Chapter 4 (Patreon)

Chapter 4

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The new four sentries, sent to replace the processed ones who had gone back to camp, were not going to be spared; it was enough to leave one alive to send signals through the amulet. In fact, no one was going to be polite to them, only taking care to maintain radio silence on their part.

Gently, almost tenderly, I stroke the owner of the signal amulet on the head, sending him off to the land of sweet dreams, and then let my companions go on their way. Just beginning to suspect something, the archer caught an arrow glowing from the invested power in his throat from Hans, and after him, his neighbor received a similar gift. The latter, who was fourth, did not wait his turn, wisely deciding to get out of this madhouse. A quick and well-judged jump downward allowed him to get out of the shooting range, only to be immediately taken down by a sharp dagger, guided by the gentle palm of the beautiful Taria.

Alas, she was far from me, and so the vile brigand was in no hurry to die from the extra holes in his body. When he realized that there was only one opponent and that the arrow could not reach him now (he had not seen me, so he assumed that the arrows had killed all three of his companions), he decided to spend a few seconds of his time trying to take the life of his opponent.

If it had been a one-on-one fight, Taria would have lost. It wasn't even about levels, though the seventh wasn't good enough against the thirteenth, it was about experience and superiority in weaponry. Taria must have thought my example exemplary, and then decided that the dagger was the choice of a true Hero. Except she didn't have my abilities and characteristics, and in combat against an armored opponent armed with a normal blade... Let's just say the dagger is not the best choice here.

If it hadn't been for the potions all my companions had used ( only the longest potions so far, so that we wouldn't find ourselves without pants at the most inopportune moment), I would have had to save the fool, but she was doing fine with them. The outlaw hurled his crossbow at her, forcing her to retreat and giving himself time to draw his short sword from its sheath, but that was where his successes ended.

A series of swift slashing attacks, aimed at her face, legs, and forearms, failed to hurt the experienced fighter, but also prevented him from going on the offensive to take advantage of the length of his blade. At the moment of Taria's boldest attack, he managed to push her with his body, but the dream-trained maiden had already encountered such tactics. A downward departure and another risky lunge, followed by a wistful howl from him - a blade to the groin didn't add to anyone's mood. A severed femoral vein and a severed jade rod guaranteed death by blood loss, but the girl decided to take control, coming in from the blind spot and stabbing straight into the back of his head like a bird stabbing with a steel beak.

The whole fight didn't take a minute, and most of the time was spent fighting the lowest level of us. It took longer to sneak up to the gatehouse to attack suddenly, but knowing the location of the traps and seeing where the sentries were looking at that moment in time, it wasn't too difficult.

"How did I do? You're good, aren't you?" Now that silence was no longer necessary, Taria allowed herself a show of emotion. "Six levels of the difference!"

Even though she was happy, it was not even me who had to knock her down, but the serious, like a resident of the Chelyabinsk region, Hans, who was now concentrating on taking his arrows out of the corpses.

T.N. Well. The residents of Chelyabinsk are something like Chuck Norris' cousins. But they don't know karate and can't do a leg kick with a U-turn.

"Mm-hmm. Good for you. But you should know that without potions, he'd have gutted you like a fish and then fucked you, too. Maybe even backward." And without letting her insert an indignant retort, he reasoned. "Why are you dropping into the strike like that? You couldn't pull your arm back and you'd get your grip snatched right off! You got a dagger in your hand! You can't block with it!"

Taria looked at me, but I just made a look like "Yeah, you really almost screwed up, honey. Try to be a little more careful in the future". Meanwhile, the pathfinder had turned the scene with the reprimand into another lesson and analysis of mistakes. And I understood it all, but I could hardly characterize the problem so accurately. Exactly in words, and not in a correctly shown exercise, to characterize it.

"You have to strike the dagger at close range, so you can feel someone else's breath. And you were fencing with it as if you had a sword in your hands. No, you can do that too, but it's harder, and it's too early for you..."

I distracted myself from another lesson and rushed upstairs to help Losius drag our prisoner down. I'm not sure how much time I have, but there's not much time to finish with the prisoner before it's time for another signal.

When Taria saw our burden, she just grinned wickedly and began to pull off her leather breastplate. I don't like how much she gets off on her power, though.

The slave traders' camp looked more like some not-so-small village or military outpost than a bloody den of bandits. It was rather neat and tidy, everyone was busy or resting, and the whole picture was too... orderly. The presence of normal houses in the camp should be noted specifically - sturdily built wooden huts and barracks clearly hinted at the fact that these guys have been here for a long time. Barracks, warehouses, personal homes of local leaders, full-fledged working quarters, barracks, and slave pens had clearly been fortified and built up over years.

And I was now fully convinced that there was no way this could be done without a cover-up from above. Even if the thugs had bought up all the villagers' guts and shit, someone would have blabbed. I don't want to say anything about the fact that such a construction site couldn't have gone completely unnoticed. No, these mutts are clearly walking under someone's hand, and that hand is long and very hairy.

T.N. hairy paw/arm - It is an idiom meaning "good connections".

There were enough ordinary tents or rather more of them, but it was probably because the weather allowed them to live that way, rather than crowding under the walls. Despite the resemblance of this place to some villages, there were many more differences. The first thing that struck the eye was the complete absence of livestock or even chickens, so there was no stench of shit. There were no gardens either, except for a couple of greenhouses next to the local alchemist's laboratory house.

But there were dogs if these huge and furry cutthroats could be considered mere dogs and not peculiar monsters. Some of them must have been as big as a fat calf. They must have been fattened up on runaway slaves. That was a logical assumption, considering that most of the dogs were leashed up next to the slave pens.

Nor was it without a few dismembered corpses hanging in the trees, belonging to ( and I could have done without that knowledge) those unfortunate people who had angered their masters in some way. Or simply too useless and cheap to spend money and supplies on them. It costs money, and the whips are free, but they give great motivation to those who haven't been beaten to death with them.

It's a life-affirming picture, there's no other way to express it.

Me and my young team... No, that's not the phrase. I and my comrades-in-arms had separated a few minutes before, after which the trio, drunk on alchemy, began to make a wide detour toward the swamp, where they would be met and backed up by the instructed Ygra, while I began to infiltrate from a completely different direction.

The barrier around the camp was good, but a really strong lurker could only detain a little, not stop it. I didn't have any trouble at all, because I simply shifted into my shadowy form, slipped under the ground, and slipped inside. To be honest, even the ground on which the camp stood was part of a protective circuit. If any earth mage or other physical body decided to break through it, it would be picked up. Fortunately, beaming other plans, including the Shadow plan, is a level of protection that even the coolest and richest slave traders couldn't afford. Simply because people who could put up such protection wouldn't even talk to barefooted bandits.

On the other hand, someone set up this far from ordinary barrier here, didn't he? But here I am thinking of a local ritualist who has a very high level and, most importantly, funding and access to rare reagents. Further proof of the high patronage of this gang. I would have listed the ritualist as a priority target for my visit, but I did not sense any particular danger from him. My clairvoyance even told me that he had been busy for weeks on some project of his own, making experiments on prisoners and looking for something he knew only. I could concentrate on that, but I had enough other purposes where I could apply my clairvoyance well. What mattered was the opportunity to infiltrate the camp, not the purpose of some local Mengele's research.

When I emerged from the Shadow, I immediately went into stealth, sensibly assuming that the locals might be disturbed by a figure wearing my smiling mask, appearing in the middle of their camp. Realizing that no one was watching my movements, I went to consider my targets. The team had already gone a third of the way to their chosen point and would soon begin taking down the sentries. By that time, the death mage should learn his direction of magic, so to speak, from the inside.

Otherwise, it's just silly.

As always in my life, yes.

My first target was surprisingly problematic, though it didn't seem so at first. The spacious and ornate tent was radically black, evidently as a sign of the shop's membership. The occupant was also fully in keeping with all the classic notions of dark magicians, both in dress and appearance. And if the same black cloak and massive gray skull medallion could still seem normal, then the appearance...

Somehow this man reminded me of the unforgettable villain from the series of young British wizard movies. Only he had a nose, but otherwise, it was very similar. Pale and thin skin, narrow slits of eyes, the color of which was impossible to make out, thin fingers that looked like spider's legs - just looking at him made me want to burn him in the holy flames. He was too undead, even more so than other undead.

If all zombies and ghouls had the energy of death, here it replaced the energy of life. There was still living somewhere in the depths of his frail body, but it was so ghostly that it wasn't even funny. This is just a joke, but this fellow is dead to a much greater extent than a mere corpse.

And I had to kill him, quickly and discreetly, so as not to cause a commotion. He even made it easy for me by sitting alone in his tent, with no thought of the company. And I doubt there's anyone around here who'd be willing to keep him company. I'm sure a simple stab of a dagger in the heart won't even flinch him, but the shadows should be able to handle it. And then there are the problems that I hadn't thought of, and that Losius's brother-inquisitor never told his kinsman.

That bastard necropedophile, just walking stamp from cheap fantasy, sensed death. And the feeling was not limited to the mere knowledge that someone had been stabbed somewhere nearby. He sensed death coming on to himself! Good thing my intuition sounded the alarm on the approach, and then clairvoyance intervened, more or less revealing the concept of his powers.

Until I make a firm intention to attack right here and now, the Death Preacher's class sense will be silent. But any, even subconscious movement in the direction of killing him would be the equivalent of an icy thorn in his heart muscle - no way to miss a clue like that.

All the same, clairvoyance sang, bringing to my attention a whole bunch of unhelpful facts. There were some really useful notes among this stream of nonsense, such as the realization that a preacher's sense grows with the level (which is not surprising) and on the battlefield, where death walks near, which is more unusual. Now, when he has just set foot on this path and is still at maximum rest, his foresight is running at a minimum. And I'd better not let him accelerate to really serious levels.

No one will kill him but me.

Hm.

Hm.

That's not a bad idea, Kostik, not a bad idea at all. When I finish with this camp, I can take a pie from the shelf. Maybe even with cherries, anyway, the carnage will be over by then.

I take a position in the farthest corner of his tent - it's surprisingly sparse, despite how expensive it is - while simultaneously pulling my will toward The Shadow. I proceeded at top speed, hastily executing the plan I'd devised.

Here I am, summoning an inferior Shadow from another plane. I'm certainly not going to attack the damn mage with it, but I'm going to keep the Shadow from attacking in any way I can. I am not causing death by my actions, but rather I am preventing it. That's why my actions are invisible to the mage. At the same time as I summon, I try to spend as little energy as possible so as not to disturb a wizard of his level, because I'm conjuring right next to him.

But one of the Shadow's greatest advantages is its stealth and imperceptibility, and so even action as perceptually illuminating as summoning a creature from another plane provides almost no secondary background. Something did make its way through all my efforts, but it was a crumb that no one outside the tent could detect.

Alas, the bald prick was still inside the tent, and so he couldn't help but notice the slightest chill in the air, the slightly dimmed light of the oil lamp, and the barely perceptible shadows around him. It was enough to alarm him, and he pulled up, putting aside his quill and his book and gripping his amulet tightly.

The Mage of Death was ready for battle, but he still doubted the need to raise the alarm, not wanting to make a fool of himself and panic-monger - even individuals so grown-up with their powers remain subject to human standards and thinking. And at that moment an inferior Shadow manifested itself in reality, literally pulsing with malice and lust for other people's lives.

I controlled it, keeping it from attacking, but it wanted to drink the man in front of it dry, even without my involvement. If the Preacher had been more skilled, he would have sensed my intention, too, but fortunately for me, he was not skilled.

The blow of death magic was fatal to the Shadow - the creature simply ceased to be, instantly ending its existence. It was strong, considering that the concept of death is quite alien to Shadows. However, the comparative strength of the Shadow and the charms that struck it would not be at all in favor of the creature I'd summoned.

The mage's blow was completely silent and devoid of special effects - in the real world, it looked like a barely perceptible stream of gray ash. It wasn't spectacular at all, and you might miss it if you don't have an exaggerated perception. My gaze revealed the impact as an impossibly thick shroud of bone ash, in which the painfully white hues of something too otherworldly to be understood by someone who was not himself akin to that power.

The blow was strong, fast, deadly... and the last one.

I struck before my Shadow had even disembodied itself, attacking at full speed and without the slightest restraint. The blade that continued the blade of my dagger to its limit, composed entirely of shadow energy, was not a weapon, but a bloody slit in the body of reality. If I had wished to create a breakthrough to the Shadow Realm, a mere swing of this construct would have been enough to really cut through the very fabric of creation!

Instead, I thrust the edge of the shadow blade straight into the mage's back, piercing his heart without even noticing the protective barrier that erupted. After the first wound, the blade disintegrated into free shadow energy, corroding the victim from the inside, wrapping his entire body in an insurmountable shroud the color of a starless sky. After a few seconds, there was nothing left of the body, only a gray spot in the Shadow where the now-deceased had once stood.

I couldn't bear the urge to say some pompous phrase, but I had to limit myself to poking the freak with a fack, and then I quietly left the tent - there was a lot of work ahead of me.

My comrades were slowly approaching the nearest point, but they were in no hurry, deliberately giving me time to complete my part of the plan while checking their tasks and readiness for the second time. It would be a shame not to take advantage of such courtesy, so I headed for the second priority target, Phantom.

Alas, I came and I went. He was wearing a heavy camisole, which was a combination of clothing and armor, and he was scolding the men who were training, apparently taking the blame for some mess they had made. And he did it right in front of everyone, which made the quiet elimination of this man an unrealistic task.

As I look at him and assess the quality of the enchanted light armor, I am forced to admit that I will have to let him go for a salad later, when the serious battle begins. I only hope that he won't throw any surprises.

I was about to go visit a mage who likes to throw lightning bolts, but this Zeus worshipper was discussing something with one of the high-ranking fighters right now. A simple level twenty-one archer, I didn't even list him as a priority target, but I didn't want to disturb the conversation, again, taking place in public. But I noticed a delightful opportunity that made me change my advancement plans a bit.

The Butcher, whom I sincerely wanted to gut personally, was eating his dinner right now, and it was quite dense, too. And he had to be distracted by some trifle. While the screaming sadist was kicking the fighter who had distracted him, I shadowed my way into his cabin (not a tent, but a nice house), and then added to his food one very unusual spice.

I recall that at that time I had decided that I would only feed this shit to the uttermost scum, for whom a normal death would not be enough. By the grace of Randomius, this particular man fits the criteria to the fullest extent! So the bright scarlet powder, tasteless and odorless, was added to the wine with a clear conscience and a cheerful mood.

The wild, uncontrollable hunger that forced one to eat until one could literally burst, seemed to me to be a fitting payment for the suffering caused by this type. I did have to deliberately suppress my clairvoyance so that it would not be blocked by visions of this psychopath's entertainment. It is a psychopath because I can't call him normal, even at a stretch. If the young malefic is a spoiled scumbag, then this deviant is a pure psychopath.

To my deepest regret, I don't have time to wait for that dick to start eating, so I move on. I literally have a couple of minutes left before the guys start pulling off the patrols. No, I believe they won't notice them right away, but I'd better not take any chances because I still have to damage the barrier and kill the rest of the elite.

Malefic or Slavemancer.

I don't know - both of them are equally vile, and their level of danger is quite identical, it seems to me. The Malefic is too well-protected and has no intention of removing his amulets yet, but the Slavemancer is just having fun with one of his slave girls, remaining bare-assed. The phrase is literally one hundred and twenty-five percent accurate.

The room for the training (read: conditioning) of the elite slaves, which was also the home of a man who liked to rummage through other people's brains, was probably one of the largest buildings in the camp. In the beginning, it was an ordinary barrack, but over time it has been extensively modified, turning it into a workshop for a man who works with some of the most fanciful material in the world.

The independent protection in this place was not impressive - although it closed the door securely - I passed through the wall, which was not closed at all, and then I found myself in the holy of holies. There was an intimate semi-darkness and a strange herbal smell in the air, clearly affecting the brain. A kind of fantasy cannabis, with a touch of magic in its composition.

I moved silently, but, frankly, I could have marched in marching order - no one would have noticed me anyway. Slavemancer was doing what any man without morals but with his abilities and a certain amount of lust would do: he was fucking his "client".

A short, well-built girl with a distinctly Asian appearance lay motionless, staring up at the ceiling and drooling. She didn't seem to care at all about what was happening to her body. The clairvoyance reminded me once again of how much it likes to spill information on me that I don't even want to know. But now I know that this respected master is a hardened hedonist, who finds his fascination in any form of carnal intimacy.

He equally enjoyed raping completely free and untreated women, receiving various caresses from his carefully trained slave girls, or generally fucking such logs who had just begun to receive "treatment". His powers allowed him to do without personal contact, simply transmitting pleasure and submission into his victim's head, but he saw no problem in combining pleasure with profit.

This particular lady is still at the beginning of her journey, but it is unlikely that it will take her more than a week to become a submissive nymphomaniac. And that's only because she's not the only one he's got. The barrack was divided into two dozen small rooms, most of which had their unit.

A couple more losers were hanging in cages suspended from the ceiling, watching the process, but remaining thoroughly paralyzed. Probably so as not to be disturbed by the shouting. One of them, a young guy of the same (un)Asian appearance, was looking at what was happening with such a primal frenzy that if he could make holes with his eyes, the whole planet would have turned into Swiss cheese.

In the farthest corner, there was an aloof wonking woman of very attractive appearance, who watched the debauchery that was going on uninterruptedly. She was an archer, twentieth-level even, with the quite fit body of an experienced fighter and a very pretty face, framed by a mop of light-blond hair.

The clairvoyant claims that she was captured during another raid on a distant frontier, after which she was placed at the disposal of the Slavemancer. He had not yet decided whether to make her a commodity for sale or to keep her for himself in addition to the bodyguards standing in the corners. But his deliberation had not prevented him from carrying out all the necessary manipulations, having already managed to break the poor soul's personality and rewire it into something new.

At least she does not attempt at all to resist the commands and desires she has been given, believing them to be entirely true and correct, and, in fact, practically her own decisions. Her hands are habitually performing the familiar movements, keeping her on the very brink of reaching her peak, and her lips are continuously repeating the same mantra:

"I long to serve. I was born to serve. I will serve. I must serve. I long to serve. I am born to serve. I will serve. I must serve. I long to serve. I am born to serve. I will serve. I must serve."

There's nothing to fix because the mind is completely washed out. Not that I was going to do anything like that - even my good nature has a limited margin of safety - but it didn't feel right. It was about time I got my revenge on one particular slave-owner who had decided he was superior.

It makes me wonder how people can write all sorts of isekai novels about the owners of such classes. I mean, I understand that they make the main characters not such creatures, deliberately showing how the hero has been mistreated, betrayed, and all that. But man! In life, characters like that can only come out of something that looks like the type I'm about to kill.

It will be easy - a trio of slave guards above the fifteenth level will be no problem for me, and the Slavemancer himself has no combat skills and high characteristics.

Okay, the verdict is passed, not appealed, and enforceable.

It's the fucking Middle Ages here, so I'm all for the judge, the lawyer, the prosecutor, and the fucking bear!

T.N. The law is the taiga, the prosecutor is the bear. Taiga is some of Russian variant of jungle. The proverb refers to the fact that the law does not work in such places. Something similar to "Might make right."

I was expecting something, some kind of danger or trap, but nothing happened at all. I spelled it out: no-thing! That is, I struck, and he died, after which the wildly retarded (brainwashing doesn't add skill) guards died.

Slavemancer had just started to make another reciprocating motion but suddenly collapsed on his back with a hole in his temple. The two boys and the girl, however, were dead before their master's body hit the ground. I glanced at the naked beauty on the table, then went back into stealth and moved on to my next target.

This girl's caged relative only had time to notice the image of the white and smiling bloody mask flashing before his face. I wonder if he will believe that his prayers to the demons and dark gods ended up with the right result, or will he still consider the situation a fluke?

I've got no time at all because Hans already has an arrow in the bowstring, and I have too many people to take out. One second to think, and then I go back to the slavemancer's workshop and hang a bottle of acid over the entrance - two quite high-ranking guys are on their way there. I just know they'll knock first, then knock loudly, and only then will they get anxious, entering without asking. There is still time for such surprises.

After setting the trap, I scanned the camp with my shadow perception, looking for a suitable target. The Butcher had eaten his poison and was now gorging himself on the ham he'd cooked. He ate too quickly and too much, and he was already overeating, but his hunger would not abate, forcing him to pounce like a phalanx that had no concept of satiety.

But the old electromagician picked a very good time to get sick to his stomach. And no, clairvoyance, I don't thank you at all for these images and for explaining where he put his hands without washing them before he ate. Bitch! Seventy years old, and he still hasn't learned hygiene! I don't give the asshole a chance to "blow off steam" and then go to my cabin and drink the prepared potion. The shadowy silhouette contemptuously ignores the purely anti-physical amulet, then wrings the old man's neck, leaving him sitting on the latrine, but dead.

I save time and move to the toilet in shadowy steps, placing an extremely fragile vial of explosive liquid under the door - you open the door and break it with a guarantee. And there's a big line here, because of the popularity of this place in the hearts of the inhabitants of the camp! I don't care if you shit your pants, you woolly faggots, I even provided you with a cure for constipation!

I spend the next two minutes setting up a few more gas bombs, mining the most obvious and convenient areas. The installation of another flask coincides with the first patrol cut out. Two unhurried and frankly relaxed strollers catch one shell each. The first was sent from Hans's bow, but the second was fired by Taria, who picked up one of the crossbows left over from the sentries we knocked out in the forest gatehouse.

It was risky to fire a weapon you didn't even know, and not have the right skills, but once you hit what you were aiming for, there was no judging the winners. There was no reaction to the first corpses of sentries, and I couldn't figure out what to do next. The Phantom and the Malefic are still surrounded by a crowd of regular fighters, and there's no way to kill them without being seen. Sawing off an alchemist or a ritualist? That's not a bad idea, but the Ritualist's lodge is too heavily defended to bother trying to break in unnoticed, and blowing it to bits would be a bad idea.

The Alchemist would have been a good target, but he's clearly not dangerous in a direct fight, even if he did screw up a lot by providing the rank-and-file warriors with his products.

Destroy any of the lower-ranking commanders?

Proceed to break into the security barrier?

Perhaps it is the latter that makes the most sense. Even though the base of the ritual, like the altar that imbues the whole structure, is in the ritualist's cottage, the Gaze shows perfectly all the weak points of the dome that shelters the settlement. If you hit the right spot, it will come out just fine.

Unfortunately, my plans of quietly undermining the barrier were defiantly shattered by the sudden ringing of the silver bells, quiet but clearly audible to all. Despite the fact that all three of my companions had drunk the compound that allowed them to see clusters of magic, someone had still struck the signal thread, causing a general alarm.

At that moment, I felt so light and calm in my soul that I don't even know.

It was no longer necessary to play stealth missions.

The good old massacre was starting!

Somewhere in a distant corner of the camp, there was an explosion that lifted up a torrent of shit mixed with human remains. Somewhere in his house a hapless Butcher was vomiting blood and trying to stuff corned beef into his torn stomach at the same time. All the guests who had broken into the slavemancer's workshop were doused with flesh-dissolving acid. Somewhere else a flask of poison gas had broken, and a dozen and a half men were convulsing with lilac foam on their lips.

A cruel smile spread beneath my mask, for too long the inhabitants of this place had punished and slaughtered, forgetting that they themselves were mortal. I scooped the energy from my reserve, forcing the shadows into a veritable circle, attacking the right parts of the ground. The chiming continues, followed by the crunch of shattered glass, and an abominable screeching sound erupts over the camp. The same screeching sound that in their nightmares meant impending death. Panic, fear, and paralysis swept over the inhabitants, and seconds later, flasks of potions and other implements of death flew into the crowd.

The last ray of sunset disappeared over the horizon.

I'll be honest and straightforward, as I'd never say in an exam, - it was a fucking massacre and nothing else. Panicked, confused, and suspicious of everyone and everything, the bandits turned into fucking shooting targets. I'd already knocked out almost all the fighters I could think of, and the rest just didn't stand a chance in hell of hurting me.

A step through the shadows, and I come out behind the forward fighter swinging an ax, then blow his head off and kick his body right under the feet of the runners following him. The three fugitives hook over and fall into one big pile of arms and legs, and the combustible mixture is neatly laid on top of this pie. The screaming is still just beginning, and I'm already off in another stride, intercepting another group of outlaws.

These guys had time to prepare and even reacted to my appearance, but no more than that - three quick steps when I appeared in reality for a split second, and then six bodies fell to the ground, bleeding from the dagger wounds. A new step takes me out from under the fireball of a mage who happened to notice this brief battle. Too bright a flame might have knocked me out of The Shadow before, but I didn't even flinch, even though it was unpleasant.

Stepping out behind the mage and immediately leaving back into the shadows - the mage reacted as necessary, and on logic and experience alone, because he could not smell my appearance because of the skill of unexistence. He saw how his colleagues had died, realized that I was about to repeat my trick, and then reacted in time. And this is taking into account the fact that he had been able to almost instantly throw off the shackles of my nightmare. He was a very unorthodox character, despite his low level, but it didn't help. Waiting for the moment when the fire lash flitting around the mage subsides slightly, I immediately attack with my own lash. The shadow energy easily shreds the weakened flames, splitting the flamethrower in half.

A step and I step right in front of Phantom, trying to rally the fighters around himself, attacking with two lashes at once. A carefully calibrated blow goes into the void, and a sense of danger causes me to immediately change my position with another step, as the sharp dagger of the Phantom that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere nearly stabs me in the back. What an unusual class, though!

A fan of shadow ribbons causes seven fighters to sprawl into slices at once, and many more manage to bounce back somehow, after which I retreat into another step, skipping another Phantom attack. This time I attack simultaneously with him, not giving him time to react. At the same time, I also manage to suppress his sense of danger and bypass his strange anti-prophetic defense.

Alas, the second attack only left a rapidly expanding gash in his camisole. But that was only the beginning - the shadowy veil closing its arms around an overly nimble foe... Who falls again into the void. It wasn't like going into Shadow, or any other spatial technique I'd seen before. It's like he really disappeared from reality for a few moments.

The shadows wrapped around the asshole were felt for a fraction of a second, allowing me to feel and almost feel some strange space, seemingly objectified of nothing. The impression was not terrible, like Shadow or Dream, but simply nothing, as if something incredibly bland and tasteless had fallen on my tongue.

I leave the Phantom behind, casting a series of shadow strikes at the assembled foes, and then step away again, noting how the arrow intended for me, shining with the power invested, pierces through an overly nimble swordsman who had somehow managed to escape the shadow's grasp. The Phantom, who had appeared in reality, was fuming from the consequences of his encounter with the Shadow, but for now, I let him live, moving to the opposite side.

My fellows were surprisingly decent at holding their ground, scalp after scalp - the bandits, inhibited by my nightmare, could not reach them simply by our better-equipped company. Most of the approaches to their position were blocked by vile-colored clouds of venom, and the only possible vector of attack was blocked by Losius, whose rapier merged into a veritable sphere of steel, shining with an intolerably bright light that further restrained the confused bandits.

Taria and Hans fired simply and uncomplicated through the clouds, using quite tangible fallen trees for cover. The barricade that was supposed to stop the intruders from the swamp was now performing exactly the opposite function. At the most dangerous moments, the trio hurled particularly killing compounds into the crowd, preventing a full squad of stormtroopers from forming.

The Taria-trained suicide squad was a professional and efficient way of taking down everyone they could get their hands on, knocking out loners and leaders and taking full advantage of the sudden betrayal effect. Completely blank faces with stupid smiles on their lips - they were almost ecstatic about every kill. The pants were stained, which once again proves to me one simple truth - Taria is a complete pervert, which from someone who has seen 4chan is a very respectable description.

The massacre of former comrades-in-arms was ended by a Malefic, who happened to walk right up to the four of them, and whom I'd already forgotten about in all the confusion. I was a little surprised to see a couple of crossbow bolts smash into his defenses, but the bastard attacked them with something nasty that made the unlucky bastards' faces pockmark and pus come out of all the holes. They were cumming even as they died, and I carefully promised myself I'd talk to Taria about her love preferences.

Ygra had already come to the very edge of the swamp and was thinking of rushing straight into the camp and tasting human flesh, but my orders forcing the ogre to cover the three brave ones in case of danger forced her to restrain her impulses for the time being. She did not doubt that she would hunt today, though, and I was in agreement with her on that score.

Every second the number of living outlaws dwindled and dwindled. At least a couple of minutes more in this mode, and they would be left as crumbs, unable to fight back properly. On the other hand - the effect of the first surprise blow was exhausted, and the experienced warriors were coming to their senses. Mages began to strike from behind the backs of ordinary fighters, as well as archers, weakly armored units did not hesitate to hide behind some obstacle, and all reached for the waist pouches, where they kept their allocated drugs and stimulants. Something tells me they won't be economizing now.

And the damn Phantom still managed to gather the surviving warriors around him, just like the Malephiс who wouldn't run away. If they stormed the point they'd taken, not only Ygra but myself would have to intervene.

And then our delightful disco was spoiled by the ritualist we'd forgotten, because some strange magic came from his house, tasting of morning dew and starlight (don't ask me how I got that taste), and the tomb that we'd forgotten activated and began to spew out the undead. It was not zombies, but goddamn spirits that had no material body and were therefore unpleasantly fast.

Before the undead attacked the intruders, the well-aimed hand of Losius, who had even retreated under the protection of the barricade, hurled another vial toward the burial ground. A second later, there was a threefold furious shriek, after which the undead lost their coordination and began to attack not only the trio of attackers but everyone.

The battle was approaching a legitimate endgame.

* * *

Authors note:

The Dices are quite amusing and are in general favorable to our heroes - simply by virtue of the bonuses they have accumulated in advance.

Phantom got two crits at once, managing to come out of the short fight with the MC alive and even combat-ready. The ritualist was quite successful in throwing his trump cards.

He hasn't even shown everything yet, even though MC didn't perceive him as a particular danger. He could have looked more closely at his visions but thought it more important to look at the other enemies.

Not that he was really dangerous, that's right but problematic.

Good and happiness for everyone.