Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Глава семнадцатая. Начало долгого пути домой Героя Королевы Эльфов

Chapter Seventeen: The Beginning of the Long Journey Home of the Hero of the Elf Queen

* * *

Cyril would describe his state as twofold. It seemed as if he understood and realized everything that was happening around him. Nothing hurt. He could get up and go to the training ground right now to practice new weaves. But it was worth trying to do something, anything at all - to move his hand, to focus his thoughts on something specific, as everything immediately began to swim in front of his eyes, and his thoughts became confused, fixated, or frankly delusional. Along with this, Cyril would feel nausea coming up to his throat, and his body would start to get chills, which immediately changed to fever, and vice versa. After several such attacks, Cyril tried his best not to do anything. Nothing at all. To lie still and not think about anything as much as he could, so as not to prevent the System from pumping gigabytes of new information into his unhappy head. Or is it measured in terabytes? Or is it even... Oh, man!

The ceiling of the room he was in spun again, and Cyril hastily closed his eyes, trying with all his might to calm down and not think about anything. It didn't work well. At some point, his exhausted consciousness could not stand it, and Cyril fell into a half-dream, which was replaced by a disturbing half-dream. Then he saw his school teacher strictly asking him where his essay on classical Neurat poetry was. Then, instead of Galina Anatolievna, appeared a slightly swarthy, dark-haired, and bearded man in gray armor with a blue stylized griffin. He would hand Cyril a fogged bottle of Coca-Cola and offer him a drink in honor of his successful enrollment, to which the young man would try to explain to the vaguely familiar warrior that he had already enrolled in the institute, and he didn't need to join the Grey Guards.

A couple of times, consciousness returned, and Cyril again saw the ceiling of the stone room and realized that Diantrel and Armina were giving him water to drink and wiping sweat from his forehead. But as soon as his thirst was quenched, he fell back into oblivion. Once he woke up bent over a wide hole in the stone floor that smelled foul. Cyril did not have time to understand what it was because his stomach immediately twisted with a cramp, and the water he had drunk before, mixed with the remains of the ill-fated dinner, gushed out of him. It lasted about a minute, and then someone's caring hands helped him wash his face with cool water and wipe his mouth.

After that, Cyril felt a little better, and even his head was more or less clear. He nodded gratefully to Armina, supporting him, but he immediately regretted it, because the brief second of clarity was gone, his head was dizzy again, and his eyes were blurry. He leaned on his faithful maid's shoulder and walked almost blindly. His sight returned only when he reached the threshold of a familiar room. Cyril realized that most of his unwilling companions were not much better off than he was. The pale green Shinda-Bah sat with his back against the wall, breathing heavily, cradling his wife, curled up in a ball, just as pale and green. In the corner of the room, an unhappy half-breed siren sat on the floor, hugging a large ceramic pot with the edges of the neck slightly chipped. Her face was as green as the Caliphate captain's, and just as Cyril wandered to his seat, she threw up a torrent of murky water. The others looked no better.

The action of detoxicants, neutralizing the effects of taking stimulating alchemy, came to Cyril with unexpectedly clear understanding. Alas, at this realization, the moment of enlightenment ended completely, and the consciousness, which had been receiving system information, swam again. And now Cyril was no more affected than before. If it hadn't been for Armina, he would have definitely collapsed past his improvised bed. Faaaaack. Apparently, the system understood his previous state, and therefore “loaded” the information in a gentle mode. But now, when the young man had mostly got rid of the consequences of the stimulating alchemy, it took him seriously, and his awareness was switched off almost forcibly. The room where Cyril and his unwilling companions were was replaced by complete darkness, which gave way to amazingly vivid, but frankly delirious dreams ...

* * *

A wide street of a partially destroyed, unfamiliar city. From the outside, it looked like a typical provincial post-Soviet city from Cyril's home world. But that was only at first glance. One had to look closer, and the obvious irregularity of the urban landscape became obvious. As if someone had processed it with the help of a neural network. Because, well, the building “SBER-Bang” can not stand right in the middle of the roadway that wraps around it from two sides. And escalators leading to the subway should not start right from the sidewalk. And instead of the red letter “M” that Cyril was used to, there was a poison-green “W”. There were other oddities that caught the eye, like a clothing store with a broken window, in which instead of the usual plastic mannequins stood human skeletons. Suspiciously fresh skeletons, albeit dressed in obviously expensive brand-name clothes, are more likely to fit some Moscow boutique than a provincial town.

And in the middle of the street of this wrong town, next to a large shopping center, which also didn't fit provincial realities, there was a carriage. Or rather, a hybrid of a carriage, a car, a locomotive, a tank, and who knows what else. For some reason, Cyril had a strong feeling that he had seen this, let's call it a carriage, somewhere before. As well as the people standing next to it. About a dozen rather attractive women of various looks, who smelled of powerful magic of various kinds. By Cyril's estimation, each was magister level at the very least. In any case, the weakest of them he would have appreciated more than his mentor. There were several men hustling near them, who were also strong, but it wasn't even funny against the background of the fair sex.

They were busy loading sports bags full of stuff from the mall into the luggage compartment of their transport. In which, too, at a closer look, one could sense the same irregularity as in the rest of the city. But Cyril didn't have time to realize what exactly this irregularity was, except that such a building clearly didn't belong here. Suddenly, a poisonous green disk, created as if from liquid, appeared in the air not far from the strange carriage.

The women surrounding the carriage, whom the young man had definitely seen somewhere before, but it was unclear where, instantly prepared to fight the unknown enemy, taking up defenses around the carriage. On the roof of the carriage, there was a twin large-caliber machine gun, or some kind of twin combat magic wand, which was also aimed at the strange disk. Most of the men rushed under or behind the carriage, dropping their bags with muffled curses. It's unclear who or what they were expecting to see, but it was clearly not the natural small flying saucer that had emerged from the disk. Floating smoothly out of the strange portal-liquid disk, it hovered above the street and was motionless in the air for a few seconds. Then its side door opened, and a few beer bottles spilled out, shattering on the asphalt, and an elderly man in a white coat leaned out of the cabin. His long gray and unruly hair was sticking out in all directions, his face was overgrown with a week's worth of stubble, and bore the stamp of alcohol abuse and a heavy burden. Behind him in the cabin of the flying saucer, several other people were visible. Cyril could see a boy-schoolboy, a pair of twin women, and some strange creature, which appeared to be a bird-type beastman. As he looked around, the gray-haired old man darkened and sighed heavily, emitting a muffled “fuuuuuck...”

Then he turned his attention to the men standing by the carriage. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then the old man opened his mouth and burped loudly and vigorously. Wiping his lips with the sleeve of his robe, he coughed, waved his hand at them, and said:

"Hai."

The women standing by the carriage looked at each other, then one of them, a rather imperious-looking seductive milf, answered warily:

"Good day..."

"Has Night come for you too?"

The women exchanged glances again, after which the older one nodded reservedly. The old man let out a sad sigh and said in a doomed voice:

"Fucuuuk, this is already the seventeenth universe..."

After which, he silently closed the door of his flying saucer and backed up, disappearing into the green portal disk, which immediately collapsed without a trace. For a few seconds, the ladies stood by the carriage in complete silence. Then one of them, a gothic-looking girl, slowly said:

"That wasn't Rick just now, was it?"

* * *

The marble bath, or sauna, or some other such room, combined with a pool, was filled with hot air and steam. Four men were resting in it, three of them sitting on a marble bench against the wall. One was a stout, slanting Asian man of frankly gangster-criminal appearance. He sat with a grim face, with his arms folded across his chest and his legs crossed. To his right sat a big, muscular and black as soot Negro with a short curly hair. He was sitting with his legs spread and legs apart, displaying a large device almost as long as his elbow. To the left of the Asian thug sat, also with his legs spread wide, an even bigger and broader-shouldered orc with green-colored skin. He had a stern face, a lot of scars and an even bigger dick. And the fourth was a centaur, with a horse's body of a horse's wrath, standing in the pool, so that the water reached him about halfway up his horse's side.

Both the Negro and the Orc, who sat on either side of the slanted, obvious criminal, grinned at him and in cheerful voices openly teased the Asian:

"Come on, what's so embarrassing? It's all about skill."

"That's right! Many centuries ago, one goblin sage said: "Size doesn't matter"..."

“Is that Jodl the Little Twig?” grinned the centaur, who also cast mocking glances at the gloomy Asian, “Yes, he was a wise man, though he lived in a remote swamp and ate psyllite grebes like a madman....

"Sorry, I'm a little late..."

At that moment, a naked teenage boy entered the sauna with a towel on his shoulders. Cyril could see him from the back, but the four already steaming were facing him. Against their background, he looked like a seventh-grader next to Iron Arnie in his best years. For a moment, all four of them looked at him, and then they all stared at him at the waist. And their faces, if they were characters from some Japanese anime, would have petrified at that moment, and then cracked. Especially the trio that had been bitching at the gloomy Asian before. The orc's jaw dropped. It was obvious that the world they were used to had just cracked. The Asian, looking at the boy, turned purple and growled:

"Mort, you are fucking nuts!!!"

"Hey?! What are you about?"

* * *

Cyril came to his senses gradually. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was not asleep or delirious, but conscious. After that, he lay motionless for a few more minutes, literally physically feeling how his brain, overheated by the afterload of information, slowly cooled down and began to work normally. Fuuuuuck... What the fuck... Oh... Cyril tried to realize where he was, what he was, or who he was. The memories of the previous night and the wild race across the steppe on carts came back gradually and reluctantly. Every thought was difficult, as if you were riding a bicycle through mud, and at an inappropriate speed. Oh, how much knowledge had the System loaded into his head? It felt like a lot, and in a very short time.

Somehow Cyril was sure it hadn't been more than six to eight hours since they'd escaped those fucking assassins. Which was a hell of a lot less for the amount of information he'd gotten. And it wasn't just knowledge he'd gotten. Oh, well, what the fuck, he was hoping to “unpack” the rewards at home, when he was rescued by the elves, in a quiet environment.... Where to complain? Where's the customer service? Oh... Sighing heavily once more, the young man focused his eyes and looked around cautiously. To his great regret, instead of his own quarters in the Royal Forest Palace, he saw the same stone room where First had brought him and the other fugitives.

Faaaaack... And he had hoped, naive, that the elves would have saved him by the time he came to his senses, and he would wake up in his bed, in the arms of Gata and Armina.... Although the last point could be considered fulfilled. The girl was lying next to Cyril, snuggling up to him from the left side, from the wall, and quietly sniffing. And they were lying on several pillows from the restaurant, which had been transported with them from White Harbor. Wow, and he hadn't noticed that Armina had managed to put them away in the expanded space bags.... Cyril turned his head and looked around, for the first time getting a good look at the place he had gotten to.

It was a medium-sized room with no windows, only a couple of doors made of dark gray wood on opposite walls. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of stone, even though they looked heavy and massive. It looked solid, as if the entire room had been built in a rock formation. It might well have been so, by the way. Or maybe it was just the work of skillful geomancers.

There was no furniture in the room, nothing at all except what the fugitives had brought with them, except for a few very large and plump pots. Two were filled with water, and beside them were several empty wooden mugs, which had come from some unknown source. Another one, located separately in a corner, was covered with a tight lid, and next to it, Cyril could make out a small airborne spirit curling around it, absorbing any odor that came from the pot.

The magic lamp had moved from the floor to the ceiling, but was now barely lit, leaving their shelter in semi-darkness. Most of his unwilling companions were asleep or dozing, as was Armina. The Steppe men had made themselves comfortable on their own cloaks and blankets, taken from the destroyed camp. Shinda-Bah, along with the rest of the Caliphates, the waiter boy, and the half-blood siren, lay, like Cyril and Armina, on the cushions from the restaurant, huddled closely together. In short, almost everyone was asleep or dozing, with the exception of the old shaman and First.

The old orc was sitting on the floor, his wolfskin tucked under him, in one corner of the room. His eyes were closed, his lips were moving silently, and his fingers were fiddling with some kind of rosary or beads shimmering with magical fire. The old man didn't look like much, as if he had aged another year during the night. His necklaces and other shamanic paraphernalia had also diminished in number. It was obvious that he had also worked his ass off during the chase. The elderly orc had lost most of his retinue because Cyril didn't feel anyone even remotely strong around him. It was a relative trifle, which was hard not to notice, even if he didn't listen or look closely.

A trio of spirits, which smelled of wind power, circled the ceiling and, as the young man realized, refreshed and purified the air. Without them, it would have been impossible to breathe here long ago, for there were no windows in their shelter. In addition, the detoxification process had forced many of the fugitives to empty their stomachs, which wouldn't have made the air any fresher either. A few more spirits, as far as Cyril could understand in his state of mind, literally covered all the walls of the room and masked their presence, preventing sounds, smells, or emanations of magic from leaving the shelter. They were aided by a set of cloaking amulets attached to every wall, door, floor, and ceiling. The door that led to the outside appeared to have five amulets attached to it. There were three protective amulets in addition to the masking ones.

First had pulled a small hammock between the walls in the corner of the room, and was lying on it with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed. It might have looked like he was asleep, but he wasn't. In his hands, he was clutching some amulet, and from under his closed eyelids a magical glow was visible. But at the moment, the young man was interested in something else. Just looking at the First, Cyril was momentarily taken aback. Because his mysterious companion turned out to be a dark elf, with a handsome but stern warrior's face and short ash-colored hair. It was clear now why the steppesmen and Shinda-Bah were so wary. Diantrel told Cyril little about her dark kin, but even what she told was enough to realize that their reputation was not the best. And yet quite deserved. Interesting, who is he? He'll have to ask his mentor. Later.

Diantrel was nestled on a cushion from the restaurant by her apprentice's headboard, leaning against the wall, and additionally wrapped in an elven army camouflage cloak that had also inexplicably come from nowhere. The elven woman's eyes were covered, and her enlarged chest was heaving heavily. She, too, was awake and engaged in reserve-restoring meditation. Cyril, thanks to the increased level of communication and the “Chosen One's Mark I”, literally physically felt that his mentor was now much worse than he was. During the fight, Diantrel had worked her ass off several times in a row, restoring her strength with modifiers, which in turn were restored with tokens. Such a thing could not have a positive effect on her mentor's well-being. Listening to her more closely, Cyril, once again dismissing the system messages, mentally cursed. The consequences of serious magical exhaustion are multiplied by the analogs of sprains and strains for the subtle body. Plus, a damaged energy channel in his right arm, which could be considered analogous to a fracture. Well, wait a minute, you guys are gonna pay for this. Especially that red-eyed lady.

With a mental command, Cyril applied the modifier “Healing of Subtle Bodies II”, which Deantrel herself did not use on herself for some reason. Apparently, she was saving it for her student. This thought made Cyril feel warm in his chest for a moment. At the same time, the mentor opened her violet eyes sharply and exhaled when there was no trace of her injuries. The elfess blinked incomprehensibly for a few seconds, then turned and looked down at her apprentice lying beside her. They stared into each other's eyes for a few moments, then Deantrel's face, exhausted by the battle and the chase, warmed, and she smiled and nodded gratefully. Cyril mentally commanded to restore the spent modifiers “Chosen One's Mark I”, “Subtle Body Healing II”, and “Magical Restoration II”. As a result, there was one charge left in the “Restore Companion Modifier” token out of ten. Last.

Cyril's mentor nodded gratefully again and asked him mentally how he was feeling. To which he also mentally replied that he was relatively well. In response to the reproach that he could not resist “unpacking” the awards, Cyril replied with a slight offense that it was the System, he had nothing to do with it! It was the System itself that started giving him the awards! Which, in fact, almost burned his brain. Diantrel was visibly surprised and worried, but when she was sure that Cyril was feeling relatively normal, she asked if she could find out what the Soul Tablet had given Cyril. Cyrill nodded mentally and finally paid attention to the system messages popping out.

First came the messages about the rewards for completing the task. The normal reward, as promised, gave Cyril two limited talent points that could be spent on enhancing existing properties or meta-skills, and upgraded “ developed magic barrier skills” to “advanced magic barrier skills”. That knowledge alone, for good measure, would require at least a couple of hours of quiet time to load properly.

Good Reward gave, as promised, one token and one artifact from the System Auction. And, after reading their descriptions, Cyril fell into a stupor for a while. “Temporary Magic Source 5/5” completely lived up to its name, literally creating a medium-power magic source in the specified location for a period of an hour to two hours. The duration of existence depended on how quickly the amount of energy it created would be absorbed. Cyril estimated that it would be enough to fill six of his current reserves, which, considering the ten in Istok, was not bad at all. But there was a BUT. A little BUT. “Temporary Source of Magic 5/5” was not the full name of the token. Part of the name and description of this token were hidden and visible only to Cyril, as the owner. And the real name sounded like “Temporary Source of Magic, Giving Lust and Passion 5/5”.

The energy of the created source was extremely purified and neutral, so almost any gifted person could replenish their strength with it without any harm. And any test or analysis would confirm this, as it was stated in its description. But what the public part of the token's description did not say was that the energy of the source he created also increased the level of arousal and lust of the one who would absorb it. And as unnoticeable as possible for the latter, so that he would not notice anything strange in the growing desire to have intercourse with someone urgently. Or, if no one is around, to release the tension in manual mode. It was separately stated that the creator of the source would be unconsciously considered the most suitable object for coitus, provided he was available.

Reading the description of the token, Cyril was frankly shocked. Because if to believed the lines of the system message, and there was no reason not to believe it, if someone replenished at least two-thirds of his reserve at once from this source, Cyril would be enough just to suggest to him to step aside for privacy. Or rather, her, because the effect only applied to women. And, it was specified separately, only for women minimally sympathetic to Cyril. So it is worth some sorceress to restore two-thirds of the energy from this source, and she will willingly agree to have sex with Cyril if only asked. And she would not see anything abnormal, unusual, or wrong in it.

The woman who restored the reserve from the source also became temporarily more susceptible to any influence from the one who used the token. In systemic terms, she received a hefty penalty for her resistance, in the most severe cases, not just lowering it to zero, but turning it into a minus. It was also stated separately that for the Companions of the Chosen One of Aurial the Magnificent, the Supreme Guardian of the Balance of Worlds, standing on the Guardian of the Balance of Forces, it was enough to replenish a little more than a third of the reserve from the source created by the token to achieve maximum effect.

However, and this was also noted separately, there were limitations to the source's influence. First and most importantly, as it has already been said, the effect applied only to the beautiful women Cyril liked. On men, the effect did not extend. Sort of... Or... Fucking hell! When Cyril directly clarified this question with the system help, he received a clarification not originally in the description. The source effect did not work on men, except for those who were hermaphrodites/futanari, or had a sufficiently attractive and feminine appearance/shape for Cyril to find them attractive enough. Holy shit.

The second important limitation was that the effect of “normality” on the desire for coitus after restoring the power from the source applied only to the one who had replenished the power from it, but not to others. Simply put, if Cyril were to create such a source now, using a token, and Deantrel restored at least a third of her reserve from it, she would consider it completely normal for her to have sex in the next room. Moreover, even after the sex, she would still consider it as normal, as if it had to be like that, and it was such a trifle that it was not even worth mentioning. But the people around her, who would see it, would inevitably have questions. Well, and another limitation was that the effect did not make the lady who had regained her strength submissive to Cyril, but simply made her want to have sex with him. In the case of Armina or Gata, for example, there would be no problem. With Diantrel, most likely, there would be no problems either. But if a conditional dark elf magister used to dominating in bed, regained her strength from the source, she would have corresponding variants of bed pleasures. She would sit on his face and let him work with his tongue, and say thank you if she would let him relieve his own tension at least in manual mode.

The third limitation was that the source's side effect didn't work in situations where the recuperators were in danger. The third limitation was that the source's side effect didn't work in situations where the recuperator was in danger. And even if you had time to fully spend the energy you recovered from the source, the effect would still work. Moreover, in the case of the delayed variant, it will trigger without warning and absolutely randomly, which is especially fun.

In general, having reread the description of the token several times, Cyril couldn't get rid of the feeling as if someone had added a really useful and necessary system award with a vulgar function. It's like Mona Lisa with a mustache. Or a couple of big boobs. Now it's not clear at all, is it worth using this token? Especially since Cyril couldn't find an answer to the question, “Does the arousal effect extend to him?” - he didn't get an answer. And this silence of the System aroused not the best suspicions. How could he, after restoring his energy, also decide to give himself to the nearest lady? And it's good if it's a lady. So no, fuck him, only as a last resort.

The artifact was a little better in this respect. No, at first glance, it was not bad, one might say excellent. It looked like a small rope of black silk, as thick as a pencil. It was wrapped around his wrist, and from the outside it could be mistaken for a bracelet, although it could be worn in his pocket. But once activated, the artifact came to life, becoming like a snake. Very fast, slithery, stealthy, and capable of extending up to several meters. The artifact had its reserve of energy, but it was possible to infuse it with additional reserve, which increased the efficiency and functionality of the artifact. And it was the functionality that was the main sticking point. As the name makes clear, the Passion Cord was primarily intended to entangle the intended target.

And it did it very effectively: it was possible, having injected a little energy and given a mental command, to simply throw your hand in the direction of the target, and the artifact flew off your wrist with a black snake. A snake that was no worse than the earthly black mamba rushed to its target, and could, for a couple of seconds to wrap around it, completely immobilizing it. Once the victim was securely immobilized, the Passion Cord, like the living, could change its weave and the knots with which it bound the victim. Forcing the victim into a different pose if necessary. And the artifact had a whole sea of binding options, and they became intuitively known to the owner, so Cyril only needed to wish for the desired variant.

The artifact's low visibility in most spectra of magical vision, the ability to overcome a significant part of magical protection up to the level of a master of magic, resistance to this very magic at the same level, the ability to recover from a literal fragment of the original bindings and, the cherry on the cake, not bad suppression of the victim's magic. They would hardly be able to hold a magister, but a master of magic, especially when caught by surprise, would be able to do so. And it would seem that everything is fine, a normal artifact, which will not be superfluous in battle, even if it is not quite suitable for a wizard. It's better suited for a quiet assassin. If it weren't for one thing. A small but.

The artifact only worked on women that Cyril, again, would find attractive enough to sleep with. Or on those women who wanted to harm Cyril. And the stronger the negativity was on the part of the victim towards him, the stronger and tighter the ties became. And it would seem okay, it will do. Here, just on the horizon, appeared one lady, Cyril wanted to shake her neck very firmly. With two hands and preferably to the characteristic crunch. But. BUT! In case of application on a woman aggressively inclined against Cyril, the artifact entangled her and did not let go until aggression was replaced by lust and at least minimal submission to the young man. It was possible to change the shape of the restraints, giving the victim limited mobility, but it was impossible to remove the restraints from her completely. Nor could one do any serious harm, let alone kill the captive. If these conditions were violated, the artifact would turn into a pumpkin. I mean, just an ordinary rope with no magic in it.

That is, Cyril received an artifact, with the help of which it is relatively easy to captivate even a rather strong, gifted opponent. But after that, he either has to “recruit” her, or lose this very artifact. In the case of women who had no negativity towards Cyril, the bindings would remain on them until they experienced orgasm. The direct cause of this would be Cyril's direct actions.

Moreover, the description of the artifact separately stated that the “ Passion Cords” could be fully transferred to the Chosen One's companion Aurial the Magnificent, the Supreme Guardian of the Balance of Worlds, standing on the Guardian of the Balance of Forces. And she will be able to use them, with the same limitations as Cyril. But! In the case of the Companion, it was impossible to wear the wrist bands. Only in the form of a fucking bondage! Which would not only be sure to touch the erogenous zones, but at least twice during the standard twenty-four hours would be in motion, like a snake. And this would continue until the Companion experienced orgasm due to the friction of the ropes. The cherry on the cake was that such a “revival” would happen randomly.

After rereading several times the description of the artifact awaiting confirmation for receipt, the young man mentally asked himself. What. The. Fuck. Just what the fuck! Again, he had a strong feeling that a quite useful artifact for capturing and neutralizing dangerous opponents, which any quiet man would be madly happy to have, had been turned into a toy for a Bondage Fetishist. Seriously, what the fuck?! Cyril didn't get a reply from the System, so he moved on to the next message, not confirming the receipt of the artifact just yet.

He was already reading the description of the ideal reward with a certain fear. And part of that fear was justified, which made Cyril suspect that something was broken in the system. No, there were no problems with characteristic and talent points. A random characteristic point fell into Resistance, raising it to a two, which was not unreasonable. Yes, it wasn't a profile characteristic, but there was probably no class that couldn't use it at all. And, perhaps, in his case, it was good that Power or Source didn't increase; otherwise, Cyril would have been even worse off, because in addition to downloading information, his subtle bodies were also corroded.

But because of the description of the elite token, Cyril naturally froze, rereading its description several times and trying to understand what the fuck happened to his System! He could start praying and trying to reach the Balancing and Magnificent One. ++The “1/1 Role Change Guarantee”, as the name implied, was, as the name implied, a guarantee. A guarantee that if any woman, necessarily at least minimally attractive from Cyril's point of view, managed to subjugate his will and/or mind in any way, the effect of subjugation would wear off on him after a while. Or rather, no, it would not fall off, but would change polarity, as physicists would say, subjugating the mistress to Cyril.

And guaranteed subjugation, bypassing any protection up to the divine level, and at the same time, completely unnoticed by others! The token, as promised, was elite and fully corresponded to its status. In this case, the subjugation will not just change polarity, but also be strengthened! The degree of amplification depended on how strong the subjugation was initially. The spell-subjugation, which was bestowed upon him by that long-eared seductress (Alatrel, I think?), would return to her with this token doubled at best. So the control would be tight enough, but still not absolute.

But if Cyril had been treated by some lady in the same way as the seductress had been treated by Master, then the submission would have increased by almost an order of magnitude, giving him total control over the brainwasher. Any order is law, not subject to discussion! The token only worked once, though. That is, in theory, Cyril could be brainwashed by a conditional adept of Mind Magic, having spent on himself a defense that would work against the archmagister. And the token not only subdued the former mistress, but also strengthened her, endowing her with random additional characteristics and random properties.

But here the proportion was reversed. The stronger the lady was, the less she would get. Summing up the intermediate result, the token guaranteed that, having been under the influence of some brainwashing lady, after some time, Cyrill would get this very lady as his slave, and even stronger slaves. But. BUT!!! Once again, there was one small, the size of Everest, imperceptible, such a BUT!!!

If used, the token also guaranteed that ANY attempt to influence Cyril's mind in order to subjugate him would have an additional chance of success. In fact, according to the description of the token, any lady, starting from the level of adept of Mind Magic, who decided to brainwash him, would get a guaranteed chance of success. Clearly, for an adept, given how Cyril was taken care of by the elves, it would be a one in a hundred chance. Ah, no, not one, but rather five out of a hundred, thanks to the system reference, damn it. Or one in twenty, depending on how you count. But starting with a strong specialist master of magic, the odds became almost one in one. That was taking into account the way Cyril was cared for and protected, which the certificate indicated separately. And already at the Magister of Magic success in an attempt to subdue a young man would be guaranteed. And these chances worked almost at the level of Fate. The guards would turn away at the wrong time, the amulets would malfunction, the inspection would be handled with slackness - something was bound to happen.

All right, then. All right. That, too, was something to live with. But this token guaranteed that Cyril's new mistress would definitely use her new handsome half-elf in the most lewd and vulgar way. It was also guaranteed almost on the level of Fate, even if the lady had not originally planned it, intending to use Cyril for other purposes. Or preferred girls in bed in general. The latter was the worst option, as it practically guaranteed Cyril certain changes in appearance, at least not irreversible. The duration of being in submission could not be less than a month, but not longer than three. During the subjugation, it was guaranteed, again at the level of Fate, that nothing that could endanger his life or health, and nothing really disgusting and unacceptable in terms of bed pleasures would happen to the young man. So no guro, necro, or, God forbid, coprophilia.

It was also guaranteed, again on the level of Fate, that after the token was activated, Cyril would definitely get full freedom and the opportunity to keep it. It was impossible that he would be bewitched by a conditional adept; he re-subordinated her to himself, and he was immediately subordinated again by the adept's superior, some lady of the magister level. However, there was a limitation. After the token was activated, Cyril had no right to harm or kill his failed mistress. He could keep her for himself or sell/gift her to someone else; in the latter case, the same Fate would guarantee the lady's life. A very intimate life, but a life. Killing or seriously harming her in any way is not allowed. In case of violation of these restrictions, the system promised serious sanctions, but did not say what kind. And the cherry on the cake. The use of the token erased any memory of the token and the fact of its use by ALL who knew about it. Not only Cyril, but also those to whom he would tell about it, had any records. Everything was erased.

After rereading the description of this token several times, Cyril almost believed that something was definitely wrong with the System. Either it was broken or, save the Guardian from such a thing, it was the influence of the damn Master. He would definitely like such things! Because what the fuck?! Again, the feeling that to a great, simply wonderful token, to which he would be sincerely happy, naturally added the most vulgar functionality. Well really like tits painted on Mona Lisa! What the fuck?! It's never happened before!?

With a heavy sigh, Cyrill read the next part of the award with bated breath. And his expectations were not deceived. ‘Developed patterns of hypnotic illusions’ was added to “Developed skill in creating illusions”. And the realisation of the new knowledge he had gained, nevertheless, gave rise to suspicions in the young man's soul that Master, to hell with it, might be influencing the System by his mere existence. Because the received knowledge, and at once of a fully developed level, and not the basic one, was, in fact, an illusory analogue of Mind Magic. Dozens of variants of various illusions, designed for one thing only - to influence the brains of those who would see them.

And there were a huge number of variants of influence! There was a banal distraction of attention when the victim was stuck on some picture, not noticing anything around, and then came to his senses, not remembering anything. Some illusions put the person who looked at them into a trance, in which the victim became suggestible and submissive. There were conditionally general-universal illusions that distracted or put the victim into a trance, and there were those that had a very specific effect. To make the victim believe that a specific command had to be obeyed. Make the victim forget what happened in the previous few hours. Just put them to sleep. Put them in a berserk state. The options were many and varied.

Yep... The knowledge was excellent and very useful, though not quite fitting in with, as gamers would say, Cyril's originally intended build. But. But! It's that bloody BUT again!!! Why the hell, among the realised Cyril patterns of illusions that gave him the System, almost half of them had a clearly defined sexual and depraved orientation?! From some illusion woman fell into a state of trance, in which she became completely submissive to any actions of a sexual nature, even if she herself did not take any active part in coitus. Another illusion, on the contrary, after contemplation, ignited in the woman an all-consuming passion, completely eclipsing any rational thinking, replacing it with a single desire. To fuck, fuck and fuck again! No matter with whom or where! I don't care about anything, the main thing is to get laid as soon as possible!

There were some hypnotic illusions that had a long-lasting effect, leaving the victim with a compulsion. If you looked at such an illusion long enough, you would get a trigger in your head, linked to an image, a gesture, a command, or a sound. There were a lot of options, thanks to the ‘developed skill of creating illusions’, which acted as a magnificent soil-basis-foundation for the knowledge granted to Cyril. Even on its own, the knowledge of ‘Advanced Hypnotic Illusion Patterns’ was not ordinary, but in combination with the developed mastery base, it became simply frighteningly effective! Cyril strongly suspected that without it, he wouldn't have been able to access even half of the patterns he had learnt.

Speaking of the latter. Why did he only now realise this option of using the school of illusions? It was obvious and lay literally on the surface, but for some reason, Cyril did not even think of the option of creating illusions that affect the consciousness of the victim. Although it was worth thinking about it purposefully, and immediately came to mind a lot of options and ready-made templates that he already knew and could create before receiving ‘developed patterns of hypnotic illusions’. A few minutes of pondering and tormenting the system reference yielded an unexpected answer.

The reason was that the knowledge he was given wasn't quite up to him. The reason was that the knowledge he had been given was not quite to his liking, because ‘advanced illusion creation’ was a very high level of knowledge, which he obviously had not reached when he received it. That's why some of the knowledge included in it was, in programmers' terms, “archived”, and it had to be either unpacked by self-training or bought separately for talent points. Or get them as rewards for assignments. Hmmm... That's interesting... I'll have to talk to my mentor about it. After all, Diantrel specialises in other schools, illusions are not her profile.... Well, we'll think about it later, when we get home. In the meantime, let's see the scariest thing of all - an elite artefact...

After all the specific awards he had received earlier, let's call it that, Cyril was inwardly prepared that he, too, would turn out to be blatantly vulgar. Some mythical strapon or a legendary anal plug. Therefore, having seen and read the description of the received artifact he was pleasantly surprised and even regained faith in the System. For the elite artifact presented to him was not vulgar at all. On the contrary, it was a really useful artifact for Cyril. Outwardly, the Incarnator resembled a textbook metal ball from a cartoon about children who made various animals fight each other almost to the death for fun. Not red and white, but pure white, divided in half by a black stripe and with a small bright blue faceted crystal in the center. Its functionality was also partially similar to the Pokéballs. Only partially, though.

‘The Incarnator did not release tamed and trained monsters or beasts. It was, in keeping with its name, incarnate. Incarnate what? Any artificial image, in theory, even a child's scribbles. But the artefact worked best of all, tadam, specifically with illusions! Reading its description, Cyril was ready to forgive the System all previous vulgar awards from the first lines, because it was a really mega-cool artefact for him! Because now he could create, for example, an illusion of the same xenomorph. In fact, a simple hologram, just a three-dimensional image of a space monster, the simplest weave. But when he applied the Incarnator, the ordinary image turned into.... No, not into elegant shorts, but into a relatively tangible creature!

The illusion acquired quite tangible weight and density, with them the possibilities of interacting with the material world. For example, to tear off the enemy's head, or to spit acid in his face, if we consider the same xenomorphs. There were a lot of variants of abilities and possibilities which could be embodied. And here, everything directly depended on how detailed the image base was. It is clear that the effectiveness of the embodiment of a child's drawing in the style of stick man is not comparable to a good-quality growth portrait of a knight in lacquered armour by a skilful painter. And if the portrait will be painted on a special canvas made of magically active fabric.... And with special colours made by a master alchemist... And also when painting the picture, there will be a special ritual, designed to put into the portrait additional powers or even ready-made weaves... Oh maaaaay... In theory, properly fiddling, it was possible, for example, to paint a portrait of a mighty fire-breathing dragon, and then... Incarnate into the real world quite a flying, very difficult to kill, well-armoured and fire-breathing lizard.

Of course, the images incarnated by the artefact did not become real or living creatures in the full sense. The closest analogue that came to Cyril's mind was a kind of shadow clone from a famous anime. Very advanced clones. Since the incarnations not only acquired ‘density and weight’, but they were also invested with quite complex and diverse behavioural patterns. So even the most common incarnation of some beast will not be a dumb dummy that must be controlled almost manually. It will be a fully functional unit that will know how to behave in battle.

And if you make a special effort, you can even put an almost full-fledged mind into the created incarnation! The incarnation will be able to think, analyse, and make independent decisions, within the limits of restrictions on obedience to its creator, of course, but still, it's amazing! However, for this you will have to try really hard, just using the artefact will not be enough, ideally you will need at least a full-fledged cast of personality, created by a skilled mentalist. Although it is possible without it, only the artefact will need direct contact with the object, whose personality will become the basis....

However, not every incarnation could be invested with an almost full-fledged mind, but only with the maximum level. For yes, the artifact had serious limitations, the main one being the number of charges. There were exactly three of them. One charge, one incarnation. It was possible to spend two or all three charges at once on the embodiment of one goal, thus increasing its quality. And only in such a three-charged incarnation, it was possible to put a mind mold into it, endowing it with almost full-fledged consciousness.

If we give a very conditional gradation of the levels of incarnations, then it turns out as follows. One charge - and the incarnation in its power will be at the level of an adept, and in terms of consciousness, at the level of a very clever, well-trained dog. Two charges - and the incarnation will be as strong as a weak master of magic, and in terms of consciousness.... If the system reference is to be believed, it turned out to be something like a good golem, with a good command and control matrix. It could issue quite complex commands, but it would not be capable of independent thinking. Three charges - and if you try very hard with the basis for the incarnation, it will be on the level of a Magister of Magic. But this is if you try very hard, and really put a lot of effort into the preparation of the image illusion. Otherwise, it will be an incarnation of the level of a strong master of magic, close to the border of the magister. And in terms of consciousness... If, again, one tried very hard, the incarnation would have an almost full-fledged mind. Moreover, there was an option to make it so that the incarnation would not know that it was an incarnation, but would consider itself a fully living being. One could say hello to ‘Blade Runner’ by Ser Ridley, who has not yet fallen off...

Another limitation of the artefact was the recharge. Each charge took one week to recover. But that was if each of them was used on a separate incarnation. If two or three charges were used on the same target, the recharge time was added up, and the Incarnator became useless for three weeks at once.

The lifetime of incarnations was also a limitation. It was limited by the energy invested in them. A standard Incarnator charge gave each incarnation about an hour. And the standard lifespan of a one-charge and three-charge incarnation was approximately the same. This was because more complex incarnations required more energy to maintain their existence. But in case of any active actions, for example, battles, where this energy would be spent, the lifetime would rapidly decrease. On average, an incarnation would last for about ten to fifteen minutes of active combat. But, and it should be understood, it was active combat. Like the one Diantrel had fought in defence of a steppe camp.

The incarnation could be charged with magical energy, prolonging the time of their existence. It was best if it was the energy of the one who used the artifact. But in theory, any energy with a suitable hue would do. And in the same theory, any incarnation can be maintained for quite a long time. Up to several months. In theory. Because gradually, incarnations will become more and more unstable and more “loosened”. This process can be slowed down by reducing their activity, putting them into the analog of “sleep mode”, but it can't be stopped completely.

And here another limitation of the artifact came into play. As long as the incarnation existed, the artifact charges spent on its creation would NOT be restored. After reading this part of the description, Cyril sighed sadly. He had already thought of making and “preserving” a small army of shadow clones. So, purely as a reserve. What's wrong with having an army of soldiers slumbering in your basement, each of them equal in strength to a strong master of magic? And this is a bummer. S - Sad...

To summarize, Cyril had received a very cool artifact for himself, with a very cool functionality, which had yet to be properly studied. If he had it earlier, the previous night could have gone completely differently. Yeah... If only. Alright, let's not confirm the receipt of the artifact just yet, let's see what else was poured into it first, shall we? Uh-huh.

The additional reward gave Cyril the knowledge of “advanced patterns of creating illusory copies and doppelgangers”. And it, as well as the previous knowledge, was a perfect complement to the already existing “advanced illusion creation skill”. Of course, Cyril had been able to create his own doppelgangers or other people's illusory copies before. But now this knowledge and these skills were additionally “unpacked” and supplemented. And this means that it will be much easier for Cyril to cosplay the half-brother of a worthy fan of swinging the hammer. Moreover, advanced illusionary copies and doppelgangers are not a base, it's really cool! Creating an illusion that is your exact copy - in theory, a savvy apprentice can do it.

But to create a copy that would at least look like a real object in the basic spectra of magical vision, would be able to speak, would pass at least some tests - that was another conversation. In theory, with a base in the form of developed skill, Cyril, if he tried hard and prepared properly, might be able to create an illusion that would deceive even a master of magic. Especially a non-professional one in terms of checks and scans. Well, at least she would have a chance at it. Which, to put it bluntly, is actually pretty cool!

His weakest point now is his lack of Control, so the free stat point will definitely go to it as soon as Cyrill finally comes to his senses. Ideally, it would be better to bring it up to at least an eight, then he won't have to worry so much about the stability of the illusions you create... Oops! That's news...

Blinking in surprise, Cyrill read the lines of the new system message that appeared as soon as he finished sorting out the rewards for the completed assignment.

Attention!

A deed has been accomplished worthy of the Chosen One of Aurial the Magnificent, Supreme Keeper of the Balance of Worlds, Standing Guard of the Balance of Powers!

You were targeted by those infamous in Beriadon as the Dark Brotherhood, the Black Hand, or the Bloody Hand. Not only were you able to fend off their attack, but you broke away from their pursuit at a time when your pursuers were sure they had their prey cornered. You did not let any of those who, willingly or unwillingly, found themselves together with you in this battle, where you had no chance to win.

Receive a reward worthy of this deed!

The Source characteristic has been increased by one unit.

The Control characteristic has been increased by one unit.

Knowledge "Advanced Magic Barrier Creation Skills" has been upgraded to "Master Magic Barrier Creation Skills".

Additional reward from ######:
T.N.

"Advanced Basics of Tantric Energy Restoration Techniques" upgraded to "Developed Basics of Tantric Energy Restoration Techniques"

"Developed Basics of Tantric Energy Restoration Techniques" upgraded to "Advanced Tantric Energy Restoration Techniques"

Cyril didn't have time to realize the message before he finished reading it, but everything swam in front of his eyes again, and inside his unhappy head it was as if everything was squeezed with a vise. His chest felt hot for a moment, which quickly spread throughout his body, but was quickly replaced by a pleasant warmth. But as soon as it happened, the whole body was instantly squeezed from all sides, as if trying to squeeze Cyril into a tiny point, so that it was impossible to even breathe. To the great happiness of the young man, these sensations did not last long, just a few seconds, while the new knowledge was finally “unpacked” and assimilated, and the subtle bodies were changing from the increased characteristics. Ugh... Now that was certainly cool! Another master level knowledge was just awesome and couldn't be more excited, as well as two whole units of characteristics, one of which was the Control he needed.

The difference between advanced and master level knowledge was noticeably greater than that between advanced and developed. It was a natural qualitative leap! In the case of illusion magic, which he got at once and in its entirety, it was not so tangible. But in the case of barriers, which Cyril pumped almost from the first level, the coolness of the increase to the master level was more than tangible. In the young man's head appeared new variants of barriers, methods of their installation, combinations, and, most importantly, their use!

Escaping across the lake had already clearly shown that barriers were not only a defense, but also a very versatile tool if necessary! Cyril mentally whistled as he ran through his newfound masterful knowledge. So many options... In theory, if you think about it and try hard enough, you can use barriers to create almost anything.... Let's say, to shackle yourself in magical lats, consisting of only barriers, and here you have armor, which any earthly knight would be jealous of, and the locals will also bite their elbows. Why just armor? The same bridge? Or a ship? Or a car?!

What about the option of creating a net barrier, which can be used to catch enemies or shred them into cubes, as in the textbook scene from the first Resident Evil? And there is also a variant of thin, but extremely strong and dense barrier over the body, a-la second skin. With this, you can cosplay a fan of wearing red panties over blue tights and so on. However, it should be clarified that this is in terms of impenetrability, not physical strength. For the latter, it would be good to rock the body to a ten. Or better to twenty. Dreams, dreams, dreams.

In any case, even after a quick run through the knowledge forcibly and forcibly put into his head, Cyril felt his inner greed, the faithful companion of any isekai person, making satisfied noises. Wow, so many options, how you can use the barriers that seemed at first only protective tools - it's breathtaking! I'll have to think it over properly. Although Cyril could say something already now, looking at the knowledge granted by the System. It is obvious that from a certain point, any School of Magic begins to become more and more universal. The more you learn a certain direction, the more variants of it you can use. For example, a strong enough mage who has pumped the fire element will probably be able to cure diseases, literally burning out the disease with pinpoint micro-influences at the level of cells or bacteria. And a skillful and strong portalist will not fail in direct combat, giving opponents a very fun life in unstable space, multiplied by the movement of their bodies in parts.

In short, another masterful knowledge is very, very cool, which Cyril is very happy about. But. Here again, for the second time already during the system messages proceedings, this BUT! What is this additional award from some ######? And also such a specific one? Several attempts to get an answer from the system did not lead to anything, and Cyril was forced to switch to the next message, which was already climbing into his eyes.

Attention!

Your connection with Companion Diantrel (teacher/student type) has reached level three!

All restrictions on using the System have been lifted from Companion Diantrel.

The ability "Share the Burden of the Chosen One I" has been increased to level II!

The number of available companions has been increased to 2!

Received one random Companion modifier: "Mind Link I"

Allows the Chosen One and Companion to communicate directly within direct magical line of sight. Facilitates mutual understanding. Cannot be detected. Cannot be blocked by outsiders. Cannot be overheard.

(The modifier will be automatically added to Diantrel's Companion status)

Increased one random Companion modifier: "Mark of the Chosen II"

Allows the Chosen One to accurately understand the location of the Companion within the same world as him. Allows him to transfer up to half of his reserve to the Companion within direct magical visibility without any penalties once every three days. Allows him to significantly weaken or strengthen magical effects affecting the Companion.

(Hidden, visible only to the Chosen One: makes any influence on the Companion easier and allows ignoring part of the protection acting on her)

(Changes will be automatically made to Companion Diantrel's status)

Aha, so that's why mental communication with the mentor is so clear and easy now - thanks to the new modifier, which is not at all unnecessary. But. Once again, it was the three time bloody BUT! After rereading the last lines of the message, Cyril couldn't resist smashing his face with his hand. Mentally, of course. Because what the fuck?! No, there's definitely something wrong with the System! It must be the Master, the fucking asshole, who's affecting it by his very existence. First, these quests, and now the rewards with their lewd and dirty overtones. Yeah. Okay, we'll deal with that later. What else is there?

Attention!

Knowledge of "Advanced Basics of Magic Combat Tactics" has been upgraded to "Advanced Magic Combat Tactics".

Attention!

Knowledge "Developed Basics of Working with Advanced Amulets and Artifacts" upgraded to "Advanced Basics of Working with Advanced Amulets and Artifacts".

Changes have been automatically made to the Player's status.

Oh, not bad, two free upgrades at once is just great! But let's be honest, let's just say, fuck such methods of leveling up, it's better to work hard at the training grounds with a mentor than to run away from fanatic killers in the night steppe. So, what else? Wow, two levels up at once! Wow, he just went to a restaurant!

Attention!

Level 21 reached!

Attention!

Level 22 reached!

Well, well, that's two more talent points and one companion modification point. Interesting what to spend them on... Wait, what else?

Attention!

The knowledge sets "Advanced Illusion Mastery", "Advanced Hypnotic Illusion Templates" and "Advanced Illusion Copies and Doubles Creation Templates" have been expanded, reformatted and combined into one to facilitate further development and work with them.

Attention!

Knowledge: Advanced Mastery of the School of Illusions is highlighted as the root!

Changes have been automatically made to the Player's status.

What?! Oh, no-no-no-no, fuuuuuuck, for fuck's sake..... It seemed that Cyril said the last phrase aloud, before the darkness swallowed the tense mentor and the ceiling of their shelter, which was replaced by vivid, but frankly delirious dreams.

* * *

A huge planet made of metal against the vastness of space... No, not a planet, but a space station... A vaguely familiar station, Cyril had seen it somewhere, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember where and when... What's its name? Wait! Why does it have two giant round satellite dishes on the sides? They're not supposed to be-- They shouldn't be there, Cyril was sure of it! They made the space station look like a-- Reminded him of...

The frame changed, and Cyril found himself inside this huge station, in a giant throne room. There on an equally huge throne sat... something that resembled a humanoid mouse? Yes, it was naturally a humanoid mouse, dressed in an ominous black robe. It was flanked by a dozen guards in bright red futuristic armor and with equally futuristic weapons in their hands. The only thing that stuck out was a pair of round ears attached to the sides of their brutal helmets. In front of the mouse sitting on the throne knelt another mouse.

What mattered was that the bowed one, dressed in fantasy armor completely out of place on a space station, looking up at his throne-seated counterpart from below, squeaked in a subservient voice:

"My lord, I have bad news. We failed to distract them from the object “Red and White”. We went to the extreme of using the object Cross-Eye, which had unintended consequences, but they still won't let up. Your grand plan is in jeopardy, and I humbly request permission to..."

"Under threat? Ho-ho-ho-ho!" The cheerful laughter of the mouse sitting on the throne did not match his sinister appearance at all.

His voice was thin and high, and Cyril was sure he had heard it somewhere. And there was something familiar about the mouse...

"No, Darth Schefus, ho-ho-ho! Everything is going exactly as I planned and foresaw, ho-ho! Soon my plan will come true, ho-ho!"

"But my Lord, they are..."

"It doesn't matter, ho-ho-ho! Keep up the good work. Soon... Very soon, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!"

The thin, high-pitched laughter of the mouse in black echoed throughout the dead station... Wait, why is it dead? Why...

* * *

When consciousness more or less returned to normal, Cyril cautiously opened his eyes. When he focused his blurry gaze, he saw the stone ceiling of their Underworld hideout above him again. Shit. Eh. So they still hadn't been rescued by the elven valiant warriors. Sad.

"Sir? Honorable Diantrel, Sir Cirial has awakened!"

When he opened his eyes fully, the young man saw Armina leaning over him, her face visibly relieved. A moment later, Diantrel was beside her. The elven woman looked noticeably better. This was also felt through her connection with Cyril. Her face was visibly relieved, as was the young man's maid.

"Cirial, can you hear me? How are you feeling?"

"Yes, I hear. I feel... sort of normal... Now..."

Cyril stretched and sat up. His limbs were numb, but otherwise, he actually felt relatively normal; his reserve was almost completely restored, and his head seemed to be clearer. At least, there was no steam coming out of his ears, and his brain wasn't in danger of melting down because he'd been force-fed too much knowledge in too short a time. Ugh...

"Right now. Here, drink this, you'll feel better."

The mentor immediately and carefully handed Cyrill a flask of water. Only after taking it in his hands did Cyrill realize how thirsty he was. The water was cool and had a strange taste. There were also traces of magical energy in it... It seemed to be of the earth type... Yes, definitely earth! After taking a series of greedy sips, the young man looked around.

The atmosphere in their shelter had changed perceptibly. His unwilling companions seemed to have come to their senses much earlier than Cyril. They sat in a semicircle on the floor, sitting on cushions from the restaurant or rolled-up blankets and cloaks, eating small flatbreads. Another portion was just warming up, churning quietly, on a wide flat ceramic dish that stood directly on the stone floor and was painted with beautiful wavy patterns. It was clearly the abode of a small fire spirit, which allowed the food to be heated on this dish without any fire. He is sure the temperature could be regulated.

The fugitives didn't look their best, which was not surprising after what they'd been through, but they weren't dying. The half-blood siren, the boy waiter, and Shinda-Baha's wife were the worst off, judging by their appearance. The former, who had changed into an outfit that had clearly been borrowed from one of the steppe women, sat on a cushion with her legs tucked under her and drank small, greedy gulps of something that smelled of herbs from a wooden cup (where did they come from?). She looked pale even in the light of the magical lamps, which had been added to the ceiling, and there were bags under her eyes. The boy-waiter, who sat close to her, was also pale and wrapped himself in a blanket borrowed from the steppes, despite the fact that the shelter was not cool. A withdrawal from the stimulating alchemy, Cyril realised.

Shalakh-Ana looked a little better against their background, but one look at the ship's sorceress was enough to realise that she was not well. She was sitting on the cushion next to her husband, snuggling up to him, wrapping her arms around his knees, and burying her face in them. The knowledge bestowed by the System, as well as Diantrel's lessons, suggested that it was the effects of losing contact with the ship. During the holiday in the Azure Bay, the elven woman had once mentioned in one of her lectures that gifted people who had tied their lives to ships were very painful when they were away from them for long periods of time. Not to mention the complete severance of ties with the ship, especially if they had invested in it not just a part of their strength, but literally a part of themselves.

The rest of Cyril's unwilling companions looked much more cheerful against their background. The steppe people, especially the young ones, were eating their flatbread and talking quietly among themselves and with Shinda-Bah, who, as it turned out, spoke the steppe language quite well. They drank their food with some smoky drink, which they had brewed in one of the local pots, probably with the help of some amulets or spirits. It was impossible to make a proper fire here. The only ones who didn't take part in the meal or conversation were First and the orc shaman. The latter was still sitting in the corner, separated from the others, on his wolfskin. But now there were four small ceramic bowls in front of him, one containing water, a handful of earth in the second, a couple of embers smoldering in the third, and a mist swirling in the fourth. Crossing his legs and placing his hands on his knees, the old man silently moved his lips with his eyes closed. Without even using magic vision, Cyril recognized the silhouettes of several spirits circling in front of him, with whom he was having a conversation.

First continued to lie in his hammock, clutching his amulet, his eyes closed, but the light of magical fire shone beneath his lowered eyelids. It was clear that the dark elf was not asleep, but busy with something. And, judging by the weaves that Cyril could distinguish around the amulet in his hands, he was busy watching the surrounding area through the tracking amulets.

But as soon as the fugitives noticed Cyril's awakening, everyone, including the First and the old shaman who had opened their eyes, looked at him. Their expressions varied, but for the most part, they were visibly relieved. It wasn't hard to guess why. Whatever the Steppe and Caliphates had thought about him, both of them came to the conclusion that the young half-elf was obviously VERY special, if the real elves were taking care of him in such a way. And most likely, they, without even colluding, concluded that if he died, it would be sad for everyone involved. Quite possibly very sad. Turning to Diantrel, Cyril asked quietly:

"How long was I unconscious?"

"About four hours. We were starting to worry that creating the barrier bridge had exhausted you too much," the elf replied.

Thanks to the new modifier and the increased level of communication, Cyrill easily understood the message of the mentor - after all, it was bad idea to explain to their involuntary companions the true reason for the young man's weakness.

"I see... Any news?"

"There is news," First answered Снrill in a sad voice instead of the mentor, "And unfortunately, it is not the most joyful. Our valiant saviors from the Forest Guard are delayed and will not arrive earlier than in six or seven hours. At best."

"What? But why?!" Cyrill couldn't hide his surprise.

"Because," First's voice had noticeable notes of sarcasm and weariness, "we are in the Underworld. It is not so easy to get here, and the portal cannot be opened, especially from the surface."

"But surely the Forest can send reinforcements to the nearest entrance by portal?" the young man suggested.

"That's what was done," Diantrel nodded with a grim face, "but it's just the way it is. Entrances to the Underworld aren't very common. Not to mention that not all of them are known to the Forest, although the Forest Guard's intelligence is constantly searching for them and tracking them as best they can. The one we used, we destroyed, escaping from pursuit."

"And unfortunately,” said First, ”it was the only safe entrance to the Underground we knew of nearby. All the others either led directly through the ruins of Kardaroth and were deadly, or were too far away and led to other underground halls, from which ours could only be reached by a long detour. But that was half the trouble."

The dark elf jumped from his hammock with one deft movement and looked at Kirill and his mentor with a gloomy face:

"When the hastily transported reinforcements from the Forest reached the nearest suitable entrance to the Underworld, they discovered that it had also been destroyed. Moreover, it had been destroyed very recently and with a guarantee."

For a second, Cyrill realized what he had heard, and then he said the doomed:

"Fuuuuck... You mean to tell me they haven't calmed down?!"

First smiled sadly and nodded:

"It looks very much like that."

"So what should we do?!""

"Now that's a good question."

Folding his arms across his chest, First demonstratively looked at their involuntary companions, who were attentively listening to his conversation with Cyrill:

"If it were up to me, I would have left here long ago and tried to find a new hideout in the Neutral Territories, where I could wait for help. But alas, with such a large crowd, we would inevitably leave a trail and be guaranteed to attract the attention of the current inhabitants of the dead dwarven city. And perhaps even more than that. Which will not end well for us. So the honourable Diantrel insisted that we all stay here and just disguise our hiding place better."

“And would it be a joy for you to leave us here, like an unnecessary burden, born in eternal darkness?” the elderly orc shaman said gloomily in old Confederate from his place.

His yellow eyes, sparkling with magical fire, looked straight at First, and his face was very gloomy. As, incidentally, did the other fugitives, especially the steppe dwellers. Both the Orcs and the Humans also looked at the dark elf with far from kind eyes. No one showed open malice, but there was enough fear and mistrust. He withstood their gazes absolutely calmly and answered in a slightly mocking voice:

"What pleases me, honorable Guur'Aar, is of no consequence whatsoever. I have a primary purpose: to protect those whose lives have been entrusted to me. And I will do whatever it takes to fulfill it. And before any of you,” First looked coldly at all of their unwilling companions, ”reproach me for anything, realize a simple thing. I could easily have left, taking those whose lives were entrusted to me, as soon as we descended to my homeland, which has never known the light of the sun. But I didn't. Instead, I brought you to this sanctuary. All of you. And while you lay exhausted, exhausted from the chase, I did not rest. I scouted, set up protection and camouflage, and kept you safe, keeping an eye on what was happening outside."

When he finished speaking, First once again looked around the crowd with a cold gaze. Their unwilling companions turned visibly darker, especially the old shaman, but no one said anything. Diantrel took the floor instead, rising to her feet. Throwing an expressive glance at her dark kin, the elfess said in a much calmer voice:

"I'm sure everyone here is very grateful to you for that, First. And I also assure you, honourable Guur'Aar, and your kin, on behalf of the Forest, that your help to us will not be forgotten or left unrewarded and unappreciated. In addition to compensation for all you have lost because fate has brought us to your hearth..."

While the mentor was settling the conflict, Cyrill, having settled himself more comfortably, closed his eyes and mentally whispered the cherished: "Status". So, what do we have there?

Name: Cyrill

Level: 22

Class: Wizard

Characteristics: (free) 1; (limited) 0

Talents (free):2 (limited): 4

Companion Modification Points (1)

Constitution: 2

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 10

Control: 6

Source: 11

Spirit: 1

Resistance: 2

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written: Classical Elvish, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy;

General knowledge:

‘Advanced management and control of internal energies’, “developed skills of working with external energy sources”, “master skills of creating magical barriers”, “developed skills of creating magical weaves”, “advanced basics of techniques of magical dueling with battle wands”, “developed tantric techniques of energy recovery”, ‘advanced basics of creating and using ritual circles’, “advanced basics of tactics of magical combat”, “advanced basics of working with advanced amulets and artefacts”, “advanced methods of magical search”, “developed general weaving of elemental magic”, “developed methods of magical disguise”, “basic skills of working under water”.

Core/root knowledge:

Developed Mastery of the School of Illusion:

Creation and maintenance of point, small, medium and large territorial illusions.

Creation and maintenance of static, dynamic and adaptive illusions of all types.

Creation and maintenance of illusory doubles/clones/copies.

Creation and maintenance of complex illusions of a wide profile.

Creation and maintenance of complex illusions of a wide profile.

Thickening and saturation of created illusions.

Minor Knowledge:

"Protective Field (Elite)"

Acquired properties:

‘Blessing of Harmonious Magical Development’, “Strengthening of Subtle Bodies II”, “Regeneration of Subtle Bodies II”, “Magic in Blood (Elite)”, “Enhanced Magic”(Power 10), “Source of Magic”(Source 10)

System modifiers:

‘System Assignment III’, ‘Intensive Development III’, ‘Access to System Purchases III’

Tokens:

Companion Modifier Restore 1/10, Companion Enhancement 9/10, Awesome Melons 81/100, "French Kiss 25/25", "Naughty Tongue 3/3", "Temporary Magic Source (Granting Lust and Passion) 4/5", "Role Change Guarantee 1/1"

Special:

Chosen by Aurial the Magnificent, Supreme Keeper of the Balance of Worlds, Standing Guard of the Balance of Powers: hidden effects.

Active Ability: "Share the Burden of the Chosen One II"

Available number of activations: 1 (recharge 1 standard month).

Available number of companions: 2

Of course, the first thing that caught his eye was the noticeably changed description of the topmost knowledge in Cyril's arsenal, which had become a core/root knowledge. And which, he suspected, was still “big” to him. Though no longer as much as it had been before this adventure. But still, it still needed to be mastered and mastered. The possibility of increasing this knowledge should not be thought about until at least level 25. Or even 30. The available free characteristic point he will definitely invest in Control, which is very important for illusions.

Talent points are more difficult, even if you don't take the limited ones. There were so many things he wanted to buy, but he would definitely do them at home. For fuck it, such an accelerated download of information, and already almost all the brains melted .... Speaking of shopping! What about the auction? Oh, yes! Yes, there is! Completion of the whole act, as well as acquiring two levels at once, has increased the amount of available currency. And also, like, expanded the range of goods. Not bad, nothing to say ...

"... not the simplest of relationships, with the children of the Endless Green Sea, but the Forest always pays its debts. And I am prepared to give you my oath, honourable Guur'Aar, that my kin will repay you what was lost last night with profit as soon as we are all safe. All we have to do is wait..."

A loud and doomed sigh from First made Cyril's mentor pause half-heartedly, and he turned sharply to the dark elf. Everyone else did the same, instantly tensing up. He, with a sharply darkened face, again grabbed the amulet he had put away. His eyes flashed with magical fire, he stared at something outside their shelter for a few seconds, and then he spoke in a grim voice:

"We have a problem. One of my alarm tags just went off."

Diantrel, who immediately tensed up, asked:

"Is it possible that this is one of the local inhabitants?"

"I doubt it. It was a mark that I hid properly and placed so that it would be caught by someone who, having found the signal threads, would try to carefully bypass them.... Damn it. Yes, that's right, it's our dark clothes-loving friends... They're well on their way, you wouldn't even notice them..."

There was almost absolute silence in the shelter; everyone froze, and some seemed to have stopped even breathing. Cyril noticed how one of the steppe women clutched the children to her. Shalakh-Ana clung to her husband even more tightly. In this silence, Diantrel's voice sounded deafeningly loud:

"What are we going to do?"

//“Good question,” Cyrill thought to himself.

And he was certainly not the only one who asked himself this question. First even voiced it out loud:

"That's a good question. We don't have many options. If we are found and encircled, and they find us, we can't fight back and hold out until help arrives. We can't get out of here undetected, either. There are three exits from this room. Two lead to the Neutral Territories, the third to Cardaroth. The last one's a death sentence for us, and I'm sure they've already blocked the other two," First's voice was calm but grim.

"Of course, we can try to fight them. This will certainly attract the Garkains. No matter how hard the Dark Brotherhood assassins try, they won't be able to cope with the entire pack that has settled Kardaroth. But then we ourselves will have to fight them off..."

//“Cirialle.”

The voice of his mentor in his head made the young man wince, and he turned to the elf. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze was fixed entirely on her dark kin.

//We have to run. The four of us. Otherwise, we'll all die, we can't save them. Use the power of the Soul Tablet, buy something at the Auction that will give us a chance to escape, it's the only way...

Fucking hell.... Cyril almost sent this thought to his mentor through the mental link. But he held back. With difficulty. Because he realized. Diantrel was right. They can't all get out. They have to run. The four of them, with the support of First, might indeed be able to escape, especially if they procured cheat codes from the Auction and used the cheat codes granted by the System. But. BUT. It's a triple fucking BUT!!! Just like that, to throw to certain death people and non-humans, who did him nothing wrong ... who he unwittingly dragged into this whole thing. What do I do?! What do we do?!

Maybe we can try to hide their hideout using illusions. No, it's unlikely to work, if those creeps didn't know about them, it might work, but they'll obviously be expecting something like this... Try to hide behind barriers, use the last modifier, and a new source token? No, it won't work; they won't last ten hours under siege, those bastards will probably figure out how to break the defenses sooner. And then it's over!

Damn it... What to do. No defeat, no illusions, no deception, no-- Stop! Deceive. What if... Hmm. That could work!

Cyril pondered the idea for a few seconds, and when his mentor was ready to address him again, he rose to his feet in one movement, shaking off the dusty and dirty clothes he had worn the night before. He coughed loudly and said:

"Everybody, stay calm! I have a plan to save us! We can all save ourselves!"

The faces of those who turned to him were lovely to look at. Especially the faces of the elves and Armina. Without letting anyone say anything, Cyril continued:

"The plan isn't as foolproof as a dwarven chronometer, but I'm sure of it. Almost completely. Pretty much."

"Cirial..."

Feeling the whole range of emotions of his mentor, the young man did not let her object and cut her off with a sharp movement of his hand. He looked the elf directly in the elf's eyes and said in a confident voice:

"Please, Diantrel, trust me! I do have a plan to get us out of this situation. And I'm sure of it!"

For several very long seconds, he and the elf stared into each other's eyes in the sepulchral silence that hung in their sanctuary. Then, under First's frankly surprised gaze, Diantrel sighed and nodded:

"Okay, I'll trust you Cirialle ..."

* * *

The large underground hall, with its ceiling lost in darkness, could be divided into two parts. The once residential part and the natural-wild part. The residential part was one single relatively wide street paved with good slabs, flanked by stone buildings, which rose almost to the very ceiling, adjoining each other. All as one massive, powerful, solid, and lined up almost perfectly. There did not seem to be a single curve or wavy line in their architecture. Everything was strictly perpendicular or parallel. Just straight lines, and equally straight geometric ornaments on the facades. It was like a perfect order.

It was. Once upon a time. Now, the vast majority of the buildings were crumbling and collapsed, many bearing the telltale signs of a fierce battle. The wide street was blocked in many places by building rubble, rocks that had fallen from the ceiling, and in a couple of places it was blocked by wide and deep cracks. At one end of the street was an almost completely collapsed fortress, adjacent to the wall of an underground hall, with a wide and massive gate, one of whose broken sashes lay in the middle of the street. At the other end of the street, there was also a collapsed gate in a massive stone wall with equally massive towers, enclosing the dwelling part of the underground hall.

Behind the wall, which was also damaged in many places, there was a wilderness area where, apparently, there used to be fields of local crops or forage mushrooms. Now it was densely overgrown with the local subterranean flora, which had even taken over part of the road that led from the collapsed gate in the wall to the two passages to the neighbouring halls in the opposite walls.

At first glance, the once-habitable part of the underground hall seemed completely empty. There was no life to be seen, apart from the occasional shadow flickering under the ceiling. In the feral and overgrown part of the hall, there was plenty of life. It was all the more surprising when a young half-elf emerged from the doorway of one of the houses, where only the ground floor had survived, and the rest was a pile of rubble. He walked calmly to the middle of the street and stopped right there, looking around. His blue eyes and the tiara on his head glowed with magical fire. He glanced around at the surrounding buildings and saw no one, but he shouted, loudly enough for the Underworld:

"Come out. I know you and your minions are here. I suggest we talk."

The answer was silence and the familiar sounds of life in the Underworld. After waiting a few seconds, the half-elf shrugged and said in a casual voice:

"Okay, if you don't want to talk, don't. Good luck explaining to your boss..."

With these words, he deftly removed a disposable explosive-type combat amulet from his belt and brought it to his chin. It was a good and powerful amulet made by elven masters, carrying a powerful charge of fire-type magical energy. Clutching it in his hand, the half-elf began to pour additional energy into it, simultaneously removing the analog of the fuse. In a few seconds, the amount and density of magical energy in the local analog of the grenade reached dangerous values, because of which the amulet could detonate at the slightest weakening of control or extraneous influence. It would blow off the head of a half-elf standing calmly in the middle of the street.

The loud cry coincided with a dozen tentacles of black smoke that struck the half-elf standing in the middle of the street from different directions. The tentacles of black smoke struck the half-elf standing in the middle of the street and scattered helplessly when they came into contact with the unexpectedly powerful protective field surrounding him. The half-elf shuddered involuntarily, but managed to keep his face, grinned and shouted loudly, still clutching the amulet at his chin:

"Oh, don't bother yourself, I'll do it myself..."

"STOP!!!"

A loud female scream coincided with another black smoke attack, which again failed to penetrate a defense that was clearly beyond the capabilities of even a very strong adept. The half-elf grinned even wider and stopped pouring in energy. A little more, and the expensive and high-quality tool of magical craftsmanship would fail, detonating precisely. Even now, the half-elf was struggling to keep the excessive amount of energy injected into it from detonating. This was clearly visible from the outside in any, even the simplest, spectrum of magical vision. And the female figure in dark, tight-fitting clothes with a hood-mask and eyes burning with red light that appeared as if out of nowhere in the middle of the street of the ruined dwarven suburb had excellent magical vision.

She could see that the amulet in the half-elf's hands would explode and blow his head clean off. If he loosened his grip or lost control for a moment, it would be the end of him. And she realized that neither she nor her companions, who appeared a moment later at a small distance around the half-elf, would be able to prevent it. The boy's defense was too good for even a strong adept. With empty hands raised in front of her, the female figure took a hasty step forward:

"Stop! Your death is not..."

"Ohhhh, so we decided to talk after all? Wow," the half-elf's mocking and sarcastic voice could be heard all along the street. He looked around at the dark figures around him, eyes glowing red, and continued:

"Who you are has already been explained to me. So I'll get right to the point, because this thing is burning my hand. I KNOW you need me alive. You need me very much. So I'm offering you a simple and fair deal. I leave with you and ALL your friends, and you leave my companions alone. Or I'll blow my head off right now, and you can explain yourself to your superiors for your epic fuck-up. That is the one and only final offer. I'm gonna count to five before you crack my defenses!"

"You don't da..."

"Four!"

"Your death..."

"Three!" The young elf strengthened his defense and at the same time slightly weakened his control over the energy rushing out...

"STOP! Okay! Okay! I agree! Stop! Back off! Everyone back!"

The last words were addressed to several other dark figures that again appeared out of thin air, just behind the ones that had already surrounded the half-elf, and tried to twitch in his direction. The female figure, who, with a sharp wave of her hand, literally made them freeze in place, clenched in black smoke, also turned sharply to the half-elf and repeated:

"I agree! Everyone to me! We are leaving! We only need him. The lives of the rest are not important!"

"That's what we agreed on," the half-elf nodded. But he didn't remove the amulet from his chin, he only slightly weakened the concentration of excess energy in it. Just a little bit.

A few seconds later, he was surrounded by nearly three dozen different dark figures, all appearing as if out of nowhere. They stood motionless for a few moments, then a dozen and a half of them simultaneously formed blades of black smoke in their hands and stabbed themselves on the outstretched wrists of their free hands. Their wounds instantly spurted a sudden amount of blood onto the stone slabs of the street, as if they had severed their arteries. But also at the same time as the blood, streams of black smoke poured from their wounds, instantly enveloping the other figures and the surrounded half-elf. A few moments, and the smoke vanished without a trace. As did those it had enveloped. In the middle of the street in the suburbs of the ruined dwarven city, there was nothing and no one left but pools of blood.

* * *

When the smoke disappeared, almost all the fugitives who had been watching the events outside exhaled at once in the shelter on the first and only surviving floor of the ancient dwarf house. Not directly, of course, because there were no windows in the wall, but through the wall, which had become partially transparent from the inside, thanks to one of the hastily summoned non-martial spirits of the old orc shaman. When the half-elf disappeared with the Dark Brotherhood assassins, there was silence in the shelter for a few seconds. A very tense silence. Stone-faced First stood motionless with his arms folded across his chest. Only his eyes betrayed the dark elf's tension mixed with wild irritation. Armina, standing next to him, was visibly pale and cast tense glances at him and at Diantrel, who was also stone-faced, watching what was happening outside. Shinda-Bah was the first to break the prolonged silence with one arm around his wife, who was clinging to him:

"It was the most noble act I have ever seen in my life..."

“And the most idiotic,” added First in a gloomy voice.

Turning to Diantrel, he continued:

"You will explain yourself to Sivila and Third. And it would be better for you to find a good explanation in advance why you allowed him to commit this stupidity and surrender to them for the sake of..."

At the mention of the name of the Queen of the Forest herself, the older of the fugitives shuddered faintly and cast even more dumbfounded glances at the elves.

"I didn't let him,” Diantrel interrupted First, a tired but strangely pleased expression on her face. "And I'm sorry that you would allow the very idea that I would let my student do such an idiotic thing."

A low but merry laugh behind them made almost everyone turn round, many shrieking, and some of them grabbing their weapons. Only Diantrel remained calm, also allowing herself a quiet chuckle and a faint smile. The others stared at Cyril, who was leaning against the far wall. The young man, who looked like a young half-elf to those around him, looked pale again, and a glance at him with his magical vision showed that he had once again used up his reserve to almost nothing.

For a few moments, everyone, including First, who had changed his face, stared at him, eyes wide and mouths open. The old shaman's eyes popped out of his orbits, and he grabbed one of his amulets hanging on his chest. He turned abruptly a couple of times toward the still translucent wall, and then toward Cyril, who had appeared out of nowhere, and could only squeeze out an inaudible sentence:

"Uh... Uh, uh..."

First came to his senses more quickly. The dark elf's face became extremely serious, but on his lips there was a restrained approving smile. He nodded briefly and said in a completely different voice, looking at Cyril:

"Impressive! I was warned about this, but I had no idea you could create such a good illusion that you could even fool me. I was pretty sure it was really you."

"Thank you for the compliment, Honorable First, but I really wouldn't have been able to create an illusion that good."

Smiling with difficulty, Cyrill raised his right hand, in which he was clutching a small metal ball with a brightly glowing blue crystal:

" I used one very useful artifact. I saved it for last. It allows you to create a very authentic doppelganger. However, I had to put almost all my powers into it, and give all my personal amulets to the doppelganger, otherwise these things might not believe...."

Cyrill said the last words as he slid down the wall to the floor. And he would have slid down, if Diantrel hadn't been there to pick him up. A moment later, Armina picked him up from the other side, keeping him from falling. Nodding gratefully, Cyril sank onto the cushions, unable to cope with his cotton legs. The repeated almost complete emptying of the reserve had not affected him in the best way, considering that he had not had a full rest, but something else, multiplied by the afterloading of knowledge into his head.

"Do you know what the funniest thing is?" The young man asked the others as Armina and Diantrel helped him get comfortable.

"I have prepared a little surprise for them..."

With these words, Cyril mentally activated a special function embedded by his new artefact in the created embodiment. At the same moment, the crystal on the metal ball changed its colour to red, blinked brightly, and then went out. At the same time, the young man noted with satisfaction that the experience scale up to the twenty-third level was almost half full. It even made him feel better. Much better. Dianitrel must have noticed and felt it, so she asked:

"What did you do? Ciriall?"

"Blowing up the doppelganger. For the sake of it, I put almost all of my reserve into it, in addition to the magic that was already in the artifact. That should have been good. At least someone would definitely be killed by the explosion."

Cyril thought he was speaking quite clearly, but in fact, towards the end of the speech, his tongue began to slip a little, and he swallowed some of the syllables. Armina and Diantrel, who instantly understood, got down to business. The maid dashed to the pot, where she scooped a fresh wooden mug of a drink that smelled strongly of herbs. Literally forcing the young man to drink it all, Diantrel carefully laid her apprentice down so that Cyril's head was in her lap and hugged him with two palms behind her, pressing her fingers on his temples. Covering her eyes, the elf began the merge, replenishing her pupil with some of the spent strength, as well as speeding up the process of their recovery.

While she and Armina were tending to Cyril, who had spent too much energy, all the other fugitives were giving them worried looks. In which, however, a great relief prevailed. People and non-humans alike believed that the worst was over, and now all that was left was to wait for help. All except First. He continued to stare at the street through the still translucent wall with his eyes glowing again with magical fire. And the dark elf had a tense and thoughtful expression on his face. Ignoring the others, he glanced around the ruins of the dwarven suburb. The Dungeon Hunter's intuition, multiplied by his honed sense of the dangers of his inhospitable homeland, literally screamed: something was wrong. Something is wrong. But what... Fuuuuuck!

First shouted the last thought aloud, causing the fugitives, who had just calmed down, to jump. He turned sharply to the old shaman and shouted, pointing with his hand at the puddles of blood that remained in the street. Puddles that, in his magical vision, if you looked closely, were faintly glowing.

"We need to clean up their blood! Quickly!"

For a second, the old orc stared at the dark elf uncomprehendingly. Then he glanced outside, at the pools of blood visible there, looked at them closely, and his face twisted. He clutched at one of his few remaining necklaces. Diantrel, who had pulled away from Cyril, asked incomprehensibly:

"What's up..."

"This bitch left us a parting gift! She wanted to attract with the smell of blood..."

At that moment, from outside, from somewhere above, from under the very ceiling of the underground hall, a series of sharp and loud clicks was heard.

"... Garcains... Bitch!" First's muffled shriek coincided with the creepy creature landing in the middle of the street.

Large, larger than an adult human, it resembled an anthropomorphic mixture of a bat and who knows what else. It had webbed wings that acted as front working limbs, powerful clawed hind legs, dense, dark gray skin, a muzzle devoid of eyes, but possessing a big bat-like nose, and a pair of large ears. And a mouth full of sharp teeth. As if that weren't enough, the creature was magic, and not in a weak way. Which was to be expected. Without magic, such a thing could not fly.

When it landed on the street from somewhere above, the monster immediately got on all fours, bending its forelimbs-wings and leaning on their folds, which made it look even more like a bat. It sniffed its head and instantly rushed to the nearest pool of blood, making loud clicking noises as it went. It hovered over it and began licking the blood greedily with its long tongue.

"Shit... More will come flying in now... We need to tighten up our camouflage! Amulets to the max! Clear out all the air again - these creatures are blind, but have an excellent sense of smell!"

While First was giving out commands and orders, several more of the same creatures did indeed float down from somewhere above, heading for their kin. There was a loud exchange of clicks turned into a menacing hiss and then a snarl, at the end of which the creatures spread out among the pools of blood of the Dark Brotherhood members and began to lap it up quickly. And soon, a few more pulled up. And then some more, causing the snapping, hissing, and swearing between them to intensify. There wasn't much blood for such a crowd.

Before most of the fugitives knew it, they were in the farthest part of the room from the wall that faced the street, which was still translucent, allowing a perfect view of the flock of ravenous creatures that had flown in. The old shaman, growling softly in his language, was going through the remaining amulets one by one, summoning the thinning retinue. The first, taking several more amulets from his belt pouch, quickly distributed them on the walls of the shelter, weaving them into the already existing camouflage and defence circuit, at the same time issuing feeble commands. Shalah-Ana, pale as death, assisted him as best she could.

The steppe men, meanwhile, were preparing themselves for a possible battle, checking their spears, drawing their bows, and counting the remaining arrows in their visibly empty quivers. The Caliphates were not far behind, checking the battle staffs they had been given from the elves' supplies. Armina also armed herself and stood next to Cyril and Diantrel while the latter brought her apprentice back to a more or less normal state. He felt much better; the increased connection also increased the already considerable compatibility, so the process of merging quickly restored the spent energy.

In the meantime, there were more and more Garcains on the street, and at one point, there were nearly two dozen of them, and they began to squabble over the remaining blood. A couple of times, they got into quick but very fierce fights. And then a particularly large monster landed from somewhere above, twice the size of his kin. Its skin was not dark grey, but light grey, and its magic was already very serious. In his magical vision, he was much brighter than his kin, which splashed from him in different directions. It was clear that the creature was old and well-fed. With a single growl, it drove the kin away from all the remaining pools of blood. When First saw him, he cursed quietly:

"Damn, that big one... How did he get here so fast? That bitch must have enhanced the blood with something else to make it smell stronger. Bitch..."

The old orc, who was casting tense glances towards the predators, asked, still sorting through his remaining necklaces and amulets and leaning on the spear that was handed to him:

"Is it possible for this blood-smelling foe to smell us in this dwelling of the foothills, or will our defence magic be enough to hide from him?" The Old Confederate speech of the old man might have seemed funny if the situation had not been so dire.

The dark elf, having installed another amulet right on the door leading to the street, made of some strange dark gray wood, shook his head:

"He shouldn't have to. We've got a pretty good defence. They've got a good sense of smell, though; they can smell blood a mile away. And old ones like this one can literally smell it right next to them. Let's hope they get drunk and go back to the ruins of Kardarot..."

"What are these spawn of the starless night eating here, that there are so many of them?" Shinda-Bakh asked quietly, tense and pale, but nevertheless firmly clutching the battle staff in his hand.

"Anyone they can find in the surrounding lands,’ grumbled the old orc, who had left his necklaces alone and was now fully focused on the lance that glowed, "For a week's journey around, the whole of the Sea of Green knows that the Dead City-What-Under-The-Mountin-Lies is not to be approached before sunset. Without counting the sons and daughters of the steppe people, these foes have ruined more than one herd of cattle, greedy bloodsuckers...."

At that moment, the big monster, which had driven the little things a decent distance away, finished licking up the last pool of blood left in the street. Standing up on his hind legs, he began to lick and polish his ghastly face, twitching his ears at the same time. But suddenly the monster stopped abruptly and lifted its head. It sniffed a few times and twisted its head in all directions until it turned in the direction of the fugitives' shelter. He opened his mouth full of sharp teeth and sucked in air with his snout. After that, he slowly walked towards the shelter. Pulling back from the wall, First quietly hissed:

"What a bastard. How could you..."

The dark elf's words were drowned in the ravenous shrieking-whine of the old Garcain, which disturbed the entire flock. The main predator slowly walked towards the house, breathing shallowly and frequently with its huge nose and snout. After a heavy sigh, the dark elf turned to the frozen fugitives and asked in a frighteningly ingratiating voice:

"Well, who of you was wounded, but didn't bother to tell anyone about it? I told you to treat all wounds with that special ointment I gave you!"

All the fugitives, most of them pale as death, began to look at each other and shake their heads hesitantly.

"Think about it, this creature literally feels open blood next to it, if we don't..."

Suddenly, one of the steppe women, a young girl, the wife of the eldest son of the chief of the human steppes, to whom a couple of small children were clinging, turned even paler and gave an inarticulate squeak. Everyone immediately turned to her, and she pressed her trembling hand to her stomach. Or rather, a little lower, to her groin. Everyone stared at her for a moment, and then the First let out another doom-laden sigh. It was matched by a series of sharp and loud clicks, each of which was a rather powerful scanning pulse. They were replaced by the deafening shriek-whistle of a maturing monster. A moment later, it was joined by the screams of the rest of the pack.

Silently cursing, the dark elf cast a glance at the street over his shoulder, turned back to the fugitives, and with a grim face pointed a hand at the twitching husband of the unfortunate steppe woman:

"You! If we survive, please be so kind as to make your wife have another child!"

His words were drowned out by a whole chorus of clicks, squeals, screams, and the clicking of claws that began to furiously scratch at the door and the outer wall of their shelter.

* * *

"Well, is everyone ready?"

The question asked by First was purely rhetorical. Everything that could be done in the time they had was done; the plan of action had been agreed upon several times, and the roles had been assigned. All that remained was to put it into practice. And hope that everything will work out. When everyone nodded affirmatively, the dark elf gave a command to the young man, and he whispered:

"Let's begin..."

When Cyrill came to his senses after another excessive waste of reserve, he didn't immediately understand what was going on around him, and why his mentor, having barely restored a crumb of reserve to him, had run off somewhere. When they explained to the young man what was going on and who was breaking into their shelter, he sincerely wished the red-eyed lady and all her cheerful fan club all the best. Because the following became clear very quickly. There was no way to stay in the shelter until help came from the Forest. If there were ordinary beasts outside, easily, given the presence of three adepts, two of whom are close to the level of masters of magic, and one full-fledged master of magic. Not to mention Cyrill's access to the System. But there was a problem: the creatures that First called Garcains were not simple at all. The inhabitants of the Underworld were largely magical beasts, and the strongest of them could use their magic not only for flight, camouflage, and searching for prey.

Very quickly the damned creatures realised that there was a difficult, but very tasty prey in the dilapidated dwarf dwelling. And as soon as it happened, a few of the largest Garcains began to gnaw with their claws the seemingly solid and massive stone of the ancient dwarven buildings. Reinforcing it with their magic, they chipped or broke off whole chunks from the walls, trying to get through the door in the first place. Obviously, those inside were not going to let them. Diantrel, along with Shalah-Ana and the old shaman, began to fortify their hiding place with barriers, not caring much about camouflage.

And for a moment, Cyril even thought they would be able to sit behind the barriers, waiting for help. But reality buried that hope almost immediately. Sensing the defensive magic that prevented them from reaching their unexpected prey, the creatures surrounding their shelter made a retaliatory move, showing that they were not just fangs and claws. Scattering around the ruins of the dwarven house, they began to make loud clicking noises at the same time. And it turned out that the directed impulses of magic they sent out were not only searching, but also quite attacking. An ordinary person could be stunned by such a thing.

Obviously, the fugitives trapped in the ruins were not ordinary. But the impulse was not a single one. Such a tactic of concentrated volley fire bore fruit, draining the reserve of magical barriers disgustingly fast. And as if that weren't enough, more of their kin continued to swarm to the damn things. Very quickly, there were more than fifty of them, and more and more were coming every minute. Of course, most of them were not very strong, especially compared to Diantrel. Sitting behind the walls of the dwarven building, which were thick and sturdy, and with a good ritual circle, she alone would be able to kill most of them. It was a good thing that Cyril could easily buy the material for the ritual circle at the Auction.

And with the help of the old shaman and Shalakh-Ana, who also had something to say, the chances of victory were more than good. And in the meantime, Cyril would rest and regain some strength, and he could support his mentor. But. BUT! It was that thrice damned BUT again! At Diantrel's suggestion to do so, First replied with undisguised irritation that it was a bad idea. Such a magical massacre would definitely draw ALL the packs of Garcains occupying the dead dwarven city. Including the really large and dangerous creatures leading them, against which even a mature bastard smelling them will seem like a fledgling chick. So far, only one pack is trying to get them, and it seems it is not the largest. So, they should not hold a hopeless defence, but break through. And in general, it's not a good idea to use too much magic when you're in the Underworld. It can be bad for your health. Very.

The more so, since Kardaroth and its underground environs were considered perilous and evil even by the standards of the Underworld. First didn't go into details, just said that there were signs that something even worse than the Garcains was sitting here, or somewhere nearby. And if they were to stage a magical massacre here, as Diantrel had suggested, it would not go unnoticed. It would definitely draw the attention of all the local inhabitants of several underground halls around.

So they need to break through. And preferably as fast as possible. According to the same First, the most important thing for them is to get to the passage to the next hall. It's small and can be blocked off with barriers, which will delay the Garcains while they get away. If they can do that, they won't be chasing them for long, especially if they can kick them in the teeth, though it's better to distract them with something. ‘Easy to say, but hard to do,’ the old orc commented as he hastily went through the trappings of his trade.

The shaman immediately pointed out that of all the gifted, only Diantrel was in a normal state. Cyril had spent most of his strength on creating the doppelganger and needed at least an hour's rest to replenish some of his strength. Shalah-Ana, due to the severed connection to her seahorse, is severely weakened. Most of the combat wing of the surviving retinue of the shaman himself is out of action, or has died defending the camp or fleeing. He couldn't summon new spirits quickly; it took time, and he had no way to bring them a proper offering right now. Not to mention the fact that they were in the Underworld, which would make it even more difficult for him to perform the call.

So it turned out that only Diantrel was left as a fighting unit, but she would not be able to protect all of them and at the same time break through the road. And most of the amulets from the elves' stocks and those of the steppes were either spent last night or discharged, and it would not be possible to fill them with power quickly. Cyril listened to these discussions, which were becoming more and more heated, and once again wished the red-eyed lady, if she had survived, all the best. He felt like shit, the short merge with his mentor had restored a crumb of reserve, in fact Diantrel had just transferred some of her powers to him, thanks to the high compatibility. It didn't even add up to a tenth of that.

Against the background of the creatures that continued to break into their shelter, who had already realised that there was an unexpectedly juicy prey, the young man decided not to wait for another idea that would put his moral principles (and he had them, no matter what his conscience said) to the test. Moreover, there was a way out of their situation. True, he did not like it, but there was nothing to do. Having sighed heavily, Cyril made a final decision. And having made it, he began to act. We would regret what he was going to do, and most likely, we would have to regret it later. In one decisive movement, Cyril rose and clapped his hands loudly, attracting everyone's attention. When everyone turned sharply to him, he, hoping that his voice would sound calm and confident enough, said, addressing the elves:

"Well, I suppose it's time to use what we've been saving for the most extreme case. Armina, hand me your bag, please."

The maid hesitated, but then realised and hurriedly handed Cyril her bag with its expanded interior. Very expanded. True, everything that could be, except for the purchases made in White Harbour, had already been emptied out of her pockets. But her unwilling companions don't know about it, do they? So Cyril, under their attentive gazes, with a doomed face, put his hand into it and whispered quietly but distinctly:

"He will be delighted..."

A mental command, and a small transparent crystal appeared in Cyril's hand, which was in his bag. Or rather, not even a crystal, but just a beautiful glass, cheap, worth a penny at the Auction. Worth. One more mental command, application of the token, and the most ordinary crystal flashed bright white light, instantly increasing in value by a hundred times at least, turning into a source of magic. A good source of magic of absolutely neutral magic, suitable for literally any gifted person. Cyril tried not to think about the additional properties of this source.

When he took the crystal out of his bag, the faces of those around him were beautiful to behold. Even his mentor, who had realised that he was using the System, was stunned at the sight of such a miracle as a real source of magic in an ordinary crystal. It was a source, not a simple storage device. Too bad there's no meta-skill that lets you take screenshots of what you see... Oh, wait, there is one... Oh, man! Kicking himself mentally for his extraneous thoughts, the young man held out the crystal to Diantrel and said:

"Its supply should be enough to charge the amulets and all the storage crystals. There will also be enough to restore our strength."

Cyril knew what Deantrel thought, thanks to the connection. His mentor thought he had gone to the auction and was now spending the accumulated currency. But what thoughts appeared in the heads of Shalah-Ana and the old shaman at the sight of a TRANSFERABLE source of magic, we could only guess. How much such a thing could cost on the local markets, Cyrill was afraid to even imagine. Most likely, such a cheater system miracle, as a source of magic in a small crystal, simply will not have a price, because no one in their right mind would sell such a thing. Although the source is temporary... Shit, you're thinking about the wrong thing again, pull yourself together, Cyrill!

In any case, the faces of the ship's sorceress and the shaman were simply shocked, as well as some other unwilling companions of Cyril, who managed to realise WHAT he had taken out of the bag. Trying not to be distracted by them, the young man continued ‘gutting the stash’. Following the crystal, several sets of excellent elven arrows came out of the bag, one for each male steppe, and one for the orcish girl. Real elven arrows. With shafts of light wood, with white feathers, silver tips. They were no different from the ones Cyrill had seen from the local firstborn. Except he doubted very much that anyone made these arrows, and they weren't made by a team of system administrators. In any case, they cost a lot, but if it were such a party, there was no point in saving money.
T.N. I remember the old cartoon about Vilias Fog. There, setting off on a journey, Fog ordered a set of random things to be packed into a travel bag. And every time it turned out that what they needed was in stock.

The sets were handed over to the even more bewildered steppe men, who understood more than anyone how much white-feathered elven arrows actually cost. After thinking for a second, Cyril made a face of ‘Ah, we live only once!’ and, in addition to the usual sets, as far as this term is applicable to elven arrows, he bought a couple of sets of enchanted arrows, infused with elemental magic. After handing them over to the steppe men, he turned to the old shaman and asked:

"What offerings do you need?"

He was taken aback, clearly not understanding the meaning of the question, and raised his gray eyebrows in surprise, so Cyrill repeated the question:

"What do you need to summon one of your spirits? I mean, one that can be summoned quickly, and who will help us in battle or in escape? What offering?"

The old orc was even more taken aback by this question. Frowning, he shook his head, looking at Cyrill as if he were a first-grader who had blurted out some incredible stupidity, and said in the same old Confederate:

"The lot of those who speak with the khao is not like the weave of your magic, sorcerer. It is impossible to simply call upon them, and if you call upon them and they appear before your eyes, then first you must have a conversation and a difficult bargain with them..."

Letting out a doomed groan, Cyrill abruptly interrupted the old shaman, causing him to be taken aback for a moment, clearly unaccustomed to such treatment:

"I know it! Tell me, venerable one, are there any spirits you know, I mean khao, that are ready to come to you quickly for a proper fee, and that you trust? And if so, for what gift? Tell me, and I'll see what I can find."

The old orc twitched for a moment and flashed his yellow eyes with displeasure. But then he stopped, thought for a moment, and looked at the young man with the utmost seriousness. Frowning even more, he slowly said:

"Of those who can come hastily to my call, and even in the land of no heaven.... If they come quickly and at once. Of those with whom I have already made a pact..."

He was silent for a moment, then nodded and replied:

"There are such, two at once, but they will demand a considerable fee, and it is unlikely that it..."

"What?!" The young man couldn't stand it, especially as the rabid pack of ravenous creatures raging in the street, showering their shelter with a hail of blows and impulses, was getting on his nerves.

The old orc again flashed his yellow eyes darkly, casting a displeased glance at the young man. After all, he was not used to being spoken to like that. Especially by someone who was clearly several times younger. But he answered:

"Fangs and claws of any beasts or monsters that lived by hunting, and that are fairly saturated with magic, the more the better..."

"Will these do?"

Cyril, who did not save system currency, because he had been given a decent amount of it for the previous night and the completed assignment, without listening to the old man, took out of his bag four fangs that resembled the teeth of saber-toothed tigers. And in addition to them, a bunch of good claws, as thick and long as a grown man's finger. The price for them was very painful, and in the magical vision, they literally glowed from the energy overflowing them, but the expression on the old shaman's face partially paid for these costs. At least for Cyril, it did. It was unclear what the elderly orc had expected to see, but clearly not this. The rest of the people present, with the exception of the elves and Cyril's maid, were clearly tired of being surprised by now, but there was nothing else they could do in such a situation. Their faces, in any case, were very expressive.

Cyril silently handed the purchase to Armina and went back into his bag. The old shaman, having received such a gift from the girl, fell into a stupor for a moment, looking with yellow eyes at the claws and fangs of unknown monsters, which had not even existed before Cyril had bought them. But Shinda-Bah, who was watching what was happening, while his wife and Diantrel were hurriedly feeding all their amulets and wands from the source of magic created by Kirill, having previously powered the protective barriers, could not stand it. Coughing, the Caliphate captain asked politely in Confederate, in his verbose manner:

"Honourable Cirial, I am well aware of the impossible stupidity of my words, but after all that I have already witnessed, I venture to ask you. Is it not possible that among the supplies you took with you, there might be, say, a portable small portal circle?"

Almost all the people around him looked at the Caliphate navigator and merchant as if he were an idiot. Especially Diantrel and Shalakh-Ana. The faces of the sorceresses were extremely expressive. Cyrill, on the other hand, abruptly froze in place, with his hand once again lowered into his bag. Stop... Fuuuuck... Absolutely without hindsight, with his brain naturally hanging from the realisation that he had missed such an obvious idea, the young man said out loud:

"I don't know, but I'll take a look now..."

And after these words, now all the people around him, including First and Diantrel, looked at him, no, not like an idiot.... а... let's say, with very strange expressions on their faces. However, Cyril didn't notice it, concentrating fully on the Auction, although from the outside it looked like he was fumbling in his bag. So, what do we have here? Nothing like this in the sections available to him, even in the most expensive segment. Oh, come on. Whoa, whoa, whoa! Come on.

A mental command. Acknowledgement. One talent point, from limited, is in minus, and the system modifier ‘Access to System Purchases IV’ is in plus. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. There it is, bitch! Wait... No. Oh, for fuck's sake! How, by some miracle, Cyril didn't voice his thoughts aloud remains a mystery to him. For. BECAUSE. At the auction, after he had upgraded his meta-skill, there was indeed a fairly wide selection of all sorts of portable portal circles. Which, as the name made clear, were either one-piece or composite circles. There were, however, rectangular versions and semicircular arches. This is not the point. The main thing is that all of them could act as a support base for the creation of portals. A very good support. And such support could work in both directions! That is, even from the Forest, in theory, having received coordinates-beacon-direction-point, they could tune to them and open a stable transition. Of course, there were different models, and the range of action and other functionality also, of course, differed, but in general, even the cheapest would do. If not for one but. But! But!

Even the cheapest of these portals was fucking expensive. Just shamelessly expensive in Cyril's opinion. And he would have had enough money for the simplest of the models, if he hadn't already spent it on arrows and claws. He was a little short, less than a fifth, but as Kirill did not torment the Auction with mental requests, the System was adamant. No instalments, purchases in debt, on credit, or under pledge for this category of goods are provided. Previously purchased items cannot be returned to recover the money spent. Oh, for fuck's sake why?! I mean, how is that?! There must be something like this, he's just sure, why the fuck can't he buy the damn portal circle in instalments?! Where's tech support?!

For a moment, Cyrill even thought he heard a quiet, deep female laugh. Shaking his head, he let out a resigned sigh and said:

"Unfortunately, no, venerable Shinda-Bakh, we do not have a portal circle in stock..."

When he looked up at his unwilling companions, the young man only now saw that they had all frozen and were staring at him with the same dumbfounded faces for the second time in a short while. For a few seconds, he didn't realise why, and then it hit him. The information he had received from the System, as well as his mentor's lectures, had taken its toll. Even the simplest portal arches (as far as that word even applied to them) were just crazy expensive. And Shinda-Bah, to all appearances, was just joking from the excess of emotion and tension, asking him about the availability of a small portal circle. And when Cyril, in all seriousness, went inside the bag to check... He wonders who they think he is now. Okay, he's thinking about the wrong thing! He should be thinking about how to get out of this arse before you become a compulsory blood donor... Blood. Wait. That's the idea.

Having given himself another mental kick for not thinking about it earlier, and pretending that nothing unusual had happened (it didn’t work out very well), Cyrill turned to First and asked:

"How good are these creatures at smelling blood?"

The dark elf, distracted from watching what was happening on the street, said briefly:

"Magnificent, you can see for yourself."

"And what about what's in the blood? Will they be able to tell if something has been added to the blood?!"

First, turning to Cyrill, still not understanding what he was getting at, nevertheless answered:

"If the taste is distinct, then of course they will understand."

"I see..."

"Cirial, what are you ..."

Without letting the distracted mentor speak, the young man took out of his bag an empty glass bottle, sealed with a powerful cork, with a volume of about two litres. The bottle was full of dark red liquid, which, like the claws and fangs removed earlier, literally glowed in his magical vision from the energy that filled it. Having put it on the floor, Kirill took out two more bottles of the same kind, and then began to take out one after another small sealed vials and jars with various powders. The contents of which also glowed in his magic vision.

"I'm gonna make these bastards a bloody smoothie. With some fun additives. I think it might help us distract them."

First, seeing the bottles of blood and using his magical vision to recognise the contents of some of the vials, raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded approvingly. The dark elf even had a wicked smile on his face:

"Now here's a good idea..."

The next preparations were made in a state of feverish haste, multiplied by the nervousness of the situation. While the walls and protective barriers of their shelter still held, Diantrel and Shalah-Ana charged all the amulets and wands they had left, and then distributed them among the fugitives. The Steppe men dismantled and distributed the elven arrows. An elderly shaman conducted an emergency summoning, which went surprisingly smoothly. A couple of spirits, as soon as they realized what their long-time and trusted partner was offering them, rushed to the call, not even caring that it was coming from the Underworld. After receiving the offering, both spirits immediately partially manifested in the material world, taking the appearance of a really, reminiscent of saber-toothed tigers in the pictures of textbooks. And now they were just waiting for the command of the old shaman to rush into battle. Shinda-Bah, his assistant, and his nephew were each given a battle wand and a set of spare storage crystals.

All the women-steppers and unfortunate restaurant workers were also given a simple amulet-headband, also from the “emergency stash”, which gave quite good night vision, without which there was nothing to do in the Underworld. The rest of the fugitives, including Cyril, had normal diadems that gave full magical vision. The latter, in addition to a spare diadem, was given a spare magic wand by his mentor, as the young man had sacrificed all his artifacts. Because of that, he felt almost naked, not to mention that he was very used to them. But what could be done? If his deceptive incarnation had come out without amulets, the bloody assassins might have suspected something.

Although the most difficult stage for Cyril was the last. Not physically difficult, but morally. The young man approached the source created, from which everything that could be charged and filled with energy was charged and filled, outwardly calmly, but mentally, he let out a long and doomed groan. Okay. There was nothing to do. He needed his strength, they couldn't break through without it. So, trying not to show any sign, Cyril clutched the source of magic he had created and began to draw power from the glowing crystal.

It turned out to be very easy and even pleasant. Absolutely neutral energy flowed into his subtle body without any problems, without causing any rejection. The invisible but clearly perceptible reserve scale began to restore itself cheerfully. In just two minutes, Cyril's reserve was fully restored, and the young man's well-being improved noticeably. Now he felt quite normal. He could even go to the training ground and have a couple of runs. Why was he complaining about them?

Diantrel, given the circumstances, did not even say anything about such abuse of extraneous sources of magic, as she understood the threat perfectly well. It was enough for the elven woman that her apprentice and ward had returned to near normal. Of course, they still had one more token charge and modifiers, but they unanimously decided to save them for the very, very last resort. So, when Cyril had fully recovered, she took the crystal in her hands, also replenishing her strength to the limit. Outwardly, the young man did not react in any way, but mentally groaned. Oh fuck... Okay, we'll deal with that later; we have to stay alive first.

After Diantrel the source of magic was used by Shalah-Ana, and she scooped up as much as Cyril. Well, more than half. Apparently, the ship's sorceress had a much harder time breaking with “ Smile of Fortune” than she tried to show. Having replenished her strength, she was refreshed and even looked noticeably better. Mentally Cyril let out another doomed groan. Why the fuck did they give the token with such a trick?!

But all unnecessary thoughts immediately went out of his head when another solid blast from the Garcains raging outside nearly blew a hole in the main defense barrier. A very small one, but it was enough. After another quick check and discussion of the breakout plan, the fugitives began to execute it....

* * *

The dwarves' dwelling, already half-destroyed, was holding on by the fair word and magical barriers that prevented the encircling Garcains from destroying the structure completely. The creatures, more than fifty, smelling their prey close at hand, continued to pelt it with their pulses, causing the underground hall to resound with rhythmic, loud clicks. Suddenly, their rhythm was disrupted by a trio of large cat-like creatures that suddenly jumped through the door of the shelter. All three creatures rushed in different directions, making loud and shrill meows and leaving clear bloody footprints behind.

This immediately sent the Garcains into a frenzy. The ravenous bloodsuckers immediately sensed the magic in the blood of the prey they had smoked out of their holes. With wild shrieks, shrieks, and screams, dozens of creatures rushed in pursuit of the cats, which were rushing through the suburbs of the dead dwarven city, winding between the ruins, debris, and cracks. And continuing to leave visible bloody footprints in their wake. Only for some reason, not in a continuous chain, but in small portions, at regular intervals. It was as if the blood was pouring out of them in portions, as if measured out. Some of them, apparently the weakest of the creatures, did not rush in, rightly not hoping to be allowed to get close to their prey. Instead, they began to search for bloody traces of the fugitives, and when they found them, they immediately began to lap them up.

Not all of the Garcains immediately rushed in pursuit, but some of them tried to make their way to the prey's lair for some time. The experience of predators told them that there might still be prey there. But no matter how they sniffed, no matter how they probed the shelter with their impulses, they found nothing. In the meantime, their kin were either already lactating the blood, which was incredibly rich in magic, while the others were about to catch up with the desperately fleeing felines. So soon the rest of the Garcains were either searching for bloody footprints or joining the chase.

The group of fugitives, concealed by a complex illusion made of several contours to deceive the magical analog of the Garcains' echolocation, and combined with the barrier, was not noticed by any of the creatures. Which was exactly what they had hoped for as they quickly rushed away from the dwarven suburb, weapons at the ready. In the center ran the noncombatants: an unfortunate pair of restaurant workers and steppe women, with the oldest of them literally dragged by a young orc as the strongest. They were flanked by stalking men, holding bows with new white-feathered arrows at the ready. First moved to the head, followed by Armina and Cyril. Diantrel with the Caliphates and the old shaman, who was surprisingly vigorous for his age, were at the rear of the group.

The fugitives were saved by the fact that they did not have to worry about noise, as all sounds were absorbed by the illusion-barrier. The same spirits from the old shaman's retinue, who had previously purified the air in the shelter and gotten rid of the aroma of food, were also responsible for the smell of the land dwellers. In addition, just before the exit, First wanted to oblige everyone to smear themselves with some smelly stuff, but Cyril felt sick at the mere sight of it, and in the ‘stash’ he suddenly found an excellent alchemical powder that perfectly concealed the odours of human and non-human bodies.

Led by the dark elf, their small group made a quick dash to the exit of the dwarf suburb. As the gates collapsed, they had to cross through a wide breach in the wall, a little away from them. And behind the backs of the fugitives, something strange began to happen. The Garcains managed to chase down two of the three cats, which, however, inexplicably turned into large pools of blood. The third cat was still scurrying around the ruins, meowing and leaving bloody footprints. And many of the Garcaenians had already had enough of the blood, which was so attractive, so full of magic, just right for them! But it wasn't just magic that the blood was saturated with. A killer dose of various alchemy, bought by Cyril at the Auction, seasoned with separately purchased flavour neutralisers, quickly did its job.

Here, one Garcain suddenly lunges with a loud screech at his neighbour, clawing at him with its fanged jaws, putting up a furious fight. Another one, emitting a series of deafening clicks, flew sharply into the air, only to crash headlong into the wall of the dwarven house and collapse back down. Here were two more fighting each other to the death. And three more. By the time the fugitives got over the half-destroyed wall and rushed away from the suburbs of the dead dwarven city, there was already a real hell going on. The maddened creatures threw themselves at each other, biting themselves, losing the ability to orient themselves in space. Soon, the first victims appeared. The stronger ones attacked the weaker ones; the weaker ones, forgetting their fear, threw themselves into suicidal counterattacks, and someone tried to escape with shrieking and crackling. In short, the predatory inhabitants of Kardaroth were having great fun.

Cyril personally was exceptionally happy about it. He would have loved to see it all, but only on TV, from the sofa, from his quarters in the Royal Palace, and not live from the front rows. Because fuck it! A relatively simple assignment to go out in public turned out to be a mess! He did a fucking good deed, he went to a fucking restaurant!

//"Ciriall!"

The mental call of his mentor knocked all the bad thoughts out of his head, immediately forcing the young man to concentrate on maintaining the illusion barrier that protected their group. It wasn't difficult, because Cyril spent literally pennies of reserve to maintain it, having stupidly powered it from the crystal source, which was about to run out. In addition, once they got out of the suburbs, it was noticeably easier to move. The ancient underground road leading from its collapsed gates was not in bad condition, probably due to the fact that there were no seasons in the Underworld, and it did not rain. Of course, in some places, stalactites or rock fragments had collapsed from the ceiling, but in general, the way was free. The young man even managed to look around. And there was a lot to see!

Apparently, there really used to be underground analogues of the fields here, but over the past centuries, they have all become overgrown. Very densely and abundantly overgrown! All around the underground hall were scattered natural groves of mushrooms clinging to each other, some of which were taller than a grown man. Many of them were glowing, in whole or in part. The mushrooms were interspersed with rocks or stalagmites covered with thick moss, which were covered with waves of light. Strange subterranean trees, with dark, crooked trunks without a single leaf, but with a multitude of blossoms, which also flashed brightly with different colours from time to time. Scatterings of shimmering crystals beneath the dark ceiling that looked like stars. Flocks of insects that looked like glowing dragonflies. And there was magic everywhere! Literally spilled in the air magic, Cyrill felt it easily, heavy, viscous, and hot, as if immersed in a warm mud baathhhh....

//‘’Ciriall! You will shield yourself from the wild magic of the Underworld now, it is harmful and dangerous to the untrained gifted! I told you so!’

Another mental shout from his mentor, who was running behind him, wand at the ready, made Cyril flinch. Fucking hell, he didn't even notice as he instinctively began to absorb magic from the environment, restoring the spent energy. Running a wave of his own energy through his subtle bodies, he etched the wild magic that was clearly giving off earth and fire from himself, while at the same time correcting the weave of the illusion-barrier that was also being affected by the local increased magical background. Having made sure that the disguise and defence were in good order, Cyril drove the unnecessary thoughts out of his head by an effort of will. Moving along the ancient road, their group soon reached a fork and turned right. As they rounded a huge rock that stretched straight out of the floor and into the ceiling, they saw the passage to the next room.

The dwarves who lived here had once ennobled it, turning it into a good tunnel, protected by solid fortifications and covered with gates. Now, however, the fortifications were almost completely destroyed, and only memories of the powerful gates remained. It seemed that everything of any value had been removed long ago. When he saw the passageway, First, who was running at the head of the squad, shouted:

"Faster! We need to get away from here as far and as fast as possible! Once we pass the next hall, we can slow down the pace, and at the same time find out where our saviors are... The barriers!!!"

The dark elf's sharp shout cut across his ears, almost causing Cyril to stumble. The ‘advanced basics of magical combat tactics’, as well as dozens of training sessions at the training ground, had given him the necessary reflexes. As soon as he heard the shout of the First, the young man instantly, without even thinking about it, poured additional energy into the illusion-barrier that covered them, strengthening its second component. It was enough, but barely, when something swiftly swept over their squad, striking them with some analogue of an air blade. If Cyril hadn't strengthened the barrier, it might have been sad. The attack was powerful and unpleasantly calibrated, draining the defence by nearly half.

The squad of fugitives braked sharply. Someone ran into someone else, only by a miracle none of the non-combatants fell or got hurt, there were frightened screams of women and children, curses of men, who turned their heads around, looking for a threat, but they were all drowned out by the natural cry of First, full of anger:

"Sound barriers, fast!!!"

Thanks to the preliminary briefing, Cyril instantly understood what the dark elf meant and covered their group with another special barrier prepared in advance, pouring a solid portion of reserve into its weave. This type of barrier wouldn't even hold a simple magical arrow. Or an ordinary non-magical arrow. But it was very good at keeping out sounds. Any kind of sound. As well as magic attacks based on them. The mentor did the same. It was the only thing that saved the group of fugitives when they were bombarded by a shrieking shriek-squeal that would have otherwise guaranteed burst eardrums. That was at best, at worst, you could die. But this was just an ear-splitting noise, like when you suddenly turned up the volume of music in your headphones. Also unpleasant, but tolerable.

Mentally cursing, Cyril restored the integrity of the protective and acoustic barrier with a series of short and precise actions, which had become almost automatic, thanks to the acquired ‘master skills of creating magical barriers’. This drank all the remaining drops of magic from the source crystal, which became a simple glass again. At the same time, they managed to get a good look at the monster that had attacked them. And the sight of a naturally large Garcain, twice as big as its relatives, with light grey skin, somehow immediately became sad. One glance at the monster that had landed in the middle of the road between the squad and the passage to the neighbouring hall was enough to understand that this was a really strong creature! It wasn't much stronger than the harakain that had smelled it in the shelter, and even that one wasn't a weakling.

And that meant exactly one thing. The creature that blocked their way was an old one. It had lived for more than a couple of centuries, had accumulated a lot of experience, and, judging by what Cyrill saw with his magical vision, was full of energy right now. In any case, its subtle bodies, which became visible after the sound attack, were glowing brightly against the background of the surrounding space, full of energy. Apparently, the bloodsucker had recently had a good meal, and now it wanted a rare treat in the form of surface dwellers. How did he spot them?! And why didn't they notice him?!

Cyril got the answer to the last question almost immediately, when the monster's aura turned pale in a second, and then disappeared, as if completely absorbed into the ancient Garcain's large body. In his magical vision, he became practically invisible. His first question went unanswered, and he didn't have much time for questions. They were all very lucky that the creature had clearly not expected that its trademark combination of attacks would be practically ineffective. And the coveted prey, instead of lying helplessly unconscious, would strike back. And the blow turned out to be a good one!

Diantrel was the first to react and strike, which was not surprising. Centuries of experience in the Forest Guard were telling. The arc of lightning that flashed dazzlingly in the darkness of the Underworld from the tip of the sorceress's silver wand struck the monster, which had not expected it, right in the chest, with a loud cracking sound, digging into the thick hide and splashing in all directions with pieces of burnt meat and sparks. It was good that Cyril had adjusted his defenses in advance, so it easily passed their attacks. The nomadic steppes did not lag behind the elven woman, proving that not only the firstborn were skilled in archery. A pair of white-feathered arrows, fired by the eldest of the steppe men and the young orc, whistled ravenously through the air and into the monster's carcass.

The latter, to his credit, also reacted instantly, jumping back and up with a loud squeal, pushing off with his powerful hind paws and swinging his webbed front paws a couple of times. If he hadn't put magic energy into these movements, Physics would have left the chat room, or even deleted her account in this world. Because otherwise, such a large carcass could not have jumped so quickly and far away. As it landed on a large rock that stood next to the road, the Garcain emitted a short series of sharp clicks and a shrill shriek-whine, apparently expressing its categorical disapproval of such behavior on the part of its prey.

And if he had limited himself to that, it would have been half the trouble. Another three arrows fired by the steppes, and a reinforced magical arrow sent by Cyril, he deflected with a flap of his right paw-wing. And he did not just close himself with it, no, for a second his parted membranes clearly formed a protective barrier in front of him, which the magic arrow shattered and from which the elven arrows ricocheted. And as if that weren't enough, Cyril could clearly see, thanks to his tiara, that the wound on the monster's chest left by his mentor's lightning was rapidly healing. The blood that had come out was hissing and foaming with a bloody haze, and underneath was a fresh pelt. The two elven arrows stuck into him were pushed out of the wounds, and the wounds closed without a trace.

//"Dammit," was all the young man had time to think, intercepting the battle baton, when First burst out with a series of commands:

"Hold the barriers! Move forward! Don't let him get to us, drive him away with arrows and magic! Quickly, new ones will fly here now! We need to get to the passage..."

"You can't!" A loud growl from an elderly orc interrupted the dark elf.

Pointing his glowing spear upwards towards the ceiling, which was lost in the darkness, he continued:

"His henchmen smell my лhao, under the vault of stone lurk, waiting for us, exactly above the passage, the trap is being prepared by the blood-laughing bastards...."

Before he had finished listening to the old man, First glanced up quickly, his eyes flared with magical fire for a moment, and he swore briefly:

"Smart bastards! Diantrel!"

Cyril's mentor, who had understood everything from the first word, raised her right hand with a silver wand clasped in it. A branching bolt of lightning burst from its tip and struck somewhere upward, into the ceiling of the underground hall, lost in the darkness. No, Diantrel didn't just hit the ceiling, but a couple of crystals that shimmered there, the largest. The effect was impressive; both crystals flashed dazzling light and then exploded with a deafening rumble. And if the first effect was ignored by the blind Garcains hiding among the stalactites, the rumbling and fountains of splinters were not to their liking.

With loud shrieks, nearly a dozen of the creatures that had been hiding skillfully between the stalactites fell from the ceiling. Most of them managed to land properly, but at least two of them crashed to the hard floor of the subterranean hall and were left lying there as broken piles of flesh. One of them was also struck by a stalactite, epically smearing him into a bloody pulp. Their leader reacted with another indignant shrieking and shrieking, and in one deft movement jumped backwards off the cliff. With a wave of webbed paws-wings, he flew sharply toward the ceiling and ... It vanished into thin air. At first, his not insignificant carcass became vague, and after a couple of moments simply disappeared. Cyril could neither see nor feel him, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe his old diadem would have been able to detect a creature, but not the one he had been given as a replacement. The smaller Garcains, on the other hand, were clearly visible. They, too, scattered in different directions, circling around the fleeing squad, but at a respectful distance.

First, cursing briefly again, ordered:

"Cirial, the barriers are on you! Don't get distracted by anything else! Diantrel! Be ready, this degenerate will try to distract us with his henchmen and strike! Be ready to meet him with lightning bolts! The rest of you be on standby, but only hit for sure when and if we can knock him to the ground! Use enchanted arrows, he can't use regular arrows! Guur'Aar!"

The old shaman continuously turned his head. His yellow eyes burning with magical fire and clutching his carved spear, he cast a brief questioning glance at the dark elf.

"Can you keep his little one busy with your cats?"

The old orc nodded affirmatively, his powerful fangs glinting unkindly, and waved his hand. At the same moment, the two spirits who had been hovering at his feet, who had taken the guise of saber-toothed cats, some of whose fangs and claws had been presented to them as payment, joyfully rushed to the attack. But not head-on, but as cats are supposed to do - from ambush. The already translucent outlines of the partially-realized spirits became completely invisible, even in magical vision, as they rushed forward, beyond the illusion-barrier.

The squad moved forward, toward the saving passage to the next room. The steppe women, clutching their protective amulets and holding their children to them, along with the pale as death restaurant workers, walked in the center. The rest of the fugitives, holding their weapons at the ready, covered them from all sides. Unfortunately, the fact that they had to watch all directions now made it impossible to move as fast as before. In addition, it became clear almost immediately that the inhabitants of the dead dwarven city knew how to hunt in a pack, and, even worse, how to work with magic-protected prey.

Or maybe it was their leader's partial control that organized their work. Her mentor had mentioned during her lectures that some pack monsters and beasts were capable of such things. Their leaders could create analogs of a common mental network, allowing them to perfectly coordinate attacks. In any case, a dozen smaller Garcains did not attack the barriers head-on. Instead, they began to fly higher, accelerate, and drop rock and stone fragments on the fugitives. And they were disgustingly accurate. And, what infuriated Cyril even more, their tactics were about to pay off.

The squad was covered by a solid dome barrier, which meant it took more energy to maintain than a segmented barrier. But using a segmented barrier was too risky. If the creature spotted them, it could also see the gaps in the defense by hitting them. And each hit of rock or stone that cracked or flew aside with a rumble would drain the reserve of the entire barrier. Individually, it's not too much, but all together and at such a rate, they threatened to completely drain the reserve of the defense quickly enough, then he would have to either spend our forces to maintain it, or use tokens with modifiers again. It was absolutely unacceptable for the defense to lose its reserve, otherwise, there was a risk of not being able to hold off the new attack of the leader that was circling somewhere under the ceiling, waiting for the right moment. The more so that the creature now understood what it was dealing with, and had probably calculated the necessary force of the blow.

In part, the fugitives' lives were made easier by the shaman's cats, who proved they had received their offering for a reason. When another Garcain landed in the distance, thinking he was safe, and was about to pick up a new stone, a half-blurred shadow fell on him from the top of the cliff. The terrified and strangled scream of the monster was cut short almost immediately when a pair of large fangs sank into the base of its neck from the back. And not only did they sink in, but they instantly lengthened, reaching into its insides, piercing them and burning out its life energy at the same time. A few moments later, the creature was dead, and the half-blurred shadow of a contented saber-toothed feline was gone in a single leap into the darkness of the Underworld.

Alas, the Garcains (or was it their leader?) immediately noticed or sensed the death of their fellow man and drew conclusions, beginning to land only in pairs to pick up the next shells. But the old shaman's spirits once again proved their hunting prowess, catching the next pair and jointly attacking two monsters at once, only to let out muffled squeals as the saber fangs sank into their flesh. But that was the end of their success, and for one of the kitties, if not for good, then for a very long time. They had time to jump away from their slain prey, seeking to hide again in the darkness of the Underцщкдв, when a barely recognizable shadow and a wind whistled over them with great speed. At the same instant, one of the cats was sliced in half in a leap, from muzzle to tail. The partially material body of the unfortunate spirit was almost immediately disembodied by the air blade.

The old shaman staggered backwards at the moment of impact, a muffled growl and a grimace of pain. One of his two finely carved fangs, which hung from a separate cord around his neck, instantly turned black and turned to dust. But the old orc came to his senses quickly, only to hiss something in the steppe tongue and cast an angry glance of his yellow eyes into the darkness of the Underworld, where the Garcain leader circled invisibly above the group.

When the fugitives had passed about halfway through the passage, he struck again, directly at them. The light gray big man's attack was flawless. It was decades, if not centuries, of experience. He accelerated, and with additional acceleration and magic, he swooped down from somewhere below the ceiling, not visible until the last moment. The blow of the air blade this time was many times more powerful than in the previous time, and if Cyril, after the first attack, on the mental advice of his mentor had not rebuilt the defense, adding another layer-barrier, some of the fugitives could have been hollowed out like a poor saber-toothed cat.

The elfess swung her wand in her hand, but there was no time to do anything. The Chief Garcain had already disappeared. The elven woman cursed briefly, her eyes burning with magical fire as she ran her gaze along the vaults of the underground hall, which were lost in the darkness.

"Skillful, bastard... First, I can't detect him, he's too fast and camouflaged well! We need to use some kind of illumination, or..."

"No way! We need to get to the passage before more flocks come here! Otherwise, we're all finished! Move, move!"

And the squad continued forward, cursing through clenched teeth and still turning their heads around. It didn't help, though. The ringleader's next attack was again unseen, as he attacked them from behind. He could not break through the defense, but the reserve of barrier domes was less than half, forcing Cyril to hastily patch up the defense, which continued to be pelted with rocks and stones thrown by small minions.

"Diantrel!" First's next shout coincided with the frightened screams of women and the swearing of men.

"I can't detect him! He's too fast and stealthy!"

"Then create a whirlwind around us! Or a hurricane! It will not let him get closer!"

"It won't work quickly, there's too much wild magic of the depths and fire here, the air weaves are weakened..."

"HALT! BARRIERS!!!"

Another shriek from First made the group stop again, luckily, this time they were not moving as fast as when they had started running, and no one was bumping into anyone. A large stalactite collapsed onto the road in front of them, shattering into a multitude of splinters and debris that splattered in all directions. If it hadn't been for the protective barriers, into which Cyril had invested an additional reserve by honed reflex, this stone shrapnel would have sliced their group to pieces. Still, the power of the multi-ton stone block was such that some of the fugitives could not stand on their feet because of the shuddering floor, and the defences sagged again from the debris hitting them. If the leader had struck at the same moment, he would have had a chance to pierce it with his air blade, but he was saved by his mentor.

Diantrel, apparently having foreseen the creature's actions, a moment before the stalactite fell, with a sharp swing of her silver wand, she lit a trio of blindingly bright ball lightning bolts around their group, which began to swirl rapidly. One of them was nearly hit by a Garcain who was already accelerating, but at the last moment he managed to dodge and break the attack. The ball of lightning detached a single discharge, which struck the creeper, but did no harm to the monster, which disappeared back into the darkness. The fugitives who had risen to their feet, cursing the creature, moved on, bypassing the stalactite, towards the saving passage, which was nearer and nearer, but at the same time infinitely far away.

Wiping away the sweat on his forehead, Cyril frantically tried to think of what to do! At this rate, this bastard would either break through their defences with his attacks, or come up with some other trick before they got to this passageway! What do we do?! How do we catch him, how do we spot him?! His disguise is good; it doesn't drop until the moment of attack, so you can't spot him beforehand, only when he hits the barrier. If I could catch him at the moment of impact, but ... RIGHT!

The idea-insight came suddenly, thanks to Cyril's “masterful skills of creating magical barriers”. In particular, a new technique, which he had never known about before, and which his mentor had never told him about. It could be called an analog of dynamic protection, which had to be built into the weave of the protective barrier. It was ideally intended to repel attacks of physical projectiles, but it should work against this bastard as well. Cyril, enlightened by the idea, began to embed seals and weaves into the outer barrier, infusing them with additional power and distributing them staggered across the surface.

He'd barely made eight of them, covering the dome's entire hemisphere, adjusting them so they wouldn't be triggered by the projectiles kept falling from above. The Garcain leader attacked again. And he would surely regret that decision bitterly. Once again, none of the fugitives had time to notice him or do anything about it. But the defense created by Cyril reacted to the blow instantly. At the very moment when the monster's wing, reinforced with magic and turned into the basis for a powerful air blade, struck the barrier, trying to break a hole in it, the seals-weaves of the dynamic defense detonated. However, due to Cyril's mistake of not adjusting the necessary nodes of the weave, they detonated all at once. Which, however, turned out to be for the best.

Because no one had expected it. Not the Garcain leader, who lost control of his flight and, with a loud shriek, skidded across their group to crash into a thicket of glowing, tall mushrooms. Neither the fugitives, who burst into another round of frightened screams (mostly women) or pithy curses (mostly men). Even Cyril involuntarily ducked when, just half a metre above his head, eight defence seals exploded simultaneously. If it hadn't been for the acoustic barrier, it would have been deafening. The other fugitives crouched down, and some of them threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads with their hands, not realising what had happened! Diantrel, who also reflexively crouched down and covered herself and her companions with a separate barrier, was one of the first to come to her senses, and even managed to send her student an indignant thought-image, the general message of which was reduced to the words: ‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’, but he was ahead of her, shouting loudly:

"Knocked him out!!! There he is, there he is!!! Let's take him down, let's take him down before he escapes!!!"

Cyril backed up his words with a series of swings of his wand, from the tip of which came off one after another reinforced magical arrows. The young man didn't spare any reserves, his heart was pounding like crazy, and there was one single thought in his head: to finish! Finish the beaten monster, not to let it rise into the air again and escape! All the more reason to do so! Because the Garcaine leader had clearly not benefited from landing in a thicket of glowing mushrooms. The subterranean flora (or is it mushroom fauna?), clearly did not appreciate the fact that a huge carcass of a maturing monster had collapsed on them, crushing and breaking them. Their response was immediate and as straightforward as possible: the entire fungus threw out simultaneously a huge and dense cloud of glowing spores. The cloud of glowing spores thickly enveloped the monster that had fallen into it.

And he was not to his liking, the Garcain leader, who almost instantly came to his senses and leapt to his feet, bounced away with a loud shriek, making a couple of sharp flaps of his wing-paws. He landed far away from the glowing cloud and began to twirl and claw furiously. And its light grey skin, especially in the places where it had been scorched by the explosions of Cyril's dynamic barrier protection seals, began to decompose and fall off in pieces from the spores.

It was clear that in such a situation, the monster was not happy with the three reinforced magical arrows that flew at him. A moment later, the rest of the fugitives joined in. A shrieking shriek, again painful to the ears, coincided with a volley of enchanted arrows that also exploded when they hit the monster's carcass. Another lightning bolt from Cyril's mentor was not far behind, which in turn was supplemented by fire arrows from the magical wands issued to the Caliphates, and a powerful blob of supercooled water launched by Shalah-Ana.

But even all that didn't kill the tough monster. It didn't make him happy, though. So much so, in fact, that the Garcain leader suddenly realised that even his regeneration abilities might not be enough under such fire. And that somehow, there were easier prey. And anyway, he's the only one so good at his mum's, and he should take care of himself. So, without ceasing to make angry squeals, interspersed with clicks, he rushed to run on all fours, leaning on the folds of his front paws, trying to hide behind the nearest rocks. The main thing was to get away from this too toothy prey! He wasn't used to battles after all, preferring to ambush and end the hunt before it began. Protracted battles were not his style. The creature was definitely going to sit back and lick its wounds, but it had the strength to do so; the monster was old and, more importantly in the current situation, well-fed.

The more unpleasant it was for him to suddenly crash into a magical barrier that appeared out of nowhere, blocking the way to escape. And Cyril, who had formed it at a distance that was previously inaccessible (thanks again to ‘masterful skills of creating magical barriers’), continued yelling at the top of his voice:

"Kill him. Kill him now!!! He'll get away!"

His companions understood this as well as he did. The Steppe men sent one arrow after another, not sparing the enchanted ones that exploded on impact, tearing whole chunks of meat from the monster's carcass. After taking a few seconds to prepare, the mentor soared a few metres into the air to strike a blindingly bright bolt of lightning that rumbled deafeningly in the darkness of the Underworld. They were complemented by volleys from the battle wands issued to the Caliphates, which struck the rampaging monster with unsparing volleys. It tried with all the desperation of a doomed man to escape, break through the barrier, and save itself. He almost succeeded, simply by sheer power.

The final touch was made by the sabre-toothed cat, which crept up unnoticed, waited for the right moment, and attacked the wounded monster from the back, jumping from the nearest rock protruding from the floor of the stone hall. The long saber fangs pierced the wounded and thinning skin of the monster in one precise blow, and once embedded, instantly lengthened to reach its innards. The Garcain leader twitched and collapsed to the stone floor in a broken heap of scarred flesh. But for a few more seconds, magical and ordinary arrows flew at him, tormenting his already dead body. The process was interrupted by First's shout:

"Enough!"

Cyril froze with a reinforced magical arrow ready to burst from the tip of his wand. Breathing heavily from excitement, he slowly extinguished the formed weave and lowered the wand, looking at the dead monster. There was no doubt it was dead, thanks to the System reporting a level 23 gain. For a few seconds, the whole squad stood, weapons at the ready, looking at the smoking corpse of the creature, which was rapidly decomposing, thanks to the mushroom spores. But they didn't get to admire the fruits of their victory for long:

"Well done!" First nodded to Cyrill, "And now let's run for now... RUN, FAST!!!"

The dark elf suddenly shouted the last phrase, so it was probably heard throughout the underground hall. Cyril and the rest of the fugitives took their eyes off the dead Garcain leader, trying to understand the reason for First's sudden commotion. And then they did. Above the ruins of the suburbs of the dead dwarven city that had been left behind, dozens of Garcains were flying upwards, one after another. They were rushing towards them, hurrying to join the dozen that were still circling above the fugitives, but no longer risking to fire at them. The death of the leader must have made a serious impression on them.

For a moment, the fugitives stared at the new monsters flying up. Then, in a single impulse, they all rushed out, heading for the passage leading to the neighbouring hall. A young orc threw a shrieking elderly steppe woman on his shoulder, and two young steppe men also picked up the children and threw them on their shoulders. The orc-shaman took from his neck an amulet made of several feathers and bird claws and tossed it into the air with a low growl, causing it to burst into flames and burn. All the fugitives were immediately blown away by a gust of fresh wind, which made their legs feel light and the accumulated fatigue disappear.

The spirit that had fulfilled its part of the bargain immediately left the Underworld, he didn't like. Humans and nonhumans rushed forward. And it had to be said that Cyril had never run so fast before, not even under the stimulating alchemy of the day before. The remaining distance to the tunnel entrance, he and his unwilling companions literally flew, thanks to the strengthening of the air spirit. When they were only a few steps away from the saving entrance, First, who was rushing ahead of everyone with his eyes burning with magical fire and his battle staff at the ready, shouted:

"Cirial, block the passage with a barrier! Diantrel, help him!!!"

The dark elf didn't have to say it twice. When the last fugitives ran into the tunnel, Cyril, who had slowed down, and his mentor, who had stopped next to him, using direct exchange of thoughts, began to form the barrier weave together. And it turned out to be surprisingly easy; they literally formed it in four hands, and the leading role was played by Cyril, who now understood barriers, suddenly, even more than his mentor. The young man wove the basis of the barrier weave, immediately incorporating elements of dynamic defence into its structure. Diantrel, for a moment unable to contain her surprise at her student's use of this technique, began to infuse them with her energy. As a result, almost two dozen protective seals embedded in the tunnel barrier were charged with various variants of air blades and lightning.

And the defence was good! Cyril and Diantrel had invested nearly a third of their reserves into the weave of the barrier, making it as stable and strong as possible. And just a moment after it had separated them from the abandoned subterranean hall, a Garcain landed at the entrance to the tunnel, just a fraction of the size of the slain leader. With an angry shriek, the monster slammed the clawed fold of its front paw into him. The monster was immediately knocked backwards with a loud shriek, struck by a lightning bolt.

Cyril added a couple of magic arrows with a short sweep of his wand, causing the monster to fly back upwards. Without paying attention to him, the mentor took out a trio of crystals powered by her student's source and connected them to the barrier, ensuring that it would last long enough to escape. When she was sure that everything was working, she, Cyril, and Armina, who was covering them, rushed forward, following the other fugitives, waiting for them in the middle of the tunnel.

The tunnel itself wasn't too long, and it was wide enough. There was even lighting, a few dim crystals embedded in the ceiling and the side walls, but they glowed, thinly enough to dispel the darkness of the Underworld. There were no side rooms or branches in the tunnel. There were a couple, but they were completely blocked by collapsed ceilings and rock fragments. It was obvious, even to the unarmed eye, that a fierce battle had once taken place here. There were potholes on the walls, the marks of someone's monstrous claws, and in some places, the stone walls were melted. It had been a long ago, though, and the tunnel had obviously been cleaned up.

In any case, it was possible to walk along it quite normally, the main thing was to watch your step. When Cyrill, together with the mentor and Armina, reached the rest of the fugitives waiting for them, First asked briefly:

"How much time do we have?"

"If they don't break through, it will last an hour. Ciriall added trap-seals to the barrier, maybe they will scare these creatures away altogether."

This news clearly pleased everyone, and relief appeared on the faces of the exhausted humans and non-humans. First nodded with satisfaction and said:

"Great, then let's not waste time! Let's move on. We need to go through the next hall, then we can look for a new shelter and rest. Everyone, check your defense and equipment! Kiriall, you have the same defense as before."

"Got it!"

While the rest of his companions changed the storage crystals in their battle wands or counted and checked the remaining arrows, the young man rebuilt a protective barrier over their group. Armina, standing next to him when he finished, handed him a flask, and Cyril, nodding gratefully to the girl, took a few greedy sips. The water was cool and pleasant to the taste, but with a tangible tinge of wild earth-type magic. It must have been drawn from some local source.

"Everybody ready? Then go ahead and be ready! The exits from these passages between the underground halls are favourite ambush points for the predators of the Underworld! Keep your weapons ready, we've made quite a splash, so there's a good chance they're waiting for us."

Everyone immediately became deadly serious. With their weapons at the ready, their squad moved forward towards the visible exit. Everyone kept their weapons at the ready, ready to repel a surprise attack. When they were a couple of steps away from the exit, there was another shriek, a shriek, and the rattle of defence seals. Kirill and Diantrel turned around and simultaneously listened to the barrier behind them. Minus two more seals, but the barrier itself was in good order, which could not help but make them happy.... Another shriek, and minus another seal. What the hell?! What are they...

The mentor understood the meaning of what had happened first, and, swearing quietly, she shouted sharply:

"Damn it, they're sending the smallest and weakest to slaughter to disarm the protective seals! Once they're gone, the big ones will quickly break the barrier..."

"Damn them... Forward! Everyone, get ready, strengthen your defenses, especially from above!"

The fugitive squad, weapons at the ready, rushed towards the tunnel exit. But there was no attack; their motley company ran calmly out. And immediately stopped at First's command, halting at the small tiled area in front of the exit. The dark elf, half a step away, with his weapon in his hands, said in a quiet and stunned voice:

"What the fuck..."

The same thought flashed through Deantrel's mind. Thanks to the mental connection, Cyril, who was running beside her, instantly realized the reason for the confusion of both elves. And he didn't like it at all. The reason was that they had gotten to the wrong hall. According to Diantrel's mental images, Cyril realized that they should have gotten into a very large cave that should have been similar to the wild part of the underground hall from which they had come. But there was nothing like it.

Straight ahead was a strip of open space stretched about fifty meters in either direction. It was tiled and not very wide. Behind it was a wall of massive stone blocks. As high as a five-story house, it ran from the floor to the ceiling of the underground hall. It was clearly a fortress wall, built in the same style as the buildings in the ruined suburbs of the dwarven city from which their group had escaped. In front of it was a dry moat in the stone floor of the underground hall, and in the wall itself were visible narrow windows, from which it was very convenient to fire with battle staffs. In the center of the wall, covered on the sides by two protruding fortifications, there was a single wide entrance, up to the height of the second floor, to which a hinged bridge led. The bridge had both its lifting chains broken, and one of the massive gate leaves was broken off, lying in a ditch nearby.

The whole wall bore numerous traces of the fierce battle. Numerous potholes, in some places the stone massif was melted, and in a couple of places there were real holes, gaping darkly. The very space in front of it, paved with tiles, was in many places littered with rock fragments, there were craters in some places, and in a couple of places there were deep cracks in the floor. First took a step back and said sharply:

"Back! Let's all move back!"

"What?! Why?!" shouted one of the fugitives, apparently Shinda-Bakh's assistant.

"Something's wrong! This isn't the hall we're..."

First turned back to the other fugitives, but he stopped short. Even under the hooded mask, his violet eyes widened, burning with magical fire. Cyril twitched and turned around sharply, almost simultaneously with his mentor, preparing to meet the new threat from behind. But instead, they were both stunned by what they saw. Because the tunnel from which they had all just escaped was no longer behind them. There was only the solid rock face of the side wall of the underground hall. A wide, semicircular archway of some dark material, covered with dimly glowing runic symbols, was built into it.

Only one symbol was burning brightly and clearly, located exactly in the center of the arch, at its very top. Cyril stared at it for a second, and then the center-top symbol went out, as dim as all the other symbols. At the same moment, the young man and the rest of the gifted in their motley company clearly felt the emanations of the already familiar Cyril's weaves, which had been completely hidden before and were now fading fast. The weave of the portal. The portal that had just closed behind their backs, the last echoes of which were fading before their eyes. A few moments, and the runic symbols on the portal arch embedded in the rock face were completely extinguished.

One by one, the uncomprehending fugitives turned around and saw the disappearing tunnel. And all of them, one by one, froze in shock. First expressed the general opinion, saying in a doomed and tired voice:

"It just fucking awesome..."

* * *

Cyrill's status at the end of Chapter Seventeen:

Name: Cyrill

Level: 23

Class: Wizard

Characteristics: (free) 1; (limited) 0

Talents: (free) 3 (limited): 3

Companion Modification Points (2)

Constitution: 2

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 10

Control: 6

Source: 11

Spirit: 1

Resistance: 2

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written: Classical Elvish, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy;

General knowledge:

‘Advanced management and control of internal energies’, “developed skills of working with external energy sources”, “master skills of creating magical barriers”, “developed skills of creating magical weaves”, “advanced basics of techniques of magical dueling with battle wands”, “developed tantric techniques of energy recovery”, ‘advanced basics of creating and using ritual circles’, “advanced basics of tactics of magical combat”, “advanced basics of working with advanced amulets and artefacts”, “advanced methods of magical search”, “developed general weaving of elemental magic”, “developed methods of magical disguise”, “basic skills of working under water”.

Core/root knowledge:

Developed Mastery of the School of Illusion:

Creation and maintenance of point, small, medium and large territorial illusions.

Creation and maintenance of static, dynamic and adaptive illusions of all types.

Creation and maintenance of illusory doubles/clones/copies.

Creation and maintenance of hypnotic illusions of a wide range.

Creation and maintenance of complex illusions of a wide profile.

Thickening and saturation of created illusions.

Minor Knowledge:

"Protective Field (Elite)"

Acquired properties:

‘Blessing of Harmonious Magical Development’, “Strengthening of Subtle Bodies II”, “Regeneration of Subtle Bodies II”, “Magic in Blood (Elite)”, “Enhanced Magic”(Power 10), “Source of Magic”(Source 10)

System modifiers:

‘System Assignment III’, ‘Intensive Development III’, ‘Access to System Purchases IV’

Tokens:

Companion Modifier Restore 1/10, Companion Enhancement 9/10, Awesome Melons 81/100, "French Kiss 25/25", "Naughty Tongue 3/3", "Temporary Magic Source (Granting Lust and Passion) 4/5", "Role Change Guarantee 1/1"

Special:

Chosen by Aurial the Magnificent, Supreme Keeper of the Balance of Worlds, Standing Guard of the Balance of Powers: hidden effects.

Active Ability: "Share the Burden of the Chosen One II"

Available number of activations: 1 (recharge 1 standard month).

Available number of companions: 2

* * *
Author's Note:

56 shits. Brinar thought he could do it like Avada, but he couldn't. So the chapter was split into two parts. I'll start writing the sequel today and try not to take too long.

Traditionally, good for everyone.

P.S. Approximate appearance of Garcains:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FO2a9zmauGwuTlZCykmcIbYh5KbjXJuB/view?usp=drive_link

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1u-068rUhiw9wybtxWOGJWtRFwpyJQNh7/view?usp=drive_link

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/586937

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP