Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 8. Что толку бежать от волны цунами трех сотен метров в высоту, стоя прямо на пляже и гарантированно не успевая найти укрытие?

8. What's the point of running from a tsunami wave three hundred meters high, standing right on the beach, and guaranteed not having time to find shelter?

* * *

Irina's call caught him on his way to work, so he had to listen to yet another rambling female monologue filled with thanks, gratitude, and other good wishes. Ira was generous with these wishes, as she was with praise for his advice, which had helped her cope with the difficulties that had arisen after the resurrection of the unfortunate Warlock. She was resurrected outside the city, but literally a couple of kilometers from its walls, in an inconspicuous ditch, on a wide, flat boulder, the edges of which were scorched from the process of creating the resurrected body. There were no witnesses nearby, so the naked girl was temporarily left to her own devices. On the one hand, being resurrected outside the city saved her from many problems, but on the other hand, she had to search for clothes until evening, when a suitable victim appeared nearby.

The girl had suffered enough, so she didn't feel any qualms about killing a random passerby for his clothes, but she was still glad that it didn't come to that. Her victims were a couple of bandits from the glorious city of Not-Baghdad, as she called it, referring to the recently re-released Disney cartoon, who were dragging someone's slaughtered and stripped body to that very ditch. As they say, they came themselves, so there was no need to search for them or torment oneself with moral questions. Crime in the glorious city of Nha-Bahadte was so well under control that if the bodies of the gangsters she had killed were found, there would certainly be someone to blame.

She killed one with a stone to the back, simply smashing his skull, and neatly burned the brains of the second with a Drop of Fire. After that, she crushed his head with a boulder to leave no traces of the unusual wound. Then there was a quick search of the corpses and the privatization of the much higher quality items of the previously killed, and an even quicker departure from the glorious city, back to the familiar dunes, rare oases, and rocky plains, far away from the kind local people. However, now she has a normal map and a rough understanding of her own mistakes, so perhaps she won't get into trouble again. And if she does, it won't be as stupid as the first time.

After saying goodbye to the boastful girl, wishing her luck and all the best, and agreeing to perhaps meet again, Ilya immersed himself in his now familiar routine. Yes, he had won the Lottery and was having all kinds of adventures in Broken using a completely cheaty build, but the tables, the tables, bitch, won't fill themselves. At work, he tried not to get too carried away with the Forum, but certain moments still reached his consciousness. On the first day after the end of the Dive, news from Broken is coming from everywhere. And no one canceled the lunch break. Reading the news on a smartphone is not much more difficult than on a monitor.

He returned home tired and a little angry. The whole office had to stay late, but gradually his anger gave way to curiosity and tension. The end of the eighties was approaching, since the Mechanism had fully arrived on old Earth, and that meant the beginning of the eighty-first year. Nine times nine, as is easy to calculate, and everyone knew about the Ancients' love for the numbers seven and nine. There was still about six months to wait, but the anticipation had already begun and showed no signs of ending. Although he was more interested in seeing the faces of those around him, if nothing happen on that date. Again, the date itself may turn out to be vague or inaccurate, since it is counted from the day of the arrival of general access to the Star of Dreams and the departure of the Seven from Earth into the unknown. What if it were necessary to count from the moment of the initiation of the Seven? Then the date turned out to be hopelessly overdue by about thirty years.

New stories about Broken, new adventures, new scandals, intrigues, and investigations flowed continuously. One of the Earth trios officially announced its intention to move to the fourth stage of development, setting the date for the very start of the next cycle. A couple of other trios also failed in their attempts to break through, which, as you might guess, happens much more often than success, so they will now have to spend a long time recovering from their unsuccessful breakthrough and the negative effects it had. The Earthlings are still lucky. Among them, methods for minimizing the consequences of a failed breakthrough have never been particularly secret. So there were no permanent losses of attributes or reduction in the quality of talents, but it could have crippled Twin so badly that he would have become completely unplayable.

Turning on another podcast, this time with news from a large community of earthlings who were pushing for Mechanist classes of various kinds and builds, Ilya began to lazily think about what to do next. He had a good memory. He remembered the scene he had seen in passing from his diving colleague very clearly. Redrawing the letters from memory was not a difficult task, as he had mastered the basic skills of art as a teenager. The request was sent anonymously to the Forum. He offered a high price, not skimping, so the order was accepted in literally half an hour, and Ilya even allowed three separate translators to work on it. Languages belonging to other worlds, not Broken, are known and even studied on Earth. They are studied precisely for cases like this, yes.

In principle, he could have tried using one of the language models and deciphered the text on his own, but he decided to make his life easier by paying for it. And he was not disappointed. For “only” forty-five credits, fifteen per translator, he received the translation in just an hour and a half, and all three even corrected his mistakes in the redrawing themselves. Well, or they gave him several possible options where he had clearly redrawn something that was not what the unknown Occultist from Boretsaria had meant. He didn't like what he had read very much, but he knew what he would be reading and didn't fall into complete despair. Although he wanted to. Dealing with other divers is always a hassle for both sides. It's difficult, you know, to fight an enemy that can come back to life an unknown number of times.

In the translation of the inscriptions on the tablets obtained from three independent sources, the Occultist was presented as Lyubozar Dolgoleykin, senior clerk of the special royal chancellery under His Excellency's sixth regiment of God's chosen ones. He provided his coordinates at the time of the ritual, his class, and his approximate build. Quite weak and with some missed opportunities, but at the same time reliable and balanced, which sounded like a compliment coming from Ilya. He confirmed his readiness to receive orders from his immediate superior and assured his loyalty to the royal dynasty. And this immediately made Ilya feel discouraged, because the protocols of the Boretsaria's God-chosen regiments on Earth were known almost better than the Boretsarians themselves. Ilya even took, along with everyone else, full modules dedicated to such things, which covered most of the neighboring worlds.

The regiment, which is part of the First Seven and attached to the Special Chancellery, includes relatively reliable and serviceable individuals, as well as minor aristocrats supported by the aristocracy, which is by no means minor, as commanders. And if this fellow is here, then it is highly likely that his colleagues and fellow officers are here as well. Otherwise, he would have no reason to perform the marker ritual. In principle, it is quite possible to send a group of newcomers, binding them together, so that they are born on approximately the same piece of Broken. On Earth, such methods are also known and regularly used. States regularly try to send new working groups this way, and they often even begin to bring in considerable profits. Unfortunately, such a ritual can only be performed for one group of no more than seven individuals. It is not possible to add new fighters to the already sent “bundle”; the next seven will be sent to a new piece of the Broken.

What stopped us was that this method is very expensive, as each such messenger requires an investment of almost four digits, which is much more expensive than the final benefits. There are also unique Gifts, the kind that can be sold or transferred through the Forum or by personal will, which allow you to manipulate “bundles,” but such values are even more expensive. There, the connection limit is a full nine, and they can be born literally at a single point — an incredible advantage. For such a Gift, if you transfer it to the right person, you will be showered with gold and treated like royalty.

But this is not the situation. Which is good.

And bad. Very, very bad.

If seven or three divers from a world that is by no means friendly to Earth, who know each other, suddenly show up at Ilya's place, then that's... bad. It means they've been invested in. It means this group is accompanying someone important and very necessary to the higher ranks of another world. An Occultist with a clearly well-developed build, in the rank of, say, a particularly seasoned sergeant, and from a specific office, will not accompany just anyone and will not bow his head. Ilya really wanted to visit the village-town of Three Adits at the beginning of the next cycle. To find Lyubozar and make him suffer for exactly one life less. He wanted it so badly, but only the distance and possible pursuers stopped him.

"Okay. Let's play a counting game." Standing up and barely restraining himself from kicking an innocent chair, Ilya paces the apartment and frowns with difficult thoughts. "Let's count, there's a seven in the scattered standard. Plus me. Plus an unknown number of someone else, yes. Who?"

The Broken and Almighty Mechanism is quite predictable from a statistical point of view, thanks to which a lot can be learned about the situation around it from indirect clues. Usually, one sector of the Broken Mechanism gives birth to seven to nine Divers, most often from different worlds, one or two individuals from each planet. Most of them die quickly within a few cycles, not lasting even a year, not earning even a couple of drops. But sometimes, if someone tries to activate the “bundle,” the Mechanism can heat things up a bit. In the most extreme cases, it sends two or even three “bundles,” and then things get fun, but there have been fewer recorded cases of this than the fingers on the hand of a machine tool operator who does not follow safety procedures.

The largest number of registered divers per call is seventy-three confirmed individuals. Or rather, as everyone around is sure, it was a sacred eighty-one, a.k.a. nine nines. It's just that some of that crowd died without meeting anyone. However, such a case was registered only once, and the reason for that was a woodpecker with a FaFo indicator higher than five that had sneaked into these nine by nine. Such favorites of Fortune and Fate can sometimes cause such anomalies right at the birth of a Twin, as if attracting smaller destinies with their gravitational field of a larger destiny. This entire mighty crowd, which was later called the Suicide Company, did not live long, because they were thrown into the Broken sector, literally dying under the creatures and filth crawling from all sides. Less than half survived three cycles, six met the ninth cycle, and there was no one to meet the tenth. However, they earned so much essence that it was indecent; if they had time, they could have even tried to go through the ritual of breaking through to the second level.

This is hardly the case here. Otherwise, Ilya would have had a chance to see not just one dream marker, but a greater number of them, but still, the initial number of Divers per sector of the ecumene in his case is higher than the norm. Eighteen or twenty-seven, most likely, but there is no way to guarantee it. But not less, that's for sure. The Mechanism does not like to simplify the lives of individual "bundles", trying to balance their presence with a certain number of Divers from other worlds. So the presence of a couple of earthlings in his sector can also be considered confirmed. Since he opened his eyes there. In many ways, this is even worse for him than the fighting degenerates next to him. The faces of the Twins are very similar to real ones; one attentive individual and AI for creating photofits from a verbal description are enough for the entire Forum to recognize his face.

It's just that they don't usually do that. And in general, publishing other people's diver statuses is one of the Treaty's taboos. But if not the state, but an individual sees the face of Ilya's twin, then creates a portrait and connects facial recognition systems with access to social networks, then they will find him. In fact, divers on Earth find each other much more often than the state finds divers. Or rather, the state "doesn't find" such individuals, but most likely collects information; it simply has no right to use it for its purposes.

Oh, why, why, why couldn't he have been born in the most standard situation possible? So that only seven divers, six of whom quickly retreat to their home world due to the death of the Twin, so that Ilya alone would be in white? Is he asking for that much? He doesn't need more. He doesn't need a group for active pumping, simply receiving drops quickly and easily enough to develop himself even in complete solitude and doing things that are by no means the most profitable in terms of obtaining Essence. And now, here, he will have to prepare for a clash with colleagues, and a clash is guaranteed. If the Boretsarians sent a whole bundle, then it means the bundle has a commander, and they will spend Essence in this way only on royal blood. Such freaks will not tolerate any competitors next to them. Either go and lie down under them, accepting citizenship and taking oaths to a person of royal blood, or you will automatically become their legitimate target.

They wrote the laws for themselves, so everyone who went against their laws automatically became guilty themselves.

At least something from world to world does not want to change, at least something preserves the constancy that pleases the soul.

Again, requests to the Forum. Again, anonymous payments. Again, expenses that would have ruined him before, but now don't even irritate him. New reports and collected information on the Wendigo class arrived, which hadn't been completed in the last cycle. Several very famous specialists posted another set of data in the public domain, this time about pure rituals. He had already successfully bought a considerable part of these records, but now they were still thrown into the public domain, so Ilya saw no reason not to get acquainted, study, and write out individual moments for himself. And no, not the recipe for a very powerful and high-quality love spell ritual that works only on aboriginal women, and the ungifted ones, those that you perceive as beautiful.

But, damn, more than a hundred thousand copies and downloads of the ritual schematic in less than a day. That's where the real power of magic is, and not all these bottomless maws and hungry flames. Although he was studying not just another vulgarity, but that same hungry flame, or rather, the "Hungry Flame" with seven steps, as well as the "Flame of Hunger", also with seven. A very rare type of talents, close to each other, tied to the connection of Hunger and, in fact, Flame. Considering that Hunger is almost always and everywhere tied to his twin brother, Cold, such talents seem truly unique. And quite suitable for one Wendigo, if he, of course, can somehow acquire them.

The records found by the raid group of the Retributers of Word, a considerable community, two hundred and something divers, a very good average indicator of personal power, were parts of the diaries of an ancient gifted one. The one who possessed both of these talents successfully described how he developed them and what he received from certain aspects of enhancement. And also, which is no less valuable, scrupulously listed the improvements that he missed, also explaining the reasons why he did not choose them. Ilya found such reading so interesting that he again sat until late, almost falling asleep in his chair, and then went to work exhausted. It is at such moments that you furiously envy your own Gemini, who can sleep three hours for three days without any problems with health and concentration!

That's how time passed until the beginning of the next cycle, coming thirty-three days after the end of the last one. There was plenty of time to gather more information about Boretsarium and what was going on there now. Access to other Forums belonging to other worlds is very limited and only opens from the fourth or, in rare cases, the third level. In theory, his Essence reserves are more than enough to buy the time of one of these people. So that they would spend their time on the otherworldly Forums, very limited and with a limited number of visited topics, on his orders. But even all his reserves would not be enough for all the wants that he had collected by this moment.

He wasn't going to deprive himself of all his savings for the sake of questions that were not of the first importance. It was unlikely that a direct list of all the "links" would be found in the freely accessible sections of that Forum, as well as the builds of those who were in those links, supplemented with the current coordinates of the enemy divers. And if it were found, it only meant that his opponents were absolute, outrageous, completely unteachable morons, and therefore there was no point in worrying about them anyway. Such individuals would die peacefully without his participation, and all he would have left to do was cry over the missing graves.

Only a firm conviction was maturing in Ilya that these particular aliens, who turned out to be his involuntary neighbors, no matter how cruel and vile they were, were in no way idiots.

* * *

The time between dives passed quite calmly, the enthusiasm from his feat to save the beautiful lady diminished even more, and they almost stopped pestering him with questions about the Broken. It was a pity, after all, he liked to educate everyone who wanted to, and he had enough tact not to try to educate those who did not want to be educated. He was not a fan of the latest, or any other, edition of Warhammer, really! The only thing that changed was Mal'n'kov's attitude, who suddenly began to treat Ilya noticeably more pleasantly and even said hello when they met. Considering his usually disdainful attitude towards the little people swarming around, it was a cognitive dissonance.

The template was torn, to put it simply.

It feels like the guy once wanted to do the Deed himself and help the beautiful stranger, but failed and now compensates for this omission, as if touching someone else's "great feat". The version in which Ilya simply sees blue curtains and enjoys the syndrome of searching for deep meaning in everyday trifles seems much more likely. Most likely, Malenkov simply did not know about Ilya's existence until now, but then he saw and remembered. The diver's salary did not increase at all from such an attitude and respectful treatment from the authorities, if anything. It would be better to continue to look at him as shit, but raise the payments so that Ilya would have the opportunity to spend more without attracting suspicion.

Communication with Irina did not disappear, although it seemed that both parties did nothing to continue that communication. Sometimes she would call with a question on some topic, especially remembered for a requested lecture on the topic of fashion in relation to women's clothing of different cultural strata of the Broken. Well, okay, not exactly requested, but Ilya intuitively felt that Irina, who had embarked on the path of either war or an upcoming costume party of cosplayers, would not forgive him for his silence or refusal to talk. Sometimes Ilya himself would casually throw out a funny joke based on real events, which would result in another conversation for ten minutes. Nothing that could be called a relationship of any kind, but still, they remembered each other.

Before diving into a new dive, he again set aside some time for the necessary rest, and this time not a day, but three. Not out of laziness, he simply checked and read everything possible, and he didn’t need anything else for the dive. In principle, until the moment of starting to work on pumping the later steps of talents and preparing for a breakthrough to the second stage, he doesn’t need to learn anything fundamentally new. He doesn’t need to know about his current build, but otherwise, of course, he will constantly have to search for information on this or that topic, depending on what exactly will happen in Broken.

He did not ignore his personal gift lacuna. A considerable part of the information he purchased related to it. Having a good idea of the approximate plan of that lacuna, the list of opponents inside, as well as the main key images, he could extract a lot of information about this rotting abscess. By this time, the Earthlings had cleared out an insanely huge number of all sorts of lacunas. In no less number of these, they had received a harsh rebuff, or had completely run out. They had studied so many more lacunas taken together and multiplied by the nth degree from the records of the natives, historical chronicles, and ancient archives. Roughly speaking, they knew if not everything, then a lot, so much that almost the same “everything” about how to deal with these or those first-stage lacunas.

High-level lacunae are always unique, but even the first stage of such has features of some uniqueness; unique history and memory are the essence and nature of the lacuna. At the same time, just the first stages, no matter how hard they try to show their uniqueness, are studied so well that it is extremely difficult not to find an analogue, something similar, already disassembled into bricks and tactical tables with schemes. Corpse eaters, location of the subtype "labyrinth", the axis in the form of a eaten out corpse pit, between the first and second stages, the presence among the eaten out remains of divine power belonging to the Guide of the Lost is likely, the presence of remains of theurgic mysteries of the devoured corpse of the servant of the divine is also likely. Enter a request and enjoy tens and hundreds of pages of available matches on the Forum.

Even if a significant part of what was seen turned out to be dross or primitive retellings of the main blogs-encyclopedias, there were pearls of pure knowledge in this trough. And those same encyclopedias should not be underestimated. They will show you where to look, even if you do not find what you need. The main thing is to somehow communicate with the eternally busy experts of the section, who have the highest rating of useful answers. There, sometimes, such self-importance develops in half with pride flowing beyond any framework, that some fours or even fives have much or even orders of magnitude less show-off when communicating. Ilya knows this for sure, because he sits on most of these encyclopedias, also sometimes answering questions from newbies, constantly struggling with his show-off.

I hope he doesn't turn into the same asshole.

According to the tradition that had begun to take shape, before diving, he looked through blogs with jokes based exclusively on real events. As always, real events in Broken sometimes surpassed even the most fabulous jokes in delusion. Although the story about the dead granny successfully ended with the earthling escaping to the other end of his piece of the oikumene, other incidents happened all the time. For example, a very detailed description of the story that happened to one small detachment of earthlings was posted on the Forum. Not even a community with its own heart, no, a detachment that met each other in the vastness of Broken and decided to burn and survive together. The story, full of extremely inventive obscenities, told how the entertainment of one of the five earthlings ended. In total, by the way, there were six divers in the group, one of them just happened to be from another world, having sworn allegiance to the leader of the group.

However, returning to the adventures of the young Spellmancer, he was a great lover of female beauty and was not at all embarrassed to take that beauty, regardless of the desires of the taken. He did without rape, but let's be honest, it is not the Spellmancer who can complain about the lack of supernaturally effective means of persuading the opposite and not-so-opposite sex. Among the elementary classes, only the Dreamers wash the brains more often than they. In fairness, his build itself turned out to be sharpened in thunder and lightning strikes, and not mental, but there was one extremely funny thing, a weak relic, obtained with a fight in one small and barely emerging gap. A full description of the relic was not given in the story, but its effect has long been unraveled. Something like a charming suggestion, super-effective hypnosis combined with increased gullibility and amorousness in the target.

There were more than enough ungifted natives, and no one expressed displeasure with such things, neither natives nor even earthlings. Why, if you can quarrel with a good damage dealer and summoner, while there is practically no benefit? That is, the only girl in the squad, of course, promised to tear off the balls several times in a row, as soon as her comrade activated the thing near her, but no more. And then the boy played too much, became impudent and lost his head a little, alas, figuratively, not literally. Some special medicinal tincture on mushrooms removed the curse from him, received from a very powerful undead, but greatly reduced his rationality.

If we are to be impartial, then the two granddaughters of the strongest gifted of the entire Ovirolc Satrapy, which could be considered an analogue of a very large duchy or a small kingdom-khanate, should not have been hanging around in the most seedy places of the city. They should not have been high on some smoking mixture, from which the resistance of the two gifted to mental and other effects dropped to minus values. They should not have, having smoked, run away far from the guards, deceiving them with their own illusions-phantoms. And, of course, the two girls should not have fallen for the stupidest pick-up line of an equally stoned earthling, finding themselves under the effect of his relic.

The night turned out to be exceptionally glorious for three individuals who did not observe the rules of safe behavior under the influence of stimulants. And everything would have been fine, but the morning came and two beautiful oriental-looking girls realized that they had been, to put it mildly, fucked in all their orifices not entirely of their own free will. Which is doubly offensive, because they were in such a state that even without the amulet-relic, they would have agreed to everything that happened if the earthling had shown a little eloquence and the ability to give compliments. Not that this helped him to avoid revenge for his dishonor, but the fact itself is important. The proud son of the third planet from the Sun managed to escape their wrath, covering himself with an air shield and calling for help from war birds, with which he distracted the slightly hungover couple that so thirsted for his blood and torment.

Then the granddaughters themselves came to their senses a little and admitted that they didn't want the boy to die immediately, or to die at all, because it was fun, and they themselves didn't even notice the control, largely because they didn't do anything under it that they themselves didn't want to do. The morals of the gifted can be very different, from completely puritanical to, well, like this. And everything would have been fine with the earthling; at most, he would have had to do some kind of favor for the satrapy and the supreme sorceress of that satrapy. But the situation became public knowledge too quickly, and the grandmother, like the mother, like the granddaughters, simply couldn't help but respond in such a situation. Here, the funny part of the story would have ended, and it would have been time for the boring and gloomy part. Another group of earthlings, killed outright by the natives of the Broken, with no chance of revival.

It would have ended. The grandmother, who looks simply stunning, by the way, despite the fact that she is almost three hundred years old, turned out to be not a fool. And she did not want to ruin the very good and useful Earthling raiders-miners who worked for her, even indirectly. Apologies were made, and a formal punishment was imposed; in exchange, the life and health of the culprit were promised. The earthlings breathed a sigh of relief. So that the next cycle, the culprit would feel slightly unwell, lie down to sleep, wake up, tell everyone that he was going for a walk, and disappear forever until the end of the cycle. It took the guys a while to realize that he was most likely hooked by active somnambulism. The mother of two daughters was not the worst Dreamer in the class. The earthlings no longer knew whether to flee the city or try to rescue their comrade, but the grandmother calmed them all down, solemnly declaring that everything was fine with their comrade, confirming her words with an oath on the name and small altar of one of the Dead.

And indeed. He returned alive and well. But the kind granny successfully performed not just an operation, but literally a complete ritual transformation, turning a male earthling into a female earthling. The funniest thing here is that his brain was in perfect order and there was no desynchronization, but it could not help. No cancellation of the spell will help against such a trick, because the body and even the aura of the Spellmancer became feminine in all respects. After all, the granny had the third stage, or even the fourth, it was not known for sure! In general, the relic, which now began to affect the owner too, had to be quickly disposed of, and the only girl in the earthling team received a reason for absolutely endless teasing.

In fact, it was this comrade of the victim who described the whole story on the Forum, at the same time confirming its veracity, which is why the comrade threatened to kill her in both worlds if he met her. After that, it would be hard to imagine this group falling apart with all the internal strife. But, damn, it turned out really funny, especially in the retelling of a direct witness, who also attached "before" and "after" pictures to her messages. From Ilya's point of view, the asshole with the amulet became even more attractive after the procedure, but that's just a fleeting thought.

Having laughed at other people's problems, having forgotten about his problems for a while, Ilya, for a short moment, became almost the happiest person in the world. Perhaps even in two worlds at once. So when the phone rang and Ira, tormented by doubts and fears about a new dive, suggested going somewhere to sit, Ilya agreed almost without thinking. Practice showed that they both played bowling terribly, and the idea of going to a familiar club just to try it out was complete idiocy. Next time they decided to go mini-golf, and Ilya even promised himself to learn the rules of that very golf for this. But for now, he only knows that a club is convenient for fighting off pressing small bandits armed with dangerous, but shorter knives.

Oh, these memories of a wild youth, but Seryoga was on top with a club then; he carried the whole fight on his shoulders. Then, eighteen-year-old Ilya was still wondering why the hell his friend had dragged that bag with a set of equipment for playing golf with him? After all, they were going to one of the semi-legal clubs to dance, and not to a fight or a sports ground. Seryoga had already successfully learned about the world then, and after which the world became absolutely clear to him, even if others did not understand. After all, he did not doubt that there would be a fight. Irina, as he openly retold this many-year-old story, laughed so much that she almost fell off her chair.

To be fair, the four of them, who found themselves with golf clubs against eight brutes who had pumped up their muscles in a free social welfare gym, didn’t find it funny at all.

The evening continued and ended in a bed shared by two, and in the morning, almost a day before the dive, Ilya decided to walk around the park area. Or rather, first they both woke up in the middle of the night from the loud music of the neighbors upstairs, who were also celebrating and drinking, went to a joint shower, and with some chagrin kissed Ilya goodbye, sending him home, because Irina also had something to get ready for. It was very early in the morning, and almost all of humanity in their native agglomeration was dozing in their apartments, seeing sweet dreams. The dawn would have been beautiful if it could have been seen behind the multi-story titans of steel, glass, and concrete that surrounded the park, pressing on it with their multi-ton bodies. Sitting down on a bench, sipping a refreshing soda bought from a machine, Ilya understood that he really felt better when he managed to dive and create a Twin.

All that tension, worry, doubts about himself and his common sense, they weighed on him, weighed on him constantly and inexorably. He got used to it, managed, overcame it, and all that, but only after getting rid of the burden was he able to breathe deeply. Only after visiting Broken, fighting for your life and the right to it, do you really begin to appreciate the good old garbage dump in which the real you lives. Or maybe not real anymore, maybe the Twin in this story is an earthling? One can't help but wonder how many divers have thought of such thoughts before the attic went to hell? Surely it would be enough to populate a small town in Broken, or even a fairly large one, yes. If not a county right away.

Ilya sat and breathed in the air, sipping a sweet and sour liquid; he almost didn't pay attention to the strange sound, like a click and a light knock. But he saw a flash, with which the camera, looking straight at him on the wall of a cafe that hadn't yet opened, sparked and turned off. He paid no more attention. Breakdowns happen with technology; how could they not happen? But then the sound was repeated, as was the flash somewhere on the periphery of perception, after which Ilya was seriously tense. Of course, he is no longer very young, but he remembers well how gangs of punks ensure the absence of witnesses to their attacks and robberies, if such take place in relatively decent areas or simply where the cameras are untouched.

The targeted attack on cameras is in the very first lines, yes.

He was very embarrassed that he was now in the actual city center, where such people generally do not like to go, but when it comes to it, they behave extremely decently. They do not like to be sent to social work for hooliganism, get a mark of unreliability, or have their social security payments cut. In general, Ilya quite reasonably and expectedly did not expect such people here, especially in the middle of the night. What did they want, to break benches or leave offensive graffiti on the wall of a cafe? He acutely regretted that he had not carried a knife, a telescopic baton, or brass knuckles disguised as souvenirs for ten years. Having generously sipped soda, he began to get up to go out in front of the cameras again and not check whether they decided to play hooligan here or rob an early-late passerby. The mood was so good, why spoil it?

Unfortunately, you can ruin your mood not only with your actions.

"Hello, Ilchik, how are you, how are you, what are we sitting here for, who are we waiting for?" The voice turned out to be very vaguely familiar and did not belong to his work colleagues or his few friends who could call him by his old student nickname and not get a punch in the face. "Why don't you say hello, huh, or are you pissing yourself quietly?"

Ilya didn't exactly piss himself, but he understood the seriousness of the situation immediately when he saw his interlocutor, his figure and face in the rays of the park lights switched to night mode and therefore barely shining. If he had tried, he would have even remembered the name of the athletically built guy who had addressed him, with a pumped-up figure, wheat-golden hair, and that expression on his face with which they could very well beat him up. Not beat him up, not count his ribs, not massage his guts, but just stupidly and immediately take and put his opponent in a coffin. There was no grin, no broad-back syndrome, no typical signs of bullying, only a face pale from anger, covered in red spots, twitching nostrils, and a voice that sounded even with difficulty.

The overall combat look was complemented by a warm jacket with wide sleeves, dressed not quite for the weather, in which you can easily hide anything, even a small homemade or illegally bought gun. And a communication jammer, if you take it seriously, immediately turns off the cameras by remote action. Ilya did not even look at the phone or smartwatch, because he knew roughly that he would see the lack of connection there. He wondered if this guy was just looking for him or somehow found out that the diver was leaving the apartment of the same diver? It will be funny if it turns out that this guy also installed a surveillance camera next to her house, purely out of the best stalker intentions. Although no, this is not funny at all, really.

The situation is a complete mess if you think about it. They could easily kill him for no reason at all, leaving him with only Broken, in which he will be locked forever. Honestly, it’s still a question whether it will be any better than permanent death. And it’s all Maria’s, Mashenka’s, Mashunciy’s fault, bitch! If it weren’t for her jokes, he wouldn’t have met Irina, wouldn’t have gotten between this king of the friend zone and his passion, and wouldn’t have found himself under the threat of dying at the hands of a jealous moron. The situation is a mess, and, as always happens in such situations, Ilya’s brain began to work much more actively than in normal situations. Not a second had passed since the end of the “greeting phrase,” as Ilya was already answering.

Calmly, a little tiredly and completely without fear, only with the slightest shadow of bewilderment.

"Who are you?" The inner psychologist patted Ilya on the shoulder because this phrase made the jealous man's balls go completely crazy, and he immediately lost the rest of his self-control.

Then everything happened very quickly, as happens in those moments when your whole life depends on one extra movement. The blond struck silently and sharply, immediately to death, shaking a weighted telescopic baton with a shock element out of his sleeve and hitting the temple of the man sitting on the bench. If the element was also modified, then the charge there could well be immediately fatal. It’s good that the victim of the blow was no longer there, because in one movement, he slid down and to the side, throwing a half-empty soda can in the face and going to the opponent’s feet. The blow to the head never landed, and an instant later they both fell in a heap, striking wherever they could, so that another thirty seconds later Ilya was simply thrown away by a well-placed kick to the chest.

The folding baton fell with a quiet ringing sound onto the paving slabs, and both sides of the conflict immediately looked at it. The jealous man rushed to the weapon, and Ilya, realizing that he would not have time to grab it and get up, simply kicked the baton into the bushes. Then he had to use his fists, so to speak, but that was good, much worse than if the freak had pulled out a firearm of any kind from his sleeves. However, the opponent coped even without a weapon, because he was simply physically stronger, and also clearly professionally engaged in some kind of mixed martial arts.

Ilya missed a blow to the thigh and a deuce to the head, but he worked on experience, breaking the distance and thereby making a mistake, because in addition to the baton, the individual who came for his head also had a knife. Oddly enough, but it was the time spent on taking out and opening the butterfly knife, literally a second and a bit, that gave Ilya the opportunity to come to his senses and silently throw off his jacket, wrapping it around his hand and then grabbing the enemy's striking limb. And what did he want? Ilya is not a pro, but he also trained, albeit more in simulators, but in real combat, and not in sports hand-to-hand combat according to the rules. Against the knife, he worked right out of ten, immediately yanking the jacket towards himself and simultaneously kicking. It hurt just from the sound with which the younger asshole's hand met the older asshole's boot.

The good news is that he dropped the knife and the bone in his hand probably cracked. The bad news is that the kick to the knee with the toe of his boot was a real treat, and Ilya's eyes filled with tears from the pain. Again, a convergence, quick swings of the fists, mostly with the healthy hand, and the limping Ilya, who can't keep up with his opponent, mostly blocks, retreats, and, as expected, misses a blow to the cheekbone. Also delivered with a healthy hand. A flash of light in his head, and he comes to his senses from the fact that someone is leaning on him from above and starting to strangle him, first with one hand, and then the other one is also stretched out to his throat. What happened next was not even reflexes or training, but rather a flash of memories of Broken, where comparatively recently someone's hands were also reaching for Ilya's throat.

He himself did not understand how he managed to shift and slip away, but the second limb was squeezed between his teeth. Right between the index finger and the thumb, and the "between" very quickly became thinner when Ilya's bite reached the meat and veins. Now he howled in pain, for the first time since the beginning of their fight, reflexively pulling his hand out of the jaws' grip and removing his other hand from his neck to hit the almost finished off Ilya in the head. The almost finished off one took advantage of the moment, unclenched his teeth and pulled the bastard towards himself, taking the only working hand to break, arching his whole body and, under the growling and angry swearing of his opponent, bringing that break to its logical conclusion.

It seems he survived.

It seems he wasn't even hurt.

It seems he seriously wants to kill Maria.

It seems that he needs to secure the broken Romeo and call the police.

* * *

He walked home from the hospital extremely thoughtful, leaning on a stylish and very elegant cane, because he had hurt his knee. The doctor prescribed not to put any weight on it for at least two or three weeks. Ilya went and ordered the accessory he had chosen from the catalog, his thoughts being anywhere but in that very hospital. In fact, he was lucky not only to survive, but also to get away with minimal consequences for his health and criminal liability. A bitten palm, a closed fracture of the hand, as well as the second arm, was completely torn out of the elbow and shoulder joint - this could well pass for excessive self-defense. It would be enough to run into an overly meticulous investigator who followed the letter of the law, and that's it, hello entry into civilian status.

Fortunately, three things played in his favor, deciding the outcome of the proceedings after the end of the fight for life, or at least the absence of disability strictly in his favor. First, civil status. Oleg Gorelkin, as it turned out, belonged to a social stratum that was not as prosperous as the victim himself. Not a cut-off person and certainly not a social support consumer, but one of those who can be thrown into them at any moment, especially considering several previous administrative charges under very different articles. Ilya could also boast of such, but not to such an extent and not for such serious reasons, and he had settled down a long time ago.

Secondly, the asshole didn't do a good job when he destroyed or deactivated the cameras. One of them turned out to be vandal-proof, continuing to film after being hit by a not-so-powerful burner, having filmed, albeit not very clearly, their great battle. Well, and the very fact that the asshole was found with illegal homebrew equipment and that he was the one who initially used it, having been caught on camera, played a role. If you start to turn off surveillance in a section of space for some reason, then you are hardly planning anything good. And bad boy Oleg worked with such equipment for the first time in the very center, where there are too many cameras, and they overlap each other, which makes knocking them all out unnoticed a more difficult task than the standard one.

Thirdly, the final nail in someone else's hope of getting off or getting away with a simple domestic fight was all the same cameras. As has already been noted, this genius of criminal activity clearly had some experience, but it is one thing to work in high-crime areas, where there are almost no cameras, and quite another in decent areas of the city. His path was followed from beginning to end, including the moment of installing a camera in front of the entrance to Irina's apartment, at the entrance to her building, as well as in the apartment itself, which he opened by forging an electronic key and then clearing the visitor log. Irina herself told him this, and strictly in obscene language, especially when a couple of tired operatives pulled out a disguised camera in the ventilation hole above the shower.

In short, everything ended well, although Irina was pretty nervous, and so was Ilya himself. There were about two hours left before the dive, when he was finally allowed to go home. It might have seemed to him, but it felt like a couple of investigators were deliberately stalling for time and watching his reaction. Well, yes, that makes sense. There was Irina’s “conspiracy” and the fact that her “good acquaintance and old friend” Oleg, was not silent about the lady diving. So they suspected Ilya of it, but they picked the wrong guy. He behaved calmly, like a boa constrictor, had an answer to every question, and the knee injury did not require hospitalization anyway, so they could not detain him officially. And if they tried to do something unofficially, the Treaty would start to creep in the back door, and not even to these two, but to their superiors.

By the way, it was he who had to calm Ira down. She was seriously scared that she had been “caught” and would now be forced to officially register. Diving, or to be more precise, Essential Law, is practically identical all over the world, since it is based primarily on the Treaty. And, according to this law, Oleg’s accusations of unregistered diving practices were worth nothing. Especially from a person who wished ill will towards the girl, and who was also caught red-handed. Although in fact, of course, they all understood, as they knew before, they are just pretending to believe, as long as Irina is not doing anything illegal. Ilya was not doing anything illegal either, and he answered questions very clearly. He even showed an electronic diploma from a LAU, so that they would be absolutely sure that he had the necessary qualifications for communicating and “communicating” with Irina. Officially, however, they were not asking this at all and did not even directly hint that they knew about the “little secret” of one blonde.

He entered his house half an hour before the dive and crawled into the apartment already feeling sleepy, but without interrupting the conversation with Irina. She had already made her bed and was getting ready for the dive, but she did not want to seem like a completely heartless beast. Like, her friend and lover was almost killed, and she can’t even talk to him normally because she needs to run. Well, he understands why and where she needs to run. As Ilya understood, she understood that she was most likely identified, otherwise she would at least have changed her style of clothing and would have been more involved in the conspiracy. It was just a form of protest for her, and she did not want to go through a bunch of official bureaucracy with registration, and it is not clear what more. In the end, they limited themselves to a conversation on the phone, which suited both sides of that conversation.

"You see, I didn’t expect it at all. I mean, I knew he had a crush on me when he was a teenager, but, fuck, we were all brats back then!" His bewilderment seemed quite sincere to him, although he wasn’t trying to catch her in a lie, letting her talk more. "No, don’t get me wrong, if he’d really hit on me, I would have fallen for it. He’s a normal guy, well, he seemed like one, yeah. He’s definitely not a freak. But he never even invited me out for a date, fuck! And then, he almost kills you, and I’m fucking shocked by the number of cameras in my house! And I was the one who moved in, well, when I started earning more. Fuck, how much of this shit was in my last place? And where the fuck did he even get all this hardware from? I googled it here, and it's not cheap at all, you understand?"

The yawn that interrupted the girl's emotional monologue was more than anything else a sign that the time was near. Ilya understood perfectly well that Irina simply needed to calm her nerves, and she was also afraid that some inadequate male could start pestering her and pursuing her not only in Broken, but also on Earth. Ilya, to be honest, also felt uncomfortable because during this "cycle" they tried to kill him both there and here. They said goodbye only when the girl had already begun to fall asleep, and as soon as the phone was hung up, Ilya himself yawned widely, quickly washed his face, threw off his clothes, trying not to touch his knee and aching cheekbone, and then lay down on the bed and sank into the sleep that was rolling over him. It seemed that not even a second had passed before the cozy and almost familiar darkness took Ilya into its arms.

Minor One-Time Gift of the Great Mechanism: A drop of Essence has fallen into your Vessel of Eternity.

Ilya didn't even have time to blink before the vision of the altar and the lake came to him, adding a gift from the Mechanism to the already existing reserves. He didn't even stumble, calmly finishing the step in the middle of which the end of the cycle found him, and only then stopped, listening and looking into himself. He undoubtedly liked what he saw, although he would have liked to receive not a drop, but a dozen at once, or even a whole hundred, because why not, eh? Let's have a thousand at once!

Tap.

Seven drops out of ten are already there, and there is not much time left until the next increase in the talent rank. If he is lucky, he will close it even in this Cycle. And if he is unlucky, he will have to collect much more than three drops. Only then will the question arise of whether Ilya will be able to survive after such generosity of the Mechanism. Otherwise, it will be like in that fable about Simon White, one of the Citadel five. They say that while still on the second level, he somehow fell into a very insidious lacuna, and together with three of his comrades-subordinates. And now they are standing in the middle of the gap, and hundreds and hundreds of dead people are emerging from under the ground. Then Simon, they say, said the very phrase that is poked in every film adaptation of his and his comrades' biographies. Like, guys, we are rich!

True, those who were with him then later said that he said this phrase not enthusiastically and joyfully, with readiness for battle and victory, but stuttering from horror and trying hard to joke. But who cares about such trifles, right? The main thing is to sell a nice picture to people, so that they download paid copies of holofilms or even go to the cinemas for the outdated 3D.

Having shaken himself off his sad thoughts, Ilya silently continued to move forward, to the glorious city of Lazyones, where he expected to find part of what he needed so much in Broken. Characteristically, he got there completely calmly and without incident, if you don’t count hunting for another deer. Wolves howled in the distance a couple of times, and once something very large and scary, but it didn’t come to visit Ilya. On the third morning from the beginning of the cycle, he was already hiding his belongings in a hiding place under a rock. And then, standing on that rock, he saw the city walls in the distance, ready to meet another fortune seeker. And, if he were careless, to eat him.

The gates through which Ilya entered turned out to be noticeably more impressive than those at the entrance to Verkhnokamenny. They turned out to be wider and simply more beautiful. Even the gate arch itself was made in the form of a huge mouth of a broadly smiling, good-natured, fat man. Only because of the age of the figured stonework, as well as the snow that had piled up here and there, which changed the appearance of the exhibition, this mouth did not look good-natured at all. As if you were stepping right into the mouth of a huge giant, who was about to slam his jaws shut and feast on human flesh. And horse meat. And donkey meat. In short, it would feast on everything that came into it.

There were birds in cages here too, only there were more of them, and the birds themselves were larger, more thoroughbred, even shiny and chirping loudly. And the inspection was not limited to birds alone. The guards were not idle either, checking this or that cart every now and then, albeit not very carefully. The morning line turned out to be long, but it moved very quickly. The efficiency of those same guards and the comparative politeness of the line had an effect. In the sense that no one rushed ahead of everyone else, and those who rushed were unconditionally let through, because they had the right to do so. Ilya knew about this attraction even from the memory of the Twin, and Razz told it just before he left. The point is that about thirty years ago, in a mob at the entrance, some degenerates stabbed to death the beloved son of one of the city bosses.

The son, however, was also not very smart, having pushed through the longest line and not using a separate passage, although it could have simply been blocked or out of order; the informant did not know this, and he was an even bigger fool because he temporarily found himself without the cover of his retinue. But after all those involved were executed, in various unpleasant ways, exemplary order was restored at the gates, and those who went out of turn were fined so much that one could go broke. In extreme cases, it was allowed to completely kill such people, and the investigation would be as gentle as possible and favorable to the one who had done the killing. Ilya did not like to push his way out of line anyway, and here he became the embodiment of modesty.

Having thrust a copper leaf into the guard's hand, the standard fee for entering the city from a pedestrian traveler, he found himself beyond the walls. And at the same time, he was ready to swear that here, in Lazy, some kind of magic was present in the walls, and strong. And, what's worse, active, constantly in action. Well, a different scale, a different everything. There were no gifted ones at the entrance, or such were under invisibility, which is also possible. A couple of places, as if created for a living scanner to settle there with some comfort, observing and not getting hit by an accidental push, were noticed right away. And these are only those that he noticed, being still not a pro, but a very well-read newbie!

Another quest to find a suitable inn. Once again, Wendigo's keen sense of smell came to the rescue - move in wherever the smell of sour and rotten is weaker than anywhere else. Well, if the rent doesn't become completely astronomical, unaffordable for the chosen image of the earthling. Either FaFo shot up again, or he was just "lucky", but he almost became a participant in a textbook tavern brawl as soon as he went down to the common room after receiving the key to the little room and ordering a barrel of water, maybe not even heated. Literally, he had just sat down, ordered food, and then a wave of the smell of onions and cheap home-brew washed over him, and some jerk was already telling him exactly what he would do to him because Ilya dared to look at his lady.

Ilya, by the way, didn't see a single woman in this hall. Even the waiters were gloomy men, according to tradition, if we are talking about "combat" inns. That is, about those where people who live by the knife or axe gather, although this tradition is not always working. For some owners of such houses, the profit from easily accessible girls seems tempting enough to take the risk. To risk paying a fine for corpses and cleaning up after the pogroms that begin if militant mercenaries quarrel over a woman. It is also worth adding that this rule applies only to "combat" inns, and not just those that welcome all sorts of militant rabble. Those inns where mercenaries do not just drink away their fees, but wait for hire or look for work. In such places, it is considered bad form to even just get drunk; this only happens after the case is closed.

Or get drunk, have a good time, and sniff all sorts of magic powders from the vast butts of tavern waitresses not here, but in a more suitable establishment.

So, this completely drunk individual obviously mistook Ilya for someone else, immediately deciding either to rob him under a “legal” pretext, or just to scratch his fists. Having caught a slight feeling of deja vu, having almost died at the hands of a jealous fool in the real world, the earthling could not restrain himself a little, silently put aside the plate of porridge, stood up, and then blocked a very precise and well-placed blow to the ear, and gave his opponent a quick two to the jaw. There was no anti-personnel mine under the bushy beard of the drunken troublemaker; he lay down to take a nap like a baby. It would have been high time for his other buddies to roll up their sleeves and try to kick the loner with shouts of “why did you offend our friend!?”, but it did not happen.

"This time it was a bit too fast." The individual with whom the asshole who had just gone to rest had been drinking said, offendedly, finishing off someone else's glass. "But you did it cool, for sure."

Ilya expressed his question with just one eloquent look, but they quickly explained to him that he was offended by a local idiot who had an amazing ability to lose all fear even after sniffing a little alcohol. And also incredible health, because he still does not piss in his pants and actively earns money for booze, even after getting hit on the head so many times. That is why they do not kick him out, because he is cool and is considered a mascot of the establishment. They say, pouring Zenka Jealous before business is like a good prayer for luck. And he, for how many years now, since his wife left him for another, in every unfamiliar face sees that same other one.

Ilya shuddered noticeably at the phrase "prayer for luck", and he firmly decided that he would definitely not buy a drink for this guy. But he managed to hear a very funny story about how Zenka had somehow acquired a talent, three steps in all, allowing him to quickly recover from beatings and not suffer from head injuries. Well, limited to not suffer, if you consider the current state of the still unconscious fool. Ilya felt a little ashamed of beating up the invalid, but he still couldn't react otherwise.

"Of course, many people hunt the beasts. Sometimes in whole teams." The man sang like a nightingale, with whom they had jointly ordered a large jug of strong wine to drink to the health of the head of the Jealous Man, who had come to his senses and left. "But you shouldn't go into the Ridge alone. I really don't advise it. All that's nearby has long been taken apart by various groups. If you go to them, they'll skin you and leave you skinned in the snow... And further on, there are not only beasts. No, no, they wander to us too. Look, just nine days ago, the guards killed a fierce monster that had climbed the wall, but there, in the Wastelands, there are too many of them. They go there too, but there, heh-heh, the throat-cutters are more terrible than you and me, even gifted masters don't disdain to visit in the Ridge."

Ilya saw perfectly well that his interlocutor would be glad to join such tough cutthroats, but they didn't need him; they had a high entry threshold and mostly family contracts. Fathers, sons, brothers, sometimes even grandfathers, who had known each other all their lives and were ready to cover for each other if something happened. Or a fully hired squad of professionals, financed by someone and handing over the loot strictly to one address. They also don't accept outsiders, only on recommendation, which is not surprising. To hunt creatures or collect those herbs and minerals that grow in the depths of the Spine, you need equipment. And from a newbie killed in the back, even with a minimal set of necessary equipment, you can take several blossoms and a couple of handfuls of petals.

"Well. Well, I won't be sticking my nose in among the beasts, then." The new dialect, typical of the farmers of this section of the Broken, betrayed him as a hunter, as did the equipment he had chosen to enter the city. "I know what happens when Bowstringer collides with a beast? If you don't rush, don't be greedy, and, you know, run on time, you can earn money, then."

And not a drop of lies. After all, even an ungifted person can, if he has the right skills, personal ones, not from the Mechanism, and also wisely spend the three or four talents available to an ungifted person. After all, he plays the role of a resident of the same villages and farms, from which the family squads of hunters come. Only such squads are based on several separate large villages, where children are trained from childhood to pluck petals in the wastelands, and on distant farms... in general, those hunters who came from these farms, which are hunters, not peasants, who are still alive, are considered complete scumbags. Ilya could only hope that his speech and behavior markers correspond to the original, but he seems to be doing it.

And if he manages to hold the image, then they will expect him to hunt alone, maybe even for creatures. Over time, it will be possible to take more and more cool prey, and then give a few hints that he managed to become gifted while wandering the wastelands of the Ridge. He found, they say, some ruins, a pool, an altar, or all of this together, and turned out to be gifted. But this is for the most extreme case, if he has to reveal himself. They will immediately try to drag him into local showdowns, because an ownerless gifted one from the rabble simply asks for a forceful or not-so-forceful recruitment. However, to be fair, very often they recruit quite honestly, especially if you present yourself properly. An offer, and in response, an agreement to the set conditions.

But this is Broken, damn it! For every story of normal cooperation with the natives, there are at best an equal number of stories in which earthlings are tried to be fucked, screwed, thrown over, or vulgarly slaughtered for the sake of entrails and essence. So caution and only caution. Check a hundred times. Decide once not to risk if there is a possibility of avoiding the risk. With his peculiarities in accumulating drops, the Mechanism itself ordered him to hit only a weak and not particularly dangerous opponent, steadily earning rare drops of essence on that. However, this is still Broken, and he has a one in the FaFo attribute; it will not be possible to do without risks and dangerous encounters at all.

"Okay, bye, Svyatik, I've, hiccup, that's it, I've had enough." Yes, the last mug of wine was clearly unnecessary, but who is Ilya to interfere with someone else's self-destruction? "If you decide to go to Mutuzy or Ryagilnik, then you can refer to me!"

Yeah, he can, but he won't. He's grateful to his interlocutor for the contacts of the buyers of herbs, furs, and other gifts from the Dead Man's Ridge, of course, but in moderation. Not enough to overpay later, alas. Ilya is almost certain that they decided to scam the farm simpleton who showed up in Lazy with some money. And when Ilya refers to his interlocutor, he won't give him a discount, but will understand that he was visited by a person who can be fooled, if in moderation. Because if not in moderation, then it's not for nothing that the farm hunters are considered complete scumbags, even against the backdrop of the mercenary fraternity, such a one can easily grab a knife at the slightest provocation, and the fact that he will then be hanged or sent to the mines with a brand will not help the gutted cunning deceiver in any way.

Well, it’s a start. Let’s see what happens next.

* * *

The Fireweed was an amazing and extremely useful plant, so widespread that it grew in almost all parts of the Broken, where there was the light of the Sun and at least some soil. Even its name is the same, because it was given a name in the holy scriptures of all known Dead Gods, so no linguistic drift was observed. This herb had so many properties that it would be tiresome to list them, but there are exactly three main ones: it greatly enhances the effect of all healing potions, it is an excellent natural antibiotic, literally a "magic plantain", the application of which to a wound gives tissue regeneration and burns out the infection, and its smell also repelled most creatures, especially the unreasonable ones.

Not directly expelled, like the vampire cross in the earthly myths of the times before the Seven, but rather repelled, because the creatures did not like the smell and were irritated by it. So, quite a few country houses of the aristocracy are surrounded by whole thickets of Fireweed. Alas, but in the gardens it did not grow normally, only in the wild, with the appropriate concentration of magical background. Or if you put in a lot of effort, with alchemical additives, rituals, or other miracles, turning your garden into a place that will deceive the Fireweed, convince it that it is still growing freely. So the easiest way is to simply get the flower in that very wild nature; fortunately, the flower, in this piece of the ecumene, is by no means an endangered species, and is often found, especially on the Ridge.

The task of going to pick a Fireweed is literally a win-win job if you can find the flower, get it, and bring it back. You can't just pick it and put it in a bag. Or rather, you can, but the price will drop significantly, as will the quality. There are many tricks that not gifted or divers lack druidic and natural classes can use. Tricks that were not kept secret on Earth and were quite common among those who wanted to learn them. Just want and learn, and don't waste your time at lectures. As a result, Ilya knew perfectly well how to collect fireweed, and he also had an affinity with nature from his class, which is why he had no doubts about his abilities. All that was left was to find the right plant, but these are already details, as is the need to find those plants that were not someone's personal non-garden, where the grass was allowed to grow before harvesting.

Oh yeah! You also need to make sure that you don't collect these plants too well, otherwise, questions will immediately start about taking away such useful knowledge and quietly killing off the previous bearer.

The first small hill, the top of which seemed to have been bitten off, was just such a foreign greenhouse, forced to be set up outside the city and only slightly improving the conditions for the flower's growth, creating protection from bad weather. Or from wild animals, perhaps even bipeds. For example, several traps with pits and stakes were found, as well as a camouflaged crossbow at hip level right at the entrance to the thicket, and the arrow was smeared with some kind of crap. Ilya broke the crossbow and, with an arrow, drew a laconic accusation on the stone that someone had gone a little nuts and that this should not be done. However, he did not pick the flowers, not even out of politeness, but out of fear. He would sell them in Lazy. If someone's greenhouse was ruined, and someone brought an armful of not the cheapest grass, then this is suspicious.

But the next thicket, hidden in a small ravine, did not belong to anyone, and it was not so big. Somewhere around three dozen small bushes-tubers, somewhat reminiscent of flowering potatoes. Only if in potatoes the tubers are valuable, and the fruits are poisonous, then here, on the contrary, it is the tubers that contain the poison, contain the fiery heat. Eat a piece of a very sweet and tender root vegetable, and you will be laid up with a temperature of forty-two for a week, and, if you survive, you will remain an invalid. Glutton a dozen, you will simply burn from the inside; only a charred skeleton will remain. The fire in this plant is very strong, but that is why the tubers are valued. Flowers and leaves, on the contrary, are very useful; they can be chewed and spat on a wound or ground in a mortar, spreading like an ointment. No other effects are needed, as well as specific talents.

Chew, spit out, rub, wait, and you are healthy.

Well, or dead, but it is only in those cases where the earth’s medicine would be powerless and not like folk remedies with a magical vibe.

Ilya decided to collect this particular herb for a very simple and understandable reason. He saw it, literally distinguished it through the stones, because it was filled to the brim with that very fire. So full of it that its tubers became illuminated in his special gaze, like hearts. Only very dim and motionless. And on top of that, the Wendigo sensed the heat, sensed it and was enraged by it, he was irritated by the flame in the flower, and was angered by that very aura of disgust that scares evil spirits. So the earthling, consider, had a pretty good radar for finding this particular herb. Well, not only this one. He noticed quite a lot of different magical plants. He just didn’t see a reason to collect them, because he simply wouldn’t have been able to carry them without the necessary containers, and having carried them, he wouldn’t have found anyone to sell them to.

Having found the plant, Ilya began to carefully collect them, the roots separately, the stems separately, the leaves separately, and the flowers in a small clay cup with very strong wine, which would then need to be sealed with wax until completely airtight. He did not collect everything, only a full nine fruits; there was no point in collecting more. It was a very good catch. Too good for an unknown loner. It would be wiser to come to this place twice more, and not to rake everything out at once. For such a sum, you will not have to kill or be killed, which is very important for Ilya's mental health and the physical vitality of the natives.

"Okay, I'm done. I can go back." Quietly whispering the obvious to himself, the earthling left the ravine, in which even an ordinary person could faint from the heat, and this even though the temperature remained wintery and icy, only on the heat flowers themselves the snow melted, but inside the bodies the temperature inexorably rose from being near the source of magic. "Just not too fast, I'll hunt some more."

As soon as he was outside the ravine, the heat that had accumulated inside his body began to dissipate, and his body returned to normal due to his vitality and endurance. An extremely insidious piece of crap; even his frozen body could not block it very well. It was not the world around him that became hotter, but the subtle body of the collector who had come too close, or some predator. Actually, it was this feeling of being burned from the inside that drove away all evil spirits. It is not dangerous for people if there is a normal protective amulet, or if the bushes grow along it, and not next to each other. But next to each other, they grow much faster and begin to bloom and bear fruit. Moreover, the blooming of the fireweed occurs in the most severe cold, if the winter is warm, then it will not bloom at all.

Having more comfortably grabbed the backpack with the loot, Ilya headed back to Lazy. He would get there in about three days; fortunately, there was no reason to hurry yet. And, what is characteristic, he got there calmly, again without adventures, if you do not count the killing of a pig running past. And when he got there, he met an unpleasant surprise in the form of someone else's greed and stinginess. That is, he expected these two characteristics, but not to such an extent!

"Well, you're not giving enough. With a deft and brisk movement, Ilya moves the bag away from the grasping hands of the merchant, who was already about to take the goods for himself, as if he had no doubt that his interlocutor would accept the price. "I'm from the farmstead and not this crazy one! I know the price!"

"Listen here, honey." The average height, completely bald and clean-shaven herb buyer nicknamed Mutuzy seemed genuinely perplexed that the redneck didn't give up nine full bushes of Fireweed for two petals apiece, which, fuck, is three times less than even the minimum purchase price. "You either give it up for the price I offered, or get the fuck out of here. I'm not going to haggle with you."

Ilya, to the indescribable surprise of his interlocutor, shrugged, closed his bag, threw it over his shoulder, and went to the door. No, the scam was understandable, especially for a newcomer who had only recently entered the city and simply didn’t know anyone here. But Ilya’s Twin was a city dweller and a shopkeeper. He could see right through such tricks! Of course, the earthling was ready to sell cheaper the first time, understanding that they would fool him and wanting, first of all, to establish mutual relations with a reliable buyer. But this was no longer a trick, but a stupid robbery. If he agreed, then he would never see a normal price anywhere. Everyone would start doing the same. Let this dick sit in his shop smelling of some kind of pine and wait for morons. Ilya would figure it out without him. Nothing surprising, really, he already knew that he would go to all the herbal shops he knew until he found someone adequate.

"Hey, bitch, where are you going!?" But the crook, who is a synonym for a trader, was really shocked by this approach, especially when he realized that Ilya was not bargaining, but was actually leaving. "So, you wasted my time, and now, you bastard, you're leaving!? I'll break all your fucking bones!"

Let's say it's not you who can break the bones of the intractable miner, but two thugs under your command and a couple more behind the walls of the working hall of the buying shop where you live. Security and fists in one bottle, who can easily try a new guy right here and put him down, purely because no one will ask about him. A farm fool? No, he didn't go in, we didn't see him at all, look, how many witnesses have gathered, they will confirm everything!

"Heyhhh..." The guy who tried to stop him at the entrance didn't even grab his club; he reached for his belt dagger, just demonstratively, not in a combat-like manner, but Ilya didn't bother checking. "Y-y-y-y..."

The blow hit the sun, and the second one hit the liver, luckily hit only with a fist and not with full force, but it didn’t make him feel much better. He vomited bile and his dinner on the floor after Ilya left the buy-up shop. He didn’t meet any resistance, heading to the next address, where he also couldn’t agree on a price with the seller, although the latter wasn’t as brazen. The third one refused to buy flowers from him at all, ordering him to go away, because he hadn’t yet communicated with all sorts of scoundrels who think they know how to handle the blessed Fireweed. Ilya tried to offer to convince himself of his qualifications, but the assistant of one of the city's Alchemists, although untalented himself, believed that only full-fledged experts who don’t go alone, but with a cover group, can properly collect magic herbs.

Well, it's his choice.

Ilya didn't reach the fifth point, because they tried to stick a knife into him, right in the liver, so that no one would be eternal, yes. Judging by the characteristic smell of pine, it was one of Mutuzy's assistants, but the diver realized this after the fact. At the moment of the attack, he, being collected and ready for battle, and also possessing inhumanly fast reflexes, did not even have time to think about all this. If his opponent were a full-fledged Assassin, one could welcome the rebirth with an extremely high probability, but a simple, ungifted thug tried to kill him. Quite experienced, although not exactly a pro, to be honest. To collide, as if by accident, stab with one hand, rip the bag off his shoulder with the other, pushing the weakening body into the alley, and disappear into that alley, stepping after the victim.

Alas, the difficulties began already at the moment of "accidentally colliding", because the earthling who noticed the movement stepped under the push himself, simultaneously intercepting the hand with the knife and squeezing it until the bone cracked. Having twisted the other's wrist, he made the knife fall out of his fingers, right into Ilya's other hand, and then jabbed with the same knife. Once, twice, three times, and only then did he push the enemy away, sharply turning into the alley and hiding there. A hoarse "bitch, you're fucked, bitch" is heard from behind, and it is moving away, because the freak who received a rebuff is in a hurry to hide. Either from the guards, or from Ilya who "let him go". Then, however, the obscene utterance is replaced by a puzzled pause, when the one hurrying away feels an unhealthy weakness in his whole body. And then his legs got tangled up and, before he had even walked fifty meters, he leaned against the wall and slid down it onto the cobblestones, realizing that he seemed to be dying.

Ilya only clutched the slightly bloody knife in his hand tighter, short and narrow, like an awl, with which he had stabbed the previous owner twice in the heart and the hepatic artery for change. By the way, another thug, now familiar to him by sight, was waiting for him in the alley. The second one, not the one he had punched, because it was into the alley that his body, weakening from the wound, was supposed to be pushed. He was surprised when the asshole who had hit his buddy entered the narrow passage between the houses himself, without the help of his comrade, who had disappeared somewhere. He was surprised, but he grabbed the short blade on his belt, and a flail had already started to fall out of his sleeve. A dash at full speed, fortunately, there were no strangers here, there was no need to hide, and now the awl was already sticking out of the eye of the bastard who had not even had time to get scared.

Having torn out the shiv stained with the victim's brains, Ilya wipes the blade on a smart wolfskin collar, taking the evidence with him. Fingerprints may not be taken here, but the natives have ways to understand who held the murder weapon and who did not; the entire class of the Seeker is just about this. Throwing the murder weapon into the ditch can be done later, but now the diver prefers to leave the alley and, as if nothing had happened, go to the next herb buyer on the existing list of recommended ones. In his back, he hears an epitaph for the deceased couple, reflected only in his head, short and so desired.

Tap.

Apparently, he had already received most of this drop earlier, for regular hunting and those three weaklings who died of fear hearing his Howl, and he had also managed to work with the bones while he went for the fireflower. In any case, they don’t look at the bowl with the gifted Essence, and the increase of the next talent became a little closer. Now, if only he could sell these damn flowers, then everything would become as perfect as possible.

"Not bad, not bad." A respectable old man with a chronic knee injury walked leaning on a cane, but he understood the business and did not judge by appearance alone. "From the farmsteads, you say? Yes, yes, yours can do it, even though they never learned it anywhere except from relatives. I've seen your kind. Two and a half petals per tuber, another one for the stems, and one-third for the flowers, and multiply by nine bushes... oh, yes, you're not counting. In general, it will be, it will be... it will be-e-e-e-e..."

"Forty-three coins and 1/15 of one." That’s fine with me. - Ilya tells us the same way, getting a surprised look and forced to explain. "Mother was literate. She taught me and her sister."

The puzzled old man nevertheless paid honestly and offered, if there was a desire, to bring herbs of this kind to him. He would, they say, give a fair price. The price he set, of course, was not entirely fair, but much better than what he was offered. And the old man also had a whole list of what he, or rather, those who took these herbs from him, owning the entire shop, needed more than anything else. Ilya knew some of these plants and minerals, as well as the methods of obtaining them, which is why he left the pharmacy extremely satisfied, almost smiling. No joke, he earned almost more than they “generously” gave him for the souvenirs carved from the tusk of the grabber!

The blade he threw into a ditch already very far from the crime scene, and slept perfectly calmly, no raid of guards or local secret office to him in the night did not break.

* * *

Lazy was a very large and prosperous city, not because it was next to the wastelands of the Ridge, right on the path of the natural magical flow. Yes, the herbs growing here, as well as a bunch of animals and even creatures, bring a lot of money, but even more grief and corpses. The secret of the city's prosperity is in the trade route, as many as three of them, which pass through the city, bringing duties and traders, which increase the well-being of Lazy. Selling and buying, exchanging and giving gifts, turning this glorious city into a very prosperous center. Trade routes paid for the guards and the gifted in their composition, supported their artisans and shopkeepers, and allowed their residents to develop and not go hungry.

Nevertheless, there were plenty of classic "adventurers" here, who lived by raiding the Ridge, successfully regulating their numbers by regular disappearances, competition, sharing out advantageous hunting spots, and all that. There was no adventurers' guild here, of course, it was not the fantasy genre, as earthlings would say. Only individual loners and gangs, work teams and hired detachments of various forces, who used the reliable rear and strong walls of Lazy to gnaw out some sweet and tasty meat from the Spine. In general, a classic freebooter of prospectors, like gold miners on Earth, only armed not with firearms, but with magic. Although who knows, if you buy from a good Mechanist specializing in shooters, you can also shoot.

All this is to say that among the mercenaries and raiders of Lazy there were all sorts of people, literally from all corners of this piece of the world, not only from the Ridge. And considering that the Ridge has been considered a place where you can find a new chance for several decades now, if everywhere in the lands of the Crown or its neighbors the gallows threatens, then it is a complete cabinet of curiosities. Convicts and hanged men flee here, aristocrats who do not deserve execution or elimination are exiled here, idiots who pray to the forbidden Dead, looking for a place for themselves in the world, flock here. The most diverse people are brought here, but they are all here, all different and united by the thirst for profit. Against their background, the moderately strange Ilya was simply lost, like a lonely light in the starry sky.

The main thing is not to stand out too much.

Having received his first payment for the work, Ilya did not go drinking. He only allowed himself to rest a little and order a normal barrel with really warm water, just to soak. He was going to go on a new "task" in two days, this time intending to hunt animals, skin them, and bring back the same bones for carving. And not to bring back some, but simply spend it on his own skill, which also needs to be applied; otherwise, why take the corresponding talent? Especially considering some of the carver's features, which will be revealed in the third and fourth steps of the talent. Time was not pressing, but it was physically difficult for him to force himself to be inactive, especially when he was used to not wasting a second of time, not a single grain of it.

The fair festivities fell on one of the two days of his rest quite successfully, allowing him to unwind. Unlike the previous fair, which was specifically a trade fair, this time they were having fun, celebrating an analogue of the earthly New Year, well, and trading too, but this is a consequence, not a cause. Snow White was the name of this holiday, because on this day, as it was believed, all evil and sins were washed away from people by the beginning of the new year, which is why people become white and pure, like that very snow. The concept of sinfulness among the natives most often had no relation to that on Earth; there were too many cults for each Dead, and each of those Dead also had seven Attributes. And their sins and virtues were their own, sometimes contradicting, and sometimes diametrically opposed to each other. Often, individual religious movements recognized only part of the Attributes, and the followers of the rest were considered heretics with all the accompanying pogroms and massacres.

In any case, the Purifier by Deed, under whose auspices the winter festival of white snow was held, did not honor the festival with his blessings, and that was good. Instead, the holiday was honored by artists, entertainers, and circus performers, who had come to the big city specifically for this purpose. This holiday was also a considerable profit for them, one of their biggest earnings of the year, which would allow them to survive the rest of the winter and the cold spring. Ilya walks across the main square, where even the snow and mud have been swept aside, and here and there various entertainers perform. A young man with white teeth smiles as he juggles colorful stones with ribbons tied to them, and next to him, a toothless man with a drunken appearance grins broadly. Only the drunkard is juggling not stones, but knives, and larger knives at that, with ribbons tied to them as well, which is why he attracts much more attention than his obvious relative, who is probably his son.

On the sidelines, magicians pull rabbits out of hats, and then hats out of rabbits, attracting a large audience who shout with delight. The earthling even took a closer look, suspecting that the man was gifted, but no, it was probably just amulets with illusions. He touched his pendant too characteristically before each trick. Next to him, another circus performer was drinking strong alcohol and spitting fire, and over there, off to the side, they were throwing leftovers at a minstrel who was singing so badly that Ilya, with his sensitive hearing, felt a strong urge to go over and throw something heavy at the poor guy, too. The only thing that stopped him was the clear understanding that this individual would be beaten up anyway, even without Ilya's participation.

Closer to the center of the square, two very large men were fighting with their fists. Each of them looked like a mountain, as they were both over two meters tall. Their faces, which were not burdened by any form of intelligence, belonged to two brothers. Perhaps they were twins. But it was difficult to tell, as they were badly beaten. They were also disguised with different makeup. One was painted black and blue, and the other white and red, so no one could tell they were brothers. The betting was very intense. Ilya was even curious how the guys knew who was supposed to lose and who was supposed to win, because the odds were constantly changing. Probably, these stars of magical wrestling were given some kind of signal, and they waited for that signal, making sure not to beat each other too badly.

The Earthling involuntarily caught himself smiling and relaxing. Yes, his hand was still on his belt, next to his purse and dagger, his eyes were keenly looking out for pickpockets, who were operating here in abundance, but he was enjoying the day. So he wandered, looked, threw a coin or two to the jugglers, the clowns, and the tightrope walkers. The latter were a real joy, because there were two of them. They put on a whole show, half clown show. A beautiful and thin girl of about fifteen, the very embodiment of grace, and a flabby fat man with a voluminous hairy belly. But the man on the rope stood many times better than the little girl, trying to catch up with her and do something bad to her. The audience encouraged the pretending-to-be-scared girl in every possible way, and scraps and small trash were thrown at the man.

He pretended just as demonstratively that these throws were throwing him off balance, that he was about to fall and collapse, only a couple more throws. True, a couple of unremarkable circus assistants watched to make sure that no one threw a stone or even a knife at the evil Karabas. The scene turned out to be nice, so Ilya was not greedy and immediately threw a petal to a passing circus performer with a hat. And he also turned out to be by no means the most generous of the guests; there were plenty of quite richly dressed individuals who came to indulge themselves with the spectacle of grimacing buffoons. However, there were more of them at the opposite end of the square, where a real stage was assembled and a theatrical performance was given. Not the level of normal stone theaters, but something in between them and "plebeian" entertainment.

"Oh, you little bastard, I remember you. Have you heard it? I remember you! If I ever catch you, little thing, I’ll beat you with the rods so hard you won’t sit for nine! Two nines! Three nines!!! You know who I am, huh!? When I was young, I guarded the rifts, and I’ve seen more creatures than you’ve eaten candy! Oh, if I catch you, you snot-n-n-n-n-n!" The old and obviously slightly crazy old man, selling sweet gingerbread, honey cakes, candied nuts, berries, and other confectionery, yells with complete dedication, and as soon as he turned his gaze to Ilya, he stared at him with no less pretension and pointed his finger. "And who are you, you bastard? You want to rob me too, huh? Well, know this, I’ll call the guards!"

The earthling's eyelid twitched at such an unceremonious attitude, which even by the standards of this world was one for which one could punch him in the face. Especially by the standards of the Broken One! But beating up invalids, especially old ones, is not the way of a highly moral earthling, so Ilya restrained himself. Although some part of him wanted to act like the three happily laughing tramps who ran off into the crowd, having stolen a handful of sweets from the counter. True, their ringleader got hit in the back of the head with a sweet nut, but this only hastened their escape. Unfortunately, or fortunately, but Ilya had grown out of his youth. If he steals a delicacy from the counter, the guards will not be so condescending in "catching" his person, but will beat him up with all their might, so that he will not do it again.

"What? I, er, am Svyatik, then. - In revenge for the rudeness, Ilya turns on the farm accent at full power, knowing full well how it is for the city dwellers like a sickle on an official mandate. "Give me that same thing, the honey cake, over there."

The old man snorted irritably and only muttered under his breath about the unruly youth and illiterate villagers. He took three large copper coins and thrust the requested into his hand, already turning to the new client. The client turned out to be another rascal, but not from the street kids, but from a family, under supervision. The old man smiled at him sincerely and cursed more for show, only there was sadness in his eye. In one eye, because the second one of the veteran of the rifts, if you believe his self-praise, was covered with a thick cloth bandage, which, apparently, had not been changed for a long, long time. And all the old man's clothes were clearly not the freshest, all in stains and patches.

Ilya had already walked a decent distance when he finally realized what had caught his attention, what had weighed on him from the very first second he saw the old man with his candy stand. The clothes were patched and old, but the fabric. The fabric was not just expensive, it was insanely expensive. The former shopkeeper had seen such fabric twice in his life, and only when visiting a merchant patron who had shown kindness to the Twin's relative and the owner of the shop where he worked. It was a type of brocade, but with a touch of magic, just a little, but it was surprisingly comfortable to wear and did not accumulate odors, which is why the fabric was loved by both wealthy aristocrats and professional hunters. The former wanted to be able to dance at a ball without sweating, while the latter wanted the animal not to be able to smell them.

Stole?

No way, they would have taken it. The owners would have found it and chopped off the heads for stealing it. A meter of that fabric is worth its weight in blossoms, almost like normal armor for an armored page, with a cuirass, daggers, and scabbards, a helmet, and long chain mail. Unless he found it somewhere, already dirty and patched up so that no one would notice... But where is such a dump, and would Ilya dig around there himself? The question, as usual, was doomed to remain unanswered, but Ilya didn't even bother to ask it. He just stepped sharply to the side, causing the young punk who had been watching him from behind the counter and reaching for his wallet to squeal in fright and fall, sprawling on the cobblestones and hurting his elbows. Judging by the shrill “Ouch!” followed by an equally shrill “Fuck!”, the kid turned out to be a girl, about fourteen years old.

"Who taught you to pick pockets, damn it?" That's all the earthling summed up, thinking that she wanted to stab him with a knife, because there was no pinching inconspicuousness, just the highest level of stealth. "Let them teach better. Disgrace!"

"Nobody taught me, I just want a gingerbread!" From the spontaneity of the punks who quickly got to their feet, and who were quite decently dressed, that is, not completely tramps, although their habits were a bit tramp-like, Ilya's reflex was to look around, to check if someone was coming from behind, if "friends" were surrounding this "bait" to demand payment for the attack on the poor girl. "And old Ryuk, if you take it without money, shouts and swears!"

"Here, buy yourself a gingerbread and don't embarrass your mom." Okay, today is New Year's, so Ilya showed mercy, because breaking a girl's arm in front of so many witnesses is fraught with consequences. "Fuck off."

"Thank you, man!" And run away. Even a couple of guards who had come up suppressed their laughter, and it seemed to Ilya that they would have been protecting the girl, and not the diver trying to get revenge for the robbery. Only Wendigo's ears caught the end of the phrase, which was clearly not intended for him. "Only there is no mother. She has been gone for a long time..."

"Young fools these days are so impudent!" That's all Ilya could say, adding a throwaway word at the last moment, a la redneck. "She wanted gingerbread! So, it turns out, I didn't want any!?"

"This is Lishka, a little pest, redneck." The guard who came up was clearly not against chatting, and Ilya was not against taking advantage of the opportunity to get the chatterbox to talk, since such a thing had come up. "The old man looks after her and others, yes. A big-hearted man, even though he's a little sick in the head..."

From the further dialogue, or rather monologue of the chatty guard, to which Ilya mostly hummed and assented, it became clear that old Ryuk was a very well-known person in this city. Once upon a time, he was a very successful book reader and scientist, the very capital of Crown, a city called, surprise, Crown. But something happened in his life, and twenty years ago, when Gogik the guard was just born, he came from the capital to the fierce province of the Ridge, bought himself a large house closer to the rich quarters, and, without bargaining at all, began to live the life of a madman. For a man of his position, selling sweets in the most ordinary shop is, to put it mildly, very shameful, but he did not have any particular ill-wishers.

And he traded at a loss, which the small fry sometimes took advantage of to steal something tasty. He always yelled at their backs, but never even complained to the guards, although he could throw something hard at the back of a particularly insolent person so hard that it would knock him unconscious. At one time, he had a falling out with the guards, but they spat and did not torture the crazy one, because what can you expect from him? He has almost no money left. He wears the same expensive clothes for years, eats his sweets, surprisingly tasty, by the way, which he makes himself. He does not even keep servants, because of which his house has become so dilapidated that it is a miracle it has not collapsed.

He looks after the kids, yeah." Ilya threw a coin to the little lad, who brought two jugs of some kind of cider, so the "redneck guy" and the guard stood by the wall, resting their souls while the guard was on break and while they had ears to listen to him. "They help him around the shop, carry honey and all sorts of candy and mix it, and he almost makes them people. He'll dress them, teach them to read and count. Many tramps didn't become thieves or whores under his grace, even the assistant to the city accountant, they say, ran around as Candy Ryuk's assistant."

Ilya just nodded and inwardly marveled at the fact that in Broken, there were also philanthropists and benefactors. In reality, of course, he was not surprised, because he knew that there were, albeit rarely. Brutal living conditions, constant threats, and the lack of guarantees of safety, satiety, and simple survival make beasts out of people. This is an axiom that earthly history has long proven; it's just that in Broken, they added magic to the equation. But just like on Earth, among the locals, there are those who brutal conditions and the brutality of those around them have only hardened. Or broken, like this old man. Only the Dead know whom he lost and loved, who now takes out his paternal feelings on street children, saving them from the path to crime or falling into the wrong hands.

There are many similar stories about the locals, they are just deliberately not too much pedaled among the earthlings. In order to survive in the Broken, you need to know and be absolutely sure that they want to kill you, rape you, and eat you in any order. If you think too often about the fact that there are normal people among these freaks, it will be harder to kill them. And you should not immediately believe the local rumors, because it may well turn out that the old man is in fact a cultist of one of the Dead or even a gifted person specializing in sacrifices. And then his interest in street children, of which there are always so many and which no one except the street children themselves really counts, becomes painfully obvious.

Having finished his cider and given the mugs to that same boy to take back to the taproom, Ilya said goodbye to Gogik and continued his walk. In the evening, the most amazing acts and performances were put on, as well as the most awesome competitions from the local animators. For example, they brought out to the people the caged creatures from the menagerie of the rulers of the entire city, which is why the Wendigo in his head began to demand to eat them all again. Someone will be eaten, just not Ilya. The same copper-skinned bull was a creature quite common throughout the Broken, carrying a piece of the blessing of one of the Dead, due to which it was revered as a sacred animal in many places.

And also in many places they simply ate, because properly cooked meat of this marvelous beast will temporarily make your skin as hard as copper. A temporary property that can turn into a full-fledged mutation if you stick to this diet often enough. True, in the form of a mutation, the skin color will also become copper, and the benefit of such armor is not so significant. In the end, it is not the body that acquires the strength of copper, but only the skin, and if you eat improperly cooked or simply insufficiently high-quality meat, then along with the copper color, you will also acquire the corresponding weight. An ordinary person and even a gifted one, if their skin suddenly begins to weigh as much as an equal volume of metal, will clearly experience discomfort. Even greater discomfort is caused by vulnerability to a number of extremely specific and therefore dangerous curses.

There is a whole branch of "copper" magic, mainly focused on rituals and curses, and few can survive if the roots of the hair on their head are transmuted into copper, and then begin to grow into the skull. As a result, no one wants to receive a full-fledged mutation, but they usually don't mind acquiring the property for a week or two. Ilya looked into the gloomy face of the bull, whose horns were almost as long as Ilya himself, staring contemptuously at the people surrounding his cage, and decided to move away. The portable enclosure was clearly secured in a hurry, and its walls were standing more by the goodwill of the bull, who was in no hurry to rage, than against his wishes. With FoFa, a typical Diver, it wouldn't take long to wait for the cage to collapse and a bunch of victims. The copper-skinned bulls, although a conditionally tame species, remain fierce and vicious creatures.

The sun was setting, people were slowly dispersing, and Ilya had already left the square and gone deeper into the labyrinth of streets, watching the pickpockets who had gotten excited again. The moment when everyone was relaxed and slightly drunk, some from emotions, some from booze, was literally ideal for their craft. One particularly cunning man even had to thrust his fist into his side, knocking out his breath, and that suggestive look, directly saying that his intentions had been noticed, this dick chose not to understand and ignore. But Ilya did not ignore the familiar voice from behind his back, with which the girl he had already successfully forgotten addressed him.

"Hey, man, wait a minute." Ilya, having scanned the surroundings, mechanically retreated with his back to the wall and half-turned to the questioner standing behind him, and she seemed not to notice his readiness to cut off a possible ambush. "Here's a sweet gingerbread for you, man!"

Ilya looked with slight bewilderment at the decent-looking gingerbread that was handed to him, after which the bewilderment began to progress into something far from easy. There were no friends of hers, no suspicious guards, only the irritated girl herself, one of whose ears was scarlet, as if it had been twisted for a long time and carefully by strong fingers. He looked at the gingerbread again, as if expecting it to look back at him and reveal the riddle. For a typical attempt to slip poison or dope, it was too atypical and rude; no one in their right mind would eat food that was just handed to them like that. Free cheese only comes in mousetraps and gaps like a "farm", where some form of cheese factory has become the axial structure.

Or does she not give it, but rather gives it, but only to say later that the gingerbread was worth a handful of petals? It's even dumber if there is no support group because without convincing goons, you will simply be sent to a tricky and extremely clear address with such claims. In general, Ilya seems not to understand something, and, as should always be the case with a diver in Broken, misunderstanding should cause full combat readiness.

"What are you looking at? Take it and throw it away if you don't want it, damn!" And he looks around with his eyes, as if he's afraid of something, which makes Ilya feel even less inclined to take the suspicious object. "The old man found out that I was going to check you, re... I mean, respected, yeah. He twisted my ears and told me to give the money back. But you're gone, gone somewhere. And I don't have any money either. Here, in short, is a treat for you. The same as the one I took for myself."

"Well, what did you do? First, you tried to steal money for a gingerbread, then, you see, you bought a gingerbread with the gift money, and then you stole another gingerbread so that you could give it to me, you know, instead of the money you already spent, you know?" It's bad to be a sadist and torment children, but Ilya looked at the face of the fool, trying to understand his delirious speech, almost with pleasure. "You're stupid, after all."

And the last remark is not an exaggeration. She behaves very thoughtlessly and strangely, not in the way Ilya taught on Earth and what his Twin knew in Broken. It feels like she was a street child, but fell into the good hands of that same Ryuk, who taught her, for example, coherent speech only slightly diluted with slang and dialect. She seems to combine the manner of a well-off child, a street child, and someone else, which is why she wildly breaks the pattern. Impudence and spontaneity like a circus showgirl, the manners of a homeless tramp, but at the same time, she is dressed, shod, and taught to speak no worse than some official's daughter. It is not surprising that she breaks the pattern in those around her, while the authority of the old man, the question is, due to what his authority exists, covers his wards from all sorts of inadequates.

"Hey, man! I'm not stupid at all... probably." From the sincere thoughtfulness in her words, Ilya nevertheless felt a twinge of joy, grabbing the gingerbread, which he wouldn't eat anyway. "That's it, sweet dish, dear sir. I hope that my most unpleasant behavior will not cast a shadow on the reputation of our entire glorious city. I wish you a good evening and a pleasant night, be healthy and don't be sad."

No, her guardian definitely has some kind of ties with the same guards or someone else, because otherwise this particular ward with such caustic habits would have been treated to a stone in the head long ago. Yes, yes, to a farm hunter who can hardly string words together, and to wish all the best in such a high-flown "high" tone. He would definitely think that they were cursing him. Ilya himself was amazed in the sense that he seriously thought for a moment about answering in the same manner or even adding "blessing of a good journey" in the theurgic language of the liturgies of the Purifying by Deed. To definitely break the pattern and ensure himself the close attention of God knows who.

She should go to counterintelligence, so that the spies who are mad at her can expose themselves, just so they can get this little shit out of them.

"What?" Staring at her with the dull gaze of an orthodox who has discovered a new network port on his work computer monoblock, he was forced to play along with her clowning. "What are you insulting me for? I can hit you in the face!"

From the square came some noise and a muffled cry of the crowd, either celebrating another barrel of wine pumped out in the name of the city governor, or some kind of fight. They had already been separated three times, only while Ilya was on the square, once he was almost drawn into a confrontation between two workshops, only he did not understand which ones. The little ones had already opened their mouths either to explain more simply, or to continue the mockery with the risk of their lives, but then they were both interrupted by a new character, who burst into the passage between the houses under the already clearly not in the least cheerful shout of the crowd, having first scattered everyone who was in their way.

||"Fucking Fafo!" flashed through Ilya's head as a copper-skinned bull, driven to the limit of rage by someone, rushed straight at him, foaming with rage.

The animal was well-groomed and beautiful, almost shiny; its horns were gilded and decorated with silver tips, ritual patterns were visible on its strong skin, designed to enhance the natural abilities of the creature and the value of its meat. Probably, it was simply accustomed to the fact that the cage was insurmountable and had not tried to break it down for a long time, so when they began to collect the menagerie back into the city governor's palace, it twitched experimentally. And was very surprised when the cage yielded to its will. Creatures are always very aggressive, even if they can be trained, but it is unlikely that anyone has directly trained this bull, as it is not the kind of animal that can become a riding animal.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ankole-Watusi

The creature swung its huge horns, somewhat reminiscent of those of the earthly Watusi, whose population was restored only three years ago by genetic engineering. The swing was accompanied by a choking scream from the guard, who was first impaled and then cut on a horn more than one and a half meters long. The horns, by the way, were covered with a copper aura, which strengthened the blow and was capable of making the blood heavy, like molten copper, when it hit the body. The heart simply could not pump such blood. Hello, quick death, if the curse was not dispelled in the first seconds. There were no Dispellers nearby. What a shame! Ilya does not even know why this happened! But the bull was in no hurry to go anywhere, rushing forward, right across the street, knocking down those who did not have time to get away. The too-wide horns shine like small suns or huge blades, cutting through obstacles like a knife through butter.

Any obstacles, from the walls of houses that were too narrow for such a scale, to a random passerby. Blood was flowing, screams were heard, and the Wendigo inside Ilya demanded to start eating all those who were making noise and spilling blood here. The copper-skinned creature only rushed forward, either to freedom or to new victims, wanting to avenge life in captivity. The seemingly surprisingly peaceful situation very quickly turned into some kind of fierce fucking, which for the Broken was more the norm than the exception. There was not much time left to react, and it was simply necessary to get out of the creature's way if you did not want to be reborn.

Then, Cynthia Lionhart, Ilya's former classmate from London, with whom he had several classes together, was to blame for everything. No, she was actually a pretty cool girl, the daughter of two divers from the same community, who had reached the second level and were counting on dragging their daughter along if there was an opportunity and they couldn't talk her out of it. Her parents were proper divers and under no circumstances wished their fate on their daughter, but try to prove that point to her. He wasn't exactly friends with her. There was definitely no romantic relationship between them, but they were friends, shared notes, and plans. They were often paired up for tactical training of standard situations, both in the gym and in virtual reality capsules.

The problem was that Cynthia was only a little over five feet tall, which is why she always had to show her driver's license when buying alcohol, and even then, they often didn't believe her. And this living embodiment of the West Asian meme about the one-and-a-half-foot girl in their pair most often played the role of the covered unit. Ilya covered, which is logical. And when the cursing little thing behind his back squeaked in fear, Ilya's mind for a second returned to those distant years when he was getting a second education, to the usual routine of the schemes being worked out. And he acted accordingly: instead of spitting on the girl or even pushing her under the hooves of a bull, he pulled her toward himself and, in one movement, sent her behind his back.

The nameless young lady with all her small weight hit not the wall against which the earthling leaned, but the door, which also opened slightly at the moment of impact, disappearing inside an unknown room. But Ilya did not have time to dart there, or rather, did not have time to do so without revealing his inadequacy for the role he was playing. The bull itself did not frighten him; one breath and a couple of punches would be enough for him even in human form. Сopper-hard skin with soft insides. The task, alas, was not to reveal himself, but also not to die while trying to avoid being revealed. Initially, Ilya was going to just let the bull run past and let him kill someone else there, and someone heroic and especially smart would kill the bull. The problem was that the sharp movement with which the earthling saved the life of the annoying little thing attracted the bull's attention.

And with such creatures, everything is simple. If it moves, hit it until it stops moving. The bull lowered its head and was clearly going to crush Ilya against the wall with a movement of its horn, but the diver was categorically against such extreme games. The first thing that flew at the creature was a skinny bag, not even his, but some guy's, dropped it, running away in horror. The projectile was thrown not at the sensitive nose, but higher, closer to the forehead, provoking the beast's reflexes to move its head up, tearing that bag to shreds with copper magic. All so that Ilya would get a chance to see the main thing: the enemy's slightly open neck, usually covered by the position of the body and a large head, which, due to the weight of the horns, always goes lower.

There were two options: either a wild bull caught by hunting teams, or one from a breed that has been growing and breeding in limited captivity for several generations, under the supervision of aboriginal breeders. Wild bulls have necks protected by sagging folds of copper skin, which you can’t cut through with an axe at once, but with bred bulls, on the contrary, they try to remove those folds so that the neck becomes open and it is possible to slaughter the animal as easily and quickly as possible. If you fail to kill a meat animal with one blow, it will start to use its magic and soak the flesh with it. As a result, the cut will lose quality, and the taste will be somewhat different. So the aboriginals modified the breed so that the animal’s throat remains open. One fine morning, those who usually polish the bull’s horns and wash the skin sharply open the throat with one movement, and then comes the cutting and cooking.

As soon as he saw the open and smooth throat, where even the copper skin was so thin that you could pierce it with a simple knife, Ilya decided on his adventure. He simply would not have been able to defeat a classic wild bull, caught and put in a cage, using the method he had planned, without using his diving talents. And what about this? There was nothing insurmountably difficult here. A dash forward, straight towards the rushing beast, someone's scream, someone else's squeal, the panicked lamentations of the townspeople, as well as the smell of hot copper, animal sweat, and blood with shit. Ilya slipped right under the horn, almost colliding with the creature, before he jumped up, as if playing a bullfight, grabbing the bull's neck and head with his legs.

The belt knife in his hand made one movement, then a second, and then he was already rolling, not even trying to stay on his opponent's back or, Dead forbid, grab the horns for support. It would be safer for an ordinary person to grab onto a bare high-voltage line, and even a full-fledged Wendigo would feel sick from such contact, especially in human form. The bull gave a not-at-all-bullish cry, kicking his legs, almost hitting the rolling man, and swung his head, opening the solid stone wall like a knife opening a can of food. Ilya began to move even before his opponent turned around, bringing down the wall, trying to stay to the side of the creature, not exposing himself to either the horns or the hooves of the hind legs.

At that very moment, Ilya sees the bull from behind, finally understanding the reason for the beast's rampage. Some kind soul, possessing an exceptionally outstanding mind and erudition, could not find anything smarter than to stick a huge stake into the beast's very rear. Right into the target. Into the mine exit. Into the deep, dark leather dungeon. Well, or this penetration happened after the beast broke free. But somehow Ilya has doubts, too funny a coincidence, extremely timely. Щк someone deliberately decide to arrange a terrorist attack and screw over the owners of the beast, or just drunken stupor and the desire to say "hold my beer" once again, led to a logical and very bloody outcome?

Another wall, now on the opposite side, is dangerously leaning and cracking, ready to crumble into stones, a new level of screams, a stream of scarlet, incredibly bright blood pouring from the torn throat, driving the Wendigo into a frenzy. A girl's scream and the nimble figure of the very same shrew he threw into the doorway runs out of it, straight towards the bull and her inglorious death. The panicked little thing simply did not think to run deeper into the house, rather than back, which is why she almost ruined the earthling as well, crashing right into him, knocking him off balance, forcing him to utter a muffled “Fuck!” as he grabbed the girl by the collar and pulled her along with him. Again, it was the same reflexes, as well as the realization that stepping over her would take longer than pushing her out of the way.

The copper-skinned bull was weakening, but slowly, too slowly. He had already unleashed his magic to its full power, and now the copper in his blood was fueling the beast, keeping it from dying. The girl whimpered in horror when the blood that had splashed on her suddenly became heavy, like weights tied to her legs, slowing her down, sapping her strength, even making it difficult to breathe. Ilya, who had also been splashed with a lot of blood, was noticeably lighter, his natural resistance to curses from his class base turning these weights into small weights at most, but time and maneuverability were still lost. Pushing the girl again, knocking her to the ground, the diver pressed his back against the wall, waiting for the creature to finally lie down and die.

The bull's soul seemed to identify itself as a horse. The bull reared up and struck with its front hooves, shining with copper, directly at the figure pressed against the wall, intending to trample, crush, and destroy its target, its killer. Well, one could only be glad that it was a horse and not a fire engine or a combat helicopter, because Ilya did not wait for the blow, moving aside, letting the bull break the wall he was pressed against, sinking his feet into the holes he had kicked through, and only then falling, twitching limply with his whole body and breaking his legs stuck in the wall. Scarlet copper blood still flows like a stream, but it no longer carries magic or threat, and the incredibly healthy horns have dimmed, no longer shining with the deadly light they emitted just a moment ago.

An annoying little thing crawls away to the side, cursing like a veteran sergeant from an army training unit where state divers are trained for free, but at the same time breathing deeply with pleasure, no longer weighed down by excess magical weight. All around, there are screams and panic. Someone is trying to help the wounded, someone is robbing the dead or wounded, threatening to finish them off if they don't hand over their wallets, someone is calling the guards, but the guards themselves are in no hurry to approach. They're not idiots to risk themselves, their loved ones. They're the only ones like that.

The earthling reflexively licks his lips, forgetting that his face is covered in magical blood, while the Wendigo, raging in its cage, howls with rage because its human is in no hurry to devour its prey and all those who claim it. At the same time, the Mechanism comes to life, confirming his victory and rewarding him for it. The bull, after all, turned out to be extremely powerful, stuffed with magic to the tips of its horns. It turned out to be frail, dying too easily, but if it had the maneuverability and protection commensurate with its attacking abilities, Ilya would not have messed with it, even if he did not hide his status as a gifted one.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Well, at least he gained the opportunity to develop another talent. It wasn't a waste of time going to the fair and watching the artists, damn. Now he just had to prove to those around him that he had nothing to do with it, that he was completely above suspicion and all that. And he couldn't run away, because the guards were already there, as were a bunch of witnesses, like the owner of the house next to which the bull had died. The latter was already thrusting a huge glass of beet vodka into Ilya's hands, thanking him for saving his life. The earthling didn't pay attention, but the man was standing right behind him. If the amateur matador hadn't stopped the bull's charge, or simply dodged it, letting it rush on, there would have been one more corpse.

Silently feigning bewilderment and confusion, the Diver gulps down the bitter and unpleasant swill, feeling waves of heat coursing through his body. He mentally suppresses his greed, which tells him that he can now double his three drops of essence if he gorges himself on the magical beef. It's as if the owners of the beef won't ask him to pay for killing it without their permission, and now he has to work for the next hundred years without breaks for lunch or smoke.

Or not a hundred.

Five hundred at once.

A thousand.

As long as they tell you until you die.

* * *

"What's so complicated about that, your Majesty? He was completely mad!" Ilya's farmstead accent pours from his lips in a continuous stream, but he still feels quite anxious, because he is being interrogated not by just a guard, but by an individual gifted with the Mechanism, grimacing in indescribable contempt. "I just saw that very thing, the open throat, so, so-so, so, well, with a knife, you see, I stabbed here and there."..

"Enough!" A middle-aged woman with short ash-colored hair and the coat of arms of the ruling house of Lazy on her light leather armor, who was listening attentively to him, did not scream, but nevertheless raised her voice and seemed to want to wash her ears properly. "It is already clear to me everything with you... A wild savage. The Mantle of the Purifier, if you were at least a city dweller, would bother to enroll you in the staff of the hunters or hunting brigades under the coat of arms of His Excellency, but it is useless to accustom your breed to discipline."

Fortunately, this lady was not a Seeker. Otherwise, she would have exposed, if not the disguise of the hidden evil, then a banal pretense. He was a farm hunter only in words, but in fact, he could easily crumble on a bunch of small details that the city-dwelling Twin simply does not know. The only thing that saved him was that he did not lie at all. He had a bunch of witnesses of what exactly happened to the bull and the surrounding world, and also that the venerable Gness la Pirolle did not give a damn about everything that was happening. She, as Ilya believes, is either a Warlock or a Spellmancer, possessing a talent for controlling lies. Not a full-fledged Seeker, but not bad either, enough for such a small incident.

And the incident was really minor, only seven were injured, of which only five died. For example, a month ago, when the architectural and road-laying shops seriously screwed up, more than fifty people were injured, of whom more than ten gave their souls to the Dead. The situation was saved, allowing to avoid of casualties, only by the fact that the bull immediately moved towards the alley where Ilya was, and did not crash into the crowd of onlookers. Actually, all those who did not die as a result of the road accident with the bull were injured in the crush, since the creature did not leave any wounded. And the crowd should thank for its salvation the same one whom it cursed, namely Lezhik, nicknamed Fapper- a nickname fully deserved. He swore in a drunken bet that he would "break the ass of the horned cattle."

He pierced through, and then even ran to this very street, where he found himself cut along almost the entire length of his body, thereby forcing the bull to run straight down the street and meet Ilya. The Earthling felt a strange desire to master the resurrection of the dead and kill the degenerate personally, but, alas. The main thing is not to go after him, but it seems he managed to lie his way out of the venerable Lady Gness. She even interrogated the little chick, who was sitting, slightly trembling from what she had experienced, right next to Ilya, much more actively. First of all, because she spoke clearly and answered normally, not like Ilya. What is characteristic, she clearly enlightened them both with a scanning skill, her eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly in the evening light, but Ilya immediately recognized the "Magic Gaze" or "Eye of Magic", talents with three or four steps, characteristic of the entire line of magic classes.

They are the ones that give such a light and almost imperceptible, if you don't look closely, shine. Well, either she took the "Sight of Truth" or another talent of the corresponding group, but managed to pump it up to reduce the visual and aura illumination. In any case, Ilya was not too worried. His disguise should have withstood such scanning without any problems, even at the second stage, and now even more so. So he "enjoyed" the situation and allowed the little things to answer for him. He did not regret at all that they would not recruit him right now. He tried to make a similar impression. Skillful and tenacious, but unsuitable for military service and actions in a group, cunning and dexterous, but dark in mind and barely able to put three words together, cold-blooded and calm, but stupid and poorly trained.

Not a bad mask, which few people will look at.

Ilya doesn't particularly like this role either, but he'll tolerate it for the sake of the cause. And then he can gradually change his image, so to speak, get used to city life, improve his pronunciation, and start saying smart things out loud. Standard practice, much less suspicious than this little schmuck who speaks the local pompous dialect almost without stumbling. By God, all of them, but if it weren't for the guards' comments and the understanding nod of the most respectable Gness, Ilya would have suspected the girl of being his colleague who took the place of the Twin. Alas, but the mechanics of the Twins almost always moved you into those bodies that had very few close relatives and acquaintances left, and all of them were far from the point of birth.

However, anything can happen.

"Lishka, you little wretch, you bitter burnt shame of my grey hair, you foolish and feeble-minded blockhead!" Old man Ryuk, who had burst into their company, immediately began to cause a fuss as soon as Gnessa left them alone and began to supervise the loading of the bull's body onto a cart driven up to the cart, harnessed by two draft oxen. "Why are you..."

Ilya never found out what was next, because the grandfather, who had squeezed through the crowd of people, saw the state of the bloody girl and the equally bloody, gloomy Ilya, who was looking sullenly at the girl and then at her guardian. The old man's face reflected genuine horror, albeit only for a very brief moment and not for himself, again hiding behind a mask of irritation and angry mischief. However, he grabbed his head quite authentically, almost tearing off the bandage on his empty eye socket, and began to shower his, as Ilya began to think, adopted daughter with sophisticated curses mixed with self-criticism about what a piece of shit he had raised.

Toxic Grandpa.

But within the framework of Broken, he is almost a holy martyr, so let him be toxic as much as his heart desires. And if he takes this fool and makes sure she no longer begs for cookies from unfamiliar gloomy men, then Ilya will personally write him the Jacqueline Maderri Order for achievements in the field of teaching.

"Well, you. Take her away from me," Ilya told him, which obviously confused him a little. "She's somehow, this and that, very strange, like with a wound in her head."

"Yes? Oh, right, yes, she is. Very sегзшв." And then he pointed his finger at the girl's face, almost poking her in the forehead with that finger, as she flushed with embarrassment. "Shut up! You're sitting here. All covered in blood, your clothes are dirty. And who's going to wash them, huh? Get ready quickly and go home! And you! Hm. Respected... honored... comrade... um-m-m-m... dear savior, be my guest today. How can I not feed the one who saved this blockhead? Share bread and pour wine, yes, yes, that's right. Be my guest, yeah. And at the same time, wash off this blood, they say it sticks to the body, you can't wash it off later. So that's how my mentor used to say..."

Ilya only frowned at the old man, which, to the laughter of the watching passers-by, told about how he supposedly knew how to cook the best baked duck in the city. And what about in the city? In the whole province at least! It was impolite to refuse, but he didn’t want to agree either. Even less did he want to walk across the entire city to his little room in the inn, risking running into the guards again. And this guy is really known here and moderately respected, or rather, they look at him as a peaceful and useful blessed fool, whom it’s simply shameful to offend. Of course, he could always turn out to be a local crime boss or the head of some forbidden cult, but that’s already paranoia. In the sense that he is still a local, and not a diver, and therefore it’s unlikely that such a person would expose himself to public ridicule for years.

More likely, he is just a former high-ranking official, perhaps possessing a couple of blessings from temple complexes or axial parts of lacunae. He simply fell into disgrace, morally broken, experienced catharsis, and is now engaged in philanthropy for small bastards. Yeah-yeah, not suspicious at all, yeah-yeah, that's right, Ilya.

To go or to refuse, that is the question: to go or to refuse?

Ilya was already thinking of refusing when his gaze again caught on the dirty and hardened bandage on the eye socket of the old man, who was impatiently awaiting an answer, and something clicked in his head that he could not understand. And all because the old fart started talking about blood, which cannot be washed off with normal means. And no, it is not about special washing methods that the old man learned from his mentor, not at all. It is just that the old man is really right - the blood of copper-skinned bulls, especially when dried, goes into a state where it is easier to throw away clothes than to wash off copper stains. And the skin is also hard to wash off, whether with your hands, soap, sand, or anything similar to sandpaper.

Although, okay, you can still rub it off with sandpaper, just along with the skin.

"Well, well, eating and washing is a good deed, then." Smiling contentedly and flatteredly, the earthling almost does not pretend, because he is truly a little cheerful. "Then, this and that, lead me, old man."

And they went, and Ilya was tempted to point out the minor mistake in the old man’s words, the mistake that had ruined his entire play.

He is entirely right in the fact that it is impossible to remove the blood of a bull from his body and clothes, speaking from his own experience.

But the effect of this blood, filling the copper magic, does not always stick in spots to any surface, but only under the effects of the oncoming flow of force.

If the one who got hit by such crap himself actively uses powerful talents of a magical nature.

Those that are not accessible to ordinary people, no matter how many times in a row they were former officials.

Unless the former officials are gifted with the Mechanism and probably not at all what they have been so successfully posing as for many years.

Old man Ryuk's house stood on a respectable street in a wealthy neighborhood, but it was quite dilapidated. The garden had been neglected and overgrown for years. Some of the windows had long since been boarded up. Someone had once knocked the door down and never replaced it properly. However, there was a funny little bell above the door, which rang softly as a traditional invitation to enter the house with good intentions and a pure heart, but Ilya was not surprised by this bell and did not even raise an eyebrow. He just nodded, confirming both his good intentions and pure heart, seeing even more clearly how events would unfold. He found a change of clothes very quickly, albeit clearly not very expensive rags. The old man personally rummaged through some kind of storeroom, taking the bloodstained clothes and ordering his ward to go for a walk while the adults talked about important and manly things. And to take the others with her, let them go for a walk too, here are some copper coins, but don't drink too much and don't take any drugs, or else they'll be in big trouble.

Ilya was seated at the table and entertained in every possible way with conversation. Or rather, with a monologue. The old man did not need answers at all, and he did not want to listen to the speech of the farm hunter. He had already heard enough while they were walking. Ryuk's duck a la Crown turned out to be truly delicious, finger-licking good, and the earthling, having gobbled up both legs as a guest, barely restrained himself from purring with pleasure.

Particularly enjoyable was the Wendigo inside, which was ten or even thirty times more furious than usual, just itching to attack and eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT, EAT!!!

"Okay, I suggest we end this clownery, venerable Ryuk, and talk like normal, reasonable individuals, and not all this." Having removed all the parasitic words at once, Ilya speaks the Common Language as clearly and distinctly as is possible from a person who has studied this Common Language all his life, even without counting the diver effect that loads this Common Language into the head at the birth of a Twin. "I admit, the scheme with the relic of the Master of Words in the attribute of the One Who Shakes the Hands and the extract from the Sweet Root as a seasoning for your, I'm not afraid of this word, magnificent duck, is quite entertaining. I would even say, unironically beautiful in its elegant simplicity."

There is a brief pause, during which Ilya wipes his hands and face with a handkerchief, while the old man, frozen in place like a statue, no longer funny or ridiculous, simply stares at him. It is as if through an optical sight, or rather, an observing drone, correcting the strike of a Lockheed Martin ballistic missile. Wendigo, breaking free from his chains, does not interfere with enjoying dinner, which is so delicious that he has never eaten anything tastier in either world. And, it must be said, the slight sourness of this duck suited just fine.

"Alas for you, but I have always placed the utmost importance on self-control, and I certainly won't start behaving like a beast here and now." Indeed, he will not. Even despite the fact that the creature in the locked safe, under the effect of such an unusual spice, has temporarily grown to the size of a mutated Saint Bernard, nearly breaking the chains and leaving rapidly healing scratches on the inside of the safe door. "So if you decide to kill me, you'll have to do it yourself, perhaps doing me the honor of removing your blindfold after all."

Ilya is not shy about showing his true colors as a Diver. He is not afraid of an attack from the kind old man and has no intention of attacking. Why be afraid? What is the point of refusing a persistent invitation or trying to escape right now, while the host is temporarily hamstrung by his relic, which prevents him from attacking? What's the point of running from a three-hundred-meter-high tsunami wave while standing right on the beach, with no chance of finding shelter? Ilya is not used to being afraid of things he cannot influence or overcome in the first place. For example, he cannot overcome the effect of the eye hidden under the bandage and the combination of talents and mutations that put so much pressure on his psyche that he has to cover that eye with cloth so as not to overload his brain. It is a very special piece of fabric with a characteristic sheen, almost invisible under a layer of deliberately applied dirt, as if the fabric had not been washed for years.

In fact, based on the type of fabric, he figured out which eye was hidden under the bandage.

In fact, not an eye, but «The Eye of Clearvision», a talent from the branch that is immediately available to Occultists, Sages, and Hermits, but most of all, of course, Sages.

A talent with seven steps of development, available to take only after taking some simpler talents accompanying and balancing madness. Able, when activated, to scan anyone, capable of easily revealing the masking talents, and even calculate a diver by the presence of his Vessels of Rebirth.

Talent, which can be taken only after reaching at least the third stage of development.

An old man pretending to be broken, no worse than a Broken world, living in filth, cooking his food, and cleaning his own home. Messing around with street kids and bowing down to guards, humiliating himself every day, every hour, every second of such an existence. He was genuinely and sincerely afraid for the life and health of the girl who had been sent away when he saw her next to the blood-covered and very hungry Wendigo, so afraid that he did not even attack immediately, just so as not to hurt her. He looked at Ilya with a stony expression, not a single muscle in his body twitching, as if he had become a taut string that could snap at any moment, releasing a power capable of leveling houses and streets with fleeting blows, or rather, swings.

Ilya looks longingly at the wing of a tasty duck, realizing that he will hardly have time to eat it. In his head, there is not the slightest understanding of what will happen next and how to conduct this conversation at all now that the cards have been revealed. Only one thought is ringing against the walls of a completely empty skull:

||Damn FAFO! Damn FAFO! Damn FAFO! DAMN FAFO!!!!!!!

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/589929

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP