By the next day, Malk's injured left forearm hardly bothered him. Just like any well-healing surface wound a week old. On the one hand, he should've been happy about such luck—after all, few people would be upset about recovering in less than a day. But on the other... Mritlok isn't a place where suddenly acquired abilities are always a blessing. Demonic emanations after Yorrokh's Nights, hereditary curses and visible signs of a powerful malefic's grudge, "gifts" from Hell, or just a "hello" from some crazy alchemist—who knows how many nasty things happen in this world, often wrapped in a pretty package?

So, it wasn't strange that Malk rushed to the healers the morning after the assault. And he started with a visit to a Life mage at the very clinic where he'd lucked into getting a job. Surely, there had to be some perks for colleagues and part-time staff, right? So why not take advantage of them...

Alas, his hopes were dashed. Worse, the Apprentice who handled injuries wouldn't even talk to him, immediately demanding an advance payment for the consultation. Not as much as it could have been—just fifty obols—but the mere fact of the demand outraged Malk. Yorrokh's flur up his athanor, couldn't he at least take a look for free?! What if Malk was making a fuss for nothing and should actually have been glad about his luck?

But the Apprentice, who'd long been stuck at his rank—he was old enough to be Malk's father—refused to help the maker of one-time "Healers" in any way. Moreover, that spawn of Hell pompously declared that if Malk had no money, he should spend more time working at the clinic. Then, such nonsense as asking his seniors for a favor wouldn't even cross his mind.

How Malk managed to restrain himself from snapping back with a retort, he didn't even know. Heck, he even gave that greedy rat a polite smile and, leaving, didn't slam the door. Interesting, would the Apprentice, when he needed a favor, remember the bit about working more or start pressuring with that respect of juniors for seniors?

Anyway, the conversation had really rubbed Malk's ego the wrong way. It wasn't like he had asked for anything special, yet there was still a bad aftertaste. Pah!

After the clinic, Malk headed straight to the Society—in case of injuries and unforeseen incidents, they had their own healer. True, he couldn't count on any discounts, but he'd already come to terms with that...

"Excellent healing. No pathologies!" announced the Bachelor of Life magic after studying the bullet wound on Malk's left forearm for over a minute. "How long, you said, since you got the injury?"

"More than a day," Malk replied. "And even so, I didn't use any spells..."

"Well, that part's obvious. Way too typical signs of natural healing," the senior mage interrupted. "But the speed... Your Crystal Heart shouldn't cause such effects. I'd suspect a Lineage awakening, but..." The healer clicked his tongue. "Your medical records clearly state that you have no hereditary talents... And you don't seem like someone who'd have the means to acquire them illegally."

Malk almost asked about that illegal way but caught himself just in time. In Boreas, as in all of Mritlok, knowledge was considered the highest value. And showing too much curiosity about secrets banned from distribution could easily make you part with, if not your head, then your freedom for sure.

"So maybe I just got lucky?" Malk asked with a wry smile. "Miracles do happen, right?"

"They do," the Bachelor nodded energetically. "But not for folks like us. So if you're only worried about the wound, you can relax. It's fine, it'll heal soon... And that'll be ten obols for the examination... But if you want to figure out the cause of the accelerated regeneration, you'll need to cough up another ninety obols. I'll check your blood for toxins and foreign inclusions."

"And what if you don't find anything either?" Malk clarified cautiously.

"Then I'll send you to an army hospital," the Bachelor replied a bit bluntly. "They'll bleed you dry, turn your body inside out, and shake up your soul, but they'll find an answer... And it's not certain that after all that, you'll be happy to hear it. So beg Yelya that this anomaly turns out to be something I can crack!"

That concluded the appointment. Malk had a feeling the healer already guessed the cause of the changes happening to him—too often, a certain knowing smirk flashed in his eyes. But he wasn't in a hurry to voice his thoughts...

That evening, Malk couldn't take it anymore and shared his piled-up problems with Tolfan. Luckily, his girlfriend was off on closed training at the School again and, thank the Saints, couldn't join their conversation. The last thing Malk wanted was to show Helavia how deep he was in a mire of troubles and life's difficulties and then hear her worn-out story about how he'd chosen the wrong life path.

"Regeneration, investigations, senior mages... Deviations in the practice of young mages like us occur so often that smooth training seems like a dangerous anomaly compared to them. So don't get hung up on it," Tolfan said, as usual, looking at things practically. "Better tell me: that third loyalist you deflected the lightning at, did he survive?"

"He should have... I didn't waste a 'Healer' on him for nothing," Malk shrugged.

"Good. And his own didn't finish him off to pin it on you?" the fatty continued pondering.

His friend's train of thought was so unsettling that Malk broke out in a cold sweat.

"Yorrokh, no... What 'finish him off'?! I told you, they didn't look like trained killers. Just ordinary riffraff, brainwashed by smarter agitators," Malk said after some thought. "Sure, they'd go for revenge for 'their own' any day, but killing a buddy to blame it on an enemy? Nah, that's too complicated for them."

"Then it's all fine," Tolfan laughed, looking like a hereditary lawyer, then added seriously, "Though, to be honest, no one would pin the murder of an ungifted on you anyway. If you were a regular guy, two reports from the survivors to the gendarmerie would be enough for a conviction... even if they were loyalists ten times over... but you're an Adept now. And you've still got some privileges. Like the right to demand an independent investigation into your case."

"Yeah, and if I were a Bachelor, without any investigations, all the gendarmes in Andalore would be flipping out, hunting down those two despicable scumbags who dared attack a pillar of authority like me," Malk grimaced.

"Maybe. But since you're not a Bachelor yet, don't even think about starting a massacre on the city streets or in crowded places," Tolfan said didactically, raising a finger for emphasis. Then, in a more conspiratorial tone, he added, "Wait for the right moment."

It sounded pretty sinister, but by the end, the fatty couldn't hold back and burst into laughter. It was this cheerfulness that Malk appreciated in him. No fussing over a friend who got into trouble, no useless advice—just sensible practicality and dark humor. Of course, if Malk ever asked for help, another side of Tolfan would come out—his cowardice, but there was nothing to be done about that. Everyone has their flaws...

To distract himself, Malk picked up the newspapers. Both he and Tolfan had recently gotten hooked on these hotbeds of news and rumors and regularly bought sennightlies. Only, the fatty preferred the tabloid "Voice of the Magnate and Merchant," sold by street kids for eight or nine obols. Malk, on the other hand, chose Andalore's oldest newspaper, "Magic and Steam," which went for three obols a copy. Their differences in taste didn't stop them from swapping papers with each other.

Usually, Malk started with articles about news from the Schools and major craft workshops, interviews with prominent mages, alchemists, or engineers, but this time, he broke his habit. He first checked the back of the newspaper, where they printed unverified rumors and crime reports.

A watchman was killed at the main city cemetery; in the Triumvirate Park pond, yet another vagrant's body was found; there was a brawl between loyalists and monarchists at the South Market; and the merchants of Two Temples Street declared war on their colleagues from Victors Avenue, so the walls of most houses in the two neighboring blocks were smeared with enchanted ads and slogans—in short, regular big city life. And, to Malk's relief, not a word about the craftsman killed near the clinic! The only piece of news that caught his attention was the report of the drowned vagrant in the pond. Mainly because it became visible proof that he and Helavia were right. So, they weren't mistaken to dislike that pond back then!

He glanced through Tolfan's "Voice," but didn't find anything interesting or important there either. This issue focused more on the heated conflict between monarchists and loyalists, the supposedly inadequate preparations for Yorrokh's Night, and praising the wise policies of the Avalon Islands' leaders—though what was so wise about them, besides lifting bans on a whole range of magical research areas, Malk didn't get. Not that he wanted to. Like any Colhaunian, he was a die-hard conservative and didn't get the newfangled loyalist trends in society. Then again, he didn't get a lot of what was considered important, not just by the readers of both papers, but by Andalorians in general. Just a yokel, through and through!

The city seemed to reject Malk, refusing to let him feel its rhythm or blend in, become a part of it. To fit in! It was almost funny now to recall the plans and what had seemed like clever schemes he had been cooking up on the way to the cultural capital. For practically none of the notes in his secret notebook had come true, not a single idea was realized. The hopes of a simple guy from a Colhaun boarding school were completely shattered against Andalore's reality.

And it wasn't like he wanted that much. Being able to practice magic, figure out the mystery of his own birth, find work he loved, and maybe even become famous in his field someday—was that too much to ask? But, as it turned out, it was. Instead of what he wanted, Malk got a constant need for money, lack of access to essential knowledge and basic resources, humiliation from the authorities, and the stigma of being a second-rate mage. No, this wasn't how he imagined his future in Andalore, not at all...

If Malk had a different character, the depression that had already started to dig its dark tendrils into his heart would have consumed him completely. And he would have surely sunk to the bottom of the cultural capital's magical community. But the will and indomitable spirit that helped him survive encounters with street thugs in Colhaun, master the brutal Rain of Pain technique, and turn from a "dud" into a real Adept, now kept him from breaking and falling. "A mage's lot is to always defy fate,"—wasn't that how Kehtot, the least liked Saint in Boreas, taught? Well, one could say Malk lived by the teachings of the Holy Demonslayer.

And against all odds, he was still moving forward.

Malk had been working at the clinic for over a month and managed to increase his reserve by a whole erg. His absorption rate had also grown a bit, and what began as hesitant spell copying had become routine. He even started using a bit less energy to make duplicates of the "Healer." Instead of two ergs to create a copy and transfer it to storage, it now took two or even three tenths of an erg less... Although, that was the effect of extra classes at the Society. Malk had chosen the "Healer"—or, as it was called in official documents, Minor Healing Charm—as his first free spell from the courses. He figured out its structure, learned the Runeglyph sequence, and this was the natural result. A couple more months of practice, and the speed of creating a "Healer" would match the speed of copying it.

The clinic manager, though, didn't want to raise his pay for such a trifle, but Malk was still pleased. True skill was built from these tiny achievements. And the opportunity to train them was something to be valued in itself... Although voicing this thought to his boss probably wasn't a good idea!..

The next morning, Malk went back to the Society to see the Life mage. The Bachelor had promised to answer what was happening to him. Well, Malk was ready to hear it! He said as much to the healer as soon as he stepped into the office.

"As I suspected, you have all the signs of classic Life emanation damage." The mage didn't beat around the bush and immediately hit him with the research result. "Textbook case!"

"And what does that mean?" Malk asked suspiciously.

"It means, lad, you have an excess of raw Life energy in your channels. That's why your body gained the ability to heal itself. Similar to what some Lineage holders have," the Bachelor began explaining. "So, for a while, you'll boast increased endurance and regeneration. Maybe even fix some practice deviations if you have any..."

Malk flinched. He did have such a deviation in the form of occasional body pains, but after starting work at the clinic, it almost stopped. There was no point in mentioning it to the healer. To grasp these kinds of problems, you needed to be an expert in Arcane Arts and their effects on practitioners, and this mage definitely couldn't boast such knowledge. Otherwise, he wouldn't be wasting his days in the Society waiting for patients but would be fending off an endless line of mages of all ranks seeking help.

"And what then? When this 'for a while' is over?" Malk finally asked grimly.

"You'll die. I think that's obvious," the Bachelor shrugged. "Neither excess nor deficiency is good. Too little energy, and the body starves to death. Too much, and irreversible mutations start, quickly sending you to the grave..." The healer smirked crookedly. "In your case, it's even worse. According to the reports, a strong imbalance toward the negative spectrum is present, meaning working with Life is much more traumatic for you than for others."

Malk sighed loudly. What he heard sounded bad, way too bad.

"Is there a way to fix it?" he asked, frowning.

The Bachelor answered with a wide smile.

"Of course. First, you stop poisoning yourself with whatever crap got you into this state. Second, you cleanse your body of the dangerous energy. And here, you can either start drinking some decoctions, expel the harmful magic on your own, or—and this is my favorite option—pay one and a half drachmas, and I'll remove all traces of this junk in two sessions!" the senior mage said in a confidential tone. "It's your choice."

Malk tiredly rubbed his forehead. It was easy for the senior mage to talk—he had broken through the barrier between the ranks of Adept and Apprentice long ago, but Malk couldn't do without practice with a Force source. If he dragged his feet and stalled his progress even a bit, he could forget about doubling his reserve in the first year. Damn it!

Suddenly, he felt a malicious gaze drilling into his back, sending a shiver down his spine. Malk even glanced around, but there was only a wall behind him, so it wasn't a hunch at all. His nerves were clearly acting up, and that was no comfort either.

"So, made up your mind?" the Bachelor urged Malk.

"Yeah... I think I'll hold off on your help and try to sort it out myself," Malk replied firmly, having suddenly remembered that the last time at the infirmary, along with the "Healer," he was given a bottle of decoction as a bonus. This clearly hinted that the clinic manager was familiar with the problem Malk was facing.

In short, he had the medicine, and thanks to the lectures on general magic theory, he understood what to do next, and since that was the case, there was no need to rush the "treatment." On that note, he parted ways with the Bachelor.

The tension gripping Malk needed an outlet, so after classes at the Society, he decided to walk home instead of taking transport, trying to distract himself from gloomy thoughts with a stroll through the city.

Alas, Malk's hopes were dashed, and the anxiety, oppressive, seemingly coming from outside, was joined by the sensation of icy, invisible fingers occasionally brushing his back. Not frequent, but not rare enough to dismiss as a trick of the mind. Instantly, all those horror stories about practice deviations that students shared surfaced in his memory, his own thoughts on the matter added to them, and now, Malk was barely holding back from heading back to the Society's healer.

What the Yorrokh?! Malk sat on the first bench he found, closed his eyes, and mentally reached for the Crystal Heart, shining like the sun in the sky of his inner world. The Arcane Art sharing the same name didn't have many merits, but one was universally recognized. Namely, enhancing the practitioner's Spirit's resistance to any external effects and influences. Not using that feature was simply out of the question.

His trained mind sequentially shut off all external distractions, felt out the entrance to his mental space, reached for the Heart, and squeezed it with Authority. The visible manifestation of the Arcane Art instantly responded with several waves of energy, each of them first rolling through his body, scraping like sandpaper, and then, with a sobering chill, "blowing away" all the accretions and everything foreign.

He immediately felt better. It was as if barely perceptible yet real shackles were lifted from his body. Sometimes, you only realize the presence of life-disrupting hindrances after getting rid of them, and this was one of those cases. The only unclear thing was what caused this strange state. Or who. The result of the experiment with the Arcane Art demonstrated that the root of the problem probably wasn't practice deviations. It seemed more like someone was trying to influence him remotely, which opened up a wide range of guesses. Another bunch of vengeful loyalists, that dwarf acting up again, a legacy from his relatives who abandoned their unwanted child, or something entirely unknown to him yet—like a grudge from a ghost or demon... Speculating about the source of the influence could take forever, but an answer to the main question—"What the heck to do now?!"—couldn't be found that way.

In any case, dealing with the problem on the street wasn't wise. So Malk, having already sat too long on the bench, stood up decisively and headed home. The path was still quite a distance, so he had time to think...

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

However, the day's adventure quota clearly wasn't used up yet, and as he approached Glory Avenue—Andalore's main street that split the city in two—he got caught in a massive crowd gathered in front of portable barriers. Gendarmes, lined up in a chain, maintained order and kept the most impatient ones off the avenue. The School of Iron and Blood was seeing off Magister Yarvok the Fierce on another expedition organized by the Triumvirate to find new trade routes through the islands of the Yavan Belt, and a bunch of gawkers from all over the city had come to watch.

Malk had even read something about this last sennight, but he dismissed it. Turns out, that was a mistake. If he had remembered, maybe he wouldn't have gotten himself into this mess on his way home. Because he certainly wasn't in the mood to admire the display of power and authority from a School that meant nothing to him.

About ten minutes after Malk joined the crowd, a procession appeared from the corner leading to the main building of the School of Iron and Blood. And the sight was so unusual and majestic that Malk involuntarily dropped all his grumbling. Never before—neither back home in Colhaun nor here in Andalore—had he seen such a vivid demonstration of the authority of Houses and the most influential Schools. Authority manifested not in flashy wealth or luxury, but in the might of their armies.

And it wasn't about the number of soldiers or mages—in fact, the procession probably had only a couple hundred participants—but in the power and might that shone through every step of the armor-clad mechanized warriors, every glint of Force held in check for now by the battle sorcerers, and every movement of the chimeras marching in formation.

Malk didn't even notice how he pushed his way to the front rows of onlookers and stared at the approaching procession.

Leading the way was a trio of mechanized warriors—two in black armor and one in white. Each held a sword with a purple sheen, and the spell emitters sticking out from their massive shoulder pads, even in travel mode, looked extremely menacing and deadly. The air above the backpacks with energy storage units shimmered slightly, hinting at the power hidden within. As decorations, golden ribbon bars on each warrior's cuirass gleamed, with not a single court award among them—the procession was led by true veterans.

Behind the trio marched two rows of warriors in simpler armor. The metal was painted gray, the power crystals were made from cheap semi-precious stones, and the rune chains of protective spells on the armor were clearly machine-etched. Yet, the sense of hidden power was still there. And it wasn't just because of the steam rifles each mechanized warrior held. The very air around the marching soldiers seemed to smell of fury, magic, and death... And it was so vivid and compelling that Malk, like the dozens of people around him, was instantly filled with excitement and pride for the fighters.

Following the infantry, a disorganized group of mages moved, not bothering to impress the onlookers with discipline and marching. Their strength lay elsewhere. And though Malk mostly saw Apprentices and Bachelors, together they still represented a formidable force. Not as striking as the metal-clad warriors, but to those who could see, still understandable and quite tangible. This became especially clear when Malk first noticed a young mage with Junior Magister insignia and then saw a magical scepter worth five hundred drachmas in the holster of the Bachelor following him. The artifact impressed him the most: he'd come across its description in a reference book, so he knew exactly what power could unleash that ruby-studded gold and silver squiggly "toy."

The only thing that bothered Malk was the feeling that he was seeing not veteran practitioners but students getting out from under their mentors' wing for the first time. The mages seemed too relaxed, too young and inexperienced for the forthcoming dangerous expedition. Or perhaps that was the point—to give the School's talents and geniuses a chance to gain real combat experience under the supervision of older comrades? Well, maybe...

Bringing up the rear of the procession, surrounded by a quartet of guards and accompanied by two winged lions, was Yarvok the Fierce himself. As people in the crowd whispered, the Magister was considered a rising star of the School of Iron and Blood and a direct candidate for the School's Heir. A talented Fire mage, experienced practitioner, strong fighter, and demonslayer—everyone was convinced that he was just a step away from advancing to the next rank, maybe just months or a few years at most. And it was quite possible that he would return from this expedition as a Senior Magister.

Malk didn't really believe the rumors, but he didn't doubt for a bit that Yarvok was an extraordinary mage. Otherwise, how could he explain that as soon as this warrior, in a uniform that was expensive even at a glance, with gilded buttons and boots made from sea demon leather, got close, Malk's Authority seemed to shrink. Like a predator shrinking in the presence of an immeasurably larger and more powerful beast. A beast whose might rivaled the Element itself and was somehow contained within the fragile shell of a mere mortal.

Yorrokh only knows what kind of person this Yarvok was, but the power he projected was alluring and pushed Malk to consider becoming someone like that. To be not just a mage, but a mage who, through his existence alone, embodied the very meaning of the words "Strength" and "Authority." Malk had never encountered such a vivid demonstration of the peaks of human development—and not even the highest peaks!—and for the first time, he wondered if it was right to set realistic yet frankly mundane goals. Maybe it was worth aiming higher? Taking at least one step from a fairy-tale dream to its realization?

That thought was worth pondering...

Meanwhile, the Magister and his guards had already passed where Malk stood and moved on. The procession ended with Adepts—students of the School and simply young mages allowed to participate. Judging by their lack of military uniforms, they probably weren't part of the expedition and were invited just to add numbers to the event.

The ceremony was clearly nearing its end, and it wouldn't be long until it finished and the avenue reopened for traffic. This couldn't help but please those around. The crowd immediately started stirring... At least, at first, it seemed the reason for the gawkers' excitement was precisely that... until a Force outburst of no less than Bachelor-level scattered people, and Malk spotted the only figure still standing. A stranger in a hooded cloak holding a staff a fathom long. Malk had just enough time to wonder how this Bachelor managed to sneak such a pole into the ceremony when the other face-cover lovers revealed themselves.

One just as easily scattered the crowd on the other side of the street, another appeared on the balcony of a two-story house a couple dozen fathoms from Malk, and two more—at least, it seemed there were two—broke an attic window of the house alongside which Yarvok the Fierce was passing, and shoved out a barrel of a field volley gun.

Moreover, it all happened so quickly and smoothly that no one had time to react. The bodyguards, though, did notice something was wrong and even started weaving some spell, but they were catastrophically late as well. The strangers made their move first.

"Glory to the Empire!!! Death to the Triumvirate!!!" the people in cloaks yelled, their voices no doubt boosted by magic, and attacked their shared target.

And it was no surprise that it turned out to be Yarvok the Fierce, a Magister of a renowned School and a member of House Charingar.

The staff holders struck first. Smoky gray, snake-like ribbons of mist shot from the artifacts' tips toward the Magister. And judging by the state of the mages who activated these magic tools, their weapons were anything but ordinary. Otherwise, why would the terrorist closest to Malk suddenly start trembling all over, with spots of necrotic rot forming and rapidly spreading in his aura? It seemed the staffs were literally drinking the energy and life force of their owners, all to boost the power of the misty snakes.

Even from his spot, Malk could see the gray ribbons wrapping around the Magister's body, immobilizing him and seemingly even shackling his very Spirit. Moreover, alongside the staff wielders' attack, the volley gun fired as well. A thread of living silver, clearly visible even in daylight, first slashed across Yarvok's figure, also grazing a couple of chimeras frozen in anticipation of orders, then jerked back, focusing solely on the Magister. The enchanted bullets—because they couldn't be anything else—started tearing the mage's figure apart.

Everything happened too fast. Too suddenly. And too terrifyingly. It seemed like this was the end of Yarvok's life and career, but... battle mages wouldn't be called that if they died so easily. Especially those at the rank of Magister at the peak of strength.

Of course, the mages at the start of the procession had begun casting some unknown spell, and the trio of veterans appeared high in the sky surrounded by lightning and gusts of wind, but it was clear to everyone that they were hopelessly late. Neither the mages nor the mechanized warriors could save their commander... Only, as it turned out, he didn't really need it.

Where the spellbound Yarvok stood, a pillar of fire suddenly erupted, roaring almost to the heavens and instantly incinerating all the bindings. Inside the flame, a towering, one-and-a-half-fathom tall humanoid figure could be seen, taking the volley gun's lead rain on its chest and... yes, silently laughing, looking at the shooters.

A fire transformation! Creator's tears, Malk was witnessing with his own eyes the legendary fire transformation—the conversion of a mage's body and Spirit into some new state, inherent only to elemental plane dwellers and some higher beings. Only the strongest Houses of Mritlok and the oldest Schools possessed the secret of such metamorphosis, and only their most talented members could hope to learn this technique... Though, it was still believed that an ordinary Magister couldn't master the transformation, but then again, Yarvok the Fierce was considered the hope of the School for a reason, right?

And this monster the terrorists planned to kill with a few silly artifacts and a simple volley gun? You'd need a company of mechanized warriors and a couple of cannons to even stand a chance! And even then, the losses would be massive...

Meanwhile, Yarvok finished having his fun, stretched out his right hand toward the terrorists with the volley gun, and shot a fiery red beam. The spell hit dead center of the window, and at the point of impact, a ball of flame swelled up, instantly devouring half the attic. However, there was no explosion, no roar of fire, and the conjured sphere didn't spread as logic demanded but maintained a clear boundary. It first puffed up like a huge bubble, then seemingly folded in on itself and disappeared. And only the destroyed roof proved to the onlookers it wasn't a mere figment of their imagination.

The staff wielders received their fair share of attention, too. When the fog ribbons broke, each cloaked figure was instantly engulfed in orange flames visible to the naked eye. Their clothes turned to ash in a blink, flesh melted like wax, and only bones withstood the Magister's counterattack. The terrorists, instantly turned into skeletons glowing with magic, seemed unfazed. They still stood, leaning on their staffs, looking nothing like those for whom death was a good enough reason to give up on their mission.

As if confirming this thought, the skeleton closest to Malk struck the cobblestone with the butt of his staff. A wave of something invisible yet tangible instantly rippled out like circles on water. Malk couldn't explain where the feeling or understanding came from, but the terrorist's magic distinctly reeked of rot. Without fully grasping what was happening, he immediately responded by stimulating the Heart and performing the protective technique he'd tried earlier. Deep inside, he felt the clash of two Forces—foreign and his own. And in this struggle, he was clearly losing. Unwilling to give up, Malk gathered all his will, tried to push back with Authority, but... the enemy was too strong.

Yorrokh knows how it would have ended, but suddenly, from somewhere above, the warrior in white armor descended like an angry archangel and struck the skeleton with a lightning-wreathed sword. The boom was so loud it made Malk's ears pop, but he only caught the echo of the main blow. The warrior's blade cleaved the enemy in two, broke the staff, and the magical discharges shredded the aura, turned the subtle body into a sieve, and burned the core of the personality to ashes.

The unknown mage finally perished for good. With his death, the pressure from the invisible wave the terrorist had unleashed on the crowd also stopped. Having no desire to stay and see what else "good" might come his way, Malk wriggled away like a snake. Away from the skeletons, the assassins, and the warrior in white armor, who luckily didn't care at all about the surviving witnesses of his clash with the terrorist.

In the end, Malk scrambled over the fallen barrier, crawled past people who were stunned, unconscious, or frozen in terror, and onto the avenue's roadway. Then he got up and, crouching, dashed to the other side. From there, it was easier. Blend into the panicked crowd, dive into the first alley before the confused gendarmes waiting for orders noticed him, and... run, run home as fast as possible! Before additional forces of the valiant law enforcement arrived and started arresting everyone in sight.

But there was one more thing that sped up Malk, pushing him to his limits, unlocking not just a second, but a third, fourth, and Archont knows how many more winds. The moment the skeleton's magic invaded his body, in Malk's head, albeit quietly but clearly enough, sounded: "Oh yes! This Grandfather Boniface sees you again!" And from that simple yet baffling phrase, real terror gripped him, spurring him on more than the harshest spurs.

Even the battle Malk had found himself in the middle of didn't trigger such a reaction as the words of this unknown "grandfather." Because in a fight, there's nothing incomprehensible or unimaginable—just blood, fury, and death hanging in the air. But voices in your head... that's terrifying. Especially in a world where demons exist, and the threat to devour your soul is far from a figure of speech or elaborate curse. And with the returning sensation of icy fingers touching Malk's shoulder blades and neck, the fear even took on a tangible basis.

The phantom pressure on Malk's Spirit lifted only when he got home. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he almost physically felt an invisible barrier shielding him from the owner of those cold fingers. And it also forced back the living cloud of alien fear.

"Flur's city!" Malk said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Saints and all demons, what a flur's city Andalore is!"

Not bothering to take off his shoes, Malk walked through the rooms and, only after making sure he was alone in the apartment, returned to the kitchen. He sat on the floor, leaned against the cupboard, and took out the vial of decoction, studying it closely.

"Grandfather, you say? Fine, grandfather. Let's make it so you 'don't see' me again... If I understand what's happening correctly, that is," Malk muttered, pulling the cork and downing the vial's contents in one go.

The taste was remarkably unpleasant—the medicinal substance had hints of burnt vanilla or rancid oil—but Malk didn't care. His task now was to rid his body of harmful toxins as quickly as possible, to remove foreign emanations and malignant influences. If he had to drink something downright disgusting to speed up the process, he would've done it without a second thought.

No time for niceties.

After waiting a bit for the alchemical decoction to take effect, Malk started meditating. Not to dive into his mental space, but to examine his body's condition. He had learned this in lectures but hadn't really applied it in practice yet. And now, it was time to test his understanding of the material.

The technique wasn't particularly complex. Feel his own Spirit, cut off other senses one by one, leaving only spiritual sight, then scan his meridians and collaterals, internal organs, and blood. If everything was fine, it meant there were no problems with his body.

Checking the first meridian revealed two unrelated substances: a thin, visibly fading stream of Death energy—Crystal Heart lived up to its reputation, and Malk's body was already fighting the foreign Force without his conscious effort—and a thick green mist of Life energy, not disappearing but accumulating in his body—like a component of a complex poison.

The Society's Healer was right; he was indeed poisoned by Life magic. And since that was the case, it was time to check if Malk himself was wrong. He started pushing all foreign fractions and inclusions out of his body with all the Authority he could muster, knowing full well how long and exhausting the task ahead would be...

He was forced to stop only by Tolfan's return. And not by the fatty's arrival itself, but by the torrent of curses he unleashed at Malk from the doorstep.

"Yelya's tits, what is that?!" It was the only coherent phrase Malk could pick out from his friend's rant, and he couldn't ignore it.

Tiredly opening his eyes, he first gave Tolfan a sullen look, then followed the direction of his friend's finger, which was trembling with outrage, and... couldn't help but curse himself:

"Shit!"

Right in front of Malk, on the once smooth and clean floorboards, was a black patch of old rot with a living green sprout in the center. And that was scarier than anything that had happened to him that day.

"The landlord's gonna kill us," Tolfan said more calmly, giving Malk a sad look. "I swear on Archont's sword!"

This crazy day clearly didn't want to end...