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Chapter 3

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Now that he knew where to look and what to search for, having almost found himself in the same position and role, it was possible, albeit very difficult, to notice something amiss with poor Nicholas de Lomer. At first glance, he didn't even suspect the boy's brains had been washed with. He immediately took him for a young pervert with particularly specific tastes and a penchant for tall, curvy, and tough women. Anything else simply didn't occur to him, so natural were his thought patterns and stream of consciousness. This could be considered another form of mental suggestion, only directed not inward but outward, at those testing the processed victim. Ironically, Stepan himself was skilled in this. He even used it a couple of times, albeit while processing one of the targets for the AutoMILF's debt assignment; it was just that the suggestion had a completely different structure.

Here, the work was far superior to anything the shaman could do. Significantly superior. That's why he didn't notice, although he should have suspected something was wrong. Generally, if you see unnatural behavior in someone, you should always suspect mental manipulation. To be fair, even if he hadn't been subjected to the secondary normalization field, he still wouldn't have suspected anything. There were no traces of suggestion, and he'd already encountered so many perversions and deviants in this world that he wasn't surprised at all. But the thing is, he didn't even consider the dangerous possibility, which in itself should have been a warning sign... If only the normalization hadn't prevented the alarm from sounding.

One way or another, he decided to fix the boy and return him to normal. A more in-depth scan of his memory and mind revealed that the boy was, albeit a rather arrogant jerk with an inordinate amount of arrogance, but that's by Earthly standards. By the standards of local society, he's generally a good boy: kind, sympathetic, and even excessively soft-hearted. In fact, that's precisely why he was destined for the role of junior assistant to his more experienced relatives. His personality wasn't suited to being a real big shot in the Trading House. In fact, this could also be considered a form of mental conditioning, only a more familiar one. Education. His biological mother, who had taken on the responsibility of raising her third child, had long ago placed her bet on her middle son. She didn't need an ambitious and power-hungry competitor to her favorite.

He didn't want to delve into de Lomer's inner workings, nor did he intend to, but he still felt obligated to restore the victim's mind. He'd fallen into a trap set for Stepan. After two sleepless nights under the influence of potions, no one took him away from his job as a footman and servant to the young Mrs. Singha; he'd managed to remove most of the surprisingly persistent suggestions. They were already persistent. In a couple of months, he'd have to re-break his consciousness, which would begin to perceive a predilection for Ursula's lingerie and simply beautiful, busty older women as the ideal state of consciousness. In short, he was exhausted, perhaps even more so from the need to maintain a triple active filter between his own and others' consciousnesses to avoid catching viral suggestions.

He'd been certain from the start that something like this was there, perhaps even more than one layer. Since the normalizing suggestion of external resonance was already in place, a more classic trap could and should have been installed as well. Or perhaps he simply didn't know his personal demonic nemesis. In fact, he wasn't mistaken and patted himself on the head with satisfaction, having blocked all three of the rather perverse traps he'd discovered. Incidentally, another "amusing" detail was the difference in approaches to processing the victim chosen by Ursula for the induction of mental influence.

If Stepan, who arrived with a letter, was overwhelmed by the expectation of seeing exposed nipples, then Nicholas was left with thighs and crotch. Ursula simply crossed her legs again and again, alternating left and right, each time almost allowing a glimpse of her pussy, making him doubt whether she was shaved or not, plunging his consciousness into the same stupor of indecision, illusion, and uncertainty about everything, including the veracity of his own thoughts. And then came a list of suggestions, different but very similar to what she had done with the isekai. Accelerated release through increased sensitivity (and only psychological, without affecting the body), a number of fetishes and addictions, general indecision, and an inability to properly sleep with a girl without climaxing from a few touches or without masturbating in her underwear in front of her, not daring to touch a woman's body.

Frankly, as a specialist in a very specific field, he couldn't help but admire how carefully these suggestions were tailored to each other. They were hidden in the deepest layers of consciousness, which is why they were perceived as normal even by far-from-superficial examinations. Even now, they were perceived as such. Despite the fact that Stepan knew exactly the nature and origin of these changes. As a specialist, yes, he admired them, but as a person, he felt a mixture of disgust and apprehension, spurred on by the realization that what had saved him from a similar fate (albeit not for life, but only for a couple of months, according to the terms of his contract) was primarily his readiness for something like this.

He hadn't forgotten the cosmetics seller either, and he didn't immediately suppress his initial impulse—the desire to simply kill her with a barrage of powerful spells or a horde of hungry spirits, against which her ultra-subtle powers would be useless. He really wanted to, but he hesitated, primarily because he saw no point in rushing into radical decisions. He wouldn't be caught again, and simply killing one of the demoness's victims without trying to help her cast off her beastly veil was simply vile. She was hardly a saint. People don't become rich merchants in this world. While remaining good and law-abiding individuals, they don't achieve any significant heights without establishing a personal cemetery, whether small or large. Such people almost never became such on Earth, despite far more herbivorous and peaceful times! But he also didn't want to pass judgment in absentia. Not when he could handle things differently.

True, he hadn't even approached her during this time. Time was short, and he was simply afraid. He'd approach her wanting to help, and she'd help him by sitting on her savior's face. Basically, he had to help or finish her off, but either option required careful preparation, not acting on emotion. So he didn't act. He had plenty of internal problems of his own, starting with his inability to properly inform even Singha about the demoness.

Because... what should he tell her? Oh, I screwed up, was stupid, didn't notice the manipulation, and ended up accidentally allowing the demonic creature to sit on my face, then join my group, receiving the Tablet in the process? And now she's leveling up, creating lustful traps for me for fun, using the highest level of brainwashing possible? Yeah, right, after this, their alliance will definitely strengthen and become completely unbreakable. Whatever the case, he's settled the matter with the demoness for the next six months, and then we'll see, since he's not going to sit idly by. And he'd better actually come up with a working plan, otherwise his punishment will turn the scum so rabid that it's already becoming a bit scary.

Instead, Stepan took on the far more boring duties of an adjutant, while attempting to establish a decent surveillance network around the home of a respectable and deadly cosmetics saleswoman. So far, things weren't going so well, as it wasn't a matter of a couple of hours, but at least two or three days, and with full personal involvement. Well, if you do it really well, the way you're used to, so that the intelligence knowledge you've ingrained in your head doesn't reveal any obvious weaknesses in the surveillance network you're creating. Ultimately, it was limited to a relatively superficial layer of surveillance, and the breach of most of the security on her estate.

The entire estate, except for the bedroom. The bedroom turned out to be so incredibly well-protected that the shaman began to suspect all sorts of things. First and foremost, the creature, while creating a trap for poor Stepan out of Ursula, had cheated a bit and left part of her "auric noise" structure under external control. Roughly speaking, somewhere there, in her chambers, could be hiding the thing that helps Ursula's aura and spiritual body transform into a monstrously invisible and penetrating suggestive resonator. No, seriously! Just being near her, within the strange field of influence, was a real risk, practically a guarantee of falling under her influence.

On the one hand, it was even amusing and certainly interesting from a professional standpoint. He wanted to study the effect and thoroughly understand its nature, learning to defend himself as reliably as possible. On the other hand, it was becoming a little scary, frankly. Somewhere around the fourth day after his own visit to Ursula, after he had already "cured" poor Nicholas, he witnessed yet another manifestation of this very same super-perverted superpower of super-Ursula. The victim turned out to be one of her employees, a young alchemist apprentice, somewhat vaguely resembling Stepan, specializing in cosmetics. Or rather, to be honest, he was more concerned with packaging and testing the finished cosmetics, the secrets of which no one had ever shared with him or his aging teacher.

The physical resemblance, by the way, is also very telling. It's as if Ursula was initially set up to hit on any not-so-ugly young man who met certain criteria. This should have required a lot of serious thought, but instead, he had to think about something completely different, or not think about it at all. Literally, yes. Stepan witnessed, directly observing through the spirits, how a guy who entered the office he was inspecting was, a couple of minutes later, already jerking off on the boots of his respectable employer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her dress, which was lifted slightly, then lowered. Overall, it was quite similar to how she acted with the shaman. So similar, in fact, that he didn't even notice what was happening. Again, literally.

Only toward evening, as he was about to go to bed, habitually checking himself for all possible influences, including those he'd already experienced, did he... again notice and perceive nothing. The spirits did, the very spirits that evaluate reactions to individual situations against a standard and pester Stepan when that standard is violated. Fortunately, he reacted as needed and just in time, even before he had a chance to replay the scene recorded on the glass in Ursula's office window for the third time. Only the demonic scum knew what effect was being channeled through his own spirit, but he didn't want to find out. The trick was good, downright brilliant. The training and experience of centuries of such confrontation was evident. The demoness knew she would be confronting a shaman, knew exactly how he was accustomed to working and the approximate file of his spirits, and so she had prepared the appropriate countermeasures.

The observer spirit, embedded in the glass and inhabiting the material, transmitted exactly what it saw, including some of the "auric noise," primarily that tied to normalization and suppression of attention. Perhaps there was something else, but the shaman didn't bother checking, breaking contact with the spirit and the contract with it, paying the satisfied entity a penalty, even a little extra. He decided not to engage with the cosmetics businesswoman until he could snatch at least a couple of days off and create a proper dome. First, play it safe, conduct trial runs and tests, and only then create a personalized cocoon of observing spirits and resident spells.

So Ursula remained, indulging her workers and all sorts of guests in humiliating and not-so-indecent acts, while Stepan returned to his work duties. It wasn't exactly difficult, more like simply boring, oppressive, and pointless. He unexpectedly realized that right now, right within him, he possessed the very same arrogance of high-ranking mages. It was just a slightly distorted form, shaped by his habits and mentality, but it was there nonetheless. He didn't feel any particular sense of humiliation from being forced to work as a servant, but he also realized that his time, his energy, his efforts were simply worth more.

Every shopping trip, every time he accompanied Singha to visit acquaintances or friends, every wasted hour lashed him with regret for lost time. Regret for all he could have done, all he could have achieved, if he hadn't wasted his days and evenings on this bullshit. All those levels, the knowledge he'd gained, the rewards for decent quests—all of it weighed heavily on his mind, drowning Stepan in regret and irritation. It would have been difficult, but he was generally accustomed to suppressing his negative feelings—he'd studied with Rodislav Gastoldovich Yanin, after all!—and the reward, the real reward for playing the quest, was worth even worse inconveniences. So the shaman's emotions and attitude weren't even evident on his face or in his emotional background.

He even met his young mistress's younger brother. And in a completely idiotic way, almost like he had with Singha herself, only on a smaller scale. The blood relationship was immediately obvious; there was no denying it! Stepan knew perfectly well that Singha was only one of Maega's two children, and that there was also a second child—an heir no longer hers, but Urvag's. It was just that Urvag and Stepan rarely crossed paths; he lived in the children's wing of the estate, had his own nannies and assigned teachers, so their paths simply never crossed. No, the shaman saw him, but mostly from afar, or passing in the corridors, never even striking up a conversation. And what was there to talk about with a ten-year-old brat?

It's not like Stepan's much older than that brat, come to think of it. But he's started acting like a wise old man. Any minute now, and he'll be smashing everyone he doesn't like with a shovel! Although little Ullis wouldn't have been immune to being knocked out, if not with a shovel, then a child's shovel, for digging in a sandbox. This young but already very experienced lemming managed to dig out a household amulet-heater from somewhere, most likely from the bathroom, literally digging out a piece of power-imbued quartz. And he couldn't think of anything cleverer than to hide it in his own "fling," a sort of soft ball, half-empty and half-filled with a light, porous alchemical material. It was simply one of hundreds of toys at his disposal—his mom, dad, and everyone around him constantly spoiled this young and amazingly cute child.

So he walked around, throwing his toy at the ceiling, exhausted by the angry adults who demanded he learn boring arithmetic and other adult things. In fact, the boy's educational program was complex and on par with that of a full-fledged high aristocrat. Even if the specifics of the future head of perhaps the largest branch of the Trading House were completely different. The boy, if you think about it, didn't even have much time for games. Even the games themselves were just another lesson in developing agility, reaction time, or fine motor skills. That's why they didn't take away his toy ball, that's why they allowed him to play with it while they walked from the classroom, where he was learning the world of debits and credits, to the training ground—let him practice his coordination.

This coordination would come in handy when they started "chasing him along the lines" again, teaching him the skills of dance (or working with a sword or a combat wand, since these movements are traditionally added to the dance foundation for slightly older golden children). Stepan, returning from a short lunch break, was lost in his thoughts, but he reacted to the ball with the amulet inside, which began to resonate slightly in his magical perception. To the credit of the boy's companions, they also began to notice the heating element heating up, but their sensitivity was lower.

The shaman, without thinking, using pure reflexes—earthly ones, the kind that compel him to pull a tiny human larva from under the wheels of a car—stepped forward, snatched the ill-fated ball from the boy's hands, tossed it behind him, and placed himself between the little one and the explosion. The blast wasn't loud, but the quartz shards could have cut him to the bone if Stae hadn't used the "crumbs" of his available witchcraft and shielded himself with a protective charm.

"Oh," the boy suddenly squeaked, having understood everything, anticipating his father's whipping for nearly ruining his father with what his mother would later say to him for the child's injuries.

"Ouch." That's all Ste said, which livery vest will now definitely have to be replaced with a less holey one, because he only protected the skin.

"Fuck!" the young gentleman's guard exhaled hoarsely, removing the enchanted dagger from the throat of the frozen "in fright" Stae, feeling a cold sweat run down his back at the thought of what Urvag might do to him if the boy were injured or even killed. "You, uh, thank you, yeah."

Incidentally, he's also teaching the boy rhetoric, belles-lettres, and academic Neirat, a Latin equivalent. It's just that at that moment, the man had no more appropriate words. The man who nearly died from being devoured by a pack of battle spirits, because the shaman only stopped his own blow at the last second. Understandably, he reacted to the threat to his client, seeing Stae as a vile and treacherous killer, but that didn't make it any easier for either of them to restrain their reflexes. That same evening, Uncle Kovacs Lerkos gave Stae a brand-new belt knife with an ornate handle. Urvag would have given something too, had he known what Stepan could get, so he had to settle for a promise to teach his son the proper handling of amulets, both household and otherwise. They found new clothes for Ste by morning and even tailored them to the earthling's measurements.

It was after this that Master Lavis's attitude toward the shaman changed once again. He now not only couldn't get enough of his new employee, but he gradually began to assign him slightly more complex tasks, requiring recognition that Stae had some kind of brain. And he even learned to put that brain to good use. He was tasked with participating in sacrifices to the Goddess of Fertility. De Lomer, like most bigwigs in general, often made such sacrifices, sometimes sincerely, sometimes not so much.

Firstly, it was genuinely helpful. If you needed serious assistance from the temples and priests, they would honor all your donations, offering a substantial discount, or, conversely, they would remember their stinginess and jack up the price. Secondly, everyone loved to pay their respects to the Life-Giver, as Stepan knew from countless sources. He wouldn't be surprised if the favor of this goddess of life, birth, bread, harvest, and the process that allows life to emerge was enjoyed by the most chthonic peoples of the deep Underground, the Cthulhuites, or deep-sea fish-people, who dwell on the seafloor. Thirdly, the donations weren't exactly enormous, but rather symbolic, demonstrating favor with a particular temple or priestess.

Those same merchants are generally much more willing to pray to Damokar, the Oathkeeper, because it is on his altars, where the most important and complex oaths are sworn, that the lion's share of local trade, magical practice, and even statehood rests. So it's not just the merchants who worship the Keeper, but also the aristocracy, those very same Noble Houses with Coat of Arms. Mages don't worship him, not in the full sense of the word, but they also pay homage, availing themselves of the services of His clergy. Although not without exceptions, like that same Neirat, whose main oath—that very bond of shared blood and shared cooperation without spilling excessive amounts of that blood—is created without any, even the slightest, divine assistance. Only classical magic, on an equally classical oath-anchored altar, is cherished more than their libraries.

House de Lomer also reveres Damokar (or Daromar, depending on pronunciation and region), arguably one of the primary, if not primary, objects of worship in the Confederation of Free Cities. Well, among the upper crust of those Free Cities, of course. But Gaia, the Giver of Life, is not forgotten in small matters either. Both children of Urvag and Maega were carried, conceived, and born under Her grace. The challenges of bearing a fetus, conceiving it, and recovering from it are common for gifted people, and for those like this steppe family, even more so. Their chance for continuing the dynasty is essentially one, tied to their firstborn, and only that one. In short, the House of Urvag remembered the help of the priestesses and a couple of relics, both their own and those borrowed from the temple, and so offerings were made frequently and sincerely.

But also with an understanding of traditions. The couple themselves rarely set foot under the temple's cloak; it was a matter of reputation. If they frequented those temples too often, unhealthy movements, gossip, and questions would ensue. The Confederation, like its Cities, is considered Free for a reason: religion does not prevail over secular authority, does not rise above the Coats of Arms of Houses, whether merchant or noble. Those merchants who flirt too openly with the priesthood are questioned, and there's a certain amount of resistance from their fellow tradespeople. Especially if they flirt with the local solar deity, prayers to whom are generally forbidden because they sometimes work no better than cults. His believers, not the prayers. Although prayers, too.

That's why people bearing the de Lomer coat of arms came to Her Temple, nothing more, just small and medium-sized minions who conveyed Urvag and Maega's assurances of all the best, and nothing more. Stepan wasn't entirely opposed. It was his first time personally beneath the vault of Gaia's temple, and the experience was quite unusual. This goddess's clergy are quite attractive, exclusively female; only the temple guards, known as the Bread People, are male, but they stand at a distance, darkly hinting at what will happen if someone starts acting stupidly.

Many temples of Gaia have no guards at all. This isn't surprising, given the basic ability of this goddess's priestesses to curse by Her wrath, the nature of those curses, and the difficulty of blocking and the near-impossibility of removing expressions of Her disfavor already received. This applies to many, but not to Morgrave. Here, quite recently, this temple was plundered without fear of the consequences in the form of the now-famous infertility and complete impotence of all involved, right up to the chief admiral-general of the Island Kingdom. They say, gloating, he later had to beg the temple's senior priestess for an apology, even to the point of building another temple on the Islands. Yeah, they say. And they gloat, of course. They just keep quiet about the fact that Morgraf's senior priestess and most of her clergy were blatantly stolen.

Such an aggressive personnel policy that burns the locals' asses. It's only slightly less damaging than blows of the islanders' super-ship, which, thanks to its construction material and the Captain-Admiral's nature, is equal to Archmage in sheer power. The temple's new clergy were weaker; they didn't have a priestess as powerful as the kidnapped Amelie (or Amalia, he couldn't quite catch it and didn't bother asking), but it was still a temple of the Giver of Life. Large, sacred, and even after the plunder, it remained an extremely powerful place of power, the seat of power for a most normal, albeit somewhat quirky, local goddess. Seriously, if he had no choice in which class to take, if he could only become a priest, he would have chosen Gaia.

If only to look at the swarms of all those who will later see the first male priest of the Life-Giver in the whole world.

"Convey my sincerest words of warmth to the venerable Urvag, may Her blessings always rest upon him and his House." A very beautiful, middle-aged woman, with brown eyes and brown hair, spoke. Her aura was simply enveloping, like warm honey, and, involuntarily, evoked not even sympathy but a lack of aggression that, frankly, made the shaman quite nervous. "The gifts of your House are always a joy to Her temple, as is your visit, my dears. You may stay for the midday prayer, if you so wish."

And a willing soul was found. Not Stepan, but the leader of their group of "showing respect," an elderly man, one of Urvag's personal aides. He was responsible for procuring all manner of exotic items for shamanic rituals. A valuable man, who, upon hearing from his master's wife that she urgently, YESTERDAY, needed sixty-nine double-yolk eggs—not from chimeroid hens, but naturally occurring ones—didn't blink in bewilderment. No, he simply saluted, figuratively speaking, gathered the men, handed them household amulets for checking the livestock, and ordered them to visit every chicken coop on the outskirts of Morgrave. The eggs were found, Maega performed her ritual, and everyone involved was pleased, especially the villagers, who were paid for those eggs in silver.

In fact, Master Yurik was sent here, at the head of the de Lomer delegation, to improve his male and general health. And the gifts this time weren't the typical lunar donations for goodwill, but more serious, downright serious. That's why the priestess sang like a nightingale, smiling at them all, and Yurik in particular, and why she immediately invited them to attend the prayer service, and in the best seats. Closest to the altar, closest to grace. Urvag and his wife asked Stepan beforehand whether this would be a problem and whether he would be exposed, but he assured everyone that he could disguise himself amid the flow of divine energy.

At least it was some kind of practice, and an almost safe one at that. Without intending any harm, without intending to harm the temple, he was almost guaranteed to conceal himself from the flow of grace, even without a deliberate scan. Someone else's blessing was a bit of a pity, of course, but for him to refuse it and stand aside while the other four messengers received Her grace would be extremely odd. He'd have to accept that grace as a deception, and then sacrifice it to one of the spirits of those aspects. Come to think of it, a visit to that temple would even be a nice profit.

The visit here is another part of Urvag's intrigues. A demonstration that he needed to begin strengthening his relationship with the Life-Giving servants right now. Either Maega is truly slightly pregnant, or they decided to casually usher this strange young man through the temple's boon without making any unnecessary gestures. The man made a series of seemingly unsuspicious, yet suggestive, gestures and actions, thereby deflecting any potential questions in the direction he wanted. And, of course, he casually helps his loyal servant with his health, so that his wife and two official lovers won't be sad. The lovers, incidentally, are noticeably brainwashed, implanted with acoustic activators and a couple of imposed behavioral role models, but they are on a voluntary contract and with the obligation to return them to normal thinking upon completion of their service.

The shaman had heard of this approach before, but this was the first time he'd encountered it in practice. It was refreshing, you know, testing two slightly dark-skinned beauties, resembling earthly Latinas, expecting to encounter deception, intimidation, and coercion in their minds. But instead, he encountered two greedy and not particularly bright bitches, clinging to the chance to fulfill their dream — to spend a few years on full board, doing nothing but shaking their breasts, and then being left with purses full of silver or even gold as bonuses and a not-so-large but steady pension, certified through the Bank of Undermountain.

If he had heroically freed them from such cruel and oppressive mental slavery, they would have tried to gouge his eyes out, regardless of their rank. The latter wasn't entirely serious, but still! Yurik's wife, incidentally, didn't exactly support this state of affairs, but considered it the lesser evil. Mistress Virginia herself was a remarkably asexual, almost frigid woman, more interested in magical practice and reading classical literature than in family life. An average adept, hardly striving for anything more, she seemed to Stepan like a magical, low-budget version of Marie Curie. And for the sake of not having to fuss with her husband in bed, she would have forgiven him even three lovers, fortunately, having already given birth to a son and a spare son, and could fully immerse herself in the world of literature and metaphysical research.

And so, the happy old man, who looks to be in his fifties but is actually approaching his seventies, who once served Urvaga's father, is literally bathing in a barely visible golden mist, inhaling it and filling himself with life. The other representatives of de Lomer also struggle to keep a straight face so as not to smile like idiots. Only the shaman grits his teeth inwardly, distributing blessings along the spirit that has wrapped itself around his essence. There are spirits that inhabit the physical body of a shaman, but here it was more like the shaman had inhabited the physical body directly into the immaterial essence. The spirit wrapped itself in a thin film around the shaman's flesh and aura, around the Shroud he had raised, taking on, absorbing, and preserving the grace. And the earthling diligently monitored the aura and spiritual body, adjusting the disguise so that it corresponded to the one who received this grace.

The younger priestesses, young and not particularly busty, except for one particular priestess who, even at her young age, was capable of rivaling Sylvia in size, rushed between the kneeling men and women, handing out holy bread. Fresh, fragrant, black and white, with a little butter, it would make a shaman's breakfast. He noted in his notebook from the system the need to buy a whole loaf from the store, rather than small pieces, while chewing on the treat. One black loaf, so that the earth would always love its child, and one white loaf, so that the heavens would not be angry and would forgive time and time again. The first loaf improved health and protected against disease, while the second increased vitality, including that very one, and provided some protection against minor curses.

"Thank you, honored one." He turned away, slightly embarrassed, from the servant that flash the low neckline of the priest's robe. She giggled softly at his reaction and ran off to distribute the bread further. Her lush, flowing, wheat-colored hair brushes his face. "Very tasty."

Next came the farewell ceremony. They were thanked once again, called respected, but not honored, for they were not the right kind of people, and then sent on their way. Not only them; half the city had sent their people to the temple that day, and some even came themselves. The very first row, right next to the altar, was occupied, for example, by the venerable Baron Sergio de Borwald and his young bride. The wedding was only in a couple of months, but it was already being discussed as if it were a done deal. Gossip was rife even in Urvag's house. Not scandalous, no, for the union of two families is no longer news, nor is the logical decision to become related permanently. They were simply discussing the prospects of such a union and what it might mean for them.

The shaman noted with mild joy that both of their feelings were genuine. There was a calculated element to them, but there was also plenty of genuine affection. He even felt a bit envious and simply happy that in this world, at least someone could afford genuine feelings and affection, and not just some mindwashing shit. It had somehow always turned out that way for him, and the objects of genuine mutual affection in his second life had been few and far between. Singha didn't count, given the circumstances of their first encounters and the fact that she had hardly forgotten those circumstances, so the only one he could remember was Tahira, and...

"Peace be with you... Pan?" A short, curly-haired woman with a painfully familiar aura, across which a huge, pervasive spiritual mark of priestly connection seemed to blur, spoke hesitantly, as if unsure of who exactly she saw. "Is it you, or are my eyes deceiving me?"

"Hello, Shera." He is slightly lagging behind the main escort group. His eye twitched involuntarily, and he reflexively checked for any witnesses to the discrepancy between Pann and Stae's names and identities. Fortunately, there seemed to be none, as he had managed to partially suppress the noise and sound around them. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"You're telling me this about something unexpected?" She chuckled, relaxing a little, assessing him with a new gaze. "And city clothes suit you much better than the image of a village shaman... a shaman, right? It's just that your aura..."

That's right, aura of conjurer, not a shaman's, whereas Shera had seen (and touched) a shaman the last time they met. A familiar face, undeniably recognizable, especially to someone who had interacted with him closely enough. It could have been chalked up to a simple resemblance; after all, he maintained a few cosmetic changes to his disguise. But she could still see through them. He wasn't entirely sure whether it was natural attentiveness or some unfamiliar technique of priestly prayer. After all, no matter how sweet and attractive this pervert was, she essentially served as the priestly clergy's security service. She noticed such details reflexively, so even if the shaman had tried to pretend she'd made a mistake, something unpleasant could have happened. Shera would have noticed and remembered, and then begun searching for answers.

That's why he started the conversation. That's why he waited for the opportunity to speak practically without witnesses, at least for a few seconds. And no, he never actually began to implement the option his intelligence knowledge had suggested—namely, quickly kill Shera, reanimate her body with the possessed spirit, and order it, after a few minutes, to drown itself in the nearest cesspool, where dark creatures, hungry for flesh, would be waiting at the bottom, disposing of the body. Random witnesses, of course, are always inconvenient, but not in the case of a woman who had done him no harm, who, it seemed, had realized she'd gotten herself into trouble. Not with her mind, but with that same feminine intuition, coupled with the spiritual body of a powerful priestess, who also resided in her own temple.

"Oh," was all Shera said when Stepan struck her with a cognitive attack, temporarily pausing her thoughts without affecting her aura, which didn't even hint at the powerful spirit that had slipped from the shaman's bracelet. "What?"

What, what? Someone stupid and too soft-hearted for radical solutions is now jumping over his head in an attempt to save his anonymity and your life, you overly attentive lover of prematurely erupting lovers! The shaman understood that now his risk of being exposed literally in the temple of one of the deities of this world, and a powerful one at that, was greater than ever. Now he had to either ignore the situation, which would have been the smart choice, but Stepan was foolish. He thought about it too late. Or give Shera plenty of reasons to suspect. Or kill her. Or jump over his head.

Isn't he a good boy? He created his problem out of thin air, and now he's heroically solving it! He's a real gem, a perfect score, an A+ on Rodislav Gastoldovich Yanin's exam! The first blow to her cognitive abilities, the second blow to himself, shifting the entire load of the Shroud onto his own spirit, under which he must command an entire cavalcade of not-so-weak spirits. Then the third blow, with which Shera's memory blurs a bit, and the traces of this very influence on her consciousness are erased much more thoroughly.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Seven.

"What? Ah, I seem to have mistaken you for someone else, sorry." He apologized, of course, and mentally wiped the sweat from his brow, politely saying goodbye and running to catch up with his "team," since they would be returning to the estate in the same carriage.

Shera was a little sluggish at first, but with each step she went about her business with increasing confidence, and the shaman promised himself to properly rummage through her head and erase any traces of memory about Pann. Or rather, not erase them. It was too noticeable a chunk of memory. Rather, he'd replace the image of himself with someone else's. A different appearance and all that. Fortunately, he already had a suitable spirit, tailored specifically to replace memories about the summoner. A contract had been signed, and all he needed to do was summon it. And also shield it from the temple's blessed aura. And further protect it from detection of any traces of its activities. And check Shera's memory, for who knows who she might have described him to or told about him. Hmm. It seemed like a hell of a lot of work out of nothing — everything just the way he liked it, it smelled like home.

* * *

"He blurred her general perception and short-term memory, then dulled her long-term memory a bit, looped her sense of time, concealed the missing pause, and left." Having finished his retelling, the shaman allowed himself to sink his teeth into a large, generous slice of the blessed loaf, smeared with sweet butter and purchased at the store for no small sum. "The sudden encounter, of course, made me very nervous. I didn't want to kill a good man for anything, and a bloodless solution could have resulted in a massacre, so I began to improvise."

Urvag merely nodded thoughtfully, casually glancing at the bread he'd purchased and the similarly purchased butter, laden with beneficial energies, as if Stepan had committed some kind of sacrilege before his eyes. Singha shared her knowledge of the System Store. She also told him how Urvag had stared blankly at the wall for a long time, then gone and gotten completely drunk, after he'd realized exactly what he could do with that Store and what goods it contained. Maega didn't even scold him too harshly, having learned of the possibilities opened by this meta-skill and also wanting to get drunk, or even smoke some particularly wicked steppe weed.

And so, the man, like his wife, was, to put it mildly, astonished by the shaman's use of incredibly valuable System Currency for snacks. But he couldn't argue with the fact that everyone determines for themselves what they can afford and what they want to spend it on. Moreover, the man understood a simple truth: he would only be able to sell the goods he purchased through Stepan or Singha very carefully and in limited quantities, or for a very short time. For if he brought to auction, say, a couple of still-living mellorn seeds or, say, the pearl-heart of an ancient oceanic giant predatory shell, which could devour a Magister, they would be bought.

They'll tear it off with his hands!
T.N.

And they'll probably even pay the asking price, rather than literally tear off with hands. Although there will be risks, inevitable in transactions of this scale. There will be attempts to obtain information about where the goods were obtained. But Urvag can pull off one such deal, or at most two or three, because there will be questions, but there will also be understanding. An understanding that such a rich and successful merchant probably has ways to obtain even such unique goods. But if he starts selling the system's gifts on a regular basis, then they won't just ask questions; they'll literally come to him with a thermorectal cryptanalyzer. Even if he's careful, even if he tries to deal through third parties, even if he's not selling unique goods, but simply expensive ones, which would have been impossible to obtain in such a situation.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soldering_iron
T.N. Thermorectal cryptanalyzer is an ideal way to crack any cipher. Ask the person who has the information you're interested in. Place the analyzer in the person's rectum. Turn it on. Wait.

"Someone else, too young, flush with success and unbeaten by life, considering himself smarter than everyone else and everyone else fools, might have tried to gamble with such stakes. Considering himself the trading king of the entire Confederacy. But I'm already beaten." His words conveyed not only the bitterness of a fleeting opportunity but also experience, the fruit of the gravest mistakes made by humans and non-humans. "But they won't give it to me, they absolutely won't give it to me. They'll notice, especially if they look, if they start searching. A product must have a memory, a history; it must be produced by someone. I'd still risk one-off deals, I'd buy a few things for myself. Singha won't refuse her father a little favor, but a constant flow? No, I still want to live."

Stepan understood him and shared his point of view. In principle, he was even prepared to purchase something from his personal reserves if he really needed it, but now that Singha had his own access to the System Store, that was no longer his problem. Let Urvag and Maega decide for themselves what and who needed it most—practicing materials for his wife, or special goods and cash gold for her husband. He was far more concerned with completely different matters, rather mundane ones at that, matters of safety and a good night's sleep.

"They're still keeping a watch on me." He wasn't particularly surprised by this, since the surveillance there is such that, formally speaking, there's nothing to complain about. "Almost every time I leave the estate, someone is watching me. Most often with optics from that tower, purely visually. But those beacons... You saw them; they could be used to cast a curse."

Yes, yes, that jerk is following him for the third time. Right on schedule. You can't kill him. He literally watches from his own house. Or rather, from the tower on his master's estate. And his spyglass is not just a spyglass, but also enchanted, illuminating the target and recognizing it by its aura. Stepan would have simply hidden his aura and gone out under a different guise, but Stepan did not possess such skills and had not received the appropriate amulets from his superiors. The two beacons placed on him activated different personalities each time, and it seemed that they worked for different clients.

In one case, it was simply a tracking amulet with a Druidic origin. A small, flat seed with wings, a typical beacon, transparent, sticky, almost invisible. The second time, they sewed an extra thread into his pocket, taking advantage of the fact that he'd sent his clothes out to be washed. This thread, moreover, wasn't just capable of tracking; it was also useful for other purposes. The very nature of the thread, part of it, meant that somewhere else, another part of the same enchanted thread remained, through which it was easy to send some dangerous or simply harmful dick.

The shaman gave both beacons to Maega to sort out. He'd only performed a preliminary bearing, figuring out the type of beacon and the signal's reception point. You can't do such crap with normal spy amulets; it's not so quick and easy. But where were the normal amulets, and where were those amateurs who tried to spy on poor Stae? Right, they were exactly where they should have been sent. Maega easily used Stepan's city maps, overlaid with bearing points, to locate the people who owned the tracking devices. Those fearless idiots hadn't bothered to set up false markers. The bearing pointed directly to their house. Yes, it was rented, but there was no protection on that house. Maega had looked at the spies and even at the visiting boss.

And she knew that boss very well. He was one of the trusted assistants of a noble and extremely wealthy baron. He was the kind of man who would lend money to certain counts, albeit in a noble manner, disguising it as a noble gift. In reality, of course, the de Blusses didn't indulge in usury beyond a certain limit. The old customs and oaths clearly stipulated this point. They'd eat you alive—both their own aristocrats and the usurers themselves, who, according to those same old contracts, almost all came from the Trading Houses. Not without exceptions and misalliances, of course, but on average, the Noble and Trading Houses don't meddle in each other's fields, although they regularly and bloodily squabble over adjacent pieces of the common pie, sometimes for entire generations at a time.

"Should I really do something bad to them?" Urvag asked, his tone so indifferent and thoughtful that you immediately understand why no one would seek to offend this guy, rob him, or deprive him of his undeservedly accumulated wealth. "It really is impudence."

Maega merely shrugs, like, just give the go-ahead, because she's not at all opposed to it either. She, too, is quite irritated by the rumors and movements surrounding her. Yes, everyone is waiting to hear whether she'll have a third child or not. There were especially many messages and questions coming from the Steppe, especially from Urvag's dear mother-in-law, who was clearly against squandering Maega's potential for the sake of another ungifted child, who would be involved in Urvag's business. Judging by the comments she shared with Stepan, the venerable Maega practically promised to remove someone's sexual organs, if need be.

This seems like a perfectly innocent interest, albeit important in many ways. But it easily conceals another, more concrete and serious one, dangerous even for Maega. On the one hand, this is Morgrave, where everyone spies on everyone else and sniffs out everyone else's secrets, not rushing to unleash a bloodbath for such attempts. On the other hand... it's not for nothing that it's believed that playing with allowing foreign agents to gather information about you and your loved ones, trying to foist disinformation on them, or otherwise exploiting them for your own ends, is playing with fire, a venomous snake, and an untamed man-eating tiger all at once.

You could end up playing the game at any moment. So Urvag had no desire to tolerate strangers' spies near his family, even if they knew their limits for now. For now, their only salvation was the comparatively "polite" nature of their surveillance, staying within those unspoken boundaries beyond which they could begin to spill blood and mysteriously disappear on everyone and everything. And also the fact that most of the most brazen surveillance was directed at Stae, not Maega or Singha. And while he might well strike sharply and mercilessly, doing so would literally sign off on others' suspicions and paint a large banner on Stepan's back: "HE IS THE GROOM." Yes, they were planning to push this very story anyway, but Urvag, and Stepan too, wanted to keep the suspense going for a little while longer.

Naturally, this would have been foolish if Stae had been just that, Stae, the perfect breeding stallion they were trying to make him out to be. Moreover, the shaman wore a hastily cobbled-together amulet from parts purchased from the system, which somewhat dampened his "stallion" quality. Otherwise, they might actually try to kidnap him, no matter what. But kidnapping Stae was one thing, and quite another to kidnap Stepan at full strength and no longer holding back. So, at a general council, they all agreed that it was too early to act rashly, but some hints could be given.

Subtle hints, like the observers who were affected by the alchemical drugs mixed into the air, trigger a reactive and uncontrollable case of bear sickness. The slightest surge of adrenaline or cortisol, a slightly increased heart rate, fright, anger, dread, or something similar—and voila, you have full pants of emotions and a loose bowel. They heeded the hint, even politely asking, in person, what the venerable Urvag would do if he had to treat his loyal, albeit overly persistent, manager and assistant for incontinence. Urvag advised using diapers and being less insistent.

The mother and daughter ensured the alchemy's delivery through the wind currents and drafts. Singha even received a quest with a reward of a five-charge reserve recovery token. Stepan, however, had already applied the enhanced shitting effect, also completing a quest, feeling a bit like a 4chaner. The seemingly primitive and simple effect was, in fact, extremely difficult to remove and tended to gradually relapse even after a full cure. Some might say it was overkill. Even Urvag himself hinted that crippling a highly respected and vengeful man, who dealt with mercenaries on behalf of the client, with constant shitting was a bit excessive. That is, until he received a crystal containing images of what Stepan had pulled from this guy's memory.

The extremely lewd fantasies about Singha and Maega, whom this guy simply dreamed of seeing as dumb, mindwashed whores, are just the tip of the iceberg. These are personal fantasies, the kind you wouldn't kill for. Well, not people who could, with a pure heart and a dirty conscience, be considered "among the best people of the city." But the fact that the venerable Birtrum was gathering information about Stepan not only for the gentleman but also for a couple of other clients, anonymous ones at that, and quite possibly hostile even to his own House—that's a screw-up, a level of utter treason. Gathering information about the "groom" is understandable, but leaking such information to the outside world, and even passing it on to the gentleman, is downright haraam. The venerable father of the family even lamented the fact that he couldn't just report this to his old "comrade" in person.

He didn't forget, however, to copy down several rather important details concerning the inner workings of someone else's house and a couple of confidential deals. And once again, it seemed, he mentally recalculated Stepan's level of prowess as a brainwashing expert. In the hour and a half it took for the silent retinue member with his guards, who had stopped responding to be noticed, to have managed to breach the mind's defenses, actively rummage through his memory, even beneath the oath-protected areas, and erase all traces of his work and report back with frame-by-frame image-recordings? No, that's entirely possible. Sometimes. It's just that the first thought that comes to mind is of another master, even a Master, who can rummage heads just as well.

Therefore, Urvag was forced to admit he wouldn't be able to use this data to strengthen his position. Even though he had memorized it all. Stepan had no doubt that he would later test himself and the crystal for any dastardly methods of influencing. Let him test it; Stepan hadn't done anything particularly shady, and he hadn't intended to. The funny thing is, now all of Morgrave would know that Maega either had a new, unusual contract or had uncovered some of her old tricks for this purpose. Apparently, the shaman could even estimate which of her ancestral summons could be used in this way.

And so the routine days began, during which I sometimes felt like screaming from boredom, standing behind my older comrades, helping the young lady with her pressing problems. Singha, frankly, is far from the most problematic of charges, though she behaves like a typical aristocratic rich girl. And her whims don't compare to those of certain individuals. Those whose fame resounds throughout Morgrave time and again, after which they rebuild a wine house, renovate a brothel, or retrieve the capsized river yacht of the Duke of Mont Ros from the bottom of the Dantra, and it was not the owner who capsized it.

Just for the record: accidentally capsizing a vessel enchanted to the last plank wouldn't have happened, even if you were a completely incompetent yachtsman. Rather, it would have required considerable professionalism to overcome or disable all the protective spells and cause an accident on the water. I can't help but feel a sense of pride for these rich kids – the yacht was capsized by three seasoned universal adepts, a young and promising specialist in amulet systems, and a novice barrier builder. Nice crowd decided to get drunk one evening!

Gradually, the shaman began to invest in the final part of the quest, little by little, gradually substituting his bodily reactions for the tasks required at the end. Slightly constricted blood vessels on the face, or, conversely, dilated ones. A spirit implanted in the vocal cords, causing the voice to tremble and wheeze at certain moments. Another spirit, responsible for the heartbeat and breathing rate. A third, which cast upon him the image of a young man "in love and hiding his feelings." As Singha admitted, when the two of them were completing a small shared assignment to summon the spirits of the underground winds, with a reward of two boxes of expensive consumables and some of her experience bar, she would have definitely fallen for it if she hadn't known beforehand.

In the end, even though nothing was said directly and the shaman behaved with the utmost propriety and didn't allow himself to do anything, Singha's entire retinue, including Master Lavis, did not doubt that Stae had a crush on his mistress, but he didn't dare even show it. As stipulated by the terms of the shared assignment. The rest of the estate thought roughly the same; the isekai's sensitivity allowed him to eavesdrop and pick up all sorts of rumors literally in passing. Master Lavis clearly had his own thoughts on the matter, but he couldn't find fault with Stae, since there was nothing to pick on, so he limited himself to a few admonitions to keep the little bastard in his place. The bastard already knew his place, just as he knew that Master Lavis "knew" the real reason for the bastard's presence near Singha.

In a way, the earthling even found a kind of escape in such a life, allowing him to shed unnecessary responsibility and attempt a relatively normal life. He recalled the courtyard of Master Trabius, where the curses of high-ranking mages could still be heard regularly (Masters Miller and Clementine had almost dueled a couple of times). Alas, the constant need to role-play and maintain secrecy, as well as the heavy workload combined with minimal free time, killed this pleasure in the bud. A special gem was a system message received after completing another short assignment, strictly within his profile, to discreetly check and renew household amulets in at least a third of the de Lomer estate.

The shaman immediately approached Urvag with this quest. Starting without his knowledge would have been cause for conflict. Allowing a gifted individual of his level and specialization to work on amulet structures, even if they were a hundred times more mundane, was already a considerable risk. Finding out that said gifted individual was performing such a feat himself, secretly and without permission, would have been cause for panic and cries of "ALARM, ALARM, BE AWARE OF YOUR ASS AND BRAIN." After careful consideration, Urvag clarified the task and gave Stepan the "order" to work on household amulets in one of the house's outbuildings, a complex of warehouses and businesses belonging to de Lomer. And why not? It's also "premises under the control of the Trading House," and no problems with paranoia and mutual suspicion, as if he'd reached into the heating system in Urvag's private bedroom, for example.

The shaman even received official orders from Master Lavis to take on additional tasks while Singha and his mother performed their ritual, going to check the household amulets. He checked the response, recharged the accumulators... and with a second layer, removing the Shroud, he patched those amulets, empowering and strengthening them, spending an entire sack of offerings and reagents, calling and performing rituals, making the original amulets three to four times more valuable than identical ones, but brand new. A gifted middle-aged woman standing nearby, responsible for the amulets given to Stepan to help, lazily examined her manicured nails, ignoring the aura of the powerful shaman beside her, the spirits curling around her, and her gradually improving health.

Her liver and the areas of her aura responsible for it looked downright sad. It was clear she'd been trying to develop reserves to make her work easier, but she was doing it in a remarkably dull manner. The copious amounts of low-grade Source-stimulating alchemy she'd consumed had not only weakened her control but also made her magically disabled, incapable of anything but work with household amulets. However, she didn't complain and considered it a successful trade, her health and a decade and a half of life for a cushy job within the Trading House.

The remnants of the suggestion, practically erased over the years, that had helped the then-young woman, believing herself to be a "powerful sorceress," come to such a decision and then voluntarily and joyously ruin her gift and health, made the shaman grit his teeth in impotent rage. Simply because the idiot responsible for this matter, who had arranged for his dissolute nephew to take the position of apprentice-in-training of a certified adept of household area that had been tipped for Vanka, had long since died. And his nephew, who had helped pump the poor girl with suggestive alchemy, was also hooked on some kind of crap and had long ago been ignominiously fired from de Lomer's employ. His grave is impossible to find, if only because such scum would end up in a ditch at best.

The Earthman treated the woman—not exactly a beauty, but a solid five out of ten, even pretty—by slamming her with a "Smooth Beauty" token and "Mighty Melons." The latter, because she'd been saving up for almost a year and a half for a boob job. Something normal, something that would at least make her breasts look somewhat natural, rather than ending up with different sizes and deformed nipples, like the dockside whores. Women in this world have some kind of obsession and fixation on boob size, especially among the dark elves—it's literally part of the culture.

The greater one's personal power and authority, the more dignified one's breasts, the less clothing one needs, and there's a whole host of unwritten rules and social nuances involved. For example, one of the most beautiful ways to humiliate a competitor in the eyes of others and herself is considered to be "a shawl of thoughts of extremely proud arrogance," if you translate the idiom into plain English. The nuances of meaning are still lost, but the gist is that the competitor herself comes up with the idea of ​​growing enormous breasts, enormous enough even for a full-fledged Matriarch, demonstrating her superiority. It's considered exquisite trolling, a true masterstroke, according to the books in Sylvia's library!

And when some woman, having just ascended to the position of Senior Catcher, which is the captain of an elite small group of special agents—which is cool but not overly so—suddenly grows breasts larger than her own boss, her boss's boss, and even that very Matriarch. And yet, she's genuinely proud of herself, disdainfully commenting on others' incompetence, unaware of the cloud cast over her consciousness. Because large breasts on someone who doesn't deserve them are no longer considered a sign of superiority, but the ultimate humiliation, the lot of slaves, toys, maids, and other brainwashed whores.

That's it.

//"Bust size as the basis of social hierarchy in a community of eternally living representatives of the social Darwinist matriarchy."

This is literally the title of the book that the shaman read, by the way.

The patient herself, inspecting her nails and forgetting to help or check Ste's work, repaid him for his help by not interfering with the quest, even carrying the bag of supplies over her shoulder. Another quest, a small one, requiring him to compel a woman, still inspecting her nails, to perform an unconscious oral sex on him, was routinely declined. An excellent motivator, reminding him why the hell he'd gotten into this quest of playing lackey in the first place.

And so, as soon as he finished weaving a witch-like enhancement-fixation on another amulet, ensuring freshness and moldlessness, the quest was complete. He gained experience and two whole tokens—"Temporary Minor Resistance Boost" and "Unlimited Groping"—for 10 and 50 uses, and also unlocked two random knowledge. It was precisely this random knowledge that made him want to swear, not just angrily and slightly hysterically laugh, because his prophecy had finally come true. Although Stepan was no prophet by class or skill.

Received: "Basics of working with household amulet systems", "Advanced Basics of working with household amulet systems".

Upon returning, he had to feign exhaustion from work and lie down for five hours to absorb the double promotion. In reality, it wasn't so useless. The synergies were still there, so he gleaned a surprising amount from this knowledge. First, of course, there were undercover operations and assassinations, as well as brainwashing in a variety of ways. It was no accident that he'd already known that through household weaving and spells, by concealing their effects in the background, one could pull off an incredible number of deadly combinations. Dangerous for the owner of the household systems, of course, but not for the one executing them.

Special witchcraft spells transform amulets into concentrators and resonators of territorial control, making it very subtle. The caster's land is literally represented by these amulets, the space and territory they occupy. And from the amulets emanate warming auras, cleansing weaves, or barriers that isolate the stench of the toilet... and these effects also become extensions of the caster's will and power. It's as if they subjugate the land around them just as much as household effects. A rather extraordinary trick, requiring a specifically shamanistic and witchcraft approach to intelligence work. And such influences are best performed outside the body, in person or through a specific spirits.

And there are various spirits too. Some very interesting contracts have opened up, right up to the supreme entities, especially auto-divine ones, washing the mind through those very household amulets. One particularly interesting entity is extremely unhurried, with aspects of matter and pure energy, which is very rare in a single spirit. It is even rarer if the spirit belongs to the Sphere of Change. The entity covers the entire contour of the amulets' work, even an entire estate or a palace, with a powerful field of a suggestive type, and then begins to influence both the mind and the body. Moreover, the power of the spirit is such that it fully corresponds to the supreme rank reflected in its status.

The spirit distorts matter and minds in a manner characteristic of autogodess contracts, that is, in an extremely smutty way. Clothes will become tighter, necklines will become lower, skirts will become shorter, nipples will be pierced, favorite writing pens will turn into vibrating dildos, and security guards' batons will become the combat dildos. Perhaps even enchanted with all sorts of vulgar and non-lethal crap, like the gifts to the Auto-goddess once burned by Stepan. And women themselves will become more beautiful and promiscuous, and men more feminine and refined, until it becomes impossible to distinguish them from women. Partly because by that time, they will no longer have penises. They will disappear naturally.

It all ended with a general distraction, normalization, and cohesive effect. The longer you stay in the control zone, the less desire and reason you have to leave it. Even food in warehouses will appear on its own, coming out of nowhere, or rather, being transported from some other spaces and even worlds, where someone will discover the loss in their own warehouse. So any flatbread (completely edible and harmless) transported from another world will be worth its weight in diamonds or three times its volume in gold, such is the power of high magic, but the spirit can handle it. The result is a kind of brothel where everyone has sex with each other, and anyone who enters can join in. Until the spirit fulfills its calling and leaves its abode, leaving the brothel in place. Only now, without normalization... Another thing is that by that moment, all the spirit's victims are firmly convinced that everything is normal, that it has always been this way, and who are these strange people anyway, don't they want to go and have sex?

Even despite the extreme perversity of Her All-Milfness's contracts, every time my brain boils over from trying to comprehend the complexity and power of her cheerful little contracts, jokes, and all that. And that's not even mentioning the meta-effects, which are fundamentally impossible to analyze! If he had access to such a contract, but of a utilitarian or even combat type, he would invest in it in a heartbeat. Alas, so far, all the “great” calls are perverted beyond belief. And the contracts themselves are extremely limited, so they cannot be used for anything normal, devoid of the vibes of Great Milf.

Or you'll have to deal with the discontent of a great spirit, which could easily crush even the current Stepan with a couple of insignificant attacks. Well, okay, in his place of power, with all his artifacts, bonuses, and tokens, with the help of Maega and Singha, as well as their altar, he could hold out for a few minutes, but he'll still lose for sure. It's not a fact that all of Morgraf will be able to fight off such an entity if it is summoned. That is, it can fight back. If the spirit is not the strongest for its status rank, but it would be good if a third of the city remains by that time. Although... if they wait, if they remove all barriers to paranoia and overload, if they bring in mages through the portal and prepare for battle, then yes. Then anything can happen, but it certainly won't be easy.

"To be honest, I'm pleasantly surprised by how useful these household systems of yours can be," he finished telling the story of his quest to Singha and Urvag while Maega was recovering from her recent call, no doubt envious of her own now much stronger and more skilled daughter, who had held her almost on par, but hadn't been completely overwhelmed, simply tired. "And I've also clearly realized that I won't overdo it with household amulets or calls. There's so much you can spin up there."

Urvag just chuckled at this, recounting a story from his own life. During a routine renovation of the estate, which was tied to a massive strengthening of security throughout the city, just after a marauding raid by Islanders, an extra warming amulet was found in a wall. Extra in the sense that it wasn't on any of the plans. However, it was woven into the overall outline and felt like a completely authentic part of it. If not for the meticulous steward/valet, who demanded that every trinket removed from its grooves in the walls be labeled and numbered, so that it could then be either sold, used for materials, or thrown away and destroyed, no one would have even thought to properly check this extra amulet.

The amulet turned out to be dual-purpose. A highly effective eavesdropping and scanning device is covering one of the conference rooms. Urvag's hair nearly turned gray when he realized what they could hear through this amulet. He immediately ordered a search for a transmission point. This type of amulet requires a repeater, as stealth and reliability, as well as transmission quality, come at the cost of range. The cache was found in an old stable, right under a waste container, and had never been visited since its creation. For almost five years, this amulet recorded everything that was happening, storing it in a truly top-of-the-line artifact with a ton of automatically rotating recording crystals. Incidentally, the spare crystals would have lasted another couple of years.

"I didn't sell it. It's a rare thing, the kind you wouldn't sell for money," he said, chuckling, though it was clear he wasn't exactly laughing at the time. "I kept it for myself. Maega, a kind soul, heeded the request and checked the machine over thoroughly, though it wasn't her forte. Runes and mechanics, dwarven work, dark dwarves at that. Who installed it? Why? Why didn't they take it? They never quite figured it out. It seemed like a coincidence that a stable boy was killed in a mock fight at the fair, just at the right time. Apparently, he was supposed to pick up the records, but it's impossible to ask. In the grave, which I ordered dug up without further explanation, a completely different body of some vagabond had already rotted."

Stepan even considered how he would try to find the ends of this thread. Singha joined in. They even agreed, later, if the opportunity arose, not now, to try conducting some searching rituals, using their new skills, but that was more for the sake of conversation. Stepan, who was now officially dozing in his room, even cast a powerful illusion—the image, the sound of snoring and breathing, warmth, and aura imprints, relaxed a bit after the day's worries. Singha had visited again, and the visit had been difficult. A couple of her very dear friends were there, the kind she would have personally squeezed their throat, so Stepan spent the entire banquet watching to make sure nothing out of the ordinary happened.

It didn't happen. There weren't even any attempts. Except for the venom in their words and the hints disguised as sweet chatter, and a case of acute food poisoning, but that was simply due to overeating. But no matter, the healers quickly took him away and returned him alive, cheerful, healthy, and with a clean bowel. If the banquet had lasted just a couple more hours, he would have had time to start a new round.

Otherwise, the work was more or less the same. The most exciting task was finding a missing member of the retinue. He'd been sent for half a day to attend his nephew's betrothal, but he hadn't returned even by evening. Seven of them, tough pals armed and with wands, with Stepan on top, as the final argument. Or rather, as "that little guy who needs some experience." And they found their lost man after three hours of intense searching. They found him in the backyard of a perfectly respectable tavern, where he'd managed to settle into a cozy corner, snoring loudly, filling everyone around him with the smell of booze.

A quick check of the amulets for any influence showed nothing, and after kicking the pothead for appearances' sake, he was brought back under Urvag's watchful eye. Urvag stared intently with those eyes because the amulets of the group's leader, nicknamed Shard, found no traces of influence. But the shaman's spirits found it, and only because Stepan initially wanted to practice a little so as not to waste time. This type of intoxication was unnaturally powerful, and part of the memory was carefully obscured. Through joint efforts, they restored that memory for themselves, recording it on the totem amulet, but not for the victim, whose hangover only got worse. And it didn't become any clearer.

A strange guest at the party, one of those people you can't figure out who invited. Equally strange questions, completely unclear what they're about. Among other things, they spent a good twenty minutes chatting about what perfumes and incense all kinds of “noble ladies” like to smear themselves with to make themselves smell less. It seemed like nothing special, but Maega decided to temporarily change her perfume and not buy from her usual trusted supplier for the time being. On the one hand, it's obvious to everyone where she gets her cosmetics, especially incense, so asking such questions is simply stupid; it's easier to just give the owner of the fragrance workshop a bribe. But the level of professionalism with which they worked on the courtier and the stealth with which they pulled it off was a little disturbing. Yeah, just a little.

* * *

Everyone's first time is remembered forever, no matter what the first time was. Stepan will never forget his first fight to the death. Even if he could easily disembowel that beast with a flick of his eyebrow now. He won't forget his first kill either, even though it was a relatively minor incident for him and had no impact on his future life, aside from the lesson about the cruelty of the world. His metaphorical butt will certainly never stop burning, recalling his meeting with Truda and Lashka, as well as his first experience of perversely sexualized brainwashing on the receiving end. He's sure he'll remember this day, too, where he had his first time again. The first time, when well-trained and superbly armed, silent and stern men tried to kidnap him.

And one halfling.

This time, Singha was deigning to relax and read an interesting book, an adventure novel about a very successful and very real merchant captain. He, in fact, had begged to borrow this book, too, and he had begged publicly. He looked too closely at the cover, and one of the smart guys in the retinue asked if he was "looking so eagerly at the book." Singha heard him, and then there was no point in remaining silent, so he answered honestly, stammering and blushing so much that anyone would know he wasn't looking at the book. Singha appreciated the joke, blushing slightly, and she allowed him to borrow the book. She is good. He, even at a superficial glance, didn't notice which way she was feigning her own embarrassment.

She blushed even more deeply, then grew genuinely angry, dismissing her entire entourage, who had nothing better to do, and demanding they leave her alone. Master Lavis, carefully suppressing his smile, quickly found Stae a job far away. He assigned two fighters to accompany him and sent him shopping. Including 9Cherepok, who, by the way, was actually from Urvag's personal entourage, bound by a blood oath. Sweets, more beads, a few bones from distant jungles, a large pumpkin-shaped bottle of a wildly powerful alcoholic tincture made from Caliphate cacti—he bought all this, even haggling, appealing to pity where necessary, and boasting where necessary that he wore a coat of arms embroidered on his clothes, while they were trying to palm off deadstock on him.

Obviously, both he and Urvag, with his family, understood perfectly well that the day might well come when he would fall victim to either kidnapping or assassination. It wasn't the highest price to pay for completing the mega-quest. Especially since they would be going after Stфe, not Stepan. He was ready. He constantly carried protection under his Shroud and an activator-evacuator on a short lever so he could take off almost instantly. And then, whether it was cognitive distortion or some other crap that hit him in the head, he was too eagerly awaiting an attempt to kidnap someone beautiful and inconspicuous. Let it not be a love spell, although that too, because too often all kinds of insolent scum try to fuck his brain, but in a similar paradigm.

A sudden attack from a distance, a mental blow, a multi-component compound sprayed into the air, and the like. Again, cognitive distortion. Something like this could be expected in an attack on Stepan, but not on Stae. That's why he was unspeakably surprised when they began to kidnap him in the most banal and brutal way. Of course, he saw these guys — two behind the walls of the shop, three more walking towards him, arguing actively, but not forgetting to scan everyone around with an attentive gaze. The problem was that he didn't perceive them as a threat, because he had two bodyguards with him, and he himself could take down all five of them without even breaking a sweat.

But they were aiming for Stae, for Stae, damn it, not for Stepan! So there was a certain element of surprise for the enemy. And they chose the moment well. Right in the middle of a not-too-crowded alley, which was also covered by a noise-canceling field complemented by an illusory screen showing figures continuing to walk toward them and peacefully dispersing. This cover happened after a magical ultrasonic attack hit their ears and a paralyzing amulet flew into their faces. And he wasn't the only one, it should be said! The first guard didn't even squeak as he walked. He just fell, passing out on the spot, and a lead ball was already flying towards the back of his head. Enchanted so that only a stain would remain from his head if this junk hit the flesh.

Shard didn't miss a beat. Silently, without even batting an eye, he knocked the amulet aside and used telekinesis from his wand to deflect the ball from his comrade's head. The sonic blast was blocked by the red-hot amulet earring in his ear, but it still knocked him back a little. He was knocked back much harder when a couple of fighters rushed at him, trying to cut him down quickly. They rushed in, and they flew back. One stared thoughtfully at the dagger sticking out of his forehead, while the other clutched his pierced liver with his hand. Shard also clutched something. Not his liver, but the inside of his thigh, which had been cut to the bone, and the blood did not stop flowing, despite the pressure or the healing amulets working at their limit.

The blow was not delivered by the dying man in rapid agony, but by the third one who had slipped behind them, the halfling. Short, but damn fast and agile! He would surely have been proud of himself if he had lived a little longer. And no, Shard's desperate knife throw did not stop him, just as it did not stop the other two who came out through the walls that had literally crumbled to dust under the effect of the amulets. The halfling just suddenly gasped, opened his mouth wide, and then vomited and turned his lungs inside out. It was a nasty sight, very disgusting, but the powerful spirit of the suffocating wind had only just begun. And the other two powerful spirits, who had disabled the enemy's amulets, had already finished by this point and immediately left.

All three summonses were made by the shaman, but he did so in such a way that they could be mistaken for the protective work that the mother and daughter de Lomer assigned for monitoring. The remaining pair quickly turned blue and choked on blood when their lungs were completely vacuumed, collapsing to the ground. But Stae, the good guy, was already helping the pale Shard clamp the wound, trying to weaken the effect of the curse placed on the steel, staying within the limits of what Stae could do. He did not pass out because another spirit, also not weak, covered his ears from the howling and intercepted and deflected the amulet with a stream of wind, directing it into the wall.

In fact, that's exactly what he told the guards, who had arrived rather quickly when they heard someone scream. No, that was a lie. They hadn't come running in response to screams, but to the echo of self-incarnated entities of similar caliber. Help from the estate arrived only slightly late, as Shard summoned them almost immediately. He would have called even without it, but his signal had initially been blocked by a special short-range amulet system. And despite his blood loss (which eventually stopped thanks to an incompetent spellcaster who had leaped above his weight), he persistently argued with the guards, whose captain was gazing greedily at the expensive toy, which he desperately wanted to register as evidence and keep for himself until the circumstances were clarified.

The foreman-commander shoved his desires up his ass, rolling them into a tube. Urvag's people knew their business. The showdown didn't last very long, less than an hour, before they were all released, only to be asked later, when they had time, to come back and sign everything in more detail. Of course, they would send someone, so as not to distract the respected servants and employees of the venerable House of de Lomer. Shard, pale from blood loss, was promised a week of rest and a large bonus after his recovery, while Stae, equally pale from excitement, was promised a chance to sleep after arriving at the estate, and then they all went home together as a friendly crowd. They didn't forget to take their purchases with them, by the way.

The fruits in syrup turned out to be unforgivably delicious.

"A well-coordinated team, originally from Endoras. There, they belong to the local Mercenary Guild. They came to Morgrave specifically for the job, intending to finish quickly and get back under the wing of the bribed officials from the city council." Stepan, now officially asleep in his tiny room and dreaming his third dream, summarized the results of his calls, rolling an amber ball in his hands, containing a drop of blood from each of the five kidnappers. "They received the order through a reliable intermediary. Payment in gold through an anonymous bank account at the Bank of Undermountain. The intermediary left the city through a portal just six minutes after the guards arrived, arriving at the trade embassy at the last minute, but he paid for the place in advance. As with a couple of others who had already left. A prudent man."

Urvag, listening to this story, was also rolling an object in his hands—not amber, but an enchanted ruby ​​the size of a pigeon's egg, a magical trinket purchased by Singha that simplified the search rituals involving blood and wild magic. For one of the system quests, though she didn't reveal which, her "access to system purchases" had been raised to level three. If Sylvia, as a specialist in blood magic specifically, had been brought in, the council would have been complete, but the bloodsucker was busy in Dantmark.

"Can we get him?" the father of the family clarified. He was asking Maega rather than Stepan and then answered himself. "We can get him. I have a couple of contacts in Normgrave, where that sly fellow went. If he revealed even a fraction of his aura upon exiting, I'll have a cast by the end of the week. Those contacts won't commit an outright crime. Not for the money I'm offering them, but this is literally breaking Confederate law; they'll even use it during interrogation as a means of serving the cause of justice. Even if he disguised his aura... No, the enchantments at the entrances and exits to the portal halls are too good; they made a cast. I hope so."

And then they'll have a chance to find the mastermind. If the middleman hasn't drowned somewhere at the bottom of the Middle Sea. However, the level of intrigue here isn't high enough to warrant such radical cleansing methods. The shaman wasn't opposed to helping Urvag. And he, like the better part of his family, was quite positive about the opportunity to take the family's enemy by the throat without putting in excessive personal effort. Maega also reacted negatively, but calmly. They'd discussed it and had expected something similar. It's just that the kidnapping wasn't expected to be as active and well-prepared. They hired real professionals, not the nearest gang of kidnappers, who would have handled it quite well. If only the boy were the one he looked like..

Singha was blazing with a stormy rage, giving the shaman the image of a cloud bearing down on him, black and oppressive, without lightning, without even rain, only a wall of dust and leaves raised by a harsh wind, ready to wear away flesh to the bone. No wonder. Since she, having miraculously escaped the slave markets of Kuordemar through the skill of elven saboteurs, had, to put it mildly, a fierce aversion to those who insist on inviting others to visit without their consent. So the allied people were now unanimous in their intentions.

"So, let's set the work?"

And they set to work.

Actually, no, not right away. At first, everything was going as usual. Except for the epically long list of people wanting to talk to Stae and ask him a few questions. Some out of curiosity, some just pretending to be curious, and some just because everyone was asking, so they'd ask, lest they pay them for it. On the downside, everyone who wanted to know was now convinced that Stae wasn't just a candidate for breeding stallions, but practically officially approved for an honorary position. Because no one would have forced Maega to assign so many guardian spirits to a simple, gifted student just for the sake of a simple disciple.

Another negative element was that the roleplaying itself now prevented him from leaving the estate, because there was no reason or logic for the recently nearly kidnapped individual to leave that estate. On the other hand, he managed to drink some islander rum with Shard, who accepted his gift bottle and treated the shaman with a huge smoked ham and a huge fresh lavash, topped with still-hot fried sausages. Because yes, Shard had saved his charge from being kidnapped, and solely because, for an unfunny joke, he had been put to work running errands that day, instead of the cushy work around the estate that was typical of a "personal guard." He had saved him, but Stae had also saved him, stopping the bleeding and dispelling the effect of the incessant life drain, so they owed each other a debt.

99At the same time, I found out why everyone calls the big guy strictly by his nickname, Skull.

The aura casts were indeed delivered to Urvagu by courier, along with best wishes, assurances of eternal friendship, and a reminder not to abuse the friendship with the head of the Normgrave portal service. The message was clearly conveyed in a letter, not in person. The courier did not forget to pick up a small box with “thanks,” and the box contained not coins, but quite small magical stones, highly prized by magicians. Especially those of the specialty that the head of that very service had. In response to the shaman's offer to pay for the expense with the same stones, only purchased through the system, Urvag looked at him wearily and asked him to listen less to anecdotes about merchants and Trading Houses. Not all of them are true.

And he left the meeting room with dignity.

Singha, also not without dignity and with great pleasure, retold him a number of those very anecdotes. Stepan especially liked the one about the merchants who offered to sell the Horde warriors besieging their estate a good battering ram at a discount. Since they hadn't brought their own. Maega even let a hint of sarcasm slip into her voice for the first time, noting that this was not a fabrication, but a real event, only instead of an estate, an entire city was stormed.

Stepan assessed the casts he received as “mediocre” at best, but he had time while Stae wasn't busy. The family healer's slightly skewed perception led the old adept to diagnose Stae with severe overexertion. He had strained himself so much pulling out Shard that he nearly burned out. That's why the big guy was so grateful to the kid, literally assuring him that if he ever needed to bury someone's corpse outside of work, not from the House, he would be ready to help without asking any questions. Usually, such words and oaths are forgotten by the time the swearing person sobers up, but Shard said his words after the first shot, and he was not joking at all.

As a result, while Stae lay in a healing sleep for twelve hours a day, which Maega personally induced, simply out of natural philanthropy, of course, for no other reason, yes, yes, Stepan, who had left the mannequin doll in bed, worked like a horse. He hardly even thought of Singha as a mare anymore, but she, too, was working hard, even if she disguised it as her own personal projects. The shaman even sat on the outer wall of the White Yurt, invisible, serving as a resonator for a very nasty call from the blessing spirits. There is such a blessing spirit that is worse than a cursing spirit in many ways. He had to help. Otherwise, even Singha would not have dared to call him with Maega. More precisely, her mother would not have helped, because the creature would have attacked at the call of a group of blood relatives. It has a sphere of blessed unity and aspects of kinship and hunger, and it simply devours any relatives.

The images themselves would not have been helpful. They were of poor quality. The mediator successfully concealed some of the subtle bodies, but only some. There were also the corpses of the attackers, who had received an advance payment from the mediator and bound themselves with ties of debt and duty, payment and work. With this, it was possible to proceed, however complicated it may sound. The summoning of several extremely specific spirits and a one-time appeal to the senior entity that came to Stepan's underground refuge, under the eyes of his guardian spirits and within the circle of protective totems. The entity looked like a cloud, not even of smoke, but of haze, like a mirage in the hot desert air. Mirage was what had once given birth to the spirit. Given birth, but it had managed to stray so far from its original nature that it no longer had anything in common with its original nature for many epochs, except for the hot desert sand necessary for the summoning.

The secretly purchased corpses of the dead slowly... well, let's say they burned, although that's not quite the right term. Rather, they simply scattered into a haze, like a mirage, while the entity, undoubtedly evil and cruel, slowly did its work. The spirit simply followed the paths of invisible connections, as unreal as mirages, but no less real for that. Working with abstractions, applied cannibalistic clairvoyance in the wildest form possible. And the haze of dead bodies turned into barely discernible threads, threads that flowed into the stone walls and floated unimaginably far, to the other end of the Confederation, all the way to Lodermark. A small town, not even considered truly free, and without its own portal. It was there that the mediator found a refuge. It was there that he rushed when he realized he had gotten himself into too much dangerous shit.

Of course, the spirit didn't show them a point on the map, but rather an image of the city from above, and then they had to look for matches. There was a very noticeable temple of Life-Giver in the city, with distinctive architecture in the form of a rather vulgar statue instead of a weather vane on the roof. That's how Urvag recognized the place. The spirit also showed them the relatively modest mansion where the target was hiding, so the three shamans exchanged glances and then resolutely arranged a training session on leaving their bodies.

It was time for Singha to master new heights of this art, which was so significant for shamans. Stepan burned with a thirst for revenge and was also eager to practice leaving his body, while for Maega, it was not the first time to love the body to punish the bastard who had laid hands on her loved ones. And even though this time the bastard had only attacked the image-mask of her “future son-in-law,” that didn't matter to her. A true child of her own world, she did not know how to forgive, and she did not consider her chosen target worthy of forgiveness.

Setting out for the first time to move toward a goal outside the body and with someone else's company, the shaman approached the task with extreme caution and diligence. He prepared as if for war. This rubbed off on his partners. They looked at the list of what he intended to do (it was incomplete; he left out a couple of secrets in case of betrayal, even though he didn't really believe in it) and were impressed, deciding not to let themselves down. Well, Maega also thought this would be good training for Tablet of her beloved daughter, and might even increase her knowledge, which was key for a shaman.

They were preparing for battle, not an expedition, so no one wanted to expend a lot of energy on the journey from Morgrave to Lodermark. Even if that journey would be out of the body. They took the easier route, using a method Stepan was already familiar with, which made both shamans nervous. First, one of the couriers from the Messengers Guild received additional mental processing, very subtle and very delicate. No check would reveal it, except for the most thorough one. The man simply received one additional package, including payment for it. And when he arrived at the portal point, he first delivered the rest of the packages to their addresses, and then felt a wild desire to go into the nearest deserted alley and leave a package the size of a brick there.

He left it and forgot about it, going on business.

The brick grew legs, like an insect, and rushed toward the nearest river. Not the Dantra, of course, but a fairly large stream, into which the wooden floating brick fell, drifting away from the city. There, after climbing back onto the shore, the creature continued to execute its programmed actions, opening up like a flower. The rattle inside, made of bright glass beads and pebbles, quickly attracted the attention of a curious crow, which grabbed the shiny object and fell under its control. Having received a charge of healing magic, the bird easily and without injury flew to Lodermark, where it threw away the now boring and dull trinket and flew back.

By the way, to ensure the bird was not injured or mistreated, he had to sign a couple of additional small contracts, which made Maega look at him strangely. But, damn it, he wasn't going to hurt the bird. It certainly hadn't done anything to him. And the experience would earn itself. Not to mention that part of the shaman was frankly thrilled by the opportunity to legally skip out on his servile daily routine without breaking character or violating the terms of the quest. To be honest, he didn't feel so much pity for the bird as he did pleasure at the opportunity to call a little more just for the sake of it, because he could and because he had a reason.

And so, a day later, a couple of kilometers from the city wall, in the midst of the spiritual reflection of the world, the high spheres became distorted. It was as if a window had appeared there, no, simply a piece of reality began to exist in two places at once. In the slums of Morgraму, in an inconspicuous alley, and here, outside the city wall. The World of Spheres was pliable and light, bending like clay, accepting the imposed law. And the three incorporeal shamans had only been in the slums of Morgrave, but now they were here, next to Lordmark.

\\“I will definitely remember this method. And I won't hide it. I will use it myself.” Maega is very, very pleased because Stepan has given her all the necessary techniques to pull off something similar with her own contracts and skills, even if she has to work harder to compensate for her lack of deep knowledge of witchcraft and the predominantly aerial nature of contracts. “I am grateful. And embarrassed. By something you don't even realize. What exactly. You gave me. Just like that.”

Oh yes. She would feel much more comfortable if Stepan had demanded something important in exchange for a complete manual, which could be considered secret knowledge and ancestral arcane. Otherwise, she feels obligated again, and she doesn't like being obligated. Unless, of course, she takes other people's gifts for granted. A gift from the weak to the strong. But the shaman does not consider himself incredibly generous. She can do something similar, teleportation-piercings that only affect immaterial entities, through the World of Spheres. She simply leans on the altar and flashes these piercings. The earthling's methodology allows her to target beacons unnoticed, secretly, and relatively quickly. The necessary contracts, the specifics of the calls, the peculiarities of the protective feature, the personal influence of the spiritual body — she can repeat all of this right now, if she practices. She just had to think about such a method, and that takes years, if not generations, of work.

Or a couple of months of active development for her daughter, who sooner or later will have to acquire the same knowledge. So what's the point of keeping such small secrets, when it would be easier and more profitable to simply ask Maega to provide preparation for the shifting transitional marker next time? And she would even be grateful to him for giving her work! Sometimes he felt like a real villain, and he liked being one.

\\“The goal is here.” He transmits his images, checking the spirits following him, starting with a couple of jellyfish, Left and Right, continuing with other battle summons for combat in the middle of the spheres, ending with a flock of spirits for mental or posthumous interrogation. "Guidance. Movement. Caution. Don't get involved, ladies. I don't like him hanging around here all the time. It's easier to hide in a big city. Easier. More understandable."

This topic had been discussed many times before. His fears were not entirely shared, but they were understood and not underestimated. Maega was not inclined to underestimate the enemy. She could despise, consider them shit, and insult them in every way possible; she loved and practiced this, but she did not underestimate them, no. And something strange also seemed to the three of them, or even four, if you count Urvaga. Or five, if you count Sylvia. She was unexpectedly helped by having a puppet in Lodermark, one of those who didn't even know what was being instilled in them through their blood. The puppet had simply become useless and was released, and the man himself decided to settle here after Dantmark. As a result, the bloodsucker unwittingly knew several important things about the city, things that were important and further exacerbated Stepan's extensive paranoia.

After the demonic scum, his paranoia never sleeps and doesn’t close his eyes to take a nap, which suits him in many ways.

Sylvia, by the way, is also in paranoid mode right now. She suspects that at any moment they might try to crush her completely and enslave her, which would force Stepan to distract himself and work on the problem of Lady de Fell, to get rid of her. And a visit from her fellow dieters, the undead and powerful, is also still possible. The Dead North has been showing an unhealthy interest in Dantmark lately. So the main bloodsucker and her girls are busy day after day. The only one who is having fun and letting loose is Yula. She reached level sixteen and managed to master “short combat positioning shift,” receiving a minor knowledge as a reward for the quest.

Well, Big Tits is also happy. But, first of all, she has been brainwashed, and secondly, Stepan absurdly thought that Yula, who teleported a load of bird shit right into the mouth of the former big boss, Travushka himself, who was in charge of drugs, was much happier. How little some people need for happiness! Just the absence of pain, stable health, access to the normal benefits of life, and the opportunity to feed a sincerely hated bastard with shit at any desired moment. However, the girl had no intention of killing Travushka. According to her, he was a real bastard, but the others were no better, and at least when he was a boss, they weren't cutting the throats of everyone involved and not so involved.

No, no, she didn't forgive him or show him mercy. She just decided to hold off on revenge until she could smoothly remove the monster and find a way to avoid turning everything into a bloodbath. She knows that De Fell will soon be putting a collar on the “bloody bitch,” and she also knows that Stepan and Sylvia have something to say in response. In that murky water, she intends to finally settle the score with the monster who regularly works young vagrants to death from intoxication, and transfer control of the city's criminal underworld to Sylvia's puppet. She now has more puppets, thanks to her and her nest's ability to influence minds. Especially Lemira, who is almost more dangerous than her bloody mother in this regard.

But the affairs of Dantmark remained in Dantmark, while here, in Lordmark, the shamans had their own problems. Moreover, the shaman noticed them not without difficulty, but with certainty, simply through intelligence and checks. Again, Sylvia's hints, who knew about the local catacombs, affected the speed of discovering the trickery. The local underground passages were not very extensive. They were practically abandoned because they had collapsed after several earthquakes caused by a conflict with the most powerful local gifted geomancer, who, after the conflict, moved back to Neirat, from whence he had come. That was a hundred and fifty years ago, but now only a few sections of the catacombs, which had been the heart of local crime and almost a second city, remained, inhabited by beggars and the same criminals.

But thanks to this knowledge, the shaman initially looked underground beneath the mansion he needed, finding there what had been hidden. And it was well hidden, primarily from the Wind and Air. From the search by the spirits of these Spheres, and from shamanism in general. Maega also noticed it, and so did Singha, but only after he asked her to look more closely and made it clear what exactly to look for. And yet, unlike him, they did not understand the depth of the problem. But Stepan, chanting and summoning flocks of underground sensors, already understood and was becoming increasingly nervous. A group of earthworms, which he summoned for analysis, seven strong swarm-type spirits, quickly found all the weak points of the alien spells and analyzed them.

These spirits did not crawl through the earth; they were the earth. They did not change their position relative to the earth, but rather the position of the earth around them. For example, a worm might be in a section consisting of rock and earth, and a moment later it would consist entirely of rock three meters below. It's a super mind-blowing way to move around, but that's where their power lies. As long as part of the surrounding world remains in the spirit's body, that spirit can analyze and understand that part on a super deep level.

Enough to uncover a solid three-layer disguise against shamans, specifically one particular shaman and her daughter. Enough to notice the extremely well-hidden sensory weaves that were supposed to react to the presence of the embedded template—Maega's personal spiritual imprint. Respond and activate a trap, an extremely unpleasant trap, quite capable of killing with a single blow the disembodied spirit of an almost magister who had come to take revenge for meddling in the affairs of her blood.

\\"Auro-spiritual bombs of the crystalline type. Resonant destruction of subtle bodies and forced infusion of energy with the harsh force of hardness and the energy of the Underground. Powerful. Cunning. Dangerous. Terrible.“ The shaman sums up, already finishing defusing these mines, capable of killing not only Maega and Singha, but half the neighborhood if they go off at the wrong time. ”Suppressing. Closing. Cutting off. Sacrificing."

An entity on the border of the elder summoned into reality for precisely this purpose was put under contract, seven summonses no more than once per season, without a time limit, without the right of transfer, to consume some kind of mine, a magical trap, or a large amount of magic-infused toxin. In less than a second, all three of them felt as if a hot cow's tongue had run over them, over their fleshless spiritual bodies, for the spirit had the sphere of a horned beast. And after that, nothing changed. Everything remained the same, except that several black crystals, as dark as night and as fragile as a mixture of ice and glass, disappeared without a trace from special recesses under the foundation of the mansion occupied by the fugitive mediator.

\\“Now let's check. One more time. And let's start asking questions.” Quite discouraged and, let's be honest, a little scared, no matter how much she tried to hide it, Maega just nodded in agreement. Singha, whose mother had been targeted for murder, was burning with righteous vengeance. “I'll lead the way. There may be something else here. Against you. Better to be safe than sorry. Wait here. Far away.”

Both shamans took this suggestion as an insult. They exchanged glances for a while, reaching a compromise whereby Stepan would still conduct the inspection, but they would follow behind and provide cover. Nothing else was needed, and the quietly slurping, rather lousy bourbon, a typical forty-year-old man who looked like a merchant, an official, and a wealthy craftsman all at once, quietly and peacefully fell forehead-first onto the table under the shaman's suggestive influence. There were no traps or sensors in the building itself, only mediocre magical protection, installed by the man himself.

After about six hours, at dawn, the interrogation of the unconscious body was over. The body itself died quietly and peacefully of a heart attack. The shaman, having seen enough of someone else's memories, felt no pity. Rather, he regretted that there was no way to do something terrible to the monster without arousing suspicion, and the three shamans returned to their bodies, reactivating the very same passage, destroying it behind them, and erasing all traces. The butterfly-evacuator, brazenly stolen from the earthling, was of no use to anyone, nor were its two counterparts. Stepan came to his senses quickly, thanks to the alchemy he had purchased from the store, while his comrades recovered only a little later, and only because they had to walk from their yurt. The discussion itself also took quite a long time, but the main issues were resolved very quickly.

No one seemed happy, nor was anyone; the situation was too unpleasant. If Stepan had been Stae, it could have ended even more unpleasantly.

So, the order to kidnap Stae came from two sources at once. From one of Urvag's old “friends,” whom he had pushed aside many years ago, precisely because of the presence of a master shaman, who was getting close to the magister. The man does not hesitate to cause trouble, big or small, despite the fact that his father had already tried to cause trouble for Urvag, but died before he could. He died from old curses and general infirmity, not from the help of Maega. That guy was almost a century older than Urvag, even his son was older than Urvag.

These merchants did not want to kill him. That was specifically agreed upon. They simply intended to take Stae as a hostage and return him in exchange for revoking the oath he had been forced to take: “not to set foot in Morgrave.” They wanted to return to the Pearl of Seaside. Not to sit on the shore of the bay or visit local brothels. He wanted to regain the markets that had been lost and already partially divided between de Lomer, de Radmar, and de Arbes. And the kidnapping of the “groom” did not directly harm the Maega family. He was not yet a groom and had not even been officially accepted as such, so it was possible to play around with the vows a little. There would have been some effect, but knowing the skill of the local magicians in breaking their own vows, and also assessing the insignificance of the violation, it was decided to disregard the consequences.

Everything was clear here and raised no questions, not even anger. Just tired irritation and “I told you so” from Maega. This “I told you so” meant that she had suggested killing them all back then, this particular branch of the family, and Urvag would have helped someone less categorical and more prudent take the place of the branch head. He didn't do it, he didn't take the risk, and they already looked askance at de Lomer for his aggressive policy towards those who dared to touch their family. Maega knew no compromises, but Urvag understood that if he proved himself too uncompromising, they would deal with him. Regardless of the damage to his reputation and physical well-being. At best, he would manage to escape and then live off his wife in the steppe... Perhaps that was why Maega was so keen on conflict.

Love is love, but genuine, mutually sincere feelings, not mutual sympathy and calculation, didn't develop immediately. They took a long time to get used to each other's personalities.

The second order came from Steppe. Urvag even knew one of the family members who had placed the order. Yes, yes, the very same batyr who had treated Stepan with contempt and had almost physically assaulted him. Or rather, the order had been placed by his father. Urvag's long-time partner and reliable contractor in the Steppes, Sakhym-Labay, damn. This one did not ask for a hostage. Rather, his order was to free up a vacant spot for such an enviable bride. Urvag believed this right away. He had even considered this possibility before the kidnapping attempt, because he understood roughly how much this family wanted to connect their bloodline not with de Lomer but with an ancient line of hereditary shamans, one of the oldest in the Steppe.

He didn't believe that they had set a trap for Maega. There was such friendship between the families, reinforced by oaths and agreements, that it would have been easier for Sakhym to bite off his own balls than to so obviously betray those agreements and friendship. The interrogation of the mediator, Ruvik Cholsky, who was named after his village of Chol rather than his noble surname, confirmed Urvag's opinion. There was also a third person who found Ruvik after the operation failed and convinced him to wait in his hideout for a month, paying him well for it.

Of course, the man understood that he was being used as bait, and he had heard about how Maega took revenge, but he couldn't refuse. How could he refuse when he had been snatched straight from his bed, taken outside the walls of Normgrave, and then politely asked to swear an oath on a bloody altar? Not the relics of the Keeper of Oaths, which is telling, yeah. So the man drank heavily, even though he didn't know that there was no ambush on Maega, only magical mines lying under his ass. Yes, they were meant for shamans, not people, but people would have suffered too, just in a much smaller radius and not so guaranteed to be fatal. The gifted could have survived the blow without consequences, if you don't count short-term discomfort. Well, the gifted who weren't shamans were out of their bodies.

This unknown person knew Maega, knew her tactics, and had a rough copy of her aura, and also prepared an attack strictly against her, and intended to kill her, nothing more; there could be no other options.

"I got a hint about Lodermark myself," Urvag drawls thoughtfully. "And from a seemingly reliable source, it was just that it was reported that one of the mercenary guild's well-known intermediaries had suddenly upped and moved to a provincial estate he'd long ago bought. So, the source was either not so reliable, or not mine, or they'd been duped so cleverly that why would I need such a source at all? My darling, the light of my eyes, can you even guess who it was that wished you ill?"

She didn't appreciate her husband's irony, no doubt mentally going through all the blood enemies of her family and finding a good quarter of the Steppe among them. It's no other way for such powerful, hereditary prodigies. If such an individual has no enemies, then he's undoubtedly an archmage of mentalism, no matter what his officially declared specialization. Stepan, however, has an opinion and isn't shy about voicing it, lounging relaxed in his chair, his head thrown back, and staring at the ceiling.

"This is clearly a shaman, and one of a dark persuasion. And he's friendly either with the inhabitants of the Underground or with those who trade there," he says, sifting through his memory everything he's pulled from someone else's. "The altar where the oath for Ruvik was sworn. That's one thing. It's brand new, repurposed. The idiot's perception was the worst, but he touched the altar and felt it with his very being. Sprinkled with blood, dead, mortified. Originally, this was a broadly classified altar; they made such stuff in Neirat, for example. And not only in Neirat. Moreover, the altar is one of the cheaper ones; they reinforced it temporarily, clearly with no intention of trying, just to ensure the oath would hold for a while until the trap sprang."

In response to his words, everyone listening merely nods, because there's nothing to dispute. Maega looks downright irritated that she didn't think of it herself. Well, he can't help her here; in his case, the depth of his involuntary specialization was at work. He simply saw far more nuances through the images of others' minds than Maega, working with a larger volume of data. You don't need a genius of deduction to do this, and her intellect hasn't diminished for it, though she's clearly irritated at being made a fool of. Well, in her opinion. It leaks even through her emotional blockade, and she understands this and only gets angrier, though at least not at Stepan.

"And crystals." He adds a final argument that fits into the picture of events. "They were made according to the patterns of classical magic, surely hiring a magician with the necessary specialization. But the spirit that was devouring them sent a response. And these crystals were filled with your death... filled by a shaman, a wild magician, not a wizard. The frame, the trap sensor, the camouflage — that's the magician, but the stones themselves — the shaman. I'm ready to bet on my mask."

"I won't take the bet. It all sounds too good." Urvag rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes, yawning heartily. "You have many enemies in your native steppes, Maega, but not all of them are so... irreconcilable. And right now, it seems, no one's waging an active war. My point is, you should contact home and ask them more about what's going on there; maybe some unhealthy dances have started. I'll check my contact, the one who gave me the tip on Lodermark, and ask him. Maybe he'll spill the beans. And if it turns out he wasn't foolish... then Dantra is always deep."

Maega didn't answer, her thoughts tense. Singha had almost fallen asleep. It wasn't easy to jump into such a tense discussion right after returning to the body. Stepan also said goodbye and went to switch places with his dummy. He hadn't received any system messages yet, but he sensed he'd soon receive his warning for failing to complete the quest properly. He'd lie down in bed, check his wards, set up a dreamcatcher—even if one particular demoness certainly wasn't a threat right now—and then pass out, immersing himself in a kaleidoscope of visions.

* * *1111

A stream of dreamlike images leads the shaman through a tangled labyrinth, sometimes repeating what he's already seen, sometimes showing it from a different, all-changing angle, sometimes creating something entirely new. The sleeping consciousness disintegrates into threads of an all-encompassing web, gathering and reweaving itself, turning to dust and being reborn from it. Some images are remembered better than others, while others are beyond memory.

A man running through the forest, clutching a broken sword, desperately looking back at something chasing him. Something big, huge even, but absurdly not knocking down trees or leaving any traces. A huge palace, full of celebrating people and non-humans, suddenly bursts into colorful flames, burning everything and everyone amid the screams of lost souls doomed to relive their last evening for all eternity. The deadly beautiful Lilith Gesperax, who lives in the universe of the Hammer of War, runs away from Stepan Fatty at supersonic speed, and he catches up with her at the same supersonic speed and stops her, only to ask her a question, to which the dark Eldar replies without stopping that she doesn't know anything.

Stepan sees a huge, incredibly vast desert, stretching from horizon to horizon, nothing but sand and scorching heat, a riot of magic, a space gone mad, and the madness of time itself. And there, in the center of the desert, in its very heart, where spatial and chronotonic anomalies converge, rises an impossible and unattainable tower, blacker than a starless night, but not blacker than human thoughts. And not only human thoughts. However, attention is not focused on the tower at all, no. The dream leads Stepan in a completely different direction, to where those who have learned to survive and thrive in this desert hell have made their nest. Like a dandelion sprout breaking through the asphalt. Like a tree stubbornly standing on top of a cliff. Like a ball of poisonous snakes.

Stepan walks across the loose sand. Each step he takes does not move the shaman from his place, but he is still getting closer. In this dream, it seems that each step he takes tramples the earth, pushes it, and makes it turn right under his feet. Each step is a full kilometer, each step is a green mile, each step is seven versts paid for with blood and nightmares. Stepan strides forward, wearing his mask, a nightmarish cloak made of scraps of hundreds of skins thrown over his shoulders, and a horned hood under which even his mask cannot be seen. In his hands is his now weightless staff, carved from a single piece of wood, mutilated with sharp, obsidian-like chips, marks that are painful to look at, painful even to know about. The shaman pushes the ground beneath him, getting closer and closer to his goal.

He notices the closed fields and mass incantations of ancient witchcraft, but nothing more. After all, each of his steps does not force him to pass through these barriers, but shifts the world around Stepan, revealing his presence behind a protective barrier. The space twisted into a pretzel is unable to slow him down, flowing around the figure of the shaman, who has become a bastion of stasis here, the unbreakable stability of the real world. Even the turbulent higher spheres seem to freeze in his presence and become quiet, like a decorative pond with carp in complete calm. Stepan takes another step. The world shifts again and stops, freezes, and stands still before him. There, beyond, is not just a foreign land, not just foreign witchcraft, the age of centuries and millennia. No, there, beyond the line, is power itself, the power of one who will not even allow the earth to spin under foreign feet.

Under the mask, a smile resembling a snarl. Under the mask, calmness and silence, because he has nothing to say, nothing to offer or demand. They have already said everything they could to each other, already offered everything, already sought a compromise, without even finding a semblance of one. There, beyond the line, the one he promised to protect, locked in a foreign stronghold for the sake of what is hidden in her blood. There, beyond the line, is not a pass to the majestic and nightmarish tower that trampled the heavens and stood firm after that, not wealth and power beyond any dreams, not even his own power. There was the price of his word, and the word of a shaman, a stranger to this world, who had nothing in it to begin with, was worth nothing, and was therefore priceless. Well, for Stepan, at least.

He smiles, thrusting his giant staff-log into the sand, which instantly solidifies into a solid lump of filth, and it begins to glow, not like a night light, but like a devilish beacon. And this beacon is indeed a beacon, giving a signal, pinpointing the arrival point for the hordes of spirits, while at the same time opening the way for them to come here, inside, through all the defenses. The world shuddered, went into a frenzy along with the one who had become the will of the world here, along with the students and relatives who stood behind her. This will would crush the beacon, wipe the figure of the shaman who had come into someone else's power and given himself to that power into bloody dust, but Stepan had only just begun.

Hundreds and hundreds of amulets, spirit houses, talismans, and miniature totems worn on it now burn and crumble into dust, buying time, brief moments, while it completes its journey. The space of this desert, violated countless times, groans once more as the multifaceted wild portals open up like honeycombs, sieve holes, and mole tunnels, each leading somewhere to its own place. These portals form a continuous screen, coming together tightly, and a moment later, their own will bursts forth from them. Power over the land beyond the portal, power over the land that came to the Desert after the shaman. And will meets will, power meets power, and Stepan looks up at the sky, obscured by a sandstorm, seemingly seeing young sky-blue eyes there, foreign and incredibly old. Ancient, even.

"You desired my Tablet?" he whispers, so loudly that it can be heard in every corner of this alien realm, where not even a storm falls, but a near-cosmic void, embodied by the will of a host of great spirits. "Receive it in full."

* * *

A new fragment of the dream, now much brighter, much more real. As if it were happening right now somewhere else, not with the sleeping observer. A vaguely familiar, richly furnished office, where two people are still talking—the young heir to a powerful Trading House. Stepan even thinks he is about to recognize the coat of arms. As well as a stately, tall, and very curvaceous woman in a tight-fitting, albeit rather modest dress with a corset. The conversation about the purchase and transfer of the right to sell another batch of elite cosmetics is going to mutual satisfaction. Because it suits both parties at once. The experienced saleswoman benefits from the new buyer, backed by the coat of arms of a powerful house, and the new head of the sales office desperately needs his first deals, needs to fit in, dig his dwarf drill into the local financial flows, and take his place there.

It is not difficult to take something that belongs to someone else, but it is much more difficult not to be destroyed for it when the local hyenas, having forgotten their quarrels, rush at the newcomer. It is much easier and more correct to get involved in a business that does not yet have an owner, which is often the case with new manufacturers, or one that has recently lost its owner. The House de Faral was much more often involved in trading heavier goods, including boats and ships, as well as creating new trading expeditions and free captains. That is why they kept him so insistently in Kuordemare, so unwilling to let him go, that they were an involuntary but very active competitor to the Islanders.

When the youngest head of representation in the history of the House announced that he would head the new representation of de Faral directly in Morgrave, people expected something similar from him. More precisely, they wished him a painful death and tried quite hard to make this wish come true. The antidote to the poison in the pages of the fake letter from the house could not be found. Fortunately, he did not touch the forgery. They wished him dead, yes, but they expected other moves, familiar to de Faral. They expected and were ready to meet them. Would he get involved in the river trade along the Dantra? Would he try to grab a share of the sea trade? Would he get involved in either of the two existing shipbuilders' guilds? Would he completely lose his mind with fear and try to take over the smuggling routes?

All this would lead him, at the very least, to a very painful collapse, because there is no point in playing on the same field with those who have been playing these games much longer. Those whose positions, even after the islanders' raid, were still much better than yours. By that time, Gion had already surprised his competitors, including his former “allies” and “friends.” He had already shown that they had been wrong not to take him seriously, but they would not make that mistake again. And then Gion ventured into an area where his house practically didn't fit in — trading in cosmetics, women's clothing and lingerie, luxury wardrobe items, all kinds of jewelry made of base metals, bones and corals, and, may Daromar forgive him, toys for arousing passion, mainly female.

Some people laughed, of course. But most of the smarter competitors were very unpleasantly surprised. Both minor Trading Houses that had held this branch of trade after the raid either went bankrupt or died out altogether. Don't die here, when the much-cursed and still-living King-Captain, with a direct strike from his flagship, with which he had become one before the redistribution, simply wiped out the entire central estate along with the managers of the Trading House. These are unclaimed streams of finance. These warehouses, with their ready-made batches of goods, were a very sweet morsel. This is what the surviving players began to fight for. Forgetting that any registered trading house worthy of being called a Trading House is first and foremost the people and other intelligent beings who represent that house.

Not only the Head, the First Deputies, the Chief Accountant, and the Debt Collector, but also the lowest rank, the simple workhorses, the cogs in a well-oiled machine. Left without their leaders, without those who upheld the oaths, with whom deals were made, who represented the face of the House, they had no chance of keeping what was theirs, and many could not even save themselves. All the players understood this, which is why they preferred not to offer or buy the loyalty of others, but simply to take it. They took the cash flow, the treasury, the stockpiles of goods, but not the people (or non-humans), because there were plenty of candidates for the lucrative positions in any House.

And then, with utter contempt, brazen and cynical despite his age, Gion de Farral took it upon himself to offer his help and protection. With no chance of getting a piece of the pie for free, he preferred to buy it. Even if it was cheap. The remaining members of the fallen Trading Houses, who simply had no other options, clung to the outstretched hand of help with all their might. They almost drowned Gion by pulling too hard, but that's a detail that can be worked out. Both sides understood that they needed each other and could not do without the other's help. Gion sorely lacked loyal or even any subordinates, as well as his place in Morgrave's financial life. And the newcomers he accepted could not survive without the patronage of one of the houses... but only the de Farals now had both name and power, reputation and resources, but did not have the strength and means to take everything by force right now.

A worthy representative of his House was justifiably proud of what he had managed to pull off, and it was doubly pleasing to his ego that his sworn rivals had simply failed to guess his move. So let them laugh at the fact that Gion sold that batch of ladies' saviors, vibrating plugs, and other interesting items. The young man turned these goods into gold and silver, put the money he received into circulation, and finally took his place among Morgrave's trade representatives. Now it is not so easy to knock him off his perch, although attempts continue. That same bitch de Radmar now hates him with a passion, because he deprived the greedy scum of so many dividends!

Of course, the venerable Ursula knew about his situation, just as she knew about her own situation. She couldn't help but know. When most of her patrons either died, went bankrupt, or tried to take away her life's work, as well as the lives of four generations of her ancestors, giving it to someone else, more deserving, she did not fold her arms on her monumental chest. She went to Gion de Farel and actively helped him in what he was doing, which is why she now has slightly better contracts than the others “saved” by the young de Farel. Of course, her help was not so significant in the overall context, not at the level that would earn her a share in the joint venture and the right to join the family, but that help was a good start to a cautious friendship.

To what extent is friendship even possible between people of their profession?

The woman with the gaze of a predatory cat and the young man with the look of a fierce wolf smiled at each other and concluded another deal by signing a contract, which was immediately imprinted in their auras. After checking the signed document once more, just in case new lines appeared after it was sealed or hidden paragraphs were added, both sides smiled contentedly at each other, and then Ursula, smiling just as contentedly, pulled the fastening cord from her corset with one movement and lowered the neckline of her dress, exposing her breasts to the slightly cool air of the office. She literally slaps them on the table; the slap is very loud, drowning out even the quiet whimpering moan of Gion, who involuntarily came from the sight of a naked woman's breasts.

The latest misfortune had already become a habit for him over the past few weeks, but fortunately, Hannah, who was always loyal and ready to help, never judged him for it and was always ready to explain that it was a perfectly normal reaction. He was tired, overworked, too much stress, but that was nothing unusual, was it? The young man, who fell asleep instantly after orgasm, almost fell asleep now, too, but he was stopped only by the fact that he was in public, in front of the venerable Ursula, and the cosmetics saleswoman herself was still talking, so it would be rude to pass out right now.

Loyal Hannah quickly retrieved a bottle of love oil from an inconspicuous hiding place, which, among other things, increased erotic sensitivity, and handed it to Ursula. The woman slowly and unambiguously flaunted herself, repeatedly slapping her breasts on the table, lifting them, pressing them together, and releasing them, covering her assets with the oil. To his credit, Gion keeps up the conversation, even though they talk mostly about tits, or rather, lovely breasts, but Gion gets carried away and regularly calls them tits, udders, or something else, but the woman, without embarrassment, probes Gion about his personal and purely intimate life.

Suddenly losing his wolfish gaze, the young man wearily complains to Ursula about how he constantly can't even get into Hanna, often finishing before she even gets going, how he is forced to wear a special cleansing amulet, thank you, by the way, for this gift, which prevents semen stains from showing on clothes in everyday life, as soon as he sees a naked breast, spread legs, or even just a beautiful woman's or girl's nipple that has fallen out or shown through the fabric. Ursula completely understands this. She praises Gion for how he cums from her tits, how he cums for Hannah. The girl continued to bounce and drop her breasts, distracted by Ursula's conversation, but smiled at her with sincere gratitude. She also scolds him for the dirty thoughts he had about her and the plans he made.

Seriously? He wrote such shameful things about her in his “book of impossible desires for the distant future”? Was he so excited by the idea of smearing her all over with honey and sweet cream, putting a ring in her nose and pulling her nostrils apart, and then making her oink like a pig? Did he really want her to oink for him? He could have just asked, and Ursula wouldn't have refused such a small request from a young man staring so politely at her breasts, would she? And she really didn't refuse, bringing Gion to another orgasm with just the sounds of playful imitation of an animal. He showered her with thanks and almost begged her for the opportunity to atone for his shameful desires, unworthy of their friendship.

The saleswoman, smiling pretentiously, nevertheless obeyed and climbed onto the table, lifting her dress, under which were hidden lace, dark blue stockings with garters, and a complete absence of panties. Then she covered Gion's head with the cloth, allowing him to apologize in the best traditions of the Life-Giving Clergy—with his lips on the honeyed lips of the offended woman. Once again, as in all their previous encounters, except for the very first couple. Hannah continues to massage Ursula's breasts, gazing mesmerized at her large and delicate nipples, smiling and nodding at the merchant's suggestions on how exactly she should behave with Gion. These ideas seem objectively correct and completely obvious, logical and indisputable to her. Just like all of Ursula's other ideas up to this point.

As in previous similar conversations, the servants and assistants who occasionally entered the room completely ignored what was happening in the office, taking the copy of the contract belonging to de Faral without even commenting on their boss's words. The order to leave the room and not to enter for the next few hours was conveyed to them by a politely smiling Ursula, whom they immediately believed. In any case, they would not have been able to understand anything, as their master's lips and tongue were too busy at the moment the order was given. Only when all three of them were dressed did Ursula kiss Gion on the cheek, allowing him to briefly glance at her cleavage and even touch her bare skin with his face, prompting the merchant to tighten her corset and leave.

"No, well, her tits are still naturally Tavra-like, sir," was all the faithful assistant managed to say, shaking her head and suppressing a hint of envy, before the master's demanding grip seized her. "Ee-e-e!"

Overwhelmed by this conversation and his own apologies, the young man almost tore his maid's dress, but involuntarily caught sight of her wide-spread thighs and smoothly shaved crotch, moaning as he came on Hannah's stomach and pubic area, violently, very violently, incredibly violently spilling onto her skin and feeling his eyes involuntarily close again. In his last moment of consciousness, he mentally rejoices that Hannah will, of course, not condemn him and will not gossip about another embarrassment, falling asleep with an unforgivably satisfied smile on his lips.

Sighing slightly in disappointment, Hannah wiped her face with her handkerchief, conscientiously disposing of her master's semen rather than attempting to conceal it or even use it for her own pregnancy. Then she shifted Gion, who was snoring in his chair, slightly, went behind him, hugged him tenderly, and whispered in his ear.

"The sleeping master wishes to lie down on the table." Without waking from sleep, Gion lay down on his own desk, huge and massive, easily capable of replacing any bed. "The master is dreaming sweet dreams."

The fallen rod regained its former hardness in seconds, and Hannah happily threw off the rest of her clothes and impaled herself on her master with her dripping cunt. For the next hour and a half, she brought herself to five consecutive climaxes, pausing only to eat a little and change positions. Even though her sleeping master was a master of his tongue even in his sleep, she still spent most of her time riding his rod, which she had been sorely lacking lately due to Gion's sudden little problem with haste. Especially since, in recent days, he himself had even given in to Hannah's unprecedented insolence, caressing her with his lips in the morning, apologizing for not being able to give her a normal night.

Hannah always just smiled mysteriously, taking her time to enlighten him about how obedient he was when he fell asleep after ejaculating. She didn't take advantage of this weakness of his, didn't deliberately get pregnant, although she could have; she could have ordered him to come inside her right now. No, she remembers who she is loyal to and who gave her practically everything she could have wanted. All her nighttime whispers were limited to such hints... well, she also hinted to Gion that he should thank her in the morning, but definitely nothing more.

Sweating, tired, and contented, she climbed off her master, helped him, still sleeping, to the bed, and tucked him in. She whispered in his ear that it was time to cum again, letting him soil the sheets and regretting not having risked whispering the same thing while riding him. After checking the time and making sure the other workers and servants had followed all instructions, prepared the documents, dispatched and met the messengers, she allowed herself to doze off next to her master. She would serve, help, and protect those she would faithfully and truly—for that is precisely the purpose of a good servant.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/594692

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP