Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 20-13

* * *

Choosing the Cube was, in fact, the only obvious option. The same army of iron men could be useful, but what good would it do if all of them came to him? He wouldn't have fought back anyway, but with the Cube, there was a chance of hiding himself before they came at all. The initial bonus from the Autogoddess, which wiped away all traces left during and before the battle, did not cancel out the basic facts. The demonic invasion and the obscure goat who stopped it will obviously raise a lot of questions and a process of digging in the dirt by those who know how to dig and find even the carefully buried. He should still pray to the gods that these individuals do not come to the quite logical version that the demons came for the very goat, which organized the epic demon-fighting. Although no, in fact, he does not need to pray, they may hear! However, at least one of the versions of what happened so unpleasant for him will definitely become. Pray or don't pray, and the result is the same. Local detectives are not idiots; they will assume for sure.

The strangeness of the invasion itself will play for him, as well as against him. The point is that the demoness, which is the most important, began the breakthrough virtually without preparation, no cult, no ritual support, not even the preliminary arrival in the world of the infernal training squad, which should soften the world to her arrival. Again, no means of disguising her arrival, and a cutting off field crucial to the success of the enterprise, which should have made it difficult for the temples to display the wonders of the divine. All the main creature had was a smaller creature and a contract seal, the glow he had seen at the base of the portal, which had opened literally on the basis of the quite material and sufficiently world-owned body of his imposed nowhere companion. With such limitations, she didn't just splurge on this venture, there's almost the equivalent of investing in MMM for the entire budget. The bitch isn't broke, but she has depleted her reserves. It has depleted them very much, so that in the next years, or even decades, the threat from its side will not be so serious, just “money” for a mass invasion will not be enough.
T.N. МММ

Actually, this was the main reason Inferno didn't make such visits with love regularly - expensive and unprofitable. For such a venture with an unprepared appearance of a pack of higher demons and their Mistress, which personally stuck out of the portal, even if only a small part of it, the shadow of presence, to become profitable, it was necessary to sacrifice Dantmark. Not quickly and roughly, but with the arrangement, support, and seduction to the right side, and not just a massacre. And it is desirable to clean the neighborhood too, not only to repay the expenses but also to make some profit. This is physically unrealistic. Divine forces on such schemes react very quickly and formidably, half an hour will not pass, as demons grind in the millstones of unstoppable power, and then still on top of the seal on the portal, quite possibly reaching even to the Mistress.

It didn't happen only because the battle itself, from the moment the portal opened until it slammed shut, took well if five minutes, but in fact, much less, no one simply did not have time to react, and then it was over. Demoness bet on the speed and correctly selected team to remove the bearer of the Tablet of the Soul, and it was just that prize, which fully paid for all the costs, and for which you can risk everything put on this card. It didn't work out, it didn't work out, but people and other mortals would ask themselves the same question - what could a creature of such a level consider worthy of such expenditure? Considering that the topic of trapped creatures and their Tablets is currently on the rumour, the right answer will at least be among the appropriate options. Not to mention that the local morons, that is, really just curious morons, not smart and savvy detectives, may come up with the idea to ask the demons directly, and those, if paid, have the nerve to answer.

Against this background, all the perfection of the iron army simply paled, various ideas of how the quill-corrector could be used in the safest possible way were put aside, and the potion of super-futafication, as Stepan the Other would call it, was any way, scrapped from the beginning. The Cube was not the best option for him, not a whim or even a logical choice - there was simply no choice, none at all. So he made a choice, taking the chosen artefact in his hands, after one last thought-image of the iron and magical armada trampling on the annoying individuals. It was a good thing that his Constitution was already involuntarily pumped above one, or he might have dropped it. It weighed about as much as a case of Coca-Cola, the only difference being that the material was as slippery as glass.

The thing was about forty centimetres wide, a perfect cube with movable edges and multicoloured mosaic squares, just like in the description. But what the description didn't say, or rather it did, but he didn't bother to look deeper into these images, was about the very complicated process of installing the artefact and its adjustment. He got bored quite specifically, even though all the instructions were literally built into a separate block of the artefact, and he spent almost no reserve for the installation, just dripped blood on it and then gave point infusions into the necessary segments. At the end, five hours later, the hypercube hung above the floor inside a separate segment of the ritualised protection circles of the underground shelter, hovering at a height of about Stepan's chest.

The artifact was constantly in motion. The young man could not even tell where its edges were moving, and where the colors of the mosaic changed independently, obeying internal algorithms. The biggest problem was not with installing the cube as such, but with properly integrating it into the existing protection, so that it would not muffle the perception of the spirits, preventing the shaman from calling them, so that the spirits themselves could act in its field. The same built-in instructions and algorithms helped, which turned out to be surprisingly flexible. They were most suitable for classical magic. It would be possible to merge the artifact with typical networks, fields, and resonant rituals of the camouflage type in half an hour, but wild practices, whether witchcraft or shamanism, were also quite subject to the artifact.

He also had to struggle a bit with the concept of activating the free absorber mark that the shaman had hung on himself. Thanks to it, he could move quite far away from the Сube. Approximately within the radius of the city, although it was better not to approach the walls of the Northern Side, or change the position-definition of the shelter, dragging it closer, and it was definitely not worth walking across bridges, and swimming in the river either. The river water is too "sticky" in terms of info-imprint, mobile, and unclear; it is quite possible to leave some fluctuation that the Cube will miss or simply will not have time to absorb, will not be able to distort by the time the current has already carried away the imprinted water. The memory of water, damn it! He would never have thought that without skepticism he would take such crap into account and perceive it deadly seriously, but here it is - it happened.

The artifact hummed quietly, like a system unit cooler, which made the Earthman feel waves of pure nostalgia. But it didn't interfere with his work. It was even easier to concentrate. He adjusted the “special” properties of the artifact to the minimum level. Now, all the naughty stuff, combined with the possibility of tracking, would be set only in response to the most successful search attempts, the most powerful, eating up most of the artifact's power. He didn't feel good about the idea of putting a bunch of suspicious and simultaneously arisen mental distortions into the heads of a bunch of mages specialized in search and scanning. Yes, such compulsions will be hidden at the level of coolness of the artifact that imposes them, and they will seem exceptionally natural from the point of view of the victims. But there would be no way to avoid suspicion on the part of those who know the victims very well, so it would be better to have less, but better. All the artifact's resources would be spent on adjusting to the most skillful bloodhounds. And if they wanted to find Stepan so much, then let them get what they were looking for, because this function could be disabled only with the artifact in general. He was not going to stay without such a successful protection, and let his conscience keep silent.

After watching the colors of the mosaic blocks on the actively working artifact changing, he closed his eyes and saw a thread-connection that existed only for him and only while he was watching, which connected him and the Hypercube. It existed constantly and continuously while the artifact was working until he left its protection. Something very similar to what he knew about the principles of quantum entanglement, but still too different. By the way, leaving the protection should be done carefully. You will have to re-create this thread-mark, setting it up again, such is the price for the coolness of the protection. There are too many settings, constantly changing and dynamically adjusting, and even a short pause in scanning and connectivity makes you start all over again.

Rocking from his toes to his heels, he waited for the first activations of the artifact, listening to its signals, deciphering them, and understanding. Nothing unusual, the simplest mass area scans and search impulses, his shelter, thanks to the Opener and the commands of the spirits that strengthened it, could passively divert such feeds even without the cube, without even being powered by additional totems, and doesn't require excessive pumping with force. Having made sure the operation of the shelter was not disrupted, that his connections with the spirits were still as impeccably reliable, he stepped into the passage-darkness, exiting it in the already familiar alley half a street from Sylvia's mansion. This time, he did not disguise himself as a random passerby, covered only by a light illusion and a light distraction, no. He completely packed himself into an insulating field based on witchcraft, imposing the witchcraft version of invisibility, and on top of that, he added another spirit, a strong one living in the totem.

The entity was not on an eternal system contract, but while it lived in its shelter, feeding from it, it carried out orders up to twice a day, accepting payment only in the form of pure reserve, and not from the shaman, but from the totem. Of course, as a "down payment" it was necessary to sacrifice many gifts to it, burning them in a bluish flame, and independently delivering the ashes to the spirit world with his phantom limbs, otherwise it would not have been possible to put the spirit on such a paltry fee by good will, but it knew in advance that such a moment would come someday. In the sense that there would come a time when it would really need a spirit that imposed invisibility and partial incorporeality several times a week, or even more often. In such a cap, and even with a group of small spirits, conducting reconnaissance and sketching those who are not just passers-by, but specifically observing the area, he was not afraid to walk down the street.

He reassured himself for a good reason: the reinforced patrols of the guards, the neighborhood was a good one, were additionally reinforced by either gifted people, or someone from the patrol was looking through an amulet with the function of magical vision, or they even took some alchemy, becoming for a while very sensitive analogs of witchers from the creation of the Polish pan, if not in combat capabilities, then in sensitivity to magic and hidden things for sure. And in general, all of them were equipped in such a way that obviously, in ordinary days, the guards would not dare even look at such things. Enchanted weapons, often additionally smeared with alchemy against evil forces, or sanctified, or all at once, amulets for defense and attack, battle wands for the ungifted, powerful and of high quality, despite the primitiveness and apparent large number.

In one case, the guards were accompanied by a grim, bearded man with the sign of the druidic circle on his armor, leading a trio of suspiciously sniffing dogs, magical sniffer dogs heavily modified and enhanced with the natural abilities of the magical breed. In the second case, a couple of lurkers, dressed in lightweight and body-hiding mimicry clothes, were leaping along the rooftops behind the patrol. Not right beside them, but they were following them quite clearly. And this the shaman met for the very half of the street as he reached the mansion. Knowing all the keys to the defenses, he simply walked through the wall. Neither the sniffers nor the alchemically enhanced guards he feared. He was closing in from all directions, relying on his agency knowledge, so he could only flash himself on something bigger. He didn't even walk on the ground, having planted a special spirit in his feet, which allowed him to walk as usual, but stopped the soles of his boots half a centimeter from contact with any surface. Three more spirits ate the magical and spiritual imprints he left, even through isolating spells, erasing and covering the traces of such unusual levitation.

At the mansion, he nodded to Artemia, who was dressed for battle, armed with the best of her toys, and yet seemingly out of focus. If the shaman hadn't known she was there, hadn't been fully focused, hadn't shielded his mind like he did in combat rather than relaxed mode, he wouldn't have seen her. The amulet girl's gift, one of two special abilities she had gotten from the Autogoddess through his meta-skill just to avoid wasting token charges, was quite powerful and insidious. Not knowing exactly what she was now able to do and not expecting exactly that type of diversion, it was easy to miss and stop perceiving her presence as something abnormal, even to someone like him with his system status.

It was only when he went to the room allotted to him, sat down in such a soft and comfortable chair, without even trying to talk to Malter, who was having a difficult dialog on the amulet with someone from the buyers of a large trading house, who urgently needed specific amulet-sensors from her, sharpened to search for everything alien to the world, that he allowed himself to exhale. He smiled a little, too. It must be a dire need that a man, or rather a quarter halfling by grandmother, he ran to the vampires with such a request? Artemia really knew how to make such amulets, but she didn't really delve into them. She made sensors with such a structure regularly, but she used the standard patterns for magic, illusions, or traces left behind, while she didn't make the analogs of the Inquisitor's amulets in her workshop, unless it was for general practice and training.

Sylvia, who had calculated her interlocutor almost immediately, understood everything. Such amulets in general, all self-respecting organizations have them, just in case, so as not to miss an unpleasant situation. And they also update them regularly, buying new ones or giving the existing ones for renewal to a well-known magician with a suitable qualification and diploma. And here there was a classic for all worlds and nationalities example of a thieving manager who thought spending such money on such an unnecessary thing was simply unprofitable. When are such amulets even needed in the stated quantities? That's right, only when there is a natural demonic breakthrough and all that! And for normal activities and mandatory reinsurance will be enough for a couple of copies, which are constantly used and charged during routine checks, because during routine checks, you do not need more. And here came that demonic infernal fucking fuck, and there is no stock and has not been for a long time, not even planned. That's why the man was now ready to turn to anyone and was ready to pay for any money from his own stocks to supply the amulets he needed, otherwise, he would be deep in the very organ that Laghan had used to successfully sit on Stepan's face.

The shaman chuckled and laughed unexpectedly - it pleased him greatly how this situation seemed so earthly. Only now he was finally relaxed, and he fell asleep right there in the chair, under the protection of the dreamers who had come to him, content and peaceful. His dreams, too, were peaceful and calm, though habitually colorful, changing and showing all sorts of absurd or simply amusing scenes and images.

* * *

A man dressed in military camouflage with a lean expression is cleaning his boots from the blood and dirt stuck on them, and next to him lies a gnawed and twisted not even a machine gun, but as if a hand-held multi-charged grenade launcher. He is sitting in the middle of a wheat field, the wind is moving the spikelets, the blue sky seems bottomless and beautiful, but the picture itself evokes a strange feeling of ominousness, of lurking misfortune. The man finishes cleaning, and then suddenly looks sharply behind his back, and in his eyes flashes the lights of stars flash, the same as in the night sky - distant and infinitely alien, which is much more frightening than the mere fact of the ominous sparkle in his eyes. Spikes of wheat move strangely, as if something not too tall but very massive were rushing through them, paradoxically without breaking or hitting the ears. The man closes his eyes, but sees even better, as if looking at the world from the night sky, sees what is rushing toward him and sighs quietly, instead of turning gray with horror. A moment later, he is already on his feet, his broken weapon lying on the ground, and in his hand, a tiny light dances like a spark, but there is neither light nor flame in it; the light carries the glow of the very stars that glittered in his eye sockets. And there is more power in this spark than it seems, and its deadliness is enough for a couple of tank shells, even though it does relatively little physical damage.

* * *

The new image shows as if that variant, which could have happened, but did not happen for one reason or another, as a result of which all events have gone or will go quite differently, along a different route. A group of extremely worried elves is examining an empty house. It is also elven, tastefully furnished, very cozy and chamber-like, but still empty. Only in its basement, there is a very complex protective circuit-circle, already burned out and lost its power, but before that, it gave such a wave of disturbance that was felt, probably, on the other continent. The picture was completed by a small note, nailed with a table fork at the entrance to the room with the burned-out interworld portal. The note was written in somewhat old-fashioned Elvish, in calligraphic handwriting, and was a model of exemplary brevity, the brevity that is talent's sister: “I'm tired up. I'm leaving.” All the elves present, high and mighty, look at this note with such a look as if they had a lemon slice under their tongue together with the note, a whole carload of lemons. Having glanced at each other, they shrugged and began to prepare to do without the author of the note, who stepped into the portal, which could lead to absolutely any point of the Universe. A separate block of that portal burned out the section, which was responsible for fixing the coordinates, so it was impossible to follow the departed or at least to find out where exactly he went. Most of all, questions go to a very sad and at once as if aged, sharp-eared man, who is called for some reason exclusively Third.

Somehow, it became clear that he would have even more work to do now.

* * *

It is like a continuation of a dream of the past, only now with other characters, new faces and images, only to the sleeping shaman it seems for some reason that some of these faces and expressions he has already seen, only it is not clear when, it is not clear in which of his forgotten dreams. A beautifully left room, in which very unusual personalities communicate - a trio of beautiful and very influential elven women and an ordinary, seemingly human young man, all lost and nailed by the circumstances that fell on him. Except that there is some strangeness in the young man. This strangeness is definitely not a drop of magical gift, which can be seen in the magical perception, no, there is something deeper, linking them both by something in common. The young man listens, and the elves talk, pick up arguments, convince the boy that the best option for his development will not be direct magic or fighting, but calm and quiet artifacting, given by the class of, here is a surprise, Artifactor.

And even though the young man obviously gravitated towards direct magic, having played for mages and wizards all his life, it was hard to argue with competent, experienced gifted and politicians, especially if you were in their house on weak rights. However, the elven women picked up quite reasonable and convincing arguments, so the boy did not feel himself under coercion at all when he confirmed not his choice, taking to distribute his knowledge and talents. Some moment later, the larva of the future great Artifactor was ready, opening his eyes as a competent specialist, even if only of the initial rank.

The next scene showed the young man completely different, as if he had undergone plastic and auric correction, which made it easy to confuse him with a half-elf even for a pureblood elf. A real master worked, and even more than one. And now the guy is sitting in a special laboratory, engraving runes and weaving magic on another amulet, very advanced. Magic and material in his hands merge into one, working ritual circles, specific machines and amplifiers, the whole environment of the first-class equipped workshop works for him and helps, feeds the power of the workpiece, leaving only weaving and engraving, which require concentration, not reserve. And so, in some of the moments, the universe surrendered under the onslaught of the gift and skill, and in place of the billet appeared a very decent shield amulet, quite pulling on the work of a solid adept with all the necessary diplomas and qualifications. A satisfied smile shone on the artifactor's face, and he looked at the created amulet with genuine pride for his work, not even paying attention to the system's gifts given for his success.

A new scene. The same laboratory, but now it is not magic at all, but just a conversation, where two people are talking passionately, sitting in soft armchairs, separated by a small table with snacks and refreshing drinks on display. The same young man is still chatting with a graceful and graceful black-haired elf whose green eyes are scrutinizing all of the young man's reactions. The tacts change, one or the other shares certain stories from their own practice, but with each passing minute, the young man squints his eyes more and more at the elf's ample cleavage, and becomes more sleepy and distracted. Time passes, the tacts change, and at some point the elfess speaks exclusively, while the artificer simply nods, agrees, nods again, and again accepts what is said. He falls asleep right in the chair, opening his eyes in a deep trance, listening to the now explicit commands, though spoken in a soft, entwining and lulling tone, watching a pair of white stocking-clad legs placed on the table in front of his face.

With each moment, he bends his head more and more, as if falling asleep, and finally, on the last drops of strength, he kisses the foot, closing his eyes and smiling peacefully. A viscous and wet stain spreads on his pants, and the elf woman, who has lost her softness and seductiveness, collects samples of the released seed, continuing to speak in the same enveloping tone, occasionally stroking the young man's hair, sometimes touching his slightly pointed ears. The boy only smiles more in his sleep, looking disgustingly happy. The elven woman is not soon, several times waking up and putting the young man to sleep, finally just driving in front of his face, dressed in stocking feet, like a hypnotic pendulum. He followed these movements attentively and uninterruptedly, almost drooling, but trying, despite the exciting and lustful sight, to maintain the ongoing conversation about artifacting, not noticing anything strange in his state or actions of the seductress.

* * *

Stepan recognizes in the dream himself and some other half elf, both unknown and familiar to him at the same time, with whom they complain in chorus about life, as well as about the abundance of those moments in life when beautiful women or girls tried to fuck them both in the brains. Each of them gives his examples, crying about how his ass was burning, fortunately figuratively, and the shaman is forced to admit that some moments of the half elf's stories are quite an adventure comparable to what he experienced. The shaman recounts the demonic threat that almost took his soul and definitely took away the rest of his sense of self-coolness, and the mage tells how he was treated by an elven seductress, after which he had to almost die from the impact of the envolt doll. Shaman recounts his stupid trip through the Underworld and how he spent a month in the toys of drow perverts, and the wizard with anger recalls a visit to the sea and evil deep-sea mermaids, after which his mind from their illusions shining with deep fire had to be cleaned for a week. Both of them had even accumulated a suspiciously large number of moments in which they tried to get into their heads all sorts of sexy bitches, from people with elves, to all sorts of exotics like Dagonites or even Illithids in a woman's body.

In the end they both, being in a dream and therefore not constrained by the laws of logic and common sense, agree on the absurd everywhere, except in dreams, the idea that they are both being set up by their patronesses, only if the half elf mage is sure that they do not do it on purpose, but simply change the vector of problems, replacing by an attempt of seduction a successful attempt on life, in which they would have died, the shaman can not be convinced that the supra-divine bitches just have fun. The two isekai argue for a while longer, but then they hear strange noises coming from outside. They look down and see a naturally occurring gap between the worlds, from which a very colorful company is looking at them. Several knights dressed in heavy and flashy armor, shining with grace and silver energy wings, a couple of big barbarians, each of whom would put Conan to shame with a single delta-shaped muscle, a dwarf resembling a walking miniature fortress, a noir and tiredly evil knave-assassin, a refined and graceful pure-blooded elf-mage, and, of course, their leader.

The leader was Stepan the Full, short, overweight, and even now retaining traces of pimples treated by higher magic on his face. Clad in light armor glowing from the grace of battle, armed with a sword and a dagga resting in its scabbard, artifacts of unimaginable power, clad in a gorgeous scarlet and silver cloak, literally taken off the shoulder of the divine, he seemed to be bursting with anger. On his shoulders hang knights, barbarians, and a dwarf held by his cloak. He is held by an elf and a rogue. Some other associates of the Great Hero just can't be seen through a rather narrow portal. They pile on him, almost burying him under the shaft of bodies, but all of them hold back the almost foamy short man only with great difficulty. His grip slips on the magic field, his strength meets no less force in the deceptively defenseless fat body, and the young man, who has forgotten all the battle litanies and magic tricks because of anger, overflows with the same fury, almost berserk rage, from which even barbarians respectfully raise their eyebrows.

The shaman and the wizard could hear Fatty's cries just before the random elemental portal closed, filled with rage, hatred, and wild, inexpressible resentment mixed with envy:

"LET ME GO, I'LL HIT 'EM!!"

* * *

The bird's-eye view of Dantmark is a beautiful and breathtaking sight, even in dreams, which misses the point when the sleeping shaman sees the city approaching, the way the point of perception descends lower and lower until it centers on the unremarkable house of the average citizen. His perception of the dreamworld guides him through the wall, revealing a completely unexpected sight. There, behind the walls, covered with high-quality protective amulets and a magic vine created by a skillful druid, there is a real mess going on. The lights of aromatic candles are burning brightly. The sweet smell of incense hangs in the air. The music coming from an enchanted magic box caresses the ear. On the soft bed lay, with her legs spread wide and her fingers caressing her enormous breasts, a very pretty woman who had the gift of not the weakest witch, albeit distorted and blocked by the seal on her thigh. Her expression was at once lustful, silly, and happy-love, and she was moaning, giggling, or both.

Between her legs, a young man was actively working, in whom the sleeper recognised himself, only with a muffled, as if deprived of the gift, aura, and also a completely lost expression of complete and utter concentration on his face. He seemed to have only one thought and goal in his mind - to move his pelvis in a measured and rhythmic motion, bringing the witch to orgasm, bringing her as much pleasure as possible and, of course, spilling into her, into her hot and eager bosom. He held her calves tightly with his hands, his eyes fixed on her wavering tits, and it seemed that nothing else in the world existed for him. This was especially true for the third participant in this obscene and yet to happen scene, who was standing behind him, her nakedness touching his naked skin from behind.

She was definitely an elf, with the gracefulness, elegance, and marvelousness characteristic of their species, naked, too, with the taut body of an experienced fighter, neat N-size breasts with dark pink nipples, and also very strange facial features, even for an elf. She had the features not only of an elf, but also of a snake, and the pupils in her eyes were snake-like, looking at the witch smiling in love, ignoring the shaman. Stepan, in a moment reaches the limit, without speeding up or changing rhythm, only in one moment slightly longer staying as deep in the witch's pussy as possible, pouring into her without any emotion or moans at all, like a mechanism, a meat golem, an obedient toy, a good boy. The elf whispers the last words directly into his ear, causing him to erupt again almost without pause, and then runs her long and bifurcated tongue along his neck, releasing her elongated fangs and gently, almost affectionately, thrusting them in exactly where they had been thrust some time ago.

Rolling his eyes in pleasure, the young man settles sharply on bending legs, falling face first into the tits of the witch trembling in spasms of ecstasy, but even so he can't enjoy those tits. First, he shuts down before he even touches them. Secondly, he is gently picked up by the snake-eyed elf right in the fall and laid on the same bed, but on the side, allowing him to sleep in a relatively comfortable position. The firstborn herself nestles into the moaning witch again, kissing, caressing, hugging, stroking, occasionally pinching the most sensitive places and at the same time cooing softly with her, telling her how nice, good, sweet, obedient she is, how she is hers, only hers, always hers, how she loves her, adores her, what a good son she will have, who will give her, the elf, no less beautiful daughter.... The witch did not understand much of what was said, she only wanted to moan, cum and fuck, fuck anyone, anyone they pointed at, as long as it was still as good for her.

The changing frame showed the shaman, dressed and slightly hung over, as if after a drunken binge, waking up in a rented room of an inn, in the arms of a rather pretty girl, and with absolutely no memory of how he found himself in such a position. Something, some part of him, hiding in the depths of consciousness, almost sees something disturbing in this situation, almost wants to sit in deep meditation, trying to tear from consciousness a strange veil of pleasant oblivion, but a moment later the maiden, whom he yesterday paid more than just generously, wakes up and draws the young man closer to himself and all thoughts from his head fly away. Both clever and not very clever, which left only desire and passion, which the couple gave at least an hour, and after some time, lying on wet sheets and trying to breathe. The shaman had already forgotten about the strange awakening and thoughts about its unnaturalness.

* * *

It was a strange dungeon. It reeked of holy power, and not only because there were Orthodox crosses hanging at every step and monks in robes walking through it. This power covers the space, wraps those staying here in a powerful cocoon, cuts off and presses, pressing on the gift itself, making it either useless or much less useful than it should be. The focal point is one of the cells, obviously intended for the interrogation of those who have either tainted themselves with sins or have simply crossed the holy fathers seriously enough to be here. In the center of the room sits, chained to a chair, a slightly beaten man whose face is swollen and bruised. Two tall monks are working hard on him, with faces so wide and broken that if you took off their robes, your hand would reach for your wallet to buy a brick in the alley before the brick was in your teeth.

They asked the man about what is stated in the interrogation papers, and to all denials, assurances that he is misunderstood and generally not an enemy, they responded only with a new portion of extremely painful blows. Not fatal, not even crippling, but very hard and professionally delivered. There was even more torture in it than in the pain itself, in their methodical and working attitude, with which they continued the interrogation with passion, paying no attention to words, logic or common sense, only working off their salaries, taking regular breaks for ten minutes, allowed by their job regulations. They still paid no attention to the man's cries, because the cries were not a confession, but another denial, and they had already heard so many denials that they didn't even react much, not being surprised either by the steadfastness with which he continued to stick to his version, or by the version itself. Every third person here was trying to prove to them that he was his own, not someone else's, and in general, there had been a terrible mistake.

And the beaten man continued to shout that he was not a cultist, not a cannibalist, and not even a cannibal, that he had been sent as an agent of deep infiltration into the team of a master blacksmith by the Church itself, that he was a full-fledged monk of the Secret Synod, and his mission was recorded in the documents and archives on behalf of Deacon Nicodemus, the second deputy for agent work of the whole Church of Orthodoxy in Vladivostok, that he was directly accountable to Hierarch Akakia, and that he was already accountable to the holy father Sergius. The two stout monks paid no attention to these words. They knew that these words had already been checked and had not been confirmed, because somewhere very far away the endless slack-jawed monk Ivan, who served in the archives, had thought, dreamed of military exploits for the glory of the Motherland, and had wrapped a smoked herring not in yesterday's newspaper, but in the report-resolution on the sending of an experienced agent, Brother Ilya, a monk of the Kirillo-Belozersk monastery on a mission of infiltration. This monk continued to be beaten persistently and persistently, and it would be a long time before the accident came to light, especially if no one was going to investigate the incident.

Here, within these walls, more than this was said in penitential confession, and more than such tales were fed to the monks who were diligently doing their work.

* * *

Vaguely familiar images, like a continuation of a dream he'd once had, only a different part of it, the equally vaguely familiar image of a half-elf artefactor bent over another billet. Only now this billet was the work of a full-fledged master of magic, specialising in protection and support. The amulet that would block a whole complex of all sorts of influences, as well as keep the wounded wearer alive, was in the final stage of creation. It was now that the finest weaves and frameworks of rune scripts were put into an unremarkable iron plate, turning the blank into a full-fledged masterpiece. And the masterpiece was created, and the tired and satisfied creator exhaled a hitherto held breath and walked to the table with drinks, pouring himself a strengthening infusion with notes of mint. At the same table sat a very beautiful black-haired elven woman, dressed in a modest but emphasizing all the necessary features of her body, and he handed her a ready-made amulet and a crystal with images and descriptions of its functionality.

In response, the smiling firstborn habitually placed her lace-stockinged legs on the table, allowing the young man to look at them and gently cover them with kisses. However, he was well aware of what he was worth and what he deserved, and therefore he did not allow himself anything but these kisses, only sincerely thanked the elf for her gracious permission, and then knelt, and began to satisfy himself slowly and measuredly, with clear and trained movements of his hand. The seductress smiled, getting up from the table and pulling the stocking off her leg, throwing it in front of the young man immersed in the trance, and starting to work on the work that had been started long ago and continuously continued, corrected day by day.

She left shortly, leaving on the floor the ‘reward’ for the work of such a talented artefactor, who in less than a year had become one of the best in the whole Forest, with a businesslike nod to the waiting maids outside the door, a graceful miniature blonde of the human tribe and a lovely red-haired cat-lady, informing them that everything had gone according to plan and that it was time to move on to the long-negotiated stage. The girls bow their heads respectfully, entering the workshop just as the young man pours his seed into the lace wrapped around her wrist. The two girls alternately alternate phrases and now and then, repeating key-phrases learned and naturally woven into their speech, begin to shame their ‘master.’ They realise that he is so delighted with the beauty of the first-born, but has he not an ounce of self-control? No, they are determined not to allow him to embarrass himself time after time, they are equally determined to practise again and again the usual exercises, the soothing meditations, and of course to train him in the art of pleasing women, for he so hopes and dreams that the firstborn maiden will do him the greatest favour and allow to be touched.

Before he could even come out of his stupor, the young man was quickly plunged back into a trance, while the blonde was swinging a small sparkling pendant in front of his face, and the cat lady was massaging his shoulders and neck. Then he is changed into clean clothes, taken to his room, seated on a small rug with cushions near a heavy and massive armchair, and now he is already practising his lovemaking skills, pleasing with the tongue of his faithful and obedient maids, who always know exactly what their master wants at that moment, even better than he does. That's why they are good maids, because they anticipate their master's desires so well.

The scene changes, and now the artefactor, who has become even stronger and more experienced, although the time has passed ridiculously little, is passionately reading a talmud dedicated to the traditions of building defensive arrays on palaces and castles of the classical Neirat type. He is completely absorbed in reading, but then his eyes catch sight of a cat-lady maid leaning over a small chest of drawers, dusting it enthusiastically, whistling an uncomplicated tune. She was wearing, on his express orders, of course, a blatantly erotic rather than work uniform that barely covered her thighs even in a normal position. Now that she's bent over, he can easily see that there's no hint of underwear beneath the short skirt, just perfectly explored pussy, and a lush red ponytail waving back and forth.

The young man starts to get up from the chair to approach his maid from behind, intending to take her supple body, almost rising to his feet, but the maid, who sees his efforts perfectly well, only bends her back more, slightly changing the rhythm of whistling and continues to move her lush tail. Left and right, right and left, left and right, left and right, time after time, smoothly and hypnotically, causing her master to change his mind and literally crawl off the chair to crawl on all fours to his maid from below, to get a better look at her open pussy, to inhale her scent. He's used to looking, craving it far more than touching or taking, used to enjoying what he's allowed to see and dream, used to... He covers the second of her lips with a kiss, lets the redheaded beauty lean her lush hips against his face, giving herself completely to the caress.

New scene. The same young man is sitting in a chair, behind his back are respectfully bowed maids. In front of him stands another elven woman who came to pick up an order. A whole ritual complex in the form of a marble slab covered with runes and glyphs, a complete blank for a future magic tower or its analog. In gratitude for the work done, for his obedience and willingness to help, she gives the young man his reward without too much concealing a slight irritation. Demonstratively turning her back to him, she pulls down her panties, making sure not to show too much of her naked body, and then holds out the snow-white lace fabric to the artifact master, who looks on in fascination. He began to wiggle the cloth on his fingertip as if it were a pendulum, noting with satisfaction how the pupils of the half-breed who had fallen into a trance were watching the movements.

She had no sooner left the workshop than the boy who had pulled the cloth over his face began to satisfy himself feverishly, while his maids whispered merrily and mockingly in his ears how he could not control himself, how he loved the firstborn beauty, how he considers himself worthy to touch only the fabric of their linen, only their feet and legs, only in moments of greatest honor to be worthy to know the infinite happiness when the feet of the firstborn touch his rod, when his lips are allowed to taste the flower of the firstborn's passion. He does not even listen to their mocking comments full of care and caress, does not feel their tickling touches, completely surrendering himself to the much-desired feeling, for the sake of which he has been striving for so long to fulfill the most complicated order, for the sake of which he exists at all, just to make the firstborn beauties pleasant, beautiful and infinitely majestic, rising above his human nature and lowly desires.

Only in the evening, having finished a new cycle of processing their "master" according to the templates set by their management, both maids press their naked bodies against the exhausted guy, kissing each on her own cheek, and, winking at each other, fall asleep carefree. That is why they did not see how the isekai, awakened by vague visions-images of the message that came to him, first read those messages carefully, then opened his eyes wide and, only with a wild effort of will, refrained from cursing at the top of his lungs. Glancing sideways at the treacherous whores pressed against him, he closes his eyes and begins to carefully scan his home, gradually and imperceptibly intercepting first partial, and then complete control over the monitoring systems, which he had previously been trained not to notice even at point-blank range, despite the fact that he supplemented some of the blocks of this system.

He would have a lot of work to do, but this time he would really be glad to do it, if only not to miss the chance for freedom, the chance to thank his long-eared master-friends properly. Then again, one still has to think about how exactly and with what help he will fix and turn the situation around.

New scene. Now the young man works feverishly, using the unaccountable materials provided by the System, and spending a certain part of the system currency, which until now he had always spent exclusively on the orders of the curators from the Treasury. Hidden by a masking field that shows observers something completely different, he surpasses himself time after time, creating not a masterpiece, but a masterpiece of all the masterpieces he has ever created. A couple of scenes later, he shows his work to the admiring and even genuinely sighing maids: something resembling goggles, only based on expensive white gold crystals, alchemically purified diamonds, and heavenly emeralds. According to him, these glasses will easily replace even the most advanced types of classic tiaras-hoops, which magicians around the world are accustomed to using to enhance their magical vision. These glasses, he says, will allow one to look at the world from a completely new angle.

The maids who have tried on the product comment on certain aspects of its functionality for some time, but their voices are getting weaker, their thoughts are becoming foggy, and now they are sitting relaxed in their chairs, opening their mouths and letting strands of saliva flow from the corners of their mouths. After another ten minutes, they are already actively pleasing themselves, breathing heavily, and whispering the words they see in the strange distortions and interference that have filled their eyes. These images and flickering lines are so amusingly combined into familiar glyphs, runes, and letters. It is impossible not to remember, impossible not to do, impossible not to forget, impossible not to obey. And the maids, smiling in another orgasm, happily accept the new rules of the game, absorbing their commands with the readiness of a dry sponge.

The next scene shows the familiar elf from the previous moments, green-eyed and black-haired, who stares at a ball flying straight through the air, a tiny particle of constantly changing color, no bigger than a plastic bullet for a child's toy. The ball flickers and moves left, right, then even up, and the firstborn, standing firmly on her feet, bends her body, without lifting her feet off the floor, bending at the waist and swaying like a pendulum. On her face is frozen the bored, ironic smile of someone who has come to work habitually with a material that has long since shown no signs of struggle, to which even the next gifts of the Tablet of the Soul have ceased to return at least a drop of its own will. She sways like a pendulum, and the thoughts in her head are folded into new plans, tasks, and solutions.

She will carry out those tasks as usual, without any surprise that she has started doing something so strange, that she is now carrying out the commands of a short-lived youth, completely brainwashed by her. In her mind, these factors simply do not intersect. She does not even think about why she thinks exactly this way, why she decided to do exactly this, why she will take a whole bag of such small balls, placing it in a special ring with a spatial pocket, why she will spread them out over all the areas of the Forest accessible to her, why she will not remember this and will forget about what she did immediately after the command is completed.

The heavily breathing and very nervous guy looks around the workshop, shifts his attention to a small illusion screen, where you can see the room of his supervisors-observers, who are looking at their own illusion screens with a bored look, but do not see the spirals and interference on those screens, invisible to the ordinary eye. Just as they do not see anything strange in what is happening in the workshop of their operational development facility. Everything is in perfect order, nothing strange is happening, and the reports only need to indicate that everything is normal and unchanged. Having given this problem only one glance, the artefact maker approaches the work table, on which lies a huge runic drawing, the most complex one he has ever made, and also sketched hastily and in a huge rush. His face is adorned with a far from kind smile. He is going to remind the treacherous long-eared beasts that you should not use the creations of someone who wishes you something bad, especially if this person can very well preserve and even strengthen his connection with these creations, turning it into a full-fledged bridge uniting all the owners of his works into one continuous network.

After cumming with pleasure in the smoothly working mouth of the not so talkative and not at all hypnotic seductress, who looks into his eyes with a calm and businesslike look of the one who does a completely ordinary thing, the young man allows himself a few minutes to enjoy her lips, submissive movements of her dexterous tongue, and then goes to work.

There is still much work to be done, more than ever before, but with what joy he will take up that work!

* * *

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/585344

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP