Their bickering with Helavia started on the way back and continued at home. His girlfriend vehemently argued that a "just friend" in Malk's case couldn't even be compared to a "just friend" in Helavia's own. If only because in real Schools with real mentors, the relationships between students of the same mentor were akin to brotherhood! And that's how their exchange of smiles had to be interpreted. But Malk's flirting with that "shameless blonde in a tacky dress" had no excuse.

Malk didn't lag behind his girlfriend either and voiced quite a few unpleasant things about the girl's excessive focus on communicating with young noble-born mages. Moreover, intellectually, he understood that a smile and an exchange of glances meant nothing in themselves, yet jealousy... jealousy wouldn't let him be. He had previously sincerely believed that this dark and destructive feeling was alien to him! And suddenly, such a surprise. Could it really all be due to his shaken confidence in his abilities?! Yorrokh, it very well could be... But who said that realizing and accepting this fact also meant the absence of real reasons for jealousy?!

In short, he and Helavia had a truly serious quarrel. Even when she tried to pressure him to give up his dream of becoming a mage, everything was happening much quieter and calmer. Now, however, the fire of resentment blazed in each of them, fueling emotions, blurring control, and putting more and more harsh words on their tongues. At some point, they even forgot what it had all started with and began to pour out all their accumulated mutual grievances on each other.

Even Tolfan got some of it. The fatty, who returned home at the wrong time and witnessed the scandal, tried to reconcile them, for which he paid. Only if Malk advised his friend to go to Yorrokh, adding a couple of epithets overheard from the station loaders for good measure, Helavia gave a good dressing-down to his personality and his desire to poke his nose into other people's business. Tolfan got offended.

As a result, all three of them did not speak to each other for this and the following sennight; fortunately, they did not have to see each other often. Malk was already swamped with work and studies, while Helavia and Tolfan started prepping for their first round of tests at School. And only when his girlfriend and the fatty began packing for a trip to the countryside training ground—it was there that the School of the Three Saints preferred to drive its students to check their mastery of spells—did the tension ease a bit, and they at least started talking again. Helavia, before getting into the carriage that was taking the internal students to the School, even went as far as to kiss Malk, who helped load their stuff...

The first steps toward reconciliation were made. And even though Malk was still simmering inside, the sharpness of his emotions had faded. Which meant that soon he would calm down completely, just give him time and don't bother him over trifles.

Though, after his girlfriend and the fatty's departure, there was no one left to bother him anyway. For the next few sennights, Malk's life was all about training, work, studying, and more work, with rare breaks being just sleep and omnibus rides through the city streets. And no more crazy nights with Helavia, get-togethers with Tolfan, joint walks, and shopping trips—just the usual tedious yet calming routine. Exactly what Malk needed right now.

Except, alas, reality rarely aligns with our wishes. Sometimes, in place of small trouble, like a spat with loved ones, comes a bigger one, and not alone...

Nevertheless, it all started pretty mundane and calm, without surprises or unexpected events.

After the departure of his friends, exactly a sennight and a half passed, and the time for the next payment of the Gifted tax was approaching. To avoid unnecessary hassle, Malk dutifully headed to the district magic bank. Although there was still time, he preferred not to risk it. Getting a second black star for tax arrears—and given his relationship with the capital's gendarmes, it was a piece of cake—was not part of his plans for the near future. The first one had already made life incredibly tough, and he didn't even want to think about what would happen after the second.

There were no lines this time. Quickly sorting out the paperwork and parting with eight ergs of energy, Malk left the bank building. But instead of heading straight to the omnibus stop, he turned toward a shoeshine tent. His new clothes required a particular attention to his look, so occasionally he had to shell out for such "luxuries"... If spending five obols could even be called a luxury.

While the shoeshine boy prepped brushes, cream, and wax, Malk sat on a high stool and unfolded a fresh issue of "Magic and Steam" he'd bought on the way.

"So, what's new here?" he muttered, feeling like a bored aristocrat for a moment.

And though these were no more than thoughts spoken aloud, requiring no answer, Malk suddenly heard a monotonous voice, clearly reciting from memory:

"The Bureau of Calamities reports that Yorrokh's Night might occur earlier than expected this year. Everyone is advised to check the reliability of locks in their homes, recharge protective charms, and city guests, if they haven't already, should find the way to the capital's flakturms."

"Well, I'll be! You read newspapers too?" Malk said in surprise, looking at the suddenly talkative shoeshine boy.

