The gendarmes arrived almost an hour after the fight started. It was odd: the district where Holy Protectors Street was located was considered respectable, and the townsfolk living there weren't shy about contacting the law enforcers at every opportunity—if anything, they certainly couldn't ignore musketoon fire—however, for this call, the carriage with sides painted in the colors of the Andalore gendarmerie seemed to take its sweet time getting there. Malk even started to suspect that if he hadn't personally paid a street kid ten obols to bring the representatives of justice to the house as quickly as possible, they might not have come at all!

"What happened here, young man? Causing trouble?" asked a gray-haired gendarme sergeant after following the kid to the backyard, where Malk was waiting for the authorities in the company of his tied-up opponents.

"Quite the opposite. I'm handing over three criminals to you," Malk replied lively. "About an hour ago, they tried to sneak into my house through the kitchen window, and when that failed, they jumped me with weapons. Barely managed to handle them."

To back up his words, he nudged the pile of weapons on the ground with the toe of his boot. A double-barreled pistol, a knife, a brass knuckle, and a short sword or maybe a dagger—the arsenal of the bastards that attacked him was surprisingly extensive.

"Criminals?" the gendarme repeated, scanning the faces of the tied-up young men with gags in their mouths.

They didn't really look like criminals; more like beaten-up students from some School. The experienced sergeant stepped toward the closest captive—whom Malk mentally called "dandy"—and, with two fingers, pulled a chain from behind the collar of his shirt, fishing out an iron medallion of a Gifted.

With a snort, the gendarme repeated the procedure with the other suspects. Then he straightened up and gave Malk a skeptical look. His whole demeanor seemed to say that soon, the real criminal here might be someone else. Three voices of the Gifted against one of an ordinary mortal could turn the latter into a thief or a crazy demon-worshiper. But as soon as Malk showed his own Adept badge, the gendarme's face instantly turned bored. A conflict of three mages with an ungifted turned into a confrontation of sorcerers, and this was a matter that no law enforcement officer like him wanted to get involved in.

Meanwhile, Malk described what had happened in short, concise phrases, not forgetting to once again show the confiscated arsenal and share his guesses about the attackers' connections with the loyalists. Honestly, the situation seemed crystal clear to him, and he couldn't understand why the sergeant's face grew longer with each word.

"Young man, I see you're safe and sound. So how about we untie these idiots and let them go home? Let's not ruin their lives, huh?" the gendarme suddenly suggested. "If you'd been hurt, it would be one thing, but as it is... It's more like they should hold a grudge against you than you against them..." And he nodded at the bruises and abrasions decorating the faces of the captured Adepts.

Malk was stunned. Let them go?! They tried to kill him, and now he should just let them go?!

"You think I made this story up? And got smeared with blood all by myself, too?" he asked, mentally cursing himself for wanting to act according to the law. But, then again, did he have a choice? Even in Colhaun, you couldn't just get rid of three captives, let alone in the second capital! "Just so you know, if I hadn't used two 'Healers' on myself right after the fight, then..."

The gendarme cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

"Enough, lad, listen to an experienced man's advice! No need to rush where you can take it slow. Get what I mean?" the sergeant said meaningfully.

Damn, this was a law enforcement officer?! Malk almost started cursing out loud. Was it worth calling the gendarmerie for this "advice"?! Sure, he had no other choice, but... Yorrokh take it all!

Who knows what Malk would have ended up agreeing to with the sergeant-"advisor," but at that moment, a new figure appeared in the yard. It was an old man leaning heavily on a worn cane, dressed in a slightly old-fashioned gray three-piece suit, white shirt, and wide-brimmed hat. Yet, despite his modest appearance, he radiated so much arrogance and confidence that it could easily match a dozen aristocrats. And notably, he made his way to the backyard on his own, without the errand boy's guidance.

"Perhaps I can help Mister Malk make the right decision?" the newcomer said, giving a friendly nod to the sergeant and glancing at Malk's captives. "I represent the interests of House Leinir here. And resolving conflicts of this nature is my direct responsibility."

"But I don't seem to have any conflicts with the esteemed House!" Malk said, shaking his head.

Of all things, he certainly wasn't planning to cross the powerful of this world. Especially when the name Leinir was involved. Tolfan's story about a young talent from that House—not even an Heir—who had turned Malk's friend's buddy into a pulp in a duel was still fresh in his mind. After all, no serious sanctions were applied to the Apprentice who got carried away with the fight.

"Well, how so... then why do you have a member of the junior Family from the House of the Thunder Bird lying tied up with two of his friends here?" the representative asked, raising an eyebrow. And abruptly added, "But before you say anything brazen that I'd have to take as an insult to the House's honor, let me make you an offer." The old man carefully studied Malk's face, and then his clothes, noticeably damaged in the recent fight. "In order for this unfortunate incident to receive no... I repeat!... no publicity, and for the young people next to you to return to their families, we are ready to pay fifteen drachmas."

The tone in which all this was said made Malk clench his fists and take a step forward. By the Nine, he was being bought, bought like some street wench! The humiliation made him want to throw something proud and insulting in the old man's face, to promise he'd get justice, a trial, but... one glance at the gendarme sergeant, who stood with his back to them, pointedly pretending not to care, instantly cooled his fire.

Where and with whom was he going to get any justice?! Damn it, and for what, anyway?!

"And the conflict ends here?" Malk finally asked.

"This conflict—of course," the old man nodded importantly.

"This?" Malk repeated, instantly wary.

"Seriously, you don't think your childish squabble will just stop because... grown-ups stepped in, do you?" the House representative feigned surprise. "Besides... it's not in the tradition of aristocratic Houses to interfere with kids gaining life experience!"

"And paying money for them isn't interference?" Malk couldn't resist a jab.

Frankly, he didn't believe a damn word of all this talk about traditions and life experience. It was simply that some were going crazy from complete impunity, and others were covering for them. In simple cases, they settled with money; in others... they used much more serious means.

"Young man, one doesn't negate the other. Money and connections are part of an aristocrat's strength, and ignoring them means ignoring one's essence," the old man said with a faint smile. "So, do you agree?"

"Do I even have a choice?" Malk grimaced.

Yorrokh take it! Sure, he had gotten used to the idea that not every crime in Andalore faced inevitable punishment, but they could at least keep up the appearance of justice and law! And the main thing was, even if he dug his heels in, nothing would change. The report about the attack, through the efforts of, if not the sergeant himself, then his senior colleagues, would definitely disappear, no charges would be brought against the young students, and the worst they'd face would be a night in the station. So was it worth refusing the money and angering a powerful House, forcing them to really come after him? Right, Malk also figured it wasn't.

So, swallowing his resentment and shoving his dignity deep down again, he watched with a stone face as his captives were freed, healed with one-time "Healers," and then led away entirely. He didn't comment or discuss anything, just stood and watched. And each time he caught another promising look from his formerly defeated foes, anger flared inside him. At least in the presence of the House representative, they behaved surprisingly quiet and calm, not provoking a new conflict. But those glances... they said a lot. The "childish squabble" was far from over.

"Want some advice, lad? Get out of here, and fast," the sergeant suddenly addressed Malk casually once the young aristocrats and the old man had left the yard. "You won't have peace here now. Better yet, leave the city altogether. A junior Family isn't directly related to the Patriarch, but they're no pushovers either. They won't forgive you this humiliation..."

"I didn't ask them to break into my house!" Malk snapped.

"You didn't, yet they came and brought trouble," the sergeant agreed placidly, then straightened, adjusted his uniform, and said in a different tone, "Oh, before I forget... are you paying the fine now, young man, or should I summon you to the station?"

Malk flinched and stared at the gendarme in disbelief.

"A fine?! What the Yorrokh for?!"

"For a false call. Since the gendarmerie won't be getting a crime report from you, and there are no criminals either... there must be a fine!" the gendarme announced pompously and added, "But don't worry... everything will be fair, no tricks. We'll go to the station, where we'll file everything, record it in documents, and process the payment through the bank..."

Thank the Nine, Malk had talked to Tolfan enough to catch where the gendarme was heading. The money from the House representative tempted the sergeant like fresh blood would a hungry demon. And if he didn't get his cut, things wouldn't end well.

"And if we skip all that hassle, how much?" Malk asked wearily.

"Five drachmas. And no one will disturb the esteemed Adept's sleep anymore," the sergeant said with a nasty smile.

Malk silently counted out a third of the gold he'd gotten from the old man with the cane. Given the situation, all he could do was be glad the gendarme's appetite was modest. He could have easily set his sights on the rest of the money as well…

The gold noticeably lifted the sergeant's mood, and he left the yard with a grin almost splitting his face. Moreover, just before the gates, where Malk escorted him, he deigned to offer another "piece of advice." Patronizingly patting Malk on the shoulder, the gendarme said that "such muscleheads who can beat the crap out of whole three Adepts with their bare fists" were needed in his service, and if things got really tough, Malk could come to them. And there was some logic in his words: above the gendarmerie was the Purple Chamber, which greatly limited the influence of aristocrats. But discussing this—if Malk ever wanted to discuss something like that!—made sense with someone more influential than a bribe-extorting sergeant. So, hearing the offer, he just gave a polite smile and quietly closed the gate behind the gendarme.

"Greedy bastard, calling me a musclehead!" Malk muttered under his breath as he headed back into the house. "I was almost the smallest at the boarding school..."

The image he had cherished since childhood didn't include labels like "musclehead" at all. Composed, dignified, noble, steadfast—by all means, but not a musclehead! And as for the rest, it wasn't even worth mentioning. Damn, if he planned to beat the crap out of anyone, it certainly wasn't with his fists!

Yet, the sergeant's words hit a nerve, and in Malk's mind, the image of a refined aristocrat suddenly shifted to a huge, muscular savage from the Yavan Belt or Rida's Scatter, wielding a club and equally crude primal magic... And that was definitely not the dream he was aiming for.

What the gendarme said probably wouldn't have stung so much if it weren't for the changes in his physique that even Malk himself could notice. No, he didn't feel particularly huge, but... come to think of it, his pants somehow had gotten noticeably shorter, his shirt was tight in the shoulders, and his vest had even split open at the back last night when he bent to lace up his shoes. So, even if his clothes hadn't gotten damaged in today's fight, he'd still have to update his wardrobe.

But was it worth expecting anything else from combining the hard work of a station loader and Life magic? Malk also figured it wasn't. Everything had its price, and turning into a muscular brute in exchange for the right to follow the path of a mage wasn't the highest price possible...

Probably, Malk would have pushed this whole nighttime incident to the back of his mind—thankfully, he didn't suffer serious injuries or property damage—if the neighbors hadn't gotten involved. Some "kind soul," who during the fight had a sudden bout of blindness and deafness, by morning had fully "recovered" and snitched to the landlord. The latter showed up just as Malk was about to leave for the clinic and, ignoring his protests, announced the termination of the lease. And the landlord's gripes were specifically with Malk. Helavia and Tolfan, who were off on a closed training, didn't bother him at all, and he wasn't planning to toss them out either. In his opinion, only one tenant attracted trouble.

And, Malk had to admit, he couldn't argue with that. Because he really did cause a lot of problems. The attack alone was bad enough, but there was much more the yelling landlord didn't even know about. The dwarf undermining Colhaun folk protection, the broken Mirror, the floorboard that had sprouted a shoot, that Yorrokh's caterpillar—Nine Saints, if you think about it, you couldn't imagine a worse tenant! And it was good that no one had been hurt yet. After all, the same conflict with the trio of Adepts could have ended badly, if not for Malk, then for Helavia or Tolfan. And that Malk couldn't brush off. So, after arguing a bit for show, he packed his suitcase and, with the Mirror hastily wrapped in a rag under his arm, left the house.

The problem of finding new housing was solved rather quickly. All he had to do was walk a couple of blocks, find a real estate agency his classmates had praised, and talk to a broker. Then, a professional took over. For three drachmas, in a couple of hours, Malk was offered a cheap one-room apartment in the basement of a dilapidated mansion located literally two streets away from the Society building. So, if in the morning Malk was still having breakfast at the house on Holy Protectors Street, he was destined to have lunch already in Grey Nights Lane.

"Toilet's outside, no furniture, just one room," Malk repeated the agent's words, standing in the doorway of his new place. He scanned the slightly shabby walls, the floors with peeling paint, the poorly washed narrow window with streaks on the glass, and sighed loudly. "But it's clean, and the rent is only one drachma a month. And the door, importantly, locks securely..."

Compared to this, his previous apartment seemed almost like a palace, but Malk didn't complain. If he remembered that before coming to Andalore, he had expected something like this in the first place, it made no sense to be picky at all. One had to exercise modesty. And live within one's means! That would be more proper... and safer.

Sighing again, Malk put down his suitcase and bag, placed the Mirror on top, then got on his knees and sprinkled a narrow line of salt along the walls around the room. The seller swore it had been blessed in a temple of Achont, but Malk wasn't too concerned about the truth of that. Regular sea salt would have been fine for him.

Finally, a closed figure was formed. Malk stood up, brushed off his hands, and, recalling the Protective Circle ritual in his mind, started the spell. While he couldn't shield the house on Holy Protectors Street in this way, shielding a small room from everything otherworldly was quite within his reach now.

The ritual, performed not for the first time, went smoothly, without errors or complications. As if on their own, glowing lines formed magical shapes in his spiritual vision, Runeglyph phrases flowed like streams, the Force infused the patterns in strictly measured portions, and Authority gave the constructs their final form. Five or six minutes later, the seemingly unreliable salt line merged into a single whole, becoming a tangible support for a magical veil that separated the room from the rest of the world.

Done! It was so much easier working when a Hellspawn wasn't messing with you, and you weren't pressured by the prospect of falling under a memory-wiping spell...

To make sure everything worked right, Malk stepped beyond the salt line and immediately returned. As expected, both times crossing the barrier, it felt like his skin was lightly brushed with sandpaper, and a faint disorientation hit his head. The magical construct definitely worked! And if Malk hadn't messed up, his room was now off-limits to the incorporeal beings of lower ranks, or at least shielded from their sight. As for the ability of his Protective Circle, which didn't even reach the first level, to become a serious obstacle for truly powerful creatures, he didn't believe in it.

Then again, Malk couldn't pull off anything more reliable. Even as it was, the Circle had cost him over eleven ergs—almost his entire current reserve—and now he'd have to spend an erg a day to maintain it. It was basically the limit of his abilities as an Adept, and the situation couldn't be fixed quickly. All he could count on was a reserve growth of one erg a month and a tenth of an erg increase in energy absorption speed every two months. No miracles, just simple math.

If only Malk's enemies could be handled with the same straightforward calculations and analysis, things would be great. Compared to the magical formulas, easily described in mathematical language, or the rules for constructing spells from Runeglyph symbols, the same dwarf's sorcery appeared as something unimaginable. Remembering the arrows flying off posters sometimes sent chills down Malk's spine. If this was magic, then a clearly non-human mind had participated in the development of its underlying principles.

No, Malk preferred something more familiar and understandable. And he turned his gaze to his new Druzal's Mirror, from which suddenly slipped off the cloth covering it. Although the new technomagical artifact looked rather ridiculous—outwardly, it resembled a globe made of plates and grids with attached eyepieces on the side—but at least it didn't hold surprises and tricks contradicting common sense. Outside, it was an era of reason, scientific magic, and steam; how could mysticism possibly fit in?

However, it wasn't time for such philosophical musings yet.

"Alright, here's to the move!" Malk said aloud and saluted his new home with a bottle of mead he'd bought on the way. "Shall we settle in?"

And settle in he did. Even though no new furniture appeared—Malk slept on a thin mattress right on the floor—the energy cost for maintaining the Circle didn't decrease, and the landlord didn't bother hooking up proper plumbing, the basement room had one main advantage—it was peaceful. Whether it was the change of scenery, the success of the ritual, or something else entirely, everything around Malk started to get better in the month since the move. No more attacks from loyalist supporters, the dwarf didn't barge into his Spirit Palace, and the Mirror didn't fail. His Gift developed steadily—by the end of the month, Malk's reserve had grown to thirteen ergs, and his absorption rate increased to six-tenths of an erg per hour, he made huge strides in mastering the "Healer," and his Authority, which had already passed the midpoint of the red rank, strengthened. Things were going well in the Society too—Malk didn't even notice how he became a leader in his group, gradually surpassing classmates who had started from higher positions. Despite the big expenses, his income grew, and the metaphorical piggy bank, which had bared its bottom, was slowly but surely filling with yellow coins.

Yorrokh, even Helavia wasn't getting on his nerves! The girl, according to Tolfan, whom Malk met a sennight after moving, was off on another special closed training and was physically unable to cause any drama.

So, everything had been going pretty well for Malk lately. The only trouble happened once when he was heading home after meeting Tolfan. Lost in thought, he walked too close to an advertising pillar and paid the price. Among the handwritten and occasional printed ads for selling all sorts of things, there was a leftover poster from last year's puppet show. The title mentioned something about a dragon ruining the hero's life, but Malk didn't remember the details. What mattered was that this very same damned by all Saints dragon was depicted there, moreover, with surprising detail at that. And just as Malk passed the pillar, that flur's lizard came to life, stuck its serpentine neck out as if through a portal, and... breathed a powerful stream of flames.

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Later, it became clear the creature missed by a lot, and the high-temperature blast hit a cubit away, but at that moment, it felt different. It seemed like the magical fire was about to scorch his face, and Malk panicked, jumping back and to the side. It was awkward and clumsy, but lucky: even though the leap landed him on the road and right in front of an oncoming omnibus, the driver managed to stop. Instead of serious injuries, Malk got away with bruises and scratches, which were gone after the second "Healer." But the most annoying thing was that he didn't need to panic or jump at all. The dragon's breath, which seemed so terrifying, not only left no trace on the sidewalk, but didn't even touch a scrap of paper lying there.

Unlike the arrows, the fire was just an illusion, pure theatrics! As if the dwarf—and there was no doubt that he was behind the attempt—suddenly cared about conserving Force, simultaneously itching to pull another nasty trick and lacking his former capabilities to do so.

Malk immediately suspected that the runt's "health" was compromised, but he was wary of dwelling on the thought. Too tempting an idea, too easy to fall under its spell and let his guard down where he absolutely couldn't afford to. And so... so it was simpler to keep living as he had, expecting new attacks, enjoying the calm, and hoping for the best.

The streak of good luck ended at the month's close. And trouble came from a direction Malk didn't expect at all. From his work in the crew. A job that, for him, was just a way to drain the accumulated life energy in his body, nothing more. Could there be any surprises with that kind of attitude?

But, as it turned out, there could be, and serious ones.

For Malk, that day was almost like any other. Training, work, study... After classes, he ran home, changed, and even grabbed a bite, then headed to the station. Though this sennight, he was putting on his work clothes for the fourth time, exceeding his usual limit, but that had happened before. Especially when he pushed his limits in the infirmary's source or didn't pay enough attention to cleansing his body with Authority and the Dispersion spell.

In short, just the regular dull routine.

He got to the station on foot—not to save money, but as part of his endurance training—and went straight to the sheds at the foot of the water tower. When Malk first started learning the ropes as a loader, he'd spend a lot of time searching for his colleagues busy unloading yet another car. But only after earning the workers' respect and a certain status did they tell him about the crew's traditional meeting spot. Since then, that's where he'd start looking.

This time, he got lucky—all the crew, about twenty people, were sitting on the packed ground in front of a big wood shed. They played cards or dice, shared stories, and some even slept. Only the foreman, Aaron, was missing.

"No work today?" Malk asked the puppeteer mage, who, as always, kept himself and his automaton slightly apart from the ordinary mortals.

The mage wasn't particularly friendly with Malk either, but at least he agreed to answer questions. After all, he was talking to a Gifted.

"Don't know. An hour ago, they moved six cars with the alchemists' orders to the siding. If we started unloading now, we'd be done by one in the morning... But no, nothing. Aaron ran off to the station administration, but he's taking a long time to come back too," the puppeteer said gloomily, polishing a clearly new patch on his mechanical servant's body.

"Strange," Malk said, surprised. As far as he remembered, it was the first time such a thing happened.

"Yeah," the mage grunted. "Like we have no other business and come here just to kill time."

Malk had no idea what other business his colleague could have if the man was so thoroughly stuck in his rank—according to Aaron, he was an Apprentice but hid it carefully—and considered work at the station a significant part of his income, but chose to keep quiet.

"And the main thing is, our main competitors, Havronis's crew, are nowhere to be seen either. Maybe they got a heads-up that there'd be nothing for everyone today, or Yorrokh knows what's going on," the mage continued, suddenly becoming very talkative.

"Maybe the administration raised the 'rates,' and there's no money for a bribe? And that's why Aaron's not coming back as well, haggling?" Malk suggested.

"Who's got no money? Havronis?!" The puppeteer laughed bitterly. "He snatched two juicy orders from us just last sennight. We should be the ones complaining, not him."

"Well, then I don't know," Malk said, shrugging his shoulders.

Continuing the conversation standing, especially when the other man was comfortably seated on his automaton's platform, wasn't something Malk felt like doing; it even seemed humiliating. So he went to the wood shed, dragged out a big, knobby stump, and sat down with satisfaction.

"Looks like someone's into elixirs and stimulants?" the mage suddenly said, eyeing the stump Malk had brought, and then studying his broadened shoulders and noticeably strengthened arms. "Stupid. Better spend your money on..."

What exactly the puppeteer was going to advise him, Malk never found out. New players suddenly appeared on the scene, and everyone abruptly lost interest in conversations. Two massive, humanoid automatons, each with four mechanized arms, lumbered toward the crew's gathering spot, accompanied by two puppeteer mages and covered by infantry in the form of five brute-looking guys with clubs in their hands. Everyone, including the automatons, had an unfamiliar emblem on the right side of their chest.

"Hey, scum, are you Aaron's crew or what?" the most nimble-looking "infantryman" loudly addressed Malk's companions. The mages clearly didn't want to lower themselves to talk with the ungifted. "So, uh... I'm letting you know, bastards, that starting today, you're banned from working on the station grounds and in its vicinity... And if you don't want trouble, I suggest you get the hell out of here as fast as possible!"

The negotiator had a hard time with his speech, especially the part where he had to quote obviously someone else's words, but he managed to get the message across to the crew. And, judging by the gestures and muffled curses, the workers were not at all happy with what they heard. In fact, even Malk realized his fists were clenching in anger, and deep down, he felt a growing urge to punch someone.

"And why the heck should we leave?" Malk's recent conversation partner suddenly spoke up. "Who's gonna make us?"

The negotiator just took a breath to answer when the oldest of the newly arrived mages stepped forward.

"Who's gonna make you? Well, how about the Andalore loaders' union, formed last sennight? We've got exclusive rights to work at the station, and we won't tolerate competition. Got it?" the mage said arrogantly.

The scene was a bit spoiled by the fact that he was barely past the boundary between Adept and Apprentice, so his words didn't carry much weight. And having two mechanical workers on his side didn't change things. At least, Malk wasn't scared by the clunky heaps of metal one bit.

Apparently, the others thought similarly, because the crew, suddenly growing grim and clenching fists, began slowly advancing on the cocky guests from the union, and the owner of the four-wheeled loader even laughed scornfully.

"I'd like to know how you plan to make us? You think just because you chased Havronis's guys away and took Aaron down, you'll handle us as easily? Dream on!" the puppeteer declared loudly and waved to the crew. "Get 'em, boys!!!"

Malk never imagined such a fighting spirit hid beneath the mage's unassuming exterior. Unfriendly, sullen, and arrogant, but when it came to a brawl, he transformed. His eyes blazed, nostrils flared with anger, and he drove his automaton into battle with such fervor, as if it were not a rusty loader, but at least a heavy assault golem.

However, he still retained a modicum of prudence, and his excitement didn't stop him from preparing both himself and his mechanical soldier for the fight. Besides the standard spells for controlling the machine, the mage promptly deployed Shields. First, him, then the loader, were enveloped in a faint pearly glow.

The nature of the defensive spell was unclear to Malk—too low a qualification—but recalling his past encounter with the puppeteer's magic, he suspected it involved Forces of Death and, just in case, decided to take a small step back towards the rest of the crew. Even Life could cause trouble, so getting hit by a "friendly" blast of Death magic was the last thing he wanted.

Meanwhile, mechanical soldiers from the union stepped forward to meet the rumbling, steaming machine. The mages controlling them mimicked the steps of the crew's puppeteer, immediately covering themselves and the automatons with Shields. Except one of them seemed to be basing his spell on Fire, and the other… the other, judging by the blue glow with green flecks around his magical aura, was using Water.

Interestingly, the mages weren't eager to jump into the fight themselves, preferring to use their "puppets." Both Malk's recent conversation partner and his opponents, after taking defensive measures, plopped down and grabbed onto artifacts that helped them control the automatons. For this purpose, the union's mages employed two small cubes made of blinking crystals, spinning gears, rack-and-pinion systems, and other parts incomprehensible to the uninitiated. In contrast, the crew's puppeteer controlled his automaton with a much less technological scepter, which had a rectangular-toothed gear as its head.

What was happening around didn't seem to interest the mages.

"I wonder if he can take on two of them?" Malk asked aloud, watching the loader platform briskly roll towards the lazily swaying humanoid automatons.

In theory, the speed advantage was crucial, but the mass couldn't be ignored either. The nimble-looking crew's mechanical soldier was noticeably smaller than its foes. If they all piled on... it wouldn't be pretty.

In the meantime, the rest of the loaders, cracking their knuckles, lined up shoulder to shoulder beside Malk. He ended up at the forefront of the entire group of crew fighters—practically leading the charge. And that was definitely not the role he'd signed up for. If only because he didn't care about the fight over the station or unloading rights. When work for you is nothing more than a workout, it's hard to take it seriously. Which could not be said about the others. For them, working for the crew without paying the union's "tax" was a matter of survival. So they were ready to fight for it with all their fury.

Damn it, but what did Malk have to do with this?! The cause of the conflict, the people around him—it was all foreign to him. Why risk his neck for who knows what?!

Alas, the question had no answer. At least because, despite everything, Malk couldn't force himself to just walk away. Yeah, it was stupid, but... it was embarrassing! Not so much in front of the crew workers, but to himself. No matter what arguments you use to justify yourself, no matter what reasons you give, cowardice always remains cowardice. And Malk never noticed that shameful flaw in himself!

While he was brooding, the automatons exchanged their first blows. And it must be said that after what he saw, Malk took back all his thoughts about their clumsiness.

The crew's puppeteer's automaton attacked first. Suddenly turning its body, the mechanized soldier hooked a tightly packed sack—Saints only know why it was lying on its platform—and with inhuman Force hurled it at the oncoming figure of the Water mage's "puppet." Everything happened so lightning-fast that the sorcerer didn't have time to react, and the projectile knocked his fighter off its feet. The roar and clang that followed the fall sounded like thunder. Considering the size and low quality of the mechanical soldier model, the consequences of such an attack promised to be quite serious.

The crew's puppeteer didn't stop at the first success and, boldly turning the platform, rushed towards the Fire mage's automaton. Too bad he had no more projectiles, so the "puppets" had to fight hand-to-hand. Moreover, the mage, clearly possessing more combat experience, attacked quite successfully this time too. The nose of the accelerating platform crashed head-on into the legs of the enemy automaton, making it lose balance. Only problem was, it fell forward instead of backward, and the other mage wasn't about to miss an opportunity like that. Raising all four limbs, the union's "puppet" grabbed the crew's defender. Shields sparked, destroying each other, mechanical fists started slugging like steam hammers, and in no time at all, the two machines were tangled up in a big mess. There was no doubt—they couldn't be untangled until the end of the fight.

For a moment, Malk even had a fleeting thought that their numerical advantage guaranteed them victory, but reality showed how clueless he was about military affairs and magical methods. The Water mage's automaton, previously sprawled on its back, suddenly sprang to life, its once-limp limbs clicking at the joints, shifting shape, and within a dozen seconds, a perfectly undamaged mechanical soldier stood tall before the stunned workers. But now, they no longer had an equal opponent for it.

Although... Malk gave the "puppet" a careful look and realized it wasn't so bad. He had a rough idea of how to fight it, and the situation wasn't as hopeless as it might have seemed. The main thing was to prevent the enemy from attacking their own puppeteer. After all, without an operator, the automaton couldn't fight. Take out the mage, and you'd take out his metal fighter. Then, the crew would be facing already two "puppets."

This could not be allowed. Malk was about to shout for everyone to protect the puppeteer while he handled the enemy machine, but he didn't get the chance. The opponent made his move, and it wasn't what Malk expected at all.

Firstly, with a thunderous clang, the automaton pushed off the ground and literally soared into the air. In an instant, it leaped over the head of the completely engrossed in controlling his own machine puppeteer, landing noisily a fathom before the frozen crew's fighters. And secondly, the grid-like visor that served as its face slid up, revealing a sprayer nozzle. A stream of cold vapor—or rather, an airborne suspension, gray-green instead of the usual white—under high pressure struck the crowd of workers. Everyone got hit—both Malk and the regular loaders. A single breath was enough to cause a buzzing in the head, make everything spin in the eyes, and finally, consciousness to fade altogether.

The potent sleeping potion mowed down the crew's fighters, leaving only three standing. Two of them were guys who had stayed a bit aside and avoided the alchemical mix—though seeing their buddies drop like flies was enough to scare them into bolting away. The last one was Malk. His body, overflowing with vitality, had a high resistance to any poisonous crap already, and when he, at the first signs of poisoning, habitually began to expel the nasty stuff from his body, the enemy completely lost the last chance to knock him out.

"Spawn of Yorrokh and a donkey!" Malk breathed out in shock, as soon as clarity returned to his mind. "That was close!"

He glanced around quickly and swore once again. In those few seconds following the underhanded attack, the balance on the field had shifted yet again. Now, it was basically just Malk and the puppeteer against the union's fighters, so the enemy had a significant advantage. Worse, that cursed Water mage's automaton had already turned toward the crew's mage still focused on controlling his "puppet," even raising its upper pair of arms for a strike. And something told Malk his colleague's Shield wouldn't withstand the double blow.

Well, that's what Malk was here for, to make sure that didn't happen, right?! It was time to take a more active role in the fight than just being a background character.

Malk, with a malicious smile, picked up a round stone, wrapped it with a cloud of Force—not sparing four ergs!—formed with Authority something like a compressed spring... and shot it at the "puppet's" leg. In Lamara Gorzhan's hands, despite her being an Apprentice, such tricks seemed impossible, but Malk didn't waste heaps of time developing Authority for nothing. Practicing Rain of Pain, along with the meticulous use of Authority to purge his body of "toxic" Life magic, had paid off. Malk was capable of things other Adepts and beginning Apprentices couldn't even dream of. Sure, a stone throw with a telekinetic spell would have used less energy than with Authority, but it wouldn't necessarily have been any stronger.

The ordinary rock shot from Malk's hand like a cannonball. Precise aim and close range did the rest—the projectile hit the automaton's knee joint dead on. And no Shield helped. The zero-circle spell barely slowed the rock at all, so it hit the target almost without losing energy. A sharp "Bam-mm!" rang out, fragments of the stone and bits of metal sprayed everywhere, and the automaton staggered.

"Not enough? Let's add more!" Malk smirked, picking up another stone.

And if he'd found limestone before, this time it was a chunk of granite. Its penetration power was way higher. Another manipulation of energy and Authority, a flick of his wrist, and the "puppet" with the busted leg toppled sideways.

The mechanical soldier was done for, but it was time to remember its owner. Malk had five ergs left in reserve, and this should have been quite enough to break through the mage's Shield with the next stone and at least wound him. The distance bothered him a bit, but who said he couldn't get closer?

Alas, in his reasoning, he somehow overlooked that in the ongoing fight, the enemy side had several more fighters. Five bruisers who hadn't fought yet were now charging at Malk. Judging by their rage-contorted mugs, their approach promised nothing good.

The tactics needed an urgent change. Instead of targeting one of the enemy mages, Malk aimed at the ungifted fighters, deciding to use the only combat spell he knew. And even though Spark was his worst mastered spell, he could cast it without any misfires or misses alredy, and that was what mattered. A perfect weapon against unarmored mortals. So, before the union's fighters reached him, Malk managed to cast two Sparks, knocking out two of them with precise headshots. The remaining three, though, would still be enough to make Malk sweat, but luck intervened. The sight of first the knocked-down automaton and then the unconscious comrades so impressed the brutes that instead of continuing the attack, they abruptly turned one hundred and eighty degrees and ran away. Away from Malk.

Too bad he didn't get a chance to enjoy it. The automaton, which seemed seriously damaged, suddenly came to life, propped itself on all four "hands," and scuttled toward Malk like a spider. And there was something in its determination that made it clear—no more messing around, it was out to kill Malk for real.

And, just his luck, only one erg was left in his reserve!

Feeling a chilling tingle spreading from his heart, Malk drew his trusty blade from the sheath hidden in his robe. Sure, he couldn't match the automaton's speed or hitting power. And he couldn't count on his decent yet ordinary blade to pierce the "puppet's" metal body. But that didn't mean he should give up and wait for death, right?! Of two frogs in a milk jug, the one that keeps kicking survives. And was he any worse than a frog?…

Yorrokh knows how this fight would've ended if a third force hadn't suddenly intervened. Malk and the "puppet" were just a few steps apart when a cannon of decent caliber boomed from behind, and the automaton, ready to pounce, was literally flung off into the depths of the woodshed by a direct hit. There was no doubt: had the unknown person wanted to destroy the "puppet," they could've easily done it. But their goal was precisely to remove the automaton from the battlefield, not to send it to the junkyard. And they succeeded. Moreover, the single shot was enough to stop the fight entirely.

Then everyone heard a voice, cold as ice:

"We did agree there would be no extra blood and corpses... So what have you done here?!"

Only those with the full might of state authority behind them spoke with such confidence. Those who were used to punishing and pardoning, relying not only on their own strength, but also on the might of the entire state apparatus. And Malk suddenly realized with a sinking feeling that choosing to fight for the crew might've been a mistake. Honor or not, cowardice or not, he didn't want to spend another night in a cell. If, of course, the observer who showed up for the final act of the fight would limit himself to only that punishment. Which, frankly, Malk didn't believe at all.