《Malk. When you don't have a goal》


 Chapter One, in which everything begins

    Every person¡ªno matter if they are a man or a woman¡ªmust have a goal in life. Some kind of guiding star that they will follow throughout their existence and perhaps never reach... A worthy goal elevates and brings meaning to life, but its absence or a base nature plunges one into the abyss of despair and inexplicable melancholy. And only when fate itself makes the choice for a person, there is no point in discussing or even thinking about its advantages and disadvantages. All that remains is to grit your teeth and move forward...


    From the diary of Radomir the Destroyer, Patriarch of House Cheringar.


    The thing Malk hated the most was long, tearful goodbyes, alternating with hackneyed instructions and vague threats. Especially when a long, uncharted road lay ahead: your soul is already there, beyond the dusty turn, yet you are forced to stand on the platform convincing those seeing you off that you can survive without their strict supervision and care! Somehow, it felt off, wrong. Though Malk wasn''t exactly an expert in family relationships. His mother never even saw him off to boarding school, his stepfather was always away at work, and his sisters... well, his sisters were at that age when Malk himself often slipped into a moralizing tone and overused instructions.


    So, of all people, he was definitely not the one to judge what''s right or wrong in other families.


    Malk adjusted the strap of a backpack digging into his shoulder, moved back the wooden suitcase that had ended up at the very edge of the platform, and prepared to wait further until the numerous members of Helavia''s family finished instructing the daughter who was going to the cultural capital of Boreas. Her mother, younger brother, two nephews, and two unmarried aunts from her father''s side¡ªall were chattering, touching her clothes, fixing something, and trying to slip something into her pocket. And every now and then, they glanced at Malk, grimacing as if they were seeing a demonic slug. It was good that Helavia''s father wasn''t here today¡ªa minor nobleman who, until last year, had seen no shame in mingling with ordinary mortals, but after finding favor with the new governor had significantly changed his attitude towards those around him, especially his daughter''s suitor. Any meeting with him ended in a scandal, and Malk tried to cross paths with the esteemed Lizar Gulor as rarely as possible...


    As he indulged in his thoughts, the door of the armored car suddenly clanged, and a gray-haired bearded conductor, straining to extend the ladder, announced the start of boarding. Malk, being closest to the car entrance, hurriedly handed the man his passport card and the ticket, colorful with various stamps. All he wanted now was to get away from the gazes of Helavia''s relatives as quickly as possible. The appearance of the conductor became a real salvation.


    The bearded man studied the document carefully, ran his glowing hand over the ticket¡ªa Colhaun Railroad emblem instantly flared up in the air¡ªreturned the papers, and, muttering the number of Malk''s compartment and seat, turned to the next passenger. The lad who just barely crossed adulthood''s threshold no longer interested him.


    This was precisely what Malk had been waiting for. Nodding to Helavia, who glanced back at him, he grabbed the suitcase and ran up the steps into the vestibule. He turned in the narrow passage, trying not to bump anything with his backpack, and headed deeper into the car. Even though this was his first train journey, he knew where to go and how to behave. Although, to be honest, he still feared deep down that he might mess up and embarrass himself.


    Silly, of course, but Malk couldn''t help it.


    Finally, he reached the needed compartment and entered. The small space with two pairs of bunks and a tiny table was dimly lit¡ªeven though the armored shutters were up, the thick window glass let in little light. So, he didn''t immediately figure out which of the upper bunks was his...


    "Don''t block the passage, bumpkin!" a cheerful voice suddenly sounded behind him, and Malk felt a sharp poke in his side.


    "Then what about you?!" he retorted out of habit and, turning around, lightly punched the speaker in the stomach. "Didn''t expect you, Tolfan! Thought you''d stay home..."


    "May Yorrokh gobble up your tongue, Malk! What would I do there?! No fool would swap boarding school''s rules for father''s dictates!" the fatty exclaimed, widening his eyes, then paused, looked around cautiously, and squeezed into the compartment, his belly pushing his friend further from the entrance. "The farther away from Lokia, the better," he whispered, adding, "And if something happens, I can always come back."


    Malk smirked understandingly and, after throwing his things onto his bunk, quickly climbed up. Over the years of their friendship, he had studied the fatty''s character inside out, so the latter couldn''t fool him with this fake bravado. Tolfan was driven to Andalore by ambitions, and those ambitions were backed by the money of a not-the-smallest Colhaun magnate. And to make them a reality, the fatty was willing to go to great lengths...


    "And here I am, boys!" Helavia didn''t just walk in¡ªshe burst into the compartment.


    Having quickly pecked on the cheek the flustered-as-usual Tolfan, she gave a much more sensual kiss to Malk, who had leaned down from above, and then returned to the corridor. In her place, a station porter stepped over the threshold with a huge travel trunk and began stowing it under one of the bottom bunks. A minute later, only the trio of friends remained in the compartment.


    "Phew! Freedom!" Helavia exclaimed and, with a tinkling laugh, sat down at the table. Right across from Tolfan, who was staring out the window.


    "We''ll yell about freedom once we''re on our way. It''s too early now..." Tolfan grumbled, suddenly looking glum, but Helavia, who had finally escaped her family''s care, just waved off his words.


    She was in such a mood that nothing and no one could spoil it.


    Meanwhile, Malk nimbly climbed down from his bunk and sat next to the girl. Helavia welcomed his appearance with a smile.


    The conductor ran down the corridor, peeking into each compartment and warning about the imminent departure and the need for those seeing off to leave the car. Then followed a few minutes of chaotic hustle and bustle and cursing until the doors finally clanged shut and, after a noticeable jolt, the train started moving.


    "Now it''s the time!" Tolfan''s loud voice broke the hanging silence in the compartment, and he placed a bottle of dry red wine on the table. Another moment, and three glass goblets, almost filled to the brim with the ruby drink, as if by magic appeared beside it. "And this needs to be celebrated!"


    No one had any objections. Malk himself didn''t even realize how he was the first to raise his goblet and propose a toast:


    "To the fulfillment of our shared dream!"


    And in response, he predictably heard:


    "To the dream!"


    The trio of such different friends, who had become so close over the years of studying in the Colhaun republican boarding school, was on their way to conquer the cultural capital of Boreas. And the first step on the path to success¡ªat least, Malk, Helavia, and Tolfan genuinely believed this¡ªwas studying at the School of the Three Saints. A school that hundreds, if not thousands, of boys and girls across Colhaun could only dream of getting into. And the very thought that in just a few days he would face the entrance exams for outer disciples made Malk''s heart beat faster.


    They were going to enter a three-star School! A place where Magisters taught, where one could learn high-ranking Arcane Arts and powerful spells, where members of renowned Families received their education, and where the foundation of each student''s future development was laid. Magic and connections, personal power, and career growth¡ªthat''s what the illustrious School offered its students. And it was what the trio of provincials sorely lacked.


    Of course, there were even more prestigious educational institutions. The Academy of the Four Elements, the School of Iron and Blood, the College of White Gloves¡ªall of them belonged to the highest league. Members of powerful Houses did not consider it a disgrace to study there, Senior Magisters and Archmages conducted research within their walls, and the best graduates gained access to almost any knowledge. It was just that studying there cost such money that Malk, Helavia, and Tolfan combined didn''t have! And that''s not even mentioning the need to have a talent for magic and a special Lineage.


    The latter was especially lacking in Malk. According to his mother¡ªwhen she found the strength to talk to her unloved offspring, she loved reminiscing about her past rich life¡ªhe was born into an ancient House whose offspring were famous for their strong blood and inclination towards magic. And that''s why the men of the House didn''t fear marrying not just simple noblewomen but even ordinary mortals. Which is what happened with Malk''s mother. The heir of the House fell in love with a common city girl, married her, conceived a child, and that child... came into the world as a "dud." A talentless bastard, devoid of even the smallest signs of the House''s founder''s Legacy.


    Such things occasionally happened even in the most renowned dynasties of mages. But while for ordinary nobles this might just be a cause for grief, the high aristocracy saw it as something beyond the acceptable. The mortal beauty who had once captured the young Magister''s heart barely had time to realize what was happening before they performed the rite of renunciation over the son and then threw her out of the family manor along with the child and divorce papers.


    The fairy tale ended, and real life began...


    In truth, the "dud" stigma didn''t particularly bother Malk. By and large, besides his relatives, closest friends, and the only person he could call a mentor, no one knew about it. But when applying to a School of magic where one of the exam stages was awakening a magical Gift, this couldn''t be hidden. And that meant he had to set achievable goals, not aiming too high...


    Of course, money could solve many problems, but the forty gold drachmas allocated by his stepfather were barely enough for the first year of study at the School of the Three Saints. Dreaming of higher-ranked institutions was out of the question!


    Though it wasn''t just Malk¡ªHelavia and Tolfan also decided to limit themselves to the Three Saints. And that''s despite their parents having money and connections and them themselves not lacking in talent. Malk had seen the results of his friends'' Ka Sphere tests. Tolfan was predicted to get a Gift of medium strength after the initiation rite, while Helavia was suspected to be a future genius. And if the machine was not mistaken, it was a serious claim to become an inner disciple of a School.


    In this company of future mages, Malk, born a "dud," stood out like a sore thumb. And only outstanding results in ordinary "civilian" subjects allowed him to hope for successful admission. After all, magic is not only about spells and rituals; it''s also about serious research. And talentless Malk could give any magical genius a head start in this regard.


    So, he did have a chance to become an adept of the School of the Three Saints, he did! And he wasn''t going to miss it.


    "Why the long faces?!" Tolfan''s voice suddenly interrupted Malk''s musings. And it became clear that for the past few minutes, a heavy silence had reigned in the compartment, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of wheels. "Such a toast, and you ruined it..."


    "No one ruined anything, fatty. It''s just... there''s a strange feeling in my heart," Helavia replied, suddenly serious. "It''s like we''re crossing a threshold right now, after which everything will be different. Really different. Everything will change: the city, the people, ourselves. And there''s no turning back..."


    The girl frowned and suddenly looked much older. Already familiar with such a state of his girlfriend, Malk immediately hugged her and kissed her on the neck. And Helavia''s gloomy mood instantly passed. She sighed and gave the lad a tender smile.


    "Though, maybe I just don''t want to grow up..." she continued.


    Which deeply outraged Tolfan.


    "Holy intercessors, growing up! Hel, you might as well mention old age!" he exclaimed. "We''re young, smart... I don''t know about you, but I''m also handsome!.. The whole world lies before us!!! And if there''s one thing I don''t want to regret, it''s our childhood at the boarding school. Right, Malk?!"


    Malk smirked:


    "I''m not sure about that, you and Helavia only studied there for the last three years. Yet you talk as if it''s been ten..."


    "But you''ve been there for eight!" the fatty exclaimed. "And I still don''t understand how you endured that nightmare."


    But Malk chose not to continue on the topic. No matter what Tolfan said, the boarding school was home to him. A bad home, but a home nonetheless. His mother, disappointed in her "dud" son, who deprived her of wealth and social status, sent Malk to a boarding school as soon as he learned to be independent. And she never made any attempt to take him back, allowing him to return home only for holidays.


    As for his friends, their situation was entirely different. For them, the new place of study was something like a temporary refuge. Helavia''s father, Lizar Gulor, hid his daughter in the boarding school from old enemies who had shown up in Colhaun, while Tolfan''s father, Bolivar Sugron, left his son there during his trade voyage to distant countries. And when life''s troubles ended, the children returned home...


    "She never came to terms with it?" Helavia suddenly asked sympathetically, hinting at Malk''s mother and her unfortunate first marriage.


    Malk just shrugged:


    "Not a bit. Glad she at least didn''t interfere in my talk with my stepfather when I asked him for money. She could''ve..."


    The conversation petered out on its own after that. Tolfan tried to mumble something about future prospects, but Helavia buried herself in a book, while Malk returned to his bunk and demonstratively started rummaging through his backpack. The fatty had no choice but to wave them off and go to sleep. A few minutes later, he was snoring, and half an hour later, Helavia fell asleep too. Malk was the only one left awake in the compartment.


    Mentally pleased that no strangers were traveling with them, he furtively looked around, took out a notebook deeply hidden among his belongings, and once again began studying the notes he had left there. It was one of Malk''s most valuable possessions¡ªhis working journal. Not a diary with reflections on the day''s events, but a journal with plans for the future, the most important ideas, and notes about thoughts that mustn''t be forgotten. And although all the entries were encrypted¡ªthe boarding school life taught him to hide his secrets¡ªMalk preferred not to show the notebook unnecessarily. Not even to his friends.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    So when sleepiness finally overcame Malk, before diving into the realm of dreams, he returned the journal to his backpack...


    Only Malk couldn''t really fall asleep. Instead of a full sleep, he entered a very strange state. Some form of exhausting and draining trance. Without any recognizable¡ªeven if phantasmagorical¡ªvisions, but with extremely painful sensations throughout his body and terrifying premonitions. At one point, Malk couldn''t take it anymore and woke up, realizing he was lying on his back, his face drenched in eye-stinging sweat. And he recognized the familiar inner tremor known to every Colhaunian, which arose whenever demons were nearby.


    Demons?! The alarming thought made him shake off the sleepy stupor and grab the knife lying under his pillow. How could there be demons here?!


    Malk strained to listen to the surrounding sounds, and after a few moments, his efforts were rewarded. Despite the clattering wheels, his ears managed to catch heavy footsteps on the roof of the car. Considering the speed at which the train was traveling and the thickness of the armor, it definitely couldn''t be a human.


    "What''s going on?!" Helavia and Tolfan exclaimed in unison, waking up just a bit later than Malk. "Why does it feel like Yorrokh''s Night has started again?!"


    "Because the train''s guards overslept, and otherworldly creatures are loafing around on the roofs of the cars!" Malk hissed at his clamoring friends and hastily started pulling on his pants.


    For some reason, the thought that he was in a passenger car of an actual armored train no longer gave him a sense of security. And he didn''t like that at all.


    "Then why are we sitting here?! We need to tell the conductor!" Helavia said loudly and quickly glanced toward the window.


    Malk followed her gaze and exhaled in relief¡ªthe armored shutters had been put down, so there was no way for the creature to get in here. He even prepared to say something, but what exactly¡ªhe forgot a couple of seconds later, when a powerful blow shook the entire car, and a deep dent appeared in the ceiling right above his head. It was as if a demon of an unknown breed hadn''t just hit the roof but had aimed directly at him.


    Malk didn''t realize how he rolled onto the floor with the knife in hand, pulled the stunned Helavia off the bunk, and dragged her out of the compartment, barking at the gaping Tolfan along the way. What had happened only dawned on him when he found himself in the corridor, and that''s when he also picked out, among the piled-up sensations, the pressure on his temples and crown that had appeared out of nowhere. The demon was clearly attacking not only on the physical plane but also mentally. And Malk had no idea what was worse¡ªthe creature''s ability to damage the reinforced armor or its skill in driving its victims into a magical stupor despite defensive enchantments.


    "What the heck is going on?!" Helavia finally exclaimed, having somewhat recovered from the enemy''s magic.


    Instead of an answer, another blow from the demon followed. But if last time it hit the roof, now it attacked the armored shutter on the train window. And strangely enough, it was again right at the spot where Malk and Helavia were.


    "What the flur is happening?!" Malk growled, swiftly turning towards the attacked window and raising his blade in front of him.


    He didn''t believe he could actually take down a real demon, but it made him feel a bit safer...


    However, when under his shocked gaze the armor plate began to slowly crumple and pop out of its slots, Malk cursed again and started retreating towards the conductor''s compartment, trying to stay between the point of enemy breakthrough and Helavia.


    "Tolfan, may a golem screw you! Get out of there!!!" he remembered his friend who hadn''t left the compartment.


    But the latter wasn''t in a hurry to come out into the corridor or even respond.


    Malk was about to take another deep breath to shout again when the soldiers guarding the train finally intervened, and the seemingly critical situation was instantly resolved.


    First came the staccato of multiple grapeshot guns firing at the demon from armored platforms placed along the length of the train, then one of the cannons boomed. And it must be said, it was the artillery that brought the attack to an end. The soldier manning the cannon must have borrowed luck from one of the Nine Saints, managing to hit the demon perfectly on the first shot without damaging the cars. All Malk heard was a muffled explosion, the crackling of shattering glass, and then the drumming of blood on the armor of the train car.


    The demon''s attack was repelled. And when it became clear after a couple of minutes that there would be no further hostilities, the entire train car sprang to life. Doors were slamming, other passengers began peeking down the corridor, the conductor appeared from somewhere¡ªand all these people started staring at the still tense Malk and the hiding behind him Helavia.


    And it was not the kind of attention one would call pleasant.


    "Let''s go back to the compartment," Helavia whispered, and now it was she who pulled the still-shaken by the experienced emotions Malk back.


    However, if she hoped to wait out the surge of curiosity there, she was mistaken. In the compartment, Tolfan was waiting for them. And the fatty had questions too.


    "Yorrokh''s seed, what just happened?!" he yelled as soon as the couple stepped over the threshold. "Noise, commotion, cracking... I can''t make sense of anything, it''s like I got hit over the head with a sack of sand, and my legs feel like jelly. When I came to, I saw this..." Tolfan pointed to the ceiling adorned with a noticeable dent.


    "Consider it the start of our journey to a bright future," Malk grumbled, pulling the sheath tangled in the bedsheet from the bunk and sliding the blade back in.


    He didn''t like what was happening at all, especially the strange coincidences with the places where the monster attacked. People from Colhaun, a province long considered cursed, were used to all sorts of things¡ªmore frequent and prolonged Yorrokh''s Nights, ghost attacks, and bouts of "night" madness among mages who had let their guard down¡ªbut everything has its limits! The demon''s mysterious selectiveness was not what he expected from his new life.


    Or maybe Malk was overdramatizing, and for reasons known only to the Saints, he clung to a simple coincidence?! Alas, there was no way to get an answer...


    The friends couldn''t sleep anymore. The car that had been attacked, particularly the most damaged compartment, was frequented by unwelcome guests, from the conductor to the train head. Everyone looked at the damage to the railway company''s property, shook their heads, sighed, and left without listening to Helavia''s complaints. They didn''t even move the friends to another compartment, leaving them to admire the traces of the demonic attack. And the girl, who had taken on all the negotiations with the local authorities, had hoped for some compensation!


    "Seriously, did you think you could squeeze a dozen or two bright drachmas out of these skinflints?" Tolfan asked when the exhausted and sleepless trio gave up on saving money and went to have breakfast in the dining car. "Do you know how many similar incidents happen on the railroad in a month in Colhaun alone?! If they paid everyone, they''d go broke."


    "Fatty, it was worth a shot," Helavia snapped back, clearly very disappointed by the failure.


    "True enough," Tolfan nodded and, apparently unable to stay silent for long, turned to Malk. Giving his friend a scrutinizing look, especially lingering on the backpack neatly placed next to him on the seat, he asked sarcastically, "Hey, I don''t quite get it¡ªwhy did you bring your bag here? Do you think there''s something in it that a thief or... better yet, a demon would want?"


    Tolfan laughed, inviting Helavia to join in mocking their overly cautious friend. But the still-frowning girl didn''t support him, and the merchant''s son chose not to continue the joke. It was dangerous to amuse himself at Malk''s expense alone: the latter could very well take offense and give his over-the-top friend a good thrashing.


    However, the fatty worried in vain. This time, Malk wasn''t angered by his friend''s silly jabs. On the contrary, he himself thought he was overdoing it with the safety concerns. And that''s why he honestly told Tolfan, nodding at the backpack:


    "I''ve got a travel blunderbuss in there. And yeah, it makes me feel a bit more at ease having it handy!"


    Tolfan choked on his tea at that and, after coughing, stared at his friend as if he were a madman.


    "You brought a blunderbuss to the dining car?!" he hissed. "Mind you, I''m not asking why you brought that ancient junk from home in the first place. But to the dining car?!"


    This finally stung Malk, who was about to snap back, but Helavia came to his defense:


    "Tolfan, everyone protects themselves in their own way. Malk drags that musketoon around with him, while you, as I see, got a new pouch on your belt. Quite a distinctive shape..." she said with a smirk, and Malk saw how her words embarrassed the fatty.


    Tolfan ruffled his hair, then adjusted the lapel of his coat, covering the pouch Helavia had noticed.


    That piece of equipment for an experienced traveler and warrior was called an "avalonch," or "Avalon pouch," and it stored glass cylinders with folded single-use spells. Undeniably a handy thing, but quite expensive. For instance, Malk was seeing one for the first time.


    "Alright, alright," Tolfan raised his hands, showing he gave up. "I feel uneasy too. And if I initially thought about selling my father''s gift, now I''m even glad to have it."


    Helavia, with feminine spontaneity, immediately began asking for more details about the gift, and for a while, she and Tolfan got engrossed in discussing the set of spells the fatty had. She even managed to convince him to take the pouch off his belt and show its contents. Out of the corner of his eye, Malk, who found the topic frankly uninteresting, even managed to see the markings of fire offensive spells, something from the water arsenal, and the characteristic stripes of an earth defense magic.


    Even though all the spells were no higher than the first circle, they certainly didn''t come cheap.


    However, Malk was always indifferent to other people''s wealth, so he soon lost interest in his friends'' conversation and buried himself in the newspaper brought by a waiter. Fortunately, his interest in Boreas'' news was anything but idle.


    Colhaun was always inward-focused, preoccupied with its own problems and concerns, and viewed the outside world through a lens of indifference. Malk had long shared this perspective, and it was strange to expect otherwise from a kid! However, now that he found himself in the big world, maintaining the same detachment was impossible. If Malk wanted to adapt as quickly as possible to his new surroundings, he needed to keep his finger on the pulse of current events. And there was no better helper in this than a newspaper!


    Malk skimmed the headlines. Judging by them, journalists were still concerned with changes in the price of magical energy, the possible tax reduction for Gift bearers, and the recent resonant speech of an Adept from some little-known School in parliament, complaining about the exorbitant educational expenses. News about the latest actions of loyalists, monarchist rallies, and demonstrations in support of the Council of Regents, on the other hand, had slipped from the front pages to the back, alongside stories of social soir¨¦es and the amusements of bored aristocrats. Truly important things, like the signs of the approaching longest Yorrokh''s Night in a century, the strange calm in the border waters with Heimdarch, and the aggressive behavior of Arktavia''s trading companies in the northern Boreas market were clearly ignored. He had hoped to read about travel incidents similar to the one that happened at night, but those hopes were also dashed.


    The articles of the "Colhaun Railway Herald," as the publication was called, were completely devoid of substance and utterly uninteresting. At least, they were to Malk. So, he set the newspaper aside with irritation.


    He turned to his friends, but hearing that they were now, for the hundredth time, discussing the merits of choosing the School of the Three Saints, he barely restrained himself from slipping in a caustic comment. He stopped himself just in time and, instead of participating in useless arguments, started studying the people in the dining car. At least some form of entertainment! But it didn''t last long. The more he looked, the more a sense of unease grew inside him, and he couldn''t understand why.


    Malk even started thinking about stepping out to the vestibule to get some fresh air, but then his gaze caught the face of one of the dining car''s patrons, and he forgot about everything else. At a table to the right of the exit, where a noisy group of three guys and one girl¡ªeither students from some School or apprentices from a craft guild¡ªwere sitting, in the seat closest to the aisle, sat a dwarf. And not just a short man, but someone strange: blue-skinned, with bulging violet eyes and odd, almost rectangular pupils, a hooked nose hanging down to a frog-like mouth, and short, bristly hair resembling rusty wire. And to top it all off, he was dressed in a shapeless gray robe, stained with red spots of unknown origin. And this so unusual person, who looked too much like the product of failed experiments in crossbreeding human and demon Lineages, was staring at Malk with the gaze of a gourmet eyeing a delicious dish.


    Moreover, when their eyes met, the dwarf stretched his mouth into a grin¡ªrevealing a mouth full of triangular shark teeth¡ªand slowly nodded. Not as a gesture of politeness, but as if promising something... something bad and unpleasant for Malk personally.


    At that very moment, the inexplicable unease tormenting Malk disappeared, replaced by the anticipation of quite real problems.

 Chapter Two, in which it turns out that its always better to be prepared for trouble than not

    Holy Demonslayers, why was no one paying attention to him?! On the train, at least half the folks were Colhaunians who get all suspicious about anything demonic, but it was like this passenger didn''t even exist for everyone else! Nobody was interested in his looks, his clothes, or the very fact of his presence in this not-so-cheap dining car.


    Malk glanced at his friends, but they, too, seemed oblivious to the strange dwarf in rags. And this was despite Helavia''s curiosity and Tolfan''s tendency to speak out immediately! It was strange, very strange...


    Malk looked back at the dwarf, who continued to stare at him with an openly cannibalistic smile. A sudden urge washed over him to approach the damn freak, cursed by all the Saints, and ask why in Yorrokh''s name he was staring. It took all of Malk''s self-control to resist the malicious impulse. And he had always considered himself the epitome of calm!


    If he had the time, Malk would still have approached the strange fellow traveler and tried to clarify the situation, but he was distracted.


    Helavia''s sharp elbow dug into his side as she emotionally asked:


    "Are you even listening to what Tolfan is saying?! His father hired a technical school graduate from the neighboring province for his new factory, and for the kind of money that not every Bachelor gets! Bachelor!!!"


    "Uh... What?" Malk flinched, turning to his girlfriend with a somewhat vacant expression. "Sorry, I missed the part where you stopped praising the School and started admiring mechanics."


    "Missed?!" Helavia, for some reason, took her boyfriend''s admission with considerable irritation and was clearly about to show everyone around the less pleasant sides of her character, but Tolfan interrupted her.


    "Malk, you don''t get it. We''re not admiring mechanics; we''re amazed at how, in just a hundred years, the profession of a mage has been overshadowed by those far removed from the world of subtle energies," the fatty said amicably.


    "Are you serious?" Malk began to grasp where the conversation was heading and decided not to adopt his friend''s tone. "Overshadowed? Just because engineers and some mortal craftsmen started earning on par with lower-tier mages doesn''t mean they''ve overshadowed anyone! Better tell me what happens if an ungifted person, no matter how skilled, seriously offends even a Junior Magister?"


    Tolfan sighed:


    "No need to bring up Magisters... To cause trouble for a mortal, a simple Bachelor is enough..."


    The fatty, whose relatives without a Gift had once clashed with the interests of a powerful mage Family, clearly lost his desire to argue. But not Helavia!


    "Malk, dear, I don''t want to offend you, but... are you really the one to talk about the ungifted and low-tier mages?" his girlfriend said coldly. "With your talent, or rather the lack of it, enrolling in a Magic School means dooming your future. Why chase the impossible when you could achieve a lot in another field? Enroll in a technical school! With your brains, you could easily graduate with honors, get a good job, and in five or six years, you might even become an engineer." Helavia, sensing she had gone too far, softened her tone. "And then, once you''re stable, you can think about awakening your Gift... If magic calls to you that much!.. Tolfan, you tell him, am I not right?"


    The fatty grunted in agreement.


    "Of course, you''re right, and I''m saying this not just as a friend but as a merchant''s son and grandson. Becoming a mage always requires money, a lot of money... Arcane Arts, medicines, stimulants, study materials, spells¡ªeverything needs drachmas. And the less talent you have, the more you''ll need. Sorry, Malk, but... your purse is empty, and your talent is even worse. So, buddy, you''re a bad investment! And as your only friends, we have to try to push you onto the right path!"


    "Well, thanks, fatty bro! No one has ever called me that before," Malk forced a smile, fully aware of his not-so-rosy prospects, yet still believing in the correctness of his chosen path.


    "Oh, you know what I mean..." the fatty spread his hands, but was interrupted by Helavia.


    The girl managed her emotions and now addressed Malk with much more empathy:


    "Malk, think it over again, okay? You''re just as good at calculating as the fatty. Besides, remember the Gifted Tax, all the other ''benefits''... Okay?"


    At the last words, Helavia moved closer to Malk and gently kissed him on the lips, prompting Tolfan to mutter some jokes in his usual manner. However, the topic was too painful, and the choice too difficult for Malk to give in to persuasion so easily.


    "No talent, no talent... You just keep harping on like you know it all! I can always switch to mechanics later, and an awakened weak Gift won''t be a hindrance there," he grimaced, carefully distancing himself from Helavia. "Whereas checking if those exercises our mentor gave us were worth anything is a must!"


    Malk''s words made his friends frown and then noticeably sadden. And it wasn''t just about the stubbornness of a certain "dud." He mentioned Reslan Skom, their natural science teacher at the boarding school, who always singled out their trio among the other students and who had become more than just a teacher to them¡ªhe was a mentor. A man who opened the door to the world''s mysteries and introduced them to... real magic.


    "Wait, are you still messing with that Yorrokh''s Rain of Pain?" Tolfan whispered, leaning over the table.


    "And you?" Malk asked with a smirk, leaning his chest on the table as well.


    "I quit!" Tolfan leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his head. "As soon as all that trouble with Skom started, I quit. And after the ''chats'' with the gendarmerie, I grew even more convinced it was the right decision..."


    The fatty spoke quietly, but the topic was dangerous enough for Helavia, the most cautious among them, to get agitated:


    "Tolfan!!!"


    "Alright, alright, I''m quiet..." the friend waved off and looked expectantly at Malk and then at Helavia. "So, about Rain of Pain, you still practice it? Despite everything?"


    "I don''t!" the girl replied with a categorical tone.


    The very tone she used when she started talking to Malk, intending to hide something from him.


    "Well, sometimes I spend ten or twenty minutes on it," Malk hemmed, making his face as open and honest as possible. After a brief pause, he added, "And it''s the least I can do in memory of our mentor... May the Saints keep his soul!"


    Malk finished his tea. The others, after a brief pause, did the same with their cups. Reslan Skom was indeed worthy of being remembered. Even if it was just by his three wayward students...


    During the rather unpleasant conversation, Malk had somehow forgotten about the dwarf, the night demon, and other troubles. His head was already swollen with heavy thoughts, leaving no room for anything else that didn''t pose an immediate threat. It didn''t help that his girlfriend and only friend were trying to make him reconsider his earlier decision instead of offering support. So when the conversation finally died down, Malk turned to the window and began watching the approaching platform¡ªthey were arriving at another station.


    However, he didn''t get to sit quietly. The train hadn''t even fully stopped when Tolfan reminded friends of his presence again.


    "Oh, look at that gentleman in the green frock coat. The one talking to the station master," the fatty whispered excitedly. "See him?! Now, look at the case in his hand..."


    "Tolfan. Now is not the best time for your silly jokes and dumb riddles," Helavia said in a weary voice. "What''s bothering you?"


    The fatty looked at Malk as if seeking support, but the latter pretended not to understand.


    "Nothing special," Tolfan sighed and continued, "It''s just that when my father had... a tough period, you know... he was forced to smuggle weapons for a while. And he used cases like that to transport his goods. So, I..."


    "Ordinary weapons or combat artifacts?" Malk asked, unexpectedly intrigued.


    "How could you even ask! The latter, of course. And to be precise, sparkthrowers¡ªexpensive and totally banned toys," Tolfan chuckled. "According to him, that case can hold exactly five. And the wall thickness is enough to keep any erg of charge from leaking out."


    The fatty realized what he had just said and fell silent, his face serious. Helavia, who was quicker to catch on, asked incredulously:


    "Are you saying that someone is about to board our train with a case full of banned combat artifacts?!"


    "Helavia!" Tolfan said with a slight irritation. "I''m saying that the gentleman has all the means to do so. Nothing more!"


    The conversation was starting to devolve into a typical argument between Helavia and Tolfan. Malk used to try to intervene and quell the conflict early on, but over time he realized it was easier to let things be. It was better for his nerves, and he wouldn''t end up being the scapegoat. Plus, their arguments never escalated into serious fights. So...


    Malk turned away and, remembering the dwarf, quickly glanced in that direction. However, he couldn''t catch the demonic freak off guard. Once again, his gaze locked with those inhumanly attentive eyes. The owner of the frog-like mouth continued to stare at Malk, now almost bouncing in his seat with impatience, even clapping his hands silently on his knees.


    As before, the strange behavior of the fellow traveler was completely ignored by the rest of the passengers.


    And Malk couldn''t take it anymore.


    "Listen, let''s get out of here. I''m starting to really hate this place," he told his friends, realizing he no longer wanted or could bear to stay there.


    He expected some objections, either from Tolfan or at least his beloved, but both readily supported his suggestion. The ever-hungry fatty immediately stopped his half-sentence directed at Malk''s girlfriend and attacked the remaining pastries, while Helavia focused on her now almost cold tea. So when Malk gestured to the waiter to bring the bill, no one interfered...


    The train set off, and the roadside bushes and small groves began to rush by the window once more. The departure coincided with the arrival of two officers in Colhaun Railway uniforms, accompanied by a pair of girls in revealing dresses. The newcomers took the neighboring table and noisily demanded sparkling wine.


    "Yeah, we picked the right time to leave," Helavia whispered.


    Malk nodded silently, and Tolfan hummed something approvingly. Or he started to, but suddenly his eyes widened and he began to cough.


    Malk looked in the same direction and saw another new visitor in the dining car. It was the same man in the green frock coat and with the travel case that, according to Tolfan, was perfect for storing sparkthrowers. Malk, who had recently developed a strong dislike for coincidences, frowned.


    "What''s the matter?" Helavia asked, confused.


    But neither Malk nor Tolfan had a chance to respond. Events began to unfold so quickly that there was no time for discussion.


    The man in the green frock coat, as soon as he entered, froze for a moment, looking around, and then purposefully approached the table near the entrance¡ªthe one where the craftsmen or students were sitting and where the strange dwarf was acting up. In complete silence, he placed the case among the dishes, opened it, and... began taking out banned sparkthrowers. Moreover, the group accepted this behavior as normal, and each of them, upon getting their hands on a dangerous artifact, immediately began fiddling with the control rings. The only one who didn''t get a magic scepter was the dwarf, but compared to everything else, it seemed like a minor detail!


    The story, having started as an idle conversation, unexpectedly came to life, and in a worse way than one could imagine...


    "Yorrokh!" all three of them exhaled simultaneously, absolutely clueless about what to do next.


    Surprisingly, the ones who had no questions about what to do next turned out to be those who had been making the most noise, seemingly paying the least attention to their surroundings. The officers at the neighboring table suddenly exchanged glances, as if on cue, and then one of them¡ªthe one sitting between the two girls¡ªreached for the holster on his belt, while the other abruptly stood up, either to shout a warning to the man in green or to retreat further into the dining car, but... he didn''t have time to do anything. The only girl among the "students" suddenly turned towards the officers and fired her scepter.


    A blob of green fire buzzed across half the restaurant and hit the first officer, tearing his chest apart and splattering blood on both girls. Even if he was Gifted, he didn''t have time to defend against the attack and died on the spot. This, however, bought some time for his comrade, who immediately after the shot turned around and dashed to the other end of the car. The second blob of fire missed its target, grazing the bar counter.


    There was a fleeting hope that the officer might escape, but then the man in green took action. Without even thinking of using a sparkthrower, he pulled a small short-barreled revolver from the lapel of his frock coat, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A deafening bang, the smell of burnt gunpowder, and a puff of gray smoke followed. The subsequent dull cry and sound of a body hitting the floor confirmed that the shooter had not missed.


    And it was precisely then that the stupor seemed to lift from everyone in the dining car. Women started screaming, and some men followed suit. The companions of the slain officers were especially loud, wailing like sirens heralding Yorrokh''s Night, wringing their hands, and smearing the blood on their faces. Nobody was willing to follow the example of the dead¡ªno one stood up or made threatening gestures towards the "students."


    Malk and his friends'' table had become a little island of calm. Neither he, nor Helavia, nor Tolfan succumbed to fear, maintaining at least the appearance of composure.


    "If you want to live, stay in your seats!!!" the killer of the first officer shouted, overpowering the rising din. Then she ran down the aisle and, stopping next to a blood-soaked table, used two swift blows of her sparkthrower to bring order, knocking out both girls. "And shut up, all of you, now!!!"


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The display of force had its effect. Silence instantly fell over the car, broken only by the occasional sniffling sound¡ªas if someone couldn''t stop crying and was covering their mouth.


    "Calm down. This isn''t a robbery, and we''re not bandits!" the man in green spoke for the first time, catching up with his companion and stopping next to Malk''s table. He had already reholstered his revolver. "Our target is in the next car! And if you don''t do anything stupid, no one else will get hurt. Clear?!"


    At the last word, the terrorist leader suddenly turned to the trio of friends and glared at them with such malice that it seemed the next bullets would be aimed at them. Malk didn''t even realize how he started nodding, noticing out of the corner of his eye that his friends were doing the same. None of them even considered playing the hero. Reality was far too different from any of their fantasies.


    Having instilled enough fear, the man in green lost interest in them and continued down the aisle. The other terrorists followed¡ªthe wench, now unhinged from the blood she had just spilled, and the three guys who had yet to make a move. Last, at some distance, moved the dwarf. He didn''t look like a member of their group at all, more like a curious onlooker suddenly intrigued by the impending carnage.


    Seeing the dwarf''s actions, Malk, already tense as a string, felt on the verge of snapping. To calm himself, he clenched his fists as hard as he could. His nails dug into his skin, blood surfaced, a dull pain appeared, and only then did his mind clear a bit...


    But Malk''s fears were unfounded, and nothing terrible happened. The dwarf didn''t even stop at their table! All he did was flash his shark-like grin again and, pointing his fingers like a gun at Malk, mouthed a silent "bang." Then he calmly disappeared down the aisle.


    May a Saint screw him! Malk stopped himself at the last moment, and the curse didn''t leave his lips. But something must have shown on his face, as Helavia grabbed his wrist with icy fingers, and Tolfan began gesturing for him to calm down.


    Malk responded with a short nod. After a moment of thought, he pointed to the backpack where his blunderbuss lay, then indicated where Tolfan had his "avalonch" attached to his belt. The immediate future seemed very bleak, and he wasn''t planning to just sit and wait for the end.


    Tolfan, for whom this pantomime was intended, clearly didn''t share this view. The fatty turned pale with fear and shook his head so vigorously that his cheeks wobbled.


    Idiot! Malk gritted his teeth in anger, but it wasn''t easy to persuade his friend on the spot. And without his support, specifically without his folded spells, dreaming about salvation was pointless.


    Suddenly, there was a rustling sound further down the train car, and two young guys, whom Malk had seen at the station while waiting for the train, charged down the aisle past the friends'' table, their boots thudding heavily. They clearly had nothing to do with the terrorists and had the courage to try to get out of the restaurant car that had turned into a trap.


    But their escape attempt failed. The guys were just two steps away from the coveted door when the bloodthirsty wench made her presence known again. As it turned out, she not only hadn''t left but had managed to tweak the focus of her sparkthrower. A cloud of bloody-red sparks swiftly caught up with the two fugitives and then moved further to the vestibule, leaving behind two riddled bodies.


    "I told you, stay in your places and no one will get hurt!" the terrorist repeated, appearing near the bar counter.


    She was clearly enjoying the situation, seemingly sizing up whom to kill next.


    However, what happened had the opposite effect on the trio of friends than intended. If they had previously held onto some hope of salvation by complying with the terrorists'' demands, now no one believed in a favorable outcome.


    And even though Tolfan was shaking like a leaf and Helavia was whispering prayers to Achont the Protector, they both looked at Malk as resolutely as they did during their boarding school canteen raids.


    "Prepare a shield!" Malk whispered to the fatty, habitually taking on the role of leader in their trio.


    He started carefully moving the backpack next to him, aiming the barrel of the hidden blunderbuss toward the aisle. At the same time, Malk kept his eyes on the triumphant terrorist girl, trying to look as humbled and submissive as possible.


    "I figured it out, these are loyalists! No doubt about it! And if the newspapers are to be believed, they don''t care about casualties," Helavia whispered, bowing her head and slouching.


    "Even if it''s all Nine Saints!" Tolfan muttered in a trembling voice. "I''m too young to die..."


    He placed his tightly clenched fists in front of him, and if Malk hadn''t been watching him out of the corner of his eye, he wouldn''t have noticed the fatty hiding in his right hand one of the spell cylinders.


    "Alright, calm down!" Malk hissed, watching the unhinged lass head to the other end of the car. "We wait! When I say so, Tolfan, put up the shield immediately. But not before!" The tension got to him, and his voice suddenly cracked. He almost choked on the last words, "Maybe we''ll get lucky..."


    He spoke, but he didn''t believe it himself. And he turned out to be right.


    They weren''t lucky...


    First, a not-so-weak explosion went off in the neighboring car, causing the entire train to shudder¡ªor at least that''s how it felt to the trio. Then there was a muffled buzzing, interrupted by the faint humming of sparkthrowers. Notably, these sounds lasted too long for a successful attack. It became clear that something had gone wrong for the terrorists, and the blitz attack had turned into a prolonged shootout involving mages¡ªtwo waves of vibrations, the kind that made one''s hair stand on end, even reached the restaurant car. To top it all off, with a hellish crash, something hit the vestibule door with such force that it tore it off its hinges, flinging inside a body that looked like a pile of bloody rags.


    The sight was frankly nauseating. But neither Malk nor his friends had time to process what they saw before a bloodied man in green staggered into the restaurant car. A torn frock coat, a left sleeve dark with blood, and a face twisted with rage and malice ¨C the terrorist leader had lost all respectability and now resembled nothing more than a common highwayman.


    "Move, move, move!!!" he yelled at the lass who had run up to him. "One of the guards is a Bachelor!!!"


    As if to confirm his words, a too-fast and too-well-aimed magical arrow flew from the darkness of the vestibule, only to get stuck immediately in the energy armor that had flared up on the loyalist''s back. The spell lines looked blurry and shaky, suggesting the protection would soon fail.


    "Where to move?! They''ll either pin us down in the cars or shoot us with grapeshot as soon as we pull the emergency brake and get out!" the lass screamed back, discharging her sparkthrower at a mage Malk couldn''t see. "We need a hostage!"


    The man in green didn''t bother to reply¡ªhe immediately lunged toward the table where the killed officers had once sat and where their companions were now trembling in fear, having just regained consciousness. He reached out to grab the nearest girl by the hair when... out of nowhere, the blasted dwarf appeared next to Malk''s table and smashed on the floor a teapot the staff didn''t get a chance to remove.


    The loud crash instantly drew the terrorist girl''s attention. Shouting something incoherent, she turned toward the sound and rushed at the trio. As for where the little pest had vanished again, Malk didn''t have time to notice. But that was the least of his worries now...


    "Now!!!" he yelled, shoving his hand into the backpack and gripping the musketoon''s handle like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline.


    His finger pressed the stiff trigger, the hammer struck a spark, the powder hissed in the closed pan... and the damn gun kicked Malk in the side like a stubborn horse. A burst of fire tore the fabric of the bag and rammed into the belly of the wide-eyed terrorist lass. Maybe if she''d had the same armor as the gentleman in green, she might have survived, but she had no protection at all. The grapeshot tore a huge hole in her body, hurling her against the opposite wall of the car, killing her instantly... at least, Malk hoped she was dead¡ªhe couldn''t make out any details. Everything was shrouded in a cloud of black, foul-smelling smoke, which a moment later was cut through by a barrier of the Water Element. Tolfan had managed to handle his father''s gift and shielded their table from the rest of the restaurant with a magical wall.


    Just in time...


    First, the fatty''s shield was struck by a fist of enemy fire spell¡ªso hard that the thin film of the barrier bent inward by a cubit¡ªand then the attacker himself appeared. The man in green, judging by his face twisted with grief and hatred, had clearly forgotten everything else in the world, craving revenge. And the loyalist had all the chances to get it.


    Instead of the useless sparkthrower, a straight, slender dagger appeared in the hand of the terrorist leader. And it was with it that he began hacking at the barrier, each swing of the blade causing a burst of magical light.


    For the barrier to collapse, scattering into a cloud of blue droplets that quickly evaporated in the air, it took only three strikes. This spoke louder than any words about the uniqueness of the weapon used. If Malk had been in the place of the man in green, he wouldn''t have reached his enemy so quickly with his own knife.


    However, Malk had no time, desire, or even the opportunity to admire the loyalist''s weapon. As soon as the barrier fell, he threw the remnants of the bag with the blunderbuss at the terrorist and lunged after it like a hawk. In his hand, he clutched his own knife, a weapon many families in Colhaun taught their children to wield. Though Malk had grown up without a father''s guidance, his mentor had taught him the necessary skills.


    No, Malk wasn''t a master of knife fighting, but he had learned enough to duck under the stunned enemy''s blade and deliver a series of three stabs¡ªthigh, belly, arm. In a regular fight, this might not have immobilized the opponent but would have certainly caused bleeding wounds. However, this was no ordinary fight. All three times, the knife blade sprung back, encountering the magical armor.


    Yorrokh and his flur!!! Malk''s heart chilled with dread...


    Suddenly, a spindle-shaped fire charge whizzed over his shoulder and lodged itself in the chest of the man in green. It might not have been a full-fledged magical Arrow, but it was close enough. The spell was the final straw that broke the loyalist''s defense. The energy armor flickered, rippled, and vanished as if it had never been there.


    This was a chance Malk couldn''t miss. And he didn''t mess it up. Accelerating instantly and deflecting the terrorist''s weak counterattack, he turned and literally drove the knife into the enemy''s chest. The latter fell as if he were cut down. And judging by the disbelief frozen on his face, he certainly hadn''t expected such an end to his life...


    "Malk, are you okay?" Helavia appeared next to the heavily breathing lad as if by magic.


    Her lips were trembling, and she carefully avoided looking at the loyalist still convulsing in his death throes, but her voice was filled with genuine concern for the young man.


    "I''m fine, I''m fine... And thanks for the Arrow... You launched it, didn''t you, not Tolfan?"


    After getting a nod, he hugged the girl even tighter and gently kissed her on the temple. No more words were needed: if Helavia hadn''t taken one of the spell cylinders from the fatty and risked releasing it at the enemy, Malk would be the one lying on the floor now, not the terrorist.


    Suddenly recalling the start of the fight, he gently pushed Helavia away and stepped over to the killer''s body.


    "I''ll take this as a trophy, you scum!" Malk growled, pulling the clearly enchanted dagger from the lifeless fingers and putting it in his empty sheath.


    Life had shown that a trip to the cultural capital was far less safe endeavor than he had thought. And a good weapon would definitely come in handy...


    Meanwhile, Tolfan finally emerged from under the table and stood beside them, earning an approving nod from Malk. Though the fatty was a bit cowardly, he hadn''t let them down when it mattered. And the way he aggressively scanned the surroundings, holding two spell cylinders, didn''t invite mockery.


    "Is it over?" the fatty asked combatively.


    "I hope so..." Malk exhaled.


    Suddenly, he began to shake with tremors he couldn''t suppress. At the same time, a sharp desire to have a serious talk with that accursed dwarf, damned by the Saints, arose within him. The very dwarf who had set them all up for the loyalists'' attack... Yet, for some reason, he couldn''t manage to locate the shorty.


    "By the way, why did you smash the teapot?" Tolfan suddenly asked, elbowing Malk in the ribs. "If not for that, maybe it would''ve been fine..."


    That question almost made Malk freeze. He had dropped the teapot?! He?! The tremors that gripped him were joined by a legion of icy goosebumps marching down his spine. It felt like he was in a bad dream where memories of reality blended with fantasies so closely that the line between them blurred, and the mind drowned in a phantasmagoria of images.


    Despite the chaos around, he might have tried to ask Tolfan what he meant, but just then armed soldiers burst into the dining car. The furious grunts aimed their weapons at everyone, and a commanding voice from behind them demanded the survivors deactivate any protective spells, lay down their arms, and raise their hands.


    The train attack story had received an unexpected follow-up...

 Chapter Three, where the hero receives his just deserts

    In the office of the captain of the Third Gendarmerie Corps, responsible for Andalore and its surroundings, where Malk had been brought for questioning for the fourth time in three days, the air was stuffy, hot, and reeked terribly of paper dust. Yorrokh knows how the owner of the place could stand it¡ªmaybe he was used to it or had some special secret bureaucratic spell¡ªbut for Malk, each visit felt like torture. Even the holding cell, where he was taken immediately after the train arrived in the cultural capital, was better than this. At least there, he didn''t have to squirm on a chair for hours, waiting for Captain Tyrhat to grace him with his attention and start the conversation.


    Today, however, was less boring¡ªMalk had found himself some "entertainment." A surprisingly large fly had flown into the room and began circling around a pot with a sundew, clearly the captain''s favorite plant. The fly would get closer, almost landing on the leaves, then panic and fly away. The buzzing creature seemed both drawn to and repelled by the carnivorous plant. Watching it and guessing what choice it would ultimately make was quite interesting... Until the moment when one of the "flowers" suddenly shot towards the fly with an open "maw" and successfully devoured it.


    And at that very moment, Malk felt he was exactly like that fly.


    "So, lad. Let''s go over it again..." Captain Tyrhat suddenly broke the silence, pushing aside all the other documents and leaving only the file on the bloodshed on the Colhaun railway in front of him. "You and your friends boarded the train to..." the gendarme started mumbling unpleasantly, but Malk cut him off.


    "When is this going to end, huh?! This is the fourth interrogation already! You''ve squeezed everything out of me, every last drop, but you won''t let up!!!" he exploded. "There are killers and terrorists, and there are people who helped stop them. What could possibly be unclear that you''ve been holding me here for three days?!"


    The owner of the office, his expression unchanged and showing no sign of displeasure at the outburst, slowly lifted his gaze from the papers and looked intently at Malk.


    "Young man, you ask when is this going to end? Seriously? After all the nonsense you''ve been dumping on me during the interrogations?!" He dropped the document and leaned back in his chair. "How about I tell you a version of events that seems much more realistic to me than yours?" Captain Tyrhat said insightfully, poking his finger contemptuously at the case file. "So, a very important person boards the train in Colhaun... The son of the Colhaun governor, to be precise... Minimal security, relying on secrecy. However, there''s a leak somewhere, and the loyalists find out about the governor''s relative... You know who they are from the newspapers..."


    The captain''s tone seamlessly switched to informal. He then paused, took out cigarettes and a lighter from his desk drawer, and enjoyed a deep drag.


    "So, the loyalists can''t pass up such a gift from the Saints and start planning an assassination. And not just some dumb bomb explosion, but something more elaborate, involving their demonic allies." The gendarme blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and smirked. "Yes, yes, the protective barrier of the armored train, which allowed the demon to get on the roof unnoticed, was damaged by them... Our experts determined that for sure. What they couldn''t understand was why the horned guest from the Lower Realms suddenly stopped obeying his allies and went berserk. The creature was dumb as a rock, but smashing the roof and doing other nonsense was too much even for it!" The captain vigorously scratched his clean-shaven chin and casually asked, "You wouldn''t happen to know why, would you? No?"


    Malk, already having a rough idea of where his interlocutor was leading, gloomily shook his head.


    "Alright... Back to our loyalists," Captain Tyrhat said compliantly and continued, "The demon dies, but that doesn''t stop our assassins; they continue the operation... Frankly, I would''ve done the same in their place. They had weapons and trained people, and the fact that there was an Adept and a Bachelor instead of two Adepts in the guard was just bad luck... The problem lies elsewhere¡ªin the death of the last surviving terrorists at the hands of a mere teenager. Who meddles where he shouldn''t, and then bang, bang, and there''s no one left to interrogate... It all seems a bit too convenient for the loyalist organization, don''t you think?"


    "I don''t think so. If anyone had asked us, my friends and I would have gladly declined such ''luck''!" Malk replied harshly, his jaw clenched.


    The captain only let out a short, malicious chuckle.


    "They''d refuse... A demon tries to get into their compartment, loyalists wreak havoc nearby... And it''s all pure coincidence!" Tyrhat took another deep drag of his cigarette. "I don''t know, these youngsters heading to the capital nowadays seem odd to me. Way too suspicious"


    "So you think we''re in cahoots with the terrorists?!" Malk couldn''t hold back, paling dramatically.


    "I haven''t decided yet. But there are suspicions..." the gendarme nodded. "Think about it, why wouldn''t you be a clean-up group? And how well you handled your task..."


    Malk, who had considered his detention a mere formality and was only worried about the already started entrance exams at the School of the Three Saints, abruptly felt as if a chasm was opening beneath his feet. All of a sudden, his entire future was in the hands of the man sitting across from him. A man who had the power not only to shatter Malk''s dreams but to throw him in prison.


    "Wait, what nonsense is this?! How could we be a clean-up group, what accomplices of loyalists?!" he yelled in panic. "We''re heading to enroll in the Magic School!"


    The captain suddenly slammed his palm on the table forcefully, making Malk almost jump in his seat.


    "Quiet!!!" the gendarme growled, instantly shedding the veneer of politeness he had shown Malk until then. "Then who are you? Heroes? Maybe you should be rewarded, huh?" Tyrhat took a deep breath, calming down, and said, now without shouting, "Especially you, some hero you are! With a mark of unreliability and compromising connections... Did you think I''d be too lazy to send someone to the archives? You''re wrong. As soon as I saw that black star in your passport, I sent a request. Got the answer today..."


    Malk lowered his head and stared at the floor. There was no point in listening further. His mentor, having taught the boarding school boy almost everything he knew, had also significantly tarnished his biography. Participation in a conspiracy against the Regents, an attempt to restore the monarchy, armed rebellion, use of forbidden spells, escape from custody¡ªReslan Skom had done too much for the authorities to ignore even his relatives and students.


    "Although, you know, I was wrong to call you a loyalist. That was a bit much, I admit," the captain continued. "A true monarchist wouldn''t be caught dead with demon-lovers, let alone cooperate with them... It''s more like direct competition... Which, by the way, isn''t any better. For you, it''s not better!" He suddenly leaned over the desk and asked confidentially, "I don''t get it, how did you end up with that mark? Your fat friend and that pretty girl are clean. Yorrokh wouldn''t find a trace! But you stand out, why?"


    What he heard made Malk flinch and stare at the captain in surprise. He knew that Tolfan''s father had planned to buy his son a "clean" biography, but he had never heard that Helavia had the same luxury. But asking the gendarme about it wasn''t an option! Malk lowered his head again.


    "Silent? Well, stay silent..." Tyrhat nodded encouragingly. "In the meantime, I''ll prepare some papers..."


    The pause that followed was so meaningful that even an idiot would have guessed that it was all for a reason.


    "Alright, I get it. No more of these insinuations and beating around the bush," Malk said wearily. "Tell me straight, what documents do I need to sign and what do I need to retract so you''d release me and my friends."


    Tyrhat''s face lit up with a smile at what he heard.


    "There! Now we''re talking! I knew from the start you were a smart young man. I like that!" He rolled his eyes in feigned admiration before staring at Malk again, now with a wolfish, hungry gaze devoid of any warmth. "Take the sheet and rewrite your testimony. Specifically, mention how you were sitting in the dining car, shaking like a leaf, and didn''t even think of any heroics. And don''t forget to highlight the bravery of the soldiers serving in the Colhaun Railway Company. Who fought off the terrorists in a hand-to-hand fight right in front of your eyes."


    "But..." Malk began, but was immediately interrupted by the captain''s commanding gesture.


    "Write! Your friends signed the necessary papers on the first day and went about their business... You would''ve gone with them if it weren''t for that damned mark of yours." Suddenly, as if remembering something, Tyrhat rummaged in a desk drawer and retrieved a filled-out form. "And then you sign this..."


    "What''s that?" Malk asked suspiciously.


    "Permission for the use of a second-circle mental spell on you," the captain said indifferently, as if he were talking about something boring and insignificant rather than mind reading. "I want to make sure you''re truly not connected to the terrorists... But you can refuse! I won''t insist... Though, then you won''t get out of the cell earlier than the legally required two sennights. Your choice!"


    "Wait, what do you mean two sennights?! I have entrance exams! I''ve already paid the School a deposit through the bank... I can''t go back to the cell!" Malk openly panicked, finding himself utterly unprepared to face the unfamiliar reality of modern Boreas.


    "Then all the more reason to sign," the gendarme nodded sympathetically, then with feigned concern suddenly advised, "And, listen... lad... when you describe the heroics of your saviors, not a word about the dwarf or whatever he was. It''d be one thing if someone else saw him, but you''re the only witness. And since that''s the case, there''s no need to mar the paper with your fantasies. You''ve had stress-induced hallucinations, and then people will have to investigate. Let''s avoid that."


    "What hallucinations, Captain?!?" Malk almost shouted. Not only had they taken his victory away and forced him into a farce, but now they were nearly accusing him of madness. How could he accept that?! "I..."


    His objections, however, were of no interest to anyone. After getting all the necessary signatures and ignoring Malk''s words, Tyrhat cleared the desk and placed a glass parallelepiped emitting rainbow hues on it. The device''s innards were filled with countless rotating gears, shifting levers, and magical crystals moving along intricate trajectories, with two handprints glowing red at the very center on the "lid" of the box.


    "Well, shall we begin?" the captain asked with a nasty smile and lit another cigarette with his finger.


    The gendarme was in a great mood and didn''t hesitate to show it to his "guest."


    Scum! May the Saints grace him with leprosy! Malk was shaking with rage inside, struggling to keep from unleashing his fury on the one who had wronged him. He imagined himself lunging at the captain, knocking that smug grin off his face, making him take back all his previous words, but... Oh, that blasted "but"! Even if he forgot about the difference in combat experience and abilities¡ªthe Council medal on Tyrhat''s uniform was definitely not for long service, and his knowledge of magic certainly wasn''t limited to harmless tricks¡ªMalk was still no match for the captain. Because Tyrhat represented the authority of the Regents, and Malk couldn''t compete with the shadow of the state machine of Boreas looming behind him.


    A boarding school boy without the support of an influential Family or House against the entire gendarmerie corps?! It even sounded ridiculous...


    Well, the taste of the first real victory in Malk''s life turned out to be surprisingly nauseating. He even suspected that the accursed by all the Saints dwarf was lurking around somewhere. The very one who didn''t exist and couldn''t possibly exist, but who was still trying his hardest to harm one specific Colhaunian.


    Malk couldn''t help but glance around quickly, but he saw no trace of the shorty. Maybe he really had gone mad and imagined it all?


    "How long do I have to wait?!" The captain''s angry roar interrupted Malk''s prolonged thoughts.


    He flinched and placed his open palms on the designated spots of the magical device. Indeed, it really wasn''t worth dragging this out any longer. If life had dunked you in manure, you should at least try not to thrash around too much¡ªless filth to swallow.


    And with that thought, Malk''s consciousness was engulfed by the hungry darkness of the spell...


    What mental magic was in general and how his memory would be read, Malk had no idea. Such knowledge was always kept sealed with nine seals and controlled by the state. And the Bachelor-level influences were certainly not among the sections of magic that a guy like Malk could read about in a public library.


    So, the most his imagination could conjure was a picture of him being forcibly put into a magical trance and asked tricky questions. However, it was much more complicated, scarier, and... incomprehensible.


    The moments of darkness that flooded Malk''s mind as the magical device activated were replaced by a series of bright, painful flashes. They ended as abruptly as they had started. After a brief adjustment to the once again stable world, Malk realized he was floating in the center of a giant semi-translucent sphere, divided into four equal segments of red, blue, yellow, and white.


    Moreover, the sphere wasn''t empty¡ªit was filled with all sorts of objects. Mirrors of various shapes and sizes, strange-looking mechanisms, pieces of metal, mysterious tools, big and small gears, fragments of instructions that looked like torn posters, whose purpose was unclear, and sometimes even clusters of what appeared to be drops of liquid silver stuck together. All of this slowly rotated around Malk, creating the impression of either a giant junkyard under the spell of a mad Archmage or the feverish delirium of a mechanic obsessed with gadgets. Occasionally, lightning bolts would shoot out from one group of strange objects or another, but they seemed unreal. They didn''t cause convulsions or pain, while the slight tingling all over his body Malk simply refused to regard as anything worth noticing. After the torment¡ªthere was no other word for it¡ªhe endured during the training of the Authority technique inherited from his mentor, he could withstand much more serious effects.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    In the end, the memory check, which¡ªlet''s face it¡ªscared him a bit, turned out to be something incomprehensible and utterly senseless. Even though, before placing his palms on the device, Malk had diligently repressed the desire to "cover up" certain fragments of his past that should not be shown to others, especially representatives of authority. Now, what was there to defend against? The almost gentle caresses of foreign magic? The broken steam boiler that had flown past him a second ago? Or maybe the cracked gear that fell apart under his gaze? What was there to fight against, flur take it?!


    Feeling like a clown in a cheap show, Malk tried moving for the first time since being in the sphere. He jerked his body once, twice, three times, and then suddenly, very naturally, started floating through the air... Only to almost crash into the nearest full-length mirror within a few heartbeats¡ªthe sole calm spot amidst the surrounding chaos. It hung motionless between the working parts of some mechanism and the twisted remnants of something like a steam pipe, with the other debris never touching it.


    He managed to stop, froze at arm''s length, looked into its murky surface and... and nothing unusual happened. No lightning struck from all sides, no demonic voice thundered, and Malk''s consciousness wasn''t turned inside out. He simply saw his own reflection. And nothing else.


    The mirror image showed the same stunned expression as the original wore, furrowed its brow, scratched its head, and judging by the movements of its lips, muttered the same curses. Everything was as it should be in a normal mirror.


    But it wasn''t normal, Saints damn it!!!


    Malk had a strong urge to break, smash, or shatter something here. To do anything that would allow him to vent the irritation that had built up inside. And if he were sure that any outburst wouldn''t harm him personally, he wouldn''t have held back.


    But alas, he wasn''t confident in his safety, so he had to endure.


    Malk hovered a bit more in front of the mirror, then was about to return to his previous spot to wait for the memory reading to end when his gaze caught a dark spot on the border of the white and blue segments of the sphere that trapped him. And as he watched, the spot took on a definite shape and began to resemble a human figure. Someone was pressing against the surface of Malk''s prison from the outside, striving, if not to break through the boundary, then at least to peer inside.


    Malk''s heart gave a treacherous pang. For the first time, he felt something akin to fear. Because he was in a place where no curious soul should be. At all!


    If he had a choice, he would have immediately tried to get away from all these mysteries as far as possible. However, he didn''t have one. So, gathering his will, Malk decisively headed toward the nameless observer. If someone wanted to look at him so badly, Malk had to see that person''s face. Just to know for the future and to keep his distance. Just in case...


    It only took a few moments to reach the sphere''s boundary. Then, Malk suddenly saw that the inner surface of his prison, or testing ground, was covered with a gray film. Not cold and not at all like frost, but melting from breath and the warmth of his palms. In several energetic sweeps of his sleeve, he cleared the area around the unknown person''s face and... was met with the shark-like grin of the dwarf.


    "Nine boils on my ass!!! What is this bastard doing here?!" Malk didn''t even realize how he flew a few fathoms away from the sphere''s boundary.


    The dwarf''s grin widened¡ªif that was even possible¡ªand he said something in response. What exactly, Malk didn''t hear¡ªno sound reached him. However, he managed to read some words from the dwarf''s lip movements. The fragment of the last phrase, something like "greets you," was quite recognizable.


    "And a good day to you, son of Yorrokh!" Malk muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Why don''t you just get lost, huh?"


    But the dwarf had no intention of leaving. On the contrary, it felt like, having captured Malk''s attention, he was gradually gaining some density and weight. As if he had been here only partially, as a weak projection, a reflection of his true self, and now he was starting to cross over fully. In all his formidable might.


    The dwarf''s figure itself remained unchanged, but a dense black shadow seemed to envelop it. Growing upward and outward, acquiring truly colossal proportions and a decidedly non-humanoid shape. And the stronger the presence of this Yorrokh''s spawn, the louder the alarm sirens blared in Malk''s head¡ªthis couldn''t possibly end well.


    A sudden thunderous crack and a fracture running along the boundary of the blue and white sectors of the sphere confirmed Malk''s fears...


    The moment when the world around him spun into a colorful kaleidoscope, and he was pulled somewhere outside, away from the sphere and the demonic monstrosity breaking into it, Malk missed and thus didn''t have time to prepare for it. If one could even prepare for the mad whirling of colorful spots, erratic jerks and flips, intense overloads, and the inexplicable howling in his ears.


    Thus, it was no surprise that, when he again felt himself in his body, sitting in front of the damn memory reader box, Malk lurched forward and emptied his stomach contents right onto Captain Tyrhat''s table.


    ''I''m done for!'' the panicked thought flashed like lightning.


    Malk wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked cautiously at the office''s owner, mentally running through possible apologies, and... expelled everything that remained after the first bout.


    Now it was definitely the end! Such disrespect the captain would surely not forgive. Malk had already subconsciously braced himself for a furious yell and a beating, but... Yorrokh take it, nothing of the sort happened. The office was filled with a ringing silence, and the pale, almost trembling with fear Tyrhat looked nothing like a man who cared about a ruined desk.


    Another visitor, or rather a visitoress, had come to see the office owner, and this encounter seemed to be of the sorts that brought no joy, not just to the gendarmes who thrived on their impunity, but to any free person.


    "Captain Tyrhat, I see with each passing day you sink deeper and deeper into the abyss of arbitrariness, cruelty, and lawlessness. Last week you harassed a sweet blue-eyed girl... seems you even hit her several times with a shock whip... and today you''ve taken on this handsome young man." The speaker stood behind Malk, so he couldn''t see her, but there was no need. There was something wild, untamed, and spine-chilling in her voice that made every hair on his body stand on end. "And tomorrow, what will happen tomorrow? Will you dare to interrogate me?"


    The questions demanded answers. And the flushed captain, yanking open the button on his collar, began to justify himself in a hoarse voice.


    "Madam Leara, this ''handsome young man'' has a black star in his passport and is involved in a terrorism case. Moreover, no one ''took him on.'' He is undergoing a voluntary memory reading procedure, which you, by the way, interrupted!" Starting to speak, the captain seemed to gather some courage from somewhere and continued more and more assertively: "And the girl you mentioned is accused of blood sacrifices in the name of Yorrokh. So, I ask you..."


    "Captain, don''t you piss me off! Otherwise, I might feel like peeking inside the ''reader'' and seeing how much you''ve tampered with the control screws and where the limiters are now set. And then I might really want to delve into those papers you''ll soon try to pass off as the results of the investigation into the attempt on the life of the Colhaun governer''s son." The unknown Madam Leara spoke calmly, without raising her voice, but the once seemingly almighty Tyrhat wilted again and even seemed to shrink. "So clear the office and let me talk to this young man alone..."


    She hadn''t even finished speaking when the gendarme sprang into action. Without any reminders, he used a brush that sparkled with magic to clean the table, sprayed some floral water from a device resembling a small tube with a pistol grip, and, clutching the "reader" tightly to his chest, actually left the room. Almost with a look of relief on his face.


    "A scoundrel, but such a useful scoundrel... So many cases he has solved, so many villains he has caught... If only he didn''t chase after bonuses for capturing especially dangerous criminals¡ªhe''d be priceless! But who doesn''t have a skeleton in the closet, right... Malk?" Madam Leara addressed Malk in a conspiratorial whisper, just as the door hadn''t even slammed shut behind the fleeing Tyrhat.


    With fantastic grace and indescribable femininity, she circled the desk and took the captain''s seat.


    Only now could Malk see his protector. And she looked so stunning¡ªthere were no other words a simple Colhaun lad could find¡ªthat just one glance in her direction muddled his thoughts, made his heart beat faster, and filled him with a yearning he hadn''t felt since adolescence.


    Yorrokh take it!!! With each passing moment, it was even getting worse and worse. He realized that soon, nothing else would exist for him but Leara''s captivating eyes, perfect facial features, the arch of her eyebrows, aristocratic poise, the scent of skin, hair, and the whiteness of her shoulders accentuated by the cut and color of her dress... Damn, Malk was simply dissolving in thoughts about the woman sitting before him, losing himself to those deep instincts that simultaneously drove him mad with passion and desire and forced him to sit, barely breathing, sensing some unfathomable danger...


    Malk didn''t even realize when he had started performing all the steps of the Rain of Pain technique. And he immediately felt relief. Clarity of thought returned, carnal desires became bearable, and his heart no longer threatened to leap out of his chest. Something, of course, still remained, but it was manageable.


    "Not bad," Madam Leara smiled, apparently well aware of the impression she made on men, and thus watching Malk''s reactions with the interest of an entomologist. "Fairly impressive, even by the standards of those from good Families."


    Not that Malk instantly bought into her words, but the compliment was pleasant. He cautiously nodded and, after a pause, asked:


    "Madam, are you also going to start by accusing me of all imaginable and unimaginable crimes and then make me sign some papers where I renounce something?"


    Malk was deeply afraid that his words would anger such a powerful lady¡ªand he had no doubt that the woman sitting in front of him, who had almost turned him into a mindless animal with just her presence, was powerful¡ªbut she only laughed. And then the last remnants of the pressure on his mind dissipated.


    "I have no need to accuse or demand anything from you, Malk. Captain Tyrhat, on the other hand, desperately needed to prepare a document proving that his department dealt with the loyalists. I don''t play such games and don''t chase rewards," Madam Leara explained, placing her elbows on the table and resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "I just wanted to see that ''practically a kid'' who managed to send several militants to the demons. Though they were rather miserable and worthless, still... still... It''s intriguing!"


    "And what did you see?" Malk asked, his expression darkening.


    "A lucky one," Madam Leara replied, flashing her teeth. "The lower demon didn''t get to you, the loyalist terrorists didn''t shoot you, the old memory reader almost broke down but didn''t fry your brains... The Saints love you!"


    If Tolfan had been in Malk''s place, he would have surely taken advantage of the lady''s slip and tried to get some compensation for his "lost health." But Malk was different. All he wanted was to get away as far as possible.


    "If they loved me, I wouldn''t have spent three nights in the slammer!" he muttered gloomily. "How am I supposed to get to the entrance exams now..."


    He probably subconsciously hoped for some sympathy, but Madam Leara had no intention of sparing his feelings.


    "You won''t. They''re already over. The intake of new students was small this time, and the mage examiners finished quickly," she reported indifferently. "And yes, if you listen to me, you''ll save a lot of time... Don''t even think about demanding your advance back: no one will return it to you... Forget it!"


    "Then, Maybe there''s something else I should forget about?" Malk asked angrily. And that was just the tip of the emotions slowly rising in his heart. He hadn''t yet grasped the full scale of the catastrophe, which is why he could still be sarcastic and rude.


    "Of course. For example, forget about getting compensation from the gendarmerie, the railroad administration, or the relatives of the loyalists you killed. Particularly about the latter¡ªI''m warning you specially, you have no idea how big a hornet''s nest you''ve kicked. And it''s best not to remind them of yourself," Madam Leara said, her voice now nearly normal.


    "As you know, I wasn''t the only one kicking that ''nest''..." Malk muttered but was abruptly interrupted:


    "If you mean your friends, you''re greatly mistaken. They were so kind that in the initial versions of their testimonies, they made you out to be the hero-savior. And despite Captain Tyrhat''s efforts, it won''t be possible to hush this up. Unfortunately..."


    "Unfortunately?" Malk asked, puzzled, noticeably disappointing Madam Leara.


    "What, you thought the story was over? Kid, the most interesting part is just beginning," she said with a captivating smile. "Even the most despicable loyalists have relatives, and not all of them are willing to accept their kin''s death. And from there, it''s just a step to blood vengeance..." Madam Leara suddenly decided to change the subject and spoke about something else entirely: "However, it''s too early to look that far ahead. For now, we need to handle what''s within our capacity. For instance... help you get into a School."


    And she handed Malk an invitation written on stamped paper from the Andalore Society of Mages.


    "But that''s not..." he started in confusion, but was interrupted.


    "Not a School? Yes, I won''t argue with that. But they will, albeit poorly, help develop your Gift, give you an Arcane Art, teach basic spells... And the most important thing! The most! They accept people with even a speck of talent like you, and this... this is the best a lad like you can get in this situation," Madam Leara said and then more sharply asked: "So, what do you say, agreed?"


    "Do I have a choice?" Malk replied gloomily, hesitated, but couldn''t hold back his emotions and added sarcastically, "Where do I sign?"


    Madam Leara''s ringing, blood-stirring laughter he studiously ignored.

 Chapter Four, in which the hero first gets angry, envious, and by the end, seems to go crazy

    The house on Holy Protectors Street, where Malk was brought by a carriage kindly provided by the gendarmerie and where, according to the guards, his friends had rented an apartment, didn''t sit well with him from the start. Two-story, marble-clad, with pristine and nearly uncracked columns at the entrance, new shutters on the windows, and, Yorrokh take it, even a magical lantern above the door¡ªit didn''t look at all like a place poor students could afford. No, when he heard the address, he had already begun to suspect that things were bad¡ªno poor people lived on such pretentiously named streets¡ªbut not this bad!


    Damn it, what were they thinking?! Not everyone has parents ready to support their offspring with clinking drachmas! After all, they had an agreement, didn''t they...


    Already infuriated by all the events of the past few days, Malk crossed the threshold of the house as gloomy as a storm cloud. He mechanically bowed to the likeness of Archont on the wall, walked through the well-lit corridor past a series of identical doors, and resolutely knocked on the farthest one, which flaunted the number four. Inside, he was seething. He was ready to unleash all his pent-up anger on his friends, but... but the door opened, and a second later, a squealing Helavia was hanging around his neck, overjoyed.


    "Malk!!! Finally!!!" she screamed, then locked his lips in a kiss.


    The rage that had been swelling inside Malk somehow retreated to the background. Dropping the noticeably battered wooden suitcase that had suffered during his encounter with the gendarmes, he awkwardly embraced his girlfriend and returned the kiss.


    "Greetings to the victims of tyranny and lawlessness!" Tolfan''s voice broke the romantic moment as his thick but strong hand pulled the lovebirds into the room. "How are you? Alive? Healthy? Not lost weight?!"


    The door slammed shut. Helavia finally let go of Malk, stepped back, and began to study him with a worried look. Only after making sure he was okay did she noticeably relax and smile.


    "Sit down and tell us everything!" she said with such emotion that the grip of irritation around Malk''s heart finally loosened.


    "There''s not much to tell," he muttered, kicking off his boots and walking to the table in the center of the room. "That business with our mentor came up again, so they dragged me through the wringer. Just pointless worry, nothing more..."


    "Pointless or not, you missed the exams, and you definitely won''t get into the School of the Three Saints this year. As for the reward for our train exploits, I won''t even ask. It''s clear there are plenty of others vying for it," the fatty chimed in, sitting down opposite Malk and pouring him some herbal brew from a pitcher on the table. Then he asked sympathetically, "At least you didn''t get a new mark?"


    "No... didn''t get one," Malk shook his head, darkening again. Any reminder of the missed chance to get into a proper School and the lost money was still quite painful. As for the fact that things could have been even worse, he preferred not to think about it.


    "Then why so gloomy?! As long as you haven''t been blacklisted, you''ll always have a chance to make something of your life!" Tolfan grinned, clapping Malk on the shoulder. "Come on, the whole world is ahead of you, brother! You can wait a year and apply to the Three Saints, try your luck at another School, or even get a job and ask for a recommendation to the city''s best vocational school... Trust me, one day you''ll be thanking those gendarmes for shaking up your life!"


    Malk twitched the corner of his mouth but still chose to say nothing. Especially about the vocational school. If anyone benefited from his failure, it was Helavia. She was so eager to steer Malk onto the "right" path that she didn''t hesitate to use even the current situation to pressure him. Moreover, she roped Tolfan in as an ally... And Malk wasn''t particularly fond of this new practical Helavia.


    "Enough about me, how are you guys doing? Did you get in?" Having lost his previous fervor, he didn''t want to start a fight, so he tried to change the subject.


    "Come on... How could such a handsome guy like me not get in?" Tolfan proudly declared, leaning back in his chair and patting his belly. "I can''t say I was the best, but..."


    Helavia didn''t let him finish. With a barely noticeable yet unpleasant smile, she remarked:


    "He barely made it as an outer disciple. There was an unexpectedly large influx of applicants this year, so they tightened the selection criteria... Candidates with weak Gifts were turned away at the door!"


    Malk grimaced.


    "You didn''t have to say that, I already guessed," he said, gradually coming to terms with the fact that his golden dream had slipped from his grasp and flown away. "How about you?"


    "The best of all!" Tolfan interjected, a bit miffed that he had been deprived of the chance to boast. "She got the highest scores among all who took the tests this year. And don''t even get me started on the level of her Gift. The Sphere of Ka was still buzzing, but the Magisters were practically fighting already. They couldn''t decide who would take this genius girl as a student."


    "You got taken as a personal student right away?!" Malk voiced his amazement, turning to his girlfriend.


    "Listen to this windbag more. I''ve only been admitted into the inner circle for now," the girl replied proudly, blushing a little. And then she added, "But with a personal curator!"


    "What''s the difference... That''s..." Malk couldn''t find the words and jumped up to hug Helavia tightly.


    Naturally, his heart did twinge a bit, knowing his girlfriend had achieved so much while he was left with nothing, but that was all. Malk didn''t know how to be envious, especially not of someone he loved. And he was truly happy for her success.


    The girl responded with a passionate kiss, locking her lips onto her lover''s. Then she suddenly pulled away¡ªas if she was about to say something, but changed her mind and buried her nose in his neck. They froze like that.


    Yorrokh knows what his girlfriend felt at that moment; Malk felt nothing but tenderness and... a kind of calm. All the piled-up troubles and misfortunes suddenly seemed insignificant, and he found faith that he would cope with everything and overcome it all... It might seem foolish and naive to some, but that''s exactly what Malk thought at that moment.


    Of course, Tolfan tried to ruin the moment with his usual flat jokes, but this time neither Malk nor Helavia reacted. The fatty had no choice but to sulk and back off. He stayed in the room with the lovebirds for a while but eventually got bored and went to his own bedroom.


    Malk and Helavia were left alone. And then everything suddenly started to spin, whirl. Malk didn''t even realize when and, most importantly, how they left the kitchen and moved to Helavia''s room. How they closed the door, how they fell onto the bed and began tearing off each other''s clothes. At that moment, everything seemed astonishingly unfamiliar, shockingly new. Later, no matter how much Malk tried, he couldn''t figure out what made that burst of passion so different from all the previous ones. The strongest explosion of feelings, animalistic, almost demonic insatiability, the mad desire to dissolve into the loved one¡ªany epithets and comparisons were and would be something bland and incomplete. But do words really matter? What matters is that the experience was forever etched in both their memories, becoming a cherished and treasured recollection.


    Who cares what the true cause of the lovers'' madness was. Separation, the trials they had endured, or the external threat¡ªthe result was what mattered, and it was wonderful!


    "Do you remember how we met?" Helavia asked when the heat of passion had subsided, and they both lay utterly exhausted on the rumpled bed. To better see Malk''s face as he lay on his back, she propped herself up on her elbow.


    "Hard to forget. Life at the boarding school never seemed sweet to me, but until that day, I had never had to fight with knives. Especially over a girl," Malk grimly smirked.


    He glanced at his left side, where a diagonal scar ran across his ribs. Another one adorned his left thigh, and one more on his right forearm. They looked rough and ugly¡ªthe surgeon who stitched them up was the cheapest the boarding school could afford¡ªbut Malk didn''t hold a grudge. At least they saved his life and didn''t cripple him; the rest didn''t matter.


    Damn it, he had just gone to the market square to watch a bout between a visiting duelist and an instructor from the local fencing hall, and what in the end?! In the end, he witnessed two scumbags harassing a new pretty girl from the boarding school in a nameless alley. And he couldn''t make himself turn away.


    But instead of arming himself first or at least raising an alarm, he foolishly charged at the bastards with his fists. He punched one in the gut, then spun around and struck the second one in the cheek, and... got a knife in the thigh from the first one. His opponents didn''t adhere to any laws or rules and readily brought their blades into play. Though not particularly skillful, there were two of them! And even drawing his own dagger didn''t improve the situation much. Before he managed to inflict a serious wound on one of his opponents'' stomachs, Malk himself was covered in blood. His prospects were bleak. If a patrol hadn''t suddenly appeared on the street and busted the fighters, Malk wouldn''t have seen the next dawn.


    However, he didn''t complain about his fate either. If not for that fight, Malk probably wouldn''t have gotten close to Helavia¡ªthe girl he saved from the clutches of street scum¡ªand wouldn''t have discovered the limits of his determination to go all the way. The very determination that helped him emerge victorious from the train terrorist attack and withstand the pressure from the gendarmes.


    "At that moment, you seemed like a mythical hero to me. Maybe not the First Saint, but someone from those times for sure," Helavia said, pressing herself against his chest.


    "Only at that moment? What about after?" Malk laughed, hugging his girlfriend with one arm and kissing the top of her head. "That day, I thought I had met the most beautiful girl, and I haven''t changed my mind from then on."


    Both fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. After a while, Malk even thought Helavia had fallen asleep. He was about to get up quietly when the girl suddenly broke the silence and spoke again, but now without a trace of playfulness or tenderness.


    "Malk, you know... You still haven''t said what you''re going to do next. What are your plans now that the School of the Three Saints didn''t work out..."


    Guessing where this was heading, Malk sighed loudly. Here we go again?! He was ready for another round of pointless arguments, but the girl didn''t continue her thought. Because of this, Malk answered much more calmly than he initially wanted to.


    "Well, when we talked about your initiation and the Sphere of Ka, you didn''t exactly go into details either!!" he snorted, glancing at his girlfriend.


    "Oh, are you interested in specific numbers from the metrics?" Helavia snapped, clearly starting to get angry. "Sorry, but I didn''t mean any harm. I just decided not to hurt your pride... or whatever it is that prevents you men from seeing things as they are!"


    Then, in a deliberately bored tone, she began listing:


    "Reserve just over fifteen ergs, energy replenishment rate¡ªtwo-tenths of an erg per hour, a strong affinity for the Elements of Fire and Air. Is that enough?"


    "More than enough, Helavia. More than enough..." Malk replied slowly. He barely resisted the urge to whistle enviously.


    He knew, of course, that his girlfriend had talent, but there were limits to everything. She wasn''t the daughter of some ancient House where a great Gift had long become part of the Lineage, nor was she supported by a powerful and wealthy organization nurturing talents. No, she was the daughter of a minor noble¡ªand suddenly, such a vivid manifestation of affinity with the world of subtle energies!


    The magical system of Mritlok, in contrast to other worlds, if the Guild of Dreamers was to be believed, was characterized by a profound elaboration of basic principles and concepts. And even though when senior mages got involved, it wasn''t always clear at what point the science of sorcery turned into art, the foundation of the tower of magical knowledge had a scientific appearance.


    Every spell required energy, which was universally measured in ergs. One erg was enough to power an average three-room city apartment for four days. Five ergs were enough to create a small Fire Pulsar, and with a hundred, given some skills and knowledge, a sorcerer could level a village or destroy a small town.


    The reserve of an ordinary person who had undergone initiation but hadn''t earned the right to be called a mage ranged from two to six, in rare cases up to eight ergs. Such failures weren''t admitted to Schools¡ªno matter how much you train them or what resources you invest, most were doomed to languish at the rank of Adept for their entire lives. And the fact that such pseudo-mages were still called Gifted was almost a mockery.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    The minimum reserve required for someone to be considered a potential mage was nine ergs. The maximum... the maximum was nineteen ergs, and in the entire history of the civilized world, it had been recorded only once for a newly initiated Adept. And that result belonged to Achont himself¡ªthe First Saint and humanity''s savior. So, Helavia''s reserve of fifteen ergs was a claim to a very promising future.


    No less important than the size of one''s magical reservoir for a mage was the rate of energy replenishment. Everywhere Malk had read, it was written that in conditions close to places with a high natural magical background and without using Arcane Arts, the reserve of an average novice sorcerer should replenish at a rate no less than one or two-tenths of an erg per hour. And the higher this rate, the better. Helavia''s result wasn''t brilliant in this regard, but it was still decent.


    And finally, the third parameter defining a sorcerer''s potential was their affinity with magic, which type of magical energy they were most attuned to specifically. There weren''t many options¡ªFire, Water, Air, or Earth. Pneuma, considered the fifth¡ªor first, depending on how you counted¡ªbasic element of the magical system of Mritlok, was usually not considered in analyzing the Gift. All mages could work with it, so special attention was only given to the Elements. And by this metric, Helavia certainly was, if not a genius, at least a decent talent. Her chances of acquiring a good Arcane Art were significantly higher than those of an average Adept...


    In short, no matter how you look at it, Helavia''s potential was enormous. And it became clear now why Tolfan''s eyes occasionally flared with envy during their conversation about the entrance exams. Yorrokh take it, Malk was a bit envious himself!


    "Why the silence? What do you have to say?" Helavia broke the hanging pause, poking Malk in the ribs with her elbow.


    "If you mean your achievements, I never doubted you. You''re amazing! But if you mean my immediate future," Malk sighed heavily, "I have a recommendation letter to the Andalore Society of Mages. And I want to go see what that place is like."


    "Society?!" Helavia reacted as if stung, jumping up. "Not even a School?!"


    "Yeah, yeah, yeah... Not a proper, reputable School, just some local mage association, guild, or who knows what else," Malk snapped. "Don''t say anything, I know it all. About the lack of prospects, the scarce resources, and limited access to spells and Arcane Arts. But I might not get another chance to become a mage. So..."


    "A mage? How about becoming just an ordinary Gifted instead, without skills and abilities but with a lifelong obligation to pay eight ergs of monthly tax?! You certainly don''t have my talent!" Helavia unexpectedly shouted with anger and irritation. "Holy Protectors, how many times do I have to repeat that the mage''s path is not for you, not for you!" She abruptly fell silent, turned her back to Malk, and then added, "Although, you know, do whatever you want. Even the Saints can''t fix a fool!"


    At that, Helavia finally quieted down, seemingly exhausted from attempting to steer her lover towards the "right" life path. Malk didn''t respond either, having grown used to such arguments. So, after lying for a while, he simply got up and went to the kitchen. After all, he still had one more thing to do before bed, a routine that had become a daily habit over the last few years. And he didn''t intend to break the tradition. Especially not because of yet another wearisome quarrel with his girlfriend...


    The full moon bathed the room in a ghostly light, but it was still too dark for what Malk had in mind. He spent a few minutes searching for candles. Having found a few stubs, he placed them on the table and lit them all. Of course, he could have turned to Tolfan or Helavia to activate the magical lantern hanging from the ceiling, but he didn''t want to ask for favors. If luck was on Malk''s side, very soon he would become a Gifted or even an Adept, and activating artifacts would no longer be a problem for him. For now, he could endure.


    He brought the wooden suitcase he had left by the door, struggled briefly with the ever-jamming lock, and finally pulled out a heavy-looking, angular box without inscriptions or heraldic emblems. He set it before him on the table and ran his fingers over it with feeling. Then, he found two buttons that blended with the body and pressed them simultaneously. With a loud click, a pair of copper eyepieces slid out from one side of the box, and on the other side, a panel with six miniature verniers opened.


    Malk exhaled with relief. Until the last moment, he feared that the fragile device hadn''t survived the hands of the gendarmerie investigators, but it seemed to be intact. He certainly wouldn''t have found a hundred gold drachmas to buy a new Druzal''s Mirror. Heck, he hadn''t even bought this one; it was a gift from his mentor. Although it was an old, used model, others could only dream of such a thing!


    Numbers he had meticulously memorized surfaced in his mind, and Malk started adjusting the verniers, setting the necessary parameters of the device. The box responded with a barely audible hum¡ªthe focusing prisms inside began to rotate. Fine-tuning the optical mechanisms was the only thing Malk could influence at the moment. The ungifted couldn''t control the magical figure hidden beneath the opaque casing, powered by a force stone and auxiliary alchemical blocks.


    Finally, the artifact was ready for use, and Malk began the final stage of preparation for training. He sat comfortably, habitually cleared his mind of superficial thoughts, then started breathing in the manner prescribed by Rain of Pain, simultaneously focusing on a sequence of changing images. This continued for some time¡ªmaybe five minutes, maybe ten¡ªuntil he reached the desired state and stabilized in it. Only then did Malk slowly, without interrupting the practice, bring his eyes to the eyepieces and peer inside...


    As soon as Malk saw the image of several nested magical circles with a rotating cloud of silvery-blue mist at the center, his entire body was pierced by sharp pain. It felt as though a lightning bolt struck the top of his head and, like a burning thread, extended all the way down to his heels. And it would be hard to find a person who could remain completely calm in such a situation.


    But Malk managed it. Not only was the required state for training not disrupted, but his body barely even flinched. And this wasn''t due to some extraordinary willpower, but merely a side effect of practicing the Arcane Technique passed down by mentor Skom. As he promised, Rain practitioners had a special relationship with pain.


    The effects of the magical discharge quickly passed, and Malk proceeded to execute the next step of the Arcane Technique. The same visual images he had concentrated on at the beginning, he began to mentally transfer from the depths of his mind to the center of the silver cloud inside the Mirror. Despite long practice and the unreal nature of these actions, each such transfer caused almost physical strain that, growing and growing, threatened to reach Malk''s limits at any moment.


    However, this sensation was illusory. Success in the technique required only not giving up or retreating in the face of difficulties, something he had no problem with. And then, the practice entered its final, most challenging phase. As soon as the last image disappeared inside the Mirror, Malk was struck by yet another bolt of pain, followed by a wave of scorching heat, until finally... finally, his spirit responded to the energy manipulations. In his mind''s eye appeared a vision of an endless sea of sand, scorched by the sun and devoid of even the most primitive life. And, like a promise of rebirth, storm clouds gathered high in the sky. The image was nothing more than a mirage, a reaction of the mind to magic, but it looked absolutely real. Just as real as the rain that poured from the clouds onto the desert. Only it wasn''t made of water droplets but countless clumps of pain.


    The agonizing sensations flooded Malk''s entire being. They pierced him, with each fallen "drop" bringing something new and washing away the unnecessary, all the while causing immense suffering. And to endure this, a steel will was indispensable.


    When Malk first managed to complete this technique in its entirety¡ªstill being under his mentor''s supervision then¡ªthe sensations were much weaker. Successfully completing the training required only a bit of patience. But the transformation of the Spirit, essentially its tempering according to the patterns set by the Arcane Technique, started small, and the further Malk progressed in the practice, the harder it became. And although Reslan Skom had warned about this beforehand, no one could truly grasp the scale of the consequences of such training. It was no surprise that Tolfan took the first opportunity to quit, and even the much more resilient Helavia gave up systematic practice. Enduring this was simply unbearable. Heck, Malk himself would have happily forgotten about that blasted Rain like a bad dream if... if his mentor hadn''t promised that with this technique he could become a mage. Rain of Pain was supposed to break the shackles of mediocrity for the boarding school''s "dud," and for that, Malk was ready to endure any torment...


    When it was all over, Malk found himself drenched in sweat, slumped over the table, with his fingers gripping Druzal''s Mirror tightly. His jaw, as usual, hurt a bit¡ªdespite the inevitable loss of control in such a situation, he always remembered that he couldn''t scream and held back with all his might. After what he had just been through, everything inside him trembled, phantom pains roamed somewhere within¡ªhis body reacting to the tortures endured by his Spirit¡ªbut Malk diligently ignored the discomfort, focusing on putting away the device. He would be able to use it again in no less than four days.


    "Ten to fifteen minutes, you spend, right?" Helavia''s sarcastic voice from behind made Malk flinch. "Go ahead, say it depends on your mood¡­"


    He quickly turned and saw his girlfriend in a nightgown, leaning against the doorframe.


    "Something like that," Malk replied hoarsely, awkwardly shrugging. Then he asked wearily, "What else is left for a ''dud'' like me?"


    "Anything but ruining yourself with clearly Forbidden Techniques!" the girl replied coldly and, quickly turning, headed back to the bedroom. From there, Malk heard, "I wish you''d hurry up and visit that Society of yours. Maybe then you''d finally calm down!"


    Right after training, Malk always found it hard to control his emotions, and all sorts of things were on the tip of his tongue. About snooty rich relatives and influential protectors, about the black star that somehow appeared only in his passport, about Helavia''s overly calculating behavior... yet none of it was voiced. Not out of a desire to end the quarrel, but simply because an entirely new thought came to his mind. For the first time in their relationship, Malk suddenly realized he couldn''t tolerate certain aspects of his girlfriend''s character. Love or not, there was a limit to everything. And Helavia was rapidly approaching that limit.


    This unexpected realization didn''t sit well in his mind; he needed to digest it properly. Not that he wanted to break up with Helavia, but... Yorrokh take it, he definitely needed to consider this perspective.


    However, he didn''t get a chance to sit quietly and weigh all the pros and cons. Out of the corner of his eye, Malk suddenly caught some movement in the window, causing him to turn sharply. For a moment, it seemed like an image of the accursed by the Saints dwarf appeared on the moonlight-illuminated glass. And Malk immediately, without thinking, lunged at the enemy. After all, what was there to think about after everything related to that damn freak?!


    He had already raised his fist to smash the phantom spy, but stopped at the last moment. There was neither dwarf outside the window, nor his ghostly figure on the surface. What he had mistaken for his nemesis turned out to be smudges on poorly cleaned glass. Just in case, Malk opened the window and looked out into the dark yard, listening in. But predictably, he found no one. The malicious freak was nothing more than a figment, a hallucination of a mind tormented and exhausted by training... And that was the best outcome Malk could hope for in this situation. The thought that he was slowly going insane, Malk decided not to take seriously.


    "Demon''s boils on your backside, who''s not crazy these days? The whole world is crazy!" he muttered, slamming the window shut a bit louder than necessary.

 Chapter Five, where some dreams come true

    To the Andalore Society of Mages, Malk set off four days after being released from the gendarmerie. He would have gone earlier, but applications for admission were reviewed on strictly designated days, so he had to wait. Fortunately, he found ways to occupy himself. While Helavia and Tolfan were busy within the walls of the School of the Three Saints, handling paperwork, paying tuition, acquiring textbooks, and undergoing rituals incomprehensible to outsiders, Malk was pounding the pavement at the Andalorian labor exchange. Forty drachmas were too insignificant a sum to last long. The future student of the Society of Mages needed a job. Preferably one that didn''t require full-time commitment and paid a bit more than just a few obols a day.


    Alas, quickly finding something suitable proved impossible. Malk, though he understood that a recent graduate from a provincial boarding school without special skills and work experience wasn''t someone magnates and guild masters would chase after, still... Yorrokh take it, there had to be at least something decent. His situation wasn''t yet so dire that he had to grab at vacancies for a night-soil man, water carrier, or cleaner in a two-star brothel.


    The last suggestion from the clerk he spoke with at the exchange, delivered with a nasty smirk, simply infuriated Malk. Sure, he knew that under the Regents, brothels had been legalized, but those changes hadn''t made it to Colhaun. And thank the Saints for that! Because the backwoods provincials might have burned such a blatant nest of vice. Though Malk wasn''t prone to such extremes, the phrase "work in a brothel" sounded like an insult to him.


    In short, the labor exchange was a bust. And when it was time to go to the Society of Mages, Malk wasn''t worried about the upcoming conversation with the admissions committee but was trying to calculate how long his money would last. Especially considering that two drachmas for rent and one more for groceries had been collected by Tolfan already. And all of this even before he had been admitted anywhere!


    From his gloomy thoughts, Malk snapped out only when he arrived at the address specified in the recommendation letter and opened the massive oak door adorned with bronze inlays. He asked the bored guard where the admissions committee was and headed deeper into the building of the Andalore Society of Mages. First, he passed through a long corridor with many closed doors, then found himself in a winter garden that resembled a real jungle, where he nearly got lost. Finally, he spent a long time searching for the right office in the three-story building adjacent to the garden.


    Perhaps others might have found such wandering frustrating, but for Malk, it was an opportunity to see the true face of the Society. To see what lay behind the dry phrases of the "Educational Institutions Bulletin"¡ªhe still had found time to visit the public library and read about this mysterious organization of magicians¡ªand how it aligned with his own goals.


    So far, everything was within his expectations. His worst expectations.


    Modest, if not poor, interior decor, small classrooms, and almost no areas off-limits to outsiders. The latter especially shocked him. Two spellcasting ranges, the entrance to a gallery leading to a separate building with a magical source, and a library¡ªthose were the only places outsiders couldn''t go. And this was in contrast to the tales of the School of the Three Saints, where, not having a student badge, you couldn''t get past the lobby unescorted! Then, what could be said about a mage organization that had nothing to protect?


    Malk''s mood turned completely sour. A fourth-degree magical source at minimum, three large buildings, a campus for teachers and senior students, a dedicated craft workshop with a steam engine, an extensive library, and a decent collection of Arcane Arts¡ªthis was just a fraction of what Helavia and Tolfan had gained access to as students of a three-star School. Not to mention the authoritative and powerful mages as teachers.


    And what did Malk get? A second-degree energy source barely sufficient for the initiation ritual? Bachelors as teachers? Textbooks worn to shreds, shabby desks, and no lab resources?! Was this really the very place that required a recommendation from someone like Madam Leara for admission?! Seriously?!


    Finding the right office, Malk even paused for a moment before entering, standing by the door, trying to calm himself. Besides, there were no other applicants or even regular visitors in sight anyway.


    Once he was in the right mindset, he turned the handle and resolutely pulled the door open.


    "Well, finally. Thought you were going to stand there forever!" he heard as soon as he stepped over the threshold.


    In the office¡ªwhich, it must be said, was quite large and bright¡ªbehind a desk covered with green baize sat a bored mage of indeterminate age. Short-haired, with a scruffy mustache and beard, he wore a white shirt with an open collar and a dark green vest instead of the expected club jacket. A gold chain of a watch stretched from his breast pocket somewhere to his waist. On the table, on a bronze stand, rested an outdated by two hundred years magical crystal, inside which one could see the section of the corridor in front of the entrance door.


    "My apologies. I was gathering my thoughts!" Malk responded, trying to speak and behave as politely as possible.


    And it wasn''t merely about his desire to be admitted. In front of him was a mage, more so, not just an Adept or Apprentice. Being cheeky to a Bachelor or Junior Magister¡ªhigher-ranked mages had no business in the Society¡ªwas dangerous even in their enlightened age. Laws protected commoners, but even that protection had its limits. So it was better not to provoke trouble...


    The office''s owner took the recommendation letter from Malk''s outstretched hand and unfolded it. He skimmed through it, pausing briefly at the signature, then sharply looked at his guest and decisively stored the letter in a drawer.


    "Got your report card?" he asked in a slightly warmer tone.


    But after receiving the document, the mage barely glanced at it and handed it back.


    "Did you drink yesterday? Had fun with women?" he suddenly asked in a sharp, unpleasant voice. "Are you ready for the Gift-awakening ritual?"


    "I know the rules. I''m ready," Malk nodded.


    His heart skipped a barely noticeable beat. Only now did he realize that his dream of breaking free from the shell of a "dud" was about to come true. And controlling his emotions became a hundred times harder.


    "Well, if you''re ready, let''s go!" the mage snorted and, leaning his palms on the table, stood up energetically.


    Out from his collar immediately slipped a personal medallion ¡ªa silver plate with three gold stars in the center. They shimmered mysteriously, in sync with the heartbeat of the owner. It was the sign of a Junior Magister, which meant there was hope that at least Malk''s initiation would be at the level of a good school. The news couldn''t help but bring joy, and the gloom that had gripped him receded a bit.


    The Junior Magister, who hadn''t bothered to introduce himself, guided Malk into the next room, which was the size of a decent gymnasium. But instead of sports equipment, the walls were lined with crazy mechanisms¡ªlike multi-jointed limbs with clocks and colorful lenses at the ends, concave mirrors with runes around the edges and hourglasses in the center, copper tubes puffing out cold steam and writhing like snakes, or sealed transparent flasks filled with bubbling alchemical potions. There were also racks holding arrays of crystals and prisms, pistons of unknown purpose sticking out from technological niches were moving rhythmically, and copper chains quietly jingled as they disappeared into the ceiling. It all felt like a unified system, the logic of which eluded Malk.


    In the center of the room was a low platform with copper, bronze, and silver rings rotating in different directions. The core of the structure was a chair with armrests and leather straps for the arms and legs. And only by this part was Malk able to recognize the already familiar to him Ka Sphere. But whereas a rather primitive version of the device had been used for the initial Gift test during his time at the boarding school, the Society employed for initiation something far more monstrous.


    "Your place is inside the Sphere. You don''t need to undress; just sit as you are." The Junior Magister pointed to the chair and turned away from Malk.


    The mage himself stepped toward a tilted pedestal in the far corner, flicking switches on one of its sides. Each action resonated in the room with a growing hum and flickering light in the racks with crystals. Considering there was no way to start a magical device through mechanical actions, the Junior Magister was actively casting spells. And he did so without any noticeable gestures, incantations, or artifacts-activators.


    Which was impressive.


    Finally, Malk stopped gawking and climbed into the Sphere. Within moments, he was inside, trying to get comfortable in the blasted chair. It wasn''t going well. Malk''s only hope was that he wouldn''t have to endure it for too long.


    Beside him suddenly appeared the mage and swiftly secured his limbs. Then, in silence, he first wiped Malk''s forehead and temples with a cloth soaked in something slimy and smelly, after which he placed a contraption resembling a torture device¡ªa "crown" made of iron wire and semi-precious stones¡ªon his head.


    "Alright, we can start!" the Junior Magister announced in an unexpectedly cheerful voice, stepping back a few paces and looking at his subject with satisfaction.


    However, for Malk, this had the opposite effect. It didn''t calm him; on the contrary, it made him anxious.


    "Maybe you should look at the previous Ka Sphere tests and the results of the blood essence analysis?" he finally couldn''t resist asking the question that was bothering him.


    In his opinion, the Magister approached the initiation process far too recklessly. Relying not on the language of calculations but solely on intuition. It was unsettling.


    "What kind of tests could you possibly show me?! I can see what''s necessary myself, and as for what''s unnecessary... your papers are full of nothing but that ''unnecessary'' stuff!" the Junior Magister grimaced in response. "I know how provincial School inspectors work. And who works there, I know too! So shut up and don''t interfere!"


    Silencing Malk, the mage still drew some conclusions. Instead of starting the ritual, he seemed to mentally calculate something, judging by the expression in his eyes, then twisted his face in anger and... began walking across the hall, pulling out toward his subject some of the mechanical "arms" that had initially surprised Malk.


    Finally completing the preparations, the Junior Magister returned to his original spot and froze for a long three minutes. He didn''t move, say anything, or look around¡ªjust stood like a statue, his gaze turned inward. And only when a time known to him alone arrived did he grin predatorily and start chanting an unpleasant-sounding incantation. Each word caused a fiery flash in the crystals, created a movement of colorful sparks along previously invisible lines on the floor, and awakened magical patterns on the ceiling.


    Slowly at first, then faster and faster, the rings around Malk''s chair began to spin. The Ka Sphere activated. Now, if his mentor was to be believed, it was up to Malk whether he would become a real mage or not.


    There was a sensation that his heart was beating several times faster. How real that was, Malk couldn''t tell, but so far, it hadn''t caused any pain. However, his eyes started to fail him. Everything around him suddenly began to blur rapidly, blending into a stream of flickering colorful spots. New scents and sounds appeared. Moreover, it seemed as if he wasn''t smelling these scents, but perceiving them as melodies. The sounds, conversely, appeared as a palette of indescribable aromas.


    The changes were slowly morphing into a different vision of the world until, at some point, the transformation reached its peak and was replaced by a pain as intoxicating as wine. It felt like dozens of red-hot needles were stabbing into Malk''s body, each time choosing a new place to strike. Feet, calves, areas under the knees, groin, lower abdomen, and entire chains of stings along the spine up to the crown of his head. Then, as if lightning struck between his eyebrows, followed by a wave of searing heat rolling down to the very tips of his toes.


    And again, calm, a state without pain, lasting only moments but more blissful than the peak of passion¡­ And then pain again.


    The waves of transformations were eroding Malk''s will, making him forget why he was there and what he needed to do. He wanted to relax and endure, submitting to the attacks of the Sphere that shattered the bounds of his Spirit.


    But he couldn''t do that. The cage that trapped the essence of a "dud" was too strong. No soulless machine would break it unless efforts were made from within. The right efforts, at the right time, in the right place, and in the right way.


    And Malk began to fight. Not with his hands and feet, not with muscle strength, but with the power of his Spirit. Using that invisible force that mages called Authority. Authority that allowed a magician to command the energies of the Elements and perform magic. Authority that Malk had so carefully nurtured and tempered through years of training.


    When a red-hot needle pierced his body again, Malk as if grabbed it with an invisible hand and¡­ held it inside. The pain instantly increased tenfold, making it hard even for Malk, as a practitioner of Rain of Pain, to bear. But he still endured, holding on with all his might. And within moments, the pain noticeably weakened, the jerking of the "needle" stopped, and it remained in its ritual-prescribed place. It was time for the next invisible rapier¡­ And then another, and another, until Malk felt like a giant porcupine, with no spot left on his body where the next thrust of the Ka Sphere could land.


    The ritual paused again. But it didn''t last long, soon giving way to a burning so intense that Malk nearly went mad, and his still-weak Spirit almost lost its connection to his body¡­


    Had the ritual continued even a little longer, Malk wouldn''t have held on. He had already walked a fine line, almost peering beyond the threshold where life ends and the Gray Realms begin. However, the surge of agony was the final part of the initiation. While the sweat-drenched Malk was trying to catch his breath and bring his tormented mind back to some semblance of normalcy, the flashing of the spots before his eyes ceased, and the sensory chaos disappeared. He could once again observe the hall with the Sphere, the slowly decelerating rings, and the fading magical figures on the floor and ceiling. And at last, he could see the Junior Magister again¡­ Only, for some reason, the mage''s expression was no longer calm and satisfied.


    "Get out of the Sphere and into my office!"


    This was the first phrase Malk heard from the Junior Magister right after the ritual ended. It sounded sharp, irritated, and quite insulting. The Junior Magister didn''t give Malk a chance to react. He hadn''t even had time to open his mouth before the mage unlocked the restraints with a spell, yanked him out of the chair, and practically shoved him out of the hall. He treated Malk as if he were not a person but a soulless puppet.


    The attitude didn''t improve in the office, where the Junior Magister appeared a few minutes after Malk. Although his tone became calmer, the mage who had conducted the Gift''s awakening continued to pressure Malk.


    And how he pressured him!


    "So, here''s the deal: according to the Society''s rules, you owe five drachmas as the standard fee for the ritual," the Junior Magister announced with a loud sigh. "And fifteen drachmas as compensation for my losses due to the unexpectedly increased complexity of the process."


    "Complexity?" Malk repeated, utterly confused. This wasn''t how he had envisioned his initiation. And what definitely hadn''t crossed his mind was being extorted for money.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Exactly!" the Junior Magister nodded, gradually calming down. "Usually, an initiation takes no more than a quarter of an hour, and the Ka Sphere uses no more than ten to fifteen ergs to awaken a Gift. In your case, the process took over an hour, and it consumed about forty ergs. And these are not things that can be overlooked!"


    Malk wiped his sweaty forehead.


    "Alright, I get it about the money¡­ But what about the ritual itself? Am I an Adept, Gifted, or did I remain as I was?!" he asked, struggling to control his emotions.


    Contrary to expectations, the mage didn''t delay his answer.


    "See for yourself¡­" The Junior Magister pulled out a perforated card from somewhere and read: "Reserve¡ªnine ergs, reserve replenishment¡ªthree-tenths of an erg per hour, affinity¡ªwith Pneuma." Then, he simply dropped the card with the records on the table and leaned back in his chair. "So much effort, so many expenses, and you barely met the minimum requirements for the rank¡­"


    He continued talking, but the stunned Malk hardly heard him.


    Nine ergs, no affinity with any Element¡­ The worst start to a mage''s career one could imagine! Sure, he understood the "dud" label wasn''t placed on him for nothing, but after so many efforts in training with Rain of Pain, he had hoped to get at least ten or even eleven ergs. Then, considering the high chances of doubling his reserve within the first year or two after initiation, he could reasonably hope to reach the peak of Adept. But now what? The best period in a mage''s development would allow Malk to reach eighteen ergs at best. Clearly insufficient for an attempt to break into the next rank.


    But the delay in development was only half the trouble; the low reserve was somewhat compensated by a relatively fast replenishment rate. Why wasn''t there any affinity with the Elements?! How could a mage''s path exist without the Elements?!


    Suddenly, Malk realized that his interlocutor had been asking him something for a while.


    "Sorry, what?" he asked absentmindedly.


    "Yorrokh take you! Hand over the blood tests and the examination results!" barked the office owner.


    Malk hurriedly extended the necessary papers. The Junior Magister immediately began to scrutinize them.


    "Well, it''s clear. A ''dud''!" he said disdainfully after a few minutes. "Just as I thought." The mage glanced at Malk and smirked crookedly. "Consider yourself lucky. I have no idea how you managed to impress Madam Leara, but under normal circumstances, without her recommendation, no one would have performed the ritual for you."


    "Why?" Malk decided to ask, even though he knew the approximate answer.


    "Because the amount of resources required for a successful initiation is insane, and the result is an Adept without any particular prospects or hopes for the future. I''m surprised that to break through the shackles of a ''dud,'' the Sphere gobbled up only forty ergs. Textbooks usually mention about a hundred and fifty," the Junior Magister said in a condescending tone. "Though, why am I even surprised... You probably used some Forbidden Technique; otherwise, you couldn''t even dream of the current results. Throughout the history of the Schools and Houses, many things have been invented. You might have dug up something useful for developing the Gift in your hotbed of freethinkers and heretics. Sky Mirror, Azure Dust, Demon Heart¡ªthese are just the most common things mentioned in chronicles, and who knows what else we don''t know about? Though... judging by the results, it seems more like practice in a specific Arcane Technique than training in a full Arcane Art. Moreover, a Technique of Authority with a tilt toward the negative spectrum. Am I right?"


    Malk rubbed his forehead, not knowing what to say. Forbidden Techniques were called Forbidden for a reason¡ªspeaking of them to outsiders was not advisable. Who knew what dangers such an admission could bring him?!


    "If we assume that''s the case, can you tell me what the consequences of such practice might be?" Malk finally decided to speak.


    The Junior Magister laughed again:


    "You''re interested in the consequences? Isn''t it a bit late to think about that?! Alright... The positives: you became an Adept. And not just any Adept, but one with Authority slightly below the middle of the red rank, something some failures can''t achieve even after becoming Apprentices. Actually, without developed Authority, you wouldn''t have been able to accumulate the energy needed to break through the Howard''s Boundary during the awakening ritual."


    "And the negatives?" Malk asked gloomily.


    "The negatives... Techniques of Authority can''t be trained while being ungifted, without the supply of magical energy or taking special potions. It''s a law that can''t be bypassed without consequences. In your case, they are particularly severe. First, you completely lost the ability to operate with the Elements. And second, your Gift now has a strong inclination toward the negative spectrum. This means that in practicing such branches of Pneuma magic as Life and Death, Death will come easier to you," the office owner explained in a mentor-like tone.


    Malk sighed gloomily:


    "Well, at least I''ve got some luck... At least something will come easier!"


    The Junior Magister did not share his optimism.


    "Luck?" he echoed. "In what?! Yes, your Spirit has some inclination towards the negative spectrum, but that''s only your Spirit! Your body has no affinity with Death. I don''t even want to imagine what this practice will do to it."


    "Just great..." Malk shook his head, refusing to believe what was happening. "Nine Saints! So that means I''m... a crippled Adept?!"


    Malk''s interlocutor grinned widely:


    "I''d put it this way... You''re an Adept whose future is shrouded in fog!"


    The Junior Magister''s response was openly mocking, but Malk chose to ignore it. The conversation was too important to be distracted by silly feelings.


    "In fog, even if I''ll get a good Arcane Art?" he asked, looking intently at his interlocutor''s face.


    However, he saw nothing but poorly concealed mockery.


    "Kid, where would you get a good Art from? Or are you counting on the Society?! We''re not a five-star School, and you''re not the son of some Archmage. All you can count on is a one-star yellow rank Art. Yes, with it, you''ll build a solid foundation before breaking through to Apprentice, but that''s it. Understand?" The Junior Magister waited for Malk''s nod, then suddenly asked in a sly voice: "Although... if you have two hundred drachmas, we could think about better options..."


    It took Malk a moment to realize he was being asked for a bribe. And not a small amount, but an astronomical two hundred drachmas. Such an amount Malk couldn''t gather even if he sold himself into slavery to demons.


    "If I had that much, I would have offered it to you myself. Though if payment in installments is possible, then I..." he said cautiously.


    It immediately became clear that this wasn''t the answer his interlocutor wanted to hear.


    "Well, if that''s a no, so be it!" declared the Junior Magister with a bureaucratic smile. "Then pay twenty drachmas, and you can go. A contract for learning a yellow rank Arcane Art, taking basic educational courses, and studying three spells of your choice we''ll sign in a sennight, when the groups of students at the Society are formed."


    The mage fell silent, looking expectantly at Malk. The latter had no choice but to fulfill the voiced demands. Only when two stacks of coins, ten gold each, appeared on the desk in front of the office owner, did he grin again and speak.


    "Alright, congratulations on becoming an Adept!" He then handed Malk a Gifted''s iron token, pulled from Yorrokh knows where, and added: "Good luck on the paths of power, colleague!"


    * * *


    Malk made his way back as if in a dream. One moment he was still standing in front of the admissions committee door¡ªthough what kind of committee was it, with just one person?¡ªthen suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit him, and he was already home, sitting at the table, staring blankly at a glass of wine.


    The dream had come true; he had become a mage. The talentless boy who had firmly decided many years ago to develop the Gift of a mage had finally achieved his goal. The path pointed out to him by the fugitive Bachelor from a School that had fallen out of favor with the authorities had led exactly where it was promised.


    Adept Malk¡ªthat definitely sounded better than "dud" Malk! The results obtained were significantly worse than expected, but no one promised that his life would be easy. As long as you''re not broken and your will is strong, you can overcome any adversity and power through any barriers. The main thing is to set reasonable goals and carefully plan the paths to achieve them.


    Malk shook himself, downed the wine in one gulp, then pulled his work journal towards him and began to leaf through it thoughtfully. It was the quintessence of his thoughts about the future, plans, calculations, and unfinished ideas. Unfortunately, a significant part of these notes could already be thrown into the trash. His start was too low, and the window of opportunities too small. The thought was laughable now, but he seriously hoped to gain an affinity with some Element. Maybe not two like Helavia, but at least one! Alas, as they say, if you want to make the Saints laugh, tell them your plans. And the Nine were clearly having a good laugh at his expense.


    Shaking his head in frustration, Malk began tearing out the finely written pages from the notebook and mercilessly ripping them apart. Into the fire, into the fire with it!


    After a few minutes of this barbaric destruction of his own notes, Malk looked at the significantly thinned journal with grim satisfaction. Now, it contained only what might really come in handy soon. After all, being an Adept was just the beginning of an infinitely long path!


    Malk viewed things realistically and was not inclined to set the bar too high. His immediate goal was to reach the peak of the Adept rank. If his reserve were higher, if his energy absorption rate were better, and if his chances of obtaining a high-class Arcane Art were not so slim, he could dream of something more ambitious. But... when there''s no fancy paper, you write on napkins! With nine ergs of reserve and a paltry Gift, Malk had to think not of a fantastic career takeoff, but of slowly climbing upward...


    Suddenly, a pigeon landed on the outer windowsill and began tapping on the glass brazenly. The sound was rattling and unbearably annoying. Considering that Malk had recently seen the demonic dwarf here, his irritation was quite understandable. Tossing aside his fountain pen, he rushed to the window and flung it open. But while he was fumbling with the latch, the insolent bird managed to fly away, leaving droppings on the sill as a parting gift.


    "Tsk, pest! What a day, everything''s going wrong!" Malk exclaimed and slammed the window shut again.


    He returned to the table, picked up the pen, but didn''t start writing. He couldn''t focus. The appearance of the bird, often referred to as a city rat, seemed to turn some wheel in his head, and rational thoughts were immediately buried under a flood of the darkest Colhaun superstitions. Especially those about spirits inhabiting unclean animals, about invisible guests from demonic worlds, hungry for the life force of children, the elderly, and newly initiated mage students just starting to grasp the unknown, about evil ghosts and the possessed... A lot could be found in the memory of a resident of the most benighted province of Boreas. And what was most unsettling, not all of it was made up. Alas, in a world where regular breaches from the domains of demons were the norm, even the wildest imagination sometimes was no match for reality.


    On the other hand, Malk was now not in Colhaun but in one of the most protected cities in the country. He lived in a district where the tax for maintaining protective magical formations was included in the rent. And lastly, he rented an apartment in a house where the owners did not forget to renew the wards that weakened over time... Only the shelters had better protection!


    On a rational level, Malk understood perfectly well that the emotions suddenly overwhelming him were nothing more than the aftermath of the recently performed ritual. His Spirit, previously cut off from the world of magical energies, was suddenly freed from its shell and was now trying to adapt to the changes. And the unexpected emotions were echoes of the ongoing transformations. In a couple of days, everything would calm down, and Malk''s inner world would return to normal. He just had to endure.


    But... he didn''t want to endure! Even if such behavior would be considered a disgraceful weakness of a backward Colhaun hick in the eyes of Andalorian mages, Malk was ready to go to great lengths for his peace of mind. Even if it wasn''t scientific, even if it was superstition! No one could see that Yorrokh''s dwarf, yet the trouble he caused was through the roof...


    So, dropping everything and taking some of the remaining money, Malk headed to the market. And two hours later, he was already walking around the house, hammering nails the size of his pinky into every doorframe and window frame, muttering charms so ancient that he didn''t understand the meaning of most of the words. However, it wasn''t understanding that gave them power. Malk was infusing the village "magic" with real magical Authority. The power that came to the Gifted with years of practice and which he had managed to touch only thanks to the Forbidden Technique.


    And it was a rather strange experience. Before, when he tortured himself with Rain of Pain time and again, he always felt some kind of void. As though there was something he should have had, but it constantly eluded him. And now, after the initiation, the void was rapidly filling, acquiring features and properties like a new limb. Not an invisible hand or foot, but some new part of the body with much greater potential. Something that was, for instance, capable of giving words real power. Perhaps very weak, barely noticeable, but power nonetheless!


    And this alone convinced Malk that he wasn''t wasting his time.


    Finally, the enchanted nails appeared in all the right places, and it was time for the final part of the protective ritual. With all the possible reverence, Malk took out two bundles from his bag. One contained a small pouch of charged crystal sand, the other¡ªa bear''s fang covered with intricate carvings. These were the most expensive "ingredients" in the ancient rite. If the nails cost less than ten obols, the fang and sand cost two drachmas. And no matter how hard Malk tried, he couldn''t haggle the price down.


    Dignifiedly bowing to the four cardinal directions, Malk slowly lowered the bear''s fang into the pouch, then tightly tied the opening and placed it all together in the corner under the board with the likeness of Archont. Then he sighed and, with the utmost effort, recited a prayer to the First and Sixth Saints.


    The ritual was complete. It was time to curse himself for his superstitions and regret the spent gold...


    That he would have to explain his actions to his friends, Malk only thought about much later, when the students of the School of the Three Saints had returned home. Mentally, he prepared for a scandal and mockery¡ªboth Tolfan and Helavia were trying their best to fit into the new society, a the same time distancing themselves from their former lives¡ªbut... but, as it turned out, Colhaun was deeply ingrained in their souls too.


    Each of them, barely crossing the threshold and noticing the characteristic pouch in its proper place, immediately bowed their heads and whispered a brief greeting chant. As if none of them had left for the splendid Andalore, preferring to stay in their small hometown. Tolfan even declared with unusual seriousness:


    "Well, now it really feels like home! I couldn''t settle down before, something felt off."


    Helavia supported him with an energetic nod.


    Yorrokh only knows if the protection was worth it, but one thing was certain¡ªthanks to the old tradition, all three of them felt the bonds that tied them together.

 Chapter Six, where the hero shows a new side

    Every Gifted felt the aftereffects of the Force initiation in their own way. Some, like Tolfan, for the first few days after the ritual felt like they were bobbing on waves of energy. Periods of crazy activity alternated with apathy and drowsiness, and the sudden urge to rush somewhere, do something, or talk nonstop eventually gave way to downright laziness. Others, like Helavia, became extraordinarily passionate, contrary to their usual aloofness. So much so that it was exhausting for both Helavia herself and Malk...


    However, the side effects didn''t last long. Once the body got used to the excess energy, the behavior of the newly minted Gifted quickly returned to normal. And then began the period of developing abilities.


    Malk went down the same path, despite all the related anomalies. Right after the initiation, he experienced only a bit of emotional turmoil, but by the next day, things got worse, and he felt swollen like a balloon. The inner void that ordinary people don''t notice, which he had become familiar with through his practice of Rain of Pain, suddenly got filled with some dense substance. Almost uncontrollable, yet tangible and firmly stretching his body from within. Of course, this sensation was nothing but an illusion¡ªhis body''s reaction to the destruction of the barriers separating it from the world of thin energies¡ªbut a convincing one nonetheless. For two days, Malk didn''t even leave the house, ashamed of how he started moving. His limbs, which seemed to have swollen several times, barely obeyed him, forcing him to waddle from side to side. For a lanky guy like him, it looked especially ridiculous. And humiliating.


    Malk wouldn''t be himself if he didn''t find some benefit in such an awkward situation. Within twenty minutes or so, through the pressure building inside, he managed to sense the magical energy directly. He focused on exploring the related possibilities, drew on the skills he had developed with his Arcane Technique, recalled the feelings he had during the Colhaun protection ritual, and... by the end of the first hour, he managed to light a magical lamp on his own.


    Though there wasn''t much to brag about¡ªlearning to control simple household devices at the Schools took no more than two or three lessons. So, by the end of the first day, even the densest students could light up lamps, stoves, heaters, and simple amulets like Insect Defender or Dreamcatcher. The only thing that set Malk apart was how he learned the new skill. Where others needed a teacher''s help, his years of training with Rain of Pain allowed him to manage on his own.


    However, tinkering with the few magical devices he found in the house quickly bored Malk. The next thing he seriously considered was training with Druzal''s Mirror. Not only had he missed only a handful of training sessions over the years, feeling uncomfortable without regular practice, but he was also itching to know how much his Arcane Technique had changed. After all, it was one thing to have to literally pull energy from the Mirror for successful practice, and quite another when it filled your body on its own. Who knows, maybe the side effects would be less unpleasant too...


    Unfortunately, any serious training affecting a mage''s subtle body[1] was forbidden for the first few days after initiation. The physical body was already undergoing complex changes, so there was no point in pushing it over the edge... Unless, of course, one aimed to earn an irreversible injury or magical mutation, helping the medics of the glorious city of Andalore gather material for another scientific paper.


    So, despite his desires, Malk had to push thoughts of Rain of Pain to the back burner and focus on studying other, far less dangerous yet equally important things. One of them was the new identity card issued to him by the Society, replacing his Boreas citizen passport. Specifically, he was worried not about the card itself but about the information stored inside that plain metal tag.


    "Reveal!" Malk said¡ªYorrokh knows why¡ªactivating the dormant charms in the medallion.


    And in a moment, an illusory scroll of the identity card unfolded above the round tag in his palm. Neither the picture with his face, which turned out quite poorly, nor the general information interested Malk. He hurriedly searched for a specific piece of data and, with great regret, found it. The most prominent section, under civil status, was marred by the noxious stain of a lone black star¡ªthe mark of unreliability that was messing up his life back home and promised even more trouble here.


    He had hoped, really hoped, that the record of that cursed mark wouldn''t leave the gendarmerie archives and that he''d walk out of the Society with a clean slate. But alas, no miracle happened. And if he understood Boreas laws regarding the Gifted correctly, his already limited learning opportunities were likely to be significantly reduced. Strong spells, potentially dangerous knowledge, the most valuable books, and combat artifacts¡ªall of it was off-limits to him. At least officially.


    Unexpectedly, he recalled that the Andalore Society of Mages was also full of bans, restrictions, and rules, yet that didn''t stop the Junior Magister in charge of the initiation from offering a high-ranking Arcane Art for an additional fee. People were the same everywhere, and money was always money. If some mage wanted to make a bit of cash by taking advantage of their position, the only thing that could stop them was a lack of jingle in your pocket.


    And if Malk had enough drachmas, could he have convinced the mage not to put the black star in his passport? It was an interesting thought... After turning it over in his mind, Malk quickly dismissed it. Such decisions were beyond the Junior Magister''s purview. To change his civil status, he would have to go directly to the Citizen Registry or the gendarmerie, where even with a lot of money, but without the right connections, no one would even talk to him.


    So, no, Malk would have to bear the black star for a long time until he had a chance to earn forgiveness...


    Malk probably would have come up with many more things if his voluntary confinement had lasted even one extra day, but no unpleasant surprises occurred. The period of his body adjusting to the suddenly accessible magical energy ended, and Malk could finally tackle his piled-up tasks.


    The first place he headed to was the district magic bank. The very government structure responsible for enforcing the most hated law among mages. The law on the Gifted Tax.


    In general, the idea behind the law was quite sound. On the one hand, with demonic countries pressuring the state, Yorrokh''s Nights happening regularly, and breaches from demonic planes not uncommon, the constant replenishment of the state''s energy reserves was a strategic task. A matter of survival, if you will. On the other hand, the Gifted, just like ordinary people, needed constant pressure to improve. If they weren''t forced to work on expanding their magical potential daily, the number of active mages would inevitably drop to dangerous levels.


    The problem was that theory often diverged from practice. What looked good on paper could yield a completely different result in reality. This was the case with the Gifted Tax. Lack of access to decent sources, inability to learn a good Arcane Art, and exorbitant prices for potions and decoctions¡ªall of this turned the obligation to give the state eight ergs of energy every fourth sennight into an unbearable burden for many Gifted.


    When your aura had hardly any Force, you couldn''t do much magic, and without practice, there was no growth. For Bachelors with their reserves of forty or fifty ergs, giving away eight units of energy wasn''t hard, but for beginner Adepts with their standard ten or eleven ergs, or worse, for Gifted who didn''t even reach nine ergs, it threatened stagnation and reduced potential.


    That''s exactly what Helavia had been talking about when they argued over his desire to awaken the Gift. If his will were a bit weaker and his Authority less trained, he would have ended up among the weakling Gifted. Then Malk wouldn''t have been complaining about the poor conditions at the Society but would have been racking his brain over where to get the energy needed to pay the tax.


    Heck, he was already starting to feel the pressure of the debt on his mind, which is why he pushed all other matters aside and tackled this annoying issue first. In the morning, he went to the magic bank, stood in a small line, and then, under the supervision of a yawning clerk in a small booth, transferred the required number of ergs from his aura to a crystal storage device. Exactly one less than he had in reserve.


    The procedure was simple, quite similar to how Malk activated the lamp and water heater at home. The only difference was that he had to maintain contact with the receiving crystal longer and focus on the energy flows instead of the control circuit. At first, he made a small mistake and almost dumped his entire reserve at once, nearly damaging the receiving device, but the clerk''s shout snapped him back to his senses, and no accident occurred.


    The debt to the state was temporarily settled, his reserves were empty, and Malk felt like an ungifted philistine again. Only this time, he understood well what he had lost.


    A more knowledgeable mage would have immediately started replenishing his reserve with an Arcane Art, or better yet, gone to a Force source for faster energy absorption. However, both paths were closed to Malk. The only technique he knew couldn''t help with energy collection, and he simply didn''t have the money for access to a source. After all his expenses, he had only seventeen drachmas left, and with the current exchange rate, where ten absorbed ergs of energy cost one gold coin, such luxury was beyond his means.


    All Malk could rely on was natural energy replenishment. With a normal level of magical background, his body absorbed energy at a rate of three-tenths of an erg per hour. So, it would take a little over a day to fully saturate his reserve. The thing was, his newly awakened Spirit had not yet reached the peak of this parameter, so such timelines sounded quite optimistic... Well, Malk wasn''t in a hurry! There was still enough time before classes at the Society began, so he didn''t have to worry about the lack of Force reserves. And then a day, two, or even three, and his meager reserve would be full again!


    And while this process was ongoing, he could finally focus on what had haunted him since childhood and what he considered as important as gaining the Gift... Finding his family! Those very people who should have been his closest, supporting him in this harsh world and surrounding him with love, but who had actually just thrown him out of their lives like a stray dog.


    Even the resentment towards his mother, for whom he had always been nothing more than a reminder of her shattered ambitions, didn''t gnaw at him as much as the anger towards his father and his relatives. That''s why, in his early childhood, alongside dreams of saving the world¡ªwhere he, wealthy, noble, and powerful, crushed hordes of demons with disdain for death¡ªhe constantly fantasized about finding his father and... What would happen next, Malk honestly didn''t know. He didn''t believe in a happy family reunion, and the only thing that came to mind was approaching and looking him in the eyes. Nevertheless, the need to know his origins never disappeared and, over time, only grew stronger.


    Yorrokh take it, unwilling to give up on the dream of finding his father, he hadn''t even taken his stepfather''s surname!


    Logically, he should have started the search by questioning his mother, but unfortunately, she refused to talk about the past, hiding not only his father''s identity but also her own relatives. In another situation, talking to neighbors might have helped, but Malk wasn''t lucky there either. His mother had moved to Colhaun after the divorce, and no one knew anything about her previous life. So, the only thing that could aid Malk in his search were old newspaper archives, society columns from eighteen years ago, and Velvet Books of nobility.


    The only place in Colhaun where he could access all these things was the public Lokia library. However, due to the governor''s policy of constantly cutting funding for its collections, he couldn''t find the necessary information. Newspapers were stored for no more than five years due to lack of archive space, society chronicles were absent entirely, and the Velvet Books had been censored after the Uprising. It felt like the residents of Boreas''s most troubled province were deliberately being forced into a narrow "correct" view of modern history. However, Malk didn''t share these thoughts with anyone and had no intention of doing so. He didn''t give a damn about politics; all he wanted was to find his kin.


    Malk''s last hopes were pinned on the libraries of Andalore. After all, the cultural capital was the cultural capital. If he couldn''t find anything here, he''d have to forget about his dream. Beyond that, he''d need to dig into closed government archives, libraries of major Schools, and aristocratic family collections¡ªin other words, the places that were completely off-limits to him.


    Among the three public libraries of Andalore¡ªthe Library of Regents, the Repository of Books of the Countries of Mritlok, and the Great Andalore Reading Hall¡ªMalk chose the latter. On the one hand, he had already been to the reading hall when he was looking for the "Educational Institutions Bulletin" and had an idea of the place''s rules. On the other hand, it had the lowest subscription fee. Four obols a day were quite affordable even for his scant budget.


    The only downside of the Great Reading Hall was its distance from the house the Colhaunians rented. To get to the library, Malk first had to take a steam omnibus across half the city and then wander for another fifteen minutes among tenement houses¡ªthe area was actively being built up, and due to ongoing construction, he constantly had to find detours.


    But despite all the difficulties, Malk didn''t complain. Knowledge was worth enduring any hardships. Especially when it was truly essential knowledge...


    Malk couldn''t afford to leave leave a deposit, so, as before, he used the reading room services. Fortunately, the local librarians worked quickly, and visitors didn''t have to wait for hours while their requests were processed and books were brought from storage. Perhaps this was due to the active use of mechanical freight elevators and pneumatic mail, which the libraries in Colhaun could only dream of, or maybe it was the general atmosphere of the country''s most bookish city. In any case, what mattered to Malk was the result, and he was completely satisfied with it.


    Not even half an hour had passed before the first volume of the Velvet Book¡ªa massive tome that the frail librarian girl had to cart in on a special trolley¡ªwas lying on the table in front of Malk. And he began his search: not delving into details but trying to grasp the whole picture.


    Later, when he could narrow down the list of potential relatives to a reasonable size, he would dive into specifics and look for clues¡ªbut that would come later. For now, all he wanted from the Velvet Book was to compile a list of wealthy and influential clans or Houses with a confirmed Lineage. No more, no less. No Families or merchant dynasties with bought noble patents, no ruined but very noble names, only the highest aristocrats and the most blue-blooded nobles¡ªMalk fully understood the extent of his mother''s ambitions and knew who could have caught her interest...


    The only problem was that, when after several hours of intense research the list was ready, it turned out there were too many possible targets for a title hunter. Ninety names in total¡ªeighty-one old and nine new.


    Yorrokh, he had somehow thought there would be fewer! On top of that, the situation grew complicated even more with the division of the aristocracy into old and new. Those who had shone in Boreas since imperial times and those whose stars had risen only after the Uprising. Malk couldn''t figure out who his mother might have chosen or whom she considered the most "promising." Boreas''s recent history was so mixed up, with so many ups and downs, unexpected turns, and catastrophic twists of fate, that making a definite choice about the "right" side was impossible...


    At first, it was all simple and clear. There was the state of Boreas¡ªalbeit small, but an empire nonetheless. With the absolute dictate of imperial power, pursuing a consistent policy of intolerance towards demons, encouraging the development of magical abilities among its subjects while strictly controlling magic and its users. In general, a typical country of its era, with its pros and cons.


    Then suddenly, the empire of Boreas entered a dark period in its history. Several major accidents occurred in the Alchemist Guild¡ªwith significant human casualties¡ªfollowed by two years of poor harvests, all while the largest Force sources reduced their energy output. Moreover, as if to prove the loss of the emperor''s blessing from the Saints, a series of unexplained deaths among the royal family ensued, ending with the poisoning of the ruler of Boreas'' favorite niece.


    This became the beginning of the end. The enraged emperor unleashed the full might of the state''s punitive machine¡ªnaturally, not caring much about finding evidence of guilt¡ªon those Houses that could hypothetically benefit from the country''s troubles. The slightest suspicion was enough for imperial guards to show up at the entrance of family manors, their sword hilts drumming on the gates.


    The first blood was shed, and the underground dungeons filled with guests of noble lineage and high magical ranks. This didn''t bring the emperor any closer to solving the country''s problems, but it did alienate many influential noble families. Powerful aristocrats didn''t wait for their turn in the emperor''s purge and began to resist.


    Which, of course, only proved their guilt in the eyes of the ruler. In response, the emperor immediately called the loyal Schools, Houses, and Families to his banners and tried to crush the centers of resistance in one fell swoop... But, alas, he miscalculated. The enemy was much stronger than initially thought. The scattered skirmishes with limited use of battle magic quickly escalated into full-blown war, with neither side holding back. And the scale of the battles suggested that the rebellious Houses had been preparing for something like this for a long time, so they were far from as innocent as they tried to appear.


    The confrontation between monarchists and rebels was fiercer than anything except wars with demons and their lackeys. Casualties numbered in the tens, if not hundreds, of thousands. Many thought the bloodshed would last forever, until not a single human was left on Boreas soil...


    Though if someone had asked Malk, he would have said the situation for the empire wasn''t as dire as it seemed at first glance. Despite the chaos in the country, the emperor''s party''s position looked quite strong. And it was quite possible that the ruler of Boreas could eventually crush the rebels and bring peace back to the land.


    Alas, we propose, but the Saints dispose! A force known as fate, or cruel destiny, intervened in the conflict. Another Yorrokh''s Night not only thinned the boundary of reality and let a horde of hungry demons into Boreas; it also caused the formation of a spontaneous portal near Wargand. Moreover, a portal that led not to some demonic planes, but... to Heimdarch!


    And the arch-enemy didn''t miss their chance. Before the Boreas Archmages could close the tear in reality, the rulers of Heimdarch sent through it almost a thousand Demonic Warriors and Flesh Hunters, led by two Inferno Lords. For such a blow, the capital''s defenders were not prepared.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    The details of that battle were unknown to Malk¡ªhis mentor barely touched on the history of the Uprising in his stories, while Malk himself was interested in entirely different things¡ªbut everyone in Boreas who was even slightly literate knew how it ended. As a result of the emperor and his guards battling against the Heimdarch invaders, the entire palace quarter was destroyed, all members of the royal family were killed, and the ruler himself was mortally wounded, dying a sennight later without regaining consciousness. Whether any of the Heimdarch assassins survived was unknown.


    However, at that point, no one cared about them anymore. The suddenly vacated throne literally disarmed the monarchist party. Unable to find a leader worthy of becoming the new emperor, they could no longer maintain unity, and the pro-government coalition fell apart. The scales tipped in favor of the rebels, and soon, the provinces of Boreas began swearing allegiance to their leaders one by one.


    Rising to power was a Triumvirate of the country''s strongest Houses¡ªCheringar, Lupergot, and Kravgam¡ªthe very ones whose conflict with the emperor had sparked the civil war.


    Of course, not everyone immediately accepted the new order, and conflicts continued for a while, but not for long. Teams of hired killers started their hunt on those who were too stubborn in their discontent, and only the strongest survived it... or the smartest, those who managed to change their public stance in time. In modern Boreas, discussions on this topic were not welcomed, but even years later, there were rumors about the Avalonian haori, Styxsonian ashaleks, and the price the Regents had to pay to hire the best assassins in Mritlok.


    However, Boreas was now a republic and diligently distanced itself from its dark imperial past. Privileges for mages were significantly reduced, and their rights¡ªat least on paper¡ªwere no longer so noticeably different from those of the ungifted. Power could no longer be usurped by a single person and was shared among three Regents. In domestic policy, they aimed to develop freedoms, and in foreign policy, they proclaimed adherence to diplomatic principles and readiness for compromises. The latter was especially evident in the newfound friendship with the Avalon Islands and the flirting with loyalists. In the past, those caught doing such things wouldn''t even make it to court¡ªtheir own comrades or relatives would deal with the "demon-lovers"¡ªbut now times had changed...


    Then again, could it have been otherwise? From just the first volume of the Velvet Book alone, Malk found dozens of Houses that had fallen to the level of Families, and dozens of Families crossed out due to losing their Lineage or being wiped out completely.


    Quite the war they fought, huh. All to the great satisfaction of Arktavia, to the delight of the champions of freedom and justice from the Avalon Islands...


    All that was matters of bygone days and had nothing to do with Malk. He hated politics and planned to stay as far away from it as possible. If not for his search for relatives, he wouldn''t have touched any materials on that war with a two-fathom pole.


    Sooner or later, even the most unpleasant task comes to an end. Malk now had the list he needed. And even though it turned out to be a bit large and almost a third of it consisted of names considered lost¡ªMalk decided not to dismiss the possibility that not all surviving aristocratic Houses might be eager to cooperate with the current regime¡ªit was still something he could work with. The search scope had narrowed, there was some specificity, and it became clear what to focus on when sifting through newspaper archives and society columns.


    The precious obols were well spent; the trip to the reading hall was a complete success...


    Evening was setting in. Leaving the library and reaching the stop, Malk soon found out that the omnibus he needed had already left. The wait for the next one was too long, the cab price was steep, so Malk decided to walk home. He consoled himself with the thought that there was no rush and he needed to get to know the city better...


    And within a dozen or so minutes, he realized how right his decision was. The fuss around his arrest and subsequent release, the worries about initiation problems, the job search, and the library visits had kept Malk so busy that he simply hadn''t had time to get acquainted with Andalore. And it wasn''t just about the city''s geography¡ªthough learning it was useful¡ªhe got his first chance to look at the cultural capital through the eyes of a visitor and see why it was once called the pearl of Boreas. Like a true idle onlooker, he strolled through the bustling streets of the merchant quarter, admiring the rich variety of shops and stores, marveled at the fountain ensemble at the entrance to the official residence of House Lupergot, crossed a couple of bustling avenues, crowded with honking steam carriages, hurried cabs and stagecoaches, and reckless rickshaws ignoring the rules.


    To his surprise, he even wandered to one of the city''s flakturms[2]¡ªwhy the shelters built to protect citizens during Yorrokh''s Nights were given such a name, no one but the members of the Guild of Dreamers knew, and they preferred to keep silent as usual. He spent some time gawking at its grim towers, admired the thickness of the walls, was horrified by the caliber of the guns mounted on retractable platforms, and... was almost shamefully chased away by a patrol of two mechanized warriors and a Bachelor officer. Idle curiosity wasn''t welcome there.


    Finally, when it had already gotten completely dark and the streetlights lit up, Malk reached his district. He just needed to cross the former Imperial Square, now Uprising Square, go through a few courtyards, and he''d be on the Holy Protectors Street he needed. Just a couple dozen minutes if he walked quickly. However, a "surprise" dashed his hopes of getting home soon¡ªthe square was occupied by two groups of street politics enthusiasts, and there was no way around them.


    It must be said, Malk took quite some time to figure out what was happening, who was after what, and who was against whom. People crowded at opposite ends of the square, shouting, waving banners, and occasionally applauding something. If some individuals from both sides hadn''t been threatening their opponents with fists now and then, he might have thought it was a gathering of friends and like-minded people. But then he looked more closely at the signs, listened to the slogans, and gradually started to understand what he was witnessing.


    On Uprising Square, quite ironically, had gathered both monarchists¡ªsupporters of a return to the old imperial ways¡ªand loyalists, who, conversely, demanded the continuation of the Triumvirate''s reforms. Moreover, the demonstrations were organized by rather moderate members of each movement. The monarchists weren''t demanding an immediate change of regime, advocating for the return of at least a nominal imperial title, while the loyalists... the loyalists didn''t seem to know what they wanted. Their usual calls to the Regents for friendship with the Avalon Islands and neighboring Arktavia were mixed with demands to end the terror¡ªdespite the fact it was their political movement that started it¡ªlift restrictions on the use of demonic magic, and stop aggressive foreign policy. The latter was even more strange, as the only country the new Boreas occasionally fought with was Heimdarch. And that was precisely the case where peaceful coexistence was simply impossible...


    Right after Malk arrived, a third party appeared on the square. From an inconspicuous alley, several companies of gendarmes suddenly emerged, clad in light enchanted armor and armed with shields and batons. They surrounded each group of demonstrators in a semicircle and began pushing them onto the streets adjacent to Uprising Square. It was all done quietly and peacefully, without the use of magic or mechanized warriors. Malk even admired what was happening, as his position allowed him to remain an idle observer.


    In the grand scheme of things, he didn''t give a damn about them... the monarchists, the loyalists... all of them! Malk, after the train incident¡ªand as a Colhaunian in general¡ªdidn''t like the loyalists, but that was it. He was apolitical and intended to stay that way!


    With that mindset, Malk left the square, diving into the nearest courtyard... Only to suddenly get himself into yet another mess.


    "Hey, countryman! Wait up, I need to ask you something!" he heard a hoarse voice from behind just after he passed through the dark archway of a tenement building and found himself in one of Andalore''s typical courtyards.


    He then heard hurried footsteps, and two guys caught up with him. One wore a crumpled black cap, a worn light brown jacket, a dirty white shirt, and gray pants. The other sported an old gray top hat, a single-breasted black frock coat, and black pants tucked into mismatched half-boots of an indeterminate color. The first one had his hands in his pockets, while the second was energetically swinging his arms as if helping himself move faster.


    Who they were and what they wanted, Malk figured out right away. He had witnessed too many similar scenes on the streets of Lokia to consider this a coincidence. After glancing around and making sure the pair had no accomplices, he stopped and calmly asked:


    "Alright... countryman! Ask away."


    Back in Colhaun, there had been a couple of times when a confident tone and a calm demeanor had sobered up similar enthusiasts of evening "conversations." So, there was still some hope of avoiding a conflict...


    Unfortunately, Malk''s pursuers thought differently.


    "Oh, I will!" the guy in the cap guffawed, stopping about three steps from Malk and pulling his hands out of his pockets. And, notably, one of them had a lead knuckle duster on.


    His buddy stood a little to the side, not in a hurry to pull out a weapon, preferring to squint menacingly at Malk while lazily stroking his right pocket. Judging by how it bulged, there was definitely something in there. And it probably wasn''t a watch.


    "You sure love a good show, don''t ya, countryman?" the guy with the knuckle duster continued with a mocking grin. "Love ''em, but don''t pay for tickets. Not good! You could get into big trouble like that..."


    This local thug seemed proud of his clever wordplay, but Malk didn''t appreciate it. Robbery was still robbery, no matter how you dressed it up. And every kid from Lokia''s poor neighborhoods knew how to handle situations like this.


    "It really isn''t good!" Malk agreed... then immediately turned around and bolted. As fast as his physical condition and the poorly lit road allowed.


    The robbers didn''t even have time to react before their nimble prey had sprinted about ten fathoms and disappeared into the darkness of the alleyway. If they really intended to get their "payment" from Malk, they needed to hurry.


    However, Malk didn''t have much hope of escaping. After all, he wasn''t a local, which meant there was a good chance he''d get lost in the maze of courtyards and end up in a dead end, only to meet his end at the hands of the angry thugs. No, he was betting on something else¡ªthe pursuers'' thrill of the chase and his own ability to keep a clear head in the toughest situations. That''s how Malk had survived the terrorist attack on the train, and that''s how he planned to survive now. So, as soon as he dashed out of the alley, he didn''t run further into the next courtyard but instead turned left and pressed against the wall. And, as if by magic, his trophy blade appeared in his hand.


    He really didn''t want to kill¡ªhe wasn''t some hardened cutthroat from border guard or bounty hunter, for whom slitting an enemy''s throat was no different from sneezing¡ªbut he also wasn''t going to stand there like a calf at a slaughterhouse, meekly taking blows from a knuckle duster. Yorrokh take it, it wasn''t his fault if the local punks, when choosing between leaving him alone and attacking, would pick the latter. Everyone was responsible for their actions and paid their own price. He definitely wouldn''t lose sleep over someone else''s choices!


    Instead of a response to his thoughts, Malk heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The street wolves weren''t about to let their prey slip away.


    "H-hah!" Malk exhaled, blocking the path of his pursuers and slicing the air in front of him with his dagger in a crisscross.


    Oddly enough, the first strike was the most successful. The blade cut across the forearm of the guy with the knuckle duster¡ªwho was running first¡ªand would have hit him again, but the thug reacted in time and dodged. However, Malk''s planned series of strikes didn''t end there, and he kept going. A swing, another... Unfortunately, the initial shock from the unexpected attack had passed, and the knuckle duster fan didn''t allow the blade to wound him again. He constantly moved, dodged, and blocked Malk''s most dangerous attacks with his left forearm covered by his jacket¡ªit seemed the thug had expected something like this and prepared in advance. And the bleeding wound didn''t bother him at all. What''s more, he not only defended himself but also constantly sought to counterattack!


    The scum was actually pretty well-prepared, had long, strong arms, and knew how to use his fists. As soon as Malk made a single mistake, he took advantage of it and landed a straight punch to the torso. If Malk''s reaction had been even a bit slower, the knuckle duster would have slammed into the middle of his chest, but as it was, only his right shoulder took the hit. It seemed like nothing, just one punch, but it was enough for Malk''s fingers to loosen from the pain and drop the dagger.


    "Son of a flur!" Malk gasped¡ªor maybe just mentally cursed¡ªbreaking out in a cold sweat.


    What had seemed like a clear and straightforward situation¡ªwhere he''d easily fend off the pursuers with his weapon and skills¡ª suddenly changed dramatically. While Malk turned out not to be as good with the blade as he thought, the thug didn''t carry the knuckle duster just for show.


    His instincts screamed to break the distance and run, but Malk managed to keep his emotions in check and his mind clear. Instead of the seemingly reasonable retreat, he took a swift step toward the enemy, ducked under another attack, dropped lower... and, grabbing the thug by the knees, straightened up in one smooth motion, flipping him onto his back.


    Being a brawler, the enemy paid too little attention to his legs, and it cost him. And considering he fell badly¡ªfailing to brace himself and landing not on soft ground but on brick debris¡ªthe fight was over for him.


    Too bad it was still too early to celebrate the victory. The second thug hadn''t joined the fight yet, and Malk suspected he might have some surprises up his sleeve. So, if he wanted to get out of this courtyard alive and well, he needed to rearm himself before jumping into another fight.


    And that''s where Malk got lucky. He didn''t have to search long for the dagger he had dropped¡ªit lay in plain sight, a couple of steps away from the moaning knuckle duster fan¡ªand within moments, its comfortable handle was once again in Malk''s grip.


    "Die, Yorrokh take your liver!" suddenly came a yell from the depths of the archway.


    And following the cry, a bright crimson spark of magical discharge flew out from the thickets cluster of shadows. If it had been even a regular lightning bolt, let alone something more serious, Malk''s story would have ended there: he was only an Adept in name and couldn''t handle magical duels. But the spell shot at him by the enemy, while dangerous, was quite slow and lacked the devastating power of real combat magic. A first-rank Spark, in its most primitive form, described even in manuals for the ungifted! If it did hit Malk, he wouldn''t escape unharmed, but it still had to hit first...


    Malk stepped aside, letting the magical projectile fly past, and... without thinking, on pure reflex, caught the second Spark on his blade. The enemy had launched two spells at once, hoping to get him, if not with the power of magic, then at least through its clever use.


    His wrist jerked painfully, but Malk managed to hold onto the dagger''s handle¡ªthe blade itself helped him, disrupting the spell and absorbing some of the impact''s energy. It was for this very property that Malk had taken the blade as a trophy from the terrorist''s body. And clearly, he hadn''t made a mistake. On the train, the loyalist-radical had pierced a one-star shield with this dagger, and now Malk had deflected a Spark¡ªthe "toy" he had gotten was clearly something special. Probably not super expensive or rare, but definitely not accessible to ordinary Adepts.


    Having survived the first magical attack, Malk didn''t wait for a second and immediately rushed back into the archway. He intended to either finish off the spell-casting bastard¡ªnine sores on his arse!¡ªor at least beat the desire to attack lone passersby out of him. But the enemy wisely assessed his own abilities, and as soon as it became clear he had missed, he bolted. He didn''t care about his dignity or the fate of his friend moaning among the brick debris.


    Coward, plague on his kin! And there Malk had seriously hoped to snag some magical gear from him. Especially that amulet he used to cast the Sparks so deftly. At least, Malk thought it was an amulet. Otherwise, why would an Adept so good with combat spells suddenly decide to run?


    Cursing again, Malk spat in the direction of the fleeing thug and turned back to the first robber. As it turned out, the guy had already sat up, taken off his jacket from his left forearm, and was now moaning, feeling the back of his head with both hands. Malk''s hands itched to knock him out again, but the thug realized the threat and shook his head in protest. To make himself more convincing, he pulled out some coins wrapped in a handkerchief from his jacket''s inner pocket and tossed them at Malk''s feet.


    "You said you had something to ask," Malk chuckled, picking up and unwrapping the bundle. The cloth flew aside, and in his hand were three half-drachma coins. And by his standards, that was pretty good money. "You should have started like this, and we''d have been best friends! I''m telling you!"


    Smirking again, he pocketed the silver and, with a mocking bow, hurried away. Conflict resolved, no losses, and even a bit of profit. Not bad at all! As for having to take roundabout routes home and keep a closer eye on his surroundings in the future¡ªwell, that was a minor issue. After all, no one ever promised his life would be easy, right?


    [1] Translator''s note: in case you are unfamiliar with it, "subtle body" or "subtle bodies" roughly refers to one''s aura or something like that. You can check more detailed/accurate explanations, like in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subtle_body</a>, but just reading it as "aura" should be sufficient in the scope of this story. The point is, don''t confuse it with the author calling the main character scrawny.


    [2] Author''s note: flakturms were German anti-aircraft towers that also served as bunkers for garrison shelter. They were actively used during the Second World War to defend major German cities. In some places, they still exist as architectural landmarks. Translator''s note: the official illustration shows a flakturm that looks like a single tower, but here Malk was "gawking at its grim towers," so it was probably meant to be different. On the internet, you can find other versions, like square ones, that have a sort of round tower on each corner. The Guild of Dreamers mentioned before apparently means an organization of mages exploring other worlds via dreams and recording the knowledge brought from there. Hence, the usage of a totally alien word.

 Chapter Seven, where the hero starts learning

    For Malk, the first day of classes at the Andalorian Society of Mages started with a mad dash around offices and filling out a good dozen forms. At the last moment, it turned out that passing the admission committee and having a recommendation letter wasn''t enough to enroll in the Society''s courses. The local bureaucrats craved filled-out questionnaires, a paper copy of his passport, and several permits for access to restricted sections of the library. At first, Malk thought it was the black star in his personal file messing up his life again, but no, while wandering the Society''s corridors, he met a few other poor souls who were being tormented just the same.


    He also seriously feared they''d charge him ten or twenty drachmas for tuition, but he got lucky. Madam Leara''s letter was a magical cure for the bureaucrats'' corrupt desire to make money off Malk. The only thing he had to pay was a ten obol archival fee for registering his personal file in the document storage, but that was such a trifle it wasn''t worth worrying about.


    By lunchtime, Adept Malk officially became a student of the Andalorian Society of Mages, and in the afternoon, he had his first introductory lecture...


    Despite the paperwork hassle, he was one of the first to arrive. He took a seat in the back row of the lecture hall, allowing him to calmly study those he''d be grinding through magical studies with soon.


    And it had to be admitted, what he saw was pretty disappointing. Though he hadn''t expected to find friends or comrades among his classmates, he subconsciously hoped the course students would least fit the definition of being like-minded. After all, studying at the Society instead of a School wasn''t a choice you''d make if things were going smoothly. A lack of money, talent, influence, or just plain luck¡ªit didn''t matter why someone had fallen, only the result. In that sense, they were all equal, so there shouldn''t have been any place for arrogance or disdain... Heck, even the competition for resources, inevitable among inner and outer disciples of high-ranking Schools, was pointless here! At the very least, because the Society had no resources to allocate to special students.


    Yet despite such obvious reasoning, the first student to enter the hall¡ªa guy with a monumental square jaw and this year''s trendy mosaic pattern on his left arm¡ªshot Malk a look so full of disdain that if it were poison, it could have contaminated a couple of blocks in Andalore. Then, he sat in the front row and acted like he was the only person in the room. Malk could only wonder about the reasons for such a bizarre reaction from his fellow Adept.


    And it got worse. Right after that arrogant jerk, three buzz-cut guys in infantry uniforms barged in. Judging by their chatter, mostly curses, they clearly weren''t cut out for studying. However, the four young men who showed up a minute later in gendarme uniforms weren''t much different from the "grunts" in that regard...


    Before the lecture began, six more people took their seats in the hall¡ªtwo girls and four guys. Judging by their clothes and manners, the girls were probably poor nobles, while the guys didn''t look like people of noble birth or servicemen. One was clearly a tradesman, two were poor craftsmen, and one was definitely a peasant whose father had managed to scrape together some money and send him to study. The newcomers didn''t talk to each other and deliberately sat as far away from the others as possible.


    The perfect company to storm the heights of magic, huh... So it was all the more surprising when one of the guys, the same whom Malk had pegged as a peasant, suddenly got up and moved to the desk next to him.


    "Serge," he said, introducing himself to a slightly taken-aback Malk. After waiting for the latter to introduce himself in return, he added with rural straightforwardness, "I''m not trying to impose, but is it okay if I sit next to you? I don''t like dealing with city folks, and you don''t seem like one of the Andalorians..."


    Malk just shrugged indifferently, mentally telling his new neighbor to go visit Yorrokh. "Don''t seem like an Andalorian," huh! As if Malk came here to rid himself of being a Colhaunian, not to become a mage.


    Still, Serge''s words unexpectedly hit a sore spot. And even the appearance of a cute girl in a floor-length green dress walking to the lectern didn''t lift his mood.


    Malk didn''t have time to sulk for long: the lecture finally began, and he didn''t want to miss anything important. After all, he wasn''t a student at some university for the ungifted, who could afford to enjoy life and ignore boring classes, nor was he a lucky bastard born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Having passed the initiation, he entered a race against time for the elusive chance to become something more than a worthless Adept. And he wasn''t going to lose!


    Meanwhile, the girl-lecturer finished arranging papers on her lectern, scanned the room with a stern look, and addressed the audience:


    "Alright, I''m glad to welcome you to the introductory course at the Andalorian Society of Mages. My name is Lamara Gorzhan, I''m an Apprentice, and I''ve been tasked with telling you what we''ll be doing this academic year... Or less, if you finish the program early."


    The fact that a mage of Apprentice rank was sent to deliver the lecture didn''t surprise Malk. It would have been strange if they''d assigned a Bachelor or a whole Junior Magister for such a task. But some didn''t like it. The arrogant lover of skin patterns snorted loudly, and the guy Malk took for a tradesman grumbled something angrily... But that was the extent of their indignation. An Apprentice she might be, but no one was stupid enough to mess with a mage backed by an influential organization.


    "And we''ll start with the basics: what you all signed up for. The Arcane Arts you''ll be studying in your ability development classes," Lamara continued. "At the end of the lecture, each of you will get a brochure describing the Art offered to you, so I won''t go into detail. You''ll figure it out on your own. My job now is to tell you what to expect in the near future and what mistakes to avoid..."


    Even though Malk knew he shouldn''t expect any revelations¡ªbooks about the challenges of developing a Gift at the Adept stage were easy to find even in Colhaun libraries for the ungifted¡ªhe still squirmed in his seat with anticipation. Because reading about something in a textbook was one thing, but hearing it straight from a practitioner was a whole different deal.


    "So, the abilities of any mage consist of the following characteristics: reserve volume and recovery speed, affinity with magic, their Authority, and the development of their Spirit," the Apprentice began. "Each of these parameters is important, and they all determine how powerful a mage you''ll become. Reserve volume directly affects how many spells you can cast, recovery speed determines how quickly you can replenish spent energy, and affinity defines your closeness to a particular type of magic... But you should already know all that. There are no uninitiated here."


    "And how is affinity different from Lineage?" Malk''s neighbor suddenly spoke up, making him flinch.


    "Good question," Lamara smiled, as if shouting questions from the floor was perfectly normal in her classes. "And quite relevant. Affinity determines how easily you will be learning a particular Element and how serious the damage your own Gift will be causing you in practice. The higher the affinity, the fewer resources your training will require, and the easier your path in magic will be." The girl frowned for a moment, showing that the problem of low affinity hadn''t spared her. "Lineage, on the other hand... it''s what makes you stand head and shoulders above other mages. The ability to cast more complex and destructive spells, closeness to the Elements, maybe even innate talents... A good Lineage... it represents everything a mage could dream of!.. And something only a select few can attain..."


    Lamara''s last words were noticeably quieter, but still loud enough for all the students to hear. While the others weren''t exactly moved by her reverence for those with Lineage, Malk nearly spat in irritation. Belief in willpower, the ability to overcome any adversity and even break free from his cruel fate¡ªthat was the cornerstone of his worldview. Otherwise, he wouldn''t have been able to throw off the yoke of being a "dud" and take the first step toward his dream. And now he had to listen to someone revering those lucky enough to be born with the right blood. Pah!


    "And how do you get this Lineage?" Serge kept pestering the girl with questions, seemingly oblivious to how dumb he sounded.


    "Very simple... Be born into an influential House!" Lamara replied a bit sharply, paused, and when it became clear there would be no more questions from the floor, continued in a different tone, "So, besides the first three characteristics, Authority and Spirit are extremely important for a mage. Many Adepts forget about them, and they''re often glossed over in literature for the ungifted, but that''s wrong. Because it''s Authority that determines how powerful your spell will be. And it''s Spirit that brings together all the other characteristics of a mage."


    The girl paused, as if lost in thought. And this time, it was Malk who couldn''t hold back his question.


    "Could you elaborate? It''s a bit unclear."


    "Sure." Lamara shrugged indifferently. "The importance of Authority is best seen with the simplest spell, Spark. A Spark cast by an Adept who just broke through the Howard''s Boundary won''t leave a bruise on the skin of someone hit. A Spark from an Archmage who''s lived for centuries will pierce the armor of a mechanized warrior. Moreover, it''ll require much less energy and effort to create... As for Spirit... it''s the collection of those subtle bodies that tie together a mage''s personality, individual magical reserve, affinity with certain Elements, and determines the extent of their Authority. In some Schools, they believe Spirit is the mage themselves. Otherwise, how would some senior mages manage to travel through elemental planes, transfer into other beings, and resurrect after completely losing their physical bodies?" The girl suddenly laughed. "My mentor even says Spirit is the hanger on which the ''suit'' of the real body hangs... But I don''t insist on that interpretation."[1]


    "Then Arcane Art..." Malk started, but Lamara immediately cut him off.


    "Yes, Arcane Art specifically develops a mage''s Spirit, which in turn affects the changes in the characteristics we need. In theory, you could try to train your abilities without touching the Spirit, but that inevitably leads to all sorts of complications. What kind exactly... I think some of you here know firsthand."


    Although Madam Gorzhan wasn''t looking at Malk, he took her words as a jab at him. As for the reason behind Serge''s sudden blushing, it took him a while to grasp... Another fan of forbidden practices, huh?


    "Alright, we''ve gotten a bit off track. Let''s get back to Arcane Arts, specifically their ranks," the lecturer continued. "As many of you already know, magic uses a vertical gradation measured by the number of stars and a horizontal one determined by color. For Arcane Arts, each star indicates a rank, reaching the peak of which is possible with its help. So, if one star allows you to reach the peak of Adept, seven stars suggest the potential to reach the peak of Archmage."


    "And to step beyond?" the arrogant skin pattern lover suddenly spoke up.


    "To step beyond, you''d need an eighth-rank Arcane Art, but where to find one, no one will tell you," Madam Gorzhan snapped. "Stop dreaming of the impossible and focus on more realistic goals. Like reaching the peak of your abilities as an Adept!" After venting her irritation, the Apprentice snorted in a very feminine manner and continued more calmly, "As for the color gradation, it ranges from red to violet and describes the depth of transformation of Spirit and the spectrum of abilities developed. If the red one-star Arcane Art, the Saint''s Shield, which you can easily buy in any bookstore for a couple of drachmas, won''t give you anything but a tiny boost in affinity with Earth and the ability to not faint at the sight of a lesser demon, then the legendary violet Art of House Cheringar, the Mark of Fire, will not only unlock your abilities in Fire magic and prepare you for the next rank, but also help awaken innate magic..."


    Malk imagined for a moment that instead of a "dud" lineage, he had... Yorrokh take it, a lineage from any aristocratic House! He wouldn''t be sitting here listening to a lecture about renowned Arts; he''d be choosing among the strongest ones to find the best fit for himself... Damn!


    "Imagining what it''s like to be an heir of some great clan, huh?" Serge suddenly addressed Malk, having caught his gaze by accident. "Same here. Oh, if I were the pampered son of some powerful family... I''d even settle for being a bastard! ...instead of all this..." His neighbor sighed heavily and started studying his own calloused hands.


    Malk suddenly felt a reluctant sympathy for him. "All of this" really did grind his gears sometimes!


    Meanwhile, Lamara continued her lecture and, while they were daydreaming, she''d already explained the nine circles spells were divided into and gave a brief overview of the seven types of magic sources. She didn''t say anything new: Malk could even name a couple of widely available textbooks that covered the topic more interestingly and in detail. But when the overview ended and the lecturer moved on to the development of the Gift, Malk turned all ears.


    And he wasn''t the only one.


    "So, Adepts, remember the three main rules, the strict adherence to which determines your success in reaching the peak of your rank. They are the first-year rule, the three-spell rule, and what all the books call Rzavian''s Standard," Lamara said in a serious tone. She let them ponder her words and continued, "The first-year rule means that right after initiation, you have about a year, at best a year and a half, to double your reserve... With the right training, of course... After that, to double it again, you''ll need about ten years. And that''s in the best case... Then the growth rate will drop to one or two ergs a year, and eventually, it''ll fall to laughable fractions of an erg... So, ladies and gentlemen, don''t miss your chance! It''s given to a mage only once in a lifetime!"


    "Reserve''s not the main thing..." grumbled someone from the "gendarmes," who had even stopped chatting by the end of the lecture and started listening to the lecturer intently.


    "True. But if your reserve doesn''t reach twenty to twenty-five ergs, don''t even dream of advancing to the Apprentice rank," Lamara said a bit condescendingly, clearly emphasizing that she had already reached that necessary goal. "Just like if you forget the rule of three spells! What''s the point of it? The thing is, mastering any spell takes a lot of time. The time that could be spent developing your Spirit. And if you spread yourself too thin on the practical side of magic, a year will pass, and you''ll still remain an Adept."


    "But why exactly three spells?" Malk couldn''t resist asking another question.


    Lamara sighed and tucked a loose strand of hair back.


    "As experience has shown, that''s the number of magical constructs you need to study to develop your Authority to at least the middle of the red level. More if you''re talented or lucky, but less is a no-go, even if your Authority''s at Archmage level. Because, aside from developing Authority,  it''s learning spells that causes in your Spirit the changes necessary to maintain its integrity when crossing the rank boundary. Hear me, not Arcane Art, but working with spells!" Madam Gorzhan smirked in a rather manly way. "There were some smartasses who tried focusing solely on Arcane Art, and they ended up stuck as Adepts forever!"


    An awkward silence hung in the room; even the "grunts" who were whispering from time to time fell silent. No one wanted to be an Adept for life...


    "And the last one¡ªRzavian''s Standard. It was established a long time ago, according to legend, by the legendary Holy Demonslayer himself, and it literally means this: only a mage who can fully restore their reserve in a day can move to the next rank," Lamara announced. "And that''s the third rule you must remember as beginner mages..."


    The two-hour class continued in that vein. And although Malk heard a lot of interesting and useful things, he remained largely dissatisfied. The information was dumped on them haphazardly, Lamara often jumped from topic to topic, and the atmosphere in the auditorium wasn''t very conducive to learning. Overall, for someone who originally intended to enroll in a real School and had the expectations to match, the course''s start was too much of a letdown. And no amount of initial leniency toward the lecturer''s rank could change that!


    Stolen story; please report.


    Still, he didn''t complain. And when at the end of the lecture the students were given a schedule of free classes¡ªthere were plenty of paid ones too¡ªand were asked to mark the ones they wanted to attend, he pushed his dissatisfaction to the darkest corners of his memory.


    "Looks like they didn''t give you much choice of spells, huh?" Serge asked with rustic straightforwardness, nodding at the single sheet of paper listing the spells available for Malk to study.


    Unlike Malk, he had four such sheets.


    "I''ll manage," Malk shrugged. With his strong focus on Pneuma, limited means, and poor talent, the selection couldn''t have been large in the first place.


    The answer sounded almost rude, but Serge didn''t seem to notice. Instead, he immediately started grilling Malk about which spells he planned to study, and again couldn''t get an answer. The thing was, it wasn''t that Malk didn''t want to talk; he genuinely didn''t know what to choose. No matter how limited the selection of spells offered to him was, several paths for further development opened up. Some of them were even described in his secret notebook. So, Malk planned to make his final decision only after some thought¡ªluckily, the Society''s rules allowed for that.


    Besides the introductory lecture, Malk''s schedule¡ªeach student had their own¡ªhad another class that day. And it was arguably the most important one in the entire course. The newly-minted Adepts were about to study the Arcane Art designated for them. And just the thought of it made Malk tremble inside. And how could it not, considering that it was the development of the Spirit that made a mage a mage, and therefore, familiarizing himself with the much-needed Art would complete Malk''s transformation from a "dud" into a real sorcerer!


    Unlike the introductory lecture, the class on abilities development was held not in a traditional classroom but in a hall resembling a winter garden. It had columns, high ceilings, mosaic floors, and pots of plants scattered about. What''s more, there was even a small fountain in the center of the room!


    In the hall, the students¡ªbesides Malk himself, Serge and the trio of "grunts" also showed up for the class¡ªwere already awaited by a thin man of indeterminate age in an old-fashioned suit with goggles perched on his forehead. At least, Malk assumed that the intricate system of lenses and gears was a pair of goggles and not something else.


    The teacher dryly introduced himself as Mr. Lok, and then, not wasting any time, guided the students to their designated spots. The "grunts" were placed on benches near the fountain, Serge got a seat near a flower bed opposite the entrance, while Malk had to go to the far corner of the hall and settle right on the floor. He was about to protest this injustice, but then Mr. Lok''s assistant placed a low table with Druzal''s Mirror in front of him, and the urge to make a scene vanished. Malk''s attention was now focused on the artifact¡ªit was a much newer and more advanced model than his own. And he was bursting with the desire to get a good workout with it.


    "Don''t touch anything until I tell you!" Mr. Lok barked at Malk and tossed onto his lap a wooden box, a white emblem on its lid, that appeared out of nowhere. "Sit and study. In an hour, I''ll come and check what you''ve learned. Got it?"


    Taken aback by such forcefulness, Malk nodded silently and, not waiting for the teacher to leave, grabbed the box. He gave it a light shake¡ªsomething was definitely inside¡ªthen slowly ran his finger over the ridged surface of the emblem. He already knew from books what it was. Without even trying to open the lid, he immediately pulled out his medallion, placed it on the white imprint, and fed it a drop of energy. The iron disc responded with a faint tremor, something inside the box buzzed and hummed, and then there was a distinct click. The box was open. And a moment later, Malk held in his hands the thin booklet stored inside, titled "Crystal Heart."


    Well, at least the name of his Arcane Art sounded decent. In his dreams¡ªwhich he shared with no one, not even Helavia¡ªwhere he crushed demons and conquered savages with aristocratic nonchalance and disdain for death, his skills were supposed to sound like that. Modest, unpretentious, but meaningful. Yeah...


    Malk spent the next half hour studying the Arcane Art he got, which, as promised by the Junior Magister, was one-star, yellow rank, aimed at strengthening his affinity with Pneuma. It also decently trained reserve replenishment speed while strengthening the ability to maintain a clear mind under mental influence and improving resistance to phantasmal effects and curses. Deep down, he still harbored a hope that the Heart might somehow solve the problem of the inaccessibility of the Elements, but no miracle occurred. Practicing the Art not only didn''t affect closeness to the Elements but also lacked any methods for developing Authority. This meant... it meant Malk faced a tough choice: abandon the technique borrowed from another Art or take the risk and continue.


    And he didn''t hesitate in making his decision!


    The only thing that truly pleased Malk was the simplicity of the spell formulas and the clarity of the visual diagrams needed for practice. Sure, there were a few unclear spots that required the teacher''s explanations, but nothing more. When Mr. Lok returned to Malk, the latter had already learned the entire content of the booklet and was ready to move on.


    "Do you know how to use Druzal''s Mirror?" Mr. Lok asked after answering all of Malk''s accumulated questions and making sure he understood the key steps of the Art he''d been given.


    Malk was about to say that he not only knew but had become quite the expert at using his Mirror, but he thought better of it. Not because he wanted to hide anything¡ªhis teaching artifact had left its creator''s hands too long ago to compare it to modern magical tools. The Society, on the other hand¡ªno matter what Malk thought of it¡ªdidn''t skimp and provided students with models that, while not top-tier, were far from the worst.


    So, in response to the teacher''s question, Malk just shook his head.


    "Then watch what I do. And next time, do the same," Mr. Lok coldly said and leaned over the Mirror on the table.


    Unlike Malk''s artifact, this one didn''t look like a box with retractable eyepieces and a control panel. The Society''s Mirror, most of all, resembled a strange binocular attached by two corrugated hoses to a massive-looking stand shaped like a pyramid. On one side were three round holes the size of a Boreas drachma, and on another side were two verniers Malk was already familiar with.


    "Now... where''s Crystal Heart?" Mister Lok muttered, rummaging through his belt pouch.


    Finally, in his hands appeared three glass cylinders, which he forcefully inserted into the holes on the stand. The setup was completed with some "fine" tuning using the verniers.


    "The control units and records with the necessary parameters you''ll be getting from me at the start of each class. And returning them at the end! Understood?" Mr. Lok strictly warned, then made an inviting gesture with his hand. "Get started."


    There were no more explanations, but Malk didn''t ask for any either. The Mirror had been prepped for practice, and he could handle the rest himself. As the unknown creator of the Arcane Art taught, he first sat with his legs crossed Styxson-style and his back straight, formed his fingers into a complex sign, changed his breathing rhythm, and once he got a bit comfortable, started visualizing intricate shapes, positioning them inside his chest.


    Subconsciously, Malk expected that it would take a long time to feel any noticeable effects, but he turned out to be wrong. Crossing Howard''s Boundary had changed him much more than he had realized before. Malk barely finished the first practice cycle when he felt something like the finest, almost imperceptible psychic currents from all directions reaching out to him[2]. They surrounded him like a cloud that prickled his skin, got sucked in, and filled his muscles with dry heat, then started resonating within his very essence with bursts of vibrations. Once, twice, thrice... Yet, the strange influence didn''t harm his Spirit, didn''t destroy or injure it; on the contrary, it nourished and made it stronger. Maybe just a bit, but stronger nonetheless.


    At some point, another wave swept over Malk''s consciousness, spinning and twirling it, then suddenly tossed him into the familiar desert. This time, though, there was no excruciating pain, but the sensations still were far from pleasant... The immersion into training happened without the Mirror''s aid, so the vision lacked depth and clarity. Some part of Malk''s mind still perceived himself sitting in front of the table and even heard what was happening around him.


    "Very good! You got it on the first try!" Mr. Lok''s voice reached him as if through a fog. It turned out the teacher hadn''t left and was now closely watching Malk''s first steps in practicing the Art. "Before the invention of the Mirrors, mages developed their skills exactly like this: through repeated mental exercises prescribed by the Art. Slowly and for a long time, sometimes even pointlessly. And only with the advent of the artifacts did the effectiveness of training improve..."


    Mr. Lok, though distracting Malk with his conversations, didn''t disrupt the state necessary for practice. On the contrary, such duality gave the training a new dimension, inadvertently deepening his understanding of certain details in the techniques being performed.


    "Now try with the Mirror," the mage ordered, turning the "binoculars" toward the student absorbed in the new sensations.


    And Malk tried: slowly, without even realizing how, he seemed to mentally distance himself from the desert, gently pressed close to the eyepieces, and shifted his focus into the Mirror. He as if gazed inside, but not with his eyes¡ªwith his very Spirit...


    The intuitive decision turned out to be absolutely correct. Instead of an unstable and not very effective visual channel, a golden thread seemed to connect Malk and the Druzal''s Mirror. Albeit thin and weightless, but sufficient to fully unlock the potential of the magical tool.


    In front of Malk, magical circles spun again, and then a misty cloud emerged... This time, though, there were no less than several dozen circles, and beyond the outer edge, images and symbols prescribed by the Art appeared, moving, flowing into each other. As for the mist, it was now entirely silver, not a hint of blue... But it was still a Mirror. More modern and much better suited for training than Malk''s own, but still a Mirror. Which meant he knew how to work with it. And so, in a moment, the shadow of the desert still lingering in the depths of his mind filled with power, came alive, and expanded to the size of a whole world.


    ''Hah! Now it''s more lively,'' Malk thought once he managed to get a good look around.


    If before, when practicing Rain of Pain¡ªeven after initiation, when his tormented by the Arcane Technique Spirit finally gained access to energy¡ªMalk involuntarily perceived his mental space as either a branch of the plane of Fire or a torture ground for particularly nasty demons, now... now it seemed infused with life. Not completely, the process had just begun, but the once dead world was breathing. And this "breath" seemed to urge Malk to continue practicing the Art.


    The next step prescribed by the practice guide was to focus on visualizing a symbol in the form of a right angle with three dots above it¡ªthe very one that, in mage language, corresponded to heart. However, it suddenly turned out to be a lot harder than it seemed from the description. Not only did the Yorrokh''s glyph refuse to take a stable shape and kept trying to dissolve into thin air, but the process of creating it was almost as tough as a dockworker''s job in the real world. At some point, Malk simply ran out of strength to continue practicing. Then came the pain, along with apathy, wrapping him in the suffocating embrace of drowsiness. He felt a sharp urge to give up and lie down on the sand... And the fact that he didn''t, instead trying to break the connection with the Mirror, could be considered a testament to his willpower and strength of character.


    This strange state seriously worried Malk. The hardest initial stage had been long over, back when he trained Authority, and he hadn''t made any obvious mistakes either, so there was no reason for such a nasty deviation in practice. Then what was the problem?!


    As if in response to his burst of anger, other strange events surfaced in his memory. A series of extremely unpleasant incidents on the train, the baffling occurrence during the interrogation at the gendarmerie¡ªwherever things started going wrong, a certain nasty dwarf always appeared.


    Could it be the same here? The thought wasn''t just unexpected and annoying; it was terrifying! Because the scariest enemy isn''t the strong and powerful one, but the one you don''t understand. And Malk, for his part, absolutely didn''t understand that dwarf. Moreover, he had no idea what to expect from him or how to fight him...


    Saints know how far his thoughts would have gone if some external force hadn''t broken his contact with the Druzal''s Mirror and brought his consciousness back to his body.


    "Idiot, what the Yorrokh were you lingering in there for? You got a death wish or something?!"


    Those were the first words Malk heard as soon as his mind cleared and he felt himself back in the real world.


    "W-why?" he asked with some difficulty, suddenly realizing that the weakness hadn''t gone away, and he still craved rest.


    "Because if a mage exhausts their reserve but keeps messing with magic, they start using their life force. And it certainly won''t last long," Mr. Lok practically growled. "Feel that sucking emptiness inside? Remember that feeling. That''s what an empty reserve is like. Got it?"


    "So I burned through nine whole ergs in just a few minutes?!" Malk asked, refusing to believe what he''d heard.


    Of course, he knew his limits, but he never thought it was that bad.


    "Well, not a few minutes¡ªalmost half an hour, but... yeah, that''s all you''ve got." The teacher laughed mockingly. "That''s life, lad. Without quickly replenishing your energy at a source, you won''t reach the peak of your rank or break through limits in a reasonable time. And it''s not about talent or," Mr. Lok snorted meaningfully, "advancements in forbidden practices. It''s, lad, a matter of money and having some power backing you."


    "And since I don''t have money, then...?" Malk asked angrily, fed up with everyone trying to profit off him.


    "Then find where you can earn some, train to control your reserve level and practice your Art whenever you can," Mr. Lok grimaced. "That''s your path to magic! And... for all the Saints'' sake, if you plan to die again, at least don''t do it in my class. Deal?"


    Malk''s response clearly didn''t matter to him. The teacher just turned and went to another student. One who still hadn''t mastered his Arcane Art but was rich enough to stimulate Mr. Lok''s desire to teach with drachmas and obols.


    Malk had nothing more to say to him either. The lesson was over for him; he had taken the first steps in his training, acquired an Arcane Art, and got at least some guidance from the teacher... he was in the black, as Tolfan liked to say. As for the blow to his pride... time would tell. At least, Malk sincerely believed in that; after all, if you don''t believe, what''s the point of living?


    [1] Author''s note: If anyone''s curious, this metaphor is common among real-world Taijiquan Masters, and the principle itself is a cornerstone of all esoteric practices.


    [2] Translator''s note: the original uses not "psychic currents" but "fluids" literally. However, I don''t expect readers to know about "magnetic fluids" from Mesmerism(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Animal_magnetism</a>), hence the replacement. In the original, it''s a loanword (likely adopted from English), so it doesn''t create confusion.

 Chapter Eight, where the hero keeps learning

    Further education in the courses wasn''t much different in structure from the first day. At two o''clock, there was a lecture on general magic theory, followed by a short break, and then a class on ability development. The duration of the lessons wasn''t fixed. Depending on the complexity of the material, the lecture could last an hour and a half, two, or even two and a half hours¡ªthe practice time shifted accordingly. As for studying Arcane Arts, it depended entirely on the students'' individual abilities. Some, though lacking in talent but with a large reserve, spent an hour or more on practice, while others, albeit well-prepared but with a scant energy supply, exhausted their powers in hardly half an hour.


    By the way, Malk was one of the latter. Having breezed through the first level of the Art he was given and immersed himself into the mental desert¡ªSpirit Palace, using Mr. Lok''s terminology¡ªhe got stuck trying to overcome the second level''s boundary. The Heart, the very thing that gave the Art its name, stubbornly refused to form. Perhaps if he could perform more practice cycles, something would click, and quantity would turn into quality. But it all came down to his limited Force reserve. Malk was draining his energy in mere minutes, forcing him to stop training. And thank the Saints, he had the sense and patience not to repeat the mistake that almost cost him his health, or even his life.


    The situation was further complicated by the fact that Malk''s Force couldn''t fully replenish in a day naturally. Even with his small reserve and decent absorption rate, he was still coming to the next class not fully recovered. And this was cutting his training time even further. Using Force sources could rectify the situation, but then the problem of money would loom large. And solving it quickly was impossible.


    Heck, Malk even stopped practicing at home, preferring the more advanced public artifact from the courses over his trusted but outdated Mirror! After all, his old tool wasn''t going anywhere, but he couldn''t afford to miss the chance to get the most out of the device, access to which could be withdrawn at any moment. And he wasn''t missing it...


    The only thing he had no trouble with was the general magic theory. Laws, formulas, diagrams, and schemes¡ªthere was nothing in the lectures he hadn''t faced before in boarding school. Sure, back there it was math and mechanics, here it was magic¡ªso what? Until they started teaching subjects that required a developed Spirit, Malk could give any Adept from aristocratic Houses a run for their money.


    Anyway, studying¡ªwhether at School or in the Society''s courses¡ªwasn''t just about attending classes and gaining knowledge, but also about making new connections. Maybe meaningless now, but ones that could later develop into something more significant. And valuable. As Tolfan often said back in the boarding school, "If you ain''t got money, you can always earn some. But if you ain''t got the right connections, no money will help you!"


    And some people clearly held similar views on life.


    While the snooty noble didn''t condescend to the rest, only paying some attention to the couple of girls, and the others limited their interactions to greetings and rare study-related questions, Serge, despite being a bumpkin, turned out to be remarkably sociable. He "befriended" everyone. Treating the "gendarmes" and "grunts" to cheap booze, exchanging pleasantries with the "civilians," flirting with the girls in his rustic way, and even trying to get along with that bastard who fancied himself a high aristocrat. Heck, he even got along with Malk, regularly having lunch with him at the tavern across from the Society''s building.


    And Malk couldn''t say their talks annoyed him.


    "You know, Malk, you really know how to surprise. Your Gift isn''t exactly a blessing from the Saints, and you don''t get access to all the knowledge, yet you haven''t fallen behind!" came unexpectedly from Serge¡ªcalling whom a good student would be quite a stretch¡ªafter the first sennight of studies.


    "You mean the Gift development classes?" Malk asked, having expected something like this for a while.


    "Yeah, those damn classes! Blast them to Yorrokh..." Serge grumbled. "You''re not the best in the whole batch, but in our group, you turned out to be the quickest. While some are just figuring out how to enter their Spirit Palace, you''re already trying to storm the second level of your Art. I''m jealous!"


    "Better be jealous of Shark," Malk said, referring to that snooty noble and shrugging with disdain. "He''s already mastered his Arcane Art and now trains further on his own schedule."


    The mention of their most unsociable classmate made Serge gloomy.


    "You might as well compare us to some Cheringar scion. Nobles are nobles because they have talents... and resources!.. we can''t even dream of. Do we know why the heck he ended up in our group? We don''t. So let''s not speculate about the reasons behind his achievements," Serge said instructively. "Anyway, what''s your secret? ''Cause I''m sure you have one! Otherwise, you''d be negotiating with Mr. Lok for paid meditation lessons along with me and not... Yorrokh knows what you were doing all morning!"


    Such directness didn''t even anger Malk¡ªhe''d gotten used to his classmate''s borderline rude bluntness already.


    "Prying into mages'' secrets? Are you a Heimdarch spy?!" he asked in a menacing voice but couldn''t help but chuckle at the end.


    "Oh, Malk, what secrets? Whoever wants to dig up your dirt can just check your personal file. And I''m sure it won''t cost much!" Serge said condescendingly. "Come on, spill it! I''m curious..."


    "Curious, huh... Somehow, I don''t recall you sharing much about your own Forbidden Techniques. And if I remember right, Lamara hinted at something like that!" Malk tried to deflect, but it didn''t work.


    "She hinted..." Serge snapped, rubbing his chin. "She should''ve just said it straight! I developed my olfaction, the ability to detect human and demon magic. Not like most experienced mages do, but deeper and clearer... It''s said that if you master this skill before initiation, by the time you''re a Bachelor, you can sense the appearance of any otherworldly visitors from a mile away. And let me tell you, that''s a great step toward becoming a demon hunter!"


    "Interesting..." voiced his surprise Malk, having never heard of such a thing. "What are the downsides?"


    "Unpleasant ones." Serge''s face fell. "A reduction of the initial reserve by almost a whole erg, overall weakening of the subtle bodies... If not for that, why the flur would I bother with paid meditation lessons?! I''m no worse than others!" His irritation broke through his mask of friendliness, and he had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm down before continuing. "Alright, I''ve shared mine. What''s your secret?"


    The question intrigued Serge so much that he leaned forward toward Malk.


    "There''s no secret. I had a good mentor at the boarding school who knew a lot and wasn''t afraid to share his knowledge with kids. Thanks to him, I entered my Spirit Palace long before initiation." Malk spread his hands as if apologizing. "See, it''s simple."


    "And the price?" Serge asked, not without disappointment.


    "Total loss of affinity with the Elements," Malk said with a crooked smile. Honesty was one thing, but he wasn''t about to talk about his Authority and "dud" label.


    But even hearing this much was enough to appall Serge.


    "Total loss?! Yorrokh can shove such techniques up his ass!" he voiced his opinion and never brought up the topic again.


    That conversation might have faded from Malk''s memory, like hundreds of other pointless chats, if not for the thought nagging at him about Serge''s speech, which was unexpectedly articulate for "a simple farmer''s son," as he introduced himself on the first day. It was unusual and strange, making Malk scrutinize the topics they discussed and... stay alert. However, he didn''t see any reason for more serious actions or precautions. Besides, he had enough to worry about, even without his classmate''s suspicious behavior. Like, for instance, the weak, pulling pain that randomly wandered around his body, appearing and disappearing without any pattern or apparent cause.


    No, Malk, hardened by his Forbidden Technique, wasn''t afraid of pain. What worried him was its cause. The symptoms were too much like practice deviations, which all mages, from Adepts to Archmages, feared and tried to prevent. And that wasn''t something anyone could just brush off.


    Trying to get help from Mr. Lok was fruitless. He didn''t even listen, just suggested Malk endure it until he completed his practice of the Arcane Art. And although the teacher looked quite convincing when he said this, Malk didn''t believe him and decided to investigate on his own. Though "investigate" might be an overstatement. Given his limited options, all Malk could do was talk to some classmates about problems with practicing Arcane Arts and spend a couple of days digging through the public sections of the Society''s library. The result was predictable. He couldn''t find the answer he needed. Simply because no one had encountered such symptoms.


    Now, the lack of information didn''t mean there was none at all. Some talked about colorful hallucinations when using misinterpreted Art formulas, others blamed the emerging body transformations on the poorly prepared transition to the Apprentice rank, and some even thought the main issue with practice-induced distortions lay in inadequate nourishment of the Spirit and body... The last point, though, Malk still took into account. Who knew if his deviations were related to this, but he really hadn''t taken any elixirs or undergone strengthening rituals. Mr. Lok had mentioned the need for such things in one class, but only in passing, tying it to having jingling drachmas. And Malk, tight on funds, had let his words slip by. But it seemed like that was a mistake.


    In short, he couldn''t find the needed information in the library, but the search wasn''t entirely useless. Nor were the talks with classmates. It turned out everyone had their own issues. Compared to some unfortunate souls, Malk''s bouts of pain seemed quite bearable. One of the "grunts," practicing the Art of Three Shields¡ªa more complex version of the Saint''s Shield¡ªdeveloped an intolerance to alcohol. One sip, and he was puking his guts out, a fate worse than death for a guy who loved his drinks. Another, focused on some unnamed fire Art, started getting small burns on the backs of his hands after each practice. Weak, nothing serious, but quite annoying. The third, who turned out to be Serge, got a nice-looking pattern on his back, mimicking the design of meridians and collaterals. No pain, burning, or anything unpleasant¡ªjust lines under the skin that looked like tattoos.


    So many problems made one wonder: was Mr. Lok that wrong in advising to wait? Maybe Malk was worrying for nothing, and the pain he was experiencing was just part of the norm?


    He shared his concerns with Helavia. They hadn''t seen much of each other lately: both came home late, only having enough energy to grab a bite and crash. So, for this talk, Malk had to catch her in the morning near the bathroom.


    His girlfriend, however, didn''t offer any understanding.


    "If the teacher says to endure and wait, then endure and wait. Stop fussing over nothing!" she said, a bit irked.


    Not surprising, though. In their conversations, scarce as they were, Helavia now almost always looked irritated.


    "Something tells me Mr. Lok isn''t someone whose opinion you can trust so blindly," Malk said thoughtfully.


    "Well, you chose your courses yourself. No one forced you, no one twisted your arm. You weighed all the pros and cons, so if something doesn''t suit you, suck it up. It''s your own fault," she said, almost absentmindedly, focused more on applying her makeup than on talking to her boyfriend.


    "I''m not backing down from my decisions!" Malk snapped. "But I won''t just sit around either."


    "Oh, and what are you planning to do?" Helavia turned to Malk for the first time in their conversation.


    "I want to understand how well I grasp Crystal Heart. Maybe I''m really missing something," Malk explained. "The guys from the courses already filled me in on the details of their Arts practice. Even though I couldn''t read the original instruction texts¡ªthere''s a direct ban on that, as you know¡ªI got to hear their descriptions. And that''s a big help in studying my own practice..."


    His classmates were quite willing to talk, and no one had any issues with the topic. That''s why Helavia''s reaction to his words caught Malk completely off guard.


    "Malk, I must''ve heard you wrong... You first badgered the losers from your courses for their entrusted secrets, and now you came to me for the same thing?!" Helavia nearly shrieked. "Tell me I''m wrong!"


    "What secrets?" Malk frowned, quickly overcoming his confusion. "The School statutes only prohibit sharing formula records and giving a full description of the training process. Sharing practice impressions isn''t forbidden!"


    But Helavia seemed not to understand. Or didn''t want to.


    "Malk, to close this topic once and for all. I love you, and you''re my boyfriend, but... I also really want to become more than just a dumb girl from Colhaun. And the School of the Three Saints is that once-in-a-lifetime chance for me. I don''t want to lose it because of your need to figure something out. And I will not!" Helavia said coldly, enunciating each word. "And besides... what makes you think studying others'' Arts will help you? You think you can grasp the principles behind different formulas? Well, let me disappoint you. You''re no longer the top student in a backwater boarding school; you''re in Andalore, and your talent... you simply have no talent at all! No offense, but if you had any potential in magic, you wouldn''t be studying your yellow-rank Crystal Heart¡ªyou''d be aiming for at least blue rank like my Four Thunders."


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    The force of Helavia''s outburst left Malk flustered. His first instinct was to snap back, but... Yorrokh''s seed! She was right about some things. In Mritlok¡ªno matter which country¡ªit wasn''t customary to share the knowledge gained from Schools or masters of magic. Information about Arts and Techniques, spells, rituals, runes, and ceremonies was valued far more than gold or even energy. And everything had an owner. The principle was simple: reveal someone else''s secret out of stupidity or greed, and you''ve caused offense. If it was someone weaker, fine, the poor sap would just take it, but what if they were stronger¡ªor much stronger?!


    Sure, Malk hadn''t asked for any secrets or broken any rules, but... Helavia was also right. His request had intruded too deeply into a zone every mage considered highly personal, one that even parents and lovers weren''t allowed to enter. It required a special etiquette. An etiquette that people from Malk''s background couldn''t care less about, but Helavia''s circle valued immensely.


    Achont scroch it! It seemed the hairline crack in his relationship with Helavia was growing. Malk suddenly realized this clearer than ever, and so... he decided to say nothing more to her. Any words would just make things worse.


    Still, damn it, no matter how reasonable her arguments sounded, the situation pissed him off immensely!..


    Ultimately, Malk didn''t manage to sort out the painful symptoms in his body and put it off for later. Meanwhile, four weeks had flown by since the first introductory lecture, and there were the first changes in the class schedule. An additional practice session was added, closely tied to the "Introduction to the Basics of General Magic Theory" course. And in it, Lamara Gorzhan, already familiar to the adepts, began teaching them wizardry. Not high-level spells or flashy, beautiful magic, and certainly not dark and scary witchcraft, but much more primitive things. Like how to create a closed figure with one''s will and fill it with energy, how to draw a closed line with spiritual attention and maintain it for at least a few minutes, how to detect the presence of magic in an object, and how to assess its intensity.


    Yes, artifact activation methods, which Malk had long mastered on his own, were studied here as well. And it turned out that not all his classmates could manage this simple action on the first try. Even Shark¡ª despite all his arrogance and success in mastering his Arcane Art¡ªended up among the laggards, whereas Serge showed a result well above average. He still wasn''t up to Malk''s level, but then again, his Authority was nowhere near the middle of the red level either. At best, it was just at the beginning, though even that wasn''t bad for a novice Adept.


    However, remembering that in normal Schools, students got comfortable with Defender spells and basic technomagic tools on the very first day, there was no reason to rejoice at his classmates'' meager progress. If it took them a month of practicing their Art to get a grip on such a basic skill, how long would it take them to learn something more complex? How much effort would Malk himself have to expend, given that his achievements were pretty scanty and didn''t compensate for the overall weakness of his Gift? There was only one answer¡ªan unfathomable amount. And the scale of the work ahead was daunting.


    Still, so far, his Gift¡ªespecially compared to the others¡ªdidn''t seem as bad as it could have been. And Malk could quietly enjoy how easily he completed Lamara''s assignments, savoring the calm and steady life of a student... Though, even here, there were hidden pitfalls; moreover, the trouble came from a direction he didn''t expect at all.


    It started off harmlessly enough, with a lecture on how to lift objects using Authority. Not through spells or rituals, but with Authority itself. With that very ability of a mage to influence reality, that forces energy flows to change direction, warps space, and manipulates the very essence of life. But directly affecting objects with it was impossible... Or so Malk thought until a clearly not strongest in the world mage began lifting the items laid out before her on the table. A feather, a box of hunting matches, a pack of fragrant soap, a couple of steel plates, and even a hefty-looking silver goblet¡ªthe last one Madame Gorzhan managed to lift with great difficulty, but she still did it! And throughout all this, not a single word of the magical language was spoken, no gestures were made, and no complex rituals performed. She would shift her gaze to the desired object, concentrate, and it would first shoot up, then slam back down onto the table.


    "A mage''s Authority doesn''t work like that. What''s the catch?" Malk exclaimed without realizing it.


    "There''s no catch, just a little trick. I''m not lifting the object but moving the magic force I ''wrapped'' it in using my Authority. Get the difference?" Lamara said with some pride.


    Something told Malk that she hadn''t mastered this trick as easily as she tried to show.


    "Try it yourself..." Lamara suggested, but even without her prompt, Malk was already staring intently at the fountain pen in front of him.


    He focused on that part of his Spirit, which he increasingly perceived as either a hand or some other, much more versatile limb. Then he "pulled" on a thin strand of energy stored within his subtle body and... not wrapped it around, but seemed to surround the pen with it.


    It wasn''t perfect; the Force leaked through the fingers of his invisible hand like through a sieve. And Yorrokh knows what the reason was: maybe Malk lacked Authority, or skill, or both. Still, he managed to achieve some result. The pen didn''t shoot up into the air like Lamara''s, but at least it spun around its axis like a top.


    Malk sighed loudly and looked at the adjacent table, where Serge was sprawled. The latter, unlike him, was trying to affect a small piece of paper, and the effect was somewhat more noticeable. The crumpled sheet rolled across the table like tumbleweed, sometimes bouncing, sometimes stopping and forcing Serge to concentrate again.


    "I see many of you managed," Lamara suddenly reminded them of her presence. "And now you should guess the downsides of this approach to using magic. Anyone?"


    "The costs are huge! I burned through half my reserve just to move this Yorrokh''s scrap of paper!" loudly said Serge, gloomy since he suddenly remembered he still had abilities development classes ahead. And attending them without energy reserves would be useless.


    "Correct!" Madam Gorzhan replied with satisfaction. "Even if we account for the general weakness of your Authority and inexperience in manipulating Force, the costs are still huge. With a spell, you could do the same thing much cheaper and without such high demands on the Authority level."


    "Then why study such inefficient techniques?" someone from the "gendarmes" asked.


    Lamara immediately reacted with a crooked smile.


    "And how do you plan to train your Authority? This way may not be the best, but it''s still better than nothing. Or do you have a suitable development technique handy?" she asked the student who voiced the dumb question. Not waiting for an answer, she continued much more calmly, "A mage can use their Authority to move things, light fires, dry clothes... There are many applications for this ability, and our library is full of textbooks describing them. I strongly recommend not neglecting to familiarize yourself with them. If only to make your life significantly easier."


    "Seems kind of inefficient..." Shark chimed in, adding his two obols.


    "On one hand, yes, but on the other... imagine how many spells you can replace with this skill. A dozen, at least. And that means saving the time you could spend on training your Arcane Art or learning much more important spells." Lamara spread her hands as if apologizing. "A mage''s time is too valuable to waste on nonsense. You always have to choose."


    "Can we see how it compares?" Malk couldn''t resist asking. "I mean, compare the effectiveness of using Authority for... I dunno... throwing stuff and a telekinesis spell?"


    "Sure," Lamara laughed, tucking a stray lock of hair back in place.


    She stepped back a few steps from the table and turned to the wall opposite the entrance. There stood a mannequin, resembling a chopped-up log, used by teachers to demonstrate spells, and it was into it that Madam Gorzhan hurled one of the plates from the table with her Authority.


    It didn''t go very well, to be honest. The metal plate, purpose unknown, rose into the air with jerky movements, as if Lamara lost her grip on it several times, and then, following a visibly noticeable trajectory, hit the middle of the mannequin''s chest and bounced springily into the corner.


    "And now the same thing with a spell!" Lamara said a bit louder than necessary, her cheeks turning red with embarrassment.


    Then followed two simple gestures, a barely audible word, and the second plate flew like an arrow toward the mannequin. Mentally, everyone had already prepared to hear the sound of steel biting into wood, but half a meter from the target, the piece of metal suddenly veered to the side and, as if pulled by an invisible leash, rushed into the hall. It flew over the students'' heads, reached the last row, and... at the last moment, Malk still managed to shift to the right. The plate didn''t lodge in his eye but, grazing his cheekbone, flew past him and helplessly clinked against the wall.


    It all happened in a matter of moments. The spell, the trajectory change, the injury... And if Malk had been less nimble, it could have ended in his death!


    Of course, the lesson was ruined. Lamara, despite her higher rank, was even less prepared for what happened than Malk himself. Like an ordinary girl, not a mage, she froze in shock, only repeating, "How?! How?!" It got to the point where one of the "grunts" went for help to the neighboring classrooms, and five minutes after the incident, the Junior Magister Malk knew from the admissions committee showed up.


    And he, unlike his colleague, sorted things out with lightning speed. With a single gesture, he stopped the bleeding and closed Malk''s wound, then calmed Lamara down, and even gave all the present students a good scare by scanning them with some spell that looked like a translucent wave. It didn''t bring any pain, but left behind peculiar sensations: everyone''s stomachs started to cramp from hunger, and their heads ached. According to the Junior Magister, it only checked for recent use of complex spells, and the scan showed their innocence in affecting Madam Gorzhan''s magic. At least, that''s what the fourth-rank mage said, and no one dared to argue.


    Even Malk, after being told straight to his face that it was a tragic accident caused by a manifestation of demonic energies in the world and that no one was behind it¡ªin other words, being fed a pack of lies¡ªcould only nod submissively. Later, he did think about demanding compensation, but didn''t pursue it further. Fighting the Society and a powerful mage, even in court, was something he absolutely didn''t want.


    And so, the incident was added to the collection of other equally strange occurrences...


    That day, it wasn''t the last unusual event. When Malk returned home, he suddenly got the idea to check the perimeter of the "Colhaunian" protection he had set up. Not because he had much faith in it, but because his heart was uneasy, his mind was a mess, and he wanted to sort out his feelings and thoughts. And he couldn''t think of a better way than to repeat the ritual he''d memorized since childhood.


    He slowly walked around the apartment, checking windows and doors, whispered a prayer to the Nine¡ªpointless and meaningless in his delivery¡ª then took down the pouch with the bear fang and crystalline sand from the shelf under the likeness of Achont, and... usually, that was where the check ended, but Malk suddenly realized he no longer felt any energy in the sand. The Force that should have lasted a whole season was completely exhausted. Not trusting his newly acquired mage senses, he quickly untied the pouch and poured some of the contents into his palm... Only to curse a moment later and dump it all back. The usually transparent and sparkling grains now looked dull and drained of energy. The sand, meant to feed the runic fang with magic, was completely depleted.


    Malk exhaled another round of curses through his teeth and, now properly, not just formally repeating the ritual steps, checked all the key points of the perimeter. And this time, he found small scorch marks around the silver nails he''d driven into the doorframe. The protection hadn''t been just a silly whim¡ªit had actually repelled something. So much so that it completely drained its energy supply.


    Yorrokh screw it, what the heck was going on?!

 Chapter Nine, where the hero becomes who he was meant to be

    To restore the apartment''s protective contour, it took sixty obols¡ªthe exact amount needed to replace the crystal sand in the pouch and charge it with five ergs of Force. Although Malk had initially wanted to spend part of his own reserve on this, he quickly changed his mind. Money was money, but he also had the Gifted Tax payment coming up. And if he didn''t plan on interrupting his training, he''d have to buy the missing energy anyway. So why not do it right away?


    The thought of leaving everything as it was, without bothering with some mossy rituals, didn''t even cross his mind. After the series of troubles he''d been through in the past sennights, Malk didn''t consider any insurance excessive. Whoever that dwarf was¡ªa demon, a ghost, a wandering spirit, or his personal hallucination¡ªhe had proven his ability to deliver truly nasty surprises. And even though this time no traces of him could be found, Malk had no doubt the disgusting runt had a hand in this too.


    Moreover, for almost getting killed by Lamara in class, he also blamed the little pest. Screw any explanations or excuses. It was the dwarf all along, the same damn dwarf! Only now, he wasn''t acting openly and boldly, but had chosen a tactic of ambush and covert sabotage. Malk could feel it in his gut¡ªor whatever organ Adepts had for intuition!


    Though, seriously, the whole situation scared Malk. He even considered turning to the gendarmerie for help, but... Yorrokh take it, he ditched that idea. Besides him, no one else had seen or heard the dwarf. Captain Tyrhat said so openly, and it was indirectly evident from the Junior Magister''s statement about some mythical "residual demonic emanations." So why give others a reason to call him crazy? Damn, he hadn''t even mentioned the nasty freak to Helavia and Tolfan since the train incident!


    So it turned out Malk could only rely on himself here. Then again... just like always.


    However, not everything was as bleak as one might think. There was a silver lining to his recent troubles. The failed attempt on his life had unexpectedly reignited the fading flame in his relationship with Helavia. It happened by chance: Malk hadn''t planned on telling anything, but his girlfriend noticed bloodstains on his shirt collar, demanded an explanation, then one word led to another, and the frost between them somehow just melted away. Or maybe the rift wasn''t as big as Malk had thought?


    Anyway, the reconciliation visibly lifted Helavia''s spirits. The very next morning, she, in a quite unladylike manner, told Tolfan to shove off when he tried approaching them and dragged Malk out for a walk. It was their first stroll together in Andalore, so no matter how much Malk wanted to work on his notes, he couldn''t refuse her. And half an hour later, after a short ride on a steam omnibus, they were strolling through the Heroes of the Uprising City Park.


    "I always dreamed of coming to Andalore. To feel the atmosphere of the old capital, walk the streets where the disciples of the Saints might have walked, admire buildings that remember the first empire... And now the dream has come true! I still can''t believe it," Helavia said, gazing thoughtfully into the distance.  "And you?"


    "Had to believe it," Malk smirked. "Back home, despite everything, life was a bit different."


    Helavia caught the unspoken thought and grimaced in frustration.


    "Malk, how can you be so callous? Not a drop of romance! I''m talking about the finer things, and you''re on about problems and difficulties. Let them go, just this once. Forget everything!" she said in one breath, squeezing Malk''s fingers tightly. "Enjoy what you''ve got... You did get what you wanted, right?"


    Distracted by their conversation, they didn''t realize they''d turned off the main path onto a narrow, gravel-covered trail that led to a small lake or pond. The body of water didn''t look like a swamp: no cattail or reeds, no duckweed or muddy silt. Clearly, this place was well-maintained, which made it all the more strange that such an essential element for Colhaun was missing on the shore...


    "Look, such a big pond, and no chapel for the Nine!" Helavia was the first to point out the oddity, and Malk could only nod.


    Indeed, in Colhaun, this was unimaginable. In the north, they remembered well what sometimes crawled out of even well-explored waters during the Second Wave and immediately after. They remembered and protected themselves as best they could.


    "Cultural capital, Yorrokh take me! The unstoppable march of progress!" Malk muttered gloomily, having learned firsthand that not all the rituals back home were meaningless superstitions. "Not surprised that loyalists here hold rallies in the squares and take over trains. Not surprised at all."


    Saints be the judges of progress and development, but some traditions should always have been upheld. At least for survival. And that was what Colhaun stood for!


    The romantic mood was ruined. Malk and Helavia hurried away from the pond that had so disappointed them. They wandered through a maze of bushes before finally reaching a small square with a beautiful flowerbed in the center and about ten benches around. One of them was occupied.


    Helavia nudged Malk with her elbow and subtly nodded toward the couple on the bench. The guy, about twenty years old, was clearly rich¡ªhis wool coat alone probably cost as much as Malk''s entire wardrobe, not to mention the massive gold signet on his right hand¡ªand his girlfriend was equally extravagant. Dress, cloak, boots made from sea demon leather, and a matching bag¡ªMalk didn''t even want to know how many drachmas it all cost. The only thing the girl lacked was manners and the poise that distinguished a true lady. But she probably couldn''t even see that flaw in herself.


    This couple wouldn''t have deserved Malk''s and Helavia''s attention if not for the looks they started throwing their way. Something about the young Adepts on a stroll really irritated these rich kids. So much so that the disdain they radiated was almost palpable.


    "Relax, I''ve dealt with this before. Just typical city snobbery," Malk said in a low voice, deliberately adjusting the knife on his belt¡ªnot as a threat, but as a sign of belonging to the northern province. He''d encountered this attitude in the courses, even with Serge, so it was nothing new to him.


    And as if to prove his point, the signet guy''s girlfriend sneered, "Colhaun yokels!" Helavia tensed up immediately, ready to cause a scene, and Malk had to pat her hand soothingly. But he wasn''t going to let the insult slide either.


    "Ignore them. Words are worthless, and wasting nerves on the ungifted is self-disrespect!" Malk said, not bothering to lower his voice, and stared openly at the snob who thought too highly of himself. At the same time, he hooked the chain and pulled out the iron Adept badge from under his collar.


    Sure, his rank was low, and the wealthy kid could make his life miserable, but... Malk wasn''t just some poor provincial lad anymore. While sitting in the library, waiting for the books he needed for his search for his father to be delivered from the archive, he had thoroughly gone through the laws about mages and now had a solid understanding of his rights. So, if the rich snob wanted to escalate, he''d face a duel challenge. And he couldn''t refuse or send a substitute due to the opponent''s low rank. As for Malk... he wasn''t afraid of a duel with an ungifted.


    His jab hit the mark. The overly mouthy girl immediately flared up, took a sharp breath, clearly about to snap back, but didn''t get the chance. Her boyfriend stopped her. Apparently, he had read the section on mage and non-mage relations in the law, too, hence deciding not to escalate the situation, and, albeit with a disdainful smirk, gestured an apology.


    "Oh, so that''s what you''ve always aimed for. To rise above ordinary mortals?" Helavia asked with a strange tone when the bench with the haters of "visitors to the capital" was far behind. "So, how does it feel?"


    "You''re wrong. I never judged people by their innate abilities. What matters more to me is what a person achieves on their own, not what they get by birthright. So you won''t get any disdain for the ungifted from me, especially since, considering my Gift, I can''t fancy myself a future Archmage... But I couldn''t pass up the chance to put that insolent prick in his place," Malk explained patiently, suddenly feeling uneasy at the comparison to highborn jerks.


    Helavia, however, didn''t support the tone.


    "And I liked how you did it... Especially that you didn''t go in fists swinging like you used to in Colhaun," she said conciliatorily. After a pause, she added, "But we need to change our style. Especially you. Since we''re part of the mage world now, we should dress accordingly. Otherwise, we''ll keep running into more and more idiots like that."


    There was nothing to argue against that. You could be a brilliant philosopher, a great engineer, or a skilled mage, but if society didn''t like how you looked, you''d face gossip behind your back. And you''d be lucky if it was just gossip. A person''s future depends largely on the connections they can make. But what connections could you make if you looked like a scarecrow to others? Clothes make the man¡ªthat saying wasn''t Malk''s invention, so it wasn''t up to him to refute it... But Yorrokh take it! Where would he get the money for a new wardrobe?!


    However, he chose not to tell this to Helavia, and they walked in silence for a while.


    "By the way, I didn''t get how you figured that fool was an ungifted right away. Didn''t you say you hadn''t finished the last layer of your Arcane Art?" Helavia suddenly asked, as if forgetting the fuss she''d made about Malk trying to learn more about her magic practice.


    "I didn''t finish it. But I breezed through the first layer, and my Authority is somewhere in the middle of the red rank, so my Spirit is developed enough to ''read'' the surface layers of auras of ordinary mortals," Malk replied, not bothering to feign offense or invoke "magic secrets." Besides, he didn''t consider this knowledge a secret. "You should have enough Authority for something similar too... You''re not Tolfan; you''ve been practicing Rain of Pain for a while."


    At this point, however, Malk couldn''t help but smirk. After all, his girlfriend had long denied practicing their mentor''s technique, even convincing the fatty. But not him.


    "Should... But it only lets me get through the layers of the Four Thunders at the level of some Family heir. And it pisses me off!" Helavia suddenly dropped her prickliness and replied wearily. She noticed Malk''s raised eyebrows and added somewhat irritably, "Yeah, yeah, my Arcane Art has six layers. And I must finish the last one before the first year after initiation ends. Otherwise, everything will go to crap, and I can forget about becoming the great Mistress of Lightning and Four Thunders."


    Her last words were clearly mimicking someone, but she didn''t explain who.


    "Then what''s the problem? You''re called a genius for a reason, right? You''ll manage!" Malk said encouragingly, but his girlfriend wasn''t as optimistic.


    "Genius... Without support and necessary resources, talent alone won''t cut it, you know. My Art seriously affects the body and Spirit, so if I don''t want to mess up my practice or fall behind, I need expensive decoctions, properly chosen elixirs, and potions. And let''s not forget about training at a Force source..." she said sadly. "Drachmas, Malk, all Adepts need drachmas. The more, the better."


    "Hold on. But you got into the inner circle of the School''s disciples! That usually means big discounts on buying the necessary supplies and free access to a source. The allowance allotted by your father should be more than enough to cover your training needs," Malk was surprised.


    Helavia winced.


    "Let''s say, my access to the source isn''t free, just twice a sennight. If I want more, I have to pay. But that''s not the most expensive part... My Art is very demanding on potions. So even with all the discounts and benefits of an inner disciple, I still need to spend at least twelve drachmas a month on alchemical supplies. And that''s not the expense my father expected when he sent me here to study!" she replied gloomily. "I have to scrimp on everything..."


    "After hearing your story, I''m starting to feel glad I didn''t get into the Three Saints. I had a somewhat... rosier picture of studying there," Malk grimaced.


    "Better be happy for Tolfan... Even though he''s in the outer circle, with his father''s support, he''s already climbed to the middle of the first-year rankings!" his girlfriend snorted.


    At some point, Malk thought he''d hear Helavia''s worn-out tune about his wrong choice and lack of prospects again, but he was wrong. The topic of magic studies had apparently bored her, and she went quiet. They walked on in silence, holding hands and glancing around.


    Yorrokh knows what Helavia was thinking, but Malk''s thoughts revolved around his own training problems. The talk about decoctions and elixirs further reinforced his belief that his chosen path in magic was wrong. Poverty was one thing, but sometimes, for the sake of the future, you had to tighten your belt even more. And it seemed this was one of those times. If Malk wanted to break through the second, final layer of Crystal Heart anytime soon, there was no getting around using alchemical potions.


    But he''d have to think it all over later, when the time was right. For now... he was out with his girlfriend, and so, she was the one who needed his attention.


    Malk quickly glanced around, making sure no one was watching, pulled the gloomy Helavia close, and kissed her deeply. Then, not giving her a chance to react, he grabbed her hand and dragged her toward the restaurant peeking through the greenery. Today, his wallet was in for another knockout blow, but he wasn''t going to regret this expense. After all, a couple of cups of coffy[1] and pastries wouldn''t save his situation, but they''d make Helavia happy. Which was already something. And maybe, just maybe, he could salvage this date that had gone sideways...


    To the idea of buying potions recommended by the Society, §®§Ñ§Ý§Ü returned a couple of days later¡ªwhen Helavia started some kind of closed training at the School and moved to the student campus for a sennight. Without the distraction in the form of his girlfriend craving social interaction, it was much easier to think, so after weighing all the pros and cons, Malk made a decision pretty quickly. Having chosen what he hoped was the only right path.


    He gathered his savings and headed to the alchemy shop at the Andalorian Society of Mages. Fortunately, it was in the same building as the Society itself, and Malk would just about manage to drop by before his classes... More precisely, he thought he would. Still, just in case, he arrived a couple of hours before his first lecture and didn''t regret it. As it turned out, the store entrance wasn''t where the building plan indicated, and finding the right door took quite some time. At one point, Malk even considered looking for the potions elsewhere¡ªAndalore had plenty of pharmacies and alchemy shops¡ªbut he remembered the discounts students of the Society got and forced himself to quell his irritation.


    Finally, his wandering through the corridors ended, and Malk stood before the entrance to "Zachariah''s Alchemical Potions," as the sign above it read. He yanked the door open, stepped inside without looking, and... almost bumped into Serge nose to nose. His classmate, who always whined about being broke, barely managed to jump back with a strangled yelp, miraculously not dropping the paper bag filled with something clinking.


    "Malk, Yorrokh''s your dad! Watch it!" he hissed like a snake, almost spitting venom. "I emptied my stash for these bottles, and you nearly smashed them."


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "Sorry, sorry..." Malk said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I just didn''t expect anyone to be here."


    "Didn''t expect, huh," Serge grumbled. "Half the course has practice deviations, yet he didn''t expect... I''m surprised people aren''t crowding here day and night!" His abrupt movement made his shirt collar open, revealing the edge of a tattoo-like pattern of magical channels on his neck, formed during his training. The former peasant caught Malk''s gaze and adjusted his clothes. "Anyway, I''m off. Enjoy the prices and the wealth of choice."


    He dashed out of the shop, leaving Malk alone with the seller. Whether this was the Zachariah after whom the shop was named or just a hired hand was unknown, but she clearly didn''t care about customers. Otherwise, she wouldn''t be just sitting, nose buried in what, judging by the gaudy cover illustration, looked like a romance novel, ignoring everything happening in the store.


    Not that Malk needed anyone''s attention right now. All he wanted was to look around and check the prices. And he could handle that without helpers. Besides, he already knew the name of the elixir necessary to break through the second layer of Crystal Heart. Mr. Lok had answered that question without any caveats.


    After a leisurely glance around, Malk spotted a glass cabinet filled to the brim with bottles of all shapes and sizes. He approached it decisively and began studying the labels.


    "Got a potion list?" the seller suddenly asked, making Malk flinch. She still hadn''t looked up from her book.


    "I only need the Phantom Root Elixir. Nothing else!" Malk replied, trying to be as polite as possible. "But I can find it myself..."


    What he didn''t expect was her sharp reaction to his words. The seller, who had been completely indifferent until then, snapped her head up and gave Malk a piercing look. And the suddenly arisen invisible pressure suggested he was dealing with at least an Apprentice-level mage, if not a Bachelor.


    "Medallion!" the shopkeeper, probably the owner, demanded. She then forced a wide drawer out of the metal box in front of her and nodded toward it. "Put it here."


    Malk didn''t really understand what was happening, but he didn''t argue and obeyed. The drawer clanged as it was pushed back, and Zachariah placed her hands on it, whispering spells Malk didn''t recognize. The device responded instantly, lights running along the lid''s edge with a faint hum, but all external effects quickly ceased. The shopkeeper nodded in satisfaction and returned the medallion to Malk, simultaneously lifting the invisible pressure.


    "Check the third shelf from the bottom, far right corner. There should be a green bottle..." she said in a neutral tone, then added much more harshly, "And get six drachmas ready. The elixir''s worth its price, and I won''t lower it by a single obol!"


    Malk just barely held back a snort. He had imagined the buying process somewhat differently. Without the unidentifiable magic, the seller''s mood swings, and clumsy attempts to hide all the oddities behind talks about money. The only thing that fit any kind of normal behavior was checking the medallion. But wasn''t that procedure excessive for buying an ordinary elixir intended to support the practice of an equally ordinary Arcane Art?!


    Ah, to the Saints with all this! Malk shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then grabbed the needed bottle from the shelf, hid it in his inner pocket, and only then slowly counted out six gold rounds onto the counter. The wish for Zachariah to burst from greed, even though it flashed through his mind, he chose not to voice. But oh, how he wanted to!


    Probably, on any other day, nothing could have distracted Malk from thoughts about the elixir and the upcoming breakthrough, if not for yet another change in the class schedule. Instead of a lecture on general magic theory, their course got a brand new subject¡ªMagical Language. And it was the kind of topic that even the worst students couldn''t ignore. At least because without the Runeglyph¡ªthat''s what this language was officially called¡ªit was basically impossible to create spells. Those very things that turned a Gifted into a real mage.


    Apparently, due to the subject''s importance, it was entrusted not to Apprentice Lamara, but to the much more authoritative, even at first glance, Bachelor Hordol. He had a dignified bearing, was stout, with a black, bushy beard that made him look like a priest. Sort of a smug, giant dumpling. And only the piercing gaze of someone who''d seen both the depths of Hell and the heights of Heaven gave away that he was a mage. Moreover, a talented and knowledgeable mage.


    "I know him. He dropped by our village a couple of years back. Some demonic horror settled in the neighboring gully after Yorrokh''s Night, started chomping on folks and livestock, so it was him who sent it to the Saints for judgment," Serge muttered to Malk while the Bachelor was talking to a Junior Magister who had popped into the classroom.


    "Alone?" Malk couldn''t help but ask. "Though if it was a Demonic Warrior..."


    "Hah! Would I bother telling you if it was? There was a Flesh Hunter holed up. And Hordol took it out. There was a glow across half the sky, everything boomed and howled, but he did it!" Serge shot back passionately.


    He clearly wanted to add more, but Hordol announced to the students they were moving to a more suitable classroom, so they had to drop the conversation. Everyone rushed to the next hall.


    But it soon turned out they hurried for nothing. The hall was a large room without furniture, with mats spread on the floor. There simply weren''t any good spots worth rushing for.


    The uncomfortable seating was offset by an intriguing topic. To the students'' surprise, learning Runeglyph was nothing like the usual recitations. It was more comparable to the ability development lessons. Only now, instead of studying the secrets of their Arcane Art and working with Druzal''s Mirror, the Adepts were taught magical runes. And not the bookish wisdom of signs and strokes that could be read and memorized from a textbook, but the true spiritual form that could only be received directly¡ªfrom the Spirit of another mage to your own Spirit[2].


    "Unfortunately, your training program doesn''t allow you to fully grasp the language of magical images and spiritual concepts. You can read the descriptive part in the textbook, but I''ll try to pass on at least a few dozen of the most commonly used runes. As many as I can. So, try to get as much from me as possible," Mr. Hordol announced as soon as they moved to the new classroom and immediately, barely giving them a chance to gather and prepare, got down to business.


    He handed each student a crystal sphere and then instructed them to pour one erg of energy into the artifacts and focus on the shapes appearing inside. They were of the simplest kind¡ªcircle, triangle, square¡ªbut flashed faster and faster, pulling the temporary owners'' minds into unknown depths. This practice was somewhat similar to working with the Spirit Palace, but only a bit. Instead of fine-tuning to a mage''s personal inner world, which everyone had to master on their own, it involved something much cruder, touching only the very edge of their subtle body.


    Despite Hordol''s words about the need to cooperate, Malk couldn''t fully give in to the foreign magic right away and resisted for a while, balancing on the edge of a trance. Only when Hordol sat on a mat and picked up a similar sphere did Malk let his consciousness yield... only to, as it seemed to him, regain his clarity a moment later. But now, in the company of his equally confused classmates.


    "Uh... did it not work?" Serge was the first to voice the general confusion.


    And, in response, got a booming, satisfied laugh from Hordol.


    "I''ve been teaching these classes for years, and I still can''t get used to it. It''s so funny!" the Bachelor said after calming down. Then added seriously, "It all worked. And there''s nothing wrong with not remembering the process of image transfer. You''re too weak for that. But if you enter the Spirit Palace now, you''ll spot certain changes, working on which is highly advisable... How exactly, you''ll figure out on your own."


    "Enter the Palace without a Mirror?" asked one of the noble girls whom Malk hadn''t encountered in ability development classes yet.


    "Actually, yes. It''s better to do it on your own for the first time. But if you find it difficult, there''s a room down the hall where you can work with a Society''s Mirror for twenty obols an hour. Anyone interested?" the Bachelor asked, and when more than half the students raised their hands, he waved towards the door. "You''re free to go then!"


    Those who preferred the easy way immediately dashed for the door, making a terrible noise. Malk, though, had expected some brave soul to bring up the previously free Druzal''s Mirrors, yet no one did, and a scandal didn''t happen. The boundaries of what was allowed and forbidden in the Society, everyone had gradually started to sense at an intuitive level.


    Malk wasn''t too concerned about all this. Mainly because he no longer needed crutches to enter the Spirit Palace. All he had to do was sit, detach from his senses and thoughts, feel himself as something more than just a body of flesh and bones, catch the right mood and... slip like a weightless shadow into the mental desert of his inner world. A desert that was filling with the breath of life more and more each day and now acquired something truly new.


    On top of the nearest dune, Malk discovered an actual flower. Scraggly, with thick fleshy leaves and a prickly stem, but with a delicate, cloud-like purple bloom. And even though the plant looked ghostly and weightless, as if ready to dissolve into thin air at any moment, Malk was as happy as if it were real. Because its presence meant that, first, he did get the knowledge from Hordol, and second, he had no issues with his Spirit Palace.


    And that was wonderful!


    Malk leaned over the flower and sniffed its faint aroma, focusing on the sensations and trying not to miss a single nuance... And was instantly swept away by a torrent of new images and feelings¡ªthe very extract of knowledge about several basic runes that the teacher had promised to impart and which required such extravagant methods to study.


    How to describe what he experienced? Malk didn''t know. There were no words or terms in mundane language to convey the mix of alien emotions, unfamiliar feelings, and indescribable concepts that rushed through him like a swift current. The song of stones, the scent of flame, the taste of shadows... Strange principles, mysterious images¡ªall of it subtly changed Malk. It didn''t turn him inside out, didn''t transform him into something new, but it did change him. At the very least, his perception of the world and reality itself.


    Malk didn''t even realize when he left the Spirit Palace and found himself sitting in the classroom again. Just suddenly, bam¡ªand he was flooded with a sense of indescribable clarity, what people usually call enlightenment. Then, snap¡ªthe meditative state was lost, and Malk instinctively checked the size of his reserve.


    "I gather it all worked out," the Bachelor addressed him, seeing the student stir after the trance. "How much did you spend?"


    "About an erg," Malk replied, not believing his own words.


    He was so used to the Crystal Heart practice draining all his strength every time he visited the Palace that such a modest result seemed miraculous.


    "Not bad, not bad," Hordol nodded and pointed to the door. "You''re free to go."


    However, Malk wasn''t in a hurry to take the offer. Instead of following the teacher''s instruction, he sat more comfortably and asked:


    "Excuse me, can I use this classroom for a bit longer? I won''t bother anyone."


    And without waiting for an answer, he placed the Phantom Root Elixir bottle in front of him. The state of unimaginable clarity he was in after learning Runeglyph helped him see many aspects of his Arcane Art practice differently. Missing the chance to reach new heights would''ve been stupid.


    It seemed the Bachelor was familiar with his state.


    "Ah, I see, my lesson opened your eyes to some mistakes, and now you want to ride the wave of emotions and try to complete your Art? Well, you''re not the first, and you won''t be the last. I won''t say that everyone who tried this path succeeded, but there are lucky ones. And quite a few of them. So go for it!"


    Malk nodded gratefully and couldn''t resist explaining:


    "It''s just that I''ve been struggling for so long with the last layer of my Art, trying to form the Heart. I tried every idea, but it was useless. And then I suddenly realized the mistake... The Heart had to be perceived not as an organ, but as a spiritual quality. As the embodiment of that facet of a mage''s Authority, which is commonly called intention. After all, isn''t the heart responsible for the firmness of our intentions?"


    His fervor made Hordol smile.


    "Oh, so you practice Crystal Heart? Well, then get to it. I''ll make sure you''re not disturbed..."


    Malk didn''t need to be asked twice. Deftly pulling the cork, he tipped the flask into his mouth and downed it in one big gulp. His throat burned instantly, cutting off his breath. Once, Malk had tasted undiluted wormwood tincture, and that experience was way easier to handle. At least back then, his stomach wasn''t tortured like it was being slowly filled with poison, and his blood didn''t ignite like a wildfire.


    Yet even such an explosion of sensations didn''t stop Malk from detaching from reality and diving back into the Spirit Palace. However, this time, he wasn''t scanning the mental desert for changes but rather hovering in the air and preparing for the next step in the Art. He worked not so much on his consciousness as on his will and intent, gathering from the darkest corners of his memory everything that fueled his determination and drive to reach his goal. When he felt ready, he started creating the Crystal Heart again. Only this time, instead of trying to draw the heart symbol with the power of his imagination, he formed it from his will and resolve, binding them with Force and cementing with Authority.


    Whether it was due to Malk''s insight or the Phantom Root Elixir, he lost track of time, completely absorbed in his practice. When he came to, he suddenly realized that he was almost out of energy again, his consciousness barely hanging on the edge of exiting the Palace, and in the sky above the spiritual desert... in the sky pulsed, drawing in golden sparks of light, the translucent sphere of the Crystal Heart.


    He... did it?! Damn, he did it! A wave of impossible joy, as bright as a fireworks explosion, swept over Malk, and he was instantly knocked out of the Spirit Palace into the real world. The world, where the first words he heard were Bachelor Hordol''s:


    "Congratulations, Adept! You now truly deserve this title..."


    But it wasn''t until much later that Malk grasped this.


    [1] Translator''s note: basically, it is a rural illiterate version of "coffee," serving as another hint at the fact that they come from Colhaun, a backwater region (or maybe they just call the drink in such a way, but like my explanation more). In the original, it''s [kofe] (grammatically correct) vs. [kofiy] (as my grandmother from a village would call it). As far as I was able to find, the only well-known English variation is "cawfee," but it belongs to the NY/Boston dialect, which isn''t suitable here.


    [2] Author''s note: In modern esoteric arts (internal styles of wushu, meditative practices, internal alchemy, prayer practices), this method of working with students is called "direct transmission" or "heart-to-heart transmission" (naturally, it refers to the transfer of certain internal attunements, not knowledge or images.).

 Glossary

    WORLD OF MRITLOK


    Brief History


    Mritlok is a world of countless islands. Ancient chronicles say that tens of thousands of years ago, there were seven continents on the planet, but then disasters, wars, and natural calamities disfigured it so much that all major landmasses were shattered into numerous fragments. Into islands¡ªforty-one relatively large ones and countless smaller ones. Frankly, no one knows exactly how many islands there are in Mritlok. And, alas, no one ever will. Due to volcanic activity, dozens of small islands disappear and reappear daily. But that''s not the main reason for the counting difficulties¡ªthe cataclysms that shook the world affected space itself. Lacunas, distortions, spontaneous and wandering portals, rifts to other planes¡ªall of this has long become part of the world''s structure, making it impossible to create accurate maps. Suffice it to say that some islands can only be reached once a year when a passage opens in the barrier of spatial distortions around them, and to reach others that are technically within sight, one might have to detour several thousand miles.


    How did this become possible? There are two answers¡ªmagic and the consequences of demon invasions from neighboring realities. The first is straightforward. Sources of magic affect not only living beings, granting them new abilities and transforming their bodies, not only cause tectonic shifts and unleash the wrath of natural forces, but also tear the very fabric of space. And nothing can be done about it.


    As for demons, it''s much more complicated. It''s believed that tens of thousands of years ago, when the planet looked different, there was no magic in the world, and human civilization followed the path of technological development. Ships, cars, various mechanisms... It''s hard to say how advanced the ancestors were¡ªonly a few artifacts from that era have survived¡ªbut one thing is clear: they didn''t know magic. Otherwise, Yorrokh''s demons would never have conquered this world and ruled it for about fifteen hundred years.


    The era of demon dominance in modern history is called the Dark Ages. An era when humans were reduced to the level of livestock being fattened for slaughter. Those bloody times deserve a separate conversation, so here we''ll just say that after the Uprising of the Nine, the rule of the demons ended, and most of them were cast back into Hell. Humanity entered the Renaissance era, and the day of the Uprising is considered the start of a new calendar. On the ruins of demon cities and dominions, human states emerged, and culture and science were revived. The blood-paid demon knowledge gave birth to human magic.


    It seemed a Golden Age had begun. But, alas, humans can''t live peacefully for long. Over the years, memories of the horrific blood-soaked past faded, grievances multiplied, aggravated by the isolation of island nations, and the once-united alliance fell apart. Infighting began, quickly escalating into a series of full-scale wars now known as the Wars for Legacy. Wars that once again reduced people to the level of savages. Archmages who still remembered fighting demons, gruesome mechanisms used without hesitation, and superbly equipped soldiers¡ªall became death''s scythe sweeping across the islands, nearly finishing what the demons had started during the Uprising of the Nine.


    Probably, people would have killed each other off, but the old enemy returned to the world¡ªangrier and much more prepared¡ªand the feuds had to be forgotten. The new war with demons, or the Second Wave, began in the year 1789 and lasted a hundred years. The population of one and a half billion was reduced by almost twenty times, civilization was destroyed again, and the already thin fabric of reality was torn in many places. Though humanity''s numbers gradually recovered and civilization was reborn, the world''s wounds never healed. And the sign of that ailment became Yorrokh''s Night.


    Since then, every winter, the world¡ªusually for a few hours, but in bad years, even for a whole sennight¡ªplunges into twilight, and with the gloom to human cities comes true Darkness. As the boundary between worlds thins and rips apart, bloodthirsty creatures emerge onto the streets. And woe to those caught outside a shelter or protected manor!..


    Such is the world we live in. And don''t hope it''ll ever get any better.


    Political Map of the World


    (TL: maybe I''ll edit the images later. In the middle of the top of the first image is Boreas; on the top right is Arktavia; in the left bottom corner is Avalon; in the bottom right corner is Tarakhont. On the second image, the top left side is likely Ganzur Commonwealth, and the biggest island at the bottom below it is Styxson.)


    As of the writing of this work (3011 A.U.), the planet''s political situation is as follows.


    Six main and most influential players stand out. They are Avalon, Arktavia, Boreas, Styxson, Tarakhont, and the Ganzur Commonwealth.


    The Avalon Islands are located south of the Yavan Belt and west of the Rida''s Scatter. Geographically, they consist of two large islands and about fifteen smaller ones. And it''s here that the state of Avalon emerged¡ªthe most powerful and developed in the entire Southern Hemisphere. The country is ruled by a Chancellor, elected for four years by the Council of Houses. The dominant ideology is personal freedom and development without restrictions. Permanent transformations of the human essence, interference in hereditary information, and any magical experiments are allowed here. The latter, however, are under the strictest control of the Council of Houses. Avalon has the largest armored fleet among all civilized countries and uses more combat chimeras in the army than anyone else. The fame of the strongest mentalists also belongs to Avalon''s mages.


    Avalon''s main rival at sea is the Ganzur Commonwealth, located in the Eastern Hemisphere, north of the Yavan Belt. Fourteen large islands, fourteen countries with political systems ranging from monarchy to the wildest forms of despotism, are united in an alliance to protect their trade interests across Mritlok. While Avalon at least tries to cover its desires with a veneer of appealing slogans, the Commonwealth doesn''t bother with such trifles. Their goal is profit. And it doesn''t matter who they trade with. Even with Yorrokh''s demons, especially since one of the few remaining demon domains, Faedu, is right nearby. The Commonwealth''s military fleet focuses on massive ships with equally massive cannons, and the army relies on the strength of creatures summoned from other realms and necrotic constructs.


    Tarakhont is located east of the Rida''s Scatter on the island of the same name. Despite its formal proximity to Avalon, the colossal spatial distortions in the Scatter area make their neighborhood relatively safe. Few ships can break through the archipelago of tens of thousands of islands, so Tarakhont hardly considers Avalon''s greed for foreign lands a threat. Moreover, even without impressive magical, technical, or military might, this state manages to dominate its closest neighbors quite successfully. Only raids from Styxson or pirating merchants from the Commonwealth don''t let Tarakhont completely relax. The main strength of this state is its marine bestiologists, whose pets provide reliable protection against enemy invasions.


    Styxson is probably Mritlok''s gloomiest state. For unclear reasons, during both demonic wars, its population was completely wiped out, as if the invaders had a special grudge against the island''s inhabitants. The battles of the past left their mark on this much-suffering land. The local soil yields meager harvests, the landscapes are bleak, and magical anomalies defy any accounting. Nevertheless, Styxson is not considered weak or poor. The scarcity of resources is compensated by the power of its mages. The legacy of ancient wars and the abundance of magic sources have allowed the growth of the strongest School of malefics and several Schools of combat mages. Styxson''s fleet is mostly sail-powered, but magical shields and stationary artifacts make up for the technological lag.


    And finally, the last two Mritlok states in the "senior" league¡ªBoreas and Arktavia. Six hundred years ago, they were part of one country that aspired to world domination, but the tragic death of the ruling dynasty during one of the longest Yorrokh''s Nights led first to civil war and then to a split. While Arktavia eventually returned to monarchy, Boreas, after a relatively recent uprising, is ruled by a Council of Regents consisting of representatives from the three most influential Houses. The neighbors'' relations can be characterized as armed neutrality¡ªthey don''t fight but keep their powder dry. Boreas, in addition to the island of the same name, also controls the island of Relak, while Arktavia''s zone of influence includes Skond. How many smaller islands there are and who they belong to, no one really knows. As long as these countries can''t find common ground, there''s no fear of their expansion. It''s no wonder that both countries'' fleets consist of coastal floating ironclad batteries and trading sailboats. Only their land forces boast impressive power. While the northern mages have long been famous for their deep knowledge and mastery of magic, the mechanized golems and heavy mechanized infantry in the armies of Boreas and Arktavia appeared relatively recently. And they''ve proven themselves well in repelling raids from cursed Heimdarch.


    Social Stratification


    The elite of every country in Mritlok is entirely comprised of mages. And while technological progress has slightly nudged them off their pedestal, it hasn''t significantly changed the balance of power.


    Ordinary citizens (subjects) are regular inhabitants of a country, devoid of the magical Gift (ungifted). They have no special advantages. Usually, they can hold any positions that don''t specifically require a Gift, except for command and high managerial posts.


    The Gifted are people who have undergone initiation and possess the ability to accumulate and manipulate magical energy. In recent years, in civilized countries, they don''t have significant privileges compared to regular citizens, except for access to magical libraries and Sources of Force. In many countries, like Boreas and Arktavia, they are subject to an additional tax in the form of mandatory submission of several ergs of energy to the state.


    Nobles are people possessing a Gift above average (Junior Magister and above) or those who have mage ancestors (Apprentice and above) for at least three generations, which must be proven by documents. They have the right to hire personal mage servants, run shops selling magical items, manage alchemical laboratories, and access much more serious magical knowledge.


    A Family can be founded by high-ranking noble mages (Magister and above) whose children also show signs of a Gift. Founders of Families gain the right to acquire land for building a manor (family castle). Each Family also has the right to own a Source of Force up to the third class and freely train its members in combat spells up to the fourth circle.


    A House is formed by several Families united by common bloodline traits (Lineage) and a shared inclination toward magic. They gain access to almost any knowledge (except that on the special list) available in state libraries and laboratories, the right to own a Source of Force up to the sixth class, and even the ability to move their manor into a fold of space. The most ancient and powerful Houses are ruled with an iron hand by Patriarchs¡ªsupreme mages who have ventured so far down the path of comprehending Force that they can no longer always be considered human. At least in terms of their psyche and worldview.


    In some countries, standing apart from the traditional hereditary estates, exists the service estate. It includes either lone mages who swear loyalty to the state (and then receive almost the same personal development privileges as House members) or those from Families (exclusively from Families!) whose members have historically served the state. In Boreas, this estate is called the Purple Chamber.


    Relations between nobles (whether lone or members of Houses and Families) are regulated by a noble assembly.


    Religion


    All people believe in a single Creator and pray to him. However, it''s believed that the Creator had Nine beloved children, the Nine Holy Warriors, the Nine Holy Demonslayers. Legendary heroes who led the rebellion against Yorrokh''s rule and freed enslaved humanity. Each of the Saints is considered a patron of a particular sphere of human activity, and for success in one''s endeavors, it''s necessary to choose a patron.


    Achont. Depicted as a blond warrior in armor, with white wings and a huge two-handed sword. Patron of noble people, martial arts, and military affairs in general. His most famous nicknames are the First and the Warrior.


    Yelya. Depicted as a young girl in a tight-fitting dress with her head covered. Patroness of healers and mental mages.


    Lorianna. Always smiling, a red-haired beauty in a revealing dress. Patroness of seduction, temptations, and any secret affairs.


    Kehtot. Depicted as a person in a cloak with a deep hood, face unseen. Hands always hidden in sleeves. A book with a metal cover and a tricky clasp hangs on a chain at the waist. Patron of seekers of hidden knowledge and those who walk the edge. The most disliked Saint by the people (sometimes referred to as the Fourth, or Patron of Malefics).


    Dorana. A grim female warrior in a metal half-mask and plate armor, always depicted with a whip at her waist and a strange-looking monster at her feet. Patroness of hunters of demonic creatures, assassins, and executioners. Her most famous nickname is the Huntress.


    Druzal. A classic archmage, as depicted by writers and poets. Robe, bushy beard, staff, and a leather bag at the waist. Patron of all who follow the path of knowledge and Force.


    Murrtash. A stocky man in chainmail with an axe at his belt. Sometimes, depicted with a demon''s head placed at his feet. Patron of all who work with their hands.


    Rzavian. Depicted as a tall, skinny man with a sallow face, in a frock coat buttoned up to the neck, and a magic wand at his waist. A classic image of an inspector. Considered the patron of all bureaucrats, technomage artificers, and, for some reason, peasants.


    Chilkara. Looks like a striking brunette in a leather riding outfit. Always holds a saber, with a quiver of arrows on her back. Considered the patroness of law enforcement and travelers.


    Technological Level


    The world of Mritlok is a world of steam, where there''s no crude oil, gas, or electricity. Well, the latter does exist, but magic prevents its use. Insulators fail instantly, and generators burn out. Similarly, aviation is not developed¡ªspatial distortions, airborne magical anomalies, flying monsters, and demonic creatures make mass flights impossible. The only way to travel the world is by ship, preferably an armored one, with plenty of guns and heavily enchanted. One can also travel by portals, but that''s at one''s own risk. Sometimes, the disruptions are so severe that travelers arrive in pieces... or not at all!


    Magic


    The greatest value in Mritlok isn''t gold or jewels; it''s knowledge. For only knowledge determines personal power, and restricted access to certain information is the foundation of societal stability. Therefore, spells, ways to develop one''s Gift, and most theoretical works on magic are divided into access levels (not to be confused with a spell''s circle classification).


    Spells are ranked by the Force applied and complexity, from zero to the ninth circle (higher ones are yet unknown). If the zero circle is the level of spells for lighting a fire or drying clothes, the ninth often requires the joint effort of several Archmages and is capable of destroying and sinking into the sea a whole island.


    Each spell requires energy, which is measured in ergs. One erg can power a three-room apartment for four days, five ergs make a small Fire Pulsar, and with a hundred ergs and some knowledge, a mage can flatten a village or even a small town.


    A weak Archmage''s reserve typically starts at three hundred ergs.


    A Gifted''s reserve (someone who underwent initiation but never earned the right to be called a mage) ranges from one to six ergs, rarely reaching eight.


    A weak mage''s reserve starts at nine ergs.


    Besides reserve volume, the replenishment rate is also important. Near places with a high natural magic background, an average starting mage''s reserve replenishes at one to two-tenths of an erg per hour. Three to four-tenths of an erg is a solid claim to a promising future.


    In the first year or so after initiation, a mage''s reserve doubles (with proper training).


    For the next ten years, it grows by about a tenth each year.


    For the next twenty, it grows by about a fortieth.


    After that, it gets worse, with growth of one erg or less per year. Again, these numbers are quite general. Everything depends on the place of study, amount of training, and the adequately chosen Arcane Art.


    In theory, one could become an Archmage with 150¨C160 years of practice, but in reality, such results are rare. Very rare.


    It''s worth noting that the most powerful Archmages, besides having a large reserve, also possess a direct channel to the subtle planes, equivalent to having their own third or fourth-class Source of Force.


    There are the following mage ranks (with their corresponding spell levels in parentheses): Adept (0 circle), Apprentice (1st circle), Bachelor (2nd circle), Junior Magister (3rd circle), Magister (4th-5th circles), Senior Magister (6th-7th circles), Archmage (8th circle), Grand Mage (9th circle).


    Patriarchs, the founders of ancient Houses, stand apart. Being Archmages or Grand Mages with access to a family Source for centuries, if not millennia, they merge so deeply with its Force that they are considered mages beyond category. However, there aren''t many of these ancient sorcerers, and they greatly dislike leaving their manors.


    Sources of magic (Force) come in the following classes (degrees):


    First¡ªjust a place with a higher-than-average background, which makes it easier for two or three Apprentices or a dozen Adepts to replenish their reserves.


    Second¡ªa place with a highly saturated background, from which, with some effort, a channel to the Force-rich subtle planes can be pierced. Can supply energy to about ten Junior Magisters who use magic moderately or a few dozen Bachelors.


    Third¡ªa naturally (or from a second-degree source) formed Source, suitable for usage by three or four Magisters. Development to higher degrees is possible but would require truly extraordinary effort.


    Fourth¡ªa stable, naturally formed channel suitable for supplying energy to a small magic School or a young Family''s manor. Can develop to higher degrees.


    Fifth¡ªa stabilized tear in the fabric of reality. Perfect for supplying large Schools, lab complexes, or small fortifications. Can develop to the sixth degree over several hundred years. Or, if unlucky, degrade and close.


    Sixth¡ªa fixed breach into other planes, capable of supplying an entire city with energy or even serving as the basis for a full-fledged spatial fold.


    Seventh¡ªa two-way permanent portal to other planes, suitable for energy transfer. Extremely rare and a national treasure for any state, it serves as the backbone of the economy.


    It''s worth noting that the classification of Sources and the amount of energy they supply are quite approximate. For instance, during Yorrokh''s Night, there have been cases of Sources "drying up" as well as becoming excessively active, sometimes with catastrophic consequences.


    Cost of Energy. Ten ergs are sold for an average of one gold drachma, but the price varies depending on the country and the current energy market supply. For instance, in Boreas, energy is quite expensive, while in Styxson, on the contrary, it''s pretty cheap.


    A mage''s ability is determined by the following characteristics: reserve volume, reserve replenishment rate (natural and using a gathering formula), "color" of personal Authority, and the presence of Lineage.


    An Arcane Art is a method for developing a mage''s Gift from Adept onward (which may or may not take into account the Gifted''s Lineage, affinity with Elements, and other traits). Rated in stars. One star means the possibility of developing from the initial stage of Adept to its peak. Two stars¡ªto the peak of Apprentice. And so on, up to eight stars and the level of Grand Mage.


    The possibility of obtaining or acquiring a particular Arcane Art:


    One star¡ªfreely distributed techniques taught in public courses or sold in stores and libraries for relatively little money.


    Two to three stars¡ªtaught in magic Schools or sold with minimal restrictions in stores and libraries (though the price is significantly higher than for one-star, which might even be free).


    Four stars¡ªavailable only in serious Schools, the military, or can be inherited. Almost never appear for open sale.


    Five stars¡ªavailable for study in the guard, special services, or the strongest Schools with centuries of history. Also is a part of the heritage of aristocratic Families and Houses.


    Six to seven stars¡ªnational treasures of each state. Obtainable only by being part of the high aristocracy or through personal apprenticeship with Archmages and Grand Mages.


    Eight stars¡ªmeans of acquisition unknown. Any reliable information about Arcane Arts of this rank is universally classified.


    Each Arcane Art has its limitations and practice requirements. The higher the stars, the higher the demands. Everything is considered: reserve volume, Lineage, Elemental affinity, Authority, and Saints know what else.


    Some Arcane Arts can enhance inclinations toward certain types or branches of magic, grant additional abilities, or even transform one into something new. Most easily accessible one-star Arcane Arts only have a reserve volume requirement (between nine and twenty¨Ctwenty-five ergs).


    There is also a gradation according to a color scale.


    An Arcane Art can include techniques for developing various aspects of a mage''s abilities. For example, red one-star Arcane Arts usually focus only on increasing reserve volume, and not in the most efficient way at that.


    HIGHER EDUCATION INSTITUTIONS AND MAGIC ORGANIZATIONS


    Academy of the Four Elements (four stars)¡ªone of the strongest magic Schools in Boreas. The director is an Archmage. Focused on developing elemental mages. Strict requirements for knowledge, Gift, and Lineage.


    Ashalek¡ªStyxson Brotherhood of assassin mages.


    Magic Bank (State Magic Bank)¡ªan organization also known as the Energy Vault. In each state, it has a strategic role, responsible for controlling Sources of Force, collecting, purifying, and storing energy reserves. It is not allowed to create or maintain its own armed security structures, teach magic, or engage in political activities. In Boreas, the Magic Bank reports directly to the Triumvirate.


    Guild of Dreamers¡ªan organization overseeing almost everything related to Dreamers'' activities. This includes preserving and studying their research results, assessing the impact of new knowledge on state stability, and commercializing it. The Guild of Dreamers has a monopoly on everything its members obtain from the Dreamworld, including visual images, imprints of others'' thoughts, and products created based on them. Guilds in all major countries actively cooperate with the Hall of Rememberers on matters concerning humanity''s safety.


    Hall of Rememberers¡ªa secret organization whose purpose is to counter demonic influences and ensure humanity''s survival. According to legend, it was founded by the Nine Saints in the period between the two demonic wars. Theoretically, it is meant to be international and not subordinate to the governments of individual countries, yet in reality, some branches have long lost their autonomy. Nonetheless, the membership requirements remain standard: at least average magical abilities, resistance to demonic influences, and initiation into arcane knowledge. The Hall''s hierarchy (from junior to senior)¡ªCandidate, Journeyman, Master of Whispers, Keeper of Memory (or Elder).


    College of White Gloves (five stars)¡ªthe strongest magic School in Boreas. The director is an Archmage. Focused on training future high-level managers and versatile mages. Extremely strict admission requirements (Lineage, wealth, hereditary nobility, loyalty to the Triumvirate).


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    School of Iron and Blood (four stars)¡ªone of the strongest magic Schools in Boreas. The director is an Archmage. Focused on training battle mages. Strict requirements for wealth, Gift, Lineage, and reputation (social status).


    School of Three Saints (three stars)¡ªa fairly well-known magic School. The director is a Senior Magister. Good grades, a knack for magic, and money are needed for admission.


    Haori School (four stars)¡ªan Avalon School specializing in training assassin mages.


    A School is a magic educational center and simultaneously a community of students and alumni led by a director (rector). Each influential School has both a notable magical heritage (Arcane Arts and Techniques, unique spells and methods of their application, ways to develop Authority and Lineage, and its own perspective on the laws of magic) and a solid material base (its own magic Sources, channels for obtaining resources needed for mage development, and possibly even portals to nearby planes of reality). Schools usually support the ruling regimes, but there are cases when they go into opposition and cause major wars. School structure: outer disciples (students who follow a regular, often simplified program), inner disciples (students who follow an advanced program and receive some special resources), personal disciples (exceptionally talented students who follow an advanced program and receive support from senior mages), and Heirs (outstanding talents who swear loyalty to the School or a specific mage and receive the full knowledge of the Teacher).


    GENERAL INFORMATION ABOUT THE WORLD


    Velvet Book¡ªthe main compilation of information on the magic Houses and Families of Boreas, regularly updated. The original is made of magically treated leather and stored in the Main State Archive (formerly the Imperial Archive); paper copies can be found in many major libraries.


    Library of Regents¡ªthe largest library in Boreas, under the patronage of the Triumvirate. Has high requirements for civil status (access to some sections requires up to five gold stars in a passport), expensive subscriptions (a single visit to a section that doesn''t require special permits costs ten obols).


    Great Andalore Reading Hall¡ªone of the most popular public libraries in Andalore, where the relative scarcity of literary collections is compensated by affordability (a reader''s subscription costs only four obols and has no restrictions on civil status).


    Bureau of Calamities¡ªa government organization in Boreas responsible for collecting information on all catastrophes occurring in the world, studying their consequences, and predicting their recurrence. The main focus of the research is Yorrokh''s Nights.


    "Voice of the Magnate and Merchant"¡ªan Andalore tabloid. Published every sennight and targeted at readers interested in trade and industry news.


    The Uprising¡ªa rebellion of several aristocratic Houses against the emperor of Boreas, leading to a long and bloody civil war. It ended with the overthrow of the dynasty and a change in the state system (Boreas became a republic with three Regents at the helm).


    Noble Assembly¡ªan official association of all nobles (whether hereditary or acquired), playing the role of both a club of interests and a regulatory body (for example, it grants or denies permission for duels, including between non-nobles). In some cases, the decision to subject a "misbehaving" member to public ostracism proves to be a more effective punishment than those available from the state''s judicial system.


    "Demon-lovers"¡ªa colloquial term for those advocating for finding compromises with intelligent demon races, being more tolerant of the magical heritage of demonic realities, and seeking to reduce the excessive use of force during Yorrokh''s Nights.


    Drachma¡ªa gold coin, the standard term for currency in Mritlok. Its value varies from state to state, so one Boreas drachma isn''t exactly equal to one Styxson drachma. One drachma contains one hundred obols (silver coins).


    Hierarchy of demons (and demon worshippers)¡ªDemonic Warrior (Adept¨CApprentice level), Flesh Hunter (Bachelor level), Soul Collector (Junior Magister level), Abyss Listener (Magister level), Master of Calamities (Senior Magister level), and Inferno Lord (Archmage level). The highest rank is called Ruler of the Fiery Palace (equivalent to Grand Mage), but no Rulers have appeared in Mritlok for several millennia.


    "Magic and Steam"¡ªthe oldest newspaper in Andalore. Published every sennight and primarily dedicated to news in politics, magic, and science.


    Master¡ªa respectful address to any professional (Gifted or not).


    Mechanized warrior¡ªa product of the fusion of science and advanced magical developments. It is a humanoid walking machine piloted by a mage. The mechanized warrior''s armament includes various melee and firearms, as well as amplifiers for magical spells. The nature of operating it determines the key requirements for pilots¡ªin addition to magical abilities no lower than Apprentice level, endurance and physical strength are crucial.


    Mechanized Armor¡ªa simplified version of a mechanized warrior (not a walking machine, but individual armor with some modifications).


    Miles¡ªa respectful address for any priest, regardless of gender. The origin of the word is unknown, likely some dialect from the pre-demonic era.


    Gifted Tax¡ªa common practice in many Mritlok countries where a Gift holder must pay a monthly tax of several ergs. The amount varies from country to country. In some places, it''s a few ergs (Boreas, Arktavia), while elsewhere, a fixed amount is replaced by a percentage of the reserve, with monthly payments sometimes reaching several dozen ergs (Avalon Islands). In most countries, substituting energy with a monetary equivalent is strictly forbidden.


    Gifted Passport¡ªthe primary document for anyone with a Gift. Issued as a metal token with embedded controlling spells. For regular Gifted, it''s made of bronze; for Adepts, Apprentices, and Bachelors¡ªiron; for any Magister¡ªsilver; and for an Archmage¡ªgold. A platinum token is reserved for a Grand Mage, but whether such documents (or Grand Mages themselves) exist is unknown to the general public.


    Message to Descendants¡ªa collection of texts presumably written between the end of the Uprising of the Nine and the Second Wave. Contains a brief history of humanity''s war with demon enslavers, biographies of all Saints, and their teachings to future generations.


    Dawn¡ªthe end of Yorrokh''s Night.


    Council of Regents (Regents, Triumvirate)¡ªthe governing body of the Boreas republic. Consists of representatives from the three most influential Houses (Cheringar, Lupergot, Kravgam).


    Repository of Books of the Countries of Mritlok¡ªthe second-largest library in Boreas. It barely contains any magic-related sections and mainly focuses on storing books on the geography, nature, and history of Mritlok and neighboring planes of reality. Access depends on one''s civil status and financial means¡ªthe cheapest single-use pass costs eight obols.


    Color Scale¡ªin Mritlok, the power or quality of something is assessed not only with stars but also by a color scale. There are seven levels (classes, ranks) or simply colors: red, orange, yellow, green, azure, blue, and violet. Red is considered the lowest, while violet is the highest.


    ARTIFACTS, SPELLS, RITUALS, AND ELIXIRS


    Avalonch¡ªa special pouch for storing glass cylinders with one-time spells.


    Memory Reader Device¡ªa device traditionally created in the form of a glass cube with a complex mechanism inside. Has two handprints on the lid. Contains a second-circle mental spell.


    Water Hands (Fire Hands, Earth Hands, etc.)¡ªa first-circle spell that creates additional limbs for the mage (depending on the version, they can be summoned close to the target).


    Air Cushion¡ªa first-circle spell from the Air Arsenal. Used for fall protection and as a barrier.


    Air Disc¡ªa zero-circle spell from the Air Arsenal. Has many uses, from a flight aid to a weapon, depending on its development level (from zero to second circle).


    Defenders¡ªa group of low-power civilian artifacts aimed at easing the everyday life of the Gifted. Variations are numerous, but the name always includes "Defender." For example, an Insect Defender is used against gnats and mosquitoes, while a Rat Defender is bought to drive away rats and other rodents.


    Protective Circle¡ªthe simplest magical ritual designed to create an area shielded from external influences. A basic element of many other rituals.


    Druzal''s Mirror¡ªone of the main tools in the self-improvement practice of Mritlok mages. Allows the development of various facets of a magical Gift, enhances the effects of Arcane Arts, and speeds up the learning process.


    Banish Disease¡ªa zero-circle healing spell (Pneuma, Fire Element), the Runeglyph sequence describing it includes ten characters. Its principle is based on destroying pathogens in the blood (while simultaneously boosting the immune system). Basic use requires six ergs of energy. The most effective application is achieved with either Death or Fire Element.


    Spark¡ªthe simplest zero-circle combat spell, not tied to Pneuma or Elements (there can be just a Spark, Fire Spark, Thunder Spark, or full equivalents from other Elements, like Water Drop, Poison Drop, Stone Bullet, etc.). Consists of six Runeglyph characters. When activated, it forms a clump of energy compressed to material density, capable of dealing crushing or piercing damage. Easily modified or enhanced. Basic use requires two ergs of energy.


    Sparkthrowers¡ªhandheld ranged artifacts with shot power equivalent to the Fire Spark spell.


    Stone Palm (Fire, etc.)¡ªa first-circle spell at the intersection of Earth and Fire, taking the form of a large palm. Much stronger than the corresponding Fist spell.


    Kinetic Push¡ªa general term for either a way of using a telekinesis spell or its more "advanced" (first-circle) version. In the latter case, the spell generates a powerful kinetic blow.


    Fist of Wind (Water, Fire, Thunder, Stone Fist, etc.)¡ªa weak offensive spell of zero, sometimes first, circle from the Air (or any other) Arsenal. It''s a sphere of energy compressed to material density. The Runeglyph sequence includes fifteen characters. Requires three ergs of energy to create.


    Dreamcatcher¡ªa low-power artifact produced by the Guild of Dreamers. Designed to aid in falling asleep and protecting against nightmares caused by random magical energy fluctuations.


    Magma Sword¡ªa favorite spell of Bachelors who specialize in studying the blend of Fire and Earth known as Magma and prefer close combat. Each mage develops their own variation, endowing the Sword with a variety of properties.


    Magma Orb¡ªa destructive second-circle spell at the intersection of Fire and Earth.


    Minor Healing Charm ("Healer")¡ªa zero-circle healing spell (Pneuma, any Elements). The Runeglyph sequence describing it includes twelve characters. Its principle is based on accelerating the body''s recovery processes while simultaneously providing energy. Basic use requires two ergs of energy.


    Force Hearth¡ªan artifact (usually of natural origin) that facilitates the practice of gathering magical energy.


    Blood Cleansing¡ªa zero-circle healing spell (Pneuma, any Elements). The Runeglyph sequence describing it includes four characters. Its principle is based on stimulating the organs responsible for blood purification while simultaneously providing energy. Basic use requires one and a half ergs of energy. The greatest effect is achieved with either Life or Water Element.


    Body Nourishment¡ªa zero-circle healing spell (Pneuma, any Elements). The Runeglyph sequence describing it includes four characters. Its principle is based on energizing individual (weakened) body organs. Basic use requires one to four ergs of energy. The greatest effect is achieved with Life.


    Phantom Root Elixir¡ªa medicinal concoction designed to ease and speed up the progression of certain layers in Pneuma-focused Arcane Arts. The concoction is on the Special Control list. Its creation requires the involvement of an Apprentice-level or higher alchemist.


    Pulsar (Fire, Water, etc.)¡ªa destructive clump of magical energy with various properties. Its creation requires a deep understanding of a specific Element (meaning development at the peak of Apprentice rank or even Bachelor).


    Dispersion¡ªa zero-circle spell (Pneuma). The Runeglyph sequence describing it includes eight characters. Designed to remove the effects of external magical influences (curses, enchantments, restrictive charms, etc.) and cleanse the target from energy contamination. Basic use requires two ergs of energy.


    Force (Energy) Stone¡ªa natural or lab-synthesized energy storage. The most common capacity for stones available to regular Gifted is between one and four ergs.


    Stalagmite Trap¡ªa second-circle spell of Earth mages. Looks like stone spikes bursting from the ground. Depending on the mastery of the spell, understanding of Earth Element and Authority, the number of spikes, their size, and strength can vary.


    Wind Arrow (Fire, Water, etc.)¡ªa zero-circle spell from the Air (or other) Arsenal. Arguably the most powerful available to Adepts outside high-ranking Schools, sects, and Houses.


    Ka Sphere¡ªa device used, first, to determine a person''s inclination towards magic before undergoing initiation with Force, and second, to conduct the initiation itself. Doesn''t have a single standard form. In practice, both Spheres from major firms and those developed by little-known groups of mages and mechanics are used.


    Telekinesis¡ªa spell that allows manipulation of physical objects. The number, weight, and other parameters depend on the mage''s skill and spell mastery. Unlike direct use of Authority to move objects, telekinesis is less demanding on Spirit, energy, and more flexible.


    Ritual of Three Seeds¡ªa divination ritual using bean seeds as a medium. If successful, the caster gains a magical compass that can point to the search target for a day. Or it might not point at all if the target is protected by special means.


    Shock Whip¡ªa non-lethal magical weapon that inflicts convulsions, bouts of intense pain, and mild burns on the victim.


    Shields (Water, Fire, Magma, Lightning, Dust, Mist, etc.)¡ªa group or class of defensive spells united by a common name. They vary in complexity, used Elements, and levels (circles).


    ARCANE ARTS AND GENERAL MAGIC THEORY


    Battle Mage¡ªa mage specializing in the destructive aspects of Elemental magic. Their development path relies entirely on studying defensive and offensive spells.


    Diviner¡ªa mage specializing in working with the forces of Fate. Strongly disliked by demons. Also, there are no diviners above the rank of Bachelor.


    Howard''s Boundary¡ªthe barrier separating a person''s Spirit from the world of subtle energies. Essentially, initiation means just breaking through it.


    Spirit Palace¡ªa mental space reflecting the state of a mage''s Spirit. Practicing an Arcane Art or Arcane Techniques involves first entering the Palace and then transforming it.


    Demonologist¡ªa mage specializing in studying demonic magic, traditionally a ritual expert and good theorist. Big downside: if a demonologist doesn''t have backing from Hell (meaning as long as they remain on humanity''s side), their Spirit inevitably gets marked, and the mage''s life becomes plagued by constant aggressive attention from otherworldly creatures. The strongest demonologists always possess a corresponding Lineage.


    Magic Diagram¡ªMritlok mages'' concept of magical energy being divided into five main "shades" or types: Pneuma, Fire, Water, Air, and Earth. Each type has a tilt towards the positive or negative spectrum. When discussing the spectrum of Elements or their combinations, terms like "Creation magic" and "Destruction magic" are often used. For Pneuma¡ªthe primary energy or cosmic breath that once gave birth to all other Elements¡ªthe positive and negative spectrums are called Life magic and Death magic, respectively.


    Rain of Pain¡ªan Authority development technique (yellow rank) passed to Malk, Helavia, and Tolfan by their mentor Reslan Skom in boarding school. Classified as a Forbidden Technique.


    Soul of Fire¡ªa highly demanding Arcane Art (six stars, blue rank) aimed at gradually enhancing a Gifted''s abilities in the Fire Element (gives a chance to transform into a fire elemental or another fire plane inhabitant). Mandatory conditions to start practicing are having an awakened fire Lineage, like that of House Cheringar, a large reserve, and Authority at least at the beginning of the orange level. The peak of development is the practitioner''s readiness to break through the barrier separating a Gifted from the Archmage level.


    Spell¡ªa projection of a mage''s will into the world. It follows certain laws and is composed of Runeglyph symbols, with two possible methods of use. The first involves a preliminary learning (mastery) process, where the sequence of characters is imprinted in the mage''s Spirit, allowing for quick (instant) activation. In this case, there are three levels (ranks) of spell mastery: lower, middle, and higher (peak). The fourth level means using the spell as the main support for a magical Nimbus. The better a mage masters a spell, the better its characteristics. The second method involves sequential activation of known Runeglyph characters (directly or during a ritual). This method is the slowest and least efficient, with no mastery level gradation.


    Forbidden Techniques (Arts)¡ªany methods or techniques for developing magical abilities (as well as temporarily or permanently enhancing them) that either cripple practitioners or harm others. The vast majority of demonic Arts fall under Forbidden Techniques.


    Mark of Fire¡ªan Arcane Art (one star, violet rank) specializing in preparing the practitioner for mastering much more serious Arts, like Soul of Fire (six stars, blue rank). Property of House Cheringar. Enables the fullest possible unlocking of the House''s Lineage and awakening of innate magical abilities.


    Crystal Heart¡ªan Arcane Art specializing in strengthening affinity with Pneuma (one star, yellow rank). Its downside is that it doesn''t develop Elemental affinity or contain Authority development techniques. Nevertheless, it''s considered decent (not the best, but decent) for building a foundation as a novice mage. It trains energy reserve replenishment speed well. Initially, it increases energy absorption by one-tenth of an erg per hour, and this growth can eventually reach three or four-tenths of an erg per hour. It has almost no effect on the practitioner''s body. As a side effect, it enhances the ability to maintain a clear mind in difficult conditions and slightly boosts resistance to mental influences, phantasmal effects, and curses.


    Puppeteer (Marionettist)¡ªa mage specializing in controlling mechanisms or soulless puppets, including mindless undead and incorporeal creatures. The choice between Element or Pneuma as the basis of their magic depends on the specific Puppeteer School. A mediocre puppeteer can control a couple of battle golems, a great one can handle a whole squad, and a superb one can command an armored cruiser alone.


    Healer¡ªa mage specializing in healing. Although specializing in Life magic is preferable, there are plenty of excellent healers who choose to study Creation magic from the Elemental category.


    Malefic¡ªa mage specializing in casting or removing curses. These mages are known for their high Authority and inclination toward Death or Destruction magic.


    Lesser Arcane Art¡ªa simplified method (compared to an Arcane Art) of developing certain qualities of a mage that are not part of an Arcane Art but don''t conflict with it. Not very common and usually owned by influential Houses, Families, Schools, and Combat Halls.


    Mentalist¡ªa not very common magical profession focused on manipulating the minds and Spirits of people or demons. All mentalists are strictly controlled by the state and aristocratic Houses.


    Metamorph¡ªa mage with a demonic or angelic Lineage, capable of partially or fully changing their appearance. All metamorphs are traditionally decent battle mages with a focus on close combat.


    Dreamworld¡ªa sort of spiritual realm that connects worlds and universes (the official position of the Guild of Dreamers). It reflects both events happening in other spaces and individual ideas or concepts. Only Dreamers can access the Dreamworld.


    Legacy¡ªa body of knowledge about fighting demons, preserved for future generations by the priests of the Nine Saints for millennia. Depending on the specific Saint, the content of a Legacy may vary, but it always focuses on developing Authority. Modern mages consider Legacies either completely outdated or meaningless (or even dangerous) and thus suitable only for entertaining the faithful.


    Nimbus¡ªa glowing ring around the mage''s energy center (core) in the Spirit Palace. Formed from fully mastered spells (at least three). During the ritual of crossing a rank boundary, one spell is placed in the center of the Nimbus, making it seem like part of the mage''s spiritual body. As a result, this magical construct gains instant activation and significantly increased flexibility.


    Practice deviations¡ªdisorders in the physical or subtle body (Spirit) of a Gifted, caused by errors in understanding or performing the practiced Arcane Art.


    Plane of reality¡ªa spatial formation or an entire world coexisting "alongside" Mritlok. Most often, a plane is either tied to a specific Element (plane of Fire, Death, etc.) or "resonates" with a particular type of magical "vibrations" (demon/Hell plane, Heaven plane).


    Runeglyph¡ªthe language of mages designed for creating spells.


    Seed of the Spirit¡ªa part of the subtle body of a high-ranking mage who has accepted a Legacy, responsible for interacting with a specific type of magic. It''s somewhat like spells fully integrated into the Spirit. But while spells perform a single action, the Seed expands the mage''s abilities in an entire branch of magic.


    Dreamer¡ªa mage with specific Spirit traits that strip them of all magical abilities except those granting access to the Dreamworld.


    Rzavian''s Standard¡ªa requirement for a mage to be able to fully replenish their reserve within a day, without which a successful breakthrough to the next rank is considered either impossible (true for the transition to Apprentice or Bachelor rank) or difficult (for all other ranks).


    Elemental transformation (Fire, Water, etc.)¡ªthe transformation of a mage''s body and Spirit into a new state, more akin to elementals, higher beings, and dwellers of the corresponding Elements.


    Arcane Technique¡ªa set of methods aimed at working with a specific characteristic of the practitioner (technique for developing Authority, energy absorption technique, etc.). When used outside its originating Art, often leads to serious negative consequences (practice deviations).


    Arcane Art¡ªa training methodology for developing a mage''s Gift. It consists of interconnected techniques aimed at enhancing characteristics such as reserve size and replenishment speed, Authority, development of the subtle body (sometimes referred to as Spirit or Body of Light) and affinity with Elements, awakening Lineage.


    Technomage¡ªa mage specializing in studying and creating various magical mechanisms. The most in-demand profession after healers.


    Gathering formula¡ªa method for gathering energy included in every Arcane Art. They can differ greatly depending on the Element, Lineage, or type of Art.


    Four Thunders¡ªa one-star, blue-rank Arcane Art aimed at enhancing Lightning affinity (a secondary Element formed by mixing Pneuma, Air, and either Fire or Water). The practitioner gains increased resistance to Lightning magic and the ability to integrate the essence of the Art into spells of other Elements (as a result, a pure Pneuma Arrow in the hands of a master of Four Thunders would also deal damage with lightning bolts and acoustic thunder attacks). In battles against ghosts, a specialist in Four Thunders has a guaranteed advantage, but there are almost no benefits against mages of "pure" Elements. The practice requirements are quite strict: a large reserve and high affinity with Air and Fire (or Water).


    Saint''s Shield¡ªan Arcane Art that slightly strengthens Earth affinity (one star, red rank). Simple and not demanding in terms of practice, it''s suitable for even the weakest of the Gifted (starting reserve of less than eight ergs). The main downside is that to reach the stage of meeting Rzavian''s Standard with it requires considerable effort. It slightly strengthens the practitioner''s body. As a side effect, it increases resistance to lesser demonic magic.


    Elementalist¡ªa mage specializing in a single specific Element (or a combination of Elements, like a Lightning mage). Even at early stages of development, elementalists can access elemental planes (at least in Spirit form), and eventually, they can fully elementalize their physical body. To reach high ranks, a good Lineage is necessary.

 Chapter Ten, where the hero finds a job, and problems find the hero

    Even in his wildest dreams, Malk hadn''t imagined that completing the last layer of Crystal Heart would happen so quickly. At best, he hoped for a couple of sennights of soul-draining practice that would suck the last drachmas from his wallet; at worst, he feared it might take a month or more. But luck was on his side. The Authority too strong for a novice Adept, the right elixir taken timely, the breakthrough in understanding magical principles, and now he was a real mage. A mage who had fully unlocked the features of his Arcane Art and whose next goal was simply to develop his abilities. Along with picking up new skills and gaining the knowledge essential for any sorcerer. Not to forget Rzavian''s Standard and the rules of the first year and three spells.


    Overall, despite the achieved progress, there were still way too many concerns. And with his cherished stash of money constantly dwindling, this fact didn''t exactly lift his spirits.


    Yorrokh''s sons, Malk had no more than fifteen drachmas left! Five months of living in the capital, if he only spent on food and lodging and forgot about everything else¡ªclothes that needed replacing, unavoidable expenses on various everyday stuff, and... yeah, damn it, his relationship with Helavia cost money too! Rides in cabs and steam omnibuses¡ªthey couldn''t just stroll around all the time¡ªgoing to eateries and other cultural spots, little gifts... when your wallet is empty, spending time with any lady, even the least demanding one, quickly loses its charm and inevitably ends in mutual complaints.


    And there was still the main expense¡ªcourses at the Society! Even though the education was free for now, diving deeper into any topic required payment. Take, for example, those three spells, supposedly provided for free by the Society, and which Malk still had to choose. The time for learning them was fixed, so if a student couldn''t grasp something, the only alternative to getting kicked out was additional tutoring. Naturally, not cheap. With the addition of the elixirs that had proven their usefulness, consultations with experienced mage practitioners, and various unexpected educational expenditures, the issue of money quickly became the main concern in Malk''s planning for his future.


    So, it was no surprise that the day after forming the Heart, he didn''t take Helavia and Tolfan to a restaurant to celebrate but instead rode a stuffy omnibus to a potential employer. Fortunately, he had read a job ad for Adepts and Apprentices in a newspaper a sennight ago and took the trouble to save it.


    The hiring was done by a small private clinic located on the southern outskirts of the city: two transfers from home and just one if going directly from the Society. Malk spent no more than half an hour on the road, which was already pretty good. Wasting a ton of time traveling around the city didn''t suit him at all.


    At first glance, the clinic building wasn''t impressive. Two stories, with red brick walls and a clay tile roof, it looked more like a country merchant''s estate than an abode of Yelya¡ªas hospitals were sometimes grandly called by the mages working there. The neighbors matched the vibe. On one side loomed an abandoned watchtower, and on the other, a half-ruined temple of Chilkara stared hungrily with its gaping window holes. And the presence of the patroness of travelers seemed much more fitting in this area than the heavenly protector of healers.


    Still, it wasn''t worth judging his future employer by the surroundings. Even from a distance, Malk''s spiritual sense picked up the presence of a Force source. His lack of experience didn''t allow him to be certain, but it seemed to be first-class. And the mere fact of its existence spoke of the solidity of the organization that owned it. Without direct access to one of Mritlok''s most crucial magical resources, one couldn''t reach great heights or make serious money.


    This noticeably cheered Malk up, and he made his way to the administrative wing of the infirmary in fighting spirit... Only to find out he didn''t need to fight for the job.


    "How long since you passed initiation? Chosen an Arcane Art?" These were the first questions Malk heard as soon as he stepped into the clinic manager''s office and explained his visit.


    The Bachelor asking them didn''t look like he genuinely cared about the answers. It felt like just a formality, and he seemed ready to hire Malk even if he barely met the requirements.


    In the end, Malk was still trying to explain about his fully completed Art and his affinity with Pneuma, while the Bachelor had already jumped up from his desk and dragged him into the courtyard. There, under a canopy, faintly pulsed green a complex figure made of a dozen circles, squares, and equilateral triangles of various sizes connected by straight and broken lines.


    It was indeed a first-degree source! Just like described in the textbook. Malk enthusiastically dove into studying the pattern of lines and the intricate Runeglyph inscriptions, getting so absorbed that he didn''t immediately hear his future employer. The clinic manager was asking how fast Malk could replenish his reserve.


    "Four-tenths of an erg per hour!" replied with some pride Malk, whose natural energy absorption rate had increased by a whole tenth of an erg per hour just by completing the last layer of his Art.


    "And from a source using your Art?" asked eagerly the Bachelor, who still hadn''t introduced himself.


    Malk shrugged.


    "Haven''t tried yet, but the manual mentions doubling the speed..." He paused and cautiously asked, "Master, I get your interest, but I would still like to know what position I''m applying for. Everything''s happening so fast, and you haven''t mentioned it yet!"


    "Yes, yes! Of course," the Bachelor nodded, seemingly not hearing Malk and clearly calculating something in his mind. Finally, as if to himself, he muttered, "Your Authority probably isn''t that high, but with some skill, you should manage... Alright!" And then, more clearly, he said, "Grab that jade sphere from the table. If you can extract a copy of the spell recorded in it, the job''s yours!"


    Malk looked first at the clinic manager and then at the sphere in confusion. Extract a spell copy? From that stone ball?! The Bachelor''s demand sounded downright crazy. Damn, Malk still wasn''t used to his ability to activate artifacts, let alone hoping to tackle the copying of someone else''s magic!


    Still, a task was a task. After all, the only thing at risk was the chance to get a job, right?


    So, Malk grabbed the indicated orb, moved away from the source, and sat Styxson-style right on the floor. He placed the jade sphere between his legs, covering it with his palms. Glancing once more at the Bachelor, who was watching him closely, Malk shrugged, then closed his eyes and focused on the spell storage...


    To realize his approach was wrong, he needed a few moments. The artifact didn''t react to his touch, indifferently chilling his hands. Malk had to take more active steps, so he started gradually channeling energy into the sphere, operating not in ergs but in fractions of an erg¡ªexactly as taught in Intro to General Magic Theory classes. Unfamiliar magical items¡ªbe they creations of ancient mages and demons or products of the modern fusion of technology and sorcery¡ªrequired cautious handling. So cautious that any wrong move wouldn''t harm the mage or destroy the item being studied.


    The correctness of this approach became clear soon enough. Within a few heartbeats. As it turned out, the stone flat-out refused to accept foreign energy. The magic hit an invisible barrier, sliding off like water on oily skin. Yet it didn''t harmlessly dissipate into the air, instead transforming according to laws unknown to Malk. Those tiny bits of energy he tried to feed into the jade sphere were just enough for his fingers to feel a bone-chilling cold, and the subtle body around his hands felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.


    "Yorrokh!" Malk muttered and, shamefully averting his gaze, rubbed his hands.


    Screwing up like that in front of the Bachelor was embarrassing. Oddly, the latter didn''t say a word and kept watching with some kind of morbid curiosity.


    Finally, Malk gathered himself and tried to figure out what he was doing wrong. If focusing and direct energy infusion didn''t work, what should the next step be?


    It didn''t take long to figure out. What did his mentor say about solving any problem? Right, start by studying the initial conditions. And that''s exactly what Malk had missed. After all, the sphere didn''t control the spell recorded in it; it stored it. Stored! So why try to find an activation key or fill it with Force?


    Smirking at his own stupidity, Malk detached from his body and plunged into the stone a fraction of his Spirit. The part of himself that had started to feel much more vivid and clear after forming the Crystal Heart... And this time, he succeeded. Before his mind''s eye instantly unfolded the inner space of the jade storage, and at its center, glowing green¡ªmatching the source''s color¡ªwas a construct of interlinked Runeglyph symbols. Neither the signs nor the rules for connecting them were familiar to Malk. So even if he wanted to, he couldn''t steal this spell. At least not yet. But to try copying... Well, at least the Bachelor considered it possible! And this time, Malk seemed to know what to do. After all, he hadn''t studied ways to work with Authority in the courses for nothing, right? This mage''s tool had many uses, and while there were often better alternatives, its strength lay in versatility.


    After going over the symbols etched into the reality of the sphere''s inner space¡ªeach stroke carried an echo of the Authority of the spell''s creator, and that Authority was at least a rank higher than Malk''s¡ªhe tried to grasp with his attention the entire construct. Grasp, cover with a blanket of his own energy, apply a bit of his Authority, and... pull it all toward himself.


    By Malk''s calculations, his strength should''ve been enough to create the needed "imprint" of the spell without destroying the original. And he was mostly right! The "imprint" formed, and the original spell remained intact... the issue came from elsewhere. Either Malk overdid it, or the original magical construct wasn''t firmly anchored in the sphere, because along with his imprint, he pulled out the entire contents of the storage. And when he opened his eyes, he found a slowly rotating clump of two similar-looking Runeglyph symbol chains between his palms. Only, one blazed with Force, while the other resembled embers smoldering under ash.


    "Yorrokh and his legions screw you, you busted the storage!" The Bachelor''s shout snapped Malk out of his concentration.


    An invisible force crushed the already disintegrating spells into a sparking green ball, yanked it from Malk''s hands, tore it into thousands of pieces, and flung the remnants into the center of the source. A beam of light immediately shot into the sky, and the consequences of Malk''s failed experiment completely dissolved into the air.


    "So, what''s your Authority rank again?" the manager asked as if nothing had happened and gazed at Malk with some different sort of interest. Not like a doctor or, Saints forbid, a vivisector, but like a merchant at a bazaar.


    "Almost mid-red!" Malk replied guardedly.


    It only just hit him that he had broken someone else''s artifact. And no words about his innocence would help. The "you break it¡ªyou pay for it" principle worked in all worlds. More so in the cases when the owner of the damaged item was strong and influential enough to collect his due even if the debtor was unwilling to pay.


    "Well, pretty decent for an Adept. Congratulations!" The Bachelor nodded, wiping off his face the expression that Malk would still call greed. "Now, try doing what you did last time with that sphere, but not so... forcefully."


    He handed Malk another jade orb, which had been previously lying in a box outside the canopy. The manager clearly wasn''t going to stop the tests because of one failure. Malk had no choice but to sigh and hope that everything would go right the second time...


    And his expectations were fully met! Taking into account his past mistakes, Malk slightly increased the amount of energy used, focused even more on controlling Authority, and in just a few minutes, he first created a complete imprint of the spell, then pulled it out of the sphere. The original, meanwhile, remained completely intact.


    It was just a pity the outcome couldn''t be considered purely Malk''s achievement. As he figured, if the spell in the new storage had been just "worn out"¡ªthe best expression Malk could find¡ªas in the previous one, his chances of success would have been much lower.


    "What are you sitting for? Now compress it as much as you can and try to stuff it into the new storage!" the Bachelor said impatiently, dropping a glass cylinder onto Malk''s lap. "What do they even teach you in Schools nowadays..."


    ''I''m not studying in a School! And I really wasn''t taught anything like this!'' Malk almost yelled, but instead, he just nodded and focused back on the spell copy.


    Admittedly, working with it was much easier now. Maybe he had grasped the principle, or maybe this step wasn''t that hard, but a minute into manipulating the Force, the spell sucked in the cloud of energy between his palms like a steam pump, filled with light, and... to complete the next step, extra effort was needed. The spell didn''t want to compress into a more compact form on its own.


    However, compared to everything else, this was a minor hassle. Within a few heartbeats, something resembling a tightly compressed watch spring emerged between Malk''s hands, ready to not only unfurl but also¡ªhe felt this very clearly¡ªto come fully alive.


    "Storage!" the Bachelor reminded in a demanding voice, and Malk, with a slightly awkward motion of his hands, directed the energy construct into the glass cylinder.


    No new unpleasant surprises occurred. The compressed Runeglyph chain neatly disappeared into the glass container, followed by nearly an erg of energy, and finally, Malk applied his Authority to place something like a seal. Not so much as a signature, but to give the storage stability. Just like they were taught in the courses.


    "Let''s have it," the Bachelor demanded, and the cylinder jumped into his open palm. The mage scrutinized his catch, even peering through it at the source for some reason, then nodded with satisfaction. "It''s done pretty crudely, of course, and the core is pure Pneuma, but... fine, good enough!"


    And he tucked Malk''s creation into his pocket.


    "What about me?" Malk cautiously asked, as everything was happening way too fast and chaotic for him. "Are you hiring me? And if so, what will my duties be?"


    "Didn''t I say?" The Bachelor seemed genuinely surprised. "The clinic needs mages who can create vessels with healing spells based on a given template... In your case, it''s the most basic ''Healer''... You''ll get sixty obols for each correct copy of the spell. The only condition: use the Life energy from the source behind you. If you fill it with Force of Elements or pure Pneuma, you won''t get paid and will be fined. Got it?"


    "Are there any time or quantity limits on the vessels?" Malk asked suspiciously.


    "No limits. Payment is piece-rate, schedule is flexible. But you get it, the more orders you complete, the higher the earnings... If you disappear for a month, I''ll assume you no longer work with the clinic," the manager replied with a strange smirk. "These terms suit you?"


    Malk nodded. Heck, these really were the best conditions a student like him could hope for! No restrictions, no obligations, no inflated demands. Everything clear and to the point. The pay could be better, though, but that problem is eternal and probably unsolvable. Money''s always tight for everyone.


    Still, it wasn''t all smooth sailing. After getting Malk''s promise to show up at the clinic the next morning, the Bachelor escorted him to the exit, then suddenly gave him a sharp look from under his brows, and said assertively:


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    "Oh, almost forgot. You''ve got a debt of four drachmas for the ruined artifact. And rest assured, whether from the clinic salary or any other income, you''ll pay me back all the gold, down to the last coin!"


    Malk just spread his hands silently. He, of course, had plenty to say to the mage who had handed an inexperienced colleague a flawed artifact. And not all of it was fit for voicing in polite company!.. But... Malk wasn''t in a position to make a scene. Especially not with a sorcerer two ranks higher than him. So, he had to suck it up.


    Money buys pride. Wasn''t that what Tolfan''s father always said? And so, Malk shoved his pride aside for the sake of a decent job. Even if just for a while, he still did it...


    Much later, after returning from the courses in the evening, Malk mulled over the clinic manager''s offer again. The strange attitude and imposed debt had, of course, soured his impression, but otherwise... otherwise, even after careful consideration, he saw nothing but benefits in the new job. And it wasn''t just about the earnings.


    Malk sketched out a rough schedule for his day, factoring in the need to visit the infirmary, and ran through all the points again.


    It started with getting up early and training his Authority using the Rain of Pain technique. Embarrassingly, he''d neglected this crucial part of his mage path lately. Not because of concerns about potential conflicts with his Arcane Art, but due to a trivial lack of energy. Sometimes, he had to save Force for the Gifted Tax; other times, he needed ergs for practicing Crystal Heart. So, he had to forget about Rain for a while.


    Well, no big deal¡ªnow that he''d completed the second layer of Heart, he could focus on developing Authority. Especially since afterward, he planned to head to the clinic, where he''d need an empty reserve to absorb the source''s energy.


    For meditation to replenish his magic reserves, Malk allocated four hours.


    With the doubled absorption rate using Crystal Heart, he''d gather a bit over three ergs in that time. Two of them would be used to create a spell copy, and one more¡ªto seal the vessel. In the end, Malk''s reserve would be empty again, but he''d gain practice with using some aspects of his Art, and his wallet would be topped up by sixty obols for making a "Healer." Sure, in the clinic shop, such a one-time artifact sold for no less than two drachmas, but that''s how the world works: those who put in the most effort to reach a goal aren''t always the ones who reap the greatest rewards.


    According to the schedule, right after work, Malk planned to head to the Society. And this was the weakest link in his plans. If the schedule suddenly changed, and instead of a lecture, they had a practical lesson, having an empty or barely filled reserve could lead to trouble. At the very least, it meant not being able to work through the new material well enough. Was that bad? Absolutely. Was Malk willing to take that risk for the benefits it promised? If not every day, then yes.


    Finally, the schedule ended with Malk returning home. Where, after a short night''s rest and naturally replenishing at least part of his reserve¡ªhe expected no less than three or four ergs of Pneuma¡ªMalk would get back to training with the Rain technique...


    If Malk followed this routine at least three times a sennight, besides the benefits of training at the source, it brought him one drachma and eighty obols in income. Which, on the one hand, was quite a lot, but on the other... just for food and lodging, up to three drachmas a month were needed. And he still hadn''t finished his studies, Helavia missed entertainment, and Malk himself had interests in life beyond training.


    Overall, these simple calculations noticeably dampened Malk''s enthusiasm for the job he found. The earnings would cover the largest hole in his budget, but nothing more. He needed to keep searching... However, Malk didn''t feel any urgency either, allowing himself to just work, study, and train a lot¡ªbasically, live like a student in a capital-city institution should. Without intrigues, clashes with enemies, inexplicable incidents, or mysterious encounters. And that was great. Life was getting on track, and at times, Malk even caught himself starting to fantasize about the future. The one where he broke through the limits of Adept rank, uncovered the deep secrets of his Gift, and kept going, step by step inching closer to the bright childhood dream of becoming a famed noble warrior, demonslayer, and savior of humanity.


    Some might call it foolish, but you have to have something to strive for, right? The fact that this dream was just a legacy of his dull, gray boarding school past didn''t change a thing!


    Everything changed about a month after Malk started at the infirmary. One day after work, as he trudged toward the omnibus stop, tired and drained, with only scraps of energy in his reserve, three people blocked his path. And this time, they definitely weren''t robbers...


    In a way, Malk himself was to blame for the whole situation. The fact that the group of guys in worn trousers and tunics with chevrons from a trade school he didn''t recognize were standing at the end of the alley for a reason¡ªwas clear from afar. They were too nervous for idle gawkers, and their faces were too grim for students planning some prank. But especially the spot they chose for waiting for who knows what or who, which blocked all paths to the omnibus stop, said it all.


    It said, but Malk didn''t hear those warnings, completely lost in his thoughts. Only when the shortest of the trio of future craftsmen addressed him did he snap back to reality.


    "Malk from Colhaun, Adept?" the craftsman asked again, not hiding his icy tone.


    Malk, meanwhile, suddenly noticed that the speaker''s tunic was completely unbuttoned, and something was noticeably bulging under the left flap. A bad feeling instantly stirred in him, the drowsy fog and fatigue were swept away by adrenaline rushing into his blood, and Malk quickly scanned the speaker''s companions.


    One, the tallest, was demonstratively leaning on a sturdy-looking stick, clearly itching to use it. While the other¡ªan owner of a massive chin with an annoying vertical cleft¡ªseemed much more relaxed. Besides regularly patting a pouch hanging on his right side¡ªwhich pretty much resembled a standard "avalonch"¡ªnothing betrayed his tension.


    Yorrokh, why couldn''t Malk have snapped out of it a bit earlier and just avoided these bastards altogether?! It would have saved him so much trouble...


    "Yeah, so what..." Malk answered calmly, still hoping for a peaceful resolution. "Is there a problem?"


    "Everything''s a problem, mage! Everything!" the craftsman replied, now much more angrily and fiercely. "It''s just that you''re alive, while someone else is dead because of you!" He turned to the biggest of the trio and added bitterly, "And the worst part is, he lives like nothing happened. Instead of running back to his hole, he lives here, studies, works... Like it''s no big deal!"


    "I don''t quite get it: what are you implying?" Malk asked, narrowing his eyes dangerously. "And who are you, anyway?"


    "He doesn''t get it..." the middle craftsman said, looking at his buddies. "Why are we even talking to him?! Let''s just off him and..."


    The shortest one didn''t let him finish.


    "No rush," he said sharply. "I want him to face Yorrokh knowing exactly why he died! And because of whom!" He turned back to Malk and asked angrily, "So, still don''t get it?"


    Malk just gave a crooked smirk. Considering everything that had happened to him both in the cultural capital and on the way there, it wasn''t hard to guess why these guys held a grudge. Especially after the mention of Yorrokh. Someone from Colhaun would have mentioned the "Judgment of the Nine," and a regular Andorian would have brought up some specific Saint, but only a certain group saw Yorrokh not as absolute evil, but as someone almost equal to the defenders of humanity and the Creator himself.


    "What''s there to think about, you''re loyalists. You came to avenge your pals who croaked in the train attack. Isn''t that so?" he said, putting into his voice everything he felt about the "demon-lovers" and terrorism supporters. "One thing I want to know¡ªare you pissed about that wench, or are you hot for those bastards from her crew?"


    Malk knew there was no avoiding a one-sided fight and was blatantly provoking them. If there had been even a glimmer of hope they''d answer other questions¡ªlike how they found him, why they''d dragged their feet with the search, and who in the gendarmerie had sold out the real "hero" of saving the Colhaun governor''s son from terrorists¡ªhe would have acted a bit differently. But such miracles only happened in books.


    "Silva, Flesh Hunter screw you, not wench!" yelled the tallest and most hot-headed of the trio.


    Gripping his stick more firmly, he moved decisively toward Malk. His buddies tried to stop the brute, but it was no use, so they had to start the attack too, spreading out and flanking Malk. The mouthy one pulled out a single-barreled pistol with a wheellock from under his tunic, while the guy with the notable chin grabbed the pouch on his hip. And to Malk''s horror, it really was an "avalonch" with two spell containers.


    ''Seems like I overdid it with the insults,'' Malk lamented inwardly, keeping a close eye on the enemies approaching, led by the brute. The fact that they were indeed enemies now raised no doubts and allowed for no other interpretation. And even though they were clearly rank-and-file members of the loyalists'' terrorist wing, they still posed a serious threat to him...


    Malk''s first impulse was to run, but unfortunately, he had to ditch that idea right away. The clinic, as well as the ruins near it, was too far¡ªhe''d be caught ten times over, and if not caught, then shot or burned with bought spells¡ªand there was simply nowhere else to run. The alley was straight as an arrow, with no branches or intersections. And the owners of the houses there probably weren''t eager to let in a fleeing stranger.


    So retreat was out. As for fighting... damn it! The odds were too uneven... But who said he couldn''t even them out a bit?!


    The decision formed in his mind instantly. Forgetting his fear and helplessness, Malk slightly drew out his blade for show and rushed toward the brute. But when he got within arm''s reach, he didn''t try to get even closer to put the knife to use¡ªinstead, he turned to his magic. Squeezed out the scraps of magic left in his reserve, used them to form a small clump of saliva right in his mouth, and spat it into his opponent''s face.


    And that was clearly not what the loyalist expected from Malk. Focused entirely on the blade, he completely overlooked other options in the novice mage''s arsenal and paid for it instantly. Swerving along a tricky path and dodging the swing of the club, the clump of saliva hit him square in the eye. And judging by the brute''s sudden yelp, it was quite painful.


    Not deadly, but still enough to temporarily take one opponent out of the game.


    Malk didn''t know who to target next. Whether it was the talkative one already aiming his pistol at him or the other guy still fishing out the right vessel from his "avalonch"¡ªthey were both dangerous. And he had nothing to counter them with but the artifact knife...


    The choice was made for him by the guy with the pistol. In the blink of an eye, Malk heard the click of the hammer, the hiss of burning powder, and suddenly a homemade bullet was flying toward him through a cloud of stinking smoke. And it was aimed so well that if Malk hadn''t dodged at the last moment, the piece of lead would have torn his chest apart. As it was... only his left forearm suffered. While the bullet didn''t touch bone or vital organs, just grazing the outside of his arm, a chunk of flesh torn out was still a chunk of flesh gone. And it sure didn''t make him any nimbler.


    "Scum!" Malk yelled, unable to hold back his emotions anymore.


    He threw his knife in response and, surprisingly, hit the opponent''s leg. But he couldn''t capitalize on it. The owner of the "avalonch" finally got his hands on a vessel and struck. Breaking the cylinder with a flick of his fingers, he shot a real lightning bolt at Malk from his open palm. And it was strong enough to kill on the spot.


    Malk''s hands shot up instinctively, catching the enemy magic almost at his neck. They squeezed it with Authority and then, without looking, just tossed it aside... And, as it turned out, right where the brute was still rubbing his injured eyes. The deflected lightning hit his chest, knocking him down and ripping his ribcage open like a can. Malk even saw the still-beating heart, but it probably wasn''t going to last long. No matter what Lineage the enemy might have had, surviving such a wound without external help was simply impossible.


    "One down, you bastards!" Malk shouted menacingly, trying to crush his enemies, if not physically, then at least mentally.


    And it seemed to work. Unlike the loyalists who had caused the massacre in the dining car, their junior followers could neither fight worth a damn nor face the death of a comrade calmly. So, in response to his shout, the enemies first froze for a moment as if assessing the situation, and then just bolted. The guy with the "avalonch" sprinted first, while the pistol owner, wounded in the leg, hobbled after him, trailing a bit behind. And thank the Nine, the knife fell out of the wound, and he didn''t bother to pick it up. Because that loss would have certainly upset Malk!


    "Yorrokh take it, I was really hoping for some spoils. A new gun or a battle spell wouldn''t hurt!" he shouted, though he didn''t really believe his own words.


    After all, he was still too weak to not only win such uneven fights but also expect rich rewards. It was more realistic to just hope not to lose what he had. Like, for example, his life.


    With these thoughts, Malk picked up the dagger lying on the stones, sheathed it, and reluctantly turned to the enemy still on the battlefield. If this had happened somewhere in the woods, in a deserted area, he''d have been glad to see his foe in such a state, but, alas, he''d been attacked in the city. In the cultural, Archont screw it, capital! Full of citizens who loved to write reports and gendarmes hungry for rewards. His past experience of spending three days as a guest of Captain Tyrhat had taught Malk a lot, and above all¡ªthe rule of not messing with gendarmes. Repeating that experience¡ªthough now as the killer of some poor trade school student¡ªMalk wasn''t keen on.


    And so... so, Chilkara damn it, he saw no other way out but to heal the wound of the dying brute.


    Finally making up his mind, Malk took one last look at the wounded man''s face, sighed with regret¡ªif not greed¡ªand pulled from his pocket the glass vessel with the "Healer" spell. It was his bonus for good work from the infirmary manager, and using it like this, on an enemy, hurt.


    "Ah, to Hell with it!" he finally exhaled and crushed the glass in his hand.


    The spell flickered green as it was released, and right before his eyes, the nasty-looking wound closed, and the man''s breathing steadied. Full healing was still a long way off, probably needing several more spells like this, but Malk had achieved the main thing. The brute wasn''t dying anymore.


    Besides, the sight of the healing wound suddenly reminded Malk that he was injured too. Normally, he should''ve already passed out from blood loss or at least weakened considerably¡ªthough the lack of sharp pain could still be chalked up to Rain practice. Startled, he quickly inspected his injured forearm, only to find something entirely unexpected. Instead of a gaping hole gushing blood, there was an ugly but already healing wound. And that was even more unsettling than the attempted murder itself.


    "What the flur?!" Malk simply had no other words to convey how he felt about what was going on.

 Chapter Eleven, where the hero learns something new about himself

    By the next day, Malk''s injured left forearm hardly bothered him. Just like any well-healing surface wound a week old. On the one hand, he should''ve been happy about such luck¡ªafter all, few people would be upset about recovering in less than a day. But on the other... Mritlok isn''t a place where suddenly acquired abilities are always a blessing. Demonic emanations after Yorrokh''s Nights, hereditary curses and visible signs of a powerful malefic''s grudge, "gifts" from Hell, or just a "hello" from some crazy alchemist¡ªwho knows how many nasty things happen in this world, often wrapped in a pretty package?


    So, it wasn''t strange that Malk rushed to the healers the morning after the assault. And he started with a visit to a Life mage at the very clinic where he''d lucked into getting a job. Surely, there had to be some perks for colleagues and part-time staff, right? So why not take advantage of them...


    Alas, his hopes were dashed. Worse, the Apprentice who handled injuries wouldn''t even talk to him, immediately demanding an advance payment for the consultation. Not as much as it could have been¡ªjust fifty obols¡ªbut the mere fact of the demand outraged Malk. Yorrokh''s flur up his athanor, couldn''t he at least take a look for free?! What if Malk was making a fuss for nothing and should actually have been glad about his luck?


    But the Apprentice, who''d long been stuck at his rank¡ªhe was old enough to be Malk''s father¡ªrefused to help a maker of one-time "Healers" in any way. Moreover, that spawn of Hell pompously declared that if Malk had no money, he should spend more time working at the clinic. Then, such nonsense as asking his seniors for a favor wouldn''t even cross his mind.


    How Malk managed to restrain himself from snapping back with a retort, he didn''t even know. Heck, he even gave that greedy rat a polite smile and, leaving, didn''t slam the door. Interesting, would the Apprentice, when he needed a favor, remember the bit about working more or start pressuring with that respect of juniors for seniors?


    Anyway, the conversation had really rubbed Malk''s ego the wrong way. It wasn''t like he had asked for anything special, yet there was still a bad aftertaste. Pah!


    After the clinic, Malk headed straight to the Society¡ªin case of injuries and unforeseen incidents, they had their own healer. True, he couldn''t count on any discounts, but he''d already come to terms with that...


    "Excellent healing. No pathologies!" announced the Bachelor of Life magic after studying the bullet wound on Malk''s left forearm for over a minute. "How long, you said, since you got the injury?"


    "More than a day," Malk replied. "And even so, I didn''t use any spells..."


    "Well, that part''s obvious. Way too typical signs of natural healing," the senior mage interrupted. "But the speed... Your Crystal Heart shouldn''t cause such effects. I''d suspect a Lineage awakening, but..." The healer clicked his tongue. "Your medical records clearly state that you have no hereditary talents... And you don''t seem like someone who''d have the means to acquire them illegally."


    Malk almost asked about that illegal way but caught himself just in time. In Boreas, as in all of Mritlok, knowledge was considered the highest value. And showing too much curiosity about secrets banned from distribution could easily make you part with, if not your head, then your freedom for sure.


    "So maybe I just got lucky?" Malk asked with a wry smile. "Miracles do happen, right?"


    "They do," the Bachelor nodded energetically. "But not for folks like us. So if you''re only worried about the wound, you can relax. It''s fine, it''ll heal soon... And that''ll be ten obols for the examination... But if you want to figure out the cause of the accelerated regeneration, you''ll need to cough up another ninety obols. I''ll check your blood for toxins and foreign inclusions."


    "And what if you don''t find anything either?" Malk clarified cautiously.


    "Then I''ll send you to an army hospital," the Bachelor replied a bit bluntly. "They''ll bleed you dry, turn your body inside out, and shake up your soul, but they''ll find an answer... And it''s not certain that after all that, you''ll be happy to hear it. So beg Yelya that this anomaly turns out to be something I can crack!"


    That concluded the appointment. Malk had a feeling the healer already guessed the cause of the changes happening to him¡ªtoo often, a certain knowing smirk flashed in his eyes. But he wasn''t in a hurry to voice his thoughts...


    That evening, Malk couldn''t take it anymore and shared his piled-up problems with Tolfan. Luckily, his girlfriend was off on closed training at the School again and, thank the Saints, couldn''t join their conversation. The last thing Malk wanted was to show Helavia how deep he was in a mire of troubles and life''s difficulties and then hear her worn-out story about how he''d chosen the wrong life path.


    "Regeneration, investigations, senior mages... Deviations in the practice of young mages like us occur so often that smooth training seems like a dangerous anomaly compared to them. So don''t get hung up on it," Tolfan said, as usual, looking at things practically. "Better tell me: that third loyalist you deflected the lightning at, did he survive?"


    "He should have... I didn''t waste a ''Healer'' on him for nothing," Malk shrugged.


    "Good. And his own didn''t finish him off to pin it on you?" the fatty continued pondering.


    His friend''s train of thought was so unsettling that Malk broke out in a cold sweat.


    "Yorrokh, no... What ''finish him off''?! I told you, they didn''t look like trained killers. Just ordinary riffraff, brainwashed by smarter agitators," Malk said after some thought. "Sure, they''d go for revenge for ''their own'' any day, but killing a buddy to blame it on an enemy? Nah, that''s too complicated for them."


    "Then it''s all fine," Tolfan laughed, looking like a hereditary lawyer, then added seriously, "Though, to be honest, no one would pin the murder of an ungifted on you anyway. If you were a regular guy, two reports from the survivors to the gendarmerie would be enough for a conviction... even if they were loyalists ten times over... but you''re an Adept now. And you''ve still got some privileges. Like the right to demand an independent investigation into your case."


    "Yeah, and if I were a Bachelor, without any investigations, all the gendarmes in Andalore would be flipping out, hunting down those two despicable scumbags who dared attack a pillar of authority like me," Malk grimaced.


    "Maybe. But since you''re not a Bachelor yet, don''t even think about starting a massacre on the city streets or in crowded places," Tolfan said didactically, raising a finger for emphasis. Then, in a more conspiratorial tone, he added, "Wait for the right moment."


    It sounded pretty sinister, but by the end, the fatty couldn''t hold back and burst into laughter. It was this cheerfulness that Malk appreciated in him. No fussing over a friend who got into trouble, no useless advice¡ªjust sensible practicality and dark humor. Of course, if Malk ever asked for help, another side of Tolfan would come out¡ªhis cowardice, but there was nothing to be done about that. Everyone has their flaws...


    To distract himself, Malk picked up the newspapers. Both he and Tolfan had recently gotten hooked on these hotbeds of news and rumors and regularly bought sennightlies. Only, the fatty preferred the tabloid "Voice of the Magnate and Merchant," sold by street kids for eight or nine obols. Malk, on the other hand, chose Andalore''s oldest newspaper, "Magic and Steam," which went for three obols a copy. Their differences in taste didn''t stop them from swapping papers with each other.


    Usually, Malk started with articles about news from the Schools and major craft workshops, interviews with prominent mages, alchemists, or engineers, but this time, he broke his habit. He first checked the back of the newspaper, where they printed unverified rumors and crime reports.


    A watchman was killed at the main city cemetery; in the Triumvirate Park pond, yet another vagrant''s body was found; there was a brawl between loyalists and monarchists at the South Market; and the merchants of Two Temples Street declared war on their colleagues from Victors Avenue, so the walls of most houses in the two neighboring blocks were smeared with enchanted ads and slogans¡ªin short, regular big city life. And, to Malk''s relief, not a word about the craftsman killed near the clinic! The only piece of news that caught his attention was the report of the drowned vagrant in the pond. Mainly because it became visible proof that he and Helavia were right. So, they weren''t mistaken to dislike that pond back then!


    He glanced through Tolfan''s "Voice," but didn''t find anything interesting or important there either. This issue focused more on the heated conflict between monarchists and loyalists, the supposedly inadequate preparations for Yorrokh''s Night, and praising the wise policies of the Avalon Islands'' leaders¡ªthough what was so wise about them, besides lifting bans on a whole range of magical research areas, Malk didn''t get. Not that he wanted to. Like any Colhaunian, he was a die-hard conservative and didn''t get the newfangled loyalist trends in society. Then again, he didn''t get a lot of what was considered important, not just by the readers of both papers, but by Andalorians in general. Just a yokel, through and through!


    The city seemed to reject Malk, refusing to let him feel its rhythm or blend in, become a part of it. To fit in! It was almost funny now to recall the plans and what had seemed like clever schemes he had been cooking up on the way to the cultural capital. For practically none of the notes in his secret notebook had come true, not a single idea was realized. The hopes of a simple guy from a Colhaun boarding school were completely shattered against Andalore''s reality.


    And it wasn''t like he wanted that much. Being able to practice magic, figure out the mystery of his own birth, find work he loved, and maybe even become famous in his field someday¡ªwas that too much to ask? But, as it turned out, it was. Instead of what he wanted, Malk got a constant need for money, lack of access to essential knowledge and basic resources, humiliation from the authorities, and the stigma of being a second-rate mage. No, this wasn''t how he imagined his future in Andalore, not at all...


    If Malk had a different character, the depression that had already started to dig its dark tendrils into his heart would have consumed him completely. And he would have surely sunk to the bottom of the cultural capital''s magical community. But the will and indomitable spirit that helped him survive encounters with street thugs in Colhaun, master the brutal Rain of Pain technique, and turn from a "dud" into a real Adept, now kept him from breaking and falling. "A mage''s lot is to always defy fate,"¡ªwasn''t that how Kehtot, the least liked Saint in Boreas, taught? Well, one could say Malk lived by the teachings of the Holy Demonslayer.


    And against all odds, he was still moving forward.


    Malk had been working at the clinic for over a month and managed to increase his reserve by a whole erg. His absorption rate had also grown a bit, and what began as hesitant spell copying had become routine. He even started using a bit less energy to make duplicates of the "Healer." Instead of two ergs to create a copy and transfer it to storage, it now took two or even three tenths of an erg less... Although, that was the effect of extra classes at the Society. Malk had chosen the "Healer"¡ªor, as it was called in official documents, Minor Healing Charm¡ªas his first free spell from the courses. He figured out its structure, learned the Runeglyph sequence, and this was the natural result. A couple more months of practice, and the speed of creating a "Healer" would match the speed of copying it.


    The clinic manager, though, didn''t want to raise his pay for such a trifle, but Malk was still pleased. True skill was built from these tiny achievements. And the opportunity to train them was something to be valued in itself... Although voicing this thought to his boss probably wasn''t a good idea!..


    The next morning, Malk went back to the Society to see the Life mage. The Bachelor had promised to answer what was happening to him. Well, Malk was ready to hear it! He said as much to the healer as soon as he stepped into the office.


    "As I suspected, you have all the signs of classic Life emanation damage." The mage didn''t beat around the bush and immediately hit him with the research result. "Textbook case!"


    "And what does that mean?" Malk asked suspiciously.


    "It means, lad, you have an excess of raw Life energy in your channels. That''s why your body gained the ability to heal itself. Similar to what some Lineage holders have," the Bachelor began explaining. "So, for a while, you''ll boast increased endurance and regeneration. Maybe even fix some practice deviations if you have any..."


    Malk flinched. He did have such a deviation in the form of occasional body pains, but after starting work at the clinic, it almost stopped. There was no point in mentioning it to the healer. To grasp these kinds of problems, you needed to be an expert in Arcane Arts and their effects on practitioners, and this mage definitely couldn''t boast such knowledge. Otherwise, he wouldn''t be wasting his days in the Society waiting for patients but would be fending off an endless line of mages of all ranks seeking help.


    "And what then? When this ''for a while'' is over?" Malk finally asked grimly.


    "You''ll die. I think that''s obvious," the Bachelor shrugged. "Neither excess nor deficiency is good. Too little energy, and the body starves to death. Too much, and irreversible mutations start, quickly sending you to the grave..." The healer smirked crookedly. "In your case, it''s even worse. According to the reports, a strong imbalance toward the negative spectrum is present, meaning working with Life is much more traumatic for you than for others."


    Malk sighed loudly. What he heard sounded bad, way too bad.


    "Is there a way to fix it?" he asked, frowning.


    The Bachelor answered with a wide smile.


    "Of course. First, you stop poisoning yourself with whatever crap got you into this state. Second, you cleanse your body of the dangerous energy. And here, you can either start drinking some decoctions, expel the harmful magic on your own, or¡ªand this is my favorite option¡ªpay one and a half drachmas, and I''ll remove all traces of this junk in two sessions!" the senior mage said in a confidential tone. "It''s your choice."


    Malk tiredly rubbed his forehead. It was easy for the senior mage to talk¡ªhe had broken through the barrier between the ranks of Adept and Apprentice long ago, but Malk couldn''t do without practice with a Force source. If he dragged his feet and stalled his progress even a bit, he could forget about doubling his reserve in the first year. Damn it!


    Suddenly, he felt a malicious gaze drilling into his back, sending a shiver down his spine. Malk even glanced around, but there was only a wall behind him, so it wasn''t a hunch at all. His nerves were clearly acting up, and that was no comfort either.


    "So, made up your mind?" the Bachelor urged Malk.


    "Yeah... I think I''ll hold off on your help and try to sort it out myself," Malk replied firmly, having suddenly remembered that the last time at the infirmary, along with the "Healer," he was given a bottle of decoction as a bonus. This clearly hinted that the clinic manager was familiar with the problem Malk was facing.


    In short, he had the medicine, and thanks to the lectures on general magic theory, he understood what to do next, and since that was the case, there was no need to rush the "treatment." On that note, he parted ways with the Bachelor.


    The tension gripping Malk needed an outlet, so after classes at the Society, he decided to walk home instead of taking transport, trying to distract himself from gloomy thoughts with a stroll through the city.


    Alas, Malk''s hopes were dashed, and the anxiety, oppressive, seemingly coming from outside, was joined by the sensation of icy, invisible fingers occasionally brushing his back. Not frequent, but not rare enough to dismiss as a trick of the mind. Instantly, all those horror stories about practice deviations that students shared surfaced in his memory, his own thoughts on the matter added to them, and now, Malk was barely holding back from heading back to the Society''s healer.


    What the Yorrokh?! Malk sat on the first bench he found, closed his eyes, and mentally reached for the Crystal Heart, shining like the sun in the sky of his inner world. The Arcane Art sharing the same name didn''t have many merits, but one was universally recognized. Namely, enhancing the practitioner''s Spirit''s resistance to any external effects and influences. Not using that feature was simply out of the question.


    His trained mind sequentially shut off all external distractions, felt out the entrance to his mental space, reached for the Heart, and squeezed it with Authority. The visible manifestation of the Arcane Art instantly responded with several waves of energy, each of them first rolling through his body, scraping like sandpaper, and then, with a sobering chill, "blowing away" all the accretions and everything foreign.


    He immediately felt better. It was as if barely perceptible yet real shackles were lifted from his body. Sometimes, you only realize the presence of life-disrupting hindrances after getting rid of them, and this was one of those cases. The only unclear thing was what caused this strange state. Or who. The result of the experiment with the Arcane Art demonstrated that the root of the problem probably wasn''t practice deviations. It seemed more like someone was trying to influence him remotely, which opened up a wide range of guesses. Another bunch of vengeful loyalists, that dwarf acting up again, a legacy from his relatives who abandoned their unwanted child, or something entirely unknown to him yet¡ªlike a grudge from a ghost or demon... Speculating about the source of the influence could take forever, but an answer to the main question¡ª"What the heck to do now?!"¡ªcouldn''t be found that way.


    In any case, dealing with the problem on the street wasn''t wise. So Malk, having already sat too long on the bench, stood up decisively and headed home. The path was still quite a distance, so he had time to think...


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    However, the day''s adventure quota clearly wasn''t used up yet, and as he approached Glory Avenue¡ªAndalore''s main street that split the city in two¡ªhe got caught in a massive crowd gathered in front of portable barriers. Gendarmes, lined up in a chain, maintained order and kept the most impatient ones off the avenue. The School of Iron and Blood was seeing off Magister Yarvok the Fierce on another expedition organized by the Triumvirate to find new trade routes through the islands of the Yavan Belt, and a bunch of gawkers from all over the city had come to watch.


    Malk had even read something about this last sennight, but he dismissed it. Turns out, that was a mistake. If he had remembered, maybe he wouldn''t have gotten himself into this mess on his way home. Because he certainly wasn''t in the mood to admire the display of power and authority from a School that meant nothing to him.


    About ten minutes after Malk joined the crowd, a procession appeared from the corner leading to the main building of the School of Iron and Blood. And the sight was so unusual and majestic that Malk involuntarily dropped all his grumbling. Never before¡ªneither back home in Colhaun nor here in Andalore¡ªhad he seen such a vivid demonstration of the authority of Houses and the most influential Schools. Authority manifested not in flashy wealth or luxury, but in the might of their armies.


    And it wasn''t about the number of soldiers or mages¡ªin fact, the procession probably had only a couple hundred participants¡ªbut in the power and might that shone through every step of the armor-clad mechanized warriors, every glint of Force held in check for now by the battle sorcerers, and every movement of the chimeras marching in formation.


    Malk didn''t even notice how he pushed his way to the front rows of onlookers and stared at the approaching procession.


    Leading the way was a trio of mechanized warriors¡ªtwo in black armor and one in white. Each held a sword with a purple sheen, and the spell emitters sticking out from their massive shoulder pads, even in travel mode, looked extremely menacing and deadly. The air above the backpacks with energy storage units shimmered slightly, hinting at the power hidden within. As decorations, golden ribbon bars on each warrior''s cuirass gleamed, with not a single court award among them¡ªthe procession was led by true veterans.


    Behind the trio marched two rows of warriors in simpler armor. The metal was painted gray, the power crystals were made from cheap semi-precious stones, and the rune chains of protective spells on the armor were clearly machine-etched. Yet, the sense of hidden power was still there. And it wasn''t just because of the steam rifles each mechanized warrior held. The very air around the marching soldiers seemed to smell of fury, magic, and death... And it was so vivid and compelling that Malk, like the dozens of people around him, was instantly filled with excitement and pride for the fighters.


    Following the infantry, a disorganized group of mages moved, not bothering to impress the onlookers with discipline and marching. Their strength lay elsewhere. And though Malk mostly saw Apprentices and Bachelors, together they still represented a formidable force. Not as striking as the metal-clad warriors, but to those who could see, still understandable and quite tangible. This became especially clear when Malk first noticed a young mage with Junior Magister insignia and then saw a magical scepter worth five hundred drachmas in the holster of the Bachelor following him. The artifact impressed him the most: he''d come across its description in a reference book, so he knew exactly what power could unleash that ruby-studded gold and silver squiggly "toy."


    The only thing that bothered Malk was the feeling that he was seeing not veteran practitioners but students getting out from under their mentors'' wing for the first time. The mages seemed too relaxed, too young and inexperienced for the forthcoming dangerous expedition. Or perhaps that was the point¡ªto give the School''s talents and geniuses a chance to gain real combat experience under the supervision of older comrades? Well, maybe...


    Bringing up the rear of the procession, surrounded by a quartet of guards and accompanied by two winged lions, was Yarvok the Fierce himself. As people in the crowd whispered, the Magister was considered a rising star of the School of Iron and Blood and a direct candidate for the School''s Heir. A talented Fire mage, experienced practitioner, strong fighter, and demonslayer¡ªeveryone was convinced that he was just a step away from advancing to the next rank, maybe just months or a few years at most. And it was quite possible that he would return from this expedition as a Senior Magister.


    Malk didn''t really believe the rumors, but he didn''t doubt for a bit that Yarvok was an extraordinary mage. Otherwise, how could he explain that as soon as this warrior, in a uniform that was expensive even at a glance, with gilded buttons and boots made from sea demon leather, got close, Malk''s Authority seemed to shrink. Like a predator shrinking in the presence of an immeasurably larger and more powerful beast. A beast whose might rivaled the Element itself and was somehow contained within the fragile shell of a mere mortal.


    Yorrokh only knows what kind of person this Yarvok was, but the power he projected was alluring and pushed Malk to consider becoming someone like that. To be not just a mage, but a mage who, through his existence alone, embodied the very meaning of the words "Strength" and "Authority." Malk had never encountered such a vivid demonstration of the peaks of human development¡ªand not even the highest peaks!¡ªand for the first time, he wondered if it was right to set realistic yet frankly mundane goals. Maybe it was worth aiming higher? Taking at least one step from a fairy-tale dream to its realization?


    That thought was worth pondering...


    Meanwhile, the Magister and his guards had already passed where Malk stood and moved on. The procession ended with Adepts¡ªstudents of the School and simply young mages allowed to participate. Judging by their lack of military uniforms, they probably weren''t part of the expedition and were invited just to add numbers to the event.


    The ceremony was clearly nearing its end, and it wouldn''t be long until it finished and the avenue reopened for traffic. This couldn''t help but please those around. The crowd immediately started stirring... At least, at first, it seemed the reason for the gawkers'' excitement was precisely that... until a Force outburst of no less than Bachelor-level scattered people, and Malk spotted the only figure still standing. A stranger in a hooded cloak holding a staff a fathom long. Malk had just enough time to wonder how this Bachelor managed to sneak such a pole into the ceremony when the other face-cover lovers revealed themselves.


    One just as easily scattered the crowd on the other side of the street, another appeared on the balcony of a two-story house a couple dozen fathoms from Malk, and two more¡ªat least, it seemed there were two¡ªbroke an attic window of the house alongside which Yarvok the Fierce was passing, and shoved out a barrel of a field volley gun.


    Moreover, it all happened so quickly and smoothly that no one had time to react. The bodyguards, though, did notice something was wrong and even started weaving some spell, but they were catastrophically late as well. The strangers made their move first.


    "Glory to the Empire!!! Death to the Triumvirate!!!" the people in cloaks yelled, their voices no doubt boosted by magic, and attacked their shared target.


    And it was no surprise that it turned out to be Yarvok the Fierce, a Magister of a renowned School and a member of House Charingar.


    The staff holders struck first. Smoky gray, snake-like ribbons of mist shot from the artifacts'' tips toward the Magister. And judging by the state of the mages who activated these magic tools, their weapons were anything but ordinary. Otherwise, why would the terrorist closest to Malk suddenly start trembling all over, with spots of necrotic rot forming and rapidly spreading in his aura? It seemed the staffs were literally drinking the energy and life force of their owners, all to boost the power of the misty snakes.


    Even from his spot, Malk could see the gray ribbons wrapping around the Magister''s body, immobilizing him and seemingly even shackling his very Spirit. Moreover, alongside the staff wielders'' attack, the volley gun fired as well. A thread of living silver, clearly visible even in daylight, first slashed across Yarvok''s figure, also grazing a couple of chimeras frozen in anticipation of orders, then jerked back, focusing solely on the Magister. The enchanted bullets¡ªbecause they couldn''t be anything else¡ªstarted tearing the mage''s figure apart.


    Everything happened too fast. Too suddenly. And too terrifyingly. It seemed like this was the end of Yarvok''s life and career, but... battle mages wouldn''t be called that if they died so easily. Especially those at the rank of Magister at the peak of strength.


    Of course, the mages at the start of the procession had begun casting some unknown spell, and the trio of veterans appeared high in the sky surrounded by lightning and gusts of wind, but it was clear to everyone that they were hopelessly late. Neither the mages nor the mechanized warriors could save their commander... Only, as it turned out, he didn''t really need it.


    Where the spellbound Yarvok stood, a pillar of fire suddenly erupted, roaring almost to the heavens and instantly incinerating all the bindings. Inside the flame, a towering, one-and-a-half-fathom tall humanoid figure could be seen, taking the volley gun''s lead rain on its chest and... yes, silently laughing, looking at the shooters.


    A fire transformation! Creator''s tears, Malk was witnessing with his own eyes the legendary fire transformation¡ªthe conversion of a mage''s body and Spirit into some new state, inherent only to elemental plane dwellers and some higher beings. Only the strongest Houses of Mritlok and the oldest Schools possessed the secret of such metamorphosis, and only their most talented members could hope to learn this technique... Though, it was still believed that an ordinary Magister couldn''t master the transformation, but then again, Yarvok the Fierce was considered the hope of the School for a reason, right?


    And this monster the terrorists planned to kill with a few silly artifacts and a simple volley gun? You''d need a company of mechanized warriors and a couple of cannons to even stand a chance! And even then, the losses would be massive...


    Meanwhile, Yarvok finished having his fun, stretched out his right hand toward the terrorists with the volley gun, and shot a fiery red beam. The spell hit dead center of the window, and at the point of impact, a ball of flame swelled up, instantly devouring half the attic. However, there was no explosion, no roar of fire, and the conjured sphere didn''t spread as logic demanded but maintained a clear boundary. It first puffed up like a huge bubble, then seemingly folded in on itself and disappeared. And only the destroyed roof proved to the onlookers it wasn''t a mere figment of their imagination.


    The staff wielders received their fair share of attention, too. When the fog ribbons broke, each cloaked figure was instantly engulfed in orange flames visible to the naked eye. Their clothes turned to ash in a blink, flesh melted like wax, and only bones withstood the Magister''s counterattack. The terrorists, instantly turned into skeletons glowing with magic, seemed unfazed. They still stood, leaning on their staffs, looking nothing like those for whom death was a good enough reason to give up on their mission.


    As if confirming this thought, the skeleton closest to Malk struck the cobblestone with the butt of his staff. A wave of something invisible yet tangible instantly rippled out like circles on water. Malk couldn''t explain where the feeling or understanding came from, but the terrorist''s magic distinctly reeked of rot. Without fully grasping what was happening, he immediately responded by stimulating the Heart and performing the protective technique he''d tried earlier. Deep inside, he felt the clash of two Forces¡ªforeign and his own. And in this struggle, he was clearly losing. Unwilling to give up, Malk gathered all his will, tried to push back with Authority, but... the enemy was too strong.


    Yorrokh knows how it would have ended, but suddenly, from somewhere above, the warrior in white armor descended like an angry archangel and struck the skeleton with a lightning-wreathed sword. The boom was so loud it made Malk''s ears pop, but he only caught the echo of the main blow. The warrior''s blade cleaved the enemy in two, broke the staff, and the magical discharges shredded the aura, turned the subtle body into a sieve, and burned the core of the personality to ashes.


    The unknown mage finally perished for good. With his death, the pressure from the invisible wave the terrorist had unleashed on the crowd also stopped. Having no desire to stay and see what else "good" might come his way, Malk wriggled away like a snake. Away from the skeletons, the assassins, and the warrior in white armor, who luckily didn''t care at all about the surviving witnesses of his clash with the terrorist.


    In the end, Malk scrambled over the fallen barrier, crawled past people who were stunned, unconscious, or frozen in terror, and onto the avenue''s roadway. Then he got up and, crouching, dashed to the other side. From there, it was easier. Blend into the panicked crowd, dive into the first alley before the confused gendarmes waiting for orders noticed him, and... run, run home as fast as possible! Before additional forces of the valiant law enforcement arrived and started arresting everyone in sight.


    But there was one more thing that sped up Malk, pushing him to his limits, unlocking not just a second, but a third, fourth, and Archont knows how many more winds. The moment the skeleton''s magic invaded his body, in Malk''s head, albeit quietly but clearly enough, sounded: "Oh yes! This Grandfather Boniface sees you again!" And from that simple yet baffling phrase, real terror gripped him, spurring him on more than the harshest spurs.


    Even the battle Malk had found himself in the middle of didn''t trigger such a reaction as the words of this unknown "grandfather." Because in a fight, there''s nothing incomprehensible or unimaginable¡ªjust blood, fury, and death hanging in the air. But voices in your head... that''s terrifying. Especially in a world where demons exist, and the threat to devour your soul is far from a figure of speech or elaborate curse. And with the returning sensation of icy fingers touching Malk''s shoulder blades and neck, the fear even took on a tangible basis.


    The phantom pressure on Malk''s Spirit lifted only when he got home. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he almost physically felt an invisible barrier shielding him from the owner of those cold fingers. And it also forced back the living cloud of alien fear.


    "Flur''s city!" Malk said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Saints and all demons, what a flur''s city Andalore is!"


    Not bothering to take off his shoes, Malk walked through the rooms and, only after making sure he was alone in the apartment, returned to the kitchen. He sat on the floor, leaned against the cupboard, and took out the vial of decoction, studying it closely.


    "Grandfather, you say? Fine, grandfather. Let''s make it so you ''don''t see'' me again... If I understand what''s happening correctly, that is," Malk muttered, pulling the cork and downing the vial''s contents in one go.


    The taste was remarkably unpleasant¡ªthe medicinal substance had hints of burnt vanilla or rancid oil¡ªbut Malk didn''t care. His task now was to rid his body of harmful toxins as quickly as possible, to remove foreign emanations and malignant influences. If he had to drink something downright disgusting to speed up the process, he would''ve done it without a second thought.


    No time for niceties.


    After waiting a bit for the alchemical decoction to take effect, Malk started meditating. Not to dive into his mental space, but to examine his body''s condition. He had learned this in lectures but hadn''t really applied it in practice yet. And now, it was time to test his understanding of the material.


    The technique wasn''t particularly complex. Feel his own Spirit, cut off other senses one by one, leaving only spiritual sight, then scan his meridians and collaterals, internal organs, and blood. If everything was fine, it meant there were no problems with his body.


    Checking the first meridian revealed two unrelated substances: a thin, visibly fading stream of Death energy¡ªCrystal Heart lived up to its reputation, and Malk''s body was already fighting the foreign Force without his conscious effort¡ªand a thick green mist of Life energy, not disappearing but accumulating in his body¡ªlike a component of a complex poison.


    The Society''s Healer was right; he was indeed poisoned by Life magic. And since that was the case, it was time to check if Malk himself was wrong. He started pushing all foreign fractions and inclusions out of his body with all the Authority he could muster, knowing full well how long and exhausting the task ahead would be...


    He was forced to stop only by Tolfan''s return. And not by the fatty''s arrival itself, but by the torrent of curses he unleashed at Malk from the doorstep.


    "Yelya''s tits, what is that?!" It was the only coherent phrase Malk could pick out from his friend''s rant, and he couldn''t ignore it.


    Tiredly opening his eyes, he first gave Tolfan a sullen look, then followed the direction of his friend''s finger, which was trembling with outrage, and... couldn''t help but curse himself:


    "Shit!"


    Right in front of Malk, on the once smooth and clean floorboards, was a black patch of old rot with a living green sprout in the center. And that was scarier than anything that had happened to him that day.


    "The landlord''s gonna kill us," Tolfan said more calmly, giving Malk a sad look. "I swear on Archont''s sword!"


    This crazy day clearly didn''t want to end...

 Chapter Twelve, in which an old acquaintance makes himself known again

    "Look at how smoothly they write!" The voice of Tolfan, who sat on a high stool by the kitchen window and read aloud from the "Voice of the Magnate and Merchant," was practically sparking with righteous indignation. "''In an investigation conducted promptly by the gendarmerie under the leadership of Captain Tyrhat...'' Heh, Malk, your old buddy made a mark here too! Anyway, ''under the leadership of Captain Tyrhat, a dangerous terrorist cell of the monarchist party''s militant wing was uncovered, responsible for the attempt on Magister Yarvok the Fierce and a series of other crimes against Boreas'' citizens. Honor and praise to our law enforcers, but what''s next? Maybe it''s time for the Triumvirate to stop coddling murderers and consider toughening penalties for all empire restoration supporters?''"


    "I''m not big on politics, but my experience with the captain suggests things could go smoothly in his cases only on paper," Malk chimed in, not straightening his back or stopping his brushwork.


    While his friend eagerly shared the latest city news, Malk was busy cleaning up the aftermath of his magical experiments. First, he had spent an hour scraping off rot, and now he was treating the boards with wood varnish he had managed to buy before dark. Tolfan, meanwhile, entertained him with talk and reading... Which was already something¡ªit at least kept Malk from getting bored.


    "Forget the captain... Yorrokh take him... Look at how the authorities balance things. First, they crack down on the loyalists, and now they''re going after the monarchists. Acting like they''re above it all. Gotta hand it to them!" Tolfan began to muse.


    "I don''t recall anyone cracking down on loyalists. On the contrary, they do whatever they want, and no one gets punished except those who carry it out. And with the monarchists, it''s even weirder... I heard the attackers on the Magister yelling something about the empire and death to the Triumvirate, but... it all seems way too forced. The pro-empire party never resorted to such acts before. They, on the contrary, always looked downright toothless compared to the loyalists. All proper and noble, and suddenly this senseless bloodthirsty madness!" Malk said thoughtfully.


    "Maybe you''re right. The loyalist leaders could very well have staged such a provocation. A few suicide attackers with costly but still pretty ordinary artifacts, a big media fuss, and... voila, their main ideological opponent is crushed. Now, all they need to do is hold back their own actions, ramp up their political wing''s activity, and boom, the loyalists are on top!" Tolfan picked up his train of thought, smacking his lips in feigned admiration. "Smart move."


    "Smart, yeah... But for the life of me, I can''t wrap my head around why anyone would support the loyalists at all. All of humanity''s history is a war against demons. First, for freedom from slavery, then against invading armies, and now, we''re dealing with the aftermath of energy breaches from their realm, trying to prevent repeating past mistakes. And suddenly, there are people who want to make peace with demons. Make peace! Yeah, like a sheep with a butcher!" Malk said, not without emotion. He finally finished varnishing the floor and settled on a stool next to Tolfan, resting.


    "Malk, your obsession with becoming a mage and lack of interest in politics amaze me!" the fatty exclaimed, but seeing his friend''s expression, quickly raised his hands in defense. "Okay, okay, I get it! I won''t!.. So, what were you saying? Interested in why people support the loyalists? It''s simple. They have two groups of supporters. The first are those who believe they can negotiate with the Hell folks and make Yorrokh''s Nights... let''s say, calmer. Living in constant fear of being devoured has worn many out, and they''re willing to take drastic measures to get rid of that burden."


    "For example, paying for peace with the lives of slaves and criminals, like they do on some islands?" Malk suggested grimly.


    Tolfan nodded.


    "That''s one way. Everyone thinks they''ll avoid the fate of being a sacrifice and acts accordingly. Idiots!" Tolfan gave a mocking smirk but then instantly turned serious. "But it''s not these cowardly fools leading the loyalist movement. The main players are those who want to scare the authorities with the scale of growing madness and then, against that backdrop, secure some noticeable concessions."


    Tolfan fell silent, lost in thought. Malk, though he liked to say he wasn''t interested in politics, already guessed where his friend was going. And he couldn''t say he liked it.


    "Not sure the goals of those demon-lovers'' leaders should be called ''concessions''..." Malk said slowly.


    "Oh, come on, Malk! You might as well preach like our boarding school''s priest of Achont!" Tolfan grimaced. "Concessions, that''s what they are. Allowing the study of demonic magic in Schools, lifting stupid bans on certain rituals in alchemy and medicine. Nothing supernatural, just basic stuff, but undeniably important!" The fatty unexpectedly got fired up, putting the newspaper aside and gesturing passionately. "Stuck in training, suffering from deviations, or picked the wrong Arcane Art? Buy the life of some brutal murderer, exchange it for a demon''s help, and break through the ranks with it... Imagine how Boreas'' power would grow if all those mages stuck in lower ranks for decades got rid of their shackles! Or take some talented scientist or engineer... Their importance to the state is undeniable, but how many years can Elemental magic add to an ordinary mortal''s life? Fifty? A hundred? But demonic magic can extend it almost indefinitely! The question is just the price..."


    "Add to that granting Gifts, passing on demonic Lineage, and many other wonderful things," Malk interrupted, feeling his anger slowly rising. He didn''t consider himself a moral paragon, but he knew the difference between bad and downright rotten. Still, he didn''t want to snap at his friend, so he chose his words carefully. "But do you realize where all this leads? Hell''s rarely rushed into; most stroll in at quite a leisurely pace."


    Malk''s words instantly cooled the fatty''s enthusiasm. Tolfan just shrugged and said more calmly:


    "Caution is important, no doubt. But no one''s saying to allow everything and leave it without strict control... Avalon got it, and they''ve achieved a lot. Now it''s Boreas'' turn! Progress can''t be stopped, Malk!"


    Malk sighed. Now Avalon was brought up, too. When did the main foe of first the old Empire, and then also Boreas and Arktavia, suddenly become, in his friend''s eyes, a model to follow and almost an ally of all progressive people? Tolfan, nine boils on your butt, when did you change so much?! Or were you always like this, and Malk just didn''t notice? Though probably not... More likely, these were the sentiments at the School of the Three Saints, and the fatty just absorbed them and now spread them with the zeal of a convert.


    Fool! Extending life, breaking through ranks... The path of a human¡ªwhether mage or ungifted mortal¡ªis to always go against fate. To overcome oneself, one''s weaknesses, and the general imperfection of human nature. The meaning of life is to become more than you are. And to taint such a goal with the help of an enemy who not long ago treated humans as livestock... Moreover, not by seizing it in an honest fight like in the days of the Nine, but by begging or buying it... What could be more humiliating?!


    No, being a loyalist was definitely not Malk''s choice! Not wanting to continue the argument, he waved his hand and turned away to wipe his hands with a cloth. The conversation suddenly lost all interest for him. And he couldn''t even figure out what upset him more¡ªhis friend''s fascination with bad ideas or the guess about their popularity among students of one of Andalore''s top Schools.


    Tolfan also cooled to the topic of collaborating with demons. But his desire to talk didn''t fade, and he switched to Malk:


    "Alright, under Kehtot''s cloak with those loyalists! Better tell, what are you gonna do about your job at the clinic? Raw Force poisoning is a devious thing, especially with Life. You sure you can handle the consequences?"


    The incident with the sprout growing from the plank had forced Malk to share his troubles with Tolfan, and the fatty certainly wasn''t going to let it slide.


    "Maybe you should quit after all? To work directly with a Force source¡ªbe it Elemental, Life, or Death¡ªyou need either to have a pronounced talent for it or a corresponding Arcane Art. You have neither, yet you made it even worse by getting involved with a first-degree source, every other one of which is unstable and tainted with otherworldly radiation," the fatty continued his reasoning.


    "Tolfan, yeah, I know I need a pure Pneuma source, but where can I find it?! Access at the Society costs money, and time''s been booked for almost a month already. I checked yesterday: an Adept like me would be lucky to absorb Pneuma once a sennight, and even that''s not certain. Plus, the money issue remains. It''d take a lot of luck to find a place where I can train and earn a bit at the same time." Malk frowned and started massaging his forehead. "No offense, fatty, but not everyone in this world gets to grow in comfortable conditions."


    "Not everyone," Tolfan agreed smugly. "But croaking while trying to overreach isn''t a great choice either."


    Malk smirked crookedly.


    "Actually, it''s not that bad. I just need to hold out for less than a year to develop my reserve and energy absorption rate to the necessary standards, which already reduces the risk to reasonable levels. Add to that my training with ''Healer.'' The better I master it, the better I''ll understand Life energy, and the easier it''ll be to expel it with Authority..." he started listing, counting on his fingers. "Authority, too, can''t help but grow with such practice. If luck doesn''t turn away, I''ll definitely get it to the peak of the red level by year''s end. Which will also affect the efficiency of my body cleansing..."


    "Well, if you look at it that way, yeah... you''re definitely not facing immediate death," Tolfan drawled, thinking hard about something, then suddenly snapped out of it and said energetically, "So, here are two tips. First: go to the clinic and squeeze as many decoctions as you can out of them. Considering how much they profit off you, a couple of extra potions definitely won''t ruin them. And second... learn the Dispersion spell. At School, we were told it helps not only against external charms but also in cases of magical poisoning. And I think that''s your case!"


    To Malk, who hadn''t expected anything useful from the conversation, both tips seemed unexpectedly sensible. What''s more, Yorrokh take the decoctions, it was the idea of learning Dispersion that was really important. As for where he''d go with such a spell set after the courses, that could be dealt with later. For now, the priority was to make it to the peak of Adept and not die along the way...


    Malk didn''t delay implementing such good advice and got right to it that very day. First, he dropped by the clinic, where he had an unpleasant conversation with the manager. Initially, the Bachelor refused to listen to anything about additional pay¡ªwhich was exactly the way he viewed handing out "extra" elixirs¡ªbut when Malk bluntly stated that he wouldn''t ruin his health at an unstable source, the man softened instantly. Taking assurance from "such a promising Adept" to deliver at least three "Healers" a sennight, he increased the number of decoctions issued to four. One at the end of each sennight. Considering that Tolfan, experienced in haggling, suggested expecting only half as many, the result could be considered a win.


    Malk did have a nagging thought, though, that the real reason for the Bachelor''s flexibility lay in the outright extortionate pay rates, but there was nothing he could change. He had reached his limit as a negotiator.


    After the clinic, it was the Society''s turn. But here, Malk didn''t have to demand or request anything¡ªthe Dispersion spell was on the list of magical constructs available for study. So, all he had to do was submit an application to the academic office to study it as his second free spell and wait a couple of days for the course organizers to find him a teacher and adjust the schedule.


    The only thing Malk was a bit worried about was the potential complexity of the new spell. After all, the Runeglyph course was over, and as a result, his understanding of the magical language was limited to knowing fifty basic symbols. If the runes in Dispersion were unfamiliar, the study could drag on for a long time... Luckily for Malk, as it soon became clear, he knew all eight characters. To successfully form the spell in his Spirit''s heart, he just had to arrange them in the right order and work out the internal connections. For an Adept with a developed Spirit and Authority at mid-red level, it was a piece of cake. So, two days later, Malk was showing his Dispersion to the mentor assigned by the Society.


    It turned out to be none other than the same Mr. Hordol who had so impressed him once before. The priest-like Bachelor taught thoroughly this time as well, fully justifying the positive opinion Malk had formed of him.


    "Not bad, not bad! It''s safe to say you''ve got the structure down," Mr. Hordol concluded after thoughtfully studying the sequence of images hovering between Malk''s palms. "Since that''s the case, we can move on to practice." The Bachelor handed Malk a crooked, poorly whittled branch. "Take this stick, ignorantly called an Apprentice''s scepter, and try to disperse the spell embedded in it."


    "But can you break artifacts with Dispersion?" Malk asked, surprised.


    "Real artifacts, no, but shoddy ones by incompetent fools who jammed a spell structure into a poorly prepped piece, sure can," Hordol said, stroking his beard. "Get started! You''ll see for yourself..."


    The idea of destroying, albeit weak, but still a combat spell as his first experiment with Dispersion didn''t thrill Malk, but you don''t argue with a teacher. He shrugged, placed the scepter in front of him, and pointed both palms at it. His lips recited the sequence of names, his Spirit responded by activating the corresponding images, and from the center of each palm, an invisible wind seemed to blow toward the magical contraption. A wind Malk didn''t so much feel as know existed.


    It took less than a minute to destroy the Fist inside the scepter. Malk''s spell first literally "blew away" the energy charge from the combat magic, then broke the most vulnerable connections between the Runeglyph symbols, and finally dispersed everything else. The Force of Air, bursting in all directions from what was left of the scepter, became the visible confirmation that Malk''s test was complete.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    "Great! How much did you spend?" Mr. Hordol perked up, rubbing his hands energetically.


    "Two ergs," Malk replied, listening to his inner feelings with satisfaction.


    The capacity of his reserve was now a bit over ten ergs, so using Dispersion daily was quite within his reach. If he did everything right, without mistakes, he wouldn''t even have to make any changes to his training schedule. The main thing was for him to grasp everything correctly and for the magic to prove effective against the raw Life energy settled in his body.


    "Very good," the Bachelor nodded. "If you don''t slack off, you should reach a basic level of mastery with Dispersion by the end of the sennight." The mage''s eyes gleamed slyly all of a sudden, and waving the magic-cleansed stick, he remarked, "If you find a suitable target for practice, of course..."


    "Oh, believe me, Mr. Hordol, that''s one thing I won''t have any trouble with!" Malk grimaced but didn''t bother explaining to the Bachelor, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.


    That day, Malk had hardly been able to wait for classes to end. As often happened, during the preparation stage for anything, he barely felt any worries, believing in success, and only when things hit the home stretch would he get caught up in pointless anxiety. That''s what happened this time as well: he wasn''t a bit worried when he was deciding to study Dispersion, but when it was almost time to test the path he''d chosen, he started getting as nervous as a girl before her wedding night.


    Finally, the last class ended, and he rushed home. Malk didn''t remember how he got there¡ªwhether he took an omnibus, hired a carriage, or ran. He became fully aware only when he was already in the backyard, sitting on a small garden bench behind a thick bush of wild roses. His previous experience with expelling raw Life energy had taught him the main thing: not to do it indoors, so this time, he picked as his "lab" the most secluded spot that could handle the consequences of his mistakes.


    Forcing his anxious mood to the back of his mind and focusing on breathing exercises, Malk quickly brought himself to the relaxed and calm state needed for successful practice. Then he tried to perceive himself as a Spirit clothed in flesh, embraced this feeling, savored it, and once he got used to the new state, focused on the spell inscription imprinted in his subtle body and began to slowly channel energy into it.


    Obeying his mental command, as if they weren''t his own, his hands rose above his head, the air between his palms faintly trembling from the Dispersion lingering just a hair''s breadth from activation... and then, with a swift, fluid motion, the plane of the magical construct pressed against his crown, penetrated his body, and slid down to his heels. It lasted only a few heartbeats and didn''t bring any special sensations, except for a slight tickle and itch. For a moment, it even seemed like it was all in vain, and the spell had no effect. However, when a somewhat worried Malk scanned the traces of the spell with his spiritual gaze, he found no hint of the greenish haze of Life. It worked!


    "I should grab a textbook on the basics of magical medicine from the Society''s library later. I''ll have to patch myself up a lot now, and since that''s the case, I better do it by the book!" Malk muttered, slowly bringing himself back to normal and opening his eyes. Only to jump to his feet and yell in fright, "Yorrokh screw me! What the hell are you?!"


    Along one of the bench''s legs, a huge, palm-sized caterpillar was slowly crawling up with difficulty. More precisely, a giant likeness of one, made up of actual flesh, plant parts, some twitching bristles, and bits of various beetles'' bodies.


    "Shit!" Malk cursed again with feeling.


    There was no need to ask where this monstrosity came from or who was to blame. He could only be glad that last time he hadn''t triggered explosive mutations in some household cockroach. After all, getting rid of rot and a single sprout was a lot easier than hunting down a crazed mini-monster in a rented apartment.


    Still, he had to deal with this freak too! Glancing around furtively, Malk quickly brought a piece of burlap from the house, wrapped the slowly writhing and foul-smelling creature in it, and dashed out the gate. Resisting the temptation to drop the bundle right on the cobblestones, he ran to the next street, dumped the giant caterpillar in the nearest garden, and hurried back.


    At least this problem was for someone else to deal with. And Malk felt no guilt about it. The monster didn''t pose a threat to life or health, and the mansion owners could handle a bit of worry. Heck, they might even find it funny¡ªwho knows what jokes Yorrokh''s up to?


    The thought of jokes unexpectedly sobered him up. Malk suddenly realized he was feeling a massive surge of excitement. It was like his body was bursting with energy, making him want to do crazy things and act foolishly. As if he wasn''t a grown guy who''d seen a lot but a young punk who just broke free from his mom''s control and was now running wild.


    Damn it, blast it all! What was wrong with him?! Why did Malk feel the general fatigue of his Spirit from training, but at the same time, his body was overflowing with vigor?! Or maybe, having expelled the raw Life energy, he had let something more subtle slip through, something invisible yet highly effective as a stimulant?! Questions, questions, questions! Malk almost groaned in frustration, mentally promising to grab some medical books and study them cover to cover... But for now, he had to find a way to calm down the activity urge overwhelming him. And nothing came to mind except hard labor.


    "How did my stepfather say he earned money for his School? Unloading train cars at the station? Well, there''s a station in Andalore too..." Malk said aloud, trying to focus on the sound of his own voice. It didn''t help much. "For a mage, there''s little honor in it, and it won''t help develop my Gift, but... damn it, what ''buts'' can there be?!"


    Cursing again, Malk turned and jogged toward the station. Running felt surprisingly easy. His breathing stayed steady, and his arms and legs moved in rhythm. It was as if he hadn''t been wrecking his health with studies and Spirit training but had been working on his physique instead.


    After a few more minutes, Malk realized that running was gradually clearing his thoughts too. The excess energy now had an outlet, and the activity urge no longer clouded his mind. And that meant only one thing: to fully get back to normal, he needed more physical exertion.


    He reached Andalore''s railway station in less than an hour. He hung around, horrified to feel the excess of energy building up in his body again, then had the sense to ask a random porter for directions and, thanks to his explanations, found the freight platform. A team of about twenty workers was already there¡ªthey were waiting for a grain train. A bit apart from the ungifted laborers stood idly a mage-puppeteer with an old steam automaton on a four-wheeled platform. The mechanical loader''s body was covered with metal patches, and the pressure gauge on the boiler was clearly borrowed from another machine, yet its owner wasn''t in a hurry to send it to the scrapyard. Then again, what else could you expect from a puppeteer forced to moonlight at the station? No one with a good life or bright prospects would come here. Malk hadn''t shown up on the platform for laughs either!


    "Need a job?" the lead loader called out to Malk, giving him a skeptical look. "Four obols an hour, payment after the work''s done. Deal?"


    Malk hurriedly nodded. To Yorrokh with the money, he needed the work itself. And the harder, the better. Apparently seeing that in his eyes, the foreman muttered a curse under his breath but didn''t say anything else, and Malk was left alone. Save for the occasional glances from the mage, whose reason for interest was unclear¡ªmaybe he recognized Malk as an Adept, maybe he just hated the idea of sharing the pay for unloading the train, or maybe there was some other explanation. Whatever, it didn''t matter. The main thing was that he only limited himself to glances.


    Then the train arrived at the freight platform, and for five hours, Malk once again zoned out of life. Now, the world around him shrank to a series of simple actions: grab a sack from the guy in the car, throw it onto his back, walk to a cart, toss it in, and go back. Repeat over and over, as long as his legs held, his back managed, and his arms had strength.


    Did he once think he had too much strength and energy? By the Nine, how wrong Malk was. He was as weak as a mouse! Any guy unloading the train seemed three times stronger and five times more enduring. And the automaton... don''t even get started on it. The mechanical loader not only easily grabbed two or three sacks at once but also moved twice as fast. It did all this so skillfully that it sometimes seemed like a living, independent being, while its owner was just a shadow.


    By the end of the unloading, Malk was so exhausted he barely reacted to the people around him. He wasn''t so much doing the work as repeating the routine like a sleepwalker. And it nearly cost him... At one point, as he approached another cart, Malk stumbled and started to fall. Right under the wheels of the automaton heavily loaded with sacks. And even though a burst of adrenaline cleared his head at the last moment, it was too late to dodge. The mechanical loader couldn''t stop in time either. It seemed like a tragedy was unavoidable, but... the automaton''s owner saved the day. With a sharp wave of his hand, he sent out a Force impulse, literally shoving Malk and the sack out of the machine''s path. And though the fall was quite painful, it was still better than getting crushed by the loader.


    "Watch it, you dabbler!" the puppeteer hissed. It became clear he had noticed Malk''s abilities and didn''t feel any friendly sentiments about it.


    The work continued for another hour after that incident¡ªuntil the four cars were empty, and the locomotive took them away from the platform. That''s when everyone got their due pay. Some got more, some less, but Malk received exactly twenty obols, the hardest-earned money of his life!


    He also achieved his main goal. The hellish labor drained all the energy from his body, and now he could safely head home.


    Bidding farewell to the workers who didn''t seem tired at all, Malk left the station and headed straight for the carriage stand. The nighttime rates were shockingly steep¡ªhe''d have to give up half his station earnings to the driver¡ªbut he had no other choice. He simply didn''t have the strength to walk, let alone run. If he ventured on a nighttime stroll, he might not make it, collapsing and falling into a dead sleep along the way. No way, life was definitely worth more than money!


    Probably, on such a life-affirming note, he would have drifted into the realm of dreams if not for a thought that suddenly surfaced in his mind, constantly slipping away and leaving a sense of something missed. Something important that had happened to Malk recently and that he had forgotten due to fatigue.


    "The puppeteer! Right, his Force impulse didn''t have any Elemental magic. It was Pneuma, and of a negative kind at that!" Malk almost howled when he finally caught the elusive thought. "The puppeteer''s spell reeked of Death. And its traces now are on me!"


    Amidst the concerns about his health, the voice of "this Grandfather Boniface," which had appeared out of nowhere, had not so much been forgotten as pushed to the background. However, the understanding that he couldn''t get rid of the otherworldly guest''s malicious schemes in such a way still weighed on Malk. At the back of his mind, he was constantly expecting Boniface''s voice to return. Day, night, at work, and during studies¡ªhe kept listening in to the void, dreading to hear the ghostly dwarf''s voice again and at the same time fearing he wouldn''t...


    "Figured it out, did you?" A strange, creaky voice coming from the side made Malk flinch and turn sharply toward the sound.


    To his right in the carriage sat that same dwarf from the train. Even uglier, cheekier, and meaner than Malk remembered from their last encounter. He sat there and grinned nastily right in his face.


    "That once Death or demonic magic touches me, the protection falls off, and you can find me? Yeah, I figured it out. Wasn''t that hard," Malk replied in a low voice, glancing sideways at the driver out of the corner of his eye.


    Since no one had seen the dwarf last time, Malk didn''t want to come off as someone who talks to invisible friends.


    "Yeah, no hiding from this grandfather," the dwarf grinned, oddly structuring his words.


    His shark-like smile radiated anything but goodwill.


    "Then, maybe you''ll tell me why you need me too?" As far as Malk remembered, this was his first actual conversation with the freak, and the coherence of their exchange was starting to scare him.


    If the dwarf was just a hallucination, a mirage, such an extended conversation could be a sign of impending madness.


    "Because your soul is mine!" the dwarf suddenly growled, his face losing the last traces of humanity.


    It expanded upward and outward, filling Malk''s entire field of vision, then quickly turned into a wide-open giant maw lined with hundreds of needle-like teeth, and... whatever the dwarf had planned next, Malk didn''t know and didn''t want to. From the moment the freak appeared in the carriage, despite his fears and worries, he had been gathering the tiniest scraps of Authority throughout his body, binding it with his will hardened by hardships, and fueling it with resilience and a will to live. So when Boniface finally attacked, his opponent didn''t act like a scared kid but struck back like a warrior. The completely immaterial attack, lacking even a drop of real energy, made the dwarf''s body first swell into an ugly bubble and then silently burst into stinky smoke.


    "Saints, how did I manage to get myself into this mess?!" was all Malk could groan after his victory, feeling a gnawing emptiness in his soul and... a sharp urge to take a bath. The dwarf''s strange transformations, his "death," and how he was perceived through spiritual sight¡ªall pointed to his demonic nature. You''d have to be the ultimate loyalist not to feel filthy after such close contact.


    And even the biggest fool wouldn''t call Malk a loyalist.

 Chapter Thirteen, in which the hero thinks about the future and learns the nuances of relationships

    Despite his age, Malk had been in dangerous situations plenty of times and had gotten used to thinking his spirit and heart were tempered enough that various upheavals wouldn''t disrupt his usual flow of life. Fights, injuries, run-ins with authorities¡ªsure, they didn''t leave him indifferent, but they didn''t hold him back either. One of the Saints said, "For the weak¡ªan insurmountable obstacle; for the strong¡ªa bothersome hindrance!" And Malk put all his effort into making that idea the cornerstone of his worldview.


    However, the encounter with the dwarf almost knocked him off track. He hadn''t expected his personal hallucination, a precursor to any serious incident, to be not only a demonic creature¡ªeven if intangible¡ªbut also to declare a claim on his soul. Not the most pleasant situation! It was one thing to know that real demons, hungry for human lives, roamed around, but quite another when such a bloodthirsty, incorporeal creature targeted you specifically. People got terrified by much less!


    Adding fuel to the fire was the complete uncertainty about the outcome of their invisible clash. Sure, the dwarf had exploded quite spectacularly, but Malk didn''t believe he was truly dead. It was too easy to be true. Not with his luck and skills. Moreover, he wouldn''t be surprised if that twist was part of the freak''s plan all along. With his tendency to create any possible trouble for Malk, a fake death could easily be the start of another vile scheme.


    Still, the phrase "your soul is mine" bothered Malk the most. What did it really mean, what was behind it?! Why the Yorrokh did some demonic freak consider Malk''s soul his?! And the worst part was, there were plenty of possible explanations. Maybe it was his father''s relatives, who got too into forbidden rituals and ended up "paying off" some otherworldly beings with the soul of a "dud" outcast. Or, even worse, it was his own mother''s fault¡ªMalk had no illusions about her: for her ambitions, she could go to great lengths. No wonder she treated him so differently than his sisters... Besides, he couldn''t rule out the possibility that the reason lay in something else entirely unknown to him.


    Though, he still preferred to think his father''s relatives were to blame. Magical aristocracy was rarely encumbered by compassion or kindness; their priority was always their House. To slightly increase its wealth, power, or influence, those with a high Lineage would do a lot. At any rate, they''d certainly get rid of a giftless bastard without regret...


    However, it was once those ancient noble mages, led by the Nine Holy Demonslayers, who had thrown off the yoke of Hell''s demons'' rule from humanity. And in the bloody Second Wave, when those creatures returned for revenge, it was the mighty sorcerers who bore the main burdens of the war... But ages passed, and morals changed. The aristocracy got bogged down in intrigues and squabbles, forgetting their true purpose. Heck, if ideas about lifting bans on demonic magic were openly discussed in Schools, and newspapers printed interviews with prominent loyalists... what else was there to say?! Moreover, even Yorrokh''s Nights didn''t bother anyone much¡ªit was unbecoming for the Houses to fear local breaches of otherworldly creatures into Mritlok; rather, the demons were supposed to dread clans and Families paying a "return visit" with hunting expeditions. As for the fate of regular Gifted and ordinary mortals¡ªnobody cared at all.


    No, Malk harbored no illusions about the upper classes anymore. And that made the dwarf''s visit bother him even more. Especially because of the suspicion that the freak''s influence on reality was becoming more noticeable with each appearance. First, attracting terrorists'' attention on the train, then simply breaking Colhaunian folk "protection," and now a direct attack. What''s next, dragging Malk to Hell?!


    The grim prospects made him urgently seek ways to avoid such an unenviable fate. And while the most obvious option¡ªasking the authorities for help¡ªwas off the table for now, there were other ways. Maybe not reliable, but still worth a shot... So, Malk headed to the nearest market, where, as he knew, was a tent of a priestess of Dorana.


    Colhaun''s priests always stood alongside mages and soldiers in battles against Heimdarch raiders. Experts in half-forgotten practices, formidable litanies, and ancient rituals, loyal servants of their heavenly patrons, they sometimes fought more effectively against demons than traditional sorcerers. Carefully preserving the Legacy of the Nine, they were considered Mritlok''s last bastion against the forces of Hell... and the main spiritual support for ordinary mortals praying for salvation during Yorrokh''s Nights.


    At any rate, that''s how it was back home. How things were in the cultural capital, Malk didn''t know. At least, the absence of temples near suspicious bodies of water and the dominance of loyalists made him think the locals were starting to forget their faith in the Nine...


    Anyway, that wasn''t his problem. The main thing for him was that the priestess be at her tent and still have charms against dark forces, which the temples of the sternest among the Nine, the warrior woman, were famous for. On regular days, the followers of the patroness of demon hunters weren''t popular¡ªpeople preferred to seek help in military matters from Achont, beg Yelya for healing, or ask Rzavian to soften a bureaucrat''s heart. But Yorrokh''s Night was approaching, and scared mortals were turning to, in their view, more reliable protectors. So, there was a big risk of finding an empty stall, with all the charms and amulets gone...


    However, Malk got lucky, as the young priestess who greeted him had just started laying out the temple''s goods. And the selection was quite varied.


    "My respects to the servant of Great Dorana!" Malk rushed out. Despite being pretty conservative, he still wasn''t much of a good believer. So, after a barely noticeable nod to the priestess, he immediately leaned over the stall: "Do you have..."


    "The Holy Huntress doesn''t like haste! And values respect!" the priestess snapped angrily, cutting him off. Malk straightened up quickly, mentally cursing himself for rushing.


    Of all things, getting on the bad side of the maiden from Dorana''s retinue¡ªthat''s what they called themselves¡ªover something so trivial was certainly not in his best interest. Just his "luck" to run into a young acolyte, full of religious zeal and eager to spread the Saint''s word.


    Wondering how to smooth things over, he gave her a questioning look... meanwhile noting that she had a pretty nice figure and a cute face.


    Instead of answering, the maiden pointed with her eyes to a metal chest with a slot in the lid, where people were supposed to drop donations for the temple. And judging by her expression, a couple of obols wouldn''t cut it.


    The threat of parting with his coins almost made Malk say screw it and head to priests of some other Saint¡ªAchont or Murrtash, for instance. Even though both were known more as masters of battle, they still left their priests some skills in making amulets as their Legacy. And he gave up on leaving only out of fear of earning the priestess''s curse. Far from all temple servants had the necessary skills¡ªespecially at such a young age¡ªbut risking getting into new trouble, more so for no good reason, still wasn''t to his liking.


    So, with a pained sigh, Malk pulled a half-drachma coin from his pocket and, feeling his heart bleed, dropped it into the chest''s slot.


    "The temple of the Great Saint is grateful for your gift, Adept!" The silver barely had time to clink against the coins filling the chest as the priestess switched from wrath to mercy and beamed at Malk. "What kind of help does the donor want from the Huntress?"


    "I need an amulet protecting against dark forces," he replied, somewhat embarrassed and slightly annoyed by the maiden''s sudden metamorphosis. "Do you have one?"


    "I do. But I''d recommend getting a Defender against spiritual parasites. A ward against darkness is good for the Night, but that''s not what you need now," the priestess replied politely.


    "How do you know?" Malk asked suspiciously.


    "It just seems to me that someone with signs of damage from a ghost attack should worry less about threats from Hell¡ªmay the Saints turn it into dust!¡ªand more about the danger of another assault by a bodiless creature. Or am I wrong?" the priestess said with that same smile that was starting to irritate Malk.


    He had a question on the tip of his tongue about how the maiden knew about the ghost, but he held back. The Saints'' servants had their own ways, and their Arcane Arts were special too¡ªoften useless in everyday life yet very handy during demon invasions. Breaking written and unwritten laws of mages while knowing the answer you''d get was stupid.


    "You''re right. So, what do you suggest?" he asked.


    In just five minutes, having parted with sixty obols, he got a bracelet of leather braid with nine glass beads. Eight small, dull ones and one¡ªthe fourth in the string¡ªlarge, steadily pulsating with glow in sync with Malk''s heartbeat. Compared to modern mages'' creations, the Defender against spiritual parasites looked plain, yet he trusted it way more.


    Before Malk, upset by his expenses, departed, the priestess bestowed a blessing upon him, which washed over his Spirit in a warm wave. But if she expected gratitude for that, she was mistaken. Ever since a while back, Malk had really come to dislike it when streams of foreign Force invaded his body. So, as soon as he was far enough from Dorana''s priestess''s tent, he immediately sat on a bench and, following his now-habitual routine, started removing the foreign energy. Lately, he''d actually been doing this whenever possible, simultaneously training his Authority manipulation skills and achieving complete control over the processes inside. Otherwise, with his poisoning by one of the Pneuma aspects, the clash with the dwarf, and talent limitations, dreaming of a long life was out of the question...


    Two sennights after getting the bracelet passed completely peacefully. Surprisingly so. No one attacked Malk, set traps, or dragged him into trouble¡ªhe lived the typical life of a regular student. Except that he had no free time at all, but then, not everyone got lucky like Tolfan. A decently well-off family, not the worst Gift¡ªif Malk had those conditions, he''d move mountains! However, the fatty, being an outer disciple of the School of Three Saints, didn''t aim for the top and preferred hanging out with other young, rich good-for-nothings.


    Malk couldn''t afford that sort of thing. Training in the morning, work in the infirmary, then studies during the day, and already towards evening, transforming into a train station loader¡ªwhere was there time to think about entertainment?! Still, he didn''t complain. The workload might have seemed unbearable to someone, but he, on the contrary, felt relief. And how could it be otherwise, if his mind and Spirit had already adapted to the pressure, and his body... his body generally began to perceive any physical labor almost as a great blessing. And although the former madness, when the thirst for hard work drove him crazy, did not return, Malk could not completely get rid of a slight euphoria in his thoughts and a weak languor in his muscles and suppressed them with physical exertion.


    Anyway, with such an approach to the daily routine, the main thing was to get into the rhythm. If it worked out, the body quickly adapted, stopped perceiving what was happening as something extreme, and allowed one to do something else; if not, well, it meant that someone had taken on too much and needed to dial it back!


    Malk managed to get into the rhythm, and then he found time to think about the future. About the very future that previously seemed unattainable but was now visible on the horizon. For the first time, Malk tried to assess his prospects and understand what the newly minted Adept would do after completing his studies.


    Actually, back when he was still a "dud" and counting on a diploma from the School of Three Saints, he was a bit more optimistic about a mage''s life. But harsh reality opened his eyes to a lot, and he realized the importance of certain decisions.


    After all, what''s the main problem for mages in the modern world? It''s finding ways to use their talents! Sure, it''s great to throw lightning bolts, create shields, and curse enemies, but that''s only useful in wartime. What about peacetime? Which of those spells would help make an honest living? The reality is, not everyone is needed in the army or House troops; some face much calmer lives. And in those cases, you can''t get by with occasional small earnings¡ªyou need a stable income. At least because the profession of a sorcerer is a money drain for the Gifted. Experiments, resources for practice, new knowledge¡ªit all requires gold. Even if some mage wants to retreat to a tower, cut off from worldly worries, and dive into research, they can''t do it without strong support. There''s always a need for someone to help develop the Gift and push forward, whether it''s a School, a House, or a powerful teacher-Archmage playing patron doesn''t matter.


    After all, what was the main problem of mages in the modern world? It was the difficulty of applying their talents! Of course, it was great to be able to hurl lightning, create shields, and inflict curses on enemies, but all this was only suitable for wartime. What about peacetime? Which of these spells would help to earn money honestly? The reality was that not everyone was expected in the army or the troops of the Houses; there were also those who had a much calmer life ahead. And here, one-time petty earnings wouldn''t cut it; a stable income was needed. If only simply because the profession of a sorcerer, like a pump, sucked money out of the Gifted. Experiments, resources for practice, new knowledge¡ªeverything required gold. Even if some sorcerer wanted to retire to a tower, isolate themselves from the bustle of the world, and fully immerse themselves in research, they simply would not be able to realize their desire without strong support. There always had to be someone who would help develop the Gift and push forward, and whether it was a School, a House, or a powerful Archmage-mentor who had decided to play the role of a patron, did not matter.


    Malk certainly had no such backing behind him, and the need to earn a living through his own skills weighed on him more heavily than ever. Thank the Saints, he found a use for his very first spell: regularly copying someone else''s "Healer" greatly helped in mastering his own version, and next month, Malk already planned to start sealing the latter in single-use vessels instead. And if he could follow through on his plans to study medical books, he might even requalify as, albeit low-ranked, a real healer.


    Ideally, his second spell should''ve been from the same field. There were plenty of them on Malk''s list. Blood Cleansing, Body Nourishment, Banish Disease...you name it! But the circumstances were such that, as his second spell, he was forced to pick Dispersion. And Malk had no idea how to make money off it. At least not yet. Sure, one could imagine that it might work well against curses or, let''s say, manifestations of malefics'' displeasure, but that sort of thing required special knowledge. It wasn''t just about removing foreign energy from the body; you had to understand at least a bit of the underlying issue. And who''d let Malk, with his black star in the mage passport, near the blatantly dangerous books that required serious clearance?


    Thus, it turned out that all his hopes for progressing in the thoroughly peaceful profession of a healer had to be tied to his third spell. And that would have been fine, but... Malk got into trouble in Andalore far too often. The terrorist attack on the train, the scuffle with street thugs, the loyalist assault, the pursuit by a demonic dwarf... Yorrokh''s Seed, he even managed to witness an assassination attempt on a Magister!!!


    Under such conditions, focusing solely on developing peaceful skills was downright stupid. The Colhaunian upbringing already taught him to keep his powder dry, and now his personal experiences piled on top of that. So, Malk saw no alternative to a combat spell for his third choice. Granted, with his status, he couldn''t count on anything serious, but he hoped to make up for the spell''s weakness with his Authority, which was pretty decent for his rank.


    He picked Spark¡ªthe weakest spell he''d ever heard of and the only combat one available to an Adept with his background. But as his mentor said, there are no bad tools, only bad users. Even with Spark, you could achieve a lot. Especially if you didn''t just learn it at the bare minimum level but honed the skill to its peak¡­ and, who knows, maybe even pushed it beyond!


    The only hassle with choosing Spark had to do with the scope of its application. To get permission to study any combat spell, the Society''s bureaucrats demanded a pile of paperwork, which had to be filled out flawlessly, by the rules, and on time. No excuses were accepted. After hearing his classmates'' stories of bureaucratic ordeals, Malk didn''t even try to fill out the forms on the spot and headed home with them. With his status, he couldn''t rely on luck; everything had to be done so no one would have any complaints.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    And it was while filling out the forms that Tolfan, who had suddenly returned from School, caught him.


    "Decided to study combat magic?" the fatty asked, peeking over Malk''s shoulder.


    "Sort of," Malk grumbled, already bracing for snarky remarks and tensing up inside.


    He was wrong, as Tolfan wasn''t planning to mock his choice. Though he still couldn''t resist a jab.


    "Since you decided to become a mage, this is your first sensible decision," Tolfan said with a serious face. "Zero-circle spells are crap for protection, but better with than without."


    "You know, fatty, you''ve really surprised me just now," Malk said. "It''s more your style to say something like, ''The main thing is for a gentleman to have gold and a good pistol, and he can always buy an avalonch if he needs one,'' rather than advocating for learning combat skills. Where did this sudden foresight come from?"


    Tolfan noisily cleared his nose and gave Malk a condescending look.


    "What makes you think an avalonch, a pistol, and, I''ll add, a couple of guards would be superfluous, even for a battle mage? The world''s more complicated than we once thought. And getting out of Colhaun hasn''t exactly brought us to a land of peace and prosperity." He ruffled his hair and let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yorrokh!.. I''m even thinking of signing up for a combat mastery elective at School! That''s how far it''s gotten..."


    "Did something happen?" Malk asked, suddenly on edge. For the fatty to cast aside his laziness and cowardice and take up something dangerous and hard to master... No way!


    "Maybe it did, maybe it didn''t... or maybe I just woke up and saw what a snake nest I''m studying in," Tolfan muttered. "Got a buddy at School. Decent guy, from my circle, knows how to have fun... His dad''s from the West Coast, owns a small fishing fleet... And yesterday, he ticked off some aristocrat. A senior from House Leinir..."


    "House of the Thunder Bird, I''ve heard," Malk nodded. "Big friends with House Charingar! If there''s such a thing as friendship between aristocratic Houses at all."


    Reading lineage books had paid off, and he had at least a passable grasp of Boreas Houses and Families.


    "Exactly!" Tolfan grimaced. "So, my buddy mocked this petty noble from House Leinir. Not an heir or even part of the main family... otherwise, he wouldn''t have been sent to my School! But the guy got offended. And challenged the joker in the dueling ring."


    Tolfan fell silent.


    "And?" Malk urged.


    "And today, my buddy ended up in the School infirmary. With severe burns and multiple gashes all over his body. Before the judge stopped the fight, Leinir literally shredded him with a simple Lightning. First-circle spell, nothing much, really, but in that scumbag''s hands... it turned into something deadly!" Tolfan said, staring blankly into the distance.


    "They allow fights without protective amulets in your School?" Malk frowned.


    Tolfan slowly turned to him.


    "You don''t get it. Thanks to his dad, my buddy was practically covered in those amulets, but it didn''t help. ''Cause you gotta know how to use any toys, and he didn''t. And he didn''t have any of his own combat spells either," the fatty said, dropping his words heavily. "Unlike Leinir, who didn''t even activate his own defense and didn''t use any other spells besides Lightning."


    "Well, then I understand you. Cases like that really do motivate one to study," Malk said, spreading his hands.


    "Study..." Tolfan snorted. "They motivate you to stay alive! I was planning to specialize in elemental blessings, picked the Arcane Art of Two Shrouds for that... But then I imagined myself in Leinir''s opponent''s place, and it got me uneasy."


    "Relax. But next time you feel like cracking jokes at someone, remember this case. And, trust me, it''ll save you a ton of trouble." Malk winked at the fatty with feigned enthusiasm and patted him on the shoulder. "Besides... The newspapers say Yorrokh''s Night might come earlier this year than expected, and that''s what''s getting to you."


    Malk had known since almost the first day they met how Yorrokh''s Night made the fatty anxious, so he didn''t deny himself the pleasure of poking fun at his friend about it. Which always infuriated Tolfan.


    "Ah, shove your jokes about the Night to..." the fatty snapped instantly, then caught Malk''s laughing gaze and added more calmly, "To our neighbor! He came back last night from a trip with some pretty guest and took her to the garden for some ''cultural entertainment.'' And almost croaked there..."


    "What?" Malk asked, not expecting such a sharp turn in the conversation and feeling growing unease.


    Images started surfacing in his mind: first catching the mutant caterpillar, then taking it to the next street, and tossing it into the garden. Saints screw it, the thing didn''t die?!


    "What''s unclear... A demonic chimera popped up in the neighbor''s garden. While he was traveling around the country, the pest grew to the size of a forty-bucket barrel, ate all the greenery, killed the trees, dug up the soil, and, satisfied, greeted the owner," Tolfan reported, not noticing Malk''s reaction and getting more amused. "What''s more, when he, scared out of his wits, blasted it with a Fire Arrow from a one-time amulet, it didn''t die like a decent creature should but burst like an overinflated bubble. And splattered everything around with some kind of liquid muck¡ªnot dangerous, but stinky as Hell''s belch..."


    "So, how did it all end?" Malk urged his friend, who had paused.


    "How, how... The garden turned into a revolting mud lake, the lady had a fit, and the fellow had a meltdown over his ruined weekend suit that cost two dozen drachmas," Tolfan laughed after a dramatic pause. "But the gendarmes suffered the most, since they had to go door to door looking for the source of the demonic emission that spawned the monster... They already stopped by here, by the way, when you were off to the infirmary. Mad as Yorrokh himself!"


    And Tolfan burst out laughing again. Malk, meanwhile, discreetly let out a breath of relief: it seemed his stupid stunt hadn''t led to anything bad. Even though he''d been under the euphoric influence of his body cleansing at the time, it did nothing to excuse his behavior.


    "Alright... You distracted me with your Spark, but I didn''t come home early for nothing. Helavia asked me!" Tolfan suddenly interrupted Malk''s self-flagellation.


    "Her intense sessions on the training ground... or wherever she trains... are finally over, and she''s coming back home?" Malk perked up.


    "Almost. She''s coming home next sennight. And she''s bringing with her two invitation tickets to the theater," Tolfan informed in a mocking tone, cocking his eyebrows. "Get where this is going?"


    "N-no," Malk said, puzzled.


    "To spending, buddy! Spending!" the fatty burst into laughter, unable to hold back. "Our mutual friend asked me to make sure you go to a tailor and get some decent-looking clothes. Really insisted! Said she''d poke holes in my gut if you embarrass her with your ''boarding school rags.''" He got serious and added calmly, "By the way, Malk, no offense, but your clothes are really... way too old-fashioned. You won''t make a career in the circle of senior mages looking like that!"


    "Not like I''m dying to join that circle..." Malk snapped; though he understood both his girlfriend and Tolfan were right, he still had a strong dislike for the situation.


    He would''ve even told these advisors to shove off, but... Yorrokh, he really did need to spruce up. Even Serge from the courses, as soon as he mastered the last layer of his Arcane Art, took care to purchase a new, much more respectable suit. So why was Malk any worse?!


    "You''re not, but Helavia is. Talented, pretty, and working herself to the bone like you. Plus, her Gift''s good, and her Authority''s almost the strongest among non-aristocrats in the course... Very influential people are already taking notice of her. So if you want to stay by her side, keep up! And start by not dressing like some kid from the working outskirts," Tolfan said earnestly.


    And Malk couldn''t find any comeback except to stand up, spread his hands, and say with mock tragedy in his voice:


    "Alright, then lead me to where my spending awaits..."


    However, they didn''t go to a tailor or a ready-made clothes shop. Tolfan had urgent matters, and Malk still had to sort out the paperwork for Spark. Therefore, they postponed the shopping trip for two days. Postponed, but didn''t cancel! So, by mid-sennight, Malk had a decent pair of leather shoes, wool trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt, an interesting vest with a blazer collar, and a pretty basic tie. Along with the new clothes came thin leather gloves, a silver pin, and a pair of cufflinks adorned with rock crystal.


    By and large, nothing special, no fashionable frills or expensive materials. Just quality stuff that would fit in the wardrobe of a mid-level merchant or a Junior Apprentice or young Bachelor who cared about their appearance. But the price... Malk paid four drachmas for the whole set, and that was still a good deal. This specific outfit, thanks to Tolfan''s suggestion, he bought from a tailor, and judging by the barely noticeable stitching, the previous owner had really bad luck catching a stiletto in the left side. Before, Malk would''ve seen that as a huge flaw, but by now, he had a good grasp of prices and kept quiet. A similar but new outfit from a ready-made shop cost three times more...


    Sorting out the "decent clothes" matter seemed to trigger some other things to fall into place. The infirmary manager appreciated Malk''s work quality and, on his own initiative, increased his pay for one "Healer" by ten obols. The gendarmes, having found nothing, stopped hanging around the house, looking for signs of demonic emanations. And finally, the Society''s bureaucrats not only allowed Malk to study a combat spell but even arranged the schedule so he could master it as quickly as possible. All good news! And the absence of the dwarf was the final touch to the best sennight of the month. If Malk were a bit more religious, he''d probably have thought it was all thanks to getting a bracelet of Dorana. But he wasn''t, for better or worse...


    Helavia, as promised, returned on the first day of the next sennight. A bit thinner, with shadows under her eyes, but carrying herself in a new, unfamiliar way. It was as if the long, grueling training had allowed her to break through what seemed like an insurmountable barrier and reach a fundamentally new state of Spirit and body. And, it must be said, this noticeably added to her allure and sensuality.


    Too bad her personality didn''t get any better.


    "Ready?" she asked from the doorway, as if they hadn''t been apart at all.


    Then, she gave Malk a critical once-over. And judging by her slight smile, she liked his new look. Malk shared her opinion on his appearance. If before he didn''t care about how he dressed, now his look was too close to those childhood dreams of a mighty mage and a dashing gentleman for him to ignore.


    "Almost. I''ll finish up, and I''ll be all yours," Malk said, first giving a mock bow, then laughing and kissing the girl who had slightly leaned toward him.


    When she showed up, he was standing by the open window in their room, methodically hurling the newly learned Spark at a metal plate in the middle of the yard. It was slow, with a crazy energy drain, but that''s how real mage skills were honed. As if proving this, the last Spark not only hit the piece of metal but also left a considerable dent!


    Helavia stood next to him unexpectedly. With an unreadable expression, she looked at Malk, then shifted her gaze to his target. Raising her right index finger, she... twisted energy flows around it, forming a spell. It took her less than three seconds to spark a blue flame at the tip of her finger, then take aim at the metal piece and shoot it with a tight cluster of discharges, just like firing a pistol.


    Lightning Arrow! A spell Malk wouldn''t get even if he thought of bribing the Society''s academic department officials. To learn combat spells like that, you needed not only a clean record but also to be studying in the right place. Like, for example, the School of the Three Saints.


    The Arrow lived up to its reputation this time too. The magical discharge, somewhat resembling a gunpowder rocket, pierced Malk''s target. And, judging by the melted edges of the entry hole and the scorched grass around the piece of metal, the spell''s strength wasn''t just in its penetrating power.


    "Now what? Now ready?" Helavia asked, not without a hint of challenge.


    After such a dazzling display, it was embarrassing to show off his half-baked Sparks, but Malk managed to keep his composure and fired the last one at the target. Under his girlfriend''s mocking gaze, he was terrified of missing, but it seemed his lucky sennight wasn''t over yet. The Spark not only hit but also broke the already battered plate in half.


    "Now I am!" he said and made an inviting gesture, suggesting that Helavia proceed to the exit first.


    She snorted but headed toward the door anyway. Malk, meanwhile, suddenly realized with unusual clarity that this theater visit would stick with him for a long time...


    They went by carriage¡ªthe same one Helavia had used to come to the rental apartment. On the way, Malk tried to ask his girlfriend something or other, but she kept brushing him off with meaningless phrases. Playing the chatterbird from the southern islands got old fast, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Yorrokh knew what Helavia was thinking, but Malk was trying to figure out how to take her aloofness. Sure, he knew their relationship was lacking a spark, but... neither of them were those fiery folk of Lira who, rumor had it, lived in a new melodrama each day! Still, this kind of coldness was unusual even for them.


    Or maybe Tolfan was right, and it was the result of... how did he put it?... influential people taking notice of Helavia?


    Deep down, something like jealousy stirred in Malk for the first time. Calm and controlled, but jealousy nonetheless!


    Lost in heavy thoughts, he didn''t even notice when the carriage arrived at the theater. Judging by the poster featuring a playwright even Malk had heard of, this wasn''t a run-of-the-mill place. That was also obvious from the crowd coming to see the play. A dozen Bachelors in military uniforms, two Junior Magisters with the College of White Gloves insignia, loads of Apprentices... There were ungifted folks too, but the cost of their jewelry and amulets glowing with Force suggested they could probably hire some of the senior mages here as personal bodyguards, if not just as mere clerks.


    Amid such company, no matter what he thought of himself, Malk was clearly out of his depth... Which couldn''t be said about Helavia. She felt right at home. With some, she just exchanged greetings; with others, she traded elaborate bows; and with a few, she even exchanged jokes Malk barely understood. And even though she didn''t approach the truly influential guests, the number of acquaintances she had was still astonishing. She belonged here.


    When did she manage it?!


    While Helavia was a true guest of this event, Malk, at some point, started feeling like he wasn''t her boyfriend anymore, just a companion, a male escort without whom it would be improper for a lady to show up in society. And that was a pretty unpleasant feeling.


    But soon, the whirlwind of outfits and fancy greetings ended. A bell rang, and the guests began taking their seats. Malk and Helavia didn''t linger either and ended up in chairs almost in the very last row. The lights went out, the curtain rose, and the show began.


    Malk wasn''t a theatergoer, and in truth, he''d never had the chance to become one. Whether in the Colhaun boarding school or here in Andalore, life didn''t spoil him with free time or cultural entertainment. So, it was doubly odd that the first play he saw grabbed him so much. Thoughts of his relationship with Helavia receded, the sense of difference and alienness of high society was forgotten for a while; he focused entirely on what was happening onstage.


    The play revolved around the Uprising of the Nine¡ªan era when, among humans enslaved by Hell''s demons, nine truly great leaders emerged. Powerful sorcerers who learned how to fight off the guests from beyond the world''s borders and passed that knowledge on to other people. Talented generals who survived hundreds of battles and crushed every enemy they faced. Future Saints who bestowed upon humanity, first, hope¡ªand later, the right to a future.


    Admittedly, in this particular play, the Saints'' fight against demons didn''t get much focus. The playwright and director were more interested in the relationships among four specific Demonslayers. Achont, Yelya, Druzal, and Kehtot¡ªthe best of the best, the strongest of the strong, yet on stage, they suffered, struggled, lost, and found, just like ordinary mortals. In the finale, the trio of future Saints turned against Kehtot. According to the creators, the patron of mystical arts and arcane practices had simply chickened out before a crucial battle with demons and even prepared to defect to the enemy. The situation was saved only by the intervention of the other Demonslayers, who recognized the betrayal in time, subdued the traitor, and then persuaded him to return to the righteous path.


    "It started off great and ended so poorly," Malk commented as the curtain fell and the audience slowly began to leave.


    "Like you expected anything else!" Helavia snorted. "Read the ''Message to Descendants''¡ªnothing ends well there!"


    "Why? The Saints did achieve their goal. Yorrokh''s rule was overthrown, and humanity gained freedom. Finding personal happiness just wasn''t part of the path they chose," Malk disagreed.


    "Then what are you upset about?" Helavia asked coolly.


    "The lies. Kehtot never betrayed anyone. But he seriously messed with Archont and Druzal, as they tried to grab all the power... Not out of altruism, no! Great mages rarely get into that. More likely, he wanted the same thing for himself¡­ But the fact remains, Kehtot did feud with some Saints, even getting into fights. And now, some are rewriting the history of the first war with Hell," Malk replied quite emotionally.


    "Are you giving me those same tall tales Reslan Skom stuffed into you, is that it?" Helavia hissed. Since Malk''s initiation, any mention of his mentor''s personality started to get on her nerves. "Then I advise you to forget them before anything bad happens. Need a reminder of how our mentor ended up? Want to follow in his footsteps?"


    "I don''t. But I won''t just stand by and watch our history get twisted to suit who knows what political trends!" Malk declared, leaving no room for debate.


    And he ended the conversation there. Helavia, for her part, wasn''t eager to continue the argument either. What was meant to be a pleasant evening out had clearly not worked out for either of them.


    Already in the lobby, they saw two mages with their female companions¡ªmages who were quite far apart in the rank hierarchy. One was a military man, a general with Junior Magister insignia, the other¡ªa student in Three Saints School uniform with an Apprentice medallion. Given the gap in their statuses, there would have been nothing to discuss under normal circumstances, and yet there they stood, talking, which meant their connection went well beyond mere formalities.


    Suddenly, Malk caught a quick glance from the Junior Magister''s young interlocutor. A sharp, attentive gaze that barely brushed him but stuck to Helavia. And what was especially annoying, his girlfriend responded with a touch more than a polite nod.


    "Who''s that?" Malk asked calmly, though inside he was burning with anger.


    "It''s... my mentor''s senior disciple in the School," Helavia replied, not very convincingly. "Nothing special. Just consider him a friend."


    Malk was about to make a caustic remark¡ªjust barely holding himself from causing a scene¡ªwhen suddenly, the general''s female companion also looked their way. A stunning blue-eyed blonde in a sleeveless, backless blue dress first gave them a sidelong glance, then, almost openly, turned and studied Malk for a few moments. And finally, she even flashed him a charming smile.


    "And who''s that?" Helavia asked, now much less calmly.


    For the first time, Malk found himself in a situation where he didn''t know what to say. Answer honestly that he didn''t know? But given the smile clearly meant for him, that would seem like a blatant lie. Make something up? That''d be even worse. He wasn''t a smooth liar to constantly navigate between truth and fabrication. He''d definitely slip up and get caught. So what then?


    And he couldn''t think of anything better than to mutter thoughtlessly:


    "Nothing special. Just consider her a friend."

 Chapter Fourteen, where it turns out trouble doesnt come alone

    Their bickering with Helavia started on the way back and continued at home. His girlfriend vehemently argued that a "just friend" in Malk''s case couldn''t even be compared to a "just friend" in Helavia''s own. If only because in real Schools with real mentors, the relationships between students of the same mentor were akin to brotherhood! And that''s how their exchange of smiles had to be interpreted. But Malk''s flirting with that "shameless blonde in a tacky dress" had no excuse.


    Malk didn''t lag behind his girlfriend either and voiced quite a few unpleasant things about the girl''s excessive focus on communicating with young noble-born mages. Moreover, intellectually, he understood that a smile and an exchange of glances meant nothing in themselves, yet jealousy... jealousy wouldn''t let him be. He had previously sincerely believed that this dark and destructive feeling was alien to him! And suddenly, such a surprise. Could it really all be due to his shaken confidence in his abilities?! Yorrokh, it very well could be... But who said that realizing and accepting this fact also meant the absence of real reasons for jealousy?!


    In short, he and Helavia had a truly serious quarrel. Even when she tried to pressure him to give up his dream of becoming a mage, everything was happening much quieter and calmer. Now, however, the fire of resentment blazed in each of them, fueling emotions, blurring control, and putting more and more harsh words on their tongues. At some point, they even forgot what it had all started with and began to pour out all their accumulated mutual grievances on each other.


    Even Tolfan got some of it. The fatty, who returned home at the wrong time and witnessed the scandal, tried to reconcile them, for which he paid. Only if Malk advised his friend to go to Yorrokh, adding a couple of epithets overheard from the station loaders for good measure, Helavia gave a good dressing-down to his personality and his desire to poke his nose into other people''s business. Tolfan got offended.


    As a result, all three of them did not speak to each other for this and the following sennight; fortunately, they did not have to see each other often. Malk was already swamped with work and studies, while Helavia and Tolfan started prepping for their first round of tests at School. And only when his girlfriend and the fatty began packing for a trip to the countryside training ground¡ªit was there that the School of the Three Saints preferred to drive its students to check their mastery of spells¡ªdid the tension ease a bit, and they at least started talking again. Helavia, before getting into the carriage that was taking the internal students to the School, even went as far as to kiss Malk, who helped load their stuff...


    The first steps toward reconciliation were made. And even though Malk was still simmering inside, the sharpness of his emotions had faded. Which meant that soon he would calm down completely, just give him time and don''t bother him over trifles.


    Though, after his girlfriend and the fatty''s departure, there was no one left to bother him anyway. For the next few sennights, Malk''s life was all about training, work, studying, and more work, with rare breaks being just sleep and omnibus rides through the city streets. And no more crazy nights with Helavia, get-togethers with Tolfan, joint walks, and shopping trips¡ªjust the usual tedious yet calming routine. Exactly what Malk needed right now.


    Except, alas, reality rarely aligns with our wishes. Sometimes, in place of small trouble, like a spat with loved ones, comes a bigger one, and not alone...


    Nevertheless, it all started pretty mundane and calm, without surprises or unexpected events.


    After the departure of his friends, exactly a sennight and a half passed, and the time for the next payment of the Gifted tax was approaching. To avoid unnecessary hassle, Malk dutifully headed to the district magic bank. Although there was still time, he preferred not to risk it. Getting a second black star for tax arrears¡ªand given his relationship with the capital''s gendarmes, it was a piece of cake¡ªwas not part of his plans for the near future. The first one had already made life incredibly tough, and he didn''t even want to think about what would happen after the second.


    There were no lines this time. Quickly sorting out the paperwork and parting with eight ergs of energy, Malk left the bank building. But instead of heading straight to the omnibus stop, he turned toward a shoeshine tent. His new clothes required a particular attention to his look, so occasionally he had to shell out for such "luxuries"... If spending five obols could even be called a luxury.


    While the shoeshine boy prepped brushes, cream, and wax, Malk sat on a high stool and unfolded a fresh issue of "Magic and Steam" he''d bought on the way.


    "So, what''s new here?" he muttered, feeling like a bored aristocrat for a moment.


    And though these were no more than thoughts spoken aloud, requiring no answer, Malk suddenly heard a monotonous voice, clearly reciting from memory:


    "The Bureau of Calamities reports that Yorrokh''s Night might occur earlier than expected this year. Everyone is advised to check the reliability of locks in their homes, recharge protective charms, and city guests, if they haven''t already, should find the way to the capital''s flakturms."


    "Well, I''ll be! You read newspapers too?" Malk said in surprise, looking at the suddenly talkative shoeshine boy.


    The kid shook his head.


    "No. I was just polishing shoes for a respectable gentleman this morning, and he, as it turned out, likes to read the most interesting parts aloud. So, I just remembered," the boy replied without looking up from his work.


    "Good lad," Malk approved of the boy''s efforts. "Maybe you''ll say something else interesting then, so I don''t strain my eyes for nothing?"


    The shoeshine boy shrugged.


    "Not much to say, Yorrokh''s Night is the main thing... It''s the rich districts and the center that are well protected, things are much worse in the outskirts. And if before, when the date was known, you could at least come to a tower in advance, now I don''t even know... By the time you gather your things and run there, all the places might already be taken, and the doors will be slammed right in your face. And getting caught outside during Yorrokh''s Night is certain death," he said in a confidential tone.


    Now it was Malk''s turn to shrug.


    "Guess you''ll have to hurry when the time comes," he said and buried himself in the newspaper again. He wasn''t interested in just chatting with the boy.


    "They also passed a law about the monarchists. Now they''re not allowed to gather for rallies, print their proclamations in printing houses, or write articles for newspapers," the shoeshine boy spoke again. "The gentleman who read the newspaper to me even called it a great achievement of freedom. Like, the authorities tolerated these rebels and troublemakers for too long. The gendarmes covered up their crimes, pinned them on the loyalists, but now a new era has begun. He also said..." The boy paused and, staring off, began to remember. "He also said that after such a wonderful law, we will no longer have reasons to quarrel with Avalon. Imagine that!"


    The boy shook a brush black with polish for emphasis, then bent over Malk''s shoes again.


    "Kid, I see you get some politically savvy customers!" Malk sneered crookedly, stung by the words about the "great achievement." Of all things, he definitely didn''t consider the selling off¡ªwholesale and retail¡ªthe ideals and beliefs of past generations to be such.


    "All sorts of folks," the shoeshine replied vaguely and fell silent.


    It suddenly occurred to Malk that it was best not to run his mouth in the company of this little newspaper connoisseur. Unless, of course, he wanted to be the subject of a tale like that loyalist gentleman. And he, no longer wishing to continue the conversation, buried himself in the newspaper. Fortunately, there was plenty more to read about...


    The boy finally focused on his work, while Malk unexpectedly became engrossed in an article about a newfangled metropolitan craze¡ªthe cinematograph. As it turned out, the Guild of Dreamers had opened two halls in Andalore, where in the evenings, with the help of mechanical devices¡ªeither gleaned from other worlds or invented in a state of magically induced ecstasy¡ªthey showed the story of a vengeful archer hunting a lone Demonic Warrior. According to the journalists, they achieved this with moving pictures projected onto the wall with captions, and the resulting spectacle was well worth spending one drachma.


    Though, if anyone asked Malk, Yorrokh knows what kind of show they put on, but judging by the archer''s mug printed across half a spread, the gold he collected at the entrance personally. At least Malk wouldn''t part with a whole drachma in any other way!


    While he entertained himself with reading, the shoeshine suddenly put aside the brushes, picked up a strange-looking iron gizmo instead, and began to run it over Malk''s shoes.


    "Hey, what are you doing?! Casting spells?!" Malk exclaimed in alarm.


    "Sir, it''s just a basic charm to keep the shine for a sennight. It doesn''t even use a tenth of an erg," the boy explained, then added with surprise, "I thought you knew, since you came to me. I''m the only Gifted around. That''s why I charge so much..."


    "Got it," Malk nodded, a bit flustered.


    He glanced at his boots, the toes of which did seem to have a particular shine now, and sighed wearily. Yorrokh, even though he didn''t like the touch of someone else''s magic, there was no avoiding it.


    "Why are you doing this if you''re Gifted?" he finally asked. "And how''d you get through initiation at your age?"


    "Where else could I go with my abilities?!" the boy laughed bitterly. "My reserve''s three and a half ergs, and it takes two sennights to fully replenish. I can''t even scrape together enough to pay the Gifted tax in a month! The only good thing is that I can handle artifacts like this." The boy''s gaze turned focused, a frown forming on his forehead. "It''s okay, I''ll work for another year, and save up for the Saint''s Shield. Then, maybe, I''ll gradually develop my reserve to at least ten..."


    Malk whistled in shock. And he thought he had it tough. Heck, compared to this young shoeshine, who''d already broken the one-year rule and would never reach Rzavian''s Standard, he was practically fate''s darling!


    "You still didn''t say about the initiation..." Malk reminded.


    "Oh... Nothing much to tell. During Yorrokh''s Night, a demon from Hell... Druzal''s staff up his ass... popped up right near my house and tainted everything with his foul magic. It only grazed me, but that was enough for the Gift to awaken... I just had bad luck, in short," the boy said with the gloom and bitterness of a grown-up. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he glanced at Malk and smiled differently, almost cheerfully. "You know what? If you share an erg of energy... I''ve got a pouch with crystal sand for that... I''ll tell you something useful for you personally! Want to?"


    Malk looked uncomprehendingly into the boy''s mocking eyes and frowned.


    "An erg? That''s ten obols. Isn''t that a bit much for a ''story''?"


    "You''ll thank me later, sir. Come on!" the shoeshine laughed. "Don''t worry, I won''t run away."


    Malk, figuring one erg of energy wasn''t too big a price for a lesson in trust, took the pouch from the boy and directed a stream of magic into the crystal sand inside.


    "Thanks, sir!" the kid said, completely satisfied, then leaned in and whispered, "I don''t know what you''re up to, sir, but someone''s watching you."


    "What?" Malk asked, baffled. "Watching?" he almost exclaimed but caught himself.


    "Yeah. Some respectable-looking noble was hanging around the magic bank entrance, and when you came out, he followed. It was even funny... He probably thought you''d head to the omnibus stop, but when you turned to me, he had to rush back," the shoeshine explained.


    "Back?" Malk instantly focused on the key detail.


    "Yep," the shoeshine nodded, chuckling. "He''s standing by the poster stand, pretending to study the pictures, just like before."


    Malk glanced quickly in that direction and indeed saw a young noble in a black top hat, dark blue double-breasted frock coat, white shirt with a stand-up collar, blue trousers, and black patent leather shoes. The dandy held a stylish cane, leaning on it while occasionally glancing at the posters and then at Malk.


    "Maybe he''s waiting for a free spot?" Malk said thoughtfully, to which the shoeshine just chuckled softly.


    The boy''s assumption, in any case, needed to be checked. Nodding gratefully, Malk stood and straightened his vest. The forgotten newspaper slipped from his knees and, unfolded, glided to the floor, from where a drawn archer looked at Malk with a disapproving expression. What''s more, for a moment, it seemed that his eyes were alive, and he was indeed staring with unprecedented malice and fury. Malk, who was about to leave the tent and accidentally caught this gaze, even stumbled. Realizing it was just his imagination, he quickly rushed outside.


    It was time to test the young shoeshine''s words.


    Without even glancing at the dandy, Malk quickly headed for the omnibus stop. He didn''t bother taking a place in the queue under the tin roof, but crossed the road and froze in front of a glass display window of a ladies'' dress shop. In his teens, he, like all his peers, had devoured books about Avalon detectives, so he had a rough idea of how to spot a tail. Stopping to adjust his clothes, abruptly turning around as if remembering something, sitting down on a bench¡ªthere were plenty of ways one could come up with. He, for one, liked the idea of looking at his possible pursuer in a mirror reflection, and he soon put it into use.


    "There you are, son of a flur," Malk muttered, seeing the top hat lover cross the street after him and stop as if to tie a loose shoelace. "And you''re hardly even hiding..."


    The thought that, not being in the habit of checking for a tail, he might have missed this impudent fellow without the shoeshine''s help, Malk diligently pushed aside. No point in getting upset. His next urge was to do everything to shake off the scumbag. Heck, he definitely didn''t want Yorrokh knows who trailing him around the city. And only after some thought did it dawn on him that he shouldn''t get rid of the sleuth, but, on the contrary, lure him into a secluded place and give him a good interrogation. If only to understand what or who he was dealing with.


    Having made a decision, Malk immediately began to put it into action; thankfully, he already had some idea of the area around the magic bank. Leaving the display alone, he turned left and hurried along the wooden sidewalk toward the nearest tenement. Most of them in this part of Andalore were built according to the same pattern, so the plan of further actions had already formed in his head.


    To avoid a mistake, Malk stopped a couple more times, checking his "tail." And both times, the dandy still followed him like a dog on a leash.


    His blood started to simmer with excitement. Any fight¡ªand Malk had no doubt there''d be one¡ªwas a risk. Even with just one opponent, there was always the danger of running into a skilled fighter. Someone who could easily turn the tempting idea of interrogating the cocky snoop into something completely opposite.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Probably because of that very tension, fueled by adrenaline, Malk increasingly felt like not only the damned dandy was watching him but also someone else, unseen and very evil. Moreover, the invisible observer had chosen a rather strange way of watching: it seemed to Malk that he was being stared at through the rage-filled eyes of the archer from the advertising posters. Nonsense, of course, yet he couldn''t help but catch the changing direction of the painted eyes'' gaze, felt the rage lurking in them, and sensed the sharp mind hiding behind them.


    And as luck would have it, those posters were everywhere! All the lampposts, advertising pillars¡ªeverything was plastered with images of the archer. There was no escaping them...


    Finally, Malk reached the tenement he needed. Glancing briefly at the dandy who had fallen a bit behind, he turned into a dark archway, sped up, and hid behind a pile of crates and trash bins in the courtyard. Now it all depended on how the snoop would act: whether he''d dare follow Malk, get scared and stay outside, or realize he''d been spotted and give up altogether. The move was his.


    In just a few moments, it became clear the pursuer wasn''t a coward. From his position, Malk clearly saw how a small, plate-sized crimson disc first appeared before the dandy, then dissolved into the air, and its creator shifted something oblong from his pocket into the bosom of his frock coat. And only after these preparations did the snoop head into the yard.


    Seeing this, Malk armed himself as well. He drew his blade, gripped it in a reverse hold, and, like a wild beast, crouched by the nearest crate, counting the dandy''s steps. One, two, three... ten... twenty... Only when the snoop, in his estimation, reached the necessary point in the yard, Malk shot forward like a powder rocket. Now, three long, gliding strides, and he was standing before the nobleman, frozen in surprise.


    The trophy blade first swept diagonally upward, then, with a slight turn, a thrust precisely into the center of the chest. If Malk hit, it would mean certain death for the dandy, but he didn''t want to kill, counting on a shield to appear. And he was right. The blade struck straight into the middle of the scarlet disc that emerged out of nowhere, and all Malk had to do was yank it down, slicing the barrier apart.


    With a weak flash, the zero-circle spell¡ªMalk didn''t believe higher-rank magic would be that easy to break¡ªshattered, and... a powerful swing of a cane first knocked the knife out of Malk''s hand, and then it jabbed into his gut. Stunned by the counterattack, Malk staggered back, and the cane''s knob, aimed at his solar plexus, hit lower. It hurt, slightly knocked the wind out of him, but no more than that. Malk even managed to respond with a punch.


    And he himself was not prepared for the result. His knuckles slammed into the dandy''s jaw with unexpected power, nearly dislocating it, and sent him stumbling back a few steps. In the end, the snoop couldn''t even stay on his feet, falling flat. Nevertheless, he remained conscious and did not lose the desire to resist. Already lying on the ground, without even trying to get up, he reached into his bosom and began to pull out something oblong¡­


    Damn, Malk just wanted to take down the shield and give the "greenhorn fop" a good scare with a knife. And suddenly, such a turn!


    There were only a couple of steps to the opponent on the ground, but Malk didn''t rush into close combat unarmed. Instead, he dashed for the knife lying by a trash bin. He picked it up, turned to the dandy, and just in time, as the guy pulled out a double-barreled pistol and aimed it at Malk.


    "You''re a mage, you scum! Why a gun?!" Malk almost groaned, sharply dodging.


    As he moved, a click of the hammer on the cap sounded, a shot boomed, and a bullet whizzed past his face. A miss!


    The space between Malk and the noble filled with bluish smoke. A fleeting thought to use the chance to close the distance crossed his mind, but the sound of the hammer being cocked made him reconsider. Instead of rushing in, Malk started activating the Spark formula.


    Damn, he knew it would come in handy! Good thing, even after paying the tax and giving one erg to the shoeshine, Malk had enough magic left for one spell. Otherwise, he''d be screwed!


    Instinct made him lunge right, simultaneously releasing the Spark at the enemy. Another shot boomed, and the bullet flew high above Malk. His spell, however, hit the foe''s left shoulder. If it were a bit stronger, it would''ve caused a serious wound, but now the pursuer only got a bruise and a jolt of pain, which, moreover, worked to the dandy''s advantage, spurring him into action. Malk heard some street curses, and, judging by the sounds, the opponent was hastily getting to his feet.


    That couldn''t be allowed. Malk glanced around, yanked the surprisingly heavy lid off a trash bin, and... Well, he planned to throw it at the dandy, hoping to at least beat out of him any will to get up and resist, if not knock him out, but he had to hastily change his plans.


    Saints know how, but Malk managed to catch some vague movement on the advertising stand visible from the street side of the arch. He covered himself with his trophy like a shield, braced himself, and...


    Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!


    Four powerful hits almost knocked the lid from his hands. Not without shock, Malk looked at his improvised shield and, with some bewilderment, saw arrows sticking out of the metal. Real ones, exactly four of them. But he didn''t manage to make out any more details. These seemingly pretty material and deadly toys began to rapidly melt and dissolve into smoke.


    A moment later, Malk was left holding just the lid, the dents the only reminder of the recent attack.


    Hell and all its demons! What the heck was that?!


    Malk cautiously eyed the snoop, suspecting a sneaky attack from him, but the guy looked just as shocked. Neither had expected a third party to join the fight. Malk had a fleeting thought that now he would have to fight not one opponent, but several at once¡ªafter all, the attack targeted him¡ªbut it seemed, besides them, no one else was in the arch or yard.


    "What the Yorrokh?!" Malk snapped first and resumed the fight, throwing the lid at the distracted opponent.


    The piece of metal whooshed toward the dandy''s head, who had long since gotten up. The guy showed unexpected agility and deftly ducked. The lid clanged against the wall, and the snoop, instead of continuing the fight, suddenly turned and bolted, cane in one hand and empty pistol in the other.


    Naturally, Malk rushed after him, but the enemy had gotten too good a head start. By the time both left the yard, more than ten fathoms separated them. Malk might have still tried to catch the scoundrel if he hadn''t seen something on the advertising pillar at the arch exit that made him stop. On the side facing the courtyard, there were four posters of the archer. The same angry, vengeful face, tense muscles, drawn bow... the drawings had everything except arrows. The arrows on the bows had vanished somewhere¡ªas if fired at some target.


    And a couple of heartbeats later, the posters themselves disappeared. Under Malk''s amazed gaze, they simply crumbled into thin streams of ash, leaving no trace behind.


    "What the Yorrokh?!" Malk groaned, enraged by the bizarre events, and rushed away.


    Mysteries, mysteries, how he hated mysteries! Why was everything in his life turned upside down?! Why was it that the deeper he delved into the world of magic, the more tangled the web of events around him became?! And he so wanted a calm, trouble-free study, devoid of intrigue, dangers, and mystical manifestations. He so wanted to be ordinary...


    Reaching home and wanting to make sense of it all, he tried to piece together the fight with the dandy while it was still fresh. How it started, what happened on the street and in the yard, how the fight itself went¡ªhe managed to remember almost everything. But he found no explanation for the appearance of the mysterious arrows and their connection to the posters. Had he encountered a previously unknown¡ªat least for a mage of his level¡ªmanifestation of classic magic? Or was it something new, far beyond the ordinary, even from the point of view of more knowledgeable sorcerers?!


    He still found no answers to these questions. But what Malk was now completely certain of was the virtually proven involvement of the demonic dwarf. Any of their encounters was always preceded by the influence of negative aspects of the Pneuma on Malk, and this time everything followed the same scenario. First, the shoeshine boy used an artifact with a spell¡ªa weak one, but still from the Death arsenal¡ªthen the weirdness with the archer image started, and finally, it all ended with four arrows that almost hit Malk¡ªthe sequence of events spoke for itself.


    Perhaps he should have cursed his own absent-mindedness, which prevented him from expelling the energy that had entered his body right in the young shoeshine''s tent, but Malk didn''t. Because with each new encounter with the dwarf, he suspected more and more that the latter had other ways of finding Malk. And this mistake, even if corrected, would still not have saved him from another conflict with the freak. What mattered more... it mattered way more to become someone for whom such surprises would no longer be dangerous, someone who, like Magister Yarvok the Fierce, would laugh at enemies even under volley guns'' fire!


    Anyone who has had to study long and hard knows about the mental fatigue that sooner or later hits even the most diligent students. Dealing with this feeling, overcoming it is always very difficult, and without proper motivation, it is completely impossible. And now Malk, thanks to another attack by the dwarf, found the very stimulus that rekindled his faded interest in studying...


    Generally speaking, Malk had long since reduced all of his daily practice to a certain system. Every four days, he trained Authority, and every other day, he alternated between developing his reserve and absorption speed. If there had been any imbalances in his training before, by now they had all been corrected. And, as a result, Malk''s energy reserve had already reached eleven ergs, and the absorption speed had increased to half an erg per hour¡­ Moreover, these figures were absolutely precise: the development of Malk''s Spirit had reached a sufficient level for him to interact more closely with the Mirror and fully control his progress.


    The latter was so convenient that he couldn''t fathom how the mages of the past managed without Mirrors. Sure, entering the Spirit Palace and basic exercises didn''t need any crutches, but the rest... Yorrokh, without external help, all other practice aspects would become brutally slow and insanely exhausting...


    However, on this day, something new was added to the established training scheme. The ardor with which Malk undertook his studies awakened in him what he himself called enthusiasm, and theorists of the Arts¡ªinspiration. And the result was not long in coming. A sudden surge of vivid emotions first lifted Malk to a new peak in his practice, then pushed him a bit further.


    Had he been developing his reserve, it would''ve grown by an erg; if he''d trained absorption speed, it would''ve increased by a few more fractions of an erg. But Malk focused on Rain of Pain, and his Authority suddenly, in one leap, crossed the midpoint of the red rank, and then advanced a little further. And he finally first felt that very elusive boundary that separated him from the path to the rank''s peak, and then, with a crack, he broke through it.


    Sure, it came with sharp bursts of pain, hallucinations, and waves of instability disrupting his Spirit Palace, and sure, what Malk went through was far from the most pleasant moments of his life, but when everything settled, when his inner world returned to balance, the feeling of his improved Authority outweighed it all.


    "So, I wasn''t wrong when I decided not to abandon Rain, huh?" Malk said, floating in the center of his inner world, squinting contentedly at the Crystal Heart that was emitting a steady glow. "The risk was worth it?!"


    Malk felt smug, but only for a moment. Suddenly, it hit him that the changes in his inner world were not limited to the growth of his Authority. Druzal knows how he sensed it, but Malk abruptly realized the very formulas of his Arcane Technique had also begun to change too. Something that had been carefully nurtured within his Spirit through practice and seemed unshakeable unexpectedly started transforming into something else. Outwardly similar, but much more suited to be paired with the Crystal Heart.


    And how to explain that, Malk had no clue. They didn''t teach this in the Society, and the books he had access to didn''t mention it either. Moreover, the emotion he experienced during the transformation was clearly only a catalyst¡ªit could not have influenced the process itself. And this meant that there was some other factor influencing his development. The question was, what exactly¡­


    Malk sighed thoughtfully and was about to leave his Spirit Palace when a voice suddenly creaked from behind:


    "Not bad, this Grandfather Boniface likes it here!"


    Malk practically jumped out of his skin. Spinning around in panic, he instantly spotted the figure of someone who simply couldn''t be there and locked his gaze on it.


    It indeed was Boniface. Same short stature, blue skin, bulging violet eyes with rectangular pupils, a massive hooked nose, and a frog-like mouth with shark teeth. Except that the hair on his head was now gone, and his shapeless gray robe had been replaced by a bright red tunic, but it was that very same dwarf.


    "What are you gawking at? Missed me?" the freak hissed this time instead of creaking.


    "How did you get in? No foreign minds can enter a Spirit Palace!" Malk said in a tense voice.


    "Seriously? That''s what they teach in Schools now?!" the dwarf exclaimed in the low, booming bass of an ogre from a children''s theater play. "This grandfather likes this news! No wonder the Mirror seemed so old and ''leaky''... Almost thought it was a trap, but turns out it''s not. No foreign minds..."


    The dwarf laughed with multiple voices at once, sending legions of chills down Malk''s spine. Compared to the outwardly weak and pathetic freak, even the demon that had attacked the train seemed like an envoy of the Saints.


    The thought of trying to leave the Palace crossed his mind, but Malk dismissed it as downright stupid and dangerous. He hadn''t lured the dwarf into his inner world; the dwarf had come on his own, and therefore, going back to the real world would be like throwing open the gates of a besieged city.


    "Why aren''t you running? I can see it in your eyes¡ªyou want to..." the freak sang and mockingly wagged his finger. "Huh?"


    "I''ll throw a certain someone out of here first and then will run right after. How does that sound?" Malk said angrily.


    But words didn''t faze the dwarf.


    "Real scary! This grandfather loves it," he approved and added with concern, "By the way, did you like my last trick with arrows? Still can''t believe it worked... Just like the good old days."


    What those times were, he didn''t specify, nor did he wait for Malk''s answer.


    "But you know the first rule of a good trick?" he asked, flashing a crazy smile, and immediately answered himself, "It can be repeated over and over!"


    The dwarf burst into his "signature" laugh and snapped his fingers theatrically. A cloud of smoke appeared out of nowhere, instantly hiding him from Malk''s sight, and when the air cleared a few moments later, the dwarf was in the company of five archers. The very ones depicted on the poster. One of them, however, looked somehow weak and unreal, almost translucent, but another snap of fingers sounded, and the defective copy vanished.


    "Too bad you dodged yesterday," the dwarf grumbled, seemingly genuinely disappointed. "Otherwise, this Grandfather Boniface wouldn''t have to strain now."


    While he spoke, the archers began to spread out, simultaneously drawing their bows and aiming at Malk. And their businesslike confidence in their right to do so even threw him off.


    Yorrokh, the crazy dwarf really thought he could act in Malk''s Spirit Palace like it was his own?! In a place where its master was equal to all the Saints combined?! Seriously?!


    With just his will, Malk conjured a full-body shield, reinforced it with Authority, and charged at the nearest archer. Notably, he managed to run faster than he ever could in the real world. Heck, he could even fly here! What were these lousy archers to him?! As if responding to his thoughts, the shield began to shake from impacts, and each such hit echoed with pain in Malk''s arms.


    But it wasn''t that far to the enemy. Soon, Malk was in front of the archer, stabbing a knife¡ªhe''d conjured it just like the shield¡ªright into the guy''s chest. It turned out so deftly that the archer didn''t even have time to defend himself. The only problem was, the blade in his body didn''t bother him at all. He even swung his bow at Malk, and... that was his last move. Malk, instantly enraged, grabbed the archer''s shirt with his right hand, pulled him close, and growled in his face:


    "Die!"


    Along with the command, Malk called upon his Authority. First, he pressed it on the annoyingly lively copy, and when he felt resistance from a similar or slightly weaker Authority, he pushed with all his might. In response, there was a pop, and the archer exploded into wisps of smoke.


    "Lorianna and all her whores!!" the dwarf yelled, clutching his temples and almost shrinking into a ball momentarily.


    But his moment of weakness passed quickly. And now, with a snap of his fingers, three remaining archers burst into smoke, while in their place appeared a hazy shimmer. But it wasn''t just a patch of impenetrable fog; it was something far more terrifying. Reeking of blood, hunger, and death, with toothy shadows darting inside.


    Malk had never seen anything so horrifying before and, honestly, had no desire to get acquainted. Unfortunately, no one asked his opinion on this matter. The dwarf''s face suddenly twisted with some utterly extreme rage, and the rest of his body started to blur, deforming and warping. The conjured haze, meanwhile, rushed at Malk so fast that he didn''t even have time to dodge. All that remained for him was to thrust his shield forward, encompass it entirely with his attention, and compress it as hard as he could with Authority. At the same time fueling it with his steely resolve to win and searing-as-acid memories of all the pain Malk had endured.


    But even this seemed insufficient to him. With his will, he found a faintly smoldering spark at the edge of his consciousness¡ªsomething he hadn''t noticed before the fight¡ªpulled it out, and embedded it into the center of the shield.


    He didn''t have time for anything else. The horrors in the haze crashed into the shield, and... literally the entire Palace echoed from the clash of these forces. The ground shook, sand swirled around Malk, and the Crystal Heart in the sky sent out invisible ripples, under the influence of which the very reality of the Spirit Palace began to tear. However, the creatures attacking Malk didn''t vanish¡ªthey froze in the air, like smoldering, grotesque figures, only to crumble onto the sand moments later in a rain of glass shards.


    At the same time, a thunderous crack echoed, and behind the dwarf, who had almost lost his human shape, a spatial rift appeared, and black tentacles shooting out of it dragged the resisting freak inside. A breach to Hell¡ªor at least, Malk hoped that little bastard had been dragged precisely into Hell¡ªclosed. And just like that, the battlefield was left to the master of the Palace.


    Victory? Refusing to believe he was alive and well, Malk¡ªexhausted but not broken¡ªalso left his Spirit world. He endured the sensation of falling and moments of complete darkness, then opened his eyes and... found himself lying on the floor, clutching the Mirror. His left wrist stung unpleasantly¡ªexactly where the bracelet of Dorana had once adorned it, there was now a burn. Neither the amulet itself nor its remains were anywhere to be found. All this Malk noted somewhat in passing, as all his attention was on the thin wisp of gray smoke coming from under Druzal''s Mirror''s eyepieces.


    The dwarf, who Yorrokh knows how had interfered with his training, might not have achieved his main goal, but he sure managed to screw things up big time. Whether out of malice or due to the consequences of the fight that had erupted in the Spirit Palace, the Mirror¡ªMalk''s most valuable possession¡ªdidn''t survive the encounter with the runt.


    And Malk didn''t even notice when he started whispering fiercely:


    "All the demons of Hell... How could this happen?! Flur, how?!"

 Chapter Fifteen, in which life runs at full tilt

    "Master checked your Mirror, and, in his words, the device cannot be restored. Not only is the mechanism worn out and the Runeglyph engraving almost completely erased in two key spots, but stone pine resin was used instead of the now standard mineral glue... It''s beyond repair; easier to make a new one," the clerk in the Society-recommended artifact workshop said with poorly concealed arrogance.


    Malk had rushed there with Druzal''s Mirror, still reeking of burnt smell, the very next day after "this Grandfather Boniface''s" attack, praying to the Saints that the repair would be affordable. He had a discount, of course, but considering the average price of a new artifact was around a hundred drachmas, the cost of fixing it probably wouldn''t be just a few obols. But he never imagined that things were even worse and the master would simply refuse to work on it.


    Adding fuel to the fire was the clerk''s attitude. The trained eye wasn''t fooled by Malk''s decent clothes or his Adept medallion. The clerk saw him as someone not exactly poor but clearly strapped for cash, so he didn''t expect a good payoff and acted accordingly. He wasn''t openly rude, but that stuck-up nose, condescending look, and smirk hiding in his mustache... Oh, Malk saw it all perfectly! And if he had his way, he''d drag the jerk into a dueling circle. Or, at the very least, he''d give him a good dressing down with some choice words, especially since there was a solid reason for mockery¡ªdespite his respectable age, the clerk remained at the rank of Adept.


    But... alas, Malk wasn''t in a position to cause a scene or seek justice.


    "Really nothing can be done?" he asked gloomily.


    "Nothing at all. If you don''t believe it, you can go to any other workshop. Even if they take the job, it''ll cost you as much as buying the best Mirror on the market," the clerk shook his head. "Although, if this tool is dear to you as a memento, then for a hundred and fifty to hundred and sixty drachmas..."


    "Got it, you can stop," Malk cut him off. "But if we look at it from a different angle... Instead of fixing the Mirror, what about taking it apart? There''s gotta be something valuable in there..."


    Malk never thought he''d say such words, but he had no other choice. Even in the crappiest situation, you can find something good. Or at least try to.


    "Reasonable approach," the clerk approved. "Master guessed you''d ask and gave an answer. The only part worth anything in that pile of junk is the focusing crystals. And a fair price for them is eleven drachmas. You won''t find a better offer."


    Hearing the amount, Malk winced like he had a toothache. Saints, that was so little!


    "Deal," he forced out and pushed the box with the Mirror toward the clerk.


    The man nodded silently, moved the burnt-smelling device aside with a grimace, and, as if he had been waiting for just this, began slowly counting out the gold.


    "How much is your cheapest Mirror?" Malk broke the silence, almost physically feeling his heart bleed.


    "The latest Mirror model from our workshop, released last sennight, sells for a hundred and five drachmas," the clerk lazily uttered, continuing to jingle the coins.


    "I asked for the cheapest. Not new, even if it''s crazy outdated, but working... and cheap!" Malk said firmly.


    The question clearly surprised the clerk, and he gave Malk an appraising look. Doubt was written all over his face: he hadn''t previously considered the student who''d shown up at the workshop to be a solvent customer.


    "If you want, you can buy an artifact after repair. It''s fully functional and in some ways even better than your junk..." the clerk started hesitantly.


    "But?" Malk urged.


    "But it''ll last no more than a year and a half and is absolutely useless for mages above Apprentice level," the clerk finished more confidently. "On the other hand, it costs only forty-six drachmas."


    "How much?!" Malk practically jumped in place. "Half the price of a new one for a broken piece of junk?!"


    "It can''t be helped, Mirrors are complex to make and require expensive materials," the clerk shrugged. But, apparently, the urge to sell the defective item finally kicked in, and he offered, "If you''re interested, we can give you a six-month interest-free loan with a monthly payment of four drachmas. Just pay twenty-two drachmas upfront, and... the Mirror''s yours. Deal?"


    The question was clearly rhetorical¡ªMalk wouldn''t find a better offer. Still, it felt like daylight robbery, but there was nothing he could do about that either. He needed the Mirror for training too much to be picky. So, half an hour later, after signing the contract and having the appropriate note entered into his Gifted passport by an official registrar, Malk became the owner of a new Mirror. He also seriously drained his wallet¡ªleaving just over eleven drachmas¡ªand got into debt...


    The latter didn''t seem as scary as it would have a few months ago. At least because Malk was no longer a helpless provincial. Yorrokh take it, he was now a real Adept, had a good source of income, and his skills were improving day by day. Especially good progress he was making with the "Healer." His mastery of the spell had reached an intermediate level, which, along with his strong Authority, allowed him to confidently seal it in one-time containers. Not copying someone else''s, but conjuring his own!


    And it was paying off. If it used to take Malk about three ergs of energy to create a "Healer" sealed in a crystal, now it took only two. Even a bit less, but that wasn''t substantial yet. Coupled with his increased energy absorption rate¡ªwithin four hours at the Life Source, Malk now replenished not three and two-tenths ergs, but a full four¡ªit allowed him to make two "Healers" for the infirmary instead of one, doubling his monthly income. Subtracting expenses for lodging, food, and loan payments, Malk''s savings would grow by more than eight drachmas.


    He couldn''t have even dreamed of such a thing before! And not only him; among his fellow students, not everyone could boast such a successful application of their abilities either. A couple of them even had to sacrifice developing their Gift entirely and spend a month selling energy to the magic bank for money. After the Gifted tax, even with mediocre talent, they managed to earn more than two dozen drachmas this way. But the price for such a decision was also far from negligible. The first-year rule brutally punished all those who loved easy money, delaying their achievement of the coveted rank of Apprentice for months or even years. So, those two poor souls were now the clear losers in the race for power!..


    However, the Mirror''s break wasn''t Malk''s only issue. Equally, or maybe even more troubling in light of recent events, was the whole situation with "this Grandfather Boniface." And it wasn''t like he hadn''t given it any thought... He had! He turned to Colhaun''s folk traditions, used the amulet given by the priestess of Dorana¡ªbut, as it turned out, all these were only half-measures. The dwarf, who started causing trouble at the level of a weak phantom, was now attacking openly and with much greater force. Moreover, in the future, things could get even worse...


    So, the next logical step was to turn to specialists from the Society, and luckily, Malk knew one personally. Mage Hordol¡ªa Bachelor, Runeglyph expert, and, according to Serge, a demonslayer¡ªwas exactly the person Malk thought he should consult.


    And he didn''t regret his decision.


    "So, you say you''re being harassed by some invisible, intangible entity that can bypass protections and Dorana''s temple charms?" the portly mage asked thoughtfully, sipping coffy and munching on a pastry. Malk had dropped by his office during lunch, and he clearly wasn''t going to interrupt his meal for a student.


    "Yes!" Malk nodded. "And the last time, something really weird started happening. Arrows flew off posters, the dwarf himself broke into my Spirit Palace..."


    "Interesting," Hordol drawled, putting his cup aside and wiping his hands. "And you, young man, have no explanation for this?"


    "Am I supposed to?" Malk asked a bit sharply, though he immediately apologized.


    "Well, I don''t know... Out of nowhere, experts in illusions and mental techniques don''t start hunting mere Adepts," the Bachelor shrugged. "There''s always a reason for what''s happening, and here, I don''t see it."


    "So you don''t believe me?" Malk frowned. "The priestess, for instance, immediately mentioned traces of attacks!"


    "Priestess," Hordol snorted. "Priestesses see a lot, but understand too little. Different education." The mage suddenly gave Malk a sharp look. "As for whether I believe you... does it really matter? Either way, I''m not crossing a mage capable of such ''mischief.'' Sorry."


    "So, it''s a mage?" Malk clarified, trying to push aside the surging wave of disappointment caused by the teacher''s response. "Not a demon?"


    "Who knows?" the mage laughed. "Breaking into someone else''s Spirit Palace or creating material illusions is something any Bachelor familiar with ritualistics, like myself, could do. But to do all this remotely, while in a disembodied state... if your words are to be believed and if you understand what''s happening correctly... only a Junior Magister is capable of that. Or someone comparable in power, like a demonic Soul Collector or an old Vengeful Spirit." The stout man spread his hands. "Since there''s no clarity, choose whichever option you prefer."


    "And what am I supposed to do about this if even you refuse to help?" Malk asked gloomily, crushed by the ranks mentioned. Mages, demons, cultists, or specters¡ªheck, he didn''t want to mess with any of them!


    "For example, resign yourself and try to wait for the moment when the Junior Magister playing with you gets bored with all this," Hordol suggested.


    "Playing?!" Malk repeated, thinking he had misheard. So many troubles, and his enemy was just playing?!


    "Yeah..." the Bachelor nodded. "Because when a Junior Magister wants a nameless Adept lacking the support of a family dead, they usually end up dead. But you seem to be alive, aren''t you?" The stout mage paused, then added, somewhat gloomier: "It''s much worse if I''m wrong, and the reason for all these oddities around you lies in the weakened state of your ''dwarf.'' If he would gladly finish you off in one fell swoop, but can''t yet... Then waiting out the trouble won''t work."


    "Just great. And what do I do then?" Malk asked in a dead voice.


    "Fight, young man, fight and pray the Saints don''t abandon you in this tough time," the mage smirked crookedly.


    After his bluntly expressed unwillingness to cross the path of Malk''s powerful enemy, these words sounded frankly mocking, but Malk wasn''t offended. After all, if it was as Hordol said, he really had no other choice.


    "By the way, young man, if you suddenly decide to go to the gendarmes for help, it''s better not to. Save your time and nerves. Our valiant law enforcement, even the special office, doesn''t handle such matters. They''ll only move once you get killed, not before," Hordol informed, then suddenly fell silent, thinking about something, and after a few moments added, "Actually... if things get really bad, run to the Temple of Kehtot. Not to Achont, Druzal, or even Dorana, but to Kehtot. If you''re lucky, the local priests might agree to help you..."


    "And if not?" Malk asked, gloomy from the prospects painted.


    "If not, then what difference does it make to you, young man, what you die from? From a mage''s spell, a demon''s fangs, or a priest''s curse? The end''s the same," Hordol laughed, and there was something in his laughter that made it clear he genuinely believed what he said.


    And this answer put an end to Malk''s list of questions. He''d learned everything he wanted, nothing more to ask. All that was left was to thank the esteemed Bachelor for his time and leave the office... Which, in fact, he tried to do, but as he reached the door, Hordol suddenly stopped him.


    "Someone of your status, background, and influence is unlikely to find help. But who said you can''t try to help yourself?" the senior mage said, looking at Malk mockingly. "After all, only death can stop someone from learning, and you still seem to be alive..."


    The hint was clear enough that Malk''s hope flared up with new force.


    "The Society courses teach how to fight disembodied Junior Magisters and demonic Soul Collectors?!" he asked, already refusing to believe what he heard.


    "No, of course not!" Hordol burst out laughing. "But we do sell a lesson on the basic structure used in all protective rituals, and it can at least help you hide from the eyes of these ''disembodied'' ones. Interested?"


    "How much?!" Malk almost snapped, only remembering at the last moment who he was talking to.


    "Six drachmas, and today you''ll learn how to create a full-fledged Protective Circle," Hordol said in the tone of a wandering peddler. With his appearance, it sounded more comical than convincing.


    But Malk didn''t even think of smiling. He counted out six gold coins, stacked them on the table in front of the teacher, and looked expectantly into his face.


    "Here you go." A heavy, old-fashioned scroll seemed to jump off a shelf into Malk''s hands as if by itself. "You have an hour and a half to master the ritual described there. When time''s up, I''ll test you. And pray to all the Saints you don''t fail! Got it?"Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The plump peddler had vanished somewhere, suddenly replaced by an army officer who didn''t so much speak as issue commands. It was simply impossible not to obey him.


    "Got it," Malk replied shortly, barely holding back from giving a military salute. He unrolled the scroll and hastily ran his eyes over its contents. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "But this is a Circle for Elemental mages! I know the Runeglyph symbols, but Elements..."


    "What, have you managed to forget the rules for converting spell formulas already? No? Then, the coefficient reference book is on the table¡ªcalculate. You''ve got time!" Hordol snorted and, with surprising grace for his build, slipped out of the office. Already from the hallway, Malk heard, "An hour and a half!"


    Yorrokh and all his generals! The situation around Malk was changing too quickly; he didn''t even have time to react properly. First, they say that your enemy is at the level of a Junior Magister and no one will help, then they subtly mock you, make you feel depressed, and then again, they show you a way out of the impasse. And all this during a single conversation! Moreover, now he also had to hastily prepare for something like a test, which, something told Malk, would be more in the spirit of the ruthless imperial times than in the style of the current humane era.


    Continuing to curse his luck, Malk plopped down at a table in the far end of the room, placed in front of him the reference books Hordol had mentioned, paper with a fountain pen, and finally unrolled the scroll. He dove into the neat rows of calligraphically drawn symbols and... zoned out for the next hour and a half. His trained mind fully concentrated on the task, throwing all its resources into its execution and ignoring everything else. The sequences of Runeglyph lines, their derivation and justification, anchor points, and material components of the ritual¡ªall of it formed into a clear and understandable picture, turning the theoretical formula described in "high style" into something applicable in practice.


    But understanding the Protective Circle ritual wasn''t enough; Malk had to adapt it. He needed to rewrite the "phrases" and "words" that were relying on both Pneuma and the four Elements into the language of Pneuma alone. And that was no less difficult than grasping the philosophical musings about the nature of the Protective Circle...


    "Finished?" suddenly came the voice of Hordol, who had returned to the office.


    Malk realized with a bit of shock that the time allotted to him had run out. However, this did not upset him in the slightest: just moments ago, he''d finished checking the result and found no errors.


    "Finished and ready for review!" Malk said firmly, and his tone clearly pleased the Bachelor.


    "Let''s see," the stout mage said, taking Malk''s notes. He skimmed through them, studied the result, calculated something mentally, and... handed the papers back. "Nineteen characters in the final formula now? A bit too much, of course, but knowing only the basic Runeglyph signs, that''s the best you can do. Accepted."


    Malk nodded with satisfaction. Indeed, the original formula for all Elements and Pneuma consisted of ten runes, but Yorrokh take it, he''d already performed a miracle by simplifying the initially monstrous chains to a usable nineteen characters. To do better, you''d have to be a math genius!


    "And now, as promised, the test!" Hordol announced in the tone of a kind uncle.


    Malk didn''t have time to react before Hordol jumped at him, turned his head sharply by the chin, and, pulling out of nowhere a brush glowing with golden paint, drew some sign on his forehead.


    "Don''t wipe it off!" the Bachelor warned, after which, clearing the center of the room of furniture and carpet, he placed right on the floor a large piece of amber he had taken from his pocket, with either a fly or some other many-legged winged creature sealed inside.


    "Here''s the deal. In about a minute and a half to two, this Fire Fly will latch onto your mind and start devouring your memory. Second by second, minute by minute. And it''ll keep doing it until the oil I used to draw the linking sign on your forehead evaporates. That''ll happen... in about fifteen minutes... but rest assured, this time will be quite enough for the Fly to deprive you of the memories of the last four or five hours of your life. You get what I''m saying?" the portly mage explained, showing truly demonic pleasure.


    "I get it! What''s my task?" Malk asked, feeling his hair stand on end from horror.


    He was frightened not only by the prospect of forgetting something, but also by the fact that he would have to forget both the recent conversation with Hordol and the new knowledge. What the Yorrokh?!


    "Your task is to use the protective ritual to keep this guest from Hell from picking the locks to your Spirit Palace and to preserve your memory!" the Bachelor explained with great relish and made an inviting gesture. "I left the chalk on the floor, so get started. Time''s ticking!"


    The last phrase Malk didn''t hear already. Dropping to his knees in front of the amber, he drew a chalk circle around it in one motion, then sat on his heels, seemed to brace his open palms on the air, and began muttering the ritual formula he''d derived.


    Seconds raced by, and ergs of energy poured with grim inevitability into the ellipses of glowing lines and symbols forming under his hands. The Fly didn''t dawdle either: the skin on his forehead suddenly tightened, and a sensation like a drill boring into flesh appeared between his eyebrows. The race for dominance had begun, where the winner would receive Malk''s memory.


    The very thought of the creature already trying to reach his mind made Malk break into a cold sweat. But the fear didn''t hinder him; on the contrary, it became the very stimulus that allowed him to finish the ritual formula as quickly as possible.


    As soon as the last sounds of the incantations faded, a deep, quickly subsiding hum emanated from the conjured ellipses, and they gained physical density. Malk slapped his palms on the floor, trying to ensure the chalk circle was right between them, uttered the final key word, and... It was like opening an invisible floodgate. The energy pulsing in sync with his Crystal Heart instantly gained freedom and rushed into the circle marked by the chalk. There was a crackle, the smell of ozone, and now, instead of the figures conjured by Malk''s magic, it was the drawing on the floor that shone with Force.


    The most important part was done; all that was left was to put the final touch. And Malk, with great relief, sealed the resulting Protective Circle with his Authority... Done! The ritual was a complete success, and as proof, the pressure on the spot between his eyebrows stopped immediately.


    Keeping his palms on the floor, Malk looked triumphantly at the Bachelor, who had once again sprawled in his chair. He wanted to say something grand and victorious, but the senior mage''s smirk and finger tapping on the hourglass made Malk turn away silently.


    Damn it, he just needed to hold on for a few minutes. Was that so hard?!


    Alas, the thought had barely formed when the circle bound by Authority suddenly seemed to turn into a living creature that was trying to break free.


    Damn it! Malk almost cursed out loud and squeezed the magical figure tighter with his Authority. At the same time, he scanned the tangled chains of runes for a weak spot... only to discover a barely emerging gap in literally the very first combination of signs.


    There was no time or energy for cursing. He pulled the fraying spell weave together with Authority, moved on, and... another damaged chain of symbols! The Protective Circle, seemingly created without errors, could not withstand the Fire Fly''s thrashing and kept tearing with each its jerk. Authority could fix everything, but it was running out.


    For a while, Malk remained optimistic, but after the ninth breach of the Circle, the hope for a favorable outcome was replaced, if not by despair, then by a premonition of defeat. And the fact that he still had not given up and continued to fight was thanks to willpower and stubbornness, but certainly not skill.


    "That''s enough, time''s up," Malk heard and felt a cloth with a sharp smell wipe across his forehead.


    "How''s it up?" he gasped.


    "Just like that: the Fly devoured half of your memory, and the test simply became pointless," Hordol explained sympathetically, yanking Malk up from the floor.


    "Wait... what do you mean ''devoured''?!" Malk nearly yelled, quickly sifting through his memories. There were no gaps or breaks in the sequence of events.


    He stared at Hordol in confusion... only to see him bursting with suppressed laughter.


    "Bad joke," Malk said coldly, not caring that the jokester was an actual Bachelor.


    "Agreed!" Hardol nodded, continuing to chuckle. "But that doesn''t make it any less funny."


    With a wave of his hand, he broke the Circle''s protection and pulled out the amber. Admiring the creature lurking inside for a couple of heartbeats, he then put it back in his pocket.


    "So, I passed the test?" Malk reminded him. And seeing a confirming nod, he asked, "Can you tell me why all this risk was necessary?"


    Hordol responded with a broad smile, but Malk was no longer to be deceived. Behind its facade, he saw the predatory grin of a Power-hungry mage, following the path of gaining might and ready to drag along anyone unlucky enough to catch his interest.


    "Why the risk?" the teacher repeated. "Well, for better motivation. But you''ve already figured that out yourself, haven''t you?.."


    All in all, it was quite a talk with unexpected repercussions that Malk ended up having with Hardol. Did he regret asking for help from the stout demonslayer himself? Of course not. The gain outweighed any difficulties and screwing with his nerves. Would he do it again if he knew everything beforehand? He wasn''t quite sure about that.


    Actually, the experienced Hordol understood what Malk had gone through, and therefore, before letting him go, he advised him not to do anything serious and to have a good break. It was a sensible suggestion, but Malk still chose not to follow it. In his work schedule for that day, he had one more important matter left, which simply could not be postponed in light of what was happening around him.


    Malk planned to visit the Grand Andalore Reading Hall. And his goal wasn''t to gather information on influential noble Houses and Families or even to find new medical textbooks, which he''d already started studying on his own. No, this time, the library visit was driven by his desire to unravel the tangle the mysteries around that Saints-damned dwarf. And not by blindly poking around like a newborn pup, but by carefully unwinding the thread that, as it seemed to him, the Yorrokh''s freak kept leaving behind time after time.


    "Could you please help me find books on Common Language dialects and languages of Hell?" Malk asked the first librarian he saw, as soon as he stepped into the reading hall. "And first off, I''d like to know where it''s customary to refer to oneself as ''grandfather''..."


    Mentally, he was already preparing for long, tedious searches in the catalog, followed by equally lengthy waits for the ordered books from the archive. So when he got the answer right away, he was caught off guard.


    "I can tell you straight up, no need for books. It''s a Styxson etiquette quirk! When they want to emphasize social status differences, the higher-up usually calls themselves ''this father.'' But if the person you''re talking to is, well, human, demon, or maybe a ghost¡ªStyxsonians have it all complicated here¡ªanyway, if the other is someone really powerful, they use ''this grandfather,''" the librarian explained enthusiastically. "Though, for the last hundred years, that part of etiquette''s considered outdated, but some fogeys still cling to it. On the other hand, if someone calls themselves ''this grandfather,''  there is hardly anyone willing to correct them. Unless it''s another such ''grandfather.''"


    "So... wait... I don''t quite get your bit about human, demon, or ghost... What do you mean by ''Styxsonians have it all complicated''?!" Malk couldn''t help but ask.


    His companion sighed quietly, barely holding back from rolling his eyes.


    "Exactly what I said. It''s Styxson. There are so many Schools with the most twisted paths, so many Arcane Arts that seem perverse to us, so many people with demonic Lineages¡ªthe line between species blurs in some cases. And you can''t be sure of anything!"


    Malk asked no more questions. Thanking the librarian and discreetly slipping a couple of obols into his pocket, he took a free seat in the hall and stayed there until evening, reading a diplomat''s notes on one of Mritlok''s most mysterious countries. He didn''t learn anything beyond what he heard from the librarian, but Malk still didn''t regret the time spent. Because thanks to that book, probably for the first time in his life, his teenage dreams of fame and recognition were joined by a desire to travel. To witness the brightest wonders of land and sea, to explore new countries and customs, endure hardships, and make discoveries... Damn it, Mritlok was considered a world of countless islands, yet he was still stuck on just one!


    With thoughts like these, Malk returned home, genuinely convinced that his endlessly long day was over and all that awaited him was bed and deep sleep... And he was wrong. As it turned out, the tense day was about to transition into an eventful night. Because that very night, the apartment he shared with his friends came under a real assault...


    Yorrokh knows how things would''ve ended if the killers, planning to break in, hadn''t started arguing right under Malk''s kitchen window. Something wasn''t working out for them, something they couldn''t agree on beforehand¡ªand in the end, a last-minute hitch cost them the success of the whole venture. By the time they finally opened the window, Malk had already snapped awake, armed himself with a musketoon, and, hiding in the kitchen, began to wait for guests.


    However, "wait" is too strong a word. Malk had just taken his position when the first intruder clambered onto the windowsill. And he didn''t look like someone who came to wish Malk a good evening.


    Malk didn''t waste energy on chit-chat either.


    The musketoon blasted hellishly loud, a burst of fire shot at the unwelcome guest, and... with a muffled scream, he flew outside. The bastard was saved from death by a thin plate of shield that took the full brunt of the blast. As for Malk... Malk climbed out after him, whether to take the guy captive or, on the contrary, finish him off¡ªhe didn''t really know what he wanted more.


    Outside, a large, weighty surprise awaited him. He barely had time to jump off the windowsill when another Saints-damned killer appeared and instantly punched him in the ear. The hit was sharp and almost perfectly executed, but it didn''t knock Malk out. Sure, it knocked him down and made him see stars spin around his head, but that was it. He was able to keep fighting, and that''s what he did a moment later.


    A forward dive, a roll, an attempt to get up, a miraculous dodge from a long blade that seemed to emerge from the shadows, and Malk finally had a chance to get a good look at his attackers. To his right stood the victim of the clash between the worlds of magic and firearms, cradling his right arm. A bit further back lurked another foe¡ªshort enough to seem like a kid¡ªwho could slip into shadows and wielded a long blade. And finally, right in front of Malk, froze the last attacker... the one who decided not to wait for an invitation and strike first.


    With a loud buzz, a Lightning shot from the attacker''s palm and stung Malk''s left arm like a venomous bee. He screamed in pain and rage.


    "They said you could catch Lightning..." the Lightning Master said, a bit disappointed. "So why aren''t you catching mine?"


    "All in good time, all in good time..." Malk grimaced, using Authority to expel the remaining magical charge from his body, then, as subtly as possible, started creating his Spark.


    Whether it was the tension or his grown Authority and overall spellcasting skills, Malk managed to create the Spark surprisingly fast. And even pulled off hiding his actions from the enemies. So when he finally released it at the wounded guy, it was a big surprise for everyone. And especially for the target. The window-crasher didn''t have time to dodge the magical charge, took it straight to the head, and dropped like a sack.


    Only two enemies were left against Malk, but dealing with them was a lot tougher.


    Seeing their buddy fall, both thugs charged without a word. Initially, the one specializing in Lightning seemed the most dangerous to Malk. He even readied his knife to fend off magical discharges, losing track of the other for a bit, for which he paid the price.


    The shorty''s figure suddenly lost shape, becoming transparent and blurry, then merged with the shadows completely and slid along the ground to Malk''s back. Unfortunately, Malk figured out his skills and intentions too late, and although he managed to escape certain death, he still received a long gash on his side.


    The Lightning guy wasn''t slacking either. Left unattended, he prepped another magical charge and hurled it at Malk. The knife, raised just in time, saved him from a full hit, but his body still jolted. And if it weren''t for Malk''s resilience, instantly coping with the consequences of such attacks, he''d have been stuck with temporary muscle paralysis!


    A brief pause in the fight gave Malk a chance he couldn''t pass up. Pretending to attack the short killer, who hadn''t yet vanished into the shadows after his partially successful strike, Malk instead sprinted toward the Lightning guy. The blade deflected the incoming charge, and his clenched fist struck¡ªthe enemy''s face even flashed a triumphant grin when a Shield woven from Lightning appeared to block the swinging blow¡ªbut the magical barrier tore like rotten gauze. Along with the punch, Malk released a Dispersion spell, which thinned the Shield and let him reach the target. His fist, barely weakened by meeting the defensive spell, slammed into the enemy''s gut. It hit so perfectly that the seemingly tough guy doubled over and was thrown back a couple of steps.


    Malk''s opponents were down to one.


    Meanwhile, behind him, the shadow-gliding blade lover appeared again. But unlike before, Malk was fully ready this time. Dodging a straight thrust that only grazed his belly, he spun and landed a direct punch to the shorty''s jaw. The latter flew back to the wall like a deflated ball.


    The enemy was defeated, and the battlefield was Malk''s. Now, two questions loomed large: what to do with this victory, and where, Yorrokh take it, did he get such strength in his hands?!

 Chapter Sixteen, in which the hero learns some decisions were wrong

    The gendarmes arrived almost an hour after the fight started. It was odd: the district where Holy Protectors Street was located was considered respectable, and the townsfolk living there weren''t shy about contacting the law enforcers at every opportunity¡ªif anything, they certainly couldn''t ignore musketoon fire¡ªhowever, for this call, the carriage with sides painted in the colors of the Andalore gendarmerie seemed to take its sweet time getting there. Malk even started to suspect that if he hadn''t personally paid a street kid ten obols to bring the representatives of justice to the house as quickly as possible, they might not have come at all!


    "What happened here, young man? Causing trouble?" asked a gray-haired gendarme sergeant after following the kid to the backyard, where Malk was waiting for the authorities in the company of his tied-up opponents.


    "Quite the opposite. I''m handing over three criminals to you," Malk replied lively. "About an hour ago, they tried to sneak into my house through the kitchen window, and when that failed, they jumped me with weapons. Barely managed to handle them."


    To back up his words, he nudged the pile of weapons on the ground with the toe of his boot. A double-barreled pistol, a knife, a brass knuckle, and a short sword or maybe a dagger¡ªthe arsenal of the bastards that attacked him was surprisingly extensive.


    "Criminals?" the gendarme repeated, scanning the faces of the tied-up young men with gags in their mouths.


    They didn''t really look like criminals; more like beaten-up students from some School. The experienced sergeant stepped toward the closest captive¡ªwhom Malk mentally called "dandy"¡ªand, with two fingers, pulled a chain from behind the collar of his shirt, fishing out an iron medallion of a Gifted.


    With a snort, the gendarme repeated the procedure with the other suspects. Then he straightened up and gave Malk a skeptical look. His whole demeanor seemed to say that soon, the real criminal here might be someone else. Three voices of the Gifted against one of an ordinary mortal could turn the latter into a thief or a crazy demon-worshiper. But as soon as Malk showed his own Adept badge, the gendarme''s face instantly turned bored. A conflict of three mages with an ungifted turned into a confrontation of sorcerers, and this was a matter that no law enforcement officer like him wanted to get involved in.


    Meanwhile, Malk described what had happened in short, concise phrases, not forgetting to once again show the confiscated arsenal and share his guesses about the attackers'' connections with the loyalists. Honestly, the situation seemed crystal clear to him, and he couldn''t understand why the sergeant''s face grew longer with each word.


    "Young man, I see you''re safe and sound. So how about we untie these idiots and let them go home? Let''s not ruin their lives, huh?" the gendarme suddenly suggested. "If you''d been hurt, it would be one thing, but as it is... It''s more like they should hold a grudge against you than you against them..." And he nodded at the bruises and abrasions decorating the faces of the captured Adepts.


    Malk was stunned. Let them go?! They tried to kill him, and now he should just let them go?!


    "You think I made this story up? And got smeared with blood all by myself, too?" he asked, mentally cursing himself for wanting to act according to the law. But, then again, did he have a choice? Even in Colhaun, you couldn''t just get rid of three captives, let alone in the second capital! "Just so you know, if I hadn''t used two ''Healers'' on myself right after the fight, then..."


    The gendarme cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.


    "Enough, lad, listen to an experienced man''s advice! No need to rush where you can take it slow. Get what I mean?" the sergeant said meaningfully.


    Damn, this was a law enforcement officer?! Malk almost started cursing out loud. Was it worth calling the gendarmerie for this "advice"?! Sure, he had no other choice, but... Yorrokh take it all!


    Who knows what Malk would have ended up agreeing to with the sergeant-"advisor," but at that moment, a new figure appeared in the yard. It was an old man leaning heavily on a worn cane, dressed in a slightly old-fashioned gray three-piece suit, white shirt, and wide-brimmed hat. Yet, despite his modest appearance, he radiated so much arrogance and confidence that it could easily match a dozen aristocrats. And notably, he made his way to the backyard on his own, without the errand boy''s guidance.


    "Perhaps I can help Mister Malk make the right decision?" the newcomer said, giving a friendly nod to the sergeant and glancing at Malk''s captives. "I represent the interests of House Leinir here. And resolving conflicts of this nature is my direct responsibility."


    "But I don''t seem to have any conflicts with the esteemed House!" Malk said, shaking his head.


    Of all things, he certainly wasn''t planning to cross the powerful of this world. Especially when the name Leinir was involved. Tolfan''s story about a young talent from that House¡ªnot even an Heir¡ªwho had turned Malk''s friend''s buddy into a pulp in a duel was still fresh in his mind. After all, no serious sanctions were applied to the Apprentice who got carried away with the fight.


    "Well, how so... then why do you have a member of the junior Family from the House of the Thunder Bird lying tied up with two of his friends here?" the representative asked, raising an eyebrow. And abruptly added, "But before you say anything brazen that I''d have to take as an insult to the House''s honor, let me make you an offer." The old man carefully studied Malk''s face, and then his clothes, noticeably damaged in the recent fight. "In order for this unfortunate incident to receive no... I repeat!... no publicity, and for the young people next to you to return to their families, we are ready to pay fifteen drachmas."


    The tone in which all this was said made Malk clench his fists and take a step forward. By the Nine, he was being bought, bought like some street wench! The humiliation made him want to throw something proud and insulting in the old man''s face, to promise he''d get justice, a trial, but... one glance at the gendarme sergeant, who stood with his back to them, pointedly pretending not to care, instantly cooled his fire.


    Where and with whom was he going to get any justice?! Damn it, and for what, anyway?!


    "And the conflict ends here?" Malk finally asked.


    "This conflict¡ªof course," the old man nodded importantly.


    "This?" Malk repeated, instantly wary.


    "Seriously, you don''t think your childish squabble will just stop because... grown-ups stepped in, do you?" the House representative feigned surprise. "Besides... it''s not in the tradition of aristocratic Houses to interfere with kids gaining life experience!"


    "And paying money for them isn''t interference?" Malk couldn''t resist a jab.


    Frankly, he didn''t believe a damn word of all this talk about traditions and life experience. It was simply that some were going crazy from complete impunity, and others were covering for them. In simple cases, they settled with money; in others... they used much more serious means.


    "Young man, one doesn''t negate the other. Money and connections are part of an aristocrat''s strength, and ignoring them means ignoring one''s essence," the old man said with a faint smile. "So, do you agree?"


    "Do I even have a choice?" Malk grimaced.


    Yorrokh take it! Sure, he had gotten used to the idea that not every crime in Andalore faced inevitable punishment, but they could at least keep up the appearance of justice and law! And the main thing was, even if he dug his heels in, nothing would change. The report about the attack, through the efforts of, if not the sergeant himself, then his senior colleagues, would definitely disappear, no charges would be brought against the young students, and the worst they''d face would be a night in the station. So was it worth refusing the money and angering a powerful House, forcing them to really come after him? Right, Malk also figured it wasn''t.


    So, swallowing his resentment and shoving his dignity deep down again, he watched with a stone face as his captives were freed, healed with one-time "Healers," and then led away entirely. He didn''t comment or discuss anything, just stood and watched. And each time he caught another promising look from his formerly defeated foes, anger flared inside him. At least in the presence of the House representative, they behaved surprisingly quiet and calm, not provoking a new conflict. But those glances... they said a lot. The "childish squabble" was far from over.


    "Want some advice, lad? Get out of here, and fast," the sergeant suddenly addressed Malk casually once the young aristocrats and the old man had left the yard. "You won''t have peace here now. Better yet, leave the city altogether. A junior Family isn''t directly related to the Patriarch, but they''re no pushovers either. They won''t forgive you this humiliation..."


    "I didn''t ask them to break into my house!" Malk snapped.


    "You didn''t, yet they came and brought trouble," the sergeant agreed placidly, then straightened, adjusted his uniform, and said in a different tone, "Oh, before I forget... are you paying the fine now, young man, or should I summon you to the station?"


    Malk flinched and stared at the gendarme in disbelief.


    "A fine?! What the Yorrokh for?!"


    "For a false call. Since the gendarmerie won''t be getting a crime report from you, and there are no criminals either... there must be a fine!" the gendarme announced pompously and added, "But don''t worry... everything will be fair, no tricks. We''ll go to the station, where we''ll file everything, record it in documents, and process the payment through the bank..."


    Thank the Nine, Malk had talked to Tolfan enough to catch where the gendarme was heading. The money from the House representative tempted the sergeant like fresh blood would a hungry demon. And if he didn''t get his cut, things wouldn''t end well.


    "And if we skip all that hassle, how much?" Malk asked wearily.


    "Five drachmas. And no one will disturb the esteemed Adept''s sleep anymore," the sergeant said with a nasty smile.


    Malk silently counted out a third of the gold he''d gotten from the old man with the cane. Given the situation, all he could do was be glad the gendarme''s appetite was modest. He could have easily set his sights on the rest of the money as well¡­


    The gold noticeably lifted the sergeant''s mood, and he left the yard with a grin almost splitting his face. Moreover, just before the gates, where Malk escorted him, he deigned to offer another "piece of advice." Patronizingly patting Malk on the shoulder, the gendarme said that "such muscleheads who can beat the crap out of whole three Adepts with their bare fists" were needed in his service, and if things got really tough, Malk could come to them. And there was some logic in his words: above the gendarmerie was the Purple Chamber, which greatly limited the influence of aristocrats. But discussing this¡ªif Malk ever wanted to discuss something like that!¡ªmade sense with someone more influential than a bribe-extorting sergeant. So, hearing the offer, he just gave a polite smile and quietly closed the gate behind the gendarme.


    "Greedy bastard, calling me a musclehead!" Malk muttered under his breath as he headed back into the house. "I was almost the smallest at the boarding school..."


    The image he had cherished since childhood didn''t include labels like "musclehead" at all. Composed, dignified, noble, steadfast¡ªby all means, but not a musclehead! And as for the rest, it wasn''t even worth mentioning. Damn, if he planned to beat the crap out of anyone, it certainly wasn''t with his fists!


    Yet, the sergeant''s words hit a nerve, and in Malk''s mind, the image of a refined aristocrat suddenly shifted to a huge, muscular savage from the Yavan Belt or Rida''s Scatter, wielding a club and equally crude primal magic... And that was definitely not the dream he was aiming for.


    What the gendarme said probably wouldn''t have stung so much if it weren''t for the changes in his physique that even Malk himself could notice. No, he didn''t feel particularly huge, but... come to think of it, his pants somehow had gotten noticeably shorter, his shirt was tight in the shoulders, and his vest had even split open at the back last night when he bent to lace up his shoes. So, even if his clothes hadn''t gotten damaged in today''s fight, he''d still have to update his wardrobe.


    But was it worth expecting anything else from combining the hard work of a station loader and Life magic? Malk also figured it wasn''t. Everything had its price, and turning into a muscular brute in exchange for the right to follow the path of a mage wasn''t the highest price possible...


    Probably, Malk would have pushed this whole nighttime incident to the back of his mind¡ªthankfully, he didn''t suffer serious injuries or property damage¡ªif the neighbors hadn''t gotten involved. Some "kind soul," who during the fight had a sudden bout of blindness and deafness, by morning had fully "recovered" and snitched to the landlord. The latter showed up just as Malk was about to leave for the clinic and, ignoring his protests, announced the termination of the lease. And the landlord''s gripes were specifically with Malk. Helavia and Tolfan, who were off on a closed training, didn''t bother him at all, and he wasn''t planning to toss them out either. In his opinion, only one tenant attracted trouble.


    And, Malk had to admit, he couldn''t argue with that. Because he really did cause a lot of problems. The attack alone was bad enough, but there was much more the yelling landlord didn''t even know about. The dwarf undermining Colhaun folk protection, the broken Mirror, the floorboard that had sprouted a shoot, that Yorrokh''s caterpillar¡ªNine Saints, if you think about it, you couldn''t imagine a worse tenant! And it was good that no one had been hurt yet. After all, the same conflict with the trio of Adepts could have ended badly, if not for Malk, then for Helavia or Tolfan. And that Malk couldn''t brush off. So, after arguing a bit for show, he packed his suitcase and, with the Mirror hastily wrapped in a rag under his arm, left the house.


    The problem of finding new housing was solved rather quickly. All he had to do was walk a couple of blocks, find a real estate agency his classmates had praised, and talk to a broker. Then, a professional took over. For three drachmas, in a couple of hours, Malk was offered a cheap one-room apartment in the basement of a dilapidated mansion located literally two streets away from the Society building. So, if in the morning Malk was still having breakfast at the house on Holy Protectors Street, he was destined to have lunch already in Grey Nights Lane.


    "Toilet''s outside, no furniture, just one room," Malk repeated the agent''s words, standing in the doorway of his new place. He scanned the slightly shabby walls, the floors with peeling paint, the poorly washed narrow window with streaks on the glass, and sighed loudly. "But it''s clean, and the rent is only one drachma a month. And the door, importantly, locks securely..."


    Compared to this, his previous apartment seemed almost like a palace, but Malk didn''t complain. If he remembered that before coming to Andalore, he had expected something like this in the first place, it made no sense to be picky at all. One had to exercise modesty. And live within one''s means! That would be more proper... and safer.


    Sighing again, Malk put down his suitcase and bag, placed the Mirror on top, then got on his knees and sprinkled a narrow line of salt along the walls around the room. The seller swore it had been blessed in a temple of Achont, but Malk wasn''t too concerned about the truth of that. Regular sea salt would have been fine for him.


    Finally, a closed figure was formed. Malk stood up, brushed off his hands, and, recalling the Protective Circle ritual in his mind, started the spell. While he couldn''t shield the house on Holy Protectors Street in this way, shielding a small room from everything otherworldly was quite within his reach now.


    The ritual, performed not for the first time, went smoothly, without errors or complications. As if on their own, glowing lines formed magical shapes in his spiritual vision, Runeglyph phrases flowed like streams, the Force infused the patterns in strictly measured portions, and Authority gave the constructs their final form. Five or six minutes later, the seemingly unreliable salt line merged into a single whole, becoming a tangible support for a magical veil that separated the room from the rest of the world.


    Done! It was so much easier working when a Hellspawn wasn''t messing with you, and you weren''t pressured by the prospect of falling under a memory-wiping spell...


    To make sure everything worked right, Malk stepped beyond the salt line and immediately returned. As expected, both times crossing the barrier, it felt like his skin was lightly brushed with sandpaper, and a faint disorientation hit his head. The magical construct definitely worked! And if Malk hadn''t messed up, his room was now off-limits to the incorporeal beings of lower ranks, or at least shielded from their sight. As for the ability of his Protective Circle, which didn''t even reach the first level, to become a serious obstacle for truly powerful creatures, he didn''t believe in it.


    Then again, Malk couldn''t pull off anything more reliable. Even as it was, the Circle had cost him over eleven ergs¡ªalmost his entire current reserve¡ªand now he''d have to spend an erg a day to maintain it. It was basically the limit of his abilities as an Adept, and the situation couldn''t be fixed quickly. All he could count on was a reserve growth of one erg a month and a tenth of an erg increase in energy absorption speed every two months. No miracles, just simple math.


    If only Malk''s enemies could be handled with the same straightforward calculations and analysis, things would be great. Compared to the magical formulas, easily described in mathematical language, or the rules for constructing spells from Runeglyph symbols, the same dwarf''s sorcery appeared as something unimaginable. Remembering the arrows flying off posters sometimes sent chills down Malk''s spine. If this was magic, then a clearly non-human mind had participated in the development of its underlying principles.


    No, Malk preferred something more familiar and understandable. And he turned his gaze to his new Druzal''s Mirror, from which suddenly slipped off the cloth covering it. Although the new technomagical artifact looked rather ridiculous¡ªoutwardly, it resembled a globe made of plates and grids with attached eyepieces on the side¡ªbut at least it didn''t hold surprises and tricks contradicting common sense. Outside, it was an era of reason, scientific magic, and steam; how could mysticism possibly fit in?


    However, it wasn''t time for such philosophical musings yet.


    "Alright, here''s to the move!" Malk said aloud and saluted his new home with a bottle of mead he''d bought on the way. "Shall we settle in?"


    And settle in he did. Even though no new furniture appeared¡ªMalk slept on a thin mattress right on the floor¡ªthe energy cost for maintaining the Circle didn''t decrease, and the landlord didn''t bother hooking up proper plumbing, the basement room had one main advantage¡ªit was peaceful. Whether it was the change of scenery, the success of the ritual, or something else entirely, everything around Malk started to get better in the month since the move. No more attacks from loyalist supporters, the dwarf didn''t barge into his Spirit Palace, and the Mirror didn''t fail. His Gift developed steadily¡ªby the end of the month, Malk''s reserve had grown to thirteen ergs, and his absorption rate increased to six-tenths of an erg per hour, he made huge strides in mastering the "Healer," and his Authority, which had already passed the midpoint of the red rank, strengthened. Things were going well in the Society too¡ªMalk didn''t even notice how he became a leader in his group, gradually surpassing classmates who had started from higher positions. Despite the big expenses, his income grew, and the metaphorical piggy bank, which had bared its bottom, was slowly but surely filling with yellow coins.


    Yorrokh, even Helavia wasn''t getting on his nerves! The girl, according to Tolfan, whom Malk met a sennight after moving, was off on another special closed training and was physically unable to cause any drama.


    So, everything had been going pretty well for Malk lately. The only trouble happened once when he was heading home after meeting Tolfan. Lost in thought, he walked too close to an advertising pillar and paid the price. Among the handwritten and occasional printed ads for selling all sorts of things, there was a leftover poster from last year''s puppet show. The title mentioned something about a dragon ruining the hero''s life, but Malk didn''t remember the details. What mattered was that this very same damned by all Saints dragon was depicted there, moreover, with surprising detail at that. And just as Malk passed the pillar, that flur''s lizard came to life, stuck its serpentine neck out as if through a portal, and... breathed a powerful stream of flames.


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Later, it became clear the creature missed by a lot, and the high-temperature blast hit a cubit away, but at that moment, it felt different. It seemed like the magical fire was about to scorch his face, and Malk panicked, jumping back and to the side. It was awkward and clumsy, but lucky: even though the leap landed him on the road and right in front of an oncoming omnibus, the driver managed to stop. Instead of serious injuries, Malk got away with bruises and scratches, which were gone after the second "Healer." But the most annoying thing was that he didn''t need to panic or jump at all. The dragon''s breath, which seemed so terrifying, not only left no trace on the sidewalk, but didn''t even touch a scrap of paper lying there.


    Unlike the arrows, the fire was just an illusion, pure theatrics! As if the dwarf¡ªand there was no doubt that he was behind the attempt¡ªsuddenly cared about conserving Force, simultaneously itching to pull another nasty trick and lacking his former capabilities to do so.


    Malk immediately suspected that the runt''s "health" was compromised, but he was wary of dwelling on the thought. Too tempting an idea, too easy to fall under its spell and let his guard down where he absolutely couldn''t afford to. And so... so it was simpler to keep living as he had, expecting new attacks, enjoying the calm, and hoping for the best.


    The streak of good luck ended at the month''s close. And trouble came from a direction Malk didn''t expect at all. From his work in the crew. A job that, for him, was just a way to drain the accumulated life energy in his body, nothing more. Could there be any surprises with that kind of attitude?


    But, as it turned out, there could be, and serious ones.


    For Malk, that day was almost like any other. Training, work, study... After classes, he ran home, changed, and even grabbed a bite, then headed to the station. Though this sennight, he was putting on his work clothes for the fourth time, exceeding his usual limit, but that had happened before. Especially when he pushed his limits in the infirmary''s source or didn''t pay enough attention to cleansing his body with Authority and the Dispersion spell.


    In short, just the regular dull routine.


    He got to the station on foot¡ªnot to save money, but as part of his endurance training¡ªand went straight to the sheds at the foot of the water tower. When Malk first started learning the ropes as a loader, he''d spend a lot of time searching for his colleagues busy unloading yet another car. But only after earning the workers'' respect and a certain status did they tell him about the crew''s traditional meeting spot. Since then, that''s where he''d start looking.


    This time, he got lucky¡ªall the crew, about twenty people, were sitting on the packed ground in front of a big wood shed. They played cards or dice, shared stories, and some even slept. Only the foreman, Aaron, was missing.


    "No work today?" Malk asked the puppeteer mage, who, as always, kept himself and his automaton slightly apart from the ordinary mortals.


    The mage wasn''t particularly friendly with Malk either, but at least he agreed to answer questions. After all, he was talking to a Gifted.


    "Don''t know. An hour ago, they moved six cars with the alchemists'' orders to the siding. If we started unloading now, we''d be done by one in the morning... But no, nothing. Aaron ran off to the station administration, but he''s taking a long time to come back too," the puppeteer said gloomily, polishing a clearly new patch on his mechanical servant''s body.


    "Strange," Malk said, surprised. As far as he remembered, it was the first time such a thing happened.


    "Yeah," the mage grunted. "Like we have no other business and come here just to kill time."


    Malk had no idea what other business his colleague could have if the man was so thoroughly stuck in his rank¡ªaccording to Aaron, he was an Apprentice but hid it carefully¡ªand considered work at the station a significant part of his income, but chose to keep quiet.


    "And the main thing is, our main competitors, Havronis''s crew, are nowhere to be seen either. Maybe they got a heads-up that there''d be nothing for everyone today, or Yorrokh knows what''s going on," the mage continued, suddenly becoming very talkative.


    "Maybe the administration raised the ''rates,'' and there''s no money for a bribe? And that''s why Aaron''s not coming back as well, haggling?" Malk suggested.


    "Who''s got no money? Havronis?!" The puppeteer laughed bitterly. "He snatched two juicy orders from us just last sennight. We should be the ones complaining, not him."


    "Well, then I don''t know," Malk said, shrugging his shoulders.


    Continuing the conversation standing, especially when the other man was comfortably seated on his automaton''s platform, wasn''t something Malk felt like doing; it even seemed humiliating. So he went to the wood shed, dragged out a big, knobby stump, and sat down with satisfaction.


    "Looks like someone''s into elixirs and stimulants?" the mage suddenly said, eyeing the stump Malk had brought, and then studying his broadened shoulders and noticeably strengthened arms. "Stupid. Better spend your money on..."


    What exactly the puppeteer was going to advise him, Malk never found out. New players suddenly appeared on the scene, and everyone abruptly lost interest in conversations. Two massive, humanoid automatons, each with four mechanized arms, lumbered toward the crew''s gathering spot, accompanied by two puppeteer mages and covered by infantry in the form of five brute-looking guys with clubs in their hands. Everyone, including the automatons, had an unfamiliar emblem on the right side of their chest.


    "Hey, scum, are you Aaron''s crew or what?" the most nimble-looking "infantryman" loudly addressed Malk''s companions. The mages clearly didn''t want to lower themselves to talk with the ungifted. "So, uh... I''m letting you know, bastards, that starting today, you''re banned from working on the station grounds and in its vicinity... And if you don''t want trouble, I suggest you get the hell out of here as fast as possible!"


    The negotiator had a hard time with his speech, especially the part where he had to quote obviously someone else''s words, but he managed to get the message across to the crew. And, judging by the gestures and muffled curses, the workers were not at all happy with what they heard. In fact, even Malk realized his fists were clenching in anger, and deep down, he felt a growing urge to punch someone.


    "And why the heck should we leave?" Malk''s recent conversation partner suddenly spoke up. "Who''s gonna make us?"


    The negotiator just took a breath to answer when the oldest of the newly arrived mages stepped forward.


    "Who''s gonna make you? Well, how about the Andalore loaders'' union, formed last sennight? We''ve got exclusive rights to work at the station, and we won''t tolerate competition. Got it?" the mage said arrogantly.


    The scene was a bit spoiled by the fact that he was barely past the boundary between Adept and Apprentice, so his words didn''t carry much weight. And having two mechanical workers on his side didn''t change things. At least, Malk wasn''t scared by the clunky heaps of metal one bit.


    Apparently, the others thought similarly, because the crew, suddenly growing grim and clenching fists, began slowly advancing on the cocky guests from the union, and the owner of the four-wheeled loader even laughed scornfully.


    "I''d like to know how you plan to make us? You think just because you chased Havronis''s guys away and took Aaron down, you''ll handle us as easily? Dream on!" the puppeteer declared loudly and waved to the crew. "Get ''em, boys!!!"


    Malk never imagined such a fighting spirit hid beneath the mage''s unassuming exterior. Unfriendly, sullen, and arrogant, but when it came to a brawl, he transformed. His eyes blazed, nostrils flared with anger, and he drove his automaton into battle with such fervor, as if it were not a rusty loader, but at least a heavy assault golem.


    However, he still retained a modicum of prudence, and his excitement didn''t stop him from preparing both himself and his mechanical soldier for the fight. Besides the standard spells for controlling the machine, the mage promptly deployed Shields. First, him, then the loader, were enveloped in a faint pearly glow.


    The nature of the defensive spell was unclear to Malk¡ªtoo low a qualification¡ªbut recalling his past encounter with the puppeteer''s magic, he suspected it involved Forces of Death and, just in case, decided to take a small step back towards the rest of the crew. Even Life could cause trouble, so getting hit by a "friendly" blast of Death magic was the last thing he wanted.


    Meanwhile, mechanical soldiers from the union stepped forward to meet the rumbling, steaming machine. The mages controlling them mimicked the steps of the crew''s puppeteer, immediately covering themselves and the automatons with Shields. Except one of them seemed to be basing his spell on Fire, and the other¡­ the other, judging by the blue glow with green flecks around his magical aura, was using Water.


    Interestingly, the mages weren''t eager to jump into the fight themselves, preferring to use their "puppets." Both Malk''s recent conversation partner and his opponents, after taking defensive measures, plopped down and grabbed onto artifacts that helped them control the automatons. For this purpose, the union''s mages employed two small cubes made of blinking crystals, spinning gears, rack-and-pinion systems, and other parts incomprehensible to the uninitiated. In contrast, the crew''s puppeteer controlled his automaton with a much less technological scepter, which had a rectangular-toothed gear as its head.


    What was happening around didn''t seem to interest the mages.


    "I wonder if he can take on two of them?" Malk asked aloud, watching the loader platform briskly roll towards the lazily swaying humanoid automatons.


    In theory, the speed advantage was crucial, but the mass couldn''t be ignored either. The nimble-looking crew''s mechanical soldier was noticeably smaller than its foes. If they all piled on... it wouldn''t be pretty.


    In the meantime, the rest of the loaders, cracking their knuckles, lined up shoulder to shoulder beside Malk. He ended up at the forefront of the entire group of crew fighters¡ªpractically leading the charge. And that was definitely not the role he''d signed up for. If only because he didn''t care about the fight over the station or unloading rights. When work for you is nothing more than a workout, it''s hard to take it seriously. Which could not be said about the others. For them, working for the crew without paying the union''s "tax" was a matter of survival. So they were ready to fight for it with all their fury.


    Damn it, but what did Malk have to do with this?! The cause of the conflict, the people around him¡ªit was all foreign to him. Why risk his neck for who knows what?!


    Alas, the question had no answer. At least because, despite everything, Malk couldn''t force himself to just walk away. Yeah, it was stupid, but... it was embarrassing! Not so much in front of the crew workers, but to himself. No matter what arguments you use to justify yourself, no matter what reasons you give, cowardice always remains cowardice. And Malk never noticed that shameful flaw in himself!


    While he was brooding, the automatons exchanged their first blows. And it must be said that after what he saw, Malk took back all his thoughts about their clumsiness.


    The crew''s puppeteer''s automaton attacked first. Suddenly turning its body, the mechanized soldier hooked a tightly packed sack¡ªSaints only know why it was lying on its platform¡ªand with inhuman Force hurled it at the oncoming figure of the Water mage''s "puppet." Everything happened so lightning-fast that the sorcerer didn''t have time to react, and the projectile knocked his fighter off its feet. The roar and clang that followed the fall sounded like thunder. Considering the size and low quality of the mechanical soldier model, the consequences of such an attack promised to be quite serious.


    The crew''s puppeteer didn''t stop at the first success and, boldly turning the platform, rushed towards the Fire mage''s automaton. Too bad he had no more projectiles, so the "puppets" had to fight hand-to-hand. Moreover, the mage, clearly possessing more combat experience, attacked quite successfully this time too. The nose of the accelerating platform crashed head-on into the legs of the enemy automaton, making it lose balance. Only problem was, it fell forward instead of backward, and the other mage wasn''t about to miss an opportunity like that. Raising all four limbs, the union''s "puppet" grabbed the crew''s defender. Shields sparked, destroying each other, mechanical fists started slugging like steam hammers, and in no time at all, the two machines were tangled up in a big mess. There was no doubt¡ªthey couldn''t be untangled until the end of the fight.


    For a moment, Malk even had a fleeting thought that their numerical advantage guaranteed them victory, but reality showed how clueless he was about military affairs and magical methods. The Water mage''s automaton, previously sprawled on its back, suddenly sprang to life, its once-limp limbs clicking at the joints, shifting shape, and within a dozen seconds, a perfectly undamaged mechanical soldier stood tall before the stunned workers. But now, they no longer had an equal opponent for it.


    Although... Malk gave the "puppet" a careful look and realized it wasn''t so bad. He had a rough idea of how to fight it, and the situation wasn''t as hopeless as it might have seemed. The main thing was to prevent the enemy from attacking their own puppeteer. After all, without an operator, the automaton couldn''t fight. Take out the mage, and you''d take out his metal fighter. Then, the crew would be facing already two "puppets."


    This could not be allowed. Malk was about to shout for everyone to protect the puppeteer while he handled the enemy machine, but he didn''t get the chance. The opponent made his move, and it wasn''t what Malk expected at all.


    Firstly, with a thunderous clang, the automaton pushed off the ground and literally soared into the air. In an instant, it leaped over the head of the completely engrossed in controlling his own machine puppeteer, landing noisily a fathom before the frozen crew''s fighters. And secondly, the grid-like visor that served as its face slid up, revealing a sprayer nozzle. A stream of cold vapor¡ªor rather, an airborne suspension, gray-green instead of the usual white¡ªunder high pressure struck the crowd of workers. Everyone got hit¡ªboth Malk and the regular loaders. A single breath was enough to cause a buzzing in the head, make everything spin in the eyes, and finally, consciousness to fade altogether.


    The potent sleeping potion mowed down the crew''s fighters, leaving only three standing. Two of them were guys who had stayed a bit aside and avoided the alchemical mix¡ªthough seeing their buddies drop like flies was enough to scare them into bolting away. The last one was Malk. His body, overflowing with vitality, had a high resistance to any poisonous crap already, and when he, at the first signs of poisoning, habitually began to expel the nasty stuff from his body, the enemy completely lost the last chance to knock him out.


    "Spawn of Yorrokh and a donkey!" Malk breathed out in shock, as soon as clarity returned to his mind. "That was close!"


    He glanced around quickly and swore once again. In those few seconds following the underhanded attack, the balance on the field had shifted yet again. Now, it was basically just Malk and the puppeteer against the union''s fighters, so the enemy had a significant advantage. Worse, that cursed Water mage''s automaton had already turned toward the crew''s mage still focused on controlling his "puppet," even raising its upper pair of arms for a strike. And something told Malk his colleague''s Shield wouldn''t withstand the double blow.


    Well, that''s what Malk was here for, to make sure that didn''t happen, right?! It was time to take a more active role in the fight than just being a background character.


    Malk, with a malicious smile, picked up a round stone, wrapped it with a cloud of Force¡ªnot sparing four ergs!¡ªformed with Authority something like a compressed spring... and shot it at the "puppet''s" leg. In Lamara Gorzhan''s hands, despite her being an Apprentice, such tricks seemed impossible, but Malk didn''t waste heaps of time developing Authority for nothing. Practicing Rain of Pain, along with the meticulous use of Authority to purge his body of "toxic" Life magic, had paid off. Malk was capable of things other Adepts and beginning Apprentices couldn''t even dream of. Sure, a stone throw with a telekinetic spell would have used less energy than with Authority, but it wouldn''t necessarily have been any stronger.


    The ordinary rock shot from Malk''s hand like a cannonball. Precise aim and close range did the rest¡ªthe projectile hit the automaton''s knee joint dead on. And no Shield helped. The zero-circle spell barely slowed the rock at all, so it hit the target almost without losing energy. A sharp "Bam-mm!" rang out, fragments of the stone and bits of metal sprayed everywhere, and the automaton staggered.


    "Not enough? Let''s add more!" Malk smirked, picking up another stone.


    And if he''d found limestone before, this time it was a chunk of granite. Its penetration power was way higher. Another manipulation of energy and Authority, a flick of his wrist, and the "puppet" with the busted leg toppled sideways.


    The mechanical soldier was done for, but it was time to remember its owner. Malk had five ergs left in reserve, and this should have been quite enough to break through the mage''s Shield with the next stone and at least wound him. The distance bothered him a bit, but who said he couldn''t get closer?


    Alas, in his reasoning, he somehow overlooked that in the ongoing fight, the enemy side had several more fighters. Five bruisers who hadn''t fought yet were now charging at Malk. Judging by their rage-contorted mugs, their approach promised nothing good.


    The tactics needed an urgent change. Instead of targeting one of the enemy mages, Malk aimed at the ungifted fighters, deciding to use the only combat spell he knew. And even though Spark was his worst mastered spell, he could cast it without any misfires or misses alredy, and that was what mattered. A perfect weapon against unarmored mortals. So, before the union''s fighters reached him, Malk managed to cast two Sparks, knocking out two of them with precise headshots. The remaining three, though, would still be enough to make Malk sweat, but luck intervened. The sight of first the knocked-down automaton and then the unconscious comrades so impressed the brutes that instead of continuing the attack, they abruptly turned one hundred and eighty degrees and ran away. Away from Malk.


    Too bad he didn''t get a chance to enjoy it. The automaton, which seemed seriously damaged, suddenly came to life, propped itself on all four "hands," and scuttled toward Malk like a spider. And there was something in its determination that made it clear¡ªno more messing around, it was out to kill Malk for real.


    And, just his luck, only one erg was left in his reserve!


    Feeling a chilling tingle spreading from his heart, Malk drew his trusty blade from the sheath hidden in his robe. Sure, he couldn''t match the automaton''s speed or hitting power. And he couldn''t count on his decent yet ordinary blade to pierce the "puppet''s" metal body. But that didn''t mean he should give up and wait for death, right?! Of two frogs in a milk jug, the one that keeps kicking survives. And was he any worse than a frog?¡­


    Yorrokh knows how this fight would''ve ended if a third force hadn''t suddenly intervened. Malk and the "puppet" were just a few steps apart when a cannon of decent caliber boomed from behind, and the automaton, ready to pounce, was literally flung off into the depths of the woodshed by a direct hit. There was no doubt: had the unknown person wanted to destroy the "puppet," they could''ve easily done it. But their goal was precisely to remove the automaton from the battlefield, not to send it to the junkyard. And they succeeded. Moreover, the single shot was enough to stop the fight entirely.


    Then everyone heard a voice, cold as ice:


    "We did agree there would be no extra blood and corpses... So what have you done here?!"


    Only those with the full might of state authority behind them spoke with such confidence. Those who were used to punishing and pardoning, relying not only on their own strength, but also on the might of the entire state apparatus. And Malk suddenly realized with a sinking feeling that choosing to fight for the crew might''ve been a mistake. Honor or not, cowardice or not, he didn''t want to spend another night in a cell. If, of course, the observer who showed up for the final act of the fight would limit himself to only that punishment. Which, frankly, Malk didn''t believe at all.

 Chapter Seventeen, in which the hero realizes something about this life

    "Wait... What do you mean you got caught in a brawl between a loaders'' crew and a new union? Are you serious?!" Serge asked, giving Malk a strange look. "And then, you say, a gendarme showed up, stopped the fight, and... they didn''t even take you to the station?"


    "That''s right," Malk nodded, spreading his hands.


    "Three flurs down your collar, twisted over Yorrokh''s knee!" Serge blurted out in one breath, using a strange phrase for a landlubber. "I got no other words."


    Malk didn''t really have any either. Especially to describe the situation in which he decided for some reason to share what had happened with Serge. Sure, they were pals, but not close enough to discuss serious things not meant for other ears, like clashes with thugs and the authorities. But one thing led to another, and Malk, without any magic¡ªlater he verified that¡ªspilled all his train station adventures to Serge.


    And to think the conversation had started with his classmate asking about the weird rash on Malk''s face...


    Though, it was really hard to avoid the topic and not get curious: the sleeping alchemy the union puppeteer used had caused Malk a full-blown allergic reaction. Even though his body had become tough as nails and he had done a cleansing right after the poisoning, some toxins still lingered, showing up overnight as a scattering of red spots on his face. And although by lunchtime the inflammation had significantly reduced, it hadn''t completely gone away and was still noticeable. That''s why Serge had latched onto it.


    More importantly, he was so pushy and sharp that in ten minutes, he got the whole story out of Malk.


    "Alright, the reasons for the tussle between the union and the crew are clear... The Guram Family bought the controlling stake in the Andalore Railway Station from House Levi and now wants to squeeze every possible juice out of the acquisition," Serge began to reason, finally calming down, but catching Malk''s extremely surprised look at such knowledge, he explained, "Last sennight, I heard Shark ranting about this to the girls with my own ears."


    Malk rubbed his chin thoughtfully, digesting what he heard.


    "So, the Guram Family is behind the union... Then, the bold behavior of their mages is quite understandable, but what does that gendarme have to do with it... And a lieutenant at that, if I heard right what the union puppeteer was whispering to him..."


    "Come on, who''s the country bumpkin here, you or me?!" Serge rolled his eyes. "Boldness aside, not even the Houses from the Big Three would start a bloody massacre without serious grounds, more so involving ordinary mortals." He paused and thought for a moment before adding, "At least in the metropolis. What happens on the islands, not even the Saints or Yorrokh know."


    "And that lieutenant..." Malk said thoughtfully.


    "...is an observer from the Special Chancellery attached to the gendarmerie. He makes sure the family that bought the ''order-keeping'' permit for their area doesn''t go overboard," Serge continued. "That''s why he stepped in when things started to get dicey, and the brawl between the Gifted was turning into a bloody fight... Another thing is, why didn''t they take anyone to the station as a precaution and keep them in a cell for a day? After all, there weren''t any aristocrats among you..."


    At the mention of the cell and being held for a day, Malk grimaced like he''d swallowed quinine. He definitely didn''t want to fall into the clutches of Captain Tyrhat or his colleagues again with all his heart.


    "Aristocrats... What in the Yorrokh''s name do gendarmes care about two dozen mortal paupers and a couple of weak mages? They wouldn''t get much money out of us, just a heap of hassle. The main goal was to show who''s boss at the station, and the union achieved that. Nothing else mattered," he said, offering the only explanation that came to mind.


    "Maybe so," Serge sighed, chewing his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe so."


    At that moment, his classmate reminded Malk a lot of Tolfan. Though Serge wasn''t from a fancy background, neither was he spoiled with wealth, and had a Gift worse than the fatty''s, a certain elusive commonality of souls was still felt. Moreover, it was hard to say what it was right away: maybe some slyness and understanding of the seamy side of life, maybe the obvious self-centeredness. One thing was clear, though: what definitely set Serge apart from Tolfan was his lack of cowardice.


    The fatty, in general, seemed to cherish and cultivate this quality within himself on purpose. This was especially evident during his recent meeting with Malk. As soon as Tolfan learned that his friend''s conflict with the loyalists was gaining more and more momentum, he practically went pale. And when he found out one of the attackers on their apartment belonged to the House of the Thunder Bird that had impressed him so much, he completely lost his speech for a couple of minutes. Only the news of Malk''s move to another place calmed him down a little, but even then, not completely. In any case, he did not offer any help or support to his old friend... Though Malk didn''t expect it anyway.


    In this sense, Serge was way better. He showed no fear of Malk''s enemies, nor did he rush to distance himself. Quite the opposite, his eagerness to "buddy up" bordered on outright pushiness.


    "Alright, let''s forget the gendarmes. Better tell me, what are you planning to do next? Your crew''s definitely gonna fall apart now, and those who don''t switch jobs will be the first to run under the union''s wing. You going with them?" Serge asked with unconcealed curiosity, snapping Malk out of his gloomy thoughts.


    "Why the Yorrokh would I stick with the crew?!" Malk snapped. "Fighting for them was enough. There are no more obligations between us. And since they can no longer help with finding work, our cooperation is over."


    "Whew! I thought you, buddy, might want to play noble..." Serge exhaled with almost genuine relief. "This little war isn''t yours, and it''s not for you to fight on its fronts."


    Malk was itching to ask if he really looked like an idiot for Serge to think that, but he held back. After all, in Serge''s place, he might have said the same thing.


    But the conversation didn''t end there.


    "Listen, there''s one thing I don''t get. How''d you end up at the station?" Serge suddenly asked. "Unloading cars isn''t the most obvious job for an Adept in your field. You''re not a telekinetic, not a puppeteer... Why would a mage studying a ''Healer'' unload cars?"


    Not wanting to reveal the details of his winding path into magic, Malk shrugged with feigned indifference:


    "Money?"


    "Oh, come on! You earn way more with your ''Healer.'' If it was just about drachmas and obols, there''d be no point hanging around with the crew," Serge dismissed, staring at Malk.


    He got no answer: Malk diligently pretended not to get the hints. But Serge wasn''t so easy to shut up.


    "Fine, let''s say so. But I still don''t get why the railway station. Isn''t there other work in the city?" he asked, waving his hands emotionally.


    Malk, getting annoyed by the questions, snapped back gloomily:


    "What work? I don''t recall anyone at the labor exchange being thrilled about an Adept without experience. And if a miracle happens and an interesting job pops up, a whole line immediately forms from those wanting it."


    "Wait, what labor exchange? You''re a member of the Andalore Society of Mages, so look for work there," Serge protested. "At least it''s one of the few perks these courses give us!"


    Malk didn''t reply right away. If one were to forget about his station adventures and go back to when he was searching for any way to make money, he hadn''t even thought about the Society back then. He studied newspapers, read street ads, went to the labor exchange, but didn''t use the most obvious option. No, much later, in the courses'' building, he did come across the local bulletin board, but there was no merit of his in that¡ªit happened by chance. And he didn''t want to admit that.


    "Like the Society would offer anything interesting. I''ve seen their listings: city cemetery guard, street cleaner, city watchman... Loader looks pretty good in comparison," Malk finally said. He didn''t add that the jobs offered were also useless for his path as a mage.


    "Well, those are municipal jobs. They''re rarely picked. But if you check occasionally, you can find more interesting private offers," Serge said with a clear hint, emphasizing "private."


    And Malk finally got why the whole conversation was needed. Serge wanted something from him, but for some reason, he didn''t say it outright and preferred to beat around the bush.


    "Serge, do you have something specific to suggest?" Malk asked directly, tired of all the hints.


    "Exactly, buddy, exactly! And it''s right up your alley..." Serge grinned and gave Malk a friendly pat on the shoulder.


    "Details?" Malk pressed.


    "I''ll tell you the details in the evening. I need to check something, and if everything works out, then... a long and fruitful collaboration awaits us!" Serge declared with some pomposity. "The main thing is that you''re interested; you''ll see the rest for yourself."


    Beyond that, Malk couldn''t get anything else out of Serge. He just brushed it off and told Malk to wait until evening, which, fortunately, wasn''t too far since they were on a break between seminar classes and the academic day was almost over. Malk didn''t push either; he was curious to hear Serge''s offer but not more than that. He had no serious expectations.


    Serge picked a small park near the Society''s building as their meeting spot. When Malk got there, his classmate was already waiting on a bench, kicking a heavy-looking stepladder at his feet with a bored look.


    "What''s that for?" Malk couldn''t help but ask.


    He didn''t even bother asking where the slippery Serge had gotten the ladder. He suspected he wouldn''t like the answer.


    "You''ll see," his classmate grinned. Then, with a grunt, he hoisted the ladder onto his shoulder, wobbled a bit, but quickly steadied himself and slowly headed out of the park. "We''ll have to walk a bit..."


    "Maybe we should get a carriage?" Malk suggested, surprised at his own extravagance, but met a firm refusal.


    Serge turned out to be even more stingy, preferring to suffer a bit and save the fifteen obols. His ordeal didn''t last long: after a couple hundred fathoms, Malk took pity on the noticeably weaker student and grabbed the ladder himself. For him, after constant nourishment with Life energy and workout at the station, such weight was nothing, and walking with a stepladder on his shoulder felt like just another opportunity to work his muscles. As for Serge... Serge, not at all ashamed, with apparent relief accepted the offer and dumped the ladder hassle on Malk.


    They had to walk for about an hour. During this time, they crossed several avenues, passed through a couple of courtyards and alleys, until they reached the start of Two Temples Street. To his shame, after all the wandering, Malk didn''t recognize the place where Serge had taken him, and when he did, he was surprised: in his view, two broke Adepts, especially carrying along the Yorrokh''s ladder, had no business being on one of the poshest streets in Andalor.


    "We''ve arrived," Serge announced, looking as if he was the one who''d been doing all the heavy lifting and had finally reached a much-needed break. "Lean this crap against the wall. We''ll take a breather and..."


    "And what?" Malk asked, putting down the ladder and rubbing his stiff shoulder.


    At the same time, he kept glancing around, trying to figure out what had caught Serge''s interest in this place. No matter how hard he tried, nothing came to mind. Everywhere he looked, there were houses with mezzanines, typical of the area, with shops on the first floor and living quarters on the second. The building where the Adepts had stopped housed a tobacconist''s. Judging by the prices displayed in the window, the customers it was catering to were clearly quite well-off.


    The only thing that bothered Malk a bit was the feeling he had recently heard or read about some problems on Two Temples Street. However, he couldn''t remember what exactly they were.


    "You could''ve figured it out yourself, buddy!" Serge sighed and, taking the ladder, set it against the wall beside the shop window.


    Notably, the surly clerk in a double-breasted frock coat who peeked out didn''t faze him at all. On the contrary, after giving him a friendly nod, Serge immediately forgot about him and turned to Malk.


    "See that drawing on the wall? Go up with this scraper and try to get rid of it," he suggested, squinting slyly. In his outstretched hand, he held a well-used painter''s tool.


    Malk absently grabbed the scraper and, somewhat confused, first stared at the rowdy-looking graffiti scrawled with fluorescent paint right beneath the roof''s edge, then glanced over at the neighboring buildings, which had likewise suffered from vandals. After which, he swore under his breath. Damn it, he didn''t even notice "the battleship in the lagoon"![1] After all, he had read in the papers that the facades of the buildings on Two Temples Street and Victors Avenue had been seriously marred by all sorts of offensive scrawls and sketches, yet he still couldn''t recall it when he needed to.


    Now roughly guessing why Serge had dragged him there, he climbed the ladder slowly, aimed at the edge of the drawing¡ªwhich, according to the accompanying text, depicted the shop owner in a passionate love affair with a goat¡ªand started scraping vigorously. In theory, the plaster should have easily yielded to his efforts, but against all odds, the daubing of the unknown artist still glowed orange in the approaching twilight.


    "Not working?" Serge asked with fake sympathy from below.


    "Yeah, it''s stuck good," Malk admitted. "They enchanted it well. Sure, I''d get it off eventually, but..."


    "But it''d take ages. And even then, after such a cleaning, the wall might need replastering," Serge finished his thought and added, "Now you get why I brought you here?"


    "Yeah, I''m not an idiot, I got it," Malk snorted and, tossing the scraper back to his classmate, placed his freed hands on the center of the drawing.


    Explaining why Serge had dragged to the magically protected daubing the only one in their class who knew Dispersion wasn''t necessary. Breaking someone else''s magic was a rather non-trivial task for an ordinary Adept to handle. The same Serge... Even if he had acquired this spell in the Society, without long study and practical mastery against someone else''s magic, it would hardly be effective. And considering Malk''s Authority was strong¡ªif not the strongest among the students in their course¡ªthere was no alternative to him.


    Feeling himself a unique and valuable specialist, Malk closed his eyes and tried to grasp the entire surface of the drawing with his spiritual attention. It worked right away, and the clearly perceptible boundaries of the foreign protective spell helped a lot. Yorrokh knows what kind of enchantment those vandals used, but to Malk''s inner sight, it appeared as an ugly blotch emitting crude Earth emanations. No way he would''ve missed that, even if he wanted! All he had to do now was limit the area for his magic to affect and overlay a Dispersion.


    Thanks to constant use for cleansing the body from the remnants of Life energy, this spell could already be considered half-mastered, and activation no longer required strict adherence to the rules and canons. Gradually becoming a part of Malk''s Spirit, like an extra organ, the chain of Runeglyph symbols awakened after a series of mental efforts, magical circles lit up around his palms pressed against the wall, only to splash a prickly stream of sorcery onto the protective spell of the hooligans a moment later. Moreover, to boost the effect, Malk gave it a good "push" with Authority and... seemed to overdo it.


    The foreign spell responded with a jerky tremor, a crackle, and a smell of ozone, then literally shattered into bits of magic "dust" dissolving in the air. And along with it, not only the paint but also some plaster fell off the wall with an annoying rustle.


    "Hey, easy there, don''t bring the whole house down! We''re paid to clean the walls, not destroy them," Serge got worried. But judging by his expression, the damage Malk caused didn''t bother him much. What really got to him was the fact that the protective spell was successfully destroyed. "You gonna last much longer?" he asked in a different tone.


    Malk scanned the remaining part of the facade, messed up with drawings and the inscription, looked at the neighboring houses, and said:This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "This building and the next one, that''s all I can handle."


    "What if you use Force more sparingly?" Serge clarified.


    "Have to try," Malk shrugged. "Though honestly, to handle this matter properly, we shouldn''t be using individual spells, even if mastered at my level, and instead pick a suitable ritual..." he said, but catching his buddy''s eager gaze, quickly explained, "But that''s beyond me yet."


    "Then we''ll work with what we have," Serge said agreeably and, after Malk came down, added with a pompous air, "Anyway, consider yourself hired!"


    Saints know what Serge was thinking or hoping for when he made that announcement, but Malk''s response clearly wasn''t what he expected. Because instead of agreeing right away, Malk first asked what exactly he was hired for and then why he needed to join anything at all. Their chat quickly turned into bargaining.


    As it turned out, Serge decided to form something like a team of freelance painters. But not in the style of those gangs that went around defacing shopfronts in the most unlawful ways¡ªrather in the spirit of their rivals. They were to take the opposite side of the conflict, cleaning up after the vandals. Moreover, the pay was quite decent¡ªSerge immediately offered Malk, who was to handle a hefty share of the work, fifty obols, and after a tense round of haggling, he raised the cut to ninety obols for the evening. Which was pretty good money. And if one factored in the extra opportunity to practice Dispersion, the new job looked really tempting.


    "Main thing, get yourself a mask. You know how it is¡ªmessing with someone else''s work is asking for trouble, so if we don''t want to be tracked down one by one and roughed up, we gotta take care of disguise in advance," Serge warned, considering it the biggest downside of the new ''profession.''


    But Malk had his own take on things. He already had one decent job, so his priority was not magic practice or earning money, but training his body. That''s why he couldn''t help but ask a question that was bound to stump Serge.


    "Tell me, will there be any heavy work involved¡ªlike carrying a ladder, as I had to today?" Malk asked with a straight face.


    He knew how dumb it sounded after Serge''s talk about the dangers of clashing with other "crews," but... he really needed to know.


    "Sadly, yeah," Serge admitted, spreading his hands. Then he started mumbling muddled excuses, "Besides us, there''ll be other folks, but... you know how it goes. We''ll need paint, brushes, ladders, plus other tools... Renting a cart every time would cost a fortune, so we''ll have to haul everything on our own backs..."


    He probably would''ve kept explaining for a while, but Malk decisively interrupted:


    "Great, I''m in!"


    He''d heard the most important thing. If everything really went as Serge said, by joining this venture, he''d be able to take down several demons with one shot. So, why waste words?


    Alas, reality turned out far less smooth than he initially thought, and in the next two sennights they didn''t even start working. For some reason, Serge couldn''t find anyone willing to join their team, and handling the job as a two-man team was too hard and dangerous. As a result, with his evenings freed up after quitting the loaders'' crew, Malk found himself with nothing to do, and¡ªprobably for the first time since moving to Andalore¡ªhe devoted this time entirely to leisure. He wandered the city again, exploring its old streets, once more browsed ready-to-wear shops, finally updating his wardrobe that had worn out too quickly, visited decent cafes twice, and once, when he miraculously caught Helavia returning home to Holy Protectors Street, even took her to the local Music Hall.


    Though, he didn''t like recalling that last outing at all. Everything had somehow gone awry. A downpour had foiled any chance of a proper city stroll, the musical performance almost got canceled due to a sudden organ breakdown, and the romantic dinner at a restaurant, while not ending in a scandal, still left an unpleasant aftertaste. Helavia was quiet herself and didn''t really want to listen to Malk, her mind seemed to wander elsewhere, only coming back occasionally. In the end, she even asked him to walk her home without inviting him in... Overall, it was a lousy meeting. Not a date, but Yorrokh knows what!


    It was the bitter "aftertaste" of that encounter that pushed Malk to visit the Andalore Museum of Painting and Sculpture. He wasn''t really into that kind of art, but lost in gloomy thoughts, he didn''t even realize how he gave in to the impulse and headed straight to the museum after another exhausting day of classes. Of course, Shark''s stories, where he rambled to the whole lecture hall about the fantastic impact of new works by painters from the Guild of Dreamers, played a part, but they hardly were decisive. If not from that bragging noble, Malk would''ve heard about Andalore''s major cultural event from someone else, and once he did, he definitely wouldn''t have missed it. At least not in a state where all his thoughts were about finding a way to escape his heavy mood. The possibility that this event would become nearly as significant and foundational in his life as his decision to defy fate and break free from the shackles of being a "dud" never even crossed his mind¡­


    Malk showed up at the museum just before closing and headed straight to the Dreamers'' exhibit. According to the brochure he bought, the guild''s works filled eleven halls, united by the theme of heroes from other worlds and universes battling supernatural monstrosities. The booklet strongly recommended admiring the paintings in order, starting from the first hall. But Malk wasn''t in the mood to follow anyone''s advice today and went straight to the largest hall of the exhibit, where a single painting was displayed. The most grand, thrilling... and impressive!


    "Unknown World. Archmage and Lord of the Fire Palace," Malk read aloud the inscription under the ornate frame and, stepping back about ten paces until his back hit the wall, began studying the painting.


    An artist unknown to Malk, with broad, energetic strokes, depicted a huge knight in bone armor with two ghostly faces floating above his shoulders. Due to the technique employed, it was impossible to discern any finer details, but the very image of the knight and the aura surrounding him evoked a sense of unimaginable power, authority, and¡­ depravity. Perhaps this was how the incarnation of some ancient evil might appear¡ªone that had successfully masqueraded in noble garments for centuries and, for a moment, suddenly lost its respectable facade.


    Who knows what the villain on the painting was in his world, what title he held, but the Dreamer''s designation as the Lord of the Fire Palace suited him perfectly. A true master of hell!


    Against the backdrop of the overwhelming unholy might embodied by the demonic knight, the human opposing him seemed much smaller and feebler. Certainly no match for the Lord of the Fire Palace. Looking closer, you could even see that he was missing his right arm up to the shoulder, and his right leg was noticeably shorter than the left. A cripple, a tiny bug, a mortal worm¡ªthat''s who dared to stand in the path of the demonic knight... And who not only held off his attacks but was delivering a deadly blow with awe-inspiring power.


    Yorrokh knows how the artist pulled it off, but the confrontation scene literally riveted attention, affected the mind, and struck the emotions. The painting ceased to be a mere artifice and began to be perceived as a window into the real world, where right then, at that very moment, a god-like demon was locked in battle with a man who had matched him in power.


    Man and demonic god... just the thought of putting those two on the same level made Malk''s chest swell with pride and awe. And it didn''t even matter whether that scene had appeared to the Dreamer in a drug-induced vision or if he had truly managed to glimpse through the borders of worlds and universes¡ªit was far more important what effect it had on the viewer, what message it carried, what intention it conveyed.


    Perhaps the painting affected others differently, but for Malk, it was a true revelation. It gave him a vivid image of what a person should strive for¡ªGifted or ungifted, it didn''t matter¡ªwhat heights to reach and paths to take. After all, you could be an Archmage, an aristocrat, and a wealthy man, yet live a life as dull and gray as swamp muck, or, while remaining mortal, you could set off to storm the insurmountable heights of the unknown... and even if you perish on the way, at least you tried. At least tried to reach the goal. Because there''s nothing wrong with failing. What''s horrible and disgusting is not trying at all!


    Malk didn''t see the rest of the exhibit. Until the very closing, he stood like a pillar of salt in front of that painting and left the museum only at the request of the guards. Becoming a mage, getting a decent job, earning money, and settling down¡ªhow petty all his past thoughts and aspirations seemed to him now. How fun it used to be laughing with friends at philistines mired in everyday life, and how awful it was to realize now that the person obsessed with possessions and comfort had become Malk himself. After all, despite the loyalists, the dwarf, troubles with his Gift, and other "charms" of city life, he hadn''t changed much. If peace and safety returned to his personal world, Malk would immediately sink into the swamp of personal comfort and self-justifying compromise. But was that what he aimed for, was that what he dreamed of?!


    "Something''s gotta change," Malk murmured slowly, pausing on the steps before the museum entrance and staring blankly over the rooftops. "But what and how?"


    He didn''t know the answer, but he was determined to find it...


    In the end, Malk left the museum grounds in a somewhat dazed state¡ªhis own thoughts and feelings weighed on him far more than anything around. And that''s why he was utterly unprepared for the encounter that happened just beyond the museum fence.


    "Wow, the rabble''s into high art?" A cold voice, suddenly heard from behind Malk, interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to reality. "And here I thought you lot spent your time guzzling in beer joints and picking up culture in cheap bars. You sure surprised me."


    The cocky tone and blatant rudeness stunned Malk for a moment. Switching from the elevated artistic experience to responding adequately to some jerk''s insolence wasn''t easy. But he quickly snapped out of it. So before the troublemaking stranger could say another word in that same vein, Malk had already turned to him and snapped:


    "We know each other?"


    And only then did he realize that two young guys with Apprentice medallions were standing in front of him, one of whom he actually knew. What did Helavia call him? Her mentor''s senior student? Well, it turned out that bastard was the mouthy jerk.


    "By hearsay, Colhaunian, by hearsay!" The way this student of the School of the Three Saints spat "Colhaunian" sounded like a curse, but otherwise, he didn''t drop to swearing or direct insults. "And I can''t say it makes me happy."


    "Oh, the noble Apprentice graces a lowly Adept? I''m flattered!" Malk replied sarcastically, running the situation through his mind.


    What he wanted most was to teach these punks a lesson. To call them both into the dueling ring, straighten their stuck-up aristocratic mugs with his fists, or crack their ribs in a nearby back alley¡ªit didn''t matter what exactly, as long as he could let the burning rage in his veins out. But reason wouldn''t let him give in to the madness of emotions. Past fights certainly had taught him a lot, but... taking on an Apprentice wasn''t something he could manage at his level, more so two at once.


    However, even putting aside a realistic assessment of his abilities, there was another important factor¡ªhis opponents'' background. If Helavia''s "just a friend''s" companion didn''t have any signs of belonging to a Family or House, the main rival had on the left side of his shirt a distinctive lightning-wreathed "birdie." House Leinir again, damn it! And recalling Tolfan''s story, Malk even guessed which member of that illustrious noble family this was. Another matter was why the fatty hadn''t mentioned that Helavia was being courted by this Master of Lightning who poorly understood jokes, but he could ponder that later.


    "Listen to some good advice, leave Helavia alone," the mage from House Leinir began, suddenly changing his tone. "Not for your own sake, but for hers! You are a failed mage, a former ''dud'' with no prospects. She''s a rare genius who can reach the heights of magic. You have nothing in common, and you''re doomed to be a lifelong shackle on her path to power."


    "And you, I suppose, are a perfect match for her?" Malk asked, barely holding himself together.


    "Maybe not," the Apprentice unexpectedly agreed, "but at least I can support Helavia with the resources she needs, give her access to the most suitable Arcane Art, and lift restrictions on studying a lot of knowledge. What can you do? Think about it, think carefully."


    Perhaps, if his opponent had uttered even a single word of falsehood, Malk would have found something to say in response, but everything said was absolutely true. There was simply nothing to object to.


    Malk was generally at a disadvantage here, if only because that Yorrokh''s aristocrat was almost the embodiment of his dream for the future. Lean, fit, with a determined face and the sharp gaze of someone who knew how to get what he wanted, this member of House Leinir had not only good looks but also a powerful Lineage, great talent, and a solid foundation for a leap to the heights of power. Malk lagged behind in almost everything, except... maybe in will and the desire to become more than he was now.


    But alas, just aiming high wasn''t enough to reach the sky.


    "Well, I''ve said what I wanted," Malk''s rival spoke again, having failed to get any reaction. Then he gave a cold smile and added, "I''ve been meaning to talk to you for a while, but it never worked out. And now we just happened to cross paths... A sign of fate!"


    And, with an arrogant nod, the mage from House Leinir leisurely walked away. The conversation had clearly lost its appeal for him. Unexpectedly so, as at one point, Malk thought that the damn Apprentice''s hands were itching for a duel just like his. Especially since the Master of Lightning already had successful experience in "punishing" offenders. But for some reason, it didn''t work out.


    Was he waiting for the right moment or hoping Malk would back off on his own?


    Earlier, Malk would have scoffed at such a thought, but their last date with Helavia made him see things differently. Their relationship was clearly going downhill, and if he couldn''t bring back its former thrill and vibrancy soon, a breakup was inevitable. But... Nine Saints! If it was meant to happen, they''d split on their own. And it definitely wouldn''t be a concession to that highborn jerk!


    Emotions quickened his pace, and Malk didn''t even notice how he reached the city''s landmark - a stone bridge across the local river. To calm down somehow, he stopped, leaned on the railing, and started thoughtfully studying the water flowing below.


    And that''s where the companion of Helavia''s noble admirer caught up with him.


    "You walk fast, loser!" shouted the mage, out of breath, apparently after running the whole way.


    "What do you want now?" Malk asked grimly, ready to toss caution aside and teach this cocky Apprentice a lesson.


    Or at least try. Besides, even though the jerk was friends with the aristocrat, he definitely couldn''t count on House Leinir''s protection. He wasn''t in that league!


    "Nothing much. Trevor doesn''t want to dirty his hands with you, but I''m not that picky. Always ready to put upstart rabble in their place!" A nasty sneer flashed on the face of the eager-to-suck-up Apprentice, who¡ªMalk was absolutely sure of it¡ªdidn''t have a line of Gifted ancestors backing him.


    However, instead of the expected attempt to create a spell or grab his weapon¡ªa coiled whip was fastened on his belt¡ªthe mage suddenly pressed his folded fist to his lips and sharply exhaled towards Malk.


    A cloud of ridiculously colorful sparkling flakes instantly burst into the air. But the mage''s eyes were too serious, he recoiled too sharply, and held his breath too convincingly for what was happening to be considered a prank. However, Malk also did not stand still under the rain of shimmering flakes and scales of who-knows-what; instead, he quickly stepped back, ready to meet the enemy''s sorcery with his Authority at any moment.


    Unfortunately, his opponent''s skills were obviously better, and Malk''s reactions lagged a bit. First, he let several sparkles stick to his knee. Then, he misjudged the Apprentice''s intentions and allowed him to create a Water Hands spell. But the main mistake was that he was somehow expecting a head-on attack, while the enemy attacked from the rear: the hands woven of Water energy suddenly appeared behind Malk, grabbed his shoulders, and shoved him off the bridge into the river. Moreover, when Malk went underwater, the magical paws even tried to dunk him a bit, but this time he didn''t mess up. Four ergs of Pneuma, compressed with his Authority to the limit and then released in a single burst, literally tore apart the enemy spell''s structure. And as soon as he surfaced and took a breath, Malk "shot" at the opponent, who was sticking out too much from behind the railing.


    Even though he missed¡ªthe magical projectile chipped the bridge''s stone slightly to the left of the jerk¡ªhe achieved his main goal. The enemy flinched back in fright and disappeared from view, which meant there wouldn''t be another attack. At least for now.


    Not wanting to risk prolonging the conflict, Malk swam with a vigorous breaststroke downstream, away from the bridge. When several dozen fathoms separated him from the Apprentice, he heard the underhanded noble''s voice:


    "I''m Gverd! Remember this name, churl, or better yet, burn it into your heart. Next time, you''ll greet me on your knees!"


    As much as Malk wanted to give a worthy retort, he didn''t dare shout insults and risk swallowing more of the murky river water. Breathing out a quick "Plague on your family!" he focused on swimming. A small boat dock appeared ahead, which meant that the sooner he got to it, the sooner he would be on land.


    However, towards the end, when it was only a few fathoms to swim to the rope dropped for such cases, Malk was overtaken by another misfortune. Some creature of unknown origin, looking like a mass of tentacles with a needle-filled maw in the center, attacked from behind. Of course, he learned these details later; at first, the hose-like limbs wrapped around his torso, shoulders, and legs, pulling him down, and... couldn''t overpower him. Either the monster was too weak, or Malk was stronger and tougher than a regular person, but in just a few heartbeats, he was crawling onto the shore, where he first sent a Spark into the monster''s gaping maw, and then, without much effort, tore off the limp tentacles from his body.


    "At least some good from this damn strength," Malk muttered, shoving the monster back into the water and breaking the only vessel with a Healer he had.


    Even though he didn''t have serious wounds, even minor scratches needed attention. Especially after a dip in dirty water. The thought immediately made him remember the strange attack with sparkles, which looked completely harmless and left no traces. Considering the vile nature of this Gverd, Malk resolutely refused to believe that there was no dirty trick here. Without delay, he sat down on a bollard and immediately began to check his body for invisible damage.


    Less than a minute later, to Malk''s disgust, he found three incorporeal parasites busily boring their needle-like bodies into his aura near his left ankle. His intuition hadn''t failed him¡ªthe festive-looking flakes had an addition distinctly harmful to health.


    "Yorrokh and his flur!" Malk cursed, studying the creatures.


    He focused, covered the affected area with his hands, then squeezed the worms with Authority and slowly pulled them out. He got lucky: the parasites hadn''t taken root, so removing them was easy. Soon, all three nasty things writhed in a sphere of Authority between Malk''s hands.


    "So, what did I do to you that made you plant this crap, huh, Gverd? Steal your wife or feed your pet to demons? Or was it really just to put a ''churl'' in his place?!" Malk began to reason, wrinkling his nose in aversion as he was examining the captured parasites. "Though, why do I feel like there''s some demonic magic involved?.. Ah, Yorrokh take it all!"


    Anger flared in his heart, and Malk forcefully squeezed the sphere between his palms, covering it with a cloud of Dispersion. Despite having no bodies, the worms crunched wetly, and a rapidly fading, multi-voiced squeal echoed at the edge of hearing. Done!


    The feeling of the escaping streams of the Death energy between his fingers appeared at the limit of his spiritual sensitivity, and almost immediately, a burst of foreign attention emerged on his right. Malk quickly turned and... let out a short laugh, seeing a crudely drawn stick figure. Lines for arms and legs, a round body, but the face was depicted with a bit more effort¡ªat least the eyes, nose, and mouth turned out to be quite recognizable. And now, this caricatured freak seemed to have come to life, and through the holes of his eyes, the dwarf was looking at Malk with a heavy gaze.


    "Long time no see, Grandfather Boniface!" Malk mockingly greeted him.


    And suddenly, he realized how fed up he was with everything. Loyalists, demons, snobbish aristocrats, and corrupt gendarmes, the ever-multiplying intrigues and mysteries, the manipulation attempts and constant humiliation... Where in this whirlwind was there room for him, for his hopes and goals? The picture with the confrontation between a man and a demonic god had given him a lot, opened his eyes to many things, but¡­ understanding wasn''t enough; he had to act. And now, at this very moment, Malk understood what he truly wanted. What his soul craved, what he would strive for. And that goal was¡ªto become someone who could one day say a resounding "no" to the world, say in such a way that it would have no choice but to heed him!


    Yeah, exactly. But starting... starting the path to the top had to be with small steps.


    Malk looked again at the dwarf, who kept glaring with his drawn little eyes, and promised:


    "Don''t worry, you bastard, I''ll deal with you too. Or how will that be in the Styxon dialect of the common language, huh?"


    He slapped his hand on the drawing and, with Authority alone, expelled all the magic from the caricatured figure. The dwarf''s presence vanished instantly, and Malk smiled. Attitude really did change everything. Spells formed easier, Authority became more pliable, and even his Gift acted like a loyal dog.


    After all, it''s one thing when you have no goal, and quite another when you have found it!..


    [1] Translator''s note: from the structure of the phrase alone, it''s clear that it''s a reference to a quote from a well-known rhymed fable about a person who admitted that he failed to notice an elephant while visiting the local nature museum, despite it being the biggest thing there. The battleship here plays the same role.