4 - Elysium book one - LIGHTREADER

Chapter 3

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knew that the best potions in the poor district were made by the cook from the Golden Fenix tavern. Cooking 22. Food that healed, strengthened, regenerated. Igi's kitchen was now the most visited spot in the tavern. Draxer personally praised him. Igi thanked him and washed another plate. The money from the orphanage wasn't enough. But money from night visits to the wealthy district was. Sister Maren now received a regular income — not much, but enough so the children ate every day. Igi never said where the money came from. Sister Maren never asked. Marta... Marta found someone else. Igi discovered it when he came with a pouch and the door was opened by a man he didn't recognize. A level 12 warrior with kind eyes and hands that could hold both a sword and a child. Igi handed him the pouch, said "for the children," and left. He didn't return. He felt nothing. Or at least he told himself that.

BEFORE THE EXPLOSION Fenix City was approaching a breaking point. Gangs in the southern district had expanded. They were no longer desperate men stealing bread — they were organized groups with their own officers, their own rules, and their own dungeons where newcomers disappeared and nobody asked where. Drugs — alchemical potions abused for purposes they weren't designed for — flooded the alleys. Addicted players staggered through the city like ghosts. In the wealthy district, nobody saw it. Or didn't want to see. Guild officers were enriching themselves, Draxer maintained the facade, and Kira and Morg were increasingly loudly demanding changes that never came. Igi tried. Every night he sent the changeling into the streets — here a smashed drug shop, there an exposed corrupt officer, elsewhere an anonymous tip for the city guard. Small interventions. Invisible repairs. But it was the work of Sisyphus. For every gang the changeling dismantled, two new ones appeared. For every corrupt guard Igi anonymously reported, two more replaced them. The city was rotting from the inside and Igi — one man with an army of golems — couldn't stop the decay that came from the top. Because the problem wasn't the gangs. Wasn't the drugs. Wasn't the poor

district. The problem was in the head. In Draxer's head.

DECISION Igi sat in his underground workshop. Around him stood eight golems — six simple stone ones, one water golem, and the changeling. His army. Silent, obedient, waiting. Translation — Lines 3001–4000 On the wall hung a list. Names, dates, numbers. Evidence he had been gathering for two years. Every fraud, every corruption, every failure that Drax had ignored or covered up. All documented. All verified. Igi placed his palm on the list. Two years he had tried to keep the city from exploding. Two years putting out fires someone else had set. Two years of being invisible. Enough. It wasn't an impulsive decision. Igi didn't make impulsive decisions. It was the result of two years of observation, two years of evidence, and two years of patience that had just reached its limit. Igi decided to confront Draxer. Not with anger. Not with shouting. With evidence. With facts. With a paper full of names and numbers that couldn't be ignored. And if Drax refused to listen — if he once again promised reform that would never come — then Igi would know that this city could no longer be saved from the inside. And it would be time for Plan B. For the plan that had been forming in his head since the first day in that underground workshop. The plan that began with one word. Elysium.

Igi tore the list from the wall, rolled it up, and tucked it into his robe. Then he looked at the changeling. "Tomorrow," he said. "I'll need you." The changeling nodded. Liquid metal gleamed in the candlelight. Igi went upstairs, entered the kitchen, and began preparing soup for tomorrow. The same soup. The last soup in the Golden Fenix tavern.

Confrontation

Igi sat in a small room at the inn called The Three Oaks. The inn stood an hour's journey from the gates of Fenix City — far enough that no one would look for him, close enough that the connection to the changeling held. The room was simple — a bed, a table, a candle. The window faced the forest, where shapes moved in the dusk that could have been trees or something else. Igi sat on the bed, back against the wall, eyes closed. He breathed slowly and evenly. His body was motionless as a statue. Anyone walking into the room would have thought he was sleeping. He wasn't sleeping. He was in the city. Through the changeling's eyes.

GUILD HALL The changeling walked the corridors of the guild headquarters with a certainty that belonged to Igi — the same step, the same tilt of the hood, the same way of holding the staff. Two years of practice had made the golem a perfect copy. Not just visually — in the details too. The way he avoided eye contact. How he tapped the staff against his thigh while walking. How he stopped before doors and waited exactly two seconds before entering. Nobody stopped him. Why would they? It was Igi. Cook, alchemist, one of the original members of Fenix.

Harmless. The doors to Draxer's study were dark wood, adorned with the Fenix emblem — a bird in flames. The changeling knocked. Twice. "Enter," came the voice from within. The changeling entered.

Draxer sat behind the massive desk, above which hung a world map — expansive, full of markers and notes. On the desk lay scrolls of parchment, empty glasses, and a bent dagger he used as a paperweight. When he looked up and saw the hood, his expression softened for a moment. "Igi. What brings you? Something with the kitchen?" "No," the changeling said in Igi's voice. A perfect imitation — the depth, the rhythm, that slightly weary tone Igi always used when talking about something important. "Sit down, Drax. I need to show you something." Draxer raised an eyebrow. Igi had never told him to sit. Usually it was Drax who gave orders. But something in Igi's voice — or in what he took for a voice — made him listen. He leaned back in his chair. "Speak." The changeling placed a rolled parchment on the desk. Unrolled it slowly, exactly as Igi would have — without haste, with that annoying methodicalness that either calmed people or drove them insane. On the parchment were names. Dates. Numbers. Two years of work condensed into one document. "These are evidence," the changeling said. "Corruption in the guard. Captain Voss takes fifteen percent from every business in the southern district. Lieutenant Hale sells dungeon intelligence to the Black Knives gang in exchange for potions. Supply Officer Maren — not Sister Maren, her namesake — redirects equipment meant for newcomers to private warehouses, where it's sold for triple." Draxer didn't move. His eyes traveled across the parchment — line by line, name by name. His face was stone. "Continue," he said quietly. "The Black Knives gang controls the distribution of alchemical drugs in the southern district. Addiction among low-level players has grown two hundred percent in the last year. Seven players died of overdose last month — their names are at the bottom of the list. The guild classified them as dungeon deaths. They weren't dungeon deaths." The changeling pointed to the bottom of the parchment. "And this

is the worst. Three officers of your personal guard — Rikken, Solt, and Domin — operate an orphanage on Birch Street as a front. Not a real orphanage. Recruitment. They take children without parents and recruit them for the Black Knives. Children, Drax. Ten, twelve years old. They send them to steal, to spy, and when they're old enough — into dungeons as bait." The silence in the room was so thick the changeling could hear the candle crackling on the desk.

Draxer stood. Slowly, heavily, like a man carrying more on his shoulders than he could bear. He walked to the window and looked out — at the city he had founded, built, that was now falling through his fingers like dry sand. "Where did you get this?" he asked. His voice didn't sound angry. It sounded tired. "Two years," the changeling answered. "Two years I listened, watched, and recorded. Everything on that parchment I can verify. Witnesses, locations, dates. None of this is gossip, Drax. These are facts." "And what do you want from me?" "To act. Now. Not tomorrow. Not in a week. Not another assembly with more promises. Voss, Hale, Maren — tonight. The Black Knives — this week. The orphanage — immediately." Draxer turned from the window. Something changed in his eyes — the weariness gave way to something harder. Not anger. Pride. "You're going to tell me what to do?" he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You? A cook? For twenty months you've been cooking soup, and now you come to me with a piece of paper and tell me how to run my guild?" "I'm telling you what's happening in your city. What you do with it is up to you." "What I'll do with it?" Draxer took a step closer. He was a head taller than the changeling, and in his posture was a threat that didn't need to be spoken. "I'll do what I always do. I'll review. I'll talk to the parties involved. I'll find the truth. Not your truth — the real truth." "Review? Like you reviewed last time? And the time before?" The changeling's voice stayed calm — Igi's voice was always calm. "Drax, I'm not showing you this because I want position or power. I'm showing you this because if you don't act now, in a month there'll be no one left to act.

The city will explode." "The city is under control." "The city is under the control of the people who are robbing it."

Draxer's face turned red. A vein on his neck bulged. Igi — the real Igi, lying in the inn room beyond the walls — felt the situation breaking. He knew that expression. He'd seen it a hundred times over voice chat, when a raid wasn't going to plan and Drax, instead of admitting the mistake, attacked whoever named it. "You," Draxer said, his voice now quiet, which was more dangerous than shouting, "sat in my kitchen for twenty months, ate my supplies, slept under my roof, and the whole time you were spying on me?" "The whole time I was looking at what you refused to see." "Out." "Drax—" "OUT OF MY GUILD!" Draxer's fist hit the changeling's face.

In the inn room at The Three Oaks, Igi opened his eyes. Not from pain — the golem didn't feel pain, and the connection only transmitted visual and audio data, not physical sensations. He opened his eyes because he knew what would come next. He had known before he entered Draxer's study. He had known for two years. He returned to the golem's eyes.

