Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 16. У меня такое чувство, будто я убил дочь папиной подруги

16. I feel like I killed my dad's friend's daughter.

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They say that a real magical library must be top secret, hidden in an interdimensional fold, protected by powerful creatures and fierce guards. It must hold a bunch of secrets and have a big name to boot. The Great Repository, the Forbidden Library, the Eternal Lists, or something else equally pompous and incomprehensible. Alas, such establishments do exist in the Broken World, and in no small number, but certainly not in Lazy. And thank the Dead Gods, of course, that it's not in Lazy, because otherwise it would be better to start making plans to infiltrate such an establishment only after you become at least a well-trained infiltrator of step two, or even three.

It's better not to go into other places without an invitation, even if you are Five.

And in others even with an invitation.

No, no, Lazy City Archive was a simpler place, and defensive paranoia was hardly considered a serious matter there. Frankly, Ilya could have obtained the information he needed without any disguise at all, through diplomacy and a few bribes to mid-level officials. He was interested in those shelves, which, while likely classified, weren't too strictly so, if they were classified at all. The problem for the Earthman was that he needed it not in a couple of weeks, but right now, without questions, delays, or lengthy persuasion. He wanted everything ready today by lunch, or at least no later than this evening.

He couldn't get that through legal means, not as quickly as he needed, because in the case of important people with high self-esteem, gold could easily buy the necessary decision. But even gold wouldn't be enough to buy someone's speed in making those decisions; that's not how local affairs are done, traditions, you see. Moreover, this feeling is common to Earth, the Broken, and a host of other worlds. And so Ilya walked to the archives in someone else's skin, feeling it itch and tingle all over him. Feeling how this skin longed to tell, tell, tell of who it had once been, and to make this new flesh its own.

By the way, this is the main danger of such ritual objects, created from other people's lives, preserving other people's class characteristics. The Maniac is unlikely to be able to resurrect from his removed skin, at least not on the first step, but what about turning the carrier into a mad imitator who sincerely believes himself to be the resurrected Maniac? This happens much more often. Sometimes, such people are even treated. It seems that the girls from Aurora of Enlightened Knowledge posted a very good build for the Sage and a couple for the priestly classes, focused on stabilizing and treating such high-risk patients. Their community is small, but the ruling quartet is considered, albeit controversially, to be the best healers among earthlings in general, including even the fifth level.

This is largely because there is simply no specialized healer among the Fives; even Simon White is more focused on healing himself than others.

Fortunately, he personally didn't care about these attempts to get inside his head. He was much more concerned about the quality of his disguise. Old Ryuk removed the Maniac's skin quickly and without the proper ritual component, hastily and without most of the reinforcing elements. This craft, despite all his skill and the coolness of the relic, would hardly have lasted even a couple of weeks, and now it would only last for at least three nights. First, the skin was damaged by the flow of power from the Abyss, shrinking it completely, and then Ilya was forced to change his state and appearance to a suitable one. It was too much of a burden, even for such an interesting relic. If the garment of life songs had been made more simply, or if it had not been made by Ryuk, they would not have survived the first adventure.

The Abyss perfectly devours the subtle magic of any kind, disrupts settings, and breaks the well-oiled mechanisms of the same sensory fields, but here subtlety was additionally covered by a framework of foreign life force. Viscous, sticky, not yet completely cooled, not yet realizing that it is dead, and therefore, Ilya still preserved his incognito, despite everything. Taking another risk and exposing himself to a stream of aggressive energy would definitely be unnecessary, but if everything goes according to plan, it won't be necessary at all. Alas, there were too many “ifs” in this plan, too many variables that had to coincide in his favor. The plan was doomed to fail, and all that remained was to cherish the vain hope that this failure would begin as late as possible.

"Good morning, Tiets, you're early today." A dignified, plump old man, dressed in a seemingly modest but actually quite expensive waistcoat, met Ilya inside the very archive where he'd passed by the unresponsive security and scanning systems, if there even were any. "What happened to your plans of not showing up before noon?"

"I need to get to the archives; they woke me up at dawn, I didn't even have time to breathe." His voice is hoarse, raspy, not exactly like his own, but hardly entirely in keeping with the original voice of the esteemed Tiets. "And my throat, too. Ahem!"

Ilya spoke less, so that there would be no reason to catch him out on his different manner of speech or ignorance of details. At the same time, he added a tone of wild irritation and fatigue, so as not to be caught out because he did not know the name of the person he was talking to. Most likely, this was one of the local bosses, perhaps even Lazy's chief steward or the Keeper of Papers and Ink, who was just the right age. This individual's heart seemed normal, but incredibly healthy, bursting with life, like that of a twenty-year-old track and field athlete who knew nothing about harmful chemicals. And his breathing, skin condition, and joint movements were also very youthful. His heightened attention catches such little things on the fly.

"Come on, don't play the victim. You used to be at work barely able to stand on your feet." That's not surprising, because in the Broken One, they didn't know about labor codes and safety regulations at work. "The smell of wine coming from you was so strong that I would get drunk just walking past your wing. What do you want to look for?"

"Review the weather anomaly archive. – Ilya knows for a fact that such records are kept in every major city; he knows from Twin's memory, because the original Elijah was friends with a couple of clerks and a rather asshole attorney's assistant. "Deeper. Ahem! Very deep."

“You seem to be in an unusually accommodating mood today, Ties.” It was evident that Ilya had not fully embraced his role. He should have been more vocal and expressive in his indignation. "You're not even trying to complain to me about how they give you tasks outside of working hours. I'd ask what you're doing there... but you'll try to beg me for helpers, won't you? I'll send them over after lunch. Lucica and Michal. They fought again for Daddy's attention. They need to be given some punishment, you know, something that will get through to them. In the meantime, if it's not too urgent, you can look for what you asked for, but not too... not too much, in general. Just don't snore, or I'll skin you myself, just like they skin me."

The earthling shrugs so as not to provoke a deeper conversation and real suspicion, rather than a playful dialogue. Whoever this old man is, he has an excellent relationship with Ilya's mask, clearly better than the usual boss-subordinate relationship. Quickly, but without rushing, the earthling walks forward, diving into the darkness and silence of the shelves filled with dusty scrolls and stacks of paper. The very fact that dust still collects here, rather than being disintegrated by magical amulet systems, speaks louder than anything else about the fact that this place is out of commission.

Finding the right shelves, carefully avoiding potential colleagues, turned out to be not too difficult. The total volume of the entire archive barely exceeded the area of a parquet soccer hall multiplied by two or even three, not counting the corridors between the individual rooms and the division into three separate floors with low ceilings. In these corridors, it was easy to avoid potential interlocutors and not touch the magical systems. Moreover, these systems seemed to be more domestic than signaling. There were also signs with inscriptions, thanks to which he found the storage he needed almost immediately. He didn't have to go around.

It was dreary and empty here. He had to light the amulets himself because there were no lamps or torches in the archive, which was overflowing with papers. It might seem strange that there were so many records here, given the archive's immense size. No kidding, it was the third largest building in the city, after the town hall and the temple complex, even slightly smaller than the mayor's estate. However, this strangeness quickly disappeared when one remembered the main purpose of Lazy's existence — the accumulation of gifts from the Ridge and the cataloging of everything that was brought here from smaller and more modest cities.

Calculating everything, including taxes, with the possibility of taking a fair percentage and a little extra on top! This was the reward given to the city that had remained “neutrally loyal” after the failed rebellion. Or rather, it was not so much a reward as a final confirmation of this right, multiplied by the preferences it already has. Obviously, the city and its owners were already very powerful at that time, since they were able to ask for such a thing and were forced to give it to them. Yes, under constant supervision, yes, under the control of all kinds of observers, but Lazy survived the war without losses, only gaining. And paper, specifically paper, not parchment or papyrus, was produced very actively in this part of the Broken, with no skimping on production.

To Ilya's immense relief, what he was looking for was not stored in the sealed parts of the archive where money was kept. Instead, it was located in the historical section devoted to weather anomalies in the Ridge. Storms like the one currently raging over the city occurred regularly and constantly. Moreover, they followed a very clear pattern, albeit with an extremely complex curve. Therefore, all particularly powerful blizzards and similar conditions of crazy weather were recorded here so that later, based on them, a new cycle of weather-magical anomalies could be predicted.

Not like now. No. Natural anomalies, anomalous even against the backdrop of the very special conditions of the Dead Man's Ridge. The kind where villages are covered with four meters of snow overnight, and cities are turned into ice sculptures, among which are the frozen statues of those who met their last night within the city walls, huddling until the very end by the hearths, where even the flames had frozen. Yes, yes, such things happened on the Ridge, to the point that most of the Ridge had to be repopulated. Catalogs are kept largely in order to predict such “drops in the curve” in advance and either strengthen protection from the weather to the maximum or evacuate the most valuable and distinguished personnel. It was precisely these records that Ilya set out to find, and he even knew the approximate date, about five years before the start of that very rebellion and right up to the rebellion itself.

It's the most golden time!

He found nothing in other cities, but Lazy, as already mentioned, was not only a rich city, but also one with history, old, almost ancient, one of the oldest in the Ridge. It was also the only one that had not been looted or burned. The rebellious duke and his men, sensing certain defeat, burned everything that could be of value and that they could reach. The archives were burned first, largely in the hope of getting lost in the ensuing chaos and concealing their involvement in the rebellion. Not the duke himself or his close associates, but rather the minor figures, who, in the absence of evidence, could easily be overlooked and, once found, “not noticed.”

Rummaging through crumbling scrolls, ledgers, and simple letters, the earthling thanked all the Dead for the fact that their theurgical adverbs did not change over time, just like the universal language, which in ancient times was the universal theurgy of local history. A prayer to all the gods at once. That is why the linguistic drift over centuries, millennia, and entire eras was moderate. Reading all this was not so difficult; the handwriting of the authors of the records caused many more problems. Here, only about five people in the village know how to write well, and neat handwriting is considered a very difficult and rare skill, with an asterisk. More often than not, the same petty officials, who had no patrons and did not seek high positions, simply invested themselves in “Neat Handwriting,” one of the few weak talents available to the ungifted.

The diver paid no attention to the sounds around him, did not move more than necessary, and did not even breathe, it seemed. The lights had long since dimmed, barely glowing in the semi-darkness, but with his eyesight, he could read even in the dark. Read, search, and compare, finally finding exactly what he had hoped to see. Nothing was found in the main ledgers devoted to weather anomalies. Just emptiness, as if the pages had been neatly torn out. This hinted at the answer because they tore out the records of one specific decade, and only in one region. So he rummaged through letters and personal messages, hoping to see what was missing.

And he was right. Whoever cleaned out the ledger saw no reason to be overly secretive and didn't bother to cover up the smaller traces. And now, years and years later, Ilya could afford a wicked, triumphant smile that stretched the skin on someone else's face unpleasantly. He could smile, baring his even, healthy teeth, as he pored over the rather crumpled letter, most of the ink on which had completely faded. Without his keen Eye for detail, he would have struggled to restore this text, but he hadn't acquired this talent for nothing, had he?

\\...writes to His Excellency, humble... and expressing in every way immeasurable respect... the headman of the prospector's settlement of Rusty... the seventh day of the ten-day period... a wondrous marvel and a wondrous miracle... six men went to the fires... everyone heard the whisper inviting them into the snow... a common prayer and the drinking of wine blessed by the temple... lightning flashed like green... the steel in horseshoes and nails grew red-hot...

However, some characteristic moments are indicated here, even if he has to speculate about some of them himself. He really didn't want to rely on guesswork, even if his intuition, an attribute of the Veil and Mystery, persistently pushes him toward this guess. He wanted clear summaries, detailed calculations, and schematic reports, but the Broken World taught him well to bring his desires down to a common denominator. So, what else is there? Well, for example, this travel log of a merchant caravan carrying nothing more and nothing less than highly valuable iron ore, purchased in a dozen settlements in the region of interest to Ilya.

\\...lost six, two at once, then... after... a lot of nonsense, drinking tonic instead of water... and along with the water... I close my eyes and... voices and... green in my pupils, but I used to have brown eyes... it weakens with distance... we didn't turn back... straight to Prorzhavy... they took it well... may the granaries not run dry...

The journal itself has also been cleaned up, but only the general and main part of it, while the entries concerning losses along the way, the very ones that are later presented to relatives with or without payment for the deceased, have not been checked through by anyone. This is where negligence comes in. It is not a matter of interrupting the reports of the village elders that the neighbor is a witch, and because of her witchcraft, no one has boner or has boner only for the witch herself. It would literally take a couple of pages to scribble in the same book, but no, it takes time to read everything that has been written. Or at least to perceive it with a special talent.

He found another piece of evidence simply out of a desire to be a little more certain. He found another merchant in the records, but this one was a state merchant, operating under the Crown's coat of arms. Everything there had been completely whitewashed, as if nothing had happened during those months. They left the starting point and arrived at their destination, and between these two points, there was a month and a half of complete silence, not a single entry. However, in the invoices for spent consumables, amulets, and alchemical potions, something else was found.

\\...vials of pure emerald – wasted...

\\...two bottles of smoke of pleasure remained, rolled behind the wall, otherwise they would have been exhaled too... NO, INSTEAD OF HAPPY GRASS, THE GUYS' BRAINS WERE FLOWING INSTEAD OF TEARS...

\\...all the amulets based on the Big Gor's designs are dead, some have burned out, and need recharging and updating...

...or I'll quit and go to Gehenna, either to the southern borders or to the senior shit cleaner, I won't go into this icy whoredom again, Sir Vastelli...\\

Ilya smiles so broadly that the mask on his face begins to crack, and not just figuratively. It takes him two deep, meditative breaths with ragged, divided exhalations to calm down. Calm down and quietly, without saying goodbye to anyone, move towards the exit, trying to attract as little attention as possible, especially from those who might recognize his current mask. That is, again, everyone. Inside, everything was trembling with an impatient desire to act, to move from waiting mode to implementing the chosen strategy. And this even though Ilya himself did not know what his strategy was, there were too many variables of different kinds!

Perhaps that was why he couldn't leave quietly. Although there was no more convenient route for him anyway. The meeting was inevitable. The same respectable-looking uncle who had been so kind to Tietz, promising him two assistants, emerged from another passageway like a jack-in-the-box. He emerged and then pointed an accusing finger at his subordinate, feigning indignation that the latter had dared not to appreciate someone else's kindness and had not only asked for help but also decided to take off while no one was looking. That's not how things are done, because this is the city archives, for fuck's sake, not wolf shit, you need to understand.

“And if you, Tietz, try to disregard my favor once again, I personally promise to leave you and Marvits alone together, and you will receive no further assistance from me.” Judging by how angry this guy was at that moment, the threat was probably one that would have scared the original Tietz to wet his pants, but Ilya just looked again at the signatures of the strangers' hearts, making sure there were no unnecessary witnesses here. “What are you doing...?”

A burst of full speed, which, thanks to a bunch of synergistic elements and the absence of stabilizing talents, was comparable to that of the gifted ones who had developed closer to the end of the first stage. A burst, followed by a blow to the defense that flared up around the body of the unnamed man. Even two such defenses, or rather two and a half, one standard, from a simple amulet around his neck, and another half from a bracelet on his arm, which unsuccessfully attempted to slow down the kinetic momentum of his frozen body. The third defense was surprising in its unusualness, as well as its obvious expense and exoticism. The embroidery on the collar, the runic patterns woven into the fabric, burned out at once, trying to curse the evil-minded and reward the attacker with unbearable pain.

They clearly ordered it from a very talented craftsman. From a ritualist, of course. That's their specialty. There are a number of talents for embroidery and a full-fledged advanced class of Taylor. Alas, he didn't even have to test his psyche with someone else's pain. To create such embroidery, one must ritually torture those who will give their agony to the attacker. The entire impulse of the ritual was consumed by natural protection from magic in general and curses in particular. The neck of the now deceased worker's patron cracked like a dry branch, and even an additional drink of life force did not help. The asshole's heart was overflowing with life; no wonder he seemed so young. It's not hard to guess where these two know each other from. Similar symptoms gave away the user of the same rejuvenating practices as Tiec himself, only more experienced.

His body was limp, but his heart was beating rapidly, pumping life and blood, striving to trigger reactive regeneration of the damage. For the first time since the beginning of his career as a diver, Ilya sees an ungifted individual so charged with all kinds of mysticism. This is not a village admirer of the Miller, here you can clearly see years and years of practice, investments of other people's lives, his own money, and general connections. It's not a fact, by the way, that the freak won't come to his senses if he is simply left alone. More precisely, it is a fact that he won't, but only because of Ilya's caution, as he pushes the corpse back into the office with a slight movement.

Inside, a visitor stands up, distinguished by the same arrangement of coats of arms on his clothing as the burgomaster's personal men, whom he killed not long ago. Not gifted, even to the extent that this boar can boast, he died even faster. One throw of the dagger, which pierced his eye cleanly, was enough. He was aiming for the throat, but the man successfully ducked, jerking away. Both bodies lay side by side, almost embracing each other. The dagger, snatched from the “patron's” belt, enchanted for sharpness and strength, as well as ceremonially expensive to the point of indecency, opened the regenerating throat, pierced the heart and liver, and then released the intestines.

Overkill, yes. Even such misticism user would be enough just one thing, especially a heart, but here Ilya's reflexes kicked in. They drilled such patterns of behavior into him when eliminating regenerators or those blessed with life, almost with sticks. If in a virtual simulation, then literally with sticks, because there was no risk of injury, disability, or a lawsuit for the unlawful use of physical punishment against the applicant. It is also worth noting that the sensations from such kicks are not much different from the real thing, especially if the virtual simulation equipment is good. London Uni kept only the best, regularly updating it, of course.

Tap.

Wiping the blood from his hands with someone else's handkerchief and carefully examining the heart signatures, the earthling moved toward the exit again. He encountered no more corpses on his way. Escaping from the dusty and unpleasant confines of the archive, he quickly crossed to the neighboring street, stood near a street food vendor, checking to see if anyone was following him, mechanically grabbed a purchased flatbread wrapped around minced meat, not entirely rat meat, but partly goat meat, and then finally left the dangerous area of the city. He moved toward the place of further contact with Magnus and company, pushing through the intensifying storm.

The storm arose again thanks to the efforts of their diving colleague, because he and Josek, who had not quite recovered from his beatings, had just damaged another part of the city's defensive perimeter. And if last time he and Justine had only quickly and carelessly damaged the defensive perimeter around the walls, now everything was much more fun. They had to destroy one of the three central obelisks that supported most of the city's pure and not-so-pure rituals. Those obelisks were so old that they were almost older than the city itself. In fact, they didn't destroy them, as they are multi-ton blocks imbued with magic, which even the second level cannot break immediately, and Magnus is not an Architect after all.

No, the pair of “combat brothers,” Ilya understood the reference to one of the most reckless and hyped small communities of the earthly Forum and laughed, but Yozek was clearly perplexed, only removing the web of spells, rituals, and enchantments superimposed on those obelisks. But the losses were still bound to be colossal, no less than those from the destruction of the central altar and the wave of the Abyss across the entire neighborhood. Without the known keys to defense, which would allow them to approach without raising the alarm and without triggering any of the combat rituals, they would have died there. More precisely, without these keys and a complete dossier on all those who might be waiting for them there, they would not have ventured near the obelisk.

Every self-respecting earthling diver, when assured in the style of “you are strong, you can do it,” should always respond with “I am smart, I will not take it on.” And if he does not do so, then he is shit, not a diver, because only a sound assessment of one's strengths and minimization of risks allows one to survive in the long run. Not everyone around us is like Simon White or Mesmericls, who get a kick out of tasks that are more difficult and impossible. Caution is not the lot of the brave, but at least of those who survive.

Ilya absentmindedly pondered his thoughts, jumping from one to another. He moved steadily, controlling his surroundings even more steadily. The snowstorm that had picked up again would have blinded any normal person without his affinity for Cold, but the blizzard did not bother him, just as the rapidly forming snowdrifts that hid only the well-trodden paths did not bother his frozen body. It was perfect weather for an escape. Without ritual amplifiers, without the protection of the obelisk to maintain the lines on the walls, they would be able to slip away. It's not guaranteed, not even easy, but with quite acceptable chances of success.

Ideally, there would be no bloodshed and no cut-off patrols or guard posts near the gates, but try achieving that ideal. Some part of his consciousness even felt a twinge of guilt that now, after an even more powerful breakdown not only of the protection against the blizzard, but also of the protective barrier, there would be more corpses in the city. And they will find not only those who froze or got lost in the blizzard, but also those who were simply killed and devoured in one way or another on the snow-covered streets or inside the buildings of Lazy. Creatures, especially those that are snowy and cold in every sense, may well take advantage of the temporary but rather long weakening of the protective barrier.

Any trifle will slip through the weak points that open up from time to time, but only if that trifle is very lucky. However, something more powerful and, importantly, smarter is another matter. There won't be just one Maniac here; it's as if Ilya's colleagues appeared in the city, only they are not gifted, but creatures of the same nature, blessed by the reverse side of the Mechanism, its crippled part. Some hungry vagrant will freeze to death, and a week later, he will get up, shake off the frost, and start guro feasting! There will be victims... to put it mildly. However, this touched Ilya's callous and completely unfeeling heart just a little bit.

He never fully accepted the views of those who looked at the locals as if they were mobs or NPCs from VR games, never considered them to be extremely advanced AIs. But he wasn't the one who staged a rebellion against the Crown, he wasn't the one who ran a fucking torture chamber for the gifted in the city, he wasn't the one who took that torture chamber-prison by the sword, he wasn't the one who declared a manhunt on those who took it. Instead, he had to clean up the fucking mess, thanks to the candy grandpa, who simply twisted his arms, forcing him to participate in the bloody circus. Figuratively, not literally. And thank Dead Gods it wasn't literally. That was more than enough.

These were the intense thoughts he was thinking.

This is what he thought, measuring his steps through the snow.

He paused at this thought, looked ahead, ignoring the blizzard and cursing under his breath, and then simply laughed, cheerfully and a little hysterically, like a man whose already shitty situation had just gotten worse. In the distance, almost a block and a half away, a huge column of blackness rose. To someone else, it might have resembled the smoky cloud of a terrible fire, but Ilya saw the unnatural viscosity and immobility of that smoke and knew where to look. He knew that the cloud was not smoky at all, but rather ink-like.

Wendigo's keen ears picked up a muffled sound, muffled not only by distance but also by some kind of spell, a loud, drawn-out rumble, followed by an equally powerful slap that shook the cobblestones hidden under the snow. Well, obviously, Ryuk's game of anonymity had finally come to the most logical conclusion possible. And now Ilya had only to choose what to do right now, because there were several options, and each was worthy of consideration, each was what an earthling was ready to choose.

Options? Oh, of course, he could list them with ease: run away immediately, immediately run away, run away very quickly, run away immediately and quickly, squealing and sticking out his middle finger behind his back, and fervently praying to all earthly and dead entities that Ryuk would be beaten up worse than a mama's boy who had stepped onto the dance floor of a semi-legal club for the first time and, due to his inexperience, had mixed glitter with a relaxant. Despite all his experience, he couldn't come up with a solution right away and had to spend an extra second and a half thinking it over.

And only then did he run.

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All natives of Broken, even if not gifted, possess some qualities and skills that are unavailable to Earthlings. After all, they also have access to the Mechanism and its benefits, albeit extremely limited ones. They have talent points, albeit few, and their talents are, frankly, subpar by the standards of the gifted. On average, they are not much different from the most ordinary inhabitants of the worlds of the Cage, as the Luddite fanatics called the worlds connected to the Games, no matter which ones. Yes, there are a number of peculiarities, but an ordinary earthling with straight hands and good health is not much inferior to the natives, even if a nightmare happens and he ends up in the Broken in his own body and without the ability to level up.

But there are also features in which the natives will surpass any earthlings or other alien divers, despite any attempts to dispute this fact. For example, sensitivity to other matters, to manifestations not even of magic, but of the workings of the Mechanism, which is the essence of magic. Any local can sense everything, but usually it is of no use, because they can only sense what is not hidden, what is literally on display. Slightly heightened intuition, slightly more vivid sensations and reactions, nothing more. None of them ever exposed Ilya because he disguised himself with a suitable talent. They couldn't identify simple gifted only by look and handshake.

Well, if this gifted one does not take the Lot or Talent set, that definitely ruins the disguise and literally highlights the gifted individual's alienness. The same Assassins, if they invest in the infiltration branch, resemble ordinary and unsuspecting citizens much more than even the aforementioned citizens themselves. With such “Universal Averageness,” their young are sometimes quickly caught, and young divers are taught not to get caught up in such trifles. However, that's not what we're talking about right now, not how earthly and local Assassins pump up their camouflage skills.

The point is that now even the poorest beggar, freezing in his shack, fully understood that something was very wrong in Lazy. The oppressive, dark cloud of something huge and terrifying could be felt even here, and the people who found themselves in sudden, absolute darkness must have been scared out of their wits. It was as if you were frozen underwater, with a predatory shark circling, ready to bite off a piece of your bleeding flesh. And this pressure of force, the force of the third step that had gone into battle, seemingly unrestrained, did not seem to weaken at all, but only grew stronger and stronger. It flared up and gradually consumed Ryuk. Ilya did not doubt that. He couldn't doubt it. He had already calculated with a high degree of probability part of the old man's symptoms. And this part, most likely, responded with incredible suffering to each activation of his talents.

And this isn't just activation. This is a complete shutdown, covering an entire city block with an “Ink Veil,” and the veil is probably pumped up to the max. It is too dense, viscous, and unyielding. His Eye simply goes blind in it, even at maximum power. And the Eye would be fine, it's just a talent that hasn't been fully pumped up, albeit a very unusual one! The cloud did not respond to attempts to remove and dispel it. And yet those attempts were made. He felt the energy boiling, like a huge boiling cauldron, from under the lid of which a chthonic beast was trying to escape.

Running, Ilya only slowed down occasionally when passing large groups of potential witnesses. He could sense the streams of energy forming knots at the edge of the cloud. At the edge, but not inside. Beyond that edge, only the ink of one Sage had power, nothing else. The earthling simply hid in a snowdrift from the panicked swearing guard detachment, and he was not the only one. Another little man, who found himself in the path of the fighters running without looking back, around whom the protection of a powerful amulet was activated with a red-hot halo, simply jumped next to Ilya. The diver almost promised to tear the loser's legs off for exposing the Wendigo, who had hidden himself in advance, but no, the guards, even after seeing jumper number two, simply rushed past.

Ilya merely wished them luck, moving further and further away from the center, beginning to sense and distinguish with his constantly alert eye a second wave of a more stable and inactive force coming from the city government. Well, yes, the mayor is also a troika, although he may not be in town right now. Or, if he panicked or misunderstood the situation, then he may not be there at all. Those who do not rush into battle when there is an opportunity to wait and observe usually survive to the third stage in Sloman. In his place, Ilya himself, even if he were in the city, would prefer to see how the cloud behaves, think carefully about who might be hiding there, and how to smoke him out.

And should he smoke it out, because the local resident may well recognize the characteristic features of Ryuk's talent, or whoever he really is. And if he really does recognize it, then he will be even less likely to rush, especially not knowing for sure that the old man is crippled. All the demons of Gehenna, no matter how Ryuk managed to leave the city alive through sheer audacity! Ilya didn't want that, because the old freak knows about his peculiarities and may well use that knowledge as a bargaining chip or an attempt to delay his death if he does get caught. In short, the earthling ran, but as he ran, he wished the rebels who had found the old creature exceptional vitality, luck, and resourcefulness. May they annoy the old man as much as he annoyed Ilya!

In response to such prayers, he was given a sign from above that made him almost groan with rage mixed with despair. The sign took the form of a lump of ink that broke away from the main mass and flew straight at him in a straight line. Ilya would not have been surprised if it had been an attacking structure intended to kill him. In fact, he acted exactly as if it were — Exhaling upward, lunging with all his might, pumping magic into his Hide. Instead of transforming into a Form, he chose to dash away from the removed Garment of Life Song, afraid to use the transformation directly in it. Who knows, if he were attacked right now, he could expect some junk planted in this garment. And such junk would most likely be activated upon the destruction of the garment itself.

He managed to pull off the disgusting junk, although in the end, he realized that he had rushed into it and probably made the observer laugh. He also understood that the second aspect, besides “Ephemerality” in “Drop of Contemplation,” which hung over him and which he seemed to have removed, was the very rare “Worn Outness” aspect. This crap, in combination with a veil or some other talent of a similar type, which necessarily has the aspect of “Nourishment” or a nature initially tuned to renewing effects, allowed the erased drop to simply... well, renew itself.

The cloud of rapidly dissipating blackness hovering above him quickly absorbed into a small dot above Ilya's head, as if flowing into a bathtub drain. And for the first time, the earthling saw his “observer drone” with the naked eye, because the drop, revealed by the feed and update, became extremely real for a moment. Yes, judging by the fact that the “drain” was malfunctioning, and also by the fact that the renewal was necessary at all, the Abyss was able to damage the drop. Damage it, and even destroy it. But not erase the trace of it, and this trace already knew the renewal and became the basis for the drop again, as well as a beacon for that renewal.

In less than the blink of an eye, the earthling looks at the manifested effect of talent, and then it does not disappear, becoming invisible again, but bursts like a soap bubble, only with ink inside. Alas, although the mark has disappeared, wasn't all this show for nothing? True, not for nothing: from the eye that opened even wider, another blackness seemed to glance for a moment. The one that was hidden under the main cloud. It peered out, appeared over the edge of the improvised door, created by one talent based on the second with the support of the third, and almost immediately snapped back. But before that, two important moments happened, especially for Ilya.

First, a hoarse, croaking voice sounded, no longer particularly resembling Ryuk's. The words sounded dry, gurgling, and strangely quiet, as if they were not filling the ears with thunder, but with unnatural silence. Only two words were spoken, difficult to understand out of context, but Ilya saw that context perfectly well. And he understood the meaning of the phrase “cover her” perfectly well, simply because it was “her” that was the second moment that had happened. If they had had a little more time, the earthling would have twitched his eyebrow in a nervous tic and remembered the good old FaFo, but there was no time.

The body that flew out of the black hole hit him in the chest with a quiet squeak and a loud curse, hitting itself rather than him, slamming its back against Wendigo's extremely hard flesh. Whether there was a bruise or not, there would definitely be bruises, even though he reflexively caught the young thief, preventing Lishka from literally breaking her spine on the frozen body. He barely suppressed the growl rising from his throat, feeling that for the first time, he was in solidarity with his inner Hunger, wanting to tear, torment, and kill. He really wanted to wring the little girl's neck, even though he considered himself a relatively kind individual.

It wasn't out of malice toward Lishka herself, who was still cursing and seemed to be crying out of fear, but out of irritation at the circumstances. Ryuk, of course, showed him considerable trust by handing over one of the anchors of his relatively comfortable existence. Ilya even appreciated it to some extent, because he understood well what such a move meant for a native inhabitant of Broken, the possessor of its power, its memory, and its history. It was literally stepping over himself, putting his life in someone else's hands. Figuratively speaking, without a gun to his head and pliers near his balls, no one would agree to such a thing. And probably not just a local, but anyone.

Ilya was touched (no), right to the depths of his soul (no), and therefore did not even try to break the girl's neck to guarantee Ryuk's death. And because he still saw no reason to kill people who were not involved in his problems, and because of Ryuk. If he had given his anchor to the earthling, he would have already as good as dead. Not too gently, but with due care, he put the girl on her feet, dusted himself off, and mechanically threw snow on the lump of jelly-like junk that was Garment of Life Song. He was still thinking of saying something in parting, like, get out of here, you thieving fool, but he didn't have time. And not because Lishka spoke first, no.

"You? You're that guy, right, Svyatik?" Her face is streaked with tears and snot, her skin is pale, and her pupils are dilated from shock. There are also the blessing which allow one to think clearly in critical situations. The Sages love such shticks. "Wh-what the hell..."

He didn't explain anything because a scarlet lightning bolt struck the wall of the house next door. Only this lightning bolt seemed to consist of dozens of signs and runes that changed on the fly. The stonework collapsed, someone let out a desperate scream, the kind only someone dying in terrible agony or hitting their little finger on a corner would make, and then the glyphs of the “Symbolic Chain,” talent of at least six steps, which had been flickering with all the colors of the rainbow, turned poisonous green. And they formed another passage, from which three figures dressed in identical equipment jumped out hastily, almost like fish. Unpleasantly familiar equipment, damn it!

Well, it's good that at least Charmancer of the second step didn't come out of there, the one who created this portal-puncture, following the same one created by Ryuk. Ilya, to be honest, was not going to fight for Lishka's life, just as he was not going to fight at all. It wasn't his battle, and he didn't care about Ryuk's trust, so if the freaks decided to kill or capture the young thief, he would have stepped aside without a second thought. A fight with three opponents of equal skill, not novices, probably with the same level of qualification as the previous three? Without preparation, suddenly, in the middle of a strange city, where reinforcements could arrive at any moment, and not for Ilya? Was he really crazy? Mentally retarded? Completely retard? Simon White?

The diver was about to turn around and run away, leaving the little girl alone with her and Ryuka's problems, which could easily become his problems too. No, he couldn't literally tell the guys that he wasn't aware of your friction, but he happened to be here by accident; could he leave? Probably not in those words, with an attempt to disguise himself with a city accent, yeah. No one would listen to him in such circumstances, whereas escaping would suit him just fine. In a snow-covered city that had not yet gone into siege mode, he would almost certainly be able to get away from this trio of fighters. Alas, it didn't work out. Fortune and Fate were strongly opposed, so there was no dialogue, no dialogue at all.

"..." Ilya would have managed to say approximately these words, had his stupidity struck him, and he decided to start a dialogue, before the trio looked around and everything started spinning.

From the hand of the third guy standing behind him and entering the portal, lightning flashed, revealing him to be a powerful Charmancer, much stronger than the one who died a not-so-brave death during the raid on the altar house. And, importantly, he aimed not at the little girl, but at Ilya, even though he showed no aggression and even moved away from the girl! His strike preceded the earthling's attack by a fraction of a second, powerful, with a deep exhalation, striking with a dense stream, forming a kind of defensive-offensive screen. To his credit, the opponent tried to redirect his lightning bolt, as if refracting it through the “Prism” aspect, but he didn't have time; the Breath spread too quickly, too rapidly, and the lightning bolt, mobile and almost alive, simply detonated in it, so to speak.

Electricity flowed down the outside of the cold dome, and then the dome struck the troika and the gradually fading portal. It struck, but the blow did not land, as the enemy standing in front took the full force of it upon himself. On his arm was a heavy shield, black as a polar night, Ryuk's ink, or the soul of a family law lawyer, and this blackness suddenly opened its hungry mouth, sucking in the entire stream of exhalation almost instantly. A Soul Slayer, clearly designed for close combat and, ironically, the use of Hunger in that combat. Not the most common type of gifted, but certainly more common than any exotic type, such as the Possessed.

Probably, Ilya was mistakenly, but understandably, considered a weak caster, because the third, armed with a long and thin saber, which could be called a naginata, as well as a net clenched in his hand, rushed into battle through the still cold Breath. The guys were clearly used to working together, so they executed the plan instantly, understanding each other with half a thought. The Soul slayer followed the netter, and drops of ink-black darkness fell from his one-handed broadsword, which was as black as his shield. However, the main attack was on the third one. He was already moving quickly, but now he blurred in the air, as if frozen by the wind for a moment, only to reappear slightly to the side of Ilya, already striking with his naginata, cutting off the head of the gifted enemy.

To be fair, he had a chance to dodge, block the blow with his hide, and quickly counterattack, but he didn't take advantage of that opportunity. He didn't take any chances at all, preferring to shift the fight into the format that was most convenient for him. The long blade's strike is instantaneous, faster than the wind, and carries some kind of unpleasant, debilitating magic along its blade. Fortunately, the simultaneous throw of the net was aimed at Lishka, not cutting her into cubes, but simply wrapping her in a cocoon that did not slowly tighten until it reached the very cut. Wow, a real Gladiator, and with an odious class relic, a build sharpened for what the people call a “Myrmidon”! Quite a rare thing, although there are relatively common sectors where this class has unnaturally high popularity.

Most likely, this Japano-Myrmidon used the “Steps of the Wind” of four steps and the “Equality of Steel” with three steps on top, but this is just an approximation, especially regarding the blade's reinforcement. Yes, equality, which automatically reduces the strongest aspects of the target's aura to the weakest aspects of the attacker, is very often used by Gladiators, an extremely useful talent, even though it only has three steps. Again, there is a version with as many as five steps, but it is not very smart to take it. Be that as it may, no amount of erudition will help you give a clear answer in such a short time; there is no time for reflection and comprehensive analysis of someone else's build. Yes, he had only one external image of an active talent, and the taste of the blade was somewhat sweet and bitter at the same time.

Taste?

Ah, yes, of course, taste. Because the blade of the naginata-saber did not cut off Ilya's head, nor did it activate his Hide, finding itself tightly clamped between the fangs of a huge mouth. The instant transformation from human to beast is, of course, a real power in combat, and the diver has no regrets about choosing “Instant” when he took on the aspect. A look of genuine surprise flashed across the Gladiator's face, almost completely hidden by his mask, preceding even fear, and then Wendigo's teeth bite through the steel of the blade, and his unnaturally long body, on which the remains of his instantly burst clothing hang, performs a completely non-animalistic, literally academic mavashi geri straight to the head.

Simultaneously with this blow, Ilya breathes out, but now he is not attacking the Soulslayer rushing at him with his shield, which may be a relic, but is lifting a snow curtain. The Gladiator screamed, thinly and girlishly, as if he were indeed a girl, but the scream itself was the best indication that the enemy had survived. An ordinary gifted person would have had their brains scattered after such a blow if they hadn't managed to defend themselves in time. She managed it. It was she who, having activated “Forgiveness of Awkwardness,” which is analogous to the basic “Hungry Hide,” hid behind a momentary force field based on class magic, but lost her helmet-hood-mask, revealing herself to be a rather pretty brunette in her twenties.

Strong but light, because her Forgiveness, although in some ways even more reliable than Hide's, did not dampen her momentum. So she flew, spinning in a spiral, somewhere into the snow, without dropping the net that seemed to have been thrown at Lishka, and even throwing another “True Copy” (one of the properties of relics of this kind, usually very powerful) right in flight. The Soulslayer closed his shield again, with some difficulty activating his talent, which had not yet had time to cool down, either enhanced by the relic or tied entirely to it. Once again, a cloud of magical frost absorbed into the black surface of the tatar, but the magical protection that flared up around his face did not help completely. The shithead cried out in a manly bass voice, feeling hot blood flowing through his mask.

His own blood, scarlet and full of power, calling Wendigo to the feast with its wonderful aroma. And try not to show that blood to the eyes of the Hunger-Possessed, if you have been spat on by the still enchanted and deadly sharp pieces of an exquisite artifact. Or maybe relics, just unusually fragile, there are those too. Whatever protection was used, his own or an amulet's, it couldn't hold back such a spit in the face, and judging by the amount of blood flowing freely, it wounded the enemy not lightly, but seriously, perhaps even lethally.

Despite his wound, Soul Slayer did not lose his composure and met Ilya's lunge as expected with a blow of his blade and a punch to the face. Around his fist, incidentally, a ghostly maw flared up, somewhat resembling the maws above the “Hungry Hide, only initially crafted for damage rather than defense. The earthling did not take the blade to his armor, managing to dodge it by bending at the waist, sliding forward, and grabbing the fencer's wrist with his paw. He didn't dare to meet the “Touch of Hunger” blow head-on, simply because he wasn't sure whether the talent was of the first or second division, whereas the third division often included an aspect of piercing enemy defenses, a nasty one at that, which worked best against related types of talents.

Like his Hide, for example.

No, no, no blows to the earthling's face, just another uncharacteristic moment from the hungry creature. Now it wasn't a kick, but the equally classic throw over the hip. With all the strength, the evil, and immense power that was hidden in Wendigo's body. And no, it wasn't just a classic throw, because Ilya didn't let go of the Soul Slayer's wrist, broken in many places, which had dropped his broadsword after all. As soon as the enemy's body hit the pavement, hidden under the snow, Ilya lifted him by that very arm and struck him, as if he was going to drop him to the ground again. He lifted him, then spun on his toes, shielding himself from another bolt of lightning from Charmancer with a cursing and very much alive freak, simultaneously stepping back and to the side, allowing the Gladiator's thrown net to envelop the latest development in the field of active defense.

Screaming Asshole V0.1: a new addition to our range of anti-magic defense tools, available today only at a 70% discount!

The armor on the involuntary cosplayer, consisting of batons and an anti-missile drone, turned out to be good, probably reinforced with some kind of relic, because it also survived the lightning strike, although it screamed even louder. But Charmancer, into whom Ilya threw the body of the Soul Slayer, did not survive this lightning strike. Not because he threw it so hard, but because multiple cracks and breaks appeared in the enemy's rather high-quality armor, from which completely different ghostly mouths emerged, not manifestations of Hunger, but the screaming souls of those who had been slain.

The Soul Slayer survived the throw, and a shield flared up around Charmancer, as if the wind itself howled, merging into another set of armor, but too slowly, too weakly. So weakly that Charmancer's cry, instantly dried up and drunk, sounded less than a second. What a friendly fire parade they have here, even though there isn't a single Warrlock! That's what it means to lack the means and rituals to protect yourself from your own abilities — groups of earthlings, going into battle, often deliberately bind themselves with ritual bonds, making attacks on each other almost an order of magnitude weaker.

It's very amusing to see the faces of your opponents when the Executioner, walking in the center of their formation, is hit by a “Fire Wall,” but the Executioner himself isn't even scratched, unlike his charred enemies. At one time, a screenshot of one such surprised enemy hung on the front page of “Fight Club,” the largest forum dedicated to military conflicts involving Earth divers in the expanses of Broken. They regularly change this image to the one most appropriate for the events of a particular cycle.

The Soul Slayer used the well-developed “Cavalcade of the Lost,” which wasn't a defensive talent with an aggressive aura, as Ilya had initially thought, but a massive call with area damage, a kind of ultimate attack for the entire build. Simply out of fear, feeling the grip of death on his neck and the grip of Wendigo on his arm, the enemy activated it at full power. By that moment, the portal had already scattered into a cloud of sparks, so both opponents flew into someone's house, and a moment later, another scream and flash of lightning came from there. This time, the scream did not belong to the inhabitants of the house. Ilya casually noted that Charmancer either had “False Death,” which was unlikely due to the unsuitability of the talent for the class, or an artifact amulet with a similar property.

It didn't help.

The earthling met the hungry spirits that rushed at him, weak and supported in reality by the reserve of the Soul Slayer, with another exhalation, slowing them down and stopping them, forcing them to disintegrate or disappear altogether. The strength of the Сavalcade lies in the fact that it is possible to summon almost four hundred spirit units at once. And that's at the first level. Seven, multiply by seven, multiply by seven, but here you need to invest all your power in this talent and at least two compensations, as well as choose all aspects to increase the number of abominations summoned. If his memory serves him correctly, then “Number,” then “Multiplication,” and finally “Horde.” And you also need to kill this abomination, justifying the name of the class, in the right way and with the right talents, minus two or even three slots, kill these almost four hundred in battle or with a ritual.

In the event of an attack in the city or against a crowd of the less fortunate, weapons are almost indispensable. This is especially true if you work for the Crown and can take materials directly from the chambers free of charge or earn extra income on the scaffold. Yes, yes, some Executioners also hone their skills in Сavalcade, a talent not available to only Soul Slayers. In general, you need to have really influential patrons so that the material is given to you, according to your wishes. And you need to constantly replenish your ammunition, because lost souls are destroyed once and for all if they are destroyed. Or they multiply themselves if you strike defenseless non-combatants, and then maintain this wave through sacrificial deaths, without even spending your reserve.

One of the most devastating attacks available to the first step right from the start, in terms of area of effect, potential damage, and number of victims. A well-coordinated team of gifted ones will almost certainly fight back, but those who are not ready for the arrival of the Soul Slayer... well, this class and this swing are not considered the top ones for terrorizing native cities for nothing. Not everyone shares this opinion, and Ilya himself knew a number of builds for first steps that would be no less effective against civilians, but even he did not argue that, among all the terror builds, this one is the simplest, most straightforward, understandable, and obvious in terms of development.

And one of the most resilient. The third division of this talent almost always includes the aspect of “Unity,” which allows you to transfer damage to yourself onto destroyed souls. It is not so much active regeneration as the gradual disappearance and dissipation of the damage received. In fact, most of the slain are now bursting precisely because they are drawing the wounds of others onto themselves. Ilya bursts into the ruined house, eliciting another frightened scream from some woman who shows clear signs of concussion, most likely from the moment the “Symbolic Chain” arrived at her house. In passing, he is genuinely surprised that she is still alive and has not become food for the ghostly killers that have been released, but a moment later, this surprise disappears.

It turned out to be simple — the relic net was actually much more powerful than the blade that Ilya had bitten through. Perhaps it wasn't even a first-step net. Although that's highly unlikely, because who would entrust such a valuable item to the unreliable hands of just a first-step gifted one? The asshole, who had wrapped himself up in a ball and, without a twinge of conscience, had released an uncontrolled wave of cavalry right into a residential area, and an allied one at that, had literally cut it up and almost finished it off. Seriously, he was pulled into a ball, not much bigger than the bags used in supermarkets to pack groceries ordered online. Parts of his body, such as his limbs, had already fallen through the mesh and were in no hurry to retract, inflicting damage, because the essence of the talent sought to preserve the life of the gifted one, whose insides were already mushy and whose brains were being cut into pieces by the sharp threads of the net.

//“It's better not to get caught in this net, otherwise even I will be in trouble.” Ilya thought to himself somewhat detachedly, vividly imagining himself in this situation. “If the Hide doesn't help right away, then no physical strength will save me.”

Without wasting any more time on finishing him off, since even a full supply in the maximum configuration would not be enough to heal such a wound, he jumps out of the house back into the cold and snow. Already experienced, he jumps up, gliding near the ceiling, and at the end simply squeezes through the hole left by the “Symbolic Chain” and flies out into the street through the attic window. Or rather, flying out together with the attic window, in a cloud of broken wood, landing on the head of Gladiator, who was rushing inside. Whether she wanted to help her comrade or try to catch the Wendigo over the prey it had killed, she reacted extremely competently, instantly striking with another throw of the net.

The last one, apparently. Now the net had disappeared from her hand, as if she had really thrown it away and not used a copy. Ilya made a feint, grabbing the edge of the hole at the last moment and throwing himself back into the attic. He immediately rushed back down, through the hole in the ceiling, trying to outrun the self-guided killer net that passed through material objects like ghostly matter. In the eyes of the Soul Slayer, covered with a veil of agony, there was a flash of recognition, bewilderment, and childish resentment when Ilya, burning his palm on the seemingly red-hot net, picked up a lump of flesh, which until recently had been healthy and full of life, and threw it into the new net.

Fortunately, the relic did not have a target recognition system. Otherwise, it would have been completely sad.

For Ilya.

Unfortunately, the relic had no target recognition system, and that made it quite sad.

For Soul Slayer.

The already terrifying power of the net doubled, now undoubtedly reaching the second level of relic, and a moment later, there was a quiet sob, a splash, and a slap, as the cheerful slicing of the Soul Slayer ended with a logical conclusion. But Ilya was already meeting Gladiator, who fearlessly armed herself with a ghostly copy of her broken blade and immediately began to cheerfully slice Ilya. And how well she did it! A double teleport, attacks to the neck and groin from different positions, constant maneuvering, and flawless technique! This is someone who would get straight A's from Figa, without even trying!

Talent-memory with combat-type gimmicks, like Ilya's “Hunting Beast”?

Or is it a natural talent, enhanced by the sophisticated skill of mentors?

To be fair, she was really good. She had excellent chances, and she tried to realize them dangerously well. She moved quickly, skillfully used distance control, surprised him with the instant recreation of a deliberately deactivated ghost blade, and was completely untricked by Wendigo's appearance, fighting him as if he were a rational human being, just a very healthy and unarmed one. And was it really that much easier for her that Ilya was unarmed, when his arms were as long as the Gladiator's, only with a blade in those hands? And his flesh was somehow very difficult to cut, reluctantly and slowly.

His forearms were left with shallow but unpleasant wounds, and she almost ripped his belly open, but only almost. A short, sharp Breath in her face, already the fourth, and her amulets, also of extremely high quality, finally gave way. The lady turned out to be very skilled, but most of her talents were focused on working with relics and, most likely, more or less official battles, duels, and so on. Even without her relics and artifacts, she still had a very good chance of winning, simply by constantly using her spatial talent to move into positions that were uncomfortable for Ilya.

But, alas for her, the maiden placed too much trust in her defense. She would have easily repelled a normal breath, but he intensified his exhalations with his appearance, his “Source,” and his “Horns,” gradually and imperceptibly gnawing through the monolith of her defense. Cold always finds a way, creeping into the smallest crack with a draft and frost, covering the enemy's shield from the inside with hoarfrost. And the defense, the most powerful amulet defense he had ever encountered in this world, did not hold, even if only partially, allowing the exhalation to pass through it, bringing him closer to the vulnerable flesh.

And then she was stunned, lost in agonizing pain and skin peeling from her face, and she missed the kick to her chest, breaking her like some kind of doll. Only it didn't kill her. Or rather, it killed her, but not completely. A shining bronze star seemed to burst out of the already dead body, instantly rising into the snowy sky and flying far beyond the horizon. Judging by the direction, it was heading towards the central lands of the Crown. A textbook example of attachment to someone's stronghold. Or even the Stronghold. If such an attachment, much more difficult for the natives to achieve than for the divers, was spent on just the first step gifted one... And if we also take into account the level of its equipment, as well as the fact that it was sent out of the battle after Lishka, that is, far away from the actual battle.

Oh.

Tap.

Oh-oh.

Tap.

Tap.

Oh-oh-oh.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He stoically met the blow that struck not him, standing over the body and holding it by its long, raven-wing-colored hair that had come loose from its bun, but the scarlet lightning bolt flashing another chain of runes right next to him. He did not try to run, intuitively understanding that it was not another group of first-step gifted ones that would rush at him through the portal that had begun to open. And he was not mistaken, for his Breath of all his remaining reserves, concentrated with the help of his horns into a piercing and extremely dense pillar, even a spear, did not hit the usual gifted one. No, that Breath was taken on Symbolyc Shield by a tall, extremely richly decorated and iridescently runic-clad, and, judging by all appearances, incredibly evil Symbolist, second step.

His strongest attack. All of Wendigo's power was concentrated in his elemental strength, only slightly bending the shield and dimming the flickering symbols. He clearly wanted to say something, simultaneously preparing to strike and looking as if he had seen his own death and now wanted revenge for it. Seriously, but he looked at the Gladiator's corpse as if he himself had died a little inside. But Ilya did not have time to die, because the Symbolist, half sticking out of the breach, was grabbed by the neck by a kind of ink octopus tentacle and pulled back. A muffled cry of agony rang out, and several scraps of symbols flew out of the still-stable portal, like pieces of a broken chain. The Symbolist reappeared, but now he was not so evil and terrifying. Now he himself was trying to escape into his own portal, despite his eyes literally burning in their sockets and his flesh melted by candle wax.

But he was jerked again, dragged into the darkness, and the portal collapsed.

Only the unspoken but spoken phrase sounds in the ears like an ominous silence: “take her behind the wall.”

Ilya, still in his active form, exhaled hoarsely and frighteningly, looking at Lishka, who was still in shock. From his throat came a painfully cold sigh and words that sounded disgustingly similar to human speech.

“I feel like I killed my dad's friend's daughter.” Maybe he's jealous. Maybe he also wants his own set of class relics, including the step above, and a second step security guard to worry about his well-being.

"W-what?" Yeah, yeah, if only the natives could understand the sublime humor of earthly society.

Giving himself a mental kick of particularly remarkable proportions, he rushed into the ransacked house, shedding his appearance on the run and regaining his human form. It took him another seven seconds to grab and throw on some kind of robe, then a sheepskin coat over it, and to grab a completely clean net lying on a pile of chopped meat. Fortunately, if not for him, then for Lishka, it was enough to simply touch the part of the net that had caught her with the net for the relic in captivity mode to neatly flow into its base, leaving not a single cut on the girl.

Well, then, obviously, the only thing left to do was to run to the wall, because that's where he needed to be, especially considering the fact that Ryuk was in no hurry to die from overload. Somehow, he didn't want to test whether he, having already gone all in, would risk violating the contract he had made with Ilya and kill him under that contract, whether the earthling would decide to kill the girl or simply leave her here, to certain death. So he wouldn't lose anything by dragging her out of town and leaving her there, maybe even giving her something from his secret stash so she wouldn't die waiting for Ryuk, the liquidators, or the snow creatures. All he asked of her was one thing: not to scream during the escape, and nothing else.

“Is everything clear?” He asked the question more rhetorically than anything else, hastily tying his robe around himself so that from a distance he would appear to be a normal person, hiding his bare feet in the snow.

"So, Mister, have you learned to speak properly, y-yes?" The sudden question threw him off balance a little with its immediacy. "Did grandpa teach you this, or what?"

"You're fucking kidding me," was all he said, grabbing the screaming girl, clearly pumped full of some kind of stress reliever, because even the fight and the proximity of the undisguised Wendigo hadn't shaken her any more than she already was.

No, why the hell are they all commenting on his speech? He wasn't overacting; he just spoke in perfect peasant slang, so what the hell, huh?

* * *

In fact, a slightly developed Wendigo that has transformed into human Form and is not concerned with conserving energy can move extremely fast in a snowstorm and maintain the necessary pace for a very long time, especially when compared to others of the same level. He had to test this claim in practice as soon as he got rid of the ballast. Ilya left Lishka in a relatively cozy cave outside the city walls, having previously jumped over that wall with her, to the horror of the girl's screams. He had to transform again for the acrobatic stunt. It seemed that someone had even noticed them, but there was no way to tell, and the earthling did not stop to ask.

She still has her warming amulets (trophies), a set of sturdy but oversized clothes (also not purchased), and even some supplies (left over from the battle with the liquidators). If she listens to him, doesn't rush into the city right away, but waits a while and tries to enter the gate with the crowd, preferably after things have calmed down a bit, she might survive. Her chances weren't very good, but maybe she would be forgotten in all the commotion, or maybe a miracle would happen, and Ryuk would manage to take her? Leaving the girl to almost certain death left a bad taste in his mouth, but his own holey skin was somehow more valuable to him.

Yes, holey. The wounds left by Gladiator's blows closed with great difficulty and healed even more slowly, despite all possible resistance to curses and delayed effects. If it weren't for the resistance, it would have been a disaster; a simple gifted person would have bled to death from the smallest scratch, even if they were from a more resilient class. Only a Martyr could have coped, and perhaps even better than Ilya. Either the lady had another relic that enhanced the “Evil Wound,” or she had pumped up not only that one, but also some other talent, even if it was just the “Gift of Memory,” which had as many as five divisions. Fortunately, although these injuries were slow to heal, they did not particularly limit mobility.

As soon as the diver was sure that the problematic girl, who had become his personal Albatross, a symbol of misfortune, and one in a high state of awakening at that, would not die in the next few hours, he took off from the spot as he had never taken off from a bad neighborhood in his youth. From the outside, it must have looked like a huge, horned Wendigo running away from a girl who was trembling with fear and, by the grace of God, had not descended into hysterics. In a way, that was exactly what was happening: Ilya was running away with all his might. And some part of him was absurdly afraid that Lishka would catch up with him.

He didn't take anything, not even a bone. The fight could end at any moment or flare up again when the burgomaster joined in, and he had already wasted too much precious time. He didn't say goodbye to Magnus and his company, didn't take a last look around; he just ran. Fortunately, he now knew exactly where to go, feeling both despair and equally desperate hope. He didn't dare to pour drops into his talents, and he saw no reason to, because the extra division of talents he had planned would not help, but he could easily mess up his choice based on his emotions. Even for his extremely phlegmatic temperament, the ongoing mess was on the verge of what he could endure with a cool head.

His Trait protected him from going crazy, but did not open up the possibility of always thinking clearly.

The journey was long, but uneventful. He diligently avoided all such events, not even hunting creatures that practically fell into his hands. No, no, he just ran, sometimes in human form, dressed in a robe and sheepskin coat and barefoot, sometimes in the Wendigo Form he took on cooldown as soon as his magical powers were replenished. He kept at least a quarter in reserve, but no more, just enough for a couple of good Breaths, putting everything else into speed. It was an irresponsible risk, but his intuition screamed that he was racing against his own death. He completely outran the couple of snow leopards that had set off in pursuit of him, even in human form. It seems that the cats, possessing a highly developed mind, were quite pissed off when they couldn't catch up with their target.

And now, after several extremely long and risky days, he is once again looking at the familiar wall of the settlement that is so memorable to him. From here, it seemed that Big Tooth had hardly changed, as if time had stopped for it, and the strange, stray bone carver had never left. Ilya admired the landscape for only a short time, just catching his breath and throwing his tattered sheepskin coat and robe on the ground. Further on, he would have to act like an experienced exhibitionist-saboteur again, infiltrating in his birthday suit.

Or rather, in a Wendigo suite.

And it's good that it's infiltrating, not penetrating.

His gaze pierced the entire village from end to end, seeing every heart without the slightest hindrance, but he found no box or the background it created. This was not surprising, since he had not noticed the box last time either; isolation was simply a must there, especially considering its contents. This time, it was not visual images that came to his aid, but smells. He strained his memory, recalling the girl who had visited Elfea's room and talked to her about something. If she had left her burden with anyone, it was with her, and she had hidden it as she saw fit.

There lived a maiden, whose name he managed to recall, albeit not immediately, in her own little room in the tavern, now belonging to one of the sons of the late Ruvy. Well, one of the surviving sons, of course. The earthling simply did not have time to search for new secrets and find out whether the idiots continued to make sacrifices to the Miller. He changed into human form, pried open the window latch with a stick, fortunately, there was a gap at least a finger wide, and entered the familiar room. The search took less than an hour before he finally found what he was looking for under the floorboards in the kitchen, where a boy left to clean the boiler and other dishes was dozing and snoring.

No one saw him, no one woke up, even though the hiding place creaked as it opened. But the boy seemed to be tired as hell. He didn't even flinch. Without disturbing the inhabitants of Tooth, Ilya left the inhospitable village, forgetting to close the window behind him, simply out of good manners. Good manners did not prevent him from grabbing the clothes he found, simple and cold, for winter and blizzards, because what good are good manners if you're flashing your bare ass. He did not open the box right away; only after returning to the wasteland did he decide to do so, and until the last moment, he feared either a beacon or simply a self-destruct system — then he would be laughed at.

And only after opening it, squinting slightly from the greenish light that hit his face, feeling the suicidal depression rolling over his consciousness, capable of driving even the gifted to suicide if handled carelessly, realizing that there was no trap, no self-destruct mode, not even a beacon (which simply could not be placed on such a dense material inside and inert outside), only then did he allow himself to smile, and then quote a classic (he never bothered to find out which classic this quote was from).

“Are we happy?” He asked himself and answered a second later. “We are happy.”

His life still hangs not even by a hair or a web, but by some kind of nano-tube, but now... now he sees a way to save that life.

* * *

Ilya recognized him immediately, and not only because there was no one else to find him in the middle of the wasteland in the fierce blizzard, nor because he had emerged from such a familiar ink rectangle drawn on top of the snow. He also recognized him by Lishka, who followed the man dressed in simple but new clothes, not greasy and worn-out ones. And not only Lishka, but also those who followed her. To be honest, Ilya expected to see Magnus or Elfea there until the very last moment. He saw only unfamiliar people, most of whom were young, boys and teenagers, the youngest barely fourteen, though his gaze was not at all childish, but rather that of a man who had seen a great deal. The oldest was about fifty years old and dressed in rather worn but expensive official clothing with trim and a torn coat of arms.

It is not difficult to compare one with the other and smile sadly, roughly understanding what awaits these people, but the smile quickly freezes when he meets the cold fish eyes of the only one-eyed person here, whose second eye is covered with the same bandage, only slightly washed. However, he no longer looks like a human being, nor does he look like an old man; you would hardly give him more than forty years, and that's earthly years, with excellent medicine and skin care. He seemed taller because he had stopped slouching, and he seemed thinner, as if he had stopped deliberately curling up into a question mark. His face did not resemble Ryuk's at all, and it was unlikely that his name was Ryuk at all.

The only eye not covered by a bandage looked like an empty fish eye, with fish features visible in it, and not only because the exposed areas of skin showed an overly vivid tattoo of fish scales. Clearly not a shape-shifter, but rather someone who had acquired a couple of animal-like talents, “Memory of Rivers” or “Memories of Fishing,” which are quite suitable for the build of a Sage, even of the ink-contemplative type, unlike all sorts of “Apostles Andrew,” who were specifically assembled for fish talents. And not only for Sages, but it is also worth saying, these abilities are generally very flexible when their aspects are chosen correctly. Something told Ilya that the aspects chosen by non-Ryuk were, if not perfect, then certainly correct.

They stare at each other without any expression, while the orphans standing behind them, awkwardly shifting their weight, bearers of others' fates, who had merged into the mutilated fate of non-Ryuk, rustled quietly with their clothes, shifting from foot to foot. The Sage's gaze is impassive, and he himself does not look like a dying swan, as if there were no trauma or weakness at all. Ilya saw in this a brief remission, when, at the cost of enormous effort, you focus your energy on yourself, not allowing yourself to fall apart, temporarily becoming almost what you once were. The price of this move is high — if the inevitable relapse comes soon, and it cannot fail to be soon, he will hardly be able to walk at all, let alone actively use his talents or kill the burgomaster's assistants.

The aboriginal's fish-like eyes stare intently at the box opened especially for him, at the nineteen sparkling objects inside. Usually, in anomalies of the type described in ancient records, twenty-one or twenty-seven items are found — three sets of seven or three sets of nine — but here, obviously, either they weren't found, or they couldn't be collected, or they were pocketed. Non-Ryuk would have pocketed them too, but he understood perfectly well everything that Ilya had not told him, but only demonstrated. Each of these objects sparkled, not with a poisonous green, but with a faded blue, like snow covering a frozen corpse. And a true Sage of his rank, who knew exactly the nature of the sought-after treasure, could not fail to understand what this meant.

A smile appeared on the Sage's face, not particularly evil, even sincere, but his teeth were slightly pointed, and the overall expression on his face was such that Ilya almost became frightened. He would have been, had he not already been half-dead with horror and excitement, had his body not been frozen through and through by the essence of the Wendigo. Each of these crystals, small, about the size of a finger phalanx, had been generously sprinkled with the earthling's blood, giving part of himself to the basis of the crystals, and then slightly changing that basis to suit himself, making his self part of the manifestation of an incredibly valuable reagent. It is impossible to convey how valuable it was, especially for the despairing non-Ryuk, who suddenly saw a lifeline and land dawning on the horizon.

Ilya was initially intrigued by the fact that Ryuk suddenly became interested in helping earthlings, and then he also paid attention to Elfea's words. Whether she was being overly candid or simply not thinking straight, she inadvertently revealed what she was carrying in that box. Or rather, she didn't say anything, didn't even hint at it, if you didn't know that she was in Tooth at all. She only mentioned that she was being pursued and, as they say, “chased from Rzhavelny to Vartsak and from there to Seromshin,” and Ilya, who had already worked with maps and rumors, traced this route on the map. He traced it and made an involuntary stand even then.

Judging by her slips of the tongue, they found this box right next to the place where now there are only small settlements and outposts, as well as the scorched ruins of Mitten, the main city of the Duchy of Klampetorm. Something that was found there was handed over to Elfea, and then they tried to take it away at any cost. Ilya took a chance, testing his intuition, which reacted to someone else's secret. And this intuition, combined with his Fate and Fortune scores, resulted in a note found in the archive.

Mental chaos, a call coming from the snow, the twinkling of green lights in the sky, multiplied by the conditions of the Ridge, the local magical background with prevailing energies of cold, the shaky line between reality and other dimensions, constantly blurring with cracks and punctures. The list of things that could cause such symptoms in such conditions is not very long, and the earthling immediately chose the most valuable option. This thing has many names, as well as many subtypes, but it is most often called Tears. They can be Bloody, Eternal, Forgotten, and a bunch of other epithets, but the basis is precisely in the “Tear” shed by the Broken World for its long-fallen children.

This box contained genuine, pure, distilled Tears of Bitterness, perfectly aged and extremely stable. So stable that you could even pick them up with your hands, well, after the storm of lights around you subsided and the mental pressure disappeared, capable of “luring” you from a distance of a hundred kilometers if you looked at those lights carelessly. The value of the reagent is beyond measure; not only would someone kill for it, but they would also start a real war, and somehow it even becomes clear why the Iron Mitten was razed to the ground.

Most likely, the late duke tried to conceal the fact that he had received this treasure. Only a very small percentage of such anomalies produce the effect of condensing Tears, and even fewer produce Tears of such high quality, stability, and quantity. But the secret became public knowledge, and the Ridge literally died out for a time, if you don't count those who stayed behind, like Lazy. And somewhere out there, in those ruins, there remained an undiscovered cache or even a liaison agent bound by an extremely strict oath to keep someone else's secret all this time. Someone else's treasure. Someone else's path to power.

Tears of Bitterness can be used in a multitude of ways, too many to list, but the most obvious example comes to mind: in the ritual sacrament of breakthrough. Of course, Tears of Bitterness are not the only component of this ritual, but only one of a few, albeit undoubtedly a key one. But in general, yes, it is possible to rise above oneself, to move from step to step.

If you can take a step.

If you don't trip in the process.

From the third step to fours is almost guaranteed if you have the right class and ritual. If you tailor the entire ritual and upcoming class to specific aspects, you can even aim for the fifth step. But this would have to be a very strange build, very mutilated. Most likely, Clampertorm decided it was better to make another four than to completely enrage and slightly frighten the Crown, which already disliked the duke, who was excessively powerful both personally and politically. So they declared him a rebel and tried to execute him quickly, summoning him to the capital on a trivial matter. He did not want to be executed, successfully found out about the preparations for the execution in advance, and it all came down to what even his Twin knew from the beginning — a pile of corpses and dead cities.

And the treasure, well, no one got it. It lay in hiding for a long, long time, until either the Rebels or, more likely, the Crown's people, that very Elfea, found it. However, the lady greatly underestimated the extent of the rebellion and the knowledge of its instigators, quickly falling into captivity and only managing to hide the reagent in someone else's bedroom. In fact, its value is enormous, but only if you really know how to use the Tears, how to construct the ritual, and how to charge it with these very Tears. The Rebels most likely did not know. Otherwise, they would have long ago cracked all of Elfea's memories. Or perhaps they did not even know what value she had hidden, simply unaware of the scale of the prize that had slipped through their fingers.

Not-Ryuk obviously knew.

He knew how to use it and he knew its value.

As he knew, even more important. Such a flow of power, with the aspect of Bitterness, capable of taking on someone else's pain and wounds, someone else's losses, in every sense. Not a pill that guarantees healing, no. Not even in the slightest. But at the same time, something capable of significantly reducing the recovery time. In ideal conditions, when no one would even know about non-Ryuk. In the current conditions, it is also an ideal remedy, but for survival, to hold on a little longer and not diet in the process.

And here is Ilya.

The Tears changed their colour, having absorbed part of his blood, remaining Tears of Bitterness, not Snow. But now Ryuku cannot kill the know-it-all diver, otherwise the Tears that have absorbed his blood and pain will become... well, noticeably cheaper and useless, especially for restorative rituals. So the evil Sage will have to not only keep the earthling alive, but almost blow the dust off him. That's why the old man smiles like that, making Ilya mentally hope that he hasn't messed anything up and that the Sage doesn't have any other trump cards up his sleeve.

“You understand, Stranger, that I will not forgive this?” He is not even threatening, but rather asking with a kind of academic curiosity. “I will find a way to break the bond between you and Tears, the bond between you and me, and my well-being. I will survive, I will cope, and I will find it. And then I will make you regret that you dared to put obstacles in my way, forcing me into the framework of your plans.”

"I understand perfectly well." Sincerity and honesty are the best policy right now, so he's not lying; he realized that from the very beginning. They can captivate him without killing him, and then, if he really survives and doesn't burst, they can just strain their imagination with options for future torment. "But I'm not just coercing, I'm also offering. I offer you, venerable Ryuk, to take on me the kickback of the titual. All the madness, all the visions of the Mechanism."

Right now, he almost laughed out loud; he was so happy. But this happiness was just a sparkle in his eyes, the kind of happiness that the person having fun really likes, but not the person giving them that happiness. The servants of the Flaming Brand are also very cheerful and lively when they dance around the burning log cabins where their sacrifices to their Dead God are locked up, but only they are having fun, not those who are burning.

"I can handle it myself, I can get through it myself." By the way, it's also true that, most likely, the Wise Men are naturally very resistant to mental breakdowns, which is why this class is loved by earthlings, and not only them; everyone loves it, the natives are no exception. "Both madness and ritual."

"And another eleven times on top?" Ilya replied with a smirk, nodding toward his still-silent companions, who became even more nervous at this smirk and nod, despite being under the same blessing that Lishka had once been. "For each and every one of them."

He didn't really want to take part in the mass sacrifice of those who believed in old Ryuk and followed him now, but Ilya was ready for that too, since these boys and girls were doomed even without Ilya's intervention. His intervention would simply help non-Ryuk assimilate the fates of others, which had become his own, torn away by force and without consent, much more easily than under normal circumstances. And judging by the fact that he was still alive and the Sage was in no hurry to attack him with something immobilizing, his words had fallen on fertile ground.

"My name is Ryuek. Ryuek Sturgeon. That is the name my mother gave me at birth, and the nickname I earned through my own will and the tears of others." Still, he speaks dryly and businesslike, still beginning with words rather than actions, and aggressive ones at that, toward Ilya. "I didn't dare call them for too long to deny myself this opportunity now. Well, then. I underestimated you, Stranger. I underestimated the power hidden at the bottom of your soul. If you succeed... then I will have no reason to wish you dead. If you fail, then my punishment will not be necessary. Eleven rituals, you are the foundation of each one, and must help with each one. You chose the right words, and you did not lie about your home, Stranger. You are truly accustomed to thinking differently."

With these words, he jerked his hand sharply and... every single one of the sparkling blue Tears blinked, instantly turning back to poisonous green. Even more surprising, no one started to tie him up or kill him, even though they had lost their last means of blackmail. To say that Ilya was shocked would be an understatement, because he simply did not know that such a thing was possible at the third step. Even at the highest level of the third step! And he definitely wasn't a fourth step, he definitely hadn't recovered from his trauma... or had he? After all, if he had now removed the connection between the Tears and the earthling, then the ritual must be completely different from what Ilya had originally thought.

"It's so funny to see this disbelief coming from you, stranger." The venom in your tone could poison the entire Ridge and still have enough left over for the Crown lands. "Wasn't it you who smiled through gritted teeth when you said that your native Gehenna was accustomed to not spilling blood in vain? Accustomed to finding its way in, as you called it, mutually beneficial altruism? So I don't spill blood either."

Ilya is silent.

He just remains silent.

Because he understands little and doesn't know what to say next. If he understood correctly, then Sturgeon, by the way, this nickname suits his fish-like appearance surprisingly well, wants to use Tears not for the ritual of Lost Fates, one of its variations, but for one of the variations of the Awakened Touch, also known as the Gift of Mechanism. To make his companions not just eleven pieces of ballast or ideal victims for his healing, but eleven gifted individuals of different classes. And these gifted individuals will become his anchors, far stronger and more reliable than simpletons. Not even anchors, no. If we are to resort to colorful metaphorical analogies, he will sew up his wound with the threads of other people's destinies, but the threads of destiny are noticeably stronger in the gifted than in ordinary people.

It just didn't fit in my head, because it didn't fit into the usual framework at all, and even outside that framework, it looked wild. Even if you disregard the suddenly awakened light side, it's still wild. It's like hammering nails with a quantum computer with Californium circuits, no less.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Californium

"You protected them when they came for you, right?" He had completely forgotten his manners, so much did his own ignorance sting him now. "Yoy shielded them with yourself, and in doing so, you accepted and were accepted, becoming their destiny once and for all."

"They didn't come for me, kid." That “kid,” which sounded like “pup,” made me want to gnaw the freak's face off, but it's clear who's going to be gnawing whose face off. "They came for them. Don't twist your teeth, don't bare your fangs, Hungry, I didn't think about that myself. They also knew that old Ryuk, you see, had taken in the orphans. And they also knew about the trick with replacing lived lives."

"A search impulse based on Fatum-Fortuna." Now Ilya feels bad because he didn't think of that possibility, and if there had been another do-gooder in town helping orphans, everyone would have been sad, including Sturgeon. "Empty destinies tied to a mediator in the form of a foster father. They were going to sacrifice you. They probably caught every single one of them, and then came to your bakery, intending to perform the ritual right there, under the shadow of the non-father, within the walls of his house. They were very, very surprised by the outcome."

For the last time in their lives, yes.

"I forgive you for your familiar tone. Only this once. Don't anger me any further, Stranger." He took a scroll out of his pocket that clearly didn't fit there, in which some of the diagrams and symbols changed and rearranged themselves right before our eyes, obeying the will of the Wise Man who was entering new data. "Read it, study it, and memorize it. If you have something to say, speak up. I recognize your right to do so. My place is in the center, cauterizing the Wound. Their place is in the Halo, forming the Allotments. Your place is at the outer pole, securing the Anchor."

Ilya reads and involuntarily forgets everything around him because he feels at home. What he read also calmed him down. No, Ryuk did not suddenly become a good Samaritan and an exemplary adoptive father, no. He simply defended himself and his “non-children,” defended them with his own blood and that of others, and bound himself to them. He found the stability he had longed for and previously found unattainable, probably without even expecting it. That is why he found it, seemingly without expecting it, that he made his move with at least some degree of sincerity. Sincerely defending not so much the orphans he had grown tired of, but his chance for a future without torment, a future in which he would become himself again.

It is not surprising that he managed to survive and, most likely, severely thin out the ranks of those who tried to kill him. No, he did not immediately become healthy and full of strength, but he also temporarily ceased to be a dying wreck. That second step, like all those he brought to help, had more than enough. I wonder if the mayor was really not in town, or if he was just afraid to show up for battle against an overly strong stranger. From the outside, he might not have seemed too weak for the third step, but rather, not very good at disguising himself as just a second step. Or... or the mayor did show up for the fight, but that didn't stop Sturgeon from standing here.

“Well, I stand by my words, sir,” he said, standing up and once again carefully reading the scroll. “Let's see what can be done here and what definitely needs to be changed. And let's discuss my guarantees, because, you know, I still don't want to die, just like when we first met.”

Actually, he fully admitted that he would manage to escape without dying, although the chances of that were not great and certainly lower than he would have liked. Sturgeon, of course, beat his first trump card with astonishing ease, once again demonstrating the difference between a unit, not even a ritual master, but simply a connoisseur of pure Broken ritualism, and a professional trio. All traces of the preparation that Ilya had used to stain the Tears were literally washed away, most likely by the “Negation of Effect,” six levels, and this talent is even considered a balancer, not a full-fledged ability.

On the other hand, at the third step and with six levels, even an initially balanced talent becomes very useful, especially if you max it out. This is especially true for Sages, as it is one of their class features, allowing them to make balancers particularly effective in many areas. Not as much as full-fledged talents, but very, very noticeable. The same “Limit of Composure” or even “Predetermined Restraint,” which is imposed on top of Sturgeon's “entourage,” is also from this section. Another reason why Ilya, without his Lottery rewards, would prefer to become a Sage of any kind.

Certainly not Wendigo.

Returning to his problem, Sturgeon washed away all the excess elements from Tears without even flinching. Either he hadn't been so badly affected by the activation of his talents before, or one of two things. The cynical part of Ilya didn't really believe it, looking for trickery and deception on the part of an experienced schemer, but the facts stubbornly refused to add up, like E.T.H.E.R.N.I.T.Y. from the letters A.S.S., no matter how he twisted and turned those letter cubes. Because otherwise, the only thing left to believe was that “Grandpa Not-Ryuk” had, at some point, really rushed to defend his non-children. Sincerely, from the heart, or at least from part of that heart, he had woven himself into their destinies.

Not with small handouts and advice, which were worthless even to the wounded third step, but seriously risking, guaranteed to kill themselves against the wall. And not with self-deception, hoping for just such an outcome, but simply out of unwillingness to see someone else's death. The apotheosis of the entire branch of long-term FaFo rituals to replace destinies, a complete merging with that destiny, a literal severing of all threads, all paths that gave way back, leaving only the path strictly forward. Like all other forms of working with Fate and Fortune, it worked crookedly, obliquely, ten times out of a hundred, without the slightest guarantee and in a completely incomprehensible way. Even those earthlings who knew how to work with this attribute and even developed the appropriate talents admitted that they had no idea how exactly these talents were realized.

Here, completely without talent, he tried to achieve success through pure ritualism.

And it seems to have achieved it in one form or another.

Ilya suspected something, simply because he suspected that Sturgeon had demonstrated a level of power that only a cripple could muster in his death throes. And since he hadn't died, since he had found Ilya after all, then somehow he had overcome his injury. Completely, or, more likely, partially, since he still needed Ilya and these guys. For example, to finally stabilise his condition and completely patch up the leak that was damaging his essence, to restore his own analogue of a stone altar, or whatever he saw as the focus of his essence.

And also to get not just all or most of the power, but also a personal squad of henchmen, fighters, and, essentially, your own retinue, which, being gifted, may well support the reviving legend of this part of the Broken World. You can't help but feel a certain amount of respect — the fish-faced freak literally outplayed and partially destroyed everyone, pitted the Kingdom and the Rebels against each other, cynically exploited the divers, and then, just as cynically, took the grand prize and even made Ilya work for him.

And the earthling is happy. His participation in the ritual will help him fit into the overall pattern, the structure emerging before his eyes. Killing him after this ritual, even if Ryuek tries to negate this effect, will mean not only a scratched wound, which the ritual burned, but also the return of most of the kickback for the “entourage.” All those who will receive the Blessing of the Mechanism tonight. Or day. The ritual will still take a long time to prepare; it cannot be started right away.

Yes, they have Tears and Ryuek Sturgeon, which is ideal for harnessing the raw power of Tears and preparing the invocation line. But it still doesn't work that way — trying to draw on the Mechanism's blessings, especially for those who don't have much potential to begin with (it's not a fact, by the way, Sturgeon could specifically select them), and so quickly, crudely, and directly, never ends well. He would have performed the initiation anyway, mastered the mystery, and burned the Wound, but with much greater risks and less output.

The ritual of invoking the Grace of the Mechanism is, for a moment, very complex and multifaceted, with literally hundreds of thousands of different variations of the ritual, some of which are opposed to each other while having the same effect. The topic is very interesting, but relatively little studied by Ilya. There is plenty of research on the phenomenon of the acquisition of the gift by aborigines on old Earth, more than enough, but he did not delve into such empires more than necessary. Simply put, his “not delving” is quite comparable to that of local experts and Sages.

And so the diver saw Ryuek's plans and intentions as clearly as possible, just as he saw the bottlenecks, the delicate areas, and the simply controversial points. It's not that difficult to make an ordinary person gifted. Some even manage it on their own. One can recall that completely insane Hunter. All it takes is a suitable altar, a place of power, an anomaly, or something of that sort, as well as a bit of luck to survive the connection. Performing the ritual, using only reagents, pure ritualism, and advanced theurgy, is more difficult. Still, it is also possible, especially since priestly classes are good at this, it is one of their strongest areas of development, which is why local churches and temples always have plenty of gifted ones. Many rulers and other lords throughout the Broken are, in fact, theocrats. Sometimes de jure, sometimes de facto.

However, even priests must rely primarily on altars and theurgy, rather than pure rituals and reagent acceleration. The main reason for this is ridiculously banal and extremely obvious to anyone with even a tiny bit of gray matter, easily described in one sentence. A phrase that came from the mouth of Odi Sitt himself when he was asked why the Citadel would not create a couple of tens of thousands of gifted fighters from among its subjects, duly bound by oaths and even without them infinitely loyal to the Citadel. And that phrase, if taken literally, sounds like this: “It's so fucking expensive that it's just fucking insane.”

On average, without a suitable altar, axial structure, or other comparable source of connection to the Mechanism and raw power, such a promotion in rank will be so expensive that the newly gifted will have to work for at least several decades. That is, if they only eat and drink, live in a two-by-two-meter room, train very hard and dangerously, giving away all their spoils, and do not die from such a life. It does not pay off, not at all, and never, especially on a massive scale. But Sturgeon now has an obscene amount of Tears, capable of replacing most of the reagents and structures due to the power hidden in them; he has loyal “sons” and “daughters,” he has the necessary skills and talents, and he has absolutely no choice. So much so that you would hammer nails with diamonds, quantum microchips, and your own balls.

A slightly healed wound at his essence must be, figuratively speaking, disinfected and stitched up with rough stitches, and the formation of “support threads” as fully-fledged gifts is simply ideal here. And eleven of them, a cursed number that takes away the curse — it's super symbolic. The fish man himself can totally stretch this ritual to five, seven, or even nine goals in the halo, with himself at the core of the ritual. And the last two numbers — that's Ilya openly flattering him, he wouldn't dare let such power and full force pass through him, he's not a Theurgist, and he's not fully healed yet. Eleven stitches on the Wound are much better than five, seven, or nine, that's true, but it's almost impossible to pull off.

We would have to cut back on the Sturgeon, so to speak.
Идиома

But Ilya is nearby, and he can easily take on one of the key roles in this play, enduring powerful blows to the psyche instead of the orphans, who are unprepared and don't know what to expect. Become one of the two protective planes for the eleven-component halo of the exalting ritual. With all the corresponding benefits for himself. If someone kills him, even if he will not die completely, but only temporarily, all eleven newcomers will receive what he took on for them. In the first five years, their brains will definitely leak into their pants, Ilya is ready to guarantee that. And even captivating the assistant diver will not work; he can try to break such a connection at any moment, even if it means checking and calculating all the details of the ritual.

On the one hand, he will have a guarantee of survival in the short to medium term, the opportunity to enlist the unwitting support of a group of talented individuals who are deeply indebted to him, led by the restored third step, and yet another way to passively boost his own mental resilience even further. On the other hand, he will literally take on a titanic task for nothing more than a thank you and a promise not to kill him right now, and there will always be a chance that he will fail, and then he will definitely be in trouble. A fucking great deal, but much better than the first meeting with non-Ryuk.

"So you're the stranger, huh?" Lishka, it must be said, was not the only one who dared to talk to him and approach him, even though she knew exactly what he was, but she was the only one who did not immediately walk away when he turn of his Lurking Evil talent, striking out in all directions with his essence. “How are things there? Are the guards fierce? Do they sell sweet, sweet things?”

"So, it seems that they are also very fierce, but here yours are even fiercer." He responds without distraction, his skill well-honed, his hand swiftly waving a magic pen across clean parchment, writing comments, notes, and points of contention in ink that appears instantly. “And as for that sweet stuff, we always have it ready.”

While he was busy with the ritual, Sturgeon wasn't sitting idly by either. Or rather, he was sitting idly by in a meditation pose, but around the piece of wasteland they occupied, a well-structured circle appeared, protecting them from the weather, tracking talents, clairvoyant abilities, and a whole bunch of other things. He had already drawn the main outline of the coming mystery directly on the rock, instantly turning all the snow around it into ink, and then using this ink to cut and chop away like an industrial mining drill, leveling the ground and digging channels in it. The ritual figure turned out to be large, ten meters long in some places, and in others, fifteen. There was no radius or width with length — the shape was too complex, more reminiscent of a microchip than a pentagram, to be easily measured.

However, the circle of Halos has not even been drawn yet, which is the most controversial aspect of the mystery. And the fact that the full-fledged troika actually asked Ilya for advice and consultation served as the best litmus test of the respect shown to him. He, the bitch, is about to cry now, touched by how much this old sodomite disgracefully respects him (no).

"You're mocking me for no reason! I don't even know what to call anyone anymore." Ilya would gladly pay off dozens of loans right now, just to get her away from him. It's even awkward to call Old fart “Old fart” now. Or “old man.” Or “gray-haired asshole.” Although he's not an asshole. Do you know how scary it was when he rushed at the guards and soldiers? And how scary it was for them. Afterwards. Anyway, don't make fun of me, talk normally. What did I do to you? That was so bad?"

"Lishka, you child of the city streets, I don't want to imply anything, but this whole thing happened to me only because you happened to be around me on the day of the winter festivities." He turned off his Lurking Evil talent again, but this time she didn't even flinch, which would have been to her credit if she weren't so annoying. "I'm not a particularly malicious or vengeful person, but right now I'm tempted to do something bad to you. I won't give in to it, because then non-Ryuk, that gray-haired asshole who, by the way, is quite capable of hearing the quietest whisper from a hundred paces away, will make me suffer. But with every moment that you get on my nerves, taking advantage of your impunity, I care less and less about the consequences."

He was, of course, in cramped conditions, yes, but he still had his pride, and so it became more and more difficult to put up with this insolent trash with every passing hour. I would say that her pride had completely disappeared, but judging by how she behaved before, she didn't have much fear to begin with. Or brains, for that matter. She wanted a fucking tasty, sweet treat! It's infuriating, honestly, so infuriating that it even pierces his armor!

And the girl, finding an audience, quickly apologizes, saying she didn't mean to offend and didn't mean anything by it. As far as Ilya could tell, she was sincere! But she didn't go anywhere and continued to chatter away, as if clockwork, telling him how scary it was, how she was afraid for Ryuk, and then Ryuk himself, when, under a stream of flames from the very evil Warrlock (Ilya had already identified the class from the description of the talents used), and a strange face appeared, how the battle against either two or three gifted of second step and several first step was frantic, how they all fled the city afterwards, how non-Ryuk and Romchik, the city accountant's assistant, yelled at each other.

The latter, by the way, was supposed to be quietly eliminated by removing him from his lucrative and influential position, and it was precisely this ritual that was discovered and was about to be implemented. It is even possible that it was because of him that they dug it up, because it was such a wonderful chance to remove the infuriating and unsinkable rootless ass-kisser from the board. He was unsinkable because he was rootless and loyal to the treasurer, who had invested heavily in the defense of his personal protégé. Moreover, most likely, not only did he invest, but Ryuek also helped in some ways, as has become clear now that the cards have been revealed, along with the throat of the ill-wisher who personally came to watch Romchik being cut down.

In general, Lishka said some very interesting things. At times, pieces of the mosaic fell into place. But for the most part, she just chattered away, causing Ilya's irritation to grow. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one, because when Lishka recounted how Ryuek answered the question about “how exactly he went to the toilet in his skin-clothes,” the man who actually went to the toilet couldn't take it anymore. And neither the considerable distance nor his complete preoccupation with the lines and circles of the ritual prevented him from jumping to his feet, throwing a piece of almost worn-out chalk at Lishka's head, and shouting in a voice that was not his own, as if he were not a fish at all:

"[Profound swearing]!" If Sturgeon's protection hadn't also blocked sound vibrations, his scream would have been heard all the way to Tooth, and that's not an absolute exaggeration. "Lishka, [swearing], shut up for at least a hundred breaths, you intolerable little wretch, a failure of my educational talents!!!"

"Come on, grandpa, we communicated normally with Svyatik!" If silence on the part of one of the parties to the dialogue can be called communication. "But, you know, sorry. Or excuse me, sort of. I'm still confused."

" You'll be the Jester." Ilya summed up in a tone that usually promises either to kill someone last or to send someone into battle first. "That's a perfect fit."

"Hey! I'm from artists, but my dad, before he drank to death and sold my mom and me to some random slave traders, was a magician and stuntman, not a clown!" No, she definitely has no fear, even without the blessings of mental fortitude, and she herself thinks very unusually. It's immediately apparent that the Sage chose extraordinary personalities for his stabilizers. "Although I know a couple of funny jokes. For example, a Warchief, a Nobleman, a Priest, and a Shit-scooper walk into a tavern, and the bartender says to them..."

The second piece of chalk from Ryuek was not completely erased, so it turned out to be larger and therefore conveyed the message much more sensitively. It's interesting that Ilya, the fish-faced, immediately pointed out the spot when he lost his temper out of disrespect, but he tolerates this one. Either he plans to kill her for this disrespect later, after the ceremony, or he has simply gotten used to it and realized that she cannot be changed, or there simply hasn't been time for a normal upbringing since the masks were removed.

Be that as it may, the two gifted individuals continued their work, while the rest of the audience simply tried to overcome their stage fright. Some just talked to each other, while others roasted decent food on the fires, since Sturgeon had everything ready for the escape, including bottomless bags with embroidered doors at the bottom, which stored a variety of provisions, including fresh pastries and sausages. They gathered on the side, near the very edge of the barrier, away from the ritual figure. There was no fish, by the way; Wendigo's keen sense of smell did not detect its aroma at all.

The decisive hour was approaching.

* * *

They are all silent because the most important thing has already been said. They are all just breathing heavily and are not yet willing to take the risk of starting. More precisely, Sturgeon is stalling for time, trying not to show his own fear. Ilya doesn't care. Even in the worst case, he will only kill him once, and if he is lucky, even Ryuek will not finish him off, because he will be destroyed. But that is unlikely. He is too strong, too cautious; he will definitely live long enough to settle the score with Ilya if he deliberately or unintentionally decides to mess up a little. He won't risk it, if only because he can't even imagine how much he would lose with his good fortune and the complexity of the task before them.

No, seriously, if they manage to do it, it’s as if his Vessel wouldn’t burst, along with his satisfied mug.

Although, okay, it won't burst, because all the excess essence will simply be wasted. It's a learned moment. Such a situation, in which a diver or native would suddenly get too much essence, is not so rare, especially if the Vessel was almost full to begin with.

All sorts of thoughts run through his head as he waits calmly and detachedly for the final push. Little else depends on him now; all that remains is to see whether their endeavor is successful or not. He has already helped Ryuk-Ryuek in every way he could, from attempting to analyze the overall scheme to selecting the individual characteristics of the Mechanism's recognition ritual, as well as builds for each of the eleven orphans. And yes, he really did cast Lishka in the role of the Jester; she has both the character and life experience to suit this path. Let her mess with the minds of not only him, but everyone around him, since the mental tricks in the Jester's arsenal and the advanced variations of the class are considered extremely cunning and powerful.

However, she ranks second to last in the circle, ahead of only the youngest, Lyutik, a boy with wolf eyes, with the eyes of a man who has seen too much evil. He is not Lyutik at all, but rather Lyuty, yes. The first in the circle will be the venerable Romchik, as the most experienced and senior of them all. And for everyone, each and every one, Ilya picked out an approximate build, quickly sketching it from memory and adding rough descriptions of the distribution of aspects when leveling up. There was nothing particularly exotic here, like a Wendigo with incredible mental fortitude; he can describe standard builds in considerable detail and predict them almost in batches.
T.N. Лютик - Лютый

The earthling himself stands slightly apart, in a separate circle, on the outer orbit of the ritual that is about to begin. Yes, Sturgeon did not waste words, but only raised his clenched fist, giving a warning, and then launched the damn scheme. It was terrifying, but Ilya was just glad that he didn't have to participate in this rampage, only to stand on the sidelines, absorbing the blow and hoping for the best. And yet... seeing the forces that the crippled trio had now pulled together, he began to doubt his own resilience. With his brain protection, going mad and turning into a desynchronized vegetable would be so ironic that he wouldn't even be able to cry.

Covered with ink marks from the inside, the gutter of the large-scale figures sparkles and shines, their color the same as that of the Tears of Bitterness, which have begun to gradually soak into these lines. Each of the Tears lying in a special recess seems to have liquefied, becoming the crystal drop that it was before crystallization. Any treasurer would be torn apart by such a sight, but Ilya holds on because he knows for sure that he would not have gotten this treasure anyway. And even if he could have stolen it, he simply would not have lived to see the moment when it would have been possible to use these reagents himself. At some point, the diver stopped understanding what the Sage was doing, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of sparkling circles, miniature halos (or rather, Halos), which played the role of surgical stitches.

Here they all froze, one end entering it, the other frozen at the very border, and then it began.

The chained dog at the bottom of the cyclopean bunker didn't even stir or grow, merely twitching its ears anxiously, but trouble came from another direction. Because at some point, this underground bunker began to be violently stormed, and then bombed just as violently. Bombarded more violently than the inhabitants of the Venebian Empire at the mention of Mesmericls, more violently than those who invested in Chinese cryptocoins after the fall of Heaven's Path and the price of its stock, more violently than Fedot, who remained to finish his overdue document.

First, a rain of ink poured down on the bunker. The metal of the outer fortifications hissed, turning unearthly colors, and several very unpleasant, boiling puddles appeared at the very bottom of the bunker. Added to the acid were numerous feathers, seemingly harmless, but somehow clogging the ventilation and tangling themselves around the turbines of the life support pumps. The images, of course, are very approximate, deliberately adapted to the same template of that very bunker, but they are there nonetheless.

Dealer.

Next came a blow like hundreds of iron battering rams bouncing off the domes of the pillboxes above ground, leaving small scratches but gradually multiplying and multiplying. With some surprise, Ilya's consciousness realizes that these are not pieces of steel, but stakes and guillotines, numerous and stained with the blood of hundreds and hundreds of victims. The scratches may heal quickly, but with each subsequent piece of crap that falls, they become a little deeper.

Executioner.

Then came the turn of fire, an unquenchable, cursed flame that melted the walls of the bunker both outside and inside. Even the beast-hunger grumbled a little and sneezed loudly. Fire and smoke flowed into every crack, heating the metal red-hot, distorting the air with a mirage of enormous temperature and a whole dance of curses hidden in the fire. Curses that allow burns to be left on metal as if on living flesh.

Warlock.

A blast of ice and cold swept in immediately after the fire, causing the iron and steel to creak under the pressure of the elements, causing pieces of it to break off and become too brittle. Parts of the ceilings and rooms sag slightly under their own weight, and a thin, rapidly growing crack creeps along one of the walls like a snake. The cold concentrated moisture into ice, and incredibly sharp icicles appeared on the walls and ceiling, as if thirsting to drink someone's blood, stained scarlet.

Spellcaster.

Blades falling from above again, only now they're too varied, like a collection stolen from some rich man or a museum. Some are intangible, while others sprout directly from the walls inside the bunker. Swords grow on the walls, spears from the ceiling, broadswords from the doorknobs, and the doors themselves have long since become towering shields. Weapons and their power, turning everything around them into weapons, reducing everything to a single category of value.

Marauder.

Acid flows like a stream, but this time it's not ink, it's burning with the power of the reaction inside it, and the metal underneath it rusts, transmutes, and just falls away as ash. The entire bunker seems to be covered by a cauldron, trying to fill it with something boiling, slamming the lid shut. The living and the non-living switch places, intertwining in a tight embrace of mutual hatred and ecstasy.

Alchemist.

A wild, soul-piercing howl, like that of a beast locked at the bottom of a bunker, testing the strength of its own chain, driving away the colorless mist rolling toward it. Darkness and night, blackness and malice, screams in dark corridors and broken doors, broken both outside and inside. And a colorless calamity rolling in from all sides, taking away the sense of reality, and the suffocating stench of burning sulfur.

Occultist.

Wheezing and moaning, bas-reliefs depicting numerous battle scenes, bloody and full of pain for those depicted there, pierce the walls of the bunker. Only pain remains for them all, only the images in these paintings, because they were killed long ago, long dead, destroyed and forgotten in the name of someone else.

Soul Slayer.

A mixture of drowsiness and sluggishness, catatonia, and loss of self in a maze of illusions rolls over the bunker. Myriads of nightmares, replaced by sweet dreams and flowing back again, other people's decisions, other people's will, other people's words, everything foreign, even dreams have become foreign, as if trying to survive, to squeeze the essence of Ilya out of his own consciousness, replacing it with something else.

Dreamwalker.

Blood, blood flooding the floor and ceiling, dripping from open wounds that grow on the walls above the already faded bas-reliefs, agonizing moans full of hidden delight. Chains and shackles hooked onto the walls and ceiling, torture chambers with wide-open doors that lock from the inside, not the outside. Pain for oneself, pain for everyone else, agony for all, and let no one leave happy. No one won't go away on its own.

Martyr.

Laughter, contagious and insane. It penetrates the farthest corners of the bunker, when even steel laughs, even the space around it, because this blow is perhaps the strongest of all those listed. Laughter that distorts space and reality, turning everything around into a circus performance, a bloody competition for survival, where there will always be only one winner, who is also the main loser. Laughing instead of crying and crying instead of laughing.

Jester, no, not just Jester, Harlequin.

Mentally cursing Lishka, who had managed to stand out here, he gave her, as he had sensed, lists of builds and in-depth versions of the class that had been predetermined for her by ritual, and he met the last of the blows. Like a huge stiletto, titanic in size, piercing the ground above the bunker and going deep into it, through corridors and rooms... but not even a tenth of the way through, the stiletto's strength dries up, and the blow it deals is rapidly delayed.

Assassin.

Well, it suits that little guy with the unchildlike gaze, almost as well as Harlequin suits the insufferable troublemaker. Ilya growls, involuntarily releasing his strength and essence, growling with inner hunger, but it is a short-lived process; he quickly regains his composure and calms down. Then he has to take back his human form, because at the very beginning of the blow, he involuntarily transformed into his combat form and, it seems, clenched his fists too tightly, grinding the stone base of the Ridge between his fingers. It would have been fine if it had only been the base, but he almost destroyed the protective contour, despite its reinforcement — Ryuek would have been delighted before Ilya was crushed into a point.

Standing up, the diver looks straight at Sturgeon, who is looking back at him, suspended between the end and the continuation of the ritual. Most of the thread-like halos are already inside him; only their edges are visible, holding his Wound together. Now there is no hiding the fact that he is a third step. Now he radiates such power that it makes him feel sick even from a distance. It is as if all his subtle bodies, after a long, unacceptably long stagnation, have finally been able to straighten up normally. Like a giant cracking his tired back, an Atlantean straightening his numb shoulders, that's exactly how he feels, that's exactly how he feels when he's next to Sturgeon.

"You've outplayed me again," he says, mouthing a wry smile, finally realizing where exactly he'd made a mistake in his reasoning. "Beautiful, beautiful..."

The force swirling around Ryuek was too dense, too powerful, too orderly. The earthling had never dealt with anything like this before, couldn't know for sure, and the verbal images from the Forum wouldn't convey the real picture. But he still knew and understood enough to realize his mistake here. If he had realized it a bit earlier he would have constructed the dialogue a little differently, albeit with the same result. However, he is in no hurry to foam at the mouth and curse Sturgeon, seeing no point in it, because the latter will surely still find use for his own gift of such an interesting blessing. He could kill him, but it is more likely that Ilya sees a narrow and very high-quality cage from which it will take a very long time to escape, possibly not without the help of those very Danaans whom he mentioned not so long ago on Earth.

The essence of his mistake is simple.

And where did he get the idea that Ryuk, having suffered his injury and fallen to a very low point in terms of strength, had lost all the support he had prepared for his leap to the fourth stage? True, this is most often the case, and there is practically no way to avoid such an outcome. The essence of the ritual of elevation is extremely fragile; it breaks down when mistakes are made, and you have to start all over again, every time, always, and everywhere. But the Sage's injury is by no means typical, with a number of unusual markers; it is by no means simple, unlike the standard types of damage after a failed breakthrough.

The earthling correctly identified the symptoms, but he was mistaken about the cause. He thought it was due to a remaining imbalance, like a tear in the finest fabric or a spider's web. But in fact, this imbalance was caused by that fabric getting caught in the gears of the Mechanism! All this time, he had been stuck between the edges of two steps, and now, even in this state, he seemed ready to step up at once. To the fourth step. To become equal to that crowned individual who, most likely, had ensured his unsuccessful elevation. He had ensured this precisely so that he would not become equal.

He has only two problems, really. First, the destabilized preparation for his ascension could kill him with a much greater chance than he would like. Second, in order to make that leap across the border, already de facto accomplished and only needing to be completed, to wedge himself into the universe and carve a new inscription on it, entered into the catalogs of the Great Mechanism, he needs fuel. And here there are eleven units of this fuel, which have already practically found their places and are connected to their father as closely as they can be.

What was it like in the classics of the early twenty-first century?

The godfather finished eating the cucumber. And ended with flour: “It turned out that our Father was not a father, but a...”

Ilya didn't have time to finish his thought because Sturgeon, who had been staring indifferently ahead, suddenly contorted his face with such frenzied rage that all the milk in Tooth must have soured, and then he pulled the invisible threads toward himself, sewing up the wound completely. All the Tears of Bitterness flared up, one for each of the orphans, and eight more for Ryuek himself, while he, his injury, his Wound, became the ninth and last of the Bitterness that remained to him. The flow of power was such that if there had not been a triple, but a quintuple blocking circuit, even the Capital would have learned about the ritual now, let alone Lazy.

A moment.

Another moment.

And then the streams of power flowing from Tears stabilized, and all eleven living gifted ones fell to the ground, some shaking as if in a seizure, some looking around in a daze, and some trying to shake the ringing in their ears out of their heads. The pressure of pure power emanating from Ryuek Sturgeon decreased at once, remaining overwhelming, but not as colossal, entirely corresponding to a living and healthy third-level gifted who was not trying to disguise himself. The ritual lines rapidly faded away, the ink protective blocks built into them devouring themselves, preventing the residual background from being scattered; there would have been enough power for an explosion similar to that of an aerial bomb.

\\“Still, he didn't take the risk, weighed up the consequences, and decided not to check whether it would raise his rank or simply tear him to shreds.” Ilya states, realizing what had happened and breathing a sigh of relief at how much easier his own situation had become. “And he considered the lizard in his hands, that is, the restored capabilities of the third step along with his retinue of novice but loyal and gifted followers, to be far better than the dragon in the sky.”

The fishfaced probably wanted to say something to Ilya personally, staring intently at him, but at that very moment, the Mechanism decided that the whole story with the escape from the city, the search for the box, the preparation for negotiations, and the ritual itself was finally over. And immediately began to reward the diver for his deeds, forcing him to immerse himself in himself. As they joked about this on the Forum, a golden rain fell on some people. The divers could have punched the joker in the face for this joke, because everyone knows that it is not “golden rain” but “bloody drops” according to the second main color of the essence obtained.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The bottom of the cup was no longer visible, but drop after drop continued to pour into it, hiding beneath them the grin of the strange skull, and even its eye sockets, where the bloody crimson of molten gold was flowing. It seemed as if they were no longer pouring into the cup one by one, but were flowing in small streams, filling the Vessel of the diver chosen by the Mechanism, giving him such priceless and necessary power.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

For a moment, he genuinely feared that he'd be overfilled with essence and forced to lose some of it, but the Mechanism's generosity wasn't all that comprehensive. And Ilya himself wasn't a Sage; someone of that class would certainly have had enough to fill the vessel not just once, but twice. Or even three times, but that's not certain; you have to calculate the coefficients, and even the most eminent academics don't know those coefficients.

Tap.

Tap.

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Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

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Tap.

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Tap.

Tap.

But yes, it was very pleasant to watch this rain, knowing that Rueyk the Sturgeon sees it too and is probably dying of wild envy. But wait. He really does see it and is genuinely very jealous, just like any normal individual gifted with the Mechanism! You know, if you think about it, it's not all that pleasant, even a little scary.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

That's it.

Despite all his self-control, he staggered and lay back down on his back, staring at the cloud-covered black night sky. Somewhere very close by, but as if on the other side of the Broken, the newly minted class bearers were engaged in heated discussion. He wondered distantly whether they had remembered his advice or done things their own way, and if they had, how quickly they would go off the rails. The shadow of Sturgeon towered over the earthling lying on the ground. Well, it would tower if it weren't nighttime and pitch black, in which no shadows can be seen, because the last lights of the ritual line have already sunk into the ink-black darkness.

He even manages to complain to himself that he didn't get any extra talent in Twin status, and then rejoice. For what would he do with that talent if it could break the whole build? And what good is some “High Lamb” or “Center Guide” if he's not a Sage or a Draftsman, but a Wendigo? He wonders if the man of the hour himself got anything, since he took on the main work and literally performed a full-fledged feat in ritualism, and on the fly and without any trial attempts.

He almost dared to ask about it directly, then he would have blamed it on not thinking clearly after the ritual, but at that moment, what he had been expecting any minute happened.

The world stood still.

Froze.

His own breathing quieted, the beating of Sturgeon's heart, the sounds of his orphans' conversations, everything fell silent as another Cycle came to an end.

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

Deserved drops of Essence: 87

Essence drops brought: 87

The Mechanism has noted the outstanding effectiveness of the Diver among his peers on the Steps!

An additional reward has been received: two small one-time Gift of the Great Mechanism!

An additional reward has been received: a significant one-time Gift of the Great Mechanism!

The gift will become available to the Diver when they dive into the next Cycle!

Awaken, Diver, for you are home again!

Even looking at this figure is pleasant and a little scary. It's not every day that you receive an amount greater than you could spend in your entire lifetime, unless you start squandering it deliberately. No, no, some rich kid with experience could easily spend more, but Ilya doesn't have such extensive experience in squandering money and insatiable appetites. And it's not the rich kids that excite him, not his formal affiliation with them, but the additional gift, and not a small one at that, which is where the funny detail comes in! Usually, after the first two levels of gifts for success in diving, there are three small one-time Gifts, but the third one is small.

Not significant.

He'd only heard unverified rumors about such gifts at the first level, more like a theoretical possibility that something like this might happen. Generally, all gifts above the lower ranks are awarded to those at the second step and above, and the rewards there are simply mind-blowing! Normally, he would have been eagerly awaiting his next visit to the Broken, but since he still had the now-not-Ryuk and the upcoming conversation to discuss, he had to roll up his enthusiasm and tuck it deep... into the long drawer of his desk, yes.

“Back to work…” was all he said, and then, to the beeping of incoming messages and news, he rolled out of bed, heading to the shower to soak.

And after soaking, reading the very first messages from the breaking news feeds, and not just those dedicated to the Broken World, he almost started sweating again.

* * *
Author's Note:

Well, there were plenty of cubes in this chapter, and, ironically, the most spoiler-inducing and most brutal crits were exclusively behind the scenes, although the main character himself did have some crits.

With a critical success, he destroyed a rather nasty relic (the Gladiator's in a skirt sabre-nagitana), and its danger is demonstrated by the fact that the Soul Slayer was doomed after the first spit (also a critical hit, but he added four points from his omaks to make it look even more beautiful) by the shards of that nagitana. The wounds from the shards would never stop bleeding. At all.

No less critical was the equipment roll for the group of three specialists, or rather, for the equipment of one of that group. They all had a relic—a shield for the Soul-Slayer (78 power), an amulet with extra life for the Charmtress (around 80, but I can't remember right now, and I'm too lazy to look at the recording). But the Gladiator rolled a pure 100 for equipment and another 56, so she was off to a flying start. The same net, mind you, is actually a second-tier relic given to the beloved daughter of her father's friend, yeah.

Actually, that's exactly how I described the situation in the story. The lady was essentially a well-protected golden girl sent to gain experience, kept away from all sorts of crap, and carefully watched. They packed her up and stuffed her to the gills, but it didn't help. They sent her to Ryuk's ritual because it was the safest spot — what could possibly happen next to the two second-step gifted that were supposed to power the ritual?

Ryuk could.

He happened.

But she rolled a 1d5 saving roll and was successfully resurrected in her home, somewhere far away, where the true puppeteers of this conspiracy dwell. And the Symbolist Charmancer might have been glad that he was killed quickly and relatively painlessly by Ryuk, and not by the parents of the little girl.

What else about crits?

Lishka's 100 for class build with big bonuses. She was very well suited to the Harlequin's Lot and deservedly received it. She remembered the main character's advice, so her build is functional and tough in a truly earthly way.

So? Well, Ryuk's crits were insane, but he just had insane bonuses from his class and Tears.

The Tears themselves, or rather, the crits for finding them. Ilya's intuition rolled some very strong shots, and his outstanding properties and general erudition came into play again, but I don't consider this arbitrary; he had it all in place from the start. Presenting it all so that it wouldn't look like a grand piano in the bushes, even at a cursory glance, wasn't something he managed to do right away, which is precisely why so much text had to be rewritten.

If you count the deleted parts, the total volume of the chapter has exceeded 265,000 characters, that's it.

In fact, the thoughts of the main character and what his brain clung to while working with the data in the chapter are presented, as I hope, not entirely in a rude manner.

Another solution from Rueyk the Sturgeon

The main character figured it out pretty quickly when it all became obvious — Ryuk really COULD have tried to take the four step. He could have, but at too great a risk to himself, especially since all the extra lives he'd accumulated over his existence were long gone. One try, one decision, and he didn't take the risk.

That's what Ilya thought.

Was he right, or was there something else that made the Sturgeon cut himself off and not become a four at the cost of Lishka and Co's lives? No one knows, not even Ryuek himself, even if you offered him all the riches in the world for the answer. Because he obviously doesn't know either.

You counted the drops of essence without me, and this wasn't even the most successful roll for additional drops. Only the base with a slight plus (61). But such a large-scale and unimportant ritual, and with such powerful things as Tears... well, it couldn't have been any other way.

And this is good.

The extra drops will come in handy in what's coming to Earth on the 81st anniversary. No, it won't be an apocalypse, and Earthlings' lives won't be in any danger. At most, the stock exchanges will falter again, and top managers will jump out of windows.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/593648

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP