Realising that all their combined physical efforts were bringing no desired result and the situation was becoming critical, Ayan decided to use his unique ability. He concentrated and began methodically transferring the entire contents of the heavily laden cart into his Seal of Storage.

  Mana for transferring the numerous items was catastrophically insufficient. The pale blue resource bar melted away before his very eyes. But the lad had already learnt from conducted experiments that should his mana reserves be exhausted, the system would automatically begin drawing the necessary energy from another source—depleting his Health. And there, thanks to worn items with bonuses to Fortitude, he had significantly more points. Right now, his health bar was far more substantial than the blue one.

  Yet the cargo was plentiful, and it had to be moved very quickly. Consequently, his health began rapidly depleting. The sharp drop of life force into the dangerous red zone proved incredibly painful to his organism. Acute pain pierced his entire body from within, as though thousands of red-hot needles plunged into every muscle simultaneously. Unable to remain on his feet, the lad crashed heavily to his knees straight into the cold snow, clenching his teeth against the surging wave of agony.

  However, the main thing had been achieved—the suddenly lightened cart obediently returned to the relatively safe road, drawing away from the precipice's dangerous edge. Zhuldyz shook her large head with relief, snorting loudly and releasing jets of steam from her nostrils. Orgatai soothingly patted the mare's sweat-dampened neck with his broad palm, then thoroughly checked the leather harness for damage, and only after this did his attention catch a strange sound—he turned round and noticed the lad convulsively coughing up scarlet blood.

  Yernazar had already bent swiftly over Ayan, his large hands moving cautiously but confidently over the injured man's body, enveloped in a soft healing green glow pulsing in time with his quickened breathing.

  This place on the narrow mountain path at the very precipice's edge categorically didn't suit safe prolonged rest and recovery of strength. Therefore, barely feeling his strength return even slightly, and the pain recede to a bearable level, Ayan rose to his feet with difficulty and resolutely insisted on immediately continuing their dangerous journey. The small group moved forward considerably more cautiously, carefully checking each next step.

  The sky darkened. Not because evening was falling—sunset was still far off. Simply clouds crept in like a thick blanket, concealing the sun. The light turned grey, diffused, without shadows. The snow around merged into one endless white shroud, the boundaries between earth and sky blurring.

  The cold intensified. Now it didn't simply creep under clothing—it gripped the body, pressed on the chest, made breathing difficult. Each inhalation cut the throat, each exhalation turned into a cloud of vapour instantly scattered by the wind.

  Ayan squeezed his eyes shut when a gust of wind hurled a handful of snow crystals into his face. His eyes watered, his cheeks burnt. He wiped his face with his sleeve, but it didn't help—a second later everything repeated.

  Winter here didn't jest. It ruled absolutely—merciless, relentless, knowing no compassion and tolerating no weakness. This was its territory, its dominion, where it dictated its harsh laws.

  Thanks to the significant lightening of their load and a more cautious approach to choosing each next step, they managed to overcome the most difficult and dangerous section of their journey without serious incidents or new injuries. Finally reaching a relatively safe place—a spacious recess in a massive cliff, resembling a naturally formed cavern hall, reliably sheltered on all sides from the piercing winds by overhanging stone vaults—they set up a temporary camp with relief, preparing for long-awaited rest.

  Having lit a fire in the centre of the stone shelter, the travellers settled round the dancing flames. Smoke rose to the cave's vault and vanished into crevices, carrying with it the smell of burning dry branches. Orgatai retrieved dried meat from his supplies and distributed pieces to his companions. It had to be chewed for a long time—stringy but filling.

  Rayan poked out from the folds of Ayan's clothing, having scented food. The lad tossed the worm a small piece of meat straight onto the stone floor. The pet pounced on the treat without hesitation, burrowing into it with such pleasure, as though this were not a dried chunk but a genuine delicacy.

  "How's your Vigour?" Orgatai asked, having dealt with the first portion of dried meat and starting on a second.

  Ayan glanced sidelong at the old orc, not fully understanding what he was driving at and what exactly he was trying to achieve with such a question. Since each tick of the heritage "One Who Knew Oblivion" methodically restored five per cent of his maximum Vigour reserve every five seconds, he'd simply never had problems maintaining it at an acceptable level during all his time in Seratis.

  The only serious limitations he'd discovered over months of play were directly connected with natural hunger and physical exhaustion of the organism. In those specific moments when he genuinely wanted to eat or finally rest after a long period of wakefulness, the parameter scale categorically refused to fill completely, stubbornly stopping at some specific intermediate value. This directly depended on how strongly he'd grown hungry over the passed time or how long he'd been active up to that moment, not giving his body the necessary respite.

  In none of the detailed guides on game mechanics he'd managed to review whilst still outside the game had he encountered such an effect or even heard of such a feature. But approximately by the fourth month in Seratis, he'd finally understood and accepted as given that from time to time Nullus truly required proper sleep.

  True, the lad had learnt fairly quickly to successfully replace traditional sleep with deep meditation, which Zhalgaztur had taught him in the very first days of their acquaintance—the restoration effect proved practically identical. And the agonising hunger previously appeared only in those moments when his vigour remained very low, close to the critical mark—it sufficed for the player to eat in time, and the parameter scale would once more obediently fill to its maximum, returning strength to his exhausted body.

  Now, however, both hidden parameters needed tracking: hunger and exhaustion. To the lad himself, thanks to his heritage, this posed no hindrance, but imagining what he'd do without it, he could not.

  Since then he'd tried to track and discover new changes in the game mechanics, which increasingly resembled reality.

  "More than half the reserve remains. What should've happened to it?"

  A pause reigned. Orgatai stopped chewing. Yernazar froze with a piece of meat halfway to his wide-open mouth. Ainur set aside her portion and slowly, very slowly turned her head towards the lad.

  From the way all three exchanged glances amongst themselves—furtively at first, then ever more openly—Ayan immediately understood that another misunderstanding had occurred. Exactly the same as back then, at the very beginning of their acquaintance, when he'd called to Ainur, addressing her as kyzym, and hadn't understood why the girl looked at him so strangely.

  Yernazar had laughed louder and longer than all the rest then, though the lad had also managed to notice a faint gleam of a restrained smile even on Zhalgaztur's usually impassive face. Having laughed himself out and wiped away tears, they'd finally explained to him that kyzym wasn't a name at all, but a word that translated from the Tork language as "daughter".

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Rayan meanwhile had completely finished dealing with his piece of meat, diligently grinding it down with concentric rows of teeth, and his master, noticing this from the corner of his eye, tossed the pet a new, slightly larger chunk.

  "Hold on," Orgatai drawled, setting aside the remains of his food and wiping his greasy fingers on stone. "Are you saying you don't expend vigour points at all from carried weight?"

  "Precisely so," Ayan confirmed, seeing nothing unusual in this.

  Ainur, unable to bear the drawn-out awkward pause and silent exchange of meaningful glances between her companions, sprang sharply to her feet. Her eyes bored into the lad with such an intent, studying expression, as though she were taking aim, choosing precisely where to strike him.

  "And you kept silent?!" The orc woman literally loomed over the lad, her eyes flashing with indignation, and her voice rang so demandingly and sharply that Ayan involuntarily jerked from surprise. She looked at the lad, befuddled by such a sudden and furious onslaught, as though he'd just confessed to some grave crime.

  "It's not like that for you?" He looked helplessly over the girl's shoulder at Orgatai sitting behind, hoping to find at least some support or explanation for what was happening. His voice sounded uncertain, almost plaintive—he genuinely didn't understand what exactly had provoked such a violent reaction.

  "Calm yourself, kyzym," her grandfather intervened, raising his palm in a placating gesture and casting a reproachful glance at his granddaughter. Then he turned to Ayan, and his tone became calm, explanatory, though in his eyes could still be read poorly concealed astonishment.

  "No, Nullus, for us it doesn't work that way—it's completely different. In our inventory rings we can store as many things and items as its internal dimensions and our Strength parameter allow. Each unit of this parameter provides exactly five kilogrammes towards the storage's total carrying capacity. Everything exceeding the established limit automatically begins deducting one unit of Vigour per minute for each excess kilogramme of weight. Overload quickly exhausts reserves, and if the excess isn't removed—one can simply lose consciousness from fatigue."

  The lad was greatly surprised by what he heard, for about any limitations connected with the weight of stored items, or penalties to Vigour—he'd heard nothing at all before. His brows crept upward, and thoughts instantly began swarming in his head, trying to find a logical explanation for this discrepancy.

  Understanding that the matter here was most likely either that his companions were non-player characters and obeyed somewhat different rules, or else this was a direct consequence of the quest issued by Ilira.

  Frowning, he raised his left hand and looked at the inventory ring worn on his finger, mentally summoning its detailed description and characteristics.

  ["Inventory Ring"

  Personal

  Unranked

  Finger

  Inventory

  Durability: 1/1

  Required level: 0

  Indestructible

  Sale price: not for sale

  Capacity: 1,008 (432+576) slots

  Inlays:

  Unranked spatial crystal (96 slots)

  Unranked spatial crystal (96 slots)

  Unranked spatial crystal (96 slots)

  Unranked spatial crystal (96 slots)

  Unranked spatial crystal (96 slots)

  Unranked spatial crystal (96 slots)

  "Rejoice, for on your finger is worn a unique item, crafted by unknown masters in a single copy!"]

  Yet another item for possession of which any other player would be prepared to do literally anything—from betraying companions to murdering innocents—evoked in the lad decidedly no positive emotions whatsoever. Moreover, it seemed to him that this ring was completely useless for one who possessed the Seal of Storage.

  Deciding finally to verify his suppositions and confirm the correctness of his conclusions, he began methodically transferring items from the Seal to the ring, carefully tracking all changes in his condition. Here a completely new discovery awaited him, one he hadn't even considered before. Transferring things between the two storages required absolutely no expenditure of either mana or health—the process occurred instantly and completely free.

  He didn't transfer the entire contents of the Seal, limiting himself only to what he'd moved from the cart. The moment the items entered the ring, he immediately received an extremely unpleasant overload negative effect that began mercilessly draining over four hundred vigour per minute. Seeing these alarming figures and feeling how his body instantly filled with leaden heaviness, he transferred everything back into the Seal without hesitation, not wishing to waste Vigour pointlessly.

  This also didn't deplete a single unit of his mana.

  "So this is also connected to 'The Final Game'..." He thought with satisfaction.

  Having settled this question, he became interested in something else. Considering that he had fifty-five points in the Strength parameter, he calculated the approximate weight Zhuldyz had been pulling.

  "Nearly seven hundred and fifty kilogrammes in the inventory, plus Orgatai—another hundred kilos or so—the cart itself two to three hundred kilogrammes..." He looked at the poor animal with completely different eyes.

  "Hellooo, where did you go?" Ainur waved her open palm energetically several times right before his face, as though trying to disperse an invisible fog enveloping his consciousness and return Ayan to reality from the depths of his own reflections.

  "Forgive me, I was thinking..." He admitted in a guilty tone, shaking his head slightly and frowning, as though trying to drive away the remnants of thoughts still clinging to his mind.

  "And what did you think up?" Orgatai enquired with genuine curiosity, studying the youth attentively.

  "My ring, it seems, works by absolutely the same principle as yours," Ayan began explaining, thoughtfully turning the artefact on his finger. "But you know perfectly well that I also have the Seal of Storage... Well, I've just confirmed: all items stored specifically in it seem to weigh nothing at all. Completely. As though they physically don't exist."

  "You! You! Argh, I haven't the rage for you!" Ainur sprang to her feet again and headed for Zhuldyz.

  "What's the matter?" He asked the smirking Orgatai.

  "You could have carried all our belongings in the Seal, and Zhuldyz wouldn't have had to strain so much. And you know how she," a nod towards the place where his granddaughter had been sitting, "loves her Little Star..."

  "And I wouldn't have had to leave my things behind." Yernazar sighed, though without offence in his voice.

  Ayan could only open and close his mouth, blinking. He could produce nothing in his own defence.

  "Forgive me..." He finally whispered, lowering his head.

  He genuinely felt sorry.

  "Don't take it to heart—it'll do her good, she's taken to fussing over the animal. She should be married off, then she'd fuss over children, and I'd get to cuddle shobere. What do you reckon?" He winked at Yernazar, who choked and began coughing. The prospect of becoming the father of Orgatai's great-grandchild evidently held no appeal for him.

  The old man merely laughed at his reaction, not allowing the sombre atmosphere beginning to settle amongst the youths to thicken and take hold.

  Finishing supper, Ayan rose and announced:

  "I'll take first watch," after which he donned warm clothing and headed for the entrance to their shelter.

  Orgatai muttered something in response, settling more comfortably on his improvised bedding and sinking into sleep. The others also quickly quietened—the day had been hard, exhaustion took its toll.

  The lad waited until his companions' breathing became even and deep, beckoned Rayan to him and said:

  "Scout around. Just don't go far."

  The worm swayed the front part of its body—a gesture Ayan had already learnt to interpret as agreement. Then it turned and crawled towards the nearest wall. It opened its multi-rowed maw, exposing concentric circles of sharp teeth, and burrowed into the solid rock.

  The stone yielded like water. Rayan plunged into the wall, its stone plates flashed one last time—and the pet vanished, leaving behind only a small opening that immediately sealed, as though it had never been.

  Ayan went outside. The blizzard crashed down upon him instantly—thousands of icy needles pierced his skin, wind tried to knock him off his feet, tore at his clothing, howled, whistled, beat against the cliffs. Snow flew horizontally, transforming the world into a white seething shroud where there was neither up nor down.

  The lad took a step forward. Then another. Squeezed his eyes shut—and opened his sphere of perception to full.

  Everything changed.

  The blizzard was no longer an enemy. It became alive, tangible, comprehensible. Each snowflake responded with a separate note in the space around. Gusts of wind transformed into currents that could be sensed, anticipated, felt with the skin before they reached the body.

  Ayan squared his shoulders and once again, for the first time in a long while—smiled.

  He saw the dance of the elements. Heard their roar without ears, felt their touch without skin—they were everywhere, and he'd become part of them. Not a victim. Not an observer.

  A participant.

  The cold no longer bit—it caressed. The wind didn't knock him down—it embraced. And the lad stood with his head thrown back, arms flung wide, allowing the blizzard to take everything superfluous, leaving only the essence.

  Alive.