Chapter 4

* * *

It was the first really hard fight I'd ever had. I might have been tired in the battle with the goblins and the bear, but I didn't have to think much. Just kick and help yourself with the shadows, that was the arithmetic of the battle. But this time was different, very different.

I won the battle with the orcish leader not on the basis of superior ability or characteristics, but solely on my brains. Now, rewinding the course of the battle in my head, I realize that in direct combat I had no chance from the start. The orc had a stupidly high level, characteristics, skill scores, better weapons, and defense. The only thing he was the least bit inferior to me in was speed and agility, which was easily compensated for by his fighting style and great experience. I survived only through mythical class, but even it could not turn the tide of the fight. I needed to start from a distance - to harass this [censored]-skinned tank with shadow attacks while staying hidden. I could have won with that plan of action, but I, an underage idiot, went for the melee, and I was bound to get screwed.

I am proud that I outsmarted my enemy. I managed to create a situation in which extensive battle experience lost out to cunning and resourcefulness. But, again, I pulled out at the expense of shadows, not personal proficiency.

I thought about all this while I silently swore and dug my knife out of the dead man's ear, trying not to disturb my ribs. I wasn't exactly a medical man, but I did my first aid course at school, so I could identify the trauma. I'm not sure if it's really a fracture, but I can guarantee a fracture and an extensive hematoma. On Earth, such injuries would have been enough to leave me lying on the ground, howling softly in pain. Now, with my stamina, I'd call my condition tolerable and even limited-capable, though I don't want to disturb the injured parts of my body at all.

The knife left the orc's skull with a quiet, but fucking disgusting "clunk," and I tried to wipe off my only weapon because holding it in my hands was unbearable. I had to use the skins of the dead chieftain, which, by the way, were not clean and did not smell of daisies. I did not abandon this venture only because I did not wish to leave my knife at the mercy of fate. There was not only the necessity of the weapon - there were plenty of them lying around - but a kind of attachment specifically to this work of the unknown goblin. He and I had been through so much trouble that to abandon a comrade in need would be shameful of me.

Yeah.

All the cool heroes in the ranobe have their favorite and memorable blades as a minimum of legendary grade artifacts. And I'm the only one who has a shitty goblin craft. Individuality is easy to see, bitch!

As I cleaned my weapon-most of the problem was the hilt - I kept my attention on the sphere of shadows, carefully tracking the actions and movements of the men. And the men themselves, by the way, were moving in my direction. There is no doubt that my actions made some noise, though we fought with the chief in silence. Neither he nor I shook the air with shouts.

In any case, the people - those who could still stand on their feet - wanted to check at least the shooters - because the proud owners of the crappy bows never came out to them, but they stopped shooting. The fact that most of those shooters had been destroyed by me was simply unknown to them.

I move carefully away from the defeated orc, find a relatively clear spot, and sit under a tree, hiding just in case. I'll wait for the guests, as they've already noticed a considerable number of dead greenhorns scattered around the forest. It was a live (dead) illustration of the necessity of keeping to formation - if they'd come at me in groups, or at least stayed together, covering their backs, instead of "piling up" in small groups, I'd have had to run away quickly. Of course they made that mistake, because I deliberately kept them from reacting the way they wanted, and only knocked out the stragglers, but they didn't try very hard to stop me, either. Especially orcs, goblins have it in their blood to attack a crowd of one, orcs began to attack me in groups, only after I had time to slash a lot.

With each [censored]-skinned corpse they found, the people tensed more and more. I couldn't help but understand them, for in a place like this, far from civilization, it was somehow unlikely to encounter a good savior. But another creature that first cut the attackers, and then can and defenders finish off ... It's easy to believe such crap. Especially for these guys, who certainly knew the dark side of life.

There were only four survivors of the battle. No, there were six, but the two wounded remained in the camp while the others went to clean up the mess. It was a sensible decision, though if I decided to go and finish off the wounded, no one would stop me. And not just anyone like me, but anyone who wants to. However, something tells me that these guys will not be too sad about the fate of their remaining comrades.

When they reached the final battle site, they all concentrated around the orc's body, completely forgetting to keep an eye on their surroundings. Oh, bad, bad, bad! Who does that? Who does that, huh? I almost wish to kick them all in the ass, but I restrain my impulse, aware of the need to establish communication. It's better not to start a dialogue on a bad note.

In the meantime, the four, led by the same combat faggot, began to whisper about something. The wearer of the faggot cloak himself, I might add, was pressing his left hand to his belly, clearly unwilling to move it. Was it broken? Or just dislocated? The rest of the warriors looked far worse: two of the armorers had battered armor, several small wounds on the man without armor, and too fuzzy, blurry movements, indicating concussion. They'd been through a lot.

"Look at that body!" The armorless warrior, apparently of some ranger class, declared. "He had scars all over his body, and his skin is dark with a grayish hue. Look at the size of him! It's not a youngster or a simple greenhead, it's a goddamn chief! They get so many scars by the twentieth level, and his skin doesn't turn gray until his thirties! And he got fucking killed by something."

"Quiet. Don't make any noise." The aristocrat, unlike the nervous "naturalist," spoke softly, but his interlocutor shut up immediately. "Just tell me what killed him."

“I have no idea.” The ranger answered. “There's some kind of skill all over the ground, but I'm sure it was the orc himself that hit. Whoever was messing with him didn't leave any footprints on the ground. At least not enough for me to see.”

“Assassin?” Indifferently, but at the same time tensely asked the commander.

“No, of course they can. Sazan could do that, even though he's a ranger. But a Rogue or Thief would be crushed by such a creature in a single blow. I'd have believed it if he'd been killed instantly, but there was obviously a struggle. And the leader of a full-fledged gang had lost. And the rest of the greenheads were killed by someone, mostly in the back.”

“I see.” The Duelist didn't change his face. “What killed him?”

“Fuck knows.“ It sounded back. “They stuck something in his ear and blew his fuckin' brains out. Maybe a needle or some kind of spike. I've seen Rogues use them. But the fucking wound's too big. I don't know.”

“It was an obsidian goblin knife.” I put my five cents in from under the tree, removing my stealth at the same time as I played with the knife.

The pompous appearance was a four-plus, and I congratulate myself! All four of them flinched, even the duelist, and then turned sharply toward me, drawing their weapons. They did not, thank the torrents, throw themselves into battle, but they looked on apprehensively. Well, that makes sense - I do have something to be afraid of (if you don't praise yourself, no one will).

"I suppose we should be grateful to you for the early warning before the attack, as well as for... all this... " At the last phrase, the aristocrat circled my battlefield with his working hand.

And he was the only one who didn't even try to point his sword at me, unlike his comrades. A commendable restraint, I might add. Well, or maybe it's common sense.

"Yeah," I answered. "I was walking through the woods, and there were orcs. So I think I'll ask them for directions. And they go straight into a fight. Isn't that a shame?"

My comment was followed by a slight twitch in his eye, and a muffled chuckle from behind him. Either I was making such a cool joke, or the guys were in post-fight withdrawal mode. I hadn't wondered why I didn't have it in the first place, preferring to attribute my amazing stress tolerance to the title of Hero.

"Is that so?" Clarifies. "Well, that's certainly quite rude of them."

"Yeah." With all the sincerity I can muster. "They've hurt me right to the heart! I'm addressed to them with an open heart, and they, such bastards, to poke me with spears! Oh, the wicked!"

"You, I presume, possessed a high enough level and at least a unique class to explain them wrong?" My interlocutor politely inquires.

It's like a bite, about who I am. So I could scratch my ego and brag. Well, that's a little too direct, honestly. Where are the sly and tricky questions, like professional detectives do? Although if he knew how to ask such questions, he probably would not be in such company.

"Why is it unique?" I am offended and indignant. "Three mythical classes, no less!"

Would you say I'm taking a risk? You would even be right. But the likelihood that they will believe me, or that this guy has the skill to spot a lie, is very slim. In fact, that old trick of "tell the plain truth, no one will believe it" works a lot less often than it's written about in books. Try joking at customs that you're carrying drugs or a bomb, you'll experience a lot of different far from pleasant feelings. But in this case, I decided to take the risk, because my joke looked not like a stupid joke, but like a polite "fuck you" in response to a question about my status.

Seriously, if I understand correctly, the status here is something very intimate and one should be very, very careful when asking questions about it. Especially to a total stranger, whom you see for the first time in your life. In fact, he prompted me to think about it with his extremely veiled question, instead of just asking me about it straight.

Judging by the reaction of the audience, I was right - the laughter from the trio who did not participate in the conversation had become hard to contain. And the aristocrat himself did not even hold back, laughing softly and covering his face with his working hand, finally leaving the sword hanging on his belt alone. After laughing, he immediately backed away:

"Okay, I admit it was rude of me. I'm sorry, but the situation is too nerve-racking. My name is Losius of House Asterium, the third son of my father if you're interested in such details. May I know your name?"

I'd like to give a false name, but something tells me that's not a good idea. Especially if there are ways to check the status of an individual. Yes, if someone sees my background, the false name would be my last problem. But I have no doubt that the System can put a new name in place of the old one, and I like being Constantine. Man, what if my name sounds too alien to the locals? It would be dumb to be framed like this, and on the spot.

"Call me Tin, you can't go wrong." I'll compromise by tearing off a big chunk of my name.

I feel like the hero of some shitty fantasy, for fuck's sake! If my name were also Alexander, then it would be a complete coincidence of clichés.

T.N. Alexander is a very common name. And many Russian isekai often try to twist it in a badass way.

And that's how we met.

The three behind Losius introduced themselves, too, looking more relaxed and calmly in my direction. The ranger was Hans, and the two warriors were Tex and Gummy (I almost choked and swore I wouldn't use the teddy bear gag). There were still wounded Zerah and Shonsa in the camp, but by the time we returned, Shonsa had already passed away. Too severe a wound, and also in the stomach-maybe it's a good thing he didn't suffer. Personally, I wouldn't have been able to heal myself from such a wound. Unless I threw all my stamina points in, and then prayed to St. Random that there would be enough to heal me.

Despite my outwardly relaxed and silent gut feeling, I don't let any of the people walking beside me out of shadow perception. I don't trust them at all, but I don't want to survive alone anymore. So I risk my health by trying to fit into someone else's company.

I could share the alchemy with the survivors, but their wounds were not so dangerous that their lives depended on it (and in case of conflict they would play in my favor). And there is very little of that alchemy left - most of it crumbled during the battle.

So I had to do the bandaging along with everyone else. I remembered what to do in case of rib injuries relatively well.

I was given normal clothes, from the generosity of the expedition, - quite comfortable and not even stiff - by giving me a spare set of one of the dead men. His build was surprisingly similar to mine, and his clothes, though not as good as my last outfit, were better than the rags that the outfit had become. It was winning by a huge margin!

I took only two long, crooked daggers, capable of both stabbing and slashing. They might not be enchanted, unlike the goblin one, but the good steel, the normal length of the blade, and the handy grip more than compensated for the lack of weak charms.

The short acquaintance ended with all of us. I mean the ones who could stand on their feet. We began to bury the fallen defenders. The burial was fiery, so we had to carry lots and lots of brushwood. You'd think we wouldn't want to be seen as such a disconcerting factor, but after the whole band of [censored]skins came after us, they'd already know about us. And it wouldn't hurt to raise morale, because there was panic among the people.

No, they were laughing and joking, happy to have survived, but somehow with some gusto, through sheer force. And when they started piling up the bodies of those with whom they'd trawled the stories yesterday, there was an oppressive silence. I got a chill, too, but somehow not so much. I did not know any of the people here, and I had no sympathy for them either. It was callous, even inhuman in some ways, but I was used to a lot of blood around me.

Experience, for fuck's sake.

I told them about my abilities, though, calling myself a standard Rough, able to gather herbs in my spare time. Not a word about shadows, or my level. My answer was as well received as my story.

In fact, I retold them the slightly twisted story of the grave-diggers themselves. An order for some rare box to be stolen from the home of a not-so-cautious rich man resulted in the activation of a transfer spell that brought me to this very neighborhood. Then a few weeks of wandering and playing "chase me a spear" with goblins, orcs, and other scum, and finally a meeting with humans. Surely they must have realized that I was not telling the truth about a lot of things, but they couldn't and wouldn't catch me lying.

To expose oneself by ignorance of local realities is also a very real danger. So I preferred to keep quiet and listen rather than talk. A chatterbox is a perfect match for a spy. Naturally, my silence did not earn me any love or adoration either. But they treated me with complete understanding. The environment here was such that to tell too much about oneself was fraught with the most unbelievable consequences.

We decided to go out the next day, treating the wounds with the rest of the alchemy. Nothing that would save a mortally wounded man, but enough to heal nonlethal wounds. It was too risky to stay in this place, where spilled blood would easily attract predators or worse (I recall my scramble from an unknown threat). There were no longer twenty of us, but only six fighters, one of whom was probably wounded fatally.

Before we left, we threw all the weapons, armor, iron, and other things we couldn't take with us into the river water. Makes sense, doesn't it? An orc with a club and the same orc with an iron axe are, as they say in Odessa, two big differences.

The new camp was set up closer to the river, but just upstream from the battle site. There, not far away, a huge fire was burning out, which I would have preferred not to burn, but who asked me? I would have to cut my sleep to the minimum again, spending the whole night observing the surroundings!

When everyone was asleep or pretended to be asleep, I whispered the most cherished word for every native, smiling expectantly:

"Status."

Name: Konstantine

Race: Human

Level: 12

Titles: Hero; Silent Assassin; Night Master

Characteristics Points: 55

Class Points: 5

Characteristics (standard):

Strength: 28

Dexterity: 50

Endurance: 27

Perception: 47

Concentration: 30

Energy: 43

Characteristics (class):

Shadow: 11

Dreams: 1

Inspiration: 2

Class: Lord of Shadows

Rank: 1

Basic characteristics: shadows, dexterity, perception.

Abilities:

Shadow Control: 3/5

Allows you to masterfully control shadows in your field of vision, giving them tangible physical embodiment; shadows can freely take solid form and are of limited suitability to create obstacles and barriers; range and speed of control are increased.

Shadow Sense: 2/5

Allows you to sense all shadows within a small radius; gives you the ability to sense the movement of shadows and their belonging; allows you, at the limit of concentration, to control shadows even outside the field of direct vision.

[undisclosed]

Bonuses:

Shadowborn: stealth skills grow five times faster; in case of danger, shadows will shelter you as their brethren.

Dexterous: Dexterity grows faster.

[undisclosed]

Class: Master of Dreams and Reflections

Rank: 1

Basic characteristics: dreams, concentration, perception

Abilities:

Create a dream: 1/5

Allows you to control the dream you are in, with limited influence on the passage of time.

Send a dream: 0/5

[undisclosed]

Bonuses:

Dreamer: social and magic skills associated with the class grow five times faster; no one has power over your dreams but yourself.

Undeterred: the concentration grows faster.

[undisclosed]

Class: Mystic Alchemist

Rank: 1

Basic characteristics: inspiration, perception, energy

Abilities:

Creating a compound: 1/5

Allows you to create alchemical compositions from available reagents by instinctively understanding the creation process

Reagent breakdown: 0/5

[undisclosed]

Bonuses:

Understanding of the essence: the ability to see and, with reservations, understand magic in things and reagents; all craft skills related to alchemy grow five times faster.

Attentive: perception grows faster.

[undisclosed]

Special:

Limit of Excellence (from the title ‘Hero’): raises the maximum limit of natural characteristic growth to 50 (Now: 60), accelerates trainability and increases the amount of experience gained.

Hero's Will: Thought-affecting skills ranked below your class have no effect.

Hero's Gaze: allows you to see a certain amount of information about others; depends on your level.

Mythic: Limit of characteristic development raised by 10 (Now: 60), allows you to choose three classes at once.

Silence in the hall (rare; from the title ‘Silent Assassin’): active skill that completely mutes sounds in a small area. Duration and area of effect depend on user’s level and energy value.

Night Master (rare): You have, voluntarily or involuntarily, met the standard for the title of professional assassin. Proving that you have this title will get you a job in any shadow guild. If you don't get slaughtered just in case. Effect: +5 to dexterity; +2 to all characteristics except class.

Skills:

Provocation: 5 (apprentice)

Running: 11 (journeyman)

Stealth: 44 (master)

Swimming: 5 (apprentice)

Alchemy: 27 (journeyman)

Herbalism: 20 (journeyman)

Fishing: 14 (journeyman)

Spear Mastery: 3 (apprentice)

Infiltration: 18 (journeyman)

Danger sense: 21 (journeyman)

Deathstroke: 26 (journeyman)

Dagger Mastery: 45 (master)

Hand-to-hand combat: 10 (journeyman)

Energy Flow Management: 13 (journeyman)

Two-Handed Combat: 4 (apprentice)

Throwing Weapon: 2 (apprentice)

No new promotion in shadow class abilities, though I had hoped so much. No new title, which I also secretly hoped for, but the characteristics jumped up. I was especially pleased with my dexterity, which reached fifty. The limit for a normal Hero! And I could get ten more points out of a mythical class!

Really something to be proud of, without any jokes or discounts on inexperience. I don't know what the maximum level for ordinary people is, but even if it's at least half of fifty, I'd be very surprised. So it's better to count my level not by what's written in my status, but by the number of stats.

Yeah...

I notice another system message that pops up, and I can barely contain my triumphant shriek. It turns out that each half-hundred characteristics guarantees a gift ability. And with a choice of them. Only two choices, really, but a choice!

The Dexterity characteristic has reached 50! Choose a perk!

- Improved Coordination (common);

- Improved flexibility (common);

Attention, the further rate of growth of this characteristic is significantly reduced.

Nice, but not very useful. My coordination is fine, thanks to the shadow sphere, but my flexibility... Honestly, I don't really need it: my fighting style is very different. If you can call the reflexes I've developed, you could call that a style. Some added flexibility might be useful, but I doubt that improving my flexibility would allow me to curl up in a loop like a snake.

And what should I choose?

A few minutes of intense reflection passed in complete silence. And then I chose the coordination. And my combat doctrine is all about controlling the battlefield and my position on it. Yes, stabbing with a dagger while twisting my arm at an unnatural angle would be handy, but not when I have my shadows for that purpose. A sharp ribbon of pure shadow would be far more effective than risking my own limbs in a fight with a super-orc.

I was also happy that I had almost reached the threshold for perception, and that my energy was only slightly behind it. It's a good idea to train hard to get the stats, if not to a cap, then at least to get the perks. Even passives are very useful, especially if there are a lot of them and they are synergistic with each other.

I do not spend char-points, waiting for the maximum mark. I don't need class points yet either, because the available ones are enough for survival. And I have an obsessive desire to grind without wasting free points. But it is necessary to remember that in case of danger the economy can kill. The main thing is that right now I am satisfied with my current abilities, but it is not worth saving more than necessary.

And now, it's time for me to get an hour or two of sleep.

We set out early in the morning with a quick snack of cold meat and porridge. Cooked meat, Carl! After my misadventures, I was beginning to feel like I was in grocery heaven. Yes, and new clothes and, especially, shoes make my heart happy. Surely, before, shoes like the medieval boots I had been handed (I never knew the types of shoes) would have grinded my feet to a pulp. But with my increased stamina, I could run barefoot, and I wouldn't have much trouble, unless, of course, I stepped into a trap.

I thought the wounded man would either be finished off or abandoned. Honestly, if it hadn't been for Locij's orders, the three others might have done so, but instead of a mercy stroke, they started making a stretcher. It was frankly hard to carry the wounded man, so the group wasn't going very fast.

After muttering something about path-checking, I went into hiding, continuing to follow the group a little to the side. First of all, in case you hadn't forgotten, stealth grinded. Second, that way I could conceal shadow perception while simultaneously choosing the best possible route. That's exactly what I did, appearing in the field of vision only to correct the course of the hastily retreating men. The movement accelerated, but not by much.

At the same time, I picked up all kinds of herbs and roots that the alchemist's instincts responded to. Sometimes, I took a couple of minutes to make another useful thing. I was even able to make a healing ointment, as much as three portions, and I have not found the right flower for it since the first days of forest homelessness. The increased perception allowed me to notice little things that I couldn't even physically notice before. In combination with the sphere, it turned my search for reagents into a joyride.

I'd like to mention the coordination bonus separately - it really helped. You don't notice it right away, but if you listen to the sensations, it's noticeable. All my movements became aligned. Stepping, leaning, deflecting my body away from branches, climbing on them-maximum efficiency, minimum movement. I don't know how useful this ability would be in combat, but it felt good.

The next day my companions got worse, and noticeably so. Poor Zerach was not doing well at all. I donated my ointment to the cause, saying that I had collected it while I was passing by. They accepted it with gratitude, but I didn't see much use for it. Two rather nasty wounds - one on his leg, damaging his tendons and making it impossible to move, the other on his back, severing his muscles and causing terrible pain.

He should have rested for a couple of weeks (or days, given this world and its laws), but there was no way. Unless a small miracle happened, the man would have to be left for dead.

"I've got points from two levels... all put in... endurance. Maybe... maybe it would help." He spoke softly and tearfully, suffering from constant thirst and cold at the same time.

At least there was plenty of water and spare clothes. I could see clearly now that the man was completely resigned to his fate. It was rather pathetic and terrifying at the same time. Ten points in endurance, it's not insignificant, but it's not enough. And we all understood that, but we kept quiet.

Perhaps the trio was afraid of the twenty-first-level duelist, but they dragged their comrade silently and without any complaints, if not to count the numerous swearing.

The healing ointment, by the way, helped the combat-ready part of the squad much more, healing small scratches and bruises, and turning medium ones into minor ones. It was useful - it was much easier to drag the stretcher, and the speed of movement increased.

I killed three rabbits for dinner, using the new daggers rather than the usual shadows for conspiracy. I dragged the prey back to the camp I was setting up to please the others and leave the cutting of the loot to them. It seems that if I were to suggest that I should crush Losius and become their new Captain, they'd accept without hesitation. I exaggerate, but not by much. And the gradually cheerful lad himself looks on with gratitude, too.

I don't let my guard down, though. Maybe it's paranoia, but I don't trust them one bit. And I'm not going to deceive myself - yes, they're grateful but no more than that. But if they had the chance to trade my life for theirs, they wouldn't even think about it. Well, maybe only the militant faggot would think about it - the man seems to have some morals. At least he didn't leave his comrade.

I slept half-heartedly, even taking advantage of my ability to shorten my sleep. As my endurance increased, I needed less and less time to get a good night's sleep. That's why I woke up when one of the sleepers suddenly started creeping toward the recently washed wounded man lying on a stretcher.

Surprisingly, the attempt to get rid of the burden was made not by Hans, perpetually unhappy with the care of the wounded man, but by the silent Gummi Bear, who was now on duty. He even had the good sense not to draw his weapon, but to use his change of clothes to strangle the sleeper.

I note that he wouldn't have been able to do anything - a level thirteenth warrior, not even a ranger, has too little dexterity, and hardly any stealth skills. No, he didn't wake Hans, oddly enough. But Losius was awake, and now he waited silently for his next move. And if I were Teddy Bear, I'd prefer not to piss off that tinsel.

This situation, by the way, could also be used to solidify my position in the eyes of the duelist. The way I got to my feet, neither the attentive Losius nor the novice assassin noticed. I walked quietly up to him and gently put the new dagger to his throat, pressing it down just a little:

"Chpok, good evening." I can't help but laugh softly at this condom darned old meme. "What, are you tired of carrying heavy things? Are your arms tired?"

To my surprise, he answered calmly, though with a slight tremor in his voice. Not so much calm, the steel at his throat, as with confidence in his own rightness.

"You're not dragging it yourself, Tin, and it's slowing us down. If the green bitches follow us, they'll catch up, and we'll all die. You might survive, they won't find you, and Lossij's not weak either, but I can't run or fight back. I want to live, so I survive as best I can."

"Mm-hmm." I add sympathy and understanding to my voice. "It really is a simple and effective way out, but tell me, Gummy Bear, how will you be different from the goblins who slaughtered your comrades the previous day?"

"I'll be alive." He answers indifferently, and I know for a fact that I have not changed his mind.

He's right about a lot of things, too - I'm not at all sure I could have done otherwise if my life were at stake. And the fact that it would be much easier for me to avoid the chase is silly to argue with.

"Hmm. What do you say, Losius?" I put the control of the situation in the hands of the aristocrat, let him sort it out himself, it's his comrade after all.

"I'll say that tomorrow morning, Gummy, you're going to fuck off in your own way, in the exact opposite direction. And if I ever see you again, I'll cut you open and leave you to die. You know my word." If my indignation was a little feigned, the boy (and he really is much younger than I am!) was in a real rage. "Now go to bed."

It seems to me that it was the lad's thirst for adventure, not for profit, that brought him here. He had not yet had time to be morally stale and decayed, despite his stay in such specific circles.

I sat motionless until morning, occasionally moving the pebbles and twigs by shadows at the very edge of my sphere, practicing my concentration. There were no other incidents, and Gummy slept like an innocent baby until morning. Apparently, if you're a shitty person, it really is easier to live.

It's a good thing I'm not the hero of some bullshit ranobe about a helping paladin lolicon man.

In the morning we parted without any snot or words. Gummy silently gathered his belongings, including his share of provisions, and headed in the opposite direction from us. He probably would have preferred to keep to the river, as we did, but Losius's words about his guts being let out sounded very convincing, so he didn't take any chances.

The rest of the audience looked at the former comrade in silence. I am sure that the remaining two were inwardly in agreement with the one who left but did not want to be alone. The only one, apart from Losius himself, who was against killing the wounded man, was Zerach himself.

The movement forward continued.

Grinding was much slower, despite my best efforts - it was just not enough time. My energy and perception were close to half a hundred, and my concentration was also swinging well, just because I was using shadows.

From the skills developed alchemy and herbalism, which was also understandable.

The wounded man was not recovering, and he was slowly dying of septicaemia because of the fragments of the stone spear that had entered his wound. It sucks to watch a man die but not be able to do anything about it.

I could invest a few points in the alchemist class, but even that wouldn't give me the ingredients to make a healing potion. If I had them, I'd still take my chances - especially since I was going to start pumping mystical alchemist at some point anyway.

If Grandma had a dick, she'd be Grandpa.

Zerah died in the middle of the night, on the third day after Gummy left. He simply stopped breathing in an instant, which I was able to feel thanks to my high perception.

"Losius." Waiting for the attentive gaze of the swordsman on duty, who, by the way, thought I was asleep, told him the unpleasant news. "Zerah stopped breathing."

All that came from his side was the weary sigh of a man who had just let a heavy burden fall from his shoulders, a burden that was extremely interfering with normal life. No matter how much the former chief of the now-destroyed camp clung to his principles, whatever the reason for his nobility - or for playing at it - but he understood that the deceased was a burden and even a bit of a threat to us.

As for the deceased, his death hardly stirred anything. Perhaps the wounds, blood loss, and fatigue were to blame, but it seems to me personally that he died because he stopped fighting for life. Just somewhere in the back of my mind hung the thought that the reaction to the death of a human being - living and breathing - should have been much brighter. Especially when I remembered that if I hadn't been greedy for class points, I could have tried to save him.

I wanted to blame it on the effects of my titles, but I knew deep down that the Hero and the Inaudible Assassins had nothing to do with it. It's just that I'm so indifferent to everything but my own skin.

In the morning we had a small funeral, and then we continued on our way, having only a sip of some kind of brew from Hans's flask. I almost threw up from the taste of this gut-buster, but I drank silently, not even intoxicated by the drink. High endurance is not only valuable fur... wait, not that. High endurance isn't just about increased survivability, it's about not being able to get properly drunk.

I might as well take a swig of slop.

No, for fuck's sake!

Should I not grind this characteristic at all now, if I can't booze?

We all expected goblin patrols to follow us, or even an entire corral hunt. Well, I mean, we didn't expect it, but we assumed it was likely. It wasn't that the goblinoids had nothing better to do than making alliances between the tribes to hunt down a handful of desperately retreating humans.

Although stop.

They really had nothing to do!

Even if we forget about the almost genetic hatred between "animate races" and "monsters", such an event is great for trade, making long-term relationships, eliminating competitors, redistribution of power in a particular tribe, joint rituals of a few shamans and other fun stuff. Also, I suspect that the meat of sentient species gives them extra stat-points, and the experience they get for killing us System at least doubles it.

In short, we were all waiting for the end, even me, who could retreat at any moment. And while I was more comfortable with the hardships of a quick retreat upriver, my companions were quickly surrendering. It wasn't the wounds that had healed, leaving only scars (this world is mad, thank you, System!), or the lack of their usual comfort, which was of no concern to me, who had lived for a month in even more savage conditions.No, it wasn't the spoiled queer cloak or the lack of good wine and taverns that made them despair.

We were worn out by an understanding of the futility of our actions. We are in the depths of uncharted territory, with nothing and no one but monsters, cursed places, and ancient ruins of bygone eras for weeks on end. If we were a full-fledged army with the support of elite units and even heroes (that's a direct quote from Losius), and if we could travel back to civilization, the situation would be very different.

Rare herbs, one leaf of which is worth as much as a couple of villages with the entire population, magical springs and anomalies, not yet plundered ruins and dungeons-all this was enough to make us rich. Unless, of course, we're talking about a professional squad of elite adventurers, and not about four dirty losers, of whom even I did not yet stretch to the elite. Well, or at the very bottom of it. All we had to do was go in a random direction, hoping for miracles, luck, God, and our own strength.

We ran into something completely unexpected, not goblins, but some incomprehensible thing that looked like a cross between a pig and a crocodile. In an instant we were quietly setting up camp (fatigue and hopelessness are not conducive to talking): Tex fetched water for the kettle, I got the water-purifying compound, and Losius and Hans were skinning another hare to make our supper.

And at that moment it attacked.

The sphere reached the edge of the water, but no more, and the creature was hiding in the water at the very edge of my sensitivity. If it had been a meter closer, I would have had time to react, to understand, and to interfere in any way, even symbolically.

In an instant the monster's body was on the bank, tearing Tex, who hadn't even had time to shout, to pieces, and then he raced toward us, not stopping to chew his prey. And it certainly wasn't going back into the river.

Both of my companions had enough perception to sense something was wrong and to hear the noise, but they just didn't have time to react to what was happening - the creature was too fast. I had to, like that ensign, silently take it all in and fix it.

I did not yell "alarm" because everyone already knew it, just rushed towards the creature staying in stealth mode, going a little to the left to go to the side of the impudent monster.

The monster itself was rather impressive, resembling a huge, four-jointed barrel, with a mouth halfway down its body and remarkable size. The low-set piglet eyes stared at the world with savage hatred and hunger, leaving not the slightest doubt as to the irrationality of this figment of someone's sick imagination.

t noticed me, surprisingly, despite all the disguises and reinforcements from the class. It saw my approximate position, though not clearly or completely, it did. It was what "approximately" saved my life - when the creature opened its mouth wide and spat (or rather vomited) in my direction a stream of some muck that made the grass and trees hiss like puddles.

Guys, I'm a little wary.

I left a wall of shit bricks behind me, so I took a long somersault away from the peculiar projectile. I barely had time to roll again when the extremely maneuverable thing clung to a tree and literally scrolled itself in my direction. A bunch of joints on its arm and leg allowed this zoologist's nightmare to do all sorts of things. By the way, the limbs did end up as standard five-fingered palms, just like humans, only big and clawed.

I escaped the first attacks entirely on reflexes. It became clear to me that it would not be as easy as slashing goblins. It was a different level of challenge. The monster was simply too strong, fast, and skilled enough to use that power and speed. Very nasty enemy, even without the ability to see through the stealth, and even with it... It was as if he had been prepared for me!

I stop holding back and start playing seriously.

Two shadows from the trees firmly grasped two paws at once, timing the moment when the creature leaped forward, trying to crush me with all its considerable mass. The wild screech of the barrel of hell ripping out its joints was music to my ears, and the sight of one of its palms remaining inside the shadows gradually returning to its flat form was a delight to my eyes.

The monster, insulted in his best senses, like a skinhead on the Sabbath of the local Jewish community, tried again to repeat the trick of spitting acid, but his open throat was filled with a pre-prepared lump of liquid-absorbing compound I had almost forgotten, which almost ripped the poor thing apart like a hamster from a drop of nicotine.

T.N. Drop of the nicotine kills a horse and blows the hamster apart.

I didn't hesitate for a second, shrinking the distance and shadowing the dagger blades quickly, trying to add as much strength as I could to the shadow ribbons that had become deadly sharp. The monster's limbs are too thin, despite all its agility and strength, which served the legless invalid poorly, for a few blows were enough to turn the "toothed barrel on legs" into a "toothed barrel without legs."

The fight itself took only a few seconds, during which time Losius and Hans didn't even have time to come to my aid. They found only the torn comrade and the other, alive, not yet comrade, standing over the body of the screaming creature, which had not managed to get the alchemical stuff out of its mouth.

"Bitch! What's that?" Hans said it like a cultured and intelligent man.

"I don't know, but it tore through Tex and, without touching the body, ran toward us." I immediately shared the information I had. "And it also saw suspiciously well through my concealment, which makes me think of something unpleasant..."

"That she was sent after us." Losius instantly picked up on the idea. "It looked like Gummy had already didn't run away. And he didn't keep quiet."

I nod grimly as I listen to Hans' tricky rant - he outdid himself. Not every builder would give such a phrase, and many bosuns would respectfully pat the ranger on the shoulder. And I, by the way, was in complete agreement with him. I mean, there was a reason to scold fate and to remember the mothers and grandfathers of all the goblinoids of the world combined.

Losius was not going to swear, silently bringing his sword down on the gradually waning creature of the local ecosystem, which was slowly suffocating because of my alchemy-clogged trachea. Except that the blade of a clearly not the simplest blade leaves only a small scratch on the barrel-shaped body. The raised eyebrows in surprise and the very telling look on my daggers didn't make me or my paranoia happy.

I pretended not to understand the hint and silently pulled out a narrow goblin knife and silently hammered it into the eyes of the nearly silent monster. It might not have reached the brain, but the shadow that had lengthened imperceptibly not only reached the gray matter but also stirred it up with a kind of mixer.

The status is chiming, informing about the gained level.

Good - experience is not superfluous at all.

"What do we do next?" Gloomily and somehow doomfully asks the question Hans.

"We bury what's left of Tex and... We keep moving." It's just as hard, if not worse, for Losius right now.

Suddenly I realize that his efforts to save the lives of his men were more an attempt to prove something to himself. And he couldn't, losing to an evil fate and being left with almost nothing. He would have been ready to die by now, going into a beautiful fight with the greenlings who were surely already beside us, but while he was still not alone, until then he would go forward.

"As long as we breathe, we still live." Unexpectedly, even to myself, I voice my thoughts. "You can't give up. Never. Even if the whole world stands against you."

Only in the movies does a pathos-filled monologue instantly inspire the downcast warriors, even if they do not know the speaker at all. In life, pathos is more likely to cause irritation than a reciprocal impulse of enthusiasm.

Probably.

It was probably the influence of my heroism.

Maybe.

But I wanted more to believe that the heartfelt words really resonated in the stale hearts of both warriors. Simply because it was the right thing to do.

"As long as we're alive." The young naïve idealist agreed, gripping the hilt of the family blade tighter.

"As long as we're alive." The aging ranger echoed, rising to his feet and preparing for what was probably the last night of our lives.

Far beyond the horizon, the last rays of sunset were disappearing, casting a red glow over the world that made the sky and the vast forest beneath them seem bathed in blood.

Somewhere in the depths of the thicket we heard the ominous beating of a drum. A moment later, several more answered, and the sound they made seemed to encircle the three of us.

The hunt has begun.

* * *