Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 12-2

Stepan didn't know why he was giving the boy a lecture in the style of a young student of the witcher shop, not real, but from Sapkowski's works, but if he listened with such interest, why not? In this case, the boy did not have youthful maximalism with courage, the desire to go right now and show his prowess to put back in graves troubled cemetery. He was just interested to know and listen. And the teacher himself did not skimp on the details of how such creatures can kill a presumptuous idiot hunter who is nowhere near Geralt of Rivia, but merely Meld of the Upper Lyady. Most of such tricks turned out to test very specific and useful against one or a few types of undead, useful in strictly limited conditions, and even then did not give a full guarantee. And if there was no desire to be cunning or if one had one's own strength, one could always defeat them simply by superiority in firepower - a few spirits of the flame sphere, a boost of strength, adding the influence of the wind sphere so there was something to burn, and there was no need for a garlic-sauce-dipped aspen stake in the ass of a gothic vampire, he would burn anyway.

Though the latter was no longer a fact. Stepan's knowledge said that bloodsuckers in the real-fantasy version, which were the top of the branch of intelligent undead along with lichs and a number of other, more exotic beings, were rarely weak and always possessed some degree of magic. So it's best to fight them using the “just you, me, and the twelve combat mages behind my back” method, rather than having a fair fight in the style of Vanya from the glorious city of Helsinki. However, the Earthman told Meld about vampires or other higher undead only in the style of identification methods, and the advice on active counteraction in case of gastronomic interest to his own person was the same for all cases of life: run, bitch, run. Preferably to water or a consecrated temple, and it is very desirable to run faster than the other runners.

The next assignment was a small one. It required working with moon-type spirits and doing a simple ritual to accumulate moonlight, which he had done before, even before coming to this village. He was able to perform the job again literally in passing, without even going to the clearing, a couple hours and the backyard was enough. No songs, dances, or ritual signs, only the elements of his necklace laid out around the young man sitting on the ground and a small totem to the side, and two hours of silent and intense spiritual exercise, which resulted in an increase in the effectiveness of working with the spirits of moonlight, as well as a small, fist-sized, slightly illuminating pebble. No, it did not glow from radiation, but it was just its natural and magical property: sityr-amol, which in translation from an ancient language means “moonlight stone”, absorbed this light and then gradually gave it back. It was not a bad ritual object, though Stepan didn't need it right now. It wasn't even a consumable, it could be used a lot and often. However, it was also quite effective in the opinion of any shaman who didn't have access to the store from the System it waste of resources.

In the meantime, two more ships came to the village, but Stepan did not see them at all. Each time they arrived in the afternoon, when he was busy with shamanic affairs, and stayed just long enough to buy supplies in one case, and in the second to rake up all the free and not so free ropes that the village had. If to believe the swearing of the merchant, the destructive element thrown out by a kick in the ass without payment for drunkenness had managed to spoil some of the rigging before being kicked out, and it turned out to be a big mess. Well, the river is not the sea. Here the situation was much simpler and the damage to the rigging, as well as the spoilage of the remaining stocks, did not lead to the loss of the boat, but still the peddler was wildly furious and promised to find the drunkard and skin him alive. He was even more furious when Kirik wouldn't let him buy the ropes for nothing, because the experienced swimmer knew perfectly well not only the price of them, but also how lousy it was to sail without rigging, maneuvering with oars and experience of the helmsman.

"He, the honorable Pann, what ever ge want, but the very fact that the crew didn't notice their rigging being cut, and other trifles.... It seems to me that it wasn't for drunkenness that the villain was thrown out. It was just an excuse. To throw hsomeone out in the middle of a voyage without pay, no, that's not the way to do it." Headman explained his actions not very satisfied with everything that had happened. "According to the River Law, to leave a drunken man on the shore with his things, not even in a town, but at a fishing outpost, it is necessary to doze off at least at the post before the attack of the river's dashing scum. And for such a thing they won't throw you out of the boat. You can swim straight after the corpses overboard right into the cold water, if you can. No, Pann, it seems to me that it's not all clean. The ropes of the peddler were cut by some of those who stayed on the ship, from the shipmates of the abandoned, namely the sailors, not the peddler's guards. The others didn't notice, and those who did close their eyes. And they cut them expertly, I say, to get the boat moving, but without risk. It's nothing to the men, they're used to steering with oars, but the goods, especially perishable goods, and with such a delay...."

Stepan only nodded to himself, but he made another note to remember that no matter how Kirik tried to pretend to be a simple man, he had a great deal of intelligence in his head, and behind his slightly thinned hair hid an analytical mind and keen attention to detail. More and more questions arose involuntarily about how many such little things, from which a whole picture is formed, he had noticed in relation to the shaman named Pann, who had come to his village? How many he noticed, what he put together and what conclusions he came to, for obvious reasons not discussing the conspiracy blunders with the conspiracy man himself in the person of a fellow isekai? Of course, he sent dream spirits to the headman, but even with the increased skill he could only say that Kirik did not intend any evil, did not talk much about the magician, did not prepare a setup and did not call familiar slavers by owl mail. Such thoughts gave him a headache, so he resolutely returned to his work, finishing preparations for the first dive separately from his meat shell.

This last detail was a new belt, bracelets, and necklace, specially made so that their image could be taken with him into the spirit world. He had created small and not-so-small amulets of this nature many times before, so that their material beginnings would no longer mean anything, but the reflection would continue to work. The trick is simple and, in general, basic, the essence of the same houses of spirits, but without the spirits. Something similar to the way the same spirit of greed in the gold coin changed the nature of its anchor, only now there was no spirit left in the anchor, only the changed essence of the material. What he had planned was no longer closer to amulet-building and totems, but to witch artifacting. There was enough knowledge to fulfill his plan now. All he had to do was to work a little bit more and purchase in the System store, having spent almost all the stock and once again refusing the special offer. He skip the special offer even with pleasure.

The small and exquisite-looking pendant was, first of all, a woman's pendant, and secondly, it could only be worn by a woman, but it had its own properties. First of all, of course, it was a protection artifact of a very high level, as if it was made by a master artifactor, and at a level closer to the top of the rank than to its beginning. Poison detection, curse neutralization, thought protection, and a pretty sure physical and magical barrier field for emergencies. But, as with the stockings still lying under his bed in the case, that was only the tip of the iceberg, the deliberately revealed essence behind which lurked the second. The pendant, which looked like the sprouts of flowering grapes braiding a milky-white stone that looked like a pearl but was not, might well have begun to glow with a light that was barely visible even in the darkness, and that was where the fun began.

The glow causes a gradual increase of trust, disposition, submission and passion towards the female owner of the pendant - exactly the female, at activation it is necessary to focus on separate nodes of subtle bodies, which male do not have - and also reduces suspicion and forbids even to begin to suspect the owner of the jewelry in anything bad. This in itself is not bad, but much more dangerous is the fact that this glow is fixed on a single target, without being detected by most of the scanners, acting not outwardly, but in itself. There is a gradual adjustment to the aura and defense of the target, always only one, and extremely imperceptible and very insidious - if you give enough time, then even the top defense of the mind will gradually become ineffective and only then the effect on the mind in general begins. In fact, you can come to a dinner party with this pendant, and then for a few hours of cheerful conversations unnoticeably open the defense of the host or hostess of the ball, suggest a walk in the garden, and already there to finish a full-fledged brainwashing, without raising alarms at all. And even the victim's guards following in the distance would not notice anything. It would be enough just a conversation, a dialog and nothing more. Stepan was quite well versed in magic, the effect of the level and simply obscenely huge arrays of encyclopedias filled in the head, and therefore clearly understood: even if the scale and damage of this pendant with a plate calling dragon-bearing spirits is not comparable, but the complexity and skill of execution of the imposed charms there are two or three times higher, at least. And it costs even cheaper, which is much more hilarious, causing rage at the injustice of the universe.

Stepan even wondered why his namesake would need this pendant, so fortunately offered by the Autogoddess, who had found a Chosen One to match her. There is a clear impossibility to use this artifact in the right way and to the full hundred percent, if you don't have tits and there is something dangling between your legs! What, to distort the auric nodes, hanging over the disguise, or what? It won't help, the pendant has full synchronization with the user's aura on dozens of levels, it's in the fucking help! It would be easier to change his gender than to build such a strong disguise and risk injuring himself, but somehow the guy doubts that even Stepan would go for such a trick.

Although, he wouldn't have a shaman class, but a special one, just like Stepan himself, so he could make a bunch of obedient puppets and arm them with goods from special offers. Even Stepan Normal had learned how to make puppets, thanks to the regular gifts of Great Milf, so his namesake would have thought of it. However it was, but the young man, who was in close contact with the fat nerd, knew perfectly well that his brains were of high quality. He just refused to show it in every possible way. He even involuntarily thought about what would have happened if it had been not him, but the one who was supposed to be here in the beginning - the locals would have shuddered for sure, especially the elven princesses, queens, lords and other Galadriels from the Valar Houses. Rings of power instead of intimate piercings would have seemed like innocent games to them, if Fatty had gotten his way.

Stepan fell asleep with this thought reluctantly, even a little anxiously, though there was nothing to be anxious about. All night long he was troubled by vague and viscous dreams, in which there was no exact plot, but each fragment seemed to be a part of a story he had not seen at all. Especially remembered was a small and cozy tavern, in which gathered a very unusual company, all human, but somehow not so much. Stepan recognized himself, hugging a portable totem pole, as thick as a log and as long as it, but he also saw others with whom he felt an incomprehensible kinship. Some pale man in his thirties with black-painted lips and eyes with no less black contact lenses, who had managed to enter the anonymous imageboard through a mirror-polished tray. A little to the side sat chatting with two of his yearlings with autistic faces, staring at nothing in front of them and not moving their pupils. Only one of them was dressed in a classic fantasy mage's robe, and next to him was a cool staff made of magic-infused psionite, and it was normal, not like Stepan's, and the other one was dressed in an earthly way, in jeans and a sweatshirt, with worn-out sneakers on his feet and a pink children's backpack near his feet, but somehow he seemed even more dangerous than a mage armed to the teeth and armored to the brim.
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The third person in their company, who seemed to be the ringleader, was a tall, athletic, and very beautiful woman of Asian appearance, about twenty-five years of age, carrying a pair of very nicely enchanted daggers at her belt, and a very ordinary earthly revolver. The composition was rounded out by a strange and dreadful man in his forties, dressed as a Goth with black lips, no less, who came from the kitchen of this unknown tavern. Also dressed in a classic three-piece suit according to Earth fashion, he seemed both very sturdy and wiry, and somehow unpleasantly aged, as if fading, which was only supplemented by the unnaturally black color of his eyes, but this blackness was somehow viscous, alive and moving. And the net of inky-black veins, now and then appearing under the skin of his face, continuously moving like worms, added to the ominousness. In his hands he held a huge cauldron of fresh and steaming pilaf, so heavy that when it was placed on the table it even sagged a little, though it was firmly made of thick planks. The whole company welcomed the appearance of the pilaf with joy and immediately began to pour it into bowls for themselves, paying no attention to the appearance of the strange cook or to each other.

This picture reeked of something simultaneously unknowable and murky, but also homely and cozy, somehow close to home. For some reason it seemed to Stepan, watching the whole scene, that they were all somehow connected with each other, as if by an invisible and unbreakable chain, but he could not realize this thought, nor could he understand or see the chain - he woke up. He woke up fresh, awake and full of some vague premonitions, ready for new incredible accomplishments.

* * *

Perhaps that's how Shakespeare felt when he closed the last sentence of his Macbeth with a dot, as Stepan felt now, looking at the items lying in front of him. They could be described in one short phrase, even a combination of words: "The power of cash." Creating two bracelets, a necklace and a belt, Stepan spent all the accumulated stocks of purchasing power, shoveled the reserves to the bottom and it is still very convenient to him came in the asset two small assigments. Material goods in the form of a fully working amulet from the curses and no less working billet for the totem of the animal sphere also turned out to be not superfluous, but put aside. All attention, all will and effort went to his new toys, the last element, the lack of which and separated the young man from the execution of the plan. Outwardly, his new toys looked plain and almost identical - a leather cord with a lot of knots, and between these knots small clay and bone rectangular tablets, each with a cubist abstract picture on one side and a bloody thumbprint belonging to Stepan on the other.

In fact, they were not spirit houses, but spiritually processed material, so densely processed that its spiritual reflection was no longer holding on to the matter so tightly that Stepan could grab the necklaces with a ghostly grip right now and pull the reflection toward him, leaving the useless matter lying where it was. He could, but it was too early to do it, and it would take a long time to pull the reflection and the matter back together, so he didn't want to try it just for fun. He had already checked the efficiency of the new tool anyway. He recognized it as satisfactory and would check it more than once before actually stepping out of the body.

In the center of the clearing, right next to the main bulk of totems, there was a bed made of small flat stones, each the size and thickness of an Apple tablet, and on top of this bed, there were many sharp and jagged patterns, incomprehensible, but slightly illuminating. Not only strengthening the call but also protecting the ownerless body from unpleasant situations, as well as simply protection, built into the defense array of the whole glade. This is the bed he'll be lying on when the real extreme begins, but until then he needs to test a lot and make at least one test exit in the safest possible conditions. Just to get used to the new sensations and to realize what he is even capable of with his modification and transformation of the spirit when only this spirit will be left of him.

It didn't happen on the same day. No, he'd taken a break again. He sat with a cup of honey brew at another village festival celebrating the arrival of winter, got a little nervous, checked his new gear one more time, and only then did he lie down. The stone chilled the body but warmed the aura, literally stimulating it to push the already willing spirit out of the body. For anyone who wasn't a shaman, or even a badass shaman, lying on such a bed was fraught with trauma to the subtle bodies and subsequent unpleasant death, not to mention the way Stepan had adjusted the bed solely for himself. He felt himself quite comfortably, only a slight tickle in his aura prevented him from relaxing, which was not surprising - it was contraindicated for him to relax now. Maybe some of the shamans risk leaving the body when they fall asleep, immersing themselves in meditation and maximum peace. In some ways, the move is correct, because so the risk is less and the exit is smoother, but as a result, the spirit out of the body may well not realize that all this is not a dream and do not remember why it was all in the first place.

For an ordinary shaman's apprentice supported by a more experienced mentor, it is even logical in its own way. The mentor will let him get used to it and gently stimulate the thinking transferred to the aural carrier, bringing the missing brains back to their place. So to speak it will wake you up without waking you up. The Earthman had no mentor, only himself, but he had a strong subtle body and a habit of controlling his own spirit, so he expected to go for the tougher option and not fail. The tickle turned into a tingling sensation and a strong, yet steady, wind at his back as if he were standing in front of a fan. He felt as if he were being literally lifted up on the currents of this breeze, embracing everything and making it float above the ground.

After about five heartbeats, it became clear that it was not his imagination. Attempting to perceive the surrounding reality caused him to perceive it even excessively. Ordinary sight didn't work at all, nor did hearing, smell, touch, or sense of balance, but their spiritual and magical counterpart was replacing all of those things with more. He saw more, realized and understood in a way he could not before, and saw the obvious solution in places where before there was only an insurmountable wall. The world had changed, though there was still something recognizable in it, but only if you deliberately did not look where the recognizable ended.

The clearing was the same, only incredibly sharp as if every blade of grass and leaf had been rendered by a top-level Photoshop master. The clearing was permeated with countless threads and knots, woven into a multilayered and extremely complex openwork structure. As if it were a dome, a net, and bearing walls at the same time. These elements were also seen as peculiar currents, as if pipes, along which some or other entities were drifting, slowly and conscientiously performing the task assigned to them. At the base of the clearing, not so much physical as metaphorical and just as “meta” physical, were totem poles, numerous auxiliary ones, a smaller number of main ones, and a single central one, but they did not look like the usual image. The idea of calling them spirit dormitories had never been truer-they seemed at once unchanged, remaining the same size, but growing to the scale of a high-rise, threaded with windows, passages, corridors, rooms, and separate segments.

There were not enough colors in the vocabulary to describe those that opened to the shaman's gaze, the long-studied spirits were seen from a completely new side, and these visions were not always pleasant, but inevitably captivating. The measured pulsation of the entire protective structure was mesmerizing in its completeness, but also disappointing in its incompleteness, for only after being in such a profoundly abnormal state did Stepan begin to notice the flaws in his creation even more acutely than he had noticed before. He did not immediately notice his bed, from which at that moment there seemed to be streams of power, feeding the spiritual body and preventing it from losing touch with Reality; he did not immediately realize it was right under him, under that point of coordinates absent in the spiritual world, where Stepan himself was hanging, oscillating together with the streams of Ether. And when he noticed it, he did not realize at first that he was seeing his own body, which now seemed dull, faded, and as if poorly distinguishable against the background of the extravaganza of colors and paints.

No wonder, for his spirit, was not in this shell now, having left only the flesh and those fragments of aura which had not left the flesh together with the spirit. So, he looks dimly to himself, as he looks at the carefully removed and lovingly ironed suit. He wandered around the clearing a little more, evaluated his work, looked at the subordinate spirits guarding him from all sides, and even communicated with them all. He was amazed at how effectively their images could be understood. And no less significant was the realization that in such a state the marks on his spirit had a noticeably stronger effect on his surroundings - the same Blessing of the Spheres or the Mark of the Roots had increased in effectiveness, according to his personal feelings, though not twice, but by seventy percent exactly. He wanted, sincerely wanted to try to go outside the clearing and wander at least in the backyard of the familiar house, not inside it, but he resolutely stopped himself. This was a trial run, he had not yet deployed all the planned defenses and had not called the best defenders. Not today and not now, there would be time for a full expedition. Though, he was tempted to change his mind at this very moment, to change his mind and step off the cliff in a daring dive, discarding the superfluous and disregarding reassurances. He intuitively understood that a little more and was guaranteed to receive some of the specific and not ordinary system knowledge about leaving the body or staying out of the body.

The potential reward he could not be sure of was not worth the risks and possible injuries so, pragmatic and bored Stepan came back to the center of the clearing, activating, directly from his spiritual state, the reverse mode of his bed. The wind blew gently and strongly in the opposite direction, allowing him to bind himself to his body without wasting energy on keeping the streams of ether from carrying him off somewhere far away. First he-spirit removed the reflections of his belt, bracelets, and necklaces, putting them back in place and connecting them to the material anchors, which in the real world looked not even dim, but almost invisible, even less significant than earth and stones, especially if everything around him was so imbued with spiritual power. Funny, but thanks to the contrast he could distinguish the foundations of his creations since they seemed like specks of emptiness on the fierce beauty of the universe. Only after he had finished connecting the images of his artifacts did he slip into his body, putting it on as easily as he put on his usual clothes in the morning.

Stepan woke up with a very strange sensation, and he woke up exactly, because his body, as soon as the native spirit returned to him, immediately fell into sleep, even if for a couple of minutes, no more. He felt strange as if he had been asleep for a long time, but he woke up too early and didn't want to do anything, and his head hurt a little. He was back to normal in just a couple of seconds, just by running his own power through his aura, but he made a mark for himself. He made a lot of marks, lying down like that and putting thoughts into the system notebook, mostly all sorts of “redo”, “supplement”, “fix” and “this here is fine”. Standing up from the stone, stretching a little, and looking at the experience bar that had grown to four-fifths of the new level, Stepan began to do, change, fix, and prepare - the test had been successful, the only thing left was, as they would say on Earth, not to screw up in the production.

He realized that such preparations couldn't be done in a couple of hours, so his next expedition to the spirit world would take at least a day, but more likely more. It's a big risk, but the result should be really outstanding. If without training and in the thick of the fire, the System will inevitably reward him for such feats. But, since he didn't want to go into the fire and had already spent on preparation, now, he only had to repay the expenses. In fact, of course, he wants to walk around the world of spirits for a day or two, or even more, not for fun and the desire to end his life. His knowledge clearly indicated that such raids for a long time are practiced by many shamanic traditions. One exit from the body for a day will give much more than seventy-two for one hour, many times more.

So such techniques were used everywhere, if, of course, one had the skill to exist for so long in an alternate state, the strength to maintain that existence, the willpower to continue to realize oneself in such an unusual state, and the means to provide such a luxury for oneself. Contract spirits, numerous tricks, special reagents, strengthening rituals, as well as colleagues, relatives, and mentors (or students), which will follow the abandoned body and will not let you die foolishly are also important. Stepan could either provide all this himself, no worse than others, as with spirits and training, numerous protective constructions, which will cover no worse than a couple of colleagues, as well as his modifications of the spiritual body, which in general will allow to immediately begin to realize themselves in a new state and effectively act.

But even with all this, he was not lazy to go to Kirik, to eat another pie from his wife, whom he had not seen in person yet, but already respected immensely, even more than Kirik, and also to inform him that for the next week, or even a decade, no need to send Meld with food. The shaman will go to the forest and shamanize there, it is not worth worrying and considering him eaten by wolves too, as well as to organize rescue expeditions. The protection of the clearing averts the eyes, and before the decisive phase of the plan, he will bring it to the afterburner and paranoia mode, which can kill a random traveler. Of course, there was still an option in which he urgently needed help, the spirits would not be able to provide it, and people simply would not reach, but this is from the category of nonsense. If he found himself in a situation where all his cherished training would not save him, then Meld, who had accidentally reached the totemic clearing would not be able to help him, even if he sincerely wanted to.

"Gotch, honorable, it's clear to me, I won't send the boy with food, let him help someone else or at least stay out of the way." Kirik agreed calmly and without unnecessary emotions, but Stepan did not like his next question, even though he did not let his emotions show on his face. "Honored Pann, tell me honestly only, here. Shall I forbid the children and everyone else to go into the forest any time soon? Don't misunderstand me, Your Magic, but I know how it is when something doesn't go according to plan."

"Well, then I'd better not go," Stepan admitted frankly, monitoring the man's reaction with a couple of additional spirits planted in his own aura in addition to the one he already had, as soon as the topic of conversation became a little slippery. "There won't be anything directly dangerous there, and I've closed off my clearing from prying eyes myself, but I'm not sure. When I come back, you can go mushrooming again, everything will be fine."

"Heh, to the mushrooms, in winter, oh, Your Magic, you know how to say it like that, I'll have to memorize it, hehehe. Now I'll know how to send someone to gather mushrooms in the forest in winter." Stepan realized he had made a mistake with mushrooms, but didn't care what they went to the forest for in winter, for strawberries of a special cold-resistant breed or magic cherries for real heroes. "All right, good, I'll twist everyone's tails and ears, and you, as soon as you come back, tell me right away so that I don't worry about you or my assholes. They're all my relatives, like children, sometimes not the dumbest ones."

Smirking in response to such a flattering characteristic of the villagers under his charge, with whom the poor headman had turned gray so early, Stepan finished his pie, said goodbye to Kirik, and went back to his room. Still, there were really important days ahead, and he seriously expected to close not only the almost-taken level but also the next one, not to mention a couple of specific knowledge, that could be obtained as a result of out-of-body travel. He was no longer nervous, just burned out after so much preparation time. If he managed to get into trouble and get himself killed, then it was just unclear how else he could avoid it. The offer to sell himself into slavery to a pretty elven magician with a great passion for shamanism and young human shamans should not be offered, no one would offer anyway. And he with such offers would be fried by lightning by these same elven magicians, that's for sure.

This time he dreamed at night of numerous air battles, where he, riding on a jet barrel with beer, leaving a trail of beer foam behind him, shot down the latest generation MiGs with blows of paired enchanted scoops, making obscene gestures in the face of shocked ejected pilots. And then one of the pilots, waving his arms very quickly like a bumblebee, caught up with his jet barrel and, removing the oxygen mask from his face that prevented him from speaking, brazenly declared that he could not physically fly the beer barrel for so long, because the beer in it should have run out long ago. Immediately the foamy beer tail, which had begun to thin and shrink, made sounds like a pipe clearing, and the keg with its pilot flew downward, to the mocking laughter of the pilot waving his arms. Stepan shouted to him that he couldn't fly like that either, because it was anatomically unreal, but he only laughed even more mockingly and said that he hadn't passed anatomy at school.

Stepan woke up abruptly, almost falling out of bed, and for almost a minute he thought what a fool he was that he had not thought of simply plugging the hole in the barrel with his finger and flying on the remnants of beer without a foamy tail. Only after bemoaning his stupidity for about three minutes and successfully washing his face did he finally wake up and realize what a crazy dream he'd had.

* * *

The world had already changed in a familiar way, distorted and opened up in a new way, but now Stepan was ready and only, figuratively speaking, shrugged his ghostly shoulders, getting used to the new format of sensations. This time he didn't waste so much time crawling in circles, immediately, to put it allegorically again, he stood on crutches and moved away from his clearing. He cast only a single glance at the body left in the care of the multitude of spirits, checking everything that could be checked and finding it satisfactory. The spirits that he had not summoned last time, the spirits that monitored his health and aura, as well as the potions he had drunk before entering the world of subtle spheres and bought for the accumulated store currency.

The concoctions were of the kind that classical mages rather than savage shamans mixed for themselves, which was why he had to pay a surcharge. Nothing that he couldn't try to brew himself, albeit weaker, from analogs and in a different doctrine, but to succeed he, who had no specialized potions knowledge, only fragments from several other talents, would have to spend almost a month. No, his time was worth more, and it was better to spend a little more than to torture himself for the same amount of time. He had almost burned himself out while preparing, but he must stop on time because a dozen years would pass and he would still be preparing for the first time. The potions he had bought were not of a strengthening nature and did not improve shamanic techniques or understanding of the spiritual world. Even though they existed in a huge assortment, Stepan consciously avoided them, intending to develop only his abilities, which has a positive effect on the disclosure of personal potential and, more importantly, is not screw with the potential to waste. It was too easy to get used to getting addicted to alchemical supports. No, if it were a matter of battle and survival, Stepan would have used everything he had, disregarding a healthy lifestyle and articles for drug possession and distribution. But he had originally started it all for the sake of development and progress, so why should he limit this development? He did everything in his power and even a little more on purpose to make himself as safe as possible from all sides, but not to create hothouse conditions in which it would not be possible to develop.

In conventional terms, Stepan, wanting to learn to swim, refused to put on a life preserver, as well as an inflatable vest, armbands, and underpants, limiting himself to a piece of foam plastic in his teeth, but leaving a couple of professional lifeguards swimming three meters away from him, as well as a resuscitation team and an underwater commando with a harpoon, in case of an unwanted shark. Doing less is an overly irresponsible risk, and doing more is analogous to swimming in a vest, armbands, life preserver and still sitting on a mattress. You can do it that way, but why, if you don't learn anything, only waste your energy? For the sake of new impressions? Yeah, just take and organize a travel company, which will carry all comers around the world of spirits for a good price. Hot tickets, family offers, and teach the spirit guards to take the form of sexy models in bikinis. And then call themselves the Malibu Shamans!

His thoughts, habitually foolish, jumping from topic to topic, swarmed in his head, because the transition to a new way of thinking was confusing emotions and feelings, even if there was no body to regulate them. His feelings and thoughts did not prevent him from going around the clearing in a circle and, at the last moment, to step outside. In this space, his power over the surrounding reality was much lower than in the clearing, and the world itself had become not so much dimmer as more unstable, more noticeable were the currents of ether and the currents of forces that were trying to pick up the poor shaman and carry him away on their wings like Ellie, perhaps even returning him somewhere in the Kansas area. Stepan could have resisted, he easily could have, but near his coordinate, very close and far at the same time, there were two cool-looking jellyfish guards, and in the center of the main spiritual node there was a resting Fugitive. With such an oversight, there was simply no point in limiting himself to minimal steps, especially since he had already mastered moving and orienting himself in this world.

No, he didn't immediately jump into the current, he walked around a bit more and looked from the side at the built line of defense. He even ran into some small spirits of evil and dark orientation. A classic leech, quite insignificant, would have been death and destruction for an average shaman's apprentice in his situation without cover. The same dilemma of a fish on dry land or a beast underwater as mortals falling into the spirit world feel. Under such conditions, even those entities that a shaman can effortlessly swaddle in reality can easily become a deadly surprise. The jellyfish didn't have time to intervene, as Stepan shifted into himself, releasing the spirit armor over his vulnerable body, so familiar and even easier to control than when he was in his body, forcing the spirit into the stone hardness of the protection, and then embracing the leech with it, grasping it with his grip and sprouting claws, tearing the attacker to shreds.

In the real world, he couldn't manipulate his spiritual transformation so easily, but here it came out reflexively. He didn't have to use his third hand at all, just his active defense. He smiled. He didn't understand how, but he replaced smile with a grin. One fleeting wish, and he sees himself, his naked and exposed spirit in the form he took in that instant. It is still possible to recognize Stepan in him, but he is transparently ghostly, covered with a layer of shimmering steel-gray protection, and behind his back - though this is subjective, for he has no back at all - there is a combat limb folded into itself in the form of a mantis scythe, a crab's claw, or a beast's paw. Another effort of will, an appeal to his own knowledge, and then he was covered by a weightless haze of the same steel-gray spiritual shadow, concealing his appearance and the characteristic markings of his spirit. A second effort, and now the shroud, which had hitherto been asleep, also went with him, hiding the necessary parts of his aura.

In his normal state he cannot change and regulate so much, only hide or reveal his own giftedness, or close himself off completely, becoming an empty space. But now he is not in a body, he is in a new state of being and in such a state there are, despite the dangers, undeniable advantages. Such as a deeper understanding of any properties of his own aura and spirit. Not without difficulties, but he, using the shroud and the skill of spiritual manipulation managed to blur his own aura, to make it not only less noticeable in general, but categorically unrecognizable, not leaving characteristic markers-traces-prints. It was a trick he had long ago invented and theorized, but he could not perform it before, and now, he could not do it either in a normal body, not even in a weak semblance. The influence of flesh was still too strong. But it would become weaker the more the young man became accustomed to such abilities, the more he shrouded his spirit in a new, more developed format.

When he was done with the disguise and ensure that both jellyfish didn't think of him as someone else, Stepan “stepped forward” letting one of the currents wash over him, yielded to its pressure and let himself be carried higher, farther, farther, but at the same time not deeper, because in the depths of the spiritual world, where the pressure of reality was no longer evident, and the spheres merged with each other directly, one could encounter too much shit. No, no, the first exit will be on the surface, maximum at the end will be a couple of shallow and controlled dives. So the current carried Stepan, wrapped in his own battle tentacle and watching the world. He could see Upper Lyady quite clearly. He knew what the spiritual world looked like in the reflection of the village, but he didn't linger there, letting himself be carried further. The reflection of the etheric current from the mighty Dantra was more serious, and he had to make a conscious and noticeable effort not to fall into it. In an instant, some beast-like thing struck from below, or from his own spiritual pocket, or from the vector of a dimension absent in normal perception, but it came out suddenly, even, rather, SUDDENLY. Stepan still has time to look at his opponent, a sort of four-legged mix of a ferret and a dog, even manages to strike towards him and put up a defense.

The claw's counter-strike catches only the streams of ether left at the site of the creature's impetuous jerk, the defense meets it with spikes and its own blow, but the entity only mockingly wiggles, openly flaunting itself and coming at Stepan from the unprotected side. He has no time for anything else and prepares to lose a chunk of his ripped out spiritual body as the guards have spoken their weighty word. No, his jellyfish were not like the guards from the cartoon about Bremen Musicians, they turned out to be really fast and damn competent. Following to the last the shaman's orders not to get involved in his battles until the danger of serious injury was obvious, they struck simultaneously and much faster than this agile ferret-saurus.

A single jellyfish tentacle darted forward, weaving through the space of the dimension at an unimaginable angle, barely touching the spirit that hadn't even noticed the attack. The spirit was immediately electrocuted, poisoned, chilled, and a few other unrecognized effects, depriving it of movement and escape, and a moment later the jellyfishes were already tearing the beast apart in a combined movement. Calmly, quickly, without heat and even without going off their measured steaming near-and-distant Stepan. That was a real level! The young man somehow immediately realized that even though in the real world he could restrain and force more dangerous spirits to obedience, but here and now, if at least one of the jellyfish tried to finish him off, he would be killed immediately and without options. 'Fish on land', the shaman reminded himself again and again. This is all a consequence of the paradox of the spiritual world in relation to the shaman, not Stepan, who is such a miserable asshole.

But even though he did not show any fear and apprehension, and the spirits in general behaved indifferently about what was happening, but still the guy was glad that he had chosen the most reliable of the possible and available spiritual guards, and then also bound them with additional restrictions in several layers, and all willingly and without coercion, so that the return was maximum. No, there were stronger spirits among the available, but all of them did not fit something, either by specialization, or aspects, or bad character, or refusal of a more dense contract and the likelihood of fraud. Not to say that with the jellyfishes he felt as if he were behind a stone wall of alien power, but a certain calm awareness of the power behind him helped. It also provoked him to take risks, but Stepan fought it as resolutely as he fought his own laziness.

The river's current, combined with the etheric current, allowed him to travel quickly and comfortably, though a couple of times he almost dived deeper. Each time, the necklace helped him, acting as an instantaneously activated float, pulling him back to the lower spheres, closer to Reality. He didn't activate it a second time, however, and instead spent nearly a third of his reserve to escape the maelstrom of ether and swim from the edge of the hole to deeper water. It hadn't been easy, not even heavy, but he'd made it, and the adventure hadn't ended so quickly. No, even if it had ended, it would have been only because the Fugitive would have pulled the contractor back into his body, but it was still pleasant - he managed it, he did it himself, he was a good man. The System in this state was in a kind of hibernation mode, apparently having decided to give out all the rewards after returning to the body, although Stepan realized at that moment that he could summon the status and get the reward for the accomplishment right now. But he didn't, clearly understanding and realizing that he wouldn't be able to assimilate knowledge and keep in the necessary state of consciousness at the same time, that it would be a real risk, close to suicidal. He didn't even bother to check whether the level increase had happened to him or whether he had gained free knowledge, he just noted the exact time and went on his way.

The shaman swam out of the river flow, or rather, fell out of it, onto the part of the ether that was responsible for the shore, but it was unreal to recognize these places, too much distortion, too much incomprehensible. Somehow orienting himself, he picked up another current coming from the river, not towards it, taking off somewhere else. A few more encounters with small and aggressive spirits he resolved on his own, getting more and more comfortable with his new setup. On one more occasion, when something evil and saturated with scalding flames almost floated by, he wrapped himself in the shroud and the spirit that had already headed towards him slowed down, flew in circles and went about its business. However, then his jellyfish start worried, also lost sight of their employer and between them there was a tense dialog, which was reduced to the idea of "do not do so without warning, boss," with which Stepan, after a little thought, agreed. Yes, and he did not like the full Shroud in this mode. He was completely cut off from the world of spirits, almost locked in a newly created pocket, and even without the slightest inflow of strength. It became difficult to even just think, and he, if he had not already been a little prepared, could well just freeze, fall asleep gradually suffocating himself in the arms of his own property.

He came to the village suddenly, even though it was twice or three times larger than Lyadya and could be considered a small town by medieval standards, with a population of half a thousand at least, not counting those who just passed by. The earthling's spirit flew around, observed the dim and barely distinguishable figures of people, the patterns of magical protections on the largest buildings woven into something resembling artistic representations of electrical circuits, looked at the small temple of Fertile from afar, and did not approach. But he noticed a small drama in the form of two human figures dragging a smaller figure into the forest, another figure, also not particularly large, already dragging a smaller figure. cooling down and giving up the last drops of energy to the world around them. It was not possible to see more, it was very difficult to act on reality from such a position and state, spirits need a shaman or a magical source for transition to reality, but Stepan was not a spirit, but a shaman. A double blow with a tentacle with a clawed palm at the end, and both of brutes already managed to tear off the sluggishly twitching victim's clothes and tactilely evaluate her charms, sharply arch their backs, trying with their hands to find their hearts, which had stopped beating. Of course it would have stopped beating if Stepan, having somehow saved a third of his reserve, had managed to tear out the parts of their aura that were responsible for the heart.

He hung in meditation, trying to suppress the strange feelings (there wasn't much negativity from the murder of the two rapists) and marveling at his sudden impulsiveness, until the figure, which turned out, not surprisingly, to be female and, according to his perception of the real world, even pretty, first kicked the still twitching bodies, and then knelt down and prayed so fervently that her spirit, teeming with feeling and will, cast visible glimmers, as if the candle were trembling, sending gratitude and faith to the object of worship. To whom exactly, alas, it was not clear, but certainly not to Stepan, which made him feel very offended for a brief moment, so offended that he almost cried, catching himself in time to regain control of his emotions. His body was gone, and his hormones weren't spewing out, but he was more stunned than he'd been by teenage love and breakups. Though, he had never really felt emotions at such an age, which was why they called him an emotionless chump and a radish.

Leaving the girl saved by the will of divine providence to beg for forgiveness, he went to meet the currents of the ether again and was carried away somewhere else, again closer to Dantra, and from there down the real stream. There, hovering at the very boundary between this mega-stream and the more stable part of the spiritual world, the boy replenished his strength, thinking over his actions once more. Still, he became more impulsive in this state, more prone to risk and impulses of the soul, as if drunk or under some kind of drug. Whether it was the effect of the freed and happy spiritual body, or he was really used to restraining his physical desires, and here it was not biology and hormones, but something higher. Knowledge said that the problem was typical for all adepts of shamanism and just those who liked to leave the body without leaving the chat room, but still he was a little disappointed in himself, because he expected help from the spiritual transformation in this direction. Overcoming the attack of self-deprecating and self-compassionate mood, he consoled himself with the fact that simple shamans after the first, well, second, experience of such practices should have been emotionally overwhelmed.

The new journey along the river and its etheric reflection were much more difficult because he was again attacked unsuccessfully, now by water spirits, looking like a cloud of misty body in the first case and a large amorphous blob in the second. He managed to fend off the first blow, awkwardly but effectively swung the second, ripping out a chunk of misty body and forcing the mist to flee. The third blow was exemplary in its active defense, throwing the spirit right into the tentacles of the guard. He missed the fact he was no longer holding himself in the correct awareness of the current, having fallen a couple of layers down at once. The spirits, which only protected his life, silently and with incredible grace followed him, seeming to feel even better here, and he experienced all the delights of being a frog at great depths.

He tried to swim out twice, but the first time he almost fell in deeper, where he would have had to evacuate far away, and in doing so he baited something large and strong enough for his jellyfish to engage in a brief and intense battle without waiting for contact, quickly tearing something incomprehensible and evil to shreds. The second run was almost successful, and he even saw images of a very large and beautiful city, with high stone walls, gorgeous architecture, and even more gorgeous slums, but the city was full of not only beauty, but also magic, and on the magic he ran into some kind of signal network, or protection from river spirits, which was located in the river port, or rather on one of the docked ships. Judging by the fact that here the etheric currents became furious, for it was at this point that Dantra merged with her younger sister, Mlatra, that was the first of Stepan's visits to the center of local life, the glorious Free City of Dantmark.

Maybe it was a good thing he'd stumbled upon a simple river-spirit defense when he'd ducked out so unluckily, because there was a lot of magic in the city, and he could have stumbled into something more dangerous. This defense was so weak that even his reflexive strengthening of his spiritual body was enough to avoid injury. The shaman, who had not yet stabilized his position on the layer of high spheres closest to me, immediately fell again. This time he did not try to escape from the stream at any cost, concentrating on getting used to it, as well as on the occasional attacking small spirits that occasionally disturbed him, but most of his efforts were spent on keeping himself at the right level of the depth of the High Sphere. The jellyfish that covered him were doing a fine job of keeping him from distracting or injuring his charge, and Stepan was experiencing a world that was still new to him.

This place-state was extremely close to the water sphere, but at the same time, the persistent presence of a reflection of the real world was still felt. It was as if he was floating in the colorful and rainbow-colored stream of a mighty river, penetrated by ethereal swirls, noting the predominance of water shades around, but he also saw pieces of the real world: houses and people, banks and watering holes, with animals coming to them, a spreading willow bending over the river, the enchanted bottom of a floating boat, dead bodies and blood given to the river after a bloody battle. The etheric whirlwinds, which could injure a simple shaman, did not harm him, with protection from transformation and fortitude of subtle bodies, but allowed him to replenish his strength faster and better, taking advantage of the high indicator in the “Spirit” characteristic. However, these forces had to be spent just as slowly, mercilessly squeezing out reserve after reserve in order to maintain the required degree of immersion and not collapse even deeper. There, where even the jellyfish will no longer be able to protect the shaman properly, and all that remains is to call the Fugitive to pull himself back out. But there are places there, in the depths of the spheres, from which the Fugitive will not be able to pull out his shaman, no matter how hard he tries.

The only thing that really pissed him off was the spirits, especially the brainless little ones, who were always trying to hit him. They sensed he was strong, but defenseless and alien to this place, thus the perfect prey. Spirits stronger and smarter also attacked, but they either retreated, having met with a rebuff, realizing the stranger was still not so toothless, or they were torn to pieces by jellyfish. And with the little things he had to deal with himself, each time getting more and more accustomed to this kind of battle mode. He involuntarily imagined how both jellyfish, when fighting with that annoying dog-horse, punched their absent faces with a facepalm, looking at how their employer helplessly floundered in the streams of the force.

