On the evening of the seventh day, as the sun sank towards the horizon and the sky took on dense, almost unreal shades—from molten gold to cold lilac—the path led them to the foot of the cliff. The slopes rose sharply here, like enormous stone waves frozen in eternal motion.

  "At last," flashed through Ainur's mind. Evening light fell upon them in long shadows, rendering everything around almost mystical.

  The mountain air was pure and cold, searing the lungs and carrying the scent of old pine needles, stone, and something ancient, barely perceptible, like the smell of ages themselves.

  "As though time itself has stopped here," she thought, breathing deeply. Below, at the foot, a stream bubbled, born directly from the rock; its transparent water flowed into a wide basin and ran down through the gorge. Here, amongst thousands of pines, the wind sounded especially muffled, as though it dared not disturb the peace of this place. With each step closer, silence thickened; even the birds, it seemed, had fallen silent.

  Zhalgaztur gazed upwards for a long time, to where, amongst sheer walls, a dark gap was hidden—the entrance to the cave of spirits.

  "Here," he said at last, quietly, yet so that his voice echoed in the mountains. "Pitch the yurts by the stream."

  The baksy rose slowly, with difficulty but surely, and, carefully lifting the body of the unconscious youth, descended from the wagon. "Now everything is in your hands, balym," he thought, looking at the lad's face. The chest rose of its own accord and began following Zhalgaztur.

  "I must finish what I left this place for," he whispered, gazing at the cliff. "Kaisar, when you've finished helping, return without waiting for me."

  "Very well, atababa!" Pressing his hand to his heart, the basy bowed respectfully to his ancestor. His gesture was repeated by all present. "May the rukhs protect you, old man," Kaisar added silently.

  Zhalgaztur began ascending the steps hewn into the stone. They were wide but worn by time, their edges polished to a shine. Each step resonated with a low rumble, as though the mountain itself heeded his passage.

  The baksy's figure slowly dissolved into the cliff's deep shadow, and when he set foot on the last visible step, a sharp gust of wind swept down from the mountain peak, striking the faces of those who remained below. It was cold, yet carried something more—a harbinger of change.

  "Set up camp. Quickly. We must finish before dark." Kaisar assumed command naturally.

  The basy did not stay overnight by the cliff, and as soon as the yurts were erected and the supplies unloaded, he sent the extra people back. The farewell, though brief, left both sadness and warmth in everyone's hearts.

  And now Ainur watched as the shadows lengthened, filling the gorge with dense blue. The mountain stream, ringing against stones, beckoned with its transparency. She dropped to her knees, scooped a handful of icy water. The moisture seared her lips, slid down her throat, bringing with it a sensation of purity she had never known.

  A quiet grunt sounded behind her. Orgatai, leaning on his staff, surveyed the cliffs with the air of a man returned to a long-abandoned home.

  "Have you been here before, Ata?" Ainur asked.

  The old warrior remained silent for a long time, gazing at the entrance to the cave vanishing between the rocks.

  "No, kyzym. But I was born in one of the mountain auls…"

  He raised his gaze to the darkening sky.

  "Mountains are all different, yet there is something common amongst them… They do not age. Do not die."

  Yernazar stood frozen apart. His eyes became strangely empty, as though looking inward. His lips moved soundlessly. Slowly, he raised his hands, as though feeling invisible threads in the air.

  "Do you feel it?" Yernazar's whisper was barely audible. "They are here. Everywhere."

  "Who?" Ainur asked, involuntarily lowering her voice.

  "Spirits. Rukhs. Hundreds. Thousands." The young man's fingers trembled, tracing invisible silhouettes. "They are arriving from everywhere. They move around us… circle… wait."

  High above their heads, between the mountain peaks, the first stars flared—unnaturally large, bright, close. Their light seemed to pierce through clothing, flesh, bone—to the very essence of being.

  "What are they waiting for?" Ainur's voice wavered.

  Yernazar turned his face towards her. In the twilight, his eyes glowed with a strange inner ice.

  "Awakening…"

  ***

  What the immaterial beings had awaited happened the following day. Yet for the lad himself, awakening left far from pleasant memories. Never before had he felt so wretched.

  From the moment he lost consciousness, only an instant had passed for him, diluted by the aftertaste of memory fragments and dreams.

  "As though a thousand needles pierced every cell of my body," Ayan thought. Only recently he had wished to die, if only for it all to stop.

  "At least some relief." Now Ayan could at least think coherently, and simply opening his eyes no longer brought cutting pain.

  Having somewhat recovered, he was greatly surprised when he looked around.

  Firstly, something was wrong with his vision. He saw everything perfectly well, only in some grey tones.

  "What the devil?" And the lad saw far too much. Even the tiniest particles of dust in the air.

  It's like looking sideways at a ray of sunlight breaking through incompletely closed windows. Only there was no ray, and the entire cave was filled with these dust particles. And he saw them.

  "Is this normal? Or is something wrong with me?"

  Secondly, hearing. Ayan spent about ten minutes pondering what he was hearing…

  "This steady drumming… like a drum." Eventually it dawned on him that this was his own pulse. The young man could hear his heart contracting, blood flowing through his veins. And this frightened him.

  "Am I truly hearing my own blood? This can't be normal! Do all people perceive the surrounding world this way? Then I understand why they didn't consider me defective." Such thoughts circled in his head.

  His instructors came to mind. He wondered what Rotis would say about this.

  "Probably something like 'observe and analyse'." Rotis and Elaya had never considered the lad defective, but they weren't human either. Merely digital programmes, NPCs created specifically so the lad wouldn't go mad when left alone at night in the entire school. Ayan decided their opinion on this matter wasn't entirely relevant.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  It should be noted that remembering them brought bitterness to the lad's heart. He didn't know what future awaited them after his departure into the Ether. Would computational resources still be spent on them, now their task was complete? He had no answers.

  Thirdly, Ayan was floating. Difficult to describe, but he seemed suspended in a zone of complete weightlessness. Though the mattresses, blankets, and pillows lying on the floor told him gravity was functioning normally.

  Also in this cave stood a crudely constructed wooden table and stool.

  Ayan hadn't ceased attempting to escape the aerial trap since becoming aware of being in it, but had made no progress whatsoever. Instead, he listened with interest to the working of his own joints and muscles.

  "Incredible, I feel every movement… every muscle contraction. Never experienced this before," flashed through his mind.

  Though they weren't quite his, experiencing himself in an orc's mighty body was even more pleasant for the lad. Understanding that his limbs obeyed him and he could move them freely was also fantastic. What wasn't pleasant was helplessly hanging in the air meanwhile.

  He was as though in a bubble, able to twist and turn within it. But he was as though chained to its centre.

  "What mockery is this? I have a body but cannot move. As always, I get half a happiness."

  At one point he even forgot himself and, like a child at a theme park, began enjoying his position.

  Laughing from the joy of having a functioning body, he didn't hear his own voice, and this tension immediately washed away all the merriment.

  "What the devil? I can move but cannot speak?"

  If at first he hadn't wanted to shout and call anyone for help, not knowing where he'd ended up, now he tried shouting at the top of his lungs.

  "What if I've fallen into a trap? Or is this a system bug? Surely someone should hear!" Ayan heard his vocal cords contracting, his throat pushing out sound, but silence emerged.

  Swallowing loudly, the lad collected his thoughts and decided to check the message logs and his profile; perhaps there he'd find clues?

  The first message proved to be a letter from NovaTech:

  "Welcome to the world of Seratis, young soul! Here, amongst ancient mountains and whispering winds, your destiny begins a new chapter. Majestic ridges whose peaks touch the clouds, and valleys saturated with the scents of wild herbs, spread before you as a boundless canvas of possibilities. The twelve gods of the pantheon observe your first steps, weighing each decision, and await deeds from you worthy of songs and legends!

  The earth itself, keeper of ancient secrets and forgotten knowledge, is ready to share its treasures with those worthy of understanding them. Its rivers carry stories from times when the world was young, and its forests conceal artefacts of bygone epochs. Every stone on your path may prove a key to the unknown, every traveller met—a guide or a trial.

  May your path be full of discoveries that will change not only your destiny but the fates of many, and may your heart always burn with the fire of courage, capable of dispelling even the darkness of the unnameable Nocturne! Seratis awaits its hero—will you become one?"

  After the welcoming text came a more specific section, dedicated to orcs:

  "Your wandering soul has merged with a young orc!

  O child of steppes and mountains! You stand at the threshold of a great path walked by your ancestors—proud and free as the wind rushing over boundless expanses. Warriors' blood flows in your veins, and in your chest beats a heart that knows no fear before storm and will not bow before enemy.

  The Northern continent is your home, a harsh and honest land, tolerating no weakness yet generously rewarding strength of spirit. Here each day is a trial, and each night a time when ancestral spirits whisper counsel to those who know how to listen. In the north, the mountain ranges of Tengri-Tau tower over the world like stone guardians protecting your people's peace. Their snowy peaks kiss the clouds, and ancient secrets sleep in the gorges, accessible only to the worthy.

  Mountains give way to lush valleys with fat herds grazing upon them. Your homeland's rivers are not mere water flows but arteries of life, nourishing all living things around. Steppes stretch to the very horizon, covered with feather-grass and wild thyme, where herds race faster than wind and eagles circle in the heavens, seeking prey.

  You were born into a people who do not hoard gold in chests. An orc's wealth lies in his horse, the strength of his bow, the sharpness of his blade, and the keeping of his word. Your kinsmen's auls stand where the land is generous with grass and water, where spirits favour the living.

  Your people honour those who hear spirits' voices and dialogue with the invisible world. Through these wise ones speak rivers, mountains, the Great Heaven, and earth. They are the link between the living and ancestors, between today and times when great heroes still walked this earth. Their word is law for those who understand: strength without wisdom is blind, and wisdom without strength helpless.

  Remember the names of those who rule fates: batyrs, whose valour is sung in songs; biys, whose decisions are just as the scales of heaven; and basys—elders preserving auls' peace. Even the proudest warriors bow before them, for respect for elders is the foundation of order amongst orcs.

  But know: the Northern continent is full of dangers. Undead wander abandoned lands, Nocturne's priests weave intrigues on their hidden islands, and creatures from beneath the earth waylay the unwary. Your strength lies not only in muscle but in a mind capable of distinguishing friend from foe, truth from falsehood.

  Rise then, child of Heaven! May your path be marked with deeds worthy of songs by the fire. May ancestral spirits guide you, and may your blade never dull in your hand. Seratis awaits its heroes—and you can become one of them!

  Taby? t?leymiz, zhas batyr! May the Aruaks protect you!"

  Ayan blinked, digesting what he'd read.

  "Not badly written. Ilira clearly laboured over the atmosphere." The text was beautiful, inspiring, but utterly useless for understanding why he hung in the air unable to make a sound.

  Next came system messages about receiving Heritages. They caused confusion in the lad's head.

  After creating a character and entering the game, each player received their own heritages, generated by Ilira, the artificial intelligence that created and controlled the Ether.

  After the first synchronisation of the full-immersion virtual capsule's neural network with a player's brain, their character received a random number of Heritages. Mainly passive abilities, though active ones occurred. Their number and essence—Russian roulette with an unknown mechanism.

  Forums said the maximum, very rarely occurring for one person, was eight Heritages. But those same forums claimed the limit was far from reached. Simply those who received more preferred to keep silent. And if you thought about it, that was quite logical.

  Why? Simple: these passives reflected a player's real life. Their past, habits, achievements, traumas, environment… How did the game, even in the first minute of entry, extract this from the depths of the subconscious? A question over which neurophysiologists, programmers, and paranoids alike racked their brains—everyone pondered it.

  Ilira revealed no details. NovaTech remained silent too. They simply… knew. And adapted the character to a person's true essence, be they a charismatic leader, introverted loner, egotist, musician, deceiver or, as it proved, an orphaned cripple.

  "My entire life is reflected in them!" Ayan shuddered at the thought that other players could learn of his past merely by glancing at his heritages' names. "Just what I needed…"

  Most amusing, these abilities couldn't be discarded. Even after deleting a character and changing game worlds, they persisted. Your in-game "memory" of who you were before entering the Ether. A true shadow at your back, an inseparable part of your digital identity.

  Yet Ilira had bestowed upon the lad a full thirteen heritages. Ayan could somehow explain receiving all of them to himself, except one. This heritage's name made him ponder for a long time, attempting to find in his past life at least a partial answer to the question: "What the hell?!"

  To stimulate his mental activity, the lad folded his arms across his chest, pressed a finger to his lips, and jerked his legs, continuing his rotation in the air. "Calm down, think, think… what if Ilira knows something about me that I don't know myself? No, that's complete nonsense… Perhaps the answer lies in the operations and medical procedures I underwent in childhood? Most likely so…"

  "Hello, lad. How are you feeling?" The unexpectedly sounding voice made the lad squeal and flinch in fright.

  Hearing his own thin squeal, Ayan tried to erase his memory and sink through the ground.

  "Damn it, how shameful! I squealed like a girl!" Only then did he realise he'd heard his cry, meaning his voice had become available to him.

  The surrounding world showed no hurry in fulfilling his wishes, so these memories would haunt him for a long time yet. Clearing his throat, he tried to add gruffness to his voice. "Pull yourself together, you're an orc, not a squeaky adolescent."

  "Greetings. All is well, thank you. How may I address you?" Formality had always been his shield, detachment his armour.

  "Forgive the suddenness… I'm glad you're well. My name is Zhalgaztur." Answered the man smirking into his ginger moustache, clad in shirt, trousers, and a kaftan carelessly thrown over his shoulders.

  "Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Ay… Nullus, if you prefer."

  "Almost gave away my real name. Concentrate, idiot!"

  "Stop that right now. Be simpler and people will warm to you… Heard of that?" The polite tone used by the lad as a shield clearly didn't suit his interlocutor's taste.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Want simpler? Fine, have it your way."

  Ayan's sarcasm didn't escape Zhalgaztur, which is why he frowned. And doubt about the correctness of such behaviour flashed through the lad's mind.

  "Probably shouldn't have been cheeky with the only living being I've encountered. But this orc doesn't inspire trust…"

  "Suit yourself, but now prepare!" The baksy didn't bother explaining what Ayan should prepare for. But the lad guessed anyway, for it's hard not to understand when you start falling downwards… Head first…