Ayan opened his eyes. His body didn't ache. The bruises had vanished. Even breathing came easily, as though those blows to the solar plexus had never happened.

  He raised himself on one elbow. Ainur and Yernazar slept nearby, wrapped in furs. Orgatai snored by the opposite wall, leaning back against bales of supplies. Zhuldyz dozed standing, occasionally tapping her hoof.

  The lad rubbed his face. His head thought clearly, no nausea. On the contrary—as though he'd slept for a week ahead.

  Memories of the training session returned sharply. Blows from the axe. Merciless, methodical. The old man had given no respite. Hadn't listened to pleas to stop.

  Usually Orgatai held the line. They drilled combinations to exhaustion—yes. They fell without strength—yes. But there was no cruelty. He'd always sensed when to ease off.

  Today something had broken.

  Ainur caught it worst. Each time she tried to attack, the old man turned her assault and struck. With the flat, with the haft—it didn't matter. The main thing was the girl went flying head over heels, clutching bruised ribs or doubled over from pain in her thigh.

  Ayan and Yernazar tried to cover her. The lad darted about, drew attention, shot, swung his sword. The healer rushed forward with his axe, trying to block the strikes.

  Useless. The instructor passed through them like paper and descended upon his granddaughter once more.

  At some point Ayan asked Yernazar not to waste mana on him.

  "Only heal her," he tossed out between skirmishes, nodding at the girl. "I don't need it."

  The healer shot a surprised glance but nodded.

  His heritage managed. Five per cent of health every five seconds—sufficient to stay on his feet. Bruises closed, cuts sealed. Not instantly, but steadily. And he knew how to endure pain.

  Ainur received more attention and healing, but it didn't particularly help. If anything, the old man seemed to strike her even more often. Yernazar barely managed to lay his glowing palms on her wounds.

  In the end, they couldn't withstand such pressure and simply blacked out. Simply collapsed and lost consciousness, unable to stir.

  Fury flooded the youth—he far surpassed his companions in strength and yet could do nothing to help them. Were this a real fight, they'd all have died a hundred times over.

  The instructor easily cooled the lad's impulse, and only then did Ayan understand. Now all the old man's attention was directed at him.

  He certainly made him work, and how much blood he'd spilt, forcing him to drink potions and continue. Continue until he too blacked out from exhaustion, right in mid-swing.

  Ayan ran his palm across his chest. No traces. No pain, no swelling. As though nothing had happened. He was used to this. This wasn't his first training session on the edge, but after a long break, during sleep or meditation, "Oblivion" restored him completely.

  He summoned his profile. A semi-transparent window appeared before his eyes.

  [PLAYER PROFILE]

  [Basic Information:

  — Name: Nullus

  — Species: Orc

  — Gender: Male

  — Level: 0

  General Information:

  — Health: 632/632

  — Mana: 632/632

  — Vigour: 537/632

  — Fury: 144/144

  Primary Attributes:

  — Strength: 55

  — Stamina: 55

  — Fortitude: 55

  — Reaction: 55

  — Agility: 55

  — Perception: 55

  — Intelligence: 55

  — Spirit: 55

  — Concentration: 55

  — Luck: 55

  Resistances:

  — Elements: 21%

  — Nature: 23%

  — Ether Manifestations: 20%

  — Forbidden Magic: 20%

  — Frost: 20%

  — Mental Magic: 20%]

  Even such training hadn't managed to shift a single characteristic. He'd have been glad of any increase. But no.

  He didn't regret it—simply noted the fact and that was all. To him even such a leap in growth seemed fantastic. In only one hundred and fifty days, he'd drawn level with players at the eighty-second level. If amongst them could be found an idiot spending all free points on even development.

  And at every level divisible by five, besides five free points, all characteristics increased by one unit. Ayan was denied such opportunities, but what the lad had received in exchange he considered far more effective than standard progression. The only thing left was to understand how to overcome the barrier.

  The first indicator to reach fifty points had been Fortitude—to it was added ten per cent from "Sole Survivor of the Ritual". The second was Spirit, and after that he began noticing the other characteristics started accumulating far faster.

  It turned out that development progress of, say, Strength, once it reached maximum, counted towards the other parameters that hadn't reached their limit. Doing strength exercises, the lad was training Intelligence or Luck.

  This very mechanic, incomprehensible to the lad, had made possible such rapid accumulation of all characteristics at maximum.

  Ayan closed the profile window and stretched. His joints cracked pleasantly, muscles responded with readiness. He rose to his feet, trying not to wake the sleepers.

  Several squats. Bends to the sides. Circular movements of the shoulders. His body warmed quickly, blood ran more merrily. Arm swings, lunges forward—everything went smoothly, as though yesterday's brutal training had been merely a bad dream.

  Having finished his warm-up, he looked around. Supply sacks were nowhere to be found. Only then did he remember they lay in his Seal. Entering the interface, the lad began sorting through the contents, laying out the ingredients he needed.

  Dried meat, several pieces of smoked horsemeat. A pouch of grain. Dried herbs in canvas bundles. An onion. Carrots, slightly battered but still edible. A couple of heads of garlic.

  The lad retrieved the pot hanging on a hook by the hearth. Coals still smouldered—he added dry twigs, fanned the flame. The fire blazed up, illuminating the walls with warm light.

  He poured water from a waterskin, set the pot over the fire. Whilst the water heated, he sliced meat into thin strips. He chopped onion and carrot with his knife, trying to do so quietly.

  The water boiled. Ayan tossed in grain, stirred with a wooden spoon. The meat followed. Vegetables. A pinch of salt from a leather pouch. Crushed garlic. Herbs—something like steppe thyme, judging by the smell.

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  The aroma spread through the enclosed space—thick, filling. Ainur stirred beneath her fur, frowned in her sleep. Yernazar mumbled something unintelligible and rolled onto his other side.

  Ayan continued stirring the pot's contents. The grain swelled, meat gave off stock. He added another piece of kurt—let it be more aromatic.

  The old man snored louder, as though sensing the smell of food even through sleep. Zhuldyz opened one eye, snorted and dozed again.

  The lad removed the pot from the fire, set it nearby on a stone so it wouldn't cool too quickly. He retrieved wooden bowls, laid out spoons beside them. Everything ready. All that remained was to wait for the others to wake.

  He settled by the hearth, gazing at his sleeping companions. Yesterday they'd caught it. Especially Ainur. Let them at least eat properly.

  Ainur was first to open her eyes. She sat up sharply, looking around. Her gaze fell on Ayan by the hearth—the lad was adding branches to the fire, maintaining the flames.

  "Are you cooking?"

  "You're awake already."

  The girl stretched, wincing. Arms, shoulders, ribs—everything responded with dull pain. She threw off the fur, rose to her feet. She walked several times along the wall, working feeling into stiff muscles.

  Yernazar stirred next. He rubbed his face, yawned widely.

  "What's that smell?"

  "Breakfast."

  The healer rose quickly, looked around. Noticed the bowls, spoons, steaming pot.

  "Did you sleep at all?"

  "I slept. Got up early."

  Orgatai snored particularly loudly, rolled onto his side. Ainur pushed him in the shoulder with her hand—not hard, but insistently.

  "Ata, get up. Food's ready."

  The old man grumbled something unintelligible, opened one eye.

  "Morning already?"

  "Already."

  He rose, leaning on his staff. He approached the hearth, inspected the pot with approval.

  "Smells good."

  Ainur splashed water from the waterskin, washed her face. Yernazar followed her example. Orgatai simply ran his palm down his face, smoothed his moustache.

  Ayan ladled the stew into bowls. Thick, rich. The grain had swelled, meat had softened, herbs had given up their aroma.

  The girl took the first bowl, tried it. She closed her eyes.

  "Divine."

  Yernazar chuckled, scooping his portion.

  "And I thought you could only fight."

  "Not only."

  Orgatai set to silently. He ate slowly, savouring. He nodded approvingly.

  "Clever lad. A warrior must know how to cook. A hungry fighter's a dead fighter."

  They ate in silence for several minutes. Ainur finished her first portion, reached for a second. Yernazar followed suit. Ayan finished his bowl calmly, watching his companions.

  The girl set aside her empty dish, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at her grandfather.

  "Yesterday was too harsh."

  The old man raised his gaze.

  "Was it?"

  "Yes. You went too far."

  Orgatai's face darkened. He set down his bowl, leant on his staff.

  "Too far?"

  "Especially with me."

  The old man remained silent. Then sighed heavily.

  "Perhaps so."

  Ainur frowned, about to continue, but her grandfather straightened sharply.

  "Stop. You yourself asked me to teach you. You yourself came and said—teach me to defend myself. I agreed. Now you've no right to shift responsibility for the pain onto my shoulders."

  The girl fell silent. Orgatai continued, his voice becoming harsher.

  "You wanted to become strong? Here's the price. Bruises. Injuries. Exhaustion to the point of vomiting. I didn't promise you an easy path. You asked to be taught—I teach. If it hurts—say that's enough, and I'll stop forever."

  Ainur clenched her fists. Then unclenched them. She lowered her gaze.

  "Sorry."

  The old man softened.

  "No need to apologise. Simply remember—you chose this path yourself."

  She nodded silently.

  Yernazar cleared his throat awkwardly.

  "Well, since everyone's made up, shall we finish eating?"

  Ayan held out the pot with the remains to him.

  "Take it, don't be shy."

  The healer smiled broadly, scooping with the spoon.

  "Nullus, you're the best cook amongst us!"

  "There are only four of us."

  "Still the best!"

  Even Orgatai smirked at the corner of his mouth.

  Orgatai drained the last of the stew, wiped his moustache with the back of his hand. He set his bowl on the stone by the hearth. His gaze slid over the trio of young orcs, lingered on each.

  "Listen carefully."

  Ainur straightened. Yernazar set aside his spoon. Ayan raised his head.

  "Behind that wall awaits a trial. I don't know what exactly. Don't know what's waiting there. But I know one thing—you must be ready for the worst."

  The old man leant on his staff, rose to his feet. He stepped closer to the hearth; the fire cast shadow on the wall.

  "If you enter there without faith in yourselves, without readiness to die—you'll die for nothing."

  The girl swallowed. Yernazar nodded seriously. Ayan looked on calmly, but inside he tensed.

  "Stick together. Don't abandon each other. Listen to whoever leads. If Nullus ordered retreat—retreat. If Ainur shouts warning—listen. If Yernazar says conserve strength—conserve it."

  Orgatai swept them with a heavy gaze.

  "You are a group. Without each other you're dead. Only together is there a chance."

  Ainur leant forward.

  "Ata, come with us."

  The old man shook his head.

  "No."

  "Why? You're far stronger than us. It'll be easier with you."

  Orgatai smiled bitterly.

  "Easier? Kyzym, you understand nothing at all about time loops."

  The girl frowned.

  "What do you mean?"

  The old man sank heavily back onto the bale of supplies, stretched his aching leg forward.

  "If I join the group with you, the cave will adapt to me. To my level. To my strength. The creatures there will match the strongest in the group."

  Yernazar's eyes widened.

  "Meaning..."

  "Meaning instead of opponents at your level, you'll meet creatures at two hundredth level at minimum. Ready to fight them?"

  Heavy silence hung. Ainur went pale. Yernazar swallowed. Ayan remained silent, but tension in his shoulders gave him away. He alone knew that by time loops, Ilira meant dungeons, raids, battlefields and other activities for Seratis and its inhabitants.

  "Precisely. I'll help you only from outside. Inside you'll manage on your own—or you won't manage at all."

  The girl clenched her teeth.

  "So we're going as three."

  "Exactly."

  The old man rose again, approached closer. He laid a heavy palm on his granddaughter's shoulder.

  "You're strong, kyzym. Stronger than you think. Simply believe in yourself. Use everything I've taught you. Don't be afraid to strike first. Don't be afraid to retreat if you must. The main thing—survive."

  Ainur nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  Orgatai turned to Yernazar.

  "You, balam, have learnt much. But remember—a healer who's died will save no one. Take care of yourself. Heal others, but don't forget yourself."

  Yernazar straightened, nodded firmly.

  "Understood, Ata."

  The old man approached Ayan. He measured him with a long, appraising gaze.

  "You're strange. Incomprehensible. But I see stubbornness in you. That's good. Stubbornness replaces experience when it's lacking. Will you lead them?"

  Ayan nodded curtly.

  "I will."

  "Then lead correctly. Don't play hero. Don't rush forward alone. They need you alive, not as a dead hero."

  The lad smirked.

  "I'll try."

  Orgatai stepped back, surveyed all three of them.

  "One last thing. If it becomes truly bad—flee. There's no shame in running and returning later when you're stronger. What's shameful is to die for nothing."

  The girl straightened, her eyes flashing with resolve.

  "We'll manage, Ata."

  The old man smiled, but worry flickered in his eyes.

  "May the spirits of your ancestors be with you and guide you, zhas batyrs. Al-myn!"

  This wasn't the first blessing Ayan had heard, so he knew what to do, though he himself didn't particularly believe in all these orcish rites.

  Ainur slung the quiver over her shoulder, checked her bow's string—taut. She adjusted her leather pauldron, fastened the straps on her chest. The armour sat snugly, didn't restrict movement.

  Yernazar donned light armour of leather plates sewn with thick thread. He fastened the axe to his belt, secured the shield on his back. He checked his supply of bandages and salves in his bag.

  Ayan pulled on his leather breastplate, fastened his bracers. Sword on his left hip, knife on his right thigh. He took the spear in hand, spun it, checking the balance. It would do.

  The girl tightened the final strap on her bracers, glanced at her companions.

  "Ready?"

  Yernazar and Ayan laid positive effects on the girl, then on each other, and nodded silently in answer to her question.

  The lad closed his eyes, summoning his resurrected companion. The air before him trembled as though from heat. Space darkened, thickened. From nowhere materialised Rayan—stone plates clicked, arranging themselves in overlapping rows, oily substance emerging between them.

  The worm stirred, turned its toothed maw towards its master. Fearsome rows of teeth gleamed in the hearth's light.

  Ayan caught it beneath the middle, lifted it, settling it in his arms. The pet weighed heavier than it looked—twenty kilogrammes, no less.

  "Will you show us where you were killed?"

  Rayan made a quiet grinding sound, then seemed to nod—insofar as that was possible for a neckless worm.

  The lad turned to the wall behind which he heard weeping. Blank, monolithic. No cracks, no gaps.

  "There?"

  The worm scraped affirmatively.

  Ayan stepped closer, pressed the creature to the stone. Rayan froze for a moment, as though scenting something. Then turned its front end towards the wall. Its maw opened in circles.

  The grinding began quietly, almost melodiously. Teeth bit into rock, began rotating, shaving off millimetres. Stone dust showered down, settling on the lad's hands.

  Ainur approached closer, watching.

  "Is it chewing through the wall?"

  "Looks like it."

  Yernazar whistled.

  "How long will this take?"

  Ayan didn't answer. Rayan methodically chewed into the stone, burrowing deeper. A thin gap appeared, widened to a finger's breadth. The worm climbed further, ascending.

  Orgatai leant on his staff, watching with interest.

  "Cunning creature."

  Having risen almost to the vault, the worm vanished into the wall completely. The grinding came muffled, echoed off the stone. The gap darkened, deepened.

  Suddenly from the depths came a crack—short, sharp. The wall shuddered. A fissure ran downward from the gap, branched to the sides, as though lightning had frozen on the stone.

  Yernazar stepped back.

  "What's happening?"

  Ayan leapt back, yanking out his spear. Ainur drew her bowstring, aiming an arrow at the centre of the crack.

  The wall cracked louder. The fracture lines spread like a spider's web, covering the surface in a solid mesh. Stone groaned, screeched. Chunks of rock showered down, smashing on the floor.

  Orgatai retreated to the wall, leaning on his staff.

  "Back! Step back!"

  The trio moved towards the hearth. The wall collapsed with a crash—an entire sheet of stone fell inward, leaving a gaping opening. Dust rose in a cloud, filled the space. Ayan covered his face with his hand, squinting.

  When the dust settled, beyond the opening lay darkness. Deep, impenetrable. Cold, stale air came from there, washed over their faces and made their hearts skip a beat.

  Rayan crawled from the rubble, shaking himself off. Stone plates clicked, oily liquid gleamed. The worm crawled to Ayan, nudged his leg, as though awaiting praise.

  The lad bent down, stroked the creature's smooth surface.

  "Well done."

  Orgatai approached the opening, peered into the darkness. The old man's face darkened.

  "So it's begun."

  Ainur stepped forward, peering into the murk.

  "What's there?"

  The old man shook his head.

  "I don't know. But be careful. Very careful."

  Ayan didn't dismiss Rayan. The worm positioned itself by his right leg. The lad didn't know whether the hundred per cent experience transfer to his pet worked if it wasn't summoned, and didn't want to risk it.

  Ayan raised his spear, nodded to his companions.

  "Let's go."

  Yernazar tightened the strap on his shield. Ainur checked her bowstring one last time. Orgatai stepped back, watching them with a heavy gaze.

  "Remember what I said."

  The girl turned, nodded.

  "We remember."

  The trio stepped into the opening, swallowed by darkness.