Chapter 4

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I went up to my room, struggling to overcome the pull of the couch, which beckoned and promised wonderful dreams. I sat down in my chair and turned on the computer. I checked the schedules of the dean's office and my department, wrote a couple of emails and messages, and then, after dumping my training logs onto a flash drive and drinking hot coffee, I went outside.

I automatically headed toward the Sea Market, but I wasn't halfway down the block when my tired legs ached uncomfortably today. Soberly assessing my strength, I turned toward the bus stop. Yes, I'd have to make a few transfers, but I'd already walked more than ten kilometers today, so that was enough. Although this time of day was even safer than before dawn, since by nine in the morning the most resilient of the thugs fell asleep, I still could not get out of the habit of constantly turning my head.

It took me more than two hours to get to the university because without thinking I took the land route and naturally caught all the morning traffic jams possible. Then checked in at the dean's office, signed a couple of documents, and visited the university infirmary. The physiotherapist on duty checked my hand, looked at the scans, asked a lot of questions, filled out my medical records, and, wishing me a full recovery, asked me to visit him in a month.

I really wanted to go inside the cybersports club, but now all the students were in class, so it was closed. I still had about half an hour left before my appointment, which is what I came here for. I spent it, having run into the canteen and had breakfast after all. I had just had time to finish my juice when I received a message from Sensei, whom I had expected to meet. I was surprised that he suggested that we meet not in the club office, but in the Glory Gazebo, which was located in the small alley of the university park.

"Good day," as the rules of good manners dictate, I, as the youngest, greeted first.

"Hello, hello," Shin Yang simply waved back, signaling the informal format of the upcoming conversation. "Did you bring the logs?"

"Please," I give him the flash drive.

"Give me your hand." It's already a ritual when we meet after my injury. Coach is studying to be a physical therapist, and I'm also a training aid for him. "Medical records?"

It's a kind of personal training for him. He examines me, makes his conclusions, and then checks them against the opinion of a professional doctor, which is written in the chart. Since this does not bother me, and I am used to it, I calmly hand him the card.

Satisfied with his tongue (apparently, his opinion coincided with the examination of the university doctor) and returning the document to me, Sensei offered: "I'll look at the logs, of course, but first let's just talk."

"In two weeks there's been no change," I said, even though I was preparing to say exactly that but it wasn't easy. "Zero progress..."

"So our hopes didn't come true... Too bad." I could hear the sadness in his tone. Although I understand that Sensei isn't so much upset with me as he is concerned about the team, I'm still a little warmer. "If there's no change in two weeks, then... I'm afraid..."

"Don't pity me."

"You already realized it yourself." Sensei tossed the flash drive in his palm. "Reaction time?"

"One hundred and fifty milliseconds."

"How much used to be?"

"One hundred and twenty-seven." I realized everything because with reaction times above one hundred and forty there is nothing to do in cybersport. Not only in BAA, but even in RTS, not to mention fighting games. There the lower limit is one hundred and twenty-five if you want to achieve really high results.

"Everything else can be corrected, but not that," he obviously reached out to pat my shoulder, but quickly changed his mind. "What about studying?" If I drop out of the team, my only chance of staying at the university is to study harder.

"It's hard... Very..." The demands that TUNG makes on its students are above my cap.

"You couldn't even learn everything in the remaining months?"

"I'll learn it." That's true, but not all of it, and I go on: "But what's the point if it takes me many months to learn what's the norm here. How am I going to do it without the "sports factor" discount?"

"What I've always liked about you is your sane mind." I don't think that's a compliment, but I nod politely, just in case. "We miss you, the team needs you."

Suddenly, out of the blue, the coach abruptly changed the subject. His words are flattering, but it's strange, I've never been at the top. If you look at it objectively, I'm in the middle of the pack. I am between the fifth and sixth place in terms of efficiency. It's not easy to replace me, but it's obviously not an impossible task.

"Surprised? You shouldn't be..." he sits down on the silver-plated railing. "Do you know how hard it is to get a "sabbatical" for an injury to a student on an athletic scholarship? No, you don't. So I'll give you a hint..." Taking an electronic cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket, he took a puff and let out a snow-white cloud of vapor. "It's a pain in the ass... A real ass hemorrhoid." Yang was never one to mince words, especially at half-time, so I've heard him say worse. "You don't pull the sport, you don't bring value to your athletic section, kick your ass is the unofficial stance of management." He took another puff of his cigarette "For every signature under your academic card everybody has me... Everyone from the department secretary to..." he releases the smoke vertically upwards, cutting off the phrase.

"Do you think I would have done that for any of the team? I'd only known you for a month! So, no, I wouldn't. Just for the two of you..." Sensei habitually tried to shake off the ash, but since he was holding an electronic rather than a regular cigarette, he certainly failed, which confused him a little. "These two are Yol and you. You're probably thinking now, that everything is clear with Yol: he's the captain, he's excellent, and he's a player on the verge of genius. But what's that got to do with you?" He nodded at me and continued: "Let me explain... One, you're a good sharpshooter, a really good sharpshooter. And if you get physical, tone up, and get in shape, you'll reach the World League level. In other words - after training hard and giving it your all. But that's not the main thing... You have something that nobody else on the team has. And that's what I and all of us are missing right now. That's the second thing... When things don't go according to plan when things fall apart when it seems like the game is already lost..." There's a puff again. "You sometimes suggest something so crazy and out of the box, and the game is turned upside down."

"No, you're not a leader. You have leadership potential, of course, but you are as far from the sky as Yol is from this aspect. But you are a master of non-standard solutions, a crisis manager, as they say in the economics department. Not all of your solutions and proposals succeed, but you are capable of generating them, of proposing them. And, which is very rare, you take responsibility for them. When I said that we needed you, it was not empty words."

His monologue was so unexpected for me. I don't even know what to say to him in response. I'm dumbfounded, to say the least. I always thought Yang's basic principle was "you only need a stick for training, and carrots are for wimps". I never heard him praise anyone at all. The best word to hear him say was: "norm." And not "excellent" or "well done". He had it simple: if we won, it meant we played OK; if we lost... If there were no cameras nearby, we were bombarded with a stream of the bosun's foul language. If there was filming, the coach would limit himself to one of his favorite phrases: "pro-gamers in pants."

"This option," and when he realized that I would not comment on his words, he shoved the flash drive under my nose, "does not suit me at all. In fact... What do you think you'll do if the restorative procedures don't work out? I'm not talking about your intentions to transfer, to throw yourself off a bridge, and quit your studies and go to work... Have you thought about what you could do to get back on the team? That's what I'm asking you right now."

"I thought." Thought a million times, of course. "The operation. I looked into it. If you can get through to a really good specialist, restoration is possible. But the price of such a restoration starts at a hundred and fifty thousand. I can't afford it. Virtuoso neurosurgeons are expensive, and the chance of complete success is still fifty-fifty..."

"That's all?"

"If we discard fairy tales, charlatans and stay in the field of what is really achievable, excluding the option of unreasonable risk, then this is the only chance."

"Fifty-fifty..." He repeated the words after me, repeated them angrily, as if spitting them out, and Sensei's normally calm face twisted into a grimace of extreme irritation. "Do you want to play? Not to play in the sandbox and chase noobs, but to play! Play against the best... And what's more importantly, play with the best? You want to win."

"Yes... I want..." I meet his angry gaze firmly and try to copy Daas' intonation for my simple answer.

"Give me your phone."

His demand is so unexpected that I freeze for a few seconds. But then I take out my cell phone and put it in his palm. He turns it off, and then, taking out his two phones, he turns them off as well.

"Sit next to me," he slams his palm on the railing. When I sit down, the coach continues, "Have you guessed what I'm going to talk about?"

I nod, there's no need for words, especially since he took my phone away from me. Or rather, he didn't need the phone. But the fact that it was possible to record a conversation on the phone... he ruled out that possibility. The only thing that followed from this was the continuation of the conversation.

"Exactly... That's twisting you!" I don't like this subject, and I don't have time to track my facial expressions. "Yes, I'm talking about prayers."

"I prayed." More than once, more than ten times...

"Don't play 'misunderstanding' with me," Yang put his hand on my shoulder. "This conversation itself brings me up on a criminal charge, so at least show me some respect for doing this for you."

"Pilgrimage..."

There is nothing forbidden about the subject of pilgrimage itself; you can discuss it as much as you like. But there are two exceptions: doctors are not allowed to even hint to patients about such a possibility, and teachers are not allowed to advise pilgrimage for students. Both of these cases go under the heading of "inducement to suicide" in legal practice. The coach is now very much at risk: if someone overhears our conversation, the least he could be threatened with is dismissal with a "black stamp," or he could be given a real sentence - it depends on the judge.

"Exactly. That's right." As he takes a drag on his cigarette, I see his fingers twitch slightly. "For the last twenty years, we've all been taught that pilgrimage is harmful and dangerous. That everything can be achieved without the help of the Three Faced. If it were possible to forbid people to visit the Temples, I think that the governments of all countries wouldn't hesitate to issue such laws." He needs to talk. I do not interfere, although I do not understand why I am here. "It's good that any official or politician who dares to do such a thing will break his neck or have a heart attack before he signs it... But what cannot be banned outright can be made "unfashionable". To raise the hysteria, to fudge the statistics, to frighten people a little... Oh no, not directly, just with hints, not by any means by infringing on the "freedom of Choice". Here's a straight answer, who do you think goes on pilgrimages?"

"Those who didn't succeed in life," I curled my first finger. "Desperate and lonely, with nothing to lose." The second. "Those who intend to solve their problems in the easiest way." Third. "People with really very big troubles that can't be solved without Divine Grace," I curl my fourth finger and am ready to continue the list, but Sensei interrupts me:

"That's enough, it's pretty clear. In one word - losers. According to you, losers go on pilgrimage. Don't argue..." he sees me about to argue, and immediately interrupts me. "Think about it, all your examples all come down to this. This campaign started a long time ago, and everyone in power immediately realized the benefit of this kind of discrediting of the pilgrimage. What is their gain? Of course in preserving the status quo! And the funny thing is..." The puff. "You won't find a single politician, major official, manager, or businessman who has never walked under the Arch of Ares. There are no such people at all. Without grace, probably none of them would have reached the position he holds."

"All the professional athletes," he pats himself on the knee, "who have crossed the qualifying level of their canton, all of them go under the Arch, all of them... Absolutely. And I went, and I drove my team. Otherwise, you wouldn't even dream of a World League Cup. I'm twenty-four years old with a reaction time of a hundred and fifteen milliseconds. Do you think you can do that with training? Even now, without practicing or playing for almost a year and a half, I can beat any one of you one-on-one. It's trivial on reaction and coordination to take out an arena even against Yol. Pilgrimage gives you a lot, it can not only heal you but also..."

"Those one hundred and ten percent," I easily guessed. "Sensei, I hear you. Of course, I thought... I've thought about it many times. And if I were alone, I would have been standing under the Arch a long time ago. But I have sisters... We already lost my mother very early on, I can't take another blow like that to my family... You've said a lot about the perks of pilgrimage, but you haven't mentioned the fact that you might not come back from it. Not come back at all. To die..."

"You have to pay for everything." The coach's voice is quiet and calm. "Or did you think the Face of Ares gave you something for nothing?"

"I really love the Arena, probably my dream is cybersports. But not only is there almost a twenty percent chance of not coming back, but there are also other risks! If I knew which Face would respond, then..." Yeah, well, you can't help but dream. So someone let you know your Face beforehand.

"Bullshit. What twenty percent? Are you quoting the official statistics?" I nodding. "Nonsense, it's tied to the average percentage of the daily amount. At the same new moon, by the grace of the Face of Aphrodite, the chance of disappearing is close to zero, but at the full moon, when the Face of Hades is in full force... Then, yes, on the same full moon, two-thirds of those who take the risk don't return. But if you can find statistics not in percentages but in numbers..." Sensei blows steam in my face.

"No one will just show it to you. You'll see it, and you'll learn a lot of new things. On a full moon, say, tens of thousands of times fewer people walk under the Arch than on a new moon. That is, the authorities don't seem to lie, and their data correspond to the real state of affairs but in fact, they fool the people. What was it like before? The president doesn't keep his election promises, or the king has lost his marbles... Ten thousand people are outraged by this. They walk under the Arch, they say a prayer, and... And that president or king falls off a plane or a horse and breaks his neck. I'm exaggerating, of course. But the prayers lifted up in the pilgrimage are listened to, and this is an immutable fact of our universe. And those who are already in power like to depend on the opinion of the crowd? That's right, they don't..." The coach holds out my smartphone. "I've said all I want to say."

"Thank you for your concern."

And let his advice be more like "play Slaven's roulette" and win money on it. It was given in good faith, so my gratitude is sincere.

"One piece of advice. Last one for today. Don't go alone. Solitary pilgrimages are very random. Especially since you don't know your Face, and you don't know it, do you? "Since I didn't go under the Arch, of course, I couldn't know it. "Imagine this... You go on your first pilgrimage. And..." he pauses. "It is unclear why, but let us assume, by the true grace of the Three Faced, the Face of the Invincible shines upon you, which, of course, is a one in six billion chance but let us assume. And you even get all the Attributes at once, which doesn't happen in principle. But here's what's called "happening." And now you are overwhelmed with a feeling of omnipotence because you can be wounded by neither sword nor arrow, and your armor, forged by Hephaestus himself, can stop even a tank shell. And your only vulnerability, your heel, you're not an idiot to expose..." I could see that he was immersed in his story, for he spoke passionately, even forgetting to inhale.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Power overflows you, you are like the Old Gods, and there is nothing that can stop you! But the pilgrimage is still an ordeal bestowed upon us by the Face of Ares, and it is never so simple. Your feat in this Arch is a struggle with Antaeus, an unarmed struggle. Can you guess the ending? You're right, for in this ordeal the Godlike Achilles will not be helped by his impenetrable skin, mighty armor, and magnificent sword. For even a godlike man cannot survive with a broken neck... - He chuckles, bitterly. - Or maybe you could make it simpler. You go into the Arch, and there's a Gorgon. And here's the trouble, you've got any face other than the Face of Perseus. That's it, the end... The game is over, not the game, of course, but life."

"That's what I'm saying, don't go alone. Find a group. Preferably, there should be five pilgrims, it is the favorite number of the Face of Aphrodite, and symbolism plays an important role in this case. And if you want to kill yourself, go alone, the number of Ares. Or nine, if you wish to attract the Dark One's gaze." I didn't like such a prospect.

When he had finished, Sensei turned on his smartphone, glanced at his watch, and jumped off the railing.

"Look," he circled the columns of the arbor. "All the people depicted here passed the Arch, you can be sure of it." The columns are engraved with the names and bas-reliefs of the most famous graduates of the Technological University of New Geneve, which is why the gazebo is so named. "And you, the younger generation, are taught that you should achieve everything on your own, without relying on the charity of the Three Faced." He's not much older than I am, but I don't see any lies in his words; he truly believes what he's talking about. "That's being hammered in on purpose, to reduce the number of competitors for a good seat."

"Even him?" I interrupt the coach's speech, finding it inconsistent. My palm points to the bas-relief of Dean Port

A legendary figure, he enrolled in university at twelve and graduated with honors at fourteen. His list of accomplishments is impressive. Co-founder of the world's most popular search engine, Find. Head of the project, which later evolved into the largest online bidding platform in the world. Founder of Avalon Games. It was this organization that made the same BAA and many other super-popular games. And he made it all before he was twenty-four. Except that for ten years no one knows where he is, what's wrong with him, even if he's still alive.

After following my gesture, Sensei smiles.

"All rules have exceptions," he shrugs and jumps off onto the gravel path. "See you next month, Utis, and remember, we need you."

"See you later..." I bowed after him automatically.

To say that I was surprised by this conversation is a great understatement...

The drive back home was a long and difficult one. Of course, the thought of a pilgrimage had crossed my mind more than a hundred times. However, there is nothing unusual about that; any person, when faced with a problem that cannot be solved at once, will think first of all about the possibility of receiving divine support. But there is a huge chasm between thinking about it and deciding, and not everyone risks jumping over it. As I, for example, did not.

And it's not about the fear of "no return". Of course, this emotion is present, and the Arch really scares me, but it is still not my main motive for refusing. Or rather, one of the three motives, to be honest with myself.

Pilgrimage - according to the accounts of history teachers, people once put a slightly different meaning into this word. So Alexander the Great, for example, visited the Oracle of Delphi before his campaign. But for nearly two thousand years now, the word has meant only one thing: to pass the Arch of Ares.

What awaits the one who dares? Beyond the Arch? The answer is simple: there awaits the pilgrim the opportunity to accomplish a Deed. Certainly, not every one of us is physically capable to accomplish the deed but the Face of Ares does not demand the impossible - ever. That's why anyone who passes the Arch receives the Face of the Hero and his Attribute. There can be several Attributes, unlike the countenance, depending on the Hero whose Face shines on the pilgrim. So the main Attributes of the Face of Hercules are the mace, the impenetrable skin of the Nemean lion, and the bow of Hephaestus. Each Face has its Attributes, but on your first pilgrimage, you cannot get more than one, the main for your Hero Attribute. The others are manifested only as a result of the deeper merging of a pilgrim with a Face that blessed him.

In this merger lies my main fear. Even though the pilgrim does not become a copy of the Hero, but only receives his abilities and Attributes... Nevertheless... The more the pilgrim merges with the Face, the more he will resemble his Hero in character and even fate. Of course, there is a positive aspect, besides the fact that your prayer will be heard, not necessarily fulfilled, but definitely heard by the Threefaced, your physical body will strive to correspond to the Face. That's what Sensei was telling me, about the one hundred and ten percent.

Experienced pilgrims are even able to go beyond what is physically possible, although this is rather an exception to the rule. But there is a big problem: if you read the ancient legends about the heroes of Greece, Rome, Macedonia, or the Age of Monsters, they were all personalities with a very hard character and a fate that no one would want to try on themselves. Of course, nothing irreparable happens in one trip beyond the Arch, unless, of course, you manage to return. The Face will remain there, beyond the threshold, and one visit is too little for one to experience such a deep Merger for the Face to have an effect on him in the real world. Except that the very moment of the Merger, judging from what is told about it, is something that cannot be described in words; no drug gives the man such pleasure as that moment.

I believe these stories, and here's why... An ordinary housewife, tormented by life and children, with a strong character, once beautiful, but now more tired, exhausted. She goes to pray for her children's health, and the Face of Cleopatra shines upon her. The one who brought armies to their knees with one glance, the one for whose sake the best of men were willing to part with their lives. And the pilgrim feels her in the moment of Mergence in its entirety. It takes an iron will to resist the temptation to experience such a state once again.

That's my main fear - to become addicted.

I know not from books that gamblers, which, alas, I belong to, are in a group of psychological risk, as in the case of drug addiction and pilgrimage addiction. My uncle was a great man with one flaw - he liked to spend his time in the casino. After losing once more, he passed the Arch, and then he repeat it again and again, and so on until he disappeared behind it forever. And this is not an isolated example among my relatives and acquaintances. If I get such moral pleasure from winning a computer game, I'm afraid to imagine with what force I will be "swept away" when I acquire a Face. Do I have enough willpower not to repeat my uncle's fate? The honest answer is, I don't know. And without the certainty that I will resist, would I go on a pilgrimage? I'm scared. Yes, I'm terrified, because I'm more afraid of losing my mind than I am of death.

This "I afraid" is the second problem. Or maybe it's the main one, depending on which way you look at it. I am a coward... I am afraid of thugs, or rather not of them, but of what can happen as a result of an encounter with them. If I can, I prefer to walk away, rather than get into a brawl. I only fight when I have no other choice, though, to tell you the truth, "fighting" is a big word, but more honestly, I resist. I understand that such fears are caused by the fact that I am physically weak, and I cannot blame anyone but myself for this weakness. As it is not caused by illness, but solely by laziness. Nevertheless, this is only an excuse.

At school, I had a friend who was a head shorter and even weighed less. He was weaker and anyway he would fight back. He could bite, scratch, kick. I could see he was scared, always, in any fight scared, but he didn't back down where I always ran away. What kind of Face could shine on a coward like me? Certainly not Hercules, not Achilles, not Ajax, not... The list of "not" is almost endless.

There are many heroes. Very many. The legends have been able to tell us the names and deeds of at most a hundred of them. But that doesn't mean there were that many in all of the Ancient and Dark Ages. There were more, much, much more. And their main number, as always happens in real life, is not kings or generals, but ordinary soldiers, legionnaires, phalangists, horsemen, slingers, archers, and other numerous rank-and-file plowmen of war. We humans do not remember their names or their accomplishments, but there is one who will never forget - the Face of Ares.

Of course, there are many more people in modern times than there have been Heroes in history, and often one Face is given to many. It does not matter that someone before you has already been blessed with the Face whose essence you are most suited to, except for physical similarity, which is ignored in this rule; it will be given to you as well. Only the Faces of the Demigods, which can easily be counted on the fingers, are singular in nature, and there cannot be two people in the world who have been blessed with their Faces...

I was pondering this difficult subject, so I got off at the bus stop. But instead of taking another route, I walked to my house in thoughtfulness. This road was familiar to me, as I had taken it this morning to the seaside market. My feet were leading me through narrow streets and numerous courtyards, and my head was filled with unhappy thoughts.

For the first time in a long time, I forgot about precautions as I moved through this not-so-well-to-do area of the city. By the laws of meanness, that kind of carelessness should have paid off, and it did. If there's one thing in the universe that doesn't change, it's that I literally attract trouble.

I was plucked out of a deep thought world in a rather unceremonious way, snapping the fingers right in front of my nose. I woke up as if from a heavy slumber, and for a couple of seconds, I didn't even realize where I was and how I had managed to get into such a ridiculous mess.

Right in front of me stood a not-so-tidy-looking guy in his twenties, my height, but noticeably broader in the shoulders. His hair was disheveled, a toothpick in his mouth, and he was dressed simply, in a pair of shabby jeans, his fingers snapping right in front of me.

The problem was compounded by the fact that this clearly unfriendly-looking man was not alone. Though, to be honest, based on the difference in weight classes and physical fitness, one of them could easily handle three of my kind at the same time.

The realization of the situation quickly cleared my mind. All those thoughts of the Face and the Arch were swept out of my messy head like a good landlady's broom sweeping up garbage. I stumbled upon the "Denim Cool", that's what they called themselves. Their territory bordered the neighborhood I now lived in from the north. Seven guys dressed head to toe in denim, even the tops of their sneakers were denim - the signature style of this youth gang.

"Hey, kid," the ringleader almost didn't part his lips, but he grumbled rather than said it. "How was your walk? The beauties of OUR neighborhood are really impressive..." he gestured with a broad gesture at the shabby facades of the houses, at the alley that was under repair, with the paving stones half removed. "Impressive... I can see how impressed you are." The boys around me, quite unfriendly-looking, nodded in agreement, and their faces were a little twisted with barely contained cackling. "And you have to pay for a good experience in such beautiful countryside."

I'm silent... It is not only useless to say something but any word from me is more likely to make the situation worse than to do anything to help me. Although it's almost impossible to make it worse. They won't kill me, but they'll clean my pockets and give me a good kicking, and no need to have the Face of Cassandra to foresee that. I had almost no money on me, my clothes were clearly in better shape, and if it weren't for my smartphone - one of the top models, though not the most famous manufacturer, a gift from my father for university - it could be said that there was nothing to be taken from me.

"Hey, guys, check it out..." The ringleader pulled a toothpick out of the corner of his lip and poked it in my direction. "What a rude kid to visit us." The others nodded in agreement, echoing his words. "Didn't your mother and father teach you to be polite to those you visit?"

Such attacks are pretty standard. He expects me to make excuses and say something wrong. Anything I say, he'll twist as if I've insulted him or his neighborhood. While he looks at the others and smirks, I look for options to get out of here with minimal loss, both financially and health-wise. And I see no way out, I was taken in a pretty tight ring, from which there is no easy way out. Especially the weakest of the gang, even though almost a head shorter than me, physically much stronger, and clearly engaged in wrestling. If they had stopped me only eight meters further, near a pile of paving stones left by the road workers, then I could have tried to incapacitate one of them with a stone throw and tried to escape. Except I was standing there, not eight meters down the street, and I had exactly zero chance.

"Kid, did you swallow your tongue out of fear?" The ringleader's palm reached out to my face, with the express purpose of testing this hunch.

I tried to take a step back but immediately received a palpable poke with two hands in the back, which forced me to take a step forward in order not to fall. This involuntary movement brings me right on top of the leader, which he takes advantage of, pushing me back with an open palm to my shoulder. Back in Kitezh, the gang liked to have fun in the same way: stand in a circle, with their victim in the center, and kick, punch, and shove the loser as a kind of ball. I had never been in such trouble before; my constant attention, my avoidance of dangerous areas, and my quick feet were all that had kept me out of such situations before.

And the really frustrating thing was that, if I hadn't forgotten how to properly judge people's moods, this gang wasn't after me because they were looking for fun or someone to rob. They just couldn't let an outsider wander into their territory without a mandatory beating. Even now, despite all the laughter and chuckles, there was a lot of boredom on their faces. The leader would simply not be understood if he let me pass just like that. It's a shame to get in such a mess on nothing! I thought about it, and I decided to do some self digging, in our neighborhood, such an idiot!

If it hadn't been for the phone, I would have been pushed around like this for a few minutes, searched, then punched, and if I didn't snap back, they would have let me go. But I was not going to give up my father's gift, and however scared I was, I would, like my schoolmate, snaffle with whatever nature had given me, right down to my teeth. And this is where I will feel really bad. In this case, the best outcome would be if I could then crawl back to my apartment, but they could also send me to the emergency room, such an outcome is also quite realistic. But even knowing all of these things, I just can't give up the phone without resistance.

I have no false hopes, I will lose the smartphone anyway. But even though it would be more logical to give it back voluntarily and avoid a beating, which would be reasonable, based on the fact that loss is inevitable in any case, I just can't do it. I am already on the verge of becoming an outright loser in my own eyes. This move would destroy the last vestiges of my self-respect.

Having played with the wobbly toy the ringleader grabs me by the chest and demands angrily:

"You, mute, turn out your pockets! Quickly! Come on, come on, you traveling scarab!"

It was at that moment, just as I was getting ready to kick him in the knee and yet try to break this vicious circle of these too-unlikable personalities when I heard it: "Man, seven on one? Denim, are you out of your mind?!"

A second ago the laughing thugs were instantly silent and drew their folding batons from behind their belts. They were synchronized and coordinated, their movements long ago practiced to automatism, and I could feel their considerable experience in the use of this device at once. The leader also let go of me and turned around, but not completely, so that he could see who had called and not let me out of his sight at the same time.

Near the pallet I'd already spotted, with blocks of paving stones stacked up and ready for paving, stood one of the Goons. A member of the biker gang that tacitly controlled my neighborhood. He was a short guy, dressed in tight canvas pants, a leather jacket with a gang emblem, a green bandana tied over his head, and the usual cossack boots. I have not seen him before, however, I have not seen many people, but I know the paraphernalia of local near-criminalism well. Thanks to the Internet and ordinary guys like myself, who lived here and had compiled a fairly complete dossier on all the groups and posted it on the district forum.

"What do you want, Meck?" The Denim boss grinned toward the biker, putting the toothpick back in his mouth where he'd just gotten it.

"Blais, this guy is from my turf."

"And what?"

"Do I need to clear your memory? Or do you want to tear up the Treaty? Would you, Blaise?" Though the Goon was alone, and there were seven in front of him, he was somehow too confident for a simple bluff. "Can't hear the answer?"

The recently so confident leader of the Denim was visibly confused by this question.

"And hide your toys." He's obviously talking about clubs. "Do you have a short memory? Or should we visit you tonight with our toys?"

"Mack, why are you being such a loudmouth? Ah?! Where are you going? Come on, we'll meet you!" But there is no confidence in the words of the one who was called Blaise, there is a fear that can hardly be suppressed.

And I understand him. According to the network info, the same "Denim Cool" is a pretty ordinary youth gang: beatings, petty robberies, and not a single dead body on their hands in three years. The Goons, on the other hand, are a completely different level, primarily in terms of brutality. They're complete thugs who can break into a police station and, after beating the cops, get their own back. They're supposed to be the "roof" of my neighborhood, but they're actually based out of a very large area of abandoned port warehouses. Rumor has it that the Syndicate tried to hit them. For bikers burning down an underground warehouse of their merchandise. Only the Goons are here, and the Syndicate is nowhere to be seen, so you wonder how that raid ended.

"No, is no. I heard you," the biker pointedly turned around, but no sooner had he taken a step than Blais called out to him.

"Meck. what do you want? Huh?"

"Keep the Treaty. That clause says that any kid from your land in our neighborhood will be dealt with one-on-one, not a pack. And the same goes for ours in your clearing. And I remind you, didn't we reiterate that it's hands only, no gadgets? Am I right? No, I have a good memory, no mistake. So, Blaise, I'm asking... What the Avgies is going on here?"

"Meck. No questions. I didn't know he was yours, never seen him before. Look at him, he looks like an uptown civic," he turns to me. "Where do you live?"

"In the Jap. " That's what the locals called the house where I rent the apartment.

"The treaty's still in place, Meck." He obviously had something on his mind, and I didn't like the smile that flashed on the ringleader's face. "All right, boys," he said to his own. "Spread out to the sides. So, Meck, one on one and no gadgets?

"Exactly," the biker nods calmly, and I clearly understand that I am about to be beaten, badly beaten...

I closed both my arms against the first blow, but Blais's fist blew a block as if he hadn't noticed. A sensitive, albeit brief, hit to the cheekbone made my head rumble.

Why is it always like this? Before the fight, I'm scared as a rabbit, but as soon as I feel the first blow, that fear evaporates, as if it never happened. No, I know how psychologists explain it, but it is still subconsciously incomprehensible to me. It's like with dentists, until they start drilling, it's scary as hell, but as soon as the drill touches the tooth, you realize that it's not so terrible. Except that even my mind, cleansed of the fog of fear, is of little help to me now, the difference in physical indicators is too great.

I missed the second straight left lunge above my head, only it was a trick, the real blow came with the foot in my knee. That hurt! You could break a leg like that. This was no longer a fight, I clearly understood that a simple beating would not end here, they would break me into a hospital bed, or even into a wheelchair. On principle, they will. It's no longer about the rules of a fight, even if it's a fight in the yard, but a fight anyway.

I jumped back, breaking the distance and throwing my fist forward for luck. Luck was backing up on me, catching my fist easily with his palm, and Blais twisted his arm so hard it bent me over. A kick under my knee, and I was on the ground, but not tumbling away, my hand still in his grip, as secure as a bear trap. With me on the ground, the leader of the jeans presses his knee on my back, pushing my arm far back, so far that it looks like it's going to jump out of joint. With me bound like this, he leans over and whispers in my ear:

"Scarab... I'm going to rip your legs off." In horror, I realize he's not exaggerating.

I realize the reality of the danger, but I can't do anything, he's not just stronger, he's many times stronger. My body arched sharply in a spasm of pain. The back of my head slammed into something malleable, the grip loosened, and I heard a scream of rage through the pain.

"Aaah!!!" The ringleader jumps to his feet. "My nose! Bastard!!!"

Somehow, in a completely ridiculous way, my shock of pain caused the overly enthusiastic Blaise to seem to break his nose on the back of my head. Why else would he be yelling like that?

As sometimes happens in my best games at the "Arena", I see everything very clearly. No, it's not what you read about in books: "time slows down," it doesn't happen to me, it's just that I suddenly start to see things with unreal clarity. The blood flowing profusely from under the palm of Blaise's nose, unbelievably purple... The baton, which opened with a distinctive snap, clutched in his fist... And the look, full of rage and lust...

The lust to kill.

As Sensei said just an hour and a half ago, here comes the "game over" for me

Only, apparently, ThreeFaced has other plans for me. Blaise had barely swung when a rock slammed into his fist, dislodging the baton and causing the ringleader, "Denim Cool," to cry out in pain.

"That's it!" The biker's yell sounded like a carcagne. "One more infraction and your whole gang will be totally screwed! I said..."

"What do you want?!" The leader yells at him, spitting at him.

"Clean hands! Clean hands, Blaise! No clubs, no knives, no bludgeons, no sticks, no shit," Meck walks leisurely, but with his right hand behind his back, so you can't tell if it's empty or not, as he walks toward us. "Men, either you calm your main man down, or I'll calm him down." He turns to the rest of the gang, and somehow it's clear... He will.

His words, despite their clarity, affect Blaise like a red rag on a bull, and with a deafening growl, he leans on his baton. But he doesn't have time to carry out his intention, because he is pounced upon by the whole crowd of his underlings.

I barely have time to get to my feet when Meck grabs me by the scruff of the neck and drags me toward our neighborhood.

"Let's go!" he whispers to me. "Let's get out of here. Quickly... Where... Don't run... Don't look back..."

We walked to the alley that separated the two neighborhoods for only half a minute, but it seemed like an eternity. I could hear the scolding, the shouting, and the sound of blows behind me, and I wanted to turn around. But the biker probably knew better than I did what to do in such a situation, so I looked straight ahead.

"How's the shoulder?" Just as we rounded the corner and disappeared from Denim's view, the biker let me go.

When Blais twisted my arm, it felt like he had at least pulled it out of the joint. But now, after making a few moves, I realize that I'm just scared, not even sprained, and nothing hurts.

"It's normal."

"It's good."

I didn't have time to see anything. I stared at the guy in the leather jacket, and I still couldn't see. Just then he was standing there, outwardly relaxed, asking about my well-being, and literally, at the same moment, his fist hit me in the jaw...

I woke up to a light slap on the cheeks. I opened my eyes to see Meck squatting beside me.

"Boy. You screw like this me again... Me or any of ours, we'll bury you ourselves. Is that it?" I nod. "Go on, then."

And he leaves.

Just walks away.

And I notice that both of his hands are empty and he doesn't have a gun... Was he bluffing?! What if they hadn't believed him? Neither of us would have gotten out of there alive. After what he said? That's right, they wouldn't have let us go...

I think I got that punch from him for a reason. Deservedly so.

* * *