Several times he found peculiar mole holes, leading, as it seemed to him, upward, closer to Reality. However, they did not look like holes at all. Sometimes it was a door, a hole, just a whirlpool turned inside out, and once it was a small boat inviting him to get into it and go wherever he wanted. The latter even tried to press on his brains. Still, paranoid Stepan coped with the mental blow of some frankly insidious and sharpened against shaman guests, though not without difficulty. In a flash of anger that grew even thicker after he managed to capture the frustrated hunger of the pretend boat-gate predatory spirit from a very dark sphere of deception and with a tinge of not just aquatic focus, but pure depth. After thinking for a while, reflecting on another, more subtle and cunning tactic of influencing thinking through the spiritual body, causing the very aggression, as well as estimating the strength of this spirit. Stepan grinned with a distorted and fanged grin, giving orders to the jellyfish.

It was a tentacle rape. And also an explanation for who was the boss of the gym, and who was just a wrong-headed soy cuckold. The two jellyfish, which had been following the shaman unnoticed and hiding their presence, turned out to be much more dangerous than a single shit, which, when it dropped its disguise, turned out to be not a boat at all, but some kind of fantasy-inspired underwater fishing fish. The spirit was humiliated, insulted, torn, and even eaten, and both jellyfish clearly did it not on orders, but with pleasure, almost with gusto. Probably some sort of conflict between their realms, especially since this individual seemed more suited to meeting in the sea rather than in Dantra's spiritual reflection. Jellyfish were not river creatures either, though. Stepan swam up to the nearer spheres using another exit not connected to water. In his perception looked like a rope ladder hanging in the middle of the ether currents. It even wobbled and twitched after this ether current, but neither close scrutiny, nor scanning by all means available in such a state did not show a trick, and that's why the shaman went up. In fact, of course, it was not a staircase, but an image of such, an imprint of condensed ether, and even passed through the prism of perception of the human mind. Each shaman would see this image in his way, although the rope ladder would still prevail, just differing in small things, like the color of the rope and the type of fiber.

The ascent, due to the rightly chosen tunnel, proceeded without cost or danger, even too easily, because in the end the current literally pushed him higher and higher, directly into the real world. If the witnesses had been around, they would have been surprised to see a strange and blurred humanoid silhouette appear out of thin air, with an underwater Kraken tentacle sticking out of its back and swearing in several languages. For better or worse, there were no witnesses around, so Stepan, who began to lose reserve rapidly after the fall into reality, dived a little deeper with the same swearing, ceasing to bleed power into the surrounding space. Still, without a body and in a creaturely world, the spiritual traveler, unfit for such extreme conditions, had some chances of ending his out-of-body adventure early, if not dead.

This time he was oriented better, and the young man suspected he had inadvertently unlocked or even enhanced one or more talents, which made it so easy for him to adjust to changes in his surroundings. It couldn't be compared to the full assimilation of knowledge, true, but even such a fragmentary and instinctive touch to the system base gave some very tangible advantages. All these thoughts didn't stop him from enjoying the scenery around him, the view of another, much larger and more beautiful city - albeit one with traces of a not-so-old battle - and the sea. coast. Stepan, who had left Dantra's reflection just in time, did not even think of approaching the sea, because it would be much harder to get out of its etheric reflection, mighty and vast, than from the image of even the mightiest river. The sea ether is not so turbulent, but it is very vast and confusing, one can wander there without beacons for a long time, and its main beacon, the body, and the clearing can be distinguished from here with considerable difficulty. And what is the use of knowing the exact direction, if there is no possibility to overcome the resistance of the higher spheres and move in that very direction?

Instead of going for a swim or getting closer to the very magical city, where there would surely be a lot of protection, Stepan started to explore the surroundings look for various interesting things in the nearby reflections and space around the city, and to have fun. The occupation is dangerous because in such a state the shaman's sense of time floats and it is easy to get so carried away that you do not even notice the death of his body. Death from exhaustion. Easy, it was true, but not for the Earthman, who had a real system clock, pumped up to two. That's what he needed, an accurate knowledge of time and dates, which could not be blocked and which could not be forgotten, unless it was on purpose. His body, stuffed with special alchemy, supported by a good dozen specific spirits and the same number of unkind spirits, and even recently doubled its corporeality, could survive for a week or two without food and water, only on the prepared support. It could also last three, but with no guarantee, so Stepan estimated a decade and a half for his adventure. He's being over-insured.

And, by the way, he had already lost three days. Time flowed strangely in this state, his consciousness was too focused on one thing, and it was quite possible to spend seven hours and thirty-two minutes just watching a cherry blossom. A cherry tree that blossomed in winter and gave berries at the same time, whose color was reflected in the higher realms, even though the cherry tree had long ago been burned by lightning and in Reality there was only a rotted piece of blackened trunk as thick as a man's leg. The cherry tree still blossomed and bore fruit, as if it had awakened spirituality in itself at the moment of the element's strike and, having died physically, had no time to realize it spiritually, and continued its existence in a new form.

Stepan even carefully plucked a few petals and berries with his working limb, bringing each flower or berry just as carefully to one of the reflected segments of the belt. Every fifth tablet contained not only standard defenses and incantations but also a kind of storage for those reagents, which in the real world can not exist at all. He couldn't help but taste one berry, having checked it beforehand, feeling as if it was not even the taste, but the very concept of cherry taste as such, its idealized image. It seemed to him for a moment that in this chance encounter with the tree that refused to die, in the very image of the cherry, there was something else, something important, like a sign from above, but he was unable to catch the elusive thought.
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For the next few days, Stepan searched for different bright places and found a couple of wild sources of magic, from one of which he even recharged himself, having made an agreement with its keeper, also a spirit, rather stupid, but strong and good-natured. How could he not be good-natured, if behind the back of Stepan, who had come to speak, hung the jellyfish spirits. He also met another spirit of the natural sphere, neither light nor dark, but neutral, looking like a tree creeping slowly on its own roots, with a lush, blue crown and a puffy face. Stepan had just fought off a couple of large leeches, multiplying the agile creatures by zero on his own, and didn't immediately notice that the tree trunk he was approaching was a kind of sapient. The negotiations were surprisingly friendly, even if the spirit did not agree to join Stepan's retinue, but gave him a couple of acorn-like fruits, also spiritual. A valuable reagent and an opportunity to plant somewhere these little trees that grow only in the spiritual world, then pruning the harvest from them. And for the spirit the opportunity to collect parental tax from these seedlings, feeding itself. They parted mutually satisfied with each other.

Time passed, and with each hour it became easier and easier to keep concentration, to maintain his existence, to feel his body and the totems created in the clearing more and more clearly and vividly. He was even beginning to think cautiously that he might be able to return by himself, by pointing at this radar, thus saving the Fugitive's summons and then repeating the expedition once more. Sooner than expected. But all good things have to come to an end, every light streak is followed by a dark one, and sometimes such a zebra ends with a horse's ass that is no longer striped. Such a moment came for Stepan, although, as it is customary to say in the classics, nothing portended trouble.

* * *

He found the strange place by chance, it was very well disguised, but at this very moment his disguise had loosened, so Stepan's spirit felt some disturbance and an inflow of power from somewhere outside. He lazily turning around and changing the direction of movement, jumping from one current to another, and without the awkward rolls of a pregnant seal in the desert. Walking-swimming-crawling-moving on the sensed power, expecting to meet another spiritual plant or the rookery of some spirit useful for communication, he did not forget about the possibility of running into another trap. The guard jellyfish, fed by his power, floated phlegmatically behind his back in maximum stealth mode. His combat limb switched to the clawed and fearsome hand mode, as if Freddy Krueger had grown a few extra elbow joints, and all his perceptions were diligently looking for a threat.

He did not immediately find the almost missing entrance, even its trace, assuming that it was no longer a trap, but just an accidental and spontaneous spiritual pocket formed around, say, some mole hole or just a specific source. He was wrong, though he was right. It was indeed a place of power, a spiritual pocket cutting off a part of the territory of the spheres from the general currents, but it was not created naturally and not due to spontaneous fluctuations. This thing had been created, made by hand and with a lot of care, no worse than Stepan himself had put effort into the creation of his glade.

Well, or rather, it’s still worse, because the young man would not have allowed such crap.

Maybe.

Or, on the contrary, it’s better, because Stepan could not repeat part of what he saw.

More likely.

The place looked like another clearing, both forested and, probably, plucked from a small forest somewhere reflected in the spheres, but at the same time it was soaked in the spirit of the steppe, the grassy sea and the dry, mighty wind. The totem standing in the center was not bad, though it was relatively fresh and obviously made with mistakes. Even though Stepan only knew the base of this direction, but he had the basic class skills developed up to the limit. This place was dedicated to the wind, only to it, mostly of its steppe shades, although there were hot desert dry winds, and cold winter blizzards too, but the basis, the basis was the wind. It was felt that this place was created not at once, but gradually, little by little, that protective and guarding constructions were built here, but there was no order in them, everything was done too unevenly. The young man had an absurd idea, as if this place had been created by an experienced and strong shaman, but at the same time in his free time from the main tasks, while most of the practice and development took place on a more suitable site. This understanding was evident in the types of bound spirits, in the marks of the calls, in the traces left behind - not a hidden secret laboratory, but simply a place where one could test one's own theories and not take resources away from the main totems, especially if they were now occupied by older colleagues and relatives.

It is quite logical, especially if you have all your relatives talking to spirits and you do not want to show your personal research in front of them, or even just interfere. Such an image came out, persistent and, quite possibly, wrong. And he did not doubt even for a moment that the creator of this place was not weaker, if not stronger than Stepan. Even though his connection with the spirits was very strong, though somewhat one-sided, even though he had a strong skill in working with various directions of shamanic art, his experience, and erudition were not enough to understand the important things. Stepan himself could create the same pockets in the spiritual world only a little worse, the clearing was an example to him, but he had not tried to transfer them so completely to the spirit world yet, there was no need. He hadn't tried it, but he certainly wouldn't allow such a blunder as closing a pocket with a standard contour with a basic, albeit masterfully executed seal forbidding all outsiders to enter.

This trick is good when the basis of the totem remains in the material world, literally a classic for any shaman who respects himself and his labor, but it is quite a different matter if at best the totem anchor remains in the real world, and the working сфдд room is moved to the spiritual pocket and the upper layers of the reflection of the spheres. A useful idea, clearly lumped in with a much more advanced design. Stepan saw some solutions that were simply excessive for this totem, and some could not be fully realized. Another part, also not a small part, he did not recognize at all and did not even always suspect that it was possible - he lacked the understanding of wind and control over spirits to make such effects. Apparently, this place had been created with the intention of channeling the essence from a farther point, from somewhere within the city limits of what was known as the Pearl of the Seaside. It was there that the power of the shaman or shamans was based, and here it was, a small laboratory for school projects, nothing more.

But here's the thing. If the seal and the forbidding line on the entrance to the pocket were the envy of all self-taught people, but this was not the real world, but damn spheres, even if they were the closest to the damned Reality! Hungry and very dangerous nasty spirits, which Stepan had kept away from his clearing with a specific circle-in-a-circle, as well as predatory spirits-chipmunks specializing in eating such stuff, did not break through the forbidding seal, they simply gnawed through the walls of the pocket and got inside. Judging by their organization, this pack was commanded by someone advanced and savvy enough not to disturb the protections and defenders of the totems, slowly eating the power and offerings from this pocket, preventing the spirits sleeping in the totem from activating and unleashing a steppe hurricane on the scavengers. And then it was too late because the surrounding power began to belong not to the keepers of the totem, who lived in it permanently and not only come at the call of the shaman, leaning on this totem. No, now the surrounding territory and the rest of the pocket belonged to some disgusting shit, which also blocked the signal from the totem and gradually finished the deliciousness, taking advantage of the absence. Here in less than a couple of weeks, or better, a couple of months, - it is impossible to cope - the owner, who either found a new occupation or simply got normal access to the main call support and forgot about the once-done place.

That's why Stepan, who was intentionally not looking for anything or anyone, without any approximate images or coordinates of this place, felt the drain of strength. The once sturdy pocket had already fallen into almost complete disrepair, and rather than repairing all the damage, it would be easier to burn the place and then create a new place, only by moving the totem with the spirits. The totem and its inhabitants/, were the only things that had not been damaged or not too badly. Yes, the spirits in the totem who woke up late because of a malfunctioning alarm system and the effects of the scavenger couldn't even scream for help or go outside, but barricade all the doors and keep the invaders out - why not? This is one of the purposes of such a totem in case of working inside the spiritual pocket. Sooner or later, the shaman will come to the place where the material anchor stands in the forest, come out of the body, go down to the pocket, realize everything that has happened.... and either destroy the nasty carrion or they bite him. But okay, he's overreacting, a moron wouldn't have created such a thing, he would have killed himself before, and a clever shaman wouldn't get out of his body without protection and guarding spirits like his jellyfish, and he could take someone with him to look after his body too.

All these thoughts and understanding of the situation went through the head of Stepan, who literally fell into the pocket and literally in seconds was sucked through the hole gnawed in the defense. The accelerated and panicked consciousness surpassed the limits of the human body, making him think impossibly fast. But not faster than the very nasty spirits began to raise their heads from all corners of the meadow that had been eaten and soiled, as if after a picnic in the performance of some swine bull. Some of them had four limbs and a large hippopotamus-like mouth, though they didn't seem too big compared to Stepan, some of them looked like blotches and puddles of slop, and some of them looked like dead and rotten chickens. Their leader resembled a shapeless cloud of dirty-brown and festering foul power, evoking distant associations with some kind of mushroom or slug. And the whole coterie gave the sudden guest a very unpleasant look.

The sudden guest reached out with his will to the necklace, which had been forged by sweat and blood, and where about half of the tablets shone with a light that was invisible in the material world, but dazzling in the spiritual world. The light spirits, the good spirits who had invested their power, influence, and their will in these plates, could be proud of themselves. When Stepan released the shadow of this will, covering the entire internal structure of the pocket with this light, the bulk of the trifle was literally burned and vaporized. Even the condition of the clearing seeming to improve a little. The main slug, visibly stunned by a pre-prepared spiritual strike, specially sharpened against the spirits of dark and evil spheres, got a hit from a fighting grip, again, and finally died in a squirm, forcing Stepan to freeze for a few seconds and burn out the crap that had fallen on his ghostly hand. Even the spiritual matter of this thing was quite toxic and unpleasant, literally staining thin bodies with its abomination. He managed, of course, he couldn't help it, he managed just in time to react to the new danger, the danger having warned him of its attack in advance.

"THIEF! “Naturally, it wasn’t a scream, but rather an image conveying an angry and furious desire to punish the asshole that they took him for, making Stepan somehow suddenly realize that he now probably doesn’t look anywhere in an advantageous position. "SCOUNDREL! SAMASH-AVUR!"

The last image had no analog in the languages known to Stepan, but it was still understandable, meaning something like "a very dishonest and evil speaker with spirits, not honoring the good law and ready for any lowliness, whose place is at the parashah or at least in the cesspool", and it had the coloring with which they say a heavy swear in the face. The attack was no less heavy. And it was not something there, but a full-fledged and specialized attack of the spiritual body, specially for the world of spirits honed and for the battle with fellow shamans in the bodiless state of the met designed. It could have scared the shit out of others, if not killed or maimed them, but Stepan, with his resistance of subtle bodies and his mastery of spiritual form already honed by the omnipotent system, was only slightly shaken when he reflexively strengthened himself with protection and extinguished the alien spiritual fist.

The young man turned and looked around, focusing his attention on the master of this place, whom he already disliked for his bad habit of doing first and thinking later, and doing it in an extremely aggressive attacking form. He focused and realized, with a slight surprise, that his colleague was not the master of this place, but the very real mistress. The images of the spiritual body were not always clear and correct, and he had made sure that he was not remembered, recognized or imprinted, but this lady either did not know how to disguise herself, which was unlikely, or did not think it necessary. A beautiful, slanting girl, not so much traditional Asian as Mongolian in appearance, came into his spiritual perception. She literally reeked of the power of steppes, winds, night skies, and the midday sun; she bore multiple marks of old contracts, and her whole body seemed to glow with signs drawn on her spiritually ghostly body.

Some of those marks were clearly duplicates of the reinforcing ritual patterns she had made on herself before leaving her body, reflecting her real image, which also included a few amulets, feathers, and stones like his own, dragged along with him on his journey through the spheres. Some of the other parts of the patterns were either embedded in her essence or left here in the spirit world by other spirits, and these markings were literally six-meter neon letters that told those who wished and could see that this maiden had some VIP connections with the blood and power of her family. Yes, a maiden, at most five years older than Stepan, and for some reason it seemed to him that she was not a pure steppe, but a mestizo, but her blood had not weakened a bit, as well as the connection with the spirits. The child of two shamanic dynasties? He's near Morgrave's reflection now, not in the depths of the steppes..... it would seem. Yes, and the signal-link from her main ancestral stronghold is coming from within the city limits... it seems.

It's so bad luck.

It’s literally out of nothing.

\/"Okay Stepan, show all your gallantry and nip this conflict in the bud, even if you do twist this miracle, but what about the consequences?" he thought, as he drew in his grayish smoke-covered figure and active defense and even an attacking hand, trying to show himself, well, peaceful. Here, in the spirit world, he is definitely stronger, and in the real world, he can compete with her too, both in characteristics and in knowledge and skills, and the latter will definitely be in his favor. Though she has more reserve, and control, it seems, is also better, but the superiority is not drastic. He see in her image some elements unfamiliar to him, but his call school is still more solid, will not yield in anything, and in many respects will surpass. The System gives him a literally perfect version of any direction of development, and it is also customized for him. This feeling of superiority calmed him down a little, because his nerves were still shaky. His spiritual state was affecting him.

"You're wrong, your defense here was..." He had just begun to speak, sending images not with the blows of the storm wind and the jab of a heavy spear, but rather with the grinding of steel and rusted gears, the rustle of leaves falling in late fall, but he was not allowed to finish, and it seemed that he was not even listening, only his successful repulsion of the previous attack was enough. "You fucking bitch!"

The shaman had spoken somewhat undiplomatically, but in his defense, this child of someone's hot interracial love affair had seized control of her totem and tried to pummel Stepan with the rest of her power here. No, she might have had a chance if this place was still hers or had retained a bit more of her power, but after the visit of the Evil Hoarders, her grip on the territory and the rest of her pocket was tenuous, to say the least. And she kicked as if she still owned the place outright. Stepan twisted himself, as if twisting into a knot and attacking simply sending a counter spiritual wave from the point of his stay. And the totem-supported strike, which was supposed to play a fun game of "find yourself between two millstones" with the earthling, just fell apart. If the guy pressed a little harder, so even the rollback could hurt the asshole, but he's damn kind! He can't just start ripping out bitches' nostrils, especially if there's a misunderstanding like this. It was the fact that he was now sincerely seen as the villain in this story and forced to look for a way out of the situation, and not to hit back or flee. Especially since they would be looking for him afterwards, and there would be no way to get rid of them, especially if the whole coven was looking for him.

"HOW DARE YOU! INSULT! GUILTY ONE!" Holy admins, why the fuck doesn't she shut the fuck up and give this place a test. Her skills would be enough to figure out how this shit happened, even if she could talk to the spirits in the totem, but no, we can always blame Stepan, he's the fucking baldest! "YOU'RE EVIL! SAMASH AVOUR! YOU BROUGHT YOUR FILTHY KHAO-TASH HERE! DESTROYED! ROBBERY! AND WAITED. waited for me. YOU CAN'T TAKE ME TALAAT KHANUR!"

Again insults, again unfamiliar terms, intuitively understood through the attachment of images, which, by the way, brought funny thoughts about using the the spiritual world as an ideal means of translation. Although, it is nailing with a video card. Well, the Khao-Tkhash are the very Nasty Hoarders, that is, not just evil, but also as nasty spirits as possible, which even disgusting to call because it's not much use, and you'll get dirty. It's easier to get a normal curser. And the last expression is classic "dishonorable stranger, horse thief, cattle fucker and deceiver", just as if on the forums, just that intimate relations with his mother did not mention. And yes, apparently he was misunderstood again, what a surprise, what a fucking surprise!

Stepan could said a lot. Mostly unprintable otherwordly swearing. But it's not fun for him, especially after the mare thought something very bad. Yeah, the evil shaman had come to her personal stash, ruined it, baited it with a distress signal from her panicked spirits, - probably the victims sitting in the totem had managed to get through to the shaman a little earlier, just when the power was starting to drain out of her pocket - and now he was standing there, insolent. He standing there, ready to fight in the spirit world, and skillfully using against her her own place of power, which no longer belonged to her and contained too many imprints left by her. Stepan swore to himself, of course, but he recognized that in such a situation he would probably think bad things about such a guest.

And then he'd kill the fucking stranger.

Problems with communication kill, and a poor and innocent earthling could verify this truth in practice.

Right here, right now.

Because the shamaness realized that she was in a very delicate and disadvantageous position had somehow once again gone quiet and called in the heavy artillery. Given all the marks on her spirit, which, it seemed, had been inherited, it would have been surprising if she had no defenders. In fact, her short call was directed not in the distance, but quite close, letting out "from behind" the invisibly following guard hiding in her shadow like his jellyfish waiting for his orders or a dangerous moment. A strong spirit.It was a full Elder, no less, though weaker, definitely weaker, than Dreamwalker, but in the same league, and purely martial. Wind, the embodiment of it, the embodiment of wind angry and tender, mightily whipping and tenderly embracing. Attack and defense, even some maintenance of life in one bottle. Whoever put such a miracle to her, even if it was she herself, but the defender was chosen for the glory. And this miracle-juice, aggressively vibrating and howling through the rocks all around the nearest spheres, scaring away the little things, crawled towards Stepan still hanging motionless.

"NOW I HAVE TO ASK! WITH THE WILL AND POWER OF THE KHAO-ESSAI! AND YOU ANSWER!" Power over the guardian spirit she'd summoned and commanded in the name of long-standing family bargains, but she didn't have time to finish her pathos. - YOU'RE TAL....

This made her less arrogant by the fact that the spirit of winds, which pulled its airy grasping hands to the motionless Stepan, received a dozen stinging and really painful, not economical as it had been before, blows with stinging tentacles. Both jellyfish swam out "from behind" the shaman in the same way as the shaman's guard had done before, unhurriedly and majestically, showing at once who was a gosu and who is a noob with zero rating. But seriously, in pure strength, the shaman's guard was stronger than a single jellyfish and even both of them, with incredible cohesion working in pairs. Except that he was a combat-oriented spirit, but a universal one, whereas Stepan had bound the jellyfish to the treaty precisely for their exceptional suitability in combat against other spirits in their territory. And they also, completely powerless in the real world, struck suddenly for another's contract through their ward, at the last moment bypassing him with their tentacles. It was not for nothing that he had been frozen and motionless all this time - that was the move he had been preparing for, and if he had jerked, he would have been hit by his own missed guards.

And now the spirit, which in a fair fight would have torn the two jellyfish or forced them to run away, had not had time to drop the poison, to burn it out before it hit the core of the spirit body. The terrifyingly mighty steppe wind suddenly somehow realized that he was about to be beaten, perhaps even kicked. In his weakened and damaged state he could at most last a few moments of the battle, without the strength to win or the will to retreat, because the contract to protect this girl bound him too tightly.

The battle turned out to be brief and colorful, literally fifty heartbeats, but they were so rich! The shamaness, silent and concentrated, was obviously trying to call for help somewhere, and Stepan, realizing that the owners of such clan calls would try to get him from under the ground later, having every chance to get him, did not let her fulfill the call, blocked, closed, wrapped her in a warm woolen blanket and strangled, strangled, strangled the cry for help that was becoming more and more desperate with each passing moment. He had underestimated her power, had overlooked her greater reserve and the power of blood-bound, albeit absent in spirits, contracts, and deals. And he hadn't wanted to spend too much of his strength, saving it for escape, and he'd saved it, the idiot! She pushed through his block with her patterns and a couple of reflected artifacts, literally burning them out and sending out several signals-cry for rescue at once. Most of them, two out of three, he intercepted.

The first one was going by blood, probably to call out to Mom and Dad, but that wasn't fucking funny, considering all that the daughter could do at her relatively young age. The second tried to find a connection to the main totem and place of power, it was the most powerful and distant, but also intercepted more easily than the others. And the third, sent on the remnants of concentration after the young man, on the same remnants of concentration, intercepted the previous two, could not be held. It was a kind of call of the duty group, very expensive and not to be disturbed for nothing, intended for the most extreme case, as it was now from the point of view of the "ambushed" steppe girl. And so, to help the unfortunate damsel in distress and no less unfortunate beaten senior spirit came two more spirits, albeit smaller, but also on average stronger than jellyfish. And those were already spent power and lost the effect of surprise. Stepan, like the shamaness, didn't waste his strength and will on yelling, but mentally gave himself a failing grade in terms of paranoia, because he would have to prepare better next time if he was to have that next time. Worst of all, of course, he could call for backup, but it would take time, and he didn't have a powerful place of power and a ready response team in the nearest city. They'll never make it, even if they start calling now! A minute, even less, but not in time, which at the speed of the ongoing battle is equal to an eternity, or even two.

The lad once again involuntarily and vaguely accelerated his perception, taking advantage of his spiritual perception, very quickly deciding what he should do. The smartest thing to do was to just forget about the jellyfish, leaving them to die while he activates the Fugitive and leaves. But even if he hid his aura, they would be looking for him anyway, and this bitch might have Senior Shamans in her family, or even Higher ones who would be able to detect his disguise. And he just didn't want to run away, accused of something I hadn't done. After all, running away would be an admission of guilt. He didn't want to abandon the guard faithfully performing their duties too.

The moment stretched out to an obscene length, was over. Stepan was already issuing commands, ordering each jellyfish to move toward its opponent, pouring more of the cursed poison into the senior wind spirit, half alive and very exhausted. The one survived and was burning the poison out of him as Stepan tore at him, realizing that he literally had seconds to pull off his plan. A plan born from understanding the mechanics of how his guards' poison worked and a couple of exercises in dragging matter into the spiritual world, after which his chair had changed a lot. Well, the piece of furniture in the village house that he regularly shoved into the spiritual reflection of the world, not the medical term for feces.
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Stepan grasped the sluggishly resisting wind guard with his battle claw - his sluggish resistance could have killed him on the spot if the guard had been hit - and then put in.... not much, in fact, even a little less than a quarter of the reserve, pulling sharply and pushing the entity upward. It was partly intuitive, partly a reliance on the obviously received but not yet revealed knowledge from the System, which he scooped up by the very edge. If the spirit had been fine, the shaman would have been blown to dust at the 'approach' stage, but the spirit was not fine and he was simply thrown into Reality. Again, if he were fine, he would have returned very quickly, only having spent some of his strength due to the sudden movement into reality, not having had time to lock this strength and not let it spill out. But the spirit, what a pity, was not fine. And so he would have to first burn out the remnants of the poison, and thus lubricate the inertial trace of the channel Stepan had thrown him into Reality.

By the time he can get back, the spirit will not have lost all of its strength, and he will be able to fight. But he's not gonna be able to burn it out and come back fast. That's one. Both jellyfish may be losing, but due to experience and cohesion they do it slowly and with dignity, so they'll give him plenty of time. That's two. The shamaness shocked by the victory that has slipped from her hands again, can't even help her strongest fighter back here. That's three. Stepan had deliberately destabilized the inertial trail but hadn't completely destroyed it. Even his knowledge was enough to realize that trying to summon the guardian again, even if it was through a blood clan contract connection, would be a very perishing idea. They were still in the spiritual pocket, already unstable and even more destabilized by the fight. If create a call-channel in opposition to the existing ones, it is quite possible to close this pocket, even if you do everything very carefully, not to mention the pressure with all your might. And his unwanted and sudden rival, although overly emotional, but still strong, very experienced and well-trained....

"DEGENERATE!" The Earthman finished his thought, realizing that he had overestimated the erudition of this idiot, as well as her understanding of the workings of spiritual constructs, when she, without a backward thought in her stupid head, reached for the spirit that had just been banished, without a second thought, pouring more power into this counteraction to be sure that it would be enough while smiling victoriously in response to the animal horror that Stepan, who had no time to hide his emotions, had flashed. "YOU DUMB BITCH!!!"

The shriek-image was not heroic and nowhere near manly, but Stepan was a bit consoled by the fact that this stupid horse squealed no less desperately. Still, it is hard not to squeal when right under you, in such a studied and seemingly relatively calm area of the high spheres, long ago appropriated and became your support, located very close to the border of the real world, within walking distance of the main altar, opens DAMB ABYSS in the deep layers of the high spheres, exactly on the border of the almost disintegrated walls of the totem pocket. And you, due to the change of the currents of powers, rapidly emerged etheric whirlpool as if a pump sucking you into the total ASS, leaving bewildered and panicked spirits, which still had time to stop fighting and rush each to his ward, outside, because this hole slammed under the same pressure almost as soon as swallowed both shamans.

///"It was good that it sucked him up in time, and did not cut off his spiritual body at the moment of the collapse of the gap," Stepan thought while he was rushing downward. It was just a passing thought, while involuntarily and with fright he was continuously broadcasting something quite different, suspiciously resembling all the stretching and stretching "BI-I-I-I-I-I-I-ITCH!". It was not just low layers of the spheres, no. It was something very, very deep, where there were no familiar reference points from the real world at all, only some very phantasmagoric images and a lot of hungry shit, which would obviously come to such a call and the glow of the souls of two stupid, tasty shamans. Stepan would have closed the images on himself, stopping to let everyone know about himself, but the girl was still desperately calling for help, not realizing that her call was only making things worse, attracting all those who might have missed the sudden visit of a walking burger and a vegan burger.

Why vegan?

Because this idiot is such a vegie!

They were rushing along the breach closing after them, and the inevitable happened. The girl, who was much less oriented in this world and had neither an analog of spiritual transformation nor her defenders, involuntarily moved closer to the edge of the breach. Not only Stepan but she too could predict that she was about to be twisted nicely into spiritual mincemeat. To her credit, this fool did not stop fighting until the end, even though she was making things worse and worse for herself by her fluttering, bringing the end closer.

\"And rightfully so!" - thought the young man, tearing off the spiritual necklace from his spiritual neck and wrapping it around the "normal" limb, making the fighting claw softer and tentacle-like, creating octopus-like suction cups. "It's your punishment for your stupid and retarded demise!" - he swore sincerely to himself, turning to the spiritual transform and growing either flippers or fins, which allowed him to turn his fall in the epicenter of the pump into a directional movement. "I hope you'll be spit on and pissed on by all your shamanic kin in the other world for being so flawed in life and death!" - He hoped, and then in a single jerk he put a part of his strength, simultaneously grabbing the shamaness a moment before the contact between her and the zone-wall-participant zone of spiritual destruction.

A moment, and he presses her to his own back, wrapping her with his tentacle and active defense, and with his face and his working hand, in which he clutches the necklace, shining from the power it gives out, he smashes into the suddenly appeared barrier of pure light. Part of the necklace scatters with golden dust, wasting the invested power and will, but Stepan and the bag of shit and shitty character he had rescued were pushed back and even a little upwards from this barrier, under the sound image-exclamation of the earthman, which conveyed a very meaningful and profound "Yuk!". A moment later, when he twisted again and activated a new barrier, breaking the necklace and turning it into nothing, they both hit again, only now sideways, and the shamaness supported his philosophical maxim with an equally meaningful "UK!", which seemed to be swearing and not just an image-shout.

They managed to escape, with the support of the very barrier that had thrown the Earthman and the sack of potatoes out of the breach and into the deepest part of the asshole.... somewhere not that deep and not so deep in the ass. Judging by the pressure of the currents, the intensity of reserve replenishment, and a bunch of other little things that the shaman's systemic knowledge-packed mind fished out at a great speed, they were in extremely dangerous shit, but not in shittest shit. Yes, it was scary and deadly. There is no argument here, but a well-prepared senior shaman might have traveled to such places or deliberately descended here for valuable spiritual imagery and insight into the spirit world. Yes, all sorts of predatory and just temporarily decided to become predators, but among them, there is no chthonic destruction, which can eat half a continent unluckily yawning. Yes, the girl is just squeezed to zero and now, without the cover of her spirits, will quickly die, but he is full of strength, having spent less than a third of the reserve, and part of it has already been restored due to the intensity of local energy. He still has an intact belt and bracelets. However, if such restoration is applied two or three times, he would have to undergo a couple of procedures and buy the necessary potions in the store, paying for the connection to such a powerful socket and absorption of too-hard power.

He tore the belt off himself, tossing it upward, and it, too, glowed, not with light, but as if it were an evening gloom. It a concealing and averting the eye with the very will that embodied invisibility and untouchability. The high-ranking barrier circle worked properly, and little by little the creatures trying to eat them either lost sight of them or couldn't bring themselves to want to cross the barrier line. Though, again, most of the creatures were no match for the weak leeches from the upper layers. They had brains and realized that the prey was near, that they just had to wait and it would be theirs. Stepan could hardly resist the urge to poke an obscene gesture outside the circuit, and only because this gesture together with the means of poking could be torn off his face.

"Y-you will share my fate, Talaat Khanur. Whatever you're planning, you'll never get out of here. I will die, but know that I will beg all these Khao. Asking for more pain for you." In the images of the steppe girl, who recoiled from him, there was only weariness and doomed pride. The remnants of the hatred that could no longer burn extinguished under the cover of despair. "My mother will find them too, and they will not escape the wrath of Khao-Seakhar."

That's it. At this point Stepan broke down, because when he heard this stupid accusation and realized that the fucking, psychotic, semi-literate imbecile still had the opinion that he was a villainous villain who wouldn't even let her retreat from this place using the means of evacuationю His ruff was completely blown off. Having estimated the amount of strength and safety margin remaining in the signs circling around their island of order, he slowly turned around and changed from the last effort to preserve the dignity of the looking-aware shamaness, and then he was simply lost his temper.

"You're as dumb as a log from my grandfather's house, a complete imbecile victim of falling headlong onto a rock at a young age, compared to whom even this four-fucking-damned log would be like a sage next to a dung fly larva, unable to imagine how fucking dumb you are." Seeing her indignation and the anger that flared up, he pushed with his spirit, not breaking his images into short slices, but giving them out in a steady stream, and he was getting much better at it. It was the effect of his many attributes and experience, so he shut her up halfway through. "Did you even ask me anything? Did you even fucking ask your spirits about what was even there? I, you idiot fucked with a poker, banged with a ladle, dropped into a cesspool five times, ransomed a hundred times, twisted five hundred times, cast out of the goldsmiths in disgrace for being too shitty, appeared there because you closed your fucking circuit of protection of your stupid pocket! And the crowd of nasty spirits on the aspects of filth and rot banally ate the shell of the pocket, because it should be locked, bitch, completely, and not the node of the passage only, because pocket, you miserable with you mind and body nothingness, is in the high, fuck them in the fuck, spheres! The shell, the closing circuit, that fucking line of perception, you weak-minded disgrace of my profession! And while they ate your spirits, power, and offerings, your pocket. was disintegrating before it started to siphon the power into the background! I, bitch, got there by accident, I was attacked nasty spirit attracted by your underdeveloped call, and when I destroyed them, and even more, I retarded hearted tried not to spoil your totem, you swooped down on me like a fucking vulture, like an angry grandmother from the queue to the official, like a dog of the yard, from which a bone is taken away, and did not even let me say a word, went straight to fight! ENDLESSLY! STUPID! YOU! STUPID!"

If at the beginning of his rant she was still trying to make some sort of outrage, by the end it seemed to him that even her spirit form had gone a little pale and red at the same time. Well, whether that was a consequence of the exhaustion, combined with the obviously unhealthy pressure of the deep layer, he didn't know. The important thing was that she, who obviously didn't sense a lie - lying directly in such a state of being was quite difficult, and Stepan himself wasn't very good at it, and she wasn't even good at it - had a sharp attack of shame, and she sat down right there and changed position, leaning on the barrier-belt and trying not to burst into tears. Though, bitch, how one could sob in an out-of-body state, Stepan didn't understand and didn't consider this action possible.

"I am guilty, honorable Khao-Seran, and my guilt is undeniable." She pulled herself together, and assuming a posture more befitting her pride, she addressed him in grave and humble imagery. "I cannot and don't ask for forgiveness. It is only in my power to accept my fate. In the jaws of these Khao-Tlaresh for both of us. Forgive me if you can. Hate me with all your heart, for that is what I deserve."

Stepan was even a little embarrassed, because it was so sincere and, well, humble overlimit. He also suspected that this dummy had just mastered the skill of pretending in the speeches of spirits, in the direct exchange of images. Still, there are spirits, which calmly lie and deceive. Just for mortals it is much more difficult, for the same reasons “fish on land”. In the material world Stepan could lie when communicating with the called spirit. Although it is also very difficult and many spirits lie will still detect, even not necessarily strong spirits. Here and this one now, directly in every possible way demonstrates remorse. Though if he nails this asshole here as punishment, he won't get any understanding from her kin and the same mother, whom the daughter called with a complex term-image, outlining “a hereditary shamaness on the border between the elder and the higher, able to cross this border at the expense of old contracts on the blood of her family”.

"All right, enough of this snotty bullshit." He couldn't take it first, he'd never managed to be pompous and majestic. №Like my grandfather used to say, everyone has the right to be a moron. And the situation was ambiguous, I realize that. Enough groveling here, come on, activate the beacon and get out of here, while my circle-from-circle is still holding the defense. It'll let you through, that's why I made it, so I can escape like this if anything happens. Fuck, all this effort and it's all fucked up! Eh, damn luck!"

Stepan distracted himself a little, not hurrying to let the shaman out of the trick, so that she wouldn't do something weird again, and began to examine the solid wall of the barrier. The nature of the circle-from-circle structure did not allow him to see and understand what was there on the other side, but what he managed to catch before the circle closed was enough to realize that they were waiting for them, the bastards, and the number of them had not decreased much, but at least not increased. And Stepan was not going to make another pathos fight, he had already had enough fun today, preferring to finish the expedition, especially since he had already earned at least one, but probably two levels. But only his thoughts were interrupted by a sobbing image of a crazy shaman, who looked at his perplexed image with an image, figuratively speaking, of a sad smile with tears in her eyes.

"I cannot sense the White Chamber and the Hearth of Ancestral Spirits from this place. It's too far and too dark. I can't feel Mother's will. I can't reach the loyal Khao. I can't do anything, Honorable. And Mother is out of the house now, as is Father. She sensed trouble, she should have. But it all happened too fast. She won't make it. No matter how much I believe in my Mother, she'll never make it. If she had 2,000 more breaths. But she didn't." It was as if she were apologizing, sincerely asking forgiveness for something else that the shaman could not understand, though he very much recognized that this fool had something to apologize for. "I decided to go out into the world of Khao-tan today. I wanted to show both myself and her. To show that I am already worthy of trust and respect. Worthy to learn new knowledge. that my mother has not yet revealed to me. I don't want to destroy your hope. But I do not have the power to save us from a fatal fate. The Khao-tlaresh will feast tonight. By me and you."

He stares at her for a few minutes, probably even longer, and in front of his face, figuratively, thankfully speaking, it's as if there's a blue screen of death, with which he's trying to comprehend, to put the situation in his head. There she is. A hereditary shamaness in the eleventh generation, the child of two nations and two dynasties. Though she didn't mention her father, so he's probably weaker than her mother. She being not much older than him, she's in pure strength and some areas of skill, perhaps even better than he is, with all his System cheets. Predominantly due to a very wide pool of inherited contracts and all that came with them, but that doesn't negate the fact itself. And there she is. Her. Has no safety anchor in case she falls through the deep layers or loses her bearings among the etheric currents. Is that normal at all? Or had he, Stepan, grossly underestimated the extent of the value of having access to contracts like his Butterfly Runner? Or... or he just refuses to understand it.

"Fuck, but how?" He couldn't stand it, not even shouting and throwing out images, but just asking with a completely deadpan look. "Well, okay, you can't feel the anchor, but contracts, contracts with dualistic spirits, on a bond of thin bodies? Chains-on-hooks with a blood bond and maternal warmth? Even an inverted thread on attraction in case contact with the spirit beacon is broken? Don't your family have any? I don't believe it!"

"These khao are very fastidious and unruly. They are called and invoked for weeks sometimes. Only for the most important of rituals. To the most secret of invocations. Which are not held under the heavens, but under the cover of the khao-dwelling worlds." She explained with the same sad, doomed smile, seemingly resigned to putting herself into a trance so she wouldn't be so afraid to die. "My mother is Khao-Seahar. She can make such calls, but not me. I learned the invocations, I know the names of the Khao-yalat. But I was just too young to call them. It was. It was not yet time for me to go and speak to where and with those where these khao are needed. On this sad day, I just... just, uh. It was just a normal day. I just decided to check my little ahan-mayat where I called for khao on days when my Mother was busy and did not require help. No one would call yalat for nothing. No one would do such a ne-e-e-ik...."

Her excuses, with which she tried to calm her colleague and explain to him why even with all the strength of her kind they were finished, were interrupted in a completely unseemly and not sublime way, when Stepan again showed his grasping tenderness, thrusting it under his own heart and pulling out the sphere of the still sleeping Fugitive, immersed in the motionless sphere, as if cast from amber. He withdrew deceptively calmly from the contract, in fact tensely watching the shamaness's every movement and image, preparing to attack in response to her attempt to take away his only chance for salvation. He almost begged her mentally, almost pleaded with her, // "Come on, you proud bitch, come on, you fucking bitch, attack, take it away, take it back, or at least try to," but she only shrank back and pierced her with such despair that even mockery was no longer an option.

" I couldn't ask, but I am asking." She said only that, and her image assumed a kneeling posture, not so much humiliating to her as showing her reverence for him, which was how it felt. - My name is Singha, daughter of Maega, daughter of Maedra. My mother is Khao-Seahar of the tribe of the Free Winds under the banner of Hailan Khan. I ask you to tell her the news of my end. To tell her my mistake and to tell her that I am sorry, very sorry. That I love her, my father, my brother and-- and that I'm sorry. This could be dangerous and I'm not asking you to come under her eyes and wrath in person. But at least send word. Through one of your kh-khaos, I beg of you. By letter. I don't want them not to know how. I don't want them to wonder... blame themselves.

With every word she said, with every goddamn image, so sincere that you'd have to be fucking higher to tell a lie like that, it was as if the steam in his head was boiling harder and harder. His anger at her, such a fool, her mother, their whole family, the spirit world, the Autogoddess, this one out of habit, the whole world was reaching some crazy point. He wanted to just tear her apart right there. His emotions were rattled by his spiritual body, not his hormones, but his spirit also gave in to his anger. With a snarl worthy of a university cat Basileus Arnoldovich, who saw a competitor from the next street near his trough he got closer to this fatalist, who didn't even fucking try to hit him, while he was distracted. She didn't even fucking think about it. As he drew closer, he broke the sheath around the amber with the Fugitive Butterfly in an instant jamming it sharply into the center of the shamaness's chest.

It pricked under his heart as if it were here, but it wasn't. It was in his real body that the Fugitive's counterpart disappeared, appearing in the body of this one, Tits, or whatever her name was. He grinned frantically, not visible under the layers of gray haze that blurred his face anyway, except that she caught the outline of his grin, and breathed his words into her face. Surprisingly calm, even a little indifferent, as if he'd decided to talk about the weather, not about life and death and the canonicity of the next Marvel reboot.
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"Activate the link and get out of my sight, you silly shit." He's feeling pretty tired right now, and he's got a lot of work ahead of him. "Now. The circle-from-the-circle is barely a third of its strength left."

"Y-you... I won't forget, I swear by all the hao, I won't forget." Quietly, but truly moved, she says, pressing her hands under her solar plexus and beginning to melt, reaching for her body through all the barriers as if they were not there at all, as if her spirit were here and not quite here, only to be there a moment later. "State your name, honorable Khao-Seran. Whoever your relatives and kin are. My kind and my blood. I, all of us, will pay for your life as best we can."

He interrupted her, though, because the barrier didn't just shudder, no, someone nearly made the circle-from-the-circle collapse, in one fell swoop draining as it were not all the remaining reserves of spiritual will and power. Stepan pushed the spiritual force into the still somewhat connected spirit, forcing it to more actively carry the rescued one the fuck out of here, back to her house or wherever she decided to call. And in her wake, there was a shout-image released with full spiritual power!

"FUCK OFF, YOU STUPID BITCH!" In these images all his worries, his anger at her, at himself, for having decided to save this idiot and to stay here, for her blindness, for her claims, for the whole situation, which was stupid to the extreme, and for the adventures he had found in the middle of nowhere. "FUCK YOU AND LET HORSE FUCKED YOU THERE!"

It wasn't a curse in any form, of course, he'd tracked it down separately, though he'd thought about trying to use the pure power of his spirit and the witchcraft that the bits of knowledge had given him to pull off such a malefic, but that was too fucking lame, he should be higher than that. He'd rather make fun of dwarves than do such petty shit. But truth be told, the main reason was that there was no time for a good curse anymore, and the petty stuff would be undone by her mom or dad, whoever they were. Nothing, the planet, even this one, seemed to be around, he would meet this Titty around the corner, tell her all and everything, for her deeds, her promises, her love of striking and then thinking, as well as for COMPLIANCE OF FUCKING SAFETY TECHNIQUES FOR RISKY CALLS!
Земля круглая за углом встретимся.

Stepan had suffered in life from his sometimes excessive altruism, but what he didn't have was a tendency to heroic self-sacrifice and suicidal tendencies. And his choice between his life and the life of that psychotic shamaness of some very cool family, he would have waved goodbye to her and gone into the fog, only then he would have avoided Morgrave, just in case. The earthling even now, on this layer of higher spheres, even through all the interference, still felt his body and totems resonating in the amplifying signal.

And he still had the bracelets on his hands, in which he had invested only one function, but he had invested it so well that he was waiting for the discovery of knowledge from the artifact branch, but no, the System was greedy. Now on these bracelets is all his hope, otherwise he would only pray to Autogoddess. But even if she saves nowhere her chosen one, Stepan's pride will not survive it, having arranged his death from shame for his own worthlessness. At the moment when the barriers finally collapsed, when the circle-from-circle simply burst, revealing an evil shit, who was the senior spirit minimum, as well as a bunch of smaller shits. Stepan would have waved to them, but his hands were busy.

Standing in a crucified carpenter's pose and hovering in the spiritual current, he bent his arms sharply at the elbows, pointing his wrists downward, allowing the bracelets that had disintegrated into segmented tabs to slide downward and gather into two groups of concentric rings at knee level, if his current torpedo-like and fish-like spiritual form, which did not even have a third arm now, had a concept of knees. A moment and each of the circle-bracelets, which was, in essence, a miniature and turned inside out circle-from-circle in an extremely unusual specification, shone with the brightest flash of pure light, slightly burning even Stepan. And then the young man began to be carried away - through each of the circles passed an extremely concentrated stream of ether, a generous portion of spiritual force, burning out the reflection of the bracelets that worked, but this force was under a strict vector, literally imposing this vector on the surrounding universe, where the directions as such may not exist, especially at such a depth.

The bracelets guided him, and his consciousness drew a straight line to his own body, and then the homemade Fart jet propulsion carried its creator to the only possible goal. In fact, it was not his idea, but a systematic recipe from the classics of Calls combined with Totems, Territorial magic, and Remote Control techniques. At that moment he was literally persuading his spirit to despise distance, which meant nothing in the spiritual world anyway, and the surrounding reality and etheric currents were temporarily bending to this conviction. And that's why he, rushing in a straight line and flying into new mole holes, did not fall deeper, but every time went up, so he always became closer to the goal, and not vice versa - for a few minutes he simply could not move not in the direction of his own body and the protective totems that outlined him. It wasn't teleportation yet, but something very close to it (even if it only worked on the shaman who had left his body) and, more importantly, it didn't care about distance and space metrics.

But, alas, it’s very expensive.

And it still takes quite a long time to prepare.

And extremely dangerous, that's it.

The problem was that a fair share of the hungry spirits - those who were fast enough, smart enough, or just in time to tail the first two categories - were following him, using the channel Stepan had created to pursue him. One of them strengthened this channel to keep up and not to lose the others. The only consolation was that the huge and terrifying elder spirit, which was even stronger than Dreamwalker and certainly stronger than the windy protector of the stupid shamaness, was not among the pursuers. Apparently, having chased the irritant out of his sight, the chupacabra was satisfied enough. Or he thought he would spend more energy on the chase than he would get from eating his victim. However, the shaman would still have to survive the rest of the creatures somehow, and preferably in such a way that Upper Lyady would not die out because of the fact that all this abomination had scattered to the nearest hills and other remote corners.

Nothing, he had a ready line of defense there, something to counter his enemies with. Stepan continued to direct himself, wasting the resource of his bracelets, and the stupid thought that he should look like two streams of ether, merged behind his back into one, were blasting directly from his ass. The image was so stupid and clingy that he had to forcefully suppress a smile and keep his concentration, or the slightest mistake and his ass would be ripped off either by the same stream of ether or by the spirits that had caught up with him.

Stepan had not yet seen the real world, but the clock, the clock was working, and he knew exactly what time it was and what time of day it was.

Somewhere out there, in the real world, the last rays of the cold winter sun caressed the motionless, ownerless shaman's body.

It was getting dark.

* * *

The shaman arrived on the battlefield first. One could even say that he led all his relentless pursuers in a well-thought-out and carefully planned ambush, and his mental and seeping into the issued images of panic swearing, interspersed with another “God I do not want to die (c)” was simply a means of introducing disinformation in the camp of the enemy, to confuse them and instill a false sense of superiority. That's how Stepan would tell his prospective listeners if he lived to a ripe old age, without revealing such a piquant detail as the barely mastered skill of shit in the spiritual body. Well, even if he had mastered it, he could just tell them that it was his way of throwing shit-bombs out of a fierce anger to slow down the enemy and cause confusion in their already not too slender ranks.

The opponents were just a little behind at the moment of entering the zone of control of the clearing, hitting the outer contour of the defense with all their mass. They did, of course, they couldn't help it. It was created for the enemy to break through it, but not immediately, but as late as possible. The shaman had the real luxury of a few moments to think, and he spent those moments thinking hard deciding tactics and next steps. Logic and panic told him to merge right away back into a body that was feeling quite well, fighting in a familiar state and not being afraid to die from a lazy wave. When he returned to the removed suit, he would immediately protect himself from the specific blows of the enemy, as well as be able to attack no less effectively, simply because he would not be afraid to die from the first touch of someone's false legs with a mouth on the end.

Panic was one thing, but logic was another. The body would be far from being able to function as soon as the inhabitant who had been absent for over a week returned to it. Even though Stepan had taken care of everything, even though the body was supported by healing spirits which even now had not stopped working, even though the body was nourished by the potions he drank, even though the atmospheric moisture condensed in his stomach to quench his thirst, but still he would have to lie down for at least another hour after the return. Stepan had not counted on such a powerful chase. He could not even imagine a scenario in which he would have to bring such a fierce crowd to his home. With a weaker enemy his guardian spirits would have coped without the participation of the shaman, but now his participation is damn important and necessary. He could help, he could adjust the work of the defense array, guide his wards, recall the most tired, distribute the quality of nourishment from totems among the participants of the battle and cut off this nourishment to the enemy. However, then you will have to become solely a conductor. It will no longer be possible to participate in the battle personally, just pointless it will be. He will only interfere with his own subordinates.

The decision had to be made quickly. Stepan made his decision without going down to the body. On the contrary, he went up higher, reaching out with all his senses and essence to his will, which impregnated the place as tightly as he could make it. The first line of defense had almost fallen, but among all the attacking spirits who had rushed into that line, following in the wake of the spiritual express from the shaman's bracelets, no one had noticed how that very line, weakened in front, had become monolithic in the back, cutting off the possibility of retreat. Yes, when he created this line, he was obviously thinking of something else. He didn't want to be the cause of the village's extinction if one of the creatures went somewhere else, to the people. But he hadn't counted on such a crowd of guests.

The spiritual world was distorted, shut in on itself, and even though it was not yet a spiritual pocket, escaping from the resulting trap would be a challenge even for the most dangerous of the entities that followed him. The main enemy, to Stepan's great fortune, really did not pursue the fleeing man. He could still fight with the rest. The first of the lines of defense burst and the creatures with all their evil wave rushed into the space of special control, flickering between the trees, stumps, and fallen leaves and getting closer and closer to the clearing itself, where so beckoned from the smell-light-substance of the exposed spirit of the shaman and his powerful totems. The circle of cut-off closed finally, cutting off the clearing and two hundred meters of radius from the edges of the clearing from the rest of the spiritual plane, which did not strengthen Stepan and his retinue but slightly weakened the forces of the attackers.

Next, before the enemy entered the clearing itself, Stepan played the first act of the coming storm, starting to activate his preparations. The first to go off were the trinkets and cloth ribbons hanging in the trees, and the signs carved around the tree trunks glowed with a light invisible to the ordinary eye. It's not an attack yet. It just strengthens the weakening effect and a chance to scan the enemy normally. And he's not happy with the results - many, many dumb and evil masses, both small and larger, as well as at least eight pockets of really strong spiritual disturbances. Some of them were triggered by a mass of small spirits, some by a few strong spirits or one strong one with an entourage of a bunch of small ones, but at least three were just damn powerful bastards who'd come to savor a shaman's body and didn't need an entourage to do it.

//You motherfuckers, I'm gonna feed you like this for the rest of your life, for the rest of your fucking ten minutes!
Despite his bravado, he was calming himself down now, because there were so many creatures gathered for his soul. On the other hand, his bravado was not entirely unfounded, and he immediately began to prove it, both to himself and to his opponent. A will pull a thread, a wish pointing to the malleable matter of the spiritual reflection of the bloody glade, and he was already mixing his calls, pre-created preparations, territorial magic, and scraps of witchcraft available to him, reaching for the pots buried under the ground from the generous potter, reaching for what he had left there and activating them all at once. At the same time, he pulled another strand of his will, weaving the third limb into a multitude of small tentacles, each pointing to the bulk of the totems, or simply to the patches of grooves covering the tamped earth that merged into primitive but effective restraining patterns.

The ribbons hanging from the branches and trunks begin to smoke as if burning in an invisible fire. They give off heat and an extremely unpleasant odor-not odor for spirits, but the effect of pepper spray in the face of the creatures that got too close is actually a side effect of the main idea. It's as if an air-wind wave and some unhealthy buzzing are going through the spirit world, braiding images and attempts to send those images, depriving the already not particularly coordinated creatures of the remnants of that coordination. First of all, the blow was directed against the guides, that is, the grown representatives of the pack entities, which came after him not only alone but also in the company of the pack, directed by them. It did not deprive them of control, but at most slowed their responses and loosened the leash on the dense and angry crowd of little things.

And suddenly, without giving the enemy a second thought, the unextinguished coals in the pots buried under a thin layer of earth were lit. The pseudo-totems, the trap totems, which had served as the basis of the supporting barriers, were now acting as bait. This decoy was deceptively sweet and nourishing, full of offerings burning in embers and smoke, so accessible and free. And the dumb, angry, aggressive, and also permanently hungry fry literally rushed into those pots. Their trouble was that the smoke in the pots was really full of power, not the worst offerings were used for fuel and coals but only these offerings were scarce, and the spirits who broke into the pots, on the contrary, a lot. And it was possible to leave this totem only after Stepan had unlocked the base of the lock, which he was not going to do. And here, in the cramped and uncomfortable totem, soaked with the smoke of incense and the embers of offerings, the spirits of various spheres gathered spontaneously fell under the last, hitherto hidden effect of the pots: they sharply ceased to distinguish between temporary allies and food. Well, it was not for nothing that he selected such special additives in the smoke to provoke a massacre between unintelligent and stupid creatures, was it?

The crowd had seemed incredibly huge and invincible was sharply reduced by times, by orders of magnitude even, which immediately raised the morale of Stepan, and the defenders hastily arriving at the contract call, and, of course, those of the battle spirits, which were already sitting in totems, waiting for the order to tear and torment. In reality, of course, it was not a drop in the sea, but not a crushing damage: the loss of the enemy all this little thing simplified the life of the shaman and his retinue, but did not make the enemy less dangerous, because he did not lose even a fourth of its power, because the strongest or at least just not too small spirits did not react to such an obvious trap.

Some of them, even the more or less strong ones, had fallen into individual traps, like trap pits, snares, and predator pockets, which reduced the number of attackers even more. It was a pity, but most of these traps, which could have been a serious problem even for strong spirits, were activated by the same crowd, wasting their potential on worthless targets. It was a shame when a hunger pit with a destructive pulse that could seriously injure even one of the eight brightest opponents was activated on a random small leech. On the other hand, more massive traps were more effective, like rocks scattered here and there, which first drew in small spirits and the surrounding ether, and then the invested effect forcibly and temporarily changed their aspects into one shared one, rather than making them synchronously die of conflict. And then the power came back out of the cracked stone, releasing the ether poisoned by its agony and death convulsions, which it used to suck up rather than hurt those too close to it. And yet, where the pots had worked perfectly, some of the traps had failed.

But Stepan has only begun.

The second act was marked by the finally burnt-out ribbons on the trees: blurred by smoke and ashes, they fell as weightless dust in the real world, but in the spiritual reflection they grew as revived streams of etheric breeze and began to braid not only their trees, but all the rest of the space of the glade closed on itself. Some spirits reflexively or consciously began to attack these ribbons, which significantly simplified their lives, but most of them either did not have time, or they were not so strong that they could easily tear the billet fed from the place of power of the shaman. Still in time, still the Earthman managed, unfolding his labyrinth, closing off certain sections of it of space separated by ribbons, tearing the collective of guests into separate groups. Again, this was nothing incredible, in fact he had used a similar barrier at every call where he summoned more than one spirit to keep them from attacking each other and the shaman. But now a similar barrier in plurality covered the entire clearing in separate segments, keeping it stable through long preparation and feeding from the totems. The totems tirelessly pumped through themselves the power extracted from the deep layers of the spirit world, while the spirits sitting in them, like mules, pumped the invisible pump, delivering this power. Without the material basis, which had already been successfully burned to shit, this creation would not last long, not counting the fact that many of the spirits had begun to tear apart the individual segments of the labyrinth and squeeze them with their power.

But he doesn't need much. He had enough of what he'd already received: a manifestation of will and the first mixed group of some large leeches, beast-like stuff, dark corruptors, and who the fuck knows what else, who had miraculously not started to torment each other, was carried straight to the clearing, first almost smearing them against the second and much more powerful barrier, and then sending them straight into the jaws of the already ready summoned spirits. Stepan was not shy and called all those who were fit for this fight, and most of them came, although a couple of them only assessed the degree of danger and immediately left. Stepan did not prevent them from leaving. He just didn't have time. And if he didn't let them out, they could become the enemy's side, but he memorized each of them, involuntarily writing them down in his personal firing notebook. He would send a liquidation team after each of those who had abandoned him, despite the payment received in advance. The main thing is to survive now. However, most of those called to the battle showed up. Though they were anxious, they came and successfully built themselves into the defense, were energized by totems, and took the positions indicated by the shaman. He suppressed panic, but not adrenaline - even though the body with that adrenaline did not exist - he again accelerated himself beyond the limits of normal thinking, intuitively realizing that he would be able to repeat such a trick in a meat body, albeit with health concerns.

In the meantime, the first group of the enemy delivered to the address met with a pack of jackals, a couple of dark naturals, and a small pack of wind spirits, quickly ceasing to be and exist. The fact that Stepan was still summoning now, and had originally prepared the army for this occasion with the expectation of confronting other spirits, so he had selected the appropriate properties of the contracts. It turned out that a crowd of hooligans and bandits ran into professional soldiers or killers, starting to play the role of a flock of birds thrown into a working airplane turbine. The turbines liked it and even asked for more, and Stepan hurried to fulfill the request, pulling both the second and third groups before the enemy completely broke the maze. In the third group, he dragged one of the leaders into the confines of the second line as well - surrounded by a thinned and partially potted retinue of strong spirits, like a clump of tentacles and worms in a cloud of greenish darkness. A sphere of poison and corruption. It was the standard of the kind of shit that shamans never summoned because it was useless and would cause trouble. Sometimes they do, but it's on the same level as the bomb he used in the forest near Fantrelle. Shackle it, put it in a vessel, and then release it in the enemy camp.

This one was good, powerful, even dangerous. If it had not been in the front line but had supported its retinue from behind, driving them forward and feeding some of its power, it would have been hard, part of the defensive preparations would have been spoiled, and part would have had to be hastily spent to prevent the breakthrough, not to mention the losses in the summoned fighters. This entity had the unpleasant ability to give even the smallest creatures the properties of its spirit flesh - poisonousness and gradual, accumulating rot, which could also intercept the control of a weak spirit or part of the totem. A very unpleasant enemy and Stepan spared no billet for him: one of the totems, very specific and not made by Stepan at all, shone invisible in the real world beacon, the rest shone in response, and then the firefly sitting inside, received together with the totem for the completion of the almost forgotten assignment, struck a cleansing beam of the highest power, putting all available reserve in the attack and immediately sneaking back into his house. That was it, he'd had enough fighting for today, poor guy.

But the corruptor turned out to be an even bigger loser, for the remnants of his retinue were simply torn off, along with pieces of spiritual flesh, and he was simultaneously stunned, paralyzed, and even a little farted. He was killed quickly and with no effort, and those who could hit from a distance were the ones who attacked. A dozen air and fire elementals fell into the real world, and Stepan shoved the stunned corruptor into it. And already in the real world, thin but powerful lightning struck, flames erupted, showering multiple sparks, several of which were stopped by the defenders covering the shaman's senseless body, and the spoilsman, who screeched inaudibly, squealed disgustingly, and screamed desperately, died in a squirming fit.

It was a good start, and one should not stop after that, so Stepan did not stop. Instead pulling out the fourth and even the fifth groups. This time without strong creatures. Those, by now, had successfully torn the labyrinth around them and were now rushing towards the clearing on their own terms. They were attracted by the shaman's soul, the power spilled around them, and the traces of many calls and offerings that could be devoured from this place, so they had no reason to slow down. The reasons to be cautious were suppressed by numerical and even qualitative superiority, as well as by the general maliciousness of the cattle. Both groups of little things the growing and gradually awakening army of the young spirit caster destroyed, but he did not have time to use this trick anymore - the labyrinth had fallen and the remnants of the enemies had already started beating into the second layer of defense, running exactly along the edges of his personal clearing.

Under the gaze and scanning impact of Stepan, mentally shouting new wishes of all good things to the stupid brawling shamaness and all her family, were those who in the future, very unpleasantly close, will pose the most important threat to his livelihood. Three spirits were though strong, but so, tolerably strong, in fact, dangerous only due to the support of a still significant pile of small things that they dragged behind them for the sake of cover and offense. The really difficult enemy were four spirits, which retinue or not at all or had it in its infancy, or had it, but without it they were fearsome. Looking at each of these immaterial monsters, the shaman became sad, offended, and very much wanted to still go back in time, leaving a randomly met rival in class where her own stupidity, shortsightedness, haste, and bad character led her. But since he had no time travel skills, his desire was limited to his thoughts.

The first of the spirits looked humanoid, but not human. It is the owner of the largest retinue and completely different directions and spheres as if he did not care about the selection of personnel and conflicts between them. As if very thin and skinless, having been in Auschwitz and Buchenwald at the same time. He seemed so fragile that he could be broken with a blow of a stick. But the image of a mouth full of needle teeth hinted at not particularly good aspects, and there was a lot of evil and insidious power in him. Even more, he was pulling it into himself from the assembled retinue, literally sucking even unresisting spirits to the bottom, leaving them only etheric shreds and squeezed spiritual flesh. A spirit vampire, and one that seemed to be able to vampirize primarily its brethren rather than the inhabitants of the Reality. It was an unpleasant and dangerous enemy in other conditions. Here and now, Stepan put him as the least worrisome of the four, simply because his will and control over the clearing allowed him to override these suction mechanics, though not completely, but very significantly. He couldn't even squeeze his victims properly, though he hadn't even crossed the second barrier yet, beyond which the pressure of the totems would become the most intense.

Such leech-like overgrowths, though not in shape and form, but in specialization, reveal themselves as a true force when they have time to prepare and the opportunity to attack first. Right now, the skinny one had neither, so his danger level could be reduced a little. But only slightly, because it's not just an overgrown leech no matter how much he wants it to be. Otherwise, it would look like one. No, it's skilled in spirit control and probably mental influence, since its victims are so willing to bear its slaughter. Not good, not good at all, but worse still, the spirits, drunk to the bottom, do not disintegrate, but continue to float around the sucker, and he does something with them. Yes, with the help of his pots, Stepan had cut the feeding base of this bastard, but he suspected that the scrawny thing would still demonstrate some cunning and unusual tactics.

The second spirit had almost no retinue, just a handful of aquatic-animal-type creatures that followed their elder counterpart voluntarily rather than being controlled directly by him. This entity resembled a huge swordfish, swift, agile, masterfully planning between the etheric currents, and its blade-nose was dangerous even for Stepan's barriers, being the main, the only, and damn powerful weapon. Yes, the creature had nothing else to show in battle, but it obviously had enough, because its speed and maneuver multiplied by the piercing power of the nose-blade allowed it to tear apart even a not-too-maneuverable elder spirit with luck. A natural astral predator, very specialized and the more dangerous, even if not strong. This freak would have to be taken down literally first. He must not be allowed to show his best features. Otherwise, the elite of Stepan's summons would be thinned out, because this entity would hit the very elite against which the fish was most effective.

Now, while he is not in a hurry to chisel into the barrier, letting someone else waste his strength, the creature might even seem weak, because he doesn't have much energy reserve, but maneuverability and striking power will play for the fish. And there is no one suitable in the stock, and those who are will be needed in the battle with other opponents. So it turned out that this swimmer was worth killing as quickly as possible, but at the same time not to take away from the important matters of the strongest summons. Or, strike first, tear the enemy literally with the first blow, immediately directing those freed after this blow to cover the holes that arose. It can go both very smoothly and calmly, or with extremely high losses among the thrown into the battle spirits of lower gradation, which the enemy will knock out in packs, while the strongest servants of the shaman will jam the fish, maybe even with dynamite.

The number three contender for Stepan's guts was... balls with whiskers. Okay, we have to be serious, but this spirit really looked like a huge scrotum floating in the ether currents, which from the sides was crowned with two bundles of dense and stiff, but thin tentacles. It looked extremely obscene, and in another situation ridiculous, but in fact the creature was really powerful, damnably strong, and obviously not ordinary. The tentacle-whiskers carried a serious threat, and the spirit itself, without a clear sphere, was clearly not just a predator, but also preferred shamans meat. It literally vibes of hunger and hunger to devour, to devour slowly, leisurely, digesting a little at a time, letting it savor the suffering. By the looks of it, it had a lot of experience in eating careless shamans. The creature was literally broadcasting to Stepan and its own allies that it had come here for the spirit and body of a miserable little man, not for the power invested in totems and the glade. It was trying to frighten and break the will of the former, to calm the latter and at the same time to lay claim to the part of the prey it needed.

Something told the young man that if he properly searched for references in local folklore or specialized literature, he might even find records of this hovering mustached scrotum. For true seniors, for recognized masters it is not dangerous, but beginners or inexperienced shamans without the support of a senior mentor, this spirit was a terror. He could also deliberately stalk them. And if the mentor also turned out to be a weak and inexperienced, then he too would be wiped to dust and this dust would be sucked into maw hidden between the two saggy balls. Giger would have burst into tears of happy ecstasy with this shit, but Stepan wanted to cry. The creature pressed and pressed hard, literally pushing fear into the earthling's essence, but that was nothing. In a normal state of mind he would have been able to drive away those ball bearing whiskers, and the creature wouldn't have come near him at all. He was already off the menu. He had already gained enough personal power and defense contracts that the cautious shit wouldn't come to death. Only now the situation was unusual, and the creature had plenty of allied entities that had a chance to eat whatever it wanted, which meant it wanted its favorite cut from the still suffering in agony inhabitant of the Reality.

He would have assigned such shit to the first position in the degree of the greatest danger to his isekai ass, but alas, the last of the prominent guests turned out to be a worthy competitor to the flying scrotum and to be honest, he winged it like an ace covers a jack. And it wasn't because the mustachioed bastard was so weak, no, the creature was still deadly and very experienced in confronting shamans. It was just that the last of the four was a spirit of the animal sphere, but very thickly mixed with some kind of not even darkness, but literally infernal anger, horror, and simply brutal cruelty. Bears are not very kind animals, the spirits of this kinship are also often very dangerous, with arrogance, conflicted and excellent in battle, whether it was defense or attack, the role of the actual king of the forests, firmly entrenched in reality and feeding the power of the spirits born from this image. But this specimen...

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/571908

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP