Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 14. Что подумал и чего желал сказать по этому поводу Илья, почтенный Рюк так и не узнал, потому что землянин был очень хорошо воспитан.

14. What Ilya thought and what he wanted to say about this, the venerable Ryuk never found out, because the earthling was very well-mannered.

* * *

Ilya closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, exhales meditatively, and solemnly clicks the mouse on the desired icon. Out loud, he recites the words in a no less solemn and slightly ominous tone, like an Occultist activating a lyrically enhanced combat talent. Indeed, his words sound like a spell, and in a way, they even are one.

"Work, work, move over to Fedot!" The final part of the "spell" coincides with the clearly distinguishable beep of his computer, and a second later, someone else's computer beeps, having received the sent message, even though Ilya did not hear this sound due to the distance – the opposite end of the floor, as it were.
T.N.

But a minute and a half later, he heard hurried footsteps and saw the door to their office swing open with a kick, revealing the face of the aforementioned Fedot, which was somewhat stained, judging by the colour, with what appeared to be synthetic mustard. His gaze expressed both anger and resentment towards the whole world and some kind of desperate hope for the best.

"Hey, fuck! What the fuck!?" The man wiping sauce from his face almost threw the container with his office lunch, still clutched in his hands, at me, his gaze full of resentment and indignation. "What the fuck are you doing, you fucking witch doctor? It's not my responsibility, you've got your resolution!"

"Mate, it was your surname that was directly mentioned there. I checked the transfer history." Ilya parries, closing the windows and turning off the computer, trying not to yawn in the process and completely ignoring the hint about his fascination with the matters of the Broken, which have long since become the talk of the town. "If you changed the load distribution order and deleted the document number linked to your account, that doesn't mean the rest of us are idiots, too."

The stupid hacker, who had lost his last chance to pass on work with almost overdue documents to the neighbouring department, tried to appeal to conscience, honour and corporate solidarity, but it wasn't even Ilya who screw him, but the entire office as a whole. as no one wanted to lose a percentage of their monthly bonus because of someone else's stupidity. To be fair, if that document had been lost in the flow of paperwork and they had stamped the acceptance notice on it, they would have had to actually work on it. Or raise a fuss, calling in the system administrators, who would have to dig deep into the logs, which would result in the bonus being taken away from two offices at once.

Unfortunately for Fedot Sklevishkin, no, it's not a joke, that's really his name, incoming documents were reviewed not by drooling, dozing Maxim, nor even by perpetually dreamy Sonya, but by the ever-focused Ilya, who quickly asked himself and the system a question, received an answer, and complained to Gosha. Gosha smiled slyly with a mean little smile and ordered the document to be held until the end of the working day, and only then returned with a note about the erroneous distribution, so that it would not be tempting. Formally, this was also a violation of the employment contract, and the cunning boss decided to dump the dirty work of retaliation on his subordinate, while he himself did nothing and did not do anything to anyone. But Ilya's desire to do something bad to a colleague he had never met before, except for encounters in a crowd, was by no means formal.

And so, having finished his day's work, he dutifully sat on the Forum until the end, and only at the very end cast a terrifying spell, sending the poor asshole off to unpaid overtime. Because you can't be a dumb asshole unless you want to suffer, of course. However, the real trouble comes when the asshole colleague turns out to be not dumb, but, damn it, smart and cunning.

Like, for example, the leader of a very young and just-developing community, not even four years old yet. He successfully betrayed his subordinates and comrades, literally sacrificing them with a buff in the middle of a nearly cleared lacuna. And yet he managed to reach the second Step, moving from a simple Warlock of the classic "Ardor" build to a full-fledged Igniter. All the experts considered it too early. This would backfire later, as he'd start looking for a transition to the third rank. Underdeveloped talents, minimal essence accumulation, and the banal "dirty" method of essentially stuffing himself with other people's Vessels. Even if he doesn't catch a desync, and he won't, he calculated everything correctly, the bastard, using the axis of the lacuna as a filter; some talents will be completely burned out, others will lose points, and further progress is guaranteed to be curtailed.

Yeah, that's right, but right now he's still a Two, albeit a hundred times weaker than a standard one, but capable of doing what only a Second Step could. Meanwhile, the group that had involuntarily reinforced their leader lost their lives, their gear, and would likely be hunted by the natives. That fiery asshole isn't a fool, is he? He knew, the bastard, that they'd dislike him and try to get revenge somehow, so he had to make arrangements with some local forces beforehand to have as many of his useless comrades as possible battered.

It goes without saying that no one knew his real name. Twins's face was disfigured by a hideous burn, the result of his compensatory talent, "Branded with Flame," and all the information his comrades had known about him turned out to be false. Social media accounts, instant messaging profiles, and the disclaimers about owning a small diner on the border with the Korean agglomeration sector. So trust a seemingly trusted comrade, right? According to his fellow victims, they'd noticed certain traits of a real jerk before, but out of everyone in the community, he was the only one who managed to secure a good place in society, establish connections with the local authorities, and categorically thwarted any attempts by his comrades to integrate themselves into the local power structure without his involvement.

From Ilya's perspective, these weren't even red flags, but, damn, "Bloody Dawn" in its active phase and fully deployed, right at point-blank range. But no, no one suspected this until the very end. Or rather, they suspected that the asshole would again try to take most of the loot for himself and would be the first to feed himself from the axis of the lacuna. In other words, they foresaw typical assholeness, not truly legendary assholeness. Clearly, the four confirmed testimonies from earthlings on the Forum, and a couple more from extraterrestrial divers who couldn't report back in the Earth sector, caused quite a stir in the community.

Not because it's such a rare occurrence, although the level of ugliness is still quite remarkable, considering a fellow Earthling, but because a couple of well-known expert bloggers stumbled upon this story and hyped it up quite a bit. Now, the "4Chan community of anonymous online Sherlocks" and the "vanguard of the de-Anonization of the Order of the Reborn 2chaners," who usually hate each other, have jointly begun combing through every trace of this idiot's presence on the Forum, while also looking for matches outside of it, in the regular human network. Considering the number of AI and search algorithms deployed on this case, they might even find him, for example, by his typing style or something similar.

They won't put him in jail, of course. The laws still have very little control over what's happening in Broken. At most, they'll express concern about mass sacrificial rituals, but they'll make his life uncomfortable. Or, as often happens, they'll allow good comrades to meet with the former leader in person. The main thing is that there are no casualties, right? However, a civil suit could still be filed; it might even be considered. De facto fraud occurred, significantly reducing the flow of essence earned by the group. They could very well impose a fine, even a hefty one, forcing them to pay, or to store and transfer the money through the Forum for the rest of their lives, where even a drop of it can't be removed by any account freezes. Their social rating could also be lowered, and the power of public censure shouldn't be underestimated either. If they seriously get around to canceling this idiot, the only thing he'll have left to do is move to Broken.

Perhaps this is exactly what he intended to do in the first place.

Ilya, of course, wasn't just interested in the contender for the title of Asshole of the Cycle. He's currently sixth in the poll, but if the momentum continues, he'll be fourth by morning. He skimmed through the latest news reports, responded to a few messages, downloaded a couple of new databases that had become publicly available, paid for one of the ones that won't be publicly available anytime soon due to its rare nature, and so on.

Something truly interesting: he admired screenshots of the destroyed fourth-stage creature from the official Citadel press secretary, and also read the report on the hunt for said creature. However, it's not a hunt report, more like a thrilling epic novel in the genre of war chronicles. The abomination led over six thousand in its retinue alone, not counting the entire crowd that pressed forward, simply following the mere presence and will of the super-creature. There were almost fifty thousand full-fledged combat creatures there, no less. Screenshots from the point of view of an aerial sorcerer's summons soaring through the skies were, of course, included.

A subtype of ghostly-air creatures, a sort of enormous hovering anglerfish, a personal name achieved through the divination talents and rituals of "The Cruel Breeze That Came with Sudden Grief," but that's if we were to express the results of the divination in the simplest and most understandable combination of letters. A very high maneuverability, strikes with classic air-type offensive magic, extremely unpleasant physical damage, and that very "fishing rod" that exerted such mental pressure that three full-fledged teams of four had to be called in at once, backing each other up, taking turns until they were caught. The fish, as was later confirmed, was not a step away, but a couple of steps away from the fifth stage, which is why one of the Citadel's five-man teams backed up their younger comrades, albeit not directly participating in the cleansing.

Incidentally, it was never revealed who exactly was covering for him, but there were many assumptions. Even Ilya clicked his vote in the poll, although he did not place a monetary bet. It wasn't that he was stingy with his money, but he disliked casinos of any kind, couldn't even stand them. In his opinion, this crap can mess with your mind way worse than the dirtiest drugs and alcohol combined.

He looked at the screenshot of the ghost fish corpse, which had already begun to disintegrate into ectoplasm, looked at the barely discernible dots of people around it, comparing the scale, and then once again promised himself convincingly not to even look at high-level creatures until he himself became high-level. However, he hadn't been particularly eager before, even entering this forum thread solely to read the lists of participants and the ‘logs’ of each squad's actions. From his very amateur point of view, the fours had performed, to put it mildly, not in the best way, even if they had not failed, while the MVP of the battle were the threes and twos, who had taken on the creatures' retinue, as well as the ordinary ones and twos, who had held the front against the hordes of advancing low-ranking creatures.

But, as already mentioned, Ilya's opinion is that of an amateur, because even on Earth, surprisingly little is known about the methods of combat at the highest levels, rather disappointingly little. And this information often cannot even be bought, only obtained under a non-disclosure agreement or through another leak on the Forum. After all, the creature was described as an extremely difficult opponent, capable of imposing its own rules of combat and constantly shrouded in multiple layers of illusions, which is why it took so long to find the fish itself. It was also fortunate that it was unable to forcibly empty the Vessels of Rebirth quickly, giving time to react.

The reaction is quite simple and well-rehearsed. As soon as contact with the group is lost or the connection starts to sound strange, and the passwords responds get mixed up or delayed, the ritual protective tattoo covering the entire back enters an active phase and burns the body to ashes. Well, or rather, it freezes it. Or it's not a tattoo, but a necklace-collar. In any case, the victim is forcibly pulled out of a pile of illusions, in which it is easy to lose oneself forever, and sent for rebirth. And twice as many people have died from such forced rebirths than from creatures in general. Well, among the ones and twos, the threes were most often able to hold out long enough to be pulled out or to escape in terror.

Ilya couldn't help thinking that with his Trait, he could have struck gold in that battle. He wouldn't have dared to test his strength against the four creatures, but his personal retinue of related creatures would hardly have been dangerous to him. He could have wiped out the first-level fish easily. Yeah, right up until the moment when a stronger creature came along, excited by the numerous deaths of its eggs. But dream on! You can dream, no one will forbid you to dream, right?!

"What are you thinking about, Il?" Maria's typical and sometimes annoying habit of shortening his name in the Asian manner, performed by the sincerely smiling Irina, is hardly annoying at all. "You have such a serious look on your face, you know, that I would appoint you as some kind of minister."

Meeting him right outside his workplace, Irina, returning from the spa salon, having just finished soaking in the bath after more than forty days in the middle of a hot and dusty desert, embodied the very essence of good spirits. And why shouldn't she be in a good mood, if the cycle had gone well, the time for the problematic parting with the nomadic sectarians who had sheltered her had not yet come, and she had collected more than one drop of the essence again? No matter how much she denied it, she said she would brag about it when they met, but Ilya began to think nervously again about his cheating Trait and whether its effect would leak in the cracks between worlds.

"About fish." Honestly, he replied, focusing on his interlocutor and smiling warmly enough to prevent the mirrors from cracking too vigorously at the sight of his smile. "And about fishing. While the latter has never appealed to me, I would gladly partake in the former right now. I hear that a delightful little restaurant has opened near the transfer block to sectors eight to sixteen, where they serve authentic fish from their own small hydrofarm. I suggest we investigate."

"Then my treat." Ira poked him playfully but insistently in the chest, forcing Ilya to feel a slight twinge of conscience and hurt pride again, unable to admit that of the two of them, he was the rich boy, not the other way around. "Today I'm paying my tribute to FaFo, so don't you dare come between me and Fate, mortal man!"

"I obey, Your Darkest Highness.? The inevitable answer does not prevent him from thinking that of the two of them, it is not the fiery, almost innocent Warlock who should be called ‘Darkest Highness.’ "And I obey without question."

Unlike him, Irina's Cycle was not only fruitful but also surprisingly peaceful. The nomadic tribe following the Guiding Star treated the Warlock who had joined them with great respect. They respected her boundaries and personal space, didn't meddle with her belongings, or Irina hadn't noticed her disturbed marks, didn't try to get her drunk, and showed no desire to force her to marry a gifted breeding bull. She said she was seriously beginning to suspect that the Grave Robber, who had become her partner, was either impotent or simply more into boys. He did look at her, but more as if she were a strange-looking curiosity, a mild form of cultural dissonance syndrome.

Well, when a Caucasian diver is thrown into a sector populated predominantly by blacks, Asians, jungle aborigines, or other ethnic groups. Or vice versa. The point is, someone's face, or ethnicity for that matter, is very disconcerting to those around them, and it's no surprise that the almost-black Bedouins look at Irina, who is snow-white by comparison, with mild surprise. Overall, aside from these glances, as well as certain aspects of nomadic life, like rubbing herself with healing, no joke, healing through pure ritual, even without theurgy, camel urine, or extremely exotic cuisine, she even lived comfortably.

The girl was in no hurry to relax and was still paranoid, but now she was not so immersed in that paranoia. Especially after so many battles, yes. Emboldened by their easy victories in the desert, parched and unpleasantly cursed by the undead, the two gifted ones ventured deeper into some extremely interesting ruins. There, quite valuable relics of the Guiding Star cult remained untouched, but at the same time, there were almost three dozen creatures. Moreover, they did not behave as creatures in capsule virtual games should, and attacked the newcomers in a crowd, all at once, rather than only when they entered the agro zone. The only saving grace was that there were no pure casters or archers among the undead, only melee fighters, rebellious slaves led by a trio of dead warriors.

The latter were not second-tier, but were unpleasantly high-ranked within the first tier, making them extremely inconvenient opponents for the Rober. They were too resilient to be taken down quickly, too fast to be destroyed without risk to oneself, and struck too hard to allow even glancing blows to be missed. Young Orsay-Shill's defence was much worse than his attack, and the simple ‘Grave Mantle’, which was more of a disguise and a buff to speed and mobility, would certainly not be able to handle such a load. So he didn't risk going there alone; the colourful descriptions of his now deceased father were enough for him.

But in tandem with Irina, who could, if not destroy such weak undead creatures, then halve them, especially when they were moving in a dense crowd, without mass spells and reinforcements, they still took the risk of halving their numbers with a single blow. And they did not lose, managing to light a fire and then destroy the rest, not allowing them to surround the living or hide back in the underground passage from which they had come. Four drops of essence and two more during the journey along the desert, which was very saturated with undead. That result shows what predominantly coordinated groups of advanced communities can do, if we are talking about a regular result, of course. And it is also almost guaranteed confirmation that her contact with Ilya does add essence.

Because what she describes is worth two, maybe three drops, even in the most optimistic forecasts, but not all six, more like one or one and a half. Yes, thirty undead are a lot, but not when only three of them are truly dangerous creatures, and the rest are just ordinary extras. Ilya would have received more, just for crossing the desert, not to mention clearing the ruins, but the fact itself clearly indicates that his Great Good is leaking. And he can't even say anything, because Irina doesn't seem to realise how much her earnings defy conventional logic. If she keeps bragging, someone might notice, and then they'll start asking awkward questions about what she's hiding and how she got it."

There is no need to fear the authorities. At most, they will annoy you with intrusive advertising and solicitations, at least for now, but unscrupulous divers, the kind who supply criminal groups with essence, having left them themselves to enter the wider world, may well resort to radical solutions. They may even resort to trying to extract answers by force, even though this is punished mercilessly and results in very long prison sentences, sometimes without any ceremony during arrest. But Irina is not an official diver, and attacking one would cause a big fuss, which could backfire on her. Of course, Ilya is exaggerating, but he is not inventing the fact that there is danger. He is also at risk, and his prospects for development are much better than Irina's.

"Do you think so?" She asks, slightly alarmed, and immediately bites her tongue, having already learned that Ilya only speaks when he is certain, especially about broken things. "I haven't noticed any changes in myself, not at all. And I haven't received any extra gifts... but yes, I also thought that it turned out to be really painful. So what now? I mean, should I move or something?"

'First of all, don't panic." Ilya, as usual during discussions about the Broken, is calm as a stone carved in the shape of a boa constrictor, infecting the nervous girl with his calmness. "By trying to move, you will only surprise those around you more and raise more questions. Did you brag to your friends that there are six more drops? Fine, it happens. Just say that there weren't thirty creatures in the ruins, but fifty, and that there weren't just one set of ruins, but three or even four, all part of the same complex. You haven't posted all your adventures on the forum yet? Don't post them, make excuses in general terms, and don't specify the number of enemies destroyed. People will figure out the rest for themselves."

Not a word of a lie, by the way, because Irina's result is good, even gorgeous, but not beyond the capabilities of a single person, only on the verge of it. Again, she is covered by a whole tribe of natives with gifted one, which she will definitely hint at. So, she is no longer such a solo player; it is easier to run with a standard pair, especially a caster-melee combo, and everyone has intense cycles. It's just that solo players are usually forced to run and hide in such cycles, rather than taking out creatures in batches and receiving their well-deserved reward. At best, they run and hide, yes, but more often than not, they encounter a new rebirth, and that's it.

"Yeah, you calmed me down." After drinking a pretty good cocktail and looking at her half-eaten meal, her appetite for which was now completely gone, she gave Ilya a disapproving look, too. "But before that, you scared me. Thanks, of course, it's just... it all happened so suddenly..."

"Well, your earnings still don't stand out against the backdrop of full-fledged groups belonging to experienced communities. The same Citadel dwellers won't laugh at such a windfall, but they won't admire it either, as they've been there themselves many times." The secret diver, advising the ‘secret’ diver, behaves as calmly as possible, trying hard to show her that the situation is serious but not dangerous, if she doesn't mess up. "Just keep going, and if the increase in drops doesn't slow down, be careful not to spread the word too loudly. One drop, well, two, if you get it, that's all. The rest, either take out in small portions or save for a rainy day."

They both left the restaurant extremely satisfied and no longer allowed gloomy thoughts to spoil their evening, and then night fell, during which both of them couldn't care less about the whole Broken. Later, lying in an embrace with a warm and peacefully snoring body, Ilya thought about how his trait actually worked. Let's say it increases the flow of essence to those who are in the same squad with him. But how exactly does this part of the Mechanism work? Is it the degree of closeness of their connection that is assessed — which is very, very high between him and Irina — or something else? And would any kind of closeness work here?

The fantasy that his abilities work best with lovers, and so he now needs to assemble a harem of warriors dwarfing Mesmericals himself, is only amusing at first glance, and even then, only for hormonally overstimulated adolescents or those mentally stuck at that age. Upon closer examination, it's simply laughable, and upon even closer inspection, downright terrifying. No, it's unlikely that his goodness operates solely and exclusively through intimacy. Rather, it operates through any connections whatsoever, and that's where uncomfortable questions begin.

Ilya is not exactly a recluse, but most of his communication outside of work takes place online. His old friends and acquaintances have long since settled down and now get together for a beer or other reason at most once a quarter. His last love interest, apart from Irina, left his life before he became a diver, by mutual agreement. Now they exchange perfunctory greetings on holidays and such — not hostile, but not close either; they have both grown equally tired of that relationship. What remained was work, the cursed office, where Ilya was forced to maintain fairly close social contact.

Now, an important question: what is the probability that there will be another diver among them, who will then notice a sharp increase in the incoming essence? In reality, it is not zero. Not high, but not low either. The native department consists of only fourteen souls. Statistically, there should be no other divers besides Ilya, but let FaFo not work on Earth even for pumped-up fours and fives, despite the transfer of talents, and banal bad luck has not disappeared anywhere. Suddenly, Max Kremnik turns out to be a diver, just really anonymous, not like Irina. That'll be something when he starts grabbing the essence drop by drop! Ilya will definitely start hiccupping then, yeah.

Anyway, never mind. For now, there is no reason to suspect him, just as there is no reason for him to suspect his colleagues of being divers. There are no characteristic behavioural markers, no response from professional intuition, if you will. No, perhaps one of them was a diver in the distant past, before Gemini disappeared, but now they definitely are not. Jokes about Masha, her mother, being a high-level Storyteller in reality remain just that — jokes. He has not entered into any serious relationships with anyone else, and minor get-togethers over an invigorating drink or lunch in the cafeteria do not count.

Maybe.

With this somewhat calming thought, he closed his eyes and, nevertheless, allowed himself to sink into a calm and well-deserved sleep.

* * *

After the first day and the following weekend, spent in a rather relaxed mood, came the usual hour of hard work and passionate pursuit of the assigned tasks. Ilya began working, starting by spending his hard-earned money, withdrawing more than six drops from his account, converting it into loans, and purchasing other people's services or access to databases. Personally, without fully understanding the subject, he wouldn't risk searching for the answer he so desperately needed, especially if the price of a mistake would be a very disgruntled candy old man. He was quite capable of surviving his own dissatisfaction caused by unnecessary spending, but he wasn't sure he'd even have time to process the dissatisfaction of the crippled Third Step.

Having spent so many years at the Forum, he couldn't help but know certain individuals, specialists in certain highly specialized topics, which undoubtedly included everything related to attempts to ascend to the highest levels and the consequences of failure in such endeavors. Many of these individuals were powerful divers or close associates of such, which is why they priced their services far above mere creds. His saving grace was that he, after all, had the necessary financial backing and could speak to them in a language they understood. They simply accepted him as another colleague, albeit one hiding behind a fake nickname, which is why they at least agreed to listen.

And yet, several times, he had to retreat empty-handed, even though he didn't demand a ready one ascension ritual and even described the situation quite frankly. He said he wanted to buy his life from the locals by suggesting a way to combat the problem. If he hadn't been able to back up his words with the Forum, he would have been sent packing immediately, with a swear word. Becoming a Four is a very intimate process, one that holds a very special place in Earth law. The authorities, with the express permission of the Treaty, closely monitored anyone and everyone who approached this threshold. Various standard and unconventional ascension rituals had long since leaked online, and many even deliberately shared everything they knew.

But Ilya didn't need a standard ritual. Moreover, he had no idea what ritual Ryuk had attempted to use to ascend. He needed highly specific advice from individuals who weren't accustomed to answering to just anyone, as he might just as easily have been a spy for some otherworldly being trying to repair his crippled overlord. It happens, yes. They took Twin as a hostage and specifically asked him to find out about this or that issue, lest he face years of constant torture. Because such erudition as well as the accessibility of knowledge to everyone of their divers among Earthlings is known to worlds mostly familiar and having already caused trouble for Earth, the response to his requests was appropriate.

Because few allied worlds could ask through more appropriate contact points, rather than using such nonsense. Then again, there were plenty of those who didn't need to be tortured at all; just promise patronage and help to level them up, and then ask questions, yes. And it would be fine if we were talking about natives or unfamiliar worlds, with which they had little experience, but there were even cases of working for "pure" ones, despite all the conflicts they had with Earthlings. As vile and bloody as it is possible.

Confirmations, more confirmations, agreement in principle, but... and that ‘but’ is where the problems began. Some people agreed to help only through the official labour exchange, not the Forum, effectively demanding that his identity be disclosed not to them, but to the state. Some refused to work without a description of a ritual of exalting the victim first, either not wanting to take risks or wanting to obtain a little more extremely valuable information. And to be paid for it. Some simply refused without explaining the reasons, or demanded a price that was outrageous even by Ilya's standards. In the latter case, if the earthling paid, it would only further convince his interlocutor that he was not a newcomer who had miraculously earned enough essence to turn to this particular specialist.

This could lead to receiving a gift from the Greeks, in the sense of encountering someone from the Danaos group. These individuals specialise in combating information terrorists who attempt to forcibly extract as much knowledge as possible from earthlings on topics that are particularly sensitive to them personally. An ancient proverb warned people to fear the Danaans, who brought gifts, but the overly cunning natives or foreigners did not know this and repeatedly received poisoned gifts. Rituals, blueprints, builds, or simple advice that works perfectly at first glance, and even at the tenth glance, but turns out to have very serious consequences and damage in the future — this is their favourite trick.

Ilya wouldn't even mind slipping such a gift to the old man who tried to kill him, but it's not that easy to get into the Danaans; they won't take you off the street, or they'll only take you for a lot of money. Moreover, officially, the guys only work in the strictly legal sector, with registered divers or communities. You could come to them in tears, saying, ‘I'm in deep shit and now I want to register and take revenge, at least with a trap ritual’ — they wouldn't even send you away, but they wouldn't provide anonymous help. Officially, that is. And to overcome the bureaucracy, you need to be someone important, not just an unfamiliar newcomer.

And yet the work went well. Some were willing to be satisfied with the information and answers they were given, the veracity of which had been verified by the Forum. However, among those who agreed to work, some would certainly have agreed even if Ilya had not wanted to prove his veracity in such absolute ways. Credits, damn, credits! Or how was it in that 2D classic, the historical crime drama about the end of the twentieth century? Something about old women, but he can't remember now...

His requests were not limited to Ryuk alone. Ilya did not forget about himself, checking databases, recalculating the coefficients of the aspects he needed, and checking again and again to see if he had made mistakes. Most of his attention, however, was consumed by studying various types of long weapons made from bone using the talents of a Carver. He could not be considered a full-fledged craftsman, but his talent would meet some minimum standards, and with the perfect material, he would be able to do many things that he would very much like to do.

A spear, sword, or club? The spear is highly symbolic, conceptually simple and primitive, and therefore extremely convenient for Wendigo in combat, as it can be wielded with the skill of a hunting beast. On the other hand, a club is even simpler, even wilder, requires even less processing, and can accommodate many more signs and symbols on its surface. And to hell with the shape, which effects of the bone he should try to enhance and preserve, and which should it discard immediately? Breaking through defences? Inflicting aura damage? Increased durability? Transferring part of the slain's power along the bone to the one who holds it? However, the last modification on a clean carving will be quite difficult to pull off; you will have to help yourself with a pure ritual or choose an aspect sharpened strictly for this purpose.

His regular work was replaced by work on Broken, and even in his main job, he was mainly engaged in Broken. There were no major projects or large-scale tasks this season, and until the next Cycle, there were twenty-nine days of desperate imitation of intense activity. Ilya, like his entire office, led by Gosha, imitated with all his might, only occasionally distracting themself with another session of shooters on the local network to find out who would be buying refills for the cocktail machine today. He didn't win, but he didn't lose either, managing to maintain an average score even against much more experienced opponents. The whole office tried to kill Gosha, but he was either a cheater or just played like a god.

There was even an idea to bring in some decent VR headsets to get stuck into something newer than monitor shooters, but they decided not to risk the goodwill of their superiors. Especially if we went so far as to try, as Sonya suggested, to spit on the helmets and install a couple of full-fledged capsules in the chamber, and write off the capsules as administrative expenses for necessary equipment, as the girl with the now unnaturally jet-black hair suggested.

In other respects, everything was calm and peaceful, the bosses weren't causing any trouble, the spiteful Oleg remained in custody, and the people around Ilya weren't any more annoying than usual. They met a couple more times with Ira, visited an amusement park, rode on high-speed roller coasters, and acquired a mild fear of heights in the process, all while simply helping each other relieve tension. They had a strange relationship, one that was equally selfish and selfless, but it suited them both for the time being. To be honest, Ilya was a little jealous of the girl — she had her own problems, but they were generally standard and surmountable, whereas he couldn't say the same about his. And it wasn't certain that he ever would be able to.

Sessions working on the future cycle were interspersed with cautious correspondence with Crocodile, during which they both tried to learn as much as possible while saying as little as possible. This correspondence was occasionally interrupted by Ilya's attempts to relax his mind. Alas, even proven methods in the form of the most outstanding jokes from the Broken did not help him much. Perhaps the reason for this was the realisation that he had personally pulled off the coolest joke in these nominations, even if he had left it unpublished. Perhaps it was due to a different realisation: the next cycle would be decisive, even more so than the previous ones. For him, for Ryuk, whom he would try to plant through the last earthling from their crop who had made contact, kill old man Ilya, and for Crocodile and company.

If he has a company, of course, otherwise you never know, maybe he really did imitate a second comrade or even installed some kind of dummy.

The simultaneously lyrical and melancholy mood didn't mean he wasn't laughing, because he was, but it sounded downright forced. Even while describing the story of how a talented Potion Master, offended by an attempt to collar him and already considering taking the second step, staged his own merry revenge. They tried to drug the man with some very potent crap in his favorite wine — not poison, but an extremely profound love potion. And they would have drugged him, if not for the Earthling's paranoia, coupled with a good laboratory and a habit of testing absolutely every substance that enters his body.

Having discovered unfamiliar reagents in the wine, the man thoroughly analysed it, then cursed with true Italian expression and began to freak out in a manner equally true to his Italian heritage. It all ended with him distilling a potion from the ill-fated wine, adding some of his own ingredients, and then concocting a particularly potent mixture that cost him three years' worth of earnings. It should be noted here that he owned a large laboratory-workshop and some shops, having successfully sold himself from the very first days of his arrival in the Broken. He even voluntarily agreed to the collar oath, but then the old holder of this oath was promoted to the regional capital, and his heir, who began to rule his father's estate, decided that it was time to strengthen the chain. He was also sure that Potionmaker, who was puppy-doggily in love with his distant and very promiscuous relative and had lost most of his intellectual abilities, but not his skill, would be more useful to him. More useful than the wayward, self-willed Potionmaker, who never forgot to demand payment for his services.

Well, the plan worked like a charm when the alchemical bomb was delivered to the stable of a very clever heir, a first-level Warlock, by the way. The mixture ended up in the feeders of horses, both ordinary and not so ordinary, as well as the personal steed of the venerable Count Saint-Reddci, a frank chimera-mutant. The horses were not killed, no, they were not even turned into rapist horses. Quite the opposite, in fact — it turned those horses into generators of love aura and pheromone clouds. The alchemical filth that came out with sweat and farts affected even the gifted, let alone simple grooms, so that by the time the presumptuous young count, his sister, his fiancée, and, by pure chance, that very relative, came to their senses, the horses were puzzled but satisfied.

Humans - not.

The comments were interspersed with a bunch of vomiting emojis and emojis laughing until they cried. Mesmericals personally congratulated Solid Snape on his successful intrigue and presented him with twenty units of essence as a public donation. He has been appearing in Ilya's field of vision quite often lately, as if fate is hinting that he, too, could become a Dreamwalker. According to him, even he himself was only slightly more eccentric in the first stage. Of course, he lied. He was even more eccentric and much more often.

The images captured by a long-range mirror camera installed in the stable specifically to monitor the former boss were promptly removed from all reputable blogs. Or they were hidden under several spoilers at once, but, to be honest, Ilya did not dare to open them, sparing his psyche, because his stability is supported by a trait only in Broken.

And yet his joke turned out to be funnier, if only because it wasn't so vulgar. What's more, he won't be caught for this very joke, whereas Solid is forced to flee rapidly, having emptied one of the Vessels of Rebirth with a very cunning ritual. In fact, he ‘killed himself without killing himself,’ receiving an enhanced version of the dissolution of all vows and contracts, the destruction of anchors and other pledges, as if he had died and been reborn, but he did not have to wait a whole cycle to begin his rebirth. Of course, the ritual itself did not work at all; it took a long time to prepare for it, shaking the grooves of the vows so that at the right moment he could break his chains with a decisive blow.

And, more importantly, the man shared his ritual. Even if it was developed not only by him, but also by a couple of earthly specialists on hire, links to their Forum blogs, as well as the price list, were provided in the form of advertising, even if it was designed for a specific class and build. Ilya was not an alchemist, even in the slightest, but the basis of the ritual, its concept, was by no means uninteresting. He understood the essence. Individual blocks were not difficult; there was the classic nine-pointed star in the attributes of the Pourer in the Pot, but the overall concept somehow eluded him.

He spent the entire evening trying to understand more, coming to the conclusion that whoever had posted this miracle had seriously underestimated something, because the ritual should not have worked. There wouldn't have been enough spark. And this spark couldn't even be simulated with common reagents or a few cauldrons of ‘pure’ potions, literal energy broths with no special properties, unless you count their suitability as fuel for a specific ritual. No. No-o-o-o. There was something else, and in the end, putting the puzzle together, he confirmed his suspicions, and they were the worst kind. Because it wasn't just potions that needed to be brewed in the nine axial cauldrons, but living victims. And young lambs wouldn't do. But people who had not yet left their teenage years — that was quite possible, yes.

Well, all that remained was to hope that this evil Potionmaker had enough honour to throw a larger number of purchased adult slave prisoners into the cauldron, rather than homeless children, who were so easy to catch or buy for nothing and for whom the ritual was clearly intended. Or that, if Ilya was wrong in the previous point, the street children in that town would have their own candy or wooden whistle merchant. One who would personally ask the fool who had reneged on his oaths who was hurting his children here.

Alas, such situations occur most often in fairy tales, or with Ilya, but not with such freaks. For himself, the earthling limited himself to logging in from his official work account and then posted his personal suspicions and an analysis of the ritual blocks confirming them. Then he politely asked if the respectable diver, who had already started collecting donations for the move, would be so kind as to dispel his doubts about his decency through the Forum. Сonfirming, for the sake of truthfulness, that Ilya had started hallucinating from lack of sleep and was seeing all sorts of falsehoods.

His message was deleted two and a half hours later, apparently because the man had gone to eat, take a nap, or really needed to use the toilet, but by that time, many people had managed to read the message. And it turns out that among the bunch of pranksters and other horse-shit humour enthusiasts, some specialists could easily understand everything Ilya had written and even check it without finding any mistakes. And they would have found some, damn it, Ilya himself checked everything three times. In the end, he went to bed, only to wake up in the morning to find the official account's page flooded with all sorts of messages.

His long-forgotten supervisor from London Uni asked permission to publish his post on the university's official website as an example of the erudition and attentiveness of their graduates. Ilya agreed, because he was not the first, nor would he be the last, to be published in those digital magazines. If his memory serves him correctly, this is the third time since graduation, but usually the occasion was not so high-profile. Other graduates who went into the study of the Broken are published there almost every month. Some fellow bloggers also asked for permission to refer to this analysis, and an even larger number ‘delighted’ him with the news that they had stolen his work and now he would become famous because, they said, they would definitely mention him in the credits. Maybe. If he pays.

Some organisation fighting for the rights of the Broken people at the Assembly also got involved and offered quite good earnings on one rather substantial grant, but it would be necessary to formalise the investigation and link it to a number of similar cases. If he were still an ordinary citizen, he might even have agreed, especially if he had limited himself to just his surname on the list of experts and the payment had come in honest Euro credits. He would have agreed even now, but he was too lazy to deal with all the paperwork afterwards — the Assembly's grant policy is so bureaucratic that it's not even funny.

And the accused himself wrote on that very page of his recently neglected blog. And no, not to shame him for his mistake and false accusation, not even to repent for what he had done. No, no, Solid began to swear and threaten, and very inventively at that, using expressions that betrayed the extreme degree of butthurt. They promised to find and fuck him up, promised to fuck up his cat, dog, hamster, and all his relatives up to the eighty-first generation, promised to cook him into soup, porridge, bulgur, borscht, udon, ramen, and even fish soup, which made Ilya want to eat. Well, how could he not be offended when, instead of donations and best wishes, all kinds of fighters against social injustice in Broken began sending him threats.

And Mesmerikls wrote to the asshole brewer, politely, extremely gently, and in a completely non-threatening manner, asking him not to return his drop credits, no, no, under no circumstances, he wasn't that greedy. He just wanted to publicly invest these drops in one of the savings accounts to unlock sections of the Forum's purchased add-ons, saying that he, the respected four, felt a little uncomfortable about donating to such a bad person. This, of course, is surrealism, especially coming from a diver known for his very serious, even all-encompassing love of brainwashing.

According to Ilya, there was not even a hint of hypocrisy here, but rather a stench stronger than that of a decomposing corpse of a socialist who had fallen into a sewer and managed to lie there for six months. On the other hand, Mesmericles had never been seen harming children; quite the contrary. He either took the children of those ladies he had screwed over until their personalities were completely reformatted under his wing or placed them in reliable families, never forgetting to keep track of their fate.

Alas, Solid did not dare to speak about the hypocrisy to the full-fledged Four, who might naturally come to Earth in a dream to do something unpleasant to an individual they did not like. Within half an hour, he posted confirmation of the transfer. And no one else would have dared either, especially Ilya, who received a short ‘Well done’ and a certificate of translation for two drops of essence from the same quartet. As they say, thank you, but it would have been better if Ilya, the bastard, had kept quiet instead of publishing his ideas. On the other hand, if he had published them under an anonymous account, they would have simply drowned in a wave of gags. People started reading them because he put his diploma and experience as a LORE specialist up front to give his words more weight.

"If he figures me out from my diploma, hacks into the databases, finds me in real life, and tries to kill me, then I'm not playing." That's all he said out loud, as if he wasn't upset, but mentally screaming with rage, because he had enough problems in Broken, who the hell made him talk, why the fuck did he come out with his questions?! "But he should still buy a stun gun. Or a gas spray. Or an illegal gun. Or pills for paranoia. Or even all of the above.’"

Going to work in the morning was frankly scary, in case there were people there who would find out about it too... although, okay, almost no one there used his services, and it was unlikely that they knew about his work account, so they couldn't connect the two. Not to mention that his game as The Seeker on the Forum became so exciting only because it caught the public's attention. Such revelations are a regular occurrence on the Forum, and Ilya himself had participated in similar investigations several times, exposing fraudsters and swindlers, but in this case, a lot of people had already witnessed the ‘outstanding joke’ and, upon abruptly learning that their idol Mr. Porny was a brazen child murderer who was also scamming them for donations, they immediately struck back with that very public opinion.

It also had an impact that among those who liked to read anecdotes, there were many non-divers, all kinds of social activists and fighters for the rights of everyone, who had never heard of Broken. Ilya, of course, condemned his colleague, but this judgment was personal, cautious, and based on his own convictions. Many other divers also condemned him, but silently, while others, on the contrary, declared aloud that the man had done nothing that would not be worth the freedom and life of the Twin. Nothing that they themselves would not have done in the same situation. There were even those who defended him, but their opinions were drowned out by the public shitstorm. If the case had not been in the humor section but on the bord of a major community rather than on social media, it could have even resulted in an acquittal, figuratively speaking.

It is in the Citadel that one can think about morality, for it is strong, powerful, and has no competitors in the entire Ecumene. A loner always chooses who and what he is willing to sacrifice for his own sake, and therefore, people do not like to condemn them. And yet Ilya considered Solid a jerk, primarily because he originally built nine children's pots, specifically for children, not adults. And not only because convicts or robbers could be easily caught and quietly sacrificed, no. It was also because catching street children turned out to be much cheaper, and the old fool showed his greed in all its glory, both for money and for fame. Otherwise, he would not have risked publishing his adventures, let alone the ritual, even if it was with parts cut out that pointed to his brutal nature.

The man wanted not only freedom but also recognition, gifts, and donations from devoted fans. Well, he got what he wanted, in a way.

Ilya spent the rest of the Cycle tense, but no one encountered him in dark alleys, if only because he didn't walk in dark alleys. At work, Ilya's latest feat went unnoticed, too, to his immense relief. Even Masha seemed a bit dejected, as some trip she'd made to visit her Luddite relatives had fallen through. The only one who knew about his "feat" was Irina, who didn't even hide the fact that she'd subscribed to Ilya's blog after seeing the flames there. It's worth noting that the woman's frankly fanatical, "this is my hero" look, as she looked at him from up to down, made him feel slightly uncomfortable. The vibes were too reminiscent of those evoked by the sight of an aging molester who'd found himself a new minor. It was a good thing Irina's height and build weren't anything like a classic Lolita. Otherwise, it would have been downright awkward.

Although her offer to help him move or even hire him a bodyguard for a couple of months seemed really sweet, it was also a bit worrying. Simply because Ilya began to feel that the girl who had been saved by him was becoming obsessed with him, and that was never a good sign. It's one thing to have a simple and straightforward relationship without obligations, but it's quite another when obligations do arise. Ilya wasn't ready for them now; he was a confirmed bachelor. What other relationship could there be? He was married to Broken, if you could call it that.

He'd spent the last few days trying to unwind and re-collect the information he'd received from the experts. He'd received a fair amount, but still had no clear answers, only a series of theories, each requiring its own approach. Without a frank and focused conversation with Ryuk, it was pointless, and trying to get the sweet old man to have one while staying alive was a real challenge. When he grew tired of trying to figure out possible builds for the Sage Threes with their stated abilities and ways to fix them without going too far, the diver turned to philanthropy.

He opened one of his favorite sections, a question-and-answer section where newcomers or those simply curious could ask questions, and then answered those that were at least somewhat sensible. Judging by his observations, some people enjoyed messing with idiots. It would have been fine if they'd been able to boost their "expert rating", but no, some individuals simply possessed truly heavenly patience, in earthly terms, since in the canons of the Broken. There, all bright angels were a real shit.

* * *

Time flowed, deceptively slowly, approaching the next dive drop by drop, but every time he blinked, he realized another day had vanished into oblivion. Ilya couldn't help but think he needed to blink less. Three days before the Broken One claimed his chosen one, Ilya's computer began beeping again with a familiar melody. It was none other than the Crocodile, and the very first words of his message brought a longing sigh, compelling him to finally make the right choice.

KroKroKroKodYYl [OP], [confirmed diver], [cold-blooded and charming]: Well, it looks like I'll have to bet on lucky dice. Sorry. I'll spill everything I know, including our coordinates. Honestly, it's too late for us to leave now. We should have killed the natives earlier instead of dragging them along with us. Our cover will last exactly until the moment when the large-scale pure search rituals, enhanced by talents, begin. We have nothing to oppose them with, unless we run to the gates from the very first minutes and break through. We can break through, but the chances are too low.

FullofRegrets [confirmed diver], [definitely not a shaman], [also cold-blooded, but not as charming]: I suggest running a pure ritual. Here, for example, are some pretty suitable options for a caster [link], [link] [link] [link] [link], they're all fully equipped and have variable branches for different classes. Here's another one for pure melee, if there are no sorcerers in your pair. Or if you're alone. Here: [link], [link], [link], [link]. I started preparing in advance as soon as I left the cycle.

KroKroKroKodYYl [OP], [confirmed diver], [cold-blooded and charming]: Fuck me! And I'm so used to thinking I'm a rich kid? How much did you pay for all this, damn it? You should have at least asked, but I would have talked you out of it. Like, I'm smart and not poor, too. I was thinking of using pure ritual, too. Pure, I mean, because there are almost no suitable talents. And I don't have time. I won't even remember one such complex in the remaining time, let alone run it from memory and make modifications. Sorry for being so fucked up on offense, but you'd be better off blowing it all on liromicytin and whores. I'm not a caster, and my partner is a strike-type Occultist; her ritual talents are completely undeveloped, and they're just an add-on to the base build. I'll tell you more, she's not even one of ours, so she won't be able to read your links.

FullofRegrets [confirmed diver], [definitely not a shaman], [also cold-blooded, but not as charming]: Firstly, it wasn't that expensive. Secondly, I made a good portion of them myself, and combined the rest from pre-made blocks. If necessary, I'll repeat the ritual from memory. It's not easy, but I'll do it. It could work with Occultist, too, although it wouldn't hurt to know the build, at least roughly the core and counterbalance talents.

KroKroKroKodYYl [OP], [confirmed diver], [cold-blooded and charming]: Damn. So you're straight out of the Excelentese, like a pro-LORE guy? With diplomas, credentials, and a Forum-certified resume weighing three gags? Say something in Excelentese?

FullofRegrets [confirmed diver], [definitely not a shaman], [also cold-blooded, but not as charming]: Answers to questions only through a paid consultation - fifteen credits per hour.

FullofRegrets [confirmed diver], [definitely not a shaman], [also cold-blooded, but not as charming]: Is it ok?

KroKroKroKodYYl [OP], [confirmed diver], [cold-blooded and charming]: Damn!

KroKroKroKodYYl [OP], [confirmed diver], [cold-blooded and charming]: All right, enough joking around. If you really don't whistle and are as good as I think you are (and you give that impression), then we can indeed manage to perform the ritual of concealment. We'll just need the reagents, time, and a lot of luck. I've got some stuff together, and I've got my own ideas, so I suggest we sit down at the table (figuratively, damn it) and start thinking. If I'd known, I would have contacted you a long time ago, instead of waiting until the last minute.

Ilya couldn't be sure Ryuk wouldn't kill them all. His interlocutor also didn't ask about his colleague's problem hanging over his neck, because there was no point. They both began making their plans as if Ryuk would actually listen and decide to help, or at least not interfere, get them all out of his city at once, alive. As if Crocodile hadn't left too obvious a trail and wouldn't be discovered for at least another ten hours. Not because they were overconfident idiots, but simply and solely because otherwise they wouldn't need any discussion or preparation.

Over the next few days, the last ones before diving into the Broken, Ilya slept little and worked even less. Fortunately, the work was practically nonexistent. He worked almost nonstop to save the Twin, and also drank a lot of energy drinks. His congenital heart defect, carefully treated with expensive medications, began to subtly hint at the error of his chosen path. A dull, pressing pain in his chest hinted, forcing him to simply sleep for the last few hours. Crocodile, in fact, rather flippantly shared the information that he had been taking stimulants, not just the harmless ones, for almost a full week now, with no intention of stopping. This once again convinced Ilya that his interlocutor was significantly younger than Ilya himself.

Because he hadn't yet understood how important it was to preserve the fleeting health of youth. As if Ilya himself had been preserving it, yeah. Just remember their joyful strolls through dangerous neighborhoods and attempts to hang out in semi-legal or downright illegal clubs. He sometimes thought back to those years and wondered how he'd survived at all. It must have been the connivance of the Seven, all the Dead, and even the earthly gods, no doubt.

It was with this thought that he closed his eyes, falling asleep before the dive.

* * *

The return to where it all ended went without the slightest complication. Ilya didn't even lose his balance as he climbed the step he hadn't managed to reach before the cycle ended. He slowed down, looking within, only to appreciate his gifts — two of them. But it took literally only a few moments, and then he continued climbing into the room. And he thought, of course, about what he had received, and thought positively, for the gifts had proven not only useful but also appropriate right here and now.

Minor One-Time Gift of the Great Mechanism: A random, temporary minor Boon that lasts until the end of the current Cycle.

Minor one-time Gift of the Great Mechanism: a one-time euphony and resonance of the proclaimed prayer, which must be spoken before the end of the current Cycle.

He didn't even look at the first point; it could be anything, but it was unlikely to be of any decisive use, whereas the second gift... oh, this little gift changed not everything, but a lot. A great deal, yes. In fact, it was a one-time guarantee that your prayer would be heard by the remaining pieces of the Dead Mechanism, no matter which Dead it was directed at, no matter that you had no theurgical talents. The prayer would have some effect, that was a fact, although it was not clear at first what that effect would be. If you pray with all your might for some evil and crippled Third Step to be struck by lightning from the sky, then perhaps you will get a static shock while combing the remains of your hair. A simple prayer from a simple first-level gifted one will most likely not be enough for such a target.

But if you perform the ritual correctly, offering prayers in the tradition of the appropriate cult, reinforcing the ritual with sacrifices and vows... then it would be possible to increase the effect almost tenfold. It would be unlikely to kill Ryuka, if only because he would not allow the ritual to be completed — at most, he would be made to sneeze particularly loudly. But the same ritual of concealment, if supplemented correctly with its theurgical part, could be made significantly more effective, reliable, and durable. This is another reason to test myself, to test my ability to quickly recalculate a ritual that is not simple anywhere. On the other hand, isn't this why I studied? So that I wouldn't be powerless in a situation like this?

Thoughts raced through his head; he hadn't even taken a couple of steps yet, but he already understood all the prospects and advantages of the second gift. And at the same time, he didn't forget to look at the first one, although he subconsciously expected to see another protection against love spells in the status list. He was even somewhat surprised that the gift he received was, let's say, of limited use, even if it wasn't as super-cool as he would have liked. In the sense that this thing was definitely more useful than the previous blessing, and in a practical way, not just theoretical.

Blessings and Curses:

Coldness of Blade (Expiring): 1/1

In the hands of some humans and non-humans, any blade or pointed stick acquires certain additional properties, often clearly mystical. For example, a blade can become sharper, stronger, more vicious, as if its wound does not want to heal, as if its edges are being eaten away by an unnatural coldness. This is not enough for a decisive victory, and it is not that difficult to eradicate that coldness, but in a direct duel between equals, every grain of sand plays its part. Cold, pain, rolling apathy and indifference, flowing through a seemingly harmless wound, may well become the grain of sand that breaks the course of events.

Validity period: until the end of the Cycle.

Well, as an auxiliary ability for combat in human form, it will work, and even quite well. Ilya pulled out his belt knife on the go, immediately feeling how a raw and unformed power flowed onto the blade from the depths of his spirit, not even from his aura, but closer to his very essence. Another moment, brief and endless, and then this power concentrated on the blade, literally on it alone, like a thin thread. He suddenly lost the desire to test its sharpness with his finger, even though the frozen flesh of the Wendigo had nothing to fear from either a cut or a curse. Grumbling something approvingly, he opened the doors to his room, closed them behind him, demonstratively threw his bag on the floor, stomping loudly, and then fell onto the bed and immediately began to snore. So sweetly and contentedly that if any of the servants downstairs heard him, they would surely feel a pang of sincere envy.

Then he silently slipped out of bed and peered underneath it. Why wouldn't he look, when the darkness under the bed seemed unnatural, like thick ink, droplets of which had frozen on the dark boards beneath that very bed. He didn't want to stain himself with Ryuk ink, but the earthling's desires were not taken into account here, and he ignored them, too. Holding his breath just in case, he rolled under the bed in one movement and crawled forward. He should have been slamming his head against the wall long ago, but the wall was still nowhere to be seen. Instead, the flickering light of a desk lamp glimmered ahead, and a few seconds later, his face, covered in cobwebs, dust, soot, and ink droplets, poked out from under yet another bed.

Only this bed was located in a completely different house. Examining the unfamiliar interior distracted the diver only briefly, and there was nothing to explore. It was a typical room in a once-wealthy, now dilapidated and impoverished home, perfectly suited to Sweet Ryuk's appearance. Glancing at the floor, Ilya watched the ink droplets form the theurgic runic inscription "point your feet down." He did so, descending the creaking stairs and finding the old man very, very busy.

Stripped to the waist, he was breaking his own legend right then and there, showing off a body that was way too sinewy and agile, covered in dry, strong muscles that were definitely not old. A lot of young folks would love to look like that instead of walking around looking like a bunch of skinny losers. The old man was not busy lifting weights or playing the role of the Gym Boss, offering Ilya three hundred euro credits. No, no, the old man was drawing, and the runes and lines of the ritual figure were changing right before his eyes, gradually taking on a complete form. Ilya, not without difficulty, recognised, albeit not immediately, the rather specific basis for the search ritual. And then he saw, located in the centre of the focusing figure, a particle of the sought-after personality — a torn lock of greasy, slightly curly hair.

Exactly the same as the Maniac who died in the last cycle, his real body.

"How many heartbeats will it take you to deal with your brother, Outsider?" The question sounds uncharacteristically detached for Ryuka, who always deliberately emphasises his emotions, revealing the fact that he is immersed in a medium-depth meditative trance. "Can you do it in ten breaths?’ Of course, it must be done in such a way that no one sees, hears, or even realises the fight has taken place by the time it is over. There are no witnesses in the room itself."

"Fifteen for sure, even if he runs." He replied after thinking for a moment, then added with a slight emphasis. "And that fat-arsed louse is no brother to me, forgive me for my excessive provincial courtesy."

"You are an Outsider, and he is like you, not to mention the fact that you speak the same language." So he revealed that he had been spying and, more importantly, eavesdropping, because while he did not doubt the former, he was only eighty-five per cent sure about the latter. "If you, insolent young basilisks, are willing to believe for a moment that I will not kill you and will even offer you the slightest bit of help, which you, spoiled boy, are completely unworthy of, then you will manage in ten breaths."

"Ten, so ten, it's not the first time we should finish the fight in two tacts. Only we're still not friends with him. I just know a few phrases in his language." Ilya felt it necessary to clarify, realising that it was pointless to argue with him about anything else. "What? Yes, we learn that too, especially when it comes to worlds that intersect with ours quite often in the vastness of the Broken. At the very least, it allows you to know who you're dealing with when you hear random swearing."

Ilya was too shy to explain that he knew mainly and exclusively all kinds of obscene swear words, but he got what he wanted anyway. Ryuk was somewhat distracted and stopped emitting in all directions with unnatural, even terrifying, no. A feeling of extreme danger, like an unexploded explosive device on a demolition site. It seems like a small piece of shit, lying there quietly, but you intuitively understand that if you poke this shit even slightly, there won't be a trace of you left, at most a stain.

Meanwhile, their exchange did not prevent the Sage from completing his work, transforming one of the doors between the inner rooms into a full-fledged Door, similar to the one that had led him out of the wasteland not long ago. It didn't look all that impressive on the outside — just some symbols appeared around the doorframe, and they didn't even glow properly. Creating a fireball above your palm is one thing, but this was just some gay stuff. His inner sarcasm did not prevent the earthling from admiring the alien power and envying Ryuk terribly. After all, it was not for nothing that he originally wanted to be a Sage, and he was still tormented by the fact that he had been forced to give up this class.

What gnaws at him even more is that the old man clearly noticed his envy and melancholic longing and, most likely, interpreted it correctly. The all-seeing eye of Big Ryuk, damn! This is precisely why it is so difficult to argue with high-level Sages, more difficult only than with all kinds of specialists in brainwashing and similar effects. It's not even difficult, but sometimes completely hopeless, because the person arguing simply won't understand it until the very end. Or maybe they will understand, but they won't be able to realise it.

"I need his head." He says this and immediately corrects himself, revealing his extensive experience as a boss who knows exactly how dangerous a dull, obedient, and literal-minded subordinate can be. "Not literally, just formally, but not as a fact of taking a life. I need his death and his corpse, as intact as possible. You'll have to shove the body through the door all at once, whole. Already dead, I'll clarify. Ready? Never mind, I'm opening it, run."

What Ilya thought and wanted to say about this, the venerable Ryuk never found out, because the earthling, like his teacher of data array basics, Ernest Vesemirovich Krolikov, was very well-mannered. And so the diver, like the teacher in his time, conveyed his emotions with a look full of anguish and condemnation, but already on the run, in a rush, sliding towards the open door, covering his face with a primitive balaclava mask in one movement in case there were witnesses. He did not believe that an ambush awaited him there; it would have been easier to kill him personally or not to interfere, allowing the diver to be caught himself.

Rather, he pondered the fact that the very existence of maniacal activity, which could pose a real threat to the orphans themselves, had partially freed Ryuk's hands, allowing him to kill the diver, albeit through someone else's hands. If only he knew why the old man wanted the diver's dead body, but the latter would hardly answer, even if asked.

A step, the sensation of flying through the working turbine of a hydroelectric power station, as if you are about to turn into a lump of minced meat, and then a slight acceleration, right under the stunned gaze of a fat, ugly, and frankly creepy man. He takes his hand out of a broken table in the middle of some shack, which has become his place of rebirth. Around him is filth, poverty, and the stench of a seriously ill body. The owner of the shack is hanging, his knees sliding along the ground right in the middle of the passage between the porch and the only living room. He most likely hanged himself, rather than being hanged, creating an atmosphere of death, despair, and doom sufficient to become a point of attraction for the essence of the alien Twin. Judging by his ulcer-covered face, the man had fallen seriously ill with some nasty disease, which was why the house had not yet been looted and the corpse was still hanging, although it had already stiffened three days ago, judging by the characteristic swelling.

Ilya lunges forward, aiming his sword at the groin, and is surprised by how fast and agile this monster is. But he's not that fast or agile anymore — he's just been reborn, just started to unleash his anger and destroy his surroundings, deprived of his lair and prepared tricks, he's not even half as dangerous as he used to be. In fact, only newly resurrected divers are protected for a while by a rather powerful blessing that prevents them from being detected by relatively simple means, even if blood and body particles are used. This temporary buff, a gift from the Mechanism to its favourite child guests, is sometimes enhanced with unique gifts, blessings, properties, or even active talents and skills.

But it's one thing to be searched for by First Step, even experienced ones, or even Second Step, but quite another to be searched by Third, especially one so specific, having already seen you at the moment of death. It's no surprise that he found you, no surprise that he found you, especially considering the unpleasant fact for the Maniac that he respawned not in the lair, but in the middle of nowhere, likely receiving an additional debuff. Such is their respawn mechanic, always tied to floating and shifting elements. Ilya wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was precisely because of an improper respawn that the diver's mandatory "hour of undetectability" had become considerably weakened and shriveled.

The bastard dodged the first blow on pure reflex, looking at the masked Wendigo with genuine disbelief and outright horror. Yeah, yeah, it's unpleasant to suddenly become a victim, realizing that two can play this game. Okay, the Earthling shouldn't get cocky either; without Ryuk's help, he probably wouldn't have found this piece of shit himself; he's not his specialty. Well, if he were reborn in the winter wastes, then yeah, he'd smell it, smell its heartbeat, even in a territory five times the size of Lazy.

These thoughts don't stop Ilya from acting, continuing his memorized sequence, simultaneously exhaling sharply, hopelessly ruining the good mask fabric, which cracks into tiny flakes, frozen solid. The Maniac is far worse off. He almost squealed when the cold hit him, but he managed to cover his eyes with his eyelids, and then with his hand, trying to break the distance. He managed to break it, but only along with the cleaver lodged in his liver, rapidly weakening, unable to keep up with the more agile opponent who lunged for close quarters. A blow to the knee, a grab for the neck, a sharp jerk, and a satisfying, disgusting crunch as the Maniac's neck gave way under the weight of fate and the Wendigo's grip.

Tap.

Tap.

The body is still twitching in agony, the eyes are just fading, when Ilya abruptly destroys them with another short Ice Breath, then performs a balletic pirouette, tossing Maniac's body through the still-open door. Only now, beyond the door, is absolute, indistinguishable darkness, in which even the Wendigo's eye can't see a thing. And Ryuk wasn't kidding when he said he knew the divers' kind well — he certainly knows about the possibility of observing briefly after one's own death, having deliberately made any peeking absolutely impossible.

Ilya, who had flown in through the same door, having completed the task in four and a half breaths, sat on the floor for ten long minutes in a meditative pose, waiting without a word. In principle, he could have spent less time, but the Earthling didn't want to point out Ryuk's overreaction. There are a number of gifts that can significantly enhance or prolong the effects of the after-death camera, so Ryuk's actions are entirely justified. The inner paranoid approves. Only after any reasonable time has passed does the outer paranoid deactivate the classic "Ink Cloud," turning the world around him colorful again, rather than monochromatic.

It's a pity, Ilya had almost decided to promote one of the talents right here, since he had some free time anyway.

A moment later, immediately after regaining his sight, he realizes he'd misjudged yet another talent his "partner" had used in this assassination. Why would a Sage, even one who'd leveled up to an Inkmaster, and likely not just a simple one, but a Higher one, need such a talent? Yes, yes, ink magic and all that, but that's a trick primarily reserved for assassins and certain Occultist builds; it doesn't fit into a Sage's build. Ultimately, it turned out that the culprit was a relic, seemingly an ordinary bronze inkwell, covered in numerous small stains and abrasions, making the various engravings barely visible. The relic had clearly seen better days, but it still worked.

"Sit down," Ryuk, sitting at the table, gestures to another chair at an empty table. "I'm not offering refreshments. Talk. Talk about what happened in the city, who was involved, and what the background is. The world has turned, you should all have been thrown back, you should have had time to exchange a word in your Gehenna."

Ilya, without the slightest hesitation, demonstrating nothing but a confidence he doesn't feel, sits down at the table and begins to speak. Fortunately, he'd thought through everything he needed to say and how exactly to say it well in advance. Everything from then on depends on Ryuk's decision, but Ilya is counting on the most logical and correct course of action in his situation — simply not to interfere. After all, he, and not only he, has something to offer!

* * *

Crocodile and his company didn't make their nest in an inn or even in one of the abandoned houses, like those marked with signs of infestation, since those are the places they'd be checking first. No, upon entering the city, they simply and completely legally posed as shopkeepers, and they did so quite successfully. They managed to obtain the necessary recommendations and recapture a significant amount of merchandise from some bandits, primarily primitive glass bead jewelry, hardware, and fine yarn. Posing as a brother and a widowed sister, they entered Lazy, rented a house, and successfully led a double life.

Initially planning to abandon their identities, both divers didn't raid beyond the walls or seek criminal connections, but rather gathered information. Crocodile said almost nothing about his class, only specifying his predominantly close-quarters build and its limited usefulness during the ritual. However, with her permission, he revealed quite a bit about his friend, as the Occultist could very well become the foundation of the entire planned structure. She had a rather curious talent for summoning a small scout-creature, which they used to survey the city in general and the estate that interested them in particular.

The security there was excellent, but the main protection was the anonymity and all-around protection of the city governor, who was clearly aware of what was going on inside, as his close retinue regularly visited. On D-Day, when a blizzard arrived and the end of the cycle approached, Crocodile slaughtered a guard post near one of the main cells of the ritual barrier, damaging the barrier itself. His partner, displaying the best traits of a worthy and noble lady of the glorious Pact, slaughtered a small cell of good people responsible for a special brothel for guests with special tastes. Unfortunately, there were no clients there, nor any workers — the clients had left after playing, there were no new orders yet, and the workers had run out during the games. Those who were not finished were helped, because witnesses were not needed; especially noble gentlemen loved to caress not only the poor and the rabble with whips, but also the gentle townswomen, the children of merchant families, or the hardy, strong foremen and artel workers.

For some, it might seem outlandish, but for the Broken, it wasn't the slightest bit so. Ilya could instantly recall dozens of ways to strengthen oneself, rejuvenate the body, improve failing health, or simply experience a narcotic high from someone else's agony, even for the ungifted. Primitive theurgy, pure rituals, or special artifacts would suffice. And this was just off the top of his head, whereas searching through them could easily push the numbers to truly obscene levels. Generally speaking, such establishments were commonplace, one of the unspoken reasons why good people were called good. Because they genuinely fed the poor and kept them from freezing to death during the long winters of the Ridge. So that one could always find a debtor, someone who had screwed up, or simply the first person they saw who could be used for meat or material.

It's a good thing the city doesn't have any specific Alchemist branches that would have pushed the build specifically toward cooking humans — there's no need for them, since there are simply more creatures around, and the reagents they produce are not only cheaper but also more effective. And the mayor or any of Lazy' major forces had no masters of creating chimeras, homunculi, undead, or golems. As Ilya had guessed from several reservations Ryuk had made during the legal dispute, all such specialists belonged to the crown and lived either in the Crown city or on other lands directly controlled by the Sovereign. Not the most foolish approach, because leaving such individuals unattended in a remote province could easily result in them creating a ton of units, creating a real mess, and, more importantly, amassing completely unnecessary power or even personal influence.

So, there was a brothel/torture house in the city for trusted folk, albeit not a permanent operation, but strictly on request, whenever the need for such procedures arose. So the noble lady visited, clearly explaining the rules of pious conduct with her own rabble. She captured most of that company alive and slaughtered them, karmically justifying their use as fuel for a summoning ritual. The creatures who responded to the diver's call became the first wave to attack the mansion, while she and Crocodile struck first, managing to overwhelm the guards, including the gifted, and then storm inside.

Ilya rated their plan, as well as its implementation, as a solid excellent, literally one step away from “brilliant,” if only not for the complete failure with the target. Not finding the Earthling diver in the cages, but instead finding the natives, who were immobilized and barely coherent from torture, weakening rituals, and the alchemy pumped into them, they mistakenly assumed Ilya was among the trio and attempted to rescue them all. And too late, they realized they'd been foolish to get involved in this mess — the resentment of resentments and the sorrow of all sorrows.

On his way to his destination, he passed several guard patrols and once came across a strange group of adventurers hurrying to an unknown destination, fully armed, including their bows and crossbows, which is actually forbidden in the city for anyone but the guards. Well, without a very good and compelling reason. He knocked on the door of the inconspicuous building again, wearing a cloth mask, having donned it ahead of time, just in case spy creatures were lurking around here, too. If they didn't have hearts, Ilya might well miss them, despite his meticulous attention to detail.

"The will of the Citadel," he said as soon as the window opened, feeling a twinge of genuine cringe at using the battle cry of a completely different community, especially for affiliated aborigines, not the divers. But on the other hand, he had to somehow make it clear from the start that he was an earthling, so Ilya agreed to the Crocodile's suggestion. "It sounds idiotic, especially now."

"And it'll stand there forever." The answer from the other side of the door sounds youthful, as if the speaker is no longer a youth, but a very young man, and he says it while suppressing laughter. "Damn, it sounded smarter in the correspondence."

The door swung open, and he was greeted by a man swathed in a similar cloth mask, only the fabric was lighter, higher quality, more expensive, and beautifully embroidered. He was short, light, and agile, but his movements conveyed a sense of strength, a weight of impending power that betokened a member of the shock warrior class who did not attempt to hide. His hair, incidentally, was also tied back with a scarf, like a pirate or a memetic grandmother from the early twenty-first century, leaving only a narrow slit of bright blue eyes exposed. Like two lollipops, pure and calm, it was immediately obvious that he killed with the same calm and pureness.

Taking a few steps back, Crocodile gestures for Ilya to enter and immediately closes the door behind him. It's almost physically painful to expose his back, but he needs to show trust, especially since they're working together anyway. In the only room, which is connected to the warehouse, sat a rather beautiful red-haired girl of about twenty, curly hair, green eyes, and a back so straight she looked as if she'd swallowed a stick.

"Justine Avie, first daughter of her father, a le séquière in the royal regiment. An Occultist, specializing in the Abyss and a little Gehenna, shock magic, and summoning." Calmly and without concealing her name, the girl greets him, rising to her feet and making no attempt to extend her hand for a kiss, strictly following the etiquette not of the Pact aristocracy, but the habits and customs of divers. "I am glad to meet a worthy son of a worthy world."

A ++Lesekier is something like a royal huntsman-forester, a knighthood equivalent, but for professional marksmen and experts in mobile warfare, though lower in rank than a knight. A lower aristocrat, as usual, but far from common, which is understandable. Generally speaking, still a lady and respectable, but no more, and can be terribly offended by a girl.. Incidentally, they address human beings as "sir" and "lady" as well, if all are equal, so there's no accusation of disrespect. And the remark about a worthy son effectively demonstrates a willingness to accept someone else's seniority—working with the Pact members is a bit of a pain, but if you don't deliberately hurt their pride and consider their interests, then, on average, they're not much worse than earthling.

However, even among earthlings, some like to burn their own allies in sacrificial rituals and other such monstrous creatures. Even if Ilya now sees a very focused and respectful girl, simply happy to find herself in any kind of good company, where there's no need to constantly look over her shoulder and fear for the honor, life, and existence of a Gemini, all this could be a game. Or it could not be, but it's better to believe otherwise.

"Ilya, Diver and Secret Knower, a combat hybrid specialist-sensor with additional area ice damage." He doesn't reveal his class. He does not trust them enough yet. "Glad to meet the next Pact and fellow Assembly member."

You have an interesting build, Ilya, but you certainly don't look like a freak who's built unplayable crap, so I'll hold off on comments and won't ask. But I'm interested, know it." Ilya merely nodded, assessing not the words but rather the overall impression of his interlocutor, who was slowly removing the rags from his face and head. "As for me, my name is Magnus..."

Oh, and the last name is Red. His hair is literally scarlet, like blood, which clearly suggests some talent in the bloody jokes department, even if it's "Scarlet Kinship." Combined with his name, it's downright classic — there have been plenty of chuunibyous named after fictional "cool" characters on Earth. This was considered bad taste and demonstrated more an insatiable desire to express oneself and be seen as someone than actual coolness. However, this guy didn't look anything like a chuunibyou, and someone with schoolboy syndrome can't pull off what he already did.

And then one particular class immediately comes to mind. In this class, calling yourself Judas, Claudius, Littlefinger, or even Erebus, Magnus, or anyone else, not necessarily connected to the Warhammer, wasn't considered pretentious idiocy, but a timeless classic. Ilya, his consciousness cranked up to maximum, had only to see the scarlet hair and hear the "name" of his interlocutor, and immediately overestimated the still very young man. His demonstrative gait, his demeanor, his overall appearance were clearly a lie, a mask, or one of several.

Yes, the Dead sent a comrade—you always have to be very careful with someone of that class, regardless of whether they're going out of sync or not. Even when developing such a class in communities, they prefer to attract someone they already know, someone they already know back on Earth. Otherwise, few will feel comfortable regularly putting their backs and entrusting their lives to the real...

.".. Fuck. I'm so tired of you fucking wahafags." Apparently, something in his behaviour, in his changed gaze, betrayed some of Ilya's emotions, which is why Magnus abruptly interrupted his speech and swore loudly, causing Justine's ears to turn slightly red while her face remained completely calm. "I'm the fucking Executioner, you hear me! The Executioner, not the fucking Traitor, you fucking bitch! My real name is Magnus, bitch, in the real world, that's what it says on my digital ID, that's what my mum and dad named me! No, I don't read minds, I'm just sick and tired of these fucking jokes from my mum and dad, may all the Dead be healthy! Ahem. Anyway. Yes. Executioner, strike build, talents focused on the power branch, Agony, which is obvious, and Blood, which is also obvious from my hair. ‘Bloody Essence’, three divisions, talent balancer, random side effect, my hair fell out, although I was hoping for something less noticeable or no external manifestation at all. Good thing it wasn't my eyes, yeah. Didn't work out."
T.N.

A few seconds of silence passed, and then Ilya finally overcame his paranoia and removed the mask. It wouldn't hold up in a normal fight anyway, just as he wouldn't be able to wear it all the time. Seriously, this was just plain stupid, honestly. The Twin's very survival was literally at stake here, not some slight threat to anonymity. Cracking his neck, he sighed and unslung a satchel from his back, filled with various supplies, some of which he would have been unable to obtain personally. But someone had decided to show unprecedented generosity, right in the middle of a conversation, even though they'd clearly planned to send him packing. The Earthling was furious that he hadn't understood why Ryuk's opinion had changed so abruptly.

"Well then, I suggest we get started with the ritual circuit," he said, pointing to the bag and adding something far more pleasing to the ear. "Here's a complete set of the necessary reagents. I practically got them on credit, and from people you'd rather not take anything from, even for free. Take me to the basement, show me the natives, if they're still alive, and their corpses, if they're dead, and then we'll get to work. I hope you have 'Ritual Drawing,' Justine?"

She took Drawing, as almost all Warlocks and most Occultists take it one way or another, as it's too well-suited to those classes. The basement was also found, as were the prisoners, but upon seeing them, the Earthling froze mid-stride, staring ahead with the dull gaze of a ram who sees before him a completely changed operating system on the combination lock of his native enclosure.

"Hey, pump up the resistance, bro." The shove to his shoulder didn't shake Ilya or even make him look away from the prisoners, whom he recognised quite well. "She's pumped up with blockers; only a light passive is pressing down there. "She's a Charmtriks, if anything, so don't drool if you don't want to get hit... What the fuck are you doing?"

"Calm down." Before the Executioner, suspecting something was wrong, killed the woman, bound in several layers of burlap, gagged, blindfolded, and earplugged, with one movement, Ilya showed that she wasn't attacking him with some version of confusion or weakness. "It's just that I've seen her before."

"FaFo," was all the Executioner said, as if he'd spat the word out, and behind him, Justine nodded silently, acrid black smoke beginning to dissipate from her fingers, which she was about to aim at either the now-controlled Ilya or the captive.

"Truly FaFo," Wendigo answered in the same tone.

Lying on the floor before him were two very old acquaintances he'd only briefly seen, but who had caused him so much trouble he wanted to tear them apart right then and there. The young Seeker, stripped of his weaponry, including his lead-shooter, and that same beautiful femme fatale, who supposedly left the damn box somewhere in the village. The box for which Ilya had run across the Ridge, pursued by a trio of heavily armored liquidators!

It seems like there will be a public massacre of prisoners of war now, yes.

The ink-soaked cloth band tied around his wrist suddenly began to chill even Ilya's icy body, and the ink formed a simple runic inscription. No, alas, but for now, he'll have to do without killing these two, much as he'd like to.

"Gentlemen and ladies," the possessed man said solemnly, throwing his burden on the floor with a little more emotion than necessary and raising his hands to the ceiling. "Let me tell you the good news – we're fucked up."

They believed him immediately.

* * *

Elphea, a name pronounced "fox" in the theurgy of the Purifier by Deed, D'Lerette, and her still-unsettled Seeker companion, looking at the faces of the trio of divers, covered in makeshift masks, looked extremely miserable and battered. In fact, they were being beaten, among other things, and it would have been good if they had only been beaten. According to the half-dead Enchantress, physical torture is of little use against her, a result of her enhanced talent. This was the first thing she said, clearly anticipating a far from favorable outcome for herself in this new captivity. She had already realized that it wasn't her allies and comrades who had rescued her, but who knew who. Judging by her behavior, they still had some method of torturing her, but it was having no effect. Otherwise, the woman wouldn't have remained alive, despite the additional status line she announced immediately after the first. And I also had to believe, yes.

An inherited family Blessing tied to the family altar, the very one that forms the Heart of any abode, community, fortress, stronghold, or citadel. The chances of resurrecting even the first stage were slim, less than one percent, for her soul would not survive the attempt to be drawn to the altar, sealed within it, and then rise from the ashes. More likely, the altar itself would devour her soul if it managed to be drawn. But the face of her killer, as well as the faces of those she saw before her death, as well as the approximate location of the murdered woman at the moment of death — this is what the head of her house will see, perceive, and comprehend. And she will exact vengeance with the utmost horror, just as they try to convince the divers.

Ilya was almost sure that before her capture, she had administered some kind of amnesiac, blurring memories or creating a multitude of false versions of a single day. A classic trick for adherents of the mental school, who moonlight as secret agents in their spare time. She didn't say anything directly, but Ilya only needed to ask about the last time they'd tortured her and tried to twist her memory. If they were still trying, then the sought-after box, most likely still located in the ill-fated Tooth, had never been found. The woman had behaved extremely cautiously and wisely hadn't even tried to influence her "rescuers," even turning off her involuntary "leaking" passive aura.

It was perfectly logical, given her condition, which wouldn't allow her to exploit another's vulnerability, even if the divers offered one. But they didn't, keeping a close eye on the no-longer-captives, expecting an attack at any moment, and ready to respond. The solution proposed by Ilya, strongly supported by the creator of the ink-soaked cloth bandage, was a working one, far from the most foolish, and so it was accepted immediately, as soon as Ilya had to explain the situation. The first step was to secure the support of the freed men, who, having understood what was required of them, demonstrated remarkable compliance.

Or rather, it was the fox that was accommodating, while the Seeker, whose name was Jozek, merely nodded silently, still unable to speak due to a swollen throat and teeth filed down to the very roots. They had apparently filed him with something like a whetstone, unconcerned about the future dentist's bill. Charming traditions, to be sure. The boy himself, incidentally, was a commoner, albeit a close servant of a noble house. His potential for giftedness had been spotted as a child; he had been trained, nurtured, and allowed to touch one of the altars, relics, or places of power that offered the chance to become gifted, to touch the Mechanism, and to receive its favor. Or to die, the latter being far more likely, especially for commoners. Ilya noted to himself that the youth, who was actually twenty-seven, was simply one of his talents that kept him from aging in appearance; he was probably the bastard of someone gifted, but most likely had never received recognition.

Of course, they weren't simply discussing their adventures and questioning the captives about their lives. Rather, this form of extremely gentle interrogation, which Ilya employed with Magnus's light support, was merely a minor diversion. A conversation during important preparations, which couldn't be carried out without the simultaneous assistance of all participants in the ritual. And the ritual was being prepared. While the first exchange of words after receiving consent to cooperate was still in progress, the earthling poured a small pot of a viscous, honey-like substance onto the floor of the basement, previously emptied of all objects. As soon as it hit the floor, the substance spread unnaturally quickly, like a thin layer of varnish, hardening instantly.

Next come brushstrokes of thick, still-hot paint in a wax-sealed jar. It's hot not because it's heated, but because it's always hot, unable to cool as long as it remains sealed. The brush, a very decent paintbrush made of good horsehair, quickly dissolves from its bath in the paint, but manages to apply the main design of the ritual. And when the brush has finally turned into a simple piece of wood, Ilya takes a second, and then a third. Individual drawings and pictograms, reminiscent of Egyptian hieroglyphs, incidentally in the tradition of the high theurgy of the Guiding Star, which is probably why Irina, back there in her desert, was hiccupping.

At some point, they all fall silent, but not because there's nothing more to say, but because the tension becomes almost palpable. They help him, but he does the real work, feeling, viscerally, how time slips through his fingers. Soon, very soon, they'll be searched for by a ritual circuit, powerful and specialized, surely powered by a Step Two, not One. Perhaps not even alone Two, but a pair or three, if the city ruler summons his vassals.

Technically, he has no vassals. The city governor of Lazy doesn't own it as his own fiefdom. Just as technically, the entire Spine is the ++Crowned King's personal domain, after he destroyed the rebellious Duke Klampertorm. All land here is merely leased, not given over to the Crown. According to these formalities, noble houses can only own estates, personal manors, but not the land. Cities are governed by city governors appointed by the Crown. The aristocrats, like the temples, merely lease land, and their entire power rests with the merchants and Trading Houses, which, in particular, were a direct extension of the will of the noble bastards.

All this was done to ensure that only the ++Crowned One himself and his closest associates had access to the Spine, for this inhospitable region was the source of nearly a quarter of all alchemical production in the Crown lands. Caravans laden with herbs departed from here, heading directly to the laboratories and workshops of the royal artisans, blessed by the Mechanism. Entire caravans of ordinary and magical coal were brought, along with locally produced iron products, weapons, and simple tools. And from the capital, potions, ritual reagents, crafted amulets and artifacts, enchanted blades and armor, traded personally by the ++Crowned One and his extended family, were distributed among hands, warehouses, and shops.

Their power is based on this; their authority is sustained by this money. It's the money that sustains the guard and the army, these reagents that strengthen, heal, and support them, and from elixirs based on these herbs and from the rarest iron ores, auxiliary supports are created for ascension rituals. The local ruler holds his subjects for the sweetest and most tender thing, for money and for the chance for power, which is why he has remained ruler for many decades.

That's precisely why this lady and her personal assistant ended up here. And they weren't the only ones. In recent years, Khrebtin had become unsettled. Taxes were being collected with some delay, caravan routes had become dangerous, and several large towns had fallen under attack from creatures that had either shifted from their usual migration routes or had even awakened right in the town, even if such creatures had never been around before. Aristocrats loyal to the Crown were dying, foolishly and even mundanely; the murderers were punished, but that didn't bring people back. Messengers and other agents were disappearing without a trace, which also troubled the Crowned One, so much so that he couldn't eat and tossed and turned at night.

But the worst thing was something else: officials and accountants died, disappeared, were bought off, and affiliated merchants went bankrupt or disappeared as well. Those who allow the ruler to maintain control over the territory of the Ridge do so not only through words and money from local princes. No, the strength of the Crown's power here lies in the fact that in the capital, burned six times and risen from the ashes seven times, they always know exactly how many herbs were collected, how many magical beasts were slain, how much offal was preserved, how many squads went on raids, and how many returned.

In short, someone was persistently undermining the ++Crowned King's position and his authority over the Ridge. And if the ruler were to lose the Ridge, all his close associates, personal guards, and relatives would be forced to tighten their belts. They've already had to, and they're already tightening their belts, because the actions of unknown forces are having an effect. Losing the Ridge, he would lose some of his influence, and once that's gone, and met with political or even actual resistance from the dukes and counts—who, for now, appear loyal but are making incomprehensible moves—++the Crowned King's victory would no longer be so assured.

The destruction of the Iron Gauntlet — that's how the name of the Klampertorm family is translated from ancient theurgy — didn't come easy to the Crown Prince; he had to prove his right to rule this place personally. The other dukes didn't support the rebellion, but they sent only symbolic forces, and the Crown Prince lacked the authority to command them. There are some now, and there are reserves, but only as long as the Ridge exists in its current form. There are other "anomalous" zones in the Crown lands, not much smaller, not much more valuable, but there, he is not a full-fledged ruler. He receives taxes, takes his share from his subjects, but his subjects also grow fat, and they can always turn off the supply tap. There, a mine collapsed, accounting was overhauled, the roads became unsafe, and so on.

Ilya didn't ask directly, but from the Twin's knowledge, the conversations he'd overheard, the Enchantress's inquiries, Ryuk's hints, and his previous experience studying the Broken, the picture was quite consistent. If only because it was completely, absolutely, nauseatingly standard, seen tens of thousands of times, both in the Broken and even throughout Earth's history.

"Done. You two take the center, Number Two on the key, I'll take the center, Number One in support." Everyone already knows and has heard, but it's better to repeat it several times than to find out you were misunderstood during the explanation. "Activating with candle smoke."

The candle, an ordinary candle, the cheapest reagent at his disposal, was already nearly burnt out. Only a couple of minutes remained before the wick would go out and produce the aforementioned smoke. This would be more than enough time. The drawings and hieroglyphs, creating entire scenes and bas-reliefs of theurgic canvases on the varnished floor, began to glow softly, like the dawn, like stars in a dawn sky that had already begun to brighten. Once again, Ilya wondered where Ryuk had found these reagents, concluding that at least some of them were left over from his "normal" life. Most likely, from some hiding place or cache for the most extreme cases.

All these chalks, pigments, and alchemical enhancers that Ilya readily spent must have cost a pretty penny, but they had no markings whatsoever. There were no manufacturer's stamps on the bottles and pots, only faceless clay, wax, and glass. The old man had clearly raided his stash, which was not very extensive or deep, because he could not provide some of what Ilya had requested, and some of it had to be replaced quickly, because time was pressing and neither side was willing to waste time on courtesies.

What's Ryuk's interest? Ilya would be overjoyed to tears if he simply decided to let him go, but the support he's already shown, and the support he's still showing... no, that's not the reason. Surely it couldn't be out of pity for the captives; they likely witnessed his "fall" as mere children, or perhaps not at all, simply not having been born yet.

"Ready." With difficulty, the Charmtress rose to her feet, staggering and nearly falling, stepping into the tangle of symbols she was staring at with an anxious gaze, simply unable to comprehend what exactly the Third had made here. Beside her, the Seeker wheezed, supported, unable to stand on his shattered knees but forced to at least try, albeit with support. "Begin."

"I'm pouring in power." Justine immediately supports her, beginning to influence the ritual's features, lending them her power and partially strengthening them with her talent, albeit only slightly, but still a boost to effectiveness and resilience. "Ignite."

Well, let's say it's not "ignite" but "shine" - a rather gross mistake, but it's more likely something folkloric, like how earthly artillerymen in the past activated the combat functions of cannons with the cry "fire" and not "launch".

"I'm shining," he says, bending over from the strain on his body, clenching his teeth until they crunch, feeling like even his frozen flesh and bones are about to burst, unable to withstand it. "I'm raising it."

Fortunately, this ritual doesn't require a lyrical recitation; Ilya wouldn't have been able to master it anyway. In principle, a simple prayer to the Guiding Dawn would suffice; some versions of it might even be effective, but he can barely move his lips, let alone recite it. And there's no guarantee he'll be able to recite it correctly from memory, even if he's not interrupted at all. He's always remembered symbols and drawings far better than incomprehensible chants and howls accompanied by music. All he can do is breathe, remain silent, and silently regret not having increased his Frozen Flesh talent right before the ritual. Then, of course, he'd have to slightly recalculate the ritual's adjustments on the fly, and that, alas, is fraught with danger.

The glow of the star-shaped hieroglyphs reaches its peak, and for a moment, Ilya seems to see himself from above, sees the entire city, the entire Ridge, almost bleeding out. A normal mind would have long ago interrupted the ritual, unable to withstand such a vision, but it has a Trait that copes far more effectively than protective circuits. Magnus is not a certified expert in pure ritualism, but he still regards him with suspicion, understanding something. He understands that his fellow worldling should not and cannot withstand such a mental strain.

But he withstands.

On the other hand, it doesn't interfere—and that's fine, especially if he doesn't ask any questions, and there will be plenty. The Executioner approaches the line and pours his reserve into it, and only when a couple of kilogram weights are removed from Ilya's multi-ton load does he manage to straighten his body with a crunch, form a complex gesture with his hands, and then see the world not just from above, but as if shattered into thousands upon thousands of mosaic fragments. And realizing he'd managed it, that he'd withstood the strain that nearly killed his body and was bound to destroy his mind, leading to desynchronization, he smiled faintly amid the screams of the Wendigo, who was quite unnerved by these myriad lights. Immediately, on top of what he'd already accomplished, he activated the gift he'd just received.

The Dead Gods don't hear this prayer, but the Broken World itself and its eternal Mechanism do. It hears it, filtered through the multifaceted prism of ritual. It hears, and then responds, multiplies, multiplies, multiplies tenfold, multiplies a thousandfold, fucking every signature present in this room, in this ritual circle. At this moment, even if the quest rituals are performed—and they are performed slowly, trying to ensure the use of the extracted blood and excised fragments of flesh—they will reveal more than just what they see.

They'll also show what Ilya just saw. Hundreds, thousands of marks from Jozek and Elphea, thousands upon thousands of marks from the pair of mysterious gifted ones who stormed that estate. The latter isn't necessarily necessary, but Magnus is almost certain they've left a trail, stirred up too much, too much of a hive; they'll actually attract the two and find them, using as a basis the slain guards, even if not completely burned, who must remember their death and their killer. And now only decoys will be visible, providing precise coordinates but preventing the original from being found, for the original itself has become invisible, shattered into thousands of mosaic fragments, into myriads of stars. And only by gathering all the myriads together will it be possible to try again to search for the real target.

It will be a couple of orders of magnitude easier to wait until the end of the cycle, which will simply wash away all these decoys.

The only person the ritual won't reveal at all is its author and main supporter, Ilya. Because he's already hidden. There's no need to create decoys and literally shout about how he's right there, in hundreds and thousands of copies. Right now, signal charms are going crazy all over the city, because if they don't detect a single gifted person, or even a single use of talents, they certainly won't miss the background of the ritual. If Ilya calculated everything correctly, they beat other rituals by a good hour and a half, and he really did calculate everything correctly.

Of course, the right countermeasures, counter-rituals, specific talents, and builds can easily bypass such camouflage, remove unnecessary exposure, and penetrate the "Mosaic of Myriad Lights," and so on. But you'll need a well-coordinated group of highly specialized talents on hand, or dig up another Ryuk somewhere, maybe even one who's also crippled. Time has been won, and it's time to ask questions and get answers again.

It was almost time, because the first thing he, and not only he, felt was something that he would now prefer not to feel at all.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Justine gasped in shock next to him, almost reeling from the shock. Magnus choked on a curse. A crippled Yozek fell to the ground with a groan, released from Elthea's grasp, and also stared ahead with utterly lost eyes. Well, yes, he might have gotten the most from the Mechanism, but it hadn't forgotten the others either, as those who stood next to the bearer of the Great Blessing.

"Not bad," Ilya says with slight surprise, and he really is a little surprised, since he was expecting less, as if looking inside himself. "They gave me a decent amount."

"Not bad, damn?!" Magnus is much more expressive in his statements. "That's fucking amazing! What, did you just make there a highest purity or what?"

The unspoken question is that the highest pure rituals require a massive infusion of highly valuable reagents, so this question can be considered a form of another question. //"What the fuck was in that paint you used that we got so much of it, and where can I get a hundred liters?" А perfectly reasonable question, indeed. Ilya is even a little grateful to the Executioner for asking this question in a roundabout way, without revealing to their "guests" that they had only recently become a team.

"Forgive the interruption, but I'm not strong enough to carry on small talk for any length of time. My body, both alive and subtle, requires rest, and since I've been removed from the rack, I'm going to need sleep soon. I think we need to talk, discuss a great deal before then." The first words come from their 'guest,' who, though constrained, carries herself with such dignity that I'd be tempted to kick her ass for attempting to activate some 'Aura of Majesty,' though she didn't activate anything of the sort, just oozing breed from every crevice. "And first of all, even before promising rewards for my rescue, which will never be backed by anything more than my word, I must declare with the same word that I have the right to the Pactum Benefar, personally certified by the Shadow behind His Majesty's Throne. Yes, by the venerable Sir Lengett."

Apparently, this document represented the right to recruit any free or not-so-free gifted individuals. Most likely, it was this, along with class talents, that obliged the knight, whom Ilya, by the way, doesn't see here, to assist. It must be said that the demonstration of the fates of past "helpers" is very sobering.

"I understand that I am not your story, that you were sent here for a different purpose, but I can assure you that my patrons, or if necessary, House D'Lerette, will cover any costs and penalties." She speaks with fervor, no doubt even believing her own words, because with her class and specialization, even in this state, it is not difficult to impose a simple persuasion on herself. "The information in my head is too valuable, so valuable that those you have aroused will purge everyone. Especially now. Everyone. I ask you, honored ones, to assist me in my escape, to deliver me away from the Ridge, to bring me to one of the crown cities, and then to receive any reasonable payment, and even the greater part of the unreasonable, that you are entitled to demand."

This time, Magnus spoke up, as he and his partner had suffered the most from this gamble. Ilya could leave now. If not for the gingerbread man, he could get caught by accident.. But this pair would have to not only flee, but also consider the option of seeking someone's protection. It wasn't the dumbest strategy; Ilya himself could have gone with them if not for the peculiarities of his leveling, which would quickly become apparent in such company.

"Well, since we have some time, I suggest we give you a little time to get yourself together first." Magnus diplomatically doesn't mention why the Enchantress remained bound and bundled from last night until this afternoon, though he hardly believes she's forgotten or "forgiven." "But then, then we can talk."

Ilya is practically praying to the Dead that the mentalist agent will try her tricks on one of them. Then he'll kill her with a clear conscience, or, given Ryuk's strange "requests," pack her back, cripple her, or even put her into a coma if he finds the right mixtures. But he's unlikely to be so lucky. She's too smart, too cautious, and she knows perfectly well that they know about her class, and therefore are only waiting for such a move. All builds that specialize in subtle mind control are greatly reduced in effectiveness if the target knows or suspects they're being targeted. So no, if he does risk it, it will only be when he's absolutely certain of her success.

Okay, we shall see what we shall see.

The main thing is to survive.
* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/591594

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP