* * *

Tavimark was a much busier place than the memorable Arenam, at least because of its size and its location at the crossroads of three major trade routes - two overland and one inland. Within the walls of a rather old city, standing on the ruins of a very ancient structure, there was enough of all kinds of interests, intrigue, and the intertwining of other people's plans. It was perhaps a textbook example of a fantasy city where a true Isekai could easily find a thousand ways to get involved in his adventure.

The Imperial Aristocracy and the Old Families, the Merchant Houses of the Golden Hundred and their competitors with less influence on the power structures but superior in number, Guards and Shadow Guilds, often not much different from each other, loan sharks and bankers, personal squads of free mercenaries, who are free only on paper, but in fact at least serve someone... And that is just what was on the surface!

Two small Magical Guilds, one of which was more like a union of craftsmen in all of Tavimark, and the other was an intellectual club of fans of collecting all kinds of knowledge. Far from always harmless, it's worth clarifying. These, too, were guys of understanding and simplicity, even though no one would call them kind, even in their blindest and most naïve dreams. And what to do with three black-magic cults at once, feeling quite at ease in the human swamp?

The three did not know about each other, though at least two of them were very hostile to each other. The two dark gods, the Pain Eater and the Misery Contemplator, though in fact brothers, couldn't stand each other, and their clerics bled each other at every opportunity. The third cult, serving and worshipping Hell, an aspect of Despair, to be more precise, hated the world and each other at the same time in a completely tolerant manner.

The only people who knew of the existence of all three secret religious communities of lovers of cutting virgins on altars were the employees of the local branch of the Eyes, the Head of which had been sitting in Tavimark for three decades. That's why he almost manually allowed all three cults to emerge and grow stronger, covering them up at first and encouraging promising cadres to fall into heresy. In a year or two or three, you'll be able to swoop down and get a long-awaited transfer to the capital... or at least away from here. . Especially if the situation is set up so that one of the victims of the cult will be the heir of the largest businessman and third in the Tavimark Council of Old Families, who very unfortunate offended a distant relative of an old comrade of the Head of Eyes.

No, no, there's not enough resentment or "favor" to cover the costs and risks, but the guy really pissed off the gray-haired husband, and his company was very unfortunate, almost a third tainted by association with cult members. Two of the three. His death will just be a convenient enough lever to start a massive investigation, under which the autopsy of all three boils will not look strange or suspicious. Nothing personal, just business, right?

Going down a little lower, you could see whole neighborhoods of slums, among which their business and sorrows were flowing. And in this pile of homeless people lived several creatures who only pretended to be human. Possessed by intangible entities, the homeless men occasionally took a bite out of humanity, increasingly losing their human form. Sometimes they were found and killed, whether by guards, adventurers, or slum dwellers themselves. And sometimes, they simply disappeared, going their separate ways. Or disappeared somewhere below.

The catacombs under the city were, for one thing, very vast. There were such expanses that entire armies could get lost, which even happened once. It is said that the march of the forged boots of the forty-third armored heavy infantry corps can be heard on the quietest nights, especially if one lives in the lower town, where the catacombs come closest to the surface. It is believed that once you hear this sound, it is impossible to forget because the measured march of a long-gone military unit drives the faint of heart into madness. And it will call and call you until your last day into the tightness and stench of the old corridors and underground drains.

Some even went to that call.

Only they didn't come back.

Second, the catacombs were tried to be locked up and sealed in every way possible. Because the same shadow brotherhood liked to use the "subway," without being caught by the guards and, more importantly, by the private guards of those they decided to pinch. They equipped their bases only in the uppermost tiers, and even then, there were not permanent bases but warehouses of illegal products and camps for pumping new meat.

In addition to the legends, the tunnels were home to some very tangible monsters and beasts. Closer to the surface and the sun, even quite tolerably dangerous, suitable for developing skills and raising levels. Among Tavimark's adventurers, they no longer even accepted those who held Underground or Tunnel Rat classes unless they agreed to be tested with a truth potion that they were not a bandit spy. Too many holders of such archetypes were in glorious Tavimark.

But even the reckless bandits, the almost completely converted possessed, and ruthless cultists didn't risk going really deep. Where the roar of the march was truly deafening and maddening. No one was, after all, willing to meet the lost soldiers and answer their request to show them the way back. And no one was even more willing to find what these soldiers were guarding. Because there, in the darkness, is something for which the unfortunate lancers had long ago been sent to these catacombs.

This something was defeated but not finished, only sealed. And the seals are still strong, and in the magistrate, in the residence of the Eyes, and the Houses of Tavimark's nobility, there are still amulets carefully tuned to receive very special signals that will warn if the seals fail in strength. After all, the few elite survivors of the massacre, like the locking team of ritualists, knew exactly how the locked essence would strike and what fate would befall the not-so-necessary and not-so-useful armored infantry of the breach.

Every chest needs Security.

Every door needs a Guard.

Every feat needs a Hero.

Every creature needs a Pray.

The nearest window in the portal network will be open only by the end of the month, at best, and for all comers at once, not just single travelers. It was a coincidence that this was the year that the relocation stone nearly overheated, figuratively speaking. Too greedy mage responsible for the work of this particular piece of transport artifact decided to send a few more travelers and cargo at one time. In his excuse, they did so quite often in the capital because the number of maximum loads and transported weight written in the instructions and charts is always intentionally underestimated to give more room for maneuvering. In wartime, a network of teleporters can carry many times the number of everything than in times of peace.

Alas, the damsel - a damsel in her forties with the appearance of Shapoklyak had forgotten she was now not in the capital but in Tavimark. And here, by the way, were sent exactly those artifacts which the enterprising guys from Eternal almost burned out with their entrepreneurialism, even though according to the invoices, these stones are almost new. They can accept other people's transport quite well, but if you overstress the right areas yourself...

In general, the damsel received a severe reprimand, a conversation with the Emperor's Eye, the relief of a lifetime of an accumulated financial cushion to full transparency and not quite an honorable retirement, and Tavimark almost fell out of the teleportation network until the fall. Well, with any luck, until late midsummer.

In short, my plans to travel quickly to the Eternal so I could work there instead of driving across the Empire of the Ages failed. I would have to sit and wait because, by the time we got to Redsmald, the nearest city with a working teleport network, we would have already waited twice for an open "window".

So we'll wait.

Tavimark is not very interesting for Adventurers. There are too few lucrative contracts for them here. Guarding the caravans and traders is quite a good job for the Mercenary Guild, which is sharpened to work inside the different states. These guys are used to fighting not monsters and beasts but people in all their diversity. And they chase robbers just as well, but cheaper. This is not to say the adventurers can not compete with them, no. Rather, they do not want to. For them, the frontier areas, or a few "hotbeds" of all sorts of monsters and other filth, were far more profitable than the routine work of a guard or caravan driver.

However, their Branch was here. And a job for a real adventurer, so the local branch was not poor, not poor at all. From the regular sweeping of neighborhoods of wandering creepiness to helping rich men and women get pumped up. Yes, strange as it may seem, there are always plenty of normal mentors among adventurers. And pumping on monsters causes less negativity than pumping on brigands or even in gladiator pits. That's just killing romantics of knife and axe - easy, but purposefully get levels on them - is considered bad form.

Our merry band of five high-class but not elite guys without a department badge did not cause a stir, but certainly a mild interest. Actually, getting a badge is not necessary at all, but it is more profitable in the long run. I mean, yes, you have to pay the guild a percentage, but unlike in my home world's tax office, if you get screwed over, it's not just your problem anymore. Yeah, not always fast and not always willingly, but the guild stands up for its members and punches the cheeky ones in the face. And they can give so that even the aristocracy, despite their pride and connections in all circles, is forced to pay honestly in most cases.

Getting back to us. We didn't look like the standard Guild material. Most of those who joined came as green newcomers, just beginning to move up the ladder of power. To such people, a Guild there was much to give and much to take from them. Already established teams, often with a clientele and reputation of their own, didn't join the Guild very often. The Guild squeezed them economically simply by squeezing contracts and avoiding physical confrontation, but it did not add to their love for one another. There were few free adventurers left in the settled territories since most had either joined the Guild or moved closer to the Frontier.

Our desire for tokens did not surprise anyone. But it wasn't common either. However, when they learned that we were just planning to take a break from the quarry and rest on civilized land, their interest was immediately lost. The picture is familiar - to take a badge so the guards do not question where we came from. Not all of the adventurers were citizens of the Empire of the Ages, so we are not the first, nor will we be the last.

Spies, by the way, are very like to be sent in this way. For that reason, adventurers without a contract secured by an oath in the temple of some deity were not allowed to do anything really interesting. Even the tried and true adventurers were not allowed, making a clear distinction between the Guild's power over the Frontier and its lack of power over the center of the Empire.

For us, getting a badge not only gave us a good cover story but also saved us a lot of attention. Or rather, not so. We would attract attention anyway, but it would be much clearer and easier, not as dangerous. Just five "newcomers" wish to settle in the Empire at the expense of guild service. All you need to know is to fulfill the minimum number of contracts so as not to lose your membership, and you can count on citizenship in a few years.

On the one hand, this registration is a noticeable trace, giving a possible lead to those who will look for us. And they will, don't I know myself? The problem is that I want to get into the Eternal Library anyway, and that's a place you can't just jump into. And before I try to set up another Stone, it's a lot easier for me to get in legally. Yes, a simple adventurer, even a very rich one, will be allowed into such a place only with huge reservations, but they will let him in.

