Готовый перевод В хронике моей... / In the Chronicle of Mine: 4.

4.

* * *

A whole range of positions is generally considered to be the most grueling work in rift mines in general, and in such “partially wild” mines with hostile environments in particular. It depends on the type of mine, the workforce, and the nature of the management. And yet Ptakh is almost certain that his job duties will also fall under this definition—he didn’t even try very hard to make that happen. All it took was to demonstratively ignore the hint from the shift foreman, the venerable master Luvy, that all accidentally found pieces of active ore, insignificant and small caches (he wouldn’t be able to spot any others anyway—he lacks the step, the observation, and the luck), as well as other valuable items, should be handed over not via an inventory but to him personally.

Pretending to be a naive, law-abiding fool turned out to be surprisingly easy, as if I’d gone back to my very first job at a government office, where it’s actually easier to pretend to be a complete moron than to deal with the bosses—the kind whose thinking is structured in a rigid, boxed-in way, as they say. He simply agreed right away and eagerly asked for a corresponding written order or one certified by a quest, which Master Luvy, for some reason, didn’t want to provide. When threatened with being sent to do the kind of work an Earthling is doing right now, he just smiled and thanked him, pretending he was even glad. Because he wasn’t pretending. This way, he’ll actually level up his Fortitude faster, which is traditionally even harsher in the side tunnels and adits, since they don’t even bother cleaning it out there. As you might guess, rituals and active skills, as well as system abilities to control the dungeon, are used exclusively in the central parts of the mine, since that’s cheaper. Why pay more if you don’t have to? If the only cost is the health and lives of scum, that nobody needs?

So, they looked at Ptakh as if he were an idiot and, with glee, let him go crash himself against the wall since he was so uncooperative; they even held him up as an example to the rest of his colleagues. As if to say, “This is exactly what will happen to you if you start acting up and don’t listen to the wise master, you powerless serfs.” And the Earthling? He took a winding route to check the scanning cores installed by the chief Ore Expert of the entire mine, Master Uggi himself. The Earthling hadn’t yet looked this very master in the eye, but he already respected him, roughly understanding exactly why he held his position.

The eleventh step, plus two Trials he’d passed in the Guild that accepted him, plus all three of his starting points—he’d invested them all in his primary skill of High quality, which was nothing less than a ticket to the nobility. “Enchanter Ore-Reader,” that is. In fact, his entire build is centered on this skill, which the venerable master and guild magister (an equivalent of non-hereditary nobility in terms of privileges, albeit without actual nobility, distinguished solely by guild and artisan bigwigs) makes no secret of, enhancing his active talents with the necessary passive traits. All of this is to bring together his best combination: “native pickaxe” from a Worthy “Miner,” “signal interpretation” from an average “Expert,” as well as “long-range communication,” “vein control,” “stone memory,” and “ore intuition” from that very “Enchanter Ore Expert.” Moreover, he most likely didn’t invest just one point in each of these talents, but these are merely Ptakh’s suspicions, which cannot be pinned to the case.

But now he can work with a pickaxe for a couple of hours in the mine, and then, for a month, use his ability to sense deposits of anything valuable—not only personally and around him, but also through the pickaxe left behind in the tunnel. Not as powerfully and not within such a wide radius, but he constantly keeps in mind a map of the deposits of ethereal materials, which, as is known, often migrate and move along with the currents of forces, especially in dungeons, that is, in rifts. Today there was a rich vein here, and tomorrow it’s already gone, and you have to search, spending time, strength, health, and the efforts of the cover teams that cut out the creatures from the lower levels, while also guarding the very best miners who naturally go on raids for ore to those lower levels, extracting it under enemy fire.

Sometimes literally.

These magical pickaxes, transformed into those very scanning cores through a combination of active and passive skills, form the basis of the local sensory system for ore mining. It seems like an open secret, but Master Uggi doesn’t spill the beans over a beer about the deeper and truly valuable details and secrets of the method he uses. While he doesn’t hide the foundation of his power—which is why, in his short time on the job, Ptakh managed to learn that “secret” from the chatterboxes during lunch break—he never revealed any of the more specific details. Ptakh knows nothing more than that obvious, terrifying secret and his own job duties.

The duties turned out to be dangerous, but essentially quite simple—simple enough to take on fresh recruits with absolutely no experience. The runners, one of whom the Earthling had become, dashed through winding tunnels, skirting bubbling green puddles capable of corroding boots in a day, dodging the lazily drifting transparent-gray clouds of ethereal mist that would eat away at the lungs in a couple of breaths, leaping over the sparks of energy lightning snaking across the rock, capable of making a skeleton as brittle as glass. They ran, checking, among other things, the ritual circles carved directly into the rock, in the center of which stood a faintly vibrating pickaxe-plectrum that would not fall.

Come, check the condition of the ritual circle, make sure it’s in good condition and not running low, sprinkle it with the issued crystalline dust, not even sand, but the cost-saving measure is clear here; the ritual is short-lived on its own, so there’s no point in splurging, strengthening the ritual’s foundation, then rushing off to the next location. Nod to the workers, answer a couple of questions, check three more pickaxes, account for the dust—God forbid you try to pocket even a handful without being a godfather, brother, or matchmaker—and then back to square one. The work is primitive, mindless, exhausting, and on top of that, highly dangerous, especially if you encounter some powerful anomaly in the tunnels or a stray mob missed by the cleanup crew that clears the mine every few days, as the hour of chaos, the hour of the coming, strikes. Or, to put it simply, right after the mobs spawn.

If something is wrong with the pickaxe or the ritual, he doesn’t do anything about it himself. Of course, no one would let him touch such a valuable item with his dirty hands anyway. He simply reports it to the shift supervisor at the central station, where the runners are assigned, and the supervisor calls in a ritual specialist. They don’t send just this one guy, by the way; they assign a couple of men to provide backup. Not exactly professional warriors with a combat build, but still capable of splitting a mutated rat’s skull with a pickaxe. Everyone here carries a weapon, even non-combatants, and Ptak is no exception, though he’s never once drawn his cleaver from its sheath, preferring not to take any chances.

He doesn’t take risks at work either, reporting the depletion of rituals the moment he sees signs of it—as described in a small booklet on two yellowed pages, stained with snot and something resembling dried, bloody vomit. Thanks to the system, he is fluent in the local script of the All-Unified Language, as well as his own literacy, which allowed him to understand what was written. The Isekais, who could not read in their past lives, will be just as illiterate in this one, too, unless one counts their understanding of their own Chronicle. However, for such people, the guidebook had plenty of schematic illustrations, which took up most of the pages.

The fact that he doesn’t take risks really rubs the shift supervisors the wrong way, because a weakened ritual is their failure, one for which their daily pay is slightly reduced. But if the runner himself fails to notice the problem, so the pickaxe is discharging quickly, or rather, faster than normal, depriving the venerable Master Uggi of yet another beacon—then that’s the runner’s screw-up. The first time, Ptakh made a mistake by not verifying the log entry, which is why he was very surprised that he, so to speak, hadn’t reported anything to Senior Varavva. A third of his monthly pay was docked, but now he meticulously checks the entry in the core inspection log every time, which greatly annoys the esteemed Varavva. He can’t just scribble some gibberish illegibly and send the annoying runner away.

Due to a very tight schedule—one that differs greatly from what was originally proposed (special conditions, yes, he remembers it all)—he’ll soon have to spend the night in the rift mine. In a different situation, it would be nice to breathe in the energy-filled air to speed up leveling, but in his current situation, he had to spend extra money on unnecessary stopper potions. For him, a randomly chosen level is now even more dangerous than an unfinished Chronicle filled with empty slots.

It might have seemed as if he had fallen into hell with no way out.

In a way, that is exactly what happened.

But inside, Ptakh was smiling. The plan Avaris had proposed was working, and had already brought him part of what he’d come here to achieve. And it wasn’t about the seventeen points of Fortitude, nor the fifteen points of Meditation he’d developed—no. The point was that his Chronicle was no longer so empty, for some of the slots that had previously gaped with emptiness for skill acquisition had been successfully filled with exactly what he wanted to put in the Chronicle. Or rather, he didn’t exactly want it, but he had been successfully convinced that this was exactly what he wanted—if, of course, he also wanted to live.

\\
...daammit, you damned pleb! Understand, listen to me, or I’ll cry, I’ll sob with humiliation at having to grovel before you! What do you mean, “even better”? What did you say? Come here! Come here, you scoundrel, get off my wardrobe, you ugly, inbred child of black-footed cattle herders, and say that to my face! Fine, stay there if you want, ahem. Getting back to the topic, no, you won’t make a mage, and not even because resilience doesn’t quite fit into a magic-oriented Path—no, there are a number of scenarios where protection from magic, including your own, and especially your own, will be important and useful.

Alas, things aren’t all that rosy—don’t be so quick to smile, you animal soul—because this brings us to the question of actually acquiring those skills. The magical skills associated with noble status are extremely difficult to master on your own; it takes not only training and the time to dedicate to it, but also the right place. A place where you’ll most likely never be allowed in unless you sell yourself out and become a lapdog running errands. I wouldn’t even be surprised, though I’d be upset—such is your plebeian nature, licking the master’s boots. That’s what you’ll be doing. Don’t get it? While you’re a nobody, they’ll wrap you up in contracts, put you on a leash, and fill your head with so much crap you’ll be happy. Then they’ll make you the consort of some loose woman, mistakenly considered a noblewoman; she’ll sit on your face and dangle her legs, and you’ll be breeding gifted children with higher potential. What, on your neck? What do you mean, sit on your neck? I said it right from the start—get used to it!

All right, we’ll talk about mental security against the techniques of schools of Charming, Suggestion, Love Spells, Psionics, and Mentalism—as well as countering the active erotic-sensual methods of covert influence—toward the end of our term. The point of what I’m saying is something else, my friend. It’s that you won’t be able to assemble the ideal set of skills for a mage—that is, a complete 4-2-1 pyramid—while realizing your full potential. And to assemble a less-than-perfect pyramid from low-ranking magical paths, especially with your gift—that is a crime against humanity, against nobility, against the Omnipresent herself, and also against those remnants of a brain that somehow miraculously survived in your servile head, after that blind, spittle-covered midwife dropped you headfirst onto a log in early childhood.

You will never become a high mage on your own, and if you try to find help, you will be subjugated, ensnared, and ultimately devoured. No one will ever let you reach your full power—take that as a given. I admit that a nobleman, noble and experienced in the art of intrigue, might be able to realize this potential—even as a lone figure—by playing on contradictions and using the services of various parties and factions within high society. But you are not me; you lack the knowledge, the experience, and even a couple of years in the same environment with the same teachers who trained me. You will not succeed; you will fail and perish, and with you will perish my last hope, however bitter it may be.

Your path is that of a Monk—a master of combat, knowledge, and fortitude, of course, not that of a servant of God. What? Oh, I see, a linguistic model. Don’t worry, commoner, I’ll explain. Listen to my words, Mo-na-kh-kh, listen to the phonemes themselves, not the meaning of the word... Aha! Got it. A Sage. One who comprehends the ways of the world itself and its laws, serving them, not the Pantheon or the Omnipresent, as you initially thought. A highly controversial choice, I admit, but the only one achievable for you, and therefore the only one at all. If something doesn’t suit you, I won’t hold you back—pack your bags and get out, wallow in the mud as fate has decreed for you; there will be no second chances.

Don't you want to? That's what I thought, for some reason, I don't even know why.

The Sage—yes, that’s the one. The two skills She has bestowed already serve as an excellent foundation for a High skill in this discipline. Yes, fools like you pop up all the time, wanting to gain strength, wisdom, and everything else, only to end up dying. At the beginning of the Ladder, due to a multitude of conditions and restrictions, Monks are weak, lacking in vitality, versatility, and power. They are equally inferior to Warriors, Lurkers, Archers, Mages, and Artisans, whether commoners or nobles. In fact, this is why acquiring Worthy—and, most importantly, High skills in this development path is not so strictly regulated.

Even if the common people manage to set foot on this path, they will not get very far; they will perish and will not disrupt the natural order of things. There are certain monasteries, schools, orders, and sects that reach extremely impressive heights, but they are, in essence, just as much part of the nobility as all others; they behave the same way and are forced to play by the same rules. You have nothing to do with them, right? But you will have something that cannot be overshadowed by weaknesses—the development of mastery, as well as extra skill points that will allow you to outpace others, survive the toughest stages, and reach a level where the Sage will not yield to the Warrior, where he will tear the Sorcerer apart with his bare hands and break the Lurker’s spine. To reach their level, and then to step even higher, much, much higher.

And if you wish to reach that summit, there is one more thing you need—something the Sages cultivate within themselves: a steadfastness of mind and will that is virtually impossible to influence with means of an equal caliber. Sooner or later, you will emerge among people. What do you mean, you’ve already emerged among people? I mean specifically people—noblemen, those of high rank and worthy of being called such, and not just any rabble, of course! So here’s the thing. Sooner or later, you will be forced to interact with society. In the best-case scenario, you yourself will be ready for it; you will step forward and make your mark, slowly, gradually, and having laid the groundwork with loyal people, those indebted to you, and allies.

But you’re just a lowly peasant, so let’s cut the fairy tales—they’ll expose you. They’ll overpower the Warrior, twist the Mage into a pretzel, and catch the Lurker, but the Sage... They are the most resilient, the most versatile in their resilience. They can fight, they can run, they can hide, they can chase—they can do so much. The options for skill builds for such a Lot are countless, ranging from just a couple of decent ones to a full pyramid. But no one has enough skills to cover every area of mastery. Not even you will have enough, even if you join—and you will join—a guild or somewhere else. But at the same time, you’ll be the one who falls short the least compared to them.

I don’t see any other way, and believe me, I’ve thought about it and looked for one—your filthy soul. So, do you agree? Great, that’s what I thought. And since you agree, the first thing you’ll need to do is develop two worthy skills right away to complete the pyramid’s foundation—and you can develop both of them right there in the mine. Or rather, there are several skill options that will work for completing the base, but they all belong only to the Worthy—don’t you dare choose mediocrity, or I’ll become the first mortal in the history of Iulatar whose vengeful spirit came for another’s life and soul straight from Her Temple...
\\

For the first four days, Ptakh got to know the people, reviewed his list of duties, and studied a map of the area. Then they started sending him out to work alone. Despite the difficulty, the drudgery, and the danger, the job of a “pickaxe runner,” as they called it here, was primitive to the extreme; there was nothing to teach, only to make sure the individual had memorized the rather convoluted map of the section assigned to him. But the locals generally had good memories; the blessing of the Chronicle was taking effect, automatically and passively enhancing certain brain functions. By the fifth day, he had already been granted the coveted and long-awaited opportunity to roam alone wherever he pleased, as long as he managed to run through all the checkpoints on his route

And that’s when he started training hard and effectively, mercilessly using up his stockpile of potions and concoctions. He set out on his run—a Fortification potion, Protection against the Ether, ointment on his exposed skin, oil on his gear, a pill for emergencies in his pocket—and took off. The map has been studied, all paths are known, and the spawn points of weak creatures—which don’t even stray from the point of chaos, as if they were actual mobs tied to the terrain—are also known. There are dangers, but the potions he’s taken, a skill leveled up by three points, and his already well-developed ability help against them. At most, he’ll have to stock up on potions and down a cleansing decoction by evening.

A leap, a dash, and an attempt to cut across a very dangerous spot. It’s like a little stream flowing through tunnels—shallow, no deeper than knee-high, but wide, greenish, and shimmering. The poison and ether there are highly concentrated; even with his protection and the potions he’s already taken, it’s dangerous to bathe there. A couple of hours after dipping in, you can start feeling sick, so if you fall in, you need to jump out immediately, chew a pill, drink another potion, and then vomit into a bucket in the evening, and take the bucket itself to the garbage pit. They don’t fine you for a vomit-covered apartment, but the neighbors will beat you up or wipe the vomit off with your own face. In short, don’t fall into the river—it’s a shitty experience.

But there’s no need to fall into it; you can hop from one slippery, constantly shifting rock to another—rocks that stick out here and there in the middle of the stream, gliding along like paper boats. The haze of the ether disrupts your concentration, toxic fumes and that same ether in the air burn your lungs, and your coordination breaks down at the slightest mistake. Attempting to acquire the desired skill during such training carries very serious consequences, even with a level 50 in the “Ащкешегву” skill. But not when you have the ++“Adaptation to Stimuli” trump card from a level 3 “Aura Compaction” skill, which reduces incoming damage the more you’re exposed to the same type of pressure.

Ptakh kept falling into the little stream, mercilessly wasting his alchemy reserves, acting downright foolish by local standards—by the standards of those who believe that decent skills can only be acquired without the Trial through extremely persistent (and not, as in his case, reckless) training lasting at least a couple of months. Naturally, he didn’t get the status line he needed on the first day of his ordeal, nor on the third, fifth, or even ninth. He received the Worthy skill he desired right at the afternoon break on the second day. He even froze in surprise and slipped off the rock again, to the laughter of a couple of miners returning from their shift, who were guarding the spawn points of dangerous creatures.

Oh well, they had their laugh, and that’s that. The Earthling remembered their faces anyway, but they didn’t see—and thanks to the bracelet he never took off, not even to sleep or wash, and which wasn’t affected by a dip in the river—they won’t see what Ptakh’s updated Chronicle revealed.

Performance Assessment Completed: Skill Available for Learning!

Skill: Acrobatics (Worthy)

Accept?

On the very first day, almost immediately—barely a couple of hours in—his persistent training under extremely dangerous conditions unlocked the average version of this skill: simple “Agility,” and a little later, the equally average “Dodge.” Toward the end of the first day, he earned the right to acquire a quite worthy skill called “Leaper,” but he still didn’t take the risk. Avaris described this skill, acknowledging that it fit quite well into the planned general set of skills for Ptakh, but still with some difficulty. He needed specifically “Acrobatics,” “Balancing,” or “Flexibility”; all three were equally suitable.

The first option is best for controlling distance, the second focuses on navigating difficult terrain, and the third offers the most ways to enhance your evasion, but all skill variants are essentially interchangeable, and the availability of extra skill points and accelerated skill progression will further blur these distinctions. The ability to control the distance of his hits suited him just fine, but what pleased him even more was the chance to stop maiming himself. Even with the decoctions he was taking, his body experienced unpleasant sensations and a constant, mild nausea, so he didn’t hesitate. The skill he acquired immediately gave him some kind of intuitive understanding of balance, of maintaining it—that very sense of distance and his own position in space that he had lacked during those agonies on the rocks.

Well, Avaris didn’t let us down, even though he’d never actually been inside this mine; he’d only seen rough schematic diagrams of it, which are constantly changing anyway, since stable sections of space shift with the seasons, not just the side and distant tunnels along with the lower levels. But rivers of this sort—wandering and ever-changing—are still present constantly, without interruption. And not just one; the little river chosen by Ptakh was the most convenient, both far enough from prying eyes and close enough to allow him to keep up with his work duties.

Over the next few days, the Earthling used his Acrobatics skill at every opportunity, constantly shifting his position, leaping through tunnels, jumping over dangerous puddles, and soaring through clouds of rarefied ether. At one point, he even managed to perform a proper backflip from a standing position, and so naturally, as if he’d been able to do it his whole life. Given the danger of the situation and the constant threat of running into some kind of trouble, he still managed to reach 10 points in the skill without much trouble. Those around him might well have known about his successes if he’d trained in front of them, but it wasn’t for nothing—it was absolutely not for nothing that Ptak had so earnestly asked to be assigned such a thankless job, far from everyone, far from any prying eyes. For now, his secret remained his little secret, and even if someone had used a high-level scanning ability on him, they wouldn’t have noticed a thing, since the bracelet was still editing his Status.

The toy of the ill-fated lover could not add new entries to the Chronicle, but it distorted the old ones, even going so far as to erase them entirely. Avaris roughly described the rate at which the skills of an ordinary peasant would grow under such conditions, so his skills—both of them (just in case that official did scan him after all)—were still stuck at a sad five. But by the end of the decade, he’ll “raise” them to level six, probably. But he won’t show anything else just yet, since staying at zero for so long without acquiring new skills is also quite understandable—Avaris anticipated that too, the arrogant bastard. In such harsh conditions, when the body is under constant debuffs and energy poisoning, especially from ether, acquiring skills in free slots is extremely difficult. And even if they suspect something, he’ll simply remove the camouflage from “Acrobatics,” showing that he already has a level 2 in it. That’s already a problem—three decent skills with four empty slots—it’s downright intriguing, but Ptakh was confident they wouldn’t suspect him.

The locals are too eager not to look down at the mud where those who have been unlucky in this world of endless possibilities are struggling.

Let the people around him think that Ptakh is slowly wasting away and will soon die—it’s actually better that way; it’ll be easier to pull off the rest of the plan, both his own and that of the jerk who’s eager to set his enemies’ asses on fire. Ptakh had no intention of following Avaris’s plans to the letter, after all; Avaris was deliberately setting him against his enemies. Those of them who still had a presence in Morochny. Or rather, he wasn’t even setting him on them; he simply built his entire strategy from the start on the assumption that the newcomer would definitely not make friends with those families. And, characteristically, he didn’t even name those families specifically, just a few surnames that meant little to Ptakh anyway.

An unshakable stubbornness, combined with equally unshakable principles and an exceptionally sharp mind. Even if those principles are frankly assholeish, making one want to burn that crap and sprinkle salt on the ashes, one cannot fault Avaris in the slightest for the firmness of his convictions. Beliefs, of course, of the kind against which the ideological workers of German concentration camps would have been regarded as die-hard liberals and fighters for the rights of people and Jews, but the fact itself, as they say, cannot be erased from the book of life.

After leaping across the little stream once again, Ptakh lands on his arms, doing a cartwheel yet managing to keep his balance, then settles into a steady stride and adjusts the small bag of crystalline dust strapped to his shoulder. No, absolutely not—he really needs to figure out a way not to lug this one-and-a-half-kilogram piece of junk around with him, or he’ll drop it sooner or later. After doing a couple of somersaults in place, making sure that the coordination that had somehow developed in him was still just as amazing as before, he stretched his leg into a split, throwing it over his head, and checked his pants at the crotch. No, it seemed they hadn’t ripped yet, but he’d soon have to put on a new set to replace the old one, and the issued boots were also about to fall apart. And those jerks would definitely try to rip him off for triple the price—how could they not, if they could get away with it?

However, to hell with the bastards, it’s better to return to the question of acrobatics and “Acrobatics”!

Skill: Acrobatics

Potential: Worthy

Description: Coordination and flexibility, agility and speed, the complexity of the movements performed, and the timing of those movements can be a lifesaver—no less effective than a shield—or a death sentence, no less inevitable than a blade clenched in one’s hand. Acrobatics allows you not only to perform all manner of feints and pirouettes, but also to accurately control your position in space and the distance between yourself and the world around you.

Development: 10/1000

Effect: Significantly increases body flexibility, ligament strength, bone elasticity, and control over one's own coordination; the effect increases with skill development.

Effect: Slightly increases the potential of all skills related to mobility and agility, precision, and maneuverability; the strength of the effect depends on the skill's development.

Effect: The owner of this skill can't trip or lose balance in natural conditions without outside assistance.

Effect: A tiny chance to dodge the first surprise attack, even if it seems impossible; the chance increases as the skill develops.

Effect: Low chance to completely ignore damage from falling from heights; this chance gradually increases as the skill progresses.

Unlike the two skills initially granted at “birth,” Acrobatics unlocks five skill investment options right from the start—and they’re quite interesting, it must be said. Two passive abilities, each with a maximum of five points to invest but only up to three at level zero: “Strengthened Ligaments” and “Bone Flexibility,” formed the foundation, preparing the body for the use of specialized skills. The third passive ability was called “Light Step” and, also being a five-point passive, reduced the number of footprints left behind, while also somewhat reducing the Acrobat’s weight, which made it much harder for him to break thin ice beneath him, for example.

It wasn’t a direct effect that manipulated weight and mass; rather, the surrounding world itself, precisely at the right moment, reacted to the skill-bearer’s weight as if it were slightly less than it should have been. Systemic quirks, damn them, emerging from the depths of that very impossible chaos that gives rise to all these creatures, rifts, ulcers, and other abominations. Simply the Almighty Scheme, the supreme ruler of all ordered worlds—this chaos brings about order, stabilizes, and draws strength from it to fight against it. There are many such skills, but this one is unique in that its illogicality appears very early on, starting at level zero, whereas the most reality-shaking tricks are unlocked closer to the higher levels. Initial level-zero investments, even with decent skills, usually yield nothing that an ordinary person couldn’t overcome or outmatch.

Well, in theory, of course.

Two active abilities were already generating genuine interest, a desire to quickly level up and master them to their full potential. "Frog Leap," as the name suggests, allowed for a longer jump than usual—about two-thirds longer at level one—and its cooldown was only about twenty seconds in Earth time. "Nimble Dodge" actively and temporarily increased overall agility and speed, allowing for better dodging, but at the cost of stamina and a cooldown of several minutes at level one. Both abilities could only be leveled by three points, as is typical with active abilities.

Such was his Acrobatics, still gaping with holes where his learned abilities had been, but already well developed. The second skill acquired here, completing his "worthy foundation," was somewhat more difficult, having only been unlocked just a couple of days ago, but no less useful, as it allowed him to train much better without attracting unnecessary attention. Initially, even during the discussion of the future, Ptakh and Avaris nearly came to blows several times, trying to figure out which skill would fill the fourth slot. They desperately needed two at once—one for observation and one for stealth, in equal proportions, but for completely different reasons.

The need for stealth or "Stealth" wasn't disputed, as he clearly had a similar skill path, and it was equally essential for someone who longed to maintain a veil of inconspicuousness for as long as possible. But the skill itself, especially at the base of the future pyramid, barely fit into the planned class. This was a very serious limitation, one that would definitely have shot Ptakh in the knee in the future. Ultimately, they agreed that the Earthling would receive one of the high skills, which would include a number of active abilities, including stealth. Both quick-action and long-term.. After all, in the initial stages, the bracelet would be more than enough, as it would provide far more necessary social mimicry than a Worthy "Stealth" with a complete lack of available points.

At the same time, various "Attentiveness" options not only allowed for the unlocking of certain skills related to other abilities that would otherwise be impossible without several necessary skills, but also protected against possible espionage or simply prying eyes, which you might notice yourself, even if you weren't hiding. And anyway, a Monk—or, ugh, a Sage—without the ability to penetrate the disguise of various sucksassins becomes quickly prepared meat for a barbecue. Already impaled on a dozen skewers in the back!

Triggering the training to awaken the desired skill turned out to be a bit more difficult than he'd probably hoped, but it was still entirely doable. He simply found a tunnel sufficiently polluted with etheric vapors, lay on his back (there's less vapor down there), covered his face with a cloth soaked in the potion, leaving only his eyes open, and then tried to perceive the dancing sparks in the etheric clouds. Similar training sometimes unlocks a range of related skills, but not under such extreme conditions, and usually these skills are mediocre, not truly worthy. In fact, the mediocre "Vigilance" and the equally mediocre "Attentiveness" were the first choices offered, after a two-day pause. Then came "Observation," which he almost chose; it was suitable, but not quite right; there were better options.

Just when Ptah was about to give up and choose Observation—constantly lying in such a vile environment certainly boosted his Fortitude, but his body was beginning to demand mercy, and his potions were being consumed with alarming frequency—somewhere in the neighboring passage, the scream of a man being devoured alive rang out. In fact, they had devoured one of the minecart drivers, who hauled spent ore along the same route. They had missed a slimy creature of considerable stature, resulting in two corpses; the second had simply died silently. Routine, routine—almost a thousand people worked in this stable dungeon constantly, though a significant number of them were permanently confined to the central chambers, where even the air didn't reek of the local filth.

Whatever the reason, the earthling took the shout as a sign from above, involuntarily assuming that Avaris had actually managed to reach him, delaying his skill selection for a little while longer. And, throwing himself into training with renewed vigor, he chose "Contemplation," perfect for his planned build. Unlike the equally worthy "Observation," his chosen skill had fewer active abilities, significantly reducing its penetration, but its passive tricks would have been enough for three other skills. It's just that passives, you know, require a greater investment of highly valuable points, which are always in short supply, but in Ptakh's case, the problem was somewhat less than usual.

Contemplation at level zero gave him four new abilities to choose from, but all of them were passive; none were active, which was a hint. "Contemplation of the World," "Contemplation of Magic," "Contemplation of Movement," and "Understanding Things" developed very powerful sensory abilities when leveled up, but leveling them up, you know, would be extremely difficult. The first ability increases attention to small details around him, simultaneously boosting the effectiveness of all his senses, slightly but comprehensively, right down to perceiving vibrations underfoot or all sorts of smells. The second worked with magic, enhancing awareness of its presence—and again, any magic at all—but gradually, smoothly, and steadily.

The third passive was already combat-oriented, albeit limited, allowing for a better understanding of movement and combat tactics, but not only that. For example, one could easily walk down a six-lane highway during rush hour without a traffic light, to use a more earthly example. It's easier to dodge, easier to understand why you need to dodge, easier to navigate a route through a crowd, and so on. Combined with the previous, worthy skill, it should be very powerful; the synergy is obvious.

The final, fourth passive didn't allow you to evaluate system loot dropped by slain creatures, although the name suggested exactly that. No, understanding enhances your intuition, pertaining to the entire surrounding world. It wasn't exactly noticeable, but it was making it more likely to make the right choices. Similar abilities exist in many other skills, and there are even specialized high-level skills tied specifically to intuition, like Oracle, but even such a small detail can make a significant difference. Or it could prevent you from wasting five talent points, yes.

If Avaris wasn't lying, then as the skill's points increase, Understanding even increases luck, albeit only slightly. It's a very rare property for any skill. Even "Lucky," though a high skill, is encountered only slightly more often than other legendary True skills (the lower end of those, not any at all). Such is the nature of Understanding, which somewhat connects one with the world, even with the universe itself, allowing one not to manipulate it, but to understand it, no matter how obvious it may sound. Hence, such strange effects, seemingly weak and yet somehow not.

Honestly, he has mixed feelings. Perhaps it would have been better if this skill actually increased the loot dropped by creatures and allowed for immediate evaluation. Incidentally, from the chest he opened for killing runts, Ptakh received the most ordinary warm mittens, with no active or passive system bonuses. These mittens now simply sat at the bottom of his assigned chest, waiting for him to use them or sell them. A mediocre item, completely useless in a warm, even hot, mine, especially with spring already here and slowly warming up with its warm days.

Apart from the abilities, developing "Contemplation" resulted in increased attentiveness to everything in general, which is why he was now always aware of potential observers. This was primarily because no one was intentionally watching him, as they knew the fool was wasting his time trying to train. Some mocked him, some remained silent, and some even tried to hint that under such conditions, he would rather mutate than develop any skill. He also discovered an unexpected synergy between this skill and his familiar "Meditation"—even though Avaris had said it would be expected. "Contemplation" made it easier to enter a trance and understand everything he saw in the flow of forces, while "Meditation" greatly enhanced the effect of "Contemplation," allowing him to peer much deeper than before. A considerable benefit, bringing a satisfied smile to the face of the Earthling, who was advancing with seven-league strides where the locals had to crawl.

The main thing is not to get star fever and not be spotted.

Skill: Contemplation

Potential: Worthy

Description: The world is complex, vast, and strange, constantly changing and yet following its own laws, sometimes clear, sometimes less so. Those who know how to contemplate the world know how much is hidden from our senses, yet still remains in plain sight; they know how to see, how to know, how to understand, and what to do with the knowledge they gain.

Development: 6/1000

Effect: Significantly increases attentiveness, the effectiveness of all forms of perception, and the ability to process received information; the effect increases with skill development.

Effect: Slightly increases the potential of all skills related to attentiveness and sensitivity, slightly increases the effectiveness of intuition and insight; the effect's potency grows as the skill develops.

Effect: The user can see an expanded description of system items obtained from boxes and other forms of system loot.

Effect: A small chance to ignore an enemy's blinding or other perception-impairing attempts; this chance increases rapidly as the skill progresses, leading to near-total invulnerability with rare exceptions.

Effect: A tiny chance to see something hidden from you, even if that hidden thing is significantly higher than your level; the chance increases slightly as the skill advances.

Not bad. Even very, very good. As Avaris would say, spitting bile with envy at this mere "serf," he now has the perfect foundation for future power. It may not be a True skill, but if he were to join any guild now and demonstrate his current results (if he didn't have his cheating gift in the Chronicle), he would certainly be bound in. He would also receive assistance in acquiring at least one, if not two, high-level skills, though the latter is unlikely; more likely, two more worthy ones would be added, and the cheapest and easiest high-level skill would reach the top. The excitement would be no less than that of the girl who began her journey with only a high-level fire magic skill. Apparently, her gift allowed her to obtain one without first building a pyramid foundation; such things, according to Avaris, are not uncommon.

Ptakh, alas, won't receive such support, but he's still without his collar and chain, which is also good. Awesome, even! And he's not jealous, not jealous! Yeah. And he's not freaking out, or rather, NOT freaking out at all. On the other hand, he'll soon be working on acquiring his high-potential skills; he has plans, blueprints, and backup options in case of failure. Although he'll have to put in the effort, he'll have to try to obtain at least one of the skills through a quest. Fortunately, there's a character in Morochny who gives out such quests to practically anyone who meets the requirements, completely free of charge. However, the Trial he assigns in return is so challenging that without bonuses to skill acquisition, it's a real bummer. You can try on your own, of course, but it's unlikely to work; he simply doesn't have the necessary training methods, and emulating them using the environment isn't that easy.

So, thinking of great things, while methodically sprinkling the fading ritual contour with magic-infused dust, Ptakh nearly drops his pouch when the world reminds him that this isn't a resort or a hotel, but a fucking Iulatar! The sound of a siren, the howl of a dying dog run over by a cart, covers the entire mine at once, penetrating even to the deepest levels. Alas, Ptakh hadn't worked here for many months, so he didn't immediately recall what kind of signal this was—he only knew it from verbal descriptions; no one had specifically activated the signal for training interns. And what if he was wasting the charge of a real artifact (an artifact, even if it's from the lower level, not an amulet) and wasting work time on it? It's a fucking loss!

Now the losses will be even greater when the miners and ordinary laborers who failed to react without regular training are overwhelmed by a merciless wave of chaos creatures. Or, in Earth slang, a sudden spawn of aggressive mobs unrelated to territory or aggro zone. If this wave also spawned Chaos Emissaries, in other words, full-fledged wandering bosses (unlike Rift Keepers, who are initially bound to one), it would be even better. The alarm bell, roaring like a thousand aggressive, hungry pigs, immediately following the first, told Ptakh that he should stop croaking, otherwise he'd get into trouble one day. Perhaps he'd already gotten into trouble right now.

"Fuck!" he said with indescribable emotion, breaking for the first time through the detached calm he'd maintained since his first days here, clutching his cleaver and trying to figure out which route to take to avoid being devoured en route to the crowds and quickly alerted soldiers. "How am I supposed to explain to these guys that I'm fucking untasty and toxic?! I've got three bans in Warframe for hate speech, I'm fucking toxicity itself!"

As if answering his words, around the bend of the nearest tunnel, not yet mined, came the ominous gurgling and shrill growling of something large. And these sounds, alas, were coming straight for him, clearly eager to personally punch the very same individual who had once insulted them online. As the saying goes, everything comes to its own reckoning, and it had come for Ptakh, too; moving to a new world hadn't helped at all! If he survived today, he was prepared to swear never again in online games on Steam servers!

* * *

The situation changed rapidly, so that all the thoughts that had crossed his mind in a matter of seconds now seemed to stretch out into several separate eternities. With a certain fatalism, the Earthling realized that he was guaranteed not to make it to his colleagues without engaging in combat. With the same fatalism, he decided to break through, because trying to hide would not save him, nor would fleeing in the opposite direction from the sounds of the approaching creatures. He has enormous potential, that’s true, but all that potential isn’t worth a damn right now, when the only thing setting him apart from a mere zero is his above-average Fortitude—and that’s all.

Drawing his cleaver from its sheath and clutching a half-empty dust bag, which could easily be used as a projectile, Ptakh relaxes his body and crouches low, preparing to dash. This run will require all the agility and acrobatic feats he can muster. He considered praying to one of the local deities, which really exist and even sometimes help, but found this counterproductive, just another excuse to delay the inevitable. A deep breath, an exhale, and he begins a run, pushing off from the rocks and using his fingerless gloves to help himself, trying to move unpredictably, like a pendulum.

The precaution proved worthwhile, as a barely discernible blob of something viscous and glowing blue-green flew past, hitting the wall behind him. The slurping sound grew even closer, as did the gurgling, and then he saw the shooter who had been the source of the sounds—some kind of slug. Ptakh barely touched on the local mob bestiary; he had other things to think about. The normal training, along the lines of "who drops what loot and which entrails are most valuable," was taught in local Adventurer Guilds, both for a fee and almost free for those already enrolled.

Something else was important. To defeat this crap, you had to either use a spear, aimed at the floating core, lubricated with anti-corrosion oil, or an active skill, or even magic. There was no magic, no spear, and no specialized alchemically based salt-alcohol solutions that could dissolve slugs outright. So, instead of a terrifying battle with an enemy that burned to the touch, Ptakh simply jumped over it, along with two others who had almost merged with the first into a single fucking megazord.

The jump was a success, and the roll afterwards was straight out of a Dark Souls classic—may the All-Merciful keep Miyazaki healthy. It's just a shame that invulnerability doesn't activate during the rolls, but they didn't even have time to hit Ptakh. The slime-type creatures' monstrous vitality and endurance in combat are offset by their slowness and sluggish reaction times, making them truly dangerous only when ambushed or when there's no way to escape. For example, if the battle takes place in narrow mine tunnels, where the level of etheric contamination and the concentration of toxins in the air are increasing at an alarming rate.

Alas, the escape was not entirely clean, for behind the first trio of creatures there was another enemy, a completely different type, but more familiar. Another type of runt, just as ugly and hideous, only this one was covered in glowing greenish sores, from which small crystals of Etherite protruded here and there. The creature was unarmed, but had already raised a long, carved stone flute to its head, humming with the power coursing through it. It began to blow just as Ptakh swooped down on it, releasing a wave not so much of sound as of magical vibration, destabilizing the etheric currents.

The flute's shrill whine rang in his ears, a purely physical sound, but far more alarming was the overwhelming nausea, dizziness, and even apathy, which clearly couldn't be considered natural. Alarming, yes, but it didn't prevent him from smashing an oversized head like an overripe pumpkin with a single, manly swing of his cleaver, as if chopping meat for a shish kebab. At the last moment, it seemed to the time traveler, genuine surprise flickered across the freak's face. Yes, he'd expected his point-blank magical strike at the insolent little zero to simply crush him, knock him unconscious, or at least slow him down long enough for his allied slimes to come to his aid, but instead he'd gotten hit in the head and died. It's a shame, you know!

But what did he expect? His attack was based on etheric pressure, and Ptakh had been literally marinating in that ether for the last few days, temporarily hardening his already formidable passive defense to the point where this particular attack was now of little threat to him. If he survived, he'd have to buy a lottery ticket, repay Lady Luck for her favor, because he'd literally encountered the perfect opponent. Perfect for Ptakh, and not the other way around, of course.

Enemy destroyed (humanoid/ether-corrupted): Corrupted Piper Runt, Step Five
Primordial Essence acquired.
Primordial Essence flow increased!

Here, even the System noted a remarkable difference between the enemies; he practically took down a high-level mob, despite being a complete 0. A loot box would have been better, of course, but it turned out pretty good. I mean, it's pretty good that Ptakh even survived the fight with a Step 5 creature, which would have left a normal 0 under any other circumstances in a pinch. Leaping over a corpse and nearly leaving his cleaver in it, he runs on, hearing the ominous chomping sound of slugs behind him, determined to snack on the fallen. He runs, changing his plans on the fly when he sees a whole group of creatures, both slugs and runts of various kinds, in the tunnel he's aiming for, opting to escape through the next breach, even if it means taking a longer route.

All around, he can hear the screams and cries of the workers and mining crews who ended up in the wrong place to survive. It’s bad luck for them, of course, but the scale of the situation suggests this isn’t some standard random spawn. Hey, Universe, when he dreamed of burning this place down along with the venerable Ballizus himself, he meant his wish very literally—but not to this extent! At least let him finish leveling up his skills! Or screw the skills—just let him get out of the Rift before everything goes to hell!

The Universe, the Almighty, and the Pantheon were as deaf to his pleas as they had been to the screams of the two workers being dissolved alive. Just as they were deaf to the fate of yet another wretch, impaled by sharp spears with tips of greenish stone—poorly cut Etherete, but pure enough to be considered a full-fledged loot reagent. The runt, distracted by the removal of someone else’s liver, wasn’t killed by the blow to the back, but his skull was pierced, and he lost his quickness, so the second blow finished him off. The second of those dealt to the wounded, for the Earthling had first hacked down a couple of runts who hadn’t yet received their share.

Enemy Destroyed (Humanoid/Corrupted by Ether): Crippled Stabber Runt, Step 2.

Enemy Destroyed (Humanoid/Corrupted by Ether): Crippled Stabber Runt, Step 3.

Enemy Destroyed (Humanoid/Corrupted by Ether): Crippled Stabber Runt, Step one.

Primordial Essence acquired.
Primordial Essence flow increased!

A simple Casket (wood, third step) was obtained.

Once again, he doesn't stop to loot. He doesn't even pick up the spear, though the spearheads could easily be sold. It's an incredibly successful combination of valuable loot and a relatively weak enemy. He doesn't open the chest either; the chances of finding anything useful in there are close to zero right now, if not minus, and every second of hesitation would kill him more surely than a bullet. Leaping over the undead in yet another pirouette, he moves at the limit of his strength, scanning his surroundings with his skill at that very limit, allowing him to react. Not by dodging, but by turning slightly, holding his breath, and shielding his eyes from the torrent of aggressive ether and poison pouring out of a small crevice in the adit wall. Incidentally, there wasn't one there before.

He ran right through it. He saw another message in the Chronicle before his eyes, announcing that his Fortitude skill had risen by one. It wasn't surprising, for without the skill, he'd be screaming and tearing off pieces of peeling skin, beneath which the crystalline sand of pure Etherite would be forming. According to Avaris, certain forms of this mineral are cultivated in this manner, sometimes officially, sometimes clandestinely. Clearly, the victims are carefully prepared, the flow of Etheric gas is regulated, and the mineral, grown on living flesh, is harvested with the utmost care. Just in case, Ptakh even clarified that the quality of Agonic Etherite isn't the same on common beasts or captive creatures, not at all; they have to use all sorts of base rabble—how awful. And having to deal with such rabble—what a disgrace to noble names!

As he walks, the Earthling pops two pills into his mouth at once, one for detoxification, the other for healing, feeling a strange and terrible numbness over his exposed skin. He'd also like to take a painkiller, but it's in the vials on his belt, too long to find. He doesn't carefully open the jar of protective oil, but wastefully pours it all over himself, directly onto his skin and clothes. Such a covering won't protect the body—he needs an ointment there—but it will clean off the clinging gunk from his gear and increase his defenses. Removing his hand from his eyes and ensuring that the stream of gunk is no longer engulfing him, Ptakh coughs out a strangled "fuck," blocking with his cleaver a lunging runt woven from the fog.

The creature oriented quite poorly, still in a slight stupor, and that's how it blocked. Once again, ignoring the system's suggestion to gain some kind of weapon skill, especially with blades, like Balar, damn him, Ptakh strikes again. And again, and again. The creature is resilient, very resilient, and huge! Only slightly shorter than Ptakh, covered not only in sores but also scars, and neither naked nor dressed in rags, but protected by primitive armor of tanned leather and a helmet made of boar (or someone else's) tusks.

A hesitant counterattack with a heavy stone axe, glittering with the green of the ether, nearly turned the earthling's head into a pumpkin, and a second almost struck him in the side, breaking ribs and tearing open flesh. But the first blow proved decisive, and then Ptakh simply didn't give his enemy the chance to gather his strength and turn the tide. The cleaver finally slit his throat and pushed almost to the spine, dropping the twitching, agonizing monster. Several more blows were needed to finish off his heart, as he spun like a top, trying to grab his killer, if not by the throat, then simply by the body, to pin him down, immobilize him, and kill him.

Enemy Destroyed (Humanoid/Corrupted by Ether): Crippled Crusher Runt, Step 4.

Primordial Essence acquired.
Primordial Essence flow increased!

The fact that this boar—whose strength, under normal circumstances, was comparable to that of three like Ptakh—was merely a fourth-step creature only served to underscore just how lucky he’d been with the Piper. Stepping over the body, which was definitely dead, he continued running, heading not toward the central halls but toward one of the small loading hubs where less valuable ore was hauled before being properly sorted. There were always a lot of people there too, even a rest area for several groups of miners, though not as well-off as the very elite. Well, it wasn’t just ethyrite they mined here; there was plenty of ordinary iron or copper, and they dug for those too—it’s just that they hired simpler guys for the work.

The noise, screams, and loud cursing in the common tongue made it clear that Ptakh had remembered the route correctly; he had indeed reached his destination, despite a series of unnecessary turns and unaccounted-for tunnels encountered along the way. There were already plenty of creatures here, as well as their corpses; the group of fighters always nearby had been reinforced by detachments that had managed to retreat from their posts deep within the tunnels, now covering the workers. The workers had also armed themselves, fully understanding that they were not covering the fighters, but themselves, so that the defense of their own lives now rested entirely on the shoulders of those to whom those lives belonged.

He ran out of the tunnel, which hadn't yet become the target of the attack, and therefore didn't fall into the crowd of creatures. Between him and the human line were only a few slugs, already dissolving from the alcohol- and salt-based alchemical potions thrown at them, and a few runts, otherwise preoccupied with their opponents. The man, determined to survive, swooped down on them like a hawk, living up to his name, not killing but distracting them, striking, and allowing them to finish off the enemy more quickly. They didn't greet his arrival, merely clapped him on the shoulder and pointed behind him, as if to say, "Find yourself a place and a job."

He didn't want to argue with a fighter dressed in perfectly decent system gear, armed with a heavy shield, a spear he'd thrown at the enemy, and a blade a la Roman gladius instantly drawn from his inventory (which in itself shows a skill, or even ability: usually, items taken from inventory appear slowly and sadly). He didn't argue, however, silently moving behind the others and beginning to assess the looming problems. The creatures were growing in number, and they were noticeably smarter than the runts the crowd of Isekais had encountered earlier. A disorganized war machine, but no longer a completely mindless mob, even bolstered by those damned spitting slimes.

There wasn't much time to think, so the Earthling didn't waste it. He immediately started drinking potions, ignoring the possible risk of intoxication. If he survived, he could buy himself a full bottle of high-quality cleansing potion for zero levels for one and a half gold beaks; the money from Grandfather Avaris hadn't disappeared. The most important thing here was simply surviving, and he wasn't alone in his opinion; almost everyone was consuming alchemy, rubbing themselves with ointments and oils, or else the bottles and containers that once held these mixtures were lying around.

"They're coming, slime ahead, screamers behind, second-center-left exit." A skinny man standing slightly behind, armed with a crossbow and a couple of bundles of darts, seemed to have pumped his Observation skills, because he was right about the creatures' appearance. "First-left-left are coming too, just a fucking horde of runts, fire at them, fire at them, use everything you've got!"

Unlike the workers, the warriors with the Hammer and Shield Guild's marks on their armor work harmoniously and don't panic. Or rather, they panic moderately, holding back the enemy's onslaught properly and preventing them from overwhelming them with sheer numbers. Ptakh also joins the general defense, hurling saline solution at the slime creatures and tossing darts and incendiary pots into the tunnels. The burning air becomes stale and stuffy, even more stifling than usual in these tunnels. However, the stench of burnt flesh and the smoky smoke of flammable mixtures is dispelled by the bitter aroma of ethereal vapors, which have become more tiresome than bitter radish. And probably to everyone present.

At least the ventilation in these rift-dungeons has its own unique, separate, and closed system, causing streams of relatively breathable air to pour in from distant tunnels and cracks. With yet another such draft, reeking of stench and poison, came the sensor's slightly panicked scream, despite its attempts at self-control, which was rapidly fading with each passing second.

"They're coming! They're coming in droves, the bastards!" The other people heard the creatures' multi-voiced squeals coming from several tunnels at once. "Oh, fuck..."

Ptakh didn’t have time to hear the end of the sentence, forced to dodge a howling mass of smoky light that was hurtling straight at him in a parabolic arc. He didn’t have time to hear it and couldn’t, but he intuitively understood what had been said all the same—no doubt that very contemplative premonition had emerged.

He really wanted to repeat and supplement what he had heard, but he had to focus on something completely different, namely, his own survival.

No one else here will be doing that.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88665/597102

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP