Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 5.

5. Just need to convince everyone involved that Ilya will not be the victim of someone else's plans in this battle.

* * *

Ilya leaves very quickly, but without running in panic, simply taking advantage of the opportunity to move through the snow-covered wasteland as quickly as possible. There is now a little more snow, not just covering the rocks and ground, but reaching up to mid-calf in places. Still, the wind blows the snow back up, making visibility poor even for Ilya. And this is despite his ability, derived from the synergy of his talents, to see through the snowstorm as if the air were practically clear. His affinity for cold, the passive property of his vision, and the general affinity of his class with snowstorms resulted in such a trifle. It was precisely such trifles that created synergies, allowing him to use his class and talents more effectively.

The Earthlings had become quite skilled at combining synergies, and Ilya diligently absorbed the experience of progressive humanity. That is why he walked quickly, confidently, and without incident, moving in another arc, intending to reach Upperstone on his own. In principle, this option was worse than the original plan to come with a caravan of those who knew him, but it was also viable. His Twin was a city dweller, even if he lived in a noticeably smaller town, but he had the habits and manners, as well as the willingness to demonstrate them. The problem of legalization remained, but he had some money, and the city guards did not approve of outright robbery on the streets.

In a remote village or small settlement, they might hack you to pieces or simply strangle you for a nice pair of boots, whereas in large cities, there is much more order. And the risk of being caught is much higher, of course. The irony of the situation amuses not only Ilya, but many others on Earth: in small settlements and villages, where a normal Diver can cut down an attacker with a single blow, the attacking peasants force to reveal themselves, while in cities, although the chance of getting into a fight is much lower, the chance of being discovered is much higher. Guards, artifacts, rituals, the banal attentiveness of the population, the work of security service agents, no matter who that service serves — there are countless options.

Ilya would have gladly delayed his arrival in the city until he had reached the third level of his camouflage talent, but, alas, it was not to be. Even with his speed of Essence gathering and personal strength, the risk of encountering an overly cunning abomination in the wastelands was too high to really try to level up in this way. Not only alone, but also without equipment, without the ability to retreat and hide behind high walls. Plus, if he did level up, the first thing he needed to do was improve his appearance with conversion, not camouflage, which was worth more at the new rank than it had been before. The solution was not ideal, but it was optimal. A large city, but with a high population and low order. With the Assassin or Marauder class, it would be a piece of cake to hide among the local criminal element, but the memory of the Twin should not be discounted.

The path led him on, and the snowstorm kept him safe from unwanted encounters. The only dangerous moment occurred when he came into contact with a predatory creature, some kind of leopard or something like that. It seemed that on Earth they were called “irbis,” but this irbis, the size of a very powerful tiger, looked at Ilya, who was glowing with the aura of a vendigo, and decided that it was better to be an irbis than to try to eat a two-legged creature. Ilya looked thoughtfully after the beast, but decided not to get involved himself, as he was not sure he could catch up with it. The cat ran so fast that only its tail flashed in the snowstorm. Ilya also let a couple of herbivorous yaks go, even though they didn't even notice him properly. He could have tried to kill them, just for the sake of fresh meat. In fact, he didn't kill them because he didn't want to indulge his inner Hunger.

Even if he somehow manages to squeeze a drop of Essence out of the meal, barbarically devouring the animals, eating both of them along with their bones and fur, he will waste a lot of time. What's more, he will get completely dirty, and there are no bathhouses or saunas in the immediate vicinity, unless he rubs himself with snow. In general, the animals encountered by Ilya were spared, and the supply of biscuits from the robbers' lair was gradually decreasing. The only dangerous moment was an encounter with a full-fledged creature, and not even an animal, but Ilya didn't miss a beat. He simply noticed the enemy in advance, looked at it, straining his eyes and other forms of vision to the point of pain, and then resolutely continued on his way, only very quietly so as not to wake it up.

This thing resembled a regular monkey, a mixture of an orangutan and a chimpanzee, only snow-white and no longer a monkey. About half of the creature's body was covered with fairly long, chaotically moving tentacles that seemed to embrace the rest of the monkey. Ilya noticed it because it had two and a half hearts pumping blood through its body, all three of which were deformed, distorted, and nothing like the normal hearts Ilya had seen before. And then he managed to spot this shit with his eyes; it wasn't hiding particularly well, leaning against a jagged rock and allowing itself to be dusted with snow. The Diver simply waited until the creature shook itself off and moved slightly, eating the snow with its tentacles, next to which there were several small mouths.

A creature of a combined type, it is animals that most often become such combinations, morphing into undead, or infected, or, in this case, flesh distorted by chthonic hatred. These creatures are extremely dangerous, and huge hordes of them sometimes devour entire areas of the Ecumene, leaving no chance of revival even for those who know how to revive themselves. The higher forms of creatures from the roster of Hateful Flesh, as if selected, possess very nasty talents that allow them to massively desecrate and change the environment on a very significant scale, up to provinces and regions in the case of fives or sixes. Among divers or aborigines, there were no cases recorded on Earth of reaching a level higher than the fifth. Creatures did not have such limitations, and an abomination of unimaginable levels that accidentally passed through the Ecumene quite often caught the eyes of unlucky earthlings. In general, ‘Hatfull Flesh’ arranges the end of the world in a separate section of the Broken with astonishing regularity. Much more often than royal forms of animal creatures or the same undead, yes.

What's more, this filth perfectly infests random victims, creating very unpleasant hybrid creatures. There are worse kinds of filth, but this particular variety is very common and, more importantly, constantly creeps out of every crack and crevice with annoying frequency and persistence. Here, the monkey most likely found or stumbled upon the filth left behind after a recent or ancient breach, partially accepting it and partially being consumed by it. The infection is remarkably persistent, like almost any other type of filth, capable of remaining dormant for centuries. Like anthrax spores, this filth waits in ancient caves, catacombs, abandoned ruins, simply underground, under river silt or snow caps.

And waits, like, right now.

Ilya paused for a moment, thought, and moved on. The creature was clearly a loner and a hybrid, with the animal part still prevailing. It was neither an Infector nor a Spreader of Filth; it could not reproduce, and it had no characteristic features. Well, or he couldn't see them, because it was impossible to be completely sure, especially without specific scanning skills. Ideally, it would be worth eliminating this dangerous scum, which could eventually reveal its ability to produce infected particles of flesh inside its body, which has not yet completely lost its animal traits. But here, it will be necessary to exercise reasonable caution and approach the situation somewhat differently, rather than simply rushing into battle. That is a fact.

He, blessed by the Mechanism, a diver and bearer of the curse of Hunger from contact with the blood of the creature, will not become its likeness. But there is still little pleasure in it. According to experts on the Forum, the sensation is similar to bathing in a peasant outhouse. History is silent on where these experts found such a thing, given that in their technologically advanced age, they managed to find a classic peasant outhouse and bathe in it. It is silent, but it confirms the truthfulness of the personal experience of the mechanics who wrote on the Forum, as well as the fact that it was precisely their contact with foul flesh that reminded them of such filth from their lives. Such filth is usually tried to be beaten from a distance or cleansed afterwards with alchemical preparations. The trouble is not even in disgust, Ilya would not care about that, but in the fact that any protective scanning ritual will react to the diver covered in monkey entrails. Or a guard animal. Or just a domestic animal.

And the fact that a thorough inspection will not find any damage to the flesh does not negate other problems. A thorough inspection will definitely reveal damage caused by the curse of Hunger. Waiting a couple of cycles under the city walls, afraid to go in, or forced to look for a way to obtain cleansing agents... well, he didn't want to. That's why he walked past and moved on. But he didn't go far, because it was already time to stop for a rest, which he did. Another rock, high and inconvenient for climbing, became his refuge. He didn't climb to the top, but settled down below, right under a kind of canopy formed by natural processes.

Slowly and carefully, he assembled a brand new ballista, checked the bowstring and set of lead bullets, and prepared both darts for throwing. This is not some armoured beast that you can't pierce; the target here is simpler, even if it does stink terribly. It was tough, of course, but not particularly resistant to blows, especially since it was parasitising on a living body and had not yet fully digested it. Even one dart to the head should be enough, but Ilya was simply playing it safe, not wanting to take any risks, even small ones, if he could avoid them. The Diver wondered whether to go into battle now or give himself a rest and kill the creature in the morning, because the filth that had half-merged with the beast hardly had enough willpower to go anywhere. Most likely, in the morning, this thing would still be sitting there, covered in snow, waiting for prey or some other stimulus to bring it out of its stupor.

In principle, he didn't care, but he wanted to wait for better weather. In the current blizzard, shooting with a ballista would be difficult and not very effective. Darts are much heavier, of course, but even they can be blown off course by the icy wind. By morning, the weather would clear up enough to quickly and decisively kill the tentacled monkey and, if he was lucky, take a drop of essence from it. Having made his decision, Ilya continued to chew one of his last biscuits, but he obviously did not go to sleep. The fact that beasts afflicted with flesh usually do not move anywhere and do not want anything without orders from the higher forms of their branch of development did not negate the simple truth. They usually do not move anywhere.

So he kept his eyes fixed on the conspicuous mound at the edge of visibility, under which the creature was sitting, even though he could hardly see the mound behind the swirling snow. And so he did not miss the moment when the snowy night was torn apart by a flash that was barely visible from his position. It wasn't even a flash, just a fleeting glimmer, like a firefly flickering in the distance. Ilya was no fool, and he knew for sure that in Broken, it was better to be a paranoid and overly cautious person than an optimist who had lost one of the rebirths or die

He could immediately name several harmless sources of such a flash, which might simply seem to him. But for some reason, the first thing that came to mind was a flash of activated long-range talent, which attacked the mutated monkey. Flesh mutants are quite generous with their essence, and the target is surprisingly convenient for those who have normal ranged attacks in their arsenal. So, theoretically, if there was a pursuit group following the strange bone carver, killing the dangerous abomination in passing would have been an obvious solution for them.

With one movement, Ilya stuffed the remains of the biscuit into his mouth, gathered his belongings, including his weapon, and silently rushed forward. Because the first flash was followed by a second, slightly different, and from a slightly different position, as if there were two mutants attacking at once. And where there are two, there are three, because a trio of fighters was considered the optimal classic if you needed to act against a single target. No. Of course, the ideal was considered to be the holy seven, which, with the right selection of the group, would leave a single target with no chance at all, but try to gather seven gifted fighters to pursue a single target. It's expensive, and why bother when a trio or even a pair is usually enough?

The earthling does not think about whether it seemed to him or not; he is not stopped by the fact that no one in Tooth could pursue him. He doesn't care that, strictly speaking, there is no reason to pursue him, even if he were gifted, let alone a couple of them. He simply reacts to the probable danger, acting following the protocols that have been polished and written in the purest blood of Earthlings thousands of times. The very same ones he taught, the ones that were drummed into him at seminars and colloquiums, the ones that allow people from the third planet from the Sun to survive successfully in the Broken. Well, with varying degrees of success.

"I wonder if it's my FaFo that's helping?" The earthling asks himself in an inaudible whisper as he disappears into the night, barely parting his lips in the frost. "I was lucky. Not because I noticed it. I had to watch and be on duty. I was lucky to encounter a creature that someone had set their sights on and killed, allowing itself to be noticed."

In response, he receives another handful of snow in his face and gusts of cold wind, which would have long since frozen the skin on his face if he were still human. His mind is already racing, searching for a plan to determine whether he has become paranoid, while avoiding detection by his pursuers, if they indeed exist. Let's assume, just assume, that there is a tracker among them. That's the only possible explanation for how they caught up with him and found him. There definitely is one, but it's unclear whether it's a Killer, a Marauder, or a Seeker. All three are well-honed in pursuit, not to mention the exotic build of another class.

