wave washed over me, it was very pleasant."

"Try to get up and walk around, just very carefully, and tell me what you feel?"

Cyril cautiously fulfilled the healer's request, and to his surprise, he actually managed to walk around the ward. The amulet on his chest did not activate, which had never happened before. At the end, though, the young man felt a slight fatigue and a desire to sit down, which he did. Geatral, who was watching him, spoke softly:

"Amazing. No external influences. No traces of energies or weaves. It all just... restored itself..."

"I agree," Diantrel nodded, "it's really amazing...."

Her mentor didn't have time to finish, and she stopped abruptly at the half-word. Her communication amulet emitted a loud alarming trill, and Diantrel grabbed it in one elusive movement. There was silence in the chamber for nearly a minute, which Cyril's mentor stood motionless with a petrified face. Then she slowly turned to him and spoke slowly:

"News has just arrived from those following Master's trail..."

* * *

A huge field camp was set up on the very border between the two huge underground halls, almost right up to the passageway between them. It was unusually lively by the standards of the Wild Territories of the Underworld. Even more surprising was the composition of those who had organised it. Humans, Dark and Light Elves, Dwarves, Skavens, even some Orcs, Halflings and Beastfolks. The banners of the Bright Paladins, the Underworld Forest Guard Corps, several powerful Dark Elven Houses, a couple of equally powerful Dark Dwarf clans, and a couple of small but very toothy Adventurer's Guild squads stood out clearly.

The banner of a large group of Oath Keeper paladins stood out. Without it, it would have been impossible to bring together such a motley group. Or rather, it was possible, but it was very unlikely to organise its work in such a way that everyone did not kill each other because of the constant expectation of a stab in the back or other meanness. But even multi-stage mutual oaths, given by the leaders of all the participants of the chase on the altars of Damokar did not give a hundred per cent guarantees, because of which the atmosphere in the camp was very tense and nervous. And not only because of the composition of the participants but also because of who was being hunted. Which was close to success.

The purpose for which such a crowd of people of different races and beliefs had gathered together was very close. It was literally in the neighbouring hall, all the entrances and exits were already securely blocked by auxiliary troops coming to it from all sides. And right now, in the centre of the main camp, there was a meeting that promised to be very tense. Nearly two dozen leaders of the various factions involved in the chase with their assistants were sitting at a wide table on which was spread a rather detailed map of this section of the Underworld. In front of them stood a trio of skaven, dressed in camouflage clothes, not bad even by the standards of the dark elves (and by the standards of the ratfolk magnificent), who had just returned from a reconnaissance. When the last of the meeting's participants arrived, the leader of the Bright Paladins gave a short order:

"Report."

The voice of a tall man with a short lock of dark, greyish hair, two weeks' stubble, and sunlit eyes was harsh and stern. The same light rippled across his armour and the sword in its scabbard hanging from his belt. Behind him stood a pair of white and gold-clad High Priests of the Sunface, leaning on staffs adorned with stylised solar discs. The brightness of these figures was striking against the eternal gloom of the Underworld. Especially to the locals.

The trio of skaven scouts stood at attention in front of the assembled leaders, and their senior, bowing his head respectfully, spoke, surprisingly cleanly and correctly:

They've taken up a position in the ruins adjacent to the far side wall of the hall. They were very well fortified and entrenched, the entire hall covered in signalling devices, and most of the creatures had been slaughtered. The ruins themselves are covered with magic in an incomprehensible number of layers. We can't get close enough to see anything. Their head tailcracker keeps an eye on the whole area, especially the entrances and exits. We just wandered in and he spotted us almost immediately. Only thanks to your amulets and prayers we got away, or he'd have tied our tails in knots. If we go in there, it's only by digging a new hole, preferably quietly. But it won't be quick, and who knows what he'll dig up in the meantime.

The dark elf, with a luxurious waterfall of silver hair and bright red eyes, squinted uncomfortably as she listened attentively to the skaven's report. She wore only a silver undergarment of thin ribbons that barely covered her, and a net of fine silk cords as silvery as the fabric of the undergarment. This net completely entangled the entire body of the subterranean elf, like a spider's web, contrasting vividly with the dark smooth skin. If you looked closely, it seemed as if the web was continuously slipping and flowing over her body. Or maybe it was, considering that the elf was the eldest daughter of the Silk Spiderwoman herself. In a haughty voice, she asked demandingly:

"What ruins exactly did he occupy?"

Startled by the dark one's voice and gaze, the older rat immediately pointed out the correct location on the map with his claw:

"These ones. Almost in the very center of the hall, there is a good view from there..."

The eldest daughter of Cialana, without listening to the skaven, turned to see her kin standing just behind her, gathered around a separate table littered with maps, scrolls, and storage crystals with imprinted images.

"Archivist?"

The dark elf, in a black robe embroidered with silver, checking some scroll, immediately mouthed:

"At the indicated location, according to our House's hunter archives, there was an outpost belonging to the House of... Cialash."

His words were echoed by another dark elf also dressed in a black robe embroidered not in silver but in bright scarlet thread.

"There must have been a source of magic and extensive basement rooms, it's quite possible that they survived..."

"It doesn't matter," the leader of the Bright Paladins interrupted them.

"The important thing is that he's there. We've got him cornered and we've cut off all escape routes. He can't escape. Which means we need to launch an attack."

His words did not meet with universal approval. The dark elf, with short hair of an unusual bright red color and the same red eyes, curled his lips haughtily. He was dressed in a variant of the Dungeon Hunter's costume, only it was not the traditional gray, but black and red. The red was predominant. He didn't have the usual Hunter weapons either. But he had a long dagger on his belt, which was both a magic wand and a tool for sacrifice. Bloody sacrifices, which the middle son of another Spider, not Silk Spider but Bloody Spider, was good at. In a voice full of the standard dark elven arrogance towards the representatives of inferior races, he hissed:

"You have every right, honorable, if you are so eager to be the first to know what this Master has in store for us, I dare not delay you. But I do not intend to sacrifice the blood and lives of House Bloodfallen in a frontal assault on a most dangerous enemy position for your... whims."

Several dark elven women present at the meeting, including Cialana's daughter, cast cold and very unkind glances at him. Receiving exactly the same from the red-haired man and part of his entourage in return. He was the only male among the firstborn inhabitants of the Underworld involved in the discussion. He was not technically the leader of the squad representing House Bloodfallen. Neither was the other dark elf standing just behind him, wearing normal camouflage clothes and bearing the markings of the First Hunter of the House. The High Trapper was the eldest of the group, but she stood behind him, along with the rest of the House Bloodfolen, with a stony face. It was the red-haired son of the First Mage of the House who kept the word. However, the commander of the squad of Bright Paladins didn't care about the internal hierarchy of those who lived in the Eternal Darkness and prayed to it.

In other circumstances, he would not have let the dark elves, famous for their duplicity, meanness and treachery, near him and his companions. And even now, despite the mutual oaths sworn on blood and certified on the altars by the High Priests of the Keeper of Oaths and his paladins, he did not trust them in the slightest, and counted on possible meanness on their part. To be fair, he didn't trust their ground kin, who had also been involved in the raid on the sacrilege, any more. After all, they knew of him trespassing on the....

Gritting his teeth, the leader of the Bright Paladins suppressed the all-consuming rage that had flared up again with an effort of will. Not the time. Not now. But soon...

"I agree with the servants of the Eternal Sun," said a light elf in dark grey armour that looked like the rocks of the Underworld. "We must strike as soon as possible and strike all at once. The more time we lose, the harder it will be, and the greater the risk that he will use his powers, whose limits we do not know."

“I think there’s no need to rush,” the dark dwarf, clad in plate armor, boomed.

His powerful armour of blued steel was a masterpiece of dwarven artifacting. Massive and thick, they were undoubtedly very reliable. But with such a thickness of metal, they should have been impossible to lift, turning the wearer into a sedentary prisoner shackled in a steel coffin. However, a multitude of amulets, either built into them or worn on special mounts, changed all that. They lightened the weight, gave additional magical and physical protection, and granted almost all spectrums of magical vision. And that's not to mention a couple of powerful battle wands attached to the forearms, with interchangeable storage crystals. And several dozens of disposable battle amulets, which, thanks to special weaves embedded in the gloves of the armour, could be thrown at great distances.

It was a fabulously expensive thing that turned the owner into a small but very dangerous combat unit, comparable in survivability and lethality to other full-fledged combat golems. And similar armour, albeit more modest, was worn by all the dwarves participating in the discussion. It was obvious the patriarchs of the dark dwarf clans took their opponent with full seriousness, allocating the best forces.

"He is not going anywhere from us," continued the dwarf commander, "we have him cornered, spatial magic is suppressed from all sides. But he, according to your own words, honourable ones, has been sitting in one place for almost a week. And the footprints we found confirm that. I don't think he'd just run head first with a bunch of grounders and then change his mind. He's obviously up to something. Besides, it's not a good place, we all know what's around here. So I say we take our time and don't take any chances. Cover him like a mole in a dead-end hole, bring in additional forces, and crush him with one powerful blow. A trio of Crushers could be here by tomorrow evening, and they'd roll up any fortifications he might have built in the meantime. Besides, the heavy battle golems wouldn't be afraid of his brainiacs...."

The leader of the dwarves did not have time to finish, because one of the dark elves at the neighbouring table, who was looking through the images of long past centuries imprinted in one of the crystals, suddenly twitched and shouted sharply:

"Damn it! He wants to run away!"

All his colleagues and the leaders of the chase turned sharply to him, and without waiting for a command, he blurted out:

"Those ruins aren't just an outpost! According to our House's intelligence reports from those years, House Cialash may have a secret stationary portal they used for stealthy travelling! There's a chance that after Diyartan's doom, it remained mothballed, then everyone tried to get as far away from it as possible and as soon as possible. And if he prepared properly, he could, in theory....."

Before the archivist finished speaking, the camp was in a frantic commotion and a general assembly was announced. The same thing was happening in the camps of the other squads blocking the other exits from the besieged underground hall. An hour later, the main forces of the pursuers went on the offensive. At the cutting edge of the attack was a squad of Bright Paladins, under the cover of the priests. The armour and weapons of the servants of the Sun-face burned with solar fire, dispelling the darkness of the Underworld and clearly illuminating the path to the intended goal. The same fire, forming a protective barrier around them, was ready to burn out any alien magic.

From the back, they were supported by a group of paladins and priests of Damokar, not so numerous, but also very well armed. On the flanks, the paladin wedge was supported by a squad of dwarves clad in amulet-enhanced armour. They in turn were led by two pairs of medium battle golems. The stone giants walked at a leisurely pace, but they didn't need to be fast. Each carried four heavy battle wands and projected powerful defence barriers around themselves and others. Behind them, under the cover of paladins and dwarves, moved squads of elves, as the most mobile, as well as squads of adventurers hired by them. They also provided magical support.

At first, the offensive progressed smoothly. The squad went inside the hall, formed up, and then moved forward. There were all sorts of telltale markers here. They were easily spotted by joint efforts, but there were no traps like hidden elemental magic-charged weaves and seals. The problems began when the group reached about the middle of the hall, and the ruins occupied by the expedition captured by Master became clearly visible. Over the past few days, they had been turned into quite tolerable field fortifications, dismantled some of the walls and reinforced them with protective barriers, enchantments, and illusions. From these fortifications the advancing forces were being hit with everything the defenders had.

And they have a lot of things! First of all, various battle wands of different power levels, including heavy ones, which could be used as stationary weapons. They were used without sparing reserves and without regard to overloading. A hail of fireballs, ice arrows, magical arrows, lightning and stones struck the advancing Bright Paladins. But all this barrage crashed into the barrier of sunlight that flashed in front of the advancing Paladins. A monstrous rumbling and crackling filled the underground hall, but all that attacking magic couldn't sap the defence by even a fifth. Those sent on the trail of Masters were too strong.

The commander of the Bright Paladins, who was not in the front ranks, but a little behind, assessing the situation, on the communication amulet gave a command to the general network of those leading the attack:

//"Be careful, this could be a distraction before a mental attack!"

Almost immediately a response came from the commander of the ground elves:

//"We are watching, so far we have not observed any mental activity in our direction. We continue to move! We are preparing a joint response according to the plan..."

//"Good!"

With their ranks tightly closed and heavy shields supporting the common barrier, the composite squad moved forward, ignoring the hail of magical projectiles hitting them. Trapped in the ruins, spared neither their strength nor their wands and amulets, using up their resources to the full. This could not escape the attackers.

//“They won't last long like this! Even if they power them directly from the source and change the storage crystals, pretty soon they'll just have all the wands burned out!”

//“So he's trying to buy time! He's trying to escape, the bastard! Strike and advance!”

//“Do you see the target? I repeat, did anyone spot him?”

//“I can't see the target, we need to break through the fortifications defense first, it's covered by a dense barrier”

//“No mental activity in our direction! Keep watching! Followers, check the rear! Reserves stand by!”

//“I don't like it, why is he quiet?”

//"Everything is ready, let's attack!"

A rumbling noise shook the Underworld, unaccustomed to such a monstrous noise, as the combined and prepared strike of the mages, dwarven battle golems, and priests of the gods in the rear fell upon the desperately firing fortifications. Very good, but still not long-term defences could not withstand such a power, capable of levelling other ordinary fortresses to the ground. In any case, most of the defences were destroyed. A deafening rumble shook the underground hall, shards of stone splattered in all directions, a cloud of dust and smoke rose, fires broke out somewhere. The magical barrier that covered the defence positions with a dome shattered into small pieces, as well as the crystals that supported it. Some of the individual segments of the defence that covered certain positions survived, but were also on the verge of overloading. The rest ceased to be, often along with the positions they were covering.

The flow of magic shells had almost completely stopped. There were only a few positions from where the fire was coming from, but they could not even theoretically damage the attackers. The ruins were almost immediately covered by a cloud of cleansing magic prepared in advance. It deposited most of the dust and smoke, revealing the surviving pockets of defense of Master's puppets. They were almost immediately suppressed with targeted and concentrated fire, quickly knocked out one by one. With the fall of the protective barrier, it became much easier for the scouts, who managed to get very close to the defenders under the cover of the main forces. Using their scanning amulets, they began to probe the ruins, opening up the remaining layers of defences. Their reports began to flow one by one into the attackers' network:

//"The surviving defenders retreat to the center of the ruins, to the second line of defense!"

//‘There's another layer of defence, covering the entrance to the basement area!’

//‘I see several barriers, set overlapping each other...’

\\‘The defences of the central area are virtually intact, we need another concentrated strike, I'm giving the targeting order!’

//‘’Careful, the enemy is regrouping! There's no panic, they're acting coherently, there's a high probability of general mental control...’

\\‘Confirmed! I can see the control threads of the control weaves! Illuminate!’

//‘Puppets are tied to gifted commanders! Trace where the control lines go from them...’

‘There is a purpose! I repeat, there is a target! The basement near the source! I'm giving the targeting order!’

//"Here he is! All the control strings are directed to him, it's definitely him..."

//"I see spatial magic activity! The level is weak... Stop it. The level is strong, and they are trying to hide it!"

//‘Fixing the beginning of the portal formation!’

After that, reports and commands poured in in a continuous stream:

//"Supression! Fast!"

//"Impossible, the protection is too dense!"

//“Strike for suppression! Shell his position!”

//“Assault squads go, go, go!”

//“The gifted puppets have gone into afterburner state! They're burning themselves out!”

//“Hold the defense! Forward, cover!”

//Heavy fire, we need suppression!”

//"They are sacrificing ordinary puppets! I am highlighting the position of the altar!"

The Bright Paladins marching in monolithic formation, adjusted their weapons and rushed forward, ignoring the increased fire. Some were knocked out of the ranks, but those who fell in the front row were immediately replaced by their comrades in the second ranks, and the wounded were dragged back. The dwarf squads supporting them were not far behind, though one battle golem was knocked out of action, reduced to a splintered heap of stone and melted metal, sparking with fire and lightning. Another, though still walking, had lost one of its combat limbs and about half of its reserve.

The distance between the defending and advancing forces was rapidly closing, and one position after another was being knocked out with targeted blows, despite the desperate resistance. The ruins of the buildings, which were already in a deplorable state, were for the most part simply levelled to the floor of the stone hall or ground to dust. Only the central part, adjacent to the side wall of the hall, where the defenders had built the main fortification that covered the entrance to the basement. The very part where the source and....

//“The portal is stabilizing, he's trying to break through the blockade!”

//"Don't let him escape!!! Suppression! SUPPRESSION!!!"

||"Hit with everything you have..."

UUUUUURRRRR!!!

A muffled and prolonged murmur came from somewhere below through the endless thickness of stone. Somewhere from the depths that lay Beneath the Underworld. It overpowered even the noise of the desperate battle, and could be heard, probably, in all the nearest underground halls. For a moment, it made the attackers freeze in place. All of them at once. For a moment. And then...

//"‘Retreat! Retreat! Everybody back!’"

//‘Halt! Hold positions! Suppression!’

*DOOOM!*

The deafening thud made the entire underground hall shudder for a moment, and panic broke out among the advancing ranks. The scavengers were the first to rush away at the first roar. They rushed to the nearest exits without paying attention to anything. When there was a deafening bang, which came from somewhere below and from the thickness of the stone wall, separating the underground hall from the one where the dead city was, they were joined by some of the elves, both dark and light. Especially those that got too close to the ruins, scouting. And then...

//‘Diyartan's Terror! We've woken him up! Run!’

//"Stop panicking! Close ranks!"

/"Retreat, everyone, retreat!"

//"Stay! Hold suppression! Fight, you worthless cowards!"

//"We need to leave while we can, it's a trap!!!"

*DOOOM!*

Another thud made the underground hall shudder, rock fragments and a few stalactites fell from the ceilings. Panic among Master's pursuers was already evident, and most of the firstborn and those in the second line rushed after the skaven and some elves. Although some of the retreating elves still maintained relative order, and it was a retreat, not a flight. The commander of the Bright Paladins and his fellow Oath Keeper paladins tried to restore order, but to no avail. And then...

//"Close ranks! Stop panicking! Raise your shields! Strike at his lair, don't let him escape!"

//"It's too late! We have to leave!"

//"Nooo! Hold suppression!"

//"Run!!!"

//"Stop panicking! Everyone gather together! Hold your shields!"

DOOOOM!

With a deafening roar, the wall of the underground hall, where the ruins adjoined it, shattered into huge chunks, splattering in all directions like grains of sand. The rumble was immediately followed by an even more deafening roar, and the ruins, along with the surviving defenders, were engulfed in a swirling darkness and flames that reached almost to the middle of the underground hall in height. By now most of Master's pursuers were running for the exits. They had seemed so close, but suddenly they had become infinitely distant. It was impossible to move, for the whole hall was still covered with a blockade suppressing spatial magic. Only the paladin squads and some of the dwarves who had joined them retained order. Relative order was preserved by some elves, mostly light ones. Their dark kin, for the most part, had abruptly realised the infinite value of their own eternal lives, and were now preoccupied solely with saving them. It seemed to many that it was very close, all they had to do was run to the exit, and the Dungeon Hunters could run. But...

DOOOOM!

With a rumble, a clot of purple flame, more like a lump of molten magma, erupted from the centre of the swirling darkness. The joint barrier that covered the paladin squad flashed with blinding light but was not aimed at them. The blob of molten magma arced across the ceiling and struck the wall of the hall above the exit that led to the main camp. Rock and molten rock splattered in all directions, and then part of the wall collapsed, burying the passage and nearly burying the small group of Skaven underneath. The four ratfolk rushed forward with the and squealed and squeaked, missed the death that fell from the ceiling by a fraction of a second. When the ceiling and part of the wall collapsed behind them, nearly crushing the fugitives' tails, cutting them off from the thrice-cursed underground hall, they continued to rush on for several dozen metres until they found themselves in an almost empty camp, where only a small covering party remained, and now panic reigned. The eldest of the group, a not-so-young skaven, collapsed to his knees, feeling his heart racing and his tail trembling. His surviving kin dropped down beside him, feeling no better. One of them grinned, half-crazed, and squeaked:

"Good business, you said, Scheff. It's a good deal, isn't it, Scheff? I don't think I'd ever..."

"Shut up!"

Scaven faltered at the half-word, getting a tail slap from the older one. He jumped up, but Schaeff cut him off with a clawed paw:

"This is our chance... It only happens once in a lifetime..."

"What are you talking about?! We're barely..."

"They are there! We are here! And there is practically no one else here..."

The four ratfolk stared at the almost deserted camp of the squad. A camp with a lot of valuable things left behind. The young skaven who had just been panicking and hysterical looked at the older one with genuine respect and said:

"You're such a rat, Scheff!"

"You bet I am! Let's grab the most valuable things and get out of here!"

Behind them, in the underground hall adjacent to the dead city, a desperate battle was being fought to the death. A battle that the surface and local inhabitants were losing to something that came from even greater depths. The cloud of darkness, impenetrable even by the standards of the Underworld, diluted by flashes of purple flame, swept forward with a deafening roar and rumbling footsteps. It's first targets were the fugitives who panicked and tried to escape. Singles and small groups were swallowed one by one by a cloud of darkness and crimson flames, in which their screams were cut short. The rallying squad of paladins and those who had joined it were ignored for the moment. Nor did it pay any attention to the rays of sunlight hitting it, or the magic charges that the only surviving golem was methodically showering on it.

"Hold formation! Retreat to the far exit! Hold your shields! Gather round! Don't let him get past us! Don't waste energy! Retreat! Hold formation!"

The voice of the leader of the Bright Paladins, amplified by the amulet and a bit of divine powers, was no less powerful than the roar of the monster that came from the depths. And it had its effect! Panic ceased, at least, in the ranks of the paladins and those who had joined them. The squad, putting up their shields in the direction of the enemy, who were killing loners and small groups despite their desperate resistance, slowly but surely began to move towards one of the exits. Almost immediately, the Forest Guard Underground Corps and its reinforcements of Adventurers joined it.

Sheltering in a barrier of sunlight, urged on by the leader of the Bright Paladins who had taken command, the squad retreated to the exit, where one of the auxiliary squads that had helped keep the blockade in place was waiting for them. Which didn't please the one that had come from the depths. With a roar, another huge blob of flame flew out of the swirling darkness, aimed at the wall above the passage. But this time, a barrier of sunlight formed in its path. The barrier did not hold, shattering into small fragments that quickly extinguished, but caused the blob to collapse before it reached its target. Another deafening roar came from the depths of the darkness, and then it sped toward the retreating fugitives. It was echoed by the shrieking of the commander of the Bright Paladins:

"Shields!!!"

The barrier of sunlight that protected the fugitives flared brightly, and what came from the depths struck it with all its might. There was a deafening roar that struck the fugitives' ears, accompanied by a blinding flash and an equally deafening roar. The collision dispelled the clouds of swirling darkness, revealing to the retreating fugitives what lurked beneath. The creature's huge body resembled a dragon in humanoid form, with a pair of huge webbed wings behind its back and a long spiky tail. Only its flesh was shards of black stone, which was covered in flashes of purple flame, and the volcano-like mouth of the horned monster was spewing it out. Furious at its first failure, it rushed forward again, but as the monster took a step, a blinding beam of sunlight struck it in the chest, forcing it backwards with a roar.

Only this time, the roar was not only anger, but pain. And in the retreating ranks, in the very centre of the formation of the Bright Paladins, it was as if a small sun had flared up, illuminating the entire underground hall with its rays. A moment later, it took the shape of a man, with a pair of snow-white wings behind him. With a flap of his wings, the figure soared between the retreating monster and the group of survivors. The underground hall was filled with a powerful and boisterous voice, full of strength and confidence:

"I am the Right Hand of the Bearer of the Eternal Sun! The Keeper of the First of His Rays that Illuminated the Earth!"

Roaring again, the monster spread its wings, reaching almost to the ceiling of the underground hall, and the flashes of its flame became thicker. Their heat reaching the outermost of those retreating, causing the paladins' armor to heat up. But in response, the winged figure also increased its radiance and continued in a voice humming with power:

"The Crimson Flame of the Depths and the Choking Darkness will not help you! There is no of your prey here! Return to the abyss, who did not know the Eternal Light!"

The monster reacted to the words of the Herald of the Solar One, who was hiding under the guise of a mortal among the Bright Paladins, with another deafening roar, and rushed to attack the one who dared to oppose him. In the same instant, a thin spear of purest sunlight appeared in the winged figure's hand. With a flick of snow-white wings, the Herald swiftly darted... Right under the feet of the monster, striking the stone floor of the underground hall, splitting and piercing it. The seemingly monolithic solidity of the Underground began to crumble downwards with a deafening crack, into the depths below. Both the monster who had stepped into the abyss and the Herald of the Sun. A furious roar merged with a desperate scream:

"Run, fools!!!

One infinitely long moment passed. A second. And then the abyss into the unknown depths pierced by the Herald began to widen. One by one, sections of the floor began to collapse into the bottomless depths. And now the survivors of the pursuers all rushed to escape, trying to outrun the death that was following them. But not only did the floor begin to collapse, but the ceiling began to collapse as well! The Underworld had decided to get rid of this subterranean hall, burying with it those who had so badly disturbed the peace of the sunless world. The fleeing fugitives had barely had time to reach the saving passage to the neighbouring hall, where their frightened companions were waiting for them, when the entire underground hall collapsed behind them, burying many of the fallen with them.

* * *
Author's Note:

Phew... 25 FBook pages. Compared to what Avada gives out, it's not funny, but I honestly tried. So!

Kiryusha began his forced rest and treatment, and Master arranged a session of world literature classics for his enemies. Yes, there were no lemons in this chapter again. BUT! In the next chapter Kiryusha and Master will have them, BECAUSE!

Everyone will be sure, about seventy to eighty percent, that Master is done. And that means the two owners of the System will be able to rest and relax a bit. One is undergoing treatment, the other has snatched up an entire underground city for himself, where there are plenty of goodies. And then Kiryusha will receive a message with a certain content. And Master will receive it too. Which will make many people angry. They will really get butthurt. But they will have the most of all.

And Styopa has nothing to do with it, he has nothing to do with it at all, yes-yes-yes.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/585008

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP