* * *

In the life of any reasonable being endowed with power over other reasonable beings, be it a king, an army centurion, a chief artisan, or a leader of a barbarian tribe of green-skinned people, there are plenty of such moments when one of his subordinates would like to take one of his subordinates in his arms and throw him into a swampy pool so that he would never swim out. Even if earlier this subordinate did not cause any complaints with his service, even if earlier you could consider him if not a friend, then a reliable colleague, even if you continue to consider him so, but, bitch, he pisses you off! The way of abusing the lives of individual subordinates may vary because not everywhere there are swamps, and not everyone will mess with these swamps, preferring the good old fist in the teeth.

Or an axe in the teeth.

Or battle charms in the teeth.

Or not in the teeth at all.

"Shchepan, damn, it's been almost a week!" Vozma had only one-eighth halfling blood, but he swore in their vernacular as if he were a pureblood in his mid-twenties. "There's a lot of hounds out there, and if they catch us here, they're going to fuck us in all holes."

Vozma, despite his love to pretend to be an idiot and then even concussed, which helps a lot when dealing with high-ranking gentlemen, was not a fool, therefore, his words were quite reasonable and justified. Since the moment when the capital of their mighty and good empire had been brazenly snatched, it had indeed been almost a whole week, even if not counting those very first hours, when no one had confirmed the terrible news yet.

Just at some moment, people approaching Eternal from all sides in a continuous stream realized that the roads paved with fortified stone began either to lead somewhere wrong or to end altogether. Some paths simply merged with the same roads but approached earlier from the other side, and some of them simply broke off as if cut off by a huge blade. Space, as Jazh, their squad mage trained at one of the Academies, assured them all, seemed to have shrunk like the ass of a horse that had just shat. It was as if someone had cut a piece of cloth from the map of the familiar world and then, so as not to leave a hole in it, had drawn the edges of the open wound together and sewed them tightly.

The words "panic" cannot describe a hundredth part of the absolute madness that unfolded in those days. Soon enough, the order was restored by the regiments of the district garrisons, by the arrival of the Heralds of God in incredible numbers, Mages, inquirers, guilds, aristocrats, and all other high-ranking goats and sheep almost fought over the lack of communication with the Emperor and his closest heirs. Fortunately, the military had instructions for similar (but much smaller) disasters and several blood bearers of the ruling dynasty, who were not part of the main family and were not shown in the lists of heirs but had authority and some brains, so they did not let the dogs left without masters claw at each other's throats.

Shchepan didn't know and couldn't know the exact versions of what was going on. Yes, he was a high-ranking Adventurer with serious connections in the Guild, a personal squad of experienced men and level thirty-eight, but there were so many like him and even more "worthy" in the area that the owners of the local inns and taverns had either become rich or turned gray with horror. The most popular version, which was shared by Shchepan, was Alishan's sabotage, but there was a belated realization that even for Alishan what was happening was somehow excessive.... just too much.

There were mages wandering everywhere, either from guilds or some departments, or simply hired by someone, or even volunteered their help. Strangely enough, in the first two days, no one was allowed near the place of space fusion under the threat of field execution. Later, the tension dropped. Apparently, no one found ways to quickly return the capital to its former position. Holding the crowd of relatives, servants, close friends, partners, and subordinates, who had lost all those who were in Eternal these days, became really hard and required too tough measures. Up to the point of having to start a war with their people.

It wasn't the wisest choice, more an indication of weakness and indecision on the part of those who now commanded the assembled forces, but Shchepan couldn't help but recognize that if he hadn't been allowed in here, he would have been guaranteed to try to enter the protected area himself. And he would not have been stopped by the need to shed the blood of the soldiers and sentries guarding the approaches.

He had, after all, also lost someone with the city for whom he was willing to do anything, anything at all.

* * *

"Say it, Vozma." Despite the emotions raging inside, Shchepan did not show it, remaining outwardly as imperturbable as always. This skill is extremely important when communicating with a crowd of thugs who recognize only the most terrible badass among them all as the leader. "Here, our country, God grant it to stand firm. What is it called?"

The conversation did not prevent the man from straining his magic, doing everything they had come here to do despite the risks. He was tall but hunched over, a little battered, either by life or by the blows of a huge club, and it was hard to call him handsome, even for the whores who charged him one and half the price, let alone normal girls.

"Well, it's the Eternal Empire." His best jager obviously suspected a trick in the leader's words, probably even knew what kind of trick, but he didn't want to answer directly, afraid to go snorkeling after all.

There was room to dive, for the party was now in the place where they were most at ease. It was the swamps, though mostly of the tropical, mangrove variety, where they had found fame, fortune, and a few fellow locals who had joined the adventurers for a share in the spoils and a better life. The imperial swamps had been visited more than once, too, so it was far from an easy task to surprise or frighten them with mud.

There was a moment when the whole place stirred like ducks that smelled a fox approaching, but nothing came of it. Shchepan was not lazy to argue in gold in front of a few of his acquaintances who had been let into the cordon. They said the priests of the Fair One had gotten very excited, almost managing to force their way to somewhere far away, where the capital was now. And from them came some very bad news. The almost-formed portal reeked of an inordinate concentration of devilish fleur as if the portal was being pierced not to Eternal but directly into Hell. The panic was not quickly calmed because Alishan slave traders and blacksmiths could still take prisoners for a generous ransom, but devils had no such chance.