So, there is a specialist, and a specialist will understand that their target disappeared in an instant during the night, just like that, for no reason. And since nothing happens in Broken without a reason, the pursuers will realise that they have somehow been spotted. Most likely, they saw their fight with the creature, which means they will now assume that the victim has the ability to see in a blizzard. Ilya walked steadily and tirelessly forward, while in his head there was a continuous stream of unprintable profanity as he cursed his luck and repeatedly checked his status, looking for changes in the attributes of Fate and Fortune. He found nothing, but he remained suspicious. It was too incredible a coincidence for gifted individuals to start chasing and catching up with him for no reason.

So passed the night and morning, during which Ilya dozed for a couple of hours in a snow pit, deliberately falling into a crevice covered with snow, from which it would be difficult to dig him out even with a remote talent of the striking type, but from which he could jump out with one leap with all the power of his frozen body. Then a day passed, then another, during which he maintained the set pace without any problems, without even getting tired. The Wendigo's body needed only an hour and a half of sleep for a full rest. The anticipation and tension were much more exhausting than the need to move, much, much more. They, the earthly divers, were also taught this, and similar points were pointed out to them more than once.

Broken, he is overwhelmed by a mixture of routine and nightmare, by the way one thing replaces another, leaving no time to adapt to the change in situation. In some ways, the confrontation between Ilya and his pursuers resembled a duel between snipers who knew each other but could not see each other. Silence, routine, the calm and slow passage of time. And the weary mind wants to escape the routine, wants to believe what it saw. Maybe there weren't those two flashes, maybe it just seemed that way, maybe it was some kind of northern lights or an optical illusion? Maybe, maybe, maybe. The mind does not want to rush ahead, tormented by suspicions that even now may prove to be in vain. It wants to stop, rest, and eat some caught prey normally. Or, on the contrary, turn around and go towards danger, let them know that he saw them, that they are also prey.

Both options are wrong because they will only expose him more to the enemy and open a window for a strike. In such battles, the one who strikes first wins, especially against an enemy who is not expecting it. And in a direct battle against a well-coordinated pair that has already developed basic skills, even with all his bonuses, Ilya has little chance. Against a trio? The chances are so slim that it would be foolish to even seriously consider them. The only way to try to fight back with any chance of success is to strike first, strike suddenly, and lure the enemy into the trap. To be blunt, this is a very unusual task, requiring you to detect the enemy yourself and not let them detect you until the very last moment.

Given that they have at least one tracker sensor, the complexity of the task becomes comparable to that of an inter-school competition in higher mathematics.

The second day of pursuit was followed by the third, and then the fourth, with the diver deliberately straying from his original route. The enemy most likely still understood that the victim was heading for Upperston, but now they were all making a wide arc together. Ilya led his pursuers deeper and deeper into the uninhabited parts of the Ridge, where he increasingly encountered animals, both simple and not so simple. He had to roar loudly, almost turning that roar into a Howl, to drive away a couple of cat-like beasts, which had already grown to the size of large calves. The cats obeyed, did not attack the frozen meat of the vendigo, and let him pass. He wanted to believe that they would attack his pursuers, but that was unlikely. These animals were not stupid; they would not attack the gifted ones on command, most likely. And if they did, they would at most delay them while they gutted the expensive and essence-rich entrails.

The other animals did not even attempt to attack, preferring to move out of the way without being prompted. Separately, a melancholic bear, resembling more a relatively peaceful panda than a predatory animal, looked at Ilya with indifference, sighing almost humanly. And he dived into the snow, as if dissolving into it. Even his heart disappeared from view, instantly appearing at the very edge of another perception, a hundred and thirty meters away. Another unique individual, possessing teleportation tied to snow and cold. There were also such individuals among the Earthlings, and they made good scouts, the type that had to crawl into a hole and come back with the data they had collected.

Usually, such builds are played by Poacher or Marauder classes, but not Assassin, as it is simply not profitable to focus on “Snow Dive” or “Blizzard Steps.” In addition, such builds are heavily dependent on weather conditions, so they are only assembled for a specific community. There are areas of Broken where everything has long since frozen into ice, and winter lasts all year round, while intelligent life hides underground, where it is warmer. In such conditions, it is quite justified to create a deliberately narrow build, tailored strictly to the environmental conditions.

Somewhere Ilya read that pandas bring good luck, which is why they were almost exterminated for souvenirs and stuffed animals. He wasn't sure if he had misunderstood this detail, but specifically for him, the panda, even if it was local, really did bring a little luck. And no, FaFo hadn't changed; it was more likely that it wasn't the initial one that played a role, but the diver's correct actions, his attentiveness, and his readiness. The right conditions were bound to come along sooner or later, and here they were. He quickly picked up speed, taking advantage of his even lighter load, leaping over a very wide and long crevice, jumping four and a half meters, deliberately falling just short.

The crevice itself was almost six meters wide, and its depth exceeded even that of the chasm in which the Earthling Twin was born. But even though he didn't quite make the jump, he managed to grab hold of a rock ledge he had spotted earlier, miraculously avoiding knocking the protruding stone loose, and quickly climbed up to the opposite side. But in doing so, he had to move quite a bit to the side, right along the sheer cliff, like an insect on a wall. And there, about seven kilometers away, another tall vertical cliff awaited him, the top of which he climbed. The storm had gradually subsided in recent days, and now the weather had become almost calm, with even the cold rays of the sun glistening on the snow, threatening snow blindness to those who did not possess the developed attributes of the gifted Mechanism. A wall of almost black clouds was already visible, coming from the east, threatening to cover the heavens with an even more violent blizzard, covering the entire Ridge with a thick layer of snow.

But during this brief period, having taken such a convenient position and waited for the right moment, Ilya can take advantage of the excellent view. And he waits, lying sprawled on the rock, almost merging with it in a passionate embrace. They become especially passionate when the wind begins to blow with renewed force, threatening to blow the human figure off the top of the stone tooth. It's a good thing he had the sense to leave most of his luggage below, covered with snow; otherwise, it could have carried away his backpack just as easily as an umbrella in a summer storm. An hour passed, then two, then five, and as sunset approached, it seemed that he would not make it in time and the storm front would envelop Ilya's position, but his pursuers were finally caught.

"There you are, you bastards." He smiled kindly, gently, almost lovingly, but his face was still contorted by the smile, which had become too wide, too nightmarish, not human. “Why are you so attached to me, huh? I'm embarrassed by such persistent attention.”

There were indeed exactly three of them, as if on cue: at first, only two appeared, but a few minutes later, a third figure emerged from invisibility and began gesturing to the pair that had appeared earlier. From such a distance, even with improved attributes and talent, it was almost impossible to see anything without a telescope or binoculars. By the way, it would be worth looking for some, as there are areas of the Ecumene in Broken where optics and artifact technology are highly developed. Ilya decided that the invisibility was of a classic nature. That is, it was complete invisibility, not just a distraction or something like that. It's not a fact that the invisible tracker doesn't have something else in the category of camouflage, but it's still a useful observation.

The trio argues for a few minutes before one of them grabs the rope in his teeth, repeating Ilya's previous trick, and jumping to the opposite side. Interestingly, he jumped across the entire crevice at once, rather than clinging to the bottom. He must have been very strong. The second and third crossed to the other side using the ropes held by the first jumper, but the dexterity and coordination movements showed that they could have made the jump themselves. Ilya could have done it too, but now, watching the invisible man running around the edge of the crevice, he smiled again. He couldn't say the exact name of his talent, as there were many similar ones, but he could guess the group of that talent and its classification. It's something from the subtype tied to a trail, like a straight line thread.

Having lost Ilya's landing spot on the rock protruding from the inner part of the gorge, the skill was disrupted, and he will now have to find a new way to “grab the thread” and “unravel the ball.” Or... yes, exactly “or.” Clearly cursing under his breath, even though nothing could be heard from such a distance, the tiny figure approached the edge of the cliff and, leaning over it, began to search for the “end of the thread.” It won't be particularly difficult to find, of course, but Ilya won't see it. And not only because the snow front of the mighty blizzard will hide the enemy troika from him, but also because he will rush away right now.

In a matter of seconds, jumping from ledge to ledge, clinging to the rocks with his fingers until they cracked, the novice Wendigo climbed down the cliff, grabbed the things he had already gathered, and quickly rushed forward. He identified his opponents and finally accepted that they existed and were pursuing him with clearly malicious intent. No, of course, it was possible that these pursuers did not wish him harm and simply wanted to ask how to get to the Endless Library, but Ilya had reasonable doubts about this assumption. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore except the coming conflict, in which he might well lose his life for the first time.

Will be reborn for the first time.

One against a coordinated trio.

Moreover, these trios were already well-developed and, quite possibly, selected to reinforce each other's strengths and cover each other's weaknesses. On the eternal and impartial Forum, of course, there were stories about how such opponents were defeated even by a single player. There were also cases where the winner was a complete newbie who had not yet completed the first cycle. Nevertheless, Ilya is not at all opposed to adding another story of his own to these real and confirmed Forum stories.

He did not look back, rushing through the snow at full speed, peering intently into the distance, trying to find landmarks that would help him. The earthling had already seen and learned everything he needed to know, if not to win, then at least to make a decent attempt at victory.

The most difficult part remained — not allowing the well-thought-out and beautiful battle plan to come to nothing when faced with determined resistance from the enemy. After all, the enemy also had plans for a beautiful and swift victory over their pursued victim. It was simply a matter of convincing everyone involved that Ilya would not be the victim of someone else's plans in this battle.

* * *

At one point, it seemed to him that the battle would be postponed until the next Cycle. He had already been in Broken for more than thirty full days, whereas the standard cycle duration was twenty-seven days and nights. Even though the standard is almost always broken, now that twenty-seven days are behind him, he can totally expect the cycle to end at any moment, whether it's convenient or not. The Earthling, in principle, isn't against leaving Broken; he's actually very much in favour of it. After all, he doesn't know much about his class and talents, didn't quite plan his build in this direction, and therefore simply didn't remember many small details. But he knew where to look for answers, who to ask questions, and from whom to buy advanced advice, even if only for the Essence.

But the end of the Сycle still did not come, while Ilya finally found the place of the upcoming performance. A whole group of rocks, all with the same teeth sticking up, creating a small labyrinth of stone passages. Looking at these rocks, he realised once again that it was not for nothing that the Dead Man's Ridge had been given this name: from the side, it looked remarkably like the protruding ribs of a huge skeleton belonging to some giant. The place was very suitable for the final act of the protracted play. In recent days, Ilya had been working and running not to exhaustion, but sleeping and resting just enough to keep from giving up. Half an hour, twenty minutes, another ten, and that's enough, keep running, run, earthling, run, Diver, run without stopping.

And when you're not running, prepare for the upcoming battle by scraping the plates removed from the dead armoured creature with a blade that is almost cracking in the cold. Ilya didn't like carving on the go, and as one of ten, he would not recommend repeating this pastime. However, sometimes he would stop for half an hour or an hour, feverishly working with the blade, trying to collect all the fragments and dust. It didn't work out very well, but who knows, maybe his pursuers would miss him, even the invisible tracker. They already knew that their victim was aware of the pursuit; they couldn't fail to understand that. The way he left his overnight camp after the battle with the wounded monkey, the way he watched them from the top of the cliff. The tracker must have followed his trail, realised that their prey had seen them jumping over the gap, and understood the seriousness of the situation.

Perhaps they would have already tried to catch up with him, taken some potions, sniffed some speed powders, and tried to force a fight. If the earthling had tried to reach Verkhnekamenny to escape his pursuers, taking advantage of the huge number of other people and their signature traces, they would have caught up with him. Well, that's what he thinks. But the enemy is not stupid and does not seek to engage in battle without preparation — tired, stuffed with not the most healthy junk, and unprepared for battle. They hardly doubt their target is also blessed by the Mechanism. A mere mortal simply could not withstand such a race and would have died long ago in these snows. No, no, as long as the victim still has hope of escaping, as long as he is not heading for the city, as long as he is wandering in the snowy and rocky wastelands, they will silently pressure, exhaust, and pursue him.

Ilya plays along, allowing them to close the distance, sometimes falling into the snow and simply rolling around, practicing his carving skills at the same time. Sometimes he deliberately staggers, falls on all fours, and crawls. With all his might, he shows the owner of the “ball” who can see the “thread” that he is exhausted, that he is about to collapse himself. Gifted people are rarely idiots; they do not strive for a beautiful fight, because in it they can be killed. They are quite satisfied with the option in which the victim is simply and unpretentiously tied up when he has no strength left, including the strength to fight back.

Ilya approached the labyrinth of stone ridges with a lead of what he estimated to be a maximum of five or six hours. Just enough time to weather another storm, even if it wasn't as severe as the one near the gorge that day. Back then, he even had to fall face down in the snow at times to avoid being lifted by the truly hurricane-force gusts of wind. The only thing Ilya feared was that some powerful creature might inhabit such a conspicuous place, but luckily, Fate was kind and Fortune smiled on him, so to speak.

An hour and a half for the inspection, another hour for preparation and choosing a position, then work with his ‘favourite’ plates, for which he was not even given a drop of Essence. The Mechanism could have given him that Essence, it should have given it to him, but the situation itself played a role here, which, from the Mechanism's point of view, was perceived as one prolonged scene-adventure. So the Mechanism will only reward him after the whole story with tireless and relentless pursuers is over. It's a pity, a great pity, but a drop of essence, or even two or three, would not have changed anything, because to increase any of the talents, a full five was needed.

During his escape, he racked his brains trying to understand why such serious guys were after him. He couldn't understand what he had done to upset them so much that they not only started looking for him, but also found him. The search itself couldn't have been connected to Twin' birthplace, nor to that strange non-gang of non-bandits: the timing didn't match up. And the only place where they could have started unravelling the thread was in Tooth, where they must have grabbed one of his creations to use as a marker to track him down. Of course, this could be held against him. Why did he scatter his works, which preserved the memory of his hands, you clever Diver? But, to be honest, he couldn't even blame himself!

A couple of weeks and his work would lose touch with its creator, which happens quickly for all craftsmen. And to expect that after his little anti-cult move, a trio of gifted sleuths would come to Tooth looking for him... that's... It's like you walked into a supermarket, trying to sneak a stolen can of Coke past the self-service checkout. And at the exit, you were met by SWAT from a special control department and a corps of Assembly peacekeepers, supported by heavy equipment and aviation. There was simply no reason to expect something like that, none at all! Why was Ilya so upset about the whole situation? If it had been persecution, he would have understood and accepted it, but he didn't understand why he was being persecuted at all!

He can't even take a prisoner; he simply doesn't have the strength. He'll be lucky to fight his way out, forcing the enemy to retreat and abandon the pursuit. He doesn't even mention a full-fledged victory. Perhaps he will manage to talk the enemy into a truce during the battle, which is unlikely, or simply go their separate ways, although he doesn't really believe in that. Not after being pursued for so long, wasting so much energy on the chase, counting so many snowy hills.

He squeezed into a small crevice on the almost vertical slope of one of the ridges, having first “wound a thread” around this “ridge” so that the tracker would not immediately realize that his target was waiting for him. Below, there were almost two meters of snow piled up in the crevices between the ridges, and Ilya's few footprints were already almost covered. The draft between the rocks was so strong that even Wendigo's nostrils seemed to be freezing. However, his pursuer, if he had any brains, would not walk on the snow. Invisibility is invisibility, but physical traces cannot be hidden. There are all kinds of weight reduction and affinity with the elements if distraction and control of presence are possible. But mental tricks should not have much effect on Ilya; at worst, they would simply weaken him considerably, while weight reduction and affinity would only reduce the visibility of his tracks, not remove them completely.

And the enemy himself, if he is a good stealth fighter, will not walk on the snow, preferring the protruding ledges and platforms, which are quite easy to jump on. Weight reduction and sound concealment are simply mandatory for an invisible person, whether through their talents or amulets. Like a character from a Chinese epic, such an individual can easily fly from one ledge to another with weightless steps, without even touching the snow below. And let the foolish fugitive look at the snow, let him wait for his pursuer, let him hide, desperate and literally crawling into a hole, hoping that he will not be found. The foolish fugitive will not even suspect anything until the last moment, unable to see, hear, or realize the presence of the master hunter of two-legged prey who is coming for his life and head.

This is roughly how Ilya imagined the thoughts of a lurker and, most likely, a classic Assassin by class.

This is roughly how the Assassin himself, who had almost reached his target, imagined the thoughts of his hunted victim.

That's how it seemed from the outside, until the moment when, amid the loud and almost deafening howling of the wind, a barely discernible but clearly audible crackle sounded to the sensitive ear of Wendigo. The crunch was like that of a thin bone plate, once removed from a dead beast, breaking. It was like an eggshell cracking underfoot, completely inaudible, but still breaking through the sound suppression blockade created by the enemy. Ilya had carefully ground down a piece of the armour to the thickness of that very shell and decorated it with a simple drawing depicting the very armour from which these plates had been torn.

The simple amulets were not created by the diver's skills or his bone carving abilities. All the necessary magic was already in the material; he only needed to shift the essence of that magic a little to reveal it. And the plates, which seemed to be something between stone and bone, gained the ability to mimic, just like the beast that had died in battle with the Wendigo. In almost complete darkness, even a very attentive gaze, distracted by the attributes of the body, was unable to distinguish such a chameleon-like plate, tightly adhering to the surface of the rock. The sound suppression field perfectly absorbed the crunch, but Ilya heard the same sound not quite through the blockade of silence.

Just as one shell plate shattered, the second one, made from the same material, cracked and crunched next to the fugitive. The stone bone plate, which was initially quite thick and disgustingly strong, was not easy to cut into two equal plates. Not easy, but not impossible, especially if you want to live. It was much more difficult than connecting them with a primitive sympathetic connection, so that the second one would break and crack immediately after the first one broke and cracked. The opponent did not even have time to understand what had happened, what exactly he had stepped on. He probably realised the danger, even if he did not understand its source, because everything that is incomprehensible and unexpected, especially in the case of the murder of another gifted Mechanism, a priori means an extremely great danger. He would have had time to react, break the distance, and use one of the talents or amulets in his arsenal.

Unfortunately for him, his prey was quicker, instantly assessing which plate had broken. There were few convenient approaches to his rock, even considering the possibility of jumping with reduced weight. Ilya knew the manuals for those who chose the Assassin class or other stealth builds by heart, and he also knew how such people preferred to act. He knew that his pursuer would be guided by a thread from the tangle that was visible only to him, he knew exactly how he would step and jump, where he would land, and from which side he would try to attack his victim, who was lying in wait and barely breathing from exhaustion. For him, who had been waiting for this moment for many days, the only important thing was the point of application of force, understanding which of the three available approaches the Assassin had used.

Ilya obtained the understanding he so fervently desired.

And then he began to change roles with his pursuer.

Leaning out of the crevice, he quickly throws both of his darts, one after the other. He throws them as he was taught in numerous courses, in full immersion simulators, and in guides on the Forum. One is aimed at the approximate center of mass of the invisible opponent, and the second is aimed at where it would be most logical for the opponent to jump, avoiding the first. Wendigo's special vision did not see his opponent's heart, which confirmed the presence of high-quality and already pumped-up camouflage, but physics remained physics. A medium-sized humanoid did not have much room for maneuvering in such a narrow space, you know. The first dart only hit the stone, damaging the tip, which was already quite bent from the impact, but the second one hit something invisible but completely material.

The most critical moment. If the enemy uses the classic Assassin short-term Phantom Feint, Flexible Escape, or Instant Swap, especially in their upgraded versions... Well, that would be bad. Then you would have to cover yourself with a Breath and try to force a fight, which, considering that a couple of assistants who sent the Assassin on reconnaissance were wandering around somewhere very close by, would still be a lottery. Fortunately, the invisible man lacked either the talent or the money for immateriality or any other form of protection, even an amulet. Wrapped in warm but form-fitting clothing that did not restrict movement, the figure appeared in mid-jump, immediately hitting the rock when, still under the effect of lightness, it was thrown against the stone by the impact.

A quiet wheeze mixed with cursing, as well as bright red blood, appeared on the surface of the solid fabric mask that covered his entire face. The Wendigo broke free from its chains, already starving and craving a feast, sensing the blood of its wounded prey. The Wendigo was traditionally left out of the action, while Ilya himself jumped after the still dangerous Assassin, who was capable of causing problems even with his chest pierced through. A swift movement, a collision in mid-air, and a sharp blow with the stranger's head against the rock splitting that head, crushing it like plasticine, staining the beautiful and obviously enchanted hooded mask with blood, bone fragments, and pieces of brain.

From all the divers of the Earth, we send you good night wishes.

And eternal, never-ending dreams.

They fell onto the snow at the same time, but separately. The diver managed to push the victim away and land on a small boulder hidden under the snow, rather than in the snowdrift itself. With an angry hiss, he pulled the stiletto out of his pierced palm, which had pierced even the icy flesh. The assassin did not die without a fight and managed to stab the earthling twice with his blade, simultaneously activating his ability, first skinning him, and then finally letting the blood flow. If Ilya hadn't given him time to think, trying to simply tear him apart, as a Wendigo should, that stiletto would have had every chance of sticking out of his neck or eye. But it was fine, he just put his hand under the blow and quickly ended the fight, glad that there was no poison on the stiletto and that the deceased did not have the talent to imbue any blow or wound with poisonous magic.

I wonder what tricks the couple rushing toward him through the snow have up their sleeves, the couple who are barely able to walk in the snow despite their snowshoes? They clearly did not expect that the inconspicuous and agile Assassin, sent to investigate and gather intelligence, would end so quickly and ingloriously. What did they expect? The Assassin can quickly and without a fight take out a member of another class, even one that is much stronger and more dangerous, but if he fails to realize the potential of his build, he folds like a rag doll.

These, alas, will not fold like rags; they are stronger guys than the deceased.

The couple entered the relatively narrow two-meter passage between two rocks without hiding. They couldn't have done so anyway, as the snow was too deep, and their snowshoes and amulets didn't help much. They didn't seem to have any special talents for weightless movement, but that didn't make things any easier for Ilya, since they had equipped their pursuers thoroughly. Both opponents were men of indeterminate age, one of whom was impossible to tell due to his lush beard, braided into pigtails, and well-groomed mustache, which hid his face, and the other because his face was completely hidden by a thick mask. A classic executioner's hood, probably enchanted as well, combined with very distinctive weapons, makes the opponent's class immediately clear.

The Executioner is very strong and tall, slightly stooped, but still not inferior in height to Ilya, and in weight and muscle mass he even surpasses the diver. Elements of armor are hidden under a warm fur cloak; the plate armor does not cover the entire body, but there is a cuirass and greaves. It's a compromise between the Executioners' love of heavy armor and the impossibility of carrying it through the wintery, snowy Ridge. His hand rests on the hilt of an ancient, apparently bronze blade, and it is precisely “on the hilt” because the heavy two-handed blade is broken off almost at the very beginning of the blade, leaving only a couple of palms of sharp metal. An executioner's blade, and one with “history” at that, perfectly suited to a whole range of class-specific talents. The absence of a blade is not a problem, because the sword's memory will allow him to recreate the instrument of execution almost instantly and with minimal effort.

This item is significantly more valuable than the copper knife with a flaming blade concealed behind the belt, and it can be considered a relic of a relatively affluent and ancient family of hereditary executioners and Executioners. In the realities of Broken, the Crown Executioner is a very influential and dangerous figure in his own right, performing functions that are by no means limited to those of an ordinary, non-magical executioner. Combined with a mask, which also had the features of some kind of relic, as well as general equipment, he was a very problematic opponent, even if he was alone. Alas, he did not come alone, but with extremely unpleasant support.

The bearded man is tall, a head taller than the Executioner, and so broad-shouldered that it's uncomfortable, almost embarrassing. It makes you want to go to the gym right away and lift heavy weights. He is dressed in the same standard warm clothing but without armor. Under his open cloak, with the hood pulled over his face, a simple shirt is visible, not even fully buttoned. The only armor on his hands is spiked gauntlets, and judging by the first drops of blood falling onto the snow and running down his fingers, the spikes are double-sided, both outside and inside. Just a superb picture, totally awesome! The Executioner and the Martyr in a well-coordinated team, equipped and trained, what could be better, bitch? Only the presence of the Martyr's already activated and accelerated talent combination, which Ilya can see with the bare eye.

Wendigo's sharp eyesight easily distinguishes the barely visible scarlet threads binding the pair, guaranteeing partial or even complete transfer of damage from one to the other, albeit with a reduction. The Executioner is already as armored as can be, but combat masochists have survivability that is beyond reasonable even at the first level, and their regeneration is so good that it's enough to make you cry. It's lucky that the Martyr didn't pump Chain of Pain and Acceptance of Torment into support distance and connection masking. Otherwise, they would have covered the Assassin with the same trick. Then the first and deadly attack with a dart through the heart might not have stunned the hidden one, leading to the need to fight, exposing his back to this pair.

"I feel sorry for the boy." The Executioner's voice is not even a voice, but a whisper, specifically the “Whisper of the Executioner,” which appeals to fear, pain, and the victim's uncertainty, suppressing them and helping to better understand the victim's weaknesses with prolonged use. "But you will feel even more sorry for yourself."

Ilya didn't even flinch at the sound of this very quiet but strangely audible voice, which could be heard through the howling blizzard, running its sharp nails along his entire body. He just tilted his head slightly to one side, without getting up from his place, and watched his opponents closely, their movements and actions, waiting for a sharp attack. After all, the Punishing Hand, for example, pumped up and combined with such a blade, was capable of continuing the strike at a distance of ten meters. Rather, he was somewhat surprised that they started talking to him at all, instead of attacking him right away. Partly because they were a little discouraged by the quick execution of their colleague. Partly so that the earthling wouldn't run away into the blizzard, because without a tracker, they wouldn't be able to catch up with him. In fact, he was planning to run away as soon as he saw the pair's equipment and assessed their abilities, deciding that he didn't care; he would need his spare life in the future. And yet the strangeness of the conversation, the very fact that it had begun, was somewhat confusing.

"But you can run, child, if you show prudence." Not bad, a classic game of good cop, bad cop, honestly, but the next words are even more surprising than such a generous offer from their point of view. "The cunning fox played it right, like clockwork. The others chased after her but got nothing but disappointment. It's not hard to guess that she left the box in the village, and you left traces, child. I don't blame you, and you shouldn't blame yourself. The rabble can sometimes sting more than a dagger in the back, and how could you not rob a passing traveler, right? Instead of leaving quietly, you left loudly, leaving blood behind, and then we picked up your trail. Give us the box, give it to us, and run, child, and we'll let you go. The games of the dark ones are not worth a life, and the fox D'Lerett is still alive, but in our hands, she will tell no one else anything, only us. And we will remain silent, child."

Ilya's face hardened and became a wax mask as he sank into partial moving-dynamic meditation, trying not to let his emotions show on his face. Otherwise, his eyes would have become even more anime-like than Baldy's after Ilya's rebuke. And the more the Martyr spoke, soothingly and invitingly, as if inadvertently shifting to make himself more comfortable to attack and not interfere with the Executioner's blow if he heard the refusal, the more the gears in the Earthman's brain were grinding. He stupidly and banally did not understand what they wanted from him at all, what box they meant and who was handing him what, and how Ilya suddenly started working for all sorts of secret services. In the end, he managed to come up with an answer by directly quoting one of his teachers, Stepan Andreyevich, nicknamed Panther, he was a former diver who had reached the second stage, and had played Shifter before he lost his Twin, at the moments when the examinee started talking the most wild stuff.

"What the fuck?" Sometimes, brevity can convey everything that verbose constructions cannot express in those very words. "Are you guys full of LSD?"

To be honest, he was a bit off at this point, though not fatally. He lost focus a little, and blurred his gaze, and both opponents noticed it, immediately starting to act. It's one thing to negotiate and try to force an outcome without a fight, but if you get a chance to end a fight instantly, you should take it. And they did, attacking at the same time. Or rather, the Executioner attacked, and the Martyr only supported him, even sighing somewhat disappointedly, as it seemed to Ilya. Deep down, the diver was upset, even though he didn't believe in the slightest that they would let him get away. It was more likely that the couple feared that the victim would run away, having managed to destroy the tracker and being satisfied with it, that was why they were talking, and that was why they didn't hit him at once.

But they hit.

Martyr sprinted forward, kicking up a wave of snow in his stride, cutting the distance offensively fast, despite the snow barely budging beneath his feet. The amulets seemed to have partially recharged, or they had both put them into afterburner mode. The Executioner struck at once, without leaving his seat, thrusting his sword so that the blade, if it had been in place, passed under his partner's arm, not hitting him, but piercing Ilya, who was sitting on a boulder hidden in the snow. Ilya, a foreign bastard, without any respect for another's worked-out bundle, did not want to be pierced. He jumped up from the spot without acceleration to the full power of his icy muscles, ceasing to maintain the remnants of his disguise, accelerating to the full speed available in the human body.

Apparently, he had been perceived as some version of the Wanderer or some other messenger class, strong in stamina but not in combat power. Even the Assassin did not expect any resistance, and his colleagues, even though they were left without a partner, still secretly believed that the fugitive was lucky, that he was not their opponent, not their equal. Yes, a threat, yes, dangerous, but on the level of a dangerous routine, nothing more. They were able to appreciate his equipment, as well as the unhealthy thinness that had begun to appear. They probably just assumed that he was using one of the variants of a passive property or an active skill that allowed him to convert fat reserves into endurance resources.

It seems that they took him for a blessed Mechanism born of the peasants, who was not particularly valued and therefore not properly equipped and not respected. Such a man might well have been sent to some village to live a simple life, not to attract attention, to pick up an important parcel and quickly deliver it to the right place. And the one the Martyr called ‘fox’ was most likely the very lady who had recruited the lantern and his company. Only it didn't help them even a little, as the woman herself suspected and gave a certain box to someone in Tooth. Even if it had been to the servant girl whose heart Ilya had seen in the same room with the said agentess!

It's amazing how much it can clear your brain to see a pair of coordinated Aboriginal combatants with synergistic classes attacking you and at the end of their first cycle in Broken! All the pieces of the puzzle fell into place at once, so that if he died now, he would at least know what exactly he had been fucked for. And the most offensive thing was that the girl with the box remained in the village, though she was bound to be found if Ilya hadn't attracted everyone's attention with his performance with Miller's cultist. To put it crudely, that sly bitch and her superiors, now owed the Earthman a lot of money, and he wouldn't even be able to collect that debt, that's the sad part!

The lunge of the executing hand moved downwards, sinking deep into the rock, and Ilya's light body was caught in the wind flowing through the passage between the rocks, using it to slam his whole body against the rock and then push off, climbing even higher. He planned to get out of the enemy's attack zone and immediately scramble away, leaving them here, but there was a reason he had been wary of running from the start! He almost missed the attack, only at the last moment noticing the spiked bolo made of several stone balls and a strong rope with bent nails and blades. He noticed it, yes, but he still didn't have time to twist it, because the amulet had a homing function and headed for the target on its own. Ilya almost curled up into a croissant, saving his head and arms, but his legs got caught in the air. It was so badly knocked off his jump that he couldn't climb to the top of the cliff to make a guaranteed escape.

Flying down was fraught with the risk of being killed, so he twisted, clawing at skin and flesh, letting out black blood, deliberately not activating his hastily renewed hide with self-inflicted wounds, but pulling off his bolo, landing right into the Martyr's greedy embrace. The first was to meet his weapon, knocking it aside with a spiked bracelet. Ilya didn't have the time or skill to sheathe his arm. He threw the thing the same way a normal rock would have been thrown. The fugitive's body should have been the second to be hit, and there was no way in hell he'd be released from the bear hug of a class possessing immense strength and survivability. His opponent thought so, ready to take damage or a stiletto to the side of the resisting Ilya, but not giving a damn about the damage because he was reasonably sure that it was almost impossible to kill a Martyr of the same level instantly.

Of course, there are all sorts of things. You might encounter an amulet, an artifact, a special build, but the Martyrs are extremely resilient. It's an axiom that is not disputed either in Broken or on Earth. Ilya, with all his attributes and overall strength, would still be doomed in that embrace. You don't try burning salamander subtype creatures with fire, freezing ice spirits with ice, or trying to fight a standard build Martyr in a parterre. It's just ineffective and will only result in a loss, a stupid loss of one of your spare lives, if you, so smart, have any left at all. Ilya didn't follow his opponent's plan, and immediately after attempting to throw a bolo, Cold hit his opponent in the face.

The Icy Breath was like a pillar, a solid column of wind black with the cold that shook even the big man. And, worse, it forced him to cover his face, saving the frostbitten cornea, allowing it to regenerate, protecting his face in a reflex action. His hands shifted slightly, allowing the falling diver to avoid the embrace, pushing away from his opponent right as he fell. Then the Icy Breath that hit the bulky man reached the ground, lifting upwards, without exaggeration, hundreds and hundreds of kilos of snow. The enclosed space between the standing rib bones of the rocks, between which the air aspect of the exhalation had the maximum effect was affected.

Visibility was instantly nullified by the muffled cursing of both the Executioner and the not-so-polite brute who had mentioned the Earthman's sexual predilections in a very unflattering way. Ilya didn't answer, immediately reducing the distance and attacking, taking advantage of the enemy's temporary, alas, only temporary, blindness. The air around the Executioner's body trembles, a consequence of the effect of some amulet, not a native defense talent, while the Martyr simply ignores both frostbite and Cold's curse. With his survivability and regeneration, these curses are simply washed out of his body by the constant stream of regeneration.

The lunge of a stiletto, the same one that had recently pierced the diver's own palm, pierced the diver's exposed liver. The liver, as Ilya realized too late, when his not-so-dazzled opponent swung his arm towards him. Just enough so that the spikes on his bracelet grazed the swift jumper. He almost dodged, a pair of spikes scratching his cheek, but it was ‘almost’ because the pain from the scratches was as if he'd been scalped alive. A sadist and a masochist, Biba and Boba, Gachi and Muchie, acting in perfect coordination, could not help each other in this way! Surely the Executioner regularly cut and tormented his partner, allowing him to accumulate full reservoirs of suffering to share with the enemy.

It was also a good thing that the scratch he received wasn't enough to give away not only the pain but the wound itself. Or rather, maybe it would have been enough, but only the resistance to curses from class talents helped avoid the worst. But not just bad. Even if the pain did not disturb the mind protected by the trait, the body still failed. His knees buckled for a moment, not even from loss of control, just from the sudden sensory overload, but it was enough for his opponent to keep pressing, to keep building on the success of the attack. Ignoring the puncture and already starting to heal the liver, he stepped closer, grabbing the recoiled Ilya by the collar with a sharp, incredibly fast movement for such a carcass, and with his other hand by the throat.

Or rather, trying to grab him by the throat, thinking that he was barely conscious of the agony that the kind Martyr had generously shared. Instead of the victim, ready to collapse if not supported by his weight, he was met by the Wendigo's grin. A moment, a shift in stance, a swing of the stiletto piercing the elbow of the hand that held him by his clothes, forcing him to loosen his grip. The other hand has already grasped the skinny and frail man by the face, pulling him closer, and the momentary weakness in his pierced arm is gone in a flash. The nerves of such regenerators regenerate first, as do the tendons, restoring the ability to fight and mobility, and only then the blood vessels.

Instead of the neck, the Martyr's fingers found Ilya's lips, and teeth, which the Earthman, who had his chin pressed to his chest, used to grasp the defenceless limb, gnawing off a couple of phalanges of the index and middle fingers, and biting off the thumb completely, together with a piece of the palm. The flesh of a man gifted with such a specific class is hard and elastic as if gnawing on rubber, but the scythe met a stone. Or rather, a Martyr met Wendigo, who can chew through any meat or bone. So to speak, the undocumented feature of the class that allows you to do damage with your teeth even on hardened steel, biting off pieces of golems, stone statues, or Mechanists reinforced with implants.

The opponent exhaled not so much in pain as in genuine surprise, turning to shock. The fight is extremely fast. All three opponents acted on reflex, faster than their thoughts. And even though the Martyr saw Wendigo's characteristic tricks and grasp, he did not have time to realise that his victim was not a Hermit or a Wanderer, but a fighting and very hungry ogre. He realized right now, while his opponent, who had received another unnaturally painful scratch with the wrist-bracelet, was delivering several stiletto blows, which merged into one, punching through the kidney, the liver, the lungs, and the heart, and then bouncing away, retreating in the man-made blizzard.

Not only retreating, but pulling his opponent behind there, grabbing the hand that tried to grab him by the collar, showing that even though the bulky man was bigger, heavier, more massive, it was the attributes that decided, and in Martyr's case most of them went to Blood and Heart, while in Wendigo's skinny body Claws and Bones were considered to be the strongest side. And Ilya, obviously, had a lot more Claws and Bones, for it's not the size that counts, but the ability to use them!
T.N. КоКи

Hopelessly late, the Executioner simply does not have time to react; he is protecting his face, and the coldness of his breath slows him down despite his protective amulet. In an instant, the earthling disappears, turning behind another rock, and drags the Martyr, who has not had time to start resisting, along with him. There are very few classes capable of destroying this machine in close combat; it is simply not used to breaking distance and fears the ground itself. To be fair, the ordinary diving vendigo does not belong to these “capable” ones; it does not have the same damage, the same burst of strength, the same animalistic fury, but Ilya could not be called a standard vendigo even in the slightest.

A stab to the face with a stiletto, a bleeding gash across the entire face, another blow, hitting the left eye, partially blinding him, another blow, slashing his throat all the way to the spine. The enemy strikes back, but he could hardly see in the snow even with two eyes, and now even less so. Ilya dodges, manoeuvres, deftly stepping on the snow, which temporarily refuses to give way under his feet. And there isn't much snow left anyway, since most of it has already been lifted into the air by the exhalation. A heavy fist strikes him squarely in the head. Either he managed to notice a shadow flashing in the blizzard, or he was just lucky, but Ilya took the attack with his fist still intact on his open palm. A flash of pain in every bone as the Martyr spills the ‘Reservoir of Suffering’ on his enemy, with the sensations in his hand and face standing out particularly vividly. It seemed that in a little while, just a little more, these wounds would appear on his body, opening up on their own.

It just seemed like it.

His icy flesh, the aura of exhalation around him, and his natural resilience prevailed, preventing the Martyr's most powerful weapon from being used, which is why no one wanted to engage them in close combat. Pain itself is also a very serious argument, enough for some, but not for Ilya, who was capable of ignoring even Hunger. What is pain compared to the madness of the Wendigo at the moment when Ilya spat his bitten-off fingers right into the snow? Clenching his fist until his bones crack, and not his own, he twists his opponent's wrist, ignoring the glancing blow with his knee, noting with irritation the skin that has come off. On his knee was a spiked knee pad, the actual blade of the knife sticking out of that knee. It was a surprisingly impractical weapon, more likely to cut yourself than anything else, but did the Martyr care?

The close combat reaches its peak; the stiletto works like a sewing machine. Ilya combines animalistic combat techniques for dodging and attacks with knife-fighting techniques memorized to the point of being imprinted on his subconscious. He was not the best fencer, but against a partially blinded, disoriented, and slowed-down opponent, that was enough. In a matter of seconds, the enemy received a dozen knife wounds, several stabs to the heart, his lungs were gutted and his liver was completely perforated, his throat was slit and one eye was blinded, one arm was crippled and the other wrist was dislocated. Even for the Martyr, who had already developed the class skill ‘Patience and Repentance’ to the second or even third level, it suddenly dawned on him that this was all too much, and it was time to retreat, to get closer to his partner and deal with the nimble bastard together.

Ilya responded to this idea, which the enemy tried to confirm with action, with another breath in his face, freezing his skin. Due to the intensity of the Breath and the close distance, the skin on his head began to peel off before his eyes, and his eyeballs burst out of their sockets. Roaring hoarsely with rage and, what the hell, fear too, the Martyr jumped backward, trying to break the distance, but misjudged his orientation and hit his back against a rock. Ilya did not forgive him for this mistake, immediately throwing a stiletto straight at his head, hitting him squarely in his open mouth, and causing him to choke on his cry. The earthling himself, however, jumped back, knowing where to jump, and the jump itself was on par with that of an Olympic athlete.

He did it in time.

A flash of scarlet light, the activation of blood magic, and the Martyr instantly heals all physical wounds inflicted by Ilya's stiletto or teeth. Only his frozen eyes remained blind, but even they were rapidly recovering, and the skin on his head was growing back. If Ilya had been nearby at the moment of activation of Saving Retribution, even all his resistance to curses and harmful effects would not have helped him avoid transferring the damage strictly to the one who inflicted it. The enemy stands before him, full of strength and health, and, for at least the next 24 hours, with increased resistance to cold and piercing damage. Judging by the attack radius and the speed of explosive regeneration, the talent has at least the second division levelled up.

Ilya flashes a smile that his opponent can now clearly see with his new eyes. At the moment of activation, the Martyr's magic burned away all traces of Cold and even scattered the snow like a shock wave. He sees and begins to react, but now he himself is too late! It's not for nothing that the diver received a degree from the University of London, right? Didn't he know about the Martyr's classic builds and their favourite crown for close combat? Of course, he knew, he couldn't not know. He also knew that Retribution, if not pumped up in a special way, and to the maximum third division, increases resistance to certain types of damage by a full turn of the Sun, if there is one in the sky, or for a roughly comparable time, if there are many or none.

But an even greater increase in vulnerability to opposite types of damage disappears in just a couple of seconds, during which time the Martyr must be protected from the allies of the one who inflicted the damage on him. If the bruiser had a more advanced Vengeful Retribution with four divisions instead of three, everything would have turned out differently. But Vengeance has no option for regeneration and recovery of strength, only damage transfer, and at a much greater distance, and, if pumped up, to any hostile targets. Either together or separately, each enemy will receive a complete copy of all the wounds received by the Martyr.

It was a good thing that the enemy had chosen a much gentler for his psyche technique. But the right build for a vigilante, so that the other talents did not weaken Gemini, but reduced the madness, outside the Earth Forum nowhere to be found. And now, having survived the rescue and regained his sight, the asshole had time to see the moment when Ilya completed the swing of the scarlet copper dagger, clutching the bone hilt with a crunch. He even planned to decorate the hilt with carved patterns to reduce the parasitic loss of reserve. He had planned to carve it, but he didn't have time to do it, he wanted to raise his carving skill to the second or even third level first.

A line of flame was drawn clearly across the nearly healed skin on his forehead, slicing off the top of his skull and baking his brains. In his normal state, the brute would have survived this as well, the Martyr gaining the ability to ignore physical wounds before other standard starter classes, temporarily beginning to think and conjure with his subtle body. Even now, he didn't die immediately, just staggered, twitching, sliding backward down the cliff in a halo of snow falling from the cold exhalation of snow after the exhaustion of magic. He could have, but he would have had to lie there, even if only for a minute or two, just five minutes, no more: high Blood and Heart rates not only increased his vitality but also boosted his reserve.

Ilya resolutely refused to wait for the enemy to recover, which would immediately be covered by the Executioner rushing to his aid. He began to move at the very moment when the dagger finally worked and wounded the bruiser. His body trembled with an unpleasant weakness, emptiness, and stiffness caused by a four-fifths drop in reserves. But the remaining strength and Hunger raging in the chains of self-control were enough to act very quickly, only slightly slower than usual. And he managed to run up to his helpless opponent, dispelling even the instinctive connection that transmitted damage, and then grab him by the hair and pull him up, tearing off his skull, which had begun to grow back together.

The small vessels and fibers of meat are pulled with the movement of his hand, and the ear that remains on the body is torn off, along with part of the skin, hanging from the severed piece of head like an ornament on a Christmas tree. He tries to grab the top of his skull with his hand, but the bearded man is still on the first step, not at least the second. Even the extremely resilient Martyrs have limits to what they can withstand and endure, and beyond those limits awaits them just as surely as mere mortals.

The fused nerves burst, the disconnected brain squelched, and the strips of skin or fibres of facial muscles tore off. And the twitching body of the Martyr arched, struggled in agony, and then froze. Ilya didn't see it, though, for he immediately hid back under the protection of the rock, pushing off the corpse of his opponent with his foot. He still didn't have time to get away cleanly. He was slowed down by the wasted reserve, but one more of the Executioner's ranged blows stacked off his activated Hide, which he had barely been able to renew after the blow with his knee blade. That was it, no more defense, he didn't have enough strength for another use. Or rather, he would, but then he would definitely die from wasting his reserve, so he wouldn't even try.

The executioner shouts something and pierces consciousness with his Whisper, but all is lost in vain. The diver swerves once, twice, jumps up, up again, over a rock, hides behind another, and hides in a snowstorm that is rising again. Another bout of pain flares up all over his body at once, every scratch, every point of skin-to-clothing contact. Flashes the realization of images coming into status, expected but no less unpleasant because of that. He didn't care, right now he was fully committed to saving his life, to avoiding combat, and only after managing to run far enough away, taking a suitable position, making a small loop in case the enemy followed a quickly covered trail, did he collapse onto snow and exhale hoarsely.

He did it.

He couldn't believe it himself, but he had fought off a full trio of experienced gifted natives! Yes, it was largely due to their unprofessionalism, but it was still a reason to be proud. Someone else could say that it was a bit early to share the skin of an unkilled executioner, but Ilya was in no hurry to sink into pride. The lone executioner, who was taken as the main damager of their trio, would not be able to catch up with him, not in the middle of a snowstorm and blizzard. The Wendigo's strength in such weather, where the cold rules almost indiscriminately, will recover quickly enough. Enough for one more Hide, and for taking a different form, and then it is possible to finish him off. Or let him go if the Executioner turned out to be too good a fighter, dangerous in a direct confrontation. Ilya allowed both options and was in no hurry to be greedy, though he wanted to clean up the last witness who had seen Wendigo in battle. He could even start pursuing, following the victim, waiting for the right moment to attack.

Laying on the ground, feeling every fucking snowflake and gust of wind that was tormenting his flesh with a sharp dagger, Ilya once again curses the Martyr class and the reason why these masochists are disliked in every way. Kill them too, yes. Because it's easier to capture or otherwise dispose of them than to suffer the effects of a class posthumous curse on those who shed the blood of the slain in the last hours and didn't manage to escape to a neighboring region. As he looked inward, he easily found a new and, fortunately, only temporary addition to his status list.

Blessings and Curses:

Blood of the Martyr (Draining): 1/1

Whether willingly or unwillingly, intentionally or by chance, the hand that shed the blood of the true Martyr will suffer punishment, perhaps undeserved, but severe nonetheless. Nine days from the moment when the Martyr's face was devoured by the Broken World, every wound of the murderer will hurt many times more, every touch will feel like a sharp thorn in the body, every breath will bear the mark of torment, which is now destined to be shared with the Fallen. Only endurance, patience, and faith will help him survive, stand firm, and throw off the shackles of Torment and Suffering. However, powerful rituals and prayers, as well as the tremor of the approaching Gates of the Mechanism, will deliver him from punishment ahead of schedule.

Validity period: nine days or until the end of the Cycle.

A delightful addition to his status, which will haunt him until the end of the Dive, spoiling his mood and nothing else. In fact, after that, an ordinary diver or a gifted one can take a vacation and wait, just wait, meditating and getting plenty of sleep, trying not to get even a random scratch, because the effect of it will be like a deep wound inflicted by a rusty hook right down to the flesh and bone. Here, you either turn to professionals and remove the mark or wait for the end of the cycle if you are a Diver. An ordinary Diver will have no choice but to endure such pain, unlike Ilya, who could easily tolerate it, since it is more mental than physical. Let the body react to the torture, but not as strongly as if he had actually received these wounds. It is better for him not to suffer serious injuries, as they can temporarily confuse him and paralyze his body, which can still feel pain.

It's a good thing that he got the simplest mark, one division, because a two doesn't save you from the end of the cycle, and it lasts for a year or two. A three doesn't go away on its own, only intensifying the effect over time or with each completed dive cycle, if you're a newcomer.

Even with the curse, Ilya remains an effective and dangerous opponent, even if he faces the Executioner, who will surely be able to intensify the pain from the curse mark. Roughly speaking, if Ilya didn't have his super-trait, he would already be running through the snow, howling in pain, because every movement, every touch of the snow, every friction of the fabric of his clothes against his skin would cause him serious torment. And he wouldn't even think of fighting such an unpleasant opponent. The Executioner must have been pretty shocked when Ilya, having received the mark, didn't even slow down, continuing to run away. Or, more likely, he simply assumed that Ilya had managed to protect himself from the curse with some kind of talent or a one-time amulet for the most extreme case. In the traditions of the Broken, the gifted often carry something like that with them, reserved for particularly deep assholes.

However, it should not be forgotten that now, with this curse, the Executioner has become a far more dangerous enemy to the earthling than he was before. And he may well try to finish off his cursed victim if he believes that the mark of his dead comrade has reached Wendigo.

But the enemy did not follow him, neither after a minute, nor after three, nor after an hour and a half, during which time another Hide fell on his shoulders, again reducing the total reserve stock. Shrugging his shoulders and feeling his strength return, he walked back, slowly and calmly approaching the teeth-like ribs sticking out of the ground; he did not go through the tunnels. He climbed the steep slope, reached the top of the cliff, and looked down, assessing the view that opened up before him. He assessed it, twitching the corner of his mouth in irritation, restraining the urge to swear and mention all sorts of unpleasant family connections of the Executioner. The man turned out to be experienced and, unlike Eralius the Bald, did not prudently run after the Wendigo in the blizzard, just as he did not run away from the Wendigo.

In a secluded ravine between the rocks, an alchemical-type bonfire burned brightly, surrounded by protective amulets. The bodies of the two slain agents from an unknown organization lay inside the protective circle to prevent the evil-possessed from feeding and calming his madness. Also, between the rocks, blocking access from all sides, hung whole bundles of dimly glowing threads, and Ilya was ready to swear that there were not only signal devices there, but also tripwires leading to magical analogs of grenades. He just couldn't see them. His opponent had hidden such things from his view in every possible way. The opponent himself, who seemed to have spent all his supplies on the most extreme case, was found right next to the fire.

He sat in a meditative pose, his knees tucked under him, cradling his bronze blade in his hands, which also glimmered with magical power. His eyes were covered by his hood, but not completely closed. He had removed his outer warm clothing but was wearing additional armor, including a gorget to protect his neck. In front of his face, behind his back, and above him, translucent shields are visible. These are literally heavy battle shields as if struck many times by arrows, with rusted iron parts, pieces of wood knocked out, and other signs of active use. These are ghostly replicas of real weapons, embodying mobile and very strong protection that does not require much effort to maintain, only to create and implement.

The main thing is not to fall asleep. Otherwise, the “Mutilated Shield” will disappear on its own. All three samples. The second division of the skill was definitely taken, because there is only one shield in the base, and two additional charges are automatically increased when taking a new division. However, he could have developed the third mark, but simply not summoned two more additional ones for the time being. The question is, what enhancements did he choose for the standard talent? Increased durability? Damage return? Automatic response to attacks? It's hard to say right away, as there are so many options, and the Executioner doesn't reveal any of his trump cards.

Instead, he demonstrates his willingness to talk by sticking the dagger he pulled out of the Assassin's body into the ground and placing a piece of cloth with a circle drawn in blood on top of it. An appeal to the Fulfilling Greatness in the attribute of the Eloquent Messenger, a demonstration of readiness for negotiations, a kind of analog of a white flag in earthly realities. It's a rather strange choice because he has seen his tricks and can hardly expect that a Wendigo, especially a hungry one, will have enough brains to actually negotiate. A well-fed Wendigo can pretend, fool, deceive, and play on pity very well, but only to divert suspicion or lure prey. And even then, not all builds are capable of such social mimicry.

Either he doesn't understand anything and knows nothing about what a Wendigo is, or about a carrier of the corresponding class gifted with a Mechanism. Or, worse, he knows and understands everything, including the fact that Ilya somehow manages to control himself. Although no, okay, for the latter option, he gave his opponent no reason to think so, and no scanning skills were used on him. And where would the Executioner get such powerful scanners? At most, they can highlight vulnerabilities, fears, weak points, and psychological breakdowns... maybe it was the absence of Hunger and vulnerability to it that he saw in Ilya.

For some reason, the earthling did not go to the only place where they could talk to each other face-to-face. He simply did not want to expose himself to the attack of a sharp blade, especially in a place where the Dead themselves asked to set a trap or two. He just did not want to, it was pure mysticism, nothing else. But there were several places from which they could talk to each other without exposing themselves to attack. Counting three such places, the most suitable ones, Ilya chose one of the options, and then, tearing a large pebble from the rock, pierced his finger with the tip of his inactive dagger, dripping blood onto the stone. He threw the stone precisely at the right spot, although he suspected that he could have done without the blood, as the vibration from the impact would have been enough.

The executioner did not see this throw, so he almost jumped up at the moment when there was a loud bang, a flash, and a stream of flames spurting in all directions. It was a shock amulet that reacted to living and moving objects, but it was one of the simpler ones. It's not difficult to increase its power, but the selectivity of the prepared spells is a completely different matter. The price increases significantly, and without specific talents, it's impossible to adjust such things to the situation. It's easier to take more cheap ones, yes. The Executioner jumped to his feet, but quickly sat back down. It may not be visible under the hood, but Ilya is sure that a grimace of disappointment is hidden under the mask. The smart bastard realized that there was no howling, no sounds of movement, no smell of burnt flesh, only the explosion itself.

"What did he want to say?" Ilya, who had taken the vacated position, of course, carefully inspected the demined position to see if there was another trap, but there was none. "Why did you hang up the Messenger?"

"I want to leave." Completely frankly and without attempts at Whisper activation, the interlocutor answered. "You keep the box, leave me my life, I'll sell it too dearly. I'm ready to throw the bodies over the line right now, they are nothing to me. Take them and eat them, I don't mind. When morning comes, the blizzard passes, I'll be able to see my surroundings and I can leave. Otherwise, I'll burn the bodies, and blow myself up with the amulet before I die, and there'll be nothing left to eat."

So he poisoned the corpses; there is no other option, because why else would he suggest such a thing? Moreover, he behaves and speaks in such a way that the hungry and angry Wendigo will definitely agree. But at the same time, he cannot fail to understand that such a “negotiable interlocutor” will accept the body as a gift, eat to his heart's content, and then follow his fleeing opponent. So there is poison there, there can be nothing else. Even if it was taken from the arsenal of the late Killer, poured into the wounds, magical in its essence, alchemical. Magic will saturate the corpse, all at once, making the flesh dangerous and debilitating. Then it will be clear whether to try to escape or finish off the Wendigo, who has suddenly lost his strength and is howling in pain as his stomach dissolves from the poison.

Ilya wanted, really wanted to talk to this guy, to ask him about this and that, taking advantage of the situation and his position, but he stopped his desire. He was too calm, too clever and dangerous, too thoughtful. He would probably be able to catch the interlocutor, to take advantage of a long dialogue, even if it was by a sensory thread, pulling five explosive amulets closer to him. It's an old and very popular trick. But Ilya, out of direct line of sight, can only see the Executioner's heart, sitting motionless in its place. It was not necessary to get out of his seat for the ‘game of tentacle’, as this trick with the unconventional use of sensor signaling was called on Earth.

Ilya didn't answer, though he wanted to say something like ‘ha-ha, nope’. He just silently jumped back and up, following roughly the same route he had come, leaving his disappointed opponent alone. Well, time to get down to business and crack the last nut. He would have let two of them go, he wouldn't have risked fighting with two, but two of them didn't want to let him go. But the last one, even if strong and dangerous, he would still try to destroy. The enemy was strong and dangerous in a direct confrontation, for the Executioners, whose build was taken out in direct confrontation, were one of the strongest of the combat classes in terms of direct damage.

Sturdy, armored, with a wide arsenal of tricks like slowdowns, fear induction, and other types of ‘control’, they would have been an absolute imba if it weren't for their poor mobility and maneuverability. The methods of shortening or breaking the distance in the arsenal of the Executioners' starting talents did not stand up to criticism. Either weak techniques with limited functionality for one or two divisions, or crushing on the psyche abomination, or both at once, and on top of that, difficulties with talent charging. The same dead magic with its charging requirements, as an example, is quite accessible to several builds of Executioners. Somehow it's a little shameful to check on his temporarily very sensitive skin, whether this shithead is not a carrier of this particular build.

More like no than yes. He had already seen some of the Executioner's talents in action, the general outline of his build was clear, but there were still one or two slots for something tricky. Executioners love and know how to surprise, being a very flexible class, able to develop into a warrior, an interrogator, an agile, an armored thug, and even a caster, even if the latter is more of a hybrid build. Something in between a mage and a warrior, equally uncomfortable as an opponent in battle, but equally weak against pure mages and warriors, if they can force a mage-executioner to fight on their terms.

Alrighty, time to think about how to crack this nut and take the kernel out of the annoyingly hard and spiky shell.

The first thing Ilya did was to return to the stashed luggage and begin to prepare his ballister, honestly stolen from the bandits he had killed, for firing. And when he finished with the preparation of the weapon, he began to collect stones, digging them out from under the snow or just breaking and chipping them from rocks, because with his strength, there was no problem in such physical labour. About an hour and a half of work, during which time the reserve continued to recover, and the amount of swearing in the address of the deceased asshole reached astronomical values. Every scratch, every effort, every stone clenched in my fist shot through my whole body with very unpleasant sensations.

And so, having finished his preparations, the Diver climbed the rock again, choosing this time a different vantage point, and then began to shower with shells the last of the remaining three, who wanted so much to communicate with him. He was just like Old Carlson, but not a Mechanist with a build for maximum maneuver and creation of all kinds of bombs of throwing type, but a stern and very angry Wendigo. In response to the bullet fired from the ballister, the meditating Executioner only twitched a little and looked into the darkness, easily recognizing Ilya's figure standing on the rock, for his fire was burning brightly and the storm had almost subsided. One of the three shields shifted itself and took the blow of a lead ball, which broke off a few ghostly splinters and a handful of rust.

Yeah.

Yeah.

So, it's an automatic reaction to damage taken, automatically intercepting all kinds of projectiles. Not the most common option, but quite understandable if you want to increase your survivability. Another shot, but now followed by a stone, and then a change of position, because the Executioner swung his blade. The blow with the elongated ghostly blade grazed the top of the rock on the way out and barely scratched it, but Ilya didn't want to check that “barely.” He continued firing, trying to find gaps in the defense, and also gradually breaking the signal threads by throwing pebbles. These threads are still material, albeit only partially, and it seems that completely immaterial skeins of pure magic are beyond the means of this trio.

Ilya took his time, pausing occasionally, not lingering on any one position, and constantly monitoring the Executioner's heart, tracking his every movement even when he was out of sight. A couple of times, the Executioner tried to throw an explosive amulet, but Ilya used a high maneuver to avoid a fiery blob of some kind of alchemical napalm, a lightning-charged pebble, and even a classic fragmentation grenade made by some Mechanist. The last one enraged him the most, because one of the lead balls embedded in a copper cylinder ricocheted off a rock and hit Wendigo's back at the very end. It barely scratched him, but the pain was as if his back had been pierced through and then slightly refreshed, and then sprinkled with salt.

However, this mental clarity provided him with a useful tactic. Ilya began shooting in such a way that his bullets would ricochet, and he threw stones with a similar purpose. The shields managed to react, but not as quickly, intercepting the projectiles closer to the increasingly tense Executioner. Ironically, neither of them used their class talents for direct attacks, but instead made full use of the elements of the environment and consumables. Well, the Executioner used consumables, and Ilya used elements of the environment. Accurate throws of smaller stones, pebbles about the size of a phalanx or two, flew to the places where Ilya himself would have set a trap or a mine.

It didn't happen right away, but the first success came here too: a mechanical mine that had been successfully triggered exploded in a bright flash. The Executioner had the sense to direct the explosion upward so that it hit the Wendigo and not him, but some of the shrapnel still hit the displaced shields, all three of them. Ilya almost managed to seize the moment, throwing a stone at the monster's exposed back, but everything happened too quickly and chaotically, and the monster managed to roll over and dodge the blow. In his panic, he swung his particularly powerful, elongated blade, but missed. Oh, almost! But “almost,” as Bronislav Valediktovich Yanin used to say, is the ultimate self-consolation of an incompetent degenerate.

Another trap was set off, and this time things turned out both better and worse than before. The fiery alchemical concoction did not hit the enemy with a rain of napalm, but it turned out that the signal threads burned quite well. Especially when the flame was alchemical! The broken signal fuses burned like a Bickford fuse and detonated a couple more traps. One was electric, striking the sky with a thin, long ribbon of man-made lightning, and the other turned out to be something from the realm of geomancy. The top of the cliff seemed to turn into liquid paste, flowing down along the cut “edge.” A couple of lumps of junk fell directly onto the shields and immediately clung to them, slowly flowing down and increasing energy consumption.

Imagining for a moment that he was caught in the epicenter of a sticky trap, Ilya felt a little queasy. He could survive all other traps thanks to his strength and regeneration, even if he had to run away, howling shamefully in pain and rage. He would recover, yes. But if he got caught in the sticky trap, deprived of his maneuverability, which was his main trump card in the battle with the Executioner, he would simply be torn to pieces. And yet he had considered that rock as another place to fire from, even though he quickly rejected it because of the obviousness of such a point. It was right to reject it, it was good, it was excellent!

Unlike the Diver, the native was not in a pleasant mood, trying to move his shields and dodge the multitude of sticky debris falling on his campfire. He withdrew one shield altogether because so much junk had stuck to it that the cost of maintaining his defensive talent had increased almost tenfold. It would have been criminal not to take advantage of the moment, and the earthling did not commit a crime, demonstrating his complete law-abidingness. He fired one of the last bullets from his ballista. Strangely, he didn't have any crossbows among his trio of weapons. Then he changed position and threw two stones at once. One shield blocked the shot, the second intercepted the thrown stone, and the third pebble was thrown up, falling precisely on the Executioner's forehead in a beautiful ballistic trajectory.

Unfortunately, it only grazed the target, but it angered or frightened the enemy enough to cause them to act rashly. A swing of the sword, with a significant amount of reserve, cut the rock three palms deep, a throw with the other hand, immediately a handful of striking amulets in a wide fan, from which he had to jump away at full length. Not upward, but along the tops of the rocks, pushing off from the slope, not the summit, but still a moment of vulnerability that almost cost him his resurrection. While the amulets exploded with the most banal bright flashes and bangs — all the combat amulets had already been used up, he threw what was left — the freak snatched a crossbow hidden under cloth and a layer of snow.

They did have a normal ranged weapon after all! Small, with two arcs and a cassette feed mechanism, but just over an elbow's length. A killer's weapon, to be carried concealed under a cloak. And it almost did its job, if not for Ilya's paranoia, which forced him to throw his hand down, grab the rock, and push himself down when the Executioner made his next move. The solid iron bolts had some kind of charm. With a dull thud, they pierced the stone almost to the very tip, which was also made of steel. The earthling barely managed to regroup and not fall headfirst onto the rock. The Wendigo's skull was, of course, extremely strong, but he didn't want to test it, lest he repeat the fate of the Killer, who had literally had his brains spilled out.

By the time he came to his senses, dusted himself off, and remembered the late Martyr with a kind word, he returned to find the Executioner no longer at his position. The latter, apparently realizing that this Wendigo was somehow wrong and was in no hurry to rush into battle at the fortified position, gradually destroying that position from a distance, decided to retreat in time, while there was still a chance. Incidentally, he did not set fire to the bodies of his two comrades, as he had threatened, but also cut open their bellies to whet his pursuer's appetite. Just in case, the earthling didn't even approach them, in case the vapors were poisonous. Where could one find such a poison that would knock out or at least affect a Wendigo with just vapors?

The Executioner did not flee too far, merely leaving the confines of the rocky labyrinth, reaching a couple of boulders rising in the middle of a flat field, and beginning to establish a new position there. Once again, the shields were raised, the crossbow that had been kept in reserve was loaded, and the broken blade was in a fighting position. And the eyes under the executioner's hood looked cautious and frightened, but at the same time focused and fully prepared. His escape was not a sign of panic, no matter how much he wanted to give that impression. No, he still had a plan, still had some kind of tactic that the bastard was going to stick to. Although, to be honest, Ilya did not feel any particular anger or hatred towards this native, seeing no reason for it.

Yes, they wanted to kill him, and for a trumped-up reason, but what's done is done, mistakes have been made, and both sides were simply trying to do what they had to do. The troika wanted to get some kind of box with something important, and the lone fugitive just wanted to survive and not fall victim to other people's intrigues. As it happened, these two desires overlapped, and now both sides of the conflict are forced to fight to the death, even though they would have been happy never to have met at all, given their lack of common interests and reasons for conflict.

Having completed his preparations, Ilya appears at the top of another cliff, now completely naked, and the brightening dawn and the almost completely disappeared wind and snowfall allow him to be seen. In an instant, he disappears from view, and a piercing scream rings out, during which Ilya realizes that his decision to take on this form, despite the Martyr's mark, was, shall we say, a little, just a tiny bit, a tiny bit rash and hasty. How he did not collapse from the wild agony that overwhelmed his entire body was impossible to understand, but he did not collapse, only fell into a special, extremely motivated rage characteristic only of him as a human being.

The enemy clearly understood what such a cry meant... or perhaps he didn't, since Wendigos are not the most common of gifted beings. Wendigo-type creatures are not the most frequently encountered creatures. In any case, the Executioner must have understood that such a piercing scream did not bode well for him, but he did not run away and did not even change his position. Ilya had a rough idea of how his opponent was going to act, understood how he was thinking, and the good old game of “I know that you know that I know” continued, in which Ilya had to outsmart his opponent and end the fight with a single attack, exactly one prepared Hide.

He emerged slowly from the passage between the rocks, standing tall, making no attempt to hide, because there was no point. It was already too light, and there were no more snowstorms to limit the view of everyone except him. A tall figure, taller even than the very large Executioner, took a step forward, thin, dried out, twisted, hunched over, and terrifyingly dangerous. The step was followed by a second, and then he broke into a run. Ilya ran straight toward his opponent's raised blade and crossbow, who was leaning against a boulder and silently waiting for the outcome of their conflict. Both of them understood that this battle would be their last, that right now it would be decided who would live and who would die. Well, in Ilya's case, not die, but be reborn.

Thirty steps, unnaturally wide steps taken by Wendigo, Ilya falls on all fours and slides forward, almost pressing his belly against the snow, which scratches his skin with agonizing pain. He had been secretly expecting an attack, but the Executioner's nerves were enviable; he waited for maximum proximity, because only then would he be able to realize the direct damage advantage characteristic of his class. He didn't wait for the close range, but for an exhalation combined with a scream, directed not at the Executioner, protected by amulets, but at himself, into the snow. A flash of active skill, the click of a crossbow firing enchanted bolts, but both actions are slightly delayed, missing their target and hitting not Ilya, but the place where he was a moment ago.

The unnatural blizzard, a creative reworking of the classic Ice Breath, hides what is happening from human eyes, but the Executioner is still a pro. Even just earning enough essence to improve one's class skills requires a lot, a great deal of blood, battles, pain, and tears, both one's own and those of others. Especially those of others. And he managed to see enough, analyze enough, to roughly understand Wendigo's next moves. There's nothing complicated about it, just a simple yet effective tactic: block their view, strike them in the face with a tangential blow of icy air, and approach from behind, using the boulder that covers the Executioner instead of a shield, because all shields cover the front.

This tactic was quite clear to him, and so as soon as he heard the thunderclap and saw the powerful flash behind him, on the other side of the boulder, the Executioner sprang into action. He was like a machine, his movements precise and practiced, without panic, haste, or excessive caution. He still acted as if this battle was not an existential horror for him, but simply a job. The only thing is that this time the job is difficult and too dangerous for his partners, but that doesn't mean it's not still a job. Pulling himself to his feet and pushing off from his shield, the Executioner finds himself on top of the boulder, ready to strike with his sword, arrows, or anything else at the beast that has fallen into the trap, because this trap will not react to a stone; this trap is only activated by a living, moving target of flesh and blood.

But he didn't see the Wendigo. He didn't see anyone there at all, only a lone, almost unrecognizable severed ear with a piece of scalp, torn from the top of the Martyr's skull. He already understood, already realized his mistake, even before he saw the decoy, but those very reflexes, the honed mechanism of learned tactics, played against him until the very end, and he was too late, hopelessly, hopelessly too late. With a turn on his toes and a blade ready to strike with a crossbow, a movement caught out of the corner of his eye, and the realization of his last mistake.

Wendigo jumped over the unattended shield, burning his palms on its surface as he pushed himself between the two shields, nearly scratching his sides as well. Ice Breath, using all his remaining reserves, straight in the opponent's face, was met with a red-hot amulet around his neck, which absorbed most of the damage and the glow of the Stigmata of Torture that appeared on his skin. But still, the Executioner blinked and struck blindly, not where he needed to. He didn't even bother to raise his crossbow, dropping it somewhere in the snow, immediately grabbing his dagger, and the broken sword already struck, clearly hitting Ilya, who didn't even try to dodge. The Hide withstood the attack and did not allow the thin body to be pushed back. They both, the earthling and the aboriginal, the pursuer and the fugitive, the killer and the victim, fighting to the last to find out who was who, came together in close combat. They collided, flesh hitting the armor, with a crack and a crunch, a muffled growl, animalistic and vicious, so similar to each other at that moment, so alike, binding them closer than blood ties.

The moment ended and the two bodies flew apart, like two sacks of bones and shit, exchanging blows with all the power their Mechanism-enhanced bodies and souls could muster. The executioner rolled to the side, twitching listlessly, as if not yet realizing that his head, still wearing its cap, lay half a meter away from his main body, and the skeleton of his severed spine protruded from the stump of his neck. Wendigo did not move at all, lying and staring at the sky with icy blue eyes, looking even more like a corpse than the one he had killed. A very nasty wound between his ribs, deep and miraculously not reaching his heart thanks to his pelvis turning at the last moment, released a small stream of black, foul-smelling blood. At the last moment, the Executioner managed to strike, partially activating the piercing Blade of Execution through a dagger unsuitable for this purpose, almost managing to take payment for his life.

The agony and pain from the Martyr's mark do not pass immediately. It takes time for Ilya to remember how to breathe, and he does not immediately decide to cancel the energy-draining Shift. This time, he does not even scream, only wheezes and struggles in agony, while the stream of blood from his punctured lung becomes slightly more abundant. But it all ends, it's over, and the earthling who survived the battle gets to his feet, limping toward the Executioner's abandoned bag. If he mined it and poisoned the food, it would be a very stupid loss of life, one that would forever tarnish the reputation of a novice diver. The option of eating the body of the slain remained preferable and profitable, but he did not want to give in to Hunger if there were other options.

If the asshole had pierced his heart, then he would have had to be treated by eating fresh flesh, and even then, it's not certain that it would have helped. Besides, the wound in his lung has already begun to clog up, black blood, like tar, binding the walls of the incision. There is no need to fear pneumothorax with its attributes and Wendigo's natural vitality. At most, he will cough up mucus and blood that will clog up inside, and then he will be as good as new. Still, it's good that he wasn't wounded by a full-fledged Executioner's Hand, but only by an imitation through the dagger. A full-fledged attack requires a very specific weapon, but it is so terrifying that even with his regeneration, the wounds would heal like those of an ordinary, ungifted person.

Bars of some kind of pemmican or something similar disappear into the bottomless throat of the Wendigo one after another, one after another. He didn't smell any poison in them. The bastard wouldn't poison ordinary food, but rather would have drunk the poison himself before the fight to guarantee revenge on the killer. And if he managed to survive, he would simply take an antidote, yes. To imagine that the Wendigo would prefer to eat dry rations when there is fresh, still, warm meat from a gifted victim torn apart with his own hands nearby... that's such a crazy idea that they'd lock you up in the local loony bin if you said it out loud.

Ilya lay down on a warm cloak taken from someone else's backpack, the very one that the Executioner had taken off for battle, settling down right on the snow. He didn't feel like doing anything at all. He wasn't sleepy; he hadn't lost that much blood, but he was still in a contemplative mood rather than an active one. As if waiting for him to relax completely, the Mechanism finally came to life, considering this protracted conflict to be over and beginning to reward the earthling according to his exploits. Even an ordinary gifted person would be guaranteed a drop or two here, as the situation was too complicated, and he had solved it alone against a group.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Seven times the Mechanism marked him, filling the bowl in the middle of the icy lake with scarlet gold, adding to the drops already at the bottom. In fact, he would have been damn satisfied even with that, but the Mechanism did not stop at the seven it had given him. Rather, these seven were given to him specifically for the fight, for three battles almost one-on-one, but then came the reward for the overall course of events. For discovering the ambush that turned into a hunt for the hunter, for how he managed to divide the trio and kill them one by one, for his experiments with bone carving, for everything together and separately. And again, the Mechanism remained true to its blessing, showing impressive generosity.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Five more drops fell to the bottom of the cup, flowing down the bones of the horned skull, promising to reveal potential, to initiate into secrets, to give power, just spend what you received, pour it into your own essence. And, at the last moment, as if having thought a little, having decided at the last moment...

Tap.

Tap.

That was the end of the Mechanism's generosity, he did not deserve more. He had enough of what he had received, let's be honest! All the gods of the Earth and all the Dead, he got more in one battle than a coherent group of pumped-up ones collected in a couple of very active Cycles. Or six to eight cycles of relatively quiet ones. If he counted his loot as a whole, including everything he had received since the beginning of the cycle, he felt uncomfortable. It was as if he had received too much, as if he had received not your salary, but the salary of the executive director of the whole office at once, including illegal cashbacks.

And he liked this feeling.

It's nice to be rich, no matter how you look at it... if only it could be legalized, yes. Because the Forum, of course, is not tracked by anyone, he can easily replenish his anonymous account for any amount. But from that account, the money will have to be transferred to a payment account, and in their age of digitalisation, it is tracked in all directions and can be seen through. They won't be able to charge him with anything, because the Treaty, thanks to the Seven, stipulates freedom of trade of Essence and maximum standardization of taxes with regard to money transferred from the ‘forum account’. He had used that account before, when it was small and when not so much, just to teach the algorithms that he was moonlighting on the Forum.

Help someone put together a build they need, put together a short squeeze on a particular topic, or run a tutoring series on LOR or Broken religion. All of this can be paid for through the Forum. And a raise to his salary in his best months was decent enough not to be poor and eat quality mixes, or even natural products. But one thing is a dozen and a half euro-credits, and quite another the sums that are now available to him automatically. Involuntarily recalls jokes of the pre-digital era, when all sorts of criminals and underground oligarchs kept mountains of paper assignments in their homes. Underground billionaires!

He wonders how many of these ‘underground’ ones on Earth now keep tonnes of virtual cash received for essence? There are regular stories about some triplets getting burned at a medical check-up or being caught on video beating up a crowd of some socialist-retentionist gangs in hand-to-hand combat. It's stupid, according to Ilya, because it's one thing to keep anonymity for the reason of possessing something very outstanding and breaking the balance. And it's just bullshit to suffer from distrust of the authorities. This is some kind of protracted teenage rebellion, for God's sake. And if anything, he'll pretend to be a mummy's anarchist to avoid revealing the real secret, yes.

Again, the question is: among those morons who did get spotted as long-time diving individuals, how many of them were the same?

Pretending to be idiots to keep a secret that is dangerous to their lives?

Ilya decided that it was time to get dressed and collect the trophies, as he was lying here naked in an open cloak, counting snowflakes. And those, indifferent to the inner feelings of fools and geniuses alike, silently fall to the ground in a leisurely float. Very, very, very unhurried, as if the whole world were slowing down....

Ah, stop.

The world truly stands still, or rather, it has already stopped moving. Lonely snowflakes have ceased to fall, the wind has died down, and even Ilya-Ilya's heart has stopped beating. And then he experienced the familiar sensation that his soul, his essence, his personality, and everything else that made Ilya who he was had suddenly been hooked and pulled out of his body, carried away somewhere else. Into endless and boundless darkness and emptiness. Once again, he hangs in the middle of the familiar and familiar nothingness, and images of the Mechanism flash before his eyes, evaluating and weighing, and then giving the final result.

The first Cycle in the Broken World is complete, and the Diver is returned to his native world!

Earned drops of Essence: 29

Effect of the First of the Rewards: the amount of drops of Essence brought to the home world is doubled!

Essence drops brought: 58

The Mechanism has noted the outstanding efficiency of the Diver among his peers on the Step!

Additional reward received: two small one-time Gifts of the Great Mechanism!

The Gifts will become available to the Diver upon the next Cycle!

Awaken, Diver, for you are home again!

Ilya certainly did not expect any additional rewards, although their presence is quite logical. Such small and not-so-small gifts are received by the top percentage of Divers who have shown the greatest efficiency during the cycle. Collecting the largest amount of Essence, destroying a particularly dangerous or rare enemy, completing a task from the Mechanism, clearing or raiding a rift or lacuna — there were plenty of ways to raise one's rating. The top percentage of the most effective inhabitants of Earth on the first level received a small Gift, and one-tenth of that percentage received two such Gifts. From the second level onwards, such acts of generosity were no longer carried out; they were only for the ones, until they grew up. However, at higher levels, Gifts were obtained through a slightly different mechanism, with different evaluation criteria.

He doesn't care about the Gifts. They are almost always of little use. A minor blessing for a cycle, equally likely to be relevant and useless. Just a free unit or a little more of Essence, which would appear in the Vessel automatically at the start of a new cycle. Very rarely, there were small but really useful Gifts, like the ability to automatically increase the division of talent of your choice, without spending essence, increasing the flow of Essence, or even an active effect that disappears after use, but can give, say, five seconds of invulnerability. However, such Gifts were rare, and almost never among the smaller ones. There were only four cases of the same Hour of Power registered on the Forum, which allowed the holder of the first stage to acquire the properties of his Twin on Earth for one part at will, resembling a quadruped.

By the way, here's another funny fact: these lucky people were always politely asked to activate this Gift as quickly as possible, preferably under controlled conditions. Perhaps that is why there were so few cases of public or even anonymous acknowledgment of possessing such a treasure. An even more amusing fact: no such gifts for levels higher than the first have been recorded so far, even on the Forum in the anonymous sections, there were only speculations and guesses. Because if a full-fledged five receives such a gift, then for one hour, someone resembling one of the Seven will set foot on Earth. And for obvious reasons, no one wanted this — neither the authorities, nor their opposition, nor even anarchists and Muslim Luddites.

The Mechanism did not lie, because as soon as he read and understood the images he had received, Ilya opened his eyes and stared at the familiar ceiling of his native apartment. His body felt completely normal, but at the same time completely unlike what he had grown accustomed to. Fortunately, the Mechanism does not allow the reflexes of two bodies to overlap, so all the consequences of the transition from the powerful and Hungry body to the ordinary, flesh-and-blood, human body, strictly according to OSHA standards, were limited to a momentary disorientation. Oh yes, his body was also sore, because he had to go to sleep in a bed after all, and not in the middle of the Star of Dreams on a mattress.

"I send all those individuals who claim that sleeping in the Star increases the success of twinbirth to hell. Ilya says gloomily, groaning and creaking slightly as he gets to his feet and tries to stretch his body, while at the same time commanding the smart kitchen to start making coffee while he prepares breakfast. “And I still have to go to work today...”

Glancing longingly at his computer and suppressing the urge to immediately dive into the Forum and start downloading compilations and summaries about his new class, Ilya went about his usual routine. He suppressed the desire to check his account and sell the essence even more—such things should be decided with a clear head and not spontaneously. The Earth welcomed its child, the monitor turned on and displayed the latest news from the real world and the Broken World. Then the newly minted Diver, the winner of the Lottery, the terrifyingly powerful Wendigo, smiled a barely noticeable but sincere smile.

In one thing, the Mechanism's images were absolutely right - he really did return home and was very happy about it.

And any person who values ​​Broken more than Earth, if he didn’t lie about it, is definitely some kind of abnormal.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/589070

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP