Chapter 16

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Do you know what is the epitome of the phrase "both funny and sad"? It's when your body is splashing a skillfully selected cocktail of dozens of potions, some of which had to be created on the fly, remaking ready-made compositions. Perfectly combined formulation, correct layout, minimal risks of intoxication, and almost complete absence of side effects. Pour under the very edge and leave the situation on the thin edge when you can not add anything else, and there is no need.

Nothing is needed at all because the basic recipe provides everything, speeding up the recovery process so much that it should no longer be called alchemy but rather a miracle.

One cannot drink anything because even a drop of foreign essence will start a cascade reaction leading to the disintegration of chains of mutually reinforcing compositions, rapid intoxication of the organism, and disintegration of subtle bodies.

You can't drink anything. Not even the most primitive fucking potion for colds, which can be made from plantain and sawdust, and you don't have to be a very good alchemist to do it. After all of my injuries, to come down with a trivial cold with my level, characteristics, and class resistance... Both funny and sad, as I have said and will not be able to say otherwise.

It was hard to speak. Both because of the pain in my throat and the coughing and because my voice had become so nasal that I would involuntarily start laughing at myself as soon as I spoke. Although, the essence and fever might have played a part in that. A good reason to be in a bad mood! If our escape from the Eternal fails due to an unfortunate nose smack or audible sneeze, it will be so much my style that it's just ugh. Distilled Konstantine, condensed and concentrated in his Konstantinianism, yes.

"A herbal concoction." Hestia, who had taken on the role of today's nurse, held out a concoction created from some army recipe that was not alchemy, according to her, but could get a half-dead man back on his feet, so he went into the grave himself. "For colds, healers prescribed it for those who couldn't take potions or if they wanted to teach someone a lesson."

The last remark is probably related to the odor of this stuff because it is in the odor that a considerable part of the "lifting power" applicable to the half-dead is hidden. And the reason why they jump into the grave is probably hidden in the odor, too. To some relief, I was unable to assess the bouquet of this perfume, as I stopped feeling the odors on the second day after a runny nose. And also, I did not feel the taste, which also caused some joy - army medicine is not alive by smell alone.

At first, Tia was a little worried about my loss of sense of smell because it was a symptom of an old disease, or rather an old battle virus that I might have picked up in the underground complexes beneath the city, but I resisted. It was just a common cold, overlaid with complications from the potions I'd taken, which in turn shot up because of my weakened immune system. A quick blood test using the ritual circle, however, she did... only to admit with a scolding glance that there was too little blood in there due to the potions. It wasn't easy to diagnose diseases!

It's now when the crisis of the first two days has passed, I'm giggling merrily, but at first, there was a good chance that if I didn't die (it wasn't that hard), I'd spend a couple of months in the city recovering. Drinking plenty of water, potions dangling in my body that had, among other things, some kind of healing effect, a good night's sleep, and simple rest allowed me to heal in less than three days.

But, as it was already said, during this time, my weakened body got a couple of potions' kickbacks and decided that I didn't need my sense of smell in the near future. However, against the backdrop of the fact that the complex of essences that had knocked off my taste (the usual one, not the taste for classic literature) was gradually patching up my subtle bodies and even helping me recover a little from the planar infection, such trifles didn't bother me much. I was originally expecting bloody vomiting if something went wrong, but it was the expected side effects that were avoided. If it hadn't been for the cold, it would have been great, but who knew?

The hot and tasteless concoction warms me, and Hestia sitting next to me is strangely endearing. No, not cute, but the look of empathy on her face was surprisingly unusual. Alas, unlike Taria, she can't dive under my blanket and warm me with her body (exactly what it says on the package, not what the Anons thought) because the body of a Mist creature, even in human form, is much cooler than room temperature.

Taria and Hans were out on the town once more, and Tia was accompanying them to cover them and get some reagents for specific rituals. She had used up her supplies, and there was nowhere to get new ones, so they had to improvise with a lot of cheaper elements, achieving results at the expense of time and extra effort. It would be necessary, after the Eternal, to return to the green-skinned tribe and replenish the raw materials. It would be a mistake to think the alchemist's reagents cannot be used in rituals because you can. But some things have to be stored in a different form and processed according to completely different principles. And I mostly only have finished potions and purified essences with me, not reagents.

A good ritualist works with essences as well as a good alchemist, but that's not what Tia specializes in. Her ritualism was developed strictly as a support for the star class, so she's very good at working with planar power, as well as shielding herself and others from it. It is, by and large, common practice among pure Star users to put a bridge between themselves and the summoned force, which takes up the lion's share of the load. Tia had long ago mastered the direct use of such terrible energies, but she still sensibly preferred to use rituals if she could.

Ritual work with essences is certainly possible but requires a completely different approach to ritualism as if two different styles of fencing or hand-to-hand combat. Also, you wouldn't believe it, essences and in large quantities. Are the prices of even extremely shitty filtered essences in their purest form comparable to the prices of high-end costume jewelry and gems? Essentialists are very rare birds, and extracting essences from reagent requires long and painstaking labor at alchemical machines or ritual complexes, and that's money, time, and specialists. Pumping this branch of ritualistic skill to anyone and everyone is overkill, even for elves with their resources and economy. Tia, of course, knows how to work in this direction, but to be able and to be a pro are different things. I'll be able to provide her with much high-quality material for practice without difficulty.

Losius still explores the depths of history in the same way and does so simultaneously through Imperial and Alishan sources, trying to create in his mind an average picture of the events that took place once upon a time long ago. Judging by the occasional comments of his noble might, the averaged version of events simply showed all sides of the conflict from an equally fucked up perspective. What a surprise, really!

It's bad to be sick and weak.

It's good to have those who have your back in a moment of weakness and help you get up after an illness.

Sorting out the good and bad of my wacky mission was mundane and tiring. I was too used to legendary status titles to be excited about them. To be frank, I never really rejoiced in them, remembering the price of each of my "feats" as well as the possible consequences of failing to accomplish these, if I may say so, accomplishments.

This time the System was suspiciously generous, which only increased my desire to quickly and decisively get away from the Eternal and the Empire of Ages in general. Even though the risk of the task, as well as the complexity of the task, gave all the opportunities for pumping, but I was well aware that the strength of my opponents also played a role. Hell was not an enemy I would want to face while in such a poor state of health. If I was fully recovered, then I could try to get a taste of those guys, look for their lairs, and poke them with my wand.

Not like in Kraj, where I literally "bumped into" them, but rather with the expectation of exposing them to the local security and then letting them fuck as they wish. Ideally, I won't even have to go near the enemy, just enough to slip in many proxies of visions to specific onlookers, and then take popcorn in my hands and watch from the other side of the continent. The spectacle promises to be exciting, and I'll stab Сult in the back out of sheer principle and general maliciousness. They killed Kenny, I mean Pypyshch! It's impossible not to avenge a reasonable man with such a name, and if he wasn't there, I'd think of something else to avenge. After all, we're talking about Hell and its emissaries, so there's something to avenge even if we don't look for it at all.

There's a chance to level up, too. The reward from the System for bringing to light such a hydra that wasn't afraid to do what they did in the Library would be considerable, even if you didn't lay a finger on anyone personally. That's how normal seers level up, not how I do it all the time. I can take the level with no small probability because, after a couple of ups I received for my labors, I've got a little bit left to the forty-seventh, much less than I had to the forty-fifth right before the operation. I look at the line in the Status, and at once, I feel a little warmer.... until my head starts trying to unscrew itself again and go on an exciting trip around the world.

Level: 46

A little more, and I'll become an adult, like a local Hero if I don't die before. Even without clairvoyance, I consider the probability of that much higher than normal. In addition to the level, I got a lot of other nice things, including a couple of class skill upgrades, of course, tied to the Lord of Dreams and Reflections. To be fair, these upgrades were really satisfying, despite the dangers I experienced. I'll refuse to repeat them, it's not even worth thinking about, but the fact I risked my life, my essence, and my ass for a reason is a pleasant surprise.

Reflected Image: 2/9

Phenomenally enhances clairvoyant abilities, especially when using mirrors, allowing one to see into the past and future of any objects that have ever been reflected; allows one to, with effort, reflect various physical or magical effects for a time receiving at one's disposal their somewhat weakened copies; the reflected effects feel similar to the original and can fool standard, advanced and most exotic expertise; allows you to skillfully search among the reflections of the necessary and instantly find them not by direct search, but with the help of intuitive flair; allows, at the limit of concentration, to reflect mirror variants of being on reality, working with the techniques of reflections in the absence of direct access to Dream.

This upgrade was bestowed upon me for a few very specific actions carried out in a rather short period. First, there was the mirror creation, which served as my vessel and main caliber when penetrating the holy of holies. There I had to not just work with reflections but build something quite real out of these reflections. A creation, the material and basis of which was only a reflection of the present, which managed to become even more real than reality itself. The next thing was a careful and almost gentle dissection of Pypyshch's memory and personality, after which received this upgrade.

I had a rather funny thought from observing this message. Here I got the pumping without investing points, but how much it is individual for each owner of a similar to my class? I mean, there can't be many such classes, but still, the essence of the question doesn't change. If I acted differently with my skills and tried to achieve a different goal, wouldn't the improvement I received for my actions change? After all, if working with mirror constructs for this skill was just asking for it, then the ability to quickly search for the necessary images through the mirrors of the same Misty appeared in a very timely manner.

If I lived long enough, I'd have to start collecting data on class skills and abilities. I already knew from Tia, Hestia, and Losius that even ordinary classes differ in their pumping, even if their abilities are practically common knowledge. Starting with rare classes, the differences between different owners of such classes are already really noticeable, but where exactly is the limit? Is it possible to assume that by making efforts and trying to do something specific with the methods available to the class, it will be possible to develop skills in the desirable direction?

Although, why am I being stupid? That's exactly the point of changing a class, upgrading it, or modifying it into something new. Why shouldn't it be possible to limit yourself to half-measures, staying within the native archetype but expanding it? And the higher the class grade, the easier it is to expand, and the more room for expansion, the more free slots for modifications. If you look at it this way, then it is the pumping without the use of points that will be the most favorable for the future Overlord of the Universe because this is how you can get the very expansion of potential.

I'm hardly going to take any more risks in pumping than I already do. Not because I'm not after power, but because I realize the sad fact that with my life, avoiding those risks where I can raise skills is not going to work anyway. And without my desire, there will be opportunities to test my theory, which increasingly reminds me of inventing a bicycle. Probably the same Tia knows something about it, or even I just realized a well-known fact. Kostik is like that. He can be very sharp when he doesn't need to be and blind like a methyl alcohol lover when he needs to be sharp.

It was hard without clairvoyance, which allowed me to check any guess quickly, but with my injuries, trying to see would mean making the lords of this world happy and dying quietly. It's not as if I've lost the ability to think without it, but rather, with clairvoyance, I can minimize the time it takes to separate the grains from the chaff. But without it, I have to ask long and tedious questions and analyze what I've heard since there is no Google on Alurei... Wait, mistake. Google is here, but they won't let me go to it a second time. No matter how hard I try.

All right, we have done with the first one, let's move on.

Creator of Labyrinths (legendary): creating magical constructs that can play a strategic role is not an easy task. Making these constructs stable and undetectable is the kind of task that no one else can do. Mirrors became your canvas, their reflections became a brush in your hands, and by combining them you got something that cannot be described or understood. The Mirror Labyrinth is a place where a dream penetrates reality, and reality becomes a dream lost in mirrors. A frightening, deadly creation, but one that offers the widest list of possibilities for the application of what you have created. Your triumph, your masterpiece, your risk, and your reward. Bonus: +5 to all stats; +1 class skill point; greatly simplifies working with stable mirror-based constructs.

It was the moment of receiving this title that I managed to distinguish before I was finally immersed in Dream and stopped paying attention to all earthly trifles. Actually, I consider the receipt of something like this to be a natural outcome of a long and thoughtful cerebral sex between me and mirrors. After so much effort and calculations - indeed, there were even more calculations than when working with complex potions, only much slower and more complicated - if I didn't get anything, it would be a shame.

Of course, Kostik is greedy because ordinary mortals work for years to obtain a legendary title until all the liters of blood and sweat are transformed into a result. On the other hand, I do it with my hands and almost without defense, relying on my reaction and personal skills. No protective ritual circles, no support artifacts, and no personal circle of buffers behind my back. Only you and your skills will build a barrier, and the structure will hold and cover the others. The risk and load are disproportionately higher, which is why the pumping is faster, as well as obtaining titles. If you complete a five-year project in three weeks, it does not in itself cancel the fact that it was a huge work, even though it was done with such risks that the labor safety code is shoved down your throat through your ass.

Anyway, the entrance to the Library was over. Things were relatively smooth from there, though only until that sad moment when I decided to play a hero.... oh yeah. Getting back to the topic of getting through the mission, those difficulties were workable. Without belittling the merits of the defense systems and signal nets, it was possible to overcome them without any overkill. The work was difficult, demanding attention and not forgiving mistakes, but in essence, it did not require me to step over myself in an attempt to catch the void, putting my life on the line. Even a second encounter with that thing that sits in the stones of the Library, whose base is the altar I seek, was no longer an insurmountable obstacle but merely an unexpected difficulty. Hiding Misty in the body of a recipient is a lot easier than hiding myself under his damn eyes.

I'm not even halfway through my analysis of the defenses I've encountered, but I can tell you that if I had gone there myself, relying on Shadow's stealth and my luck, my chances would have been pretty slim. Lower than working through Pypyshch. Too much magic there, so much so that in some places the very fabric of reality turned to materialized magic. Too many, too varied, too different countermeasures each scourge required. You could sneak in, you could hide there, but it was one thing to wander the corridors, but trying again to get to the altar room was another. I might be able to get into the altar hall by stealing the right shadows, weaving the right clothes, choosing the right moment, and using them to support my disguise, but I wouldn't risk deceiving the altar. The chances are too slim, and it's easier to try again later than to jump the gun. And if I say this phrase, then the degree of risk should be easily understood without further explanation.

To be honest, I should have wandered through the late librarian's memory a lot longer, looking for secrets. I'd already found a lot, and I'd only pulled out the tops while I was looking for the right images. The Library was a treasure trove of treasures that my soul was begging me to clean. The same warehouses of artifacts or special books can increase skills or even help in pumping. This is much more important than despicable gold.

Artifact storage, reagent storage... I've never been particularly greedy, but even I felt bad about missing out on so much good stuff that could have been mine. On the other hand, the normal use of stolen legendaries and mythic would not have been possible anyway. But it would be very easy to get into trouble by trying to steal such valuables. These are the words I will use to console myself to drown out my resentment.

If I could make my face more sour, I would. I can't help but think of all the ways to avoid going back to the end of our story. It was an unpleasant ending, even if I managed to play it on my own terms. The problem is not even in the Devils because I have one more and one less weird fuck in my life, but there is no difference. The problem isn't even the Devils. No, it's the altar itself. No matter how hard I rack my brain trying to logically deduce a way to put down the Google server, I just can't think of one.

And it's not a lack of clairvoyance that's the problem. I've understood enough to know roughly what I'm talking about. And what I saw was enough to make one unlucky summoner's heart sad and longing. No, if I strike with all my might, having prepared and, preferably, trowing a cauldron or two of pre-prepared abomination on this altar, there is a chance to damage its structure. But that's until I start to take into account the fact that it will be difficult to get into the altar hall for the second time. And it is worth only imagining how the one sleeping in the Altar will answer me when I start to break a part of this something... If I can get away, I'll be surprised myself until my eyes acquire anime proportions.

My mind realized that the Big Fucking Mess had begun the moment I'd entered the Eternal's territory, entering the field of the Mystery Devourer and that interfering with Tia's fate and infiltrating the Library had only made things worse. I realize that if I hadn't known about the problem, the consequences would have been even worse than they are now. And still, it is unpleasant because anonymity is my sword and shield, helping me even more than three mythical classes. If, say, tomorrow the authorities of the Empire of Ages find out about me, find out about a free Hero, I will live a very short and very sad life. Or, on the contrary, very long and unbearably sad.

Saves only the presence of at least five to seven years in reserve, but rather even longer periods. My secret is well enough protected that drinking it was a challenge. I will have time to go to the wild lands, regroup there, and return with a new goal. The second time should be easier, right? To penetrate there inside another host, only now not a spy, but a real kamikaze - I can really make a big explosive surprise. And then let them send notes of discontent to Alishan, Neitmak, the Eternal Forest, or anyone else, trying to understand which bastard undermined one of the main trump cards of the entire dynasty in paroxysm of pomposity. And I'll sit in the distance with a trollface, and drink mojitos.

Dreaming is not harmful, but the realization of these dreams ... I would now at least run away from the capital.

Reflected Image: 4/9

Phenomenally enhances clairvoyant abilities, especially when using mirrors, allowing one to see into the past and future of any objects that have ever been reflected; allows one to, with effort, reflect various physical or magical effects for a time receiving at one's disposal their somewhat weakened copies; the reflected effects feel similar to the original and can fool standard, advanced and most exotic expertise; allows you to skillfully search among the reflections of the necessary and instantly find them not by direct search, but with the help of intuitive flair; allows, at the limit of concentration, to reflect mirror variants of being on reality, working with the techniques of reflections in the absence of direct access to Dream; allows, with great effort, to change reality between self and reflection, blurring or multiplying the concept of existence even for oneself.

I read on and cannot stop being horrified at how I managed to survive the disclosure of this facet of my abilities, even by two divisions at once. As I remember my feelings after applying the trick of turning myself into my reflection, erasing my real self, which became a reflection, and then manifesting into the reality where I am no longer there from the mirror, I immediately feel the desire to punch myself in the face. It is unclear what I was thinking. Although, I can trace the course of my thoughts. The excitement of the fight, unwillingness to admit that the couple screwed me without even letting me break the score, as well as the habit of believing in my immortality.

I believed, yeah.

So believed that, even after dying for a while, I could begin to be again.

I clearly need to start keeping a list of the dumbest things I've ever done in my life to put getting this class upgrades somewhere in the top five "feats". With what I thought was the important question, but the more interesting question for me is how the fuck did I survive? Dealing with reality and unreality is, without a doubt, one of Dream's ace features literally. But even if I'd gotten the hang of working with such things, I would have thought three, three hundred and three thousand times before experimenting on my reality. But no, as soon as someone gave Kostik a kick in the face and pride, he immediately turned on the "reinsurance for the weak" mode and started to rock. Only the grave can fix a humpback. If he has it.

In addition to pumping such a dangerous skill, I pumped another one, much more useful for me. To be frank, I was thinking of pumping it in the second turn after Broken Edge.

Mirror Cloak: 2/9

Allows you to turn mirror particles into magical robes that cover the user and make it extremely easy to work with Dream matter; makes it much easier to control Dream spawns and stay in the reflected world together with the material body; allows you to catch enemy attacks and simple conceptual influences with effort and then seal them in Dream particles, redirecting, distorting, modifying or combining the sealed; allows you to use the cloak as a tool and weapon in a duel, greatly increasing the amount of time you can use it in a fight; allows, at the limit of effort, to turn parts of the cloak into direct breaches into Dream, speeding up the recovery of reserve or allowing its loss to be leveled by direct infusion.

Initially, having just scanned the skill with clairvoyance, I considered it a very distant analog of my beloved Aegis, only working on Dream instead of shadow energy. But, having pumped the first division, I quickly doubted it because I had new versions and unformed suspicions. These suspicions only grew stronger after the courtesy visit and the thwarted ritual, though they raised more questions than answered. I had long been accustomed to this tendency - the deeper into the plane, the more vicious the creatures.

A cloak is not a defense skill, even if it can be used as such. The already mentioned Aegis - it really embraces the user, it's in its very essence, its name, even if this "defense" is far from being a defense, not the basis of skill, but something much more dangerous, as always, though. The Mirror Cloak... it really resembles a garment, a kind of tool whose purpose and function are still unknown.

There are a few facts about which I can speak with certainty and assert without fear of being wrong. Absorption of blows as well as return to the addressee, despite the wildest synergy with the Reflected Image, resembles an additional function derived from the basic one. So you can light a cigarette from a gas burner, light the way with a cell phone screen, or even open locks with a bolt cutter. The essence of the skill is different, as is its main trump card. And if the main focus of the same Image I have already understood approximately, and I guess about the nature of the Broken Edge, then with the Cloak, everything is deaf. Even more so than with the Web of Souls, which has not been pumped yet (to be fair, my guesses about the Web may also be false).

But I know for a fact that it takes a lot, an obscene amount, even with my reserve, of pure planar energy to open the Cloak to its full potential. The ability to create dozens and hundreds of micro-portals that serve as pumps, batteries, and... processing servers? If a controlled dip to the depths of Dream that managed to partially ignore the very fact of Dream's absence still intersects with Aegis, the rest is a mystery that is dangerous to guess.

What's a Cloak?

Whose garment is this?

The last of the received for my exploits was the title, opening which I was habitually preparing for another stream of unflattering epithets from the System. Because when was it otherwise? In the end, of course, I was almost never deceived, but the desire to organize a ddos-attack on the System still appeared regularly, as if by magic. I realize with my mind that I am the main idiot in such situations because I let myself get into them time after time, but it still hurts. And the biggest offense is that there is no one to blame!

Only the last title I received did not cause indignation and anger but some surprise, muffled irritation, and a feeling of underlying apprehension, as if it were a premonition of an avalanche that had already begun to move, still invisible but ready to tear down, burying under it the hapless climber, with all his equipment, tent and a picture of his beloved mother-in-law in his breastplate. And today, I am the only one playing the role of a mountaineer.

The Laughter of Fate (mythical): complex systems, calibrated plans, a web of intrigue, playing on other people's desires, fears, and vices, centuries of preparation, and thousands of extraordinary individuals bound by a single goal, a single desire, single thoughts. What is being pursued with such sacrifices, with such persistence and intelligence, cannot be destroyed by mere intervention. There will always be a plan of action, a backup tactic, and a tenth ace in the stained deck, always. But, alas or fortunately, some individuals have not heard of the impossibility of any action. They didn't know about centuries of preparation, backup plans, and the irreversibility of actions. They just showed up, just made a fleeting decision..... and laughed. Over plans, over thousands of associates united by a common goal, over centuries of preparation. They laughed, and in that laughter, they heard the mockery of Fate, as distant as it was inevitable. Today you have become that laughter, having wrested this right from Fate itself, having wrested it only by your own will and spontaneous, so fleeting desire. Bonus: the skills of the branch of extra-existence are much stronger, the bonuses of all titles of the individual branch of the Soul of Mocker are much stronger; intuitive understanding of the weaknesses of any large-scale organization is extremely strengthened; it is extremely easy to influence the weak points of other people's personalities, their fears, phobias, long-standing wounds; Laughter of Fate - Fear of Fate.

Let's ignore for a moment the small fact that for this title, I again did not get a single bonus point in my characteristics, not to mention free perk points. This is not so uncommon. Many titles, including even quite useful ones, are not expressed in numbers. I was confused, and that's putting it mildly, by other details of the title described in the Status.

First of all, the grade of this title was a bit disturbing, especially the fact that it was my first (Anons, shut up!). Again, let's omit the regret about missing perk and stat points and instead read the text of the description itself. Read on and begin to slowly share my concerns.

The problem isn't the last, rather cringe-worthy phrase, obscurely forgotten in the bonus listings. I already have Giver of Fear, which works on the same principle as Soul of the Mocker, so the connection between these titles is pretty easy to see. No, no, no, that's not where we're looking, not at all. Think about it, gentlemen. Just think about it. The description says I got the title for widespread destruction or at least partial destruction of someone's serious plans. I've already had quite a few blisters stomped up to my neck and cut off the head of "planners" in my short stay under these unfriendly skies

But for my adventures in the Kraj, I received only legendary titles, though I laughed a lot there and ruined a lot of plans, too. And I had to laugh while spitting blood from my broken innards, and the memories of slow dissolution into black filth still tug at my exposed nerves. Legendary titles but a lucrative fucking trade!

I received legendary titles for the Stone, for the Silk Cage performed by Kickass, for my antics in the wild lands, and for the final liberation of the lost wandering in the dungeons of Tavimark. A Legendary title is a might, power, an indicator not only of coolness but also of status, an indicator that you can, that you have already accomplished something that has been deemed worthy of being written into the legends, even if you have not yet become a Legend yourself. Even a first-level plowman can, in theory, get a legendary title without having any levels or class, and if he got it, he is a priori worthy of it. That's just the way it is.

I can rightfully boast about my achievements and the list of titles that in the future (very distant) threaten to surpass the number of titles of any local czars. Yes, I could boast if it were not for a clear realization of the idiocy by which these titles were obtained. But idiocy is a secondary matter, unlike the cause of my excitement.

The Skin Taker, the Necropolis, the Creature from the Kraj, the Stone, Kickass, the Wildlands, the Tavimark - all of these adventures could have killed me in a thousand agonizing ways, easily could have done worse than kill me. I overcame all these stories, one way or another, but completed them, for which I was gifted by the all-seeing and, as it seems to me, all-hating bastard System with actual legendary titles.

And now I received not a legendary but a mythical title, and for destroying someone's thoughts and long intrigue, for my mocking laughter at that someone, and for the fear instilled by that laughter.

Attention, experts, question: whose plans were these?

Now you can see why I am counting the hours until my recovery, wanting to continue thinking about this and other mysteries from a faraway place. Preferably very, very far away.

My condition is already relatively stable. Yes, the cold is gone, and the taste is back. The potions in my blood are slowly disintegrating and being eliminated both by natural disintegration and by dragging the slags into the essence vessel to make it easier for the body to work. Clairvoyance does not work beyond simple intuition, and large-scale sorcery techniques are also not recommended, but I can walk, eat normal food, and play cards without fear of passing out in the middle of the game.

The only one happier about my recovery than I am is Taria, who thought that the transition from "I'm going to die" to "acceptable, just don't yell in my ear" was a good thing for her and even dragged Hestia into her devious plans. For once, I'm also very happy with my condition. I'm not cured enough to do clairvoyance and deal with the aftermath of the mission, and I shouldn't even look at potions either, but I have no contraindications against practicing adult endurance exercises. I had to work a little harder and cover my room with a dome of silence so as not to pour salt on the wounds of my comrades, who could not go to the brothel because of the conspiracy.

Though Taria and Hestia had both offered to look them up girls from those who didn't mind and mess with their minds a bit. Even with full payment, a bonus for temporary loss of will and guaranteed loss of memories for the duration of their stay in our company. Well, or replacing those memories with other, more down-to-earth ones. Only the lack of space in the not-too-big cabin, as well as a very calm but extremely judgmental look in the performance of Tia, stopped the impulse of desire to help their companions. Because professionalism should be in everything, you see!

I would have gone to satisfy the male part of the group, just out of unwillingness to piss them off with my own "privileged position," but the voice of reason, and I don't mean Tia, took over, and they decided to wait for the arrival to the same Green Tits, rather than risk it over small things. With their level of concentration and level in general, to cause uncontrollable and insuppressible by simple willpower, passion, and desire for sex can only some pumped up class skill, cunning perk, or talent of a fairly high grade, but not the simple presence of girls at their side. Especially if these girls are their battle buddies, do not provoke the guys in any way, and can kick hard if they get bored with their pestering.

Hm.

There's no way to lose my Ring but what about a voluntary transfer? I mean, how do they take artifacts from Heroes without necessarily dissecting them on an altar? Could I find some high-level bastard with useful classes and aristocratic blood, have her mysteriously disappear, then give Locius the Ring and ask him to activate it? So many interesting questions, and it all started with a desire to go womanizing!

The final recovery would take even longer, so I had to speed it up a bit. In fact, I was already back to normal, but I was still a little weak. Slightly slower reactions, slightly lower limits of tension, slightly weaker enchantments, slightly shakier fingertips - no big deal on their own, but together these little things took away at least a tenth of my potential. It was something similar after the Stone but much less pronounced, and it was passed right on my feet.

I would have preferred to endure even now, but several factors coincided. First, a quick way to renew was available to me without requiring any supercomplicated efforts. Secondly, having left now, having left the prepared base and pre-made bases for the necessary rituals, it would take not a day or two to make the necessary preparations again. Until then, my ailment would really pass by itself due to the reserves of my body.

I gritted my teeth and decided to heal myself to the logical end, and the sense of threat that had so unnerved me earlier had subsided. The latter depended more on my temporary inability to clairvoyance, but it was still comforting. And it was a pity to leave so many preparations behind without trying to taste the fruits of preparation. The team was preparing for the ritual while I was lying there.

The author of the recipe was, obviously, Tia as a ritualist and a great specialist in recovering from difficult missions. Rituals, or rather, whole complexes of rituals, potions, healing techniques, and other tricks of that sort were quite popular among the Ears. Even if the Leaves came back undamaged and never once engaged in combat, they were still put through the necessary procedures. It was better for health, and any curses or markings could be seen, and a saboteur disguised as kin could be uncovered in every sense.

In our case, there was no healer, though Tia was seriously considering Taria's suggestion to persuade a practicing healer to help with my problem and participate in the ritual. It might well have worked. Anonymous orders were not uncommon, nor were any precautions taken on the part of the client. There were even some healers in the capital who agreed to a voluntary memory wipe at the end of the contract. And it's not written on us that we're the most wanted bastards in all of Eternity.

In the end, Tia approved Taria's idea, as well as bringing Hestia and her Mist into the plan for minimal control. But instead of a pretty healer, they decided to let an elderly grandfather with a lot of experience treating people who should have been fed to the planar creatures the first time they saw me. They even proceeded to "execute" the target but backed out at the last moment. Grandpa was reserved by other personalities, and also suddenly.

Tia didn't react in time to predetermine the chain of events she needed, and then the probability of getting caught was too high. According to the elven woman who had seen something, some bad man (or not) had slaughtered the son of one of the biggest merchants of the Golden Circle of the Trade Guild with a couple of his assistants. Survivors, including the merchant himself, were cut so badly that they urgently needed a laborer of the healing front, capable of working with the subtlest planar-psychic lesions. Out of all six and a half specialists currently in the capital or its vicinity, they chose the only one who had been trained for such a secret work without any extra publicity. It was a rather strange choice, especially for such a figure able to directly request the necessary people through his trading house or even through the authorities.

So, Kostik had to do without a healer, using only Tia's potions and rituals. And, frankly speaking, I wouldn't want to let a powerful man near the body, who even the joint actions of Taria and Hestia wouldn't be able to get through to the end. And what if his hand shakes a little from the stupor caused by the brainwashing, and then I grow a dick on my forehead? We'll do without strangers, bad and ugly ones.

It was only natural that the ritual should not take place in our cabin because there was neither enough space nor a normal ritual to be performed there. Taking into account the camouflage and protection, such a complex structure would definitely be shredded in one way or another. Perhaps even together with the patient inside the figure.

One of the pre-arranged "lost" warehouses, of which there was much more than we could believe on the territory of the Eternal, but after our visit, there were less than desired, came to the right place. It was a large and empty space where only draughts and spiders were moving around. It was contraindicated to stay there for a long time. Although the place was ownerless, it was still checked, being on the balance sheet of one of the capital's enterprises, which provided warehouses for all kinds of products. From time to time, the workers and just idle men came here, and the young ladies, too.

First, Tia, adopting my favorite tactic of set-up coincidence, which isn't even set-up, but merely directed toward the right option, arranged for some portion of the same "lost" cargo to be moved into the warehouse. Then a bit of erotic naked magic on Taria's part, and this part of the installed cargo is arranged so that from the entrance, as well as from all viewable points, the warehouse seems to be packed to the top. The same crates of raw clay covered the minimum of space in a thin layer, leaving a large area inside for the slowly piled fragments of ritual.

What's next is simple. To help some clerks forget about the already forgotten warehouse and the same forgotten crates. And now, the workers occasionally checking the warehouse saw only labeled boxes standing up to the ceiling, but nothing else. What was behind them was none of their business and none of their concern.

Inside the warehouse was a large drawing that didn't resemble earthly pentagrams. It looked more like some monstrous algebraic equation, scrawled around a dozen different geometric shapes, some of which did not intersect with each other at all. The signs were not stamped out, not grown in the hardwood of the walls and floor, but lovingly carved by hand and colored with a dozen types of alchemical paints. The picture was completed by a mattress placed in the upper left corner (no one should be standing in the center of the figure) and a blanket with eight flasks of potions and a couple of paths of snuff powder. The latter were not drugs in any way... although, yes, they had narcotic effects too.

I would have preferred to make all the potions in liquid form or convert them to pure essence, but the annoying malaise wouldn't let me. It got to the point that, at times, it was me and Taria who had to assist Tia, not the other way around. My swollen pride whimpered and itched. In principle, now, almost back to normal, I could remake the potions myself, making them faster and with essences, not a dozen different compositions, but only a couple or three. However, the time available showed obscene gestures and behaved ugly. Now it would be useful to use the tricks from the arsenals of the Ruling Dynasty - it was not so impossible for them to stretch the morning five minutes long enough to have time to sleep properly.

"The action will take place in three cycles. You already know that, but I'll say it again." Tia gives the last instruction quickly and with a businesslike look, not showing any excitement. However, she rarely performed such a procedure personally, without assistance, and even not for an elf. "Under the pressure of the ritual, patients sometimes have panic attacks, especially during the final maelstrom when it transitions into the ascension of the wingless... I myself once attacked a healer during a seemingly routine checkup."

Once again, I noticed that the more tense the situation, the more serious the trouble, the less our druid had a tendency to high and fancy speech. In a combat situation, she would give a head start to earthly military men, not real ones, but anecdotal ones. Of those who have a command without profanity twelve syllables, and with profanity only two and a half. And Tia's command would take two and a half syllables even without profanity.

"It's hard to imagine you hysterical." Taria was, as always, defiantly relaxed and even sloppy, which could deceive even an attentive eye, especially if it was the eye of someone unfamiliar with her. "You've been telling me so much about self-control and all that, and it turns out you're not without sin."

Provocation, of course, but not with the purpose to hurt but rather out of sporting interest to bring the elf to frankness, which the dancer gets much more often than her victim would like to admit. In terms of social confrontation, the former bandit is even inferior to me with reservations.... even though she doesn't engage in confrontation. For her, the desire to annoy others through friendly banter has become almost reflexive. She reminds me of someone, honestly.

"I overstretched myself back then." Tia waved it off, not even paying attention to the teasing. "Tied my mind too tightly to a dying patch of forest. I barely had the self-control not to turn myself to mulch, but then, when the ritual began to put me to sleep, I couldn't hold back my impulses. I wanted to give everyone around me my understanding of the frailty of life, the inevitability of death, and the joy of a new birth.

She speaks of her old failures with an unreadable mixture of irritation, apprehension, and a slight, long-suffocated self-control shame at her weakness. For an elf to reveal her mistake, the near-fall in her class, even in front of a tribesman, was a very significant sign of trust. Taria, for all her far-from-always ostentatious clowning, is an extremely trustworthy comrade. I suppose Tia's frankness is meant more for herself than for Taria's inability to appreciate the full palette of her openness. A kind of drawing a line for her understanding, realizing that now the obnoxious and insolent one-day human has become one of the few beings who won't stab her in the back. Well, that was besides the other, far more obvious reasons for those words.

"That's why you brought me here, isn't it?" The smile is so satisfied and anticipatory, it's asking for a brick, and all the lemons are left at the base. "So if Tin starts freaking out, I can calm him down? If anything, I'm ready to share the spoils, T! After all, is it true what they say that elves can love just masterfully, both brain and body?"

She should have been allowed to take that class, which was designed for working with brains and desires because she was obviously born for it. It's hard to imagine a more natural-born brainwasher. It is even a pity, at times, that such a talent, a vocation even, has been ruined. Unforgivable sacrilege, however.

"Does my presence bother you in any way?" I politely inquired, getting involved in another skirmish she had deliberately provoked. "You mean, like, not discussing a plan of insidious enslavement before the victim, so he doesn't suspect anything?"

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"You won't remember anything later." He grinned even more contentedly, his smile beaming with unconfused anticipation. "And now you won't believe that T and I have already shared you up because who's going to be so blunt about their devious plans? We're gonna avenge all the times you traded me for your potions! That's it."

"I don't even know what I resent more." The elf didn't even look away from checking the outer circuit of the ritual once more. "Weaving me into the web of your conspiracy, without my knowledge and immediately into the role of one of the spinning threads, or the blatant injustice that for ignoring you alone, you will make us both take revenge."

In a different situation, especially if it had been the early days of my lying in bed, I might have started to wince, if not worry. Alas, having studied both Taria's hypnotits and Tia's abilities, I can't take such pranks seriously. Taria's sense of humor is peculiar, but she genuinely tries to cheer me up, even if she does set my butt on fire. I trust her too much. I know the power of the Ring and its influence too well, and we've been through too much together. Tia, to be honest, could try something like what Taria said.... in theory.

Her classes were not suitable for mind-affecting, and outside of those classes, she was no genius in mental correction. If she were a Mentalist or a level forty-seven Seductress, I'd be worried. But then we probably wouldn't have met. Or we'd have met under completely different circumstances. She could have betrayed me at any time, without any ridiculous plans to enslave me, just by sticking a needle in my throat while I was unconscious. I understand her too well after all our actions in the bundle to seriously believe she'd betray me so bluntly. I can't completely rule out a situation in which we'd be on opposite sides of the barricade, but that's a suspicion that applies to everyone, including even Ygra.

And ritual?

Well, yeah, I agree. It's quite a rash decision to get into the circuit of a large-scale ritual not created by you without being a high-ranking ritualist. And if you think about it that way, ritual can really put you into a trance, weaken your consciousness, and open the way to the brain directly. But even if we set aside the fact that simply cursing, laying in the subtle bodies an anchor for a tracker or targeted planar strike, a beacon for summoning creatures, or even selling the soul of a loser in the circle to those very creatures, will be much easier... There is still a small detail.

"Taria, asking you to ground the flight of your immense imagination. I'm going to ask you to think back on something I said just a few sentences ago." Finished with the check, Tia looks down at her work and does some breathing exercises. "If you do manage to retake control of..."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. He's going to go berserk and cut us both to ribbons before our plan can come to fruition." My friend nodded, still in a good mood. "I almost lost my life that way once."

"Where's Hans and his lemons when I need him so much?" I could only complain as I tucked myself into the scribbled pattern and took off my clothes. "Ah, yes. Thanks, Tia."

Tia nodded silently, handing the lemon she'd brought with her from her pocket to a sour Taria. After Taria had capitulated to the two trolls of a more subtle hue, we got down to work in earnest. Hans, who sits outside and makes sure that no one comes into our light, will have to stay there for quite a while, but he is not allowed inside. Even Taria was allowed in here for her beautiful tits, which in theory could temporarily stop me from having a panic attack, and for the almost pure neutral magic in her sheath, which didn't stink of planar stuff that could damage the ritual circle.

The procedure will take something like a couple of days, three days at worst, but at the end of the ritual, I will be able to "get up and go." Just a little warm-up, and then I can go straight into battle against a superior opponent or run toward the wild lands at cruising speed. Of course, I will choose the latter option.

Let's start.

The ritual resembled floating in a pressure chamber, even though I had never seen such a pressure chamber on Earth. In its full form, such a ritual does not require consciousness at all but rather, on the contrary, provides for a constant stay in a deep trance under the supervision of a whole crowd of specialists who will carefully correct the damage in the body and even, with especially good preparation, in the essence of the patient. Up to the disappearance of question marks in the Status, although this is not even the level of the highest pilotage, something above the highest bar.

It's dangerous to put me in a trance. In this particular case, it is no longer useful, but on the contrary - a very noticeable problem. Not that it's impossible, because I, knowing my strengths and weaknesses, can think of a dozen ways (just very costly and requiring a comparable status to mine) to twist my brain into a tube and wash it white without my consent. And if I don't resist, then Taria and her tits will suffice, not to mention Hestia's overpowered ability.

Except Taria had remembered that unpleasant incident in Tavimark for a reason. As long as I'm conscious, I'm in control of myself, just as I'm in control of the abomination inside me that wants to become me. When my control weakens, I will start a very unpleasant but very exciting event codenamed "run away from Kostik, who has turned into a chthonic chupacabra." In theory, of course, since I haven't tested it in practice yet, which I'm glad about.

There are many ways to deceive such protection, which is characteristic of all planar users, just more pronounced for me, as I have already mentioned. It would be possible to use such methods to treat my injuries, of course, but there are simply no specialists of the right level among us. Hestia, in theory, could try, but I'm not too eager to treat myself with her Mist, nor am I too eager to change my race to a distorted one. Amazing, isn't it?

I had to give up the healing trance. I limited myself to deep but still controlled meditation, multiplied by the action of the ritual circles that formed the "baro-chamber" and the complex of potions flowing through the body. The space created by the ritual was encapsulated as much as possible from all possible planes and energy currents, allowing the healer to work better with the thinnest of the patient's shells. In my case, I am my healer and subject, which reduces efficiency, but adds peace of mind. I do everything myself. It adds excitement too. I do it myself.

It was not a particularly difficult task reminiscent of trivial attempts to breathe properly. Allegorically speaking, my frantic fight with the Hell messengers had knocked the breath from my soul. It was like running at top speed with stiff exhaustion, sprained ligaments, and torn muscles, stopping one step away from heartbreak. The ligaments have healed, and the joints have fallen into place, but the breathing is still knocked out, even after all this time. I could wait a month or two, and everything would be back to normal, but it would be risky. I might need to give my best once again, which would lead to much more serious injuries that developed from under-treated little things.

Calming the breathing.

Becoming calm again.

Equilibrate the shifted scales.

Assemble yourself piece by piece and combine the pieces of the mosaic.

It was undeniably more complex than even the most fancy energy manipulations, heavier than the most sophisticated planar techniques, even if I didn't have the right words to describe my actions. It was incommensurably simpler than the most mundane things. Easier than taking a step, easier than inhaling, easier than exhaling. Was it a superfine manipulation of my shell, or was some type of psychoanalysis perverted in its odd form? I have no idea, but one thing I can say for sure is that when I opened my eyes after an eternity and at the same time after only a single moment, I did feel better.

I did not heal my soul, I did not rid my essence of the contagion that had taken root in it, and I did not remove the question marks I had received for my deeds from the race column of my Status. But that tearing, that tugging, aching pain in a place you don't have but which has always been with you was gone without a trace. The inhale felt surprisingly sweet, and the exhale was lighter than a feather. A mental effort and a mosaic of thousands of visions scattered before my eyes, ready at any moment to regain clarity, submitting to the thirst for knowledge. A moment of concentration and sang a long song, a lovely poem, and a hymn embodying the abomination of the particles of mirrors, serving as the outer protective contour of the ritual hall. A fleeting wish and every shadow in the area became ready to turn to whatever I wished, be it a blade, be it a lash, be it a breach, be it a summoned Shadow. The lightest wish and the essence overflowing my vessel swelled into a thousand streams, ready to become the creation I wished it to be.

I was back to normal again.

I was myself again.

And now, nothing could stand between me and my goal.

And my goal never changed. To get as far away from the Eternal as possible, or more simply, to get the fuck out of here.

The packing had to be done in a somewhat unaccustomed hurry. Until the moment of recovery, the entire team was too focused on my healing. Thoughtfully mopping up all our traces of being anywhere, clearing traps, and removing barriers is not a quick job. And some of those things, like working with mirror structures, could only be done by me alone. Well, to do it without risking turning myself into some disgusting thing.

We could have gotten away without any unnecessary precautions, but I didn't want to leave any clues for further search. Especially Dream's clues, as I know very well who can come to such a light. I had to check my adventures in the Library to see the consequences of my actions because I had no strength and no desire to do so. Tia alone couldn't have gotten this far without being exposed.

"Losius, dammit!" Taria, in charge of packing her personal belongings, was in a state preceding uncontaminated rabies. "Who are you? You're a duelist, right? Then why the fuck do you need three chests of dusty bricks!!!?"

The nobleman himself met the fury of the girl who had almost changed class into a berserker with stoic calmness, a condescending smile, and hidden anxiety for his collection of "bricks." The literature he during our voyage through the capital's sights managed to accumulate quite a lot, using the book site named after Konstantin Yurievich. Knowing where you can quickly find, buy, or steal the book you want so it is not noticed or thought of by someone else, it is quite easy to get what you want. He even managed to get Tia involved in solving this problem while I was lying there - both food for thought for him and training in clairvoyance for her.

"There are only two and a half chests of books in there, my companion." He parried, simultaneously closing the chests with his own back. "Some of them will be quite useful to us in the future, being all sorts of reference books on the wild lands. Other papers are not books at all, being collections of maps of varying quality and purpose, as well as..."

"Losius!" The guy's arguments were listened to carefully and ignored. "There are three chests of junk in there! Unnecessary stuff! We're leaving with fucking nothing! We can't just leave it in the stash and pick it up later, can we?"

Sitting behind the wall and listening intently to the two of them arguing, all I could do was sigh tiredly. Everyone's nervous, everyone's in a hurry, and everyone wants to get this mess over with as soon as possible. I'm really pushing the group, but it would be foolish to delay. Everyone agrees with me on this one. We're already running late. We could have left before the ritual was even performed, and we wouldn't have wasted time on further healing. There would have been nothing to do in the arms of Green Tits anyway, so I would have healed quietly, compensating for the strain received during the escape with additional ritualists. Among the orcs and goblins, some had received ritualized gifts from Hestia and had mastered them enough to assist Tia, and a couple of them could take Tia as an assistant if the ritual was tantric, tied to lust and sex. Besides jokes, the ritual performed by the elf could be performed in a "lewd" form, and it would not be much more difficult to perform. And by reagents, it would be cheaper.

In this world, phrases about "healing sex and life-giving blowjobs" are not considered jokes, as the method is extremely effective. Aside from jokes, quite a few curses or other status defeats are preferred to be removed in three main ways. Through fellow Malefic, perhaps of a different class aimed at breaking curses, but still Malefic in nature. Through strong ecclesiastical rituals, a boon almost any cleric knows how to deal with curses in one way or another. Or through tantric practices...

However, in our case, we should say not "the third most popular method of curse removal" but "about three percent of the services provided in this market." Yes, it is widespread, but it is still rarely used. Masters of such a class and the right level are hard to find, and there are also problems among these practices. It is more common to combine such practices with malefic (with Witches and the like) or priesthood (with Priests of the respective deities).

"Next basket, please." Hestia interrupts my flight of fancy, also taking part in the elimination of 'radioactive waste'. "I'm done with these."

"Of course, please." Without turning around, Tia nudges the basket she wove from the shoots she had grown towards the monster that had taken on an inhuman appearance. "Tin, don't get distracted."

Well, I agree. Everyone is busy, and Kostik is thinking about tits and how to use them. I take another piece of mirror in my hands, and then I slowly pull the main charge of Dream out of it, leaving only the very minimum, so it wouldn't crack, releasing the rest of the available power in it. If such a nasty thing happened, it wouldn't be dangerous, but it would be unpleasant. The mirror itself is a window to another world, and even more so after my treatment. No matter how much energy I siphon from it, it will renew itself unless I change the entire structure of the shard for safety reasons.

I could have done it alone, but time and energy demanded otherwise. First, collect all the shards. In the battle with the cultists, I had either destroyed or ruined most of the deceptions, but there were still defenses in the reserve warehouses that needed to be put away as quietly and quickly as possible. The option of extinguishing, blackening them all remotely, and using one of the large mirrors, was too dangerous right now. Dream's users were being searched all over the city and searched far better than the guys from the House of a Thousand Spectacles had been.

I can either manage or fall into someone else's trap, and the mere possibility of getting caught is enough for Tia to take the longer route. For once, I agree with her here. I don't want to disturb the Weaver because whatever bad thing is hanging over the city, if any, but the good grandfather is definitely real and very dangerous.

Doing once: Konstantine stabilizes the mirror as much as possible without destroying it, spending minimum effort and time while completely extinguishing Dream's external background from the object infused with it.

Making two: Tia immediately wraps the stabilized shard in a piece of symbol-covered cloth, which took all the spare and unnecessary silk fabric that several dresses and costumes were deemed unsuitable for transport and further use in the wild lands.

Making three. The shard wrapped in a piece of silk falls into a druidic basket, inside of which a silencing closed field of shielding type is maintained, preventing the shard from regaining its power reserves by drawing them from Dream, falling into the company of fellow shards already placed there.

Make four. We give the basket to Hestia, who fills the creation of druidic art with her mist, literally creating a small gap into the depths of the indifferently devouring all-everything Mist.

Make five. After Mist takes the contents of the basket without leaking outside of it, thanks to Hestia's efforts and Tia's enchantments, the basket is tossed into an oak barrel standing in the middle of the largest room, in which an alchemical and completely smokeless grayish-green flame blazes.

Here is such simple math, saving the Eternal from the threat of getting contaminated by Dream in that version of the future where some of the mirrors will not be found to try to find the audacious us through them. Dream seeping into reality is no match for Shadow, as it is almost impossible to notice this power in small amounts. And it's hard to notice it in large quantities, too, to be honest, until the direct distortions of reality begin. Small particles of the power of mirrors will give nightmares, all sorts of forms of progressive madness, or even become beacons and doors for the inhabitant of the looking glass who broke through into someone's dreams. In short, be a normal person, take care of the environment, and clean up after your picnics.

All preparations are complete, and we can run out of the city at any moment, either by literally running and sneaking over the walls or blatantly passing through the gates. All the tails were cleaned up, the appearance was changed by makeup and potions, and thin bodies were hidden by painstakingly molded in advance Shadows, which everyone wore, including Losius, who had lost a third of the library, and Tia, who had her ways of disguising herself. Things were divided into the most important valuables hung in the bags, just valuables stacked in shoulder bags, and the "pity to leave" stuff on the cart. It would seem in this situation, what else could one wish for but to leave calmly and thoughtfully in the English way? Actually, there is nothing more to wish for, so that's exactly what we did.

"We shouldn't have brought the cart after all." Hans decided to seize the moment and grumble until Taria or I wasn't willing to do it. "It would have been better if we'd used our legs, but now we'll have to sit here until we get there. Why are they so dead?"

The horses, two in number, obviously out of a desire to spoil my life again, were indeed a bit frail. We took literally the first available transport, not intending to use it longer than necessary to get to the nearest forest, where we switched to normal speed, leaving the "sorry to throw away" in the stash.

"There was an old tale among the soldiers about a group of saboteurs who bought a cart and half-dead nags to escape from an enemy city." Hestia decided to defuse the situation, preventing another whining on an absent cause. "I can't judge her truthfulness, for she's older than I am, it seems. But the story goes like this..."

While we were silently listening to a funny tale about how a high-class saboteur and his three comrades accidentally activated a legendary artifact they had stolen, which gave half-dead horses the ability to fly and manipulate the Flame at a very high level, and then they rode those same horses away from the pursuit, I stared unblinkingly at the blue-blue sky, clutched the mirrors with the images stolen from the Library, and was almost peaceful.

"Time changes the canvas of events so much, especially in the memory of those whose lives have never been touched by eternity." Tia, who was listening attentively to the anecdote, allowed herself the slightest smile, which looked surprisingly appropriate on a face that seemed human because of the makeup. "Your story is mostly false, but the event that was the seed from which the tree of misconceptions sprouted was the following..."

Tia's story was no less interesting, even if she didn't try to make it funny. Where Hestia was telling a joke, the elf was telling a real drama. There were no saboteurs, only one high-level thief, one of the best of his era. And he stole not a legendary artifact but a vial with divine essence, stealing it directly from the altar of the Grimmentray's primordial temple. And he broke this value not by accident but quite deliberately when he realized that he could not escape in time, and several Heralds appeared in reality much faster than his calculations. And those horses didn't fly. They just ran very fast (they took off once due to the springboard effect), strengthened by the flow of essence so much that they turned into quasi-Heralds, albeit weaker than those to whom the essence was predetermined from the beginning.

He had escaped then, managing to slip through outposts and patrols, penetrating the city walls. Then he had many other things to do, much more complicated than stealing that vial and dealing with a client who didn't get what he wanted. True, his deeds, as befits a good thief, were never publicized. The only thing worth mentioning was the theft of one of the Keys to the Undermountain Kingdom. An artifact capable of manipulating the defense systems, rune circuits, and control circuits of almost all heavy and super-heavy mechanical golems made by dwarves. This thing was bought back from the humans, useless for anyone who was not a bearer of the blood of the Overlord of the Mountains or the Lord of the Subsoil, at such a price that it was uncomfortable to even remember.

The story of that virtuoso ended when the Eternal Forest closely took care of him, having managed to bribe his partner and apprentice, who, hiding in her thief's analog of extra-existence, enhanced with potions and artifacts of elves, slipped an interesting stupefying powder to her teacher, lover, and benefactor. The lady was honestly paid off, at the same time providing her with shelter and patronage (she trained young elves for a long time, sometimes working in the field, bringing what the Council of Hierarchs wanted for a separate payment), but her teacher was not so lucky.

Months of interrogations and memory digging, from which they pulled out so much that even now part of it is classified, including from Tia-level security clearance holders, after which the thief, who had become almost a vegetable from regular brainwashing, was handed over to the dwarves who were angry with him. The execution was carried out behind closed doors but became public knowledge in small circles of knowledgeable individuals. The traitor died of old age at a respectable age, unable to delay her death with potions and rituals, leaving behind a very powerful and firmly standing on its feet aristocratic house. However, only three hundred years later, this house was carved up by the elves, who did not appreciate the political actions of the late grandmother's great-grandson.

But, yeah.

The horses were flying and breathing flames. Or rather, they were breathing the Depths and the Heavens, or, to be more precise, the vapor of divine essence disintegrating in the air. They did not breathe like dragons, setting their enemies on fire intentionally, but simply exhaled the power that could not be contained in their bodies, sometimes sneezing, demolishing buildings that got in the way of the sneeze.

A hilarious story that has passed through the ages and become a fable, where in almost every country, there was a hapless thief, spy, or valuables thief who made the nags fly high. A popular and cheerful story with no sad ending, no betrayal, and cynicism.... which is why it's popular.

"Yeah..." Hans, who had forgotten about the scorching spring sun and the slow-moving horses, just said with a downtrodden look.

"Yeah..." Losius, who was listening to the elf's story, agreed with him.

"Fuck." Taria summarized what she had heard, and Hestia nodded silently, adding her opinion to what the men had said or to what her friend had said.

"Don't you think the sky has changed color?" I interrupt the flow of reviews and criticism of the retold blockbuster when I notice the detail I mentioned.

The sky, still as vast and blue as it was possible to admire and so pleasant to look at without thinking about anything, just enjoying the peace, had really changed. It was as if the lightest shade of something else had been added to the blue, and so light that if I hadn't been fucking around looking at the sky for nothing, I would have had a chance of not noticing. Well, the characteristic points gained from the titles helped with perception.

Hans even drove the cart away from the main path, causing the swearing of a drunken man lying in a puddle under the wall of some barn. Here, on the very outskirts of the city, there was enough dirt, the stench of filth, and even beggars, who were not in a hurry to be removed from the sight of the honorable citizens by the omnipresent guards. Probably it was because the guards were in smaller numbers and less presentable, and in general, they had enough to do to fulfill their direct duties.

"Can't say anything." Losius summarizes, lowering his head and shifting his gaze to me, while at the same time, his words are confirmed by the rest of his companions, including even Tia. "The sky is like the sky."

"Trust me, I have two hundred and thirty in Perception," I said, simultaneously rising from my place and driving myself into a light meditation, even if the premonitions were silent, except for the usual intrusive tingling in the periphery of my consciousness, which I'd already gotten used to. "Something's not right here. Get ready to run and dump this junk."

I'm taking a risk, but suspicion from the townspeople who abandoned the cart is, at most, a fine to the guards or a gift to the thieves. That is, until they try to get into the cart with our personal belongings, activating alchemical traps with acid that erases even images, not to mention despicable matters. And we're not abandoning anything. We're just nervous.

The sky is blue.

But a different blue, not the usual blue.

Breathe in and out.

I sift through everything and anything, but I find nothing at all. No feelings, no danger, nothing, a big, fat nothing, multiplied by a hundred and raised to the degree of "dick." It wasn't a flap, or a trick, or anything else, no. It's just that I really don't see anything suspicious, and only the pumped perception that saw a microscopic color change in the sky blue kept me from believing it.

Shadows moved, trying to probe the cobblestones and dirt of the outer city but finding only dirt and people scurrying about their business and a quarter hobbit with two bodyguards. In passing, I wring the neck of a maniac chasing some girl, reviving his shadow and dragging him into a deserted alley, but I see nothing else. I call out to the mirrors, but they find nothing and reflect nothing, even though I'm wary of cranking up their mad song to full power. I inhale deeply, wrinkling my nose at the stench again, but now I also listen to the contents of the air with an alchemical sense. There was no poison, no complex toxins, nothing unusual, except for a slight whiff of incense stored in one of the barns, and the odor was so light that only with an alchemical analysis running in my lungs could I detect its presence.

In the end, having already waved my hand and signaled to my companions to calm down, I used one of my legendary perks, obtained for two hundred Perceptions, and froze like a stone statue. The Eye of the Watcher habitually tries to blow up the brain, pouring into my head the pictures as if thousands of images from video cameras - other people's eyes. In the city, I prefer not to activate this thing, as it presses on the brain quite hard. It's not dangerous. It's just uncomfortable. Information overload, just like it was at first with the shadow sphere, only it's harder to get used to.

"Strange..." I muttered and sat up, ignoring the drain on my reserve. Thankfully it wasn't that significant. "Very strange."

"Strange, what?" Hans, without even asking too many questions, started pulling out his favorite bone knives, which were more like very short swords soaked in essence to the core. "Or who?"

The eyes.

The eyes.

The eyes are everywhere.

The pictures are constantly shifting, following pupil movements, blinking, appearing when new eyeball wearers enter the perk's field of action, and disappearing when someone leaves that field. I see with my eyes, I see with my eyes, but one place attracts me too much, attracts me wrong. In a way, it shouldn't.

An ordinary labor yard or workhouse - carpenters, a bunch of woodworkers, five shoemakers, and a shitty blacksmith who can shoe a horse for you at three times the price if the horseshoe is in disrepair. Clairvoyance meets no obstacles and sees nothing unusual. Familiar fates visible from beginning to end, familiar daily routine, discernible through the Eye. Here are a couple of cooks delivering dinner, here are two bums quietly drinking liquor, and here are a couple of almost married couples kissing in a secluded corner. They would only have to wait until the end of the decade, and they could get married.

It's all right.

But...

A moment.

The eyes.

The eyes.

Blinking.

Synchronously, at once, every single eye of every single worker in the labor yard blinks. No, they blink all the time, not standing out among the other eyes of ordinary citizens, but only on the territory of this place, at a certain moment, approximately once a minute, all the inhabitants make synchronized blinking, yes, so synchronized that you could take them all to the Olympic Games. And all this with complete, absolute silence in clairvoyance and absence of any sources of abnormality, where even the magnificent me cannot suspect anything.

I'm kind of worried.

We should get out of here.

Oh, who am I kidding? I can always get away, but it's worth checking, even from afar.

"South, two streets down." I give the introductions, forcing everyone to focus, and Tia rolls her eyes, leaving only the whites visible, falling into a trance. "This place is weird. Something's wrong with them. We should check it out."

I heroically ignore the strange looks from all sides, even from the still-eye-rolling Tia. Believe it or not, I'll really only look, and in the worst case, I'll just set guards on the place. Or an alchemical bomb... which is exactly the kind of thing you should bring, and more powerful.

We left the cart unattended, putting only the silver in the clutches of the guards who had already started to agitate about why we had stopped here in an unauthorized place.

"My sister-in-law forgot to check on her cousin, and now she's remembered, cu... I mean, we love her. We respect her, and we're gonna go see her right now." I immediately corrected the swear word that was about to come out of my mouth, and then I gave the guard another silver coin. "Let the cart stand, eh? Half an hour... an hour. So we come back, and it's still here, eh?"

Being a guard in Eternal is prestigious, but even in Eternal, there are some districts where they send the most unnecessary, stupid, and lazy. And for these guys, two silver pieces for a couple of hours of standing next to a cart, with a real possibility of getting the same amount on their return, having intimidated a well-to-do villager with some fines, is a great way to spend an evening. I had only the slightest effect on the not-too-clever brains of the servant of the law so he would not wonder where the villager got the two silver coins he had so easily parted with. It was a lot of money for the common people.

"I can't find anything unless you count the theft of the steward's assistant." With one lip, Tia said, having already finished her scan. "Something else hidden from me?"

