Grass rustled beneath his elbows. Grizzled locks merged with silvery fronds, skin the colour of scorched wood losing definition amongst shadow and light. The man lay motionless, part of the hill itself.

  The spyglass slid left. The watchtower—third from the northern edge. An overseer in a worn leather jerkin, crossbow on his shoulder. Lazy gaze, unshaven jaw, finger tapping the railing. Changed shifts every two hours.

  The glass shifted lower. Rows of silkweed stretched to the very horizon—white caps on withered stalks. Between them moved figures. Hunched backs, calloused palms bearing bloody wounds, slow, laboured movements.

  A dwarf—a metre tall, broad shoulders—dragged a basket twice his own size. Hauled it along the ground, leaving a furrow. The skin on his back covered in scars, thick as ropes.

  Nearby—a human, thin to the point of transparency. Ribs protruded through his torn shirt. Fingers plucked pods mechanically, without looking. Eyes dead, like glass.

  Further on—an elf woman. Long ears cropped halfway. Hair tangled, matted with dirt and sweat. Lips moved—she muttered something under her breath. A prayer or a curse.

  The glass swung right. There, in the plantation's far corner, moved a mountain.

  A granite kaldrun. Four metres tall, skin the colour of dark basalt, riddled with cracks. Stone shoulders strained as he dragged a plough—enormous, iron, the kind usually pulled by entire teams of oxen. Chains on wrists and ankles, thick as a grown man's arm. Round his neck—a collar with spikes driven into stone flesh.

  The giant moved slowly, heavily. The earth shuddered beneath each step. Behind him limped an overseer on a deer, brandishing a whip, bellowing something inarticulate. He was an elf, evidently the shift supervisor personally controlling the giant.

  The whip struck the kaldrun's back. A spark flared where the skin cracked. The giant didn't even turn. Continued walking.

  The man lowered the glass, closed his eyes. Calculated mentally.

  Four towers. Eight overseers on watch. Another dozen in the barracks—they'd wake the moment the alarm sounded. The master's main house—in the centre, behind a high palisade. Guard dogs. Two sentries at the gate, one at the stables.

  Slaves—hundreds. Too many to free all at once. They'd have to choose.

  He opened his eyes. Raised the glass again, trained it on the kaldrun. The latter stopped, lowered the plough. Turned his head—slowly, majestically. Red eyes flared, like coals beneath ash.

  Gazes met across the distance.

  The kaldrun nodded. Once.

  The man smirked, lowered the glass. Crawled backwards, concealing himself behind the ridge of the hill. Rolled onto his back, pulled a piece of charcoal from his belt, unfolded a battered sheet of paper.

  He sketched a diagram. Towers—crosses. Barracks—a square. Main house—a circle with a dot in the centre. Arrows showed attack directions.

  First strike—northern tower. Quiet, fast. Before the rest noticed.

  Second—the stables. Cut the saddles, release the horses. Panic.

  Third—the main house gates. Set fire. Smoke would distract the guard.

  The rest—improvisation.

  He folded the paper, tucked it back behind his belt. Retrieved the glass once more, verified everything.

  The glass wasn't enough. The man squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Faces blurred into smudges. Dwarf, elf woman, human—silhouettes, shadows, nothing concrete. Features erased by distance and heat rising from the earth in waves.

  Elren could be there. Or he might not.

  The man opened his eyes, shook his head. Didn't matter. Every camp, every plantation, every damned pen where people rotted in chains—all of it was personal revenge. He'd attack them all. One after another. Until he found his son or until they found him first.

  He crawled from the ridge, rose to his full height when the hill concealed him from the sentries. Descended the slope—quickly but without noise. Grass gave way to stones, those to dry earth. The ravine's bottom lay in shadow, like a wound in the body of the world.

  There, people waited.

  Three detachments. The first—a dozen fighters in mismatched armour, weapons battered, faces indifferent. Mercenaries for copper. They'd come, stand about, swing swords for show, flee when things heated up. The second detachment was no better—slightly more people, slightly less professionalism. A mob, not warriors.

  But the third...

  The man stopped at the ravine's edge, surveyed his own people. Eleven fighters, drawn up in a semicircle. Quiet, collected, weapons at the ready. Gazes sharp, breathing even. Real soldiers.

  In the centre stood a youth. A head taller than the rest—hair neatly swept back, bearing straight as a spear. Blue eyes looked straight at the man, without timidity but with respect.

  Aurex Imperius.

  The man smirked, perched on a stone. Recalled how the lad corrected anyone who shortened the name.

  "Graveborn," the youth pronounced, stepping forward. "Reconnaissance complete?"

  "Complete, Rex." The man smirked.

  The lad's eyes twitched—barely noticeable, like a jab. Lips compressed.

  "Aurex Imperius," he spoke slowly, weightily. Erian found this mannerism of his amusing, and watching his efforts he understood that every person had their flaws.

  "Too long," the man rose, pulled out the crumpled sheet, unfolded it. "Rex is shorter. High time you got used to it..."

  The lad opened his mouth but remained silent. Nodded once, sharply. Approached closer, peered at the diagram.

  "Four towers," the man jabbed charcoal at the crosses. "First—northern. Quiet. One person. You."

  Rex inclined his head, studying the markings. Fingers slid across the paper, stopped at the square.

  "The barracks?"

  "My task. After you remove the sentry."

  "The stables?"

  "Two of ours. The other two detachments—cover and distraction. Let them make noise at the gates whilst we work."

  The lad straightened, crossed his arms on his chest. Gaze appraising, cold.

  "The plan's risky."

  "The plan's the only one."

  "The mercenaries will flee."

  "That's why we're leaving the rest of the group behind them."

  "There'll be eight. And the plantation itself is enormous."

  "We free the granite-man first," the man folded the sheet, hid it behind his belt. "After that he'll manage himself. That's your next task."

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  Rex remained silent, pondering. Then nodded.

  "When do we begin?"

  "Sunset. An hour, maybe less."

  The lad turned, waved to the other group members waiting aside. They moved closer, surrounded them in a tight semicircle. The mercenaries remained to one side, exchanging glances, shifting from foot to foot.

  The man straightened, swept his gaze across faces.

  "The northern tower falls first. Quiet. Then the stables, Sidi, Kaza, that's your objective. I'll take the barracks, Otton the detachment's on you, mercenaries will storm the gates, press them from behind. Don't stint on methods! Don't let them falter until the granite-man's freed. If anyone runs—don't pursue. Main objective—burst in and begin freeing and arming the slaves. Questions?"

  Silence.

  Fresco stepped forward, placed his hand on his sword hilt.

  "Aurex Imperius is ready."

  The man smirked, shook his head.

  "Very well, Aurex Imperius. Prepare." Before the other group members he tried not to wound the lad's dignity, unless it concerned his own authority as leader.

  Though debates about who played first fiddle in their duet had long since ended. Erian closed his eyes, allowing memory to return to those times.

  The cave met him with damp and cold. Stone beneath bare feet slippery with moss. Torches burnt dimly, casting trembling shadows on the walls.

  The priest who met him when he emerged from the darkness—ancient, hunched, in a torn mantle the colour of ash. His staff tapped against stone, echoing hollowly. Face furrowed with wrinkles, eyes whitish, as though faded.

  "Welcome to Tir-na-Brig," the voice creaked like rusty hinges. "Accept the gift."

  Erian opened his mouth but didn't manage to speak. The staff soared upward, crashed down. His skull cracked. Darkness washed over him in a wave.

  He came to at the reincarnation stele. The temple—small, stone walls covered in carvings. Standard statues of the Twelve. Light streamed through narrow windows, fell in strips across the floor.

  Nearby stood a lad. Tall, blond, a soldier's bearing. Arms crossed on chest, gaze appraising. He studied Erian like goods at market.

  "First time?" Voice level, with emphasis.

  Erian rose, dusted off his knees. Nodded. Explaining that he'd experienced all this hundreds of times held no appeal.

  "Aurex Imperius," the lad extended his hand, confidently, as though he were his commander. "Started three days ago. You?"

  "Graveborn."

  The handshake was firm, testing. The lad looked straight into his eyes, as though weighing whether it was worth spending time.

  "Alone?"

  "Seems like it."

  "Two's more efficient. Will you come with me?"

  Erian smirked. The lad spoke like a general issuing orders. But in his eyes was something more—hunger, thirst to prove himself. Ambitions honed to a blade's edge.

  "Why me?"

  "Because I see how you carry yourself. Like a soldier. And your age... You're not one of the refusers, are you?"

  In all the worlds of the Ether existed a rigid rule—it was impossible to create an avatar whose age radically differed from one's real, biological age. The system wouldn't let a thirty-year-old become an ancient sage or a seventy-year-old turn into a youth. The variation was minimal—plus or minus ten years, no more.

  Therefore in Seratis, Graveborn materialised in the guise of a man beginning to age, whose hair was already touched by grey—not completely, but noticeably, silvery strands breaking through the dark. His face bore traces of lived years—lines round his eyes, sharper cheekbones, a hard jawline. But his body remained strong, shoulders broad, movements confident. This was a man on the threshold of old age but still full of strength—like steel tempered by time yet not having lost its edge.

  "I can see you're sharp-eyed, lad. No, I'm not one of the refusers, though I wouldn't refuse joint play." Erian smirked at the wordplay.

  From then on they levelled together. Hunted wolves in forests, cleared caves of goblins, completed quests from the village elder. Aurex fought cleanly, technically, every strike measured. Erian—simpler, cruder, but effectively. They complemented each other. The first dealt main damage, the second absorbed it.

  Three weeks later they left Tir-na-Brig. The road led north, to Dun-Caer—a city where stone walls rose three times a man's height, where weapons were forged and everything they might need for future travels was traded. Though for the sake of levelling they delayed somewhat on the way.

  At the gates, a crowd. Voices mixed into a single hum. Erian pushed closer, listened.

  "...The Alvion dogs attacked at night..."

  "...burnt houses, took everyone who didn't manage to hide..."

  "...women, children. Men and old folk killed on the spot..."

  His heart clenched when he heard the familiar name. Tir-na-Brig. Their village. There remained the priest, the smith, the innkeeper with a round face and kind hands. Children playing by the well.

  Beside him Aurex froze. His face turned to stone.

  "Taoshekh Brann is gathering an army," proclaimed a herald who'd climbed onto a cart. "A retaliatory raid. Anyone who can hold a sword—to the barracks, by sunset!"

  Erian looked at the lad. He nodded.

  The barracks hummed like a disturbed hive. Fighters streamed in from all corners of the city—mercenaries, adventurers, farmers with pitchforks and axes. Taoshekh Brann stood in the centre of the yard—an enormous earthling, nearly matching humans in height but far more squat and broad. With a beard to his waist, in mail studded with dents. His voice rolled like thunder.

  Erian peered at the earthling's face. Brann's eyes burnt, his beard quivered with fury. Taoshekh raised a metal-bound fist to the sky.

  "Alvion thinks it can steal our wives with impunity, take children from cradles, burn houses where we were born and raised!" The voice rolled across the assembled ranks. "We'll show them that Dun-Caer remembers insults! We'll show them that in the kingdom of Caer Eiran there are still those who can take revenge!"

  A roar of approval.

  The campaign lasted two weeks. They moved fast, without halts. Slept in carts and saddles. On the eighth day they reached an Alvion camp—palisade, tents, campfires. The elves had relaxed, celebrating a successful raid.

  The strike came at dawn.

  Erian smashed into the first line, his sword cleaving necks, chests, arms. Aurex moved beside him—every lunge precise, every thrust finding its mark. Blood sprayed onto grass, screams mixing with the clash of metal.

  They found the pens in the camp's centre. Women, children—filthy, emaciated, but alive. Erian broke the locks, threw open the gates. People flooded out, some weeping, some falling to their knees.

  Taoshekh Brann personally presented them with their reward. A handful of gold, weapons and a nod of approval.

  "You fought like true warriors. I won't forget."

  Reputation came quietly but firmly. In taverns they began to be recognised. Contracts poured in one after another. Gradually other group members gathered round them. The same daredevils, but knowing the word honour.

  Not all of them were players—to be precise, besides the two of them, the group contained only two players. Sidiriona and Kazariona, twin sisters who understood each other perfectly. They'd chosen the assassins' path and fitted into the group excellently.

  Game classes didn't exist in the Ether, but over centuries of development, people had studied and compiled optimal sets themselves. A combination of skills, abilities and attributes that suited one role or another. Aurex had chosen the warrior's path, a pure physical fighter dealing enormous damage in close combat. Grave likewise developed as a warrior, but with emphasis on defence and holding bosses and mobs on himself. In other words, he was the group's main tank.

  The Alvionites cursed the day they'd attacked their native village. The Gravehands, as they came to be known in the borderlands, always accomplished the task set before them, whatever it cost. Their name became a byword—whispered in taverns, cursed round campfires, legendary in barrack halls. Every contract ended the same way: target dead, group intact, reputation harder than steel.

  True, they weren't high-level fighters, but for raiding small outposts and organising ambushes, this had no impact. Sabotage was sabotage, even if no one was killed, burnt supplies couldn't be retrieved.

  Erian didn't let the lads descend into complete banditry and anarchy from euphoria, instilling understanding that they were warriors, not mercenaries, soldiers or adventurers. He demanded discipline where others saw only freedom. Demanded honour where it was easier to spit and take everything by force. And it worked—slowly, stubbornly, but it worked.

  They never fought peaceful NPCs, never robbed villages, never crossed that line beyond which only contempt awaited them, even from their own. Erian personally monitored this. No incidents occurred—or rather, those who committed them didn't remain with them. The man handed two such clever lads over to the inhabitants' judgement, so those wishing to repeat their exploits simply left the group. Others came to replace them.

  Another niche of their activities became hunting particularly large beasts and creatures. Swamp wyverns, stone trolls, ice basilisks—everything that required not simply strength but coordination, cunning and iron nerves. Though they hadn't yet achieved particular success in this direction. Hardly surprising, however—they'd only just gained their thirtieth levels, and everything lay ahead. Erian knew: real hunting would begin after the fiftieth.

  The Gravehands' fame reached the gaming community too. They received plenty of offers from major clans to join their ranks upon reaching fortieth level, when this became available to them. Gold, equipment, access to exclusive raids—everything with which rising stars were usually tempted. Letters arrived daily. Some recruiters came in person. Once they even sent a courier with a gift—an enchanted sword, just like that, "as a sign of respect".

  Erian and, to his surprise, Aurex immediately refused them. Each refusal sounded polite but firm. Without explanations, without excuses. Simply "no". The old man needed freedom of action until he found his son, and regarding the lad's motives he didn't know, but valued his action highly.

  But the girls, after thoughtful deliberation, decided to leave the group immediately after completing today's raid. Sidiriona and Kazariona sat by the fire when they announced this. The elder spoke—Sidi. The younger remained silent, but her eyes were full of resolve. The clan "Silver Covenant" had offered them a place in their ranks. Wages, status, prospects. Things the Gravehands couldn't provide.

  Erian nodded. Aurex compressed his lips but remained silent. No one tried to hold them back. Each makes their own choice independently. They agreed to remain until the end of their current combat sortie, but afterwards would leave the detachment immediately. The clan promised to raise them to fortieth level faster.

  Erian opened his eyes. Aurex stood before him, back straight, hands folded behind—the habitual military bearing. Awaiting command. Gaze focused, collected, as though before battle.

  "Remember Tir-na-Brig?" The man smirked, raising the corner of his mouth.

  "That's when it all began." The lad nodded. Once, briefly, confidently.

  Erian stretched, loosened his shoulders.

  "Then." He confirmed, turning to the lad and looking him straight in the eyes. "What do you reckon—will something begin today too, or not?"

  "Don't know. I only know it's time for us to begin..."