The engine hums steadily, a soothing backdrop to the meditative, barely audible breathing of the "twins" from behind. In the front seat next to the driver, Nein crinkles a wrapper of some chocolate. Maya, evidently ill at ease, has found my sleeve again, her hand clutching it; though she likely isn't even aware of the gesture. Her thoughts are somewhere far away. Across from me, Zanh Kiem lounges in a relaxed pose, eyes closed, his fingers occasionally grazing over the worn, old volume of a French poet.
Silence...
There's nothing to impede my thoughts, which are racing around my mind like wild mustangs. I'm scared, truth be told. And no, not due to the terrorist attack or the threat of Eshin. And not because I have no idea where we're heading. The man seated opposite incites a fear in me that brings on a bout of the collywobbles. The Gifted. I understand he's not an immediate threat, I do. It's fear of the unknown. Even my encounter with Tu Chong didn't make such an impression. What truly is the power of sensums of this magnitude? What games are they capable of playing, given their foresight? Now I realize, if the clerics ever sought to seize power in the world, it's unlikely that even the combined force of all the shapeshifters could hinder them. What are strength, animal power, speed, and the fabled regeneration of shapeshifters compared to the abilities of the Makers? Insignificant.
On the other hand, there are slightly over a hundred sensums in the world who have reached this rank, and each follows their own path. No, that's not quite right - each has their own Path, capital P; that's more accurate. They simply have no interest in authority - their lives are dedicated to Service. It doesn't matter what they serve: Ideals, Providence, people, science, art, or something else. For instance, Retribution...
And now the path of my life has intersected with one of these superhumans, touched his Path, and is being swept up into some game, like into a raging whirlpool. To feel like a helpless piece of driftwood being swept along by a storm of incredible power... This, to put it mildly, makes me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable to the point of toe-curling cramps. I don't want to be a pawn in incomprehensible games, but I understand I have no choice; I've led myself into this situation. I did it to myself. I have no illusions about this - my own decisions and actions led me to this seat in a weather-beaten minibus, speeding through the city, barely noticing the traffic jams. My fear almost makes me despise myself.
What will the Maker say when he addresses me next?
Zanh Kiem remains silent.
And I find myself cherishing this silence, more than I can express.
But all good things must come to an end. Including this blessed...
Silence.
"Rui! Take the south highway and keep up with traffic," Zanh Kiem's voice pulls me out of my self-reflective abyss. "Don't floor the pedal. Ensure they haven't lost us."
"Understood, lao ban," Rui responds. If she's dissatisfied with the order, she gives no indication.
"Master Maestro," the Maker addresses me, and it takes a great effort not to flinch at his words. "You are a fascinating individual, even among other Break Knights." I steady myself. He's just sharing his thoughts, nothing more. Nothing more. "Now I understand the two swords of your projection."
Wait! What?! No, the fact that he saw two soul fragments in my aura doesn't concern me - if one Maker could, why couldn't another? But didn't Tu Chong inform the other clerics that I was a reincarnate? It seems he didn't, but why?
"No, Miss Maya," Zanh Kiem's smile fades as he addresses the Knight girl. "You'll have to find this answer yourself. It's not my secret to reveal." His wink after these words seems overly contrived, but perhaps it's just my nerves playing tricks. "By the way, I reviewed the reports from your Mentor during the flight." Maya visibly stiffens at these words. "They mention a 'prediction.' Although in reality, it's not a prediction as laymen understand it. It's a vision of ONE or SEVERAL potential futures. Do you understand what I'm referring to now?"
"Yes," the girl answers quietly, then gathers herself, clears her throat, and continues in a more assured voice. "Robots..."
"Let's call them 'robots' then. The main thing is that you understand what it refers to." Maya nods in response. "I'll add a small clarification. 'Robots' are as reliant on you as you are on them."
My memory helpfully provides a flashback, a recording of a conversation from the internal chat of BKDW. Maya wrote, "Two weeks ago, my mentor told me: how long you live depends on something related to robots." If I'm not mistaken, the girl herself links this prediction with Izao's personality, that is, with me. In that case, I can interpret Zanh Kiem's clarification: "How long you live, Master Maestro, depends on the one who is sitting next to you right now."
"Does your statement imply that 'robots' are a specific person?" Maya quickly pulls herself together to ask the right question.
"I can't provide a direct answer to your question," Zanh Kiem shrugs.
"Is it because you don't know, or because you don't want to tell?" Maya finds her footing, holding her own admirably. She may be sweet and pretty, but she's relentless when she sets her mind to it. Her eyes now hold a fiery spark of youthful zeal, which respects neither fear nor authority.
"It's because you won't understand the answer," The Maker replies sincerely, without a hint of mockery.
"What do you mean?"
"A prophecy isn't always a vision, a divine voice, or sudden enlightenment. Sometimes it comes as something ineffable, more elusive than fog, more blurred than a drop of ink falling into the ocean."
"So, you're saying you don't know." Maya nods more to herself than to anyone else. She's fearless. I wouldn't dare speak so candidly to a Maker.
"Eh!" Zanh Kiem gives a genuine smile. "If only I were ten years younger..."
Understanding the implication of his words, Maya blushes, falls silent, and becomes visibly flustered. This seems to amuse Zanh Kiem, who clearly enjoys her shifts in mood.
"You're extraordinary," the Maker says to Maya, his voice devoid of any awkwardness. "And I'm not referring to your looks. Your aura is exceptionally bright and pure, without any half-tones. It's akin to raw, unfiltered fire." His tone grows serious. "You'll burn quickly, brilliantly, and wildly. You need an anchor, your antithesis. Find your water, fire girl, before you consume yourself. And no, this isn't a prophecy, merely my personal experience..." At this point, his fingers tap the cover of the volume of poetry in his hand and he gives an abrupt command. "Rui! Turn left, now!"
The minibus lurches so violently that I barely manage to catch Maya as she topples out of her unfastened seat. The wheels on the right side momentarily lose contact with the ground, but within a couple of heartbeats, the vehicle regains its balance and is back on all four wheels.
I help Maya back into her seat and glance out of the window. The scenery has changed; the highway asphalt has given way to a winding country road nestled between rolling hills. Rui slows the van, which moves almost silently on its auxiliary electric motor. Only the hum of the tires on the gravel road breaks the sudden silence. However, the tranquil journey doesn't last long - barely three minutes have passed since the abrupt turn when the minibus grinds to a halt.
"Lao ban, there's a gate ahead. Should we proceed?" There was a hint of anticipation in Rui's voice, as if she was eager for her boss to give her the green light to blast the obstacle out of their way.
"No, we've arrived," Zanh Kiem puts the volume of poetry aside and stretches. "Now we wait."
It becomes apparent what we're waiting for within a few minutes, as two familiar dark SUVs pull up behind us, followed by a police car that seems to arrive rather reluctantly.
"Disembark," the Maker commands, opening the door of the minibus.
As soon as I step onto the ground, I realize how tense my body is — not from the discomfort of the minibus seats, but due to the high-stress nature of the journey. Furthermore, I've grown to detest my disguise, particularly the tight motorcycle suit that makes me feel as if I'm in a stifling sauna given the heat.
"Gentlemen," the head of the Third Palm addresses the two shapeshifters frozen next to their black cars, "We'll proceed without you. Don't worry — we'll call you once we've performed our own investigation."
"We have no objections," Tunk promptly replies for both of them, folding his arms across his chest. It seems that when it comes to negotiations with the clerics, he takes the lead in this pair of House on the Hill representatives.
"You'll stay here too, for now," Zanh Kiem informs his team, asserting his authority. "I'll scout ahead first."
"I'm not just going to stand here and wait for something to happen!" Maya is far more impulsive and fearless than I am.
"Miss Maya," the Maker sighs heavily, sounding like a weary parent trying to explain something for the umpteenth time to a mischievous child. "I need to examine the untouched auras of this place, objects, and so on. Any foreign presence can interfere with this delicate task. However," he pauses for a moment, "I wouldn't mind if you and Master Maestro accompany me — not physically, but in the form of projection."
Ra-a-a-a-i-i-i-ig!!!
No further persuasion is needed. Maya and I transition into the Break simultaneously and do so with evident relief.
What an indescribable sense of liberation! Just moments ago, your body was suffering in the unbearable heat, but now you feel almost weightless and overflowing with energy. All the fears, all the nervous tension, fade into a faint echo. Your mind clears.
The first thing I do is study the five from Retribution. Curiously, Nein, as well as the pair of "twins," seem to be no higher than Contemplators — they're only at the second stage. This is slightly surprising, but perhaps their specific talents that Zanh Kiem mentioned compensate for their rank. Rui is definitely a Seer, with her energy lines emanating rich green hues. The head of the Third Palm, as I've suspected from the start, is a Maker. But unlike Hyungang Tu Chong, the light he radiates doesn't resemble the Sun, but rather an active volcano.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
I steal a quick glance at Maya. Unfortunately, my perception is too limited to detect the radiant aura Zanh Kiem mentioned. All I can see is her projection, devoid of any hint of nuanced energy. However, I do notice that her armor appears darker than I recall from our last encounter, becoming impenetrable black in some places.
In response, the Knight girl studies me, and surprise flickers in her eyes.
"I hadn't noticed it before, but now it's clear: your projection is much taller than your physical body. Is that even possible?"
Damn it! She's spotted the discrepancy. The difference in height is obvious, especially as we'd just been standing side by side in the physical world and then shifted to the Break at the same time, within arm's length of each other.
"As Zanh Kiem mentioned, I'm a bit different from other raigs," I respond nonchalantly, shrugging as if the subject isn't as intriguing as it might warrant discussion.
Maya appears to have a different opinion and looks ready to probe further, but the Maker saves me. Opening the gate, he gestures emphatically for us to follow him.
As the girl moves ahead, I study the Castle's emissaries, but find nothing noteworthy. The shapeshifters resemble any other of their kind. I've learned to distinguish shapeshifters from ordinary people while in the Break, but I'm still at a loss when it comes to discerning their families, species, or the level of control they have in human form. Perhaps it's theoretically impossible to notice these differences from the Break. I'll need to inquire with other raigs if they can tell the difference. But that's not a question that requires an immediate answer — I'll revisit it later.
Beyond the low wooden lattice gate, a narrow, sandy path wide enough for just one car winds its way forward. Yellowed and sun-faded signs hang on the gate, declaring "Private property" and "No entry without invitation."
The sandy path skirts around a hill blanketed in thick bushes and leads to a small parking lot, with space for no more than two cars. The lot is currently empty, but I notice fresh tire tracks in the sand — tracks that were undoubtedly left by more than one vehicle.
Zanh Kiem leads the way without pausing to look around. The petals of his radiant aura occasionally dart in various directions. One such tendril of energy lines traces the tire tracks, pausing for a moment before retracting. Following closely behind the Maker, careful not to pass him, is Maya, with me bringing up the rear of our small group.
Beyond the parking lot, a footpath made of red stones takes off. Meandering between tall bushes that were clearly planted with purpose here, almost as tall as myself, it leads up another fairly steep hill. Halfway up, the head of the Third Palm halts, takes in a deep breath, and reaches out to one of the bushes. His fingers graze the leaves, and he freezes, lost in thought for nearly a minute. Then he nods, as if agreeing with his internal musings, and continues on. I inspect the bush as I pass, but fail to detect any distinguishing features — it seems unremarkable no matter how I look at it.
The higher we climb, the slower Zanh Kiem's pace becomes. It's as if with each step, an unseen weight is incrementally added to his shoulders, growing heavier and heavier. His aura intensifies, increasingly suffused with vibrant scarlet hues. I'm unsure what such a change implies, but my gut instinct tells me it's a foreboding sign.
Upon reaching the summit, the path descends straight as an arrow, leading to a modest, one-story house with a nearly flat sloping roof, swallowed by the surrounding vegetation. It's less a house, more a country bungalow. I've seen many like it: log walls up to mid-window frame, then thin boards, topped with a light roof propped on stilts. It's a building designed for a temperate climate, more suited as a summer retreat than a full-fledged residence.
Approaching the bungalow, the Maker places his palms against the wall. His aura flares, encompassing the entire structure for a brief moment. Once the flash subsides, Zanh Kiem seems to have shrunk by a few centimeters, although his actual height remains unchanged.
The side of the house we approach looks quite ordinary. But as I follow the envoy of Retribution inside, the scene changes dramatically — a picture of near-total destruction unveils itself. Instinctively, I recoil, but then remembering my state in the Break, I step over the threshold.
How many times have I witnessed this? I've lost count. Broken furniture, shattered windows, and the telltale signs of violence on the walls — a gunfight took place here. Quite recently too, no more than a day ago. I approach one of the walls and scrutinize the indentations. Not a handgun, clearly. The pattern of holes suggests that an entire magazine was emptied here. Automatic weapons, mid-caliber, something akin to six or seven millimeters. And they didn't fire from just one gun. The more I observe, the more details become evident. For instance, the table — someone fell onto it, smashing it. Deep marks on the windowsill suggest someone clung to it desperately. An overturned chair is riddled with bullet holes, but there are no bullet marks behind the chair on the wall or the floor. I know exactly what this indicates.
Here's another peculiarity — it's not a firearm's mark. I lean in for a closer inspection. It seems like someone slashed the wall with a sword. But that's preposterous! Swords? The bullet density suggests that an entire squad had been given carte blanche to unleash their ammunition. In such a firefight, there's no room for melee weapons.
What's even more astonishing is the utter lack of blood traces. The absence of corpses, discarded weapons or casings on the floor is somewhat comprehensible. However, someone has meticulously extracted all the bullets and erased all traces of blood. There was blood here, of that I'm certain, and plenty of it. I'm no forensic expert, but I've seen aftermaths of battles. Hence, I scrutinize the bungalow thoroughly, to the point of losing track of time. Yet, I find no leads. My search is abruptly interrupted by a sharp cry from Zanh Kiem:
"Stop! Maya! I understand, but do not approach, even in your projection! Do not interfere."
In two bounds, I'm out of the building. Behind the bungalow lies a small platform that bears a faint resemblance to the smaller version of the meditative circle of the Abode of Knowledge: the same stone, pattern, and majestic view of the bay.
In the center of the site, the Maker is bent over a body dressed in an orange robe.
Just five steps away from the sensum, Maya stands still, her fists clenched. I never considered it possible to turn pale in the Break, but as I look at her, I realize — it is possible.
I draw nearer.
On the stones, in a funereal pose with hands folded on his stomach, lies a familiar figure. His chest bears two wide punctures in the region of the heart — neither bullets nor knives made these. They're too broad, distinctive — sword wounds. If I could get closer, I could probably discern the blade type. But respecting Zanh Kiem's warning, I maintain a distance. I simply step behind Maya, resting my hands on her shoulders.
Hyungang Tu Chong's lifeless face bears an expression of profound sorrow — more than fear, resolve, or pity. His body was carefully arranged in this position, showing respect for the former Abbot of the Abode of Knowledge. Whoever slew him didn't dare to desecrate his body; on the contrary, they bestowed all due honor.
"I didn't know Hyungang very well," Zanh Kiem says, closing the deceased's eyes. "We weren't friends, but I held him in sincere regard. He was a true man. He lived vibrantly and died taking down at least three dozen adversaries — not ordinary foes, but highly skilled killers, top-notch mercenaries, and shapeshifters." The Maker rises to his feet, looking at our projections. "His death isn't a challenge to the clerics. It was a necessary act. If he hadn't been killed, I'm certain Hyungang could have anticipated and thwarted Eshin's terrorist attack. He saw in you, the Break Knights, his destiny; a connection existed. But probably no one understands such subtleties better than Eshin. To obscure Hyungang's abilities, they had to risk his life at the very least or kill him at most. Alas, we, Makers, are not emotionless machines — if our lives are in genuine danger, our perception of everything else diminishes, as if someone has dropped a veil of ignorance on our inner gaze. He was killed to kill you..."
I understand that when he refers to "you," he isn't specifically indicating Maya or myself.
Zanh Kiem takes a few steps and halts just one step short of the Knight girl. I'm unsure how he perceives our projections, how he differentiates them, but his gaze meets Maya's eyes.
"Hyungang Tu Chong suffered an awful death. The most dreadful of all possible ends for us, Makers. And the crux here isn't HOW he was killed, but what he comprehended at the moment of his death. He realized his error, and his death would precipitate the demise of the Break Knights. The death of those he cherished profoundly. Loved, yet was unable to protect."
The girl's projection under my palms seems to petrify. However, it's fortunate that we are in the Break at present; I'm uncertain how Maya would have reacted to what she observed and these words if she were in her physical form. The Break blunts emotions and soothes the mind, so Maya places her hand on her sword's hilt, but she doesn't charge into battle, doesn't cry, just stands there, even though I can sense the deep pain she's experiencing now.
Very...
Very...
Painful.