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Chapter 1

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If we compare Dantmark with Morgrave, the Pearl of the Mediterranean for Dantmark would be “the city of my mother's friend's son.” Everything here was bigger and better — the enchanted wall was taller and of higher quality, the source of magic on which the tower of magicians and the ruler's castle stood was more powerful, the population was larger and richer, the market stalls were more abundant, and even the prostitutes were more beautiful. Stepan had never been to this city in person, but he had traveled here twice on a spiritual journey before meeting the demonic scum. To be honest, he liked it here more than when he was in his spiritual body. He didn't have to worry so much about the pile of specific spells that the spirit observers were tracking. The steppe was close by, as were its inhabitants, so the local population knew a thing or two about shamanism and knew how to play it safe, which meant that it wasn't really possible for the shaman who had left his body to fly unnoticed through the streets of Morgrave.

The shaman entered through the northern gate, conscientiously waiting in line among the common people. He did not even complain that he was gifted and needed special treatment. That man, who was quite battered by a life of drunkenness but was indeed gifted, was politely asked to either pay an additional tax for entering without waiting in line, or to present his work permit, diploma, or guild mark, or to shut up and not show off. And when he tried to continue his rampage, threatening to curse the slow-witted guard, he was paralysed and stunned with a baton and taken away to the local jail. Apparently, the man was a typical village witch doctor, which is what Stepan could have mistaken him for. And even his pride was understandable. Such people traditionally need to shout, show courage before they start bargaining, but here he was in the wrong place. Alas, while he could walk into small villages and was welcomed with open arms in small towns, Morgraму had its own gifted people.

And these gifted individuals do not need useless, uneducated, and aspiring apprentices who will draw magic from their surroundings and dump magical services of extremely low quality onto the market. This is nothing, just a sign of a very successful Free City, and not just any city. In the same Dantmark, simple, untrained gifted people without diplomas also entered the gates on equal terms, no better and no worse than craftsmen or small shopkeepers. In the glorious and mighty Neirat, they say, even a respectable adept can be stopped at the gates and asked to leave if they do not have permission to practise in the City of Wizareds. Because it is not just a city, but consider it, one continuous magical source, extremely cultured, and neutral.

In special meditation areas, in the private workshops of noble families, in towers and in the Academy itself, the concentration of magic is literally at its maximum and ideal for practising wizards. But even within the city limits, the background is noticeably higher, better, and more intense, which is why the guards and the adepts assigned to them, who are either practising or working out their contracts, look askance at any newcomers and guests of the capital of magic. They see them as just another bunch of newcomers who will try to snatch some of the power floating in the air and take it away from the original inhabitants of Neirat. Interestingly, they are almost always completely right in their disapproving assumptions and nitpicking, which is a funny detail!

Fortunately, Morgrave was not Neirat, so it didn't quite reach the point of paranoia, although they checked and searched him much more thoroughly than when he first entered Dantmark. The gifted commander of the gate guard not only checked him with his magical vision, but also used an amulet complex in the form of a relatively primitive diadem on his forehead and a whole bunch of amulets on a wide belt. So to speak, to switch vision modes through these amulets, which acted as filter lenses, so that he could quickly scan his target without straining his senses, especially his eyes. To be fair, that man checked him with barely a quarter of the available spectra, and his assistant, also in guard uniform, limited herself to just a couple, in addition to the standard ones. They were saving both the reserve of amulets and their brains, which could have boiled over from such meticulous scrupulousness.

This is not a joke, but quite literally: amulets are not personal skills, such a load is always higher and heavier for the mind that does not know how to look in the same modes.

Stepan introduced himself, or rather, no longer Stepan and not even Pann, but simply Stae, still as weak but a trained apprentice, just as eager to find a better life in the city. In the eyes of the guard, he differed from the rowdy man who had been taken away to the jail cell only in his calmer disposition, his willingness to pay the toll for the gifted man without argument, and his slightly more pleasant appearance. The commander's assistant smiled at him quite sincerely, and her emotions betrayed a slight and harmless interest. Well, what can one say, except the classic ‘plus five to self-esteem’? Inside the city, he first began to wander the streets, sat in a relatively decent tavern, had a snack of very tasty sausages, looked at the prices of several herbs at the market, and only then, after making sure that no one was following him and that no one gave a damn about him, headed where he had originally been going.

The estate of the first assistant to the head of the de Lomer trading house, which also served as the house's representative office in Morgrave, was located in a truly noble neighbourhood, where each house was essentially a small fortress. First and foremost, from a magical point of view, but even among them, this dwelling stood out about as much as a tank standing phlegmatically in a car park among cash collection vehicles. Up close, this mansion, or rather a complex of separate buildings, looked no less impressive than it did to the spiritual traveller. Three floors, massive and strong walls, carefully calibrated architecture, a large garden and courtyard, and a protective perimeter. The rear courtyard of the house, where the family's callplase was obviously located, exuded such power that even Stepan felt a chill. Especially so close up. It was as if at any moment the wind could break loose like a hungry beast, tear apart the body, strip the flesh from the bones, squeeze out the eyes and brain, tear the lungs apart, steal the breath from the chest, or simply take you and smear you into a pancake.

A cursory analysis of the security measures, based on available knowledge, showed that they were not exactly paranoid, but clearly a little more intense than usual. And not only had they clearly received specific orders, a whole chain of them, spirits, but also the usual, classic security measures, woven into the building almost from the moment of its construction. Guests were clearly expected here, and they had already arrived, and it was not just about the shaman. There were clearly more horses than usual in the stables, and the servants were running around. Stepan watched this commotion from above, using the spy device he had left over from his previous adventure. All this aroused some suspicion, but it didn't look like an ambush; it was too clumsy, not sufficiently concealed, if it really was an ambush. Again, even if Maega and her husband had called for help today, the oaths they had already taken would not allow them to use it normally.

He had no doubt that even his masterfully crafted security measures could be breached and broken, but damn it, not so quickly and not without completely alerting all of his alarm nodes bound by oath! Not these guys and girls, for sure... otherwise, why would they even set up an ambush here? They would have twisted him in that clearing and wouldn't have bothered with such maneuvers. After sitting in another tavern over untouched fried chicken legs for almost two hours, he still couldn't find anything to complain about. Well, the timer for the meeting was slowly turning from a slight delay into a full-fledged tardiness, and the young man still risked venturing into the beast's lair. Yeah, and the beast was two vicious mares, damn it! Having finally eaten the drumsticks, he got up and hurried to the entrance, since he had all the necessary letters of recommendation with him.

"Who are you?" Without aggression or insult, but also without a drop of warmth, one of the two guards guarding the servants' passage asked, quickly assessing Stepan's clothes and even aura, albeit through the amulet, not being too impressed, which resulted in zero piety. "Why did you come?"

"Greetings, sir." He speaks respectfully and symbolically, with a slight bow of his head. "My name is Ste, my venerable grandmother put in a good word for me with her old friends. They were supposed to be warned about me, if I understand correctly. Here, they even gave me a letter to take with me."

He did indeed have a letter with the official small seal of the trading house, even though he had forged the seal, simply because Urvag did not take the main seal, the small seal, or even the letter seal with him to the negotiations. The latter has minimal power and is simply used to mark correspondence, at the same time, to prevent it from being scanned and opened. This protection is not very reliable. By the way, he was not very happy that Stepan, as if nothing had happened, said that he would simply forge the seal, as there was no point in trying to find it in the middle of the forest now. Singha even jumped into the conversation and explained that the shaman wasn't crazy. He just didn't know how offensive that sounded to a representative of a stamped trading house, even a Trading House. It was a direct challenge, right to his face. The man, quickly realizing that Stepan, who had already revealed his identity, was completely clueless about the business etiquette of the local high society, took the situation with humor and turned it into a joke. Reluctantly, the young man acknowledged Singha's usefulness in that dialogue. If it weren't for her, they would certainly not have agreed on anything good.

The guards reacted with enviable professionalism to his slow and deliberately clumsy retrieval of the letter from the inside pocket of his modest and worn caftan. Calmly, confidently, and controlling every movement of the suspicious little man, even though he did not seem suspicious at all. A quick glance at the letter, which was opened but still had its broken seal of enchanted wax, followed by a not-so-quick check of the seal with another amulet. Naturally, the check did not reveal any forgery, because the seal was so authentic that the only thing more authentic would be to steal the seal itself and affix it with his own hands. The guards, who had calmed down noticeably, looked kindly at the modestly fidgeting young man, while one of them communicated with someone via mental connection through another amulet. Incidentally, this one was not a classic amulet, but a shamanic one, looking like a small river pebble wrapped in leather strings to make a stylish bracelet.

"Come on in, lad." The guard nodded at him in a warmer and more normal tone, pointing to a slightly out-of-breath footman or whoever he was, who would be taking the guest somewhere. "They'll show you in, just don't get lost, please."

//“The house is such a mess that you're afraid to even breathe.” That's what the security guard thought, but he didn't say it, because his protection was simply not adapted to the presence of a brainiac of Stepan's level. As the shaman himself understood, some distant and problematic relatives had come to visit this family, and it was not possible to simply send them away, especially without attracting attention. During the negotiations, the shaman had specifically clarified that he would arrive quietly and without fanfare, since he had decided to show trust and enter the walls of a foreign stronghold rather than neutral territory. Well, yes, he decided, after all the oaths he had sworn, which he had almost bored even the highest spirit on a system contract and a bunch of lesser spirits, among whom were two elders. Moreover, he chose such oaths so that it would not be possible to use the methods known to him to invert those oaths and make him liable for everything, including chocolate eyes.

"Yeah, hi, yes, I know, you're Stae, they told me about you, yes, steward Justas, yes." The footman was not much older than Stepan, but he was so exhausted that the young man could hardly resist reflexively hitting him with a healing spell, lest he die right there, collapsing at the feet of the dear guest. "Phew, sorry, I'm just very tired. My name is Senzhiros, but you can just call me Senz. Today, the honorable Urvaga and Maegi have guests from the steppe, so you'll have to wait there... there, in general, you have to wait."

The boy was clearly out of place, literally. From the young man's thoughts, which were practically uncovered, except for a symbolic protective amulet, the isekai knew even without actively scanning that he was something between a floor polisher and a servant. He was meeting guests for the first time because he had never been trusted with such a task before, but today there was no one else to send. From his thoughts, Stepan learned that some of the servants had been dismissed today and that they had decided to have a small family holiday. Sometimes, rarely, the venerable Urvag and his equally venerable wife allowed themselves such a little happiness. Actually, the shaman learned this from them himself, just as he learned that in a quarter of cases, this ‘lovebirds' cooing’ was simply an excuse to hold private negotiations with someone important who did not want publicity. Perhaps there were far more than a quarter of such deceptions, but the main thing was not to overdo it; otherwise, competitors would only pay closer attention in response to such a festive atmosphere.

This, again, is from the words of Urvag, who took upon himself the entire organization of the next meeting.

However, neither Urvag, nor Maega, nor Stepan took into account such a chaotic factor as a visit from distant relatives. From early morning, these relatives arrived with gifts and generous offers, but, alas, without a direct invitation. And the shrewd and naturally curious Senj knew perfectly well the reason for such a sudden visit, which made Stepan almost giggle like an idiot. What was the matter? Well, since the almost completed engagement between a certain ‘haughty young gentleman’ and a mare had somewhat fallen through due to stone snot, breaches in the spirit world, and worm-eaten chthonic, someone in the Steppe and nearby decided that it was possible to try again to cast a line on the subject of marriage. In Stepan's opinion, Nertm now owed him for the rest of his life for the fact that his wedding to this trouble had not worked out, but that was his personal opinion.

But the family of the Steppe aristocracy, which had once been rejected, sensed a second chance and tried again to revive the old conversation. Incidentally, like de Lomer, the family had access to trade between the Confederation, represented by Morgraf and Westmark, and the Steppe, only now on behalf of the Steppe rather than the Confederation. It was a kind of trading house, only steppe-based rather than confederate. Different specifics, different traditions, and everything else too, but still similar phenomena. It is not surprising that they are so eager to become related. Consider that it will be possible to tap into trade, primarily in steel and magical reagents, which currently goes through de Lomer and one of the steppe khans, whose sphere of influence includes the family of two mares. Well, or maybe Maega and Singha, because he needs to get used to talking about them more politely, they are partners after all.

To be honest, Stepan couldn't shake the feeling that he was in some kind of fucking circus. Apparently, neither Urvag nor Maega had been informed about him, and he had been seated in the waiting room, not in the main hall, but in another, smaller one for lesser visitors. To be fair, he didn't mind at all and certainly didn't feel humiliated; rather, he felt sorry for the man, Justas, who had sent Senja to meet him instead of coming himself. And he felt even more sorry for Senja, who had obviously forgotten to tell Justas that this young man had arrived and was now waiting. The tension in the atmosphere was palpable, but it was not the kind of tension where, once it reaches its climax, people start pulling out knives. It was a different kind of tension, the tension of a tedious scandal brewing between relatives, when you can't wait to leave, but politeness and tradition prevent you from saying so directly.

"Oh, you're here, Stae?" Senj, who had returned to him, had successfully managed to shed what remained of his polish, looking exhausted, miserable, and dead tired. "That's it, the storm seems to have passed... I mean, they'll accept you very soon. Damn, I shouldn't have said that. You didn't hear anything, okay?"

"Didn't hear what?" Stepan asks with a look of complete indifference, suppressing the urge to yawn. "You just came in, said they'd accept me soon, and now you're silent."

"Ha-ha! There you go! I'm sure we'll be friends! If they don't kick me out of the master's house after today..." Waving his hand at the guest to follow him, the guy began to ask Stepan about his life, not too insistently, but without hiding his interest. "So you have a gift? I envy you. I can't even use amulets properly. But if you have a gift, and someone vouched for you, don't worry — they'll take you, I can bet my beret on it. Mr. Urvag welcomes the gifted almost always, as long as they're not completely stupid. And he asks almost all of them a few questions personally, instead of just passing them on to his assistants. If not in the manor house, then you'll definitely find a job in one of the trading courtyards, and they'll help you with training and give you a decent loan, unlike those bloodsuckers at the banks. If I were you, I'd really aim for the market. It's for me like honey and jam here, serving respectable masters, but if you're gifted, it's better to stay away from the respectable ones..."

The guy didn't need anyone to talk to, but he had a loose tongue. It seemed like he had only recently started working there and hadn't yet realised how dangerous it was to blab about such things concerning those very respectable gentlemen. Then, however, Stepan switched on his brain and discreetly scanned his escort. He tried not to remove his disguise — his modified and reinforced shroud, enhanced with several properties, was quite effective in deceiving the estate's security, allowing him to hide himself almost completely and pass himself off as an ordinary student. But using his gift in this mode was not only fraught with the risk of exposing his disguise, but also dangerous. The guardian spirits, suddenly seeing not a student but a senior shaman, might strike reflexively. And the fact that the strongest spirits had also been ‘warned’ of his visit would not stop them. Nothing will happen to him; he is keeping the threshold from being revealed, and he has also prepared several heavier spells, but it's a pity about the interior. It is clear that it was chosen with love and knowledge.

In general, only now did Stepan look at the boy, noticing that he was a classic ‘chatterbox.’ A mixture of witchcraft and primitive shamanism, where the summoned spirit does not perform the task, but fuels the effect of the spell of talkativeness, reducing critical thinking and cognitive abilities. So that the victim would chatter away, not paying much attention to what was being said, not realising that they were talking out of turn, and not thinking too much about what was happening. Ideally, by evening, they would have forgotten most of the day, hiding their forgetfulness behind fatigue and exhaustion, saying that the day had been too exhausting to remember. Right. This is no longer fun. Slightly shifting his aura, the young man more carefully assesses the effect — clearly not too strong, but done with skill and precision, already almost broken under the pressure of Senja's aura. Not masterful work, but this crap must have been done by a solid adept, no less.

And what really excited the shaman was that this junk was definitely not created by Maega or Singha, whereas the effect itself, despite its apparent primitiveness... was tailored to protect the estate. It was as if it was originally intended to be used here. So, if he came here just as the next series of Game of Thrones was starting, it wouldn't be funny at all. After reconfiguring the aura nodes under the shroud, Stepan sent a subtle signal-call to the spirits he had prepared in advance, just in case. Senj, who was even more confused, rubbing his face with his palms because of his floating head, meanwhile, led him to Urvag's office. Well, Stepan logically assumed this based on the opulence and expense of the furnishings, the overall security of this office, and the large coat of arms of the de Lomer trading house on the door, because no one but Urvag would hang such a thing on the door.

“Who are you?” Stepan stared in bewilderment at the young, arrogant man who had come out of the office. Outwardly calm, he was inwardly seething with suppressed anger, which was breaking through his very respectable defenses, including his aura-spiritual reading. “Answer me, khanur!”

The guy was older than Stepan or, say, Senj, but not by much, and his character definitely needed some correction, perhaps with a few kicks to the face. Through the door that quickly closed on its own, blocked by sound and several other barriers, the shaman caught the emanations of a serious argument coming from there. There were no shouts or accusations, but one side was clearly in a bad mood, and so was the other. It seemed that the young and arrogant one had been asked to get some fresh air in the reception room while the grown-ups, Maega's aura was not really contained by the barriers, she did not hide herself, but almost pressed with force, had their important conversation. And then this gentleman comes out and sees Stepan — unassuming and modestly dressed, clearly out of place even next to the smartly dressed Senj, let alone this fucking rude horse.

Horse, not because he was a centaur, but a steppe dweller. Tall, almost a head taller than Stepan, strongly built and sinewy, he looked like a natural Mongolian warrior. His face was not mixed-race like Singha's, but that of a purebred steppe dweller, with elegant clothing, a set of amulets for protection, a richly decorated dagger, and a combat whip rolled into a tight stick on his belt. The whip, by the way, was magical, a strange mixture of a staff and a whip, where the handle served as the base of the staff and a conduit of power, and the whip allowed one to cast amplifying magic on oneself. Stepan had never seen such a thing before, except in a system store, but in the steppes, many people use this type of weapon, where the whip is considered to be on a par with the sabre. First of all, it is more versatile. It can be used to herd livestock, drive away wolves, attack in mounted combat, and, as malicious tongues say, bring living and intelligent creatures to submission. And this clearly distinguished steppe man attacked poor Ste for some reason, becoming even more enraged. He called him a khanur again. That's what Singha called him during their first and second encounters. It's something like an offensive ‘foreigner’ with a touch of classic racism.

"Me? I am Stae, honourable sir." He answered honestly, suppressing his aggression and bowing his head in a polite, though not obsequious, bow, for it was much easier to tolerate this pipidastr than Singh during her visit to the Trabius courtyard. "I'm supposed to work for the honourable Urvag, if everything is..."

"Gifted?" He interrupted Stepan again, but Stepan just smiled a little more broadly, flashing his best modest autistic smile, which worked on many strict teachers, except for Rodislav Gastoldovich Yanin, but nothing worked on him anyway. "A shaman?"

"Well, I'm a skilled spellcaster, but if need be, I can also perform shamanic rituals." His answer didn't please him, so much so that he was on the verge of rage, even though it didn't show on his face. What's more, it wasn't about some cultural or social nonsense, but about the answer itself. "I know a little bit about talking to spirits. Just a little."

At the last word, he even showed with his fingers that little bit. He decided to himself that if he were to be struck now, he would not do anything, but something bad would happen to this idiot, similar to what happened to the late Boiled Valdis. Fortunately, for all parties, the muddy boy did not do anything rash or uncivilised, but only glanced at Senj, who was pale with tension, and discreetly activated one of his amulets, thereby finally unravelling the barely holding knots of the imposed ‘chatterbox’. The trinket was originally designed to uninstall these spells and then try to wipe them out. Stepan just as discreetly wedged a little of his will into this message, slowing down the disintegration, but leaving no analogue of his ‘fingerprints’ in a magical manner.

"Esharsam-lah nut." He muttered through his teeth in a haughty, immature manner, rudely pushing Stepan aside, even though he wasn't blocking the way; the corridor was wide. Then he walked out, striding purposefully and keeping his back straight as an arrow. "Ungalash!"

These were not exactly swear words, but rather offensive epithets, something between uneducated, unworthy, a kid from another neighbourhood, and barefoot rabble. This scene was witnessed by the guests leaving the office, who were not particularly pleased, and the hosts, who saw them off with forced smiles. Urvag saw and heard both the push and the remark at once. He was an excellent merchant and diplomat because even in his spiritual perception, his subtle body was only slightly clouded, and his face did not change at all; only his smile became somewhat stiff. And he confidently smoothed over the conflict, casually saying that Stepan had been brought here by mistake and should have been taken to the second office, where job interviews were usually conducted. Poor Senj seemed ready to die on the spot, but nodded silently and dragged Stepan away with him.

Finding himself back in the same reception room where he had been before, the increasingly cheerful shaman saw Justas staring at him with wide eyes. Justas also reprimanded Senj for his stupidity, quickly introduced himself to the shaman, and told him to sit and wait. As he walked down the corridor, he continued to berate Senja for exposing him, Master Justas, in front of Lord Urvag himself. The noise subsided, followed by five minutes of silence, before the hall was enveloped in a mixture of high magic and shamanism, cutting off sound and attention. Then, from a secret passage that opened inside an inconspicuous room, Urvag emerged, clearly out of his element. still smiling tensely, was obviously going to apologise, although Stepan was not particularly offended. Certainly not at him and his family. They clearly did not come up with all this.

"Is Maega taking that shit off the boy now?" He asks first, not allowing the planned dialogue to begin. "I slowed it down a little, on purpose, so it would stand out."

"What? Oh, yes, thank you very much for that, Pann. Or is it Stae?" Slightly taken aback by the unexpected question, he regained his composure as usual; otherwise, he would have been a poor salesman. "However, first of all, I must apologise. No one expected such a visit..."

"Sudden relatives are worse than Horde warriors, as they used to say in my home. The shaman said melancholically, shrugging his shoulders. “Call me whatever you like, even Stepan, I don't mind. And believe me, I am well aware that you are not to blame for what happened. I insisted on complete secrecy, I came in disguise and dressed simply.”

"Oh, damn it, it's just some kind of clownish dance, not a day." Urvag, relaxed not only outwardly but also inwardly, whose wife should have dealt with that spell long ago and was now, no doubt, protecting her husband from his, Stepan's, possible anger. "Believe me, this boy may be unbearable, but his father did a lot for me in his time. I certainly wouldn't dare to give orders, and I won't ask for the life of a fool, but I will ask that you at least leave his family alone. And, if possible, express your dissatisfaction at least a decade or two later, so that they are already far away from my House."

In response to such directness, Stepan just silently lamented the morality of this world. He seemed like a perfectly normal man, albeit a stereotypical haggler at heart, but it never even occurred to him that Stepan would leave that idiot alive. That's just not how things are done in this world; even the slightest insult from the weak to the strong is not left unpunished, because it is a blow to honour. But from the strong, they will tolerate almost anything, yeah. And from the point of view of local morality, Urvag literally shows the nobility of the hundredth level, protecting, if not his most beloved, then his allies and partners from the anger of a dangerous and extremely destructive ally, who also must not cross over to the enemy's side. It is not surprising that he came to talk, and not Maega; he must have dissuaded her, because his wife is clearly not used to asking and diplomatically resolving situations.

"Come on, I'm not going to kill him." And in response to the skepticism that penetrated even through all the acting, he explained in a little more detail. "He didn't do anything bad to me, he didn't try to hit me, I didn't see any auras under his disguise, and I don't kill anyone just for being a jerk, otherwise I'd have a trail of corpses behind me. What kind of conspiracy is that? I'll give him a week of digestive problems so he can't get off his high horse, add something else offensive on top of that, and let him ride his horse across the endless steppe. I remembered his aura, I have his image, and I learned his defense too."

"Singha was right after all — you're strange, Pann. I wouldn't forgive him. Well, it's not that easy. They would pay the full ransom for him, just as they would have paid. But it's your business, I certainly won't object, it's easier for me that way." Urvag quickly switched to an informal address during their first meeting, when Stepan directly said that he didn't like to bother with all these etiquette pirouettes. "Then, I suppose we can go have a drink, wet our throats, and satisfy our hunger; otherwise, I feel like a scoundrel for not even inviting our dear guest to the table. Maega will join us very soon."

They proceeded, and Stepan casually inquired why Urvag persistently referred to him as either Stea or Pann, rather than by his actual name. After a moment's hesitation and a request not to be offended, Urvag explained that his name in the language of the Northern Theocracy, which is quite popular in this world, sounds like something between “stubborn” and “unreasonable man.” It's not exactly Stepan, but something like “staypan,” but the man, who was fluent in many languages, twitched his eyebrow every time. And the worst thing was that this offensive expression had been gradually creeping into everyday use for about twenty years, even in the dialect of the Confederation, including Morgraf: the theocrats had spent a lot of effort to spread their writings to the masses, coming together with native speakers, free prayer schools, and all that. In general, they would be nice people if they weren't fanatical cultists in the worst (and best, for that matter) sense of the word.

So, during their conversation, they moved to a small dining room, where a table covered with appetizers was already waiting for them. While Stepan tasted the magnificent cheese plate without feeling its flavor, washing it down with cranberry juice instead of wine, also without feeling its taste, Urvag shared the latest news and thoughts. He did not forget to thank him for his understanding regarding today's incident. Stepan, who, due to three different spirits inhabiting his body and a spell cast on his teeth, could not taste anything and was physically incapable of poisoning himself or tasting anything except the dish itself and a limited list of seasonings, mostly nodded. His agent skills were sufficient to pretend to enjoy the food while checking it and not breaking the Shroud. There was no need to break it. All the spirits had been planted in advance in the shaman's tongue, larynx, and, oddly enough, spine and all three were small and only worked in tandem. However, the effect of their sensors and protection was such that not every senior poison specialist could replicate it.

"Senj isn't really that stupid, I... well, what can I say, I kept him on the second payroll as my personal assistant for small tasks, but at the same time, he was running around doing odd jobs for the junior staff. He's smart, attentive beyond his years, and as tenacious as a predatory fish." Stepan began to suspect something when he noticed the “chatterbox” in the boy, because even with a hostile spell, he behaved like “just” a talkative young man, when he should have been blabbing everything he knew without pause or thought. "Someone from Sakhai Bey's people noticed this detail and decided to use him to check, so to speak, the weather under the roof of my house. Rudeness. Right at that level, after which I will tell them with a clear conscience that it would be better for them not to invite themselves over for a couple of winters. The old weasel will apologize, of course, but the residue, you understand, will not go away."

Stepan understood, but at the same time, he didn't understand. From his point of view, it wasn't a matter of a couple of years of cooling off or a simple “I'm sorry, please forgive me.” He would have simply severed ties with such smartasses right away, adding something behind their backs, because fuck it. But, as they say, you shouldn't go into someone else's monastery with your Bible, and they perceived the value of a servant, even a privileged one, differently. It seems that if one of the guests had decided to impose such nonsense on Singha, there would have been a completely different reaction. And the shaman would have been the first to start tearing balls. Now that she has finally started to pump herself up properly, there's no way you can get away with such nonsense. She couldn't be fooled even by more cunning nonsense before, and now even more so, not after she invested the reward of “five talents in one branch” in working with light and beneficial spirits.

At first glance, the choice seems rather strange; it would be more logical to add one of the additional spheres of elemental orientation to the wind, but that was only an impression. In real life, you know, there are areas of work with spirits that are very difficult to develop. Good spirits, skilled not so much in healing as in imposing complex and long-lasting, or even permanent, blessings, are difficult to find. And even if you find them, it's damn hard to find the right call, because these spirits, due to their benevolent nature, are very timid and quickly run away at the slightest suspicion. This is because they are considered ideal prey for evil spirits. And you can't summon them by force, because benevolent entities often gather in groups and clans around a stronger spirit, swearing allegiance to it and entering into a symbiosis, strengthening their patron and his retinue with their goodness. Such a spirit can easily tear away a valuable ally by force and come to a foreign call itself. This is even more dangerous than breaking the circle during the ritual of a dark spirit, where at least you know in advance who you will be dealing with.

The point is that cursing or exerting subtle influence on Singh is a simple task only for someone with Stepan's arsenal and the meta-mark on the steppe mares. But now she knew how to defend herself against classic curses, including love spells and mental ones, in an awesome way. Considering the earthling's specialization, albeit a forced one, it was an extremely prudent and wise move. Moreover, Stepan not only approved of this move but also convinced her to develop this particular direction during that meeting when he decided to apologize for his involuntary betrayal. He initially suggested investing in a property that would give her mental resilience against all kinds of mental and emotional manipulation... but then she would have wasted three out of five points, which Singha did not want to do. A compromise had to be found, but now Mom and Dad considered their daughter very smart and timely cautious. The issue of trust between partners is always best resolved in such a way that neither side has the opportunity to take the opponent by the throat suddenly.

Or for both sides to hold each other by the throat – then the strongest alliances are formed.

It was Singha who quoted her father's wisdom to him, if anything.

"What's the point?" he asked, savoring a completely tasteless piece of select basturma as if he could really appreciate it. "Why did they, well, get into your servants' heads? What did they want from you?"

And here Urvag hesitated, not because he had been led onto some dangerous topic, but simply out of discomfort as if this was precisely the topic he should not have brought up. His defense was excellent, especially against spiritual perception, which was obvious, and he had excellent control over his face and emotions, but the shaman's mind-reading skills were simply too high. He could read even superficial reactions. Well, not read, but sense. Stepan was already getting ready to try to ask a few questions. Even if he didn't tell him, one reaction would be enough to understand. But then the door opened and a mother and daughter entered the room, both of whom were clearly in a bad mood, even though they tried to hide it. Singha smiled when she saw Stepan, although he did not share her attitude. Somehow, he had gotten used to strengthening his defenses when he was close to the mare and waiting for the next fuck-up.

"Maega, Singha. Nice to see you." Well, he didn't exactly lie, so you could even say that I'm really glad, a little bit. "I guess now that this silly episode is over, we can relax, discuss the weather and grain prices, and then get down to business."

"Discuss horses and complain about the health of the herd, Pann." Singha parried, sitting down at the table and not letting his mother respond with something sharp, because he had obviously touched on some cultural marker again. "That's how they talk in the Steppes, but a true son or daughter of the Steppes shouldn't know about grain prices and other farming stuff. Just live with horses, just live in the Steppes. The yahus and mal-sachs plough the land, and comparing yourself to them is an insult."

Well, this can be considered a successful attempt to embarrass Stepan, yes. And by whom! He would give two talent points for the opportunity to download at least basic knowledge of local etiquette and culture, so as not to do such a nonsense. Fortunately, Singha defused the situation in time, and the shaman himself apologised, which ended the incident. They finally began to discuss what they had gathered here for — help with the move. Or rather, not exactly a move, because Stepan was not going to leave Dantmark, at least for now, but rather to create a stable transition between there and here. He had already successfully spent the recently invested improvement token, which allowed him to transform the senior spirit into an equally harmonious and comprehensively developed higher spirit. On top of that, he took another contract with the higher spirit — thanks to this pair, he counted on success with very high chances.

After the modification, ‘He Who Hides Himself in Stones and Opens Doors’ changed his name and image and began to perceive himself as ‘He Who Became Related to the Darkness of Stones, Paving the Way and Opening Doors.’ The entity became much stronger, the radius of its portals increased, and the possibilities for using those portals became much more flexible. But all this was trivial, whereas the basis for development to the rank of an extremely powerful higher spirit was invisibility and camouflage. The same principle of elusiveness and general concealment developed even further, and the synergy of the spirit with a multitude of spells and shamanic enhancements on totems and in the underground cave itself improved. Now he could open portals within the city limits without fear, even if he was being sought, and he had also significantly reduced the load on the non-Rubik's cube. But that was only half the work, while the second half was performed by a completely new, higher spirit.

He was called ‘One-in-Two,’ an image as concise as it was profound. His essence had very little affinity with the realm of space, and his main realm, or rather realms, were unity and reflection. Or rather, not even reflection, but ‘twin.’ In terms of unity, he resembled the Pig Trio, but in conjunction with his twin... let's just say that he didn't simply become a copy of some spirit, acquiring its traits and abilities. No. Such creatures were also on the contract lists, and there were contacts for summoning them in the classic way, without system points. But no, there weren't any. Becoming the twin of some spirit, the One became that same spirit, on terms very similar to those that bound the Pig Trio. Roughly speaking, if this spirit copies the essence of the Door Opener and then becomes him somewhere under the streets of Morgrave, it will extend its nature to this city as well.

Stepan will be able to enter the portal from Sylvia's mansion, enter the cave, and exit somewhere in Morgrave, because his cave will exist in both cities according to the principle of superposition! Exactly the same one that prevents the cave, disguised by the ++Opener, from being found! It will be as if he has two shamanic caves, but it will remain one. When Urvag learned that Stepan was actually planning to create a stable and completely invisible passage between Morgrave and Dantmark, his eye twitched. According to him, for such a thing, if not executed, then mercilessly raped without lubrication, the entire family of the one who is going to carry out such sabotage in secret from the owners of the city would be punished. But, according to him, only a complete fool would refuse the chance to create such a thing, because the prospects are incredible.

Here, Stepan gently pointed out that he did not want to expose himself to smuggling certain goods that would leave a trace and be noticed by the already aggressively excited de Fell. And if the question arose between creating a portal or exposing himself, he would prefer not to seek help from Maega and Singha rather than risk being exposed to de Dantrel. Urvag quickly understood this, but his arguments were undermined by the fact that his wife and daughter also wanted to participate in this venture. It is not every day, or even every lifetime, that one gets to participate in the summoning of three higher spirits at once, which will leave corresponding marks on the spirit. Moreover, Singha also has the Tablet, which may well count such an early summoning of higher beings, even if only as part of a team, as an act, if not a deed.

On the other hand, the shaman acknowledged that he could not manage without their assistance. Should he summon the One somewhere near Dantmark, creating an additional ‘Schrödinger's refuge’? It would be straightforward, as there is already a contract in place, and with his current skills, he could manage it in a week of preparation. He could even reach a city not too far away on his own. But to connect the spatial manifestations of two such distant, protected, and stuffed with scanning spell cities at once? No, he would struggle to even manage the disguise, but the root of the problem is not the disguise. In order to ‘introduce’ the Twin to the original Opener, the former must be summoned next to the latter. But the Opener is tied to the city, unable to leave or move without destroying the cave's cover, which, without his disguise, would be quite noticeable due to its accumulated power. This power could be further disguised, but that still doesn't solve the main problem.

The final conclusion is disappointing. The only way to properly use even fully compliant contracts on a system connection will not work unless you start cheating. Roughly speaking, he will first have to create a stable and reliable portal between Morgrave and Dantmark, and not just any portal, but a very complex one. One that will allow the Twin to see that the Opener is not somewhere far away, but right here, close by, and then accept its essence and become it. And then, without pause, connect ‘there and here’ into a single structure, simultaneously covering up the wild background from the presence and embodiment of both the Twin, who has partially lost the Opener's disguise, and the spirit that will support the portal window. A task with an asterisk, even for Stepan with all his cheating, but quite feasible if he is covered by another strong master, almost a master by local standards, as well as her gifted daughter, gifted with the Tablet and simply gifted in many ways. The task is still difficult, but it is achievable, and he already has a rough idea of how he will do it.
Задача со звездочкой

Maega is, of course, more of a wind specialist, but for the spirit-portalist, already the second highest in this specialisation, acquired for a free contract point given to him after subjugating the ‘crazy cow’, one of the main spheres is precisely air. The ‘Breeze of the Underworld’ was an extremely interesting thing, capable of combining spheres that are usually incompatible, and even at his rank of supreme spirit, the freedom of movement of the free wind and the heaviness of indestructible mountain ranges, the darkness of tunnels, and the vastness of open spaces. The portals of this spirit were extremely slow to create, very difficult to maintain, and even his summoning required support from reagents and ritual chanting — not as payment, but to make it easier for him to work. But these summons were absurdly inconspicuous if one really tried to hide them.

In general, the planned ritual was something that any self-respecting shaman would consider participating in, if not for the ‘chance to work in our company,’ then out of pure professional interest. Considering Singha's ability to level up through the Tablet, even more so. Stepan clearly understood that both women would agree to help him for free, even without taking into account their general gratitude for what he had already done. But simply not repaying them for their help seemed, to put it mildly, a very controversial decision. Fortunately, Urvag was a smartass, quickly finding ways to use this very underground passage that did not threaten the shaman and did not require him to take any risks. In fact, he needed a principled agreement, in words, not an oath, to use this passage exclusively for sending messages. Not everything can be entrusted to amulet communication, even if you use good amulets, you know, not everything at all.

New methods of encrypting communication channels are regularly created and developed, not because the old ones suddenly stopped working. It is not without reason that the Messenger Guild, which has entire networks of amulet connections with thousands of active data transmission points, spends almost a third of its profits on updating this network and replacing outdated amulets. It is not just for the sake of science; the famous Neirat Academy has a separate department at the Institute of Amulet Construction and Artifact Engineering, which is engaged in the creation of new methods of secure message transmission. Well, at the same time, breaking others' codes as a main side effect. Not everyone, even among states, can afford to replace most of their high-encryption amulets every few years, as Forest does. Not everyone has a Lesser Sun, like the Theocrats, to conduct negotiations by pushing the signal-will onto that Sun. Again, you can always just talk through the amulet using purely acoustic ciphers, which is what is done most often.

Or use Morse code equivalents, or use short-lived ‘forest’ communication amulets, which, due to their design, do not allow communication to be intercepted unless one of the key amulets is in your hands, gradually wear out and break, the same regular depreciation, only in a different way. As already mentioned, apart from the Forest, no one could really use such amulets on a mass scale, even though the very principle of their design had long since been stolen from the Forest by either the islanders or the local Asians, who were once hegemons and could demand the fruits of their labour by right of force. So the transmission of encrypted and sealed, but still paper letters, remained extremely popular. Especially if the person you are writing to does not have a second receiver amulet, because it was lost, taken away, or you had never communicated before.

The shaman could undertake the duty of delivering the letters. Although, as he specifically stipulated, this would be done infrequently, after being warned in advance and with the right to check the letters for ‘additional effects.’ Urvag was not upset, calmly accepting this precaution and, it seems, not expecting anything else. But then Maega finally captured Stepan's attention, and they argued for four hours about the configuration of the ritual, drawing Singha into the conversation and regularly raising their voices, since the mother was not shy about speaking her mind. Urvag left, returning with a pile of old and new documents or even maps, showing them diagrams of the square fields, scanning complexes of spells that surrounded Morgraf, as well as all kinds of underground shelters and natural caves. This was also a gesture of trust, because de Lomer should not have had such information at all, as it posed a direct threat to the entire city and His Highness August de Mont Ros.

What annoyed Stepan most was that he had to ‘get a job’ just to have a reason to stay here, under the roof of the house, without arousing suspicion. It wasn't even about the discussions, which could be held in secret, but about setting up the family's kamlanie altar, which would have to be used for at least one part of the upcoming ritual. The earthling's skills would be enough to do this, even while doing some other crap. And the legend and alibi would be provided on the spot. In theory, he could spend all this time locked in a separate room, simply not leaving it, but a locked room where someone lives will look much more suspicious than another worker with a recommendation from a very distant relative, who was taken on as a floor polisher's assistant or something like that. And besides, he doesn't need to sit in one place, but to move around, to catch the echoes of the family's rituals from different points and positions, which cannot be done in one small room.

Well, or he'll just have to fall into a controlled coma and crawl around in the spiritual body. It will be even more effective, but also damn dangerous. The protection on the house is too good, and quickly integrating him into that protection, especially in spiritual form rather than physical, is a very difficult task. He may have been trusted that much, but he did not trust his new allies, except perhaps Singha. And even her, with great caution, yes. So it would be better for him to be fully conscious, with an evacuation spirit lodged in his body, which could easily pull him out of this estate, even if it meant noise and magical illumination for the whole city. Oaths are oaths, trust is trust, but he would not risk completely relaxing his guard and exposing his back to this family anytime soon.

Probably never at all.

It was obvious that those around him did not understand his plan to “pretend to be a servant,” and Maega was caught on a blue screen of death, while her daughter, who already knew Stepan and his mannerisms, giggled. Yes, it was no loss of honor or bitter shame for him to put on a livery and dust for a week or two, pretending to be just a boy with a meager gift and not a mighty khao-seran. Yes, yes, that's right, Singha will confirm it. Singha confirmed that it was no joke, he didn't stand out at all, and she didn't even suspect him until he started swearing at her and covering her from the blows of Stone Snot. Only Maega stubbornly refused to understand this approach and tried to explain that she, for example, would not want to bury a loyal and useful servant if someone decided to yell at a new servant for educational purposes or even kick him. Stepan wearily explained that no one would need to be buried and that he would calmly accept the performance of his work duties, so there would be no need to yell at him, let alone hit him. And if it came to that, he would somehow endure it, yes.

All this would have been much easier if the earthling had simply been allowed to spend a day or two meditating in the “White Yurt,” that is, the altar-totem structure located at the back of the courtyard. The garden there had long since become overgrown because no one was allowed in, except for the shamans themselves, who occasionally trimmed the undergrowth and cleared away any leaves blown in by the wind. Alas, this option was rejected immediately, and not out of malice. The very foundation of the altar did not allow anyone who was not related by blood or female to enter. In fact, even Urvag could not get in there, no matter how much he sometimes wanted to observe his wife's activities out of pure curiosity. Stepan had already figured out at least four, even four and a half, ways to circumvent such protection, even to the point of pretending to be Maego herself in front of the spirits. But this was clearly not something that even the most honored guest, partner, and savior would be allowed to do, and it would certainly not be possible to carry out the adjustment for which it all began in such a disguise.

"Any man can enter my abode only once in his life," Maega explains to him as they go over the possible courses of action for the third time. "Even my husband will never be there again, even though he once entered the shadow of the yurt for... hmm, never mind. Damn it! Uramal-sash! I feel disgraced! My guest! My friend! The saviour of my daughter! He will... he will wipe the dust and bow his head to my servants! You are no servant, Pann, who found the Tablet by the whim of the gods, I can see that! You don't have the right habits! You don't hold back right. How can you tolerate this?"

Stepan only rolled his eyes mentally, because he saw no way to explain to Maega what earthly society was like, having survived a bunch of revolutions and long since left the aristocracy in the dustbin of history. Again, even without that aristocratic air, he was quite capable of keeping himself calm and collected. Anyone could if they were properly brought up in modern society. It was just that what was considered proper upbringing for an earthling in a local manner seemed at the same time wildly uncivilized and unceremonious, but with good manners and the ability to carry oneself well. Wearing “lordly” clothes and walking correctly, speaking clearly, like the best orators, and having a developed vocabulary, masterful use of a knife and fork, as well as a manner of not bowing his head to anyone, showing just respect. He could not pass for a nobleman even in his dreams, his attitude toward everything was too different, including his inability to look at the rabble as, well, rabble, as well as a bunch of derivative class reflexes. But he did not seem like a commoner either, more like some kind of blissful scholar.

Well, he's a wild country spellcaster, whose grandmother taught him everything except how to live in normal society, which is why he sometimes acts like a complete fool. Yes, it's a good role, and Stepan has already played it at Trabiya's homestead and in the beloved Lyady.

"Well, it's decided." He confirms the plan, now, as previously agreed upon. "Then you will be responsible for the ritual and the part of it that you will perform in your place of power. I will be responsible for the exotic reagents, activating the ready-made anchor in the form of a mark in Dantmark, and, until the moment of activation, maintaining it in working order. Now let me quietly slip away and go to the interview, and put me up in some little room. It can be right here in the closet, so that it's not too fancy for my “legend,” but I don't want to regularly wipe my neighbors' memories, because frequent abuse of such shit leaves permanent mental damage in the victim."

"Okay. I'm all set... Gods, I can't believe I'm saying this in this situation, but be my dearest guest in my home, Pann. Or rather, Stae." Urvag is still out of his element, but as the shaman has learned, in this world, the gifted in general, and shamans in particular, are allowed almost any whim, although playing the role of a petty lackey is still too bizarre even by the standards of the craziest shamans, whose minds have been too badly damaged by spiritual wanderings. "If you change your mind, you can always replay it."

Stepan nodded contentedly, but he knew that everything was fine for now.

Well, in the worst-case scenario, he can always take sick leave or ask to be admitted to that very white yurt. Yes, yes, you can only enter it once in a lifetime, but he will be happy to quickly get it set up and leave someone else's abode for good.

* * *

Listening to and feeling the presence of the yurt was easy and even pleasant. The force of the wind in its echo was pure and mostly neutral, without any particular emphasis on darkness, although there were some individual notes. Stepan, now known as Stae among his colleagues and in the eyes of his temporary superiors, who had appointed Yustas himself, giving him a new talented subordinate, was reputed to be a slightly absent-minded man, forever detached from this world. But try to be detached from this world when you are constantly, continuously meditating and forming a mixture of pure spiritual influence and spells for a future ritual. Well, how do you form it? You mostly estimate the basic parameters while Singh and his mother are doing exactly the same thing. Only they do it in comfort and with the full support of their native land, while you still have to charge the lighting amulets, check the spells against pests, tap the walls for weaknesses in the structure of the embedded protection, and so on.

In such a large and in every way magical house there is always a lot of work, which can only be done by a gifted person, even if only fragmentarily, who can only use specific amulets and nothing more. Stepan was playing the role of such a gifted person, at the same time familiarising himself with the inner workings of the glorious de Lomer family. The work was not difficult at all, the social package was good, and the newcomers were also well-trained. He was given, for example, a plump and well-read book, covered with a lot of separate notes, called ??"Schematisation of care for amulet complexes of household type". The book, now in its eighteenth edition, written by Maric de Neirat and was, as Maitre Eustace had explained to him, his holy scripture for the next six months. The book was not uninteresting, but it described the most superficial of methods, and it was pure high magic.

The shaman read the book on the first evening anyway, barely refraining from applying the update to his meta-skill of stretching time. It was, one might say, the first purely magical book he had read in this world with his own eyes. Yes, Sylvia had a decent library, but it was mostly about alchemy, rituals, and the bloody magic of vampires, and for the most part, it contained very advanced volumes. And here was a textbook for privileged servants, written for beginners with minimal knowledge, and written in interesting and colorful language, which Stepan had never encountered in the local Talmuds before. Whoever this Marik was, he was an excellent teacher, no worse than a magician — the earthling was ready to swear to that.

"Are you daydreaming again, Stae?" With a slight hint of mockery, which he disguised as friendliness, a man in his thirties, well-groomed and even a bit prim, asked, as if trying to resemble a British butler, even though he had never seen one. "You'll end up with a pay cut. And, considering your position as a country bumpkin on probation, you'll end up, at best, twisting mules' tails on one of the farmsteads. Remember, boy, here we are, the face of the entire estate! Our mistakes cast a shadow on the de Lomer coat of arms! And when I tell you not to have your head in the clouds, you, child of the wild hills, will not have your head in the clouds! Or you won't work here! Get out of here, I'll check what you've been up to again.

"As you say, Maître Corrin, but I didn't do anything wrong," Stepan replies politely and calmly, stepping back and allowing his work to be checked, which is indeed perfect, because with his control and understanding of magic, it would have been impossible to renew the synchronization of the amulets on each other without making a special effort. “As in previous instances, I might add. So if I made a mistake, it was only the first time, not again, esteemed master.”

He just muttered something under his breath so as not to add insult to injury, instead sniffing the damn chain of amulets, even though they were placed in special recesses in the wall of the storage room for perishable goods. Alas for him, he found no errors, even though two of these amulets were not broken, no, but slightly more worn than they should have been during regular inspections. Well, it was as if during the last check-synchronization, someone had deliberately not charged them properly, so that by this point, the standard power boost had slightly damaged these amulets. Of course, direct charging should only be started after an initial sensory check with a power pulse, receiving the response pulse on a special amulet, or personally deciphering it, if you can. But such meticulousness was considered by the local servants to be just plain meticulousness.

Especially when your formal boss and teacher, who has been trying for a year and a half to promote his talented daughter to the position of one of the servants in the estate of the venerable Urvag, is nagging you and rushing you at every opportunity. Stepan wasn't even particularly angry with him, seeing perfectly well the other man's motivations and thoughts, because in his place, he would probably have behaved in a similarly unfriendly manner, albeit without such blatant attempts at discrediting him. You serve for years, carefully trying to settle your daughter, and even teaching her conscientiously so that she does not disgrace her father, and then, a month and a half before she is accepted, they put a shady young man in her place, who came from who knows where. Yes, it seems that someone recommended him, but this “recommendation” came from Maega, a distant relative of the sister of the brother of the matchmaker of a friend who turned out to be Stepanova's respectable grandmother.

Specifically, it was traditional on the estate that most of the servants, especially those not directly involved in shamanic affairs, were appointed by Master Urvag himself, rather than his beloved wife. So the man felt betrayed by his best expectations. To be fair, although he tried to frame the young man and nitpicked at him, he did not do so categorically, so if the shaman had actually broken those amulets, he would have been stopped, rather than fined or otherwise punished for property damage. Therefore, he treated Corrin calmly and with a hint of indulgent kindness. And although the young man was not an expert in reading thoughts and intentions, he somehow sensed this attitude with his twelfth sense... or perhaps Stepan did not hide it very well. In general, the young man annoyed his “mentor” much more than the mentor annoyed him.

"Acceptable," Corrin muttered through clenched teeth, unable to find anything to complain about, and then continued with an even more sour expression. “You're free to go, recover, and get something sweet to eat.”

A hint of, if not friendliness, then recognition of competence flashed across his face, and it was also noticeable that Ste's aura had become almost empty. The man, who knew how to use his second sight despite having no gift whatsoever thanks to his personal amulet, clearly believed that the insolent kid was being defiant purely out of his malice and unwillingness to show weakness, and was ready to collapse at any second. He might not have minded beating Stepan unconscious, but then he would have been asked why the hell he had tortured the devastated magician so much. So the young man just nodded with an emphatically respectful expression on his face, and then went to get something to eat. At that moment, Singha gave a signal through a primitive amulet, indicating that they were about to perform another ritual, summoning a very amusing spirit, whose “contacts” Singha had brought from her systemic knowledge.

The strong entity was unpleasant in that it would only communicate with those who were initially devoted primarily to the wind. Stepan could cheat by rearranging the marks on the spiritual body, that very super-property from Automilfa, the “Patchwork Spiritual Echo,” which allowed one mark to be transformed into another. But it was still easier to find a spirit with a simpler character. Or he could pass the task on to Singh, whose contract, capable of indirectly enhancing the effect of spatial manipulations through air spheres, would be useful even outside the current plan. In fact, she would benefit most from combining this spirit with the gifted cloak to speed up and simplify teleportation and flight. Almost losing his footing, he also picks up their collective chanting, feeling the heat of the fire in which the offerings are burning, hearing with his spiritual body the wind that has become a little more responsive, howling over the city.

"What, Stae, has Long really got you down, or are you thinking about girls?" This interlocutor is already much more friendly, despite his slightly familiar and patronizing tone. "If he's bothering you, tell me and I'll talk to him, he's going too far, damn it, but if it's about girls, then that's the right thing to do! It's the right time, while you're still young. That's why, as soon as I get a day off, I'm going to visit my Tasha.

"Hello to you, too, Borik." Unable to resist, he rolls his eyes, but his interlocutor interprets this gesture not as an attempt to listen more closely to the spiritual world, but as a reaction to someone else's deliberate discourtesy. "I'm glad to see you, too."

The Long One here is called Corrin, and not because of his average height or because of what first comes to mind when you hear his nickname and realize that it's not about his height. And the cheerful Borik, who was the senior assistant groom, disliked Corrina very much because of an old quarrel. So, upon learning that Stepan had unwittingly undermined his enemy's daughter and was also suffering from her father's attacks, he took the young man under his wing free of charge. On the other hand, Stepan himself was irrationally angry with the good-natured man. Not because he said something offensive, not because he turned out to be a secret pervert, like Jasper, who wanted a shaman's ass. No, it was all because of that very Tasha, who had been the mistress of a widowed man for a long time. He got married at fourteen and was widowed at eighteen. Sometimes, with the higher standard of living of the local nobility, who have magic, cosmetics, and all that, you forget that the peasants here live in very unfortunate conditions.

Actually, the man was thinking of marrying his cheerful widow again, having saved up a decent amount of money working for Mr. Urvag. And Tasha herself was by no means a poor bride, having found employment in a workshop that produced all kinds of alcohol except beer and wine. Not only moonshine, but also various liqueurs and tinctures, as well as mead, which were in a price segment significantly higher than poor man's moonshine. Knowing her late husband's recipes, the aunt successfully left the village, where the village head had simply taken away “not her, but her husband's” house, trying to resettle her in a much lower quality hut without even a normal stove. The quick-witted and curvaceous aunt managed to get herself a job in the workshop, proving her skills, and even though she was not a master anywhere, she was not taken as a mere servant. And with Borik, everything was very serious on both sides.

How does Stepan know this? Because in a friendly conversation, not even with a shaman disguised as a servant, but with one of his buddies, this individual boasted that this peasant woman's tits were fucking awesome, even though she was a peasant. Stepan himself didn't understand how he managed to refrain from screaming in panic and unleashing powerful combat spells in all directions, while simultaneously activating teleportation for evacuation. Instead, he spent the entire evening and night brazenly leaving the farmstead without even discussing further plans with Maega and Singha, in order to check this peasant woman and master of alcohol from all sides. No, there were no traces of demonic or any other modifications to her body, mind, spirit, or anything else. Just a very pretty woman, already beaten down by a hard life, albeit busty. Exactly what a peasant woman who constantly earns her living by hard labor should be, who still retains traces of the beauty bestowed by nature, but has not used cosmetic alchemy and cannot boast of the blessings of the Life-Giver.

The only terrible secret she has is that she personally poisoned her husband, a domestic sadist and tyrant who beat her while she was pregnant, causing a miscarriage and subsequent infertility, which she can only hope to pray away to Gaia. And she fled the village so that the relatives of the poor and unfortunate martyr, poisoned and tortured by the evil snake, would not kill her. The shaman spent the whole next day nodding off, yawning to his heart's content, for he had worked himself to exhaustion. Well, in return, he treated this woman for intruding without permission into her body, mind, aura, and spirit, healing the traces of old beatings, very sad kidneys, a neglected hernia, and that very infertility. On top of that, he stamped her with a token of gradual improvement in her appearance and made sure that she was not going to poison Borik, having finally found her love.

And since then, Borik had been causing the shaman to have an involuntary nervous tic, against his will; he recalled the moment of horror and uncontrollable panic he had experienced.

Having finished the very tasty cabbage pies and the equally tasty potato and onion pies, while maintaining a very one-sided conversation with Borik, who did not need an interlocutor, unlike the listener, the young man went to his chambers. To catch up on sleep, which was quite officially allowed for a gifted person after working with amulets. At most, by evening, they would put him to work on the night garden. Night in the sense that in that section of the ordinary garden there grew flowers that only blossomed at night, dimly but noticeably glowing with inflorescences, which were, among other things, also part of the magical defense system of the estate. These flowers needed to be sprayed with a special mixture and fed a little with reserves, just a little. Even for someone who was recently exhausted, it was possible. Stepan, who was installing alarms on his closet, while also creating an illusion-doll of a sleeping body made from a spare blanket and pillow, even began to wonder: would Corrin have the audacity to involve him in this work or not?

As it turned out, no, it wasn't enough. Or he simply didn't dare send a newbie to very capricious flowers, so leaving the decoy to sleep, the shaman slipped into the meeting room like an invisible shadow. Urvag had just shown up here, wished them all the best, leaving the three gifted ones to do what they did best. The table was empty; even the snacks and drinks were put on a smaller table, a little to the side. There was no matter on the table, but there was an illusion showing a very detailed image of Morgraf and its surroundings. The de Lomer estate, or rather the shaman's altar-yurt, was especially highlighted, but the other points of application of force were only approximate for now. There were options; the family that had taken him in had enough information about all sorts of hiding places, including very old ones. But there were practically no ideal ones among them.

"I still believe that it is possible to dig a cave yourself." The earthling scratches his head, assessing possible locations for a twin lair, finding them all too problematic. "Yes, the fact that the shelter is newly created will work against us, but we'll just add another contour to the ritual. Or I'll get some specific offerings; I didn't add that test tube with stones to the list for nothing."

In response, only the arguments he had already studied, as well as his own, were studied by his interlocutors. Plus a small glass bottle with small gravel, a super lot that perfectly suited the situation. When poured out of its storage, it quickly loses its properties, but while this effect is in effect, any conditions of non-convergence of calls and conditions will be ignored or their effect will be greatly weakened. Here, there is a spirit that categorically cannot be called on the southern part of the continent, only on the northern one. Or another spirit that cannot be called on a certain part of the lunar cycle. Even if you pull it out by force from the high spheres, it will simply be shaken to death in the moment of manifestation. All these problems will disappear with the activation of this gravel, which was something like the fragments of an extremely ancient dolmen, older than ten thousand years, saturated with almost millions of shamanic rituals. An efficiency multiplier, which at the same time pulls away even the prohibitions embedded in the very essence of the spirit. The thing is literally priceless, and it’s a pity that it doesn’t last long.

Maega and Singha were not opposed to working with such material, as it could be used to develop family contracts in a week more than had been done in the previous couple of generations. But they categorically did not want to use it so irresponsibly. In their opinion, it would take a couple of seasons to prepare for the activation of this bottle with pebbles, to collect offerings, to butter up the chosen spirits, and prepare them for the call. So that these spirits would already be ready to reveal themselves, and compliance and most of the payment would be a priori ensured by gravel, for the sole right to remain in the spiritual echo of which even the highest spirit would agree to reduce its demands to the level of another elder. At the thought of spending such a valuable item simply to slightly simplify an already quite feasible task, Maega's hands began to clench nervously, as if a metaphorical toad were trying to strangle her. Or perhaps she wanted to strangle Stepan with those same hands.

"This cave will be suitable. It is large and dark, and also completely natural; no pick, no shovel, no pickaxe has ever touched it." Maega points her finger at the desired point, and the point flashes and approaches, or rather, her family spirit-map-illusion approaches, according to which her ancestors planned raids back in the days of the Great Horde. "I discovered this cave by accident when I was learning about the khao-lan outside of my body. If the absence of light is so important to your khao. If there should never have been light there. If the natural essence of the cave is important. Then this is your choice."

Here she is undoubtedly right. This option is good for everyone and will suit everyone; no super-reagent will need to be spent. But still, there was no ideal in this, and Stepan, after thinking for a moment, decided to open his thought a little, realizing that the secret expressed would not be directly dangerous, but would show his trust. In the end, he will reveal only one small secret, and even then, he can easily use her knowledge of this weakness against her, if she decides to take advantage of it first. With an effort of will, he sends a stream of images to the spirit that received the order to listen to his will and instructions. Fortunately, spirit was accustomed to this and understood even untalented generals or advisers, if they had at least a drop of experience. The image of the city changes, is outlined by a clear, closed ring of an uneven shape, and the proposed cave turns out to be outside this ring.

"The city line, that foundation of it, which is perceived by people's consciousness and the will of the world as a city, not a suburb. That's the problem." He says to Maega, who quickly realized his problem, and bit her lip in disappointment, realizing that she couldn't help or was upset for some other reason. "The distance is not as problematic as that line. The city line is a closed system, a separate part of the spiritual world. You know it as well as I do; you both know it. And the cave outside the line... it won't weaken the portals, but it will make them a little more noticeable. The line is crossed, damn it. And if in Dantmark it's not such a problem, the protection is simpler there. Then here you helped de Mont Ros set up a very specific circuit. Of course, it was initially set up against smugglers, including river smugglers, but my crossings too... it won't detect them, but it will complicate them, make them more noticeable if they really start looking for them seriously."

"Alashat-la... Yes, then it won't do. Definitely won't do. Attention of the Lord of the Three Cities. Not what you need. Or me." She was interestingly called Duke August. But it was also fair, if the Confederation suddenly decided to mutate into a Kingdom, it would be August de Mont Ros, who has been alive for over a hundred years and is in no hurry to age thanks to the best healers and elixirs that can be obtained in the entire world, who would have the best chance of becoming that king. "Perhaps we should look in the Underworld? Not too deep, closer to the entrance, so that the khaos would hear the call. This is not the best choice. This is another world. Other laws. Other khaos. But a much stronger call can be hidden among them."

Stepan thought about it, and thought about it seriously, not for show. Yes, to conduct a linked teleport of the highest level of stability between the Ground and the Underground is the height of masochism. But the background of the Dungeon itself, which in many respects has a completely different physics and geometry than the normal world, will play into his hands. In such a place, even the most powerful rites can get lost on their own, and with pre-prepared features-absorbers and all sorts of plugs... tempting, at the same time opening up a huge space for pumping. In the huge and empty Underground there is so much crap that even if you transfer at least three hundred horrors to exp, new ones will come to replace the fallen. But it is unlikely that all three of them will be able to pull such a rite, unless they use the same rubble. And some creatures of the Underground have every chance of finding Stepan's shelter even with all the reinsurance. Find it and try to eat it or do something else unpleasant, or just alarm the area and give away its presence.

Again, why would he bother with the Underworld, wasting the same irreplaceable super resource, if he could make everything much simpler and quieter by following the original suggestion and creating a cave from scratch?

"What about here?" Singha interjects, pointing almost to the very centre of the Upper City, alarmingly close to the rulers' palace. "Yes, I understand that it's a risk. But “hiding in plain sight” is considered a classic technique for a reason, right? There are no exact coordinates, but there are voids there, which even the master of the elements, who commands earth and stone and came from Neyrat, did not completely remove, I read about it. And I heard stories. Garateya... when we were still friends, she bragged about it. That sorcerer. He is distantly related to her House. And he lived by their hearth while he was doing his work."

Yes, after a long-ago disturbance, accompanied by an equally long-ago earthquake caused by a magical attack and an attempt to destroy the fortress-palace, voids and underground cracks formed in this area. They managed to stabilise them, but they were still regularly checked, and every ten to fifteen years, earth magic masters were called in. If these cracks posed a threat of collapse to the palace, they would have called not the masters, but a collegium of magicians to solve the problem once and for all. But only one and a half streets of the Upper City were threatened, where people lived who were rich, but not as shamelessly rich as the noble de Mont Ros. And no one wanted to pay for everyone else, and it was impossible to agree and chip in for a large-scale ritual that would simply tamp down the stone mass under the unstable section.

Not to mention that such large-scale spells within the city limits, and in the Upper City at that, would have to be coordinated with the Secret Service. Because it's very easy to leave something of yourself behind in such a ritual, whether it's a lure for hungry spirits, a beacon for teleportation, or just a lot of explosives covered from scanning by some exotic barrier. In short, there are many problems, no one wants to take responsibility for solving them, and, as usual, they wait until the ground starts to sink before temporarily putting aside their disputes and coming up with an equally temporary solution. There is undoubtedly darkness there, as well as caves, which would be more accurately described as large crevices. But not only is there little space to turn around and perform a ritual, there is also the possibility of ‘contaminating’ the purity of the cave's inviolability with foreign magic. There was still the question of what the hell the Upper City was! A huge pile of intersecting sensory spells, magical alarms, and banal magicians, who could very well sense the magic happening right under them.

And he will have to stabilize the cracks himself and restore the integrity of the stone massif, doing someone else's work for free, in fact. They won't be able to find his shelter during repair work, but they will ruin his nerves; that's a fact. So yes, he will have to do charitable work, which somewhat upsets some part of the shaman. Probably the one that should have been born somewhere in Odessa, no other way. In general, it is also not the most acceptable option, the main disadvantage of which is still the risk of detection, and not any jokes. It will grow like an avalanche if you try to pull off the call there.

Options are selected, options are discarded, three shamans argue passionately, immersed in their element. Stepan would never admit it out loud, but the opportunity to communicate with those who understand you and can not only appreciate your coolness, but also show their own, as equals... is appealing. It was worth the trouble of dealing with legalization number two and entering into an alliance with the mare's family. One cannot help but feel envy for Urvag, who somehow managed to win the heart of this proud, temperamental shamaness with her nasty and violent temper. And he really did win her over, because a suggestive charmer of his caliber can see the sincerity of her feelings through any shield! The shaman didn't understand what attracted her to him, but then again, even with all his systemic abilities, he understood very little about matters of the heart.

Think about it, the skill of brainwashing and achieving the necessary thoughts and feelings in the matter of building relationships does not help, but only hinders even more. You get used to the fact that any feelings can be removed or added when needed; there is no need to cultivate them with actions, not magic. No, he decided everything correctly with this union. Otherwise, he would have mutated into some kind of nervous hysteric who begins to beat in a fit as soon as something does not go according to his plan, and the usual way to brainwash the irritant does not work. And then such a disabled person realizes that he simply has no other way of convincing or defending his point of view.

God forbid the Holy System and even, damn it, Automilf herself, from such a fate.

* * *

//"Yeah, fuck, what the hell, ah, I get it! Well, like, mentor, you can congratulate me, f*ck! I'm now at the ninth level." - Yula had finally gotten the hang of using those same unhackable communication amulets, made using the "forest" method, but sometimes she still activated them somehow crookedly, sending the wrong packages. - "For now, as you ordered, I won't scribble shit in my Tablet, I'll wait for you. What else? Oh, that's right, I've pumped another knowledge to developed! It's the one about curses, fuck. I managed to screw this crap up in a particularly cunning way. And, this, mentor. If the bloodsucker is going to talk, then it's not me, it happened by accident, and that chest of drawers was almost falling apart anyway, that's it. And the black color suits the wall even better. It looks adristoratic, yeah."

Stepan, who had come to his tiny room early in the morning and was conducting another communication session with his student, who was currently working independently, felt like killing himself with a facepalm. He had asked her not to rush things, not to be too active with her training, because he would not be there, and it was not so easy to improve her health with healing alchemy alone. But no, she managed to bite the bullet and weave a curse tied to both space magic and combat maleficism. He had already assessed the result through Sylvia's doll and was even a little impressed. He wouldn't have been able to do that at the eighth level without a week of preparation. She, however, didn't strike either, but simply lost control and, realizing that if she did nothing, the curse would strike her, sent it into an antique islander-made sideboard standing against the wall. Sylvia really wanted to either tear the piglet apart or spank it. In that sideboard, she kept several volumes on alchemy, a historical reference book, and an unfinished novel by Lyutind Sweetvoice.

He had to promise her to buy a new sideboard and new books, including that same novel, at auction upon his return, and also humiliatingly ask her for forgiveness while she jerked him off with her pale tits. At first, of course, she was going to sit on her toy's face and slowly bring him to the brink of orgasm, keeping him there for hours, with only the touch of her silk-clad stockings on her feet. But, what a surprise, her desires changed dramatically, but the irritation and the realization that she had not kept an eye on Yula remained, only subsided. Stepan, however, scolded Yula for her sins and promised that she would still get tired of working off both the new curse and curses in general when he took her seriously. Otherwise, she relaxed without supervision, yeah. The girl had already learned it enough to understand the threat, both humorous and real, so she did not apologize in horror, but she got the gist of it and went to ask the bloodsucker for forgiveness.

//"And for the sake of all the lines of the Tablet, Yula, don't cast combat spells outside the training ground; they always free it for you, even to the detriment of their training." He shamed the student who suffered from fits of inspiration, forcing her to test her latest idea right now and in no other way. "Seriously, I'll make you repaint the walls, and without magic. You'll level up your painter class, I guarantee it."

After talking to the student a little more, he advised her on a couple of ways to entertain herself in a more fun way, without causing any damage, while also getting her to promise not only to apologise to Sylvia, but also not to annoy her in the future. After all, she didn't exactly dislike the bloodsucker, but she was very afraid of her and felt a fear mixed with disgust, instilled in her by society. And then there was the realisation of her own gradually growing powers, which were no longer so small, multiplied by a second realisation. That the creature could only drink her blood for the last time in its undead life. It so happened that the feisty little thing unwittingly, even unconsciously, put herself in opposition to the more authoritative, experienced, older, and even beautiful Sylvia. Another factor was that Yula was simply jealous, although she herself was not even aware of it. And not in a romantic sense, but more in a childish way, no matter how much she tried to erase that childhood from herself. She was jealous of Stepan's attention, his praise, and approval.

To be honest, the young man felt very uncomfortable with this kind of relationship, because he definitely did not intend to take his relationship with Yula to an intimate or romantic level. Or rather, not in that way. After all, she was too dependent on him for a normal relationship. Fortunately, there seemed to be practically no romantic feelings there; the shaman initially placed himself in the role of, if not a father, then an older brother. In any case, he had to invest heavily in Yula, not only with systemic or financial resources, but also with pure time and pedagogy. And the fact that he was now in another city negotiating agreements with de Lomer did not make this task any easier. You can't help but understand all kinds of local mentalists, including that Master. It's so simple, much simpler to just tweak other people's thoughts and desires and bring them to the desired state than to mess around with psychology, pedagogy, education, and who knows what else.

After finishing his routine conversation with Yula, the guy settled down comfortably on the sun lounger, calling out to Sylvia's doll, beginning to perceive her consciousness, absorbing the latest news she had been able to obtain. Life in Dantmark continued to be turbulent, but no significant changes had taken place, except for the growing pressure from de Fell, who had already seen a spiked collar on her loyal bloodsuckers in her dreams. The shaman even considered allowing Sylvia to make promises at the altar of Damocar to appease this high-born bitch. At the same time, he would practice the technique of removing oaths and deceiving altars; there were some good ideas for this. The only thing that stopped him was that Sylvia would have to somehow explain her actions to her undead superiors, who had been watching Dantmark too closely in recent months.

And it would be fine if it were just obedience, specially tailored and properly anchored for her, but it would be much more difficult to explain how she managed to neatly and unnoticeably remove it from herself. Sylvia certainly did not possess such skills and could not master them. In general, it was easier for the time being to kick and scream, inflate prices, avoid direct answers, and use all other diplomatic tricks, and then either de Fell would calm down, or Stepan would simply give up on everything and correct this beast's thinking by hand. After hearing and seeing the exploits of the secret guard de Dantrel, he would have no reverence for him, nor would he feel remorse for violating someone else's free will. Such a will, to be honest, should be behind bars for seven life sentences, not free to commit all sorts of atrocities in the name of his own and his suzerain's power.

The rest of the events in the city were more joyful than sad, although he did not forget to be cautious. The same Gelda, her peasant mother, was under constant surveillance by several entities, in three layers. The first two layers were left only so that the third layer would not be sought. He would not have been lazy to summon the senior entity and leave it to observe, but he was afraid that they would find it. A number of weak but very exotic spirits, several spells, as well as one strong spirit, ensuring secrecy by focusing on the envolt part of the street, provided sufficient reliability. However, the longer the shaman received packages of reports about Gelda, the more he believed that all three of his layers of observation had been blatantly burned and were now leaking disinformation. Because the obsessively changed pharmacist seemed to be doing nothing at all, except for regular sex with a couple of men who came to her for herbs. And even there, it seemed, there was no use of magic or anything like that, or at least the shaman couldn't notice anything like that, although he later checked one tall and burly miller almost completely.

Tahira pleased him much more than Gelda, and quite unexpectedly at that. On her second river voyage, having already settled into her new ship and the face of the moronic captain, she managed to find excellent prey. And not without the help of that very captain! Seriously, no matter how slow-witted and excessively stingy Avelius proved himself to be, managing, contrary to all recommendations and common sense, to try to turn Taira into his personal hot water bottle on a slave contract, his stinginess was appropriate. The ship managed to catch a lucky moment of some kind of spatial rupture, from which whole mountains of bones poured out, and not just ordinary bones, but very old ones. It was as if they came from some ancient, restless burial site, and were imbued with magic down to the last bone. Personally, the shaman would have had to pay dearly for such bones in the currency of the System Store. A specific and rather dark offering, but of the highest quality.

The shaman's spirits cautiously examined the huge dwarven gates towering in the middle of the river, which had been teleported from who knows where, or rather, had fallen into an unstable spatial anomaly. Carefully, because there were already enough observers there, and even one of Master Miller's remaining students had personally arrived to record the readings of the sensory amulet complexes. Sylvia easily dug up traces of the story that had spread throughout the world about how they had first managed to find the entrance and then exit some ancient dwarf super-vault-fortress, in the process breaking the vault, which had long been considered lost and gone forever. It's an interesting story, one that even evokes certain associations with earthly reality. There, too, the golden youth goes wild. In the course of this noisy story and the even noisier rescue operation, the illegitimate son of the local elven king came to light, which, within a week, was known to almost the entire world.

Actually, the whole story began when someone tried to kidnap a rich kid, either for ransom or to put a ritual curse on his father. The latter, widely regarded as the world's greatest military leader and commander of all the Forest's armies, had so many enemies who wanted to kill him in particularly painful ways that it would have been enough to populate another Free City. In short, the father saved his son, which caused quite a stir in the best traditions of black PR. The local paparazzi, at least, were ecstatic, as were the messengers, whose guild made a week's earnings in a couple of hours and a year and a half's earnings in a week. Stepan doesn't care about the distant and mysterious Forest, even though there was a possibility that somewhere out there was ‘a certain third person,’ who could even be Stepan the Fat... But he did care about the fifteen kilograms of select ancient bones, imbued with magic, pain, despair, darkness, silence, and the weight of the mountains. And what's more, they had noticeable spiritual markings in the spatial sphere!

He would have taken all the bones, but he had to take only the best ones; otherwise, he would not have been able to do it secretly. There was too much demand for these reagents, and Captain Avelius, damn him, had trumpeted his success to anyone who would listen. It was much easier to hide the bag of bones from him and his crew than to hide all those bones from both the crew and those who had already found out about them. He would not have been too lazy to curse Avelius with something more offensive, but he still respected his uncle, and the man himself would surely get a beating from Taira, after which he might not be able to sit down. Instead, he gave the river witch an extra bonus and presented her with a set of fine amulets of his own making. This was the result of a small task related to witchcraft. Judging by the wave of satisfaction from a job well done and the reward received, which came through the connection, he had made the right choice with that reward.

There was other news as well. For example, two relatively high-profile murders, which could be considered a double murder, in which a couple of wealthy merchants were killed, who had apparently become rich too carelessly. There was also quite a stir caused by the ongoing sluggish struggle between city gangsters, who did not particularly kill each other but divided the suddenly vacant territory that remained after Laghan, damn. She had thinned out the local bandits considerably when she created her combat dolls and ritual preparations, so now there was still a power vacuum that had not yet been filled. Even the ubiquitous Sylvia tried to get involved, supporting one of the candidates. Still, he, after initially accepting her help, decided to return the deposit and stay out of it. A hint from the big bosses, who went to report to someone from the de Fell people.

Commercial intrigues. A hardware merchant, including enchanted items, who had nearly gone bankrupt, was now attempting to persuade Sylvia to assist him financially. Naturally, so that he would owe her nothing but gratitude... for he could offer her nothing more, indeed. The man was now begging for loans against promissory notes, and not just from her, but he was planning to use the old, old relic of Lortan, inherited from his great-grandfather, to break the not particularly durable contract document by the will of the god of Deception and run off with the borrowed gold to his relatives in the Caliphate. He told Sylvia about this himself in a personal meeting, looking her in the eye only once, but the woman let him go alive and even promised to think about the loan. First of all, so that a couple of individuals who wanted to spoil her plans would try to outbid this fool and lend him more than the bloodsucker was ‘willing’ to sacrifice.

In general, it’s a typical routine of city life – nothing like Game of Thrones and The Magnificent Century at once!

Another comical yet very serious thing worth mentioning is the ongoing saga with the mice in Trabius's yard, which made Stepan want to laugh, but at the same time made him twitch his eyebrow a little nervously. After all, he had lived and hidden there for a long time, so if they searched with all their might, who knows what they might find! And if he didn't give a damn about the prettier and blossoming Fanya, who could now break the necks of a bunch of people by walking down the street in her peignoir, then two fucking masters in the courtyard were just fucking crazy. Two masters, bitch! In the whole city, in the whole of Dantmark, there is only one master, and here he is, and another colleague of his, banging their heads against the wall for days on end, trying to exterminate the mice in the courtyard! Trabius has undoubtedly cursed the day he complained about these mice and asked for help with them six times over, because it's scary. The masters, who have been made to look like fools, one of whom is from Neirat itself, may well take it out on the quietly drinking man for this humiliation.

Just recently, literally the day before yesterday, Magister Clementine de Neirat, together with her former student, managed to create a huge pillar of fire, literally washing the entire courtyard with fire, down to the very last crack. The fire did not burn a single straw, acting only in the energy spectrum, but after it, the energy of the courtyard became pure, like the tears of a virgin treasurer who wept over the spent reagents. Yes, both masters proved themselves to be highly professional, managing to perform the ritual of the Purest Flame, which should be performed by a much wider circle and with the support of a couple of masters for each master. But these two were fine; they built a modified altar and synchronized it with each other behind closed doors, giving off such heat that even Sylvia felt sick. Now, for the next couple of months, or even years, there will be no mold or vermin in the courtyard, and evil spells and curses will burn away in the aura of benevolent warmth, and all who live there will experience improvements in their health, sleep, potency, and even magical gifts, if they have any.

Everyone was blessed, absolutely everyone — Trabii, Jasper, gifted workers, ordinary laborers, domestic animals, and even the mice that returned the next morning. They say that Master Clementina almost destroyed Master Miller's personal training ground, so ‘happy’ was she with her success. They even say that it almost came to a duel, if not a fistfight, for the masters who emerged from the meeting room looked red-faced and disheveled. The shaman himself, despite Sylvia's confidence that the closed doors were necessary for the paired caste so as not to reveal the methodology of the obviously simplified but no less effective higher elemental-beneficial ritual, had strange suspicions. He carefully studied the memory of Sylvia, who had personally observed both the fiery pillar dome and its energetic echo. Yes, the bloodsucker could not convey the picture of the spiritual world, which she, like any classical magician, saw only fragmentarily, but Stepan understood a lot through her. And those shades of the background, bearing the characteristic imprints of both masters... The shaman suspected, almost without a doubt, that on that ‘unconventionally configured altar’ the two magicians had simply bound themselves together with a tantric bond, thereby avoiding the need for support, successfully using each other as the foundation of the altar.

So this couple literally fucked up the ritual, yes.

But that's just a fleeting thought, one he won't share with those around him, even though he's a little envious. Envious of the power of unbridled magic in understanding the elements themselves. And of the ability to work with the energy background of the world at a level that is currently beyond Stepan's reach, even though he tries. And, of course, pure male envy towards Master Miller, because Magister Clementina's appearance was a twelve out of ten. A deadly and chic lady, and a pure elementalist at that, not a master of mental influences, who can fuck not only in an intimate sense, but also right into the brain. However, he systematically recorded his thoughts on the tantric nature of the large-scale ritual in his notebook, just in case it might come in handy someday.

The shaman, who had turned over to the other side and covered himself with dream amulets, decided not to think about what the mouse invasion actually was.

His nerves are more important; let them sort it out themselves.

* * *

Stepan did not feel any reverence for Dantmark, either as a native of this city or as a newcomer trying to pass himself off as a native. But still, something gnawed at him, acknowledging that Morgrave was better in every way, no matter what example you took. More shops, better assortment, prettier streets, richer population, more distinguished aristocracy. Even the slums were more slummy. You would have to look hard to find a place more frightening and disgusting — poverty, filth, depressing landscapes, and, of course, people and non-people at their worst. In general, it was an unpleasant place. These slums, no better than in Dantmark. Even much worse due to their scale, which, he must admit, is impressive. The more people there are, the more shit floats to the top, so if you want moral and physical cleanliness around you, then welcome to the hermits.

Lower Town itself was not entirely a hotbed of homelessness and crime, nor was it entirely slums. Yes, practically all of its neighbourhoods were poor, and outright slums made up a proud half or, at best, a third of the total area. But if it were only the homeless and criminals, this place would have been burned down, levelled, and the corpses sold to necromancers long ago. First and foremost, it was home to workers who did not have a permanent workshop and eked out a living doing piecework, as well as those workshops that could not be accommodated in a decent neighbourhood. Leatherworkers, whose workplaces smelled so bad it made you want to cry, some dyeing workshops, goldsmiths and cleaners, fish guts workers who worked with fish guts and other smelly waste, turning them into special fertilisers using primitive alchemy. These are just the ones that come to mind first.

In reality, beggars, criminals, paupers, and homeless people did not constitute a significant percentage of the inhabitants of this cesspool. A significant percentage of the aforementioned categories consisted of individuals who could not be categorised as clearly scum. Yes, they steal anything that isn't nailed down, but if there is nothing to steal, they would be happy to work as a porter, or even happier to loaf around and get paid for it. Yes, the petty thiefs, always trying to steal something, but they has parents, only parents have six other children, and they sent their older child to one of the communal ‘homeless shelters’ so that they could hustle there, earn some money, and not eat from their parents' already meagre table. Yes, sometimes he breaks the bones of debtors or hunts down some unsuccessful cardsharp for a fee, but otherwise they work quite well in the tanners' workshop, as it is piecework, because no one will take them on as a permanent worker for a normal wage.

In general, it is a remarkably unpleasant place, but at the same time... contrasting, allowing one to see not only black, but also white, not only evil and abomination, but also rare manifestations of normal humanity. Yes, it is very difficult for the untrained eye to see the rare drops of light tones in the huge pit of shit and dirt, but if you know how to look, you can still see them. The shaman, with his skills and a whole bunch of sensory-observing spirits, undoubtedly could. He knew how, loved, and practised. Stepan was not exactly idle, but he had already done the main work of setting up the call altar for a couple of shamans, as well as fulfilling his duties as a servant of the glorious House of de Lomer. In general, he was given a day off quite officially, as a newcomer, to buy things, small items, and pay off debts, if any. He could have also gone out on the town, but that was optional, and given his mentor's attitude towards him, it would have been seen as either sycophancy or mockery.

Now he sits on top of a three-story shack, the third floor of which was partially burned and partially abandoned after the islanders' raid. No one repair it. It's already falling apart. But after the enemy's alchemical shell hit it, the wood somehow fused together strangely, and even the ceiling stopped leaking from below. The wise shaman sits, wearing his mask and wrapped in his favourite tattered cloak, and chants silently, gradually summoning healing spirits, devourers of evil, camouflaged and suggestive entities of various calibres. Mostly small stuff, but he's not planning anything serious this time... although if he meets someone like Yula, cursed by the entire pantheon, he will laugh. For now, he doesn't even bother to command the spirits, but only groups them and notes the nearest targets, at the same time silently sending out a pre-summoned reconnaissance team, which is simply impossible to notice in these slums.

The spiritual world trembles slightly nearby, shifting to one side, looking not quite as it should, and Stepan already knows who he will see there. Without opening his eyes or turning his body, he partially leaves his body, soaring above it, controlling it like a puppet on strings only with himself as the puppeteer. Since their last meeting, Singha has grown considerably in strength. The patterns of protective symbols on her body are still drawn with deceptive carelessness, but they shine much brighter now, and their lines have become much more complex. She also had much better control over her spiritual flight, and around her image, a protection formed by her spiritual body was visible, resembling both a cloak and wings. Nodding to her in greeting and sending her a friendly, neutral image, he refocused his attention on his summons.

//‘It's strange to see how you hide yourself, yet you are so eager to show your presence.’ These words reflect not only her mother's opinion, who found the idea of a shaman of his calibre engaging in free and anonymous healing of the masses to be absurd, but also her attitude, albeit without negativity. ‘Such actions. Such results. They will be noticed, even if not immediately.’

//"You seriously underestimate how much people in high palaces and beautiful temples don't give a shit about those who scurry around down there. Down below.‘ His response is devoid of aggression, and it sounds not only and not so much for Singh, but also for Maegi, who is listening through her eyes-reflections, who used a very amusing spirit with the effect of double possession for this ’watching over her daughter," in fact, putting a part of herself into her daughter, which would hardly have worked if it weren't for the family connection and shared blood, not with this spirit exactly. "And my disguise. This isn't the first time I've done this. It's just that no one else really noticed. Especially if those who have been cured or miraculously saved do not pay particular attention to the improvement in their condition. Or if they find another, more understandable explanation for the cure. One that does not involve a shamanism master who decided to play the role of a blissful, good-natured person."

The first spirits go to the first patients, gliding on the edge of reality, but without revealing themselves, covering the sleeping or suffering with their false legs, easing pain and suffering. Advanced appendicitis, which in the real world was considered a death sentence before the invention of surgery, in some man, a single father, by the way, which is unusual for the world. Here, a couple of dark spirits with aspects of eating human flesh came in very handy, even if they had to be bound by particularly strict prohibitions and slightly distort their perception of the world. Suffering from excruciating pain, slowly dying from inflammation, the individual screamed especially loudly when the invisible fangs of the spirits simply gnawed part of his peritoneum out of him, but then came the anaesthesia and enhanced regeneration of not-so-big wounds, literally, a couple of surgical stitches would have been enough. Next, another spirit cleansed the blood and the peritoneum itself of infection and inflammation, bringing him back from the brink of death and then putting him to sleep.

Singha closely monitors his actions through special totem relays, which the shaman himself uses as a server and backup control circuit for his spiritual servants. Backup because ‘multiple consciousness’ is great for dealing with a bunch of separate spirits and the tasks they give out at the same time. But Singh, only through the totem that Stepan gave her access to, understood the limits of what he was doing and wasn't used to working like this yet. While the young shaman and the slightly calmer Maega, who had turned on the typical ‘no walking with a friend without my supervision’ in a fantasy-medieval manner, were entertaining themselves with observations, the shaman moved on along the chain of planned goals.

To cure one's infertility. To fix the pancreas and thyroid gland of another, allowing them to lose weight. To remove the beginning of oncology in the bones of the third. To weaken the liver of that couple a little, completely unnoticeably, so that they would ruin themselves with intoxication from lousy moonshine and the powders they took. A surprisingly unpleasant couple of killers, who managed to have a great time in Lower Morgrave, and so much fun that if the local bosses found them, they would not have died so easily. Even the criminals do not like lawless people; that's a fact. They do not pay taxes. Evil must be clearly ordered and profitable, and these maniacs did it selflessly. Singha in the spiritual body could not vomit, but it seemed that she turned a little green when he sent her images of what he learned from the fingerprints of the personalities of several corpses in a remote ditch. After which she demanded that these freaks not have a quick death in pleasant alcoholic bliss, but something more painful.

Stepan merely sighed demonstratively and shifted her attention to a pair of nightmare and despair spirits, which, for two hours, stretched out over a couple of weeks, had been delighting the sleeping murderers with very colourful visions. They found themselves in the place of their victims, but they simply could not say so. Maega had already looked at him respectfully through her daughter's eyes, even asking for the opportunity to obtain a secret copy of such a ritual and the invocation of such spirits. Apparently, she also had candidates for such a reward. Promising to give her what she asked for, which was a trifle from his point of view, he wrote it down in his notebook and continued his work. Again, healing, and this time for a whole small complex of dilapidated buildings where eight tanner families lived. It wasn't even an infection, but a fungus, a nasty mould that damaged their lungs and poisoned their bodies with ergot, which sometimes caused hallucinations. But since there were no active symptoms, and constant poor health that had been getting worse for three years couldn't be attributed to anything, no one tried to treat it.

No one knew that treatment was necessary, and even if they suspected it, they did not know what was causing it. The healers they could afford simply did not recognise such an unusual ailment.

Cleaning the house didn't happen right away; the filth proved surprisingly resistant even to magic and the abilities of weak spirits, which could have resulted in a mutation that would become a full-fledged magical plague of some kind. Yeah, cordyceps, damn it. He had to perform a ritual on the fly, covering himself with a Shroud and relying on a carefully laid masking spell, summoning a very specific entity that fed on mould and mushrooms, accepting them as offerings. The spirit on the border between small and strong loved nothing more than the most poisonous stuff, deadly but not immediately, so that the victims would suffer longer. Through simple manipulations of the spiritual body and, on top of that, images and communication, the shaman successfully fed this mould as an offering and, in return, was willing to be summoned fifty times without a deadline to carry out the shaman's will. The spirit could not only eat mould, but also strike with the effect of accelerated germination of some of the mould or mushrooms it had eaten on a chosen target, which made it a very dangerous and exotic entity that could not be protected against with a standard amulet.

Singha phoned with a strange mixture of emotions, saying something like, ‘WHAT, IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?!!’ Her mother was more reserved, but she was not indifferent either, even though he couldn't read her. Not through such a mediator. Well, yes, he sometimes thought it was cheating to conclude contracts like that, but he, tying a leather cord around a small stone that had taken the shape of a mushroom, creating necklaces, had already come to terms with the fact that he was a bit of a cheat. Again, the spirit was not deceived, but got exactly what it wanted, and having received it, paid exactly as much service as it was ready to give. And the fact that he worked for the right to work again later... well, that's how it turned out, the market decided, what can you do. The main thing is that everyone is happy, no matter how strange it may seem from the outside.

More healing, healing and treatment of wounds that have begun to fester, another wound, but now with tetanus, because you shouldn't step on sharp pieces of wood with cracked wooden soles, more healing, and on top of that, the curse of impotence. Because the fool, beaten half to death and left to die in a ditch, who seduced the lustful eldest daughter of one of the Night Master's henchmen, did not deserve to die. But he was an asshoe who thought only with his dick and broke many hearts. Now let him crawl out of the ditch, take his stash, and get out of the city and the suburbs. The suburbs and surrounding villages are also considered the domain of the Master of the Lower City, historically speaking. He will only get his boner when he truly loves. And again, healing, this time for neglected sinusitis.

//‘Can I? Help you. I can also call. And heal.’ Singha suddenly asks, having realised what he was hinting at, that his actions, among other things, are excellent for levelling up and gaining new knowledge. //"If you allow me. To use your foundation. Your circle. Your khalat-nar-maal."

Another incomprehensible term, understandable due to the images with which she designates his specialized nodal, short-acting, temporary totems-directors, passes by consciousness, and he simply moves away a little. And again, partially leaves the body and changes the configuration of the totems for Singh, at the same time giving her the opportunity to use his spirits-lurkers, which devour the magical background and catch minor flaws in the disguise of healing spirits trying to hide. Again, she correctly spoke about calling her spirits, spending paid contracts. One use of his base and network was a generous gift, because it is expensive. Reagents, time, spirits, totems, again, which he bought from the store in almost finished form, only slightly adjusting them for himself. So he could have created completely from a blank, but not without a workshop, and even in a strange city, under disguise.

"Why do you speak in a chopped-up way? I can see that your skills in figurative speech have improved considerably. It looks strange, to be honest." He asks a question that really interests him, as opposed to the beginning of childhood schizophrenia in a small boy, which needs to be somehow cured with the help of three small spirits-suggesters with aspects of health and clarity of consciousness, to whom it is necessary to explain what human schizophrenia is and why it needs to be treated at all, if hearing voices in the head is fun and cool. "Or is it some kind of workshop tradition? It's just that you speak the same way even in person, although I know for sure that you can remove such markers, and the spiritual state of your brain is in perfect order, and not like a self-taught shaman who almost turned himself into a vegetable with his spiritual journey."

//“Oh, Pann! You are simply impossible! You are terrible! In the way you can! Say something rude, say something impudent, say something caustic! And, what is worst of all, do all this without wanting to prick, or be rude, or be cheeky, or offend! To be so unable to choose what to say requires a lot of skill and study. That is what my uncle would say. Probably.” – Stepan was even a little taken aback by such expression in the shaman’s images, because Singha was really not so much offended or indignant, which he would have, well, not cared about, but she was actually amused, almost distracting him from casting a curse of a week-long stutter on the underage sister’s half-brother, who had successfully brought her to a fit by mocking her stutter. – “I’ll try to explain, Pann. Firstly, I’m so used to it. It’s hard for me to realize that I’ve stepped forward in months. As I have never walked in my entire life, Pann. My entire life, from early childhood. I learned to speak and listen to khao. It was difficult and painful. It was scary. Each phrase is equal to the line of a circle, equal to the edge of a yurt. You speak, becoming open. When you finish speaking, you close yourself, hide behind your hearth. It's like a habit. The faster you speak, the less risk you take. It's easier to speak briefly many times. Then to open yourself to evil images, to images of the bad khao-tlash, which will cripple the mind of the one who accepts it."

Ah, well, it makes sense, yes. He also has a reflex hammered into him by the system to send out images as chopped up as possible in a combat or simply dangerous situation. That way, you spend less concentration, yes. But if you learn from scratch, without ideal reflexes and from your own mistakes, then the abruptness of phrases can easily become a learned reflex, maybe not like Pavlov's dog, but at the level of former camp prisoners walking with steps of a strictly defined length. And remind her, like Maega, of the moment of your weakness, and even boast that you can easily control such a reflex. Well, this is really a medium-thickness joke. Especially considering the fact that Maega and Singha, both in their real bodies and in spoken language, break down in an emotional state to exactly this kind of speech. Continuing on this topic, not all even strong and well-born shamans managed to master the knowledge of leaving the body so easily and perfectly in order to be able to develop their spirit, and then not get even minor damage to the spiritual body, which is inevitable with such hardening.

In short, Stepasha got a little too cocky, and they told him so in no uncertain terms. He, in turn, simply took note of this fact and continued to do his job, while also advising Singha on whatever she asked. She asked questions, and her mother occasionally interjected into the conversation and added to his answers. Moreover, she often said things that the shaman himself did not know or did not fully understand, especially when it came to the use of the Sphere of Winds, which was Maega's main area of expertise. He even regretted that the lady could not leave her home for the time being, leaving only the well-established structure of her ancestral call place unattended. However, she was able to confidently conduct a dialogue through her daughter, sometimes even partially manifesting her spiritual presence, an echo of it. It was a very interesting technique, one that the shaman was unaware of. He had a general understanding of how it worked and, if he set his mind to it, could emulate it, but he did not know how to do it himself. It was something tied to ancestral magic, and tied very tightly at that.

With Maega's help, for example, they managed to solve the problem of a mass outbreak of some kind of flu or other type of acute respiratory viral infection by covering half the street with a healing breeze. The advice of both shamans was very helpful here. First of all, because they were quite skilled at making their wind not only powerful but also invisible, especially Maega. The unexpectedly effective outbreak of healing magic had to be disguised as a divine miracle. Weeping and crying with greed, Stepan invoked one of the most difficult contracts to obtain, even for him, even inside the shamanic cave, applying a couple more powerful talismans from the arsenal of witchcraft to it. And a small, old, worn, and almost decorative statuette of Gaia, more reminiscent of a piece of poorly worked stone, suddenly began to change.

Where there had previously been trace amounts of grace, its presence gradually intensified as the spirit, with its aspect of prayer and sphere of faith, transferred Stepan's pure reserve into that very grace. The rate was such that the Odessa roots in his family threatened to dig themselves out of the ground and strangle the parasite with those roots. He drained all his reserves and part of his life force, nearly breaking his disguise, before recovering through his meta-skill. Well, the statuette became a weak but complete relic of Gaia, sending the spirit on a long contract rollback until it digested the part of non-grace. Tomorrow, for sure, the owner of the relic will be telling the whole street about the miracle, because it's hard to miss almost a hundred sick people, even if they don't have the most serious illnesses, recovering overnight right before their eyes. Spitting, he sent some of them dream spirits so that they would dream of something warm, gentle, but at the same time powerful and strict, and for one particular lover of drink and wife and son beaters, these dreams were even clearer.

Like, stop drinking and beating your family, or you'll get a soft dick.

A couple of times, we stumbled upon outright cruelty, such as a place where slave traders kept their stuff drugged so they wouldn't run away. Most of them were not the children or girls who had been sold through any kind of legal transaction. Considering that there were even old people and one cripple here, the worst thoughts came to mind. No, perhaps, of course, they simply wanted to force the old people and the cripple to beg, probably crippling them even more for pity's sake. But our thoughts somehow shifted toward the good old blackness, which Maega and Singha shared, and they suggested simply and unpretentiously sending guards there in the morning. Even if this was an officially operating gang of nightlight thieves, or even not a gang at all, but legal slave traders, which was unlikely, because why would they hide in such shit if everything was legal, the selection of goods itself screamed that the guys were up to their ears in the very blackness for which hands are cut off at the neck.

Stepan wasn't opposed to the idea. But he was very afraid that these monsters would have time to warn each other and hide or eliminate the most discreditable slaves, who were not really slaves but victims. In the end, a couple of drops of sleep-inducing spirit for the guard, followed by a suggestive influence for forgetfulness on the part of the person responsible for pouring it into the mouth or nostril, the main thing was that it hit the mucous membrane, another dose of harmful and nasty stuff, but one that kills not in weeks, but in months of intoxication. For dessert, a little healing and cleansing for the prisoners so that they would come to their senses more quickly, as well as slightly damaging the lock on the cage with the healthiest kid. At the same time, he added courage to the kid so that he would not only quietly leave himself, but also release the others, cutting out the guts of the sleeping guard with his knife. In the end, he even made an effort and remembered an old contract that could speed up the deterioration of alchemy, damaging, but not too badly, the remains of the drugs. So that if someone happened to inspect the place, it would immediately become clear that the prisoners had escaped because of the lousy sleeping pills.

Against the background of this minor adventure, which ate up a third of the night, the discovery of two separate illegal prayer places in honor of the Sun-faced One and Theocracy banned in Morgrave seemed like bullshit. Well, there is a sect there; they brainwash local peasants and urban poor with traditional earthly means, mainly, and not exclusively, promising them seven heavenly kingdoms upon the advent of the Solar Law throughout the world. Like, and under the Sun-faced One, everything will be great. The main thing is just to wait a little, and then you can stop dying altogether. And while you wait, then pay, pay, pay, and if you can’t pay, then work hard, work hard, work hard! In general, Maega had a lot of complaints against the local communist-theocrats, and they were justified. The guys acted in the spirit of totalitarian sects, sometimes in half with terrorist cells. And, what is worst of all, anti-demonic prayers did not affect such cults, because the Sun is not at all alien to the world, and the export of faith in the Sun-faced One to near and far abroad is prohibited only by edicts and decrees, and not by the universe itself.

By dawn, the number of sick people in the slums had decreased significantly, with most of them believing that they had simply recovered from their illness or that nothing had happened at all. Stepan's new level was a quarter away, with just a little bit more to go, but Singha's joyful cry broke his concentration and dragged him back into his body with home remedies and helpful spirits. She only had time to thank him for the level he had taken, and Maega repeated her gratitude before both were returned to their bodies, the young man being sure that the girl had been rewarded not only with a level but also with some kind of knowledge. The shaman sighed wearily, shook his head, and rose from his seat, beginning to clean up the traces of his activity, while gradually letting go of his consciousness and allowing the system to pour a new message into his head.

Received: "basic methods of large-scale healing based on wild magic"; increased affinity with the spheres of healing, life, and health; increased probability of acquiring knowledge and properties of the healer, benefic, healer branch.

The acquired talent is added to the Player's overall status.

Well, it wasn't for nothing that he did all that nonsense, it wasn't for nothing that he spent so much money, even if this knowledge had been obvious for a long time. Back when he was hunting that damn mad cow, which now goes by the name Big Tits, or Biti for short, he casually treated all the villages in the area, and in one village he saved a couple of families from starvation, working as a veterinarian at the same time, saving sick cows and sheep. Then there was the barony of that aristocratic whore, as if she had escaped from an earthly boyar anime, who paid dearly for her love of trading with other people's lives. No, he wasn't cool enough to take on additional quests under the pressure that her treatment required of him, but he didn't start right away. He prepared himself first, checked the area, and at the same time worked as a holy benefactor, damn it.

And so, when he made another large-scale project on healthcare in Morgrave, the actions taken were sufficient to reveal basic, but not the simplest, knowledge. As always with his system. Basic knowledge for those who have little of it and the same basic knowledge for those who have a lot of it mean very different things. And with each new piece of knowledge gained through levelling up, rather than increasing one's level, something new became more and more difficult. For the same reason, if he had the choice, he would prefer to be rewarded for his work in the de Lomer house, tuning into the altar structure. But in this case, he is sure that the system will give him all the bonuses only after he performs the main ritual, not before. It's a good thing it didn't give him ‘basic principles of using household amulets’ or even ‘basics of servant work.’ The system could have played a joke like that.

The new knowledge itself was almost entirely focused on working with large numbers of patients who needed to be healed simultaneously. Two main directions were visible in the synergy. Firstly, the healing of entire areas of the city, from mass blessings and summoning the spirits in packs, to calls to powerful and elder beings who could stop entire epidemics and plagues. The second direction was actual field medicine after major battles, where there were many wounded, but the wounds were mostly simple and straightforward, caused by iron, arrows, and low-level magic. And on top of these two foundations are strung together invisible healings, such as those just performed, the confrontation with demonic filth, and the negation of God's grace, and equally mass brainwashing, disguised as healing or intertwined with each other. In general, it's not useless, but it's more useful for adventures like this one when you want to help people for free.

However, it is not worth making promises. The world is such that at any moment another disaster could occur, from the war of the Free Cities to a new Great Horde, and then field medicine skills will not only be useful, but almost mandatory. The last time the Horde showed itself, a bunch of kingdoms ceased to exist, and the North officially became known as the Dead. With its luck, it may well see a new Orctilla or Goblokhan. Here, Stepan, who had almost stepped off the roof, stopped decisively, then knocked on wood, just in case, because you never know.

Having reduced his weight to zero through spiritual influence and jumped off the broken roof, he put the mask in a secret compartment of his belt bag, which was more like a pocket than a pocket. Then he changed into normal clothes, getting rid of all his rags except for his beloved cloak, which he put away after the mask. After sprinkling his face with a few drops of wine, a couple of which landed behind his collar, he adopted a slightly drunk but moderate gait, hid his eyes, and walked slowly. He still had to report to Maître Corrin for his absence during the night, even though formally he had been given a full day off, not just the daylight hours. Corrin would find fault anyway, no doubt about it... It would be really funny if he managed to get Stepan fired by Maître Justas. He wanted to imagine the expression on his partners' faces when they found out about it.

Unfortunately or fortunately, the guard at the gate simply scanned him with magic, wished him good night, and advised him which corridor to take to reach his cell so that the Evil Justas would not see him. Sincerely thanking the men in return, he made his way to his room and lay down to sleep for a couple more hours before dawn, fortunately for him, as a magician, his schedule was a little more flexible. Sleep overtook him instantly, and this time, despite the presence of dream catchers nearby, he still had colourful dreams.

And stupid ones.

As always - colorful and silly.

* * *

In a lofty palace in the heavens, a group of winged angels is judging another sinner who wants to enter paradise, pointing out that he cannot possibly enter paradise and that his only destination is hell. Of course, he does not dare to argue with the verdict of God's judgment, but he still tries to say a word in his defence. He says, look at my memes and try not to laugh at them yourselves, lest you end up in Hell. The weary winged archangel waves his hand and projects an illusory image of the contents of the folder ‘MEMES THAT WILL SEND ME TO HELL’ onto the nearest wall. After about three minutes, the entire floating palace of paradise rushes down in a fiery halo accompanied by the chorus of laughter from both the angels and the condemned sinner. As it falls, it punches a huge hole in the clouds, and through it, legions of Lovecraftian horrors begin to penetrate reality, but from the sinful earth, a rainbow laser strikes them, emanating from the roofs of the headquarters of Netflix, Hasbro, and the community of anonymous anime fans of Kyrgyzstan. The legions of chthonic creatures are transformed into legions of monster girls as they fall to the ground. Well, or chthonic girls. And everyone will find their own Cthulhu wifu!

The world shatters into hundreds of pieces, reassembling itself, but now a vast grey wasteland is visible, so dead that even time seems to have died there. There, across that wasteland, a lone female figure wanders, dissolving with weary fatalism into the grey dust beneath her feet — dead only to the dead, final oblivion, and for her, having lived her life and lost it, there is no longer any point in living, for she can help no one. In an instant, something happens, as if a mold, a cast, a copy has been taken from this figure. And while one absolutely identical soul with one core for two continued its slow and painful dissolution into nothingness, the second saw something before her. A resident of Earth, a native of 21st-century Japan, would recognize this something as a system window offering to transport oneself into a magical world with a system in order to level up and then bring justice to everyone around.

A resident of the world of the twenty-third century, also a native of Japan, simply sees another opportunity to serve her master even after death, gaining a little more strength in the process so that she will never die again, letting him down. So that she will never be weak again so that she will never be useless again. And the second soul-reflection accepts the deal, even though she does not really know what will be required of her and whether she will be able to cope. Because this is a chance to live not for herself, but in the name of her master, and she does not dare to let him down even in death. After all, she will be able to become needed again, and that is more important than anything else, even more important than the insurmountable laws of life and death. And it no longer matters what kind of place Nonfapiel is and who this Rodzisurabu Ya-nin Gasutoridobichi-sama is, because under his command she will have to destroy demons — a task not so different from what she did in her life that ended so ingloriously and foolishly.

She will manage, she will do well, she will achieve success!

And the loyal blade will return to the master again!

* * *

A new fragment of a dream, a new wrapper, which the sleeping Stepan is aware of but cannot understand, whether he is seeing reality or one of its variants, possible or unreal, fulfilled or yet to be fulfilled. In this dream, he sees a huge oriental city, as if it had fallen out of a film adaptation of Aladdin with a budget of a billion evergreen currency notes. Huge markets, a port crowded with ships, and a majestic oriental castle in the center of the city are visible, but something else attracts his attention. Somewhere closer to the center of the city, a battle is raging, which began completely unexpectedly but has already spread like wildfire across the steppe, and those around can only scatter in all directions, afraid to even turn around, hoping only that their terrible fate will pass them by. The battle rages on, and the ethereal plane trembles from the clash of mighty magic, wild magic that has turned against high magic.

There are two combatants, or rather two main participants. One of them has a support group, while the other fights alone, but the numerical advantage did not give a combat advantage; it only evened the odds. There stands a mighty witch in battle, surrounded by several bloodthirsty spirits, and the air trembles with ancient and powerful witchcraft, as if a piece of the hot and deadly desert had come to the streets of the city. She draws her power from that desert, which is not so far away, but rather close, and therefore nourishes the witch, nourishing her spells and charms, with which she generously covers her defenders and blades. Silent, inaudible, lightning-fast, these warriors, whose eyes are nothing but pure white, born for battle and service with shield and sword, were deadly dangerous, superbly trained, excellently educated, superbly equipped, and... completely powerless.

They can close the distance in a second, in a heartbeat, stabbing their enemy several times with enchanted daggers or sabers. With blind yet all-seeing eyes, they find the smallest cracks in his shields and are able to notice the enemy's magic even at the stage of creation, destroying the woven spell with a well-aimed blow. They can do all this, and under the cover of their mistress and her witchcraft, they have access to even more. But here and now, they have only one option left: to die. And more than half of the dozen and a half desert Sakarids have already taken this option, finding no convincing alternative. The witch stands like an inexorable and unyielding pillar, like a towering megalith in the middle of an ancient desert, unshakable for centuries and intending to stand for centuries to come, standing and ruling over the world above which it towers.

The second side is represented by only one figure, short and thin, albeit also female. But there is no grandeur or seductive femininity of one who knows the value of her undeniable beauty. This figure is almost boyish, dressed in simple dark clothes, with only two heavy bracelets on her hands glinting with dull steel. This figure is nowhere, but everywhere. She is not there, but she is there. She flashes in a dozen places at once, while the reality around her is tied into knots, The street, the benches, the stonework of the road literally wrap themselves into a cube, a pyramid, and a cylinder, the top becomes the bottom, the bottom becomes the top, and the right and left intertwine into a bow along with the flesh of those who have fallen into the quicksand of space, submissive to the will of a girl.

The witch's skill is great. It is undeniable, but all that skill is enough to do is to hold on, not to let herself or the remnants of her retinue die, perish, and be torn into a thousand pieces. In the witch's eyes, there is shock, rage, disbelief, and wild horror all at once. The horror of one who knows will now surely recognize the features of the wild cat-like creature that twists space as if it were an extra limb. The battle rages on, but the witch stands her ground, saturating reality with dozens of spells, her witchcraft challenging the foreign power over space, preventing that power from taking hold. Even though she can't do even a fraction of what the girl does with the measurement of distances, she doesn't let the girl show what she can do. And her entourage flits about, taking deadly blows without doubt or fear, buying time for a strike, for one decisive lunge.

One Saлaride burst, another collapsed in on itself, turning inside out, and the third was compressed not even into a meatball, but into a tiny dot, which a moment later disappeared into nowhere. The fourth one, right on its next swift step, crumbled onto the wall of the house in small cubes, which immediately rushed upward, falling onto the cobblestones that had replaced the ceiling. Another elite fighter was smeared between the fragments of the pavement and the wall of the nearest house, which began to overlap each other and exist in a single point in space. They die horribly, they die quickly; neither their skills, nor the best protective amulets, nor their bodies, altered while still in their mother's womb, can save them. But they do not die in vain; they buy time, the time the witch spent calling for help, even though she was the one who started the fight, ordering her retinue to steal a girl whose face was so similar to someone she had no right to resemble, not when the child had already been born...

The Sakarids die one after another, giving the witch time to create another spell.

And the spell strikes.

At its core are primitive slowness and drowsiness, which any village witch doctor would impose. But this is only the basis, as is always the case with witchcraft. Performed by one of the highest witches of the Desert Coven, which was, immeasurably long ago, called the Serpent Coven, relying on her ancestral power and ancient blood, this is not a simple trick of a village woman. The bite of a viper, poison on its fangs, flowing into the aura and body, stopping all processes in the mind and spirit, putting to sleep the very magic, the very essence of the one who has experienced this bite. The labyrinth of space trembled, rapidly losing stability, returning pieces of the world to their places, and the nimble maiden's legs buckled, giving way right in the middle of her step. And then the sky itself opened up when, to the great surprise of the witch herself, a wave of divine power came from the not-so-distant temple of Damokar, the Keeper of Oaths.

The Keeper guarded not only oaths, but also peace and the laws that must be obeyed in one of the world's largest markets, and it is safe to say that this battle violated those laws as thoroughly as it was possible to do so. Incarnated in the body of the high priest, the Herald soared above the battlefield, rewarding the witch with only a stern glance. Because he knew who this witch was and who was behind her, he knew that it was not possible to simply chain her in chains of grace and lay her face down on the broken stone pavement, as this would cause too many problems. But he did not know the other side, so in addition to the snake attack, which was guaranteed to induce a coma or even death for a couple of weeks, he covered the nimble figure with a multitude of silver chains, binding her and depriving her of mobility, control over her gift, and even her will.

The witch looked away from the angry Herald for a moment to watch her prey drift away, knowing that the temple would certainly try to take it, and that she would hardly be able to prevent it. She looked away to see not a victim immersed in a sleepy catatonia, but a surprised and even furious gaze, lips pressed into a thin line, and hatred so concentrated and wild that the witch involuntarily took a step back.

\\“Curse me?” She reads her lips, her face turning pale when she sees the completely black veins of her opponent, who didn’t even pay attention to her. Looking up at the Herald hovering above her, appear for a moment under her pale skin. “Fuck you, you piece of shit.”

Okay, that was rude.

Very rude, even the Herald was taken aback.

The chains did not break, but bent, allowing the fallen maiden to rise, which clearly caused considerable surprise, even shock, to the Herald and the priest, who had merged. He, however, did not retreat and did not even have time to be frightened, but only uttered in a trumpeting voice:

"Have you gone mad, daughter, standing before me, bearing the mark of guilt!" He says, and the chains are filled with strength, with the law that does not allow transgression, insisting that the sorceress violated this law when she started the massacre, automatically signing up for the reversal of the contract imposed by the will of God. “Fall down, you fool!”

"The brothel's faggot is your daughter, father." A crooked grin, and the clanking of chains, as if eaten away by rust, having lost most of their value, and the unbearably blinding yet dim glow of two bracelets. "The mark of guilt, bitch? Here you go, you cunt, the guilt that you and your fucking asshole gave me!"

The black veins on her face stood out particularly clearly, and black tears flowed from her eyes, which had suddenly turned black, causing the messenger indescribable horror, instinctive, coming from the very core of his being, and coming there from the God he served. A wave of the hand and a shower of black drops, as well as the distance between the Herald and the sorceress shrinking. He reflexively closed himself off with shields so powerful that they could probably reflect anything, and if not reflect, then buy time for retreat, for reaction, for anything. None of this worked. Neither the three layers of combat grace, nor the protection of the high priest's robe, nor the attempt to dodge. Only a few drops of black blood fell on the Herald, on the multi-winged figure in a halo of silver and glory. And he understood immediately, understood instantly, even before his soul began to burn, before his blood and grace turned into the same black abomination, that his end had come.

And he lunged forward in a swift attack, hoping in death to get the one who had trampled on God's law, managing, managing to get her, to tear her apart with a posthumous litany, leaving not even a soul soaked in the blackness of the most terrible curse.

The dream collapses at this point, finally being replaced by something else, but Stepan, who is sleeping, still thinks that in the last frame-image he heard an ominous goat bleating.

* * *

A new scene, but now clearly one of those that will take its rightful place on any channel for children of humankind who are now over twenty-one years old. In this dream, we see the outlines of a very richly furnished office, in which two very businesslike people are engaged in dialogue. One of them was a very young but extremely handsome young man, whose clothing easily revealed the coat of arms of the Trading House, in a configuration that could only be worn by the head of a full-fledged representative office, no less. The second had no coat of arms, but was also no small fry — expensive clothes, well-chosen cosmetics, and a very striking appearance. A very tall, very curvaceous woman, frozen on the verge of her figure becoming overly voluptuous, she was a real eye-catcher. Neither her modestly cut dress nor her calm, businesslike politeness with a hint of kindness on her face could detract from her charm. With breasts like that, any neckline would be alluring, making it difficult to focus on her face.

It wasn't that the young man wasn't trying. He, too, was a skilled and well-trained businessman, albeit inexperienced as yet. So his gaze fell imperceptibly and only occasionally on her chest and the nipples barely visible through the beige fabric, and if the saleswoman saw it, she took it as a compliment rather than an insult. And she didn't show it. They weren't in that kind of relationship, and she wasn't in a position to hint at anything to the much more influential representative of the Trading House. Their conversation was coming to an end just as the revised versions of the contracts, which had a magical seal of assurance built into them, were brought in. It was not as reliable as the relic of the Keeper of Oaths, but then again, the deal was not that important. Moreover, this deal was so beneficial to both parties that there was simply no point in deceiving and spoiling the promising relationship.

And so, the deal is done, and the parties say goodbye to each other. The woman offers the respectable Gion, who was a very good boy, a reward in the form of her large, enormous, massive, mind-blowing milk tits. The young man felt a moment of strange noise in his ears, as if he were a little confused to hear this, but in the next moment, he nodded happily, smiling at the woman who had made the offer. A moment later, two huge breasts spilled out of the loosely laced neckline onto the heavy lacquered table, slapping it with their weight. The breasts of the venerable Ursula were naturally as big as Gion's head, simply because of her enormous height, which led to the pure-blooded merchant of the human tribe being suspected in the corridors of being related to giants, or Tauras, or who knows who else. The young man looks at the large breasts, the large dark pink nipples, tense from contact with the cold surface of the table. He looks and cannot take his eyes off them.

He watches as Ursula speaks, as she lifts her breasts and slaps them loudly against the table, as if closing another deal. She slaps and speaks, asks questions, and he answers. Some part of his consciousness is even surprised, no, shocked that it is he, completely submissive and ready to answer any questions, who is being asked. No secrets of the House, no insider information, only questions that concerned exclusively the personal life and bedtime pleasures of Gion de Faral. And he answers, seeing no reason to refuse to answer a woman with such large, enormous breasts slapping against the table. He answers without concealment about the impression she made on him, the desire she aroused, and what exactly he wanted to do with her. Well, in the future, if the opportunity arises, because it's not so easy to secretly pump a successful merchant, a rich and respected person in the city, with the alchemy of love, to mentally manipulate her and convince her that she is not a cow, not a pig, not all of that at once.

Ursula feigns indignation, not overly offended by the boy whose face she shakes her breasts in. Moreover, the maid who entered a couple of times seemed to ignore the two of them, falling into the same strange, noisy field. At the same time, the structures embedded in the woman's body were doing something to the security systems, which were abundant in the offices of the head of the de Faral trade mission. Ursula had no idea what exactly she was doing, did not think about how exactly she was doing it and why, she just knew, precisely and absolutely, exactly how many spells were monitoring or recording here, what they were seeing and in what spectra, and she could also direct her structures so that the scanners would not show anything strange, so that the crystals would only contain routine farewells and meaningless conversations.

She shakes her breasts, slapping them against the table, feeling with each blow of her enormous breasts against the wood a piercing, almost orgasmic sensation, feeling the droplets of breast milk swelling on her nipples, falling onto that very table. Her conversation with Gion is coming to an end, and she sincerely wants to reward him for the good deal and for how politely he stared at her breasts, not letting his eyes wander. She gestures to him that he can sit on her lap, and now he is sucking her tit like a baby, while she strokes the heir to the House on the head, pressing him as close to her as possible. She allows him to play with her breasts, allows him to squeeze both her tits, allows him to kiss her nipples, and memorize what they look like. He will now always, always, and forever know what her nipples look like under her clothes, and he cannot physically be surprised by this knowledge.

A peculiar information attack, leaving a reliable trail in the mind of a good boy. She is very grateful to him; he has done a lot for her and her cause, and so she showed him not only the neckline of her dress, but also her nipples. A sign of great, great affection. Now he will always remember them and will never be able to stop unconsciously perceiving them, thinking about them on the edge of his routine-immersed consciousness. And so, having rewarded Gion for giving her several deals that were very profitable for both of them, she began to punish him for what he wanted to do with her. This time she does not show her nipples, but covers them with the fingers of her gloved hands, shaking her breasts, her tits, her milky udder, shaking and telling him that Gion still wants her, still wants the same fantasy, the same plan. Only now, now he can't fantasise about her for long, he can't, even though every day, before going to sleep and in the morning when he wakes up, he will replay this fantasy in his head.

And she will seem so real to him, as if he had seen her breasts and nipples in person, as if he knew firsthand what they looked like, how they felt under his fingers, what her milk and skin tasted like, how heavy and soft her enormous breasts were. And there is nothing strange about him cumming from these thoughts, just like that, from them alone, without any touching. Nothing is surprising, even though it is shameful for a man, but he will not suspect anything, neither the influence of others, nor the curse of the Life-Giver, nor anything else. It's just that Ursula, Piggy Sula, and Big Cow Ura have such big breasts, so big that he cums just thinking about them. That's not scary, is it? As if he doesn't have spare underwear and personal laundry? So what if he cums before bed and in the morning in his underwear? It's no big deal, and you can't talk to anyone about such a problem, because it's embarrassing, really!

Everything is correct, everything is logical and understandable. He remembered everything and forgot everything, forgot even what her nipples looked like; he remembers only her breasts and nipples covered by her fingers or fabric. He knows exactly what they taste like, what they look like, how they feel, but he doesn't remember. He knows, but he forgot; he forgot, but he remembers. And even if he has other lovers, of whom he may have as many as he likes, Ursula is not jealous, no, no, he will accidentally remember this fantasy of his. What's wrong with that? He is simply tired; he is too tense, which of his lovers would dare to reproach him for a certain... hastiness? A certain fatigue? A readiness to fall asleep immediately after ejaculation, right in the warm embrace of a woman or in his bed, if embarrassment occurred during the obligatory recollection before bedtime?

Everything is in perfect order, everything is fine.

They tidy up their clothes. Gion helps clean her dress and thin glove of his semen, using personal amulets. No matter how much he trusted her, and he didn't trust her much, he wouldn't leave such particles in someone else's hands, at most in his mouth, which swallowed a couple of drops frozen on the glove. Ursula hides her huge breasts from view, still looking a little strange and listening to the noise, the maid helps to air out the office, and then they say goodbye. Only at the last moment, as if remembering something, the saleswoman demonstratively removes her beige lace panties, matching her dress, and waves them slightly in front of Gion's face, who is mesmerised by their movement. She waves them, but does not give them up, only waiting for a suppressed moan, knowing that the heir sitting at the table has had a little mishap. After that, they part ways, returning to their business, and the strange, inaudible humming noise in the magical perception gradually subsides, after which Gion, delighted with the new deal, drags his beloved maid and lover to bed.

It’s just that this time he will fall asleep much faster, and his lover will remain completely unsatisfied.

But she, as a servant of the body, who served and served drinks during the conversation with Ursula, will not see anything strange.

* * *

A new dream, a new fragment of it, but now the sleeper feels that real events are being reflected, happening literally at this very moment, only he sees them in a dream. In this dream, it is not difficult to recognize the painfully familiar rooms and views of Trabius's courtyard, a separate part of the manor house set aside for distinguished guests. Of course, there are no two magisters here who recently successfully performed a new version of the ritual of high magic, which turned out to be useless. But there are two assistants of the venerable Clementina, who were not full-fledged students yet, but still close to her, receiving certain knowledge and separate lessons from her. This is already quite a lot because even those whose relatives have lived in Neirat for many generations find it difficult to get into the service and training of a full magister. Svela shared this opinion completely and did not forget to work, anticipate the requests of Mistress Clementina, and try, try, try. Still, she saw herself in the future as at least a master of elemental magic, unlike her partner.

Where Svela came from a dynasty of servants, albeit of the highest echelon, literally “servants of the body” in one of the ruling Neirat Houses, having received by the grace of the gods a strong predisposition to fire at birth, her partner belonged from birth to the younger, but ruling branch of the seven-towered city. Yes, not de Neirat, but the slightly less noble de Valers, among whom a considerable number are honored to bear the senior surname, passing into the ruling House. Mostly girls, but boys too, if they prove themselves sufficiently. Paves de Valers certainly did not try, which is why Svela sometimes thought that she had been given him as a counterbalance from the gods. There must be at least one competent individual in the team of assistants to the venerable Clementina.

More likely, it wasn't the gods who intervened, but one of the big names who decided to help his relative by assigning the hard-working and very meticulous Svela to him, so that he wouldn't be kicked out of Clementina's entourage faster than his squeak. It wasn't that Paves was stupid; he wasn't stupid, but the young man categorically did not want to be serious. Suffocated since childhood by relatives who demanded only training and development from him, having received a diploma and a patent as a broad-based adept before he was even twenty-two, he immediately lost both his diligence and his thirst for knowledge. She would have been willing to take anyone from her classmates as a partner on this protracted business trip, as long as it wasn't Paves! Even the bitch Zilda, or the aloof and pensive Jasper, or even the country bumpkin Veylif!

Even though he was born a natural peasant, miraculously discovered and pulled out of his Big Holes all the way to the Academy thanks to his considerable talent and lively mind, he was indeed intelligent. Meticulous, like Svela herself, a skilled ritualist, a decent elementalist, and a surprisingly talented illusionist. So talented, in fact, that his transition from the mistress's retinue to the retinue of one of her friendly branches of the House of the Master of Illusionary Magic was already a foregone conclusion. The girl strongly disliked the bold and, for a country boy, overly quick-witted young man, considering him her direct competitor for the role of “the retinue who knows how to solve his master’s problems,” but she admitted that he would be more useful here than Svela and Paves combined! He sometimes had completely wild and strange ideas, which somehow worked in an incomprehensible way...

But the two of them had no idea!

Just like Clementine and Miller, who decided to forget about their sudden failure in what was either a drinking binge or a professional dispute. Leaving the two of them, as well as the rest of the entourage, with a clear task — to give at least a rough explanation of what happened. Or rather, what didn't happen? Mice appeared out of nowhere, unable to survive the fiery extravaganza of the Purest Flame, nor reappear in the territory blocked by several ritual fields. Here, the fleas disappeared, the bedbugs in the entire neighborhood were exterminated, and there were no rats for the cats to catch, but the mice in the courtyard, cursed by all the towers, were endless! Worst of all, even the wise magisters themselves simply do not know what calamity has exposed them both to such universal ridicule that Clementine's mistress has completely forgotten the original purpose of her exclusively business visit to Dantmark, devoting herself entirely to the new task.

Mystery.

Magicians, especially talented ones, are very fond of all sorts of phenomena and mysteries of their craft.

The problem with the two adepts is that the masters' lack of response will not make any concessions for them when they reasonably fail. In that sense, the venerable ones would surely like to take their anger out on someone, and they were perfect targets. And try to argue with the venerable ones here, yes. So they worked hard, sifting through the Talmuds available in Dantmark, including even rare copies from the collection of Magister Miller, who had studied under the venerable Clementine herself. At another time, she would have been happy to delve into such volumes, make notes, or even risk secretly making a copy... but not now. Notes on past attempts to fight the mice, all the gods of their unhappy world, she found the thought ridiculous, especially seriously they had already studied everything. Svela even rummaged through the belongings left behind by the shaman who had died in a recent magical incident, who had tried to fight these mice.

Alas, this ignoramus left no records, for which the girl wanted to kick another bumpkin or even grab him by the throat. First, she cast a spell of burning grip on her own hands! Standing up from the table again, she threw the sheets of paper covered with hundreds of identical notes onto the table and growled softly. Approaching the mirror, the girl looked with irritation and sympathy at the tall, slender, beautiful, and well-groomed blonde with soft features and cute curls, as well as huge bruises under her eyes. Yes, she had let herself go with this life, this city, and these mice. From the next room came the mocking snort of her partner, who understood her anger and readiness to snap perfectly well, so she couldn't help herself and let out a venomous taunt:

"Perhaps something important has cheered you up, Pavese?" Okay, not just venomous mockery, but several barrels of select venom, no less. "Perhaps you managed to do what I couldn't and found some important detail?"

"Oh, don't be angry, sweetie, I'm just looking at some old ritual features that the local ritualist, de Masse, tried to use." His familiarity, relaxed manner, and carelessness simply inflamed the anger in her heart because, unlike her, who fervently desired power, he always had somewhere to return to if he fell out of favour with his mistress. "You know, it's not uninteresting reading. It's certainly more interesting than trying to come up with something that even two masters together couldn't come up with, either in ritual or in bed. De Masse, by the way, tried different approaches, just like us, but he graded them not according to the classic Kessel table, but using the branch method, as is customary among the eared ones. Here, actually... hmm..."

"Paves. I swear to you. I swear that if, because of you and your jokes, obscenities, and rumours unworthy of our mistress, we are dismissed from our positions in the retinue, I will challenge you to a duel." Dry and angry, ignoring his nonsense after a remark about two respected masters sharing a bed, which is completely unacceptable for an assistant and servant, the adept of the fiery element utters. "I will have nothing to lose, and you know it."

"Wait a minute, stop nagging me like we've been married for forty years!" A new insult from someone who is formally her equal, not her superior, a new display of contempt for her, albeit formal, but based on seniority. "This is really interesting. So... what if we move it a little bit here..."

"My esteemed Pavese de Valers. I dare to inform you that I have been appointed senior adept in our group, which is confirmed not only by the order of Maitre Clementine, but also by my diploma, which indicates the second, not the first, degree of adept." Despite the ice in her tone, she could now melt another northern iceberg with her anger, flaring up from the last drop, from the last trifle in a long series of blows of fate. "And I demand from you not even politeness or respect, where would I get that, having no coat of arms. I demand that you fulfil the tasks assigned to you, damn you!"

"Shut up, you stupid thorn in my back!" For the first time in what she considered to be their excessively long conversation, he allowed himself to be rude rather than familiar, interrupting her unceremoniously for the first time, and for the first time, to her unspeakable delight, she heard fear in his voice, undoubtedly fear of her anger. "Here... I think I really understood what the hell is going on here. I just had to look in the wrong direction. Not mice, but... well, yes, mice. Mice, yeah. Okay, psycho, let's get ready and get the hell out of here. I'm not staying here for a minute..."

Enraged both by Paves' inimitable response and by the fact that something interesting, albeit hardly what they were looking for, had been found, since neither of the masters could understand anything, it was not she, Svela, who, amid the rustling of papers falling to the floor, took a deep breath, intending to rebuke the slacker. She would be able to push him aside and prove that they had both found the answer, not just him, that only from the false assumptions they had jointly dismissed had something born that was at least a little bit like the truth. She was about to speak when she realised that Paves' pause was too long.

"What, the idea turned out to be a dud again?" She asked a little more warmly, knowing full well how disappointing it is when you think you're succeeding, but in reality you've just confused the glitter of gold with optical illumination. "Okay, show me what you've got there. And, um, I'm sorry too. I've been losing my temper too often lately, Pavese. Pavese? Pa-a-a-a... Huh? Where are you?"

But there was no answer, only a small room littered with papers, with only one tightly closed window and an exit that was always in front of her eyes. Paves were not in this room; only several dozen sheets of good-quality paper lay on the floor, but there were no inscriptions on them, only blurred smudges. It was as if someone had gnawed the ink with their teeth, but without damaging the paper itself. It was as if the paper had been gnawed, with only the ink being gnawed away. Gnawed by mice. For a second, Svela still considers the possibility that her partner simply decided to play a cruel joke on her, but then the reflexes of an adept sorceress kick in, one who knows exactly what a mage needs to do in a situation that is incomprehensible but at the same time ominous. Swallowing fearfully with her parched throat, Svela silently turned and began to run away from this cursed courtyard, from these cursed mice.

The thought kept running through her head that she could well be made the scapegoat for Paves' disappearance... if she didn't disappear right under the puzzled gaze of the working crowd, simply unable to make it to the exit.

Once again, the bitchy Svela was right.

She really didn't make it.

* * *

Stepan woke up feeling slightly exhausted, his mind filled with the knowledge of his new talent that he had been absorbing all night, as well as the hazy images in his own consciousness left over from equally hazy dreams that had left almost no impression on his mind. But almost, and not quite, as his venerable grandfather would say, and so the first thing Stepan did when he woke up was classic meditation, only without the lotus position. He diligently sifted through the images remaining in his memory, trying to extract from them anything that might be even slightly useful. Or warn him about some unpleasant shit that was about to happen to him. A wasteland dead in every sense, representing nothing less than a manifestation of one of the facets of the higher spheres responsible for death and destruction. It seemed as if there was even some blurred figure of unclear gender walking through that wasteland, but it's hard to say for sure, the dream was too hazy. Further... but further on it gets more interesting, so interesting that Stepan almost jumped out of his seat, overwhelmed with emotion for a moment.

It was definitely a coat of arms, and a familiar one at that. The Morgrave Trading House, which had recently attempted to enter the city, taking advantage of the confusion following the island visit. He had seen this coat of arms very clearly in his dream, as well as a heavy wooden table and hands, female hands, in long, thin beige gloves. These hands seemed to be covering something, but he couldn't remember what it was, no matter how hard he tried. Rubbing his brow in irritation, he walked around the not-so-spacious room, trying to understand what exactly he had seen. Should he be afraid of the House, whatever its name was? Or, on the contrary, should he take a closer look at them to form an alliance or rob them? Judging by Urvag's remarks, the newcomers to Morgrave were so intensely disliked that they would be reduced to ashes, and the only desire was to grab them by the throat and squeeze until the characteristic crunch was heard.

Okay, next.

After that, it was a bit less meaningful. Some large city in the East, which he might even recognize if he set his mind to it. Well, if such a city actually exists in the real world, that is. And for dessert, he dreamed of the good old Trabius courtyard, which he could recognize at a glance both in his dreams and in reality. But these dreams didn't really stick in his memory, only a few fragments, like an attacking snake with poisonous fangs or... no, nothing else for sure. Well, even such vague clues are better than nothing. The very essence of shamanism, multiplied by developed attributes of spirit and sensitivity, allows one to receive all kinds of prophetic dreams even without much effort in this direction. It is quite a reason to think about developing some form of prediction, foresight, divination, or clairvoyance. There would be a reason, yes. Alas, his skills are not sufficient for anything more than using certain limited and rather cumbersome forms of insight into the future, present,t and past.

It is also enough to understand the extremely sad truth. Even with the system, he cannot rely on divination and foresight with any normal guarantee above sixty-six percent and with a planning horizon of at least two to three weeks... Well, even by the most cursory estimates, he would need at least sixteen talent points in knowledge and properties, and that is the minimum. To achieve a level comparable to his personal mastery of shamanism... he couldn't even guess. This path is difficult. It is full of costs and, more importantly, losses. The need to sacrifice one's mental faculties, sensory perception of the world, and to sacrifice everything in general. A seer of the highest order is an invaluable asset to any organised structure, but extremely vulnerable on his own. His shamanic and combat effectiveness will only decrease, not increase, with the active development of all kinds of foresight. Well, or you need to get hold of some particularly elite properties of the level of those that give multiples of ten levels, in order to be able to combine such different paths without harming yourself.

Stepan had no doubt that he could manage it if he set his mind to it, but, to be honest, it was much easier and more effective to rely only on rare dreams, which might turn out to be prophetic with some probability and to regularly use his skills to hide from all fortune tellers.

Thoughts about fortune-telling and the proper use of fortune-tellers in the doctrine of local espionage occupy his mind so thoroughly that he gets ready automatically. Automatically, he uses a few refreshing spells to give himself a normal appearance, and then puts on his best smile of a student taking an exam, setting off to do his daily quota of work. And he does it, stoically enduring the hardships of his new job, entering another office in the evening, the last one he has not yet seen in this house. Once again, the whole family is gathered, including Urvag, puffing on his pipe, who looks calmer than all of them put together.

"I understand that the time has come?" The man says this with a slight touch of solemnity and humour regarding that solemnity, but his fingers tremble slightly, and his real excitement slips out from under his protective amulets; there is nothing he can do about it. "I've already made arrangements with Augustus, even without meeting him in person. He knows that we are planning a large-scale kamlanie, and he even knows why we are doing it. But the extermination of pests will still have to be carried out, and not only on the fields of the latifundia of my respected father-in-law's even more respected nephew, but also in the area in general. Out of respect for the venerable Augustus. Are you sure that from the outside, this call will look like work with agricultural magic? Well, a call to the spirits of this direction."

Yes, yes, that's the plan. A large-scale task to ensure an excellent harvest of medium range for a relative and medium usefulness for a partner. So he had magicians-agrarians of a more classical school and traininп. Рe invited druids. They prayed a lot to Gaia among his fields. But it wasn't worth it, oh no, it wasn't worth it for this cunning, cheerful farmer to throw away a very large sum of money on a client who hadn't been thoroughly vetted. Yes, that client was sold the most ordinary grain, only slightly blessed by Life-Giving, at the price of an exclusive variety grown under the supervision of a druid. They sold it successfully, playing on the ambiguities and a couple of points in the contract without violating the letter of the contract. In the short term, the grain was indeed not inferior in value and yield to the druidic varieties. But the fact that the second sowing would not differ much from the standard grain that the same peasants sow is something you have to read the fine print to understand. And not at the assistant's décolleté, sprayed with special perfumes, who served drinks and snacks, looking, clicking with your eyes, but looking for that very small print and thinking with your upper head.

But who knew that the sucker whom Urvaga's relative had so successfully swindled out of such an impressive sum within the bounds of complete legality had such connections? His best friend, with whom he used to lift girls' skirts at the Neyrat Academy, was no longer just a small landowner! Well, to be more precise, he was still a landowner, a minor aristocrat, but he was also the fiancé of the beloved daughter of one of the best maleficia masters in all of Neyrat. Among those in the rank of master, that is. And if the fiancé of that beloved daughter asks for an old and solvent friend, and then pays generously, then a real nightmare will begin on the crops of the scummer latifundist. Neither blessings nor specific protective rituals nor attempts to eradicate the Colorado beetle, grain mold, special worms that eat tubers, and so on will help.

They were drawn there like magnets, all at once, and unlike the mouse problem, there was a clear trail of a very standard, albeit powerful, curse, which was even identified. But it was of little use, since the latifundist himself could not remove this influence, and good magicians of the top adept level or even masters of magic of the necessary school, out of guild solidarity, were in no hurry to take on the order or demanded exorbitant prices. Of course, that old lady had enemies and ill-wishers who would gladly help those she had worked hard to harm, but such individuals were either geographically distant, or also charged exorbitant prices, or were difficult to approach.

Urvag also did not seek to help an individual who had become involved in shady deals, simply because he did not want to ruin his reputation. In the sense that if you do dirty business, then don't get caught and don't get into situations where the profit from cheating is not worth even a quarter of the losses, even in the medium and short term. But now it so happened that the culprit had already suffered enough losses that Urvag and Maega's help no longer seemed like an attempt to prevent ‘justice’ from being done. And this commercial genius finally stopped trying to persuade Urvag's wife to work a little for the family and for free. Indeed, he is a very remarkable individual, and one cannot help but wonder how he has lived to his age and how he has managed not to squander the legacy of his four generations of fellow landowners.

It's luck, no other way.

And also because, before this unpleasant incident, he knew perfectly well who could and should be cheated, and who should not. In general, they agreed on a price, or rather not gold, but concessions in future purchases. Urvag negotiated with the city authorities, who quite logically demanded large-scale rituals or calls within the city limits, if not permission to ask, then at least to be informed in advance. Well, so that they wouldn't shoot from the city tower directly at the point of disturbance, fearing sabotage or something worse. Like what happened recently in Dantmark, yeah.

"Yes, I can. I saw this khao, and even embodied part of it. A small part, but it resembles a single part." The woman summarised briefly and confidently, having almost tasted the contract prepared exclusively by traditional methods, which would distort the trace of the common ritual, creating a cloud of interference over the other calls, hiding them behind itself. "Khao-vanarash... a deceiver and a fraud. He will give any echo of a call. Whether it be battle spells, light spells, or dark spells. Any kind."

"I'll help with the pests, I have the right contracts and totems," Stepan interjects, grimacing slightly, as he doesn't want to help such an obvious jerk, whom even the seasoned merchant Urvag considers to be more than a little arrogant. "I already gave the totems and the materials for them to Singha the day before yesterday. It won't take long to imbue them with power, but no one will doubt that this is Maega's work. The spirit itself will be summoned at the snap of a finger; it doesn't need anything to create the appropriate background, it will paint the whole picture itself. And then, then the basis of the ritual. And, if we're lucky, by morning we'll be able to go buy pastries at my favourite Dantmark bakery."

Everyone smiled, although Stepan himself did not immediately understand that they had taken his words as a joke that was very funny by local standards. Creating an analogue of a city portal, only personal and hidden from any scanning, not connected to the main network, just for the sake of being able to go out for pastries... Yes, that was surreal by local standards. By any other standards, too, to be honest, so the earthling did not mention that his phrase was not originally a joke, but a direct intention. He wanted pastries, but he did not have the time to look for them in the city centre. Not with his ‘official duties.’ Pastries were also placed on the servants' table, and they were even tasty, but he wanted something else, something more delicious, not just snacks. Although okay, the pies with eggs and onions were awesome, and he applauded the cooks for that.

No, seriously, if he suddenly wanted cherry pies, he wouldn't buy them through the system, would he? He's indifferent to spending, but even he starts to cringe at the very thought. It didn't bother him before, especially when he was wandering through the wild lands, but now he's not in the wild lands, and he's anticipating huge expenses for reagents for the upcoming ritual.

"Well, then, in two days," Urvag sums up, and then raises a completely unexpected question. "How do you plan to arrange your disappearance?"

"Mmm? Oh, right. I'll just screw up and give Corrin a reason to finally fire me, because he tried so hard that I feel sorry for his efforts." Judging by the looks and emotional background of the whole trio, they had just mentally buried the man, and buried him so thoroughly that it was clearly a case of ‘it's his own fault.’ "I'm tired of putting up with his nitpicking, honestly. And then, we'll see. Perhaps I'll buy myself a house within the city limits and disguise myself as another gifted, but even more talented student."

Yes, and if de Lomer helps with legalisation, that would be wonderful. Gradually, it will be possible to integrate into the local community and even legalise one's status not as a master, but as a peak adept. True, for such a rank, you will have to find your ‘relatives’ for real, either by inscribing yourself in someone else's memory, since there is a suitable higher spirit-suggestor in sight, or by initially choosing some orphan. Like, there was a recent battle in the steppe, another clan was wiped out, but I was the only one who survived. True, there is a risk of getting a bunch of blood relatives from nowhere, or a bunch of ‘friends’ from the same nowhere, but if you take the matter seriously and don't show a level above the peak adept threshold... well, you can work with that.

With all due respect to Maega and patience towards Singha... well, under the roof of their house, he cannot simply relax, even knowing what oaths were made to guarantee his safety and the non-aggression of the owners of the territory. As an expert in contracts, he knew perfectly well how to circumvent even the most binding obligations, so he couldn't relax. Interestingly, both shamans and Urvag understood his feelings perfectly well, as they were quite in keeping with the local worldview. The mage felt comfortable at home, within his own walls, where those very walls provided real help, whereas living permanently in someone else's ‘tower’, and without access to the power of its magic... Well, that was a matter of taste. Considering his mask as a servant, it turned out to be something of a joke, no matter how you looked at it.

"Well, let's drink to good luck, because the next two days will be spent fasting for the three of us anyway." This time, he allowed himself a cup of very expensive and old wine, but only because it was a condition of the preparatory ceremony for summoning one of the entities. "May Fortune smile upon us!"

In a locked and carefully screened office, the sound of clinking glasses could be heard. Today, one can enjoy oneself, recount stories from one's early days in the trade, or reminisce about particularly ‘funny’ moments from one's time in the hellish jungle, which seem so funny in retrospect. Tomorrow, preparations will begin, resulting in a level or two, not counting a couple of bonus properties or knowledge. Singha was sure that they would still be punished for their actions; no less, the system had to recognise those actions. He had correctly calculated the load and already had a rough understanding of how the mechanics of the actions worked. But all that would be later, tomorrow, in the future.

And today, a shaman, an earthling, an isekai, a system user and not chosen by the crazy Autogoddess of all Milfs... today he is frozen on the very border of an important and very necessary step into a bright or not so bright future.

The time of the unknown loner has passed, ended with the thunderous demonic breakthrough. Now the only question is how quickly the fact of his existence as the bearer of the Tablet of the Soul will be revealed. And how firmly he will stand on his feet at the moment of disclosure, of course.
* * *

STEPAN'S STATUS AT THE END OF CHAPTER ONE (modified for ease of understanding):

Name: Stepan

Level: 33

Class: Senior Shaman

Specialization: Spirit Master

Subclass: Enchanter

Characteristics: (free: 0)

Talents (free): 2 (to distribution in minor knowledge of the contract subtype: 1/to investment in one branch of knowledge: 5)

Constitution: 3

Sensitivity: 14

Power: 10

Control: 7

Source: 7

Spirit: 18

Resistance: 5

Knowledge asquired (shamanism: foundation): advanced masterful practice of call; advanced masterful practice of utilizing spiritual-witchcraft dialog with the universe; advanced masterful techniques of casting shamanic charms (GIFT); advanced basic techniques of dream inducement and correction (GIFT); advanced practice of combat calls; advanced methods of fast calls; master practice of spiritual operation; developed basics of spiritual bargaining and contractual agreements with otherworldly entities; advanced practice of remote control of spiritual entities; developed work with totems; developed basic techniques of building defensive arrays; advanced developed methods of spiritual wandering; developed skills of spiritual conflict outside the physical body; advanced master techniques of suggestive influences on the basis of shamanism (GIFT); developed methods of controlled spiritual indwelling; developed practices of spiritual-cognitive confrontation; basic methods of working with memory on the basis of shamanism; advanced developed practices of harmonization of spiritual-auric conflicts: advanced basic methods of natural personality re-engineering (GIFT)

Knowledge acquired (shamanism: healing): developed work with healing spirits; advanced techniques for countering curses; advanced basic techniques for healing aura and spiritual bodies based on wild magic; basic techniques for healing aura and spiritual bodies from damage by planar energies: basic methods of large-scale healing based on wild magic

Absorbed knowledge (witchcraft): advanced basic techniques of tantric practices; advanced developed techniques of territorial influences; advanced basic techniques of interaction with magical sources; advanced developed techniques of changing energy currents; advanced developed techniques of casting witchcraft spells; advanced developed techniques of suggestive influences based on witchcraft; advanced basics of witchcraft benefices; advanced basics of wild amulet making

Knowledge Acquired (Envolt): advanced mastery of puppet-envolt magical practice; advanced techniques for achieving sympathetic resonance; advanced basic techniques for modifying an active envolt; advanced basic methods of direct remote puppet control

Knowledge Acquired (skills and tricks): spoken and written: Free Cities, academic Neirat, Island Kingdom; wilderness hermit; mastery of elite martial caller; elementary techniques of teaching magical sciences; skillful methods of agency work; techniques of eliminating protected targets; elite mastery of mental-sensory processing of protected targets; techniques of mental-sensory defense as part of agency training; masterful opposition to demonic influence

Minor Knowledge (contracts with strong spirits): Eater of Diseases; Cheesh'sh'shuya; Jolly Milker; Sneaking Glow; Three Little Pigs; Leaves in Motion; Urkaguarri; Embrace-with-Amber-in-Last-Farewell; Turquoise Left and Aquamarine Right; Guardian of Dreams; Craved Inferno; Ololoshoholomolo-Ou; Once-Blazing; Strong Spirit Contract: Taylor-Taylor-Taylor; Lkrazar Marakash

Minor Knowledge (contracts with elder spirits): Sleepwalker (GIFT); The Shroud of Touch and the Creator of Decisions (GIFT); Joy of the Waves; Vishpli-Schwalstprachtmatt; Memory Eater; He Who Hides Himself in the Rocks and Opens the Doors; The Smooth of Slipping Evil; The Peace of the Serenity Keeper; Standing with a Dagger at Your Back; Silent White; Thu'Zi'Kh; Millstone Grip; Coming Folly (GIFT); F'Emmbyver (GIFT); Shield-Behind-Shield

Minor Knowledge (contracts with higher spirits): The Spike-Piercing- Here-and-There; Locking Secrets; Little White Goat; He-Who-Merged-With-The-Darkness-of-Stones-Paving-the-Way-And-Opening-Doors

Minor Knowledge (active shamanism): defense by distortion of the anteroom of the spheres; exile from reality: oblivion in ecstasy (GIFT)

Minor Knowledge (witchcraft): curse of the locking of the paths; blessing of union with the subtle world; manifestation of the right of kinship and ashes

Minor Knowledge (envolt): envolt twin energy mantle

Obtained properties (complex): toughness of spirit; resilience of subtle bodies; spiritual shroud of higher auric concealment (GIFT); deep transformation of the spiritual body; a tantric spiritual hearth; patchwork spiritual echo (GIFT); the multiplicity of spiritual awareness; small spiritual and energetic protection; the regeneration of subtle bodies; strengthened auric nodes; stable stability of the source's absorption properties; tendency towards cognitive restoration; smooth and extra-sensory omnipresence of spiritual influence (GIFT); balance of delimitation of spiritual-energetic symbiosis; freedom of distances and wills

Obtained properties (marks of Spheres): the small mark of spiritual spheres: mark of fallen leaves and black roots; trust of creators of passions and weavers of feelings (GIFT); the mark of free winds and whispering blows; the mark of quiet pools and deep waters; the recognition of the keepers of doors and those who pave the way

Obtained properties (blessings): blessings of health and long life; heritage in blood and spirit (GIFT); control of heritage in blood and spirit (GIFT)

Obtained properties (active modification): [ was, but not anymore ]

System modifiers: peaceful development IV; issuance of system assignments IV; lecherous development IV (GIFT); access to system purchases IV; small system endowment of characteristics; temporal awareness IV; reserve renewal IV; replenishment of life IV; accepting a systemic deal with a patron (Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Giver of Gifts, loyal servant of Innelas Innelay); creation of group II; intensive development III; gift small temporary enhancement of attributes in the name of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Giver of Gifts, faithful servant of Innelas Innelay (GIFT); a constant inflow of experience II; a regular inflow of system resources IV; a doubled minor corrupting gift in the name of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Gift-giver, faithful servant of Innelas Innelay; distributed charge improvement for meta-skills I; Partial-selective temporal fixation of the premise with the possibility of preliminary preparation for action I; sweet essence of passion II; replenishment of token charge I

Completed Deals: -

Available Deals: Cute & Innocent; Sweet Attraction; Big & Soft; Tense and Frozen; The Tenderest Buns

Reward Tokens: Awesome Melons (100); Indifferent Doll (3); Ignored Orgasm (100); small temporary increase in Constitution attribute (2); Puffy Pies (100); meaningful meta-skill reneval (2); temporary creation of privacy (15); Persistent Feet (10); Smooth Beauty (43); Mighty Melons (91); massive minor warrior blessing (5); Compulsion of Addiction: Hugged and Squeezed (25); standard charge renewal of shaman's contract book (6); Sweetly Passionate Dreams (50); Muscular Beauty (15); temporary increase in Sensitivity (9); Passionate Sensuality (20); Victim of Temptations (5); Here's My Pussy (23); one-time gift to an ally of an elite system property (5); medium complex rank boost to an intangible summoned entity (3); Milky Tits (8); Vulgar Adoption (5); Master Netoraster (1); Pippin Short and Swift (23); Minor Temporary Complex Gift Enhancement (10); Dunya Kulakova (48)

Special: Blessing of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Giver of Gifts, loyal servant of Innelas Innelay: likely to grant additional talents as you level up; grant specific System quests with increased rewards; Mark of Destinies: Singha, daughter of Maega, and Maega, daughter of Maedra; hidden effects; mutually certified transaction with Iurlad Lahgan Akal

SYLVIA MALTER'S STATUS AT THE END OF CHAPTER ONE:

Name: Sylvia Malter

Level: 53

Race: High Vampire (human)

Class: Bloodchanter

Specialty: Bloodwind.

Characteristics: (free: 0;)

Talents (free): 0

Constitution: 10

Sensitivity: 9

Power: 5

Control: 5

Source: 5

Spirit: 7

Resistance: 8

Knowledge absorbed: spoken and written: [reveal]; advanced master control of Scarlet Drop; the advanced master practice of Blood Shaping; advanced developed Blood Patronage; mastery techniques of subjugating Blood Resonance; master practice of superimposing delusions; advanced techniques of racial magic; advanced developed techniques of Blood Acceleration; advanced techniques of Scarlet Pulse; advanced practice of blood magic-based searching effects; master techniques of Scarlet Alchemy; advanced basic ritualistic practice; advanced barrier-breaking techniques; advanced acoustic mental influence practice; master seduction and deception techniques; scarlet martial arts (Blood Pact); the art of agency and infiltration (Blood Pact); advanced basic mentoring and nurturing techniques; advanced basic personality reshaping techniques; advanced basic methods of complex suggestions based on bloody control

Minor knowledge: skillful protective Crimson Cloak; double whip of Bloody Submission; skillful Crimson Claws; Implosion of Bloody Resonance; Smooth Covert Imposition of Submission

Acquired properties: enhanced saturation of bloody drops; corporeal essence of the supreme bloodsucker; enhanced blood reserve conservation; complex spiritual-energetic modification of the eyes: the supreme gaze of submission; vocal cord modification: enchanting voice; skeletal base modification: strengthening and flexibility; essence modification: Ancient Ichor's Drop; complex spiritual-energetic modification of the organism: compacted three-vector spatial pocket of the hidden type; scarlet shards of feelings and hearts; soft tissue modification: elasticity and sensuality

System modifiers: blood replenishment II; issuance of systemic assignments III; lecherous development III; summon of saturated blood I; constant influx of experience I

Reward Tokens (invisible to group members): Pleasant Suckling (147); summon a vial of exotic blood (94); temporal assimilation booster (6); meaningful creation of a lair of noxious earth with controlled binding (2); Languishing Mouths (50); Nourishing Fountain; Great Idea (10); Center of Attention (5); Instant Reserve Recovery (15)

Special: [empty for now]

STATUS OF SINGHA, DAUGHTER OF MAEGA, DAUGHTER OF MAEDRA KONINA BLYADSKAYA AT THE END OF CHAPTER ONE:

Name: Singha, daughter of Maega, daughter of Maedra

Level: 35

Class: Shaman

Specialization: Caller of Wind

Characteristics: (free: 0)

Talents (free): 0

Constitution: 1

Sensitivity: 8

Power: 5

Control: 4

Source: 6

Spirit: 8

Resistance: 1

Knowledge: oral and written language: Free Cities, western steppe dialect; advanced developed practice of call; advanced developed practice of spiritual dialog; advanced developed work with wind spirits; developed basics of fast calls; advanced basic practice of martial calls; advanced basics of spiritual bargaining and contractual agreements with otherworldly entities; basic skills of spiritual conflict outside the physical body; developed methods of spiritual wandering; advanced basic methods of search and clairvoyant calls; advanced basic work with totems; advanced basic work with altars and shrines; advanced basic work with water spirits; basic methods of calling healing winds; basic skills of creating strengthening call patterns; basic methods of building protective amulets on the basis of shamanism; advanced developed work with benevolent spirits

Minor knowledge: temporarily closed ancestral contracts with strong spirits: [reveal 32 entries]; temporarily closed ancestral contracts with elder spirits: [reveal 11 entries]; temporarily closed ancestral contracts with higher spirits: [ reveal 2 entries ]; strong spirit contract: [reveal 26 entries]; contract with elder spirits: [reveal 4 entries... Winding Rustle of Grasses; Keeper of the House; Hundred Faithful Hands]; distant call-orientation to ancestral call base; small spirit strike for conflicts outside the physical body; small spirit cover for conflicts outside the physical body

Acquired properties: ancestral heritage of steppe skies and eternal winds; trust of free winds and whispering blows; recognition of violent storms and violent gusts; mark of rushing streams and serene lakes; mark of hearth warmth and caress of fires; steadfastness of subtle bodies; blessing of passing on ancestral heritage and the gift of the first of daughters; blessing of health and beauty; blessing of home and native walls; mark of keepers of promises and assuring transactions

System modifiers: lecherous development I

Reward Tokens (invisible to party members): Sweet Feet (24)

Special:

Mark of Destiny (invisible): absolute vulnerability to enchantments and mental suggestion of a lecherous nature on the part of the bearer of the blessing of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Giver of Gifts, loyal servant of Innelas Innelay;

A Minor Gift of Salvation at the cost of depraved retribution in the name of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Giver of Gifts, faithful servant of Innelas Innelay (invisible): greatly increases the chances of survival in mortal danger, greatly increases the chances of minimal damage instead of crippling or fatal injuries, greatly increases the chances of falling victim to charms, love magic, mental techniques, and other influences on the mind and senses if they lead to lewd, vulgar, or intimate consequences, guarantees the temporary and negligible duration of being a submissive plaything in a distorted mind, greatly increases the chances of eventually being freed from a passionate captivity.

STATUS OF IURLAD LAHGAN AKAL FUCKING DEMONIC BITCH ASSHOLE AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER ONE:

Name: Iurlad Lahgan Akal Oglaf

Level: [I WON'T SAY ANYTHING EITHER]

Class: [I'D BETTER GIVE YOU MY PANTIES... OH YES, I DON'T HAVE ANY!]

Specialization: [I HAVE AN EXCELLENT SPECIALIZATION!]

Subclass: [EVEN BETTER THAN THE PREVIOUS ONE]

Characteristics: [HIGHER THAN YOURS]

Absorbed knowledge: [EMBEDDED HYPNOTIC INDUCTION PRODUCING UNCONSCIOUS MASTURBATION WHEN VIEWING IMAGES: REMOVED UNDER THE TERMS OF THE SYSTEM CONTRACT]

Minor knowledge: [WHAT, WAS THAT POSSIBLE!?]

Acquired properties: [I WILL SHOW YOU IF YOU EAT OUT YOUR SWEETHEART SILVIA IN FRONT OF ME]

System modifiers: [O-O-O-H-H-H, YE-A-A-A-A-A-H!!!]

Souls supplies: [MY LITTLE SECRET]

Reward Tokens (invisible to group members): [NO LONGER EMPTY... BUT YOU STILL WON'T READ THIS]

Special: a mutual certified transaction with the Chosen One of Liarat si Merrinal, Lady of Gifts and Gift-giver, faithful servant of Innelas Innelay;

STATUS OF YULA, DESCENDANT OF RAYSTAR THE APOSTATE AT THE END OF CHAPTER ONE:

Name: Yula, descendant of Raistar the Apostate

Level: 9

Class: Sorceress

Characteristics: (free: 0)

Talents (free): 0

Constitution: 2

Sensitivity: 2

Power: 5

Control: 4

Source: 7

Spirit: 2

Resistance: 2

Acquired knowledge: spoken and written language: Free Cities (GIFT); basic criminal skills; developed basics of managing and controlling internal energies; developed basics of creating magical weaves; advanced basics of working with coordinate positioning; developed skills in working with curses.

Little knowledge: confident control of distances

Acquired properties: low innate spatial positioning; hereditary Curse of Black Blood [REVEAL EFFECTS]; slight resistance to curses; supreme artefact symbiosis: Shackles of Godlessness; slight absorption of curse manifestations (Shackles of Godlessness); slight enhancement of curse base (Shackles of Godlessness); slight absorption of curse effects (Shackles of Godlessness)

System Modifiers: Issuing System Asignment I

Special: One-time offer to reset levels and choose a base class for further development (USED).

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/588112

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP