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The smallest of details can easily remind you of the whole - a glimpse of a scene will draw an image of a film you've seen, and a scrap of a melody from a car passing by will form a song. Once you've seen it, it's hard to remember it, but it's easy to remember what's in your heart.

Goods without receipts, sales without a checkout, arrogance, and power. I know the title of a painting assembled from these phrases. It's called "The masters are far away and won't recognize anything".

Uncle Kolya told me a lot about aristocrats, something else I read myself. In these stories, there was no such thing as the nobles breaking their word. It was not in their nature to go against their promise. The losers were given freedom, though they could have become slaves. They were left with money, though they could have been driven out penniless. The victor showed mercy. And some rat in the building decided to ignore his master's word and line his own pockets.

Despite the anger clouding my mind, I had to admit that it would work out fine. Most people had already left and were unlikely to be charged any fees, which meant that all the claims of fabulous prices would be taken as lies of units against the truth of thousands. Even journalists are unlikely to take the story seriously, but if they do, they will be wary of acting against a powerful family with only words on their lips. And what proof could there be? There is no price on the tickets, and the only thing in the loan agreements is that someone has borrowed ten thousand roubles... And apparently does not want to give it back, trying to lie.

There is a lot of meanness and deceit in the adult world. But I have prepared for it well.

I seemed to want to pass this town quietly and peacefully, becoming a new person. Even now, I could do it - just wait half an hour, get on the bus, and arrive at the station. But in that case, this new me would turn out to be a trashy little man. And he certainly won't become an emperor.

I could not do otherwise. I couldn't have found a family and immediately become the perpetrator of its poverty. If it hadn't been for me, my father would have had a few thousand and a necklace. My sisters would have their jewelry. They would probably forgive me, but I would remember every moment of having to sell things and huddle in tiny rooms with the five of us. So I will go and get back what is rightfully my family's.

The bus station building offered a coolness that was palpable after the heat of the street - the sun was burning mercilessly by lunchtime, and the heated asphalt only added degrees, frying underneath. Taking a step inside, I leaned against the corner behind the door, looking carefully around the corridor and planning my next move.

There was no fear in me. Indeed, why be afraid of the rat? It should be the one to fear the light and noise - the publicity and anger of those who had put it there and whose reputation it was ruining. Especially as I am not alone - the star on my hand flashed a lively light and disappeared again into my closed palm.

Call for a fire, wait for the roar of the siren and the triggered fire extinguishing system flooding all around, and use the gift. In the artificial rain, cut through by electrical flares, walk over the bodies of enemies. Get to the local rat's hole - judging by the brazenness of its owner, it should be pretty good. Take everything, get the survivors to throw the loot on the bus, and leave town. That kind of money would justify the risk, and there are enough principalities in the empire where the local masters are very disliked.

I shook my head and said goodbye to the idea - bright and reckless. I wasn't alone. I couldn't fight without looking back. I had a family now, and I was responsible for them. So I had to act politely, trying not to bring trouble to those who had taken me in and shared their family name.

Besides, in the adult world things are much more complicated than in the small world of the boarding school, where everyone was responsible for his actions, and everyone could be charged for their fault. Even the rat has a boss in this world - his coat of arms is waving on the flagpole at the entrance if you look through the window. And the owner certainly won't be happy if a valuable pet is maimed. I wouldn't like it either if someone kicked Laika, even if it was ten times her fault because only I have the right to punish her.

The plan lined up on its own, coming together in a coherent chain of thoughts and actions, assumptions and old experiences.

I settled in an inconspicuous corner of the corridor, behind a massive tub of fern, patiently memorizing where people with badges on their chests were going and what they were holding in their hands. After a couple of minutes, the location of the kitchen became clear - bars and sodas were emerging from the left-hand corridor, moving in the hands of the staff to their workstations. I walked a little further, stopping at the sight of a new post with an armed man. There was no easy way through; it was unlikely that outsiders would be allowed into the inner kitchen. So he had to divert the guards' attention to something more interesting than a deserted corridor.

The metal flap of the electrical switchboard I had noticed beforehand caught my eye on the familiar zip and the yellow stencil warning. There was no lock on it, only a cunning fastener, which had to be pushed up and pulled - and then a straight row of black switches became accessible, with the room numbers printed on the yellowish sticky papers next to them. After clicking each one in sequence, I waited for a panicked shriek, full of grief and lost data, just outside the correct corridor.

"Tech is like that, yeah," I said sympathetically.

Even shook my head in empathy - how many unsaved games were lost in due course!

This switch I did not put back, leaving a very little gap between the working position, and with a sense of accomplishment, I moved to another part of the corridor to ensure that the passage I needed remained between me and the "knocked out" switch.

It was a good guess - a soldier arrived immediately at the desperate shouts, and he was also persuaded to fix it. So while the man slung his machine gun over his shoulder and shielded himself with the flap, scratching the back of his head as he looked inside the shield, I walked on quietly, moving towards the smell of freshly baked bread and fragrant coffee.

Everyone knows what distinguishes a chef from an ordinary person - a white coat and boundless trust in its wearer. After all, the food is taken from his hands. I needed a disguise and an excuse to talk to the boss here, and I saw no better opportunity than to be the one who feeds him for a few minutes.

The cafeteria sign next to the open door was clearly a relic from a time when the building was decorated with very different flags. So, too, was the ambiance of the spacious hall, with two dozen round tables, of which only two were occupied. By the refrigerated display case, shielded from the world by a high counter and a rectangle of the printed menu, sandwiched between two transparent panes, a salesman was bored, thoughtfully studying something on his phone. I didn't bother him and walked quietly to the right, to the door next to the delivery window. No one called out to me, though the door creaked loudly and twice. It was unlikely that strangers were waiting, and if someone was walking quietly into the interior, he must have a right to do so.

The adjoining room was flooded with light from four huge windows without curtains. The water rumbled loudly, pouring dishes into the iron sinks, the massive machines shook with their old bearings, the pots sizzled on the huge cookers, and three women in white dressing gowns and kerchiefs strode about, checking that the dishes were ready, referring to the large clock on the opposite wall and the opinion of the big man hovering over the three small pots on a separate cooker. He's the one I want - clearly the one in charge. After all, everyone knows that the bigger the belly, the more important the man.

"What do you want, kid?" He glared at me, stirring something tasty in a small saucepan.

"Your boss needs food," I pressed my will and tilted my head slightly.

"Not ready," he pursed his lips and, to his distress, caught my eye.

"Pass him the drinking water," I said imperiously, overriding the sounds of fire, water, metal, and his thoughts.

With the rustling of the other cooks' footsteps, as they hurried to shield the wide table from the perceived, though unintelligible, danger, I waited for my talent to overpower the character of an aged, and therefore experienced and strong, opponent. There was no magic in my voice.

One day I asked Oleg to observe my negotiations - one of the suppliers wanted more milk than before and encouraged the others not to pay less than the set price. He walked away, by the way, having lost five percent on the previous price.

And afterward, Oleg, slurping words, with a gaze full of delight, described how my body moved, how my companion tried to follow my movements, repeating them, but I immediately broke his attempts, distorting the reflected picture with an angular movement. In those seconds, he was lost, awkwardly stiff, his shoulders slumped, his eyes a fraction more vacant. A new attempt to repeat the gesture followed - and I continued to exhaust my will, moving my shoulders quite imperceptibly, changing my supporting leg. Until the one I needed something from stood there with a blank stare, swaying slightly from side to side. In this obsession, I could have demanded anything and would surely have received it - until, of course, the other person's mind had cleared, and there were logical questions for himself and me. So I tried not to ask for too much, taking just enough so my partner would limit himself to a quiet curse word and waving his hand with a wary look back.

"Water..." the cook repeated after me.

"You want to give me drinking water for your boss," I prompted him.

"Of course, here..." He strode to the corner cupboard and took out a packet of mineral water.

Without stopping, he pulled up a second and aimed for a third.

"That's enough. Stand up. Where am I supposed to take it?"

"To Valentin Andreyevich..." he said with the face of an emotionless puppet.

"How am I supposed to get there?"

"Out, right to the end of the corridor, show pass, lift to the fourth floor..." mumbled the head cook under the wary glances of his subordinates.

Hopefully, there won't be a problem because of them... I will, though.

"Give me the coat. Try to find one in my size," I squared my shoulders and raised my arms to show off my size.

The man strode to the cupboard near the entrance, almost without looking, pulled out a rack with a snow-white dressing gown from a row of similar ones, with an "Alexander" nametag attached. I took out the chef's hat myself, picked out the biggest one, and, spreading it slightly, put it on so that it covered my eyes and face for those who would be looking up.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Give me a pass."

A bronze plaque with a coat of arms appeared from a wide pocket and moved into my hand and then into the breast pocket of the coat I was wearing.

"And a cutlet."

"B-but we don't have..."

"That's too bad. But whatever. Feel good, don't worry, and be proud of yourself."

"I feel good," the man cheered, smiling shyly.

"Keep up the good work!" I pressed my voice one last time and left the kitchen to the growl of the head cook demanding the same.

The two packs of Evian were a bit heavy on my hands, so when I reached another post near the lift, I dropped my luggage with apparent pleasure.

"Where to?" the soldier said menacingly, giving me a suspicious look.

"Here, I'm taking it to the fourth," I pointed to the packs with one hand while pulling out a pass, "it's hot."

And then my stomach felt uncomfortably sick - what if they just took the water and brought it back themselves? What if they know Alexander, and I'm certainly not him at all?

"What about the chief?" The soldier relaxed a little.

"He's still cooking," I shrugged, answering honestly as I quietly exhaled the released tension. I think he'll be all right.

"Come in," he slammed the call button and then barked, without any transition, "And don't you dare put the lord's water on the floor. I'll flog you!"

"If you say so," I hummed, lifting the packages above the floor again.

Only after the doors slammed shut and the floor hit my feet lightly, marking the movement of the lift, did I exhale in full force. And then, I inhaled forcefully, quickly pumping the air through my lungs until I felt light-headed and light-headed. So on the fourth, I stepped out again, bright with a smile and curiosity - I wondered where and how the local chief villain lived.

There was another post near the lift, looking closely at the pass and inquiring about the health of the head cook. But, unlike the soldiers on the ground floor, these did not hesitate to rob their master of three bottles, emptying half of one of the packs. They even chuckled when I timidly asked for everything back. Three more bottles were taken by the soldiers near the massive door with the gilded nameplate "Stationmaster", but that was sort of the order of the day - it wasn't like the boss had two packs to drink, nor was it up to him to run around and take care of his servants' thirst. So it turns out I was right about the second pack.

They would not let me into the boss's office, but then I broke through on my own, angrily declaring that it was the only way to save the rest of my entrusted cargo. And I was even caught by the hood, which remained in the enemy's hands when the door slammed shut again - they were wary of making noise in front of the lord, quietly promising a whipping. Well, well.

A large office, with a single desk surrounded by roughly-wrought shelves with dozens of monitors, pushed close together, looked like a temporary shelter but in no way a place where the current owner intended to stay for a long time. The soft carpets were barely visible under the clutter of equipment and electrical cables, some of which had their ingenious way out straight through the window. The decorative fireplace by the wall to the left was littered with bags, some of which had been opened, revealing clothes - underwear and neatly rolled-up shirts. More or less could be passed directly beside the table and by the bar near the wall to the left of the table.

"Who are you?" A stern voice called out from behind a rack of monitors, and a frowning eye peered through the gap between the two of them.

"I brought water," I hugged the pack so my arms could be seen, reassuring the local boss.

"Throw it at the bar," he lost interest, continuing to click away busily at the keyboard.

"Yeah," I smiled at him and got a little closer to my goal.

With an audible crunch, the polyethylene packaging was ripped open and the bottles were laid out in a row - slowly so the boss, attracted by the sound, would lose interest in me again. Quietly I took the scarlet bowtie out of my shorts pocket, tucked it under my shirt collar, and looked carefully in the mirror of the bar - okay, I could work.

Taking one bottle and a clear glass with me, I walked leisurely to the table, looking around with interest at the head rat - nothing was in the way now, and the shelves with the monitors weren't blocking the view. And he didn't look like the head rat at all - nor did he look like a villain or a burglar. An ordinary guy in his twenties, terribly tired, with gray eyes that looked almost like mine if I didn't sleep for two or three more days. He is typing with concentration some text on a laptop screen, rolling up the sleeves of his once snow-white shirt, glancing from time to time at one of the black-and-white picture screens. He looks closely: on each monitor is a part of the building or the square in front of it. Sometimes the picture was moving, as if the camera were attached to a low-flying bird, and other times there was nothing on it but a flicker of white noise. And not a single image of stacks of money or treasures piled carelessly in a pile. Even in the study, I didn't notice a single note. However, that did not change the crime against me and my family.

"I told you..." Valentin said irritably, noticing me next to him.

But I was already carefully filling the glass, placing it on the table. I shrugged my shoulders guiltily and slid the glass over to the guy.

"Now get out," he muttered, glancing at the water for a moment before returning to the text.

"You could have said thank you," I complained, moving the starlight to my right palm.

"What?" he twitched in a superior roar but was lightly pressed by me by the neck with my left hand, with a simultaneous outpouring of Curiosity.

"Courtesy, Valentine," I said again, another flicker of my gift stopping his attempt to summon strength, "and honesty with nobility."

A star flashed in my right hand and, accompanied by my palm, sailed towards the water glass. Then it slowly plunged into the middle of the glass, lighting up the glass with beautiful flashes. The star didn't care where it lived - it was a distant relative of my gift, but it had once passed quietly through my body.

The lad squirmed in his chair, looking back and forth between me and the glass.

"W-what do you want?" he squeezed out, getting a new shock for moving his hands suspiciously under the table.

"Drink up, don't be shy," I offered in a friendly manner.

"I will not drink that!" the boss resented loudly.

"Then I'll just kill you," I smiled back, bringing the glass to his lips. "Come on, don't make me knock your teeth out with that wonderful glass. Ahm?"

With a bit of persuasion and electricity, a sip of the star-spangled soda easily slipped inside the body.

"You see, it's all right," I patted his cheek with my hand free from the glass. "Don't make sudden moves, and the star won't burn your insides. I'll put it away later, don't worry."

With my left hand still resting on his neck, I 'tuned out' the distance to the star - indeed, I didn't want to hurt this man at all, but I needed assurance of his sensible behavior.

"What am I supposed to do?" He breathed loudly.

"I need to communicate with your master," I told him calmly, nodding toward the screen.

There was no cell phone service in the city, and the phones in the common room were monitored - and so were the calls on them. The rank-and-file staff was unlikely to have access to decision-makers, but the master of the office was definitely connected - the familiar icon glowed green in the lower right corner of the monitor.

"I have no master!"

"That's what you think," I hummed. "Show me the contact list."

With a slightly trembling hand and a couple of grimaces of pain in his stomach, the lad displayed the internet phone window on the screen.

A massive list, most of which was in the same style - surname, first name, patronymic, without a single comment or photo. Even taking only those whose surname was also the name of the winning clan, choosing from among the twelve entries could have resulted in calls to strangers, wasted time, and the threat of failure.

"The sixth line from the top," I made my choice. "Where it says, Dad."

"M-maybe we shouldn't?" The boss of the whole station timidly clarified.

Grabbing the flat clicker, I confidently clicked on the call and began patiently counting the trill of the bell.

"Valik, I'm very busy," muttered the screen at the same time as the picture appeared on the screen - a stout man was sitting at a wide table, patiently reading through one of a dozen filed sheets in the folder in front of him. Behind him was a corner of the fireplace, littered with small statues, and on the other side, a table with three old-fashioned telephones without a disk.

"Greetings, honorable man," I managed to say before the son of this honorable man uttered nonsense about assault and seizure.

The man on the screen jerked up at the unfamiliar voice and deigned to look through the peephole of the video camera.

"I apologize for having to distract you from important business," I continued. "Unfortunately, the matter cannot be delayed. My family and I had to pay ten thousand roubles for our ticket when we left this beautiful city. When we were short of money, your kind servants agreed to take our gold as payment leaving us destitute. The same has befallen the other refugees, and they all now think that your clan's word guaranteeing the safety of their hand luggage means nothing."

The man on the screen listened intently, frowning from sentence to sentence. Toward the end, his face turned an angry blush, and his palms balled into fists. He must have noticed my hand on his son's neck - no wonder he hadn't - and he was angry. Apparently, honor is not as important in this world as Uncle Kolya had told me...

"Valentine, is it true?" The other side asked in a low voice.

"N-not really... I mean..." the lad twitched in my arms.

"V-Valentine...!" he hissed like a king cobra, moving closer to the screen and sweeping the file aside. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

"P-papa, I just..." the lad quipped.

"Don't you dare interrupt your father!" It came from the screen so loud that the loudspeakers whistled. "How dare you, you scumbag?"

"I'll answer it myself!" Valentine straightened up proudly, so much so that I had to hold him by the neck to keep the star inside him from hurting his stomach.

"Our whole family will be held accountable!!! You, me, your mother, and your brothers!" The neat stack of papers shattered in an angry blow. "Pray the elders don't find out before I get it right! I'm flying out to you immediately," the man gathered himself, managing to completely deny all emotion in an instant, turning into an emotionless statue of himself. Only the collar of his shirt was disheveled, giving away the recent storm.

"Ahem," I pointed out to myself. "If all this turned out to be an unfortunate mistake..."

"No doubt about it, it is! Uh, young man...? Would you mind giving me your name so I can make a full apology? And I'm not entirely comfortable talking to your coat, arm, and dainty bowtie."

"My name is Maxim, and it will be enough for me if my family gets back what was taken because of... a mistake. Unfortunately, I can't move to get into the frame, or your son will die," I added sadness to my voice.

"Erm, of course, you'll get your money back..." The monolithic mask trembled, betraying the anxiety of his son. "Please don't punish Valentine too severely. This is his first time in that position."

"Daddy!" the boy jerked. And again, he had to be held firmly by the neck.

"Shut up!" His father shouted sternly at him.

"I didn't come for his life, but I wouldn't mind a souvenir. Would that be fair, don't you think?"

"But there have to be certain limits..." The man somehow hesitated, staring blankly at the back of his son's neck.

"Oh, they will be respected," I said eagerly. "I'll take what your son is unlikely to need."

"Wait!" The boy's father's in a hurry. "Take what you want, but don't kill him!"

Hmm. I stared at Valentine's horrified eyes, my hand on his neck, and compared that to his father's reaction. Did they think I needed his head as a keepsake?

"Son, have you heard?" Andrei took my silence as a thought or an invitation to bargain. "You will give him whatever he asks for!"

"I could use assurances of safety for me and my family," I added. "I wouldn't want to kill anyone and darken the day further."

"Consider that you have them," they nodded confidently from the screen. "Valentine, do you understand?"

"Yes, Father," the boy whispered.

"Wait for me. I'll be there soon," his father threatened in the end.

The screen reflected a call completion sign.

"That's the talk," I summed up happily. "Relax now. I'll take the star back."

It wasn't difficult to remove the star from his body, just to reduce its size, taking Curiosity and passing it through his skin - almost painless, judging by the slight cramp in Valentine's body.

"Come on, I'm in a hurry," I voiced, sipping happily from the open bottle. "They're expecting me in half an hour, so I need to get there before then."

"Mind you. The valuables haven't been counted. I don't know how much is there," the boy said in a hushed voice. "What are you interested in first?"

I listened to my thoughts and, to my surprise, found no money or jewelry in the foreground. There was something else entirely.

"Justice."

I threw off my coat and left my badge on the table. I asked Valentine to accompany me to the cashier's room. The guards at the door, if they twitched at my sight, were immediately silenced by the boss's commanding gesture, so we got to the right room without any trouble, and soon we were watching a mournful queue shrouded in a cloud of hopelessness and confusion.

"Order money and boxes of jewelry ready. I need to find my sisters' jewelry," I asked him while I headed for the cash register where a married couple with a young daughter was emptying their pockets.

"No need," I interrupted their conversation. "The tickets are free. Take your money."

"Hey, you!" the cashier said indignantly, looking back at the soldier.

"Not to interfere," Valentine said in an authoritative voice, cutting off any objections. "And yes, from now on tickets are free. For those who've already bought them, they're all refundable. I... apologize." The last word was a little hard as if he thought he was still doing the right thing.

It doesn't matter what he thinks, though - his father will probably explain to him what is right and what is wrong.

"What do you have to say?" I turned again to the couple.

"T-thank you?" the woman smiled timidly.

"Glory to the Emperor," I corrected her weightily.

"Get the money now!" the voice of the head man behind me snapped hysterically.

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Chapter 24

Colorful world