In the life of every person in my home world, there's a right to a left... I mean, a chance for a miracle. On the expanses of Alurei, this chance is actually much higher because Miracles happen here regularly, sometimes even on schedule. Alas, it was the Miracle with a capital letter that could not save us because the devil's army had quite sensibly reinsured on this account. So our miracle was with a small letter, but it did not become less desirable. To be honest, it was not even a miracle, being a consequence of our actions multiplied by a fraction of luck and the presence of a very good clairvoyant in the defenses of the capital of the Eternal Empire.

You see, but when our suicide team gave the ritual a little blue screen of death, most of the Golden Feather Guild's occupied devils tried to smoke us out. And in doing so, bare their defenses, focusing on trying to save the unsalvageable. And the human forces, bitten in the ass all the way down to their throats, were able to grasp this moment and decided to use the sudden openness to their advantage.

To be sure, the army defending the Golden Feather had not suffered much, at least not numerically, from the attempts to take out those who were trapped in the ritual hall. But quite a few of the elite and senior officers were not in their positions but in front of that very door. Among the Imperials there was a person influential enough to be able to sharply and quickly raise all the forces entrusted to him to attack on the mere cry of the clairvoyant "guys, we have to take it". And the Empire of the Ages, even taking into account the sabotage and unpreparedness for battle, had more than enough forces left.

I realized this truth when the attempts to open the door, which had almost succumbed, stopped, as did the pounding into the walls, and the pressurizing atmosphere of imminent and inevitable doom faded. It did not disappear or even weaken, but where clairvoyance used to say: "Kostik, tu es mort.", there was room for maneuver. At that moment, I was almost ready to believe in world justice, universal equality, and the triumph of communism. This moment quickly passed, but the increased chances did not disappear.

"Wow." Tia was the most surprised by the sudden appearance of a ray of light in the dark kingdom, as the one who knew for sure that last-minute salvation only came in fairy tales.

Then there were a few expressive expressions from each of us, waiting for death, after which our fixed determination to meet death transformed into no less determination not to meet it, and we began to act. Actually, we couldn't open those doors either because only Touch and a couple of his closest assistants had the keys (physical, magical, and intangible). And now, after the almost complete destruction of the door, we could not open it. But we were perfectly able to break it down because there was almost nothing to break down.

The description of the situation took much longer than our actions themselves. Each of us realized the enemies were distracted for a short time and would prefer to get rid of possible problems in the rear as quickly as possible, not trying to carefully infiltrate (especially since the corpse of Touch was twitching less and less, finally dying), but breaking through. We did the only thing that could give us a little more life - we broke out first.

Giver got her finest hour, her moment of glory, when she simply detonated all of her puppets, along with their sonms, and in a few beats of her heart, she emptied all of their supplies, putting them all on one blow. The puppets died with groans and smiles on their lips (on those who had those lips), but they had accomplished their goal, dropping the gates along with pieces of the wall that held them.

Each of us was hit by the storm of energies she'd released, but I covered everyone from it by simply Manifesting a piece of reality around us, making it too Shadow to obey the laws of the rest of the world and overlaying standard shadow barriers on top of it in a slightly obscene amount. It crumpled that defense quite noticeably, washing away almost all the barriers and reducing the volume of manifested space threefold, but nothing got to our fragile bodies. Most of the defense, to be frank, was eaten not by the echoes of the dolls' detonation but by a wave of distortion born from the displacement of the ritual hall's space and the rest of the world. It was not for nothing that the exit from isolated parts of the universe should always be as soft as possible - if there was no softness, it would be easier to jump into an industrial crusher, and at least it would be less painful.

The same wave, even if it was incomparably weaker than the one we'd gotten, hit the creatures gathered behind the breach a little. They were also crushed a little by the gate, but that would not have held them all back for a moment. Their shields held, though, for they had managed to put up a whole bunch of barriers, combining them into a monolithic armor that combined Vice, planar manifestations supported by captured souls, and even conceptual influences. What they didn't hold back was Giver, who rushed forward ahead of us all with a frenzied caress, starting to replace us right in a leap.

The mixture of the creature's personal talents, the reinforcement given by the Ring, and even more reinforcement from reapplying the Ring showed itself in all its glory. And while before I was (not)much afraid of what came out of it after my modifications, now I was really scared. She rushed forward, literally on the wings of the blast wave and spatial vortices that had not had time to dissipate, which caused Giver's body, covered by some grayish barrier, to receive several deep wounds, but it didn't stop her attack.

A dozen gray, invisible threads that could only be distinguished from the side, only if they were not directed at you, rushed toward the creatures that had just begun their attacks. The barrier does not stop them because these threads simply do not exist anywhere except in the imagination of her and the audience. A conceptual defense could have reflected such a thing, for the sheer punching power of the talent used was not inspiring. But the monolith of enemy shields was not against her fellow devil, and Giver knew perfectly well the tactics of her yesterday's comrades-in-arms.

The threads passed through the barrier, touching each of those she directed them at. Each of the creatures saw the attack that was directed at the others but could not realize that it was also directed at them. A moment later, not even a trace of dust, not even a trace of energy, was left of Giver Caress when six powerful blows converged on her, practically ignoring her defenses, none of which she could even dodge. It was impossible to dodge, as several closed fields and deployed auras prevented any attempt to retreat. My next addition to the ringed ones was gone, erased, gone to zero.

Immediately reincarnated in the body of one of her assassins. It wasn't a replacement teleportation or even a personality rewrite, but something more contrived and devious. She transferred not only her memory but added her sonm to that of the assassin, and even the appearance of the new body, I'm sure, would also change in a matter of minutes, becoming familiar to Giver of Caress. But before those minutes came, inside the cohesive and indestructible devil formation were eleven dolls with overwritten identities and one Giver, gradually sprouting from her receptacle.

Devils are by nature very good at fighting such tricks, for it is the most popular weapon in their arsenal, even if it is usually much smaller in caliber. Yes, they were taken by surprise, but the most Giver could hope for was the destruction of the formation, nothing more. Unless, of course, she repeated her trick... but without the repeated use of such an ultimatum weapon, her dolls and herself would still be slaughtered. Not without loss, not without difficulty, but without a chance of victory.

The only time was playing against the devils again as if the capital of the Empire itself was invisibly helping the people defending its right to be, playing with the Law strictly in favor of anyone opposing the invaders. The creatures were just beginning to realize that Giver's attack might have done something since it had not been repelled or even paid any attention to its existence. Giver and her puppets were just beginning the parade of treacherous blows in the back, and our troupe was already crawling onto the stage. And that's when the music began to play in a new way.

Usually, I was the one who played first fiddle because my shadow barriers could withstand a lot, but today Hestia took over the role of defense, and I literally dove into her mist, hiding inside like a fucking matryoshka doll from a nightmare. She hasn't fully adjusted to her new abilities yet, but she and I are bonded so closely now that she's temporarily accessed my clairvoyance. It's not an all-clear, but it'll keep her from making the dumbest mistakes, and she has her own experience and instincts.

A wave of dense, milky-white mist shot out of the breach, straight toward the enemy attacks, a whole wave of them directed by fighters who hadn't realized Giver's trick in time. Following that wave, close contact specialists were rushing into action, seeking to finish off those who survived the wave by some miracle. We were not going to be underestimated since even Touch could not stop these strange saboteurs.

The attacks went into the mist, and the attackers stepped into the mist and left as well. Out of at least half a dozen creatures of about forty levels each, only six had time to leap backward out of the misty wave as if scalded. And they looked accordingly. The defenses that covered their bodies were barely smoldering, their shells were bubbling from a sharp drop in reserve, a fair share of their souls had disappeared from their hosts, and even their memories, the basis of their twisted minds, were gaping holes. They couldn't even remember what had happened to them in the misty rampart. They were saved only by the same instincts, honed by centuries of battle, that had crushed all thought with one short order to flee without a backward glance.

Those whose instincts did not reach their brains, whose instincts were too quiet, or who simply failed to follow the advice of their gut in time were no longer a problem. Something like a fifth of the gathered elite had already been incapacitated. We had just started and were not going to stop.

Hestia did not continue the attack, though she could still do much. Bristling with their techniques and released sonms, the creatures were not the most comfortable opponent for her, even after all the essence she had given away. Instead of striking, the mist soared upward toward the ceiling, making way for the second wave, represented by the good old Shadows.

When I emerged from the mist, exactly where I wanted to be, unlike the unlucky devils, I immediately unleashed my creation. A piece of something extremely cold, absolute blackness in the guise of a shapeless blot aimed precisely at the center of the enemy formation. Only the power of Manifestation keeps this nightmare, this embodied breach in the depths of the Shadow, wrapped in the wrapping of battle charms, in one piece, not allowing it to tear and suck everything and everyone into this breach.

Perhaps this attack is comparable in strength to the previous one, which I used to kill Touch, but the principle of its operation is completely different. The attack is down, directed, and does nothing. Lulling Song of the sixtieth level meets my surprise with a blow of its own, consisting of several huge souls of power, bound together by contract magic and the power of Hell into a united mechanism. He was able to discern my preparations under the cover of the mist, create countermeasures, and unleash them exactly at the moment of my greatest weakness, full openness, because Kostenka is so fond of neglecting defense in favor of the attack, relying on the third eye...

Five screaming and moaning spheres of aquamarine color surrounded the blot, wrapped around it, and simply disappeared with it, taking my creation to the same place where the souls of the dead should go. A dozen more spheres are lined up in an attacking formation, woven into a network, the central nodes of which these spheres are. And this formation is already near me, almost touching me, guided by Legend's will, preparing to end my story with the same ease with which Song leveled my attack.

I see my finale and smile at it under the mask, rolling an inhuman maw full of needle-like teeth.

A shot from Valerium, a chaotic weapon and therefore very hard to predict with any kind of clairvoyance, passed right over my left shoulder. The veil of illusion dissolves, revealing the Dancer following me, and Song, too open to attack as I was, is involuntarily hit in the face by the projectile. He does not hold back a groan of joy at his mistake, and I manage to step toward my death.

There is no point in dodging or trying to overpower this attack. It's too powerful, honed against even tougher opponents than a mere isekai. These spheres... they are unique and were given to Song only for the most extreme case, when without their use, without irreversible waste of irreplaceable treasure, it would be even worse than it would be if he lost what he had been entrusted with. I need not dodge. I needed the time of his absent-mindedness when he was filled with delighted joy that a fallen enemy had managed to outwit and hurt him, Lulling Song, even in the moment of ignominious death.

Aegis covers me with its blanket, only now there is so little left to give to Loneliness, delaying the inevitable, especially after having given almost everything, or maybe without the "almost." The spheres are too sophisticated, too powerful the unfortunates imprisoned within them. Each of the captives was once a contracted mage of monstrous power and an equally fervent believer, and now all their faith is turned to their last bargain, their last and most dreaded contract. They wrap the net around what has become a two-dimensional figure, but without even attempting to touch that figure.

If the net did hit the activated afterburner, the void of Loneliness would swallow the attack just as it can swallow anything at all. Souls are obedient to the will invested, eager to fulfill the bargain as it should be fulfilled. A sort of auto-targeting system, waiting for Aegis to come out of the afterburner to complete the strike. Only now, they are so close that there is no chance of avoiding my fate.

The two-dimensional figure continues to dash toward Song's throat as if in the vain hope of taking him with it. Song moves to meet it with an almost friendly smile, wanting to get a closer look, to memorize this moment... One of the dolls' backstab is stopped by the ghostly silhouette of an activated soul, and the counterattack simply vaporizes the doll. The second and third dolls, from those who had time to notice and react to Song's actions against beloved me, did not even have time to strike. The souls of the seers told the creature where to strike ahead of time. But like Valerium's shot, this betrayal required distraction, time, and attention.

The frenzy with which Song dealt with the puppets that had interrupted his spectacle was impossible to convey in words. But he finished them off very quickly, simultaneously shuffling his and a few lulled allies' sonms with wild speed, drinking the souls of the nearest cultists, creating a new set of defenses. It's a waste, the bastard, but he's created another bastion, this time tied only to him, so the puppets can't destroy it. The creature is clever, realizing that even after my finale, there will still be those who follow me, and the creator of the Mist should not be underestimated.

Three dozen, perhaps all of the remaining spheres are now manifested into reality, making another bargain with reality. As long as this deal is in effect, no one can or has the right to attack Song or his allies. Heavier artillery is hard to come by, and this deal will not destroy the spheres but only give them a brief respite. Yeah, right. Kostik is the one for whom one can finally waste an irreplaceable resource, and the rest of us don't even need that.

The dolls and the revived Giver, who had just managed to deliver several successful treacherous blows, are forced to stop hitting and start defending. Without much result. The devils, who do not need to spend their strength on defense and are not afraid of retaliation, methodically swaddle both the dolls and Giver of Careses. Either they want to try to reverse the process of re-recording, or they just want to study this phenomenon in detail.

My heart had not yet taken a single beat since our counterattack, and we were almost fucked. It's sad, really - you can't hit, and you can't retreat. I don't attack either, closing in on Song and, still being a two-dimensional asshole, just running through him. A shadow is still just a shadow. It can't be harmed, but neither can its touch do that harm. It's not an attack. It's not an attempt to hurt or hurt bad, right?

Just for that brief moment, when our shadows merged, I managed, without realizing how to partially manifest myself to reality. Not to apply Manifestation because that would require stopping the afterburner and dying, but to manifest myself, who had become an ordinary two-dimensional shadow. And let this trick cost me a particularly painful blow to the remnants of my psyche when Loneliness strengthened its presence even more, although once again, it seemed there was no further to go.

Shadow Theft.

A skill that once allowed me, among other things, to transfer damage from myself to someone or something. But with each new level, each skill gained, and each improvement point invested, this trick revealed new facets to me. Who cares, after all, what to steal and what to give away? Wounds, blows, alchemical intoxication, auric sheaths, sensory lighting... or obligations. Like a contract between me and the spheres, made unilaterally, but when has it ever bothered the other side that can afford such contracts?

It would be really cool if I could just take a bastard's weapon and smash it into him without any resistance. I guess I wasn't tough enough to pull it off. Song, of course, was surprised, so much so he even forgot to enjoy it, but he reacted in time, simply destabilizing his control over the spheres, thus forcing them to self-destruct. All of them, not just the ones that were supposed to destroy me.

If it hadn't been for Valerium's shot, or the attack of Giver's dolls, or Hestia's constant presence from above, from the ceiling, forcing him to take her hostility into account in his actions, he would have been able to keep control of the weapons entrusted to him. But he didn't, in an instant, allow devils who cared little for defense to find themselves in a situation where defense would have been sorely needed.

They were crushing the puppets, almost managing to swaddle them all. Some of them hit Hestia's misty body unsuccessfully, but the most they got was a few wisps of disintegrated Mist, a couple of them even managing to attack or indicate attacks on the companions behind. Especially hard on Taria, who would have been killed if it hadn't been for Hans. Even so, Tia had to smack her in the forehead with a vial of a ninety percent essence of freedom and sanity to interrupt the order to rip her heart out imposed by some bastard.

The creatures were preparing for a protracted battle to our exhaustion when they, hidden beneath the treaty created by the spheres, were in no danger, and we could only defend ourselves desperately. The treaties were nullified, there was no one to pay the penalty, and the Mist fell on them, lost, disunited, and unable to regroup for the third time in a row.

Hans went last, covered by the glow of Heaven, Taria's illusions, and his instinct for self-preservation. Last, yes, but his role was far removed from his position in the ranks. Hestia could not repeat the crushing power of the first blow for many reasons, the main one being her unwillingness to further transformation, which would have been inevitable if she had decided to ally herself with Mist for the second time in a few seconds. Having friendly targets at her side and Song, who absolutely would not fall for the same trick twice, were also taken into consideration.

Instead of a powerful but brief impact, it stretched that impact, concealed it, and divided it into a thousand small steps, hiding each in an endless fog. A flash of pure Darkness fell, which Song and his lulled simultaneously tried to close themselves off from the attempt to take them in an instant. A second of invulnerability for every single one of Hell's allies ended, but nothing tried to challenge that invulnerability. There was no attack, no strike, and no attempt to analyze or bypass the imposed effect. Nothing happened.

Forty-two creatures, entitled to be considered elite with the support of one strong Legend, along with about two hundred smaller creatures and the occasional cultist, were in the middle of the wide corridor leading to the hall with the destroyed ritual. Yes, the corridor was narrow relative to the hall, but even so, it was at least two dozen meters wide. At the point near the gate to the hall, the corridor widened very noticeably, in fact, creating another hall, a sort of ante-chamber.

Such a crowd could easily block the passageway, preventing the insidious saboteurs from escaping, but it was still difficult to fully place them here. That's why they let the elite go ahead, put the tough elite behind them, and only then, as the last reserve or reserve material, they used ordinary fighters. They were only ordinary fighters against the backdrop of the elite fist, of course, with good levels and excellent equipment (the latter was mostly for the cultists).

But the mist came, trying to confuse the formation, to break it, to divide them, to deny them the advantage of a coherent group. The Mist, the real Mist, not the ghostly remnants of what the Eternal still had after the raising of the dome, touched the devils with its softness, enveloped them in its gentle embrace.... and failed to push through. The creatures may have been unprepared, but they remained the elite. At that, they already knew the plane had been thrown into battle against them. They held their own. Somewhere by a special soul, somewhere by some unconventionally used talent, and somewhere by a simple release of raw power. And covered even those who had no way to defend themselves.

Almost.

Wrapped in mist, Hans, who'd bonded with Hestia as I had bonded with her a second earlier, put all of himself into one decisive attack, taking a particularly unpleasant and very short-lived potion that boosted his Trail control abilities enough to try to do what he'd planned without dying from the strain. I guess he didn't die. I did not doubt that he'd accomplished what he'd planned, so no "I guess" about it.

Hans's effect was not an attack in the literal sense, but it was able to do the most important thing - to separate the enemy's fused ranks, even if only for a brief moment, making them lose sight of each other, aided by the mist. Hestia reacted as if she'd just finished what Hans had started, finally dividing the enemy and preventing them from regrouping. Wandering in the Mist could be done in any direction, but getting where you were going was not a task for novice hikers.

Waiting for the moment, Hestia begins to press on the enemy, making his reserve sag and flow out to nowhere, sucking out strength and confidence, weakening the chains on the souls imprisoned in the sonms, and making every movement require additional effort and cost. At the same time, we are all getting much easier. The mist is thinning, opening up a view of the enemy's silhouettes, helping to coordinate attacks but not exposing us to the enemy's eyes.

I complete the combination, grinning even harder at the masked face, merging back into Hestia as much as possible, followed by the rest of my companions. It's not a mind fusion, but each of us knows and sees what the others know and see. Mine and Tia's clairvoyance, Hestia's sense of space, Hans' awareness of the Trails, and even the whispers Giver receives from her and the puppets. At this moment, we are all something like the lost people under Tavimark, navigating perfectly in an unbearable environment for everyone else.

And the creatures start dying.

The blows of the Crooked Root, even one scratch of which is worth everything, the swings of Hans' alchemical daggers, the flashes of Heaven and Sun from the use of the Golden Needle, another shot of Valerium (what an unforgivably long reload time it has!) and, of course, Hestia herself, with all her tentacles, boas, hooks, jaws, and hands. The omnipresent Mist, who guides us and destroys the enemy, becomes the last note in the symphony of bloodshed.

I have my melody now. As much as I want to, I can't afford to help my friends in battle because my enemy will start helping his own. Song can't be shackled, tricked, or confused that easily. He knows how to counteract the Mist, and he has something to answer to the power of the Trails. Hans and Hestia's technique was exotic, unpredictable, and difficult to understand, but the devil's arsenal, with his experience, his sonm, and his level of access to the Soul Bank, had something to answer for that.

So, he should absolutely not be given time to find arguments.

There are no shadows in the mist, except those created from the shadow of my own, and I cannot overcome resistance, for that would damage Hestia and destroy her and Hans' Labyrinth. I have enough of what I have, and in as compact a form as possible, to keep the legendary creature at bay. In a different situation, it would be more dangerous, but in such uncomfortable conditions, Song can only keep on the defensive and wait for the right moment.

Once more, the faithful daggers were in my hands. For the first time in a long time, it was used in a serious battle. Daggers were wrapped in shadow until they lost their materiality and turned into embodied slashes in space. Once more, the boiling of a desperate battle close at hand, as then, in the forests of the wild lands, against a horde of green-skinned men, only now the enemy was not an orcish chieftain, but a more dangerous animal. Only the pounding of the heart in the Shadow's chest was not heard. Only the cold night air did not fill the absent lungs.

Step-strike-retreat.

Blades plow through barriers, and the barriers themselves shake and weaken in an indifferent mist. Flame is replaced by Depth. It gives way to Hardness, and following Hardness comes ordinary fire magic, which lacks the profound power of the native plane but has a great deal of invested power. Soul after soul burns out, weakens, and slips from the devil's grip, hiding in the jaws of the Mist, but Song does not stop attacking for a moment.

Step-slash-somersault-strike.

He tries different approaches and constantly presses on my mind, as if choosing a lullaby melody that will have to slow me down, if not to wash out my brains, then at least for one short moment. I have to give him credit. These melodies of his do disturb me, make me distracted to overcome them, to burn out of my mind and memory the tainted poison, the nasty stuff that resembles memetic viruses. Even once having heard such a chant, an ordinary person will forever be alone with it, having no chance to get rid of the melody stuck in his brain, having no chance to stop singing along to the one who created the melody.

Retreat-retreat-feint-block.

The pink ray on my forearm, which had taken on the ultimate Form, fell powerless, fading into the mist, but my counterattack was also met with frugal, calm blocking. Even in such a situation, Song doesn't lose his gloss and confidence, now and then forcing me to stop my attack and go on the defensive. So far, he's been unable to open up those defenses, just as he's been unable to force me to defend for too long. I've had to step up the pressure a few times, especially when four souls of users of the Mist at once allowed him to start influencing Hestia's consciousness. If it hadn't been for our shared connection allowing Giver, Tia, and I to notice this influence, at the same time, he would have had some chance of turning an overly battle-focused Hestia against us by simply swapping friends and enemies in her mind.

Whip-blade-needle-barrier.

Me too, at times, help my side, even if it's almost by clairvoyance alone, guiding blows and pointing out the right tactics. Only occasionally, when my battle with Song passes one of the enemy, I have time to strike a blow or two with my dagger or the lash that continues it, killing or wounding an enemy who is too close.

I'm getting bored with this fight where neither can break the other. The sonm of Song seems almost inexhaustible. I can't bear to forget about Hestia and the pain she'll be in, to breathe in full force, to assume my most combat-ready Form, and to tear the Song to shreds. Only two meters tall, thin, and frail, he'd be no match for me in close combat if I could take him on in my usual Shadow style.

That's how it seems to me now, though, with me and my entourage pushing the bastard around, preventing him from using the strongest of his tricks. I distract and wound, provoke and deceive. Forcing it to focus all its energies on me so a slightly recovered Hans would emerge beside me, throwing and directing his blades with Trails, wounding the creature in the back, forcing it to spend one of its souls, transferring the damage of the fire essence to its captive. Tia strode out from the other side, leisurely and gracefully clipping the supporting leg with the Crooked Root. The Golden Needle gleamed, interrupting an attempt to reach for the Pathfinder, who had no chance to defend himself, cutting off not only the attempt itself but also a couple of fingers on Song's left hand. Valerium roared, and its shot flew through the open hole in the middle of the impenetrable wall of Mist, hitting the same spot where the previous shot had hit seemingly an eternity ago. The misty hands closed around Song's neck and shoulders, slowing Legend for a brief moment.

So Giver of Caresess, in the body of one of her puppets, put that puppet under a fatal blow, and while the puppet was beating in agony, the real Giver, who had already made her new body change its appearance to the one she was accustomed to (but subtly different to be as desirable as possible for me alone), was exactly opposite to Song, who clearly recognized her.

A shadow whip, concentrated beyond common sense, finally cuts off the left hand that Song had a chance to reach for the pet devil before his death, and Giver's palm rips through the snow-white flesh of the devil's ribcage, reaching all the way to the sonm, grabbing it tightly and ripping it the fuck out of his body. Song's eyes widened with disbelief and unwillingness to end such a wonderful duel. I see his exquisite hatred and unsustainable resentment at such a betrayal. At the same time, I realize that Giver of Caresses has deliberately chosen just such a death, just such an attack, and just this moment of maximum tension.

Giving the kind of death that brings no pleasure, only disappointment.

Arouse and blue balling, editorial for Hell, the domain of Lust.

Contact me.

Taria grunted, rubbing her ass where the kick inflicted by Losius had landed, bringing her out of danger. The nobleman leans tiredly against one of the few intact sections of the wall, wiping his brow of dust and sweat, slowly coming to his senses. Hans is lying starfish right on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and cursing very harshly, only quietly. That attack on Song was clearly unnecessary, and he shouldn't have overstretched his shell. Tia meditates again, seemingly checking herself for influences from Hestia or Giver, which is actually a very sensible approach. Hestia has taken on the appearance of a human woman again, and it's even more believable due to her enhanced talents and enhanced characteristics. Giver was gutting the still-living remains of one of her dolls, pulling souls of particular interest from her sonm, adding to her already growing collection.

There are sounds of battle in the distance, and at least once, a strategic enchantment based on Darkness, Light, and Shadow has hit the territory of Golden Feather. Such an attack was clearly the work of either a very cool artifact or a very cool team of specialists, and most likely both, and something else. One should look for more intolerant planes to each other, and it is not a fact that you will find them! However, the result was just as it should be, simply crushing the outer layers of defense, breaking the main domes of barriers over the guild, and thinning the defenses.

It was not for nothing that the Golden Feather was considered an underguild, for the combat potential of their magical defenses, even after switching to the side of the devils, was not particularly inspiring. Yes, cool. Yes, powerful, but the traitors did not have trump cards similar to the suit used by the Imperials to survive something comparable. If we were not all in the heart of the guild, it would have covered us as well, especially since Mr. Imperials clearly tried to hit this point but missed a little. Or, more likely, the passive barriers helped them miss.

The potion rollback hasn't come yet, but it's coming up at any moment, and once again, we're forced to drink in extra boosters. I'm again transferring some of the effects to myself and the dolls. We don't have time to rest or at least take antitoxin concoctions. The caged timelessness of News Bringer is almost released. Even without clairvoyance, you can feel it due to the nature of this super-mega-porn golem. We need to get away from the guild building, preferably without running into either the enemy or the Imperials, because both sides will obviously want our blood.

"And Tia's a boo." Taria summarized out of the blue, tossing aside the last of the vials handed to her and wiping her lips with an "oh-my-god-what-a-shit-I just drank" expression on her face.

"Justify," I replied lazily, stretching out the last few seconds of rest while the drank elixirs were still being digested, glad that their taste and effects distracted me from the desire to rip out the hearts beating in my team's chests.

"She wanted T to squeeze her tits while we were sensing each other in the mist, and Taria just to feel it." Hans ratted out the dancer at once, for which he received first a kick and then a hurt look.

Such jokes made my eyes widen, and the maddening whispering receded not the second but the fifth priority. No, the request itself wasn't surprising, especially from Taria, as she loved, knew, and practiced it. But, with all my respect for the talents of the former townswoman, with all my fantasy and power of imagination.....

"When did you ever find time to ask in this mess?" I stood up from the floor to get a better look at her shameless eyes. "I didn't even have time to breathe, let alone talk! Words are just too slow!"

"I took them both out against a coordinated twosome of devils, distracting the creatures with a few attacks." This time, Taria's indignant look was bestowed upon a faintly smiling Hestia. "They destroyed them, but before they did, Taria had time to voice her request."

"As if that were hard to do!" If the dancer was offended, even I couldn't see it, but I could see her genuine indignation at being thought stupid. "You had one hand free, by the way!"

"In the other, I held plates of prepared ritual sigils." If I'd known her worse, I'd have thought the elf was making excuses, but that's impossible, so I guessed. "And though I spent them all on the two against whom we were set against by the guiding will of our ally, I had and still have enough billets to occupy the idle hand."

In confirmation of her words, the druid raised her hand, showing everyone the thin wooden plates clasped between her fingers, densely painted with all sorts of symbols. They are disposable, very fanciful, and work strictly against one type of attack or defense, but if you have a lot of them, and the skill of a ritualist allows you to activate them selectively and strictly at the right moment, then you get a very unpleasant and effective surprise.

"You know what..." At this point, I almost sincerely wanted to say something pathos-like in the style of the unforgettable WH40k or at least give out an anecdote or two.

Naturally, I was not allowed to finish, not by the devils, but for a change, by the dear imperial troops. In addition to the very first strike, which I have already described, strategic spells were used three more times, but those were quite ordinary, albeit very powerful structures, which are just very inflated "standard" spells. Two ice ramparts and one rain of fire, the latter of which was almost redirected right into the creator's face.

Apparently, just for this attempt at redirection, the warlocks took offense and produced something really scary. Most likely, the basis of this crap was the manifestation of the Fringe, as Tia calls it, and which people used to call the Edge. An absolute void, a pure disintegration of the very fabric of reality from which there is no defense or escape. Whatever this feed was created by, it was as if the Edge had been coiled into a kind of cocktail straw, stuck somewhere in the center of the enemy formation, and then Flame, Light, and Storm began pouring through that straw into the unlucky formation in roughly equal proportions.

It was barely forty seconds after we'd finished Song and the ambush regiment. The enemies had not yet had time to react to our victory, and even if they had, they simply couldn't muster the strength for a second attempt to nail us. We had gutted one legend and almost fifty elites, a good third of the remaining strike force. The devil commanders, even if only in their imagination, were caught between the hammer (the assaulting troops) and the anvil (the saboteurs coming to break through, who had managed to open a portal right inside the ritual hall and summon a crowd of reinforcements), simply not having time to solve the growing list of problems.

If I were them, now that Touch's death and the loss of this point of the ritual had become more than obvious, I would not fight but would try to gather the most capable units and retreat. Wait for the release of News Bringer and then let the mythical weapons of the Domain bury both the stormtroopers and the saboteurs in the halls of the Golden Feather that they had fought off. I'm not in their shoes, of course, but they acted on a similar plan, which turned out to be interrupted by that very "straw." They say that the last straw breaks the camel's back, so what about this version of that very straw? There is a lot to say, but most of all unprintable, as we are all, for a moment, under attack right now, too.

A dozen cultists running towards us, supported by about the same number of rank-and-file creatures the combined attack of Losius and Hestia literally smashed and smeared them against the walls that were already battered from our battle. The next batch of fugitives didn't make it. Three elite creatures covered themselves with shields and tried to smash us with a counterstrike but instead gave three more puppets to Giver, hitting their allies in the back at the same time. But then it wasn't the devils that came to visit, but a blast of strategic enchantments, a river of lava rushing through the guild's corridors.

Shield after shield, barrier after barrier, constantly supported by the Manifestation, but still, we had to retreat rapidly, and there was less and less oxygen to breathe. The wild mixture of molten and luminous stone, on which lightning patterns were running, was constantly in conflict, unstable, and literally boiling from the continuous mutual destruction, but for already released battle charms, it was normal. What's worse is that all this nasty stuff should not be boiling but, bitch, detonate, but for some reason it does not happen. I don't even know how much of it was clairvoyance and how much was logic, but my thoughts formed a clear realization almost instantly.

Well, look.

Through the tube of concentrated emptiness, a bubbling planar mixture pours into the guild territory. Somehow, this mixture, reacting and mutually reinforcing, does not explode in the same second, which is clearly a consequence of a very, very cool artifact, a few powerful planarians, or a divine Miracle. However, taking into account the situation, the Miracle can be excluded from the list with a guarantee close to absolute.

Attention, isekai - the question!

What will the Imperials do when this mixture floods the guild and the surrounding buildings to the brim? A guild that's a maze. And storming would be a huge loss of life and expense due to the territory they've prepared and the devils' pile of casualties and under the constant pressure of the fleur. Why should they storm it when they can legitimately care neither about trophies, about collateral damage, nor about the safety of the property of traitors to humanity?

The answer, I think, is obvious.

"...whatever." I finish my unspoken thought, and then I put all of myself into the defense, and, oh, miracle, even the I-creature doesn't come out in an attempt to eat my brain.

I think Hans still had time to start saying "fu..." but he didn't have time to finish. The flooded streams of power stopped boiling and did exactly what the energies of three different planes in close contact should do.

It blew up.

"E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!!!" Taria's delighted yet terrified shriek somehow miraculously echoes all the other sounds I can pick up with my rapidly regenerating eardrums.

I was thankful for my newfound intelligence and, to a much greater extent, for Tia's experience, who had managed to create a plan of action in time and literally beat it into my head through clairvoyance, paying for it with a ringing migraine. Her suggestion (if you can call an image expressing the elven equivalent of "quick-bitch-do-as-I-said" a suggestion) was not to even try to stabilize a piece of reality through the Manifestation and to wait out the blow under a hastily created bastion.

The trick was to manifest a polygonal barrier around us, a closed field of spherical type, which I closed in on itself rather than linking it to the nearest shadows. The shadow superimposed itself on the shadow, losing the need for stable support, making our shelter very strong but at the same time (relatively) light. This is not a portal based on Shadow but rather an anti-portal, an inside-out technique for creating a spatial fold, only without the fold itself and, most importantly, without a clear fixation on a certain area of space.

When the territory of Golden Feather turned into a blazing and shining Inferno, in the earthly sense of the term, our shelter, held stable only by my swear and the mercy of 4chan, was simply carried upwards along with the blast wave. It was lucky that this particular planar reaction was an explosion because we wouldn't have survived anything more exotic.

And now we're flying under the dome, so close to the purple sky that it's easy to make out the very cut-off dome over the Eternal, almost palpable. I crush the shit tearing out of me in every sense at once. Taria lets out her trademark shriek, and everyone else yells too, just not as loudly, interspersing pure decibels with inventive swear words. I couldn't vouch for that, but it seemed to me as if even Tia hissed something singsongy and poetic but far from censored under her breath.

The flight was impressive but short, sending us not parabola to fall at the very edge of Eternal (rather, flying straight into Hell through the dome boundary), but almost vertically upwards, so we had to land closer to the center, even if far away from the brilliantly neutralized Hell stronghold. I bet a sack of gold against a cherry pie - the Imperial soldiers will attribute the entire victory to themselves and don't care that it was us who took out two Legends, one of which was the strongest in the enemy's lineup. Although, it's even better. No one will deny our existence more than the commander who wants to get another medal.

Damn.

What the fuck am I thinking? What the hell are ribbons? The city continues to fall, and the chances of saving it are not increasing. Although I must admit, the Imperials had stirred up quite a bit. In flight, it was perfectly visible, the number of devil raiding groups had dropped to insignificant values, and the main lines of defense hiding the focus points were crumbling under the steel heel of guards, adventurers, personal squads, guards, and just concerned citizens with high levels.

There was someone who managed to take control of the situation and direct it in the right direction, and even managed to implement on the fly the most complex plan of maneuvers, ensuring almost simultaneous deployment and attack on multiple borders at once. Or, more likely, not on the fly, but simply asking the world to wait a little longer. The Eternal Dynasty, the Emperor's essence. They can do more than that. They can stretch five minutes before the alarm clock rings for any time.

Bastards.

The landing was soft and surprisingly smooth as I adjusted the fall slightly, directing the shadow manifested in me to the right point. The most amusing thing about this situation was the very tolerable waste of reserve. The initial blast wave, of course, hit hard, but then we were just pushed to the back, and I almost didn't need to reinforce the manifestation with an additional infusion of power.

"I want more!" Taria, as always, is typical Taria.

If Hans hadn't slapped her, it would have been Losius and Hestia fighting for the right to give it to her. And that was only because Tia would probably have preferred to kick annoying her human daughter in the ass.

"And I would do it again," I admit more to myself. "Three times."

They didn't slap me, but I moved away from Tia anyway because my gut told me that my ass was in danger of getting acquainted with an elf's shoe. And it was good if it was a tangential acquaintance because she had such a look that it could easily turn into a deep acquaintance.

"Really?" I asked, especially strongly addressing the question to the druid. "The view of the whole city from the top is great, so you don't have to waste your powers on clairvoyance, and you can draw the whole layout at once."

She didn't seem to believe me, and for good reason. It was really fun. I even forgot about my hunger for a second. I liked it so much. But if I were to do it again, I would prefer to take off not with the same kick but thanks to a simpler explosion, not belonging to strategic charms of the highest type.

"Looks like the execution's off." What no one could take away from Losius was his ability to tell a joke with such a serious expression that even with clairvoyance it was hard to realize it was a joke.

"The theater of sad masks..." Tia only sighed tiredly, but following the established tradition, she could not finish her speech.

The octahedron in which the News Bringer is imprisoned cracks with a ringing sound inaudible to the ears but so distinguishable. For a second, his tentacle, which he uses to lick the inner wall of his cage, shifts and, as if cuts through this very wall. As if it were a package of waffles or, say, a zipper on the pants.

The ringing is no sooner deafening, and it is immediately silenced by yet another Time control technique, but where the masterpiece of this trend used to be used, a cage capable of holding a mythical beast, it is now just a patch. A comparatively primitive, pathetic parody of the inimitable original, but it will win some minutes.

The jokes die down, and without discussion, we descend from the roof of the small mansion I landed us on. Our plan has failed, but we all decide without discussion to support the plan of those still twitching in the noose. Whatever the Eternal Dynasty is up to, at least their actions look like some kind of plan. Or, rather, a variation of our plan - to take out all the focal points and then try to shove the city back into Reality.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Or at least escape themselves, which is far more likely.

One could actually go to their palace and, smiling innocently, ask: "Your Majesties, do you need a couple of extra guns here, eh?" - and shuffle your feet, shyly. I wonder if they'll execute us right away, or if they'll get a little pissed off first, and then break us in. I'd give a lot to see how these guys would react to Tia coming to do her part to help resist the invaders. So much I wanted to, I could barely resist the suggestion to do just that.

Kostik is incorrigible, even on his deathbed, having almost lost his humanity, but still, the desire to troll others is stronger than any other instincts, including the thirst for life and banal self-preservation. It's good that at least something remains unchanged in this world, and it's good that there is something unchanged in me.

At least something.

It happened quite suddenly, I would even say SUDDENLY, without warning or declaration of war. News Bringer moved a few more times, once again blocked by another patch. The huge portal in the air was slowly unfreezing too, coming out of the freeze frame. Under the dome of the doomed city, strategic charms flared up now and then, and the army of the Empire of Ages, as well as those who joined this army, were desperately crushing the resistance of the joyously laughing creatures. With mixed but non-zero success, I must say.

There were no omens except for a brief jab of intuition just a second before the accident when nothing could be changed. And even if I had known beforehand, there was nothing I could have done. At most, I could have tried to send word to one of the commanding officers, but he would hardly have had the means to counter such an argument.

News Bringer was a mythical creature, a creature capable of cleansing a medium-sized kingdom in a couple of days, a week at most, barring interference from the gods. But Bringer, while still mythical, was not the most fearsome thing the devils had to offer, albeit the most powerful in direct combat.

First came the glow, coming from somewhere in the center of the city, where the human forces were strongest and where the invaders were most quickly squeezed out. A glow as purple as the vicious skies above us, as soulless as an executioner's smile. Its flash seemed to simply ignore the usual defenses and mental barriers, penetrating to the very soul and even deeper. The fleur of vice was famous for such effects, but this was simply beyond any fleur, incomparable to anything at all.

The light was followed by a presence. It was a sense of something so beautiful and desirable that no amount of power or experience could make it seem like anything, not even a bad thing. It was no longer brainwashing but a rewriting of personality on the fly, as Giver had learned to do, only not for a limited number of targets but all over the place. Perhaps less subtle, but extremely large-scale, incomparably larger than anything else I've encountered. It had just appeared in Eternal, but the defense was already lost simply by the fact of the shit coming. It didn't even need to fight. It was enough just to be because it was beyond the very nature of any being with a mind and soul to resist it.

That's not to say the humans didn't try. As soon as the glow came, they worked the point of its arrival with everything they had and everything they had, hacking without mercy right into the positions of their fighters. Because, said the knowledge planted in their hearts, they could not help but know that their allies, friends, or loved ones were no longer there. Because they had already looked, had already looked Lust in the eye and could not turn away, never could again.

Some might have believed, for a second, that they could at least hurt, if not kill, the one who had come, but that faith died as the color of the sky over the city changed. The glow opened into a rapturous flower, pure rapture embodied in energy, a marvel of infinite, immense beauty. Each petal was like an unbreakable wall, composed of tens of thousands of souls, continuously learning their happiness to the very bottom, dying and being reborn, sobbing and moaning. And in the center of the flower, where the Square of the Seven Poets remained, with the refugees and troops stationed there, remained the one who opened the flower.

As Touch was a living domain, so the source of disturbance that arrived in the city was the same. Only where Touch sprouted into itself, this thing easily turned outward from its internal position, sprouting into reality, becoming akin to it and imposing its will on it, turning the surrounding world into a domain. The same thing Touch did with great difficulty only through the ritual contours and in the closed microcosm of the ritual hall, this something did with the entire Eternal at once. Or, at least, with a significant part of it.

As if it weren't enough to understand who had honored the city with his presence, every cell in my body felt the exorbitant weight of the structure of the Ritual holding the city together. Tired of dragging his super-prize back to his native Hell, the wise Sovereign appeared in person to expedite the pull. And now, even the most complete optimist is forced to admit that the happy ending has become even more unfulfilling.

The petals opened and unfolded into titanic canvases of debauchery, taking on everything the desperate humans could counteract. The blows of elements, planar energies, battle prayers, pure magic in all its manifestations, battle artifacts, and something suspiciously similar to a high-tech volley fire system simply spread over these petals. The canvas of souls forever bound in a colossal orgy of souls sagged only slightly, not even shifting under the onslaught.

Some particularly lucky prisoners were disembodied by the blow, only to have their oblivion reversed by the Master's will, returning them to their former place and role. The will of the creator and maker of his domain denied the very fact of death and denied any enemy success or his failure. For long seconds, this confrontation lasted while the petals held, effortlessly held, the onslaught of the defenders. The doomed parts of the hellish mechanism died and revived, only rarely managing to die fully enough to be unable to return.

And then, when the devil that had been holding its defenses enjoyed the powerlessness of others, it began to respond, and no one else was able to attack. Deceptively slowly the petals, which had already bonded with a piece of the conquered world, joined the top of the dome and sprouted their shoots into it. The change of configuration was characterized by unhurried, measured, and deadly calibrated, impossibly precise strikes on each of the positions that had been illuminated by the previous attack.

Not a single miss, not a single failure. Every attack was of the type that could pierce any available defense and penetrate the very shields that needed to be penetrated. Just how many enslaved and fallen to the bottom of the Seers were directing their Sovereign's blows? A hundred? Two? A thousand? Probably even more, as the threads of probability swirled around the epicenter of the germination, obscuring any attempts at insight, turning them into another form of self-sacrifice if one looked too deeply.

The flow of elements and fleur swept over the large mansion of a lord, passing through the protective domes without even slowing down, covering the entire building and the surrounding area with a blanket of fire and ice. The front of the convergence of the two opposites landed precisely on the most fortified part of the defenses, tearing it to dust, and then the fleur hit. The forces occupying the building, who had managed to hit Sovereign with artillery enchantments a second earlier, were dying in pure ecstasy, their souls rushing toward the walls of the petals. It was as if Sovereign's blow had laid a channel through which it now drew the prize for a successful hit. Like in the shooting galleries in amusement parks on old Earth - hit the target, take a plush bunny.

A black blob, only the size of a truck, falls on top of the magical dome that shelters someone's temple. Concentrated Madness eats away at the defenses, so a flash of violet light of an incomprehensible nature burns out the souls of exactly half of the priests and civilians trapped there. One more flash and each burned-out one gets instead of a soul a primitive inferior devil, all talents of which are directed on control of such soulless bodies. A massacre begins, in which the still living must repeatedly kill the worn bodies of their kin and loved ones, and a powerful mental influence falls from above, which in a few seconds turns the fight to the death into another orgy. The still living see each of their visions and give those visions all they have left.

The whitish fog with shades of pink, extremely distorted Mist was ramming straight towards a hundred elite capital guards caught on the march, accompanied by a couple hundred more mercenaries and noble militiamen. Their commander, who had earlier managed to recognize the incoming one in time, at the same moment discharged all the artifacts entrusted to him in an attempt to repel the ram but did not succeed. The Mist covered the army, only to dissipate a moment later, leaving only a few dozen possessed creatures, each of whose bodies consisted of chunks of flesh fused into huge lumps of meat continuously pummeling each other. Atop the largest of the possessed flesh was the screaming of a fully alive commander who had challenged the wrong opponent, going mad with insane pain and pleasure every second, then immediately regaining his mind only to lose it a moment later. If this was a variation on the theme of Mists of Vice gifted to my dear Hestia, I'm a little shocked...

The battle magic tower, from the top of which a continuous beam of astral energy, directed simultaneously by a trio of extremely strong mages and a legendary artifact, continued to beat until the very last moment, was enveloped in shivering air, as if caught in a desert mirage, which, a heartbeat later, dissipated along with all the protection. One hundred and fifty translucent souls, the same number as the tower's defenders, surrounded the tower and howled in a final burst of bliss, finally finding their oblivion. They, including the three most valuable prisoners, were gone forever, but in return, they gave their captivity to the tower defenders, who were immediately teleported right inside one of the petals. The flesh and clothing dissolved, revealing the ghostly silhouettes of new souls who would now wait for the moment when they could pass on their service to the new unfortunates.

The circle of sun bunnies merges into a huge blade that descends on the dome of a small palace, either the residence of someone close to the Eternal Dynasty or even the personal cottage of one of them. The defenses flare, countering the impact, but the blade disintegrates again into a thousand tiny glares, embedding itself in the barely visible gaps in the defensive circuitry, immediately detonating all at once. The palace collapses under its weight, and the second wave of impact covers the ruins with a simple, two-by-two flood of fleur.

The hull of some of the magical guilds, where the defenders from all the surrounding areas have flocked, begins to fall underground as the power of Hardness turns the enchanted foundations to mud and sand. Acid rain drips down from above, not much in the way of force, but its constant damage will not allow the doomed mages to prevent their doom in any way. A moment more, and several hundred souls fly straight through the quicksand, each with a different curse hanging on them, giving the burden to those closest to them.

Another wave of fire vaporizes the icy crust that covers another temple, where there is not a single priest left standing, but there are a dozen mighty mages and warriors who managed to fight off the first waves and even found the strength to retaliate against the Sovereign. The flames fall without even touching the stones of the temple, withdrawn by the captured soul, and the executioner's blade serves as a cloud of oily black smoke that easily gets into any crevices and under any armor. The smoke stops when one of the planarists in the temple sacrifices himself to the Light without a second thought, scooping up insane amounts of power and building on its basis not even a barrier but a solid monolith of defense.

The Darkness is shattered and expelled. The souls of the warlocks who summoned it retreat into one of the petals. A stream of fleur gently washes over the glowing sphere, also retreating, not even seeking to make its way inside. The first attack, without pause, is replaced by a new one. The fleur is bubbling, changing tones, testing the barrier with all the shades of Lust, most of which the human mind cannot imagine or understand. The tone is selected, and the Light begins to melt, to rot, to ooze like blood from wounds. And the Truth given by its radiance is gradually changing, distorted to please the great devil. The point of protection was to seal certain truths, like the inviolability of those inside, but the truths have changed, and with them those trapped inside the monolith.

Some were a little luckier and managed to retreat, at least partially. Even with the dome and the spatial mess it had created, some could move a couple of blocks away or use an existing high-grade artifact. The devil was directing additional strikes in their direction, but somehow lazily, more trying to suppress the capital's defenses as quickly as possible, and so some may have managed to slip away. Or they were allowed to think they had miraculously slipped away. Who knows?

No doubt I could have struck just as powerfully, picking the moment and the target with clairvoyance in the same way, and I admit that I could have repeated such a blow two or three times in a row, though it would have been extremely exhausting. But the devil was literally giving out blows of strategic charms in one breath, several combinations completely different in their style and method of application per second! This is simply beyond any imaginable and not-so-imaginable limits, a clear difference between Legends and Myths. And if the former, as I have long known, can well be sent to study the netherworld in the earthly sense of the word. What to do with mythics, I do not understand.

The first moves were entirely the Sovereign's, and he wasn't going to stop, having every opportunity to finish the battle almost single-handedly. Somehow, without any clairvoyance, I didn't even doubt that the Eternals wouldn't have another trump card to stop the mythical something from having an unnatural connection to their imperial asses. They were, however, desperate to dispute that fact.

At least two of the time-stopping abilities were almost gently swept aside, freezing the blocks around the breach point, thus adding another layer of defense to the Square of the Seven Poets that now covered the enemy. There was still a stream of a dozen diverse energies based on the use of astral emulations that had clearly been released from the mythical artifact. But the blow that could otherwise crush the army without any additional investment was completely useless against the devil.

The flower petals shone especially brightly. The fleur shuddered once again, and the monolithic stream of charms, which looked like a very angry and rich rainbow of acidic colors, divided into thin streams, each of which belonged to its plane, soaking into separate parts of these petals. If the blow had been weaker, the creature would have devoured it completely, only reinforcing itself, but still a mythical artifact, not a joke! At the point of impact, the petals faded for a full second and a half, and the artillery fire on the Imperial positions weakened a bit, reducing the heat. The latter was not a consequence of the damage but of the fact that all worthy targets in the near and not-so-near radius had either run out or were hiding very well.

As we are, for example.

"Dear comrades, this is a fiasco." I summarize, being in such a strange state of mind that even the anger coming out of every crevice is a little weaker. "We're fucked."

It was an unpleasant thing to hear such words from the commander's mouth, but the crew reacted surprisingly calmly, only nodding in agreement, like, yes, we're fucked, it's really a fiasco. Either they were hoping that I would once again perform a miracle, or they were just tired of preparing for a fate worse than death to be discouraged by the next bad news.

"I suggest we break through the Mist," Hestia said, slightly intoxicated by the power that had descended upon her and therefore obviously overestimating herself. "Anything is better than folding our arms and dying in hopeless despair."

The Imperials could have won this game for us, for we had helped them and helped them a lot. The very fact that the ruler of the domain came here, under our gaze (Giver, by the way, was shaking from the horror piercing even through her perception more than all of us put together), leaving his precious domain almost unattended, ignoring the spending and the sagging reserve of souls, meant a considerable success. Ideally, he would have run everything from his perch, putting force operations under the tutelage of News Bringer. But the porngolem was stuck in time a little more reliably than originally expected, and the humans, on the contrary, were more active than calculated, and some people had to get their asses off the metaphorical couch and go to disperse everyone, like your forest from the joke.

"It won't work." Me, Tia, and Giver answer at the same time.

I know the dangers of traveling through the plane, especially the deeper layers of it. Tia knows it, too, even if she hasn't had much personal experience with it (but I'm not sure, given the hardships she's endured and the missions she's completed), and Giver knows about the tricks the devils used in case of such tricksters. It's too obvious a path for me to take, only for me, who's not afraid of losing anything. And, with reservations, Hestia, if she's lucky enough to still be there by the time she can get out of the Mist.

"Listen up, guys." Taria's pretty face darkened with a shadow of heavy thought uncharacteristic of her frivolous nature. "I realize the suggestion is as dumb as my late father, but how about we try to escape to the palace? I mean, if anyone can escape, it'll be from there. They won't let us into the temples. I mean, that's where the gods are, and you can't hide from them."

The gods are clearly biting their elbows right now, even if they don't have elbows. For such an occasion, they'll grow elbows, so they have something to bite. It's not every day that they manage to steal the capital with their entire flock. I don't doubt that they are trying in every possible way to crack this problem from the outside, though it's hardly that simple. The city has already been stolen from reality, and even a god would have a hard time catching up and bringing it back. Somehow, the priests inside are helping, but they have been hit by a very bad blow. All of them are weakened, so there is no feedback, and it's getting worse and worse every moment.

"Taria, believe me, the realm of the Eternals will notice us sooner or later, especially now that all defenses are maxed out." Tia knows enough about these defenses, even without planning her last operation, just by virtue of her position. "The temple option is better. But I don't believe that even the first priests are free to open the gates of the Divine."

No, they will not open it because if they were able to build this gate, their patrons would get caught in this thin thread and pull it all the way out. So they won't. At most, they can send someone of value (like themselves) blindly without making a path, but even that will be done by a few if they haven't all run away already. However, the devil knows them. Being a priest imposes some obligations, and it may well be that there will be someone who will not be able to retreat, even if he is able to do so. In the fact that somewhere there is a holder of a high dignity who does not want to leave his flock to be fed to devils, I believe only a little more than in the triumph of world justice. Maybe there are such. This is Alurei, for fuck's sake, but until I touch him, I am filled with doubts.

"Listen, is it true that if you throw a coin into that fountain in the Poets' Square, you'll get a characteristic boost?" I ask nonchalantly, swaying on my toes like some tourist on a stroll. "I heard about that trick back in Tavimark."

"True rumor." The walking encyclopedia with the long ears confirmed, looking a little perplexed in my direction and remembering all the ins and outs of how this fountain could help us now that I thought of it. "Seven random attributes for a month if you throw in a silver coin, but better, still a gold coin. It only works once in a lifetime, though the embodied Miracle that formed the basis of the fountain can be tricked with a good disguise and receive the boon again. What is your interest?"

All our attempts are already doomed in all scenarios but one. The one in which there will be a suicide that will break the concentration of the archdevil, make him let go of the reins of control for a moment, and give them a chance for something. A microscopic chance, but a chance nonetheless. And Shadow was the only creature that was not afraid of the fleur at all, that could be stopped by it only by literally pouring it over its head with it, and then pouring it on top of it, with a lot more effort. Such a creature can really not fear automatic enslavement from the mere presence, the mere sight of Sovereign.

A man, even a top-ranked shadow user, would still get hit. Much weaker, multiple times weaker than anyone of equal level and strength, but it would still cover him. It will make him hesitate, spend his energy on overcoming the obsession, lose the initiative, and the targeted blow will kill him.

Or change him.

Or take him.

I wonder what it now says in the Status of the one who came under this cursed sky, granted that it was still blue then, not purple? Certainly not the aforementioned man, weak and vulnerable to the fleur to a far greater extent than what he had almost turned into. Bad choices, bad use of skills without regard for self-harm, trying to bite off more than one can afford...

How many times have I jumped on this rake? How many times have I avoided the result that caught up with me by the mere arbitrariness of Fate? It should have happened much earlier, much earlier, but I kept afloat, clung to something there, hoped, believed, forced myself to believe, killing any doubts, taking on impossible work.

Should we be surprised at the outcome?

The bottom line is that all I have left now is to try to buy a little life, a little chance for this life, not even for myself, because I have already fucked up, fucked up, fucked up, flushed down the toilet. That's the end of the fairy tale, another story, only now it's mine. It's just that any fairy tale, even such a silly and sometimes scary one, should end beautifully.

The Hero must come and save everyone, even if he was not called and not expected, because now the Hero is not sought by the mighty Eternals, under whose heel the very Laws of the Universe groan, not by rich and arrogant aristocrats, not by powerful mages and warriors. The hero was sought by those who voluntarily followed him because they would not have become his Companions if they had not wished it themselves. The hero is sought by those who were led after him by the evil and frankly obscene magic of the ancient artifact that belonged to the equally rotten creator of this thing. The hero is sought by all those who are doomed today, ordinary people, whom I always didn't give a damn about and don't give a damn about even now, there's nothing to lie to myself, whitewashing my bords-stained personality. I don't give a damn, but I won't wish such a thing even on those whom I would give no fuck.

"Well." I smiled, feeling the whitish flesh beneath the mask boiling, vaporizing, turning more and more Shadow, only without the ability to regain its former appearance. "I want to throw a coin. They say it's good luck."

Some time ago, I hadn't been so much surprised as amused by the way Tia had killed an old acquaintance and perhaps even a friend in her now infinitely distant past. Methodically and without the slightest emotion. It's completely in keeping with how chilled revenge is usually served. In her case, it was not even cooling but freezing at temperatures at which Satan Claus, from the depths of the Wildlands, would prefer to wrap himself in a blanket and drink something hot.

So when she drew close to me, grabbed my icy (under my skin and clothes, Shadow was now, and it was never warm) shoulders with both hands and looked me eye to eye as if ignoring the mask on my face and the cloth bandage on her own, I was really scared. The expression "infuriated to the brink" didn't convey even a hundredth of what I saw in her eyes. If it weren't for the creature's hardwired instincts, I might have really shit myself, especially if you took me from my time before my adventures in the Kraj.

"You promised me." Despite all the anger and almost palpable rage, even hatred, directed equally at herself and the world in aggregate, she spoke softly and almost pitifully, something I certainly didn't expect and could never expect from her. "You promised, Tin."

"So I'm a liar." I shrugged, at the same time regretting the very inappropriate addition about the troll and the virgin.

T.N. According to the Russian boards. Anonymous is a liar, a virgin, and a troll. He is 20 and he is bearded.

I am open to her now, like a book on a bedside table, and she simply does not have the strength to keep her defense, so I have to gently cover her being as well. We can say nothing to each other, nothing at all, because we already know the answers and the arguments. She doesn't accept my choice, can't accept it, is ready to die three times herself, but not to give up someone else's dream, someone else's legacy, the last monument to the glory of the one for whom she gave up everything in the world.

Not for me.

For his dream.

"You can leave." Already in a calm tone, removing the strangeness of the Stars and the rustling of leaves from her words, the elfess spoke, unable to bring herself to ask, realizing that I would not fulfill this request. "Even if only one."

I had a lot of things I wanted to answer. What would I be when I came out of the deep Shadow, even if I did? How much of myself will be left in me when I can no longer hold on to the emptiness that has settled in me forever? To say that even if I am no longer human, I do not want to be alone, because I know better than anyone else what Loneliness really is.

I might have wanted to say something, maybe even something clever or at least calming. Shut Tia up, give her orders, and kick everyone's ass so they wouldn't fuck around. Maybe I'd even add, "Don't be in a hurry to bury the bastard. I'll show you some more titles for killing that scarecrow." I didn't get a chance to say any of that because Giver of Caresess made her move, loyal to me to the limit of reason and far beyond that limit, not wanting me to meet her past master and knowing that master well.

There was a slight buzz in my head, but that was all.

If I were still that Konstantine who had entered the Hall of Choice, who had not yet had time to sacrifice all of himself on the altar of victory, covering his companions with the afterburner Aegis, crushing Touch with the power of the ultimate Form, grinding his essence into material for shadow techniques.... whether it was a traitorous blow or a show of extreme concern, I'd be hit by it. It would just rewrite my thoughts as if I had made the right decision, a reasonable decision the creature in me was pushing through with all its might. So, I didn't even have to influence it much.

In the mind of what I was now, the invisible thread through which Giver's attachment to me had come couldn't take hold. Two streams of thoughts arose in my head at once, but before Giver could push me to the point of shutting down and going into insane abomination mode, I wiped out its effects. Shadow Theft, used on oneself, opens up many paths, but not all of them are worth pursuing.

And Tia wouldn't have said a word, and neither would Hestia. They wouldn't have stopped Giver, even if they'd noticed her maneuver if they'd had a chance to intercept her. Hans, Taria (she'd been able to understand me since the first days of my acquaintance, sometimes better than I could), and Losius, who were left in the minority, would have been easily handled by the deviless, even faster than me. In fact, the fact that Giver's enhanced technique didn't work on me only convinced me it was better to end it now. The devil could have pressed on, could have hit harder, more densely, but then the submission would have become more complete, dense, voluminous, and under such a leash, I had no chance of getting out of the Shadow, where her will take me. Or, more likely, I'd go into a frenzy, and she'd have to either kill the mad creature or die in its arms.... she'd definitely choose the latter.

"Fool." She only uttered, backing away, retreating, tucking the colorless and nonexistent threads deep into her essence, ignoring the Golden Needle bristling at Losius and Hans stepping behind her. "Such a fool."

Hestia was silent, for she had never known how to show her feelings or to say goodbye, and now it was too late to learn. Losius and Hans had no words to say or answer either. Tia had already said everything and could say no more. Only Taria, looking uncharacteristically grim, hummed and asked the only question that surprised me in the end.

"What was your name?" She too, looked straight into his eyes, ignoring the mask that seemed to be grafted right onto my face. "Before."

In response to perplexed looks from all sides, the girl only shrugged as if perplexed in response to our shared surprise. Or maybe she was really perplexed without any pretense.

"You said Tin was just an abbreviation for your name, but no matter how many times I asked, you always guffawed or ran away." Despite the situation, she still smiled, obviously poking fun at my reaction. "Is it such a terrible secret?"

"Not that it's a secret..." I replied, suppressing a sudden urge to giggle. "It's just that you always got so ridiculously angry when I didn't say anything."

The Valerium in my friend's hand twitched slightly. It didn't twitch much, almost imperceptibly, but the urge to laugh was gone at once. Honestly, they have no sense of humor. They don't get my jokes. Probably because they are too often funny only to me, but not to the people around me.

"Full name Konstantine." I don't want to test the strength of the nerves of a man with a legendary gun in her hands. "If the full name, together with the surname, then my name was Konstantin Yurievich..."

I didn't have time to finish and for reasons beyond my control. It was not a good idea to be distracted from the battle, but it was possible. But not in the case when within the working distance there is a mythical creature with a sonm of souls, capable if not to crack my disguise from clairvoyance on pure skill, then simply to check the surrounding reality grain by the grain, looking for any dissimilarities.

It wasn't a full-fledged attack. If it had been, the outcome would have been very different... but I would have noticed it sooner than I did. It was just another fleur wave designed to draw out the likely lurker or saboteurs approaching the creature. I'm not the only one so smart as to launch a suicide attack in an attempt to disrupt the concentration of the devil stitching perfectly adapteEternal to its Domain. Only if I'm the only one who has me, and yes, that "me" is already lost, the Empire's authorities had their own Summoned who could play the role of kamikaze quite well. A very expensive and irreplaceable kamikaze, but now they were ready to pay even a big price, any price except their own lives.

It was difficult to transfer the fleur strike through Shadow Theft because of the immense pressure, like trying to stop a small stream with your bare hands, whereas the standard strikes of typical devils were like a small leak in a water pipe. Back then, I could just plug it with my finger, but now all we had to do was try to blend into the stream, letting it all go around us without allowing ourselves to create waves that would be used to find us. The good news was that after my last loss, my resistance to any kind of brainwashing had increased beyond anything I'd ever seen and even more so to the devils' techniques. It was too easy to hold the multiplied focus of Lust simply because it called and caressed the parts of human essence that were no longer there.

Ha-ha, evil laugh.

It's time to end the goodbyes.

"If any of you die, I'll come back from the other side of the world to mock out loud at you." I can't even hold back the cold, razor-sharp, Shadow-filled voice giving the last command to the team. "So don't test the thickness of my sense of humor."

Everyone remained silent, though everyone wanted to say a lot of things, and only Taria managed even, at the last moment, to be indignant at the same time (honestly, I didn't have the strength to realize that I had told her wrong again), but wondered aloud with surprise:

"Do you have it?"

I chuckled, immediately sobered by the sound of my own laughter, which made me say the wrong thing instead of some kind of joke, addressing Tia directly:

"Take them out." I turn my head slightly toward the still motionless and seemingly unbelieving Giver, who was spared after her "rebellion." "All of them."

I didn't wait for a reply, not wanting to waste any more time, or the next scanning wave might be the last. The last one, for example, had outlined five separate saboteurs and a couple of full-fledged groups so that later, it could compact the impact and crush their will. Some of them were killed by the pressure, dissolving their souls in the Vice. Some of them killed themselves in their attempts to avoid this fate, and another part of them continued their way to the square, but now they were no longer hiding and preparing to serve the new Sovereign.

Tia has the best chance of getting them away because we're on the edge of the territory the Sovereign controls, so if she's smart, she'll get away from this danger and cover the others. And she will really cover everyone, even Giver, who, in the current fucked-up conditions, without my cover, becomes too important and can provide invaluable support. Of course, there was some apprehension, not a full understanding of what an enslaved creature could do, but the team had a much better chance with her than without her.

Avenge me for daring to die, leaving her without my presence, investing vengeance in my associates? Hardly. The influence of the ring is too strong. It's enough for her to know that I would not approve of such an approach to show restraint towards them. Then, if they do manage to leave the city... they'll probably run off in different directions, and it'll be good if there are only two sides - the core team and Giver, rather than each going in a different direction.

It's too late to talk.

It's too late to doubt.

I let go of control, fully transitioning into Form, diving right into the nearest shadow on the run, penetrating the upper layers as gently as possible without tearing the fabric of space, which would be overly noticeable in a dome. The body melts, melts, and changes like soft clay, becoming a snake, a worm, a thin thread, tiny and imperceptible, almost indistinguishable to even the most attentive eye. Once again, I note that reducing one's Form can often be incommensurably more useful than increasing it, which is senseless in such situations.

This plan of mine is ruinous from the beginning, and any outcome in which I have to fight in the open a priori means complete failure. That is why huge Form, perfectly adapted for killing, tearing, tormenting, and taking other people's lives, are useless. In our duo, I am not even a weak part but an empty place, a ringing zero multiplied by another zero and elevated to nothing. Self-deprecation unpleasantly scratches what people call a sense of greatness, but only in this way, constantly reminding myself of the incomparability of forces managed to keep under control the thirst to burst inside any of the petals to devour every last soul there. I'd rather be devoured there, regardless of my class superiority, splendor, or flightiness.

The square is getting closer and closer, but the Shadow is getting smaller and smaller. If under the dome, it was as if a small scrape had been taken from each plane from the very top, here even this shallow cavern is becoming more and more shallow. The shadow is thinning, almost merging with reality, ceasing to be a phenomenon, leaving only Hell closely stitched together with a reality that is sprawling at the seams. I'm still creeping closer, but I'm already forced to put all available resources into stealth just to avoid the watchful eye of one of the souls embedded in the protective and sensory fields.

Even closer. At last, touching the stones of the sidewalk that framed the Square of the Seven Poets. Touching in reality, because there was no Shadow, no Shadow at all, only the purple waves of embodied Lust, only the unbearable glow of the materialized fleur. The thread-body thinned to the point of impossibility, becoming thinner than a spider's web, going completely into concealment, partially activating Aegis, using Manifestation around itself, adding Creation on top of it, and using it again on my own flesh. Without pity, ignoring the pain and the growing emptiness, because I had already gone too far.

The combination of all the class skills at my disposal allowed me to balance on the blade for such a long time, but I can't go back. I'll reveal myself and die in vain, so only forward, closer to the target, to be able to shit on it last, to spoil the party and kick out the clowns.

And here it is before my eyes - Poets' Square. Even the famous fountain can be seen from here, as can the crowd of merged people, very young, no older than ten, who now frame this masterpiece of architecture instead of a bas-relief. The stone of the sidewalk, too, is covered with a carpet of flesh, the individual details - people still distinguishable but inseparable. It is as if there is only one skin for all the multitude of bodies covering this place, like a huge vacuum blanket from Japanese pornographic films, and under this skin, the bodies of the victims continue their orgy, gradually dissolving, being carried away by their souls into greedily slurping petals. Part of the flower, part of their Sovereign's body, part of the whole domain, part of the whole.

In the center of the square stood the culprit of the celebration himself. My current Form has no normal eyes, and that's good because it hurts too much to even be aware of the creature's presence. The Shadow does not have, cannot have the strings on which the devil's appearance plays, so that instead of adoration, the desire to give all of oneself for the sake of a mere glance comes unbearable torment, the realization of one's loneliness, which, in turn, provides fuel for a chilling hatred. The hatred and pain all accelerate, and I begin to understand why Shadows are such dangerous opponents for devils. I don't even know what's more in my mood - the hunger to devour or the thirst for revenge for the experience, for the gift of understanding my nature.

The creature was signed by the all-seeing System shortly and concisely: Sovereign and I could see its level without difficulty, but there was no joy in it because the number was one hundred and eighteen. I probably even managed to see this level only because I am now almost inside the devil, and he, having revealed the flower, unwittingly revealed himself. It would seem that I should be happy that the enemy is in a vulnerable position, but something is not working.

He was not imposing in stature - and I, unlike the sexless Touch, perceived the creature in the masculine gender - but only slightly taller than the average man. The graceful stature, which seemed to glisten with golden sparkles when I looked at it, was also humanoid, as was the set of limbs. There were no horns, wings, tentacles, or genitalia on all surfaces of the body, so typical of his subordinates, whom I had already admired for a lifetime. The only thing that stood out was a bird's nest, or a keyhole, located strictly between the shoulder blades.

It was like a red-hot crucible, embedded right into his body, framed by continuously swirling details, ritual symbols, and pictograms. Inside this crucible were thousands of thousands of threads, thin and almost invisible, almost as thin as my body was now. Threads grew from the crucible, reaching out to the petals, touching the living carpet that covered the area, flitting around the body, creating magic, and speeding up the fusion process, all at the same time. And some of the threads were allocated to the prisoners - the most worthy and leveled of all those in the Square at the time of his arrival, as well as among those who had been sent to commit suicide in the name of higher purposes. I mean those who, like me, tried to prevent the fusion process, only acting on orders from the high command.

There were a lot of them, but my eyes were glued, glued even, ignoring the devil, not to several assassins continuously eating each other (for some reason, Kraj came to mind), not to the miniature and separately barricaded homoorgia of the owners of exclusively priestly and knightly classes, not to the turned into a puddle, but not to the dying summoned wizard, but to another sight.

A True Chained of sixty-ninth level that would otherwise be a full-fledged Chosen One without the ubiquitous Yoke on her. She was a young-looking girl. A sunny blonde with gorgeous forms that were aesthetically pleasing even in my inhuman state. And she was also a Flame, so tightly akin to it that even I only had to shake my head respectfully.... well if I had a head at this point. She probably put most of her points into one, at most, two classes, which was the basis of her power.

Which didn't help me at all at this moment.

I don't know if it was her perk, or maybe it was the ultimate skill, but she didn't fade even when she died, reborn from her flame like a Phoenix. And the level-a-hundred archdevil had found a way to take advantage of that. Slowly, he turned her body into nothingness with a stream of fleur, allowing that body to regenerate again and repeating the procedure. She can't have an infinite supply of rebirths. I just know that fact, even being right inside someone else's domain. But Sovereign's will replenish the charges of resurrections in some obscure way. Except every next time, she revives a little differently. This was probably the case even with normal uses of revival, but the devil only enhanced this aspect of her abilities by literally forging her in her Flame. It was an equally elegant and vile solution, just like the biggest devil of all the devils who had come to the party.

He also can't help but realize that his control will interact with Yoke, only he doesn't care. Either his pawns have already managed to capture the Controller, or he has the power to distort the Chained to the point where even Yoke has nothing left to grab onto. Both options are equally possible, as something third, fourth, eighth, fifteenth, or even all of these combined. I was grateful to my frustrated sister-in-arms that her training was taking any attention away from her own defense.

It's just a pity that if he allows himself such games in a combat fucking environment, he's more than confident in his abilities. And given his age, strength, and social status, which a self-confident fool would have long been deprived of, then in excessive arrogance to believe comes out about .... no way.

I was tempted to hit it in thread form, but for all its virtues, this state of mine is obviously weak in attack. I could try to stretch out, to get inside the crucible without hitting any of its threads, but I could hardly do that. The only thing left was to use the instantaneous change of formation, repeating the same thing that I had already done with Touch a little earlier. I didn't really care about the consequences.

The thread stretches and coils into a ring like an attacking snake but remains just as invisible, completely enclosed by un-existence and stealth. Do you know many ways to notice the shadow of a spider's thread flying at a height of a hundred meters? I, too, remained invisible until I was noticed. One extra movement, the tiniest fluctuation of magical energy, even just a loud thought-intention, and it would reveal this disguise as if it didn't exist.

Nevertheless, I am still an Overlord once, fallen and deposed under my power, but still possessing at least a considerable amount of combat power, only increased by the fall that has occurred. I am about to strike at a creature whose nature is more vulnerable to mine than any other. A sneaky, insidious blow in the back, with no chance of repelling it, with no regard for my defenses, putting everything I can into it. Even going up against a mythical creature more than twice my size, I can still...

...the thread rises as if it were a snake, turning into a snake already quite naturalistic, even though it is shadowy, and although there is no poison on its fangs, I can release the rivers of Shadow through these fangs without full anatomical conformity...

...the rest of the body, humanoid but narrow, elongated and improbably skinny, hidden by the cloak that returned to reality, ready to continue the throw, to cling to the enemy with all limbs and a dozen new...

...the space around me instantly manifests itself, wresting control from the power of a world almost completely given over to Hell, sheltering me, further strengthening the Aegis that has unfolded in full force...

...I can't do anything.

The ghostly hand of one of the countless souls intercepts the snake made of my flesh, mockingly easily disembodied my creation, sending searing pain throughout my body. This soul is truly ancient, belonging to a creature the likes of which has long since disappeared from the skies of Alurei or perhaps never existed. As the eternal captive, enjoying his position was just beginning to fade back into the devil's fold. Sovereign turned toward me in an incredibly swift movement, moving closer and touching me almost intimately with his fingertips somewhere near where normal people have their solar plexus.

The viscous magic of Hell erupts in a honeyed flood, preventing the use of the afterburner Aegis, and a hundred harpoons seem to burrow into the defenses provided by the un-existence, displaying the attention of hundreds and hundreds of seers. The harpoons tear back, each in its own direction, tearing open the previously seemingly reliable defenses in an instant, and the mythical creature finishes its touch with an ironic and soft smile.

And then came the Pain.

I refocus Aegis in an incomprehensible way, gathering all of it next to my own heart, protecting what my soul had become from an unenviable fate, even after everything I had experienced. Only with a kiss from Fortune herself, who seemed to personally stand behind my back and embrace me on the gums as well as old Brezhnev, do I transfer the smallest bit of the damage I've received through Shadow Theft. Not being able to steal the shadow from anyone, I return what I stole to myself, only now in the form of kinetic energy, at the same time zeroing the weight of the already lightweight Form thanks to the Leaf in the Wind.

Pain.

The pain was spreading through my body like a thousand needles, coils of barbed wire snaking under my skin, trying to reach my heart. I cover the distance to the edge of the square more quickly than instantly, flying like a wounded and very proud bird that had been kicked to make it fly. The pain was no longer just pain but inexpressible agony, burning my icy gut with the heat of hell, bursting deeper and deeper, through all the defenses, through all the attempts not to stop it, but at least to slow it down.

Agony.

Suffering lies beyond the limits of descriptive possibilities that cannot be conveyed in any other way than by giving it to someone who wants to know its limits. Suffering elusive and unstoppable passing into absolute bliss, the wild ecstasy of endless orgasm bumping into the armor of cold and loneliness that became my shield without ceasing to be a curse. The symphony of sensations born at the confluence of two seething forces unfolded in new colors of torment, neither letting me fall into oblivion nor stay alive.

Suffering.

The stone of the first wall is turned to dust and rubble instantly, as is the one that follows it, as well as the ones that follow the first two. Even without a booster, Aegis allows to ignore any purely physical damage, protecting more reliably than any armor, barriers, and artifacts, but the main battle for the right to be, takes place not outside but inside, near the heart covered with all the forces, to which honey-colored streams of tainted poison, the embodied Vice, is reaching.

Hatred.

The distance of the flight is growing, but I can only mark the meters and blocks that have flashed by with the edge of my consciousness, the whole essence of which is turned into a lump of nerves that growls with anger, howls with pain, and is tormented by an unfulfilled desire. The crunch and rattle of stone, glass, and wood are but a sorry semblance of what is going on in the remnants of my soul. Hate burns, taking more and more of what I was, taking me, only to keep me from giving it to the poison I'm carrying inside.

Loneliness.

It protects me, protects me better than any shield, dooming me with its guardianship, its damned Aegis, forever separating the world from the one it shelters. Hateful loneliness, the essence of what I am, the flesh of what I have become, does not let me die even when I am ready to give any price for the right to oblivion if only the poison would stop burning if only the long-standing hatred would stop, if only all this would stop!

I don't wanna die!

The last wall, the outer wall of some rich manor house, was smashed through, allowing me to slam my bones into the inner wall, cracking it and falling to the ground, unable to hold even the basic Aegis. Black blood pours from my broken, torn, rapidly regenerating Form, pouring and burning through the carved wooden floor, the expensive carpet, and the stone chips. The loneliness burns away the poison, taking everything I could give away behind it, taking away feelings, smiles, laughter, desires, friendship, joy, happiness... taking everything. Taking and leaving me... alone.

The Shadow's nature saved me. It also killed me.

No emotion left, no feelings left, nothing left. I went to my death for a chance for others, and death was my reward. No more friendship, no more Hans, no more Losius, no more Taria, no more Hestia, no more Tia, no more Ygra. All that Konstantine had felt for them remained there on the stones of the square where he had struck his final blow. It remained in the carnage of the ritual hall, where he had scooped up more than even the most desperate man could hold. It remained in the altar rest of the Eternal Library, in the dungeons of Tavimark, in the streets of Arenam, and in the depths of the wild lands. In the catacombs of the Kraj and the ancient necropolis, the locked Spectre rules.

I still have a memory, but that memory is now empty, like the photo files on the hard drive of a home computer. You were once there in those pictures, smiling and having fun with those in those images standing next to you, but time has passed. The memory of him remains, but there is nothing to hold that memory. There is no one who held that memory, and the photos are being viewed by a completely different person. Only the Shadow remains, only a creature of immense power and endless hunger, no longer willing to give up its power and nature.

I get to my feet, or rather. I flow like Shadows move, not humans. Not a single drop of flesh in my entire body, and the mask falls to the ground, grinning its bloody smile at me, bouncing off into the far corner like a discarded skin. The face is gone too, just a black blur, a hungry maw, an insatiable gulp. Thoughts are jerky and sharp, like frozen ice flakes, and no warmth in them. Losius, Hans, Tia, Taria, Hestia, Ygra... The man had already done everything he could do for them and added to it a fair share of what was impossible.

I don't really care anymore.

With an effort of will, I open a small breach, tearing reality apart with a groaning wound, pressing into the lens the devils had created, making the hole as deep as possible. The road is open, and I have enough strength to survive the journey, to rip out the eternity of any creature that thinks I am less terrible, that dares to see me as prey. I have enough strength to escape from those who only see me as prey.

The play with the siege of the Eternal is over.

Let the rest of the cast play it out without me before the devil who kicked my ass takes his mind off the important things for a second and finishes what he started. Any creature should know when there's no point in fighting when it's better to run away and retreat, distracted only by walking through the nearest neighborhoods to gather the heat and lives of those still hiding in the corners. I have a long way to go, a long way to go, and the extra souls devoured by the Grip that gave me their memories, their souls that strengthened me, would not be out of place.

They won't be redundant.

They won't.

The breach is open, and the gates are before me, but why do I delay? For what, for whom, for what idols do I not save my life? The thirst to live, the thirst to be. It saved me from the poison, saved me from death, and allowed me to continue my tale, not to stop, not to finish the story. I thirst to live. I thirst with all my being. To live and to take other people's lives and continue my own, to take someone else's life and add it to my own, to take and add, to get my strength from someone else's weakness.

My peripheral vision catches the glare of flickering system tray messages. There was a lot of stuff piling up there that would be worth examining in detail, but not until much later, when I'd put the danger behind me. Nevertheless, my gaze fixes on a small section, literally two lines, that up until now had been scary to look at. The fear is gone along with everything else, but for some reason, the sight is still there, lingering in my mind, making me hesitate.

Name: K??s?a?t??e

Race: ????????? (creature; ????????)

Question marks.

Their designation is very clear and easy to grasp through clairvoyance and banal logic. I have received much for this day. For the enemies I have fought and the sacrifices I have made. All I have to do is to distribute what I have received, and I can get rid of the annoying absurdity, complete my rebirth, and leave my past life behind. I've already been reborn. I've already accepted my new self, and these signs are just cosmetic nonsense because the same bloodsuckers also look at the question marks for a while before the Status returns to normal after conversion.

And I am much stronger than the bloodsuckers, much more dangerous than the overgrown bedbugs, there is no doubt about it. Having distributed what I've received and then supplemented it, I can hope to accept the status of not even a Legend but a Myth. The weak myth, literally newborn, as was newborn Hestia, turned epic monster of the first level. But even a barely awakened Myth will gain power, incredible power, my rightful power!

Why haven't I stepped forward yet?

Just...

Just one step...

My cry raises every shadow in the neighborhood, within and beyond my sphere of shadows, making them quiver like shaking leaves in a storm. All my hatred, all my loneliness, all my fears, all the forgotten and given up pain that somehow stayed with me, not letting go even now.

I jerked forward, and my fist struck a large mirror, which was part of a huge sideboard that stood in the middle of the living room, destroyed by my "flight," abandoned by its owners at the first alarm bells. Shards of mirror crumble to the ground, silver goblets engraved with sea-themed engravings fall beside them, crystal decanters with various contents clink, and the sideboard itself falls on its side, opening a hole in the wall behind it and in the walls that follow it. Behind me, the rift, no longer supported, was collapsing, and from within, an unstoppable avalanche of madness burst forth

And I laugh, shrilly, choking and rustling every shadow in time with my laughter, laughing as only a Shadow can laugh, laughing at myself and the world, laughing, hearing how with each passing second this laughter more and more resembles my past, laughing without noticing how the laughter turns into hoarse sobs as if trying to speak with a crushed throat.

The shadows fall silent.

The rustling subsides.

I fall to my knees.

The eyes meet the grin of my mask again, and I involuntarily grin back, showing my newfound teeth, inhaling the air with my newly reappeared lungs, feeling my heart beat as it pumps blood through my veins again. In the shards of the mirror, I can see my face pale, alien, wrong, mangled by my power, but still mine.

How simple it all turns out to be.

Any fool can step over the edge to the point of complete creaturness and then go back as if nothing had happened. Absolutely any fool, if only he can understand, realize, and only independently, without prompting, accept such an elementary truth. It is not about nobility, not about friendship, or loyalty, and not about the best manifestations of our feelings. Otherwise, every second would regularly change the essence three times a day.

So simple...

And equaly emposible...

It didn't get any easier.

I still don't want to die. I still wish more than anything to escape from this mad city without continuing the battle, without repeating the agony I've experienced. I can do it now, can't I? No one will judge or stop me, and my companions will be the first to kick me out into the breach, giving me a chance at least. I can always find companions or raise new ones. The death of the capital and the fall of the Eternal Empire will benefit me as an Unchained Summoned. I have already managed to do the impossible from the point of view of any inhabitant of this world. The old System will not lie, having indicated everything in my status:

Name: Konstantine

Race: ?human?; ??????

There, in that square, death awaits me, unpleasant and humiliating in every way. One miracle has already happened to me today, and even my optimism and self-confidence are not enough to believe that such luck will happen again. It was a miracle that I managed to leave the square, a miracle that I didn't die from a single blow from that fucking Sovereign of all fucking bitches, a miracle that I survived the poison and eradicated it from my essence.

I don't wanna die.

I lifted my mask, leaving red stains on it - not blood, but a jam that had spilled out of a broken carafe, cherry jam, judging by the smell and taste (it took two seconds to lick my fingers). I look at the smile I painted a long time ago, as if an eternity ago, and realize I'm going to die. I don't have a chance in the battle with the mythical devil. I didn't have it before, and I don't have it now after the miraculous rescue.

I can somehow miraculously withstand one or even a few hits if I put everything on defense.

I can just as miraculously strike out on my own if I forget about defense and become a kamikaze

No more.

But no less.

Fuck it, - although it is better not to, - but how I, almost dying, wanted to live! I thought that I had long ago resigned myself to the inevitability of the end, but somewhere there was still a little faith and hope for the best, even strange. I didn't believe in Santa Claus when I was a child!

I bared my teeth to the pieces of my reflection like a mouthful of solid fangs, then picked up one of the pieces of the shattered mirror with gold dust glistening fingers, crunching it to a crunch. A few seconds is an impermissible luxury spent on indecision, and the partially transformed mouth crumbles a small fragment the size of a child's palm.

Glass facets tear at my throat as the first shard is followed by a second.

Third.

Sixth.

Tenth...

* * *