Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 15.

15. How can a not very respectable, but very well-mannered individual get into the city library?

* * *

"It all sounds and seems like complete madness." This thought, voiced by the Crown agent, is shared by everyone present, one way or another; they just remain silent, but they also share her next words, for otherwise they wouldn't have accepted the proposed plan. "But the craziest thing is that it might actually work."

Lady ++Elfea D'Lerette now looked noticeably better than at the beginning of their conversation, helped in no small part by the decent mid-priced healing potions Magnus shared with her, swallowing tears of greed. Where he'd acquired such a high-quality first aid kit, of course, he wouldn't admit, but Ilya could guess. On the other hand, their hopes for salvation, or even any kind of profit, were practically stillborn without the help of these two. So both the Charmtress and her pet, in every sense, the Seeker, were extremely interested in providing the earthlings with any help they could. Because in doing so, they were helping, first and foremost, their beloved selves, who had almost said goodbye to life.

"Madness often goes hand in hand with genius," the Executioner replies, quoting one of the Earth's leading experts in training for successful leveling in the Broken. "The main thing is to distinguish one from the other in time."

This is already a jab at Ilya. The plan was proposed mostly by him, or rather, by those who passed it on through him. And it would be fine if it were a bad plan, one that would lead them all to imminent capture or death, but no, old Ryuk, may his sticky candy ass be forever stuck together, did a great job and created a perfectly workable plan of action for this cycle. The Earthling was absolutely certain that the Sage of the Ink Branch had not created anything on the fly, but had simply used some of his existing drafts. There was no doubt that he was ready to wreak havoc in the city at any moment.

He has lived in this city for many years, studying it down to the last cobblestone, unable not to study it, for such is the nature of his class. And now, when the hour has come, he has merely taken the existing blanks from the shelf, sanding them down with a file to make them suitable for the motley crew of unwilling assistants he has gathered around him. In this game of life and death, a game with very high stakes, they will have to play not only defensively and hide and seek, but also counterattack where they least expect it. And old Ryuk, his mother, his father, his family, his shit, will take part in this game, albeit not directly. He's already taking part, damn it! Even the indirect help of such a person, the owner of such a class and rank, is worth more than all their combined efforts put together!

"Then I can only express my hope that we ended up on the right side of this border." That's how accommodating cunning mentalist bitches can be when you press them hard enough against sharp steel. "This turn of events should be enough for us to recover properly. The ritual performed earlier should, no, must be enough for this period. And then we'll see if we're crazy or genius."

How beautifully she said “we,” and she herself was embarrassed, or rather, pretended to be embarrassed, rather than angry with herself and those around her! Well, yes, very much “we,” if the mysterious mercenaries who pulled her out of the trap take on the main burden. And she still doesn't know — and won't find out if Ilya wants to live — who exactly came up with the plan, who is providing them with theoretical support. Right now, she is more likely to think of the usual Sage as a cover, or even a classic Dreamwalker. He may not seem like much at first glance, but he provides support to the whole group and keeps an eye on ++Elfea at the same time. If his comrades start acting strangely around the Charmtress, he will immediately sound the alarm and destroy her spell.

Let her continue to think that way, rather than suspecting the true picture of reality, which has long since surpassed even the most insane theories in its madness. FaFo is FaFo — there's nothing you can do about it. Ideally, it would be best to start today, but not only do they need preparation, but Ryuk. It was this, and not the need to let the Crown agents recover, that forced them to take a break for a day or two. With the constant risk that they would still be found, they would be able to overcome the pure ritual with some specific class talents, possibly even not of the first degree.

Magnus and Justine also conversed with him, barely audible whispers, mostly lip-reading, and speaking the liturgical language. It would have been easier to switch to Interlingua, but the otherworlder didn't really understand the Earthly language; at most, she could understand the simplest phrases. Earthly Interlingua is highly fashionable among the Pact, like an equivalent of Earthly Latin—the language of learned men, a language any self-respecting individual should master, so to speak. But understanding and being able to maintain a simple conversation is one thing; a dialogue steeped in specialized working terminology is quite another.

The two earthlings, for their part, weren't fluent enough in the Pact's high dialect to converse with her on equal terms. They could also understand words and sentences, but couldn't maintain a fluent dialogue on specialized topics. However, all three had, for better or worse, mastered the theurgy of the Knowledge Collector, as well as its dialect, to a satisfactory level. It wasn't that they were particularly wary of ++Yozek, who was still recovering from the drugs and beatings, but the rules for conducting a conversation in the same building with a Seeker weren't written by fools, so they followed them.

Frankly, everything went much easier than Ilya had expected, because both divers didn't exactly trust him; rather, they recognized the futility of trying to handle it themselves. They roughly understood that another force, lurking in the city, was behind him, one that didn't want them all there, lest those searching for the raiders of the secret prison discover it. They also roughly understood that Ilya, or rather ++Pity, had somehow bargained for his life and theirs. Of course, they didn't fully trust him; in fact, their faith was extremely limited, but they had no other options.

"You wanted to talk about something, bro?" The Executioner, though Ilya still couldn't quite believe he was an Executioner and not a class more fitting the name, looked relaxed and friendly. But he always looked that way, and, as the diver suspected, he could switch between relaxed and slaughter mode instantly, without pausing to think. "Because it's just you and me here, in such an intimate setting, I'm actually feeling all shy. And don't take it personally, the problem isn't you, it's me, and all that..."

"Funny." Ilya wasn't being sarcastic; he actually smiled slightly, trying to lighten the mood, but given the richness of his facial expressions, it's unlikely his interlocutor noticed. "But no, I didn't ask you out on a date, Magnus. It's not about you either, you understand... I'm more likely to have, say, a sales pitch."

While the red-haired jokester was trying to clear his throat after the joke returned, Ilya opened his bag, nearly emptied by the expenses of the ritual, and pulled out his most precious possession. The look the old fart had given him when Ilya politely and courteously asked him to help retrieve these items from their hiding place was beyond words, and beyond words. But he did it anyway, without interrupting their discussion of plans, demonstrating yet another reason to mortally envy the third-step biarer. Ryuk listened to the description and landmarks the earthling had given him, quickly found the place in the reflection of the ink spilled on the table, and then, just as quickly, drew a small door, literally scratching it on the table with his fingernail.

And he gestured invitingly directly to the door, hinting that Ilya himself would be the one collecting his things. The resulting opening in space could more easily be called a "pet's door," just big enough for a robot vacuum cleaner to fit through, but only his hand fit. The fear persisted until the very end, the dread that the spatial anomaly would burst right while he was inside it, and his limb would be torn off. It wasn't that he didn't believe in Ryuk's powers, but the gifted man's sensitivity was driven insane by constant contact with the anomaly. And while he was dragging the load, excessively charged with energy, heavy in every sense except the literal, the door's frame trembled.

He knew rationally that there was no point in the old man crippling him like that, just as there was no reason to doubt the quality of the spatial punctures, but it was still a nerve-wracking experience. It was nerve-wracking, but partially compensated by the look on Magnus's face as he assessed the items shown to him. At the same time, any doubts about him being an Executioner were finally dispelled. No, there are a number of specific Traitor builds and derived, advanced classes that allow the use of "foreign" class relics, but very few players play them. And few will show such a reaction, as sincere and pure as possible. Either the Earthling is an Executioner, or a natural acting genius, or he's simply invested heavily in his specific talents and quirks.

"Fuuck... Well.. Well, well, well!" He practically started rubbing his temples, as if fighting off a migraine. "So. I have thirteen drops in my forum account right now. I'll add another six at the standard rate, in credit equivalent. If you wait at least three months to pay, I can withdraw part of the funds and borrow some from my parents... okay, I won't borrow from them, fuck them, but I have a good credit history. Oh! I can also transfer the rights to a sports car. A two-year-old model Clevissort Roland L-62, two-seater comfort class. The insurance is fine, paid for five years in advance, I don't remember exactly. That's about two-thirds... okay, more than half, of the standard price for a knife like that. The mask is much cheaper, and I don't really need it, but I really want that broken piece.

Magnus wasn't lying, though he was significantly understating the truth, bargaining in his favor. He quoted a price for standard bladed-strike relics for the Executioner. But at purchase price, without taking into account bargaining or even auction. He also hadn't yet gotten to the most important argument in his favor—the prices of relics in the Citadel, for example, are one thing, with a market for them and many solvent individuals among the divers. There, yes, loans, rent, installments, and leasing of powerful class or universal relics are commonplace. But only because we're talking about the Citadel, may its glory be eternal, and they're nowhere in the Citadel.

In such wild conditions, where new divers don't have enough supplies and a normal financial cushion, such prices are simply impossible; no one can afford them. Judging by his remarks, Magnus is clearly a rich boy, but that was already clear from his online communication, where he showed a tendency not to count his money too much. And other remarks showed that he regularly vacationed at resorts, raced on race tracks in his personal car, and so on. As a result, the picture is very clear and vivid, like a neon sign. But his wealth is still not at the level where he can easily spend the average annual budget of a not-so-prosperous neighborhood on his whims.

To Magnus' credit, he doesn't try to pressure Ilya with ‘we're on the same team’ or even use the argument ‘let me wear it, what's the big deal, are you stingy or something?’, but he's also in no hurry to offer the full price. Even if he did, Ilya would be the first to suspect a scam of the worst kind. He does not need to overpay. Because Ilya has no other buyers. He either has to accept the price offered or look for another customer, but among the locals. At the same time, he cannot get a microcredit on Earth from the possible amounts, because all payments will be made in the world of the Mechanism. And here, in Broken, in this sector, the relics on display are already known, and interested buyers have every chance of finding out who the trophy was taken from and asking for that.

The result was a classic classic: one offered more than he was willing to spend, but less than the actual value of a couple of class relics, and the other would get less than he wanted, but at least he got something. Frankly, Ilya would have given up those picking tools for a single drop, even for free. It wouldn't have been a pleasure, but he had to, because for his upcoming plans, he needed the most powerful support unit possible in the form of an allied Executioner. Fortunately, Magnus didn't know this, so he managed to make a nice profit where he least expected it, and even got rid of the "dirty" spoils, making them someone else's problem.

Had the situation been different, not only would Ilya have acted differently, but Magnus would have had significantly more arguments in his favor. If only because he, too, now needs all the strength he can muster and acquire. Ilya is certain that they weren't offering him everything the red-haired, smiling, easygoing guy had in reserve. More likely, he was offering him only what he could comfortably spend on his own enhancement without being left bare-chested in the middle of the Arctic. Yes, he might even be planning to sell his car, which he already has, and buy a new one! But such an act demonstrates how serious the buyer's intentions are. Yeah. Then again, why would Ilya need a car, even if it's a sports car? He won't accept anything other than anonymous payments through the Forum.

"Thirteen drops will do for me, payment via the Forum within 24 hours after the Cycle ends." He nods gravely and calmly, as if that's how it should be, handing both relics to his comrade. "I'm counting on your honesty. Do you need the reference ritual?"

The only option here was to rely on honesty. Apart from the word of honor and the fear of kicking, such exchanges are not regulated by anything. However, if he could escape the city and this whole adventure alive, Ilya would certainly be able to catch Magnus and confront him about his financial irresponsibility. The main thing, after all, was to get out, to extricate himself, to manage to escape this trap. In this regard, Ilya didn't care whether Magnus appeared honest and reliable or whether the red flags in him indicated an outright con artist. He simply needed an Executioner with a powerful pick, nothing personal.

"Heh. I wouldn't turn down a good offer, but thanks anyway." He may be calm, but his fingers, his fingers, are trembling slightly as he takes the broken piece of a bronze sword in his palm, running the pads over the fabric of his executioner's cap. "And the ritual, if it's written down, then go ahead. The class suits me; I intuitively sense what it is, but I could read a normal tablet, too. A drawing along the line? Or a dust method?"

"No, a more complex version of the winter Pleiades." Ilya didn't hesitate to cast the line, simultaneously providing another hint, one that should lead the other person and their guesses in a slightly different direction. "I didn't write it down, but I can easily recite the basic properties from memory..."

And he recounted those properties, once again convinced that it was the Executioner, not the Traitor, who truly knew what kind of relic he held. Only the bearer of the appropriate Lot could read the relic without additional evaluation rituals. Well, almost, almost only the bearer, there are variations. Ilya even shamelessly added an extra aspect to the relic's properties, purely for testing. In response, he received a disapproving look from Magnus, who understood perfectly well why ++Pity had lied. Ilya responded with an insincere apology and said he had simply misspoke.

"Winter Pleiades..." The thoughtful tone doesn't fool Ilya; he sees that Magnus has already remembered everything, he's just pretending to think long and hard. "No, okay, ice branch, but this is wild magic. I mean, I understood from the ritual that you can practice wild elements, but what the hell are you, a Shaman-Witch? Ah-ah-ah, screw you, goldfish, if you don't trust me, then fine, I won't insist. But... If you can't cover and hold the team together in battle because of your secrets, then I'll consider you an asshole."

"A goldfish?" The tricky questions, like the thinly veiled warning not to expose the pair, didn't bother Ilya, unlike the strange phrase. "Is it some kind of creature, or something connected to theurgy or mythology?"

"No, I mean, yes. It's a creature, and mythology, and all that." Ilya merely continued to stare, his gaze filled with curiosity and melancholy, not spoiling the other's attempt at being clever. "It's a reference to a classic fairy tale, probably from the early nineteenth century. My mom is a fan of the phrase, and before her, my grandfather used to say it. It doesn't matter. If you want, just search it, otherwise I'll bore you with a whole swathe of classic children's literature and a dissertation on early twenty-first-century memeology."

The ally's thoughts were clearly far away, all his attention focused on the blade in his hands, broken almost at the guard, a blade that seemed to grow sharper and sharper, incomparably more dangerous than it should have been. Ilya could almost swear that barely discernible crimson droplets appeared and disappeared on the bronze blade, sinking back into it. Well, if it enhances the executioner's combat abilities, and it will, their delightful, beautiful, reliable, magnificent, and all that with huge doses of sarcasm plan will have a slightly better chance of success. They have so few chances as it is, so any increase will seem so significant.

"Well, get used to it, you'll have to use them very soon." He's always ready to state the obvious, especially if that obvious fact adds even the slightest sourness to the satisfied expression of his interlocutor. "And yes, I warn you again: these relics had owners, and they are almost certainly the same individuals we're confronting here in Lazy. It's even possible that our local allies will recognize these objects."

"If this little one had owners, it's purely their fucking problems," Magnus counters with a slightly manic smile, practicing several stances from the classic fencing course for bladed weapons, one after another. "And God forbid, they try to make these problems mine."

Ilya couldn't think of a response, choosing instead to turn around and retreat deeper into the house occupied by his temporary allies. He, too, had much to think about and prepare for; he, too, had a difficult day ahead.

So he sat, meditating and breathing steadily, exploring his talents, monitoring the density of the veil of Lurking Evil, and barely moving. It was as if he'd truly dozed off or quietly grown stiff. He'd deliberately chosen the attic as his location because it was very cool there. Of course, he could have ignored the heat and the warmth, or bathed in the sauna, but Cald adherents of any persuasion dislike heat, and so Ilya pretended to be equally uncomfortable in the well-heated room. In a way, he, too, had been driven out by the uncomfortable surroundings, but instead of heat, it turned out he categorically disliked interaction with the individuals imposed on him.

Unfortunately, these same individuals, every time you think about it, your hand involuntarily goes to the ink-stained fabric bracelet on your arm, sometimes don't mind socializing. He heard her footsteps in advance; it wasn't that she wasn't hiding, but rather that she was deliberately making noise, so as not to alarm the nervous gifted. This is, in general, one of those special cases of etiquette that have arisen and become entrenched in the societies of natives, earthlings, and the otherworlders.

There's essentially only one rule, albeit with a ton of variations: don't fucking sneak up on gifted ones who aren't expecting your visit and are generally in a relaxed state. It often ends with either injury and destruction, or even reincarnation or even corpses, if we're talking about locals or those individuals who spent their remaining lives emptying their Vessels of Rebirth. Ilya had read a monograph by Academician Edinitsyn on accidents and murders disguised as such, resulting from such attempts to satisfy one's ego.

In general, it was a code of conduct based not on empty posturing, but on a clear understanding that there are many nervous and deadly dangerous individuals around you, all of whom suffer from or enjoy a variety of mental disorders. It's not a question of good manners or social conventions, but a guarantee of your own health and survival. And if not your own, then that of everyone who happens to be nearby at the wrong moment, yeah. Otherwise, a nervous wave of the hand from some four could wipe out an entire city block.

That's why the figure approaching him is making noise, why it cautiously and unobtrusively announces its presence by knocking on the doorframe. Without waiting for a word from Ilya, ++Elfeya, leisurely and languidly, concealing her still occasionally wobbly legs with her slowness, entered the attic. Reading the Charmtress's face is utterly pointless, as is analyzing the tone of her words or the kinesthetic movements of her body. He's too lazy to even consider the talents that could allow him to disguise such things, to pass one thing off as another, or even to force yourself to sincerely believe you're experiencing the very emotions you're describing.

"Will I distract you too much, venerable ++Pity?" He very much wanted to say yes, but he shook his head in denial, giving her a chance to bury herself deeper, trying to seize the perfect moment to influence his mind. "Your colleagues have become immersed in their own affairs again, and I intuitively sensed that my presence nearby had become unwelcome. You, however, preferred solitude, and if you continue to prefer it, I will leave you quite calmly."

"What do you want?" His tone is as even as a cardiograph line connected to a fresh corpse. "Just be specific, I can’t stand long conversations about nothing."

There, by the way, it's easier to conceal, if not a mental suggestion, then to purely psychologically assess a person and create their personality profile. A part of him almost begs to start some kind of mental bullshit or cascade hypnoinduction, but ++Elfea D'Lerette turned a deaf ear to his pleas and, on the contrary, opened and stabilized his aura, demonstratively making no attempt to use her magical powers in any way.

"You may have tried to hide it, but it's still obvious your groups were operating separately." Well, who would doubt that she was too accustomed to noticing such things? "It feels like a shared school, if you will, but at the same time, different cells. You and a couple of your companions. And I, alas, having become accustomed to noticing such things, can state with some certainty that you personally, esteemed ++Pity, are hardly happy with the current conditions and the need to enter someone else's game. That's why my proposal is addressed specifically to you."

It's... it's so blunt and brazen that he can't help but look for a hundred tricks in a row, while also trying to figure out if she's taking him for an idiot or if she's simply so desperate that she's ready to grasp at literally any straw. Or maybe she's partially read him using empathy and cold reading alone, to find the most suitable negotiating tactics. Although no, if she'd managed to push through the indifferent and dreary boredom of the veil, she would have seen not human emotions, but his Hunger, an echo of the echo of the Wendigo's essence, after which she wouldn't have seemed so calm anymore.

"And no, I'm not suggesting a betrayal of your interests or anything equally, um, large-scale, let's say." She seemed to take his silence as permission to continue the conversation. "All I ask is that you deliver a note to one of the agent addresses. You are free to read it, honorable, as it is encrypted and brief in essence. Just a few lines, and I'm ready to swear at any ritual that these lines don't concern you in the slightest. You can deliver this message by any means, even in person, even by leaving the note in a hiding place or passing it through a runner."

This was more interesting, if only because he had a rough idea of how she wanted to use him, namely to pass on a message in the event of her death. Most likely, those lines would contain the encrypted name of a village and the location of the hiding place of the box that had been bothering Ilya so much. He had a slight feeling of déjà vu, reminiscent of that meeting with the liquidators, whose relics Magnus was now studying. It was not for nothing, not at all for nothing, that Ilya suggested not showing these very relics to ++Elfea and her comrade for the time being, otherwise she might recognize them. And it is completely logical, but at the same time fundamentally wrong, to assume that the three of them are hunting for the same box.

That would be funny, wouldn't it? After all, the three divers aren't hunting for this box at all.

"I'll be honest, I don't have much faith in my own survival, no matter how much I'd like to believe otherwise," the woman continues to sing like a nightingale, not even touching her class talents. "No, no, not because you'll eliminate me, although I suppress that fear, too. We have nothing to divide, whether you're the duke's men or even the Princip's envoys, and I demonstratively refuse to know anything about it. Alas, unlike you, I'm not suited to combat and likely won't be able to keep up the pace we've set. In that case, the only option left for me will be death, which would violate my duty to the Crown."

At that moment, Ilya conveyed all his skepticism about these words with a single glance, without saying a word. Most likely, she deliberately “joked” in this way to emphasize her true thoughts, hiding them behind a deliberately humorous statement and a more mundane truth.

"If we put aside the nervous and inappropriate jokes, there's no point in my worrying about whether you decide to cut ties, only hoping that our masters have nothing to divide, but rather something to cooperate on." There, now I have a little more faith, though she still hasn't told even a third of the truth. "And I also simply wish ill on those who brought me to this situation. This message will allow my patrons to deal a painful blow to those who are now seeking our lives."

This desire to take revenge even from beyond the grave seemed perfectly plausible. He fully believed that such a message from beyond the grave could even bring revenge to the divers. In a few lines, if you know the encryption system well, you can fit a lot of extra information. However, he did not refuse, listened to the clues about the hiding places and the passwords in case he decided to deliver the message from hand to hand.

"I heard," he replied, not promising anything but offering a hint of hope, and then accepted from her hands a small scroll made of the most ordinary, cheap paper found in the house.

"Thank you, I won't ask for more." Bowing her head slightly, as if she had expected nothing else, ++Elthea left his attic, leaving Ilya alone.

He set the scroll aside without even trying to open it and exhaled a generous breath of pure cold onto his fingers, bone-achingly, all the while carefully maintaining his disguise. She had no time to apply any poison, and it wouldn't be so easy to mark the object—and it wouldn't be so easy to mark the object on icy flesh; he would have felt her cast. True, but being overly cautious is rarely a bad thing, as both the earthling and the deadly bitch who had come to him, who, alas, had never put her talents to use, would agree.

The Diver just smiled, a broad and almost cheerful smile, but it turned out to be very forced. No, the woman was wrong to hope that he would help her superiors get the box, and she was completely wrong to think that her three rescuers didn't need it. The three didn't need it, that was a fact, but now Ilya was also interested in the contents of that strange container.

The problem is that it’s not just Ilya.

* * *

Any city in the Broken World is not only a settlement, but also a point of concentration of forces, the very essence of the city, its concept, created by the multitude of people living there. Ungifted, yes, but still connected to the Mechanism, possessing a few talents and souls that shine in the void and chaos. Even a simple fence around a farm or village means a lot, representing a sacred line of separation between the big world and the small home. In large cities, defensive fortifications have a magical effect even without any additional enchantment or rituals — cutting off, protecting, guarding, blocking some influences, and amplifying others.

Not even that, not without additional rituals, no. From the Mechanism's point of view, the very process of building a protective fence and wall is perceived as a simple, primitive, and weak, but already pure ritual. By cutting off the small from the large, imposing its rules right here, on this piece of reality fenced off by the will of man or beast. That is why Ilya was in such a hurry to hide in the city when he was fleeing from a probable pursuit, because it was the wall and its ritualistic feature that could blur and absorb his tracks, losing them within itself. For the same reason, a significant proportion of pure rituals and a slightly smaller proportion of classic search-type talents work in the city environment, well, not necessarily worse, but almost always strangely.

First and foremost, this is expressed in the fact that when searching for someone in the city, it is appropriate to conduct search rituals within the city, within its boundaries, within the protective ring of walls. At the same time, it is best to search for those who have left the city outside the city, in open and wide spaces. It would be foolish to leave the protection of the walls, as well as the veil of ritual mosaics that covered their signatures, with false targets. Outside the walls, they will be found by the blood of the two unfortunate agents, by the traces of Magnus and Justine, quickly, reliably, and at practically any reasonable distance. No one could run three hundred kilometers in one night, not even Ilya, not along the Ridge, where such a run would quickly end in someone's mouth, tentacles, ghostly grip, or other organs.

In general, no one was going to flee the city now, when the search rituals and corresponding talents simply had to be performed on a rollback. No, they waited in the shop occupied by Magnus and Justine, even letting a couple of guards check inside. Yes, a couple, and another half-dozen were waiting outside. They were checking everyone who had arrived recently or relatively recently. And each commander had a signaling amulet to send an alarm signal and an amulet to protect against mental influence. They knew who they were looking for. As Ilya understood, these things were disposable, disintegrating after the first activation, but guaranteeing very good resistance to soft methods of persuasion for up to half an hour minimum.

Fortunately, they didn't have to kill the patrol and escape into the blizzard. Both divers had prepared their place for guests and possible inspections. No, they hadn't planned to hide here; they planned to retreat immediately, fleeing immediately, further clearing themselves of any possible marks, and then disappearing into the blizzard-covered Ridge. But the thoroughness of the Earth divers' approach has always been one of their strengths. They are specifically trained to spare no time and effort, even on the most unlikely backup plans. This calculation worked now, as a pair of bored guards idly inspected the shop, temporarily closed due to the storm and the illness of its owners, the basement with its wares, and the dusty attic.

"Why are you snotting, man? Are you sick?" The patrol commander is clearly not enthusiastic about his job and doesn't want to continue doing it, so he immediately took the opportunity to chat. "I can recommend a good doctor who doesn't charge much."

"No, no, honorable sir, it's not an infection; we just caught a cold. The heater went out at night, and by morning, we had a cough." Sniffing loudly with his runny nose, into which he had previously dripped a couple of drops of alchemical allergen, Magnus speaks so sincerely that doubts about his class arise again. "The doctor has already given us herbs to drink, various decoctions, and told us not to put out the stove anymore. So here we are, warming ourselves."

Every fool understood that they were “warming themselves,” because it was literally very hot in the house. The brother and the widowed sister did not spare firewood or even alchemical coal briquettes for the stove. It was a wonder they didn't suffocate, but the guards weren't there to babysit them. However, they didn't stay too long, missing the secret room created by Justine's ritual talent and pure theurgy, where all the undocumented residents waited for the guards to leave. Ilya did not see this, for he had gone to his own dwelling, so as not to arouse suspicion, but the dialogue was recounted to him almost word for word. However, the Svyatik mask is most likely living out its last days... although, who knows, anything can happen, and it may be too early to bury that face where it can be buried without any loss to oneself.

In general, they survived the night, and both agents of the crown gained the ability, if not to fight, then at least to stand and run, and in the case of Yozek, to use his talents as well. And now it was time to work, to move their asses so as not to get fucked — a quote from Magnus Krokodilovich, carved in stone, cast in bronze, embroidered with ethereal threads on golden fabric.

As already mentioned, any city is essentially a closed ritual, a mystery immersed in itself, which means that any such mystery has key points, just like rituals. In a village, these are fields, fences, a mill, a tavern, the mayor's house, or a smithy — even the simplest buildings of this type have an influence on the subtle world, carry their own weight, if you will. Somewhere they simplify a series of primitive rituals, somewhere they complicate them, somewhere they simply create a kind of marker of presence. Insignificantly, by a fraction of a percent, but they change the magical constants of the Broken World universe, distorting the workings of its Mechanism. Such trifles are most often noticed by the Sages, especially the Contemplators, who even know how to use them to their advantage or to the detriment of all who are not with them.

There are a ton of such places in large cities. Ilya had once read a work by Audie Sitt, specifically dedicated to the urban planning of the Broken World and its impact on the surrounding world. As the saying goes, building a city is not difficult, but making it a City, breathing life into its stones, turning it into a mystical center—that's much more difficult. It's no wonder that good Builders, Architects, or even highly advanced Urban Planners are so valuable and yet so rare. A class that any community needs at least one, especially if you're planning not just to capture a Heart or awaken a Stronghold, but to literally establish your own geopolitical entity.

Accordingly, if cities are such a complex thing from a ritualistic standpoint of any kind, there are ways to, shall we say, simplify this "thing." Choose a ritual location that will reduce interference from the radiance of other souls, enhance the ritual itself, and, preferably, not require the use of the city hall or the catacombs beneath it. Because yes, any ritual is greatly enhanced in the city hall, but not when you don't want to officially alert everyone, including the Crown's agents in the glorious city of Lazy.

According to Elfeya, who was extremely irritated by this fact, these agents had long since become extremely lazy, gorging themselves on the mayor's payroll, or had simply been turned. There had been hints, conversations, and even outright accusations of this for some time, but no one had previously imagined that Lazy, always neutral or neutrally positive toward the Crown, would suddenly become a haven for the Crown's antagonists. The woman couldn't vouch for her life or honor, but she was absolutely certain that their stay in the cells couldn't have happened without the mayor or his closest retinue personally.

To sum up, they are not yet willing to hold ritual services in the central halls of the town hall and central churches. They could, but they don't want to, because such rituals in Crown would be noticed simply due to the capital's connection with other cities of the Kingdom, and then they would ask who they are looking for here. That is why everything is limited to the guard on duty, the crime that has been raised to the ears, and, on top of that, gifted searchers. Because everything that happened is still officially presented as a daring raid by some robbers on the estate of respected and revered residents of the city, for which those robbers must be found and punished severely.

The level of chaos raised is just above the acceptable limit for such a story. Go any further, and strange questions and dangerous speculations will begin to circulate among the respected townspeople. At best, they'll assume the estate's owner was the beloved, albeit illegitimate, son of the mayor's first assistant. In fact, as ++Elthea said, that's almost certainly the case. Perhaps not a beloved son, but certainly a son, not disowned, carrying within him a diluted but strong line of family blood.

Yes, in order to gradually push through the ritual and find those hiding in the city, specifically in the city, the searchers are confident that the kidnappers and the rescued will not flee beyond the walls; it is entirely possible to organize several auxiliary ritual support points without unnecessary publicity. To prevent these points from being found, they should be properly camouflaged, since the city is rich and has not been at war for a long time, but is engaged in such lucrative trade that it always has plenty of resources. To eliminate any possibility of problems, you can also put up security guards and then reinforce them, yes.

But it's unlikely such guards would expect an attack. The fugitives are hiding, cornered, and hiding in crevices; they're running, not attacking. They're in foreign territory, where all their agents have long been discredited, where they have no foothold. And while everyone understands how dangerous a cornered rat gifted with the Mechanism can be, especially other gifted ones, they don't seriously expect any attempts to fight back. The worst they're afraid of is that if they try to capture them, the fugitives will still draw blood from their pursuers.

At the same time, the hidden ritual enhancement point still needs to be identified, and that's difficult. They're hidden for a reason, and they occasionally change locations, so you only stumble across them by chance. And fugitives can't just wander around looking for ritual points, or they'll be found first. They'll be found long before they can figure out the points and break through the disguise.

No, seriously, they don't have a ritualist with a rank higher than first behind them, do they?

Moreover, such an individual will certainly not live in Lazy for years to discover and calculate all the secrets lairs with the utmost care!

The earthling thought the same way, striding boldly through the dark alleys and leading his ally, who did not possess sensory abilities on par with his Eye. Justine knew how to walk in tandem, following closely behind, not panting or complaining about the pace, and not intending to strike up a heartfelt conversation with him. She was very close to embodying the concept of the “ideal woman,” especially by Broken's standards. Their pair, though attractive, was, alas, only a pair, since Magnus and Yozek had their own task, which they would also perform together. To be honest, no one was happy with this division into groups.

The Executioner didn't need on his side the Crown agent, who had barely regained his extremely limited combat capabilities and could easily either stab him in the back or, even worse, simply let him down at the crucial moment. By local standards, the young and promising Seeker was considered a well-trained professional. By the standards of Earth divers, he was just dead weight, a noob, a bottom-dwelling crab from lunar hydroponic farms, and many other fitting epithets. Even more than that, all the divers disliked the idea of leaving ++Elfea alone, as she was bound to be a treacherous bitch by virtue of her position.

However, at this point, Ilya wished her every success in her attempt to escape from supervision or some other form of malice. He had no doubt that one of the ephemeral and practically undetectable Drops of Contemplation at their level was hanging over ++Elfea. He was also certain of Ryuk's reaction if she tried to go against his plans, because even from a purely logical standpoint. IThey couldn't be caught by the Crown, even more than being the focus of attention of those who currently opposed the Crown. If only he knew for sure what the old man's plans were, but Ilya already had a growing suspicion that he was quite close to solving the mystery.

In any case, no matter how much of a bitch and treacherous scum Lady ++Elfea D'Lerett may be, she is a smart and pragmatic scum, with very strong nerves and nerves of steel. Right now, it's simply not in her best interest to run away or otherwise disrupt the agreed-upon plans, so unless she has a hysterical fit, she won't run away. She is more likely to help and cooperate until the very end, deciding to play her own game only when she has a chance to get away from everyone, having outplayed them all. That is, if she decides to do so at all, because miracles do happen, and sometimes even native agents with brainwashing classes can be honest within the framework of the agreements concluded.

"We're approaching." His words sound muffled and coughing in the pre-dawn darkness, almost whispering, undoubtedly ominous in every way, so much so that goosebumps rose on his skin from irritation. "Readiness six."

"Roger." The girl's answer was far more melodic and pleasing to the ear, and she showed no sign of fear or distraction, religiously maintaining the appearance of a noblewoman, whose loss of face before her equals is far worse than death. "Following."

And they followed, with constant use of the eye, bypassing random passers-by, guard patrols, and even townspeople who had gone out to pee in the yard, one of whom nearly broke his neck after falling into his own outhouse. Fortunately, it was winter, and he only bruised himself, hitting a stalagmite made of the same material that, together with sticks, can form the basis of any structure. A couple of divers from different worlds calmly reached their destination, and they would hardly have suspected that a group covering the ritual amplifier of the city's coverage was hiding here if Ilya hadn't said so with absolute certainty.

Ilya himself hadn't noticed. From the outside, the building seemed completely empty, if you don't count the drunken guard in the outbuilding. It was a modest farmstead, belonging to one of the local merchants, the only one even in town. Servants were minimal, as were security; the windows were tightly shuttered, and the living space itself was slowly falling into disuse. True, the remaining workers regularly tended the small garden, hidden under snow for most of the year, warmed the stoves, and ventilated the rooms, but the seal of neglect shone brighter over the farmstead with each passing month. Only in the brief summer, when the cold of the Ridge recedes slightly, allowing for the unnaturally rapid growth of crops, nourished by the magic of this evil land, does the owner of the premises return.

Not for long, to settle things, extend the agreed-upon deals, buy all sorts of things, and again move to warmer and more pleasant lands than these. He probably preferred any corner of the Kingdom to freezing his ass off in the middle of the Ridge, which had long since become a place of exile for those the ruler didn't yet want to execute but wanted to show his displeasure. And the depth of his displeasure determined how far into the Dead Man's Ridge he'd be shoved.

And the courtyard continues to stand empty, as it seems to all the idlers around. Those who do not know that from the neighboring street, from a small and unremarkable shop, a fairly high-quality underground tunnel leads to the cellars of this courtyard. This allows one to comfortably enter and operate inside without arousing suspicion, since the windows are boarded up, and instead of a stove, one can easily carry a warming amulet. Or even light that stove, ordering the servants to pretend that they are heating the house again so that its walls do not decay from the constant frost. The servants are definitely aware of the purpose of the courtyard, receiving double pay, and the pay from the city governor's assistants is much higher than the official pay.

Whether the merchant knows who is using his house in his absence and why is another question. He definitely knows something, as it would be difficult to hide, but he is unlikely to be aware of the scale and objectives. Or perhaps he is aware, but doesn't dare to say anything, because some kind of compromising information has been gathered on him — Ryuk didn't elaborate on this, as such details were not relevant to the planned operation. In any case, the two divers are not interested in that, unlike paying a polite visit to the local inhabitants. The hours before dawn have always been considered the worst shift for duty, especially if no one seriously expects an attack, a raid, or simply a visit from the superiors.

Although let's be honest, it is precisely the latter that they may well expect.

The two amateur saboteurs exchange silent glances and a few gestures, then start moving. They don't go into the shop or the tunnel, as the chances of getting into trouble in that tunnel, where there are surely signal wires and screens every meter, are too high. Or maybe they weren't, but Ilya would have installed them if he were in the place of his enemies, so he didn't consider them any less stupid than himself. Ryuk didn't even mention the tunnel, also taking its closure for granted. They went through the fence quickly and sharply, without hesitation or doubt, taking advantage of the fact that the standard security systems either sensed and noticed with the Eye, or someone sweet and friendly told him about them, like a hungry swarm of carnivorous locusts. Although, okay, most of the carnivorous locusts known in Broken are actually sweet to the taste, even if they are often toxic as well.

Hmm, that's a really good analogy!

They run up from a blind spot, where a night watchman or an observer who happens to look through a window peephole would not notice them. The Eye didn't see them, and their hearts are hidden behind walls imbued with magic, so the risk is minimized to the usual extent. Next, they pull a heavy, old blanket made of dirty sheep's wool from the backpack on their back. Justine turns over a jug of boiling water sealed with wax and an amulet to maintain the temperature on this blanket.

Yes, there is a small bottle of inexpensive potion in that water, but it is just a precaution, whereas the fabric and boiling water will be enough to counteract the typical effects of the “sensing stone,” which detects the heat of living bodies trying to climb on it. Their actions blinded the spell with fabric and heat that was natural to water, not blood, and then the people quickly moved to the other side on a thrown blanket, touching the stone at the top of the fence directly. They did not let their lives disturb the fence stone that had never lived.

A moment later, they pull the blanket down, concealing the last traces of the break-in from observers outside. Those inside might still notice them, but that will happen sooner or later. First, the intruders go to the guard's booth, where he's drinking a jug of some kind of liquor with a maid. The woman, not exactly fresh, is clearly drunk, but old Pervert, half a century it's an old age for an ungifted commoner, looks quite sober and is clearly waiting for the woman to lose her self-control due to alcohol intoxication.

Exchanging glances, the gifted silently shrug, after which the earthling gives way to the inhabitant of another world at the window slit. Justine takes a small bag and a reed pipe out of her pocket, fills the pipe with narcotic powder, and blows it directly into the crack. If the guard noticed anything, he chose to ignore it, and after a dozen heartbeats, he was already snoring loudly. The woman had passed out even earlier. It would have been possible to do without the consumables, more radically, but here the fact that the deaths of the servants could be traced played a role. It was hardly a cheap pleasure to spend ritual life tablets on such minor characters, but if they did spend them, then the couple of divers had just won themselves a couple of extra minutes of work.

Once again, they switch places in the group, with the stronger Wendigo leading the way, leaving the weak Occultist behind. She is not resting either, as all of Wendigo's senses are literally growling that something dangerous, powerful, and evil, no less than Wendigo himself, is brewing behind him. The Abyss and Gehenna, which form the basis of Justine's power, are not as useful now as Darkness would be, but alas, that's not the build. And “less useful” does not mean completely useless, no, just a slight complication of the task. Again, it is the Abyss that will play the most important role in the final stage of the plan, including Ilya's personal plans.

The knocking on the door was quite loud and impudent, frankly foolish. They were going to strike as soon as someone approached the door, as soon as Ilya's ears detected movements on the other side, just to knock down the first person approached. Only at the last moment, Ilya, at the limit of his strength and staring at the door, seeing the stranger's heart, gave the signal to wait when he realized that the door was actually being opened. Fuck! Without even opening the small window, without asking for the password, without thinking about why the fuck someone was knocking on their door in the middle of the fucking night. A bunch of fearless morons, that's all there is to it.

The door is flung open by a rather dandy-looking individual in his early twenties, already a man, not a youth, especially by local standards. His gaze is insolent, angry, sleep-deprived, and also just a little tipsy, alternating from irritation to, no, not fear or awareness, but rather aggressive bewilderment. As in, who are you, you weren't invited, get lost, or I'll give you a lashing.

"Who the hell are you?" In the dim light of the lamp coming from behind the man who opened the door, Ilya can make out every line, every hair on the nose of the man who asked this question. "I didn't call you here..."

He still didn't have the brains to realize that this individual was anything but a welcome guest. Perhaps it played a role that Ilya hadn't put on a cloth mask, leaving his face uncovered. The calm expression on his face, slightly plump, not yet obese, but with a budding double chin, cloudy brown eyes, and slightly curly hair, showed no aggression. One could say he gave the impression of a condensed and distilled "quiet guy," someone no one would suspect of being a clinical psychopathic killer.

The man doesn't have time to realize his mistake, because Ilya has already started moving. He only let his opponent speak so the caster behind him could get her bearings and not waste her bilet on breaking down the door they'd just opened. There's no full-body thrust, just a swift, almost blurred swing of a sharp knife, slicing open his throat all the way to the spine. The man who opened the door only looked puzzled, his hand reflexively trying to clamp down on the wound, but a not-so-powerful shove lands on his center of gravity, knocking him to the floor. The Earthman who followed him even held him back, finishing him off with a quick and sharp jab to the eye.

The steel, bolstered by a temporary blessing, drains the victim's strength, leaving no time even for agony, and the countdown timer is now running at full speed. They might well use the tablet on fully-fledged fighters, though it's not guaranteed, but they can't afford to count on any other way. Both divers break into a quick walk, trying not to make any noise, but not really trying. The second corpse appears at the end of the corridor, apparently going to check on the silence and who was knocking. This one is dispatched by Justine, with a classic "Abyssal Arrow" right to the sternum; even the amulet was no help against the most powerful force in direct combat against any shield.

The lump of the Abyss that passed through the soul of the girl, filtered through the lens of her talent, seems not even dark or black, but rather monochromatic gray, devoid of any color at all. Like a faded piece of an image on an ancient color print from the days when printers printed documents on paper, not polymer figures of waifu in 3D format. The effect is impressive: a piece of the body is simply eaten away, as if dissolved by acid, as if the clothes, the protective field of the amulet, and the flesh were simply erased from reality with an eraser. Even the individual who did not scream falls to the ground, covered in blood, bright red and pleasing to the eye. Because even with his resistance, looking at the colorlessness of the Abyss is simply uncomfortable.

One of the characteristic elements of working with this type of energy is that talents with the Abyss base practically do not spend personal reserves, just like the necromancers, paid for in advance by Death and in the name of Death. Only if a Black Mage, especially Warlocks, can turn himself into a real turret, quickly spending everything he has accumulated and paid for in advance, is it completely different for the adepts of the Abyss. They are not called bottomless for nothing, because their casting powers will never run out; their physical and energetic bodies will tire before their reserves are depleted. You don't need to put attributes into the Blood and Heart, leaving it at the base unit.

Abyss-based talents are dangerous not because they consume energy, but because they burden the aura with brains and almost always have a fixed recoil and/or number of charges, which is why you need to use your “shots” wisely. Accordingly, you need to invest in other attributes that decrease cooldown and avoid overloading yourself with constant casting. Is it worth mentioning that Justine put together a pretty decent build and therefore didn't collapse at the slightest overload? She greeted the trio of opponents who ran out to meet them, already suspecting something bad, even before Ilya did.

Or rather, the earthling gestured to her about three visible target hearts within the camouflage perimeter, and she conjured two arrows at once. She only used one, however, but she drew it out into a thinner form, a weaker, longer line, just enough to pierce the first two with it. One died without a sound, the second wheezed, clutching his chest, sagging, and reaching for his belt pockets, and the third only let out a frightened cry, thin and shrill, like a girl, but didn't have time to fully scream. Ilya tossed the enemy's corpse aside and didn't even look back as Justine stabbed the wounded beast with a long dagger, effectively a Kriegsmesser.

There were still some sleeping upstairs, and someone was in the kitchen storage room, suffering from a late-night gluttony, but they weren't distracted, rushing forward toward the basement. Once again, someone else's carelessness favored them, for the secret doors, heavy and bound with rune iron, were open and even propped open with a log to prevent the automatic mechanism from slamming shut. Ilya, for one, had no doubt that Justine experienced exactly the same emotions as he did at this image. Alas, there was no time for comment, so they rushed through the breach in silence, all three—he, she, and the scooped-up corpse of another guy on their way.

He dragged him and got covered in blood for nothing. There was no trap or sensor at the entrance. Or maybe they had been disabled too, which wouldn't have surprised Ilya at all. He dived into the passageway like a fish, already pushing off from the walls as he flew through the narrow tunnel to correct his fall and accelerate even more in the process. So he burst into the small room below as a blur from the speed, flashing by too quickly to be seen. They had to die too quickly, because the next phase of the battle unfolded in two heartbeats, beating at the rhythm of a runner-athlete, not at rest.

The blurry spot is met by a blindingly bright arc of lightning, powerful and very dangerous even for him if it hits with full force. The wild and unbridled power of the elements collided with the automatically activated protection, and not even his beloved and familiar Hide. No. A previously invisible barrier appeared around Wendigo's body, as if some huge ghostly cockroach had embraced him with its twelve multi-jointed legs. The lowest spawn of Gehenna, with a clear expression of its sinful path in the aspect of Greed. It had drunk the strength from its host with relish, now repaying the treat by taking the blow upon itself.

An ordinary person would be drained of energy in a couple of hours by “Minor Contract: Suffocating Generosity,” four steps, turned into a rapidly aging wreck in twelve hours, and drunk to the bottom in a day, then gorged on the body and put that body on themselves. But gifted individuals, especially those of the physical type, can carry such monsters on themselves for quite a long time, paying them with a reserved part of their reserve and a reduced recovery rate. Allowing even an ally, but an Occultist, to impose such a thing on himself was somewhat awkward, but Ilya knew that if something happened, he had a guaranteed way to remove the passenger.

But now he was able to survive the attack without revealing his own talents and penchant for Hunger. Otherwise, things could have gone awry. The demonic cockroach chirped mournfully, crumbling to the floor in rapidly melting shreds of chitin and drops of lymph. A suffocating smell of sulfur and mustiness filled the air, and the enemy Charmancer was very surprised. For the last time in his life, yes, because Ilya, accelerating to the limit of his ability, concealing the Wendigo's aura in the demon's raised death echo, closed in and struck three times at once. The cold steel of the cleaver bounced twice off the raised "Barrier Hemisphere," until the second hand struck from the side, into the gap between the hemisphere and the wall, grabbing the gifted one by the arm and forcing him to smash his face into that very sphere. He should have pumped the aspect for one-way permeability!

The enemy reflexively dropped his guard and immediately wheezed as Ilya, not even attempting to penetrate the amulets' protection with his blade, grabbed the screaming mage in an embrace and broke his neck. A moment later, and before the cleaver could even fall to the ground, Ilya plunged it into the liver and between the ribs, piercing the heart. A thin stiletto-stinger, a gift from the trophy stock of a certain Assassin. Another moment, and he dropped the body to the floor, falling after him, shielding himself with the dying body as a swarm of gnats flew over him. Only each gnat was simultaneously smaller than a speck of dust and larger than a rhinoceros beetle, an Earthling recently genetically cloned and released back into the world to repopulate. And each one had neither shape nor color; each one had no boundaries or bottom.

Hm, the talent was improved, not the first step of "Colorless Wave," but the second, an overly stable flow and the ability to bypass friendly targets. And yet, for a moment, he almost believed he'd have to break through under the cover of Hide and then screw her head off for such a friendly fire. Shouts rang out from behind the door, quickly dying down, along with curses that only grew louder. Without time to wait for the guys to curse and send panicked messages from above, the earthling burst into the ritual chamber only a little later than the cloud of "gnats," as they're called on Earth.

First of all, he blocked the hidden blade with his cleaver. It was almost invisible in the dim light of household amulets, discernible only to the Eye. The cold steel held back the attack, as if deflecting the ghostly shadow of a blade. The second blade pierced the void as Ilya lunged to the left and forward, coming face to face with an individual armed with two yataghan-like blades. Quite tall, no shorter than Ilya, stocky and agile, fast and clearly inclined to physical combat — identification was instantaneous. One weapon would have been enough — two blades of equal length in classical fencing will always lose to a pair of short and long blades; you can't argue with math and physics.

But there's one class, thanks to its core talent, that prefers wielding two identical one-handed weapons — yataghans, gladii, kriegsmessers, and the like. This class is generally very adept with any weapon, carrying as much cold steel as they can carry. And they can usually carry quite a lot. The fucking Marauder that leaped toward the Wendigo was a problem the Earthling couldn't ignore. The same Charmancer was practically powerless in direct close combat, but he didn't want to fence with this bastard. Because his fencing skill is certainly high, but the beatings you could get would be far more painful than in training.

In pure stats, a Wendigo without balancing talents would undoubtedly outperform even a highly skilled step one peer of almost any class. Or maybe even without the "almost." Ilya is simply faster, stronger, more agile, more durable, and all that, and he also has mastery of combat maneuvers among his talents. But all this pales in comparison to the fact that his opponent specializes in armed close combat, and fighting him up close would be simply foolish for Ilya. The smartest course of action now would be to simply close the distance, moving sideways to expose Justine's line of fire, and then release not even full power, but a third of his own. Magic defense has never been a strong point for the Marauders. Well, on average.

The Earthling, with considerable effort, suppresses his reflexes, lunging forward, as befits a beast of limited intelligence and instinct. Just enough so that the enemy will use exactly what was expected of him. The Marauder steps aside softly, almost dancing, striking with his blades and additionally generating "Battle Impulse" (or something very similar), a wave of force emanating from his body to strike, stun, push back, and then finish off the enemy.

The ungifted guard from some nobleman's personal entourage, who happened to be behind the shifting earthling, felt like a schnitzel because he was knocked out so hard that his eyes popped out and his liquefied brains flowed out of his ears. Only a bag of bones hit the wall, some of which were shattered into a pile of fragments by the vibrational component of the talent. Ilya, however, did not burst or crash, despite the fact that he forcibly stopped the activation of his Hide, allowing himself to be hit.

He let one yataghan pass him, twisting in the best traditions of Earth's masters of non-contact combat, known by the pithy term "bullshido," only in his case, the maneuver proved entirely justified. He blocked the second blow with his own limb, grabbing his opponent's wrist before it could penetrate his liver. Then he yanked the Marauder toward himself, sideways to avoid the Impulse. He missed almost completely; he was only struck by the edge, but not fatally, not even concussed, and the Earthman was able to continue the fight.

A colorless blob strikes the enemy's back, like a lump of monochrome fog, but a ghostly copy of Marauder separates from his body, bleeding from several bloody wounds, each of which he received in past battles, and the Abyss aims at the false image. At that very moment, the enemy's flashing yataghans struck with two gray-steel beams. Just as the diver, who had twisted again, wanted, falling to the floor and barely managing to push off, shifting to all four limbs.

So that the split-second "Dishonorable Stabs" would strike the dimly glowing altar, adorned with numerous stone symbols. Not even an altar, but a stone pedestal of a resonating column, which is supposed to amplify many rituals within the city, including sensory effects, divination, mass blessings, and even targeted curses. It's easier to list everything that such a column can't amplify.

Hidden by a half-mask covering the lower part of his face, the enemy even paled a little, his eyes widened in shock, but the altar endured; only the stone base was slightly chipped, exposing a cluster of small quartz crystals hidden inside. Ilya mentally wiped the sweat from his forehead. If he had played it slightly differently, he could have rolled up part of his plans, perhaps the most important part, and shoved them up his ass. Either he would not have had time to dodge, risking his life and losing his cover, losing the rhythm of the battle, or the enemy would have done part of what they themselves had to do here — destroy the altar and deprive the enemy faction of part of their view and unofficial eyes in Lezhebok.

It seemed like everything was good, but it should have turned out completely differently. Not the way it turned out, if he had been late or rushed with his seemingly blatantly stupid maneuver. Sensing the movement and the distortion of the force flows behind the Marauder, Ilya let out a barely audible, hoarse growl. Not a Howl, but its precursor, limiting the range of its effect with all his might and concentrating it on the Marauder. At the same time, he threw a lump of fabric soaked in fresh blood, which he had taken out of his pocket, at his opponent. Only the blood had almost completely rotted away, and the fabric was very worn, as if it had not been dripped on this morning, but a decade ago and then forgotten in a dark, damp basement.

The enemy merely flinched, didn't panic, and reacted reflexively, without thinking, cutting through the fabric not with a yataghan, but with a cleaver that had appeared in his hand. A classic "Instant Requip," by the way, a very useful talent in the right hands! The difference, however, is small—scimitar, cleaver, or something else. In an instant, in place of the fabric, there's some kind of demonic centipede, greedy for blood and angry at the one who took it, delighted in the fact that he can now satisfy himself with another kind of blood, the blood of the one who destroyed the first feeding.

The Marauder got the job done, switching weapons again to some kind of clawed, spiked brass knuckles, stowing the cleavers in subspace, and slicing the partially materialized scum into separate pieces that stank of sulfur and old age. He didn't miss Ilya's attack either, immediately demonstrating his superior fencing skills. The cold blade was no match for the Marauder's weapon skills, and only shavings fell from the blade of the cutlass. The same shavings almost fell from the rapidly retreating Ilya, who barely managed to block and parry the blows of the constantly changing weapons, which were quite good. And not only paired one-handed weapons, but also full-fledged blades flashed, threatening to strike with a dropped blade at any moment.

The Marauder waited, not rushing to attack with magic, relying entirely on steel, and it was enough, because Ilya, who was not using his talents, was giving way step by step. And the enemy also maneuvered so as not to fall under Justine's attack, who was forced to focus on finishing off the ungifted. The fight in the hall did not last long, just a few seconds; they simply did not have time to get their bearings, too relaxed or even tipsy. Ilya completely surrendered to the hunting beast's attacks, switching to evasion and not even trying to attack, allowing the Marauder to feel confident, close if not to victory, then to getting rid of one of his opponents.

Just to wait for the right moment when the freak would activate his impulse attack again, finishing off the overly nimble freak who had nothing to boast about except his agility. He probably mistook him for an adept of “passivism,” a very interesting type of build that relies exclusively on passive properties, without any active talents. These builds can be quite interesting, often very mentally stable, although there are exceptions, of course. Ilya again used the echo of someone else's cast to apply his magic, breaking his disguise and hiding behind the chaos of battle, grabbing the next weapon just above the sharpened part of the blade to pull the enemy towards him, hit him forehead to forehead, and expose him to another blow from Justine.

He maintains a completely calm expression and does not show that he wants to laugh triumphantly, complementing Justine's blow with a kick, right towards the altar. And the colorless body of the Marauder, already gradually being eaten alive, falls right into the stone cube of the altar. This is so that part of the Abyss falls on the crystal cluster, is absorbed into it, penetrates to its very depths, and causes the corresponding destruction. The Abyss, which perceives the victim as its own, completes a primitive and essentially simple ritual, a ritual battle between two warriors.

To be honest, they originally planned to play from the Abyss, filling the altar with it and causing a cascading resonance in the crystal cluster. That's why Justine joined his duo, yes. But they were going to do it differently, in a controlled, smoother way, leaving the Abyss-charged detonator amulet on top of the opened column, and not like this, standing right next to it, literally right up against it.

"Fu..." Ilya begins, mentally preparing himself and feeling how, well, let it be the heart, yes, exactly the heart, is shrinking in anticipation of danger

And then the altar flared with both quartz light and the monochrome of the abyss, spreading in all directions in a violent wave. Justine cried out in fear, briefly thinking the Abyss would devour them all right there. That was possible, but Ilya would survive thanks to the Hide he'd prepared in advance and held onto until the very end, and then he'd feel a little ashamed. The earthling groaned softly, sinking to the ground from a sudden weakness, trying to regain his camouflage as quickly as possible, feeling his face shrink into a chicken's ass, then uncurl back, and repeat the process three times.

And it did not make him feel much better that in those seconds, he had a vision of drops falling on the stone and bone of the altar.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Scarlet gold beats against the bottom of the cup.

Tap.

The final blow brings him his well-deserved reward, and somewhere off to the side, Justine, who played an even greater role in this battle, receives something similar. Still, he used her protection, her contracted creatures of Gehenna, while trying not to show anything he was capable of. And she, by the way, could well have noticed this. At best, she will only notice this, and at worst, she will catch a hint of Wendigo's magical aura. But the latter was unlikely, since of all the basic magic classes, Occultists had the lowest sensitivity; they did not have the attributes developed to be sensors. More precisely, they could be sensors, but only by deviating significantly from the classical paths of development.

Yes, this is exactly the right time for such thoughts about builds; you couldn’t find a more opportune time.

They lie there for less than fifteen seconds, then get to their feet almost simultaneously, looking around in bewilderment. The hall is almost intact, but there is no magic left in it; even the enchantment of the doors has been devoured, all the amulets have been destroyed, and the delicate sensory settings throughout the city are now performing worse than an ancient compass in a souvenir magnet warehouse. Exchanging glances with the girl, they both stand up in unison, check themselves for any blood left behind by some nasty Seeker, and then quickly begin to leave.

"On the side, needs a bandage." Ilya glances at his own side, finding red-soaked fabric and a small cut, more like a scratch, which isn't bleeding anymore. "And take the weapon."

"No reason to worry," he says in response, taking a handkerchief soaked in a healing potion from his belt and applying it to the wound. "About the weapon, I mean. The Abyss devoured the entire body, the weapon bound in subspace also disappeared, and I wasn't wounded with the blades he was holding at the last moment."

Justine merely nodded, solemn and collected, trying not to show how nervous she was. This typical Albi-Avignon mania for keeping a straight face rarely leads to anything good, of course, but in situations like these, it's quite useful. Inside, there's panic, tears, and attempts to call for Mommy, but her body moves on its own, doing what it's been training and honing for practically a lifetime.

"You pushed his body rather unluckily, ""Pity." She states the obvious, adding a clearly measured dose of reproach to her words. "He was already dying and could hardly have struck from the edge of the grave."

"I acknowledge the validity of this reproach." Like her, he does not use respectful forms of address, demonstrating tacit agreement that now, having been in battle, they can be considered comrades-in-arms. "I struck on reflex. Well, as it happens, you killed him — throw him away before the posthumous greeting is activated. The fact that such talents are rare among the natives of Broken, I did not remember at that moment. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," Justine nods gravely, and inside, she's probably even feeling a slight sense of superiority that it wasn't she who made the mistake, but the far more erudite and knowledgeable Ilya.

Running out of the house, they quickly jump over the stone fence, which luckily hasn't been broken either, just weakened, and then hide in the alleys and streets of Lazy. Two blocks away from the scene, they nod to each other one last time and part ways. The girl goes back to the shop, while Ilya goes about his business, once again pretending to be an ordinary townsperson. Well, that was the original plan, but it wasn't quite the plan Ilya actually had in mind.

Because his mistake was not a mistake at all, because before leaving the ritual basement, Ilya tore off his wrist a burnt and scorching piece of fabric, saturated with small ink spots. And only now did he throw this bracelet into the nearest snowdrift with relish, and then breathe cold air on it, as tightly and powerfully as possible. A part of him wanted to run away, through the gradually brightening streets, through the wall, and into the deepest depths of the Ridge, hoping that they would not catch up with him. But it was a foolish and wrong thought; he did not believe in the success of his escape, not now, not from Ryuk.

No, if he's going to act, then act reliably. That's how he'd been taught, that's how he's used to working. Changing plans on the fly, improvising, and relying on luck are always possible, of course, but only for a short time, only a limited number of times. This limitation is precisely based on the number of Rebirth Vessels for those who consider themselves the smartest. If Ryuk catches up with him, or if he doesn't, he'll simply kill him with ranged charms. For the Sage of the third step, who had already scanned Ilya's subtle bodies, that's not such a problem. Resolving the situation with a simple escape is useless until he finds a way to get at least a couple of thousand kilometers away from Lazy, and even then, it would be better to think carefully.

About as thoroughly as he worked on ways to spend his well-earned drops of Essence.

He wanted to stop, think, and weigh his options, and he would definitely do so, but a little later, not right now. There was no reason to hoard the essence; he would use it within the next 24 hours, but he couldn't rush, as that would risk doing something rash. Two promotions to the second step, or one straight to the third — the question of what to do and what to choose was a very difficult one, especially without access to his own records and the Forum. If only he could unlock that planet-wide enhancement that allows access to the Forum in read-only mode even while diving, albeit for a limited time and in a limited number of threads! It would be simply fantastic; the efficiency of Earth's divers would increase by orders of magnitude, yes. As would the speed of information leakage to the natives of the Broken, but that's a small price to pay for the benefits.

He made up his mind about halfway through, even though he was tempted to reconsider or change his original plan. But no, there was nothing he couldn't do with his planned build, just as there was nothing that would be helped by talents other than those he had planned. Another alley, a few seconds to look around, paying particular attention to the guards rushing off to who knows where. It was impossible to guess what had suddenly happened to them.

Then a deep breath and another vision, in which drops of blood flow up the walls of a stone bowl. They flow and are absorbed into the bowl itself, into its base and rim, strengthening it, making it sharper, as if the rim of the bowl were encircled by a stone blade. The tiniest nicks on it seemed to literally beg and plead for blood, to be touched by warm flesh and cut to the bone. The sensation cannot be compared in terms of intensity to a double increase in talents or an investment in the same eye, but it still pierces, as it does every time.

Properties and Mutation:

Knowledge of Curse: 2/3 (Essence invested: 0/20)

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

The effect of all class talents has been significantly increased, the cost of using and maintaining them has been somewhat reduced, and resistance to hostile curses has been noticeably increased.

Loss: Succumbing to his curse, the Wendigo is forced to lose more and more with every agonizing hour of his semblance of life. At some point, nothing remains of him but the Hungor that consumes him and the Cald that permeates his body and soul. The curse has taken everything he had, leaving no room for anything else, nothing of who the Wendigo once was. But he has become stronger. Angerer. More powerful. And he is not alone in being lost in his own curse—many searching, cursing, or cognition rituals will fail when working with the cursed, barely discerning the target beyond all their Hunger and through the grip of Cold, becoming lost along with them.

This is exactly what he desperately needs now, and it was worthwhile first upgrading his Skin and Form Handling, almost doubling the chances of this particular aspect dropping. From fifteen percent to thirty, although the lack of compensating talents of any kind could have added to the probability. РуI couldn't calculate the exact result—from fifty to seventy. It does happen, yes, although such a wide range of probabilities is, of course, rare.

A basic boost to all Wendigo's talents, properties, and overall nature would certainly be useful, but he chose this talent precisely for the sake of protection from searches. Most of the woodpeckers building cinematic builds take it for this very reason, if they can. Otherwise, the mindless and aggressive creature will be found sooner rather than later, and once found, they'll quickly rid the Broken World of its presence.

The protection against search rituals wasn't the best; after all, three steps are three steps, not five. And it's a general-purpose talent, not the specific "Maneater's Shroud," which relies on concealment from searches with magical massing at its core. It won't work against old Ryuk, and even a fully upgraded Shroud wouldn't have helped against him—the odds are so unequal, but it's still pretty good. Especially considering everything he and the other divers are currently doing in the city. Furthermore, "Loss" protection greatly increases with talent combinations, as well as, figuratively speaking, the level of "dog in the bunker" consumption. With a super Trait and the chosen build style, these three steps can easily replace the poorly-leveled four steps in a mixed specialization.

Or a talent of three, but specifically honed to camouflage from search, like "Hiding Predator," "Hungry Burrow," or something like that. Although.. In the latter case, it depends greatly on what aspects drop and how Ilya develops the other talents. Actually, as is always the case when building a build, it's not for nothing that this science is called the second strength of materials, to spite engineers and technologists who boast of their intellectual superiority and other people who like to humiliate poor humanitarians scholars.

Besides the chosen aspect, he was given two more relatively good but mediocre options, more suited either to someone who'd chosen a straightforward cinematic or to a classic build of a sane Wendigo. Well, as classic as a build can be when it's focused on knowledge rather than an extra balancing talent. He discards both options without the slightest pity, not even bothering to remember what pitfalls or potential rewards they might contain.

The rather rare "Memory" aspect, unlike "Loss," allowed for better self-preservation, hiding in the depths of a hungry beast's insane mind and gradually resurfacing. For Changelings and Beast-Possessed, this was a very good choice, as these beasts can easily satiate themselves, while the Wendigo, well, is constantly hungry. In his case, it would only provide modest protection from psychic damage and also preserve some of his brain power when falling into Hunger. Well, at least he'd be able to fight with some tactics and avoid obvious traps. Combined with a number of talents and aspects, it's a very good option for strengthening.

In contrast, there was also "Feast," also very popular among Hungor followers in general and Wendigo in particular. A very nice buff from each devoured creature, especially if they're sentient, and these buffs are permanent, yes, indeed. A classic trap for a greedy newbie, or a great benefit for an even greedier but thoughtful individual with a strong psyche. Active and constant use of "Feast" allows for the consumption of a vast amount of material, with a catch that's highly unusual for all aspects and talents of the Devour subtype.

The more often you eat and the shorter your breaks between meals, the higher your chance of getting something more interesting. Say, not just a micro-percentage of reserves or a boost to your physical strength, but also a talent or, say, a devoured attribute. Yes, you'll have to actually eat away villages and small towns, but in theory, even in very deep theory, you can get another dozen or two talents and a few attributes. Eat it without bursting in the process, keeping your Twin active, not crumbling under the weight of its own status and a glitchy connection to the Mechanism.

There's only one problem: the more you eat—and get!—the less chance you have of successfully moving on to the next step.

Well, it's clear why those bastard cinematisе love this aspect so much, especially in buff talents. Ideally, you'd get "Feast" in the Wendigo root "Hunger and Cald," then it'd be absolutely brilliant. Your insane Twin devours every cycle, growing stronger, absurdly strong for a first step. But! The risk of even reaching the second step is minimal, and the chances of reaching the fourth are completely negative, deeply and hopelessly below zero. A constant supply of free essence and no risk of going crazy on Earth!

Well, unless the locals kill the rabid beast, gradually growing bolder and losing any remaining caution, because even the most bloated, desynchronized bastard will be no match for the second step, who follows her. And it's unlikely such a beast will survive to see those few dozen extra talents, which will be completely inappropriately assembled and lacking any synergies, most often only a step or two.

Ilya's perception returned to his own body, and he felt the blood in his veins becoming increasingly black, thick, and viscous. He did not pay much attention to this, nor to the mutant Pekingese in his cage of self-control, which had swollen up again. He just checked the area one more time and immediately dove back in, spending every last drop to become a little stronger, a little more suited to the task at hand. Again, a vision drops flowing upward, scarlet and gold merging, but again, everything is slightly different. Snowflakes fall into these drops, merging with them, creating a crust of ice on top of the stone altar, a crust saturated with blood and pain, his own and that of others.

Properties and Mutation:

Frozen Flesh: 2/4 (Essence invested: 0/20)

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

The Wendigo's body becomes significantly stronger and more resilient, the degree of weakening curses is noticeably increased, the degree of resistance to offensive magic is somewhat increased, the body's regeneration is accelerated, and received wounds gradually freeze and become covered with an icy crust.

Breath: The Wendigo's flesh has long since accepted the Cald, which has permeated its very being, from bone to skin, penetrating so deeply that the very breath of the body has become different, alien, and wrong. This breath conceals an insidious and terrible power, gradually weakening any imposed influence, freezing oaths and promises, curses and mutilations, chains and collars. Its breath becomes like the Cald, and the Cald finds a way through the frozen Breath on its lips.

This time, the Mechanism delighted him with a full cross of aspects, standard for this type of body-strengthening, literally textbook and academic. Four development paths, each with its own advantages and disadvantages: "Bones," "Meat," "Blood," and "Breath," the rarest of the four, though not the most valuable, especially for a standard build. The most valuable, for obvious reasons, is considered "Brain," for while it may turn you into a completely emotionless sociopathic thug, it will elevate your mental stability to an extremely high level. If you're already a diagnosed sociopath, this aspect almost always appears and is considered mandatory.

"Meat" was immediately phased out, even though it would have helped with survivability quite a bit. It has regeneration, overall durability, regeneration, increased survivability, regeneration, and a bit more regeneration. It's actually quite good if you get wounded and need to survive, but it's a dead end. Compared to the Martyr, it still lacks that survivability, and anyway... Well, Ilya didn't want to get used to taking wounds instead of avoiding them. Why did he even increase his skin if he was going to choose that damn "Meat" now? The talent is more suited to classic cannibalistic cinematics, as well as those who prefer direct, chest-to-chest combat, without compromise or cunning maneuvers.

No, it would be foolish to reject such an aspect, but it simply suited him far worse than even "Blood," which primarily increased protection from those same curses and, oddly enough, increased the value of that blood in all sorts of rituals. Had he chosen the same "Wild Witchcraft" or "Primal Ritual" when creating the Twin, then yes. Then "Blood" would have been a true blessing from heaven on behalf of all the Dead at once. But he's overshadowed the ritual aspects of leveling with his "violin" and doesn't particularly delve into the mysteries of Blood, carefully avoiding the aspects of this type that are revealed to him. It feels like the Broken One, with its randomness when assigning aspects, is trying to turn him into some kind of ghoul, but he's not from the Tokyo metropolitan area. It's the inhabitants of the Japanese Islands who respect this path.

He spent the longest time deciding between the final option and "Bones," which synergized quite well with his current build, boosting everything related to carving, and simply being a very powerful combat aspect. Combined with transformation, it was simply beautiful and lovely, as a certain dwarf with the vibe of a Soprano would say. But "Breath," even by the most conservative estimates, had insane synergy with the Ice Reath, absolutely mind-blowing. Moreover, said "Breath" didn't weaken the concealment of the Lurking Evil, but rather gradually weakened any existing effects. And while he's foolish to fear ++Elthea's mental suggestions, the axe of Ryuk's contract still hanging over his neck could gradually be eroded.

Or, if you try really hard, then not quite gradually.

Or erode not just gradually.

Shaking himself, he took another look at his surroundings, assessed the patrol clearly heading towards the alley he was in, and jumped onto the roof, then from the roof to the neighboring one and back to another alley. Shaking himself off and adjusting the bandage on his wound, poking it with his finger, feeling the cut skin and everything beneath it, he sighed wistfully and moved on to where he was originally headed. To visit the Little Chif, with whom his cooperation would end very bloodily and very ugly on Ilya's part today.

It's not that he was ashamed of it. Chif impressed him with his honesty in business, but he was still a cruel criminal boss who regularly killed, tortured, or oppressed ordinary people in every way possible. The fact that Ilya didn't care about any of this didn't matter. Yes, he would interrogate Chif for the information he wanted, and then kill the dwarf, but not for his sins or out of a desire for justice. It was simply that his legend could not withstand the need to ask exactly what he wanted to talk about. And he believes more in Santa Claus, and on Earth, than in the dwarf keeping quiet about a strange redneck who asks such strange questions, especially in such cheerful circumstances as those that have now developed in the city...

Who knows, maybe some anonymous user of Cald and Madness, who has reached the fourth level, will decide to revive the ancient fairy tale and make it a reality?

Even if it's not the redneck asking the questions, it won't change anything; the dwarf will even give up the questioner faster if you let him live. It's just the fairy-tale character Danila can't make the legendary stone flower, and Ilya can't find a way not to kill the big shot at the end of the conversation.

In general, nothing personal, Chif was just a little unlucky. He’s unlucky.

* * *

"He's so lucky son of a bitch!" Ilya blurted out involuntarily when he approached Chif's private residence at a satisfactory distance and applied his eye at one-third of its maximum power. "No, I'll definitely have to ask about his FaFo, otherwise it'll be kind of awkward."

The spiteful dwarf wasn't at his favorite tea house, but he sometimes allowed himself to take a day off, and Ilya didn't even ask if he was working at the market today. In the past, he would ask the boys at the market, throwing them a copper coin, but now he didn't want to leave any traces or witnesses. But Ilya knew where the dwarf lived; he had told him himself, as a trusted customer. Come only if you have something really interesting. And if you come and disturb the peace for no reason, he will be offended, and Svyatik will not like that offense at all.

And so, he came to visit the Chief, who already had guests, damn them. Such guests that the master of the house and some of the servants were lying there tied up. Well, a dwarf with a normal heart can't be mistaken, but you wouldn't lie on the floor and roll around like that of your own free will, unless you'd been kicked in the kidneys. The unknown individuals were clearly searching for something, turning over boxes and hiding places. It was even somewhat awkward, because he had come to kill, but now he would have to carry out a rescue operation. However, that operation could well end in the death of the rescued person, which made it doubly awkward.

There was a knock on the door, the hinges creaked, and then two brazenly cheerful thugs appeared, one of whom pointed a rather decent crossbow at Ilya, while the other silently grabbed him by the collar, punched him in the stomach, and dragged poor Svyatyk into the room. He didn't resist; they were leading him where he needed to go. His Hide and his reflexes protected him from harm, and he was simply curious to see what was going on. In the end, the diver decided that it was too early to start killing, although this idea faded a little, and caution, on the contrary, blossomed when, in the main hall of a stranger's house, he met a dapper man dressed in expensive, lordly clothes with the city's coat of arms under his heart. Consider him an analogue of a secret and not-so-secret guard who, for some reason, came to bully Little Chif.

"There! There's our enemy intelligence agent, murderer, instigator, and spy in general, as well as the henchman of this story's main villain, the treacherous snake we've all cherished, the poisonous needle in the tender flesh of the glorious Lazy!" The accusing finger pointed directly at Ilya, who was thoroughly shocked, reflexively continuing to scan the slips of the gifted ambush squad, which caused several shoves in the back of the body frozen mid-step. "Come on, come on, confess right now, and I won't have to tear your nails out later, my dear."

Ilya examines the group of characters searching the place, most of whom are naturally bandit-like with characteristic signs of criminals on their clothes, just like that, from the chamber of measures and weights. The second group, only two out of seven, are dressed like gentlemen and wear coats of arms, but the second one has his on his shoulders rather than his heart, which means his position or nobility is lower than that of the chief accuser. At that very moment, one of the bandits slit the throat of the last of the bound men, who were either guards, servants, accomplices, or all of the above. In general, the somewhat slow-witted Ilya could only utter a completely sincere and unintentional remark, without any attempt to play on a mask:

"E-e-e-e? What the fuck?" The response, of course, was a blow to the kidneys, for which he reflexively twisted and hunched over to avoid breaking poor thug's fingers, as his flesh had become even more durable after the talent's enhancement.

"Oh, why deny it, dear. Why anger the Purifier with your actions? Let's not do any of that." The most classic form of the amulet of denial of lies was laid out on the table in front of him, only with a funny copper patch on its base, which was slightly heated and seemed to be malfunctioning. “Put your hand here, and then confess all your sins. Espionage, crimes against the city authorities and the Crown, involvement in gang attacks on noble people, everything. The amulet will verify it, and they won't cut off your balls, dear, you understand?”

Ilya truly understood, and not because of the mediocre mental influence exerted by the mediocre asshole who used the amulet to pressure Svyatik the redneck into saying what he was told. No, he simply understood, and it must have been the high Veil and Mystery that stimulated the diver's intuition, as well as the analytical mind that had been trying to figure out what the hell was going on here.

What was happening was a banal corporate raid and redistribution of spheres of influence. That is the reason why Chif and his patrons are now being slaughtered in the guise of searching for all sorts of evil individuals. And this middling nobleman, a landless aristocrat in the service of the city governor, is banal... how does that sound, didn't he take history classes? Oh, right! This jerk is just weaving a criminal case! The standard amulet has a banal reverse clip with a theurgic rune symbolizing a mirror, and in theurgy, it's precisely the one of the Purifying Deed, yeah. Incidentally, it was attached the wrong way around and therefore didn't work, only siphoning off the charge.

Moreover, the redistribution seems to have been authorized at the highest level, brazenly disregarding any rules of propriety, and the only thing demanded of the assholes was to provide the necessary evidence quickly. More precisely, QUICKLY, BITCH, FUCK! That's why they stuck on the clip, a non-working one, by the way, and conducted this parody of an interrogation on record on yet another amulet. Even Chif, tightly tied to a chair with a piece of footcloth stuffed in his throat, is there for a confrontation. So that later, during the interrogation, they would tell everything honestly — there was an interrogation under the amulet, and the amulet confirmed the truthfulness. And everything else doesn't bother the performers at all, because no one, fuck, will check, and everyone's eyes will be closed in unison during all possible checks. And those who did not want to close their eyes will be the ones accused, possibly posthumously.

I wonder if they managed to make the redistribution happen at just the right time, or if Ryuk pulled a couple of bricks out of the foundation with his timely intervention?

"Oh, yes. I am indeed a very dangerous criminal, having killed citizens of the Crown, including noble and gifted individuals, just recently, in fact." His hand was forcibly placed on the amulet, and it glowed with a bright turquoise light, under the scarlet flicker of the rune clip, which, by the way, was too close to his fingers and could burn him. "See what a mess they've made in the city? That's my doing."

The asshole responded with genuine laughter, as well as a look of astonishment on the Chif's face, since he remembered perfectly well how Svyatik spoke and the power of his habitual vocabulary. The others, however, apparently assumed the amulet's effect had worked, and the captured idiot was extremely compliant. I wonder if they would have caught a random passerby later, if Ilya hadn't shown up, or limited themselves to interrogating the servants? It's actually possible to get caught that way—you never know who might come here, maybe someone important, someone they'd stand up for. However, Ilya, having read historical accounts of the work of the would-be intelligence services before the Treaty, wasn't particularly surprised. After all, how are the natives of Broken any worse than earthlings? They're certainly no worse in terms of brutality and idiocy!

"Oh, man, I am so happy that at least someone here is cooperative!" He didn't promise survival or hint at release, by the way, figuring the shimmering purple will-suppression amulet was already working perfectly. "Then go ahead, go on, tell me all about your evil deeds, you damned spy. No, we'll do everything properly, according to the law on repentance of a pure heart. Come on, tell me your name, your family, your work, and everything else..."

The asshole's will, coursing through the amulet, jabs at his brain like the irritating squeak of a mosquito, but the earthling ignores it and begins to speak. He's openly mocking his interrogators, trying to figure out what he should do next. And yes, his remarks grew more and more outrageous with each sentence, right up to plans to facilitate the assassination of His Highness the Crowned One, a rebellion and overthrow of the ruling dynasty, and even mass cannibalism. The amulet confirms all of this, because given his life, it's a perfectly plausible scenario, especially if he wasn't mistaken about Ryuk in some ways. After all, he seemed to truly love the Crown with the purest love, yes. All in all, it would have been more epic if he'd added a joke at the end.

"And do you know what this land is called?" Most important is a dumb face and dastardly eyes, like those of a mentally depressed city dweller, whose accent he had chosen for conversation. "That's right—Dead Man's Ridge! And do you know why? I killed it!"

At this point, the amulet couldn't take it anymore, flashing from turquoise, the color of truth and dignity, nobility and sincerity in the theurgic tradition of the Purifying Deed, to a dull green, like a swamp. The weary asshole sighed, sending a signal through the amulet to cease his nonsense and glancing sideways at the clip, which had even cooled slightly and no longer threatened to overheat and damage the base of the portable interrogation amulet.

"Okay, we won't be recording this штещ еру report, it turned out pretty well." And then a call to the only other henchman of comparable status, who was rummaging through the discovered stash of silver. "Alvarez, please, my faithful friend, recharge the mirror; it's no longer working."

He arrived instantly, forgetting about the coins, merely glancing at the thugs as if to say, just try reducing their numbers by lining your pockets. Clearly, he feared his superiors and respected them with all his heart.

"It wasn't working, sir. I beg your pardon, it was installed the wrong way." He quickly replaced the clip with a new one, this time installing it correctly, looking pale and guilty. "I apologize for this with all my heart, sir."

"What do you mean, wrong?" the idiot asks in surprise, turning his gaze to Ilya, who has stopped feigning depression, and staring into the "victim's" bright blue, ice-blue eyes. "He was just spouting the necessary nonsense, and everything was working fine..."

A brief moment, during which time the intelligent, albeit morally extremely bad, man suddenly turned on his brain and realized what Chif, whose eyes were bulging no worse than an owl, had realized a little earlier.

"Oh, fuck..."

Ilya moves even before the sentence is finished, snatching a dagger from someone's belt in one swift motion and slashing the throat of the bandit standing next to him. He lunges forward, striking the crossbowman in the chest with his open palm, bending his rib cage inward, right over his heart. He grabs the crossbow and shoots the bandit furthest away, who has reached for the unattended silver. He hits him squarely in the back of the head, while the second bandit has his skull smashed by the crossbow, which was thrown instead of a projectile and did not even break into pieces from the impact. That's what reliable construction means! The remaining freaks, despite the shock, reach for their weapons, but they don't have time, just as they don't have time to reach for the alarm amulets that have surely been given away.

He doesn't kill the two main ones, knocking them out with blows to the back of the head, and he even breaks the interrogator's spine with a very specific "crane claw" attack. The move is of little use to the average person; they practiced it in a virtual simulation, expecting them to become divers and perform the attack on the bodies of gifted individuals, not the fragile flesh sacks of Earthlings.

"Don't panic, Chif, but I was just coming to ask you a couple of questions. A perfectly classic question: how does a not-so-respectable but very well-mannered individual get into the city library?" And his reaction to them, as well as his answers, will determine a great deal, including Chif's life, but Ilya won't talk about that. "Jokes aside, I'm interested in certain individuals with access to the city archives, as well as the locations of their homes or the places they frequent."

"Y-y-you..." Well, that was expected. It's one thing to be a fearless scumbag, the kind known for not fawning to his superiors and refusing to allow anyone to insult him, even to the point of lashing out with caustic words and disregarding the consequences, but it's quite another to find yourself in a situation like this. "Y-y-you... You, you fucking son of a bitch, could you speak like a human being this whole time, damn it!?"

Okay, he admits: the rumors about the dwarf's complete fearlessness in front of authorities, if he was angered beforehand, were not in the least bit false.

* * *

By the time Ilya left Chif's house, having first collected the items left on the roof of the neighboring house, the storm had returned, and it was fierce, just as promised by Ryuk's weather forecast or any knowledgeable individual from Ridge. The criminal himself remained alive, Ilya simply took a full bottle of a well-made potion of oblivion from the deceased “sir's” alchemy belt pouch — one of the standard recipes for many sectors of the Broken, the quality of which can be easily verified by the presence of a light aroma of dates and fresh cucumbers, even if such plants do not exist in that sector at all.

The dwarf's memory will be thoroughly wiped clean, and the last few days will definitely be erased. The earthling even dragged Chif's limp, unconscious body to a neighboring house located opposite the dwelling that had become the arena of battle. Now that the house is empty, the owner hasn't been there for a long time, and the house itself is unofficially used by Chif for some of his own business. There, he wrapped the sleeping man in a blanket so he wouldn't freeze, then returned, removed the traces of his presence there, grabbed the amulet of truth, and finished off the remaining couple. The dwarf had paid for his life in full, and the availability of a suitable potion immediately made it quite acceptable to leave the bigwig alive.

Yes, in theory, it is quite possible to extract memories from his mind that have been erased by the potion, but it would be much quicker to track down Svyatik using standard investigative methods. They have all unwittingly left behind a trail. Once they start looking at cases of strange movements, disappearances, and appearances, they are bound to find the redneck, who has been wandering around for two days now, without anyone knowing where he is. Moreover, he is the one who has already become familiar and even gained some notoriety. And even if they don't find him, he will leave more traces for sure.

He diligently sprayed the house of Chif, all the bodies in it, hiding places, and other crap with alchemical negators, using three half-liter jugs with attached amulet sprayers. The guests intended to use it to erase the traces of their illegal activities or to pawn off the alchemy supplies taken for operational expenses. Considering how little they cared about accidental violations of all possible protocols, Ilya would bet on the latter. There was no point in setting the house on fire; the negator would buy him some time, and no amount of fire would help against a really good Corpse Guide or Seeker; they would interrogate the bodies of such guys anyway and get all the answers.

After changing his clothes and gearing up, Ilya headed for the right address, hiding in the swirling snow. The fact that this storm had once again covered Lazy, penetrating the walls, clearly indicated that Magnus and Yozek were also fine. Well, or that they had managed to do their part of the job even before their death or capture, but Ilya did not believe in such an outcome. The two of them had too good intelligence, floor plans, and diagrams of defensive formations at points of interest. And the quality of security at the ritual point that he and Justine had destroyed clearly indicated that no one was expecting a counterattack from the fugitives in hiding. That's what it means to have a third step behind you, crippled but extremely well-informed.

He reached his goal quickly, and the very first option worked out, which was lucky. The others suited him too, but the diver was afraid that Ryuk would grab him by the ass at any moment. But Ryuk no longer has his observation bracelet. All the tracking tags from Ilya were devoured by the resonance of the Abyss, and other gifts were too complex for him to put a tracking system in them. Not so quickly and not so inconspicuously, because he made his main gift right in front of Ilya's eyes. And, more likely, he “made” it. He used a relic artifact, rather than personally and with his own hands embodying the gift with the help of his talents.

Well, it also played a role that Chif had casually mentioned that his chosen target's membership in that very same hardcore club whose members Justine had let into her lavish rituals. No, he would have easily taken on any other target, but this freak was closer than the others, and finding him was quicker. What followed was pure improvisation, just as the target, having finished breakfast in some rather respectable tavern, almost a restaurant in the local style, moved toward the chambers of contemplation.

Ilya jumped onto the roof and climbed through the attic window, freezing the alarm system with his breath before pushing it inside. The attic housed the quarters of the delivery boys, maids, and cooks, so he calmly exited through the door. He managed to seize a moment when no guards were around, climbed down, and entered the outhouse from the servants' side. The smell was especially pleasing to the inner Wendigo, no doubt about it, despite the relative cleanliness of the place. Hell, the very presence of regularly cleaned outhouses was enough to raise the level of service at Meat and Caraway to a very high standard!

"You kh..." That’s the whole dialogue.

"I not kh," Ilya replied to the body with the broken neck, looking around, then trying on the stranger's clothes and throwing off his own. "Damn, if anything happens, I'll never prove I'm a vicious, cannibalistic murderer, and not a complete, perverted, sodomite, corpse-lover, damn."

Poking his finger into the “wound” on his side, Ilya gathered his thoughts, pouring in reserves and digging his nails into the dead man's naked body. The pain was so intense that it would have driven anyone else mad or at least made them scream like a bitch. In his case, it only resulted in gnashing teeth and a bitten cheek. Ten seconds, during which no one came to relieve his bowels, was a huge risk, an unjustified risk, but the ticking timer demanded rash action — and now, instead of a naked, slightly flabby “quiet guy,” we have a naked, but thin and very fit, presentable gentleman in his thirties, with a neat haircut, a well-groomed beard and mustache, and somewhat bird-like facial features.

"That's exactly where you belong." Ilya quickly gets dressed and throws the remains of the stranger's body, drained of life by his clothing, straight into the shit hole, since the dead man's body has shrunk and lost a considerable amount of weight, as if it had been devoured by the stranger's skin stretched over Ilya. "Like attracts like."

The venerable assistant to the head of the city's archives, the solicitors and scribes, had no servants with him. He wasn't a nobleman, though quite wealthy. He wasn't entitled to a retinue, and he couldn't afford one anyway. He spent most of his savings on maintaining his youth and the bloody pleasures that allowed him to maintain it. He wasn't thirty, but almost fifty, and his life hadn't been easy. Overtime and constant consumption of potions don't age you as much as working in the fields, but they do age you.

He also spent money on show-offs, like regular visits to these "almost restaurants," because the mere opportunity to meet truly important people there and exchange a few words was worth far more than the money. It was here, for example, that he found the outlet for those rejuvenating entertainments, yes. The existing servants remained in the house; he forbade them from leaving, fearing they would fall into the hands of the guards.

"I hope you are satisfied with everything, honourable." The personal waiter, who was actually assigned to a specific table, was clearly nervous because the customer had gone to the restroom and, upon returning, did not even finish his meal, but he immediately calmed down when a heavy silver coin landed in his hands. "Thank you very much, honourable."

Ilya didn't even turn around to look at the bellboy who had received the tip; his head was filled with other thoughts. As they say, you need to know who to ask the sacramental and classic question: “How do I get to the library?” Otherwise, you'll end up going to hell. Ilya didn't want to go to hell; he wanted to check the archives, comparing what he had understood about Ryuk from what he had heard from ++Elfea, although she hardly understood what she had said, and, of course, everything he had realized himself, relying on his erudition and the vague hints of his own intuition.

He seemed to understand why Ryuk had so abruptly taken to helping them escape, why he hadn't allowed ++Elthea and her companion to be killed, why such a terrible conflagration of fate had erupted, into which more and more lives were being mercilessly thrown. The local Mayor, Crown, and Ryuk himself, even though he had less "fuel," were all involved.

It seems he finally understood what exactly was in that damned box and why all parties wanted it so passionately.

* * *

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/592148

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP