Heavy curtains of long velvet scarves were soaked in the rays of the waking Tue, over which a star as bright as the core of the sun, never extinguished and eternally bright, now sat in immense majesty. Elevated by several meters of merging wood and crowned with centuries of epic, history, and spiritual insistence from past centuries, the stained glass windows barely let in the light whose broken shadows formed intersecting spirals between the six tall white columns that dotted the wide and often desolate corridor. The ends of the threadless and lost among the stone plants of the walls, together with their distant oval angles, drained the barely perceptible luster that lurked in the sprawling and interlocking slabs of pearls of worked ancient stones that had been carelessly fumbled in the impenetrable darkness by the waving hands of blind pioneers long ago.

From this unique and faded interweaving of contrasts on the light vaulted ceiling formed a completely different and mysterious pattern of out-of-nowhere sophora crowns, recreated from the bright rays and their strangely communicating nature. At the very end of the empty oblong benches with long mats, amidst an arch made of massive dark stones and skillfully engraved in the form of six hungry long arms holding unknown and eerie artifacts, stood a heavy and visually delicate gate, as tall as a three-meter tall man, made of the bones of a tree that had died long ago and had seen on its side more than a thousand equally dead and even forgotten deeds. Near one of the artifacts engraved on the stone, or rather under the peculiar expiring book, which was set aside for everyone, was neatly scratched alone the word: "Fiction". So subtly and so diligently, as if a passing schoolboy in the queue from the dreary recess decided to slow down unexpectedly and leave his eternal mark on this ancient monument, as if as a joke, leaving it to his future ancestors.The grave silence was interrupted by someone's approaching conversation in a narrow and prolonged rosy clearing among blurring arc walls, transforming translucent fragments of massive and tiny mechanisms, blurring behind silhouettes in the impenetrable and flesh-chilling gloom.A tall human silhouette in a long quilted caftan, with light metal shoulder pads and chitinous stretches of body armor, the color of cold steel and uncrossed pale golden strings, stepped toward the fairy spacious hall guarded by a red gate. Slender legs stepped confidently in mechanical boots with thick stretch soles and their constantly moving plates, like those floating autumn petals, over which spread miniature cumulus clouds of thick sleeves and no less protected by bionic scales of pants. Only his light-colored shirt had a neatly tucked collar, above which rose the adult face of a young man with sharp features and pronounced cheekbones on his pale skin. His light green eyes had always led a detached and reprehensible demeanor, rarely showing his hidden understanding in conversation with anyone and unreasonable cold-bloodedness.

This time a thin fringe of dull yellow hair fell carelessly over his thin wrinkles on his flat forehead, and his long and strong arms were carelessly folded at his waist, as if they were hiding some invisible dirt for every occasion of life. The man was accompanied by a nearly two-meter-tall hemian-jasher of powerful anthropomorphic appearance. His rock-hard and constantly shifting muscles were covered with a thick dark gray bark that varied smoothly over his long, sharp chin, heavy chest, and long, equally sharp tail, which resembled a flexible whip with gray tipped spikes of translucent thick needles. Its large shoulders and long humped back seemed to be covered with hundreds of frozen stalagmites with deep-seated gray moss, tiny scaly scars and blunt muscular tubercles between perfectly developed muscles. The lizard's mighty silhouette stepped in battle garb made of a seemingly insane combination of constantly moving natural armor, often employing the form of a mechanical replica of its own torso contours and partly the anatomy of its internal organs. His spiral-like left shoulderplate with intersecting mirror patterns displayed a combination of several plates with three colors, beneath which was placed the orb crest.

Lately, they never had moments to cling to over a few mugs of aged wine and his favorite oyster dish, drenched in orange sauce, and to sit before a madman who had saddled a mountain, who would try to steal at least a handful of their oppressed anxiety—without which they would have received a few unobtrusive answers about their pressing fate. A fabulous wave of logical combinations amidst the ceaseless development of thoughts, decisions, and the time needed to present their best plans and adjustments for the future movements of their troops. A gray age, smeared with the languor of trembling living hearts and the ceaseless moments that replaced the sounds of mutilation with merciless blows to the back—blows that were easier to predict than to unravel their completed mad design. An amoral and indestructible idea, after which only time itself could survive.

— What do you think? Should we fear the worst as well? — a rough voice scraped its way out of the elongated, fanged maw of a lizard, which used an old and slightly damaged biological prototype of cognitive conversion, injured in a long-past battle. He rarely had the opportunity to speak in his native tongue with anyone, so with the arrival of yet another week, he once again postponed its replacement.

— Hm. — The man looked calm and sufficiently intrigued by today's astonishingly strange and unexpected event, in which their enemies had suffered a crushing defeat in their own lair. In just one morning, someone had exterminated all the condemned from the unforeseen circus of remarkable freaks, along with a certain source of a century-old dictatorship on both of the other islands, from which ill news still echoed. The beach. Bodies, writhing in an unexpected breakdown and fever that looked dubious, convulsed, lost their balance, and collapsed onto the ground. The Kanpeka Gates. In the bodies and mechanisms of the madmen, fatal wounds now festered and rusted, though sometimes only their severed limbs remained. The barrier. Those who still likened themselves to humans slaughtered themselves in agony on their way to the gates of the peaceful people, barely leaving behind sacrifices of plucked-out eyes and fingernails. Whoever could, paid in whatever way they could for their... sin?

— Though we know nothing of these enigmatic figures, they surely know plenty about us. They must have studied both sides for a long time and carefully prepared for this day, — the man answered briefly, his thin, long lips pressing together for a few moments. Meanwhile, his lifeless eyes tirelessly gazed into the invisible void far ahead, enclosing it solely within the boundaries of his slowly emerging thoughts.

— A letter. An old-fashioned means of communication for such a tumultuous turn of events. And yet, someone—or something—sent it to us last night, promising to arrange a personal audience, as if it were an act of friendly foresight. Now, we must patiently wait for the next word from the other side of the barricade and not change our positions should they respond unexpectedly.

— This... This feels like a bad dream, — the general-colonel muttered, still obscuring his thoughts with tormenting doubts. — What divine intervention or sorcery could, within a single day, strip the third throne of its influence, wipe out such an unbelievable number of nonhumans? They simply killed them all. Without warnings, without deliberation. It's terrible. It's wrong. No matter what they had become or how they stood against us, they were bound to stand before the High Court.

The King's Right Hand halted, slowly turning his measured gaze and attentively looking into the ever-morally responsible eyes of the kindest and most perceptive being he had ever encountered, peering into the unshakable dignity in which he now once again found no doubt.

— Better not discuss supernatural powers or... especially gods, — the Head responded. — The behavior of the possibly new rulers is no less ethical, but their intentions are justified and effective in such a situation. On one hand, their ambitions, beyond the reach of rational thinking, and the age-old ruling synopsis of extermination. On the other, these senseless deaths have stopped for us and many families. And now, let's hope that one of the problems in this world has lessened. And we will be able to find common ground or find compromises with each other... If you don't mind, I'd prefer a personal audience with the Queen, Mr. Pan᾿Gorin.

— Yes, of course, — the general-colonel politely bowed, stepping back and turning towards an accidental rift in space.

— I will inform you immediately if a General Assembly is announced, — said the Head to the comrade heading into the branching dark corridors, to which the lizard responded with a wave of its wide, shaggy palm.

The gates slowly opened in the sacred hall, whose immense space, painted with wall icons, was barely touched by the dim sunlight filtering through here in grainy particles, falling onto the smooth beige floor, scattering into white beads. High and simultaneously very long, narrow arched windows were almost tightly shut with thick and scattered long trails of hand-sewn curtains, the color of dried blood streaks, imprinted with convex vanilla patterns the size of individual sections of the walls. The incredibly high ceilings, reaching many hundreds of meters, were tied with immeasurably long ropes, level with monotonous colored threads adorned with pictures and some toys that emitted mechanical beats with every strong gust of wind, which swept past large wooden chandeliers with slowly rotating wings of New Year's angel figurines with chubby baby cheeks and thick curls, retelling the golden, aging time, in whose snowy night plains yellow lights shone from straw hut windows, past which animals passed in unison. Chestnut tree roots peacefully descended towards suspended and thick protruding slabs dividing the throne room's height in two, spreading in thick natural sources around the surface. At some levels, like flowers, porcelain petals with tiny round holes had opened. From there, an old man's grumbling and the babbling of sweet creatures, perhaps incredibly tiny and yet still quite human, could already be heard... Behind each of the ten similarly high columns stood cabinets, near which various linens and sheets lay. Small tables with tiny lamps, desks with fields of uncollected green papers, and a large oval mirror with a lower shelf, next to which there was no scent of cosmetic tubes, mascara cases, and lipsticks, unlike the unfinished juice and half-eaten wafers from the central food stand, where a set of dishes with leftovers from the day before yesterday slowly floated by. Everywhere were scattered huge, crumpled pillows, wide blankets, sometimes cases with musical instruments left behind after actors' corpses, and soft creatures, with whom it was pleasant to fall asleep, watching the fairy-tale theatrical performance near a lonely, milky, starry waterfall.

A spacious and barely deserted platform, resembling a concert venue, with a couple of outlets in one dark corner. At the very end, above a pair of flat steps, rose a tall throne, turned with its back to the guests, more resembling a chair with pale-gilded engravings on durable wood, with wavy armrests and supports in the form of very long and twisted deer antlers. So large and colorful that they left a mystery as to how a person could squeeze through them and settle into their warm, velvety cocoon. Behind the chair, the darkness thickened, from which tiny dim lights peered out.

— Your Majesty, — the head spoke softly, bowing his head at an untimely moment.

— Stop...

A thin, heavy voice, belonging to the quietly sobbing ruler, was heard. Her left arm, delicate and white like a cloud, was bound by the thin yet sparkling limbs of golden armor, which wrapped around every millimeter of her velvet skin with smooth, sharp, and various bends, extending in small and tiny plates towards her welded and invisibly deformed flesh, her feminine rounded chest, the smooth and barely noticeable muscles of her flexible torso, fragile fingers, and partially soft palms. Her bleeding heart beat with bitterness amid the mechanical clanking of unknown clocks, whose metallic hands, with tiny islands of skin, repeatedly wiped the ticklish tears from her face, where her youthful, incredibly thin, tense folds suffered from the dim, fish-like eyes, subtly hidden behind oval light waves of soft, hair-like strands of hair.

Silent drops. The atmosphere of soundless stars.

— Despite the lesson you impart to us, your tears continue to deceive both you and our council, which, fortunately, cannot see them, — the Head quietly addressed her, hiding his gaze under thin, dry eyelids.

For some moments, the King's voice faltered, hesitating as he pondered his next words, involuntarily and once again succumbing to the encompassing anxiety.

— I don't understand, — replied the weary voice, as though suffering from a cold. — I don't understand why they call me a miracle. Their desire to erase this life from the face of the earth, so diligent and desperate. Despite all that I've done for them, all that I've created, they spat on this world, futilely drowning their minds and reason in absurdity... Please. Not as a friend. Tell me, what am I doing wrong? Why have I brought so much new suffering to these people?

The King's sorrow returned, her teeth clenched as she tried to stifle the sounds of cold tears flowing past her trembling white eyelids. Her mechanical hands tightly embraced her hardened, pinkish knees, fearfully pulling them to her chest, hiding her helpless gaze in them. Her loyal head was a step closer, without moving a single brow, but sincerely empathizing with her emotional suffering in his thoughts.

— Suffering is not something we choose. It is the result of what we are allowed, — the Head raised his gaze when his eyes met the King's vision. — You are the forbidden fruit, plucked from the ancient, unexplored cosmic tree that stretches beyond death, beyond our perception. Wherever people may be, they cannot escape that moment when they cross the boundary, after which they acquire passion — whether it is a storm of desires or cold fury. Look around you. So many souls, and each of them is a reflection of your choice, a glowing gleam of your design. It is your choices and actions that have justified their hopes, rewritten their fates, and given meaning to billions of lives. They accepted your challenge, realizing that this very thing saved their hopes and forged their destinies, burning the light that will burn for a long time in the pages of their stories. Now these souls may be ready to face the very absurdity that hides beyond the boundaries of unknown afterlife. This is not the end, my Queen. This is merely a new frontier. Too much time has passed, and too many trials still await us. But not all can open their eyes and see that we already live in this world. This world is not a gift, but a challenge. Only a few can accept and understand it.

The King stopped her own tears with compassion, turning away and now calmly swallowing the words of this man, whom she trusted and whose thoughts she could rely on as she did with every one of the inhabitants here, whether they were an ordinary mortal or the oldest of all curiosities. She trusted him more than anything in the world. Every word from him was the purest and most sincere truth, which had saved her even in the most hopeless situations, saving her from catastrophic mistakes and leaving hope for the people. The song of freedom, perfect harmony, and drunken love once again played in her mind for a brief moment, shifting to aggressive chords about existence and the untamed living speech, for which she once got caught with her glorious, stubborn curiosity on the eve of a cold winter that briefly appeared before her mind and accompanied with the silhouettes of the senior lieutenant and general, the tiny figure of a little girl. The day she became the ruler of Tue. Her sixth birthday, which changed the fate of this place.

— I am not as strong as some God. And it's because of this that even now I cannot save everyone, nor the past that has already come to pass. What will I be able to do when time cracks under its own weight? When it tears itself apart under the beginning or the end of something unknown to us and our feelings? — her voice whispered in desperation, as she once again foolishly fantasized about unusual knowledge and forbidden power, to which all was subjected.

— You are strong enough to care for those like us. You are not weak enough for the people to hate you.

With a barely noticeable smile on her gentle pink lips, the King carefully rose from the chair, hugging her ribs and naively gazing at the Head in the center of the hall, as though her memory had been wiped at that very moment, and a childish romance and the scent of orange juice bloomed in her soul.

— And yet, if the people saw you by their side with tears, each of them would embrace you tightly.

***

Over the warm cover of enormous planks, covered with woolen summer carpets that wound around the walls with the black entrance to the ancient, renowned tavern, the body slowly regained consciousness. It began to thrash about in convulsions, as if alive, in relentless distortion. Its improperly healed structure — flesh and organs, leaking gallons of tissues, from which numerous subatomic strands were woven — deformed and twisted in long movements. They crawled, like worms, leaving behind trajectories of unreal organic particles. With a distinct crack, its widely opened jaw froze as a scream of pain erupted, splitting the space into two parallel lines that crossed like two-dimensional echoes of chaos. From the vessels poured colors unknown to any imagination. Madness? Uncontrollable pain? Everything fused into something invisible, blurred, creeping, like flesh gasping in its afflictions.

Recklessly, unbearably, the body languished. Fear merged with the scream, overshadowing all sensations. Pain tore it apart, and somewhere in the chest, in the stomach, in the legs, like shards of burning flame, they broke it. There were moments when the flame turned into needles that pierced its skin, tearing it, cutting its throat, depriving it of any human scream. In its mind, two specters raged — one colorful, the other dim and slow, merging and losing themselves in its reason. Their lines crossed on the blank sheet of empty parchment, leaving unknown traces in its mind. Everything spread out in a psychedelic wave, an endlessly stretching palette of the cells of its body, filling its vision, until the light from its eyes broke through like a thin crack in the dark world. It felt it, this skin stretched to the limit, like stretched sheets of blood, tearing apart.

Endless waves, like glass on a galactic scale, moved as one fragment, destroying everything around, leaving only one thought — the lonely mind of poverty. It saw how colored spots — gray, green, yellow — spread along its eyes, disappearing into the black dots at their edges. Its head stopped spinning, and the space around took shape. Struggling to embrace the tearing pain in its stomach, it forced its eyes open, finally seeing the ceiling of the terrace. Dark wood, to which evening lanterns were fastened, hid the night sky above it. Hoarsely, with desperate groans, it turned on its side, almost losing consciousness, and violently vomited dense fragments of bile. The black masses mixed with the other clumps, unnaturally thick and suspiciously black. Amid these masses, in the impenetrable darkness, it noticed faint, barely noticeable gradients — pale, crossing lines that left behind an unknown trace.

Through the wooden bars of the fence, resembling an abandoned market, struggling to fill its lungs with air, it looked towards the cold sea. It hung in the air like a chimeric hologram, piercing its gaze. The sky above this drifting lake, above the narrow quarters, was filling with light. In this cold void, ships again and again sailed into the heavenly abyss, leaving behind wings and traces, like sand softly hitting the red waves, like a forgotten song.

Why does this pain not subside? Every muscle in its body hurts, tightening in tiny spasms, like a chain binding it. Itch, sharp pain, the bitter taste of sweat, frozen on its lips. Its whole body was gripped by this unbearable, stretching, like an endless line of pain. Its mind was overflowing with fear, tearing itself outward, ripping its thoughts, turning them into meaningless screams. Impulses grew into paranoia. The golden-haired fox — is she safe? Or are those who stood behind that white-haired guy with the woman following her? Are they dead? Did it kill them? But how? And why? These questions burrowed in its mind like merciless worms. It couldn't escape this nightmare.

The dead. Annihilated. Forgotten on the cold dusty earth.

Why does everything around seem so incomprehensible? Unfamiliar? Alien? Painful. Reality is tearing apart like cracked ceramics. Sounds, like a shattering skull, hit the inner cavities of its eyes, as if someone was squeezing them with an unpleasant tickling burn. It couldn't understand what was happening around it. The names of those around it, who are they? Who is it itself? Can this pain intensify to the point where it destroys its will, destroys what it once considered cruel or even normal? What are its emotions? Sensations? Everything fused into one continuous, painful part of its body and reason, as if its mind itself became part of the pain. Everything was striving for the edge, and it could no longer hold back this flow.

— Who's making all this noise, by the gods!? — with a crash, the doors of the saloon, which had no lamps, were thrown open, and an unusually angry and disheveled dwarf appeared. His shaggy black beard, tied with golden and silver-green rings, was splattered with apple nectar and mint leaves, soaked with the smell of unfrozen meat and drunk alcohol. — Ibb'dy Woga! I thought these scoundrels were having another orgy, even in broad daylight! Though today's not "Dewuki" day. — The irritated, but now calm voice of the saloon owner said this with a bass, as if it had just broken through the thin barrier of his indignation. His gaze slid over the pale-faced man lying on the cold planks, evaluating his condition. — For the sake of Gelvia, who did this to you!?

Clumsily propping itself on its elbows, as if trying to regain control over its body and the numb legs from the pain, the pale-faced man looked at the dwarf, and his eyes flashed crimson, like a flash in the night darkness. The gaze was brief, instantaneous, but full of guilt and despair. Then, like a shadow from the past, a silhouette of a black-as-night cat slipped out from behind the old man with bulging eyes. Its front paws were raised high, and it moved so quickly that its flattened nose was almost invisible. The cat disappeared beyond the doorway of the establishment, leaving behind a faint smell of fur and something strange, invisible.

— Gm - gm - gm - gm! — the black little beast grumbled strangely, awkwardly shaking its paws in different directions, darting across the floor with quick, almost silent movements of its thin hind legs. Its tail, standing on end, twitched with every step, as if the air around it was unbearably tense. Its eyes were huge, yellow like a devil's. And the upper, thin little teeth, just like a vampire's, seemed more like toothpicks accidentally left in its mouth than anything dangerous. With them, it looked more like a cub trying to be menacing, but lacking sharp teeth for that.

— No... I fell hard. — it fell on its knees, underestimating the harsh prickling sensations around its legs, which simultaneously tickled its woolly feet from the inside.

— Really? — with disdain, the old man replied to the absurdly foolish answer, nimbly approaching and already helping the clumsy man to rise carefully. — Maybe you'll come inside and have a drink? I know how to cheer you up, you fool! And a new outfit wouldn't hurt you either, this one's already falling apart.

— I... I need to search. — the man looked around in search of a tablet, which he fortunately saw on one of the benches next to a decorative food dispenser, lazily sinking in a small puddle of suspiciously bubbling schnapps. Strange charms, rings, and amulets with pendants were cooling nearby. Right, they gave these to him yesterday, those masked people, in the intoxicating sweet smoke that intrigued him. What was that, how did it happen? Kurouba, exactly. Where is the journal he gave away? What just happened, luckily he managed to piece together everything that had occurred over the last 24 hours in his fragmented memory. Was it a girl, or a huge pink jellyfish with a dissatisfied grin waving its tiny hand, as if promising to "look out," continuing a conversation with tiny yellow dwarfs resembling stuffed toys, which seemed to have just escaped from a punk-rock concert.

— I hope no one and nothing was hurt after the so-called 'shindig'? — suddenly intervened Kurouba, who had appeared from around the corner with laundry baskets, grunting as he tried to detach an annoying little strap from the narrow sleeve of his newly issued uniform.

This short, talkative, and overly straightforward dwarf, whose figure was that of a lowly silhouette, turned out to be an open soul and a secret fanatic of legends and myths from ancient tales, capable of distracting one for long moments from strange thoughts and problems with a deep mug of high-proof ale and eccentric stories about life beyond the unreachable light, about which crazy tales were always told and some even feared to dream. There lay the "Dead City," as Volibur was now recounting: The City, which had long yearned for life, as it was once called. Its size could be compared to a whole continent, its borders surpassing even the size of the Capital of Tuen-Shi. It had witnessed many quarrels, civil wars, cosmic catastrophes, and spiritual conflicts in its eternally grey walls, which over time had transformed into hideous, terrifying secrets hidden within.

— "Now, from this point, please, tell me more in detail, if you would be so kind!" — interrupted the elder man beside, sipping warm sake and carelessly biting into a huge wedge of green ripe lemon, as though it had been run over by a tram, carrying his flea-infested family. He looked rather disheveled, as though he had just come from a laborious sleep beneath the beaten streets of the merciless Tuen, which honestly was hard to fit into the unnamed person's thoughts.

As for secrets, there were an unimaginable number of them, like those of the people of Tuen, although their common tale often reached the high prefectures around the campfire. Official sources, for example, speak of a monstrous number of breeding parasites, comparable to certain studied organisms, which, after such a long period of time, mutated from the inhabitants who had left there many years ago, as well as from the beasts and microorganisms. This spawned horrific diseases, a specific deadly climate, and soil that grew across the entire mutilated hall. A hall, which was torn apart by the famous red bridge on the other end of the world, concealing an impenetrable, still unstudied fog of inconsistent consistency. Some say that beyond this fog lies a void, whose shape no one has ever seen. Others speak of it as a portal left by foreign gods, leading to other worlds. And some insist that whoever crosses the bridge and enters the mysterious fog will endure unimaginable torments of existence, ripping apart flesh and revealing its most candid and incomprehensible secrets of infinite nature before them. However, no one has yet managed to get there or come up with something more plausible or even minimally credible about all of this.

Some "media outlets" even revealed secrets about how in the Dead City, secret operations were created, sending the most advanced technology, equipment, and the most sophisticated A.I. agents into its corners. But after some time, everything would break down and stop working, after which communication, operation, and any broadcast would cease by all means, and the equipment sent either vanished or was found in fragments, with only some pieces remaining. In such cases, it was decided not to risk the lives of the operatives and continue research remotely, a method that is still successfully developing.

Since the creation of the City in the deep year 675, the world was under the rule of a gerontocracy, thanks to which the most experienced elders managed to organize a cohesive lifestyle between many races, phenomena, and events. This governing method included the most powerful, talented, and intelligent race of that time — the "Succubi," whose people suddenly became the cause of a "civil incident" in 1429, in which the peoples of all races descended into chaos, nearly leading to mass bloodshed and global discord.

Time passed, and since the last appearance of the succubus boy, whose silhouette the national security agents once spotted at the crossroads of the Dead City in 1626, no one has seen or heard of any representatives of this race. But now, hundreds of years later, the significance of this race is only mentioned as a terrible disease, mysteriously distorting the life and body of the residents...

It reminded him of beer with a cherry aftertaste, slightly icy and oddly salty. With the first tentative sip, the pale-faced man choked, splattering the floor with its contents. The group of teenagers who had rushed in earlier quietly laughed, waiting for their order of four glasses of velvety, low-alcohol peach beer, at the magical, enchanting aftertaste of which two girls sighed with satisfaction.

— "Ugh... What a shame, now it's not *Omisoka season, in this cold winter, chuhai would taste much better, it sends shivers down your spine!" — one of the girls licked her lips, blushing fiercely.

— "I agree, I can't wait for winter to come again, otherwise I didn't get to taste everything you two brought, I spent the whole night helping you back home with Taren," muttered a boy among them, to which his friend shook his head knowingly.

— "Don't be a bore, young ladies have the right to have a little more fun than usual, at least once a year," defended the next girl on behalf of her friend.

— "More than usual!? You haven't even finished high school yet, damn... Going anywhere with you two is like a total destruction of my nerves... Taren, bring me the fire extinguisher and two shots of gin! These two broomsticks are going to turn into Yottu-chan again! Hold on!!"

The monotonous yellow and brown walls of this luxurious hall could accommodate an innumerable amount of drunken adventurers, for whom special rooms with various gambling setups, quieter corridors, and huge boxes with hundreds of channels were reserved—channels where the usual eyes and curious minds of flying dandelions often get lost, whipping through thin petals of little creatures near bursting windows with offerings. He was sure that if he ascended one of the two staircases, he would once again have to struggle to climb back out... While Volibur Gors was busy preparing some brightly and charmingly fragrant fish, which he effortlessly carried from the service freezer on his back, wiping the dusty screen of the device, Kurada raised an eyebrow questioningly at the dirty, blood-stained face of the stranger from yesterday.

— What happened to you? Who beat you like this, huh? — Kuruba asked with concern on his face, handing over a gray, water-soaked towel that smelled of bitter seeds and something sweet and unpleasantly itchy between the teeth. However, there was probably no point in asking this unnecessary question to the suspicious woman-healer with the bones of unusual moss-covered hands on her face, who silently spat into the towel, in keeping with some ritualistic short film, the true essence of which he didn't care to understand.

The man stared down blankly and mumbled words invisible to the other person, trying to find appropriate and correct statements, which he had a hard time accepting and merging with, as with the looks and crowned brains of these... The Living, all of them. The constant and whole ground-up confusion of an endlessly rotating organic cell on the axis of his consciousness, uniting neutral photons in his mind's cortex. Lips. What was his name? No, he couldn't crush her head, he couldn't do that. Hands. He had no such desires. That girl, what happened to her? How did this happen!? He backed away. He killed a person. Her feathers on her head. Beasts. He killed two. Maybe three. How? He didn't move, eyes were torn from his sockets and shoved back into his skull. The body didn't move, he couldn't kill them. Thick, light hair, he hid everything inside. Saw him, unreal. His foreign body, a separate brain, he didn't quite understand. He didn't see it all... Wanted to protect her body, her soul. Did he rob them of their lives? Darkness, a golden angel in the middle. Kali. A bundle of intestines, images protruding from a skull, similar. No, wrong. He didn't do this, it was something else. Distortion? That woman with the huge two-headed pet, he didn't remember how he could have struck her so hard. She had once stopped moving and showing signs of life, he wanted to stay, think of something. He didn't feel anything? He tried to chase after Kuruba, who couldn't go past sixty meters... A guy with long hair, eyes that had seen what he couldn't remember. The pale-faced man had a strange sense, as if he remembered ridding himself of something heavy, underdeveloped, and intricate. But what was it, so aching and ugly?

— I... I accidentally found her, — the man looked guiltily at the confused face of the boy. — Your friend was in her. Somehow I ended up in another place, with her... There were people. I saw her. Probably because of me she ended up there too. She was struck. She was in pain. I don't know how... I don't understand how everything went back, and her...

— Ugh! Wait, wait, I don't understand anything!

— Why did this happen to her? — The man turned to the boy with confusion and partial denial. For some reason, blurred images surfaced in his mind — four yellow fox ears. He didn't hear screams, but he caught the soul-ripping moans. She trembled in his hands, hands he feared. The pain didn't subside even now, he wondered how he managed to bring her back, how he could have lifted anyone. Where was all this going? The first time he held someone in his arms, trying not to drop them. Her tail lay dead against his knees. A fox? A familiar word.

Yes, that same hospital... He vaguely remembered the interior, similar to what he had seen yesterday... Looking down, he stared at his hands, recalling every second when he touched the bloody skull of that boy. He remembered the crimson outlines, organs, brains. They were surprisingly warm. He didn't remember how he controlled those hands. He saw it all, and he wanted to push them both away from that creature. He couldn't kill them, as if he was sure that no other outcome could come to pass, especially not with the young, weakened girl. An ambiguous look from the artificial gray-faced woman. A two-headed design. Arrogance and stubbornness, many other quirks in his blue youth-filled eyes, full of desire and sorrow.

Kuruba, like the wind, jumped off the chair, pulling out his phone and sending a video call to the fox girl they both knew. After several silent minutes, the boy nervously grabbed his head even after the hospital staff didn't answer. Then the security room. Then the National Guard building, not to mention the united forces of the capital. Volibur, with a stone face, ignored the boy's request, silently passing by the guys and without any painful groans, cries, or clear thoughts, lowering the railing of the kitchen setup and impaling his head with dozens of sharpened knives, deeply plunging into his brain, eyes, beard, and pulling out organ pieces mixed with bones at the back of his head. — My child, I would give up the whole shore for you! — The strange healer woman tightly embraced her tear-streaked face, shaking all over from fear and trying to come to terms with her fate. Her neck was sharply twisted by weighty, branching wooden limbs descending from the perforated ceiling on the second floor with balconies.

The guys, frozen in a stupor, were witnesses to this madness, like spectators at the unrelenting stage of a tragedy. Terror gripped them, and one of the girls, unable to bear it, dropped a cup, the sound of the glass shattering breaking the silence like an ominous mark of fate. She rushed to the exit, but her friend, with an expression of rage and madness, blocked her path, as if not allowing her to escape.

Soon the guys ran in, and upon them, like a pack of hungry wolves, came the ruthless desire for retribution. They surrounded the unfortunate girl, and brutal strikes, like lightning, tore through the air. Feet crashed into her body, sharp bottles and torn oak beams found their targets, like a hurricane sweeping everything in its path. Each blow left traces of cruelty behind, and the unfortunate girl covered herself with her hands, but this only increased her suffering. The cracking of her fingers, every groan filled the space like music, written in the defense of chaos. Blood poured from her still uncrushed throat, mixing with unprocessed vomit, creating a disgusting mixture spread across the floor, an illustration of fear and pain. The guys didn't stop, their hysterical laughter merged with the screams, creating a symphony of horrors, plunging everyone present into hellish madness. The entire scene resembled a nightmarish kaleidoscope, where every color represented torment, fear, and madness, and it was impossible to look away from this ominous spectacle, where there was no place for salvation or hope.

— Get ready, we're going to her right now. — Kuruba's face looked hardened for the first time, hateful, and truly frightened.

***

Countless streams of someone's gilded eyes and wide ears were fixed on the news television and the internet descending with long legs between walls adorned with ferns, when the announcement was made about the cessation of the war with the three reigning islands, accompanied by Her Majesty and the faithful servants of the people. Scenes shouted, shared, and watched, while someone waited for the unknown. Some couldn't care less, continuing to scrub the backside with a mug of light seven-degree beer in one hand, to which the onlookers indignantly yelled something in response due to the suddenly flaring flower bed... Once again, the revived routine. The dream of floating around the advertised faces of cities and drowsing workers' enterprises.

New first steps on the land, under the whisper of crumbling crystal leaves. Through the windows of a lowering car salon, almost imperceptibly, passed silhouettes tightly united like a single organism: long tails with jingling golden rings, a floating face, and the trailing robes made of wings, between the rising electric train routes, heading up to intermediate tunnels, bypassing noisy bazaars and houses with brackets instead of adjacent stairs, on which laundry and reserves of ripe corn were drying. Skyscrapers with blue walls hid among monuments made of united buildings, where the sky fully opened above the roofs of growing cities and private gardens with wooden houses. He grimaced from the rays of the bright morning star, occasionally glancing outside, but rarely distinguishing anything between the fleeting frames of the boiling avenue above the shutters of the closed city streets. The heavily compressed tires of the sports car whistled loudly along the burning gray asphalt, advancing into the distance, past the wandering diamond investors, whose tiny miniature bodies reflected the bright light from the blooming magical leaves on their heads, untouched even by the approaching predatory and furious Suugor, whose boundless flowering steppe lands transformed into shattered kilometer-long highways, burning multi-story buildings of titans, and flying comments from enthusiastic critics about this miraculous frèche from a sick, yet amazing aesthetics. Through their semi-transparent subtitles passed a flaming engine of blue rainbow.

He tried not to fall behind his friend, gradually remembering the familiar and somehow quiet street with houses and darkened forests behind them, high iron gates, and a path leading from the wall manuscripts into the distance, covered by a strange translucent shimmer, and like wet sand, the dissolving and crumpling grass. The windows, decorated and watered with artificial dew, bushes, once again the lonely square, its monument, resembling a breakable mound, shedding itself with a wave of pale chalky buildings. Exactly, he had been here yesterday. The very hospital, resembling an immense snow-covered mountain.

Climbing up the eleventh step after the wide movable platform with the overturned ice cream machine surrounded by his own frozen eyes of pink ice over the troubled face of the frozen photographer, the guys felt that the building of the hospital and all its size were in the embrace of the thin shell of perfectly frozen time. They realized this not immediately after seeing "the little bee mogul, whose frozen figure hovered in the air before the wide and now forever yawning beak of one of the doctors holding a suspicious piece of pie, almost stolen by the big white insect's teeth." Kurouba's pupils caught sight of someone's pager, stained with either sperm or lactose-free yogurt, before the cunning painted lips. A distress signal had been sent about two hours and twenty-six minutes ago.

— Call everyone you can and wait for me here! Quickly! — still running and not turning around, Kurouba dashed forward, almost bumping into the dismembered silhouette of a guard at the corner of a pioneer hut, whose snow-white tiger mouth froze in the snarl of enraged agony. Apparently, there was no fight here either.

Casting a helpless glance at the complicated device in his hands, the pale-faced one looked back towards the shimmering gray sky with hidden sun rays, above which the street behind had not even yet awakened, along with its inhabitants, under the effect of temporary levitation, which he took for something else. Something that should probably be a familiar phenomenon in this place, among these people? Then why is there no one from... The security? He doesn't even understand how this thing works. Where to press, what to look at. The guy, probably won't hear? After nervously glancing around for a few seconds, he ran after Kurouba with an angry, tiresome helpless expression in his eyes.

All these faces, possibly relatives visiting, employees, waving velvet cloaks, wallpapers, and other textures, were devoid of movement and the slightest oscillations of the routine workday, which had taken on the form of a captured watercolor painting, in which the ubiquitous chaos had frozen. Stumbling, he ran past the frozen, literally in terms of options with stairs and fast handrails, furiously moving his legs over the lower, and then the subsequent lower floors beneath him, until he found himself in a long, subway-like corridor with exactly the same frozen disorder, where someone had staged a rally-show from overturned shopping carts and scattered toilet ribbons, behind which rose the ruins of cabinets and other furniture among the frozen onlookers... Hastily glancing around, ignoring the suspicious noise by the registrar's desk and the cheerful, encouraging girlish laughter, the man dashed into the familiar ward behind his companion, suddenly bumping into his neck amidst wet puddles of some liquid and scattered fibrous papers.

— Motherfucker, you!? — sounded the familiar voice in this very cramped and dreary company. Drops of cold rain accompanied by thunder burst into the blue eyes of the pale-haired guy, hiding his face behind untidy light hair, just like that evening among the high cliffs and two bright stars in the sky, where he was often smiled at.

Kurouba's outstretched arm erupted with hundreds of loaded files, auto-profiles, skill stats, and forbidden abilities, all ready to execute any command, create another transaction, or even bring a new "Huren T8" to the rooftop with a fresh discount for achieving loyal user status, with an added bonus pack of a thousand gems and new offers from the ever-mysterious administrators. As always, the display was once again covered in stains from never-ending lags and delays in the response actions. Kurouba had already cursed this damn artifact, one that in recent years seemed to exist somewhere between vodka bottles and the sleepy face of its developer, with a piece of "Household" soap stuck to a drunken face, still lacking a name, voice, or answers throughout the thousands of strange, absurd, and incomprehensible years spent in a forever alien world. A universe where he kept trying to be an innocent optimist in his own thoughts alone. A funny idiot in front of friends. At least the ones who are there, who were, who will be again? When would they finally let him sleep, forever? Without all the saves he left behind.

— Bastards, get the hell out of here!! — Neither his spell of paralysis nor the editor of his own teleporter managed to activate when the opponent's elbow, with one step, snapped his neck, leaving Kurouba unable to scream. The sharp length of the dagger repeatedly pierced his stomach, gliding past his cartilage and stabbing his heart, finally squeezing out the bursting life juices from his slit throat.

Choking on blood, the young man fell motionless against the wall before the modest crowd, who couldn't care less about the wild terror in his eyes and his stiffening, numb body.

After an instant and heavy slap to the face, the pale-faced man with fogged eyes, by the way, followed his companion's example, unpleasantly falling to the floor, feeling the wide, spreading pool of warm blood beneath his thin long fingers. Wiping his twitching face with his palms, he could see the boy, killed by his own hand the previous day, huddled next to a silent and deathly pale woman. Or was it a man? She involuntarily cringed at the incessant giggles of a cute little girl in an indecently large pink hoodie with a white cat's tail and twitching ears on her head. Her innocent nature was betrayed by the eclectic set of various keychains around her masquerade-actress-style outfit, sweet candy sets paired with a hygiene lip balm, all nestled next to a mini-sized handbag on the floor among hastily pulled-up stockings with fur. In her scrolling feed of mind-blowing life hacks and random giggles, only occasionally would the ever-smiling pseudo-samurai, a half-politician, leader, and fighter for ethnic values, and other nonsensical universal nonsense from his beloved city, peek in, happy to join his best friend and at least briefly distract himself from the tense battle against drugs and the cosmic haze that had been haunting him since childhood.

— And aha-ah, what a marvelous dysfunction knocked at the door of my most amazing ideas, where I can pay for the internet with five rubles!? — The handsome, always full, and romantic face of the mayor lit up with an innocent smile and fiery excitement, while his busy hands continued to wash the incredibly dull length of his newly acquired one-and-a-half-meter katana, which he had swapped for a half-empty bottle of cognac and a solemn promise that he would pay the debt tomorrow after a flawless victory in the upcoming elections.

Caught in deep awkwardness and the fumes of warm blood drops, his gaze stopped between two fluffy chairs, inexplicably swaying against the laws of interactions between inanimate objects and the second perception of the brain, when the drawn paper world took on clear volumes and perfectly bordered with this reality, in the sum of multifaceted cells and organs of the swaying existence. Drawn children. Three little girls seemed to be happily jumping around each other in the distorted grayish-white mist, intermittently turning into lightning-fast inkblots, instantly dissolving into the drawn urban space and looking with their huge eyes at the new jumping point, resembling playful white kittens in the bright sky above an infinitely drawn field with a lost highway with obstacles. They froze, huddled together. Without blinking, they stared at the pale-faced man as if frozen in time, unlike their rising, fluffy, under-drawn eyebrows and some shaded hair, which fell on their collective shoulders. One of the girls had thick, very thick curly hair that looked like a large blossom surrounded by tiny oval petals. She carefully watched the stranger on the floor, slightly lifting her round face, which highlighted her unusual snub nose with two thin, protruding nostrils. The face of the second child was schematically distorted with isosceles layers of unknown shapes crossing the potential location of the skull, eyes, and long silky hair, which spread around a bulky hoodie. Some fragments of the girl's image seemed to reflect some shades: blue, burgundy, brown, and green. But all this seemed like fleeting optical illusions. Hidden behind thick and fluffy, darkened yet gently gray locks, the face of the third girl coldly responded to the stranger's gaze, turning away and disappearing behind her sisters' backs under a soft dome of a huge blanket, which, like a sea wave, smoothly slid through the wall.

— It's him... That miserable bastard who kicked my ass yesterday. — The blue-eyed man muttered nervously to his new partner beside him, quietly pressing against her forearm, not breaking eye contact with the weakling lying on the floor in front of him. His face, beyond fear, was twisted with doubts and determination to uncover more, to discover all the secrets and unseen directions of this man. But his third eye flickered helplessly.

— Is that all? Hmm... Diva will deal with him. — The expression, devoid of any intent, glanced around the darkened room with a thin black outline. The pale, thin chest elegantly peeked from the wide neckline of her tight black cardigan, surrounded by thin straps and a mystical green aura from her cigarette smoke. Every smile on her thin, raspberry lips was laced with poison, alongside her thigh bags filled with unique knives and daggers, one of which the white-haired guy probably borrowed just a moment earlier. Her dark green eyes, that of an experienced necromancer, turned away, hiding between stock-level wire meshes, forming the decor of a mechanical song-wind.

— Finally found him. Mm, by the way, this is Kurouba, her devoted tail. — The kid yawned, smirking at the weeping and petrified face of the fox-eared creature by the bed, distantly showing her the spinning eye between his fingers. The fox didn't even look at him, long lost in a continuous, agonizing trance. The bleeding white sclera of Kurouba fell to the floor, and then was carelessly crushed. — Stop whining, you fox-eared piece of shit. My morning boner on K-Vin is firmer than your fucking friendship... Damn...

— What stopped you from killing him earlier, like, ten years ago? — The necromancer interrupted sweetly.

— Huh? D-damn, he's an anomaly of the Highest Destruction Level, fuck him! Ha, I said it. You saw him, right? First of all. And secondly, as we now know, both of them have been screwing around on the front all these years. What a surprise. — The kid tried to shove the crushed eye back into the socket of the dead Kurouba, but his reward was kindly offered by the nearby trash can.

The sun remained silent, no longer sending edible letters through their open window, nor leaving tender touches on the heads of the busy nurses for a long while. Bitter drops rolled down their foreheads. Laughter, endless letters, and chattering games, longing for new guests. During these dreary, almost silent moments, the kid would occasionally try to lighten the mood with dirty, black jokes, rather than tales of improper morning shaves and races with a toothless she-wolf, devouring low-budget tigers before dawn and washing in the personal pool of snow-white whales.

The organizer of this modest company quietly tapped a marble cane in the noisy corridor, having exchanged it and his hat for a piece of white chocolate with bubbles near the doctor's office, from which suspicious sounds were coming. Hmm? Ah, it was just two curious guards, trying to keep themselves busy... Yes, his favorite chocolate, and with bubbles, as if sent by God himself, for which the man's silhouette silently thanked the doctor frozen in time in his thoughts, praying three times and bowing twice. Hopefully, he did it right. Measured lazy steps towards another damn awful day. He looked slightly crumpled in his ill-fitted jacket, tucked in like a tipsy promiscuous pianist with a bottle of cognac pressed to his forehead, which he tossed aside towards his already salivating comrade.

In his predatory eyes swam the warming deserts of dull yellow sclera, observing his beloved, fucked-up friends and among them, his cherished partners. He frowned a little, and his cracked lips involuntarily pulled up into a shy, cozy smile, which lingered with two uneven cuts running directly to his ears under thin blue threads amidst his coal-washed hair. His nearly two-meter frame hunched as he passed the expanding corridor's threshold, holding a thick illness report and further treatment plan for today's patient in his second hand. The necromancer's dead eyes distrustfully glanced at Divian, noticing the suspiciously small red scar on his temple, covered by thick strands of hair.

— Oh, you piece of sh#@%%\\:! — Divian barely dodged the huge bloody substance rising toward him, as if someone had just filled a bath with it. But he looked away, where one of his guards was trying not to lose a bet on her favorite "toothpick" figurine, frantically digging beside one of the frozen human figures, where she began to stretch out the member. — Ko- Kora! Yeah, you won't be able to tie his body in a clockwise direction with that bowstring! Go try with that black guy at least, or the stallion! Or with the python, for god's sake. His body's thinner, you twit! — Then his attention was drawn to the second of his hopeless guards. — Ba- Baka! Stop pulling your hair, just take those insults and get the hell out, you can't even tell the color of your fruits! — And this was his personal guard? Like a father ashamed of his underdeveloped daughters, he absentmindedly rubbed his face with a heavy hand, before settling calmly in the same room with his strange and suspicious quiet circle of friends.

After greeting each of his odd and suspicious quiet group of friends, Diva couldn't resist planting loving kisses on the drawn cheeks of the delighted girls, who continued to play oddly on the couch like excited kittens, making cute greeting sounds, except for one, who had tucked herself safely under the blanket. A whistling sound. Divian's carefree yellow sparks threw a brief glance at the worried pale figure by the door, and the bright sunbeam crossing half the room, warming with curiosity that had been following him since last night.

— Young man, who are you here for? Sister or mistress? — Whistled the blonde, pulling salty nuts from his dirty pocket, where a lighter and crumbs from crab crackers had been buried, sealed in the fabric of his shirt for a month.

— Hmm. I hope for my dearest daughter in the whole wide world, whom I missed so much. Such a long time and my heart is bleeding. Or how was it...? — The restrained joy didn't leave his stretched male smile, slightly drunk and bewildered in this difficult working day, which with great difficulty had found its way into his unpressed Caesar's schedule. — Constant hallucinations, disintegration of thought... Abe-v... Fuh, here's a whole list that leans toward schizophrenia. What have you done to yourself? — Throwing all the reports on the neatly folded blanket under which her trembling knees were hiding, he carefully gazed into the eyes of the escaped pet with a weeping, stone-like face, forgetting about his nagging problems that nearly tore his mind into many pieces. — Good to see you. Sorry we never had a chance to chat back then. Well... I hope we'll fix that soon. Hmm... It's really hard for me to see you in such a state... If only I had guessed back then that it would all turn out this way. Exactly this way. Just like it is happening now.

He silently stared into her frantic eyes, which she hid behind her trembling hands, her face covered in short convulsions and tightly pressed lips, as if she wanted to scream or rip his throat out at this very moment. Regret. Desire. Patience, which served as a part of his work. His broad palm no longer let go of her hand, which he had lowered to her right knee, gently stroking it with his thumb, slowly tracing her fragile fingers and bones. For a moment, he left a tender touch on her clenched fist, then Divian plopped into the chair next to the patient's bed, strangely eyeing the long, literally scarred lines on her painfully gray, lost face, which helplessly lowered its eyelids, only to once again scan the room's occupants. He smirked, seeing how his lower jaw trembled. How could he have killed him? He was so weak? Pathetic. Dirty, disorganized. Just a guy. Though he looked a little older. Surely, he was sick, with some cold, or... What? Why this?

— Sasha. Did he do this vile thing? — Diva stretched his face forward from his own shoulders.

— How can I explain... Not him. But the one inside him. Or, not inside him, but around him. — The boy focused his third eye toward Diva, channeling information, sensations, and streams of unified data into the filled chambers of his mind, trying not to drop anything unnecessary into his brain.

— Ugh! I just can't get used to this. — the man mumbled, grimacing as he rubbed his right eye with his hand, more calmly chewing on the frozen information in his skull, receiving a complete and boundless picture from various paths, possibilities, and sequences. At the same time, there was a humble corner with something resembling a carpet, whose colors overpowered every new shade, someone's face, thoughts, a higher feeling of passed spaces, and the most precious treasures, hidden the deepest. Stubborn humanity was battling with the sudden atmosphere of nature, which even Diva couldn't understand, because he only saw illusions, which all beings usually use when they think, or ponder, do and destroy, feel and change, confess or lie.

His thoughts were flitting about like trapped beasts. The first few minutes, he couldn't stay still, shifting as if possessed, in vain attempts to find at least one position that could reconcile him with reality. He clenched and unclenched his fists, crossed and scattered his legs, as though his body was trying to find a way out of this cocoon of madness. Thoughts sparked and faded, like lightning on the horizon, bringing no long-awaited clarity. Pain and insanity merged into one, every second pulling the remnants of his sanity away. He felt how reality, in a thin layer of lies, stretched out before him, everything around seemed illusory, as if his mind was slowly sliding into the abyss of self-deception. Among all the books read, grim rites, and empty prophecies of false prophets, he suddenly realized — here it was, his chance. The chance to touch the truth, to that long-awaited enlightenment that was supposed to free him from the constant desire to bash his head against a wall, to drive himself to unconsciousness, just to escape from this pain. Though the wall would probably not withstand. It — unlike him — was weaker.

Each day, each second brought him closer to the inevitable abyss. To the torments that no drugs, alcohol, passion, or physical pain could mute. Life for him had long turned into an endless suffering. But what did he know about life? Only one thing — freedom. The only meaning. It was like a horizon that could never be reached, but beyond which he so desperately wanted to look. Freedom was his limit, the boundary that needed to be broken to find something new. Maybe this was the voice of a mad psychopath, who had survived years of chaos, or maybe just a boy, who had forever lost faith in miracles and life itself. Fatigue. Thirst. Emptiness. Eternal agony. It filled everything — every breath, every step, every glance into the abyss. Laughter, screams, silence — everything merged into one painful, cacophonic noise. His fingers slowly curled, clutching his hair, and he smirked to himself, realizing how pitiful and helpless he was in his pain.

Fatigue. Thirst, amidst the monotony. Agony, under the unknown laughter, cries, and silence. In his bending fingers and his slow voice. Ironically laughing to himself, he could not find the right words from the hopelessness in which it had become tiresome to repeat the same thing over and over again. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flesh of his own eyelids. He heard the words of the person inside whom he lived. He finally wanted to see the other side of existence, where there was no soul, no death. Where there was an end, to what never existed. And there were no "I."

His long fingers tightly grasped his untidy, spread-out locks, stretching them across his face in an insulting grimace. No, he almost allowed himself to cry again. But this was unbearable, damn it! Enough... This Lisa. Who is she? Where the hell did she come from? Or who did she crawl out of?

His mind flitted about, trying to understand how much longer he would torture her, trying to squeeze out of her essence everything that could give him even a faint hope to look behind that very boundary that he so desperately yearned to cross. She was for him the embodiment of everything he could not understand. And, damn it, she probably wouldn't smile tomorrow when he puts the cake in front of her that he decided to bake for the first time in his life. Yeah, Satori found a great recipe. And Sasha, as always, ruined everything.

— I need to talk to your friend. Tulpa, or whatever the hell is inside you. — Diva tiredly responded, turning to the pale-faced one.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

— What you saw is nothing more than the space of his mind, separated. The anatomy of his bone structure and entire organism is completely alien. Especially his brain, shaped like hemispheres, stomach, heart in the left chest — he's from the human world, just like Kurouba. Do you remember him? I showed you often. — Sasha gloomily interrupted, independently processing the library of newly acquired knowledge.

— I remember, I remember... And yet he's here. And this premature just freed himself, flitting around like at home, you know. The dead brain suddenly limited itself with its own thoughts in the "nothing." Yeah... I need him to come out. Maybe he'll understand me. After all, he... — from sudden fear, Diva covered his head with both hands after the loud and tear-piercing laughter of a girl with bouncing ears, peering into her phone and then mockingly twirling her finger at her own temple. — Damn, did anyone give her a book as a child? Grew up an imbecile on my neck. Am I a freaking portable orphanage or what!?

— Huh!? — The cat rounded her eyes, pulling out a wax earbud.

— I'm saying your MEMES are gonna be back in style soon, I swear! — With a forced laugh, Diva grinned at her, swiping the bottle of cognac nearby. — By the way, why did you bring this katana?

— Yesterday at the Mariana crossroad, among the greedy clouds, in the central antiques shop, I met the flower of youth. You know, the one that whispers about distant dreams. But her eloquence turned out to be a trap, and I couldn't resist... I just had to intervene! It was irresistible, you know!?

— Uh-huh, I understand. The helpers tied her up and brought her to you. I know your eloquence, dolt. Same old: you, me, the drunk clown with a big mouth and a small heart.

— My heart, like a red-hot coal, was scorched by her otherworldly radiance! I was in awe, and when she laughed, her voice sounded like a swan's trill. And then, something inside me clicked, and like a fool, I did hara-kiri with her katana! How could I allow her to be sad? Sad stories are not for me, only joy, only laughter! And pancakes, only with sour cream and honey, don't forget! — Clenching his shoulders, he turned to the pile of antique armor, grimacing like a sour orange. — Sisters, inseparable snowflakes... But that's not the point right now. I was looking for something more, understand? Something that could freshen up this stale air.

— Blind naivety! Like a fool, I clung to her, this stranger who dreamed of freedom as something unattainable. I thought she would understand that we had the same path, but I only felt her fear when she started screaming. And in the moment when I squeezed her shoulders, I suppressed her freedom, I felt: she wasn't just a girl, she was the reflection of all my fears. I was with her, but she was never with me.

— I made myself believe it was all a game, that we had a chance... But when I cut her, I didn't just kill her, but the remnants of myself.

— Yes, yes... Ughh. Alright, guys, we've got an important meeting ahead. — Diva quickly gave the cat-girl a flick on the head to get her to gather herself, stopping with a kind expression on his face in front of the fox's terrified eyes, gently taking and placing her hand aside to wipe a couple of fat drops off her forearm and place her hand under a soft blanket.

Tenderly and extremely gallantly, unable to take his eyes off this beautiful event. Or, on the contrary, sad.

— Well? Don't be sad. Tomorrow I'll take you out of here, we all missed you so much. We'll prepare so many treats for you, it'll be a real celebration. Honest – honest... I promise you.

With a look that became intense, he leaned close to the literally motionless wreck of a being resembling a human, desiring to understand the intention of whoever had given this piece of meat the chance to tear through the boundaries of fantasies. To let it come alive in free understanding, keeping the pre-built reason of the real "Self." Just a human, and its broken appearance. From behind the royal chair, an unfamiliar figure emerged unnoticed, sewn from layers of torn rags, with what looked like springy human hair curls peeking from the top. A white mask like chalk with black oily slits for eyes was etched on the face, beside which were three colorful beads attached to each side. Behind the thin back of the red-haired time lord, an intangible evening banquet spread with glittering stones on branches, stealing the blackness from the walls, chairs, and someone's clothing. Someone was dining there, in those images among the rising shiny veil. Somewhere in that unshakable wormhole, the black-as-night house disappeared, under whose high straw roof beautiful blankets twisted, and the atmosphere was filled with the breath of an organ.

— Well, why do you look at me like you're going to do something? What can you do? Nothing? That's right. — After five seconds of annoying silence, Diva ruffled the pale man's head with a chuckle. — Ahem. Thanks for taking care of her. I'd be glad to shake your hand like a brother and forget about that guy in this room, but my inquisitive mind needs your inner chaos. And I sincerely hope it will help me solve my problem. Maybe not just mine. — His index finger firmly aimed and pressed to the man's forehead. — See you soon, my bags under the eyes. — He involuntarily emphasized the worn-out look of the pale man.

The humble group calmly trudged along under the overwhelming tide of melting time, gradually returning the lost inertia, the movement of one of the countless fragments. Two guards curiously peeked inside, seeing between themselves the mundane sight and the wandering between controlled singularities of the fairy cocoon made of painted girls, who didn't dare step back from their "daddy." — And you, due to your diet, you've gotten all flat and skinny! — the mayor remarked, sensing his urge to light a cigarette.

— Why don't you shut up, you pseudo-shogun!? They'll grow up, I'm just still... small!

A strange feeling, one that made it hard for him to breathe. It seemed like his lungs were tightly squeezing with each beat of his heart, pressing against the trembling scarred ribs. He didn't understand this sudden sharp reaction throughout his powerless body, which lay still and silently, covered in icy breath from within its trembling shell. He strangely, and still with curiosity, looked at the trembling female figure in the bed. The lonely fox, who had already forgotten about the inevitability of all these familiar faces appearing. The whispering diseases tearing her mind to pieces. That's it. It's meaningless. Thick red tears, where do they come from? Her skills, the thoughtless wandering of her ever-weary gaze drowned in emptiness. Had they ever been dreams? But her new obsessive friends would cut off all her thoughts once again.

The pale man looked around at the sudden noise from behind the door, noticing the resurrected boy Kurouba with a couple of doctors, instead of the dead body that had been lying nearby.

The constant clumsiness. Doubts. Fear. The man soon waited for the strange biomass from the distilled liquid to leave one of the chairs near the vending machine, where the night and morning had mixed around him, creating a cozy corner for contemplation... This boy is alive. He returned to life just like Kurouba. Is that normal? How did he come back, will he hunt her again? Are there so many of them? Completely unclear personalities that he was curiously losing ideas about. Futile. It was important to understand what was happening. Who are they? What should he do next?

The melodic and unexpected voice struck his irritated ears among the coloring, green summer walls in blue polka dots, along with new announcements on the ceiling right next to his right ear, where his blind sight was caught amid the velvet of fresh sheets. The moving combinations gradually filled this alley-like corridor with the therapeutic department, divided by numbered rooms, topped with a nook into the dining area, with exciting posters outside, mysterious low spreading passages into laboratories, abandoned skyways of active shot-mechanisms and winding technical ramps, around which groups of criminologists, high-ranking guards, and private detectives gathered. Maybe she's not a professional in this direction, but stubbornly demonstrating her modern tastes, about which no one can advise her. The pale man's embarrassed gaze looked uncertainly at the bright magazine covers along with some newspapers squeezed between his strong-looking fingers, in which he couldn't clearly discern or grasp their content from the mismatched painted dresses with girls. Floating in the filtered dim fog, his pupils stared at four large red hands of a young woman flipping through the next pages, excitedly talking about her future ideas for the ideal collection of stunning outfits that would shake all minds with their incredible abstraction. He nodded uncertainly and tried to smile politely without words, of which he was critically lacking, to which this mysteriously appearing interlocutor responded even more cheerfully to his admiring looks at her statements, continuing more animatedly to say something and show the following frames of the thick magazines.

Not long ago, there was the worst bloody pogrom here, which was cleaned up so quickly. Quite calmly.

— You, you came from the past to us, didn't you? — Kurouba barely squeezed between two large sanitarians with thick manuals on "discrimination of sexual organs," finally sitting down next to him. — Well, how do you not know how to use them? And I told you to wait for me outside. What's wrong with you? — He pouted angrily, turning away. He was scared, starting to mutter to himself. — My mind's gone dull, I acted illogically. That means, the temporal veil here and in the tavern was created by Mehaesper.

— You... came back to life? — the pale man quietly responded.

— Hmph. That's a long story. And I'm not good at telling long stories. Besides, it's none of your business. — He said with a miserable sob and returned the stranger his tablet. — I ordered you a taxi-friend for the whole day. First, he'll take you to the administration, it won't hurt, and it's necessary. Otherwise, the guards will take you themselves. They'll take care of you there, as they should, and now go ahead. Forward, and sing the song of Tatsuiki! Relax and give yourself fully to the rhythm. — With a grim expression, Kurouba shuffled in an unknown direction.

He looked back once more, meeting with curiosity the distant room of the Fox, which was accompanied by a company of doctors and high silhouettes in strange armor. Their light, hefty bones and other inner parts were literally mixing with the golden velvet of the moving armor, around which faces of national importance crowded, along with curious fluffy patients with still-dry towels on their shoulders and mugs of hot gingerbread cappuccino. Some even had flowers in their hands.

***

He saw himself in the mirror for the first time. His body was in agony, tormented by exhaustion he had never known. He began to bend his limbs one by one, feeling the weight in each of them, hearing a deep, continuous cracking sound between what seemed like a single organic joint. He tried to tilt his head to the side, and the sound of muscle grinding came from his neck, as though something inside was tearing apart. His head resisted his will and barely turned in the pitch-black half-light of the soundproof room. Inside his left eye, it felt as though something had settled there, pushing it out. The eye was strangely gray, as if drawn with a pencil, with one corner slightly raised like the thinnest layer of crumpled paper. Something seemed to be separating from his retina, particularly visible were the tiny, shifted folds at one end. His delicate fingers slowly grasped the edge of the thin, fish-like gray scales around the light human sclera, carefully separating the tightly stuck scales that made his vision blur, right in front of the bathroom sink and his face, which was distorting in the mirror. This something soft and resilient had grown from nowhere around the brownish pupil. He spent a long time inspecting and gently caressing the scales, which only tore from his careful touches.

Thoughts erupted into anger. He understood nothing, but was certain of what he wanted to do. The consuming mental physical pain in all his muscles left even the hope of protecting anyone, let alone himself. His trembling fingers dug into the sink, his face contorted in a grimace of regret, swiftly turning into disgust.

Carefully emerging from the upside-down bathroom, whose buttons and instructions he had hopelessly gotten tangled in, the pale-faced figure barely managed to find the corridor, in which, inexplicably, something emitted periodic daylight near the shelves, whose uneven cabinets and tables resembled solid wood made of a hundred windows and dozens of doors, where a vinyl cover tangled with fallen books, which he had clumsily rearranged on the empty shelves.

His eyes cautiously peeked out from the doorframe. Ahead, quite close, there was a wall with a single picture under a cornice, the curtains of which were replaced by abandoned notices, announcements, and a couple of dusty long window frames, through which the darkness and barely visible balconies with crossed stairways to neighboring apartments around the perimeter could be seen. Each one looked like endless puzzles, where barely assembled furniture could fit, with stolen carts near a suspiciously large door, the neon sign of which displayed unreadable hieroglyphs and a ventilation system, each of whose vents emitted a certain colored mist. He turned toward the tiny humanoids, who were traveling in a perfect, flexible railing along the entire stair landing, momentarily lighting up with their powerful flashlights every giant neighbor's door. On both sides of the wall, there were no boundaries, but the darkness was torn apart by bright garlands and vending machines around a suspiciously miniature house in the very center of the cliff, with the sign "Post Office" behind which stretched ropes on a mechanical basis, drying various clothes, near which warm fireflies fluttered. Wasn't he in a hospital right now? What was this place, so gloomy, cold, yet warm? The area of this residential building resembled a cramped anthill, with never-ending branching patterns in dark violet contrast, rarely encountered yellow windows in walls often adorned with domestic junk, furniture, and barely discernible faces of local residents wearing animal masks, who wandered in unknown directions to the beat of drums. Someone in the half-darkness had plunged into a virtual world of dreams, while this gathered group of angry neighbors at the restaurant counter was fervently proving something to each other, along with the playing figures on the shared board. This place was the brightest, friendliest, and warmest of all he had seen in the last twenty minutes of wandering through abandoned dungeon labyrinths. From here, it seemed as if a huge fragment of the wall had been ripped away, where ceremonial curtains hung, and a small, brightly lit restaurant was serving its clients a delicious noodle soup. Behind a wide game table sat seven spoiled individuals—young women, men, and a couple of elderly, intellectual faces in beautiful suits and wide-brimmed hats with yellow bells near a closed dusty kiosk, where, apparently, fresh newspapers had been placed. The skulls of two old men were unnaturally stretched vertically, their wide eyeballs and plump lips pressed against the edges of heated antique plates with fragrant herbs.

The pale-faced one looked at the screen of the high-tech gadget in his cold hands, awkwardly looking away, continuing on his initially designated path to the waiting driver, whom he needed to reach after crossing a distance of thirty meters... In the closed half-light, he involuntarily stopped in front of a tall figure dressed in black, with a deep hood around a long, bony neck. The creature smoothly freed its left hand from under the gathered robe and bowed politely to the traveler.

— Oh, there's no need to be afraid of me, I beg you. Many often confuse me with an alp, but that is not the case. I am merely a man who inherited a rare condition from my great-grandmother. — It turned out to be a young man with thick, long hair, like a horse's tail, whose rare locks gently lay on his thin, slightly greenish, drowned-looking face. Around his blue pupils, red oval patterns of an unopened flower seemed to swirl hypnotically, and his long blue lips smiled shyly. — I beg your pardon for my manners, my name is Gonfald. Gonfald Van Weyghih. — The tact of his fingers and the mismatched attire reminded him of some aristocratic figure, typically seen in palaces.

— I... I don't know my name. — The pale-faced one mumbled awkwardly, carefully and intently observing the silhouette across from him, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be able to introduce himself properly to the unexpected conversationalist. He wasn't afraid—maybe just not used to what his itchy eyes were showing, which he started rubbing with his fists again.

— Hmm?

— I... I have amnesia, I think. And I'm going to see a doctor to get my memory back.

— I sympathize with you. I hope it soon leaves the borders of oblivion and returns to you soon. In that case, I won't keep you, young sir. — Gonfald shyly smiled again, stepping aside and gesturing broadly with his long arm toward the retreating dark corridor.

He continued walking forward, and before his face, an image of a white as an unblossomed lotus bud face involuntarily appeared. This gentle, mature face was framed by black hair, as dark as the night, reaching thin shoulders, and eyelashes of the same coal-black contrast, which could fall off as intangible ash at the will of her mind. Why did it seem so familiar to him? And nearby, the predatory pupils of an unknown beast lay, maybe a wolf? Where did this image come from? An alp?

***

Through the sprawling canopies of towering, giant trees, thirty-degree rays of clear sunlight, forged by the flesh of towering skyscrapers, stubbornly broke through. Wrenches often called to each other while perched on the thinnest branches, thus accompanying their sweet song for the wandering stranger, lost in foreign faces, the lavish spread of scaly wings, and the mixed cocktail of spaces strangely familiar to him. His left eye watered again, causing an awful itch under his greasy hair. The path seemed to stretch ahead for an eternity, like that golden steppe on the right, a boundless yellow ocean covered in swaying ears of grain. Their bending, like waves on the horizon, had been sown days earlier under the influence of the relentless heat of summer. Though it was often difficult to endure this time, in the current military circumstances, one wished to keep this golden and fertile savior in one's desired company as long as possible. First and foremost, this always concerned the spirits here. They were enslaved by hunger and homesickness for an imagined home. Therefore, they often took humans, especially common folk, as their masters. They would feed them, warm them well, and never harm them—an outsider's story floated out in velvet swirls of floral wind along the coastal houses, opposite which the threshold passed by, with a musty gray city, from which salty puddles flowed, and the repulsively red light from the windows of sharp-angled houses.

A tall, thin girl, whose unnaturally long legs, with knees resembling detailed mechanical prostheses, bent down to allow herself to be surrounded by a flock of crows, pecking at soft scraps of airy bread from her fragile mechanical fingers with their thick beaks. Her brown eyes gazed upwards, observing the immensely large snake-like body of the barbarian around the equally sky-reaching temple. The long, clawed arms of the serpent-like creature with a human face mischievously scraped across the night canvas of clouds, stealing from them the brightest and largest stars from this mysterious family. Spacious halls of silent spectators were separated by a slammed door, beside which lay sanctions from foreign shores and their attentive readers, lazily settled on a thick carpet, passing small bento boxes to each other.

He walked leisurely between red, sun-bathed walls, while wooden stairs twisted and multiplied before the empty corridors with pink parquet, on which someone's umbrellas and scattered toys lay, and along the landing strips, paper airplanes crashed. Above his head, tents sewn between a single movable structure spread, alongside the peculiar ceilings made of colorful fabrics, which parted beyond the limits of trading shops. Day and night once again merged into a single point, around which his head spun. Once again, an entity in a deep hood made of leather politely addressed him, hiding some companions underneath. The pale-faced one calmly declined, continuing to stubbornly crawl up the soft slope of carpets, from which curious eyes peeked, watching as the ceiling of endless shimmering wires gradually approached them, inhabiting their funnels, migrating between the neighbors' labyrinths. The beating owl wings of the boy above the acrobatic stunts of a man, amidst the chaotically intertwined fiery quarters.

A frog hiding behind a red curtain, dropping golden and silver coins. Ten-meter-long hands emerging from the painted window of a chest, desperately grabbing the squealing rogues. The highway turned into a cold river over a colorless copper tablecloth, while the sun rose again over the slopes of the elevated green plains, banishing the crystalline-violet rain. Their bodies, like celestial stone sculptures, held gaping columns of leaves, toward which the city pathways from fabrics spread, dispersing in the next pitcher of the neighbor's quarter where it was darker... He barely avoided hitting the bottom of the car's interior, which resembled a miniature apartment with all the necessary amenities that he often considered. In the back seats, a married couple quietly and casually argued, embodying the ram and scales from the zodiac cycle. Through an impenetrable mesh, it was hard to make anything out, but the conversation clearly involved a solemn event. On the edge of the driver's seat, an elf, gray from nicotine berries, sadly swayed his thoughts, magically placed at the top among the other turned-back passengers, from where sounds and bright sparks from daily television echoed. A creature, the size of a palm, with a pretty face, hissed fiercely and gave a short but extremely angry reprimand to the pale-faced one when he poked his finger at a strange long cord on his shoulder, which turned out to be her tail. The pale-faced one tried to discreetly glance at the driver, who was busy with a phone conversation and simultaneously steering the car, which visibly maneuvered along the intricate roads, paths, and picturesque walls of unfamiliar routes. Barely climbing out of the lowered passenger compartment, he immediately fell back onto the ground, which was decorated with scattered glitter and colorful ribbons, opposite the monstrously lively square, where absolutely everything and everyone mixed. The girl turned around and smiled sharply, apologizing to the pale-faced one, continuing to chase the boy running towards the entertainment center.

— "I have nothing explosive with me, I swear!" — a man with an entire box of ice cream ran naked past the entrance to the unique library workshop, being pursued by a young woman in battle gear, with the accompanying law enforcement officers, resembling two massive fish.

With a businesslike face and in a perfectly selected beige tie, a hyena purposefully approached the man with a politely raised hand, where a green dial from a luxurious golden watch gleamed around his wrist. His gaze had already glanced stealthily at the weary and terribly ragged silhouette of a suspicious young gentleman with deathly pale skin, on which the emotion of caution was barely discernible, along with pale bags under his eyes. The pale-faced adventurer uncertainly shook the firm hand of a creature resembling a human, again carefully inspecting the silhouette of a tall being with short brown fur and round pointed ears from head to toe.

— Hmm, newcomer? If you need a lawyer, just whistle on this lifesaving walkie-talkie, my friend. — the hyena handed the man a business card, offering the only way in the world to solve any problem, if the right price was offered. — I'm sure we'll see each other again, mister...?

— Huh? I... I don't know my name. I was told they could help me here. I... I think I have amnesia.

— Oh! Is that so, darling? Heh, then we'll definitely meet again. — the hyena smirked, leaving the man alone with his neurological troubles.

The only long black horn on the forehead of the long-haired girl, who had a wide smile, shimmered with a pinkish substance as her slender hands hastily rummaged through the heavy bag of golden coins. The five-meter silhouette of a steel warrior, surrounded by maroon flowing aura around his demonic armor, wielding a huge two-handed sword, turned its horn-like head with puzzlement and gradually morphed into a tall, deformed creature, its enormous body shifting parts. It resembled a muscular horse with four hooves and a flexible, lizard-like torso, around which black and bloody substances twisted. Watching this strange pair swiftly gallop away from the crowded highways filled with cars and city branches, the pale-faced figure slowly rose to his feet after the heavy hoof strike that shook the ground, standing before the towering wooden frames of the Administration, which resembled gates the size of an unimaginable mountain, surrounded by passages from an astronomical workshop interwoven with a thousand doors, stairs, and roofs, crossing with neighboring buildings and many other incomprehensible stone structures and something sparkling, strengthening colorful currents that formed a net-like contrast.

He turned around and, for some reason, imagined himself in the middle of a clearing surrounded by the constantly spreading forest inertia, where the colors were poorly mixed, lacking a certain number of shades, which was blocked by a giant black head with reproachful, curious eyes resembling hoops, moving away behind the empty border highway. Among the densest and tallest trees, it was easier to hide. Delicate blue petals silently scattered across the black canvas, its elegant structure crossed by sturdy white belts on their refined torsos—this was, what, "kimono?" he thought, noticing something familiar around two passing female figures. In the bushes near the intertwined seats formed into a single parallelepiped, he heard the intermittent tapping of a bird's beak, hanging over a smiling skeleton, which indistinctly turned its head as if stalking someone. The scattered cigarette smoke peacefully drifted from one bush to another, surrounding them with a blue-violet haze, belonging to a heated, scarlet blooming rose at the tip of a gray nicotine bud called "Blue Lady."

Surely, it was a well-beaten and worn male face, though the eyes of its owner were full of caution, observation, and bright curiosity. His fingers often trembled and twisted the sleeves of his soiled shirt, where traces of fresh blood had dried. His gaze was barely suppressed, while his feet confidently marched toward his goal, the image of which he seemingly did not know and could not even imagine.

— Are you lost? — He wasn't sure if the question was directed at him, until he felt a piercing gaze upon him. An unfamiliar figure modestly introduced herself as Marven. It seemed he hadn't even heard it. But he also remembered how she had just introduced herself.

— If I'm understanding the directions on the map correctly, probably not. — the man shrugged awkwardly, examining the yellow exposed skin around the more darkened cracked lips, peeking from beneath the dark patchwork clothing wrapped around his neck and low shoulders in a massive hood resembling a rusty colorless ladle. In his head, a bee with a black, pitch-black abdomen appeared, whose distant image matched what he saw now, though he couldn't make out the full face and body of the person amidst the specific set of the sprawling smoky attire. She noticed his returning and much more diligent gaze, which didn't disturb her.

— You look like you've never been in such a place before. — the voice of the interlocutor calmly spoke, her black sclerae resembling a mystical dark veil that absorbed the thin brown-yellow strands of her wide turquoise hair, which were tied with a pair of invisible hairpins at her temples.

— I'm just not sure. Maybe today I'll figure out what to do next. — He thought for a long time before answering, while examining the creation beside him, who adjusted the collar of their clothes and led him toward the entrance of the building. Marven stopped and gently gestured toward one of the doors.

— Then I sincerely wish you good luck. — she politely bowed, allowing him to step forward.

He wasn't sure if he should say anything more. He glanced at her again and slowly stepped over the spacious threshold of the administration, which from the inside appeared to be an endless, enclosed village, obstructed by silhouettes, wall vibrations, and the heart of the building around which visitors began to gather alongside an adequate force of the capital's military escort. His eyes betrayed him, reflecting the internal amalgamations and elegance of the structures, the spaces, and the atmospheric surfaces extending upward to the towering peaks that fractured his common sense, where an infinite kaleidoscope seemed to lose itself in an uncharted map of unknown kingdoms, relentlessly maintaining their pace. His eyes scattered, lost in the vastness of the halls, where there was no room left for respite. He met the gaze of a tall employee across the infinite section of maintenance, next to which hung a sign that read: "Lunch break. Jerry, if you forget again to put the DAMN HANDLE in PLACE, I will personally slit your throat with the "Phoebe Haruki" figurine and pour a goddamn portion of boiling water into it so you choke on your damn grandfather's foreign tea forever, you thieving bastard! Best wishes - HR Administrator, Miyuki." The employee looked rather old-fashioned compared to his colleagues on both sides of the barricade, quickly adjusting his glasses around his long, almost sharpened nose, hurriedly combing green locks back and languidly resting both hands on the counter.

— Welcome, how may I assist you on this beautiful day, bathing your wonderful face in rays of the cosmic star? — His wide smile stretched his wrinkled skin all the way to his ears, revealing his sharp, razor-like teeth. The pale-faced man hesitated before pulling out a folded note from his pants, remembering the thick journal with some documents that Kurouba had handed him yesterday, which he had somehow lost. Today, he only had this single document with a blue guard's seal, which he handed to the goblin-like figure across from him, who immediately snatched the leaflet and examined it. The goblin's glasses strangely glowed as he fell into a deep silence, repeatedly adjusting his posture with his hands on his hips. Soon, a few bewildered workers approached from behind the goblin, along with a knight whose towering figure resembled a human body, though its head had the form of a serpent-like skull, with protruding front fangs and round pupils on a lifeless golden mask, which seemed about to open in layers, engulfing his empty-headed body. The powerful wallet of the data-exploration base failed to find any match with the handwriting of this man's face, and soon a response came from headquarters with further instructions.

— Hm... Hmph. Very well. — muttered the goblin, then was interrupted by a distant whisper from the knight standing nearby.

— In that case, you will be scheduled for a meeting with the National Guard at a convenient time for you, Mister, to examine your personal profile. Within twenty-four hours, starting from today, your duty will be to visit *The Main Medical Center in the Nihonto district. You will undergo a full medical examination and necessary tests, which will also include additional services as required. This procedure will be necessary for you since there is no record of your history in the City's database. There is a high likelihood that you will stay here for a long time... Our duty is to provide you with accommodation and a living method based on your subsistence needs. Once the aforementioned tasks are completed, you may freely create your profile in the National Guard Department, where, with your permission, we will be able to publish an announcement. If anyone knows of you, relatives, friends, or coworkers even from neighboring islands, they will certainly inform us. We guarantee your full recovery and progress in your investigation, and we expect your cooperation and understanding. Do you have any questions?

The pale man sank into deep thought, trying to push the facts of his own history away from the endless string of words he had just heard.

— Seems like the little one got lost. — The goblin sneered, receiving a slap on the back of his head from his female colleague, while the knight and another assistant, whose tiny hands barely reached his torso, handed the lost man a journal, ready for use and filling.

The pale man silently nodded without objections, turning toward the direction he had already lost sight of.

— A refugee, huh? Haven't had one in a while, ugh. What a pity, they usually come either with old scars or in search of new ones to silence their previous emotional pain. — The girl with a gingerbread in her mouth and a large dark umbrella over her head, resembling a heavy chandelier with miniature beige curtains, lilac cords, and crystal decorations, which partly concealed her delicate, spiritually honored face, mumbled with interest.

— I heard this guy was picked up by Kurouba yesterday in the red zone, a knight from the eighty-ninth battalion. — The snake hissed quietly.

— Ah! Is this the one with... "Fox"? — His colleague interrupted, eagerly nibbling on the gingerbread soaked in tea, which Jerry had kindly offered her just before his impending demise.

— Yep. He probably managed to cross here somehow, but I see he didn't make it out intact. Hope there won't be any trouble with him. Ghm. Should go have some "kanzopu"? — The snake muttered, glancing down at his short colleague, whose raspberry crumb clumsily fell on his face, after which she nonchalantly strolled off with a cup of Jerry's tea in hand toward her room.

— Thanks, Gretta. But I don't eat sweets...

The man hid in a secluded dimly lit corner near the chaotically moving bookshelves, pressing himself against an empty, non-reflective dark window where someone had left a charger. For a while, he examined the tablet, testing various taps on the screen, flipping it over and shaking it when he couldn't figure out how to close the pop-up windows. A massive contact list, an empty gallery with strange system handwriting, and a map that he had managed to ruin among the confusing rising assets. Fortunately, each program here was marked with its own icon. All the potentially important places were indeed brightly marked, just as Kurouba had explained. Tava, Quest, Nihonto - "GMC". Exactly what he needed. He pressed it, and the program immediately showed the nearest and all possible routes, ways to travel with available drivers and rental equipment, calculating each of his usual human steps. He looked up and realized that he didn't even remember how he had come here, and on the other side, his gaze got lost in the endless crowds and critically differing intersections of spaces. Eventually, he decided to follow the nearest route to a familiar taxi friend who had brought him here, as the icon with him was still flickering on the screen quite close.

This took more time, bypassing unfamiliar corridors, through whose walls he glimpsed new overcrowded halls, creating the impression that this place resembled more of a nightclub where everyone who had the strength to stand on their frenzied legs gathered and floated around the service ceiling sections on leather wings.

The next hall resembled an infinitely spacious purgatory of a train station, with massive columns surrounding everyday spreading screens like decorated sketches. Wavy staircases in the form of huge decorative lamps climbed up to a foggy image of hanging walls near which it was pitch dark. In the flickering graveyard darkness, vague signs of life appeared occasionally, like millions of dust particles, little lights. Rarely did anyone linger on the long burgundy sofas, and some looked more like doctors, having an animated conversation near dense ferns. A gloomy man in a long coat clicked a lighter, calmly lighting a tobacco narcotic. Its smoke didn't bother the face of the young woman who had settled with her head on his hard shoulder, sighing languidly around the mechanical sliding mass, silently processing atmospheric air into an unreal component, gently penetrating her deformed lungs. — I'll never be able to make "mushroom ufaki" like our mother did. — suddenly typed Shizuko, sadly lowering her eyelids.

— Hm? Why are you suddenly talking about this? — asked Ryu, hiding the compressed lighter in the breast pocket of his jacket from which he had already taken out his phone, scrolling through the message he had just received from her.

— Mom used to tell me that when you were together and you came home late from work, she always made them for you. Every evening. Even when she was sick or in a bad mood. I also wanted to make them today, to give you warm memories of her. But I never had any cooking talent... And I never had anything to make. — the girl quietly and hoarsely coughed, throwing out the processed condensate through the mechanical gaps. Perhaps it had been a difficult day for both of them, or maybe it was especially hard for her. All these years, she hadn't known her father, hadn't seen his face, and didn't remember his words. Perhaps that very taste would have inspired him and made him feel the old, beautiful memories of his beloved wife; maybe it would have helped him open up. He had returned so unexpectedly. She didn't know what to do next.

— Yeah, that's true... Because you're adopted. — Ryu exhaled thick smoke, gently hugging and stroking her ruffled head, suddenly realizing that he had been too harsh with her at that very moment. — She really made them for the father, whom I also don't know. And I'm your cousin, whose last name was mistakenly confused with his. However, as soon as I got the letter, realizing that one of my sisters lived somewhere in Tue, I immediately flew here...

— Eh? — she muttered in a distorted, full-metal voice, as her eyes widened in bewilderment.

The Pale-Faced man was distracted by the tall door at the very end of the corridor, which softly tapped against the oval opening. Behind it, there was a faint cry of rain, its blue glow seeping along a short fragment of the darkened wall with grotesque large doors. He slowly stepped past stretched wires along the service rooms, and as he crossed the threshold, his face froze, and he could only perceive the gray floor beneath his feet. His brain seemed to explode under the pressure of a tiny twisted hurricane, which dulled his hearing, making his own body lean sideways with its heavy weight. Stumbling, he knelt by the railing, pressing his hand to the delicate white mechanism around his left ear. It felt as though an unimaginable wave was trying to break his soul into dense chunks of foreign organs among the dark inner intersection.

— My dear? — A timid feminine voice called to him.

Standing beside him was a young woman, warming her hands in the deep seams of the thick sleeves of her mantle. Under her dark green locks of hair, as thick as grass, tears were flowing in a continuous mournful lament, which unexpectedly froze. She appeared as confused as he was.

— W-Who are you? — He didn't recognize her. He felt that the woman before him was a complete stranger, though in his confused state, he had allowed himself to be overly certain of this.

— Oh, I... — Her pain on her face became more pronounced, but she continued to look at his exhausted and strained expression, knowing that one day he would recognize her, even if it took an eternity, an endless number of burned forests and steppes, through countless dead vessels of beings.

A gust of strong wind knocked him off his feet when he finally looked around and saw the endless surroundings of Tué, resembling a worldwide and often colorful web, in some bordering junctions and displacements lacking permanent form, unlike other cities and districts that resembled villages. Knights, unfamiliar people, and cooks with massive burnt cauldrons hurriedly bypassed his silhouette. A look of alarm had recently appeared on their faces. Two massive walls of unknown towers surrounded him, and the fiery raindrops from the gray sky bathed their painted, unshakably sturdy bodies. He looked into the distance at the high open doors, from which a machine flew out with ease, vaguely resembling a wooden and stone kiosk, whose size clearly multiplied as it approached him, making the walls surrounding the ship appear gigantic.

— Ugh! What mischievous demons have worn you out, young sir!? — A gray-haired benefactor, resembling a giant rat with large black lenses over his eyes, peered out from a crowded stall filled with various items and junk. — Let me get you all spruced up, you look far too... Pardon my foul tone — like that dēva from the "Prince from the Ravine" liturgy.

— Oh, father, don't trouble yourself recalling those old tales. No one understands them, and no one reads them in our time, you know. — A girl scrambled out of an oddly large cart, and just as the pale-faced man was still on the ground, the roof above them both instantly unfolded, made of an impenetrable dense material with fragments of transparent windows, through which heavy streams of warm and more colorful rain continued to pour. With a polite smile, she extended a tiny hand to him, which the man took cautiously but did not grip, only pushing himself up with his second hand from the smooth surface of the patterned floor. So soft, so warm. Her hand? He panicked, as though his fingers might crush this fragile palm into a bloody mess, and jerked away. The girl blinked in confusion, gently pulling her hands back to her chest.

— I'm sorry... I... — He mumbled, pressing his hands into his pockets.

— What? Money? Who do you take me for, sir? Please, feel free to choose whatever you like! In this capital, it's a sin to choke on spare change. Now, don't neglect my generosity and pick whatever pleases your soul! — The merchant had already noticed his worn-out appearance from afar, dismissing his objections and embarrassment.

— In that case, let me offer you this convenient, elegant shirt that fits this climate perfectly. I saw how your eyes sparkled when you saw it! Here, try it on! — The merchant skillfully helped the man out of his tattered two-day-old coat and quickly dressed him in a light blue shirt with magnetic buttons, its density easily adjustable, stretching or hanging loosely on his frame, which the merchant demonstrated. — How do you like it? My daughter sewed this for you personally! And look, no holes or cuts, right? Oh, and shoes! You absolutely need shoes! What are your parents thinking? Always busy, always worried... — Without thinking, the merchant pointed with his eyes to a pair of old but still in perfect condition boots, abandoned under an air conditioner and stacks of robes, near a bundle of tied-up paper. — Try these! Come on, give them a knock.

The Aden discs around the heels of his feet immediately began spinning, blinking faintly and releasing clouds of stale dust and debris from the expanding grooves, making the shoes look almost brand new. Relatively new. They practically resembled parts of knightly boots, with layers of plates and protective framing, but with stylish bends on the firm metal ornament.

— Thank you... — The pale-faced man quietly responded, buttoning the last button and inspecting the new, feather-light shoes with a strong, incredibly flexible system in the sprawling, movable soles.

His eyes froze on one of the screens, enveloping the space around him in a cold mist, with red, distant spots twisting, resembling carefree crimson snowflakes dancing in the wind, losing their fragile lives amidst invisible shockwaves, chasing the vacant gaze reflected from brown pupils. It was a looped two-second video, suddenly thrust into his face. Crystallized hands ruthlessly tore apart a human head, whose organs elastically stretched within a leather mask, diverging in different directions around the emerging skull and an additional pair of naked bird wings, surrounded by the massive bellies of large torn birds. The skull was twisted in a chaotic tangle of soft, writhing glass, which, like mirrors, reflected the dark eyes of the pale-faced. Due to the sharp teleportation codes within the image, he couldn't make sense of it.

"Attention! Activity of the 'Collector' detected in the Nihonto area!"

Frowning, he rubbed his eyes with his fists, as everything around him once again blurred into familiar landscapes. The girl behind him nervously clenched her hands, jumping back into the cart.

— Who's that? — the man asked.

— Ugh, that nightmarish semblance of an artist... People have long called him "The Collector." He kidnaps anyone who crosses his path and performs the most horrendous craft on them. — the merchant sighed, pulling his daughter close to him. — Wherever there are devilish feasts, there his heart wanders in insatiable search. You better not wander in the deep forests or among the forgotten skyscrapers, arm in arm with solitary darkness, and forget his name.

— Yeah! Otherwise, he'll turn your intestines into a halo, and from your ribs, he'll make bloody bird wings... He's a real psychopath. — the pale-faced was playfully slapped on the shoulder by a passerby, flashing a grin between his tattered violet rags. — Heh. By the way, this is the only recorded footage from one of the guards who accidentally managed to slip into one of his, so to speak, hideouts. So, especially at night, it's better not to linger alone anywhere, agreed? — he winked at the pale-faced, quickly striding toward the next building.

— Well, it's time for me and my fairy to head off too! — the merchant cheerfully responded, soon diving into the cramped control wing of this massive machine. — I wish you luck in your endeavors and all your unfinished undertakings, young sir! All the best!

— Yes! And please take care of yourself! — the girl waved her delicate hand goodbye with a sweet smile.

A bit hesitantly, he raised his hand and waved a few times, watching them as their ship ascended, his tired gaze following them, feeling a pleasant and inexplicable warmth spread somewhere in his chest.

This place was much larger than he had thought during the previous twelve minutes. Numbers, volumes, scales. Continuously increasing, limiting both itself and others. In a matter of seconds, he was obstructed by crowds of soldiers and a handful of lower-ranked guards, whose frantic motives were unclear to him. His face burned again from an internal pressure rising, and his mind once more lost in the dirty, dimly lit corridors. In every direction, red tails of mischievous demons disappeared, peeking with spiteful eyes from the impenetrably dark ceilings and oddly arranged drawers in those same cut-out ceilings. The oval doorframe looked like a cracked rock, shattered by cold waves, between which tangled cables and vector illuminations stood opposite two elevator systems, where two rams could have a smoke and give some advice to a nymphomaniac awake on one of them, with a fierce half-smile clawing at his strong shoulders and applying harder and more powerful thrusts around his groin, which was heavily decorated with the consequence of a long suffocating erection. The muscular body with a long tiger's tail was partially covered with luxurious fur and athletic masses, unlike her fierce, enjoying her latest prey human face, beside which, calmly smoking a cigarette, the next male waited for his turn. The pale-faced slowly, trying not to scare the group, cautiously pressed his back to the adjacent wall, swiftly sneaking along another corridor fork. The flexible rooms resembled hotel hallways, where crowds of workers were gradually gathering, casting suspicious glances in his direction. Above a spacious column in the center of the overcrowded hall, a fragile staircase rose, and after climbing it, he found himself near a rounded door, when the smell of raspberry jam spread its juicy wings, and thin beams of light sprinkled the multicolored space around like a wide, inverted tablecloth. Muscular, serpentine limbs of a snow-white creature skillfully maneuvered along the winding perimeters of the working systems and combinations, after which, without turning around, it slammed the door with a crash before the man and two passersby, who accidentally squeezed between the pale-faced and nearly dropped wide trays with sets of dishes.

— One day I'll poison that bitch, I swear to God! — someone began to protest. The man didn't manage to hear them out as he stumbled backward from what seemed to be a considerable height. Indeed, he landed on a soft, slightly raised bed with several large pillows, one of which he caught as the owner, who was nearby by the enclosed cash register, grabbed it. The old man didn't say a word, or maybe his voice was drowned by his unnaturally thick beard.

— Where am I? — the inexperienced adventurer mumbled quietly, looking around the cramped working space, where lizard-like creatures were searching for a loophole.

— The Tuen'shi armed forces. And may I ask whose side you're on? — the old man grumbled, using an advanced brain visor to detect the complete lack of a virtual profile or any general identifiers.

— I... — and for some reason, he imagined himself surrounded by a carnival New Year's hall in a peculiar palace amidst an endless festive scene of the general backstage, where there were no rules or unnecessary worries, not to mention the mass of unfinished work.

In the next moment, he was knocked off his feet by someone's engrossed game of tag, which he decided to cautiously follow. Several teenagers, like mad creatures, clung to the walls, climbed on each other's backs, and skillfully covered distances. In their movements, there was something animal-like, such as their thick, fur-like hair, their surprisingly flexible body balance that allowed them to twist their torsos along with their limbs, and their elongated feet, which they skillfully pushed off from the surrounding surfaces. This aerial battle led to yet another and now empty hall, around whose branching perimeter, turning into deformed steps, velvet wings as large as a whole wall hung lifelessly, seeming to twitch. It was sufficiently bright and cozy for such a place. Although, had he known them before? The robotic free space was visited by several employees handling some equipment on the painted walls. Carpets. Or something vaguely resembling endless painted cloths that are usually laid out on the floor. They were absolutely everywhere, and each one had more inventive, more chaotic symmetrical patterns. A bit of stained glass on incredibly high ceilings, which seemed to him like the sky, once again tangled his thoughts—disjointed mechanisms and two seemingly ordinary people quietly conversing on the farthest couch, making no sound before the open holographic patterns. He was distracted by the persistent knocking on something hard, it seemed to be wood... Wood. Everything, every detail, every internal component, and each gear was constructed from it, made from a certain aden alloy that supported the active mechanisms around massive helmets, whose hefty protective face plates were expertly grown with heavy crowns. On their strong temple nodes, miniature burrows were carved, and above the frontal lobe, tiny hollowed spots rarely revealed the heads of long-eared creatures. A huge hand, clad in wooden armor, raised upward, palm open, where crushed grain crumbs were gently cradled.

— Hey, you! Brute! Stop ignoring me! I know he climbed up to you, he's always hiding there from me! — screamed a tall, mature woman, with angrily spread wings and gleaming crimson-negative aura, demanding that the officer before her throw the boy at her feet. — And where is your comrade anyway?

The officer, resembling an ancient earth titan, silently tilted the restructuring parts of the wooden armor around his head to the side, ignoring the once again overly fiery nature of the young free agent. Soon, a certain demoness received a sudden blow to the crown of her head, after which she furiously squinted her eyes toward the bridge of her nose, curling her lips in indignation, unconsciously collapsing to the floor amidst her luxurious royal mantle with exquisite white fur around the burgundy velvet.

— What a klutz. At least I'll eat in peace, and maybe I'll leave this madhouse without you...

Muttering discontentedly, a human silhouette with a bluish, intricate helmet on his head quickly rose to the next hall, clad in thick, worn clothes, carrying undoubtedly heavy, unknown-filled leather sacks and several large backpacks on his shoulders. The pale-faced man cautiously stepped toward one of the less suspicious doors, rarely glancing at the massive plant-like contours of the bulky creation above him, feeling the barely perceptible, distant gaze following him intently.

Cafeteria. An incredibly expansive and cohesive dining atmosphere. The word that first popped into his mind, whose skin layer along with hair had been unbearably itchy throughout the entire incomprehensible journey. He clumsily and barbarically began to mess with his thick, greasy locks, tightly squinting his wrinkled gray eyelids around his eyes. — Sir? Excuse me? — Someone's tiny finger knocked uncertainly against his hunched back.

— What's going on? — Two meticulous figures appeared beside the man, examining him from both sides.

He almost mistook the young woman before him for a child, due to the very short stature of this seemingly hefty individual, barely reaching his abdomen. Her aggressively formed folds around her wide nose surrounded dark green irises set in eyes that were heavily covered by long red curls, cascading in darkened strands down to her weathered, tanned shoulders. Beside her stood a tall... Angel? Something resembling metallic wings of deformation, compactly folded within golden armor pieces, some of which had stickers and paintings gleaming like those on a thick vest. Some yellowed curls from sunlight were also present on his smooth young face, decorated with exotic piercings and black delicate mechanisms at the edges of his sharp ears, which sometimes winked. The angel nonchalantly snatched the man's journal, swiftly skimming through its meager contents, already transferring it to the empty workspace of his partner beside him.

— Mingli Ma Zhuu, — the guard introduced himself, exchanging his documents for a tablet with a couple of quick movements, now focusing intently on the contents of his records. — What are you doing here?

— I... I think I'm lost.

— You've just visited the administration building, if we pay attention to your movement history, but you covered the distance to our base in exactly three minutes and six seconds, completely unnoticed. Are you leaving something out, comrade? — the guard slowly extended a pale-faced tablet towards the stranger and furtively glanced at him with a bewildered look.

Mingli's virtual gaze in the unreal mental space locked eyes with his short companion and two dozen other guards, who were subtly surrounding the perimeter, discussing their next steps via mental cyber projections, while a squad of small daugmos hid between the upper floors, preparing to form a balanced aborium shield around the pale-faced man. He didn't seem too dangerous, but there could be anything inside him capable of hitting this vast area, teeming with soldiers during their lunch. An unregistered civilian wandering around the barracks like he's at home. This was quite an extraordinary case that needed immediate clarification.

— Please, don't get upset. We will surely help you if you don't refuse this friendly service. — The short woman spoke sensually to the pale man, slowly extending her small hand toward him.

Help? Will he agree? This is really suspicious. This memory-lost man has been aimlessly wandering around Twé for the second day, constantly looking around the surroundings as if they were an unfamiliar world to him. He's so calm. Like he just crawled out of someone's shadow, a shadow no one cares about. Mingli didn't avert his focused gaze from the man, barely registering the unnatural configuration of nerve endings near which he was preparing to release neutralizing capsules. Hopefully, he wouldn't do something reckless right now.

— Damn centipede! — A man of strong build immediately stood up and slammed the table with all his might, channeling his accumulated anger from the past weeks toward his combat comrade. — Nobody invited you here, so this is strictly her business! You've been whining and ruining my appetite every damn day! You reek of nitpicking from a mile away! None of us are to blame for your low-minded miserable state, you pathetic bunch of freaks!

— SHUT UP!!

A strike. A vicious blow that tore apart a massive human torso among the twisted, stretched tissues, spilling organs in a bloody waterfall, around which stood two-meter-long transforming humanoid appendages resembling the inner structure of a centipede's body. The insect-like man's head was twisted between trembling vertebrae, while one of his unnaturally separated body parts with raised, sharp legs pierced through the left side of the skull and chest cavity, from which predatory carbonite blades barely seeped through. Every person present in the room froze, almost silent, except for the faint buzzing of kitchen appliances in the distance.

— Mukada. Do you realize what you've just done? — Mingli stepped forward, as all the soldiers who had been seated nearby the insect-like man slowly moved back to a safe distance, barely maintaining their composure.

— What... What is she fighting for? For the madness that you all fear? For the terror that warps millions of minds? Why does my sister have to suffer because of you humans? What did she do to you? What... What are you torturing her for...

The soldier's body occasionally twitched, releasing fading remnants of life through his half-open jaw. Between the raised spine, held in the death grip of the light-colored claws of the maddened insect, liquid bloody drafts trickled down through the dark intercostal twists of the bodily cave. His stomach, carelessly torn open with its liver, splashed loudly onto the suddenly revealed golden device, whose boundless components scattered in stages around them, picking up every drop of blood, transferring fluids, and broken tissues, whose complex biological materials had decomposed into an initial, but now less stable, artificial state, among the desperately clinging, bloody organic substance, spilling into a dark, yellowing lake toward the nearby chairs and stools. One of the random guards didn't manage to react to such a sudden assassination attempt on the life of this man, whose body he was trying to restore to its necessary vital functions and for whose life he was fighting.

— Please, don't do this, you should be smarter than this man. Isn't that right? Your sister is alive, we haven't lost the signal from her. You just have to be patient. — The guard spoke as behind him, a squad of prepared doctors and surgeons cautiously crept forward. He noticed how Mukada's saddened gaze slowly lowered and moved forward, as though signaling that he had heard him. — You'll let him go when I say, okay?

Everyone looked at him, but unfortunately, they probably never would understand. Or maybe the heart-shattering fear and the first loss he'd ever felt wouldn't let him believe in their sincere intentions. They... Among them were so many degenerates, using the atmosphere nature provided for their own, offensively selfish purposes. He would never have chosen this life for his family. Had he had a choice, he would never have been this part of a randomly revived existence. To embrace. To embrace them all as tightly as possible and create an unshakable ancestral nest where there would never be pain or hunger. His mind, the receptor shells of consciousness, burned with screams around the cortex of his brain, rejoicing in the loss. The sudden emptiness pierced through his interdimensional active channels of his cerebellum when the intangible thread of his kin suddenly snapped that day. Why? Why now? Had he realized too late? A worthless evolutionary step, for this meaningless moment. Lips, hands, eyes. Everything trembled along with every particle of him, and he spread his bloody, jawed body.

A figure of a man collapsed to his knees in convulsions, from whose mouth black masses of warm vomit spilled once again, spreading along his hands pressing against the surface. One of his reddened eyes blinked rapidly at the blurred amalgamation of the room, which resembled a more spacious, sprawling service corridor. He ran, not knowing where or for what. Each floor changed to another, providing unfamiliar, quiet passages. In the next hallway, it was very bright and wet due to the thick patches of blood visible everywhere. His weary silhouette was suddenly blocked by Mukadu, who had approached from a stairwell, frozen in place before him with a heart emptied of emotion.

— What happened to you? — the pale man spoke first, perhaps wishing to understand or learn more about the transgression of this being.

— Me? — he lowered a trembling gaze filled with fear and ambiguous hatred, not knowing what to do next. — I... I lost contact with her... For the second day, my consciousness has lost connection with the only family member I have. I don't know what's happening to her... She couldn't have died, she should've returned yesterday.

— Did she leave without you? — the man cautiously interrupted his story, trying to better see his face.

— We were supposed to be safe here. But at the last moment, they grabbed my sister... It was for nothing. All of this was for nothing. — His voice trembled along with the steam escaping from his mouth, altering the segmented body shell. — I have to find her... For sure. At least her body. Her body! Her hands! Her head!

Two Daugmos silently crept between one of the moving walls, preparing to join in capturing the target. — "This anthropoid class doesn't have the brain-like shell of other beings. We can't infiltrate its reproducing hybrid organ, can't take control of the body." — one of the operatives grumbled. — "I already realized this, the first guard will arrive in fifteen seconds, fyf."

— Why did you kill that person? — the pale man muttered hesitantly, rubbing his slightly illuminated red-glowing left eye, which kept itching.

— The person... David. — it seemed he remembered his name. — Just a beating for his critical statements and self-satisfaction. Anyone other than me would've killed him in the end.

— I'm not sure. Killing a soldier with a meaningless suffering ego won't lead to any changes. Another inevitable, purposeless death... — he spoke slowly, stumbling as if trying to instantly learn how to talk to a being who seemed to need support. — Will they catch you?

— Right, they'll catch me. But otherwise, I won't be able to... But I... But... I...

Why speak to this man? To their hopelessly cruel descendant, who has gathered their lives across the world for generations, building them into a theatrical dome of collected life. He should've taken the initiative, led his sister to a place where no human foot or anyone else's had ever stepped. Even though he hadn't known or seen these places for a long time, he could have tried to imagine them, even if they were beyond his sight. This was his last chance to fix everything! He had to break through one last time and find her!

A mighty blow struck his body. The man nearly lost consciousness, carefully placing his hand on the shoulder of the "insect," which immediately twisted in horrifyingly lightning-fast bodily slashes, breaking part of a mechanical furniture structure some distance away. The sharp, elongated limbs of his disassembled body swiftly shattered the side edges of the modified tile, as if it had been expertly carved into a crooked, ground hypotenuse. The rectangular, tantalum-spiked consistency spun around the rapidly accelerating inertia of the insect's contorted body movements, loudly piercing the slightly retreating human torso and slamming sharply with a screeching end into the expanded surface, along which the pierced human body was thrown back toward a sturdy wall that accepted the impact...

The pale man's eyes nearly popped out from the pressure of excruciating pain, during which dozens of crooked and chaotically sharpened twists pierced, pushed aside, and unceremoniously gouged his organs, never letting go of his body in their iron-tight embrace. His torn lungs and trachea gradually filled with bloodied streaks and dark masses, rising toward his mouth. His jaw resembled a kind of bloody fountain, from which suffocating, painful groans could be heard. His vision dimmed and distorted with blurry yellow flowers, but the annoyingly itching consciousness remained intact. The hideous, blind scream was drowned out by the liquid black ground, his limbs twitching uncontrollably as he tried desperately to move his fingers, sliding down the defiled parchment. All thoughts were obliterated by pain. All images and voices were transformed by pain, annihilating every spiritual fragment into boundless madness, which once again took form, contradicted in his powerless gaze, in the panic-stricken, blurred visions of his pupils, stretched in the savage snarl of his lips. Pain, it was shameless and ever greater with every approaching wave of flesh. Only pain. The limitless sensation, devouring the trembling brain alive. A sensation that defied size, thoughts, and emotions.

***

Softly. Very softly around. Around the fingers he inadvertently clenched, feeling the gentle touch of a thin arsenic blanket, wrapped around his suddenly well-groomed heels and sensitive toes. Is this a blanket? Can it really be so pleasant, so soft? Just like clouds, to which he had never touched? Not sure of the name, the word of this branching thing. He clenched his fingers again, uncertainly bending his knees and pulling the blanket higher over his chest. Very warm. In the dimly lit yellow room, the monitors softly illuminated the surrounding, scanning his rhythmic arterial movements and many other incomprehensible images and processes for his mind.

— Oh, you're awake already? — whispered the nurse in front of the patient with surprised eyes. Her short hair was yellow like September leaves on trees, and her eyes were bright emerald. Her attire resembled a pajama, hiding someone's tail underneath. — Lie down and don't get up, please. You need to rest after...

— After coming back from the dead, you fool! Everywhere you go, you end up in nothing but trouble! — the room was suddenly filled by Kurouba with two familiar faces. Still, he didn't want to scold this person too much, because if he remembered, he himself was a bit problematic during his first days in Tué, or even worse.

— Oh, please allow me. — The nurse politely bowed to everyone and left the room, sensing a serious conversation ahead.

Three diverse guards took their places in the chairs, gathering around the only bed in the room. Kurouba sat to the right, barely opening his mouth. An angel with... a small, trained, wiry woman sat to the left, meticulously studying the pale-faced man, passing a package of sweet-smelling nuts in a red wrapper to each other. There were no windows, but there were gray blinds and light brown curtains with tall cabinets and tables.

— Who the hell are you, really? — Kurouba asked the man, licking his lips and pleadingly crossing both hands toward the package in his companions' hands, which Mingli refused by turning his head. — And how did you end up in this place unnoticed? Huh? Come on, say something, don't leave me hanging, they'll skin me alive. And Mingli can do that with just a look... You should've been in the hospital, undergoing some examination. Instead, you're demonstrating advanced resurrection miracles.

— I don't know... My... head keeps hurting. I'm not sure what's happening right now...

— Shut up, Kurouba. — Mingli glared displeasedly when Kurouba spoke too much, handing the pale man a deep cup of hot medicinal drink. — Alright, newcomer. You'll go with him to the hospital and monitor every step he takes. The Guard should start their investigation.

— "Is he too suspicious?" — Di'Vora mentally connected to her partner's stream.

— "Specialists have been watching his subconscious for the second day now, and this guy looks completely lost. He poses no threat. Let him finally take care of himself. It's no longer our concern." — Mingli refrained from a lengthy reply. — "I forgot to warn you, sorry" ...When you gather your strength, go straight to the hospital and fill out all the forms, alright? Later they'll explain everything to you and help you with your memory recovery. And be careful, even with this fool." — he politely addressed the pale man, leaving the journal beside him and heading out the door.

Kurouba suddenly crowded next to his colleagues at the empty corridor.

— Hey! What exactly does "he came back to life" mean? Like a zombie?

— We can't call it resurrection, Kurouba. That's even theoretically impossible. As long as the brain hasn't started decomposing, it can be revived... The unnamed person's injuries were incompatible with life, but somehow his regenerative abilities revived every destroyed molecule down to the cellular nucleus. It's like he got put through a meat grinder.

— How is that possible?

— I'm not sure. There's one theory where he could have kept an organic brain stem sample somewhere. Maybe he sealed it before death, and when the body was restored through its inherent transmutation, the copy uncontrollably returned to the body? Something like a replacement. I've never heard of anything like this, and what I'm proposing now is a spontaneous theory.

— You think he's some kind of skilled sorcerer?

— I don't have any more ideas. No being is capable of such rapid cellular regeneration. And his brain was definitely dead. Upon autopsy, it was still 85% rotted, as if it had been lying there for weeks.

— This is some bullshit.

— The whole headquarters isn't sure about their assumptions yet, but they've accumulated enough over the past couple of hours, — Mingli remained brief, joining the conversation. — They literally just pulled him from the morgue when one of the corpses suddenly showed ischemia.

— Got it... Di'Vora said he was screaming, back in the morgue. — Kurouba looked at the short woman across from him.

— Yes, he screamed loudly in pain when he regained consciousness while his exposed wounds were slowly healing on his chest. — she replied thoughtfully, suddenly jumping up and snatching the last coconut cookie from Mingli's lips, filling her right cheek in one go.

— Stop doing that all the time, everyone in the cafeteria's already shipping us after last week. I don't want to live through the same pseudo-married day again, this time in a military hospital.

— Hah? You're the one to blame for that, don't drag me around the stores every Tuesday and rejecting all the girls who confess to you every day. — Di'Vora retorted indignantly.

— But I can't refuse going shopping with you. You don't hang out with other women, to put it mildly. And no one else sympathizes with my taste. As for the other sweet ladies, I turn them down because I'm not interested in serious relationships or their attempts to drag me into their sexual adventures. — Mingli replied nonchalantly.

The pair walked at a steady pace down the corridor, continuing their fiery discussion of the sudden internal conflict.

— Hmm. — the young man muttered to himself as he returned to the room, where the pale-faced man suddenly appeared beside him. — Dam#@%%\\:!!!