* * *

  It was evening, an hour and a half before sunset, a small and well-trodden clearing at the edge of the road, which had obviously been used more than once and more than twice by travelers, because there were many traces of campfires, a lone young man in dusty clothes, sitting bent over a cheerfully crackling fire, and on that fire a kettle was boiling, in which porridge was being cooked. And five other men, not young, but quite grown up, hairy and not washed for a long time, all armed and looking at the lonely traveler with thoughtful and unkind looks. The pause, as they would say on Earth, is truly theatrical, even one can hear a bird chirping in the distance. For the full pathos of the moment, there is not enough music gradually gaining heat or tumbleweeds chased by the wind. The tter do not grow in this area, but it is a pity.

  "Good evening to you, good people." The young man broke the silence, not even reaching for the knife on his belt or the spear he had carefully pced beside him. "My name is Pann, and I am as much a traveler here as you are. I'm not looking for trouble, if anything."

  The five of them looked at each other, focusing most of their attention on the one who was not the biggest of them all, but the best dressed and armed not just with an axe and a knife on his belt (and in one case, with a short whip), but with a rge cleaver. His heavy jacket was obviously new, even the dust-covered pques gleamed. He looks at the st of the five, who examines not a lonely boy, but the meadow itself, examines carefully, tenaciously, and with knowledge. When he had finished this examination, he turned to his, probably, commander, to give his expert opinion.

  "Clean, boss, no extra traces." And, after a while, he summarizes with a satisfied smile, and this smile, as if a viral infection, blossoms at once in the whole five. "He came here alone."

  The slightly tense men, on foot, but clearly not peasants, nor brigands, as it initially seemed to Stepan, immediately rexed and smiled, showing teeth of varying degrees of bckness, yellowing, or absence of teeth at all. There was little kindness or readiness for dialog in those smiles, and Stepan realized it smelled of trouble. The five of them leisurely, but without losing caution and keeping an eye on the loner and his weapons, began to take the poor man in a semicircle, and the farthest one tried to get behind his back. The situation of road robbery of a loner by a crowd of angry people was a textbook situation for all times and manners, which made the shaman's eye twitch. The only evidence that he was a shaman was the feathers woven into his hair, which had grown out during his solitary stay in the gatehouse and the bracelets made of stones and bones. His neckce of the same materials was hidden under his clothes, and his rosary beads were in his bag.

  "Good day to you, too, Pann." If Stepan's speech was correct and well-practiced, the man spoke understandably and intelligibly, but more crudely, swallowing some of the vowels and disturbing the sense of beauty with his terrible diction. "If you want it to be good, then take off your clothes. It's too fine for you. And keep your hands off the spear, sucker. Are you fucking frozen, or didn't your mother teach you to honor your elders?"

  Stepan's eye twitched like a rabbit in front of a flock of dragons, and his general mental state combined both indignation and apprehension, and even a clear unwillingness to continue the conflict, but the tter was a fairy tale. After running his palm over his eyes and accepting the fact bloodshed was unlikely to be avoided, and not wishing to bring it to a deadly conclusion, he decided to appeal to other people's minds. Well, you know, the consequence of living in a world where the approach to ultra-violence on the spot is not as harsh, inevitable, and instantaneous as in the current world.

  "Gentlemen, do you really want it? I can..." Here he wanted to add something like “curse” or even “smack”, but he finished in a completely different way. "Asshole!"

  The asshole was the man with the whip, which looked very strange on him without a horse, but he wielded it skillfully. He struck quickly, clearly, and directly at the face and unmistakably in the eyes - guaranteed blindness and no less guaranteed death for a doomed man who was robbed and blind in the middle of the wilderness. Well, if they let him live at all, rather than killing him already for sure, having undressed him beforehand, so as not to smear his clothes with blood. If you think about it, his clothes were really much better made than his opponents.

  Of course, he couldn't dodge the blow with a beautiful pirouette in the style of Geralt, Ciri, or Dante from DMC, and in the process counterattacked with precision and accuracy, despite his higher reaction time than an ordinary person. No, he only jerked slightly, causing the blow to nd not in his eyes but just on his face. Inexperience in direct combat pyed a role, as well as the banal unpreparedness to move to lethal killing right at that very moment. If he had not been gifted and had not taken care of such sudden blows beforehand his career would have ended here. Instead of pain and blood, a warm pulse came from the feather in his hair, which shuddered slightly, not physically, but energetically, as it slid through the air, which had become stronger than gss for a moment.

  "Fuck!" Only the apt wielder of the whip uttered, stepping back a little while the others stepped forward, also quickly drawing their weapons but not in a hurry to use it, apparently not to spoil the very “too fine clothes”.

  He didn't have time to say anything else. Stepan, furious and frightened by the death that had come too close to him, gave the order to the storm spirits that had been summoned to the clearing beforehand. The smell of ozone, the hair on his head stood on a puff of static electricity, and three of the five scumbags twitched as if several thousand volts had passed through their bodies. That's exactly what happened to them. Having the opportunity to infuse the spirits with power beforehand, and not wanting to be fmboyant, the Earthman struck for sure, directing the spirits almost right next to their opponents' bodies before ordering them to release the force of the lightning. It was less spectacur, but even more deadly, for the three had no defense and all three colpsed, still twitching, but dying, as their auras showed.

  The whip fan didn't get far either: a wave of Stepan's hand, fingers curled into cws, a mental order to another spirit, an indication of direction. Something big fshed in the air, like a cat's jaws, only invisible, as if you imagined them, but saw them with your eyes. The freak, who had decided to blind the young but promising shaman, grinned his caries-bck teeth, thinking he had just imagined it. Then he noticed the trio falling to the ground and realized that he was not all right, for he could not inhale, and when he exhaled, a stream of blood flowed from his nose and mouth. The fangs of the phantom cat had wounded only his lungs, but Stepan had to feed three portions of those lungs - the deer's lungs, not his own - in order to be able to summon it with an instant call three times. Falling to the ground, still alive but choking, he convulsively pressed his hands to his fme-burning chest, but with every second he grew weaker, dying a quick and ghastly death.

  The st of the remaining, the leader, who had prudently managed to step back together with the owner of the whip when he saw the effect of the magic working, shouted something like “bastard” with sincere hatred and a lot of resentment towards Stepan. The problem was not in the shouting, but in the fact that he jerked and very quickly came closer, putting his cleaver in front of him and preparing to put the young man on the steel with all his might. It was a shame that he had a chance, because the spirit in the feather might not have been able to cope with such a strong and weighty blow, would not have been able to repel it with his shield, or even take it away with a sharp gust of wind. Fortunately, there was no need to check, because the enemy stumbled, almost falling face into the fire, and, what was more terrible, almost knocking over a pot of porridge! Stepan would not forgive him for the tter. In fact, he wouldn't forgive everything else either.

  There was no chance for the stumbling man to get up. With one long, shivering exhation, Stepan cast several leech spirits on the enemy, which weakened him and then paralyzed him. The leader would shit himself, but the paralysis doesn't allow him to do that either. Stepan, who spent about a third of the reserve, and only because he acted with a rge reserve, and also additionally covered himself with unnecessary protection, tiredly exhales, trying to find some emotions from the mass murder. From emotions only irritation and a bit of mencholy, but no shivering creatures, having in all poses the right, in his head did not arise. Not that the experience of communication with spirits, which in one way or another, but necessarily changes the shaman, not that it is difficult to nourish guilt or pity those who decided to kill you. The guy only once again ran his palm over his face, exhaled tiredly, and spoke out, looking at the captive in pure terror:

  "Why don't you take care of yourselves?" Of course, the leader would not understand the ironic reference, but he had to calm himself down. "The bandits have come and are killing themselves in the fresh air."

  SpoilerT.N. Well it reference to Tucker & Dale vs Evil

  [colpse]He thinks about what to do with the prisoner briefly, even honestly trying to force himself to forgive him and let him go, no kidding. But as soon as he tried, he stopped, because it would not only be stupid, but it also attract attention, which the guy wants to avoid with all his might until he becomes at least a magister and for another three hundred years after that. So the one who was going to kill and rob him would stay here. The reason for the dey was a different thought - to kill him at once or to interrogate him about local realities. No, the Earthman did not intend to stoop to torture, but he had the means to get the prisoner to talk, even if with very unpleasant consequences for that prisoner. Sighing once more, he stood up on slightly trembling legs, dragged the leader into the forest, sat the body right by the nearest tree, and slightly changed the order to the spirits, giving him the opportunity to move his head and speak. However, he could hardly shout now, only wheeze.

  "Your ma-magic, I swear to the gods, did not know, I did not think anything..." He didn't let him finish, putting his hand right on his forehead, and the third one at that, pulling out the necessary spirit from the spiritual world without сдд, immediately immersing it into the victim's brain. "Ouuuuuh!"

  His eyes rolled back, his lips turned blue, and in general, attaching even a retively weak entity - although it was “retively” - to the health of an untrained person was an extremely harmful thing (after certain training and potions, even without the gift, one could do without it). The spirit joined the necessary parts of the aura, little by little, gradually, but achieving the main goal - to make truthful answers to questions, taking a drop of blood and a bit of life for each answer. It was not a light creature, it was very dark, and such sacrifices were just right for him, and the only other option was to pay for it himself, either with his reserve or with his blood and life.

  "Come on, tell me why you attacked me in the first pce and what pns you had for me, my innocent one," Stepan asked with restrained skepticism, mentally promising to heal the man and let him go, if it turned out that all this was indeed an exceptional misunderstanding. "Answer."

  "So, how not to take, if a gringo alone on the road, and in good clothes, it seems crazy on. He did not run into the woods when he saw us, so, no, he waited for us. He even didn't grab the spear." From such directness, which his interrogator gave out while looking at the executioner with panicked eyes and not controlling his mouth, the earthman even smiled. "And the clothes are good, the bag is big and good, it will be better to sell it and take it for yourself. Bo-bo-boots are good, I wanted them for myself. And we are not robbers or svers, we are honest fighters, we usually go as caravans, we are hired. Just how could we not take it, anyone would take it, why not?

  Suddenly he really understood, or rather he had always known, he had read the necessary articles on the history of the Middle Ages and other ancient times, but he just refused to try the knowledge on his skin. After all, in such times violence rules everything, and a lonely and defenseless traveler is indeed a tasty prey, especially for an armed group of people unencumbered by morals. And a normal inhabitant of this world would run away as soon as he saw them coming. And they, if they were too zy to run and had money, would let them go. And in general, the clearing was obviously intended for groups, not loners, because what loner, if he had to travel alone, would sleep in such a pce, if at any moment a company could come and catch him sleeping?

  The young man stopped holding back without much remorse realizing that this freak did not even see anything wrong in what he had done, and a quick question showed that it was not the first or even the fifth time he had done it. And there was no remorse there, at most pity for the pretty woman, who twitched too much and had to be cut, but she could have given it herself and would have lived.... well, a little more. No, the remorse now was very sincere, but only in the fact that he did not recognize the magician and led his friend and the rest of the temporary companions to their deaths, but the attack itself he considered quite normal, his right as a warrior. Stepan was not a prosecutor, but here he decided to py his role, especially since according to the ws of Dantmark the list of things done by this particur man was either the gallows or life imprisonment, and many people asked for the gallows in such cases.

  At the same time, he asked about the surrounding territories, cities, and towns, including the very Dantmark and its adjoining satellites, about what year it is, who is fighting with whom, what popur stories and rumors there are, how much to give to the guard at the gate for inspection and passage, and how much for “inspection”, where it is possible to hire an honest fighter, how much to pay and what to demand payment for various things (especially interested in magical services), what purely magical traditions and ws he knows.... the list of questions seemed endless, as well as the panic with misunderstanding in the performance of not clearly thinking “no brigand”. The questions were countless, but only the battery in the source of answers was getting low, even though Stepan was feeding the spirit himself, partially draining the increased reserve.

  The aging, wrinkled, corpse-stained bastard was still rapidly failing, and when he started spitting out loose teeth and almost bck blood, it became impossible to understand his answers. Exorcising the reluctant spirit that let go of its victim, the guy ordered the still paralyzing leeches to stop the heart, finishing off the st of the gang. After standing over the disfigured body for a moment, he stepped aside and vomited profusely. It was more of a bodily reaction than a mental one.

  A (small) system assignment has been received: to sacrifice five recently deceased bodies that still retain the remnants of their own life, to give their blood and entrails, feeding them to the inhabitants of the dark spheres of their own choice. The free choice of ritual is allowed, but the key is the presence of the dark aspect of the summoned entities.

  Reward: some increase in affinity with the spheres, depending on the type of ritual; one-third of the remaining experience up to the next level.

  Stepan swayed on his toes, but with a sigh, he recognized that the reward was really valuable now, and the corpses would have to be disposed of anyway. Experience is at the beginning of the scale, and the battle with ordinary people did not change anything, adding retively little. That's why he agreed with the assignment and started to check his first enemies for trophies, which turned out to be frankly worthless: about twenty silver coins, and these coins were much shallower and shabbier than those handed to him at the beginning of the adventure, much more copper, shitty weapons, dirty and dirty clothes and all sorts of small things that were either not needed, or Stepan had a better analog. In the end, he took only money, remembering again about Truda and her daughter in the process of looting: the five considered themselves not rich, but well-to-do at that moment. How much was that gold circle and the much rger silver pieces that the two bitches had taken from him really worth?

  He carried the bodies along with their bags and clothes, once again experiencing the spirit pnting itself directly into his body. His skin had darkened, almost copper-colored, as if he'd gotten very tanned, his face had stretched over his bones, and even his eyes seemed to pop out of their orbits, at the same time beginning to see better. And what strength appeared in his muscles, wow! He dragged the corpses like a rolled-up bnket and pillows, with no heaviness at all. However, he did not drag them too far, only to the nearest clearing, where he id them in a picturesque circle. All the time left before sunset was spent on preparing the ritual because to mess with dark spirits without protection is too generous an offering. After all, in such a case, to devour, with a guarantee close to one hundred percent, will try not only gifts but also the giver. Stepan found such thinking of the entities, which was a reflection of the thinking of the medieval thugs who had almost stabbed him to death, incredibly ironic, especially against the background of the fact that the former would eat the corpses of the tter.

  He didn't make it in time for nightfall, so he had to finish in the dark, weaving an owl feather in his hair for night vision. No campfires, not even patterns on the ground, just spelled grass, pnts, bits of twigs, and even mushrooms. The mushroom circle originally sprouting at the ritual call site would have been ideal, but what's not there is not there, so the d had to improvise. The choice of type of spirits he stopped not on pure darkness, which is extremely close to the concept of literal pure evil, and a lot of other options were discardedю He stopped at the spirits of the natural sphere. Nature is not about cuteness, kawaii, and kitty cats, although about them too, it has enough dark sides. The eternal struggle for life, and death, that life nourishes, giving birth to new life, which will fall a little ter - among forest and natural entities was a lot of nightmarish shit. No, strong spirits will always be the same chthonic entities, extremely nightmarish with very few exceptions, but here we are talking about particurly outstanding even against such a background.

  Stepan was calling, pulling a soundless melody in the night darkness, audible only to those who can listen to the unreal world, and even perceptible to mages who have developed sensory abilities or happened to be too close to this clearing. It did not matter, everything did not matter, except the note that stretched and stretched, calling, waiting, promising, inviting. And the invited one came, it came from under the carpet of st year's leaves, from the crumbling driftwood growing mushrooms and mosses, from the dark roots of old trees, from the st breath of a forest bird that had broken its wing, from the wheeze of a beast dying of a wound, it came here, to the smell of blood and flesh. Its presence was obvious, self-evident, but there was no way to tell where it had come from, old and ancient, terrible and not evil, but infinitely indifferent, knowing full well that it would get what it wanted, whatever the outcome.

  Stepan, who had stripped naked beforehand and hung his clothes on the branches of a tree twenty meters away from the clearing, began to realize, through the cold sweat that instantly covered him, that he had called an entity much more powerful than he had expected. The entity did not bargain or pressure him other than by its presence; it simply came and then took what was given to it. The bodies were rapidly drying out, decaying, and covered with yers of moss, ivy, and the same mushrooms. In just a couple of minutes, only skeletons remained of all five of them, and they sank into the ground, which had imperceptibly become liquid and swampy, drowned in the forest carpet and herbs that had grown before their eyes.

  The entity took the gift, then stared expectantly at the earthling, though he still couldn't quite discern the summoned spirit, but the analogy was surprisingly accurate, even if the creature didn't have eyes. Without aggression, warmth, or gratitude, waiting, saying, You called, you paid, you should ask now. Intuitively Stepan understood that he could ask a lot now, that he could take advantage of his lucky ticket because he had only one call-up in combat conditions. definitely could count on - the avaible skills, his own practice, multiplied by the absorbed knowledge, they allowed to pull off such a thing. And one could ask for more, perhaps agreeing to pay more if necessary. For example, to increase the characteristic of Constitution, figuratively speaking - from one to two to strengthen such a creature can definitely can, for suren. He was sure that for this particur creature, such a boost would not be difficult to pull off, even though it did not speak, did not try to conduct a spiritual dialog, but some part of the information in such close contact was still leaking out.

  Clenching his teeth and straining all his spirit and magical gift, just not to faint, he gathers his will in a fist and chooses the most correct and most necessary to him personally variant of the response request, wishing...

  ..nothing...

  ...and the desired was heard, accepted, and understood. The entity went away just as indifferently, leaving behind a noticeably transformed area of the forest fifty paces away from the clearing, which became wilder, overgrown, and darker, as well as a mushroom circle, the very one that the caller had thought about the absence of recently. The heavy, pressurizing atmosphere of the gde disappeared as soon as he left the spellbound territory, not even dressed, but dragging his clothes in his hands. No, Stepan tried to shield the pce of summoning, so as not to shine the gde in the magical and spiritual perception, it was part of the basic knowledge of the practice of calling, especially at the second and certainly at the third rank. But it seemed that the summoned creature was used to hiding itself when visiting the real world, or simply noticed the young man's efforts to create a disguise and helped him out of pity.

  When Stepan came to his senses, also a little panicked, he began to analyze himself and everything that had happened or could have happened to him. First of all, the assignment from the system turned out to be completed, obviously, this entity was darker... no, there's more to it than that, but still very dark. Secondly, in addition to experience and increased affinity with the spheres in which darkness and nature are united, the entire subtle body was filled with power and the reserve was fully restored, it seemed to have even grown a little... though, no, not a little... though, no, not just a little, more, albeit without miraculous breakthroughs on the new Source unit. But he was sure that in a couple more weeks any normal mage would easily read the traces of a powerful dark ritual in his aura, so much of it he'd let through. Well, they'd read it. However, he had a Shroud for disguise and a Phantom Limb to clean out most of the extraneous energy shadow from his thin body. Thirdly, the system didn't give him levels but awarded him a free talent that went into the list of avaible properties.

  Received: 'mark of fallen leaves and bck roots'; increased affinity with spheres of the darker aspects of nature; increased likelihood of gaining knowledge and properties of the branches of Druidism and Dark Druidism.

  The acquired talent is added to the overall Pyer status.

  The new property was designed to increase the resistance of subtle bodies, especially to any curses or magical diseases, but poisons would also be weaker. Also a lot of benefit from this property and when communicating with forest spirits, especially dark ones, a decent multiplier of basic affinity. Much more this property will reveal itself in the power of the druid. Judging by the fact that druidism in many respects is on the border between shamanism and cssical magic, then Stepan will have to get in there, especially if the bonuses are taken into account. Druidism can be a purely magical doctrine, sharpened in precise calcutions, weaving magic spells and modification in half with the cultivation of all sorts of aggressive flora. There are plenty of more mystical practices of unity with Nature. Just choose your path.

  For a while, he was very much attracted by the idea of sleeping in the clearing, for the creature was already gone, and he could easily protect himself from the simpler things. He would have done so, but there was a pot of porridge waiting for him near the track, and he was so hungry that he was ready to eat even the corpses of the bandits he had killed. Well, if these corpses remained intact, and would not have turned into bones hidden under the earth. In general, everything for the porridge, even the willingness to go back and then sleep half-heartedly all night. The porridge turned out a little burnt, but it was still tasty because it had bits of meat and some fat.

  As he fell asleep, Stepan had to admit that his second contact with the intelligent inhabitants of the new world had been even more unsuccessful than the first. He could only hope that the third time would be more fortunate, though that hope was dying before it regained consciousness.

  * * *

  The merchant was short, thin, wiry, and bearded. He smoked a pipe and smoked as if deep down he identified himself as a diesel internal combustion engine without filters. He looked at Stepan. Stepan, leaning zily on his spear, looked at him. Both were silent, but the first to break the silence was the merchant. He pointed with his hand behind his back without even turning around. He backed up his gesture with dry and slightly irritated words, which expined the interest of the man in the lonely traveler in his person.

  "One of my caravaners was bitten by some kind of scorpion." He didn't sound like a merchant, his voice was dry and creaky, not pleasant to listen to. "My assistant is a bit of a mage, but he can't heal. But he says you have a gift too, so I'm asking you. Can you help me? I don't pay much, I tell you right away, I don't need Pyrol that much, but I'll give you a pce in the caravan, on a cart, and I'll take you to Dantmark."

  The Earthman had met up with the caravan just half an hour ago because he'd come upon a rger road leading to the local major Free City, part of the Confederation of Free Cities - and a bunch of smaller towns and vilges not deserving of such status - which was a coincidence, if you think about it. The rger main tract was a noticeably busier pce, but it was still (un)lucky. Of course, the boy did not come out in the center of the passing caravan, but a little in front of it, but his leisurely step quickly allowed the horse caravan to catch up with the traveler. They didn't attack, though Stepan had prepared himself, pnted a spirit in his body, almost activated the fusion, prepared a couple of shields, and was ready to speed himself up, hiding in the forest. No, they just looked around from afar, without getting off their horses, and went back. And there was a gifted man in the caravan, and he, for good or bad, noticed his “colleague”. The same riders decided to invite the traveler to join the caravan, politely and without aggression.

  Of course, a considerable part of his aura Stepan hid under the Shroud, especially those pieces of the aura that were responsible for particurly unusual properties, and the overall brightness of the aura dimmed, becoming from a full-fledged and strong adept only slightly developed his gift as a student of some dense forest hermit, perhaps a grandfather or retive. According to the interrogated robber, whose name he did not even bother to learn since he condemned him to death anyway, such gifted people are most often seen around, because full-fledged magicians with diplomas and power rarely go alone, especially if they're very young. If only because they still have many years even basic training demand years of bor for the benefit of either a mentor, family, creditor, or all at once. Yes, there are also those who paid for their training without any obligations, but there is such dough that the man killed by the interrogation could even imagine such a mountain of money with great difficulty. Although he, it must be admitted, was still a source of information, trusting him like an ordinary earthly thug, and this was an insult to the thugs - the inhabitants of the twenty-first century were more erudite on the average.

  "I can heal, but not well. I'm telling you right away." Stepan confesses honestly, not specifying that it's bad only by his standards because a normal healer should be able to heal the whole party in one button, not this. "If it's a simple snake, scorpion, or other stuff, he'll be on his feet by the evening, but if it's something magical, no cims."

  Judging by the way the merchant's face creased, the choice of the manner of speech on the respectful but “you” was a little mistaken, but judging by the fact that the peddler, once again, was patient and didn't order to give him whippings, the young man didn't cross the line. It would have been a tearful shame to have the second consecutive contact reduced to mauling, blood, corpses, and feeding those corpses to some otherworld shit. But no, the man's displeasure was limited only by his slightly wrinkled face, though he didn't hold back his words.

  "What you can do, we'll count it tonight." He said, chewing on his pipe, and seemingly anxious to get back to his wagon, from which he had been dragged by the need to talk to a wandering gifted healer. "I'll pay three in silver or five in copper. No haggling, I repeat, I don't need too much that asshole who didn't notice the poisonous stuff in his shoe. You just take into account that if you cheat, you'll get an insulting kick instead of coins, because I've seen you, who are all unrecognized masters in words, but in practice can't get a boil off the ass."

  In principle, the price is right for urgent healing in the middle of nowhere. In the city, you could offer less because there is competition, but on the road, the price for any service is higher, such is the tradition - not stocked up, so it's your fault, pay extra. But really fair will be only if the second price and only if you pay in silver, not copper, because the exchange rate from the lowest metal to the highest was frankly robbery, especially in recent years. The threat had no effect on the young man, because he had no doubts about his abilities, and he was immune to insults from moody men with a bad temper, thanks to Rodisv Gastoldovich Yanin.

  "Add water and a pce by the fire to the fee, and I'll take it." Calmly shrugs the shaman, who is too zy to condense water into a fsk under disguise, leaving the reserve visible from under the shroud “empty”. "Just get him to the sick one."

  And again he said something wrong, because the merchant almost bit the pipe, and even stained a little, and a couple of his guards shook their heads disapprovingly, although one of them smirked and winked approvingly at the young man. And it wasn't clear what exactly sounded wrong, was it? A different cultural, bitch, code! She remembered Gozb with nostalgia, with whom she had managed not to screw up, or he had chosen not to notice Stepan's misunderstandings at all.

  "Okay, we got off on the wrong foot, boy, I admit it." The merchant was suddenly not aggressive, even backing down a bit in his attacks. "I'm having a shitty day, and the decade is fucked by ogres, mark my words. But you hold your tongue, too, to equate me, an honorable man, to the Sultanate's freaks, who will tear three hides from a stranger for every word of mouth and will not hesitate to sell water in the desert for three times the price, if you are not of their blood. If I said a pce in the caravan, then feeding is included. And you'd better not confuse me with such wolf shit, or I'll spit and be rude too. Only I've got three dozen men with me, and you're alone and untrained. Do we understand each other?"

  Oh, it's a cultural code, Stepan! At this rate, you can get to the point where you accidentally confess to having sex with other people's mothers and grandmothers, and then you don't know where to put the corpses. Or you become a corpse yourself and that's the end of the game session. The only thing left was to nod, pretending that everything was conceived in such a way, peacefully and quietly making it all go away.

  The chauffeur, bitten by an insectoid, was delirious and could boast a leg so swollen that it looked like it belonged to an elephant, but otherwise, he was in no hurry to die. He was in danger of amputation, of course, especially if not properly assisted, but even for that, he would have to make do with unsanitary conditions and forced strain on his aching leg. Stepan could have cured him in literally a couple of minutes, or even in a period of three times less if Phantom Limb was used, but instead spent a good three hours carefully calling every expenditure of strength and feeding the spirit slowly. One spirit for right in the blood to break down the poison and relieve the swelling, and another to relieve the fever, literally pulling that fever out of the body. Another would be to apply the practice of spiritual healing when you persuade someone else's spiritual body to become healthy and pull the material body after. But such tricks, which were much closer to skill than to magic, he could only use on himself so far. And he was certainly not going to experiment on the eyes of the caravan magician watching him closely, or rather, not quite a magician, but not even a gifted one.

  A tiny crumb of gift, literally on the bottom, which only allowed him to use true sight without amulets, as well as to use these very amulets, but he had much more arrogance than Stepan allowed himself to show. The arrogance and bck envy with which he looked at the way the savage boy from the forest did what the man himself was not capable of, and he did it with his own strength, not with amulets. He had an amulet with a healing factor, but it didn't help him much against poisons. It was good enough against the usual stuff, but this was a particurly vicious scorpion.

  The Earthman finished three hours ter when the patient fell into a deep and quite healthy sleep. Waiting for the moment that the “magician” was at the other end of the caravan, checking the mule that had begun to limp for some reason, the young man still allowed himself to slightly lift the shroud to extract from the soft tissues a piece of string stuck there with a Phantom Limb - the main reason for the impotence of the healing amulet, according to Stepan. There was no poison in it, though the original gnd was not dead yet, but the bone barb itself could cause an abscess in the leg and a new infection in the future. Yes, there was no reason to be so hard on a strange man, but there was no reason not to help him in his future life, especially if the help cost you nothing while giving you EXP. Stepan suddenly caught the idea that the pyer's system pushed him not only to sughter everything alive and not so alive mercilessly for the sake of EXP but also to such altruism, which was incomprehensible to normal and system-deprived people and not people at all. There were doubts that Stepan with his cockroaches in his head would become a saintly ascetic and a free healer for the lower strata of the popution. Even Stepan himself would prefer to help only if possible, rather than to look for an opportunity to help, at least because if the rescued people did not sit on their necks, then those who thought that they needed a healer who was developing beyond his years much more, and this healer did not need freedom at all, he would rather try on this colr or sign this debt document.

  The merchant, having seen the result, ordered the victim to rest before the evening break, and then to help with small things, nodded to Stepan, recognizing his competence, and left. The payment in the form of three silver coins was handed over to the boy by his assistant, who also showed him the pce at the caldron. To all appearances, it was also some form of teasing for that inadvertent passage to the merchant, but Stepan didn't understand the teasing, so he wasn't offended. But he did not take off the feather-identifier and did not rex, quite sensibly assuming the risk that when he got closer to the point, they would try to identify him as a commodity. Though the peddler seemed to be engaged in linen and pottery production, not in the sve trade, but he could not know what kind of jobs and acquaintances he had, and a gifted prisoner could not be cheap.

  According to the w of the genre, the scenario of a band of robbers attacking a merchant caravan should have pyed out here, during which the young shaman would have gained experience, level, and a bit of positive reputation. A couple of times the spirits sent by him found traces of people who were watching the tract, but these people were either just random travelers, at the sight of the caravan went off the road just in case, or robbers small in number and clever, who did not get involved in unnecessary and dangerous fight. The roadside robber is a shy and frightened animal, and a crowd of men dressed in rags only in computer games allows itself to attack the hero's party dressed in legendary clothing. In reality, those who noticed the approaching caravan preferred to run away and wait to meet a lone traveler, weak and defenseless, but, preferably, rich, and that no one was looking for him, did not retaliate and in general did not remember. All professions have their wet dreams, characterized by high demands and unfulfilbility.

  All in all, they reached the rge town of three thousand people without any problems at all, except for a couple of minor accidents and a tire that blew off in the front van. The town was proudly named Fantrelle, one of the rgest settlements southwest of Dantmark. Sure, it was fantasy and medieval everywhere, but it was still unimpressive. There was a weak inhabited area, and a rge number of swampy lownds, through which it was impossible to make normal roads. As a result, there were indeed many vilges, farms and even small towns around Dantmark, but no really serious agglomerations.

  At the same time, Morgrave, located to the southwest, downstream of Dantra (after which Dantmark was named), could boast a very powerful associated agglomeration. It stands at the mouth of this major trade hub, in a convenient bay, giving access to the Middle Sea, which is an ideal trade route to anywhere. There are such financial flows there, that even if there were an empty salt marsh in that pce, ndscapes would still be settled because it is necessary to feed such a powerful trading hub all the time. But there is no salt marsh there, but very fertile nd, which only increases the influx of those who want to live and prosper there. And attracts those wishing to plunder such a dainty booty powerful naval fleets, to call which pirate somehow does not come out, because such a fleet is more like a state fleet.

  All this was told to Stepan by the very assistant of the merchant, who had passed him the coins, and who seemed to be a retive or a very close retive of the merchant. Berius, unlike his chief, had no antipathy for the stranger, was very well-versed in the local version of geography and economics, and was chronically unable to shut his mouth when sharing his erudition. He found a gold mine in the face of the boy with a magical gift and silent character who came out of the forest, because he really listened, was interested and even asked crifying questions, which made the assistant, who had long ago annoyed everyone with his unwanted erudition, really puppyishly delighted.

  Thus, his memory, which had become even more developed due to his active aura, was enriched with a considerable amount of information about Dantmark, its satellites, and the general geography of the region. The rge number of rugged and sometimes dangerous forests, fields, and swamps, where orcs could also drop by to plunder, meant that in many pces the authority of local noble houses or the City Council was extremely formal, and tax collectors could be eaten by magically altered wolves even without the help of tax-dodging peasants. The only inhabited region was the area around Dantmark and the retively narrow Dagger, a bulge on the map created by a river arrow that merged the Dantra and Mtra, the two rgest rivers in the region. Elsewhere, even by the standards of the Middle Ages, the area was not the hellhole of the world, but a precursor to it.

  Having summarized for himself everything he had heard, Stepan concluded that it was necessary to look for a more convenient pce to start, because of the comparative safety of the starting position, a very strong tinge of wlessness, and ck of control from the authorities, as well as the presence of a bunch of small vilges and generally forgotten farms, from which could come a poorly trained and very talented shaman. Call himself a disciple of his grandfather, who passed the basic science to his grandson, says that he went to look for a better life in a more lively pce, and a hundred listeners out of ten will believe him. And if they want to check it, they can't, because how to check it, if there is no possibility of spending ten years of the budget of an average aristocratic house for this check?

  Stepan left his companions in glorious Fantrel, even though the agreement was that the shaman could follow the caravan to the endpoint. He didn't like the looks not so much of the merchant as of his “mage,” envious, angry, dangerous, and jealous as hell. He clearly realized that he was inferior to the young man, even with all his amulets, most of which had been bought by the merchant and belonged to the buyer, given to the gifted one on a bondage contract for temporary use. Such a look directly begged, pleaded, begged even: //“Look Stepanushka, what an evil gremlin I am, do not leave me behind, kill me with some cunning curse or spirit!” - So the young man decided not to tempt his already thinning reserves of humanism, preferring not to go to the conflict. Especially since the st few days the old smoker had clearly softened his opinion of the boy, either after listening to Beria, or realizing that the shaman was really savage and, it seems, did not want to offend him intentionally.

  The next thing that was expected was a quite generous job offer from the perspective of the merchant, the refusal of which could cause a lot of problems and questions, and the very “magician” softly hinted that the conflict would be guaranteed. Stepan didn't want to kill or worry about an attempt on his person, even for the sake of profit, money, and system levels. Of course, this was not the kind of approach that could get you great fame and rapid growth, and moreover, such an approach would get you kicked out of the Isekai Club of Honor. But does he give a damn about such clubs? That's right - he categorically doesn't give a shit, and if the honorable members of the club knew how much he gives a shit about them all and the club itself, they would definitely cry.

  The city greeted him with noise, hum, shouts of children and invitations, cheap girls standing near a not-too-expensive brothel (one of two in the town, and this despite the fact that there was a third, but it was rather a gentlemen's club not for everyone, as Berius compined), a number of rge and solid houses, in which magical and spiritual sense felt some magical protection, as well as an attempt to pick his pockets. Stepan, who had prepared for the case, had even assigned one of the spirits living in the neckce to guard his pockets in advance, so the pincher had gotten his hands on him. But instead of a muddy and toothless freak, the pickpocket turned out to be a wiry boy with a freckled face, which confused the shaman a little.

  He was surprised to see the boy shaking his hand, which was numb and still numb up to the elbow, and even thought that he had overreacted. It was not in his pns to maim children, even if they were homeless and thieving, but as soon as Stepan said: “Stop...” he ran away in a state of extreme panic, without hearing “...I'm going to take the leech off”. After shaking his head and realizing it was possible to remove the spirit remotely, he decided to do it in the evening, but first, he would have something to eat. The guy wouldn't die before then anyway, the numbness wouldn't go above his shoulder, and he wouldn't be afraid of serious damage to the thin bodies around his arm for at least another day or even a day and a half.

  The nearest tavern, which smelled pleasant because he had to pass through two more first, was moderately priced for someone used to paying only in gold in games. The cooking was also tolerable and the baking was excellent. But what won Stepan over was the specialty rich chowder made of pork belly buttons - it was worth interrupting his solo progression and going out into society just for that! If someone dares to object, let him try to eat the way Stepan did for more than four months, and afterward after he had healed his stomach, which could be damaged by such a diet without a particurly strong body and healing and strengthening shamanism, he would repeat what he had said.

  As, he was not allowed to enjoy the ungodly huge bowl of broth for long, having interrupted his privacy in the most impudent way. He sat down at the table, called the innkeeper to pour him a beer, and then put a small but tightly packed purse in front of Stepan. Before the young man had time to reconsider many variants of what was happening now, including the fact that he had been accidentally and mistakenly identified by some secret agent and now he was to be “the man in the one red shoe,” the man who sat down spoke in a hoarse and unpleasant baritone.

  "A fee. For Gnezhichik." Since the earthling didn't know any Gnezhichiks, it told him about nothing, but then it came to him, and the man who came expined it. "A little boy with a red hair. Give him back his hand, dear magician, don't ruin the child's life."

  The man did not look dangerous, though unpleasant, but that was why he took his request seriously. He chewed what he had already taken in his mouth, took out his neckce from under his cloak, found the necessary stone, and, having bitten it defiantly, though he could have ordered it without special effects, hung the neckce back on his neck and hid it under his cloak. When he met the attentive and expressionless gaze of the local shadowy asshole, he only nodded and summarized:

  "Done." And, after a little thought, he expanded his idea, since everyone here is so polite and amicable. "Just wipe his hand with wine or balm before going to bed, or his fingers will numb for a week. It'll go away in three days."

  The world was a shitty pce, just like the old Earth, which was Stepan's native nd, he thought with a slight bitterness. As soon as he tried to talk normally with the first group he met, they immediately tried to kill and rob him. As soon as he tried to stick a leech spirit on a juvenile delinquent, which could easily kill him, everyone was polite, correct, generous, and in general, angels in the flesh. Should he now start every dialog with a kick in the balls to avoid excesses in the future? It's possible to get kicked in the balls, and it is disgusting for a guy who is always polite and does not tolerate rudeness unnecessarily.

  "Thank you, sir, they'll wipe his hand." The girl who brought the beer gnced nervously at Stepan's interlocutor but did not react in any other way. "They'll whip his back, and I'll personally order them to sprinkle salt on them. Lortan saw it. Payback and peace."

  After saying this highly enigmatic phrase, he nodded to me again, only now Stepan could feel a certain sympathy and relief in his nod. He drained the mug with beer, left a rge copper coin on the table, a little more than a standard one, and then he was gone. Stepan wonders, this Lortan, is he some sort of local big boss? Shrugging and checking his food again, Stepan started to finish his chowder, though the taste didn't seem to be the same. He checked the purse more thoroughly, finding no poison, curses, or dried mouse shit in it. The purse itself, however, was filled with almost nothing but copper with occasional silver, but it would be strange to pay for the life of a street boy with gold.

  Having already returned to the room he'd rented and pced the portable totems with guard spirits in the corners, he allowed himself to lie down on the bed and summon back the spirit that had been sent for the muddy man, who could not only memorize pictures and images but also hid in the spirit world deeper than usual, and watched the picture of reality from there. It was a pity to waste it because it took half of the reserve and a lot of burnt herbs to summon it, but he was curious. And he wanted to make sure that there was no danger, because what if they had already agreed to sughter the curser at night? Stepan is very orthodox, he doesn't recognize acupuncture treatment, and he despises dagger acupuncture treatment worse than homeopathy.

  As, the spectacle showed only the cries of a boy being beaten with birch rods soaked in salt water, who was being reprimanded by some other jerk at every blow, like a strict parent to a misbehaving child or a teacher who was a fan of Makarenko's methods. And he hit, despite earthly traditions, obviously unknown to him, not on the ass still covered with pants, but on the back and shoulders, although the reason was unclear.

  “creative swear words.” Each iteration, of course, was accompanied by a not-so-restrained stroke of the birch. “creative swear words.”

  The kid was yelling, roaring, crying, screaming and, it seemed, shitting himself from pain or fear, but it didn't stop the execution, though if the bully who was beating him was obviously heartfelt, Stepan's acquaintance just stood in the corner, picking his teeth with a wood chip. His thoughts were somewhere else and did not hurry to bring the thinker back to the sinful earth, because it was more interesting there, far away.

  The kid was screaming trying to make excuses. In the homeworld of the young isekai, this boy would be a rapper, because such a speed of recitation would be the envy of Eminem himself.

  He didn't calm down soon, though his skill was undeniable. In spite of the duration of the execution and the severity of the blows, the boy did not receive any serious injuries, only a scarlet back and minor cuts, which meant that he would definitely have to sleep on his stomach. The bully expined to the small moron in clear and understandable swearing what to look at, how to recognize magicians in the crowd, why he was so stupid, and where he saw his mother. The kid, however, in response sneered that his mother was seen there by half of Fantrelle, but it would have been better if he had not sneered because the ughing man blurred the st blow, and that came out especially painful, coming to the already affected point.

  Stepan was finally convinced that he, at least at this stage, was not going to be killed as punishment for messing with honest thieves, and seeing no reason to indulge his sadism by the sight of a healthy and sweaty man beating a little boy, he broke off the contact and recognized the contract with the spirit as closed. The ghostly voyeur who had gone to his spiritual distances was gone, and Stepan smiled peacefully and very sincerely, realizing that he had done someone bad and stupid badly, going to the realm of dreams with a pure heart.

  * * *