Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 23. Он собирается показать все, что только может, не сдерживая ни крохи резерва, не заботясь о необходимости отступить

23. He is going to show everything he can, without holding back a crumb of reserve, without worrying about the need to retreat

* * *

Once again, a snowy night opened its arms over the blizzard-swept Deadman's Ridge. Upperstone, being much smaller and poorer than Lazy, had storm protection, not exactly bad, but inadequate under the current conditions. So, while the city wasn't completely paralyzed, most of its population chose to stay indoors. In the poorer neighborhoods, residents abandoned their homes entirely, gathering in large groups, sorting themselves into streets, workshops, and priestly parishes, just to stay warm. This way, they conserved fuel, the very coal for stoves and hearths that kept them from freezing to death these days. Not everyone, however, could afford it, since they'd find plenty of dead bodies after the storm passed. Oh, so many.

Upperstone was located relatively close to Lazy. But that's if you measure distances by lines on a map. There are many kilometers of the Ridge between them, especially with the current weather. However, old Sturgeon didn't want to fall into a trap or expose his inky-scaled face, so he sought approaches to the city very carefully. And at the same time, brazenly, it must be said. Literally hiding in plain sight. Because hardly anyone except a distinguished Prophet or Soothsayer would have imagined that the old man would decide to settle here, so close to Lazy. And his lair, mothballed and abandoned but still functional, turned out to be very well protected.

They didn't enter through the gates. They remained tentatively open, guards standing guard, allowing travelers to pass. But they would have had to knock on the guards' annex, show their faces, and introduce themselves. No one needed to. They wouldn't have been able to blend in with the crowd of newcomers, even if there had been one. Their company was very conspicuous, and they traveled without cargo, which was also an important detail. But Ruyek didn't open the ink passage either. He preferred to use a secret, long-abandoned passage leading directly to the underground shelter complex.

They had no fear of surveillance. The walls were empty, and magical observers or surveillance devices would have been easily spotted by Ruyek; it was very difficult to hide reliably from his eye, which he had unsheathed for this very purpose. Such individuals might not have existed in the kingdom in general, or on the Ridge in particular. The tunnel was intact and reinforced, the stone compressed into a solid monolith, and this wasn't due to the earthly talents of an Enchanter or even a Shaman. A full-fledged Architect was at work here, so there was no sense of magic; there was none in these stones. A rare class, and one more often chosen by locals than by divers, because a community only begins to search for its own Architect once all other vacancies have been filled... often preferring an additional Sage.

The Architect worked here. Ilya sensed it in his gut, with the same instinct as a Wendigo, who barely sensed the building's imperfections, as if it were deliberately feigning non-magicality, devoid of magic as such, hiding its obviously unconventional nature from his senses. Most likely, a dormant, stagnant spirit of the place lingered here after so many years, yet still fully formed and undissipated. The Architect's combination of talents for creating and awakening such a spirit is effortless, but it's still a complex undertaking, and a risky one at that. In basic builds for the first step, it often happens that the Architect literally pours his soul into his work.

It certainly couldn't have happened without "Soul Severance," "Birth of the Hearth," or "Source Germination." Any talent of your choice, but with "Self-Sacrifice" required, or the gifted one had a second step, which is unlikely. Otherwise, that same gifted one would have remembered this place, for purging the owner of such a rare and scarce specialty after completing the shelter would have been imprudent. And if that Architect had lived, having outlived his usefulness, too many would have known about this hideout. Ilya touched the stones, infused them with a bit of power, felt the response, and dripped his cursed blood onto one of the door arches, peering into the nuances of energy until his eyes stung and his sockets throbbed.

You understood everything correctly, Iliy. It's unlikely the old man had mastered the advanced telepathy necessary to sneak into Ilya's head. Rather, he saw his actions, compared them with what he knew about Ilya, and realized the earthling had almost reached the same conclusion. "One of the aliens from another Gehenna helped create this place, and then he was eliminated. But not here, don't worry; everything was done smartly; he didn't have time to curse the stones, didn't manage to merge himself with the guardian."

He spoke these last words not for Ilya, who understood everything himself, but for his anchors, trying to reassure them. But they, lacking the necessary erudition, understood little of the explanation and, just in case, grew even more agitated. Yes, a rare class, but only rare. It's not the rarest, because enterprising natives cultivate Architects for a specific term, for a few masterpieces, into which the poor fellow will pour his all, and then burn out. Here, clearly, they hadn't used a local, but an outsider, who had made a grave mistake in choosing his Lot and talents. However, in his defense, most of the Architect's possible root skills include the ability to "horcrux," to break off a piece of one's soul and infuse it into a structure.

Even more!

The lion's share of their class advancements involves either renouncing the body or tying it to a constructed stronghold, turning oneself into a limited-mobility and highly fortified lacuna. The Earthlings even had one who reached the fourth step, becoming a Wandering Stronghold, having implanted a fully functional Heart within himself, thus ascending to the fourth step. But that man had long ago severed ties with both Earth and his native community, moving to the Broken, and then taking his core and body deep into the wilds, represented by deadly swamps of varying degrees of nastiness and danger. Into the very core, so to speak, of this sector-consuming and gradually spreading plague.

No one ever saw or heard from him again.

How did Ilya guess that this place was created and embodied by an outsider? By his reaction to the blood—not the curse in it, but the blood itself. All outsiders, in one form or another, are considered distant relatives; this kinship, incidentally, underlies many, if not most, of the ritual markers used by divers to search for each other or indicate their location. And his blood didn't react to this place as it should have, which led the earthling to suspect the obvious.

While it's difficult to describe in words the sensations a particular aura response will produce (especially since each class and build alters the response and its perception), there are also full-immersion virtual capsules. There are special simulators created with the help of real, registered divers, which attempted to convey their own sensations during a particular ritual through neural stimulation recordings. It all worked poorly and imperfectly, simply because even a diver on Earth can't experience what their Twin experiences. Well, unless that diver has at least the third step, enjoying the open attributes on Earth.

Needless to say, London AU did attract the very best to create its curriculum, including several fourth-steps. Including the most legendary faculty members and invited legends. It was in one of these simulations that Ilya "learned" to detect the presence of sacrificial echoes in material objects based on marker-like affinities. The sensations weren't quite the same, not quite similar, but the concept was identical. The Earthling knew neither the name nor the fate of this unknown diver, but he still felt an involuntary tingle of irritation. A reminder from the Broken One, a reminder of who he was dealing with and how this case could end if things went wrong.

Or even too well.

"Unsealed. The walls are intact; the Hearth hasn't gone out, though it's dormant. No traps remain, except the one in the toilet. The sealed storerooms need to be opened. But that's tomorrow, and now I'm ordering rest." Sturgeon seemed to be suppressing the urge to yawn loudly, for he, too, was tired, and had barely slept in the last few days, overwhelmed with tasks marked "urgent," "very urgent," and "should have been done ten years ago." "Why are you frozen like marmots before a fox? You've taken apart your chambers, the ignorant, dissolute ones, woe to my old soul! So that by dawn you'll be fresh, healthy, with your strength replenished, and not such fools as you are now! Although, why am I saying this? You will never cease to be fools, even when the sun goes out, when the bones of the world heal, the sleeping thickets awaken, and the Dead themselves come to life; you will still be fools without a drop of brain in your empty skulls! Run from here, while I still retain a drop of kindness, undeserved by anyone here! And you, Iliy, stay."

The Earthling had no intention of going to bed. He knew what the old man wanted to check, throwing off his light vest as he went, revealing the circle on his chest that had reappeared two days ago. They didn't get into the city right away. They had to wander around the Ridge, spending three nights in the snow, either waiting out the latest peak of the never-ending storm or simply waiting for Ruyek to replenish his reserves or perform some rituals. To save time, they had to clear out various creatures, and once the old man even set up camp near an ancient burial ground. A truly ancient one, dating back to the time before the Ridge became the Dead Man's Ridge.

Ilya didn’t know exactly what the old man was doing out there in the blizzard. The old man hadn’t taken the Earthman—who was overly well-versed in all manner of ritual lore—along with him, for a perfectly obvious reason. Yet the undead from the burial ground did come swarming out, even though the Anchors were ready for it. Sturgeon had warned that the dead might strike. They had undoubtedly been stirred up by that faint, barely perceptible wave of magical disturbance that Ilya had managed to catch at the edge of his perception. And so, for half the night, they fought off waves of those undead creatures—yeah. Fortunately, the attackers were incredibly dim-witted, sluggish, and practically harmless, coming at them either singly or in small groups of five or six.

They weren't even skeletons, really—more like bone fragments and shards that had lost any coherent form, held together by rotted scraps of flesh, snow, ice, and dust. One wouldn't normally expect Drops from such things, but that rule didn't apply when they attacked all night long with barely a pause. By the end, the tally exceeded nine hundred. Thanks to Ilya’s presence, even Sleepy managed to snag a handful of Drops; she had armed herself with a combat staff and fought the creatures hand-to-hand, relying on the single combat-enhancement ability in her talent arsenal. It’s just that by the end of the night, they were dead tired. As it was, the twelve Gifted simply got a free leveling-up session.

Ruyek, who returned in the middle of the day—though it was damn near as dark as it had been at night—even shook his head respectfully, then muttered under his breath something about "miscalculating the impulse." The Anchors, exhausted from a sleepless night and having depleted their reserves while dancing inside the cavern-temple—hewn straight into the rock and on the verge of collapse—simply accepted the new orders in silence and prepared to set out. Even Lishka, who always had something to say, remained silent—though her silence was eloquent indeed.

This all means that the one-nine-one ritual cast on Ilya was barely holding up, so oversaturated was he with the drops he'd earned. Of course, if it bursts, the earthling will survive—psychic damage isn't a problem, either—but he could very well suffer an aura spasm, or even damage the altar image. Consider it a wound to the very core of his soul, the part of it that's inextricably fused with the Great Mechanism. Premature activation and rupture of the halo will, of course, reduce the potential for additional essence gain, but he'd rather not lose all the collected drops at once, which could easily fall into the crimson lake, the Vessel of Exaltation, rather than the bloody chalice of the Vessel of Eternity. It's not quite "losing," but he still needs talent development, not anything else.

"Tear it apart," Ruyek said briefly and with utmost seriousness, looking at Ilya with his normal eye and likely activating the magical one hidden under the blindfold. "And don't wait until morning. Go straight to the meditation hall, the one behind the sixth door. A simple circle line, that's all you'll need. Don't wait until morning. It might be too late."

It's nice to be so valued and cared for. But there's always a healthy suspicion—and in Broken, a very, very healthy one—that this is just caring for cattle being led to the slaughter. However, right now, Sturgeon is worried about himself. Ilya's injury poses a risk to his anchors and, consequently, to Ruyek himself. But on the other hand? He doesn't beat me, doesn't try to cut into the ritual structure to extract the Blessing; he even actively helps me develop now and in the near future. What more could Ilya, a Wendigo like him, need?

"Thank you for your advice and wisdom," Ilya said briefly, not even within the bounds of etiquette, but rather within the local holy scripture of the Purifying by Deed, eliciting a chuckle from Ruyek, who recognized the reference to one of the chapters of that terrifyingly chthonic bible.

"I accept well-deserved gratitude with dignity," he replied, using the exact same quote, before waving his hand dismissively. "Off with you now, you temple jester—you scourge of the garden beds!"

Ilya walked on, involuntarily replaying in his mind the text of the temple parable—a story that circulated from Sector to Sector, wherever prayers were offered to the Purifier through Deed. Its form often shifted—sometimes not merely the form, but the very nature of the temple recitation itself—morphing in response to fluctuations in the ruling Party line and distorting the parable’s meaning, at times almost to the point of inversion. Yet the parable of "Two Over Nothing" remained highly popular in this Sector too, even if it was rarely recited during sermons. The plot of the original version had never been recovered—only interpretations of varying accuracy existed—and working with fragments of the original scripture was a task reserved for Liturgists and Theurges of the fourth step (or occasionally the third, though that required severely cripple one’s build).

The joke is that these quotations belong to the two main characters in the parable, the Enlightened Sage and the Wisdom-Hungry One, and their conversation takes place literally suspended above Nowhere, a place of utter emptiness and decay. So, from the perspective of these characters, Ilya was making fun of them both, exchanging polite conversations, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were a hair's breadth away from complete oblivion. Sturgeon caught the humor, and Ilya was able to discern that the old man would find it amusing, not offensive, and then feel pain. Or perhaps Rueyk's model of playing out a masked character worked, allowing Ilya to construct the old man's character in his own mind.

In general, there are a lot of reasons for paranoia, yes.

Musing on just how difficult it is to read and calculate the reactions of higher steps, Ilya made his way to the meditation hall. It was a crucial facility; among other things, it served as a venue for advancing talents—a process utilizing a structure where the world’s energy and currents were isolated and looped. It offered peace, relaxation, and an absence of irritants—factors of particular importance for gifted individuals whose psyches were already prone to instability. The moment a new talent tier is unlocked, the psyche typically experiences a surge of pressure stemming from the nature of one’s Lot and the mechanics of the System itself. This pressure either spikes or drops sharply, depending on whether one is elevating a compensator or the build's offensive core.

Obviously, it's much more pleasant to endure such stress in a well-isolated and calming place. It could even have soft walls. This isn't a requirement, but for those who've already absorbed more than necessary exposure to the chthonic shit, it could be considered a strong recommendation. Well, you either need to be Ilya, or be bound to Ilya by a very specific ritual. Then you can elevate even very unbalanced builds at any time and under any conditions. Even between battles, if you're willing to take the risk. Although many take that risk. In London AU, during Small Group Tactics, they even taught and practiced the group formation "covering an ally's elevating talent."

Ilya didn't undress, nor did he prepare particularly hard. He merely charged the basic line already drawn on the floor, draining his aura of power to the chant of a couplet of pure invocation. Then he simply lay down, closed his eyes, and turned his gaze inward, to the hazy halo above the stone altar basin, seemingly black with gold and snow-white with blood. It seemed another moment, another second, and this closed circle would be torn apart by the strain, and then a rain of drops would drench everything around him, spilling over the lake, and some even elsewhere. The diver didn't wait for such a result; with a single act of will, he willed it, completed it, stopped it, turned it around.

And then...

ring

will

essence

... everything ended.

To start again.

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The rain poured into the vessel, veiling the bleached bones of the horned skull beneath a wash of crimson and gold. It streamed down ceaselessly until it finally ran dry. Yet the moment the last drop fell into the chalice, the remnants of the halo flared with familiar colors, as if condensing into something else entirely. A cold wind howled in his mind, and an unnatural migraine—sharp as a needle piercing his temple—flared up, swallowing the encroaching catatonia that would have otherwise extinguished his very consciousness. Then came fresh drops—fewer in number, perhaps, yet still abundant—drops that were undeniably essential to Ilya: now, later, and for all time.

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Such a pleasing number—a pure eleven—cursed and reviled. Or, at the very least, regarded as such in everyday life. Eleven drops on top of the forty-six already obtained—a ratio of nearly one to four—meant his time in the ritual circle hadn't been wasted. It wasn't Citadel-level work, true, but given the available resources, such a result was sheer satisfaction. Ilya suspected that at least a fifth of the total pure essence he’d gained was a reward for that specific ritual; after all, he had shouldered a tremendous burden. He had taken a significant risk, too—there was always the chance that Sturgeon, whether accidentally or deliberately, might push too hard during the main pulse, leaving Ilya to suffer not just a mental backlash but an aura-based curse of some kind.

But no. He managed it. He succeeded and secured a full fifty-seven drops. Now he could finally exhale and focus on upgrading his powers. But first, the exhaling—straightening out a body seized by cramps, while a layer of unnaturally bright frost cracked and fell away, glittering in the dim light of the alchemical oil lamp. Well, all’s well that ends well; after all, invoking the name of such a wintry Dead One—and doing so without any proper barriers between himself and the name’s resonance, save for his own willpower and skill... Honestly, he could easily have turned into a block of ice. In fact, had Ilya attempted something like this on his own—without Sturgeon’s help and support—that is exactly what would have happened to him; no affinity with Cald could have saved him, nor could it have made a difference.

For the next hour and a half, Ilya breathed lazily, checking every part of himself—and repeatedly consulting the image of the altar structure—to analyze what he had seen and realized for any signs of injury or damage. Only when satisfied that there were none did he finally allow himself to fully relax. He didn't boost his talents right away; he needed to wait a few hours—ideally getting some sleep in the process. And proper sleep, at that—not acting as a punching bag or dummy for Sleepy. It wasn't as if the strain had been truly excessive, but this was no time to neglect safety precautions.

No matter how accustomed he had become to shrugging off strains that would have put a normally gifted individual of his rank—and with his level of talent investment—either in a sickbed or a coffin, it wasn't a habit worth cultivating. And so, the Earthman refrained from boosting his talents, choosing instead to spend another hour inside a slightly modified containment circle, with runes of insight inscribed on the exterior. He was exploring his own nature, so to speak, while no one was trying to interfere. He emerged for dinner—or rather, for the nightly briefing disguised as dinner—feeling tired but satisfied. All the anchors were pleased, too; they had grown thoroughly sick of the last few days of the hike across the Ridge. Even the old fart seemed satisfied—though he immediately tried to hide it.

"Ritual metrics!" It was phrased as a question, yet it didn't feel like one at all; the delivery was as formidable as that of an examiner on a fateful day, yet so ambiguous that one couldn't immediately tell whom exactly he was addressing.

"Fifteen-six-swan!" Lishka answered clearly and briskly, instantly assuming a spirited air, ready for heroic deeds in the name of Grandpa Sturgeon.

A four-second pause—which felt like four eternities—instantly descended upon the surroundings as both Ruyek and Ilya pondered how to decipher that phrase and how it related to the old man’s question. The Earthling had almost recalled the old Beijing encryption system used for the ritual parameters of defensive "cascade liturgies" designed to shield strongholds and fortresses—they used a numbered network with nodal points named after various birds, if he remembered correctly. But what on earth did that have to do with Lishka, who had never even heard of the Beijing school for diver training?

"What on earth is 'fifteen-six-swan'?" For perhaps the first time, Ilya sees Ruyek looking—if not flustered by the surprise—at least bewildered.

"And what exactly are these ritual metrics?" Lishka asks with an air of utter innocence; then, catching sight of the rapidly shifting expression on the face of Ryueik Sturgeon—a Third-Step Gifted—and noticing the tattooed fish scales that seemed to be slicing into his skin and fusing with his flesh, she instantly breaks into a run, vanishing down a corridor that leads away from the main hall.

Silence reigned once more for a few seconds. Everyone around seemed afraid to so much as move or fart, and Chizhik’s faint, raspy cough died away the instant the old Sage glanced at him. Then the Earthling and the native—Wendigo and the Sage—looked at one another, silently acknowledging that someone had just been taken down a drop—or several—for that little stunt of hers. Yet they would never discuss the fact that two erudite, highly trained individuals—keepers of thousands upon thousands of secrets, any one of which was worth killing for—had just been mentally fucked by a newly minted Harlequin.

It would have been a shame if Ilya hadn't found it so funny.

He didn’t dare to laugh, of course—he wanted to stay alive.

"I’ll spank her. Or maybe not. I’ll make her study the classic theatrical *Seven-Candle Set*—every single one of the short plays, along with the collection of commentaries by Ozrvey the Tedious himself! And she’ll have to recite it all from memory!" Such cruelty—which the Earthling, a man highly tolerant of others' flaws and raised on the principles of the Citadel approach to development in the Broken World, fully endorsed in his own mind. "Ahem. So, where were we?"

* * *

Since boosting his talents posed no risk of frying his brain, Ilya carried out the process right there in bed, immediately upon waking. As always, he followed the exact protocol he had devised back on Earth—sticking to a pre-mapped plan. While that plan certainly allowed for various options and branching paths, the current situation didn't call for any prolonged deliberation. There were no surprises during the upgrade; the drops were obtained through standard methods, supplemented by the "1-9-1" ritual. The impact of such boosters on the probability of aspect drops is well-documented and known to be minimal. Ilya had actually explored this topic in a term paper during his fourth year at the LondonAU, and his expertise hadn't waned since.

Once again, he turns his gaze inward. He is greeted again by the stone bowl filled with golden blood and the lake—hidden beneath an icy mist—that glimmers crimson through that very haze. And then, of course, there is the wind, icy and howling like a famished beast. This intimate, claustrophobic setting instantly brings to mind why radical orthodox factions and Luddites regard the Broken—and all the Diver domains—as true Evil; they reject the necessity of essential technologies, the Forum, and any contact whatsoever with the Broken World and the Great Mechanism. One might even be inclined to heed their whining, were it not for the ability to observe—via that very same Forum—the state of those worlds where their counsel was actually heeded.

Abstract thoughts did not prevent him from watching the droplets spill over the altar’s rim and merge with the icy crust atop the basin, observing how that layer of ice grew denser and took on an increasingly vivid crimson sheen. It seemed as though, at any moment, patterns or perhaps icy needles would emerge upon the surface—yet that never happened. Two dozen golden droplets—like the sparks of dying stars—were absorbed into the altar’s basin; the entire image of the snow-covered lake shuddered, and an instant later, Ilya saw status lines appear directly within his stream of perception. Chills raced across his body, his muscles twitched slightly with cramps, and his bones ached a bit, yet he felt excellent—fit enough to head straight into battle. He could, but there was no need.

The faintest shadow of a smile played on his face—it was a perfect upgrade, plain and simple. It wasn’t that the aspect he’d landed was truly incredible—no, it was just that, statistically speaking, he should have expected only average results from this particular upgrade. Instead, the outcome was better—noticeably above average—and that made Ilya happy. He was even more pleased that he could take this aspect without the risk of ruining his entire build! Then again, upgrading "Frozen Flesh" that day was meant to be nothing more than an appetizer before the main course.

Properties and Mutation:

Frozen Flesh: 3/4 (Essence invested: 0/30)

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

The Wendigo’s body becomes significantly tougher and more resilient; its resistance to curses is markedly enhanced, and its resistance to offensive magic is somewhat increased. Body regeneration accelerates, while sustained wounds gradually freeze over and become encased in a crust of ice.

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

The body and aura’s resilience against physical damage, curses, magical damage, and spiritual afflictions is further enhanced; ice-based and standard regeneration are boosted; resistance to bleeding effects is significantly strengthened; and natural vulnerability to heat and light effects is greatly reduced.

Veins: At a certain point, the Wendigo’s flesh—permeated by the essence of the Cald—ceases to be mere flesh; however saturated with power it may appear, it takes on the characteristics of something far more ancient and alien. The veins piercing this frozen flesh are not merely bodily components—not simply ligaments or tissues—for while they take root within the body, they also extend beyond it. They reach deep into the very force that drives the Wendigo—into the essence of its Hungor, itself shackled by the chains of the Cald. Through these veins flow the Cald and the Hungor, imbuing the body with immense power and might. To halt a Wendigo so empowered becomes a task of crushing difficulty.

This aspect is so standard that it appears in over seventy percent of passive enhancement talents, as well as among various balancing options. The concept behind it—allowing one to draw more fully upon the power sources characteristic of the class—is straightforward and easy to grasp. It is primarily selected for martial and hybrid builds rather than caster-oriented ones, simply because those who favor ranged magical attacks have access to specific talents of this nature—such as the Spellweaver’s "Magic Veins," which the game mechanics automatically assign as a core talent in certain builds.

The essence of the aspect is simple and clear, once all the mystical symbolism is stripped away. The veins permeating Ilya’s frozen body—partially material and partially ghostly-ephemeral—now serve as conduits for a flow of power. Yet, instead of volts and amperes, what surges into his body is the force of Ргтпщк, encased in a shell of Cald. In fact, the aspect manifested this way precisely because the Earthman is a Wendigo—a being possessed by this specific form of Evil. For a classic Ice-branch Spellcaster, those veins would have produced a purely icy effect, enhancing attacks with Cald and boosting both their power and the caster's control over them.

In principle, Ilya wouldn’t have turned down such an enhancement, but fueling himself with Hungor via the "Veins" suited his tactics even better. It wasn’t just a matter of a tougher Hide; it meant making it easier to maintain his Combat Form and significantly reducing the reserve cost required to do so. Then there were the resulting boosts to strength, speed, and piercing power, along with resilience against absolutely anything imaginable. Unencumbered by the constraints of balancing talents, the Twin’s body didn’t merely step upward with each rank—it surged, leaving others at the same initial tier standing still in its wake. While this hadn't been immediately obvious at first, now—having broken through the plateau of powerlessness—the effect was becoming increasingly apparent with every new step gained.

Sheer strength, speed, and resilience certainly don’t guarantee victory, but facing Ilya is still a miserable experience—just ask Elea Valt. She’d confirm that while she did win quite decisively, she was still thoroughly worn out by the struggle to crush that "walking, toothy boulder with a rock for a brain." Recalling once more how that sweet "little sister"—while searching for her brother—had absolutely thrashed the poor Wendigo, Ilya began his warm-up and practiced some basic striking combinations. He needed to get used to his new capabilities, shake off the last of his drowsiness, and steel himself mentally for the upcoming level-up—one that would be far more important than the last.

After all, he was fully prepared for the possibility that the "Frozen Flesh" upgrade would yield nothing but junk. He had personally steered that flesh toward a "trash-tier" upgrade path—one that, among other things, was supposed to have a positive effect on his Сombat Аorm. The fact that the resulting aspect turned out to be far from useless—and actually served a function the Earthling needed—did not eliminate the challenges associated with the upcoming upgrade. Ilya’s future plans hinged heavily on this very upgrade; he was effectively at a crossroads, where the planned evolution of the Twin could proceed along three equally acceptable paths or two undesirable ones.

In passing, he did consider the three aspects he had previously discarded. But no. Objectively, they were all inferior—significantly so. Take "Tenderness," for instance; it was considered a top-tier aspect for offensive talents across Healers, Braniaks, and Hexers alike, as it helped bypass a target's natural resistance to the specific talents typical of those builds. However, when applied to boosting Ilya’s passive trait, "Tenderness" merely enhanced his self-regeneration and the effectiveness of any healing effects—particularly those of a "cold" nature. It also provided a general softening of his energy signature, making it easier to pass as a human. That would have been quite useful, were it not for the "Lurking Evil" concealment ability he already possessed.

The remaining pair—"Sutures" and "Glue"—simply didn't cut it; they offered essentially the same benefits: enhanced regeneration, increased energy viscosity, and a tendency toward energy recovery. "Sutures," of course, performs quite well with certain talents—had it rolled alongside "Hungry Hide," he might have considered taking it—but it was a poor fit for the "Flesh" build; it just didn't work at all. As for the somewhat meme-status "Glue," it is considered a must-pick only in conjunction with a specific talent from the "Ancestral Wisdom" tree—namely, "Memory of Clay." In other scenarios, it is viewed as mediocre at best, serving as a reliable, low-maintenance filler that doesn't give the Diver too much of a headache. At worst, however, it can be a build-crippling choice that completely wrecks the setup.

"Alright, there’s no point in putting this off any longer," he says—to himself, and surely to Ruyek, who is watching him out of the corner of his droplet-eye. He immediately strikes a complex meditative prayer pose; after all, who knows—maybe this incredibly primitive ritual might boost the probability of manifesting the desired aspect by a fraction of a percent. "As the saying goes, you can't study enough right before the exam."

He faced three main options now. He could either upgrade "Wendigo Form," invest in "Shapeshift," or upgrade "Hungry Eye" —hoping to roll one of the few suitable aspects. The two linked talents upgrade simultaneously, banking on the increased odds of getting the right aspects during a dual upgrade. That would require saving up more droplets, though—a task not as difficult as it might seem, given the presence of the lacuna beneath the city. A city where they planned to stay for the long haul and, perhaps, even establish a permanent foothold. There was also the option of upgrading nothing for the moment, waiting until he had enough droplets to upgrade the two linked talents, but... but a boost in efficiency was truly necessary—needed not just now, but yesterday.

Ultimately, the presence of the lacuna—and its specific type—played a pivotal role. Developing sensory abilities was a natural choice before venturing into that labyrinth of burrows, narrow tunnels, and the myriad passages connecting musty, corpse-filled chambers. Besides, heightened senses are always an asset in a diver's life. For a long time now, the Eye has been a crucial component of Ilya’s build. Of course, there was always the possibility that he wouldn't roll a single suitable aspect, but the odds of that happening were negligible.

Once again, scarlet gold flows over the stone of the chalice, spilling over the rim and trickling down the layer of ice. Once again, the small apertures—parts of the stone patterns depicting eyes—seem uncomfortably deep. Where the pupils should be, there is only emptiness—an unnatural void that ought to pierce the basin’s surface but never quite breaks through. Bottomless, hunger-filled eyes gaze out from within. They stare, never looking away. Droplets stream straight into those eyes—into the bottomless pupils—and then something happens. It is as if every single painted eye hidden among the rock-art patterns has shifted slightly, while remaining fixed in place. It is as if those eyes are now truly watching, tracking with an unblinking, intent gaze anyone who enters their field of vision. Even the diver himself, come to visit his altar. Especially him!

Hungry Eye: 4/5 (Essence invested: 0/40)

The eyes of the Wendigo see the world in a different way than ordinary mortals are accustomed to perceiving it; they notice details more easily, and the hiding prey will not hide behind strong walls or under an invisible canopy, because the Wendigo can notice the still-beating heart of the victim even at a considerable distance, in complete darkness or behind a reliable barrier.

The talent's overall effectiveness has been significantly increased; attention to detail and the knack for spotting both the mystical and the mundane have been enhanced; the Wendigo's eyes can see in pitch darkness without being blinded by light; and the ability to pierce through concealment has been markedly improved.

Piercing: When at the peak of malice and thirst for flesh, Wendigo is able to enhance the properties of his eyes by an order of magnitude, opening them to the eternal Cald, beginning to notice much more, albeit at the cost of the Hungor rolling in with extreme force. His eyes are like ice crystals, needles of pure Evil, they pierce through a reliable cover, an enchanted wall, a camouflage veil, or a protective amulet. The eyes look, see, and understand what they see to the very core, distinguishing the strengths and weaknesses of what they did see.

The talent’s overall effectiveness increases significantly, and the complexity of perception adapts to expanding capabilities; it becomes second nature for the Wendigo’s eyes to spot magic and mysticism, while locating hidden caches—as well as concealed or obscured details—becomes much easier.

Insight: The thirst to obtain, take, devour, and consume the desired prey opens up many paths for the Wendigo, one of which is a deep understanding of the actions the victim will take to avoid becoming prey. Hunger leads the target to a single outcome, no matter how hard they try to avoid the inevitable, which is why the Wendigo's eyes can find a target once seen, even under protection and camouflage that would normally be impossible for its eyes to overcome. This same Hunger, unbearable and cruel if one surrenders to it, will grant a glimpse into the future of the victim and the hunter, not allowing the victim to cease being a victim, but the hunter can also become merely an appendage to his Hunger.

The passive properties of the gaze are enhanced, opening up the ability to perceive natural or artificial energy currents, points of concentration, and anomalies, while the concept of heart-based perception begins to be understood in somewhat broader terms.

Understanding: Wendigos are devoid of refined intellect or sophisticated erudition; yet, their essence—often quite primitive—still harbors echoes of a wild, even primordial wisdom. It is a readiness to comprehend and grasp things that would seem impossible to understand—all to better know their future prey, so they might sink their teeth into another’s flesh with relish. The Wendigo’s gaze, piercing to the very heart, does more than merely spot a target for later pursuit. They comprehend their victim entirely, perceiving strengths and weaknesses, discerning vulnerabilities or flaws—and at times, if one looks closely enough, even peering into the other’s echo of the Mechanism.

Well, this could be considered a major victory—perhaps not absolutely monumental, but certainly one that changes a great deal. Above all, it opens up the possibility of independently hunting powerful beasts: the elite of the first step, as well as the second-step creatures best suited for Ilya to take on. The ability to accurately gauge an opponent’s build—effectively deciphering it through the rhythm of their heartbeat and the magic contained within—is invaluable. It offers immense utility, both in combat and out of it. And yet, once again, everything hinges heavily on Ilya’s mental stability!

"Understanding" in itself does not operate on the "more power, greater desynchronization" principle; rather, it acts as an active overlay upon "Insight"—which *does* function exactly that way! By pouring in the maximum possible amount of energy—pushing right up to the limit where the aura would sustain damage—an Earthling can perceive a vast, vast amount. And do so without losing their mind! True, one shouldn't mistake him for a "Seeker"—those beings possess a host of synergistic talents and auxiliary aspects. Yet, by sacrificing mental stability, he can—genuinely can, albeit within very narrow confines—reach the level of those very Seekers, or perhaps even step a little beyond. If not quite a second-step Seeker, then someone approaching the peak of the first step.

Against this backdrop, the automatic enhancement gained from raising a talent’s level was all but overshadowed—even though, in a way, it might be considered even more useful. Virtually all "gaze-based" talents with a potency exceeding two steps unlock some form of magical vision upon reaching the third step. It is not exactly *superior* vision—especially without the relevant aspects—but rather simply convenient. It makes working with rituals easier, as well as locating hidden caches, spotting magical herbs, and reading liturgical texts—genuine ones, steeped in mysteries that the naked eye cannot fathom.

Or your eyes will leak out, yeah.

However, if you possess magical vision, your brain might just leak out along with your eyes.

In principle, Ilya managed quite well even without magical eyes. The equivalents of the "true sight" so often extolled in low-brow fantasy are vastly overrated—especially when it isn't a distinct talent with the right aspects selected. He sensed magic with his very essence, just like any reasonably competent gifted individual. It was neither hearing, nor sight, nor smell, but all those sensations combined. So, even though his eyes—which watered slightly, as if stuffed with sharp snowflakes—could now perceive magic without him even fully activating his talent, Ilya had never been blind to it before.

Far more gratifying is the modest mention—so modest it could easily be missed without knowing what to look for—that the concept of perceiving a "heart" has expanded somewhat. To glimpse, for instance, the heart of a magical source? Or, say, the heart of a great forge’s hearth, where the gifted and the Dead-blessed worked? And what of the chance to behold the heart of their current lair—the semi-sentient core of its guardian spirit? That is precisely what he attempted to do, catching sight of that very "heart" somewhere beyond the walls—existing simultaneously everywhere and nowhere in particular. It resembled a tangle of golden threads, locked in a Möbius loop and in constant motion.

He watched the spectacle for a couple of seconds, unable to pinpoint the exact coordinates because the heart in question was distributed throughout the entire sanctuary and did not exist within the standard spatial continuum. Then, the entity—now partially awake and recognizing Ilya as a guest who must not be harmed—seemed to recede into the depths, hiding itself from the Wendigo’s gaze. Ilya could have intensified his vision and forced his way through that defense... though success wasn't guaranteed, given that it was the Architect's handiwork, and he'd poured a piece of his soul into it. He *could* have tried, let’s put it that way. He could have, but he didn't; why pick a fight with the local "house-elf" for no reason? May the fans of that immortal fairy tale about the magic academy forgive him.

Ilya gradually unwinds from his meditative posture, briefly considering the options he had discarded—including one he had been just as tempted to choose. That option was, of course, "Severing": a move that allows one to transfer a portion of their hunger to anyone who looks a Wendigo in the eye—at the cost of blindness for an indefinite period, potentially lasting until the cycle ends or even longer. Given the sheer potency of the pure Hungor coursing through Ilya’s consciousness—and his specific traits—this maneuver borders on an ultimate ability. Yet, for a Wendigo striving to avoid desynchronization, offloading only a fraction of that hunger onto a target at the price of an eye is far from optimal. It is simply too weak.

Ilya could have reduced any reasonably intelligent opponent to the state of a mindless, murderous vegetable. And imagine hitting one of a crowd of enemies—specifically the strongest one standing in their midst—with an attack like that! Oh boy, that would have been excruciatingly painful. He didn't take it because the Eye is, after all, a sensory talent—one originally selected for sensory functions. Besides, the backlash from such a move would be severe—requiring at least a full Cycle for recovery, given the sheer intensity of the hunger being transmitted. And yet, he wanted to—he wanted to so badly. A strike like that might not have taken the target out completely, but it could have momentarily rattled, stunned, and forced errors from even a Second Step—especially an inexperienced one.

The other aspects weren't exactly trash, either. They just didn't suit the build—disrupting future progression plans—and didn't align with Ilya's intentions. Take "Tears," for instance: they are certainly a valuable asset, allowing one to heal the energy reserves and psyche strained by the use of the Eye—though, alas, primarily the psyche. They let you weep away hunger and madness, reclaiming a shred of your humanity by cleansing—however briefly—the most recent ravages of the curse. They patch up your energy reserves, too, but only as a secondary effect. And why would he want an aspect where eighty percent of the power remains inaccessible? No, in almost every talent related to the Eye or psychosis, "Tears" acts as a quasi-balancing mechanism rather than a booster.

The "Needle" would be slightly more useful; it allows one to further amplify the already selected "Piercing" aspect, specifically tuning it to counter concealment barriers and formations. It grants the ability to see through shields and walls, though at the cost of severe strain and a field of vision narrowed to a mere sliver—not to mention the risk of detection. A needle pricks, after all. The person being observed can easily sense that gaze; truly, only a Gifted individual completely blind to sensory input would fail to feel it. Even a mere commoner blessed with a touch of power might suspect something is amiss and even pinpoint exactly where the gaze is coming from. It is a double-edged needle, so to speak—a tool better suited to a scout than to a hybrid-type combat hunter. At higher steps, however, this aspect would indeed become yet another way to kill the weak-willed with a single glance.

The least useful aspect turned out to be "Blackness"—Ilya didn't even quite grasp why it had manifested, unless it stemmed from the link between the Halo ritual and Sturgeon, who impregnated him with inky darkness down to his very bones. As part of the Wendigo talent, this ability allowed one to see through the Darkness; the more power poured into it, the clearer the vision. Had he been somewhere in the endless catacombs of the Underworld—rumored for seven years now to be a Step 6+ spatial lacuna that had spilled into reality, spanning at least two or three standard sectors, rather than an original fragment of the world—he would have clung to this aspect with everything he had, teeth and all. But here and now? It was a powerful and rather rare tool, yet one too narrowly specialized for specific tasks to be a viable choice.

Over the next few hours, the Earthman evaluated his new movement reflexes, checked the increased speed of his reserve replenishment, and tested the "Hide"—which now consumed less energy to activate and maintain. He also tried to cut through his now-tougher skin and drive an enchanted stiletto into his own flesh, among other important tasks. All the while, he kept testing his new vision, staring at various amulets, enchanted trinkets, and other trifles that his new magical perception picked up. To be honest, he still preferred perceiving magic holistically rather than through his eyes, but mastering this new tool was necessary nonetheless.

"Your eyes are fucking terrifying, Ilivyatik." A deeply melancholy Lishka, sitting at the communal dining hall table by the light of two magical lamps, was staring with a dead gaze at a massive, dust-covered volume—a local equivalent that combined the *Iliad*, the *Odyssey*, and Shakespeare all in one. "It’s nothing specific, really, but the way you look—it’s like you’re staring right under my skin; it gives me the absolute creeps!"

The Earthman wasn’t surprised. The novice Harlequin possessed decent sensitivity, and he himself had dropped all concealment while training a new aspect of his eyes. Consequently, the Hungor in his pupils was plainly visible right now—no need for special sensory abilities to spot it. Half-closing his eyes, he sat down at the table by feel and pulled out the haunch of some horned herbivore—a beast that had gorged itself on the Ridge’s grasses to the point of nearly becoming a creature. It likely would have transformed into one soon enough, had it not run into Wolfie amidst the snowfall. And had it not been for that very snowfall and the blizzard—weather conditions far more likely to wipe out the region’s wildlife, both ordinary and extraordinary, than the numerous hunting parties ever could.

"Is this okay?" he asked, receiving a nod and an approving gesture—made with the ring and little fingers, the local equivalent of the Earth "OK" sign—in response. Then he asked another question, one that was far more personal, perhaps even slightly intimate. "I need to work on the visual-analytical aspect. Would you mind if I used your energy signature as a reference?"

Ilya was keenly interested in observing others' altars using the Eye, but there was no guarantee he could pull off such surveillance undetected. He might well have to waste a great deal of time fine-tuning the focus—something he didn't need right now. Regardless, the priority is to master combat application—keeping it as raw and simple as possible—and move on to the finer details only after the basics are down.

"Does your aspect let you see through clothes?" Lishka asked, sounding slightly suspicious, though she did not attempt to shift position or cover herself; she merely stared wistfully at the page she still hadn't opened. "Or can you even—what’s the word—filter it? So you only peek through the shirts of pretty girls and don't look at the hideous ones?"

"No, it doesn’t." Although in many ways, getting a glimpse of the talent distribution or other aspects of the build—the very connection to the Mechanism—is far more intimate than peeking through someone’s clothes. "However, the range of available spectra is quite broad, including, for instance..."

"Then your aspect isn't really all that great, Ilivyatik," Lishka said, waving away his explanations as she buried her face in her book, trying hard not to shudder with sobs. "But fine, go ahead and stare at me with those goggly eyes of yours—I can take it. Especially if you can explain this whole murky-snowy-dreary-wintery mess to me in plain language. But even if you can't, stare anyway; I don't mind."

Ilya could have helped, certainly, but he wasn't about to interfere with the vindictive Sturgeon’s pedagogical trials. Besides, he hadn't actually read that particular book—he’d had other things to do, after all. Though, come to think of it, it would have been worth reading. After all, the old, cantankerous bastard hadn't made Lishka study it solely to break him of the habit of taking digs at his elders. The "Theatrical Seven-Pointed Star"—a collection of the seven most outstanding works of local classic literature—was considered an absolute must for the education of a young aristocrat. It offered a veritable snapshot of the era. Moreover, these works were packed with allusions and allegories, and quoting from them was a regular occurrence in high society.

The funny thing is, only Lishka and Ilya were actually made to read that paper-bound concrete block. In his case, though, "Seven Candles" was merely added to his study list; he wasn't ordered to drop everything and read it right then and there. It wasn't the first time the Earthling had noticed that, among all the Anchors, the old man singled Lishka out for special attention. Still, one shouldn't rule out the possibility that Sturgeon simply wanted to torture Harlequin with high-flown prose.

That was how they spent the night—discussing the horrors of classic literature and the current situation. According to Lishka, his gaze—softened by a mental camouflage—was barely perceptible, though there was still something unpleasant, something inhuman, in his pupils. It didn't quite trigger the "grab a pitchfork and torch and shove them up the monster's ass" reaction; rather, it just made one want to punch him in the face to stop him from staring, or simply get as far away as possible. But when he switched to combat mode and unleashed his "Understanding" aspect at full power without holding back? That was when even the little girl—who had been utterly fearless even before receiving her gift—felt genuinely terrified, as if she expected Ilya to try and gnaw her face off at any moment.

And yes, he actually managed to do it—albeit not right away, and straining his eyes to the point of pain! No, no—not gnaw off her face! He managed to look at Lishka’s altar image, beholding the abandoned arena of a sinister circus and the statue’s cupped hands—a statue that bore a cracked porcelain mask where a face should have been. He still couldn't fully decipher the build. Active skills, blessings, and properties were revealed only grudgingly, while the traits—as is the nature of traits—remained completely invisible. The "knacks" hovered somewhere in between; Ilya was certain he had glimpsed them only because he already knew her talents, managing to latch onto that prior knowledge.

The nature of a Wendigo’s eyes is simply different. It desires to devour. It sees things it can consume or obstacles standing in the way of that goal; it doesn't engage in build analysis. Which is actually strange. Perceiving the altar structures of others—the connection points between the soul and the Mechanism—is orders of magnitude more difficult. Perhaps it was his mental resilience (and the pressure was immense—enough to drive almost any First-Step cultivator into desynchronization with the crushing weight of a heavy freight shuttle), or perhaps a combination of that savage influence and his exceptionally robust energy signature. Yet, among First-Step Sages, barely one in a hundred could replicate what Ilya achieved during this training session.

And the Eye, in addition, will have a fifth step! With this build setup and these aspects, the odds of rolling "Divination" are quite high—though one can always hope for "Foresight," which is far more useful in combat! If only I could make it to the moment when he can complete the Eye without jeopardizing the rest of the build—just survive long enough without meeting his end.

* * *

The first and most important thing to know about the noble Kraive family was the simple, straightforward fact that they were not Craive at all, but Kraivaratts. Back in those distant days—when Sturgeon had ruptured itself trying to become the Fourth Step and then vanished, likely dying from its injuries—the kingdom’s political landscape was in such a ferment that it resembled a pot of soup forgotten on the fire. A great many figures suddenly found themselves in completely unexpected straits, scrambling either to sell their services dearly to new masters, to cling to what they no longer had the right to defend, or simply to get the hell out, knowing there was no life left for them here.

Clearly, those who were not cut down—either immediately or after some delay—either renounced their oaths to a liege who could no longer protect his vassals in favor of new allegiances, or simply disregarded their old vows and fled the kingdom to start a new life in distant lands. Amidst this turmoil, the Kraivaratt family made several strategic blunders; they squandered too much time and failed to secure the patronage of any other faction within the kingdom. To make matters worse, they were at odds with foreign aristocrats, rendering flight to other realms a suicidal course of action. Yet the family had never been particularly powerful; they were merely one of many vassal houses serving under the sturgeon banner.

In the end, the group pulled a clever maneuver: they relocated to the territory of Dead Man’s Ridge, formally changed their name, and slipped some of their remaining wealth to the local bigwigs so they would "fail to notice" the surname switch—or rather, the merger of two very distant branches of the family. The original Kraives had all mysteriously met their end, save for a single youngest daughter who married the youngest son of the Kraivaratt line—at that point, the only surviving male in the clan, aside from the family patriarch who was wasting away under a curse. Given that the Kraives had thoroughly infuriated every inhabitant of Upperstone who actually mattered, everyone conveniently turned a blind eye to the move. This was especially true of the last scion of the line herself—a woman who, rumor has it, refrained from defecating on her kin's graves only because she was so fiercely protective of her reputation as a noble lady.

Naturally, anyone hunting the Sturgeon faction could easily track these individuals down. Such a change of family name—achieved through a few legal and procedural technicalities—might fool a cursory search of the Crown Chancery archives, but it would not deceive those truly intent on finding them. By then, however, the Kraives had already depleted their resources, having given away, sold, or "sold" most of their holdings, while no one took much interest in what remained. As for the figures who would have gladly finished off the weakened clan out of personal spite, they were not major players; they either could not or would not reach their enemies in the heart of the Ridge.

What is characteristic is that they neither formally nor actually abandoned the vassal promise they had made long ago. Initially, they didn’t have time to sell their loyalty; then no one asked, and in the end it was somehow awkward to tear up the oath that had lost its validity. It would have been easy, like removing a collar that had long since been unlocked from a neck, but there was no point, because they weren’t looking for a new vassalage now, and they managed to get along that way. But there was reason to be proud of how loyal they were to their once-given word, at the same time not paying the vassal tax to those people with whom they agreed more substantively, without oaths, only with trade agreements.

The family gradually integrated into the local cesspool; while they lost some of the assets they had brought with them, they did not fall into destitution. In fact, they even began to rise in the world, building up a financial cushion and extending their patronage—backed by their coat of arms—to a number of merchant representatives. They offered similar support to one of the six major bands of hunters and herbalists operating in the Upperstone area, as well as to various small groups and solitary hunter-gatherers of the Svyatik kind.

It was precisely because a certain gang had once hit the Kraives hard in the pocket—while also brutally slaughtering their kin (and it is hard to say which was worse)—that they had placed a hefty bounty on the bandits' heads; a move that nearly resulted in disastrous losses for the entire family. It would have, too, had a Wendigo not run into that very gang just as things were going south and flattened all their heartbeats into perfect, straight lines. Yet, no sooner had they recovered their wits—realizing what had happened and what they had narrowly escaped (having nearly been scared speechless by the time they made it from the snowy wastes to the city walls)—than a new phase began a couple of months later. Not exactly a "dark" period, perhaps, but an incredibly nerve-wracking one.

At first, utterly wild rumors arrived from Lazy—so wild, in fact, that one might have dismissed them; after all, who knew who had unleashed that "Ink Cloud," or who had laid a third of the Viceroy and Governor’s Guard in the cold, damp earth? No one had provided Kraive with the full details or revealed exactly whom they had fought; only scattered fragments of information had reached them—fragments that caused anxiety but stopped short of panic. Then, all communication was cut off across the Ridge—severed by the most powerful storm in at least half a century, a tempest that now threatened to wipe out most of Upperstone.

If anyone had wanted to question Kraive—by pointing out that they had originally gone by a different name—they stood little chance of doing so. Not in weather like this. That was what the nervous, sweating nobles thought, right up until someone actually came to question them—in a manner that felt more like an interrogation. The questioner was a Second-Step practitioner, a full-fledged Corpse Gutter, and had arrived with an entourage; this was likely not the first city on their itinerary. Someone had clearly scoured every place where a certain "Sturgeon" might have stashed his scrawny backside. Back then, presumably, they still hadn't fully believed the old man had regained his power.

They were convinced very quickly; after all, that asshole of an inspector—a secret agent serving either the Crown or the rebels (judging by the signs, he played both sides, always choosing the sweeter deal)—suddenly started wheezing one evening, and then torrents of incredibly toxic ink began pouring from every one of his orifices. His eyes burst out of their sockets, his maw and nostrils were torn wide open, and his ears dissolved—while the way his backside was blown apart defies description. The members of his retinue who happened to be nearby and survived their boss’s demise quickly packed up and headed back into the snows—much to the delight of the Burgomaster of Upperstone, who had absolutely no use for such guests. Then the storm struck with even greater fury, as if intent on severing all lines of communication between the towns once and for all.

Things reached the point where even high-quality communication amulets, paired journals, blood-linked mirrors, and other magical communication methods typical of the Sector began to malfunction disastrously. Mirrors would frost over even when submerged in hot water, journals failed to work, and amulets shattered completely after just a couple of uses. The Ridge was not yet fully cut off—especially its warmer edge—but it was perilously close to that state; entire villages and hamlets were perishing, for the onset of winter had been far too sudden—unforetold by omens, prophecies, or the accumulated experience of the locals.

It was on just such a dark and gloomy night that Ankandr Kraive—nicknamed "Tumba" behind his back on account of his nearly square physique—returned home. Short, stocky, and immensely strong, he still began every morning with a prayer to the Attribute of Infinite Perfection, the third name of the Purifier by Deed. He would follow this with at least an hour of drills using a war-hammer or a rapier—though he preferred the hammer. He had no love for bladed weapons. The man had just returned from a general town meeting attended by both the nobility and—alas—the commoners: the guild members and merchants. A state of emergency had brought these people together under one roof, driven by the need to allocate supplies of fuel and provisions.

No matter how little the nobility cared about the rabble, everyone understood that people freezing and starving to death would prefer not to die alone. And so, the storerooms were thrown open; the city still stands, and life flickers within it—there is even occasional trade during the few hours when the blizzard subsides enough to venture outside. In any case, the man returned utterly exhausted, paying little heed to the state of his servants as they silently went about their duties; he failed to notice their unnaturally distant, strangely drowsy eyes. He suspected nothing amiss even upon catching the scent of food cooking over the fire—after all, the servants should have simply left a reheated meal for him rather than preparing it fresh upon his arrival, especially since he had not known when he would return.

Ankandr—whom Ilya mentally dubbed "Square"—was absolutely stoned at the moment he stepped into the dim dining hall. He had just shed his snow- and ice-crusted cloak and was struggling to kick off his winter boots—which had been chafing him mercilessly—when he spotted the person sitting at his own table. It was a heavy piece of furniture made of oak—a wood scarce in these latitudes—and a legacy of the original Kraive. There, in the guest seat directly opposite the master’s place, sat a one-eyed bastard the man knew all too well. Even though Square had last seen Ruyek "Sturgeon" when he was just a youth—and now he was a dignified, bald fellow of mature years wearing a curled, starched wig—it was hard not to recognize him, especially after having thought about him so much lately.

Especially if Sturgeon seemed not to have changed a bit since then.

Ryuik, it must be admitted, cut an imposing figure. He looked exactly like what he was—not some comically cantankerous old man, forever angry at something and threatening all manner of retribution against the kids who’d crossed him. An impassive face; travel gear that was understated yet clearly expensive and comfortable; a cleaned patch covering one eye socket; scale-like tattoos that stood out with striking clarity; and utter emptiness in his one visible eye. It looked for all the world like a fish’s eye. He possessed exactly as much emotion and feeling as a salmon, a trout, or a megalodon cloned via essence technology.

"Greetings, young Ankandr; it has been a long time since we last met." The man turns pale right before one's eyes, and Ilya—having activated his Eyes—even begins to wonder if he’ll have to revive the blocky fellow after a heart attack. "Will you share a midnight meal with me?"

Here, the old Sturgeon employs a whole range of meanings and subtexts at once, knocking his kind of last remaining vassal off what little balance he had left. On one hand, he has invited the man to the table in his own home—an act that is, in a sense, humiliating—yet Ruyek remains the liege lord, and the principle that "my hearth is your hearth" is a sacred custom. On the other hand, the very fact that the old man is the one providing the bread he is offering to break makes it crystal clear that he has no intention of shedding blood here and now. There are plenty of other nuances and layers of meaning, too—the sort that are damn near impossible to grasp without having lived one’s entire life, from childhood on, within that specific cultural milieu.

The study of Broken World Aboriginal cultures is the one specialty that any Diver regards with nothing but derision. The Sectors are simply too diverse—opposed cultures that often differ only in the details, yet those details are—damn it—crucially important. Suffice it to say that the discipline itself focuses primarily on liturgies and the methods of interpreting them—practices that, while varying from place to place, share a common structure and a set of key principles. As for high-society etiquette, manners, and behavioral quirks—learning those is strictly for show; outside a specific Sector, they are utterly useless.

The largest communities have long since established short, months-long training courses for their recruits—often utilizing full-immersion virtual reality systems—tailored specifically to the culture and social norms of the Sector where the community is based. Everyone else, however, is left to pick up the necessary mannerisms on their own. Ilya, for instance, understood Ruyek’s actions but could not fully analyze them; the memory banks of his City-Dweller Twin persona simply weren't up to the task. Yet this struggle—the inability to predict Sturgeon’s moves—plagues more than just Ilya; it is, one might say, a problem shared by the entire kingdom.

"With dignity and gratitude, I shall break bread with an honored one." It seemed as though he had wanted not merely to bow low from the waist but to drop to his knees, stopping at the last moment and instantly fearing that this might be deemed disrespectful and punished. "I am glad to welcome you beneath the roof of my home."

He speaks, slightly stuttering, but somehow keeps his face, although cold sweat has already appeared on his forehead and under his wig; his heart is beating like an alarmed bird, and he is still frozen in one boot. Then he realized that he had frozen, and still sat down at the table without taking off the second one or putting the first one back on. Ruyek did not comment; he only nodded slightly, giving a sign to Ilya. He came out, leaving the kitchen, carrying a steaming pot with stewed-fried pulled meat in one hand and, only a couple of minutes later, a loaf of excellent white bread pulled out of the oven on a tray in the other.

He knew how to cook—even if he didn't enjoy it—and had conscientiously completed several VR courses. What’s more, these covered a range of culinary traditions and eras, from pseudo-Antiquity to pseudo-Victorian times. In fact, one of the reasons Ruyek had brought an Earthling along was that—aside from Sturgeon himself—only he could prepare the specified dishes according to the recipes. As for the fact that the old man was personally helping him cook, the Square certainly didn't need to know that; it would give him a heart attack. He might have one anyway, especially after realizing that Ilya was far too frail to be hauling such heavy loads with such ease. Which meant he was another gifted individual. Sturgeon’s actual entourage. Who was definitely not a driven beast stripped of all strength and allies.

"Peace and bread, meat and wine to this house," Ilya speaks these words briefly and calmly—without insolence or servility—as he places the traditional dishes on the table, steps aside, and takes his place behind Ruyek.

He silently cuts a thick slice of hot bread, places a piece of meat atop it—exuding an intoxicatingly delicious aroma—and then pours wine from the bottle Ilya had provided into three goblets. The Earthling feels a touch of pride at not having botched a single dish; the Wendigo’s heightened senses had served him well, allowing him to gauge the level of doneness perfectly without any formal culinary training. The ingredients were top-notch, too: the meat came from a magical beast Ilya had caught himself—Sturgeon had used a portal to drop him right next to that horned creature that was neither quite a deer nor an ox—while the bread flour was enriched with special grains gathered during their travels across the Ridge, dug out from beneath the snowcaps; as for the wine, it came from the secret hideout’s stores. Also some sort of pricey shit, naturally.

The third goblet is for him—for Ilya—placed to the right of Sturgeon. He also receives one slice of bread with meat. The old man carves and portions the food himself—a mark of respect and acknowledgment of merit—yet the host does not look particularly happy; if anything, he is terrified out of his wits. They eat in silence, and the Earthman feels a twinge of pride seeing both of them savoring his cooking with obvious relish. A twinge of pride, yes, but also a vast irritation at the role he is currently playing—even though that role is far from demeaning; in fact, it signifies a very high level of respect on Ruyek’s part. From Ruyek’s perspective, that is—not Ilya’s.

"I kept my oath," Ankandr said—quietly, yet clearly—when his composure finally slipped; this elicited a note of contemptuous, condescending irritation in Ryuek’s single eye—a look visible only to Ilya. "My father and mother did not live to see this day, but I remember. They remembered, too. My brother remembered. My sons and daughters remember now."

"And I remember, young Ankandr, and I know," the old man replied calmly. His listener instantly deflated, realizing in a flash that the Sage knew not only what had been spoken but also all the reasons why it was true. "I have always remembered and known—even when my wounds tormented me, and even when they ceased to do so. Loyalty is like a candle flame in a snowstorm: rarely encountered, rarely glimpsed—yet even a candle can light the path or drive away a beast."

Ilya was inwardly awestruck by the sheer level of the old geezer’s cynicism and brazenness; he had to suppress the urge to burst out laughing forcibly—or to let out a shrill, maniacal cackle like a mockingbird. The hint wasn’t exactly subtle, but Square clearly understood it, his thoughts drifting back to events from the not-so-distant past. It didn’t take much deduction: he could hardly have believed for a single moment that he’d gotten so lucky—that a mere fleeting ice spirit had wiped out that entire gang without leaving a single survivor. Yeah, and buried the Hunter somewhere in the snows, too.

This time, the bow to Sturgeon was not merely fearful but utterly sincere and full of gratitude. It was accompanied by a piercing look at Ilya, who had slightly shifted his disguise—still feigning a human guise, yet allowing a hint of the Cald to show through. It was a subtle trick, bordering on pure ritual—even if the ritual consisted of nothing more than rhythmic breathing—yet it enabled the Square to piece together the sequence of events himself. He did not, however, bow to Ilya.

"I am ready to serve the candle that will protect and warm, most esteemed of Fishermen." He had used such an archaic form of address that even Ruyek chuckled inwardly. "Just show me where my House and I can be of use."

The conversation proceeded much more smoothly after that. Ilya kept his distance and remained silent, having offered only a polite, curt greeting when introduced—as "Iliy". The man clearly had a host of questions but was in no rush to ask them, and Ruyek answered most of them anyway: the servants were fine, just dreaming on their feet. The household staff was all right too; they hadn't even been put in the sleep state—just left undisturbed. After all, why frighten those prone to fear? It would have been hard to state more clearly that the old man had arrived with an entourage already in tow—that he hadn't come empty-handed, intent on squeezing his negligent vassals for just one more week of life.

"I was at rock bottom, young Ankandr—you cannot even imagine just how filthy that bottom was," Ruyek speaks with an indescribable blend of emotions and truly sinister undertones. "Yet, even at the bottom, one can find pearls. Find a precious gem. I found one. I cleansed it and showed it the way. And now, as you can see, I am cutting and polishing it."

Using roundabout allegories, Ruyek quite sensibly pointed out that all noble houses had once originated with the first gifted individuals of their respective lineages. He noted that all present-day dukes, rulers, magnates, and princes had started out leading some ragtag warband—little better than the bandits the Wendigo had encountered. By this time, the servants had woken up—without even realizing they had been asleep—and the family members had successfully come downstairs; however, only the eldest son and the master’s wife took part in the conversation, while the others were not even allowed near the table—the topic was not for them. The son’s wife was clearly on the verge of voicing her indignation but was quickly silenced—an act that frightened her somewhat, as she had never seen her beloved husband like that before.

The youngest son arrived as well. He didn't come down from the upper floors but entered from the street, returning home just as frozen and exhausted as his father. He was the only one gifted in the family. And he had acquired it quite recently—spurred by the emotional shock of nearly losing his entire family (he had been out of town at the time and only learned of the events afterward), he had grasped a fragment of altar stone kept in his father’s safe, which awakened the touch of the Mechanism within him. And he had actually survived. His brain hadn't turned to mush, either. Though had he been there that day—even with a Class—the Hunter would simply have claimed one more scalp.

"They are all talented and hand-picked by me—that much is undeniable—but their training was piecemeal, focused on mastering their Lots and Mysteries rather than on proper conduct in polite society." When Ilya heard this part of the plan for the upcoming conversation, he remarked—to quote him—something along the lines of, "They’d worm their way into your blockheads’ good graces faster than grease slides up an ass." Ruyek replied—again, quoting—"Someone is going to worm their way in regardless; better it be them—getting burned by them won't hurt too much." "That is where I need your help. Classical literature, the Five Arts, Back and Steps—all the things not taught in the slum streets."

Naturally, they didn’t refuse. In fact, they were clearly relieved that they wouldn’t have to rush into battle but would instead play the part of taciturn tutors—at least until the storm blew over, after which they could reassess the situation. They would either go on the run with their liege, abandoning everything they had left, or become the ones to convey his message directly to the king’s men—or even to the crowned individual himself. No one voiced the third possibility—that they might all be eliminated to ensure their silence—but it was a thought they all clearly shared.

"I, too, am ready to help—not with words, but with blade and spell." This was Anzhey speaking—the last of his line to possess the gift, or perhaps the first in this generation, and the twentieth in the entire history of a very old clan that had never been powerful or influential. "I ask you to judge my worth, most esteemed sir; I ask you to accept my service."

Ilya pegged him as a naive, romantic fool hungry for glory and heroic deeds—yet, at the same time, a sharp, calculating individual with an unerring sense of timing, fully aware that playing the part of a romantic, hero-seeking lad right now was neither harmful nor shameful. Tellingly, his father apologized for his son’s impulsiveness but made no attempt to dissuade him; he understood that this was a prime opportunity for career advancement. A personal blade was far more useful to a liege lord than yet another tutor for the actual retinue.

"Is that so?" That old bastard certainly knows how to freeze your guts solid with a single glance—without any need for Cald. "Iliy, be so good as to test this worthy son of his House—his blade and his skill—and then give me an impartial verdict."

The poor fellow had likely misunderstood exactly what Sturgeon meant when he said he had hand-picked and trained his slum-bred gems—and had already taught them a great deal. At that moment, an ancient joke popped into the Earthling’s mind about a weary Luddite farmer who had just plowed a field, and his horse, whose gaze conveyed the thought: "HE—the fucker—plowed it." But putting jokes aside, the aristocrat—trained since childhood and accustomed to living and fighting with a blade in hand—rightfully believed he could easily outclass all those slum-bred protégés at once. He was genuinely steeling himself to win with maximum finesse, aiming to avoid injuring a retainer of the highly esteemed Ryueik Sturgeon—or making an enemy of him—by securing a victory that was humiliatingly easy.

Well, that was what he thought before he heard the words of the old man with fish-like eyes.

That was when he began to suspect that he had misunderstood something, that he had overestimated himself.

So he’s no fool; he’s got some grey matter upstairs and knows how to put it to active use.

No one went to watch their clash. Just the two of them. Just the blizzard and the backyard of the Kraive estate. The youth—looking about seventeen, though perhaps younger, given how harsh life was here even for the nobility—watched with a stern, calm gaze, masking his agitation. The Earthman did not bother to dress; he stepped out in indoor clothes and did not even wince at the cold. His opponent followed suit out of defiance, but was forced to immediately clutch the amulet at his chest and unleash the full charge of its warming spells—and even then, he shivered slightly.

"Five rounds—use everything you’ve got." Seeing the look on the other’s face, Ilya clarified his point to avoid a drawn-out argument. "I’m tough enough to survive taking a hit. The Venerable Ruyek knows this; he’s watching us right now—walls are no barrier to him. Since he hasn’t stopped us, the terms of your test suit him."

Ilya doesn’t mean to be insulting, yet he remains indifferent and composed, devoid of both deference and insolence. He also makes it clear that he considers himself the favorite. The boy passed the test, though only just. He didn’t take offense or start spouting arrogant nonsense, but he clearly decided—mentally, at least—that a few non-lethal cuts wouldn’t hurt certain people. In an instant, a long, slightly curved, single-edged blade appeared in one hand—looking less like a saber and more like a razor. In the other, a ghostly, translucent shield materialized, woven from active talent.

Gladiator again.

This might even be interesting.

Ilya doesn’t even draw his cleaver; he simply nods, as if to say, "Go ahead and attack."

And the boy attacked.

During their first round, he was still playing it safe, holding back his offensive talents and relying only on "Eagerness for Battle"—or a similar skill from that tree—marked by a distinctive dark-blue glow beneath his boot soles; not even the snow could mask the flash. The Earthman didn't know if the ability had three steps or four. He simply sidestepped—treading the snow as lightly as a parquet floor—just as the Gladiator, moving in a blurred streak, tried to slam his entire body weight into the slighter, more slender Ilius. Beneath his dandy doublet, he wore chainmail, a lightweight cuirass, and decent-quality bracers and greaves. After all, he had helped the guards take down a man-eating beast that had infiltrated the city—unaware that Wolfie had already slaughtered it in its own lair. The point is, Anzhey had dressed that morning as if for battle.

That first clash ended just like that: the sword flew one way, while the Gladiator went tumbling the other. Six heartbeats later, once the man had finally extricated himself from the snowdrift he’d plunged into headfirst, Ilya held out the dropped blade—without a trace of mockery. The Gladiator clearly had plenty he wanted to say—insult was churning in his aristocratic mind—but he managed to swallow his anger. It is hard to say whether that was a good thing or a bad one; a self-restrained asshole nursing a grudge is far more unpleasant than a straightforward, simple asshole.

"Don’t insult me ​​by trying to hold back." Ilya did let a hint of reproach creep into his voice—but just a hint, nothing more. "Use everything."

During the second, third, fourth, and especially the fifth attempts, he truly unleashed everything he had—every ounce of skill and effort—without holding back or worrying about the consequences of his blows. He returned to the house not merely disheartened but utterly shattered; he struggled to keep his composure and looked as though he might actually burst into tears. He regarded the furious Ilya without a shred of sympathy, yet he had the sense to avert his gaze. In truth, there was no real hatred there—only a bottomless pit of self-disappointment.

"What is the outcome?" The question posed by Sturgeon—interrupting the casual conversation—is concise and direct, even though he himself had seen everything; he could not have failed to see it.

"Briefly or with analysis?" Ilya replied with a question.

"First, the brief version." And there’s no telling whether he’s teasing the Earthman or being serious. "Then, the analysis."

"In short: excellent." At this point, poor Andzey stared at him with such astonishment that he could feel the gaze even on his back. "If with analisys: the young man is full of potential but has absolutely no idea how to unlock it. He’s a Gladiator—he lacks formal combat knacks, relying solely on his innate, honed talent. His build comprises "Drive to Fight," "Shield Attraction," "Predestined Insult," and "Parade of Blades," balanced by "Blade and Sheath" and "Heart of the Arena." He has no gear, his aspects are undeveloped, and he chose his Lot only recently. Yet, he is skilled with a blade, has a great sense of positioning, and possesses a brilliant tactical mind in the heat of battle—a natural gift that is hard to teach and virtually impossible to select via drops of essence.

With every word spoken by Ilya—who had settled into his seat and was slicing off some bread and meat as if nothing were amiss—the young man’s expression grew increasingly shocked. He couldn't reconcile the severe dressing-down he had received from the "rednek" (yes, that was precisely how Ruyek had introduced him—with utter cynicism—to avoid calling him an outsider) with the praise being heaped upon him, delivered in such polished, academic language.

"He lost the opening exchanges decisively, but by the fifth bout, he made me work for it—and even managed to land a hit, albeit only on my sleeve." Ilya fought like a wild beast, eschewing his blade to practice his innate, savage style—that same unnatural, jerky, blurring motion he had used against the primeval brute while in his combat Form, only now executed in a human body. "I’d have to mend that sleeve. Frankly, for someone so new to this path, achieving anything more with the strength and resources at his disposal would have been extremely difficult."

"But I... I didn't even touch you once!" Look at him, suddenly turning so polite, all because his noble mug got rubbed in the snow. "You didn't even draw your blade from its scabbard."

It wasn’t Ilya who picked up the conversation this time. It was Sturgeon who let out a chuckle, looking at the young man with the air of a wise old wolf pestered by a bird perched on its back. It was a mocking, condescending, yet good-natured attitude from someone who understood perfectly well what Ilya had said—someone who had donned yet another role and mask, though it was unclear just how false or genuine they were. Perhaps even he himself didn't know.

"Not long ago, Iliy clashed with three gifted cutthroats—including the one who carries the blood of the bearer of the Crimson Ring. Yes, you can well imagine her skill, her agility, and the value of her gear." Yeah, it still stings the Earthling to think about it—especially since he never dared to actually snatch up those relics. "The fight lasted less time than it takes for the foam to settle on a mug of beer, but by the end, none of the three were left alive; whereas Iliy... I gather you had to change your clothes again after that?"

The reference to the slaughter at Lazy brought Ilya no particular satisfaction. He considered himself a loser simply for having ended up in that battle and being forced to fight—especially against that Gladiator, whose House and allegiance Sturgeon had eventually managed to identify. Yet, at his curt nod, any lingering hostility the youth might have harbored vanished completely, replaced by—if not admiration—then undisguised wariness.

"So, there is no need to torment yourself over your weakness—it is the sort of ailment that eventually passes for those gifted by the Dead and the Mechanism." That is, provided they live to see that bright moment; though the locals here imbibe an understanding of their own sudden mortality with their mother's milk. "But your blade—and, more importantly, your shield—will come in handy, won't they, Iliy?"

"Yes, the second step in the talent will allow for increased scale even without the corresponding aspect; in narrow corridors, it will be able to hold its sector without much trouble." Here Ilya delivers a pre-rehearsed, agreed-upon line—the sort an old fart uses to buy up "loyal" vassals, lock, stock, and barrel, even though they’re already in the bag. "It’ll take time to coordinate—a few training sessions—but in the lacuna, it’ll be useful to us all."

The words have been spoken and heard, though they do not immediately sink in for the locals—people for whom a *lacuna* represents not merely a means of advancement, but, first and foremost, a mortal danger. Yet that danger comes hand-in-hand with the Sage, who can offer protection against such perils, while the *lacuna’s* value for their own personal growth remains undiminished.

"A lacuna?" That was said by Baskil—the eldest son, who likely "loved" his brother dearly for being gifted, whereas Baskil himself lacked the gift of the Mechanism (unless one counted the minor, prayer-wrought miracles he shared with his father). "Near the town?"

"Why, right nearby, child?" the old man asks, and for the first time during their long conversation, his fish-like eye all but laughs. "Right beneath the town. Didn't I tell you?"

* * *

Lishka and Wolfie look particularly satisfied and innocent—and it’s certainly not because they’d just indulged in unbridled passion around the corner while no one was looking. Nor is their good mood the result of another high-society etiquette lesson under the watchful eye of Agdalya—the wife of that square fellow. It just so happens that last night, a certain nasty charcoal burner—the one who once nearly raped Torya—dined on his own severed balls after stepping outside for some fresh air. Or, to be precise, for a drink: he’d gone to secretly down some moonshine—booze so potent it hadn’t even frozen in this weather—without sharing a drop with his cronies. He had his drink, all right, and then he had a little something to go with it.

Ilya could have condemned the two teenagers who committed a cold-blooded murder with extreme brutality, yet he found it hard to sympathize with the victim. After all, the man had openly worn a necklace made of severed female fingers—believing himself fully entitled, for instance, to slice off a phalanx from a whore who hadn't serviced him to his liking. That is, provided the girl was the sort no one would stand up for. To be honest, Ilya had had no time to worry about the upbringing of young sociopaths these past few days; he was pouring all his energy into preparing for his first entry into the lacuna—or rather, for its premature breach.

There are fourteen of them here today, packed into the alley so tightly there isn't room for a coin to drop—and yet, space still has to be cleared for the ritual. It is a secluded nook between two large smithies; the fires haven't been doused, even now, because in this cold, the night shift would freeze if the forges were shut down. Besides, not all forges can simply be extinguished—especially those that harbor a spark of magic. Neither smithy boasts a dedicated Smith of its own, yet the master smiths and their apprentices are blessed by the Branding Flame—and quite powerfully so, no less than that late, would-be priest of the Night Miller. In truth, they too could be classed as "non-priests"—the Touched, the Affected, the Marked, or whatever other grandiloquent title one might choose.

No kidding. Their families are close—tightly bound by blood ties after marrying off their sons and daughters to one another—and, quite officially, twice a year they purchase a condemned to the gallows from the local jailers. Or someone passed off as one, anyway. They buy him only to bind him tight, wrap him in a sack, and—while he screams and thrashes—toss that sack straight into the furnace. But the flames in their forges burn fierce and bright! And the steel that emerges is no ordinary metal. Rumor has it, though, that they sometimes acquire "non-condemned" souls from "good folk" when a special task requires appeasing the Branding Flame; yet there is no helping that—sometimes the sacrifice simply must be taken illicitly rather than bought fair and square.

Is it any wonder that it was here, next to the two forges, where they maintained far-from-ideal energy-aura hygiene, that the tentacle-trunk of the sealed lacuna, which had not yet opened, sprouted? One of these, but the most convenient for their group. If the right time came, the workers of this place would be the first to be sucked into the lacuna by the trunk. In some way, they are all here saving other people's lives, unsolicited and unpaid. More precisely, the Mechanism, not people, will pay for these exploits, and it will do so generously.

Ryueik Ыегкпущт stands in the corner, offering virtually no commentary on the unfolding events. He simply gazes silently at the world around him with the composure of an earthly Buddha. He acts only as a safeguard and an observer, offering no hints or assistance—unless the situation threatens absolute, catastrophic doom—without personally intervening. His face betrays less emotion than even the most indifferent man-eating shark in existence; he looks like nothing more than a grandfather out for a stroll, albeit one dressed too lightly for the weather. This time, he has shielded himself with an illusion-casting amulet to alter his appearance.

The one who has enough emotions for their entire company is Anzhey. The guy tries to behave as restrained as possible and, at the same time, is extremely afraid of both humiliating his own dignity and hurting the dignity of others. He still managed to attend the training of the anchor brigade to see what they were capable of and how they acted in battle. He had to force his average by the standards of the sector noble arrogance to be pushed deeper, fearing that otherwise something would be shoved somewhere in him. Lishka is like that. She is quite capable of. Anzhey has already managed to spar with her, losing almost completely twice, five to zero and one to four. He took his only victory solely on the mistake of Lishka herself, who believed in herself too much.

In fairness, he was up against a formidable opponent—someone just as talented as he was, yet far more seasoned. He quickly lost any desire to joke with Harlequin—or to speak at all. The boy bound himself by new oaths—vows of silence and quiet—that were in many ways even more binding than the ones that had once shackled Ilya after his first deal with the old confectioner. And there was no coercion or pressure involved here; the boy walked right into the trap the moment Ruyek unleashed his fully maxed-out, nine-step "Noodles on the Ears" talent, interspersed with targeted bursts of "Epic Bullshit"—also at the nine-step level.

Without uttering a single outright lie, he led his "loyal" vassals to the conclusion that the old man was exacting these oaths solely because he planned to fully unleash his secret methods for accelerating development—and was willing to share them with young Anzhey, since an extra pair of gifted hands capable of wielding a blade and fighting competently would inevitably prove useful. Ilya fought hard to suppress a horse-like guffaw—recalling the "Przewalski’s horse" meme from the Forum—as Sturgeon personally cooked candied beans using a highly mystical and inscrutable method, then fed the dessert to Anzhey.

In all fairness, the stuff is actually delicious. Ilya tried it himself; it’s not exactly an ordinary Earth-grown bean, but a local variety that tastes a bit like salted caramel even without any extra processing. But now, Anzhey is firmly convinced that his development will be accelerated precisely because of that bowl of beans in sugar syrup. After all, the third step Sage prepared it personally—with his own hands! What an honor! The Most Venerable Ruyek Sturgeon wouldn't go messing around with nonsense like that just for a laugh, would he? Surely not—and certainly not because some brazen Harlequin talked him into it!

Ilya’s thoughts drift lazily and calmly as Kruchik, Ognets, and Chizhik take the preliminary steps to open a passage into the lacuna. They are the group’s resident casters, so let them do the heavy lifting; Ilya will simply double-check their work and join in for the final stage, taking the mental backlash upon himself. The circle has already been drawn, and the bowls—filled with candles and fortified wine potent enough to burn as fiercely as the candles themselves—are positioned at the necessary points. The Spellcaster’s barriers keep the blizzard from extinguishing the flames; he has created a pocket of perfect calm within the dead-end alley.

At the center of the figure—whose lines have crept even onto the smithy’s walls—lie fourteen coins: mere copper discs, yet large, ancient, and untrimmed. These are no ordinary coins; they were taken from a man who froze to death in the snow and cold, alone and in despair. Strictly speaking, the ritual called for coins from a hanged man—one strung up in a noose—but here and now, quantity compensates for the lack of the specific quality; besides, the ritual outline has fused the underlying concepts—for in both cases, the essence remains the same: death, despair, and the desperate refusal to die.

Fortunately, there is no shortage of corpses—people who froze to death in their homes or while trying to reach communal heating points. However, the process of retrieving those very coins was not without its oddities. A rival appeared on the scene: a middle-aged woman who seemed to have been blessed by one of the Dead entities banned in Sector—most likely the Craver of Oblivion, though that’s not certain; no one had time to ask.

Kruchik simply erased her with "Colorless Splash", just in case.

Meanwhile, Ilya approached the ritual figure; he stepped into its center and felt exactly fourteen needles drive into his body up to the hilt, while each of the coins split into two halves, sliced ​​diagonally. One half seemed blackened by fire, the other turned green with age—instantly weathered by the passage of time. One key for entry, one key for exit. And a key that was as inconspicuous and unobtrusive as possible—one that wouldn't destabilize the walls of the lacuna enough to cause a sudden rupture right into the city. Well, you know—out of concern for the civilian population, and perhaps a slight desire to avoid drawing undue attention to himself, but primarily, of course, out of concern.

Everyone will enter the lacuna—even Sleepy. While she wouldn't be of much use against ordinary undead, she stands a chance of actually accomplishing something against *corpse-eaters*; after all, those creatures are capable of slipping into a sort of slumber—albeit not all of them, and only the more advanced specimens. Then again, the abomination slumbering in the depths of the lacuna is asleep too—and *its* slumber is a genuine, deep sleep. Yet Ruyek has strictly forbidden Sleepy from venturing into that particular dream—under penalty of death—because it is precisely the "dream-death" of that hollowed-out pit (which likely devoured the power of one of God’s servant-creatures) that lies in wait for a first-step Dreamwalker. It isn't exactly a hard counter, but it is a nasty thing that comes dangerously close to being one. There will be work for the others as well—even for Sturgeon, who will play the role of the most terrifying nanny in the sector.

Traces of the ritual are swiftly cleared away; the drawn symbols are scraped from the walls with packed snow, and from beneath the sketched circle, they retrieve a coil of hangman’s rope—now a fleeting yet highly valuable artifact. Ilya ignores the rapidly fading, silent whisper in his mind urging him to rot alive and devour himself—the unshielded echo of the Lacuna’s very essence—while Chizhik carefully arranges the rope, winding it into a circle like some Ouroboros.

Tap.

Tap.

It wasn't for nothing that he’d let them save a small mountain of reagents at his expense—he had even taken part in planning the ritual itself. Entering a lacuna—even one that was sealed—wasn't all that difficult; he had even received visions of perfectly cost-effective rituals for the task. But simply getting into a lacuna was one thing; entering as a group without alerting every single inhabitant, arriving at the same spot, and having a reliable escape plan ready at a moment’s notice—even for a hasty retreat when there was no time for a return ritual because something was already gnawing at your ankles—was something else entirely.

They performed exactly such a key ritual—and successfully, too. Chizhik and Ognets each received exactly one drop; they gave a very distinctive jerk in reaction. Kruchik might have gotten something as well, but he was standing behind Ilya at the time and was simply out of sight—plus, his heart rate was already erratic, much like the Occultist’s own. As for the others, there was no reason to award them any drops just yet—with the possible exception of Torya, who was busy converting existing supplies into active potions, primarily combat-oriented ones.

The rope seems to sink into the floor, eating a hole through it like a coil of acidic sausage. Then, a paving stone appears to drop away, plunging into an underground space that simply shouldn't exist here, in this part of the city. A waft of stale air, mold, and—strangely—warmth rose from the hole in the ground. A repulsive, loathsome, unnatural warmth, like someone’s foul-smelling breath—calm, steady, and, for the moment, seemingly asleep. The hollowed-out pit itself was asleep, as was its breath, and that was a good thing. Had it been otherwise, one could have immediately scrapped most of the schemes and switched to the "Industrial Press" plan. That plan wasn't bad, either: the Sturgeon leads the way, leveling everything in sight—and out of sight—while the others follow, picking up the crumbs from the feast.

But the Pit is asleep. The creatures, it seems, haven't stirred yet. The lacuna hasn't fully ripened. The corpse-eaters might well be in a state of suspended animation—which means work for Sonya. And later for Tori, when the time comes to gut that putrid blood. Romchik will have it easiest; his only task is to apply pressure using the "Prohibiting Line." He’ll get the smallest share of the droplets, but he’ll get some nonetheless. They all exchanged glances, looked at Ruнek—who was practically whistling in an attempt to look like he was "just standing here by accident"—then looked at Iliy, who gave a brief nod and issued a verbal command:

"Ognets, drop the barrier; the rest of you, follow me in the agreed order." A moment later, the blizzard strikes like a hammer, driving out the last vestiges of warmth from the alley; snow dust cascades into the pit, and the pit itself seems to shudder slightly, signaling to all onlookers that this entrance won't last forever. "Shields up—forward. Jump, roll, and wait for the next signal. No noise, no panic, no puking—and by all the Dead, don't you dare cut yourselves or spill a drop of blood."

The three young women reacted differently, but only Torya—being the most innocent of the bunch—felt flustered. There shouldn't be any issues on that front; each of them had performed a simple, pure ritual to halt and freeze their natural cycles, ensuring they wouldn't have to worry about that particular complication. Lishka even rolled her eyes, clearly swallowing back a ribald remark—Ruyek’s expression was simply too serious, practically promising dozens more hours of studying classical literature. And not just the texts themselves, but every single collection of commentaries—specifically the editions by Orzvey the Tedious!

"I am ready, esteemed Iliy." At Andrzej’s words, Ilya even toyed with the idea of ​​writing—if not a monograph, then at least an article—on the subject of "instilling respect in the noble class of the Broken World’s natives through the demonstration of one’s own martial superiority"; yet, were anyone to print them on paper, such articles and monographs could heat the entire Spine without any help from him. "May Fortune and Fatum attend us, as well as the grace of the All-Existent."

He might well have left FoFa out of it in this context; after all, divers have a very particular take on that "traditional saying"—one that often differs from the conventional view.

* * *

Flashes of alchemical fire—chemical sticks burning with a false flame that neither burns the skin nor consumes oxygen—dispel the darkness. The raider squad rushes inside in full force, one after another; bringing up the rear, old Sturgeon lands softly on the thin soles of his leather boots. It is precisely his presence here that makes the standard "cross formation" unnecessary, as he is truly capable of covering them all. Besides, the "minnows" have grown a bit wiser by now; they shouldn't be making any truly stupid mistakes.

But that doesn't mean they won't do them.

The hall they found themselves in was quite wide and spacious—spanning some eight meters from wall to wall and hexagonal in shape. The walls bore traces of decorative molding and brackets for torches and lamps—or rather, the decayed, rusted remnants of such fixtures. The space resembled both an abandoned mine gallery and a similarly forsaken temple—hardly surprising, given that prayers here were offered to the Guide of the Lost, specifically to one of his aspects: the Wanderer in the Darkness. His temples were, in fact, often partially mines; they frequently served as annexes to active workings where ore or minerals were extracted, allowing for the blessing of both the raw material and the extraction process itself—much like here, in this lacuna.

The ceiling is low. Ilya is forced to stoop. It’s manageable here, at least; other passageways and tunnels will prove to be a real test of one’s resistance to claustrophobia. It is not without reason that Ruнek has a third step. He managed to examine the lacuna’s outer layer from the outside, draft a rough map, and select an entry point—and then even compel his anchors to memorize that map, however imprecise it might have been. Sleepy expended three drops of essence just to create the shared dream, and even that took two attempts. Keeping so many Gifted—even unresisting ones—within a united dream is, to put it mildly, a rather difficult feat.

Of course, someone managed *not* to suppress a reflex reaction and completely ruined poor Sleepy’s dream. She sulked at Chizhik in a truly adorable way afterward, and he apologized just as adorably. That said, they did manage to memorize the tunnels nearest the entry point; they worked in sync and didn't do anything stupid. That’s the power of natural talent combined with a solid, reliable build—one that doesn't go haywire due to poor build—plus, well, a build that actually isn't flawed to begin with.

"And why are you undressing, esteemed Iliy?" asks Andzej—who happens to be closest to Ilya, wedged between the Earthman and a wall coated in a sort of whitish, moldy web. "And right here, of all places?"

"Don't worry, Andzej—you're not my type," Ilya replies, stripping off his clothes and folding them neatly; a moment later, the joke takes on a new meaning as he shifts into his combat form. "Close your mouth, or you'll breathe in this filth. And get ready to fight."

To his credit, he didn’t shriek or ask stupid questions—though that was largely due to the shock he was in. Unlike the other Anchors, the young noble had so far only practiced anchor-related drills with the team; any training he’d done with Ilya had been strictly in Ilya’s human form. Three seconds later, his training and preparation kicked in—including his innate background, for he was, after all, a true-born noble, trained and skilled in wielding his blade for the glory of his House. All in all, Anzhey joined the rest of the team, diligently pretending he was above reacting to the faint snickers.

"Don't go driving yourself crazy over it, Anzhey; seeing a monstrosity like that, there’s no shame in shitting yourself a little." Oh no, he hadn't shit himself; Ilya would have smelled it—he couldn't. "You should’ve heard me the first time I saw Ilivyatik with those horns—I screamed like a fucking banshee. And the second time, too, a little bit."

Harlequin’s instinct-driven quip did the trick, defusing a situation that might well have escalated—if not into an outright clash, then at least into the seeds of one. Yet all manner of thoughts were clearly swirling in Anzhey’s mind; he was well-versed in the nature of Wendigos—hardly surprising for someone living in the heart of the Ridge. Meanwhile, the group was preparing for battle: setting mechanical and magical traps from their hideout’s stores to block off corridors and narrow burrows, readying alchemical bombs, and tapping along the walls to pinpoint where the creatures might try to flank them by smashing through the partitions. It was an almost ideal spot for a sustained, effective defense—the best they could hope to find in the entire Lacuna given their resources. Otherwise, they would have had to rely entirely on Sturgeon.

The hall of the former sanctuary was situated not at the edge of the spatial anomaly, but closer to the center of the upper tier—not far from the mouth of the funnel that gradually narrowed all the way down to the bottom. One could not simply walk straight in via a standard ritual path; instead, one had to force a way through dark tunnels—narrow passages riddled with side-tunnels, precarious walkways, and unstable flooring. While a large group could certainly rush from the perimeter to the hall quickly, there was a high risk of losing members along the way, or arriving only to find the hall already packed with the corpse-eaters waiting to greet visitors. They had arrived here first and were taking full advantage of the situation.

Ilya casts one last look at Ruyek, who gives a silent nod—signaling that it’s his turn to move. Ilya has been assigned to seal off one of the two massive tunnels from which hordes of corpse-eaters might come pouring out. This time, he isn’t providing cover or playing the babysitter. This time, Sturgeon has given him free rein to unleash his full power without holding back out of concern for the anchors. Go ahead, Earthling—take your drops; take as much as your gaping maw can bite off.

Ilya slips like a silent shadow into a dark, musty, and repulsively warm tunnel—reminiscent of an abandoned mine drift; one can even spot the rusted remains of mining equipment. Despite his massive bulk, he is actually not just lean for his size but also incredibly flexible—supple beyond belief. The rule that "if the head fits, the rest will follow" applies to him too, and even better than it does for (Earth) cats. One might think his horns would get in the way, but that isn't an issue either, thanks to the simultaneous use of "Transformation" and "Transcendence." At the right moments, the Earthman simply forces his horns—or any other body part—to transform, restoring them to their normal state a fraction of a second later, once he has already cleared the tight spot.

The noise made by the fourteen Gifted gradually begins to draw the attention of the awakening corpse-eaters—no matter how hard Sleepy tries to prolong their torpor or ensure it is interrupted by nothing short of a violent death. Then, the Wendigo’s sense of smell picks up the scent of blood. Not just ordinary blood, but the blood of the Gifted—alchemically enhanced to be more alluring, decanted into vials, and released into the stale air. Somewhere nearby, Anzhej rasps out something in a prayer-like tone; his heart nearly gave out when he put two and two together, yet Ilya—contrary to everyone’s fears—remains indifferent to the scent, ignoring the urgings of the beast within...

...eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat-eat...

The pressure is a bit more intense than what came from that Warlock—the first gifted opponent Ilya ever faced. Then again, this Torya’s miz has a different purpose. The goal isn't just to bind a single wild wendigo, but to enrage a whole swarm of the creatures and goad them into mindlessly charging a fortified position. The tricky part is ensuring the mixture isn't *too* effective; otherwise, the entire population of the lacuna—even the denizens of the picked-clean corpse pit—would come swarming in to feed, and the only thing that could save the raid from total annihilation then would be Sturgeon’s intervention.

Ilya moves on all fours, unhurriedly—even sluggishly—emerging into a long, narrow hall where the walls, floor, and ceiling are riddled with tunnels and outright burrows. There, a movement stirs—one barely perceptible even to the Wendigo’s eyes. Nearby corpse-eaters have awakened, ready to begin their feast, utterly unaware that the banquet is not intended for them. By now, Ilya has wrapped himself in his Fringe of camouflage and resumed his human form, settling down to wait on the warm, filthy stone of the floor.

Of course, adopting the "Wendigo Form" only to revert to a human body—even if the energy expenditure is negligible—might seem illogical by ordinary standards; yet, there is a sound tactical reason for it. It stems from the experience of a diver trained to Earth standards—someone who simply could not, under any circumstances, have lost a card game to a Harlequin and been forced to play a part in her prank on Anzhey. That scenario is simply impossible, and Ilya would gnaw the face off anyone who dared claim otherwise.

The first corpse-eaters appeared after barely three minutes, undeterred by the scent of fresh blood permeating the breathing tunnels. They possessed filthy, whitish bodies that glistened—not with mere slime, but with actual grease—along with elongated, canine-like jaws and massive fangs designed to tear dead flesh, though equally effective against the living. Then there were the eyes: completely vacant, weeping slightly, and swollen with pus. Sight—naturally poor to begin with—was unnecessary for creatures accustomed to navigating by sound, vibration, and scent with the proficiency of a mole. This was especially true here, where the very lacuna breathed alongside them—its axis a hollowed-out, gnawed-clean pit of corpses—ensuring they never lost their bearings while passively illuminating any mortals who dared to intrude upon this place.

The corpse-eaters hesitate, freezing for a split second in indecision while using the pause to gather their strength. Ilya smells of neither the dead nor the living—he has almost no scent at all—yet the odor he does exude belongs to neither a victim nor a scavenger, but to a far more dangerous beast. In another place or time, the corpse-eaters would have chosen to retreat; these creatures are cowardly and cautious, preferring to go without a meal rather than fight for it against an equal or superior foe. But here, a whole army of them has gathered; they are on their own turf, the axis of the Lacuna is breathing down their necks, and they are in no rush to back down.

The creatures didn’t growl. In fact, they rarely growl when attacking—only occasionally, if they’re unsure of success or are trying to intimidate. Five—no, eight—of the beasts blur into whitish streaks before the human eye, while in the lead charges a creature whose ulcer-covered head is crowned with a long cascade of blue-black hair. Well, they *would* have blurred, were it not for the pitch-black darkness—a darkness so absolute that even a Wendigo wouldn't see a damn thing without special vision. And behind them, wave after wave of new creatures is already rushing into the fray.

The ambient pressure spikes sharply. The Lacuna has not yet awakened the Axis, but it is no longer inert. The place itself seems to bear down on those who have entered, instilling fear and dread, while a loathsome stench strives to invade their lungs. Somewhere, at an immeasurable distance, Torya once again employs "Nature Shift" in "Chain" mode, lifting the pressure from the entire group, whereas Ilya simply ignores it. The force attempting to crush him shares an affinity with Hungor, but even were that not the case, it would take something far more potent to affect a body so thoroughly steeped in curses. The tunnels seem to whisper, pronouncing doom and foretelling the inevitable.

\\\...death to you, stranger, for there are many of us here...

Were these real images—conjured by the lacuna and perceived through the complex interplay of Ilya’s talents and aspects? Or was it merely an illusion, a figment he desperately wanted to believe in? Ilya neither knows nor cares to wonder. He lunges into the fray, hurling his entire body and mass forward, his horns—grazing the low ceiling—poised like the tip of a battering ram. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Ilya intends to test the limits of his combat prowess. He means to unleash everything he has, holding nothing back in reserve, with no thought of retreat. Yet this time, he faces neither the cursed and blessed feline blood nor that damned Storyteller—but merely corpse-eaters.

Ilya slams into the enemies rushing toward him like a cannonball; in a split second, he closes the distance with a single Step and unleashes a combo—"Transformation" and "Transcendence"—that he had long since perfected but never truly put to the test. He vanishes at the moment of impact, having already skewered the first two foes with his horns—including the hairy leader who had surged ahead—only to reappear in fragments around the remaining enemies. A hand flashes into view, claws slicing open a rotting throat, tearing through the spine and ripping out the lower jaw, before vanishing once more. A hornless head appears, jaws snapping shut to tear away a face and half a skull, filling the mouth with the taste of putrid blood—a flavor vile even to a Wendigo. Legs spring out beneath the back of a hairy creature running along the ceiling, gutting it like a fish and tearing out several vertebrae.

The strain on the body and aura was extreme—on the mind, it was utterly beyond limits—yet, at the same time, it was negligible. In the narrow tunnels and cramped confines, where they could not simply swarm the Wendigo en masse, the corpse-eaters suddenly found themselves wholly unprepared to face an enemy capable—albeit at great cost and only for fleeting moments—of becoming virtually omnipresent. He was elusive as the freezing blizzard beyond the lacuna’s edge, ineradicable as the very concept of mortal hunger, and as indestructible as the primal essence of Evil itself. True, this was all within the bounds of a First-Step entity’s capabilities, but against a foe that was numerous and vicious—yet devoid of potent magical attacks—it proved terrifyingly effective.

The group of eight held out for a mere three heartbeats—like a flock of birds sucked into a space shuttle’s turbine, a turbine that didn't even falter in its rotation. Then the creatures surged forward in a relentless stream that threatened to turn into an unstoppable avalanche, burying Ilya beneath them and leaving no room to maneuver using partial Transformation. He moves by Steps at every instant—scarcely using ordinary steps—and fights with the jerky, puppet-like motion born of combat mastery; he never fully inhabits his physical form, instead constantly partially Transforming to strike from angles that would otherwise be physically impossible.

The Wendigo’s Hungry Eyes are operating at full capacity. They scan, assess, and provide warnings, allowing it to sidestep potential traps. They ensure that the most powerful or unusual creatures cannot unleash their deadliest tricks. An invisible corpse-eater—crawling across the ceiling and seemingly born from the body of a nine-year-old child still clad in the remnants of a temple acolyte’s robes—was simply smeared into oblivion. A ghoul that attempted to spew a stream of acidic rot into the Wendigo’s face caught a precise, concentrated "Ice Breath" right in its gaping maw; the charge, already on the verge of release, instantly froze, lodged in the creature's throat, and began to corrode the very wretch who had tried to spew it.

The Corpse-Eaters fully exploited their trump card: the ability to unleash completely unexpected attacks derived from the very things they had devoured. Yet here and now, the "Hungry Eye" was operating at three hundred percent efficiency; brief, surging pulses of power directed through the gaze pierced the essence of the Corpse-Eaters, singling out the most troublesome among them. There were lightning strikes, attempts to collapse stone tunnels, and attacks from below—bursting through the thin ceiling of a lower passage—followed by a lunge with a rusted, lethally poisonous blade. The weapon crumbled after a single thrust, but not before Ilya—who had Transformed everything but his arm and maw—bit off a rotting arm above the elbow and jammed it, dagger and all, into the gaping mouth of a massive specimen: a creature not much smaller than the Wendigo itself, and certainly heavier.

One of the attackers crumbled into rust within seconds, yet fought to the very end as if he hadn't felt—or even noticed—the wound. Ilya wouldn't have noticed it either, for an opponent armed with that dagger inflicted invisible wounds and remained unseen himself until the strike was spent. Alas, the effect was mental in nature; consequently, that monstrosity—resembling a dwarf with the arms of a hulking brute—seemed to blaze before Ilya’s eyes across every spectrum at once.

His reserves are draining, yet Hungor is filling his "Veins." His cursed flesh drinks in the power, absorbing and accumulating it to accelerate his recovery. His maw fills with putrid blood, which he must constantly spit out along with clots of Ice Breath. And so the Diver stands—alone against the many—refusing to retreat, pressing only the attack, denying the enemy any chance to flee or flank him in search of easier prey. Every tunnel and passageway seems to breathe—heavily and with growing intensity—while the oppressive aura thickens, placing an ever-greater strain on Torya and her cleansing cascades.

He doesn't even try to count the corpse-eaters he’s taken down; the priority is simply reacting, striking, retreating, and constantly maintaining a position that puts the enemy at the greatest possible disadvantage. He manages this well—right up until a section of the wall and floor collapses, revealing a five-meter-wide pit from which truly massive adversaries surge forth. They had tried to conceal themselves, but their rotting hearts hadn't been fully masked—only slightly blurred—giving Ilya just enough time to step back. He immediately unleashed a full-force Ice Breath, burning through half his remaining reserves to blanket a large portion of the tunnel-hall in the first second and the rest in the next.

Two incredibly swift shadows slipped through a cloud of falling, putrid blood droplets, as if casting off a shawl draped over their bodies. They were positioned slightly lower than Ilya but were far broader, possessing equally long, clawed arms and moving with the same jagged, erratic motions; their massive maws were filled with three or four rows of razor-sharp teeth. These were no run-of-the-mill corpse-eaters, but seasoned Nachzehrers—monstrously gorged specimens nearing the peak of the first step, armed with a host of nasty innate abilities and others stolen from their prey. They also reeked of Divine Grace. One didn't need to be a sensor to realize that these two had been nurtured by an Axial Creature—if not from the very beginning, then certainly with meticulous care.

Both ignored the cold cloud. Through the surrounding chill, they could easily make out the figure of Ilya—who looked a bit worn out—even as snowflakes began to gather in the air, which had long since lost its warmth. Alas, while the Nachzehrers themselves remained largely unscathed, a genuine plague had broken out among the lesser creatures. These were no ordinary corpse-eaters, but a specific variety—omnivores bearing the traits of dead rats, complete with tails, despite having originated as humans. Or rather, *these* particular ones had come from small humans—from children. Likely, they were the ones sacrificed to the Guide of the Lost so that the rest of the community might remain healthy, free from sickness until old age, and never lose their way in the forests and hills, always knowing the path back to their birthplace.

A great many of these corpses had piled up in the temple, which had become a charnel house and a breeding ground for monstrosities—creatures born of hunger and resentment, unmourned and thus reduced to the status of a rat: a creature no one pitied, no one remembered, and no one ever welcomed to the warmth of the hearth. That is how spontaneous, ravenous horrors are born, and here, their emergence had clearly been aided by outside forces. A swarm of a hundred to a hundred and fifty such creatures—frail yet agile, and carrying a highly toxic, virulent contagion—would have posed a problem for anyone other than Ilya, Kruchik, Chizhik, and perhaps Nochik; yet only the Earthman could expect to plug such a breach single-handedly, and with near-certain success.

The Cald descended like a funeral shroud upon the creatures—scrambling forward and squealing something suspiciously like a choral "eat-eat-eat"—instantly transforming them into corpses fit for burial. It was a supreme transmutation of the undead into the truly dead, even though Ilya was no alchemist. He paid little heed to the small fry, however, focusing instead on the larger adversaries: the Nachzehrers. He unleashed a stream of cold at one of them—thin and razor-sharp, like a cross between a hose and a blade—and channeled the full force of his horns into the attack, striking the creature dead center and slicing diagonally across its chest. A burst of Grace flared up, simultaneously consuming the wound and regenerating the portion it could not simply erase.

But the monstrosity itself staggered. It failed to dodge, as if an unnatural drowsiness had washed over it for a moment, seeking to drag it back into stasis. It didn't succeed—nor could it; Sleepy had a hell of a lot of work to do right now. She simply couldn't afford to focus on helping Ilya, especially here, sharing a lacuna with a hollowed-out corpse pit that was still slumbering. Yet her intervention proved remarkably timely—as if the diver’s FaFo had summoned her—instantly turning what promised to be a nasty fight into something far simpler.

The second Nachzehrer and the Earthling hurtled toward each other like two trains on the same magnetic track, but at the last moment, they ended up playing chicken. There is a pastime among—well, let's call them "dim-witted hotheads," young and old alike—where they speed up two sports cars on a stretch of highway (deserted or otherwise) and drive straight at each other head-on. Whoever swerves first is the "chicken"—a coward, a wimp, a guy who lost his nerve and failed to prove he’s a true alpha. Whoever doesn't swerve is the winner, the master, the real stud. It often happens that there are no cowards among the participants, but there is never a shortage of dim-witted hotheads. And so, emergency crews are left to scrape a mangled corpse out of the wreckage of each driver's car.

In this situation, both adversaries became chicken. Both the Earthman and the creature simultaneously employed mobility-type magic; however, while the Nachzehrer simply shifted position with a soft pop—like a distant balloon bursting—Ilya Stepped and Transformed at the same time, leaving behind a discarded Hide. Alas, this foe proved far more dangerous than the primitive brute he had just slain. He calmly leaped a second time, leaving his shed Hide to land on a couple of the wounded corpse-eaters lurking beneath. They were still there, and new ones were clearly rushing to the feast, stirred up by the scent of carnage and the commotion, driven by the will of the central creature.

Ilya took a third step. A Nachzehrer made a third lunge. This time the creature got lucky; it found itself positioned directly in front of Ilya as he emerged from his Transformation, instantly attempting to crush him under its massive bulk. Yet the Earthman once again employed partial intangibility, slipping out from beneath the creature while feeling his strength rapidly draining away. He felt it, all right. But he still had enough left for this monstrosity: a single arm—extending to the elbow and ending in a broad, clawed hand—materialized right in front of the Nachzehrer’s face, gripping its snout; then the rest of his body fully materialized, using leverage to shove the beast forward and down, just like in some shitty, scripted wrestling match.

The creature tried to use a version of the priestly "Graceful Shimmer" again but failed—not with Ilya clinging to its body, bearing down on reality with his entire aura to keep his prey from escaping. Have you ever tried to tear prey from a Wendigo’s jaws? Neither had this monstrosity; a moment later, the back of its head slammed into the stone floor. The floor suffered far more damage, yet the creature was still stunned and momentarily robbed of coordination—an opening Ilya fully exploited. He mounted the beast, shoved its arms aside, and ignored the claws flashing with spatial-tear energy—taking the hits on the second of the "Hungry Hide’s" three charges—before driving his thumbs into the creature’s eye sockets at the exact moment he activated that very Hide.

The maws on his fingertips sucked up the Nachzehrer’s rotting brains and energy—much like thick, premium food paste squeezed from a tube. Then, instantly dispersing and re-forming in a different stance, he took three steps sideways, widening the gap between himself and the second creature—which had recovered just a moment too late to finish off Ilya while his attention had been momentarily diverted. The Earthling hesitated for a fraction of a second before reverting to human form; his reserves were critically low, and he needed to let his "Veins" replenish their energy and ease the immense strain on his energy body.

His eyes ache and water; he has seen far too much today, and an unpleasant tremor runs through his limbs. He stands naked, unarmed, and exhausted, facing the second—and final—truly dangerous creature. The other corpse-eaters have stopped surging into the hall; they can sense the mounting power of the Cald—unleashed by the Wendigo’s Ice Breath—that now saturates the chamber and the surrounding tunnels. Ordinary corpse-eaters would perish quickly here, and he has already slaughtered the tougher ones, yet the Nachzehrer remains completely unfazed. He cannot hope to repeat the feat he pulled off against Pure One asshole at the Tournament; that bastard would tear Ilya apart long before then. The creature realizes this too and lunges at Ilya, who begins to retreat on unsteady legs, baring his teeth and growling—a low, barely audible growl that nonetheless chills one to the marrow, as if it somehow embodies a faint echo of the "Hungry Howl."

The Earthling lunged forward at the exact moment the creature made its dash. He shifted into his Wendigo form, seemingly intent on forcing a desperate grapple to crush his opponent's "Grace" armor. Yet, just as the charge culminated—with the creature’s maw inches from clamping onto his shoulder he shapeshifted to human size: he shoved his palm against the Nachzehrer’s cheek, forcing the head aside and narrowly avoiding the loss of a limb, before exhaling the last of his reserves straight into the creature’s gaping, unclosed jaws. After all, the Nachzehrer is a Hungor entity too, though it harbors the far more volatile and shifting "Rot"—or sometimes necromantic magic—rather than the "Cald." This meant that, unlike the Wendigo, it possessed no internal "Grace" protection within its maw—nor could it—for any such defense would have been instantly swept away by the surge of internal energy hungrily devouring that free influx of power.

It even tried to devour Cald—and succeeded—but not before the second Nachzehrer had frozen solid from the inside out. Ilya, summoning his last reserves of strength to shapeshift form for just a split second, simply tore the head off the feebly twitching creature, immediately reverting to human form to avoid further straining his energy reserves. That was when the hours upon hours of virtual simulations—including combat against corpse-eaters—paid off once again. Nachzehrers are cunning beasts, certainly, but in moments of extreme agitation or triumph, they tend to abandon tactics and trickery, acting in a startlingly predictable manner. When frightened or wary, however, they are nothing like that—not at all. In those states, they are far more cautious, cunning, and utterly treacherous; that is precisely why the "wounded duck" tactic became so popular among Divers—feigning weakness, fear, or desperation to goad the creature into dropping its guard and losing its wits.

Ironically, the Nachzehrers—especially the seasoned ones—knew this tactic, yet they are also easily lured in by it. Then again, that is hardly a flaw. A truly experienced Nachzehrer, one capable of countering skilled hunting parties, excels at merely *appearing* predictable; in reality, it is often far shrewder than those who set out to hunt it. Countless mortal minds—young and old alike—have fancied themselves a "Gervant the Rat," believing right up to the bitter end that they were the hunters rather than the prey. What makes Gervant *Gervant* is his ability to weigh the risks: before charging into a dramatic confrontation, he will scrutinize every approach and escape route a hundred times over and thoroughly study his target—tactical habits and all.

The Earthling nearly staggered as weakness washed over him—the aftermath of draining his reserves beyond safe limits, bordering on the outright destructive—followed immediately by an incredibly intense vision of the Mechanism. Yet, in that moment, he had not merely earned the droplets; he had earned them fully in the image and nature of his Lot. He had earned them just as a mad Wendigo ought to earn its essence in the eyes of the Mechanism. The heavens above the frozen lake burst open in crimson and gold, pouring drop by drop into a vessel that was not entirely empty to begin with, the liquid trickling down to the bottom over bleached white bones. Somehow, it seemed as though the bleached, toothy skull was either weeping crimson-gold tears... or laughing—laughing at the observer who stared into its hollow eye sockets.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

And after several eternities, contained in a brief fraction of a moment, the Mechanism slightly supplemented what it had originally given.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Over thirty spare drops—more than half of what he needed for a simultaneous upgrade of his shapeshift bundle. Or, he could focus on other talents, rethink his build, and put the planned upgrades on hold. After all, having acquired two highly unusual six-step talents at the very first step, he now had to factor in a hell of a lot of variables. Some aspects defied standard calculations involving anything resembling predictable, fluctuating coefficients. It was the price to pay for the vastly higher potential of his step.

Shaking off these thoughts—as if trying to dispel a creeping stupor—Ilya lazily ambled over to the hall occupied by the anchor team. There, he found his clothes lying neatly in the exact spot where he had left them. Beside them lay—far less neatly—another *Nachzehrer*, just like the two opponents Ilya had faced in the final bout. There was also a pile of hacked-up, lesser corpse-eater remains, and a thoroughly exhausted, miserable Romchik, staring at the ceiling with swollen eyes set in a twisted, puffy face. Someone had done a real number on the poor guy’s jaw—dislocating it thoroughly, though not fatally.

The rest of the group was alive too, though none of them were in particularly good shape. There were wounds, acid burns, rot-induced lesions, and signs of magical exhaustion—Chizhik even had his guts practically puked out, yet right then he was bragging to Sleepy about how coolly he’d "fucked up that ass-sniffer"—but all in all, everyone seemed to have survived. Anzhey was alive as well, though pale as a ghost; he now regarded the Anchors—if not with reverence or acknowledgment—then at least with a completely different perspective. Torya was retching up blue foam, having clearly overdosed on her own tonics in her effort to maintain the "Chain" and suppress the breath of the Axial creature. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind than the Axis itself fully awakened, and the air moving through the tunnels shifted from a mere draft into something resembling a warm, foul-smelling breath.

No, by now it was practically a hurricane. The whistling of the air currents drowned out even Ilya’s hoarse congratulations on the fact that they hadn’t, after all, dropped dead and disgraced his name for ages to come. Their shouted replies were barely audible, too; drawing on the last of her reserves, Torya had unleashed an exceptionally powerful ++"Nature Shift"—not in a chain, but affecting the hall only. She had bought everyone time to make a calm exit. Ruyek Sturgeon stepped into the center of the hall, gazing at them all with majestic disapproval—like an ancient deity, or a herald of one, descended from the cracked and crumbling stucco.

"It’s appalling—simply shameful. I felt like gouging out my own eye—I don’t even know which one—just to avoid seeing, hearing, or knowing what incompetent, naive, bungling, and reckless fools you are." He’s mounted his favorite hobbyhorse again; the other Anchors are barely suppressing smiles, knowing full well that when the old man is truly disappointed or angry, he is far less long-winded—whereas Anzhey looks like he’s about to faint from sheer terror. "Shame is devouring me, consuming my liver and heart just as greedily as those wretched creatures would have torn them apart. My shame is indescribable and boundless, for it was I who deemed you ready, deemed you worthy—and now I am reaping the fruits of my own naive convictions! So many wounds! So many mistakes! So much stupidity! Lishka, why on earth did you shove that horn... but never mind, we’ll talk about it outside. Clench your coins and move out—Iliy, right in front of me; I’ll take the rear."

The old man had perfectly timed the moment: the barrier raised by Torya was beginning to crumble, and the creature within the Axis had awakened enough to stay awake but wasn't yet enraged enough to test the strength of the lacuna’s bonds. Amidst the Anchors’ suppressed chuckles and Ilya’s weary silence, they each squeezed a black half-coin and found themselves back in the same alleyway that had served as their gateway inside. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since the active phase of the battle began, yet they had spent roughly three hours inside the lacuna.

They had already wiped out at least a quarter—closer to a third—of the creatures, stripping the Axis of its accumulated surplus of fighters. Now, the breached Lacuna would need at least a few weeks, if not months, to replenish its "meat" supply before daring to probe its boundaries and push into the town. Alas, it was indeed just "meat," for Ilya had encountered almost no truly strong or dangerous creatures—nor any Anchors. Otherwise, Sturgeon would have intervened personally. The elite—the pinnacle of the first step—were still hunkered down closer to the Pit rather than in the outer ring of tunnels. And dealing with them wouldn't be nearly as easy.

"You’ve done well, Iliy. I admit that. You managed to prepare them admirably, especially given the tight timeframe," he says, displaying a level of good will and respect that is surprising, at least from his perspective. "I didn't believe they’d pull it off until the onslaught was over. I am grateful, and I will show my appreciation very soon—but for now, we are finished."

And they left, clutching the same coins, to the whistle and cry of a draft in the tunnel, to the howl of the wind, in which one could feel the exhalation, the long and drawn-out exhalation of an awakening axial creature.

That creature, which they will soon destroy and gut, taking all its power for themselves.

* * *

In the hands of Ilya—currently in human form—the giant’s bone seemed comically large and unwieldy. It appeared truly indestructible. Indeed, it would make a far better club than a spear—and a simpler one to craft, too. That is a task for the future; applying his Carver talents to the bone right now would be more than just wasting a resource—it would be the mark of a clumsy, incompetent noob, an act of deliberate sabotage. He would likely strain himself to the breaking point before he could unlock the potential of a weapon sized even for his combat form. So, for the moment, Ilya—wearing a smile of anticipation that surely looked sinister to any observer—is not carving, but sketching and adding color.

On the table sat a set of artist’s supplies—paints, brushes, rags, and all the other tools of someone who aspired to fine art rather than mere house painting. Ankandr himself had presented the set, evidently without much regard for the opinion of his eldest daughter, to whom it actually belonged. However, he visibly relaxed upon learning that the paints were needed only temporarily by this strange, gifted individual—a person his son had previously kept entirely secret, yet now spoke of in hushed tones, revealing details that fell outside the bounds of his oaths.

He didn't want to upset his little daughter.

Anzhey, however, is now nervous. He barely realizes the scale of the situation in which he finds himself. Unlike anchors, he knows exactly how gifted people are usually upgraded, how many drops they give for what. And having compared his knowledge with the result of the raid into the lacuna, the poor guy was so crazy that he still couldn’t get over it. And the raid itself was clearly not in the style in which the novice Gladiator preferred to hunt for the sake of development. And that mode of massacre, which for the guys of Ruyek became just another dangerous battle, almost made Anzhey stutter.

Ilya, deep in thought about the Kraive family, sketches the carving plan directly onto the bone; he positions stencils for symbols of pure rituals and various liturgies, along with primitive drawings and lines, taking care to ensure the images do not overlap—and do not turn a potentially magnificent weapon into a pumpkin, or, as they say in Broken, into meat pies. He began his work in total solitude, making it unmistakably clear to Ankandr and the others that he wanted no company. It seems no one was particularly eager for his company either—with one single exception.

"You know, I’ve heard that every creature—and a giant, it turns out, too—has this sort of bone... a special one, sort of, strictly a guy’s bone, not a girl’s." Lishka, who had come looking to pester someone, was practically asking for either an extra physical workout or a purely theoretical lecture. "Could that be it, by any chance?"

"The bone you heard about is called the baculum, and this bone isn't one." Ilya might, purely in theory, roll an aspect with that same name in three talent, though the Earthling couldn't say right off the bat what properties it would take on once refracted through his specific Lot and build. "By the way, what did you do to anger your esteemed adoptive father again? I could hear him shouting all the way over here."

"Ilivyatik, you’d hear his scream—just like anyone else’s—from miles and miles away," Lishka remarked reasonably, setting about examining the oil painting without touching the bone itself, yet contorting her own body at angles impossible for a creature with a normal spine just to view it from every side. "The old man didn't like that I fed Toothy again. Well, 'fed'—I fed him, sure. He’s a cool one. Toothy, I mean—not the old man."

The Earthman merely snorted, showing he’d got the joke. The little creature—which had latched onto Lishka while she was out for a stroll in the city and was, by her account, "such a funny little toothy critter"—would occasionally visit their underground hideout, squeezing in through a ventilation shaft. Specifically, the one where the protective barrier had failed, and the amulet meant for incinerating small debris (and, incidentally, capable of frying a saboteur-chimera) had burned out. Ilya, of course, pointed out to the flighty girl that the Ridge was teeming with all sorts of cute, fluffy things capable of devouring her while she slept, poisoning her with toxic fur—which was actually akin to spider bristles—cursing her, bewitching her, eating her brains, planting a larva inside her body, and doing a host of other "delightful" things.

Lishka reasonably pointed out that she had shown the little creature to Ruyek first, and he hadn't found anything suspicious about it—aside from its ability to single-handedly devour half a plate of sausages (prepared in small batches by Mute, who was just relearning to speak) without bursting. The trouble was, the girl would often skip her reading practice—specifically, reading the commentary of the esteemed Ozrvey the Tedious—to slip out into the city streets and feed her fluffy little friend. Ilya sometimes even wanted to go see this marvel for himself, but his packed schedule left no time. Besides, the creature shied away from everyone but Lishka. If old Sturgeon hadn't found anything dangerous about it, Ilya certainly wouldn't either.

He won't even look. He's too busy. They're all busy.

The old fart was currently spending most of his time either with Ankandr or in the sanctuary’s ritual hall, evidently preparing either to seize control of the city or to recruit its governor. A Second-Step gifted—and not a particularly powerful one at that, having long since abandoned any dreams of further advancement—he stood out for the simple reason that he was almost certainly not in league with the rebels and was definitely no supporter of the monarchy. In fact, the sheer intensity with which the blizzard was battering Upperstone and the surrounding areas made it clear that the rebels held no love for the old fellow.

Just now, however, a break appeared in the storm. The ritual to temporarily reinforce the town’s weather shields—a process that had taken ages to set in motion—was finally activated. The storm itself also seemed to have shifted slightly, leaving Upperstone not quite in the eye of the tempest, but on its fringe. Taking advantage of this brief respite from their bleak, freezing, tomb-like existence, the townspeople were celebrating wildly—or mourning, as they dug friends and loved ones out of snowdrifts or hauled them from their frozen homes.

Tables and casks of wine and beer were hauled out into the streets; street-food vendors received funds from the city treasury to distribute their wares—not for free, but cheap. Animal carcasses—mostly frozen livestock—were roasted on massive spits, and toasts to the health of the Burgomaster and the city council were raised every few minutes. People, unsure whether they would survive the month, let loose as if it were their last day on earth. The guards were run off their feet—as were the "Good Ones"—often working side by side to keep spontaneous riots from crossing the line into catastrophe, delivering fuel and supplies to warming centers, hunting down wild beasts or creatures that had slipped into the town; even the Gifted were working.

And so they talked and joked. Ilya told a couple of stories. Lishka turned those tales into a laughingstock with just a few phrases and feignedly innocent questions, though mostly they were just passing the time in conversation. Ilya had finished painting the bone; he leaned back in his chair, simply savoring the remaining hours of downtime. Two days had passed since the raid into the Lacuna, and only a couple of hours remained in the Cycle. He was spending those hours—as was customary for many Divers—avoiding, as best he could, any excessive strain or getting dragged into yet another mess.

Lying on the table next to the bone was a stack of sheets—memorized by heart and covered in flawless handwriting—detailing questions that would be worth checking via the Forum during the interval between cycles. Ryueik hadn’t actually written them out, though; he had simply commanded the ink to take the necessary shapes, much like a human printer from a recent Marvel superhero movie. To the old bastard’s credit, he hadn’t pried into any secrets other than those concerning their survival or the schemes he planned to execute in the near future—schemes for which he would likely enlist Ilya’s help to some degree.

"To be honest, I was scared—really, *really* scared, Uncle Ilivyatik," Lishka confessed, involuntarily shuddering and pulling her knees up to her face as she sat in the armchair like a ruffled owl. Ilya was practically certain at that moment that this was the very part of the conversation she had come for—which was actually a bit flattering, since she’d come to him. "When Chizhik’s gut was nearly ripped open, when that piece-of-shit animal belched that filth right at me, when Romchik nearly slit his own throat because of that godawful whispering... I suddenly realized I wasn't strong—not even a damn bit."

Ideally, you’d want someone with top-tier credentials and a specialty in psychological support for the gifted—specifically the rare subtype that focuses on indigenous populations rather than Earthlings. But even the London AU didn't really churn those out; it wasn't their area of ​​expertise, and the field of application was just too narrow. You’d have to turn to the folks in Thessaloniki for that; the Greeks are absolute masters of the game when it comes to psy-ops and exoto-psychology. Still, Ilya might have something to contribute himself—he’s not exactly a heartless block of wood.

"Congratulations on your first 'avalanche crisis'—that’s what we call it." Ilya is careful not to show sympathy or pity. He has already learned her temperament and knows that Lishka can’t stand being pitied; she considers such pity vile. "A great many outsiders like me have to overcome that mindset at some point. At first, we feel all-powerful—right after we’ve gained the grace of the Mechanism and the Lot it bestowed upon us. Then we accept our imperfections, grow, get stronger, and... and then we run into something like this. A swarm of beasts. A natural disaster. A migration of wild packs. An overwhelmingly powerful monster. Anything that shows just how little our skills and abilities actually matter."

The smart girl understands everything he is saying between the lines. She understands, and—not exactly calmed, but thoughtful—she falls silent for a few minutes; Ilya even thinks she is about to slip into a new cycle without waiting for the conversation to conclude. But then she looks up at him with a gaze that is very serious and entirely unchildlike. It is not the look of a juvenile killer, like Wolfie’s, but simply an adult gaze—perhaps even too adult.

"You know, Uncle Ilivyatik, you actually made more sense when you were pretending to be a simple redneck." She forced a smile at her own joke, but immediately showed that she had understood perfectly what was said. "And did you yourself—well, survive that, what-d’you-call-it, crisis crunch?"

"Less so than usual—after all, I’d prepared for a long time and had a rough idea of ​​what to expect—but yes, I did go through it," he admitted with complete honesty and openness; then, without waiting for the obvious question, he answered just as candidly: "The moment I met your adoptive grandfather."

She falls silent for a moment, then blinks those huge eyes of hers as it sinks in, then giggles like a fool. Then again. And again. Soon they are both laughing—though Ilya’s laughter is more out of politeness, it remains genuine rather than forced or put-on. Ilya is already planning to wrap up the conversation and send Lishka off to pester someone else when, suddenly, he is struck on the head by a weightless hammer that somehow carries the mass of a hundred tons. At least, that is how it feels at first, as a surge of panic washes away his "Lurking Evil" disguise and nearly forces him to shift into his combat form.

It was like a wave. Like an avalanche arriving as the faintest echo from somewhere far, very far away. Yet the Earthling—gifted, possessing well-developed attributes and keen sensory perception—could pinpoint with absolute, perfect clarity the direction of the place where the world and reality, where all of existence itself, seemed to have burst into sobs. Panic was only just setting in as he reflexively prepared to shield Lishka; her eyes were bulging wildly, and though she had sensed less, she too had been overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the experience. Even the ungifted had felt a touch of it—though for them, it might have amounted to nothing more than a shiver—whereas those already marked by the Dead Gods perceived far more.

He had just enough time to start panicking before he was seized by sheer terror. An inkblot—misshapen and obscenely bloated—instantly formed right on the wall, and out of it sprang Ruyek Sturgeon; he stared back in astonishment with an incredibly lifelike eye, having burst forth as if a thousand demons were erupting from an electronic cigar case. Judging by his appearance, he had leaped straight from the bathtub without even rinsing off the lather—a sight that made Lishka blush slightly, given that the man hadn't even grabbed any clothes. The old man—though at that moment he seemed even less like an old man than he had right after shedding his "Candy Ryuk" guise—surveyed them as if confirming they were still alive, and then vanished.

But Ilya, with his Eyes activated, saw that the man—making no attempt to conceal his actions—was rapidly checking on the other Anchors. He had even managed to stealthily drag Chizhik and Romchik back to the hideout—after they had slipped off to town under a plausible pretext for some hot mulled wine—literally snatching them away just as a massive brawl was about to break out between the workers of the two different workshops.

"That’s Crown City." The Diver didn’t immediately grasp that Ruyek—who had returned to the room he’d claimed, having donned a robe but leaving the soapy lather on his head, face, and body—was speaking about the kingdom’s capital. "Looks like they’ll be rebuilding it for the eighth time. Such an echo... no, something truly massive struck there—something unlike anything I can recall. Though... well, no..."

Sturgeon’s face underwent a drastic transformation; the scale tattoos on his face had been kicked into overdrive. Without the slightest hesitation in front of the two of them, he slashed the veins of his left hand, splattering the nearest wall liberally with blood. And again. Stroke after stroke, he inflicted a cut while simultaneously healing the previous one, yet a faint scar remained—a mark that refused to vanish completely, even from a body so heavily augmented in steps. Out of sheer curiosity, Ilya managed to identify the specific nature of the ritual—one that had been radically simplified through a massive expenditure of energy. Then, on legs that were unsteady—though certainly not from blood loss or exhaustion—Ryuk approached an empty armchair and practically collapsed into it. He fixed a look of shock and utter bewilderment upon Ilya—a gaze that unnerved him more than anything ever had before.

"The Suzerain’s Ribbon... it is silent—and though I never formally cast off my oaths, the ribbon itself is dead, withered, and crumbling to dust." Ilya understood the message well enough, even if the phrasing was somewhat confusing—the terminology was different. "The Crowned One is dead. It could be a scheme of his, but I do not believe it. That blow... I do not know if anything remains of the Crow City, but I would stake my very eye that the palace is either gone or holds no living soul. And the man to whom I was once the most loyal of vassals—the one who shoved me in the back and destroyed my loyalty once and for all—he will not rise again. Never."

Ilya's head was empty of thoughts, only a lonely and extremely quiet squeak from that part of him that understood the scale of what had happened and the scale of the inevitable consequences, quiet as a field mouse, and for human hearing, not the Wendigo's senses:

FUCKING FAFOOOOOOOO!!!

With this mental squeal, turning into a hysterical scream, the world pauses again, ceases movement, and existence freezes as soon as those who, by the grace of the Ancients, have become part of the Broken World are torn from it. A split second, and he once again hangs like a weightless feather in that very familiar void.

The Cycle in the Broken World is complete, and the Diver is returned to the embrace of his home world!

Deserved drops of Essence: 115

Essence drops brought: 115

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

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

An additional reward has been received: two significant one-time Gifts of the Great Mechanism

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

Awaken, Diver, for you are home again!

Yet another record-breaking, and at the same time, completely outrageous, number of drops earned somehow leaves him cold, just like the rewards promised for the start of the next Cycle. Ilya, with some underlying feeling, the down-to-earth intuition of a man who'd dedicated most of his adult life to the Broken, knew that something in Sturgeon's and Ilya's plans, to put it mildly, would go awry. What, in this context, are the drops earned? He already knew that once he'd overcome the plateau and gained the opportunity to actively train under the cover of a temporarily reliable native third step, he'd practically be swimming in those drops.

Ilya is a very calm man, reserved and phlegmatic, but his indifference often conceals a storm of passion, and today, in the grip of his self-control, it couldn't be fully contained. The earthling's lips parted, and, slamming his fist against the touchpad, he silenced the annoying alarm clock and spoke in a voice filled with unbearable despondency and all-consuming melancholy:

"Fuck..."

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88055/599175

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP