Every Gifted felt the aftereffects of the Force initiation in their own way. Some, like Tolfan, for the first few days after the ritual felt like they were bobbing on waves of energy. Periods of crazy activity alternated with apathy and drowsiness, and the sudden urge to rush somewhere, do something, or talk nonstop eventually gave way to downright laziness. Others, like Helavia, became extraordinarily passionate, contrary to their usual aloofness. So much so that it was exhausting for both Helavia herself and Malk...

However, the side effects didn't last long. Once the body got used to the excess energy, the behavior of the newly minted Gifted quickly returned to normal. And then began the period of developing abilities.

Malk went down the same path, despite all the related anomalies. Right after the initiation, he experienced only a bit of emotional turmoil, but by the next day, things got worse, and he felt swollen like a balloon. The inner void that ordinary people don't notice, which he had become familiar with through his practice of Rain of Pain, suddenly got filled with some dense substance. Almost uncontrollable, yet tangible and firmly stretching his body from within. Of course, this sensation was nothing but an illusion—his body's reaction to the destruction of the barriers separating it from the world of thin energies—but a convincing one nonetheless. For two days, Malk didn't even leave the house, ashamed of how he started moving. His limbs, which seemed to have swollen several times, barely obeyed him, forcing him to waddle from side to side. For a lanky guy like him, it looked especially ridiculous. And humiliating.

Malk wouldn't be himself if he didn't find some benefit in such an awkward situation. Within twenty minutes or so, through the pressure building inside, he managed to sense the magical energy directly. He focused on exploring the related possibilities, drew on the skills he had developed with his Arcane Technique, recalled the feelings he had during the Colhaun protection ritual, and... by the end of the first hour, he managed to light a magical lamp on his own.

Though there wasn't much to brag about—learning to control simple household devices at the Schools took no more than two or three lessons. So, by the end of the first day, even the densest students could light up lamps, stoves, heaters, and simple amulets like Insect Defender or Dreamcatcher. The only thing that set Malk apart was how he learned the new skill. Where others needed a teacher's help, his years of training with Rain of Pain allowed him to manage on his own.

However, tinkering with the few magical devices he found in the house quickly bored Malk. The next thing he seriously considered was training with Druzal's Mirror. Not only had he missed only a handful of training sessions over the years, feeling uncomfortable without regular practice, but he was also itching to know how much his Arcane Technique had changed. After all, it was one thing to have to literally pull energy from the Mirror for successful practice, and quite another when it filled your body on its own. Who knows, maybe the side effects would be less unpleasant too...

Unfortunately, any serious training affecting a mage's subtle body[1] was forbidden for the first few days after initiation. The physical body was already undergoing complex changes, so there was no point in pushing it over the edge... Unless, of course, one aimed to earn an irreversible injury or magical mutation, helping the medics of the glorious city of Andalore gather material for another scientific paper.

So, despite his desires, Malk had to push thoughts of Rain of Pain to the back burner and focus on studying other, far less dangerous yet equally important things. One of them was the new identity card issued to him by the Society, replacing his Boreas citizen passport. Specifically, he was worried not about the card itself but about the information stored inside that plain metal tag.

"Reveal!" Malk said—Yorrokh knows why—activating the dormant charms in the medallion.

And in a moment, an illusory scroll of the identity card unfolded above the round tag in his palm. Neither the picture with his face, which turned out quite poorly, nor the general information interested Malk. He hurriedly searched for a specific piece of data and, with great regret, found it. The most prominent section, under civil status, was marred by the noxious stain of a lone black star—the mark of unreliability that was messing up his life back home and promised even more trouble here.

He had hoped, really hoped, that the record of that cursed mark wouldn't leave the gendarmerie archives and that he'd walk out of the Society with a clean slate. But alas, no miracle happened. And if he understood Boreas laws regarding the Gifted correctly, his already limited learning opportunities were likely to be significantly reduced. Strong spells, potentially dangerous knowledge, the most valuable books, and combat artifacts—all of it was off-limits to him. At least officially.

Unexpectedly, he recalled that the Andalore Society of Mages was also full of bans, restrictions, and rules, yet that didn't stop the Junior Magister in charge of the initiation from offering a high-ranking Arcane Art for an additional fee. People were the same everywhere, and money was always money. If some mage wanted to make a bit of cash by taking advantage of their position, the only thing that could stop them was a lack of jingle in your pocket.

And if Malk had enough drachmas, could he have convinced the mage not to put the black star in his passport? It was an interesting thought... After turning it over in his mind, Malk quickly dismissed it. Such decisions were beyond the Junior Magister's purview. To change his civil status, he would have to go directly to the Citizen Registry or the gendarmerie, where even with a lot of money, but without the right connections, no one would even talk to him.

So, no, Malk would have to bear the black star for a long time until he had a chance to earn forgiveness...

Malk probably would have come up with many more things if his voluntary confinement had lasted even one extra day, but no unpleasant surprises occurred. The period of his body adjusting to the suddenly accessible magical energy ended, and Malk could finally tackle his piled-up tasks.

The first place he headed to was the district magic bank. The very government structure responsible for enforcing the most hated law among mages. The law on the Gifted Tax.

In general, the idea behind the law was quite sound. On the one hand, with demonic countries pressuring the state, Yorrokh's Nights happening regularly, and breaches from demonic planes not uncommon, the constant replenishment of the state's energy reserves was a strategic task. A matter of survival, if you will. On the other hand, the Gifted, just like ordinary people, needed constant pressure to improve. If they weren't forced to work on expanding their magical potential daily, the number of active mages would inevitably drop to dangerous levels.

The problem was that theory often diverged from practice. What looked good on paper could yield a completely different result in reality. This was the case with the Gifted Tax. Lack of access to decent sources, inability to learn a good Arcane Art, and exorbitant prices for potions and decoctions—all of this turned the obligation to give the state eight ergs of energy every fourth sennight into an unbearable burden for many Gifted.

When your aura had hardly any Force, you couldn't do much magic, and without practice, there was no growth. For Bachelors with their reserves of forty or fifty ergs, giving away eight units of energy wasn't hard, but for beginner Adepts with their standard ten or eleven ergs, or worse, for Gifted who didn't even reach nine ergs, it threatened stagnation and reduced potential.

That's exactly what Helavia had been talking about when they argued over his desire to awaken the Gift. If his will were a bit weaker and his Authority less trained, he would have ended up among the weakling Gifted. Then Malk wouldn't have been complaining about the poor conditions at the Society but would have been racking his brain over where to get the energy needed to pay the tax.

Heck, he was already starting to feel the pressure of the debt on his mind, which is why he pushed all other matters aside and tackled this annoying issue first. In the morning, he went to the magic bank, stood in a small line, and then, under the supervision of a yawning clerk in a small booth, transferred the required number of ergs from his aura to a crystal storage device. Exactly one less than he had in reserve.

The procedure was simple, quite similar to how Malk activated the lamp and water heater at home. The only difference was that he had to maintain contact with the receiving crystal longer and focus on the energy flows instead of the control circuit. At first, he made a small mistake and almost dumped his entire reserve at once, nearly damaging the receiving device, but the clerk's shout snapped him back to his senses, and no accident occurred.

The debt to the state was temporarily settled, his reserves were empty, and Malk felt like an ungifted philistine again. Only this time, he understood well what he had lost.

A more knowledgeable mage would have immediately started replenishing his reserve with an Arcane Art, or better yet, gone to a Force source for faster energy absorption. However, both paths were closed to Malk. The only technique he knew couldn't help with energy collection, and he simply didn't have the money for access to a source. After all his expenses, he had only seventeen drachmas left, and with the current exchange rate, where ten absorbed ergs of energy cost one gold coin, such luxury was beyond his means.

All Malk could rely on was natural energy replenishment. With a normal level of magical background, his body absorbed energy at a rate of three-tenths of an erg per hour. So, it would take a little over a day to fully saturate his reserve. The thing was, his newly awakened Spirit had not yet reached the peak of this parameter, so such timelines sounded quite optimistic... Well, Malk wasn't in a hurry! There was still enough time before classes at the Society began, so he didn't have to worry about the lack of Force reserves. And then a day, two, or even three, and his meager reserve would be full again!

And while this process was ongoing, he could finally focus on what had haunted him since childhood and what he considered as important as gaining the Gift... Finding his family! Those very people who should have been his closest, supporting him in this harsh world and surrounding him with love, but who had actually just thrown him out of their lives like a stray dog.

Even the resentment towards his mother, for whom he had always been nothing more than a reminder of her shattered ambitions, didn't gnaw at him as much as the anger towards his father and his relatives. That's why, in his early childhood, alongside dreams of saving the world—where he, wealthy, noble, and powerful, crushed hordes of demons with disdain for death—he constantly fantasized about finding his father and... What would happen next, Malk honestly didn't know. He didn't believe in a happy family reunion, and the only thing that came to mind was approaching and looking him in the eyes. Nevertheless, the need to know his origins never disappeared and, over time, only grew stronger.

Yorrokh take it, unwilling to give up on the dream of finding his father, he hadn't even taken his stepfather's surname!

Logically, he should have started the search by questioning his mother, but unfortunately, she refused to talk about the past, hiding not only his father's identity but also her own relatives. In another situation, talking to neighbors might have helped, but Malk wasn't lucky there either. His mother had moved to Colhaun after the divorce, and no one knew anything about her previous life. So, the only thing that could aid Malk in his search were old newspaper archives, society columns from eighteen years ago, and Velvet Books of nobility.

The only place in Colhaun where he could access all these things was the public Lokia library. However, due to the governor's policy of constantly cutting funding for its collections, he couldn't find the necessary information. Newspapers were stored for no more than five years due to lack of archive space, society chronicles were absent entirely, and the Velvet Books had been censored after the Uprising. It felt like the residents of Boreas's most troubled province were deliberately being forced into a narrow "correct" view of modern history. However, Malk didn't share these thoughts with anyone and had no intention of doing so. He didn't give a damn about politics; all he wanted was to find his kin.

Malk's last hopes were pinned on the libraries of Andalore. After all, the cultural capital was the cultural capital. If he couldn't find anything here, he'd have to forget about his dream. Beyond that, he'd need to dig into closed government archives, libraries of major Schools, and aristocratic family collections—in other words, the places that were completely off-limits to him.

Among the three public libraries of Andalore—the Library of Regents, the Repository of Books of the Countries of Mritlok, and the Great Andalore Reading Hall—Malk chose the latter. On the one hand, he had already been to the reading hall when he was looking for the "Educational Institutions Bulletin" and had an idea of the place's rules. On the other hand, it had the lowest subscription fee. Four obols a day were quite affordable even for his scant budget.

The only downside of the Great Reading Hall was its distance from the house the Colhaunians rented. To get to the library, Malk first had to take a steam omnibus across half the city and then wander for another fifteen minutes among tenement houses—the area was actively being built up, and due to ongoing construction, he constantly had to find detours.

But despite all the difficulties, Malk didn't complain. Knowledge was worth enduring any hardships. Especially when it was truly essential knowledge...

Malk couldn't afford to leave leave a deposit, so, as before, he used the reading room services. Fortunately, the local librarians worked quickly, and visitors didn't have to wait for hours while their requests were processed and books were brought from storage. Perhaps this was due to the active use of mechanical freight elevators and pneumatic mail, which the libraries in Colhaun could only dream of, or maybe it was the general atmosphere of the country's most bookish city. In any case, what mattered to Malk was the result, and he was completely satisfied with it.

Not even half an hour had passed before the first volume of the Velvet Book—a massive tome that the frail librarian girl had to cart in on a special trolley—was lying on the table in front of Malk. And he began his search: not delving into details but trying to grasp the whole picture.

Later, when he could narrow down the list of potential relatives to a reasonable size, he would dive into specifics and look for clues—but that would come later. For now, all he wanted from the Velvet Book was to compile a list of wealthy and influential clans or Houses with a confirmed Lineage. No more, no less. No Families or merchant dynasties with bought noble patents, no ruined but very noble names, only the highest aristocrats and the most blue-blooded nobles—Malk fully understood the extent of his mother's ambitions and knew who could have caught her interest...

The only problem was that, when after several hours of intense research the list was ready, it turned out there were too many possible targets for a title hunter. Ninety names in total—eighty-one old and nine new.

Yorrokh, he had somehow thought there would be fewer! On top of that, the situation grew complicated even more with the division of the aristocracy into old and new. Those who had shone in Boreas since imperial times and those whose stars had risen only after the Uprising. Malk couldn't figure out who his mother might have chosen or whom she considered the most "promising." Boreas's recent history was so mixed up, with so many ups and downs, unexpected turns, and catastrophic twists of fate, that making a definite choice about the "right" side was impossible...

At first, it was all simple and clear. There was the state of Boreas—albeit small, but an empire nonetheless. With the absolute dictate of imperial power, pursuing a consistent policy of intolerance towards demons, encouraging the development of magical abilities among its subjects while strictly controlling magic and its users. In general, a typical country of its era, with its pros and cons.

Then suddenly, the empire of Boreas entered a dark period in its history. Several major accidents occurred in the Alchemist Guild—with significant human casualties—followed by two years of poor harvests, all while the largest Force sources reduced their energy output. Moreover, as if to prove the loss of the emperor's blessing from the Saints, a series of unexplained deaths among the royal family ensued, ending with the poisoning of the ruler of Boreas' favorite niece.

This became the beginning of the end. The enraged emperor unleashed the full might of the state's punitive machine—naturally, not caring much about finding evidence of guilt—on those Houses that could hypothetically benefit from the country's troubles. The slightest suspicion was enough for imperial guards to show up at the entrance of family manors, their sword hilts drumming on the gates.

The first blood was shed, and the underground dungeons filled with guests of noble lineage and high magical ranks. This didn't bring the emperor any closer to solving the country's problems, but it did alienate many influential noble families. Powerful aristocrats didn't wait for their turn in the emperor's purge and began to resist.

Which, of course, only proved their guilt in the eyes of the ruler. In response, the emperor immediately called the loyal Schools, Houses, and Families to his banners and tried to crush the centers of resistance in one fell swoop... But, alas, he miscalculated. The enemy was much stronger than initially thought. The scattered skirmishes with limited use of battle magic quickly escalated into full-blown war, with neither side holding back. And the scale of the battles suggested that the rebellious Houses had been preparing for something like this for a long time, so they were far from as innocent as they tried to appear.

The confrontation between monarchists and rebels was fiercer than anything except wars with demons and their lackeys. Casualties numbered in the tens, if not hundreds, of thousands. Many thought the bloodshed would last forever, until not a single human was left on Boreas soil...

Though if someone had asked Malk, he would have said the situation for the empire wasn't as dire as it seemed at first glance. Despite the chaos in the country, the emperor's party's position looked quite strong. And it was quite possible that the ruler of Boreas could eventually crush the rebels and bring peace back to the land.

Alas, we propose, but the Saints dispose! A force known as fate, or cruel destiny, intervened in the conflict. Another Yorrokh's Night not only thinned the boundary of reality and let a horde of hungry demons into Boreas; it also caused the formation of a spontaneous portal near Wargand. Moreover, a portal that led not to some demonic planes, but... to Heimdarch!

And the arch-enemy didn't miss their chance. Before the Boreas Archmages could close the tear in reality, the rulers of Heimdarch sent through it almost a thousand Demonic Warriors and Flesh Hunters, led by two Inferno Lords. For such a blow, the capital's defenders were not prepared.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The details of that battle were unknown to Malk—his mentor barely touched on the history of the Uprising in his stories, while Malk himself was interested in entirely different things—but everyone in Boreas who was even slightly literate knew how it ended. As a result of the emperor and his guards battling against the Heimdarch invaders, the entire palace quarter was destroyed, all members of the royal family were killed, and the ruler himself was mortally wounded, dying a sennight later without regaining consciousness. Whether any of the Heimdarch assassins survived was unknown.

However, at that point, no one cared about them anymore. The suddenly vacated throne literally disarmed the monarchist party. Unable to find a leader worthy of becoming the new emperor, they could no longer maintain unity, and the pro-government coalition fell apart. The scales tipped in favor of the rebels, and soon, the provinces of Boreas began swearing allegiance to their leaders one by one.

Rising to power was a Triumvirate of the country's strongest Houses—Cheringar, Lupergot, and Kravgam—the very ones whose conflict with the emperor had sparked the civil war.

Of course, not everyone immediately accepted the new order, and conflicts continued for a while, but not for long. Teams of hired killers started their hunt on those who were too stubborn in their discontent, and only the strongest survived it... or the smartest, those who managed to change their public stance in time. In modern Boreas, discussions on this topic were not welcomed, but even years later, there were rumors about the Avalonian haori, Styxsonian ashaleks, and the price the Regents had to pay to hire the best assassins in Mritlok.

However, Boreas was now a republic and diligently distanced itself from its dark imperial past. Privileges for mages were significantly reduced, and their rights—at least on paper—were no longer so noticeably different from those of the ungifted. Power could no longer be usurped by a single person and was shared among three Regents. In domestic policy, they aimed to develop freedoms, and in foreign policy, they proclaimed adherence to diplomatic principles and readiness for compromises. The latter was especially evident in the newfound friendship with the Avalon Islands and the flirting with loyalists. In the past, those caught doing such things wouldn't even make it to court—their own comrades or relatives would deal with the "demon-lovers"—but now times had changed...

Then again, could it have been otherwise? From just the first volume of the Velvet Book alone, Malk found dozens of Houses that had fallen to the level of Families, and dozens of Families crossed out due to losing their Lineage or being wiped out completely.

Quite the war they fought, huh. All to the great satisfaction of Arktavia, to the delight of the champions of freedom and justice from the Avalon Islands...

All that was matters of bygone days and had nothing to do with Malk. He hated politics and planned to stay as far away from it as possible. If not for his search for relatives, he wouldn't have touched any materials on that war with a two-fathom pole.

Sooner or later, even the most unpleasant task comes to an end. Malk now had the list he needed. And even though it turned out to be a bit large and almost a third of it consisted of names considered lost—Malk decided not to dismiss the possibility that not all surviving aristocratic Houses might be eager to cooperate with the current regime—it was still something he could work with. The search scope had narrowed, there was some specificity, and it became clear what to focus on when sifting through newspaper archives and society columns.

The precious obols were well spent; the trip to the reading hall was a complete success...

Evening was setting in. Leaving the library and reaching the stop, Malk soon found out that the omnibus he needed had already left. The wait for the next one was too long, the cab price was steep, so Malk decided to walk home. He consoled himself with the thought that there was no rush and he needed to get to know the city better...

And within a dozen or so minutes, he realized how right his decision was. The fuss around his arrest and subsequent release, the worries about initiation problems, the job search, and the library visits had kept Malk so busy that he simply hadn't had time to get acquainted with Andalore. And it wasn't just about the city's geography—though learning it was useful—he got his first chance to look at the cultural capital through the eyes of a visitor and see why it was once called the pearl of Boreas. Like a true idle onlooker, he strolled through the bustling streets of the merchant quarter, admiring the rich variety of shops and stores, marveled at the fountain ensemble at the entrance to the official residence of House Lupergot, crossed a couple of bustling avenues, crowded with honking steam carriages, hurried cabs and stagecoaches, and reckless rickshaws ignoring the rules.

To his surprise, he even wandered to one of the city's flakturms[2]—why the shelters built to protect citizens during Yorrokh's Nights were given such a name, no one but the members of the Guild of Dreamers knew, and they preferred to keep silent as usual. He spent some time gawking at its grim towers, admired the thickness of the walls, was horrified by the caliber of the guns mounted on retractable platforms, and... was almost shamefully chased away by a patrol of two mechanized warriors and a Bachelor officer. Idle curiosity wasn't welcome there.

Finally, when it had already gotten completely dark and the streetlights lit up, Malk reached his district. He just needed to cross the former Imperial Square, now Uprising Square, go through a few courtyards, and he'd be on the Holy Protectors Street he needed. Just a couple dozen minutes if he walked quickly. However, a "surprise" dashed his hopes of getting home soon—the square was occupied by two groups of street politics enthusiasts, and there was no way around them.

It must be said, Malk took quite some time to figure out what was happening, who was after what, and who was against whom. People crowded at opposite ends of the square, shouting, waving banners, and occasionally applauding something. If some individuals from both sides hadn't been threatening their opponents with fists now and then, he might have thought it was a gathering of friends and like-minded people. But then he looked more closely at the signs, listened to the slogans, and gradually started to understand what he was witnessing.

On Uprising Square, quite ironically, had gathered both monarchists—supporters of a return to the old imperial ways—and loyalists, who, conversely, demanded the continuation of the Triumvirate's reforms. Moreover, the demonstrations were organized by rather moderate members of each movement. The monarchists weren't demanding an immediate change of regime, advocating for the return of at least a nominal imperial title, while the loyalists... the loyalists didn't seem to know what they wanted. Their usual calls to the Regents for friendship with the Avalon Islands and neighboring Arktavia were mixed with demands to end the terror—despite the fact it was their political movement that started it—lift restrictions on the use of demonic magic, and stop aggressive foreign policy. The latter was even more strange, as the only country the new Boreas occasionally fought with was Heimdarch. And that was precisely the case where peaceful coexistence was simply impossible...

Right after Malk arrived, a third party appeared on the square. From an inconspicuous alley, several companies of gendarmes suddenly emerged, clad in light enchanted armor and armed with shields and batons. They surrounded each group of demonstrators in a semicircle and began pushing them onto the streets adjacent to Uprising Square. It was all done quietly and peacefully, without the use of magic or mechanized warriors. Malk even admired what was happening, as his position allowed him to remain an idle observer.

In the grand scheme of things, he didn't give a damn about them... the monarchists, the loyalists... all of them! Malk, after the train incident—and as a Colhaunian in general—didn't like the loyalists, but that was it. He was apolitical and intended to stay that way!

With that mindset, Malk left the square, diving into the nearest courtyard... Only to suddenly get himself into yet another mess.

"Hey, countryman! Wait up, I need to ask you something!" he heard a hoarse voice from behind just after he passed through the dark archway of a tenement building and found himself in one of Andalore's typical courtyards.

He then heard hurried footsteps, and two guys caught up with him. One wore a crumpled black cap, a worn light brown jacket, a dirty white shirt, and gray pants. The other sported an old gray top hat, a single-breasted black frock coat, and black pants tucked into mismatched half-boots of an indeterminate color. The first one had his hands in his pockets, while the second was energetically swinging his arms as if helping himself move faster.

Who they were and what they wanted, Malk figured out right away. He had witnessed too many similar scenes on the streets of Lokia to consider this a coincidence. After glancing around and making sure the pair had no accomplices, he stopped and calmly asked:

"Alright... countryman! Ask away."

Back in Colhaun, there had been a couple of times when a confident tone and a calm demeanor had sobered up similar enthusiasts of evening "conversations." So, there was still some hope of avoiding a conflict...

Unfortunately, Malk's pursuers thought differently.

"Oh, I will!" the guy in the cap guffawed, stopping about three steps from Malk and pulling his hands out of his pockets. And, notably, one of them had a lead knuckle duster on.

His buddy stood a little to the side, not in a hurry to pull out a weapon, preferring to squint menacingly at Malk while lazily stroking his right pocket. Judging by how it bulged, there was definitely something in there. And it probably wasn't a watch.

"You sure love a good show, don't ya, countryman?" the guy with the knuckle duster continued with a mocking grin. "Love 'em, but don't pay for tickets. Not good! You could get into big trouble like that..."

This local thug seemed proud of his clever wordplay, but Malk didn't appreciate it. Robbery was still robbery, no matter how you dressed it up. And every kid from Lokia's poor neighborhoods knew how to handle situations like this.

"It really isn't good!" Malk agreed... then immediately turned around and bolted. As fast as his physical condition and the poorly lit road allowed.

The robbers didn't even have time to react before their nimble prey had sprinted about ten fathoms and disappeared into the darkness of the alleyway. If they really intended to get their "payment" from Malk, they needed to hurry.

However, Malk didn't have much hope of escaping. After all, he wasn't a local, which meant there was a good chance he'd get lost in the maze of courtyards and end up in a dead end, only to meet his end at the hands of the angry thugs. No, he was betting on something else—the pursuers' thrill of the chase and his own ability to keep a clear head in the toughest situations. That's how Malk had survived the terrorist attack on the train, and that's how he planned to survive now. So, as soon as he dashed out of the alley, he didn't run further into the next courtyard but instead turned left and pressed against the wall. And, as if by magic, his trophy blade appeared in his hand.

He really didn't want to kill—he wasn't some hardened cutthroat from border guard or bounty hunter, for whom slitting an enemy's throat was no different from sneezing—but he also wasn't going to stand there like a calf at a slaughterhouse, meekly taking blows from a knuckle duster. Yorrokh take it, it wasn't his fault if the local punks, when choosing between leaving him alone and attacking, would pick the latter. Everyone was responsible for their actions and paid their own price. He definitely wouldn't lose sleep over someone else's choices!

Instead of a response to his thoughts, Malk heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The street wolves weren't about to let their prey slip away.

"H-hah!" Malk exhaled, blocking the path of his pursuers and slicing the air in front of him with his dagger in a crisscross.

Oddly enough, the first strike was the most successful. The blade cut across the forearm of the guy with the knuckle duster—who was running first—and would have hit him again, but the thug reacted in time and dodged. However, Malk's planned series of strikes didn't end there, and he kept going. A swing, another... Unfortunately, the initial shock from the unexpected attack had passed, and the knuckle duster fan didn't allow the blade to wound him again. He constantly moved, dodged, and blocked Malk's most dangerous attacks with his left forearm covered by his jacket—it seemed the thug had expected something like this and prepared in advance. And the bleeding wound didn't bother him at all. What's more, he not only defended himself but also constantly sought to counterattack!

The scum was actually pretty well-prepared, had long, strong arms, and knew how to use his fists. As soon as Malk made a single mistake, he took advantage of it and landed a straight punch to the torso. If Malk's reaction had been even a bit slower, the knuckle duster would have slammed into the middle of his chest, but as it was, only his right shoulder took the hit. It seemed like nothing, just one punch, but it was enough for Malk's fingers to loosen from the pain and drop the dagger.

"Son of a flur!" Malk gasped—or maybe just mentally cursed—breaking out in a cold sweat.

What had seemed like a clear and straightforward situation—where he'd easily fend off the pursuers with his weapon and skills— suddenly changed dramatically. While Malk turned out not to be as good with the blade as he thought, the thug didn't carry the knuckle duster just for show.

His instincts screamed to break the distance and run, but Malk managed to keep his emotions in check and his mind clear. Instead of the seemingly reasonable retreat, he took a swift step toward the enemy, ducked under another attack, dropped lower... and, grabbing the thug by the knees, straightened up in one smooth motion, flipping him onto his back.

Being a brawler, the enemy paid too little attention to his legs, and it cost him. And considering he fell badly—failing to brace himself and landing not on soft ground but on brick debris—the fight was over for him.

Too bad it was still too early to celebrate the victory. The second thug hadn't joined the fight yet, and Malk suspected he might have some surprises up his sleeve. So, if he wanted to get out of this courtyard alive and well, he needed to rearm himself before jumping into another fight.

And that's where Malk got lucky. He didn't have to search long for the dagger he had dropped—it lay in plain sight, a couple of steps away from the moaning knuckle duster fan—and within moments, its comfortable handle was once again in Malk's grip.

"Die, Yorrokh take your liver!" suddenly came a yell from the depths of the archway.

And following the cry, a bright crimson spark of magical discharge flew out from the thickets cluster of shadows. If it had been even a regular lightning bolt, let alone something more serious, Malk's story would have ended there: he was only an Adept in name and couldn't handle magical duels. But the spell shot at him by the enemy, while dangerous, was quite slow and lacked the devastating power of real combat magic. A first-rank Spark, in its most primitive form, described even in manuals for the ungifted! If it did hit Malk, he wouldn't escape unharmed, but it still had to hit first...

Malk stepped aside, letting the magical projectile fly past, and... without thinking, on pure reflex, caught the second Spark on his blade. The enemy had launched two spells at once, hoping to get him, if not with the power of magic, then at least through its clever use.

His wrist jerked painfully, but Malk managed to hold onto the dagger's handle—the blade itself helped him, disrupting the spell and absorbing some of the impact's energy. It was for this very property that Malk had taken the blade as a trophy from the terrorist's body. And clearly, he hadn't made a mistake. On the train, the loyalist-radical had pierced a one-star shield with this dagger, and now Malk had deflected a Spark—the "toy" he had gotten was clearly something special. Probably not super expensive or rare, but definitely not accessible to ordinary Adepts.

Having survived the first magical attack, Malk didn't wait for a second and immediately rushed back into the archway. He intended to either finish off the spell-casting bastard—nine sores on his arse!—or at least beat the desire to attack lone passersby out of him. But the enemy wisely assessed his own abilities, and as soon as it became clear he had missed, he bolted. He didn't care about his dignity or the fate of his friend moaning among the brick debris.

Coward, plague on his kin! And there Malk had seriously hoped to snag some magical gear from him. Especially that amulet he used to cast the Sparks so deftly. At least, Malk thought it was an amulet. Otherwise, why would an Adept so good with combat spells suddenly decide to run?

Cursing again, Malk spat in the direction of the fleeing thug and turned back to the first robber. As it turned out, the guy had already sat up, taken off his jacket from his left forearm, and was now moaning, feeling the back of his head with both hands. Malk's hands itched to knock him out again, but the thug realized the threat and shook his head in protest. To make himself more convincing, he pulled out some coins wrapped in a handkerchief from his jacket's inner pocket and tossed them at Malk's feet.

"You said you had something to ask," Malk chuckled, picking up and unwrapping the bundle. The cloth flew aside, and in his hand were three half-drachma coins. And by his standards, that was pretty good money. "You should have started like this, and we'd have been best friends! I'm telling you!"

Smirking again, he pocketed the silver and, with a mocking bow, hurried away. Conflict resolved, no losses, and even a bit of profit. Not bad at all! As for having to take roundabout routes home and keep a closer eye on his surroundings in the future—well, that was a minor issue. After all, no one ever promised his life would be easy, right?

[1] Translator's note: in case you are unfamiliar with it, "subtle body" or "subtle bodies" roughly refers to one's aura or something like that. You can check more detailed/accurate explanations, like in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subtle_body, but just reading it as "aura" should be sufficient in the scope of this story. The point is, don't confuse it with the author calling the main character scrawny.

[2] Author's note: flakturms were German anti-aircraft towers that also served as bunkers for garrison shelter. They were actively used during the Second World War to defend major German cities. In some places, they still exist as architectural landmarks. Translator's note: the official illustration shows a flakturm that looks like a single tower, but here Malk was "gawking at its grim towers," so it was probably meant to be different. On the internet, you can find other versions, like square ones, that have a sort of round tower on each corner. The Guild of Dreamers mentioned before apparently means an organization of mages exploring other worlds via dreams and recording the knowledge brought from there. Hence, the usage of a totally alien word.