The kid shook his head.

"No. I was just polishing shoes for a respectable gentleman this morning, and he, as it turned out, likes to read the most interesting parts aloud. So, I just remembered," the boy replied without looking up from his work.

"Good lad," Malk approved of the boy's efforts. "Maybe you'll say something else interesting then, so I don't strain my eyes for nothing?"

The shoeshine boy shrugged.

"Not much to say, Yorrokh's Night is the main thing... It's the rich districts and the center that are well protected, things are much worse in the outskirts. And if before, when the date was known, you could at least come to a tower in advance, now I don't even know... By the time you gather your things and run there, all the places might already be taken, and the doors will be slammed right in your face. And getting caught outside during Yorrokh's Night is certain death," he said in a confidential tone.

Now it was Malk's turn to shrug.

"Guess you'll have to hurry when the time comes," he said and buried himself in the newspaper again. He wasn't interested in just chatting with the boy.

"They also passed a law about the monarchists. Now they're not allowed to gather for rallies, print their proclamations in printing houses, or write articles for newspapers," the shoeshine boy spoke again. "The gentleman who read the newspaper to me even called it a great achievement of freedom. Like, the authorities tolerated these rebels and troublemakers for too long. The gendarmes covered up their crimes, pinned them on the loyalists, but now a new era has begun. He also said..." The boy paused and, staring off, began to remember. "He also said that after such a wonderful law, we will no longer have reasons to quarrel with Avalon. Imagine that!"

The boy shook a brush black with polish for emphasis, then bent over Malk's shoes again.

"Kid, I see you get some politically savvy customers!" Malk sneered crookedly, stung by the words about the "great achievement." Of all things, he definitely didn't consider the selling off—wholesale and retail—the ideals and beliefs of past generations to be such.

"All sorts of folks," the shoeshine replied vaguely and fell silent.

It suddenly occurred to Malk that it was best not to run his mouth in the company of this little newspaper connoisseur. Unless, of course, he wanted to be the subject of a tale like that loyalist gentleman. And he, no longer wishing to continue the conversation, buried himself in the newspaper. Fortunately, there was plenty more to read about...

The boy finally focused on his work, while Malk unexpectedly became engrossed in an article about a newfangled metropolitan craze—the cinematograph. As it turned out, the Guild of Dreamers had opened two halls in Andalore, where in the evenings, with the help of mechanical devices—either gleaned from other worlds or invented in a state of magically induced ecstasy—they showed the story of a vengeful archer hunting a lone Demonic Warrior. According to the journalists, they achieved this with moving pictures projected onto the wall with captions, and the resulting spectacle was well worth spending one drachma.

Though, if anyone asked Malk, Yorrokh knows what kind of show they put on, but judging by the archer's mug printed across half a spread, the gold he collected at the entrance personally. At least Malk wouldn't part with a whole drachma in any other way!

While he entertained himself with reading, the shoeshine suddenly put aside the brushes, picked up a strange-looking iron gizmo instead, and began to run it over Malk's shoes.

"Hey, what are you doing?! Casting spells?!" Malk exclaimed in alarm.

"Sir, it's just a basic charm to keep the shine for a sennight. It doesn't even use a tenth of an erg," the boy explained, then added with surprise, "I thought you knew, since you came to me. I'm the only Gifted around. That's why I charge so much..."

"Got it," Malk nodded, a bit flustered.

He glanced at his boots, the toes of which did seem to have a particular shine now, and sighed wearily. Yorrokh, even though he didn't like the touch of someone else's magic, there was no avoiding it.

"Why are you doing this if you're Gifted?" he finally asked. "And how'd you get through initiation at your age?"

"Where else could I go with my abilities?!" the boy laughed bitterly. "My reserve's three and a half ergs, and it takes two sennights to fully replenish. I can't even scrape together enough to pay the Gifted tax in a month! The only good thing is that I can handle artifacts like this." The boy's gaze turned focused, a frown forming on his forehead. "It's okay, I'll work for another year, and save up for the Saint's Shield. Then, maybe, I'll gradually develop my reserve to at least ten..."

Malk whistled in shock. And he thought he had it tough. Heck, compared to this young shoeshine, who'd already broken the one-year rule and would never reach Rzavian's Standard, he was practically fate's darling!

"You still didn't say about the initiation..." Malk reminded.

"Oh... Nothing much to tell. During Yorrokh's Night, a demon from Hell... Druzal's staff up his ass... popped up right near my house and tainted everything with his foul magic. It only grazed me, but that was enough for the Gift to awaken... I just had bad luck, in short," the boy said with the gloom and bitterness of a grown-up. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he glanced at Malk and smiled differently, almost cheerfully. "You know what? If you share an erg of energy... I've got a pouch with crystal sand for that... I'll tell you something useful for you personally! Want to?"

Malk looked uncomprehendingly into the boy's mocking eyes and frowned.

"An erg? That's ten obols. Isn't that a bit much for a 'story'?"

"You'll thank me later, sir. Come on!" the shoeshine laughed. "Don't worry, I won't run away."

Malk, figuring one erg of energy wasn't too big a price for a lesson in trust, took the pouch from the boy and directed a stream of magic into the crystal sand inside.

"Thanks, sir!" the kid said, completely satisfied, then leaned in and whispered, "I don't know what you're up to, sir, but someone's watching you."

"What?" Malk asked, baffled. "Watching?" he almost exclaimed but caught himself.

"Yeah. Some respectable-looking noble was hanging around the magic bank entrance, and when you came out, he followed. It was even funny... He probably thought you'd head to the omnibus stop, but when you turned to me, he had to rush back," the shoeshine explained.

"Back?" Malk instantly focused on the key detail.

"Yep," the shoeshine nodded, chuckling. "He's standing by the poster stand, pretending to study the pictures, just like before."

Malk glanced quickly in that direction and indeed saw a young noble in a black top hat, dark blue double-breasted frock coat, white shirt with a stand-up collar, blue trousers, and black patent leather shoes. The dandy held a stylish cane, leaning on it while occasionally glancing at the posters and then at Malk.

"Maybe he's waiting for a free spot?" Malk said thoughtfully, to which the shoeshine just chuckled softly.

The boy's assumption, in any case, needed to be checked. Nodding gratefully, Malk stood and straightened his vest. The forgotten newspaper slipped from his knees and, unfolded, glided to the floor, from where a drawn archer looked at Malk with a disapproving expression. What's more, for a moment, it seemed that his eyes were alive, and he was indeed staring with unprecedented malice and fury. Malk, who was about to leave the tent and accidentally caught this gaze, even stumbled. Realizing it was just his imagination, he quickly rushed outside.

It was time to test the young shoeshine's words.

Without even glancing at the dandy, Malk quickly headed for the omnibus stop. He didn't bother taking a place in the queue under the tin roof, but crossed the road and froze in front of a glass display window of a ladies' dress shop. In his teens, he, like all his peers, had devoured books about Avalon detectives, so he had a rough idea of how to spot a tail. Stopping to adjust his clothes, abruptly turning around as if remembering something, sitting down on a bench—there were plenty of ways one could come up with. He, for one, liked the idea of looking at his possible pursuer in a mirror reflection, and he soon put it into use.

"There you are, son of a flur," Malk muttered, seeing the top hat lover cross the street after him and stop as if to tie a loose shoelace. "And you're hardly even hiding..."

The thought that, not being in the habit of checking for a tail, he might have missed this impudent fellow without the shoeshine's help, Malk diligently pushed aside. No point in getting upset. His next urge was to do everything to shake off the scumbag. Heck, he definitely didn't want Yorrokh knows who trailing him around the city. And only after some thought did it dawn on him that he shouldn't get rid of the sleuth, but, on the contrary, lure him into a secluded place and give him a good interrogation. If only to understand what or who he was dealing with.

Having made a decision, Malk immediately began to put it into action; thankfully, he already had some idea of the area around the magic bank. Leaving the display alone, he turned left and hurried along the wooden sidewalk toward the nearest tenement. Most of them in this part of Andalore were built according to the same pattern, so the plan of further actions had already formed in his head.

To avoid a mistake, Malk stopped a couple more times, checking his "tail." And both times, the dandy still followed him like a dog on a leash.

His blood started to simmer with excitement. Any fight—and Malk had no doubt there'd be one—was a risk. Even with just one opponent, there was always the danger of running into a skilled fighter. Someone who could easily turn the tempting idea of interrogating the cocky snoop into something completely opposite.

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Probably because of that very tension, fueled by adrenaline, Malk increasingly felt like not only the damned dandy was watching him but also someone else, unseen and very evil. Moreover, the invisible observer had chosen a rather strange way of watching: it seemed to Malk that he was being stared at through the rage-filled eyes of the archer from the advertising posters. Nonsense, of course, yet he couldn't help but catch the changing direction of the painted eyes' gaze, felt the rage lurking in them, and sensed the sharp mind hiding behind them.

And as luck would have it, those posters were everywhere! All the lampposts, advertising pillars—everything was plastered with images of the archer. There was no escaping them...

Finally, Malk reached the tenement he needed. Glancing briefly at the dandy who had fallen a bit behind, he turned into a dark archway, sped up, and hid behind a pile of crates and trash bins in the courtyard. Now it all depended on how the snoop would act: whether he'd dare follow Malk, get scared and stay outside, or realize he'd been spotted and give up altogether. The move was his.

In just a few moments, it became clear the pursuer wasn't a coward. From his position, Malk clearly saw how a small, plate-sized crimson disc first appeared before the dandy, then dissolved into the air, and its creator shifted something oblong from his pocket into the bosom of his frock coat. And only after these preparations did the snoop head into the yard.

Seeing this, Malk armed himself as well. He drew his blade, gripped it in a reverse hold, and, like a wild beast, crouched by the nearest crate, counting the dandy's steps. One, two, three... ten... twenty... Only when the snoop, in his estimation, reached the necessary point in the yard, Malk shot forward like a powder rocket. Now, three long, gliding strides, and he was standing before the nobleman, frozen in surprise.

The trophy blade first swept diagonally upward, then, with a slight turn, a thrust precisely into the center of the chest. If Malk hit, it would mean certain death for the dandy, but he didn't want to kill, counting on a shield to appear. And he was right. The blade struck straight into the middle of the scarlet disc that emerged out of nowhere, and all Malk had to do was yank it down, slicing the barrier apart.

With a weak flash, the zero-circle spell—Malk didn't believe higher-rank magic would be that easy to break—shattered, and... a powerful swing of a cane first knocked the knife out of Malk's hand, and then it jabbed into his gut. Stunned by the counterattack, Malk staggered back, and the cane's knob, aimed at his solar plexus, hit lower. It hurt, slightly knocked the wind out of him, but no more than that. Malk even managed to respond with a punch.

And he himself was not prepared for the result. His knuckles slammed into the dandy's jaw with unexpected power, nearly dislocating it, and sent him stumbling back a few steps. In the end, the snoop couldn't even stay on his feet, falling flat. Nevertheless, he remained conscious and did not lose the desire to resist. Already lying on the ground, without even trying to get up, he reached into his bosom and began to pull out something oblong…

Damn, Malk just wanted to take down the shield and give the "greenhorn fop" a good scare with a knife. And suddenly, such a turn!

There were only a couple of steps to the opponent on the ground, but Malk didn't rush into close combat unarmed. Instead, he dashed for the knife lying by a trash bin. He picked it up, turned to the dandy, and just in time, as the guy pulled out a double-barreled pistol and aimed it at Malk.

"You're a mage, you scum! Why a gun?!" Malk almost groaned, sharply dodging.

As he moved, a click of the hammer on the cap sounded, a shot boomed, and a bullet whizzed past his face. A miss!

The space between Malk and the noble filled with bluish smoke. A fleeting thought to use the chance to close the distance crossed his mind, but the sound of the hammer being cocked made him reconsider. Instead of rushing in, Malk started activating the Spark formula.

Damn, he knew it would come in handy! Good thing, even after paying the tax and giving one erg to the shoeshine, Malk had enough magic left for one spell. Otherwise, he'd be screwed!

Instinct made him lunge right, simultaneously releasing the Spark at the enemy. Another shot boomed, and the bullet flew high above Malk. His spell, however, hit the foe's left shoulder. If it were a bit stronger, it would've caused a serious wound, but now the pursuer only got a bruise and a jolt of pain, which, moreover, worked to the dandy's advantage, spurring him into action. Malk heard some street curses, and, judging by the sounds, the opponent was hastily getting to his feet.

That couldn't be allowed. Malk glanced around, yanked the surprisingly heavy lid off a trash bin, and... Well, he planned to throw it at the dandy, hoping to at least beat out of him any will to get up and resist, if not knock him out, but he had to hastily change his plans.

Saints know how, but Malk managed to catch some vague movement on the advertising stand visible from the street side of the arch. He covered himself with his trophy like a shield, braced himself, and...

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

Four powerful hits almost knocked the lid from his hands. Not without shock, Malk looked at his improvised shield and, with some bewilderment, saw arrows sticking out of the metal. Real ones, exactly four of them. But he didn't manage to make out any more details. These seemingly pretty material and deadly toys began to rapidly melt and dissolve into smoke.

A moment later, Malk was left holding just the lid, the dents the only reminder of the recent attack.

Hell and all its demons! What the heck was that?!

Malk cautiously eyed the snoop, suspecting a sneaky attack from him, but the guy looked just as shocked. Neither had expected a third party to join the fight. Malk had a fleeting thought that now he would have to fight not one opponent, but several at once—after all, the attack targeted him—but it seemed, besides them, no one else was in the arch or yard.

"What the Yorrokh?!" Malk snapped first and resumed the fight, throwing the lid at the distracted opponent.

The piece of metal whooshed toward the dandy's head, who had long since gotten up. The guy showed unexpected agility and deftly ducked. The lid clanged against the wall, and the snoop, instead of continuing the fight, suddenly turned and bolted, cane in one hand and empty pistol in the other.

Naturally, Malk rushed after him, but the enemy had gotten too good a head start. By the time both left the yard, more than ten fathoms separated them. Malk might have still tried to catch the scoundrel if he hadn't seen something on the advertising pillar at the arch exit that made him stop. On the side facing the courtyard, there were four posters of the archer. The same angry, vengeful face, tense muscles, drawn bow... the drawings had everything except arrows. The arrows on the bows had vanished somewhere—as if fired at some target.

And a couple of heartbeats later, the posters themselves disappeared. Under Malk's amazed gaze, they simply crumbled into thin streams of ash, leaving no trace behind.

"What the Yorrokh?!" Malk groaned, enraged by the bizarre events, and rushed away.

Mysteries, mysteries, how he hated mysteries! Why was everything in his life turned upside down?! Why was it that the deeper he delved into the world of magic, the more tangled the web of events around him became?! And he so wanted a calm, trouble-free study, devoid of intrigue, dangers, and mystical manifestations. He so wanted to be ordinary...

Reaching home and wanting to make sense of it all, he tried to piece together the fight with the dandy while it was still fresh. How it started, what happened on the street and in the yard, how the fight itself went—he managed to remember almost everything. But he found no explanation for the appearance of the mysterious arrows and their connection to the posters. Had he encountered a previously unknown—at least for a mage of his level—manifestation of classic magic? Or was it something new, far beyond the ordinary, even from the point of view of more knowledgeable sorcerers?!

He still found no answers to these questions. But what Malk was now completely certain of was the virtually proven involvement of the demonic dwarf. Any of their encounters was always preceded by the influence of negative aspects of the Pneuma on Malk, and this time everything followed the same scenario. First, the shoeshine boy used an artifact with a spell—a weak one, but still from the Death arsenal—then the weirdness with the archer image started, and finally, it all ended with four arrows that almost hit Malk—the sequence of events spoke for itself.

Perhaps he should have cursed his own absent-mindedness, which prevented him from expelling the energy that had entered his body right in the young shoeshine's tent, but Malk didn't. Because with each new encounter with the dwarf, he suspected more and more that the latter had other ways of finding Malk. And this mistake, even if corrected, would still not have saved him from another conflict with the freak. What mattered more... it mattered way more to become someone for whom such surprises would no longer be dangerous, someone who, like Magister Yarvok the Fierce, would laugh at enemies even under volley guns' fire!

Anyone who has had to study long and hard knows about the mental fatigue that sooner or later hits even the most diligent students. Dealing with this feeling, overcoming it is always very difficult, and without proper motivation, it is completely impossible. And now Malk, thanks to another attack by the dwarf, found the very stimulus that rekindled his faded interest in studying...

Generally speaking, Malk had long since reduced all of his daily practice to a certain system. Every four days, he trained Authority, and every other day, he alternated between developing his reserve and absorption speed. If there had been any imbalances in his training before, by now they had all been corrected. And, as a result, Malk's energy reserve had already reached eleven ergs, and the absorption speed had increased to half an erg per hour… Moreover, these figures were absolutely precise: the development of Malk's Spirit had reached a sufficient level for him to interact more closely with the Mirror and fully control his progress.

The latter was so convenient that he couldn't fathom how the mages of the past managed without Mirrors. Sure, entering the Spirit Palace and basic exercises didn't need any crutches, but the rest... Yorrokh, without external help, all other practice aspects would become brutally slow and insanely exhausting...

However, on this day, something new was added to the established training scheme. The ardor with which Malk undertook his studies awakened in him what he himself called enthusiasm, and theorists of the Arts—inspiration. And the result was not long in coming. A sudden surge of vivid emotions first lifted Malk to a new peak in his practice, then pushed him a bit further.

Had he been developing his reserve, it would've grown by an erg; if he'd trained absorption speed, it would've increased by a few more fractions of an erg. But Malk focused on Rain of Pain, and his Authority suddenly, in one leap, crossed the midpoint of the red rank, and then advanced a little further. And he finally first felt that very elusive boundary that separated him from the path to the rank's peak, and then, with a crack, he broke through it.

Sure, it came with sharp bursts of pain, hallucinations, and waves of instability disrupting his Spirit Palace, and sure, what Malk went through was far from the most pleasant moments of his life, but when everything settled, when his inner world returned to balance, the feeling of his improved Authority outweighed it all.

"So, I wasn't wrong when I decided not to abandon Rain, huh?" Malk said, floating in the center of his inner world, squinting contentedly at the Crystal Heart that was emitting a steady glow. "The risk was worth it?!"

Malk felt smug, but only for a moment. Suddenly, it hit him that the changes in his inner world were not limited to the growth of his Authority. Druzal knows how he sensed it, but Malk abruptly realized the very formulas of his Arcane Technique had also begun to change too. Something that had been carefully nurtured within his Spirit through practice and seemed unshakeable unexpectedly started transforming into something else. Outwardly similar, but much more suited to be paired with the Crystal Heart.

And how to explain that, Malk had no clue. They didn't teach this in the Society, and the books he had access to didn't mention it either. Moreover, the emotion he experienced during the transformation was clearly only a catalyst—it could not have influenced the process itself. And this meant that there was some other factor influencing his development. The question was, what exactly…

Malk sighed thoughtfully and was about to leave his Spirit Palace when a voice suddenly creaked from behind:

"Not bad, this Grandfather Boniface likes it here!"

Malk practically jumped out of his skin. Spinning around in panic, he instantly spotted the figure of someone who simply couldn't be there and locked his gaze on it.

It indeed was Boniface. Same short stature, blue skin, bulging violet eyes with rectangular pupils, a massive hooked nose, and a frog-like mouth with shark teeth. Except that the hair on his head was now gone, and his shapeless gray robe had been replaced by a bright red tunic, but it was that very same dwarf.

"What are you gawking at? Missed me?" the freak hissed this time instead of creaking.

"How did you get in? No foreign minds can enter a Spirit Palace!" Malk said in a tense voice.

"Seriously? That's what they teach in Schools now?!" the dwarf exclaimed in the low, booming bass of an ogre from a children's theater play. "This grandfather likes this news! No wonder the Mirror seemed so old and 'leaky'... Almost thought it was a trap, but turns out it's not. No foreign minds..."

The dwarf laughed with multiple voices at once, sending legions of chills down Malk's spine. Compared to the outwardly weak and pathetic freak, even the demon that had attacked the train seemed like an envoy of the Saints.

The thought of trying to leave the Palace crossed his mind, but Malk dismissed it as downright stupid and dangerous. He hadn't lured the dwarf into his inner world; the dwarf had come on his own, and therefore, going back to the real world would be like throwing open the gates of a besieged city.

"Why aren't you running? I can see it in your eyes—you want to..." the freak sang and mockingly wagged his finger. "Huh?"

"I'll throw a certain someone out of here first and then will run right after. How does that sound?" Malk said angrily.

But words didn't faze the dwarf.

"Real scary! This grandfather loves it," he approved and added with concern, "By the way, did you like my last trick with arrows? Still can't believe it worked... Just like the good old days."

What those times were, he didn't specify, nor did he wait for Malk's answer.

"But you know the first rule of a good trick?" he asked, flashing a crazy smile, and immediately answered himself, "It can be repeated over and over!"

The dwarf burst into his "signature" laugh and snapped his fingers theatrically. A cloud of smoke appeared out of nowhere, instantly hiding him from Malk's sight, and when the air cleared a few moments later, the dwarf was in the company of five archers. The very ones depicted on the poster. One of them, however, looked somehow weak and unreal, almost translucent, but another snap of fingers sounded, and the defective copy vanished.

"Too bad you dodged yesterday," the dwarf grumbled, seemingly genuinely disappointed. "Otherwise, this Grandfather Boniface wouldn't have to strain now."

While he spoke, the archers began to spread out, simultaneously drawing their bows and aiming at Malk. And their businesslike confidence in their right to do so even threw him off.

Yorrokh, the crazy dwarf really thought he could act in Malk's Spirit Palace like it was his own?! In a place where its master was equal to all the Saints combined?! Seriously?!

With just his will, Malk conjured a full-body shield, reinforced it with Authority, and charged at the nearest archer. Notably, he managed to run faster than he ever could in the real world. Heck, he could even fly here! What were these lousy archers to him?! As if responding to his thoughts, the shield began to shake from impacts, and each such hit echoed with pain in Malk's arms.

But it wasn't that far to the enemy. Soon, Malk was in front of the archer, stabbing a knife—he'd conjured it just like the shield—right into the guy's chest. It turned out so deftly that the archer didn't even have time to defend himself. The only problem was, the blade in his body didn't bother him at all. He even swung his bow at Malk, and... that was his last move. Malk, instantly enraged, grabbed the archer's shirt with his right hand, pulled him close, and growled in his face:

"Die!"

Along with the command, Malk called upon his Authority. First, he pressed it on the annoyingly lively copy, and when he felt resistance from a similar or slightly weaker Authority, he pushed with all his might. In response, there was a pop, and the archer exploded into wisps of smoke.

"Lorianna and all her whores!!" the dwarf yelled, clutching his temples and almost shrinking into a ball momentarily.

But his moment of weakness passed quickly. And now, with a snap of his fingers, three remaining archers burst into smoke, while in their place appeared a hazy shimmer. But it wasn't just a patch of impenetrable fog; it was something far more terrifying. Reeking of blood, hunger, and death, with toothy shadows darting inside.

Malk had never seen anything so horrifying before and, honestly, had no desire to get acquainted. Unfortunately, no one asked his opinion on this matter. The dwarf's face suddenly twisted with some utterly extreme rage, and the rest of his body started to blur, deforming and warping. The conjured haze, meanwhile, rushed at Malk so fast that he didn't even have time to dodge. All that remained for him was to thrust his shield forward, encompass it entirely with his attention, and compress it as hard as he could with Authority. At the same time fueling it with his steely resolve to win and searing-as-acid memories of all the pain Malk had endured.

But even this seemed insufficient to him. With his will, he found a faintly smoldering spark at the edge of his consciousness—something he hadn't noticed before the fight—pulled it out, and embedded it into the center of the shield.

He didn't have time for anything else. The horrors in the haze crashed into the shield, and... literally the entire Palace echoed from the clash of these forces. The ground shook, sand swirled around Malk, and the Crystal Heart in the sky sent out invisible ripples, under the influence of which the very reality of the Spirit Palace began to tear. However, the creatures attacking Malk didn't vanish—they froze in the air, like smoldering, grotesque figures, only to crumble onto the sand moments later in a rain of glass shards.

At the same time, a thunderous crack echoed, and behind the dwarf, who had almost lost his human shape, a spatial rift appeared, and black tentacles shooting out of it dragged the resisting freak inside. A breach to Hell—or at least, Malk hoped that little bastard had been dragged precisely into Hell—closed. And just like that, the battlefield was left to the master of the Palace.

Victory? Refusing to believe he was alive and well, Malk—exhausted but not broken—also left his Spirit world. He endured the sensation of falling and moments of complete darkness, then opened his eyes and... found himself lying on the floor, clutching the Mirror. His left wrist stung unpleasantly—exactly where the bracelet of Dorana had once adorned it, there was now a burn. Neither the amulet itself nor its remains were anywhere to be found. All this Malk noted somewhat in passing, as all his attention was on the thin wisp of gray smoke coming from under Druzal's Mirror's eyepieces.

The dwarf, who Yorrokh knows how had interfered with his training, might not have achieved his main goal, but he sure managed to screw things up big time. Whether out of malice or due to the consequences of the fight that had erupted in the Spirit Palace, the Mirror—Malk's most valuable possession—didn't survive the encounter with the runt.

And Malk didn't even notice when he started whispering fiercely:

"All the demons of Hell... How could this happen?! Flur, how?!"