Kostik is modest. Even a stay in the common reading rooms, where nothing really serious and secret is kept, will give him a lot. At the very least, it will allow him to get a good look at the defense systems from the inside. I doubt it will help much, but even a minimum is better than nothing. Who better than me to know about working in an environment with minimal chance of success?

The only thing that upset me about all this was the need to quickly and decisively correct the memory of those who had already communicated with us, learning our names. Names that would have been a nasty clue if they'd been looking for us in every way possible, including clairvoyance and trivial witness interviews. There wasn't much to correct - yes, we let ourselves be remembered by many, but it was a fleeting memory. Like, there were guys like that, partying and drinking, celebrating a successful raid, but that was a long time ago and didn't directly affect me. So it turned out that in their minds there was no resistance at all to my manipulations.

The few who remembered us well had to be given special attention, but, really, replacing the five names in their memory with completely different names was no feat of Hercules. Making people forget our names, not people, but the walls of houses and the paving stones was a much harder task. I even honestly tried to make the arena wind lose our names, but it turned out to be too much for my level, even if I worked without reassurance. On the other hand, if there were a seer of such caliber somewhere that could elicit the answer even from such an amorphous and intangible concept, he would not be stopped by such tricks.

The most problematic part was the erasure of physical traces. Very few people wrote down our names and signs on paper - who needed us there anyway? - But there were about five of them. Almost all of them were members of the same caravan that had brought us to Tavimark. Well, I had to either intercept control over the sleepers and blot the names out of the records or leave a behavioral bomb to blot them out themselves and put in a new one. I think I got it right, so we were ready for the adventurer's guild office.

"There is nothing criminal or impossible in your plans. I dare say." The young official accepting our applications chirped sweetly. "But I hasten to clarify that the Guild will gladly buy any relics or ancient scrolls you have without forcing you to bother searching for them yourself. In libraries throughout the Empire, our representatives have very high discounts and credentials. This is by no means pressure, but simply information that I bring to your attention."

She doesn't lie, even in a small way. The situation where a lucky bunch of adventurers were able to find some old records or other information, straight from the wilderness, and then try to see if the information is a gold mine... Let's just say it's not new at all. The main thing is to make sure that something outright scary and dangerous hasn't been brought in from the wilderness. But that's what scanning artifacts and road-trophy guards are for. The guild serpent, smiling sweetly at Locius, who was now checking in, was almost telling us directly that we weren't the only ones who were so crafty. And that if our find turns out to be dangerous, it might as well be taken away for later destruction. Or "destruction".

And we got a hard dick, not a pass to the Eternal Library through a guild order. Unless we can prove that our intentions to join are perfectly sincere. Because people who try to use the guild's name for their own purposes or to get favors aren't welcome here. If we first secure our wishes with a few fat contracts... or a lot of not-so-fat contracts, then we can talk in a different tone.

By the way, she wasn't even going to press us for the information we'd be looking for in the library. Simply because they take a ton of such secrets out of the Frontier and a little more than that. Later, of course, they'll try to buy us out for next to nothing when we realize that we can search for a very long time to no avail, but that's for later. And even if they don't - most of the experts on ancient relics and old burial grounds work closely with the Guild of Adventurers, or with the Crown.

But the Adventurers charge less.

On second thought, it was Losius who was chosen as the leader of our five. Although, after a closer look, you could tell that one particular isekai was more important than the other. We abstained from buying and registering our own official name, like Cool Peppers, by general vote. Not a rare situation where the "peaceful" leader is not appointed a combat commander and generally the most important Chief Boss, but the one who has the best speaking skills and experience in high society. It is much easier to communicate with all sorts of noble assholes without being distracted by the problems of etiquette and hierarchy.

"You know, man, your company is acting too hastily." It's nice-looking Losius who gets interviewed and checked in by the pretty maiden. Grim Hans gets a bald and unshaven old man who smelled like fried onions. "Otherwise, I would have suspected you of being some kind of spy. Seriously, though! A group of five well-coordinated free fighters who want to be part of the Guild and want to get to the Capital. I don't give a shit about the Sisters if that's not suspicious! But you act so stupid and defiantly for spies that you can't help but be believed.

He was not so wrong in his suspicions, which no one was in any hurry to tell him. It surprised me a great deal, but I had never realized that the Adventurers' Guild could be such an ideal cover for cloak-and-dagger games. But the locals guessed what made us suspicious a priori. But all their paranoia proved useless, simply because no one would expect that spy-saboteurs who spoke directly about their interest in the Eternal Library were actually planning to break into or even storm that very library. Because, you'd have to be, well, a damn idiot to do that.

That is, such people, do occur, and it is from such straightforward and cunning and invented all kinds of preventive measures, such as the need for special permits and lengthy inspections, but still, such impudence is hardly expected from us. It's just that they haven't had a real Kostya yet!

"You know, Raida, I have several acquaintances in the capital who work with the mysteries of antiquity." The young, sultry, dark-skinned, curly-haired macho man was pouring forth, almost harassing a politely smiling Hestia. "If you wish, I can facilitate your meeting... gratuitously, of course. For the sake of such beauty, no vulgar innuendo, don't even think, I'm ready to take the Sister out of the sky! All the more..."

Among the Guild's receptionists and other HR, many had either interrogative, negotiation, or analytical classes. The Guild hired them willingly (and not only the Guild), and the very specifics of their work required very distinctive class skills that ordinary warriors do not have. But there were others among them, more narrowly sharpened and often not working directly in the "personnel department" so that nothing could be proved.

This guy was just an unusual-grade Negotiator, but I can bet my daggers that he has some specific skills and perks. In the future, at level twenty-five, this type is guaranteed to take either the Tempter, the Gigolo, or even the Intriguer. Hestia, for example, is handled very professionally and unobtrusively, not using active magic at all. If I hadn't been watching him from the sidelines, I wouldn't have even noticed his actions... if it weren't for the clairvoyant clues.

Our misty maiden was tightly wrapped in her organic disguise and covered with Creation-treated shadow theft, so the scanners under the floor and wall panels showed only what they were originally intended to show them. I could see no hostile intent or anything like it, and in the end, I had to admit that this guy was trying to put our teammate into a light trance, not out of malice, but only out of love for art and a desire to get into her pants.

Pretty risky, but much less than it might seem. There are no really serious influences that could be considered an attempt at mind control. Or rather, he didn't. Hestia is naturally inactive and taciturn, and she became even more taciturn after she changed her essence. Apparently, this local Casanova had mistaken the sedentary nature, the slight stiffness of her movements, and the slightly lost expression on her face for signs of increased suggestibility. I mean, he now thought that he had almost put Hestia - or rather, excuse me, Raida - into that very trance.

To his small credit, he did not intend to leave any bookmarks or long-term triggers in her mind, for, first, he would be killed without talking and well, if quickly, and, second, he considered it an insult to his talents. Even if his superiors had asked him to use something like that, his superiors could have kicked him in the face. So, to have a fling once, to let the lady relax, to relieve her stress, to give her joy, and to leave behind an exceptionally positive impression. His mistresses never left unsatisfied.

You can't even tell at once whether he's more of a rapist or a good therapist.

"It's your Honey Words or your Flattering Flattery working." Hestia's voice and smile were still as calm and slightly detached but by no means "sleepy" as they were with his companions. And his sense of danger, too, was sharply shaken, anticipating the possibility of an imminent attack.

Now, if Hestia decided to do him bad, all she had to do was make a fuss to get the guy fired and transferred to another, much more modest position. His employers would hardly appreciate the fact that he was once again arranging his personal life at work and during working hours and right in the line of duty.

"Heaven forbid, the usual Master of Compliments and my natural charm!" He doesn't show that he's scared at all. He's an impenetrable bastard. "I wouldn't use such... characteristic skill I would not, even if I knew it!"

He wasn't lying either, but he was ready to jump out the window - it wasn't the first time he'd done this, so he had the technique worked out to perfection. If it wasn't practiced, he wouldn't be here, if you think about it. Other "charming ladies" who weren't charmed at all by his advances would have killed him long ago.

"Then turn down your charm. There is nothing to breathe." Marked a smile at Hestia, who was still a little pleased to hear the dithyrambs and compliments of eulogy. "And what were you bragging about your contacts among the connoisseurs of the arcane?"

"I wasn't bragging at all, fair mistress!" The bastard grinned even more cheerfully when he realized the storm had passed. "I'll write you a letter of recommendation right away."

He was sincerely going to write it and not just bullshit on the pretty ears of a pretty girl. Still, at moments like this, you realize that the beauty enclosed by the ring can be not only a nice bonus but also a way to get adventures out of the blue.

The structure of the Mist spawn's body is quite unique... At least, to my eyes. I was not able to find any particular resemblance to other nonmaterial creatures and monsters, though I searched thoroughly. But there is a plus in this structure - by manipulating her mist covered by my stolen shadow, Hestia can give me certain signals in a kind of morse code invented by us for just such an occasion. And as I left the office of Senior Administrator Laurence Blatney, the woman barely perceptible, even to my sensors, stirred her energy, giving me a polite request, knowing full well that I kept the situation under constant observation:

May I ask that this man, by your will, be allowed to admire the beauty exclusively of cattle and not of any humanoid races?

If I hadn't sat there, I would have sat there. On the other hand, the fact that her body and beauty were attempted to be used in such an inferior way clearly did not thrill Hestia, even forgetting her affection for me. Anyway, all I could do was to use the thin web of shadows worn over her essence to convey my own response:

Ok.

"Make another joke, you cheeky wench!" Yelled at Taria bickering old woman in her sixties, dressed in a "gray mouse" style, in response to yet another slur of the girl who could not keep her mouth shut. "I respected my elders when I was your age!"

"What ancient times those were, Grandma." Maybe someone else would have been cut to ribbons by Taria for calling her a "slutty fool" or a "dressed-up hooker," but Grandmother was a level thirty-eight and a Master Ranger and a Combat Clerk, which made my companion a little less arrogant.

"Wut?" But the grandmother didn't seem to be afraid of anything at all as if her great-grandfather was a honey badger. "I'm young and full of energy! You're the one who needs to shake your tits to get men to look in your direction, and they'll throw up at the sight of your sagging relics, but I'm beautiful in my modesty!"

"For such "modesty" in my neighborhood, they wrote an insulting libel on a modest man's face, and with iron!" Taria almost boiled, especially after the mention of boobs, but she did not dare to attack because she did not want to arrange the failure of the entire company. "Where do you want this sign!!!"

"Look at you! Such a cheeky one! Sign up here!" The old woman even stood up, ready to rush into battle and prove her youth and beauty with her blows. "And here! And over there! And here, where the tick is!"

After signing all the documents and receiving her copy of the certified adventurer's certificate, along with her personal name badge, Taria flew out of the office to the sympathetic glances of the local clerk's office and the few combatants who had clearly heard about the local granny and her character.

You could light a cigarette from the dancer's glowing eyes.

"Name?" Personally, Kostik got the same onion-smelling uncle who interviewed Hans. Old prick for Kostik, not the pretty receptionist that Losius got.

I wasn't in a good mood, so I didn't mind passing the torch of feeling like shit somewhere along the chain to make myself feel a little better. If that lady with the big tits and the eyes of a cobra had seen her prey, I would have been more generous and forgiving.

"Grzegorz Brzenczyszkiewicz. I answer with a poker face, and, waiting for a thoughtful expression on my interlocutor's face, I repeat, following the spirit of the ancient gag. "Brzenczyszczykiewicz, Grzegorz."

"I heard that, thank you." And with those words, he instantly wrote down the pronounced tongue twister in one sweeping motion. "It's just that you have a very peculiar name, memorable. Do you happen to know Szczepan Brzenczysczewski? I believe he's in command of his own raiding party on the southern frontier, near the Satrimantium Swamps."

"I'm afraid not," I answer with the same poker face, but inwardly I feel quite burnt by the fact that I myself have been dipped in my own prank.

I shouldn't have been so cocky. I should have chosen a normal name for myself. I just hope I don't have to meet the original bearer of an unusual tribal name. Note: check to see if it turns out that some of the Heroes of the Past purposely "gave" these names to someone else for roughly the same purpose - to make fun of those around them. If they are even a fraction as dumb as myself, then the probability of my theory is close to one hundred percent.

* * *

Night Tavimark, unlike Arenam, doesn't completely die out except on very cold and blizzardy (or rainy) nights. It's not just the ubiquitous guards' patrols but an entire Entertainment District, just getting into its usual rhythm at night. We've been there before, having a good meal and even killing an overly professional thief who almost stole a wallet full of coins from Taria. She took the purse from us under threat of reprisal, but no mere mortal should stand in the way of the furious elements. The former townswoman was inexperienced in spending large sums on shopping, but she tried diligently to make up for it. We did not interfere with her - it's a stone to our legend and just a joy to the girl.

If only all our problems could be solved by a simple purse of gold, yes. There, the corpse of that pickpocket had to be hidden by hand, almost in front of the entire crowd of onlookers. He had some sort of class skill that allowed him to teleport the contents of other people's purses into his personal pouch, which had been pre-treated with his own enchantments. Except Taria was no ordinary girl who could stab at most in a crowd with an awl. Her skills were enough to sense the thief's magic, too close to her body, and she instantly deduced the source of the magic and attacked him, breaking the class enchantments. She hit him like he was going to kill her - my school, and in the Wildlands all strikes were deadly a priori.

The Mirage of Taria remained seated at the table of the expensive restaurant. She in an invisible state, slipped to the thief who had sat at the far table and stuck the awl into his neck. She had smeared her awl, which is now an essentialism-treated artifact of rare grades, with one of my poisons. It was, in fact, "overkill", as they say on the Earth Internet. The poison alone, able to kill the thin bodies so that even a highly trained necromancer or interrogator could get nothing out of the corpse, was worth more than the life of that degenerate.

I had to look reproachfully at the guiltily shuffling girl, who had already managed to stealthily return to the table, taking the place of her mirage, and then resolve the issue. While Hans gave her a fatherly lecture and a backhand, and Losius intercepted the waitress (a waitress, not an ordinary inn-keeper) so that she did not notice the dead man frozen in a slightly tense posture (the thief felt the threat before death), Kostik engaged in voodoo magic. Or rather, he cast a shadow on the corpse that he had stolen from him, and then, controlling the same shadow he made the body pay - the freak barely had enough money to pay, for he did not take his coins - to leave the place, go around the nearest corner and step quietly into the opening of the rift in the Shadow.

They didn't even have to interrupt the celebration, let alone raise the alarm. Losius and Hestia, for example, at first, did not notice Taria's attack at all. It wasn't directed at them, and they were relaxed and not too attentive to their surroundings. It was Hans, a pathfinder to the bone, who could not be fooled by a simple illusion, even a good one.

It was a strange experience to talk to each other under a different name. High perception and concentration made it easy to stick to the legend and not get caught up in minutiae, but I had reassured myself before registering for the guild. There were class skills, and some special artifacts were sharpened to look for lies and misunderstandings that could get us into trouble.

In the minds of all of us - except Ygra, because she didn't need to - now there was a kind of bridge, a kind of controlled behavioral matrix, allowing, if desired, to easily and simply accept an invented name as one's own. That is, neither the interrogator nor the artifact would sense a lie, for the one speaking would not even lie. The disgruntled Losius claims that this technique is similar to the "crown" trick of all sorts of spies, level twenty-five, capable of infiltrating carefully inspected structures. I have no idea if that's true, but it worked just as intended. We'll finish with the library, and I'll root that shit out.

It's not that it's unpleasant or uncomfortable - I've done my best to avoid any permanent impact or, say, a gradual "fusion" of the true and the false - but it still feels alien. You know, like the only crooked tile in the bathroom - it doesn't hinder you from walking or stumbling, but when you look at it, it makes your eye twitch.

Add to that my usual pain in the ass and my thirst for action, which does not help in any way to approach the "window" of the portal to Eternal City, and you can understand why I jump on the rooftops at night, breathing in the frosty air and catching snowflakes with my mouth. Kostik is falling into his childhood. Such a shame! Eh, where are my sixteen years? School, parties, girls, adventures... ...and me, sneaking away from the festivities of life and grinding captchas in another bitard thread. Those were the days...

I didn't have any particular goal in mind. Unless I wanted to spoil someone's mood in order to improve it for myself. I sat down on the roof of a two-story house of a very wealthy master potter, who had a class, his own workshop, and a shop with a dozen helpers. This uncle was not a bad businessman and family man, but, unfortunately, he had begun to drink lately. He had not yet beaten his wife and daughters, not counting the preventive beatings dictated by the local patriarchal way of the brain, but this is not far off.

I don't even notice the simple magical protection on the walls and enlivening the shadows inside the building. A few minutes and all the furniture in the house is radically rearranged, including even the furniture that, in theory, cannot be moved without first disassembling it. A slight and carefully concealed flair of Dream has convinced the housemates that the furniture has stood like that before. I sigh, and I finish the job to the end, calculating with clairvoyance all those who have been in this house before, ruling the memory and them. It is much easier here. I do not need, by analogy with the housemates, to correct their motor skills and reflexes so that they do not hit the corners of rearranged furniture. After about an hour, everything is finished - simple work, low target levels, and almost zero waste of reserve. In five minutes, I fill it to the brim again.

Tomorrow the respected master will wake up with a terrible hangover and will refuse to drink for the next couple of years. And then he will have a glass of wine for his daughters' weddings at most, but no more. It would be possible, if a career as a terrorist did not work out, to become a good family therapist, treating stuttering with his own pale face.

I gave good dreams to good people and bad dreams to bad people. A townsman, who had stolen a dozen chicken eggs, which he had swiped right off the counter when he was extremely drunk, had a dream that he had become a hen who had to lay an egg to turn back into a human being. After the sixth egg, he was woken up by his wife, shouting "wake up, you shit yourself." This will hardly cure him of his love for stealing everything that lies wrong unless he gets his hands broken right away, but such dreams will stop coming to him only after he stopped.

The two dozen recruits of the city guard - almost all of them recruits - had a dream about their centurion. He had actually promised to make them all scoop frozen shit out of the cesspool with spoons (a very real practice, they even keep a pit for that purpose), but due to a lucky set of circumstances, the punishment was postponed. Luck cost them a lot of risks, but the alchemical explosive that completely disintegrated the contents of the entrusted cesspool worked as it was supposed to. It was just that one of the five rookies had very luckily missed a smuggler paying with illegal explosives. Straightforward malfeasance, by the way, but they got lucky.

The punishment was dreadful - for three weeks, the boys scooped shit out of half of Tavimark's latrines and even managed to clean the sewers. For the last part of the dream I built, I had to dig into the memories of the local "plumbers." The sewers, or rather, the system of drains, were quite extensive here, much to the misfortune of the unlucky guards.

The three-week dream, during which the smell of shit was imprinted in their minds almost forever, passed in one night but will be remembered for a lifetime. Especially after the guys, who woke up from the nightmare (at the end their centurion, after a thunderous speech about Duty and Punishment, ordered the execution of all those guilty by drowning in the same shit), share their experiences with each other. They shared a dream, so you could say they really lived through it all. As a side effect, these guys now know the gutter system and the upper levels of the city's catacombs pretty well. Well, and the location of ninety percent of Tavimark's latrines as well.

I thwarted three robberies carried out by the "official" workers of the local shadow guild by scaring off two groups with a piece of tile thrown on their heads. A third group had already managed to break into the house of a not-the-poorest merchant to steal and quietly slaughter the merchant's youngest son. The boy successfully courted the daughter of one of the much richer uncles. Forbidden love and all that. In general, the caring daddy paid for the accident, as well as the drowning of a possible competitor (the father of this glorious young man).

And then, as luck would have it, the daughter herself, just tonight - when there's nobody in the guy's house but a couple of servants and her lover - has managed to stay the night with him. It's against canons because usually it's the guy who gets into the maiden's house, but a chance like this, like the whole family leaving for a business associates' appointment, except for Romeo being punished for a mess (on purpose)... Such a chance they wouldn't pass up.

Anyway, they went face to face. On one side was a slightly overweight brunette, who had already undone the top ties of her dress, and on the other was an eighteen-year-old boy who had gotten rid of his shirt. On the other side are four vicious burglars who know which side to hold knives on and what color human blood is. The odds are predetermined in advance.

It was as if a demon had possessed the boy! Instantly realizing that neither he nor the bystander would be spared, nor what they would do to the bystander before they were spared, he grabbed the poker from the fireplace and, with the yell of a hamster-berserker, rushed into action. And - what a miracle - somehow it happened that he could not be killed. The savage cutthroats, ungraded but certainly no novices in the bloody trade, were slaving away, and the daggers and stiletto blows flew inches from his body, slicing and scraping at his clothing. And they stumbled backward, their heads beneath the desperate blows of the poker.

A minute and a half later, when the fight had woken half the neighborhood, the frightened and slightly delighted lady looked at the heavily breathing "knight" and the four dead men, reliably stabbed by the heavy cudgel of justice. After such a wedding will be simply because her father, despite the former order and lack of conscience as a concept, is not yet so degenerate that he does not understand even such a "sign of fate. Except that he is unlikely to tell his son-in-law the prehistory of his exploit. And the only witness, the man through whom he passed the order for robbery and elimination, will have time to nail him before the intermediary turns him in.

The last stop for the night was the local slum, where a certain spawn of a passionate love fusion of jellyfish, compost heap, and tentacle monster was crawling right now. The nineteenth-level Sewage Spawn was an old guest and foe here, having terrorized the poor for years. It didn't come up from the drains very often to snack on human flesh, and almost never in winter. But today it got hungry and crawled out and even found two victims.

A hard drinker - alcoholism seems to be the trouble with all Tavimark - a single father and a boy about seven years old were returning from his father's work in the warehouses. He was a loader, so sometimes, if a customer allowed it, he preferred to stay late loading or unloading rather than strain a back that was starting to hurt.

That's the end of it.

He could not escape, having driven himself into a cozy cul-de-sac. Screaming was one hundred and thirty-four percent useless in this neighborhood, and not have enough strength in his arms to throw the boy onto the roof of the nearest building. A few minutes ago, it would have been enough - he's a loader, they need strength - but not after a couple of thin throwing needles, like a hedgehog's, stuck in his biceps, spit out by an unexpectedly well-aimed monster. Now all Dad could do was watch the stinking monster approaching, already farting (really, it sounded that way!) in anticipation of a hearty dinner. First, he remembered all the light gods, and then all the dark ones, and then even the alien creatures called fiends, begging to save not him but at least the quietly whimpering son. About throwing the boy into the arms of the monster, buying himself time while he digests the first portion to risk a breakthrough, my father did not even think. Though he was a bit of a dickhead in life, I must say.

There he closed his eyes, breathing in the air one last time before a desperate cry... and nothing happened. When he opened his eyes, he found only a steaming puddle of smoke where the monster had been and nothing else. And then it was as if by some terrible force, he realized that his prayers had been heard and answered. And the payment for his help was the joy that the strong drink was giving him - he would not be able to drink now. Never.

But even if he tries, any alcohol will taste like slop, and even a sip of beer will give him a hangover like a week-long binge. However, I have this suspicion that he will not even know about the effect of the gaseous composition Joy of Soberness that he inhaled. After all, his last "prayer" was to appeal to the fiends, and those guys are tough.

It was dawn on the horizon, and the long winter night finally gave way to short daylight hours. It was time for Kostya, as a real Internet dweller, to go to bed. In fact, that's exactly what I did, quietly walking past the magical protection on the window of a rather expensive inn. I could still get a good night's sleep after such adventures.

I hope.

Tavimark, as I said, is a pretty old town, so it had plenty of interesting sites, too. There were libraries here, too, but they were more private, and you had to find your own way to them. I had checked out a couple of them in the last few nights, for I had no desire to sleep, but that was more out of idleness. If one of the local booksellers had a detailed instruction manual on defragmenting Yoke or any information on the subject at all, I would quickly run away because it would be a trap.

It was much funnier to watch the local cultists, who, I confess, were masters of the conspiracy game. It was as if they were intentionally making their actions as difficult as possible. No, without my clairvoyance index, it wasn't easy, or even likely, to figure them out, but it was ridiculous to me. And for the local Eye, too, if not funnier. He's the one who organized them if you think about it. I wasn't going to stand in the way of a man building his career if only because there were no good guys in those cults. It was also because I knew he wouldn't get a promotion anyway. Pretty clear vision-understanding, one of the few that looked that far into the future, though it got easier and easier as my skills grew.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

To be honest, I was having trouble suppressing the desire deep inside me to organize a fourth cult, a real one for change. I've had time to observe both the local amateurs and the hard professionals from the Kraj, so I can build the backbone of a really serious organization. No sacrifices, no abominations, no serving Hell or the dark deities. Something fun, cheerful, and almost kind, like a mist treatment from Hestia. It would also strengthen the leadership cell of the cult and endow it with profound abilities.

The idea was quite tempting, but I was stopped by my sanity... and the clear understanding that I would not be able to erase all traces of my connection to the newly formed cult of the name of German cinema, which is unfortunate. I had to limit myself to mere observation and minor interventions here and there. To save this one, to drop that one down the stairs on his own knife, to send a clairvoyant dream, to organize a nightmare - the usual routine.

A separate adventure was the rescue of the centurion of the city guard, responsible for the training of recruits. The youngsters, having misinterpreted the centurion's words "I will give you sons of bitches nightmares, believe me," and right after their long journey on the trail of human waste, began to seriously consider him a demon or other terrible creature disguised as a human. But prayers didn't work against him, the quite officially purchased temple amulet didn't provoke any reaction, and the asshole clenched harder and harder.

Anyway, they put two more disintegrating alchemical grenades under his bunk - the single and childless senior instructor preferred to sleep in his barracks, going home only for holidays. The same ones they used to destroy shit in their assigned pit. And characteristically, they didn't stand a chance from the start because the centurion had a twenty-second level and a well-developed skill of anticipating danger. But when has that ever stopped Kostik from "saving" others?

I had no trouble replacing the two vials with my compounds, just as I had no trouble sprinkling the centurion's clothes and armor with more powder made from the bones of an epic monster and a couple more powerful reagents. In the end, instead of a quiet and not-too-bright flash in which the vile creature should have died, turning to dust and ash, there was a powerful explosion that blew apart half of the recruits' barracks and slightly crumpled the buildings in the guards' territory nearest to them. Only by a miracle, no one was killed. The miracle also included angry-as-hell Senior Instructor Dyrgal, who was saved by the force field that suddenly appeared around his body. Except the shock wave threw him twenty meters upwards and sent him flying projectile into the nearest wall. He flew about two hundred meters in a beautiful parabola, cursing and blaspheming loudly.

You've probably figured out by now that I'm not very good at laying low, right?

Anyway, there's an investigation of an attempted murder and a terrorist attack going on, and I'm trying not to let it escalate into something that would attract the attention of the capital's detectives but also not stir up Dream noticeably enough for my old acquaintance, who doesn't like me much for something, to come and visit.

It seems to be successful, and the boredom is definitely gone.

And sleep comes without a problem.

One of the things that became apparent with the development of clairvoyance was the clear understanding that large cities seem boring and quiet only on the surface. In fact, there are dozens or even hundreds of stories happening simultaneously in every city, as unique as they are important, even if the importance of those stories seems comprehensive to only one person. Stories are all around us, just like mysteries, stories occur, happen, fall on the heads of individuals who did not expect them, and just as suddenly dissolve into the flow of time. Sad or happy, the story is almost never made public. A month will pass, and it will be remembered only by a couple of people and five gossipers, a year will pass, and the events will be forgotten by all but the main participants and five years will pass, and even the hero of this story is unlikely to remember the past.

That's the nature of things, and there's no point in being surprised by what's going on.

It is much more interesting to watch the web of connections, aspirations, pain, fears, desires, and desperate hopes weaving before your eyes. It does seem beautiful in its chaotic disorder, unpredictability, and branching, but, at the same time, there was something complete and right about it. At times like this, I understand very well why it is that the sages and seers are considered a little out of this world. It is hard to look at the world with familiar senses when one can soar at any moment on the wings of the purest understanding. It's better than any drug trip if you believe the reservations and writings of those very sages and seers.

After my truly idiotic act with the "flying centurion," I managed to pull myself together and limit myself to the kind of influence that would not attract the attention of anyone. I got tired of mopping up the traces and editing the opinions of those witnesses who had seen the explosion and its consequences. In general, I had enough of trouble for the near future.

Losius and Hans were quietly checking out the local brothels and gambling houses, managing not to lose too much. I had personally given them carte blanche to relax and enjoy themselves three times so they would not be afraid to spend their gold. Even if they squandered it all, I could get new gold at any time, whether by robbing someone evil, or finding someone else's forgotten treasure, or not bothering to think about it at all and simply transmuting the gold through alchemy. At my level, it's not that difficult if you have the time and desire.

Hestia and Taria were also enjoying life but already in their women's business. Stores, shops, merchants' tents with all sorts of goods, and a sea of good experiences. The two of them complemented each other quite well, in fact. Taria, noisy and easygoing, could easily shake the phlegmatic army woman in a charming female form, dragging her into another cycle of events. And the aristocrat herself, who knows how to set herself right and know how to put down too insolent, did not allow "a little" unrestrained in language and manners townswoman with gangster tendencies to put her in an uncomfortable position.

Naturally, two very beautiful women could not do without trying to either seduce or kidnap them into slavery. And even the fact that they were officially level twenty-something and had evil teammates did not stop many. Hestia's memorable administrator, the one who tried to get into her underpants, had long since spent money on professional curse breakers, trying to figure out why he no longer had a hard-on for girls but a hard-on for cows and sheep. But it's not just the administrator who's alive in Tavimark who's the master of dealing with delicate issues.

Four attempts to pour a charm potion. And one of them was successful, despite the paranoid caution of women and developed skills of premonition. Fortunately, the unnoticed pollen of some oriental flowers went to Hestia, for whom simple human poisons are not very dangerous. Though, that enchantment did penetrate even through the mind of the beast. The ladies could not find the man who had put the potion there, but they would not ask me for help. There was willing to not distract me. They wanted to ask a few questions themselves, but they called in a hungover Hans for help.

His ability to read traces had long ago come close to the clairvoyant branch, so he was able to trace whoever had slipped Raimel the spellbinding drink. The perpetrators were found and quite professionally cleaned up, even though they hadn't touched that glass directly. Fucking professionals! An unforeseen side effect of the beautiful appearance of both of our companions. The client, obviously sensing where the wind was blowing from, decided to get out of the city that had become dangerous. He feared not our vengeance but that his earlier contacts with the very perpetrators would be uncovered. Ygra had a lot of fun with the small band that had sprung out of the gates on a snowy night. She made them mysteriously disappear without a trace and without any magic at that!

A couple of amateurish attempts to club the girls in the head and steal them away were also fought off without the help of the male crew. Yes, in theory, those muzzles could capture even high-level adventurers (with the levels and classes their masks had) but only with very, very good luck. In short, morons. We even hid their corpses ourselves, so the guards wouldn't try to grab our asses and demand bribes, i.e. fines.

So there's a powerful closed-field dome hanging over Tavimark, giving readings to a large artifact in the form of a crystal. If someone died or was killed in the city, the thing would light up and report it to the guards and the magistrate. I climbed into the carefully guarded room where this miracle of magical engineering was kept. I could tell that their power and omniscience were greatly exaggerated. Yes, the whole city is covered, but in the same slums, people die regularly and nothing. To "get through" to the artifact fields from there, you'd have to stage a natural gang war. And in more presentable areas, you can temporarily hide other people's deaths without letting them stir up the spells. At least in a well-insulated basement or a special room not necessarily designed for criminal activity. Warehouses with stasis fields, for example, may well serve as a place for demonstrative executions or bloody rituals. They even do.

And the bastards who attacked a couple of poor, unfortunate beauties also ensured that the magical emanations were blocked. The bucket of vaporous and slightly toxic alchemical negator of crappy quality. There was no problem at all with the guards. They would need a good reason to bother our group. No, they don't need one, but it's more trouble than it's worth. And the Guild will have to stand up for its members, even if it's more nominal for now.

The only time I intervened was when I put poison in the goblet of an old but very affectionate nobleman who, though retired from business, was still one of the most influential inhabitants of the city because of his old connections. He saw two deadly adventurers, a beauty beyond belief, and then - a flash, a spark, a madness! In general, he had already seen them both in the thin silk robes of maids, faithfully looking at him. And for that, he had summoned a group of indirectly acting slavemancers, very famous in small circles. A Whoremancer (much weaker than the late Ernest, a master of working with Elves), a Mentalist, an Alchemist with a very cunning specialization in potions of gradual influence (mostly changing the character and rebuilding the body), another Mentalist and a Hypnotist of the thirtieth level even.

It is not even the fact they could really process the same Taria without her own notice, so she almost threw herself into the arms of her new love, considering it the perfect norm, and her desire to become his servant the fulfillment of a child's dream.

The point is that it would be much harder to "disappear" them unnoticed than to kill old Pervert before he does send the necessary letters through a special amulet (it transfers the ink from the paper to a special stone plate, which is already located in the capital). The bastards were very good at reassurance, not risking to work for those who would want to remove them after the execution of the order. There are storage lockers with dirt in the big usurious or trading houses and caches with messages and mental programs in the brains of random people and nonhumans. All in all, there would have been such a stir that it might have hit us, too. So the old man choked on his wine, puked out his decomposed lungs, and was gone. Now they would be looking for killers among his former detractors, but they would not even touch us with a vector of attention.

And our ladies, fluttering carefree, continued to recoup all the months they'd spent at the orcish camp or raiding the wilderness. There was still time for fluttering, and it was not for me to take away even this semblance of normalcy from them.

Ygra did not like the cold, despite her inhumanly (pun, yes) high stats. But the cold did not prevent her from having fun, especially if the kind Kostik pointed out the places where it would be possible to have fun. I didn't want to keep her near the city because accidents do happen, and she could somehow be spotted. Instead, through dreams, I sent her on a hunt for places found in mirrors, the lairs of monsters, or shelters of all kinds of criminal elements. The only task was not to leave traces, but I didn't limit her to anything else.

If I could sell the tapes of her playing with the poor thugs, I'd be the number one horror master on the face of the Earth. The green-skinned booby's new hobby pleased her so much that it made me wonder if I had let the genie out of the bottle when I gave her the order to "scare" the caravanners. But, well, the only thing you can do with a child is not to weep.

Time passed slowly.

Another stranger's story turned out to be a good way to entertain me while sleep was reluctant to come. No, with my class, I could fall asleep anytime I wanted, but that was not the case. So I had to fight insomnia the old-fashioned way, only instead of sheep, I counted idiots or other animals.

For example, we have the life story of Adrian de Mallikat, the last heir of his house and the owner of a considerable fortune he inherited against his will. His father and stepmother, along with his older brothers and his bastard son, were the victims of a successful assassination attempt, brilliantly executed by an old enemy of his father. He did not hesitate to hire a whole group of pros who even in the capital were respected as members of the top ten.

Left alone, the boy showed his best qualities by throwing himself into a desperate battle, expressed in intrigue and stabs in the back, as is proper among the Eternal Aristocracy. And, characteristically, managed not only to survive but also to get his revenge. Yes, the lion's share of family influence was lost, but still, he retained the core of what made up his clan.

Left alone and wasting countermeasures, the guy would have been eaten up in the capital. So he prudently moved from there to Tavimark. And there wasn't much profit in killing him or "disappearing," for most of the clan papers and profits were firmly tied to treaties, and deals were in the clan's name. With his death, such papers will become useless, and the partners will be forced to take revenge for the murdered one, saving their reputation.

He turned himself into the equivalent of a poisonous frog - there are more problems than possible benefits, so it's easier to find bigger prey, but one with which to make at least some profit. Given the voluntary self-isolation with the remnants of his loyal servants - many of whom the short and desperate war between the two houses had taken with them - the boy was left in peace. Well, not quite left and not quite all of them.

Two months ago, a third cousin had come to his estate. An aunt who, according to my father's notes, had previously worked in a good position at the magistrate's office in one of the eastern cities of the Empire. She wasn't exactly a stranger, and the request to "wait out the storm" was well within the framework. Shelter from the new authorities that had gobbled up the old administration of her city was given, and the boy continued to sit at home and indulge in melancholy.

Having managed to save his House and avenge the killers, it was as if he had completely exhausted his charge of vivacity for the next forty years, and now he just didn't know what to do or even wanted to do anything at all. A midlife crisis at sixteen, and he wasn't even the child of an anti-vaccinationist! A very, very convenient target for those who weren't going to kill him but wanted to fuck him in every sense of the word.

Auntie Doreya was not only a pleasant conversationalist who could listen and sympathize and let the poor man talk. She was also a good Seductress who could easily work with a depressed, unkissed virgin. No, he had some experience, but compared to an experienced heartbreaker, wielding the class skills of a class honed to subtly influence the will, he was like a virgin.

The lady was not that evil, at least, in comparison with the average owner of such a treacherous and a priori dishonest class, but she was pragmatic. That is, when she came to visit a distant relative, she did not plan to necessarily fuck him to the state of a loyal dog. She would just visit, restore her composure, and try to establish a career in a new place. Yes, she was no longer a girl to fight all over again for a place in the sun, but the level was higher, and she had something to offer her possible employer besides a skirt up her ass.

And here is such a gift - a young man who clearly appreciated her appearance, being in a very weakened mental state and not having undergone specific training. And the servants and guards are frankly weak - the interrogator could not even penetrate the disguise of her, frankly mediocre, spare hiding amulet. And after she'd managed to restore the charge of the main one, he wouldn't be able to penetrate it. How could she refuse such a gift? It was, in fact, the severance package that had come to her! When she came to visit, she expected at most to arouse mild interest, but here she could do whatever she wanted.

She began to do so without too much sentiment. She sincerely believed that if she didn't get the guy, someone less clean-cut and conscientious would. To her very little credit, she did not plan to kill him or turn him into a vegetable. Yes, becoming the new Lady de Mallikat would be nice, but the risk of revealing her true class and consequently of physical trouble is high. She has no patrons to prove that she is not a Seductress and that her husband does everything for her willingly! And to offer her services to possible "purchasers of de Mallikat's assets" is scary and foolish - they can eliminate her for impudence.

So her plan was to fool around with the guy for a while, to push him into the idea of giving her a nice, great gift, and then forget that he ever gave it to her. There was no promissory note and no gold, not at all, you imagined. And what's more, to get the poor guy out of a prolonged depression, so he wouldn't ruin himself or his legacy. She respected the guy's father in her own way, and she wasn't going to screw up his House that badly.

It took me quite a while to figure out how I could turn this situation around. The boy was already crazy about her, and there was much less magic and hypnotic influence than it might have seemed. A few memory mashes, embedded behavioral matrices, and triggers did not count, for they hardly affected the personality. Only the natural charm and inexperience of her victim.

Doreya was good-looking. The years she'd lived through, nor the short hair that had had to be cut after a nasty story about a curse that had almost passed through her amulet protection, didn't ruin her. She escaped serious injury then, but her hair had become brittle and perpetually tangled in clumps. She had to wear a mercenary hairstyle which often made her look like an adventurer or an army officer (she had too much breed for a simple soldier girl). The boy, in fact, fell in love with her and could only think of her and her body.

The funny thing which almost made me gasp in this situation is that young Adrian was almost one hundred percent sure she had slavemancer class. It's just that he feels so good and relaxed in her presence when the weight of loss and obligation isn't weighing on his soul that he doesn't care anymore. He guessed that she was working him over, and he managed to find the gaps in his memory (just because he had not been taught doesn't mean that he had no desire to read the special literature), but he liked it so much that he didn't care about the risks. If that was his destiny, so be it.

At the same time, he was clearly aware that this attitude might be the result of her influence, but he still didn't care. I would even say that he overestimated her influence, for she certainly did not inspire in him wet fantasies every night, nor the desire to kiss her feet or peep at her washing (the mirror system leading from his room to the women's washroom was used daily). Doreya, so far, had not even slept with him, except for a few sessions of foreplay, immediately wiped from his consciousness.

She was in no hurry to make such a noticeable impact, nor was she attracted to the body of an overly thinly built teenager. She liked brutal, Conan-style men, with testosterone pulsing from every crevice. And she didn't like to work with her lovers, either, making a clear distinction between victims and intimates (As far as people like her have loved ones at all).

I looked at their dreams. I searched their memories, and I realized it would be a crime to miss such a chance to reunite loving hearts. I was originally going to give the boy his memories back and then watch him kill the evil bitch. Or make the bitch herself his personal bitch pardon the pun. Or just give her an accidental fall down the stairs and forget about the problem. But here, both patients were so messed up in their heads that the standard methods seemed inadequate.

I did not touch the lad, affecting only the wicked milf. Over the next few weeks, she would become more and more fond of playing with the mind and body of her victim. No matter what they say about Seductress, not all possessors of this class liked exactly to fuck their victims. Not all of them used sex at all!

And now Doreya will begin to get more and more carried away. Triggers and erotic scenarios are created and played out in scenes and the hot embrace that follows. Any moment, any place, any time. And gradually, day by day, she would stop seeing Adrian as just another work case and begin to see someone else. First, a funny fool, then an interesting toy, then a favorite victim, and then, suddenly, it would be that she did not want to go anywhere. No, she'll take money from him, and she'll go to the treasury, but she won't run off into the sunset. She'll take the money and go through the treasury, but she won't run off into the sunset unless it's a role-playing game like she's almost gone, but he catches her in the act, and she bewitches him, and he even resists, but the result is still the same.

And so, the lad has a personal therapist, perfectly suited to all his dirty fantasies, ready to help him in every way and even to fight for his cause. After, of course, this boy has had a good tongue job over his morning coffee. A sort of personal mistress for her submissive master. Not a bad answer for someone about to trample on the feelings of a young man desperately reaching for her, aware that he was flying into the flames like a moth but unwilling to stop. And together with a little treatment by the servants, who will definitely not interfere in the dynamics of this couple's relationship, their little romance will develop in its own way and come to the finale, which they will build themselves.

"And let everyone get what they deserve." I suddenly summarize philosophically, taking a sip of strong wine from the bottle I had brought while simultaneously falling out of the mirror trance.

"Eek! Well said! Soulful!" It comes from the side, from the newly awake homeless man, who looks like a pile of rags wrapped around a stuffed animal. "Give me a drink, good sir, eh?"

I glanced at the homeless man who'd survived such a harsh winter and chuckled. He really is a homeless man, and he's a level sixteen, which is cooler than many professional warriors who have devoted their lives to the craft of war. Hans would surely cringe in envy at the sight of this vagrant's level. The tracker, before he met me, was barely above the tenth level, though he was only slightly younger than my interlocutor.

I moved my foot to break the violet-blue ice, where I could see the reflection of the starless sky and something else out of this world. There was no reason to leave such evidence, especially if no one had removed the target from my back. It's a shame about the homeless guy, too. He'd look at it by accident and burn his brains out. He has skills aimed at survivability and a comfortable existence in any conditions, not mental stability. It's enviable because he could literally pump up by just sitting on his ass and not doing shit. A dream, not a class.

"Here, take it." I gave him the half-full bottle while I stood up and shook off the hem of my cloak. "I'm going to go now because I've been here too long.

He chose a comfortable roof to lie on, very comfortable. There's gorgeous scenery, and shelter from the wind and snow, thanks to the large canopy and the surrounding houses, and even safety because the guards who do not notice him regularly pass nearby so that random monsters and monsters will not eat him here.

"Bless thee, Bolog, good sir!" A blessing in the name of, apparently, the god of booze, gluttony, and carousing came to my ears. "I'll have a good night!"

I could barely contain a chuckle when I realized this homeless guy had a good chance of taking the second class. The experience drops for being homeless and living in shitty conditions. It means it drops all the time, continuously, and in winter in large portions. I wouldn't be surprised if, by spring, he were already the eighteenth. I wonder if there are any Homeless Heroes in this world. Because if there aren't, this type might be the first of them. If there are, I'll be laughing out loud in my cauldron in hell.

I wish I could live to congratulate such a Hero in person.

At least I'll get some sleep tonight.

The local magistrate was an old building with its own history. Its foundations, as well as the first floor, were built on the remains of ancient ruins, so the building was a true historical treasure, no less. And there was also some very ancient and incomprehensible magic preserved in those stones. Not sinister - or rather, no more sinister than usual - but shaky and old. A fuzzy sensation, like the noise of a blanket-wrapped tape recorder, barely audible even with my sensory perception. Even a sensor weaker than me could sense this magic, but even I couldn't understand more than the bare minimum.

Not the elements, not realms energies at all, but not ordinary magic either. Something different and incomprehensible. And obscure almost always means curious... and also deadly, but when the sanity ever stopped me? Especially since I was cautious, just a glimpse so as not to disturb anyone or anything. I looked, scratched the back of my head, went through the local mayor's desk (three caches, one of them inside another cache), palpated with clairvoyance important documents, dug a bucket of blackmail, and took out an old and discharged bugging amulet from the wall at the same time.

The bug was placed here for the burgomaster before last, but it was never taken away. The serpent ate his enemies before he knew about the wiretap. I could use the very rare material used to make the amulet. In fact, it's the only thing that's good for essence. I wandered through the offices of the big shots and found some more dirt and fresh spy amulets supplied by Eyes. One of the local bigwigs was a high-ranking cultist, so it was no surprise that the Intelligence Agent wanted to keep his brainchild under surveillance.

In the end, so as not to go away empty-handed, he stole the couch from the sleeping guard who was nestled on the sofa in the reception, together with the guard, and moved it to the basement. Here, next to the seemingly thin, though two meters thick, walls separating the magistrate from the catacombs, he would not sleep too soundly. And waking up would be even more uneasy.

Fire Rubies, also known as Blood Rubies, are quite a valuable material. Not for Alchemists like me, but Jewelers, Artifactors, and Enchanters would pay a good price for them. In my mind, I thank the two fools whose fates my third eye had followed earlier to find this stash. I have no idea how I'm going to use this treasure, but shouldn't I throw it away now that I've pulled the damn stones through The Shadow?

The history of these stones is as bloody as their name. This treasure used to lie not here but in a cozy forest hiding place, where it was put by the ataman of a very large and dashing gang of robbers. This gang managed for a surprisingly long time, as for those who do not have influential patrons, to keep the county caravan routes in tension, but even luck and animal cunning of the ataman could not resist the fate of a long time. The gang was located, surrounded, and slaughtered almost all of them.

Only a few managed to escape in time, leaving their fellow craftsmen to be torn apart by guards and mercenaries. They took with them only their weapons, some gold and jewelry taken from corpses, and a pouch of blood-red stones they had taken from the last caravan. The fugitives made it to Tavimark without loss, getting into the city and not even in the dungeons, but they knew that they would not be free for long. So they had to flee the city and even the region if they wanted to live.

Except the bag of stones doesn't even divide in two, let alone a dozen lucky guys. And so half of them, the higher-ranked and more dangerous ones, decide to reduce the number of shares. And it does, but there are still too many, and the sack is still single. And now, only twenty-four hours later, the weakest of the four surviving thieves slips poison into a mug of ale they drink "for the road" before breaking through the walls. And dies because one of his comrades saw him slipping poison into the ale. This did not stop him from waiting for the others to drink the poison so that the number of willing prey shrinks to the cherished one.

The traitor, before dying, manages to activate the last argument - a battle amulet with a fan curse enchanted by a good, good-for-nothing Malefic. And the nimble, fast, and strong Phantom, second-in-command to the fallen ataman, still got hit by evil magic, despite the timely use of the spatial technique. Not even a higher education, then just a poor nobleman and not a roadside robber, helped.

Feeling how the blood chills in his veins, the owner only a week ago took the twenty-fifth level and epic class, drank all available healing and cleansing potions, and went to the gate, seeking to still leave the city. The potions helped, and the curse gradually receded, returning mobility to his members and the ability to breathe freely without panting. But the rubies were literally burning his hands, for if he was captured with them, he would no longer be able to pay them off, and the weakness after the curse would not let him fight back.

And he tried to use the realm blink to move the bag of stones under the paving stone next to the closed gate. And he even managed to put it there, but he never returned from his interdimensional journey, disappearing forever somewhere where reality itself ends.

But the rubies remained.

Year after year, people walked on the stones of the sidewalk, pushing them into the ground more and more, not even knowing how close to them wealth unseen by their standards. The stones sunk into the earth, and new paving stones were laid on top of them while the pouch's skin, soaked in alchemical potions, carefully preserved the forgotten gifts of the depths. Those bandits were long forgotten, their fallen ataman was forgotten, they died of the blade or old age of those who were looking for the thieves who managed to escape, but the stones were still lying and lying. As red, shining, and beautiful as the day they came out from under the tools of the cutters.

And now, their story has taken a new spin, ending up in my hands. The value is considerable, no less than six or seven gold per piece, and there are about six dozen of them. But such gems are of no use to an alchemist, especially an essentialist, for I can easily obtain the right concepts by decomposing the blood of some beast. And I wasn't going to just sell them, leaving a trace to myself and my friends.

Unless one can...

Another roof, covered by very old and frost-cracked tiles, is convenient only because it offers a great view of one of the deepest public wells in the city. This is where the poor, artisans, and the poorer citizens draw their water, for the more affluent have their own wells, closer to their own parts of town.

The distance is about two hundred paces, which for my dexterity and perception, is more than bearable. What's more stressful are the strong gusts of cold wind. Despite the cold, the water in this well never freezes because of the underground current, though they prefer to close it at night. But some absent-minded person forgot to cover the well's mouth with a wooden lid, leaving it open to my view.

Shuh, knock, knock, knock, gurgle!

The new projectile, like all the ones before it, hits the target without a miss and then hits the water surface with a resounding clang on the stone walls. Another three-pointer, Kostik! Michael Jordan himself rests on the sidelines! That's a lot of money, at least six gold pieces of imperial coin!

Shuh, knock, knock, knock, gurgle!

And the story of blood and treachery continues to disappear into the depths of the earth and underground waters. The current, though weak but still present, will carry the stones far and wide, returning them to where they came from in the human world. I have no idea why I felt the urge to toss the jewels around, but I see no reason to deny myself that little bit.

I can't sleep anyway.

At this rate, I will soon be able to work in Dream without leaving stealth mode, even better than before when I acted without excessive precautions. I could say thank you to Weaver for teaching me because there is no better motivation for learning and self-development than the threat of imminent death in case of failure to pass the test. I could, but I won't because it would be necessary to meet with him, and the further I go, the more I fear this abomination. The fear, however, does not prevent me from continuing to carry out my treacherous plan.

Cassie-Best-Friend gave me the backstory of his conflict, even if he was reluctant to do so. It didn't come to a "speak or fight" ultimatum, but it was a lot of pressure. What he said was undoubtedly a useful block of connections and clues, but I couldn't have done it without complications and prepared tricks.

It took me a while to remember the little bastard from Ostmark, but I did. So did his strange nightmares, which I had foolishly thought was a simple nightmare. I had to dig into my memory, emulating the events that had happened in the boy's head and dreams. And the more I sorted it out, the more fun it became.

Now, with all the levels and skills I'd gained, I could tell it wasn't a nightmare. Or rather, it wasn't the usual dweller of Dream, sucking on the victim and pulling the essence out of him. And not even a specially sent, pre-made creature, the creation of which Weaver is so famous. In more or less understandable terms, it was the birth of a new entity that should replace the original nobleman. And so replaced that no test, other than a direct divine one, would show falsity. I could try to do something similar, but even for me, it would be an archhard. For Weaver, perhaps, too, but he specializes in such abominations, so he has experience.

In fact, in that dream, the boy performed a kind of abortion on himself by cutting out and disemboweling the child germinating in him, thus obtaining a piece of the power tied to Dream. And Weaver was "a little" offended at me for such a brutal murder of the unborn. The Ancient Being doesn't give a crap about his colleagues anyway, and those of them who, being weaker, manage to interfere with his plans even more so. Add to this his famous paranoia and his love for mopping up the witnesses of his existence to complete the picture.

Those beasts that attacked me during the storming of the Stone were clearly a response to my "incredible cruelty" and "unheard-of impudence". And when I left there as well...

Stop.

Wait!

What does that mean? Weaver, in an attempt to get at me, came to the Stone and, in fact, signed off on his participation in its storming. He killed Hestia simply because he didn't want a whole crowd of very angry stalkers on his tail. Not as dangerous as the divine incarnation, but powerful enough. If they found traces of him there, too, I'll be laughing out loud. That's hardly likely, though. Even without taking into account his skill at hiding from the seers and camouflaging his presence, the Mist has devoured all traces there.

Well, at least now it's clear why they were mad at me. It remains to find a way to calm the aggressor. And ideally, to put him the fuck to rest.

In trying to look from the Dream to the boy who is Sigismund Lanorsk, I made only one single attempt. Then I looked at the number of nightmares that surrounded all approaches to him and the personalities associated with him, and I was despondent. I could break through, but I couldn't do it without risking getting hooked.

It felt like there wasn't even the usual Dream because every element of unreality had been replaced by a carefully disguised trap or creature. There's no way to get through, only to burn your way through with your bare strength. Well, or try to quietly seize control of the creature, but it's too long and risky. Plus, I'm sure there are a couple hundred more traps specifically for this kind of thing. To rewrite, to change someone else's work, making it my own in every possible understanding of the concept, is simply impossible without merging with a similar construct myself. And in such a position, I myself would become incredibly vulnerable.

I wasn't too (relatively, of course) worried about getting rewritten myself. I had a lot of perks to protect me from such tricks as the Master, but I could still be simply soul-scorched. And I still want to live. So I had to limit myself to remote observation, conducted through a whole system of mirror adapters. If I do not create my own reflections and use natural anomalies, which in Dream a shitload (because Dream itself is one solid anomaly!), then notice this observation can only personally "present" nearby.

Weaver is never around, for he keeps watch through his creatures, and they are no match for me... until I crawl closer to attack. I'm not sure I'll be able to do that until I crawl closer to attack. In that case, they will crush me in numbers, and the fighting power of some narrowly sharpened creatures also inspires respect and loathing at once. I did not even check several very tempting vectors of observation - an obvious trap - and chose one of the most difficult and therefore, useless options.

A few drops of solidified metal stuck to the wall of the castle forge, which in turn were reflected in a large puddle of water from under the barrel that the blacksmith used to cool his wares. And that puddle reflected not only the interior of the forge but also the tall spires of the Lanorsk family stronghold. A very unstable vantage point, but it works to my advantage. It's impossible to keep these reflections under constant control. The slightest breeze blows or a cart passes, or a pig lies in a puddle, and immediately I experience interference and painful rollback. You can survive it if you are personally present nearby, but you can't weave a suitable self-contained structure out of Dream... if you want to make it invisible.

An adept of mirrors of my level, of course, may not torture himself with looking for reflections at all. I can observe ordinary people quietly through the mirror in my hands, literally twisting the invisible camera around them, selecting the right angle. And I even do it without leaving unnecessary traces and glare, by which I will be found. But this is not the usual peasants, but a shitload of alarms and creatures, so I have to improvise.

I'm still alive, so it's not so bad.

A long observation of the castle, which, incidentally, clearly knew that they were under surveillance, and the number of amulets with protection from the Dream was obscenely high, showed only very vague shadows of images. Images that I could not latch onto. Weaver was clearly waiting for my visit, while, for some reason, he couldn't or wouldn't turn all of the castle's inhabitants into creatures. Or at least attach a parasite to each of them, which, if necessary, would turn people into Possessed.

All this was an entertaining story, but it did not bring me any closer to unraveling Weaver's essence. I had to abandon the thread temporarily, leaving the locals alone and searching for traces of those who might have wished the bastard ill. I don't believe the millennia-old creature wanted to play local politics by trying to remake the heir to the not-so-coolest House of Melareth for some reason. It's not one of the princes of the Empire of the Ages that would interest someone of his caliber.

The first source of suspicion was the gold mine, with which many intrigues, thoughts, plans, and decisions were connected - like a ball of yarns from which hundreds and hundreds of threads emerge, weaving into new tangles and constantly re-tangling. After a bucketful of dirt and a whole pool of stories about human greed, meanness, nastiness, and, of course, stupidity, clairvoyance began to malfunction and give my mind an unpleasant creak. I'm not working through a mirror, but in my sleep, so I don't feel any pain, but I wouldn't feel well upon awakening. I shouldn't aggravate it. The nosebleeds don't suit me.

I didn't expect it to be easy, but I expected a greater return. A few visions, not even visions, but just traces of the presence of the attention of some extra party, a party that was not directly involved in the events of the division of the gold but was invisibly present - that's what caught my attention. This is the archetype of behavior usually used by those mortals to whom the Weaver does favors in return for "patronage". So far, this is not even a suspicion because many serious and experienced intriguers work in a similar way, most of whom have never even heard of Weaver. However, it is still worth checking.

I paint with black paint, on the wall a stupid word... I'm not quoting pop music, but literally describing the situation. Only the paint is not black, but transparent and invisible. And for another six months, it will be invisible until the reaction of the alchemical components runs out. And by then, the colored specks won't just be absorbed into the stone of the magistrate's wall, but will also become part of the stone itself. There won't be a painted surface, but a complete replacement of the material. The painted stone won't be painted a couple of millimeters, but the stone will be scraped off as much as you want until you wipe it off, but it will be sad without replacing the wall itself. And there's also the residual emanation of a very tricky essence, which can hardly be deactivated by standard means. If you just paint over the wall, the pattern will show through the paint.

The drawing: the absolute standard for wall inscriptions, a little added personal creativity: the assertion that the mayor is a phallus and a rather successful caricature of the intercourse between the respected mayor and a thoroughbred donkey. A classic of the genre, honestly, tried and tested by time and experience.

I have nothing personal against the local governor for embezzlement, corruption, cover-ups, sneaky elimination, and "fake" sentences through controlled guards and judges, for the Alurei nobleman is part of the standard package of characteristics. I just wanted to do something nasty to someone, and I found no reason not to do it. By the time the inscription appears, there will be an inspection from the capital, so they will not be looking for me but a possible competitor. At least the second assistant, who for the place of the mayor has been licking his ass for more than a year - a trick in his style because he works closely with the alchemists' guild.

I sat on the highest spire of the magistrate's office for a while, wandered through the empty corridors again, moved the couch with the sleeping guard (a fearless man, after the last time to continue sleeping on duty!) deeper into the basement, sent a pleasant sleep to the late-working clerk, and left the building, already studied to the last stone.

Boredom is deadly, and sleep won't come.

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom!

The heavy stomping beat on my brain with the force of a war hammer, screwed into my aching temples, buzzed in my bones, and made my heart beat fast and intermittently. The Bravura Nota Inn was in the presentable neighborhood of Tavimark, where patrols are constant, there are no poor people, and sewage is either poured down drains or hauled away to the slums.

The beds here are soft, comfortable, and eager to drown in their arms, the maids are agreeable, and if you do not like them, you can easily call the girls from any place for any taste and demands. The cooking here is not inferior to the previous two points in quality. All is well, beautiful Marquise, all is well!

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom!

But neither the soft bed, nor the warmth of a woman's body, nor the taste of freshly baked liver pie with greens and quail eggs helps to drown out the bloody march of iron-skinned boots, the sonorous shouts and coughs of decayed throats, the curt commands of commanders and literally seeping through all pores hopelessness and fatigue. Kostenka is a clairvoyant, which means he's not sleeping in peace!

I checked, making sure that all the local sensors and the few seers could hear this knocking in their dreams and visions at times, but only at times. It was my luck that we arrived in the city just at the moment of another "seasonal aggravation," when the seals in the depths of the catacombs had once again weakened, allowing whatever was roaming in the catacombs to seep through.

Year after year, century after century, it wanders and wanders, bitch!

I can easily shut myself off from any influence. I certainly don't have to fear that the bloody march of the godforsaken Forty-third Cavalry Corps will drive me insane. I'm crazy enough as it is. I'm not in danger of such a little thing. But my psychic skill is too good - the fucking legend. And so, no matter how much I close myself off, cutting off all harmful or at least distracting factors, I can't stop knowing.

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom!

And this knowledge gnaws at me every fucking night, causing me to wander until morning, looking for an adventure on my heroic ass so I can sleep it off during the day. I have a job, after all, and a mission of my own, which does not include fighting a legendary abomination that is easier to seal and forget than to even wound, let alone destroy.

Another week and the portal to the capital, twice delayed for reasons beyond my control, would be served to us all on a platter, and then the cursed pounding of dozens of deadly tired feet would remain here, far away from me. A harmful mental curse, which can really permanently settle the knocking in the heads of those who have ever heard it, is no problem for my defense, and distance is a great help against such funny things.

Except...

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom!

Except that I once made a promise to myself to finish the stories that had to be finished, didn't I? I don't give a damn about the next creature, nor do I give a damn about the possible experiences or titles that can be gained from it. I learned a long time ago that this world is far from a Korean grind and it's not worth chasing every mob to brutally destroy it. You could say from the very first days.

But I'll be damned - though how much further - if I want to leave all those who have become prisoners of the catacombs, eternal prisoners of the cold, dark, and narrow tunnels and passages, lifetime and posthumous gatekeepers of imprisoned Evil. The right thing to do would be simply to endure a few more nights or even to wait it out outside the walls of the city in the company of Ygra, who enjoys my company.

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom!

I would still have to learn to do the right thing, not as usual.

"Gentlemen and Ladies!" I attract the attention of my companions, who had gathered for their morning tea, the local equivalent of coffee or herbal tea, before scattering again in search of entertainment and then I cover us with a dome of distraction, using a small pocket mirror. "Shouldn't we destroy another legendary creature?"

"You mean the one yelling under the city?" Hans asks, in a voice grim with a slight hangover, without the slightest bit of surprise. "If so, I'm in. It disturbs my sleep, bitch."

If he had heard those words a couple of years earlier, he would have gone nuts for sure! And now he's so mature! He's ready to kill Legend for yelling outside his window. My school!

I am not surprised. After me, Hans is the second sensor in our company. Hestia can do some things, too, but not in her human form, so she hardly suffers from insomnia. I, of course, was aware of Hans's problems, and I generally reassured all my companions that the call of the dungeons wouldn't mess with their brains.

"I lost the gold to our noble again," Taria concluded dejectedly, counting out the coins. "I was sure we weren't going anywhere this time, but no. Couldn't you at least have waited a couple of days? Then his bet would have expired, and I'd have got some money, wouldn't I?"

"It's just that I read the old legends..." Losius smirked, hiding his smile behind a raised cup of some tonic booze. "I also know very well Tin's knack for finding trouble. I will, if anything, gladly and eagerly support the desire to shorten the eternity of the next insane spawn. I'm with you, as I always have been."

"The solemnity made my teeth ache." The dancer parried. "As if I could leave you alone. You'll kill yourselves like idiots without me, honestly."

"Are we idiots?" It doesn't take much for Hans to start a squabble. "You're calling me a retard, aren't you?"

"I said "kill yourselves like idiots," not call you idiots!" She was still in a nonchalant tone, but that didn't stop her from quickly hiding behind Hestia, who was picking at her plate with a sullen grin.

"What difference does it make?" Inquires politely, quietly to himself, a chuckling Losius.

"Big difference!" Her answer is full of indignation.

"It's not normal that I feel like the only normal person in our company without being a person at all, is it?" Hestia, thanks to our combined efforts, learned how to do a facepalm a long time ago. "I'll walk with you, too, because I don't even know how useful my talents are in confined spaces."

I smiled my widest smile. That makes Losius, as our chief light paladin, wrinkle involuntarily because of the pale face that peeked out from under the disguise and the sensation of hunger and anger that wafted from me. I look around my team. I never admit it out loud - otherwise, what kind of 4chaner would I be? - But the way they instantly agreed to go with me to a very likely death was the least bit jarring. Get out of here, you fresh-onion ninjas, I'm not your prey!

"Well, listen to the introduction because I've accumulated enough information about these fucking dungeons over the past few weeks. And you won't like it at all!"

* * *

Kostik and teenage drama.

George slammed the door to his room behind him and irritably kicked an innocent closet. No, he wasn't too upset about his breakup with Emma, but he wasn't in the mood. Their breakup had been brewing for quite some time and today, at Patrick's birthday party, the moment had finally arrived.

It happens.

The main thing now was to make sure his older sisters didn't come to comfort the "poor thing," or he'd be sure to punch someone.

And with those thoughts in mind, George fell into bed and saw a figure standing over him. The figure was menacingly wrapped in all black, like some kind of ninja, and in the hands of this either a burglar or a homicidal psychotic maniac was holding a very scary and not at all kitchen knife.

"Who are you?" The young man managed to squeeze out.

"Ninja." The man told him the obvious, as it turned out.

It's crazy, George thought doomfully, suppressing his trembling and fear.

"Y-you're going to kill me?"

"Nah." With that assertion, the "ninja" drew from his pocket... a large onion and began peeling it.

The expression on the guy's face went from amazement to astonishment, until the strange intruder began to cut the onion. Very deftly and quickly, and right over George's head! His eyes began to sting and tear like hell very quickly.

The guy didn't have time to say anything at all, and the onion was already chopped, and then thrown out the open window, and a barely discernible moment later, that crazy lunatic jumped out the same window.

Seconds later, Jessica and Miranda burst through the door, ignoring his repeated pleas not to break into his room without asking.

"Joe, have you been crying?"

"Don't worry about it, bro. Everything's gonna be okay."

"You'll find a better one."

"Don't cry, brother!"

"I wasn't crying!" Yelled back the boy, who had recovered from the shock, wiping away his tears. "It's... It was a ninja cutting an onion!"

The sisters looked at each other, and nodded reassuringly, Yeah, yeah, ninja. George could almost howl in despair when he saw what that sounded like. And when he saw the rest of the guests come running at his cry, he howled!

"I'm not lying, and I'm not stoned!" He tried to argue. "There really was a ninja here! With a fucking bow! I'm serious! Believe me! Damn, you all!"