Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 4.3

* * *

The shaman woke up with a slight buzz in his head, but overall, he felt quite energetic. Only vague images remained of the strange dreams in his mind—the same images that his dreamcatchers had captured. To be honest, he’s been increasingly tempted to buy some truly powerful relic related to dreams and sleep magic, just so he can properly capture those fleeting visions. But where else could he get the system currency for that—or where could he obtain such an item on his own, without the system’s help?

A copper wind-up swan, as if from some kind of clockpunk, and a handkerchief—a woman’s silk one, made of very expensive fabric—which he presented as a gift to a certain very strong spirit. There was also a general sensation of intense heat, as if he had walked into a heated sauna fully clothed, though no visual image accompanied this sensation. With some caution and obvious delight, he tumbled off the bed, washing the sweat from his body first with magic and then with several dozen liters of warm water materialized into reality.

While setting up his refuge and expanding it to cover two cities, Stepan still made sure to provide even the most basic living conditions. And while the classic outhouse in the far recesses of the cave was genuinely necessary—especially in such situations—he built the solid-stone bath as the foundation for some very specific ritual circles. A bath, a cauldron, a cage, and whatever else one might want—multifunctionality, you see. After thoroughly soaking and cleansing his body of the potions he’d taken, Stepan felt hungry. But instead of heading over to Dantmark and bothering Sylvia’s cooks again, he looked at the communication amulet hanging from a special hook.

It’s a good amulet. He bought the base from the system himself, and then performed a ritual on it, dividing the single spirit among several vessels. Or rather, he arranged it so that in the real world the vessels would be different, but in the higher realms they would share a single reflection—the one in which the spirit resided. Now, a fleeting touch with his spiritual body and aura revealed a message that had been hanging there for nine hours, accompanied by a set of images. The Earthling’s sensitivity was more than enough to discern the aural-spiritual imprint of the colleague who had sent this message, even though that imprint was in many ways similar to that of her daughter. Similar, yet still too different—both spiritually, emotionally, and personally—such nuances were very clearly distinguishable to him.

Judging by the time that had passed, Maega had recovered from the system’s gifts that had overwhelmed her nearly half a day earlier. Or perhaps her gifts were simply easier to assimilate. Maybe just minor knowledge, meta-skills, property tags… or tokens. He saw as many as two of them in her status—which was unusual in itself, since he hadn’t been able to see tokens before, or, more logically, hadn’t been able to see auto-divine tokens, not just any tokens at all—as he briefly scanned through the group leader’s interface. Stepan already possessed the “standard charging update for a shaman’s contract book” for ten charges, as well as the five-charge “invisible presence.” A very interesting token, and a cunning one too—though not in an Automilf-like way—allowing one to become invisible and eavesdrop on others’ conversations unnoticed, as if one weren’t even there.

Or rather, no one will simply pay any attention to the person using it. As if he were a piece of furniture. But only if he remains completely still and arrives there in advance. And specifically, he must arrive—not sneak in. Roughly speaking, a person will be able to overhear everything said by those who would have let him into that office where the conversation was taking place anyway. Let’s say a random city dweller or, say, a poor kid named Stae, who’s suffered a magical-aural equivalent of anaphylactic shock, wouldn’t be allowed into Duke August’s private conference room. But Maega or Urvag—they’d definitely be let in!

All in all, not bad tokens... but the ones that really get to Stepan—the ones that don’t show up in his interface—are far more powerful. People said all sorts of things about him, sometimes deservedly so, but he knew how to learn from his mistakes, and he wasn’t exactly an idiot either. And he also remembered Singha’s words about how she didn’t want to test the nobility and gratitude of her beloved mother. Just as he remembered her feet on his face, he remembered the utter helplessness that washed over him afterward—a helplessness that not even an incarnate deity could resist. In short, he suddenly realized that he was in for a very difficult conversation with Maega—now that she’d learned about the concept of tokens or, God forbid, received something from Great Milf.

He’ll have this conversation after he’s already removed the senior shaman from the system group. First, it’ll put his mind at ease. He still needs to explain the situation with the tokens—and he’ll have to do so together with Singha, whom he barely trusted but still trusted enough to let her have them. Second, if he does grant her access to the system—simply “for free,” to save Ullis, rather than as payment for her services—she might even attack him. Simply because she wouldn’t believe in such generosity and good nature. At least, that’s what Singha had said when she discussed the upcoming negotiations with her relatives with him. And how he now regrets not having cut her off immediately after the ritual ended—but he was too tired and didn’t think of it!

One thing he certainly won’t do is give the wind-charm a chance to betray him. Later, perhaps, she’ll feel ashamed, but that’s hardly likely to make things any easier for Stepan. The realization that he did nothing of the sort and had no such plans won’t change the presence of Mark of Destiny, nor the simple impossibility of turning back. Having betrayed him from the start, Maega simply won’t dare admit it. She’s too pragmatic and too seasoned by magical and political life, unlike Singha, who still retains a slight veneer of decency.

So he’ll go to the meeting after Maega leaves the group. Come to think of it, she hasn’t come out empty-handed—even if we set aside the matter of saving Ullis—the rewards and knowledge she earned for the deed she was also credited with will remain with her. Without access to the system, she’ll lose only her meta-skills—nothing more. All the other gifts of the Soul Tablet are hers forever, even if Stepan gets yanked back to Earth tomorrow to wrap up his coursework.

Personally to Rodislav Gastoldovich Yanin.

Shuddering at this thought—truly terrifying in its chthonic nature—he banished the primal fear that was creeping into the very depths of his soul by finally touching the connecting amulet with his spiritual body. The expected images from Urvag, which had arrived earlier, reported that the situation was under control and no longer quite critical. Ullis came to his senses and was once again plunged into a medically induced coma, while the de Lomer family, with the full weight of their noble House, is now determining who is to blame and what to do with the relatives and assets of the traitor. Urwag clearly wanted blood and intended not to kill but to milk the situation dry, while Furval, as the competent head of the entire House—not just the Morgrave branch—played the role of the good cop, at the same time hinting to everyone that retribution would come anyway.

And it depends only on their compliance what kind it is.

There was only one message from Maega, the last one, and far more precise: as a gifted being and a shaman at that, she was far more flexible and comfortable using this type of amulet. The message itself, however, was brief and extremely laconic—two phrases and one visual image, with the image leading the way and the phrases concealed behind it. Stepan could easily read such a structure in free order, but reflexively accepted the image first, since Maega had gone to such lengths to send it first.

“Ass...” was all he said with some surprise, feeling the blood rushing to his groin.

It really was an ass—or a butt, or a rear end, or a backside, or a whole bunch of other epithets—as seen from the perspective of the observing spirit that was watching and perceiving Maega. The shamaness demonstrated her superb physical condition by bending at the waist without bending her knees. Her colorful robe—a dress in shades of scarlet, blue, and black with golden highlights—was pushed to one side, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear at all, so the view of her buttocks, her completely exposed pussy with its well-groomed triangle, and the neat little ring of her anus was nothing short of exemplary and perfect. She also brought her hands behind her back, bringing them together along her gorgeous long legs, as if forming a “heart” in this way.

The spectacle was a thirty out of ten. My envy of Urvag boosted the rating at least threefold! The brief phrase that followed the visual image was taken almost in passing: //“Look at my mesmerizing, mind-numbing behind and forget that you can deny me access to the Tablet of the Soul without my consent.” Right after that came a second phrase, a very short one: “We need to talk.” As if he didn’t understand that, as if even without those words he didn’t dread this conversation more than a sociophobe at a store checkout.

The orgasm hits him fast. Shamefully fast, even. He barely has time to pull down his pants and, with a couple of jerky movements, spill his seed right onto the floor. Standing up. Without even squatting down for comfort. His knees buckled immediately, and the spirits helped him keep from falling by simply catching the shaman’s buttocks—which had just ejaculated onto the image, mesmerized by ecstasy—while he forgot about something unimportant, breathing heavily and smiling foolishly. Who would have known that Maega would decide to send him such an image—whether as a gift, by mistake, or with some kind of hint? It was unlikely she’d invite him to a threesome, and Stepan himself had no desire to meddle in the sincere and mutual feelings of two people in love.

His smile faded immediately when he started thinking things through. He needed to talk to him, yes. But he didn’t want to go into that conversation. The risk was too high. He really didn’t want to put someone else’s gratitude and nobility to the test. Yes, he wanted to believe in people—and non-people—but this world had been diligently teaching Stepan not to trust just anyone, except for brainwashed individuals like Sylvia. If it weren’t for Singha and her actions, he would surely have become a full-blown sociopath long ago.

Of all the people he knew personally, the only one he was truly willing to entrust with the tokens was a younger, feisty steppe mare; and, with somewhat less confidence, Yulia—and perhaps Tahira as well. Having thoroughly read the latter’s mind and memories, he could judge with reasonable certainty how she would act in any given situation. Having gained such power over him, this brazen, feisty, bitchy, yet noble-in-her-own-way girl might even show her better side. No, he was almost certain that she would definitely sit on his face, just to “get even” for how he’d defeated her in the art of love—and to get even for her fake boobs, too. But would she actually submit and betray him? No, she wouldn’t do that—not to someone who’d done her a favor.

Well, that was his opinion, which he didn’t want to test.

And he couldn’t test it. The river smuggler turned out to be the only one who had turned down the chance to become a super-powerful bearer of the Tablet of the Soul. Which only added to the pathos of the whole situation. He would have liked—really, really liked—to have someone like that by his side, and not just because of her boobs or memory of the nights they’d once spent together in that village hut. But he couldn’t very well force her, could he? That could have ended very badly indeed.

What’s happening now could also end badly. Maega was definitely not—at least not right now—the kind of person he would trust with the auto-divine tokens. Perhaps her mental and emotional personality matrix has changed after what she’s been through, but is it worth risking his freedom on that? Thanks, but he’s already licked the feet of those passionate steppe girls enough. He doesn’t need any more, and he has no desire to repeat the experience.

Logically, he has exactly one course of action right now. He simply needs to use—if not the vulgar tokens, then the plans he’s prepared to undermine their oath—the token for rolling back meta-skills and the meta-skill to slow down time, in order to prepare. And then, using the Mark of Fate on both mares, he’ll get inside Maega’s head and make her either consciously choose to leave the group or undergo something like a very mild form of brainwashing, similar to what happened to Sylvia. So that the very thought of using the token physically couldn’t even occur to her. No oaths or contracts to protect him will work: the tokens simply aren’t perceived by them at all, no matter how you twist those contracts. This is exactly what Stepan should do, logically speaking—he should, but he can’t bring himself to decide.

Even if he removes that influence the very moment Maega loses access to the system, trust won’t just be undermined—it’ll be completely destroyed! And without a Token or a Mark, it won’t work—a quick sensor scan of de Lomer’s estate showed that the defenses there were cranked up to full power. It’s totally understandable why, since after an attempt like that, not cranking up all available defenses to full power would be downright stupid. But the Earthling still notices other details. These defenses have also been reconfigured specifically to counter him. Not exactly perfect, but it’s still clear that he’s no longer viewed there as the ideal ally he once was.

It's a shame, especially since he put himself on the line just for that little kid.

Before, the protection felt different—like something hovering over him, but not yet activated, as long as he himself remained a welcome guest. Now the estate’s defenses—all those spirits, magical fields, and enchanted distortions in the subtle realms—have turned into open palms serving as talismans, protecting those inside. Protecting them from him, Stepan. Without consciously using the “Mark of Destiny”—the ones that grant absurd success in any attempt to brainwash the mother and daughter—such a defense cannot be breached by force, no matter what, not at all. And to activate the Mark, one would have to do more than just influence them; one would have to actually brainwash them, and with a vulgar, auto-milf-like undertone at that.

Basically, the alliance is screwed as soon as he decides to end his influence on Maega.

And he's screwed if he decides to keep that influence, because he'll be disgusted to look in the mirror.

And what?

Run?

Just don't show up for the meeting; send a letter saying, “I don’t trust you anymore, esteemed Maega—go fuck yourself”? And while you’re at it, switch to the formal “you” and show some respect! All to influence her, force her to cut ties with the group, and then walk away with your head held high? Like, “I saved your son and in doing so buried a potential alliance”? Yeah, right—they’ll totally buy that, especially after they learned about the token system and realized that the alliance contract only protected Stepan, not them. They’ll believe it with all their hearts, the whole family, especially Maega!

For about half an hour, he wanders in circles through the cave, at times almost deciding to flee, at others already preparing the necessary spirits to attack the shaman’s mind, but he hesitates. And then he recalls Maega’s face, contorted by anguish, grief, despair, and mad hope—her willingness to do anything just to avoid the inevitable, and her infinitely powerful plea to do something, anything at all. He remembers Singha, who had refrained from betraying him; the scent and taste of mint on his lips; her face, flushed crimson with embarrassment and slightly askew; and the braids that had brushed against Stepan’s face. He remembers, sighs heavily, and raises his eyes to the heavens, invisible behind the stone embrace of such a cozy and safe refuge.

"Holy System, what an idiot I am!" And there’s no way to even argue against this idiocy.

A moment later, a brief message—“I’ll be there in ten minutes”—is sent via the same amulet, and in response comes an equally brief image of the conference room in the right wing, calm and stripped of any emotional undertones. Yet within it, one can still sense the shadow of a shadow of fear—carefully concealed—as well as satisfaction and determination, just as carefully hidden. Hidden from someone who is not him, who does not possess his set of knowledge and traits tied to mind control. The fact that Maega is now afraid of him makes it particularly repulsive. In a different situation, everything would be different; he would have handled it, revealing his secrets little by little, convincing her of his reliability and fostering hers, and managing to achieve mutual trust.

In a different situation, alas.

\\“No, that's not right; none of it is right”...—A single thought keeps racing through his head.

The entrance to the right room opens almost instinctively. He’s had to pop in here more than once—sometimes to discuss plans, sometimes just to take a break from playing the role of a lackey in love with Singha and relax a little. He steps into the passageway with only minimal protection, the same as always: hold out for the first second, and then the evacuation squad of spirits will snatch him away even from a stranger’s house, from walls that aren’t bound or enchanted by him. He didn’t put on a mask or a combat set of amulets; he didn’t even try to snag a mannequin of himself and show up in it. First of all, he wouldn’t be able to do it unnoticed. Secondly, he’d already made up his mind and wasn’t about to change it at the last minute.

Still, Singha is the daughter of Maega, the daughter of Maedra, the daughter of Siddkhana—and she inherited both the good and the bad from her mother.

Surely a mother must still have at least a shred of that faith in people that her daughter hasn't yet lost?

Maega was the only one waiting for him in the room—no one else—but they couldn’t get a conversation started, though it wasn’t Stepan’s fault. Maega was simply waiting for him, still wearing the same robe, but now it was wide open and slung down to her waist. The empty sleeves brushed the floor as Maega sat in the armchair, tense as a string. She sat bare to the waist, exposing her very large breasts—which seemed to have grown by a size and a half in volume—her plump melons that weighed heavily on Stepan’s mind. The shaman’s eyes were glued to her nipples—small, neat, dark pink, verging on brown, and much darker than her daughter’s.

They were shamans. Due to the nature of their call practices, they had seen each other naked on more than one occasion, but there was nothing erotic about it. Or perhaps Stepan, through sound self-control, had managed to keep himself from even entertaining such thoughts. Be that as it may, they weren’t performing a call right now. Right now, Maega was simply letting him look at her breasts, at her ++pressing melons, which made his groin feel incredibly hot and tight again, and his gaze was simply glued to her nipples. Stepan realized that he simply couldn’t look away—not at all; at most, he could blink, and even then only briefly. He just froze there, not knowing what to do next, until she moved those full breasts away from him. Until that strange, helpless weight in his groin subsided.

“You’re going to answer now, aren’t you?” Maega asks tensely, very tensely, but he can’t see her face or the sweat beading on her forehead; he can only see her nipples—dark pink, taut from the cool air of the conference room and the adrenaline surging through her blood—so neat and beautiful. “To my questions? To all of them?”

Somewhere nearby, yet infinitely far away, her spirits stood at the ready—not to attack, but to defend, to carry her away from the attack, to pull Maega out of harm’s way. A part of him noted that she hadn’t broken her vows and hadn’t struck first—and it wasn’t even certain she could have. Their pact, sealed by the highest spirit, was simply too strong.

"Yeah, I'd be happy to," he answered without even thinking. "You can interrogate me with ++squashed melons."

"Then sit down." Her nipples moved slightly, as if she were pointing to the chair directly across from her. "I'll ask. You talk."

And he sat down, and she asked.

And he began to answer.

Because he couldn’t stay silent, because he couldn’t think about what to say while he was staring at the nipples of her breasts, her ++oppressive melons, which weighed so heavily on his mind that they squeezed out the whole truth. Without any attempt at deception or concealment, as complete and as clear as possible in both spirit and letter. Maega’s ++overwhelming melons, which seemed to eclipse the entire world, pressed down on him, and he swooned with pleasure under their imagined weight.

* * *

It seemed to Stepan that the image of Maega’s ++voluptuous breasts—especially her nipples—had been etched into his brain and consciousness like a laser engraving. He remembered every curve, every movement, every centimeter of the perfectly smooth skin of this purebred steppe woman—beautiful and desirable, but, more importantly, revealing her breasts to him, weighing down on his mind with her melons, interrogating him with her ++pressing melons. It was as if he could feel their weight on his forehead, on his very brain, in which there was no room for anything but those melons, nothing but Maega’s questions.

He isn’t thinking at all about her words, her voice, or her gradually changing tone. He responds without hearing himself, just as he hadn’t heard her words. Why bother with words when there are two dark-pink nipples and melons pressing down on his mind, preventing him from thinking, remembering, or paying attention to anything else? He occasionally takes a sip from the glass sitting on the small table, pours himself water with citrus slices from a patterned pitcher, but does so in passing, without taking his eyes off her nipples. From the overwhelming sensation of being interrogated by her melons.

"...I’ve never fucking done that, and I wasn’t about to, Maega—even thinking about it makes me sick!" he says, forgetting the previous word before he’s even finished speaking the next one. "I could’ve—I could’ve forced that crap out of myself, even if it meant losing a couple of levels or stats, but no fucking way. Meta-effect, no counters, no ways to counter it either. Shake them around a little more, yeah, that’s it, thanks! I’m even tired of counting how many times I’ve thought about and tried different approaches that would prevent me from using this tag, but nothing worked—nothing worked at all..."

From time to time, the pressure that his interrogators’ melons exerted on his mind became so overwhelming that he would snap and ask Maega for something… he didn’t remember—or rather, hadn’t committed to memory—exactly what it was, but it was connected to her weighty melons, which would begin to press down even harder at that moment, allowing the interrogation and the pressure to continue. Each time, Maega would graciously agree, begin to shake them, toss them in her palms, even rub her nipples, pinch them, or even tug at them, pulling or lifting one of the weighty melons by the nipple.

But always just one at a time. He could always see the second nipple; Stepan couldn’t even imagine what would happen if he lost both of those points of reference from view. The world would collapse, no doubt about it! Because what use would a world be to him if it lacked the two beautiful nipples of the lovely Maegi? Such a world would be wrong, dreary, gray, and unpleasant; there’s no point in thinking about such a world, no point at all in even remembering that somewhere out there is a world without those nipples, those weighty melons.

"...I was wary, of course, but Singha had already proven that she could be trusted. She could have screwed me over so many times, but she chose—even if it meant looking like a fool sometimes—to be honest and honorable." The melons, swaying from left to right and back again, kept pressing, pressing, and pressing him with their interrogation. “And as for you, I was planning to wait—if it weren’t for that little kid, there’s no way in hell I’d have shown you the Tablet. What? No, not by myself. I would’ve shown it to you myself, actually. It was all Singha’s idea. She knows you better than I do, so she almost threw a fit right away when I showed her the first draft of our future deal. Want me to quote it? I can, but first pull on my nipples again, please—just like that, yes, the left one, and now the right one—how beautiful! Originally, I was actually going to offer..."

