Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Глава девятнадцатая. Новые препоны на пути домой Героя Королевы Эльфов

Chapter Nineteen: New Obstacles on the Elf Queen's Hero's Journey Home

* * *

Almost two dozen humans and non-humans lined up in a semicircle around the three-dimensional and schematic image of the vault, looking at it attentively and tensely. At the same time, they all stood so that they could at least see the entrance to this very vault out of the corner of their eye. Cyrill projected this image, gradually made adjustments and corrections to it following the instructions of First, who constantly checked his diary. At first, the rather simple image became more and more detailed, acquiring schematic signs or notes. When the dark elf considered it detailed enough, he put the diary away and said in a calm but extremely serious voice:

"So, listen very carefully. If we want to get out of here, we need to get to the vault itself."

The round room in the very center, where the side passages converged in the shape of a cross, was illuminated more brightly by a mental command from Cyrill, who poured an additional drop of strength into the three-dimensional image.

"This is where the Chief Keeper's post is located, from which the entire storage facility is controlled."

The schematic image of a bearded smiley face in a crown located in the very center of the round room began to glow brighter. Shinda-Bah, who was carefully examining the schematic map, turned his gaze to the dark elf and asked:

"Is that true, venerable First? Wouldn't it be wiser to place such an important place as far from the entrance as possible?"

"Absolutely right," the dark elf nodded affirmatively. "As our would-be saviors explained, it could not have been placed anywhere but in the center. Placing it anywhere else would have made the tricks with castling space impossible. And they are precisely our first and, perhaps, main problem on the way to the storage."

Making a gesture, First pointed to the side of the cross that led from the entrance to the round room in the center.

"In order to get to the center, we need to overcome this section."

Cyrill highlighted the two parallel corridors indicated by the First, each divided into ten segments.

"The distance from the entrance to the center is relatively small, but our opponent can instantly swap any of these twenty segments with any other segment in any other corridor."

At First's direction, Cyrill illuminated the other three sides of the square, which were also divided into equal parts of ten segments.

"This is the biggest problem for us, as it allows him to impose the terms of the fight on us. However, there is a possibility that everything is not so bad."

Everyone gathered around the projection of the storage looked expectantly at First, and he explained:

"Our would-be rescuers from Undermountain have thoroughly rummaged through their archives from the time of the fall of Kardarot and have found something. According to their records, in the last days of the city, the dwarves, fearing a possible breakthrough by the Horde warriors and the capture of the vault, reinforced it with an additional garrison. Because of this, the section of the vault opposite the entrance..."

The indicated side of the cross is highlighted on the diagram.

"... was urgently adapted for barracks, additional supply depots, and a hospital. To avoid possible problems and accidental tragedies, most of the defense systems were removed from it and distributed to other sides of the storage facility. Thus, there is a chance that the number of places our opponent can throw us is reduced by at least a third. However..."

And then First looked at everyone with a very expressive glance:

"Personally, I wouldn't count on it, considering how much time he's had to fix it. He could very well have set up that area as a trap for intruders again."

"Even one such move would be a big problem," Fekhtan said in a thoughtful and gloomy voice, scratching his chin. "If I were our enemy, I would throw us into the very depths of one of these areas at the first opportunity. And when we had covered most of the way to the center, I would transfer us to the next one."

"A very logical tactic," nodded First, "but fortunately, our saviors also reported good news regarding this problem. And it is that the trick with instant transfer is a very, very complicated thing. Our bearded saviors stubbornly refuse to provide any details regarding the principles of its operation, but claim that with a huge degree of probability, our enemy will not be able to use it too often. There are two reasons. The first is the centuries that have passed without proper maintenance of the equipment or artifact that allows this trick to be performed. According to the master architects of Undermountain, it is simply amazing that anything in the storage still works."

"I suppose," Diantrel interjected, her voice clearly tinged with a quiet mockery, "they did not miss the opportunity to emphasize this as proof of the incomparable skill of their ancestors."

"Four times, and that's just in correspondence with me," nodded First and continued, "So using this technique too often can simply lead to our opponent losing it altogether. The second reason why our opponent won't be able to use this trick too often is that it's very energy-consuming. Our opponent must have problems with energy. True, this doesn't lead to the most comforting conclusions..."

Turning to a couple of his rescued relatives, who were standing slightly apart from the rest of the fugitives, almost at attention, listening to his every word, First, in a gloomy voice, said:

"There are no natural sources of magic in this spatial lacuna by definition. Previously, all the storage weaves were powered by crystal storage devices. They were changed by charging them in Kardarot, in addition, the storage had a constant supply for a week of autonomous operation. In case of unforeseen circumstances, there were also several generators using alchemical fuel, their resource should have been enough for several more weeks. But..."

"But after the city fell, there was nowhere to replenish supplies... the spawn of darkness and the abyss..." whispered Litsana, her red eyes wide open.

Her brother cursed under his breath, his face noticeably darkening. The first, with an equally dark face, nodded:

"Exactly. Our saviors' analysts, having carefully considered everything, agreed that one of the reasons why it makes sense for our enemy to lure living guests to him is to use them as a source of energy. This is also supported by the fact that he tried to capture you alive." First nodded his head at the wreckage of the golem destroyed by Снrill.

"Puts them under the knife? Sacrificial practices?" Diantrel asked in a cold voice.

"Most likely. Or some other way to use living beings as a source of energy, without which this place would have simply collapsed long ago."

“And why else would the local enemy need the living?” asked the old shaman, who had also noticeably darkened after First’s words.

"Food, if our enemy needs it at all,” the dark elf shrugged, surprisingly indifferently.

"The Senior of our squad is gifted," Ilidris said slowly, with a thoughtful expression. "She is not nearly as strong as you, venerable one," the dark elf nodded towards Diantrel, "but she is far from being an apprentice. She has studied the magic more than diligently..."

"Then there is hope that she is still alive. Although it may well be that she is not too happy about it. I cannot vouch for the rest of the hunters in your squad."

"I suggest we return to discussing the obstacles on our way to the center of the storage facility," Diantrel returned the conversation to its previous course.

First nodded and said:

"Agreed. So, in addition to spatial castling, another problem we will certainly encounter is the doors between sectors. Some, according to you," First turned to his rescued kin, "were destroyed. But some survived. And our enemy has definitely fenced off the approaches to the center of the storage facility with segments with doors."

Without waiting for a sign from First, Cyrill highlighted the necessary sections on the diagram. Those segments of the side passages of the cross that adjoined the central round room.

"Couldn't he have blocked them off completely, by filling them up and sealing them, thus leaving only one way to the vault from one of these sides?" asked Shinda-Bah, pointing to the three dead-end sides of the cross.

"That would be the most reasonable option if our opponent didn't have energy problems and could easily move his golems and other constructs between the sides using spatial castling," the dark elf shook her head, "And he almost certainly does, so he can't completely deprive himself of the ability to move freely between sectors. So there are definitely passages there. But I seriously doubt our opponent will be kind enough to keep them open. And that's a problem."

"While we're trying to get through some locked doors, he can throw us to the other side of the vault."

"Exactly," nodded First, "not to mention that I seriously doubt his constructs will stand aside. Not to mention the stationary defense systems and traps."

"In that case," said Litsana, folding her arms across her chest, "there is no point in going straight ahead. The enemy will simply wear us out with constant redeployments. But we," at that moment she looked meaningfully at First, "can try to secretly penetrate the storage facility and seize the post of the Chief Watcher."

First looked at her in response with some strange expression and said:

"Right. We can try to penetrate. And with a high degree of probability, our attempt will end at the first tightly locked gate between segments. Which will need to be opened, and it is very unlikely that we will be able to do this unnoticed. And as soon as we reveal ourselves, we will immediately be thrown under attack by the constructs."

These words caused a barely noticeable annoyance to flash across the dark elf's face. Her brother asked:

"Are we sure there's no way to sneak in?"

"In response, First shook his head:"

"If I had a full set of 'Uninvited Guest' gear, I would risk trying to sneak in. But without it, trying to pick or otherwise bypass the dwarven doors... Practically no chance."

"And you definitely won't have it with you, venerable First?" Shalah-Ana asked with a strange expression on her face and some timid hope in her voice, looking at the dark elf, "Or with one of your companions?"

After these words, all the fugitives looked at the dark elf. He looked back at the ship's sorceress for a few moments, then slowly turned to Diantrel. Cyrill's mentor exchanged glances with him for a few seconds, and then said in a detached voice:

"There is definitely no full set of equipment for covert penetrations. But I do have some things in stock..."

What Cyrill's involuntary companions thought at that moment, he didn't even want to guess. The first one, with a strange intonation in his voice, asked:

"Really? I never cease to admire your foresight and thriftiness. May I ask what you have?"

Diantrel looked at First meaningfully and made a short gesture with her hand. The dark elf understood and stepped aside with her. As soon as it happened, their figures became half-blurred and their words turned into an incoherent set of sounds. Several minutes passed in this way. All the fugitives kept their eyes on the figures of the elves, not forgetting to glance towards the entrance to the vault. Of course, the eye spirit of the old shaman kept watch, but still, caution is not superfluous. Shinda-Bah was the first to break the silence, saying quietly but distinctly:

"Maybe she still has a small portal circle..."

At these words, Ilidris and Litsana simultaneously looked at the Caliphate captain as if he were an idiot. Cyrill shook his head and replied:

"Unfortunately, definitely not."

The two dark elves looked at him as if he were an idiot. Then, seeing that the young half-elf seemed to be serious, they looked at each other. They looked again at Shinda-Bah. Then again, at Cyril. Looked at the rest of the fugitives. They looked at each other again. Cyrill could literally hear how, in their heads, with a terrible creaking, trying to get into their heads the idea that what they had just heard was not a stupid joke. At least, not entirely. But before they could ask anything, the figures of First and Diantrel were clear again, and turning back to the others, the dark elf spoke in an unexpectedly cheerful voice:

"Well, thanks to the foresight of the venerable Diantrel, I can say with confidence that our chances of penetrating the center of the storage facility unnoticed have increased significantly."

"It’s good to hear that,” Ilidris commented on what he heard.

Turning to Diantrel, he asked in a polite voice:

"Will the venerable sorceress come with us? Or should we risk going in a small group?"

In response, First chuckled and shook his head:

"We will all go."

Hearing these words, his kinsmen again quickly exchanged glances. Then they cast a glance at the women and children of the steppe dwellers standing behind their men. Then they looked again at First. Folding her arms across her chest, Littsana said in an extremely polite voice, while making an extremely skeptical expression on her face:

"Honorable First, if your companions from among the lesser races have displeased you in some way, there are many ways to end their lives without putting your eternity at mortal risk."

The dark elf completely ignored the extremely unkind glances thrown at her by all the steppe dwellers and the Caliphates. First one smiled wryly and answered in a calm voice:

"Leaving them here would also mean condemning them to death. After all, as soon as we leave, nothing will stop our enemy from sending a detachment of his construct servants here, against whom the noncombatants will be unable to do anything."

"Here they have a much better chance of survival, especially if the venerable sorceress and her apprentice properly shelter them. In battle, however, they will become a useless and deadly burden for those who are able to fight, but will be forced to focus on them instead of fighting. The most reasonable thing would be to leave those unable to fight and walk stealthily here under the cover of protective barriers. Even without the support of the venerable sorceress, they can hold out for a long time, relying on the ritual circle."

As Litsana spoke, the heat in the gazes of the steppe dwellers and caliphates directed at her grew more and more intense, until they became positively scorching. The old shaman, frowning his gray eyebrows, as the oldest of them, was about to say something, but First one got ahead of him, saying with unexpected joy in his voice:

"I completely agree that they will be of no use in battle, but will only cause harm."

Stopping the shaman, who had started to rise again, First continued:

"But I don’t intend to leave anyone here either."

"Squinting, Ilidris asked:"

"Does this mean you have some kind of plan?"

"Exactly."

* * *

Having finished forming the last weave, Cyrill wiped the sweat from his forehead. Armina, standing next to him, immediately handed him a flask of water. The supplies collected by First had already run out, so they had to be replenished through the Auction. At the moment of confirming the purchase of REGULAR drinking water for system currency, Cyril literally felt, in unison with his personal hamster, a selection of elven curses somewhere, simultaneously reminiscent of a lisping croak. After taking a few greedy gulps, he returned the flask to Armina and assessed the results of his work. So, all the knots are fine, there are no sagging or tight spots, the overall weave pattern is also fine, there are no energy leaks, consumption is minimal, and the reserve is downright excessive, thanks to the ritual circle being used up to zero. Excellent. Satisfied with the result of his many hours of work, Cyril exchanged glances with his mentor, who was looking at him expectantly, and said:

"Everything is ready."

First, standing next to them, once again checking his equipment, while not forgetting to glance at the diary, turned to them and said in a dry voice:

"Excellent. In that case, we can begin."

Turning to the rest of the revived fugitives, he asked:

"Did everyone understand everything? No one has any questions left?"

Almost two dozen humans and non-humans nodded in unison. The faces of the fugitives were serious and tense, but fear was practically not visible. The dark elf looked at everyone again, nodded briefly, and said quietly:

"Well then, let's get started. Let's go!"

The motley group of fugitives, brought together by fate, silently followed him toward the entrance to the vault. Everything that could and should be said had already been said. Everything that could and should be done had been done in the past. Now all that was left was to carry out what had been planned and hope that First's plan would work. Moving in a tight group, the fugitives approached the bridge, passing the wreckage of the golem.

The men walking on the edges clutched their weapons in their hands, those incapable of fighting clutched their recharged protective amulets until their knuckles turned white, staying in the center, slightly behind the gifted. When First, who was walking in front, stepped onto the bridge, the rest of the fugitives involuntarily froze for a moment, expecting an attack or assault from the darkness beyond the gate. Cyrill strengthened the three-layer protective barrier surrounding the fugitives to the limit, preparing to patch and rebuild the defense if necessary. But nothing happened.

The gloomy gnome vault was still immersed in darkness and almost absolute silence. Looking into the darkness beyond the gates with his magical vision, Cyrill saw nothing suspicious. Not a single trace or reflection of magical weaves. Only darkness, in which, as he approached, the outlines of the space behind them gradually appeared.

"Having crossed the bridge and stopped in front of the half-destroyed gates, First quietly commanded:"

"Light."

Cyrill immediately activated the prepared weaves, and several magical spheres flared above the heads of the fugitives, emitting a bright light directed forward and to the sides. It dispersed the darkness behind the gates, and everyone could clearly see a small single room. Once upon a time, there was something like a checkpoint here, where everyone who arrived at the storage facility was re-examined and checked before being allowed to proceed further.

Now this place looked as if it had been through shelling, a hurricane, a rockfall, and a fire one after another. There was nothing whole left here at all. All the walls, the floor, and the ceiling were in numerous potholes. In some places, part of the masonry had collapsed, and it was clearly visible that something had been deliberately torn out of the walls and ceiling. Cyrill subconsciously expected to see something similar to the scene from the first Lord of the Rings, when the heroes entered Moria. But he saw nothing of the sort. In fact, there was nothing in the room directly behind the gates. No furniture, lamps, fragments of golems, or remains of attackers or defenders. Nothing but stone fragments of various sizes.

There were four passages leading out of this room. The two side ones led to a narrow space behind the front wall of the vault, where the first line of defense used to be. According to Ilidris and Litsana, there, just like in this room, there was nothing but rubble. Two more passages, once blocked by solid gates, of which nothing remained now, led deeper into the vault. Exactly where they needed to go.

For about a minute, the fugitives stood in place, looking around, expecting an attack. All four elves at this time almost synchronously moved their ears, listening attentively. But again, nothing happened. Complete silence reigned in the storage, and now not such complete darkness. Briefly turning around, First said to the fugitives awaiting his command:

"There's nothing to hear ahead. Not a single sound. But golems don't make sounds when they're in rest mode."

"I don’t feel any traces of active weaving, only residual traces left by the destroyed golem and the Hunters,” Diantrel continued.

"So, let's move on. Once again: does everyone remember what to do?"

First's response was a friendly nod.

"Good..."

"Perhaps it is possible to send forward at least a small part of the eyes of the Ten-Eyed?" asked Guur'Aar in the same old Confederate language, leaning on his staff-spear.

The spirit he had summoned circled above the heads of the squad, looking in different directions with all ten of its eyes. The dark elf thought for a moment, then shook his head:

"Not yet. Let's move along the right corridor! Let's go slowly and carefully. Ciriall!"

"I remember everything!"

"Good."

As the squad moved forward, the dark elf, walking with her brother on the right flank, cast a glance at Cyrill, walking in the center with his mentor. To say that after coming to her senses, she was very surprised by who exactly saved her is to say nothing. Of all people, she certainly didn't expect to meet a company of Caliphates, steppe dwellers, and several elves. And, understandably, their motley company aroused the dark one's natural interest: how did they all end up here together?

And, of course, having learned the general outline of their adventures over the past few days, she couldn't help but be interested in this strange half-elf boy. She didn't ask any questions, of course, but Cyril caught her glancing at him several times. These became even more frequent when the First explained his plan and the young man began to create the necessary weavings. However, she was not the only one. He did not attempt to hide, so Shalah-Ana and Guur'Aar could also observe his work from the sidelines. And Cyril was ready to bet that their worldview had once again been put to the test. What they thought when they saw him weaving magic that was CLEARLY not at the adept level remained a mystery. However, this would have to be sorted out when they got out of this mess.

Entering the first of ten segments leading to the center of the storage corridor, the fugitives saw roughly the same thing as in the room behind the gates. Complete devastation, debris of various sizes, and nothing of any value. The only thing that stood out was that someone had raked the debris toward the walls, piling it into heaps of various sizes. But this had clearly been done a long time ago. Judging by the neighboring room on the left, which was visible through the destroyed passage in the dividing wall, it was the same there.

Reaching the center, the squad froze for a few minutes, looking around, but fortunately, the magic spheres created by Cyril dispelled the darkness of the vault quite well. After waiting for a while and seeing nothing, the squad slowly moved on, staying as close together as possible. First categorically forbade them to split up, and everyone agreed with him. The last thing they needed was to be scattered in pieces.

Moving in a tight group, under the cover of shields and barriers, their squad reached the next room. There, the picture was exactly the same. Traces of a very old battle. Destruction. And nothing but debris. After waiting for a while, the fugitives moved forward again. The third room was no different from the previous ones. But when the squad reached the middle of it and froze, the old shaman raised his hand, pointing forward with his spear-staff:

The tracks of the Dungeon Hunters who walked here before us end far away!

First, walking ahead, nodded briefly:

"I see. So they were moved to the fourth hall. Ciriall?"

"Everything is fine, we weren't moved."

"Is that true?" Litsana asked in a tense voice, casting another glance at the half-elf.

"Absolutely. We're still in the first pass."

"Good."

Turning to Cyrill, First nodded briefly. The young man nodded in response, closing his eyes and beginning to move his lips silently. After that, their squad moved on, still keeping close together and with their weapons ready. The fourth room was not much different from the previous ones. The same devastation. The same emptiness. Debris. But the fifth room, visible through the passageway, looked different. At least, it was clear that the doors blocking the way forward were still there. The squad slowly made its way to the center of the fourth room, paused there for a moment, and then moved on.

When they had completely crossed into the fifth hall and almost reached its center, they were simultaneously attacked from behind and from the flank through the neighboring hall. The main striking force of the attackers was the well-recognizable, albeit severely outdated, models of dwarf golems. Some were wheeled, some were on mechanical legs resembling spider legs. Almost all of them had noticeable handmade modifications, mostly made of bones. They were supported by various small creatures, all of which were mixed bone-mechanical constructs. However, this did not prevent the attackers from acting in a very coordinated manner.

The opponents struck with pure magic and enchanted projectiles, trying to break through the squad's barriers. The vault was instantly filled with the screams of ambushed humans and nonhumans. But the magical barriers withstood the first blow, and the fugitives were not confused and responded with volleys of magical arrows, clots of fire, and strikes of several lightning bolts. Which also struck the defence barriers covering the golems. And their defence turned out to be very good!

Some of the opponents were, in fact, mobile defensive points with no offensive elements. Their sole purpose was to protect their comrades with shields and barriers. And these were far from ordinary. They did not so much repel magical attacks as try to discharge them, absorbing and engulfing the attacking magic. This was not an easy technique, requiring sufficient absorber capacity, but the attackers had the advantage of numerical superiority and acted in perfect coordination, like a single mechanism, constantly moving and replacing constructs that were close to overload with fresh ones. This made it much more difficult to concentrate fire on a specific enemy in order to overload their defenses.

But the trapped fugitives did not stand still. Instead, they rushed back to where they had come from in a single rush, trying to fight their way back to the exit. Apparently, the enemy had expected this, because the squad of golems and simpler constructs that had struck the fugitives in the back did not hold their positions, but also began to retreat further back and to the flank. However, they did not stop firing from all the guns they had. Magic and enchanted projectiles hit the barriers surrounding the fugitives, quickly draining their reserves.

The fugitives fought back, but their attacks were far less effective; they couldn't concentrate on any one enemy, striking in almost every direction. Without ceasing fire, they continued to run toward the exit, past the retreating golems. They paid no attention to the constructs attacking them, the stationary combat wands striking them from the walls and ceiling, or the fact that the hall they were running through was not the same one they had just passed through. After running through another hall under continuous fire, they reached a dead end. The way forward was blocked by solid doors made by dwarf craftsmen. The passage to the next hall was blocked by a barricade of stone debris, behind which the constructs had taken up positions and were firing at the fugitives. And their pursuers were already closing in on them from behind. To make matters worse, the fugitives were attacked from four sides by stationary magic wands concealed in the walls.

Realizing they had nowhere to run, the fugitives froze in the center, trying to hide behind the increasingly sagging barriers and fight back with magic. Now that they were no longer running, their attacks became more concentrated, and they even managed to knock out one or another small construct with concentrated fire. However, the small constructs very quickly stopped advancing, starting to attack only under the cover of practically normal golems, protected by quite reliable shields.

At some point, the battle turned into a banal fight to exhaustion. The opponents tried to break through each other's defenses. In this confrontation, the attackers had a clear advantage, as they were simply more numerous. In addition, they attacked from different sides, driving the fugitives into crossfire. The fugitives continued to fight back, but their resistance was growing weaker. They concentrated their attacks on stationary firing points, knocking out one magical wand after another hidden in the walls. The denouement came unexpectedly. At the moment when the last of the three barriers surrounding the fugitives collapsed with a loud crash, unable to withstand the pressure, there was a deafening explosion accompanied by a blinding flash.

The attacking golems and constructs abruptly and simultaneously changed their attack patterns. Instead of various combat spells, a volley of discharge shells was fired at the prisoners, designed to destabilize their personal defenses. This was immediately followed by spells of paralyzing magic, as well as several homemade trapping nets. And all of this struck nothing.

When the light from the detonation of the barrier faded, there was nothing left in the place where the fugitives had been. The shells crashed onto the stone floor, which was also struck by paralyzing rays, and all of this was covered by a pair of nets. Dozens of constructs and golems froze in place, staring through their eyepieces and skull-like counterparts at the spot where the fugitives had just been. Then they suddenly increased their glow, indicating a transition to boost mode, and rushed back.

* * *

As soon as the forward-facing illusions entered the fourth hall and suddenly disappeared, and its territory on the system mini-map shifted noticeably forward and to the left, somewhere in the ‘fog of war’, Cyril exhaled quietly and said:

"Yes! They've been moved!"

"I see! Forward, quickly! But move with extreme caution! Full camouflage! We don't have much time!"

No one even thought of arguing with First, and the squad under his leadership rushed forward into the fourth hall. There, the decoy squad had just disappeared, the creation of which had taken Cyril a lot of time and the energy of the ritual circle, using up almost all of the crystal powder. And so far, it was the most complex illusion he had ever created. The “Incarnator” would have been very useful now, but alas, the artifact was useless for the next three weeks. So Cyril had to do everything himself, relying on the knowledge given to him by the System.

To make the illusion as realistic as possible, he had to take a “cast” of each fugitive, infuse it with energy, compact it, and then combine these separate casts into a single weave. And then he had to equip it with protective, offensive, and camouflage weaves. He also had to create templates and behavioral guidelines, since it would be difficult to directly control the illusion after the spatial transposition. And any connection is a risk, because it can be traced. All this took a lot of time, and it was good that Diantrel helped Cyril as much as she could. The mentor took on the formation of most of the offensive weaves and some of the defensive ones. But in the main work, the creation of illusions and deceptions, the elf could hardly help, being far inferior to her student in this area.

Cyril wasn't ready to bet his money on it, but in the course of his work, he felt several times that emanations of quiet envy were coming from his mentor through a mental connection. However, the young man did not pay attention to this, as there was a lot of work to do and little time... In principle, there was also a lot of time, as their opponent, apparently, was in no hurry at all, logically assuming that the prey would soon come to him on its own, having no food or water. This played into the fugitives' hands, as it allowed them to calmly and properly prepare everything. Well, relatively calmly, since no one stopped watching the entrance, and the ten-eyed spirit of the old shaman was watching.

While Cyril was busy with the illusion that was supposed to play a key role in First's plan, Shalah-Ana and Guur'Aar recharged their magic wands and protective amulets, the steppe dwellers checked their bows and counted their remaining arrows. Those not involved rested, trying their best not to interfere. At the very end, to make the illusions as realistic as possible, each of the fugitives willingly sacrificed a small portion of their blood, further “solidifying” their illusory doubles. However, the faces of those same dark elves were so expressionless and stony that it was not difficult to guess how happy they were to sacrifice such dangerous material to a stranger.

When everything was ready, the squad, concealed not only by barriers but also by two separate camouflage illusions, slowly moved forward. The most dangerous and delicate part of First's plan was the need not to miss the moment when the squad would have to “split up.” The real fugitives had to stay put, while the decoy illusion moved forward. If the enemy had moved them deeper into the vault immediately after they entered, everything could have ended very badly. But the enemy apparently decided not to rush, and followed the tried-and-true plan of letting the mouse go deeper into the mousetrap.

As a result, the fugitives remained in the third hall, while the illusions moved forward. The moment of separation made Cyril strain considerably, but in the end he passed flawlessly, without a single mistake. Which, frankly speaking, was a source of pride. The trick with the split, when you are walking calmly, and then suddenly, at the crossroads, one of you turns left, and the other, who is exactly the same, turns right, while the real you, invisible, continues to walk straight ahead, was a classic of the School of Illusions. Any true adept of the school must be able to do this.

But to pull off something like that with a group illusion, and not just any illusion, but one with a bunch of other weaves layered on top of it, while the real squad has to remain invisible, even though it is also hidden by protective barriers... Now that's a task for a master of magic. When their squad safely split up, Cyril involuntarily exhaled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The reserve was almost full, and little energy was spent on controlling the illusions, but damn, he was still a couple of points short in Control. Better yet, five points, why bother with small change. At least the illusions should act independently from now on, according to the templates embedded in them, and there's no need to be distracted by them.

Armina, standing next to him, immediately handed him a flask of water, which Cyril began to drink greedily. When his mentor gave him a questioning look, he replied mentally that everything was fine. After that, their squad froze, hidden by a cloak of invisibility, waiting for the enemy to make a move. And when the clearly visible group of illusions that had gone ahead suddenly disappeared, they made their move, strictly according to plan. Trying to move as quickly as possible, but still being careful, covered by several masking fields and barriers, the fugitives approached the passage to the hall where the decoys had just disappeared.

And the moment of spatial castling was practically not felt at all. If you didn't know what to look at, you could miss it even from the outside. Not only were all the passed rooms initially similar, like two drops of water, but Cyrill was ready to bet that their opponent had worked hard to make the piles of debris and traces of battle more or less the same. And as if the external similarity of each of the segments of the vault was not enough, there were no magical disturbances or any other noticeable manifestations of the fact that just now a huge piece of space had swapped places with another similar piece of space. Watching the camouflage and defence, Cyrill involuntarily admired the skill of the dwarven masters. A masterpiece of mago-spatial architecture, damn them, the bearded geniuses!

"Stop!"

The sharp command of First, who had stopped at the boundary of the two rooms, made the whole squad freeze. The dark elf with eyes burning with magical fire scrutinised the space of the fourth hall lying ahead, in which the squad of illusion deceptions had just disappeared. After a dozen seconds, he gave out:

"As I thought, there are alarms placed under almost all the floor plates, responding to a press. No signalling threads visible. A dozen hidden eyepieces in the walls and ceiling, but only four are active, the rest are all asleep. One is made out of a human skull, and quite artisanally. Simple variations of magical vision, they shouldn't be able to penetrate our disguise. I don't see anything else. Cirial!"

"I'm already doing it!"

The young man, who had prepared for such a development, poured the reserve into the already formed weave and quickly created a thin but very strong flat barrier-platform, projecting it above the floor. The entire squad quickly climbed onto it, huddled even tighter together, and then rushed forward. In some ways, it resembled their escape across the river from the Dark Brotherhood assassins. As the fugitives moved forward, the back of the barrier disappeared and the front lengthened. It wasn't the easiest technique, but thanks to his increased characteristics and knowledge, Cyril was quite able to perform it. Besides, it saved that two dozen people were not two carts and a few riders. Horses are such animals, weighing more than men and elves.

Thus, moving above the floor, the squad quickly passed the fourth passage segment leading to the center. Before entering the fifth, the First again stopped everyone briefly, looked around, and then gave his verdict:

"Everything is the same, we keep moving! Cyrial, do you understand what's going on with the tricks?"

"Nothing yet... Stop, the attack action patterns just went off!" the young man answered, not forgetting to monitor the maintenance of the barrier platform.

"Got it. Let's move on! To the gate!"

Sheltered by illusions and barriers, the group quickly reached the locked gate that ended the fifth segment. The massive doors, made of the same dark grey material had been used for the doors to their temporary shelter, and shrouded in thick strips of blued metal, bore the many and varied marks left by past visitors. Roughnesses from claws of various sizes, potholes from blows with weapons of some kind, traces of battle magic. It was obvious that more than once and more than twice they had tried to break through these doors.

Stopping in front of them, First looked at them carefully for a few seconds, then quickly gave his verdict:

"They did a good job, the damned bearded guys. I see several simple but reliable alarms for opening, and there's also a spider web woven into the gates themselves, in case someone tries to make a passage right through them. Well, that's to be expected."

Taking something out of his belt pocket, First, without looking, asked:

"What about the decoys?"

“They’re holding up for now,” Cyrill replied, checking the mini-map, which cost him, damn it, three talent points!

"Okay. So, let's see what we have ahead?"

With these words, the dark elf pressed some thin, long tube, seemingly made of metal, against the gate. Setting it strictly perpendicular, he activated it. The effect was impressive. The tip of the tube against the door glowed for a moment, and then it began to sink rapidly into the dark grey material of which the sashes were made. Literally a few seconds, and she was completely immersed in it. After waiting a few more seconds, the dark elf pulled it back out in one deft movement and immediately pulled out another metal tube, which he inserted into the resulting hole. Leaning over, First fixed his eye on it. He stood motionless for a few seconds, then he said:

"Right... Alarms under the floor, eyepieces on the walls and ceiling, all the same.... Yeah. Hidden stationary wands embedded in the walls and ceiling... Some of it clearly artisanal... and almost all of them faded, with magic charges in just a couple of them... Apparently, our opponent's energy reserves are really bad... Okay, there are golems at both walls, many of them, but all of them are asleep, there is no magic in any of them, and from what I can see, they haven't been working for a long time.... I don't see any signalling threads, no active constructs either... We're on it! Cirial!"

"Done!"

Cyril had begun to weave an illusion that was supposed to hide the space behind the gate from the view of possible observers when First began to make a hole in the door. It would have been very difficult to project it through the locked doors, whose material was so poorly permeable to magic. But the hole the First had made in the gate made the job easier. The weave of illusion formed by Cyril, like a cloth of the finest fabric, seeped through it, invisible and weightless, to unfold on the other side, covering the gate and part of the space in front of it. As soon as this had happened, First immediately began further work.

With quick, honed movements, he pushed some small amulets through the hole in the gate. He made short passes with his hands for a few seconds, performing some kind of sparse magical manipulation. Then, First began to attach the same small amulets, which looked like threaded metal balls, to the surface of the gate. There were six of them in all, and when they touched the dark grey material of the door, they stuck to it immediately. Fastening them to the gate, the Dark Elf spread the amulets with a few passes from the floor to about the height of his height, forming a rectangle the size of an almost normal door. As soon as the last of the amulets took its place, a thin glowing thread connected them around the perimeter. A moment, and the gate within them rippled like the surface of water. A moment more, and the ripples disappeared. Instead, the next hall became clearly visible. The first one immediately commanded:

"Cirial, the barrier platform behind the gate, quickly!"

"Done!"

"Then let's go, quickly, quickly!"

The group of fugitives rushed through the passage formed by the amulets. These amulets, as the mentor explained to Cyril in advance, created a mini-portal. The thing is very expensive, difficult to make, works at very short distances, but in some situations, extremely useful and indispensable. Like this. As soon as the squad got to the other side, First immediately extinguished the passage. After spending a few more seconds collecting the amulets and waiting for the remaining ones from the other side to roll through the hole, he ordered:

"Forward, faster, we don't have much time!"

And the squad moved on, cautiously looking around. Unlike the first halls they had passed through, this one looked different. There was no debris, no broken stones, although traces of a fierce battle were visible here and there on the walls and ceiling. Relative cleanliness and order. Along the side walls stood nearly two dozen golems in neat rows. Some were of the same model that Cyril had destroyed. Some were not on wheeled platforms, but stood entirely on angular legs resembling spider legs. And almost all of the golems were partially dismantled. Some were missing the limbs to which their combat staffs should have been attached. Some were missing their heads with eyepieces. Some were missing their running gear. Many had their torsos cut open, gaping emptily. Next to each golem stood at least one box or chest with some parts inside.

Separate from the golems, occupying the left corner opposite the gate through which the fugitives had entered, lay dozens, if not hundreds, of clearly damaged and destroyed parts. Pierced or cracked armor plates, burnt combat staffs, broken wheels, or damaged mechanized paws. All of them were carefully sorted by type and stacked in relatively neat piles. And all of this was covered with a barely noticeable layer of dust.

It was clear these structures had not been repaired for a long time. Judging by what Cyril had noticed while their squad was rapidly moving towards the next passage, this place had long since been turned into a natural graveyard of damaged mechanisms. And judging by the lack of visible traces, the local inhabitants had not been here for a long time. The squad quickly reached the gate leading to the seventh room, where the same procedure was repeated. Making a hole. Inspection. Placing amulets for passage.

And when First was finishing installing the portal-passage, Cyrill winced from the recoil that came even through a decent distance separating him and the illusion, testifying to the disembodiment of the deceptions. Turning to the dark elf, the young man said:

"The beacons and alarms went off. That's it, the decoys are finished..."

"This is bad. Everyone, get ready. Weapons at the ready! Ciriall..."

"Got it!"

A mental command, and two charges of the Companion Reinforcement token burned, temporarily reinforcing Diantrel and Armina. Cyril's mentor received one point of Power and two points of Source. Cyril's maid and now de facto bodyguard got three points in Constitution and one in Sensitivity. Both of the young man's companions exhaled and froze for a moment, getting used to the temporary reinforcement. At the same time, Cyril began to pour the reserve into the prepared illusion weave. It was supposed to cover the space in front of the side gate that led to the neighbouring hall. But to cover it intentionally not too well. So in case of a thorough search, there was a good chance to notice not what was hidden under the illusion, but the very fact of its presence. To make the enemy think that's where the fugitives are trying to get into the vault. Not that it would work, but it might buy time.

He had barely finished it when First formed a portal passage and sharply commanded:

"Forward, let's go, let's go, faster!"

And the motley band of fugitives, swearing very quietly or silently, rushed forward. The young orc, as the strongest of the steppe men, threw a shrieking elderly steppe woman on his back in a single movement, the women distributed among themselves the children, who clutched the protective amulets in their hands. Just as the group finished the transition, Cyril and the rest of the gifted felt a wave of energy sweeping through the entire vault. At the same moment, magical lamps flared up one after another under the ceiling and on the walls, gradually growing brighter and brighter, dispelling the darkness of the vault. At the same time, the eyepieces and hidden firing points built into the walls and ceiling began to quickly come to life. Cyril and the rest of the gifted could clearly see how the magic flowing through the magical conduits hidden in the walls was quickly pouring into them. And ahead, where the centre of the vault was, they could hear something humming. And this hum was getting louder and louder with every second, and with it the streams of magical energy flowing through the hidden in the walls magical conduits became clearer and brighter.

"Oh, how highly he rated us, the bastard," First cursed quietly as the squad ran to the next gate, "He's ramping up the defenses to full power, sparing no effort. And I was hoping to get through at least the eighth hall..."

Keeping his wand at the ready and not forgetting to make sure that the barrier-platform he was going to walk on was camouflaged and maintained, Cyrill looked around while the other fugitives were completing the crossing. And he was a bit taken aback by what he saw. To be more exact, he was really so dumbfounded. If the previous hall was essentially a graveyard of golems, this one looked more like a graveyard. Or, to be more precise, a huge warehouse of bones. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of them here. Big ones, medium-sized ones, small ones, of all different shapes - and they were all neatly sorted out and arranged by type and size. Here was a neat pyramid of stacked Garcain skulls. Here's a natural stack of some big bones stacked on top of each other in perpendicular rows. There are a dozen crates set along the wall, with long and thin bones sticking out of them like canes or umbrellas. And here is a row of wide and massive tables at the opposite wall, on which obviously humanoid bones are laid out in neat stacks. Dozens, if not hundreds, of such neat stacks, most of them topped by a whitened skull.

Fuck... Probably a similar thought-emotion visited the other fugitives. True, no one voiced it out loud. But the First voiced something else, accompanying his words with a wave of his hand:

"Damn it! Cyrial! Crystals on the ceiling and walls! They're going to start searching with rays, like in the steppe..."

"Got it, one moment!"

Having learnt from the bitter experience of the chase across the steppe, Cyril began to adjust the illusions and barriers that sheltered their group so that they would let the rays through rather than absorb or reflect them. Fortunately, this time he had prepared for such a thing, having formed the weaves in advance so that they could be quickly rearranged to counteract the ray search. However, very quickly Cyril realised one important nuance....

"Damn it. We need to stop. The dynamic illusions will definitely be spotted by the beams as we run!"

"Spawn of darkness and the abyss... To the side, to the wall, in the center of the hall, they will immediately discover us!"

"I won't make it, they're..."

"Dammit! Halt, everyone!"

The entire squad came to an abrupt halt, breathing heavily and looking around nervously as Kirill quickly made the necessary adjustments to their disguises and defences. He made the last adjustments just seconds before several faceted crystals previously hidden in the ceiling and walls were revealed. Some of them were red in colour, some blue, but all of them glowed equally and simultaneously brightly. A moment later, straight laser-like beams shot out of them in all directions. For a few seconds, the fugitives, who had even stopped breathing, stood motionless, covered by illusions and overlapping barriers, while Cyril frantically checked the weaves, hoping that he hadn't made any mistakes. If they were only under illusions, there would be no problem. But they were also under protective barriers, which made it much more difficult to prevent refractions or distortions.....

At the moment when several chaotically moving beams passed directly through the squad standing frozen in the middle of the seventh hall, the young man felt his heart skip a beat. But the knowledge and skills embedded in his mind by the System did not fail him, and the beams passed through the illusion, hiding them perfectly, continuing to glide along the walls, floor, and thousands of bones scattered throughout the hall. Their chaotic movement continued for about half a minute, and then abruptly, as if on command, the beams froze and then rearranged themselves, beginning to comb through the entire room like combs. Small and frequent combs, so frequent that one of them constantly slid over the fugitives who had frozen almost in the very centre of the hall. Approaching Cyril, who was tense to the limit, First quietly asked:

"Cirial?"

The young man swallowed and took a deep breath, realizing that he had been holding his breath all this time from concentration. Licking his lips, he quietly replied:

"Two news. Good and bad. Which one to start with?"

“Start with good news,” said Guur’Aar, leaning on his staff-spear and looking around intently. His eyes burned with magical fire.

At his feet, a clearly dissatisfied spirit was swarming, taking the form of a saber-toothed cat. Cyrill suspected the inhabitant of the immaterial world would have long since gone home, considering his contract fulfilled. But here's the problem, even a spirit couldn't get out of a too-well-isolated storage facility that easily. So he continued to accompany the shaman, probably demanding additional payment or the promise of one.

"The camouflage holds, and even if he increases his concentration, these beams won't detect us. But..."

“Only while we stand still,” First finished in a gloomy voice, immediately understanding what was going on.

"Exactly," Cyrill nodded, "While we are motionless, I can deceive them, but not on the move. I don't have enough experience yet. In addition, there are too many of them, and even one mistake, and we will be exposed."

"It's bad..."

"Maybe we should try to go further in a small group, we're almost to the centre of the vault," Litsana suggested, casting a quick glance at her older kin.

Outwardly, the dark elf held herself calmly, but her scarlet eyes, continuously and quickly sliding over the thousands of bones surrounding them, betrayed her tension and nervousness. First, also continuously looking around, spoke in a slow and thoughtful voice.

"We can try, if we don't spare the reserve of camouflage amulets, but I'm not sure that we will be able to pass unnoticed even to..."

At that moment, there was a loud click, followed by several thuds. The fleeing party shuddered and froze at the same time, gripping their weapons tightly. And then there was a muffled murmur, punctuated by crackles and clicks, as the gates leading to the eighth hall began to open slowly. Turning towards them, the First spoke in a quiet and sombre voice:

"It's bad..."

For a few seconds, the fugitives kept their eyes fixed on the widening passage. As soon as the gates parted more or less, they could see the massive golem figures standing behind them, lined up in a row, their eyepieces burning with magical fire. And above them, some smaller constructs were flickering about. Looking closely with the help of the tiara, Cyril recognised the floating in the air... skulls. Humanoid and animal skulls, with eye sockets burning with magical fire, flew above the huge golems. Some had bony wings with translucent barrier webs attached to them, which they used to make sharp flaps. Others had some sort of amulets or magic wands bolted to their temples. The few relatively normal observation amulets with crystals and eyepieces he knew from his training seemed like natural white crows against their background.

And a whole flock of these local fantasy drones flew into the hall as soon as the gates opened. First reacted instantly and literally hissed:

"Everybody on the floor, quickly! Cyriall, press the barriers and illusions as low as possible! Quickly!"

Everyone immediately fell to the floor or crouched down, clutching their heads, and Cyril, mentally cursing, urgently began to rebuild his defences, which was not fucking easy, given the search beams constantly sliding over them. It was only a couple of seconds before a dozen and a half flying skulls rushed forward, flying in an even chain at about the waist height of a standing man. As they swept over the crouching fugitives, First muttered quietly:

"Clever bastard." We can't hide, they'll spot us in no time. We'll have to break through. All right, we all hit the golems at the same time and run shields up! We need to get to the passageway and take up defences there! Cirial, don't get distracted by anything but the barriers, you'll have to use them to block the passage as I explained..."

"Passage!" the old shaman interrupted him sharply, pointing his hand towards the almost opened gates.

There, at that moment, two of the ten eyes of his spirit companion, hovering over the lying captives, were simultaneously looking. The rest were all circling above the floor next to them, but those two could not only look, but also were quite good at hiding.

"I see a passage with the eyes of the Ten-Eyed One to the very heart of this place! All the gates to it are open, and through them right now the undead servants of the enemy here are going..."

"This is our chance, we can break through if..." Litsana immediately jumped up, but the shaman stopped her:

"We cannot cope without a hard fight, there is no direct way, all the passages through the open gates are blocked by magic, similar to the one that covers us..."

Suddenly, Diantrel interrupted him, asking sharply:

"Do you definitely see a direct route to the center? Yes or no?!"

The old orc flinched as a chain of skull drones flew past the fugitives again, this time in the opposite direction, but he replied:

"Yes, but it's blo..."

"Excellent. First!"

The dark elf turned to Cirill's mentor, who began rummaging through her bag:

"I can get through. But I'll need your help. You'll need to distract them. I'll do the rest."

"What are you..."

"Trust me! At my command, hit the golems with all your might to weaken their barriers!"

"What are you planning to do?" Guur'Aar asked, but Diantrel ignored him.

When she found what she was looking for, the elven woman pulled a silver-banded horn from her bag. For a few moments, the fugitives stared at it in bewilderment. Then the older orc and Shalah-Ana's eyes literally went wide. Even the First raised his eyebrows in amazement. But Diantrel paid no attention to that. Clasping the horn in her hand, she covered her eyes, and Cyril felt her rapidly concentrating her reserve, which made her thin body glow visibly in his magic vision. And in normal vision, he could see the air around her begin to shake and even sparkle. Cyrill, thanks to their connection, could literally physically feel a real hurricane starting to swirl around his mentor. The rest of the gifted seemed to feel something similar; at least he noticed with the corner of his eye how the elderly orc and the ship's sorceress moved back as far as possible.

//"Ciriall! Keep the Mark of the Chosen and Restoration ready! I'm sure I'll need all the help I can get!"

//"What are you doing?!"

The young man didn't get a reply. Diantrel opened her eyes, which were glowing brightly from the power that overwhelmed her, and immediately their glow intensified, turning them into mini-analogues of anti-aircraft searchlights. She was using ‘Boost of Magic’, came the realisation, but Cyril didn't have time to think about it. The mentor, the air around her was already clearly beginning to spark and crackle, sharply clenched in her hand a pendant in the form of two heart-wings, completely nullifying its weight. Turning to First, she threw it briefly:

"Do it!"

No one dared to challenge the command. The fugitives quickly glanced at each other, then simultaneously rose to their feet and struck at the golems, which, having waited until the gate was fully open, were just beginning to enter it. First to stride in, on massive spider-like legs, was a particularly large exemplar that looked far from new, but had no visible bone modifications. The Steppe men launched enchanted arrows at it, the Caliphates, dark elves, and Armina released charges of magic from their wands. Cyril hastily rebuilt the defence again, giving it its normal height again.

The enemy noticed them immediately. Or rather, he noticed the approximate position where the attack came from, as the squad was still covered by the illusion. But he reacted with a delay. The fleeing golem was not destroyed, but the barrier shield around it was overloaded, causing it to burst with a loud crack. One of the enchanted arrows and a couple of charges from the wands struck the steel torso, causing the protective runes covering it to flash brightly, deflecting the blow. To give the dwarven craftsmen of the past credit, the golem's armour had held up, so it had taken no real damage. But because it lost the barrier, the golem, instead of going on the offensive, abruptly fell backwards, under the cover of the protective barriers of other golems. At the same time, it opened indiscriminate fire with powerful twin battle wands attached to the right arm and a magical arrow gun loaded with small enchanted darts attached to the left arm.

It was supported with a slight delay by the stationary wands built into the walls and ceiling, which were already fully operational. Like the golem, they had detected the approximate location from which the attack had come, and now they were firing all around the centre of the hall, trying to find the lurking opponents. And the flying skulls literally splattered in all directions, flying up to the ceiling to avoid being hit. And in all this nonsense that had begun, Diantrel soared sharply into the air above the heads of the fugitives. For a fraction of an instant, the elf, around whom the air crackled with tension, hovered above the fugitives and then rushed forward, stretching parallel to the floor. Precisely in the direction of the gate. Towards the centre of the vault. All that was missing was a tight latex suit to complete the image. Or a star-spangled leotard.

But the picture of his mentor in the image of a superheroine from American comic books, drawn by Cyril's imagination, immediately disappeared into the back of his mind. He had time to notice how Diantrel swept through the gate at great speed over the heads of the opponents. The first of the golems that had lost its barrier and had not yet had time to restore its defence and be covered by the shields of the other constructs received a lightning bolt from the elf who flew over it and struck it in the head. With a rumble and crackle, its head oculars spattered with sparkling shards, the construct stopped firing and froze, twitching.

The other golems didn't have time to react to the target coming at them out of nowhere, but their shield-barriers, which protected not only themselves but overlapped the opening passage, didn't need to react. They just were. Perfectly serviceable barriers, designed to keep out an insidious enemy and repel his attack. Key word: they were. Because Diantrel had literally blown them apart, putting a third of her reserve into her one-time strike-attack. Without the Boost of Magic, she would have suffered at least a subtle body injury, and it was not even possible that she would have been able to put that much power into a single attack.

This amount of energy the opponents could reflect or partially absorb. There was no doubt about that. But not at one time. The sound of the destabilised barriers and exploding storage crystals in the golems' bodies merged into one deafening bang, overpowering all other sounds. And the elf already rushed forward, flying in the air really like a heroine of American comics. And at about the same speed with which she was rushing through the air, she spent her reserve, pouring it both to accelerate the flight and to maintain the active defence-barrier.

"CIRIAL!"

//"CIRIAL!"

The shout of First merged with his mentor's mental shout. With a twitch, he mentally commanded the Chosen One's Mark II, giving Diantrel half of his reserve at once. It was enough to restore him to his mentor, and the excess was used to strengthen her defences. His insides felt as if they were ice-cold from the instantaneous loss of so much energy, but Cyril paid no attention to it, instead maximising the strength of the barriers around them. The stationary wands on the walls and ceiling were disgustingly quick to recognise where the fugitives were hiding, firing crossfire at them. A few seconds later, some of the still-active golems supported them, while others hurriedly turned towards Diantrel, who had flown forward.

The situation was not the most pleasant, but it was not hopeless. The knowledge they had received from the System had not gone to waste, and neither had the training with their mentor. The fugitives' defences were holding, and the fugitives were beginning to fight back. Or rather, those of them who were able to fight. The steppe women, along with the unfortunate restaurant workers, remained lying on the floor, covering their heads and their children with their hands. The rest fought furiously under the leadership of First, who gave commands and managed to attack at the same time. The dark elf's voice, clearly amplified, overpowered even the noise of the battle:

"All arrows on the golems, no sparing, hit to suppress! The rest of you, clear the walls and ceiling! Fire volleys on my command! Target over the gate! Fire! Good! Target to the left of the gate! Fire! Good. Cirial, hold the barriers!!!"

The natural roar of the dark elf almost made the young man, who had just released a magical arrow into the stationary wand he had indicated on the wall to the left of the gate, jump on the spot. Shit, it was okay, their defences would last about ten minutes under that kind of fire, even if he did nothing at all....

The young man didn't have time to finish his thought. Because suddenly something rumbled, his ears ached for a moment, and then the situation changed abruptly. For Cyrill, it looked as if the golems, in which the steppe men had sent one enchanted arrow after another, rapidly emptying their quivers, had abruptly disappeared. Just at that moment, a sabre-toothed cat landed on the head of one of them, piercing it with sharply elongated fangs.

Just then, they were there. The next moment, they were gone, and in their place through the open gateway was seen a completely different, at first glance empty, hall of the storehouse. The next batch of arrows flew into this void, exploding with fire and lightning, adding potholes to the stone floor. The drone skulls, which had been circling under the ceiling before, desperately manoeuvring in the air to avoid being hit by the magic projectiles flying in all directions, also flew into it. Though the fugitives managed to shoot down a couple of local drones before the whole pack flew off into the neighbouring hall. First, who had shot down one of the flying skulls with an apt shot from his wand, sauntered over to them with a glance:

"He finally moved us, the bastard. I hope Diantrell can handle it... Clear out the remaining turrets! Ciriall! Where are we now?"

The young man checked the system mini-map as his companions destroyed the stationary wands that were still attacking them, one by one. Well, well, well... Yeah, okay.

"He threw us approximately to the very end of the right side of the cross, if you look from the side..."

Cyril didn't have time to finish. It felt like the entire vault shook slightly, tossing its contents upwards. Some of the countless bones that filled the seventh hall crumbled. The stationary wands, about half of which remained, fired their charges at once and then froze, ceasing fire. The magical lights suddenly increased their brightness by an order of magnitude, then almost died out, then lit up again, with a couple of them exploding with a loud crack, and then they went out completely, plunging the vault back into almost total darkness. All in just a matter of seconds.

"What's go..."

Shinda-Bah didn't have time to finish his question. The vault shuddered again, more violently, and in the next instant, the floor was gone from under Cyril's feet. He fell somewhere, and everything around him spun frantically. The young man screamed in terror, not realising where the world was, where the Germans were, and what was going on! Next to him, other fugitives shouted, they were interrupted by the cry of First, suspiciously similar to ‘suuukaaaa!!!’, something rumbled nearby. Cyril's eyes flashed before his unwilling and free companions, countless bones and who knows what else. For a moment, the young man saw the rapidly approaching stone surface, but he had no time to do anything, and he didn't realise what the fuck to do! He concentrated his reserve sharply on instinct, but didn't have time to realise what weave to form to stop his fall.

He and the other fugitives were saved by Guur'Aar, or rather by one of the spirits of his thinning retinue. A small amulet of eagle feathers and claws sewn into the robes on the old shaman's chest burst into flame and turned to ashes, burning without a trace. All the fleeing fugitives were blown away by a gust of wind, in which the distant cry of a bird of prey was heard for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Cyril saw a glow of something golden in the distance, and then the speed of the fall began to slow down quickly. Probably, a similar sensation is experienced by those who like to jump on a rubber band from bridges and towers. However, for the remaining distance to the rapidly approaching rocky surface, the spirit-airman did not have time to completely extinguish the speed of the fall. So the young man landed very sensibly, at the last moment managing by some miracle to twist so as not to fall on his head, but on his right side. More precisely, right on his right arm.

Fucking bitch! The blow was very painful and knocked all the air out of his chest, causing Cyril to gulp for several seconds. At least he didn't bite his tongue. Armina landed on her feet next to him, with the grace of a professional acrobat, completely extinguishing the inertia of the fall with a graceful squat. But after a moment, the girl immediately jumped to her feet and rushed towards him. The rest of the fugitives were not as dexterous, mostly falling as well, making loud gasps and screams. Some of them crunched, some howled in pain, some of the children cried, some of them shouted in their language. Apart from Armina, only a couple of dark elves and First managed to land properly. First landed literally, naturally floating down from somewhere above. The others had a hard landing, one way or another.

And as if that wasn't enough, bones started falling like a real rain around the fugitives. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of fucking bones of all sizes, as well as everything else that was in that thrice-damned underground hall! All of it rained down from above, threatening if not to kill, then to seriously maim.

"Cirial, barriers!" First shouted for the umpteenth time in the past.

At the same time, the dark elf activated the personal protective amulet clutched in his hand, which covered the fugitives with a strongly stretched barrier-shield, on which bones of all sizes were already drumming. Cyril instantly forgot about the pain in his right arm at the First's shout, and quickly covered their entire squad with the simplest barrier-dome. For several seconds, falling bones drummed into it like hail. Then there was a resounding silence, only for a couple of moments, which was broken by a loud and full of undisguised anger shout of the dark elf:

"What in the name of the abyss and its spawn..."

"QUIET!"

First's natural roar cut Licana off mid-sentence. With one swift movement, the dark elf, who had appeared next to Cyrill, immediately continued:

"Cyrial, we need insurance, and fast!"

Cyril looked around, sitting down with Armina's help. And for the umpteenth time in the past few days, he freaked out. Because only then that the young man realised that they were all standing, sitting, or lying on the ceiling of the seventh hall. And around them lay piles of bones, tables, crates, and other junk that had collapsed with them. What the...

"Quickly, he can turn us over again! Levitation spells, pressing to the surface, do something already, you fucking wizards! Ciriall!"

The command roar of First, coupled with the adrenaline rush, gave Cyril's consciousness a good acceleration and a great motivation. The knowledge received from the system and his mentor's training intertwined in a passionate ecstasy, prompting options for action. Choosing the fastest one, the young man formed a flexible barrier net, covering all the fugitives with a dome. Earlier, he would not have been able to do such a thing, but now, thanks to the new knowledge granted by the System and just great motivation, he not only did it, but did it in record time. Following the flexible mesh barrier that would keep them from falling again, he reconfigured the first classic barrier dome so that it would not only keep physical objects out but also keep them in. If the barriers behind which they had taken cover from enemy attacks that remained on the floor, which was now the ceiling, were configured in the same way, they would catch them.

"Done! Made a barrier net and also a safety barrier dome..."

"Okay."

At the same moment, another wave of air swept over the fugitives, showering them with luminous light feathers, which, touching the fugitives, melted like snowflakes, but without any trace. As soon as it happened, Cyril and the rest of the fugitives, too, felt for a moment an amazing lightness in the whole body.

"What was that just now?!" the dark elf literally hissed, nervously looking around with a staff clutched in her hand.

It was hard for Cyrill to say whether there was more anger or fear in her voice. The first, also not ceasing to look around, gloomily replied:

"Our opponent decided not to move the whole hall, but simply turned it upside down. It's a clever move, the beards didn't warn us about the possibility of such a thing,’ the dark elf's voice had enough venom in it to rid a whole neighbourhood of cockroaches. And the two-legged residents, too."

//"Cirial!"

The mentor's mental scream burst into the young man's mind, overriding the First's words. Thankful for their connection, the young man instantly understood everything Deantrel had put into that shout. A mental command, and the modifier ‘Magic Recovery II’ goes to recharge, and almost showing the bottom of the reserve of the mentor that was somewhere far ahead, is restored completely. However, it immediately began to sag again. And unpleasantly fast. Having tuned in to his mentor, Cyrill tried to understand what was happening to her. It turned out that Diantrel was huddled in some corner and covered herself with a magical barrier, while around her.... Fuck....

/"I'm fine, I'm holding up, but I may need your help again, be ready!"

"Got it. I'll be online!"

Cyril struggled to his feet, leaning on Armina's outstretched hand, and looked around. About half of his willing or unwilling companions remained seated or lying down, tending to their wounds. The older of the two Orcs, judging by her angry and twisted face in pain, had landed very badly on her arm, breaking it. Her daughter, growling something quietly, was helping her. The oldest of the steppe women was hurriedly wiping and bandaging the cut forehead of the eldest of the steppe men, her son or early grandson. Cyril had no time to figure out and find out who was who. He had not had time to do so. When looking at her, the young man was involuntarily surprised. How could she keep up so cheerfully, considering her age? Shinda-Bah, pale as death, was holding his wife from behind, who, with a painful grimace, was running her hand over her ankle, forming a healing weave. The boy waiter supported the half-breed siren who was cradling his left arm, oblivious to his own shattered forehead.

While Cyril looked around, First turned to the old shaman, who, growling softly to himself, rose to his feet, leaning on his spear-staff. How he had managed not to get anyone on it during the fall was a mystery. The dark elf bowed his head in gratitude:

"Thank you, venerable Guur'Aar, your foresight has just saved the lives of many of us. Had you not had the spirits in your retinue that slow the fall..."

The elderly orc gave the dark elf a strange look, then shook his head, gesturing to stop him:

" It was not my foresight, but forgetfulness, born in darkness. Many winters have passed since the day when my companions and I set out for the mountains, to their very summits. Before the deed, I kamlal khao that the air is close to, and could, for a time, grant the gift of vapour to those who fell into the abyss, giving them a chance. My call was heard, the deposit was paid, but it was never claimed. All these long summers, these two khao have been slumbering like chicks in a shell among my entourage. There was no need for them, and I have not even thought of them to this day."

With these words, the old shaman closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the spear staff, leaning on it. A wave of light travelled along the threads of the shaft, and Cyrill felt a wave of pleasant warmth. The pain in his arm was noticeably less, and not just for him. The work of a small spirit, not healing wounds, but absorbing the pain. A kind of analogue of spiritual anaesthesia. The older orc, having anaesthetised the wounded, began to help them, and the fugitives had some healing alchemy at their disposal.

"I am infinitely pleased to find such spirits in the retinue of the honourable Gurar," Ilidris said in a firm but strained voice, twisting the shaman's name in the dark elven manner, "but what in the name of the Lady of Darkness has the honourable Diantrel done?"

The question was put to First. And judging by the way the other fugitives turned to the dark elf, it was not only his kinsman who wanted to know the answer to this question.

"My companion has decided to thank our host from the bottom of her heart for his over-intrusive hospitality," grinned First, "if my ears and intuition do not deceive me, his gratitude is now in full measure."

Everyone turned their heads to listen in bewilderment. Then Guur'Aar, Shalah-Ana, and the two dark elves literally stared. And Cyril had no trouble understanding them. Even though the fugitives had been thrown as far away from the centre of the vault as possible, he could feel the echoes of the magical riot going on there quite clearly. And that, given the distance, some of the closed passageways, and only a two in Intensity, was saying a lot.

"I sincerely wish the most honorable Diantrel success in this matter, and I sincerely hope that she will not be harmed, but how are we now to get to the center of the storage?" Shinda-Bah asked in an extremely diplomatic voice, while Shalakh-Ana, who had finished treating her leg wound, was attending to his bruises.

At the same time, the merchant pointed to the passage that previously led to the eighth hall. Everyone followed his hand. And exhaled sadly. Because the passage was still where it had been. In the sense that it started from the floor, which was now the ceiling, and reached about the middle of the wall separating the two halls. And the height of each hall was, according to Kirill's sensations, five storeys high. What was especially surprising, despite the fact that their hall had been turned upside down, the entrances and exits between the halls still coincided completely, defiantly despising and fucking metric of space.

"Any ideas on how we can get to him?" the Caliphate captain asked delicately.

Cyril wanted to suggest creating a barrier-platform, and using it as a lift to get to the passage, but he didn't have time. Because the vault shook again, this time very noticeably. And a moment later, under the synchronised shrieks, cursing, and swearing of the fugitives, gravity changed its orientation again. I mean, direction. Thousands of bones and other junk rushed back down to the floor, which ceased to be a ceiling and became a floor again. The squad of fugitives did not lag behind them, only this time, as soon as they lost their footing, their weight was immediately reduced, and a moment later, they were picked up by the barrier net, gently sprung, and damped the rest of the inertia. A moment later, at Cyril's command, it tensed smoothly, giving the humans and non-humans a foothold. The fugitives had just begun to rise to their feet, wishing the best for the inhabitants of this place, when a natural hell began in their hall.

Without warning, through the same open passage that had previously led to the eighth room, a hurricane wind blew into their room with a deafening whoosh and roar, instantly filling the entire room up to the ceiling. Not even a few moments later, this raging hurricane once again lifted into the air all the piles of bones and other junk, starting to spin them at breakneck speed. And hitting everything and anything, including the barrier dome under the ceiling, behind which the fugitive squad was sheltering. ‘Cirial, barrier!’ yelled at least five of them simultaneously. But even without that shout, the young man, having barely seen and, just as importantly, felt the power of the hurricane that had entered their hall, reflexively reinforced the barrier dome. Then added another. He would have added a third, but he had to conserve his strength, and only about a quarter of the reserve was left.

People and non-humans frozen on the stringy barrier-mesh were staring at the riot of air that unfolded beneath their feet. Even if you weren't gifted, you could easily feel the swirls of magical energy that gave you goosebumps. Pointing at the bones drumming into the barrier dome, Litsana, who had lost her standard elven equanimity and trademark dark elven arrogance, turned to First:

"What in the name of the abyss spawn is this?!"

Her fellow kinsman smiled wryly and answered in a surprisingly calm voice:

"As I have already said, the venerable Diantrel thanked our overly intrusive host for his hospitality."

The dark elf was apparently about to ask something else, but at that moment, a branching bolt of lightning struck the barrier with a deafening crack, noticeably draining its reserve. Cyril had to hastily patch it up, and most of the fugitives jumped involuntarily, some shrieking, some swearing. After which, almost all of them looked at First with very different facial expressions. The old shaman and the ship's sorceress had particularly fucked-up looks. Because they, being gifted, could estimate the power of the magic storm raging in the vault. And they could estimate what kind of forces were needed to create such a storm.

But of course, they didn't voice their thoughts out loud. Instead, Fekhtan, wiping the remaining blood from his broken lip, asked, pointing to the elements raging right under the fugitives' feet:

"And now what? It will last a long time... her gratitude, which I fully approve of, and sincerely wish the jackal's offspring who lured us here to taste it to the fullest."

"No. Just a few more minutes," Cyril, who was concentrating on maintaining the barriers, answered automatically and without a second thought, recalling the description of the artefact.

Which has caused another round of very different attitudes to be directed in his direction. Very different. But none of his unwilling companions said anything aloud. But First asked:

"Cyrial, can you tell me what's wrong with Diantrel?"

"She is alive. She took cover behind the hurricane barrier in the tenth hall, which adjoins the center of the storage facility. She spent a lot of energy, but she's still holding on."

"Okay. Then we'll wait. And hope that we won't be thrown anywhere else..."

A hollow silence hung in the air, broken only by the debris continuously hitting the barrier and the howling of the raging wind. Moreover, Cyril could have sworn that the debris had become noticeably smaller, and there was noticeably more dust in the air. Because of this, even with magical vision, it was difficult to see anything. Recalling once again the description of the artifact that had fallen to his mentor, the young man realized that the dust was most likely bone dust. At least, for the most part. He thanked Diantrel for her training, thanks to which he had mastered the skill of creating barriers. Otherwise, it would have been really sad.

So, in a tense and resounding silence, a few minutes passed, during which all the injured had time to receive medical assistance, and then the raging wind subsided almost overnight. And hundreds, if not thousands of debris of everything and everything in the air began to fall to the ground. After waiting for a moment, the fugitives huddled close together, and then Cyril carefully landed them all on the floor, creating a platform barrier that worked like a lift. After reaching the floor, the fugitives regrouped and slowly moved towards the centre of the vault. They had to walk with extreme caution, as the entire floor was literally littered with bones and whatnot. It was easy to trip over one's feet. In addition, it was possible to see anything only with magic vision, as the air was still thick with dust. If it hadn't been for Cyril's barriers that filtered the air around the fugitives, it would have been impossible to breathe.

Stepping carefully over piles of bones, the fugitives reached the passage to the next hall. Stopping there, First asked:

"Cirial, where did he throw us?"

Cyrill, having checked the mini-map, nodded:

"You won't believe it, but he brought us back. We are back where he moved us from."

"Really? Very kind of him. Although I would rather believe the storm that Diantrel created that broke his control over the castling. Let's go! And be prepared, you never know what other surprises are left here!"

With their weapons at the ready, the fugitives cautiously moved forward, peering into the darkness and mountains of debris, rubble, and who knows what other junk, expecting an attack from the surviving constructs or some other nasty surprise. But nothing happened. The hurricane created by Diantrel had raged here with a vengeance, destroying everything in its path. Including the golems. The masterpieces of dwarven artifact craftsmanship from centuries past had not withstood the fury of the elements and now lay in lifeless piles of metal and bones, covered in all sorts of junk. In the light of the magical fires rekindled by Cyril, it became clear that many of the golems had also been noticeably melted, no doubt by lightning strikes.

Moving through the post-apocalyptic landscape, as if they were about to start shooting a disaster movie, the fugitives passed the eighth hall, so badly damaged by the hurricane that it was impossible to tell what had been there. Perhaps there had been some kind of repair shop for golems, or a hangar of sorts for them. Or maybe it was just a parts warehouse. The magical storm had turned everything upside down. When the fugitives, squeezing through the rubble, approached the entrance to the ninth hall, the gates to which were wide open, Diantrel came out to meet them, or rather flew out, landing smoothly, causing everyone to freeze. The elf looked frankly unwell. Pale, with barely a tenth of her reserves left, according to Cyril's estimates, her white hair tied back in a ponytail, was badly tousled, there was a fresh scratch on her left cheek, and her dark army-style suit was torn in several places and burned in others. In addition, judging by what was visible in magical vision, she had used up all of her supply of protective amulets that were inserted into it.

In her right hand, the elf clutched her silver wand, and in her left hand, the artefact she had received as a reward. When she landed in front of the fugitives, silence hung in the vault for a few seconds. A very tense silence. Diantrel, with slightly detached eyes, looked at the fugitives. They at her. And then...

"Yyyyyy! Ypuuuuuuu!!!"

With a naturally distorted face, which had become a dark swamp color from the blood that had rushed to it, the old shaman, raising his hand, pointed a finger with an orcish-sharp nail at the elf, with his other hand squeezing his staff-spear to the white knuckles, the carving of which began to visibly glow.

"Youuuu! Why! Why, in the name of the Eternal Sky, did you not call upon the Free Winds and Thunder when they were so much under your control?! What were you waiting for... what..."

A sudden void formed around Guur'Aar, and the tension reached its peak. Cyrill didn't understand how First ended up behind the old orc. Nor did he understand when some of the steppe dwellers turned toward the dark elf, while others turned toward the elf girl. They held their weapons lowered, but it was clear that they were ready to raise them at any moment. Their faces were tense and not at all friendly. Especially the old shaman, whose eyes burned with intensity. But the elf girl remained completely calm. Not a single muscle twitched on Diantrel's face. For a few seconds, her violet eyes, burning with a dull fire, looked into the yellow ones, literally ablaze with fire, and then she spoke in flawless “green” steppe dialect:

"Believe me, venerable Guur'Aar, I had more than good reasons for not using this horn when we fought at the fires of your camp. And in the name of the First Tree that rose under the Eternal Sky, neither you nor your loved ones should know what price I paid for using it now."

Cyril, who understood the meaning of these words thanks to his connection with his mentor, almost choked on them. It was only by a miracle that he managed to keep a straight face. Yes, indeed, it was better for the poor old shaman not to know the price Diantrel had paid for using this artifact. Otherwise, he would surely have a heart attack. Shamans are like that; even after death, they can say a kind word.

Fortunately, no one was looking at him at that moment. All eyes were on Diantrel, and she kept her composure perfectly. She was the epitome of elven imperturbability. And Guur'Aara was moved. But not because of the elf's poker face. Cyril clearly felt some kind of spirit hovering around the old man, literally absorbing Diantrel's words. Weighing them. Evaluating them. Checking them. The young man was ready to bet that it was the equivalent of a lie detector. And, judging by all appearances, not a bad one at that. And when he confirmed that there was no lie in the elf's words, Guur'Aara was moved. Apparently, the old man really believed that Cyril's mentor had just used up an artifact from the “for the very worst day” category, for which she would be asked about upon her return to her native lands, with all severity. Yes, they would ask. Where did she get it? Is there more? And how much does it cost? How much, how much? Okay, you're thinking about the wrong thing!

Having given himself a mental slap on the back of the head, the young man coughed diplomatically and said:

"Honorable ones, I propose to discuss any mutual claims later, and first get to the center of this storage facility."

First, who somehow found himself next to him again, nodded:

"I fully support."

Looking at Diantrel, the dark elf asked briefly:

"Did it work?"

To which Cyrill’s mentor let out a quiet sigh and nodded:

"Yes, you don't have to worry about the one who brought us here anymore. But we have a new problem. Come on, you'll see everything for yourself."

The fugitives exchanged glances and cautiously moved forward, overcoming piles of all kinds of debris. Diantrel, taking a place next to her student and his maid, created a small whirlwind around their group, which gradually filtered the air of the dust raised into it. Glancing at his mentor, Cyril asked mentally:

//"Mentor, let me restore your strength by using the token. I can see how exhausted you are!"

Somewhat to his surprise, Diantrel, without changing her expression in any way, mentally replied:

//"I will be most grateful to you for this, Ciriall. The storm created by this artifact... turned out to be more violent than I expected."

A mental command, and the last of the ten charges of the token that restores allies' modifiers, burns out. Another mental command, and the newly restored “Magical Restoration II” modifier goes back into recharge. And Diantrel's reserve shows a conditional hundred percent, which causes the elf to lose her footing for a moment, but then she visibly relaxes. Cyril doesn't even try to guess what Shalah-Ana, who clearly noticed this, thought about it. They would deal with that later. When they finally got out of this damn vault! It's okay, there's not much left! Just a little...

Passing through the ninth hall, which used to be something like a working workshop for repairing and modifying golems, but now was simply a magnificent location for shooting a disaster movie, the fugitives froze at the entrance to the tenth. The gates leading into it were also wide open, and one of the doors had been torn off by the hurricane and was lying on the floor next to them. But the passage itself was blocked by a pile of debris as tall as a person, consisting of fragments and intact parts for golems, as well as other junk and rubbish. Surprisingly, the fugitives still did not encounter a single construct or a single functioning trap. The raging wind and lightning had destroyed everything. Apparently, they had deliberately struck any active sources of magic. Still, just in case, everyone kept their weapons at the ready. Carefully making their way through the debris and intact golem parts, the fugitives entered the tenth hall.

And the first thing they saw was the coveted entrance to the center of the vault. Or rather, what was left of it. Because there were no doors or gates there at all. The opposite side of the tenth hall ended with a gigantic hole in the wall with clearly melted edges. It was clear that not long ago there had been a makeshift barricade in front of it, assembled from shit and sticks, that is, from non-walking golems, magical barriers, and other improvised means, but now there was little left of it either. In the center of the vault, where Diantrel had used her horn, the air element had been at its most violent, and the barricade had been blown away. All that remained were a couple of golems melted by lightning strikes at the edges of the passage, which had been firmly attached to the walls and floor. For a few seconds, everyone stared at the passageway to the center of the vault, and then the old shaman whispered quietly:

"Even centuries passed, and the storm that has just passed has not completely erased the echoes of the fiery chaos whose fire raged here... I speak my word firmly: warriors and shamans fought here, walking hand in hand with the Greatest of the Great Chiefs."

At these words, the steppe men became even more serious at once. Some of them even made gestures. The teacher cast a quick glance in their direction, but said nothing. In her lectures, she had mentioned several times the local Atilla-Chinggis Khan, who for the present inhabitants of the steppe was still almost a semi-divine figure. As well as the fact that the other people's attitude to him is... is, to put it mildly, very ambiguous. Especially the elves.

"I have no doubt. Let's go, we're almost there," said First, and the squad moved on.

The tenth hall was somewhat less messy than the previous ones. That was probably because there was less stuff here. Although the entire floor was almost evenly strewn with all sorts of stuff, like fragments of small constructs or their bone modifications. After a dozen steps, one of the steppers, a teenage boy who was walking on the left flank with a face darker than a cloud because he had broken his bow in a fall, suddenly stopped, and then bent down and pulled something out from under the debris of a crate. When he saw what he had found, he shouted in a dazed voice some phrase in his language. All the other fugitives stopped abruptly, turning towards him in expectation of danger. And froze with surprise. The boy was holding a large knife or a dagger, stowed in a hard wooden scabbard with a geometric pattern.

Even though it was covered with a layer of dust, it was obvious that the hilt and grip of the weapon were decorated with gold. The boy stared at it for a second as if mesmerised, then unsheathed it. In the light of the magical fires lit by Cyril, the sharply sharpened steel shone brightly, without a single spot of rust. The old shaman and the elder of the steppe men simultaneously realised and twitched, growling something in their language, which almost caused the boy to drop the find, turning towards them.

“Calm down, he’s clean, no hostile magic,” First reassured everyone.

Taking a step towards the steppe boy, the dark elf bowed his head, examining his find, and said:

"A good dagger. Real dwarven steel, dwarven work. Judging by the brand on the blade, it was forged by the master weaponsmiths of Kardarot."

"Looking around, the dark elf continued:"

"It looks like our opponent had a weapons room here..."

Everyone also began to look around, and indeed, upon closer inspection, among the piles of all kinds of garbage and fragments of constructs, dozens, if not hundreds, different swords and knives became visible. As well as axes, hammers, and spears. But as soon as some of the fugitives twitched, the Dark Elf sharply pulled everyone up:

"Then we'll get to collecting trophies! Right now, we have more important things to do. Let's go. And look around!"

No one argued with First, and everyone moved on. But somehow it happened that before the group reached the middle of the tenth hall, the young orc already had a two-handed double-bladed axe in his hands, very richly decorated, including gold. And at his sister's belt appeared either a long dagger or a short sword. And its grip and hilt were also richly decorated with gold. The first man didn't say anything, but by the time the group reached the entrance to the centre of the vault, almost every one of the fugitives had a souvenir in their hands. Some even had two. Of Kirill's unwilling companions, only the dark elves were defiantly afraid of the bearded men's weapons. The young man didn't pick up anything either, nor did his mentor and maid. Simply because they didn't need it.

And so, armed with dwarven weapons, the squad finally reached the center of the storage. Upon entering, everyone immediately forgot about the souvenirs they had picked up, upon seeing the picture that opened up to them. For a few seconds, everyone stood in silence, examining it. First broke the silence, saying in a thoughtful voice:

"Well, that explains a lot..."

The central vault was several times the size of the halls through which the fugitives had passed. But there were no mountains of gold coins, in which one stingy character from the cartoon so favourite by Cyril as a child liked to swim. And there were no chests full of treasure. Most of the space of the central room was completely empty, except for the debris of the storm, as well as the debris of constructs and several golems, some of which, to all appearances, were completely stationary, located around the post of the Chief Watcher.

And that's exactly what it was. It was obvious that the elements had raged here the most, and the defenders of the centre had received the worst of it. It was not easy to recognise the mangled and melted debris scattered by the wind in a thin layer all over the central room as masterpieces of dwarven magical engineering. In addition, lightning strikes made their stuffing explode quite nicely.

However, Cyril was not surprised by the absence of mountains of gold lying on the floor, mixed with precious stones. He knew from First's briefing that the treasure was not in the central room of the vault. According to the information received from the dwarves, the treasury employees who were engaged in both the maintenance of the vault and purely treasury affairs had their workplaces here, in addition to the Chief Watcher's post.

Gold and other valuables were concealed in separate rooms with massive doors of ordinary size, heavily plated with metal and enchanted to the utmost, in addition to elaborate multi-stage locks. These doors were placed at regular intervals in the side walls of the central room, divided into four equal parts by four passageways. And, as First explained, each of the rooms to which these doors led was a separate small part of the spatial lacuna, connected to the general space precisely through the doors. Which meant one thing: there was no way to get in by breaking through the wall. Only through the door.

Right now, a couple were open, and the others were locked. But the fugitives' attention was not on them. Nor the smoking remains of some of the golems. But to what was right in the centre of the vault. There was no trace of the workstations of the vault and treasury staff. Tables, seats, observation posts - all these things that had been here before, according to the dwarves, now did not exist. The only thing left was the heart of the vault. The post of its Chief Watcher. It was simply impossible to confuse it with anything else. In the very centre of the room, a large and round dais made of white stone protruded from the floor. Even without looking at it with his magical vision, Cyrill could easily recognise it as the base for a huge ritual circle carved directly into the stone.

On the edges of this platform base for the circle, in four places, exactly opposite the passageways to the four parts of the vault, stood human-sized rectangular columns, forming a square. Made of the same white stone, they were decorated from base to top with metal plaques covered with runes. And on the flat top of each column was a large faceted crystal. In the centre of the platform base stood a faceted cylindrical pedestal, one and a half times taller than the columns, made of the same white stone. It was nearly two metres in diameter, and each of its faces was covered with a dozen plates of metal, coloured like brass, engraved with runic symbols or images.

It looked very impressive and monumental. It was obvious the dwarven masters of the past centuries had done their best. It was, without exaggeration, a real masterpiece, at the crossroads of ritual magic, artefactoric and classical magic, allowing control over all the systems of the vault. Before. Because the hurricane created by Diantrel had destroyed the Chief Watcher's post. In many places, the white stone had darkened, numerous chips and potholes were visible, some plates had fallen off, others had darkened or completely melted. In place of the plates that had fallen off the pedestal and columns, there were hollows in which there were parts and elements of some mechanism. From some of the recesses, there were thin streams of smoke; in others, something sparked and clicked. It didn't take an artefactual genius to realise that the mechanism hidden in the white stone needed serious repairs. Three of the four crystal tops had cracked, crumbling into a pile of small shards, and the only survivor glimmered dimly and intermittently.

In his magic vision, Cyrill could clearly distinguish the chaos in the weaves that surrounded and permeated the Chief Watcher's post. Or rather, what was left of them, after dozens of lightning strikes. In fact, only scraps of them were left, which continued to disintegrate rapidly, losing their integrity. And along with them, the elements of this complex control mechanism, which were still somehow working, were also falling into disrepair. But it was not even the deplorable state of the destroyed post of the Chief Watcher that attracted the attention of the fugitives. It was the Chief Watcher himself.

On top of the pedestal, on a round metal platform, stood a natural throne with a high back and wide armrests. All the shapes of the throne were exceptionally straight and clear, not a single smooth line. Its base was of the same white stone, but it was so thickly decorated with metal plates that it could appear to be all-metal. Each of the plates was also covered with runes, or solid images. They used to be. Now, most of them had melted, darkened, or fallen off altogether, exposing the white base stone. And on this throne sat a figure in a full set of armour, clearly dwarven-made and dwarf-appropriate. They were richly decorated with runic engravings, precious stones, which were storages for magical energy, and of course, gold. Most of all, though, the gold was on the powerful but angular helmet with a face shield, depicting a stern and bearded man. It used to be.

Because now the armour looked as shabby as the rest of the Chief Watcher's post. Some of the crystals had melted in places, some had exploded, and some had fallen off. The face shield had almost fallen off after what looked like a direct lightning strike. It didn't bother the wearer of the armour, though. It could be that nothing bothered him at all for a long time.

His face was almost gone, revealing the twisted face of the withered corpse with the remaining wisps of smoking beard. One would have thought Diantrel's storm had killed him, but no. The cause of death was different and quite obvious: the cuirass of his armour had been pierced by a powerful spear with a very long stinger tip made of dark metal. And the blow was so strong that, apparently, the point of the spear had penetrated through the armour and its owner, piercing even into the back of the throne. With his left hand, in a gauntleted glove, the dead man clutched the spear shaft, which was made of dark wood and covered with rich carvings. His right hand was stretched forward, either pointing at something or trying to push someone away.

Turning to the frozen Guur'Aar, who did not take his eyes burning with magical fire from this spear, First quietly asked:

"Is this a spear similar to yours, venerable sir?"

The elderly orc nodded slowly and replied in a quiet voice:

"Arakhan-Taal. In tribes that trace their lineage back to Uungaran the Striking Hand, the oldest and wisest of those who speak with khao write the history of the tribe on their staffs. These are passed down from the teacher to the best of students. They are always inhabited by one special khao, bound by blood oaths to the fate of the tribe. Each of those born into the tribe who live to see their fifteenth winter gives a part of themselves to it, and each of those who speak with khao gives a part of their power to it, so that in times of great need, they may call upon it..."

Letting out a heavy sigh, the old shaman continued in a gloomy voice:

"This Arahan-Taal gave everything without reserve, but even this was not enough for victory for those who called upon him..."

Throwing a questioning glance at the shaman, Litsana pointed to the long-dead dwarf:

"As far as I can see, that was enough to kill him."

Turning to the dark elf, Guur'Aar grimaced as if he had a toothache and said in a heavy voice:

"This is not surprising, for your red eyes are accustomed to the eternal darkness, but they are not capable of beholding Khao. Your ears, though long and sensitive to any rustle, will not hear the cry of Khao at their very tips..."

With a darkened face, the shaman turned back to the dead dwarf in armor, not paying attention to how those same elven ears he had mentioned twitched. And not only Litsana's. With another heavy sigh, Guur'Aar continued:

"The Speaker of the khao who fought here truly slew the Watcher of the gold of the underground people. But this did not bring him and his warriors victory! The khao who protected his tribe and lived in Arahan-Taal, having slain this enemy, also fell in that battle, ceasing to be forever. He who can hear and to this moment will feel his last cries, before his painful end..."

After a moment's silence, the old shaman added:

"And also the cries of those he was supposed to protect, but failed to do so..."

Shinda-Bah, who was glancing now at the dead dwarf, now at the old shaman, frowned and asked in his pompous manner:

"Please forgive my ignorance of the affairs of the inhabitants of another world, venerable Guur'Aar, but I cannot understand one thing. If the warriors of the Great Horde managed to break through here and defeat the defenders of this place centuries ago, albeit at the cost of their lives, then who brought us and countless other unfortunates here?"

Instead of the elderly orc, First answered, having kept his eyes on the post of the late Chief Watcher for almost the entire conversation:

"That remains of the pseudo-intelligence that controls this storage facility."

In response to the surprised and questioning looks of those around him, the dark elf explained, pointing to the pedestal:

"All of this, this entire post of the Chief Watcher, is essentially one huge artifact with pseudo-mind, like those that control golems. It was he who controlled and managed the storage. And the Chief Watcher," First pointed at the corpse in armor, "gave it commands."

"But... But why then couldn't the dwarves return to their vault?" The Caliphate captain asked in bewilderment.

To which the dark elf sighed wearily:

"I told you: what was left of him."

Pointing to the spear sticking out of the corpse, he continued:

"I believe I won't be mistaken in assuming that the spirit, before the Chief watcher's defense destroyed it, was able not only to kill the Watcher himself, but also to damage the controlling pseudo-mind. Because of this, it lost part of the basic orders that form its essence. Well, or their analogues, I'm not strong in golem-making."

Guur'Aar, who continued to look at the post, nodded and said:

"Your guess is correct, born in darkness. I say even more, a fraction of the essence of the dead Chao has merged with the creation of the underground masters. If you listen closely, then in the echo of his dying cries, words sound that are alien to his very essence. As if the voice of Khao has merged with the voice of his enemy. And two words sound louder than anything else. Held Goldakan."

"Protect the Treasury," Diantrel translated.

Turning to the old shaman, she asked:

"Let me guess: the spirit of the dead shaman who protected his tribe and lived in that spear was of a dark nature, associated with death and dust?"

Guur'Aar turned to her and nodded:

"Truly so, from its echo blows the cold of the grave and the crunch of bones."

"It turns out," Cyrill said slowly, "that it was the damaged, pseudo-mind that controlled the vault that, all these years, even centuries, lured all those unfortunates whose bones we saw, including us, into the vault? And all this in order to protect this vault?"

“It turns out that way,” nodded Diantrel.

"Well, this is just mind-blowing," Cyrill couldn't resist, "A bugged Skynet partially possessed by a dark spirit. Where are the tech-priests when they are so needed..."

As it turned out, he said this louder than he intended, causing those around him to turn to him with questioning glances. Frowning, the old shaman asked again, turning to the young man:

"What is this Wugged Saynet?"

"Eh? Oh, just a monster from a legend I once heard. Something like a golem that gained intelligence and decided to destroy its creators."

"Hmm... I remember a similar legend, but the rebellious man-made guardian was called differently there," Shinda-Bah said thoughtfully, scratching his chin.

Realizing he had said too much, Cyrill hurried to change the subject. Turning to Diantrel, he asked, pointing to the Chief Watcher's post:

"Venerable mentor, am I right in guessing this is the new problem you spoke of?"

As if to confirm his words, another of the metal plates covered with runes fell off one of the pillars, crashing to the floor, and a stream of dark smoke billowed from the hole behind it. A moment later, something cracked loudly inside the pillar, and it split in half, causing all the fugitives to jump. Diantrel nodded after everyone had calmed down:

"Exactly. I'm not strong in dwarven artifactology, but even to me it's obvious that the Chief Watcher's post is very badly damaged. And I seriously doubt that we can fix it."

"Even a team of master architects couldn’t handle this,” First shook his head, “it’s easier to disassemble it completely and assemble a new one."

“Good news,” Ilidris commented on what he heard, adding a drop of sarcasm to his voice.

He looked around demonstratively and asked:

"And how do we get out of here then?"

"Just as we suggested earlier,“ First shrugged with surprising calmness, ”we'll rest, regain our strength, and then, without rushing, very carefully break into the portal. Now no one will interfere with us. But first, I must clarify one very important point."

Turning to the alarmed fugitives, the dark elf said in a meaningful voice:

"In exchange for helping, the Forest gave Undermountain a sworn oath that it had no claim on any of the dwarven treasures stored here. Exactly the Forest."

First especially emphasized the last phrase, looking meaningfully into the eyes of the other fugitives.

"Therefore, neither I, nor my companions, nor you two, the latter referring to the young waiter and the half-breed siren, have any right or ability to take anything from here. But the Forest's oath does not apply to anyone else in any way."

As the dark elf spoke, the faces of all the fugitives became brighter and brighter, and the smiles that appeared grew wider and wider. Especially on Shinda-Bah, who immediately sensed which way the wind was blowing. Coughing, the captain of the Caliphate ship asked:

"And does this oath given by the Forest forbid you, say, from lending us one of your truly bottomless bags?"

Now, a satisfied smile appeared on First’s face:

"No. In the same way, it doesn't stop me from giving you advice on how to pick the locks on these doors."

"In that case," Shinda-Bah, who suddenly cheered up, looked at the other fugitives with a sly glance, "I don't think we should tell our rescuers right now that we..."

"Quiet! Do you hear?"

Standing slightly apart from everyone else with his sister Ilidris, he suddenly raised his hand, calling for silence. All the fugitives instantly gathered around, grabbing their weapons, expecting new trouble. But nothing happened. The vault remained silent. Cyril looked questioningly at the dark elf, but he just stood there, looking around and... twitching his ears. The rest of the firstborn were doing the same.

"What..."

Shinda-Bach had just opened his mouth when the First immediately silenced him. The Caliphate captain fell silent, confused, as were the other fugitives. Then, almost simultaneously, all four elves turned in one direction and pointed almost in unison toward one of the four pairs of doors leading to the central room of the vault. The one on the right. If viewed from the side leading to the portal. They also spoke in unison:

"There!"

The elves looked at each other, turned to the other fugitives, who did not understand anything, and First said:

"Screams are coming from behind those gates. We need to check. Let's go!"

* * *

"Fuuuck..."

Cyril had no other words when their group, using the same amulets that created a mini-portal, entered through the left locked gate led to the right side of the cross-keeper. And the others, judging by the look on their faces, were in agreement with his assessment of what he saw.

About half of the room was occupied by various dwarven machinery, or parts of it, laid out on the ground, in drawers, and on tables. Apparently, this was the place where alchemical furnaces used to charge the storage crystals. Magically active fuel, burning in them, released magical energy, which energised the crystals, which in turn powered a huge generator that redirected it to all the numerous systems of the vault. It was a typical approach for dwarves, among whom pure gifted mages were much rarer than among other races. But no alchemical fuel, consisting of magically active reagents, was available. That's why the fucking non-Skynet had carried out artisanal modification and deep modernisation of dwarven machinery, making sacrificial altars out of it, converting life energy into magical energy.

There were almost two dozen of these altars evenly distributed throughout the room. Each of them was connected to a single charger for a storage crystal. These same crystals were also connected to a huge device in the centre of the room that looked like the fruit of a violent passion of steam and mago-punk. Nearly three dozen large storage crystals, each about the size of a football, only elongated and shaped like a faceted spindle, glowed dimly, powering the device.

On almost every one of the makeshift altars, someone was lying. About half of them were occupied by the crucified bodies of the Garcains, two of whom were clearly dead but still clinging to life, twitching and making inarticulate clicks and shrieks. But the remnants of that life were literally being pulled out of them by numerous thin metal pins stuck in various parts of their bodies. And the devices connected to the altars converted this life energy into magical energy. However, with noticeable losses, Cyrill in his magical vision clearly distinguished how some of it simply dissipated in the air.

The rest of the Garcains, who were already dead, resembled dried and charred corpses. But it was not the blood-sucking monsters that interested the fugitives. On the five altars lay the crucified companions of Ilidris and Litsana, three of whom were still alive, though in very poor condition. One was howling at the top of his voice, begging the Lady of Darkness for death and salvation, promising her anything to make it stop, stop, stop!

The other two still alive dark elves, one of whom was the Senior of the squad, couldn't scream because of the muzzles on their faces. But it was clear that without them, they would have been doing the same thing as their mate, who, for some reason, had not been wearing a mask.

When First created a passage through the locked gates and the fugitives, after a preliminary look around, went inside, illuminating the room with magical lights, the howling dark elf was silent for a moment at the sight of the new source of light. But when he saw that not golems, but living humans and elves had entered, he began to howl more than twice as loudly, hammering like a madman in the shackles that held him. His companions, unable to scream, but who also saw the entrants, clamoured just as vigorously, turning their twisted faces in the direction of the entrants. Swearing loudly and viciously, First, along with Ilidris and Litsana, rushed to their aid. But only after he looked around and ensured there were no working constructs sitting in ambush in this room.

During those couple of dozen seconds, the dark elf, capable of shouting, managed to promise several times anything, loyal service, duty of life, anything at all, just help!!!! Cyril, after a glance at Diantrel and Armina, also hurried after First, Ilidris, and Litsana. Guur'Aar and the Steppe men also rushed to help, as did Shinda-Bah with his wife. The others were ordered to stay at the entrance, which they were glad to do, especially the children, whose faces the steppe women had tucked into their bellies.

As he approached the altar on which a naked dark elf was crucified, screaming and staring at his kin and humans with a half-crazed face, Cyril froze for a moment. The dark ones still alive looked terrible. There was almost nothing left of the legendary beauty of the firstborn, they were gaunt, their skin had turned grey, and even their faces had aged. If the oldest of the firstborns Cyril had seen earlier would have been thirty at most, these ones looked as if they were over fifty, and well over fifty. The picture was completed by numerous wounds caused by thin metal pins stuck in different parts of their bodies.

Of course, Diantrel had managed to tell him about some of the culture and manners of her dark kin.... But he seriously doubted that those three really deserved to suffer the same fate. Not even the fucking Master... No, but he did! Maybe... Fuck, he're thinking about the wrong thing! Luckily, the commanding voice of his mentor quickly pushed all unnecessary thoughts out of his head. The elf's eyes, burning with magical fire, went through the body of her kin like a scanner, and then she began to give out verdicts and commands one by one:

"Severe exhaustion, multiple injuries to subtle bodies, major energy nodes affected, multiple wounds, vital organs not affected. Urgent stabilization and..."

"Get these damn pins out of me!!!"

"In the name of the abyss, be silent for a moment, Dilaris!" hissed Litsana, trying to open the lock on the shackles.

Realizing the futility of this endeavor, she turned to First:

"The shackles need to be cut, there is no time to open them!"

In response, he silently handed her a small magic wand, which he took out of his belt pocket.

"I beg you, I beg you..."

"Damn you! Diantrel! Turn them off!"

"One moment..."

Cyril's mentor, who was already weaving some kind of healing weave, forcibly put all three of the kin to sleep with a short and precise action. They were probably glad to have fallen into a blissful oblivion. It didn't take long for them to be released and treated under the guidance of Diantrel, who had the most experience in the matter. The sedated dark elves were freed from their shackles, the pins stuck in their bodies were removed, and the blood was stopped. And then, having made sure that their condition was relatively stable, they were carefully, on the platforms created by Cyril on the barriers, perfectly repeating the contours of their bodies, moved to the central room, where Diantrel took them seriously. In addition to the dark elves, the remaining altars were filled with other humanoid bodies that were completely withered and even charred. Guur'Aar, with the help of one of his attendants, identified the cave goblins and a couple of dark dwarves.

No one else alive was found in this gloomy place.

* * *

"Fucking. Three times. Damned. Crazy. AI."

Like that, stamping every word, Cyril expressed all his thoughts to the local non-Skynet destroyed by his mentor.

"What is AI?" Armina, who was sitting next to him, asked quietly.

"An abbreviation for Artificial Intelligence. In the sense of man-made intelligence."

"But he wasn't intelligent, was he?" The maid was surprised, glancing at the Chief Watcher's post.

"I know, I know. It's just a familiar word... oh, never mind, forget it."

Taking the offered flask, Cyril took a few greedy gulps, settling down comfortably on the cushions from the restaurant. Once again, he had to buy water at the Auction, spending his precious currency on it. Fortunately, the System appreciated the mentor's victory over the crazy pseudo-Skynet and, in addition to some awards, gave her currency, part of which she spent on water. And also on healing alchemy for her dark kin. Cyril also received several system messages, but stubbornly ignored them and quietly advised Armina, who had also clearly received something, to do the same. He didn't want to pass out for another day.

Next to them, rescued hunters lay in a row on cloaks spread out on the ground, immersed in forced sleep and wrapped in healing weavings. The mentor spent more than an hour on each of them, even though she was helped by all the gifted members of their motley group. Mainly Cyril, of course, but Shalah-Ana and Guur'Aar also helped. Especially the spirit-painkiller, who at some point naturally gorged himself on the suffering of the wounded, according to the old orc. The hardest part was with the Senior of the Squad, who was truly gifted. The keyword is “was.” Whether she will be again is a big question. Her subtle bodies were badly damaged, and the damn Skynet's equipment literally burned them, using their energy for storage. One glance at her made Cyril feel uneasy. He probably looked the same after Master's dirty attack.

It was easier with her subordinates, but not by much. They weren't gifted, but their subtle bodies were also significantly damaged. Both had damage to key energy nodes, with the one who had the ability to scream suffering much more serious damage. Diantrel, who was helping them, did not hesitate to comment on the crooked manipulators of the crazy Skynet, which everyone started calling that way after Cyril's slight suggestion. According to the mentor, even a novice warlock with reasonably steady hands could have obtained more energy than this deranged creation of the gnome masters. A skilled warlock could have used them for months as a source of energy without prematurely damaging their subtle bodies.

While Diantrel treated the wounds, patched up the subtle bodies with weaves, and set up IVs with restorative and nourishing alchemy, the purpose of the muzzle masks became clear. It turned out that they were intended for force-feeding the prisoners to prolong their existence. However, given the condition of the prisoners, this would only help them survive for a day or two at most. To which First suggested in a gloomy voice that Skynet might have planned it that way, but their assault had forced him to urgently begin extracting all possible energy from the prisoners.

We also managed to find out something else. Two other Hunters, whose bodies were also taken away at the request of Litsana and Idris, did not die on the sacrificial altars, but committed suicide by taking poison. They were brought to the altars already dead, as even in this state, the bodies of elves were useful as a source of necrotic energy.

While Снrill assisted his mentor in treating the wounded, the other fugitives did not waste time. Some of them, under the careful guidance of First, but without his direct involvement, diligently opened the doors leading to the rooms where the treasures were stored. The first of these, using tools from the “Uninvited Guest” kit, as First had dubbed it, purchased by Diantrel before the assault began, they managed to open in just two hours, at the cost of only three lock picks. And behind it was a veritable treasure trove, albeit a rather one-sided!

The small room, literally tiny compared to the rest of the central storage area, was filled with silver! It lay in the form of small silver ingots. All of the same size and weight, stamped with the Kardarot mark, on shelves along the walls and on a central rack that divided the room into two. Several chests lying on the floor were filled with neat stacks of unusual coins, round in shape but with faceted edges and a square notch in the center. The contents of this room alone amounted to a huge fortune, comparable to the treasury of another Free City. Some of the silver immediately found its way into the bag with expanded space provided by First, and the noticeably cheered-up fugitives began to open the next door. Because silver is certainly good, but everyone was waiting for gold.

The other fugitives were busy diligently collecting and carrying the dwarves' weapons from the tenth hall to the central room, which were also worth a decent amount of money. Dwarves' products were valued everywhere because the bearded men from the foothills literally refused to make even mediocre products, no matter what craft they were involved in. Therefore, dwarven had long been synonymous with good quality. It is not necessarily excellent or magnificent, but it is definitely good. For attempting to release a mediocre product from the workshop, a negligent craftsman would be taught a lesson by his bearded colleagues with their fists. Or something heavier.

The weapons used by the garrison defending the vault were not only of excellent quality but also richly decorated. It was clear that they did not belong to ordinary soldiers. Each of the fugitives, with the exception of the dark elves and Cyril with his companions, picked up at least a knife or dagger made by dwarves, which under other circumstances would have cost them a pretty penny.

Idris and Litsana, with the approval and permission of the First, set about collecting the storage crystals connected to the altars. Despite the passing centuries and less than ideal operating conditions, each crystal of this size was still worth a fortune. And if it was restored to normal, the price became even higher. Shinda-Bah, as one of the most experienced in trade, said that any master of magic would snap up such a product, provided, of course, that his superior magister allowed him to do so. There is always a demand for storage devices of this size, and it significantly exceeds supply.

Somehow, it turned out that after the wounded were taken care of, Cyril had nothing to do. He couldn't participate in collecting trophies because of Forest's promises. Immediately after rescuing his kin, First sent him a message explaining the situation. They had managed to capture the vault, but the Chief Watch's post had been completely destroyed and could not be used. There was no threat, and Guur'Aar sent his ten-eyed spirit on a reconnaissance mission, but they did not find any constructs. No, some of the golems might have remained in working order. But they were locked in the sectors where they were at the moment when Diantrel staged her performance. And they couldn't get into the central room because the doors were closed. And they could only be opened from the destroyed Chief Watcher's post.

It was decided to start breaking into the portal after everyone had rested and collected at least some of the trophies. It was clear that it would not be possible to open all the doors, but at least part of it was necessary. First literally said so. That's why, with a clear conscience, Cyrill, who was so exhausted, decided to take a nap with the permission of his mentor. After all, the assault was relatively short, but he was exhausted. In addition, he had used up most of his reserve. No, Diantrel was exhausted too, but her reserve had been restored by her companion's modifiers, so now the elf was more vigorous than her apprentice. Having made himself comfortable on the cushions, Kirill closed his eyes. Of course, he could ask Armina, who had settled down next to him, to protect his sleep, so that she could restore his reserve with a modifier, but it was better to save it....

* * *

A large blonde-haired woman, with an attractive face and magnificent forms, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt made of obviously very expensive red-blue fabric, was sitting in an armchair, cradling in her arms a newborn baby wrapped in nappies, which she had just finished breastfeeding. And the nappies were also made of expensive red and blue fabric, embroidered with sea-themed patterns. At the same time, both the woman and the child literally physically smelled warmth, maternal care, something tender and pleasant, which made the internal mimi-meter dangerously hot. But in this warmth surrounding the mother and child in a dense cocoon, a hidden power was clearly felt.

The room they were in was more than richly furnished and laden with various presents, which were being sorted out by two young servant girls, dressed in red and blue waistcoats and skirts, who glanced at the mother and child. At one point, after lulling the infant, who seemed to be female, the fair-haired woman carefully rose to her feet and laid him in the white wood cradle next to her. And which was simply glowing with an overflowing... no, not magic, but something else..... The same power felt in the mother herself surrounded her. As soon as the child was in the cradle, a translucent barrier appeared around her, designed to keep the newborn safe. A moment later, the room disappeared, replaced by an equally ornate study.

There, at a huge table, sat a multitude of people dressed in luxurious clothes, but all in red and blue colours. The richest was a man with a luxurious mane of thick, curly, dark brown hair and a strong-willed face. Opposite him sat a slightly less richly dressed older man, but with similar facial features. And he, in a grim voice, was saying something about how the Isles should be loyal to only one goddess, just like their king.

Judging by the expressions on the faces of the others seated at the table, most agreed with the speaker. At that, the younger and most lavishly dressed man, apparently the king, stood up and smiled broadly, responding to his opponent in a deceptively calm voice that his loyalty to the Lady of the Seas was more than commendable. And since he was so repulsed by the fact that his king's sea wife had devoted herself to another goddess, he would not insist, let alone demand, but would simply ask that she be shown the respect she deserved, or that her daughter, the king's daughter, be shown the respect she deserved.

The people at the table immediately sensed that these words were unkind, and the king fulfilled their expectations. Leaning forward, he asked in a creeping voice if his opponent, and all others who shared his opinion, would like to choose new additional titles for themselves at once. Seeing the confusion on the faces of those gathered round the table, the king said in the same ingratiating voice that there were many of them, and everyone would find a suitable one. The Soft Sword, for example. Or, perhaps, The Eternally Raw Bilge? Or maybe Sail Down or Hanging Anchor.

As the king listed the strange titles, those seated at the table visibly paled, and many of their faces became naturally stony. Cyril did not understand what was going on, but suddenly felt someone's hand, clearly a woman's, gently squeeze his scrotum and penis, causing him to gasp and his whole body to go numb. The hand began to slowly play with his manhood, and for some reason, Cyril realized with absolute certainty that everyone sitting at the table was now experiencing the same thing.

Giving them a solemn, gloating look, the king said in a serious voice that even the Chief of Chiefs of the green-skinned ones had enough sense not to burn down the temples of the Life-Giver and their servants during the invasion of his Great Horde. Instead, he had the sense to gather a separate harem from among them. With whom, it is true, he later fucked a lot in every sense, but he never even thought of offending them in any way. The only one of the younger khans who thought to plunder the temple of Gaia and subject her priestesses to abuse was strangled by his own warriors, along with his entire inner circle, when the blades of his entire Small Horde suddenly became blunt. And they had to beg and lick for forgiveness for many years...

At this point the dream changed...

* * *

The building is clearly some kind of temple in the centre of the city. It is not a temple, not even close, but it feels like it is regularly visited and has no shortage of parishioners. The place is long and firmly mothballed; one can feel the grace accumulated in the altars, giving off something cold and hard, in which one can hear the ringing of chains and the creaking of a pen on parchment at the same time.

But Cyril's attention was drawn not to the temple itself nor its rare ministers, as it was clearly late in the evening. It was an inconspicuous, clearly female figure, wrapped in a cloak and covered with some kind of magical disguise. This figure was busy using the darkness to carefully write the words “DamoDick sucks dick!” on one of the outer walls of the temple with some kind of paint.

The next moment, the frame changed to a well-furnished room plunged into semi-darkness, where the same figure sat with his feet up on a chair and argued in a dissatisfied voice with someone outside Cy's field of vision:

"Everything went fine, I assure you! None of those bitches caught me, I did everything exactly as you taught me... Screw them, let them search and whistle... Well, damn, it turned out funny, you laughed yourself when you found out, I saw it..."

Before the dream changed, Cyrill heard the distinct sound of a palm on the face...

* * *

In the middle of the thick darkness of a WRONG modern city, there was a fierce battle going on.... No, not a battle, but a natural beating. A huge and broad-shouldered figure, in dark armour and a cloak, was furiously beating one after another some creepy monsters that looked like a Lovecraft fan's nightmares come to life. And it was doing it with her BARE hands. Well, not quite bare, they were wearing gloves, but the fact that no weapons were used by the unknown warrior, fighting hand-to-hand. And winning! Defeating the monsters, from the mere sight of which Cyrill felt somehow bad and wanted to run away somewhere far away. Away from the darkness, from the NIGHT that ruled the streets of the city....

But the stranger seemed unfazed by the darkness or the terrifying monsters, whose battered corpses had already piled up by the dozen at his feet. Slamming his fist into the skull of yet another monster with an incredibly satisfying sound, he dodged another one trying to sneak up from behind and immediately smashed it with his knee, sending it flying. The stranger accompanied his blows with shouts that would have made Maria Sharapova jealous...
https://youtu.be/dSWH7IMQqHE

"I'M NIGHT!"

*Khdysh* And another monster flies off to the side, breaking through the wall of a building.

"I'M DARKNESS!"

*Khdyush* Another monster, significantly larger than the previous ones, rushes past the dodging warrior, receiving a monstrous blow to the side with his fist.

"I'M TERROR!"

*Khdyush* The new monster's attempt to attack from underground was thwarted by a manhole cover, which an unknown warrior cosplaying as Captain America threw at it with tremendous force.

"Damn it, Bats, calm down, enough, we have to go! Bats, damn it, you're scaring me! Why the hell should I be the voice of reason? Bats! Bats! BATTS!!!"

The unknown warrior paid no attention to the screams of a creepy-looking man in a clown-like costume from somewhere in the dilapidated building, and with a roar, broke the jaw of another monster. After which, the entire WRONG city must have heard a thunderous roar:

"I'M BATMAN!!!"

"Dammit!!!"

That's where the dream ended...

* * *

Cyril woke up when Armina gently started to wake him up. When he opened his eyes, the young man tried for a few seconds to realise where he was and what he was doing. He remembered. He let out a sad sigh and asked the maid:

"How long did I sleep?"

"A few hours. The venerable Diantrel ordered that you not be woken, so that you could regain your strength..."

He sat up and stretched, feeling slightly but still rested. His reserve was by no means full, but he had regained about half of it. Armina immediately handed him a flask of water. He took a few sips and nodded gratefully, a quick run of energy through his slender body, driving away the remnants of sleep. Looking around, he wondered what had happened while he'd been dozing. As it turned out, thankfully, nothing significant. Some of his companions had dragged a natural arsenal of edged weapons into the central hall, which were laid out on the floor in neat rows and sorted.

The other fugitives successfully opened two more doors, behind one of which they found more chests filled with silver and, even better, gold coins. These coins weren't from the dwarves, but from other races, ancient ones that only First and the Mentor recognized. Some were almost from the heyday of the Eastern Empire, which Diantrel mentioned in her lectures. In particular, about its sad end, in every sense of the word. But in the third dwarf treasury, no treasures were found.

Instead, to the great disappointment of the fugitives, they found three mummified corpses of gnomes. Two of them lay directly on the floor, in half-rotten shirts, with their hands folded on their chests and silver coins over their eyes. Next to them lay neatly stacked armor and weapons. The third dwarf, also wearing only a shirt, sat with his back against the wall, his withered hands still clutching the hilt of a dagger stuck in his chest. His armor and other weapons were also stacked next to him.

And on the wall where he was sitting, there were some last words scribbled. First and his mentor managed to figure them out and translate them. It became clear that these three hid in one of the empty small treasure rooms, locking themselves in from the inside, after the wounded “fucking green-headed horse-riders” (the latter was, according to First, an accurate literal translation) the Chief Watcher went mad, and the remaining golems began killing everyone, friend and foe alike. They had no supplies and no chance of escape. Therefore, all three decided to take their own lives with the honor and dignity of true sons of Kardarot, rather than wait for death by suffocation, which would come much sooner than death by starvation or thirst.

As they departed, all three left their names, brief farewells, and kind wishes to their loved ones. They also left, to put it mildly, less than pleasant wishes for the “damn green-headed horse riders.” It was decided not to touch the dead bodies, leaving them to the gnomes. Let the bearded ones deal with them themselves.

Also, while Cyril was asleep, the rescued trio of dark elves came to their senses. It was hard for the young man to even imagine how shocked they were when they realized what a motley crew had saved them. According to Armina, the dark elf who didn't get a face mask-muzzle had an indescribable look on his face when Litsana and Idris brought him up to speed, just like his comrade. The situation with the eldest member of their group was more unfortunate. The elf also came to her senses, but as soon as she realized her condition and the loss of her gift, she almost had a hysterical fit.

How exactly and with what First calmed her down no one knew. He talked to her using a noise-suppressing amulet. But after talking with him, the Senior calmed down more or less. She even wanted to get to her feet, but immediately received a scolding from Diantrell, who forbade the whole trio from unnecessary body movements. Although the health of the trio improved, thanks to the healing magic and healing alchemy purchased by the mentor at the Auction, it was still too early for them to walk.

After hearing the news, Cyril got to his feet and approached Diantrel, sitting nearby, meditating, recovering her strength. As soon as he approached, the mentor, without opening her eyes, mentally asked:

//"How are you feeling, Ciriall?"

//"A little better, but a little more sleep would be nice. About twenty hours."

//"I sincerely hope that we will succeed soon"

Opening her eyes, the elf rose to her feet in one smooth movement and said out loud:

"We have some serious work to do soon, and I will need your help in unsealing the portal."

Cyrill nodded without hesitation:

"I am ready, I will do everything that depends on me."

Looking around, he asked:

"When shall we start?"

The elf glanced at the other fugitives with her violet eyes and replied:

"I guess soon..."

* * *

But in reality, it took more than an hour to make it back to the portal. They couldn't open another storage room because of some clever secret built into the lock, which cost two magical lock picks and ruined all their progress, much to the chagrin of Shinda-Baha, who was really into it. However, what the captives had opened would be enough for several generations of comfortable living, provided they had moderate appetites. Therefore, it was decided to gather and set off on the return journey.

The bag borrowed from the First was filled to the brim with silver, all the gold they had found, and, more importantly, all the crystal accumulators removed from the altars. Those that remained in the local analogue of the main reactor or generator were left untouched, for obvious reasons. In addition, all the fugitives took at least two or three pieces of cold weaponry, in addition to the knives and daggers that everyone, including the women, had hung on their belts. Except, of course, for those associated with the Forest, as well as the rescued dark elves. Idris and Litsana demonstratively declared they were not interested in the bearded men's weapons, as they were too “heavy and lacking in elegance.” The wounded trio, meanwhile, was not interested in anything at all.

Having miraculously escaped an extremely painful and miserable death, they behaved surprisingly meekly, albeit with dignity. They thanked not only the First, before whom the dark ones stood at attention, and Diantrel, but also the other fugitives, not once or twice, for their salvation and the help they had received. The legendary elven arrogance inherent in the underground firstborn seemed to have disappeared. Apparently, this thought reached Diantrel, because the mentor immediately whispered to Cyrill with a quiet sneer that it would surely return as soon as they were back on their feet. And although right now the gratitude of her dark kin towards their saviours is more than sincere, it is very possible that once they have recovered, they will not mind if the witnesses of their shame never tell anyone about it again. Or maybe not, because even dark ones can be very different.

Incidentally, the latter presented a separate challenge in terms of transportation. The wounded were unable to walk normally, and it was not desirable to carry them, so Cyrill once again created stretcher analogues using magical barriers, which he began to appreciate more and more with each use. More precisely, he did not create stretchers, but seats levitating in the air, with comfortable anatomical backrests and armrests. It must be admitted that the trio of exhausted dark elves sitting in them, dressed only in spare shirts found among the steppe women, looked surreal.

Although their entire company was one big surreal experience. Looking around at his unwilling companions finishing their final preparations, Cyrill couldn't help but smile. Well, what a group they were. The only things missing were halflings and lizards. On top of that, they were all quite dusty and bedraggled. At the thought of the bath waiting for him in his native chambers, Cyrill physically felt his head itching. Okay, it won't be long now, he'll be home soon. And he won't fucking go anywhere for the next two weeks! He'll lie in bed, cuddling with Armina. And Gata. Eh...

"So, is everyone ready? Is everyone here?"

In response, there were nods and affirmative statements. The First, looking around at their motley company, nodded briefly and said:

"Good, then..."

At that moment, the vault shook. It was very slight, barely noticeable, but everyone felt it. The dark elf stopped mid-sentence, abruptly drawing his weapon and looking around. The other fugitives also grabbed their weapons, quickly forming a circle and waiting... for something. There was a tense silence for a few seconds. It was broken by the leader of the dark elves, who looked around nervously, her face tense. It was clear that she did not like this forced helplessness at all.

"What was that?" Her voice sounded unexpectedly loud, although she spoke almost in a whisper.

“It looks like what happened during the spatial castling,” First answered quietly, continuing to look around, with a weapon in his hands.

"But this Sayanet was destroyed by the venerable Diantrel?" Shinda-Bah asked nervously, changing the name of the rebel Iskin to the Caliphate one and turning towards the post of the Chief Watcher, which no one had touched.

"Perhaps it's a residual echo..." Diantrel suggested.

"Fuuuck... First, we have trouble!"

Everyone instantly turned to Cyrill. From the outside, it might have seemed that the young man was staring into space in front of him.

"What's the matter?" the dark elf asked sharply.

Turning to him, Cyrill slowly said:

"The entire area in front of the entrance, where the portal was... It's now in four different places, the closest one is a couple of kilometers from Kardarot. The farthest one is about two hundred."

For a few seconds everyone took in what they had heard. And then...

"A fucking creation of clumsy, bearded bastards of the abyss and filth, why the hell right now!"

First's quiet but angry speech was accompanied by him putting away his weapon with several swift movements and snatching up his diary, starting to scribble something in it at great speed.

"What happened? What's going on?!"

Without looking up from his diary, First said through clenched teeth:

"The spatial lacuna began to disintegrate. Apparently, it could not withstand the storm..."

The vault shook again, this time quite noticeably, so much so that everyone shuddered.

"Cirial?!"

"Fuuuuck... Half of the side of the cross we were walking on was gone, scattered in different..."

"Fuck this croocked-handed..."

Having stopped writing, First, with a gloomy face, put away the diary and ordered:

"Everyone, stand as tightly as possible! Cirial! Cover us with solid barriers in three layers! Make them as tightly as possible, this is our only chance! Faster!"

"Dammit..."

Cyrill voiced his thought while already forming protective weaves, covering the fugitives huddled together with a hemispherical dome.

"Cover the floor, too! It could throw us out literally anywhere!"

"Already done!"

"Good!"

In the tense silence, Cyrill covered their entire group with as dense and, no less importantly, solid barriers as possible, putting almost half of his recovered strength into them. Fortunately, he was supported by Diantrel, who, thanks to the mental connection, easily supported her student's weaves with her reserve, further strengthening and thickening the barriers. As soon as the squad was covered as tightly as possible, the vault shook again, so scattered golems, weapons, and debris were thrown upwards.

"Ciriaaaaaaallllll..."

First's shout coincided with a series of deafening claps. As if in slow motion, Cyrill watched as all the entrances and exits from the central part shattered into small fragments, hanging in the air for a moment, as if in the film Inception with Leonchik DiCaprio. And after them, the central part of the building began to shatter into separate pieces, large and small. The young man had time to think the sacramental ‘Fuck’ when the whole world disintegrated into a mishmash of small fragments that hit the barriers he had created. The fugitives squeezed inside them, shook, and someone screamed. Unwillingly, Cyrill clenched his eyes, and at the last moment, he saw something golden glittering among the twisted space....

* * *
Cyrill, Diantrel, and Armina's statuses without promotions at the end of the nineteenth chapter:

Name: Diantrel of the House of Winterblooms, daughter of Edenril.

Level: 53

Connection level with the Chosen One: 3 (strong).

Type of connection with the Chosen One: Mentor/Apprentice.

Class: Battle Sorceress

Characteristics: 0

Talents (free): 0 (limited): 0

Constitution: 4

Sensitivity: 5

Power: 15

Control: 16

Source: 13

Spirit: 3

Resistance: 4

Acquired Knowledge:

Oral and Written:

Written and spoken: Classic Elven, Dark Elven, Free Cities, Northern Theocracy, Island Kingdom, Southern Caliphate, Undermountain Dwarven, Western Steppe, Central Steppe, Green Steppe, Northern Kingdoms, Ice Isles, Rising Empire (Classic/Simplified), Gem Cities dialects, Southeastern Lesser Kingdoms.

General knowledge:

“advanced mastery of martial weaves”, ‘developed mastery of generalist weaves’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (air)’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (fire)’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (earth)’, ‘advanced mastery of elemental magic (water)’, “master creation and application of advanced ritual circles”, ‘advanced barrier and protection weaves’, ‘master control of internal energies’, ‘developed mastery of advanced amulets and artifacts’, ‘advanced ability to work with powerful external sources’, “advanced dueling with magical wands”, ‘aadvanced magical combat tactics’, ‘advanced magical search techniques’, ‘advanced magical disguise techniques’, ‘developed wilderness reconnaissance skills’, ‘developed wilderness survival skills’, ‘advanced magic-diversion skills’, “advanced mago-martial training instructor skills”, ‘advanced healing weaves’, ‘advanced archery’, ‘advanced fencing with one-handed blades (classical elven school)’, ‘advanced knowledge of general alchemy’, ‘advanced agent work’.

Minor Knowledge:

"Blink"

Acquired properties

"Developed Subtle Bodies III", "Refined Reflexes III", "Magic Sense III", "Trained Body II", "Forest Sense II", "Elven Health (Racial)", "Source of Magic", "Magic Boost (Elite)", "Stormborn (Elite)"

System modifiers:

"Access to System Purchases IV"

Tokens:

"Purification 10/10", "Gift a random property 3/5 (elite)"

Companion Modifiers:

"Share the Burden I", "Mark of the Chosen One II", "Magical Restoration II", "Healing of the Subtle Bodies II", "Physical Healing I", "Mental Link I"

SYNERGY OF MODIFIERS:

The modifiers "Mark of the Chosen II" and "Magic Restoration II" have entered into synergy!

Full restoration of the reserve and transmission of up to a third of the reserve are now possible at any distance.

* * *

Name: Cyrill

Level: 23

Class: Wizard

Characteristics: (free) 0; (limited) 0

Talents: (free) 0 (limited): 0

Companion Modification Points (0)

Constitution: 2

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 10

Control: 7

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”, “masterful skills of creating magical barriers”, “advanced skills of creating magical weaves”, “advanced basics of techniques of magical dueling with battle wands”, “developed tantric techniques of energy recovery”, “developed creation and application of ritual circles”, “developed tactics of magical combat”, “advanced basics of working with advanced amulets and artifacts”, “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); "Mimicry of subtle bodies (elite)"

System modifiers:

‘System Assignment III’, ‘Intensive Development III’, ‘Access to System Purchases IV’; "Orientation in space III"

Tokens:

Companion Enhancement 7/10, Awesome Melons 81/100, "French Kiss 25/25", "Naughty Tongue 2/3", "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: 0 (recharge 1 standard month).

Available number of companions: 2/2

* * *

Name: Armina, daughter of Darat.

Level: 12

Connection level with the Chosen One: 2 (increased)

Type of connection with the Chosen One: Maid-Guardian/Master.

Class: Guardian

Characteristics: 0

Talents: 0

Constitution: 5

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 1

Control: 2

Source: 1

Spirit: 1

Resistance: 2

Acquired Knowledge:

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

General knowledge:

"Advanced skills in handling throwing weapons (needles)", "developed skills in handling short bladed weapons (knives/daggers/stilettos), "developed close combat skills", "developed skills in broad-based intelligence work", "advanced bodyguard skills", "advanced skills in handling amulets and artifacts", "developed skills in providing medical assistance"

Minor Knowledge:

Acquired properties:

"Trained Body I", "Vigilance II", "Toughness II"

Companion Modifiers:

"Magic Restoration II"

* * *
Autor's Note:

Phew... I really wanted to make this chapter the final one. But I had to split it anyway. The next one, 20, will definitely be the final one. Honestly. And then an interlude and an epilogue. I hope to get at least chapter 20 done before the New Year.

As always, thanks to all my readers. And some 18+ art, honestly stolen from the Internet.

A possible option for Diantrel, if Cyrill had not been unconscious when he "edited her appearance"

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1crbxXFO6FcdGap5-unlW-6a3OGFSDmwO/view?usp=drive_link

https://drive.google.com/file/d/13eG530-Iurvv3w27Lyf6nPpWICjpQbPC/view?usp=drive_link

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Ww1IjHgsdZhwHmHAmimDMqr5A_PlQL3V/view?usp=drive_link

An example of how Cyrill’s education would have gone if it weren’t for First:

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1px--jjj0Za0Fa19fFbEJ28Asqb95rDwF/view?usp=drive_link

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86674/587882

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP