There may also be some inaccuracies, since English is not my native language.
Essentially, TBATE is first translated from English into my native language - and in that process, some details are already altered to make it more understandable for us. Now I'm taking that adapted (and somewhat distorted) version, revising it, rewriting it, and then translating it back into English.
I hope you'll point out any mistakes in the text that I might have missed.
× × × × ×
Lucius Zogratis POV
Boring.
It was unbearably boring.
My torturer returned in an especially foul mood almost every time after visiting Arthur and, apparently, thought it was a splendid idea to vent his irritation on me. Well, for him, this was probably supposed to be torture. For me, it all came down to a faint, almost negligible tingling. I could barely feel pain.
That, apparently, only infuriated him more.
A couple of times he even tried using mana-based spells, apparently hoping to get some kind of result, but the very idea was pathetic. Mana cannot overpower aether. Only the Legacy could do that-and even then only temporarily. Which says enough about some mediocre jailer who fancied himself the greatest torturer in the world.
Truly, the only real entertainment here was talking to Arthur and Regis. Sometimes, when it got especially dull, I would roll the World Seed between my fingers, peering into its crystalline structure. It was beautiful, almost hypnotic in its strange, alien completeness. But no matter how many times I tried to study the seed, the result remained the same-absolute failure.
I felt nothing from it.
No aether.
No mana.
Nothing at all.
And that annoyed me far more than the boredom of prison.
There was also the fact that, for all this time, I still hadn't managed to change my aether channels. No matter how much I tried, it seemed rank 8 was the limit of what I could achieve on my own in a short period, and that strained me a little.
And during all the time I sat in prison, I decided that after the trial I would spend part of my time activating the rank 8 World Seed in my core. I very much wanted to do it now, but I understood that this was not the best place for experiments. Since I had played games before, read manga and novels, and tested the system several times in the past, I understood that the system was not capable of harming me if the gap in ranks was not too large.
At least, so far, everything pointed exactly to that.
But there was another reason for my confidence.
The black-and-white fire in my soul.
Before, I didn't fully understand what exactly it was or what its functions were. But over time it began to seem to me that precisely because of it, the burden on my soul when receiving GodRunes was noticeably lower than it should have been.
I first noticed this back in the zone where I received my first GodRune. Then I clearly felt how it settled into my soul, how it occupied a certain place there. After receiving several more runes, that sensation only strengthened my suspicion: I could feel their weight, their presence, their imprint.
And yet the strain still remained suspiciously low.
The black-and-white fire drifting in the depths of my soul-that, I think, is the reason for this effect.
My soul is enormous. That is a fact.
So enormous that even a hundred rank 12 GodRunes would hardly take up even one hundredth of its volume, despite the fact that my soul itself is only rank 11. Of course, Aroa's Requiem at rank 13 feels different. It takes up noticeably more space than rank 11 or rank 12 runes. But even so-not nearly as much as, by my ощущения, it should.
And the reason for that, I think, lies in the Half-Otherworld (?)-a phenomenon whose rank is not even listed. It is from there, as far as I understand, that the black-and-white fire originates. If my guess is correct, then it is somehow softening the pressure of the GodRunes on my soul, redistributing the burden, or making my soul more resistant to their presence.
Although, of course, all of this is still only my theory and a guess that may very well be wrong.
Talking with Arthur, on the other hand, was much harder for me. He asked about many things-too many things-and in order not to lose his friendship completely, I was forced to answer, even when I absolutely did not want to. We talked about the asuras, the future, and those events that had yet to happen. I told him about Aldir-about how one day he would sacrifice himself and, at the same time, help bring Sylvie back. I told him about his own battle with Taci and how that clash would end.
Then the conversation went even further. I explained what the Legacy was and why Cecilia was so important to Agrona. I tried, as much as was even possible, to find words for something like fate. And in the end, I came to a very different, almost unexpected question-who exactly Uncle Alaric really was.
That part of the conversation was the hardest of all. I truly felt sorry for that drunken wreck of a man. His child had died because of the Vritra's monstrous experiments. His wife, unable to bear the grief, had left him. The person who had been his superior and perhaps, in some sense, his support-Cynthia Goodsky-had also vanished from his life.
And what was left to him in the end? A little money, barely enough for alcohol. A broken life. An empty house. And constant hallucinations whenever he did not drink enough to dull his memory and thoughts.
And even after all that, even broken, fallen, and having long since lost nearly everything, Alaric in his own way still kept helping newcomers who got into trouble. Roughly, clumsily, through grumbling and a bottle, yes-but he still helped. And perhaps that was what made his tragedy even heavier.
Oh, yes, there was one more almost absurd episode. While my torturer was once again poking me with a knife and sing-song muttering his idiotic "stab, stab, stab, stab, staaab," Ada unexpectedly walked into the cell.
We talked a little. Or rather, I let the conversation go in the direction I wanted and carefully pressed on her emotions. I tried to make her see in me not an enemy or a monster, but a person who had once also tried to protect his loved ones and failed. Someone who knew all too well how easy it was, driven by pain, to go the wrong way-and how difficult it was to come back.
I did not press too hard. I only nudged her toward the right thought, the right feeling. I let her see in me a reflection of her own fears and her own motives. And judging by how her gaze changed by the end of the conversation, it had worked.
I had plenty of time, so I tried to spend it usefully. My main focus was on training my aether channels and constantly testing the second layer of my aether core. And, honestly, it was simply magnificent.
The difference compared to before felt almost absurd. The way I could now guide aether through my body was like the difference between an old crumbling car and an airplane. Before, every burst of power, every release of aether, every reinforcement required noticeable effort, concentration, and time. Now, aether obeyed me with such ease and speed that at times it felt almost unreal.
If all this were a game, I would describe it like this: my old core held around a thousand units of aether. After long training, constant compression, and slow widening of the channels, I could have stretched that number to roughly three thousand. But after creating the second layer, everything changed. Immediately after forming the new layer, I could already hold around twenty thousand units of aether. And after several days during which I literally trained the aether core like a muscle-loading it, emptying it, and filling it again-that limit grew to about thirty-five thousand.
Thirty-five thousand.
Even saying that number in my head gave me almost childish satisfaction.
But even more impressive than the capacity was the speed and control.
After several days of training, it became almost instantaneous. I could wrap my body in aether faster than I could fully process my own intention. The thought had barely begun to form, and the aether was already moving, condensing, gathering exactly where it was needed. Because of the increased control and this new monstrous responsiveness, I managed something especially interesting.
Raising my hand, I stared silently for a while at what remained of it.
Or rather, at what did not remain.
Part of my arm below the elbow had simply vanished. Yet there was no blood. No pain either. It had not been torn off, not destroyed, not made invisible in the ordinary sense-it had simply ceased to exist in ordinary reality.
Yup.
During this time, I managed to reproduce the Ghost Bears' technique of spatial manipulation.
Of course, the result was still far from perfect. In level, I was hardly above that cub we first encountered. Essentially, it was an infant level of mastery. But even so-it was already a success.
A serious success.
Someone who could not feel aether at all would most likely not notice me if I completely wrapped myself in this technique. And that thought was so tempting that I couldn't help smirking. It even began to seem to me that, with enough skill, I could stand beside Agrona, pat him on the shoulder just for fun, and then calmly leave before he even understood what had happened.
Though, of course, such thoughts were better left for later.
Casting aside that pleasant but frankly dangerous fantasy, I continued staring at my vanished hand with a certain fascinated interest. It had not merely disappeared-it had merged with the surrounding space so completely that it stopped standing out as a separate object in the world.
And that was not where it ended.
If I applied the technique to my legs, not only the legs disappeared, but also the sound of my steps and even my footprints. If I enveloped my whole body-the smell vanished. Presence itself seemed to be erased layer by layer. In essence, this technique detached you from the world so thoroughly that almost all signs of the very fact of your existence at a specific point in space disappeared.
The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that at a higher level of mastery this technique could grant something even more. Perhaps, if I understood the principles of spatial merging and shifting deeply enough, I would be able not merely to erase my presence, but literally pass through objects by manipulating my own position relative to the space around me.
As for the Spear Beaks' technique, I could not reproduce it because I did not even understand the basics, but that felt like no great loss compared to what I had obtained in that zone.
If I sum it all up, the loot was more than worthy.
I created the second layer of the aether core, improved it, and in waltz tempo improved everything connected to it and to my aether channels. I also advanced God Step to about three hundred meters within the Relictombs, and after several days of sitting here I managed to stretch it to roughly four hundred. I took apart and began reproducing the Ghost Bear clan's technique. I deepened my understanding of the GodRune of Theft and learned to use it more delicately and flexibly than before.
Even viewed coldly and without excess emotion, the progress was colossal.
And if viewed not entirely coldly...
Then there was one more moment which, in my humble opinion, should be counted as an absolute victory.
I woke up with Caera in the same sleeping bag, her soft, generous breasts resting right against my chest.
I consider that an unconditional triumph.
The three weeks remaining before the trial flew by at incredible speed because I kept busy.
When the morning of the trial came, the usual torture from my tormentor and his buddy, who unsuccessfully kept trying to get at least some information out of me, did not happen. More than that, they even let me use cold water to wash off the blood and grime that had accumulated over three weeks in the Granbehl dungeon, though the water was too little, so part of my hair was still slightly dirty and clumped together. Obviously, they did not want it to be too noticeable at trial that Arthur and I had not merely been locked up, but had also been diligently broken the whole time.
Matheson-the one who had been trying to talk to Arthur and me-adjusted his sleeves and walked past us, leading us up the stairs and through the beautifully decorated halls of the estate above. Several servants watched us from different rooms as we were led out of the Granbehl manor, but the only familiar face I noticed was Petras, my and Arthur's dear torturer, who sat on a stack of barrels near the back exit through which we were being taken.
Arthur, of course, could not simply walk past in peace.
He turned his head, smiled brightly at the man, and said almost amiably, "We've shed so much blood, sweat, and your tears together that I think I'll actually miss you."
The words hit exactly where intended. Petras practically doubled over from shame and rage at once, while Matheson beside him only snorted in poorly concealed disgust.
Poor thing.
Arthur, you really shouldn't be so cruel to a man! He was only trying to torture us to death.
It may seem like I'm too cheerful, and I really had been in an elevated mood lately; everything was going rather smoothly and more or less as I had planned, and after obtaining the second layer of the aether core I had relaxed a little.
A few more heavily armed Granbehl guards were already waiting for us outside the house. We were separated into different wagons, similar to the one that had originally brought us here. This time, two knights sat inside mine, each holding a drawn blade pointed in my direction.
How thoughtful.
They stayed silent the entire ride. Only the dull rumble of the wheels, the occasional jolts of the wagon, and the constant sense of someone else's alertness filled the cramped space. Several minutes passed before the wagon stopped. Someone knocked on the door three times from outside. One of the guards beside me answered with two knocks, and the lock clicked.
I didn't wait for them to try shoving me out or, gods forbid, dramatically hauling me by the shackles. I simply jumped down to the ground myself. Judging by how the nearest armored figures immediately recoiled and drew weapons, the sharpness of my movement made them rather nervous.
Arthur climbed out too, though I only noted him out of the corner of my eye. My attention was almost immediately captured by the building in front of me.
It was... impressive.
A dark stone structure, massive and nearly oppressive, covered in rich decorative ornamentation. Arched windows were filled with colored stained glass. Malicious horned gargoyles jutted from the walls, as if watching everyone who dared approach. Hundreds of thin black metal spires stretched toward the blue sunless sky, giving the building an appearance both majestic and ominous.
If you disregarded the colors and Alacrya's general flamboyance, it reminded me of the Royal Courts of Justice in London-or at least, as far as I remembered them from pictures on the internet.
Matheson appeared between two of the many armored guards standing around the carriage. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said to Arthur and me, looking at the courthouse. "As though the justice of the Sovereigns itself were carved in stone."
Arthur snorted, drawing an irritated glare from the steward.
Because of Arthur's action, I too was shoved roughly and forced forward beneath the vaulted entrance into the great hall.
Inside, the courthouse was every bit as richly decorated as the outside: the floor was laid in marble, the grand staircase leading to the second-floor landing was forged from the same dark iron as the spires, and the entire ceiling was covered by a huge mural.
It depicted a muscular bare-chested man with grayish skin and broad horns curving around his head like a crown. He towered above dozens of far smaller, less detailed human figures. Multicolored motes of light drifted down from his palms and body to the crowd, sinking into them as they stretched upward joyfully, as if receiving divine blessing. The whole image was encircled by a ring of runes, lending the mural even more ritual grandeur.
Agrona, granting magic to the Alacryans.
Say what you will, but he built a cult of personality magnificently. Kim Jong Un could have learned a thing or two from him.
"Under the vigilant gaze of the High Sovereign, all beings are subjected to judgment," Matheson said, reading the curved runes.
A hunched figure in a heavy black robe with a golden symbol on the chest approached and exchanged several words with Matheson. The symbol depicted a sword with scales hanging from the guard, which likely marked him as some kind of court official.
He exchanged a few brief words with Matheson, then gestured for us to follow him.
So that was how we were led farther on: the escorting guards, Matheson, Arthur, and I-down a long corridor with high ceilings, whose bare stone walls and steady hum of footsteps only deepened the feeling that we were being taken not to a trial, but to a carefully rehearsed performance. At the end of the corridor awaited two massive stone doors, each no less than three meters high and around a meter wide.
When we approached, the doors opened of their own accord, revealing a courtroom capable of holding at least several hundred people.
It was designed like an amphitheater: crescent-shaped, with rows of blackwood benches rising in steps around a platform along the flat side, where five high tables, each bearing the same golden symbol as the court official's robe, looked down upon a single chair made of twisted black metal.
The dark-robed figure led us down the aisle between the benches, all of which were currently empty, and gestured toward the chair. Two knights shoved Arthur into it, and heavy black chains sprang to life and coiled around his wrists, ankles, waist, and neck.
When, out of curiosity, I wanted to ask for a chair like that too, the guards instead led me to another part of the hall, opened a door, and after barely two steps shoved me into another prison room with mana suppression.
"Wait until your friend's monstrous deeds are revealed," said the massive guard in a heavy voice, then spat, turned, and left, tossing over his shoulder, "I hope they hang you and your friend so that each of you gets to watch the other's corpse."
Only two armored guards remained by me, and with a quiet sigh I filled my ears with aether and began to listen.
And everything began unfolding just as in the original.
"So begins the trial of Ascender Gray, of unnamed Blood, on the charge of murder. Immediately afterward, the trial of his accomplice, Ascender Lucius, of unnamed Blood, will be conducted," the judge announced in a hoarse voice.
And after that? After that, the same script over and over.
Darrin would spring to his feet and say, "Judge Falhorn, I would like the opportunity to ask a few questions-"
"In the interest of saving time," Judge Blackshorn would interrupt, "only the judges will be allowed to question the witnesses."
And then again.
And again.
And again.
At one point, they began accusing Arthur with particular zeal. It even got so ridiculous that they dragged in the very same guy who had tried to rob us and began presenting his words as something important and worthy of attention. At that point, Darrin, no longer bothering to hide his tension, stepped forward again and said:
"I would like to request a short recess so I can speak with Gray, so that we may properly refute this witness's claims."
And the answer?
Of course, exactly the same one.
Chief Judge Blackshorn smirked, and his voice carried the lazy irritation of a man annoyed that someone was interfering with the proper formalization of a verdict already decided.
"You had three weeks to prepare your rebuttals. In the interest of saving time, we will not be taking any recesses before deliberation, and only then, if it becomes necessary for the judges to reach a final decision."
Quite efficient, of course, but in the interest of saving time, they could simply have executed the two of us instead of conducting a trial.
Enhancing my hearing with aether even further, I continued enjoying the performance.
By that point they had even brought in Ada. She tried to say that neither Gray nor I had killed her brothers. Tried-and that is the key word. Because the moment she began saying anything capable of disrupting the neat line of accusation, Lord Granbehl and one of the judges almost immediately cut her off.
Naturally.
In the interest of saving time.
By now, even the dumbest donkey would have realized that the trial was corrupt from top to bottom. And, naturally, the people in the hall were beginning to realize it too. First a murmur ran through the rows. Then it grew louder. Then isolated outraged voices merged into general noise. The crowd was starting to boil.
Their shouts grew louder and louder. Outrage echoed from the walls, from the floor, from the high vault of the hall, until individual words became an unbroken chorus of anger and disbelief.
"No!" Ada cried out.
Her voice, full of pain and despair, cut through that chaos like a siren.
Although, because I had enhanced my hearing with aether, her voice felt like it crawled directly into my brain, making me twitch slightly. Not very pleasant, I'll tell you that.
Then the room fell deathly silent when she spoke in a quiet whisper. "Neither Gray nor Lucius killed my brothers."
Well then, good for her.
No arguments there.
She understood. Accepted. Came to terms with the truth and still found the strength to say it aloud. Though of course, in the interest of saving time, this farce could have been avoided entirely.
A couple minutes later, judging by the sounds, a group of knights was driving everyone out and locking the main entrance, after which Judge Fril declared, "Guilty, three times over."
The noise of shouting reached my ears from outside the courtroom. In the corridor beyond the massive double doors, there was some kind of commotion.
"That must be our ace," Alaric hissed, his raspy voice easy for my ears to catch. "We've got to keep your ass in that chair, kid."
At the same time, in the courtroom, the knights of Blood Granbehl were trying to drag Arthur away from those already approaching the entrance, and only Arthur's aether pressure stopped them from succeeding.
"Perfect timing," Alaric exhaled.
That sound-those all-too-familiar heavy footsteps-was definitely Teygen, and beside him, judging by the sound, was the swordsman Arian. Sitting in the cell, I finally let out a quiet breath, realizing that repeating the original actions in the Convergence Zone and then revealing some further aspects of our strength had played their part. Scythe Seris had apparently understood that Arthur Leywin was still alive, though who I was-that was a question whose answer she would not learn anytime soon, if she learned it at all. But that did not matter.
What mattered was that after this trial the Academy Arc would begin, a calmer place, and at last we would obtain the Relic that would allow entry into the Relictombs at will.
My thoughts broke off when I heard a familiar pompous phrase.
"Guards, ensure that the judges of this panel do not go anywhere, and for Vritra's sake, someone remove the chains from this man," ordered the fiery-haired Chief Judge.
"No need," Arthur said simply.
A sharp metallic groan filled the courtroom as the chains binding Arthur snapped apart. Fragments of metal flew across the room, making an unpleasant sound that once again filled my ears.
And there it was-at that moment, I heard Arthur rub his wrist slightly and finally-
"My apologies for destroying your artifact, but..." I could practically feel the smile he gave them all. "You know... in the interest of time."
Well then, we sit and wait for them to open the doors. Of course, it would have been cool if I simply broke the bars and showed up to them waving and smiling, but that would draw far too much attention. One Arthur who ignores all artifacts is enough; if a second one appeared, curious Vritra might try to catch us.
It's paranoia, of course, but who knows...
× × × × ×
"What a wonderful place," I said, genuinely impressed by the view before me.
Darrin's country house in the rural lands of Sehz-Clar was enormous. I had nothing to compare it to, since I had never in my life seen anything like it, and it was surrounded by green and golden fields stretching as far as I could see. A small town was tucked between two hills several miles away, and several other similar estates were scattered around the area.
The main structure was two stories tall, but widened into low wings spreading out in both directions. The entire manor was built from pale red brick with white stone columns. The house was surrounded by a manicured yard with green grass and thick flowering shrubs, and a path led eastward to a hill where something like an enclosed plot could be seen.
"The advantage of living in the countryside," Darrin said, beaming. "Property costs a quarter of what you'd pay in the more densely populated Dominions, and the soil on these hills is poor, so you don't have to compete with farmers for land rights either."
"I'm a little surprised you don't live in the Relictombs," Arthur said, running a finger along the edge of a bright violet flower. "Considering what you do."
Darrin led us across the broad lawn, at the middle of which stood the entrance. "I couldn't afford property there, and the best I could do would be to rent a two-room suite at one of the better inns, and even that would cost a small fortune." He paused, taking in the hills and the bright, wide sky. "No, I think I'd rather live here and pay for teleportation."
I followed his gaze, once again admiring the landscape. This place really was beautiful.
"I understand your choice. The view here is lovely," Arthur said, blinking slowly.
Darrin laid a hand on Alaric's shoulder. "I'd never have managed any of this without my mentor. Know this-you're both in good hands, even if he pretends to be rough."
Alaric snorted, his already flushed cheeks darkening, his gaze going anywhere but Darrin. "And that's worked out splendidly for me, seeing as you ended up owning nothing but a single estate in the back of nowhere..."
Grinning, Darrin knocked softly on the door.
A moment later it flew open, and a girl no older than seven or eight rushed into his arms. "Uncle Darrin!" she cried, hugging his neck and smiling over his shoulder.
When she realized there were three more people there, her emerald-green eyes widened, and she squealed and wriggled out of Darrin's embrace to hide behind him and peer at us.
Arthur tried to give the little girl a friendly smile and wave, with the result that she darted behind Darrin's back while he laughed at Arthur's attempt.
"Penn, these are my friends, Alaric, Gray, and Lucius," Darrin said, gently drawing her back out and ruffling her dark blond hair. "It's all right, they're friendly. Gray and Lucius definitely are."
Alaric's face twisted into a menacing snarl, and he growled, "But I'm evil, and I bake delicious pies out of little children!"
The girl giggled and looked up at Darrin. "Your friends are funny!"
"At any rate, they think they are," Darrin answered, rolling his eyes at Alaric. He scooped the girl up into his arms and carried her over the threshold, motioning for us to follow.
"Heard anything from your mother while I was away?" he asked her as we entered the foyer, from which two curved staircases led upward.
She shook her head and pouted. "No."
Darrin hugged her again and patted her reassuringly on the back. "It's all right. I'm sure she'll be back soon." He set her down on the granite-tiled floor. "Why don't you go tell the others that we have guests?"
Nodding solemnly, the girl vanished through the door to our right.
"Yours?" Arthur asked, watching the little girl bounce away.
"Oh, no," Darrin said, running a hand through his hair. "Her mother is one of my former teammates. She's still an Ascender. Penn stays with me sometimes while her mother is in the Relictombs."
Blinking lightly through the hair that, after three weeks in prison, looked like the hair of a bum, I noticed a figure leaning against the wall in the corner. It was a girl with bright orange hair, the color fading into a sunny ash tone as it fell to her shoulders. She wore a white blouse with silver buttons and tight leather pants, and a long slender sword hung at her belt.
But what stood out most were her brown eyes-or rather, the way they slowly traveled over Arthur and then me, starting from our shoes and ending at our dirty hair, before she rolled her eyes dismissively.
"Master Darrin!" another cheerful voice sounded from the room behind the stairs. A plump woman with ash-brown hair emerged, wiping her hands on a towel. "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear the door open."
Darrin smiled warmly at her, though his gaze lingered on the passage where the girl had vanished. "No problem, Sorrel. We have guests for the evening."
The woman curtsied, her tightly curled brown hair bouncing around her round face. "A pleasure! You four must be hungry, Master Darrin?"
Alaric's stomach growled pitifully in response, and he patted it approvingly. "Pay no attention to that. Better tell me where your wardrobe is?" Without waiting for an answer, the old man marched off decisively.
Shaking his head at his friend, Darrin said, "Why don't you show Gray and Lucius to the bath first?" Turning to us, he added, "I assume it's been a long time since you had a warm bath?"
"I haven't touched water at all since entering the Relictombs," I answered, brushing a few more dirty strands from my eyes where they had fallen and blocked my view. Darrin responded with an awkward little sound.
× × × × ×
The walls of the bathing room were carved from rocky stone, and the bath itself was sunk into the smooth stone floor of the "cave." After Sorrel left, showing Arthur and me to separate bathing rooms, I quickly looked around.
Besides the bath, there was a mirror set into the wall, a row of racks and hooks for hanging clothes, and a human-sized niche I did not notice immediately until I found a small copper button beside it.
The button clicked when I pressed it, and a wave of warmth rolled over my body. I stuck my hand inside; the air was dry and warm. Pressing the button again turned it off.
Modern luxury. What a contrast with the slums of Maerin.
Turning my attention to the bath, I found a row of buttons along the edge. Quickly scanning them and seeing one labeled Salt Bath, I decided I had to try that one first. The internet often praised that kind of relaxation, and since I had the chance, why not?
Pressing the button made warm salty water flow from the walls of the stone bath, and it filled before I had even finished taking off the very simple clothes I had worn to court.
Quickly sinking into the warm water, I exhaled. In nearly a month spent in the Relictombs and three weeks in prison, I had gotten clean water only once-not for washing, not really, more like for a splash-down. The Granbehls had provided enough water for three handfuls and one dirty stinking rag. How noble of them. Most of the grime I had accumulated in the Granbehl estate anyway, since in the prison-the torture cell-they did not meet even minimal sanitary standards.
After lying there for fifteen minutes and not receiving instant sleep restoration or super relaxation, I decided to wash quickly and finally put my filthy hair in order.
In waltz tempo, I put on a new rank 5 outfit-well, more precisely, an old one, but since it had been stored in the wealth-doubling system and never worn, I considered it new.
I sat before the mirror and, staring attentively at my reflection, began gathering my hair into an intricate braid woven from several smaller braids. My fingers moved almost automatically now, though once such things had taken much more time. I used to do hairstyles like this for my sister often, because Mom was always stuck at work and did not always have time to help her get ready.
It mattered to me that my sister look better than anyone else, and that was why one day I sat down, spent several evenings on it, dug around on the internet, looked through a heap of options, and learned several kinds of braiding. Then, once I understood the basics, it all gradually turned into pure improvisation: one braid fed into another, strands lay where imagination suggested, and each new hairstyle came out a little better, a little easier, a little more special and soft.
Now everything came much more easily to me-and at the same time caused far more pain. My fingers moved with confidence, almost from memory: I carefully lifted the strands, separated them, wove them together, adjusted the loose hairs, and from time to time tilted my head slightly to examine the result from a different angle. Every movement was precise, measured, painfully familiar. The bathroom was wrapped in almost complete silence, broken only by the faint rustle of hair sliding between my fingers and my own even, steady breathing.
A minute later, the hairstyle was finished.
I gently shook my head-first to one side, then to the other-checking how well it held. Almost at once, it became clear that I had done it flawlessly: not a single hair had slipped free, not a single strand had shifted, not a single detail disturbed its perfect form. Everything looked exactly as it should.
I held my gaze on my reflection in the mirror for several long seconds.
And then, over my own face, another seemed to appear-as though laid over it: my sister's smiling face.
Before my eyes rose her soft, warm smile, so vivid, so real that for a moment my breath caught in my throat. Almost immediately after that, her voice sounded in my ears-bright, lively, carrying that particular shade of feigned indignation that always appeared whenever she gave a quiet little cry after I accidentally tugged her hair while doing it.
The memory was so vivid, so painfully close, that for one brief moment it seemed to me that if I only turned around, she would be there again.
Drip. Drip.
Tears poured from my eyes on their own. I immediately tried to stop them, throwing my head back and pressing my palms to my eyes, but it was useless. The tears kept falling without pause, hot and uncontrollable, and I could no longer tell at what point I had stopped fighting them. Just moments ago, the warm bathroom had felt comforting; now it seemed unbearably cold, as though all the air within it had frozen to ice in a single instant.
Some time passed before I managed to calm down, at least a little. After several heavy breaths, I slowly lowered my hands and looked at my reflection again.
"It's alright," I whispered hoarsely. "I'll see you all again anyway. No matter what."
I fell silent, feeling something heavy and relentless painfully tighten in my chest once more.
"With this system… it won't take long. I hope."
When everything was finally done, I lifted my eyes to the mirror once more and met my own reflection.
From the mirror stared back feline eyes of different colors, standing out especially vividly against snow-white skin and black hair with white streaks. I wore strict black clothing adorned with runes that carried no meaning except one-to be beautiful. They lay across the fabric in thin patterns, lending the whole appearance something cold, and almost mesmerizing. All of it together-the gaze, the hair, the clothes, the pale skin, the sharp contrasts of color-formed such a complete picture that for a moment even I found it difficult to look away from myself.
I still had trouble perceiving this body as my own. I had gotten used to its size, strength, and agility, but when I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt as if I were wearing someone else's skin, though nearly two months had already passed in the Relictombs since I arrived in this world and around two weeks in the real world. But, as always, I simply let it go. I could change nothing, and besides, I didn't want to change anything about my appearance. Everyone has thought about that at least once, and I was no exception.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I came to one simple but unquestionably correct answer to my own question: just how beautiful was I now?
The answer was obvious.
Indecently.
Or, to be completely honest-
ridiculously beautiful.
But no matter. Time flew by. After a quick meal, Darrin sparred with Arthur and tried to spar with me. Instead of a drawn-out fight, I made it quick-in three moves, I had him flat on his back. And some time later, the four of us were sitting in a remote room having a cozy conversation... almost cozy.
"Say that again," I said, pointing my thumb at myself.
"Boy, I want you to teach," Alaric repeated, a merry glint flashing in his eyes. "You and Gray should become professor and teaching assistant at the Central Academy."
Fuck.
I want to be the assistant if possible. Sitting through meetings and making nice conversation with the other professors is not for me. Let Gray handle that. Up until recently, I was a student myself.