Chapter 10

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As smart people say, if two people are fighting, the third one gets popcorn and enjoys the spectacle. I don't think I'm the smartest, but I'm still not so blithely stupid as to try to get my head into a freshly overturned vat of sewage. An attack on the Emperor's blood would be enough of an excuse to turn the whole Capital upside down a few times and then do it again just to be sure. And if my incognito identity is compromised in the process, it's not even certain I'll be able to leave the city.

So I sat under the table, watching the carnage unfold and nodding respectfully in response to the unknown assassins. They clearly knew their way around a square attack, so much so even I was uncomfortable looking into the mess. Maybe I could have hit just as hard. I would have been guaranteed to hit harder, but still, but still...

The blades of fallen leaves played the first fiddle, and that fiddle completely cleared the area of anyone who didn't have a really powerful defense against the deadly rain. Each petal, even individually, was an armor-piercing attack, but together they somehow summed up, merging into a portable enclosed field, something remotely reminiscent of my own bastion. And it was really painful.

I could repel such a powerful pitch, but I certainly wouldn't, trying to evade the attack. Even though the leaf vortex was a very flexible thing, closing the entire space in one fell swoop, they were too close to the physical world to catch up to me at the depths of the Shadow Realm. With that, a field of unknown nature had to help, cutting off, or at least impermissibly complicating, all spatial manipulation in the immediate area. Even a step through such interference would do some damage to me, even if I healed it faster than my blood would spill - it's the advantage of the Shadow Form.

Except that, for me, it's a move to evade attacks through the deeper layers of an aggressive realm that is considered, if not a normal action, then an acceptable combat tactic. For bodyguards of the august blood, eternal blood, this move would be something analogous to "your ward won't get killed if you kill him first". And dragging the entire entourage somewhere out of reality wouldn't work quickly, even if you took away the risk of tearing their bodies apart by spatial interference.

Instead of trying to flee, the bodyguards used a blind defense tactic, waiting for the moment when the heat of the attack subsides and the most important civilians can be led away from here. It would not be possible to block off the space for long or to quickly kill them all by walking over their corpses. Even though no one obviously expected this attack, for which someone will definitely have to answer with his head. But the bodyguards of the members of the Imperial Family are a priori prepared for battle. In general, they all reasonably believed since the very first blow had not killed their target, they had a good chance of getting out of the mess alive.

To be fair, I support their opinion. The first attack was powerful, cool, and really impressive, but it was very pointless. Personally, if I wanted to kill someone in that crowd, I would have preferred a point-by-point, maximum concentrated attack rather than a wide fan of weak single attacks, even if mutually reinforcing. Instantly stood in the way of yellow leaves and dark red barrier, clearly powered by an artifact, as quickly began to be supplemented by personal shields of mage guards, becoming an impregnable fortress. If the leaves had struck from one direction, they could have squeezed through the defense simply due to the amount, mass, and reserve of invested power, but the spells either did not have time to reconfigure or simply did not wish to do so. Logic and common sense dictated that the attack failed unless it was originally intended solely to intimidate.

It's a shame no one bothered to tell the killers of this fact.

I was saved by my intuition which worked well even when clairvoyance was disabled in some unknown way, pricking me in the back of the head not even with needles but with a bloody knight's spear. The Aegis sheltered me with a reflexive rush rather than intentional use. And a second later, it was clear why I was right to listen to my instincts.

Those gathered beneath the barrier, a perfect sphere fifty meters in diameter, were clearly about to strike back at such an unusual magical structure when the dry, shriveled leaves crumbled into dust. All together and at once, and that was before they tried to attack. And then, I witnessed the high science of the Dark Magical Middle Ages. This dust turned out to be highly toxic, magically charged, and attention - flammable. A volumetric explosion mixing magical and physical components is no joke at all. Considering the number of dead leaves used in the attack (at least within sight, the park went bald at once), their mass, and the volume of the resulting dust cloud, it blew so bad that if I had been in the epicenter, and even under the Aegis, it would have been bad. If not from the attack itself, then from the kickback of the Aegis for sure.

The cafe, the table, the bodies of the occasional victims, and the upper layers of earth were swept away like an angry wolf blowing on a straw house. The blast wave crushed my temporarily invulnerable body into the ground, and I thanked my ingenuity for covering not only me but also the dessert I hadn't eaten enough with Aegis. There would be no way to order a second one, even if I agreed to pay extra. I doubt the same chefs survived. Also, there is a suspicion that the number of whole windows in the entire Eternal has decreased dramatically.

Meanwhile, the survivors of the blast, whose barrier had collapsed but held most of the damage and whose personal enchantments deflected the rest, had a whole new set of problems. The explosion had simply vaporized - the magic was at work here for sure - the upper layers of the earth, exposing what was hidden beneath the ground. Needless to say, the bodyguards and the guards themselves did not like what they saw.

The black, slimy, poisonous spiked roots covered the area in a living and constantly moving carpet, a dirty, disgusting, and fucking dangerous carpet. I was, to put it mildly, perplexed, bordering on incomprehensible. I'd never encountered a Druid in combat before, except for a couple of dead men in the Stone, but I knew their arsenal and tactics pretty well. There was the advice of Hestia, who had fought all kinds of battles and wandered through other people's dreams, where I could gain if not skills, then pure knowledge and life experience.

Well, this was unlike anything I knew of in the arsenal of fans of Greenpeace and environmental protection. It wasn't even the power and scale of the enchantments that turned a huge chunk of the park into a death trap. A high level and rank of sorcerer would easily add power, volume, and sophistication, so it's all right here. It's just for me, and all my sources of information, Druids, Florists, Growth Masters, and Forest Masters are Life, purest and most distilled, unstoppable and ubiquitous, invincible in their evolutionary perfection.

It cannot be said that there was no life here, for it was present... but what a life it was! This living, life-taking, and ceaselessly dying madness was the embodiment of a very different side of this facet of magical art. Life was entwined with its eternal rival and closest sister, Death. It was nothing like the cold and detached power that necromancers like Cassie Let's Be Friends called for and conquered.

The reverse side of life, of living nature as such: death, which gives birth to new life. Which will have to die only to give birth again to that which will die a little later. The incessant decay of fallen forest giants covered with moss and fungus, the sprouting of beautiful flowers on the bones and bodies of forest animals, and the dance of predator and prey, which always has a natural outcome. Death fed Life, made it stronger, and life, in return, gave to death with that blazing and impassioned passion that is available only to the living who long to live and procreate.

The two opposing forces fed their antipodes, extracting mass for growth and energy for the attack in a continuous stream. The sensor was simply drowning in the power released by this madness, and the power, once released into the world, was immediately used to create new units to replace those that had fallen. Even through all the interference to my fucking eye, I could see the majestic and beautiful forest as if I were alive, aware of what lay behind its façade. No one likes this side. No one wants to notice it, but it doesn't go anywhere. Nature is cruel, as her laws are cruel. For her, death will only be part of the endless cycle of life - the withering away of the unnecessary, the death of the weak, the oblivion of the unfit, to be replaced by another, better life, which will be obliged to give way to those who will be better than herself.

Whoever had summoned this something here, whoever had raised it secretly from the seers and sensors, exactly beneath the walk of its victims, but it was strong, capable, and quite definitely nuttier than ever. But he didn't miss a beat. It was not for nothing that I said that all this had not grown in one day - all the plants in the area were obviously treated in advance because I'm afraid to imagine what costs to the reserve would be required to implement such a fucked up thing in one decisive stroke. And that's what's so powerful about natural magic-the ability to invest not so much power but to let one's spells feed on the universe by themselves, to be filled with power without the creator's direct involvement.

As opposed to the attackers (or attacker), the Imperials had no time to prepare and were not at all prepared for such a brazen surprise attack, which came down on their heads in a hail of bricks. But they had an advantage in the number of spells used and the small area to defend.

It didn't help very much.

The poisonous roots attacked like one organism, preventing them from gathering into a new formation, but they were still just roots. The charms are dangerous but fairly straightforward. The first seconds after the detonation allowed for a bloody harvest, but as soon as the victims recovered, things didn't go so smoothly.

There were only three individuals whose magic allowed them not only to fight back and stay alive but also to cover others and attack quite adequately. The one who stood out the most was a slightly hunched old man in a dark purple robe and an elaborately tailored suit underneath. The old man was on fire in an unspectacular way, pouring flames all over the place. He wield one of the simplest and easiest branches of magic to master, yet still so damn powerful that he could withstand almost any type of opponent.

Normally, flame attacks are even too strong, making the notion of friendly fire a whole new color for flamethrowers. Now that was disproved before my eyes, as the forty-fourth level Fire Sculptor wasn't just hit with flames, but literally making flame flow around allies, attacking strictly the targets they were supposed to be attacking. Control comparable, if not surpassing my own, and this for the energy of that realm that just happens to be famous for precisely uncontrollable power that does not discriminate between enemies or allies! Streams of fire, streams of white-hot flame, could easily burn a man just by flying near him, but the sizzling heat refused to touch anything but the spawn of an unknown druid or druids.

The second bastion of resistance turned out to be a huge knight in armor that looked completely impossible to wear. And I'm sure before the attack, no one in the crowd wore such outstanding "clothes". Had he jumped to the rescue with a teleporter? Or took the protection out of a spatial pocket? The answer is not as important as his actions. Where the other guardians could barely manage to defend themselves, and even then, gradually decreasing in number, this guy made full-fledged attacks.

The Juggernaut of the forty-fourth was also a Defender, literally taking away any attacks that were meant for someone else. Something reminiscent of my Theft, but working at the expense of an artifact and personal, non-planar skills. Not only did the armor make him look like a space marine from the 40k, but it also managed to accumulate the damage he was taking. When they piled up enough, he returned the damage, leaving only dust, slivers, and clouds of harmless poison from the deadly flora in a certain radius. The mass of that dust, by the way, was insufficient for another massive explosion, and the small explosions that did happen came back, so they were quickly discontinued. Or, more likely, they waited for more dust to accumulate.

The third guard, who literally hugged her ward, hiding him under an individual protective dome, was the Summoned One. Or rather, Chained, unknown to my eyes class. Subconsciously I expected to see in this victim of other people's desires and goals typical slave girls, what they make Slavemancers and other bad people. You know, empty and stupid appearance, weak expression, or vice versa - lust and obedience, and it was just spilling out of all the crevices. All I saw was the tenacious and attentive gaze of a mage ready for battle, focused and dangerous in the same way that a mountain slump would be dangerous.

I wasn't kidding about the landslide. Dressed in an elegant green dress, Chained was a Geomancer, the strongest I'd ever met. Her will bound the root-ripped earth together, turning it into a monolith, breaking, crushing, and dusting the angry and dying plants. What's more, somehow, it literally petrified them, turning them into another level of protection since these worm-like golems didn't lose their mobility, but they changed sides dramatically. I was a little too scared to see what was going on in my head.

For a few seconds, it really seemed that the problem was solved. A trio of defenders methodically cut the creature of life and death to shreds without meeting any really serious resistance. And the still-not-dead entourage, combined with the guards running to the rescue, who were close enough to come to the rescue even with the teleporters not working, did their part.

Alas, the goal of the whole construct was to buy time, not to kill everyone, because seconds later, a second wave of magic began, with the same unnatural direction, combining such unconnected forces. Something new began to grow directly from the still-moving but now rapidly decaying roots. The construct recycled itself into extremely useful fertilizer, allowing a new weapon to grow on its remains.

Mosses and fungi spewed tons of poison into the air just as they died and let the first stalks rise on their remains. The stalks became bushes and then trees, trees initially decrepit, dying, terribly warped, and covered with the sores that devoured them. The trees grew with leaves that had already shriveled and dried up, that had fallen and turned into an active defense, knocking down (trying to knock down) any oncoming spells.

And they attacking.

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They attacked with instantly rotting flowers that shot poisonous needles. They hit with projectiles of cones, disgusting fruits, and fetuses that shot streams of woody debris out of hollows, acting like autonomous spells that looked for gaps in the barriers. And, of course, decomposing into fertilizer the corpses of those who had already died. And what grew on the bodies of high-level suites was far more dangerous than "simple" constructs.

But that was not the purpose of the attack, no. The most terrible danger, the true purpose of this feast of natural selection, was the gradually entering force of a closed field that methodically stratified amulet and artifact defenses. Such shields are powerful, can be created instantly, and require little maintenance, but unlike personal magic, they cannot be adjusted on the fly. And if a particular closed field is used against a perfectly known attack, there's not much chance.

It was the first time I'd ever seen someone who had the blood of one of the most powerful dynasties in the world. He looked ordinary, even though he was richly dressed and thoroughly aristocratic. Losius was a better-looking bastard, a smug bastard. This Heir of Eternity of level thirty-three was more like a gray mouse from the aristocratic world. There was nothing about him that could be considered unusual.

The fallen barrier was spotted, and everyone knew exactly who was going to be hit next. The Summoned immediately forgot about the attack and almost instantly covered them both in a thick cocoon of earth. And the cocoon wasn't earth for long, becoming stone, almost black from its density and the magic put into it. That thing was much stronger than gun steel, I'll tell you! But, as anyone will tell you, "almost" is never enough. At least a hundred needles, flying at about bullet speed, and a couple dozen "rotten arrows," along the lines of all the "flaming arrows," managed to take off in their deadly flight.

It was then I realized that the local emperors are called Eternal for a reason. It was either a class skill or a consequence of the gift of the perk, but for one brief moment, the moment was no longer short. The will of a guy who didn't even look at the attack - and the blows were coming from all directions - simply stopped them.

It reminded me of a reversed Moment of Eternity, only much more skillful and expansive. My perk gave me the ability to stretch out a second, temporarily increasing my speed and becoming so damn fast. And it wasn't just the increased stats. It was something else, something I saw before me now, albeit in a different form. The Flow of Time had changed.

The needles, based on the chaff and rot of the spell, darted forward the already familiar leaves and just froze. Without any perturbation in the energy plane, they froze! I mean, sensors in such a mess were not a very reliable source of information, but I still did not notice anything at all! A moment passed, summoned sheltered his master inside a stone egg, hardness incredible, and already harmless attacks only left on that Koschey Egg a pair of instantly tightened cracks.

Koschey - A character of Russian folklore. According to fairy tales, he hid his death at the end of a needle. He hid the needle in an egg. He hid the egg in the duck. He hid the duck in the hare. He hid the hare in the chest. And the chest hid on a huge oak tree far, far away.

Koschey Egg - An idiom denoting a vulnerable point.

Whatever was used to interfere with teleportation, it worked selectively - only on those who were tried to be banned from jumping. How did I understand this truth? Well, there are my high-caliber analytical talents, sharp mind, sharpened intuition, phenomenal observation, and even my admirable modesty... In all seriousness, one of the assassins proved my version with a practical method, falling out of some blink right in the middle of the remnants of the imperial formation. I had a feeling this teleport was also made by an artifact, but I dare not vouch for it.

The figure of the eighth-level Gardener possessed such a cool disguise that she even ignored my heroic Gaze. It makes sense since there was a full-fledged Chained in the delegation, which would have been enough to accidentally dab a glance at a suspicious individual to make the ambush fail before it even began. Let the class and level of the killer be hidden, but outwardly you could confuse him with a gardener only if one very much to drink, smoke, and use pills on the top.

His clothes were the equivalent of a camouflage suit: moss hanging down on all sides, dead leaves, and dried twigs that had become anthropomorphic. If it hadn't been for the sphere and the Steady Gaze, I might have missed the barely discernible figure in the changing landscape. If it weren't for the nagging pain of the sense of danger, I would have simply mistaken this figure for one of the dozens of lookalikes that looked exactly the same but were really made up of moss, leaves, and wood.

Summoned, hiding in a shell of almost absolute protection, she could not catch the real enemy, and the others simply did not have time to react. Every move this man made was absolutely correct, taking away random attacks and glances. The clairvoyance blocking, I suppose, didn't apply to the attacker either, as well as the countering of teleportation. The movements were light, fast, and slightly, slightly excessive - an obvious sign that someone had been drugged with potions before the fight. And how barely this excessiveness slips through indicates a habit of such amplification. There is also the option of not too strong potions, but I sincerely doubt that such a thing is done by limiting oneself to half measures. And there's no way a pure caster can have that kind of speed without amplification. And the fact that it was this figure who created the attacking construct, I have no doubts.

Each step left behind a seed crumbling on the ground, immediately sprouting into sharp tentacles with some kind of coniferous coating. The conifers were a good shot, adding to the chaos of the surrounding reality. The two Brethers of the entourage, covered by the barrier keeper, were simply swept away without delay. And they were approaching the thirtieth level!

With a wave of his hand, a handful of seeds turned into bullets that ripped into the barrier and sucked the magic into themselves, destabilizing the enchantments and rapidly increasing in size. Reaching the size of an average cone, they immediately exploded, finally shattering the weakened barrier. A sharp approach, a sweep of a long, crooked, and sharp as a dagger or a tree root, and the brether who tried to strike from the blink were cut open like a fish. And the assassin struck before he had time to move.

The second man managed to block the stingy sweep of the strange weapon while simultaneously burning the roots that had almost reached him with his one-time amulet, but he, too, made a mistake. He clearly expected the blow to be strong, as terrifying as the previous one. Instead, the assassin barely touches his blade with his own, causing the brether to reflexively raise his weapon upward. The dagger in his other hand tries to deflect the attack and buy time, but the killer manages to lightly scratch his victim with its wooden claws. Poison and instant death of the second melee fighter.

Equally carelessly bypassing the falling body, the strange druid tossed forward a particularly wicked seed that passed through the hastily placed barrier and immediately began to sprout in the body of the convulsing in agony mage. He couldn't shout because the seed was too quick to get to his throat, and he had no time, either, because the killer had been spotted and burned along with the corpses of his victims. The old Sculptor burned off a third of the reserve, no less, but even space itself was burned in that place, not to mention matter or magical shields.

I, who was watching the scene, caught the strangeness, but I realized it even slower than the old man did. After all, it wasn't me the trick was aimed at, but my gut didn't warn me. The mossy twins were not only distractions but also beacons for the teleport-replacement. Bodyguards do something similar, and the same cheaters, with their shuffling of cards in a deck without shuffling, have the same roots in their skills. But how quickly and cleanly worked, even with clairvoyance!

The killer could sense in advance, for his foresight was not dimmed, but he waited until the last moment. The moment when the old man had to open up, to loosen his concentration on defense, if he wanted to strike truly powerfully. The grandfather figured it out very quickly, unnaturally quickly, covering himself with a fiery flower. And every petal of that flower, closing in an incredibly beautiful motion, was combustion incarnate. This protection might not have lasted long. A couple of seconds, but in those seconds, not even a god would have pushed through that protection. A sort of equivalent of my Aegis, but far less reliable and not instantaneous.

It was the moments that ruined him. It might have seemed to some that the thin wooden spike, almost black, simply pierced the flower, but I knew it did not. The thing was very powerful, albeit disposable and close to legendary, and still would not have been able to penetrate such defenses. Flower didn't close instantly, no matter how perfect control the Sculptor possessed. Perfect timing, a golden shot in every sense: the needle slipped beneath the defense at a moment when the rest of the defense had weakened beyond repair.

Also, such all-burning flames tore down the old man's defenses of the enormous knight that he could have tried to take the wound for himself and transferred it to something else. At that moment, the mighty mage was especially vulnerable. It was that moment that decided his fate. The flower burst into a particularly bright blaze, scattering scalding sparks, and the mage fell to the ground, turning into a puddle of slime and mold as he fell.

Life devours life.

Barely a second and a half had passed since this person had entered the battlefield, but the damage had come out as if it were no more significant than the entire previous rampage. And neither side was going to stop.

The stone spikes, exploding like nail bombs, sent by the summoned were dangerous, but that was about all. Unable to observe the battle properly, the Chained One focused entirely on protecting her ward, not even trying to reveal herself. Clever, for it was for his life that they had come here, but at the same time, such a move gave too much freedom to the attacker.

Lacking the support of the all-consuming flames, the Defender was no longer able to cope with the druid's nimble, leaping between his ever-renewing doppelgangers. And every move he made left more and more seeds, and not all of them sprouted with needlepoint, dangerous only to the leftovers of retinue. Gradually, the vegetation was twisted into some strange construction of the fruit of an extramarital Ivy and barbed wire bond. Withered and dying, like all of the killer's creations, the bushes slowly and unobtrusively weaved into another closed field, weakening, restraining, interrupting techniques, and the Defender flinched.

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A little more than twenty seconds. Though even to me, it seemed like minutes, if not hours. The powerful blow simply tore the man inside his armor. He didn't have time to recoup the damage he was taking too quickly, and the tricky magical stuff temporarily knocked out his armor's defenses. Also a homebrew, no doubt about it. The general nature of the first volumetric explosion was clear, but physical damage played a major role there. Here it was almost pure magic. Or rather, its absence - a combination of dust, rotten leaves, and moss simply siphoned off all the magic from the air, eating it up like a drunkard drinks a shot... Or like a dozen bottles of the highest-grade negator, and the shockwave from the relatively weak explosion finished the job, killing the knight.

And there were only two of them left

.

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The retinue was almost smothered, and those who weren't were rapidly retreating out of the circle of death. Running guards, though considered among the guards elite, but the level reached a maximum of twenty with a rare splash of twenty-fifth. There was no way they could interfere with that, even if there were more of them, and they came in squads at once.

There was one last hurdle to the goal.

I couldn't see how an assassin could push through a Summoned shell. Even I would have a lot of problems with it. You can't do much with direct magical attacks, and you can't just throw it away. This magic... It was like she was clinging to the ground, clinging to reality itself. Even if I were to sink her deeper into Shadow, she would be drawn back to the real world. And druids, even the weird ones, suck at the cumulative magic that breaks through all shields. That's where you'd have to ask the late old man.

Give a time to a killer, and he, like any druid, will create something slow, gradual, but guaranteed deadly. It's exactly the same game of creating specialized closed fields! But it'll take too much effort and too many precious seconds because teleportation protection isn't eternal, and they're probably already trying to break through it. I can feel it with my ass, my gut shrinking from the roar of energy somewhere above, beneath the clouds. The strange shroud of destabilization is being torn and shredded with all its might, and with each passing second, more and more participants joined in the torment.

If the druid hoped to accomplish his mission, he urgently needed a way to open the shell and get to the personalities inside, or all that was left was to flee and make it fast. The assassin did not disappoint, so much so that I almost choked on another cherry in despite of the Aegis. Note: Eating sweets under the Aegis is a good way to combat planar influence. In the emptiness this skill creates in you, any feelings become fuel to throw into the furnace instead of yourself. Usually, I just crush the growing impulses with my will, especially since the basic Aegis hasn't been pushing me too hard for a long time, but even that little bit helps.

So why did I almost choke?

The Druid, without a second's hesitation or even a glance in the direction of the fallen Defender, stopped just outside the shell, surrounded himself with a whirlwind of foliage, and turned all the earth underfoot and in the immediate radius into solid roots, moss, mold, and rot, temporarily depriving the geomancer of the ability to attack from below. She suspected something, by the way, and began... to strengthen her defenses. She had learned her lesson from the Sculptor's death and so she would not reveal herself except to make her attacks more frequent. Though they could devastate a medium-sized fortress, they were far too crude to bring down such an opponent.

The attacker got down on one knee and put something on the ground, or rather, on the mulch that replaced it. I couldn't make out anything in detail because of the interference and the flickering leaves, but I didn't have to guess. A flash of energy, no weaker than the tactical charms, and roots as thick as a man's torso instantly surged from the ground around the motionless figure. And they didn't just embrace the druid; no, the force of nature spread out, sprouting the same roots deeper and deeper, covering an area even larger than the original circle of roots.

And the trunk of a giant tree, so thick that you could fit a small cafeteria in the trunk, like the one where I had recently rested. It was at least eight meters in diameter, and the height kept growing and growing. And not just grew, but also attacked - a lot of titanic roots, the largest of which were as thick as a car or the sense of humor of an average 4chaner, rushed vicious tentacles to the even more solidified stone egg. I can bet my daggers that the summoner and her client inside swore and wished, with glee, that they could turn back the clock. They'd rather try to break through a barrier of dying plants surrounding the shell than get a beating like that.

A vast, giant oak, five stories tall, and the crown of a medium-sized courtyard next to that five-story building rose from the sprout in seconds. It had just been born, but the druid's power had warped it. The trunk and branches were covered in cracks and hollows, the leaves had the same autumnal hue, and the acorns were black from the power that had filled them. And it was movable, too - I choked to death because it reminded me of a slightly smaller version of the legend we'd killed in the wilderness.

Even the name was similar, except that while we were confronted by the Ancient Tree of the fifty-sixth level, this thing was signed The Dying Tree and had no level, most likely a temporary construct that had gained a semblance of self-consciousness. It could sprout fully, the clairvoyance whispered, managing for a moment to break the blockade, becoming a still but permanent guardian, a mighty protector, and a living fortress. The assassin imbued it with power as benign as it was pernicious, effectively creating a full-fledged legendary beast from the sprout, but the price was high. Like everything this power touched, the newborn monster was doomed to die, only to be born again as something else.

The fruit that is already sprouting comes down from its branches, but the main power of the dying body is aimed at preventing the men trapped in the shell from retreating. They very wrongly did not flee, thinking they could easily hold out, not wanting to show their backs and hoping to exhaust the enemy so they could be taken alive. Or not dead enough to prevent necromancers and seers from interrogating the remains.

Chained One was showing class, making me delighted to send another berry into my mouth, but she was still not alone, and she needed to cover her ward. And her reserve was not bottomless. Drawing energy from the realm wouldn't work forever unless you wanted to die a particularly bad death. I could have tried, but I was a statistical error among those who had tried and died.

But she fought back! The roots turned to stone and the stone to dust, the dust becoming thin and deadly blades, needles, and arrows that struck the tree pole by the hundreds. By enhancing the spawn's attacking abilities, the creator of the quasi-intelligent construct weakened its innate armor. It was still delightfully strong, but the blows sliced through the decrepit bark and rotten wood, making it ooze black sap. Stone battering rams came from all sides, and the dust clouds collided with the chorus of foliage, mutually destroying each other.

The druid drew power from the bodies of his creations, gradually killing all but the giant oak that was receiving all of the power. But he, on the other hand, was in no hurry to run out of power. The clouds of stone shrapnel grew less and less heavy, the clouds of dust became less and less heavy, and the clumps and spears flew slower and slower. Attempts to drown, if not the construct, then their shelter in quicksand was ceaselessly interrupted, not letting go, not allowing to move away, to dive deep into the earth's depths, where no efforts to reach the mighty geomancer would be impossible.

In response, the rain of sharp leaves rained down, leaving barely visible notches in the stone, but there were too many notches. In response, acorns were sprayed with acrid sap and flammable mixtures, or rather, acorns that were not used to grow new sprouts and decompose them for energy. Streams of debris flowed from the crevices, and the hollow trees beat full-fledged analogs of battle magic, not giving a second's respite, crushing, crushing, crushing any attempts to get off the hook. The Tree also moved, dragging itself with its roots closer to the sphere that was trying to roll away, clutching at it and threatening to literally get on top of it. After that, the rest of the couple would be dead.

The enemy almost made it in time.

But, as with the Sculptor, "almost" never counts as an argument. My ears perked up with a heartbreaking screech, and the space next to the beating just tore up and stapled together with rusty staples. It felt like my meat had been torn and stapled in the same way - a wild, twisting headache and unbearable chorus chanting, merging into an indistinguishable and maddening recitative.

A divine miracle.

God, whose name I will find out and adequately repay for this unconventional attitude toward random passersby, was limited to a single Miracle, performed through the prayer of an entire plethora of high-level clerics at once. But a single intervention was enough because people were standing here for a reason, too. God created a puncture that was relatively stable and accurate enough to connect the place of prayer and the battlefield, and people were able to bridge the channel, even if it was not stable at all.

The channel barely functioned, but it did its job - two dozen high-level (no one below thirty-five) guardsmen came to the ruling bloodline's aid. I was expecting another Chained One or even a Hero from the locals, but apparently, they were too strong and "heavy" for such a wimpy portal... Or just didn't have time to squeeze through. However, the channel was again pulsing with power, gradually readying itself for the second batch of fighters if the first was insufficient.

And they might not be enough. The Tree, and the druid dwelling in its depths, fight back fiercely and methodically. The attacks tear at the crown, almost emptying it, knocking out huge wounds on the tree pole, severing and incinerating the plant flesh. The roots strike with impossible precision, and the spells always weaken the defenses exactly where they are needed. Here sprouts moss, getting to the bones and brains of the Swordsman and Sorcerer, who have fallen forward a bit. Followed by several needles piercing the neck of the fidgety Blade Master, and the allies don't have time to heal the wounds that are bending before their eyes, forced to retreat under a gust of stale leaves oozing toxins. In the next instant, roots striking from three sides ripped apart a group of as many as four mages, collectively preparing something massive

It didn't last long: the work of a battle-seer is easily discernible to the seasoned eye of battle-trained Guardsmen. Many of them could count themselves as such, and the fact that the strange field interfered with their clairvoyance or similar skills did not prevent them from stirring reality even more. Yes, they will not see anything as before, but the enemy, who is now killing them at the expense of this superiority, will also be blind. And the fight will be on an equal footing.

And it goes, even if not as smoothly as the guardsmen would have liked. Either the druid could see even through such powerful interference, or he hadn't relied too heavily on his visions before, but he didn't fall at the same moment. Yes, he no longer managed to kill with the same ease, yes, now the wounded had time to cover and let them heal naturally or with the help of potions, amulets, and a couple of healers. Only two died of poison before they could escape, but the damage the tree had sustained suggested cautious optimism. Meanwhile, the shell with the Chained and the prince was already recovering, gradually rolling over behind the backs of the forces that covered it.

The druid could have crushed them even now - only twenty seconds had passed, and almost half of the two dozen had been knocked out, though the weakest, though there was no one above the fortieth level among the reinforcements. The battle was frozen in a shaky equilibrium, and it could have been broken in any direction. But space roared again, and new detachments came onto the battlefield.

Two, by the way, were torn apart by the portal itself, but about three dozen more successfully engaged in combat. There were no really strong ones among them; apparently, the portal really couldn't carry too powerful warriors and wizards. But not for long, for the structure of the channel is rapidly stabilizing, and the assassin has already wasted too much power to prevent it.

Another strike from two stars of mages at once poured a torrent of black fire over the frenzied flora, making the wood burn and begin to crumble in black ash. Darkness and Flame mingled, even if only for an infinitely short time. They immediately began to mutually destroy each other and couldn't help but start. Two different planar forces would never get along together. But the very result of their conflict was the kind of creepiness that combined the destructive concepts of both planes.

The oak was still moving, still trying to reach the shell, but in vain. The next attack by the coordinated mages, supported by Summoned, who managed to temporarily slow the Tree's progress with hardened sand, simply chopped the trunk off at the root. The druid allowed no delay at all, immediately beginning to rebuild the construct, transforming the crown into a new root system, but there was no chance. A desperate attack with all free energy at once was simply called for, as was an attempt to escape, but the expectations were only half fulfilled. An attack followed, but no escape.

The crumbling trunk and swirling foliage screamed its danger. Not wanting another super explosion, the Imperials hit the cloud with everything they had, including the skills that destabilize other people's magic. But they didn't have to, I said as one who felt the falsity of the danger. The cloud wasn't even going to explode or do anything at all. It was just a distraction.

The same lone figure, wrapped in camouflage - though I did not believe to the last that there was only one killer - slipped between the distracted fighters, cutting off half of the skull of one of them. You should be wearing a fucking helmet, not walking around with your head uncovered!

They noticed the druid and tried to stop him, but he tossed up a dozen glowing crystals that unfolded as a heavy barrier each, slicing the hapless healer in half and severing the shell from the helpers. They couldn't even go underground because all the barrier - crystals somehow blinked at once and merged into one, encasing them in a dome.

This is not a legend, but something simpler, even if it almost reaches it, and therefore it will not last long. In fact, being alone with a geomancer of this level, and in such a small space, is a very rash thing to do. Another crystal, this time not sensed at all on the sensory plane and not perceived in any other way than by ordinary sight, lightly bumped against the sphere that rocked backward in a moment.

Perhaps Summoned was able to sense her death or was simply expecting something of the sort if it had not encountered such an attack before. The sensation of absolute emptiness, where there was and could be nothing at all, and about half of the shell simply disintegrated, leaving not even a hint of a way to destroy it, hit my perception. It's not just to throw in еру realm. It's much cooler than that!

Both targets appeared in plain sight, the same indifferent lad and a staggering, fatigued Chained One. And then, before the druid could even drop a single poison needle, the barrier collapsed, and the full power of the Imperials gathered there came crashing down on the assassin.

I had never seen such a direct attack with clairvoyance before. No, I could do something similar, even better, but I was hitting through Dream, not with pure and refined clairvoyance in its conceptual manifestation. It wasn't even an attack, by and large, but rather a desperate cry, the last will of a man ready to die.

My consciousness was touched by an inexpressibly sharp bitterness, a sense of loss, of being deprived of everything a person had and valued. It was as if the ground had been knocked out from under one's feet at once, leaving one dangling in the air, trying desperately to cling to something but finding nothing. And, of course, hatred. Not the rage of a berserker, not the hysterical anger of a bloodthirsty thug, but a cold, measured, and calm hatred for the one who robbed you of everything you loved. No loss of head, no deprivation of control, not in the slightest. Only an endless ocean of motivation, a willingness to go to the end and not finish the story until the end is in sight.

These feelings stalked everyone around him, even me, making me lose my concentration for just a brief moment. The assassin twisted like a snake, struck dozens of sprouts growing out of his clothes, slipped between the near-crossed blows on his neck, and came face-to-face with the Imperial Prince.

And the latter, without even changing his expression, calmly waved his hand, enclosing his unsuccessful executioner in a gray sphere of immobility. This was to stop the river of Time, to freeze the murderer, but he, sensing something, managed to wrap himself in a cocoon of the purest energy, having the same nature as he gave to his creations. The vortex of leaves was small but very dense and literally glowing with a rotten green color. The whirlwind allowed him to wrest a little free space from the immutable Law, nicknamed Time, formerly eternal and Eternally abiding.

The killer froze inside a sphere two meters in radius, which itself froze inside a sphere of stasis, and stared silently at the equally indifferent contemplation of the guy who was watching him. I could sense his hatred, his thirst to do something, his reluctance to die without completing his not even revenge, but the truth. If I were him, I'd probably have tried to dive deep into the plane and set off fireworks at my funeral. He could have done it, too, he could have... but fear was added to the hatred. The druid was not afraid of death; he had already died, already buried himself and mourned in the same nameless and empty grave where lies the one he had strangely deprived, lost forever. But he was afraid of such a death. He was afraid to give all of himself, to the end, without the rest.

And the prince, as if he could see this thin sprout of fear, smiled for the first time, miserably and joylessly, with a certain amount of smugness. It was as if he hadn't expected anything else. Stasis was pressing harder and harder to break free, and the portal was opening for the third time to bring truly mighty defenders with it. The druid had no choice but to kill himself, but that would hardly help. And what would keep him from a fate worse than death would become exactly that fate itself.

The game is over, and the winner is revealed. The loser was destined to perish, and the prince of imperial blood, who had survived the attempt, would be groping his Summoned One in two hours' time. The clairvoyance had not returned, but I knew for certain that the prince, despite his natural indifference, had shown some excitement. A wild night in the hot arms of a beautiful, passionate, skilled, and determined woman would surely help.

* * *

As loyal as I could become.

I throw the rest of the dessert into the mouth transformed by Shadow Form and then do another stupid thing. I don't even know which one. The effort of will and my body were ripped open by a dozen blades - not too deep, but painful and unpleasant. It was predictably difficult to get into the Shadow since the spatial interference was eliminated for only one channel. But the wounds instantly heal, and the body changes its appearance, becoming flexible, clawed, and multi-armed, as adapted as possible to the realities of this side of the universe.

I dive deep, dangerously deep, twisting my exorbitantly long body like a snake, turning it into an enormous pneumatic cannon whose projectile will be myself. Occasional Shadows, attracted by the glow of powerful magic, easily discernible even from quite considerable depths, darted away as soon as they saw me. The weak assholes have long been afraid of me, and even the stronger ones don't risk getting to know me or asking about my "neighborhood". The main thing is not to attract the attention of really strong Shadows, who can not only eat me in one bite but just accidentally breathe into my nostril.

The body tenses, changes structure, weaves into something new, and then, in an instant, throws me up with tremendous acceleration, pushing me into reality so fast that even I can hardly keep track of the moment, let alone those who catch such a surprise unanticipated.

I managed to take on an almost human form, though it would be more correct to call it anthropomorphic. I hadn't brought a mask, so my face was just a few pieces of snow-white skin, shadow eyes, and a mouth that made it impossible to distinguish any of my features. They wouldn't let me into the temple with a face like that, but they couldn't make a sketch of me, and that was my biggest concern.

I conceal myself with un-existence, hiding as I have never hidden from anyone, literally erasing myself from the picture of the world, hiding my fate behind thousands of other people's fates, blurring and erasing it, leaving it to the only person I can trust it to - myself. For a second, it seems to me that I really do not exist and never was, but a second passes, and I am thrown into the real world.

They were surprised when I appeared out of nowhere in midair like a breakdancer filmed during a jump. I fell out somehow sideways and a little bit upside down. It was good that my vestibular apparatus was used to this kind of abuse during my time in the world, though I would have complained to the labor inspectorate if I had been him.

My gaze met with genuine surprise in the eyes of the man stepping through the portal. Level fifty-one, the Hero of the Unstoppable Storm shining in my Gaze like that very storm. One move from him would turn a clear day into a cataclysm of national proportions. One impulse of his will could wipe an army off the face of the Earth. To confront him is Folly, to enrage him is Doom, and to stand against him is Madness. A very interesting opponent, truly fearsome and, unlike Ferer Rocher, who has managed to master his abilities and the Heroic title, becoming even more dangerous as a result. It would be an ordeal for me to fight such a man, especially against the backdrop of the Guardians, who were still standing, and the tired but still capable Chained.

It would be.

He must have been surprised, but he didn't have time to be frightened. I hid so completely that I even began to doubt my own existence. I didn't stir his gut, even at the very last moment. Especially against the backdrop of the madness in the infosphere, dulling the intuition, especially since I hadn't even intended to fight him.

A sharp exhalation, and the essence drawn in my mouth, just before the transformation, directly from the vessel touches not even the Hero, but just the edge of the portal, away from him. The impact is not directed at him at all and therefore, not taken into account. Or rather taken into account, but even all his combat experience could not make him perceive my existence. If he'd had even one more heartbeat, he would have dropped the obsession, remembered it forever, and learned his lesson.

With an indescribable chugging sound, the portal arch collapsed, turning his body, his artifact armor, his legendary staff, and even his soul into meat, bloody pulp, and irrecoverable splinters. The only thought in my surprisingly empty head was the somewhat derisive, And it was much harder with Roche.

* * *

The people around me didn't react immediately to my appearance either, perhaps mistaking me for one of their reinforcements. For that, they paid the price, surprisingly enough. Kostik is like that. He does not forgive if he is not recognized! The almost human form also gave me back my clothes and pockets, which found a powerful negator, without which I have not left the house since long ago. Well, from the place where I spent the night. The negator was really useful, and it came in handy far more often than even the first aid kit.

Anonymous - does not forget, does not forgive, and delivers.

The vial shatters on the surface of the eternal sphere, causing it to shake and release the nearly exhausted druid from captivity, and I already twist the neck surprised mage staring at the place where the portal was a second ago. Mage is legitimately crunching vertebrae, and the surrounding people begin to realize that things go wrong, and in the picture of their universe got something that should not be there. And here began the funniest and most amusing thing, even for me alone.

I only filled my unnaturally flared lungs with air, creating shadowy spells right inside me, preparing to exhale them along with my anger, and the druid had already regained his composure, unlike his target. Black dust surged, never having had time to become a defense as the crooked wooden dagger pierced through Chained's heart. My absent heart clenched at this level of transformation as well, but what did I actually expect? That I would be able to kill all the assholes without staining the hands with the blood of the Summoned?

A strange knife remains in the chest of a slave who failed to protect her master, and in the hands of the killer appears a thin and not even seemingly combat-ready dagger in the shape of a bat's wing. Somewhere beneath the cloak, a few amulets flare up, extinguishing another attempt to disturb Time. Had the prince tried to use the same stasis, he might have succeeded, but it struck not the reality around the druid but him. And the amulets withstood the blow, even at a considerable cost.

As soon as the dagger pierced the victim's heart, I realized that someone here really hated the guy because he had spent a mythical artifact on him, and it seemed to be disposable. It was an artifact, not an amulet, despite its disposability. It happens, it turns out. Now there was nothing left of the Emperor of the Ages relative - no soul, no body, no informational trace, not even memory. Even my resilience was barely enough to retain in my memories the appearance and class of the guy I first saw today. Most of those who knew him wouldn't even remember what he looked like, and any available portraits would show a void where his image had been, as would crystals with illusions or other similar artifacts.

A blow that erased from reality once and for all.

I wouldn't survive such a thing, but then again, I wouldn't let myself be hit with it, I hope. And it can only kill if it pierces someone's heart. By the way, I had a brief insight that the artifact couldn't work on something that didn't have a heart. Should I walk around in a transformed form more often? It wouldn't help, though - the heart, in this case, symbolizes a full-fledged soul, not an organ for pumping blood.

That thought didn't stop me from completing the spell, ignoring the few counter-spells that spilled over the Aegis. The exhalation that releases a cloud of shadows, among which I can detect a few fully alive Shadows, covers the entire surrounding area, making the space even more turbulent, corroding everything in the cloud and gradually preparing to eat a hole in reality. The peaceful population is long gone, and these guys are no comrades to me.

I walked, emerging next to the druid, and found him staring silently at the spot where the last man he killed had stood, not even trying to move. My appearance caused a flash of irrational terror to the dangerous creature, but the man made no attempt to run away, to defend himself, or even to look into the eyes of the moron who had supposedly saved him. What kind of ungrateful bastard is that?

The druid is still closed off from my third eye, but I still pick up some echoes. And those echoes are enough to know how bad it is. I even found the rest of my tact and transformed my throat back into human flesh. The voice came out too hissy and nasty, but at least it was without the extra content.

"Are you going to die in here?" The creaking of unlubricated door hinges can convey sarcasm.

"There's no getting away from here." An indifferent and somewhat mechanical voice, as if distorted, yes, exactly distorted by the amulet so as not to leave any clues to the seers, the voice. "Not in my condition. I don't know what power you belong to, but I can't be charged for my debts. And there's no one else to pay it but me."

A second's reflection gives no answers, only increasing the number of questions. On the one hand, this asshole had just committed the most shitty terrorist attack in the spirit of earthly terrorists. Still, there were really a lot of civilians around. On the other hand... The suicide bomber was fully exposed. And his feelings, the pain that he literally hammered into the heads and hearts of those around him was such that I sincerely doubt that I would be able to hurt him more in return. Unless, since this used contraceptive is so afraid of losing his soul, I could devour him with a Shadow Grip or tear his very essence to shreds with essentialism. I could also throw in the Dream, but the Weaver is there, and I don't need that kind of glare. Except such sentences already seem to me somewhat excessive and harmful to myself. Should I feed him to the Shadows? I'm sure they'll eat it and ask for more.

"Okay, hold your breath and squeeze your ass," I reply, feeling the guardsmen left unattended gradually pulling apart my charms, even if they lose half my remaining cast in the process. "We'll talk somewhere else."

Then I activate my Grip, grabbing the druid who reflexively tried to poke me with a knife pulled from the corpse of a Summoned, taking the knife from him, fully assuming the Shadow Form, and dragging us to the deepest bottom I could, hoping that it would be enough to throw the searchers off the trail. And I can't physically doubt that they will because just trying to hope for it is so stupid that it makes my gyrations straighten up.

The body turns into a manta or stingray, wrapping itself around the desperately resisting body of the druid and dragging us deeper and deeper. To the latter's credit, realizing he wasn't going to be killed in the most nightmarish way, he seemed to calm down and freeze, barely sinking into some kind of meditation and phoning into my brain with such primal terror that I almost didn't let go of my burden. The latter would have been fatal - at such depths, you don't even need aggressive Shadows, just being on this layer of the universe is enough.

And also, here's the surprise, I remember where else I've observed a similar uncontrollable terror of my powers. And, as my captive, or rescued, is now literally wrapped around me, I manage to discern something. And his incredibly sweet for Me-The Shadow soul, brimming with pure life and starlight, which makes me hard to resist the urge to devour this miracle, which has not happened to me in a long time. And its long ears, as well as its somewhat inhuman physique. And, most importantly, in this situation, a couple of quite distinctive bulges of a size three, but no more, stating with categorical precision that the ears and soul were not his, but hers.

Kostik wanted an elf girl?

Kostik got it!

When is life going to teach me something?

* * *