Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 2.

2. Double standards and hypocrisy are rightly considered the cornerstone of earthly civilisation.

* * *

The cold struck him like a hundred icy needles all over his body, which is why Ilya did not immediately realise that this was the sensation of his real body lying on a cold, icy rock, his head resting against someone's leg, which was even colder than the rock. Jerking sharply and cursing under his breath, he looked around and realised that his Twin's birth had taken place in a very atmospheric setting, so atmospheric that a newcomer would immediately feel like a guest and understand how much he wanted to go home. The Twin's body lay at the bottom of a steep ravine, surrounded by solid rock and sparse grass and bushes, and it wasn't just lying there, but had fallen from above, and in company. The company lay nearby, more than three dozen relatively fresh and visible bodies, all dead and badly broken, some dying from their wounds or torture, and some simply from the fall. It was at least thirty metres from the top of the ravine, although it was difficult to see.

The weather is also terrible, because even though there is no rain or snow, the temperature has dropped significantly below zero, to twenty or even thirty degrees, if not lower. Actually, Ilya shouldn't be feeling cold right now, even though he's only wearing some kind of torn shirt and something that used to be either trousers or shorts. But he's still cold, which means the temperature is very low, meaning death from hypothermia within an hour or two for an ordinary person, or even much sooner. And it would be fine to be at the bottom of the gorge in the company of corpses, fortunately, ordinary ones for now, and not those actively seeking to increase the number of corpses through their efforts, but this is still within the norm. In the sense that Divers in Broken have more insane, complex scenarios that put them at a disadvantage from the start.

For example, like the ones he has now, yes.

Actually, spending a talent point on ‘Twin Memory’ is considered among Earthlings to be a test of greed and intelligence. Because envy, greed, and stinginess do not allow such a valuable thing to be spent on something so useless. Yes, this talent will allow you to absorb some of the memory and knowledge of your twin clone. It's not enough to change your personality, especially given the complete, ha ha, impersonality of this knowledge, but it's enough to understand where you are, who you are, where you can go and where you can't, what's normal and what's not. In the event that you initially agreed to be drawn to one of the communities, you can indeed do without the ‘memo.’ However, even such divers are advised not to be greedy and to invest.

Why?

Because the Broken World is completely different and utterly insane, that's putting it mildly, excessively so, in Ilya's opinion, politely. And it's also unimaginably vast. Even someone as savvy as Ilya, with his degree and a pile of studied LORe about a boundless world in which even the gods have died, can easily find himself in a location whose cultural code is completely unfamiliar. And then a wrong decision, not knowing who to bow to and where it is better to run away immediately, banal rudeness from the point of view of the locals, and that's it, a hunt for a stranger. Or a dungeon with surprisingly experienced torture masters. Or a cage at the slave market. Or something else. It is worth knowing that the first death of more than three-quarters of the Divers, who were not killed by creatures, was provoked precisely by a conflict with the locals on religious, class, social, or cultural grounds. And in general, it is difficult to say who kills more newcomers — the creatures of the Broken or its natives.

Do you consider yourself a smartass? Are you sure you can handle it and get away with it? A silver tongue and brazen audacity are your second fortune? Well, well. On the eternal Forum, there are countless threads created by such idiots who thought they were smarter than everyone else, but ended up joining the ranks of either deer deceived or taken advantage of while trying to pick up a local beauty, or mammoths, scummed out of their money, or lemmings, who simply died in completely stupid circumstances, where death could have been easily avoided if they had thought a little and known the basic aspects of life in the region where the Twin diver was incarnated. So it was believed among earthlings that if you don't aim at lemmings, it's better to take care of your orientation in a foreign society. Thanks to this, Ilya not only knew the basic rules of social mimicry in the region but also received a summary of how exactly his current body ended up where it was now freezing its gluteal muscles.

A large caravan of migrants travels from one city to another, accompanied by a number of merchants and guards assigned by the mayor. Narrow mountain paths, a pass, the icy wind of the beginning of winter, which promises to be particularly cold, as both astrologers and fortune tellers predict. An ambush by a band of fierce robbers, who surprisingly quickly overwhelmed the guards and killed most of the people, taking the rest to one of the many secret and inconspicuous rock shelters. In these very rocks, which were not mountains, but rather rocky, hilly wastelands with a bunch of crevices and rare patches of greenery, called the Dead Man's Ridge, an army could be hidden. This had been done many times before. There were many such shelters left here after the great war between the rebellious Duchy of Clumpertorm and the Crown's troops. The war lasted a couple of generations, but the duchy lost and was burned to the ground, and the land is still not very populated.

In one such refuge, probably completely unknown even to the current authorities, the Clampertorm archives were almost completely burned down, there were simply no normal maps of the rocky areas left, according to Uncle Chum, who was literate and had seen as many as four cities, prisoners were held there for some time. The women were raped, the men were simply put to work doing household chores, and, of course, everyone was tortured, regardless of gender. Among the daring lads, there were as many as three whom the Mechanism had blessed with full-fledged Lot. And the rest, although barely touched by the Mechanism, were all armed and combative. So what if they don't have a Lot, the essence hardly accumulates, and instead of a dozen talents, they only have three or four from birth, with no opportunity to develop the talents they have received? If he spent half his life learning to stab people in the liver, he is still more dangerous than a servant or a farmer who has never held a weapon in his hands. However, such a local is not even fit to be the shoe leather of the trio gifted with the Mechanism, which in this region of the Broken is often called either the Greatest, or the Pre-Existent, or Infinity.

Among them was at least one Executioner, who diligently demonstrated his work and developed his skills day and night, while the second, judging by all appearances, was one of the versions of the Warlock. Not a fire warrior, but something related to necromancy and rituals. His material did not linger in the basement where they were taken. The one who was Ilya's image, whose body he had taken, had lived in that hiding place for almost three decades, and for the last ten days, they had simply stopped feeding him and the others. They begged, screamed, pleaded, but received beatings or death, no longer hoping for anything. The cold of the stone dungeon, starvation already gripping their throats. Such was their life. And when the thieves, deciding it was time to move to a new place and get rid of the witnesses, dragged them to the cliff, the man finally and irrevocably lost his mind, dreaming only of eating his fill and warming himself.

At least something to satisfy the fierce hunger.

To find at least a small drop of warmth.

These thoughts consumed him so much that he did not notice how they cut the throats or simply threw down the rest of the prisoners, laughing and having fun. He did not notice how they pushed him towards the cliff, kicking and stabbing his emaciated body with daggers. He didn't even notice the fall and the landing, which broke a good half of his bones and knocked out his guts. Lying there, already dying, he saw before his eyes the still-warm corpse of one of the prisoners, with whom he had even communicated back then, before he had completely lost his mind. And, obeying his madness, his desire for warmth and satiety, obeying the howling of the icy wind laughing in his ears, he dug into the dead man's roe and tasted human flesh.

The Pact was made, humanity rejected in favour of hunger, in the name of winter cold and animal cruelty. Evil found its way inside, letting in not a spirit, not a demon, not a beast, not a ghost, but the very idea, the idea of Hunger, the idea of someone who sees his fellow men as nothing more than meat, nothing more than warm, such warm food. The crunch of bones on teeth, the crunch of stone crumbs under broken fingers, the sound of tearing flesh, and the crackling of one's bones as they fell back into place, growing together again, merging into one, gathering into something whole and different. The man at the bottom of the ravine, among the mutilated and desecrated corpses, was no longer there, only another creature, born in the Cold and in the name of Hunger.

Fortunately or unfortunately, this creature did not last long, because Ilya's soul and essence burst into his unchanged body, taking the place of the vanished man and grinding the remnants of his madness in the millstones of the enhanced great Will of Fate. It became not just a creature, but a much more dangerous piece of trash, a creature that had come, favoured by the Mechanism, but retained its mind. And this made it only more dangerous, unless, of course, it decided to play lemming and die like another presumptuous idiot.

"What a bunch of morons." Ilya's comment was dry and extremely polite towards the bandits; it would have been impossible to put it any more gently. "A pile of corpses. Exhausted and tortured. In one ravine, without burial, without a funeral service, without even being dismembered first! Either they managed to get out of here and had no intention of returning, or another surprise awaited them. If the creature had fed on these corpses and climbed up the cliff, there would have been mince. Karmically fair mince, ahem, khah!"

After clearing his throat and spitting out a piece of bone stuck in his mouth, Ilya suppressed his nausea and stood up, beginning to stretch his limbs, feeling an unprecedented strength and mobility within himself. At the same time, he assessed the rock and figured out the route he would have to climb. The man had never really used virtual pods; he didn't have time for online games, but he respected simulators of various kinds. Although in real life he had only been mountain climbing once in a special hall, he knew the theory, and virtual reality allowed him to practise it. Otherwise, it would be pointless, because you can't learn to climb rocks through simulation alone, but his body, enhanced with attributes, could now compensate for a certain lack of reflexes with knowledge of the technique itself.

"It would be better to sleep in a normal bed, not on a mattress in Star." He continued to grumble, flexing his hands, which had been broken several times and were now healing from the remaining cracks in his fingers. "At least I could get a good night's sleep. A more fortunate place of birth for Twin, damn you, you bastards! Where could he have been born that would be worse? Although, okay, that's going too far, because there really is..."

He needs to get out of this burial ground.

And, if there is time, to hold a ‘funeral service’ for his alt, as they called the dummies used in the selection of ‘Memory of the Twin’. And the funeral service was not supposed to involve crying over the coffin, but rather placing in it those who had laid the alt in that coffin according to the initial scenario. In the end, his current situation, although on average more difficult than the lion's share of other divers' starts, will not make it into the top one per cent of the most awesome births, at most into the top five. The Broken World knew how to welcome its new children; there's no denying that, and it knew how to make a lasting impression on guests from other worlds.

Closing his eyes, Ilya focuses his mind on images of himself, checking his own system, status, tablet, chronicle, or other synonyms used by divers. Not that it was necessary, as hardly anything had changed since his birth, but this was, after all, his first few minutes in the Broken World, and he simply couldn't deny himself the pleasure of admiring his own coolness. Again, there was another moment that manifested itself after birth, but against the backdrop of what he had already received, the mandatory Small Random Gift of the Mechanism, received by absolutely every diver in the universe, simply did not matter.

Twin: Iliy Khvat

Chosen Lot: Wendigo (Possessed by Evil)

Vessel of Eternity: 0/100

Vessel of Rebirth: 3/3 (100x(Stage) Essence per Rebirth Charge)

Limit of Talent: 14

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Step: 1 (0/300)

Claws and Bones: 1+2(Lot)+3=6

Blood and Heart: 1+2(Lot)=3

Veil and Mystery: 1+1(Trait)+1(Lot)+1=4

Aurora and Radiance: 1+1(Trait)+1=3

Thirst and Anger: 1+2(Lot)+2=5

Faith and Perdition: 1+1(Lot)=2

Fate and Fortune: 1

* * *

Skills and Charms:

Hunger Howl: 1/3 (Essence invested: 0/10)

A Wendigo seeking food can be incredibly silent, but its scream, absorbed some of the wild magic of the Hunger-possessed, is all the more terrifying. It instills fear, robbing the power and control over the gift, forcing the hands to tremble and the vision to lose focus. It can paralyze or stun weaker prey.

Lurking Evil: 1/3 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Even a commoner deprived of a magical gift or special scanning skills, being near a Wendigo, will experience some nervousness, instinctively fear the one standing in front of him. Hungor and Cald in the body, spirit, and essence of the one who has accepted the curse are too eager to get out, declare themselves. Therefore, those Wendigo who try to live and hunt among their victims, in cities, villages, and settlements, always nearby and always on the side, have learned to hide their nature, to hide Hunger like a beast hiding in ambush. The naked eye of a commoner will not recognize a Wendigo, will not notice anything wrong or sinister. And even someone who can do a little more is quite capable of missing the hidden Evil, especially if he does not wait or look for it intentionally.

Ice Breath: 1/5 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Having become related to the Cald, having accepted it into themselves, Wendigo are able to draw strength from it, turning the Cald onto the surrounding world, exhaling a small part of it, becoming for a moment a conductor and a door that the Cald brings into the world. It burns with cold, curses with frost, weakens and marks with Cald, affecting a wide front and passing through the smallest cracks in defense.

Hungry Hide: 1/4 (Essence invested: 0/10)

The concept of Hungor is much deeper and more flexible than it might seem at first glance, if one knows how to use it and address it. Few are better at this than the Wendigo, whose will allows Hungor to absorb even steel or magic, devouring the desperate attack of a hunted victim an instant before the blow is struck. Activation requires preparation and reserves a portion of the magical reserve.

Shapeshift: 1/5 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Supreme power over his curse allows Wendigo to touch the Evil hidden in it, to pull Hungor and Cald to their place, becoming one with them. Changes the fleshly body, significantly increases physical, magical, and spiritual characteristics for the duration of use, at the cost of unusually strong pressure of the curse. The duration of stay in the converted form of Wendigo is limited by the reserves of strength and his development, but can be renewed or increased by fresh victims, their flesh, their pain, their everything. To activate, the presence of the Wendigo Form among the talents is required.

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Abilities and Tricks:

Twin's Memory: 1/2 (Essence invested: 0/10)

This body was, breathed, loved, and remembered; it lived and longed to live, but now only memories remain of it, impersonal and systematized. The Diver bears the stamp of his Twin's past life, shame, and glory.

Hunting Beast: 1/5 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Wendigos do not learn to fight, they do not duel, they do not fence, they do not attack in close formation, but they can, oh, they can kill so good. Their fighting style is extremely savage, more befitting of a beast, but it is fueled by a sophisticated and vicious mind. Nothing superfluous, beautiful, or elegant, only the utmost efficiency, cruelty, and ruthlessness.

Bone Carver: 1/4 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Hunting for flesh and gnawing on bones, Wendigos often end up with too many bones to devour. It may seem strange how they decorate their lairs and hunting grounds with elaborately carved ornaments, figurines, amulets, and tokens made from the bones of those they once devoured. Few know that there is another, deeper reason for this strange habit.

* * *

Properties and Mutation:

Hungor and Cald (Base): 1/3 (Essence invested: 0/10)

The foundation of the essence of the Wendigo, who has let its strength and weakness, gift and curse, into himself. Increases physical characteristics, gives sensitivity and perception beyond the mortal body. Does not allow you to freeze from any weather conditions, allowing you to navigate in any blizzard. It is impossible to die or weaken from Hunger or overeating.

Child of Nature (Base): 1/3 (Essence invested: 0/10)

The essence of the Wendigo is the hunt and the thirst for prey, which they seek to satisfy their Hunger, which, in fact, makes them very close to many animals and creatures blessed by an indifferent and merciless Nature. Wild territories replenish strength, and can strengthen the body and spirit with wild natural magic.

Hungry Eye: 1/5 (Essence invested: 0/10)

The eyes of the Wendigo see the world in a different way than ordinary mortals are accustomed to perceiving it; they notice details more easily, and the hiding prey will not hide behind strong walls or under an invisible canopy, because the Wendigo can notice the still beating heart of the victim even at a considerable distance, in complete darkness or behind a reliable barrier.

Frozen Flesh: 1/4 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Having long since lost their former essence, Wendigos cannot be considered fully alive, even if they do not have even a part of the essence of the undead. The flesh, skin and bones of the Wendigo become harder than bog wood, stronger than stone, and at the same time begin to freeze curses placed on the flesh and weaken direct attack magic.

Knowledge of Curse: 1/3 (Essence invested: 0/10)

Most of those possessed by the Hunger, realizing the threat of losing themselves in the embrace of the curse, try in every way to weaken and compensate for their essence, to regain some control over it. Others, more courageous, reckless, and perhaps just stupid, not understanding what they are actually doing, act completely differently. They deliberately dive deeper into their curse, discovering new facets of it and increasing the effectiveness of all Wendigo talents, while reducing the cost of using them. The price is high, but at the same time still insignificant.

Wendigo Form: 1/5 (Essence Invested: 0/10)

Even if the Hunger-possessed remains indistinguishable from a human, it is only externally, while the inner essence, hidden under the flesh and bones, changes dramatically. The appearance of a true child of Hungor and Cald is hidden behind a thin barrier of material flesh, and, having received a sufficient push, this Appearance can manifest itself, lying on top of the usual body. The proportions will change, the height will increase, the face will acquire other features, the spirit and magic will be distorted, having become stronger, colder, harsher, and angrier. The talent of Shapeshift is required for work.

* * *

Traits and Perks:

Focused (Native): 1/1

Increases mental tenacity and attention to detail, concentration, and fluidity of thinking, the mind and body move more easily into action, and do not lose concentration during inaction.

Outstanding Secret Knowledge (Native): 1/1

Increases the attributes of the Veil of Mysteries and the Radiance of Aurora by one. The Diver's mind contains many secrets and knowledge, important, necessary, great or worthless, and also knows how to distinguish one from the other.

Great Restorable Stability of Consciousness (Gift of the Great Mechanism): 1/1

The Diver's consciousness becomes like a stronghold of the hardest rune steel, which repairs itself no worse than living clay. Even the most powerful effects of madness, corruption or corruption cannot touch the Diver's essence, and if they do, they flow into nothingness like water from a coastal cliff.

Hunger Obsession (Base): 1/1

The Diver's body and spirit have embraced one of the forms of Evil, the boundless and insatiable Hunger, sharing themselves with it, and it with themselves. This is a gift of great strength and power, but also a curse, dooming them to madness and eternal hunting. Hated, terrifying, but always alone - such is the Fate of those who have found their destiny as Wendigo. Reveals access to the talents characteristic of the Lot, changes the physical and spiritual essence of the Diver.

* * *

Blessings and Curses:

Great Enhancement of Development Essence Inflow (Gift of the Great Mechanism): A significant increase in the flow of essence from any activity of the Diver, partially extending to those who stand next to the Diver.

The first of the Rewards (Gift of the Great Mechanism, only for the current Cycle): the value of the Diver's essence transferred to the home dimension will be doubled once at the end of the cycle.

What he saw did not please him simply because it was too cold, even despite class resistance, and because he had already experienced all the emotions, in the void between universes. What he saw turned out to be exactly what he had chosen, what he would have to pay for if the choice turned out to be unsuccessful. The only new detail was one of the eighty-one standard Gifts for the first dive. It was not the most useless; on the contrary, it was considered a sign of considerable luck to receive such a reward. The Essence is always in demand; it is easy and simple to sell, either in special reception centres or directly through the Forum. It was like double pay, but, alas, only once, and only for the first cycle.

Yeah.

It is precisely for the first cycle, when it is incredibly easy to get the first drop of Essence. It asks to fall on the altar of your power, and it only needs a little help. A kind of lure from the Ancients, so that more people rush into their Game, knowing for sure they will receive some Essence.

Formally, the gift for the first dive is good, but personally, Ilya, or Iliy now, would prefer something more material. Well, a set of basic equipment for survival in winter conditions, for example, would be much more appropriate right now. But the only equipment available is some really smelly rags, not even good for cleaning the floor, and it feels like the stains on these rags are pretty specific. Yes, the prisoners were not fed, but they were not allowed to leave their cells for the last ten days either. His thoughts turned again to the fact that the guys who had arranged for the Earthling Twin to be communed with the Mechanism should, for the sake of interworld justice, be made a little bit dead. Some part of him, alien, bound by the chains of will, even claimed that these freaks could not only be killed, but also eaten, their bones gnawed clean, and then their skulls laid out in a nice circle.

Ilya simply dismissed these thoughts; they felt less like an almost insurmountable desire bordering on madness and more like something less significant than a television playing in the neighbouring apartment or a podcast playing in the background. Still, he was right in his calculations, at least partially, but right nonetheless — the trait protected his mind and consciousness, and then the mechanics of the class took over. Wendigo is a very cunning and unpleasant opponent if you are really building a build for combat, but at the same time, it is of little use if you are protecting the attic from leaks. In the status description of Ilia Ice, there is not a single line about such skills, abilities and properties as ‘Beast Subjugation’, “Starvation”, ‘Raging Evil’ or others like them, but there you had to take at least a set of three or four of them, just so as not to desynchronise yourself with the Twin.

Instead, the man took a whole range of talents, which only increased the madness and degree of influence of Hunger on the mind. And the rest of the talents... he chose the best, the most optimal in purely practical application, ignoring the fact that in Broken, you have to pay for power with yourself. Usually, when you don't have trump cards like he does, most talents have two, maybe three divisions, and fours and fives are often not taken at all at the first level. Entire Talmuds of “black” talents were created and freely distributed, and novice divers were drilled with the idea that they should not touch such talents even with a stick, otherwise they would get burned.

The lucky winner of the lottery bet on his reward, strengthening himself without regard for his psyche, creating a classic “cinematic build.” The kind that makes you an observer of the insane fear in the face of your own Twin. Yes, there are builds like that too, and many people are quite happy to calmly guzzle whiskey and tequila, living off the essence received by the Twin, and the “cinematic” in which the next Maniac or Twisted One arranges a select guro, wash down with whiskey and pills. True, if your Twin somehow manages to reach the fourth level, endowing the earthly original with some of the Broken One's powers, it turns out very sad. One such maniac-Maniac was very seriously promoted and talked about so that young people would not be stupid. And yet, Quebec Skin Eater managed to kill himself in a rare flash of consciousness, after terrorizing the socialist-style housing estate for almost a month, hiding in the communications, collectors, and basements, killing between six and twenty-three people every night.

In general, if Ilya miscalculates now, misjudges his strengths and weaknesses, he would become the larva of the same monster, only with a mania for eating the dead, rather than making beautiful costumes out of their skin. Fortunately, his bet paid off one hundred percent, and even a little more, because there was no pressure on his mind at all; he simply ignored it and, he is sure, could have ignored the intensification of this madness by a couple of orders of magnitude. Which still left him with the class of a natural cannibal, if not for one small “but,” or even “BUT!!!”. Wendigos are forever tormented by unimaginable hunger and cannot satisfy it, even if they consume a hundred times their weight. It would seem that everything is bad, because it is necessary to consume human flesh, but with a cool head, not in a fit of madness.

Yes, but here's the thing.

Wendigo cannot die from starvation or a lack of human (or other intelligent species) flesh, nor can it weaken without it. Yes, there are several talents specifically designed to enhance combat fury and boost stats from proper nutrition. But Ilya did not take these talents at all, if you don't count the iconic Combat Form that all possessed creatures have! Roughly speaking, his build did not depend on the meat of intelligent beings in the slightest, but at the same time, it still craved that meat, pressing down with madness and pure Hunger. It pressed, pressed, but did not crush, because on this side, the cunning earthling minimaxer was protected by the Great Trait! It was such a broken build that he couldn't help but feel envy and anger towards himself. For having achieved his goal in such a cheaty way, yeah. And then he remembered that this ugly cheater was Ilya, and no one else, which replaced his envious anger with such a smug mood that it made him laugh.

But it's better not to laugh. He has no idea how close the bandits might be, whether they might have left long ago, or might stay in their hideout for another couple of days. Usually, recovery after moving into the Twin is instantaneous, but here, combined with the transformation of the possessed... a day or two, or even three, his body would surely have lain at the bottom of the crevice. But if during this time the bandits did not go anywhere and also posted a patrol nearby, then they would surely be filled with awareness when a ringing and hoarse laugh began to sound from the crevice filled with corpses. No, if they just run away in terror, then everything is not so bad, but in Broken, the natives are used to terrible things happening nearby. And they may greet the laughing thing at the bottom of the gorge with arrows, magic, or simply a rockfall, so it doesn't dare to laugh and spoil people's afternoon nap. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky.

Looking at his thin, pale fingers, Ilya tried once, twice, and then jumped onto the rock, grabbing the nearest ledge and squeezing it until it cracked. Not his fingers, but the rock! His body was bursting with strength, singing with excitement, eager to get into battle, the adrenaline rush dispelling the numbing cold. In terms of pure attributes, Wendigo is very good, adding eight characteristics simply by choosing the Lot. It's not the biggest increase even among the starting classes, but it definitely falls into the top five percent, especially compared to the weakest lots, which can raise five or four attributes. Add to that the class features that come from talents, and you get an extremely dangerous combination.

Attributes act as a multiplier for talent effectiveness; often, it is impossible to choose a particular talent if there are not enough attributes. But this also works the other way around. Properly selected talents, especially mutation properties, can enhance the effect of attributes, acting as a multiplier for them. Ilya had accumulated quite a few talents and attributes, so now, taking into account the bonus talents and one of the most versatile build combinations for Wendigo that could be assembled, he was considerably superior to a standard diver or first-level local. He surpassed them, yes, but there was still a gap to the second level, even if it was no longer so great, but simply a very wide ravine.

Fortunately, in Broken, it is not often possible to encounter even the lowest levels of individuals possessing the Blessing of the Mechanism, especially in such a remote area. To encounter twos or, God forbid, threes, one would need to venture into one of the local centers of power. There is nothing for such individuals to do in such a remote area, unless you happen to encounter them by chance, but, you know, Ilya Khvat has only one standard unit of FaFo in his Status. With such an indicator, such accidents usually do not happen. Usually. Well, and definitely not on the first day after the birth of the Twin.

While his mind was immersed in thought, his body pulled itself up, sought suitable support, and pressed itself against the rock when the cold wind blew particularly strongly, threatening to simply tear the relatively light body of the emaciated man off the cliff, despite his superhuman grip. With a groan, albeit a quiet one, he rolled over the edge of the cliff, finding himself on a flat platform and looking around. There was no one there, and there were no signs of humans or non-humans nearby, except for an empty and partially broken clay bottle that had once contained some kind of alcohol. But there were plenty of simple footprints left behind, visible even to the naked eye, let alone to the two passive senses of his newfound domain. Cracking his knuckles and then straightening his cramped back, Ilya moved on toward the hill-rock visible from here, where the outpost once created for the duke's rebel troops was now hidden, now favored by bandits.

His body seemed to know exactly how to move, pressing itself to the ground, gliding along it, stepping softly and silently, leaving not a single trace. The selection of talents clearly benefited Twin, especially in such harsh conditions. Yes, he came to his senses not already standing on the gallows, not tied to the altar over which an ancient monster had already bent, to which a sacrifice of living flesh had been brought, not even in the middle of a ship sinking in a sea storm, in the middle of a twelve-point storm. Against the backdrop of various scenarios, he was simply lucky, especially since the Wendigo is not defenseless even when “fresh,” and with his peculiarities, he can surprise even an experienced first-level bearer.

The Twin's memory allowed him to accurately estimate distances, understand where the entrance was, and where the observation points were. Before they began to starve him, the Twin had managed to work as a cleaning assistant and had studied the layout of the camouflaged outpost, albeit only partially. Many places were simply off-limits to all of them, and those allowed in could not be questioned without necromantic skills. Approaching one of the inconspicuous rocks, Ilya lay down under it, pressing himself against the cold stone covered with a thin layer of ice, and began to observe and devise a plan of action. Escape was simply not an option. Even a Wendigo would have a hard time surviving in the icy wasteland with only filthy rags and nothing else. For the chance to wash himself in one of the water tanks at the outpost, Ilya was quite willing to risk one of his three spare lives.

For the right to change into clean clothes and drink warm tea, he was willing to risk all three at once.

Closing his eyes, the earthling analyzes the Twin's memory, squeezing out the smallest bits of knowledge from it. However, his memory, or rather his talent, is clearly not the simplest. Usually, this type of talent has only one division, but here, there are two. This means that the Twin knew or remembered something. Or, conversely, someone important knew or remembered him, which is why it became possible to develop and assimilate his memory a little more. A three in this talent most often means that your Twin was, if not a minor aristocrat, then someone of comparable importance, wealth, and influence. A five... well, that's only if you put a couple of attributes into Fate-Fortune, or choose a very specific class tied to social play.

Again, nervous about the upcoming battle, he turned to his Status. It would be funny if no one were left there and all the scoundrels had managed to leave while the Twin was receiving the curse and undergoing his metamorphosis. It was a kind of check before the final push, an assessment of himself and what exactly he could oppose his opponent with.

The Empty Vessel of Eternity, into which practically all essence obtained from combat or other activities automatically flows. Sometimes, however, a drop of essence may automatically go into one of the talents, but only if it was obtained by training that particular talent, and this does not happen often. Fill the vessel, and you will be able to pour drops from it into one of the categories. You can fill the Step limit gradually, preparing to cross it. However, each transition to a new level cannot be achieved by simply filling the “experience scale”; you need to perform a separate ritual, specific to each level, to find or develop this ritual yourself, or pay those who will help you. And in case of failure, the filled scale burns out, and the body perishes, consuming one of the available rebirths, if any remain, yes. On old Earth, by the way, full access is open to all rituals of transition from the first to the second, and if you manage to come up with something unique, they will even help you for free; the main thing is that you share the information afterwards.

Not everyone agrees, wanting privacy, but many make the trade-off quite consciously.

This is the culture of divers on Earth: having dealt with the problem yourself, share the solution with others, and then the useful guide will return to you like a karmic boomerang.

The resurrection vessels are full for now, he hasn't used them, and he has the maximum number of lives – his current one and three spare ones. Of course, this is not the maximum possible nine, nor is it the slightly less unique seven, but it's still more than some losers have, who were given only one resurrection charge from the start. And even that one is empty, yeah. Although you still have to try hard to assemble such a build, deliberately going in that direction for the sake of bonuses of dubious quality. In any case, Ilya had spare saves, which is why he is ready to take risks, venturing in his underwear into a stronghold packed with bandits, knowing he can afford such a risk. Precisely because death is not a sentence for him, not even three times over. Usually, at the first level, if it is not possible to bind oneself to the Heart, which will restore life at its own expense without emptying the Vessel, the filling of this Vessel is ignored. It is easier to develop talents gradually, gaining level points: if you try to reincarnate to the second stage with all your talents at level one, failure is almost guaranteed. Yes, they don't usually fill all talents completely, but they try to maximize the ones that are key to the build.

However, the maximum development of first-level talents is usually three units, even for key talents. And those who choose a talent of four are viewed with disapproval if they do not compensate for this with a similar power of ‘psychosis compensator’.

"You're caught, bitches." Ilya whispered quietly, staring at an inconspicuous section of the rock where a small window had opened for a moment, letting in a little fresh air and releasing warm air filled with the breath of living people, if you can call these scumbags people. "So someone stayed behind, which means someone is at home."

Ilya took five active skills, unable to choose between several equally useful options until the very last moment, but still managed to settle on a build that is very suitable for solo and not-so-solo development. Howl is useful for stunning and confronting multiple and poorly defended enemies. It will also help in battles against equal or even stronger opponents, simply because it allows you to apply a debuff in time. Camouflage is essential until you reach the second stage, as without it, you cannot go out among people. In this world, most regions cannot tolerate the possessed and all derivative class branches, and where they are tolerated, they are kept under control and not given much freedom. With the ability to at least hide the “uncanny valley effect” from ordinary people when they look at this skinny guy, living and surviving will become much easier.

Ice Breath is the main offensive ability with maximum potential for development in the first stage. In normal situations, if it is taken, it is built around all development and must be combined with ‘Warmth of Hearts,’ which compensates for the psychological blow from contact with such an aggressive force as the local concept of Cald, which is one of the manifestations of Evil, the embodiment of a deadly and cold winter. However, warmth not only compensates but also reduces damage by at least a third and the curse limit of exhalation, which, passing through a heart that cannot cool down, becomes weaker. In the case of Ilya and his resistance to madness, this very winter becomes analogous to Father Frost or Santa Claus: in Earth mythology, they also began as evil gods of the coming cold, to whom sacrifices were made in all seriousness, rather than gifts being demanded. So for Ilya, contact with the Cald boiled down to that very Santa who brought gifts to good boys.

A powerful and flexible mid-range and close-range attack tool with the ability to ignore and bypass overly static defences. This ability would be great if it didn't consume reserves at such a rapid rate and with such power. Not only can Wendigo use it, but there are plenty of ice mages in the standard class roster. But even divers who are maxed out in magic damage complain about either the cost, the difficulty of control, or the fact that it's easy to freeze yourself. Well, the Wendigo definitely won't have any problems with the latter, not with the resistances that already exist and will be strengthened in the future.

Breath for attack, and Hide for defense, all according to the classic formula, but with the most powerful talents selected, without regard for madness control. The Skin was a typical shield-block, tuned for one-time damage absorption. With the mobility and speed granted by the Wendigo class, and sharpened for close combat, there is simply no point in standing under a constant shield or dome. Take a single blow on a pre-prepared Hide, devour that blow, close in, and explain that it's wrong to hurt little earthlings. Or, if the opponent is too strong, use the skin to break the distance and escape. A pumped-up Wendigo knows how to run away perfectly.

The Shapeshift in connection with Form is a highly desirable and very, very serious argument for anyone who has chosen the path of the Wendigo or simply the Possessed. However, while those Possessed by the Beast, like Werewolves, receive their second form almost automatically, it is more complicated for Wendigos. And if you don't want to be out of sync, you either have to hope to somehow compensate for the lack of key talents, or start without the Form and take it at the second stage. This is one of the rare cases where a talent from the first-level roster is available for selection at the next level as well, with virtually no changes. And, again, Ilya completely ignored the support talents that could have made it easier to control the Form.

A simple diver who managed to combine these two talents and not go mad would, at best, end up with a situational weapon. The ability to transform briefly, immediately falling into a frenzy like a hungry beast, unable to distinguish friend from foe, unresponsive to the tactical situation, tearing and mauling until reverting to human form. A powerful trump card, but a very inconvenient one, fraught with accidental activations and the need to sleep in a room that is securely locked from the outside with very strong walls. But Ilya would control himself in the Form no worse than without it, which opened up extremely broad horizons for a diver just starting out on his path.

The diver, who had made a series of sprints and found himself directly opposite the inconspicuous entrance to the rock shelter, remained unnoticed by anyone. Listening to himself and slightly altering his vision, he easily saw the people hidden behind the rock. Three of them were close enough for the Eye to see through the rock and perceive not even human silhouettes, but barely discernible outlines of beating hearts hanging in the air. There was definitely some kind of protection on this rock to prevent anyone from scanning it, so it would have helped against the fleeting interest of the Warlock, the Priest, the Spellcaster and, with reservations, the Exorcist, the Charmer or even the Storyteller, but the wild sorcery of the Wendigo was still too exotic, and the outpost was not designed for such guests.

A step, a run-up, a jump, and now his body was sprawled on the rock above and to the left of the exit, while he pressed himself against the stone and almost stopped breathing. The cold was still irritating, but only as a fleeting detail, whereas a mere mortal would have died several times over by now. He could try to break down the door, and if the ambush didn't work, he would do just that, but while there was still a chance, it was better to try the ambush. Especially considering that he might not be able to break down the door, which was camouflaged and made of sturdy planks with iron strips on top. As the wait drags on, Ilya concentrates his efforts, gathering the strength permeating his body into a tight knot, as if pulling his skin tight, covering it with another layer of skin. For a moment, it seems as if a translucent, weightless skin flashes over his skin, long hair the color of winter stars and the night sky, but this sensation quickly disappears.

A slight weakness from the depletion of reserves, which is already being hastily replenished, a no less slight migraine, and a flash of suppressed Hunger, which did not affect him at all. Ilya is not afraid to cast spells within walking distance of a potential enemy gifted with the Mechanism. He has read about such methods of protecting rock shelters, and there were also enough Architects, Ritualists, and Mechanists among the earthlings, so he may not know the strengths and weaknesses of these walls exactly, but he confidently assumes them. The camouflage, primitive, and simple works both ways, cutting off those inside from those outside. Even if there is a mage left there, even if he can sense someone else's magic without looking directly at them, which is no ordinary talent, he still won't know that Ilya is nearby until he sees him with his own eyes. Or until Ilya breaks his neck by striking him in the back.

In battle, the earthling did not rely on his experience in earthly fencing, which he had acquired a little bit in real life and virtpods. It was not wise to think about fencing without weapons, and he was not really an experienced master of swordplay. He had to rely on the combat style he had learned, which also burdened his mind with new techniques and the instincts that came with them. Such skills were rarely acquired, were improved cautiously, and only under certain conditions. Nevertheless, it is precisely the Abilities-Tricks, no matter how impersonal they may be, that have the greatest impact on the psyche and memory. And those so saturated with the essence of Wendigo, such as the Hunting Beast, are even better not to take without overinsurance and compensating talent, or to take something simpler, two or three divisions. Earthlings are considered so successful compared to other players from other worlds because they know how not to be greedy and choose the optimum, instead of the tempting carrot with the inscription: ‘POWER QUICKLY, RIGHT NOW, WITHOUT REGISTRATION AND SMS.’

In general, even Ilya chose only three abilities, even with their bonuses... although that was because he didn't have enough drops, not because he was afraid to take more. The Twin's memory is for adapting to the world, while the Beast is for fighting and battles. At the first rank, he sharpens his instincts, invests in a basic understanding of tactics and the nature of combat, hunting, pursuit, and, if necessary, escape. It is by no means enough to engage in direct combat with an experienced, armed, and armored opponent, but the earthling had no intention of engaging in direct combat with anyone. Ideally, he would not engage in combat with anyone at all, but would simply and unpretentiously kill them all.

The creaking of the doors, quite loud and annoying, accompanied by the equally annoying creaking of the stone covering, was not unexpected for him. He recognized the beating heart of the individual walking toward the exit behind the door in advance, having prepared himself beforehand. The man who came out had a completely European appearance, a bearded face, a forehead with a burnt convict's mark, an indeterminate age, and a satisfied smile with teeth blackened by tooth decay. In general, he was a colorful, atmospheric character, smelling only slightly better than Ilya, who had spent more than a week in his shit, and also very experienced. He was not gifted, just an ordinary first-level bandit without the blessing of the Mechanism, but he was experienced and had a knack for trouble.

Ilya's lunge, jumping from above onto the bastard who had just reached for the flask on his belt and the waistband of his trousers. This individual noticed, dropped the flask and reached for the dagger on his belt. He saw, reacted, but did not have time to do anything and, most importantly, did not scream in the process, which is what matters! Ice-cold, terrifyingly strong hands clamped onto his warm neck, his instincts howled, demanding to sink his teeth into the flesh, but Ilya would have managed even without Trait's help. You'd have to be very hungry to bite into such a dish and not turn inside out with disgust. He pushes his opponent forward, knocking him onto the rock, holding him at the last moment, pressing his knee into his spine and jerking his neck back sharply.

Breaking vertebrae is easy only in virtual simulation films about super agents and all that stuff, but in real life, try pulling off a stunt like that. Ilya pulled it off. His push coincided with a backward jerk; his body, filled with strength, allowed him to successfully overcome the natural resistance of the stranger's muscles, and the beast inside simply knew exactly how to kill. Without even a squeak, the bearded convict twitched once, twice, three times, and fell silent, emptying both his intestines and his bladder. It became surprisingly quiet; it seemed that even the wind had softened, and the cold ceased to sting like needles, embracing him with the warm palms of his mother, sister, wife, and daughter, sheltering him from the hardships of winter.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Silence.

A moment that encompasses eternity, as if you were looking at the entire universe from the outside, followed by an indescribable, impossible sensation that no one has ever been able to adequately describe. A simultaneous auditory, visual, and sensory image, always meaning the same thing, but perceived slightly differently by each diver, always differently. As if the person himself became a lens, a prism of refraction, through which the very essence of the universe looked at the world, if I may say so.

This image... is like a vast snow-covered expanse, a tundra covered with a white shroud, sparse trees and rocks, an icy wind driving whirlwinds across the plain. The centre of attention is a rock standing right in the middle of a small lake surrounded by leafless trees. The lake has long since frozen, icy to the bottom, lifelessly cold. And the rock is as tall as a man standing upright, if he were to appear in that wasteland. The rock in the middle of the lake is old, even ancient, covered with small chips and cracks, as well as marks carved directly into the stone. Marks and decorations carved from bones woven from someone's cut braids into ribbons.

At the top of the boulder is a hollow resembling a bowl, at the bottom of which lies an old skull, almost crumbling under its own weight. The skull does not belong to a human, nor to an animal; its fangs are sharp, and its head is adorned with deer antlers. The skull grins, as if waiting for something. It waited, waited, and waited for this very moment, when a drop of scarlet gold, a drop carrying more than anything else, when this drop... fell into the bowl, flowing along the snow-white bone, bleached by centuries and ages.

Drop.

Scarlet.

And gold one.

Drop down.

Tap.

The vision disappears as quickly as it appeared, leaving a bitter and unpleasant feeling of loss, and a sweet and blissful aftertaste of having gained something greater. The first blood on his hands, the first life, and the first reward from the ruthless Mechanism that rules the Broken World. It always rewards the first blood, in all cases, in all builds and types of leveling, as if patting a child on the shoulder, approving of how the new child has shown its fangs, proven its strength, ability to survive, and, most importantly, to kill.

The door to the shelter was wide open, but the earthling carefully closed it behind him as soon as he moved the bearded man's corpse aside. He could even remember his nickname if he consulted the Twin's memory, but he didn't want to. He felt no emotion about his first kill, and even his super-resilience had nothing to do with it. He had known from a young age that he would end up in Broken, and he knew what it meant not just to live, but to survive here.

The victim and his colleagues did everything they could to ensure that Ilya, who had grown up in a world of partial humanism, did not perceive them as people but rather as some kind of creatures. Game mobs. Chick-chick, bang-bang, get your exp and move on to the next outpost diver. Ilya's face is completely focused as he squeezes through a rather narrow corridor, hunched over and ready to fall to all fours at any moment. His eyes ache slightly from constantly staring in a particular way, his body is numb with strength, and his steps are like those of a predator already approaching its prey. And the prey does not keep him waiting long. His mouth fills with saliva, hunger, and Hunger pushes him towards the obvious decision, but his mind remains clear, focused, calm, and even meditative.

He takes a step forward, lunges from a low position, jumps out from behind the corner and pushes off the wall like a cat eager to cause a commotion, and then the entire weight of the thin but not weightless body of the prisoner from another world, Buchenwald, hits the bald fool who has just gasped. He is not fat, but rather dense, tightly packed, and under his belly there are clearly hidden pumped-up muscles, with which he took the blow, while Ilya's palms clenched behind his ears and jerked sharply to the right, then to the left, putting all his weight into the jump and taking advantage of the reflexive attempt to throw off the unexpected aggressor. The second broken neck in his life, one might say, Ilya was beginning to get a taste for it, but it was not the right time for jokes.

"Hey, Fatso, what's wrong with you, did you slip on your own balls?" A nasal, mocking voice, also familiar, one of those who personally beat up the Twin, sounds both alien and yet completely understandable. “Why the fuck are you silent, have you completely lost your mind? Look, I'll tell Molchun, and he'll quickly fuck you up...”

Ilya does not dwell on the familiar phenomenon of a common language that connects the entire Broken World, without interfering with the existence of numerous dead languages that had to be learned in the usual way. Mainly theurgic languages, in which the theological literature of the local Bibles was written. Dead Gods, and glory to the Gods that they are indeed dead, dead languages, yes. And the earthling who almost became dead, well, not dead, but deprived of his protective Hide. Because he relaxed too much and believed in his infallible strength, when the suspicious fool grabbed a cleaver and struck, simultaneously striding out of some small room converted into a sleeping place. He could have gotten the diver if the latter hadn't seen the stranger's heart, his sudden movement, and the blood pulsing through his veins.

Stepping back and to the side, Ilya struck him in the chest with the flat of his hand, interrupting the alarm cry that was about to escape, knocking the wind out of him and pushing him back. And he stared at the clearly recognizable face of the Twin, whom he had thrown off the cliff. He stared and immediately assessed the now unconcealed nature of the Wendigo, which, at a glance, made it clear even to the most ordinary person that he was looking at a creature. No matter how much hatred and disgust Ilya felt for this scum, he recognized his skill and thirst for life, for he had managed to step back, trying to catch his breath and putting his knife in a defensive position. And he was clearly going to yell as soon as he could. Perhaps he would have shouted, but the stool, caught by a lazy and smooth movement of the leg, kicked straight into the enemy's face.

Forcing him to raise his steel for the block, unable to change his stance, already realizing that he would not make it in time. This time, it did not work out quickly and cleanly. The outside of his hand, icy and reinforced, strikes the flat of the sword, knocking it out of the enemy's grip, a full-body blow to the body, steel embrace, until the ribs crack and creak, and then a reflexive bite, snapping off the nose and part of the bridge, as if the jaw had expanded slightly beyond its limit. Instead of a scream, a gurgling wheeze, an attempt to roll over, to pin the lighter vendigo under himself, but the latter maneuvers himself, wraps his legs around the enemy, presses down and grabs his Adam's apple with his hand, breaking, bending, and almost tearing it out with the flesh. Again, a rattle, a gurgle, legs kicking on the dirty and spit-covered floor, but life is already leaving the bandit.

Leaving with every second in the unyielding embrace of Wendigo, with the crunch of bones piercing the lungs, with the gurgling of a torn and crushed throat.

Tap.

Only after receiving a new award from the Mechanism, seeing once again that same icy wasteland, the rock and the skull on which the second scarlet and golden drop had fallen, did Ilya push away the still twitching body. He pushed it away and broke the distance himself, rolling to the side, secretly expecting a blow to the back from the loitering bandit. But no, his observations did not fail him, his special vision did not lie. There were still thugs in this refuge, but not many; most of the warm and beating hearts had successfully left this place.

"Not dark fantasy, but some kind of gachimuchi with the definition of a gym boss." Ilya croaked, spitting out flesh and blood that seemed so sweet and delicious, feeling at the same time Hunger, the desire to vomit, and the help of Trait, which prevents both desires from being indulged. “And I just won three hundred euro credits.”

Flat and dull humor helps him cope with his feelings, with how uncomfortable he feels about what happened. Not because of what he did, but because of how little he cares about what he did. It's as if he really climbed into a capsule to play one of the latest generation of session games. His stable psyche allowed him to act effectively, but a certain feeling of alienation, as if he were a passenger in his own body, remained. After catching his breath and accepting the latest changes in himself, Ilya stood up in one smooth motion, picked up the machete that had been thrown aside, and removed a wide, richly decorated dagger from the belt of the slain gnome. The man simply did not have time to reach for it in battle; otherwise, he could have successfully stabbed Ilya in his unprotected side. Well, in his protective Hide. But it would be too early to deprive him of it for now.

Knowing the approximate layout of the premises, he easily made his way through the narrow, deliberately inconvenient passageways, which would have been convenient for defending against the onslaught of the royal troops. Another beating heart, hidden in a separate room, did not die. Ilya did not kill the sleeping, sweetly snoring fool, but simply threw his sheepskin coat over his head and struck him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. Killing a living person with a blow to the head, as with a broken neck, is easy only in movies; in real life, you are more likely to kill or simply cause a concussion to the victim who remains conscious. Despite all its artificiality, the Broken remained an extremely realistic world, and it did not possess any specific skills from the arsenal of the Robbers, Marauders, or Freemen.

On the other hand, Ilya couldn't care less that a random prisoner might not survive. If he could get information from the locals, that would be great, but if not, then so be it. Even the enemy, who had not yet woken up, twitched and passed out. Ilya knew the theory behind such blows, and his class reflexes allowed him to apply the theory correctly in practice. Another turn and an empty dining hall, quite spacious, seating about twenty people. It was essentially a communal dining room and, as the earthling suspected, a place intended for briefings. After all, it was not bandits who originally lived here, but raiding parties of rebellious soldiers, who were supposed to turn the Crown's attempt to establish logistics through the Ridge into a living nightmare and a masochist's dream.

The filthy and long-uncleaned room-hall turned out not to be completely empty after all: at the opposite end, a door opened and one of the vaguely familiar thugs came out, chewing what looked like a compressed biscuit. The possessed man's lunge was terrifying in its speed, and his opponent was unforgivably slow, trying to make out in the semi-darkness, which was closer to complete darkness, the darting shadow, and therefore died from the very first blow. Wendigo had no skill with blades; this class rarely relied on weapons, but with his strength as well as the skills of an original earthling, who has nevertheless mastered basic fencing techniques, it was enough to simply stab the cleaver straight into the center of the chest, piercing the skin and muscles, knocking the breath out of him, and then stab again, this time in the face, finishing him off.

And immediately, one of the amulets on the thug's belt flashed red and buzzed like a bumblebee. An alarm signal. And it was not the death of the asshole that triggered it, but the bodies of those already dead, found by someone else. After all, the bandits he had encountered were by no means just a bunch of scoundrels, no. The low-level roadside thugs would not have their own blessed by Mechanism, their base for raids and equipment, even if it was simple and disposable, but full-fledged alarm amulets. Some military deserters, of the kind who retained their skills and remnants of discipline, but went against the law? A broken band of nobles, left without a master, deciding to continue their banquet of ultra-violence? Relying on Twin's impersonal knowledge of the cultural code of the surrounding area, these are the options that Ilya finds most viable.

But he still senses some kind of falsehood in these assumptions, even if they are a hundred times viable.

And he'd better hurry if he wants to stay relevant himself.

Initially, there were about sixty or seventy mountain robbers, although this is only an estimate, but no more than a dozen could have remained at the abandoned base, as there was no reason for them to stay unless there had been a split. Ilya would have noticed a larger number of beating hearts hiding in the rocks, just as he immediately noticed two signatures running toward the entrance to the common hall right now. Rushing forward, straight to the opening, silent as a bat, he strikes as soon as the enemy appears in the opening. His hands tingled as if from the hilt of the cutlass, the instincts of the creature he had become resisting the idea of killing the enemy with a blade rather than personally, with his own bloodied hands. After thinking it over, he obeyed this instinct as soon as the cutlass split the skull in two, right up to the bridge of the nose.

Leaving the blade, slightly bent from the force of the blow, sticking out of the dead man's head, Ilya pushes the corpse in front of him, causing his second opponent to hesitate as he lets out a surprised cry. Another jump, sliding low along the floor, pushing off with his feet and hands like some kind of animal, and then, interrupting his instinct, stepping back. Just in time, because a dagger strike from under the dead man's blind spot was inevitable. The fighting style characteristic of a Wendigo, as a type of creature rather than a class, is still overly straightforward, more suited to pursuit and striking from behind than to combat as such. The body obeys and responds to any movement with remarkable ease, allowing him to swing on his toes, leaning back, dodging the blade a foot from his face, and then catching the striking hand with his bare hand at the wrist.

A crunch and a scream, full of disbelief and pain, the sound of steel falling on a filthy, spit-covered stone floor, a rattle and a gurgle as Ilya strikes with both hands at the hairy torso covered only by an open vest. The ribs crack, sinking inward, stealing breath and taking life. The Wendigo demands to pounce on the still warm and agony-stricken prey, demands to eat, to satisfy its Hunger with all this fresh meat, steaming and full of life. The Wendigo, as usual, goes to hell with its desires, because Ilya is completely focused on his perception; he sees four opponents gathered together, no longer rushing, but walking straight towards him. No, they were probably just going to break through, fearing a raid by the road guards, but it so happened that they ran straight into him.

Carefully sitting down on a rock, not afraid of getting even dirtier, because it couldn't get any dirtier, he waits for the moment when all four of them, two of whom are carrying torches burning with white alchemical flames, are directly in front of him. Recognition in the eyes of only one of the four, but the other three also saw that he was by no means a victim. The oppressive aura of the Wendigo, reeking of blood and carnage, hunger, and the cold winter wind, leaves no room for mistake in mistaking him for a random passerby. A momentary pause, during which Ilya assesses the enemy's arsenal and two hybrids between a homemade crossbow and a full-fledged crossbow, deciding that he does not need such hand-to-hand combat. He will not engage in a shootout even without a knife, thank you very much.

"Hello." His voice, as befits any Wendigo without a disguise, was hoarse and whistling, as if you could hear the howling of a winter blizzard in it, and he deliberately amplified this effect as much as possible. "Not expecting us?"

"Fuck." The smartest person present, who recognized the settler they had killed and quickly understood what this meant, replied, already aiming his cocked crossbow at Ilya.

The earthling, who had been expecting something like this, deliberately dragged out his attempt at dialogue, gaining fractions of a second to concentrate, trying not to let his skin dissipate and not to tire himself too much, managed to be the first. Having already taken a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity, the diver simultaneously exhaled and howled. The exhalation did not become a full-fledged attacking spell, but the temperature in the room dropped sharply to even lower than it was outside. The frost hit the open faces and eyes of the robbers, forcing them to at least blink, turn away, and take a hurried breath. And then a howl struck them with full force. Not animalistic, not wolf-like, not like anything else at all. Like a bird crying, like a bear growling, like an elk crying out in the depths of summer, like a man crying, crying over something he has lost forever and will never be able to find again.

The Wendigo's howl is terrifying, terrifying, and so is its effect, especially in a closed room and against opponents who are unprepared for such a blow and not gifted with the Mechanism. How many attributes do they have? Hardly more than the standard seven. How many talents? From three to five, and only those that are not related to the Fate, because the Fate, if this truncated parody can be called that, was automatically assigned to them, determining at best a Townsman, Peasant, or Infantryman, but more likely just a Living Being. They have no natural protection against the howl. There is no distance or space to maneuver, no support fighter of any kind who could shield them from such massive blows to their minds and fighting spirit. And they faltered, freezing for a moment, but long enough for Ilya to take advantage.

That same particularly clever freak screamed obscenities, firing a bolt somewhere in the direction of Wendigo, who had already moved from his previous position, while simultaneously pulling the burning amulet from his neck. Either a religious symbol from prayers or an expensive toy made by a skilled professional, because he had almost defended himself, only slowing down a little, more out of fear. But his amulet was useless, because Ilya was already close. Another blow with the blade, the trophy dagger, overcoming the Wendigo's aversion, sticking the blade just below the ear and immediately pulling it out, pushing the already dead, who simply did not know about it, towards the “smart” one. A second blow from bottom to top, slashing the chin and piercing the palate, reaching the brain.

The dagger's handle, expensive and decorated with small pieces of amber, remains in his hands, while the blade remains in the robber's brain. The third one has to be killed in the usual way, with his hands, breaking the neck of the monster who has begun to stir and retreat backwards. During this time, the fourth, exhaling steam from his mouth, flows from a low stance, closing the distance and pushing the previously dropped torch in front of him. In the light of this fire, Ilya's thin and hunched figure is visible enough to see the diver's completely calm face, devoid of the expected animal hatred and hungry rage. As well as the direct gaze of his eyes, which have become dull blue, like two ice floes.

"Fuck you! I didn't kill you or cut you, go fuck someone else, you fucking bitch!" He spat out, searching for courage in insults, searching for a steady hand and hope for survival. "Why are you hitting me, huh?"

"You're stalling for time." This time, Ilya's voice doesn't send shivers down the spine, even though it sounds like it would be enough to give anyone a heart attack in a dark alley, especially Ilya himself, with his weak heart. "That's not good."

Confused and feeling a mixture of despair and irritation, the monster realised that his ‘plan’ had been exposed, bared his teeth and launched a swift and final attack. Ilya quickly glanced to the side, realising his own and the other's position, and decided not to fight, giving in to his instincts but determining which part of them to give in to. He resorted to those Wendigo tricks that helped him escape and retreat from the stronger, rather than catch up with and corner the weaker. Crouching down, bending unnaturally, he dodged the rush of the thief, armed with an axe and a gut-slicing knife, watching as he fell into two pieces: one just above the waistline and diagonally to the left, right to the heart, and the other a severed piece of torso.

There is no scream, death is instantaneous, there is no blood, only the smell of burnt and charred flesh. A variation of the fiery or temperature blade, some modification to the flight speed, an increase in temperature, and a decrease in brightness, the degree of pumping is no less than the third, possibly the maximum at the same time. Some small and eternally whining part of the diver wants to cry out, “It's not fair,” because, okay, they left a few people to clean up all the traces, but why leave one of the three blessed by the Mechanism here? And yet, Ilya was ready to swear that the Warlock in this gang was the one who had gone into necrosis, not the flame individual! The face of the bald, tattooed bastard who appeared in the doorway belonged to the bearer of this Lot.

"Ah, the artefact," Ilya said, slightly annoyed but calmly, when he realised that he was not mistaken and that no new gifted person had appeared here, but that the old man had simply taken out a complicated toy that he had previously kept hidden and not shown to ordinary prisoners. "I already thought that there was someone else here."

Hidden by a barely discernible haze, like a thin shroud of ghostly fabric, the bald man stumbled and stared very suspiciously at the earthling who had spoken to him. Well, yes, yes, the combination of a clear resonance with the instincts of a vendigo and such a calm manner, especially from a mentally broken captive, is surprising, to say the least. The freak was even more surprised by how indifferently Ilya looked at his deliberately cut palm, the scarlet drops falling to the floor, adding to those already spilled by the dead, including the one still trying to clamp down on his gushing scarlet neck. It must have been some kind of ritual trick to enhance the properties of the reagent, because the smell of this blood, its aura of power, directly appealed to the essence of the Wendigo, demanding that it immediately rush to attack the wounded victim and devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, devour, DEVOUR!!!

"You deliberately didn't feed us, almost starving us to death, and then didn't finish us off by throwing us off the cliff, right?" The obvious stupidity on the part of these otherwise very professional murderers, which had been bothering him from the moment he woke up, finally began to make sense. "That's why you left here so quickly. The pile of frozen corpses down there, at the bottom, should have kept the one who turned to Evil busy long enough for all of you to gather, and for you to prepare a ritual, some kind of closing line to lock the possessed one here, at the outpost. And then those who came here after you would have to deal with a hungry, evil Wendigo who had managed to regain not quite his mind, but his sanity. A surprise ending for those who were supposed to kill you. Or rather, not leave, but chain up, subdue, and take with you: a scout, a pursuer, and an additional combat unit, and no special reagents or expenses are needed, just feed it corpses. Not a bad plan, but I swear by all the Dead, you should have put a line around the fault. Then you would have noticed when I got out of there, and you wouldn't be standing here with your bare ass."

With every word Ilya uttered, the bald man's eyes increasingly resembled a souvenir coin or a representation of Japanese animation in the real world. Well, it's worth mentioning that he's not entirely wrong to be so surprised, because the situation calls for it. It's as if you locked fifty rats in a barrel, trying to breed a rat wolf, and when it came time to take out the cannibal rat, it turned out that the rat had already gotten out on its own. And now it's explaining to you with its fingers how to properly lock all kinds of containers. There is a reason to freak out a little and not freak out, a very weighty reason, about fifty kilograms, or how much Ilya weighs now in the body of Twin?

"You? What are you, damn you!?" Not very polite, but in most regions of Broken, necromancers and undead replace traditional Earthling and untalented local expressions such as ‘go to hell’ and other derivatives with ‘turn to dust’ and other derivatives, but Ilya was not offended; he couldn't possibly be more offended by this bastard than he already was. "What are you?"

He accompanies his words with the glowing red-orange radiance of red-hot metal from a curved knife, which is quite impractical, but then again, there is no particular need to strike with it. A combat artefact, and one imbued with fire magic at that, probably cursed too, judging by its colour. Not exactly the bane of any Wendigo, but an elemental antagonist to counter ice tricks. His eyes, which had previously widened in shock, suddenly returned to normal, his face seemed to freeze, which was the result of the buff, and then his pupils narrowed to pinholes and began to glow with a pale white light. This was not a novice warlock, no, he was already experienced, even if he was not close to advancing to a new level, but he was not a defenceless novice like Ilya himself. That's why the diver wasn't going to fight him in this hall, especially considering that the enemy was clearly preparing to bind the vendigo, or even the Wendigo, if the Twin managed not only to be cursed, but also to accept possession, receiving a class destiny, and not losing his human form.

At the moment when the enemy simultaneously struck with a dagger and threw a handful of bones and a pinch of ashes in his direction, Ilya was already halfway through the doorway, closing the distance. Judging by the fact that no one else came to the gifted man's aid, they had either fled or Ilya had killed them all. A red line flashed across the doorway after he disappeared into it, bones struck with a dry staccato, and a cloud of dust dove into the doorway, forcing him to hide with an additional leap upward, along the wall, all the way to the ceiling, so that it would dissolve into the wall. Well, the enemy's approximate active build is clear; there's little to like about it, but it could have been worse; after all, any eighth grader could have created a more suitable build for this woodpecker.

A lunge, a turn, another lunge, another turn, and then he breaks the lock on another door with a powerful lunge, tumbling out into the cold, vicious wind, somersaulting over his head to dodge another volley of bones. The magic of death in Broken is generally considered to be extremely powerful and versatile, regardless of which class uses it, whether it be Warlocks, Necromancers, Corpse Walkers, Guides, or other minion players, or even the same interrogators who love to talk to the dead about who killed them. One thing unites this school in all classes: the need for consumables, some kind of raw materials, because Death itself, as an essence-concept of a magical nature, comparable or even superior to Hunger and Cold, takes a toll for its help.

Most often, these are body parts, such as small bones, which are useless against physical barriers and weakly penetrate magical shields, but if they touch living flesh, they are very unpleasant. Even the lowest rank of such junk can not only mimic the effect of an explosive bullet, but also curse and infect the wound, making it difficult to heal. This ability is very popular among earthlings. Novice warlocks who focus on bones and ashes are often called “bone-pluckers.”

They take offence, but they don't argue with the truth. In the first rank, it is really more profitable to use chicken bones or other bones from random peasants' farms as material for bone projectiles. Every death lover from Earth has had episodes of poultry theft in their career. Even the famous Maist Geist, considered one of the favourites in the fight for tenth place, honestly admitted that there were times when he was almost sent to the mines for destroying a chicken coop.

Yes, human or children's finger phalanges are much more suitable and give a more powerful result, but if you take a perk or two that allow you to saturate the ‘plate’ material with additional strength and bring ‘weak’ bones to the level of strong ones, then everything changes, with the right approach. And the chicken thief will have many times more ammunition than the cemetery raider. Simply because it is much easier for a lone diver to buy or steal a dozen chickens than a dozen children and adults. The same applies to charges for ashes, which are essentially burned bodies or ground bones, as well as charges for the shroud-buried, which are made from the veins extracted from the corpse. Although it is possible to take a living person, yes.

That's not the point.

Death magic offers great flexibility in choosing talents, has a relatively low impact on the psyche (unless you delve into the most extreme options), and requires, on average, very little personal reserve to activate already prepared spells. But the trouble here is that, having the ability to unleash a whole magazine of magic paid for before Death on your opponent, you can just as quickly run out of ammunition. And you can only maintain a limited number of body parts imbued with your power, each preparation eating away at your reserves a little. However, there is basically nothing to spend that reserve on except to support such preparations. No, of course, not everything is so unavoidable. The undead also have spells in their arsenal that do not require pre-processed payment, but the payment is still charged.

A cloaking veil that only works as long as you don't breathe, the need to forget the last hour of your life, one heartbeat or a second-long pause in blood flow for every minute the magic shield is active, after the shield is withdrawn. Such talents are not particularly sought after, as they are too dangerous and place a very heavy burden on the brain and psyche, unless you specifically build your character for such a setup: few people would benefit from paying with their own lives. The locals have also learned this axiom, preferring to pay someone else; this is generally accepted practice for Broken.

Ilya considered his opponent's talents, roughly understanding how he would act: Bones and Ashes, Shrouds and Rituals, or Drawing, or even all of these at once. That's already minus four or five talents out of ten. The base for the Black Mage remains unchanged; there were ten, and there are still ten. Next, he needed to calculate something related to Death, even if only at the minimum two- or three-level upgrade, then his buff, which allows him to temporarily ‘die,’ increasing damage, basic body processing, for working with paid materials. No fighting styles, just a lot of training, but maybe a skill in working with artefacts, because he is very dexterous with his knife. Plus, thanks to artefacts, he covers his weaker sides, because few people would expect fire from a necromancer, right? The tenth talent is the mandatory ‘Thirst for Life’ for death mages, or one of its analogues, so as not to die completely.

And the build is ready.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Ilya had a clear vision of the path to victory, feeling neither anxiety, fear, nor even excitement: the Trait, the presence of spare lives, and, most importantly, his understanding of the situation and his place in it all played a role. Now the enemy sees Ilya running away, sees a victim, a fugitive, a weakling, and all that. He's not so wrong, especially if he managed to understand that he is facing a newcomer diver. The earthling did everything possible to make sure the scum understood this, except for saying it directly. Now it is categorically impossible to let the bastard go, but he will try to catch up with Ilya, catch up and take his life, or even capture him. For killing newcomers, the locals receive certain rewards. Not large enough to hunt the aliens non-stop, and no matter what, but more than enough to tempt a gifted bandit who makes a living by robbery and does not hold a normal job or position.

Such freaks don't have many ways to become stronger, so as not to cling to the given chance with all their limbs.

Ilya could hide among the rocks, but he doesn't. He lets himself be seen, lets himself be smelled, and the bald freak running with long strides keeps up with him. He sees Ilya stumbling, dragging his leg, swaying in the wind, barely escaping another blow, and he doesn't know if one of the previous blows has hit him. But Ilya was not hit, hardly touched, only a couple of times slightly burned his sides and back with dust, but it did not manage to penetrate the flesh, saturated with cold and damnation, frozen solid. His body still retains its agility, still mobile. His Hide has not been activated and not wasted. Ilya deliberately keeps it in reserve.

Waiting for the moment the opponent would move far enough away from its outpost, from the rituals it had prepared there, and it couldn't help but prepare them. And only after ducking once again behind a boulder cracked by time, which was immediately struck by a blade of pure heat, did he realise: it was time, it was definitely time. A few more wide leaps, no longer holding back, pretending to be wounded, swinging his pendulum on all fours, dodging the handful of bones thrown in rage. Oh, yes, such a rage! The prey is getting away, the damned creature, almost hunted down, has found new strength! How could he resist throwing a larger handful, so that at least a couple of bones would hit the target on the way out?

The Frozen Flesh withstands these scratches, although it stings with acid, numbness spreads across his back, the wounds try to fester, but the pus finds no place in the flesh saturated with Cold. Rolling behind a large boulder, breaking the distance enough, Ilya lets out a cry full of pain and agony, piercing and seemingly carried away with the wind for many kilometres. A cry of pain and incredible loss, a cry in which with every passing second there is less and less humanity and more and more pure Hunger. That terrible Hunger that no feast can satisfy, that in principle cannot even weaken for a second.

The body cracks and crunches, the skeleton breaks and fuses back together, pain twists the body, still unaccustomed to the transformation, as is always the case at the first stage of talent. If this were a standard shapeshifter, it could probably rush into battle almost immediately, as the change of form is easier for them than for other basic classes, but Ilya is not a standard shapeshifter. His appearance unfolds more slowly, but at the same time, he is something even more dangerous. And someone bald and pale is about to find out how dangerous he is!

There was almost enough time, almost-almost, he missed by literally a fraction of a second. Hearing the howl of the earthling's appearance, the enemy froze for only a moment. Then he started running, quickly realising why Ilya had broken away and increased the distance. He knew how to fight those skilled in combat, or perhaps he simply intuitively chose the best option, but the bastard still managed to strike with his cursed dagger. The Diver was getting to his feet when, from left to right, diagonally, like a thief caught in friendly fire, he was struck by a fiery string-blade that could melt even stone. It struck him at the end of its range, when the attack was no longer so dangerous, no longer so deadly, but still capable of killing.

The pain is indescribable, as if someone tried to cut him into pieces with a red-hot magical blade... ah, well, yes, that's pretty much how it turned out.

The pain comes and goes as the body and spirit of the diver possessed by Evil seem to dive into themselves, slipping away from the body. And now it is not he who is burned to the bone and guts, but a ghostly, seemingly weightless, bloodied and flayed Hide, flying off his shoulders in a barely visible silhouette. His shoulders have become much broader, so much so that the remains of his shirt have simply slipped off his body in a lump of rotten threads, smouldering and burning from the missed blow. His entire body has changed, becoming genderless, structure, the shape of his face and limbs, he has changed, becoming completely different.

And so, not the shortest, above average height, he grew a head and a half taller, stretched upwards, becoming even thinner and more elongated. His already pale skin became even paler, covered with unhealthy rough patches, his arms lengthened, his palms now reaching freely to his knees, and in his hunched posture, even to the place where the foot joins the leg. His back curved like a wheel, hunched and twisted, storing enormous power for a leap. His head changed proportions slightly, his eyes sank into his skull, taking on an even more pronounced icy blue, glowing slightly in the pitch darkness. The mouth grew larger and wider, and the teeth, every single one, turned into a hybrid between fangs and incisors, resembling not wolf teeth, but shark teeth. These teeth could only tear and tear flesh; they were not suitable for anything else, not even for normal chewing.

His opponent can see in the dark, though it is unclear whether this is the effect of one of his talents or whether he is wearing a special amulet. He sees and freezes for a second, realising that his blow has landed but had no effect, and that he is now facing a vastly strengthened opponent. Even with fourteen talents in his status, not counting the three core talents for his class, Ilya could not surpass an experienced and well-equipped necromancer-ritualist in his place of power. The latter is still equipped, trained, and has certainly developed some of his talents above the first level.

But now they are not in his place of power; he has used up some of his supplies and generously poured his reserves into the flame-attacking dagger artefact. And they are in the midst of icy winds and lifeless rocks, among which it is quite possible to hide, dodge a direct blow, and get close to a ranged fighter. One who cannot even hide. He developed his Shroud for steadfastness and duration of the active phase, not for camouflage, while Ilya's eyes in his active Form could even better discern his almost motionless heart, as if it had stopped beating.

Hissing something hurtful and very offensive, again about intercourse with ashes in various forms, the opponent slashed his wrist a second time, drawing blood. In his new form, the creature's instincts became even stronger, so strong that this decoy, deliberately intensifying Hunger with blood, had to, was bound to work. Ilya, as always in life, believed that he owed nothing to anyone, and anyone who tried to collect a fictitious debt from him would have their face gnawed off. Although okay, the latter is definitely the Form speaking in him, definitely, and the fact that he responds to unfounded attempts to ride on his back with an ancient Earth meme is just a coincidence.

The vocal apparatus in the altered body is not adapted for speech, but it still works somehow. The warlock crouched slightly, held out the dagger that had begun to fill with scarlet blood again, tightened the shroud that had appeared around his body like armour, and clenched a handful of human phalanges pulled from his belt pouch in his free hand. He was ready, ready to meet the frenzied and uncontrolled rush of a mad beast that had succumbed to Hunger and was no longer capable of cunning manoeuvres. But the beast merely assessed its energy reserves, the speed at which the Appearance's retreat was approaching, and its approximate plan of action, and laughed. Hoarsely, more like a howl and a growl, but it was laughter that could be heard in that growl. And, after laughing for a couple of seconds, it jumped back sharply, hiding behind a rock from the bones thrown in anger, which only hit the stone like a powerless rain. The magic embedded in them allowed them to fly fifty paces at the speed of an arrow, albeit one shot from a less-than-perfect bow, but Form reacted and acted faster, faster all the same.

The creature inside was struggling to break free from its chains. Coldness ran through its veins instead of blood, and Hunger pounded in its chest where its heart should have been. The instincts and will of the curse, the embodiment of Evil within him, sought to take control, but it was like a Chihuahua tied to a strong chain trying to break free from its leash and then gnaw through a sealed bunker door. In general, the call of the Wendigo's instincts was the last thing that concerned the Wendigo diver, who was finishing his plan to destroy the conceited freak. Yes, this description can, of course, be applied to Ilya himself, but there is nothing to be done about it — double standards and hypocrisy are not without reason considered the cornerstone of earthly civilisation.

The jerks between the rocks are visible to the Warlock, but it is unable to strike such a nimble and fast target. Only a handful of ash can touch Ilya in his form, but he resists it perfectly. The class's basic protection from the root talent, multiplied by his frozen flesh and multiplied by his presence in the form, made even direct blows with dust and bones harmless. But the enemy still has an artefact dagger, and Ilya is still wary of the powerful fire string even now. And so, realising that the enemy is saving his attack and in no hurry to discharge it, seeing that he is beginning to move closer to the carelessly left outpost, the earthling stops playing games and begins to recall the rules of baseball he knows.

Baseball rules are a very good thing if you don't know them, because then you can make them up yourself every time. For example, right now, these rules include throwing stones for accuracy, strictly at the bald head of the Warlock, who was howling from the sudden dirty trick. The ugly one is good. His Shroud only vaguely resembles Skin. His ability does not work on a single attack, but rather absorbs a certain amount of damage, reducing to zero all attacks below a certain power threshold. Throwing stones the weight and size of a good half-brick, Ilya has an authentic brick from the time of the collapse of the USSR at home, given to him by his office colleagues, with their signatures carved into all surfaces, which definitely did not fall within this limit of complete absorption. Even partially crumbling into dust, the stones successfully pushed the monster back, broke its concentration, and depleted its reserves of strength.

Now he panicked, now he was really scared; he believed that he could die right here.

"What the fuck are you, you piece of shit, what the fuck are you!?" He screams into the night, but Ilya, monitoring the reserve's condition, does not waste his energy on answers, continuing to fire. "Leave me alone!!! Go away, you bastard, go away!"

The Damned One does not mock or even pay attention to these cries; he simply waits for the moment when the first shroud bursts, falling to the ground in weightless shreds of fabric, and the freak, snatching a new batch of veins from his belt, casts a new one. Well, the approximate power of the defense is known, as is the speed at which it can be restored from available reserves. We can continue. In principle, Form will have enough time to knock down the shield five more times, and the enemy is unlikely to have enough resources for more than two or three casts; it is too tedious and time-consuming to prepare, too difficult and costly to maintain the active impregnation.

But it’s still not worth delaying; he will still need his strength, there’s no point in exhausting himself more than necessary.

A dash, a jump, a new throw, again and again, amid the cries and insults of his opponent, who cuts himself again and again, demanding to attack, to fight as he should, and not as it is inconvenient for him, the bald freak. Again, again, again, until Ilya throws three stones in a row, including a larger boulder, the size of a football, launching it in a parabolic arc at the limit of the brute force available to Form's muscles. With this strength, he threw stones no worse than a slingshot; the speed of flight was great, as was the inertia of the blow. The enemy scatters the remains of ashes and bones to the sides, but the density of fire has noticeably thinned, supplies have run out, and there is nothing left to throw.

And so, the shroud burst once more, accompanied by a squeal of the bastard and executioner, not even trying to keep up the face, who did not expect at all that it would be he who would be executed and killed. Ilya began his dash before the shells hit the target, outstripping the freak's reaction by at least a couple of beats. The swing of the dagger, shining from the blank of the fiery blade that had been supported all this time, was hopelessly late; the fire pierced only the icy air behind the back of the diver, who was lying low on the ground. The enemy's last trump card had been destroyed; he didn't have to waste the second skin he had thrown on himself in passing. In the Form, this skill was given noticeably easier, having been strengthened by the multiplier, like all the other class talents. Then it was all over.

Convergence, a blow with the back of the hand, enlarged, broadened, like a small shovel, with elongated thin fingers, at the tips of which there were not even claws, but thick, uncut nails. The dagger was knocked out, the last couple of bones clenched in the other hand also flew away when the wrist joint cracked, and then immediately, a series of blows and jolts, blood spurting. The smell of blood burns hotter than fire, demanding to eat, eat, eat, to satisfy hunger, to satisfy Hunger, but to no avail. With a jerk, he tore one of the hands from the shoulder, involuntarily washing himself with the blood of the gifted one. Ilya twisted the thin neck and tore off the bald head, simply throwing it aside. At the first level, the remaining living adepts of Death, no matter what their lot, have no way to resurrect as undead. Apparently. But that's not certain. Among the Warlocks, for sure. And so he plays it safe, tearing off the remaining limbs of the already dead body, rolling away, and howling in pain, beginning to transform back into a human.

Well, congratulations on your first victory, Diver.

The Great Mechanism, lord and only true God of this world, echoes this greeting, showing a vision of a frozen lake in the middle of a blizzard-covered tundra, a vision of an ancient skull at the bottom of a stone bowl, onto whose bones scarlet-gold drops fall one after another like heavy weights.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP