Chapter 4
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New Beginning
The pegasus landed on an empty road in the middle of nowhere. No city on the horizon. No tower. No Fenix crest. Just a road — narrow, dusty, lined with wild bushes and old trees that had been growing here longer than any kingdom had existed. Igi dismounted. His legs trembled slightly — long flight, little mana, much thinking. He looked at the pegasus. The changeling in the form of a winged horse stood calmly, metallic wings folded, amber eyes empty. "Good. Enough flying." The pegasus shuddered. Wings retracted, legs shortened, the torso shrank. Five seconds later, where the horse had been, there was only a gleaming liquid sphere — silver, pulsing, the size of a fist. Igi opened his inventory and the sphere rose, spun, and vanished. Pulled back into the system, stored, waiting. The road was empty. Silence. Just wind and birds. Igi adjusted his hood and slowly set off in the direction where he sensed a village. Smoke on the horizon. Where there's smoke, there are people. Where there are people, there's a tavern. Where there's a tavern, there's information.
CARRIAGE From behind, he heard something. He looked back. A carriage was slowly approaching along the road — wooden, worn, pulled
by two tired horses that looked like they'd rather be lying in the grass than pulling anything anywhere. On the box seat sat a stocky man with a hat and the expression of someone who had seen this road so many times he could travel it with his eyes closed. Igi stepped to the side of the road and raised his hand. The carriage slowed. The man on the box measured him — an old man in a gray robe, staff, hood. Nothing dangerous. Nothing interesting. "Good day, sir," Igi said in a deep, friendly voice. The voice he used when he wanted to appear harmless. "I'm just a traveling cook. Have you room in the wagon? I'd like a ride to the village." The man shrugged. "Sit in the back. I'll be there in an hour." "Thank you." Igi climbed onto the bed, sat between sacks of grain, and let himself be carried. The carriage swayed and the road slowly passed beneath the wheels. Igi asked nothing. The carriage driver asked nothing. That was how it worked on roads far from cities — fewer questions, fewer problems.
TAVERN The village was small. Thirty, maybe forty houses. A blacksmith, a well, a church, and — of course — a tavern. The tavern was always the most important building in every village. Not because people drank there. But because they talked there. Igi went in. It was afternoon — too early for drunkards, too late for lunch. At the bar stood a young bartender with wispy facial hair and the expression of someone who worked here not because he wanted to but because he had no choice. Igi sat at the bar. "Beer, please." The bartender nodded and filled a mug. Set it before Igi. "Two coppers." Igi placed a silver coin on the bar. The bartender looked at the coin. Then at Igi. Then back at the coin. A silver in a village where people paid in coppers was like a beacon — too much for beer, too little for suspicion. "That covers info too," Igi said quietly, sliding the coin closer. The bartender grabbed the coin and pocketed it faster than you could blink. "What do you want to know?" Igi sipped the beer. It was lukewarm and weak. Exactly as expected. "What is this kingdom called?" "The Kingdom of Aldenmere, sir. Ruled by King Harwen the Third. But nobody down here has ever seen him, so it's more
of a... theory." Igi smiled slightly beneath his hood. "Which direction is the capital and how far?" "Aldenheim lies northeast. Six days by horse if the road is dry. Ten if it rains. And it rains here often." "Big city?" "Big enough. Walls, a market, three guilds, a palace. At least that's what the merchants passing through say. I've never been." Igi nodded. "Do you have an Adventurers' Guild here?" The bartender laughed. Not maliciously — more with that special bitterness of small villages. "Here? No, sir. The nearest Adventurers' Guild is in Crosshaven — three days' travel west. It's a smaller city, but they have a post. Adventurers only end up here when they're lost." "And what about the surroundings? Dungeons? Dangers?" The bartender leaned on the bar and lowered his voice. "The forest to the south is relatively safe — animals, the occasional wolf pack, nothing special. To the north it's worse. There's talk of dwarven ruins where some vermin has settled. And to the east..." he trailed off. "To the east?" "To the east is the Dead Strip. Nobody goes there. Nobody who's come back wanted to talk about what they saw." Igi noted the information. I'll need to move to Crosshaven for the guild. Do you have a room for one night? Yes, it's included in the price of that silver. Thank you.
CONTACT WITH GOD At night, when the village slept and the tavern fell silent, Igi sat in the room by candlelight and opened his system window. Tab: Contacting gods. The list was long. Dozens of names, titles, domains. Gods of war, gods of trade, gods of death, gods of fertility. Every contact cost points — and not a few. The stronger the god, the more expensive the conversation. Igi scrolled the list. He was looking for one name. Artificer. God of craftsmen. God of creators. God of those who made things — weapons, tools, buildings. And golems. The Artificer was the most logical contact for a golem maker. And more importantly — Igi had the best reputation with him of all the gods. Years of craft work — cooking, alchemy, golem mastery — had built a relationship he hadn't even known about until he discovered that reputation with gods reduced the cost of contact. Contacting the Artificer: 50 points. The least of all
gods. Still a lot. But less than the others. Igi pressed Contact.
Not Igi's workshop. Something larger. Something older. A space without walls, ceiling, or floor — just an infinite workbench, on which lay tools Igi didn't recognize and materials he didn't know existed. The air smelled of metal, fire, and time. Behind the table stood a figure. It wasn't human. It wasn't inhuman. It was — other. Four hands, each holding a different tool. A face covered with metallic features that slowly moved, as if the god was constantly reshaping himself. Eyes — if you could call them eyes — glowed with copper light. "Igi," the Artificer said. His voice sounded like hammer strikes on an anvil — rhythmic, precise, without unnecessary words. "It's been a while since you contacted me. What do you need?" Igi bowed. Not deeply — the Artificer didn't like excessive courtesy. He respected efficiency. "I have a question. Can a healing golem be made?" The Artificer tilted his metal head. Two of his hands stopped working. "Interesting question. The answer — yes." Igi felt his heart leap in his chest. "But," the Artificer continued, and another hand raised a finger, "you must understand the structure. You have two types of golems. Temporary ones — those are simple. Elemental. Stone, fire, ice, water. Cheap, disposable, expendable. You know those." "I do," Igi nodded. "Then you have permanent ones. Your changelings. Those are different — they have their own core, their own AI, their own growth. But you can also have other special permanent golems. Not just changelings." The Artificer set down his tool and turned his entire body toward Igi. All four hands free. Full attention. "Permanent golems have their own talents. You open branches for them, level them, build them. But to keep it balanced — when you lose a permanent golem, you lose everything. Points, effort, talents, levels it achieved. Everything. It's like losing an allied player. Not just material." Igi swallowed. He knew this — it worked the same with the changeling. But hearing it from a god was different. "To unlock healing for a golem, you need the appropriate talent tree," the Artificer continued. "You want a natural healing golem? You need the nature tree. Nature
Golem. You open its talent branch and healing will be in it. But the nature tree will cost you points and time — and you'll have to level the golem from zero." "Nature golem," Igi repeated. "Not water? Not light?" "Nature. Nature is the foundation of healing in this system. Water, light, and holy magic also heal, but nature is the most efficient. Holy, for example, is effective against evil and curses. If you want a universal healer — nature tree." Igi nodded. Filed it away. Then — because he was here and every second cost points — moved to the next question. Igi took a breath. He still had time. He still had points. And questions were crowding one over another. "Can I have a permanent frost golem?" "Yes," the Artificer said. "But you need frost unlocked. And frost is a combination — water and wind. So two more trees. Water tree and wind tree. Both must be at sufficient level for the frost branch to unlock. Then you can create a permanent frost golem and it will have its own frost talent tree." "Two trees for one golem." "Three, if you count Golem Mastery. Without that, you create nothing." Igi was doing rapid calculations in his head. Two new trees. Leveling both. Then the frost branch. Then the golem. Then the golem's own tree. Points, time, effort — and the risk that if he lost the golem, he lost everything. "And a lava golem? Permanent?" The Artificer set down his tool and raised two fingers on one hand and two on another. "Fire and earth. Two trees. Fire tree and earth tree. The combination unlocks at higher levels of both. The lava golem is slow but nearly indestructible. If someone does manage to destroy it — you lose everything it achieved." "And a simple fire golem? Permanent, not temporary?" "Just the fire tree. One tree, simpler. A permanent fire golem will have its own fire talent tree, its own levels, its own growth. As always — it can level, it can have talents from that tree. Lose it, you lose its gains, levels, everything it achieved." The Artificer fixed all his copper eyes on Igi. "I see what you're doing, golem maker. You're calculating an army. Frost, lava, fire, nature, changelings. But remember — every permanent golem is an investment of years. Not days. Years. And every lost golem is like losing years of life. Choose wisely what you unlock first." Igi nodded. The message was clear. "And regarding teleportation?" The Artificer
laughed. A metallic sound, like two gears meeting. "That's not my domain. But I'll show you the path. Space Magic talent tree. Open it. Inside you'll find a teleportation talent. It's not cheap — Space Magic is one of the most expensive trees in the system. But it's there." "Space Magic tree," Igi repeated. "Another tree. More talents. More leveling." "Yes," the Artificer said without a hint of sympathy. "That's how it works. Want more? Pay more. Time, points, effort. Nothing is free." Igi sighed. More trees. More talents. More leveling. Nature tree for a healing golem. Space Magic tree for teleportation. And still Golem Mastery, Alchemy, Cooking. Expensive. Very expensive. Time and effort. But the path was clear. For the first time, it was completely clear. "Thank you for showing the way," Igi said, bowing again. The Artificer nodded. "Good work with that changeling, by the way. Liquid metal — elegant solution. I'll be watching what you do next." The world returned. The workshop vanished. Igi sat on the bed in a small room in a tavern in a village in the kingdom of Aldenmere, with a head full of information and pockets fifty points lighter.
PLAN Igi opened his system notes and began writing. Talent trees — current:
Golem Mastery — active, level 20 Alchemy — active, level 16 Cooking — active, level 22
New trees — needed:
Nature Golem — for a permanent healing golem Space Magic — for teleportation
Priorities:
Space Magic — teleportation is survival. Without it, I'm tied to one place. Nature Golem — a healing golem changes everything. An army that heals itself. Continue Golem Mastery — stronger AI, better synchronization, more permanent golems.
Risks:
Every new tree = points + time + effort Permanent golem lost = everything lost Too many trees = points spread too thin
Igi looked at the list. Then out the window at the dark village. So don't waste time. Tomorrow — kitchen. Cook, earn, blend in. By day a cook. By night a golem maker. Same routine as in Fenix. Just a different kingdom, a different name, a different tavern. But the same plan. Igi blew out the candle and lay down. In the dark of the small room, in a village without a name, in a kingdom he hadn't known existed that morning, he smiled. The path was clear. And he was patient. Igi had two changelings in Fenix City, at the Fenix guild headquarters, where they moved in shifting guises, blending with the crowd and doing what they did best. Leveling up. Since there were plenty of elements deserving punishment, opportunities for growth were not scarce. A corrupt officer whose gold pouch vanished at night. A dealer of watered-down potions who woke up to an empty stash. A gang recruiter who discovered someone had reported his secret hideout to the city guard. Small interventions, inconspicuous punishments — none large enough to draw attention, but each brought experience, points, and Igi a quiet satisfaction. The changeling grew with every mission, and Fenix City was the finest training ground a golem maker could wish for. One as an owl nearby for gathering intelligence, another on himself as a robe for quick defense or attack. And two in his inventory. The inventory was inaccessible to living creatures, since time didn't pass there, but a golem wasn't alive. One owl was always nearby, monitoring the situation around Igi so nothing caught him by surprise. The next changeling was liquid metal, shaped into the gray robe Igi wore. A layer of liquid metal directly on his body — not armor, not clothing. Living protection. If someone attacked, the robe reacted before Igi could even register the danger — it hardened at the point of impact, absorbed the blow, deflected the tip. And if escape was needed, the robe could expand into a shield or reshape into whatever the situation required. Quick defense. Quick attack. Always on him, always ready. The other two were in the inventory. Liquid
spheres, motionless, stored in system space where time didn't pass. The inventory was inaccessible to living creatures — no player, no animal, no being with a soul could exist there. But a golem wasn't alive. It had no soul, no consciousness, nothing to lose from time being stopped. It was just metal and mana. And metal in the inventory waited just as patiently as metal in the workshop. Igi never told himself he was safe. But with this configuration, he was the closest to safe a golem maker without a combat talent could be.
Crosshaven
The next afternoon, he saw Crosshaven. It wasn't the capital. It wasn't even a big city. But after a month in villages where the largest building was a tavern, Crosshaven looked like a metropolis. Stone walls — not tall, but solid. Two gates — north and south. A market that filled the entire square. A smithing quarter where black smoke poured from chimneys. A commercial street with dozens of stalls. And in the middle of it all — the building Igi was looking for. Adventurers' Guild. It was easy to recognize. It was the largest building in the city — three stories, dark stone, with massive doors above which hung a crest: a sword and staff crossed over a shield. Two guards stood before the doors, but they didn't look like they were preventing anyone from entering. They looked more like they were standing there out of duty and thinking about when their shift would end. But Igi didn't go to the guild first. Tavern first. TAVERN IN CROSSHAVEN The Bear's Head Tavern stood on the corner of the commercial street — close enough to the market to have customers, far enough from the guild not to be full of drunk adventurers. At least not during the day. Igi went in. The space was larger than expected — a long bar, a dozen tables, a staircase to the upper floor where he assumed rooms were. Behind the bar stood a middle-aged woman with a stern expression and hands that looked equally capable of pouring beer and breaking a finger. Owner, not waitress. "A room. For a whole month," Igi said,
placing a gold coin on the bar. The owner looked at the coin. Then at Igi. Her eyes traveled over the gray robe, the staff, the deep hood. She was sizing him up — not with distrust, but with the practical calculation tavern owners used to assess every guest. Will he pay? Will he cause trouble? Will he leave without breaking anything? "One gold for a month. Room on the second floor, end of the hall. Breakfast's included. Lunch and dinner aren't." "I'll take it." "Rules — no magic in the rooms, no animals, no monsters. And if you destroy any furniture, you pay double." "Understood." She handed him a key. Igi paid and climbed the stairs. The room was better than the village — bigger bed, table, chair, window overlooking the back yard. Not luxury, but functional. Exactly what he needed. He tossed the pack on the bed. Didn't unpack — he had nothing to unpack. Everything important was in his inventory.
ADVENTURERS' GUILD The Adventurers' Guild in Crosshaven was nothing imposing. Igi entered through the massive doors and found himself in the main hall. A long counter of dark wood — behind it a receptionist, a young woman with short hair and the expression of someone who'd seen hundreds of adventurers from behind that counter and most of them annoyed her. In the room stood four tables with four chairs — for parties waiting on a quest or on remaining members. Today two were occupied — at one sat three men in leather vests quietly arguing over a map, at the other a lone dwarf slept with his head on the table and an empty glass in his hand. Stairs on the right led to upper floors. Doors behind reception — administration, storage, maybe training rooms. Igi approached the counter. "Good day. I'd like to ask about dungeons in the area." The receptionist looked at him — a quick, professional glance that assessed him in two seconds. Old man in gray robe. Staff. Hood. Invisible level, but something in the way he stood suggested he wasn't a newcomer. "Please, place your guild card on the terminal," she said, pointing at a small crystal panel built into the counter. Igi reached into his robe and produced a card. Small, metallic, with an engraved symbol — not
Crosshaven's. Sword and flame. Fenix. A guild card from when he still did quests with Draxer's group. Long unused, but still valid — guild cards were bound to the system, not to the guild. He placed it on the panel. The crystal flashed blue and a system window with Igi's data lit up before the receptionist. She read them. Her eyes paused momentarily at one line. Then she continued. "Currently without a guild," she noted in a neutral tone. No judgment, no surprise. In this business, guildless people were common — some left voluntarily, some were expelled, some survived a dissolution. No reason to ask why. "Can I recommend one?" "No, thank you." The receptionist nodded and continued reading. "Level twenty-five. You're noted as — Golem Master, DPS slash half-tank." Igi nodded. "Yes. That's still accurate." "Interesting combination." She said it without emotion — just a statement. "You haven't done quests in a while. Last entry—" she looked at the panel "—eighteen months." "I've been traveling." "Understood." She wasn't interested in where. "Let me update you. Quests are divided into group and individual. And by difficulty level — bronze, silver, gold, platinum. Your data qualifies you for silver and gold." She turned to the large board behind her and pointed at it with a long finger. "We have three dungeons. But one is currently closed for regeneration — a group from Method cleared it the day before yesterday." Igi raised an eyebrow beneath his hood. Method. He knew that name — a large guild, known for clearing dungeons quickly, efficiently, and without regard for what they left behind. If Method had cleared a dungeon to its foundation, regeneration would take weeks. "The remaining two are active," the receptionist continued. "First — Crypt of the Silent. Levels one through fifty, for groups of three to five. Undead type — skeletons, ghosts, lower undead entities. It regenerates continuously, so you can go there repeatedly." "And the second?" "Red Castle. Levels forty through one hundred fifty, for groups of five to ten. Elemental type with demon bosses on higher floors. That's our main dungeon — large, deep, with sufficient scope for even the strongest groups in the region to farm there." Igi was taking mental notes. The Crypt for leveling golems. Red Castle for later, when they're stronger. The receptionist continued — it seemed that
once she started talking about the system, she was in her element. "I don't know when you last checked quests, but a recent update added divine quests. From the gods." Igi perked up. "Gods Events?" "Not directly. Divine quests are something different — long-term tasks assigned by gods. Completing them earns reputation with the relevant god. They're long, demanding, and you can complete them anywhere — they're not location-bound. But every quest board in every guild displays them, so you'll find them here too." She pointed at the bottom section of the board, where cards with gold borders hung. Divine quests. Igi counted them — seven. "Then there are classic regional quests — clear a road of bandits, kill a creature terrorizing farmers, the usual. And others are permanent." "Permanent?" "The kind that never end. Collecting ore for the blacksmith — always in demand. Plants for the alchemist — always needed. We buy mana cores — always interested, we pay fair price. And we also have a contract with the city's cooks." Igi straightened slightly. "Cooks?" "Yes. Meat from dungeons and the wilds — we're happy to buy. If you don't want to find a cook yourself, we broker it. We have contract cooks who'll take anything — game, fish, even some dungeon cuts, if they're edible." Igi noted it. Another income source. Another connection. "One more thing — we don't have a city teleport," the receptionist added, a hint of frustration in her voice. "Aldenheim has one — the capital can afford it. We can't. The journey takes three days by coach from our city to Aldenheim. Regular departure every third day — merchant convoy, you can join for a silver." Igi nodded. Three days by coach. Regular departure. Useful information. Although — his way, by pegasus, would be considerably faster. Damn, he thought. Yes, I need to open the Space tree. Teleportation would solve everything. No horses, no carriages, no three days on the road. Portal, step, done. But the Space Magic tree was expensive, and opening another tree meant spreading points he needed elsewhere. Always the same problem. Too many paths. Too few points. Too little time. "Thank you for the information," Igi said. "One more thing. If someone needs a tank for the dungeon — I'd be happy to join the Crypt run. But at least level twenty plus. I don't want to drag newcomers. I want
a party I can level with together." The receptionist looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. A Golem Master offering to tank. Unusual, but in Crosshaven they didn't take requests lightly. "I know two who are looking for at least one more to fill out for the Crypt. They're regulars here. Should I stop by this evening?" "They'll be here tonight. Drinking at the Bear's Head — where you're staying." Igi nodded. Convenient. He didn't even need to change buildings. "Good. Will you introduce us?" "I don't introduce. But I'll tell them a golem maker is looking for a Crypt party. The rest is on you." "That's enough."
QUEST BOARD Igi returned to the board and began going through quests more carefully. Gathering herbs in the area — he could do that blindfolded. Decent buyback prices. Noted. QUEST: Goblin Problem — Western Forest Goblins have appeared in the western forest. Small group, 10-15 individuals. Difficulty: Low Reward: 30 silver + proof of elimination Note: Recurring occurrence. Goblins return every 2-3 weeks. Igi read the quest twice. Goblins. Western forest. That would do by evening. Then there was the permanent ore quest. Igi read it and frowned. Mining ore required tools, vein locations, and physical labor — not impossible, but time-consuming and for a golem maker, not exactly efficient. DIVINE BOOK And then there were the divine quests. Igi hadn't noticed them at first — they weren't on the board. They were beneath it. A thick, leather-bound book, chained to the side of the quest board with a rusty chain. The book was heavy — when Igi lifted it, he felt a weight that wasn't just physical. It was systemic weight. The weight of gods. He opened it. Each page belonged to a different god. Different script, different ink color, different style. Some pages were gold — gods of light and order. Some dark — gods of shadow and chaos. Some green, blue, red, silver. A full palette of deities, each with their own quests, their own requirements, and their own rewards. There were many. Dozens of pages. Each god had at least three to five active quests. Igi leafed through. He skipped the gods of war — nothing for him. Skipped the goddess of love — definitely
nothing for him. Skipped the god of trade — maybe later. He stopped at the Artificer's page. The page was copper — literally. The script looked as if someone had engraved it into metal and then pressed it into paper. The page edges were decorated with miniature gears and hammers. The Artificer's quests. The first quest was long. Very long. QUEST: The Artificer's Path (Reputation Quest — Long-term) Phase 1: Gathering — Obtain 500 units of iron ore — Obtain 200 units of copper ore — Obtain 100 units of mithril ore — Obtain 50 rare plants (list attached) Phase 2: Crafting — Craft 100 tools of "Excellent" quality or higher — Craft 50 alchemical preparations of "Excellent" quality or higher — Craft 10 golems of "Masterwork" quality Phase 3: Distribution — Deliver tools to the Artificer's shrines (15 locations worldwide) — Deliver preparations to healers in Artificer-designated cities (10 locations) — Build one Artificer's shrine in a new location Reward: Reputation +500. Special talent: Artificer's Blessing. Igi read it. Then read it again. Five hundred units of iron ore. Fifteen locations worldwide. Build a shrine. Long-term quest. Truly long-term. Months of work. Maybe years. But reputation plus five hundred with the Artificer — that was an enormous number. And a special talent as a reward? That was worth considering. He leafed further. Below the main quest were smaller ones — individual commissions, shorter, simpler. And then he found something else. The final section of the Artificer's page didn't have the heading "Quest." It had the heading "List." LIST — The Artificer's Justice
[Followed by 23 names with descriptions, levels, and last known locations]
For killing each person on the list: Reputation +50 with the Artificer. Igi blinked. He read the list again. Twenty-three names. Levels from fifteen to sixty. Some were craftsmen who had misused the Artificer's gifts. Some were war criminals who had destroyed shrines. One was an alchemist who sold fake potions under the Artificer's name. Ah. Someone had pissed him off. Bounty list. Straight from a god. No trial, no appeal, no
discussion. Just names, locations, and a reward for their death. Igi closed the book. The chain clinked softly as the book swung back into place. Interesting. Very interesting. But not for today. Today — goblins. WESTERN FOREST The western forest was exactly as Igi expected — dense, dark, full of sounds that could be anything from a bird to something that eats birds. Igi didn't enter the forest alone. That is — he entered alone. But not by himself. On a clearing past the first rows of trees, he summoned ten stone golems. Primitive, temporary, expendable. They knew how to move forward and hit whatever wasn't stone. Nothing more. Nothing less. He found the goblins after an hour. More precisely — the goblins found his golems. A small group — twelve, precisely within quest range — had camped by a stream. When they saw ten stone figures rolling through the trees, their first reaction was screaming. Their second reaction was fleeing. Their third — when they realized the golems were slow — was attacking. Bad decision. Stone golems weren't fast. But they were tough. Goblin knives and javelins bounced off stone like off a castle wall. And stone fists, when they connected, connected hard. The fight lasted eight minutes. Six goblins dead. Four on the run — too fast for the stone golems. Two goblins surrendered — kneeling in the stream with their hands over their heads, shrieking something that could have been a plea for mercy or a curse. Igi didn't speak goblin and wasn't interested. He let them go. The quest required elimination, not genocide. Six dead goblins were enough for proof. Losses: two stone golems. One shattered by a goblin sling stone — direct hit to the head, fragmentation. The second fell into the stream and the current carried it away — technically not destroyed, but lost. The remaining eight golems stood on the clearing and awaited their next command. Igi dismissed them. The stone crumbled to dust and the wind carried it away. In the system window glowed: QUEST: Goblin Problem — COMPLETED Reward: 30 silver (collect at guild) Golem Mastery: +180 XP Stone golems destroyed: 2/10 Igi turned and headed back toward the city. Along the way he gathered herbs he recognized. Healing flowers, root mushrooms, aromatic leaves. Everything could be sold. Everything had value. He reached Crosshaven before sunset. EVENING First stop —
the guild. Igi handed in the quest slip. He kept the mana cores from the goblins. The receptionist paid him thirty silver and logged the completed quest on his card. "One more thing," she said as Igi was stashing the silver in his pouch. "Those two looking for the Crypt run. I told them about you." "And?" "They were interested. Golem Master for tanking — they've never had that here. They'll be drinking at the Bear's Head tonight. The one you're staying at." Igi nodded. "How will I recognize them?" "Easy. They're the only two people in Crosshaven who order elven wine at a tavern where the best drink is barley beer."
The Bear's Head was livelier in the evening than during the day. A dozen guests, noise, laughter, the sound of mugs on tables. The owner behind the bar poured with the efficiency of a machine and an expression that said: order, pay, don't argue. Igi spotted them immediately. They sat in the corner — a man and a woman. He was lean, dark-haired, with an archer's hands — long fingers and forearms where you could see the tendons even through his shirt. Beside his chair lay a bow — long, dark green, quality. On the table before him stood a glass of wine whose color beer never had. She was petite, dark-skinned, with short black hair and eyes that moved across the room with a speed that belonged to either a thief or a mageress. On her finger, a ring glowed faintly — enchanted. Mageress.
Translation — Lines 5001–6110 (Final) Igi walked to their table. "You two looking for a tank for the Crypt?" The man looked at him. The woman looked at him. Both sized him up — gray robe, staff, hood. He didn't look like a tank. But in the Q world, appearances deceived more often than they were useful. "Sit down," the man said, pushing a chair out with his foot. "The receptionist told us. Golem Master. Interesting." Igi sat. And so began the conversation that would change his next weeks in Crosshaven. But that's for another time.
Under the Bear — Evening
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Igi." The man with the bow reached across the table. Firm handshake — not showy, but sure. "Renn. And this is Lyra." The woman with the ring raised her glass instead of her hand. "Hi." "We're a couple," Renn added with a smile that suggested he always shared this information at the start to preempt misunderstandings. "In life and in the dungeon. I shoot, she heals. It works." "Mostly," Lyra clarified and sipped her wine. "Mostly," Renn conceded. "Sometimes she lets me bleed out when I piss her off." "That was once." "Twice." "Once and a half. The second time you deserved it." Igi smiled slightly beneath his hood. A couple. Archer and healer. A functioning duo missing a third member for tanking. Logical. "So," Renn said, leaning back in his chair. "Golem Master. The receptionist said you tank with golems. How does that work in practice? Because — no offense — but when I picture a golem, I picture a slow stone statue that can barely move."
Igi nodded. Fair question. "I'm not a full-fledged tank," he said directly. No pretense, no inflation. In a dungeon, lies were paid for in blood. "But I can manage a tactic. Two stone golems in rotation. The first goes forward
— holds aggro, absorbs hits. They won't last long or take much — a stone golem at my level can handle three, maybe four hard hits before it crumbles. But when the first falls, the second steps in. Fresh, full, ready. That buys us time." Renn stroked his chin. "And when the second falls too?" "I summon another. My mana allows four, maybe five per run. Depends on length and intensity. But if we're efficient — two should suffice for most encounters." "Does heal work on them?" Lyra asked. First technical question. A healer thinking about her target — logical. "No," Igi said. "Heal doesn't work on golems. They're constructs, not living beings. Standard healing magic doesn't affect them. When a golem gets damaged, it simply holds until it crumbles. Then a new one comes." Lyra noted it. "So I focus on you two. Real people." "Exactly. The golems are expendable front-line. You two are valuable. I'm... somewhere in between." Renn laughed. "An honest guy. Don't see that often around here." "I can also summon a fire golem," Igi continued. "For example, for AoE damage, or if we hit undead that are weak to fire. But I need to manage my mana. Every golem costs mana to summon and maintain. If I go circus with summons, by the third floor I'll be out of juice and you'll be tankless." "So conservative," Lyra said. "So conservative," Igi confirmed. "Two stone in rotation. Fire as backup. And me in the back with the staff and control. You two do damage and healing, I hold the front and direct the golems." Renn looked at Lyra. Lyra looked at Renn. That look of a couple who know each other so well that entire conversations happen without words. Then both nodded. "Works," Renn said. "When do you want to go?" "Tomorrow morning? Scouting run. First three floors. We map, test tactics, see how we work together." "Deal."
Renn refilled everyone's wine — elven, genuinely good, Igi had to admit — and the conversation shifted from tactics to more personal matters. As it tends to in taverns. "The receptionist said you don't have a guild," Renn said. Not accusatory, just curious. "I don't." "Want to join us?" Igi raised an eyebrow beneath his hood. "We're called the Adventurers," Renn
continued with a grin. "I know — not exactly an original name. But we're a small guild. No base yet, no big ambitions, no enemies. There's fourteen of us. The rest have different levels and interests — some farm, some craft, some just exist and show up on the guild chat once in a while." "We had a friend here," Lyra added, her voice dropping slightly. "He tanked with us for a year. Good guy. But he had to leave — family stuff. Since then we've been looking for a tank." "A year?" "A year." Renn shrugged. "Crosshaven isn't exactly overflowing with tanks. Most fighters head to Aldenheim or further. Only those who can't afford the trip stay here, or those who want to be here." Igi thought. Wine glass in hand, eyes fixed on the liquid, head full of calculations. A guild. Small, harmless, without ambitions. Fourteen members. No politics, no wars, no Draxer. Just a guild chat and occasional dungeons. He didn't need a guild. He didn't come here for a guild. He came to level, farm, and build an army in silence. A guild meant obligations. Visibility. Complications. But a guild chat meant communication. Dungeon planning. Coordination. And that he needed. "Fine," Igi said at last. "But I won't be in the guild long. I'll come and go. No obligations, no positions, no voting on what color the guild crest should be. I'm only there so we can plan dungeons through the chat. Nothing more." Renn smiled. "That's exactly as much as we expect from you." "Deal?" "Deal." Renn raised his glass. "To the new party." Lyra raised her glass. "To you lasting longer than the last tank." Igi raised his glass. "To not having to."
The clink of three glasses sounded in the noise of the Bear's Head like a small agreement not worth mentioning. But for Igi, it was the first agreement in a new kingdom. The first party. The first dungeon. The first step in a plan far larger than Renn or Lyra could imagine. The wine was good. The company was acceptable. And tomorrow morning, the Crypt of the Silent awaited. Igi finished his drink, thanked them, and went to his room. On the bed, he opened his system window.
[GUILD INVITATION] Player Renn (Officer) invites you to join organization: ADVENTURERS.
"Small guild, big heart. Or at least decent wine."
[ ACCEPT / DECLINE ]
Igi pressed ACCEPT. In the corner of his vision, the guild chat activated. Fourteen names. Most offline. Two messages:
[Guild chat — ADVENTURERS]
Renn: "We've got a new one. Golem Master. He'll be tanking in the Crypt." Lyra: "He's weird but good. And you don't have to heal his golems." Renn: "That's an advantage, right?" Lyra: "Enormous."
Crypt of the Silent
The morning was cold and gray. They met in front of the Crypt at seven — Igi arrived first, of course. He stood before the dungeon entrance with his staff in hand and his hood pulled deep. Renn and Lyra arrived five minutes later — he with the bow on his back and arrows in the quiver, she with the ring that glowed faintly white in the morning dimness. "Morning," Renn said with a yawn. "Morning," Lyra replied, looking as though morning were a personal attack on her existence. Igi said nothing. He opened the system window and sent both a group invite.
[GROUP INVITATION] Player Igi invites you to a group.
Members: Igi (Golem Master, lvl 25), Renn (Ranger, lvl 23), Lyra (Healer/Mage, lvl 22)
[ ACCEPT / DECLINE ]
Renn accepted instantly. Lyra a second later. In the corner of Igi's vision, their health bars appeared — green, full, stable. Three names.
Three bars. A trio. "Let's go," Igi said.
GATE The entrance to the Crypt of the Silent didn't look dramatic. It was a stone arch set into a hillside — old, mossy stones covered in lichen. No burning torches. No skulls on stakes. No warning signs. Just the arch and beyond it, darkness. But when Igi looked at the arch with his system sight, he saw more. Above the arch glowed an inscription, visible only to players:
[DUNGEON: Crypt of the Silent]
Type: Undead Levels: 1-50 Number of floors: 10 Recommended group: 3-5 players Dungeon Core: Active (AI) Status: Regenerated And below that — a level scale. Floors 1-2: level 1-10. Floors 3-4: level 10-20. Floors 5-6: level 20-30. And so on, up to floor 10: level 45-50. "Ten floors," Renn said, looking at Igi. "Do we start from the beginning?" "No. Starting from the tenth floor down, we'd spend the whole day on easy creatures. Teleport to five." Renn nodded. "Five. Level twenty enemies. That works." They passed through the arch.
ENTRY ROOM The darkness beyond the arch lasted only a second. Then it lit up — not with light, more with a faint luminescence emanating from the walls themselves. They found themselves in a small room — stone walls, low ceiling, air that smelled of dust and old stone. In the center of the floor was a circle. Large, carved directly into stone, with runes along its entire circumference that pulsed faintly blue. The dungeon portal. "Here we are," Lyra said, looking around. "This always gives me chills. The entire dungeon is basically another dimension." She was right. Igi knew it — from theory and from practice. A dungeon was not a cave. It was not an underground complex hewn from rock. It was a space — a standalone dimension, a pocket of reality that existed parallel to the real world. The
entry arch was just a gateway. A door between worlds. Every dungeon had its own dimension. Some were created by a Dungeon Master — a player who chose to sacrifice mobility and freedom in exchange for power over their own space. They designed floors themselves — traps, rooms, bosses, treasures. They were artists of destruction, architects of death. Other dungeons — like the Crypt of the Silent — were AI-controlled. The Dungeon Core, active and autonomous, generated content on its own. It grew with time.
TELEPORTATION CIRCLE Around the main portal in the center of the room were smaller circles along the perimeter — five. Each had a number above it. Circle 1: Floors 1-2 (Level 1-10) Circle 2: Floors 3-4 (Level 10-20) Circle 3: Floors 5-6 (Level 20-30) Circle 4: Floors 7-8 (Level 30-40) Circle 5: Floors 9-10 (Level 40-50) Dungeon teleportation circles. They existed in every dungeon above five levels — typically a dungeon with ten or more levels had them automatically. They were there for practical reasons — nobody wanted to spend hours traversing floors below their level. An experienced group wanted to go directly where the challenge was. Where the experience was. Where growth was. "Circle three," Igi said. "Floor five. Level twenty to thirty. Exactly our zone." Renn stepped onto the circle first. The runes beneath his feet lit up — blue, then white, then blinding. When the light faded, Renn was gone. Lyra followed. Same effect — light, a flash, and an empty circle. Igi stepped on last. He felt it — that pull, as if someone had grabbed his insides and tugged him forward. Not painful. Just unpleasant. Like falling without falling.
FLOOR 5 They materialized in a corridor. Long, narrow, with stone walls covered in frost. The air here was cold — not naturally, but magically. The kind of cold that got under your skin and settled in your bones. Undead dungeon. Death always tasted of frost. At the end of the corridor, a faint
greenish glow — a portal to the next floor. Between them and the portal was what they came for. Rooms. Enemies. Experience. Every floor had the same structure — the start, where the group materialized, a series of rooms with creatures, and the end, where the portal to the next floor waited. Between the start and the end — chaos, death, and treasure. In that order. "Formation," Igi said. He raised his hands and focused. Mana in him dropped — not much, but noticeably. From the floor before him, two shapes began to rise. Stone on stone, layer on layer, as if the dungeon floor itself were giving the golems bodies. Ten seconds later, two stone golems stood before them. Rough, shapeless, with torsos like boulders and fists like mason's hammers. "These are One and Two," Igi said. "Don't call them by name — they don't have names. One goes first. When it falls, Two steps in. When Two falls, pull back and give me ten seconds for another." Renn nocked an arrow on the string. "Got it." Lyra activated a healing aura — a faint white glow that surrounded her and Renn. Not the golems. Golems were beyond the reach of healing. Constructs without life, outside the reach of healing magic. "Ready?" Igi asked. "Ready." Golem One stepped into the first room. And the Crypt of the Silent welcomed them the way it welcomed everyone — with darkness, cold, and the sound of bones assembling.
FIRST ROOM The Crypt didn't disappoint. Golem One entered a circular room with a low ceiling. The moment its stone foot crossed the threshold, bones began pouring from the walls. Not whole skeletons — individual bones that assembled in mid-air like puzzles. Skull here, ribs there, spines clattered into a pile, and in three seconds four skeletons stood in the room. Level 22. Level 23. Level 21. Level 24. Skeletons were the basic unit of undead dungeons — fast, fragile, with rusty swords and shields behind which lay nothing. No organs, no blood. Just bones, magic, and hatred for the living. Golem One didn't need to wait for them. It stepped into the center of the room and the skeletons lunged. First strike — a rusty sword hit the stone torso. A spark. A scratch. Nothing. The golem answered — a
stone fist struck the skeleton in the chest and scattered it to pieces. Bones flew across the room like shrapnel. "One down," Igi reported from the corridor. Renn fired. The arrow flew across the room and struck the second skeleton precisely in the skull. The skull exploded. The body — if you could call it a body — collapsed to the floor. "Two." The remaining two skeletons tried to flank the golem — one from the left, the other from the right. Golem One was slow — it couldn't cover both directions. The left skeleton got around and went for Renn. Lyra raised her hand. A white beam lashed from her ring — not a heal. An attack spell. Holy Light. The beam struck the skeleton and it blazed with white light. For a split second it looked almost beautiful — a glowing skeleton in a dark dungeon. Then it crumbled to dust. "Three," Lyra said calmly. Golem One crushed the last skeleton. A stone foot came down on the skull and the sound that followed was final. "Four. Room clear," Igi said.
[COMBAT LOG]
Enemies eliminated: 4/4 Golem One: HP 85% (damage: superficial) Group: No injuries XP: +320 (split)
Renn smiled. "That went smooth." "Too smooth," Lyra said. "That was the first room. The dungeon is testing us." "Next room," Igi said. "Same formation. One goes first." Golem One, with a scraped torso and a crack on its left shoulder, stepped into the next corridor.
The trio continued deeper into the Crypt. Room after room. Skeletons, ghosts, ghouls. Golem One fell in the fourth room — too many ghouls at once, their acid claws corroding the stone faster than Igi expected. Golem Two stepped in and the trio continued. At the end of the floor — the portal. Greenish glow, runes on the floor, passage to floor six. Igi stopped before the portal. He looked at the group. Renn had three fewer arrows and a light
scrape on his forearm. Lyra's mana was at sixty percent. Golem Two had cracks on its chest and was missing a piece of its left hand. "Enough," Igi said. "Enough for today. Floor six will be level twenty-five to thirty. With one damaged golem and a healer at sixty, that's a risk." Renn nodded. "Agreed. Good first run." Lyra smiled. "The golem tactic works. It's unconventional — but it works." Igi summoned a return portal — a function every player had in a dungeon. A bluish circle on the floor, the way back to the entry room. The trio stepped in and a second later stood back under the stone arch, in daylight, with dungeon dust on their clothes.
[RUN SUMMARY]
Dungeon: Crypt of the Silent Floor: 5 (completed) Enemies eliminated: 28 Golems lost: 1 (Golem One) Total XP: +2,180 Loot: 3x mana core fragment, 1x skeleton sword (material), assorted bones (material) Time: 2 hours 40 minutes "Again tomorrow?" Renn asked. "Again tomorrow," Igi confirmed. "Floor six. Bring more arrows." "And you bring more golems." "I always have more golems." The trio parted ways. Renn and Lyra headed to the tavern for lunch. Igi headed to the forest outside the city — he needed stone for new golems and quiet for thinking. In the system window, a new entry blinked: Golem Mastery: +890 XP Golem Mastery: Level 20 → Level 20 (72% to next) Slowly. But steadily. And steady was exactly what Igi needed.
Two Cities
He still had half a day. Igi decided to look around Crosshaven — not as an adventurer, but as a cook. As someone who needed to know the city he'd be living in for the next weeks. Maybe months. Crosshaven was small but pleasantly organized. The main street ran from the north gate to the south — straight, paved, lined with shops. A blacksmith's shop at the north end — an old dwarf with massive hands and an apron covered in soot, who forged horseshoes and occasionally something more interesting. Igi stopped in front of the display and looked at the weapons — swords, axes, arrowheads. Nothing exceptional, but solid work. He noted — if he needed metal components for golems, this blacksmith would be the first stop. The alchemist's shop was three doors down — a small building with a display full of bottles of various colors. Igi went in. The shopkeeper — an old woman with glasses on the tip of her nose — sized him up and said nothing. Igi browsed the shelves. Basic ingredients, standard potions, nothing rare. But the prices were reasonable. And more importantly — they had empty vials for sale. Igi bought twenty. Alchemy needed containers, and containers needed glass. He spent an hour at the market. Walking between stalls, listening, looking, appraising. Vegetables — fresh, local, cheap. Meat — game from the forest, mostly rabbit and
venison. Spices — limited selection, but respectable for a provincial city. Igi bought a packet of dried thyme that nobody here recognized, knowing that when he added it to soup, it would be the best thing this city had ever eaten. He also passed the church — small, stone, consecrated to the goddess of harvest. In front of the church sat three old women gossiping in that manner identical in every city on every continent in every world. Igi went around them. Gossip was a useful source of information, but not today. Today he was just mapping. He returned to the walls and walked the entire perimeter. Four watchtowers, two gates, a wall four meters high. Not impregnable, but decent. Guards — six visible, probably another two or three on rotation. Lazy pace. Crosshaven wasn't expecting an attack. Crosshaven wasn't expecting anything — and that was exactly what Igi needed. At noon he returned to the Bear's Head. Ordered lunch — burnt goulash, exactly as bad as the bartender in the first village had implied. Igi ate and thought about how many days it would take before he offered the owner his services in the kitchen. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. No need to rush. First blend in, then make yourself useful.
After lunch, he climbed to his room, locked the door, and lay on the bed. He didn't fall asleep. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and focused. His body in Crosshaven relaxed — muscles went slack, face smoothed, hands fell to his sides. Anyone who walked into the room would see an old man taking an afternoon nap. He wasn't napping. He was elsewhere.
FENIX A thousand kilometers away, in Fenix City, in a grimy alley of the poor district, a shadow moved behind a garbage bin. It wasn't a real shadow. It was a man — if you could call it a man. Ragged, dirty, with eyes clouded from cheap alchemical drugs sold in the southern district for a few coppers. Matted hair, unkempt beard, hands covered in old scars and fresh scrapes. One of dozens of similar existences stumbling through the
alleys of Fenix — souls the Q system had spat to the surface and the world had forgotten to pull back. Nobody looked at him. Nobody ever looked at him. That was the whole point. The addict looked around. The street was empty — in this part of the poor district, you didn't walk after dusk unless you had a good reason or bad intentions. Satisfied he was alone, he went around the corner, into a dark nook between two buildings where even rats were afraid to go. And there he changed. Not slowly. Not gradually. Instantly. The dirty skin dissolved. The tattered clothes absorbed inward. The entire figure lost its solid form — for a split second, all that stood there was a column of liquid metal, silver, pulsing, without shape or identity. And then the metal reformed. From the dark nook emerged a young woman. She wasn't conspicuous. She wasn't beautiful — not the kind of beauty that turned heads. She was attractive in a way that was practical, not dramatic. Dark hair pulled back, brown eyes, a pretty face with regular features you'd remember only if you had reason to. Dressed in ordinary clothes — not poor, not rich. Clothes that said: I belong here, but I'm not important. With a generous neckline that suggested an evening stroll through the poor district had its purpose. A woman men would look at. A woman who could get where a ragged addict couldn't. Changeling. Igi's eyes and hands in Fenix. The woman — not a woman, a golem in the shape of a woman, controlled by the mind of an old man lying on a bed in a tavern a thousand kilometers away — adjusted her hair and stepped from the dark nook onto the street. In Igi's mind — in the part that was now here, in this guise, in this city — a quiet, almost amused voice spoke up. Let's do a little city cleaning.
Nighttime Fenix was different from daytime. By day the city put on a civilized face — markets, shops, guards in gleaming armor, Draxer's crest on every corner. Order. Or at least its illusion. At night the illusion fell. The changeling in the guise of a young woman walked through the streets of the poor district, and Igi through her eyes saw what he saw every night. Dealers on street corners selling diluted alchemical drugs to addicted
players at prices that would be laughable on a real market — but here, where the addicted were desperate, they were gold. Gang patrols — pairs and trios in dark cloaks controlling territory with the confidence of people nobody opposed. Women — some willingly, most not — in the windows of houses where something was sold that couldn't be bought in a shop. And in the middle of all of it — guards. Draxer's guards. Men in armor with the Fenix crest who walked past dealers without slowing down. Who looked away from windows where bodies were sold. Who collected their percentage and moved on. Igi saw all of it. Every night. Through the eyes of the changeling he'd left behind when he departed. And every night he did the same — small, invisible interventions that nobody tracked and nobody understood. Tonight he had three targets.
First target — Krot. Krot was a dealer. Not big — mid-league, enough to have two bodyguards and his own stash in the basement of an abandoned laundromat. He sold Blaze — an alchemical potion that originally served to increase fire resistance, but when improperly dosed caused euphoria, hallucinations, and addiction. Krot improperly dosed deliberately. The changeling in the guise of a young woman walked past the laundromat. She slowed. The bodyguard at the door — a massive man with a scar across his eye — sized her up. Neckline. Face. Legs. Assessment took two seconds. "Looking for something, sweetheart?" "Blaze," the changeling said in a voice that was soft and slightly hoarse. The voice of a woman who needed it and was willing to pay. "Krot here?" The bodyguard nodded toward the door. "Downstairs. Pay upfront." The changeling handed him coins. The bodyguard counted them, pocketed them, and opened the door. The changeling went in. Down the stairs. Into a dark, damp space that smelled of Blaze — a sweet, metallic odor that settled on the tongue. Krot sat behind a table full of vials. An emaciated man with nervous hands and eyes that constantly jerked from place to place. "What do you want, kitty?" The changeling smiled. And in that smile — if Krot had looked more carefully — there was something that didn't belong on the face of a woman
looking for a drug. There was something metallic. Ten minutes later, the changeling exited the laundromat. The bodyguard at the door nodded to her. Beautiful woman, leaving with what she came for. Nothing suspicious. In the basement behind her, Krot's Blaze stash was burning. A fire fragment — small, tiny piece of magma the changeling had left under the table — was quietly turning the first vial to ash. Then the second. Then the third. In an hour the entire stash would be in flames. Krot would try to put it out and discover that magical fire couldn't be extinguished with water. One target down. Two remaining.
Second target — a guard named Hale. Lieutenant Hale. The same one who sold dungeon intelligence to the Black Knives gang. Igi had him on the parchment he'd once presented to Draxer. Drax had ignored the parchment. Igi hadn't. Hale had a habit. Every night at eleven he stopped at the tavern called the Gray Raccoon — not for beer, for a bribe. He met his contact from the Black Knives, received an envelope with information about the following week's guard shifts — who stood where, who relieved when, where the gaps were — and in return received a pouch of gold. Tonight the contact was there. Sitting in the corner, envelope on the table, waiting. But Hale didn't come. Instead came a message — an anonymous note, delivered by a street boy who'd been paid three coppers for delivery. The note read: "Hale sells information to the Black Knives. Evidence in the envelope under his bed in the barracks. Signed: A Friend of Order." The note was addressed to the captain of the guard — not Voss, he was corrupt too. It was addressed to his deputy — a young officer named Taren, about whom Igi's information said he was one of the few honest men in uniform. The changeling watched from the shadows as the street boy delivered the note. Taren read it. His face hardened. He left the barracks at a fast pace — heading toward Hale's room. Two down.
The third target was more personal. At Sister Maren's orphanage, food was running out. Igi knew — the changeling had been monitoring it for weeks. Donations were thinning, the church sent less, and children kept arriving. Sister Maren was losing weight as fast as her pantry. The changeling in the guise of a young woman walked past the orphanage. She didn't stop. Didn't knock. Just — entirely by accident, entirely unintentionally — dropped a pouch by the back door. A heavy pouch. Full of silver. Sister Maren would find it in the morning. She wouldn't know who left it. She wouldn't ask. In this world, you didn't ask unnecessary questions — the answers were usually unpleasant.
RETURN The changeling returned to the dark nook between buildings. Checked she was alone. And then changed again — the young woman vanished, the liquid metal reformed, and five seconds later the ragged addict sat in the nook again with an empty gaze and drool on his chin. Invisible. Unsuspicious. Exactly where he belonged.
In Crosshaven, in the room above the Bear's Head, Igi opened his eyes. Ceiling. Beams. Lamplight, crackling softly. Body stiff — he'd lain motionless for three hours. His fingers tingled as he returned to his own limbs. Three targets. All completed. Krot's stash was burning. Hale would be in trouble by morning. Sister Maren would have food. Small interventions. Invisible repairs. Drops in an ocean that would never be clean. But drops count. Igi stood, washed his face with cold water, and sat at the table. He opened his system notes and began planning tomorrow. Crypt of the Silent — floor six. Renn and Lyra. Golems. And at night — Fenix again. Always Fenix. Two cities. Two lives. One golem maker. And never enough time for both.
Classroom 800 — Arena
"I'm glad how far we've come." Igi said it quietly, almost to himself, but in Classroom 800 it was quiet enough for everyone to hear. Five pairs of eyes fixed on him — some surprised, some suspicious. Igi rarely started a lesson with a compliment. "Hazela," he said, looking at the elf. "How is Arwen doing?" Hazela straightened slightly. "She's trying. She misses the forest and can't wait for Green. But she trains every day. She's disciplined — more than I was in my first year." "That's not hard," Peter remarked with a smile. Hazela looked at him in a way that suggested an arrow in his direction was not out of the question. "Continue with her," Igi told Hazela. "Green will find her when she's ready. Not sooner." Hazela nodded. "The rest of you — how's the newcomer recruitment going?"
Jana spoke first. "I have someone in mind. A beastkind — fox type. I saw her at the market in the harbor. They were selling her in a cage like a pet. She's young, maybe fourteen. No family. I'm doing reconnaissance — I want to know who owns her, what the guard cycles are, and how much she costs." Igi nodded. "Good. Plan A, B, C. Then come to me." Diana was next. "Still looking. I have three candidates, but none meets all the
conditions. One has family — she's out. Second is too old — twenty-two, doesn't want to be shaped. Third... the third might be the right one. But I need more time." "You have it. Quality, not speed." Peter laced his hands behind his head. "I've got two. But I can't decide. One is a clever street boy — quick fingers, quick feet, quick tongue. The other is a quiet type who sits in the corner and watches. Both are at rock bottom, both without family." "Which of them won't survive longer?" Igi asked. Peter thought. "The quiet one." "Then you have your answer." Kaelen spoke last. "I have him. A half-orc. Thirteen years old. Living on the street since eight. Fights like an animal, but listens when you talk to him like a person. Nobody ever talked to him like a person." "Reconnaissance?" "Done. He belongs to nobody. No owner, no guild, no gang. It's just him and the street." "Plan?" "Plan A — direct conversation. I offer him food and an opportunity. Plan B — if he refuses, I give him time and come back. Plan C — if someone recruits him in the meantime, I pull him out." Igi looked at Kaelen for a long time. Then nodded. "Good. Start when you're ready."
ARENA "Kaelen. Peter. Come with me." Igi rose from the lectern and left the classroom without further explanation. Kaelen and Peter looked at each other — the half-orc shrugged, the rogue smirked — and followed him. Diana, Hazela, and Jana stayed in the classroom, watching them go. "Arena?" Jana asked. "Arena," Diana confirmed. "Let them have their fun."
The Elysium Arena was not a colosseum. It was a circular space behind the main building — stone floor, low walls, a sand field in the center. No bleachers, no audience. A training arena, not a theater. The arena system was simple — whoever entered could not die. Injuries were real, pain was real, but when someone killed you, you appeared outside the arena gate. Without wounds, without scratches. Just with a lesson. Outside the arena, she was already waiting. Red. She was in human form. Igi approached her.
"Red. How's their fighting going?" Red crossed her arms over her chest. "They have a long road ahead. But they have potential." "More specifically." "Kaelen is strong and tough. He can take a hit and keep going. That's rare — most people fold after the first solid strike. He doesn't. His problem is speed. He's predictable. Strong but slow." "And Peter?" Red smiled slightly. There was something predatory in that smile. "Peter's advantage is speed. And the invisibility he's learning from Black. He's fast, quiet, and can get where he shouldn't. The problem is power — when he hits, he doesn't hit hard enough. He needs to learn where to stab so one stab is enough." Igi nodded. "Good. Both into the arena. I want to see what they can do." Kaelen and Peter looked at each other. This time without shrugging and without a smile. This was serious.
KAELEN VS. PETER They entered the arena from opposite sides. Kaelen — massive, greenish skin, battle axe in his right hand, small round shield in his left. Scars on his forearms, muscular legs in a wide stance. Tank. Every inch of his body screamed: hit me, I can take it. Peter — lean, dark clothing, two short knives in his hands. A smile on his face — the same smile as always, but now with sharper edges. Rogue. Every inch of his body screamed: try and catch me. Igi placed his hand on the arena floor and the system appeared: the fight cost 2 points and 200 mana from the mana core. The arena system activated a countdown. 3... 2... 1... Peter vanished. Not literally — but almost. Shadow Step — a talent from the Black branch that made him semi-transparent, nearly invisible for half a second. Kaelen expected it — he turned, shield up, eyes narrowed. He listened. The arena was silent — just sand underfoot and the beating of two hearts. Peter attacked from the left. Fast, quiet, knife aimed at the gap between Kaelen's helmet and breastplate. A precise strike. Targeting a weak point. The knife found its mark. Kaelen snarled — pain, not surprise. The blade cut into skin beneath the helmet, the gap between the plates, blood. But Kaelen didn't fall. Didn't stop. He turned toward the strike and the axe swept in a wide arc. Peter was already gone. He leaped back —
quickly, fluidly, like a cat bouncing off a wall. The axe cut air where a fraction of a second ago his neck had been. "Fast," Kaelen growled. "Slow," Peter replied and attacked again. This time from the right. Two quick slashes — the first at Kaelen's shield arm, the second at the thigh. Both connected. Both aimed at tendons, at places where even a small cut meant big trouble. Kaelen retreated. Blood on his neck, blood on his arm, blood on his thigh. Peter danced around him like a wasp — stab, dodge, stab, dodge. Classic rogue tactics — a thousand small cuts, none big. Bleeding out. Patience. It looked like Peter was winning. Igi watched from the arena wall with his arms folded. Red beside him watched with the expression of a teacher who knew what was coming next. Peter attacked again — a quick thrust at Kaelen's flank. The same tactic. Stab and dodge. Stab and— Kaelen threw the axe. Not at Peter. At the ground. The axe clanged against stone and for a fraction of a second Peter lost focus — his eyes were drawn to the sound. Instinct. A fraction of a second. And in that fraction, Kaelen did something Peter didn't expect. Instead of the axe, he used an elbow strike. Closer. Faster. The half-orc's elbow hit Peter in the chest with such force that it lifted him off the ground and hurled him two meters. Peter landed on his back, the air knocked from his lungs, and before he could take a breath — Kaelen's hand scooped the axe from the ground and the blade pierced Peter's neck. Blood. Pain. But not death. In a game world built on HP, a severed artery was a catastrophe — but not the end. Peter's health bar crashed — from thirty percent to nine. Nine HP. One more stab and it was over. But nine was still more than zero. Peter rolled to the side. Fast, desperate, with blood spurting from his neck in a way that in the real world would mean death in thirty seconds. Here it meant — you still have time. Little. But you do. Next round. Kaelen stood. Bloodied — Peter's cuts from the previous rounds were adding up. The shield arm was weakening, the thigh bled, his neck burned from the first cut. Tired. But still standing. He assumed a defensive position. Shield up, axe behind it, body leaned forward, feet wide. Classic tank stance — impossible to attack from the front. The shield covered the entire torso, the axe lurked behind its edge like a snake in the grass. Every direct attack
would hit steel or stone. Every frontal attacker would end up with a split hand. Peter stood across from him. Nine HP. Neck bleeding. Knives in hand — light, fast, but useless against this defense from the front. And Peter knew it. He activated Shadow Step. His figure blurred — it didn't vanish, just became semi-transparent, as if someone had drawn him in pencil and then pulled an eraser across the edge. A fraction of a second later he was behind Kaelen. Behind his back. Where the shield didn't cover. Where there was a chance. The knife aimed at the kidneys. Fast, precise, a lethal strike to the unprotected back. But Kaelen had expected this move. The half-orc didn't turn. He didn't need to. The elbow — again the elbow, that same weapon that was always closer and always faster than anything else — shot backward. Blind, but not random. Kaelen knew where Peter would be — behind him, low, in an attack stance. Shadow Step was fast but predictable. Always behind the back. Always at the kidneys. The elbow struck Peter in the face. Nine HP dropped to three. Peter staggered — the world blurred, his nose cracked, blood everywhere. And then came the axe. Kaelen turned — his whole body, from the tips of his toes through his hips to his shoulders — and the axe traced a wide arc. Not fast. Not elegant. But final. The blade struck Peter in the side and three HP vanished.
[COMBAT LOG] Player Peter was defeated by player Kaelen.
Peter HP: 0/100 Kaelen HP: 14/100
Igi vs. Red
"Red. Challenge. You and me. Arena. Now." Red looked at him. Eyes of molten copper, a face as if hewn from fire and stone. For a moment — just a moment — something flickered in them. Surprise? Amusement? Hard to tell. "Sir," she said, her voice carrying that resonance reminiscent of fire in a furnace. "You don't have a chance." And Igi smiled. "And so you won't even try? Leveling against me will go up." Red stiffened. Something new appeared in her eyes — not anger. Something older. Pride. Dragon pride, which could not tolerate the words "won't even try" in any context, in any language, from any being. "No, sir," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "I'll gladly accept the challenge." Peter turned to the others. "Are we going to watch him die?" "We're going to watch something," Jana said quietly. "But I'm not sure what." Red stood in the center of the arena. The enormous sword in her right hand — dark metal that absorbed light, a blade as long as she was tall. But today the sword was different. Flames danced along the blade — not ordinary ones. Dragon fire. Red, orange, white at the core. The air around the sword shimmered and the sand beneath her feet slowly melted to glass. A flaming sword. In the hands of a dragoness. The five stood by the arena wall. Diana had her system window open and was measuring — temperature, mana output, damage potential.
The numbers terrified her. She left the window open but stopped looking at it. Kaelen stood with arms folded and a furrowed brow. Peter nervously spun his knife. Hazela had a taut bowstring — habit, not intent. Jana held her tail with both hands. Igi wasn't in the arena yet. He stood before the gate, rapidly typing into the guild chat.
[Guild chat — ELYSIUM]
Igi: "Red and me. Arena. Anyone who wants to watch, come." He knew the others would read it. The newcomers, Arwen, everyone. He didn't want to hide it. He wanted to show it. To elevate Red — give her space to demonstrate her power. And to goad the newcomers — to let them see where the ceiling was. Where they needed to grow. Then he wrote another message:
[Guild chat — ELYSIUM]
Igi: "Red, please don't transform into a dragon. You'll scare the newcomers. They're not ready for that." From the arena came a sound that could have been a laugh or a growl. With Red, it was hard to tell. Igi entered the arena. An old man in a gray robe. Staff in hand. Hood pulled deep. Across from him — a dragoness with a flaming sword, the air around her shimmering with heat. An absurd picture. But nobody laughed. Igi crossed to his side of the arena. Knelt. Placed his palm on the stone floor. The system window lit up before his eyes: Fight cost Price: 175 points | 6,000 mana (Mana Core) Igi immediately cursed in his mind. A hundred and seventy-five points. Six thousand mana. An outrageous sum. A month of farming. A month of saving. All of it gone in a single fight. But some things were worth the price, even when it was absurd. He pressed Confirm. Countdown. 3... 2... 1...
The arena floor exploded. Not literally — but almost. Bodies rose from the stone. Five stone golems first — massive, hard, with torsos like boulders. And behind them more. And more. Stone, ice, fire. Not five. Not ten. Twenty. Thirty. Golems formed in rows — stone up front, creating a wall of rock and metal. Ice on the flanks. Fire in the rear. A formation Igi had never deployed before. Everything he had. All the points, all the mana, all reserves. Red stood in the center of her half of the arena and watched the army growing before her eyes. There was no fear on her face. There was respect. Small, subtle, but real respect. "Nice," she said. And she moved.
Red was fast. Faster than a being her size had any right to be. The first row of stone golems — five of them — she swept aside with a single slash of the sword. The fiery blade passed through stone like through butter. Boulders crumbled, molten edges glowing orange. One slash. Five golems. Second row. Third. Red moved through the army of golems like a scythe through grain. Sword right, sword left, kick, spin, another slash. The stone ones cracked and fell. The fire ones — Igi cursed himself again for that idea — dissolved against her like candles in a furnace. Their fire was a children's toy compared to dragon fire. The ice ones slowed her — for a moment. When her blade struck an ice golem, the ice evaporated and steam obscured the view. Red paused for a second — not from pain, from caution. The steam was thick, and things hid in steam. But they were just more golems. And golems fell. Ten seconds. Fifteen golems down. Twenty seconds. Twenty-five golems down. Red was approaching the spot where she assumed Igi's position to be. Behind the last rows of golems. Behind the wall of stone and ice, where the old man in the gray robe was hiding and directing his puppets. Then one of the falling golems — a stone one, apparently destroyed — didn't crumble apart. Instead, it poured. Stone became liquid metal — silver, fast, alive — and the metal lunged at Red. Changeling. It had been hidden among the stone golems the entire time. From the start. The face of a stone golem, the body of a stone golem — but inside, liquid metal, waiting for the moment when Red got close enough.
The metal wrapped around Red in a fraction of a second. Around her entire body. Around her legs. Around her waist. Around her hands. The liquid metal hardened — not into stone, into something harder. Metal shackles that formed directly on her body. Restriction of movement. Fixation. She couldn't raise the sword, couldn't turn. Red reacted instinctively. With dragon instinct. Her body began to heat up. Not mildly — exponentially. Her skin started to glow — first red, then orange, then white. Temperature rose so rapidly that the sand beneath her feet turned to glass and the air around her shimmered in a heat haze. Inferno. Dragon inferno in a human body. The metal around her began to melt. The changeling — liquid metal, resilient, adaptive — was not built for the temperatures a dragoness in full blaze produced. The silver surface turned red, then white. Droplets of molten metal ran down Red's skin like sweat. Five more seconds and the changeling would be a liquid puddle on the floor. But from the steam — from the thick, hot steam produced by the melting metal — new bodies emerged. Water golems. Four of them. Forming directly from moisture in the air, from steam, from condensation. And behind them — ice golems. Three more. Fresh, full, cold. They crashed into Red like a wave against a rock. Water. Against a dragoness of fire. The first water golem hurled itself at her and splashed against her incandescent body. An explosion of steam. Second. Third. Fourth. Every golem that touched Red instantly vaporized — but simultaneously drew heat from her. Temperature. Energy. And the ice ones behind them. Frost against fire. Ice that melted on contact but cooled by melting. Physics, not magic. Thermoregulation by brute force. Red felt her temperature dropping. Not fast — but enough. The changeling around her body stopped melting. The metal hardened again. Shackles restored. And from the steam — from that impenetrable, thick, hot fog through which nobody could see anything — came a quiet whisper. "Forgive me. But surely you aren't willing to surrender?" Red snarled. A sound that didn't belong to a human throat. A sound that belonged to something bigger, older, more dangerous. "No," she snarled. "I'm not." Then I'll end it, Igi whispered to her. Red. She stood motionless. Sword in hand. Eyes wide open. On her face an expression nobody had
ever seen. Surprise. She was not in the arena. She was in front of the arena. The system had teleported her out — HP at 1. Defeated. Somewhere in that steam, in that chaos of water and ice golems and melting changeling, something had struck her last HP and the arena system had automatically kicked her out. From the steam — from the last remnants of thick, warm fog — a figure slowly emerged. Not a young woman. Not a stone golem. Not a changeling. An old mage in a gray robe. Staff in hand. Hood pulled deep. Burn marks on the robe, red scrapes on his hands from the heat. He stood where he'd stood from the beginning — in the center of the arena, hidden behind the walls of golems, behind the steam, behind the chaos he had created himself. Igi. He looked as if a ghost had stepped from the mist.
Red knelt. Not from humiliation. From respect. One knee on the ground, head slightly bowed, sword laid beside her. A dragoness before a golem maker. "Thank you, sir," she said. Her voice didn't sound defeated. It sounded — content. The contentment of a being who for the first time in a long while had fought something that could surprise her. "For the opportunity." Igi left the arena. Step by step, slowly, with the staff he leaned on a little more than usual. He looked exhausted — because he was exhausted. A hundred and seventy-five points and six thousand mana. All gone. But it was worth it.
The five stood by the wall in absolute silence. Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "He... he beat her?" "No," Hazela said. Elven eyes saw more. "He outmaneuvered her. That's something different." Kaelen stared at Igi. At the old man who could barely stay on his feet and leaned on a staff. At the man the half-orc had always thought was just a cook with golems. At the master who had just defeated a dragoness in the arena — not with strength, not with speed, not with magic. With tactics. With patience. Jana said nothing. She just smiled. A small, quiet smile of someone who had always known Igi was more than he seemed. Diana
closed her system window. The numbers she had just seen made no sense. And simultaneously made perfect sense. Igi walked past the five. He didn't stop. Didn't turn. He just said — in a quiet, weary voice: "Now you've seen the reason we train." He left. The tapping of his staff on stone slowly faded down the corridor. That evening the newcomers sat in the kitchen over dinner. Soup — Igi's soup, of course. Kaelen ate and was silent. Peter ate and wasn't. "That's not possible," Peter said, pointing his spoon at Kaelen. "You got me twice with elbows. Twice. Who fights with elbows?" "I do," Kaelen answered and bit into bread. "Next time—" "Next time I'll give you three." Peter opened his mouth, closed it, and then laughed. "Fair. But next time I'll be faster too. I timed that Shadow Step wrong. Half a second earlier and I had you." "You didn't." "I did." "You didn't." Jana interrupted them. "But that fight," she said, her voice quieter, more thoughtful. She held her spoon but wasn't eating. "What happened in that steam? I couldn't see anything. Just flashes and sounds and then... Red was outside and Igi stood in the center of the arena like nothing happened." Silence. Even Peter had no comment. "Is he really strong enough to beat a dragon?" Jana finished. "Dragons are weaker in human form," Diana said. She sat at the end of the table, fingers wrapped around her cup, eyes fixed on the soup where she searched for answers that weren't there. "Red in the arena wasn't a dragon. She was a dragoness in a human body. Still lethally dangerous, but a fraction of what she'd be in full form." Arwen joined in. She sat beside Hazela — always beside Hazela — and spoke softly, with the caution of someone still getting used to being able to speak without permission. "He'd certainly lose against Green." Everyone looked at her. Arwen blushed but didn't avert her gaze. "Green is... different. Stronger. Older. I saw her only once and even that was enough." Diana nodded slowly. "If at least three attacked him together — Red, Green, and Black — he'd be defeated for certain. No question." "I doubt that would ever happen," Hazela said. "They protect him. They protect Elysium. They're not his enemies." "But they could be," Diana said, and in her voice was something that was neither fear nor admiration. It was calculation. Diana always calculated. Jana set her spoon down. "I don't know if we should be
talking about our master like this." Peter leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. "He's our slave master, Jana. Five more years and we're free. I can say whatever I want about him." Jana looked at him. Those green eyes, wolf eyes, that saw more than Peter wanted. "And where do you want to go, Peter? When you're free? What's waiting for you out there? Nothing. Here you're safe. Here you have food, a roof, training. Here you have us." Peter stiffened. His smile didn't go out — Peter never let his smile go out — but something behind it shifted. Something he didn't show. "A cage is a cage, Jana. Even if it's golden." Silence. Heavy, uncomfortable silence. Kaelen spoke. In a deep, calm voice that sounded like stone — hard but stable. "Igi is honest." Everyone looked at him. "He's honest," Kaelen repeated. "He's kept every promise he's made. He's never lied. He's never hurt without reason. And I'm stronger every day. Four years ago I was a half-orc from the street, fighting for a scrap of bread. Today I'm a warrior who can take down a rogue in the arena and maybe — maybe — last ten seconds against a dragoness." He bit into bread. Chewed. Swallowed. "A cage is a cage," he admitted. "But what's inside it depends on who builds it. Igi builds cages that make you stronger. And in five years, when the door opens, I'll be ready for anything." Peter looked at him for a long time. Then raised his glass of water. "To the slave master who makes the best soup in the Q world." "To the master," Jana corrected quietly. "To Igi," Kaelen said. Six glasses rose. Six clinks. Six people who didn't know if they were prisoners or students, slaves or family. Maybe both. The soup was good. As always.
Classroom 800 — Guild Wars
"There's very little left that you don't know." Igi stood behind the lectern and looked at the five — plus Arwen, who sat beside Hazela as always. Six faces, six pairs of eyes, six people who were different today than four years ago. Stronger. Wiser. More dangerous. "In the city you registered with the Adventurers' Guild. You've been in dungeons. Done quests — group and individual. Bought in the God Shop with points. Spoken with gods. Upgraded talents. Farmed mana cores. Trained in the arena. And a heap of other things that would take me an hour to list." He paused and stepped before the blackboard. "If you encounter an obstacle you don't understand — and you will, there's always something new — first look in the library. If the answer isn't there, you can certainly get it from a god. Contacting costs points, but ignorance costs more." The five nodded. Routine. They knew this. They'd heard it a hundred times. "Today we don't have routine." That they hadn't heard a hundred times.
GUILD WARS "Today we have a Guild Wars challenge." Something changed in the classroom. Not a sound — the air. That subtle shift when six people stop breathing at once. "We must accept at least one per year.
Those are the rules — a guild that rejects all challenges loses its status and the system's protection. And so we don't put it off, I've accepted it as Guild Master." Diana opened her mouth. Igi stopped her with a raised palm. "Let me finish. Then questions." Diana closed her mouth. But her eyes spoke for her — a lot and loudly. "We have a week to prepare. They're attacking us — so they'll be teleported here. The goal is simple — reach the guild's core. That's the Guild Bank." Igi pointed with his staff toward the window, beyond which in the center of Elysium rose a building none of them had ever entered. Massive, stone, with iron doors and runes around its entire perimeter. "The Guild Bank is in the center of the city. You don't have access — not until after ten years, when your contract ends. Everything the guild owns — gold, materials, artifacts, points — is in there. That's the attackers' target." He paused and walked between the desks. The staff tapped the floor. "An equal sum of levels will come, matching ours. Not players — levels. If we have a total of three hundred fifty levels in the guild, attackers arrive with an equal total. So the question is how many players come — maybe five strong ones, maybe twenty weaker ones. But the total level will be the same." "If the attackers reach the bank or kill all guild members — they win. And everything the guild owns will be theirs." Peter paled. Diana clenched her fists. Kaelen placed his hand on the axe, even though there was nothing to attack in the classroom. Hazela remained still. Jana pressed her ears to her head. Arwen grabbed Hazela's hand. "If the attackers lose," Igi continued, and a hint of something that might have been a smile appeared in his voice, "we get points. And everything those attackers own goes into the Guild Bank. Everything. Their gear, their gold, their materials. Everything." "We can also attack other guilds," he added. "But it doesn't seem fair to me. At least not yet." For a moment he paused. In his head flashed a thought — quick, quiet, almost invisible. Fenix. Maybe when I find a really bad guild. He discarded the thought. Not now.