Interlude: "Watch Your Back" - 1

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There are moments in an endowed's life when you just want to sit down and cry rather than solve another pile of problems that keep piling up. There are all kinds of reasons for such a breakdown, from the frankly minor ones, like a badly missed rain, to destiny-breaking ones. When what you've been waiting for so long slips out of your hands, leaving you alone with those very problems. An unpleasant situation, for anyone unpleasant, from the most battered plowman to the great and terrible Eyes of the Eternal.

Sigmund Rooleim did not consider himself a plowman, but he was not happy about it. To be frank, he would have gladly swapped places with this plowman, giving up all his hard-earned and stolen money without regret. Eyes of the Eternal is a difficult position, to which only the most trusted and reliable are placed. He may have once jokingly considered taking the Emperor's decrees and oaths somewhat freely, but his thoughts were limited to that. Sigmund simply didn't have much point in scheming against the Empire because he already had everything. I mean, everything at all. A seat on the throne might be a nice end to his career, but he wouldn't be there for long, and there would be so many problems that it would be better not to think about it.

He was promoted to an Eye by the last Emperor, with whom he had, if not a friendship, then a firm, friendly relationship. The years passed, and the ruler was replaced by his son, and that son was already preparing his heir, but the Eyes of the Empire remained the same. Huge power, almost unlimited influence, the fulfillment of all desires, whims, and fantasies... and an unimaginable amount of work. Continuous, hard, exhausting, and the kind of work you can't trust anyone else. Or not to check, if you do.

Those days, when he was rushing into new secrets and problems with excitement and gleam in his eyes, when with a heart burning with a righteous flame he uncovered another plot or created his own, but already in enemy territory, were so far in the past that even the memory of them is slowly fading. Given his skills and abilities, that's quite an indicator. Having reached the fifty-fourth level, having accumulated untold riches that he had no one to leave behind, having outlived all his friends, family, and loved ones, Sigismund simply wanted to live out his time in peace, years and years ago, having refused to prolong life with rituals and alchemy.

Three classes, none of which were combat classes, allowed him alone to hold most of the secret threads that entangled a fair share of all Alurei. His replacement was not only difficult but impossible to find. The Hero of the Quill and the Web... All those who might have laughed at his name, he, too, had long since outlived. The boy whose name had turned out to be forgotten and cut out of reality, he prepared to replace with almost love. Yes, he was no match for him in terms of ability, experience, or even sheer potential. But it was pointless self-aggrandizement to compare a possible successor to himself. But Second Prince was the best of those who were not him.

The key word here is exactly was.

Reading the reports, Sigmund could hardly contain the urge to bang his head against the table, the walls, and the floor at the same time. He could barely suppress the compulsive urge to start gnawing at the collar of his robes or even the carpet beneath his feet. When the elven diplomats handed over official permission to kill the Fall Executioner, he nearly choked on his dinner, which he often had to eat right at work. It was nice to look for a catch, but pointless. Just for some reason, this old, rotten snag had been denied the right to be one of them.

This is not a unique case, for he has had all sorts of things in his life, almost all of them, for that matter. But it's one thing for an eared dissident to become untouchable or, say, a fool who got too deep into the realm and turned into a creature. The elves preferred to strangle them quietly on their own, mourning their loss with all the hypocrisy of their race. But if they couldn't do it themselves, they didn't hesitate to hunt them down with their equivalent of a free hunt. The hunt for the Executioner was exactly what began.

The hunt was not even for a liquidator, who had the blood of many powerful and influential individuals on her hands, for whom there would be someone to avenge. The hunt was on for one who had innumerable secrets, techniques, ciphers, and other things in her head, for which even Sigmund himself would have given much. Perhaps if he could have taken her alive, even the unrelenting apathy with which he had been living for the past decades would surely have receded for a year or two. It is doubly suspicious that such a cadre has been handed over to the "short ears."

So she hadn't just fallen into madness, which, with her classes too dark and dangerous to ignore, was a legitimate outcome of life's journey. It was highly probable that in her madness, the Dark Druid was willing to do something the elves had chosen to deny in advance, despite all possible leaks. It's a good excuse to shake off the old days and start digging deeper.

Cause and effect, cause and effect... No one on the continent could relate one thing to another better than Sigmund. At least, that's what they said of him, and he listened and nodded silently. In fact, of course, there were experts at least as good as he was, as well as deceivers whose lies could hide what they wanted. And one particular visionary knew how to lie, knowing full well the most basic doctrine of any covert operation - no one could find you unless they found something to latch on to.

He found nothing.

You can repeat hundreds of times about his age, about how he had sat too long in office, that he had relaxed and missed the obvious... In general, to repeat after those who were now trying to undermine the permanent head of the Emperor's Eyes. He immediately told his immediate superior that he simply could not find out about it. Because he was used to working against fools, against fools who thought they were smart, and against the smart, very smart, cunning, dangerous, and brilliant. And he worked well.

But even all his experience, even all his career, could not have prepared him to anticipate such a situation. No, he had seen desperate lovesick fools seeking revenge for the death of the other half. Eliminations, set-ups, using a convenient pawn - with such predictable personalities, you can do so many useful things that it's amazing. Never love, dear children. Never love anyone! His organization was able to resist a lovesick vigilante, eager to bleed someone of the respectable citizens of the Empire of the Ages, even without Sigmund's participation.

But even in the wildest delirium, the old Hero could not imagine a situation where this vigilante would be someone like the Fall Executioner! Persons like her just can't act in that role! She had been spoiling the blood of the enemies of the Eternal Forest back in the years when his great-grandmother lay in her cradle and never even thought of meeting his great-grandfather! This is the experience of entire dynasties!

Would he believe that this creature, hollowed out by years, incapable of compassion, empathy, and regret, who had only a purpose and an order above all else, would be capable not only of love but also of doing the stupid things typical of lovers? If this had been reported to him a month earlier, he would have demoted the informer. He wouldn't even have laughed - he'd seen funnier jokes.

Correlate the death of a small escort squad under an elf Bard who wandered into the area of one amusing family ritual the Second Prince was conducting with the fact that one of the continent's most odious liquidators was in love with this elf. Well, he was able to do it. He went through all the archives, turned all the surviving suites of the prince inside out, and went over every action and operation by the second, from the project of organizing a realm breakthrough in the capital of Alishan (an interesting idea, by the way) to the petty baronet beaten by his guards, who unluckily entered the same hotel and refused to leave the dining hall.

Found the link between the dead bard and the one who loved him, checked eighteen times, activated a dozen artifacts, including three legendary ones, checked a few more times, let four separate circles of visionaries check, checked again, drank a soothing potion and went to report to the enraged His Imperial Majesty. He could never get used to the fact that all of them, including himself, were still alive under a shell of hypocrisy and indifference, that they could still feel something.

The Eternal Forest would turn its nose up, proudly silent, insultingly threatening, but the Empire would squeeze them dry. Sigmund did not believe this was their original plan. The Second Prince, despite killing one particular bard, was not an adversary of the Eternal Forest, though not an ally. His death would not benefit them, only war and the deaths of their so-valued kin. But they have yet to prove it so that the grief-stricken Emperor will believe them. Because the artifacts and equipment used by the Fall Executioner speak of a long and careful preparation at the level of the state. The rejected fugitive cannot have two mythical and at least three legendary artifacts that were formerly in the possession of the Eternal Forest. They will milk the star born dry, which, however, will not even partially compensate for the losses incurred.

And the enemy had not suffered any losses.

Tialrianrelia of the House of the Misty Tree, a branch of the Flower Blue, a blossom of the Eternal Beat - was not a diplomat. No, all elves, in one way or another, gain great experience in scheming and manipulating all non-elves, but this particular rotten pine had surprisingly little such experience for someone her age. She was a liquidator, working clearly to her intended purpose and asking no questions of her commanders - a perfect performer, he should have such.

She couldn't have had any allies to back her up after being doomed by her native forest. There had to be some kind of billet: a treaty there, an oath there, a cache there, a couple of mentally processed sleeper agents there, something she had prepared in her long centuries of a dangerous life.

But there could not have been one among her debtors, bribed or enchanted, one who had come to her aid at the decisive moment. All the interrogations the interrogators had conducted, all the visions the sighted could find, they all pointed to one thing: there was no such creature. Sigmund knew Kryd quite well, personally and through files and observers. Knew his strength and power, knew how dangerous this one-man army was, how invulnerable and unkillable he was. So many have tried to prove otherwise, but you can't remember their names now. But Krade Redjan-Shansir was and planned to be for a long time. He, too, like the Prince, was.

All the interrogations, the twisted memory, and the called-to-respond casts of the souls of the fallen said only one thing: Kryde did not even have time to notice the murderer. The possessor of a legendary hunch and an equally legendary sense of danger simply died without even putting up a fight, without even having time to try to defend himself, without even sensing the approaching death!

Shadow Hitman.

They were a bit of a daredevil, but very rare. They make excellent spies, summoners, and combat wizards, but their assassins, while strong, are very fast to lose the marbles. Standard concealment fields are inaccessible to shadow users, and a shadow assassin's blink is fraught with too much noticeable risk, even if it is terrifying in its effectiveness. All in all, it's rare for such a planar class to appear. There were such individuals in the Empire's ranks, and in the list of enemies as well, but they were all a long way from the level of proficiency demonstrated by the third party.

Sigmund was most impressed by the short report from Mikhel Yernalter, an extremely powerful summoner, perhaps one of the best in the Empire of the Ages, working specifically with Shadows of all shapes and sizes. Very few endowments manage to make a contract with such powerful entities. Mikhel's favorite contract has brought him fame, levels, and glory, though there's still a big question as to who is in charge of their tandem - the old and mighty Shadow, gobbling up those who are sacrificed to it and those whom the caller will point out to him, or the caller himself? In the sixteen years that the two of them have been working together, the creature has grown on free souls.

And so this blob of hunger and hatred was sent to track down the murderer of the crowned blood. In fact, it was the creature that was most often sent after the shadow users, so there was a certainty of success. Not everyone believed the bastard, who had escaped without a trace, could be killed, but he was bound to expose his attempt to escape or fend off the creature, and several independent teams of seers would be able to lead the liquidators to the subversive group's traces.

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The Shadow fled, tearing from her amorphous pseudo-flesh the cohesive threads of the contracts she had made, sustained serious wounds, and lost some of her cherished and nurtured strength. But she did not even try to follow what imprint she had picked up. No one had stopped trying to reach her again, but so far, all the appeals had either gone to nothing or called on entirely different Shadows, who had come upon the scent of tormented souls. A couple of breakthroughs didn't cost too many lives, but two full jails of sacrificial material were wasted.

Sigmund had no strong connection to the aggressive plans, and even his grip on the Astral remained surprisingly low, but he knew the theory at a level some other mage could afford. And he knew what Shadows were, as well as what would frighten them. Not a good call, not a good call at all, leading directly to Alishan, where the magic of Darkness and Shadows was far more well known than in the Empire.

Tialrianrelia was undoubtedly sought, but more by inertia. Sigmund personally questioned her survivability simply by virtue of the fact that her helpers no longer needed her. In order for her to agree to be helped and backed up, Alishan squeezed her dry, and even more. The fact that they agreed, rather than simply slaughtering her and taking her most valuable artifacts, was already surprising. On the other hand, if anyone could compel these blackmongers to follow the deal from start to finish, it would be a person of her caliber.

The shadow user, judging by the analysis of the mages, priests, and seers, had simply dragged her into the depths of the Realm. So deep, in fact, that half of the shadow users in the Eyes were cursing unbelievingly, and the other half was graying on the spot. It didn't look like a suicide by the doer, which meant something was covering the Alishan freak down there in the depths. Were they crazy enough to start a cult for one of the Ancient Spawn of the Twilight Realm?

The new Alishan agent caused much excitement because of his sudden appearance. Persons of this caliber don't appear out of nowhere. They never do. Unless they are Summoned, of course. It seems his intelligence had been conveniently misinformed when it was led to believe that the Chained One summoned thirteen years ago was a mere UnHero, almost immediately sacrificed because they got a real UnChosen one, no less.

All of Alishan's other Heroes and Summoned either didn't fit the declared strengths or were summoned too recently to have time to mature to a sufficient level. The only thing left was the near-forgotten summons when one of the younger Khans got a powerful fire class, and no one else saw the summoned one. Apparently, Hamil An-Teraal got the class on his own, which they decided to use to nurture their trump card in secret.

Alishan is constantly at war with whatever crawls at them from the Great Desert. No one on the continent could more easily conceal the pumping and elevation of the Summoned in that meat grinder without revealing it to the Eyes of the Eternal. It was an approach that became the main version of the events. Alishan had a huge grudge against both the Eternal Dynasty and Redyan-Shansir personally. And no one else benefited from the massacre in the capital. The situation on the borders, of late, had become increasingly aggravated, and a new hot phase of the conflict was inevitable. Against this background, the loss of so many high-level figures becomes catastrophic.

And that was only the first layer.

Surprisingly, the information about the Alishan assassin did not come from the Eyes or the agent chains and spy cells around the world, including Alishan. The information was literally brought on a silver platter in advance, even before the assassination attempt, but the Empire underestimated this information, just as it underestimated the situation itself. For this mistake, Sigmund was ready to strangle one of his deputies, who control agents in Melareth, but he was not in a hurry to absolve himself of the guilt. Especially since he had already strangled him - such failures are not forgiven.

The story that occurred in the territory of a once-nurtured ally caused a certain amount of resonance. Even a couple of investigation teams were sent to help Arial, but that was the end of it. The Resonator of Chains was destroyed cleanly and professionally, leaving no trace, which had faded even further by the time their group arrived. Now most of the Eternal Empire's attention was focused on a different question - whether the dynasty of Melareth's rulers would change in an hour and whether they would change it themselves.

Reports of Face Under the Mask that had been spotted in the border kingdom were, of course, obtained, as were official documents from the King's archives, trying to convince his patrons that the loss of the facility was the result of cunning intrigue and not his sloppiness. He could hardly believe it. But he believed it nonetheless.

And the funniest thing here is that the version lay on the surface. The Sorz mentality was very similar to that of the average Alishan, even if there were enough differences to go around. And though the former slave traders who had set up their kingdom in the borderlands were not so dependent on Alishan, their alliance was very strong. How strong could an alliance be with the continent's greatest slave traders, if not the world's?

Now, looking at it through the prism of what had happened, Sigmund saw a certain inner logic in it. To send the un Chousen one to Sorz to work on Melareth's territory from there. On this side, destroying the Resonator was not just an attempt to screw up the Eternal Empire but a preparation for the main action. Requests have already been sent to Melareth, from where a delegation will be arriving in the next few days. We'll need to review all the materials in that case. Perhaps Fall Executioner was involved there as well.

It wasn't even the strength or skill of the shadow assassin that worried everyone but the suddenness of his appearance. No one, not even elves, could sabotage foreign territory better than Alishan, but still... Starborns were known as masters of pinpoint and silent eliminations, but when it came to the need to stage a massacre in the middle of an enemy's capital and manage to get out of there alive, you had to look the other way.

Many believed that Summoned had not survived his mission, just as the Fall Executioner had, but it was too unreliable. There was something that drove the contracted Shadow away. The possibility that it was just an ancient creature that happened to float by and took the fleeing Shadow is a possibility, but only a possibility. It's too lucky, too timely, and too unlikely.

Coincidences occur only when it is impossible to find a pattern.

Sigmund had at his disposal three palaces, a dozen mansions, and a whole galaxy of departmental premises. It was not even a matter of craving for luxury, which had long since faded along with all his other feelings, but also the position, which, as you know, obliges. Nevertheless, he preferred to live literally at work, simply arranging his lodgings in the main building of the Eyes. Not too lavish, in comparison to all those palaces, the living conditions paid off threefold with security and the ability to "take work home" without worrying about issues of secrecy.

The central hubs of the Imperial Secret Service were protected at the level of an Imperial residence, so one had to fear something like the coming of an evil deity, but not a common assault. And careful and regular checks on everything and everyone kept away from the assassins, of whom there had been more than a hundred in the last three years alone. They did not come for him alone, of course, but they came, some on assignment and some sent on a suicide mission. It's the same kind of punishment the Alishans receive for failures, mistakes, mishaps, or simply for not liking your superior's face.

That is not to say that Sigmund's life was never in danger, rather the opposite - sometimes it was safe. He was useless in combat, and never once in his life did he take part in combat operations. All three of his classes were good for his job and nothing else. The rare Scriptor, the epic High Operative, and the legendary Controller of the Web - his path to the rank of Hero was standard in terms of level sets and class choices. He simply walked to it, albeit without direct risk, long, methodical, and completely ruthless to himself and those around him.

And yet, at that very moment, that night, something awakened him from his sleep. Something unformed and elusive. His skills of situational awareness and environmental awareness were enough to argue with high-level visionaries on an equal footing, which also helped to guard against attempts on his life. These skills were silent now, not voicing any alarm, just as the closed fields and the signal amulets that ensured his safety were silent.

But something woke him up, didn't it?

With a lazy wave of his hand, the room's lights came on, revealing the spartan furnishings of his bedroom. A bed, clothes closets, a table, and chairs, and that was it. His office was more cluttered than he'd ever done before, but he'd learned long enough not to carry a single piece of paper into the bedroom, or else it would become an office, too. Though, it was much more pleasant to work lying down and under a blanket.

The highest Perception picks up the quiet creaking of the stone walls and the barely perceptible hum of the magical protection that filters the air for breathing and dozens of other purposes. Everything was perfectly fine, but somewhere on the edge of consciousness flashed a lurking unease. Someone else, less beaten by life, might have put it down to a simple workload, anxiety, a bad dream, or an overactive imagination. Someone else would not have lived to be his age when he could even call some elves suckers and not go against the truth.

A few seconds later, two five of the guards were already gathered in his room, covering him with a dozen barriers and rifling through all the crevices in search of what had awakened the sleeping Hero. Nothing was found, but Sigmund changed his place of sleep and residence at the same moment, not even packing his things - there were enough such rooms in the department premises where he spent his time.

To wake up for the second time in one night with that very feeling of not knowing what was going on was not strange. It was a reason to be alarmed. The hero didn't know what or who was causing his anxiety, but he knew for sure, his life was in danger. Even if he imagined it, all too often his anxiety had turned to blood. Getting out of bed again and turning on the lights, he was about to call security when his sensitive ear picked up a barely perceptible noise.

That's about the sound of a drop of thick liquid - sauce, honey, alchemical ointment - falling against the marble floor. He had long ago undergone the training to distinguish a thousand different sounds, and his career had only sharpened this skill, adding to his memory vault. All in all, if before he still allowed the thought as if his senility had begun to plague him, now those thoughts were gone.

The crystal of the signal amulet cracked with a low chime.

It is worth explaining that the present chambers of the Eyes of the Eternal were not only magically protected but also physically protected. It would have been difficult to get in unnoticed, but it was still possible. Exactly as long as no attempt was made to use their enchantments. Alien magic would have to stir the defenses just like a drop of blood in a cauldron full of predatory fish.

It would take years and years of work by hundreds of talented craftsmen, even if no one would interfere with it, not just to bypass such a defense but to silence it even for a moment. And the protection is regularly tested by thousands of times-tested humans and non-humans so that it can be gradually rendered unusable or at least simply studied.

Add to this the fact that quite a few of the department's rooms were located in separate spatial folds or just deep underground, which could only be accessed by a portal, and you realize that it is easier to destroy this place than to break into it. Sigmund's thoughts began to accelerate at a tremendous speed, causing his subjective time to stretch harder and harder.

Because the guards were in no hurry to move into his room with a blink or at least to enter through the door. The defense did not go into defense mode, covering him with barriers and destroying everything else with battlefields. Everything remained unchanged: the silence, the incomprehensible foreboding, and even the sound of another dropped drop of something thick.

Eyes Eternal was about to shout and activate a dozen amulets at once - there is no soundproofing here, so the guards would quickly come running at any suspicious sound. No matter how the defenses turned out to be fooled, they couldn't be completely disconnected. No one could cut this place off from the rest of the world completely, even with the help of a traitor in the ranks of his closest aides... in theory, at least.

The sound of another dropped drop was also accompanied by the barely audible rustle of the air rushing to the sides as it washed over the body of the walker forward. Sigmund was not a fighter, but his level and overdrive allowed him to defend himself with at least a few heartbeats, and the protective amulets of the legendary set, unremovable even in sleep, only added to his survivability.

He turned on the toes of his bare feet, instantly attacking with an extremely concentrated arrow of mystical essence that could turn any matter and energy into dust. But the amulet simply refused to work, as if for a brief moment turning into an ordinary trinket. He was still in a moment, and the amulet came back to life, but the moment was lost. But Sigmund did get a good look at the man who had come to him uninvited.

It looked... perfect.

The fully nude humanoid was like a billet statue made by a great sculptor. There was no face, nor was there any hair, gender features, or other irregularities. The creature's completely snow-white body had no distinguishing features at all. It was not felt magically or intuitively, being present only in the visual spectrum. Also, with the sight of this something, his intuition sent a premonition of some dire misfortune. It was as if, until that moment, his abilities had desperately tried to shout to their bearer but could not. Even now, the feeling of distress was distant, barely perceptible.

Breaking the distance and reactivating the defenses, since the amulets could only incapacitate one heartbeat, were the kind of reflexes he had hammered into himself with an iron stick. You may not be a fighter, but you must be able to save yourself, as his mentor, now considered a historical figure, once told him. In his execution, such a technique takes almost no time at all.

And yet Sigmund didn't make it.

"Greetings." Said something completely sexless and completely devoid of emotion in a voice as perfect and melodic as it was alien to the concept of life. "And goodbye."

And then Sigmund Rooleim died before he even realized his death.

No one saw how the features of the strange creature blurred, how it bent over the lifeless body of the murdered man, whose death was not detected by the defense systems of his residence, how the figure turned into a stream of thick liquid, poured into the body of the dead Hero, how it rose to its feet, not the body of the Hero, how it looked around, and then went to sleep, perfectly copying the gait and reflexes of his victim.

If there were someone here who could read lips, he would be able to see how no longer Sigmund inaudibly uttered a single phrase.

"Sovereign will be pleased."

But this phrase was neither heard nor seen by anyone who could have prevented the speaker. Likewise, no one heard the same phrase repeated by several dozen high-ranking Eyes who had been working for the Empire of Ages for years, or even decades, giving no reason to doubt their loyalty.

And certainly, no one and nothing could see that somewhere out there smiled faintly at what was called the Sovereign.

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