"Look at how smoothly they write!" The voice of Tolfan, who sat on a high stool by the kitchen window and read aloud from the "Voice of the Magnate and Merchant," was practically sparking with righteous indignation. "'In an investigation conducted promptly by the gendarmerie under the leadership of Captain Tyrhat...' Heh, Malk, your old buddy made a mark here too! Anyway, 'under the leadership of Captain Tyrhat, a dangerous terrorist cell of the monarchist party's militant wing was uncovered, responsible for the attempt on Magister Yarvok the Fierce and a series of other crimes against Boreas' citizens. Honor and praise to our law enforcers, but what's next? Maybe it's time for the Triumvirate to stop coddling murderers and consider toughening penalties for all empire restoration supporters?'"

"I'm not big on politics, but my experience with the captain suggests things could go smoothly in his cases only on paper," Malk chimed in, not straightening his back or stopping his brushwork.

While his friend eagerly shared the latest city news, Malk was busy cleaning up the aftermath of his magical experiments. First, he had spent an hour scraping off rot, and now he was treating the boards with wood varnish he had managed to buy before dark. Tolfan, meanwhile, entertained him with talk and reading... Which was already something—it at least kept Malk from getting bored.

"Forget the captain... Yorrokh take him... Look at how the authorities balance things. First, they crack down on the loyalists, and now they're going after the monarchists. Acting like they're above it all. Gotta hand it to them!" Tolfan began to muse.

"I don't recall anyone cracking down on loyalists. On the contrary, they do whatever they want, and no one gets punished except those who carry it out. And with the monarchists, it's even weirder... I heard the attackers on the Magister yelling something about the empire and death to the Triumvirate, but... it all seems way too forced. The pro-empire party never resorted to such acts before. They, on the contrary, always looked downright toothless compared to the loyalists. All proper and noble, and suddenly this senseless bloodthirsty madness!" Malk said thoughtfully.

"Maybe you're right. The loyalist leaders could very well have staged such a provocation. A few suicide attackers with costly but still pretty ordinary artifacts, a big media fuss, and... voila, their main ideological opponent is crushed. Now, all they need to do is hold back their own actions, ramp up their political wing's activity, and boom, the loyalists are on top!" Tolfan picked up his train of thought, smacking his lips in feigned admiration. "Smart move."

"Smart, yeah... But for the life of me, I can't wrap my head around why anyone would support the loyalists at all. All of humanity's history is a war against demons. First, for freedom from slavery, then against invading armies, and now, we're dealing with the aftermath of energy breaches from their realm, trying to prevent repeating past mistakes. And suddenly, there are people who want to make peace with demons. Make peace! Yeah, like a sheep with a butcher!" Malk said, not without emotion. He finally finished varnishing the floor and settled on a stool next to Tolfan, resting.

"Malk, your obsession with becoming a mage and lack of interest in politics amaze me!" the fatty exclaimed, but seeing his friend's expression, quickly raised his hands in defense. "Okay, okay, I get it! I won't!.. So, what were you saying? Interested in why people support the loyalists? It's simple. They have two groups of supporters. The first are those who believe they can negotiate with the Hell folks and make Yorrokh's Nights... let's say, calmer. Living in constant fear of being devoured has worn many out, and they're willing to take drastic measures to get rid of that burden."

"For example, paying for peace with the lives of slaves and criminals, like they do on some islands?" Malk suggested grimly.

Tolfan nodded.

"That's one way. Everyone thinks they'll avoid the fate of being a sacrifice and acts accordingly. Idiots!" Tolfan gave a mocking smirk but then instantly turned serious. "But it's not these cowardly fools leading the loyalist movement. The main players are those who want to scare the authorities with the scale of growing madness and then, against that backdrop, secure some noticeable concessions."

Tolfan fell silent, lost in thought. Malk, though he liked to say he wasn't interested in politics, already guessed where his friend was going. And he couldn't say he liked it.

"Not sure the goals of those demon-lovers' leaders should be called 'concessions'..." Malk said slowly.

