Готовый перевод В хронике моей... / In the Chronicle of Mine: 3.

3.

* * *

Beyond the darkness of the entrance, there was absolutely nothing—only a void so strikingly similar to what he had seen just moments ago that the Earthling nearly shit himself in terror. But once again, the absence of a body prevented it, as did the realization that came a moment later: the void was similar, but not quite the same. And the almighty System-Scheme-Omnipresent responded to his call almost immediately, welcoming its traveler into its temple.

The шыулфш arrived at the Temple of the Omnipresent, seeking answers!
Answers will be given!
From among the constellation of lights, the one who will become a guide and advisor has been chosen!

The images flashed by one after another, but Leonid managed to take it all in, once again freaking out and vowing to himself that he would definitely buy that guy a barrel of booze if he survived and didn’t end up homeless. It turned out that one of the privileges of a soul from another time was precisely the right to ask questions that could be posed in the Temple of the Omnipresent only once in a lifetime. And it didn’t matter exactly when—whether now, in a week, in ten days, or never. But one shouldn’t delay, or else one might lose that very presence of the otherworldly that makes a stranger a stranger, protected from utter lawlessness. Usually, such auras and properties fade away within the first year.

Unlike the Pantheon and all the entities that inhabit it, the Omnipresent One requires no prayers, ordains no priests, and takes no interest in worldly affairs; she simply stands above everything and everyone. Yet in every city that is built in her worlds, a temple will spring up of its own accord. It will be the same faceless, unadorned stone statue of a cubic-rectangular shape, with an entrance arch on each face. The arch operates on the principle of spatial fractures, creating a separate sub-space for each visitor, or for groups, should they wish to enter together for some reason. Usually they don’t; usually they try to stay well away from Her Temples altogether, as even the information leaflet states in no uncertain terms, for fuck’s sake!

In a certain sense, one might regard all the rectangular churches as a single building, simply existing in a multitude of forms throughout Iulatar and beyond. It’s just that in the larger towns the cube is taller, whilst in the smaller towns—barely deserving of the name—the cube is noticeably more modest in size. In the glorious and good city of Morochny, the temple there is as tall as a nine-storey building and roughly the same size, whilst in Swan it stretches to a full thirty storeys. That’s probably another reason for boasting between cities. No, forget ‘probably’! It’s definitely a reason!

Upon entering the temple, the visitor, seeking answers, will find himself in a room formed in the middle of nowhere—a space more accurately described as a personal Rift, created for the visitor’s sake and lasting only for the duration of the visit. There, he will speak with his advisor, curator, godfather, or some other title denoting a rational being who has voluntarily or “voluntarily” dedicated himself to the temple and to Her. This individual will answer questions with all his competence, erudition, and knowledge, having no right to lie, no ability to remain silent, or to intentionally cause harm through omissions. He will answer, then forget the entire conversation immediately once the allotted time for the conversation ends. Nothing will remain in his memory, neither faces, nor questions, nor answers. And so it will be for the entire time you spend in the temple: such a counselor will emerge under the sky of Iulatar, aged, in a sense having even lost all his years. It is unclear where and for what purpose.

It’s no surprise that this form of community service is very often used as a form of punishment, sometimes just one step short of execution. In the final stage, which is on par with execution, the criminal is simply handed over to the All-Seeing One to serve Her for the rest of their life. Incidentally, holding this position grants a small amount of experience, so your levels gradually rise, but your skill remains unchanged, and the rate of progression is such that regular leveling up will still be an order of magnitude faster. Again, only a sufficiently erudite and well-informed individual can become an advisor; otherwise, the Omnipresent will not accept the “offering.” A great many nobles go to such a “non-execution” “voluntarily” to avoid being executed for real. The reference didn’t state this directly, but it was quite clear between the lines; the only thing missing was a pop-up window labeled “SARCASM.”

In response, Temple Servants have every right not to answer questions that directly harm or endanger their home, family, or friends; no penalties are imposed for this. They also have the right to erase their face and image from the memory of any visitor—whether a newcomer or someone who purchased access to the Advisor mode through an auction or rewards from Trial quests. Of course, this is only if they choose to erase themselves from the client’s memory. All the answers remain, but who exactly answered them is impossible to recall—just a complete void in the mind.

It’s no surprise that the local jerks tried so hard to keep isekais out of the Temple—or rather, to prevent them from taking advantage of the opportunity. Like, if you make the offer in a normal tone in a hall where the poor souls who’ve finally gotten their hands on some food and booze are feasting and getting drunk, they’ll hardly hear or react. Then, let them come in droves—after all, they’ll be fed and watered first, and then thoroughly taken advantage of, hired as powerless laborers or whatever else. But if an uncle (or auntie—let’s not be sexist) experienced in the ways of intrigue and deception speaks to them first—someone whose expertise is rewarded by the Omnipresent for the effectiveness of their advice—then it won’t be so easy to take advantage of the isekais. And never mind a couple of lucky ones with Worthy talents; who cares about them? We don’t care about the talentless or mediocre rabble either; advice wouldn’t help them much anyway.

But if a bald sorceress were to walk through that Archway, she’d be given more than enough advice to ensure she—no, doesn’t go around screwing everyone. At worst, she herself would be taken advantage of, tied up, or otherwise persuaded to cooperate—the Earthling has not a shred of doubt about that. But she could have bargained for much more than she’ll get now, and that’s the kind of money and effort that makes this whole circus with horses and a sudden feast and drinking party worth starting in the first place. A few hundred young and healthy men and women, who will become someone’s labor force, won’t go to waste either. The costs are practically negligible, while the payoff is far greater.

Thoughts like these were running through Leonid’s mind when he found himself materializing once again in the middle of a rather cozy study. A soft armchair, a wide table made of stained oak, numerous shelves with scrolls, sheets of notes, and handwritten diaries sticking out of them, as well as an imposing, short man sitting in the chair opposite him, with a thin, waxed mustache and an extremely distinctive gaze. A look that, to put it bluntly, perfectly embodied the old joke that everyone around him was a patched-up contraceptive, and only he was the Vicomte de Bragelonne in a snow-white cloak. The cloak was indeed there, only it was hanging on his chair, and its color was not white but a pastel peach.

“What, is it High Tide already?” This guy clearly didn’t know the first thing about politeness or tact, nor did he understand why one needs to possess those two qualities, especially when talking to someone dressed in practically rags. “Have you already sold your skinny ass to the petty officials at city hall, or whoever buys you? Where are you from, anyway? Not your native world. I’ve always felt nothing but indifference toward your barbaric backwaters. From which city did you enter the archway, pleb?”

What a start to a dialogue, what a fucking start.

“From Morochny, in the Kingdom of Swan.” He replied—just in case, since who knows, maybe this jerk knows the local cuisine and might offer some advice. “I’d just ask you not to be rude, and not to call me ‘the pleb’ either; after all, you haven’t even verified whether I’m an isekai or someone else.”

“I owe Her nothing more than to answer your questions and do my utmost to ensure that this answer is useful—or even life-saving—for you, commoner, but I owe Her nothing else, and certainly nothing to you.” He emphasized this latest insult so masterfully with his tone that Leonid felt as if the bastard had just poured slop all over him. “As for the question: your lowly breed is immediately apparent from your posture, your mannerisms, and your stupid face. All right, your face is a bit smarter, but no more than that. And besides, you feeble-minded nobody, I’m not going to spare your feelings, because you’re an outsider and can’t be a nobleman of Iulatar a priori! As for Morochny, it’s quite the hole, but a big one, a large one, even a huge one, and truly foul-smelling. Fifteen, or better yet, twenty years ago, I could have told you what was there and what was happening, but now surely all the faces have already changed their dance positions, and my knowledge is worth little. But worth little doesn’t mean it’s completely free, I suppose. For the black-legged rags I wouldn’t remember, even if I had the chance to remember all of you, this will be enough, I’m sure."

System, Leonid has a question—what’s going to happen to him for trying to punch that jerk in the jaw? And how quickly will his own jaw end up up Leonid’s ass? No, seriously! It’s infuriating, and clearly intentional, aiming to piss off the visitor and provoke him into doing something stupid, or into ending the conversation early. The timer has been ticking away, measure by measure, for a full day now.

“I need some advice, and for that, I'll even put up with a cocky jerk who thinks he's better than everyone else.” His reply sounded indifferent and downright condescending; Leonid knew how to put pressure on people, thanks to his years of experience. “It just so happened that when I came into this world, I ended up with two gifts...”

"You’ve unlocked two skills—and they’re already at levels two and three, respectively, which isn’t half bad, especially for a pathetic little nobody like you." He interrupts him in a bored tone, as if he’s said this a hundred thousand times. And that may well be the case, even if his conscious memory of these conversations has faded. “A tiny gift from Her, one of the most common. The thing is, both skills are Worthy, which already opens up certain prospects for you, if you manage to develop them. And for that, you need money, connections, and knowledge. You won’t get the first from me, for I’m not in the mood to give these days; I’ve got none of the second left myself—otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here—but I’ll pour out as much of the third as your feeble mind can carry. And don’t pull an even dumber face than you already have, peasant—any advisor like me can see an isekai’s skills; it helps in Her affairs, you know."

For a moment, Leonid felt a tinge of vindictive anticipation, and then he smiled that sincere smile of someone who’d just been awarded a double bonus at the end of the month. A hint of suspicion flashed in his companion’s eyes—a slight, tentative look of disbelief.

"Minor." And, seeing a new look of bewilderment in the eyes of the arrogant nobleman who still hadn’t introduced himself—next to whom even the late Balar seemed almost a beacon of democracy—he explained in more detail. “A minor gift granted me two Worthy skills. My second gift is not small, but HIgh. It is called ++‘Supreme Flow of Talent and Mastery,’ and its properties are as follows...”

Somehow, the other guy knows that Leonid was telling the truth—which makes sense, since an advisor has to be able to tell when his client is fibbing. Or maybe there’s no such mechanism; maybe the idiot just believed what he was told right away for his own reasons—cold reading, all those methods for spotting lies, and stuff like that. Be that as it may, for a couple of minutes, he just sits there silently, flapping his mouth like a guppy, without making a sound. But then... then he starts guffawing, laughing, roaring, shrieking with laughter, completely losing his aristocratic-redneck manners, dropping the monocle he’d been wearing over his eye under the table, nearly tearing off his mustache, twisting it into a pretzel, and just twitching like an epileptic having a violent seizure.

"...Huh. Hmm. Ahem! Yeah. Yee-e-e-e-eh... I so hate you, you blood-tainted bastard, for simply existing and for the mercy you carry in the hearts and souls of your own, while I—or any other worthy soul—am deprived of it." Leonid became genuinely curious whether he would be the first in history whose advisor would die of an aneurysm, and whether the system would grant any special achievements for this. "I perceive such a gift as a mockery of the All-Merciful, her cruelty and a display of ruthlessness, painful to every decent nobleman whose very essence is imbued with the essence of primal nobility. Not to possess such a gift, while seeing someone a priori unworthy, like you, possess it—is torment, pain, and humiliation such as I have known neither before nor since the day of my confinement in Her temple."

Deep breaths gradually, yet rapidly, bring the man back to his senses; deft movements smooth out his rumpled clothes, straighten his mustache, and brush off his collar; a moment later, the monocle on its chain takes its rightful place. He stands up, which is why Leonid only manages to remain seated in his chair through a conscious effort; he so badly wanted to stand up himself, either to stand at attention or to smash someone’s face in. And then the jerk began to speak, and now his words sounded far more interesting to the earthling who had found himself in another world.

"My name is Avaris al-Refrit, Viscount, Knight, and second son of the head of the House of al-Refrit, a vassal of the Count’s Coat of Arms of the Duchy of al-Terre. I have been stripped of my title, my right to inheritance, and my own name, and my imprisonment here will be eternal until the royal dynasty under the swan’s wing changes, which means one simple truth—I will die of old age long before I am set free, despite all my hopes to the contrary." He still doesn’t even hide his contempt; he doesn’t let even a shred of respect into his voice, but there is enough solemnity and some kind of desperate resolve in him for five men, if not five hundred. "I swear to you by my House, now ruled by another bloodline, I swear by a name I have no right to call my own, I swear by all that remains to me. For this turn of events, for the twenty-four-plus bells remaining to us, I will do everything in my power to ensure that you realize your potential and achieve greatness as complete as it is possible, no matter how unworthy you may be of even a shadow of that greatness."

White patches appear on his face, expressing such utter malice that it reaches a point where Leonid becomes frightened, despite the report stating that the advisor is, by definition, incapable of causing harm, no matter how hard he tries. Avaris del Asshole’s fingers tremble so much that he certainly cannot be a surgeon; beads of sweat trickle down his temples, but his eyes... by all the gods of your Iulatar and the All-Seeing One above, hellish forges are blazing right there in his eyes!

"You are now on lands that have fallen into the hands of those who once destroyed my House. You are a prodigious talent, gifted in a manner befitting that title. I will explain how to hide yourself, help you blend into the crowd, and avoid standing out. But you won’t be able to pull it off; you’ll fail and end up in their sphere of interest. It will happen sooner or later." This isn’t a prophecy, but some kind of verdict; all it’s missing is a judge’s gavel, though with that gavel he’d be banging on someone’s skull. “Even now, you possess potential equal to that of a duke, at the very least. You won’t be able to become mediocre, even if you make a conscious effort—your path is either greatness, or ruin, or a cage, and then ruin anyway. In the long run, you’re a threat even to the very one who wears the Crown of Swan Feathers. And that means the very fact of your success will be revenge on my enemies, my sworn foes. You’ll be forced to face them, and if you don’t croak in a ditch right away, you’ll inflict damage on them. One way or another. And even if I do not remember, it is I who will allow the seed of your glory to sprout on their soil. And who now dares to say that the Omnipresent cannot choose the advisor most needed by one who has come seeking counsel?"

His smile looks forced; it isn’t scary in itself, but it’s unsettling because of the madness hidden behind it—behind those strained cheeks that look as if they’re about to burst from the tension.

“Speak up, you rabble, speak up and prepare to heed my wisdom.” A pause of a second, five seconds, half a minute... "You filthy scum, you gutter rabble, you dog’s soul, state your name and your father’s name—what, am I to keep calling you rabble all this time, which, I might add, has already grown short?"

"Ahem. Oh, right, sorry, buddy, pathos of this line took my breath away." It’s hard to say what threw him off more—the “buddy” or the joke itself. “My name is Leonid Ptakh. Ptakh isn’t a nickname, but a family name, I should note. Not that you give a shit, but my family traces back to the Cossack chieftains of Zaporizhzhia—think of it as a mix of military aristocracy and all sorts of raubritters.”

“You're right, I don't give a damn, Ptakh.” Avaris replies with a brief nod, and a moment later, he's already sitting at the table, pulling out a stack of papers—who knows where he got them—covered with all sorts of notes. “Pull up a chair; we've got a hell of a lot of work to do.”

* * *

Outside the temple, it was still the same night as when he had first entered, except that the positions of the late-night passersby and the brave guards standing at strategic points—such as near that large wine shop—had changed. A pair of guards, by the way, spotted a lone, ragged figure emerging from the archway and slowly, without any aggression, made their way toward him, as if giving him a chance to make a quick getaway. They won’t deliberately catch him and drag him to jail; they understand perfectly well who the Isekai is, just as they understand that he has every right to be here today. But if he deliberately disrupts the order with his ragged appearance, they’ll still beat him up as a preventive measure—otherwise, they’ll get a dressing-down from the owners of the estates and shops on the main square, where they don’t want to see any ragged folks and don’t give a damn whether they’re isekais or not.

Ptakh wisely decided not to draw attention to himself. He quickly ran down the stairs and headed for the nearest alley. He had a rough map of the city, but it was nearly thirty years out of date, so he could only rely on it in the most general terms. The rest of his fellow sufferers were not near the arch; they had most likely voluntarily cut short the twenty-four-hour question-and-answer session of their own accord. Because they were hungry and very tired, and their advisor had not been willing to part with the few pieces of bread he had stashed away. The bodies of Her advisors are sustained by the system itself and do not require food, but they can certainly derive pleasure from it. Each of them, when heading to their “workplace,” often takes along a flask of booze, some snacks, and the like—so they can treat themselves during the forgettable dialogues with countless visitors.

There were many ways to secure the help of a suitable advisor—quest rewards, special gifts, sacrificing valuable artifacts, or even portions of one’s own status. There were plenty of options, too many to list, and Avaris had no intention of listing them; it wasn’t the right time. He had a few sips left of some surprisingly potent herbal tincture, tasting like Earth’s Jägermeister, only capable of making a dead man dance both the lower and upper breaks at the same time, even if with different body parts. And it was so filling that you could go three days without eating anything without harming your body. And without sleeping, too—even if you ended up passing out for twenty hours, and passing out so soundly that not even a volley from magical alchemical ship cannons made by gnomes could wake you up. So he shared a sip of this invigorating crap with the earthling, who was starting to doze off and drown out the wise advice with the rumbling of his stomach.

When Ptakh returned the flask to him—the very one from which the commoner, the rabble, the peasant, the black-legged man, and a hundred other epithets had drunk—Avaris stared at it as if it were a venomous snake and seemed ready to throw it away. Instead, he first took a second and final sip (still no harm, but only a third of the effect of the first), because he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to drink from that flask afterward, even if he didn’t remember. Better death and oblivion, yes. What a surprisingly principled asshole—he’s literally steeped to the core in equal parts nobility and assholery. The only consolation is that, even against the backdrop of local class morality and madness, this dickhead stood out like a redwood among little fir trees.

Well, strictly speaking, he didn’t admit it outright. Rather, on the contrary, he lamented how little nobility is valued in this world, allowing the commoners too much freedom, and sometimes—Oh Omnipresent One—even entering into misalliances with them. And it wasn’t a desire to have fun with a decent-looking young lady from a good House of Scarlet Velvet, but rather to bind themselves in the bonds of marriage—such bestiality. A disgrace to his gray hair; it’s a good thing he’s already sitting in his confinement and doesn’t see where this world is rolling next. In his mind, Ptakh never stopped waving a sign that read “sarcasm” whenever he heard these words. The worst part was that Avaris remained deadly serious in his opinion—so serious that it wasn’t funny anymore, but, damn it, scary. It was even a little comforting to know that this asshole was securely locked up in a dungeon like this.

If only he had been locked there by an even more eccentric asshole, it would have been absolutely delightful.

A turn, another turn, a quick dash, then hide in a dark alley and freeze. Night is a time of wonders and fear, both within the cities and beyond their walls. If outside the protective walls of the city of three hundred thousand—the jewel of the ruined lands, and in fact the only major city in the region at all, since Chalny comes in second with a population barely reaching thirty-five thousand—the role of the nocturnal threat was played by night creatures, then within the city, that role was taken over by rational humans and non-humans. There were creatures too, but they hid themselves here, lurking, attacking rarely and unnoticed, leaving no traces, while the nocturnal classes of all manner of thieves and other riffraff naturally and justifiably considered the night their time.

The perfect time for leveling up, for work, for fun, and for all of that combined. If you’re caught out in the open like that—without a guild or workshop insignia, without any connections to the locals—you’ll wake up in the morning in a meat market or a slave pen. That is, if you wake up at all, and aren’t found with your throat slit and your guts ripped out for black alchemy. The romance of true fantasy, damn it, why aren’t you smiling, an isekai? Not funny? This is Iulatara!

With the boost of a non-Egermeister, the Earthling isn’t afraid of either dying or simply falling asleep and thereby missing someone’s approach. So he sits there, silent, staring at the wall and mentally repeating everything he’s memorized during his 24-hour vigil. Avaris forced him to memorize a good chunk of it, to recite it verbatim, like a poem. As a teacher, he was even more of a jerk than as a person, but, damn it, he was incredibly competent, because he explained things like a god. If he’d had a teacher like that in school, teaching math, he’d be giving Perelman the finger right now, instead of sitting in the middle of a stinking alley.

The city at night went about its business, but that business passed Ptakh by, who, without any unnecessary adventures, waited out the night until the first rays of the local sun appeared, then stepped out of the alley as if nothing had happened and set off toward the bustling district of the mid-sized city. His pockets jingled with emptiness, so loudly that when a short man, barely taller than his waist, bumped into him in the crowd, Ptakh was very surprised. No, not by the collision itself, but by the fact that the man caught up with him a moment later, tugged at his sleeve, and slipped a rather large, though slightly bent, copper coin into his hand.

"Here, you ragged thing, buy some food and a bed at the flophouse." While the Earthling stared at the coin in bewilderment, someone from above offered him some sound advice. “Don’t go near the workhouses—they’ll waste you there. Better ask the shopkeepers for help; tell them you’re an Isekai, and maybe someone will help you out for a while and give you a job. And don’t walk around the streets like that—they’ll rob you.”

It took a while for Ptakh to realize that it was this very same fellow who had tried to pick his pocket, only to find not even a crumpled copper coin there, which made him take pity and decide to help the poor soul. The fact that the short little man turned out to be a genuine halfling, practically the first non-human he’d encountered in this world, didn’t dawn on him until even later. And the fact that he looked so pathetic that even thieves didn’t rob him but instead gave him alms was simply depressing and somewhat saddening. But Ptakh didn’t throw the coin away; instead, he stopped meditating on the go, preferring to move forward carefully and cautiously. He relaxed, figuring there was nothing to rob from him anyway, and besides, the advice to train at every opportunity still rang in his ears.

\\
...your greatest achievement, your greatest sin, and your greatest virtue! Don’t waste a single minute or hour, you wretched rabble! Your gift holds incredible promise for the future, but right now, you’re hardly any different from the hundreds of other black-footed Isekais who are dying or falling into slavery at this very moment. To blossom, like a flower, you need time and effort—and far more effort than even time. It is with time that you will have the greatest freedom, spending months where others have spent years...

Yeah, Avaris certainly wasn’t lacking in expressiveness, nor in that indescribable, greedy envy he didn’t even try to hide—envy that some upstart had gotten everything he’d never even dared to dream of. Ptakh wasn’t deluding himself. If it weren’t for the constraints of being an advisor, if it weren’t for the desire to take revenge on his tormentors, if there were even the slightest chance, that deranged piece of shit would have killed him on the spot, the moment he realized he couldn’t take the other man’s gift. By the way, it wasn’t necessarily impossible—the most powerful dark mages could quite successfully try to carve out certain parts of another’s status and transplant them onto themselves. In fact, they did this regularly, which is why they were demonstratively disliked, constantly hunted and killed, yet in reality, their services were regularly and secretly utilized.

It took the earthling a while to reach his destination. Morochny was truly vast—damn vast—comprising several cities, fortresses, and fortified districts that had grown together centuries ago, completing their merger with the construction of an outer wall and the renaming of individual quarters after the central one, which had become the heart of the city. The city, as it flourishes today, literally milks and drains the Rifts and Sores, generating a mountain of system loot and supporting the work of countless Guilds, Shops, and Noble Houses. It all comes down to skill points, which are earned either through leveling up—one per skill—or through the so-called Affiliation Mechanic. Read: membership in Guilds, Clans, Workshops, or those very Noble Houses.

For example, you join the “Eagles of the Peak” war guild, and as you climb the guild ranks, you earn the right to enter a stable rift dungeon where you’ll complete a fairly complex system quest. And in doing so, you won’t gain a character level, but rather a Guild Level. Such levels usually don’t grant any improvements to your body, aura, or spirit, but they do grant skills—though not all skills. War guilds will have their own list, while magical, scouting, hunting, and other guilds will have their own. By correctly assembling a build from skills fully covered by the relevant organization, you can gain almost as much from an affiliation level as you would from a regular level—and often even more. At times, it’s even significantly more if you complete several Trial quests, putting in a lot of effort and achieving a result higher than ninety-nine out of a hundred fellow members. An extra skill point, an unexpected upgrade, bonus experience, and all that. The final bonus depends on the situation.

Alas, you can only join each organization once, and choosing one option rules out all the others; leaving one is difficult, and doing so will almost certainly result in the loss of any rewards earned through the Trials. So you need to choose very wisely from the start, preferably opting for the most well-established Guild, Clan, House, or whatever. The highest rank is the eleventh, meaning eleven levels of affiliation, but there are only a handful of such organizations in all of Iulatar. And the competition to get in is like applying to Oxford—the requirements for connections and influence are roughly the same, and no grants. So instead of empty dreams of belonging to a Royal House or the “Masters of Sorcery” guild, it’s easier to join the equivalent of some vocational school with three levels of membership, but with the real prospect of passing all three Trials.

After all, the higher the Trial, the fewer spots there are, the longer the wait to receive the quest, the fiercer the competition, and the greater the chance of spending your whole life stuck at the starting levels without ever getting that coveted ticket. Or to get it and die, not even from someone else’s treachery, but simply by failing to complete the task. Such Trials are always risky and require excellent preparation, which the chosen guild, workshop, order, or house provides alongside training and support. In rare cases and for the most talented students, it is possible to obtain an “Edict of Retraining,” a special form of quest loot that allows one to transfer from one organization to another, one of a higher rank but within the same specialty or field.

Anyway, Ptakh had no intention of joining any guild—not even the shadiest or the coolest one—because they simply wouldn’t accept him. Or maybe they would accept him, but then tie him down with such contracts that he wouldn’t be able to make a move even without any mind-control tactics. Or he might, but he’d have to go on the run and become a complete outlaw—and that’s in Morochny! A city that already has a reputation as something between the Wild West and the Tortuga, even if it’s slowly taking on the appearance of civilization. The saddest thing here is that no one is going to pay membership fees for the sake of a recent isekai, even at a robber’s rate—a newcomer differs from a local only in the temporary protection afforded to a rookie, which is almost ineffective when acting alone, serving more to protect the caste of newcomers from genocide by the authorities than to shield individual newcomers from a knife to the side.

In short, he didn’t head to the Adventurers’ Guild—there are over a dozen major branches of that guild in the Kingdom of Swan, all ranked above the fifth tier—but to a place even more terrifying for a novice, though still essential at this stage. To a true and genuine bloodsucker, next to whom both local and earthly vampires are mere suckers, for fuck’s sake. No, not to a deputy, and not even to customs, but to a real-deal loan shark. The kind who lends money at extortionate interest rates and then punishes with terrifying cruelty those he’s had to put on the books, yet who still haven’t paid up.

Taking a deep breath under the indifferent gaze of the six-foot-tall hulk at the entrance, Ptakh stepped under the awning of a low building with a very thick door and windows resembling loopholes, above which a rather imposing sign swayed lazily in the cool breeze. The sign read “Bragboz Kolcheborodiy and Sons: Loans, Credits, and Brokerage Services.” Judging by what he had learned over the past day or so, of all the establishments that would even let aт isekai like him in, this was the most respectable. Not because it was actually that respectable—no—but simply because all the other options were even worse.

\\
...and you’ll die a peasant! Understand this, Ptakh: you’ll need the services of someone who’ll give you a basic loan anyway, and these bastards are still considered to be relatively decent—or at least they follow the rules of decency, if you can even say that about loan sharks. It disgusts me even to think about them, even more than talking to you, but these little men know how to handle money, and they aren’t afraid to lend to those with few ties to the city and its factions—any city and any factions. What do they care? They’re not at home here, but out making a living; they view their work like a military campaign, only instead of staffs and swords, they have inkwells and pouches of coins. And they always take what’s theirs anyway.

Bragboz and Sons are just as bloodsucking and dishonorable scum as the rest of their kind—whether loan sharks or shorties—they just have a bit more brains in their stone skulls. They’ll betray, sell out, screw over, and toss aside anyone; they’ll spit on your soul and wipe their asses with your honor if there’s even the slightest profit to be made and they can get away with it. But they do have a reputation, the best among the loan shark houses of Chekanaya Sloboda, and you won’t find a more respectable place. They always get what’s theirs, and they always conduct business honestly—unless they can be caught red-handed or the profit from their meanness won’t cover the cost of their dishonesty. That’s why they lie, lying straight to your face, claiming their word is as solid as a rock...
\\

"...our word is like stone!" A short, even graceful little man—barely reaching Ptakh’s waist—solemnly concludes his grandiloquent monologue; yet he does not look like a dwarf, but rather a small adult man whom one would not dare to laugh at, for his gaze is so painfully calm and terrifying. "One hundred silver feather coins of the lower minting, five silver wing coins of the upper minting. Taxes, interest, provisions, and agreements within the framework of the standard of John the Quiet, legalized by a winged edict. And here, sign here—you can use a cross, or a drop of blood, which is even preferable, but, all right, a cross will do as well. Here is another contract regarding the employment agreement, and on top of that, an insurance policy in case of unforeseen circumstances. Please sign here, here, and right here."

The contracts were handed over by a very pretty young woman of the gnome race—not to be confused with the dwarves, who bear a much closer resemblance to Tolkien’s dwarves—who was also short, but incredibly sweet and always smiling. She was truly incredibly sweet; her smile and the scent of her perfume made his mind float away. He wanted to gaze into her crystal-clear eyes, the color of burnt amber, and, without asking any questions, sign everything right away—no fuss, no questions, no pretense. And Ptak is almost completely certain that even if he were to complain, even if his complaint were reviewed and a serious effort were made to find someone else at fault, nothing could be proven anyway. Because here, it’s just her passive skills, plus her personal charisma on top of that, and maybe something else in that perfume that smells so overwhelmingly pleasant.

It would seem he swore to himself he’d never think kindly of that jerk Avaris, but he keeps thinking about him anyway—constantly. The only consolation is that praise and well-wishes from the common folk—and especially from an isekai—like a sickle strike on the balls. Yet Ptakh had argued with him and was confident he could handle it anyway, so there was no need to spend all three free talents in such a radical way, especially given the plans ahead.

\\
...You really are an idiot. I’m about to burst into tears right now. I swear to Her. I’ve got no strength left. No! Composure and focus won’t help you if they put even the slightest serious pressure on your brain, even if it’s just passive and without any active skills. It’s im-po-si-ble. Read my lips, you lackey, read my lips, you animal, read! Any self-respecting merchant will have “Bargaining” or “Persuasion” developed, and a loan shark will definitely have someone with a full specialization and a Persuader class. And if they sometimes risk pushing even a local resident—who has a bunch of relatives and acquaintances and will definitely go complain—do you really think they won’t try to pressure a lone isekai who fancies himself the smartest one around?

If yes, if you really believe that, then get the hell out of here and crawl back to the dump you came from, because you’re a lost cause! But if there’s even a shred of sense left in your rotten head, invest the entire Holy Trinity in the “Condensed aura”; on the third investment, “Adaptation to the Stimulus” will unlock there as an additional property. The longer you’re subjected to the same type of pressure, the more resistant you’ll become to it. They won’t try to pressure you with direct subjugation, a focused love spell, or a suggestive well—not even if you’re all alone with no yard or fence—not these shorties; there’s simply no benefit for them. And you’ll bounce back from whatever’s easier to fend off—just hold on for the first few minutes, you filthy shit-scooper...
\\

Basically, if it weren’t for Avaris’s advice, this sweet young lady—who embodies the earthly term “shortstack” to the fullest—would have sweetly and calmly forced him to sign the initial contract for a signing bonus, plus a “working” contract on top of that, and he wouldn’t have even realized what was happening, nor would he have been able to bring himself to understand. Actually, the current version of the contract didn’t differ much from the original—just a few key amendments. Key for him, that is, whereas for the gnomes signing him up for outright debauchery, a debt trap, and death in hazardous working conditions, these clauses were mostly irrelevant; otherwise, they wouldn’t have agreed to it.

"After all, I swear on my beard, it’s truly a joy to have found a smart and independent Isekai who knows the value of good work and his own path up the Ladder." Of course he’s happy; he signed up some moron for a job in the middle of a uranium mine, but on top of that, the moron is actually paying him for it, or rather, not him, but the shop he recommended, where he’ll have to stock up on alchemy supplies and consumables, and on top of that, the mine owner will throw him a bonus. "I think you can head over to the venerable Ballizus right now, just stop by the bank and deposit the money first, or else you’ll get robbed. I swear to you, they’ll rob you in broad daylight! I’ll send a guard with you; he’ll take you to the bank, and from there you’ll find your way on your own. Any bum will point out Master Ballizus’s mine for a copper coin."

All that was left was to nod gratefully and say goodbye, pretending not to notice how the young gnome girl quickly lost interest in yet another fish the moment he’d sealed his own fate. A Fault Mine is a stable dungeon—essentially a mine filled with resources that are very much worth mining, sometimes requiring you to spend your days off waiting a while for the mine to refresh, along with the resources inside it. The older the Rift, the more specific system resources have been invested in it, the deeper the reserves of all sorts of extractable stuff, and the rarer and cooler the items found there. There are also mobs—or rather, creatures created out of nothing, out of chaos and emptiness—but they’re cleared out regularly and thoroughly; at most, something small might slip through and bite you.

It’s not some brain-dead suiciders like Ptakh that are clearing the area, but well-coordinated teams of leveling-up fighters—fully equipped, integrated, and completely on our side. No one even thinks of letting miners through to stable grinding; they might even dish out beatings and fines if you take down someone else’s mob and try to snatch the loot box from it. The specific problem with Ballizus is that, in pursuit of profit, he made the modifications to his Rift very specific indeed. There is a constant and unceasing toxic aura of the ethereal-poison type, dealing double damage, and with an emphasis on the ethereal element. And of all the common and not-so-common elements, ethereal is the hardest to block, which is why standard “rift” amulets against negative auras work poorly or only briefly—or both at once.

You need to get more expensive amulets—ones that miners who extract Etherite, Green Blarsk, Agate Aorcerer Atones, and other treasures found in the Ballizus Rift can easily afford. Such materials are mined only by experienced specialists with their own tools and connections—often both family and guild ties—who are practically a separate caste. But, aside from the miners, the Rift must also be staffed by water carriers, slag porters, scavengers, cooks, and other such folk, who haven’t saved up for such amulets and won’t be able to in the near future. And so here they are—suffering, falling ill, and eventually dying if they don’t quit their jobs. That is why the contracts at this Pantheon-blessed mine are so convoluted, always set for a specific term with severe penalties for attempting to walk away, and automatically renewing if the miner is in debt.

Needless to say, by this evening, Ptakh’s debt will have been bought out by the venerable Ballizus from the equally venerable Ulbaz the Bearded, a distant relative of that very same Bragboz after whom the loan shark’s office is named. In the end, the naive simpleton staring at the tight-fitting suit and the gnome-like breasts hidden beneath it will, instead of getting his contract, be forced to spend money on alchemy to protect him from the ether’s radiation, healing decoctions, purifiers, and short-term amulets, forced to borrow again and again, unable to leave his workplace. And yet, the poor fool had only come, after visiting Her Temple, trying to find a job that would combine leveling up “Fortitude” with earning a living.

He’s even willing to invest in leveling up to speed up his progress and reach at least the first 25 points as soon as possible—and then the coveted 50 mark as well. It’s an extreme form of development—they might well have recommended it—but you have to be careful about what exactly you’re signing up for. For example, you need to take into account the fact that only what you earn yourself in the mine goes toward paying off the debt. Any other side work in your field is only allowed during non-working hours, and even mandatory rest time on the grounds of Ballizus’s estate counts as working hours. Rest time, by the way, can be shortened due to “special circumstances,” but no extra pay is provided, even if such circumstances arise every day. Well, if you don’t have enough for a new necklace that boosts your wife’s charisma (a very scandalously notorious, amorous lady)—that’s also a very special circumstance, so just get to work.

No matter how you look at it, Ptakh had backed himself into such an ass that even with his bonuses—managing to build up his Fortitude fast enough to avoid dying from etheric contamination (which, by the way, is a truly miserable way to die)—and even after leveling the necessary skill to level three, he had no way out. He wouldn’t have died from intoxication, but he’d hardly be able to pay off his debt in the next five to seven years, especially if they started fining him and cutting back on everything they possibly could. Then, demonstratively loosen the leash a bit, let him roam the city and visit prostitutes, rather than demanding he stay on the premises twenty-four hours a day, and there you have it: a virtual slave, one who’s even grateful they’re allowed to work.

Struggling to suppress a grimace of rage, hiding it behind the focused gaze of a country bumpkin in a city boutique, Ptakh nods goodbye to the man who had actually led him to the bank—a man who hadn’t even introduced himself or made small talk. And then, taking another deep breath as if before a dive, he walks under the sign of “The First and Only Central Bank Blessed by Her, ‘Swan’s Fidelity.’” It’s worth noting that he didn’t enter the main city branch next to the temple square, but a branch located in the middle of town, where a man in his attire was still allowed in, albeit with some reluctance and a hint of snobbery in their eyes.

"Hello, I’d like to open a personal account and deposit some money into it." A calm nod from an indifferent clerk who perfectly understood why people even come to a bank supported by the Omnipresent System, a bank that operates in many respects at the system’s expense. "I’d also like to cash out another account—an anonymous one, using a password provided voluntarily."

\\
...I don’t have much left, and what hasn’t been taken from me while I’m here—and which they don’t even know about—is even less. I opened this account back in my youth, when I lived it up and often fled the bedrooms of noble ladies wearing nothing but my underwear. There was always the chance of suddenly finding myself in a delicate situation, when a jealous husband sends assassins after you, and you have to go into hiding. It’s a bearer account; just give the password and, under a mental scan, confirm that you received the gift voluntarily, without pressure or torture, and they’ll leave you alone. A situation where a prisoner of Her Temple and his position as an advisor helps someone like this... It’s not unique; such things do happen. There are even those who deliberately take on the role of advisor for a couple of months, yes, though that is an even greater perversion than copulating with livestock or one’s own serfs.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I can see it all written all over your stupid face, peasant. I can see your questions. Sure, sure, you can go straight to the bank and cash out your account, without dealing with those bearded loan sharks, may demons pierce every rib of theirs and turn the hair of their unfaithful wives gray. But your joy won’t last long. They’ll notice your spending, realize you’re some nobody from nowhere, and to decent people or any kind of scum, you’re exactly that—a nobody, a nobody, a zero, a nobody... I know when enough is enough! Listen to my wisdom and don’t interrupt, you lackey! So here’s the thing. They’ll notice, they’ll figure out there’s money, and at night the generous brothers will come, asking to share like brothers—money for them, your life, and a beating for you.

No, pleb. You’ll have to let everyone know and see where your money comes from, so that no one gets the idea you’re spending more than you can earn, even if you don’t eat or dress properly. By the way, I advise you to do just that—fasting and humility, even without exhaustion, develop Fortitude, and there’ll be fewer questions. In the early stages, you really don’t need expensive purchases, not at your pace of development. And at the bank, everything is under oath; even if they realize, with a straight face, that they’re looking at a peasant with a pile of gold that no one’s stopping them from taking for themselves, there’s nothing they can do about it.

It’s possible to break a banker’s oath. It’s not even that hard, but it’s expensive. My old savings account from my youth isn’t worth it; you’ll go broke just on the “traitor’s extractions” alone. You know what they’re made of? The liver of the oath-breaker. Yes, yes, don’t pull that face, you wretch; it’s already disgusting enough. The more expensive and higher-quality ones come from official criminals in prisons and on execution platforms—or rather, beneath them, in a special, stable rift. The simpler ones—whatever’s available. First, they torture them, forcing them to take an oath, like never to eat apples, then they make them break the oath, and only then do they cut them up. It seems cheap, but you’ll end up breaking the bank on a good cook yourself; they’re very reluctant to go into blackness, unless they’re part of certain clans... but this isn’t about them right now, but about the “traitor’s extractions” itself.

It is a lucrative business. My brother—may the Pantheon rest his soul—he ran it through middlemen. He invited me to join, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it… Such an abomination… constantly dealing with the rabble, and on top of that, with those generous brothers who do all the work. No, I couldn’t do it; I wouldn’t have been able to bear the humiliation and torment. So, what was I talking about? Right, the plan. The plan for how you’re going to outdo them all!

So, in my scenario, if that scumbag with his damned death mine hasn’t gone bankrupt—and he hasn’t, I’m sure; scum like that never goes under—you’ll manage to hide from even the most watchful eye. Not everyone can scan the entire Chronicle, or even most of it, and no one is going to seriously check a simple errand boy, a bucket, and a stone carrier. And if my little gift hasn’t run out of power—and it shouldn’t have—that crystal will last another seven years or so, and then you can recharge it yourself; the method is simple... then you’ll be completely covered.

The main thing is, once you’ve done everything you need to do under the cover of the Ballizus workshop sign, pull it off in time and get out of there. Yeah, yeah, it might seem like just paying off a debt, but trust me, no one’s going to let go of a worker who’s already settled in—someone who doesn’t even complain, but who’ll work for free just for a meal. And going to the moneylender is pointless, because if you go to him with money to confirm the payment, it might suddenly turn out that there’s no writing paper, the boss is sick, the cat gave birth to seven tiger cubs and one wyvern—come back in three days. Do you think witnesses to the fact that you stole exactly this amount from someone will turn up by evening or by the next morning? Or evidence of theft in your personal belongings or your room?

Yes, yes, peasant, this is the life that awaits you. It would have, if not for me, Avaris al-Refrith, so appreciate my kindness and nobility, and remember me in your prayers... though no, don’t—the last thing I need is for the rabble to pray for me and sully my name with their filthy words! What do you mean, “you will”? Listen here, you petty heap of filth...
\\

In addition to a hundred feathers and five more bigger wings—at a ratio of ten to one, but there are a number of items that can’t be purchased for small denominations because sellers won’t accept them, especially through the system auction; —now there are also one hundred and fifty full-weight gold beaks that have been cashed out and put back into storage, and as many as three myrrh swans, which would have allowed one to live in luxury at least until old age and even bequeath something to one’s grandchildren, if, of course, one disregards the expenses for ascending the Ladder after the fifth or even seventh step.

Also, a simple little bracelet that looks like nothing more than a few pieces of cheap coral and some strips of fabric wrapped around his palm. It could very well be just a piece of jewelry, or perhaps a gift from someone. A gift that allows for quite flexible control over exactly what to reveal to simple and not-so-simple skills and abilities that scan the Chronicle of the selected target. Against a truly serious attack from someone with a specialized build and a level of fifteen or even a full seventeen, such a tactic won’t help at all, or will only help if the scanner is inattentive. But there are few aristocrats and their servants in Morochny, and even among those who are there, not everyone has the appropriate skills, build, and class.

Still, it’s worth keeping in mind that Avaris made this trinket for himself when he was young, intending to use it to escape jealous husbands, not state security forces. On the other hand, Ptah isn’t currently facing some fantasy KGB, but rather unscrupulous merchants, mine owners, and loan sharks. Not the kind of threat capable of overcoming what is, for a moment, quite a decent defense. After all, the mustachioed jerk came from a very noble and wealthy family, being part of that so-called “golden youth.” The kind, you know, you’d like to hang from lampposts, even if you’re definitely not a fan of blood-red ideology.

Buying alchemy items turned out to be much easier than expected. Here, too, nothing had changed from what Avaris had described. The System Auction was still off-limits to him—it required at least a fifth-level entry requirement—but the nearby fixed-price shops suited him just fine. Prices there are noticeably higher than in private shops, and they sell either trifles, clearly system-generated items rather than crafted ones, or mass-produced, very common items. The potions and amulets Ptakh needed fell into exactly this category, if anything.

On average, fixed prices are significantly higher than in open bidding, but bidders there are honing their skills, and pickpockets are lurking nearby. It was very easy not only to lose money but also to get caught up in a completely unnecessary argument. He didn’t need to unlock the trading skill, so it was easier to save a little time, energy, and nerves and minimize the chances of being robbed. Ptakh did just that, quickly finding everything he needed and taking only a little, since he doesn’t have the first level yet, his inventory doesn’t work, and carrying fragile and heavy goods around would be a surefire way to lose them. By the way, speaking of not taking the trading skill: at the very suggestion of taking the skill to wield cleavers, Avaris threw such a fit that the chair beneath him nearly caught fire. He worried more about the stability of the Chronicles and the quality of his “apprentice’s” build than he did about himself.

"Twenty small vials of Etheric Resistance, for zero step. Twenty-five small vials of Antitoxin, five sachets of Cleansing Powder, one Restoration Pill, and one Slag-Evaporation Pill. Three small amulets of Ethereal Protection, three more of the same but against toxins, all with a fixed charge." A young man only slightly older than Ptakh was packing up his purchases; he was likely a relative of the owner, building up his own clientele. “Healing ointments, mild, five boxes. Protective ointments, anti-venom, ten boxes. Toning ointments, mild, three boxes. Stopper potions, three-day, zero-dose... fifty vials? Maybe you’d like to take a larger quantity right away? There’ll be a wholesale discount.”

After thinking it over for a moment, the Earthling nodded in agreement, finding some merit in the words of the young man who was genuinely trying to help. The “stopper” was the name of a potion that blocked progression between levels. It’s believed that you shouldn’t rush through the levels, but rather build the foundation of the pyramid if you want to achieve anything at all. At the very least, a foundation of four skills, but it’s better to take a class altogether. No, if you unlock and take a skill at, say, the third level, you won’t lose any skill points or the corresponding upgrades—you’ll automatically receive them for all the levels you skipped. It’s just that skills are easiest to unlock at level zero; it gets noticeably harder to take them later on.

At the same time, if you focus from the start on unlocking the skill you want, you can acquire it without a quest, without the help of a mentor, and without having to owe that mentor a huge “favor” for giving you the quest and helping you acquire the skill. They say that even a completely talentless commoner can acquire a high-level skill this way, and a worthy person can certainly do so. Accordingly, as Avaris believed, swearing by his mustache and noble name, multiplied by his gift, this “zero effect” would make it possible to guarantee two High skills and, if he were very lucky, even a legendary True skill would be unlocked for him.

But it will be very difficult.
And he'll have to work hard.
Really, really, REALLY hard.

“Thanks for your purchase. That’ll be nine wings, two feathers, and thirteen large copper feet… yep, that’s right.” After finishing counting the coins, the guy suddenly leaned in closer and said, almost in a whisper, “You’re going to work in the Rift Mine, right?”

Ptakh nodded cautiously, seeing no reason to remain silent.

“Get out of there, kid, get out as fast as you can, or you’ll end up dead for nothing.” And just like that, he slips back into his usual, unflappable, businesslike demeanor, as if nothing had happened and his last words had fallen on deaf ears. “Anything else? Well, then, I wish you all the best.”

The Earthling left not only loaded down with potions but also feeling a certain moral uplift, because the world had once again shown him that while there are a hell of a lot of jerks around here, there are decent people too. They’re just forced to hide and blend in, because if there’s one thing Ptakh agrees with Avaris on, it’s that Iulatar’s greatest sin must be considered his own weakness and pity. The realization of this truth made him feel literally sick, to the point of seeing black flies floating before his eyes, to the point of wanting to smash someone’s head against the wall. He was held back by that same greatest sin—for now, he was capable of smashing only his own head.

The isekai walked through the crowded streets, looking around intently, clutching the purse containing the remaining money he’d set aside for expenses, as well as all the purchases he’d made that day. Not just potions, but also a new set of clothes, spare underwear, and a pair of old boots—trophy boots taken from Balar—while on his feet were new ones, custom-fitted to his feet by the shopkeeper’s active skill, by the way. Good loot from chests adjusts to your size on its own, but where is Ptakh, and where is the good loot? The people around him went about their lives, some rushing off on errands, some strolling leisurely, and some just loafing about and openly enjoying life. The only ones who seemed to have nothing much to do were the children and teenagers, because they had not yet partaken of Her, had not acquired the Chronicle, and were therefore good for nothing but the most menial work.

It must be strange to live in a world where coming of age isn’t just a stamp in your passport—or, given the reality of things, a travel permit—but the very definition of who you are as a person. Without the system, you’re nobody, less than nobody. They wouldn’t even give a primordial essence for killing you—that’s how worthless you are. Well, humans won’t get it, whereas those creatures kill children quite freely—they even get bonus experience for it. And non-humans can also kill members of other races; there’s an increased reward multiplier for that, even for infants. Humans, accordingly, also get to slaughter non-combatants of other intelligent races to their heart’s content. Yet another reason for the remarkable mutual understanding and peace between these very races. The “SARCASM” sign is temporarily missing; instead, that hundred-meter-long poster is flying high above the world.

Now that it’s a clear day, he can clearly make out members of the non-human kind wandering here and there. Most often, they are hobbit-like creatures—short, mostly plump, yet agile, remarkably nimble, and fast. They possess a racial trait granting increased agility—a free physical enhancement they receive at first level, which is believed to partially take effect even before they gain access to their Chronicle at all. Hobbits unlock and master skills related to mobility, agriculture, and trade (or thievery, which they don’t mention in public) noticeably more easily, and the list of available abilities within the same skill categories will differ between two representatives of different races.

In addition to halflings, gnomes were also a common sight, though they were mostly found among merchants and artisans—wealthy and influential ones, to be sure. They usually moved around under guard or traveled in rickshaws, palanquins, and various types of private carriages. These guys have a natural gift for acquiring extra loot, especially coins, if any are found when creatures are slain, so they are never poor. No, the gnomes do have their own beggars; it’s just that in Morochny, they’re either absent—having stayed in their home towns and mountain kingdoms—or they’re living in the local slums.

He’d only seen the Dwarfs a couple of times, broad-shouldered and bearded too, though not with those neat little Lenin-style beards, but with magnificent beards like those of meme-worthy Vikings; poor Grok would have died of envy. Braided into plaits, with all sorts of rings woven in and equally magnificent mustaches—they were the very picture of dwarves, the most dvarf-like dwarfs that ever lived. The only thing is, they don’t wear full plate armor; they’re big traditionalists and consider wearing armor appropriate only for battle. In peacetime, they wear thin, though very warm, woolen clothes, in modest colors and without unnecessary embellishments. Because the decorations, stones, and gilding with runes—all that’s left on the armor.

I never did see any elves. They generally dislike leaving their lands, and they dislike those who live outside their lands threefold. There was a great deal of personal animosity in Avaris’s racist and vitriolic remarks directed at those snobbish pointy-eared creatures, whose conceit knows no bounds of decency or common sense (he actually said that, damn it, as if he didn’t even grasp the irony). Especially directed at the elven women who view all short-lived beings, except for their kin from one branch of their own people, as if they were some kind of animals, and those who try to elicit any reciprocity from them, as lustful beasts.

At first, after listening to this monologue full of pent-up resentment, Ptakh immediately realized a simple truth: she didn't give(*). And when he voiced that truth, he nearly got hit in the forehead with the chair Avaris was sitting on, despite the system’s protective measures during the conversation. But then Avaris calmed down and admitted, “Yeah, she didn’t.” However, once he had calmed down, he spoke about the elves in more detail, though still extremely negatively, which made Ptak want to see them purely out of curiosity.
T.N.

He didn’t see any orcs or goblins either—green-skinned creatures aren’t exactly welcome in the lands under the Swan’s Wing, and not just there. They’re extremely aggressive, militaristic races with a very peculiar and openly human-eating society. And not just human-eating, either—they’ll devour just anyone. The last war ended not so long ago, and the lingering border conflicts show no signs of abating; there are noticeably more states with which the orcs have problems than those where they are at least tolerated. But that’s fine with them; they feel perfectly at home, while the bulk of the racial diversity in their horde-states consists of outright slaves.

That said, certain human states or tribes did cooperate with the Greens, joining them entirely of their own free will. These were mostly barbarian or nomadic tribes, such as the Earth’s steppe peoples—the Mongols and Huns—who, in their time, dealt a severe blow to both European and Slavic civilizations. Even when Avaris was sentenced to life imprisonment, there was talk of the coming inevitability of a great war, because such wars occur regularly every one and a half to two hundred years, as the steppes and wild lands of the Greens once again face overpopulation coupled with social discontent.

In his mind, Ptakh made a mental note to check whether such a war had taken place quite recently, as the complete absence of fairly common races within the walls of Morochny was highly unusual. They hadn’t been welcome here before, of course, but in Avaris’s time, they were still present—mercenaries, guards, the occasional merchant, and the rare settled, civilized individual. Now, however, none of them were to be seen, though it could not be ruled out that Ptakh had simply failed to notice them—he had been in the city for less than two days, of which he had spent a full twenty-four hours in the extra-dimensional chamber for particularly important negotiations. However, after thinking it over and recalling the past, he admitted that war was more likely to be coming than to have already passed, especially judging by the remarks of Grok and his crew. To put it figuratively: a match had already been held to the powder keg and doused with gasoline.

The city tower struck seventeen times, signaling to the earthling that it was time to head off to his new workplace. Fortunately, he still had a full day to “settle in”—time he would have to spend sleeping, allowing the non-Egermeister to take his toll on his weary body. The little man’s advice had come in handy. The small coin in the vagrant’s hand turned into detailed instructions on where and how to go, complete with easily recognizable landmarks. The courtyard of the venerable Ballizus seemed easy to find, and there, at the entrance, they were already waiting for him and greeted him, accepted his credentials regarding that very employment, and led him inside.

Unless you know it in advance, you wouldn’t notice the cheerful, mocking contempt for a future cripple—or even a corpse—that Julius, the steward, felt as he hired the new worker. It seems like this is largely pure fantasy-medieval, yet the bureaucratic apparatus is highly developed, likely not without the help of the Omnipresent and her system. Or rather, the locals simply copied what the system created, using it as a sort of model. Agreements, contracts, and labor law in general definitely exist here, precluding total chaos. In a world that must combat this chaos by systematizing it into a well-oiled Scheme and recording it in the eternal Chronicle, this isn’t even surprising.

It was a quite cozy single room in a long, two-story dormitory; though it resembled a coffin, it was private, belonging solely to him. Other workers lived in communal barracks—especially those in the lower ranks who did the dirty work outside the mine, right in the courtyard. There are far fewer risks there, so the pay is lower, and the living conditions are less comfortable. The residents of these separate rooms—not the barracks—are still viewed either as gods (full-fledged miners engaged in extracting the system’s treasures)or as mere expendables (Ptakh and his colleagues).

The rest of the day was spent receiving instructions, familiarizing himself with his future duties, and picking up the equipment provided for rent (read: sold at triple the price, since in the harsh environment of the rift zone it would literally fall apart at the seams) and a certain amount of alchemy. It was practically the same as what he had bought himself, only acquired at an even lower price from low-level, inexperienced alchemists, of lower quality than what Ptakh had purchased. This isn’t even just stinginess; it’s some kind of astonishing penny-pinching, a saving so petty that it becomes a defining trait of the venerable Ballizus and his entire business. After all, the profit there is literally in pennies, not even silver, but there is a profit nonetheless—a general laborer in the mine will die faster from exposure to etherium than from the accumulation of slag from substandard alchemy.

"Hey, new kid, damn it! Buy Uncle Loma a drink!" shouts a well-swigged man, over thirty but looking fifty. "Don't respect me, huh? Buy me one, I'll tell you something interesting! No? Well, go fuck yourself, you'll cry!"

Anyway, they quickly shut him up, because it’s obvious what he could have revealed. It doesn’t matter now; the new legalized slave won’t run anywhere, just like the rest of the fools who fell for this job. Still, it’s worth acknowledging that they aren’t as foolish as Ptakh himself. Because they looked at what they were signing and knew where they were going, unlike Ptakh. So their working conditions will be bad, harmful, and dangerous, but the contracts were certified by a legitimate and trustworthy lawyer, so there isn’t any outright fraud there. After all, someone could come after them, and they certainly will—because they aren’t outsiders here, but insiders, no matter how insignificant they may be.

As for the Earthling and the other fools—who are most likely also from the isekais—they’ll be sent to the deepest, most toxic layers, forced to deal with the most disgusting waste, and that’s just it. All to squeeze as much as possible out of them before they either die or become so weak that it’s no longer possible to use them properly. It would be good if they all lived to see the next Storm of the Void, so that new batches of isekais could be hired for cheap by buying out their contracts from the city government. However, aside from the isekais, the suicide squads also include local losers, vagrants, small-time criminals forced into it, and simply desperate people who had no choice but to either die in a year from ether and toxin poisoning or freeze to death and starve by tomorrow night.

There is a kind of life that is worse than death, yet everyone still wants a little bit of life. And a rift mine, despite all its horrors, is by no means as dreadful as the penal mines—which are also rift mines—or other places of particular danger, where even surviving a single month is a feat in itself. In those same Karmit Mines, if someone is exiled instead of being executed, those sentenced to death often beg the judges for death themselves, and if they do not receive that death, they end their own lives by any means possible.

With these cheerful thoughts in mind, and without treating his colleagues to any of the “signing bonus” he’d received, the impudent newcomer went to his room. There, he laid out his potions, checked the lock, and swapped one of the vials for a very strong laxative—just in case someone dared to rob him—and then began to meditate. Because the shadow of Avaris looming over his shoulder was already threatening to tear him to shreds for the hours of his life wasted in vain. His thoughts moved softly and smoothly, constantly coming back to the fact that he felt a very strong desire to burn this fucking business of the venerable master merchant and master hunter Ballizus to the ground. He could even burn Ballizus himself along with it; yeah, Ptakh wouldn’t mind.

Strictly speaking, if you do the math right, this kind of “indentured” labor contract is actually quite humane, even if it is a bit of a rip-off. The newbie gets a loan for their own development, spending it on future levels and skill points, and then actually starts their development. The pay they receive is enough to pay off the loan, with a little left over for beer and sausages. By the end of the repayment period, the individual who has just become a bearer of the Chronicle is left without money or equipment, but with work experience and already developed skills—and perhaps even a second or third level.

After such rapid advancement, the worker can take a break and sign a new contract—but this time without a loan, because they are now capable of enduring the harsh working conditions on their own; there’s no need to spend a lot of money on extra protection. Now the seasoned worker invests in themselves, in equipment, in training, perhaps joining a simpler guild to gain additional skills, gradually becoming a good specialist. For example, by retraining as a miner-extractor who can work calmly and safely in the same fault mine, already knowing its specifics. Or perhaps as someone else. It depends on the fault and the type of “hostile environment” that threatens mortal visitors in that particular fault.

But all this is possible only if all parties play fair, not the way things are now. After all, why bring in new, experienced workers if you have to pay them and then let them go with that money? Why would miners need competitors when these men have their own guilds and entire dynasties of specialists—at least fifth-level, and often sixth-level—who do not need competition in a place where they can place their own children and nephews, train and mentor them personally, and show them through their own experience how to avoid mistakes? Why pay at all when you can avoid paying, when there are always plenty of hungry mouths outside the farmyard gates, especially in Morochny, where migrants fleeing the central lands flock?

Avaris perceived all this as normal, as the natural order of things, merely glad that his chance for even a modicum of revenge—from beyond the grave, so to speak—would be lost among these losers. The Earthling, however, took such brutality somewhat closer to heart, which made him want to get to know the hearts of others more intimately. Perhaps even by physically ripping them out of the bodies of everyone involved in this monstrosity.

Ptakh meditates, alternately plunging into the depths of the currents of the world’s forces, soaring above its own body, and listening to the steady throbbing and humming of the hidden, nearby stable entrance to the Rift. The very one into which it will soon descend in search of strength, power, and a chance to demonstrate its will to the world. Or, at the very least, to find his place in it, so that this place is not taken away simply on a whim of the powerful of this world.

Glancing at his Meditation skill, which had reached level four, he merely smiled as he drifted off to sleep, letting the alchemy he had consumed take effect. If the laws of the world dictate that weakness is a sin and compassion a luxury, then Ptak couldn’t care less about such a world or such laws.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88665/597019

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP