Interlude: "The Reason for Everything" (Patreon)

Interlude: "The Reason for Everything"

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In recent months, Lawrence Farans, Master Investigator and Grand Detective of the thirty-eighth level was in the mood when more than anything else in the world, he wanted to send all his entourage to the monsters in Hell and submit his resignation. He has stopped only unwillingness to fall into the inevitable disgrace and a clear understanding that no one would not let him into this retirement. He knew too many secrets because of his position, and after the recent purges, these secrets became so many that he could only retire in his grave.

The consequences of the mysterious attack on what was arguably Melareth's most important strategic node were still being dealt with, even though the Eternal Empire, which had funded the creation of the lacuna that had fallen into the Mist, had taken note of the Royal Office's version of events. Probably because the sabotage was executed with a level of skill that suggests that Melareth was simply out of the league.

If the wolves of Atkins had simply been defeated, deceived, and taken advantage of the weaknesses available to achieve their goal, then the conversation would have been very different. It was Melaret who had made the mistake, who had misjudged, who had relaxed too much. But when such a defensible fort ceases to exist in a few hours, leaving practically no survivors, leaving no traces, no clues, and the Shoreless Eye finds only emptiness and scraps of bygone trivial events... Here it is clear even to an idiot that it was not the old and familiar enemies, like Sorz, but someone very strong, experienced, and hitherto unknown.

The ambassadors and diplomats of Eternal accepted this version with some squeaks, but they accepted it. Largely because they could not give their own. Even after escaping the wrath of longtime creditors and allies, Melareth found itself on the brink of the biggest crisis in forty years. The death of an exorbitant number of elite soldiers is bad. The death of Ferer Roche, who is the kingdom's strongest ritualist and a leading expert in a dozen top-secret projects, is terrible. The complete destruction of the spatial fold, with all the accumulated equipment and the warehouse of super-valuable artifacts, among which there were even those recognized as legendary, is a nightmare. The disappearance of all, that is, all the works, which were stored in this place in a single copy because it is dangerous to make copies, can be equated to a disaster.

Then there were long weeks of ceaseless work, which made his head ache and his nose bleed. There were attempts to track down some of the vanished retinue, for which there was not even enough time because His Majesty demanded answers, at least some answers. Futile inquiries were sent to the Chancery of Intelligence, which had enough of its own rubble. And this all-encompassing and soul-killing, even seemingly eternal lack of time, turns a proud and powerful nobleman into a shadow of his former self. That time had passed, but the consequences of that time had to be dealt with even now. And for years to come.

At the very least, Lawrence is eager to understand who and why arranged for his entourage to "walk off into nowhere" just weeks before all this fuss began. He would gladly attribute Bastian's disappearance to attempts to reach his great-uncle's heart. The apprentice was pretty close by blood, and that's a great way to create a beacon for some creature to attack. Or to punch a way in through a spatial anomaly.

The disappearance of his staff priest did not arouse suspicion at first. Despite all attempts to control him, Shyngys went on long binges, sprees, or other adventures, from which it was not so easy to get this drunkard out. Whatever his past, the perpetually drunken brute was very good at laying low. While he was able to find out about the death of his apprentice, while he was tying these facts together, while he was thinking about the missing road priest... well, here we go.

Lawrence, who had managed to find a new priest and assistant (much less talented and promising), had only recently been able to return to work on the matter. He had recently returned from purging the spontaneous opposition, which had nearly turned into a rebellion - the sovereign was very angry at the former lacuna operators, who had the blood of the World of Infinite Mists in them. Farans himself did not share the official version that it was the Valtinor and Paarimis, resentful of the King's edicts curtailing their rights, who had surrendered the Stone's security signatures to enemy agents. But he kept silent - these families were no friends of his family, and their blood, lands, and holdings were coveted by too many.

Alas, these two old and powerful houses not only had their own armies, but also a host of allies, debtors, and sympathizers (who feared to be next). The mutiny did not erupt, for through the titanic efforts of the royal services, including Lawrence himself, the main instigators and key figures of the impending turmoil was captured or eliminated. The others were either appeased, reconciled, bribed, or quite officially executed.

He was able to exhale... a little bit.

And begin to clear the piles of accumulated debts, resentments, and insults as well as rewards, encouragements, and unresolved tasks. The list of which included the fate of his apprentice. Still, the detective did not have much faith in the basic version. There was no sign of any protection being broken by the blood ritual. There just wasn't. And hiding them from the Eye was so difficult that it was easier to find another way into the Stone.

And so began what Lawrence Farans was hated for - no clairvoyance, no visions or insights, a minimum of intuition. Only a cold mind, relentless logic, and the ability to process monstrous amounts of information in a short time. Even before his death, his apprentice had been working on the Red Knot issue, deeming the event important enough to devote more time to it.

Justifiably so, for the event was quite unusual, ending in the death of one of the largest courtiers in the entire kingdom. The mentor did not immediately take up the latest documents he had requested through his name. Or rather, not so. He found out at once but did not pay proper attention due to the workload and his levity, which for the owner of his class and profession, is still a shame.

The boy had long been interested in the subject of using the summoned, which annoyed Lawrence somewhat. But wisdom must be gained by specialists, as well as mistakes. It was a touchy subject, but it was a permissible one for an apprentice to one who would in the future Head the kingdom's Secret Service (now, due to major purges, the issue was almost resolved). But if Lawrence had dug a little deeper...

To begin with, there was no information about Bastian's last requests, which at the time were not listed as dead, but only as abducted, in the files of the archives. The amulet was recorded in the fields of the Royal Library, but the amulet itself was missing along with the apprentice, and the logs of reports and materials issued were simply missing several pages. And they were so cunningly missing that you wouldn't even know they'd been taken and swapped. Without Farens' intervention, they might not have been noticed at all, not even out of spite, but because of the skill of the forgery.

It gets worse: every single witness who spoke to young Roche on the day he received his last packet of scrolls, everyone who helped him search for them, is either mysteriously missing or not mysteriously dead. Time has passed, but for Lawrence and his class, time is no barrier, even if it is a far more effective tool than he would like to admit.

Someone fell down the stairs, another was poisoned by mushrooms, a third was hit on the head in the alley and his head accidentally fell on a pebble, and by morning he had passed on to a better world. A quick exhumation of all the bodies confirmed the truth of all versions - the poisoned man had really been poisoned not by a special poison but by stale and poorly cooked food. This was not the first time he had suffered from indiscriminate eating, so no one was surprised by the situation, even though everyone he knew was saddened.

But a little closer scrutiny, expressed by exhuming the corpse and paying for the work of a rather specialized necromancer, revealed something else. For example, the little nuance that the dead man's last meal had so much harmful fungus and mold in it as if he had chewed the purest rotten meat rather than a slightly tainted dish. There was more, for every one of the dead was exactly murdered.

Unfortunately fell down the stairs.

Robbery in a dark alley.

Fall from a high shelf and the fall of that shelf on the fallen person.

It's hard to dig it up, but Lawrence didn't need to prove malice to the judge. He is a judge and executioner if need be, and simple logic dictates that such accidental deaths associated with the disappearance of his apprentice are not accidental at all. After that, it was easy enough to piece together what happened and the disappearance of his staff priest. He was rumored to have joined the priesthood from the liquidators.

The Great Detective class gives no bonuses to intuition, post cognition, or foresight, which often makes life very difficult for its owner. Lawrence can piece together any pictures if given the information - that's why he joined the Royal Inquirers, because, without the state machine behind him, his class loses the lion's share of its advantages, turning them into disadvantages. Except even after understanding who killed Bastian, Lawrence could not understand why he did it.

Well, he wasn't connected to the Red Snork, was he?

And then began the epic with the failed mutiny, during which the case of Shyngys and Bastian had to be put in a box so that he would not lie in such a box - it was a bad crisis when many cases fell on one man at once. Against the background of a successful terrorist attack, His Majesty trusted almost no one, and Lawrence, as one of those who was trusted, had to put the cause of the almost certain betrayal of Shyngys out of his mind for many long months. Limited himself to sending a standard message to the secret guard so they knew about the frame-up and the possible re-recruitment of their retired man.

Time passed, webs of intrigue unraveled, rebels were apprehended, and he even occasionally returned to a forgotten problem. He even used the services (reciprocated, come to think of it) of one of the kingdom's strongest seers. Persea Tiaram was an experienced Seer and, like him, had every chance of leading all the king's seers at the end of the turmoil. Old Bernard, for all his patronage, was clearly not holding his ground - it was he, not without Perseia's participation, who had been responsible for the failed search for saboteurs and the damaged Eye.

The work on the troublemakers had to be done with minimal use of the mythical artifact, and here Lady Tiram showed her best side, surpassing Bernard, who had grown quite old and unused to working outside the all-penetrating gaze of the Eye. Alas, but tired as he was, the woman could only confirm Bastian's death and also point out the near-perfect sweeping of the picture of events from any attempts of insight. He'd figured that out without her, but where one thing didn't work out, another did.

Lawrence would lead the Inquirers in the next couple of years, and Persea would take the same position with the Seers. The very search for the great ritualist's missing grandson was the perfect occasion to discuss a possible alliance. The alliance was recognized by both participants as a very promising course of action. They had nothing to divide, even in theory, but they would be working under very similar conditions - it was very logical to stick together in such a situation. The Seer is the best friend of interrogators and detectives because these classes complement each other perfectly, and without the help of a comrade they lose effectiveness.

Bastian has forgotten again. Even Lawrence, though he felt the lack of a grasping and executive guy, had no time, no energy, and no desire to pretend to mourn. But every crisis ends, as happened with the present one. And now the detective had time to deal with old questions and a heap of new ones.

To begin with, when he attempted to obtain from the Secret Service a detailed and complete dossier of the priest who had once been implanted in him, Lawrence was softly and gently sent to the devils. This is given his present position, which is well-established and close to the throne! And from an organization that had been fulfilling his requests and demands for a couple of months now, allowing himself only a quiet "will be done"! From such impudence Lawrence even found time to go to the capital's Secret Guard Corps, directly to the next - the fifth in the period of turmoil - interim head.

The interim looked at him with the melancholy look of a gallows man, pointing to the document with the royal seal - the order to refuse the request came directly from His Majesty's Chancery, that was another matter altogether. At the same time, he was told in confidence that though the priest of Ansham-Nar, named Shyngys, was assigned to the secret guard, the assignment was imposed on them by a direct decree of someone who, if not sitting on the throne, was standing beside him.

Lawrence was an intelligent and understanding man, but he was also inquisitive - his class demanded it. He was also sensible about his importance to the Crown, so he sent a second request to the Chancery. He reasonably thought that in such a mess, his request might have been ignored simply out of inertia... or by the will of some possible ill-wishers who saw one of their people in the chair he had been promised.

The request went out, and after a week, during which the detective uncovered several more networks of malicious elements (left without the patronage of smugglers, to be exact), he received a reply. Well, not exactly the answer. An invitation for a private conversation and far from someone in the office. Another invitation, to which you can only attend or run away from the country, changing citizenship and hoping they will not catch up. And even then, there is little chance.

Virgil Ariala Pinementron was the one who ran all of Melareth's combat operations outside of Melareth's territory and jurisdiction. She didn't lead armies, though she did show her talents as a commander. All the liquidators and saboteurs went under her orders and practically prayed to this lady. The great aunt of the current King, whose fame came precisely in his reign, had the tenacity of a crocodile, the greed of a wolverine, and the bloodthirstiness of a marten. And she never forgot anything, good or bad, about anyone.

She has worked hard to build a reputation as someone who would destroy the life of even an entire count because of one careless comment about her person, but for some time, she is simply feared to be touched. Even those who would, in fact, be her equals. Not to mention her inferiors, whom she harasses mercilessly. On the other hand, this well-respected lady is always worthy of reward - many people go to her department, despite the high mortality rate and the likelihood that you will be recognized as having "nothing to do with Melareth". They go because the reward always goes to those who deserve it, not to the next relative or lover.

It is a very delicate topic - in unofficial operations, there is no place for careerism and thirst for promotion. Or rather, there is, but the consequences are much heavier. Lawrence knew that the real situation was different from the rumors that circulated, but he also knew that a reputation could not be built on rumors alone. There was no doubting the temper of the one who had summoned him to talk.

They did not meet in his office but in the ornate carriage that had picked him up from his workplace. Lawrence simply waved goodbye to his coachman, his entourage, and his guards, for it was unlikely that someone else's carriage would be allowed into Lady Pinementron's estate, and if they wanted to kill him, they would kill him anyway. And if they didn't kill him, they would give him a lift home. It's high society etiquette.

The lady looked barely twenty, so it was hard to believe this woman was in her fourth decade. Whether it was the effects of the many alchemical preparations or whether the stories about the drop of elven blood that ran through her ancestral veins were true. She could have conquered balls and gala dances and taken broken hearts, but she preferred other activities.

A thin and airy face framed by blond hair, curling wonderfully lovely curls, and a fine and very graceful figure that might even be called too thin were complemented by piercing blue eyes that seemed to look into the very soul and deeper. Her gaze alone pierced any armor of confidence and steadfastness more than Lawrence could admit.

The conversation began unhurriedly, as if with some fiddling. First of all, because of Lawrence's stiffness. He had no idea why he had been summoned by this woman. She traditionally, defiantly even, paid no attention to domestic politics, and their departments did not overlap even in small ways. And yet she was talking to him now. On the one hand, he was already almost equal to her now, and in time without any almost. But on the other hand, she was still of royal blood, and that meant a lot.

As said before, his companion was not that high-ranking - not for someone who already went to the King's report regularly, and in person, not through letters or referents. Still, reputation is a scary thing, as is knowing how to present one's appearance properly. Virgil didn't even try to appear feminine, dressing solely utilitarian, even if it was a reflection of her position and status.

All in all, talking to her was exhausting and nerve-wracking. Until she asked another question that almost made Lawrence choke on the air despite all his restraint.

"So you're saying that the Marked killed your apprentice?"

Marked is not just a nickname. Marked is, you might say, an era! Considered the best liquidator not only of Melareth but of all its environs, this character of heaps of tales and rumors was one of those who execute even the most terrible and dangerous targets. For what it's worth, his blade is the blood of the Singing with Fire and Cold, two of Sorz's potentially strongest summoned who never grew into truly dangerous chain dogs.

Lawrence knew very little about it, for he was just beginning his journey upward to the legendary class, but even that was enough to impress the detective. The two twins, summoned and chained by the Sun King's will, had quickly become a tremendous pain in the ass of all the damn sun-worshippers' neighbors. With their incomprehensible blood bond, combining two nearly incompatible planar elements, the pair could wipe out an entire border fortress or a medium-sized town. The Summoned is no gift but working in pairs, protecting each other, and not being killed by a conflict of powers... Nightmare incarnate. They never went it alone, always having a whole squad of cover, small but elite and toothy. And they easily evaded those battles where they could be seriously harmed.

One day the twins simply disappeared, and the generals of Melareth breathed a sigh of relief and strained their backs even harder, waiting for the odious pair to reappear. The pair appeared falling out of the windows of the frontier mansion of one of the princes of Sorz, along with the prince himself. Three dagger blows, without the slightest trace of a struggle and without a single witness - even throwing the corpses through the expensive stained-glass window was purely a showstopping performance. Yes, both of the sorcerer bedfellows were somewhere around level thirty-eight, and their full power was revealed when working in pairs, but still! They were killed quickly, without a fight, and just in front of a whole regiment of guards and sensors. And the feat was accomplished by only one man.

Marked.

Either summoned or just a very skilled inhabitant of Alurei. Unknown level, class, or even race. But he was sent after those who could not be eliminated in the usual way. The Elven Blood Witch, who never left the Dawn Forest or the rebellious Duke of Norshenton. The target was always eliminated. Sometimes quietly, sometimes not so much, but even through all the secrecy, information about the king's executioner leaked out. Especially in the ranks of interrogators and other members of the secret guard.

When this character from the fairy tales disappeared, everyone assumed he was killed in the line of duty, probably by vengeful elves or simply stabbed by his superiors. The routine of life on the dark side is that all stories here end the same way, despite all the power, level, and merit.

"So... Shyngys?"

Lawrence once again remembered the drunken face, if not the snout, of his former subordinate, his enormous height and conspicuous appearance, then compared this sight with the available information about the Marked and then got a headache of legendary scale. The two images could not be combined, even with effort.

"True, even though he no longer has the lion's share of his powers. Having retired, he lost the major classes, having replaced them with a single priestly one." A little annoyed, Virgil clarified to him. "Ansham-Nar's cleric is one of the most endorsed by the Crown, and the deity itself has a long and strong association with several ruling dynasties, including Melareth as well. I trust your skills, Lord Farans, but still, I cannot understand the reason why Marked has gone off the rails now."

The slang of cutthroats in the mouth of such a refined creature was somewhat arresting to the ear, but her thoughts the lady laid out surprisingly clearly and understandably. But Lawrence hesitated, for the picture of an ordinary drunkard overbought by the kingdom's enemies was shattered in his mind. If a former liquidator of that caliber wanted to escape, he did not have to kill Bastian at all. In fact, if he could survive the violation of his vows and oaths, he could go anywhere. He could at least trade information on the dirty dealings of the Royal Office!

"I don't understand." He answers, already retreating into his mind, weaving new networks in place of the tattered ones. "Not enough information."

"It will." Briefly agreeing with him, Lady Pinmentron. "I have ordered the documents you requested and some of those connected to them to be delivered to my estate. That should be enough for your class. I should very much like to know what this wreck of a man has in mind and why he has decided to get off the hook now."

"His fate, I suppose..." Now he has to be careful, for the subject is extremely delicate.

"'Exactly." Another approving nod to him. "We have a complete scan of the Marked. So an elimination team will be sent after him. The Shoreless Eye will find him anywhere with such pointers. Except unless it's someone's personal domain. But before I skin him, I'd rather find out what drove him to treachery and suicidal stupidity."

The carriage stopped, and his companion, without waiting for an answer, gracefully, if somewhat childishly, jumped out of the cramped transport, following the long red stone walkway that led to the entrance to His Majesty's aunt's modest, relative position, mansion. All Lawrence could do was sigh to himself, anticipating another session of vows of silence, assured and tested a thousand times over. He'd already given too many for such a young age.

Virgil loved comfort and opulence, but she abhorred excess. That is why she preferred to live not in a palace, which simply embodied the concept of excess as such, but in a private mansion, located away from the rich quarters, in a green area of Stavrosk. There were no neighbors here, but there was room for fresh air and all sorts of reflection. Security was ensured both by the guards located in the wooded area and by the many enclosed fields that covered the small palace, which successfully pretended to be a mansion with impenetrable cocoons.

There were few servants here, and most of the work was done either by contracted spirits or a set of household charms. Virgil was justifiably distrustful of humans and anything that had a tongue and could blab about some vital detail. Sometimes even the color of her favorite tea, communicated to her detractors, could be a loophole for an assassination attempt. She could still remember when one of the Free Dukes of Ramadon had gone to the trouble of poisoning all the ters'kan "tart jasmine" in the capital's warehouses, and with a poison designed specifically for her amulets. It's a good thing they were able to remove the poison from the warehouses because so much expensive tea is drunk by so many influential people.

The front door, which, though graceful, could withstand a fortress ram, opened with a wave of the mighty sorceress's hand, which activated the artifacts tuned to her form. Issuing familiar phrases to her guest, Virgil, as well as her guards did not immediately notice a malfunction - the light was a bit dim. The lighting artifacts, which also worked automatically, often deteriorated, but now they shone not intermittently but too dimly.

It wasn't a problem. It wasn't a danger, but the honed intuition of a schemer who had fought in the field and reached her fortieth level not by shuffling papers made her stop, signal her readiness to the guards, and tense up in anticipation of trouble. She was often assassinated, sometimes right here in this house, so she was used to trusting her intuition. Even if it didn't tell her much.

With a loud clang, the stained-glass mosaic replacing the wall between the front room and the second-floor living quarters shattered into shards, and in the pile fell Yendal Grey, her personal poison-smith and poisoner, who even had to be moved closer to her, so many wanted to kill such a valuable specialist. Entangled in three dozen personal oaths exactly, this gray-haired old man, more reminiscent of a wandering dervish than a poisoner, was one of her most valuable assets. It is worth mentioning that almost all of the liquidations with poison performed by her agency were used to kill Yendal's creations. That rare case where it is easier to take the job in-house.

The old man had considerable health problems, the result of a string of curses he'd caught from grateful customers. Most annoying of all was the Empty Tongue, which chaotically distorted any phrases he said. Because of this, it was necessary to communicate with the poisoner solely in writing, and he preferred to remain silent. But now, bloodied, cut by glass, and bleeding from dozens of deliberately non-lethal wounds, he forgot his habit of silence, uttering perhaps the last phrase of his life:

"Fun... cools..."

The poisoner's breathing stopped, and Virgil began to wonder what he even wanted to say. Sometimes, when she was in the mood, she would try to solve these speech puzzles just to amuse herself. Now, of course, was not the time for amusement, but she had already sent the signal to the guards. Her bodyguards prepared for battle, and she had time to disperse her shell, ready to unleash her full power. Yes, and such a demonstrative killing of her asset hinted that there would be a conversation first. Or, more likely, a message - the messenger had a lot of nerve.

But instead of the unfamiliar and clearly disposable - there was little chance of getting out of here - messenger, her eyes met a surprisingly familiar, slightly skewed figure. Definitely don't talk about devils before you go to sleep, or you'll see them in your dreams.

"I won't even threaten you with punishment. I'll just ask." With absolutely sincere surprise and curiosity she says, clutching a crystal ball of magic amplifier in her hands. "Why?"

This question was not idle. She seriously could not understand. The man in front of her was the epitome of arrogance, greed, and pragmatism. Even if he had been saddled, his wings clipped, and away from positions of command, she knew firmly, always knew, that he would not retaliate. Simply because it would do him no good. Marked had always killed for gold or its equivalents. That's why he couldn't take a place in Melareth's pyramid of power because he didn't desire power itself - he couldn't desire anything else but gold, women, booze, and exotic dope. She had always regretted that such talents, such a sophisticated and methodical mind, had gone to someone whose ambition was little different from that of a common thug. To get more and not get anything for it.

That's why she asks because there must be a reason why this drunken priest decided to take up the knife again, going to his imminent death from the curses that his broken oaths would give him. He had no chance of surviving here at all, despite his characteristics. Could it be that someone had picked up a Mentalist or a Seductress that broke through Marked's defenses, weakened by years of drunkenness?

Instead of answering, he takes a few steps forward, stepping into the light of the still-too-dim amulets. No drunken or deliberate swagger, just the grim concentration of the very beast that took the lives of the Crown's enemies. And the look, not a good one - completely absent, as if he could not see you. Reading anything by that look was as useless as looking for gems in a city well.

Also, undoubtedly, the clothes.

No ruffled clothes, probably from the last century, in which he'd been seen in recent years. A gray traveling cloak, under which the outlines of armor could be discerned. Medium armor, which is heavier than leather robes and chainmail, but not full armor. An odd choice for an assassin, but not if the assassin already has the physique of a brute and moves, even in armor, like a feather soaring in the wind.

And, of course, the ancient faces, barely discernible beneath the cloth thrown over the top, are not just armor but also that very armor. Tied by blood to the only master that could possess it. The faces of the Masters of the old and long-destroyed Order, where only the Nightblade could be admitted and where only the strongest of them could become a Master. There weren't many Nightblades in Melareth, but there were, except that their armor burned like red-hot steel. Marked, on the other hand, managed to subdue it, put it on, and use it.

Virgil felt uncomfortable for two reasons at once: the fact that the man standing before she had a legendary artifact in his possession (even if the legendary effect was only achieved with a full set), and, more importantly, the fact that this man had managed to recover a God-blocked class. And now before her stands not at all harmless and practically helpless priest.

The epic class of Senior Operative that allowed her to keep her agency under control wasn't much use right now. But it wasn't what made the air currents inside the house sing a silent song, shimmering with a chime that only she could hear. Singing with the Wind called for the help of the native element, feeling with her back that it would not be possible to get out of this conversation without a fight. And where, the Hell take them all and do not return, the guards from the cordon?

"Why?" Even though time stretched like a treacle, hardly a few seconds passed from the moment she asked. "There's always an answer to that question, isn't there?"

The sneer in the words, her own words that came back to her, was completely unconcealed. However, he had never held his tongue, which was one of the reasons why she had helped him "find faith" - rudeness to her was always punishable. And the insolent man simply drew from beneath the dull dark armor with barely discernible plates-portraits... a simple copper coin on a string.

Virgil could be hated as much as she wanted by her many victims and associates, but even her fiercest enemies admit she was rightfully in her position. Also, no one could call her a foolish woman. Bits of speculation, little facts, bits and pieces of events seemed to click in her head, falling into place. Perhaps Farans, standing silently behind her back, under the cover of her guards, would have been able to guess sooner, but that was probably why Marked had come to her today. Against her will, a somewhat hysterical chuckle escaped her mouth.

Marked.

That bastard.

Ruthless.

Unknowing and openly, defiantly, despising the very notion of honor.

And he...

"Are you kidding?"

Instead of answering, the killer smiled a smile that was completely uncharacteristic of him, without the insolence and defiance that his grin was always full of, but rather a calm one. It still looked menacing in his scarred face, but it was more frightening in his eyes, the first emotion she'd seen in a very long time. Not the anger, not the greed, not the hunter's excitement that had flashed there before, but a hatred that had not cooled in all those years.

Without a word, he stepped forward, going straight into a blink. The cloak he'd dropped just before the tug fell to the ground, and more droplets of blood flew into the air. And she would have to try very hard not to add her own, so precious to her, to those drops.

With the wild roar of the temple organ, all the air in the spacious mansion sang and screamed and moved, turning into her indestructible shield and all-penetrating sword, and it was as if for the first time in many, many years, she found herself on the battlefield, where there are neither right nor wrong, but only you and those who will die today.

For any Detective, the essence of his class comes down to finding answers to a few fairly typical questions. Who. Where. When. And most importantly: how. It was the latter question that Lawrence Farans, Grand Detective, almost already head of the Secret Guard and His Majesty's handmaiden, was trying to solve in his last moments. Life was draining from the side of a dagger pierced by a well-aimed throw, and his body was chilling with a curse placed on the steel that would not stop the bleeding.

He'd like to say it was a glorious battle, but to be completely honest, they were all slaughtered like partridges. Shyngys, the same Shyngys whom the faithful Vary had sent on the elaborate route several times each day, who seemed to have difficulty even standing on his feet because of his eternal hangover... A full five elite guards with Bodyguard or Guardian classes, like their ward, reputed to be one of the strongest air elemental wizards in Melareth - all of them just died.

Their opponent was not particularly strong, nor did he use powerful mass attacks. He was just a little better, better at any given time. It was enough that they couldn't even hit him hard enough. And when they did, he didn't even flinch, relying entirely on his strange armor, which Laurence judged to be an epic kit, reinforcing every single piece. The battle came out fast, hectic, and sad for him. If at first the dying man still hoped that they could, if not kill the traitor, at least hold out until help arrived, there was no hope afterward. Nor did help come.

That's why he asked himself the question, hoping to get the answer, even before he died. He who seeks answers remains himself even on death's doorstep, or he would not have become a legend. The solution to this question became a kind of anchor for the fading mind, to which it stubbornly clung, not wanting to dive into oblivion.

There was no answer, though.

Slowly and unhurriedly approaching the last survivor, the killer figure could answer this and many other questions as fully as an answer could ever be detailed. He could tell them there's no point in fighting with the hope of quick allied help, even if it arrives - it relaxes you and knowingly puts you in the position of someone who needs it. This is especially dangerous in cases where help won't come.

The assassin could tell that before he showed himself to the inconsiderate Lady Virgil, who likes to live away from noisy crowds and busy streets, he had completely cleared out all the servants in the mansion and all five posts of the outer guard. He left alive only the bearers of the amulet of the dead hand, having broken the spine of those and prevented them from committing suicide. The alarm would not go off at once, and by the time the guards realized that Lady Pinmentron's house was under attack, it would be over.

He could also say that he had long since learned to kill the owners of the protective and guarding classes because who else would the killer fight but his victim's guards? And so what if such classes are considered the natural antipodes of the dishonest murderers? Levels denote not only differences in characteristics but also in experience. Yesterday's chickens, newly minted into the ranks of the elite and not even level thirty-five, were no more dangerous to him than the harmless Glass snakes. Yes, they are experienced, but their experience lay in countering weaker and more predictable opponents.

It might yet be recalled that Virgil had too superficially mastered her class. Even though she could replace a few hundred heavy fighters or a full star of mages, he remembered other things as well. Not the thin streams of air blades, each one hitting a fixed point, not the soft barriers that deflected any blows, not the vortex of protective formation that sheltered the wizard. He remembered the true storm, the inhuman hurricane that took the form of a young maiden. Her attacks would not leave potholes in the walls or break furniture and windows. Dancer with the Hurricane would have blown the whole magic-soaked mansion to the devils, the entire park grounds, and as if not a couple of capital city blocks!

Virgil learned how to control the gift ripped from someone else's heart and honed control to the point where enemies stripped of their amulets and protective cocoons simply couldn't get near her without getting their throats slit. She learned how to tear apart heavily armored opponents with explosive decompression, how to draw air from other people's lungs or make them unbreathable altogether. She's learned a lot over the years, but she's never been able to lean on the all-consuming power of the air element.

The one before her, the one whose part lived in Virgil's body, had never bothered with such subtle influences and cunning tricks. Not because she didn't know how and her control was no weaker, but simply because she didn't need to. She didn't sing Wind a lullaby, didn't call for his help to save her skin. She threw herself into his arms, created the whirlwind of the storm herself, and was part of him - immutable and inalienable. He could have retreated before the face of such power, could have fallen at her hand. But not at the hand of a murderer who used cunning and subtlety of attack simply because she knew nothing else. He'd been playing these games far longer than she had, and she didn't have even a shadow of a chance to beat him on that field.

Marked remained silent, artlessly penetrating the skull of the former commander with a precise blow of his magic-strengthened stiletto. No emotion, no regret, no empty rant over a defeated enemy. The enemy would not appreciate it, and he had never cared for pathos and self-praise. All those to whom he might have wanted to say something were long dead. He wouldn't have made this scene of throwing half-dead in front of noble eyes, either, but he had to let the enemy assess him and make them rush into battle.

If Shyngys had worked in his usual style, knocking enemies out one by one and not showing his face for more than one brief moment, they would have simply run away. After all, the guards were pros and they could intercept a blow or two with a guarantee if they were ready. But just killing Virgil... no, he should have eliminated them all. He had spent three months in the clerks' offices, reading their reports, not in vain. He was able to calculate the moment when the former commander will be able to expose herself, and still managed to find the moment when all the parties involved so well gathered in one place.

And how many times have all these smartasses been caught that they too seldom changed the protective circuits in their lairs? Well, the clerks themselves have changed some blocks, but the basis is exactly the same, and he, in his career, has learned by heart almost all the external protective circuits of any object of Melareth. For the love of art and just in case. Like now, for example.

The private chambers or the royal chambers were another matter, but he didn't need to get into them. It's enough intercepted reports and collected rumors. There was such a dust storm in the mess that came out of the Stone fall that he had to cut and disappear all sorts of spies and defectors himself, lest their twitches raise alarms too early. While everyone was looking for the Face under the Mask who'd shown his face in the Stone, they'd forgotten all about the old, drunken priest.

Just as planned.

Virgil had a trait that Shyngys had learned well during his career in her department: the inability to separate work from rest. Hence the great love of dragging this work home. She simply not separating herself from her position. She has a right to do so - a relative of King's, proven loyalty, she could do pretty much anything she wanted. Others lug home gold from the service, while she, woah, documents and a certain amount of rare artifacts and consumables.

She conducted her intrigues precisely at the expense of such "decommissioned" expendables, which were issued to those groups that went on unofficial assignments. Or rather, unofficial unofficial assignments - to solve not Melareth's problems but the personal enemies or debtors of Pinementron. A large proportion of these workers didn't even know which missions were personal and which were governmental - it was very unhealthy to talk or even think about these assignments.

So now Virgil was going to talk to Lawrence, help him gather the picture of events, and then nail poor Shyngys for all the good he did. Yes, he'd torn off his vows and uprooted his oaths, but they still had his blood and his appearance - if the Malefiks didn't curse him, the Seers would find him. He was in the power of Virgil to give the command to activate the Eye.

The problem is that all these samples, along with his dossier, she brought home. In a house well protected, heavily guarded, and only for a day (she did not keep the documents here for a long time, being well aware of the unreliability of such a storage facility), but no longer inside the colorless level of the royal vault. He is, after all, an assassin, not a burglar; he cannot break through such protection.

Now, all that remained was to reliably destroy the last thread by which he could be traced by those whose heads he would one day come after. To destroy the thread and to damage the whole canvas of events a lot. Just so they wouldn't know what to look for and where, what they were trying to hide, and what they had already hidden. The bigger the mess around, the less can be found in it if what is sought is well hidden.

The Eternal Wanderer is not just a fast and almost untraceable movement through the world, albeit one of the brightest perks of his class. It's all about the "eternal" prefix he inherited from the remnants of the divine power he's managed to retain within himself. The Road is mighty and endless, but it is always possible to catch up with whoever is walking on it. Another thing is the dust on that road, which is raised by the boots of travelers.

Dust on the Road was and will be. It is beyond the concept of Time, which allows him to use it as a very good and flexible weapon. The Immutable Law had a much weaker effect on Marked than on others, and he could distort the law somewhat, if only in small things. Not just to kill, turning his victims to gray dust, but to erase all their traces and images, interfering with Necromancers, Spiritualists, Seers, and any other subtle specialist. The Seers, in general, have a great grudge against those who play with Time: visions are lost in its flow, mixed and corrupted, making only a few able to overcome such a natural obstacle

The almost complete elusiveness, the impossibility to be caught and predicted is exactly what is needed for a lonely lunatic who decided to fight the whole world in his old age. Preferably a successful war without dying like a fool. Marked knew very well how to look for his kind, as he did it, and therefore he was not going to leave any traces. They always failed by little things, so tiny that you don't even know how it could have come out that way. And the best way to get rid of all the little things is to burn them all together.

It wasn't just his old armor, which was useless due to its attachment to a single user that he had pulled out of the Office's storerooms. He could have been slaughtered out of harm's way just to remove the binding on the legendary kit, but he had logically guessed that Nightblades of his caliber would not appear in Melareth for decades to come. So there they lay, gathering cobwebs and envious glances, almost unguarded... for one of the most secure arsenals in the country. It was ridiculously easy to whistle them away with a hastily made fake. Apparently, they were all so used to the fact that it was useless to anybody that they did not even check it!

He'd noticed before that the Office was beginning to rot, but this unprofessionalism was inexcusable. Oh, Melareth's fun times await, oh, yes, they do! Especially after the death of Virgil, who, despite his personal hearted hatred, was one of the few competent and loyal to the King of the right level.

It should be much quicker to notice the missing Anchor crystal... Well, just because if they don't even notice it, he can just wait a couple of years, and they'll all die of such incompetence. But that's just the way it is. This crystal is one of the few craft materials of epic rank that can, under certain conditions, surpass other legendary ones.

Schemes to create all sorts of planar bombs, where a storage unit is simply stuffed with unstable energy and thrown at the enemy, are known quite widely. There are even special skills that allow you to create such crystals or even titles obtained for the right amount of characteristics. This is quite common. Using epic materials for such throwing projectiles is roughly equivalent to trying to hammer the enemy with gold cobblestones.

But there is one little-known peculiarity of the Anchor crystal, which he uncovered more out of coincidence than intentionally, that changes the matter dramatically. This crystal is derived from the ashes and dust of legendary undead that were first purged of death energy and then treated at once with four special auras. Finding such a vein also automatically means finding a new magical source of rare focus - those very natural auras. It is not a rare combination, but it is not a common one either.

The swordsman didn't know the exact process, and he wasn't the right class for such activities - you had to be a geologist, an ore scientist, or some exotic crystal mage. But he knew that such crystals were highly valued by his, thank all primordial powers, nonnative church. The divine power of Ansham-Nar does not spoil these crystals but stabilizes them, turning them, after some treatment, into sources of stationary blessings that can also be portable.

The power of the Road, a pure power without divine impurities, is too wild and unstructured for such a wispy material. It destroys crystals irreparably, but in return, it gives another possibility. Pour an irreparably large amount of magic into such material. Irreparable in the sense that after the container is destroyed, it is better not to be near it.

He did not want to carry such a miracle on himself. One accidentally missed a hit and neither the level, nor the skills, nor even the class related to the imprisoned force would help. He had to go up to the attic, where an isolating container with dangerous contents had been left in a distant corner. After a few more minutes, when his intuition was already beginning to rattle unpleasantly about impending trouble, he left the cracked crystal, in which a small dust storm seemed to dance, on the floor of the trashed front room and was gone.

Behind his back, the dwelling of Virgil, who had died in execution, was rapidly aging and thinning.

His back was secured, as was giving away some of his debts.

Now it was time to take a little trip to a foreign country, where he had either been invited or artfully lured. However, he was confident in his ability to escape the trap. Until his enemies learned of his legendary class, until they could find a countermeasure, it would be very hard to corner him. The main thing was to remember that everyone is mortal, a truth he'd been proving to all kinds of powerful men his whole life.

A glance at Status didn't make him happy or excited. It just made him accept a new fact.

Level: 49

Apparently, it was not even the murder itself that was judged by the universe but the approach to it. Months of preparation and quite unaccustomed agency work, blocking any opportunity to escape or raise the alarm ahead of time and, of course, predicting other people's reactions and decisions, based on pure experience and knowledge of other people's character, without any intuitive insights. All the objectives have been met. All the witnesses have been cleared. It's been a very long time since he strained so hard. If he ever strained at all. The elimination of his former and completely former superiors, in part with the destruction of all samples of his blood and imprints, required an effort that he had not made in a very long time. Add to that his rusty skills and compromised health from years of inactivity, and you can understand why the System was so generous.

Once upon a time, he would have gladly cut any throat for the power and status of a full-fledged Hero.

Now all he felt was a dull irritation.

* * *

Somewhere out there, beyond the walls of his private quarters, a lavish celebration was taking place. It was obscenely lavish, even by the standards of the Sun Palace, where hedonism was well known. The reason for such a good mood and celebration of wastefulness was quite understandable, but this noise did not become less annoying. Honestly, no amount of noise could overcome the defenses of his chambers, but that was where class skills came into play, making it hard for him to stop hearing, even if he didn't want to. He'd almost died once from that sudden window of vulnerability, and even though he wasn't going to fall for the same trick twice, that memory was still spoiling his mood.

Ansarg, lately, was in a bad mood about everything, but it was quite understandable. After receiving the mythical class, after the Sun itself had not burned his soul but had ripped off its shackles and remade the weak man into something else, he somehow thought that now everything would pass as it was intended. The difficulties would be understandable and surmountable, the enemies strong but predictable and easy to kill, and the wine cellars would never become empty.

Life quickly put the Herald of the Solarblood in his place, clipping his wings and reminding him that he wasn't the only one so great in the world. It was not as if Ansarg was not good enough to sustain his ego with actions. He had worked all his life to be considered the first and the best. And he succeeded, to his delight and the annoyance of others. But it was one thing to maneuver his way through palace politics and to outmaneuver his brothers, who were bent on taking his place. There was no intrigue where he had spent the last few months and no brothers, only cold, blizzard, and death.

Two hundred highly trained warriors and mages with a retinue of servants and a carte blanche to take any number of weapons and ammunition can fear almost nothing. Even quite stupid monsters would prefer not to attack such toothy prey, and those who attack will quickly become a source of levels for the human squad.

Alas, Ansarg's path was not headed in the direction where one could gain levels quickly with a minimum of effort. Or rather, upgrading his powers and mastering new class abilities was only part of his plan. An important part, but by no means the only part.

Solar Visions are a very complicated matter that not all visionaries will be able to understand. It's not even about planar contamination but about the consequences of that contamination and its... Uselessness. No matter how much you stare into the Sun, you won't see anymore. You'll only burn your eyes out. The analogy is somewhat simplistic, but it conveys the point quite clearly - most of the visionaries who try to rely on the Sun in their search for answers will simply burn their souls out, receiving status traumas and diminished skills, but not the answers.

In order to see, looking at the Sun, one must have very specific training. And also the father and grandfather who did blind themselves in trying to see - having lost their powers, they will pass the memory of the blinding rays of His to their blood, and then, with luck, the grandson will be born with enough affinity so that the Sun will not harm him. It is only an opportunity to see, far from a right to ask, but the unique source, the fulcrum of such a seer will allow a great deal to be considered.

This rule does not work with those who do not try to look through the Sun. Ordinary magicians and warriors who draw their powers from the Sun, as well as numerous priests of those Deities who are marked by the Sun, do not need these games with inheritance in order to benefit from His all-burning and all-luminous power. It is simply better for them not to look behind their backs and let the sun's rays illuminate their path.

Ansarg obviously had that ability, and at a level that many dynasties of Sorzs visionaries would have given their firstborn souls for. It allowed him to see things that others could not, no matter how skilled they might be. If he had been a visionary, things would have been even more interesting, but his class was not that of a clairvoyant. For the same reason, all his visions were fragmented, hard to understand, and uncontrollable. At the very least, he would not be able to experience the sense of clarity that had given him the first stages of the Plan for very many years to come. Until he develops this or a new class to an exorbitant level. Well, or until he entered the Heart again, which the boy was not going to do - one miraculous case of survival would be enough, no need to tempt Fate anymore.

Unfortunately, he could not.

The march into the Wildlands was hard and exhausting. Winter has always been a terrible force in these parts, and if the Sorz Guards were not good enough at anything, it was fighting in similar conditions. Ansarg had only seen snow conjured by wizards until those days. It had not fallen in the capital since the Palace had been built. Of course, high-level warriors could not just freeze to death, and there were those among them who had had time to fight in places where the aura of the Palace could not reach.

But a quick raid as part of a strike team is one thing, but a full-fledged march to nowhere is quite another. His men's morale was at an all-time high. But no amount of morality would protect against hypothermia, cure the broken legs of draught mules, or fill an empty stomach in the absence of a familiar game.

And all sorts of monsters had not hibernated or, on the contrary, had only woken up from hibernation in winter. And the deeper into the unknown people went, the more of these monsters there were, the stronger they became, and the more often they decided to attack. Casualties were not too high, with a greater measure among the wagons and auxiliary detachments, but it was only the beginning. Sorz's gamekeepers worked poorly in the snowy woods, getting lost and slow where they needed to rush off in instant action. They were experienced and skilled; they would not have reached their heights if they had not been able to adapt quickly to unfamiliar conditions, but this adaptation took time.

And the time was paid in blood.

Ansarg did not allow a single emotion to show on his face, silently pointing in the right direction and continuing to lead his men to their goal. Many of them probably thought he was leading them not to their goal but to their doom. It would be impossible for a guardsman to betray anyway. But a thin and elusive shroud of desperate doom slowly covered the men with its vile cover. He could have addressed the people and ignited faith and hope in their hearts, but he was in no hurry to do so. He kept this opportunity until the right moment, waited, and continued to look silently into the snow-covered forest in the direction known only to him.

And, in the end, he led them all to their goal.

This structure resembled a cyclopean-sized tower that had been built upside down. On the outside, there were only the remains of ruins and scraps of ancient charms, but the deeper one descended, the closer one got to the earth's core, the more there were... ...things. And evil charms, and no less evil guards, not scattered in the dust of the past centuries. The goal was achieved, but the hardest and most terrifying thing was yet to come.

The first real enemy was the green-skinned barbarians, for whom this place was either a shrine or something else to which they were not going to allow outsiders. Their patrols were few during the winter, and it was only thanks to this very winter that they reached the ruins at all, going so deep into the wilderness. If their journey had begun at any other time, the Sorzs warriors would have simply drowned in the green sea that could slowly dissolve any number of intruders.

But no matter how diligently they avoided the tribal encampments, no matter how hard they fished out enemy scouts, and no matter how hard they tried to get there early, it still didn't work. There was a full horde waiting for them near the ruins-not the largest, but they were only single units, either. Undoubtedly no further elite, but there were just over three hundred of them, and only two-thirds of them were warriors.

There was no negotiation, and there couldn't have been. Orcs, in general, are very uncooperative, and it is "beneath them" to talk to those who are weaker and smaller in number than they are. Instead of talking, there was an attack, even if the monsters would have preferred an ambush. Fortunately, ambushing those, of whom almost a hundred are of the Ranger class or something similar, is an a priori foolish idea.

The battle was hard and very costly. Nearly a third of the squad died there, but the main price was not lives but the irreplaceable supply of all sorts of consumables, which orcs and goblins were literally pelted with. The monster horde, aided by tame beasts and summoned spirits, washed away, leaving behind a mountain of corpses and a lingering sense of impending doom.

The people, leaving the nearly destroyed convoy unguarded, silently followed Ansarg, descending deeper and deeper into the dungeons of the old ruins. The aura of sunlight shone brighter and brighter around the prince, bringing hope and returning strength to those who had almost despaired of surviving and meeting a new dawn.

If the battle with the orcs was a bloody blast, as violent as it was fleeting, the storming of the upside-down tower was filled with a deadly routine, where any slackness was instantly fatal. Mythic classes are always powerful, but a class that is more of a support class than a pure combat archetype is capable of real miracles. Doubly capable if it is necessary to strengthen and protect not simple weaklings, but, in fact, the elite of the state army, and without strengthening able to kick the ass of another infernal overlord.

The undead, the golems, and the undead again - these were the ones who resisted the invaders, but fortunately for the latter, time had not spared any of them. And while the undead could be preserved almost forever by the power of Death in their bodies, the golems, which could cause more problems, were, for the most part, simply deactivated. Those who still functioned could fight at barely a third of their true power, giving humans a fighting chance of victory.

And undead?

They, under the influence of Ansarg's ever-stronger sorcery, almost disintegrate on the fly. The famous "spiral of dispersal" in all its glory - when the crowd of benefics strengthens and restores the reserve of a few elites, allowing them to act much longer and more powerful. Ansarg was supported by two stars at once - almost all the benefics of their small army. And if, at first, it seemed that the self-confident boy was just afraid for his own skin and deprived his warriors of the lion's share of support. With each passing second, this conviction disappeared.

Ansarg really accelerated, shining brighter and brighter, to the point where the undead, up to the twentieth level, simply died before reaching the ranks of the humans, only falling under the rays of the Sun, who had decided to visit the old and forgotten dungeon. The humans, on the contrary, grew faster and faster, and their wounds began to glow with a light of their own, rapidly healing. Such an abrupt dive into his class, such greedy siphoning of planar energy could have killed a careless user, but Ansarg continued to command without relenting. Nor, however, did he intensify it - no matter how strong his will was, he was not yet old enough to hold that kind of pressure without harming his sanity.

Ghosts and spirits were forced to stay inside the walls at all times, not daring to interrupt the immateriality and strike the invaders out of their stone embrace. The elite constructs, gradually awakening from hibernation, were weakening to the point where warrior squads and stars could destroy them without loss or unnecessary injury. And even the expendable amulets and potions spent on the orcs, which were almost finished, were unnecessary.

The Sun's Embrace, continually renewed by Prince, obscenely boosted the energy regeneration of the fighting men's reserves. So much so, in fact, that they were in a full-fledged "spiral" - Ansarg's reinforcement replenished the benefic and the mages, and the benefics replenished the Ansarg. If the enemy had been different, like the Greensceens, it would have been far worse, but now the enemy was perfectly matched, allowing all the strengths of the mythic class to be fully revealed. The Purification Rays and Field of Shine, the class' basic skills, turned the undead into training dummies, and the aforementioned Embrace, which the boy had developed first, strengthened the army to a level where the number of undead was almost irrelevant.

Still, Ansarg was close to genius - even as a Prince of the First Blood, he had almost closed the first rank of his class through continuous training. His abrupt evolution saved all of his talent points, allowing him to redistribute them as he saw fit. And the boosts and titles he gained allowed him to get the very basics of rank two on the fly. But even a single skill could decide the fate of an entire expedition if used continuously and occasionally receiving a message about the increase in that skill.

Ansarg was frozen at the very edge of losing himself in the Sun's ocean, but a clear goal, still hovering before his inner eye, calling and guiding his steps, allowed him to partially shed his madness, holding on under the continuous pressure of his power. His shell was then nearly bursting from the amount of power it was transmitting, and his soul threatened to burn out behind it. No amount of help from healers or beneficiaries could sustain such a pace for too long.

They walked as the Reaper's scythe, putting the undead to rest, even near the end, when almost only the elite creatures met them on the lower tiers of the tower. The ceaseless glow was interrupted now and then, and Ansarg wiped the blood from his nose, ears, and eyes. Wiped and continued to beat, continued to amplify, albeit now in short and powerful bursts, instead of a steady, steady stream.

The last creature, some near-legendary ghostly abomination resembling hundreds of harshly threaded screaming ghosts, gave him two titles at once, proving it wasn't "near". Losses were surprisingly low - too good a composition of attackers, with one in four using the Sun in one way or another, plus the prince's constant influence preventing the creatures from using their most fearsome attacks. Luck and skill were what saved them in this fight.

Only a hundred and fifty survivors, even with new titles each: a very unfortunate exchange for people who should still be going back. Such thoughts scattered dust as the victors considered exactly what was stored on the last tier of the inverted tower, literally under the ghostly ass of a necromancy miscarriage.

This place was not a treasure house... Originally. The dungeon was either built to defend some important front that had fallen into oblivion with the defenders or as a manufacturing center for creating undead, according to the cautious comments of a few guardsmen who had seen something similar in the days when they were simple adventurers. But that long-ago war, which took from the vested lands, where now only monsters and monsters roamed among the ancient ruins, left many secrets behind.

Who brought these chests here, and why? Ansarg did not know - the images he saw in the Heart were too shaky. He had not expected to find treasure here at all, for he was after a different kind of treasure. But there was treasure here - several dozen enormous chests, the spell of stasis on which had not yet dissipated. This civilization of the departed - those renowned for the art of necro-construction - was known for the fact that its artifacts worked even now, even if in need of repair and adjustment. It wasn't that modern civilizations couldn't make things of the same quality because they could and did. It's just that the extinct sorcerers made things like these chests on a massive scale. Sorz is far from that level, for here you should look at the elves or the Empire of Ages.

In any case, it wasn't the chests themselves that were a source of joy, but their contents. The gold bars, enough to cover a couple of his homeland's annual budgets, or to build and fill another treasury, were probably not the most valuable of all. Chests containing the purest mithril, slightly smaller chests with gems and other materials, several especially powerful artifacts, outdated but still frighteningly effective... There was a lot!

Many things had time to deteriorate, as organic reagents of high grades crumbled or vials with potions in which only dust remained. Other things, like combat tactical artifacts, were simply feared to be touched - even if there was no protection against theft, they could explode just from a random jolt. Some documents were either dusty or very old pieces of parchment or paper.

There was even full plate armor and a two-handed blade of frightening appearance, which, thank the Sun, did not think to put on one of the knights of death or other undead. A legendary set and even some of its elements would be legendary, not all of them together. Powers, however, are too deadly - these armor were not made for the living. Or at least not for a full-fledged alive.

In fact, most of what was stored could be safely thrown away. Only metals and stones were valuable, and a few surviving artifacts had survived the centuries without too many problems. And armor, of course, but it was unclear to whom they would be given afterward. Necromancers were plentiful in Sorz, though not too fond of them, but he could not recall any Death users honed in close combat. Even that was enough to go down in the legends, to be honest.

According to the preliminary results of the campaign, it was a stunning success... If only the orcs hadn't spoiled the mood with their larger horde gathered above, near the entrance to the dungeon. And, if the scouts were to be believed, they'd called in a couple of very strong entities for support.

And the men were tired, exhausted, and almost all wounded.

It was not Ansarg's direct intervention that saved the day but the fact that he, in keeping with a barely formed hunch, just as granted by the Heart of the First Temple, had brought along a third Court Mage who specialized in spatial techniques. The Portalist and Master of Transference had barely been involved in the battle, except for a few orcs who had been cut to pieces by spatial distortion up there. But now he was full of energy and quite optimistic - he could teleport himself through a beacon even in such dire circumstances. Well, he'd have to take the prince with him, too.

Instead of fleeing, Ansarg coughed out a new order in a weak and somewhat hoarse voice. And the mage looked at him first with surprise, then with disbelief, then with apprehension (as if he were looking at a madman), and then slapped himself on the forehead with two fingers in a recognizable gesture of surprise and awareness. It was an old tower, but the dead whose civilization had created it was renowned for their love of teleportation networks.

These nets could hardly be used now - no preparation, no key artifacts, no nothing at all. Trying to activate the portal now was simply hopeless, if not suicidal altogether. If it weren't for Martedo Orinaldi, who possessed a whole set of very interesting titles of little use in battle or ordinary life. So what if he could enhance his techniques with an external artifact framework? Most spatial mages could do something similar as well and even more effectively than pure Portalists. In fact, the technique of creating spatial folds was based on exactly that - using a pre-made construct as the basis for the gradual creation of the distortion.

The portalist was unable to do such a thing, not in that direction. So his titles were almost useless, except for the extra concentration and energy boosts, until they found themselves in this strange situation. Given: old, leaky, but still working fortress accumulators with some power left in them (mainly due to their constant regeneration from the whole complex of amulet-absorbers), no less old portal stone, working, but without keys and user instructions, a portal mage with the ability to work with such artifacts in a somewhat unusual way.

What could have come out of it?

A few minutes later, in the middle of the central vault, a full-fledged cargo portal shimmered like water. Martedo scolded fiercely. He was under a terrible strain while warriors and even skinny mages, gaining second and third breath at once, dragged one chest after another through the portal window. Ansarg, ignoring the demands of his bodyguards, silently strode to the far corner, punched an unremarkable section of the stone slab with his fist - enhanced by the Sun rather than a simple physical attack - and drew out a strange casket carved from bone blackened by time.

He opened the box, swore at the built-in poison needle trap, received several healing charms from the healers, drank the antidote, was glad that the poison and the curse on the needle had almost dissipated, and finally pulled out the contents of the box. A nearby bodyguard could make out a strange clump of weightless black threads as if they were ghostly. However, he knew how to keep other people's secrets, or he would have died long ago, so for any questioner, he saw absolutely nothing.

Prince was the penultimate to enter the portal, almost kicking his guards into it. Not out of nobility, but because he wanted to personally witness the detonation of all the explosive potions left behind from previous encounters-he didn't want any questions about the place. Or about the cache from which he'd retrieved the lump of thread.

The last to enter the portal was the portalist, who could not see or hear anything physically - his eyes were blinded by capillaries bursting with exertion, and his eardrums were torn even earlier. That's good because Ansarg didn't want to kill a very useful and high-level specialist who could still be useful. He wasn't so sure about some of the guards, though.

Martedo couldn't aim directly at the Palace from that distance, and no one else could. You'd have to be not the forty-first but the fiftieth with a big advantage. They all appeared three days from the capital, near a small mining town whose inhabitants almost stuttered at such visitors. And after a few days spent resting, curing their wounds, and cleaning themselves up, they were already celebrating, bragging about their exploits.

There were so many accolades for Ansarg that even with his ego and thirst for recognition, he was beginning to tire. He had to sneak out of the banquet hall politely and gracefully, as he always did, and retreat to his chambers. He was not even in the mood to take a company with him so that privacy would be more pleasant.

There was a lump of black thread in the palm of his hand as if it were rippling in the absent wind, and Ansarg, a man of mythical class, uncommon intelligence, and hubris the size of half a palace building, genuinely wanted to roll over onto his other side and send his whole idea to Hell, where it belonged. One could limit himself to less sweeping gestures, like kidnapping one particular Elvess for personal use, rather than all that he had in mind, no other way than by catching a particularly severe planarian intoxication. Especially since after his trek for gold, Sorz's budget allows a lot of things that were problematic to allow before, and all that gold can rightfully be used for personal projects. It would be smarter, more reliable, and right.

Right?

The woman who entered his private office looked impressive. Not beautiful, not exciting, not stunning, although all those epithets could be applied to her, but impressive. There was something strange and dangerous about Miranda Craig that made even those without a high level of sensitivity realize that it was better not to joke with this lady.

The graceful and slender figure of the fencer was not devoid of pleasing forms, which only complemented the flexible waist of the girl who entered. Her face was a little too sharp, which made it seem as if she looked at the world with a slight sneer, which was even true - the girl's character was not simple. Her bright red hair, complete with a scattering of freckles, and her large green eyes added to the exotic appearance of the obvious foreigner. Ansarg liked other types of women, but he could not help but recognize the beauty of the one sitting in front of him, and neither could anyone else.

Her natural charm, long and thoughtfully supplemented by cosmetic alchemy, has made her a real treat for men's eyes. Looking at her, it was easy to forget that she was worth the cost of a coherent squad of guardsmen in direct combat. Of course, that didn't stop Ansarg from giving the red-haired mare a good ride in her time. She was especially good at the four-boned pose, for which Ansarg called her a mare, and the red-haired beast, proud of her nickname, responded with a gushing "igo-go".

All in all, nothing unusual, especially knowing that this lady is. First of all, Summoned and second, given for his personal use. Master Guardian, Life Keeper, and Sorcerer Archer level thirty-four. It is still green, especially for a summoned one, but it was not made for sacrifice but for long and fruitful use. She was given to Ansarg by his father with a perfectly understandable purpose. The legendary bodyguard class, which she developed in the first place, was to allow Chained to protect him from any adversity.

He wonder if she could have pulled him off if he had taken her to the Silk Cage with him back then. More likely no than yes, for the allied creature was clearly too strong, and the Summoned one was even lower than she was now. No, she wouldn't have had time, though she was guaranteed to delay the fugitives long enough for the guards to kill the "captive" elfess.

Thirty-fourth level, three classes, even if the main one is not combat, the second one is defense, and the third one is a bit superfluous. Instead of an archer, she might have been a fencer, like a guardian, but specializing in attacking rather than defending. On the other hand, she was destined to be a human shield, not a unit that changes the course of battle. It's a good asset that even the archer class doesn't spoil, so there's a reason they decided to keep her alive. She will not overpower an army for a long, long time, if ever, but if she does take at least forty, which will also take at least ten years, any attempts on it will require a titanic effort.

Yeah.

"Sir Heir?" The long silence, not less than half an hour, was first broken by the girl invited to his office.

Actually, after he sent the guards away, she had a pretty clear idea why he would want his mare, who was already in the mood for that yoke-go-go. And here he was just staring at the bridge of her nose, clearly having no intention of undressing the pretty, figure-hugging courtesan dress. He remember that he had convinced her to wear only very specific things as casual wear at the time, out of sheer pique. When there were more witnesses - the robes of a status concubine or courtesan, if the mood was cheerful - vulgar clothes and marks of harbor who, or even just sunshine alone.

Thirty-fourth level.

And he's only in the twenty-fourth grade, even after all his recent adventures. He's about to take a second class, and he doesn't know what he's doing or what he's thinking. Couldn't he at least wait a little longer and not jump into the problem?

"Don't move." Ansarg Las'Lernod orders briefly, rising from behind the massive table to activate the eavesdropping protection that literally cuts the room off from the rest of the world.

She arched her head in anticipation, and the prince wondered if he could get a good fucking first. He hadn't had time to relieve himself since his visit to the Heart of the First Temple. There were women among his little army of Snow Conquerors (very soon, the name would be solidified by the official award order), and they were not against warming the bed for a crown prince who had not taken a marching harem with him, but he was too afraid of losing the image given by the sun to be seriously distracted.

Silently he approached her from behind and drew his belt dagger, opening his wrists and feeding the cobwebs with his blood. Just as silently, he ran the tip of the blade across Miranda's exposed back, adding her blood to his. Nothing happens for a few seconds, only the girl looks at him, with a surprised look, clearly about to stand up and bandage the aftermath of his self-torture.

And then her body convulses, and she falls to the fluffy carpet of Steppe Tairo skins, wriggling in a full-blown fit. He should have held her so she wouldn't hurt herself, but Ansarg sensibly assessed his nearly undeveloped physical attributes, compared them to those of the Summoned, and then decided not to dishonor his name and just wait.

He had to wait nearly an hour before the silent torture ended, and a barely discernible black pattern appeared on his arm, like a second set of veins. It seems that most users of Darkness, over time, undergo such a mutation. They say there's too much blackness, so much that their bodies can't hide it. And the artifact is definitely saturated with Darkness.

The staggering, panting girl sits back in her chair, not even trying to fix her cramped dress. She's good, though, very good. He should have fucked her when he had the chance. He doesn't think he'll be getting the chance any time soon. So much to do, so much to do, and he was a fool for wanting to fight the wind.

"Okay, mare, it's time to talk." The prince summed it up, looking away from the freckled breasts. "And seriously."

"Yeah," she agreed obediently, then tried to break his head with a sharp jerk.

He leaned back from the first blow, falling back into the chair, and then had to dive right under the table, which was heavy and sturdy. It was ironic, considering that Miranda had ducked under the table before when he didn't want to listen to her but wanted to gag her. The irony was not appreciated by the large crack that went through the whole body of the table immediately after the thunderous sound of the blow.

"Are you crazy, you redheaded whore?" He resented from underneath. "It's a bloody tree! My grandfather was sorting out the correspondence behind it!"

The quite legitimate indignation on his part caused some kind of animal roar, after which the table was overturned with a crash, and Ansarg took the blow of the dainty woman's hand on his forearms crossed in front of his face. Something crunched, whether it was his arms or the wall, into which the prince flew with his back from the jolt, and the enraged fury was already tearing at his throat. Suddenly the Herald's relaxed, melancholy expression was gone, and he went into fighting mode.

The next blow, this time a kick to the temple, was met by a barrier of sunlight, and the prince himself began to shine, blinding and driving the girl away. She jumped away, clearly fearing the logical blow in this situation - she'd been trained properly and not just to suck and twist her ass - but just not knowing that the prince had nothing to attack. He hadn't developed attacking or even full-fledged defensive skills, focusing entirely on support. A little diplomacy wouldn't hurt.

"I liked you more when you started laughing on all four." He informed me, dimming the glow a little.

The diplomacy worked as standard, causing Miranda, already without a snarl, with only perdition in her eyes, to try to kill him with a mail-opening knife she had grabbed inexplicably when. Instead of trying to hit her with the mythical class, Ansarg hurled a trio of gems in front of him, which unfolded into a small aegis, preventing damage to all those inside.

The mare didn't even hit the shield; she just jumped up, ran up the surface of the dome, and, staring at Ansarg, flailed her arms as if pulling on invisible strings. The guy, who thought he was well-protected, appeared next to the overturned table, and inside the barrier rested the chair where his redheaded slut had been sitting earlier. Change of position? Bodyguards, even of the rare type, can swap positions between themselves and their protected target, but swapping targets and random pieces of furniture, pulling them right out from under the protective aegis? Is that even legal?

Ansarg, by the way, did not immediately realize that he had been swapped places with the chair because his back was turned to the attacker, but his instincts and simple logic, acquired in the last adventure, made him immediately and without distraction activate another set of amulets and only then turn around. He turned around fast enough to see the knife, gleaming with magical radiance, stuck in the epic-type barrier.

"Will you stop it?" He tried to appeal to the voice of reason. "I want to talk. Or at least speak out. If you'd rather keep your mouth shut. Or full, I don't mind."

The jab was ineffectual, for Miranda didn't even change her indifferent, collected expression, somehow swapping his and the other chair again. The one in which he was already sitting. The third set of one-time amulets came into play, but now it was ripped from his protection even faster.

To get bogged down in the magical field, which resembled a viscous sourdough. The air in it became extremely static and unruly all at once, and then Ansarg added a special alchemical dust that prevented the use of external techniques. The devils know if it would stop her, but if it didn't, it would be bad for the prince.

He had to, but the flash of the sun managed to stop the blow of the statuette that struck him in the temple, weakening also the second, which broke a couple of ribs and once again introduced his back to the wall. The wooden panels would have to be replaced, too, and they were, after all, carved from wood already extinct in Sorz territory... were.

"Crazy bitch." All the guy could mutter was sliding to the floor and trying to learn how to breathe again. "I haven't fucked you enough, you horny horse. I swear on my word and my blood."

"You didn't fuck enough?" Now he could hear in her voice not just anger, but pure and uncomplicated rage. "You motherfucking bastard, you fucking dog shit, you want to fuck me? You stinking motherfucker, huh? Come here, try to fuck me, I'll fuck you myself, you bastard, you wonker, goddamn you, you idiot, fuck you and your whole family, you dog shit, you stinking shit, you bitch, you bastard, come here, you bastard, you rascal, you bastard, come here, you..."

T. N. It's a reference to this episode.

"Shut the hell up!" Forgetting all decency, the prince literally yelled, curled up on the floor, trying to see if his lungs were punctured by broken ribs. "Did I fuck your brains out? Do not think with your holes. Think with your head! I'd be clearing your absent mind if I wanted you to put me on the trial of the Sun! Aah! You wretch! Do I have to call the healers again? There's blood in my saliva!"

"Drop dead!" They answered him with no less fervor. "I wish all of you in your sunny kingdom would die! I'll feed you your own balls, you little faggot! I'll sell you to a Thai brothel, motherfucker!"

"That's enough." The Sun, in his words, hit much harder than a slap, making Miranda choke on her comments about his sex life and sexual preferences. "Enough. We'll talk. Whether you want to or not. And believe me, as much as you want to hurt me. I'm your only ally in this situation."

Silence and quiet promise in her eyes, but no fear or at least willingness to cooperate were there even when viewed with the magnifying gnome optics.

"See this?" He raised his palm, showing her the web. "That thing, if I'm not mistaken, is now trying to eat your mind. But instead, it's only hooked tightly into your saddle and bridle, you ginger mare. Kha-kha-kha-kha! Once I'm dead or, at least, unconscious, your control will return to its former measure. And who do you serve?"

"To the Solar King..." She answered before she could think. "What the..."

"Exactly... khakkh!" He nodded affirmatively, crawling to the table and pouring the regenerator down his throat. "I can't unshackle you. I have no idea what exactly is in my power to do such a thing. But this trick is the closest thing I have to freedom. Nothing and no one can give you more than that. Are we going to talk? The Viscous Dungeon is about to thin, and I want to live, strange as it may seem."

For a moment, he thought she was going to screw logic and common sense, but she decided to answer normally like a smart person.

"Let's talk."

"The usual web is a means of preparing an undercover infiltration, really." He explained, trying to assess the damage to his favorite table. "Darkness has always been good at absorbing and changing. Here's the web as Her artifact absorbs and changes. You take some poor guy. You feed him to the web. It's not the real name, by the way. The real one, I don't know... So, you get all the memory and personality of the devoured, and then you infiltrate and start working on your evil plans. Except you didn't get the usual abomination."

The girl, who had taken his cloak, concealed her pleasing nakedness and sat in the corner, feathering like a wet sparrow. Only it was not a sight to behold. It was one of frank fear. Now, looking at her, Ansarg knew if she didn't like his story, he would only have to try to kill her. She would not be frightened of death or torment or anything else.

"I don't really know how this stuff interacts with the Chains." He admitted after a while. "It was like a vision, but you know how it is. You were trained to guard me, not just to warm my bed. But that was a fine hot water bottle, wasn't it, mare?"

"Did you make me angry on purpose?" With an iron composure, she inquired.

"This is true." He nodded his head. "Anger and hatred allowed the chains to move briefly. In the meantime, the web did its work. I repeat my words. I don't know how it was able to prevent the Chains from moving. I can only assume that the natural resilience of the summoned is now experiencing a kind of acceleration... no, nonsense. Okay, I admit, I really don't know how it worked. Even more than that. What I'm sure of is that this web is far more complex than any artifact I know of. I'm not even sure now if it's a web... I mean, is it the same web I've heard about?"

"You still haven't told me what this is all about." Quietly, barely audible, Miranda Craig said. "Either speak normally or..."

Ansarg didn't wait for that "or," reasoning that he was already walking on the edge. So close to the abyss that he was already in it almost completely, only by some miracle holding on to the air.

"I... me, that was before the Heart. I wouldn't set you free," Prince confessed honestly. "And it wasn't out of any great sense of justice that I gave you your mind back now, either. Except that there is someone... someone who has tried very hard not only to make me his slave but to make me despise myself as a slave owner..."

The look in the green eyes was very attentive. The gaze of a very intelligent and well-trained assassin who understood perfectly all the implications behind those words.

"Elves..."

"Soundly sat in a puddle of sewage." Ansarg finished for her. "I could now if I wanted to, give the Dawn Woods such fun that they would be burned to the roots of the ancient forests and their groves there. Daddy would be sure to jump at the chance, and there would be others willing to do the same. No one loves them, the children of the stars."

"And you're all straight up the abode of virtue, I see." In such a tone of voice, not even sarcasm leaked out.

"Let's not make insinuations about my homeland, okay?" Ansarg answered back. "What they did to me... what she did... but, most importantly, what Heart did after that. You see, I can simply consign this episode of my life to oblivion, take revenge on the elven bitch, and then continue to lead my people to the Sun. That would be easy, considering both my class and the gold reserves gained from this snowy voyage. But that's not what I want... not just prove it, but prove it so that Heaven and the Stars themselves would shake!"

He gets to his feet and silently approaches the motionless girl, whom he has fucked and humiliated in a way that no one has ever done in her life. The girl who would easily kill him now - weakened and stripped of his amulet supply. She stands up, too, and their gazes meet like two avalanches, two ramparts of the sea in each other's path.

"The original plan of the Dawn Forest, her plan, was to inculcate in me the hatred of those who enslave her kindred, making them submissive toys. And to slavery in general - there is no better way to start a bloodbath in my House than to put such ideas in my head. Everything else, like the usual sense of inferiority in comparison to the Children of the Stars, the desire to please her, or the enclosed behavioral markers, all only added to the foundation."

"What a piece of crap!" Poison, in those words, could try to poison a major city and a dozen villages in return. "How dare she think such a thing of the great and noble Sorz. May the Sun shine on him!"

"That's what I thought, too." He replied as if he took her words for the truth. "But the seeds have sprouted. And the Heart, though it has melted me into someone, into something that the past Ansarg Las'Lernod is no longer... I can give up my ideas, my own now, not those of others. But that would mean that I had lost. To agree with them, with what was invested in me, would be to lose doubly. And then I decided not to give in to trivialities. Since they... since she is so eager to destroy slavery and the slavemancers, I will give her her wish and let her try not to choke. I will destroy the strongest, most powerful manifestation of slavery that there is in the whole world, in all of Alurei, wherever the Sun can reach with its gaze."

Now she understood.

When her mind was not distorted by her harness.

When she was able to compare all the facts she knew, the fate of the other Summoned and how she had behaved before, how she had felt in those days when she did not want to be anything other than his plaything

She understood the slavery he wanted to destroy.

"As you can guess, such plans can't be shared with anyone else." The smile on his face came out so crooked it looked more like a grimace. "I will not be understood by my allies, my subjects, or my vassals. No one will understand me except those who would benefit from this insane desire of mine to save themselves. So, are you with me?"

The answer was not given immediately, not without doubt and the slightest show of trust on her part, but she had no choice even now. After all, he wasn't doing all this for her or for losers like her, whose role had long since been firmly defined for them. He was doing it for the one living thing he cared about, for whom he was willing to do anything and to whom he could not refuse - for himself.

* * *

Author's Note:

Oy-wey, twenty-four pages. And I was only going to give it a two or three!

In this interlude, I finally managed to connect the forgotten storylines, including the Shyngys line, with dice. And the Prince shot, not so much in an unexpected way, but in a very unusual way.

Yes.

Not a positive character at all, with a rather noticeably leaky roof. Although, it would be funny if several teams took down Yoke near the end.

Now about dice.

100 with bonuses was thrown by Shyngys, but he had so many bonuses there that he would have made it even if he had thrown 20-25. But now there's no doubt about it.

18 threw Lawrence out while trying to untie the thread with Bastian and his death. Not because he's stupid, but because he had too much on his plate there

The kingdom, if anything, is storming in such a way that the civil wars were only miraculously avoided. This somewhat put aside Sigismund's line, which was designed for rebellion, but gave Marked air time.

100 and 66: threw out the episodic portal mage, managing to survive the unsurvivable. He hardly appears again in the text, but know this: he was very lucky.

Ah yes, the power of the legendary creature turned out to be 45, i.e. medium-weak for a legendary creature. And its nature gave such a disadvantage in the battle with Ansarg's group that it's a shame.

That is the mythical supporting class, which itself is supported: that's why loners are rare because the group is better.

The main achievement of MC and Co. in the Stone was that they did not allow the enemy to properly organize themselves.