"Oh, come on, Malk! You might as well preach like our boarding school's priest of Achont!" Tolfan grimaced. "Concessions, that's what they are. Allowing the study of demonic magic in Schools, lifting stupid bans on certain rituals in alchemy and medicine. Nothing supernatural, just basic stuff, but undeniably important!" The fatty unexpectedly got fired up, putting the newspaper aside and gesturing passionately. "Stuck in training, suffering from deviations, or picked the wrong Arcane Art? Buy the life of some brutal murderer, exchange it for a demon's help, and break through the ranks with it... Imagine how Boreas' power would grow if all those mages stuck in lower ranks for decades got rid of their shackles! Or take some talented scientist or engineer... Their importance to the state is undeniable, but how many years can Elemental magic add to an ordinary mortal's life? Fifty? A hundred? But demonic magic can extend it almost indefinitely! The question is just the price..."

"Add to that granting Gifts, passing on demonic Lineage, and many other wonderful things," Malk interrupted, feeling his anger slowly rising. He didn't consider himself a moral paragon, but he knew the difference between bad and downright rotten. Still, he didn't want to snap at his friend, so he chose his words carefully. "But do you realize where all this leads? Hell's rarely rushed into; most stroll in at quite a leisurely pace."

Malk's words instantly cooled the fatty's enthusiasm. Tolfan just shrugged and said more calmly:

"Caution is important, no doubt. But no one's saying to allow everything and leave it without strict control... Avalon got it, and they've achieved a lot. Now it's Boreas' turn! Progress can't be stopped, Malk!"

Malk sighed. Now Avalon was brought up, too. When did the main foe of first the old Empire, and then also Boreas and Arktavia, suddenly become, in his friend's eyes, a model to follow and almost an ally of all progressive people? Tolfan, nine boils on your butt, when did you change so much?! Or were you always like this, and Malk just didn't notice? Though probably not... More likely, these were the sentiments at the School of the Three Saints, and the fatty just absorbed them and now spread them with the zeal of a convert.

Fool! Extending life, breaking through ranks... The path of a human—whether mage or ungifted mortal—is to always go against fate. To overcome oneself, one's weaknesses, and the general imperfection of human nature. The meaning of life is to become more than you are. And to taint such a goal with the help of an enemy who not long ago treated humans as livestock... Moreover, not by seizing it in an honest fight like in the days of the Nine, but by begging or buying it... What could be more humiliating?!

No, being a loyalist was definitely not Malk's choice! Not wanting to continue the argument, he waved his hand and turned away to wipe his hands with a cloth. The conversation suddenly lost all interest for him. And he couldn't even figure out what upset him more—his friend's fascination with bad ideas or the guess about their popularity among students of one of Andalore's top Schools.

Tolfan also cooled to the topic of collaborating with demons. But his desire to talk didn't fade, and he switched to Malk:

"Alright, under Kehtot's cloak with those loyalists! Better tell, what are you gonna do about your job at the clinic? Raw Force poisoning is a devious thing, especially with Life. You sure you can handle the consequences?"

The incident with the sprout growing from the plank had forced Malk to share his troubles with Tolfan, and the fatty certainly wasn't going to let it slide.

"Maybe you should quit after all? To work directly with a Force source—be it Elemental, Life, or Death—you need either to have a pronounced talent for it or a corresponding Arcane Art. You have neither, yet you made it even worse by getting involved with a first-degree source, every other one of which is unstable and tainted with otherworldly radiation," the fatty continued his reasoning.

"Tolfan, yeah, I know I need a pure Pneuma source, but where can I find it?! Access at the Society costs money, and time's been booked for almost a month already. I checked yesterday: an Adept like me would be lucky to absorb Pneuma once a sennight, and even that's not certain. Plus, the money issue remains. It'd take a lot of luck to find a place where I can train and earn a bit at the same time." Malk frowned and started massaging his forehead. "No offense, fatty, but not everyone in this world gets to grow in comfortable conditions."

"Not everyone," Tolfan agreed smugly. "But croaking while trying to overreach isn't a great choice either."

Malk smirked crookedly.

"Actually, it's not that bad. I just need to hold out for less than a year to develop my reserve and energy absorption rate to the necessary standards, which already reduces the risk to reasonable levels. Add to that my training with 'Healer.' The better I master it, the better I'll understand Life energy, and the easier it'll be to expel it with Authority..." he started listing, counting on his fingers. "Authority, too, can't help but grow with such practice. If luck doesn't turn away, I'll definitely get it to the peak of the red level by year's end. Which will also affect the efficiency of my body cleansing..."

"Well, if you look at it that way, yeah... you're definitely not facing immediate death," Tolfan drawled, thinking hard about something, then suddenly snapped out of it and said energetically, "So, here are two tips. First: go to the clinic and squeeze as many decoctions as you can out of them. Considering how much they profit off you, a couple of extra potions definitely won't ruin them. And second... learn the Dispersion spell. At School, we were told it helps not only against external charms but also in cases of magical poisoning. And I think that's your case!"

To Malk, who hadn't expected anything useful from the conversation, both tips seemed unexpectedly sensible. What's more, Yorrokh take the decoctions, it was the idea of learning Dispersion that was really important. As for where he'd go with such a spell set after the courses, that could be dealt with later. For now, the priority was to make it to the peak of Adept and not die along the way...

Malk didn't delay implementing such good advice and got right to it that very day. First, he dropped by the clinic, where he had an unpleasant conversation with the manager. Initially, the Bachelor refused to listen to anything about additional pay—which was exactly the way he viewed handing out "extra" elixirs—but when Malk bluntly stated that he wouldn't ruin his health at an unstable source, the man softened instantly. Taking assurance from "such a promising Adept" to deliver at least three "Healers" a sennight, he increased the number of decoctions issued to four. One at the end of each sennight. Considering that Tolfan, experienced in haggling, suggested expecting only half as many, the result could be considered a win.

Malk did have a nagging thought, though, that the real reason for the Bachelor's flexibility lay in the outright extortionate pay rates, but there was nothing he could change. He had reached his limit as a negotiator.

After the clinic, it was the Society's turn. But here, Malk didn't have to demand or request anything—the Dispersion spell was on the list of magical constructs available for study. So, all he had to do was submit an application to the academic office to study it as his second free spell and wait a couple of days for the course organizers to find him a teacher and adjust the schedule.

The only thing Malk was a bit worried about was the potential complexity of the new spell. After all, the Runeglyph course was over, and as a result, his understanding of the magical language was limited to knowing fifty basic symbols. If the runes in Dispersion were unfamiliar, the study could drag on for a long time... Luckily for Malk, as it soon became clear, he knew all eight characters. To successfully form the spell in his Spirit's heart, he just had to arrange them in the right order and work out the internal connections. For an Adept with a developed Spirit and Authority at mid-red level, it was a piece of cake. So, two days later, Malk was showing his Dispersion to the mentor assigned by the Society.

It turned out to be none other than the same Mr. Hordol who had so impressed him once before. The priest-like Bachelor taught thoroughly this time as well, fully justifying the positive opinion Malk had formed of him.

"Not bad, not bad! It's safe to say you've got the structure down," Mr. Hordol concluded after thoughtfully studying the sequence of images hovering between Malk's palms. "Since that's the case, we can move on to practice." The Bachelor handed Malk a crooked, poorly whittled branch. "Take this stick, ignorantly called an Apprentice's scepter, and try to disperse the spell embedded in it."

"But can you break artifacts with Dispersion?" Malk asked, surprised.

"Real artifacts, no, but shoddy ones by incompetent fools who jammed a spell structure into a poorly prepped piece, sure can," Hordol said, stroking his beard. "Get started! You'll see for yourself..."

The idea of destroying, albeit weak, but still a combat spell as his first experiment with Dispersion didn't thrill Malk, but you don't argue with a teacher. He shrugged, placed the scepter in front of him, and pointed both palms at it. His lips recited the sequence of names, his Spirit responded by activating the corresponding images, and from the center of each palm, an invisible wind seemed to blow toward the magical contraption. A wind Malk didn't so much feel as know existed.

It took less than a minute to destroy the Fist inside the scepter. Malk's spell first literally "blew away" the energy charge from the combat magic, then broke the most vulnerable connections between the Runeglyph symbols, and finally dispersed everything else. The Force of Air, bursting in all directions from what was left of the scepter, became the visible confirmation that Malk's test was complete.

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"Great! How much did you spend?" Mr. Hordol perked up, rubbing his hands energetically.

"Two ergs," Malk replied, listening to his inner feelings with satisfaction.

The capacity of his reserve was now a bit over ten ergs, so using Dispersion daily was quite within his reach. If he did everything right, without mistakes, he wouldn't even have to make any changes to his training schedule. The main thing was for him to grasp everything correctly and for the magic to prove effective against the raw Life energy settled in his body.

"Very good," the Bachelor nodded. "If you don't slack off, you should reach a basic level of mastery with Dispersion by the end of the sennight." The mage's eyes gleamed slyly all of a sudden, and waving the magic-cleansed stick, he remarked, "If you find a suitable target for practice, of course..."

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Hordol, that's one thing I won't have any trouble with!" Malk grimaced but didn't bother explaining to the Bachelor, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

That day, Malk had hardly been able to wait for classes to end. As often happened, during the preparation stage for anything, he barely felt any worries, believing in success, and only when things hit the home stretch would he get caught up in pointless anxiety. That's what happened this time as well: he wasn't a bit worried when he was deciding to study Dispersion, but when it was almost time to test the path he'd chosen, he started getting as nervous as a girl before her wedding night.

Finally, the last class ended, and he rushed home. Malk didn't remember how he got there—whether he took an omnibus, hired a carriage, or ran. He became fully aware only when he was already in the backyard, sitting on a small garden bench behind a thick bush of wild roses. His previous experience with expelling raw Life energy had taught him the main thing: not to do it indoors, so this time, he picked as his "lab" the most secluded spot that could handle the consequences of his mistakes.

Forcing his anxious mood to the back of his mind and focusing on breathing exercises, Malk quickly brought himself to the relaxed and calm state needed for successful practice. Then he tried to perceive himself as a Spirit clothed in flesh, embraced this feeling, savored it, and once he got used to the new state, focused on the spell inscription imprinted in his subtle body and began to slowly channel energy into it.

Obeying his mental command, as if they weren't his own, his hands rose above his head, the air between his palms faintly trembling from the Dispersion lingering just a hair's breadth from activation... and then, with a swift, fluid motion, the plane of the magical construct pressed against his crown, penetrated his body, and slid down to his heels. It lasted only a few heartbeats and didn't bring any special sensations, except for a slight tickle and itch. For a moment, it even seemed like it was all in vain, and the spell had no effect. However, when a somewhat worried Malk scanned the traces of the spell with his spiritual gaze, he found no hint of the greenish haze of Life. It worked!

"I should grab a textbook on the basics of magical medicine from the Society's library later. I'll have to patch myself up a lot now, and since that's the case, I better do it by the book!" Malk muttered, slowly bringing himself back to normal and opening his eyes. Only to jump to his feet and yell in fright, "Yorrokh screw me! What the hell are you?!"

Along one of the bench's legs, a huge, palm-sized caterpillar was slowly crawling up with difficulty. More precisely, a giant likeness of one, made up of actual flesh, plant parts, some twitching bristles, and bits of various beetles' bodies.

"Shit!" Malk cursed again with feeling.

There was no need to ask where this monstrosity came from or who was to blame. He could only be glad that last time he hadn't triggered explosive mutations in some household cockroach. After all, getting rid of rot and a single sprout was a lot easier than hunting down a crazed mini-monster in a rented apartment.

Still, he had to deal with this freak too! Glancing around furtively, Malk quickly brought a piece of burlap from the house, wrapped the slowly writhing and foul-smelling creature in it, and dashed out the gate. Resisting the temptation to drop the bundle right on the cobblestones, he ran to the next street, dumped the giant caterpillar in the nearest garden, and hurried back.

At least this problem was for someone else to deal with. And Malk felt no guilt about it. The monster didn't pose a threat to life or health, and the mansion owners could handle a bit of worry. Heck, they might even find it funny—who knows what jokes Yorrokh's up to?

The thought of jokes unexpectedly sobered him up. Malk suddenly realized he was feeling a massive surge of excitement. It was like his body was bursting with energy, making him want to do crazy things and act foolishly. As if he wasn't a grown guy who'd seen a lot but a young punk who just broke free from his mom's control and was now running wild.

Damn it, blast it all! What was wrong with him?! Why did Malk feel the general fatigue of his Spirit from training, but at the same time, his body was overflowing with vigor?! Or maybe, having expelled the raw Life energy, he had let something more subtle slip through, something invisible yet highly effective as a stimulant?! Questions, questions, questions! Malk almost groaned in frustration, mentally promising to grab some medical books and study them cover to cover... But for now, he had to find a way to calm down the activity urge overwhelming him. And nothing came to mind except hard labor.

"How did my stepfather say he earned money for his School? Unloading train cars at the station? Well, there's a station in Andalore too..." Malk said aloud, trying to focus on the sound of his own voice. It didn't help much. "For a mage, there's little honor in it, and it won't help develop my Gift, but... damn it, what 'buts' can there be?!"

Cursing again, Malk turned and jogged toward the station. Running felt surprisingly easy. His breathing stayed steady, and his arms and legs moved in rhythm. It was as if he hadn't been wrecking his health with studies and Spirit training but had been working on his physique instead.

After a few more minutes, Malk realized that running was gradually clearing his thoughts too. The excess energy now had an outlet, and the activity urge no longer clouded his mind. And that meant only one thing: to fully get back to normal, he needed more physical exertion.

He reached Andalore's railway station in less than an hour. He hung around, horrified to feel the excess of energy building up in his body again, then had the sense to ask a random porter for directions and, thanks to his explanations, found the freight platform. A team of about twenty workers was already there—they were waiting for a grain train. A bit apart from the ungifted laborers stood idly a mage-puppeteer with an old steam automaton on a four-wheeled platform. The mechanical loader's body was covered with metal patches, and the pressure gauge on the boiler was clearly borrowed from another machine, yet its owner wasn't in a hurry to send it to the scrapyard. Then again, what else could you expect from a puppeteer forced to moonlight at the station? No one with a good life or bright prospects would come here. Malk hadn't shown up on the platform for laughs either!

"Need a job?" the lead loader called out to Malk, giving him a skeptical look. "Four obols an hour, payment after the work's done. Deal?"

Malk hurriedly nodded. To Yorrokh with the money, he needed the work itself. And the harder, the better. Apparently seeing that in his eyes, the foreman muttered a curse under his breath but didn't say anything else, and Malk was left alone. Save for the occasional glances from the mage, whose reason for interest was unclear—maybe he recognized Malk as an Adept, maybe he just hated the idea of sharing the pay for unloading the train, or maybe there was some other explanation. Whatever, it didn't matter. The main thing was that he only limited himself to glances.

Then the train arrived at the freight platform, and for five hours, Malk once again zoned out of life. Now, the world around him shrank to a series of simple actions: grab a sack from the guy in the car, throw it onto his back, walk to a cart, toss it in, and go back. Repeat over and over, as long as his legs held, his back managed, and his arms had strength.

Did he once think he had too much strength and energy? By the Nine, how wrong Malk was. He was as weak as a mouse! Any guy unloading the train seemed three times stronger and five times more enduring. And the automaton... don't even get started on it. The mechanical loader not only easily grabbed two or three sacks at once but also moved twice as fast. It did all this so skillfully that it sometimes seemed like a living, independent being, while its owner was just a shadow.

By the end of the unloading, Malk was so exhausted he barely reacted to the people around him. He wasn't so much doing the work as repeating the routine like a sleepwalker. And it nearly cost him... At one point, as he approached another cart, Malk stumbled and started to fall. Right under the wheels of the automaton heavily loaded with sacks. And even though a burst of adrenaline cleared his head at the last moment, it was too late to dodge. The mechanical loader couldn't stop in time either. It seemed like a tragedy was unavoidable, but... the automaton's owner saved the day. With a sharp wave of his hand, he sent out a Force impulse, literally shoving Malk and the sack out of the machine's path. And though the fall was quite painful, it was still better than getting crushed by the loader.

"Watch it, you dabbler!" the puppeteer hissed. It became clear he had noticed Malk's abilities and didn't feel any friendly sentiments about it.

The work continued for another hour after that incident—until the four cars were empty, and the locomotive took them away from the platform. That's when everyone got their due pay. Some got more, some less, but Malk received exactly twenty obols, the hardest-earned money of his life!

He also achieved his main goal. The hellish labor drained all the energy from his body, and now he could safely head home.

Bidding farewell to the workers who didn't seem tired at all, Malk left the station and headed straight for the carriage stand. The nighttime rates were shockingly steep—he'd have to give up half his station earnings to the driver—but he had no other choice. He simply didn't have the strength to walk, let alone run. If he ventured on a nighttime stroll, he might not make it, collapsing and falling into a dead sleep along the way. No way, life was definitely worth more than money!

Probably, on such a life-affirming note, he would have drifted into the realm of dreams if not for a thought that suddenly surfaced in his mind, constantly slipping away and leaving a sense of something missed. Something important that had happened to Malk recently and that he had forgotten due to fatigue.

"The puppeteer! Right, his Force impulse didn't have any Elemental magic. It was Pneuma, and of a negative kind at that!" Malk almost howled when he finally caught the elusive thought. "The puppeteer's spell reeked of Death. And its traces now are on me!"

Amidst the concerns about his health, the voice of "this Grandfather Boniface," which had appeared out of nowhere, had not so much been forgotten as pushed to the background. However, the understanding that he couldn't get rid of the otherworldly guest's malicious schemes in such a way still weighed on Malk. At the back of his mind, he was constantly expecting Boniface's voice to return. Day, night, at work, and during studies—he kept listening in to the void, dreading to hear the ghostly dwarf's voice again and at the same time fearing he wouldn't...

"Figured it out, did you?" A strange, creaky voice coming from the side made Malk flinch and turn sharply toward the sound.

To his right in the carriage sat that same dwarf from the train. Even uglier, cheekier, and meaner than Malk remembered from their last encounter. He sat there and grinned nastily right in his face.

"That once Death or demonic magic touches me, the protection falls off, and you can find me? Yeah, I figured it out. Wasn't that hard," Malk replied in a low voice, glancing sideways at the driver out of the corner of his eye.

Since no one had seen the dwarf last time, Malk didn't want to come off as someone who talks to invisible friends.

"Yeah, no hiding from this grandfather," the dwarf grinned, oddly structuring his words.

His shark-like smile radiated anything but goodwill.

"Then, maybe you'll tell me why you need me too?" As far as Malk remembered, this was his first actual conversation with the freak, and the coherence of their exchange was starting to scare him.

If the dwarf was just a hallucination, a mirage, such an extended conversation could be a sign of impending madness.

"Because your soul is mine!" the dwarf suddenly growled, his face losing the last traces of humanity.

It expanded upward and outward, filling Malk's entire field of vision, then quickly turned into a wide-open giant maw lined with hundreds of needle-like teeth, and... whatever the dwarf had planned next, Malk didn't know and didn't want to. From the moment the freak appeared in the carriage, despite his fears and worries, he had been gathering the tiniest scraps of Authority throughout his body, binding it with his will hardened by hardships, and fueling it with resilience and a will to live. So when Boniface finally attacked, his opponent didn't act like a scared kid but struck back like a warrior. The completely immaterial attack, lacking even a drop of real energy, made the dwarf's body first swell into an ugly bubble and then silently burst into stinky smoke.

"Saints, how did I manage to get myself into this mess?!" was all Malk could groan after his victory, feeling a gnawing emptiness in his soul and... a sharp urge to take a bath. The dwarf's strange transformations, his "death," and how he was perceived through spiritual sight—all pointed to his demonic nature. You'd have to be the ultimate loyalist not to feel filthy after such close contact.

And even the biggest fool wouldn't call Malk a loyalist.