Waking up for the second time in Efrem’s cabin was even worse than the first. Back then, adrenaline and shock kept my body together. Now came the “crash.” Every cell of my twelve-year-old body rebelled. The skin on my back, tightened by burns, had turned into dry, brittle parchment—any slight movement felt like it would crack with a dry snap.

  But worse was my right hand. The clay cocoon that had saved my life in the swamp had now become my personal torture chamber. Inside it, a heavy, rotting heat pulsed relentlessly.

  Efrem wasn’t going to show me mercy. He approached my pallet, smelling of cheap tobacco and sour sweat, and without warning grabbed my stump.

  “Time to break your shell open, ‘engineer,’” he rasped. “Either it’s living flesh in there, or I’ll chop your arm off at the elbow before the infection climbs higher.”

  He picked up a chisel and began methodically flaking away the dried clay. The pain was so sharp I almost bit my own tongue. With every chip, the clay came away with pieces of dead skin and coagulated blood. When the last shard fell to the floor, I saw what was left of my hand.

  It was not a sight for the faint of heart: pink, oozing flesh, dark patches of necrosis on the phalanges, and a clear stench of rot.

  — [The Will to Live]… report, I ordered mentally, holding back the urge to vomit.

  “Decay process localized. Deep tissue damage: 62%. Immediate cleansing and cellular stimulation required. Recommended: concentrated mana usage.”

  Efrem poured some kind of alcohol tincture onto the wound. I arched my body like a bow, a hoarse, inhuman sound ripping from my throat.

  “Endure it, boy. There’s no place for tenderness in the swamp,” the old man grumbled, wrapping my hand in (relatively) clean rags. “Hungry?”

  He tossed a bowl of gray porridge onto the table. Lurking in it were lizard roe and some bitter roots. To my thirty-year-old mind, it looked like vomit, but I ate. Slowly, spoonful by spoonful, forcing down fuel. I needed calories. I needed strength—not to be just a piece of meat in that hovel.

  After “breakfast,” Efrem cleared the table, sweeping the scraps to the floor, and laid before me what he had actually left me alive for: the Order’s steel safe.

  Up close, it looked like a complex puzzle. In my old world, such things would be protected by biometric scanners or multi-layer encryption. Here, magic did the guarding, but the logic was the same. The engraving in the center was not mere decoration—it was a circuit board, where magical threads served as the pathways.

  “Found it six months ago. Tried to open it—almost singed my beard,” Efrem said, folding his arms, waiting for my verdict.

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  I leaned closer. My bloodshot eyes traced the structure of the protection. For Efrem, it was just a box. For me, it was a system.

  “Object: Field communication safe. Security class: B-2. Internal cavity: concentrated mana essence.”

  Essence. This was my ticket to survival. If I got to it, I could restore the mana channels and make my hand work again.

  “This safe has self-destruction, Efrem,” I whispered. “Strike it with a hammer, and a thermal charge will trigger. Everything inside turns to ash, and so do we.”

  “And how do you open it?” the old man frowned, his hand instinctively resting on the knife’s hilt.

  “I’ll be your eyes, you’ll be my hands. Get the tools. Fine needles and copper clamps.”

  We began. It was like defusing a World War II bomb—only instead of wires, there were threads of raw energy.

  “See the curl on the right?” I nodded with my chin, since my hands were busy surviving. “Insert the needle three millimeters. No more. If you feel resistance—freeze.”

  Efrem breathed heavily. The smell of tension clung to him. His fingers, used to heavy axes, now trembled as they tried to perform delicate work. Through the interface, I watched the magical threads of the lock glow red.

  “Stop! Too deep! Shift left by a hair!”

  “How can you see that, kid?!” the old man hissed, but obeyed.

  “I don’t see, I calculate,” I lied. “Every rune has its rhythm. You’re off-beat.”

  We sat like that for three hours. My vision blurred, [The Will to Live] flashing warnings of critical fatigue. To “see” the contours of the safe without mana, I was burning my very life force. Blood ran again from my nose, dripping onto the filthy table.

  “Now the clamp,” I whispered, feeling my consciousness slip away. “Pull the central rune toward you. Slowly. Like extracting a splinter from living flesh.”

  A dry, musical click sounded. The red threads on the lid suddenly paled, turned sky blue, then vanished entirely. The lock surrendered. The lid slid open with a soft hiss, releasing a puff of cold vapor.

  Inside were three glass vials of blue liquid, leather scrolls, and a small crystal, pulsing with steady inner light.

  Efrem immediately reached for the crystal—his marauder’s instinct couldn’t resist the shine.

  “Mine!” he roared.

  I intercepted his wrist. My fingers were weak, but my gaze was cold and calculating, like a corpse’s.

  “Stop. Touch it and it will drain you dry. That’s an officer-grade communication storage, tuned to the Order’s magical signature. It will burn your channels. The vials, though—they’re stimulants. Drink one, and you can run across the swamp for two days without sleep or food. That’s your share.”

  Efrem looked at the blue vials, then at the crystal. A battle raged in his head between greed and fear.

  “And the crystal—who gets it? You?”

  “Me. My payment. With it, I can fix your gadgets twice as fast. Without it, I’m just a cripple who eats your supplies and dies by winter. Your choice, Efrem. Do you want a partner or another corpse in the Swamp?”

  The old man was silent for a long time, staring at my face. He looked for fear but found only the steel resolve of a thirty-year-old who had nothing to lose. Finally, he snorted and withdrew his hand.

  “Take it, ratling. But note this: if you’re not working at full strength within three days—I’ll tear that crystal from your insides.”

  At night, I did not sleep. I sat on the straw, holding the crystal to my chest. I felt fine, needle-like streams of energy flowing into my torn channels. It hurt. It felt like shattered glass being poured through my veins. Yet I smiled.

  My chances of survival had grown. This was not just a victory over the safe—it was a victory over my own weakness.

  “System integrity: 26%. Regeneration accelerated.”

  “Reboot,” I whispered into the empty cabin. “Let’s see how you sing when the ‘defect’ comes to collect its dues. End transmission.”