Draxer's fist hit the changeling's jaw — and stopped. Not because the changeling dodged. But because Draxer's knuckles hit something that was not flesh and bone. It was hard. Cold. Metallic. Draxer pulled his hand back and looked at it. His knuckles had scrapes — not from skin, but from metal. His eyes widened. On the changeling's face, a crack appeared. Not a wound — a crack. Like cracking porcelain. And from the crack, liquid metal gleamed. "That's not..." Draxer began. The changeling's face fell apart. The hood collapsed inward, the robe lost its shape, and where Igi had stood a second ago stood a silver figure without features. Liquid metal pulsed with faint blue light — the last remnants of mana in the golem's

core. "A golem," Draxer breathed. "It's... a golem." The changeling — now unmasked — still managed to say in Igi's voice: "The real Igi has been long gone, Drax. The parchment is true. Do with it what you see fit." Then it turned and ran.

ESCAPE The changeling burst from the study at a speed no one would have expected from a cook. Because it wasn't a cook. It was a golem with AI at level 4 and a command Igi had programmed in advance: if discovered — escape. Shortest route. No stopping. Behind him came Draxer's roar. "GUARDS! STOP HIM! GOLEM! IT'S A GOLEM!" The study doors flew open and the changeling hurtled through the corridors of guild headquarters. Two guards at the end of the hallway managed to draw swords — but the changeling didn't stop. The liquid metal changed in a fraction of a second. The figure flattened, poured onto the floor like mercury, and slipped between the guards' legs before they could swing. On the staircase, three more. The changeling assumed human form — not Igi's, now the first person in its database. A random man from the market. The guards hesitated — a stranger running at them, not a silver golem. That second of hesitation was enough. The changeling vaulted over the railing, landed one floor down, and charged for the main doors. Behind him, shouts echoed. Guild alarm — a deep, booming sound that carried through the entire building. The doors were closing — magic lock activated. The changeling didn't stop. Three meters before the closing doors, it dissolved again — liquid metal poured onto the floor as a puddle and slithered through the ever-narrowing gap between door and floor. On the other side, it reformed. Not into human form — no time for that. A silver, featureless figure burst into the streets of Fenix City.

LOST IN THE CITY Nocturnal Fenix City was a labyrinth. Streets that by day belonged to merchants and craftsmen at night belonged to shadows. The changeling ran — not straight, but in a zigzag route Igi had

programmed months ahead. Every turn, every side alley, every passage was thought through. Behind it came footsteps — guards, two, maybe three, fast, well-equipped. Level twenty minimum. The changeling was fast, but they were faster. The question wasn't whether they would catch it. The question was whether they would lose it first. First change: the changeling ran into Štiavnická Alley — narrow, dark, with stone walls on both sides. At the end of the alley, it threw itself against the wall and liquid metal spread across the stone surface. A second later, there was no golem — there was a piece of wall. Same color, same texture, same moss in the cracks. The guards ran past. The changeling waited thirty seconds. Then it peeled from the wall and continued — a different direction, a different form. Now it was an old man with a cane, stumbling home from a tavern. Second change: at the fountain on Butcher's Square, the changeling stopped, knelt by the water, and liquid metal poured into the basin. For a moment, it vanished completely — it was just water in water. Metallic water, but who would tell the difference at night? The guards ran across the square. One stopped at the fountain, looked into the water, saw nothing, ran on. The changeling emerged from the fountain a minute later. Now it was a woman — a servant from the wealthy district, with a basket of laundry on her head, hurrying home. Third change: on the edge of the poor district, where alleys narrowed and light disappeared, the changeling made its final stop. It slipped into an abandoned house, closed the door, and liquid metal spread across the floor. The golem lost its human form and transformed into a flat, matte layer of metal — indistinguishable from the dirty floor. The guards searched the southern district all night. They found nothing.

SILENCE In the inn room at The Three Oaks, Igi opened his eyes. The disconnection from the changeling was gentle — not painful, just empty. Like turning off music and suddenly hearing silence. The changeling was safe. Hidden in an abandoned house in the poor district, motionless, invisible. It could stay there for days, weeks — liquid metal didn't need

food or sleep. Just the mana core at its center, slowly ticking. Igi stood from the bed. His legs were stiff — he'd been sitting motionless for four hours. He walked to the window and looked out into the darkness. The forest rustled. The candle on the table had burned out. Behind him, on the table, lay a second parchment — a copy of the one the changeling had left with Draxer. Igi didn't need it. He knew the contents by heart. He looked at the system window glowing in the corner of his vision:

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION] Player Draxer (Guild Master of FENIX) has expelled you from the organization: FENIX.

Reason: "Treason and espionage." Status: No guild. Igi read the message twice. Then closed it. Below it, another blinked:

[GUILD CHAT — FENIX]

Draxer: "Igi is gone. It was a golem. The whole time it was a golem. The real Igi is out there somewhere." Kira: "What?! That doesn't make sense. I talked to him yesterday!" Morg: "You talked to a golem. Drax, what happened?" Draxer: "He brought me a paper full of lies about the guild. When I confronted him, he fell apart into liquid metal. He's a golem master. He's been fooling us the whole time." Kira: "Wait — what lies? What was on that paper?" Draxer: "Nothing worth discussing. Fabricated accusations. Forget about it." Kira: "Drax. What was on that paper." Draxer: "I said — forget about it." Morg: "..." Kira: "..."

He sat back on the bed. The room was quiet. The forest outside rustled. He was alone. Without a guild. Without a home. Without a kitchen, without a tavern, without Morg who always wanted soup, without Kira who cursed in Korean, without Draxer who had once been a friend. In the system window, his stats glowed: Cooking 22. Alchemy 16. Golem Mastery 18.

No combat talent. No guild. No city. But he had a changeling in the city, hidden under a dirty floor. He had supplies for a week. He had a parchment full of evidence Drax had rejected. And he had something more valuable than levels and points. He had a plan. Igi looked at the ceiling and in the darkness of that small room, in an inn beyond the walls of the city that had just cast him out, he spoke a word he had carried in his head for two years. "Elysium." He didn't say it aloud. He just thought it. But somewhere in the System, something stirred. As if the world was listening.

Igi lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and for the first time in two years fell asleep without plans swirling in his head. All the plans were done. Tomorrow he would begin.

Classroom 800 — Successors

Four years. The heavy classroom doors opened and the five walked in with a routine that over those years had become second nature. No damp hair from the morning run — they didn't need that anymore. Their bodies were different. Harder. Faster. Stronger. Four years of unbroken training, dungeons, pain, and growth had turned the five newcomers into something their former selves wouldn't recognize. Kaelen entered first. Always first. His greenish skin was now covered in fine scars from thousands of battles, and the axe on his back was no longer the same — it was larger, heavier, with runes that glowed dimly. He was a different man from the frightened half-orc who four years ago automatically reached for his sword when he heard the word "dragon." Diana behind him. Her short blonde hair was now longer, pulled back, and in her eyes there was not just cold calculation — there was certainty. Frost occasionally flickered on her fingers. Combining fire, water, and wind had given her something pure fire never could — patience. Hazela walked silently as always. But her elven eyes, once full of hatred toward humans, now watched the group with something a careful observer might call care. The bow on her back was new — longer, more elegant, with a string of spider silk that couldn't be cut. Peter entered with a smile. Always with a smile. But behind that smile there was

something sharper now. Four years with Black — four years of shadows, darkness, and silent killing — hadn't just made him a rogue. They'd made him someone who could smile while simultaneously stealing the knife from behind your belt. Jana entered last. Always last — covering the others' backs, even when she no longer needed to. Her wolf ears stood erect, her tail swayed calmly behind her, and in her green eyes shone a peace that hadn't been there four years ago. The beastkind girl that Igi found beaten in the forest was gone. In her place stood a healer. They sat down. Igi was already behind the lectern. "We're approaching four years," Igi began without preamble. No "sit down" — they didn't need that anymore. "You're strong enough to survive. To escape. To disappear. If you were to encounter ordinary people in a confrontation today..." He paused and let the words hang in the air. "That means it's time to find more." Something changed in the classroom. Not a sound — a silence. That specific silence when five people all hold their breath at once. "Successors," Igi clarified. "Each of you five must bring one ward within the coming year. One. Not two, not three. One."

Peter raised his hand. Then Diana. Then Hazela. Then Kaelen. Jana last — slowly, hesitantly. Igi raised his palm. "This is important. I'll answer questions after the lesson. Remember them." Five hands dropped. "Conditions," Igi continued, and the chalk on the board behind him moved by itself, writing. "Your ward must meet all the conditions you had when I chose you." He moved before the board and his voice took on the tone they knew — the one that was not to be joked about. "It must be a young person. One who can be shaped. Not an old soldier with ingrained habits. Not an experienced mage who thinks they know everything. Young. Malleable. Teachable." The staff tapped the floor. "They must be in dire straits. Without family. Without protection. Preferably — when their life hangs by a thread. And no better option exists." The classroom was silent. Jana pressed her ears to her head. She knew those words. She knew that feeling. The forest. Mercenaries. Liquid metal that formed into the shape

of an old man. A collar she put on herself. "Why?" Igi continued, as if reading their thoughts. "Because the decision must be theirs. Not yours. You offer them the option. They put on the collar themselves. Nobody forces them. But they must know what they're getting into."