Alishan's informant was spitting pure anger, foaming at the mouth like a rabid wolf as he recounted the information. Alishan had not been choosy before, but they avoided cooperating with Hell as much as any other state, except perhaps for some of the most badass Drow Houses. It was not even cleanliness but common sense because such cooperation would almost always do more harm than good, not to mention the fact that everyone, including even the Gods, from the light and neutral to the darkest, would turn on the lover of Vice. It's one thing to feed Shadows, summon Madmen or some other abomination, but devil armies.... And to send the entire capital to Hell is not just one or two Legends under contract!

The same informant, who had obviously also left someone dear in the city, swore on his diploma of graduation from the Negotiating School and his Analyst's class that after such an event even the Empire of the Arms, which had kept its distance from the conflict between its two neighbors, would break its neutrality and come to the aid of the Empire of the Ages. Not for free, of course, but Roderick, the bastard, didn't give it to him for free either, despite his indignation and righteous rage.

"Do you know why our empire is called the Eternal Empire?" Still, as aloofly but ingratiatingly, Shchepan continues.

There were reports that some groups had managed to break through to the coordinates of the lost city, but there was no feedback, so all sane people thought they were just smeared in the distorted space. An unstable portal, no matter if it was planar, purely magical, divine, or based on exotic principles, was always synonymous with death. So the daredevils died, but time after time, they were followed by new suicides, for whom the risk of dying meant nothing because it was an acceptable payment for possible success. Suicides like Shchepan and the part of his troop that went with him. Only a part, because he did not dare to press with authority and drag all of them with him.

In fact, they didn't risk much, at least those who were only helping the commander, not going to stick their heads under the guillotine. Shchepan judiciously assessed his strength and realized that he, even though a very strong Vedun and an experienced Mage of the Swamp, had no chance since even the best of the best could not cope with the task.

"Well, because we're ruled by the Eternals?" Vozma continued the no-nonsense dialog. "The Dynasty."

What was it worth for him to ignore everything and everyone and take his son with him on a quest? Yes, he was only twelve, but Shchepan was only a year older when he was first trained in blood. He trained his son to the best of his ability, even if he didn't always have time for it, thanks to the Guild and its contracts, which he couldn't refuse despite the inconvenient timing. Excellent mentors, mostly from the Guild instructors, good education, and several trips to practical training could compensate for the weakness of attributes, small age, and lack of class. He would have to deal with his son and cover him personally, which would affect the success of the hunt and the amount of prey, but these small things could be tolerated.

And the risks? Even in the heart of the ancient marshes, Wojzczek would be safer than in his ancestral estate if only because those marshes are still within Alurei, even if it sometimes seems otherwise. And sometimes it doesn't. But there, he could have controlled the situation and prevented disaster. Now, all he could do was try to do something rash and stupid. A deed which, most likely, will turn out to be an audible fart in the wind, with some, very small, probability allowing him to kill himself against the wall of scattered and twisted space. Shchepan didn't even think about surviving his stupid self-sacrifice. He was well aware of the odds.

He just couldn't do it any other way.

"Do you know why our rulers, may the Ages bless them, are called the Eternal?" The quarrel requires almost no control from the consciousness because they have all learned each other so well that they can quarrel without waking up, drunk, unconscious, or in the middle of a fierce battle.

A martial brotherhood doesn't spring up out of nowhere, requiring long and bloody years of side-by-side to form. That was why they were with him now. That's why some of them had agreed to take the risk with Shchepan, even though they were aware of the risks, just as aware that they couldn't talk him out of it. And if they tried just to beat him over the head and get him drunk and take him far away from the place where the roads to the capital were cut off, they would only have to kill their commander, preferably before he came to his senses and sobered up.

Wojzczek was all Szczepan had left after Jadwiga's death, all he valued and could bring himself to live for. He didn't love his mother so much as to tolerate her because there were too many things bound them together, from blood and money to a wild mixture of mutual respect and equally mutual dislike. The fact that they were able to produce a child despite their classes and health, damaged by alchemy and rituals, could not be called anything other than a miracle. Perhaps about Miracle, it's quite literally. He didn't know if Jadwiga had visited the priests, but Shchepan had thrown on the altar of Naamu several times abundant sacrifices, a couple of times even bloody, just to get a chance to continue the family.

"Well, why is that, Shchepan?" Vozma had undoubtedly already understood the leader's thought, though not necessarily. The Jager, while strikingly intelligent for his appearance, had a knack for displaying a surprising lack of awareness of the most basic things.

Swamp magic, like the swamps themselves, was considered a very controversial source of power, even if it wasn't considered one of the "dark" branches of universe control, but very often, those who went that way used bloody bridges to cut off distances. Shchepan, come to think of it, wasn't shy about having a good ritual for five or six victims. He could have done more, but there were other forms of authorization to fill out, which even the captain of an elite group of adventurers would not immediately sign and seal. And the efficiency with the increase in the number of victims does not increase as much as he would like, especially if the skill is not enough. He is not a sacrificer, after all, to specialize only in this way.

The very nature of swamps and etheric streams flowing through them allows these very streams to slow down, twist, stabilize, and pollute with their own shades of energy. Magically active streams and their sources in the swamps are much more numerous than in ordinary land areas. Forests, mountains, deserts - all of them have their own magic and unique shades. They are not separate planes, by any means, but at the same time, a full-fledged source of power for those who manage to take this power. The energy of such places slowly draws out planar forces, mixes them with its own background, processes them, and adds something new, which is not similar to those very planes and is similar at the same time.

"That's because they're fucking Eternal, you fucking horse's ass!" The tension of the situation quickly forces a switch to mate, but it's common among them. Many of the far more prominent squads speak with swearing. "It doesn't cost a fucking thing for them to make it so that our time is running normally and theirs is almost stopped! So that we all have time to come to their rescue and fuck the cocksuckers who fuck them!"

By the way, this was not an idle hope but a clearly known fact. Some of the Eternals who remained outside the capital confirmed by their word that the Emperor had activated the Great Distortion of the Stream at the highest amplitudes. And that means that an hour there, inside the stolen, however silly that word sounds in the current context, the city is worth more than a day here, outside. The Emperor has given his subjects time for his subjects to save the capital, their loved ones, and the Emperor himself. Well, or at least try to.

"Oh, well, if that's the case, that's fine." What you can't take away from a Jaeger is the ability to speak in a way that no one can tell if he's a fool or faking it. "Then we live."

Shchepan was not the only one who had relatives or friends left in Eternal, even if family people among his squad could be counted on the fingers of a bad woodcutter's hand. Just temporary mistresses, girlfriends, acquaintances, and other connections, which, of course, are very important, but not so much to die for them. That's why it felt good somewhere under his heart that his comrades didn't give up, and now they were by his side, risking their lives and souls for the commander, friendship, comradely relations, and the promised sevenfold payment, where the sum received for one of their most successful raids became the standard multiplied by seven.

Greedy bastards.

But they, his bastards.

Shchepan was not counting on his strength and stunning power but on the swamp altar in his house, which had belonged to his grandfather's father's father. This moss-covered boulder could be used for many purposes, starting with prayers and sacrifices to Naamu, continuing with dozens of witchcraft rituals, and ending with the aforementioned teleportation to the altar. Of course, such tricks had probably been tried many, many times before, but the swampman had certain hopes.

First of all, this altar is sprinkled with his blood and bound to him more tightly than even a father-son bloodline. This heavy boulder was delivered to the capital's mansion by Shchepan's father as soon as he was authorized to do so, having fulfilled several complicated contracts for next to nothing. Warlocks aren't as attached to altars and places of power as is commonly believed. If we're talking about village whisperers, then yes, they do often foolishly chain themselves to a certain territory too tightly, becoming defenseless or even unlivable if only they were to be yanked off that territory. There are also those among the experienced users of witchcraft who attach themselves to a certain land too strongly, but this is not a prerequisite. The same Shchepan became stronger near the altar, could create preparations for different cases in advance, and performed certain rituals there, but the absence of the altar near him did not make him weaker. It was just another way to rise, with its strengths and weaknesses, conveniences and difficulties.

Second, he was going to break his way not to save the Emperor, not to take out the treasury of one of the lords, but to quietly and discreetly enter an inconspicuous estate in a not-very-wealthy neighborhood. The devils could have missed such a quiet, crawling sort of raid. They were not omnipotent, not omniscient, and certainly not able to foresee everything. There's no way to get back out since no one has escaped yet, but that's not a judgment. The main thing for Shchepan is to cover Wojzcek, and then we can wait for the glorious hour when those who can handle Hell and its burps will come to save them (well, not just the two of them, but the whole capital).

Third, there were only eight of them. They are not mighty warriors and sorcerers, each of whom could eat a Legend, but relatively modest adventurers. It's not a Salvation Army to make everyone worry about it. It's just a small thing, especially against the background of the stolen capital. What if they were really lucky? What if they managed to pull out a long stick? Fortune loved them, being the patroness of all adventurers at once, from the village troublemakers who had just set foot on this path to the head of the Guild's branch in the capital.

Shchepan poured his powers into the swamp beneath his feet, standing in a magic circle drawn and formed from mushrooms and mosses sprouting right through the mud. It's a useful trick, not easy to perform even if one had the strength to perform it, but he often had to act in the absence of time, normal materials, and a solid surface underfoot. Witchcraft, in general, is characterized by the crudeness of the magic used, its unresponsiveness and excessive consumption of power, but also by its monstrous power and no less monstrous efficiency. There are a lot of bad rumors about the Witches and Warlock, and we can not say, as if in vain, because it is not without reason the skill of witchcraft in monsters like the same orcs is found multiple times more often than in humans and other endowed.

The blood from his cut palm sprinkled the surface of the swamp, and his companions around him poured their reserves into the sludge that was greedily taking up the magic. Shchepan himself, with a sharp exhalation, poured as much as he could get through in one heartbeat. His mouth feels like it's been shat on by an entire goblin herd, and the aching in his stomach is a reminder of the dangers of overusing potions to enhance his charms. He'd already had a few dozen visits to healers in his life, triggered by the effects of prolonged intoxication, but right now, he just didn't care about saving. He didn't care about his health.

Shchepan is pushing, calling, trying to find a connection with the altar, reminding himself of a blind man who has been robbed of his cane by some drunkard who wants to laugh, has fallen to the ground, and is now watching the blind cripple crawling on his belly trying to find his loss. All around is a busy street, rumbling and hurtful laughter, here and there clattering wheels of carts, and it is only necessary to make one wrong move, as you are just crushed under the gushing laughter of spectators and scolding carriage drivers. The heart starts frantically fluttering in his chest, then almost stops, and he has to be driven by a piece of his magic.

It was hard, insanely hard to keep up the load, hard to infuse new and new portions of power, hard to whisper, spitting out evil words of incantations. It is hard to live, to be, to exist. The task that is impossible for him is drinking away the breath of the Warlock, who cannot interrupt his ritual even if he wishes to.

They've probably been spotted by now. They'd already sent a team of guards here to crack down on those who conducted unlicensed rituals in the area. It's rather surprising they weren't found sooner, as if the swamps had decided to help Shchepan on credit for the rest of his life by hiding him from the eyes of many. The pressure builds up, and he can already feel his bones and teeth starting to crunch, the wrinkles on his face growing deeper as the magic, finding no way in or out, begins to age the hapless mage's body.

He is ready to drop dead right in front of his companions, face down into the swamp. It is now unnaturally deep, breathing, alive. He still does not feel the slightest response. He still stands in the same void into which all the parties interested in saving the capital are beating their heads. He is already dead. He is already lost, and now he is standing only because his natural stubbornness does not allow him to let go of the streams of power twisted in a knot, letting them tear his tired body and soul, only making them more tightly bound, only increasing the power of the inevitably fatal backlash.

And at the last moment, as if in a silly harbor song about sailors caught in an enchanted calm, a wave ran across the invisible plane, which was frozen motionless. Shchepan felt his eyes, which were already nearly bursting, rise to his forehead with a mixture of shock and surprise. If earlier, he had convinced himself of his luck, which had allowed them to begin their ritual in this swamp and remain undetected. Now, the phrase "the swamp itself helps" no longer seemed silly.

It was as if something was really behind him, directing, amplifying Shchepan's call, taking over its kickback and giving him new strength, as if connecting the mage directly to the swamp sources, ignoring all the risks and inevitable damage to subtle bodies that were bound to happen if he tried to pull power like that, in such quantity. It wasn't like the feeling of divine assistance he'd gotten a few times by making sacrifices or by helping Naamu's ministers if he couldn't do without their help. Rather, it resembled the feeling of having the support of a more experienced mage, a Warlock's shoulder to lean on that was better than you. But even when Shchepan had been a small boy standing beside his father-sorcerer, he had not experienced such a difference in strength.

No.

No. It's not even about strength.

It was just that he, like any territorial mage, was used to talking to the swamp, to giving it power and demanding his will in return, making the standard exchange for any spellcaster. What he felt now, right behind him, was wild, unbridled, unstoppable, and as if it were native to this place. The thick, stale, and frankly unhealthy swamp magic was literally caressing this something, becoming as malleable as the neutral energy channeled through the wand-focuser!

It was a different league, a different level, and this level, this support, was enough for Shchepan to feel the faint, uncertain, ghostly response of the remaining swamp altar in Eternal. He roared like a wild beast, feeling the entire swamp for several hundred meters around, turning from a shallow puddle, where even the mire was almost harmless, into a bottomless pit of a titanic abyss in which a tribe of giants could drown, even if they were placed on each other's heads.

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Shchepan fell into the swamp in silence, if only because he could not even open his mouth from overexertion, but his team did not keep silent, shouting so loudly that they could shoot down low-flying birds if they were still here after such a storm of power. They did not yell for long because yelling with swamp sludge in their mouths was bad for their health and breathing. They all fell into the tunnel that had been made for them, which existed only for a brief moment and was replaced by the usual bottomless abyss, in which one could only drown, but no more. Shchepan thought with annoyance that after such a burst of power, even the most untalented magician would be able to sense what was going on in the swamp from a great distance.

And a moment later, so brief that no one even had time to swallow shit, they were all thrown out in a completely different place.

No one had time to react, and they were all twisted so quickly that no one had a chance to yelp. A reflexive attempt to hit the area with a fan of weakening curses was cut off before Shchepan was cut off from his magic, unable to utter even the shortened verbal component. A second later, he and his team, who had no time to be surprised, hung amid the glowing threads of the restraining ritual like prisoners crucified by steppe barbarians.

His gaze swept over the surroundings, making him curse, and only the ritual's paralysis prevented him from doing so aloud. A square of some sort, located in a not particularly wealthy area of Eternal, used to be either a marketplace or a place for executions, but most likely both. Now, the square was completely covered with ritual signs and lines that he, as a ritualist of no small degree, could not even assess.

And, of course, the sources of power were arranged in a circle, as if surrounding the square with a ring. There, a miniature sandstorm was visible, and over there was the energy of a dense thicket, and next to it was another storm, only snowy, followed by blocks of rock hanging in the air. No longer surprised, despite the almost complete paralysis, he rolls his eyes downward to see a small but very deep swamp right under the feet of the idiots hanging in the air. He's talking about his squad because they were fools and will die fools! But why should he? They wouldn't die. Who would let them die just like that?

A ritual trap for any type of territorially dependent mage or witch - that was what this place was that he had struggled and nearly died trying to get to! All those who tried the wall that separated Eternal from the rest of Alurei, using this method, albeit in different ways, were somehow or other caught by the servants of the creatures and the devils themselves. And then they were evaluated. If they found them valuable and weak enough, they opened the door to the slaughterhouse for foolish mortals.

Shit.

Even shittier than he had envisioned a moment ago, even though he seemed to be envisioning the bleakest of options!

His jaws barely moved, his tongue twisted around in his mouth like a numb limb, and instead of words, a barely audible mooing came out of his mouth. However, not everyone's speech was cut off because Hogosh, the insatiable fat-basin, managed to utter a full-fledged phrase clearly enough, albeit short, but surprisingly capacious and appropriate to the situation. It seems he was helped by his well-developed endurance and skills at resisting external influences.

"Is betrayal é seo." Despite the ineffable and, at times, irritating accent of the Western Plainsman peasant, Shchepan was ready to agree ten out of ten with what he said.

Most of the opponents, though they were not opponents, at most executioners, because the normal battle had not and would not be fought, were human, at least outwardly, and most likely had even been human once. The creatures were not visible, or they were well hidden, but it was hard to mistake these "people" for normal ones. Covered with tattoos and signs, oozing a fleur that hadn't yet eaten Shchepan's brains only because of the protection of the restraining ritual (why spoil the material with extraneous emanations, right?), they resembled human beings only nominally, like halfling moneylenders pretending to be honest and law-abiding rational beings. Few made a more or less adequate impression, but they were the ones who inspired an almost otherworldly dread. There was too much in them, more than could be contained while still being themselves. A warlock intuitively senses such things, especially if they are not trying to hide them.

How many had been slaughtered here already? Desert folk, forest folk, steppe folk, snowmen - all mages and warriors of certain types were drawn here, and there had been few attempts to infiltrate in the days that had passed outside. It was a shame to feel stupid, especially if you had been trying to convince yourself and the others that you were not stupid but clever.

An elderly ritualist with a face so dull and inexpressive that he stood out even more than the cultists themselves in normal society against the background of unnaturally alluring and beautiful cultists examined them leisurely, but not for long, without asking any questions, and then whispered a few words into the amulet hanging on the cuff of his robe and went about his business to one corner of the square, where several prisoners from previous batches were being thrown into a huge pit. The pit was not filled with thorns, flames, or poisonous snakes but with the same prisoners who had been there earlier and were now spending their time doing something very naughty.

The next cultist didn't say a word but looked at them all, including Hogosh, who had been silenced by the increased paralytic effect, through some translucent glass, shook his head, said something into the amulet, and went to another pit with the same contents.

The third visitor who finally appeared looked obscenely young, as if he hadn't even passed his third decade of winter yet. His hair was not even red but blood-red, and the same red streaks covered his snow-white shirt and pants, except for which he had no other clothes. This one examined them even less than the previous ones, and he looked at them with the kind of look that big bosses or very noblemen take when they are distracted by some trifle they need to witness in person.

"Hmph." The cultist's voice matched his appearance, equally refined and like a murmuring spring brook right in the head of whoever heard it. "And how did you get here? Some kind of artifact?"

It wasn't just a question. It was some kind of mind-affecting crap that was loaded with Hell flavor. And it was possible not to answer it, of course, but certainly not for a bound adventurer of his level. If he had been free, full of energy, and taking the action in the swamp... then, Shchepan would have found something to answer and show, would have let the bastard know what the real Brzenciscevski was worth. And if his squad had joined him, there would have been even some chances, if not for victory, then for retreat and subsequent regrouping. But we have only what we have.

"What artifact?" His lips parted, pushing the words out against his will. "You're the ones who pushed me, you bitches, you shitheads, you gave me the strength, you scum so I could target the swamp response, you asshole-eyed freaks, you filthy sheep-eater."

What surprised him most of all was that the cultist was surprised along with him! He'd expected that the swear words he'd woven into his involuntary response would have at most pissed off the arrogant bastard, but certainly not the kind of mild and haughty surprise, as if the villein had said some absurd nonsense and now he didn't know whether to screw it up or not.

"What push?" Bewilderment and contempt are replaced by the lightest shadow of understanding as if someone whispered directly into his ear. "The ritual doesn't work that way..."

He didn't have time to speak, having to teleport a dozen meters away when the swamp from which they had been pulled, the swamp that had been calmly gurgling somewhere below, the swamp that had been obediently and securely enclosed in the ritual cage, literally exploded with streams of thick slime and suffocating, deadly poisonous gases, hitting the nearest cultists and rushing toward the center of the ritual. Shchepan, who had been agitated and fucked up, felt again the very power that had helped him so recently and which, as it turned out, had been a trap not of the devils but for the devils.

Admittedly, the adventurer had expected the appearance of the elite Imperial Guard, a dozen gold teams of his Guild, and a couple more glorified Heroes to top it off, but the attack, despite its suddenness, was nowhere near as effective as the captives would have liked. Apparently, they weren't the first victims to try to fight back, even if their success was unexpected and relatively large. Relativity was such that the attack seemed successful only against the backdrop of the cult's previous bloodless victories.

It was as if the stream of mud had splashed through dozens of lines and threads, literally sucking it into the structure of the ritual. Only a couple of those who had been hit were killed, and another five who had been wounded and inhaled the fumes were quickly pumped back out using the same ritual, but the lines shone differently. A huge snag and two large boulders flew out of the bubbling swamp and managed to break through several barriers before the other barriers slowed them down and sliced them with shining lines.

If Shchepan had been surprised before, he might have dislocated his jaw if he hadn't been held back by the evil charms of the cultists when the slouching and incredibly agile figure of a swamp ogre, and an enormously powerful one at that, jumped out of the bottomless yawn of the swamp. It was undoubtedly a swamp ogre, even if it was in a cloud of mud, even if it was disproportionately thin and flexible for these monsters, but Shchepan, an experienced swamp raider who had encountered these brats many times and knew an obscene amount about them, could not even estimate its level! These monsters, despite, as stated in the scientific works of almost all Monstrologists, colossal affinity with the native biome, had virtually no talent for any kind of magic. This talentlessness, low attributes of magical orientation, as well as vulnerability to fire and acid magic (with unpleasant resistance to most of the dark branches of sorcery) allowed you to counteract them if you ran into them during a raid.

Hunting swamp ogres was a difficult and thankless task, even if it was profitable in terms of the reagents taken from their corpses, but it was much worse if they hunted you, considering you the prey. All of Shchepan's experience couldn't tell him what characteristics such a specimen should have. He could see him fighting as well as an experienced warlock or shaman with the support of a small circle of disciples! At the same time, the bastard moves much faster than the norm for these creatures, which are not as intimidating in agility as they are in strength and survivability! The realization that this miraculous wonder lived literally on the outskirts of the capital made him want to survive just so he could visit the Guild's Monstrological Intelligence Department and shove those pompous visionaries' reports up their asses so deep they could read them when they came out of their mouths.

The ogre was rampaging and was about to devour the cultists right there despite their resistance. The layer of mud was rapidly shrinking, literally shrunken by the numerous spells, but underneath it was the ritual patterns the ogre had drawn on its skin. It was difficult to distinguish anything at such speed, but Shchepan could easily see the patterns, or rather, their activation.

Alas, the ogre, when he almost reached the red-haired ritualist, who was looking at the massacre, stopped suddenly and fell to his knees at the mere gesture of the cultist. The boy himself - though, what kind of boy is he if he can easily be older than the entire Brzenciszczewski clan? - He was barely audibly pulling a single note, not with his mouth, but with his very gut. The ogre's swamp blanket was sliding down to this tune, and Shchepan was once again dumbfounded when he got a good look at the ogre.

It was okay that the ogre was female because these monsters don't depend on their sex for the degree of danger, but her appearance was such that a dead man would have stood up, despite the size of the ogre (especially her melons) and her inhuman (though far from hideous) face! There was a clear suspicion that this beast had already been caught once by these very devils and given a good workout. No, seriously, only a maniac could turn a swamp ogre into this, a maniac who would have been accepted into the ranks of the Cultists without examination and right into the senior ranks.

"How lovely." The unconcealed admiration expressed aloud did not, in the slightest, prevent the ritualist from maintaining the same note that made the ogre convulse and start caressing her modified body. "Just unbelievably adorable. I want to know who created her. And him I want too."

Szczepan was torn by internal conflict, for his eyes had seen a frankly enticing sight, especially when the green-skinned giantess, covered in savage ritual patterns and only by them, first arched, spurted out a stream of juices and began to writhe fiercely on her enormous breasts, but his mind kept bringing up the image of what normal female swamp ogres looked like. This comprehension only made his unnatural attraction more frightening and a slightly shameful disgust, which became easier the further it went.

"You." The look in the red-haired man's surprisingly clear and childlike naive eyes didn't promise Szczepan anything good. "She came for you. Together with you. She helped you and didn't kill you. What? You? Know?"

It was no longer like an interrogation, no longer forcing him to tell the truth, but simply ripping out of his head the right images and memories of how they had all gotten here. Everything Szczepan remembered, knew, noticed, and realized in those moments when he was preparing to take suicidal risks seemed to be ripped out alive right through his eye sockets. It was worse than any pain, sweeter than any night in the arms of a professional hetaera, scarier than the most unforgiving nightmare. He felt as if his mind would fail, burst, break, like a mechanical clock that had been poured a couple of handfuls of sand and then dropped a blacksmith's hammer on it.

"Wow, they're attacking again, for the sixth time this hour and all on us." The cultist who had passed by their company, the earliest of them all, was affectionately hugging another ritualist dressed in a woman's dress despite a mustache and beard that would have done any other dwarf dubious honor. "When are they going to shut them up?"

A multi-segmented barrier was shining from above, sheltering the entire area from possible attacks, and tens and hundreds of light spears were continuously streaming into this barrier without making it even a little bit sag. Not otherwise, one of the stationary defense points continued their fruitless attempts to destroy such a large gathering of the enemy despite the lack of effectiveness of their actions.

All of this Szczepan was only marginally aware of.

Because Szczepan was being killed.

And Szczepan, who was being killed, was dying in return.

And as he died, he felt the triumph and discontent of his executioner and benefactor, torturer and best friend, who had betrayed him to the worst and most glorious fate possible. The triumph grew out of the possibility of meeting the master, the true virtuoso of debauchery that had created the impossible, wrong ogre who continued to knead his tits; the discontent out of the fact that the adventurer's memory had no answers and, apart from these images given in response, a clear understanding of the simple truth had come. He would kill him now, break him, and turn him inside out simply because such a weak group was of little value to them, and the irritation needed to be taken out on someone.

He felt his eyes rolling back in a mixture of agony and ecstasy, rolling up to fade away forever. Szczepan saw the ogre once again tugging her nipples especially hard, once again pouring her juices onto the ritual lines that covered the unfortunate square. And, as if to continue her obscene games, she swung her long and incredibly strong arm, at the same time making the patterns covering her arm glow dark green and black-blue, blowing the red-haired head off the ritualist's shoulders. Neither the barrier that flared up at the last moment nor the glowing ribbon lines that rushed to intercept the blow nor even an attempt at emergency teleportation helped. A swamp ogre attacking to kill is extremely difficult to deflect, and a premonition of danger is not always a warning.

He was almost orgasmically relieved the torture had stopped, and he was truly religiously horrified when he realized the blow had not killed the ritualist but only wounded him, who had teleported a little behind the ogre's back (probably the jump coordinates had been thrown off by the wound). His head was blown off his shoulders and crushed to smithereens! He was alive and even quite capable, and in the place of the missing head appeared as if a drawing made with charcoal or even a thin artistic pencil, depicting the surprised, shocked, and somewhat panicked face of the brat.

But even if his vitality, especially in the middle of the ritual, whose lines had already rushed to the decapitated body, successfully returning color to the sketch that had regained materiality, allowed him to survive even that, he could not control the ritual, nor could he renew his control over the wrong ogre. If it had been controlled from the start, it was not for nothing that it resembled the crafts of these cultists and their masters, and who better than they to know how to protect themselves from the brainwashed tricks of such an abomination?

The ogre was moving so fast that Shchepan could only catch the residual images of its movements, figuring out the rest afterward, but he could see something even in such a pitiful state. The monster twisted with a kind of unnatural grace, grabbing the decapitated body, and the same shining signs, changing their location on her body and form with content, prevented it from moving again. Her rituals are primitive, crude, even more primitive and crude than his own, but she is now near the source of her might, and the only one who could have seized control of the ritual-bound swamp source is now out of his head. The might break artfulness on all fronts, from ritualism to the important fact the main obstacle to artfulness created by the might was a torn-off head!

With a crackle and a kind of wet crunch, the sound of muscles and bones tearing, she throws her body to the ground, literally trampling it with her feet into the ritual marks a moment later, to glow again, all the marks on her body at once, as if letting them flow from her beautiful and delicate skin onto the structure of the main ritual. These signs are like children's scribbles, primitive drawings made directly on top of the extremely concise and even elegant blocks of classical ritualism, but they don't need complexity.

The structure of the ritual was too complex for Shchepan, so all-encompassing beyond his skill level that he was more likely to guess at the basics than to understand them, but the ogre's creation was understandable. Even too simple, as if it were the vocabulary of primitive tribes against the background of elegant penmanship, it had only a small effect, a single task. It ruined all other processes, turning the energy already invested in the ritual into a chaotic interweaving of streams of multidirectional forces.

Even a semi-literate village herbalist could have predicted the result.... or, at the very least, any knowledgeable magician. The result is best described by the phrase "a very big bang." The grief-stricken father, who had followed his son literally to the other world whimpered and began to fall rapidly back into the bottomless swamp. He was no longer held by numerous glowing lines. The thought flashed through his mind. Before his death, he would at least look at the gorgeous tits because the ogre jumped right after him, diving into the swamp in the same way.

To say that they were all shaken would be an obscene understatement. There was not just one swamp on that site but a whole host of springs of territorial magic, each of which the cunning ogre (ogre, may the War Father's hammer smite him, eternally dumb ogre!) had taken out of control. All of these sources, having lost the walls of the cages that held back their power, spurted out right onto the base of the ritual and the cultists who were flailing about in their dance. They would probably be able to stand even without their leader, even if he was the best of them, and could replace perhaps all of them at once. They would have been able to stabilize the circuit, strengthen the cages at the source, and drive the raging power back to the limits they needed. But they were still under fire, and the stationary barrier sheltering them all did not collapse at that moment but blinked.

There was enough for everyone.

Shchepan felt like he was literally being boiled alive. The cataclysm up there was so hot it was like the fire shows at the House of a Thousand Spectacles, which he'd been dragged to a couple of times by his guildmates. If they'd been alone, they wouldn't even have been boiled. They'd have been boiled with the swamp, and their remains would have slipped into the bottomless maelstrom, becoming part of the natural force and the energy background. But the ogre was in the same pool, hiding there with them, and at the same time, was much closer to the riot of energies, simply jumping into the shelter of the latter.

The swamp mage felt her actions. He sensed she called her home for help, and the swamp helped her in return, saving her and shutting her out of harm's way. And since she had managed to save herself, she had also closed them all, not only Shchepan but also his companions, even the annoying Vozma, saving her surprisingly smooth and delicate skin. Judging by the fact that the swamp was still under her control and not his, the rescue had been extremely successful. It was impossible to maintain such control with serious wounds.

His vision returned in one fell swoop, making him spit hot dirt and cough up cinders when they were all back on the surface. The scenery had changed a lot. Instead of the square that had been mutilated by the monstrous shrines, there was a big hole in the place where the square had been. It wasn't exactly deep, but the nearest neighborhood was definitely destroyed by a trivial shockwave, and those who hid too close were simply atomized. Who could hide here, though? Shchepan could bet any amount of money that the devils had simply let everyone in the vicinity go to the very ritual that had blown up so deliciously.

When he came to his senses, the magician stood like an idol dug into the ground, frozen like a rat in front of a boa constrictor. She was standing right in front of him, unbearably beautiful, but at the same time just as dangerous, so dangerous that he couldn't even begin to appreciate the degree of danger. Some of his burns and wounds were recovering at such an incredible rate that otherwise, he would have thought he was delirious. If before the ogre had seemed simply terrifying, now it was a real nightmare, casually supporting a fencing circle of swamp power that had not yet evaporated after the cataclysm. It was this circle and the very presence of the ogre that prevented the rampaging forces, dominated by the cursed fleur, from scorching the souls of the endowed ones.

Shchepan was no fool and, therefore, knew the only reason the ogre could keep them alive and protected from the fleur - any regeneration, especially such a powerful one, depletes the body's resources. There were many ways to restore oneself, but among her tribe, the most common and the only sure way was to eat a hearty meal, preferably with high-level and still fresh meat. He didn't try to resist, not so much mesmerized by her magnificent naked body, now devoid of any ritual designs, as realizing the futility of any attempt.

He wouldn't do anything to her in physical combat. Call upon his magic against her to ask the swamp for help... it's like asking for protection from the nearest guard patrol when the Eye agents have shown up with an order for immediate liquidation signed by the Emperor himself. At most, you'd make everyone around you laugh before you died, but that was all. That's why he stood still, staring at the huge tits, gradually falling into a trance. If he was going to die, it would be on his feet, or at least being completely mesmerized and therefore feeling no pain. Swamp ogres don't tend to play with their prey, killing instantly, but there's no telling how it will turn out if the ogre is so unusual.

Forgive me, Wojzcek.

"Well, why did you stop?" He didn't recognize his voice, feeling his mind drift farther and farther away, and another minute of waiting would cause him to pounce on the ogre himself, even if not to attack. "Come on, hit me, you slimy filth!"

The ogre's stone-cold face didn't change much, but some emotion flickered there. His mind, extinguished in a burst of desire, fished for memories of Shchepan's past encounters with the species. Ogres, common swamp ogres, face completely unreadable. Some even believe they simply do not have the necessary facial muscles. They even died without screaming or growling, maintaining the silence so prized by born hunters. So the adventurer even fell out of his hypnotic trance when this pile of muscles spoke.

"Your stupid?" The rough and ineffably deep reprimand brought to mind that cursed raid when his group had happened to hear the distant, distant singing of the swamp ogres, which was a sign very ominous and foretelling of soon-to-be extinction when those very songsters came for you.

If a swamp ogre is singing, singing without words, just pulling rhythmic sounds out of its throat to the beatings of heavy fists or picked logs on trees, it means there is a whole tribe of them gathered together for some seasonal and primitive feast. So, soon they will go hunting, and from such hunting the whole settlements, which someone has placed too close to the borders of the uncolonized swamps, or even inside these borders, can be deserted in one night. Without a single shout, without any sound, without any fighting or battles. Just hunters coming in and taking their prey. Shchepan had heard singing only once in his life when he had barely managed to get his squad out of harm's way and even managed to evacuate the nearest settlements. But he had never heard any intelligible speech from the swamp ogres, which made him gasp again.

"Wha-what?" The experienced beast slaughterer, monster hunter, monster slayer, and just a good adventurer felt like a discarded fish for the first time in years, not finding a single word.

"Your baby mama's head to bash a log?" The ogre continued, seemingly determined to either drive him to the stroke or to drive him insane if she hadn't already. "And you're going to be stupid later, aren't you?"

"Wha-wha?" A talking ogre, a swamp talking ogre, a talking ogre that speaks meaningfully, not by memorized repetition of combinations of sounds heard from someone else, a meaningfully speaking swamp ogre waiting for an answer from a human instead of eating him.... it would be a strange thing not to go crazy after that. "H-h-how?"

"You're so stupid. I don't need you so stupid." The ogre shook her head disapprovingly and, turning around to face him with her gorgeous ass, simply jumped forward and to the side, traversing the entire contaminated area of the former ritual altar in one fell swoop, disappearing somewhere between the buildings destroyed by the shockwave.

He was called stupid by a swamp ogre.

She called him stupid, scorned him, and ran away.

Ogre.

Swamp.

Call him.

Stupid.

Reflexively intercepting control over the unattended barrier circle, a primitive technique only executed with great strength and skill, he prevents the barrier from collapsing and flooding his men with a toxic fleur. The intensity of the deadly atmosphere is subsiding, and after a while, they will be able to leave this place carefully under the protection of Shchepan's incantations. But for now, they must stay here, not even move, for fear that the stabilized part of the swamp, with its source of power, might not open up again and take them away forever. And yet Shchepan risked the lives of all of them, turning to face his companions standing behind him, giving them a glimpse of his fucked-up face, and then, through gritted teeth and almost growling, he said.

"This! Never! Never happened!" He doesn't even specify what exactly never happened, knowing full well that he will be understood. "Whoever blabs about it, I'm bury him alive."

And, despite the harshness of the situation, even though they could have had enough of a single random creature running past (it was lucky that the place was almost entirely filled with cultists and a couple or three possessed who relied on the strength of the red-haired chief and the power of the protective dome over the square), despite the interrogation that nearly fried their brains, they understood him. And every one of them, even Vozma, nodded with the most serious look, agreeing with the condition, saying that we understood, not a word to anyone. Only quiet wheezing and sobbing and hard-to-suppress laughter spoiled the solemnity of the moment, but it was barely audible because the Vedun could really bury alive a too-talkative teammate for trying to laugh at the commander.

Who even the ogres call a stupid.

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