* * *

They had met on the roof of the central building of a small furrier's shop that occupied half of Bald Tail Street. Once upon a time, they had spent hours here, watching the sunset, followed by starry skies and then the sunrise. Rain and snow, winds and storms - they met every kind of weather, facing the forces of nature and not retreating a single step. At that time, they were very young, having just met the thirteenth spring, and it seemed to them that the whole world was ahead of them. They believed they would go through it, as they were used to, shoulder to shoulder.

Students and servants of a rather famous fencer, learning the basics of the art of killing from childhood, their careers were arranged in advance. Master Onzia's school produced middle officers for the army, close combat specialists for the guards, and even good adventurers. If you were accepted into the school for talent or paid to have that talent nurtured in you, then something capable of fighting would eventually be molded out of you. Both of them were outcasts in their time, both of them didn't fit into any interest groups, and both of them lacked the charisma to create their own.

He was distinguished by the narrow slit eyes of a typical Lanai whose parents had fled the Island Principalities to find their deaths in the lands of the Empire of Ages. The blood of hereditary warriors was strong in him, which made it possible for him to survive on the streets and then get noticed by the school's recruiters. He was even trained in the use of the island saber, and there was a full-fledged Samurai among the teachers, only of pure-blooded Imperial descent. The individual program did not make him really strong because all his training was just one of the experiments of the main fencer. Still, among the students, there were some true nuggets that he was not destined to catch up with, even in his dreams. This training was fruitful, no doubt, but it also completely distanced Hiroko from all his peers.

Maria was also an outcast, but for the very fact that she had been trained as a swordsman-brether, a role that was generally considered to be a man's role. No, there are girls with swordsmanship if we talk about adventurers, but the brether business is almost always closed to them. As if to spite her, she was studying dueling skills rather than the more universal martial craft. She was determined to follow in her late father's footsteps, and the mere fact of her existence was getting on her mentors' nerves.

Their duo was solid and reliable, tested more than once in training sparring and non-training skirmishes with peers, but each time, they stood back to back, never backing down, and even if they didn't win, they stayed on their feet, going at their own pace, supporting each other so they wouldn't fall. But time passed, and he went to his homeland to pay his debt for the lives of his exiled parents or at least to learn something about them. She was left alone, trying to continue to push her line in front of the whole world, fitting into the unfriendly society of official assassins in the service of pompous nobles.

And so, as if in some bitter comedy, they finally met now. She had invited him here, invited him before, but the letters had come late. He had come, having driven a few horses and paid a fair amount of silver and gold for teleportation. They talked, laughed, reminisced, and it seemed that not even a day had passed since their forced parting when they had promised to remember each other against all odds, to remember always, forever.

She specifically asked him to deliver some very valuable, according to her, case to a small town just outside of Eternal. He was to be met there by the person for whom the case was intended, and he was to meet him in the evening. He gladly agreed, but at the last moment, there was an excellent chance to deliver the case with the caravan of a familiar merchant, who owed much to the gloomy and taciturn Samurai and, therefore, gladly accepted the burden without any doubts about its safety.

And he stayed within the city limits.

The city that fell into the Hell.

Until the last moment, he hadn't believed it, though his mind, as if throwing off an obsession, kept throwing up little details he should have paid attention to. If it was about someone else, not Maria. Her improved looks turned a simply sweet girl into a painted beauty, even though his years had only added scars. Her amazing charisma and the ease with which she convinced those around her that she was right. The way she made love was so unlike the somewhat shying modesty, the shy fragility he'd learned with her the night before they'd parted. He might have guessed it. She had not intentionally influenced him, and any Samurai's resistance to mental influences, illusions, and curses is considered one of the hallmarks of his class.

He could.

He didn't want to.

He didn't believe it.

He had come to this roof, which had stood during his childhood and which stood now, sincerely hoping to be mistaken, but there was no mistake, only the bitter, bitter truth. She was waiting for him here, blazing with borrowed strength and alien power, looking at him with a gaze so languid that he was tempted to avert his own. She was asking him to join the battle going on, offering him sincerely, but not on the side of the defenders.

He had already managed to decline her.

They looked at each other as they had the last time as if they were seeing each other for the first time. A tall, sturdily built Samurai in a dull helmet and streamlined armor made of alchemy-impregnated wood and extremely thick paper, acquired during his wanderings through the Island Principalities. And a frail, surprisingly slight maiden dressed in the colorful and deliberately provocatively dyed rags of a metropolitan Brether. A straight sword and a parrying dagger versus a one-and-a-half island saber.

The coldness in the heart.

The coldness in the eyes.

And the despair that comes with it, the realization that now they see in each other those against whom they have fought before, the two of them, back to back, together and forever. They meet like a wave crashing against a rocky slope, and from the very first seconds, both he and she realize who will win this battle. His class and all his skills allow him to perfectly control the battlefield, and resist several opponents at once, and in an individual battle, he is far from powerless. But all this pales before the deadly precision and murderous swiftness of the Brether, accustomed only and only to one-on-one combat.

Before, when they'd walked side by side, he'd won one out of three times when he'd managed to trap or exhaust his opponent, but that had been long ago, before the body and soul of his only love, his most valued friend, had been filled with the power of Hell, exalting and overthrowing where he could no longer go. Where he was fast, she was lightning fast; where he was indestructible, she became all-destroying; no defense, no skill could make up for this lag. He had been walking on his feet all his life, taking strength only that he could call his own, and so had she.... when that moment came, that moment of acceptance, when Maria threw away that truth and embraced a new one, which more favorable to her.

"Fool!" Not a word, but a depraved groan seeping into the mind even through the armor of iron calm and self-control. "What will you achieve? What do you want to die for? For whom?"

He is silent, only staggering under the hail of blows, too fast to even keep track of them, too strong for him to stand and bear them uninjured. Silent, not knowing what to say, what to say to the one who was everything to him, to whom he was everything.

"You could have been with me!" It was hard to tell if the word hurt him more or still the blade. "We would have gone away, hid from everyone. You just had to stay out of the way!"

Would your new masters let you go? He wanted to ask.

Would you be able to leave on your own, having tasted Lust and its power? He might say.

Is this what you wanted? Is this what you came to the devils for? It was on the tip of his tongue.

But he remained silent, trying not even to fight back, but just to stay on his feet, trying not to fall on such fragile tiles of the forgotten roof, not to break it, falling inside the workshops. He was silent until the hilt of her sword, dispersed by the gift of power, broke through the visor of his helmet, knocking out his teeth and breaking his jaw, dropping him down onto the tiles covered in his blood.

Red on red.

Under the purple sky.

"Accept me, Hiro, please." She asks sincerely, not trying to get in his head, though she certainly can, especially while he's in such a pitiful state. "Be with me as you once were."

How he wanted to agree, how he wanted to forget everything and accept her promise, to believe in the mercy of those who had promised her happiness, promised to let her go free, only help them win here. She had come to them herself, perhaps even believed it, but he remembered the instructions, the books, the stories, and histories too well to believe in the promises of others.

"No." Through the pain, through the blood dripping from his mouth and splintered teeth, he squeezed out, staring painfully at the stone-masked face of his now definitely enemy.

"You're going to die." Simply and somehow mundanely says María, shifting her body weight into a striking stance. "All your endeavors. All your goals. They will be gone. Along with you."

Despite the broken bones, shattered jaw, and blood pouring down his face, he grips his saber tighter, intercepting it in a lower stance, answering her through bitterness and tears with the phrase he has walked with all his life, the phrase he has dreamed of having her walk beside him, knowing she would understand even through the mumbling he is capable of producing with such injuries.

"A samurai has no goal, only the way."

For the next forty heartbeats, he fought in a way he had never dared to dream of all his life, grasping in seconds the truths he had spent years to realize, repeating and embodying techniques he had never known before. And when Maria caught him on another maneuver, she went behind his back, already in the moment of slipping, piercing through the armor opposite his heart with a blow struck without looking and behind his back. As his numb legs buckled at the knees, Hiroko fell onto his back, feeling his pierced heart stop. When Maria walked away without even a glance at her defeated foe, she pulled off her clothes as she went, leaving only bare skin covered in hundreds of depraved symbols. The seemingly scarlet sky began to darken, allowing the consciousness of the mortally wounded warrior to sink into darkness.

She walked away victorious with no injuries other than a small scratch just below the knee.

And he smiled sadly and with an understanding that he had sorely lacked in his lifetime.

Lacked at the one moment when he'd sacrificed the future and the present for the shadow of the past, leaving her alone against the world, a world just as cold and cruel, but now without his support, without a back to lean against. All he should have done was not leave then, and things would have gone a different way, come out differently, and ended differently.

"I'm sorry for leaving you alone." With one lip, not even a whisper, but only a marked whisper of a boy dying alone, who managed to grow up and mature, but only just before his death found the wisdom he had been searching for all these years.

He was dying without seeing how the gait of the dedicated cultist trembled, how her beautiful face contorted in bitterness, and how she wiped away the single tear that rolled down from her eyes and fell to the ground next to a drop of blood from a wound that had already healed.

She couldn't forgive.

Not herself.

* * *

"Stone Crusher!!!" Howls the iron fortress on short legs, what appears to an outsider to be a dwarf clad in full enchanted armor, bringing a hammer of glowing steel down on the head of an already wounded mid-rank devil, turning that head and half its torso into an unappetizing mass of separate and unidentifiable fragments.

The four dwarves walking beside him, also in armor with weapons, were happy to finish off a few cultists or even just brainwashed civilians, who, without the devil's support, were just meat for such warriors. Even a single dwarf in full equipment, especially if in the native mountains or a narrow isthmus, can stop a hundred attackers simply due to its armor and the enchantments put into it, without taking into account the skill of the dwarf.

And here were gathered not just dwarves, but almost elite (or even without "almost") bundle of small Kraz, i.e. the full five, used to operate in isolation from the monolithic formation of the Horde, in the streets and alleys of stormed cities. The Submountain people rarely went to war under the light of the Sun, but they had their specialists, and no one could afford to underestimate these specialists. The four men following the commander, hearing the shout of the chief, only smiled into the beards hidden by their muffled helmets and picked up an old and obscene (and the dwarves had no others) miner's song.

"Crushing mountain slope!!!!" The dwarves bellowed in four tinny throats as they charged into the crowd of madmen bearing down on them. They were too stunned by the effects of the fleur to realize they had no chance of success but still managed to fuck each other on the fly.

No one felt pity for the killing, in fact, of civilians. Peacekeepers don't go into stormtroopers, and they don't feel sorry for people enough to risk their beards. So they literally went through the crowd, leaving only mangled corpses and the maimed and dying screaming, either in pain or ecstasy. At the same time, they did not interrupt the cheerful shouts to the lyrics of an old song, taking full advantage of the title of commander, which allowed him to ignore the weak and weaken the strong influences on the mind when the minds of his and his subordinates were occupied with music, poems or songs.

"The tunnel crew!!!" A swing of the axe knocks the small devil out of invisibility, and a flash of runic chains turns it into a lump of quick-burning dust.

"Eats moonshine!!!" The companions pick up, throwing a small iron-rimmed explosive powder bomb each toward the squad of full-grown creatures.

The creatures against them were not quite as strong but far more dangerous than the ordinary freaks. But after a series of synchronized explosions, their defenses, if they had any at all, sagged to zero, and the five walking battle towers that burst into the broken formation mixed the survivors with the mud under their feet. They had to use the purification runes on the armor. The remains of devils are not just a slimy sludge but also the risk of getting into the head of obsessions or delayed curses. And, of course, don't forget the song.

"Elder Kuzgardzha is drunk as the pickaxe!!!!" Another squad of civilians who had fallen into the madness of Lust were not spared either, or, on the contrary, were spared and given a quick death without eternal torment and unnecessary suffering.

"He's sleeping in the crusher!!!" The rest of the group picks up, smiling even wider because the name of the "Elder" in each song is different, and, usually, the most annoying personalities are substituted there.

"Gwinley the Mechanic clutched the lever!!!!" The developed devil that fell from above attacked suddenly but only managed to deliver a powerful bolt of lightning and flame that scorched the commander's shoulder pads and slightly burnt his hair under his helmet, despite the runes woven into the braids, and left a scratch on his visor, but that was all.

"On a merciless rattler!!!" The rest of the group acted coherently and incredibly fast, especially for those who were used to thinking of dwarves in their iron garb as sluggish and clumsy.

Their people were not particularly famous for dexterity but every normal set of armors would have several strengthening and accelerating chains of runes, enchantments, or even external amulets, both permanent and short-term but more powerful. And in the hour of need, any dwarf could fly like a cave bat, sting like a mountain viper, and boom like a giant and a half. However, they could do the latter without magical help and without armor, too, even if some unskilled in the rules of good manners, mostly from those who grew up not in the mountains but under the sun, used charms to eradicate hangovers, instead of the traditional kvass or brine. In the glorious clan of the Fiery Pickaxe, they didn't declare them heretics or shave their beards. They weren't that traditionalist, but they were certainly looked down upon.

This attitude to the process of curing hangover was considered by many to be inexcusable and required public reprimand.

"Whoa, shorties!" The man who had captivated him reflexively tried to scratch his beard but once again bumped into the smooth surface of the mask. "Would that I lived like this, the way they booze! It's almost the end of the world here, and these beards are distracted by their flasks! Is that normal?"

Hector, in general, did not consider such an attitude normal either, despite his clear knowledge of the benefits dwarves received if they consumed properly made alcohol on time and on a regular basis. Predominantly ale, beer, and tinctures, less often brogue, mushroom liquor, and very rarely fire-dwarven water. The latter, of course, can also be alchemically enhanced, but in combat conditions, it is too heady to be used regularly.

Dwarves sell their famous beer and ale quite willingly, but to get the necessary benefits or even permanent status effects of a reinforcing type, such drinks must be drunk almost all one's life with enviable regularity, but at the same time, except for dwarves, such courses of reinforcement give a reduced output, and, on the contrary, require more effort. So it turns out that dwarven drinks are more often bought because they are tastier, not because of any prospects of accelerated development.

"Quite normal." The one who'd made Hector immediately hate the masked man. Half and half with an equally fierce horror. "They reinforce themselves in this way. And, at the same time, remove some influence of the fleur. A dwarf without beer and a dwarf with beer are two very different dwarves. Believe me, I've checked. Several times."

Mask glanced at the one who answered but remained silent as he continued to watch the dwarven battle star's progress through the farsight lens, unceremoniously taken from Hector. A devilishly beautiful naked deviless on ignore from an... Ally? A slave? A subordinate? A devil in disguise? In general, she didn't seem offended, continuing to lie perfectly still in Hector's arms, causing the Eyes agent, who couldn't move normally of his own free will, a primal terror.

His class, among other things, allowed him to assess the strength of others, and the strength of this particular devil suppressed any will to resist. He was genuinely surprised, even through all the horror, that he could still feel something other than servitude and lust when he was near her, but, judiciously considering the situation, he suspected it was some kind of sophisticated psychological torture.

"By the way, they're flying again!" The deviless remarked with a slight chuckle while releasing several captive souls from her gut, creating some sort of elaborate camouflage barrier, like a spherical mirror shimmering with multiple highlights, whose reflection shows the small house they occupied, only without their presence. "I'm covering."

"Yeah, I see." Mask agrees with her, rolling back under the shelter of the cracked but still-standing walls. "Your brothers and sisters are eating some shit."

The imposing and, beyond any doubt, pretentious peasant talk and vocabulary of the mask is not as disconcerting as the sight itself, from which both his captors and even the dwarves, who quickly finished singing their song on the eighth verse, are hiding. Right in the air, only a hundred meters above their heads, a huge iron box of golden-sandy color is passing in the glow of segmental shields and released battle charms. And from this box, which was shooting in all directions from a multitude of cannons, automatic lead shooters, battle wands, and even the devils do not know what else, reeked with such power that Hector, for a moment, forgot about the fear of the deviless who embraced him. He also regretted his inability to signal a passing machine, even at the cost of his own life, for even a fleeting blow from such a huge thing could send him to Eternity in the company of the creatures that had captured him.

The iron hulk, with hundreds of defenders and at least a full combat cleric from one of the Ascended Warrior's temples perched on its outer armor, was not just flying around. It was firing at the slowly reviving hulk of the giant mega golem, at the fighters of the main invasion squad falling out of the Eternity Zone, at devils and cultists that just happened to be spotted. And also on the well-coordinated trio of legendary creatures that were running around the fighting machine of the highest order on intricate trajectories, keeping at a respectful distance and trying, if not to destroy, then at least slow down this Chariot of Infinity, only in the gnomish way!

Their attacks had not been in vain. The armor of the vehicle was chipped and melted, and a couple of gun nests were silent, gaping with breaches or mangled guns. Oh, and the auxiliary forces entrenched in the armor were thinning out as well, as the outer shields were much easier to penetrate than those shields and armor. Hector was ready to swear that even though there was new damage on the armor from the last time that thing had flown over them, some of the old damage had disappeared, some of it had diminished considerably and, though it might have seemed like it, was healing before his eyes. And the legendary Hell spawns that had been there the first time it had flown over them were not three, but a full five, a battle star.

"Voice of Promise has failed to keep its promise to feast on a carpet of the First Prince's bones and semen." Apparently, he wasn't the only one to notice the decrease in the number of attacking creatures. "And there are few masters of passionate soaring even among the elite. We didn't expect such powerful soaring among the Eternal warriors. Usually, you know, we are the ones who prefer to dominate from above."

Hector inwardly agreed with the creature, even if he did not mean it. There were indeed many flying specimens of madcap viciousness among them, whereas among humans and other endowed ones, even those sworn to the elemental plane of the Wind, otherwise known as the Heights, were not always able to fly. Soaring, slowing the fall, even slowly ascending - that was fine, but true flight required not only a good reserve, perfect concentration, and perception, but also a good physical component. That is, if the flight was really worthy of being called such, because a fool hanging in the air was too easy to shoot down, especially if he spent all his energy on maintaining levitation.

However, Hector had no idea of such a type of support, and he had not even heard any hints of its existence. It would not be possible to keep such a thing in the capital without being noticed! He would have to spend a lot of gold and a crowd of skilled technicians just to maintain the mechanisms and compensate for the wear and tear on the parts. He knew how much it cost the dwarves to maintain each of the combat vehicles, so he was afraid to even imagine the amount of money spent on maintaining a vehicle like this. No, they couldn't maintain it in Eternal, which meant they'd managed to summon it by teleport. Some kind of artifact. For sure an artifact, expensive and unique, otherwise, not only dwarves could overcome the teleportation blockade.

"Shouldn't have promised," Man muttered, clearly squinting despite the mask on his face. "What the fuck are they doing?"

The flash almost burned out Hector's retinas... No, it had, but the deviless had healed him for some reason, so the agent immediately filled his pants with the stuff he usually preferred to fill the girls in the Rose Guild's establishments with. The restored eyes and embarrassment did not prevent him from listening to the conversation.

"That I don't know. Hit from the side of the machine." The creature asserted, mockingly stroking Hector's cheek, forcing him to repeat the embarrassing reaction of involuntary eruption. "Judging by the hue and imagery of my seers, a combination of some artifact from the gut of the machine and the prayers of the servants of god. Look closely. The iron has slowed and lowered. Although... Continuity of Fucking is out for good, and Mother Heart and Thirst for Ascension have lost almost all of their defensive souls... Oh, they dared to throw that coin on the scales of balance? So daring. And foolish. But who gave the order? Did they?"

The deviless gathered herself, once again paralyzing Hector completely, preventing him from blinking while keeping a close eye on what was happening. The colossal machine dropped down over the next block, almost blackening the roofs of the surrounding buildings, forcing the deviless to shuffle her collection with great speed, providing camouflage for their position. And to the temporarily - he hoped temporarily - lost part of the machine's power, another hovering construct was closing in.

This abomination flew slowly, very clumsily compared to the machine that was doing bird-like pirouettes. It was twice the size of its opponent, and its defense and firepower were not inferior. The huge soaring temple, as if torn out with the foundation and lifted into the air, was a thousand times worse than desecrated. Every meter of the previously white walls of the hundred-meter-diameter structure was covered with a carpet of continuously mating bodies that remained alive despite all the wounds, skinned, disemboweled organs, and hundreds of other disgusting things the creatures did to ordinary citizens. Hector didn't care about all the peasants, even if they died, but, Gods and Laws, not like that!

The temple's hulk opened the central gate, releasing a veritable river of fleur that reinforced the stationary sacrificial barriers around the soaring rock while moving towards the machine that had finally landed (and thus transferred free power to defense). In this stream, souls and intangible devils of not the lowest rank flicker in and out, directing and structuring the work of charms that could destroy a standard border fort and even the city that this fort covers with a single blow.

Right on top of the temple tower stood a dozen high-level devils oozing Lust and an equal number of cultists, maybe not as lustful, but very strong and dangerous. A huge northern barbarian stood out, covered with tattoos of Alishan whores instead of animal markings and completely naked, except for a strange woolen hat-helmet (Hector couldn't blink, but paralysis didn't prevent him from enhancing his vision with magic). The two axes in his hands were artifacts, the value of which was hardly limited by epic rank.

"We have to help." Hector's musings are interrupted by the mask's feeble comment. "They'll kill them."

In Professional Agent Eyes' opinion, the mask was worried for absolutely nothing. So far, the cult and its masters absolutely dominated the battlefield, and when their tribe's odious technique, the infamous River of Souls, completed its formation, nothing would save the machine and its crew. The temple not only used the River but also beat dozens of battle charms, a continuous stream, and seven or eight blows to the machine's shields per heartbeat. Those simply could not prevent the creatures, and then two surviving Legends took cover behind the temple and began to prepare something large-scale, but now also subtle, hidden behind the energy background of the main attack.

"You are not the one I obey." Without threat, but very weighty, the creature said, looking straight into the cultist's mask. "And you can't order me around."

"You think Tin would have done things differently, hottie?" Skeptically, even mockingly, which makes one wonder about the cultist's status since he's ordering this, the mask gives out. "I've known him longer."

What is the Tin?

Din?

In?

Nin?

Who?

Someone.

No one.

"If you wished to leave this piece of meat breathing, at least spare his ears from unnecessary words." With far more confidence declares the devil that has warped his memory, unhappy with the orders of either an ally or still a superior, but definitely not a subordinate. "I need backup."

Hector really wanted to understand from whom it should be covered if all the clerics on board the war machine were frantically praying the defense, and the iron itself stopped firing, having completely gone into anti-siege mode. But he couldn't ask because he was as motionless as a girl doll, and even if he could ask, he wouldn't say anything because he was so scared. Mask, meanwhile, pulled out a shiny, polished metal sphere from under his cloak, clutching it tightly in his hands. With a muffled and hoarse exhalation under his disguise, the mask raises the orb to the level of his face, gazing into its very depths as if looking there for answers to all the questions of the world...

The world shuddered.

The deviless embracing him disappears, appearing next to two Legends, one of which tries to reflexively break the distance but seems to fly on the spot despite the great speed of maneuvers. Hector, thanks to a successfully turned head, even though it is motionless, distinguishes something gray, thin, and fast, after which one Legend is covered by a dozen glowing ghostly silhouettes of some snake-men, and the second one... Attacks the first one?

The deviless finds herself caged in a cage of glowing chains but somehow shifts a couple of meters to the side along with the shackles, and one of the Legends covers her from the second blow. Another flicker of gray, and almost reaching the body of the deviless, the second Legend freezes, stopping the inky-black limbs embodying the Darkness itself within a hair's breadth of its target. The limbs of the paralyzed creature twitch, all nine except two, which are almost to the target and, therefore, immobile. The first Legend, for some reason aiding the deviless, in one sharp movement rips the concentration of souls out of the torso of her comrade, simultaneously putting up an extremely strong barrier that stops some tentative fire from the temple side and gives this bunch to the deviless.

What?

The.

Fuck?

A quiet but heartfelt swearing of the mask, and then his captor was at his side again, clutching a clump of tantalizingly thick golden drops, already processed and ready to be used by the souls. Meanwhile, the second Legend teleports directly to the temple and... self-destructs, blowing up itself and a piece of the temple. Hector felt extremely uncomfortable with the realization of his complete, even more absolute than before, lack of understanding of the situation.

"This one. And this one." Passionately, almost obsessively whispers the deviless, going over her nightmarish trophy. "And this one, I've been wanting to beg for fifty years. And then there are those witch triplets. Their bond will yield much. And here's another one, the perfect host for the backup choir of the seers as they beckoned me. I couldn't have corrupted it better. Hmm, and this one he cursed before his death with this one, slyly. If it weren't for the gifts I would never have recognized it. Sadly, I've never been trusted with strong priests."

Hector didn't see any further fighting because the deviless, who looked at him sharply and disapprovingly, sent him to the land of dreams. Very wet dreams, from which he did not come out until the very moment when the corrupted temple fired a volley at a suspicious structure, to which some sensors reacted strangely and where, most likely, the incomprehensible but very cunning saboteurs had gone. The agent died without regaining consciousness, but there was nobody else in the abandoned structure except him.

* * *

In their hurried attempts to somehow respond to the invasion of devils, especially if the traitors from the camp of their servants have already infiltrated the territory of your department, desperate humans and nonhumans often begin to do things they would normally hesitate to do. They'll punch a tentmaker who's more annoying than a woodpecker. They will confess their love to a stern lady in charge or even to the boss. They will decisively unpack a stash of collectible dwarven water and spit it out in a volley before blowing themselves up with amulets of the Last Breath. There are even too many options, while there is little time to choose something less risky and ill-considered.

In the case of Gregor the Snail, nicknamed so for his honorary title of the fastest master of the One-Strike Technique among the inhabitants of the Empire of Ages, with which he had repeatedly surprised even the strongest Samurai from distant Island Principalities, everything turned out to be even more interesting. He happened to be on duty today at one of the activation systems of the capital's strongest defense artifacts. Such trinkets are activated only when swarms of legendary creatures fly over the city, huge monsters roam the streets, and the storerooms of the Dwarven Embassy run out of beer. In general, in situations like this, like right now and today.

Gregor was a man who had been beaten by life, and he realized that he was already dead even before the head of his mistress, who had nearly torn his throat in her last attack, fell to the black stone of the floor. Shouts and groans could be heard on all sides, the defense was rapidly turning into an orgy, and there was no defense, for they had been crushed almost without a fight. The venerable Blade Master sighed, regretted the unread book of his favorite writer, then strengthened himself with all the techniques he knew and, in a rapid dash, broke through to the central control center.

Even if he didn't manage to attack any of the main groups of creatures, he could at least discharge the artifacts and prevent them from being used against the defenders. Yes, his position was nowhere near as important as the same top-level backup attack formation located in the Palace, but he also had enough special amulets that a single press would activate the artifact complexes in their battle positions. How the creatures had managed to open up a formation so quickly and cleanly in the heart of the Eye's central ward, stuffing more than a third of the main contingent with traitors, was a matter for those who would be picking up the pieces of his, Gregor's, flesh.

No longer trying to clutch his palm to his punctured side and torn lung, he allowed himself to close his eyes at the sound of armored doors being broken open. They had the keys to all the defenses, but they were useless if Gregor had just put all the magic into siege mode. No key could open them, only break them. This directive had been developed especially for such a case, but no one believed it would have to be used. So the enemy would be here, in almost the most protected place. If it came to that, there would probably be nothing to save. And so it came to that.

Gregor died with a slightly ironic smile on his lips, having managed to activate some of the systems in random parts of the city, using only minimal effort to make sure they went to enemy concentrations or points of their rituals. Many more artifacts he had simply rendered temporarily unusable - such trophies could not be retrieved or stolen quickly, and if they at least could not be used against the Empire, then he had not died in vain. Alas, but dying, Gregor did not see how all five activated artifacts caused almost no damage to the enemy. Only one wave of deadly magic was able to cover one of the cult's positions, interrupting the ritual and the lives of the cultists.

The Great Blacksmith's Furnace releases the heat gathered inside it but does not create any flames. However, the world itself catches fire as a result of such an effect. The wave of hot wind boiled all the cultists and even some of the creatures, despite their energetic nature. The attack was almost entirely physical, but it was fast, square, and truly legendarily strong, knocking out all life, including the ritualists. Even if some of the creatures, the strongest and most combat-ready, didn't hurt, the conjuration ritual at this point was cut off with a guarantee.

Sovereign was not pleased.

One of Gregor's death blows that had been swept aside hit a mirror that appeared in mid-air at a height of several hundred meters. Falling from an even greater height (the spatial fold with the artifact was only slightly below the cut-off dome that covered the city), a stream of the brightest Light that took the form of a titanic spear passed through the mirror without even slowing down but fractured like ordinary light that passed through a prism.

Instead of the ritual point, the blow came to some abandoned wasteland, strangely unoccupied by any buildings, though it was quite close to the center of Eternal. Rumors whispered that no one lived in this place because it was hard to stay here for more than a couple of hours, as if your soul began to cry, falling into depression. After a few dozen suicides among those who tried to build a dwelling on no man's land, as well as a few hundred taken away freebie lovers by the silent guards or even the Eyes, those willing to do so ran out, so another abandoned place with a justifiably bad reputation appeared in Eternal.

That's where the spear hit.

It struck, punching a hole, not particularly large but astonishingly deep in the viscous, corrupted, and seemingly dying earth, where even the weeds grew reluctantly, forcefully, trying to dry up as soon as possible. And through this pit, to its very bottom, came the purple glow of an abnormal sky. There, several hundred elbows deep, amid a dungeon of stone where no source of light had ever been, there was a quiet chinking of chains as the prisoner of this dungeon moved for the first time in centuries. The prisoner was forgotten by all, cursed in life, and denied the right to die. The prisoner had not tried to leave this place, had not tried to break the power of the forbidding charms on his dungeon. He saw no need, no use, or at least no desire to do so. But when a lone ray of irregular light reached his cell, an echo of the madness at the top, a sad smile touched the dry and cracked lips of the terribly thin old man as if he were in the last stages of exhaustion.

Silently, amazingly easily, as if he hadn't been sitting in complete immobility all these centuries, the old man stood up to his full height, heading for the opening left by the blow of charms. The repellent signs, barriers, and obstacles had withered in time, and their nature was such that they were destroyed in the presence of any source of light, which was why the old man had been sealed so deep, dark, and alone.

Forgotten.

Lost.

Unforgiven.

He slowly and leisurely began his ascent up the man-made shaft melted by the extinguished spear, and the chains that bound his figure followed him, guided by his will like the innumerable tentacles of a nightmarish octopus. The chains were not put on him by those who had sealed the old man here; they were put on him by himself.

And maybe today, he'll finally be able to get them off.

* * *

The rules of good manners compel a charming and gallant man, if he considers himself gallant and charming, to show good manners to women. Doubly compelled if these women are so dazzlingly beautiful that one involuntarily checks himself for the illusion or effect of a seductress. Threefold forced if this woman has just blown apart with a shot of artifact lead-shooter the evil head of a very dangerous creature, which almost ate you and your soul, having previously impaled you, gallant and charming, on two huge phalluses, each as big as your foot.

Honestly, this abomination was practically invulnerable to his class skills, thanks to a well-chosen collection of souls scattered what replaced his semi-transparent body and brains. He was ready to burst into tears of relief and marry his savior without going left for at least three years. Taking into account the appearance of the savior, then even three and a half, but on this account, Pierre was not so sure. Still, he knew well his amorous nature, charisma, and easy, the easiest to say, indiscriminateness in the choice of partners for the most pleasant entertainment in the world. Well, he was calculating he would not become manly powerless after today, and all the spectacles had fallen on his tired soul.

"I am extremely grateful for your help, lovely lady, and I am ready to earn your highest approval in every possible way in my attempts to return some of the debt of life at any convenient moment for you." Speaking to women, the main thing is to choose the right set of compliments and tactics to make them interested in you instead of sending you away. But now, there was no time for detailed analysis anyway. There were enough other problems. "I dare suggest an immediate retreat to the larger temples, but not to the Alcoves of Aiza, for I have just come from there, and I can assure you that it is no longer the Exalted Warrior who is being served there, but other masters. For the rest, let me..."

Boom!

The projectile, which passed a couple of fingers from his temple, did not damage anything except the already almost collapsed wall of someone's house and his pride because he squealed not at all delicately and not even gallantly.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" His savior demanded with an inexpressible intonation, more suited to a street thug than to such a lovely woman. "Answer me. Briefly."

"Pierre Dakki, also nicknamed the Arsonist by his fellow guildmates, adventurer, twenty-third level of elevation, Ice Swordsman, epic.... elemental focus." If you're talking to the owner of a lead shooter pointed in your face, there's no room for gallantry, but brevity and clarity, on the contrary, are extremely important. "After the mass teleport, I was torn out of the line of guards and visitors defending the Holy Dice gambling house, transported to the previously named alcove, and then, when I watched from a distance. It became clear to me the temple had fallen before the battle began. I went in the direction of one of the First Temples. Caught on a creature I was uncomfortable with. I was saved. By you."

Judging by the slightly softened expression on her face, she wouldn't kill him to silence the source of the noise, but the likelihood of such an outcome was still unpleasantly high. Well done, Pierre, you know how to make an impression. Just like in Gorkamorka, when you were searched for three days by your team to quarter you on the orders of the burgomaster. And the mayor sent his men to look for you. And the guards. And the townspeople. And the thieving scum. And all worked not for reward but out of a sincere desire to help each other in a difficult task. It is said that after his visit, almost all conflicts in Gorkamorka were extinguished, and several alliances between the previously irreconcilable city factions were made.

"What's the Arsonist for if the class is icy?" His question, or rather the fact that it was the first one asked, confused Pierre's savior but did not knock him out of his rut, thanks to the regular repetition of this question from the lips of almost every person he knew.

"I once drunkenly burned the provisions of an army besieging a city." Honestly and without concealment, only very briefly, so as not to have to lie and conceal, the swordsman replies. "Lucky that time, the stockpile belonged to a horde of green-skinned men instead of the imperial army."

"That time?" The beauty was instantly wary, squinting her surprisingly clear and bright eyes, and not everyone was so quick to cling to that caveat.

"Well, I'm often drunk." Pierre continued reluctantly, regretting that he'd given her his nickname. "And there isn't always an enemy army around."

The further exchange of pleasantries was interrupted in the most insolent and tactless way when the wall far from his savior was shattered with stone crumbs. In the cloud of these crumbs, some suspicious-looking man in artifact armor, with a brutal face, and with the head and a piece of some devil's sternum in his hands, appeared. A moment later, these remains crumbled with gray dust, like the dust that covered the big man (two heads taller than Pierre) with the second layer of invisible armor, and the new face at their feast began to get up leisurely, shaking off and as if checking the integrity of the bones. The latter was quite a normal reaction for someone who had just broken through several walls - the sixth son of Dakka's house saw a colorful landscape in the form of a man-made (leg-, back-, and head-made too) alleyway, which appeared as a result of the mentioned flight.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

He was about to introduce himself, simply because it was useful to be polite to a man whose armor was worth more than the entire House of Dakka, with all its population and coat of arms (especially if those armors were staring at you with the seemingly lifelike faces of scary old men), even if the face of the owner of those armors was a brigand's face. Especially if the face of the wearer of the armor is a brigand's face! Alas, her unwilling partner was the first to pay her respects, tossing aside a sharp shard of tile caught in her pretty face, probably thrown at her reflexively by the thug who felt threatened by the equally reflexively aimed lead-shooter.

"Hi, what the fuck?" It turns out that she was still very polite to Pierre. Definitely, he won her stern heart with his beautiful appearance.

"Hi... Okay, wait, what the fuck?" The man who had lost his train of thought looked at them both with an attentive gaze, fixing it on the lead shooter held in a fighting position as if by accident, muttered something like "not my concern," turned in the direction from which he had come and where the heated battle was still going on, and simply crumbled to the stone of the sidewalk in a pile of gray dust that disappeared a moment later.

"You say we need to make our way to the temple." As if nothing had happened, the girl inquired, tying a rag balaclava over her face, and, waiting for his nod, continued. "Well, then, let's go to the temple. And yes, you, as a melee fighter, go first."

"All for your beautiful eyes." Pierre brightened, considerably relieved when he realized he would have at least one combat lead shooter in the graceful fingers of a woman. "Except, I beg your pardon, I don't know where the nearest temple is around here. I rarely visit Eternal, and I've only had time to study the locations of the brothels."

Not at all embarrassed by the mention of such unworthy places for a lady, his partner only raised her eyebrow in surprise and asked another unexpected (somehow she manages to surprise him too easily, it's not for nothing - love, definitely and, of course, mutual) question:

"How do you know the name of that temple you ran away from?" The suspicion in her voice was absent, his intuition silent, but something told Pierre that if he answered wrong, he wouldn't have time to blink.

"Well, there was a brothel across the street." The swordsman said, shuffling his feet innocently (it sometimes worked with commanders, especially if they had tits). "The temple of the patron saint of warriors, and they respect such places. And attending the service of the Ascended Warrior, if you live from the blade, raises the manhood.... so I've been told.

He blinked.

She blinked.

"Then let's go that way." She pointed her finger to the northwest, immediately switching to an easy run, jumping onto the most intact roof of the remaining ones.

Pierre was very glad that he was developing the attribute of dexterity by the method of Spring Vine because if he had distributed them according to the pattern of Iron Blood, and simply would not have kept up with this beauty, deprived of the opportunity to observe her appetizing ass in tight pants (oh, these asses of adventurers and these pants, gods bless the one who introduced such a form of dress among the warriors of the Guild). That's why he didn't immediately remember that he wanted to ask a question:

"What temple is that way?" Not losing his breath at this pace, which his partner, despite her shooting class, kept up with disgustingly easily, was difficult, but he managed. "The one we're going to?"

"I have no idea." She admitted with a note of amusement, slowing her run slightly so he wouldn't cough out his insides from overexertion. "I don't know Eternal either, and you already know where to find the brothels."

Oh.

Oh!

Now he's sure they're going to be friends.

* * *

For a moment, the events of the battle merged for Varaa into a chain of separate frames, fragmented images, and barely discernible memories. Whether his amulets had malfunctioned, or the benefics had failed to keep track of the imposed blessings, or whether the tension of the last few hours had simply worn the young warrior down, but the not the weakest swordsman and guardian, who had passed a quarter of a hundred steps, simply drifted and acted more by inertia than sensibly. The reflexes carefully hammered in by his mentors saved him where brains could only destroy him. It would seem he had never been a coward. He always behaved calmly in a combat situation, but, as they say, a warrior learns himself only in a real battle. The past conflicts, apparently, were not real enough, which was logical. It would be difficult to come up with a larger-scale massacre than what today had turned out to be.

It was sometime after the third assault when not only the cultists and standard creatures but also some amazingly vile possessed children were recruited from the nearest orphanages and workhouses and then used as vessels for the relatively weak but very nasty creatures. Brittle, dull, and underpowered, they burst audibly when they were struck, drenching their killers not with the usual mixture of rot and golden honey but with a concentrated fleur of alchemical additives that ate through armor, shields, and, apparently, even souls.

Varaa managed to throw off his rapidly rusting and disintegrating breastplate and gauntlets, but after the guardian's mind drifted, drifting away as if he'd taken too many anesthetic potions. In such a state, and even against the Devils, the man had no chance, but somehow, he was lucky to survive. Perhaps Fortuna had kissed him and made him the new favorite for the next twenty-four hours because the warrior had no other ideas. The scattered frames of memories, when he was able to realize them properly, would have made him gray if he hadn't been shaved bald, according to the tradition of his military school.

Live bombs explosion.

A broken formation, disintegrating into separate groups or even loners under the relentless attacks of creatures, cultists, and unfortunate, distraught townspeople. Above, hundreds of small lights swirl in a sinister and alluring dance, almost harmless on their own but controlled by someone skilled and careful to stay away from foreign blades and magic. The screams, moans, and cries of the dying and affected merge into a brain-wrenching symphony as some of the mages give the order to strike with area attacks, not caring about preserving the lives of allies caught in the attack.

Stikes os ice and lightning.

The old tenth man, so-called by all of them Ten, is blown to pieces when he, already agonizing and with his throat cut, is covered by a stream of dancing snowflakes. Varaa shouts something, both threatening and ridiculously funny, which immediately makes him laugh. His hands seem to go stiff, and then they seem to be guided by someone else's hand. Whether it was the effect of one of the imposed boons or something else, the dazed guy easily takes down two axe-wielding cultists with one blow each, covers himself with their dying bodies, and when those bodies turn to smoke and roasted mincemeat from the impact of a creature that got too close, he kills it as well, shoving five amulet-detonators into the wide-open maw on its chest.

The scream of an arrow-caught adventuress from some squad joining the defense of the small magistrate of the eastern quarters, and he tries to save her, but a second arrow pierces her skull, silencing her scream. The third arrow he misses within a finger of his face, frozen in place, obeying some whispered truth, pure and unimaginably distant, distant as... Another fleeting movement against his own will, and the impact of the dead adventuress, with the worm-like roots of the arrows growing inside her, passes behind Varaa's back as he thrusts himself to meet her, smearing her body with a mighty blow like a rotten eggplant.

An explosion underfoot.

He begins to roll in advance as if catching a glimpse of the coming trouble, a subtle hint, like a starry canvas in the reflection of a clear temple pond, leaping straight into the jaws of the creatures coming at him. There are at least a dozen of them, surrounded by a good hundred small soul-fires, and within that cloud lurks the one who controls the little thing. The counter-strike of the fleur paralyzes him and makes him fall to his knees, not getting up from the ground after a roll, but a moment later, the ground explodes behind him, exploding with pure Sun. Some of the geomancers managed to deliver a bunch of explosive amulets on the same planar energy right under the feet of the creatures that were killing the first rows of defenders. Someone had sacrificed them all, but there was no time for hard feelings. The small devils holding him back were destroyed, but their magic, their bodies, protected Varaa, allowing him to be right in front of the creatures, still shocked by the sudden trap, right in front of the puppeteer and his retinue of creatures that were strong only at a distance.

The remnants of the wooden barrels and carts that had been emptied into the barricade an hour earlier explode under Varaa's footsteps, turning to dust and acid, but he seems to fall asleep for a moment as if he were being overpowered, forced to step directly into the cloud of death. But the poison does not touch him, and the warrior somehow manages to calculate the moment of inhalation and exhalation, so he flashes through the death zone, coming out in front of the puppeteer without letting the contagion into his breath. There is laughter and joy in his eyes, but Varaa somehow sees himself in them surrounded by barely discernible whitish lights, as if it were indeed a starry sky, and then, the corpse reaches its target, shattering the enemy formation.

Hit!

Twist!

Hit!

Obeying a vague whisper, he puts all available reserve into the next few seconds of frantic rushing. His classes are not designed for powerful displays of magic, but he has his skills. They are all utilized and laid out on the gaming table without regard for health damage, cost, or the need for pauses between uses. Varaa is on his knees, coughing up blood, feeling life itself pouring into his mangled body when his rescue is picked up by one of the healers. One of the stronger healers since he can work from a distance, pulling a life channel from as far away as the third row of defenders.

All around lay decaying and rotting remains of creatures, including the decapitated puppeteer. Even the cultists are rotting, though they shouldn't be. He still has time to think of some clever trick when a new group of the enemy approaches, and Varaa realizes they should have struck under slightly different circumstances, taking out the defenses and making their way straight to the mages, taking away the ability to hold the magistrate, kept under his stationary protection and blessings.

It was as if a catapult shell, which turned out to be a black-skinned warrior dressed only in animal skins and barbarian amulets, and from her huge figure, which would give a head start to any blacksmith in terms of external manifestations of power, arrows, blades and charms simply bounce away, while she, who almost does not think about defense, is enough to radically reduce the number of attackers with a single blow of a shining magic pincer. Varaa lets himself admire her movements for a second, explaining the sudden attraction by the fleur caught in his face, rising to his feet and grabbing his chanter, rushing back into the fray.

Counterstrike.

Humans and creatures clash again, but now it is the endowed ones who have the upper hand, for the black-skinned maiden is not the only one but only the first swallow of the reinforcements. And it is not the worst reinforcement because among the defenders this savage can be compared with only Senior Mentor Broborych, and that is due to experience and skill, not sheer strength and level. Her equipment, though primitive and crude, is enchanted to the hilt, forcing most of the enemy's enchantments to go around her figure without giving her a chance to break against the impenetrable skin of the color of night.

The more surprised and offended Varaa is when the girl is blown away by a counter-strike from a werewolf mutated by Hell's many cursed gifts, who manages to knock her to the ground, knock her weapon out of her hands, and begin to torture her defenseless body, ignoring the bone-breaking blows of her fists. An ally who has emerged behind the werewolf's back, also a newcomer who works better than any swordsman, bleeding everyone around him with two short darts with long, wavy blades. He, not paying any attention to his partner's position, simply passes by, continuing his attack, leaving the maiden who saved Varaa's life to her fate.

With a frenzied shriek, he reverses the direction of his jerk and is at his savior's side, at the same time hurting the werewolf's spine with the chaser and crushing the bones of all those who tried to help the dog to finish him off. Faces, faces, faces - they merged into one angry face, one enemy face, which Varaa beat and beat until the chaser was knocked out of his hand by the blade of a strange dart that struck with the flat side of the blade, drying up his hand and taking him out of his fighting rage.

"Calm down, hero." Kind of mocking but with a touch of sincere respect and politeness uncharacteristic for the madness of battle. From someone with the Guild's "gem" team badges it sounds like praise. "They're over. Well, they've run out here, but there are more of them all over Eternal than cockroaches in a bad inn."

"Calm down?" In his current state, Varaa would be ready to say anything he thought, even to the Emperor himself. Not even care of the hundred percent guarantee that he would be killed if he said anything rash or even before he could say it. "Were you also calm when you left your companion to be mauled by a werewolf without even thinking of helping her? When she was mauled, did you calm down a lot?"

Instead of an instant response of steel for insulting one who could be equaled by personal strength to another garrison, he was met not with snooty indignation mixed with squeamish contempt but with a slight surprise that turned to understand, followed by a homeric laughter. The laughter came not only from the sides of the reinforcements but also from behind Varaa's back, and the laughter was coarse but female. Turning on his heels, Varaa sees the female warrior rising to her feet, adjusting the restored clothing on her uninjured, chiseled body before his eyes. Blushing a little, the lad turns back around even faster than before, having time to see the nakedness of the daughter of the savannahs as a result of the damage to the said clothes.

"Ooh, that's hilarious, lad." His interlocutor, in no hurry to show his physical superiority, wipes away a tear that has come to his eyes, barely squeezing out the following words. "Have you ever tried chewing on a Goodron? She's a Juggernaut on her fortieth step of the eternal ladder, not an aristocratic flower girl. This bag of fleas had no chance to scratch her, and if she turned the fight into an exchange of blows, she wouldn't let him out of her arms. Whereas even I would have had trouble with a regenerator that fast and resilient."

Ups.

Varaa suddenly realized that he had made a fool of himself, and the only thing that saved him was the understanding and human attitude of the commander of the gem-ranked team, who didn't take offense. Well, also the purity of speech because Ten hated swear words. He was cursed by some Malefic in the early years of service so that the swearing made his stomach weak. He accustomed all his subordinates to watch their words like a purse at the market. If Varaa had used profanity, his tongue would have been shortened, simply out of a need to maintain the reputation and face.

"He couldn't scratch me. Although, he tried to mess with my head." The maiden who came out from behind him clapped Varaa on the shoulder, nearly causing him to fall and seemingly pressing his boots into the ground a couple of toes. "But you're good, lad, just like a honey-eater's cub! Even I didn't jump on a line of creatures with one snout when I was young. By the way, if you were staring at me, licking, not because of the fleur, after this mess, we'll find each other, you miserable savior."

Against his will, Varaa remembered the sight of her naked body and felt his bald spot blush.

"Ritar, we have a problem!" The conversation, during which Varaa was taking on more and more shades of red to the laughter of the beautiful Goodron's companions, was interrupted by the shriek of another of the reinforcement fighters that ran towards their group, accompanied by one of the guards' interrogators, sort of vaguely familiar to him. "Big fucking problem."

Varaa, who had never been driven away and who was glad to be in the center of the group of elite adventurers, both for safety reasons and to be able to admire Goodron's unashamed gaze for a while longer, listened to the conversation within walking distance. It was a typical mess after a bloody battle, with healers scurrying about, benefics removing the effects of the fleur on those who could no longer think straight, and the team of elite adventurers seemingly oblivious to what was going on, acting as if they were on a routine safety patrol.

The attitude was a little confusing, but the experience of the last few hours had numbed the wonder, so Varaa also took everything for granted. At the same time, he listened to the disturbing news, and for a change, so disturbing that even the adventurers were disturbed, which made them run, and Goodron just grabbed him by the shoulder, bending his already battered armor, and dragged him after them, seemingly just by reflex. There was a lot to get excited about. The group of interrogators had had a hard time dissecting the brains of the highest-ranking of the few captives, nearly killing him several times in the process because he had some kind of mind-blowing talent, and finally burning his brains to the point where they were leaking out of the cultist's ears despite his regeneration.

They interrogated, literally tearing out not words but images of the truths floating around in his head. Varaa knew that such things, even for strong Interrogators, were not so easy, but now it was not to save energy, and there was no use of such staffs in direct combat anyway. After the interrogation, they sharply forgot about the fatigue, starting to sound the alarm, albeit not a general one yet, so as not to raise panic and confuse possible observers. It turned out that all those creatures and traitors of the human race that they had killed earlier were only a distraction, meat for the blades of the protecting magistrate, which should only distract and disperse the forces. To delay the arrival of help and the strong fighters in it, to expose them to a second blow.

An ambush group of creatures, possessed and cultists were coming through the tunnels of the catacombs (which under this section of the city were thought to be tightly sealed) to strike directly at the moment of greatest weakness. Few in number but every bit as strong. There were only about a hundred of them, but given their power and the number of other meat in the main attacking formation, they had every chance of success. Especially if the first blow was to take the gemstone team out of the game by restraining or killing them and only then to take on the more numerous but already exhausted enemy, the hunted prey.

"You'll have to see for yourself, elder, because I don't understand anything." The team had a pure-blooded halfling for a tracker and lurker, who had scouted the catacombs, finding a wide tunnel that had suddenly appeared (as if under the influence of a spatial artifact, like the one that had nearly shattered the Magistrate's line of defenders when it had stirred up everyone in the Eternal with no special protection), leading directly beneath their position. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Varaa, as one of the second-class wielders, was also involved in trying to counter-attack the creatures that had faltered. Of course, everyone was wary of deception and ambush, so they were much more prepared to retreat, collapsing the tunnels, including the newly formed. They moved forward cautiously, exhaling steam and brushing aside the wisps of condensed mist created by the temperature difference between outside and underground. They were ready to kill or die. Though Varaa, realizing he'd picked all the stores of luck for several lives ahead, leaned more towards the latter. They were preparing to fulfill a duty, if not official, then simply human.

They didn't have to because there was no ambush.

Devils, though, too.

There was only a rather large, perfectly circular hall where the devils prepared to strike, made the necessary sacrifices, held the necessary reinforcing orgies, performed the necessary masking rituals, and did other sinister things. They had been here, but now they were gone. However, there were traces of their presence, of those rituals and sacrifices, and of the battle that had taken place. But they were strange traces as if they were very, very old, almost faded, but still fresh, not even an hour old.

"Here, here, Patron, look!" A small but very formidable halfling scurried around, poking his fingers here and there. "You see the cut and the runes on it?"

The slit was hard not to see. The huge line of incision stretching along the entire wall of the ambush hall was the most striking trace of the battle. There were too few traces. As if the battle had only just begun, and then it was over or had been carried away with the fighters. And, if one looked closely at the invisible blade, there were indeed chains of sickening marks burned on the inside of the cut, more like lewd drawings than noble runes.

"These chains are, of course, distorted and corrupted, but it's still an overlapping chain and power pattern." The halfling continued, showing considerable erudition. "You know, Elder, I'm not a mage, but I'm into it. So I can speak with certainty. That blow couldn't have left this scratch because if it had been unleashed, it would have broken through a dozen of these walls and out of the catacombs. With such rune energy blades, the walls of fortresses can be opened like uncorking a flask of wine! You could cut a magic tower down to the ground with it! It was definitely a proper blade, not a blade that went nowhere because of loss of spell control. It just, uh. Well, it's kind of been drained of all its power. And I'll give my fifth uncle's teeth that this thing ate up not only those enchantments but everything and everyone here in general."

While Varaa was quietly trying to understand what was being said because he was not an elite adventurer of the gem rank to understand such delicate matters, the adventurers quickly understood everything and began discussing options and making assumptions. What or who could have done all this under their noses, in what way they did it, and where were those who had taken the crowd of evil devils?

"There may very well be a lot of negation alchemical bombs that are extremely effective in an enclosed space..... but then it's not clear where the bodies are. But still, let's say. That makes three options. Alchemy, magic eaters, or wielders of similar classes backed by powerful benefics. Or--"

"Da fog, Manus!" The beautiful Goodron interrupted the squad mage (he, as extremely fragile and vulnerable in close combat, was brought forward only after the halfling had found no danger), who looked like an antique rather than a warlock. "Mist has been poured into this place, and the garbage has been fuckin' tossed into it. We've seen bits of fog all along the way, so what's to think about?"

"And that, Goodron, that there are no mages of this orientation of such power in the Eternal!" The wizard shrieked, though the girl was not holding back much either. Both of them did not pay much attention to the angry words. "And it's certainly not clear why they didn't get in touch with us since they decided to help!"

"Open your mind, old man!" Varaa thought the warrior wanted to slap the mage but changed her mind, either for fear of breaking his spine or for fear of turning into a pile of ashes. "We're in the catacombs, the city is fucked up, and these tunnels are hiding all sorts of things! These fucking smart asses must have something escaped amid the invasion, or they may have sicced it on the devils themselves! And while we're up here jerking off, there's a massacre going on up there for the city. And whatever dragged those assholes into the mist might come back."

Moment of silence.

"I admit my mistake. I apologize." The mage bows his head slightly, maintaining a formal tone despite the completely informal setting. "It's been too busy a day. Yours, Goodron, is the most viable option, and we really should get out of here and try to get to the aid of the other group besieged by the devils. I can only ask, as someone who has fought the Mist more than any of us. How strong do you think this thing was?"

"How strong?" Goodron interjected, once again scooping Varaa up under her arm and dragging him behind her towards the surface exit. "Fucking strong."

* * *

When it comes to the strongest Dynasties of the Empire, the first thing that comes to mind is, of course, the Eternals, who rule the Empire. No one will argue with their power, as well as with their antiquity, because their family roots are so deep that no clear information on those times can be found outside of large archival funds. But few people know that the Eternals, despite their ruling position in society, are not the oldest House in the glorious Empire of the Ages, occupying an honorable third place. The second position is occupied by a small and almost extinct family of mountain princes, which is not distinguished by anything special except its antiquity. They used to be known as good mechanics, but with the beginning of a fruitful policy of rapprochement between the Imperials and the dwarves, their positions began to fall inexorably but not very rapidly. Proud princes did not want to cooperate with the whole coalition of imperial mechanists, which created a pole of opposition to the dwarven monopoly, remaining on the sidelines of any major policy.

But the oldest, and by a large margin, was the clan that rightfully occupied the second position in the ranking of the most influential houses of the Empire of Ages and the first, if we talk about the most fabulously rich. The Ezless clan had for centuries supplied the Emperors with the best Financiers, Merchants, Economists, and Court Treasurers in the state and perhaps in the world as well. The degree of power, influence, and opportunities of the family in their best years exceeded those of the Eternals themselves (who were usually in a slight decline in those very years), so all sorts of hints from vassals or unreliable families were obscenely numerous.

If they had wished, they could have tried to put the Crown of Power on their representative's forehead, but instead, they were careful to honor a pact signed long ago and sealed in blood. The Ezless were well aware of their position, its advantages, and weaknesses. They could have tried to take power, even with a good chance of success, but it would have been much worse to hold on to the power they had gained from the rebellion. The problem was not even in the lack of personal power. In the ability to provide themselves with loyal debtors and mercenaries living on their gold, the clan was unrivaled. Their weakness as rulers lay in their strength as treasurers.

Where the Emperor felt himself one with the whole Empire, felt every town, village, garrison, every domain of every landlord, knowing how to recognize what was felt and influence it within certain limits, the Ezless put all their will into something else. They could sense the financial flows, the golden rivers that filled the veins of Imperial commerce, and they were able to track and detect on the fly any financial fraud, fraudulent schemes, or attempts to evade taxes. This is characteristic of all treasurers, manifesting itself in every one of them who achieves any significant success in their chosen path. Therefore, the percentage of rebellions that shift the dynasty of rulers in favor of treasurers is relatively few, even few, very few.

Many houses in the world have chosen to look after the treasury and multiply public money, and not just public money and not just multiply it. Even now, the Ezless family has at least three specialists whose development has enhanced the skills and abilities designed for financial warfare and the bankruptcy of disapproved individuals, so it is foolish to think that no one else has the same trained and experienced fighters of the golden front. Alishan has its treasurers, albeit three rival families, but they are successfully fighting an economic war with the Empire of the Ages, curtailing the ambitions of the Ezless and fighting amongst themselves.

No.

The best of the best of the most ancient of houses did not have the "standard" advantages of any high-level Treasurer, which is based on Clan and House. There are enough of them in every Duchy, Principality, Kingdom, or even in individual Guilds. The main trump card of the Ezless, for which they were once brought closer by one of the first Emperors, for which they were forgiven any trespasses into the treasury, for which they were openly hated by half of the world and quietly hated by the other half, lay on a slightly different plane. The Ezless always pay their debts. It is an axiom even the most evil tongues do not argue with, but those tongues are much more angry because the Ezless always take back what was owed to them.

If, in a normal situation, the bad person who took the loan can easily run away with the money or somehow imitate the absence of this debt by simply bribing a judge or witnesses, the lender has to either put up with it or force the debt out... or go bowing to Ezless. If one of them gets power over someone's debt and gets the right to that debt, then the debt will be paid very soon, just let someone from an older family with direct blood inheritance take care of the matter.

Just one willful effort, one brief wish, a simple ritual (which is easy to do without if you have a good command of family skills) and the gold coins, in the sum equal to the debt and the interest accrued over time, will evaporate from the pockets, safes and purses of debtors, appearing in the pockets, safes and purses of Ezless. No active magic, no directed teleportation wormholes about which "robbed honest people" love to cry so much, but the inviolable right of the clan to seize their own, standing somewhere between the application of the Laws and the direct warping of reality.

Such will can be repelled by hiding all available gold in securely shielded safes and then not opening these barriers with screens for years. As soon as the coins leave the territory of distortion leveling (which is also not so easy to maintain), they will go to their new owner. Any economy would thus be simply paralyzed. Either negotiate a partial repayment and further installments, or get ready to pay in silver, copper, precious stones, jewelry, porcelain sets, or whatever else you have in the house.

There are also limitations. After all, you can not hang a non-existent debt on a person, or you can, but very costly. It is easier not to get involved. There is always the possibility of working through bank promissory notes when live gold does not leave the vaults. But only on the territory of the Empire of Ages, all banks are either under the boot of Ezless or do not dare to open their mouths on what belongs to them. In other countries, the practice of sealing all living gold in vaults and leaving only sealed bills of exchange and contracts for people has not passed. Though, of course, they tried, even involving the Summoned with suitable classes and education of their native worlds. Many of these attempts were buried by Ezless, as for them the living flow of gold was one of the main tools of control and influence.

From such extraordinary abilities - the generic skills of the majority of the remaining treasurers around the world looked much more modest - follows quite a logical truth: there is a huge crowd of people who would very much like to see all the treasurers of the Emperor's family dead, preferably also painfully killed, and if they are killed with their own hands, so just a holiday in their streets. Attempts on the main branch of their family are made several times more often than on the Eternal blood, also firmly placing them on the first line in the rating of the highest-paid targets for any brave assassin. Another thing is that few people dare to undertake it, and if they do, they often pay not in gold but in iron.

Poisons, curses, direct attacks, summoned creatures, a brigade of evil druids that almost ate the eldest heir alive, voluntarily merging into one huge plant monster, and even a much more cunning brigade of seductive beauties, who in three days of rest (and reduction of the density of the guard cover) brought the same heir to a state in which he could not count. He had to ask the Emperor himself to reverse the time when the numerous bookmarks had not yet completed their rooting, and after a long, long time to cleanse his son's mind, who shamefully averted his eyes when asked why he thought himself the smartest and sent some of the guards away.

It should come as no surprise that their House security was more paranoid than even the Emperor's, simply because the Emperor himself could fend off most assassination attempts, and they were far less frequent especially the really serious ones. Bassil Ezless, the current Head of the Treasury and in charge of the treasury, had been assassinated so many times that he had lost count, even when he was relatively young, healthy, and without a bald spot on his head. That is why this attempt had failed, even if it had been really excellent, perfectly executed, and provided for everything that could be foreseen. Everything except the actions of Bassil himself, who didn't wait until the traitors from his guards, who had revealed themselves and were led by his distant relative, whether she had been corrupted or simply decided to move her unloved relative to the grave (it was he who had ruined her career), had finished what they had started but began to save his old skin.

Zero Line Defense, four elite bodyguards of no less than forty-fifth level, could not betray physically, no matter what influences were placed on them. Not submission, not mind-altering, not bribery - the number of contracts on their souls was staggering, and any attempt to break them killed on the spot. The cultists who had unleashed their Lust had somehow managed to override the control of two of them, apparently by making them see something else, not real reality, and convincing even their souls, not just their minds, of the truth. Another one went off the hook, falling to his knees and clasping his bleeding eye sockets with his hand, but the last one worked his position and duty (all four had been raised from infancy, trained for the right classes using the same methods that elves use to train their short-lived servants) to the fullest, not only by throwing something inspired by his mind onto the focusing amulet-absorber, which immediately crumbled into ash, but also by intercepting the blows of two unwitting defectors, repelling a dozen blows of cultists and traitors from the servants and retinue who had sneaked into the family palace, and then pushing Bassil into a forced blink when the last guard was reached.

The battle between the remaining loyal fighters, a couple of personal assistants with their retinue, and the guards who didn't understand a damn thing, but were trying hard to survive, was hot but frustratingly short. Among the five full-fledged possessed, no longer human, but simply devils who had put on their bodies (whose domain and aspect, thanks to his encyclopedic knowledge, he was able to determine almost instantly, even though Bassil was not a mage), there was a full-fledged legendary creature that was rapid, without delay or distraction, doing everything it could to kill Bassil.

The pre-prepared artifact, which looked like an ordinary storage crystal, trivially disabled a set of legendary protection, once becoming mere bling. Takia's warding, as the name implied, was divine. The set of three rings, a pendant, a bracelet, and an earring on his left ear had been produced by one of the High Priests of the Ring of Coins. Hence, the quality was appropriate. The artifact's protection weakened any blows to safe levels, and the more gold the wearer had in his possession, the stronger the protection. Needless to say, in Bassil's hands, this set could replace any other mythical defense.

He could have replaced it, but it didn't work, just like two separate one-time shield amulets didn't work, or the exorbitantly expensive and equally rare spatial disruptor of ancient An'Liit design that was supposed to pull him out from under the attack. There were still basic enchantments on his clothing and one of the shield rings, but that wouldn't help against the strike of a legendary creature that had prearranged the necessary souls specifically for your demise... let's put it this way, loans with such interest rates are never granted, not even to oneself.

Yet he managed it, relying solely on his own perception and the heightened agility enhanced by the capsule of elixir under his molars, reflexively consumed at the moment of the forced blink. Paying the price for nearly three hundred perception attributes over the course of eight and a half seconds would come later when the intoxication would shave off a couple of years of life if there would still be life to pay with. The world, suddenly slowing down, seemed to compress around the feverishly sweating body, but the Legend, shedding the flesh of his temporary vessel on the fly, became insanely fast, no longer unstoppable but simply infernally quick.

In addition to protective amulets, Basil carried several spatial containers with him, where he stored not only correspondence and documents but also a whole pile of various trinkets. Some of these items had been lying there for many years, and some were passed down to him from his predecessor as Chief Treasurer. His late second cousin, towards the end of his life, suffered from such advanced paranoia that it seemed excessive even to members of such a cautious and accustomed-to-assassination family. For instance, he left in his Ring of Multidimensionality not only all the transferable rights of the seal and emblems but also an inextricable surprise that unfolds immediately upon its extraction.

Basil had many harsh words to say about his relative and mentor at that time because using the Sphere of Nie'lan in such a way, turning a rechargeable and relatively easily repairable legendary artifact into a one-time mythical expendable, and doing all this secretly from everyone, including the Crown and his own relatives... well, calling it "extravagant" would be too mild, far too mild. But now Basil realized that sometimes even paranoia can be useful, and he also promised himself to come to his predecessor's grave and have a bottle of century-old wine there, offering heartfelt apologies.

Just to survive.

The strike, not even a strike, but a soft and almost caressing touch of the fiend, didn't reach Basil's face, stopping and unable to overcome the area of stabilized reality. Struck again, and again, and several more times, and then burst into a series of attacks from different planes, each of which could have lethal consequences for several hundred soldiers in armor at once. But it was all in vain – the long-dead scholar and mage of an extinct race, a race that excelled in Hell's magic and souls, better than any of those now living or who lived then, creating their Spheres, which are still found in various ruins, accounted for all such tricks and included them in the list of controlled threats.

For about a minute and a half, Basil was as safe as possible, but then the hour of reckoning for such perverse audacity would come. How could he? To disrupt such a plan for his own elimination with such cynicism and ruthlessness. Such things are never forgiven, to anyone, ever. And there was no one left to help – the remaining loyal courtiers were either bewitched or were voluntarily stripping off their clothes and armor with amulets, preparing for a voluntary sacrifice, while the cultists were already circling around an absolutely transparent but unbreakable Sphere in an entrancing dance. The flickering bodies, flashes of strange, viscous, and somewhat sweet magic, complete absence of sound cut off by the Sphere, and his gaze seemed to draw him into a hypnotic whirlpool...

With visible effort, he closes his eyelashes, ceasing to sway to the rhythm of the dance, realizing that about a third of the available time has already passed, and there are no chances of salvation. It's unclear what's happening in the city, but if they're trying to kill him with such forces, if they've already summoned such creatures, then things are going very badly. Sigmund and his gang will clearly be forced into disgrace if they're still alive. Calling for help won't work either because all communication has been cut off, and the signaling systems have been intercepted, causing a standard "all is well" transmission on all channels. Something is happening with Time, due to the activated gifts of the rulers, who also had a hand in protecting the estates of their vassals, but even such games with the Law are unlikely to allow help to arrive in time.

No one to come to the rescue.

Is it time to die already?

Bassil had hoped to postpone this date by at least a few decades, but he was already old. He had already passed on the mechanism of inheritance, and even if he died here, embracing this legacy, it would still pass to the nearest living blood relative. But, of course, it would be better for his successor. Agnia is prepared to take it much better than his own heir. He never fully recovered from those mind-wrenching sessions, and now it's impossible to trust him completely, always suspecting that some implant in his head remained, or perhaps some control mechanism couldn't be completely eradicated.

Agnia...

Too young, still too much of a sheltered girl, even with her wolfish tenacity and exceptional intelligence, it will be too hard on her, especially if he doesn't have time to pass on the duties and seals from the First Treasury, not to mention the other imperial gold vaults. He didn't want to leave her unattended, without pointing out the most crucial mistakes that can only be realized by taking on the right role. It's unfortunate that he has to leave now, at such an inopportune time, under such difficult circumstances. For someone like him, it's simply indecent to die like this, as if mocking his entire way of life, thinking, and behavior.

But who's gonna ask him?

Without opening his eyes, so as not to let the maddening dance mesmerize his consciousness this time for sure, Basil awkwardly assumes a meditative posture and, ceasing to count the seconds until the Sphere's fall, turns his gaze inward, into the depths of his soul. Into those depths where not even his relatives dare to look, where no one dares to peer except for the one initiated into this secret, always only one from the House of Ezless. Most often, it falls upon the head of the House and his successor, but it varies. Fate had it that on this day, he was the one entrusted with this right, the one who had already passed on its inheritance further up the bloody chain, reserving for himself the right to wield the very last argument, an argument his House of Ezless hadn't used in so long that most of the world had forgotten it, considering them mere traders, only close to the Emperor.

Without questioning why, during those distant centuries when the alliance between the two families was formed, the Eternals began speaking to some amateur traders and profiting from that trade at all, why they didn't just take it by force, impose direct subjugation instead of soft vassalage?

From his coat pocket, Basil retrieves two gold coins, and at first glance, both of them, as well as any subsequent ones, appear utterly ordinary. Upon closer and more attentive inspection, a seasoned specialist would realize that these coins, with their nearly worn-out crest and other images, do not belong to any of the currently existing and circulating minting styles. Knowledgeable antique collectors would also note that the coins are old but wouldn't be able to pinpoint their exact era, only providing rough estimates of their age. A magician, preferably an artificer with a leaning toward jewelry craft, would have great difficulty identifying the presence of an extremely peculiar and very ancient enchantment for non-divisibility, which, by the way, is prohibited by the laws of the Empire.

None of the aforementioned individuals will discover the truth.

Of course, these two coins, on which one can discern remnants of a pattern depicting either a runic ribbon, a crest border, or some kind of serpent, were not passed down through generations by Ezless to deceive gullible tavern keepers or pay for some goods. The non-divisibility of the coins stems from the same source as the property of binding specific artifacts to their users. Try to take the mythical Messenger's Ring from its rightful owner, and you'll notice how it simply returns to that same owner's finger. Then he'll activate it and begin asking you about the reasons behind your actions. However, it's not all that important it's just an example of the same effect at work, even if it's applied to coins that repeatedly appear in Basil's pocket, even when he didn't put them there; the effect operates on different principles.

This coins.

They were the First.

The first three gold roundels were promised to the first of their house, Ezless the Fatherless, for his first bargain in time immemorial. The first transaction and the first deception. These coins were not given up, forcing the then-still-penniless merchant into decisive action. Two thugs were hired as collateral for one of the three coins, which the merchant didn't have at all, and they killed the debtor and, for some reason, didn't take all three coins, killing an unnecessary witness at the same time, but they paid in full and honorably.

The traces of the third of the coins disappeared into the centuries, but these two remained with them forever, never spent, never bartered for anything, never known to anyone, pieces of worked and melted gold of the highest grade. They became a symbol, the first brick in the realization of the family will, the first attempt to claim something they thought was theirs and could prove it. Passing from hand to hand, from one Ezless to another, from century to century, the coins ceased to be just gold and became a symbol.

The symbol was becoming something completely different.

Transformed into a Channel and a Door.

Incarnated by Contract and Contract Anchor.

And so, after not just one millennium, the deal was sealed. A deal that had been flawlessly upheld ever since, granting them the powers that had made them the world's most successful creditors, giving them the authority to speak from a position of near equals even with the audacious and uncompromising Eternals, who were only just beginning to unite disparate principalities into the machinery of a mighty empire, who were merely planning to cleanse ancient ruins with steel and magic, upon the ruins of which pitiful remnants of once-mighty races and peoples still dwelled. And now, in the final seconds of his life, when there was simply nothing left to lose, Basil intended to make use of this Right.

Intended to Demand.

His hands barely trembled as his unsteady fingers pressed each coin against his still tightly shut eyes, as the legendary fiend raged behind an invisible wall, sensing in his gut how victory slipped through his fingers, how all premonitions of imminent and dreadful doom cried out in unison. His body didn't flinch when the worn coins once again displayed the remarkably delicate engravings of serpent rings, nor did it twitch when the coins turned into molten drops of yellow metal, searing their way into his eye sockets. But everyone, even those who couldn't hear anything due to deafness or the sound-blocking barrier of the Sphere, flinched at that moment when the first echoes of the ancient Call emanated from Basil's lips, utterly unlike the familiar shared language, yet remaining understandable and comprehensible, imprinting its meaning onto the very soul along with the words:

"Gold, gold, all mine." Not a voice, but the chime of coins falling to the ground, but the rustle of a huge creature crawling with scales of pure gold. "I turn to oblivion."

The sphere has fallen.

Only the man inside it was gone.

Flame, Hardness, and some kind of weakening curse slam into Bassil's unresisting body, driving him into the wall, sending more cracks, making him spit out a stream of blood from his reflexively open mouth, but Losing Fidelity, despite his status as one of the Legends of his domain, despite all his power, feels no relief, only a growing panic. The man who should have been splattered with a thin layer of whipped and pulverized meat only shakes it off, climbing out of the huge dent in the enchanted granite.

His steps and movements are heavy as if all the bones inside his mangled body have become incredibly heavy. Golden. The same golden color is in his eyes, and it is also rapidly showing on his golden skin and hair. And the eyes... it seems as if something is moving in those eyes, under the golden film. The devil does not understand and cannot find a reason for his feelings. Why isn't there the thrill of battle, the pleasure of pain, the passionate desire to pay back the too-cunning mortal for his insolence, for ruining the plans of Losing Fidelity and his Sovereign? Whence the pressing panic, the foreboding of trouble that could not turn into another passion from which new shades of Lust could not be extracted?

The spells of the fiends and cultists struck Basil Ezless's body, tearing through his clothing, amulets, layers of skin, and muscles, yet he didn't even attempt to resist, only swiftly transforming. His sensory skills showed nothing substantial, the watchful eyes embedded within the assembly didn't perceive the chain of events, only foretelling an unclear calamity of unknown nature. However, Losing Fidelity was ready to swear by his place in the Choir and his access to the Bank that something inside the mortal was stirring.

"Awaken from your slumber..." The voice, as impassive as it was passionate, as ancient as it was youthful, compelled each of his souls to tremble in terror, transferring its fear to its master and igniting a wild fury within him.

Blink, a brief series of strikes delivered with the flesh-grown claws of the body provided by his servant, infused with curses, flair, spells, planar energies, and several divergent effects drawn directly from the Bank of Souls' guests. The series of strikes propelled Basil farther and farther, breaking through new barriers with his body and threatening to simply toss him beyond the limits of the Chief Treasurer's summer residence when those walls would finally give way. However, with each blow, this body twisted more and more, distorting further from within, growing increasingly heavy, and risking becoming altogether unmanageable even for a legendary being.

"The sacrifice before you is precious..." All the strikes, injuries, and curses received, enough to guarantee the simultaneous destruction of two Losing Ones, seemed to have no effect on the man who monotonously extended his Call. It wasn't directed at a man, but rather his remnants, his skin, beneath which something was hidden, just as Losing One had concealed himself a couple of minutes earlier, taking possession of the well-worn toy's material body.

Losing Fidelity goes into a frenzy, forgetting his defenses and the orders he has been given, striving to defeat the enemy, to shut up the hateful throat that tugs at every one of his sweet souls with its words, preventing them from enjoying their submission, their singing and crying. He realizes by some almost deep instinct the necessity of finishing the battle as quickly as possible, preferably as early as yesterday.

"Arise, Golden Serpent..." No creature's artifices, no techniques, or intricate combinations could silence Basil, now a sodden sack of flesh and golden droplets from the blows that had transformed him.

Golden Serpent.

Within the shelter of Alurei, with its unified language, a dialect ingrained in creation itself, people who were excessively greedy and obsessed with accumulating wealth were referred to by various names. In the Empire of Ages, they were said to "breathe gold," while in Alishan, they preferred phrases like "purse-headed" or "coin-minded." In the distant and enigmatic Empire of Arms, such individuals were called "golden-hearted," although, among those who worshiped the Monkey God of Gold, their relationship with this metal was entirely unique.

While conversing with a few of the Summoned, the still-young Basil heard from one of them about a concept called "worship of the golden calf," somehow connected to the religious doctrines of an uncharted world, which was considered native to the Chained One. It might have seemed strange, but on Alurei, there had once existed a nearly identical practice, now mostly forgotten, and almost entirely absent from the lexicon, where the greedy traders worshipped not a "golden calf." Those who followed this path were said to have given their souls to the Serpent.

Golden Serpent.

"You're all mine, and I'm all yours."

Losing Fidelity had only managed to be surprised, and then it was too late - when he had already kicked (not with a vulgar and long useless kick, but with a spatial distortion, splitting in half with a change in gravity vector) unwilling Basil, who refused to fall or shatter into pieces, into the stolen light of his Master of the heavens, when his Call came to an end. The body of the man, or rather, what remained of the man's body, simply exploded from within, bursting into countless delicate golden chains, each link the size of a grain of sand. Small chains merged into larger ones, as thick as a finger, and those, in turn, into thick ropes of pure gold. The ropes fused, intertwining with each other, giving birth to a gigantic, rapidly growing body...

Immediately, a kind dozen of chains shot toward Losing Faith, causing him to attempt an emergency escape, which he couldn't accomplish, as if the price for his long-learned and finely-honed ability, honed in hundreds of battles, had suddenly skyrocketed. It increased in every aspect, from reserve requirements to the strain on the assembly, and no one intended to give time for reevaluating priorities. The legend died, torn apart by golden chains that pierced not only the matter of the pseudo-body but also the energy shells and even the souls within the unraveling assembly.

The legend died, but something else, incomparably more terrifying, rose amidst the shattered tactical charms of the park, writhing in a colossal mass of golden chains, gradually taking shape, acquiring flesh, and finding purpose. The serpent materialized in the world in the form of a colossal cobra, unfurling its golden hood and baring enormous fangs, reminding this world for the first time in many years why the dynasty of the rulers of the Arms Empire preferred not to conflict with the Eternals and generally keep communication to a minimum, why there was not a single major temple of the Monkey God within the Empire's territory.

The links of the chains transformed into scales and muscles, cast from gold and remaining gold themselves, leaving only two places on the immense multi-meter body of the summoned entity where there was something other than the golden hue.

Where the eyes of the summoned entity should have been, there was an absolute void, gaping into somewhere beyond the reach of mortals, immortals, or even the deceased. And within that darkness, two small sparks danced, the lights of those very two coins, two anchors, and seals that enabled the Serpent to exist here and now. Every second of its existence was paid for, paid for by the very nature it embodied - gold. Gold evaporated from treasuries, safes, chests, purses, and money bags, spent on each of the Serpent's actions, but what the realm of Ezless - and therefore the Empire - had in abundance was gold.

There was a Serpent.

Not a monster.

Not a behemoth.

Not a creature.

Not a ghost.

Not a god.

Not a beast.

Something else.

The Serpent grew, gaining dozens of meters in length, resembling not just a giant cobra but one of the rail-armored vehicles the dwarves used to travel through the caves and dungeons from one city to another so as not to have to fight off every small beast or monster that ran past. And the gaze of the empty black eyes, in the eye sockets of each of which could stand a knight in full armor, the gaze of indistinguishable sparks at the bottom of those eye sockets, was directed precisely in the direction of the golem that landed softly, almost gracefully, on the stones of the central quarter, just within walking distance of the Palace barriers. A golem that was a foe of the size and danger level of the Serpent that had come to call.

News Bringer found himself the kind of opponent who had every chance of cutting the news short before he heard it.

* * *