* * *

The situation, despite its murderous seriousness, reminded me unobtrusively of good old westerns, in particular of the now classic scene in which two cowboys stand opposite each other, waiting to see who will be the first to snatch the gun and feed his opponent with lead, ending a heated discussion. The holy man standing there, calmly and confidently, as if at a social gathering the holy man, despite his battered appearance, did not seem the weaker party. Yes, we were outnumbered, but we were all beaten, too, and, unlike Jerem, we did not have an invisible god standing behind us, healing and encouraging us. If the slaughter starts now, we probably still have a good chance of taking the bastard down, especially in the first few moments of the battle. A blow, a response, and another blow. That's the distance. Depending on how events turn out, the holy man could die unintentionally, and I'll be a namefag for the rest of my life. He can't unrealize that.

The boldness of the asshole is quite understandable. We can multiply him by zero, having managed to tear his soul before the incarnate Retribution pulls it to the Heavens. Another thing is that after, I'll only have to kill myself so that it wouldn't hurt so much because even at the best of times and with full preparation for elimination, I wouldn't be able to pull off such a massacre secretly. Right now, the only thing keeping us all off the Warrior's radar is his... competitor, perhaps. Being dependent on someone else's goodwill, the will of someone you don't want to shit on the same field with, was an entirely new experience in my new life, and it made me want to squeeze someone's throat. This someone had to choose his pride - not a man who worked in the office space, to learn to make a simpler and dumber face so as not to embarrass the bosses with reason. This skill had rusted a lot during the isekai time, but I hadn't forgotten it, so instead of a swift approach and activation of the Aegis's afterburner, coupled with a strong male embrace, I just tilted my head to the side, barely audibly, without any Shadow in my words, saying my line.

"Hello." The High Cleric's only normally visible eye squinted back at me as if waiting for me to continue, but he didn't flinch when I took a step toward him, but he tensed slightly.

I don't know if he expected me to continue, but I simply stepped toward him, covering the more vulnerable team with my slightly hunched back, pulling down my mask at the same time. In another situation, showing my face would have been foolish, but under the gaze of God, Grimmentray himself, who looks at me through the eyes of his servant, such trifles would hide nothing. But it would cause a palpable tension, a readiness to explode with ruthless action, the embodiment of violence over life and postmortem.

My eyes had once been dark brown, but now they were black. Too black, even with the full suppression of my powers already noticeably unnatural in their blackness. His eyes, I could have sworn, were not always so unbearably clear in the immensity of the sky's blue, but now there is so much power in them, so many wonders have passed through them. Even he may not remember their original color. The crossings of glances, so savored in earthly books, mostly love affairs, can say a great deal, more than words and actions even. In my past life, I often laughed at such maxims, saying that his gaze was insane or, say, piercingly honest, blatantly deceitful, and a hundred other epithets and comparisons. Having developed clairvoyance, I don't laugh anymore. To a normal person, the eyes of the interlocutor, most likely, will not say anything unless he is, of course, an Ophthalmologist or a Narcologist. For me, the facets of comparing eyes with mirrors of the soul had long ago opened up, long before this meeting.

I don't know what he saw in my power-damaged eyes, but the calm that had seemed unbreakable, barely perceptible even to my perception, sagged, replaced by a reflexive urge to strike, to break, to destroy, as if a poisonous or simply disgusting-looking insect had crawled onto my arm. A little more, and he would probably have struck, and I also instinctively wished to douse the heavenly spring, cutting my exposed nerves with its presence. Instead, I simply continued my sentence since the cleric was silent for now:

"Why are you here?" I didn't try to hide my fatigue or poor health, but he could see that without my acting skills, which, unlike Taria, I didn't have much of. "And why did you help?"

Now, he paused for ominous silence, either trying to shake my equilibrium or being knocked out of the rut by my actions, words, and chosen position in the negotiations. He makes me nervous, even frightens me. He is strong, dangerous, not less if not more than I am, but now I felt for a split second that I was making him mad in return, disrupting his prepared lines of behavior, breaking the plan of future negotiations, shifting the sense of internal balance, which he, for years of serving the Just, used to consider indestructible.

"For many reasons." There is no Heaven or Depth in his voice either, no echo of his God's words, just a confidence, a promise, and a declaration of his decisions that will happen regardless of my attempts to interfere or change his point of view. "From dissatisfaction with the actions of the Ascended One to your and those behind your back's involvement in what just happened."

A barely perceptible glance behind my back, right where Losius was standing in a half-martial stance, clutching his new sword, said more than words could. I've seen the echoes of that battle. I've seen what the duelist was up against. And that must be worth something, even to this vessel of someone else's will and the one who fills it. Not to mention a whole mythical artifact in the possession of the one who saved the skin of the priest and his entire temple. A helping hand is best extended to those who can put something of value in that hand, giving it in return for their salvation.

I smiled faintly, without anger or malice, but there was no joy in that smile, which didn't look good on my pale-white face. I knew that without a mirror, and after my lips had turned blacker than a pompous, stereotypical Goth from the nearest cemetery, it jumped into the ominous valley right off the bat. He didn't flinch, of course, but I could still sense he was letting out the slightest irritation, like the rippling of clear waters in the breeze, that my psychic senses were picking up at the very edge. Something wasn't going according to his plan, something I was doing differently than he'd originally expected, differently than he'd planned, differently than he'd wanted, which made me feel a little better. Not so invulnerable, not so unreadable as he wants to appear.

Another thing is that I am not very aware of what exactly in my behavior confuses him. Even the very fact of realization comes from the Soul of the Mocker property, grasping something ephemeral, unclear, seeing the effects but not the root cause, and that pisses me off too. Even more than the priest's presence.

"And what do you have to offer?" I basically guess but continue the conversation, even though I know he's realized my guess as well. "What will you take for your participation? What will you counterbalance it with?"

The last passage caused a dangerous squint in his healthy eye, and the other was already slowly healing, as was the whole half of his face, which someone had turned into a chop. It's not clear by what, but this hints at something I didn't realize. It hurt him, not so hard, but it still hurt. Eh, Konstantin Yurievich... we troll our interlocutors even one step away from the grave, as we always do. Life hasn't taught anyone anything, despite all the hints, clues, and just kicks in the ass.

"With chance." He throws off all complacency standing before me, showing, notifying, bringing his inevitability to my mind. "If not for you, Summoned One, then for the one who saved my life and my Lord's flock."

A laugh, pure, ringing, not at all like the shrill squeak of a door hinge and a hyena writhing in agony, the way I laugh. It was as if Heaven smiled, pure and forgiving everyone, from the scoundrel to the saint, accepting everyone, from the great to the insignificant. It was a gleeful, almost happy laugh, and in some respects, I confess, even more, frightening than the alternative hatred of the laughing Shadow.

"I don't need it, Holiness." If I didn't let the force in my voice, Losius didn't want to hold back, couldn't or didn't see fit to, pressing the planarian to his full height. "I made my choice a long time ago."

The priest smiled too, sad and understanding, and I'm sure it wasn't fake, though there was some theatricality in it. That's how an aged veteran smiles, looking at the trailing column of recruits, still believing in battle glory and great feats, not knowing how many of them will never come back. From his age, and the cleric, despite his relatively young appearance, is indeed old, he has the right to look and smile like that. And it was precisely these words of Losius that he had foreseen, swiftly returning to his favorite equilibrium, gaining the same confidence in the outcome he had predetermined.

"We all make choices, and they make us us." Taking his time, demonstratively showing a lack of evil intent, the priest removes a strange squiggle from his belt, as if two figure eights superimposed on each other, cast in a slightly bluish metal. "And there is a price to pay for each one. To you, to me, to all of us, Summoned One."

The Hero's Gaze malfunctioned, almost watering from trying to see the status of this undoubted artifact, and it would be hard to put into words how tense Tia and Giver, standing behind me, were. The jewelry doesn't even smell like danger. It's like a grave, a mountain avalanche that you can't stop but pray and wait it out, hoping it doesn't crush you. If it does come to a fight, the first thing to do is not to let him use the jewelry. Otherwise, it's over, it's all over, it's the finish line, the early end.

"I, too, have a knack for pushing philosophy with a smart look." Despite the ever-increasing tension, I, on the contrary, am more and more cheerful and calm every moment, even if it is the calm of a dead man, with which one used to march under tanks with a single grenade. "Sometimes, I even manage to pretend to be clever. I have another question: how did you find us? I mean, that you followed my companion, it's clear, but I didn't notice it."

Again, the pause. Again, the feeling that I was, without fully realizing it, treading on some weak point, finding a vulnerability, only I had to figure out which one. He was expecting an attack, despite the demonstration of peaceful intentions, simply because it was impossible to let him activate the concentration of power he had taken in his hands. It should have been done nicely, even before the meaningless dialog began, but it was because the old prick seemed to be leading me to that thought, playing on Shadow's instincts rather than man's, that I was in no hurry to make a last parade.

"If you'd noticed me, Foreigner, that would have been a sign that it was time for poor Jerem to retire." Like myself, he acts as nonchalant as if he were talking to a coworker on a smoke break, only he can't hide his tension completely, or perhaps he just doesn't want to. "The bond between his Blade and the One he freed is still too strong, despite the Winged Maiden being banished to the Heavens. It is through this bond that I have traveled, with his help, as if by a guiding thread. In time, this trick will cease to work, and the axes of perception will shift, but for me, as I saw the moment of her fall into Heaven almost at close range, such a technique was not difficult."

The answer was honest and detailed, yet said absolutely nothing, but it was as streamlined as the hull of a space shuttle. I wondered if he was exaggerating or understating the difficulty of the trick. And after a couple of months of our time away from civilization, he won't be able to do it again, or is that what he wants me to think? So hard it is to play against someone out of your league, though. I used to be the strongest clairvoyant in the room, not even inferior to the whole circle of the Seers, but now I felt like a rookie going up against a pro and trying not to embarrass myself.

"You don't have much of a choice, I'll be honest." The same slightly sad smile on his gradually healing face, only underneath it was the cold grin of someone else's will and complete confidence in his rightness. "You realize it yourself, and I am only voicing it. Your deeds have been evaluated, weighed, and deemed worthy of this conversation, not death like cattle in a slaughterhouse under the steel of the manifested Blades. I can only give your men a chance, promising them a chance to leave, and give you your last battle, Hero."

However, how he beautifully determined who he would give a chance to and who he would fuck right off. Only humans, not behemoths, creatures, or elves. It makes sense because saving Tia is like shooting yourself in the foot, just like helping me. She killed a lot of important people for the Empire, even without taking into account the Second Prince, but her act of terrorism will not redeem her participation in the last battle. At most, they would allow her to take poison after a thorough interrogation, not to be put to death in the dungeons, and it was not a sure thing because there might be someone willing to practice the same slavemancy on her.

Hestia was already closer to the creature than to the behemoth, so much she fattened after the devoured cauldron that was the late Touch. For me, she is a companion, whom I chose and will consider mine even now, but for the priest, the former Raimel is just a dangerous thing harnessed by some subordination, which should be killed just out of a sense of self-preservation. I don't even want to talk about the devil's cutie, who now resides in the cultist's body, and I'd be glad to get rid of her myself.

Only Hans, Losius, and Taria remain the only ones worthy of salvation from the High Priest's point of view, but he doesn't count on Taria and doesn't take her into account, obviously having found traces of subjugation or simply considering her unworthy of his recruitment efforts. I'm even willing to bet that he considers his act as nobility and readiness to repay for his contribution to the victory rather than a desire to snatch the bearer of a mythical artifact. He wants to help, but in his way, in the Alurean way, so to speak, sowing justice and giving what he deserves. At this moment, my head finally clicks, and the pieces of the puzzle come together, not all of them, not even half of them, but enough to judge what's going on, at least superficially.

Jerem, like the Patron behind him, could not miss the artifact Ring on my finger and its nature. He could not miss the changes in my body, the consequences of losing my human nature in every sense of expression. He considers me already a creature, only by the persistence of a Summoned Hero, whom he himself has not met but has read about the phenomenon, held within the confines of a former character. He thinks I am pretending even to myself, trying to cling to the remnants of the past! And he would have been right if he had met me after that first blow of the dead Sovereign when the poison of his Lust had forced me to kill my own self in order not to die with him.

From his point of view, he wants to save my companions from me, from an almost creature that will die and take everyone else with it. No one has told the priest the reasons why I chose the Mentalist Ring for my journey. He knows neither me nor them, judging everyone here on his own scale, on the principles of life in this cursed world. For him, I am sure. It is not even a problem, not a moral dilemma, but an ordinary situation when you have to give justice even to the one you are about to kill and whom you despised or even hated a moment before.

The rivalry with the Warrior, the desire to get mythic in his hands, the intention to properly dispose of the information I'd extracted from the Fall Executioner's head, the need to take back the Eternal Dynasty family blade I'd stolen. All of that was secondary, derived from the very certainty that I was right. He has already judged me, already weighed me, and set a price he deems fair. He has already pronounced a verdict of my guilt, only softening the sentence at the expense of the deed I did, paying for the consequences of that deed with that softness.

In a situation like this, I would have to bargain, maybe even get some more, if not run away from the battle. I could have rushed into battle, just confirming all his expectations, making myself look like exactly what he saw in me, rushing into battle and dying in it since he offered it himself and didn't even doubt the outcome of the battle. What I shouldn't have done in such circumstances was to lose control and let my shit temper out because my head was supposed to be cold.

The smile on my face changed from tired and sad to a completely different one, unexpected for me, my interlocutor, and his master, too. Not the grin of a cornered creature ready to sell its life for higher prices, trying to last longer. Not the grimace of horror at the inevitable verdict, the unwillingness to end my own fairy tale before its time, the fear of the end of my last adventure. I have enough anger on my face, as well as in the depths of my seething hatred, but far more, there is pure, unclouded, simply burning contempt. And that emotion, that feeling, now bursting from my very gut, struck the priest who was listening intently, making him recoil, clutching his bling tighter, losing his balance again, only now it was slower to regain it.

"Who the fuck are you to judge me?" I utter it without hissing or clawing at my throat, almost a whisper, barely perceptible. "Who gave you the right to do that, you fucking justice?"

Instead of the cleric, it was something hidden behind the blue of his eyes, as if it had pushed the servant deeper into his body, stepping forward, overwhelming him with a power that made me, even at full boost, seem offensively small and defenseless. I was looking at him, who had made sentencing everyone and everything part of his essence. Embodied it, and raised it on a pedestal of greatness.

"I gave that Right." Every syllable is hammered into my head with a judge's hammer, every letter imprinted on my skull with a scorched symbol, and behind me are staggering companions who have had only a fraction of what has fallen upon me. "And who are you to dare challenge that right?"

A moment more, and I would have fallen to my knees, unable to withstand the pressure of pure power, concentrated into one clear ray-sentence, like a condemning executioner's blade. The shadows did not respond, the connection to the planes seemed to bubble up, lost, and reappeared, preventing me from tuning into the battle, and even the faithful Aegis did not want to respond to my orders. But instead of sprawling on the floor like an unhappy frog that met with a boot, I sharply threw forward my hand, grabbing... the very same amulet, snatching it from Jerem Steyr's unclenched palm.

He was probably expecting all sorts of things, especially an attack, but not what I just did. It's like trying to wrestle a flamethrower from an enemy's hands by grabbing the jet of flammable liquid it releases. Welcome to my world, asshole. We do not know the instinct of self-preservation as well as the laws of reality and God's will. Nevertheless, my actions took the symphony of the priest and his God, which was crushing me out of combat mode for a while, easing the pressure on the whole of me.

Aegis and Form activated in that brief window, turning the body into an inky-black silhouette, clutching an artifact glowing blue and reflecting the waves of the sea, which was burning the shadow body to a fleshy pulp right now, despite the Aegis that was almost in afterburner. The sensation of such touch was comparable to the agony of a Sovereign's blow taken directly on a naked body. It wasn't even pain, but something deeper, something completely different, something unimaginably crushing the nature of anyone, from beggars to kings.

The shadow gave me the strength not to fall but to straighten up, feeling the glimpses of the power that touched me vaporize pieces of instantly regenerating flesh, the gut hidden in the depths of blackness burning in agony. Even without a direct touch, just being within range of this thing, there was little chance of fighting back or surviving the attack. But once it was in his hands, taken voluntarily, against orders, and without Grimmentray's permission, even those ephemeral chances faded into the depths of the Abyss. But I don't even think of stopping, of tossing God's toy aside, of sheltering myself in the dome of Loneliness. It's not how I want this day to end.

Even if I die now, I'll be able to say what I think right in the bastards' faces, even if it's the last act of my too-long life.

Instead of shielding myself from the pain, from the guilt I bear, I only open myself to it, against all the logic of the world and even against the description of my own class skills, burning the intangible shadow body into somehow quite living meat. I can't deflect the sentence, can't prevent it, don't even try, instead passing my own judgment, even if it has no force of its own, even if I have no right to it.

It wasn't words, if only because I wouldn't have time to utter them, only a mute accusation, an indication of what should be pointed out. Almost forgotten images, like an old and frayed dream, a memory from a literal past life before I had even set foot on the land of Alurei. At that time, my mind, still untrained, completely human, and lacking the ability to see into the essence, took this thing for a regular file folder, like hundreds of hundreds I'd seen in the office, just floating in the air. The mind of the newcomer simply did not perceive the truth, hiding behind the illusions of habit, seeing only a stupid wrapper behind which hid the bloody, as hundreds of years of working slaughterhouse, the truth.

A list of obituaries, a few lines of description of other people's fates, the fates of those who were here before me, who finished their journey or will finish it without breathing the air of their own free will. I am sure. I just know that if I look at that folder now, I will see not files and plastic spines but a damp, oozing blood, a grave, a cenotaph, a tombstone, a memorial built right in the Hall of Choice for those who were not mourned at home or here, who were not needed either here or there. They are all there, on those pages, hidden in a few lines, in a couple of sentences, in a dozen words.

Is that what you call Justice?

The pain became unbearable at the very beginning, but each moment revealed new facets of it. Each moment must be the last, marking the finale in which I will be crushed like a cockroach with a slipper. I am standing, breathing, living, not because of my strength, not at the cost of unchanging stubbornness, not out of a desire not to die, but only and only for the sake of these names, which no one remembers anymore. They keep me on my feet. They stand behind me. They stand behind my back just as the Verdictor stands behind his Priest. They take a part of their anger. They share with me my loneliness, my pain, my hatred, my fear, my despair. They don't really exist. They are only in my imagination. Any support from them is just a figment of my wild imagination, but that doesn't change a thing.

I'm not standing because of them.

I'm standing for their sake.

Where's your Retribution?

The divine anger stung and burned, but even though it was stronger, I was relieved, as if something important that had been invisibly present had stopped working as it should in the crushing power of the disapproval heaped upon me. It still hurt terribly, to the point of agony, but now I was not dying, only getting angrier and angrier, just like the morally slapped god. It was unexpectedly exciting to troll a natural celestial, and this feeling of successful mockery infused me with another stream of strength that helped and kept me afloat.

The artifact's retaliatory strike was expectedly unstoppable, without any alternatives capable of not even smearing me, vaporizing me into a bloody pulp, yet unexpectedly... tolerable? The divine toy acted as a microscope lens and a crystal prism as if sifting me, evaluating my actions and myself. It evaluated me according to Grimmentray's criteria, but what a tragedy because where it should have disembodied me, the flow of divine power only managed to burn me. Painful, agonizing, enough to kill hundreds of hundreds of ordinary people, even a high-level warrior with a focus on damage absorption, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to the power that could not catch me, flowing harmlessly and powerlessly past.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Oh, from the point of view of this, well just very there should be sarcasm here, the fair deity in me had enough, let's say, if not sins, then faults, mistakes, and bad deeds. Slight hypocrisy, almost complete godlessness and by no means slight anti-theism, overly cruel jokes in some situations, overly permissive attitude towards the same monsters or even creatures in others, participation in the murder of subjects of the Empire or other states, helping those whom the Empire wished to kill. All this would have been enough for a hundred executions by the civil court, but Grimmentray, who wished to punish me for my insolence through his artifact, had to limit himself to the laws, not of the world but of God.

I did not see any feats in that, trying just to do what someone had to do, long before me, time after time getting into the next shit, getting out of it again and again to spite all the dangers. The Incarnate Justice watched. His power pressed and thrashed in the chains of his artifact's will. I only pressed back, punching images through the resulting channel of communication so tight that no other cleric, even a very strong one, could ever know in a lifetime. The dry lines about the forgotten and desecrated Heroes, from whom the very right to the Feat had been stolen, were joined by the heavy glances of the Undead bound to the Dolmens in the wild lands, tired of even hating the life that had betrayed them. Again sounded the measured step of the marching column of Heavy Infantry, day after day, century after century measuring their stamped step in the cage created from their own bodies. The black abomination, which takes away people from themselves, devouring everything and everyone, seeking to take, to defile, to stain, to stain, to blacken even the Heavens themselves, swelled and hissed. And, of course, my last battle, the dance of Four against One, the final battle for the city, for ourselves, for the right to remain ourselves, for the right to tear, to torment the creature before me and in me, to continue another's battle just so that the fairy tale would continue not for us, but for everyone else.

Each of these decisions I made myself, expecting nothing from these deeds but another portion of problems, but that was why they sounded only weightier at this moment, crushing the flow of divine power with a counterstroke, causing no harm, no pain, no damage, but wounding the Retributor by the very fact of what had happened. For it was not he who had brought about the recompense and completion of these stories, though he should have, he had to. It was his duty!

The remnants of the torrent of punishment flowing through me should have been enough for most of the living and long-dead, but it was just remnants, crumbs, and drops of red-hot metal from the boiling cauldron into which I was about to be shoved. It was a terrible force, but no longer so unstoppable that it was pointless to fight against it. And I stood there, replenishing my body burning in the sky blue with my form, with Aegis super-compressed like a second skin, frozen a step away from the afterburner, extinguishing and devouring the sea drops, the salt falling on my wounds, the grayness of the manifestation closing my right to life.

And he relented, shocked by this fact far more than myself.

Because my tribunal, a rashly challenged trial, I had just completed and was acquitted.

It seemed like an eternity since Heaven had fallen on me, but when my mind let go of the clutches of the Verdict in my hands, not even a second had passed. Even Giver hadn't had time to unleash half the sonm in a desperate attack right into the shocked and childishly lost face of the First Priest, and the rest of the team was falling even further behind. In the depths of her nearly burned soul, there was a sweet feeling of a successful tussle, of winning a fight, even if it was only moral, not physical. And there was also a clear understanding that if the deviless had time to strike, Grimmentray would have to look for a new head of the clergy because the remnants of the current one, now deprived of protection, would be easier to paint over than to scrape off, not to mention the damage to Steyr's soul, carelessly put under the blow. And that's when we'll definitely get a rising star, possibly a morning star. We're being shut out from the attentions of the Warrior retinue raging over the city by Grimmentray through his priest, and it's going to get bad without him. Well, for about the few seconds it would take for God to condemn us to a hundred years of firing squad for killing the head of the flock, with no breaks for lunch or weekends.

I almost growl at the new outbreak of pain in my unhealed body, turning the grayness of the Manifestation behind me, stopping the team's unreleased attacks, and for the sake of Giver, I jump backward, turning around in flight to cover the palms of her current meat sack with my fleshy pale grasp. It came out and sounded so vanilla that I almost felt nauseous... but no, nausea was from the fleur and the effects of potion rollback and overexertion. And the ointment-oil-cream the cultist used to cover her naked body with for better protection against enemy magic really smells like vanilla.

"We're still talking." I wish I could say that sounded pathos and commanding, but in reality, I barely managed to wheeze it out, which, after what I'd been through, was already a feat. "And if you, you insolent bastard, say anything more about your fucking trial, I swear on this very shit. I'll figure out a way to drag you both to the grave with me, even if I have to turn myself inside out to do it."

The still clenched religious relic that had burned the hand that held it into meat, despite Aegis and Form, was pierced by a new flash of heavenly light, only now painless, apparently registering my oath and the seriousness of my intentions. The latter made not only me but also Jerem, who had completely healed his wounds and the deity watching through his eyes, look at the artifact that had stopped burning flesh with wonder. I don't even know which of the three of us was more surprised, but the priest's face became even more bewildered and stupid, eliciting a reflexive laugh, hoarse but sincere.

"It can't be..." That's what they both said, I'm telling you. "You have been vindicated."

The relic shone again, and I realized, in no small shock, that right now, I could take from it healing wounds, pumping power, and almost any kind of help so I could blast at a level not too inferior to my own, only not wasting reserve, but pumping divine power through myself. There were a lot of thoughts, starting from the fact that through such a channel, one could easily monitor, influence, or harm the one who tied it to himself, but the first thought was quite different. I wondered, if I tried to kick the Avatar standing before me with the same power, even if not fully manifested, would it be considered that the god would kick himself like Tyler Durden?

"I'll just absorb back my own grace, summoned." I'm sure he couldn't read my thoughts, not that quickly. But my face must have been very telling, and there was a slight, almost slight uncertainty in the Avatar's tone, making me remember the grace might be his, but I had a very well-developed concentration that would allow me to twist a figure out of a ready-made force that would take a while to unwind. "Don't even think about it, morta..."

The projectile I fired, a classic spear, only wrapped in a prayer page, was thrown only for the sake of distraction. It was just a matter of fumbling for the prayer construct hanging in the artifact itself, easily discernible through the link and using the same link to materialize the finished Miracle. This is the power of prayers. It is not necessary to compose them yourself, as I do with shadow charms. They are already ready and, often, somewhat more effective than spells from a mage of a similar level, only know the right prayer and have the right to recite it.

My move wasn't even repelled or reflected but canceled, as if a wire had been pulled out of a socket and a new toy had been extinguished and turned into a piece of colored plastic, except that I hadn't counted on success. I used shadow steal on myself, reaching the connection with the relic. Then I looped it on myself and brought the Hammer of Conviction down on my head. It is another battle prayer, but much stronger, capable of taking out the gate to an average fortress along with the wall of the fortress itself and the opposite wall of the same stronghold, breaking through it.

I could swear to that, and on the same artifact I was holding in my hands, they were both swearing, not just the priest, even if they were inaudible and unspoken. The blow did me no good, especially with any defenses intentionally disabled, but the theft kept the weight of the Miracle off, sending it to the address of the ultimate recipient of this gift - to me. The only thing was that the transfer of the stolen item was clearly on the border of the (pseudo-)priestly connection created by the artifact, right into which the Miracle hammer dived, going through the artifact to the owner of the relic and the one with whom he shared his body. No, he didn't scream, didn't fall to the ground, and didn't shatter, but it jerked him as if he'd stuck his fingers in a socket, and his face was contorted with a furious grimace.

I didn't care about him, though; I had achieved what I wanted by forcing the channel to destabilize, nearly killing myself with a backlash but losing my connection to the stockpile of alien Wonders. The relic, whose name had floated into my head without my desire, still did not burn, still was ready to give strength to those who passed its test, but to give it up, to give up, in fact, the priestly rank of the highest order, was as easy as blowing my nose. I have enough temptations of my own, promising omnipotence, and I will carry Revenge in the name of the Moon or the Depths on my own terms. On the same terms I define for myself my own Justice.

To my surprise, there were no terrible consequences and no attempts to take control of my brain, and the artifact itself broke its contact quite calmly, becoming a piece of iron again, not burning but not helping at all. I silently threw the priceless and iconic object in the direction of its owner, relieved to let go of the thing that had caused me so much pain and agony. I'll think about how to erase the likely marks of the divine, how to hide my images again and hide in the cloak of nothingness a little later if I somehow survive this day.

Jerem caught it reflexively, not immediately realizing that I'd just thrown it like a pebble, and when he did, he didn't even have the strength to be indignant. The presence of the deity in him was somewhat distant, making him more of a priest than an Avatar, and he seemed to be consulting with his patron, carrying on a dialog inaudible to me, reassessing my fate and the possible benefits of my survival. And I did not doubt in my mind that he would help me get away today, that he would lead me beyond the borders of the city that had returned to reality, that he would cover me from pursuit, and that he would not turn me over to the Imperials as soon as I stepped out of the door.

To be a deity is not only olo-lo-push-push-push omnipotence, almightiness, and unbelievable awesomeness. Every time they go against their nature, against what once made a deity a God, what gave them Ascension, elevated them to the top, they cripple themselves, giving up a part of themselves. Each time, they leave an unhealing wound that will never disappear. It is possible to regain the power. It is possible to make up for the loss of a part of grace and its maximum reserve and to gain back the lost percentages of the effectiveness of prayers. But you can never forget the moment of your shame when you had to bow your head to circumstances, whether it was someone else's power, evil will, or your own greed.

If I were merely innocent but still summoned, still an evil terrorist to the world, it would be a slight scratch, a minor nuisance, and the benefit of my death or even the capture of our entire team would blot out that damage to nature with a broad stroke. But after I have passed the hardest possible test, the great sentence issued personally by Grimmentray himself and under his auspices carried out, it will not be possible to dismiss me. The price will be too high. There may be complications, additional demands, pressures, dialogue, and bargaining, but it is much better than the promised last duel in honor of the fallen me.

"I didn't expect that, I'll admit." Almost normal, but completely unreadable in his face and aura, the priest said, taking his time to close the distance after my leap to the almost-striking Giver, who was now back in a spring at my back. "I see the lore of the ancients did not lie when they spoke of your kind. Well, all the better to be fully prepared for the manifestation of the nature of the Deprived of Shackles..."

I didn't have time to answer because behind me, in addition to the grim readiness for battle, there was a soft but very audible laugh. And then it came again, a little louder, making me turn on my toes, glancing judgmentally at Taria.... who was looking away from me, trying to keep Jerem in Valerium's crosshairs. The laughter was not hers, but Tia's, whose eyes, only visible from beneath the cloth mask, were oozing with sincere mirth, which in her character meant Homeric laughter and hysteria. However, she was badly intoxicated and fleur-damaged if she could not control herself.

"I apologize. It's just that your words, holy Steyr, for me, who lived some time in the company of "his kind," are unbearably ridiculous in their naivety." The voice seems normal, but the fact of such interference in the conversation and breaking the fighting order is say more than enough. "I apologize again. The battle was not given to me for nothing, and I unwittingly allow myself too much."

A pause, after which we both pretended we didn't see or hear anything.

"I can let you go, and, Heaven knows, I will cover you and your people from the gaze of others." He seems uncomfortable with this conversation, not because I've screwed them both, despite the divinity of the other, but also because words of mine have struck a nerve, both of them as well. "But, if you wish to take out the Fall Executioner and the hand monster as well, you will have to repay justly."

This is the most pathos, majestic, pompous, and sublimely poetic demand for a bribe that I have ever met in both my lives. I admit not without admiration but with a share of indignation. Well, no one thought it would be easy, and I was counting on bargaining from the very beginning, to be honest. And to be quite frank, even the already offered "free of charge" was much more than I expected to bargain for the same mythical pickaxe wrapped in my cloak.

"Add to that the passage for the possessed, which, by the way, should be counted as one unit, and then name your price." It wasn't the priest who was most surprised by my outburst, but the subject of the argument, who was pretty fucked up, because she knew exactly how I felt about her. "And I'll choose the point you'll lead us to, making sure there are no ambushes, leads, markings, or other bad things."

In response, the priest's gaze flashed back to me, and for the first time ever, the priest let a quietly smoldering but very dangerous, like a bottomless maelstrom, anger enter his voice.

"Listen here, boy." Now, there was not even a trace of the former collected, deceptive calm and good-naturedness left. "You have allowed yourself much to be said, much to be done, rightly receiving the forgiveness granted to those above me and you. If He has pronounced judgment, then the judgment has been pronounced. You have said dangerous things, and you have thrown out accusations that should not have been moved by the morning wind, but you had the right to do so. You have no right to doubt His word or mine. And if you let yourself do that, I'll beat the shit out of you right here. Do you believe me?"

However, he was hurt by it. He switched to a simpler speech, in which the slang of some thug, judging by the clues of clairvoyance, the slang of the countryside, and also outdated for at least a century, was clearly visible. And now I realized exactly: I'll try to joke, I will definitely have to fight, and he didn't care about the violations of his own court because if the acquitted right in the hall sends the judge to hell, then God is his judge. That's the one, yeah. In general, I could only nod silently, holding back the poison of words and innuendo that was bursting from my tongue because it was not worth it to be impudent, and now I was dependent on this guy.

"That's fine." As if the outburst of anger hadn't even happened, he regained his carefree and impenetrable look. "Just let me give you some advice, almost friendly..."

"Even if she's a creature, a devil, and an abomination beyond description, even if I kill her myself a minute later, but she's my abomination who came here for me and with me." This is where keeping quiet and allowing myself to be lectured is definitely not something I'm going to allow because fuck you, that's why. "Which means it's up to me to send her into oblivion, not you or anyone else."

"Any loyalty instilled in a devil is as fragile as broken glass in the cold of the Coming Frost." Unlike his doubts about the honesty of Justice incarnate, the harsh answer did not offend, surprise, or shake his confidence. "You may think her bonds are secure, but in reality, they are as illusory as her humility and the trust it induces. It would be a shame for me to spend so much effort, personal time that I should spend not here and not with you, to give your soul to the Hell shard in her face..."

"Are you serious now?" It seems I overestimated his eyes, at least in terms of evaluating my Ring. Otherwise, he would have spoken very differently, but after all, he was also looking primarily at me, not the artifact and the nature of it is not fully realized. "Trust? In her? I might take offense at that hint now."

"Your choice." Without reacting or trying to convince me further, the High Cleric shrugged his shoulders. "Then here is my word. I pledge to..."

"Apchi!" What he obliged, I didn't hear because Taria inhaled some dust and sneezed audibly, barely keeping the Valerium pointed at Steyr. "What? It's really dusty in here!"

I think even Giver made a facepalm, almost attacking again at the sharp sound. And it would have to do something about her, too, probably kill her and forget about the problem. But if she deserved anything, it was to die at my hands, not to be hypocritically sold like a bargaining chip. We are responsible for those we tame, even if you tame a fucking radioactive radioactive cancer-spider-cyber-tiger-canibal, and now you don't know where to put it or who to sell it to.

"Ahem..." It looks like the man is getting annoyed and burdensome with our company. Such a pity and shame. "So, I undertake to take out every single one of your companions in this city, hiding you from any surveillance and leaving you already outside the tightly controlled area, allowing you to go wherever you wish, without pursuit, ordering pursuit, setting up surveillance or giving orders to do so. I undertake not to report voluntarily or upon request information about our meeting and about what I, thanks to this meeting, was able to learn about your nature...".

He listed his duties at length, in detail, and spoke as if he had written it down, making me involuntarily look for the cheat sheet he had used to read it all. I couldn't find it. Apparently, his own experience was enough for him to draw up a contract. Despite the many words, neither my brains of a twenty-first-century resident, who can buy appliances in retail stores without additional options and open accounts in banks without imposed services nor my full-fledged clairvoyance (since we are now covered by the highest bar, it is a sin not to use it) did not find lacunas and double interpretations. Either they are hidden very deeply, or we really are not going to be deceived by trifles.

Alas, there were other problems besides the transparency of the deal. Just as transparently, I was forbidden for the next eight years to try to reach a certain White Stone Altar. He even kindly explained to me what it was, as if I didn't know about the creepiness of the Library's altar room, at the same time forbidding the elimination of the First Trinity of Librarians. Jerem was obviously not going to let us all go for nothing but a reprieve, and when it came to favors on my part, it became triply clear to me exactly how and in what way they wanted to get back at me and fuck me within the rules. First, to tell a naive young man that his disclosure is already a matter of time, then to forbid him to touch the source of disclosure even with a three-meter stick, and only then to start offering to help with this source a little, to get a delay. And what a lot of horseplay there was on the subject of honesty and divine honor!

No, in my mind, I understand that this Sainty and his God pulled me out of the shit, but the fact that initially, he was going to kill me and get a lot of profit from it, only to calm his conscience by giving me a chance for dialog, getting rid of the inevitable otherwise inevitable wound on his essence... It did not dispose to understanding and peacefulness and made me dream of the moment when we would meet again but on my terms.

"The favor I need from you is quite simple, especially for a wielder of mirror magic," Jerem speaks calmly, like a teacher in a school or a superior issuing instructions to a subordinate, which only nurtures the urge to shove that attitude down his throat. "Recently, shortly before the creatures attacked, when you were still in hiding after the assassination attempt on the Nameless Prince, someone interfered in the overall plot. A very old and high-ranking agent of the highest grade was either exposed or had already exposed himself deliberately, aiming to interfere with the workings of the Lust Cult entrenched in the Empire's governing apparatus."

I felt a little uncomfortable at that moment, but the priest didn't notice it, preparing something like the water portal he'd come to this house with, only more complex, larger, and stealthier in energy, capable of transporting not just him but all of us together.

"I have with me a crystal with thought images, still empty, but with my prayer, I will transfer to it the information collected by the Temple about a certain Pypysh Popyatchev from the house of Prykhodonotchevs, the clan of the Trydygorodskys." Don't laugh, don't even smile, Konstantin Yurievich. Keep a brick face and pray to the holy imageboards that the team also keep a face. "A very illustrious person with a very interesting biography, which is probably very incomplete, and if the truth be told, it is completely false. The pure-blooded halfling turned out to be an agent of the Nightbird Cult, as well as a dreamer of absolutely frenzied power, able to use the Mirror in combat even where it shouldn't exist a priori, indicative of an advanced mythic class, not even an extremely powerful legend. You'll get a description of the incident, as well as the main versions, along with the data you've already collected in this crystal. From the looks of it, you're not a bad seer, Foreigner, and the Fall Executioner is behind your back too, if you trust her enough and don't fear betrayal... or are sure of its impossibility.... or you're sure it's impossible."

Is this his way of probing me to see if I've subjugated Tia with the Ring? And what the fuck is wrong with the only girl on my team who isn't brainwashed into loyalty to the Hero!

"Your task is to dig up something, preferably with all the names, causes, effects, main persons, and ultimate goals of the Winged Cult, as well as to find the names of the rest of their agents of the same kind." And even under the Sentence, all this story did not come out, not otherwise, because by the time the invisible judge at the base of the relic got to the massacre of the late hobbit's name. The creator of the artifact did not doubt that I would survive and therefore did not look closely, and then the property of the relic worked, which automatically seals the secret of the verdict-confession, which even Grimmentray himself will have to unlock back, albeit without much trouble, but not immediately and with some effort. "The guarantee to your success will be the sword you take from the battle..... to take your companion's sword, conscience or the Temple's creed will not allow me to take it. You have a term of two years, and if you are successful in that time, I pledge myself to slow down those who might ask the White Stone Altar direct questions about you and indirect ones too, but it's more complicated than that. Not everything is under my control. Not all of them I will follow and persuade. It is not completely clear what will be the situation in the Ages after today. But I will give you four years of peace because, by His will and your help, the position of the Temple must be strengthened by time. Four years in which you can hide yourself as best you can. That is all I can do for you, Summoned one..."

A short pause, after which something almost human appeared on the priest's face.

"Your fight and your choice..." He chewed his lip nervously as if hesitating whether to speak at all. "It is not for me or Him to judge you for it, even if it is not within our power to change the outcome ourselves. He learned his Ascension after the birth of the Shackles, after the creation of Yoke, taking his place, beginning his struggle for Justice, but always remembering, always knowing, always realizing that there was no one to bring this Retribution, no one who would seek and desire it. I wished to see you dead. I can't take that away, and I can't hide it, and I probably still do. For what you said. For answering. Because it hurt more than I ever wanted to feel. This deal is all I can give you. It would take two years to uncover a network barely inferior to the Cult of Devils, only never before seen by anyone, not even a few Eyelids of Imperial Eyes, even if they were at full strength. But... I will try my best to do what I promised even if there are no results."

The serious and painfully pale face, by which it was very much, even more so than when half of that face had been turned into a mass of blood and bone, evident how much this day, all his battles and losses, had exhausted Jerem Steyr, suddenly smiled with an almost boyish mischievousness.

"After all, I have to take your trophy away from you for nothing before you go to war with it against the Incarnate Frost, the Mushroom Garden, or the Weaver of Nightmares..." And then his face changed from mischievous to genuinely perplexed, and his surprise was so comical that words were not enough.

Tia, or rather Tialrianrelia of the House of the Misty Tree, the branch of the Blossom Blue, the inflorescence of the Eternal Beating, the infamous Fall Executioner, laughed self-consciously as if she had been bitten by the always cheerful and additionally tipsy Taria, who had heard Hans's joke. The unconcealed, not graceful, almost hysterical laughter, to the point of tears and sobs, lasted in silence for a few seconds before the elf got her emotions under control, but the rest of the crew smiled, too, albeit with concern for Tia's condition. The only one who was even more perplexed than Jerem was Giver of Caresses, who simply didn't know about the Library incident, or rather, she did know, but from the opposite direction, not about my involvement in that mess.

"I won't even think of asking for an apology." Tia wiped away the tears at the corners of her eyes. "The look on your face at that moment, the holy one, was a balm that soothed the shards of my pride and will remain with me for the rest of my eternity. Legends would neither diminish nor exaggerate; controlling the essence of an unshackled Hero is bound to be only slightly more difficult than that of a recognized native of Alurei, isn't it? Isn't it? Can anything go wrong, especially with you, honorable Steyr, oh mighty Judge? Isn't it many times easier than it was then, on the border with the Empire of Arms or the shores of Seinberg?

Perhaps it was only his concentration on his portal creation, as well as the wild fatigue, no less than my own, but now not held back by the Avatar's state, that prevented him from noticing something wrong earlier. It was only the need to maintain the portal that kept him from reacting with the ebullience of a berserker on a rampage. Whatever mess Tia was referring to now, she had pissed him off just enough to hurt his pride, if not his heart.

"What don't I know?" The priest asks, pressing his lips into a thin string, which seems to make him regret even more the impossibility of slaughtering the elf right here and not caring about all the deals he offered us, It can be repaid, especially to someone like him.