The latter didn't disappoint. Appearing as soundlessly as ever from seemingly nowhere, Zhalgaztur immediately dropped three full, heavy waterskins beside Ayan. They hit the stone floor with dull thuds. The lad noticed how the leather surfaces beaded with moisture—the water inside was clearly cold.

  Besides the waterskins, an elongated bundle of irregular shape landed nearby, bound with coarse rope. The material wrapping it resembled canvas—stiff-looking, greyish in hue, marked here and there with scuffs and stains of indeterminate origin.

  "I see you've managed the tasks set before you. Most commendable," the enormous orc rumbled slowly and deliberately, surveying Ayan with an appraising gaze from his blue eyes.

  "Thanks, I suppose," Ayan said dryly. "I was getting worried I'd done it all for nothing without your precious approval..."

  Before the lad could congratulate himself on his retort and having salvaged his dignity before the baksy, he was yanked from reality—and Ayan found himself once more in darkness. Absolute, impenetrable, pressing from all sides. Alone with himself and pain that rolled over him in waves, piercing every cell of his body. The debuff timer remorselessly counted down four minutes—four infinitely long minutes he'd have to endure.

  "Bloody bastard! I'm so sick of all this!" Ayan screamed silently into this oppressive void, where nothing existed save his own consciousness and unending agony.

  The next instant he was roughly, sharply jerked from the darkness—reality returned as suddenly as it had vanished—only to plunge him mercilessly back into the abyss of non-being the very next second. But this time the darkness came accompanied—it brought new, even more intense, even more unbearable pain that made the lad mentally groan from the hopelessness of it all.

  Overcoming his nature and habit of answering any pressure with sharpness, the lad decided to wait silently for the debuffs to end, clenching his teeth and bracing himself to endure. Each second dragged agonisingly, but he forced himself not to break, not to scream even into the void of his mind—simply to wait until it finally ended.

  When the allotted time expired and the effect timers finally zeroed out and reality returned to him completely, without further yanks into darkness, Ayan discovered Zhalgaztur still standing in exactly the same spot as before. The baksy hadn't even stirred, hadn't changed position—as though he hadn't moved at all during those long, torturous minutes. His massive figure stood frozen like a statue, blue eyes fixed intently, studiously upon the lad.

  "Next time watch your tongue, boy," the old orc said slowly, emphasising each word, and his voice held not threat but statement of fact. "I'm not one of those old men who forgive such things from children simply because they're still young and foolish. Do you understand me?"

  Ayan had no choice but to nod silently in response to this warning, swallowing unspoken words.

  "Now unwrap the bundle—it's my gift to you," the baksy said, and a new note entered his voice that hadn't been there before. "Examine the contents, then we'll continue your training."

  In these words, in that particular tone with which the orc spoke them, flickered something resembling anticipation of the coming session. At this barely perceptible shade in Zhalgaztur's voice, Ayan involuntarily shuddered.

  The lad lowered his gaze to the rough cloth in his hands and slowly, almost leisurely, began untying the stiff cord that bound the bundle tightly from all sides. He deliberately drew out the process, fiddling with the knots longer than necessary, subconsciously postponing the inevitable start of yet another ordeal his instructor had prepared.

  When he'd finally dealt with the last, particularly tight knot, the lad carefully opened the rough cloth—and before his eyes appeared an entire collection of varied training weapons.

  Each type of weapon came in pairs—one-handed and two-handed variants, allowing him to try different fighting styles. The exceptions were a dagger, bow, crossbow, bundles of throwing darts, axes and knives, a sling and slingshot—these items lay singly, each in its place.

  Besides these, the bundle contained swords—both straight and curved, sabres with characteristic blade curves, spears and longer infantry pikes, sturdy staves and smooth poles, massive clubs, heavy maces with spiked heads, various axes—from light hatchets to impressive battle-axes, as well as hammers of different sizes and weights.

  The baksy had clearly used some magic to create this cache, otherwise how else could one explain such an impressive, almost incredible quantity of the most varied weapons contained in one seemingly not so large bundle? Physically it simply couldn't fit in such a modest-sized cloth sack—even with the most skilful packing and tightest compression.

  But this scarcely concerned the lad. At such variety of weapons, Ayan's eyes literally ran in all directions, not knowing where to settle his attention first.

  "I see my gift has pleased you," Zhalgaztur said with a barely noticeable smile, observing the young orc's reaction. "Don't forget to thank the Rukhs who told me you've been diligently training with an ordinary stick, as though trying to master all the secrets of combat with that pitiful splinter."

  "What?!" Ayan burst out sharply, jerking his head up and boring into the baksy with a distrustful, almost accusing stare. "What, are you spying on me?! You ordered them to watch my every move?!"

  The lad's indignation knew no bounds. After all, he'd already spent his entire life—from birth to this very moment—under someone's unceasing, all-seeing observation. Never, not for an instant, had he been truly alone, beyond anyone's control. How could he peacefully accept that now invisible spiritual beings he hadn't even known existed would be watching him too?

  In reality it had been doctors in white coats leaning over his maimed body, an endless procession of medical staff with their professionally impassive faces. In the virtual school he'd likewise always been under the close, unceasing observation of ArtInt, which recorded his every word, every gesture, every fleeting emotion on his face.

  Of course the lad understood perfectly well that even now, being in Seratis, he still remained under Ilira's all-seeing eye, which tracked absolutely everything happening in the game world, every action of every player. But he was prepared to somehow accept this fact, to meekly take it as inevitability. However, accepting the circumstance that this obsessed orc would also personally observe him—that he could not do!

  "Ua, Tanyrim!" Zhalgaztur exclaimed, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes heavenward in a theatrical gesture. "I see your self-importance is more than fine, eh, lad? Well know this—nobody gives a damn about you and your training. Rukhs observe all of us without exception—every sentient being, every creature in this world. And the undeniable fact that I'm the only one in all Seratis who can speak directly with them and hear their answers has nothing whatsoever to do with you personally. This isn't your special merit or favour you've bestowed! So relax, calm your ardour and simply say thank you."

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The unexpectedly sharp and straightforward answer confused and disconcerted the lad. Ayan stood several moments in indecision, digesting what he'd heard, then, slightly abashed, looked away and whispered quiet words of gratitude under his breath—so softly that scarcely anyone save himself and the spirits could hear them.

  Seeking somehow to mask his embarrassment and hide the conflicting feelings that gripped him from the baksy's penetrating gaze, Ayan impetuously grabbed one of the waterskins that lay where Zhalgaztur had dropped them.

  He hastily yanked out the wooden stopper and greedily pressed his lips to the neck, gulping the cool water, since the lad truly felt unbearable thirst.

  Giving the lad sufficient time to slake his thirst and catch his breath, Zhalgaztur, without any additional warnings or explanations, abruptly resumed training—from the side, this entire process might have seemed to an observer some particularly sophisticated and cruel form of torture, designed for the slow, methodical exhaustion of the student.

  This time Ayan lasted considerably longer than in previous attempts. His body gradually adapted to the strain, his mind synchronised with the sphere of perception, and his will hardened with each new trial.

  Conversely, the duration of all manner of negative effects imposed by the baksy during training only steadily shortened and diminished with each subsequent cycle of gruelling exercises.

  Zhalgaztur could track this gradual progress without particular difficulty and note even insignificant improvements in his student's performance. Since it was he himself who methodically imposed all these numerous debuffs on the lad through his actions and magical manipulations, their duration was known to him.

  Observing from the side how the exhausted lad, completely spent and wrung out like a lemon, collapsed helplessly onto the hard stone of the cave, the orc left him alone, allowing him to recover independently. Turning, the baksy unhurriedly headed for the cave exit, instructing Ayan in parting to begin meditating immediately as soon as he came to himself enough to assume the proper position.

  "The progress is simply astounding! This boy will definitely go far in his development," the baksy reflected, walking unhurriedly towards the exit. "The main thing is that his chosen road doesn't lead him completely astray. That strength doesn't eclipse reason, nor reason—the soul."

  Emerging from the cave, Zhalgaztur stopped at the entrance and closed his eyes, letting the mountain wind blow across his face. The cold streams of air pleasantly refreshed heated skin, bringing familiar scents of forest and stone.

  "Interesting specimen," the baksy mused, opening his eyes and directing his gaze to the snow-covered peaks in the distance. "Too much pain for one person. Too many grievances. Yet not a drop of malice. Strange."

  He perched on a boulder by the entrance, extracting from his belt a small leather pouch. Inside rattled carved bones—ancient, yellowed with time, covered in symbols that glowed with barely visible greenish light.

  Zhalgaztur poured them into his palm and thoughtfully shifted them with his fingers.

  "What say you?" he addressed the emptiness quietly.

  The air around him warmed. As though invisible beings crowded round the old orc, leaning over his palm.

  The boy is strange, came a whisper—not a voice in the usual sense, rather a sensation clothed in words. But not bad. Not completely bad.

  His soul is fractured, added another voice, deeper. But not broken. Interesting.

  He thanked us, interjected a third, chiming and light, like a stream's laughter.

  Ka-Myn made him, the deep voice corrected.

  Zhalgaztur smirked, returning the bones to the pouch.

  "Aye, self-importance coupled with insecurity—he's got plenty. Strange one, that's for certain."

  The baksy rose and unhurriedly strode down the slope, where sparse grass pushed between stones and low shrubs grew.

  Did you see his Heritages? asked one of the rukhs, gliding as an invisible shadow beside the shaman.

  "Saw them," Zhalgaztur answered briefly. "The Heaven love him. Too much."

  Dangerous?

  "Don't know yet," the orc admitted, stopping at a small spring bursting from a crevice in the stone. He crouched, scooped a handful of icy water and brought it to his lips. "But it's definitely not without purpose."

  The water burnt his tongue with cold. The baksy spat and shook his head.

  Will you help him? the chiming voice enquired.

  "For now, yes," Zhalgaztur straightened, wiping his wet palm on his trousers. "The Aruaks commanded me to meet him. Commanded me to teach him. So I teach."

  And if he chooses darkness?

  The old orc froze, watching the setting sun. The sky filled with blood-red colour, staining the snows crimson.

  "Then I'll kill him," he answered simply. "As commanded."

  The rukhs fell silent. Only the wind continued to rustle between stones, carrying away scraps of their conversation to nowhere.

  Zhalgaztur turned and continued his path.

  "The boy is strong. That's fact. But strength without purpose is simply destruction. Let's see what he chooses when the time comes."

  "What say you of Yernazar?" the baksy enquired.

  Good boy, the chiming voice responded, and sincere warmth could be heard in it. Pure. Bright.

  Too bright, added the rukh with the deep voice. Anxiety barely registered in it. Life breaks such ones.

  Or tempers them, a third objected. Depends on the teacher.

  Zhalgaztur nodded, continuing down the rocky path. The sun had already touched the horizon's edge, painting the snowy peaks in bloody hues. Shadows lengthened, transforming familiar stones into bizarre shapes.

  "Yernazar will suffer," the baksy stated without a shadow of regret in his voice. "It's inevitable. The only question is whether he can accept the pain and transform it into strength."

  Did you see? asked the deep voice.

  "The Aruaks showed me," the orc answered briefly. "Darkness. Despair. But also rebirth, if he endures."

  Will you help him?

  Zhalgaztur stopped at a large boulder, crouched and ran his palm across the rough stone surface. Beneath his fingers appeared barely visible symbols—ancient signs carved by his predecessors hundreds of years ago.

  "I'll help as much as he himself allows himself to accept help," the baksy answered. "Yernazar is proud. But pride comes in different forms. Can become support, or a trap."

  And the girl?

  Zhalgaztur smirked, rising to his feet.

  "Ainur—fire in orcish guise. She'll burn until she consumes herself utterly or becomes a flame that warms the entire world."

  Dangerous, the chiming voice noted. Such ones either save everyone or doom them.

  "I know," the baksy nodded. "But the choice isn't mine. I merely observe and guide, when and where the Great Heaven commands."

  He continued his descent, rounding familiar outcrops and cracks in the rock. Below, in the valley, lights of the temporary camp showed—tiny points of light in the gathering darkness. Smoke from the fire rose in a column, dissolving in the evening sky.

  Ka-Myn, the deep rukh addressed him. You are tired.

  Zhalgaztur slowed his pace but didn't stop.

  "Tired," he agreed without prevarication. "Two hundred and forty-five years—no small span even for us. Bones ache. The soul demands rest."

  Then why take new students?

  The baksy stopped at the last turn of the path, from where the entire camp came into view. Two yurts stood apart from each other, a fire burning between them. Ainur bustled near it, apparently preparing supper. Orgatai had settled closer to the warmth and was weaving baskets from willow rods, whilst Yernazar hung similar rods to straighten them. Afterwards he planned to make light arrows from them, suitable for hunting small game.

  "Because the Aruaks commanded," Zhalgaztur answered simply. "Because I'm the last Ka-Myn, and no one else can manage. Because these three are needed by the Heaven for some reason."

  Do you believe in this?

  The old orc turned his face to the wind, inhaling the cold air deeply.

  "I believe," he exhaled. "Otherwise I'd have gone mad long ago."

  The rukhs fell silent. Only the wind continued to rustle, shifting the sparse grass between stones.

  Zhalgaztur moved on, descending towards the orcs who'd spotted him.

  Careful, Ka-Myn, the chiming voice warned in parting. A black shadow approaches. We sense it.

  The baksy nodded without turning.

  "I know. I sense it too..."