"It's complicated out there," I replied with the same barely audible movement of my lips, relying more on the exchange of images. "You can't understand it without the right perk, but.... check."

While the elf and I were exchanging data packets as if we were two Wi-Fi routers, the rest of the company was discreetly separating so as not to crowd forward, approaching the desired point from different directions. And the dancer, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the manure cart that passed by her, cursed in a whisper at all the seers and vowed to try to master this art herself.

In and out, it's just a five-minute peek and that's it.

"Isn't this the honorable Dyannok's workhouse?" Like a fool, I asked the big man who stood in my way, chewing tobacco gum and staring at me gloomily. "I have a friend who works there. He's a red-haired, rumpy-haired guy named Tosh. Well, or Shovel, if among men, he once nearly killed his grandfather with a shovel when he turned around at the sound."

That kind of person really works there, blinking along with everyone else, but in terms of simple logic a win-win move. If I was imagining it, they'll just let me in and I'll have to wash another brain with Dream. If my friend doesn't recognize me, it'll be weird. But the result of my request was different - a feeling of apprehension and panic, barely recognizable by clairvoyance, and the eye widened with surprise. At the same time, I felt for a second that the level of this man with a seven in his status wasn't real at all. An alarming sign, very alarming. If his disguise fooled my gut and the Hero's Gaze. If he tries to invite me inside, I'm going to ignore everything and get the hell out of here.

Just remember what's important. All I have to do is ask. That is, only to shit and get away, at most in goodbye doing a meanness, not spotlighting planar classes. Don't engage in combat, don't play hero. Don't play Hero either. Assign these guys to the people who should be dealing with them. Even without considering the Eyes, the city has a bunch of guards, personal military units of guilds, small armies of trading houses and noble families, and even their Chained Ones. Let them handle it, and I'll show them where to drop the napalm. That's all.

"What are you doing here, huh?" But the guard, judging by the well-hidden irritation of the "bouncer," is a real one. "What do you want, you peasants?"

My heightened clairvoyance knows the guard is on the payroll and probably a slight compulsion, which I can't see either, but only logically justify. He was put there to keep away any annoying visitors, but now he's nothing but trouble. Whatever it is inside, it doesn't match what I saw. The guard started to show excitement when I told him the "dossier" on one of the blinkers. And if this blinker was put here to deceive the visionaries, then the very fact that I'm trying to get in through this deception tells them that some powerful visionary has suspicions about a quiet and inconspicuous workhouse.

It was not for nothing this seer had hired a peasant and sent him here to probe the ground. Whatever their answer is, it's a mess. If they disappear this peasant, or if they mess with his head, or whatever, but if they've brought in powerful seers, it's already bad. And what is characteristic is the brute at the entrance was able to understand all this (even if I judge it from the miserable scraps of data usually available to me)! Do they have such brutes, or is it a special day when informed and dangerous guys stand as scarecrows at the entrance?

And the color of the sky.

Oj wey, it's not good.

I'm gonna finish this quickly and run out.

"Are you a tough guy?" While I'm thinking about it, the corrupt guard and five of his colleagues are already coming to take me to jail, ignoring the fact that I'm not violent. "Well, let's go through. Let's see who you are and what you're doing in the glorious Eternal. You're probably involved in lawbreaking, aren't you?"

"No need to be troubled, honorable Parn." Interrupting his usual tirade, designed to 'bag' the right person in the local party van, was the polite voice of a man who came out of the gate. "This man just came to check on his friend working on loading now. Everything is in order, and there is no need to detain him. I can't take you to Tosh right now, but if you agree to wait, you can see him in a couple of hours."

The voice is unfamiliar, and the appearance is also unfamiliar and unremarkable, but the very manner of polite speech, complete calmness, and some kind of strange benevolence cause flashbacks. Because not so long ago, me, well, not quite me, was already kicked by such a polite uncle. And according to the data received through the Sphere and the Eye, this man is now still supervising the loading of fresh brushwood for drying, not standing in front of me.

That's it.

No one's gonna let me leave in peace now.

"Oh, thanks, man!" I immediately took the initiative, guided by the supernova-like Soul of the Mocker, while sending the right signals to the team not to get too close. They are so tough here, so they can notice. "You're quite the man. Do you want to hear the story of the Stagecoach That Could?"

"If it's interesting, I'd love to listen to it." The disguised creature said, unwaveringly and kindly. "It's better to tell it inside than outside, isn't it?"

There's no effect on consciousness, so I didn't rush to play the part. And even if there was an impact, I wouldn't let myself be dragged inside anyway, so we continue to press morally and intellectually.

"Well, it's a two-minute story, no need to go anywhere." Doing my best to play the role of a dumb village man who doesn't understand the hints, I started my story. "So, it was necessary for the soldiers to drag a whole stagecoach full of all sorts of goodies, military stuff, across the Alishan steppes..."

Constantly stumbling, waving my hands, causing anger at the bouncer and the guards who didn't know where to go, I began to remake a classic scene from an almost forgotten comedy in the Alurean way. The hardest thing was to speak, gesticulate, and stay in such a way that I would not be shut up, taken aside, or knocked out quietly while remaining within the framework of just "a very stupid and unapologetic man, perhaps not even fake or sincerely believing that his friend works here. The audience is as fastidious as Stanislavsky himself. However, I manage at the very end of the speech to say the necessary quotations not in my voice (or rather, in the voice of this particular mask as a redneck) but in the voice of the dead Pypysh Popyatchev.

"...there's a bloody mess, guts all over the place, and then a cabbie crawls out from under the stagecoach, missing both legs and with a plank up his ass. It fucking hurts like a motherfucker! But he crawls up and says to his commanding officer. He says, "Bane, I can't feel my legs!" And he says, "Boobga, you don't have any!"

T.N. Again it's reference. Boobga, you don't have any

Back on earth, I had seen this trick in horror movies, when a person's face on TV turns into a distorted fearsome face in a second. It was easier here because nothing anatomically impossible for a human face had happened, but it was still scary. Especially against the background of the instant loss of calmness and the transition from benevolence to non-human hatred, which was absolutely freezing with its genuine sincerity.

"The owls bring your souls back in their wings, right?" Unable to contain the wave of emotion surging over him, the creature squeezed out in a sickeningly sweet tone, rapidly losing its disguise as a mere human, causing the sense of danger to grate unpleasantly on his heart and ass. "HATE!"

It upset him almost to the point of tears! And even in battle, it did not lose its collected and calm look, as if it did not care about the battle and postmortem with the hobbit who had turned into a creature. I would have been proud of myself if it hadn't been for the fact that the creature, right under the gaze of the guards, who were stunned by such a transformation and almost physically palpable threat and abomination, didn't try to grab me with a memorable gentle touch that dissolves the soul in a couple of seconds.

Fast.

Very fast.

And the guard, though obviously weaker, is not a weakling either and would rather support his boss or Hell lord in attacking the man who has angered him inexplicably. Dangerous enemies, really dangerous. In the same wild lands, I have not often met such unpleasant nasties, but all this future fighting and possible problems pale before the blossoming in the depths of my soul joyful delight, which can only be understood the one who lived on the Internet and forums for the sake of other people's anger and rage.

I made his butt hurt.

This fight had to be done quickly, as quickly as possible. To reveal my "prince-killing shadow user self" as well as my "mirror-infiltrator self" would mean the beginning of another session of a fun and exciting hunt for my head by the evil uncles and aunts, who are in the power of the Empire of Ages. I have a chance to use the element of surprise only at the beginning of the fight because the creature is waiting for the same Dream-based techniques from the resurrected Pypyshch, not shadow magic, which is deadly for the spawn of Hell.

All the magic and all the abilities of the Devils are largely built upon the souls they have received, redeemed in the pure energy of the Hell and untold hours of torture devised by the perverts. From the souls, they draw strength, energy, their vices, and all the things that make them Devils. Incredible strength, variation, and flexibility in attack, power, and indestructibility in defense. If need be, they strike, burning souls to the ground, plunging them completely into the Vice, dissolving to the brink and beyond the very essence of the entities caught in their grasp. If necessary, any blow will be taken on the souls of others, preserving the Devil from damage and making him pay for his unharmedness only by reducing his sonm.

Most Realms, especially elemental ones, are of little use in combat with these scum. Divine energies are the only weapons effective enough against the devils. The All-Burning Sun is powerful and dangerous, but it cannot illuminate that which resides simultaneously in Hell and Reality. The all-seeing Light crushes the veil of Vice and protects the user, but the full power of its truth is powerless against the creatures who enjoy this truth. All-defiling Darkness devours and turns itself, gives to eternal and endless madness all that stands in its way, but it is too hard for its grip to snatch from the clutches of the Devils those souls that they considered their own and were able to prove their rights to them. All of these planes can stand up to Hell in battle but are unable to gain a decisive advantage, fighting on equal footing at best. Death, Darkness, Heaven, even the exotic and rarely seen Dream. Against all of these, the Devils have a trump card, the right collection of souls, twisted and broken, to help in the battle against former siblings.

Shadow is hunger, the desire to take and devour, to share the agony of its existence with the whole world. In the embrace of creatures that hate Light and Darkness, only death awaits any soul - quick, painful, agonizing, but so unstoppable - and the very agony of the Shadow's existence protects it from the influence of the Aspects of the messengers of Hell better than any other defense. Only for the Shadows, whose hunger knows no bounds, will the creatures of Hell be, first and foremost, great shining bunches of naked and unprotected souls. For them, all that remains is to take those souls, and the objections of the spewers worry the Shadows about as much as the objections of anyone else.

What's my point?

And the point is that if there is an opponent more convenient for me in the ratio of net damage and defense, I do not know about them. Yes, devils are deadly in their ways, and their experience and knowledge often exceed any imaginable limits. They are social, intelligent, organized, and quite often fight not as the creatures I am used to but as if they were humans, elves, or other intelligent beings. Cunning tricks, tactics, and strategy, analyzing the situation. You can't expect predictable rage from them, even if it's backed up a thousand times by centuries of experience and beastly cunning. Fighting them, prepare to fight as a high-level endoweв, only a creature. It is why they are feared and why they are hated more than the spawn of any other plane... although their passion for collecting souls and what they do with those souls or any living captives they have somehow gotten their hands on has played its part.

And yet, I'm a dangerous enough opponent for them to be able to, with luck...

Touch-punch misses narrowly to the shrieks of my gut, but I don't show any more reaction speed than I had in Pypyshch's body until the very last moment. The Aegis, used in time, could repel such an abomination quite confidently, but I still didn't want to risk it at all.

But I took a risk.

A step to the side, and I grasped tightly the outstretched hand of the creature that had put on its new meat puppet of a human, ignoring the sweet tenderness that came from the touch and the longing to dissolve in that tenderness. It doesn't even count against the background of my usual "burn your brains out" adventures. Is it even okay if I'm grateful now for Shadow's constant attempts to take me away?

A jerk at myself, into which the creature goes with sincere joy and hatred, seeking to embrace and kiss me with its whole body, to pull out the hated soul that dared to prevent it, that dared to survive that fight, that dared to give the unbearable pleasure of the death of a lover and the failure of love to save a mortal, but then took the gift back. Depriving this creature of the pleasure it cherished, of the meaning of its existence - for such hatred could be the only price to pay.

The creature had no time to complete its embrace, nor did it have time to suck me in. Because it's hard to pull his chewed soul out of Kostik when a clawed hand, so black that it seems two-dimensional, from the used Shadow Form is sticking out of the rib cage of your meat body, clutching the rapidly fading heart and, what is much sadder, holding such a sweet bunch of infinitely sweet souls, in the center of which the essence of a high-ranking devil is hidden.

A level forty-three Envoy.

Wow! Once I'd damaged the shell, the real gut came right out! Before the battle in the Library, he was ten levels higher, if not fifteen. Or rather, before he escaped from the battle they had formally won. How many souls did it take to break through the altar room's defenses and escape with kitty Shmielae and valuable artifacts? Good, because I might not have had time to intercept the creature in full strength. They destroyed Pypysh very quickly, and if it hadn't been for the clever trick at the end, I wouldn't have been able to turn their victory into a Pyrrhic victory.

For a second, it just froze, perhaps unable to reconcile the new picture of the world and its imminent absence in it. And then I, clutching at the creature's essence with my Grip and using only a mad effort of will to keep myself from taking so many souls, infusing them into myself and making them part of my power, pumped the limb with as much power as I could and squeezed the Grip on the other's heart.

Crackle.

Rustle.

A hushed moan of pain and pleasure.

And the liberated swarm of souls flew upward in a chorus of golden lights. Some of them were not bound to Hell but directly to the creature and its essence. A small part, too small, but still free now, going where they'd been kept from going for so long.

It was so easy that it was a shame. In a normal, fair fight, that thing would have given me a hard time. If at all, it would have died instead of nailing me - it would have been very stupid to underestimate an opponent who possessed un-existence, who was capable of direct soul attacks, who had a powerful planar boost, and who could transfer my blows to captured souls.

With a sharp movement, I dodge the bright purple firefly that whistled past my head, almost imperceptible but too full of easily recognizable sweetness and anticipation not to sense it with foresight. Behind my back, a cabin crumbles into toxic and corrupting dust, turning me into a dangerous madman with a single breath, and the guard slumps to the ground, rapidly glazing and crystallizing. The needle sticking out of the dead man's shoulder, smeared with my compound, had nothing to do with it.

I throw a vial of negator behind my back, partially deactivating the zombie dust and causing it to stop moving toward the souls of others. The stuff remains dangerous, but at least now, only those who try to touch it with their fingers will die. Well, it looks like I've almost accomplished my task by finding the Cult and bringing it to light. It's time to live, but I'll end on a good note, I guess.

"That's..." The commander, unlike his subordinates, shocked by the creature's transformation as much as its mind-blowing aura, can still speak, not unlike the fact that almost all of the flare's impact came directly at me. "Fucking inhuman!"

The creature was indeed losing its human form, which was sliding away from a body rapidly disintegrating into ashes and pure energy, revealing the snow-white flesh of an abomination resembling a sexless antique statue. Features too perfect and yet frightening to grasp as the corpse turned to nothing. It's not even an ominous valley here, but an entire sinister canyon and the Mariana Trench. It was not possible to watch for long, however, because the real body of the creature crumbled even faster than the false one.

"Uh-huh." I agree with the guard who didn't come to his senses, and then I jump away from the building in a step of shadows, finding myself two hundred meters away, throwing forward a vial with its contents glowing with a cold blue light. "Wait here."

I've been wanting to try it out for a long time, but I never had the right moment, and this was an opportunity I wouldn't forgive myself for. It was only a few seconds after the fight had started, but the fact that no one had come out to kick my ass said only one thing: they were busy with something. And I'd better not let them finish, or they'll open a portal and run off into the fog, leaving me to deal with the Imperials. The vial flew without excesses and crashed with a light bang against the inner wall of the workhouse, flying over the outer buildings and exploding inside the perimeter.

Coldness.

Coldness.

Coldness!

Three things I can say. First, I underestimated the power of the resulting composition because it was supposed to cover only the target, but it would have covered the people passing by. Secondly, there was some kind of magical protection, resembling a funnel structure rising upwards, because the stream of absolute cold went into the spring skies without really hitting anyone, as if all the essence was lifted by the air current, practically without touching even the building. Thirdly, there was obviously some very important ritual of immense complexity and danger that could not be interfered with. Otherwise, I don't know why the whole area of that barrier (i.e. the entire workhouse with its outbuildings and random passers-by) could, a moment after the concentrated essence hit it, blink beautifully with pink light and crumble with splinters, dust, and bloody suspension.

With pain shooting through my temples, I realize that the reason I saw all those fates of blinking people with such ease and deceptive plausibility is that they were really there. All nine-odd dozen souls who were left with only the faces cut from their bodies were pasted on one of the walls of the main building. Only faces, motionless, silent, and weeping at their fate, aware of everything that had happened to them from beginning to end. The eye caught the blinks simply because it was at these moments that the enchantments holding the faces on the wall, and the souls in the faces, allowed the eyes to close for a moment, moistening the cornea. It was the very essence of the closed field that was tied to the eyes, fooling clairvoyance and even sensory skills or perks like Eye, Sphere, and hell knows what else. Typical magic performed by Devils, almost classic in its typicality.

The wreckage of the building was still crumbling, and the wave of planar force had scorched the souls of all the bystanders and unlucky guards, except for one who had run away when the Envoy showed his face. Still, I was smart not to let my own get close. I'll have to dissolve Losius's book collection with acid and run light, as we'd originally intended.

I've accomplished my troll mission with an A+. Whatever the cult was doing here, there was nothing left for it to do now, and they could crush them without me. The Eyes are already furious, and not without my humble participation, and they'll be happy for a chance to vent their anger on someone.

Having signaled to my guys on the rallying point through the stolen shadows they wore, I was about to jump when the sky, which had already alarmed me once, caught my eye. The sky rapidly changed color from blue to a dark purple something, diverging in a cone from where the workhouse used to stand. Diverging from a few dozen other places, too. If I estimate the speed of the color change correctly, then very soon, the entire sky...

No.

No.

Please, no!

Well, that's overkill, even for my phenomenal luck!

The shroud of something old, something that had long been in the back of my mind, something that tasted of copper blood, the sweetness of expensive floral honey, and the putrid aroma of decaying flesh were rapidly falling from my eyes. Something that had always been right on me, on my eyes, on all of us, like a huge dirty canvas covering the real picture. Not letting me see the truth, taking every bit of it as if it were another thread that would be woven into a beastly embroidery made of other people's lives, souls, and pain.

Chime.

And I just know that no teleporter, be it a massive cargo one, an insanely expensive personal one, or even the maximally protected departmental one used by the first people of the state, will transport anything and anyone outside the capital, just as it won't let anyone inside. Not a single technique, not a single amulet, not a single contracted spirit. Space swelled, hardened, and seemed to begin to boil, nullifying any attempts to stop its permanence.

Chime.

All temples lose their connection with their patrons in an instant, as if an impenetrable wall of other people's moans and cries of ecstasy had been erected between them. The temple altars have become mere storage, able to utilize only what they already contain and not a penny more. Clerics of all but the most powerful ones have dropped a dozen and a half levels at once, and their prayers will now be mere words, empty requests, and promises without fulfillment, and few will have the faith to break through this wall.

Chime.

Contracts and summons, apart from the strongest, would not be able to find the city that was rapidly falling somewhere, as if it had disappeared from all maps and even from reality itself. The connection with other planes was also rapidly weakening, remaining open only for really powerful adepts but not for weaklings, who were unarmed and exhausted.

Chime.

The defenses that sheltered Eternal were steadily dissolving, smearing, and drowning in molasses flows that closed almost, and in some places even without any almost, reasonable charms from the desperate call of their creators and masters. And everywhere, at every turn, those who should have stood in defense of the city and its inhabitants were met with betrayal, backstabbing, and incompetence by those who did not betray directly. Cult agents were everywhere, and now that they didn't even try to hide their images filled with other people's ecstasy, pain, and borrowed power, it was as obvious as two times two.

Chime.

Chime.

Chime.

Chime.

It seemed that the sky itself began to sing, began to send lust-filled and depraved visions to everyone under that sky. It was still the sky, just the sky of another world, another place. Not Alurei but Hell.

We arrived at the point exactly on time, delayed only for a dozen seconds, but we were all pumped up enough not to fall at a single glance upward, not to go into spasms of orgasm like the townspeople who had caught the phenomenon and had not had time to hide in their houses. And those who had time were not much better off.

We were all silent for a moment, even if it was just a moment later that we all burst into action and worked to save our skins. The silence lingered for six beats of adrenaline-fueled heartbeats, and then it was broken by Taria's slightly hysterical laugh:

"T, I thought you said..."

Everyone understood what exactly "said" the dancer wanted to say. But she did not have time to finish because the elven liquidator, in one movement, turned to her, took her hands by her cheeks, and stretched them to the sides, thus making a funny and in a different situation hilarious face and asking very heartfelt:

"Taria, shut up."

Hmm, I don't know what to say in this situation. A pep talk? Make a joke? Give an inspirational speech? Use multi-layered profanity? Do a lezginka dance? Offer a final fuck?

Oh, yeah!

I remember!

"I warned you!"

That's it! Now we can start thinking about options to get out of the ass and start screaming in panic.

* * *