"You may tell them what awaits," Igi said. "Training. Discipline. Pain. Growth. Ten years of service in exchange for strength, a home, and protection. Be honest. Explain that they will be slaves. Literally. That the collar will take some of their freedom in exchange for something they couldn't obtain on their own." "Of course, I'll be watching over your shoulder," Igi added, and in his voice was that strange blend of strictness and something a cautious person might call care. "And if needed — I'll be there. For safely extracting a newcomer and you from trouble. But the offer, the conversation, the explanation — I'll leave that to you. At least you'll know what I felt when I stood before each of you and waited to see if you'd say yes or run into the forest." He paused. "Support, protection, help — that you'll get. The rest is on you." He paused. "But there are things you must not reveal." His gaze passed over each of them. Slowly. Emphatically. "The island's guardians. The lady dragonesses. Not a word about them. What you learned about them — their existence, their power, their role — that is a secret that protects not only you but all of Elysium." "Furthermore — what you've learned about me. My abilities. My golems. My past. None of it. Don't even mention my name — for your wards, I'll be just 'the master.' Understood?" Five heads nodded. "You'll feel it," Igi added, pointing at the collars on their necks. "When you want to reveal something you mustn't, the collar will warn you. It won't be pleasant. But it will be unmistakable. So don't experiment."

"Simply look for young people who will be glad for this opportunity. Humans, elves, beastkind, half-orcs — race doesn't matter. What matters is that they have nowhere to go and that they decide for themselves. Do you

understand? Themselves. No kidnapping. No blackmail. No lying. You offer the option. They decide." Igi leaned against the lectern. "I've marked the collars in the God Shop for you. Look for the item — Elysium Collar. They're expensive. You buy them with your own points. I only have five — yours. Each additional one is much more expensive, so the purchase is on you." Peter raised an eyebrow. Igi saw it. "Yes, Peter. Your points. Your investments. Not mine."

"Questions," said Igi. "Begin." Jana raised her hand first. Igi nodded at her. "Only one?" Her voice was quiet but firm. "There are many people who need help." Igi nodded. "I know. But collars are expensive. And you need to train as well as help newcomers. Even though I want to help everyone, it can't be done. One per person. Quality, not quantity." Jana lowered her eyes. Her tail drooped slightly. But she nodded. Peter raised his hand. "Why should we spend our points on this? A collar costs a fortune. That's an investment we could put into talents or stats." "Simple," Igi answered, his voice without a shade of apology. "Because I ordered you to." Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at the collar on his own neck. Then shrugged. "Fair." "It's not fair," Igi corrected him. "It's an order. Fair will be when you see what your ward grows into."

Hazela raised her hand. Igi nodded. "I want to help elves." Igi looked at her for a long time. Then nodded. "Yes. Obviously. I expected nothing else." Hazela smiled slightly — quickly, almost invisibly, but it was there. "Elves are few," Igi continued, his voice dropping slightly. "In this world, they're rare. And humans most often keep them as..." he paused, as if searching for the right word. He didn't find it. He didn't need to. They all knew. "Sex slaves," Hazela finished in a hard voice. In her eyes flashed a fire that hadn't been there in years. "Yes," said Igi. "So when you find an

elf — female or male — in such a situation, keep this in mind." He leaned forward, his voice taking on the sharpness he used when speaking about things where no risks were taken. "If you steal someone's slave, they'll come looking. The owner, the trader, the gang — whoever thinks they own them. And they'll look hard. So — reconnaissance first. Find out who owns, who guards, who trades. Then plan. And not one plan — Plan A, Plan B, and Plan C. Backup solutions for backup solutions." "Only then action," he added, raising a warning finger. "And above all — don't drag in innocents. If your rescue operation causes someone else to suffer, it's not a rescue. It's transferring the problem. And for transferring the problem, there'll be punishment. From me." Hazela stiffened. Then slowly nodded. "Understood, sir."

"Anything else?" Igi asked. Kaelen raised his hand. Igi nodded. "How do we know they're the right one?" Igi paused for a moment. Then said — more quietly than usual: "You'll know by the eyes. When a person has nowhere to go and someone offers a hand — not from kindness, not from weakness, but with conditions, with a price, with the truth — and that person despite everything takes that hand... that's the right one." He looked at Jana. Jana looked back at him. In her eyes was the memory of a forest, a gray robe, and a collar she put on herself. "You all were," Igi said. "All five. And now it's your turn to find the next ones." Igi tapped his staff on the floor. "One year. You have a year. Don't rush — better to find the right person late than the wrong one fast. If you don't choose within a year — I'll choose. And you can imagine what my choices are like." He looked at Jana — forest, wolves, mercenaries. At Diana — a nameless street, fire in her palms, no family. At Hazela — an elf among humans, bow and hatred. At Peter — a boy from nothing, without talent, without a chance, just a smile and a knife. At Kaelen — a half-orc in a world that considered half-orcs inferior. They all knew what his choices were like. People at the bottom. People without hope. People for whom the collar didn't take freedom — because they'd never had freedom. "Lesson over," said Igi.

"Begin your tasks. And start thinking."

Chairs scraped. The five stood. But nobody left immediately — for the first time in four years, they stood in the classroom and weren't in a hurry. Each of them was thinking. Each of them was picturing a face — a face they perhaps didn't know yet, but would soon meet. Jana was the first to step toward the door. She stopped at the threshold and without turning around said: "I'll find her. Or him. I promise." The door closed behind her. Peter followed. At the door, he smirked. "A year? That's an eternity. I'll do it in three months." "Quality," Igi reminded from the lectern. "Not speed." "Why not both?" Peter winked and vanished. Hazela left silently. There was already a plan in her eyes. Igi saw it. The elf had a target — and when Hazela had a target, the world preferred to get out of her way. Kaelen stood last among the men. At the door, he stopped and turned to Igi. "I know who I want," he said in a deep voice. "I met him on the training ground last month. Half-orc. A boy. Thirteen years old. Parents dead. Lives on the street. Fights like an animal." "Reconnaissance," Igi reminded. "Then plan." Kaelen nodded and left. Diana stayed seated. When they were alone, she looked at Igi. "Sir. Why now?" Igi looked at her for a long time. Then said: "Because I need more help." Diana nodded. Stood. At the door, she stopped. "I'll find someone who'll be worth it." "I know," Igi answered. The door closed. The classroom was empty.

Prologue: The Kingdom of Fenix — A Village on the Edge

The small village on the edge of the Fenix Kingdom didn't have a name worth remembering. Thirty houses, an inn, a blacksmith's workshop, a well, and a fence of thick stakes encircling the entire settlement like an old man's embrace — weak, but better than nothing. Beyond the fence stretched fields, beyond the fields forest, and beyond the forest a world the

people here preferred not to talk about. The inn had a good atmosphere. It was the kind of evening when everything seemed right — beer flowed into mugs, laughter echoed off the low beams, and at the bar tables sat farmers, carpenters, and a few small traders passing through on their way to the bigger city. The air smelled of hops, fireplace smoke, and soup. Especially soup. Behind the counter, in a narrow kitchen that was more alcove than room, Igi was stirring another batch. The same cheap soup as always — root vegetables, onion, a bit of dried meat, spices that nobody here recognized but everyone enjoyed. Nothing exceptional. Nothing that would attract attention. Exactly as he wanted. The mayor had come to eat too — a stocky man with a red nose and a mustache that looked as if he'd lit it with a candle and then put it out with his palm. He sat at his usual table, beer in hand, with the expression of a man at peace with the world because the world was small enough for him to manage. Igi served him a bowl of soup. The mayor nodded, without thanks — habit, not rudeness. In this village, Igi was the cook. A cook without a name, without a story, without a past. He'd arrived two weeks ago, offered to cook in exchange for a roof and a meal. The innkeeper agreed, because the previous cook had fled to the city and soup didn't cook itself. Nobody asked where he came from. Nobody asked why he wore a hood. On the edge of the kingdom, you didn't ask unnecessary questions — the answers were usually unpleasant.

The idyllic evening didn't last. The inn door was thrown open so violently that a glass on the nearest table toppled and beer spilled across the wood. Tomáš burst in — a hunter who brought game for meat and sold to the cook Igi as well. Usually a calm man, the type who spoke little and shot true. Now he was breathless, sweating, and in his eyes was something Igi knew well. Fear. Tomáš headed straight for the mayor. Everyone went quiet — not because anyone asked for silence, but because Tomáš's face said everything that needed to be known. Something had happened. Something bad. The hunter stopped before the mayor's table, braced his

hands on the surface, and drew a deep breath. Then — loudly, because he thought everyone needed to hear — he announced: "Goblins." The mayor set down his glass. Slowly. "And there's enough of them," Tomáš continued, wiping sweat from his forehead. "At least twenty. They've set up a camp in Crooked Gully. Two kilometers from the village. I saw fires, pitched tents, pens. This isn't just a group passing through. They've settled in." The inn was now silent as a grave. Farmers exchanged glances. One of the traders quietly stood and began gathering his things — pretending indifference, but with a speed that betrayed he planned to be gone from the village before dawn.

The mayor stroked his mustache. Twice. Then he straightened in his chair and spoke in a tone meant to be calming — and to some degree was, because the mayor was a man who had survived on the kingdom's edge for thirty years, and that wasn't done without a certain measure of composure. "That's bad," he said. "But not tragic." He looked around the room. "We'll collect some coins. I'll take a horse and ride to the Adventurers' Guild in Valley Fort. I'll file a quest for their extermination — twenty goblins, that's nothing an experienced group couldn't handle in a day. And maybe some adventurer will stop by on the way." The mayor stood and his voice took on an authority that belonged to his office, not his stature. "In the meantime — nobody goes beyond the fence. Check the fencing. Patrols — two and two, rotating every four hours. Tomáš, you know the forest best — tell the men where exactly they are and how not to stumble into them by accident." Tomáš nodded. "They're in Crooked Gully, past the old bridge. If nobody goes near the creek, they shouldn't find us. Goblins are lazy — as long as there's food in the forest, they won't go further." "As long as," the mayor repeated, and that word hung in the air heavier than it was long.

The inn slowly came to life. People stood, spoke in hushed voices, made plans. Someone went for torches for the patrols. Someone for an axe — not for wood. Tomáš explained to three farmers where not to go, drawing a map with his finger in the spilled beer on the table, a map they would remember better than anything they'd ever read. Igi washed a bowl. He stood behind the counter, face to the wall, and listened. Twenty goblins. Two kilometers. A settlement, not a nomadic group. That meant they had supplies, organization, and probably a chief. A goblin settlement with twenty units was a serious problem for a village without fighters — not today, not tomorrow, but in a week, when easy prey in the forest ran out and they started looking closer. The mayor was right — the Adventurers' Guild would solve it. A quest for twenty goblins was routine. A level 8 to 12 group could handle it in an afternoon. Igi wasn't sure it would be that easy. But staying under the radar was the first priority. He'd been here two weeks. He had no name here, no history, no reason to attract attention. He was a cook. Cooks don't know anything about goblins — they cook soup and wash bowls. Igi washed the last bowl, wiped his hands on his apron, and began cutting vegetables for tomorrow. Routine. Order. Invisibility. But in his head, numbers were already running. Twenty goblins. Two kilometers. Three days to the Adventurers' Guild. Maybe a week to resolution. And in the underground — no, he didn't have an underground workshop here. Here he had only a kitchen, a staff leaning against the wall, and a changeling hidden in the forest behind the village, disguised as a fallen tree. Igi chopped onions and thought. For now, he just thought.

The Bell

The mayor returned the next evening. He looked as if in the last thirty-six hours he had aged ten years. Eyes sunken, nose redder than usual, and he held himself in the saddle in a way that suggested the final stretch was powered by pure willpower rather than the strength of his thighs. The horse beneath him looked similar — both were at the end of their strength and the end of their patience. But he hadn't come alone. Behind him trotted four riders.

Igi stood at the kitchen window and watched their arrival from behind the curtain. Habit. Caution. Invisibility. The first was a massive man in metal armor. The armor was steel, full-body, with plate pauldrons and a breastplate on which, in the last light of day, an emblem gleamed — a bird in flames. Fenix. Igi froze. The man dismounted and the ground beneath him trembled — not literally, but almost. He was as wide as a door and as tall as a doorframe, and the sword at his side was so large most people in the village couldn't even lift it. Igi stared at him and in his head immediately came a thought that had nothing to do with goblins. Armor like that for a changeling. Liquid metal could mimic a surface — but what

if it didn't mimic? What if the changeling wore real armor? Quality plate that would make it a nearly indestructible armored golem. Hmm. Metal on metal. A golem in armor. The thought was new and Igi carefully filed it in the part of his brain where he stored ideas to think about at night. The second rider was an archer. Slim, nervous movement, bow slung over his shoulder, and — Igi blinked — at his feet ran a wolf. Not an ordinary wolf. A pet. A companion. The animal moved in perfect sync with its owner, eyes fixed on the surroundings, ears pricked. When the archer dismounted, the wolf sat beside him and waited. No chain. No need. The third was — a mage. Or mage woman, hard to tell under that hood. Dark robe, staff with a crystal at the end that glowed faintly blue. A heal mage? Igi leaned closer to the window. If she had healing spells, she was a logical choice for the group. Tank, DPS, healer — the classic trio. And immediately another idea. A healing golem. A golem that heals. Was that possible? Golems were constructs — they had talent trees, it would cost mana? What if a mana core with healing energy were placed in a golem? What if it were programmed to channel heal spells through an external source? Impossible? Or just unexplored? How about asking a god? Igi noted this idea as well. The fourth was a rogue woman. A young woman — maybe twenty, maybe less — with two short knives on her belt and an expression that said: I'm dangerous and I want you to know it. She played with a knife, flipping it between her fingers to look intimidating. Arrogant. Experienced. The type who goes first in a dungeon while others pick up what's left behind. They were certainly from the Fenix guild. The emblem on the tank's armor confirmed it. Igi automatically stepped one more step back from the window. No unnecessary risks. Only high-ranking guild members knew about him — Draxer, Morg, Kira. These four were probably ordinary adventurers fulfilling a quest. No reason they'd recognize the face of a cook who'd fled the guild months ago in the form of liquid metal. Even so. Caution. Igi returned to the stove and began chopping onions. When the quartet entered the inn, he was just a cook behind the counter. Nothing more.

NIGHT The four adventurers ate, drank, and were loud — as adventurers tend to be when they have a simple quest ahead and a long road behind. The tank — they called him Bren — ate for three and praised the soup so loudly that Igi could hear it in the kitchen. The archer — Varis — fed the wolf under the table and pretended nobody noticed. The mage woman — nobody addressed her by name, just "Mage" — sat in a corner, read a scroll, and ate slowly. The rogue — Sil — played with her knife and provoked Bren, who fell for it every time. The mayor sat with them and explained the situation. Crooked Gully. Twenty goblins. The little bridge over the creek. Fires, tents, pens. "Routine," said Bren, slamming his mug on the table. "We head out in the morning, back by lunch." Varis nodded. The mage didn't stop reading. Sil tossed a knife in the air and caught it. "Goblins. Boring." Igi washed plates and listened.

At night, when the inn fell silent, Igi didn't lie on the cot behind the stove. He sat in the kitchen by candlelight and thought. In his head, ideas swarmed like a hive of bees — chaotically, but with a clear direction. Armored golem. A changeling in plate armor. Liquid metal can absorb impact, but steel overcomes it. But if you put real plate over liquid metal — two layers of protection. Metal under metal. A golem that looks like a knight and is nearly indestructible. For that he'd need quality armor — buy or make. And points for a new changeling talent. Healing golem. Impossible? Maybe. But the System was full of surprises. Golems don't have mana — but mana cores do. What if the golem didn't cast spells itself but channeled energy from a mana core? External source, internal output. Need to ask a god. Contacting a god costs points — but if the answer is yes, those points come back a hundredfold. And teleportation. Space Magic. Still the same milestone, still equally important. If he had teleport, he wouldn't be bound to one place. Changeling in the city, him on the other side of the world. An army of golems, each one elsewhere. Omnipresent

and simultaneously nowhere. Igi recorded his ideas in system notes:

Armored golem — buy quality armor, test with changeling Healing golem — contact god, explore possibilities Flying golem — talent for changeling Space Magic — teleportation — priority Living armor — golem AS armor? Wearable golem? Liquid metal that wraps around a body like plate?

At the last point, he stopped. Read it twice. Three times. Living armor. A golem that isn't a figure but equipment. Liquid metal that envelops the wearer and protects them like a second skin. Reacts to attacks, absorbs impacts, regenerates itself. That was a great idea. Igi blew out the candle and lay down. Tomorrow morning — soup. The quartet would head out after goblins. By lunch they'd be back. In the afternoon they'd leave. And everything would go back to normal. He would cook. And at night make golems, distill liquid metal, think about the paths opening before him. He fell asleep with a smile that would have surprised him if he'd seen it in a mirror.

MORNING The quartet set out at dawn. Bren in the lead, heavy steps in metal armor. Varis behind him, wolf at his side. The mage quietly, staff in hand. Sil last, knives ready, with the expression of someone looking forward to blood. The village waved them off from the gate. The mayor stood by the fence and struck a heroic pose, though his eyes betrayed nervousness. Igi stood in the kitchen doorway chopping onions. He watched the departing quartet and counted in his head. Four experienced adventurers. Twenty goblins. Level advantage clearly on the adventurers' side. Back by lunch. Soup would be ready by eleven. Perfect timing. The morning passed peacefully. Igi cooked. The village lived its normal life — goats grazed, children chased each other down the street, the blacksmith forged horseshoes. The sun climbed and the air smelled of spring. Lunch came. The soup was ready. The quartet didn't return. Noon came. Then one. Two. Igi stopped chopping onions and started listening. Nothing. At

three, the mayor began nervously pacing the square. At four, he sent Tomáš to the forest edge to look. Tomáš returned an hour later with empty hands and full eyes. "I didn't see anything. Not them, not the goblins. But I smelled smoke."

THE BELL In the afternoon, the mayor began ringing the bell in the center of the village. A deep, booming sound. This wasn't the lunch bell. This wasn't the wedding bell. This was the alarm bell. A sound the village hadn't heard in years. People ran from their houses. Children stopped screaming. Goats stopped bleating. For a moment there was silence — just the bell and its echo. But the mayor wasn't alone. Beside him stood the rogue. Sil. The same one who that morning had played with her knife and acted as if the world belonged to her. Now she looked different. Armor torn at the side, left shoulder bloodied, hair matted with sweat and dirt. In her eyes was no arrogance — instead something Igi knew well. The eyes of someone who just watched three people die. She survived. Because she knew how to hide and was fast. The others weren't. The mayor raised his hand and the village fell silent. "They weren't goblins," he said. His voice was breaking. "They were orcs. The goblins probably moved here because they were trying to avoid the orcs. The orcs killed them and took over their settlement. Our four ran right into them." Sil spoke. Her voice was raspy, broken. "Bren fell first. They surrounded us. Varis... Varis tried to cover the retreat, but they killed his wolf and then him. The mage held them off long enough for me to get away. I don't know if she's still alive. Probably not." She paused. Swallowed. Continued. "There are at least thirty. Maybe more. They have a chief — big bastard with a battle-axe and war paint on his face. Right now they're probably savoring the victory. But orcs aren't goblins — they won't let prey escape. Within a few hours, they'll attack the village." The mayor looked at the village. At the thirty houses. At the farmers with pitchforks. At the children with their mothers. Then he said what he had to say. "Take what you can and run. Toward the city. Now. Immediately."

Disposable Army

In the commotion, nobody noticed the cook had disappeared. Igi detached from the crowd at the precise moment when panic peaked — when mothers screamed at children, when farmers loaded everything they could fit onto wagons, when the mayor stood at the gate repeating "toward the city, toward the city" like a prayer. In that chaos, one missing cook was as visible as a missing drop in a river. Igi slipped behind the last house, then across the field, then into the bushes at the forest's edge. He moved quickly but not in panic. He knew where he was going. He knew what he would do. Maybe.

OBSERVATION From the bushes, he had a good view of both — the village and Crooked Gully. The village was emptying. A stream of people flowed along the road toward the city — women with children in their arms, old men with canes, farmers with green faces and pitchforks that would help against orcs about as much as paper shields. The mayor was among the last. Sil the rogue was shouting something about pace and that whoever stopped, she'd leave behind. From the other direction — from Crooked Gully — smoke rose. Not fire. Just smoke. Lazy, unhurried camp

smoke. Smoke that said: we're here, we're in no rush, we have time. Igi activated the connection to the changeling in the treetops. The golem's eyes showed him what he needed to see. The orcs were sleeping. Or rather — feasting. Around the camps lay bodies — some goblin, some... Igi averted the golem's gaze. He didn't need details. He knew enough. Thirty orcs. A chief with a battle-axe. War paint. Well-armed, well-organized. After a good haul — three dead adventurers and a goblin settlement full of supplies — they were content. Sated. Drunk on victory and perhaps something stronger. They wouldn't attack today. They were too content for that. Igi disconnected and thought. PREPARATION Was this the right time? Send the army at them now, while they were drunk and unfocused? No. In a few hours. Better to prepare. Igi moved deeper into the bushes, to a small clearing where nobody could see him — neither the villagers nor the orcs from the camp. He sat on the ground, closed his eyes, and opened his inventory. Liquid metal flowed from his hand. The changeling shuddered. The liquid metal spread, expanded, extended. Legs formed — strong, slim, with hooves of gleaming metal. The torso swelled into the massive body of a horse. And then — from the sides, wings emerged. Igi mounted. The metal beneath him adapted — a saddle formed from the golem's body, stirrups rose from the sides. Perfect adaptation. The wings spread and Igi rose above the treetops.

From above, the world looked different. The village below — empty, dark, abandoned. The stream of refugees on the road to the city — small dots moving slowly in the dusk. The orc camp — fires, shadows, movement. And between it all — the forest. A quiet, indifferent forest that didn't care who lived or died in it. Igi found his spot. A clearing halfway between the village and the road to the city. Far enough from the orcs that they wouldn't hear him. Far enough from the people that they wouldn't see him. He landed. The winged horse folded its wings and Igi dismounted. His legs were shaking — not from fear, from adrenaline. From that peculiar feeling when you're about to do something you've never done before. "Well," he

said quietly. "The attack can begin."

ARMY Igi closed his eyes and concentrated. The mana core — an expensive crystal he carried in a pouch beneath his robe — glowed with pale light. External mana. His own wouldn't suffice for even half of what he planned. But with the core, he had enough. At least he hoped. "Golem Create: Stone. Ten." The ground around him trembled. Bodies rose from the earth — rough, shapeless, stone figures with torsos like boulders and limbs like logs. They had no faces. No eyes. Nothing that would suggest intelligence. They were simple, disposable golems. Slow. Weak. Cheap. Expendable. "Golem Create: Ice. Ten." The air around him froze. More bodies formed from the humidity — translucent, bluish, with sharp edges and surfaces glistening with frost. Ice golems. Faster than the stone ones, more fragile, but with one advantage — everything they touched froze. "Golem Create: Fire. Ten." Heat. The clearing blazed with orange light. Fire golems — bodies of dense, pulsing magma, with eyes like embers. The shortest lifespan of all, but the greatest destructive force. They were essentially walking bombs. Thirty golems stood in the clearing in three rows. Stone in front. Ice on the flanks. Fire in the rear. It was not an army he'd be proud of — they were primitive, uncoordinated, with AI at level zero. They knew one thing: go forward and attack anything that isn't a golem. Igi looked at his army. Then at the mana core, dimming in his palm — nearly depleted. Then at the system window: MANA: 12% MANA CORE: 8% ACTIVE GOLEMS: 38 (8 changeling + 30 combat) ESTIMATED COMBAT GOLEM LIFESPAN: 15-40 minutes He knew he would lose them. Thirty primitive golems against thirty orcs — that wasn't a victory. It was a calculation. But levels and points in the Golem Mastery tree aren't wasted. Every golem that hits an orc — even without killing it — earns experience. Every golem that falls in battle — even in defeat — moves Igi closer to the next level. And the next level means stronger golems. Better AI. Longer control. Investment. Not victory. Investment. And if he managed to kill a few orcs and delay them — all the

better. More time for the villagers. "Attack," said Igi. Thirty golems moved.

BATTLE Igi didn't sit in the clearing. He sat on the winged horse high above the treetops, looking down through the changeling's eyes as it followed the army at a safe distance. The stone golems reached the camp first. The orcs heard them — heavy, booming footsteps of stone on ground couldn't be missed — but they didn't expect what they saw. Ten stone figures rolling out of the forest like an avalanche. The first orc who stood with sword in hand took a stone fist to the chest. He flew three meters and didn't get up. The second managed to dodge, but the third and fourth didn't. Then the orcs recovered. These were fighters. Experienced, strong, with higher levels than anyone in the village. The initial shock passed in ten seconds. Then they started hacking. A stone golem withstood three hits from a battle-axe. The fourth split it to pieces. But while the orcs hacked at stone, the ice ones came from the flanks. The first orc to touch an ice golem screamed — his arm froze from elbow to fingertips. He pulled back, but the ice golem followed, slow, relentless, freezing. And then the fire ones came. The first fire golem ran into a tent and the tent exploded. The tarp ignited, supplies melted, orcs leapt from the flames screaming. The second fire golem crashed into a group of three orcs and set all three ablaze. The third reached the chief — The chief split it in half with a single axe blow. Magma sprayed in all directions, but the chief stood. War paint on his face gleamed in the firelight and in his eyes was no panic. Just fury. The battle lasted twelve minutes. Igi counted losses from above. Stone fell first — hacked, shattered, scattered. Ice lasted longer — when destroyed, they broke into chunks of ice that kept freezing everything nearby for a while. Fire did the most damage, but their lifespan was the shortest — they burned out like candles. After twelve minutes, only five golems still stood — three stone and two ice. The orcs surrounded them and systematically destroyed them. But five orcs lay on the ground, motionless. And another seven or eight were wounded — burns, frostbite, fractures from stone fists.

The chief had a burn on his shoulder that gleamed in dark red light, but he stood. Still stood. Twenty-eight golems lost. Five orcs killed, several wounded. Mathematically, it was a defeat. But points flowed. Experience accumulated. The Golem Mastery tree registered every single hit, every single destruction, every single second of battle. And that isn't wasted. And the villagers had more time now. They wouldn't attack the village tonight.

DISAPPEARANCE Igi tilted the winged horse lower, took one last look at the chaos in the orc camp, then turned the golem away — from the village, from the city, from the road the people were fleeing down. The night air was cold and the scent of smoke mingled with the scent of pine needles. Beneath him, the forest spread like a dark carpet, infinite and indifferent. In the system window, a new message glowed: Igi read the message. Level 20. Another milestone. Another step. He had lost twenty-eight golems. Lost a mana core. Lost hours of work and a great deal of material. But he gained levels. Gained points. And gained something that couldn't be measured in numbers — experience. He now knew how thirty primitive golems fought against an organized group. He knew where they failed. He knew what needed improvement. And next time there would be more of them. And better. The winged horse beat its wings and Igi vanished into the night sky. Below, on the road to the city, the stream of refugees from the village continued its march. None of them had any idea that the cook who had made their soup had just led an army of thirty golems into battle against orcs. And nobody asked about him. Cooks aren't important.

Arwen

Preparation took three months. Hazela came to Igi in the spring, when the snow on Elysium's walls began to melt and the forest beyond the gates smelled of damp earth. It was one of the few times the elf set aside her usual expression of cold disinterest and spoke directly. "I need your help. With a kidnapping." Igi raised an eyebrow beneath his hood. "Who?" "An elf girl. Young. She's wearing a slave collar. I saw her at the market in the capital when we were on an expedition. Her owner is some high-ranking member of the local guild." "Which guild?" "Fenix guild. Big building, tower in the center of the square. Rich people, heavily armed guards. It's not something I can handle alone." Igi wanted to back out. Every instinct that had kept him alive for years screamed — don't do this. Too risky. Too far from Elysium. Too many variables. But then he looked at Hazela. At her eyes, in which burned a fire he hadn't seen since their first meeting. And he thought — this will be fun. A small strike against a world that thought it owned everything. Including people. "Tell me everything you know," he said.

PLAN "So what do you propose?" "I propose that nobody knows what happened. No body. No traces. The elf girl disappears and nobody will know who, how, or where." The changelings rehearsed the route — from the establishment through side alleys to the walls. Every turn, every passage, every change of appearance. Igi planned seven identity changes on a route six blocks long. Beggar, porter, old woman, guard, servant, drunkard, shadow. Hazela meanwhile scouted the forest beyond the city. She found a hideout — an old cave known only to animals and an elf with a good nose. She prepared a week's worth of supplies. Food, water, warm blankets. Igi bought clothing for the changelings — real, not liquid metal. Evening gown, suit, masks. On the day before, Igi sent the changeling into the establishment on reconnaissance. The golem entered as a guest, spent an hour, mapped the interior — bathrooms, windows, corridors, guards, escape routes. It returned with a complete map in Igi's head. He indulged in a threesome with two beautiful cat-women. Naturally, he didn't forget to leave a generous tip. They were ready. EVENING Igi and Hazela left beyond the gates of the capital city to the prepared cave. Igi sat in a chair, leaned his head back, and stopped moving. Hazela watched him. A motionless body, calm breathing, closed eyes. She thought — another golem. When, and whether she had ever met the real Igi. How many times over those months had she spoken to a person and how many times to liquid metal in the shape of a person? She tossed the thought away. It wasn't important now.

In the capital city, before the entrance to the establishment, a couple stopped. A man and a woman. He in a dark evening suit, she in a dress that cost more than most people in the poor district earned in a year. Figures as if carved from stone — perfect proportions, perfect posture. But their faces were average. Unremarkable. The type of faces you forget before you've finished turning around. Exactly as they were designed. At the door, a bouncer stopped them — a massive man with a scar across his cheek and hands that looked like they knew how to break bones. "Invitation, please."

The changeling-man slipped a pouch into his hand. Heavy. Full of gold. "You know how hard it is to get access to high-ranking individuals," he said in a quiet voice with a wink. "You can see it's worth your while. And my lady here will come by and would love to show her gratitude." The bouncer weighed the pouch in his palm. Looked at the man. At the woman. At the pouch. In an establishment where everything was for sale — including discretion — the decision was simple. "In," he said and handed them small eye masks. "For privacy, if you wish." The changelings took the masks. Put them on. Entered.

INSIDE The establishment was exactly what Igi had expected from the reconnaissance — and exactly as repulsive. Gold on the walls, velvet curtains, dim light, and music meant to cover the sounds from the private rooms. Couples moved through the space — some real, some purchased. Wine flowed. Laughter was loud and hollow. The changeling-man moved through the space with the assurance of someone who belonged. The changeling-woman walked beside him. They found Arwen's owner in a private room upstairs. Loud laughter, heavy footsteps, a voice accustomed to giving orders. Arwen was there too — Igi heard her name through the door. Arwen had asked to freshen up in the bathroom while he continued with his entertainment. The changeling-woman moved down the hall to the bathroom at the end of the floor. The door was ajar. And inside — at the washbasin — stood an elf girl. Arwen stood before the mirror. Silver hair in disarray, red eyes, hands trembling. She washed her face — again and again, as if trying to wash away something that water couldn't wash. Tears ran down her cheeks, mixing with the water so no one could tell she was crying. She was young. Too young. Igi, in his chair in the cave beyond the walls, stopped breathing for a moment.

He had to be quick. The changeling-woman entered the bathroom. Quiet steps, mask on her face, expression calm. She positioned herself beside

Arwen at the washbasin, as if she'd only come to wash her hands. Arwen stiffened. A victim's instinct — a new person meant new danger. She felt a sting on her neck and in the mirror saw a needle stuck in her neck, held by the woman's hand. Her image blurred and she lost consciousness. The changeling-woman pulled a golden key from under her dress. Small, delicate, with runes along its entire length. She pressed it to the collar on Arwen's neck. Click. The collar opened. Fell to the floor. And began to glow and beep. Alarm. ESCAPE From this moment, seconds counted. The changeling-woman immediately changed form — the mask vanished, the dress vanished, the liquid metal reformed into a man in ordinary rags. He slung the elf girl over his shoulder — Arwen was so light the golem barely registered the weight — and leaped through the bathroom window.

Translation — Lines 4001–5000 Impact on the pavement. Side alley. The guard assigned to this side of the building — a massive man with a spear, level twenty minimum — stood at the corner, turning toward the commotion. But the guard was not a guard. The liquid metal under the guard's clothes shuddered, and two seconds later, no man with a spear stood there. Instead stood a horse. White, radiant, with wings that spread the width of the entire alley. A pegasus. The third changeling. An expensive talent. Very expensive. But Igi had learned to use it during the goblin incident and had been perfecting it since. Flight was his most expensive investment. And now it was paying off. The changeling-carrier laid Arwen across the saddle that formed from the golem's body. The elf was unconscious — light as a feather, silver hair hanging down the horse's flank. Straps of liquid metal automatically wrapped around her waist to keep her from falling. The changeling-carrier dissolved — the liquid metal slid onto the pavement and vanished into the crack between stones. Fortunately, it didn't need to fight to buy the pegasus time to escape. Its role was complete. The rest was up to the pegasus. The pegasus beat its wings and shot into the air. Arwen's master was in the private room when a system message appeared before his eyes: WARNING: Slave collar #1847 (Arwen) has been disconnected. Last location: Bathroom, 2nd floor. For a moment he didn't react. Then he leaped up, hurriedly dressed, and ran

down the corridor. The bathroom was empty. Window open. On the floor lay the collar — open, dark, dead. He roared so loud the walls shook. He leaned out the window. The side alley was empty. Just darkness and silence. The elf was gone. The first arrow flew two meters past the pegasus's head. The changeling registered it and automatically changed course — sharp right, down, then up again. A zigzag trajectory Igi had programmed for the eventuality of aerial pursuit. The second arrow hit. It struck the pegasus in the flank — a metallic sound, a spark, and the arrow bounced off. The liquid metal at the point of impact rippled like a water surface, absorbed the energy, and returned to its original shape. Arrows had little effect on a metal changeling. The tip scratched the surface, the metallic skin sealed immediately. It would take magical arrows, enchanted tips, or something significantly stronger to genuinely damage the golem. Third arrow. Fourth. Fifth. Two hit a wing — the pegasus wobbled for a moment, lurched in flight, but stabilized. One hit the saddle just beside Arwen — Igi clenched his teeth in the armchair, but the elf was safe, the straps held her. Then they were above the walls. Then beyond them. Then above the forest. The arrows stopped flying. The archers on the towers were out of range. And even if they weren't — in the night sky, the white pegasus was visible for only a few seconds before it blended with the moonlight and vanished among the clouds. The pegasus descended between the treetops like a shadow. Igi navigated it with the precision born of years of practice — through gaps between branches, over a stream, around a rocky overhang, down to a valley where the forest thickened so much that the ground was invisible from above. Any pursuers — if there even were any — had no chance. The pegasus was faster than a horse, quieter than an owl, and in the forest it vanished among the trees like a fish in water. The metal changed color — from white to dark, then to green, then to black. Two waited before the cave. Hazela — bow drawn, arrow on the string, eyes fixed on the sky. When the metallic wings emerged from the shadows, she drew — and released the tension when she recognized the pegasus. And beside her — Igi. "Change of plans," Igi said before Hazela could open her mouth. "We don't have time to stay here." Hazela

lowered her bow. "What happened?" "Arrows from the towers. They saw the pegasus. They'll search the forest. Dogs, guards, maybe aerial units. The cave isn't safe." Hazela looked at Arwen, who lay unconscious across the pegasus's saddle. Then at Igi. In her eyes was the question — how do we get away? Igi didn't say the answer. He showed it. He raised his staff. The mana in him plummeted — not by a third, not by half. By almost everything. Space Magic was the most expensive talent he'd ever unlocked, and a teleportation portal for four beings was at the very limit of his capacity. The air before him shuddered. First gently — like air shimmering above fire in summer. Then more intensely. Light — not magical, more like a crack in reality — appeared at the height of Igi's chest and began to expand. An oval shape, bluish edge, interior black as a lidless night. A portal. On the other side — Igi knew, because he'd been there before and the portal only worked to places he knew — was a meadow at the edge of Elysium. Quiet, safe, home. "Go," Igi said, his voice strained. The portal was devouring mana. He had a minute. Maybe less. Hazela didn't hesitate. She pulled Arwen from the pegasus — carefully but quickly — and took her in her arms. Elf to elf. Then she stepped into the portal and vanished. The pegasus was next. The changeling shifted form — from horse back to a neutral silver figure — and passed through the portal. Igi stepped through last. The moment his foot crossed the portal's threshold, the mana core in his pocket went dark completely. The portal closed behind him with a soft sound — not a crash, not an explosion. Just a gentle whisper, like a book closing. "Sir," Hazela said quietly. "Thank you." Igi didn't answer. He just raised his hand and waved — a gesture that could have meant "don't mention it."

Two Elves

"Well," said Igi, looking at Hazela. "She's all yours." Arwen lay in the grass between them. She breathed calmly, but her eyes moved beneath her lids — dreaming or waking. One or the other. In a few minutes she'd be conscious. "She'll be out for a few more minutes," Igi continued. "And then you have a task. Convince her." Hazela nodded. Something tightened in her stomach that wasn't nervousness — it was responsibility. Heavier than nervousness. Heavier than fear. Igi turned and slowly walked away. His staff tapped the ground with every step. "Sir," Hazela called after him. "Won't you be here for it? To help me?" Igi didn't stop. "I will. I won't. It's up to you." "What if I can't convince her?" Now he stopped. He turned his head — only slightly, only enough for the wind to carry his voice. "Either she accepts, or she has to go. There is no third option." And he walked away. The shadow of his hood, the tapping of the staff, and then nothing. He vanished among the trees as quietly as Hazela hadn't expected — or exactly as quietly as she had.

On a nearby tree, an owl perched. It wasn't large — an average forest owl with brown feathers and large amber eyes. It settled on a branch three

meters above the clearing, tilted its head, and motionlessly watched the two elves in the grass. Hazela looked at it. The owl looked back. Hazela was certain the old pervert would be watching them. Igi never left. Never truly left. He was always somewhere — in a golem, in an owl, in a piece of wood, in a stone on the path. Everywhere and nowhere. So she had to give her best performance. Not for Igi. For Arwen. But if Igi saw that Hazela could handle her task in the process — all the better.

The owl on the branch tilted its head to the other side. The amber eyes didn't blink.

AWAKENING Arwen began to stir. First gently — a movement of the head, fingers that dug into the grass. Then more violently — her whole body tensed, as if fighting something in a dream. Her mouth opened in a silent scream she didn't make. Hazela sat beside her. She didn't put her hands on her shoulders, didn't touch her — she knew that touch now meant danger. Touch in Arwen's world had always meant danger. So she just sat, quiet, patient, and waited. Arwen opened her eyes. The first thing she did — instinctively, automatically, without thinking — was grab her own neck. Her fingers searched for metal. Searched for that heavy, cold collar that had been there for years. Searched for the chain. Searched for the weight she had grown so accustomed to that she didn't remember how to breathe without it. They found nothing. Just skin. Soft, sore, with the imprint the collar had left — but free. Arwen froze. Her eyes widened. She looked around — confused, quickly, like an animal that had woken in an unfamiliar place. She saw trees. Grass. Sky. No walls. No ceiling. No private room. And beside her — an elf. "You're safe," Hazela said. She said it in Elvish. Not in the common language, not in human speech — in old Elvish, which she had learned from her mother and hadn't used in years, because there was nobody here she could speak it with. Arwen froze. Elvish. Someone was speaking Elvish. Not with laughter, not with

mockery, not with that disgusting accent humans sometimes used to imitate the elven language in order to humiliate. Real, pure, native Elvish. "My name is Hazela," Hazela continued — now in the common language, slowly, clearly. "I'm an elf. Like you. And you're safe. Nobody here will hurt you." Arwen sat up. Her hands trembled. Her eyes darted from Hazela to the trees, from the trees to the sky, from the sky back to Hazela. She was searching for the threat. Searching for the trap. Searching for the chain hiding behind a kind word. "Where am I?" Her voice was hoarse. Quiet. A voice that had forgotten how to speak. "In the forest. Far from the city. Far from... him." Arwen shuddered at the word "him." She didn't need to ask who Hazela meant. "The collar," Arwen whispered, reaching for her neck again. "Where's the collar?" "Gone. We opened it. It's gone." "That's... that's not possible. You can't open it without—" "Without the key. I know. We had the key."

Silence. Long, heavy silence, during which Arwen processed information that made no sense. Collar gone. An elf. A forest. Safety. Words that in her world didn't belong in the same sentence. "Why?" she finally asked. Her voice was sharper now — not hostile, just cautious. "Why did you do this? Who are you? What do you want?" Hazela took a breath. This was the moment. The moment she had been preparing for three months — and for which nothing and nobody could truly prepare her. "I want to offer you something," Hazela said. "Not for free. Nothing is free. But I want you to know what you're getting into before you decide." Arwen pulled back slightly. Her eyes narrowed. "Offer what?" "A home. Safety. Training. Strength. A place where nobody will own you." "And in exchange?" "Service. Ten years. A collar — a different collar, not a slave one. A training collar. You'll learn, fight, grow. You'll have food, a roof, protection. But you'll serve. And you'll obey." Arwen laughed. Bitterly. Briefly. A sound that had nothing to do with joy. "So one collar for another." "Yes," Hazela said. She didn't flinch from it. Didn't wrap it in pretty words. "One collar for another. But the first one made you a thing.

This one will make you strong."

On the branch above them, the owl tilted its head.

"Who is your master?" Arwen asked. "Master. Not lord. And I won't lie to you about him — he's strict. Hard. Sometimes cruel. But fair. And never — listen to me, Arwen — never would he do to you what they did to you there." Arwen lowered her eyes. Her fingers dug into the grass. "How do you know what they did to me?" "Because I saw it. At the market, three months ago. I saw you with him. I saw the look in your eyes." Hazela leaned forward. Not close — she didn't want to frighten her. But enough for Arwen to see her eyes. Elven eyes. The eyes of someone who understood. "I had a collar too," Hazela said more quietly. "I still have one. For four years now. And the first year I hated it. I hated the master, hated my fellow trainees, hated myself for accepting it. I wanted to tear it off, run, shoot everyone who came near me." She paused. "But I didn't run. And today — today I'm here. Stronger than I've ever been. With a bow I couldn't even lift four years ago. With people I called enemies who became... something else. Not friends. That would be too simple. Something more complicated. Better." Arwen listened. She didn't interrupt. Her eyes didn't narrow — they widened. "I'm not telling you it will be easy," Hazela continued. "It will be hard. Painful. There will be moments when you'll want to run, just as I did. But I'm offering you something you didn't have — a choice. A real choice. Not collar or death. Collar or freedom." "Freedom?" "If you refuse, you'll go. We'll give you food, clothes, a few coins. And you'll go wherever you want. No chain. No pursuit. Nobody forces you." Arwen blinked. "And what if... what if he finds me?" Hazela knew who she meant. The former master. The man who believed he owned a living being. "Where I'll take you, he won't find you.

He won't find anyone there. That place is..." Hazela searched for the right word. "It's protected. In a way I can't tell you about right now. But trust me — it's safe." "What's it called?" Arwen asked. "That place." Hazela smiled. "Elysium."

Arwen was silent for a long time. In Hazela's field of vision, a message blinked in the guild chat.

[Guild Chat — ELYSIUM]

Igi: "Green. Now." Hazela faltered. Her heart skipped. She started typing, but then a figure emerged from behind a tree at the edge of the clearing. Hazela recognized her instantly. She dropped the half-written message, turned, and knelt. One knee in the grass, head bowed, bow laid beside her. "What are you doing here, Lady Green?" Arwen stared in surprise at the being who stepped from the forest as if the forest itself had taken shape and decided to walk. A beautiful figure — not human-beautiful, not elf-beautiful. Different. Older. Deeper. As if nature itself had sculpted her into perfection. And then Arwen realized who it was. Lady of the forest. Her knees buckled before she could think. She knelt beside Hazela, head bowed, voice quiet and trembling. "It is an honor to be in your presence." Green looked at her. Her eyes — green, deep, old as roots — passed over Arwen in a way that was not judgment. It was the gaze of someone who sees everything and decides how much to say. "I don't have time for pleasantries," Green said. Her voice was like wind in the treetops — not loud, but impossible to ignore. She looked directly at Arwen. "I recommend you, Arwen — accept the contract. Serve the master faithfully. Train. And the time will come when I will take you under my wings." Arwen raised her head. Eyes wide open. Mouth open. Words stuck in her throat. Green turned and vanished into the forest. She didn't leave — she vanished. The trees swallowed her as if she had never stood on that clearing. Only the scent — fresh, living, like after rain — lingered in the

air for a few more seconds. Then that vanished too.

[Guild Chat — ELYSIUM]

Igi: "Thank you. I trust she'll decide correctly." Hazela read the message and quietly cursed in Elvish. That old manipulator. He knew. He knew Green would come. He'd known the whole time.

Arwen sat back down in the grass. Her eyes were still wide, her hands trembling — but differently than before. Not from fear. From awe. "That was the Lady of the Forest," she said. "What is she doing here? Do you know her?" Hazela stopped her with a raised palm. "Those are questions I can't answer right now. You heard what she said yourself. Decide for yourself." And she pulled out a black collar. It was different from the one Arwen had worn for years. Smaller. Lighter. Without a chain. Its surface bore fine runes. Hazela placed it in the grass between them. "You must choose for yourself," Hazela said. "Ten years. You train, fight, grow. And you come out stronger than you've ever been. Or — you must leave. You'll be on your own. Without help. And your master certainly won't give you another chance." Arwen looked at the collar in the grass. Then at Hazela. Then at the spot among the trees where Green had stood moments ago. Then she reached for the collar. The owl on the branch watched motionlessly. Then Arwen raised her head. The owl on the branch spread its wings, silently flew off, and vanished among the trees. On the clearing, two elves remained. One who had accepted a collar in a forest full of wolves four years ago. And another who was just deciding whether to do the same.

Classroom 800 — Rules of the Game

The system notification came at night. It was not quiet. It was not discreet. It lit up before the eyes of every player in the Q world — regardless of whether they were sleeping, fighting, eating, or currently dying in a dungeon. Gold lettering on a black background, impossible to ignore, impossible to dismiss, with that characteristic sound reminiscent of bells in a cathedral that didn't exist.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — GLOBAL]

New features activated:

GUILD WARS — guild wars, rules and registration available GODS EVENTS — divine events, challenges, and rewards BATTLEGROUND ARENA — battle arena with ratings and rankings And much more

For more information, see the INFO page in your system. The notification vanished after thirty seconds. But its echoes lasted far longer.

The next morning, the classroom was full. Not full in the sense of packed — still just the five. But the air in the room was charged with questions pushing at the tip of everyone's tongue. Diana had her system window open and was scrolling quickly. Peter was twisting a knife between his fingers — a nervous habit that appeared whenever he was thinking. Hazela sat upright, ears slightly tilted forward — the elven equivalent of tense attention. Kaelen had a clenched jaw. Jana was stroking her tail — a soothing gesture she had adopted over the years in Elysium. Igi already stood behind the lectern. Staff resting on his shoulder. Hood deep. The chalk on the board behind him wasn't moving — today there would be no diagrams. "You saw the notification," he said. Not a question. A statement. Five heads nodded. "Good. Then let's begin."

GAME OF GODS Igi stepped before the blackboard. Today he didn't tap the staff on the floor. Today his voice was quieter than usual — and a quiet Igi was always more important than a loud one. "We are in a world where the system's rules are determined by numbers. Levels. Points. Stats. Talents. Everything is a number. Your strength is a number. Your speed is a number. Even your chance of surviving tomorrow is a number — you just can't see it." He paused. "We're just players in a game of gods. And rules exist so the game is playable." Diana raised her hand. Then Peter. Then Hazela. Then Kaelen. Jana last. Igi raised his palm. All hands dropped. "No. I will not explain further, only what I tell you. Here we review system features so you know what and how. But information can be found in books. From other players. From gods when you contact them. I'm not an encyclopedia — I'm your instructor. I teach you where to look. Not everything you'll find." Peter opened his mouth. Igi stopped him with a look. "Peter. Close your mouth. Open your ears." Peter closed his mouth. With a smile, but he closed it.

CHANGES "Yesterday's notification is about change," Igi continued. "Guild Wars. Gods Events. Battleground Arena. Ranking. New systems, new rules, new possibilities. It all sounds exciting and I know your eyes are shining like children's on Christmas." Nobody smiled. Igi's tone clearly indicated smiling wasn't warranted. "But what you must understand — and this is more important than anything I'll say today — is this: rules can change. The System is not carved in stone. The gods update it, balance it, adjust it. What was true yesterday may not be true tomorrow." He walked between the desks. Slowly, with the tapping of his staff that sounded like the ticking of a clock. "Every change must apply to everyone. That is the fundamental rule. No exceptions for the chosen. No special conditions for the rich or strong. If a rule changes, it changes for the level 1 farmer and the level 50 raid leader alike." "And another rule — no change may make it impossible to exist. To play the game. To live in the Q world. The gods cannot make a change that would erase an entire group of players or make the game unplayable. That is their limitation. Even gods have rules." He stopped by the window and looked out — at the city of Elysium, at the forest beyond, at the world that was a game and simultaneously reality. "Remember that. Gods are not omnipotent. They are administrators of the game. And an administrator who destroys their game has nothing to administer."

Kaelen raised his hand. Igi nodded. "Does that mean Guild Wars are mandatory?" "No. Registration is voluntary. But if you register and lose a war — the consequences are real. Lost territory, lost resources, lost people. That's why we won't register. Not now. Not until I know exactly what the rules mean." "And the arena?" Diana asked. "Battleground Arena is individual. Ranking system. If you want to compete — your decision, your points, your risk. But I recommend reading the rules first. All of them. Not just the headings." Peter opened his mouth. Igi looked at him. Peter closed it. Then opened it again. "Sir, just one question—" "No." "—what are Gods Events?" Igi paused for a moment. Then said: "Events organized by

the gods. Challenges. Quests. Tournaments. With rewards that are greater than anything you'll find in a regular dungeon. But also with risk that is greater than anything you've experienced so far." "And I won't tell you more. Read the INFO page in your system. Today. Not tomorrow. Today."

CONTRACTS Igi returned behind the lectern. The chalk on the board moved and wrote one word: CONTRACTS. "I'll mention one more thing today. The contract system." The five straightened in their chairs. New topic. New rules. "In this world, people negotiate. Trade. Promise. And most of them lie. Are you surprised? You shouldn't be. A world full of people with character deficits isn't exactly a paradise of trust." The chalk drew — two circles connected by a line, above them a symbol that resembled an eye. "If you want to be certain of a deal between you — and when I say certain, I mean truly certain, not just hoping — a solution exists. In the God Shop you can buy a contract. From a god." "A contract from a god works like this: both parties sign. The terms are clear, precise, without loopholes. The god is the witness to your oath." Igi made a pause. A long pause. The kind of pause that was always followed by something unpleasant. "And also the executioner." The classroom was silent. "When you sign a contract and break it — the god comes for the one who broke it. Not guards. Not the guild. Not a court. A god. In person. And gods have no sense of humor, mercy, or appeals." Peter paled. Only slightly, but Igi noticed. "It costs points," Igi continued. "Like almost everything in this world. It's not cheap. But it's certainty. The only real certainty in a world where you can't trust anyone." "Not even you, sir?" Jana asked in a quiet voice. Igi looked at her. For a long time. Then said: "You don't have to trust me. You have collars. That's your contract. But when one day the collars fall off and you're free — and that day will come — you'll be making deals with people who don't have collars. With people whose word isn't worth the paper it's written on. And then you'll remember this lesson."

CONCLUSION Igi tapped his staff on the floor. Once. Final. "Summary. Rules change. Changes apply to everyone. Gods are not omnipotent. Guild Wars — don't ignore, but don't register without my approval. Gods Events — read the rules. Arena — your choice. Contracts — they exist and they work." The chalk on the board wrote the last line: INFORMATION = BOOKS + GODS + EXPERIENCE CONTRACTS = GOD AS WITNESS + EXECUTIONER NOTHING IS FREE BUT EVERYTHING CAN BE BOUGHT "Lesson over. Diana — library, find everything about Guild Wars. Peter — INFO page, write a summary of Arena rules by tomorrow. Hazela — Gods Events, I want to know the schedule. Kaelen — contracts, find the price list in the God Shop. Jana — books about system changes, the history of previous updates." "Move." Chairs scraped. The five stood and dispersed — each with their task, each with a head full of new questions and old doubts.

Igi remained standing behind the lectern. On the board glowed words about rules, contracts, and gods. Outside the window, the city of Elysium bathed in morning light. The forest rustled. The world was changing. And Igi — old cook, golem maker, and manipulator — thought about what the changes meant for his plan. For Elysium. For the five who had just dispersed through the city with tasks they thought were homework. They weren't homework. They were the first steps in a game that had just changed. And in a game of gods, rules change. But one thing doesn't — the one who has the most information survives the longest. Igi erased the board and left the classroom. In the hallway, a changeling in the form of an owl waited. The golem sat on the staircase railing, amber eyes fixed on its master. "Find out everything about Guild Wars," Igi said to the owl. "Everything. Not what's on the INFO page. What isn't." The owl spread its wings and flew out the window. Igi smiled beneath his hood. For the first time in a long while. The game had just gotten more interesting.

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