Готовый перевод В хронике моей... / In the Chronicle of Mine: 1.

1.

* * *

There was no light at the end of the tunnel, only a flash as bright as a spotlight in his eyes, followed by a flood of sensations—none of them pleasant. His body, unaccustomed to sensory input, felt the cold and dampness of the air, the touch of the wind on his bare skin, some kind of dirt under his hands and feet, as well as nausea, dizziness, a migraine, and the urge to stand up and gouge out the eyes of that bastard who was screaming so loudly almost right in his ear. With a tremendous internal effort, he held back the contents of his stomach, which, if the body had been created from scratch, should still be completely empty. Then he tried to focus his watery eyes on his surroundings, seeing a very clear but incomprehensible image. Incomprehensible, yet somehow very unpleasant.

Several dozen naked people—young and in excellent health, both men and women—were desperately screaming, shouting, moaning, vomiting, crying, trying to crawl, or even praying and prostrating themselves. The clamour of voices merged into a sort of continuous cacophony, yet he managed to pick out individual words that were perfectly clear to him, despite the unfamiliar language he had never heard before. The words were mostly profanities. The ones swearing the loudest weren’t the naked ones, but rather the sullen figures fully clad in some sort of leather armor or even chainmail, armed with broadswords, axes, or simply long knives—who, without drawing their weapons, were keeping order in the crowd. An individual who passed by him—bearded, not smelling too pleasant, and with a scarred face—casually assessed his condition and his attentive gaze, grunted something, also a swear word but an approving one, and then tossed him a wad of fabric, which turned out to be a simple and clearly well-worn cloak.

He didn’t seem to treat him specially, since he went through the exact same routine with a couple more naked guys who, like Leonid, were behaving. Quickly wrapping himself in a rag, Leonid changed his mind about getting to his feet and starting a conversation after watching the most unruly ones being brought to their senses with blows, and the one who lunged at the armed man with a stone was struck with such force that he collapsed in a heap of rags, his neck twisted strangely, and he made no further attempts to stand. The chaotic disorder of the first few minutes of the transformation gradually became less disorderly and chaotic. The loudest ones were silenced with blows; the calmest ones, like him, were dressed and gestured to move to a separate corner. There, he was not the first, but the fifth, meeting looks that were sometimes frightened, sometimes curious, but no one was in a hurry to exchange words, preferring silence. In that same silence, they watched as several more corpses joined the dead man—those who had either been the first to rush forward or the first to insult their overseers, or perhaps their jailers.

“I’m dead,” said the young man unexpectedly. A man who, given the rejuvenating effect, could well have been older than Leonid himself. “It was a cavalry charge; the third bugle call sounded, but we were met by mountain infantry, and I didn’t have time to dodge their pikes. I’m dead. But this isn’t what I expected from the afterlife.”

"Me too. I mean, I died too, just not in battle. A beam fell on me; I was a construction worker." That’s the second one of the five of them—short and stocky, dark-skinned and hooked-nosed, a true native of the Caucasus. "And then that emptiness, and those symbols in my head. And here I am. Fuck."

Those words broke the ice, and their group—which had grown to a dozen people—began eagerly sharing how they’d ended up there, making it clear to Leonid that they weren’t his fellow survivors of the planetary cataclysm. Not only because Earth hadn’t seen cavalry charges against spear-formation mercenary infantry in centuries, but also because one of those present had witnessed his planet literally devoured by a horror from the depths of space. Some had died and witnessed their own deaths; some had been ill for a long time and passed away in their sleep; some, like Leonid himself, hadn’t understood a thing—but they had all come from different worlds and countries, empires and families, and did not recognize one another. The man who spoke first, who turned out to be quite the aristocrat and gentleman, was very upset to learn that he was speaking not with noble gentlemen but with commoners, but his thirst for conversation and his unwillingness to remain alone clearly overcame his haughty pride.

One of the speakers turned out to be a native of a high-tech society who had died in an anti-gravity shuttle race, so he looked upon the classic medieval or Victorian savages with even greater contempt than Balar Zin Enral, who was a knight and a gentleman. Leonid even considered talking to this person, since he was curious about the spaceships, but it just didn’t work out. It wasn’t even because a fight had nearly broken out among the newborns, who’d managed to quarrel several times already; no, it was simply that some unknown figures, armed and clad in armor, had successfully sorted out their disorderly ranks and decided to have a word with them. The man was only glad of this because his feet were frankly freezing from standing barefoot in the sticky, cold mud, and his cloak didn’t keep him warm at all, serving more to shield him from prying eyes than from the weather.

“Listen to me, assholes!” The shout from the tall, stocky, bearded man—with a pair of rings in his beard—rang out thunderously, literally crushing any desire to disobey, causing Leonid to nearly fall on his ass, while many others actually did. “I’ll say this once, I won’t repeat myself, and may the Names of the Great Ones, the entire Pantheon, and the All-Seeing One, forbid you from interrupting me. Every single one of you is dead. Back in your little worlds, your remains were buried long ago. But by the grace of the All-Encompassing, All-Merciful, and Omnipresent—or by her cruelty—you pieces of shit have been given a second chance. Here. On Iulatar. A little understanding of what the Ladder is, what the Steps are, and how to walk them should have been instilled in your stupid heads. But you aren’t walking yet; you haven’t even swung at the first step. And that’s why—you’re all shit! Useless, cowardly shit, but lucky shit. And now I’ll explain why."

It must be said that he spoke passionately, and one had to listen. Even Balar, who had nearly flared up with rage when they began to insult him, was forced to listen and take it all in. If Senior Grok is to be believed, they’ve actually been incredibly lucky twice in a row. First, because they had been resurrected and woven into new bodies, and second, because they had been woven together right here. Strangers are brought to the skies of Iulatar regularly, every first new moon of every year, when the boundaries between worlds weaken, and the Storm arrives, tearing apart the fabric of the world, followed by the Mist, which transforms that world.

New Rifts, Ulcers, and Labyrinths appear, which immediately brought to Leonid’s mind a strong association with all sorts of game dungeons, spewing new waves of creatures into the world; previously cleared paths become dangerous, while impassable thickets, on the contrary, can drastically reduce the danger. Or a whole new chunk of territory might appear out of nowhere right in the middle of long-explored expanses, instantly raping physics and geometry.

Basically, the world is in serious turmoil, and on top of that, there’s a horde of naked, barefoot, ragged Initiates with zero level, who feed on creatures, become possessed, turn into undead, and other such scum, and die, die, and die again. In the glorious city of Morochny, a loyal part of the county of Cheren, which is part of the Kingdom of the Swan, good people follow the laws of the Omnipresent and send expeditions to the most accessible teleportation points, calculated in advance by stargazers and soothsayers. To bring in new labor and put it to work.

If nothing is done, the deaths of hundreds upon hundreds of Initiates could end up debuffing the very best people of this glorious city. They’re all very lucky, says Grok, that they ended up at a cleared location rather than deep within the Altered Lands, where hundreds and thousands of their fellow misfortunates are currently dying, most often in very unpleasant ways. Or, even worse, they aren’t dying, but they’re longing for it, because they have to live, for example, as a slowly digested dinner inside the web-like cocoon of some insectoid creature.

Yet it is precisely in the altered (even the Altered) territories that the world’s barrier is weakest; it is here that the vast majority of isekai are reborn, whereas in more prosperous areas closer to the capitals of the states, it is rare for even one or two individuals to arrive at a given location. But in those places, there are few chances to step onto the Ladder, for the creatures brought by the Mist and the Storm are fewer, the points of Sores and Rifts have long been known and are under control, and the newly arrived are quickly brought under control and serve to level up those who need it more.

Here, in these cursed lands, it is easy to perish, but it is also easy to rise—for the air here is heavy and full of power; simply by breathing it, any beggar or peasant can reach the second level in five years. And if they work hard for those five years, they can reach the third. The System comes to everyone here at the same age, most often at exactly eighteen winters, though there are exceptions with the Young Ones, who attain it at fourteen, and the Elderly, who wait until twenty-one. There are none whom the Omnipresent has not marked and accepted; a priori, the chance for greatness is granted to everyone, from beggar to king. This is a direct quote, though the expression on Senior Grok’s face as he recited it by rote clearly betrayed an extremely deep skepticism toward his own words.

“Now listen up, you piece of shit.” He continued his speech, just as politely and eloquently as before, but without that booming, gut-wrenching voice. “All of you either have empty skill slots, or one of your slots is filled with a randomly assigned gift—it happens. Those whose first skill slot is taken should sit quietly and wait. The rest of you have the right to choose, since you’ve already been shivering in the cold for over an hour. Everyone who was offered the “Survival” skill should choose and accept it immediately. At level zero, all newcomers are granted, by the grace of the Omnipresent, as many as three free talents not tied to any skills. Just take them and invest in “Sturdy Legs,” “Iron Stomach,” and “Restorative Sleep.” If you had a gift for a random talent and it went into one of those slots when you chose your skill, then, damn it, you’re in luck and can save that extra point.

“And why exactly must we do this? Please explain.” “Balar spoke up, having regained his composure, clearly holding back strong expressions. "I didn’t understand much of what was said, but these talents are a gift from the gods, a path to power. Why should I waste them on something suitable for a vagabond, but not for a warrior and a nobleman?"

To Leonid’s surprise, there was no rebuke, nor any attempt to impose authority, for Grok merely gave a grim chuckle along with some of his previously silent subordinates, and then calmly—without a trace of aggression—stepped closer to the knight standing proudly before him, a figure from some unknown medieval world. Who was definitely not a classic medieval idiot, as they were so fond of describing them in books. Looming over the slightly shorter man, who was barely hiding his shivers from the cold, he even shook his head in a somewhat comforting way, as if speaking to an unreasonable child.

"First off, forget about being a nobleman back home, or you’ll die. You were someone back there, but here you’re nobody—just trash and rabble. In Iulatar, power rules. It’s what grants nobility, if you’ve got the strength. Any of the heirs could easily cut down you, me, and this whole crowd—their Rank is no lower than ten, closer to fifteen. You’ll deeply regret trying to claim nobility, even if only for a short while." Judging by the twitching of the nobleman’s jaw, he had a lot he wanted to say but didn’t dare; he swallowed his pride under Grok’s understanding smile.

"And the reason to do it my way is simple. We’re three days’ journey from the city, a day and a half from the first villages and hamlets—consider it almost wasteland. And those days, you arrogant asshole, are for us, not for you fresh-faced, dumb asses who don’t know shit. The whole group will be trudging through the wilderness for five and a half days. You don’t have to follow my advice—forcing someone to choose a skill is considered a total asshole move—but without what I recommend, we’ll be lucky if half of you make it, maybe even fewer. We’re helping you, not feeding you with our tits, you outsiders. So be grateful, bitch, or just fuck off on your own—I’ll even let you follow us."

“I already have the skill.” After a pause, having clearly left out any mention of the rampaging mob, Balar manages to say. “Swordmanship.”

Grok raised his eyebrows and thoughtfully scratched his beard, tugging at the ring a couple of times, as if considering whether to take out the troublemaker right then and there. He didn’t, though; in fact, he began to look at him with a certain warmth, as if he were someone who would bring in a lot of money, for the newcomer’s skill seemed to be quite good.

"Not bad, yeah, pretty decent, actually. You won’t be just another piece of meat anymore, huh. That means axes, swords, sabers, and all that other bladed crap right off the bat... yeah, that’ll do." He said it as if he were doubting himself. ‘What random skill?’ And don’t turn up your nose—yeah, it’s the kind of question that gets you punched in the face, but I’m asking as your senior; can you whisper it in my ear?”

“A Pliers Grip.” He didn’t whisper in his ear. Leonid wouldn’t have hesitated to do so, even though he wouldn’t have spoken at all in the first place.

"Uh-huh. Got it. So take "Sharpness of Blade" too, also passive, and, as a striking trick, "Slicing Swing." Judging by the confident tone, the man knew exactly what he was saying, but at the same time, he did not approve of the way the nobleman decided to either brag to the public or refuse to whisper in his ear. "Don't spend the last one for now, we'll talk later. Berrit, give this one a cleaver from the supplies, let him wear it. And some sturdier boots, so his feet don't freeze. Okay, now you, stranger… You know how to handle a sword, right? What’s your skill level? Actually, never mind—enough of that. Do you have ten?"

"No." There is much less irritation in the voice, and the nobleman is already behaving much calmer.

“Five?” Grok, looking bored, continued his questioning, and the man being questioned merely nodded in response, barely noticeably, but Leonid saw it. “That's ok. An ordinary skill, but a useful one, a worthy one—not everyone gets one. We’ll talk when we get there, if you prove yourself. You’re the senior among this rabble, so I’ll hold you accountable for everything—consider it a test. Now the rest of you, damn it. Who else has something useful to show? Raise your hands quickly, you ass-kissers and whiners!"

Leonid chose to keep quiet, wanting to see what the other lucky ones had gotten before showing off his own awesome skill. Something told him it would be better to pretend he’d taken “Survival,” risking collapse from exhaustion and being left to the beasts, than to admit he had anything even remotely unique. Otherwise, sure, they’d take him to the city in top shape, but once there... who knows, maybe they could just cut out the lucky newcomer’s skills? Or enslave and take advantage of a naive individual who knows nothing about life?

No way—as long as he had the chance, it was better to wait and keep quiet. He’d done that his whole life, and, as a rule, he was often right. In that respect, he was like a viper or a heron standing by the water: he knew how to wait patiently and persistently, only to pounce and act swiftly when the need arose. True, the conditions for this kind of behavior were extremely comfortable, and the stakes were a bonus, a chance for a promotion, or some other trifle—not life itself.

In the end, there were six lucky ones, but two of them received “Farming,” which wasn’t a particularly useful skill—ideal for peasants, but noticeably better than the more standard and run-of-the-mill “Agriculture” that another peasant isekai received. Of the remaining three, there was a snub-nosed guy and some stooped guy with shifty eyes, who had "Stealth", but preferred to discuss his talent choices in a whisper, right in my ear. He, looking satisfied and grinning with slightly crooked teeth, was also taken aside and ordered to get dressed up a bit, then placed in the swordsman’s company. Another unremarkable guy spoke into someone’s ear right from the start, receiving a thoughtful “that’ll do” from Grok, and also headed off to join the chosen ones.

The last one, a very pretty girl—though completely bald, like quite a few of the newly arrived newcomers—with piercing hazel eyes, turned out to be a mage, demonstratively hurling a fireball into the air. Grock actually smiled at her, bringing her closer to his people and then into his personal tent, where he spoke with her for at least ten minutes while the rest froze; when they emerged from the tent, standing off to the side, they both looked quite pleased, though it didn’t seem as though they’d been having any intimate interaction.

Leonid, though...

Leonid said nothing, preferring not to take any risks or rush to the front of the line, though he regretted it almost immediately. The clothes issued to go with the coat turned out to be nothing but rags—the pants, the shirt, and the tattered sheepskin vest. As for the footwear, it was nothing more than some falling-apart rags, tied together with pieces of twine just to keep the soles from falling off. In response to his half-hearted protest, he was told to go kill some creatures; maybe they’d give him a Chest from which he could retrieve the proper boots prescribed by the Chronicle, but for now, he should just take what he was given. Or maybe they would give him something—but in the teeth. To be fair, he was still a bit luckier than many others who had been gifted from the full breadth of the lord’s generosity. On the other hand, his clothes, though full of holes, were clean, didn’t stink, and kept him reasonably warm, gradually restoring the lost heat to his body. If only there were something to eat, but they’d eat later, once they’d moved away from the point of arrival, for here the boundary between worlds was thin, and something predatory and evil might well spill out in the wake of the strays.

He managed to get a glimpse of this landing site from a distance while the tents were being set up and the fires were being extinguished—fires around which Grok’s people were waiting for their arrival. The place resembled the ruins of some amphitheater combined with a Greek temple. Both the remains of columns and the stands were visible. The newcomers, meanwhile, gathered in their new bodies right on the arena, jostling side by side. Climbing the steep steps, long covered in earth and overgrown with nasty, prickly grass, came easily to him; his body, warmed up and no longer freezing, felt alive; nothing hurt anywhere, and he felt wonderful overall. Judging by all appearances, the others felt the same way; the freshness of their bodies, which had not yet experienced the hardships and burdens of their new life, was evident.

While they were being sorted, the really dimwits were being taught—with fists and finger-pointing—how to use the Chronicle. That’s what they called the System, though other names were common, like the Tablet or the Ladder, or even simply the Grace of the Omnipresent. By the time they’d handed out the clothes and nailed down yet another smartass who’d tried to snatch a spear and stab the guards with it, only to then bolt into the woods, enough time had passed for dawn to begin breaking. Heavy, dark clouds covered the leaden sky; the wind still carried dampness and cold; birds, mostly crows, cawed ominously. Leonid didn’t really believe that they were all being so watched over and protected, but he doubted he’d be able to escape, even if they let him. Or rather, he could run away, but how far could he get?

The group of newcomers, accompanied by their “saviors,” slowly and unhurriedly moved away from the point where they had arrived. There were fifty-one of them, the newcomers, not counting the bodies left in the amphitheater, which were neither buried nor given a funeral service, but simply stripped of whatever could be stripped off and had their heads cut off. In response to the strange looks from the survivors, they explained that the creeps rising from fresh corpses could be quite unpleasant. There were exactly twenty escorts, led by Grok, all dressed identically and each bearing the city’s coat of arms, for they had no right to wear the count’s or the king’s coat of arms—one of the escorts shared this information with a talkative newcomer, while Leonid listened and absorbed the knowledge.

It became clear, for example, that Grok’s speech—though crude—was full of quite complex terms, a trait typical of a commander who would clearly have a highly developed intellect, were such a characteristic part of their system. The others spoke more simply, with a noticeably greater amount of profanity, filler words, and simply clumsy pronunciation. They made good time, though Leonid had a harder time of it, whereas those who had acquired the ill-fated skill and unlocked their innate abilities clearly found the journey noticeably easier. Or perhaps they were simply accustomed to the hardships of life on the march, unlike the city slicker from planet Earth. An uncomfortable emptiness gnawed at his stomach, and they had promised food only for dinner, while the escorts themselves snacked on the go, without slowing down and in strict order, so that at least three observers watched the chewer with full attention.

The brief one-hour stop was marked by one of the local men whispering something to a slightly plump but pretty woman from the group of visitors, after which they slipped away behind a large boulder while a couple of his friends kept watch. Grok just muttered a curse under his breath but waved his hand, and the satisfied man then handed the girl—who didn’t look the least bit upset—some simple food, which she devoured quickly and without any intention of sharing it with anyone. Some looked at her with contempt, some with mockery, some with indifference—like Leonid—and some with undisguised greed and envy. Instead of envy, the newcomer decided to try once more to make sense of what the Omnipresent System had given him, namely, his pair of worthy skills. The three points he’d been given for his rebirth were practically burning in his hands; he wanted to invest them as soon as possible, especially in “Fortitude,” to make his arduous journey just a little easier.

“Meditation” itself felt like a sort of background noise in the back of his mind, because the isekai truly knew—he just knew—exactly how to attune himself to the world around him, how to become one with it, and how to begin drawing strength from his surroundings, calming both his mind and body. And this was with a zero on the skill proficiency scale, which made his stomach clench at the thought of how his consciousness would be blown away by a full thousand. Would anything human remain by that point, or would something entirely different take its place? It’s a question with no answer, and he isn’t even sure if he wants to hear that answer, look for it, or even ask the question.

There were three options to choose from among the available skills. The first was a passive ability called “Energy Recharge,” which could be leveled up to a maximum of five, but currently couldn’t go beyond level two; I needed to raise my Level and level up the skill itself. Judging by the rather sparse description, this passive skill increased the rate of stamina and mana regeneration, and the more free energy there was around, the stronger the effect—and, as the same description stated, free energy is everywhere, in everything, and everyone. Unless, of course, the flows of magical energy were blocked or cut off—though the methods for doing so varied for each of the many other types of energy. The first talent in this skill doubled the rate of replenishment, but that was hard to quantify, since there were still no exact figures. The main thing is that he’ll recover his strength faster, which is very important for the upcoming expedition.

The second skill turned out to be quite useful. It was called “Introspection,” had a maximum of three steps of development, and allowed him to accelerate and simplify his descent into meditation, opening himself up to the surrounding world and its currents. Considering his skill level was still at zero, it was a useful thing to have, even though he could manage without it. Without spending a point, he would get distracted by external stimuli, constantly lose focus, and so on. With a point spent, the same would happen, but not as regularly, not as severely.

The last skill available for selection turned out to be the “inner eye,” which also had a maximum of three points. Perhaps it’s standard practice for passive skills to have more points available for development, or perhaps there’s something else at play here. It allows one to seem to soar above the body and perceive the surroundings in this state. It wasn’t possible to leave the body through this eye—not at the current level—but one could simply contemplate the surrounding world, and not just the material one: currents of force, flows of energy. Observing these, if the description is to be believed, improves the skill itself and brings a little experience. It’s like watching a tutorial video, honestly, just now without sound, only with the image.

As for Fortitude, “Active Resonance” was available from the start at three steps, but it couldn't be raised beyond the first step, given the current zero rank and undeveloped skill bar; at least one skill needed to be improved. The skill temporarily increased resistance to all negative effects upon activation, while consuming part of the caster’s mana reserve. By the way, there were no numerical indicators for mana or health anywhere—just a visual bar showing the reserve level, and that’s it. They didn’t even show health or stamina with two other bars, apparently figuring that you’d feel it yourself if you were dying or getting tired.

The second ability was passive, with a maximum of five points, but it could not be raised above level three. It was called “Dense Aura” and increased resistance to all subtle energy effects, such as curses, suggestions, debuffs, and the like. At the second step, the effect increased by about a third, and at the third step, a qualitative leap occurred, whatever that might be. The second and final passive ability turned out to be “Tough Body,” also with five steps, only here you could level them all up at once; there were no restrictions. The first level strengthens and improves the entire body evenly; the second focuses on the bones, slightly increasing their density in the process; the third revealed some kind of improvement, though it was unclear exactly what it was.

After giving it a moment’s thought, the Earthling—who was starting to feel tired and was gradually losing ground—decided not to spend any points, saving them for later. He did it because he’d managed to gain a single point in the Fortitude during that time, moving up from zero. And it had an effect, even if he couldn’t say how much of that effect was real benefit and how much was self-delusion. Placebos hadn’t been canceled, true. But even so, it seemed to him that his feet, already rubbed raw by his lack of shoes, were hurting less, and his breathing had stopped wheezing as he walked. Without knowing what to invest in or where, he would only hurt himself, ruining his build—so was it worth the risk if he was managing just fine anyway?

Here are a few fellow sufferers who managed to unlock that very basic “Survival” skill, and one even picked up a higher-level skill. Worthy one: “Traveler.” According to a satisfied Grok, the very first skill, unless the Omnipresent has gifted a random one, is always acquired incomparably easier than all the others, literally in a day, and there’s a chance to get something above the ordinary. That’s why he’s pushing them all, though this is just Leonid’s guess, since Grok didn’t say anything directly. He’s pushing them to awaken the right skill in as many people as possible, and then to cash in on a bonus for bringing such gifted newcomers to the city.

The break was over, and Leonid stood up and joined the rambling column, having never used the three points he had been given, preferring to think things over a little longer—preferably in a normal, calm setting. Instead of pondering, he had to march forward again and constantly endure the shouts of his escorts. Those who protested could have been encouraged with a slap, but Leonid didn’t take offense, because he saw genuine apprehension in the eyes of the guards. They clearly didn’t like the stretch of open terrain between several hills, especially when they had to climb a hill, leaving themselves exposed to the whole wide world.

The next hour of the journey passed quickly, though it was quite tedious, for we had to walk uphill. The road—lousy as it was—wound and meandered through the hills, the lowest and gentlest of which the road builders had ignored and failed to bypass. Importantly, the road wasn’t dirt but paved with stones, though it was heavily overgrown, rutted, and frequently interspersed with patches of slightly waterlogged dirt. No, surely the local peasants didn’t drag those stones out to build houses, did they? There aren’t even any ruins in sight, just hills and dense forests covering those hills to the left and right of their path.

At one point, as he tried to enter a meditative trance, he almost achieved something resembling success, feeling like a fish in a river’s current. Something ephemeral, barely perceptible, yet almost tangible to his current perception, literally surrounded him. He breathed this something in, walked through it, absorbed it through his skin. And in the moment of his concentration, he even slightly accelerated this absorption, feeling a slight influx of power, relief in his aching muscles, which a moment later gave way to pain in his face. No, he hadn’t soared above himself, as promised in the skill’s description; he’d simply managed to trip and fall, unable to get his bearings and landing face-first on the ground. Fortunately, not on one of the many rocks—which wouldn’t have taken long to crack his skull—but only on the soft grass.

Not even a bruise remained! And no new ones appeared, because he got back on his feet and started walking again faster than his guards could start beating him up. Although maybe he should have stayed down, then they might have offered some help instead of all this. But he got the impression that the most Grok and company would do for him would be to strip him of his issued clothes and leave him to die. However, all that paled in comparison to the fact that his meditation skill had also moved from zero to the top of level one. Nine hundred and ninety-nine more to go, and he could consider himself an expert!

//“Hey, Ptakh, you’re a wizard now!” – This wasn’t at all how he’d imagined Hogwarts; not at all. This plot twist—with endless emptiness instead of a train and a platform with a fractional number—turned out to be total crap.

Сзади прикрикнул поводырь, ибо Леонид опять почти выпал из колонны, слишком отставая. Он вынуждено поднажал, возвращаясь на свое место в общих рядах. Секундой позже он попробовал снова войти в режим иного восприятия, благо количество попыток ничем не ограничено, хоть каждую минуту пробуй.

He tried to enter a meditative state several more times, almost slipping into a trance, but each time he managed to regain his balance. Several times he nearly stumbled again when he suddenly found himself viewing the world from a third-person perspective, soaring above himself. Little by little, the strange, hungry, sucking emptiness in his chest—as if right beneath his heart—that had haunted him since the moment of his “birth” began to fade, for he had come into the world with an empty reserve. And his stomach demanded food with less and less urgency, as if that desire had receded slightly into the background, which is why the newly arrived isekai, mighty in the future and very tired in the present moment, decided to put his experiments on hold for a while. As if waiting for his decision, not even a couple of minutes had passed when the first attack in six hours of travel occurred—and it was not gold-hungry bandits who attacked, from whom one might have to rescue a princess, unless, of course, one counts the thirst to sate oneself on human flesh as a form of robbery.

"Get down! Everyone get down, damn it!" Grok’s familiar voice shouts from behind, followed by similar shouts from other directions, while Leonid has already fallen onto—thank God—the dry, autumn-grass-covered ground of yet another hill. "It's fucking ravens, grab your spears, you fucking clay-mongers!"

Rolling onto his back, the quick-thinking earthling—whose swift reaction was largely due to the fact that he had stumbled at just the right moment—managed to take in the sight of the vicious, bloodthirsty creatures’ diving attack. They looked like birds—or, to be more precise, as if a raven had mated with a harpy, a real bird, not a fantasy version, and then the fruit of their love had endured twenty years of grueling training in Hell, under the personal supervision of the deputy minister of sports of Satan himself. In places, their black feathers were torn to shreds, revealing wings entwined with muscles, with a wingspan of about three meters, a slender and flexible torso, a relatively small head with an ugly, sharp beak covered in serrations, and the outlines of transparent blades along the edges of their outstretched wings, shimmering even to the naked eye.

The birds of prey dove as if they were falcons, showing no fear of hitting the ground. Leonid had barely had time to spot them and grasp the scale of the problem when, a moment later, his ears were filled with screams, shrieks, the sounds of tearing flesh, and someone’s curses. One of the creatures suddenly swooped in from the side, ending up almost directly above him, wrapped in its own wings, around which a cocoon of transparent protection had formed, allowing the bird to roll like an empty barrel. In an instant, the creature was already above him, and its wings shifted strangely, growing blades once more. The creature strikes precisely at his legs, somewhere around the calves, aiming to immobilize its prey, no doubt intending to let it bleed out. Despite its bulk, this creature exudes the typical bird-like lightness and fragility, an unwillingness to engage in direct, prolonged combat, and a predator’s desire to end the fight without taking a counterattack—for then it would be doomed to starve to death without catching new prey.

People often said that Leonid was a slowpoke. Behind his back, they considered him as such. But in reality, he wasn’t one—he simply didn’t like to move around for no reason, paying homage to the noble art of procrastination. And when a truly urgent need arose, he knew how to act with astonishing speed, without hesitation or wasting a single moment on anything. Just like now, not even a second had passed; his eyes had barely focused on the newly appearing blade-wings when he was already in action. In a single motion, he tucked his legs under him, pulling them up almost to his ears, genuinely delighted that his body had been rejuvenated and the flexibility of his ligaments had returned. Where his legs had been a moment ago, two smooth, thin furrows remained in the ground—not even very deep, but he had no doubt they would have severed his veins for sure.

The bird cawed viciously, leaning forward slightly as if trying to either jab its beak into the exposed gluteal muscles, or take another swing with its wings, or perhaps attempt to take flight. Leonid doesn’t elaborate; he simply releases the spring, figuratively speaking, while in practice he thrusts his legs forward with all his might, driving his full weight into the creature’s chest. His meditative perception, activated by some automatic reflex, shows how the not-yet-fully-formed currents of force on the wings disintegrate, and feathers are literally knocked out of the creature, flinging it a couple of steps backward. He understood everything correctly—the bird’s mass is, by bird standards, small, despite its size. The creature is only just beginning to awkwardly try to assume a normal position, absurdly helping itself with its wings, but Leonid is already on his feet, leaping up as swiftly as one can be in such conditions and delivering a spectacular kick to the bird as it struggles to regain its balance.

\\“Penalty!” Еhe thought flashes through his surprisingly empty mind, and the bird’s head jerks back with a faint crack of thin, hollow bones, barely audible amid the surrounding cacophony.

Enemy destroyed (beast/bird): Young Raven, second Stage.

The primal essence has been obtained.

If this were a young specimen of this species—and only at the second level, at that—then, to be honest, Leonid had a great many questions about local evolution, the laws of biology, and the common sense that governs this universe. And he had far less desire to find out what adult creatures looked like, or those at, say, the fifth level. Characteristically, he wasn’t blessed with a Levelap, nor did he receive any kind of loot. Well, but he’s alive, and that’s already an excellent reward, truly the most magnificent of all possible ones; he certainly has no complaints.

All around were corpses, blood, and utter chaos; the ones who had dove down from a bird’s-eye view had caused considerable damage and had certainly killed someone. One of the vaguely familiar fellow newcomers with Farmer skill stared up at the sky with his single surviving eye, half his skull missing; a young woman writhed in agony, her throat slit by the blade-like wing, while one of the guides poured some liquid from a clay flask onto his severed thigh. Two piles of feathers next to him clearly indicated that he hadn’t received his wound for no reason. Leonid fell to the ground as soon as he was certain his enemy was truly dead and watched the rest of the battle from a lying position, keeping an eye on the sky so as not to become a target. It was telling that the entire battle had lasted only about fifteen seconds. One dive, one attack, and a quick takeoff, leaving the men to tend to the wounded and strip the dead.

If Leonid didn’t have his Fortitude skill, and if he hadn’t warmed himself up in the heat of battle, he might have tried wrapping himself in a second cloak to keep from freezing. He would have changed his boots anyway, but the ones on the nearest corpse were even worse than his own. Grok’s thunderous curses and commands, still piercing through their eardrums straight into their brains, rapidly restored order among the ranks. Within ten minutes, everyone had calmed down again, and the six dead bodies were neatly stacked next to one another, though there was no rush to bury them or send them off to the afterlife in any other way. The senior, who looked on gloomily, scolded them with profanity and dealt a couple of sharp blows to those who should have been gazing at the heavens, then ordered them to gather and continue on their way. When one of the newcomers protested that the bodies should at least be buried—if not out of humanity, then to avoid attracting predators—the elder merely ordered him to shut up in irritation. Later, however, he did explain the party’s policy to the attentive listeners:

“They’ll dig them up, the bastards. That’s why they attacked—well, partly for the Steps, but mostly for the meat.” Spitting on the ground, he pointed upward, then traced the flight path and attack of the killer birds with his finger. “That’s just how they fucking operate. If they can’t kill us, they’ll at least wound as many as possible, then wait until the main group leaves. And if we bury them, they’ll just wait for the night jackals and other vermin to come and feast on the scraps. We need to keep moving forward. It’s the ravens flying around—that’s why we ran into them. A few hunting parties cleared out the crawling monsters here a week ago, which is why we haven’t run into a damn thing. But that’s during the day. At night, all sorts of stuff comes crawling out... And for all of us—well, for me, but especially for you, fresh shit—it’s best to spend this night within the walls, not out in the open. Leave the crow corpses behind; these are just the young ones—no one managed to take down the older ones, and there’s no point in cutting these open; their guts aren’t worth a damn. Hurry the fuck up, or you’ll find out firsthand what it means to fall behind the group in these hellish lands—we won’t wait. Break into a run and let’s go."

And they ran off, leaving the corpses behind, though Leonid suspected they hadn’t been told the whole truth—there were certainly ways to spare the birds their dinner by not burying the fallen; there simply had to be. They just chose not to use them, whether out of greed or stupidity, though the former was more likely than the latter. What’s telling is that no one said a word to him about killing one of the creatures, even though they’d managed to bring down fewer than a dozen in total—it came down to the fact that he’d fallen behind the crest of the hill and the visitor who’d flown to him died without any onlookers; simply, no one saw their battle, if you could even call it that.

Well, I guess that’s fine, even though he’d have liked to brag, just like Balar, who also chopped down a flying creature with his clever right in mid-air, nearly splitting it in two with a single blow. Until evening, Leonid conserves his strength, hesitating to reactivate and practice his meditation, afraid of missing an attack. When the massive stone cube of a noticeably dilapidated building—a combination of a roadside inn and a watchtower—appears on the horizon, he’s already collapsing from exhaustion. Several other isekais, mostly lightly wounded, had already fallen behind, and yet another had been killed by a swift blow from an axe after becoming too indignant toward the guides over the matter.

There were two more animal attacks: the first time, some dog-like creature didn’t even attack—it just tried to run away from the crowd—and the second time, a huge snake was killed by some armed men, who even took it with them. There was plenty of meat, tasty meat, and the offal was valuable too—worth loading onto one of the guides. There were no other losses, and Grok’s loud curses rang out again, demanding, pointing, and ordering those who asked questions to listen with their ears, not their asses. The first to enter the massive two-story guard post building was the combat group led by Grok, and they must have killed something in there, for they emerged satisfied, covered in dust and with a dark liquid on their weapons that was definitely not human blood.

"So, you assholess. We go in and sit by the wall—no chatting and no bugging my people; they’re tired." As gallant as ever, as refined as ever, as impeccably polite as ever—a true icon of style. "You’ll get all your answers in town; I’m not here to wipe everyone’s snot. It’s going to be a rough night; we’ve made quite a mess, and there was blood everywhere. So here’s my advice to you—I suggest you remember it. Don’t leave the building even to take a shit if you’re alone, and better yet, just shit yourself. Don’t make a sound, either—even if you pinch your own balls, cry quietly. Anything strange—voices, whispers from the walls, acquaintances from a past life calling you somewhere far away... tell everyone about it right away, even if it just seemed that way; they won’t give you shit for it. We’re in the scariest section; the night creatures are always a real nightmare—at the same level, they’re almost ten times stronger—but it should get easier further on—closer to inhabited lands, the creatures don’t attack in such hordes. That’s all; let’s pull ourselves together and head in. New guy, Blar, you’re in charge of handing out the food—pick your own crew."

The interior of the stone structure turned out to be almost entirely open; most of the space was taken up by a single enormous hall and several adjoining small rooms. A staircase led upstairs to a smaller hall, though one that was even more derelict. They weren’t able to see any more than that; they’d all been told not to wander where they weren’t invited. In the massive fireplace, complete with a chimney and a proper ventilation system, wood and coal were already burning—supplies that the same group had gathered on their way to the newcomers’ destination. Next came the ritual of cooking: one of the guides provided grains, salted meat, some vegetables resembling beets, and a few spices. After that, they had to manage on their own, and here Leonid paid tribute to the swordsman’s organizational talent, who swiftly restored order, bringing the rebellious and insolent to heel with a couple of sharp words and slaps.

The Earthling found himself assigned to peel potatoes, completely Earth-like, just like the ones back home. Or rather, he was one of the first to volunteer for the task, since he had some experience, and they handed him a small kitchen knife, which he had to return, and for which he was personally responsible. They were cooking something that was neither soup nor stew, nor porridge, nor all of these things together, but the dish made by one of the isekai smelled quite good. The bowls were right there; they were large and deep, able to hold a lot. As a participant in the cooking process, he was among the first to be served a full bowl, and there was more meat in it than in those served to those who had already been scraped from the pot.

Then again, they hadn’t taken the knife away from him yet, and he used it instead of a spoon and fork, avoiding digging into the bowl with his dirty hands. The guides were mostly feasting on the second floor; they’d taken the sorceress there as well—they’d practically adopted her as one of their own—and he hadn’t seen them ogling her right in front of him. If anything, they treated her with a certain amount of respect. The leftovers from the haute cuisine meal were scraped into the bowls of the two stragglers who had managed to catch up with the group; they were seated against the wall, and someone even handed them his own cloak to wrap themselves in, for both were shivering like aspen leaves. It was still not warm anywhere in the hall, but the cold had vanished, frightened by the hearth’s flames; yet the stragglers were still freezing as before.

"You, you, and you, and you, too." Balar’s index finger pointed at Leonid, among others. "Grab the pot and the dishes, run to the well in the courtyard, wash them, and bring them back just as you found them. You have until sunset."

"Are you out of your mind? We don't even have any weapons! I’m not going in there... ugh..." The chatterbox doubled over from a perfectly aimed punch to the solar plexus, miraculously not throwing up his portion—and the miracle was that he’d been one of the last to eat, and his portion was smaller. "Fuck."

"If I hear anything like that again, I’ll have you torn to pieces, you rabble. My orders, my will—you are to obey, not question." He was clearly restrained only by some inexplicable property that created the possibility of a curse falling upon the novice’s killer, and, judging by the rage on his face, Grok’s will was no command to him at that moment. "You grabbed him and dragged him away."

“He’s right. Without weapons and without our guides, I wouldn’t go in there either.” Leonid chimed in, realizing that no one else was in a hurry to contradict the nobleman, who already had his “support group” lined up behind him. “It’s easier to take a punch to the gut than the claws of those beasts.”

His strike was just as quick as ever. It was clear that someone had trained him to fight—and not just in hand-to-hand combat, no. It seemed as though the young man, who looked like a bastard, must have some kind of dagger in his hand. But Leonid, though he didn’t like to fight, had grown up in a middle-class neighborhood and in a house that was located in the same building as a boxing club. He detected the blow and calmly stepped back, deflecting his opponent’s limb to the side with a light block, while he himself took a step almost right up against him, only to immediately step back.

He recoiled, clutching in his hand the potato peeler he’d never managed to take away—a short, crooked blade made of shoddy iron. He could easily have tried to stab that asshole, who hadn’t managed to pull out his own cleaver, right in the liver. The other guy realized this, wincing as if all his teeth were aching, which only confirmed the opinion that he couldn’t fight with his fists, just like the peasants and serfs. And Leonid also realized that there was absolutely no way he was going to fence with this freak.

“Boor, Sarak, you two watch them. “That’s all he said to the couple of men armed with heavy clubs—the clubs were lying right there and had been handed out to the senior by Grok himself—and then, seeing their faces show not the slightest spark of enthusiasm, he added, ‘I’ll talk to Grok about getting you some backup.’”

Shrugging, Leonid silently helped the gasping young man to his feet, then picked up the pot and the bundle of rags he’d been given. He didn’t feel like arguing or trying to prove that he wasn’t a cook or a dishwasher—the risk of getting a cleaver in the gut was just too high. He did, however, make a mental note that he wouldn’t mind at all if something happened to this idiot along the way. He decided to himself that the order itself wasn’t particularly dangerous; otherwise, this guy wouldn’t have given it to him—or rather, he wouldn’t have been allowed to give it. Or, on the contrary, they might have allowed it to reduce the number of unnecessary newcomers, whom one cannot kill on one’s own. The main thing is that the well is literally twenty paces from the tavern entrance; if he doesn’t dawdle, he can make it in time, and the earthling could well have noticed the strange and hidden things thanks to his meditative trance, albeit with a bunch of caveats.

Nothing bad happened to them, except for their hands aching from the cold water they had to wash the dishes with. The water in the well was truly freezing, yes. But that’s okay; it’s easier to pump up Fortitude, even though it seemed like it was about to get up at any moment. The scariest threat, however, remained the hostile glares of the two young men with clubs, as well as the grumbling of the guy who’d been beaten for no reason—a guy who just couldn’t shut up and, it seemed, didn’t realize that his words would be relayed to the ears of the jerk by his henchmen. That’s who has it easy—they’re from medieval worlds themselves, used to obeying all sorts of nobles, immediately falling into the familiar hierarchy.

“I wasn’t born to bow down to the relics of the past, for fuck’s sake,” said this red-haired, freckled young man, who looked like a character straight out of a folk song—stocky and tall, a full head taller than Leonid. “I’ve been out in space, for fuck’s sake! I’ve seen a planet in the palm of my hand, piloted a machine weighing seventy tons of armored steel! And now some backward moron—who can’t even calculate an integral or solve the Velga-Terry equation—is making me wash dirty dishes like some robot janitor!"

“I can’t calculate it either.” Leonid agrees indifferently and wistfully, finishing up by putting the dishes straight into the pot. “I couldn’t stand math in school, and math couldn’t stand me.”

The young man, who had chuckled somewhat hollowly and was visibly nervous, looked at the Earthling with almost warmth, having found at least one representative of a developed society. Upon learning that his world had not yet undertaken regular colonization of the planetoids in the nearby solar system, but had already ventured into space, Eric beamed with delight. After all, here was a chance to demonstrate his intellectual superiority and just ramble on. Leonid was in no hurry to shut down the individual talking about the All-Planetary Alliance of Humanity, figuring it was better for him to tell something interesting than to look for trouble. And honestly, he really wanted to listen—no doubt about it, it was interesting!

In the end, one of the dishwashers—who remained anonymous, having never struck up a conversation with the Earthling—thought he saw a human figure still wandering in the distance, but the sun had almost set, and Grok’s order was clear. If anyone didn’t make it before sunset, well, they didn’t make it; let the Pantheon pray for the weak, or may the All-Seeing and All-Merciful One watch over them—but it was time for them to head inside. Well, or you could go and help the man if you thought you saw him walking there; Grok would even let anyone who wanted to go. Perhaps someone would have agreed, but then, through the nearly closed gates of the fortress-tavern, came a barely audible but quite distinct scream of terror, which cut off immediately. Only to be followed a moment later by another scream—the triumphant howl of something very evil and, it seemed, intelligent, for that triumph was all too vivid, all too real.

The senior, who had suddenly grown bored, immediately cut short his lecture, kicking his subordinates into action to lock the doors and windows and check every shutter and every back room. Judging by the pale and frightened looks on the guides’ faces, no one liked what they’d heard—not just the newcomers. According to one of the talkative guides, if a nocturnal creature is smart, it’s always dangerous, and a dumb beast wouldn’t celebrate like that.

“Don’t scatter in rooms, you morons. Everyone, stay in the common room, but keep it down.” No matter how tough the senior guy tried to act, even he was getting nervous in this situation. “You can chat with each other. I’ll let you, but keep it quiet. Don’t mess with the girls without consent. If I find out, I’ll break every bone in your body... fuck it, you guys won’t get it anyway. Luzhik, get the girls upstairs, next door to us. And don’t mess with them either—I’ll cut your pay in half, you know me. A quiet fucking night for all of us."

After uttering that last sentence, he kicked the poor, hapless isekai in the back and, barely restraining himself from taking more drastic action, he went up to the second floor and was gone. The people, meanwhile, fell to the ground wherever they were standing, using their clothes as makeshift bedding. The floor here was stone, but several guides threw down a bundle of primitive bedding from the second floor—cloth and full of holes, but relatively clean. The young nobleman in charge of distributing the benefits of civilization met the earthling’s calm and very serious gaze and, after a moment’s thought, handed him a decent “bed,” though he had clearly intended to make do with rags at first.

“Bastard, bitch, fucking relic of dark ages, arrogant prick…” Eric wasn’t in a hurry to fall asleep and was keeping everyone else awake, so several people told him to shut up, and only then did he try to get some sleep. “I’ll show him…”

The guy’s grumbling gave way to an indistinct “boo-boo-boo,” and then to quiet snoring. The silence didn’t last long because it quickly became clear that a significant portion of the isekais who had arrived in this new world, to put it mildly, snored very loudly. And another group farted just as loudly after the pork dish they’d been served. As he drifts off to sleep, the Earthling thinks to himself that if the stench gets just a little stronger, he’ll open the door to the outside, just to breathe in some fresh air. But no, he’s too lazy to get up, too eager to close his eyes as soon as possible, secretly glad that the snoring of the sleepers drowns out the howling of the wind beyond the walls.

Because that makes it easier to convince himself that it was just his imagination—that the wind wasn’t really calling his name.
* * *

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88665/596986

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP