Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 20. Это вполне в рамках местной морали – прогнешься раз, потом станут прогибать всю оставшуюся жизнь

20. This is completely within the framework of local morality - you bend once, then they will bend you for the rest of your life

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Obviously, he didn’t use the Hour he’d been given right away. He pretended he hadn’t received anything, didn’t know any ++Elea, and hadn’t participated in any tournaments. Unless, of course, you count the children’s drawing contest he won by a landslide among the clients of the Central European Bank in the southern part of the metropolitan area where he lived. The drawing of a vicious, predatory moose by a boy named Ilya, aged thirty-three, is still framed somewhere, having beaten the twelve-year-old girl who took second place by more than a three-to-one margin—a girl whose parents had sent her to some art school with a reputation that was practically world-renowned.

In short, Ilya decided to stick to his tried-and-true tactic: lie low and keep an eye on his surroundings. This tactic had always come through for him and his crew, if only because he was the first to spot the patrol that had arrived in response to the commotion caused by yet another brawl started by Baldy. The net was simply bursting, as was his contact list; many clients on his “whitelist”—who had generously paid for Ilya’s services in the past—were also reaching out with their offers and problems. Ilya had no time for them. He was completely absorbed in his own thoughts. The most important of these was the realization that he couldn’t get caught now, or he won't get off the hook.

Given his build, the Treaty’s protection will most likely not stop the detectives from meddling in his life. This is actually a standard situation for the Treaty. The more your build veers toward the cinematic, and the closer you are to being able to bring the build to Earth, the less the Treaty’s aspects will cover you. They don’t cover for you at all. They act on Humanity itself, and idiots like that usually haven’t been human for a long time. Not by the time their Twin reaches the fourth step and drags part of themselves to Earth.

Actually, nothing particularly scary or dangerous happened. His mind’s defenses work just as well here as they do there. They’re tied to the soul’s inherent qualities, not to specific talents or even his Lot. Well, let’s say he has an unlimited and constantly replenishing ++Hour of Power? Well, as long as Elea Walt doesn’t change her mind about considering him a friend and doesn’t revoke her blessing. So what? There have been numerous unofficial and official estimates showing clearly that there are a number of unregistered Fours on Earth. And on top of that, a Fiver, which was also possible, though certainly not known for sure.

Ilya mechanically ate yet another fruit paste for breakfast while juggling several chat windows at once. He replied to Irina to set up a meeting, confirmed the temporary switch to remote work (read: just forget about everything, stop pretending to be busy, and take a break) with his boss, set a time to talk with Magnus the Crocodile, and politely turned down a few paying clients, citing the fact that he was already working on his next order. It would be downright rude to turn down yet another group. Some of the messages were automatically blocked by the Forum’s filters on Ilya’s blog before the diver even had a chance to reply.

It seemed like he hadn’t done a thing, yet the whole morning had flown by; the sun was at its zenith, and he had a free day ahead of him with pretty decent weather. It wasn’t that Ilya had stopped using the Forum altogether or given up on gathering information; rather, he simply wanted to wait it out, taking his time. Reading a high-quality summary put together by professionals and verified by the Forum is way more enjoyable than messing around with creating that summary yourself. No way—he’d get to processing the information closer to nightfall, letting his colleagues dig through the crap themselves. It’s a pleasure for them. He judges by himself, and he’s hardly ever wrong in his judgment.

Getting to the meeting place turned out to be easy, though Ilya couldn’t help but notice several patrols along the way. Many had been sent out onto the streets to maintain order, which had been threatened by such upheavals. That said, the law enforcement officers weren’t particularly aggressive. Well, not in the decent neighborhoods. At most, they scanned passing cars, requesting information about the driver through the onboard system, but they didn’t demand that anyone stop. He arrived, in short, without any particular problems, only to find himself immediately squeezed into the arms of a diver beaming with self-satisfaction, who was just about ready to lift him up in the air.

A couple of minutes of hugs and another round of thanks for helping them prepare for the tournament, and then they headed to their usual spot, the one where Irina’s friend had saved them a table. It was hardly surprising, given how the whole world had been swept up in a mix of celebration and anxious anticipation. Finding a spot anywhere else would have been nearly impossible—well, unless you were willing to pay a reasonable price, and even then, it wasn’t a sure thing. At that same ill-fated Split Coin, the very one reserved for only the most skilled divers, things nearly came to blows when the Venetians clashed with the Gentle Ones. That is, the Central European wing of the “Venetian Pact” against the equally Central European delegation of the “Gentle Sun.”

Neither guild was among the largest, but neither was at the very bottom. Both were highly respected. Both wanted to relax and had no desire to listen to claims that there was only one free hall left—even with a reservation, even with a triple prepayment. The Citadel divers stepped in to break it up; they, too, had absolutely no desire to spoil their own holiday by watching someone else’s fight. Well, when one of the Earthen Fives personally came down and politely asked what the matter was, the fight somehow fizzled out on its own. As a gesture of reconciliation, both groups entered the hall reserved by the Citadel representatives, since they had bought the space with plenty to spare. In the end, instead of the threat of a fight involving the physical force of several third-level divers, a splendid truce was achieved.

Both guilds have already issued public apologies, and the ringleaders just as publicly downed a glass of a special cocktail in a toast of brotherhood. The Third Step's drink—while not a deadly poison to the average person—is extremely dangerous. Half a shot glass is enough to send a grown man to a hospital bed. A full shot glass will land him on the intensive care table. These extremely rare bottles, often processed by Alchemists, are very expensive and prestigious; they are opened only upon presentation of an official document certifying attainment of the Third Degree and a complete waiver of all claims. Of course, you can also buy it, both officially and on the black market, but the biggest show off is considered to be drinking it right in the Split Coin, in order to visually flaunt your superiority over other upright folk.

Ilya just laughed at that kind of advertising, which was clearly paid for by the authorities. It’s literally a necessity to flaunt one’s status and rank, just to make a particularly flashy entrance. In his opinion, it’s a perfectly legitimate and natural ploy. After all, if the Third Step is so eager to stand out and prove its exceptionalism to everyone that it’s willing to go public just for the sake of a public binge at a superclub, then that type never had a chance to hide its true nature as a diver from the authorities in the first place. And those who never intended to hide it are now enjoying the fruits of their labor.

If Ilya hadn't been a participant and winner of the Lottery, he would have switched to official divers simply for the benefits and tax breaks.

Getting back to more down-to-earth topics. There was no fight at the Coin. Meanwhile, a couple of unregistered, unofficial divers were happily spending time at a more down-to-earth spot. The kitchen at the diner is naturally swamped. The main dining area is packed to the brim. Delivery people—both human and bot—have practically formed a pilgrimage to the pickup window. Ilya, by the way, always used bots. The human ones mostly specialized in deliveries to the slums. There, a robot could easily be damaged or stolen, with no regard for beacons or decorative armor. In social-class neighborhoods, most decent establishments either don’t use couriers or hire agencies there.

This provides socialization and employment opportunities for the local population. The couriers there are locals; they might even fire a homemade stun gun or a needle gun themselves if they run into a particularly dangerous thug. Thoughts about the hardships of being a courier—a job that in this day and age can literally be considered social work, created solely to ensure there are jobs at all, otherwise they’d have been replaced—didn’t prevent him from listening intently to Irina, who was gushing like a songbird, at times nearly choking with emotion.

"...and anyway, I’ve got seven! Seven! Se-e-e-e-ven! Seven wins, seven times seven drops! Forty-nine, for the dive! I’m just amazing! I’m cooler than Iron Yadviga! Cooler than Aurora, Angelica, and Echidna all rolled into one!" Well, she’s obviously embellishing here, because those ladies used to manage to earn a comparable number of drops per Cycle even at the first step and without any tournaments, especially Iron, since her Citadel bumps up her, but Ilya won’t say that out loud—he’s not his own enemy. "Phew! It still hasn’t let go, even now! Can you imagine..."

Listening for the third time to her recap of her adventures at the tournament—which now sounded more like a coherent retelling than a disjointed string of exclamations—Ilya admitted with a touch of bitterness that the tournament’s difficulty had clearly been ramped up for all the “cheaters” with their lottery gimmicks. Otherwise, those winners would have steamrolled through the tournament like a military-grade armored assault vehicle. Irina’s first opponent turned out to be a Warlock who had completely lost his mind due to desynchronization. She didn’t even kill him; she just drove him into a rage with a couple of phrases, and he burned down the building where they were fighting, along with himself.

The second one was simply a terrible fighter, and a lousy Charmancer to boot, while the arena turned out to be just that—an arena, a relatively small, stone-walled chamber with no ventilation and no way out. To be fair, a good Charmancer can find a way to surprise a Warlock even in close combat, but this one wasn’t good. He actually tried to block “Bonfire” with a simple “Air Whirlwind.” Set to pull! The whirlwind, having absorbed all the flames, successfully spat them out—mixed up and unstable—right at the opponent’s feet, which ended the fight. The finishing blow from the girl, who had been cautious until the very end, was simply an act of mercy and compassion, for the man was screaming terribly.

The third one she encountered was an Avignonite—quite competent, capable of fighting, but, alas, an Assassin without thermal camouflage. The Fiery Warlock could see her signature in two different aspects, since thermal vision is one of the main sensory methods for her build, so she didn’t let the otherworlder get close and burned her with napalm. Or rather, with “Ignition by Will,” setting the forest in which they were fighting ablaze more fiercely with every passing hour. And then she simply forced her opponent to come out and face her in direct combat, blocking the only path away from the fire. In that battle, Irina had her abdomen ripped open and would most likely have died from the poison, but she burned the Avignonite’s head to the bone, with flames raging in her eye sockets, so Irina was awarded the victory.

"She’s a normal one. We had a nice chat right from the start and agreed beforehand that there’d be no hard feelings while we were standing on the platforms, right before the fight. I was telling you." Taking another sip of a weak but not bad-tasting cocktail, Irina cleared her throat and continued her story. “And the fight, you know, was actually kind of nice. She was good, but not too good. Just like me. It feels like you’re fighting an equal opponent who respects you in return. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it to someone who hasn’t dived themselves, but… well, as Odi wrote, that very sense of proportion.” Virtual sparring just is not like that; it’s not the same feeling at all."

Ilya managed, through a heroic effort of will, to keep from laughing at her patronizing “you wouldn’t understand.” She certainly didn’t mean to offend him. And he understood her, too. The fight with Günter, for example, had left a positive impression. Even the battle with the Cat Lady, come to think of it. They hadn’t exchanged a single word, aside from the Earthling’s very first remark, but they understood each other almost as well as close relatives. He really wouldn’t have turned down the chance to chat with the bearer of such mighty blood, even if it was just to shoot the breeze and not on business. On business, he would have tried to buy information from her about that very same blood, paying with something from the storehouse of Earth’s science.

Or take Elea, for instance—a woman whom the Earthling respects without a shadow of a doubt, despite their battle and his own defeat. He respects her, yes, but from a distance, preferring to stay as far away from her as possible. She is simply too driven, vicious, and dangerous. If she lived on Earth with that kind of motivation and outlook on life, he would be the first to wish a sniper’s bullet or an Assembly assassination squad upon her. They have more than enough of their own orthodox types; why would they need others?

“But I lost to the fourth one, that stinking bastard!” Judging by her previous comments, the guy really stank to high heaven, as if he’d vowed never to wash, which isn’t uncommon among the Oathbearer, but this one was the Executioner. “He’s a tough one, that freak! And armored. And resilient. I definitely set him on fire, maybe even killed him, but he tore me in two before he died from his scorched guts.”

Not surprising. The Executioner may not be considered an antagonist, but he is certainly an inconvenient opponent for Irina. Among the caster classes, they are most effective against Charmancers and Shamans, as they are well-protected against a significant portion of standard spell combinations. A Warlock specializing in shadow magic or necromancy might have managed it, and even the fiery Irina could have. But she miscalculated her tactics, believing she could close the distance first, that her enemy wouldn’t reach her until it was too late. And the man caught her on the counterattack, which is often the favorite tactic of all for Executioners, who cannot boast of maneuverability. Either go all out on the first strike, after which a second one isn’t needed, or rely on counterattacks, trusting in their own armor and survivability.

He relied on his survivability and won, giving Irina her first taste of defeat—and she wasn’t the only one. Among Earthlings, most defeats for first-step fighters occurred precisely in the fourth, fifth, and sixth matches, when the system for matching increasingly stronger opponents eventually pitted them against foes they had no way of defeating. Ilya wouldn’t say he went out of his way to rub it in Irina’s face, but he didn’t exactly hide the fact that she should have won the fourth match. She had asked him—without any unnecessary gentleness or tact—to analyze her mistakes, and, to the fair-haired beauty’s credit, even though she was clearly unhappy, she was more angry at herself than at his criticism.

In her fifth battle, Irina got her revenge by facing off against the Shaman. He was also a totemist, but incomparably weaker than Ilya’s first opponent. He was mad, too, but not dangerously so—he hadn't retained his intellect and was simply a vicious beast with no strength left even for cunning. She defeated him quite confidently, though she did take a couple of frostbite hits from the ice spirit summoned from the totem. Things were much tougher for her in the sixth battle, against—damn it—the native and pious Pure One! Fortunately, she wasn’t facing one of their princes, but a simpler fellow—a typical bearded and vicious Assassin with a melee build uncharacteristic of his class.

They fought for nearly a full day. The arena was uncomfortably wide and rocky, and there was nothing to light a fire with, but the dugout did not disgrace the honor of its homeland. She recalled one of the theurgical rituals Ilya had recommended, dedicated specifically to the Guiding Star. He had suggested them for future dives, not for the tournament, but they came in handy. The sensory-searching contraption demanded the girl’s left hand. Moreover, this wound could not be healed by a simple rebirth. It would require either two deaths or death during a complex, self-sacrificial ritual. Initially, the Earthling had given her a different version of this rite, which required nine hands of enemies, also left hands, but he had mentioned in passing that one could also offer one’s own.

Ira was certainly taking a risk. She had devised the ritual herself, drawing on the articles she’d found through Ilya’s links and her own intuition, but she hadn’t been torn into a hundred little Warlocks. It felt as if someone’s invisible, razor-sharp fangs had bitten off her hand; it hardly hurt at all, and the wound healed instantly, as if she’d lost the limb years and years ago. The obsessive and barely suppressible desire to perform the ritual again and feed herself piece by piece could have been fatal, but the girl managed to hold out for a couple of hours. She simply began to cast “Bonfire” over and over again.

And these fires shot straight into the center of the ritual circle, then burst out from there right next to the person who had most recently drawn blood from the Warlock. It’s worth noting that by that point, he and the killer had already clashed four times in battle, and he’d struck her a couple of times with poisonous throwing nails. He would’ve been lucky if he’d been ten kilometers away from the ritual site, but the Pure One chose to stay closer to the wounded girl. She may have cauterized her wounds and thus rid herself of the poison, but she was already losing to her enemy. He could have won, but he surely wanted to properly take care of the unfaithful woman so he could later brag at home about how he’d fucked that Assembly impure bitch.

He waited and awaited the arrival of the portal’s offensive spells—weak and partially devoured by the portal, yet gaining additional theurgical damage. Each such cast gnawed away a little more flesh from Irina, so that by the end of the battle, her healed stump had reached all the way to her shoulder, turning into tiny pieces of starlight, but the Pure One still ran out before Irina did. A very risky venture and an equally risky ritual, one she would never have dared to perform under normal circumstances for fear of causing desynchronization, but in the context of the tournament, a perfectly valid “almost suicidal” tactic. Essentially, no worse than what Ilya himself had used in his sixth battle.

The seventh battle was much calmer, but not without its dangers. It was a pure duel between casters, fought from a distance, with neither side attempting to close the gap. A Spellcaster against a Warlock, nearly equal forces, gradually dwindling reserves, and a cunning enemy from some obscure world. She barely managed to find his crest on the Forum, and even then, only with the help of the AI advisor. The battle’s conclusion turned out to be downright comical. The enemy decided that, while he had certainly exhausted his magic reserves, he hadn’t exhausted his available options. The asshole—that’s what Irina called him for his utterly brazen and asshole behavior—pulled out a lead shooter made by the Mechanic-Armsmaster.

And that one exploded.

“Ignition of Will” works quite well on targets that are not visible to the naked eye, provided there is an aspect such as ‘Invisibility’ or “Barrier.” You can’t just boil the insides of a gifted one like that. Not without the wildest expenses and an inherent advantage, because those innards are protected by aural bodies, attributes, and the lot bestowed by the Mechanism. But what about a lousy firearm made by a mediocre gifted one, and for sale at that, not for himself? All seven rounds in the cylinder went off, already unstable given their stay in the spatial pocket. The hand gripping the weapon was torn off at the shoulder.

"Well, as for the eighth one, it’s all clear now. Dreamer is such Dreamer." She’s so calm right now, but when she was just recounting that fight, she wasn’t calm at all; she was more like threatening to master interdimensional travel and shove someone’s greasy head up their ass. "The location’s a pain in the ass, and that little prick has totally lost his mind!"

Her opponent was a very young, or at least youthful-looking, man appearing to be about fifteen. Because of the combination of some Dreamwalker talents. He was the typical type: you’d almost suspect him of being an Earthling, but no, the boy bore the mark of the Iron World, though without the order’s insignia. A renegade and a criminal who refused to join the order and did not wish to become a knight, but instead craved all that was forbidden and pleasurable. Opponents of this sort are either self-assured and quick to die, or they do indeed grow into a Mesmericl larva, and sometimes into a fat larva that has even pupated.

This one turned out to be closer to the second option than the first. He made no mistakes, applying the right pressure at the right moments, so Ilya honestly admitted that Ira had little chance. Suppose she had any at all. The arena turned out to be an empty estate, with dozens and hundreds of farmhouses that looked as if their inhabitants had left them just yesterday. Even the milk hadn’t had time to sour in the pails and jugs. There was no livestock, by the way, not even chickens, not even birds like crows or the like—just mosquitoes, crickets, and other assorted vermin. It was on this estate that Irina had to search for an opponent, gradually being consumed by drowsiness and a creeping lethargy.

No, she tried meditating. She performed a couple of simple rituals to ward off sleep, since she possessed the “Drawing Lines” talent—just like any self-respecting Warlock. But none of it helped much, and eventually she passed out, only to wake up almost immediately. Then she spent two hours searching for her opponent in the sweltering heat until she realized she had been searching for her enemy topless, and after that, she woke up again. A double dream, then a triple one, losing the line between reality and a dream.

"Anyway, once that ritual charcoal burned my skin and brought my brain back online for a bit, I realized I hadn’t eaten dinner in half an hour to regain my strength, but was instead sucking on a cucumber—not even a bitten-into one—that was huge as hell, and I’d already slathered the second and third ones with sour cream and honey so that, ahem... Anyway, I decided to screw the bastard and set myself on fire." At this point, Ilya suspected that the enemy had managed to do a bit more than Irina was saying, but he certainly didn’t pry for unasked-for details; he merely noted the decisive and timely tactic of confronting such perverts in a situation where it was already clear there was no way out. "And the ninth turned out to be from Boretzaria, so I burned him to ashes in a fit of rage; even the pleas he cried out didn’t help."

Apparently, she was truly furious. And not just angry, but in a battle frenzy—not merely the self-assured rage that’s dangerous to herself. Still, all things being equal, a fight between a Warlock and an Occultist, especially if both are relatively new, usually ends in the Occultist’s favor. In the early stages, they’re simply much more dangerous, especially the Summoner branch. Especially if you’re willing to pay with pieces of yourself, knowing that you won’t have to walk around crippled afterward due to the nature of the Tournament.

"That's it. I woke up this morning, sent you a message, posted on the Forum, and uploaded the Dreamwalker's description to the “Information Sharing” section for the allied world. Let the Lancelots fuck him in the ass, and then I went for a walk with you." She did the right thing about the note for the knights; he’ll even contact one of the admins of the Forum’s diplomatic conference himself later to make sure they pass on the Dreamwalker’s exact description, just in case they find the little shit and give him a proper beating? "And now I’m out for a walk. Yeah, the asshole turned out to be tougher, and the dreamwalkers are always a piece of shit anyway, but I got a shitload of drops! In one run, literally! And I even pulled one on the account, so we can have fun while we’re still alive!"

Well, while this tendency among young, inexperienced divers to spend their earnings too recklessly doesn’t exactly annoy Ilya, he doesn’t really approve of it. After all, such individuals are all too quick to forget that their Twins aren’t immortal, that not every cycle will be successful, and that it’s always wise to have a reserve in case of a string of failures. On the other hand, it is precisely the beautiful life—and the chance to avoid racking one’s brains to achieve it—that attracts young people to Broken. The fact that, in order for Broken members to actually earn a truly beautiful life, racking one’s brains is, in fact, inevitable, doesn’t get in right away, nor does it get in for everyone.

It's good that Irina still has some brain, especially after her first death. Otherwise, Ilya simply wouldn't have been able to stand her company.

“Well, I've had my fill and I'm already a little tipsy.” The girl, smiling cheerfully, really isn't exactly sober anymore, though she's nowhere near as drunk as she's trying to make it seem. “Let's head over to the VR. They just released a new movie there, you know, ‘The Fifth Line.’”

Ilya isn’t exactly a big fan of immersive movie theaters, but right now he’s in just the right mood to check out the latest innovations in the film industry. Virtual reality theaters are certainly for specific tastes—crowded rooms, cramped rows of seats, ill-fitting goggles, and overpriced fast food—but many people go there for the atmosphere. Ilya wasn’t a big fan of movies “based on” what happened in Broken, because as an expert, it often genuinely hurt him to watch the plots of these “masterpieces.” It made his eyes bleed—and he wanted to gouge out not only his own eyes, but also those of the director, screenwriter, actors, and film crew.

The Fifth Line embodied everything Ilya disliked about films of this sort. The plot was based on a solid premise: a time shortly after the Citadel’s establishment, when they had already begun to flex their muscles against the locals but hadn’t yet gotten their own five step. And the locals decided once again to show the savages their place, cunningly directing the migration of several hordes of creatures—including some extremely powerful ones, up to two fifth-tier beings—straight into the territory occupied by the Citadel. They didn’t even bother defending the first four lines of defense; there, it all came down to surrendering those lines as painlessly as possible, pulling the main forces away from the unstoppable onslaught.

But the fifth line became the place where the Citadel’s elite—along with the locals who remained loyal to them and those who defected at the last moment (when they realized that following the Citadel would mean being swept away by the very mob they were trying to avoid)—faced the enemy, not hoping to win, but waiting for the ritual to elevate their own leader. Or rather, not their leader, but his deputy and best warrior—another intrigue, another question: would it all come down to a bloodbath when they began to determine who would be the Fifth Step? One of the defining moments in the history of the Citadel—and, in many ways, of Earth itself—since it was precisely that victory that marked the beginning of the Citadel’s approach to leveling up and building communities.

The movie used this very situation as the basis for its plot, completely twisting it out of shape. Around the end of the first third of the four-hour screening, Irina demanded that Ilya explain why on earth he was stifling his laughter, which was so intense it brought tears to his eyes. And yet there were such solemn, dramatic moments! Ilya thought for a moment, then set up a conference call between their seats using the virtual helmet’s microphone so as not to disturb the others. And he began to tell them how it really happened. In the regular sections of the Forum, this information isn’t that easy to find; it’s not exactly secret, just specific and incomplete.

Ilya enjoyed the privilege of being a student of London AU, some of whose distinguished professors—and even some of the founders—had personally participated in those events. Not only did he ask them questions, but he also spent a great deal of time in the archives, albeit on related projects, so he knew what it was like on the fifth line. And with that background, it’s not hard to find confirmation on the Forum if you know where to look and whom to ask. In short, instead of pomp and grandeur, it turned out to be a nonstop bloody circus on the front lines, at times quite literal—several raids by these creatures simply bypassed the Citadel’s lands and wiped out a bunch of settlements and several major cities deep in the rear of the local Oikoumene.

There was no solemn speech from Scarlet Felix. It was a continuous stream of curses in a mixture of Bulgarian, Polish, and English, explaining that they wouldn't have time to escape anyway, and that he would personally skin those who did until the Vessels were empty. There was no love story between the entirely fictitious Elizabeth Sparrow and one of the local lords-rulers, who came to her aid at the very last moment, only to die heroically saving the maiden. There was banal blackmail, threats, forced oaths, and two Dreamwalkers who took the lord's beloved (in every sense of the word) son hostage. Then this fellow, with his mind completely reformatted, became one of the initiators of the Act of Liberty, with which the Citadel finally secured its inviolable status.

There was no battle between Simon White and the Hungering Melody. The fifth-tier creature was cynically led into a massive ritualistic absorbent seal, charged with all the sacrificial energy of the ongoing slaughter, and then, while it was shriveled to a point, even more cynically smashed to pieces by direct blows from the entire elite. There was no emotional dialogue between White and Ronald Doe when they were figuring out who exactly would be the fifth step, nearly coming to blows, and then tearfully embracing like brothers. They barely tolerated each other, but understood the situation perfectly well, and so settled the matter with a coin toss back on Earth, a year before the ritual itself. Both played up their enmity and their readiness to tear each other's throats out so that the locals wouldn't be too nervous, believing the situation under control, that an internal war could erupt among the Citadelians at any moment.

At the end of the movie, Ilya was still trying not to laugh, while Ira was quietly snickering—there were plenty of funny moments, and Ilya was a master at telling stories in the spirit of black comedy. To be honest, in his opinion, if they had filmed this battle as a mix of war drama and dark comedy rather than epic high fantasy, it wouldn’t have turned out any worse—and it would have been even more realistic. That’s probably why they don’t make it—because then they’d have to show everything that actually constitutes a sector-level crisis in Broken. And then there’s no way you’d lure young people into your Broken, earning money for the state and glorifying the Assembly.

“Oh, I haven’t had this much fun in ages!” Because of the difference in their height and build, it ended up being Ira who was hugging Ilya and pulling him close, rather than the other way around, which once again left the man—who was by no means short—with mixed feelings. “And when you get into the swing of things, you become so lively, it’s a pleasure to listen to you. No, don’t get me wrong, there’s a certain charm to calm nonchalance and all that, but sometimes it’s worth adding a little spark, if you know what I mean.”

Ilya understood, but he considered his personality to be set in stone and had no real intention of changing. However, being a man who was quite intelligent and even wise in certain respects, he chose not to voice his opinion, shutting down the dangerous topic in the most drastic way possible. Well, okay, not the most drastic. No punch to the solar plexus or neck-breaking, he just kissed Ira so that she wouldn’t feel like chatting anymore. And so they kissed, first as they left the theater, then in the park, then in the taxi. No matter how phlegmatic he might be, he, too, wanted a little human warmth after such an intense adventure as this fucking, yet so useful, tournament.

“It's been a nice evening.” Irina was already approaching her building; luckily, it was closer to her place this time than to make a detour to Ilya's.“I don't even know what else I could wish for, or what I could say was missing.”

It’s a rhetorical question, spoken into the void—which makes it all the more unpleasant when you suddenly get an answer, and not even from yourself, but from someone else. Spoken in such a sharp, cutting tone that, to be honest, I’d love to fire a shot in that direction and only then ask who’s blabbering away so close at hand. The problem is that Ilya, being an observant man with a good memory, recognized the tone of voice perfectly.

“Adventures, maybe.” The words were spoken hoarsely and maliciously, hoarsely and with a very, very anticipatory tone.“You said so yourself, Ira. An evening without adventures is always boring; you have to spice up the boredom. Fuck.”

Irina froze, like a frightened little animal, her whole body tense, and even Ilya flinched involuntarily, despite his much calmer disposition. And he really wanted to repeat the last part of the sentence to the person who had just said it. The past few weeks hadn’t been kind to the slacker; his once-slicked-back hair was now tousled and matted, cut into a messy crew cut, his cocky face had grown a bit gaunt, and he seemed to have deflated slightly.

Oleg—and it was indeed him—had actually lost a bit of weight, but now he seemed even more dangerous, like a living lump of flesh, like a vicious dog ready to sink its teeth into someone’s throat. And his fingers kept opening and closing the butterfly knife, so deftly that if he’d shown such skills during their last encounter, Ilya would have moved to Broken permanently long ago. Combined with the blatant unnaturalness of that voice that cut right to the bone, it wasn’t funny at all. Ilya wouldn’t be able to name a class or the talent itself off the top of his head, but clearly someone had participated in a Tournament and received a genuine Hour of Power as a result. And he couldn’t think of anything smarter than showing up unannounced at his ex’s place to visit her and her new bedmate.

It's not life, it's a madhouse—even though, as the Forum moderators have officially stated several times, FaFo doesn't transfer to Earth.

Ilya wasn’t exactly a hero, but he acted exactly as he’d practiced for so long, as if he were back in the VR taking yet another practical exam in Urban Combat. With a single movement, he shifted his position to shield the caster—that is, Irina—with his body, remaining in front of her, right in the enemy’s path. So, Oleg has the Hour, but he’s already activated it, and before that, he must have somehow escaped from custody. They probably did transfer him to house arrest after all, especially if it was for a bribe—even if it was just three hundred credits—and he simply took the ankle monitor off. And he managed not to get caught until this moment, activating the Hour right now; otherwise... otherwise he has more than one of those Hours, or he’s a secret Level Four after all.

Actually, no—if he were that kind of person, he would have killed Ilya the very first time they met, and no one would ever have found the body of the fledgling Wendigo.

“An Assassin or a Maniac?” Ilya asks calmly, but on the very edge of his perception flickers Elea’s gift, which is almost activated. He had once again, without a trace of irony, wished her all the best, just so she wouldn’t die right now and cut off his only chance of survival in the looming conflict. “The hands holding the knife are too deft, and besides, a voice alone won’t scare me that easily, if it’s just a voice.”

He laughed.

Oleg laughed—a somewhat hysterical laugh, shrill and mad—so that no further answer was needed. No, maybe he’s an Assassin with a touch of the moker, but that maniacal cackle is so, so characteristic of the Maniac. And he has no reason to deliberately deceive Ilya, because from his point of view, Ilya is just a lowly nobody who can’t do anything to him, a true predator. That’s just how Maniacs are, especially in the city. It would’ve been better if he turned out to be someone else, not just another fucking Leatherman cosplayer.

“Oh, never mind, you don't have to answer—I get it now.” His voice trembles anyway, adrenaline is pumping through every pore, fear is binding him and paralyzing him, but Ilya holds his ground not only thanks to the psychological training he underwent in his fifth year—when they deliberately pumped him full of drugs and scared him, then taught him to act despite his fear—but also because he realizes that he does, after all, have a trump card for the absolute worst-case scenario. “I suppose I can guess the reason for your visit. Why don’t we send the girl away for a bit, and then let's resolve between us?”

Despite being fully aware that at any moment he could become the Twin—the one who would devour this petty shit alive, along with all the filth—his voice still nearly cracked on the last part of the sentence. It’s not a matter of knowledge or understanding; it’s not a matter of willpower. Now standing against the man is the Mechanism, a part of which has temporarily manifested on Earth. This cannot be resisted by human will alone; one cannot simply ignore this oppressive, stinking of blood and fear, fervent Horror, this presence of beyond-the-limit cruelty.

All in all, Ilya’s doing pretty well. Someone from the Assembly’s special forces—who specialize in taking on divers—might have performed better, but Ilya is, after all, a specialist in the Broken, not a superagent. Right now, he really wants to die, shit himself, and run away, but he’s keeping what’s left of his self-control in check, while also hinting that Ira should back off. A gallant gentleman and all that, yeah. It’s just that if it comes to a fight, he doesn’t need another witness.

That Maniac—this Lot fits him like a glove—has surely taken care of the cameras and any potential witnesses, so if a fight does break out, Ilya needs to end it as quickly as possible. Then get rid of the body and figure out what else to do with Irina, who will surely start suspecting something fishy. Because if a peaceful LORE specialist, somehow, with injuries and suffering, manages to slam Oleg—read: a young and healthy forehead—face-first into the asphalt, then that’s something you can believe. But if such a peaceful specialist mysteriously vanishes that forehead under the Hour of Power, then there’s no way you can pretend to be peaceful here.

"Uti-puti. Uti-puputi. Uti-pupuputi, we are so pompous." His heart skipped a beat, reminding Ilya of the ailment that had plagued him since his youth, making him seriously believe he was about to have a heart attack. "Doesn’t that make you sick? I suppose. Between-us. I’m definitely feeling sick."

His heart skips a beat again, then another, and then, his whole body numb from the heart attack that has finally struck, Ilya presses the interface, and it’s as if a thin layer of emptiness envelops him. The very same emptiness in which his body hangs as he enters the Broken, the very same that separates Reality from the Mechanism. His heart, a half-beat away from stopping—or perhaps having already stopped—beats again, slowly and unhurriedly. Lazy, sluggish, and frozen, it pumps through his veins not hot, crimson blood, but thick, black blood. His consciousness expands in a sudden surge, beginning to perceive the world as only the gifted can.

His thoughts grew sharper and faster; his intuition sharpened to the precision of a nanoblade; all his senses blossomed like a flower bud. Ilya sees every speck of dust with his eye, perceives every movement of his opponent, hears his breathing, senses the steady and vicious beating of his heart, distinguishes the tremor in his fingers, and smells the scent of cheap alcohol and sweat. An inner beast rages within the shackles of self-control; Hunger, bound, torments his mind; his frozen muscles, saturated with Cald, stiffen. Only now does Ilya fully realize what the difference between a Diver and his Twin truly is. The sensations evoke both wild terror and equally wild delight.

“Don’t you dare die here, you bitch, and don’t you dare turn pale in front of me—I’m not done with you yet!” Oleg exclaims in a more normal tone, without pressing the creature so hard, even stepping back slightly—a move that saved his life, since the Wendigo was already poised to attack with a long stride. “You know why I’m here?”

Ilya simply shook his head, seizing the moment—taking advantage of the fact that his “Lurking Evil” had kicked in immediately, instantly concealing his true nature. Oleg didn’t seem to realize what had actually happened; he thought he’d just scared himself too much. No, he might be pretending, but Ilya can see into his heart, reading his body’s micro-reactions with unexpected clarity, a skill he’d never possessed before, not outside of the Broken One. No, Oleg never realized the danger, never noticed that instead of Ilya, it was now Wendigo standing before him. Irina is still standing behind him, breathing heavily and looking at her former acquaintance with sheer horror—this can be seen even without a direct glance, just from the logic of the situation and the frantic beating of a woman’s heart.

"You don't know? Well, I'll tell you. I came here to prove it, you fucker! To prove that your life and this bitch’s life are in my fucking hands, got it?!" With a wave of his hand, the butterfly knife passes deceptively close to the face of the frozen Ilya, who could clearly see that it was just a threatening gesture, not a real attack. “Right now, right now, your lives are mine. You belong to me. And you’ll remember, Ira. Just like you, you shitty cocksucker, you fucking expert! You’ll both remember. Live, bitch, live, and every fucking second, remember that you’re living by my grace!”

With those words, he laughed again like a mad hyena and stepped back into the shadow between the walls, fading, thinning out, and simply slipping through the gap—even though it was barely wide enough for a hand to fit through, just a narrow technical passage. Looks like someone did take the “Thinness” aspect after all; the only question is which talent. Probably “Standing Behind the Back”—it’s a classic, and he wouldn’t have to be a complete moron to stray from the classics. The signature of the stranger’s heart is rapidly receding, and Ilya has even defocused his perception so as not to watch the Maniac. They sense a stranger’s gaze very easily, often even with unleveled talents at the starting base. And this one, after the Tournament, has surely leveled up.

Behind him, Ira let out a sob, nearly fainting. He had to turn around and catch her—she felt weightless—then lift her into his arms and dash toward the building entrance, trying not to exceed the speed limits of an ordinary person. Twenty minutes had passed, and she was sitting there, tear-stained, wrapped in three robes, drinking some kind of synthetic cocktail swill from a glass with a little elephant drawn on it. Usually, they’d pour her half a shot of the stuff, but she’d mixed it with juice in a one-to-one ratio. Fortunately for Oleg, he possessed some semblance of self-control and understanding, so he put pressure on Ilya rather than Irina; otherwise, she could easily have suffered permanent psychological trauma. As it was, Ilya was the one who was supposed to suffer it—well, according to one self-important asshole.

That idiot might have wanted to kill them all, but he chickened out. If he’d gone through with it, they would have killed him, too. He’s not one of the Four; he’s just the holder of the Hour of Power—an hour he’s already wasted. For guys like that, the Assembly demonstratively sends a special unit that deals with such types so thoroughly that there’s often not much left to bury. But just to scare him, mess with the psyche of the “fucking pervert who stole a woman,” and show the “traitorous whore” who the alpha male is here? For that, they’ll treat you much more gently; you can even turn yourself in—they won’t send you past a maximum-security prison. If he escaped without bloodshed, if he now goes into hiding in the slums, going completely underground, he might not end up behind bars at all.

He could.

In theory.

If he were a smart, experienced resident of the social districts—someone who knew everyone there and could buy himself anonymity, safety, and all that. Let’s say he checked into the Star of Dreams as soon as he ended up in the monkey cage (Baldie loved that anachronism, though he never managed to explain to his crew why a holding cell for lowlifes had to be called that), made a little money, took part in a Tournament, and then decided to escape. He bribed, tricked, or otherwise neutralized the guards, fiddled with the cameras, and simply made a run for it. Or maybe he actually bribed his way into house arrest. In that case, he might even have the money to buy himself a safe house from the underworld.

The question is, does he really know who to go to, or does he think he does?

“He is such an asshole!” Oh, so someone’s panic phase is over, and they’re back to normal. That means if there are no nightmares tonight, we can consider it over. “Should we call someone? Or fuck it? I mean... this is just fucking insane, isn’t it?”

Ilya, who had memorized “someone’s” contact info just in case, didn’t really mind either option, since his Hour was over anyway and he was now just an ordinary guy. Just a little tired, and very hungry, and quite angry because of it. He even had to raid someone else’s fridge, awkwardly explaining that he always gets the urge to eat when he’s nervous. While he was at it, he heated up some store-bought triangular pancakes with synthetic meat filling—and some for Irina, too.

"I guess so." If only to make sure that scumbag has a good reason to be charged and locked up. "I’ll give them a call, if you don’t mind?"

Irina didn’t object; with every passing moment, she grew angrier at herself for being afraid, and at Oleg for being such a jerk. So when she got confirmation from Ilya, she was literally ready to go and knock that jerk’s teeth out. That’s a direct quote, by the way. Alas, she nearly knocked her own teeth out, stumbling drunkenly over her own shoes and nearly destroying the bottle of alcohol by smashing it. She decided not to go on any heroic missions until she had atoned for her sin by destroying the same bottle—this time by drinking it.

"Hello? This is a call regarding the Civil Code, 103-15, Section 8, Directive Hour, Maniac, most likely." On the other end, they first asked in bewilderment, “What the fuck?”, and then, in a panic, after the AI assistant explained what had been said, they asked again, “WHAAAAAT, FUCK!!?!”

An anonymous diver, accompanied by an “anonymous” female diver, began calmly and confidently describing the situation, wondering if he would have time to finish his meal before excited or even overexcited law enforcement officers showed up. They’re already on edge, and the special response unit always reacts as violently as possible to calls like this. And they deal with those who engage in prank calls about such topics as harshly as possible.

Small spoiler: no, he didn't manage to finish it.

* * *

On the first day and night, Oleg wasn’t caught in a hot pursuit. He’d clearly had time to set up a hideout and a temporary loophole in the surveillance network before showing his face to the public. Irina escaped without any psychological trauma, though the medics who arrived with the police pumped her full of some special concoction as a precaution. It’s an Essence technology that helps people recover better from shocks, especially those caused by guys like Oleg. They gave Ilya the same shot too, even though he’d hoped to wriggle out of it, but he still got the injection into a vein in his neck. That was it—they left them there, after first calmly questioning them about what had happened, handed them a referral to a specialist psychologist, asked a few tricky questions, and that was that.

Ilya kept the recorder running throughout the entire conversation, if only to be on the safe side. As someone who had studied not only Brocken’s theory but also a pile of legislative documents related to divers and their integration into society, he knew perfectly well that rumors about all sorts of “truth serums” at monthly medical checkups were the narrative of paranoids, conspiracy theorists, and radical terrorists. On the other hand, the situation across the planet, in orbit, and in the lunar colony is particularly tense right now. And among cognitive relaxants of the essential type, various side effects can often be observed in the form of increased talkativeness and reduced concentration.

He was being questioned by a true professional—a short, even diminutive man with disarmingly simple manners, and a “Piterka” pin on his shirt collar. Piterka. That stands for the St. Petersburg Institute for the Study of the Broken World Phenomenon and the Effects of the Mechanism, also known as PIftSotBWPatEotM. It used to be among the top three educational institutions of its kind, competing on almost equal footing with both the London AU and the Chinese Pekingese (as the Party Academy was grandly referred to among students at the London AU).

Now that a split has occurred within the “swampy” academic community—particularly among the most seasoned faculty members—and a conflict has arisen with the authorities of the St. Petersburg metropolitan area, a significant portion of the top talent has moved to the Novosibirsk metropolitan area, where funding constraints were not an issue for them. Whether in London, Beijing, or Thessaloniki, the rectors of competing academies, on the day the split and restructuring were officially recognized, opened their personal alcohol reserves for this very special occasion.

Both the somewhat faded St. Petersburg institution and the Novosibirsk one—which was officially approved by the Assembly not too long ago but is already fully accredited—are still considered elite institutions. But the former is more so out of old habit, while the latter isn’t quite as renowned yet, though it’s making great strides; the most recent graduating classes, with whom Ilya has interacted, left a very favorable impression.

Setting aside the now-historic infighting among the bulldogs under the carpet of the General Ministry of Education of the Assembly, there is something else that deserves attention. Graduates of the institution this fellow crawled out of are now primarily known for the fact that, with a degree like that, they are snapped up without competition by all sorts of agencies—law enforcement and others. If you see a cufflink like that, you can immediately assume that the diploma lists “Applied Psychoanalysis and Conflict Studies regarding Operators of Anomalous Essences.” Read: those who expose all manner of lurking tigers and hiding dragons, while at the same time ensuring that all kinds of Skinmakers are locked up in a cell or, under the guise of the Treaty, put in their graves by a sniper’s bullet long before they start piling up corpses.

The security agent, who introduced himself as Pierre, quickly realized that his “fellow student” wasn’t buying the whole student fraternity act, so he stopped prying into his personal life without any tact. He probably called him a “lime-sucking asshole” in his head, but you can’t prove that. The guy has perfect control over his facial expressions, as for ungifted Earthlung. Ilya wasn’t offended by the “swamp shit-crawler” (shit is mentioned here because of one literally legendary incident involving a student hacking the sewer control system); after all, this rivalry is quite peaceful and healthy, traditional, and traditionally staying within bounds.

The rivalry doesn’t escalate into full-scale brawls between crowds, like among sports fans. If only because of the geographical situation. After all, you can’t really beat someone up during an online conference. Although online sparring sessions in virtual combat simulators were held regularly during their studies. The Chinese, Greeks, and Latinos really went all out back in Ilya’s college days. And they still do now, though Ilya doesn’t participate anymore: he’s past that age, and the training took up way too much time—almost like a full-fledged esports competition or a fully immersive virtual reality experience.

In short, Ilya didn’t relax until those guys had left Irina’s apartment, and the girl herself had flatly demanded his help in relieving her stress—she hadn’t even closed the front door when the investigators left. So he spent the entire next “day off” at her place, gradually calming down and letting off steam… and then another call came in over the network, again from the investigators, and this time with good news.

They found Oleg after all—or rather, they found his body. He was encircled by the Star of Eternity, his veins slit, for he had drawn the Star with his own blood (not strictly necessary, just for the sake of a dramatic gesture), and his blood contained a lethal dose of both Vilitrin and Glitter. The man decided it was time for him to move to Broken and leave this shitty Earth behind, and he passed out in a state of total euphoria.

To be honest, Ilya hadn’t had a very high opinion of his would-be assassin’s intellectual and mental qualities before, but after that, all he could do was shake his head. If a person voluntarily and defiantly—as if to say, “Look what I can do”—went and severed all ties with Earth, moving to Broken on a permanent basis, and on top of that to Twins, one of the craziest classes for resettlement, then it’s just a deep grave for the psyche. On the other hand, he should be grateful to be alive at all—it could have ended far less humorously if this individual had decided, in true Maniac fashion, to strike from ambush, immediately killing poor Ilya and preventing him from activating the effect of the blessing granted by Elea.

Anyway, if he had originally planned to move there permanently, then his “mercy” toward Irina and Ilya was genuine, not some cunning pretense aimed at possibly getting a lighter sentence. In the end, Ilya never did decide how he should treat this mentally deranged jerk, aside from the fact that he recognized Oleg as a mentally deranged jerk.

Irina, however, calmed down and even let out a sigh of relief, realizing that this lunatic wouldn’t bother her anymore. Actually, that was exactly why they called her, since such a suicide wasn’t a secret of the investigation. In the end, it all turned out to be purely psychological horror, without escalating into physical violence involving dismemberment. Only after hearing this news was he finally able to leave his companion and return to working on the next Cycle. Well, not just the cycle—he was also reviewing all sorts of Tournament results and descriptions—but he was mostly preparing for a new dive, a full-fledged one, not just for a Tournament. That’s why it was a little unpleasant to have to skip over a bunch of details that interested him.

The Tournament revealed a lot of interesting details, builds, and ways to use talents that seemed familiar as well as talents previously unknown to Earthlings. For instance, he wasn’t the only fighter to face a cat-blooded opponent in the first round; three other Earthlings faced one in their ninth and final match. However, in two out of three cases, the blood was very diluted, failing to produce full-fledged physical mutations and resulting only in a characteristic energy signature, without a combat form. Were it not for the pupils of their eyes, which changed even at the slightest hint of feline blood, they could have been mistaken for merely strange Beast-Possessed.

In one instance, by the way, the Earthling won decisively, as he was a Warlock specializing in necromancy. He literally transformed himself into a combat turret, unleashing the lion’s share of his stored power all at once, and literally tore the poor catboy to shreds. To be fair, Ilya’s opponent wouldn’t have died from that, and certainly wouldn’t have been hit at all. In the third case, the cat-maiden was in the test of skill, not valor, so there was no battle at all. But both Hunters—the Earthling and the alien from a previously virtually unknown world—had to spend nearly three weeks of subjective time searching for a hare hiding in the middle of a forest valley enclosed within a spatial lacuna. The hare was no easy target—a second-level creature on the verge of advancing to the third level, practically harmless, but very elusive and fast.

They talked. The deadline for the mission was approaching by the fourth week; they shared a lot of interesting things with each other—information about blood culture versus Earth’s knowledge of building—and they probably even slept together. The latter hasn’t been proven, but the Earthling got ridiculously indignant at the suggestion and blocked him, just as he had done when the other hinted at confirming the truth of the matter. But generally speaking, it might not have been entirely consensual. The charisma of cat blood is off the charts. It’s not brainwashing in the usual sense, but if she wants you, you’ll want her too. In guys with cat blood, this tendency manifests even more strongly, especially if they deliberately cultivate that aspect of their innate talents.

In addition to the cats, there were quite a few other oddities, including a Shapeshifter with the appearance of a Cuckoo at the third step. She wasn’t exactly on par with Mev, but she was up against an experienced Citadel step three player who had been tipped for a promotion to step four for the past two years. And to make matters worse for her, he was playing a class that wasn’t the best matchup for her—the Executioner’s evolution, which allowed him to cast “Supreme Verdict” on her and avoid falling under her cognitive effects. But Gabriel Costa himself admitted that he won on sheer grit, simply reducing the fight to a brawl and not letting it drag on. Otherwise, things would have turned out quite differently. An opponent like that is generally ill-suited for direct combat.

It’s likely that the Cuckoo managed to make it all the way to the eighth battle solely because very few knew about her and understood what she was. But the Earthlings had, have, and will continue to have the Echidna for a long time to come, so the Spanish Inquisitor certainly didn’t dare to underestimate his opponent, knowing right away exactly how to proceed. In general, there were quite a few Cuckoos, including one who was not a Shapeshifter but a Possessed—something that had previously been considered theoretically possible but practically nonexistent. Alas for them, on the lower steps, such beings are not particularly impressive and therefore won battles only through sheer luck or mistakes by the Earthlings. It is another matter that most of them did not even attempt the Choice of Battle, quite sensibly preferring to choose Proof of Proficiency.

We came across several truly unique builds, relics, pieces of knowledge, and all that sort of thing. This was especially true during the proficiency tests, which were designed to be much more flexible than the direct combat tests. Often, these tasks had to be completed solo, in the sense that only a single diver was involved. But just as often, we worked in teams—both as competitors (without bloodshed, which was physically prohibited) and as allies. The same shared hunt with the cat girl was just one of many examples, while the tasks could be completely different, sometimes unusual, and sometimes hilariously funny.

Two Mechanists with nearly identical builds, suspended on platforms in the middle of nowhere, given the same set of materials, a week’s time, and the task of creating something more complex, higher quality, and more valuable than their competitor’s. A trio of alchemists, one of whom turned out to be a Pure One, was forced to work as a team to sculpt a powerful homunculus with specified characteristics from the given resources. Killing each other was forbidden, but the Pure One messed things up here too, simply refusing to participate, and then attempting to throw a “Drop of Solution” in the Earthling’s face. He was immediately vaporized from the task zone, but the Earthling and another inhabitant of another world had to complete the task meant for three of them as a pair.

They coped, but on the edge.

The largest groups of masters taking the Alliance (and competitive) trial were the seven-person teams, and this was already closer to the seventh task. There were technical challenges there that simply couldn’t be completed alone, regardless of whether you were at the first or fourth level. Mesmericals had already donated essence to a member of one such group of seven—comprising two Dreamwalkers, two Enchanters, a Shaman, an Alchemist, and a Witch—who had been assigned a task as complex as it was vulgar. Mass treatment (in Mesmericls’ favorite paradigm, of course) of the entire Harvest Sower monastery, including the gifted Priestesses, certainly qualifies as quite a feat, considering the abbess’s second rank and the more than three hundred women on the roster marked by the dead’s mercy.

The final result turned out to be so obscene that it could get you banned even on porn sites, but the description of how the task was carried out read just like a fast-paced erotic novel with elements of a political thriller. The irony is that Dreamwalker-Earthling was one of those who always and everywhere tried to prove that his class wasn’t just full of perverts and brainwashers. And he had confirmed the truthfulness of his actions on the Forum more than once! That said, he himself would have definitely failed the mission; the group’s main firepower was the second Dreamwalker on their team.

A resident of a fairly advanced, albeit dystopian, world, possessed such a twisted imagination and such skill in bringing that imagination to life that Mesmericls solemnly promised to get in touch with her as soon as they’d finally decided how to spend the transition charges issued for this interval between cycles to the Forum of Alien Worlds. Ilya hadn’t really been following this weirdo, but judging by the description, she’s such a stunner that a meeting with Mesmericls would be quite fitting for her... or even for him with her, despite it being only the first step. Children grow up very quickly, catching up to their “fathers” on the ladder, or even overtaking them.

There was no shortage of thrilling and simply fascinating stories from the Tournament. Some were terrifying, some were bittersweet, and some, on the contrary, were even a little funny. Like the battle between two second-step Night Guests, Assassin class evolutions, who were forced to hunt each other down in a massive and extremely unstable high-rise, built in the best style of the long-demolished South American favelas. That is, out of shit and sticks. Battles between Assassins, especially those with an extremely refined stealth build, and under such difficult conditions—that’s a whole different story. Such battles either end very quickly, drag on for a long time and become boring until someone makes a mistake and gives themselves away, or turn into a wild circus. In this case, it turned out to be exactly that—a circus—no doubt about it.

It turned out that they had both taken up positions in the same, not particularly large room, and had even built their builds so that their stealth was far superior to their sensory abilities. It wasn’t until the building collapsed under another gust of stormy wind that it dawned on them they’d been right next to each other the whole time. Alas, time was up; the arena was collapsing, and that little house stood on a floating rock above a sea saturated with magic, where a single touch of the water could easily strip the flesh down to the very core of the soul. It was a draw, and the earthling swore by the Forum that his rival’s face was just as dumb and ridiculous as his own as they fell into the abyss, clinging to each other.

The screenshot is attached, and the facial expression is truly priceless

Things on Earth haven’t been quiet either. There have been several major riots, especially in the Asian sector. Once again, different communities couldn’t agree on something and ended up fighting over party subsidies. It seems that several officials of the current Three Kingdoms were arrested yet again for publicly using dangerous essential abilities, as they once more began to explore the origins of righteousness and the pursuit of truth. The Assembly’s Special Forces subdued the Executioner and the Soul Reaper, who had both simultaneously reached their Hour of Power. Among them was at least one Forth step, a Charmancer, who overwhelmed the two idiots with a powerful, mind-suppressing debuff, which is why they were successfully subdued.

No joke. This could now result in some serious charges and jail time. It’s a miracle that no one was killed, given that a couple of blows missed their mark by a hair’s breadth. It all ended with a few concussions and the ear of a random souvenir vendor being severed by the echo of the executioner’s blades. No one is going to sentence two respected and officially registered second-level divers to life in prison, but a couple of years behind bars with massive fines affecting their social credit score and debt payments? Easy. Asians never drag their feet on such sentences, just like almost everywhere else in the world, if you don’t count the Indians, and even then, with reservations.

An even more viral video was filmed in Copenhagen, where one of the lucky tournament participants with Hour decided to put on a public performance in one of the city squares. The guy had an official Jester class, specializing in acrobatics and agile combat, so he certainly entertained the crowd. This guy was a bit on the heavy side—actually, quite a bit, to be honest—but he pulled off absolutely mind-blowing somersaults; even Ilya watched with interest. More because he liked to pick up on specific details of someone else’s performance and then figure out which originally deadly and combat-oriented skill had formed the basis of that trick.

It all ended just as epically. Having climbed to the top of the ring of flagpoles, where the flags of the Assembly’s member countries were flying, he managed to use up his Hour right in the middle of a jump. And he fell—fell as an ordinary person, chubby and clumsy. He landed on his butt on the flagpole, managing by some miracle not to become the victim of a certain Wallachian lord, hanging by his own pants and underwear, which had gotten caught on the tip of the flagpole. The tip had lodged firmly between the buttocks of this extreme tightrope walker, and they had to use special equipment to get him down. Rescue workers reportedly took quite a while to rescue him, not because the situation was so complicated, but because they couldn’t stop laughing.

Ilya, like many other experts on the mechanics of the Broken and the nature of the Mechanism, tried in vain to convince the ecstatic crowd that they had been duped, just like coffee grounds in boiling water. Because even an experienced diver couldn’t miss the moment when the Mechanism’s reward expired, and besides, it’s constantly nagging at the edge of one’s consciousness, reminding you of a ticking timer. So this wasn’t the epic downfall of an overly self-confident blogger, but a very calculated move aimed at making the video go viral and racking up donations, subscribers, advertising contracts, or something along those lines. Alas, the faint voices of the experts who understood everything were drowned out by the raucous laughter of the unassuming audience.

Not all those who possessed what was once an extremely rare gift used it for evil or to gain a momentary surge in popularity. There were at least two individuals with healing abilities—the Priest, a servant of the Eternal Reaper, and the Martyr, who also worked as an online porn star—who sacrificed their Hour to save a number of terminally ill patients. While in the Priest’s case, it was more of a PR stunt by the corporation he worked for, the list of those healed was suspiciously similar to one that had been pre-selected, the Martyr simply went to the hospice closest to her home, where, until the rollback, she used “Other Torment” and “Keeper of Agony.”

She healed some people entirely, taking their illness and pain upon herself, while for others she simply gave them a few extra years of life. Most types of cancer have long been defeated thanks to essential technologies, but some terminal cases still occur. Ilya was even worried she might burn out—in an hour, her body, enhanced by the “Blood and Heart” attribute, might not be able to process all the junk she had taken. However, it seemed like the lady knew exactly what she was doing; he had read her blog—dedicated to diving, not her second profession—and was convinced that she was a thoroughly competent and knowledgeable specialist. Someone like that shouldn’t kill herself, and even if she did manage to, she’d have enough money for proper treatment.

There was also a rather curious instance of a Druid using his powers to restore and expand a small park area in a town with an unpronounceable name somewhere in Scandinavia. It turned out funny and beautiful, but the guy ended up out of sync under pressure from the Twini, who was clearly not used to Earth’s ecology, noise, and atmosphere. In the end, of course, it was funny, especially because of the massive oak tree that grew right on top of the local agronomists’ shed—the very people who were supposed to be in charge of restoring the green space. Funny, yes, if it weren’t for the realization that the diver, who had been thrown off course by emotional and sensory overload, could have been thrown in a completely different direction. And the forest would have grown not on bagged fertilizer and imported soil, but on the bodies of that very landscaping crew and all the immediate neighbors.

It's terrifyingly fun.

All that was left was to hope that there was no Druid near Ilya who had received his Hour, or the fourth level, otherwise the greening of the surrounding areas would also begin.

* * *

Breathing heavily, exhausted and even spent, Ilya finishes a set of 50 classic push-ups, completed in one go without any breaks. He’s always been in good shape and never cut himself any slack, but now the workload is much higher than usual. In principle, he could have taken on this kind of load before, but he didn’t, preferring lighter forms of gymnastics and athletics rather than heavy strain, including on the heart. His heart was pounding anxiously in his chest, yet it showed no hurry to pierce his lungs with the light or not-so-light pricks of an icy needle. Rising to his feet slowly, Ilya immediately grabbed his portable medical sensor, measuring his blood pressure, pulse rate, and blood oxygen levels, and even conducting a blood analysis.

The result turned out to be exactly what he had both longed for and feared. Perfectly normal—ideal health for his age. It’s a classic scenario: it’s long been known that using the Hour of Power doesn’t turn a diver into a superhuman once it’s over, but it does eliminate the body’s original flaws. And while the old scars on his skin remained, albeit somewhat faded, his lifelong heart condition and the slight decline in his pancreas and thyroid function that had set in after he turned thirty had, let’s just say, ceased to be a problem. And yet Ilya was quite seriously considering the need to somehow legalize his income to pay for a rather expensive series of medical procedures and improve his health.

And now, he can save money. Now he doesn’t have to worry about what he eats at night, snacking on unhealthy fast food instead of healthy—and even tasty—but not spicy-salty-sweet enough food spreads. He can easily maintain or even increase his physical activity, which he’s been neglecting a bit lately and is gradually reducing. But it’s not so easy to do a medical exam now, because such a high-quality recovery will literally scream in meter-high letters with nano-backlighting that someone here is either a diver, has hired one, or has become close with one of the earthly fours who possessed the appropriate healing talent.

One way or another, you’ll run into more problems with keeping things under wraps—unless, of course, you want to end up like Irina, for whom secrecy exists only in her imagination. Actually, that’s exactly why Ilya, before using the medical sensor, spent a long time carefully hacking it, reflashing it, and disabling the automatic saving and sending of results to the company’s server and from there to the district clinic’s database. Most likely, he’ll have to buy a new one and write this one off as broken. Maybe he’ll even actually break it, destroying the memory chip, and then make a fuss trying to get warranty coverage.

But never mind, that’s just nitpicking and trivialities.

What is certainly no mere trifle are the physical and mental abilities gained upon activating Elea’s gift—abilities that are by no means limited to the ability to breathe ice and devour uranium ore. This was the second time Ilya had used the gift consciously, having previously uncovered and partially prepared the tables for Ryuk’s brood’s upcoming swing, as well as the possible changes to his build resulting from participating in the ritual. All the necessary diagrams, calculations, and computations—everything that formed the foundation of his expertise as an expert on the Mechanism and the Broken. And then, before beginning the final phase, he activated the gift and, within a few minutes, understood why the consultations and assistance of specialists possessing the third rank in the Broken are so highly valued

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that he suddenly became many times better than he had been in the past—he hadn’t, and he couldn’t have, since he had already worked with divers on several occasions, including some of the highest caliber. And many of them were no match for him. This, let’s be honest, flattered Ilya’s ego, allowing him to take well-deserved pride in the fact that he wouldn’t be outdone by people whose tools were always at their disposal, helping and guiding them where a simple human brain might falter. Graphs, tables, databases, trained AIs—Ilya made extensive use of everything that would help compensate for his lack of reflexes, poor memory, and the absence of that unnatural and scientifically inexplicable intuition.

He simply knew where to look, how to ask the Forum and the network, who to turn to for help, and what queries to send to his AI assistant. And so, while he may not have been on equal footing with those who were no longer quite human, he wasn’t exactly lagging far behind them either. If anything, he simply worked a bit slower, at a human pace, unless he was pushing himself with semi-legal chemical cocktails, after which he’d need an IV drip. Yes, even in his own mind, he wouldn’t compare himself to the old-timer Odie, the cunning Su Wei, the legendary Angelica Losk, or other celebrated legends who created most of the Forum’s infographics from scratch. But he was still an excellent professional with his own specialization and an impeccable reputation.

And so, for one hour, he managed to become something greater than he had been before, to attain something that an ordinary person could never comprehend—not on Earth. And it turned out that the combination of his usual erudition and the boost from the attributes resulted in yet another multiplication. His frozen body and brain, supported by “Claws and Bones” and “Blood and Heart,” didn’t overheat or tire even when performing calculations directly in his head—and just imagine what “Veil and Mystery” and “Aurora and Radiance” were capable of! Those very attributes responsible for intuition, data analysis, and finding the right path in the work of a lore-seer revealed themselves to the fullest. He even experienced a withdrawal seizure—previously unknown to him but perfectly described in medical reference books—which returned him to the ordinary state of a simple man.

He didn’t use Elea’s gift anymore, partly because he didn’t want to rely on it too heavily, and partly because if his scars and some of his skin pigmentation were to disappear completely, it would become impossible for him to talk it off in the future. With his mind and logic, he understood perfectly well that even if his cover as a diver were blown, it wouldn’t be a disaster or even a major problem, but since he’d taken on the role of an ordinary citizen, he had to do it well—not like Irina. For God’s sake, he regularly catches her in the act when she guards her “secret” in a particularly conspicuous way.

Anyway, both of them were more focused on the upcoming cycle right now and weren’t particularly eager to meet up, which suited them both just fine. Ilya had also gotten in touch with Magnus, and he had laid out his adventures with the rescued agents in great detail, point by point. Or rather, at first in their company, when they were just leaving the city, having broken through under fire and taken out a group of some shady figures—whether they were guards, rangers, ringleaders, or just a random hunting party that had seen too much for its own good. And only later, three days into their escape, when the former captives had come to their senses, did they part ways.

The farewell was tense. Both sides were expecting a dirty trick, but none happened. Elfeya (somehow, there were a lot of deadly women named with an “El” in Ilya’s life who were gifted with the Mechanism) gave a few addresses and contact points to reach out to if needed, whether seeking a reward for help, a job, or a whole bunch of trouble. To her credit, Magnus didn’t notice even a hint of manipulation. She had even suppressed her aura to the limit and, throughout the entire journey, didn’t do anything in the inimitable style of her class.

These are not the Twins' thoughts, but those of the Earthling himself. He has already analyzed all his sensations, thoughts, feelings, and desires here. Even a very well-executed mental-suggestive manipulation—one of which the victimized Twin remains completely unaware—can be easily identified upon emerging from the dive. Well, if you know how, if you’re skilled, and also if the processing wasn’t done by a true expert—and was done extremely smoothly and imperceptibly, with effects of the lowest degree of manifestation—then even on Earth it would be possible to confuse the thoughts that came to the Twin with natural ones. However, you couldn’t really call that “mental manipulation”—it’s closer to pure psychology, recruitment methods, and getting under someone’s skin.

Over the course of their three-day journey together, Elfeya hadn’t made a single move, which actually disappointed Magnus a little. In his interactions with Justine, he’d bet that she was at least trying to exert some kind of aural charm—pushing the very limits of propriety so she wouldn’t get killed. If she had actually tried to seriously brainwash the Earth Executioner’s Twin, he would have calmly killed her. Alas, or perhaps fortunately, if the lady mentally dominated anyone, it was her own personal Seeker, but neither Magnus nor Justine intended to save him—they were busy saving themselves.

He also talked about his tournament, albeit very superficially—just the opponents’ tiers and the number of wins. He had eight wins, and he didn’t lose in the middle but right at the very end, in the ninth match, and against a rather exotic Mechanic, no less. He didn’t name the specialization of this “freckled, busty bitch with her bitchy antics,” and in general, Ilya got the feeling that the fight hadn’t just ended in defeat—his opponent seemed to have thoroughly mocked him as well; that was the impression Ilya got. So he didn’t dare press the issue; it was clear that Magnus wasn’t going to go into full detail about the fights.

Ilya also boasted of eight victories of his own, because any fewer would have raised questions in the eyes of the Executioner, who had witnessed him in action, while any more would have sparked envy—something he certainly didn’t need at that moment. He even admitted that he had lost to a woman, the Storyteller, with an unpleasant and cunning build, and on an arena that was particularly unfavorable for him. In a way, he didn’t even lie, which allowed him to tell the story as if it were true. After all, he didn’t say he’d won only eight fights; no, he merely stated that he’d won the first eight, but then the Storyteller had completely crushed him, leaving him with no chance—in that fight, he had no chance of success.

There was no chance of success in battle, yes.

Who knows, maybe Magnus also played up his defeat in some similar way, and with exactly the same goal as Ilya?

Little by little, the usual work routine has returned to normal, the same old jerk Maxim, the still sulking Fedot, who no longer tried to pull off document-shuffling shenanigans with their department, and the ever-mysterious Mashuntsiya, who managed to convince the bosses of several neighboring departments to throw an impromptu office party. It was fun, funny, and cozy—but not for Ilya, for he spent most of the party sitting in a far corner, wearing a multicolored gnome’s cap—handed out to everyone as a matter of course—and gloomily sipping a mediocre cocktail through a straw. The only interesting thing was a fight between two vaguely familiar colleagues from neighboring departments who couldn’t agree on their digital “waifu.”

Both played the same popular VR game, and by their own accounts, earned only slightly less from it than they did from their actual jobs. Both worked and played in the same clan. Both were on some quest to win the favor of a digital space aristocrat—not a princess. Only their objects of affection turned out to be opposed, which led first to teasing, then to insults, then to shoving matches with displays of the “broadest back” syndrome, and finally to an ugly but exciting brawl.

For the first time in all the corporate madness, Ilya actually managed to show genuine interest: both fighters were in pretty good shape, could take a punch, and worked out at the gym; plus, their capsules turned out to be high-quality models that preserve and even improve the condition of the bodies inside. By the way, friendship won. To be more specific, it was a large portable sign that read: “INTERDEPARTMENTAL FRIENDSHIP”—after all, it was with that sign that the shorter but more desperate fighter smashed his opponent over the head. He didn’t break it (neither the sign nor the head), but he bent the sturdy polyplastic composite material, all the while screaming like a madman: “And who’s the log here!? Who’s the log, asshol!? Who’s the log!?” However, in a completely illogical manner, he wouldn’t even let the person he was beating try to answer such an important question.

They didn’t separate the two right away; instead took them away in the same police van. Not only did the officers issue both of them a fine and threaten to lower their social rating, but the youngest officer also made a clearly mocking remark, saying that the “best girl” was actually the third digital lady. And yet they weren’t even discussing the natives of Broken so fervently—no, just digital simulations of personalities! However, the cynical part of Ilya admitted that some simulators, based on clusters of AIs, communicate far more vividly and humanely than the lion’s share of not-very-smart meatbags, whose brains have long been chewed up by glitter.

As has become his tradition, he spent the last few days before diving into a new cycle of infinity devoted entirely to leisure. He visited the arboretum, alone, without Irina, rode the rides at the theme park—something he’d previously tried to avoid so as not to strain his heart—and watched a free online course on ikebana, though in the latter case he couldn’t figure out at all what had driven him to such a perversion. He also made sure to visit all sorts of sections of the Forum, both funny and not so funny. Sometimes they were simply joyful, as was the case with the Light Feathers community. By the way, their “deputy leader”—the second-in-command of a group consisting of nine gifted Earthlings and two aliens—consulted Ilya several times on various matters.

In this cycle, the group managed to escape the Great Bazaar by employing a bunch of pre-planned tactics, though not everyone made it out—two of them were left behind, having permanently lost the Twin. Still, they all ended up in an extremely unpleasant place, after which they were practically officially buried, and they themselves had hoped to simply hold out a little longer. There weren’t that few who managed to get into the Great Bazaar. The necessary pure rituals capable of opening the door, though not publicly available, can be dug up on the Forum, or customized for oneself either personally or by a hired specialist.

But the list of those who successfully left this place after managing to get there, to put it mildly, pales in comparison to the previous list. The Great Bazaar, sometimes also called the Bazaar—a reference to some nerdy cultural reference from nearly a century ago—was one of those places known for the fact that from there, you could get to any point in the Broken, provided you could pay, find the right price, and hold your ground in a haggle. Back in the day, Earthlings tried to seriously and permanently invest in this place, even to establish a foothold there, but all attempts ended, at best, in nothing—the chance to break even.

In far more common cases, a diver’s career came to an end. Anyone who lost their way and lost themselves in the Bazaar also lost the Twin—and their right to one. After one of the earthly bearers of the fifth level also lost his Twin, the program for working with the Great Bazaar was completely shut down, and a large sign was hung on the object of interest itself with the inscription: “DON’T GO IN, IDIOT, THEY’LL EAT YOU ALIVE IN THERE.” For a while, a few individuals still tried to stir up trouble, and others attempted to bring back the guildmates and friends lost there, but they too quickly lost their nerve or met a radical end.

To put it in the most general and simplified terms, the Great Bazaar was a sort of trans-worldly constant, a place beyond all places, existing everywhere and nowhere, which one could enter—whether by choice or not—from any point in the Broken World. And with a truly legendary effort, one could even leave it again. As some humorists like to joke: since the Broken World is a fully immersive virtual toy created by the Ancients, the Great Bazaar must be considered a trading platform and an Auction House.

But just as the entire fucking world is Broken—with its Dead Gods and a Mechanism that’s clearly not quite right—so too is this place broken. They sell everything there; you can buy anything, and anyone. You’ll find all sorts of merchants, but the trouble is that those who end up there rarely have the currency used at the Bazaar. Here and there in the Broken World, you can find the rarest of consumables, known as “Exhausted Coins”—old-looking coins, green with mold and rusted from oxidation, made of an unknown material resembling plain iron.

They bear no magical mark, are of no value, and are not used in rituals—unless those rituals are exceptionally rare, secret, and wildly complex. These coins are valued only at the Great Bazaar, and they are the only way to buy anything there without paying with another item that might interest the seller. Not by paying with yourself, of course. In the cursed Bazaar, everything has its price: every step, every glance, every question, every attempt to strike up a conversation—simply being there gradually makes you more open to the local inhabitants, imposing on the Twin an endless stream of debt and demands for payment

Until someone from outside, as they call everyone who is not tightly connected to the Bazaar, simply buys it.

The Feathers that had ended up at the Bazaar managed to make good use of the handful of coins they found in the lacuna they were clearing—coins that were actually priceless if you knew how to use them. They emerged from the Bazaar’s captivity with a profit in the form of a Sleeping Heart purchased for a couple of coins—one capable of supporting not a dozen, but a good hundred divers—and also acquired some other relics as change. Alas, not without the unnatural and natural greed that had overtaken some of them, yes. This place likes to play with minds, too. Who knows—did he decide on his own to risk raising the stakes, putting himself or his comrades on the line, or did something insidious and imperceptible seep into his brain after all?

It’s a miracle they survived at all. This time, the bottomless, greedy maw of the embodiment of the measure of all things finally let its guests go. This has long ceased to be a secret, even though the theory hasn’t been proven; still, it’s believed almost at the official level. They believe that the Great Bazaar sometimes releases its victims on purpose, releases them almost untouched, and releases them with gifts. It releases them so they can share the story of their success with the rest of the Broken, so they leave behind more hooks and clues, more rumors and conversations, legends and lore. So that they would come to him, the Bazaar, again and again, again and again, until the path from the Broken sector to the timeless place where the Great Bazaar stands becomes strong enough.

And then, in that Sector, new rows of stalls will begin to appear in well-established markets, along with odd little shops and stores where there were definitely none before, and beautifully decorated tents in the middle of the wasteland, inviting travelers to come in and look at the goods. Come in and look—because everyone must come in and look. There are actually quite a few sectors where the Great Bazaar has successfully established itself and regularly makes an appearance; you’re sure to find at least a hundred of them. This place, to use medical terms, is like a harmless and asymptomatic disease that is in no hurry to kill its host, much like some kind of herpes. Certainly not the Bone Piper and his clique, after whose visit nothing living or functioning will remain of the sector—or, far worse, something will remain.

After wrapping up the good news and congratulating Mikel Tevas on his resurrection from the dead, Ilya moved on to the just plain funny news. Thankfully, by the end of the Cycle, there were plenty of nominations for the funniest moment. Most of them, of course, were related to the Tournament, but there were plenty of classic funny moments as well. For example, Citadel did it again—only this time, instead of wild rumors flying around, there was official confirmation.

Fifth Elephant [OP], [verified diver], [Citadel Seneschal], [Second Step: Perceiver of the Hidden]: Well, all that’s left for me to do is officially confirm everything that has already leaked into the merciless web without my involvement. Yes, it’s all true; neither [RockerCracker], nor [Melind_A_Lind], nor even [Scroll!K!] lied to you—that’s exactly how it happened. Someone brazenly swiped the prize for the ongoing contest to determine the best bearer of the stealthy-thieving archetype among the gifted members of the Citadel (I beg the esteemed public’s pardon for the profanity, but there’s no way to remove the strong language from this song).

Fifth Elephant [OP], [verified diver], [Citadel Seneschal], [Second Step: Perceiver of the Hidden]: While our participants were undergoing the final trial, the defensive line of the chest containing the grand prize was breached; the security constructs were distracted, as were a couple of gifted individuals—one of whom was a diver from the allies, and the other one of ours, from Earth. The pro at work was by no means a first-tier specialist; it’s not even certain they were second-tier. You understand, there aren’t even that many level-three specialists in the right field among us, so now everyone is exchanging suspicious glances. No, a bloodbath won’t break out, but Judas’s little bird will give us all a good jolt to the nerves; internal security never sleeps, especially if one of our own starts losing marbles.

Fifth Elephant [OP], [verified diver], [Citadel Seneschal], [Second Step: Perceiver of the Hidden]: why are they ours? The answer is obvious from the very fact that the ultra-thief took neither the active “Crystal Bowl” containing three dozen drops of Essence extracted from the Heart, nor the ill-fated “Universal Key,” a rechargeable, reusable second-tier relic, nor even the blood gold nugget stolen eighty-one times. For thief archetypes of any class, the ideal mediator for ascending from the first tier to the second. I realize everyone knows this; I’m just stating it for the guests of our section.

Fifth Elephant [OP], [verified diver], [Citadel Seneschal], [Second Step: Perceiver of the Hidden]: No, no, no—of course not. Our mysterious thief took nothing but the silk bandage from Lady Sl’An’n’Atri’s legs—she is now the main local ally on the southern border with the Citadel, having voluntarily sworn a series of extremely strict oaths. I will ban anyone for the next wave of shitstorm, claiming that our guys have “mesmericled her up” and that her garter will become a bedroom trigger. As a representative of the Citadel and its Seneschal, I know nothing of such idiocy, which I confirm to the Forum. Otherwise, it’s still quiet—awkward and a bit of a mess—like nothing serious happened, but who are we supposed to give the prize to now!?

Comments: 351 of 7622

Ilya was flipping through others’ attempts at silly humor and declarations of love for an unknown thief of women’s lingerie—if the ribbon tied just below the top of the thigh could even be called lingerie—but his thoughts had already wandered a bit further. A remark about how, in reality, that wardrobe item was meant to be a mentally activated pass into the bed of a noble lady—and an equally noble bitch—who would quite naturally burn with passion for the tournament’s victor? That joke seemed funny only at first, especially if it wasn’t really a joke.

Yes, if there was one place that understood the importance of reputation and minimizing underhanded tactics, it was the Citadel—but that didn’t mean the fives who ruled the Citadel were exactly angels. They had their own assortment of personality-altering teams, and their work was by no means limited to checking their own people for enemy influence and dirty tricks, nor was it limited to restoring those who had fallen into partial desynchronization or uncovering spy cells. However, to brazenly not only manipulate a local aristocrat on the cusp of the third and fourth steps, but also to hand her over as a “gift” to the winner of a tournament among their gifted—one that was, in general, off the record?

This is going too far, not even because it’s immoral, but because, damn it, it’s unprofessional—and not even the Citadel’s fiercest enemies would dare accuse them of unprofessionalism. On the other hand... Lady Viostia Sl’An’n’Atri, unlike her family, did not oppose the Citadel, for she had only recently attained the second step. And she clung with every limb to the Earthlings’ proposal, which had the rest of her family tearing their hair out, for someone had to be put in charge of the lands—lands the Citadel deemed unnecessary, yet which must not be allowed to descend into complete anarchy.

This woman is undoubtedly a vile creature and scum—though shackled by the chains of her vows, she remains the treacherous and deceitful heiress of a house renowned for the talent “Memory of the Aspids,” which is automatically bestowed upon those gifted with the Mechanism. For all of them, chronic backstab disorder was not merely a character trait common among the upper echelons of Broken society, but also a consequence of that very five-step talent. So the scenario in which she was not only led to take an oath by being presented with the choice of “either vassalage and loyalty, or reunion with her family,” but was also mentally conditioned without waiting for the moment when she would decide to test the leash’s strength, seems entirely plausible.

Back then, the ill-fated and long-defunct Noble Union of the Nine Houses had spilled a great deal of Earthlings’ blood, and the Earthlings did not hold back in their retaliation. There could be no love between the Earthling divers and the natives, including the surviving Sl’An’n’Atri, who had taken command of the remnants of her House. She, of course, successfully raised those remnants to heights they had never before reached; now her house is a match in power to any other royal house, yet before the Citadel, her domain is still but dust. In such a situation, and with the “Memory of the Aspids” in her mind from birth, thoughts of betrayal cannot help but arise—betrayal not even for gain, but simply because such is her aspid nature: to sting the hand that feeds her, to betray even to her own detriment.

So Ilya wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if this lady’s mind had been reprogrammed long ago, and her visits to the Citadel were merely to refresh and test the resilience of her structured personality. And then there’s this rumor, of unknown origin, that the traditional “winner’s ribbon” from a very affectionate woman is in fact merely a trigger for a built-in cascade of suggestions.

Peter “Elephant” Rhodes (a nickname given for the Sage’s perfect memory, developed into an even greater ideal, thanks to which he is quite capable, if pressed, of recalling even what he never knew), who hides under the nickname Fifth Elephant on the Forum, holds the official status of Seneschal.

He answers questions on the Forum, runs a number of columns for his own people and others, advises newcomers, and does a whole bunch of other things, just like his six fellow seneschals. But his claim that “he knows nothing about this idiocy” is very vague indeed. He claims to know nothing. But what if it’s not him? What if the ridiculous theory about handing over the indigenous woman’s behind—which looks like an extremely sexualized version of an “Agronian maiden,” if Ilya remembered the term correctly—to one of his friends turned out to be true? What if someone managed to brazenly steal the key to the heart and mind of the native woman, whose lands serve as a massive logistics hub for transferring a range of resources extracted in the sector straight to the Citadel’s workshops, and the curators of this lady fucked up and lost said key?

Ilya can’t say for sure whether this theory is true. But he is practically 100% certain that the situation itself—the rumors originating from “anonymous” sources, as well as the resulting commotion—clearly points to internal intrigues within the Citadel. The fact that they are always united and present a united front does not rule out isolated instances of indirect confrontation. Or maybe Ilya just overcomplicated the whole situation, and the stolen tape was taken by one of the divers—someone who decided to mess around, challenge the jury’s verdict, or was simply starting to lose his grip and gave in to a fleeting impulse to steal.

Severe kleptomania is one of the primary signs of the mental pressure triggered by thieving talents, whether from the Assassin, Oath Bearer, Soul Reaper, Sage, or even the Occultist build in the Generosity branch. The very concept of theft is reflected in a multitude of talents, litanies, pure rituals, theurgical texts, or even the abilities of creatures. Everyone remembers the situation with the Stolen Lands—an entire Sector, and a sizeable one at that, which in time immemorial was stolen by a creature of either the sixth or even the seventh step, though this remains unproven. And now those lands are literally nowhere—they do not appear on maps, and it is impossible to memorize roads or the path already traveled there. Every morning when he wakes up, the Twin feels as if he has to learn all over again how to live in a completely unfamiliar place.

There are, of course, no states there at all. Even any semblance of a large indigenous community fails to emerge due to the factors mentioned. These are savage, even primitive territories, where the inhabitants long ago abandoned articulate speech as unnecessary, differing little from animals. The three Earthlings who survived there—each in different parts of the stolen territory—still maintain blogs that are as psychedelic as they are bizarre. All sorts of simpler creatures have long ceased to surprise anyone; just recently, a large community finally took down a fourth-step creature, bordering on the fifth, and one so troublesome that it would have been easier to take down a couple of fifth-steps.

A fucking bird capable of snatching a FaFo points right out of a diver’s Status. The creature is generally very dangerous because it loves everything shiny, rare, and related to FaFo, which is why divers—who are inevitably given a single ill-fated attribute upon creating a Twin—were its favorite prey. And people would line up for the little bird just so she’d take FoFa for herself, but, alas, she’s too evil and insane a creature. After stealing the FaFo attribute, she’ll go on to steal life, memory, soul, and even the diver’s status—she’ll steal everything.

All joking aside. There is a growing discussion about a rather terrible—yet by no means hopeless—idea: to resurrect the bird through the most complex, high-level theurgy of the Black Belly, effectively purging it of its excessive madness, and then trying to negotiate with this supposedly rational entity to feed it a portion of the attributes of the divers suffering most from FaFo. Perhaps they’ll even take the risk, and Ilya will later read about how yet another community reduced itself to nothing through its own decisions.

Not for the first, not for the hundredth, and certainly not for the last time in his memory.

* * *

The drowsiness that crept in as evening fell beckoned him into its embrace as usual, no longer feeling particularly alien or dangerous: Ilya had grown accustomed to the Mechanism’s call, accustomed to diving into the Broken World. He fell asleep quickly, sinking into a viscous, dark void that instantly gave way to the familiar non-void between cycles. This time, he acts much faster, doesn’t hesitate for long, and doesn’t torment himself with the agony of choice—just a single Grain of Talent, just one talent in addition to those he had already taken on his first dive. Though not a Talent at first, but a concentrate of an Attribute that boosts one of those already at his disposal.

There’s no point in overthinking this. The Earthling has long been familiar with the Wendigo’s key attributes, and he’s already decided what to prioritize. It’s either Claws and Bones or Blood and Heart, but the smarter move would be to bring the foundation of his offensive power—namely Claws and Bones—up to the coveted 7, where he can expect not just a quantitative leap, but a qualitative one as well.

Claws and Bones: 1+2(Lot)+3+1(Gift of Turnament)=7

Strength and might, physical perfection, speed, agility, explosive power, reaction and perception speed, instincts for combat and battle, and unconscious reflexes.

Now the Talent.

There was plenty to choose from. Ilya was a pro, after all, so he carefully reviewed the list of talents available to him, finding that it had remained virtually unchanged since the last time. The essence of the matter hadn’t changed either: he had already considered every possible option during his time on Earth, so now he was simply confirming his choice. There were a great many excellent talents that would certainly not hinder Ilya in his quest for survival and future advancement. In fact, he had spent most of his time and calculations on Earth trying to find a balance between his thirst for power, practicality, and the need to adapt a talent to the circumstances in which he found himself.

He could have stuck to the original plan and chosen “Cold Heart” with its four specializations. It would have significantly boosted the combat potential of “Cold Breath,” opened up a number of extremely interesting possibilities, generally strengthened the build, and simplified the transition to the next tier. What stopped him was that he no longer really needed raw combat power right now. He has overcome what is known on Earth as the “plateau of powerlessness,” when the Twin is not yet sufficiently leveled up to operate with satisfactory efficiency.

There’s no point complaining about a lack of firepower right now. And he knows a few ways to obtain the “Cold Heart” through a ritual framework. In fact, he won’t even really need Osetra’s help. Though it wouldn’t hurt. That is, of course, if he can find a way to ensure that the Sage doesn’t add anything of his own to the ritual’s mystery. So he’ll cool his heart right at the first stage, if he has the time and opportunity, and if he doesn’t die in some incredibly stupid way.

He also passed on the talent that boosted the Hungor branch, “Empty Belly,” which, even with just three steps, offered even more potential than the Heart. That is, of course, if one ignores the even greater strain it placed on the mind. He didn’t take either “Tormenting Grip” with four points or “Voice of the Monster,” which could lead him to an extremely interesting second-step evolution. He didn’t spend a single point on either active or passive talents, focusing instead on the Abilities and Tricks section, which had been the least developed in Ilya’s Status up to that point.

At first, this talent was also among the available options, and Ilya had considered it as his core skill instead of “Hunting Beast.” But he ultimately chose the versatility of the combat-hunting style—without which he would never have survived to this very moment. Now, however, the choice was much easier. Given the gravity of the situation, the earthling found himself in thanks to that old fart, as well as the coming changes on the Ridge.

Abilities and Tricks:

Lurking Predator: 1/5 (Essence invested: 0/10)

One of the main challenges when hunting a Wendigo is the unpleasant tendency for the roles of hunter and prey to reverse if the hunter is not skilled enough. But just as frustrating for those seeking to destroy a Wendigo is the impossibility of finding it if the Wendigo does not want to be found, or if it is not confident in the success of its own hunt. Outside cities and inhabited areas, in the wild and far from any signs of civilization, the Wendigo is capable of concealing itself, its presence, its nature, and its Hunger, becoming a ghost and a shadow, a patient observer that chooses the moment to attack or avoids the fight altogether.

There’s no doubt that this talent won’t help him hide from Ryuk. But it’ll work perfectly if he has to hide not from Ryuk, but from the countless trackers sent by those who wish the old man ill. The old man, as well as everyone with him or near him. Honestly, if it weren’t for his firm conviction that now, after the tournament and the gifts he received there, he would be able to successfully awaken the “Cold Heart” on his own, that’s exactly what he would have chosen. But as it is? He recalls him complaining several times that he didn’t have a proper, truly good stealth or invisibility? With this skill, and given the chances of rolling the necessary aspects, it will be entirely possible to cover that weakness as well.

He spends another couple of moments increasing the level of “Wendigo Form” and “Shapeshift,” simply because there was no need to think about it—it was the only right choice. Not because increasing other talents by one level didn’t have its own advantages—no. Because no obscure or long-term benefits outweighed the most direct and obvious ones, which had no long-term implications whatsoever.

A moment later, the emptiness was swept away by blinding snow driven by the winds across the frozen plains of the Dead Man’s Ridge. Old Sturgeon, for whom exactly a single moment had passed, widened his single uncovered eye in surprise, instinctively taking a step back to the side. Not out of fear, but simply out of the Sage’s habit of not approaching the incomprehensible and potentially dangerous, if there was an opportunity to keep his distance and observe.

The eye in its socket first changed color, turning completely sky blue, and then successively shifted through the entire spectrum of the rainbow, signaling the activation of the “Seven-Colored Eye.” Nothing shone through or was heard from beneath the bandage, but the Earthling had no doubt that the “Eye of Clear Vision” was also active. With his class and list of maxed-out skills, he simply couldn’t physically fail to notice a sudden change in one overly satisfied Wendigo. And now, after he’d scanned these changes several times and checked them just as many times, poor Ryuk surely had a lot of questions.

“All right, I get it. Outsiders live by their own rules, and often the Broken, just like the Dead, are overly lenient with them.” He speaks as if to reassure himself, while the Earthling slowly gets to his feet and stretches his body, which has just been flooded with incredible amounts of energy. “And yet, how—may the Filth take you and the Sun scorge—how?”

Then he abruptly raises his hand, as if to silence Ilya. Literally. The sound vanished—perhaps a sphere of silence based on some ability or talent, or maybe he simply used the remaining power of the ritual.

“No, shut up, I’ll do it myself, I’ll do it myself.” He just keeps wandering around, literally circling Ilya, almost sniffing the poor Wendigo, scanning even the surrounding area. “No, it just doesn’t add up! It can't be like that, you didn't gain that much! I saw it, I really did! I saw you right before the tide went out, you couldn't have... or... no, that's nonsense!"

A brief pause and a look of exasperation at his own lack of understanding, and then a finger—slender as a surgeon’s or a pianist’s, its skin marked by the tiniest ink flecks from the tattoo covering his entire body—almost gouges out Ilya’s left eye. And he could swear that by a fraction of a millimeter—indistinguishable to the untrained eye—that finger was still trembling with the slightest tremor. Or maybe Sturgeon just hadn’t recovered from the ritual.

“Speak!” At that very moment, it occurred to the Earthling that if he dared to show any schadenfreude or simply make a snide remark, even the backlash caused by the loss of one of the ritual’s pillars—its external pole—would not stop Sturgeon.

Ilya allows himself only the faintest of smiles, one filled with a certain satisfaction that even his self-control can’t quite suppress. Because it’s still nice to realize that even this old Sturgeon isn’t quite so impenetrable (or perhaps he’s just playing the part of surprise well). Although, to be honest, if Ilya were in his shoes, he would have completely lost it. In fact, the brief summary of what had happened between tournament cycles turned out to be just that—brief. His interlocutor was a skilled listener, adept at detecting any lies or omissions, and possessed considerable experience, knowledge, and profound class-based talents.

He grasped the essence of what had happened rather quickly, glanced at the Wendigo’s face—which was practically glowing, or rather, almost, almost, almost as indifferent and detached as ever—muttered something decidedly unpleasant under his breath, and set off to check on his charges. They were surely having a particularly good time right now. For a native, the process of being gifted with the Mechanism often seems far more difficult. The specifics of the rituals come into play. In Ilya’s case, his Twin was created by the very foundation of the Mechanism, personally configured by the Ancients. In the case of the locals, they configured their own connection to the Mechanism themselves, and sometimes the link wasn’t entirely stable.

A minor one-time Gift of the Great Mechanism: a sense of beating, indicating the end of an ongoing dive into the Broken World.

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

The first might have been more helpful, but such assistance from the Mechanism could hardly be called useless. Listening to himself, the diver seemed for a moment to feel within his gut his own snow-covered lake, shrouded in a cold shroud of blizzard and icy fog, from beneath which shone the scarlet glow of a scarlet-gold droplet poured into the lake. There, slightly to the side, suspended in mid-air, unbreakable and untouched by the rising storm, hung a crystal goblet filled with clear water, from which the contents flowed out drop by drop. This water freezes instantly, and its droplets join the blizzard clouds dancing around the bowl of bloodstained stone.

Ilya can feel how, with every drop, the time he has left in the Broken World is dwindling. His dive. And the duration turned out to be a hell of a lot—sixty-one days, more than twice the standard Cycle length! On the one hand, he’ll get more done; on the other, this duration will mean a longer absence from the Forum and earthly comforts. Honestly, it would have been better if the Cycle had been shorter, but he’s been lucky in that regard—since his first dive, not a single one has been longer than normal. Letting the crystal cup—which existed only for the duration of the cycle—fade from his focus, the Earthling watched with far greater pleasure as a crimson-gold drop fell into the bowl, already the ninth to accumulate there.

Tap.

A moment later, it’s not just a cup or a drop that flows into the icy wasteland, but something else. Something more significant, more substantial. Ilya is actually quite pleased. The fact that he has begun to notice the Mechanism’s rewards for a successful cycle in the Focus of his Lot is a consequence of his developed Destiny, which is already, so to speak, ready for the first steps toward preparing for Ascension. The fact that Ilya does not yet plan to take the first step does not mean that he is not pleased with such little things. Returning to the next reward. It looked like a brightly blazing star, both scarlet and golden, like droplets, yet impossibly black, as if this star absorbed all light, replacing it with itself.

It didn’t approach the altar, suspended in a sky shrouded by a snowstorm, but even if it wanted to, he couldn’t help but notice it. Still, it’s a significant reward, and on the very first level at that—not exactly an unrealistic achievement, but cases of such success aren’t exactly plentiful. Ilya isn’t reading the system tray messages yet, but he already understands what this star does. It both gives and takes away; it both blesses and curses; it both promises and fulfills its promises. Such a specific meditation on the altar image of one’s lot is quite dangerous for the psyche, but Ilya, with his bonuses, couldn’t care less about the danger; he didn’t even feel the increased pressure on his psyche.

A significant one-time gift from the Great Mechanism: a blessed wandering drop of distorted essence is available to you for the duration of the Cycle.

He couldn’t help but whistle, even though the reward wasn’t particularly useful to him—in fact, it was practically useless. This thing is obtained from certain altars through very powerful pure rituals and strong theurgies, and you can also get one by completing the Mechanism trials, the local version of the system quests. The Wandering Distorted Drop doesn’t boost talents or drop into a Vessel; it does something else—it lets you replace one, but any one, of the aspects of any existing talent with another. It’s also random; the options will be generated by the Mechanism exactly as they would during a normal upgrade, but if there’s an aspect you absolutely hate, this item is priceless.

Ilya got lucky with his progression. His build turned out to be solid and reliable. The absence of balancers helped him acquire rarer and more powerful aspects with much greater probability. But in classic progression, there will always be one or two talents where the aspects you get are just plain unlucky. That’s why rituals and services are performed to allow one aspect to be replaced by another. But where such methods are considered dangerous, risky, crippling to the build, or at least greatly reduce the chances of certain groups of aspects appearing in the future, Ilya’s gift has no side effects.

If he could carry that Drop with him from one Сycle to the next, saving it for the future, he would be happy. But right now, he has nothing to spend it on. Yes, some aspects of his Lot aren’t ideal—there might have been better options, but there could have been worse ones, much worse. So he’s in no hurry to change his Lot right away, and he won’t be rushing into it. All in all, if you think about it, setting aside his initial admiration, his gift—while undoubtedly worthy of its significance—is completely useless to Ilya. What a shame!

Blessings and Curses:

Binding Thread (Expiring): 4/4

By your own choice and of your own free will, the Binding Thread became part of a ritual that unites and embodies, that binds together the fates of those born insignificant and abandoned with the fate of the one who became such. The bitter medicine and sweet mercy of one who knew compassion and received it in return, the sincere faith and gratitude of those who believed to the very end in one who could not be trusted. They believed, and they were not deceived.

Faith: The essence of any ritual that works with the mysteries of Fate and Luck, Lord and Lady, Fatum and Fortuna, depends heavily on one’s mindset, on acceptance, and on faith in the one standing within the ritual circle alongside you. Your presence has become the conduit of the faith of eleven in one and one in eleven. Having become part of this faith, the Binding Thread cannot be extracted.

Mercy: One who has never known mercy cannot know cruelty; only one who has indulged in cruelty knows the value of mercy. Having absorbed the pain and agony of the minds and souls of those who touched the higher realms, and having been graced by the Mechanism, the Binding Thread, too, became a part of the manifested Mercy.

The Guide: Countless are the souls who have lost their way in the unimaginable labyrinths of the Mechanism’s will, striving to claim its gift, breaking themselves just as the World was broken. Having guided these restless souls through the mouth of giftedness, the Binding Thread now sustains them, preventing them from knowing all that another’s sacrifice has spared them from.

Linked by Thread: [EXPAND]

Duration: Until the Scars of Fate are completely healed after forty-nine cycles.

Before exiting the Cycle, he hadn’t had time to read this part of the status—or rather, it hadn’t even manifested itself yet, only now completing its formation—as if the ebb and flow of the world’s forces, triggered by the Cycle, had finally tied a knot in this Thread. He didn’t manage to, yes, but he still predicted this tapestry of textual images so completely that, at most, a few individual epithets in the description didn’t match.

Most of his efforts to recalculate his build were consumed by this very blessing, which is also a curse, in a way. Fortunately, it’s not a full-fledged talent (imagine if he’d gotten “Sacrificial Lamb”—he’d have to go ahead and recreate his character... oh right, that’s right, there’s no such option!), but merely a very long-lasting, yet fading status effect; therefore, its impact on the build isn’t exactly small, but it’s not massive either, and it doesn’t block the paths that are most important to Ilya.

Yet this blessing-and-curse protects the diver’s life and well-being more reliably than a hundred of the most powerful contracts with Ryuk. As long as Ilya is alive, as long as he hasn’t died even once, all of Ryuk’s children—those who shared his fate and became the foundation of the stitches he sewed into his own destiny—will continue to live and grow. And the backlash that Ilya took upon himself will continue to slowly weaken, fading away cycle by cycle. But the moment even a single diver’s life is cut short, that backlash will immediately return to all eleven anchors of Ryuk the Sturgeon. Nothing good lies ahead for the eleven, nor for Sturgeon, nor for Ilya, whom the Third-Step Sage is guaranteed to punish for all the good

Of course, there is always the option of restraining Ilya—painlessly and quietly—by putting him into a coma and keeping him that way for all forty-nine cycles. Painlessly, precisely, because in the event of torture or other humiliations, the fragile essence of the “Binding Thread”—an essence born of free will—will rot and burst like a boil on the buttock, resulting in even more unpleasant consequences. In an even more speculative theory, Sturgeon can accelerate the depletion and dissipation of this effect in various ways; he will most likely do so, but for now, these are just theories. They just need to survive.

All of them.

Because the ritual that took place—despite attempts to conceal it—still showed up on the radars, not just in the Ridge, but in several neighboring regions as well. They must have even detected it in Crown. Considering the trail the old man left behind as he left the city, and remembering that he had used his signature talents there, the local smartasses—Sages just like him, even if not quite as cool—will quickly figure out exactly what happened here. They’ll figure it out and will surely want to give Ryuek Sturgeon a big, friendly hug, remind him of all the good things, and also make sure he isn’t the least bit offended by them—if necessary, even apologizing while hugging him.

All in all, it wasn’t worth lingering here even for a couple of extra minutes, let alone hours or days. All that remained was to hope that the fish-faced man still had reliable hideouts, stashes, and shelters to which he could teleport them all. And once there, they could talk, discuss what had happened, determine the parameters of their inevitable cooperation, and, of course, find a little time for Ilya to sort out...

"Enough of lying around like a sack of flour. Get up, you perpetually hungry, stranger wreck; we need to get out of here!" Ryuk’s shout snaps him out of his meditative calm; in the meantime, Ryuk has already managed to lift all his charges onto clouds of ink suspended in the air, which clearly not only supported their levitation but also protected them and fueled the gifted ones, who were in a semi-trance. “I’ll open the door; you make sure no one stays behind and that no one hits their head on the doorframe!”

What followed was a series of rapid dives into the inky darkness of the passages outlined on the snow and rocks. Wastelands, rocky massifs, the ruins of some ravaged city—and a bit of a cursed one, it seemed—then wastelands again, again, and again. One portal after another—and Sturgeon drew several of them at a time, as if to cover his tracks. And he leaped all over the Ridge, or at least the part of it. It seemed to Ilya that he was simply reveling in the use of his newly accessible talents, without suffering the incredible and unbearable torment of an agonizing soul. During these hours, the Earthling was fully occupied with watching the little train of eleven ink clouds, making sure they entered the portal doors as smoothly as possible.

It wasn’t easy for the old man either. He wasn’t a full-fledged Portalist, even if he was at the third step, on the verge of reaching the fourth. He was drenched in sweat. A cloud of scorching steam rose from him, and the scales tattooed on his face seemed to grow even brighter and more distinct. Ilya was already starting to worry that the old man, overcome with joy at regaining what he had lost, would now fly off to distant lands. To those distant lands, a visit to which causes Earthlings to go out of sync, and the locals to simply go completely bonkers.

But no, they did eventually arrive at their original destination. It turned out to be an underground cave complex, vaguely reminiscent of the one where Iliy Khvat met his end and was reborn. Only this one was, first of all, somewhat better constructed; second, noticeably more desolate; and, third, the old man had clearly already been here. Ilya noticed traces of food long since decayed in the plates, a half-erased ritual pattern on the stone, and a huge dent in the dining hall wall, as if someone strong had struck it with a fist in desperation.

All eleven newly gifted ones are fast asleep; Ryuk laid each of them down on dusty mattresses, surrounded them with a protective barrier, and hung a dreamcatcher amulet above them—primitive but effective, even after all these years that these amulets have lain in this hole. All eleven are in good condition. Ryuek even spoke briefly with that Dealer, who used to be the city accountant’s assistant, and he managed to calm Lishka as well. They could use some restorative sleep right now; after all, the gifting ritual they underwent was far from ordinary and extremely dangerous—dangerous even with all the help from the “Binding Thread.”

"I didn’t expect to see this kind of talent in you, stranger," Sturgeon spoke these words after nearly ten minutes of sitting silently across the table from one another, the old man simply thinking, while Ilya meditated and planned a cunning raid on the local food supplies, for such provisions were still well-preserved in the enchanted storerooms and icehouses, though they had been sitting there for quite some time. “Having the chance to take any of the Mechanism’s blessings? An unobvious choice. Is that how you wish to conceal yourself? To hide?”

It’s a trick question, because the Sage, with all his experience, knows perfectly well why Ilya chose that particular talent. Just as Ilya realizes that Sturgeon, whether out of habit or malice, is trying to rile him up, force him to justify himself, and convince him that he certainly isn’t going to run away anywhere, hiding from the third step behind an unleveled first-level talent.

"Two dogs growl, whine, and fight over a bone, while a third waits, silent and hidden in the snow." Quietly, in a slightly sing-song voice, Ilya recites one of the less popular but well-known prayers to the Candle-Lighter, calmly meeting the gaze of Ryuek’s single open eye—without arrogance, but without self-deprecation either. “The third one is cunning, smart, and not a dog at all, but it’ll get both the bone and the bones of the two dogs.”

A loaded question with plenty of hidden meanings deserves an equally loaded answer with just as many hidden meanings. Now that he’s at least somewhat protected by his new status, Ilya doesn’t want to let people walk all over him like they used to. That’s perfectly in line with local customs—give in once, and they’ll keep pushing you around for the rest of your life. To be honest, Ilya is almost certain that Ryuek would have been utterly disappointed if the diver hadn’t tried to bare his teeth even a little. Disappointed, yes, but he certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to push him to the very limits of his flexibility—and a little beyond.

They sit there in silence, accompanied by the loud snoring of a rather tall, stocky young man—now in the same class as Dushegub. Ilya waits for Osetra’s next move, while Osetra seems to be pondering how to structure their future relationship. They started on the wrong foot, continued even worse, and only now have they reached at least some sort of temporary compromise. The old man—even though outwardly, without his disguise, he doesn’t look old at all—thinks for quite a while before speaking again, and he chooses a rather unexpected topic.

"The Mechanism favors you, stranger." And understand this, Ilya, however you want, or if you don't want to, then don't understand it at all. "The gift you gained by your will... a way to reassemble one of the flowers of the Lot. I need it."

Yeah.

Even YEAH!

In principle, it’s not particularly surprising that he scanned this ++Significant Gift, recognized it, and wanted it for himself. By the time he reached the peak of the third step, he was bound to have accumulated enough aspects that either didn’t fully satisfy him or no longer satisfied him at all. The gift is indeed more valuable at stages higher than the first or at the first stage, but not right at the peak of that step. Actually, one usually ends up getting such a gift precisely at those higher steps, whereas “newbies” only get minor gifts. And now, someone else has already set their sights on his little gift, and Ilya isn’t too opposed to it, given the lack of weak points in his still relatively young build. It’s another matter entirely to give something like that away for free... let’s just say that if he agrees, Ryuek will start looking for a catch right away.

"I have no doubt that you’re capable of retrieving it safely. The Bowl of Balance is guaranteed to work; if you have the Memory of Rain or the Memory of Gift, you won’t even have to bother with the daily and stellar tables. You’ll be able to perform the ritual on the fly." In response, an approving nod, as if to say, 'You understand everything correctly,' along with the same intense focus, the confident and predatory gaze of someone who will stop at nothing to get what they want. "The question is, how will you frame your wish?"

He wouldn’t dare to ask—or even demand—it personally. It’s one thing to bare his teeth, and even then, without being rude, simply by showing that he has self-respect. It’s quite another to stand between a third-step gifted individual and his Ascension. That’s when the one-eyed scum might decide to stand his ground. Or rather, he’ll stand his ground if Ilya tries to “twist his arm” and make a direct demand, no matter how hypocritical such an attitude might seem. Most likely, he’ll even pay up, but then Sturgeon’s desire to settle the score with Ilya as soon as possible—simply for daring to hide behind the “Binding Thread” and make demands… well, who knows how this guy will react. He’s already shown reactions atypical for natives of his rank, but Ilyas has no desire to take any risks. In short, Ilyas has thrown the ball to his interlocutor, and now it’s his turn to respond.

“No matter how our acquaintance began, Iliy, I am still neither a madman nor a fool intoxicated by his own power. I have never been such a person.” The way he addressed him by name sent shivers down his spine. And knowing even just a part of his true nature, revealed during the preparation of the ritual—the part concerning naming rites—those chills were more than justified. “I can break you, crush you, punish you for every attempt to assert your individuality, but it’s too late now. You and I are now bound together, just like my... Anchors. Show respect, follow instructions, help me in my affairs, and I will help you too; I won’t humiliate you either, and I’ll listen to your words and requests."

Well, here it is, it has happened.

Literally, he was offered de facto full vassalage—though not yet formalized by an oath. And Ilya wouldn’t have wanted to take any oaths anyway; or rather, given the nature of Ryuek Sturgeon’s class and personality, the mentorship combined with working as a subordinate, assistant, and aide. Under different circumstances, this would be utter nonsense; they were in completely different leagues. But old man not-Ryuk, having had his fill of the commotion and realizing he couldn’t shake Ilya off, turned on his brain and made the first move, proposing a solution that would satisfy them both.

Ultimately, Ilya will have to break this chain, while Sturgeon will not want to let him off the leash. There’s the ability to draw in the essence, there’s knowledge of the Earth, there’s simply a convenient pawn—and one who is decidedly weaker, and thus unable to challenge the leader’s authority. But right now? For Ilya, the transition from the axe constantly hanging over his head and the “do it, or I’ll fuck you up” approach to a more classic “you treat me with respect, and I might even do something for you in return” is a clear step forward.

“I see, you get it.” Now his voice carried not only a cold detachment, but also those very same grumpy, old-man tones that had apparently become second nature to the candy maestro over the long years of pretense. “And since you get it, don’t drive me crazy—just ask for whatever you want. You can ask for more, too; if anything, I’ll point out exactly where your greed has made you go completely wild."

Ilya weighed his options and eventually settled on the only viable solution—one that wasn’t just beneficial to him, but would also cost Ryuk nothing, which is why Ryuk would gladly agree to such an exchange. Interestingly, both parties would end up satisfied, rather than the opposite, as was usually the case in their interactions. He almost felt like spitting over his shoulder, even though he’d never been superstitious. Or tapping his eyebrow with two fingers, if he were to do it the local way.

“I need Essence, especially with this new talent—I’ve got to keep leveling it up. I’m just one drop short of reaching ten.” Ryuk understood what he was saying right away, but let him finish, either pretending or genuinely trying to act normal. “Your portals, as well as your sensor abilities, will be perfect for this. Just toss me over to the creatures I’m going to kill. Well, and pick me up on the way back, though you don’t have to—I’ll come back on my own. And I have to warn you, my gift will dissipate by the end of the Cycle. The Cycle will end…”

The diver didn't have time to voice this not-so-obvious information. The sage didn't exactly interrupt him, but clearly indicated that he didn't need to continue; he understood everything.

"I know. I sense with my very being exactly when the tides begin and end. You don’t need to explain. I also know the laws by which the Mechanism’s benevolence manifests itself." Sturgeon brushes him as if he were a pesky child—or a dung fly. “And you... how should I put it... well, who cares! Speak to me in plain language, as an equal, but remember that this is merely my permission.”

Ilya could have easily kept a poker face, but he didn’t even bother trying this time. His expression clearly showed that he didn’t understand a damn thing. After all their conversation, to suddenly start making such exaggerated gestures—that wasn’t just a “nice little thing”; it was suspicious as hell. No, Ilya had a hunch as to the reason, but now he couldn’t tell—had he really figured it out, or was the old man deceiving him again, showing only what he wanted to show?

These... anchors of mine and threads on my wound, the damned Wildflower on my unmarked grave! I gave them too... too much freedom before, they got used to calling me Grandfather Ryuk, and I, what can I say, started getting used to it too." And then their grandfather turned out not to be a grandfather, but an ancient Sage wearing the skin of one, mortally dangerous and just as mortally scary. "Breaking it all will only ruin it. They are already my retinue, practically all that remains. My life, pulling together my scars. I will start being Ryueyk with them, being Sturgeon, and the threads may fray. If you also start addressing me with an honorific speech, it will complicate everything. But you, unlike them, are not a sheltered orphan, and you know who I am. Do not forget and do not confuse."

Oh, Ilya certainly won't forget this! He didn't say anything out loud, nodded, confirming what he'd heard and said. Well, the beginning of the series pleased him even more than the ending.

Sturgeon had the tact and courtesy to be confident that Ilya would be able to easily clean up the two nests of creatures near which the ink door had thrown him. In theory, of course, it would have been possible to order Ilya not to leave Ruyk's protective zone at all until the designated cycles had passed. But alas, the one-eyed Sage—or rather, the Sage who only used one eye regularly—had no way of ensuring complete safety even for himself, much less Ilya and all his Anchors.

A small family of beast-type predatory apes. All three are creatures, but weak ones, step one, with cold resistance and feral reflexes. He killed these completely casually, simply flooding their burrow with Ice Breath, using their heart signatures as a guide, and greeted the male who teleported through the snowy shroud with a cleaver to the neck and then to the eye socket. He didn't even have to use his Form. His physical stats after the Tournament correspond to those of a peak Step One melee fighter with an average build.

Tap.

The second fight proved somewhat more difficult. Sturgeon found a nest of undead near his hiding place, and not an ancient one, but a spontaneously raised one. He or those who created this place would have long ago cleared out the ancient ones themselves. It had appeared here not so long ago. The dead bison, dried meat on a skeleton imbued with dead magic, was barely visible; its heart had long since stopped beating, only slightly visible due to the magical impregnation. And the creature itself had long ago learned to move like some kind of ape, replacing its hooves with paws, and even breathing ash splashes.

He had to run around in his Form, first shedding his cheap clothes, so putting them back on later. In a fight with a Wendigo regularly using Dash and Transformation, the creature died without a chance, but successfully frayed the nerves of Ilya, who was thrashing around it. He could have killed it faster, but he chose to be extra cautious, for once sharing the opinion of his inner Wendigo – this filth was uneatable, except for gnawing on the bones, so there was no reason to risk his skin, well, except for the drops.

Tap.

Tap.

Twelve drops of Essence allowed me to boost my newly acquired talent. Now, "Lurking Beast," as the freshest and weakest link, will require initial investment. This way, one can easily boost one or two steps, giving oneself a much better chance of a good aspect than with standard leveling. Moreover, such boosts also have a minimal impact on the overall build, reducing the drifting aspect bearing, if not to zero, then to low amplitudes. It's a well-known, old, and popular trick, but few outside of large communities, and especially the Citadel, can afford such a tactic. Invest at least another ten, and preferably thirty, drops in the same cycle in which the additional talent is acquired.

Incidentally, one of the first-step earthlings at the Proficient Tournament received a reduction in talent leveling requirements as the final reward. Just seven drops instead of ten. Unfortunately, only until the level-up ritual, and not necessarily a successful one.

Abilities and Tricks:

Lurking Predator: 2/5 (Essence invested: 0/20)

One of the main challenges when hunting a Wendigo is the unpleasant tendency for the roles of hunter and prey to reverse if the hunter is not skilled enough. But just as frustrating for those seeking to destroy a Wendigo is the impossibility of finding it if the Wendigo does not want to be found, or if it is not confident in the success of its own hunt. Outside cities and inhabited areas, in the wild and far from any signs of civilization, the Wendigo is capable of concealing itself, its presence, its nature, and its Hunger, becoming a ghost and a shadow, a patient observer that chooses the moment to attack or avoids the fight altogether.

The degree of blurring of the energetic imprint increases, acquiring features of mimicry under the natural background; staying in the hidden phase additionally hides the essence of the Wendigo from many exotic search methods.

Fringe: The Wendigo’s closeness to Nature—one of the core aspects of its essence—allows it to interpret the very concept of the energy background quite freely. When the need is great—whether to lie in wait, sneak up on prey, or hide from a particularly dangerous and observant victim—the Wendigo can weave numerous shreds, threads, and beads of the natural background into its own energy, becoming part of the landscape, regardless of whether it is viewed with the eye, magic, or a mechanism. When creating this cloak to hide the Wendigo from pursuit, one must be wary that it may be impossible to remove it afterward. That the cloak itself will dissolve the wearer into itself, leaving only Hunger and nothing else.

A very fortunate and rare aspect choice, but with the aspects "Embraced" in "Child of Nature" and "Loss" in "Knowledge of the Curse" already taken, the chance of its appearance among the five available options was surprisingly high for such a valuable aspect. At its core, this isn't just stealth, a sort of camouflage robe that simultaneously subtly averts the gaze, creating a visual chameleon-like camouflage, and also adapts the energy to the surrounding background. No, this is precisely stealth, like an Eye or a Breath, reaching the limit of mental stability and the strength of energy.

"Fringe" doesn't activate instantly. It's not a spell, but a skill. It's an energy manipulation technique that requires a period of relative calm to string together hundreds of threads and wisps of natural forces—the same background junk that sensory skills sift through in search of a hidden target. The technique is equally effective against both Wild and High Magic, but it's not without its weaknesses. First and foremost, it's impossible to activate properly in combat. To be honest, it isn't impossible; it drains too much concentration, but it's easy to use. It won't completely conceal you, but it will blur your perception, create false and overlapping images, and slightly strengthen Ilya.

Yes, neither an average diver nor a gifted one could reach such a limit of aspect enhancement without going mad or losing synchronization. But Ilya will only be stopped by the energy limit, beyond which ++“Bakhrooma” will begin to devour not only his psyche but also his energy body. Not every first-level build with highly honed sensory perception will be able to spot him hiding in the bosom of nature. And some second-level builds will miss him at first glance—or even at a not-so-first one. In cities and other locations devoid of nature, the effect weakens, but not entirely, especially if the ++Fringe was created outside the city, or if it’s hiding in someone’s garden or even among pots of local ficus trees.

Given the trend of impending problems, Ilya will need to stop trying to blend in with society and instead hide from the search parties and the elimination squads. In that sense, he’ll need to do this even more than before. And while they’re looking for a professional of Sturgeon’s caliber, they’ll send someone less capable after Ilya. And from them, with his five-step talent and the right combination of aspects allowing him to exploit the resilience of his own psyche, he has a good chance of hiding. Or getting right up close to them and immediately tearing their heads off.

The other aspects turned out to be pretty good as well, but they weren’t on the same level as “Fringe”—not by a long shot. The classic “Mimicry” ability for this talent allowed you to transform the energy shield around your body into a sort of Predator suit, the very same one from the recently rebooted franchise. The invisibility is imperfect, detectable by many types of sensory talents or even aspects related to them, but it activates instantly, consumes almost no energy, can be maintained in combat—at least during the very first few moments—and fits into many combos like a glove.

The talent itself, like the aspect, is most often chosen not by Hunger-Possessed, but by Shapeshifters and Beast-Possessed of the stealth type—but that’s simply because there are more of them; after all, Wendigos are a rarity. He would have taken a similar build himself, but no—his combat tactics are slightly different, and he took the disguise for the sake of disguise, not to boost the combat potential of a build that already suits him just fine. If he were to replace “Hungry Howl” with “Cold Heart,” he’d be almost perfectly happy.

“The Pack” held considerable potential, allowing players to effectively incorporate fellow party members into their disguise, albeit in a very limited way. Alas, this adjustment won’t work for all builds, and the mental strain it imposes on them will be a shadow of what Ilya endures. And that shadow—what a shadow it is for him—hard to endure it and not eat your own fingers out of hunger. Although yes, if it weren’t for that, one could potentially count on covering the entire crowd of Anchors. Well, if for some reason he started to care about the lives of these guys more than his own development and survival.

It turned out to be even easier to discard “Landscape,” since that ability amplified the effect of blending into the background and remaining hidden in familiar terrain, effectively turning the Wendigo into—heh, heh, heh—a part of the landscape. There was also the option to scale this effect using the psyche, but it’s completely unsuited to the nomadic life of an eternal wanderer. Now, if you build him as a homebody from the start, pick the same “Ogress’s Lair” as a skill, then yeah, that’s some pretty good synergy.

The last version of the aspect was the only one that really made him think carefully about the choice. The mechanics of “Fugitive” are very reminiscent of another aspect of yet another skill, namely “Steps,” as part of “Hunting Beast.” While fleeing and retreating, Ilya could activate a sort of spatial breach, allowing him to escape very, very quickly, closing the distance by nearly a hundred meters.

Alas, it doesn’t gain anything from mental damage—otherwise, he would have definitely chosen it, ignoring “Fringe.” The focus is on energy, and while his energy is very strong, it’s not on a fantastical level. A hundred meters, maybe even a hundred and ten, and then he just has to hope he hasn’t overexerted himself. A comfortable distance shouldn’t exceed half of the specified distance. And the cooldown is quite long; you can use it repeatedly, but only for the same distance as “Steps.” And why would he need “Fugitive” then, if “Steps” is available?

Observing with his inner eye how the mist around the stone bowl seemed to swirl into a shroud, concealing, covering, and hiding the essence of the Lot, Ilya—not too tired but very content—opened his eyes and met the gaze of the single eye of the deeply pensive Sturgeon. The ritual of transferring the Mechanism’s Gift went off without a hitch. The distortion had not lost its power nor been tainted by anything else. The black star vanished from the sky above the icy lake, passing into Ryuk’s possession. He, however, had not yet chosen to use it—or perhaps he had, but done so unnoticed by Ilya, which was also quite possible.

"Those two, among whom is your fellow Gehenna member." Ilya immediately understood who exactly the conversation would be about. "What happened to them?"

I didn't tell them anything. They know nothing except what they've already been shown." He immediately understood what information the fish-eyed man was waiting for from Ilya. "We didn't exchange coordinates, passwords, or locations, and you understand why. Those two, the Broken One's children, also escaped, parting without bloodshed.

Judging by the subtle displeasure, clearly deliberately displayed, Sturgeon would have preferred to see this pair dead, but he apparently didn't have time to clean them up. And what difference does it make if he successfully made use of the carefully guarded box, or rather, its contents?

"Next time you go back to your home, talk to him. Tell him who I am and what I have to offer." He paused for a moment, then added, sounding a bit embarrassed—after all, how could Ilya possibly know what he had to offer? "I’ll make a list. Don’t stare at me like that. After all, I can’t hide. A year, maybe two or three, if I burrow into the deepest hole, but I’ll have to come back out before the crowned head, to ask and to offer. He knows I don’t believe my downfall was the work of my enemies alone, without any involvement from a worthy suzerain. But he’s a cynical, heartless creature in human form, so there’s a chance to buy my way out, to make a deal, to stay afloat between the currents. Be that as it may, I will need an entourage; I will need people to whom I can entrust matters, knowing they will carry them out. And since my vassals have long been dead or have sold themselves out several times over, I am prepared to pay for the services of your kinsman and for you yourself."

The Earthman nodded, showing he understood. He understood far more than Ruyk had spoken. Yes, at first, he would be willing to offer a great deal. And even actually fulfill and deliver what was offered. But then it would be unclear what would be worse: if he offered only at first, if he didn't want to part with such a convenient tool, or if he decided the temporary tools had outlived their usefulness.

Meanwhile, the sleeping beauties began to wake up.

And something tells Ilya that it won't be Sturgeon who'll be handling the basic training and adaptation of this gang to their Lots, but someone else. Trained, well-versed, and the youngest, damn it! And there's no getting around it. He can run the basics himself, even with his eyes closed. True, controlling the entire crowd of eleven, including Lishka, will be quite the spectacle.

The irony is that Ilya would have received the remaining forty drops of essence promised by Sturgeon in exchange for the gift he gave, simply because he would have had to practice his skills on the creatures in the company of the old man's anchors. On the other hand, now he won't have to wait. In a couple of days, the fish-eyed one will lock his beacons on the creatures' lairs, and Ilya's further development will proceed by leaps and bounds. And not just his, but the entire company.

Ilya would say, “At least you won’t get bored,” but he’s not an adrenaline junkie with clinical stupidity; he’d rather be bored.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/597252

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP