Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 22. Правильное и четко выверенное применение физического насилия являет собою основу педагогической и воинской подготовки Сломанного Мира

22. The correct and precisely calibrated use of physical violence is the basis of the pedagogical and military training of the Broken World

* * *

Night. Pitch black. The ominous blizzard had risen again. This was the perfect time and place for a sinister and deadly ritual, performed by a perpetually hungry cannibal and an old, evil-hearted former courtier, as cruel as a hundred such cannibals. The night proved truly opportune—both by the calendar and by the weather, which has been particularly brutal this winter on the Ridge. That is, it's always brutal here, for up to nine months of the year, but this year has been particularly grim. The forecast is that not just individual villages and farmsteads, but entire towns and cities will freeze to death. And there was a feeling that this winter might have arisen of its own accord, purely as a result of magical upheavals. But someone else helped the already extraordinary cold riot flare up into a completely all-destroying force of nature.

Someone who would greatly benefit from minimizing any presence on Ridge. This would not simply prevent the possibility of investigating strange events, but would effectively cut off the region from the Crown, from supplies of food and ammunition here, and from the Ridge's gifts here. The old man liked this option. The more problems the crowned ruler faces, and the more his opponents have, the less time and energy there is to search for the harmless candy grandpa. And the more difficult the situation will become for all parties when the old horse decides to choose his own path and offer his services to one of the conflicting parties.

Initially, he'd planned to approach the royal authorities, simply out of habit. He already knew exactly what he'd have to do and what to expect if he wanted to reclaim his former place at the Throne. Whatever Sturgeon's opinion of his liege lord and his role in his downfall, few are guided by emotions and loyalties in such circumstances. Or rather, by them alone. Only now, looking at the horror unfolding in the skies of Dead Man's Ridge, he's clearly considering taking a longer pause before choosing a side. Or perhaps he'd backed the wrong horse altogether?

Ruek didn't exactly voice these thoughts outright, but he hinted at them quite clearly. It didn't seem like he was trying to mislead Ilya or provoke him into a particular opinion. There was no direct or indirect benefit, only a desire, if not to speak out, then at least to speak with someone who understood the depth of wisdom of a single Sage. Ilya listened, for what else could he do? At the same time, he absorbed the knowledge the old man was willing to share about the high society of the gifted throughout the entire sector of the ecumene. Of course, believing this information unconditionally would be rash, but he had acquired a basic understanding of who was who, who was with whom, and how to conduct himself among the rulers of a city that had been burned six times and rebuilt seven times.

Again, the opportunity to practice the highest, purest ritualism doesn't come every day at the first step. Sturgeon's trust in the earthling's competence was evident in the fact that the old man invited him to assist with the calculations almost immediately after deciding to perform this ritual. Ilya wasn't opposed either. He considered this sacrament an excellent aid in the coming battles, when he would take turns dragging old Ryuk's anchor children into battle. More drops at the expense of temporary inconvenience, and for him, not such a serious inconvenience. What a good trade-off! And there's no need to pay for reagents—Sturgeon's skill is sufficient to maintain the structure even without additional offerings. Of course, in another situation, such disregard for the invocation ceremony would have ended disastrously for both the ritualist and the intended participant, but he wouldn't be in danger of frying his brain.

Well, not in this ritual. The inner bunker of his self-control felt like it had been caught in a magnitude 45 storm and a hefty earthquake at the same time. The walls shifted slightly, as if threatening to buckle, but deep within the bunker, only a few small cracks appeared. The Wendigo's inner essence growled slightly, thrashing against its chains, growing a couple of centimeters longer and snapping some of the chains, but this enormous beast finally calmed down. Its chains, figuratively speaking, grew even stronger, as if even a little thicker. And in the real plane of perception, a circle etched directly into the stones shone with an unearthly blue, containing nine more circles, some of which simultaneously intersected and some of which did not intersect.

And in the very center, within all nine circles at once and not within any of them, within the shared tenth contour, stood Iliy Khvat, the eleventh circle seething on his chest, drawn in ink and blue. The very one that tried to drive him mad, pushing against his mind and will, until the sacrificial parts were bridged between them. There were no hearts of ice creatures, no blood of a god's creation, not even a few dozen nuggets of pure gold—this ritual could not be performed at a lower cost. Execution is also excessively laborious and requires the assistance of a group of Sages or other pure first-level ritual specialists, with at least two deuces among the eleven specialists required. Otherwise, you'd have to call someone like Sturgeon, and such individuals don't mess around, value their time, and can also invent a far more sophisticated method of execution.

The Citadel has several such groups, with at least two permanently assigned to such rituals. Of course, there's no bare rock and snow there, but a fully-fledged ritual hall. And the mysteries rely not on the essence of Winter Drean in the Lost Traveler attribute, but on a whole host of other ritual variations. And they spare no reagents, ensuring the almost conveyor-belt application of the much-needed ritual effects. All for the Citadel, to accelerate the development of its new defenders and inhabitants—such rituals are part of a general list of actions undertaken to accelerate leveling and essence growth. It is precisely this combination of these that allows the Citadelers to so quickly lift their recruits beyond the plateau of impotence, and even drag them by the ears to the second step.

On the one hand, their forced union isn't the Citadel, but on the other, they're highly motivated by their own survival, and with Ilya around, they can have no brakes. And so the blizzard howls, the voices scream in his head, momentarily audible yet infinitely distant, separated from the earthling by the wall of his super-strong self-awareness. That's why the blue and ice sparkle; that's why the circle burns his flesh, digging into his body, aura, and psyche. A perfect pretext for planting some dreaded trick on Ilya. But not yet; he's part of the anchor structure... later, later, he'll have to be practically dragged into Ryuek's ritual circle by the ears, if not outright "by the balls." Thoughts didn't stop Ilya from listening to the old man's verbal ceremony, drawing to a close, at the right points, putting all the weight of his soul into his own words.

"...the one who comes for us, frozen and unchanging, who takes the frost of the last tears from the eyes of the lost and sleeping, who dons the shroud and covers us, frozen and warm, in his garments, I call upon with will and essence, by the Dead but Not Forgotten Name!" The Old Man, of course, is no Priest. But Sages also engage in theurgy; it's just that their approach is different: not service and prayer, but conversation and communion, different paradigms and varying degrees of effectiveness with the same expenditure of time and effort, and, obviously, in favor of the Priests. "Conjuring with lines of sleep and ice, fearless death, posthumous execution, sinless fear, I prophesy that all frozen chalices will shudder!"

As if waiting for these words, the inner image—the altar—begins to respond, as if a storm had whipped up a blizzard not only on Khrbetina but also there, within. A snow whirlwind in the sky above the altar bowl swirls into a ring—not a tornado, but precisely a ring, like a halo. The ring is solid, unbroken, and yet ravenously hungry for that scarlet drop that is meant to fall into the bowl. This halo will draw in every drop, holding it within itself for a time, smearing the scarlet gold across its rim until enough has accumulated.

As with all rituals of this kind, it's crucial to maintain balance. It's crucial to be able to not only perform the ritual but also remove its effect afterwards, like a seal on a sealed container. And to do this, as you might guess, you need to earn as many drops as possible. This isn't a trivial task unless the Earthling has advantages or the will of the Citadel, which would provide a promising candidate with a literally golden path strewn with drops of Essence.

"Shudder." Ilya himself clearly imprints the last word into the essence of the ritual, creating additional resonance, and then launches the next cycle of the recitative. "Frozen."

In reality, words don’t mean all that much. Even he is quite capable of stripping away the lyrical and lexical elements of ordinary, unadorned rituals, doing so almost in passing. It’s just that they’re both very pragmatic beings; besides, Sturgeon has already shortened the liturgy as much as he could possibly allow himself, so now he’s straining his throat with painful words. Yes, yes—even Ilya doesn’t dare utter more than a single word of the cyclical lyrics as he closes and opens the ritual, lest he cough up not black blood, but shreds of his own soul. But the sprightly old man doesn’t give a damn—he hasn’t even lost his voice. Then again, he speaks hoarsely on his own, like an old raven cawing. Especially when he stops grumbling on purpose and starts getting deadly serious.

"...with the drops of our breath, the laughter of our sorrows, and the wind of our deeds, let us command each of the lost to freeze!" Ryuek concludes yet another white verse of the liturgy, and then, in a single motion, drives his palm into the stone, breaking the main circle while momentarily closing its line upon himself. "Ahem. There’s still the sharpness of the pen in the word and the poison of faith in the veins! What about you? Delusions, voices, desires?"

The question was asked with irritation and a certain air of superiority—that of a third-level over a pitiful first-level—but at the same time, one couldn’t help but notice a hint of peculiar concern, even if it was concern for a useful tool. Ilya just waved his hand in a classic gesture, genuinely trying to catch his breath. And he did catch his breath, rubbing his chest, on which not a trace remained of the circle that had glistened turquoise and chilled even his frost-resistant body with ice. Now, for the next twenty-one days, he wouldn’t be able to obtain a single drop of the essence, but in the end, he would gain all of it—everything he had accumulated.

If you've accumulated enough, you'll get more on top—exactly how much is unclear, but it's unlikely to be more than the Citadel standard "plus two units for every three earned independently." They have different reagents, a well-established procedure, a dedicated support team, and overall, sheer awesomeness. Oh, and they even make biodegradable plastic packaging out of sugar, perfect for drinking with your tea. However, jokes aside, quality is a given—their improvised ritual-liturgy called Winter Sleep clearly has weaker specs; no amount of ignoring the mental side of things will stand a chance against dedicated builds and well-coordinated tactics.

Blessings and Curses:

Eleven Rings (Expiring): 1/1

In the name of Winter's Dream and His attribute, named the Lost Wanderer, every drop of Essence gained during the existence of the Eleven Rings will be held in the grasp of the halo, and upon reaching its overflowing potential, it will be returned and supplemented by the fraction acquired in the Rings.

Duration: until the embodied structure is blurred (three times seven daily cycles) or until the completion of the Dive cycle.

Okay. Although it could have been better. But even so, it turned out well, far better than originally expected. Ilya's complete dedication paid off. He was not even making a reflexive attempt to distance himself from the ritual being cast. Reading the deeper lines of his status, as well as peering into his ominous frozen lake, Ilya found no flaws or traces of aura trauma dangerous to his subtle body, nor did he find any traces of any dirty tricks on Ryuek's part. However, he could have missed the former, and only by chance would he have noticed the old man's well-prepared destructive altar structure.

Rituals like these would be much more popular if not for the side effects. They don't last long, and if you don't reach a certain critical mass by the end, you'll also suffer a cooldown. The Citadel's eggheads (not necessarily Sages or Priests) have created a thousand and one ways to mitigate these cooldowns, just in case you're unlucky or suffer some serious injury right at the start of your leveling. But with Ilya, it's simpler. Another blow to self-awareness. An ordinary gifted person would feel like they were freezing, even if they were sitting in a bonfire. It would be their mind itself that would freeze, not their body or energy, until nothing remained in their head except the name of the Dead God, which sealed the liturgy and struck with a cooldown.

They run the classic “1-9-1” formation only when preparing a diver—or someone local, from among their allies— —for a “bump,” that is, for an extremely focused and accelerated leveling run, where the entire group—and sometimes even another group acting as backup—herds the most suitable creatures (who don’t have time to get their bearings) toward the diver and lets them be killed, while the group itself contributes a minimum of effort to this victory. Or when the artisan class is given nearly finished components that just need to be properly assembled. Or when a certain Seeker is given tasks that are objectively complex but can be solved perfectly using precisely their set of talents—perhaps having even contributed in advance to the task and problem arising in the first place. There are plenty of ways to do this, yes, but the good old-fashioned slaughter of all manner of creatures still prevails.

The kind they plan to arrange in the very near future.

"Well, is it time to begin?" the earthling asks himself, not Sturgeon, who merely looks at him with bewilderment, as if to say, "What are you asking, you idiot?" "Then it's time, before the creatures migrate."

Not only did Sturgeon settle some of his old debts during his theoretical—and somewhat practical—training with Ilya, but he also scouted out quite a few lairs of various moderately dangerous creatures. On top of that, he scouted out the lairs of some truly dangerous creatures, including one of the third level—which, fortunately, was in a deep hibernation and showed no signs of waking up. Or so it seemed. But they both decided against leading a raid in that direction; there were plenty of other nesting grounds for enemies they could handle.

Из Рюка средний сенсор и отнюдь не идеальный порталист-попрыгун, не те таланты он развивал. Но при этом старичок все же остается дико опытной пиковой тройкой, да еще и от Мудреца развившим свой путь, так что мог он много. Но в идеале здесь должен был быть профильный специалист, а лучше парочка таковых,

* * *
" ...every loss is considered irreplaceable, so I’ll be very brief and direct—you already know me." Ilya sees no reason to mince words, but something must be said. "I’ll bend over backward, but I’ll do everything in my power to ensure that none of you dies because of your own or someone else’s stupidity; however, anyone who commits such stupidity intentionally and knowingly will be beaten to a pulp. Not out of malice or a desire to mock, but so that you are fully aware of this fact and don’t make mistakes."

Maybe it’ll work. They’re all very smart and quick-witted individuals. And they understood perfectly well that Ilya wasn’t joking. In such cases, the threat of inevitable brutal violence goes a long way toward preventing that violence, since everyone will be convinced of its inevitability. The correct and precisely calibrated use of beatings forms the foundation of educational and military training in the Broken World.

That’s a quote from Odi, by the way. In fact, he went out of his way—and even took the media to court a couple of times—to ensure this quote wasn’t censored, because otherwise the educational effect would have been somewhat diluted. They say that Old Man Odi personally threw some particularly stubborn and obstinate individual—who stubbornly insisted on using “physical violence” instead of “beating the shit out of someone”—out of a skyscraper window, right into the harbor. The only thing that saved the poor guy was that it was only the fifth floor, and the man who was thrown out knew how to swim.

Well, jokes aside, it's time to get to work.

* * *

The Fierce-Eaters could be considered one of the main enemies of small villages and farmsteads, much like the Nakhtsetsers or the wolf-like beast-creatures had become in many sectors. They lived in packs, were quite strong and large, possessed some rudimentary sense of self-awareness, and were also cautious and cowardly enough to hunt and attack where they could strike without risk, rather than where they might get a pike thrust into their bellies. Add to this a tendency—uncommon for creatures that are typically territorial—to regularly roam in search of easier prey, and you get a real nightmare for the villagers in the Broken World setting.

A pack of Fierce-Eaters can wreak havoc in plenty of places with little effort, killing someone here and there for years on end, and then retreating back into the wilderness long before that fateful moment when a well-coordinated hunting party—or even a gifted one accompanied by an entourage—sets out after them. They cause just too little harm to society to warrant serious action against them, yet too much to ignore the fact that the lower classes of that society regularly suffer at their paws. At the same time, when it comes to training the young and the less gifted, ferocious beasts of lower developmental forms can be considered nearly ideal targets. They yield a fair amount of essence, yet are very easy to kill and possess no particularly nasty traits.

Well, at the lower end of the species’ hierarchy, yes—because closer to the top of the first tier, these creatures also pull all sorts of nasty tricks. They’re quite capable of surprising- if not a gifted fighter ready for battle, then at least hunters who’ve come for the Fierce-Eater hides. Yes, their hides are highly prized by artisans—a very primitive yet easily obtainable material that, even without additional enchantments, repels water quite well and protects against negative energy. In some ways, these hides resemble mole hides in texture and quality, which is not surprising, given the nature of the ferocious eaters, who are essentially oversized moles.

Or rather, a hybrid of moles with something canine and a hint of reptilian features, but that's more a question for bestiologists. Most importantly, they don't have the habits of moles and other similar creatures of burrowing into the ground or digging numerous tunnels. They are strictly terrestrial, pack predators, no more, no less. Sturgeon discovered a cohesive den, large and well-fed, born from the peaceful fusion of three or even four packs during hibernation, with his eyes, which darted in all directions away from the underground shelter.

An extremely unpleasant target, even for a group of brand-new gifted ones. But that’s only if the gifted ones are completely new and haven’t been trained in anything yet. But among Sturgeon's Anchors, every single one has already advanced two levels in their talents, and Ilya will be there to back them up. In theory, he’s capable of not just taking out this whole rabble on his own, but also scattering them. And that’s not even counting Ryuek, who’s watching from the shadows and will only intervene as a last resort.

Fifty adult specimens, plus about three dozen adolescents—the young ones—who scavenge behind the adults, gnawing on bones. Three large alpha individuals possessed special abilities characteristic of ferocious predators. Even without Ryuik’s analysis, Ilya had a rough idea of what tricks to expect from them, so the old man merely pointed out a few critical details, allowing the group to follow the earthling’s plan and not lose escense because of the assistance.

There are practically no newborns or young creatures. They don’t give birth at this time of year, and the pack itself seems to have taken a beating from someone, having lost its young and left them to be devoured by those who forced them to gather into a single pack. This is, in general, a defining characteristic that distinguishes these creatures from beasts that have acquired some sort of special magical abilities. Among beasts, the prevailing instinct to care for their offspring is still observed, for the most part. A snow leopard mother will defend her cubs if she has even the slightest chance of doing so, and female bears are also notorious for their vicious temper toward anyone who comes near their litter.

This even applies to the magical counterparts of these beasts—that’s the important part! But when it comes to fully-fledged creatures—not isolated mutants, but literally a tenacious, invasive, and aggressive species—they show very, very limited concern for their offspring. And first and foremost, the seasoned humaneaters will save not the pack, not the young, but themselves—for they are alone, and new females or males can always be found later. Ilya set a separate goal for this entire mission: to prevent the creatures from scattering, especially the leaders. If released now, they’ll become an even greater nightmare for the residents of the Ridge. It’s always nice to do a good deed, especially if you get paid a little for it.

The standard quartet of anchors and the center of the cross—Ilya—head into battle, but only the four of them reach the entrance to the lair. Sleepy, who has remained in her cozy snow pit and is surrounded by a protective barrier of concealment amulets, will not engage in direct combat. She is already dozing, and her sleep is gradually enveloping the targets she has chosen. The quartet—consisting of Harlequin, the Soul Slayer, the Warlock, and the Wendigo in human form—moved correctly. Lacking sufficient experience, they sometimes made mistakes, but they were on the right track, methodically correct. Approaching from the leeward side, using one of the spire-like rocks as natural cover from the gaze of potential observers, and having smeared themselves with odor neutralizers, they were, on the whole, ready for battle.

Lishka and Chizhik, the squad’s Warlock, were both a bit unsettling, but Ilya was only truly troubled by the latter. Short and slight of build, with a slightly stooped posture that made him seem even smaller, he was a rather jumpy and emotional fellow. When the Earthling looked at this young man, he was reminded of a candle flame flickering in the wind, yet ready at any moment to turn into a raging inferno. Some might mistake his mannerisms for cowardice, but from Ilya’s perspective—having worked with this guy—he actually had an overdose of courage. In battle, he becomes completely reckless—and he was like that even before the ritual; it’s not a personality shift. If only he could be rid of his suspicious nature and his panicky fear of letting his comrades down or failing to live up to expectations.

In stark contrast to him, Grosh the Soul Slayer was completely calm and gave no outward sign of the turmoil he was feeling. Only his heart was pounding wildly in his chest. Quite large, taller than average, and naturally well-built, he had been working as a bouncer at a very respectable establishment before all this chaos began. And “respectability” meant that at the “Anchor Chain,” men in his line of work were required not only to have muscles, a menacing face, and the ability to pocket a troublemaker’s wallet without the security getting on their case, but also tact, the ability to assess a situation, and the skill to defuse a conflict.

A battered face and a nose that’s been broken several times are, however, part and parcel of his line of work, giving him a truly menacing appearance—yet he’s actually a very kind person, as long as you don’t provoke him first. He’s the perfect fit for the Soul Slayer class; they all need that very phlegmatic disposition—just like the Marauders—and in many ways, it plays an even greater role than the mental resilience index. It’s precisely that slight air of indifference and even sluggishness that will help compensate for the sharpness and impulsiveness of these two classes’ perceptions.

They advance to their assault position in strict accordance with the rules of small-group tactics, having first prepared their future positions and compromised the enemy’s positions. Four large alchemical containers—not even vials, but jugs—are quickly emptied. Two of the containers release a viscous gas that is physically very inert; it is partly a sleeping potion and partly a debilitating tonic that reduces muscle tone and reaction speed. The “Will” effects embedded in this substance—from the “Directed Elixir” aspect with four steps—serve as a sort of homing mechanism. The mixture itself breaks down into smaller clouds and is drawn toward an external heat source.

The average ++Fiery Eater is a very hot creature. Their body temperature comes very close to forty-two degrees, and often exceeds that limit if their metabolism has already become partially or completely magical rather than biological. As a result, in their entire group, only Chizhik—who is also a fiery fellow—could have become a target for this scum, but he had put on a simple amulet to suppress his thermal signature, as, in fact, had the rest of their group. Twenty minutes of waiting, buried deep in the snow, after which they can continue. This won’t take out the aggressive creatures, nor will it even slow them down much. But it will make Sleepy’s job even easier, and it will give the assault team a few extra grains of sand’s worth of time to react.

The active phase begins once again with alchemy. The remaining jugs emit a black, thick, and resinous cloud of smoke that reeks of burnt flesh, thereby attracting creatures. It draws them in with an unnaturally strong pull. It also conceals human silhouettes, blurring their position in space. And yet, to the human eye, the smoke is completely transparent, thanks to the potion taken—or rather, dripped—into their eyes beforehand. It smelled absolutely awful, but Toria had firmly internalized Ilya’s lessons. The potion’s taste and aroma were the very last considerations, unlike its direct functionality and safety for one’s health. Moreover, the smell quickly dissipated, leaving no trace, unlike the potion’s effect—or rather, the dual combined composition created through the “Reaction Division” with its three steps.

Upon seeing something unfamiliar—and smelling of prey, no less—++the ferocious beasts, realizing their numerical superiority, wasted no time and launched their attack. A few abrupt, barking and yapping sounds gave their entire combined pack a rough idea of the enemy’s numbers, and then came the attack in a wide but gradually narrowing semicircle. It was at this stage that the ++ferocious beasts encountered the strikes of the gifted ones—three of them, to be precise. Ilya hadn’t joined the fray yet; he was merely observing and providing cover. But the young ones were just getting into the fray—they desperately needed this battle, the chance to feel their power against a real, not just a paper, opponent, taking a risk—but a moderate one—fighting, but not pushing themselves to the limit.

First to fly are throwing knives and even small axes. First come the ones Lishka threw—and she threw them cleverly: only two struck fatal spots (the mouths and eyes of the unsuspecting ++ferocious eaters), while the rest hit their legs, immobilizing them and inflicting pain. Next come the “gifts” from Grosh, but these strike with lethal precision. Four small axes—heavy and high-quality—drawn from the arsenals of Ryuek Sturgeon’s secret hideout. Not a single miss, thanks to the weapons automatically homing in on their targets under the effect of “Thirst for Killing.” And a moment later, from each body—which seemed to have been instantly paralyzed and utterly weakened—a crimson thread stretched out, barely visible but crystal clear against the energetic background.

Actually, that was the “Red Thread.” A classic that has been discussed a hundred thousand times for every build, especially for the Soul Slayer build with a focus on Blood. As they say on the Forum: you only need to see this talent in action once, combined with “Ecstasy of Death” and “Quench the Rage,” to understand why Soul Slayers are the ones who most often switch to the Bloodthirsters and other “Dracula-style” builds. Quite large—the size of a seasoned wolfhound—and brimming with life and an untapped thirst to kill and live, the ++ferocious beasts became ideal donors for Grosh. The former bouncer’s face, which had turned pale with involuntary fear (and who wouldn’t be scared when a pack like that is charging at you?), flushed pink, practically glistening, his eyes almost clouded over with a haze of near-ecstasy.

Fortunately, it wasn’t even the resilience he drew from his connection with Ilya that came into play here, but simply his training. Before this day, Grosh had already used a similar combination several times on solitary creatures or even on groups of them that were bound and unable to resist. He withstood with honor the euphoria brought on by the influx of life force, the surge of magic, and the untapped, wasted potential of the beast-form soul. He also faced with honor the bulk of the enemies wounded by Lishka, who had been driven mad by pain and the hallucinations induced by alchemy in the smoke.

Filled with borrowed power, Grosh made full use of the seconds allotted to him, during which, in terms of armor and survivability, he could compare with the strongest of the Martyrs. Thirty-one drops, gained and invested. The three aspects so essential to this combination have already been acquired. This makes him unusually strong for such a newly gifted individual. He simply sweeps the first creature aside—not even killing it on purpose, but merely knocking it off balance with a blow from the entire surface of the shaft—and Ilya nearly shed a tear. He personally trained Grosh to use a hybrid of a mace and a club. The second creature received a sharp jab right in the face, its skull crushed, and its brains splattered right onto the third creature’s snout.

He simply grabs the third one by its gaping maw. Without fear, he thrusts his chain-mail glove between its teeth, hurling it straight at the fourth creature—which is limping desperately after Lishka’s throw. The fifth would have buried him beneath itself. It was a very seasoned creature—though not the leader—and one that hadn’t sustained any significant wounds. Just one, when a fiery flash streaked from a crooked ritual dagger that glowed a blood-red copper in the setting sun. Gripping the bone hilt until his fingers turned white, Chizhik made full use of the trophy Ilya had temporarily entrusted to him. And his reserves hadn’t even been significantly depleted. The fiery build was working.

The fiery blade nearly split the creature in two. It seared its insides right through to the outside so that all Grosh could do was take a quick step to the side. Just in time for Chizhik to unleash “Flaming Torrent” at one-third of his reserve, taking out four creatures at once—though the last one was more scared than actually burned. Their thin, unnaturally warm hides offered next to no protection against the flames. The screams were simply indescribable, but the battle hadn’t yet reached its peak; the creatures managed to break through to Grosh after all. He took several bites that were painful and, in a different situation, would have been fatal—especially the last one, when tiny, grater-like teeth gnawed away half his face.

But the wounds inflicted by the Bouncer heal rapidly, as unnoticeable yet visible crimson threads are drawn into the body, restoring the skin and flesh. The Soul Slayers’ survivability is second only to that of the Martyrs. On the other hand, their blows are far more powerful; they’re capable of staging a veritable bloodbath. A massive club knocks down one ferocious fiend, then another; it intercepts a third’s leap; and a stake tied with a garishly variegated ribbon—thrown by Lishka—slams into a fourth’s side. The girl herself isn’t sitting idly by either; she leaps about like a grasshopper, shifting her weight back and forth, her face covered in makeup and white powder, now resembling a mix of the comic-book Joker and Pennywise from a not-so-distant VR show based on Stephen King’s work.

The one who is the grandfather and the writer, not the grandson and the Storyteller.

Her movements are fast, deadly, dangerous, and perfectly honed. She takes the greatest risks and gets on Ilya’s nerves the most because she dances on the razor’s edge. But there’s nothing to be done about it—such is her Lot, which leaves no room for safely hiding behind others’ backs. With her unique combination of two synergistic skill talents, she is better suited than any other anchor for close-quarters combat. And she survived, wriggling out of deadly situations only to strike back immediately with a pair of hybrids—a dagger and an Egyptian khopesh. Gradually, however, the strain kept growing and growing, and she had no reserves left. The Soul Slayer’s blood threads were slowly being depleted, and Chizhik was now using both “Flame of Will” and the rented artifact much more sparingly.

The turning point was about to come in the very next few seconds. Ilya would have had to step in. He was ready, holding aт Ice Breath on the very brink of release, but it wasn’t necessary—Lishka skillfully played her trump card. Well, for this battle, at least. “Evil Mockery” itself had only three steps, though Ilya had planned to help her develop the talent ritually and theurgically to four, or even five levels, in the not-too-distant future. But against the ++Frenzied Ones—who were practically defenseless against the mental effects of Madness, and who had already been weakened by the heat of battle and scattered by alchemy?

"Hey-hey, pies on legs—give me some meat for the cracklings!" At that moment, Lishka’s voice pierces right to the bone, evoking an unnatural, uncontrollable aggression, a thirst to rip out the throat of a girl who isn’t even a classic Jester, let alone a Mocker. "Oh, you fucking asshole!"

She bellowed that last phrase without any special effects or flair, but with the full range of appropriate emotions. All the creatures rushed at her, momentarily forgetting their other objectives. Ilya hadn’t even expected it. Either Torya’s alchemy had taken effect, or he had overestimated the ++ferocious ones’ resilience. In any case, they would have torn the frail—albeit nimble—Lishka to pieces very quickly, but the creatures had actually forgotten about the other three opponents, exposing their backs and breaking the surrounding formation. Lishka, meanwhile, simply and unpretentiously used “Crazy Leap,” soaring upward, lightening her weight even further, ending up about eight meters up and almost hovering on the currents of the icy wind.

Throwing knives flew down, among which Ilya spotted a half-eaten, stale roll, but these strikes were like mosquito bites compared to the work of her comrades. Chizhik used up most of his remaining reserves. He even staggered, and a drop of blood trickled from his nostril (for which he’d have to answer to Ilya later), but it seemed he’d been frightened for Lishka. The fiery torrent engulfed the creatures, which had conveniently gathered so close together, and a moment later crashed into them like a speeding cargo vehicle with a malfunctioning autopilot plowing into a crowd of shoppers lined up for Black Friday (it was a truly terrifying sight; I remember that attack very well)—a full-fledged “Destructive Wave,” which, even without any specific targeting, deals more damage the more blood has already been spilled and the more suffering has been around it.

Of course, the fight wasn’t over yet, but the immediate danger had been averted. Ilya stood silently behind the others, shifting back and forth, keeping an eye on everything but saying nothing. Lishka spotted the final ambush and let out a warning whistle. Two short whistles signal the attacking leader. This creature is already as big as a cow, and its hide glistens with individual scales of armor made of compressed ice. Even on its own, it could pose a deadly threat to any one of the three—and to all three, it’s simply a danger.

Grosh steps back, gripping his club and preparing to face the enemy; the remaining, wasted lives still surge and boil through his veins. He has a chance to weather the first attack. Chizhik adjusts his grip on the knife and summons fire to his palm, apparently intending to try contact ignition. It was a mistake—he’s not Irina. His build is purely area-of-effect and ranged, not a hybrid Ardorian one. Once again, Lishka solved all the problems by becoming heavier and falling from the sky straight onto the spine of the ferocious leader who had lunged at her. His spine didn’t snap. Not from the impact. But both of her pseudo-Egyptian daggers sank into his back up to the hilt, and then she yanked the handles downward.

The aspect Softening for her talent “Acrobatics of Death” allowed her to slice through even reinforced flesh with unprecedented ease, as if it were not meat and tendons but loose pâté. Bones were much harder to penetrate, but Lishka thrust her blades between the ribs, sliding them along the gaps between the bones, gutting the creature in a single second—a creature that didn’t even seem to have had time to get scared. Yes, the movements of the alchemically poisoned and seemingly drowsy leader lacked the utmost sharpness and lethality, but he was still dangerous. Yeah, he still was.

“Fine.” Ilya says briefly and curtly, pointing with his fingers to the right spots in the formation—as if to say, “Get into position quickly”—but under Lishka’s skeptical, demanding gaze, he corrects himself. “All right, not bad. But that’s not all—the lair is ahead.”

Finishing off the wounded—of whom there turned out to be not that many—went smoothly. Grosh took care of this, replenishing his life energy for the future and healing the wounds that hadn’t yet had time to close. He hadn’t yet had to clean his armor or change his clothes, which had been rendered completely useless after the carnage. Then they moved on toward the lair—a rocky ledge scarred by the claws of the pack leaders, whose claws could cut through stone just as easily as moles cut through earth. Fortunately, these weren’t full-fledged cave systems, just hollowed-out resting places—not even burrows. The resting places weren’t empty; about a dozen creatures, including another alpha female and a second creature that had nearly attained that status, were still there.

And the whole dozen of seasoned beasts were sleeping in nightmares. Ilya surveyed two bodies that were clearly dead, foam on their snouts. He examined another body, torn to shreds by the lead creature—which had never even woken up—and which had continued to gnaw on its gutted companion right in its sleep, and shook his head. Someone definitely needs to be prescribed some extra training in the real world, with a stick. She got greedy—really greedy—decided to put more of them to sleep and kill them, and now she surely can’t finish off the creatures or even wake them up safely. She’d become too deeply immersed in the dream shared by the entire pack.

“Finish them off, but be careful,” he orders, and they don’t argue. He’s drilled into them the truth that the priority is to come out of the fight alive and unharmed, not to score as many drops as possible, so no one even mentions letting Sleepy finish off the opponent herself. “The leader first.”

To be fair, Sleepy played her part and drew a good quarter of the enemy’s combat potential onto herself, but if she’d acted more wisely, she would have gotten more drops. And she wouldn’t have gotten a spanking! That said, she’ll still get her share of drops, just like Lishka, Grosh, and Chizhik—who froze for a moment, gazing inward—when they were hit by the Mechanism’s blast immediately after the last creature’s death. But she won’t get off without a spanking, no way.

"Now the fangs, a couple of flasks of blood, hearts and tails, and a couple of hides—we’ll take those off, too. We’re heading to the sleeping spot, formation three." Lishka clearly wanted to protest, saying we could slow down a bit, but screw her—we’re not slowing down, because according to Citadel protocols, a mission is officially considered complete only upon returning to base and, optionally, submitting a report. "And we’re not sleeping."

The three of them laugh in such perfect unison, as if they’d practiced it, but that’s good and right. It’s a sign of the coming hangover, which they’ll need to shake off first with the monotonous task of collecting trophies, and then with a long run. That way, when it finally hits, it won’t be a fit of hysteria or nausea, but simply a hangover from what they’ve been through. And no one here would feel sick, not even Chizhik. For the tough kids of a tough world are used to seeing bloodshed even without being gifted. And having developed their abilities to the level of the gifted, they’ve toughened their minds just right—they don’t even need Ilya’s blessing here.

“I went a little overboard, didn't I?” asks Sleepy, yawning and looking pleased, yet shyly hiding her soft gray eyes, as she had been waiting for them without stepping outside the circle of protective amulets. “Phew! I'm glad you're all alive and unharmed.”

“You went a bit overboard, sis.” Lishka immediately takes control of the conversation. “You should've seen the look on Ilivyatik's face when he saw those creatures.”

Ilivyatik—that is, Ilya and Svyatik—was the name Lishka started calling him from the very day she found out that he wasn’t, so to speak, Svyatik. And, tellingly, she considered herself in the right and felt her offense was justified. A couple of sparring sessions with slightly more intense contact didn’t dissuade her from this belief, and then the Earthling started ignoring her jabs. And that hurt her far more than those training sessions. Even now, she was sulking like a mouse in the grain silos of an industrial elevator when the Earthling failed to react to her sparkling humor.

“Why are we standing here? Who are we waiting for?” he asks, answering his own question right away. “We're not waiting for anyone. So let's get moving to the departure point, or your instructor will get mad.”

"Yeah, he sure knows how to grumble—it’s enough to make your ears wilt." Lishka, as always, is one of a kind, but Ilya isn’t worried at all about the grumbling of the person she’s talking about so calmly, even managing to come out with gems like that with just the right expression. "Let’s go! The last one washes the dishes!"

And off she went, as if any of them could catch up to Harlequin—well, except for Ilya. Off she went, yes, but without breaking away from the group and strictly adhering to her role as the lead wedge of their formation. She even juggled along the way, right in the middle of running or jumping across the snow, which didn’t give way under her body, lightened to the absolute limit. Ilya was already thinking about the next checkpoint, so he didn’t call out to her. He could see that Lishka wasn’t losing her concentration even now. As for himself, he allowed himself only a few fractions of a second to look inward—directly at the crimson-and-gold halo-like circle in which the essence he had found but not yet obtained hung suspended. Ahead of her lay a great, great deal more of that essence—found but not yet obtained.

He allowed himself to fully reflect on the situation a second time, once they had all returned to the hideout through the ink doors. It was then that his companions—who were laughing and giggling somewhat hysterically as Lishka recounted the most memorable moments of the battle—truly believed they had come out on top. Not only had they become gifted, but they had also survived their first real and hard battle, in which only Iliy had been there to back them up. Ryuek, of course, flat-out said he wouldn’t even go with them or help them. The fact that, for a third-step person—and one who was heavily leveled up at that—distance didn’t really matter much was something his anchors hadn’t fully grasped yet.

They, even Romchik, did not fully understand what Ruek Sturgeon was.

Ilya gazed at the halo of golden-scarlet and white mist swirling above the ominous lake and bowl, mentally counting the coming drops, mentally listing all the places and moments where everything could go wrong. He didn't have the slightest doubt that this battle, in which he played the role of mentor and guardian, was the simplest of all that lay ahead for their company.

* * *

Undead. Oh, all divers love the undead—whether in quotes or not. Lower-tier undead yield plenty of essence while remaining relatively safe. Their lairs often hide treasures or simply interesting finds. Even the body parts of the undead are quite marketable on their own, albeit for a relatively low price. But when the undead are no longer “low-level,” they become a true nightmare for fans of zombie movies, and clearing out powerful lairs or full-fledged lairs inhabited by such undead is always considered a real pain in the neck. That said, to be honest, you’d be hard-pressed to find lacunas that are truly easy to clear out. There are only varying degrees of difficulty for the Diver and his Lot.

In this case, the undead enemy had already anticipated the group’s composition. There was no room in the party for either Sleepy—because the undead never sleep—or Lishka—because they would have to clear out a crypt that wasn’t exactly small, even if it was nearly empty, where there would be no room to maneuver. Or rather, not even a crypt, but one of the secret bases from the long-gone war. Here, a wide-area targeted strike of necromantic magic had instantly destroyed all its inhabitants. And then they rose on their own—such a gruesome death, especially alongside several gifted individuals, simply couldn’t help but degenerate into something like this.

In other words, people might have known about this place, but they weren’t in a hurry to come here simply because there are no treasures here, nor any secrets. Just walking corpses eager to kill. No one is going to trek halfway across the Ridge just to level up, or waste a service from a specialized jumper. Simply because the potential level-up isn’t worth the risks. Here, even a single person would get two or three drops of essence, and a group would be lucky to get even one drop—one to share among everyone. In their group, of course, the math is completely different, and they still can’t gain access to the official lacunas.

Injustice, you see, completely unjust discrimination!

This time, the group of five is a little different, though there are some familiar faces. For example, we’ve pulled Torya away from her work with entrails; a couple of her talents will prove very effective against the undead, and they’ll also help combat the atmosphere of death in the underground complex that has become a crypt. No one thought to send Chizhik away. Fire has always been considered an excellent means of putting the undead to rest. Irina—or rather, Irdia the Fiery—would undoubtedly confirm this, were she here now. The main offensive deck consisted of three combat casters—the Warlock, the Occultist, and the Enchanter, or Chizhik, Ognetz, and Kruchik—while the Marauder-Nochik would take the brunt of the attack.

In the middle of their formation walked Torya, the least battle-ready of them all. Bringing up the rear was Ilya, lost in lazy thought. There was no concern for the lives or well-being of others right here and now. The task was actually quite simple—especially with a map of this hideout. They could only get hurt if they made a blatant mistake. They didn’t even need the Martyr; a single fighter with the warrior archetype and proper gear would suffice. The real concern here was avoiding a stab in the back from their own allies—not for the most mundane reason in the Broken World—sudden or expected betrayal—but because their nerves might prevent them from casting spells effectively.

They didn’t go in through the central passage. The layout there was extremely inconvenient, designed to trap an assault team. They broke through from the side of a relatively thin wall—just thirty centimeters of rock. For Torya, who possessed the “Drop of Solution” and was both nervous yet remarkably composed, it was a piece of cake—literally. In the early stages, she casts the talent by exhaling or spitting. Later on, even without aspects, she’ll be able to cast the spell from her hands or any other part of her body. This is one of the main reasons why you shouldn’t rape alchemists, regardless of their gender. Virtually all class members with any sense take the Drop, unless they’ve built their character from the start as a pure lab specialist who never goes into combat, since they’ll be protected by a whole crowd of guards and/or overseers.

“Drop of Solution” is generally considered the most incredibly useful and powerful “last-chance” combat talent for a non-combat build with three steps. It’s penetrating, effective, doesn’t drain your energy or psyche too much, morphs or locks in easily when advancing through steps, and is also very undemanding in terms of reserves. At the peak of the first step, it’s no longer impressive, but it’s an excellent way to save your life at the beginning or middle of a plateau of powerlessness. Oh, and it’s also versatile, with a silent cast that lets you use the drop as a sort of “lockpick.”

The entrance to one of the storage rooms is almost empty and reeking of stale ash. Even after all these years, the atmosphere here is unpleasant. The undead feed on the power of death, but they also replenish it; on top of that, the high magical background here allows them to nourish themselves, thereby strengthening the aura within these walls. The lack of open spaces and the complete isolation only made it harder for the background energy to return to even a semblance of normalcy. An ordinary person would start to feel unwell here within a couple of hours; after four hours, they’d be unwell for the rest of their life; and after six, their life would simply end. It’s a bit easier for the gifted, but it will still be unpleasant and difficult for them. Their sensory perception and subtle talents will begin to malfunction.

So the next move goes to the Alchemist as well. Her brown eyes freeze, her pupils narrowing to pinpoints; she seems not to notice the stray lock of slightly wavy red hair. A moment, then another, and then an invisible wave flows from her palms, signaling her signature move—not a combat move, but a craft, one that simply happens to be applicable in combat situations.

The classic five-step “Shift of Nature,” which has already gained traction, was originally intended to alter the properties of a given energy concept when working with reagents and complete formulations. And it even comes with the “Chain” aspect, which allows for—surprise, surprise—a chain reaction of such a change. If the aura of death had been denser, if it had had owners, if even a few undead had met them in that little room, this effect would not have occurred. But it turned out the way it did: a wave—displacing the harmful aura that weakens life and strengthens non-life, shifting it from death to neutrality—swept through the room and moved on, deeper into the dead refuge.

A moment later, the only warrior there—aside from Ilya—storms in. He is of average height, with the featureless, youthful face of a young man of indeterminate nationality and ethnicity, dark blond hair tied in a tight bun on top of his head, and a melancholic, calm gaze from his almost colorless, barely brown eyes. Nochnik would have made a decent Assassin—not just a Marauder—but Wolfie had already taken the Assassin role, and his personality and personal traits were a perfect fit for a Marauder. In his right hand, he holds a shield-parma with an iron rim that appeared instantly from the “Inner Arsenal,” and an excellent horseman's pick—bearing the mark of the capital’s smithies—that appeared just as instantly in his left hand.

Then the rest of the group wasted no time, slipping in after their leader and setting about preparing for battle at a leisurely yet businesslike pace. And the battle began—though without any fanfare or risk whatsoever. They headed into the corridor. Torya periodically refreshed the background, and the first zombies they encountered were put to rest for good. Chizhik held back his fire. It was, after all, an enclosed space. Even though the Alchemist could restore breathable air from unbreathable air using the same “Reverse Reaction” that, just for a moment, is generally considered a balancing talent in her build. Ognetz, on the other hand, was going all out. If you can even say that about such a fatalistic, phlegmatic guy, that his indifference bordered on a mental disorder in and of itself.

And yes, the fact that the Enchanter, with his damage-dealing build honed to the extreme in the Cald element, had the most fiery name in the entire anchor company—that’s a whole other irony of fate. Still, his Cald magic didn’t stop him from setting things ablaze in the most down-to-earth sense of the word. Out of yet another mysterious room, they crawled straight up the walls, as if they weren’t the undead but the possessed. A full quintet of corpses that were anything but simple. They were clad in decayed garments—some relatively everyday, others full-fledged armor—but their uniform design and form were unmistakable. The Iron Gauntlet, that rebellious soul, had imposed upon his troops a level of standardization that wasn’t even found in the Crowned One’s own forces.

Ognetz merely scratched the old scar on his cheek, sending a “Cold Kiss” into already frozen bones with the same motion. It was a blasting arrow of pure Cold, the kind that made bones crack and snap under their own weight. At the same time, he blocked the passage with an “Icy Veil”—a literal wall of extremely durable and magically inert ice. The creatures set about breaking it down with enthusiasm. Only to start catching the gray blobs of the Abyss’s magic from Kruchik. The swarthy, sharp face of the fiery, brown-eyed brunet—whose father, they say, was originally from the Shahshan Khanate—twisted into a sinister smile.

The creatures are coming. Time and again, Torya purifies the air and the energy. Occasionally, Chizhik strikes with his dagger, but the bulk of the work is done by the Marauder and the Occultist. The former holds the enemy in place and prevents it from attacking, masterfully switching between shields and weapons whenever the previous one begins to wear out from the deadly blows. The second, meanwhile, deals most of the damage, taking advantage of the fact that the Abyss Adept’s reserves simply cannot run out due to the lack of active talents that consume them. The Enchanter only slightly slows the enemy with barriers and keeps an eye out for incoming enemies, making full use of “Whisper of Ice,” a four-step sensory and buffing talent.

Walk to the next turn, stop, and lure out the undead; wait for them to attack, kill them, continue forward, repeat the process, and then defeat a creature fused from several bodies, the core of which appears to be the Martyr who perished in the detonation of a necromantic artifact. Fortunately, the creature no longer possessed any damage-transferring abilities—there is no standard class more alive than the Martyr, and no remains more unsuitable for necromantic magic. In the sense that such resurrected beings rarely retain even a semblance of their class abilities, but their overflowing life force always leads to the emergence of particularly powerful and resilient offspring.

It was here that Chizhik had to unleash his first burst of fire to slow down a creature that wasn’t all that big, but was incredibly tough. Its bones were practically regenerating from the ashes, and its blackened, charred hands were already tearing the icy wall to pieces. Kruchik stepped forward—even though Nochik’s shield was covering him, he himself gave no thought to defense. Spreading his arms wide, he seemed to clasp an invisible point between them, and then embraced it. The world grew a little grayer; the power summoned by the Abyss’s five-step talent carried not even a hint of the stench of sulfur, bearing no resemblance to Gehenna in the slightest, yet one still got the feeling that something had appeared, been born, and come into being right there.

It’s quite a controversial choice for a first-step ultimate. It could be truly devastating—or completely useless. That is, if you know exactly how to counter “Colorless Eyes.” If you know how a talent like this works. The crowd of the long-dead, rushing toward the bodies of the living, clearly knew nothing about any mechanics. Neither the former Martyr nor the far more nimble and agile figure of yet another complex undead—literally ablaze with ashes—crawling across the ceiling above the corpse. A moment, a flash of gray, and the most ordinary, magic-less bones fall onto the stone floor, while a fresh breeze hits my face. Knowing her role, Torya reversed the burning reaction, restoring their breath.

Staggering under the weight of exhaustion, Kruchik gives a curt command, then retreats to the back of the formation, under the still-nervous gaze of his comrades, who have now opened their previously closed eyes. He certainly has an unpleasant talent. In terms of raw damage alone, he’s capable of overwhelming even Ilya’s resistance. After all, he, too, had sensed that presence; he just hadn’t closed his eyes. He knew the effect would strike the undead first and foremost, not the serene Windigo, standing behind the casting Occultist. But his temples still throbbed for a moment when, from the gray void around them, that presence looked at him, too. Him! It throbbed! It didn’t even sting! Now that’s truly a talent among talents—and one that exerts relatively little pressure on the brain compared to others rated at five steps.

If you max it out. Even without aspects, it reduces psychic damage.

It's just hard to pump it up if you can't cut corners.

Ilya, as he looked at this scene, couldn’t help but recall an old Forum poem dedicated precisely to this talent. And also to the first earthly occultist to officially describe the “peephole” build (not the eye, but specifically the door peephole—that’s the colloquial name for the talent). Alas, he didn’t make it past the third step, and soon after, his community also fell into decline and disbanded. Now, the remaining divers have either lost the Twins or moved to Broken as their permanent residence. The man shared the exact same last name as a very famous philosopher, so the jokes about this in his Forum section never stopped, and the section owner himself only banned those who repeated the most hackneyed ones.

It’s a good reminder that, among the Occultist’s talents, the Summoning tree is considered to be entirely devoted to Gehenna—but that’s just a perception. There are beings to summon both in the Darkness and in the depths of the Abyss. It’s just that it’s usually not worth the trouble. For all its vile nature, Gehenna is as comfortable and safe as possible for a summoner to work in, provided clear rules are followed. Only shadowmancy is safer, but shadow creatures are far too unpredictable tricksters—even if they are much more benevolent than Fiends.

And here, direct damage comes immediately from the Abyss’s aural-energetic component, followed by a powerful psychic attack from an immaterial creature—not even a ghost, but rather a materialized phenomenon. With strikes like these, standard groups of divers usually take down the most heavily armored and dim-witted creatures—the ones that would drive you crazy trying to pick at them with conventional methods. The only way to take down someone else gifted with the Gaze is if they simply don’t know how to react to this type of attack. Just close your eyes and create a little distance. Usually, that’s all it takes.

Bolstered by their decisive victory over the most dangerous creatures, the group continued on smoothly and without incident. They paused twice, turned back, and regained their strength by sipping Torya’s disgusting tonics. On one occasion, a powerful undead creature came up behind them. It wasn’t clear what class it belonged to—or if it even had one at all; maybe the dead god had simply blessed the corpse. Ilya stepped in for the first time, shielding Chizhik from a blow to the back, and then Chizhik managed to finish setting up his own strike. And he didn’t panic; he fired a precise burst along the ceiling, hitting the undead crawling up the walls, and then directed the stream downward.

Minus one point for not reacting in time.

Plus one and a half for how beautifully he covered the bulk of those who like to fuck them from behind.

In total, the clean-up lasted more than three hours. Although by the end they were simply combing through the rooms—having found nothing dangerous but not daring to leave any rooms unchecked, from which they might be ambushed—the only dead body, crushed by a massive cabinet, posed no threat even to a fairly brave teenager with a stick. By the end, they were already joking around and having fun, and Chizhik was really strutting his stuff, figuratively speaking, since he’d already taken part in one combat operation and could consider himself a veteran.

That walk helped them relieve their nervous tension, so when they emerged from the dungeon, they weren’t in a panic—just tired. Besides, the Warlock didn’t want to lose face in front of his friends, especially since they were trying to prove they were just as capable. Ilya, meanwhile, silently grabbed the unopened mini-safe, which was supposed to contain some documents of interest to Ryuek. They shouldn’t even have decayed. The spells cast on the steel could have protected the paper even under more dangerous conditions.

"I hate the undead," the Alchemist concluded, wiping her face. She'd suffered more fear than anyone else, since at least they had something to fight back with, while she had the only one talent of the last line. "I absolutely, absolutely hate them."

"You just don't know how to cook them." At that moment, everyone looked at Chizhik, even Ilya, who smiled a little at the phrase, even Sturgeon, though the earthling couldn't vouch for that. "Come on, what are you talking about? That's Borzoi Shpan's favorite saying, you know that yourself! Well, not everyone remembers it."

Ilya wanted to shut the guy up, but decided to let him retell a story known to everyone ​​in Lazy. A bandit, drunk, devoured a cannibal. Not yet a Wendigo, but already a Wendigo larva. Simply because, drunk, he didn't realize how terrifying the creature was, he punched the bastard in the head, and then ground him in a mill. No, not because he was a Miller, but because he was drinking with a friend, a miller, who only ground the highest-grade flour, which is why his mill was located within the city limits.

No, to be fair, he actually smiled.

Inside.

But outside, he simply drove the group into the ink door.

* * *

With this lair, they all performed a huge service for a significant portion of the Dead Man's Ridge, namely the common population, who would be the first to find themselves on the brink of a potential crisis. The Hateful Flesh can lie dormant for centuries under snow or stone, maturing for years into its most unpleasant form, yet once it reaches the point of no return, it spreads with astonishing speed and inevitability. Outbreaks of this subtype of corrupted creatures are ubiquitous on the Ridge. The locals are adept at identifying the infected and know exactly how to eliminate the beasts infected with growing flesh.

But corrupted by hate, Snow Monkey or the simplest sprout of a Meat Lake, crawling through a weak rift and unable to escape, is one thing. A fully-fledged Meat Flower, even an inflorescence, which had been maturing for decades and was now in a state of active mitosis, is quite another. Such a filth could, in a matter of days, unleash a whole cloud of infectious particles and germinate in the bodies of the lured beasts. This structure should have begun producing an intoxicating aura and pheromone cloud any day now. And then would begin what often results in full-blown crises, ruined cities and devastated expanses where life can never be restored, where the filth has forever gnawed away a chunk of territory from the familiar ecumene.

The animals will devour the enticing flesh of the burst Inflorescence, creating the first wave of a retinue. Spores will germinate on the rocks and bodies of those dragged in by the first wave. And in a couple of years, many settlements, including even large cities, will find themselves in an extremely interesting position, most often referred to as "put in doggy pose." The Inflorescence itself is considered a confident second-step creature, but at the same time, it is practically defenseless, as for a creature of this step, unless it has a retinue of already fleshed defenders. And this particular inflorescence had no defenders—both Sturgeon and Ilya spent a couple of hours yesterday wandering around outside the Inflorescence's affected area.

Apparently, the creature was literally bred here. Someone brought in at least fifty death row prisoners, properly processed them, practically feeding them active Hateful Flesh, and then either punched a rift or loosened the nearly closed crack to provide something to feed the future Inflorescence. Someone very evil and extremely smart, pragmatic and utterly ruthless. Someone wanted to make things truly miserable for the surrounding territories and Ridge's economy. And this plan would have been completely successful if not for the kindly candy grandfather and his young and not-so-young Anchors, who set about uprooting this muck.

No signal structures or rituals were found here. Even with all of Ryuk's paranoia, there were none, which isn't surprising. Leaving any signal structures would be a direct admission of what exactly happened here, the purpose for which this crap was grown. But who knows what happened here; anything can happen. Even after the Inflorescence matured, no one would be able to understand the mechanics of the creature's creation. Nor will they understand it after the actively fighting gifted ones complete their work. Work that is important, useful, even a little heroic, but also thankless. Because there's no one to even tell about it.

This time there were five of them again, but not a single melee fighter. Only casters—the Warlock, the Enchanter, the Occultist, the Alchemist, who has the only ranged attack ability—and Ilya. This time, the Earthling isn't just watching; he's actively participating in the battle. He can afford to, because in its current state, the Inflorescence can only hurl fleshy blobs at them with less than stellar frequency and accuracy. In fact, Torja's main task wasn't to use her droplet, but to neutralize these projectiles. Not even in flight, but after landing, so they wouldn't have to worry about stepping on the rocks.

Sturgeon had already prepared a trove of healing and diagnostic tools against the Hateful Flesh, but Ilya would have preferred to avoid casualties altogether. After all, the battlefield conditions were as favorable as possible for them, and not just against a single, unprepared enemy. The battlefield itself was literally an arena-amphitheater, carved out in time immemorial, abandoned for centuries, but not collapsed. It was simply a hole in the Ridge rock, some fifty meters deep, at the bottom of which, where there should have been a stage, a jousting ground, or a liturgical platform, they'd hollowed out a complete cellar, five meters in diameter and of unknown depth.

It was from that cellar that a crimson monolith of Flesh, oozing with power, sprouted, hating yet yearning to grow and expand. On Earth, and throughout the Broken, there's a persistent theory that this Hateful Flesh itself is fragmented from a single being, colossal and immense, beyond the fifth, sixth, and perhaps even the seventh step. This being, which never had a unified body, or was damaged and fragmented into myriads of collectively independent parts, became an infection and an epidemic, a merciless plague.

Be that as it may, this particular specimen was living out its final moments. They took their time, didn't get too close, and struck only from the longest range. They constantly drank potions, kept their breathing masks on, and checked the amulets they'd been given. Well, except for Ilya, who was already pumped up enough that his body could devour small doses of the Hateful Flesh inhaled by itself. Or freeze them with Cald. He'd had time to test this fact much earlier, back when he and Sturgeon were surveying the upcoming battlefield.

They would have even taken Grosh with them, but his bloody abilities lacked the range needed to use them safely... And simply sucking the life out of this scum—especially one a step above the Soul Slayer—wouldn’t have been the smartest move. Besides, they didn’t have enough sets of amulets for him. Still, their hideout was a deeply mothballed base, and they didn’t keep a lot of high-quality consumables there.

Acidic smoke rose upward; the stench of burnt flesh overpowered the repulsive aroma of the flash monolith—a massive chunk of pulsating flesh that resembled a nearly sprouted seedling crossed with Scarlet Mold. Chizhik’s blows aren’t the most powerful, but they’re the most effective at preventing the regeneration of scorched flesh, which has an innate weakness to fire—especially the warlock’s accursed fire. The vials of flammable alchemy thrown at the very beginning also had an effect, but that effect wasn’t as profound as that of the Warlock’s talents.

The Abyss strikes with slow, deliberate jabs, eating away at the flesh from within. It strikes on cooldown as soon as the talents are available again. It strikes from virtually a single point. The attack range of their squad’s favorite Al-Hazred cosplayer is the greatest. The creature simply couldn’t reach him. The main blow, however, is dealt by Ilya and Ognetz with freezing ice. In principle, the Earthling could have used the “Epicenter” effect, amplified it with “Horns,” and even frozen the very fabric of reality along with the creature. He could have, but he would have had to get closer, take a slightly greater risk, and—more importantly—he would have been the one to absorb the essence.

So he simply uses Breath after Breath, not even particularly forcefully, merely renewing it and preventing the Cald's pressure from diminishing and dissipating into space. But Ognets takes advantage of the Cald's presence, exploiting the platform created by Ilya-Ily, activating Frost Grip again and again, expending almost no energy of his own. And the battle against the second-tier creature, which should have been a truly epic battle, even considering all the shortcomings of the artificially grown Inflorescence, turned from epic to simply hard and monotonous work, like cutting firewood.

The lump of flesh spat out globs of scarlet, fleshy mass, which Torya intercepted and disintegrated into colorless slime, or disintegrated into said slime after they landed on the stone. The flesh burned, the flesh dried, the flesh froze, the stone of the amphitheater cracked as the hateful flesh stirred in its nest. Dodging the spit was effortless. It was as if someone had deliberately pumped the suiciders with special potions. Potions designed to influence the final structure of the resulting Inflorescence, to make it as defenseless as possible against those who would come to cleanse it, if they had to.

You never know. What if their plans changed? What if they no longer needed to hunt the creatures, and there was no way to kill them quickly enough with a small force? A normal Inflorescence, completely devoid of an entourage, could, of course, be overwhelmed by their forces, but they would have had to take risks, worry, sweat, and probably lose someone. In their case, they wasted nothing but time and nerves—at some point, chunks of frozen mass began to fall off the monolith of scarlet flesh, and everything inside was also frozen and desiccated from the Abyss's injections. Fire from the Warlock and the occasional "Drops of Solution" from the Alchemist only added to the already sad picture.

"That's it." Beneath her mask, Torya is clearly smiling a satisfied smile, and her attitude is like that of an Earth cat who has stolen all the canaries from a petting zoo. "Got it. And more. And... Wow!"

Similar cries came from the rest of the company. Even with all the injuries and peculiarities, this Inflorescence was second-step, and they were all first. Even without Ilya's blessing, everyone would have gotten hit, perhaps twice. A full fourteen, twice seven, for Ognets. Torya only had a drop less. She was resisting the infection spreading through the air. The rest had about ten. How much Ilya had himself was unclear, but it could be more than Ognets, since he played a major role in inflicting damage and still managed to command.

"We started well, and we finished well," he says out loud, first in Chizhik's words and voice, and then in Torya's, which, coming from the incredibly skinny and impossibly tall horned terror-monger, sounds quite surreal, of course, once you stop reflexively feeling the unnatural terror of the Wendigo's battle form. "We might as well celebrate!"

"Damn, venerable Iliy." Chizhik really does need to overcome his nervousness somehow, for he is certainly no coward in battle, but he twitches at the slightest surprise. "How many times do I have to ask you not to do that? Every time, it's as if you're speaking from beyond the grave!"

Ilya wasn't listening. Slowly, so as not to strain his energy, he assumed his human form and began dressing. Torya, meanwhile, seemed deliberately embarrassed and turned away, but not so much that she could catch a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. Ilya didn't comment, but he had no intention of responding to her interest. It was dangerous, unnecessary, and he couldn't exactly call it a genuine interest, more like a woman's version of athletic interest. The oldest woman on the anchor crew, she, like Sleepy, had long ago abandoned the belief that she could marry a decent husband, even a widower, and so she indulged in casual affairs.

Not that she'd later be known as a whore, but she was certainly a "merry widow," even though she was never a widow. As a child, when she was fourteen, her parents and fiancé were devoured by a random creature—a wendigo born from a starving vagabond. She was the only one to escape and survive, and she even led a passing brigade of foremen to the creature. But no one was in a hurry to marry her again. She was unlucky, unfortunate, and would bring misfortune to anyone else's home. The fiancé's parents, weighing their debts against their credits, decided there was no point in marrying off an unfortunate girl in marriage to a second son in order to take over her father's bakery.

A couple of bribes, a couple of threats to Torya herself, and the solicitors' records show her and her fiancé already married and having sealed their vows. Now, since there are no more heirs (the creature also tore apart and partially devoured her brother and both sisters), it's the venerable Skupiy who inherits the bakery, and he now has two of them. And a kick in the ass for the girl and a not-too-tight wallet for a couple of unkind guys, so that the poor thing definitely doesn’t stay on the streets. Ruyek confessed this later, and to Ilya, not Torya—he'd lured the other two away from the young girl and warmed her up, keeping her warm in the frigid winter.

For a long time, she considered the fact that none of the baker family who had thrown their ex-fiancée out onto the street profited from their ill-gotten gains to be mere karma. Punishment from the Purifying by Deed for those whose deeds were not pure. Now, however, she suspects her sweet grandfather's interference, but is afraid to ask, unwilling to find out. And she probably doesn't know why. Sturgeon, by the way, interfered only minimally, without even exerting his talents—just a little hearing here, a sawed board there, a lump of alchemical muck tossed into the bakery, and the outcome is known to all. Of that company, only two sisters, who were married off to a neighboring town, remain alive; the rest are either in their graves or on the streets.

Ilya even wondered: was Ruyk really seeking revenge for the woman he'd replaced as her father, or was he simply taking advantage of the opportunity, given his traumas, to inflict harm and anger on those around him? But he certainly wouldn't ask, and, unlike Torya, he knew perfectly well why. To avoid being beaten for his misplaced interest. Or rather, the old man would certainly formalize the beating, like training to confront higher-ranking opponents in conditions safe for life and long-term health... which, indeed, was invaluable experience. Yes, indeed, he'd have to ask when the opportunity arose!

Tellingly, the daughter of a baker's dynasty wasn't at all afraid of Ilya. Although at first, upon learning of his Lot, she'd been consumed by fear and a deep-seated, evil hatred. Alas, there was no drama; no social engineering was involved. The Earthling simply communicated too politely and coherently. She remembered, all too well—even Sleepy had secretly copied her nightmares a couple of times to dream them up during training sessions with Ilya—the exact nature of that insane abomination that had literally torn her two-year-old brother apart, snatching him from the arms of a horrified Torya. And Ilya's behavior was so unlike what she'd seen that she was barely even afraid of his Form.

Unlike Chizhik, yes.

"Not bad. Just like here, actually." Sturgeon greeted them personally, right at the door, and standing next to him was Orsh, exhausted and clad in tattered clothes, who, under the old man’s watchful eye, was testing his valor against a particularly large female snow monkey, as well as the deeply miserable Romchik, who was supposed to use mental-contractual restraints to keep that monkey’s small pack of sons and daughters from interfering in the duel. “Need a break? Or will you wait for your club?”

He accompanied this phrase with a torrent of inky darkness that washed over them all, like a weightless stream—not even smoke, but mist. If there had been any trace amounts of particles of hateful flesh left, they were certainly gone after that. Ilya didn’t even pay much attention to the stream of inky darkness that brushed against his body and aura. Judging by what Sturgeon had said, the increased growth of essence for his anchors worked even without direct contact with Ilya. Either the great blessing was even stronger than the Earthling had anticipated, or that very anchor connection played a role, or perhaps it was all of these things together.

“Not for me, but it wouldn't hurt them.” Ilya paused to think about his answer for the sake of appearances, so the casters—who were utterly exhausted and, despite high-quality stimulants, suffering from symptoms of depleted reserves—all exhaled in unison at that moment, filled with heartfelt gratitude and relief. “But in the next battle, I won’t be behind your backs again—I’ll be fighting alongside you. So I might not have time to cover you. As for the bone… it’s not critically important right now, but the day after tomorrow, I wouldn’t say no to it.”

Still, the old man didn’t want to open an ink portal so close to Lazy. They might very well detect that portal there. Of course, he had long since finished calculating the pure ritual amplifier for his talent—one that would allow him first to send an extremely inconspicuous puncture with a droplet-observer, and then a narrow little door, just big enough to slip in the giant’s bone. It goes without saying that he wouldn’t risk exposure just because of Ilya’s request to pick up the bone blank if the opportunity arose. He needs something there—something for himself—it just so happened to work out this way. And Sturgeon, scrupulously fulfilling the role of a benevolent suzerain who respects his vassal’s requests, did not refuse the request.

Standing off to the side and dressed in full combat gear, Wolfie—just like Lishka, who was painted as yet another version of an evil clown—listened to their brief exchange, then met the gazes of both the mentor and the “grandpa” at the same time, nodding calmly and reservedly. As if to say, “We understand everything.” Such composure is by no means typical of the would-be circus performer, but she’s nervous, too. Or perhaps the old candy man had managed, after all, to instill in her a bit of respect and the ability to conduct herself in a dignified and reserved manner.

"I've got a blanket somewhere, just in case!" a clear, slightly trembling voice responded to his thoughts. "If you don't have time, you can cover yourself with it. Or even wrap yourself up!"

Okay, okay, Ilya had to admit he'd overreacted again, but Lishka's sense of humor had returned, and even Sturgeon smiled, giving her a gentle, almost tender slap. Gentle, because without a concussion and brains splattered across the wall, even an Earthling in combat gear wouldn't necessarily be able to survive a full-force slap from a third-step Sage. But yes, the joke is as black as Sturgeon's soul—here, as on Earth for centuries past, they wrap the dead in a blanket when they need to be transported from the place of death to the burial site. Body bags haven't been invented yet, though. Feel free to suggest an idea, or even patent it yourself under the roof of the now-revived Sturgeon, for the product would be quite popular, especially on the Ridge.

And outside of it too.

“I'm ready.” Wolfie simply shrugs—he looks nothing like a wolf right now; his gaze is far too calm and detached, only slightly less fish-like than Ryuk's or Ilya's when he's in a bad mood. “Shall we go, then?”

Ilya simply stares silently at the old man, who, just as silently, opens another door for them—one drawn in ink so black it stands out even against the backdrop of complete darkness. The Earthling isn’t ready to swear to it, but for some reason it seems to him as if the Sage is being literally suffocated—in a non-erotic way—by the earthly manifestation of greed. In the sense that a toad is choking him, not some demonic talent debuff with a delayed kill. He reads the amount of essence they’ve accumulated in just a few days. He compares these numbers to the ones he himself received while building his power, trampling over his rivals’ heads and wading neck-deep in blood. And then the old man butt stars hurt. Even though strong anchors benefit him in every way, just as their rapid accumulation drop by drop does.

“Yeah, let's go.” This kid didn't like to beat around the bush and wasn't good at it either, preferring either to listen, take action, or relax in between those two states. “Lishka, I'll start, and you take over. Wolfie—you've got her covered.”

* * *

The encampment of the primitive savages looked surprisingly peaceful and even a little fairy-tale-like. It seemed almost harmless. Ilya’s hair barely stirred on his head as the mental effect wore off. It wasn’t a trap for travelers, but rather a deterrent against aggressive beasts or the undead. It simply had side effects. Unlike the specimen Ilya had once encountered—from which the earthling had obtained that little bone he’d so unwisely left in the hiding place near Lazy—here, the savages were by no means alone. The earthling’s eye easily distinguished thirteen hearts—a full devil’s dozen. Eight savages, three tamed dogs, and one more heart—a human one. Most likely a captive, male or female, but in the latter case, he’d rather not imagine what exactly she’s been through in this merry company.

There’s exactly one hardened, old scoundrel here. This indirectly suggests that this encampment is a remnant of a larger one. Either it was destroyed by other creatures, or simply an experienced and powerful member of the species decided to break away and take some of his kin with him, and no one stopped him. The Savages, despite being creatures—and very, very dangerous ones at that—were capable of complex social maneuvers and intricate hierarchical structures. There are no young. Unless, of course, a captive was impregnated. There are no juveniles either—only adult males and females in the service of a mighty bull standing over two and a half meters tall. The second “special” subspecies of the Savage branch of these creatures was the houndmaster and his little beasts.

The rest are simply “spears,” with absolutely no distinction based on gender. Such a distinction will only emerge once they’ve established themselves in the territory, when the females can spread their legs with a clear conscience and transition from the combat reserve to the reproductive reserve. Ilya slowly and calmly takes off his clothes, while Lishka is clearly doing everything in her power—body and soul—to resist the urge to crack a joke, but she holds back, holds back, and for that she deserves some praise.

"Uncle Ilivyatik, are you really going to give me some gingerbread?" I wonder if she's just timing his thoughts, or if it's something from her core talent—something like 'understanding the nature of laughter and tears,' I think it was. "And why are you taking off your clothes? Uncle, you won't hurt me?"

"And you really wouldn't hurt me," he replies in her voice, stringing together a coherent sentence from the words she's spoken, shaking his horned head disapprovingly, bending almost to her very face, as if he'd just bite it off right now, and then continues in Wolfie's voice. "Shall we go?"

Lishka just nodded with a quiet "uh-huh," and then, with a swift movement, tugged at his sharp, snow-white teeth, right in his unnaturally wide, elongated mouth. Ilya managed to convey the question "What the hell are you doing?" in a single glance, and she, with the same glance, responded, "I've been wanting to do this for a long time, but you wouldn't let me. I'd have even tugged at his horns." While Wolfie, with the same nonverbal lexicon, clearly expressed, "Oh, my God, these people are my comrades and friends?!" Baring his teeth a little more, which nevertheless betrayed to the small splinter the fact that he wasn't too angry, the earthling, with a sharp and inhuman movement, rushed into battle.

Every movement is like the jerky rhythm of a marionette. Each movement exists on its own, coming together to form a cohesive whole—a continuous flow of movements and short jerks. It’s difficult enough to predict and react to this kind of movement under normal circumstances, and yet the “Steps” haven’t even been activated yet. His enhanced combat skill proved truly useful in moments like these, and the camouflage net—a mosaic of the active “Fringe”—that concealed him made it difficult even to detect him, let alone attempt to predict his movements in combat.

The encampment was situated right in the middle of yet another rocky massif, somewhat resembling a multitude of ridges jutting out of the ground—or perhaps stone arches bursting from the rock in one place and plunging into it in another. It, too, was a magical spot, a place of power, albeit a bit dirty. But for the Savages, with their resilience and tenacity, it was just right. At this rate, in a couple of months, some of the rank-and-file copies could become full-fledged sorcerers—albeit weak and mediocre ones. Fortunately, they don’t really possess any wild magic here; even the strange aura of negating tranquility surrounding the place is created by one of the totems they brought with them—made of snow, shit, and bones.

Most of the other shit-and-bone snowmen were created with care and precision, but they possess almost no magic. The signaling network is also far more primitive and simpler than the one the old Savage being demonstrated in that long-ago battle. On the other hand, the main brute himself will be an interesting opponent even for the current Ilya. He would have easily taken down the old one right now without breaking a sweat, even if he’d split into three. The leader’s frame wasn’t just massive—it was also frighteningly agile, fast, and not at all flabby, but rather sinewy and stocky.

And incredibly experienced—very, very experienced. The creature couldn’t get a clear look at Ilya. He attacked from behind a rock, sending a stream of snow billowing in front of him with Ice Breath, and at the same time flattened himself against that snow—only the horned top of his head was visible. The creature saw only a blurred shadow of his lunge, as well as a stream of snow flying directly toward it. And yet it reacted, managing to parry the first attack from the earthling who had stepped in close. The claws on its hands left bloody streaks on the savage’s forearms, tearing through his fairly decent—albeit primitive and overly heavy—armor made of bones and hides, and then came the counterattack.

His club was not a bone, but a solid rootstock from some rather unusual tree, carefully polished by hundreds of thousands of touches and further adorned with a multitude of small carved symbols. It also bore barely noticeable chips and dents—the kind that appear when an ultra-sturdy club strikes a target that’s just as sturdy. Yes, sturdy. Yes, yes, “super” is exactly the right word—it’s not hard to recognize the solid rootstock of a Screaming Birch; it has a very distinctive grain, as if the light-gray base were covered by black veins that seem to quiver slightly. Blows from such a club could very well cripple an aura, further cursing it with a grim effect.

Ilya doesn’t dodge; instead, he transforming, ending up behind the bull so he can leap onto its shoulders and sink his claws right under its chin. Crimson, almost human blood begins to drip, but it’s too early to count the leader out. He manages to grab Ilya by the wrist and force him to use transformation again—but not before that incredibly strong hand tries to snap his wrist. Tried, yes—Ilya’s strength is not much less, despite his smaller size. He has no interest in letting himself be thrown. He throws his own body—straight at the savage who had rushed out to meet the blow. The savage didn’t even have time to utter a sound before an incredibly wide, tooth-filled maw simply gnawed off his face and part of his skull.

Spitting a stream of blood, bone fragments, and brain matter into the second savage's face, he grabs him by the hand wielding the stone hatchet, twisting it and jabbing his head. Brains fly everywhere, and the earthling, cloaked in the fringe of his camouflage, shifts his pace again, causing the brute to strike into the void, growling in displeasure as he realizes he's fallen for the illusion. Two dogs are unleashed. The kennelman's whistle seems to infuse them with strength, and the next whistle will weaken any attackers. It's a classic combination of abilities for this subtype of creatures. Only the second whistle never happens, because a translucent figure appears behind the brute, thin and short, like a teenager.

It appears and then vanishes, leaving six holes in the houndmaster's back. Opposite the liver, in the lungs, and in the heart, the "Killing Poison" is already splashing through the wounds, sapping the strength and life from the houndmaster, who staggers in disbelief. He doesn't even realize he's already dead. His dogs, also beasts, with their instinct for self-preservation disabled, rush toward the Wendigo, but he Steps again, again and again, then uses Transformation and Howls as soon as he incarnates again. The dogs, and all the savages except the leader, slowed slightly or even faltered, shifting back.

Another Step. This time the Transformation was partial rather than complete. Another blow from the club pierced the void where the remnants of the Fringe, disintegrating in such intense combat, still remained. But the long arm of the combat Form struck with that unnatural and unnaturally unpredictable jerk precisely at the moment of partial existence. The brute kept his eyes open, but lost momentum, faltering in his attack, allowing the Wendigo to close in, completely bestial, delivering several slashes with its claws. Ilya rarely gives in so completely to his instinctive fighting skills, but his fighting skills are already somewhat more refined than before the tournament, and his opponent is perfectly suited for him to be a Wendigo for a while, to the delight of the inner monster howling in a hungry frenzy.

The enemy's wounds were growing, and he couldn't help his fellows because Ilya was pressing so hard that he couldn't breathe, couldn't even assess the situation around him. And then another savage fell, his throat slit. The ++huntsman finally fell, driving his dogs mad. The smallest of the savages rolled her eyes, staring thoughtfully at the stake protruding from her head. And then came the irritating, nerve-wracking voice of a mocking and very angry girl, who could clearly see what these creatures' amulets and jewelry were made of.

"Well, dogs, will you bark?!" The dogs rushed at once; the savages, a little later; even the brute lost his pace for a moment, losing an ear and receiving another deep wound on his side. "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!"

Lishka didn't take any chances. She leaped like a feather onto one of the natural stone arches, but all three dogs followed her. They could climb as well as cats—well, normal Earth cats. The confused pair of surviving Savages had their tendons severed by poisonous knives, as well as the effects of "Bleeding Slash," "Mark of Doom," and, finally, "Curse of Victim." The build created for Wolfie was designed specifically for these long-term effects. It was built around them, allowing for the use of "Invisible Presence" and "Uninvited Guest" to either deliver a decisive blow outright or wear down a resilient opponent with multiple deadly cuts.

Lishka snatched several skeins of thin, enchanted iron wire from a spatial pocket. She leaped toward the climbing dogs, darting between them, wrapping the steel loops around their necks in three motions, then leaping down and using mental provocation again. She wasn't afraid of hitting her own: Ilya remained invulnerable, and Wolfie, like herself, was protected by the amulet he'd been given, so Ilya could howl without fear of exposing his allies. Furthermore, the ritual liturgy of the Honest Brotherhood reduced the effectiveness of their attacks on each other for the rest of the cycle.

The Earthling couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for Lishka when he realized her plan. She managed to entangle the enchanted threads of magical ore around the rock ledges, and all three dogs that leaped upon her hanged themselves, slitting their throats all the way to the spine and nearly decapitating themselves. And in one case, completely decapitating themselves. Hobbled by the killer's blows, but still dangerous, the pair of ordinary savages rushed at her not only out of mockery, but also with the fury of the doomed, sensing their imminent and inevitable end. Lishka responded by throwing a knife, followed by a small rectangular amulet resembling a matchbox.

The savage ahead managed to dodge the knife, displaying the agility typical of these creatures, something one wouldn't normally expect given their size. But Lishka had been waiting, so the box jabbed the poor fellow square in the forehead, exploding in a purple flash, leaving only part of the lower jaw and neck. The second creature, a female, lunged over the fallen body of its fellow, but Lishka executed a graceful backflip, combined with a lightened leap, and then tossed another box. The throw wasn't as successful; the creature managed to stagger back in fright, landing on the packed snow. Even its wounded legs didn't hinder it, as if they were beginning to heal.

Wasn't this creature supposed to become a healer by absorbing the magic of the place of power?

"You owe me a copper for the scare!" Lishka, smiling beneath her laughing makeup, pointed a finger at the creature mockingly, but without any mental effect, hiding the fatigue of someone who had given almost everything she had in the fight.

Seeing her opponent’s weakness and exhaustion, the savage healer silently launched her attack. She charged straight down the same path she had just leaped back along, jumping over the small amulet box lying on the ground. And right in the middle of her leap, the box exploded, tearing off the savage’s legs and sending her crashing into the snow, where Wolfie leaped onto her neck, plunging both daggers into her throat, slicing her open all the way to her spine, and—just to be sure—driving one of them into her ear up to the hilt.

"No, just like a little child!" the showgirl declared smugly, her protective makeup starting to leak due to a lack of reserves to maintain it. "Although no, you'll never fool a smart kid like that. Me, for example."

She's not afraid to comment or crack jokes. Ilya had also finished by this point, simply waiting for his opponent to slow down from blood loss, especially from the wound on his neck, before he unleashed Transcendence and Transformation, simultaneously activating his Hide. And into this Hide, seemingly cast off and left hanging where the Wendigo had been a moment earlier, the Savage one smashed face-first, deprived of the eyes on which the earthling had focused the hide's attack. What followed was a matter of three blows, the last of which simply ripped out his throat down to the bone.

“Not bad—actually, pretty good.” The intense battle wasn't the time for jokes, so Ilya replied in his own voice, then gestured to indicate that he was going to change clothes, since there were no more dangers here—none at all.

He didn’t exactly rush back; he let the two of them speak their minds and wanted to hear their thoughts on what to do next. Just for himself, to better understand their personalities... Well, Lishka’s personality, anyway. With Wlfie, things are clearer than the attendance sheets for the weekly planning meetings at his home office. He found them both in the middle of a not-particularly-heated argument, and he’d guessed their roles in the argument beforehand, getting it right for both the guy and the girl.

"...it’ll be better for her," Wolfie spoke indifferently and very softly, almost in a whisper, as he always did with everyone, pointing his drawn dagger at the frantic, drooling woman of about twenty-five, who looked twice her age. "Finish her off and forget about it; let her not suffer. Right, Ilya?"

The Earthling didn’t answer, stretching his slightly aching wrists—the echoes of the blows resonated even within his human body as a nagging pain. This brute turned out to be tough—it was like trying to tear apart seasoned oak. He wasn’t quite at the second step, but he was close to the upper limits of the first, especially in terms of resilience and physical defense. As for magic, there wasn’t much of that defense there, but his hide held up well.

"There’s definitely no helping her, Svy… I mean, Ilya?" And she’s actually serious right now; she’s even forgotten her usual jokes. "I’m not some blissfully clueless fool—I get it all—but it’s just… it’s just so frustrating; it’s enough to make you want to cry. She didn’t stand a chance, and here we are- damn it- we took care of everyone. And she’s like, well, saved and all that, trulya-la, the minstrel strummed his strings. But she doesn’t give a damn. It’s… it’s like walking through the snow, freezing all the way, and then freezing to death right on the doorstep, you know?"

Ilya nodded, leaning over the victim, ignoring both the smell and the sight of what had happened to her body. The marks were unmistakable. His Eye had unerringly identified the early stage of a fatal pregnancy. The seed of the Savages, who had taken the captive for breeding, was repulsively potent, just as their females’ wombs are incredibly fertile when they take a captive. Though that’s rarer. They only throw themselves at men when there are absolutely no males of their own. However, despite her terrible condition, her health is fine, as if that so-called witch had actually treated her. Only her mind...

“She's a vegetable now, and there's nothing we can do about it. Look at that totem over there.” He pointed to a rather repulsive monstrosity resembling a fat man with an enormous penis, standing right above the captive's lounger—she wasn't even kept in a cage. “That thing has literally devoured her entire will and personality. There’s no way to restore her without a Priest or a Martyr of at least the second step with a specialized set of talents. Let’s take her with us.”

Wolfie, who until then had been wearing an “I told you so” look, gave him a puzzled glance, as did Lishka, who had already resigned herself to putting an end to the torment of this shell of a person. Ilya simply poured a vial of cleansing potion over the captive’s body, poured a tonic into her mouth, and began to wrap her in the leather sling. Judging by all appearances, it was in this bag that she had been hauled from place to place, and the brain-eating totem had prevented the body from completely losing its vitality—well, at least until the end of the pregnancy, or at least until the middle of the term. She had been captured less than a month ago, but more than twenty days ago, most likely from some settlement or from a trade caravan. The settlement itself is small, but it lies on a busy road, so merchants pass through regularly.

“We still have Sleepy. To work with the class, she needs not only me—as an invulnerable life-size target—but also other targets to work on,” he explains quite honestly, without trying to beat around the bush. “There’s a chance she’ll manage to dream up something from what’s left of the poor soul’s dreams. It’s hardly much, but that brain-eating abomination doesn’t penetrate dreams that deeply. Yes, the odds are slim—she’ll probably kill her off for good—but as far as I’m concerned, a chance at life is better than none at all.”

"Is this life?" It was Wolfie who asked, characteristically, not Lishka, though he rarely gets into arguments; he doesn't like to argue at all. "Do you believe that yourself, honorable?"

And he’s not even being rude—he’s just curious. The Earthling has learned to tell the difference. But it’s a sensitive topic for him, given his background. He witnessed how his older (not his sister, or maybe she was—just the one who took care of him, a five-year-old scatterbrain, in the absence of parents he didn’t even remember) fell into the hands of a group of “good people” who failed to appreciate her unwillingness to work for free out of kindness toward the good people around her. He saw what was left of her, and he saw her body being taken down from the noose. She didn’t want to live a tainted and disgraced life; she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not even for Wolfie and Luchik—the children she had cared for for so long.

It's probably best not to ask what happened to Lucik, either.

“Wolfie...”The Earthling resists the urge to roll his eyes and reply sarcastically; he’s not quite such a heartless prick. “Where I come from, there are plenty of maidens. Young and beautiful maidens, but often very, very foolish. They come here, to Broken, dive in without looking back, refuse to believe that anything bad could happen to them, and let their guard down, blinded by the gifts they’ve received from the Mechanism. And often, things happen to them that are too sickening to describe—including something like this. And that Brain-eating Totem is nothing compared to how real professionals can reshape or simply destroy a person’s identity."

The boy is listening to him very intently, as always, and the Earthling does not doubt that his teaching and social skills are currently being put to a very important test. It’s important for him, Ilya, but even more so for this kid—whose eyes have seen a hell of a lot of things that even adults shouldn’t have to see. He didn’t want to make a mistake, just as he didn’t want to inflict even more psychological trauma on this young man.

“We’ve simply grown accustomed over time not to view one another as corrupted, defiled, or tainted—even when we ourselves are not to blame for the corruption, the defilement, or the taint.”—He didn’t even notice how he had slipped into a lofty, theurgical manner of speech, one he rarely used. “The greatest misfortune for those who have survived such experiences lies within themselves. They cannot forgive themselves. They seek out and find their own guilt in what happened—even if it isn’t there. And your society will only add to their suffering: it will spit in their faces and spread malicious rumors. We, the Outsiders from my world specifically, simply don’t perceive such violence as anything more than ordinary torture, wounds, or beatings. It’s unpleasant, very hurtful, and you definitely need to take revenge when you get the chance—and do it in a way that deters others—but it’s no reason to pick up a bigger rock, tie it around your neck, and then walk to the nearest well."

It's important not only to recount the psychological support methodology for abused divers, but also to convey it to a very young and very nervous guy, who has long since fed the bugs in his head to far more dangerous creatures. And if all else fails, Ilya will at least say that he did everything he could to stabilize someone else's psyche, in the purely earthly sense of the phrase.

"And you believe it?" Again, not rudeness or skepticism, but a genuine interest, an attempt to understand. "Would you believe it if it affected you? Your sister? Your fiancée? Your mother?"

"Wolfie, I don’t like to talk much about my personal life—especially given its sorry state, which borders on nonexistence—but I’m literally sleeping in the same bed with a girl whom I personally helped design a self-immolation ritual to burn both herself and those who put her in a cage." By the way, we’ll need to find a nice little restaurant and take her there after this cycle. He’ll earn so much that the last shred of his conscience won’t let him treat Irina to a meal. “You can guess for yourself what the purpose is and what the outcome will be. Yes, we know how to rise from the dead, but the ability to rise from the ashes won’t free us from prejudice. And while we haven’t managed to completely overcome these prejudices, we’ve at least partially done so. We’re not a couple, we’re not engaged, and we’re unlikely to ever be, but we both respect each other—we respect and value one another."

Another brief pause for reflection, and then he points a finger at the victim of the now-deceased creatures, still drooling a thin thread of saliva.

"It's unlikely she'll recover. It's unlikely she'll be herself again, but if a miracle happens, I won't treat her any worse than any other woman who's ever been in a similar situation." He paused, then added, "Well, I wouldn't treat her any better either; I don't really care about her. I just see an opportunity to do a good deed and help Sleepy earn a few drops and learn how to heal mental damage. Kill two birds with one stone, that's all."

A minute-long silence, broken only by the howling wind, which was no longer kept at bay by the broken, shitty protective totem. Even Lishka had enough tact not to say anything at all. She seemed ready to cover her mouth with her hand so she wouldn’t blurt out anything like that.

"I'd probably like to live in your kingdom," the Assassin said quietly and with great depth, returning the daggers to their sheaths and returning to his usual businesslike mode, as if he'd flipped a switch. "Let's burn everything here. Especially this filth."

He said nothing about the brain-eating totem. Ilya wisely didn't mention that it was quite valuable, and that slave traders of all kinds all over the Broken bought and used such things, often making them themselves. Wild magic isn't just for the primitive. Of course, they didn't burn anything, but Ilya Breath Out wholeheartedly; if there had been any particularly valuable amulets, they were gone in their maximum concentration after he exhaled.

They returned to the inky doors of Ruyek Sturgeon an hour late, but he didn’t say anything about it either, didn’t comment on it with a word, a gesture, or a glance.

For the first time in their entire acquaintance, Ilya found himself sincerely grateful to the old man.

* * *

Sleepy, who had been dozing until then, woke up as if she were recovering from a particularly brutal hangover. Her eyes were red from burst capillaries, her sweat-drenched hair was plastered to her face, and an unpleasant tremor ran through all her limbs. As soon as she opened her eyes and saw Ilya quietly reading a century-old edition of the dueling code, she smiled from ear to ear, gave a gesture to signal that everything was fine, and then she was literally doubled over with puking. Fortunately, someone far-sighted—who knew the limits of her reserves and her tendency to achieve her goals at any cost, and who also had a good understanding of active dreamweaving—had prudently left a bucket next to her bed. She threw up for a long time; the Earthling had time to finish reading a page, prepare a pitcher of clean, warm water, and also two mild tonics—one of Torja’s best and, at the same time, gentlest concoctions.

She came to her senses in silence, taking her time before starting a conversation. The Earthling didn’t rush her, allowing her heart and thoughts to settle. Still, she carried out this task entirely on her own, without anyone’s help. Because no one could have helped her. Not even Sturgeon, who knew nothing more about Dream magic than the basics of lucid dreaming and ways to defend against dreamwalkers in case of an attack. Then again, choosing the right target allowed her not only to show herself in all her glory but also to safely practice against an opponent with a particularly strong sense of self. Ilya helped only with advice, while the sweet old man helped by opening the door for Sleepy, letting her fall asleep and enter the dream of her nighttime targets, and then closing the door behind her.

Since the dream had already taken shape, distance no longer mattered. It’s no wonder that Dreamwalkers are considered one of the longest-range classes of all, especially in the early stages, when they have almost no competitors. All that was left for the girl to do was finish the task she had planned. Her targets were two vicious bears that had fallen into hibernation. They were unashamed creatures, of the beastly type, with a mix of something that was neither quite dog-like nor quite lion-like; they had a distinctive mane, but their bear-like nature was still easily discernible. The creatures possessed a very sharp mind, but had fallen into hibernation upon entering the sphere of influence of a determined and gifted young woman.

The perfect training tool—one you don’t have to worry about damaging, but one that, on its own, can at most wake up and break free from its slumber without harming the Dreamwalker. She did her best, recounting how she had nearly rebuilt the webs of slumber around both opponents several times, finally managing to provoke them into attacking each other, and then forcing their bodies in reality to lunge at each other as well. The hermaphroditic bears—who decide which of them is the female today through combat rather than biological predetermination—seemed to have forgotten about defense, striving to inflict as many wounds as possible on their enemy, rival, predator, and threat; in the end, both died from extensive injuries, never having truly woken up during the course of the fighting.

"Seven!" She finally got to what she wanted to say right away. "Good, very good, but somehow not enough. I've gotten more from some of our, well, shared dreams."

"Sleepy, the part of me that cares about you is asking you never to repeat that phrase in similar circumstances in the presence of your esteemed adoptive parent." Because he might react nervously to such words, Ilya doesn’t even know why—it must be intuition, because seven drops really is so little for thirteen hours of unhealthy sleep without putting his life and soul at extreme risk. “The other part of me, the mocking and spiteful one, is begging me to repeat those words to him at the very first opportunity. I don’t even know how I manage to keep that other side in check.”

Dreamwalker, like all the other Anchors, roughly understands that they're gaining drops very quickly. Hiding it would be foolish. They simply believe their bliss isn't due to Ilya, but solely to the ritual they underwent. And even though they've been told about it many times, they still have nothing to compare it to. Even an Earthling doesn't have any, despite the fact that he has vast knowledge on the subject. Knowledge, not the deeply personal experience possessed by ordinary divers without initial lottery wins or otherwise acquired great gifts. Say something like "not enough" to someone like Ruek, who knows and remembers how he gnawed at the Broken World, squeezing every last drop of Essence from the Mechanism!

Say it, and then get punched in the face.

In the best case.

“Now get some rest, sleep well, and drink some herbal teas,” he orders, knowing that Sleepy is always happy to get some sleep and will gladly do as she’s told. “And then the two of us will delve into the mind of that poor soul we pulled from the savages’ lair.” Right now she’s still in the restorative circle; it’s too early to go in—such a dense structure could affect you even in your sleep. It won’t kill you or maim you, but it will hurt, and it will also disrupt the ritual—the venerable Sturgeon will turn angry.

“Even angrier?” Sleepy asked with a giggle, immediately glancing around as if she truly believed she might spot the old man’s surveillance devices. “Although, yeah, I’ve seen him really, really angry before. I don’t want to see that again.”

Ilya just shook his head. Hardly anyone besides Romchik and Lishka—who had witnessed Ryuika’s fight with the bastards who’d come to use his anchor in their ritual—had ever seen this monster angry. The Earthling was frankly a little scared to approach the old man with a request to draw a line that would restore wholeness, but the old man himself thought that a mannequin for self-development wouldn’t hurt Sleepy. Just as some sort of servant wouldn’t hurt—if/when they fix the girl's brain, or at least set up a system of control that would allow her to offload some of the household chores onto a maid.

Ilya just shook his head. Hardly anyone besides Romchik and Lishka—who had witnessed Ryuуk’s fight with the bastards who’d come to use his anchor in their ritual—had ever seen this monster as particularly evil. The Earthling was frankly a little scared to approach the old man with a request to draw a line that would help the girl, but the old man himself thought that a mannequin for self-development wouldn’t hurt Sleepy. Just as some sort of servant wouldn’t hurt—if/when they fix her, or at least set up a system of control that would allow Sleepy to offload some of the household chores onto a maid.

Well, or Ilya is just a fool and is trying to judge the native peak Third Step as if he were a person with a human mindset.

* * *

The week flew by, one would like to say, unnoticed, but alas, Ilya vividly recalled all those hair-raising moments. The fact that the old man had chosen exceptional specimens of humanity for his anchors—no sarcasm intended—was that they were primarily young individuals who had no experience of being gifted. But there was power, there was a speed of development unbelievable by any standards, and, more importantly, a sense of one's own power, even one's own uniqueness. These were things familiar to any Earth diver; they knew how to fight such a scourge.

But Ilya's specialization was different, and the entire anchor crew didn't have several months to mentally adapt to the changes. They had to catch and correct mistakes that could easily have led to injuries or even deaths. Primarily, to Ilya's injuries and deaths, because the old man would never have forgiven the deaths of his Anchors. And there were certainly moments; they were inevitable, ranging from the usual "he failed too badly in the attack and the kindly Wendigo had to drag the fool out by the back," to far more serious cases.

Wolfie, who nearly slit his own belly open with his own knives after miscalculating the duration of the effect cast on the blades. The knife simply cut through the sheaths, so Orsh has to treat some rather dangerous wounds. It’s a good thing there was no poison involved; otherwise, it wouldn’t have been so funny. Lishka, who was showing off by juggling active, combat-ready explosive amulets, accidentally activated one of them. That’s when Sturgeon reacted, detonating the observer droplet, turning it into a cloud of inky darkness, and taking the brunt of the blast and the shrapnel. Orsh once again found something to do.

Chizhik, who nearly burned to death in his own little room while amusing himself by lighting a flame above his palm and controlling its shape. Nochik, who tried to rearm himself right as he was struck during training with Grosh. Grosh wasn’t hitting with full force, but he’d expected his club to meet a solid block, not empty air. Four broken ribs, one of which had punctured a lung, had to be treated by Orsh again. Once again, it was the clueless Chizhik, whom Lishka had bet on, claiming he wouldn’t be able to create a solid, authentic bull—that very same copper one that had once nearly killed her—by simply shaping the flame. He created it, he won, and he nearly doubled over from a cascade of spasms in his auric body; Ryuek had to relieve the spasm, and then—yes, yes—it was Orsh again, who took the strain of several ruptured blood vessels upon himself.

Torya seemed to be cautious. But her single slip-up turned out to be truly epic. Ryuk found a burial mound that had been dug up by carnivorous ants. If there had ever been any undead there, they’d all been devoured by a medium-sized swarm of ants. No fewer than fifteen thousand aggressive, territorial hybrids of ants and Tyranids, each the size of an adult man’s fist. They’re extremely dangerous if you disturb their nest, but they don’t nest anywhere except in burial mounds—preferably disturbed ones. Moreover, they can easily be destroyed with the alchemical poison that Torya prepared, which she then began pumping into the burrows. The two-component concoction failed to rouse the ants, who had fallen into a state of suspended animation due to the cold and were nearing the end of their cycle inside the burial mound. Their queen was already preparing a passageway that would lead the swarm to a new burial mound, allowing them to devour it—along with the background, the undead, and any travelers who happened to wander in.

Torya poured the mixtures into the burrows and helped distribute them throughout all the tunnels and chambers using “Mixture Control” and “Directed Elixir,” and then Ilya gave the order to start the reaction. Carefully, very, very slowly—because mixing the two active components of a single compound too abruptly, especially under such specific conditions and with the reagents that were used, could very well lead to… At that very “lead to,” he stopped speaking, instantly transforming into a Wendigo, hopelessly ruining his outfit, scooping up the squealing girl in his arms, pressing her close to him, and then performing a small feat.

The feat was the incredibly difficult simultaneous use of both Hide and Transcendence. He managed to cast a shield over her and prevent that shield from devouring poor Torya. Ilya got off with just a concussion, deafness, two dozen broken bones, a bunch of internal bleeding, and, miraculously, his horns still intact. Torya, thankfully, wasn’t hurt. Ryuek Sturgeon rushed over instantly. Well, “instantly” for Ilya, that is. Because he’d lost consciousness for a couple of minutes. And he’d brought with him two deer carcasses—with fresh ink still dripping from their eyes—a huge frozen ham, and Mute (the girl they’d rescued from the camp). Orsh burst through the doorway a second later, immediately taking on some of Ilya’s injuries… And, having nearly died from those wounds, he had to give back some of what he’d taken.

He filled himself up, devouring everything Sturgeon brought along—except for their new maid—and was back on his feet by morning, though the ringing in his ears lingered for two days. It was a completely phantom sensation. Where the mound had been—after Torya, who was apologizing very sweetly for her mistake and fussing around him—a beautiful crater remained, and the old faggot found Ilya’s body three hundred and fifty meters from said crater. The fact that, thanks to “Transcendence,” he managed not only to cover someone else with his Hide—without gnawing a couple of kilograms of flesh out of it—but also stretched that Hide over time so it wouldn’t fall apart in that very instant—that’s some serious mysticism. Because he never managed to repeat this under controlled conditions.

But she did get drops, yes, eleven of them!

In short, by the time Ruek Sturgeon announced that they had already cleared all the truly suitable targets that would yield the maximum return, the ritual's halo ring on Ilya was nearly bursting from oversaturation. And the prospect of moving the base closer to the city and the lacuna hidden within it seemed entirely reasonable. The anchor sweet tooths had already mastered the basics, and, crucially, the lacuna would be much safer, because the old man's assistance and presence would be far more significant there.

Ironic, yes, but precisely because the lacuna is so dangerous, it will now be safer. Of course, the lacuna is no place for strolling; even a third step shouldn't relax there unnecessarily, but that's just basic caution. And new drops for Ilya, who will be able to unleash his full potential there, no longer so worried about the little fools ready to commit suicide in the name of the Dead Gods in particularly convoluted ways.

"Could we please take another look at the coat of arms of your former-current vassals?" Ilya asks, although he's already had a good look at what he saw during the first demonstration. "Thank you, yes, FoFa is newer sleep."

“Don’t tell me—the nightmare of strangers’ gardens, the nightmarish spawn of foreign Gehennas—may your icy soul be warmed by the fact that you’ve already crossed paths with them?!” Ryuek already knows the slang name for the attribute of Fate and Fortune, and his mind works much faster than Ilya’s. “Why are you silent, you insolent fool, whose audacity has replaced caution, politeness, and a sense of common decency, huh?! Did you devour my last few minions and still not die, writhing in agony from the poison in their veins and their rotten brains?!”

“You, most honorable, won’t believe it...” He said, sighing and fully understanding that Ruek had already believed him, but was now simply looking for a reason to grumble and curse.

And yes, he cursed for a long time, with feeling and deliberation, interspersing his grumbling with a nasty coughing sound and thin giggling, as if a seaside seagull had been chewed up in a garbage compactor.

Ilya was thinking, and the thought he was diligently thinking sounded like an unanswered question, suspended in an endless void.

Is this Dead Man's Ridge of yours the largest province of the kingdom or one big village?
* * *

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