In a situation like this, a normal person’s throat would already be sore from talking so much, but he simply and automatically casts a stimulating and healing spell on his own vocal cords so he can keep talking. He doesn’t remember what he said anyway—he doesn’t want to remember, as long as he can stare at Maega’s nipples as she chokes him with her melons while interrogating him. Some part of him notices the steppe girl’s tone growing gradually more tense and even a little hysterically cheerful, but it’s not the same part that’s staring at her nipples.

"...I thought about it, really thought about it. I even called myself an idiot." If those interrogators hadn’t been pressuring him, he might have even laughed—a sad kind of laugh. "Logically, I should have gotten inside your head first, even if only temporarily, to shut down the very possibility of using the Tokens, as I did with Malter, but, damn it, I couldn’t. Maybe if you didn’t lock yourself down with full-power defense, you might have even considered lifting your own oath, undermining its foundation, and buying time by stopping time with a meta-skill. Insisting that I wasn’t planning to attack, just defend myself. But quickly, and with active defense, too? All I’d have to do is activate the tag, and that’s fucked up, even if I manage it. Or maybe use a token—I’ve got plenty of those! But then what? Give you back your consciousness and free will? Then you’d tell me to fuck off, and you’d be right. Don’t restore them, leave things as they are? Screw all that—I don’t play that way! Squeeze them harder, please..."

Maega squeezes her weighty melons, and if he were able to think of anything other than her nipples, it would even seem to him that her fingers had turned white at that moment, and the caress had become genuinely painful for a split second—she even flinched. But he isn’t thinking or looking anywhere else, only at the nipples of those pushing, interrogating melons. Only at them and nothing else. Because nothing else interests him—not a word, not a question, not the mounting pressure, not the real, all-consuming volcanic heat in his loins.

"...but it wasn't you I believed. You're too murky and self-serving, and you can't hide your local craziness and the mentality of someone with a strong, hereditary gift—and you weren't even trying to hide it." With every question and answer, the excessive pressure from the oppressive, interrogating melons builds faster and faster; the pauses between his repeated requests to help ramp up the pressure—to force my brain to work, even as those melons are crushing it—grow shorter and shorter. "I believed in Singha. After all, she’s your daughter, and… I had serious doubts about her at first, too—I didn’t think much of her and only spared her because, after all, she didn’t mess things up for me out of malice. And then she proved that I wasn’t wrong. Go ahead and slap them, huh? Spread them apart and bring them back together sharply, as if you’re clamping the dick between them and jerking off. Please, Maega, they’re really pressing me!"

His throat is getting sore more and more often, and he’s already starting to forget to renew the spell; his head is spinning, and his words get tangled on his tongue. Words ring out, words flow between other words, and with them flows away what remains of Stepan’s self-control—which is already being jolted almost to the core with every particularly sharp movement of Maega’s weighty melons, with every shift of her magnificent dark-pink nipples. If only he could keep seeing them, looking at them and nothing else—just looking at them, just looking, looking, looking, and letting them press, letting them interrogate, interrogating him with her melons.

"...no, I just couldn't bring myself to do it back then, even though I really wanted to, but she was begging so much, so sincerely... shake them, shake them more… so I just sent her home. The title? *Sweet Feet*… I think…" It seems like he’s started drooling and his whole body has gone numb, except for one part, but he’s genuinely trying to answer every one of Maega’s words and her suffocating, interrogative questions, just so she won’t take her eyes off the sight of those nipples. "The cloak… I gave it away… Huh? No! What do you mean, “kalym”*!? I didn’t say anything like that; it’s just... what the hell do I need a cloak for if I can’t use it? Just to look at it? Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s it, from top to bottom, jerk it!"
T.N. Kalym - This is the ransom from the groom for the bride.

Maega really was sliding her oiled—he’d bought the oil himself at the system store—chest along that big dildo, which he’d also bought from the system. Part of him undoubtedly wanted to be in the place of that imitation, made of some strange, flexible glass rather than rubber or latex, but he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge that thought. Her nipples, her oppressive, weighty melons, took up too much space in his head. At some point, however, everything changed; Maega simply fell back onto her back, and the dildo fell out of the hollow between her tightly pressed, weighty melons, but she didn’t even try to pick it up and put it back in place.

Stepan immediately stopped responding and began pleading, his tongue tripping over itself, to have the phallus put back in its place and to be allowed to continue watching, but even to himself it seemed that he was uttering a disjointed stream of not even words, but sounds. In an instant, the shamaness seemed to make some kind of decision, bursting into a long tirade in the steppe dialect. Stepan had picked up a little of that dialect, but even if he’d been able to remember and comprehend what was said, he wouldn’t have understood much—only the generally extremely obscene nature of those foreign words.

And then she covered her nipples.

Just like that, she covered each of them with two fingers.

Not accidentally or for just a moment, but deliberately, for several infinitely long seconds. For the shaman, who was whimpering at the injustice of the world around him, those seconds stretched into several eternities. And then he raised his eyes, which were burning from having stared so intently at the two nipples for so long. And he looked into the shamaness’s utterly stony face, behind which he sensed some strange inner struggle. He looked and realized that he no longer saw her nipples, which meant that her Crushing Melons were no longer pressing down on him, because the interrogation was over.

The Melons weren’t pressing down on him—not at all! And all that tension, all that pressure that had kept him on edge, that had driven him to his current semi-animal state, vanished all at once. The pressure was gone, the Melons were gone, the interrogation was gone, and the unleashed forces—the empty space in his empty head, where for so long there had been nothing but nipples and melons—were suddenly filled with all the pleasure he’d been holding back until that moment. He didn’t even scream; he simply exhaled, and with a happy smile, he began to come, releasing everything he’d been holding back for so long in his tense loins.

It took him quite a while to realize that this wasn’t a simple orgasm, but a special one—one that had begun as part of the interrogation with the Crushing Melons and had then become completely involuntary. Stepan rolled his eyes back so that only the whites were visible; for at least a minute, his whole body twitched as if trying to fuck the air, helplessly ejaculating right onto his clothes, which he had never taken off. It didn’t last long, but when it was over, he was completely drained—utterly, perfectly, and beyond all measure helpless.

"Raise your hand." He raised it immediately, like a diligent student at his desk, as if a hundred helium balloons were tied to that hand. "Look at your palm. Now purify yourself. Remove your seed. Then go to yourself. Underground, into the stony darkness. There, look at your palm and count your fingers. Over and over. Until you regain your will. And only then return. I... I’ll be waiting. We didn’t finish our conversation."

Not long ago, he could barely string together not even two words, but just two syllables; yet now that condition had completely vanished. There was no heaviness in his thoughts, no sluggishness in his body—only complete composure and a completely passive readiness to carry out any wish, any command from the one for whom he had so passively spilled. He stood up unhurriedly, yet quickly, as if he hadn’t felt like a boiled vegetable just a moment ago. By this point, Maega had already wiped the traces of oil from her body, hurriedly pulling her loosened robe back on and slipping her arms into the sleeves. Her nipples, which had so captivated him earlier, were once again just nipples—a beautiful bare chest, but not those weighty, interrogative melons.

"Yes, Maega," he replied, already weaving spells and summoning some specific spirits, wiping away the sweat stains that had soaked his clothes and the chair he was sitting on, as well as his splashes.

A moment later, he's already entering his lair, sitting on his own bed, counting the fingers of his left hand, over and over, in a circle. Not because he wants to, but because that's Maega's will, and he's been a weakling, aspiring to it, and without his own will, all he's left with is someone else's. Why not follow it? His mind, as it spluttered, couldn't find a single argument against it, nor could it.

Minutes passed, turning into hours, until he suddenly realized that three hours had gone by and he was back to being, well, normal. And right then he flopped back onto the bed, exhaling and feeling how stiff his whole body had become—he’d been ordered only to count, not to pay attention to his physical condition. It was a good thing he had a three in Constitution; otherwise, he’d be in real trouble. As it was, he was just a little stiff—one warm-up would be enough. And then back to the problems, damn it! No matter how normal his reactions were to Maega’s oppressive, interrogative mellons, no matter how awkward he felt about having somehow lost all willpower and come at her command, the problem hadn’t gone anywhere!

He still needs to get Maega’s permission to remove her from the group so he can rest easy. Rest easy knowing that an older mare steeped in the local mindset won’t decide it’s more appropriate and advantageous to use her Auto-Milf token on him. And the trouble is, he doesn’t even know whether she has tokens like that! Once again, he felt like giving up on everything, going to Maega, using some token himself—even if it was the same junk that had been used (against her will) on Singha, the “Here’s My Pussy” one—to get her to agree to leave the group, and only then talk about it.

But no.

Decided to do something stupid but noble (and stupid!)? Well, go for it—don’t stop halfway; make a fool of yourself all the way to the end! Half-measures are for wimps! But seriously, the jitters are hitting me anyway—wildly, beyond belief, mind-numbingly hard. Stepan knows all too well what it’s like to get caught in someone else’s web—or in a lasso, to use steppe terminology. He didn’t like being in that state at all.

“Damn it, I'm just a complete moron,” he said, already washed and changed, having sent a message to the shamaness via the amulet, as he stepped into the newly opened passage. “Please forgive me for having to cut our conversation short, Maega.”

He looked closely at the woman slumped at the table, not quite understanding what exactly was wrong with her, but clearly seeing that she wasn’t well. She didn’t seem nervous; her emotional field was clear and non-aggressive, yet it was unstable, and she exuded a sort of fatalism. He wanted to penetrate deeper beneath her defenses, but that would have been rude, and he would have sensed her readiness to attack… well, maybe not right away, but he would have sensed it. Still, his main specialty is detecting those characteristic spiritual and mental fluctuations—it’s hard to hide them from him before an attack, even when you’re at the height of your power. It’s another matter entirely that Maega surely has a whole bagful of ways to fool his intuition.

“Take the Tablet of the Soul away from me.” She asks this in a way that sounds more like an order. She says it as if she were cutting off her own hand; even without magic, it’s clear just how much she doesn’t want to say these words. “I don’t deserve this gift. And it seems I never will.”

Okay, that really took him by surprise. He’d been expecting questions, not such a sudden fulfillment of exactly what was important and necessary to him. In fact, it was precisely because of this unexpected start that he froze in indecision. The tab to remove the character from the group popped up with a single force of will, but he still hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t intend to do exactly that. He just wanted to promise Maege at least some kind of consolation prize—after all, he could see how much she didn’t want to lose what she’d been given for the time being. Then again, Stepan had prepared and thought through a whole bunch of possible ways the conversation could go.

“First of all, let me remind you that our overall agreement is still in effect,” he says, suppressing a sense of uncertainty that has surfaced from who knows where and choosing his words with extreme care. “And we also discussed the possibility of gaining access to the Tablets in the future—full and permanent access, not just during times of emergency.”

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence because Maega cut him off, slipping in surprisingly smoothly between his phrases and looking at him with such a weary gaze, so full of unspoken emotions, that he felt as if he were a student who had come to take an astronomy exam but had started telling the professor about astrology instead. She looked at him, and then firmly—very firmly and demandingly—repeated her request-command.

“Take away the shared Tablet from me, Pann.” Something was off about it, but Stepan couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong; he couldn't figure it out. “Right now. Without delay. Please.”

Is she afraid that he’ll be able to influence her through the Tablet? No way, that’s nonsense! If she’d had such thoughts, she would have brought it up long ago, and she’d studied Singha almost down to the cellular level back when she was still preparing to seal their deal. However, the shaman didn’t argue and, in response to the second request, quickly and decisively pressed the necessary virtual key. At that very moment, Maega let out a strange sound, somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, but it was so quiet that the shaman even thought he might have imagined it.

“It was like I'd cut off my own hand,” she summed up, and then hiccupped again—only this time it was completely obvious and loud. “But I'd actually rather have cut off my hand. I did. I would have.”

\\“She’s drunk as a skunk!”—the thought flashed through Stepan’s mind, and then all the confusion surrounding her aura and emotional state fell into place, since he’d never seen her tipsy before. For magicians in general, getting drunk can be dangerous, and for shamans, even more so. \\“The wind spirits in the hall aren’t looking for poison—they’ve cleared away the fumes! And the fluctuation in her emotional perception is caused precisely by intoxication! She’s drunk, yes. And on top of that… she’s fucking terrified right now.”

"Singha is so smart. My pride and joy. The greatness of my bloodline.” At that, she literally giggled, shattering any illusion of sobriety once and for all. “But I’m stupid. I’ve gotten dumber and older. That’s always the way it is. It always will be. As children, we think it’s our mother and our mother’s mother. Mothers. The elders. That they know nothing. That they don’t notice the obvious. And then we grow old ourselves. We don’t notice it ourselves. We consider youth a weakness. Trust, naivety. We cloak ourselves in the silks of meanness. We drink the wine of self-delusion. We reassure ourselves. That we did everything right and as it should be."

And she giggled again, only this time hysterically, which, it must be said, frightened Stepan more and more. He simply didn’t know how to behave around this Maega, the daughter of Maedra, the daughter of Sidhana. Always composed, always sharp as steel and untamed as the wind, she now seemed like a shadow of her former self. Stepan felt terribly awkward, a feeling only compounded by the general sense that the estate was under siege. To be honest, he would have liked to have Singha by his side right now, for she, of all people, knew how to handle her mother. In any case, he didn’t have time to say anything; he’d barely opened his mouth when the shaman cut him off, looking as if she were throwing herself not just into a whirlpool, but off a cliff into the sea with a stone around her neck, or out of an airplane without a parachute.

"Realize this, Pann." It’s as if her words are cutting off any way back; that’s exactly how her emotions make him feel. "How my mesmerizing, oblivion-inducing ass made you forget. How I interrogated you with my Weightly Melons. How I forced you to spurt violently and helplessly. Realize this, and then decide for yourself. Decide my fate. Singha didn’t know. I put her to sleep. As soon as I understood what she had bestowed upon me. Your ilash-hao-tar. The essence of her gifts."

Wow, and she actually had the decency to look away and avoid his gaze! Amazing things come to light in moments like these, especially when some moron is clearly and directly told exactly why he’s a moron. It’s not that he didn’t know or suspect it himself, but it still stings to be proven right on this very point! The Earthling’s aura was like a volcano rousing to life; it took a tremendous effort for him to hold himself back from doing something rash but very aggressive. He held back primarily because he was now sitting at the focal point of a foreign power, and the White Yurt, located in the estate’s backyard, could be felt perfectly from here.

But there was a second reason as well. The very fact that he now wanted to strike Maega, who was drunk and—even through her alcohol-fueled frenzy—barely managing to suppress her hysteria and fear. Now that the veil of unawareness regarding her tokens had lifted, he roughly understood exactly what she had pulled off and where he had gone wrong. He should have simply shut down her system right away, instead of checking the amulets. It turned out that the first token had triggered even through an image—a kind of transmission of an intimate photo in the spirit of Onlishamans. An image that had literally forced him to jerk from his mind the very thought that he could shut down Maega’s system.

He simply forgot about this possibility, which is why Maega nearly made things worse for herself. Had the Earthling been morally more corrupt, she herself would have caused him—unable to disconnect her from the system normally—to fuck her steppe-dweller brain right between her cerebral hemispheres. However, she couldn’t have known that, though she did her best to prepare. As soon as Stepan entered the conference room, he was met by an already activated token—the one used to interrogate him. Presumably, the third token—which robs the recipient of their will during orgasm, directed at the one who provoked the orgasm—was activated at that very moment. The fact that he had climaxed because of the interrogation token did not negate the effect of the third token. At that moment, he was so utterly helpless it wasn’t even funny.

Brainwash as much as you want.

But right now, Maega is just sitting there, drunk, and isn’t giving orders to her loyal slave. It looks like she’s even tripped out on some kind of shamanic mushrooms, judging by her pupils. She’s waiting for his decision and her fate. And she’s really waiting—she isn’t even asking for mercy or rushing to apologize. She only asked for Singha, who had nothing to do with it. Stepan even believes. Most likely, Maega considered her daughter compromised, and therefore didn’t even try to talk to her. Who knows—maybe her little daughter would also use a token, at the behest of her khanur master, to strike her beloved mother?

“So what's the point?” he asks, implying something quite specific: not “why did she betray him”—there are plenty of possibilities there, but, if he's honest with himself, they're all quite clear to Stepan—but “why did she stop halfway and turn back?”

After all, she hadn’t even gotten to the part about Malter in her questioning. He never told her that it was the Auto-Goddess’s will that had freed him from slavery. He only confirmed that she was the first to betray him by trying to subjugate him, and that he had struck first to preempt her. Perhaps the shamaness would have preferred to keep questioning him on and on, but by that point, the earthling’s speech was becoming increasingly garbled, and his “requests” regarding Maega’s breasts were growing ever more indecent. So many of the secrets he’d been saving for a better time were revealed, but by no means all of them.

The same story with that demonic scum. She now knows that Stepan fell under her control for a time, but only because the creature wanted to claim his soul for itself, not for her mistress. She knows that he managed to break free and, in open combat, wipe out the demonic special forces unit that had come for that very soul… Maega even asked him about the desires that demonic bitch had instilled in him toward her and her daughter. But he simply didn’t have time to tell her that the cross-eyed bastard had survived that battle—and even obtained the Tablet, albeit at the cost of having his fangs torn out, figuratively speaking. And about Yula, for example, too. He only mentioned that he had another girl in the group who possessed a rare talent and an equally rare curse, one he was interested in working with.

All in all, Stepan didn’t quite understand why Maega had stopped halfway. He didn’t believe it was solely because he had been found innocent. Knowing about his Tokens, about the Mark on herself and her daughter, and that Stepan could ignore their mutual oath at any moment—if not through the Mark (which would take weeks to break), then through the Tokens? She would have convinced herself that she was right, that she couldn’t risk becoming a brainwashed slave at any moment, especially after she’d been the first to betray him. She had to convince herself—she was obligated to! And yet here she is sitting in front of him, not on his face… strictly in a figurative sense, most likely still happily married.

"You know, Pann.." A brief pause, as if she were trying to find the right words while at the same time slightly clearing the alcohol from her blood. "I didn’t feel guilty. When I started all this. I didn’t even doubt that you were the first. That you’d already done all this to me and my daughter. To my family. Everything that the gifts of your ilash-khao-tar allow. It’s just… this is… the foundation. The foundation of what I was taught. The nature of the Will Lasso is quite common. He could have lasso-bound me, but since I can think these thoughts, that means he didn’t! She’s a vile aklash-ukla, a filthy enchantress, but if I can think about this, then everything’s fine—even if I lick honey from khanaal!"

She’s clearly parodying someone else’s tone in those last few sentences—she’s even kept her own staccato way of speaking. Stepan fully understands this sarcasm. The technique isn’t exactly classic; it’s more like a very advanced one, but yes, it exists and is actively used. It relies on paranoia and distrust. The very fact that such techniques exist works exceptionally well, first and foremost, against those who are well-versed in mentalism and, more importantly, in mentalists themselves. If you can even think that you might have been brainwashed, that means you haven’t been brainwashed, which means everything is fine—even if someone has sat on your face and put a collar around your neck. Judging by Maega’s comment, she’s speaking from personal experience, not inventing a hypothetical scenario.

“And yet, why did you stop?” He couldn't hold back after all, letting it all out—his resentment, the painful realization of his own mistake, and a whole lot more. “Why aren't I licking your pussy right now? Oh, I mean, I'm sorry, please—I didn't mean to offend Urvag. Why aren't I kissing your feet and your daughter's feet, too?”

“Don't touch Urvag!” At that moment, he realized from the images in her mental field that she meant “don't mention it in that context,” not “spare him.” “I didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone. I was afraid you'd already processed them."

"You're starting to get on my nerves, Maega. I'm getting angry. And you're definitely not going to like me when I'm angry." With every passing second, he wants to talk to her less and less, because she’s doing everything she can to keep him from calming down; she shows absolutely no remorse and hasn’t even offered a formal apology. "Answer me, you fucking mare, why?"

And once again she laughed, giggled, almost sobbing, while he couldn’t tell which emotion was stronger in her: fear, anger at herself, anger at him, or some kind of reckless glee, like that of a man on the gallows. And then she looked at him with a completely sober gaze, yet one that was utterly resolute—like that of someone who had made an important and difficult decision, one she would now follow through to the very end. Whatever that end might be.

“Because you're a fool, Pann.” No, well, if this is her attempt to patch things up, she gets an A+. He's practically glowing with forgiveness, especially in the butt area. “It hurts me just to count how many times you've screwed up. You stepped into the pit yourself. You jumped right under the hooves of the herd. You’re naive, unacceptably trusting. Like a calf being led to the slaughter. I was right when I betrayed you. If not me, someone else would do it. They would’ve gotten you all to themselves. I was right when I hit you first! Before him or her! I was right about everything! Everything! And yet I was still wrong..."

Instead of shouting, she simply spoke the last phrase quietly, almost in a whisper; she remained silent for a few seconds, and then it was as if the life had been drained from her and her anger vanished, just as a hurricane-force wind gives way to complete calm. She often experiences mood swings—it runs in the family—but even for a hereditary shaman who speaks with the winds, this is far from normal.

"But if you were smart. If you were at least a little smarter. Not so naive." A sad yet bitter smirk, though the bitterness was directed at herself. "Then I wouldn’t have a daughter. I wouldn’t have a son. And I probably wouldn’t be here either. You got burned by us. By Singha. By me. And yet you forgave us anyway. You helped us anyway. And you asked for nothing in return. My daughter bargained on your behalf! Urvag, my little breeze. How he would have laughed. Know this."

Well, it really is a little embarrassing to think back on that. Because, yeah, if it weren’t for Singh, there’s no way he would have been able to even begin to compare just how much he was actually offering with how little he was planning to demand. The mighty power of steppe diplomacy—“I’m gonna smash a totem pole right in your face”—convinced him to completely rethink his original plan for the first meeting. Seems like it worked.

"You’re right, Pann. I didn’t want to let go of the lasso until the very end." And here he believes every word of it, because she says it so sincerely. "You’re wrong. I wouldn’t have humiliated you. There would be no kissing of feet. And no collar around your neck. But you would be mine, and then you would become hers. The husband of my daughter. The father of my grandchildren. The pillar of my bloodline. Our path to greatness. Not a trail, but a paved road. That would be right. That is how it was meant to be."

To be fair, yes, that’s most likely how it would have turned out. Even if they had occasionally used some pervert Tokens on him. Mother would certainly have been able to change Singha’s mind. But it’s not a given that she would have risked trying to free him, knowing that his wrath would then fall on her entire family. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have realized anything at all—with that mare, she might even have tried to coax her daughter with a token or classic suggestive hypnosis.

"But I was wrong. I was wrong time and time again. And it turned out that Singha was right." She speaks of her daughter with undisguised pride and love—sincere and maternal. "Again and again. I was ready to forget my honor. To set aside my gratitude. To take the shame upon myself—and the kind of shame that only I would know about. And that’s why I didn’t do it. Not for your sake. Not because of my honor—which… which turned out to be so little in the end. But because I believe in my daughter. I believe she was right. And I… and I turned out to be ungrateful, cruel, unworthy. I could have lived with that. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to look Singha in the eyes. Or Ullis. Or Urvag… though he would have understood me."

Most likely, Urvag would not only have understood, but also supported the idea wholeheartedly. But that’s just “most likely.” The man had shown more than once that he could see deeper than met the eye. So who knows how he would have decided to act. The experienced deputy head of the prestigious Trading House had surely committed his fair share of dirty tricks and shenanigans in his life. But he knew how to be not only greedy but also generous, not only vengeful but also merciful. That’s why he was the head of his House’s largest branch. That’s why Maega had fallen in love with him back then. Gray morality, damn it, and the absence of clearly defined boundaries between good and evil. Everyone wants to be good only for themselves and their own.

“I am unworthy. Unworthy of your foolish trust. Unworthy of your thoughtless gifts. I am unworthy of anything.” She declares this with bitterness but determination, still looking him in the eyes, firm and unyielding. “I don’t want to hate myself over and over again. Finding my way back to the gifts my daughter refused. I don’t want to be afraid of losing control. I don’t want to test my loyalty to my husband’s home. My… my love. I’m not asking for forgiveness for what I did, because I had no right. I had no right not to accuse you. Not to believe that you had already betrayed me. But I’m ashamed. Ashamed of those thoughts. That desire. To change nothing. To betray you to the very end."

Well, in some corner of his mind, he understands that she had every right to react nervously. But at the same time, he didn’t exactly feel all that forgiving. On the other hand, he clearly senses that Maega has completely screwed up any foreseeable chances—both near and far—of ever gaining access to the system, and then wiped her ass with them. He’s unlikely to be able to trust her, even though he understands her train of thought and her fears, her conviction that there’s simply no other way, because it might already be too late. That said, he doesn’t feel any particular malice toward her either. He has no desire for revenge, and most of his anger is directed at himself—for letting things get to this point in the first place, for failing to anticipate the bonus tokens for an achievement, and for not disconnecting her from the system before the reward was triggered.

Also, because he understood her perfectly and, against his will, approved of her approach and decision.

It drove him wild. But if he put himself in her shoes—setting aside any knowledge of the Tablets and Automilf’s antics—how would he have acted in her situation? Would he have been able to stop and back down? Even if not out of decency, but out of a desire not to disappoint his hypothetical daughter and son? In short, after processing the events that had befallen him, he still couldn’t bring himself to hate Maega. He couldn’t even get seriously angry at her. Simply because he was too good at putting himself in someone else’s shoes. One might suspect another Token, but somehow it’s hard to believe that at all—and not just because you’re thinking of that very “calming in paranoia” technique Maega mentioned.

No. He doesn’t harbor enough anger toward her, but he has more than enough for himself. And the most nerve-wracking part is precisely this realization—the awareness that he has already become so accustomed to this world that he not only understands Maega but also shares her opinion. And he didn’t want to find himself in her shoes and test his own resolve. Because he remembered all too well his own doubts from not long ago and his desire to take the easiest path. Would he have been able to remain just as pure if it weren’t just him at stake, but also—with the hope that the AutoMilf would bail him out later—his family? Those who are more precious than life.

He couldn’t help but feel a deafening and all-encompassing realization of just how lucky he really was to have Singha, and what a good person she was—if you set aside her mare shtiks. She had managed to remain that way even in this world, which seemed to encourage all the darkest aspects of human relationships. Maega had asked him not to harm Singha, but, to tell the truth, he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to harm her even if Maega hadn’t held him back until the very last moment.

"I know you as well as you know me, Pann. You’re hardly likely to seek revenge on Singha. Although I would. You’re hardly likely to doom my family, my blood, and my love. Although I wouldn’t hold back from revenge." She finishes her thought, as if continuing his own, though Stepan didn’t immediately realize that by “blood” and “love” she meant her son and her husband. "And I’ve earned your anger. Your fury. Your response. A lasso for a lasso. Steel for steel. A noose… for a noose. Forgive me or punish me. Kill me or subdue me. I will accept my fate. I acknowledge your right to decide it without asking me. Just as I decided yours without asking you."

Throughout her monologue, she gradually unwound the defenses she’d built around herself, and so now she is completely open. So open, in fact, that he can easily read not just her emotions, but her very thoughts, as if they were once again in a call circle. In a way, that’s exactly what’s happening—only now they’re calling not for the spirits, but for each other. And so he clearly sees her sincerity, her reluctance to give such an answer, but also her understanding that she has no other choice. Otherwise, she would become unworthy not only of being his ally and comrade-in-arms, but also of being a mother to her daughter and son. It’s a little awkward to admit that it was Singha who saved him from being brainwashed (and solely because of his own stupidity!).

What’s more, Maega has a very clear-headed view of the situation. Even if she isn’t entirely sure, she strongly suspects that Stepan won’t kill her because he doesn’t want to upset her daughter. She understands that he could easily take control of her mind, especially now that she has rubbed his face in his own stupidity and his idiotically naive belief that the seasoned head of a shamanic dynasty spanning dozens of generations would turn out to be just like her young daughter, who is cut from a completely different cloth. She had shown him the truth and shattered the illusions he might have clung to for a very long time—illusions that could have hurt him far more deeply in the future, when someone else might make a different decision.

At the same time, she realizes—once again—that Stepan is unlikely to just go ahead and fuck her in the ass right in front of her husband, taking advantage of the “unconscious token” effect. She understands this and hates herself intensely for regretting it. Some part of her desperately wanted him to leave the system to her, just as he had left it to Sylvia—even if he had reprogrammed Maega’s mind to suit his own desires. Even if it were as shameful and vulgar as the way that heartless, lifeless scum Malter had reprogrammed it. She hates herself for wishing that he would apply the “Anal Pump” token to her—or any of the many other ways to become stronger at the cost of lost honor and dignity—because what she would gain would be worth any dignity.

The mother and wife within her were at odds with the shaman and heir to a magical dynasty, while Maega stood frozen in the middle, hating herself even more. She hated herself for the fact that even now, with the very depths of her being—the essence of one who had lived and breathed for the sake of the gift and its transmission—she wanted once again to charm him and bear a child who promised to be even more powerful in potential than Singha. She hated herself because what was stopping her was not, first and foremost, her love or marital fidelity, but her unwillingness to start a possible war between the branches of the family. Their entire upbringing, all the family contracts, and all the power of the White Yurt were focused solely on one heiress—not two.

She hates herself for secretly wishing that Singha would also turn out to be mean and dishonorable, taking advantage of Stepan and everything he could give her at any moment if he started using Milf’s tokens and carrying out her assignments. She hates herself for seriously thinking—even now—that she can influence Singha, whether through mother’s orders or through some of the suggestive contracts at the disposal of her bloodline. She hates that she keeps pushing away the thought that, if she didn’t have Urvag, nothing would hold her back from trying to extract from Stepan one of the most powerful tokens activated on her. She hates that even Urvag’s presence doesn’t dispel these thoughts.

“Well then, thanks for the lesson.” He managed to break the mental link with Maega, whose mind was ablaze with shame and greed, and then utter those words in an even, calm tone—though it was by no means easy. “Wake up Singha. Then Ste should come to his senses.”

He silently gets up and walks back toward the passageway—which is open inside a bookcase that was brought here specifically for this purpose—but just as he’s about to enter it, he can’t hold back any longer and turns around. He voices what’s on the tip of his tongue, words that are practically begging to be spoken along with the venomous remarks. Words whose venom is directed not even at Maegi’s barely preserved shreds of pride—she truly wants either to sink into the ground out of shame, or to die of terror, already anticipating his breakdown and revenge, or to throw open her robe once more and shut him down and subdue him again, only this time forever. No, the one he hates and wishes to douse with poison right now is not this bitch, who managed to remain human at the very last moment—not her at all.

"You know, Maega, I’m not even going to lament just how messed up your head is." Although I’d love to vent about it using nothing but swear words and an extremely long tirade. "I’ll say something else instead. You’re probably right, and I’m really just a naive idiot. Too trusting. Too eager to believe in goodness. A child of this fucking imperfect, herbivorous world. But here’s the thing… If, in your worldview, any meanness is justified when the stakes are high, any gratitude has a price beyond which it becomes worthless, and any trust will be brutally trampled on when the need arises. If you and those like you, my dear mentor who taught me this priceless lesson, are held back from meanness, from ingratitude, and from making decisions that are both profitable and right only by oaths and covenants sealed on altars, by the fear of retribution and revenge. Even if right now you’ve backed down not out of remorse or recognition of your mistake, but out of a reluctance to become a stranger to your own daughter and son. Even if right now you consider Singh only slightly less foolish, slightly less naive than I am myself—because she didn’t do at the first opportunity what you almost did today. If you consider yourself a fool for not going all the way, even though you should have. That. Maybe. Just for a moment. Somewhere, something, somehow, just a little bit—is it not with me, you, or Singha, but with this whole fucking world?"

He didn't stop to listen to her answer.

Simply because he knew she wouldn’t answer him.

* * *

Urvag’s face bore the marks of fatigue, but also a certain satisfaction at a job well done. Maega’s face showed complete composure and a sense of peace, as if her decision—radical and final—had lifted a heavy burden from her. Singha’s face showed drowsiness, suspicion, confusion, and a stinging resentment toward her mother, because the daughter—who knew her mother well and the earthling Patroness—upon receiving the reward for her deed (she, too, had evidently been showered with tokens), immediately put two and two together and arrived at the logical conclusion. She quickly figured out the reasons why she had suddenly passed out for a full, extra day, as well as the now-subsided but still noticeable chill between Maega and Stepan.

She yelled at both of them, as was typical. At the Earthling for not blocking her mother’s access to the System from the start. And at her mother for not even thinking to ask her daughter. In the end, they spent half an hour trying to calm her hysterics—she understood perfectly well just how precariously their union had recently hung by a thread, and how close she had come to having to make that choice herself. And because her mother had decided to spare her from the burden of that choice, she nearly flew off into the stratosphere on the thrust of a burning mare’s ass. Toward the end, it suddenly dawned on them that the two of them had spent half an hour calming Singha down, in the truest sense justifying each other’s actions.

Stepan consistently and clearly explained the reasons behind Maega’s actions, while Maega repeatedly and in detail pointed out Stepan’s condition after his healing. In that moment of realization, they first exchanged glances, then stared suspiciously at Singha, who, without meaning to, had managed to set up a session of couples’ therapy for them, complete with putting themselves in their opponent’s shoes. All in all, they had a good time; Urvag had no choice but to watch from the sidelines, sipping a special cocktail—one-third a glass of island rum, one-third stimulating alchemy, and another third of a mild detoxifier with the taste and scent of cherries, so that his liver wouldn’t give out and his heart wouldn’t say, “I’m stopping".

The head of the household was brought up to speed, but only very superficially. Neither Maega, nor Singha, nor Stepan wanted to reveal the details of their argument or the nature of the “pale mare” that had come between them. Maega felt incredibly ashamed in front of her husband, even though her actions technically and practically weren’t even a distant form of infidelity. Most likely, she’ll tell him without going into too much detail, omitting the intimate parts, but only later, when she’s ready and has made up her mind. Stepan estimated it would take more than ten days but less than a month, while Singha gave a more precise timeframe: “no more than fifteen days—it rarely lasts longer than that for them.” This, too, could lead to a series of problems and personal conflicts, but Urvag is hardly likely to act rashly.

On the other hand, it’s hard to predict exactly what he’ll ultimately decide to do. In terms of intelligence and the ability to use it masterfully, Urvag is by far the strongest member of their team. But there was also the issue of Furval, who was sitting at the same table with them and who, at that moment, resembled a serene Rastafarian Buddha. Bald, overweight, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe and a set of mandatory protective amulets underneath, he was lazily smoking some kind of alchemical hookah, enchanted down to the very last detail.

He, too, had to suffer. He took no less stimulating alchemy than Maega, supplementing it with some very unpleasant potions to ward off particularly nosy interrogators. The man had no idea how August and his family would react, so he prepared himself even for the possibility that he might be dragged not to the altar of the Keeper of Oaths, but straight to the mentalist for interrogation. It didn’t end up being necessary, but the intoxication was no less severe for it. Maega had to team up with Furval’s personal master mage—who was also quite competent, especially in treating intoxication—to get the fat man back into relatively good shape.

"August ate our words, swallowed them whole, and didn’t bat an eye." Furval was the first to break the silence that had hung in the air for quite some time, setting aside the smoking hookah over which five spirits of the realm of winds were maintaining a controlled vortex to keep the rest of the room from filling with smoke. “The question is how much he didn’t believe us—that’s what matters. In principle, our little tale is true and therefore sincere, but you don’t have to be the Duke de Mont Ros to see that there are things left unsaid. I tried to brush all that under the rug by invoking the secrecy of witchcraft, and my little brother went along with it as best he could with all his acting skills, buuuuut…"

He dragged out that “but” for about five seconds, ending with a vague wave of his hand, as if passing the word to Urvag. Urvag, who had returned from the duke’s reception tired and angry—which he made no secret of, nor, for that matter, did Furval—did not pick up the banner right away. First, he finished his health-boosting cocktail, slamming the bottom of the glass against the table, nearly shattering the glassware enchanted to detect poisons. And only then, with a heavy sigh, did he begin to voice his own opinion.

"That old elf-loving faggot, damn him." It may not have been said very loudly, but the very fact that the usually reserved Urvag resorted to such insults speaks volumes in itself, no matter how you look at it. “He—or rather, his mages—didn’t like something in the background coming through the barriers; I’d bet my uncle Moides’s jaw on it. It’s not that he didn’t believe us… it’s not that that was the problem. The problem is that he decided to squeeze out as much as possible—not with gold, but with a favor. I could have put up with it, but I really don’t like the second invitation. It’s already for me and Maega, “once this woman, who is worthy in every respect, has recovered a bit.” I don’t like the fact that I’ll no longer be speaking with the duke."

This was followed—specifically for Stepan—by a detailed explanation that Duke August was a very multifaceted personality, yet all his many facets were actually quite simple. He wants only good things for himself and his family, and only bad things for his enemies, and his interests, in one way or another, are tied to these desires. Alas, they had been invited to tea not in the Duke’s name, but in that of the Duchess—the beloved and only wife of the venerable old gentleman, who certainly did not look his age. Formally, this was explained by the fact that the conversation would revolve around magical topics, so the discussion would be led personally by Duchess Turiel de Mont Ros, accompanied by Maître Johannes and Maîtresse Ahya, two of August’s court masters. For they were far better versed in matters of magic than August himself, although he, too, was by no means as clueless about magic as he liked to make himself out to be—in some academy, he might even have taught the subject.

"August is simpler and easier to understand because Turiel… she’s like a box with a secret, and inside there are several more boxes, each containing its own boxes, and each of those holds about thirty secrets. “He’s at it again,” Furval chimed in, staring thoughtfully at Urvag’s glass and clearly considering whether to pour himself a little more. “No, no, they’re going to really grill Maega—ask her all about magical matters and leave no stone unturned, ahem, sorry, sorry, I’m just nervous. The trouble is that Turiel isn’t just an outstanding expert in magical theory, even if she herself is only a very good adept. She’s also the de facto head of the Augustus Secret Service, on par with Tyrone. But while he’s more trained—by her, no less—to track down enemy spies, Turiel herself, on the other hand, builds spy networks for the glory of Morgrave..."

It would seem incredibly short-sighted to allow an elf—and such a seasoned one at that—to hold such a powerful and important position at one’s court. But that’s only if you’re completely unaware of the inner workings of the Confederation in general and Morgrave in particular, if you’re blind and deaf, or if you were born in another world and aren’t accustomed to the local customs. The hint, of course, was crystal clear, but the shaman didn’t even think of taking offense at Maega, even though Furval choked on his words mid-sentence, clearly expecting a rebuke from the Earthling. When it didn’t come, he shook his head and then continued with the topic he’d started.

Turiel, having replaced the names of her Branch and House with her ducal surname, remained an elf—and was, in fact, almost officially and closely tied to the retinue and court of the current Queen, as well as to the elven intelligence services. But August himself, though not a vassal of the Forest de jure, was one de facto. It was the Forest that provided him with every kind of support; it was they who could help and cover for him when the unofficial “first among equals” of the Confederation began to lose his footing. That very same elf bore him three children (even though elves are naturally limited to five children—it is virtually impossible to bear more without the truly supreme theurgy of the Life-Giver; it’s practically a genetic program)—and in doing so, she bound herself as tightly as possible to the duchy and the duke.

It was, in fact, a grand gesture, because the elves would never betray or abandon their own blood and children; for their sake alone, the seasoned schemer was willing to acknowledge August not as a fleeting fling, but as her true husband. And this union worked—it worked perfectly—much to the immense annoyance of an indescribably long list of individuals all over the world. Suffice it to say that Duke August has long since passed the four-hundred-year mark, yet he still looks just over forty. He’s even allowed to call some elves “young men” and “young women”!

Such is the aid offered by the Forest: the finest alchemy, the best healers specializing in rejuvenation, the finest rituals, and even the divine miracles of the Lord of the Forests (thanks to one such miracle, you’d need something truly dark and vicious to poison Augustus, because the old man could eat cyanide by the spoonful). They even say that for one of the ritual rejuvenations, they enlisted the Magnificent One herself, the Archmage of the Forest, persuading her to leave her White Tower for a week. The current head of the forest magical community has also been called upon to support August’s health on more than one occasion. Because children shouldn’t grow up without a father, yeah. And that’s why Dad needs to live so long that such numbers are downright enviable.

However, Turiel had given birth to his children quite recently—well, by the standards of Forest politics. The girls aren’t even married yet, and the heir only recently exchanged wedding vows with his fiancée. For a long time, Turiel was merely a lover and a “bedwarmer,” but when August was on the verge of accepting a marriage proposal from a representative of the Confederates’ anti-elven party, the long-eared shrew finally decided to bind herself as tightly as possible to the duke—and the duke to her. August’s own mother, they say, was absolutely furious, for she had spent her entire life unable to stand those sly, big-eared women who are always trying to worm their way into people’s guts—whether with their tongues or ladies’ saviors. That was a direct quote, by the way.

Well, then the bride—who also happened to possess considerable strength and had almost managed to reach the pinnacle of mastery—was left high and dry, and three years later, pregnant, after falling victim to a very potent love spell cast on her personal aide and secretary. Meanwhile, the supporters of the anti-elven cause kept losing ground, suffering their final blow during the King-Captain’s raid, when they were—very “unfortunately”—caught in the crossfire of the Island Kingdom’s assault spells and sabotage attacks. No, to be fair, there were indeed a number of powerful strikes on the de Mont Ros palace, but neither Urvag, nor Furval, nor even Maega—who wasn’t particularly involved in politics—could hide their skepticism at all when looking at the list of the dead.

All in all, on the one hand, yes, proud and unyielding to everyone except his wife, Duke August de Mont Ros is dangerously close to being officially recognized as a vassal of the Forest. On the other hand—he is a vassal of the Forest! Morgrave is effectively the Forest’s showcase, practically a second White Harbor. It’s their backyard and a base for planning and launching external operations. And when elven assassins attack the head of a highly influential trading house in broad daylight—and then abduct him from his private carriage—the Forest’s emissary is, of course, summoned to appear before August. And even when officials officially believe the Forest had nothing to do with it, unofficial bribes are paid anyway.

And when the Islands come to visit, unleashing their heaviest firepower from the royal flagship, an unknown number of faceless, camouflaged figures—who, of course, have no connection to the elves—suddenly appear exactly where they’re needed, halting the enemy’s advance on the most critical fronts. It’s as if they’ve been stationed in the city in shifts from the very beginning—after all, didn’t the Forest bring in a reserve strike force through those very same blocked portals?

Of course, Morgave has many other allies and interests. They’re also on friendly terms with the dwarf folk of the Undermauntin, especially with the Hearth located beneath Mount Ros. Well, it’s not hard to figure that out from the duke’s family name. He has his own ties with Neirat, with the Caliphate, and even with the islanders. Although the latter, for obvious reasons, have either moved to the Islands or simply farther away from Morgrave, or are keeping their mouths shut tight, afraid to say a word too many, or have even moved into the dungeons of the secret service or even some grave or other. Sometimes it’s a grand one with a beautiful mausoleum, and other times it’s an unmarked grave, just securely sealed with necromancy to ensure the corpse stays exactly that—a corpse. But regardless, it is the Forest that, at this moment in time, serves as Morgrave’s chief ally and patron.

"All right, after hearing your arguments about the problem with those bitchy creatures, I suggest we drop the topic—you’ve already gone around in circles three times." Stepan isn’t exactly yawning, but you’ve really started repeating yourselves, and besides, this is the kind of problem the men of de Lomer will have to solve on their own, since it’s their area of expertise. "So let’s move on to how we’re going to gently and passionately thank a certain old, disabled grandpa. A moral one, for fuck’s sake. So that the bitch knows why it’s wrong to hurt children."

The hint was understood. And those malicious smiles—which were more like snarls—flashed across the faces of the entire family. And while the sudden gust of wind around them—caused by the spirits sensing their mistress’s wrath—left Stepan unmoved, the two brothers’ simultaneous baring of their teeth was truly terrifying. True, in Furval’s case, that display quickly gave way to thoughtfulness and even a touch of bewilderment. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, looked at Singh, who was gazing gratefully at the Earthling, then at the Earthling himself, then at Maega, and then actually snorted, taking another long drag on the hookah he’d set aside.

"Oh, really! I didn’t expect that, but I can’t help but approve of this choice—you’d be hard-pressed to find a better solution!" It seemed as if those words had suddenly perked him right up. "Well then, may happiness fill your home, and may the third child be named in my honor. And you can complain to me about your mother-in-law anytime—I’ll definitely sympathize wholeheartedly and remind you that you chose this yourself. You could’ve told me right away—otherwise, I got a little worked up… I was a bit on edge about this union and these in-laws…"

The bewildered silence gradually gave way to one that wasn’t quite so bewildered. Singha was visibly mastering metamorphosis, turning into a boiled crab. Urvag simply pressed his palm to his forehead, and Maega was ready to burst into a prairie fire right there in that room. As is often the case, it was Stepan who was the last to realize what was happening, after which he, too, felt his ears begin to flush slightly. Then, however, he remembered that he was gifted and took control of his ethereal form, just as Singha, who was fading back to her usual state, did.

“You're wrong, my husband's brother,” Maega said calmly, though her voice had a growling edge to it. “Singha is still a free spirit, and she was never up for negotiation. Never.”

That’s how she seems to be convincing herself, because if it weren’t for Stepan’s words during that long-ago conversation in this very office, Maega would have suggested Singha to him right away. As soon as she realized just how well he fit, she would have proposed Singha to him. Thanks to his “heritage in blood and spirit.” And she wouldn’t have hesitated to haggle until Stepan forced her to look at the situation from the outside. That’s probably why she’s so angry at Furval—so much so that she feels the mark of, well, not guilt, not shame, but rather an admission of her own commercial nature.

“O-o-o-kay. Fine! That’s it! I give up! I don’t understand a thing about all this!” With a wave of his hand, he silenced his younger brother, who had been about to object, and fixed Stepan, Maega, and Singha with a demanding gaze that was no longer funny at all. “So, you, Stepan. All evening—and maybe even for several days in a row—you wore the mask and cloak of a lowly court footman. You gave it your all and performed a small miracle, saving poor Ullis. Before that, if I’ve got this right, you twice saved sweet little Singha from a very unenviable fate. And now you’ve even come out and said outright that you’re ready to enter into direct conflict with, if not the most dangerous, then certainly the most vengeful little bastard in the whole fucking Steppe. For what? For promises of help from Urvag and Maega—not even all of the de Lomers?"

Still, he and Urvag are very similar, yet completely different. Unlike his brother, the Head of the House has a deliberately easygoing demeanor, as if he were truly just a simple, kind-hearted uncle. He’s emotional, swears comically, and never keeps a poker face; he’s open and expects openness in return. As is often the case, this impression is as deceptive as it is dangerous. Furval wears this mask masterfully; he has worn it his entire life. He was actually like that, which is why the mask has become so well-suited to him. The problem is that his manner and character did not obscure his sharp mind, his ruthless grasp, or the depths of his imagination and his ability to use it for his own benefit.

The blood and tears of those who went against de Lomer—or Furval himself, his family, and his loved ones—would be enough to fill several swimming pools. And right now he doesn’t understand a damn thing, which is why he sees a threat to his loved ones and is losing his patience, good nature, and cheerful disposition. Stepan realized right then why his “friends” and rivals call him “Sekach” behind his back—he, too, is a funny, flabby little boar, exactly until you make him angry, but not after.

"They did, however, share the general terms of your deal with me. I managed to pry them out of my brother, and I tried not to ask about things I had no right to know." Well, that’s not surprising. After they made him swear an oath of silence, the very structure of the deal under the auspices of the Keepers of Secrets ceased to be a forbidden secret to him. “But now I’ve completely lost track of what’s going on. What’s in it for you, Pann? Because if any of my relatives had planned to sign a contract with such a lopsided give-and-take, I would’ve dragged that fool by the nose and balls to Sanur and Satya after just one read-through of the contract draft! Though for some reason, I don’t believe you’d actually need their help. Or maybe I just have no idea how much I don’t know about Maega!"

The shaman herself, like Singha, showed no change in expression, but he sensed a hidden storm of emotions. Among them, in Maega’s case, burning shame, guilt, and a sort of regret prevailed—as if to say, “I wish you were right, Furval.” These final images triggered yet another wave of shame and guilt. Stepan, however, remained impassive, merely wincing slightly at the unspoken insinuation. He knew about the de Zonnl brother and sister, who had received a minor noble coat of arms through formal adoption. Singha had told him that their mother had considered sending her daughter to them after her daughter’s adventure the year before last—even before she met Stepan—when she had been brazenly abducted by the islanders, who managed to bring her to Kuordemar.

She would have told him more, and the Earthling would have listened gladly, but she couldn’t remember. The operation to rescue the hostages—accompanied by massive terrorist attacks and civilian casualties—was organized by the elves. They also took care to protect the secrets of their agents by simply erasing the memories of those rescued through a “voluntary” agreement; though, to be sure, “voluntariness” in this context was rather peculiar. Judging by circumstantial evidence, after the long-eared agents staged a massacre at the main pier of Kuordemar—freed the hostages under the cover of chaos and led them away—they guided them through uninhabited sections of the Underworld.

To get a little closer to the topic: Sanur and Satya are brother and sister, both masters of magic, teetering on the very edge of that rank, but working together not much worse than some magisters. They are mentalists—and very good ones at that—who are unique (for independent mages) specialists in correcting and repairing minds damaged by their colleagues. Remove love spells and curses, erase implants and destabilizing brands, sever connections to enchantments, and unravel spells. It’s hard to find a form or method of mind wash that they couldn’t bypass, heal, or neutralize. Well, that is, provided there was still a mind and personality left to save.

The brother and sister, as it happens, are immigrants from the sweltering Caliphate, and they hate classic mentalists, refusing on principle to use the techniques those mentalists favor. Even their servants are completely in control of their own minds, albeit bound by contracts. Judging by the rumors recounted by Singha and confirmed through Malter, they’ve been under some kind of very convoluted, witchcraft-based love spell cast on each other, which has thoroughly ruined both their lives. So they decided to pursue a path that would compensate for the damage to their minds, while also building up their wealth and reputation, and at the same time trying to make life miserable for those who had wronged them.

They’d long since eliminated the clients who commissioned that love spell—and made no secret of it—but the witch herself might still be out there. She’s a witch with the rank of master of magic, and she belongs to a very old and dangerous coven—perhaps the oldest in the world. And the most dangerous, too. In theory, it’s possible to track her down, but how can you be sure you won’t slip up yourself the next morning, stepping out of the bathroom, only to fall ten or twelve times onto the knife of some assassin?

What is all this for?

And then there’s the fact that Furval said outright that he doesn’t believe Stepan is getting involved in this conflict without standing to gain something from it. Just as he doesn’t believe that Maega planted that idea in his head? Still, the chubby fellow—thanks to a series of rituals he underwent back in childhood, as he himself boasted—possesses magical vision on par with a master of magic. According to him, he once peered into the eyes of a desert Sakharid, on a dare, to see who could detect the subtlest currents of power. But here he clearly wasn’t exactly lying outright and shamelessly; rather, he was leaving out a great deal.

To sum up, this modification is a huge help in everyday life and in business. Especially when it comes to spotting a sneaky, cursed ring or a substandard product from the high-end price segment. Although migraines caused by an overload of subtle energy around the eyes happen all too often. He saw Stepan’s aura. Most likely, he managed to analyze it, and even if he had suspected someone of mind-bending, it wouldn’t have been Maega. Stepan couldn’t help but smile wryly at just how wrong the man was in his theory—just as he was in writing the shaman off the books.

“Why not?” Stepan asks after a few seconds of silence, having maintained a truly dramatic pause. “It’s the right thing to do, Furval. You said everything right and wisely, but you forgot a simple truth—the simplest one, even. I’ve only been in this world, under this sky, for a very short time. And I have very few people I can call friends—dwindling in number. Singha is one of those people, and without any of that nonsense like an arranged marriage. I simply saved her life, and she saved mine. Well… how should I put it? If, in order to go beat the crap out of a real orc-cannibal—one with a habit of brutally slaughtering everyone and everything on altars, who, right in front of me, nearly killed a little kid in a particularly agonizing way—I’d been looking for personal gain, a reason, or a decent payout? My grandpa would’ve risen from his grave and beaten the crap out of me with a shovel. Anyway, I appreciate your concern for your family and my financial well-being, but don’t come at me with that kind of nonsense—you might as well go pick buttercups in the steppe."

Singha was the only one to break the rather stunned silence with a half-stifled sob, followed by a cough; then she covered her mouth with both hands and began to shake with laughter. After all, it was hardly often that Furval received a response like that. Furval was clearly flabbergasted too, though for a different reason. An experienced businessman, he had clearly noticed that something had angered the alien carrying the Tablet, but he couldn’t yet figure out exactly what. And he wondered if the alien was even pretending to be angry at all, trying to divert suspicion away from who knows what.

“Ahem, no. I didn’t tell anyone about that story with your ‘favorite’ flowers, and neither did my wife—unless you, sweetie, let it slip?” Urvag asked, a bit confused, but Singha, who was laughing, just shook her head, making Maega smile as if she’d just caught on to some joke. “But get used to it, brother, get used to it. I nearly tore my hair out trying to figure out how he even thinks. Especially when he came to work for me as a servant. I still can’t believe I haven’t buried half of them yet.”

At that moment, Furval simply quacked like a duck, shifting his gaze to Urvag, then to Maega, then to Stepan, and finally, almost pleadingly, to Singha. She, instead of responding to her uncle’s plea, merely nodded slyly and with barely concealed satisfaction, confirming what her father had said. Furval blinked, then rubbed his face with his palms, then set aside the hookah—filled with cleansing and healing alchemy—and, using the amulet in his ring with masterful skill, activated two telekinetic tentacles, pulling a glass and a half-empty bottle of rum toward him, which he’d swiped from his brother. Furval poured himself a drink right to the bottom of the glass, then took three deep gulps, straight from the bottle.

"So... this isn't just a one-time thing? You, Pann, really? All this time? As a handyman? A lackey? Not a double, not an imposter, not that life-size doll lying in the deep healing chamber right now?" The man switched to the informal “you” very quickly, immediately realizing that the shaman wasn’t observing formal etiquette and didn’t require it, but now he clearly wanted to be as polite as possible—though he was playing it safe: switching back from the informal “you” to the formal “you” was considered a display of outright distrust or contemptible, cowardly hypocrisy. "Huh? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Or…? Nah, that’s nonsense. Why are you making a fool of me, huh?! And you call yourselves family! Come on, admit it!"

He brushed it all off as a joke, even though he himself was gradually beginning to realize that it would have been worth questioning Urvag in greater detail; but Urvag was in no hurry to share Stepan’s secrets either, hesitating to test just how much of them he could reveal—even to Furval, who was bound by a vow of silence. As a result, for the next forty minutes, instead of discussing a plan of attack against the bone-carving enthusiast, they recounted to the head of the de Lomer household how they had first met Stepan and why he had taken on such a role (though they didn’t mention the portal beneath the city outright; they simply said they were preparing a large-scale call), and finally, at the earthling’s nod, they even talked about his lackey quest.

"Pfft! No, well, yeah, I’d have ended up as a lackey too. I’d have even taken a job as a waiter at the nearest tavern. And I’d have been smiling while doing it, too.” At that, he shuddered inwardly as memories of the past came flooding back, images of which seeped through his amulets just a little. “Back in my youth, I once seriously owed a debt to the Damokar clique, so for six years afterward I was afraid to go to sleep or even take a shit until I managed to pay off that promised favor. If your benefactor, you see, is so far above mere celestials, then the matter is settled—please forgive my suspicions. Well, yes, let’s get down to business. Urvag, Maega, you have the floor—you’ve been butting heads with this beast longer than I have."

Stepan silently promised himself that he would definitely learn the swear words of the world’s peoples, because otherwise, either the steppe girls’ native vocabulary would constantly be peppered with incomprehensible—yet clearly multi-layered—phrases, or, say, Furval would masterfully slip a swear word from the halfling into the lexicon. And while it all seems intuitively clear, there’s a certain unpleasant aftertaste from the fact that you aren’t depraved enough to understand a particular lexeme.

"First things first, as always: minimizing losses and risks." Urvag quickly forgot the fleeting moment of fun, pulled a thick folder from under the table—with small pieces of paper and bookmarks sticking out of it—spread it out, and began going through the notes inside. “Akshtar the ++Mute Tamburine may be as cruel and unreasonably bloodthirsty a bastard as you like, but no one calls him a fool. Not even me. He can’t fail to understand that we’ll respond—that I’ll respond, that Maega will respond, and that her mother and Sulshama Bey will respond as well. And so he has two choices—either withdraw his subordinates and sworn followers, pull funds out of risky ventures, take a defensive stance, and wait for our move. Or do the opposite—continue striking and pressing on our weak spots, since the attacks were surely already prepared even before this whole curse thing. If it had worked, he would be finishing us off right now.

Maega didn’t say a word; she just nodded in agreement, but her eyes were the very abyss of hell itself, and all the demons of that hell were dancing. She knew her enemy well, too, and—as Stepan knew—she herself had suggested to her husband ways in which that piece of shit might strike with magic. And she surely knew by heart the list of Akshtar’s subordinates and subjects, just as she knew the roll calls of the retinues of many other important steppe nobles. Whether human or green folk—that was the upbringing of a true steppe aristocrat of the highest rank.

"Rudolf received my message. He led his men back, barricaded himself in Stormgrave, and hired an additional group of versatile local mercenaries with experience fighting the steppe tribes. Arizira, the sweetness of our eyes—forgive me, Guardian—has also put her expedition on hold. She said she’ll wait it out in Sydym-Saray and sell off some of her goods there. And if things really heat up, she’ll sell everything—she’ll even come out ahead, but she’ll seriously damage her relationships with her clients in the south. She would have whined to me until morning about the lost profits and the fifteenth paragraph of the Confederation’s Trading Houses’ regulations—that little darling of mine. And I used to think her father was overly based, even for a merchant-caravan leader."

Furval chuckled, patting his belly, and Urvag smiled at this story, which was clearly an old one that had been circulating among them for a long time. Singha moved a little closer to Stepan and, at his request, began whispering in his ear—her words carried on the wind—the tale of the misadventures between Arizira de Lomer and her father. If the steppe girl was to be believed, in an epic global competition for the title of “most based person of the century,” this lady would have taken the honorable first place—if only she hadn’t been sitting on the judging panel from the very start. She was an extremely peculiar individual, yet painfully honest and scrupulously diligent in fulfilling her obligations.

That’s why her own people valued her. That’s exactly why outsiders sought to work with her. Even when she saw a way to make a quick buck—albeit relatively legally—from an inattentive client who hadn’t read a couple of clauses in the contract, she almost never took advantage of that opportunity. Only if there was a truly idiotic blunder—then even she believed that, in that case, the loss of money would serve as a lesson for the future. Surprisingly, this woman had no one who loved her, but she also had practically no enemies, not even among her outright competitors. She was the only one among the de Lomers who could get along normally even with “that bloodthirsty, greedy bitch de Radmar”—a direct quote from Singha.

"The Free Captain and his sweetheart docked at Endoras; it seemed to them that some sort of creature in the sea—not quite alive—was pursuing them." Meanwhile, Urvag continued to read aloud what he had already managed to review on his own and with the help of Furval’s entourage—which Furval had temporarily placed under his brother’s command while August was scooping out his brains with a teaspoon. “It might have seemed that way, but you know our captain’s favorite sorceress—she always plays it safe. It’s quite possible that some old shit sent something after them. Right now they’re searching the ship and checking the hull, looking for a beacon—maybe they’ll find it. Saladit-Baty sent word that there was a minor attack—more like a reconnaissance-in-force—but the enemies fled in fear; read: they simply withdrew calmly, though some of their horses were shot. I’d bet my finger that the ones “shot” were the very best and the ones he liked the most. Maega, ask your venerable mother to bring him to his senses, because the only argument I have left is a one-time contract to hire a group of assassins."

Once again, his wife proved herself to be an exemplary wife: she didn’t argue, didn’t bare her teeth, and didn’t act like, “I’m the khao-sekhar here, and you’re all trash.” She simply nodded modestly and briefly said that it would be done. The de Lomer family turned out to have quite a few assets, and many of them were in the danger zone—though not all of them; a significant number were simply operating too far from the Steppe. Although that didn’t always help—in the Eastern Empire, for example, Akshtar’s positions were even stronger than in the Confederation. In fact, if anything were to happen there, it would be next to impossible to provide any help.

“That’s all the good news.” Urvag summed up gloomily, clenching the tube containing the latest report until it creaked, while Maega’s teeth ground together almost inaudibly nearby. “The news from the Steppe isn’t encouraging—three assassination attempts, happening almost simultaneously with what’s happening here, with a time difference of less than a couple of bell chimes. Two were successful—Salkym’s disciples, but not the better one, just the one who wasn’t right for you, my dear, but the second one. Uganra-lah. Killed instantly; the bones in her body shattered and rotted all at once. They could only finish her off to prevent her soul from being devoured by the rot; the venerable Sidhana didn’t make it in time and couldn’t have made it in time. The third attempt partially failed—Talkym-sula himself survived, but he no longer has any of his three wives, nor an heir. On the one hand, the second outcome is actually for the best; the young Chumbat-sula was no friend to us, but his father loved him in his own way. And he has already declared that he is ready to do everything in his power to participate in our retaliation."

So far, this news had been most painful for Maega. She knew all these people—some only by sight, others very closely—because they had all served her clan and dynasty long before she moved to Morgrave. And each of these blows was particularly painful for the dynasty of shamans, perhaps even irreparable. It was a loss—in reputation, in material terms, and in spirit. She had failed to protect those who had sworn an oath to her hearth and yurt, just as generations upon generations of her ancestors had done before her.

"The caravan of Lozhim the Spoon has disappeared. There has been no response to messages, nor any distress signal; the blood amulets of some of his personal bodyguards have burst, but Spoon himself and his deputy, Chudo the Hoarse, are still alive.” Urvag continues, meanwhile, to list the consequences of the trade war—and more—that has begun. “If anyone pulled this off, it wasn’t Akshtar himself; it’s more likely that one of our competitors decided to pull a fast one with his tacit approval. I’ve already ordered a couple of reconnaissance teams to be sent there—let them follow the route and look for clues. If it’s de Fanir or even de Faler, I’ll take personal responsibility.”

And the report continued, listing the measures that had been taken—those that had proved sufficient, as well as those where the measures had fallen short. The House was not at war; no one had expected such a brazen attack. But it was comforting to know that no one on the other side had expected the de Lomers to survive the assassination attempt so thoroughly and completely, without irreparable losses among their leadership. They already know this, have already realized it, but it is too late to pull back some of the forces that were sent out to torment the decapitated Trading House and the vassals of the shamanic dynasty. And they will pay dearly for having believed—once again—in Akshtar, even though he usually does not miss the mark so badly.

" ...thus, one can say with almost complete certainty that Tsevi was simply bewitched and robbed by two shrewd vixens, who, as a parting gift, even fuck him with ladies' savior for all his donations and, ahem, his sharp tongue." The second person in the de Lomer household concluded his account with frankly petty incidents, more curious than dangerous. “They didn’t pry into the secrets of the coat of arms, didn’t break into the House’s vault—they simply cleaned out his personal savings, mocked him, and left the poor fellow in the hands of his wife, who had rushed to his aid. They say that either she shoved the ladies' savior even deeper or—beat him with it until his bones were broken. Knowing Conchita’s temperament, I’d first assume the first option, and then the second. That’s all. Now we can start thinking about who we’re going to beat up—and how."

The word had already been quietly passed on to Furval and Maega. As the head of the House, Furval was required to approve and personally authorize the start of any war—whether commercial or otherwise—including major operations against other Houses or government agencies.

Maega, meanwhile, is assisting Furval here as an expert on the magical society of the Steppe and, personally, to the ++Silent Drum, listing and pointing out the most obvious courses of action. Later, the two brothers will go out to their entourages and present the resulting draft plan to the wider public. In a different situation, the entourages would have been invited to this discussion from the start, but then Stepan wouldn’t have been able to be there. And the Earthling not only listened but also offered his help, pointing out exactly where and how he could and wanted to assist, and proposing a plan and a way to carry it out. In short, he was allowed in here for more than just the Tablet. His existing knowledge made him quite well-versed in how to organize a sabotage-and-economic blockade against the enemy or carry out acts of terror against major social structures.

At this rate, he might open up a whole new branch of intelligence and assassination expertise—which, to tell the truth, he wouldn't mind at all.

"That’s all for now—otherwise, if I drink even a little more alchemy, poor Curio will throw another tantrum,” Furval concludes their meeting, feeling rather under the weather. “We’ll put all this into practice little by little. As our short, bearded friends say, a palace carved into the rock is built one stroke at a time. Well, yes, Pann. I don’t know exactly what agreements you have with my brother’s sweetheart, but I’ll speak for myself. If you ever need support from me and everyone behind me—just say the word. I won’t throw around words that are priceless, for they’re worth nothing without assurances and oaths. But I’ll certainly listen to you, and just as certainly, I’ll agree to help with almost anything. Perhaps not on behalf of the De Lomer Trading House, but on my own behalf—and on behalf of my brother and my uncle, who today did not lose his kin where it was inevitable that he would."

Stepan didn’t waste words either; he merely nodded and gave the chubby man—who didn’t seem the least bit funny right now—a firm handshake, or rather, a grip just above the wrist. He remembered how Maegi’s gratitude and honor had nearly ended in disaster, but he wasn’t about to dismiss those words either. Who knows—maybe someday he’d actually have to go to Furval to pay his respects specifically with a request, rather than an offer of something in return. Who knows—maybe Furval wouldn’t even bother to laugh, just brushing him off right from the start. Who knows, who knows.

“Well, then I’ll be off.” He rose from that comfortable armchair, yawned, ruffled his hair, and then, in the space of three heartbeats, created a slight pallor on his face and spots on his skin by applying precise pressure to restrict blood flow and injecting active magical energy into his subtle bodies. “It’s about time poor Stae woke up. Just thinking about how many stupid questions there’ll be makes me want to kill right away. Anyway, don’t drag your feet on choosing your targets, or I’ll lose my temper.”

Furval’s expression was simply priceless, but Singha ruined it all. Hmm, come to think of it, his joke was perhaps just a tiny bit inappropriate—or even a bit too dark. Because when a dropout who failed his exam says, “I’m going to kill people,” it’s taken as a joke. But when those same words come from a walking missile battery in the form of a powerful, gifted individual, it’s not funny at all.

“He's joking,” Singha informs her uncle calmly and even melancholically, without even sitting up straight in his chair. “He's not nervous at all. And he doesn't kill people for what they say.”

“She's not joking,” he confirms just as calmly, suppressing a smile deep inside. “I'm not nervous at all. And I don't kill people for what they say.”

"I’ll give you a spanking. Or maybe not. As your own uncle, I’ll demand that Mom give you a spanking!"He pointed his finger at Singha, then shifted his gaze to Stepan. "If you sneak off somewhere on the sly or hang out in brothels, I’ll turn you in to her!"

“But I can do all that anyway. Without hiding.” Stepan was so taken aback by how absurd the threat sounded that he instantly shook off his drowsiness. “We're not in a relationship. I guess.”

“I'm not talking about now, but about the future.” The fat man retorted even more smugly, already disappearing through the exit door of the hall. “I guess so.”

He would have liked to come up with a clever reply right then, but since the hall was already in the process of opening up, he had exactly five seconds before he had to leap into the darkness of the passageway in the bookcase. He had to let Furval have the last word, amid Singha’s indignant squeak and the Head of the House’s thunderous laughter. That’s exactly why—yes, solely because of a lack of time, and not because he, too, got flustered and ran off into the bookcase! And let anyone dare to suggest an alternative version of these events! Stepan won’t be held responsible for his actions then!

Anyway, he should really think about that closet! It’s a pretty amusing design. Until the portal is activated, the bookcase is full, crammed with books and just random mementos (checked four times for surprises), but when it’s activated, the shelves vanish into a sort of spiritual subspace, replaced by the empty darkness of the portal. It’s a good technique. He helped Singha carry it out as part of a small quest; she even seemed to suggest splitting the reward afterward. If his memory serves him right, there were about 200 grams of some kind of white powder in there—a substance much loved by the spirits of the realm of winds.

Yes, it's a good bookcase.

And his rapid heartbeat developed because the earthling screwed up with the camouflage and the compression of the blood flow.

That's the only reason.

* * *

“You talk as if I even remember what happened there, Borik!” Stepan almost shouted, indignant and genuinely upset, as the drawn-out conversation was really starting to get on his nerves. “I slept through the whole thing! I passed out after a day on my feet, and right next to some important guests, too. All I remember is having some bad—I mean, stupid—dreams. And then I started choking; it was a miracle that the respectable ladies even noticed I was dying. And that’s it—absolutely everything—I woke up in the healer’s ward, as hungry as a hundred stray cats and as tired as a dockworker after three consecutive night and day shifts!"

This also helps keep the story going; Stepan even meticulously added the necessary nuances of an empathic backdrop. What if one of the servants turned out to be a spy on the Urvag family’s payroll—and one with hidden empathic abilities, to boot? Someone must have cast that love spell on him, so Stepan added a touch of awkwardness describing the “silly dreams.” Let the unknown owner of the super-perfume—and, incidentally, a lover of sprinkling all sorts of junk on young boys’ beds—think that she was initially successful (after all, the boy fell under its influence), only to then wet herself in horror at the failure (he had an allergic reaction and nearly died, and Maega will now be trying on “Flüggehaimen” for someone’s ass).

And no. That bitch remained unknown not because Stepan hadn’t figured her out, but because he hadn’t even learned her name. He ran his memories through his trusted mental sieve, singled out the little lady who wore the perfume with the trigger scent, and tossed her image to Maege—let her have some fun with it. Well, once the more important business with Akshtar is wrapped up and he can get back to those postponed matters. The lady, by the way, looks all right enough—you wouldn’t give her more than thirty-five—but her gaze and superficial mental images are such that you can literally see the stripes of a cash register or the lights of an ATM dispensing cash right in her pupils. If you’re going to fuck a woman like that, it has to be exclusively from behind, or all desire will vanish… and it wouldn’t hurt to shut her brain down and plunge her into the bliss of pleasure, or else it’ll feel like you’re fucking a slot machine at a casino.

“Yeah, that's right,” Borik said thoughtfully and with the utmost philosophical air, having sat down next to Ste at lunch to ask him some questions as a friend. “It was a total nightmare; everyone was so freaked out. Some tough-looking guys from security, damn it, even got into a fight out of sheer panic, heh! They got such a dressing-down afterward that even Mark Kubyshka heard it, and he was cleaning up two rooms over. Uh-huh. And then Maître Lavis was already yelling, like, “Don’t ask any unnecessary questions and don’t say anything unnecessary at all. It’s none of our fucking business, that’s all…"

Stepan, who had finally been “allowed” to go out and hang out with his friends, just nodded and listened; fortunately, the initial flurry of interest had already died down, the crowd had gotten the story they wanted, and was no longer in a hurry to bombard the young spellcaster with questions. And Maître Lavis was really yelling. Except at Stepan, when he offered to go back to work right away, saying he was already feeling fine. Apparently, the man who knew the “open secret” had envisioned all the mental and physical harm that would befall him for attempting to put Stea’s health at risk. In short, he ordered the young bull not to push himself too hard, to rest for the first two days, and only then to return to the entourage of the young Miss Singha.

He didn’t forget to dock his pay for those days. And to completely withhold his pay for the days he missed due to illness. You didn’t work, so you didn’t earn anything. It’s a good thing they didn’t send a bill for the medical treatment. In a respectable household and for a good worker, it’s considered bad form to treat someone like that. It’s not that they don’t do it, but not at de Lomer’s, not at Morgrave’s, and not on his own estate. Not because Urwag is such a kind and honest capitalist. No. It’s just that he knows perfectly well how easy it is to recruit such a desperate, enslaved wretch for what seems like a mere trifle. To pass on a note, to slip a pebble under a haystack in the yard, to add a drop of potion to the paint.

In general, the more ways a worker has—theoretically or practically—to screw over their employer, even at the cost of causing problems or even sacrificing their own life, the more humane any sensible boss’s attitude will be. After all, if they don’t decide to take revenge themselves, they can always run into someone—not even a mentalist, but simply an empath—who will provoke the right thoughts and a thirst for revenge. In most cases, however, no empaths, mentalists, or spies were needed. Take the de Radmars, for example: one of their large warehouses was burned down despite its fire protection. And all because, under a flimsy pretext, they cut the pay of one of the workers three times (or rather, cut the pay of the entire crew), while that worker’s sister was dying without medical treatment.

Knowing exactly where everything was and how it worked, he simply removed or smashed all the fire suppression system sensors, then set fire to the goods in several areas of the warehouse. Fabrics, rare types of oils, an entire crate of mid-range alchemical raw materials—which had been mistakenly delivered to the wrong warehouse. Everything burned down. They did, admittedly, record as many as six crates afterward, but the theft wasn’t uncovered until six months later, when Katrina “Greedy Bitch” de Radmar caught wind of a strange detail. That lady is quite the debt collector—and she doesn’t just collect for God, but for all the gods and lords of Hell at once.

Once the conversation was over—after “accidentally” stumbling over his words a couple of times and blushing at the mention of the “young lady”—he was finally left to his own devices. And the first thing he did wasn’t to waste time on nonsense, but to set about what he’d long needed to do but hadn’t been able to find the time for—a certain Ursula Lotzen. She’s not from a Trade House with a coat of arms and doesn’t have a famous surname (which is why she’s always referred to only by her first name and the title “Honorable”), but that’s just for now; otherwise, she’s very, very successful, and in recent years she’s been rising by leaps and bounds. The past few months, during which she’s landed a series of lucrative contracts, seem like nothing but a continuous upward surge even compared to recent years.

And that’s even without all the stuff that one kind and sympathetic little demon had added to it. Apparently, she didn’t use her new abilities at all for anything that directly benefited her. She was simply having fun—it was pleasant, humiliating, humiliatingly pleasant, and pleasantly humiliating. Her success, however, can be explained by far more down-to-earth factors: driving her competitors out of the field of cosmetic alchemy from most of the Mrograve market—specifically, the segment dealing with wholesale purchases of good-to-average-quality products. She hasn’t quite conquered the luxury segment yet, though she has plenty to offer there as well, and she stays away from cheap, harmful junk—like those skin-whitening products whose frequent use causes the skin to burn in any sunlight, as if from hogweed. She’s careful to protect her reputation.

She captured the mid-range market primarily because she had a wholesale contract for the necessary ingredients—a contract she’d inherited from her father, who’d passed on his life’s work to his shrewd daughter. Rumors circulated that her father—who had been worked to death by a sultry Black slave from the jungle people until he suffered a heart attack—didn’t exactly pass away of natural causes shortly after the handover. But those were just rumors. There’s no direct evidence, and the Honorable Ursula truly mourned her father with sincere grief. On the contrary, she didn’t even go out of her way to hide the fact that she had, with the help of alchemy, effectively eliminated her two sisters and her brother, the heir.

Her brother spent a couple of days vacationing with his new mistress and fucked himself into a half-vegetable state (and fucked her into the same state); now he just eats, defecates, and masturbates in the house his sister pays for, under the watchful eye of a discreet maid. Due to serious eating problems and a lack of self-control, his weight has skyrocketed, and he’s completely let himself go. It’s also rumored—and these conversations are documented and archived in de Lomer’s records—that he used to laugh very often, mocking harshly and cruelly—to be precise, making fun of Ursula’s excess weight when she was still young and hadn’t yet improved her appearance through cosmetic alchemy—and coming up with hurtful nicknames.

As for the two sisters of the honourable Ursula, those dangerous, clever little vixens who saw themselves as the heirs to their father, grandfather, and great-grandfather… let’s just say they’re no longer that way. Nowadays, both are happily married, bearing children for their husbands—who come from respectable families (both are minor aristocrats, landless but by no means poor, and who received a decent dowry for accepting their wives into the family)—and, rumor has it, their once-sharp wits aren’t quite so sharp anymore. Not sharp at all, not at all.

In short, even without a microscope or in-depth cognitive scanning, it was crystal clear to Stepan that this lady had by no means been an innocent nun in her lifetime. And that she had undoubtedly earned her current situation. But she had achieved it by literally stepping over people’s heads. It wasn’t just a matter of mental-alchemical eliminations. She did, however, treat her relatives with a certain familial leniency—without bloodshed or death, torture, unmarked graves, or corpses hidden beneath the waters of the Dantra. Those who were easier to deal with, she could eliminate physically—and, tellingly, not with alchemical poisons, but by simply hiring thugs. Due to the need to procure all sorts of exotic reagents, she had unwittingly built up a network of acquaintances—adventurers, mercenaries, and even more dubious characters—who were willing to work outside their usual fields.

In the end, Stepan had a strong feeling that if he were to suddenly free her from the influence the demoness had planted in her mind—and then offer to remove the remaining modifications—she would be categorically opposed. More likely, she’d use her talents on him without a second thought, thereby gaining a naive moron who possessed the Tablet of the Soul. If Stepan had even the slightest thought of talking to Ursula more or less honestly before Maega’s outburst, that desire had now evaporated almost entirely. He had absolutely no desire to expose himself to her boobs and the strange aura surrounding her body.

At the same time, Stepan didn’t mind acquiring such a useful tool and thoroughly studying everything the demoness had imbued it with. At the very least, he could use that bit of influence for his own purposes—and not necessarily for anything vulgar. Already, by all accounts, Ursula wields considerable influence over the House of de Faral through their exceptionally young representative in Morgrave. No, no—Urvag’s spies haven’t picked up on anything of the sort; they’ve only noted Ursula’s business and official visits to the young heir of the Trading House. But Stepan isn’t a spy gathering evidence. He knows what Ursula is capable of; he knows that her suggestions compel her to apply these skills on a broad front to anyone who meets the right criteria.

And such an instrument...

This inevitably brought to mind a certain Master—also known as the Sacrilegi of Iyastar, and also known as the world’s Number One Criminal according to virtually every player on the continent. They had learned to distinguish and identify his puppets—those manipulated by several synergistic schools of brain-fucking magic, as well as a couple created from scratch at the intersection of various systems of knowledge. It took enormous effort and extremely costly resources, but the results were highly reliable and could be achieved on a massive scale.

That’s all true, but the elves only learned this after several such puppets fell into their hands and were thoroughly examined from every angle. Stepan read the information available to both Malter and de Lomer about this character and his methods. The elves didn’t admit it outright, but from indirect descriptions, an expert of Stepan’s caliber could surmise that the puppets had been in the elves’ possession for more than a week before they were even able to properly suspect and notice their structure—and only then uncover and successfully study them, devising countermeasures.

For several weeks, the Forest’s brightest minds—its most experienced mages and operatives—studied the victims of an unknown mage, his living instruments, only to eventually figure out how to even make sense of them and how to identify them. And before that, countless extremely high-ranking individuals throughout the Confederation, in the Theocracy, and even in the Forest went to work, held high-level positions, socialized, ate, drank, had sex, and schemed, completely unaware that they had long since become puppets. And no one around them suspected a thing either.

In a way, everything Stepan pulled off with the bloodsuckers was also similar to these puppets—but even better. Without a puppet falling directly into the wrong hands—preferably along with a control puppet—and without a deep study of the minds of these little puppets (Stepan did come up with a good name for his victims, though; he really liked it), it’s impossible to recognize them as puppets. The schools of magic employed were too unusual, and the combinations of them were too unusual—there’s nothing to compare them to, and standard searches won’t help unless you pour an astronomical amount of effort and resources into them, on the scale of “calling for direct divine intervention.”

And what was done to Ursula is on the same level as Master’s work. Or maybe even higher. Definitely higher than all of Stepan’s puppets, if you don’t count Sylvia. And Sylvia only wins in terms of concealing the very fact of her subjugation. Whereas they’ve stuffed Ursula full of a heap of mind-altering crap, and did it all so subtly—tailored specifically to counter the very methods Stepan uses to detect dirty tricks or protect his consciousness. So studying this walking trap—Lahgan’s handiwork—is, in fact, not just a matter of idle curiosity and professional pride (Stepan saw his profession in the grave; he didn’t ask for a degree like that).

Stepan had to figure out what the demoness had done to the body, aura, and spirit of the honourable Ursula—and deal with the woman, if only to prevent her from brainwashing random, uninvolved individuals in such a perverse way. Simply because, by studying this trap—perfectly tailored against him—he would not only be able to expand his systemic knowledge but also better prepare himself to survive the next one without his brains leaking out of his penis. And there must be others like her in the city—there has to be, if she turned up… but so far, Stepan has only vague suspicions, which, without a thorough scan—and not a covert one at that—you can’t verify.

And if he tries to investigate, he’ll either find nothing or what’s hidden will find him first. He’s even afraid to approach Ursula—even though he knows how dangerous she is and has adapted his defenses to whatever awaits him. He’s afraid, but he’ll approach her anyway. He’ll investigate anyway. He’ll just do it much more cleverly than he ended up doing with Maega. Simply because, unlike the shamaness, the honourable cosmetics magnate will have no reason to show any shred of nobility at the last moment.

No, their second meeting will only take place on Stepan’s terms.

In fact, it is under these very conditions that it is taking place right now.

"To be honest, I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. And it’s certainly not because my mind was clouded by some sinister, demonic force." It’s worth noting that the venerable Ursula’s voice is, after all, very pleasant—deep and resonant. In another life, she might have been a decent opera singer, and years of training in rhetoric have made her an extremely engaging conversationalist, the kind you could listen to over and over again. "To find myself merely a speck of dust caught between the millstones of such power, such… events. I certainly never thought I’d have to fear such a fate—or take pride in it. Unknown bearers of the Tablet’s power, of whom the Forest Queen said nothing. Games played by higher beings. Everything is different."

A rather philosophical outlook on life. Although she now behaves much more calmly and composedly than she did before, when the realization first hit her of what had happened to her and what she had done under demonic influence. To her credit, her first fear, her first concern, was for her child. The fear that the child had fallen victim to that creature. This truly did her credit as a mother, simply because the same could not be said of her own mother.

At her funeral, Ursula—unlike her father’s—didn’t shed a single tear. She was such a unique character that, in another life, she might have been born as something else entirely. Just not an opera singer—maybe a cuckoo bird, or a high-ranking dark elf. And no, the child is perfectly fine. The creature seems to have even boosted the baby’s health with healing magic. Luckily for her, otherwise Stepan wouldn’t have been responsible for his own actions.

A second wave of horror washed over her when she remembered exactly what she had done to the young de Faral. It was hard to say what upset her more—the terror of what would happen to her if her influence over sweet Gion were discovered, or the bitter rage at her own self-imposed limitations, because of which Ursula hadn’t even considered taking advantage of her power over the head of an entire branch office of one of the most powerful Trading Houses in the entire Confederation. However, she had truly grandiose plans in this regard, for now her directive to “only sexually humiliate her victims and nothing more” no longer held her back in the slightest.

"Now, however, I can at least acknowledge the fact that I’m a part of this game and no longer feel like a speck of dust. Isn’t that right, my dear Pann?" Well, that’s a two-sided question, of course, because we all see ourselves as either specks of dust or players. "I think now is the perfect time to grant me access to your Tablet, and afterward we can talk about how I can best interact with Messrs. de Lomer. And will you help me, my dear? If, of course, you want to keep looking at my breasts? If you want to rub your rod against my soft, soft panties, don’t you?"

It was difficult to answer out loud because Ursula’s bare foot— she was clearly well-versed in the ways of elven erotic female domination—had sealed Stepan’s lips with the very tip of her toe; all he could do was sit on his knees at her feet and moan in agreement, all the while continuing to stroke the dark lime-green panties of the venerable Ursula. Without taking his eyes off the breasts spilling out of her corset dress—two enormous, voluptuous, soft, and tender tits. This time, she doesn’t even try to cover her nipples, creating a wandering line of the mental field, giving his mind time to recover a little before diving into the power of these tits and nipples once more. No, no—now she strikes with all her might, and for anyone weaker in mind and spirit, such an encounter with the mental and spiritual steamroller of these nipples and breasts could mentally cripple them.

"Then we’ll have lots and lots of work to do, but you’ll help me, won’t you? Will you help your beloved Ursula, your tender and sweet, most loyal assistant and kindest mistress?" She doesn’t really need answers, but she’s undoubtedly pleased by his reaction; she’s clearly relishing how a fully-fledged master of shamanism is completely helpless in the face of her power. "I think you and I will have a wonderful conversation with the venerable Urvag and Maega, especially the latter. She’s a very rude woman, I’ll tell you—a completely ill-mannered and uncouth steppe barbarian. Without a doubt, we simply must teach her a proper lesson. We show her that the venerable Ursula also deserves respect. I reckon she’ll quickly realize she was wrong, happily join you, dear Pann, and with no less joy buy my underwear from you with her own and her wayward daughter’s steppe “slit” and “hole,” while I have a chat with the venerable Urvag."

Of course, it’s a little—just a tiny bit—disappointing that she’ll clearly choose to sleep with Urvag rather than him, but some past grievances against de Lomer are definitely at play here. Or rather, toward Maega’s bluntness—which, seemingly without even realizing it, rubbed salt into Ursula’s wounds during their face-to-face meeting. Figurative wounds, of course, since there are no blemishes or chafing on the cosmetics saleswoman’s well-groomed legs. But there’s certainly no shortage of them in her head—it’s not so much that she’s lost her mind, but rather that she has absolutely no intention of holding back; she believes she’s caught Fortune by her long braids and has no plans to let go.

She isn’t exactly careless. It’s just that before, she rarely had the chance to look beyond her own little pond, considering herself quite a big frog, but now, looking at Stepan—who’s masturbating while wearing her underwear and doesn’t dare contradict her—she feels like a dragon that has fully spread its wings. She simply has no inkling of just how dangerous and cunning all those above her are—those accustomed to the games of cloaks, daggers, and other high-stakes intrigues. Having reached their level and even surpassed it, having secured the Tablet’s bearer for herself, she still struggles to imagine the complexity of the tasks set before her. It’s a classic case of “I see the target and don’t see any obstacles.”

"Well then, my dear, you may thank your mistress, kiss her right on her sweet flower, and cum onto that delicate fabric—but only if, at the same time, you present Lady Ursula with your Tablet; I give you permission." She really did give her permission, slightly altering the field of influence around her, lifting the ironclad ban on reaching climax, while at the same time spreading her legs and lifting her dress, once again revealing her pussy—which was practically dripping with the realization of her own power—just as she had previously displayed it to his admiring gaze when she took off her panties. “Kiss me, cum, and submit to me, Pann!”

And you can’t even blame it all on the consequences of her encounter with a demonic threat. Even before she met that cross-eyed scum, she was practically the same. Domineering, loving to toy with her lovers by keeping them from ever reaching their peak, and completely indifferent to the moral and ethical aspects of her preferences. What’s the point in beating around the bush? She keeps her lover in chains entirely of her own free will, having just as deliberately purchased a real elf from a group of highly lawless specialists in “inviting guests without their consent.” She is simply unaware of the fact that this elf has long since freed himself from his bonds and is now, quite simply, carrying out espionage work outside the Forest, all the while languishing in disgraceful captivity far from the wrath of his superiors.

And the higher-ups have no idea that this elf has become just as much a victim of Lahgan as Ursula herself, so there’s just as much nonsense going on in his head as there is in his “mistress’s.” He’d feel sorry for the poor fellow, but he’s such a pleasant person in every respect that Stepan has absolutely no desire to rescue this long-eared guardian of the will of the superior race. Stepan has grown hardened in this new life. He’s grown hardened, and he’s also become thoroughly imbued with an awareness of various shades of misanthropy.

“All right, it's time to put an end to this truly fucking circus.” No doubt, the venerable Ursula, upon hearing these words from her submissive plaything with the Tablet, would have had plenty of objections, but it’s hard to argue when you’ve been completely paralyzed, stripped of your aural and spiritual control, and have been enveloped in several layers of very specific spells and spiritual influences—all while, for dessert, the sound of a stone totem striking an expensive table rang out like the judge’s gavel, hopelessly scratching the table’s precious lacquer finish. “I have heard enough to draw further conclusions, venerable Ursula. Unfortunately, I cannot address you as ‘mistress’ or ‘lady,’ and this is by no means out of excessive male pride—it is simply that, alas, you have never become such a person, nor will you ever be.”

A sort of haze flickers around the body of this woman—equally glamorous and cunning—like static on a telemonitor, concealing her partial nudity and shielding the effect she exerts on herself. Stepan had been cautious for a very long time. He’d burned through a lot of nerve cells and even more system currency buying the necessary consumables from the store, and the cost of spending meta-skill upgrade tokens—which he’d used to upgrade his “frozen time” room over and over again—made him want to burst into tears. He even had to spend one of his free talent points to raise an elite meta-skill by one level.

He would have spent even more, but he couldn’t invest any further; now he has to wait again for his stats to increase, without which the meta-skill won’t grow. Now, “Partially Selective Temporal Room Fixation with the Ability to Prepare in Advance for Action II” extended a single activation not for twelve hours, but for two days. Time that can be spent preparing for anything is absolutely priceless and therefore beyond valuation. On top of that, the cooldown had been reduced to just one month instead of half a year—the most worthwhile use of a talent point since my liberation from the yoke of that demonic scum.

All in all, thanks to the token charges he’d spent—and the time he’d devoted to his meta-skill, which was by no means wasted—he managed to figure out the trick behind Ursula’s influence on him. Well, not just on him, to be honest. Stepan had been on the verge of losing his mind several times, of giving up and simply eliminating Ursula once and for all, without worrying about her strange abilities. Far more often, he found himself on the verge of simply jerking off to recordings of that very Ursula in magic crystals, recording amulets, and commemorative totems. But still, his defenses, resilience, and paranoia were enough to withstand the weakened influence of her field through an exceptionally high-quality recording.

Once he’d figured out the principle of resistance itself, the rest was easier. Although no—at first he didn’t actually figure out the principle. He simply shut himself off with a brute-force approach—an extremely active defense ramped up to maximum intensity in all directions at once. It wasn’t a defense against anything specific, but a terribly ineffective and weak defense against everything in general. And it worked, confirming that the field emitted by Ursula’s body in general—and her breasts and nipples in particular—was, in and of itself, extremely low-energy. He didn’t feel the impact at all, not only because he couldn’t perceive it, but also because the impact was lost in the natural magical background of the surroundings.

A blow that wasn’t a blow in the full sense of the term. A field that wasn’t fully closed, violating a whole host of fundamental principles of magical theory—both high and wild. And this despite the fact that wild magic itself is based, to no small extent, on the very concept of violating the usual laws! Even Stepan, with all his knowledge from the System, started to get confused. You can’t help but suspect that there’s some kind of Token at play here, rather than actual magic—but no, that can’t be it either. Otherwise he wouldn’t have noticed anything at all.

In the end, he cracked that nut, even though he nearly ground his teeth down to the roots, and once he did—he was delighted. He simply couldn’t help but admire the demoness’s work. He cursed and wished her all the best, yes, but all the while never ceasing to admire her. After all, like any other individual well-versed in subtle aurology, he was perfectly aware of spiritual-energetic cyclicality. This concept is quite well-known to anyone who works with subtle bodies, whether their own or others’. Especially for healers and maleficiers, though it’s also used in higher scanning fields and barriers—just not as often. It’s not useless knowledge, but it has absolutely nothing to do with mentalism of any kind—absolutely none.

Just as the physical body has blood flow that depends on the heartbeat, and just as signals travel along nerve synapses, carrying information to the brain, so too does the subtle body—whether the auric or the spiritual body—have certain analogues to blood flow and nerve signals. It is precisely these that form the fundamental auric imprint, which for the gifted will serve as both an ID—along with fingerprints—and an official seal used to authenticate signed contracts. There are countless methods used by all sorts of people who seek to distort and forge this imprint. It doesn’t matter what their motive is: to escape a targeted curse stemming from an unfulfilled debt, to sneak under someone else’s roof by pretending to be the owner of that roof, or to start a new life on the other side of the continent—the possibilities are endless.

Temporary or permanent, reliable and simple or complex and dangerous, precise and predetermined or fluid and unpredictable, high-level spells and intricate magical weavings or wild sorcery and powerful incantations, individual tricks no more complex than your average spell, or entire systems on the verge of becoming their own distinct school of magic—there are so many options that it’s hard to know where to look. The subject isn’t just well-known—it’s been studied inside and out in every possible way; there’s simply nothing new to be found here—not for a master of mind manipulation; it’s not the right direction to take.

That's what was thought.

That was Stepan’s belief, based on the knowledge of others, as if there were no moments when the synergy of branches of magic thoroughly studied by the locals suddenly gave rise to something entirely new. And so Lahgan managed to look at the studied subject from a new angle. It was precisely in the disruption of natural aura-spiritual cycles that the boundless malice of what Ursula was now employing lay. Her mind-numbing aura was neither a closed field nor even an aura as such; it resembled a cloud of generated interference, consisting of thousands of invisible and not even properly formed threads of radio waves emanating from Ursula’s aura.

Every living being and every object emits such “threads.” It is these threads that form what will later become an imprint and an auric trail. They can be masked. They can be concealed. They can even be removed entirely if necessary, but they are still there. The very skill of perceiving this auric noise is what constitutes the ability to wield magical vision. But Ursula’s interference field was no ordinary one. No. It was controlled by structures embedded directly in the very depths of her spirit, almost within her very soul. They were completely invisible without examination—to use an analogy—under an electron microscope with additional DNA analysis.

This noise synchronized with the victim’s cycles. The structures within her soul performed the calculations themselves, drawing on the boundless resilience and richness of any soul—its superdense energies. The very energies for which souls are so loved and valued by all manner of creatures—not only demons, but deities as well. Or even the darkest of sorcerers, capable of eviscerating even a soul through ritual mystery. The only difference is that this fuel is obtained in different ways: by spirits in one way, by demons in another, by gods in a third, and by mortals, each in their own way. These entities do not harm Ursula or her soul—nor could they. They are too weak, too ephemeral and unstable, while the soul, as already mentioned, is a resilient thing.

The entity calculated and adapted the interference field to the victim’s aural-spiritual rhythms, and then simply struck during the briefest interval between cycles. It didn’t even strike—it actually masqueraded as those rhythms, forcing the victim’s aura, spirit, and mind to perceive what was being imbued into the interference field as part of the victim’s own nature. From the perspective of magical theory and practice, it was not Ursula who brainwashed Stepan, but Stepan himself—as strange as that may sound. That explains its effectiveness and the complete disregard even for defenses that had been pushed to the point of paranoia. You cannot defend yourself against yourself. It is truly a trump card bordering on the ultimate, because without knowing about it, even a master magician would be unable to fend it off. And even with that knowledge, success is by no means guaranteed! Stepan, after all, struggled mightily to come up with even the slightest countermeasures.

The instances when he partially or completely blocked these interferences while working with the recordings—even though in the recordings these interferences were greatly attenuated and not fully attuned to Stepan’s rhythms—were due to the fact that he was pushing all his defenses to the limit. His aura and spirit were working at their limit and then couldn’t keep up with the interference; he lacked the concentration to brainwash himself into adoring the nipples, tits, panties, and pussy of the venerable Ursula. And that was through a recording! In a face-to-face encounter, he’d naturally have to push himself to the brink of death, draining his reserves with terrifying intensity—and even then, it’s not a given that it would help—directly tuning into the rhythms face-to-boobs would be far more effective than what’s conveyed by a recording.

And if the reserve were to be completely depleted, if the aura were to subside due to exhaustion… that would be it—no protection left, but the interference would still be there, because they aren’t expending any energy at all. Or rather, they are expending some, but such minuscule amounts that even the natural regeneration of the not-fully-gifted Ursula could cover them. However, it became clear that the poor quality of the recording from this attack would provide protection—preferably one without any aura component at all, consisting only of a video image and an audio track. This discovery, however, did not resolve the problem of exactly how to approach Ursula personally.

It took Stepan a while to solve this problem. He recharged his token four times and used his meta-skill four times before he finally managed to find the right combination for this lockpick. A special resonant technique for concealing ethereal bodies—one that also consumes energy, but no more than high-quality protection would. It adaptively and continuously adjusts the rhythm of the aura’s imprint, which is why, in theory, Ursula’s trick shouldn’t have been able to keep up with Stepan. In theory, but not in practice. He had to spend quite a bit of time extremely carefully examining her aura of interference, now relying on the information he’d gathered.

Study it, then make sure that his protection is reliable, and make adjustments to the still very crude technique.

He studied it, made some changes, and proved his point by defeating the main attacker, a human bomb named Ursula Lozen. After that, it was easy. A modified pheromone system, skills in hypnosis and seduction implanted via a demonic method of transferring knowledge from other souls, some nonsense involving lactation, and altered compositions of saliva, lubricants, and the lining of the anus and the lower rectum. All of this posed a threat to Stepan, but it was something he knew perfectly well how to combat. Yes, Ursula’s bodily alchemy was powerful, subtle, insidious, had a cumulative effect, and was of a combined nature—in which the individual elements of these pheromones were not dangerous and could not be detected by any standard defense mechanism.

But even basic precautions—like an air filter and a subtle protective spell over his body to keep him from touching anything in her office—would have been enough to handle that. And of course, not kissing her—not even on the cheek—not licking her pussy, not sucking her tits, not fucking her in any of her holes, and not fucking her anywhere else either. Simple and straightforward precautions that are by no means difficult to follow. He had figured out her most terrifying ability after all, so he wasn’t particularly worried, though he didn’t let his guard down either—you never know, there might still be some surprise waiting right at the very end.

And yet, such an unpleasant and dangerous piece of junk! Even now, having analyzed it thoroughly and fully prepared, with a ready-made method—this method is only suitable for him. In fact, it’s completely unrealistic to make such a defense available to the masses. What’s needed is work specifically on one’s own deep structures—both auric and spiritual. No single amulet can provide this, nor can a set of amulets. Here, a specific artifact crafted by a master—or at the very least, a highly specialized practitioner—is required. In other words, even with all the necessary information, only a master of magic who has undergone training and preparation specifically to counter this threat will be able to overcome such filth! Even a very talented adept simply lacks either the Control, the Sensitivity, the Spirit, or the power of the Source.

"Something like that, esteemed Ursula, something like that." He wasn’t just launching into a monologue about how awesome he was. Rather, he was helping himself sort out the truths that had just dawned on him, while at the same time sensing deep down how the system was ready to hand out a reward or two for independent development. “I understand you’re very disappointed that your grand plans turned out to be somewhat… presumptuous, but what can you do? We all have to be disappointed in our very best, fucking feelings, even if we’re stupid enough to get burned by them over and over again.”

With those words, he carefully sealed the dark green panties within the barrier field, then opened a passage to his underground chambers right beneath Ursula’s table. That is where the mannequin—no longer pretending to be Stepan—disappeared into a separate, hermetically sealed room. During his last visit, the shaman hadn’t paid much attention to Ursula’s pheromones. He’d assumed they were part of the interference field’s effect. As a result, he’d inhaled a small amount of them, and their scent had even left traces on numerous surfaces throughout the hideout. He had to clean himself thoroughly. Fortunately, knowing where to look made the task a breeze—well, for him, anyway.

A very long-lasting potion, built up gradually, that increases desire and affection for Ursula. And only just a tiny bit, a mere drop. By local standards, this wouldn’t even qualify as a love spell—it’s just a very nice perfume, nothing more. The thing is, if you spend time with her month after month, even year after year, the effect will gradually grow. Not enough to make you lose your critical thinking, but still noticeable. Who knows—perhaps the fact that he was willing to give Ursula a chance at a peaceful resolution, even after studying her biography and realizing what a person she is, is also an effect of this supreme biomancy and alchemy combined in a single human vessel?

No, it was here that he was his typical self.

“You know, I'm no paragon of virtue, but I wouldn't say I'm overly cruel.” He says this, quite sincerely, looking into the eyes of the all-understanding and utterly powerless Ursula, whom he has further calmed with a spell and a splash of perfume—for she has a tendency, in critical situations, to fly into a mild (or not-so-mild) hysterical fit, even though, for a seasoned business shark like her, not every situation is actually critical. “I take no pleasure in tormenting you; the purpose of this monologue is entirely different. I will manipulate you, properly distort your consciousness and personality. I can’t promise to reach Master’s level—we’re in different weight classes, after all, and I certainly can’t subdue a god… or so it seems… unless under ideal conditions, like during that eclipse… Ahem, never mind, my apologies. I admit I’m nervous, and that’s why I’m getting sidetracked."

He truly wants to speak his mind—not to some puppet incapable of realizing her own enslavement, but to the one to whom he came today with good intentions, whom he saved from demonic enslavement, to whom he opened up and offered an honest partnership—offered more than she could ever have hoped for, even in her wildest dreams. To say these words to the one who didn’t doubt her decision for even a moment, as soon as she realized that her tricks—which she had mastered so well thanks to that same investment of knowledge through demonic techniques—were working perfectly on him. Or rather, “working.” And not just that, but “on him.”

“Anyway, I want you to know. The real you, esteemed Ursula.” He smiled at her with a calm, sad smile, looking straight into her darting eyes, in which—even through the sedative’s effects—both panic and mounting despair were evident. “I’ve been honest with you. What’s more, I’d understand if you decided to question me, to test how sincere I am. I’ve forgiven you for what you did to me under the creature’s influence; I’d forgive you for the panties you gave me a second time; I’d forgive the humiliation and the fact that you clearly enjoyed my predicament. I would have forgiven you and given you everything I promised, taking only your oaths in return—but not your entire free will. Who knows, maybe I would have even revealed the Tablet to you—you’re quite the bitch, but at the same time a very experienced person, an extraordinary individual in every respect. And anyway, I have almost no one else to rely on in this world."

In fact, he wasn’t even saying those words to her, but to himself. Not to soothe a conscience that was already sleeping peacefully—no, rather to better understand for himself the whole mess going on in his head, which was buzzing from a sleepless decade compressed into a single moment. And he simply wanted her to know—to know, even if only in the last moment of her existence as a free person—that it was her greed and meanness alone that had led her where she had ended up. He saw in this some kind of fucking irony, as subtle as his patience and as vicious as snake venom.

"You, esteemed Ursula, could have had it all. You really could have." He sums up his monologue, as if sealing the deal, concluding what needs to be said. "You simply needed to be human for a moment. If not to respond with gratitude for your rescue, then at least with cautious neutrality, a willingness to cooperate. But you saw a chance to subjugate me—a chance that seemed guaranteed to you. And you took advantage of it, indulging every whim, just as you’ve always done whenever you thought you could get away with having your desires catered to. Well, you will still receive help and cooperation from the Bearer of the Tablet of the Soul—just not in the way you imagined."

A single tear rolled down Ursula’s left cheek, but it didn’t touch Stepan’s heart. Quite the opposite, in fact. He could see—he could read her like an open book—just how sorry she felt for herself. She felt sorry for herself and her dreams; she felt sorry that she’d fallen for him, that she hadn’t seen through him, that her incredible abilities had turned out to be a trump card that had been played out. She felt sorry that Stepan hadn’t turned out to be the naive simpleton she’d thought he was. The kind of simpleton who simply couldn’t help but be made to wear a collar, be given panties, be forced to either come at the mere thought of her breasts or be unable to reach climax for weeks on end, begging, begging, begging his kind mistress to take pity on such a mighty yet, in her presence, powerless fool.

A quick spell plunged Ursula Lotzen—the fourth in a line of hereditary cosmetologists and experts in low alchemy, the would-be ruler of all of Morgrave, the entire Confederation of Free Cities, and perhaps even the whole world—into a trance and sleep. When she awoke, she would be, in many respects, her true self. The shaman had no intention of altering her personality, planning instead to employ the same tactics he had already tested time and again on Sylvia and her Nest. And she will be truly happy, become a mistress and lady, rise to unprecedented heights… well, or perish alongside Stepan. Only she will achieve all of the above, no longer of her own free will.

“Ugh.” The shaman, once again disillusioned with the better side of human nature, almost growled as he hid in the darkness under the table along with Ursula, who had crawled in there. “Now I have to waste another token and work my butt off like Papa Carlo.”

What made him particularly sick was the extremely lucky drop of a new, elite, purchasable system lot—a nearly identical set of super-consumables for creating a unique and insanely cool doll. Not quite the same as Sylvia’s, but based on the same principle—only for a living, breathing human, rather than an inanimate bloodsucker of the highest order. It even included tools for extraspatial binding through the inter-sphere. Moreover, the kit itself bore far less resemblance to an assembly manual: whereas with Malter, one simply had to connect the pre-made parts—without messing up—while adjusting them to match Sylvia’s aura, with Ursula, one would have to perform a more delicate fine-tuning. But, again, just like last time, the task that was taking shape—without any direct quest—was precisely on the edge of what the current Stepan could pull off with his existing knowledge and attributes.

The realization that the System—or, to be more precise, its scripts—naturally endorsed and actively facilitated this outcome made the nausea unbearable. On the other hand, this was precisely the moment when Stepan wasn’t exactly in full agreement with the choice being imposed by the System, but he wasn’t outright against it either. If anyone deserved this fate—morally speaking—it was this busty, ungrateful pig. The taste of shit in his mouth from this argument—truthful and logical as it was—for some reason refused to go away, no matter how much he rinsed his mouth with mint-flavored mouthwash.

* * *

First things first. After placing Ursula in a suitable storage unit and putting her into a state of complete catatonia, and after activating his newly upgraded meta-skill, the shaman... went to sleep. No, joking aside, he was thoroughly exhausted, as tired as a whole dog sled team, and hadn’t slept for nearly ten days, relying instead on meditation and invigorating spells, as well as the support of one very rare powerful spirit and three minor spirits with subtypes of vitality, and one powerful spirit with the primary subtype of harm. Vigour for vigour’s sake—and this spirit manifested harm in a very unconventional way. It wasn’t typical corruption, but a mirror effect, drawing the concept of harm from wakefulness onto itself. He literally fed on this harm. This method is far safer than the invigorating alchemy he also practiced, but one can summon this spirit for oneself only once every three years, and the cost of the ritual—especially when performed blindly—would make even a hardened cynic and sociopath weep.

All in all, brainstorming a solution to the mystery of breasts, nipples, and lace panties wasn’t as easy for him as it might have seemed from the outside. He lay down on the bed with a clear conscience and an understanding of the need for rest, as such. As if waiting for these thoughts, the system sprang to life, printing new status updates in his mind in brief flashes. Not that they were undeserved, but it would have been better if they’d just popped into his head upon waking up. Where could he file a complaint? Oh right, even if such a button did appear, he wouldn’t write anything there—heaven forbid the system’s Patroness notice this mistaken isekai.

Achievements: “Basic practice of working with deep auric-spiritual resonances,” “Advanced basic practice of working with deep auric-spiritual resonances”; improved understanding of deep spiritual-energetic processes; slightly improved subtle control over small portions of the reserve.

Acquired talents are added to the Player's overall status.

Just as he had suspected from the start, it was literally a new school of magic—albeit more of a supporting one than an independent one. First and foremost, of course, it was geared toward suggestive and cognitive influences. But that was mainly because Stepan’s synergies worked best precisely with all kinds of brainwashing. These techniques, suggested by that bitch Lakhgan, weren’t limited to that alone. Healing and curses alike saw an unprecedented increase in effectiveness thanks to the techniques he’d acquired.

In fact, the most valuable aspect of this new knowledge—knowledge of the highest order, beyond all limits (seriously, he can’t even raise this knowledge to an advanced level; he lacks the necessary attributes)—lay in the ability to modify the shamanic dialogue. Not even to influence the spirit or force it to comply. No. Although that’s possible too—very much so! No! It was precisely this technique that offered the chance to reduce—by an order of magnitude, almost—the risk of injury to the spiritual-mental body resulting from interaction with entities that are excessively alien and powerful.

There are still many experiments ahead, but the basics are already clear. It is precisely within this intermediate rhythm that it will be possible to simply discard and eliminate unnecessary, trashy, and flawed dialogue patterns. He has just gained direct access to the safe invocation of higher spiritual entities—not by summoning them through a systemic contract and communicating within its framework, but through independent invocation and the conclusion of a pact. Singha will be delighted, and so will Maega... It’s just that he’s still too angry at the senior shamaness to be happy for her.

Witchcraft—specifically, a form that influences the mind and operates on principles similar to those of Ursula’s “aura noise”? Not quite so ultimate—much cruder and more demanding on one’s reserves, not directly affecting one’s own or another’s soul (at least not yet!), but he has a good chance of demonstrating this as well with sufficient training. Curses and their removal? Three, four, a hundred times “YES”! And it’s hard to say which option is more interesting: Stepan never really focused on subtle, barely noticeable curses that take effect gradually—he usually channeled that aspect of magic through the invocation of specialized spirits, like that non-moth creature that helped carry out “Valdis’s cooking”—but he was quite interested in the other side of malefica.

Yula is, kind of, the one he’s responsible for. And while her bracelets are, for now, reliably managing not only to contain the curse but also to gradually reshape it—that’s just for now. It’s far too potent a curse—one that will grow stronger along with its bearer, and will most likely gradually demand more and more effort to contain. At some point, the curse-devouring bracelets alone may no longer be enough. And it would be best not to let it come to that, by gathering a set of tools that, if not a cure, at least reliably suppress the Black Blood curse—even if only for a limited time. If anything is suitable for deep work with the curse—one that is cast upon the target via a marker at the very core of the soul—it is precisely this knowledge.

It is generally suitable for many purposes, opening up the broadest horizons of mutual synergies, just as fundamental knowledge is supposed to. New modes of totem operation, superimposed on the territory of aura-noise analogues with various amplitudes and encodings, and special methods for ensuring the reliability of a contract—which, by disrupting the rhythm of aura-spiritual circulation, will allow one to evade retribution through any standard or significant portion of exotic methodology. These same contracts, but viewed from the other side, offer the possibility of modifying them after they have been concluded—and again, using a non-standard method: not by bending or expanding the originally limited framework, but rather by inserting new conditions into the space between the lines, which previously seemed completely filled.

The list of spirits available for invocation has expanded. Within the boundless expanse of the Higher Spheres, some spirits worked specifically with this mechanism of influencing the world. Moreover, not all of them were Great or Supreme; there were also simply Strong ones, or even Minor ones. Such is the power of shamanism and of spirits in general. Sometimes among them one finds seemingly weak entities capable of only one thing—yet something that not just any Archmage could replicate. And sometimes, simply no one could replicate it at all. The section on lesser knowledge has also expanded, primarily in the area of contracts—love spellcasters, mind-manipulators, and cursers, which is obvious, but also healers, masters of disguise, and even more exotic specialists.

For example, there was a ritual invocation of a senior spirit who knew how to draw grace from the relics and consecrated sites of one god, transforming the stolen grace into grace belonging to another deity. This was achieved precisely through the rhythmic interplay of the subtle fields. Divine grace possessed this quality as well, simply because it could be considered part of the god, and to deny the existence of auric bodies in gods is, to put it mildly, counterproductive. A spirit of the very highest order was found, one capable of providing an incredibly effective distraction—one with which one could even enter the office of August de Mont Ros. Or his wife’s bedroom—yes: an auto-divine contract.

There was also a witchcraf minor knowledge, purely shamanistic, or even envoiltic one, tied to newly acquired knowledge in conjunction with schools he had already mastered. Love spells and mind control of various kinds were, for the most part, simply particularly nasty and potent examples—but not exclusively so. Stepan stared for a very long time at the limited knowledge available under the name “combined cyclic relief of torment”; if he mastered it, he would have a chance to lift the curse from Ullis without incurring excessive risk and granting Maega access to the System. Not because this bit of knowledge is so incredibly powerful—though it is incredibly powerful—but simply because it was perfectly suited against these kinds of Higher Curses, which distort the very foundation of the victim’s aura’s normality.

He also noticed the “small resonating soul,” which, it would seem, allows one merely to relive one’s own past memories and observe them when applied to someone else. It seems there are a hundred thousand ways to read someone’s memory for the purpose of interrogation or modification (even though this knowledge didn’t actually allow one to modify memories—only to observe them, reliving them with a sense of complete presence). But the depth of its impact was truly mind-boggling! What if this technique were applied to an experienced mage, allowing him to see a past battle through his eyes? And then repeat the spells he’d learned as easily as if I knew them myself?

No, of course, it’s not quite that cool. Through this kind of “spying,” you can gain a basic understanding of the techniques someone else uses, and then spend a long time persistently mastering them yourself. But you’ll master them in the end! You’re guaranteed to master them if you have the right qualities and at least some kind of suitable foundation of your own knowledge! It was… impressive. First and foremost, because of how such trash could be used for selfish and downright malicious purposes. Because only a completely saintly person—a true giant of a human being (even if not of the human race)—could use such a tool for anything other than selfish and malicious purposes.

For a moment, I imagined Laghan herself possessing this knowledge—capable not just of stealing souls, but of taking existing magical secrets and skills. And not just taking them in her pack of souls, but studying them for her own benefit. That would certainly be a cursed timeline... But she might very well acquire something like that, if only because she personally carried out that whole mess with Ursula. Even if it was something like his quest to create the Sylvia doll—assembling ready-made parts according to detailed step-by-step instructions—she still managed to do it!

With these gloomy thoughts, the Earthling drifts off into his long-awaited sleep, first checking—and then, just to be sure, checking again—to ensure his amulets are activated and the dream spirits summoned from the totems are present.

* * *

The images from his dreams carry him away again to a place that is very far away, yet at the same time incredibly close. The images replace one another, layer upon layer, and intertwine into something completely indistinguishable yet paradoxically understandable. Standing in the middle of a snow-covered wasteland is an uncomfortably thin man, dressed in a manner completely unsuitable for winter, paying no heed to the biting frost or the icy wind capable of stripping the skin from his flesh, molding a hundred identical snowmen amid the boisterous laughter of a warmly dressed young girl shuffling a deck of beautifully decorated cards in her hands. A gloomy man, who also looks like an emaciated old man with a network of black veins beneath his skin, whistles as he prepares a shashlik in the middle of the forest, paying no attention to a pile of corpses of some creatures, the largest of which is literally trampling the treetops with its horns.

Over time, the images become increasingly stable, revealing something surprisingly familiar. If the sleeper were awake rather than asleep, he would surely recognize the panoramic view of this city from above—a wealthy city nestled next to such a cozy sea cove. He would recognize the true Pearl of Seacost, just as it is. Perhaps he would even recognize the gradually approaching image of the best brothel in the city—and likely in the entire Confederation, or at least in the region. The beautiful image of a thorny rose on the sign directly beckons and lures countless passersby, but by no means can every one of them afford to relax here. And by no means will everyone be allowed in at all.

But it’s unlikely that every guest who comes here—whether a regular or a casual visitor—is prepared for what exactly awaits them here. The dream reveals what is happening behind the walls of the Wicked Rose. The dream shows it as if these walls didn’t exist at all, but what is seen defies logic. In this dream, it seems to the sleeper as though this place couldn’t possibly have so many rooms and hallways. It’s as if someone had created a lot of extra space there. And a strange room—located simultaneously under the foundation and in the attic, on the first, second, third, and fourth floors all at once—simply cannot exist here either. An impossible room: a simple little storage closet, one meter by one meter by two, with no windows, no doors, and no other openings or passageways.

Walls of enchanted stone, the kind you’d find in a dwarf’s treasure vault. In the center of the room, atop a small stone pedestal, stands a single object—the only bright spot in this abode of gray stone. A completely black rose, as if alive, seemingly grown from black glass itself. No, not glass at all, but a genuine diamond. Faceted and beautiful, it radiates a barely perceptible haze of something almost elusive and incomprehensible. This haze supports the existence of extra rooms and spatial folds, concealing them so that they cannot be found. It distracts the attention of those who might harbor dangerous thoughts, notice alarming signs, or be too meticulous to simply look away from something suspicious.

For example, what’s happening in the office on the top floor belonging to the brothel owner—who also happens to rule the entire nightlife scene of Middle City. This woman is sprawled in an armchair, completely naked, lazily sipping expensive wine from a crystal glass, while a very handsome young man kneels at her feet. After all, the young man came here for the whores, didn’t he? And on the pubic mound of the woman with her legs spread wide, a beautiful monogram—entwined around an image of a rose—bears the indisputable declaration: “The Top Whore.” And if the guest at her establishment wants to get his pleasure, let him put his talented little tongue to work a bit.

The young man—who could be identified as one of the younger, distant relatives of August de Mont Ros himself, having come to town on family business with his uncle and older sister—didn’t seem to find anything strange about this order. After all, he’d paid for his pleasure, so he was entitled to it! And what could be more pleasurable than licking that pussy, burying his face right in the tattooed rose, pleasing the rather smirking quarter-elf? And she never stops praising her “client,” never stops telling him what a fine fellow he is, how skillfully he wields his tongue. And also what kinds of women, in what positions, and in what fantasies he sees himself and these women.

And the young man believes her. This beautiful stranger—whom he has never seen and will never remember—a stranger with such a delicious, such a tender, such a perfect slutty pussy—simply cannot be wrong. She cannot be mistaken. And gradually, his old preferences and former fantasies are replaced by new ones, inspired by the woman with the delicious pussy and the beautiful tattoo. This shift will take root gradually, slowly, fleetingly at first, but after a few weeks or months, it will finally take hold, and even a master of mentalism won’t find anything suspicious or unnatural in this respected client’s new thoughts.

And such a charming young guest will be consumed by a passion for women with dwarf blood—short, stocky, sturdy, with large breasts and voluptuous behinds. He’ll start craving them. He’ll start seeking them out, picking out mistresses for himself, or even buying a slave—even if she’s not a pure-blooded dwarf, at least a half-blood or a quarter-blood. And she absolutely has to have a snub nose, a ready smile, and the classic two pigtails! This fantasy seems so real to him that he cums right there, right on the floor, without taking his eyes off the whore’s pussy, not noticing how the soft carpet and floorboards soak up his spilled semen.

They soak and form a very subtle, very insidious, and practically irresistible connection to this place—one that is just as undetectable as it is powerful. A connection to the strange rose made of black diamond, located nowhere and everywhere within this building. A bond similar to that which forms between an envolt and an image, between a doll and the person from whom the doll was modeled. A bond that will allow the mistress of this place to exert an imperceptible, yet seemingly very natural, influence over the one who has given this place his seed, his will, and his desires. With her bare foot, she pushed away the blissfully smiling young man. For some reason, she suddenly felt like playing with him the moment she saw him—and it wasn’t just this young man she’d been wanting to play with lately. The mistress of the office and of Morgrave’s criminal underworld smiles contentedly.

Her earnings are growing, and so is her influence. Control over the underworld—and not just the underworld—is gradually slipping into her nimble little fingers, and she can always find someone among the visitors to this place to play with. To instill something new, interesting, and fun, replacing the stale old ways. Just now, on the second floor in the sixth room, another young man is developing the same gradually growing fondness for dark-skinned, bronze-tanned female buttocks. Just as in the next room, a seasoned mercenary, bound hand and foot, groans as he’s pounded from behind by—a fragile girl who looks very young despite her actual age—the very girl he himself had planned to tie up and whip on the ass. Meanwhile, in the room to the right, a slant-eyed guest from the Eastern Empire—who arrived in the Pearl of the Coast with his father’s trade caravan—is developing a fondness for the feet and muscular legs of the green-skinned savage women.

And soon will the young bureaucrat, who had checked out the eighth room on the third floor, find himself unable to cum anywhere but in the cleavage between the voluptuous breasts of a seasoned matron—mature and experienced, not some snotty young thing. And his friend and comrade behind the wall to the right will come to madly adore fucking the tight black asses of the beauties of the Khott or Uus-Ual peoples. And the potbellied huckster, who had caused a hideous scene a couple of minutes earlier, hoping to get a discount by complaining about the service—which, in his opinion, was subpar—and who would prefer to jerk off to the engravings even when a real, ready-for-anything dark elf stood just a step away from him.

And.

And.

And.

All of them, coming here for new experiences, each time receive exactly what they so diligently sought.

With this thought in mind, the powerful and domineering woman rises from her chair, walks out of her office without getting dressed, and begins licking her whores’ pussies right at the entrance. Because no one will ever have power over the ultimate whore—except for her own little sluts, whom she simply cannot bring herself to refuse. Sometimes she vaguely realizes that it’s wrong for her own whores to be fucking her, but she’s powerless to object, preferring not to think about the reasons for such indecision. Sometimes she accepts their advances and orders as something that goes without saying. Today she’s convinced that it’s precisely by licking their worn-out pussies that she’s reclaiming her power over them.

They’ll think twice—no, three times—before cornering her in the bathroom, or playing spin the bottle with each other while betting on the Night Mistress’s backside, or putting a collar on her and forcing her to spend the whole evening just licking, barking, and fucking herself against the lady’s savior bolted to the floor. Yes, that’s right—they’ll think twice! And they’ll do it five times over! With that thought in mind, the establishment’s owner smiles and moans softly into her employee’s slit as the latter slaps her boss’s firm buttocks with relish.

* * *

A new dream. Only now it seems to depict a past that isn’t all that distant. For some reason, it feels as though that past has already come true almost entirely. In this dream, I see the same city, but a completely different part of it: a very respectable-looking mansion in an affluent neighborhood. A rather intricate coat of arms is depicted on the doors and the gate leading into the courtyard. It is not the coat of arms of a trading house, but a personal one—the coat of arms of the esteemed daughter of an important figure and courtier, executed in the highly ornate heraldic tradition of Ngabo-Khele, which looked somewhat out of place surrounded by the Confederate heraldry on the neighboring houses.

The resident and owner of the estate took full advantage of her lineage—not only from her father but also from her mother's side. Thanks to this, her home was located not in the foreign quarter, which was closer to the port, but in the noble quarter, in the heart of the Upper City. This was closer to the main market in Morgrave, and was simply much more prestigious. The taxes levied on foreigners by order of Duke August were of a completely different nature. She shielded herself from these taxes through her mother’s lineage, while her father’s lineage protected her from the taxes levied on the side from which her goods came. It wasn’t without its complications. It required paying certain humans—and even non-humans—for a whole host of unspoken but mandatory concessions, yet this precarious balance was indeed maintained and functioned effectively.

And her goods arrived at prices only slightly higher than her purchase prices, yet she sold them for two-thirds of the price. Moreover, she sold some of them directly to August, exchanging the remainder for goods already belonging to the Confederates—which were also only slightly more expensive than her purchase prices. Fabrics and grain crops from the halflings, summer iron, and gnome steel were sent to the distant jungles. From there came spices and dried fruits, wood and curiosities, bone, and alchemy. And anyone who wished to acquire such goods and secure the right to trade them at such favorable prices faced resistance from all members of the trading network.

That’s why the dark-skinned, curvaceous mestizo woman with a fiery temperament didn’t have to worry that “well-wishers” would come and kill the owner of that beautiful Latin American—as an Earthling would say—ass. However, sometimes they did try, so Mistress Veronica s’Lbvaga never forgot to be cautious. If they couldn’t eliminate her physically, many regularly tried to push her away from the trough by other means. There’s no risk that businesspeople wouldn’t take for the sake of such profits.

And she loved and cherished her butt. She did everything she could to protect herself from a traitor or a murderer, though she didn’t forget about her own comfort either. She hadn’t forgotten about it even now, smiling a slightly distracted smile as she leaned her torso against her own desk. She placed two soft cushions under her stomach and another under her head, so that staying in this rather unusual position for a long time wasn’t a problem or an inconvenience for her. Nor was her truly gorgeous, dark-skinned behind—protruding for all to see—a problem, as it was equally voluptuous and firm, possessing those distinctive qualities that are rarely found in Confederate or Northern women without magical assistance.

Mistress Veronica’s buttocks were exposed; her tight, form-fitting hunting pants—the kind that all sorts of ladies prefer to wear outside of hunting, shocking the public with their ruggedness and placing themselves on equal footing with men—had been pulled down to her knees, and her buttocks themselves glistened with the oil coating them. Mistress Veronica herself loved to have her butt oiled by the hands of her submissive lover, whose mind was immersed in a web of passionate suggestions, but now the oil was different; in the magical vision, it was actually glowing.

A slender, almost transparent artistic paintbrush—as if carved from crystal—glowed in the grasp of the second figure’s nimble and surprisingly dexterous fingers. This was the figure engaged in a cheerful conversation with Mistress Veronica, asking her about her life, goals, her affairs, and her romantic escapades. Sometimes the figure offers advice of its own, its strange eyes glinting as cross-shaped pupils spin clockwise and counterclockwise within them. It advises one to remember, to forget, to forget to remember, and to remember to forget at the right moment.

The brush paints something right on top of Mistress Veronica’s buttocks. Something almost weightless and incredibly complex. Something very insidious. Not a transformation into something new, as with her cute little pig, but a one-time trap designed for a single purpose. Choosing that target is actually extremely simple. There are only two factors: magical potential equal to or greater than that of a full-fledged master, and age. An age that must be incredibly, impossibly, and illogically low for such a level of power.

The mistress’s eyes have already been altered. Her sensory organs are now finely tuned specifically for this purpose: to make it difficult to hide one’s true age and power, even if one constantly wears the highest-level disguise capable of deceiving even a master. This extraordinary form of magical vision is, in essence, flawed: it cannot discern the specifics of an aura or the characteristics of a spiritual imprint. It can only estimate age and detect the mere presence of developed auric shells concealed beneath the disguise.

There’s hardly a single other gifted person in the whole wide world who would fit into these categories. And that’s when it will come in handy—the little gift from the guest with the unusual eyes for her dear, dear friend, the very gift she’s already putting the finishing touches on. Her dear friend is sure to see the beautiful Veronica’s butt, see it and appreciate it, and then, of course, he’ll want to take such a lovely little doll for himself. Maybe not right away, but he’ll definitely want those buttocks, that tanned, oiled-up ass, to end up on his face as he grins with delight and a silly smile.

He just needs to meet Mistress Veronica in person.

To see her buttocks with his own eyes at least once.

* * *

The shaman woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed, having managed to hold onto the image of a tall glass of red wine and an almost transparent glass—or even crystal—wine glass in his mind until the very end. Then he yawned heartily, checked how much time was left on his meta-skill, and set to work on Ursula. A separate room had been created specifically for this purpose in the underground shelter—one that was as isolated as possible and suppressed this extremely dangerous woman’s abilities to the greatest extent possible. However, he still had to maintain his personal defenses. You simply can’t shut down a static circuit in a confrontation like this.

Despite the complexity of the task before him, Stepan took his time and didn’t get nervous. As long as he didn’t mess up something relatively simple, he wouldn’t fail. The task was well within his capabilities, as was the preparation for it, and the super-lot he’d paid for more than adequately covered all possible needs. Step by step, without exposing himself to any potential risks, the Earthling cautiously and without haste created yet another doll from Ursula to join Sylvia Malter. First, he prepared the reagents; then he summoned a pair of senior spirits from the disposable totems included in the set of materials he had purchased; and finally, he treated the body.

A body that was gorgeous in every respect—one that first had to be cleansed of pheromonal alchemy, and then had to have control over the modifications to the endocrine system to prevent the production of new batches of those pheromones. Cover the body with special oils, cleanse it, and check the state of the aura and spirit. Both parameters are close to ideal, as if the demoness had already treated her—which, incidentally, fits perfectly with the logical version of events. Next came a preliminary assessment of individual parameters. At the same time, the shaman scanned her memory, constantly on guard against a trap. But no—not a single logical bomb or mentally damaging memory.

He’s looking for those whom Miss Lotzen has delighted with her gifts. He’ll still need to get them in line, simply because he’ll automatically be held responsible for those he’s brought under his command and for their actions. Well, that is, if there really is an innocent person who’s been caught in the crossfire. Stepan certainly won’t be bringing Gion de Faler—who gave that grim chuckle—back into line. And not out of envy toward the privileged youth, but because of access to the de Lomer archives. Those archives described in quite some detail exactly how this petty little shit carved out a place for himself in the sun in a city new to de Faler, as well as how many people suffered in the process. It’s not that no one tried to kill or maim the heir to his father and grandfather in retaliation, but, as they say, this is one of those cases where there simply aren’t any innocent parties or people who haven’t been tainted by the shit.

Fuck him.

When shit fights shit, Stepan is on the side of the slaughter.

Hovering above the floor, Ursula gradually synchronized her aura with the envolt, blazing with power, while an invisible thread was already binding that envolt to Stepan. Just as he had once secured his power over Sylvia’s doll—though back then he hadn’t even been in his right mind. A moment merged into an hour. An hour into a day. The meta-skill refreshed itself, consuming another token charge, but in the end, the venerable Ursula stood before Stepan, completely naked and just as completely harmless.

“Well, that’s a success.” He had secretly expected some kind of system reward, but no—just a certain amount of experience, not exactly insignificant, in the new level bar, plus a sense of moral satisfaction. If the mix of feelings he was experiencing right now could even be called satisfaction. “It’s time to get back to normal life, isn’t it, honorable?”

She didn’t answer, so Stepan set about testing the doll’s responsiveness: he made the woman move, speak, and think certain thoughts; he altered her personality matrix; he forced her to experience fear, joy, and orgasm (no, not out of perversion—it’s just a standard commissioning procedure for control-type envoilt dolls); chatted with her a bit about business matters, asked her about her distant past to check the state of her memory, and then stimulated that memory, allowing her to recall the number of hairs in the nostril of the annoying official from the city administration’s chamber of commerce.

"Okay, time for you to get dressed and get back to work," he orders calmly, causing the doll to disappear into the space between. "I'll see you later."

"Of course we’ll meet, my dear, and you’re going to really enjoy it." He didn’t stray from the tried-and-true classics, establishing a mindset very similar to that of Sylvia’s. Although their personalities and attitudes toward Stepan—whom they both “control”—are quite different, they’re so similar that you can’t help but want to check this businesswoman’s blood to see if she’s related to the Malters, even if distantly—you never know. “And now forget that you came to see me, but remember how much you enjoyed looking at me.”

Stepan glanced at the meta-skill timer, which showed just under four hours remaining, and thought to himself that today—and not just because of Ursula—he’d felt thoroughly used, yet he still hadn’t had any real sex. And with a thought along the lines of “Why not?”, he gave the order through the doll. After all, you could view such actions as a form of therapy, yes. Then again, the very fact that he’d turned the vile creature’s trap into his own toy and a useful tool—cleaning out everything she’d stuffed into it (and he’d checked it seven times to make sure)—also gave him a bit of a boost to his pride.

In his communication with the demoness, a completely unhealthy tradition has developed, according to which his butt hurts

Ursula stopped abruptly, clutching her breasts—which now seemed enormous to her—as if she’d just realized just how big they were. She realized this and decided she simply had no right to leave Panna without these outrageously huge tits. After all, she had tricked him and subjugated him, so why not give the sweet little boy a little release, thereby cementing her ultimate power over him? He wasn’t exactly her type, of course, but so what? Her power over him would serve as the finest seasoning for her, the most potent alchemy of love.

“Come here!” She certainly had no shortage of experience and skill when it came to taking the initiative, so the shaman let her draw him in, and then she literally lifted him by the collar, pressed his back against the stone wall, and sealed his lips with a kiss. “Your Aunt Sula is going to show you right now just how good it’ll be with her! And under her!”

That’s for sure—who knows what demons lurk in the human subconscious. Her childhood nickname, “Sula”—a shortened form of her name that the venerable Ursula couldn’t stand. Because as a child, she was teased so mercilessly as “Sula the Pig” that it brought her to tears and hysterics. In the Confederate language, these words sound very similar, which was the reason for the insults and the quiet hatred directed at Ursula—a woman who was excessively plump and simply couldn’t shake her love for sweets and anything delicious. But now she sees before her a short—especially compared to herself, who’s at least two meters and twenty-one centimeters tall, damn it—young boy who seems vulnerable to her, and she blurts out something like this.

In fact, he didn’t even force her into this particular role; rather, he simply instilled in her the desire to fuck her “slave,” prioritizing his pleasure above all else—and without the usual routine of pumping him full of aphrodisiacs and blocking his orgasm with an artificial ring. And then her subconscious filled in the rest of the scenario on its own, rationalizing her uncharacteristic tenderness as a desire to repay the boy who had submitted to her for falling so easily into her trap—a desire to be a little tender, while at the same time showing him and teaching him everything that “Auntie Sula” knows how to do.

"Just like that, like that, like that-t-t-t-t-t-t! " She’s literally pushing him into the bed—and given her height and weight, if they were making love on a stone floor, it could break an ordinary person, shattering their pelvic bones. "Come on, don’t wait, don’t wait for me! I’m already, already-yy-yy-yy-yy!!!"

By binding the energy flows within her aura and his own through tantric magic, Stepan brought them both to simultaneous ecstasy, but even as she reached the brink of ahegao, Ursula did not dismount from him. She shifted from riding him in a jerky motion to measured, fluid movements of her hips, neither rising up nor allowing him to withdraw from her. He regained his hardness before he had even finished emptying himself into her astonishingly tight and scorching-hot womb, allowing her to no longer drive them both toward the peak, but to lead them unhurriedly, like an experienced teacher guiding a student by the hand.

"...put your hand right here, but don’t squeeze, Pann—just stroke the skin and rub, but don’t pinch, unless, of course, you want to taste my milk.” It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, but deep within her breasts there was still active alchemy—something she no longer produced, yet the remnants hadn’t dissipated yet. “Well, or will you have to call me ‘Mommy’ instead of ‘Auntie Sula’? No, no, not like that—more gently and smoothly, in circular motions, like—oooh! Oh my gosh. What did you... do, you little rascal?! Why am I flying up?"

Her outrage at how easily she came just from some brazen shaman groping her tits didn’t stop her from vengefully quickening the movement of her hips, deliberately jiggling her breasts right in his face. As an experienced lover, she knew perfectly well exactly how men reacted to her ample assets. Stepan realized that she was literally forcing him to finish—without any magic, just through her skill alone. Part of him wanted to take the initiative, bring her to one climax after another, and plunge her into a daze and trance with constant orgasms, but that was a different part of him—not the one that had allowed itself to relax a little.

"Come on, go ahead, don’t hold back, sweetheart, let yourself go, fly, fly with me—you want to, you’re almost flying already—come on, pour yourself right into me, come on!" Stepan couldn’t hold back, which gave her no small amount of moral pleasure, letting her feel her power over him—to the extent that such power was real. "Yeeeees!!!"

He didn’t forget to make her come at the same time as him, so her body arched in an instant and then simply slid right down onto him, threatening to suffocate him in the cleavage of her monumental breasts. With a little help from a couple of weight-reducing spirits, he rolled his partner onto her back, draped her long legs over his shoulders, and began to penetrate her while caressing her breasts at the same time. She was practically glowing with pride and self-satisfaction at the fact that her breasts pleased and attracted him so much that he couldn’t tear his hands away. Her mind rationalized the reasons why she had allowed him to take the lead in the first place—and to take such uninhibited possession of her body—after all, she didn’t let just any lover do that, and never if she could take the initiative herself.

And now she wanted to relax, to surrender to what was already completely under her control—and so this situation could not possibly mean a loss of control for her. Stepan was inside her right now, in every sense of the word. He’s making love to her supple, firm body—the kind that, back on Earth, would be described as “thick”—while involuntarily sifting through her memories and her general mental landscape. It is in moments like these that her heightened sensitivity, her inclination toward mind-altering branches of magic, and, on top of that, her “multiple consciousness” show themselves in a less than favorable light. It’s hard to focus entirely on pleasure alone. It’s hard not to see in my memory of Ursula how she once gnashed her teeth in rage, and then arranged for the murder of her first official lover (after first kicking him out of her chambers in a scandal) — the man who, foolishly, had called her a “cute little pig,” triggering a whole host of childhood traumas.

He couldn't help but feel the urge to make her oink or even imagine her as a pig, but he was just too lazy to switch up the stream of suggestions. He brought her to the peak once more, letting her take the initiative again, pressing his face into her chest, riding him once more, then positioning herself behind him—something she almost never allowed either—slapping her buttocks as encouragement. Flashes of irritation from these slaps alternated with equally intense but stronger surges of pleasure; humiliation mingled with a sense of power over him, even as he pounded her like a mare, like a cow, like the lustful pig Sula, slapping her right on the ass.

When he finally entered her through the back entrance—which had already been prepared and slightly modified for such an activity by those demonic scum—she naturally squealed with pleasure without any mental magic, just tantric stimulation. In reality, it didn’t sound anything like a pig’s squeal, but in Ursula’s imagination, that was exactly what her scream was—and without any influence from Stepan, too. Humiliation—incredible and all-encompassing—mingled with the realization that he was completely at her mercy and would never be able to reveal, take advantage of, or even remember this weakness of hers. A shameful, repulsive weakness, unworthy of a respectable shopkeeper—beautiful and well-groomed, having long since rid herself of every excess wrinkle or protruding kilogram of excess weight.

She reached her second orgasm entirely on her own, letting out that moan again and again—a moan she wanted to turn into a scream, wanted to, but couldn’t bring herself to do it; she couldn’t bring herself to scream for him to fuck Piggy-Sula, to fuck her harder. Realizing that she’d lost control and said it out loud, Ursula once again experienced the ecstasy born of shame; she arched her back like a wild cat, wriggling out of his embrace, turning to face him, eager to silence him with a kiss so that he wouldn’t say a single word—not even half a word—about it. In the end, Stepan got not only a kiss but also a powerful slap with her breast, and then he had to be on the bottom again while Ursula, having tested her backdoor, rode him to yet another peak.

In the end, the nearly four hours—which had seemed almost excessive—barely gave them enough time to recover. Having hurriedly dressed and cleansed herself with spells and perfumes, Ursula slipped away through the passageway that had opened for her, crawling out from under her own desk in the middle of the office, which was locked from the inside, while Stepan set off for another shift as a footman for the young Miss Singha. Very tense days and weeks lay ahead—ones that would most likely culminate in a bloodbath brewing both within and beyond the Steppe—but for once, the shaman’s spirits were high. He wasn’t even as angry with Maega as he usually was.

Whether it's just from a good mood, or the stress of being a victim of humiliating and sexualized brainwashing is well blocked by brainwashing someone else for vulgar purposes.

You might write a dissertation on this topic.

However, knowing this world and its evil nature, such a dissertation had already been written long ago before him.

* * *

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/597838

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP