Готовый перевод В хронике моей... / In the Chronicle of Mine: 2.

2.

He woke up in the middle of the night, unsure of what exactly had woken him up. It certainly wasn’t the loud snoring—he’d almost grown accustomed to it, and his weary mind had shut down instantly. No, there was something else that made him sit up off the floor, looking around blearily and shivering slightly from the cold. It’s hard not to freeze when sleeping on the rocks! It was almost pitch black all around, with only a small torch burning in the far corner, where Balar and his team were on duty. They had been ordered to organize that very watch. You’re responsible for the others; you get your privileges in return. So work for those privileges, and don’t slack off. This line of reasoning seemed to be a novelty to the former nobleman, but he remained silent and organized the watch rotations quite professionally.

Leonid’s eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, could make out their silhouettes and even the nobleman’s face, but it wasn’t them that alarmed him—it was something else. Almost immediately, he realized what it was—the absence of Eric nearby. He had managed to get up and go somewhere. Squinting and trying to make out his surroundings better, Leonid made out a lone figure wandering off toward the far rooms, away from the great hall. He didn’t realize what exactly had alarmed him—the strangeness of the gait, the abnormality of the situation, Grok’s words before they went to sleep? Or even those howls of the wind, in which he thought he heard words sounding on the border between reality and a dream? He had heard them as he was falling asleep, which is why he didn’t fully realize that this was completely out of the ordinary.

The Earthling didn’t understand a thing. That was true, but he sprang into action anyway. He got to his feet and, keeping quiet so as not to wake everyone around him, hurled his own boot—which he’d yanked off his foot in one swift motion—at the dazed Eric. The common hall was quite spacious, but the boot easily flew nearly ten meters, hitting the red-haired head of his fellow misfortune-stricken man right on the mark. And right then it became clear that things were starting to smell like three-month-old socks. After taking the blow, the redhead didn’t even slow down, continuing to stride forward at a leisurely pace. Toward the already ajar door leading into the depths of the fortress-tavern. While it was still daylight, the men had managed to go in and look around, but they hadn’t found anything valuable or interesting. Or had they been prevented from finding anything? And anyway, hadn’t they been locked in tight before spending the night? Why was the door even ajar?

Without a moment’s hesitation, just as he had done with the boot, Leonid takes a deep breath and shouts at the top of his lungs, sincerely hoping that, as Grok had promised, he won’t be beaten up for causing a false alarm:

“Alarm!!!” With a shout like that, you could get a job as a sergeant in the army, as his supervisor used to say, threatening yet another suspension. And so everyone woke up at once; there were shouts, screams, swearing, and even a woman’s shriek, but Eric didn’t stop, as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “Stop!!! Eh!!!”

The final interjectional syllable rings out as the two bodies collide; for the earthling, who had lunged forward, literally knocked the isekai from outer space off his feet, sending him crashing to the ground and finally eliciting that bewildered expression in the form of a curse. The torch flares up instantly, as if lit by magic, illuminating Balar and his henchmen, already armed and ready; the on-duty guides have already descended from above, one holding a torch, the second clutching some sort of glowing crystal, a third simply aims his crossbow at the ceiling, taking his time to point it at whoever he pleases.

\\“Silence, lie still, be quiet, don’t get in!” The sergeant’s special voice, forcing its way into their minds and almost compelling them to listen, instantly calmed everyone down, turning the panicked scrambling into relative order, and there he spotted a couple of figures: a bewildered Eric and Leonid, rubbing his side, barefoot on one leg. “What the hell’s happened here, you bloody idiot? Who was shouting?”

“I was shouting,” replies Leonid, picking up the discarded pair of shoes before anyone else can snatch them. “And I was shouting because something bloody strange is going on, Serg.”

“What the hell has happened?”

Leonid explained, pointing at Eric, who didn’t seem to have the faintest idea how he’d ended up there. He even added that he’d had some sort of dream, in which a woman’s voice had been calling him somewhere—it was hard to say whether it was his mum, his girlfriend, his sister, or all of them at once, flying the Alabama flag. At that moment, Grok became not just composed but deadly serious, staring at the half-open door in such a way that one immediately wanted to move as far away from it as possible.

“Where are the other two? We’re missing two. One with a nose like a snout, the other with a face like a horse.” Grok wasn’t just shooting daggers with his eyes; he’d counted every bloke in the room and immediately realised exactly who was missing. “Blar, come here. What the hell’s going on, tell me?”

The nobleman approached without delay, yet without haste; he gazed straight ahead calmly and without the slightest hint of guilt, yet with a respect that was hard to tell whether it was feigned or not. And it would have been strange indeed if he had looked upon this figure without respect; he would have been devoured alive. Grok did not give the impression of someone who would tolerate even a single unkind glance. Nobleman or not, in this world, Grok’s standing was clearly higher than that of anyone else present here. And power brings with it rights, authority, and respect, which is why Grok now had more of all of these.

“I didn’t notice; it’s my fault.” He clearly didn’t want to admit his mistake, but it would have been foolish to deny it. “I thought he was just going for a pee, and that he was the last one. I didn’t see the first two; they were sleeping by the door, and I didn’t spot them in the dark. I was watching the entrance, just as you ordered.”

In this moment, Leonid finally realised what had been troubling him; the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and the image of a brightly burning torch became clear, as did Balar’s calm and composed face in its light. The Earthling couldn’t hold back and burst out laughing loudly, even mockingly, like a beast, a coughing laugh like that of a raven suffering from bronchitis, expressing through that guffaw all his boundless scepticism. He completely ignored the young nobleman’s angry, furious glare. But he couldn’t ignore Grok, especially when the latter demanded an explanation with a single look.

“He saw everything, he just kept quiet.” Leonid’s smile was now very faint, like a thread, and completely unnatural, whilst his dark-green eyes were narrowed, like a cat’s, as they always were when he was extremely angry. “Or rather, he didn’t see those two, but he certainly noticed Eric as he walked across the hall. I saw his face at that moment, and his gaze was definitely fixed on the man walking towards him. He was simply waiting for him to disappear. They were both at loggerheads, and the redhead had deigned to speak ill of His Lordship. He should have waited, then raised the alarm, and made himself look like a hero in the process.”

Some might call it snitching and all that, but as far as Leonid was concerned, it was simply a matter of being conscientious and a categorical refusal to let the next one disappear. Balar’s expression conveyed nothing but mocking contempt, along with a fair measure of indignation, as if he’d heard some utter nonsense. The Earthling even began to doubt his own conclusion, but Grok had no such doubts; he silently turned to meet Balar’s gaze and asked just one question.

“Is he right?” The indifference and weary longing to go to bed in the senior’s words were far more frightening than the usual malice and swearing; it really got under the skin.

"The peasant lies like a ploughing animal.” The reply was instant and delivered with absolute certainty. “Or if he isn’t lying, he’s making things up, which is even worse. He’s asking for a beating, and he’ll get it for sure, so he’s desperate to slander me.”

The senior, his expression unchanged, reached into his inside pocket in a single movement and pulled out a chain with a completely black stone hanging from it, then tossed it to Balar, waiting for him to catch it. Only then did he repeat his question, in the same tone as before.

“Is he right?” At this point, an earthling well-versed in all manner of fantasy and other fan fiction would surely have grown suspicious, starting to look for euphemisms without outright lying, but a man hailing from some medieval era of Earthly fantasy had not read such things.

“I repeat, the peasant lied; I swear upon my noble honour.” Leonid thought that the fool had actually taken this pendant as some sort of reward for his service, without even realising that he ought to have been afraid, even when the black pebble had quite noticeably glinted snow-white. “Yk!”

The earthling didn’t even notice the blow; he only pieced the scene together afterwards, it had happened so quickly. In the blink of an eye, instead of a proud nobleman seething with disbelief, there lay a piece of shit on the ground, howling in pain. In Leonid’s opinion, this was a very fitting state for this person, but no one was interested in the opinions of the isekai right now. In two swift movements, Grok landed on top of the defeated upstart, knocking aside the hand of the ‘aristocrat’ who had tried to strike with his blade, and then plunging a knife into his liver, eliciting another scream of agony, which quickly subsided, especially after a couple more blows to the head. Only when he had finished, wiping the blade on the bastard’s clothes and returning the amulet to his pocket, did Grok glance at Eric, who was as pale as death and had already realised what might have become of him, as well as at Leonid, who was looking on indifferently.

“What’s your name?” Whilst they’re talking here, the guides keep coming down from upstairs, along with the girls who’d been left in a separate room.

“Leonid Ptakh.” He introduced himself by name, suspecting that it wasn’t worth lying now, just in case.

“That’s a good name, Ptakh.” The newly minted Ptakh merely chuckled to himself, for he had been given back his school nickname, which was identical to his surname. ‘That’s what I’ll call you. Will you be the leader of the other isekais?’

“No, sir.” He shakes his head, without even pausing to consider the question, and then, in a clear, measured tone, with perfect diction and a minimum of emotion, gives the reason for his refusal. “I am irresponsible, absent-minded, unreliable, and frivolous.

“Yeah, right, you faggot, I’ll believe that, I’ll believe that. But I’m not going to force you, I don’t give a shit.” That’s reassuring, unlike the next question. “You’ve got the skill now, haven’t you? What have you got?”

He wanted to keep quiet, but there was no point; the question didn’t sound like a question at all, but rather a statement, as if there were no room for doubt. Since the nobleman, who had already fallen silent, possessed a worthy skill of his own, Ptakh saw no reason to hide his own. One of his own, the most obvious and conspicuous, whilst the other might well be left unsaid.

“Fortitude. I haven’t put any points into that yet.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “I’d be grateful for any advice you might have.”

“Fortitude… Not bad, not bad. If I hadn’t drunk away my memory, I’d have put two of my starting points into ‘Sturdy Body’ and the last one into ‘Resonance’; there’s no point messing with the aura—it’s useless at the moment.” Scratching his beard and chin, the bloke just waved his hand, clearly thinking of something else, then finished his thought. “Right then, consider your shout paid for, lad. Take this little bastard’s boots and dagger and go and sit down. And we’ll go and close the fucking gap and chuck the bodies out. It’s clearly gone, since we scared it off, but I didn’t give a shit about sleeping here without checking. Shurka, Babak, follow me, for fuck’s sake!”

Leonid ignored the sound advice, preferring to hold back a little longer, particularly regarding the talent in question, which he believed would protect him from blows to the mind. The very same blows that had turned Eric, who had begun to tremble like an aspen leaf and had turned completely green even in the light of the torches, into a sleepwalker. Forcing him to walk to his own death, just like the two unfortunate souls whose bodies, dried out and stripped of eyes, entrails, and scrotums, were found beyond the outpost. On the other side of the wide-open window, the shutters of which had been removed from the inside, they had left the fortification just as quietly and silently, only to meet an extremely unpleasant death. However, according to the guides, the corpses’ faces were frozen in incredibly satisfied smiles, like a cat that had drowned in a tub of sour cream.

The nocturnal visitor herself—or rather, the Night Visitor, as they called such a creature—had indeed gone, until morning, amidst the howling wind. All that could be heard was the howling wind and nothing else. As it turned out—or rather, as the natives explained—the creature had long since taken to hunting in this region; they’d been unable to track it down for months now. A swift, dangerous, elusive and devilishly cunning beast, wielding mental magic and some other striking power, as well as invisibility and illusions, which made it difficult to catch, and escaping it is even harder. An extremely troublesome opponent for both those stronger than it and those weaker. The Earthling had thought he wouldn’t sleep a wink after hearing the news about such a neighbour, but no, he passed out instantly, having merely placed an old shoe under his head whilst a more comfortable new one settled cosily on his feet. He even clutches the dagger in its sheath close to him, as if a mother would her own child, lest those bastards steal it.

They set out in the morning while it was already light, waiting for dawn to dispel the lingering chill of the night and the night mist, which seemed to move of its own accord, gathering into tentacles and reaching out towards warm human flesh. Were these manifestations of some creature’s abilities or simply a natural phenomenon with a magical twist? The guides didn’t answer, merely brushing it off with a curse. Leonid suspected they simply didn’t know the answer, but he didn’t comment aloud – these assholes reacted very decisively to insults, or what seemed to be them.

The second day of the journey was noticeably easier, probably because my body had gotten used to the strain, though the two points in the Fortitude skill were likely providing more of a psychological boost. Or perhaps not—who knows? The lunch break was uneventful; for a snack, we were given a loaf of bread wrapped in some sort of edible leaf, hard as a rock on the outside but still soft on the inside. They washed it down with water from the nearest spring, which they first collected in our mess tins and then disinfected with some sort of powder. According to Grok, this was to prevent us from shitting their guts out, or rather, to prevent them from shitting out a xenomorph parasite, since the creatures that lay their larvae in running water were eradicated only a couple of years ago, and before that, the city was nearly swallowed up by the sea, along with the zombie apocalypse.

There were more attacks, but they were simpler and easier to weather. Two more flocks of Ravens appeared, but one was small and didn’t dare to dive-bomb such a crowd, flying off to mind its own business; the second circled around the people who’d spotted them and formed a defensive line, before flying off as well. Well, unless you count the targeted throwing of bird shit as petty revenge. Mind you, one of the isekai had a bomb like that hit him in the face, nearly burning out his eyes with toxins; Grok still had to use a bit of alchemy to wipe his face and restore his sight. Well, mostly to restore it so he could at least see where to go, and then let him find his own ways to save his increasingly failing eyesight.

It wasn’t just aerial threats that made the journey memorable – they encountered all manner of beasts too, but these were quickly killed or retreated even faster, so as not to become the group’s next meal. Two guides were badly mauled by some wolfhounds, resembling a dog trainer’s nightmare after taking hard drugs; one of the wounded even passed away, becoming the first casualty among Grok’s men. The second was laid on a stretcher, which the isekais were forced to carry, naturally. Leonid got a share of the work too; they said he was tough, so let him prove his toughness. He had to take up the burden and drag it along, mentally wishing the local fauna would end up in the Red Book, the Black Book, and all the other books at once. Perhaps even in the Book of Grievances, so it would be easier later to justify the extinction of said fauna.

The second fortress-inn they came across was even larger and looked noticeably fresher and tidier, with no signs of neglect. It even had a garrison of a dozen workers and five guards, who practically sniffed Grok’s pass badge but still let him in. They took the news of the night creature’s rampage in their stride, saying that without mental protection amulets—whether rented or bought with their own hard-earned money—they hadn’t slept for several moons. And the ritual enchantments on the walls had only recently been renewed, and it hadn’t even been three years yet, so they weren’t particularly afraid. But after sunset, of course, no one would venture beyond the walls, no way.

Once again, the isekais had to cook for themselves, even though they’d been given considerably more food. Only now it wasn’t the late nobleman in charge, but a couple of weary—and consequently grumpy—guides. They didn’t lift a finger themselves, but they made sure everyone got their share, and the quickest on their feet even got a second serving. Ptakh turned out to be quite quick on his feet, if anything. They went to bed differently, too. They put locals on watch, not trusting the fresh-faced isekais, but the night passed without incident. In the morning, it was the same again; they set off with the last wisps of mist, striding swiftly along the increasingly level road. Now the paved road ran not between the hills but across the plain, where small patches of forest appeared every now and then; Grok tried to avoid these patches whenever possible, even if it meant leaving the road and trudging for several kilometres through grass and over bumps. Leonid fully shared his view; he had the feeling that something was watching them all from there.

Wickedly.
With interest.

The attacks had almost ceased; one even began to come across isolated buildings—neither quite villages, nor quite farmsteads, nor quite hunting posts—but the people heading towards Morochny simply did not go near them. Only once, and with Grok’s permission, did a couple of guides dash off to one such hamlet and return with fresh, still-warm flatbreads filled with cheese. Naturally, only Grok and his company got to eat them, whilst the newcomers drooled with envy. There were no more protests; everyone realised they wouldn’t be fobbed off, just as they realised that running away was pointless—they’d be devoured. Well, perhaps right now, when the settled lands were noticeably closer, but no one had managed to try. In the end, the resentment was directed more at that very representative of that very profession, who earned her exclusive sustenance in the well-known manner.

The locals, sensing they were close to home, had become far too complacent; they had grown far too accustomed to the ever-changing scenery. They didn’t bother to go round a small patch of woodland, about a hundred metres wide and three hundred metres long, stretching along the track. The grass here was too tall; no one fancied hacking their way through it and then picking burrs out of their clothes, and even fewer fancied stepping on some poisonous creature in that grass, so they went straight through. And so they went, only to run straight into trouble—and quite suddenly, even for highly experienced guides who ought to be prepared for such twists and turns.

There was no warning, nor were there any cries. In an instant, Leonid, looking straight ahead, saw the guide walking in front of him collapse silently, as if struck down, followed by the two others walking alongside him. He collapsed next, though not with anyone’s help, but by his own choice, falling and hiding behind a small embankment at the side of the road. Grok’s scream, so foul that even the prepositions in it would have had to be bleeped out on television, cuts right to the bone and compels action, causing people to react faster than they ought to. Glancing sideways, the Earthling sees an arrow sticking out of his comrade’s body, thin and almost toy-like, thinner than a needle. Only from the pierced neck, a purple network of veins spreads along the wound before his eyes, and the body doesn’t even twitch, having died almost instantly. Or perhaps he died because the arrow struck with such precision. The other wounded writhe and scream, both for themselves and for the dead.

Grabbing his cleaver and taking cover from the barrage, he witnessed the end of the attack, after which the enemy launched a hand-to-hand assault. Some might have called these creatures goblins, but they bore a closer resemblance to those from the Professor’s works than to more modern fantasy examples. Ugly, deformed, with limbs of varying lengths, and covered in sores all over their bodies, almost naked save for the most primitive bindings and skins – they presented such a sight that would turn anyone into a xenophobe. Or a stammerer. But, most likely, a stammering xenophobe. They attacked with utter fearlessness, yet somewhat foolishly, only from one side, getting in the way of their own archers, striving at any cost to kill, to kill anyone alive.

There turned out to be just over a hundred of them, and yet, despite their numbers, without the element of surprise, they were clearly outmatched by the guides. Even more. Armed with sticks or stones picked up along the way, the isekais were, if not superior, then practically equal to them. In terms of weaponry, that was certainly the case – the same sticks, only slightly sharpened, plus stones for throwing and simply clenched in their hands, formed the basis of the attackers’ arsenal. The creatures’ raid on the human camp was more like a flock of birds attempting to defeat an aeroplane’s turbine – the aeroplane might come to a halt, but the birds would never see it for obvious reasons.

The freaks went down almost at a single blow, so Leonid had to get back on his feet, slashing at the first with a lunge to cut down a freak that had rushed past him. The creature hadn’t even noticed the earthling, intent on slitting the throat of a plump lady who had already fallen on her arse and was shrieking desperately as she passed by—a woman remembered for moonlighting in the world’s oldest profession. She began to scream even louder when a corpse twitching in agony fell at her feet, and she herself was splattered with dark grey blood. Leonid himself nearly became a corpse next, for unlike his ancient namesake, he was not clad in the full armour of a noble hoplite, nor did he have two hundred and ninety-nine comrades at his side. Moreover, he had been impermissibly distracted by a flood of images that had flashed through his mind, testifying to the successful killing. It was not a distraction, and he could easily have continued the fight, but he succumbed to curiosity and deliberately listened in’, nearly paying the price for it.

Enemy defeated (humanoid/corrupted): Maimed runt, zero step.
Primordial essence obtained.

The name certainly captures the essence of the thing, but the earthling had no time to appreciate the humour of the local system, pardon me, Omnipresent One, having barely managed to parry the clumsy thrust of the spear. Though it’s a stretch to call such a weapon a spear, it was really just a stick with a wooden tip charred over a fire. However, had that stick, gouged out of the earth and covered in muck, struck the newcomer’s unprotected belly, the pain would have been for an entirely different reason. The freak fought like a disabled child, literally. He struck with the strength, agility and coordination of a frail, drunken teenager, yet he was utterly devoid of restraint and any instinct for self-preservation. Leonid dodged the first lunge by a miracle; he parried the second with a perfectly passable, if amateurish, block, recalling those three Tolkien-themed role-playing sessions he’d attended back in his final years at school.

In his defence, he went there to chase after a classmate’s skirt, not to enjoy the scenery and the atmosphere. That’s how I’ve remembered it ever since: orcs are faggots, elves are gays, and Teleporno is a proper man, whoever he may be. Well, he managed two strikes with a fibreglass sword, as well as a block and a half, because getting hit on the head hurt, especially from his classmate’s mates. To sum up, Leonid was the sort of fencer whose opponent was more likely to die of laughter than from his skill. What could speak more clearly of the level of training of these freaks, if his existing ‘talent’ was enough to out-fence the poor wretches?

A thrust of the blade left a long, gushing wound of a putrid, crimson-grey hue on the creature’s torso, causing it to shriek in pain, yet it did not cease its attack. The second blow added another wound just as gruesome yet completely harmless, whilst the third struck its head, nearly bending the flimsy blade but tearing off the scalp and shaking the skull. It was enough to make the creature stagger, and Leonid delivered the fourth blow with a more familiar kick from his foot, squarely to the head. The neck snapped, whereupon the freak fell to the ground, and the earthling stepped forward and delivered another blow to the head—only this time to the other one—shattering the skull of the diminutive alien who had been distracted by the finishing blow.

Enemy defeated (humanoid/corrupted): Maimed runt, first step.
Enemy defeated (humanoid/corrupted): Maimed runt, zero step.
Primordial essence obtained.

This time, he didn’t pause to take in the system tray as he stepped over two dead bodies; the isekai wasn’t likely to survive with wounds like those, finding himself in a new hotbed of battle. Part of him wanted to sit it out in silence, but another part understood that he needed to level up if he didn’t want to end up dying simply because of someone else’s strength. Another chopped-down runt fell as if mown down, and then Leonid found himself next to the fallen guide. Alive and actively swearing, yet already doomed, for three of the monsters were trying to stab him with their spears, unable to pierce his simple leather armour. The man managed to defend his face and groin somehow, managing to survive for another five seconds.

It was just enough to survive – for the Saviour had come, almost like our very own John Connor.

To be honest, though, the first creature was dealt with straight away, disarming Leonid, as prying the blade—which had bent even further—from the skull’s grip proved to be a rather tricky business. So he kicked the second monster, beginning to suspect he had the makings of an outstanding martial arts master. Or, more likely, a horrible master of the art of fencing. The second one didn’t die, but flew off somewhere under the feet of the fighters with a very loud, almost human scream, as if he’d really been kicked like a child. The third had only just begun to turn round when Leonid grabbed his spear and yanked him towards him faster than the creature could bite him.

Perhaps the ground fight with a completely frenzy, albeit weak, wretch might have ended in disaster, but the man who was being finished off suddenly came to life and grabbed the freak by the neck from behind, helping him find inner peace by piercing his heart with a boot-knife. Leonid, meanwhile, managed in a final burst to strike the freak as he tried to hit the guide who was getting to his feet, impaling him on the stick he’d taken from the dead man. The stick snapped, and so did the opponent impaled on it, being carried off to the side on legs of different lengths that buckled beneath him.

Enemy defeated (humanoid/corrupted): Maimed runt, first step.
A simple Casket (wood, first step) has been obtained.

And here comes the system loot for a new hero! It was certainly something to be proud of, and Leonid would surely have been proud, but he was too busy trying not to let another spear thrust get past him. A waste of time, by the way, as it was all over and done with – only people remained standing, some swearing, some shouting, some helping the wounded and closing the eyes of the dead. The whole crowd of misfits had been slaughtered; only a few wounded were now being finished off – not a single one had run away, even when it became clear that things were heading towards a nasty death. If there’s one thing you can’t deny about them, it’s their utter callousness.

“How are you, mate?” asks the earthling, leaning over the wounded man and trying to help him to his feet, but the man merely waves his hand, pulls a small flask from his bosom, takes a swig from it, and then drips a little onto each of his wounds—numerous but shallow. “Oh, thanks.”

The flask offered to him was emptied in an instant. Without a trace of modesty, Leonid downed the contents in a single gulp; there had been two hundred grams at most. The small flask, lined with intricately engraved steel plates, contained neither water—which was obvious—nor alcohol, as the isekai had assumed. The liquid tasted somewhat like honey diluted in warm water; a single sip restored his strength and seemed to clear his head. Leonid was quite taken aback, so he returned the flask in silence, his eyes darting about as he tried to remember how his vocal apparatus actually worked.

“Those stupid isekais, once they get to Morochny, they’ll listen to the official. Then go off to feast, rather than immediately demanding their rights.” He speaks off to one side, as if not addressing Leonid at all, as if merely muttering to himself, immediately compelling one to pay close attention and take it all in. “In the Temple of the Omnipresent. On the first day, it’s important to ask, you see. Help me up, you fool.”

The last sentence was no longer a mumble, but clear, articulate speech; not a request, but an order. Leonid obeyed, helping the man to his feet, and then they went their separate ways as if nothing had happened. For the next hour, he helped bandage and clean wounds, drag away bodies, and carry out all the other tasks assigned to him—and he wasn’t the only one. The general carnage seemed to have brought the guides and the strays a little closer together. Those who had survived, unlike the nineteen bodies left lying by the track, were covered with branches and doused with some special potion to ward off predators and scavengers. You simply cannot leave bodies lying so close to inhabited lands; they will have to be buried, which is what the residents of the nearby farmsteads will set about doing. Otherwise, half of these corpses will rise on the very first night, and the other half will merge into one enormous creature and lead the risen dead in its wake.

Four guides and fifteen isekais – that was the price of victory: swift, decisive, and ultimately futile. Grok, swearing like a sailor and his voice hoarse from the strain, deigned to answer the newcomers’ questions, explaining his anger and resentment. The crux of the matter was that the main creature had not been killed after all. It was a creature of at least the fifth Step, though judging by its accuracy, it was closer to the seventh or eighth. It was this creature that had fired those needle-arrows from ambush, missing only a couple of times, and killing those struck by the needles with a deadly poison. Striking them down, gathering the primordial essence from them, and moving a little closer to the next step.

“Is that a Sniff or a Poison Spitter already? Guards are fucking lazy bastards – why the hell haven’t you cleared the track?!” If the guards for those tracks had been nearby, Grok would surely have tried to kill someone, or at least behaved a fair bit more modestly than he is now. “Those fucking punks, especially the young ones, have far more respect for their seniors than those drill-drilled cocksuckers from the inspection regiments, for fuck’s sake! I sent them all ahead, and he fired at us and then took off. Fuck! I’ll be damned if I don’t get a trio of trackers sent here to find that bastard; he’s making life hell for all the villages round here and never will let up, the bastard!”

What followed was a barrage of swearing and even more threats of physical violence, but this time they didn’t abandon the wounded, nor did they threaten to leave behind those who were lagging behind. It seems that Grok now needs to make up for his losses in some way by bringing in more people. The only question is where exactly he brought them – he really didn’t like the comment from the silent old man nicknamed Silent, who had given him his veiled advice. He didn’t offer that advice for no reason, did he? Consider it a reward for saving his life?

Another reason for his musings was the system tray floating before his eyes, the message in which evoked extremely mixed feelings. After all, he was being offered nothing less than the chance to unlock a third skill. Alas, it wasn’t quite the third skill he would have liked, but that was hardly surprising, given the way that skill was unlocked in the heat of battle.

Skill assessment complete: the skill is now available to learn!
Skill: Mastery of the Cleaver (average)
Accept?

On the one hand, it’s a combat skill; by investing three points in it, one can immediately gain at least some semblance of combat ability. On the other hand, this skill is thoroughly run-of-the-mill, reliant solely on broadswords of various shapes; it’s far too narrowly focused and far too insignificant given Leonid’s potential. Thirdly, if he turns his nose up at it, he simply won’t live to realise that mind-boggling potential. Again, the guide mentions the possibility of removing one skill once and replacing it with another of a similar quality to those already chosen, but this requires reaching the eleventh Level, which, for the current situation, is roughly the same as getting from London to Beijing via a detour through Mars.

Skill assessment complete: the skill is now available to learn!
Skill: First Aid (average)
Accept?

It’s exactly the same thing, except in this case the skill isn’t useful in combat, but in everyday life—if you decide to get yourself admitted to a hospital, assuming there are any around here. After giving it some thought, Leonid didn’t take any of the skills, but he didn’t turn them down either – according to the help text, up to three of them can remain in this limbo. It also states that Average and Worthy skills can hang in this queue for almost years, whereas for high-level ones, the waiting time is limited to a couple of days, and for true ones, just a few moments; and after that, try again to earn the right to accept such a game-breaking skill. Tip: achieving this a second time is far more difficult than the first.

Well, while the queue is still empty, he can afford to wait a little longer, especially as the city is now very close by, and it’s still unclear what will happen there. For the same reason, he decided not to open his box, which is currently suspended between reality and chaos in a sort of sub-spatial repository. A full inventory appears for locals and isekais at the first level. Initially, it is small, but grows with each level, through levelling up certain skills and abilities, through the destruction of particularly powerful creatures, and also through the completion of system Trials and Quests. But chests and other items of system loot, like superstructures upon reality, existed in relation to the subjectivity of perception and could therefore be stored in inventories in any quantity, even if the inventory was not yet accessible.

In this state, they cannot be detected, seen or taken using most of the known methods. Certain types of abilities and skills seem to allow you not only to clear out an inventory, but even to take boxes that haven’t yet been created. However, the help text merely stated in general terms that this was possible. Otherwise, if one is to trust logic rather than the help text, the simplest way to gain access to someone else’s inventory is to persuade them to hand over everything in it, without even resorting to mental manipulation or a potion of trust slipped into their drink. A simple and straightforward thermorectal cryptanalysis is enough. This method opens any door and overcomes even the most sophisticated passwords.

During the journey—which was now even slower due to the need to carry the wounded—he managed to ask the guides a couple of questions and exchange a few words with some acquaintances. Apart from Eric, he hadn’t really made friends with anyone else; they’d merely exchanged names and a couple of phrases, but he didn’t remain silent, nor did he play the good Samaritan. As if to say, ‘I overheard a conversation between two guides who’ve already died, and now I’m sharing this secret knowledge.’ Eric just nodded gloomily; the rest were completely indifferent, simply not seeing any problem with the fact that they might get into servitude. Most of the newcomers had been serfs, peasants, labourers, and the like in their past lives; as long as they had a roof over their heads and food on the table, they were happy as larks.

The only one who stood out was Aya, that chubby, genuinely sweet little giggler whom he’d saved from death quite by chance—though she didn’t know that. And whilst he took great pains to feign ignorance at her hints to go behind a rock during the break—and for free, at that—he polished off the half of a fresh loaf he’d been given in three bites. The guides, who had warmed to them and appreciated that some of the newcomers were fighting on equal terms with them, were now much more willing to answer questions, even though Grok kept shouting at them to keep them in line. It’s hardly worth considering the information about where in Morochny the most decent pubs and the most accommodating girls are—ones who won’t give you any nasty diseases and aren’t too scary—as particularly valuable.

Of the interesting information: he managed to work out why some of the new arrivals appear bald, whilst others have relatively normal hair. Those who die at a very advanced age or are crippled to the point of being completely incapacitated are resurrected bald, whereas the rest are simply rejuvenated as much as possible. Take Leonid himself, who turned into a figure straight out of a joke, only noticing the absence of the fourth wall in his cell on the fourth day. In his defence, there was no mirror nearby anyway, but he could have had a good look at his hands and wrists. The reflection on the surface of the water he’d collected in his bowl showed a face you wouldn’t give twenty to. No, plastic surgery and rejuvenation are good, but this method is far too radical – can he go home?

Of course, no one let him go home.

* * *

Morochny came into view on the horizon long before they reached it, even though they were already walking late at night, not particularly worried about an attack from any creatures that might be lurking there—if any were around at all, they would be preying exclusively on stragglers. That was because the townspeople had long since driven out all the others, unwilling to tolerate such uncivilized neighbors. It was hard not to notice the city, given that its outer walls alone were twenty meters high. They weren’t even walls, but a full-fledged fortified area, interspersed with towers, small fortresses, barracks, separate bastions, and all that sort of thing. In fact, it was another small town in the shape of a wall, shielding Morochny itself from the wrath of the wild lands. It made an indelible impression on most of the newcomers, especially when signal fires began to be lit at the top of the wall, dispelling the darkness of the night.

By this point, the road had become wide and extremely well-maintained; large boulders formed a smooth, broad path that allowed even large caravans to reach the city without colliding with one another. There were no designated lanes here, but the locals understood and applied the concept, which is why they were able to pass each other without colliding and save a lot of time. At the same time, two other groups were entering the city, leading newcomers, but these were smaller and not as ragged. More accurately, there were about the same number of guides as there were originally in Grok’s detachment, but there were noticeably fewer newcomers.

Exactly twenty men from their unit made it to the walls, including six wounded, but that wasn’t due to any new casualties. It was simply that some of them decided to try their luck elsewhere, slipping away—as they thought—unnoticed, falling behind and veering off the road into the bushes. Grok just spat, but he didn’t try to talk those idiots with clubs—who were tailing the young nobleman—out of it; he didn’t comment at all, merely suggesting that the faggots and ass-kissers decide for themselves, since he wasn’t their mother. It was precisely this that finally convinced Eric, Leonid, and Aya and Charod, who had joined them, that there was no point in running. It was either useless, harmful, or both. Something told the earthling that any attempt to wander or rob in the nearby suburbs would end for the fools that very night, but he couldn’t verify it.

They were let through the gate quickly—all it took was that same badge and a few loud curses. They were led not too far from the wall, into a specially prepared barracks-tavern-dining hall, likely built specifically for the guards and soldiers. There, they—along with several other groups of newcomers who had arrived today—were met by a long table, without tablecloths or dessert forks, but laden with simple, hearty food. Potatoes or something similar, flatbread, cheese, some poultry, and something like a sauce, gravy, or soup in mess tins. Go ahead and eat, so to speak, newcomer, enjoy yourself.

However, they weren’t allowed in just like that—dirty and straight from the road—and were urged, quite insistently, to wash off the dust and grime first. The vast majority of the visitors present wanted to refuse, but the polite smile of the male official, dressed in loose-fitting robes reminiscent of a monk’s cassock, was, in fact, as firm as steel. Eric and Leonid didn’t argue, nor did they resist; having grown accustomed to hygiene back in their home world, they quickly rinsed off. And then the two of them, along with a couple of other vaguely familiar companions (one of whom turned out to be that very jumpy young man with the Stealth skill), went to strike up a conversation with that very official, saying goodbye along the way to Aya, who had clearly decided to go her own way, staying close to the bald mage with fire spells.

“Oh, right, Ptakh, I remember correctly—your superior mentioned you, saying you were gifted from the very first moment on the Ladder, and with Worthy skill.” A smile of the kind that is at once polite, engaging, and promising nothing, but a gaze colder than a radiator in late autumn. “They will speak with you, as with the rest of those marked by Her Gift, separately, but not until morning; today has worn you all out.”

“Yeah, it’s worn us out.” Realizing that Eric had lost his voice and the others weren’t going to speak up, Leonid decided to voice the question—though he really should have started mentally referring to himself as “Ptakh” by now, having ignored the very direct and obvious hint in the others’ words. “But before we go to the feast, we’d like to take the opportunity to visit the Temple of the Omnipresent. In Her name, so to speak.”

“I’m afraid the feast will be over by then, and no one’s going to cook dinner just for you.” My companion shrugs, but when it comes to artistic bullshit, he’s still no match for Balar. “And do you seriously think I’m going to call a cab right now to take you to Her Temple by the end of the day? You’re in Morochny, not some border village—it’s a big city, and the Temple is right in the center of it.”

“If it’s possible, then yes, that’s exactly what I’d like to ask of you.” The reply came not from Leonid, but from Ptakh himself—a malicious, life-hungry bastard who could physically sense that someone was trying to cynically screw him over—spoken with utter calm and the utmost politeness. “They say starvation is good for you, even healthy.”

A look of contemptuous irritation—one that had never been seen on the official’s face before—flashed across his features, verging on anger or even mild fury, while the eyes of the burly security guards standing behind him betrayed their emotions far more clearly. No longer smiling or trying to appear kind, he spat out his words as if he wanted to spit.

“It’s up to you.” That moment when you have nothing to say, but you really want to have the last word. “It’s your choice.”

“Perhaps it’s not just ours, or just mine.” The Earthling refuses to be intimidated, even though he knows full well that he’s on very thin ice. “You wouldn’t mind if one of the others here celebrating also expressed a desire to come with us, would you?”

That’s where things went awry, because the official, who introduced himself as Maestro Vittoris, simply smiled with a surprisingly sincere grin, as if he were barely holding back a laugh.

“Not at all. Ask them. Try dragging them away by the ears, Ptakh.” He pronounced the surname—which everyone here mistook for a nickname or even a first name—as if he were stifling a laugh. “You’re just too smart for your own good. And so are those who listened to you. To the rest, they don’t care about any of this, as long as their bellies are full. It’s a wasted effort, boy. You’ll get your Temple of Her, you’ll get your questions and answers. //Where did you even hear about the Temple?

There was something about the question—a sort of gentle resonance in the words—that made him want to answer completely instinctively, sincerely. If it weren’t for his habit of obeying Grok’s thunderous orders, he might have let that moment pass. Still, instead, he just cursed under his breath and, without the slightest pause, fed him the story he’d prepared in advance—and even rehearsed—about how he’d overheard a conversation between two guids who later died. The official’s expression was just like in that meme, as if to say, “Go on, go on, tell me a few more fairy tales,” but he didn’t press the matter further.

“Well then, wait for ten minutes, and the cabbies will pick you up.” Either his aggression had subsided, or he had quickly regained control of himself, or more importantly, Ptakh and company’s actions were merely a minor annoyance, not a setback to their vast and insidious plans for the enslavement of humanity and certain isekais. “I’ll be honest, it might actually be useful to you.” Every stranger, according to the Great Code of the Boundaries, upon arriving in a city whose foundation is strong enough to have the right to summon a stable guild Rifts, has the right to visit the Temple of the Omnipresent once and completely free of charge, where they will be given twenty-four hours to receive answers to whatever questions they wish to ask. For most isekais, who in their own world were illiterate commoners, such an honor is simply unnecessary, superfluous, and an insult to the temple. As for you... well, let’s see how this turns out.”

Yeah, and he just suddenly turned out to be such a nice guy. As for the fact that he was pressuring us and trying to trick us—that was just a test. He really wanted to punch that jerk in the face, but Leonid knew that if he did, he’d be the one getting punched. From the guides’ answers, it became roughly clear that on the first two or three levels, those levels mean very little, so a good blade, amulet, and armor mean more than Step and Skill. But behind this grumpy old man stood thugs armed to the teeth, the kind who’d rip Ptakh’s wings off and shove them up his ass if he so much as twitched in their direction. As a result, the ten minutes or so they spent waiting for their cab were filled with a perfectly civil, pleasant conversation, during which the official answered questions competently and without evasion, even though the newcomers had no way to verify his honesty.

The Earthling suspected that the other might have been capable of lying outright but simply chose not to, as this was likely a form of the same temporary protection granted to newcomers—the kind that prevents them from being killed en masse or suffering mass casualties whenever such a tragedy can be averted. He didn’t ask. He was certain he wouldn’t get the truth here, but he might just get punched in the face. Only when they said their goodbyes and the five of them were led to the waiting carriage did the Earthling allow himself to let out a quiet and very emotional “what a jerk,” and what Eric had said made his ears practically wilt.

“He talked our ears off, damn it.” The comment from Myshk, that very same stelthy guy with the shifty eyes and sly face, came as a surprise, since up until then he’d been silent almost the whole time. “You didn’t get what he was saying, did you? I just figured it out myself. He didn’t give a shit about anyone who was stuffing their faces with free food and selling their asses. He didn’t want to give up the girl, the bald one with the fire, damn it! I’ll be damned, but if we’d even hinted at talking to her and suggesting she go to the Temple to pray, he’d have shit himself with rage. Or he’d have whacked us right there—it would’ve been cheaper. I asked around, and her skill level isn’t Worthy like mine or yours, Ptakh, but it’s fucking High right off the bat. It’s like, she’s already at that level, already, bitch, full-on, motherfucker. Check your schematics, the answer’s in there.”

With a certain bitterness, he realized that the murky fellow was absolutely right and that the jerk had achieved his main goal; after all, they hadn’t been dancing around that lady the whole way for nothing. They took her away almost immediately and didn’t let her near the rest of the “rabble” anymore. Leonid still didn’t even know her name. And he probably might never find out.

All three fell silent, walking blindly, poring over their reference and realizing that Mysh was, in a way, right about everything. According to that same reference, on average, only one out of every eight and a half hundred people climbing the Ladder attains a skill of High quality, but these are general statistics across all worlds of the Omnipresent, and in different places, these figures vary greatly. Not everyone can even manage to acquire Worthy skills; very many locals and newcomers have none at all or have literally just one. Getting even two or three is already difficult—here you have to be literally the top dog in the village—and True skills might not be found among hundreds, hundreds, hundreds, and hundreds of thousands of ordinary folk.

“Here is your temple,” the coachman says grimly, opening the carriage door and letting the five strangers out, allowing them to take in the beautiful architecture and the air of opulence in which their modest attire seems particularly pitiful. “Go to Her Majesty... before the guards arrive and start giving you a hard time.”

Exchanging glances, all five of them stride forward resolutely, without exchanging a single word. The temple is huge and strange, vaguely reminiscent of something Egyptian—but only very vaguely. At its core, the building is simply a stone rectangular prism, devoid of any reliefs, symbols, or stained-glass windows. Nor does it have any windows. There was only a door—or rather, an entrance arch—beyond which lay absolute darkness. They all froze before it for a moment, but then Leonid stepped forward anyway, because there was no way back. Because he didn’t want to look for a way back at all.

Leonid stepped into Her Temple, and exactly twenty-four hours later, he emerged from it as Ptakh.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88665/597001

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP